Settling the Score

Now Is the Winter of Our Discontent

This was ridiculous.

Even in his hammered state, Wood was avoiding me. It was obvious as hell. His eyes never once grazed mine. His location of choice was always at violent odds with mine. He was keeping to the friends he knew I didn't know very well. And, to be frank, it was pissing me the fuck off.

You see, I really don't like to leave things hanging. I like to talk them out, scream the out, cry them out—whatever, as long as the word out is involved. Wood, however, is this infuriating breed of bloke known as passive-aggressive. He bottles things in, keeps them locked inside his dark, inscrutable stare, and broods over them until he's made enough sense of them to push them to the back of his head. There's no outside party involved—just him and his stupid brain.

You may be wondering how this is in any way healthy. The short answer? It's not.

Which is why I find myself in a frosty, prickly mood that's so polarized from the easygoing one I was in before. I'm supposed to be listening to Lee's Egypt story—something about turning the camels pink over his summer break—but really, I'm not paying a word of attention. In fact, I'm trying not to stare over his shoulder at the darling little scene unfurling before me: Fiona Price tossing her head back and giggling at whatever inane thing Wood was spewing, pressing a hand against his chest.

My grip on my glass of Butterbeer was tight. Don't look, Andy, I snapped at myself, trying to keep my gaze on Lee's animated one. Do. Not. Look.

I looked. Irritation swept through me—she was ruffling his hair, trying to straighten it out from the haphazard mess it'd become. I was struck again by how awful they looked together: her with her pale, porcelain everything and him with his tanned, roughened-up everything. She needed an effeminate bloke, like a male model or something. Her and Wood were just… wrong.

This was an entirely objective opinion, of course.

I scowled at myself, snapping my attention back over to Lee. Whatever. If he could have fun and flirt about, so could I. "And then the villagers treated us like we were all out gods, because apparently, and this is golden, they have a prophecy about pink camels that—" Lee cut off as I started giggling out of nowhere, acting as if he'd just said the funniest thing in the entire world. I know, it was stupid and immature, but really, I didn't know what else to do.

"I haven't even hit the punch-line yet," he said with a frown, expression a bit perplexed, and I had to fight back a glower—he wasn't making this easy.

"You're just funny, Lee," I improvised. Granted, it was usually true, but I really wasn't feeling his camel story at the moment.

He grinned at this, shrugging his shoulders cockily. "I guess I am."

"And, er," I racked my head for something flirty, "spry."

What?

"What?" he echoed my thoughts, face crumpling a bit.

"You know, spry, like…" my gaze veered off his shoulder to where Fiona had just 'accidentally' stumbled into Wood, his hands moving to her tiny little waist to steady her, and it slitted. "What I meant was sexy."

I snapped my stare back over to Lee's, bright with renewed vigor, and he balked. "Sorry?"

"You're sexy, Lee—there's just something about the way you…" I paused, desperately racking my head for some of his more attractive qualities, but all I could see was an image of him scarfing down his eggs at breakfast, shoveling food into his overflowing mouth like there was no tomorrow. "…er, well, there's just something about you," I finished a bit hastily.

"Thanks, I guess," he said, eyeing me uncertainly, and I honestly wanted to smack myself: I couldn't flirt for the life of me. Like really, it was a problem. Merlin, what do girls normally do in this situation? Flip their hair? "So, anyway, we rode the camels into the village and they sa—"

WHACK.

"Ow!"

I winced—note to self: when flipping hair, avoid face of conquest. "Sorry!"

"The hell, Andy?" Lee growled, rubbing the side of his cheek, and I racked my brain for what to do. I'd just injured him, so maybe I should do something about it? Help him out? My eyes flashed with revelation: fawn! I could fawn over him! Like all those nurturing girlfriends do in the romance movies when their love interest gets hurt!

"Oh, Lee," I fretted somewhat awkwardly, bringing my hand up to his cheek and, for lack of a better option, patting it. "Are you alright… darling?" My eyes strayed over his shoulder yet again, spotting Wood's hands still resting on Fiona's waist, and my patting might've gotten a wee bit vicious.

"Ow, ow, ow!" Lee cried, ducking back out of my reach and staring at me like I was completely mental. "Why the hell are you slapping me?"

"I'm not slapping you!"

"Really? Then what exactly are you doing!?"

"Fawning!" I snapped.

"Then bloody well stop fawning!"

