Settling the Score

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Coarse fingertips were skimming down the length of my waist, dropping swiftly along the curve, coasting into a slow, delicious freefall. A tan arm, hardened with waves of leanly toned muscle, held me tightly, hungrily, against a chest of similar build, trapped between the scouring skin of my back and the cold stone of the wall I was pressed against. His mouth was on mine—hot, demanding, pure friction.

My mind was racing. My skin was on fire. My nerves were electrified.

I'd never wanted something more in my entire life.

"Oliver," I managed to murmur against his mouth, my voice reduced to a gravelly growl in all my dizzying lust. He took my bottom lip between his teeth, dragging it outward slowly, tantalizingly, and my eyes threatened to roll into the back of my head—this was getting out of control. "Wood… I can't—"

"Ever shut up?" he completed in a low, husky drawl, lips curling at the corners as he brought them up the line of my jaw. Frissions of electricity began shooting through me, further weakening my resolve and coalescing into a ragged bolt of lightning as he reached the sensitive patch of skin below my ear. "Let's practice, then, shall we?"

"No," I managed to reply, mustering every last ounce of willpower I had to grit the word out—I wasn't sure why, but I simply knew I had to stop. There was a strange sense of urgency building within me, like I had to be somewhere really important, but with Wood kissing me the way he was, I couldn't for the life of me remember where. "I really have to be some—"

"Shh," he murmured against my ear, the hot air licking at the stray curls caught in its path and tickling the skin beneath, "we're practicing the whole shutting up thing, remember?"

I parted my mouth to respond, though the words promptly dissolved into a groan as his teeth took in the very tip of my earlobe, giving it a soft, playful nip. I was done for. My ears were my absolute weakness. This was on my nervous system, not me—I couldn't be blamed for this! My head lolled back as he embarked on his quest to completely lobotomize me, lips slowly brushing up the length of my ear, tongue flickering out every so often and eliciting many a hitched breath from my lungs.

My traitorous, mutinous, going-to-make-me-late-to-my-big-important-thing lungs.

"I honestly hate you," I announced in stubborn concession, though given the breathy, hungry way it came out, I might as well have said 'be the father of my children.'

He smiled against my ear, brushing it with the tip of his nose in a lighthearted gesture. "Well, that's unfortunate." The drawl was warm, teasing, and he gave my earlobe a final kiss before bringing his hand up and carefully angling my face back toward his. My pulse skyrocketed his expression: it was a bit more serious now—open, honest, and entirely unguarded. His forehead gently came down to rest against mine, his eyes a hazy, heavy-lidded amber, and I suddenly found that I couldn't breathe.

"Because I think I might love you."

And before even giving me a chance to react to the bloody atomic explosion of emotions that had just gone off within my body, he was kissing me again—slowly, deeply, in that melting kind of way that reduces people into puddles of former human… and I just snapped. All out, totally and completely, someone-give-this-girl-a-sodding-Rabies-shot-before-she-eats-the-children snapped.

Within the next five seconds, my legs were tightly wrapped around his waist, fingers tearing off the buttons of his half-buttoned Oxford shirt as he hoisted me onto a cluttered desk, knocking off a slew of papers and trinkets and sending them shattering against the floor. I realized briefly that we were in the Transfiguration room—what the hell were we doing there?—though it really didn't matter much as his hand coursed up the length of my thigh, leaving a trail of spitfires in its wake.

I inhaled sharply at the sensation, mouth feral and hungry on his as I finally freed his shirt and tossed it in some arbitrary direction. My fingers instantly raked down the vast expanse of tan, smoothly rippled skin, eliciting a ragged sound from the back of his throat. "Miss Wiles," he groaned, and for some reason, this didn't strike me as odd—I merely slipped a hand into his scruffy brown hair and forced his lips back onto mine, kissing him feverishly.

"Miss Wiles," he said again, though this time it was in more of a growl—authoritative, possessive. He followed the exclamation by slamming me down against the desk, the movement rough and thrilling, my back hitting the wood with a resounding thud as I let out a sharp gasp.

"Miss Wiles!"

And then, suddenly, I wasn't on a desk anymore. The ground beneath me was soft and plush, covered in folds of warm, weathered cotton that smelled vaguely like hand sanitizer, and I glanced up at Oliver in confusion. However, instead of killer cheekbones and toasted almond eyes, I was looking into the stern, rounded, and distinctly annoyed face of Madame Pomfrey. "Miss Wiles," she said, her tone crisp and irritated. "You're moaning."

