Time was caught between speeding and dragging after Wood broke up with me, alternating every few hours. I still spent Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays by myself, mourning quietly and continuing to lie to my friends. I mean, just because Wood and I are no longer spending time together doesn't mean I don't need some time away from them. Everything in moderation, right?

It was during one of these moping-sessions that I received a message from an owl that was very, very unfamiliar. At first, I hoped it was Wood's owl, grumpy and with an apology. Who ever thought I'd be this desperately attached to him, after five years of thinking him the evil-incarnate?

It's just… being with him was… it was easier than it should have been. We… we bantered, and we argued, and we made up. There weren't any politics or damage control. There was just… us. Being. It was… well, I miss it, and I should probably be concentrating on the owl.

With an easy flick of my wrist, I opened the window, and the owl flew easily towards my side. Sparrow crouched easily on my lap, deciding to stalk to owl. I'd just gotten the letter untied when my cat jumped, the owl squawking as it made a beeline for the safety of my window.

With a sharp intake of breath, what I'd hoped would be an apology from Wood, or maybe a notice that there was a very unfortunate accident down at the Pitch in the form of an explosion, I saw that it was much more painful… for me.

It was a personal letter of congratulations from Elliot, followed by a reminder that the next practice would be this Saturday, and that our next game would be next Saturday. We were compromising Wood's schedule, and we would have to make up for it with a flurry of games these next few months.

The announcement hit me with a pang, and I tried to figure out why I'd bothered to even open the letter. Letters never mean anything good – they mean Wiggins forgot to assign us our homework or McGonagall needs to have an emergency meeting that will result in me taking on more work or something of the sort.

I should just lock and black out my windows; I can run away whenever someone knocks on my door – cut through the apartment of whoever lives next to me. They'd have to hunt me down to ever contact me; I'd be like a hermit in the middle of Hogwarts. And after I graduate, I can run away to America. They have dragons there, I'm sure.

I think I'm going to have to go and see Elliot, ASAP. I can't join the Quidditch team. How do you tell someone that you can't join the team you tried out for? 'Sorry – I broke up with my boyfriend, and he was the only reason I joined the team in the first place. Oh no, he's not on the team at all. Who is he? Uh, you do know him… probably very well.'

That'll go over great; I just have to go and find Elliot, now. I hope he doesn't have a temper – the quieter, more relaxed ones do, sometimes. Mostly the Quidditch ones; I have experience with that now. Oh God, I should just knit a headband with a little holder for my hands.

I groaned as I leaned against the wall outside the Ravenclaw common room. I could not, for the life of me, think of the answer to this question. I don't even see how it could relate to the Dark Arts! I mean, what could a Hand of Glory be?

Smiling, a group of third years, whose names escape my memory, tromped up the stairs, and looked at me with a haughty expression. God, I hate third years. They aren't timid and eager like the first and second years, but they've yet to mature enough to know that they don't know everything, even if they're in Ravenclaw, like the rest of the school. They're just… stuck up. And they forget they're place.

"Uh, what are you doing here," one of them, whom I'm pretty sure is Elliot's younger sister, questioned, her hip jutting out at an unhealthy angle. Jeez, looking at these girls, and one boy, you'd think there wasn't a war going on, or anything.

The boy, last name Rosier, stepped forward as I sneered, whispering to the hand as I glared at the baby-Elliot. Or maybe middle-Elliot. Or maybe the second-oldest, who can be sure? "I happen to not know what a Hand of Glory is, Elliot."

The girl glared right back, her hit switching sides and hitting the wall, "My name is Ellen Edwards."

"Po-tay-toe, Po-tah-toe," I glared back, equally pissed. This girl has no respect – I should run her through the wall with a blast of slugs. Green slugs, that speak in Parsletongue at her until she cries.

With a familiar squeak that resounded much longer than the door's opening, Rosier walked through the door confidently, and I scoffed as I elbowed my way passed my Quidditch Captain's… not snot-nosed sister. I might have to have a talk with him, Ravenclaw to Ravenclaw, about the impressions ones Third Years make, and how intimidating a tall, slightly-goofy looking Quidditch Captain really is. I mean, none of us could ever have been that annoying, right?

No, no, I have to concentrate; I'm here to get myself off this damn Quidditch team, and then back to my room before I see something that makes my knees buckle and my eyes water with that strange sensation of loss.

Luckily, Elliot was sitting on one of the loveseats, his long legs stretched out comfortingly. No sneaking into the boys dorms for me; Elliot is apparently just the tiniest bit studious. Who would've ever guessed that this place would rub off on him? I remember when he just goofed around on the lawn all day and chased around the Newts his friends had let loose from the Care of Magical Creatures pen.

"Hey, Elliot," I called out to him. He looked up at me and smiled, one corner of his lips lifting higher than the ever, resulting in an adorable dimple.