I let out a sigh of frustration, tossing all subtlety to hell as I grabbed his collar, yanked his head down to my eye-level, and scowled. "Look—I need you to pretend for a second that I'm not me, alright? That I'm someone else, someone like…" my eyes flickered in revelation, "Katie!"

His eyes widened. "Katie?"

"Yeah, Katie! Pretend I'm Katie!"

"But—"

"Now, if I were Katie—pretty, doe-eyed, curvy little Katie, remember?—how would you be acting right now?" I pressed on, expression intense, and for a second, he merely stared at me.

And stared at me.

And stared at me some more.

Then, slowly, he began leaning over, expression entirely inscrutable. I almost cheered—finally, he was looking at me like I was a girl!—until he was inches away from my face, eyes dark and narrowed. And then, "Are you high?"

I simply threw my hands up into the air, emitting a loud growl of frustration. "I give up!" I wheeled around and stalked off, leaving a very confused-looking Lee behind me, but I didn't care—I needed a bloody drink.

I wove my way through the continually thickening crowd, maneuvering through groping couples and clusters of chatty friends until I finally emerged onto the crowded Tiki Bar balcony. I scowled at the line—people were such drunks, honestly—until a cheery, accented voice called out, "Make way for our star Seeker, ladies and gents!"

I glanced over and saw the vaguely familiar bartender, Seamus Finnegan, waving me over. My face crumpled in bemusement—wasn't he in like third year? Who the hell decided to let him bartend? Nonetheless, the line parted with a series of cheers and high-fives as I made my way up to the front, arching a brow. "Aren't you a bit young to be handling alcohol, Seamus?"

He shot me a toothy grin. "I'm Irish, love. Been makin' me own drinks since I was seven."

I snorted at this. "Touché."

"So what'll it be, then?"

"I don't care—surprise me."

He raised his eyebrows. "Y'sure about that?" I tossed him a pointed look, and he grinned again before ducking down behind the counter and fiddling with a few glass handles. He emerged with a bottle of something clear and vicious-looking. "Vodka it is!"

I watched him work with a mildly impressed expression—he wasn't kidding about knowing what he was doing. His hands darted out to grab different liquors and mixers with second-nature ease, pouring them thoughtlessly as he jammed out to the song blasting from the dance floor, and within seconds, a bright red drink was being pushed my way.

"What is it?" I asked, eyeing the virulent color a bit apprehensively.

"I call it the Hungarian Horntail," he replied with a wink, plucking a festive little umbrella out of an arbitrary box and sticking it into the ice. "Drink it slowly." At my questioning look, he leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially, "There's enough alcohol in that thing to knock bloody Hagrid on his arse."

My gaze flitted back over to the drink, fingers curling hesitantly around the glass as I brought it up in front of my eyes. It looked like bright, red-hot, liquid pandemonium. "Alright, well… cheers, I s'pose," I ventured, lifting the glass up in a tentative toast.

Seamus grinned, flicking two fingers in cheeky salute before turning his attention to the next person in line. I cast a final wary look at my drink before merely snorting and swiveling about, coming face-to-face with none other than Zachary Davies. I burst out laughing—he looked like a homeless man. "The last thing you need is more alcohol, Davies."

"The only thing I need is more alcohol!" he cried, expression dramatic and full of humor. His hair was an entirely disheveled mess of bright blonde, his tan cheeks flushed and his eyes a bit bleary, but, to his credit, he did seem a bit more sobered up than before. Granted, I had no idea how—he'd probably had his weight in alcohol by this point—but I s'pose being Hogwarts' biggest party animal had worked him up quite a tolerance over the years.

"How on earth are you not passed out in the Hospital Wing right now?" I asked, shaking my head in awe, and he merely winked in response. "Ridiculous," I muttered.

"Completely," he agreed, lips curling at the corners. He perked up suddenly, "Oi, I should buy you a celebratory drink!"

I laughed. "It's an open bar, you git."

He rolled his eyes, "Fine, correction: I should get you a celebratory drink. Wait just a second!"

"No, it's fine, I already have one!" I called behind him as he made his way to the bar, all cockiness and humor and swagger without so much as a pinch of seriousness to his name. "It's completely full!"

"Petty details…"

"No, Zach, really—"

"Shots, then?"

"No!"

"I'm thinking shots…"

"I'm thinking no!"

"But we all know that no means yes!"