And then I screamed.

Looking back, this probably wasn't the most logical thing to do, but at the time, it seemed like a great plan. Madame Pomfrey simply rolled her eyes, shaking her head and muttering, "Really, now, you'd think I was Severus," as she handed me a vial of something purple and unpleasant looking. "Drink this."

Still completely and totally shaken, my gaze snapped down to the vial, eyes bright and disoriented—and then I realized I was in the Hospital Wing. The match, the fight with Oliver, the fainting: it all came rushing back to me at the speed of light, and I groaned as a headache predictably roared to life as a result. "Bloody hell…" I moaned, followed promptly by a sharp, "ow!"

My eyes snapped over to Madame Pomfrey's, outraged: she pinched me! Assault! Battery! "Language, Ms. Wiles," she snapped, tone curt and no-nonsense. "Now drink this, or I'll simply have to use a syringe."

I balked, hurriedly grabbing the vial and pouring it into my mouth—I hated needles. My face screwed up a bit as the viscous liquid snaked down my throat, the flavor nauseatingly sweet. "Merlin, what's this stuff made out of, Care Bears?"

She ignored me, fiddling about with bottles and measuring spoons as I tried to scrape the taste off my tongue. "That should take away the headache and clear off the effects of the Suentio Serum," she explained, bringing a glass bottle up to her eyelevel and carefully gauging it.

"Suentio Serum?" I asked, frowning up at the bottle she was holding and wondering what she was trying to discern.

"It's a new sleeping draught I'm testing," she replied tersely, "it's stronger than the Durmenta Elixir, more reparative." I nodded completely uninterestedly, wondering why I'd even asked in the first place, until she continued with: "The only problem is that it tends to cause uncannily vivid dreams, whereas Durmenta induces a dreamless sleep."

I instantly went scarlet, my cheeks turning a frightening shade of red that matched Madame Pomfrey's hair, though she seemed too busy with her tinkering to notice. "Really," I commented as casually as I could, though my voice was tinny and tight.

"I'm afraid so—images and emotions are experienced in very lurid detail, and they tend to make the sleep more fitful," she explained obliviously, and for a second, I thought I was off the hook. That is, of course, until she raised yet another beaker into the light, frowning up at the color in scrutiny. "Then again, I suppose you'd know that better than I would. Shall I alert Mr. Wood that you've awoken?"

I wanted to die.

I seriously wanted to just grab the nearest potion, chug it like a frat guy and bloody die. Absolutely mortified, I slowly sunk into the covers, face burning as I managed a tight, "I don't think that's necessary, no…"

"Very well, then," she replied as she spun around to tend to another patient, her tone pleasant for the first time since I'd woken, and my wide eyes slowly narrowed into a glare. Shrew.

Settling myself more comfortably into the hospital bed, I glanced about the wing, glower fading somewhat as remnants of my dream began swirling back into my awareness. I bit down hard on my lip, trying to ignore them—for Christ's sake, we'd just gotten into a fight. Why the hell couldn't I have had a dream about that instead? It was so much safer, so much more probable.

Shut up, you idiot, you enjoyed every second of that dream, a renegade voice said in the back of my head, and my stubborn streak flared in outrage. Alright, so maybe it was vaguely—read: unbelievably—enjoyable, but that didn't change the fact that it was inconvenient and out-of-place. I would've much preferred a Quidditch dream, or something more normal, like—

I halted briefly, struck by the realization that Wood and I snogging had almost become something normal. Sporadic, yes; illogical, totally; but nonetheless somewhat…expected. Lee had even commented on it in front of the entire Quidditch pitch, and although it was mildly embarrassing, it didn't blow anyone's mind off in shock. It was just kind of…

I shook my head roughly—enough. I didn't want to think about it anymore. At the moment, we were in a fight—a bloody weird one, too—and that was all that mattered. Liar, my brain growled. "Facilitator," I snapped back, looking wonderfully sane and completely at home in my hospital bed, and naturally, that was when Alicia, Angelina, and Kats decided to barrel in.