"Hey there, Darling. Did you get my letter?" Politely, he pulled himself into a sitting position, nimbly folding his legs pretzel-style.

I smiled, "Yeah, that's actually why I'm… here." Oh God, he looks so goddamn innocent and… gorgeous. How can I say I don't want to see that daily? "Well, you see, Ellio-"

"Call me Ben – everyone on the team does. I like to thinks it helps them to feel comfortable talking to me about their problems." He blushed slightly, and I melted a little. God, I'm horrible about rebounding. It's only been… two weeks.

"Well, Ben," I restarted, smiling at him awkwardly, I'm in mourning. Mourning. "I… I am ecstatic to know that you chose me for a Beater. I'm… honored, really." Nervously, I tucked one leg under my butt, leaving the other to dangle over the edge of the loveseat. In an attempt to seem nonchalant, though, I shoved one hand between my legs and the other gesturing helplessly. "But, well… some things have come up; I just… I don't think I can accept this… prize." God, that sounded more sorry by the second.

Uselessly, my other hand fell into my lap to wring the first one as Ben, reminiscent of another Quidditch Captain I know, started to laugh openly at me. My mouth fell a little, and he finally managed words, "You're joking, right?"

"Well, no," I offered, pausing and looking at him with the definition of pity, "See, it's just… things came up, and there are the N.E.W.T.S. at the end of the year, and I'm Head Girl, and really, that one Bludger I saved Richards from, that was luck. I don't even look like a Beater – I'm weak, I don't any real muscle…"

"Darling," Ben questioned, laughing at me a little and laying a hand gently on my upper arm, "Do you really think I'd put you on my team if I didn't think you had talent? Sure, it's a little raw, but you're very… protective, and quick. I figure if I can just harness that instinct you have, that natural ability to fly and swoop and dive, then we could really have a shot at the Cup."

I gulped – the Cup? That's even more time with Wood that I don't want to think about at all. No, no, this Quidditch Team thing won't work at all. "Oh, no, I just… I don't think I could commit myself fully to the… effort. Especially if we're going to go so far as the cup."

Ben sucked in a breath, "Well, Aly-" Inconspicuously, Ben raised his eyes to mine, to make sure calling me by my first name was alright. "-If you say no, I'm afraid Professor Wood won't give us anymore time, especially since I told him we'd be ready by next weekend. And if we don't have a full team, we'll have to forfeit the cup."

I smirked, my personality and desperation immediately responding to the teasing ways of Ben, "Are you threatening me, Mr. Elliot?"

"It's not a threat," he defended, shifting a little to mimic my position as he laughed at me, "It's not a threat, I'm just… making you aware of the consequences."

I laughed at him, "Making me aware of the consequences? The consequence of my entire House running me down with pitchforks?"

Ben and I continued to laugh until we finally calmed down, Ben's hand still on my arm, he finally asked, "Look, just think it over for tonight. And if you still don't want to be on the team, then… let me take you to Hogsmeade Saturday and I'll talk you into it before the practice." He raised an eyebrow suggestively, not leaving me the time to say no, "But don't say no because you think you can't do it, aye?" With a final squeeze of my arm, Ben stood up, snapping his book shut and tucking it underneath his arm, "Because we both know you can."

I let my jaw drop openly at my Quidditch Captain's audacity, "I think this is known as Sexual Harassment in the Muggle world. And the Wizarding world too, for that matter."

Ben didn't respond as he trotted across the Common Room to his dorm, slipping up the stairs. I sighed as I fell back against the couch – it was way too soon for me to be going on a date. I mean, I was serious about Wood… for that month and a half.

And, well, two weeks? That's… a third of the time Wood and I were dating! It took me… well, I guess Tom and I aren't really a good example of how long it takes me to rebound, but still… I mean, I'm still getting over the fact that this Johnny Depp fellow is apparently way too old for me.

But still, if there was any time to get over Oliver Wood, it just might be with… well, newer-age Quidditch Captain, blonde hair, dimpled Ben Elliot. And, I mean... it couldn't physically hurt me, right? If anything, Ben talking me into Quidditch might just help me out. If he can convince me to play, well, it just might help me to get over Wood all the faster.

Besides, if I have to look Wood right in the face, every game, and show him I'm completely over him, and that I can play Quidditch with or without his permission. I mean, wasn't me being on the Quidditch team why we really broke up? And I did have fun, that one time I played. So why should I let Wood ruin that for me? Since when am I the kind of girl that lets herself be controlled by a guy that broke up with her? Never. Ever.

I sighed as I studied the staircase to the boy's dormitory. I wrinkled my nose, my hand carelessly weaving through my hair. Oh yeah, if there is any guy to use to get over Wood, it's Ben. A Ravenclaw, so he's bound to have a brain, relaxed, funny, and gorgeous like that guy in 'Ten Things I Hate About You.'

Mmhmm, I know just what I'm doing this Saturday.