I laughed as he shot an elfin grin over his shoulder, wriggling his eyebrows and ordering a round of tequila shots. "Spoken like a true rapist," I said wryly as he returned with two shot glasses in hand, holding one out to me. "Zach, really, I can't just—"

"I propose a toast," he announced, forcing the glass into my hand and making a giant fuss out of crossing our arms so that we could take them wedding-style, "to the most spectacular, kickass, brilliant, and bloody mental Quidditch team Hogwarts' ever seen." A few people gathered around to cheer him on, pulled in by the rowdy, magnetic appeal Zach Davies had about him, and I shot them an exasperated look. "May their talent meet no bounds, their legacy live on, and their fit Seeker shag me tonight. Cheers!"

A burst of applause and laughter rang out as he downed his shot, eyeing me with dark, glittering brown eyes. I couldn't help but laugh—from his laidback, California boy good looks to his hilariously dismal grades, Zachary Davies was nothing more than a party waiting to happen. "Oh, c'mon, love—we're celebrating!"

I sighed, defeated, "Fine, fine!" And with that, I tossed my head back and took the damn thing, eyes instantly screwing up in disgust as the amber liquid burned down my throat. Merlin, I hated tequila. It tasted like kerosene, it scorched my taste buds, and it had a nasty habit of hitting me all at once at the most inopportune moments. I could be fine for an entire hour and then all of a sudden, BAM—I'm screeching out Britney Spears songs and chasing Mrs. Norris down the hallway with a box of matches. I honestly have absolutely zero tolerance for the stuff, which is why I find myself glaring at Zach's now stupidly grinning face. "I hate you for that."

"You'll get over it," he replied, snatching a newly poured drink from the hand of a passing fourth year and taking a swig. "Mmm, gin…"

"Oi!" the boy cried, wheeling around and swiping his arm to try and get it back.

Zach held the red cup out of his reach, furrowing his brow into a serious expression. "You're far too young to be drinking, young man." And then, in a horribly infuriating manner, he took another casual swig from the cup, shooting the younger boy a wink. "Seniority's a bitch."

The boy swiveled around with an angry huff, his face almost as red as his hair as he marched back to the end of the alcohol line. I was caught between feeling bad for him and laughing—Zach could be a bit of a git sometimes, but his humor and popularity usually let him get away with it. He caught my look and shrugged, smirking. "Kid's fourteen—I'm doing him a favor."

"Yeah, I'm sure saving him from alcoholism was your motive."

"'Course."

"How gallant."

"Always—now let's get Price drunk."

I jolted slightly—Price as in Fiona Price?—though before I could confirm this, I was being yanked up the stairs behind Zach. "Wait—"

"Believe me, it's the funniest damn thing you'll ever see in your life," he tossed over his shoulder, raising his voice a bit to carry over the music blasting below us. "She can drink vodka like it's water, but give her a drop of gin and she's a slurring mess!"

On second thought, maybe I liked this idea. "Zach, Fiona and I aren't exactly the best of friends, you know…"

"One sip of this drink and you'll be her Maid of bloody Honor," he assured me, laughter brightening his voice as we emerged onto the second floor. It was a platform overhanging the dance floor with a much more lounge-style vibe—dark, edgy lighting, trendy couches and chairs dotted about, and a whole slew of people relaxing and chatting over drinks. He spotted Fiona after a moment and nodded in her direction, grinning. "Go time."

I vaguely registered his hand on the small of my back as he led me to the corner of laughing seventh years, more preoccupied with determining if a certain passive-aggressive Scottish idiot was with them or not. Much to my disappointment, he wasn't, although that did mean that he wasn't with Fiona.

You win some, you lose some.

"Fiona, my little buttercup," Zach purred as he slid his arms around her waist from behind, pulling her against his chest, "I bought you a drink."

She slowly swiveled about to face him, smile frosty. "The drinks are free, Zach."

He tossed his head back in a groan, refusing to relinquish his hold on her. "What is it with women and details?"

She rolled her eyes, lips parting to respond, though her eyes promptly caught on mine. And then, almost unnoticeably, they narrowed. "Hello, Andy." Cue the fake friendliness.

"Fiona," I nodded, ready to leave it at that, though her eyes slowly descended down the length of me, taking every detail of my appearance into that frighteningly calculative head of hers and analyzing it thoroughly. She didn't seem pleased with her conclusion.

"Great match," she offered after a moment, the epitome of prim and polite. "I wish I could've stayed to watch the end." The implication of 'and seen your head get smashed by a broom' was thinly veiled.