"Dear God, she's gone mental," Alicia gasped, scuttling over in her clacking heels and dropping to a crouch, clutching my hand. She looked genuinely alarmed. "Don't listen to the voices, Andy," she demanded, eyes wide and serious as they bored into mine. "They're not there, you're just crazy—"

"Is this a friend of yours, Gertrude?" I interjected, glancing over to the table lamp on my right and cocking my head to the side in question. Alicia's eyes bugged out in horror, and Angelina burst out laughing, Katie following suit. I promptly dropped the act, grinning darkly at the blonde as she slit her eyes and smacked my arm.

"Chit," she snapped.

"Idiot," I replied, snorting sardonically. "Honestly, who tells a schizophrenic person 'you're just crazy'…"

"Such an Alicia move," Katie muttered, though her eyes were practically glowing with relief, and it took all of three seconds for her to drop her calm and collected act and ambush me. "Iwassobloodyworried!" she cried, the sound muffled by my hair as she squeezed me to death and I spluttered and choked on the devil braid she called hair.

"Kats, you're killing her," Angelina said wryly.

"I don't care!"

"I think she might care," she observed, and I waved my hand around frantically in agreement, giving her a thumbs-up.

"Oh, fine," Katie conceded with a gusty sigh, pulling back and sending me into a oxygen-desperation-induced coughing fit, though her eyes were bright with sincerity. "I'm sorry, I was just really, really worried." She bit her lip, and slowly, tears began welling in her eyes, "I just couldn't stand the idea of something happening to you because of a Quidditch match that we put so much pressure on you to win for us when really all we cared about was everyone staying safe and—"

"Kats," Alicia interjected, her tone sharp and snappy. "This little Lifetime movie needs a commercial break."

"Lifetime what?" she asked, ever the Pureblood, and Alicia merely rolled her eyes.

"The bottom line is that we're really, really bloody happy you're okay," Angelina declared, walking over to the bedside and joining Alicia and Katie. She was smiling, though the remnants of her worry were on display in her appearance: her usually perfectly arranged braids were tousled, her eyes had bags underneath them, and she just looked totally knackered. In fact, all three of them did—Alicia had dark circles, Katie's eyes were bloodshot…

I was struck suddenly by what Wood had said earlier: do you not see the way Bell nearly faints, Johnson has a panic attack, and Spinnet's ready to charge in and risk her life to save you? My eyes averted, guilt slowly making its way up my body. Okay, yeah, so maybe he had a bit of a point… but still, he took it above and beyond. Yeah, my friends got worried, but they also accepted the fact that that was just who I was.

Impulsive, stubborn Andy. Nonetheless…

"I'm sorry, guys," I muttered, bringing my stare back up to their faces. They were gathered in a ring around me, expressive canvases of relief, annoyance, and humor, and I felt the strongest swell of warmth and gratitude toward them—it wasn't everyday you found friends like this. "I know I do risky things sometimes and it freaks you guys out, and I know it may seem like I don't care how it affects you, but believe me, I love you psychotic bints like you don't even know."

Katie grinned, expression still a bit watery. "More than chocolate?"

"No contest."

"More than sleeping in?" Angelina chimed in, and I snorted.

"Maybe by a hair."

"More than Oliver?"

And this is why I hate Alicia Spinnet.

"…derive the equation for the speed of the incantation…"

"Gabe, pay attention."

"Rmuphg."

"…simple integral, really, of the acceleration…"

"Gabe."

"Mghrf."

"…not to be confused with the linear relation between…"

"Harris!"

He jolted five feet into the air, drooling form rocketing into consciousness. "WHAT?" All eyes flew over to the scruffy blonde, totally bewildered, and I had to smack my hand over my mouth to keep from bursting into laughter.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Harris?" Professor Vector asked, her perfectly plucked eyebrow lifting into a severe arc, and Gabe blinked a few times to orient himself. Honestly, the prat was a deeper sleeper than freaking Angelina.

"Er… no," he managed, running a hand through his messy tufts of hair and straightening out in his seat, "not a problem, per se, I was just having trouble hearing what you were saying." He shot her his most endearing grin—the lopsided one with the left dimple—though her expression only grew sharper.

"There are more appropriate ways of expressing a concern, Mr. Harris—namely, raising your hand."

"I know, I'm terribly sorry, I was just really into the lesson," he explained, pulling off the lie like the infuriatingly loveable person that he was, and Vector merely pursed her lips before continuing with her lecture. I stared at him in disbelief, more than a little bit of resent in my expression, and he merely caught my eye and winked.

"How the hell do you do that?" I hissed under my breath.

"You mean charm the uncharmable?"

"Sure."

He eased back into his seat, reaching his arms behind his head and resting them there in a smug recline. "It's genetic."

I snorted, plucking up my quill and adding a few details to my notes. "So is idiocy."

"What can you possibly be writing down?" he scoffed, straightening in his seat to peer at my notes. "She's practically speaking Chinese; there's no way you can be understanding this rubbi—"

"Mr. Harris," Vector called yet again, making him curse silently under his breath. "Since you seem particularly chatty this afternoon, why don't you explain spell dynamics to the class?"

A few students snickered, though Gabe merely flashed her his trademark smile, instantly morphing into the epitome of studiousness and responsibility. "I'd love to, Professor, but you're already so spectacular at explaining it—it's intimidating, really."

I rolled my eyes, slumping my chin into my hand. What a git.

"Humor me, Mr. Harris," Vector ventured, stepping out from behind her podium and taking a few prowling steps in our direction. All the male students stirred in a mixture of excitement and jealousy as she stopped in front of Gabe, slowly leaning down so that she was eyelevel and fixing him with her sharp, brilliantly blue stare. "Do you even know what spell dynamics is?"

Gabe was a pile of goo beside me. He had a total thing for saucy blondes, and the woman leaning toward him was pretty much the definition of one. "Uh…"

She allowed him to stutter for a moment before smiling, the motion slow and satisfied. "That's what I thought." And with that, she rose to her full height, grabbing Gabe's book and giving him a swift smack upside the head with it before swiveling about and sauntering back to her podium. "Take a page from Ms. Wiles and pay attention, Mr. Harris," she called over her shoulder. "Maybe then you'll get half the marks she does."

A swell of satisfaction coursed through me as Gabe merely continued to stare, eyes glazed over, mouth curved into a dazed smile. "Yes, Professor," he replied robotically, a dreamy quality to his voice, and Vector gave him a curt nod before once again resuming her lecture. He heaved a quiet, dramatic sigh, sinking back into his seat with a lovesick air. "I'm in love."

I snorted. "Delusional is what you are."

He merely shook his head, goofy smile still in place. "I'm absolutely, completely and totally in love with her."

"Congratulations – you're male." He didn't seem to hear me, instead staring off at the newly found love of his life with an idiotic look, and I marveled at the fact that, for some reason or other, half of my friends always end up being psychotic. "Merlin, what is it with this unrequited love thing? First Alicia with that Sebastian bloke, now you with Vector—"

And suddenly Gabe snapped out of his stupor. "Wait, what?"

My brow furrowed. "Now you with—"

"Sebastian as in Melmoth?"

"Oh, er, I think so—blonde hair, skinny, wears frighteningly tight jeans…?"

Gabe stared at me for a moment, eyes bright and surprised, before bursting out laughing. Vector shot him a sharp look but he ignored it, too amused by this piece of information to care about his epic, life-altering love anymore. "Your friend likes Sebastian. Does she realize that he's gay?"

"The sad part is that she does."

"Who's this girl?"

"Alicia Spinnet," I said with an eye roll. "Unfairly gorgeous blonde, blunter than a block of wood, has a voice you can hear in bloody China when she's whispering—pretty hard to miss."

"Is she one of our Chasers?" he ventured, and I nodded—it was weird how detached Gabe was from the whole Quidditch scene. He went to the games on occasion, sure, but he was much more of swimmer; in fact, I'm pretty sure he was a pretty big deal in muggle London's swimming world. "I know who you're talking about. But why—?"

The humor was back in his tone, and I merely shook my head. "I honestly couldn't tell you. Her exact words were: 'he's just so idiosyncratic and anomalous; it's beautiful'…"

Gabe snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. "Sebastian Melmoth… that's hysterical."

"How do you know him?"

"He's a columnist for the Wobbler," he replied, grin still curling at his mouth, and I suddenly realized something: Gabe was the big shot chief editor of the Weekly Wobbler. Sebastian worked for the Weekly Wobbler. Alicia wanted a way to woo Sebastian into straightdom. Interesting…

"Oi, Gabe," I said conspiratorially, eyes narrowing into a scheming look. "Is there anyway you can get Alicia involved in the paper somehow?"

He snorted. "Does she have anything to offer?"