I smiled coolly. "Don't worry, you were definitely where you belonged." At her slightly affronted look, I appended, "Your injuries might've worsened if you hadn't been rushed to the Hospital Wing immediately."

She forced a smile onto her lips, though her eyes were hazel razors. "Right."

"So, love," Zach cut in, sensing the tension spiraling and redirecting her focus, "about this drink I went out of my way to get you—"

"I can smell the bloody gin from here, Zach—honestly, how dim do you think I am?" she snipped, rolling her eyes in a decidedly bratty fashion that screamed of wealth and superiority. However, her gaze caught on something over my shoulder in the process, and in one of the most dramatic metamorphoses I've ever seen, she became a bright, sexy, flirty little pixie.

"He's trying to slip me gin again," she explained in a humor-filled, damsel-in-distress style sigh, and for a baffling second I thought she was talking to me. "Honestly, this obsession you all have with getting me drunk is entirely unfair! You're supposed to be the responsible one, Oliver."

I stiffened instantly. Oh.

"Responsibility's overrated," came the dry, accented reply from mere inches behind me, and a set of crack-addicted butterflies decided my stomach was a great place to learn the foxtrot. Don't turn around—the second he sees it's you, he'll leave, my head said, though my body was itching to do the opposite. It was irritating, really, how violent a physical reaction his stupid voice could elicit from me, but what can you do.

"Well, overrated or not, it's your responsibility as a gentlemen to save an innocent girl from the perils of Zach Davies!" she reprimanded, giggling as Zach moved in to nuzzle her neck. I wanted to throw up.

Wood chuckled darkly behind me, and after a brief moment, I felt a large hand on the small of my back. "S'cuse me," he muttered, eyes thoughtlessly flickering up to mine as he made to move past me, though the second they made contact, the humor drained from them and he stopped.

I was honestly caught between wanting to throttle him and wanting to snog the living hell out of him—his hair was careless and rumpled, his eyes were dark and hazy with residual alcohol, and the planes of his face were thrown into sharp relief by the shadowed lighting. His hand lingered on my back, fingers splayed and palm wonderfully roughened, and I tried to ignore the electrical spitfires going off at the contact—we were in a sodding stalemate, for Merlin's sake.

We merely stared at each other for a moment—his eyes sweeping down the length of my face, mine stubbornly refusing to look anywhere but his—until his lips parted briefly. He looked like he was about to say something, guarded stare slowly lifting back up to mine, though Fiona chose that exact moment to interrupt.

"Zach!" she squealed particularly loudly, an infectious giggle following the name. "Get off! Oliver, help!"

The daze shattered instantly as we both looked over, his hand slipping off my back and dropping instead to his side. Zach was coaxing the cup against her lips, distracting her by murmuring seductive nothings into her ear and making her laugh, and Wood merely shook his head, morphing back into his cool, unaffected self. "Davies, you're a menace to society," he said with a smirk, approaching the two and yanking Zach back by the loose end of his tie.

"Oi, I was making progress, mate!"

"Just give it up."

"Honestly, you're never going to get me drunk."

"Is that a challenge, Miss Price?"

"Perhaps, Mr. Davies."

Zach wriggled his eyebrows. "Feisty."

I could see the disgust lurking beneath the surface of her skin, but she carried on with her deceitfully flirtatious routine anyway, sneaking the occasional glance at Wood, who'd edged off into a neighboring conversation, to gauge how charmed he was. I had to admit, I was mildly impressed with her persistence—Zach was all but feeling her up at this point—though she promptly caught on to my staring.

"Was there something you wanted?" she asked after a moment, cocking her head to the side in a show of curiosity.

I snapped out of my daze. "Sorry?"

She laughed lightly—it was prickly and biting. "It's just that this is clearly a seventh year gathering, and you're just sort of hanging about awkwardly, so I was wondering if you had a question or something."

Anger blistered over my skin, though Zach instantly came to my pseudo-defense, abandoning her to toss an arm around my shoulders. "Aw, Fiona, don't be such a cow," he drawled, a slight slur beginning to reemerge in his speech. "Andy's brilliant." He gave me a bleary, sidelong glance, "And fit as hell, if I do say so myself…"

"Oh, please," she snipped, tossing her hair, "in your state, a Grindylow would seem fit as hell."