"She uses the words 'idiosyncratic and anomalous' in everyday speech," I replied flatly, giving him a pointed look. I was always testy about people who didn't know Alicia very well, because they tended to only see a pretty-faced bitch when really, the girl was brilliant. Frighteningly brilliant. IQ-through-the-roof brilliant. Tactless as a mofo, but brilliant nonetheless.

"Point taken," he conceded, arching an amused brow at my touchy expression. "Merlin, no need to get shirty, lady, I only saved your life two days ago."

I sighed begrudgingly at that one—he had a point. If he hadn't have told everyone to stop and caught me, there's no telling how aggravated the concussion could've gotten. "Yeah, fine, sorry," I said, waving an arbitrary hand. "Anyway, d'ya think you can do anything?"

"Probably—I'd have to talk to Aiden about it, but it sounds like a possibility," he replied, and I almost groaned: I'd forgotten about Aiden. AKA Gabe's Ravenclaw psycho of a co-editor. He was extremely by-the-book, surly, and not at all into doing people favors, which posed a definite problem in my plan.

"Can you just use your genetic charm on him?" I ventured hopefully, and Gabe grinned.

"Of course. Besides, Aiden calls all the organizational shots, but in the end, I have the final authority," he explained, and I couldn't help but snort—the Gabe I knew was a cheeky Arithmancy fuck-up, so the idea of him being the final authority on what had turned into quite a popular school newspaper was just funny.

"Alright, perfect," I said, and he arched a brow.

"So you actually think her mission to straighten him out's going to work?"

I scoffed. "Hell no. But I do think she'll eventually get bored of him and then I won't have to listen to 3 A.M. rants anymore."

"Ah," he replied, nodding now. "That's much more your style."

"Self-serving and cynical?"

He grinned. "Exactly."

I smiled, shaking my head as I returned my attention to Vector's lecture, and the remaining half hour or so of the class flew by relatively quickly. Maybe it was just a really interesting lecture, but before I knew it, the bell was ringing.

"Alright, everyone, paper's are due on Friday," Vector announced, raising her voice to overcome the sound of zipping backpacks and shuffling papers, "make sure to meet with Ms. Higgins for your writing consultations, and come to me with any questions you might have about the structure. See you Wednesday!"

I smiled back at her, grabbing my notebook and dropping it into my irritatingly heavy backpack—Mondays were my busiest days—and Gabe ruffled my hair in his usual goodbye. "You going to the victory party tonight?" I asked him.

The Gryffindors, in honor of the insane amount of injuries their team had suffered, had decided to push the victory party to today. I couldn't say I was looking forward to it, exactly, what with all the unresolved issues going on with the team, but I couldn't exactly bail on a party thrown partly for me.

"Dunno—I'm a bit swamped with Wobbler rubbish, but I might take a quick break and stop by," he replied, shrugging. "I'll see."

"Alright," I said, giving him a brief wave. "Bye, Chief Editor!"

"Bye, Teacher's Pet!"

I shook my head, smiling as I zipped up my backpack—only in Arithmancy could I be considered anything remotely resembling a teacher's pet. Snape referred to me as the-girl-who-blows-things-up, Flitwick mixed me and Katie up on a daily basis, Sprout never got over the fact that I accidentally trampled over her Elvin lotuses in second year, and McGonagall simply doesn't know what to do with me.

Sinistra thinks I have actual brain damage.

"Horrid woman," I muttered under my breath as the room cleared out, swinging my backpack over my shoulder and swiveling about—only to come face to face with Wood. My pulse instantly spiked, heat flushing up my skin as snapshots of my dream assaulted me. No, no, no—snap out of it, I ordered myself, shaking my head briefly to clear away the lurid thoughts and instead giving him a rather uncertain look.

His face was inscrutable. Shocking. Well, fine—I could be inscrutable, too.

"We have our next planning session tomorrow," he informed me, tone rather expressionless. "For the banquet—McGonagall scheduled it for eight."

I groaned, forgetting my whole inscrutable approach. "The banquet… blimey, I completely forgot about that."

"Yeah, well, surprise."

I shot him a slight glare, making sure to keep it neutral. I wasn't going to be immature about this fight, but I still held that he was the one in the wrong. I understood where he was coming from and everything, but you can't get angry with a person for being who they are—who they've been for the past sixteen years. That's just not fair. "Alright, well eight it is, I suppose."

"Right, see you then." And with that, he set off to leave, and I tried—I really tried—to just keep my cool and let him walk off, but just as his hand reached the door, I cracked.

"Oliver, wait."

He seemed to be expecting this, for he turned around with a frustrated expression. "There's nothing to solve, Andy."

I was taken aback slightly. "What?"

"This fight," he supplied, waving his hand between us, "it's not anything that needs to be worked out—you're right. You're you and you're always going to be you and I can't justifiably get mad at you for that."

I was thrown—he was telling me exactly what I wanted to hear, but the way he was saying it, the resignation in his voice, made me almost not want to be me. He was practically saying 'there's nothing we can do, we're just screwed'. And I really didn't like it. "That's not fair."

He sighed. "What's not fair?"

"The no-win scenario you're giving me here—that's not fair, Wood."

"What's there to win?"

Anger shot through me like a lightning bolt, shattering through my calm approach. That was low. "Are you serious?" I gritted out, taking a step toward him. He was really going to stand there and pretend he didn't know something was at stake here? Like he didn't feel anything for me, I didn't feel anything for him, and that potentially, if we both got over ourselves, something positive couldn't come out of that?

"What do you think we have to gain?"

"Fuck what I think!" I growled, and just like that, the rage took over. The feeling was violent, raw—I felt like I'd been trying to be the bigger person in our fights for the past few days, and it was getting me nowhere. He'd just say what he wanted to say and stalk off, and I'd be left there, utterly confused, feeling horrible about it. Well, enough was enough. "I'm pretty damn obvious with what I think, Wood—it's not exactly hard to figure out! In case you've forgotten, I'm not the one that walks around with this brooding look, refusing to tell anyone what the hell's the matter with me!"

"You're the one refusing to tell me right now," he replied, voice infuriatingly calm, and my eyes cut into irate slits.

"Fine," I seethed. "You want to know what I think? I'll bloody tell you. I think you're too wrapped up in yourself to realize that this could be a lot easier than you're making it. I think it's fairly obvious that there's something going on with us, but you drift in and out of being okay with it, switching your mood without any regard whatsoever with how I may feel about it!" I growled, anger building. "You're like a bloody guessing game that I can never win—one day you're hot, the next you're cold, and here I am, the stupid fucking girl who lets herself get strung along for the ride!"

He sighed, shaking his head. "Andy."

"What?" He remained silent, and I honestly wanted to pull my hair out. "Jesus, Wood, what!?" The silence persisted for a moment or two, thick and loaded with stilted emotions, until he finally dropped his stare to the ground, the movement one of tense concession.

"I'm not going to lie to you and say you've got it all wrong, because you don't," he muttered, eyes averted, "but at the same time, I want you to know that you really don't know the full story, either. There are things going on with me that…" he searched for the word briefly, pushing a hand through his hair, "complicate this, and you're right." He finally brought his stare back to mine, dark and conflicted, "It's not fair of me to drag you into it."

I was struck by the expression. It was the same one I'd seen in the broom closet the first night he'd kissed me; the one that told me I might've hit a target a bit deeper than I'd been aiming for. It simultaneously enraged and softened me: why couldn't he just bloody tell me? "Oliver," I began, my voice coming out much bolder than I felt, "who's the little girl?"

It was a demand, not a question, and he instantly stiffened. I held his stare evenly, my heart absolutely racing in my chest, praying that for once—just once—he trusted me enough to tell me, but it was in vain. He closed up instantly, the subtle vulnerability in his eyes vanishing. "No one."

"You're lying."

"I'm done with this conversation," he declared, grabbing up his book bag and swinging it onto his shoulder, and I felt a raging whirlpool of emotions swirling through me: hurt, anger, defeat.

"Is she your friend? Your sister? Your neighbor?" I pressed on, fists clenched at my sides, emotions soaring within me, though he continued to ignore me as he headed toward the door. "Do you still know her? Does she know you use her as an excuse to alienate people?" He scoffed angrily at this, pushing the door open, and I felt my frustration spiral wildly within me, eyes prickling with tears, "Damn it, Wood, can't you at least tell me what her name is!?"

He stopped at this, halfway through the doorway, his tensed back facing me as I merely stood there in defeat. And then, slowly, he turned to face me, his eyes dangerously dark and his voice nothing more than a cold growl. "Her name was Claire."

And with that, he was gone, the door falling shut behind him with a dull clatter. I stared at the spot where he had been standing for a solid minute or two, eyes unfocused, mind racing as it took in the single word that said more than any name or description could.

Her name was Claire.

Was.