And with that, she swiveled about and waltzed off to another conversation, ignoring Zach as he called out, "Only a really cute one!" He grinned and dropped his gaze back down to mine, shrugging. "She gets jealous."

I smiled half-heartedly, but my eyes lingered on Fiona, watching as she joined the conversation beside Wood with complete ease. They all reacted warmly to the sight of her—Amelie Legrande, the pretty French transfer from Beaubaxtons, Dexter Jones, the mathematical genius with the ridiculous afro, Caroline Abbot, the muggle football star… They were people I knew of, but never really knew save for a few quick words here and there, and for some reason or other, this realization bothered me. The seventh year Gryffs were known for being in an established little world of their own, but I guess I hadn't fully felt the exclusivity until right now.

It was an unpleasant feeling.

Without really thinking about it, I took a sip from the drink I'd forgotten I even had, almost spitting it back out as the spicy, electric flavor flooded my tongue—damn. That packed a bloody punch, son. With a slight grimace, I set it down on the table. Hell if I was drinking that thing… "Y'alright?" Zach asked, looking drunker by the second, and before I could respond, a rowdy group of blokes crashed into me from behind, sending me involuntarily flying against him.

"Jesus—sorry," I said as I attempted to disentangle myself, but his hands had already found their way around my waist, holding me against him in a way that suggested he wasn't going to let go any time soon.

"Oh, believe me, love, it's a pleasure," he purred, and in the process of snapping my eyes up to stare exasperatedly at him, I noticed something very unfortunate—my vision was lagging. Oh, bloody hell. And so it begins.

"Zach, dearest," I said pleasantly, trying to ignore the familiar buzzing sensation that was starting to diffuse through my bloodstream, "let me go."

"Andy, dearest," he drawled, arching a slow, seductive brow, "you'll have to snog me first."

"Replace snog with punch and you've got yourself a deal," I replied, though the words came out a bit slower than I'd meant them to, making them seem sultry. God, I knew that shot would be the death of me. Tequila needs to die.

"Mmm, fiery, are we?" he purred, dropping his head down to brush his nose against mine, making a slew of alarms go off inside me. "I've always liked that about you…"

I reared back as his mouth made a dive for mine, entirely uncomfortable with the situation now. "Very funny, Zach," I said, placing a hand on his chest to ward him off, but he merely smirked and went in again. "Seriously, stop," I demanded a bit more seriously, dodging his lips yet again, though the movement was making my head start to spin.

"Aw, c'mon, Andy," he drawled with a now obvious slur, snaking a hand down the curve of my back, "jus' one little kiss'z all I ask for…"

"Zach!" I snapped as his mouth once again sought mine, attempting to push him back so I could free myself from his grip, but he merely chuckled against my lips, entirely unmoved. Merlin, my sense of balance was o—my eyes suddenly clouded with anger: was that his hand pinching my bum? My body stiffened, all playfulness flying right out the window.

"Sommin' wrong, love?" he asked, eyes heavy-lidded and smug, and just as I felt my fingers lifting for a slap, a hand clapped over Zachary's shoulder, pulling him away from me in a perfectly chummy manner that made my blood boil. Mainly because my (his?) rescuer was Wood. And he was just the picture of friendly.

"Davies, mate," he said pleasantly, "we're starting up a game of Risk—you in?"

Zach's face lit up. "Hell yeah! I live for Risk!"

Wood laughed. "I figured—oi, go help set up and I'll join you in a second," he said, nodding his head downstairs to indicate the balcony.

"Right on," Zach replied, sending me a wink before swiveling about rather unsteadily and making his way to the stairs. I watched him go with a potent mixture of distaste and tequila buzzing through my system before snapping my eyes back over to Wood. It took a moment for his image to focus before me, but when it did, I wished it hadn't.

His stare was slowly trailing down the length of me, sweeping over every angle and curve of my body in silent, deliberate appraisal. His eyes were obscured, shadowed by the intensity of his observation, and I stiffened immediately under the scrutiny, willing myself to stamp out the nervous vulnerability creeping up my neck. It's just Wood, Andy—he's seen you sweaty and disgusting and covered in mud, I told myself, trying to build up some confidence. When his eyes finally met mine, however, all confidence flew out the window.

His expression was completely flat. "Nice dress." The words were uttered with enough derision to make a slap in the face seem like a handshake.

It took me a second to recover from the blow, but when I did, it wasn't pretty. A culmination of everything—the avoidance, the refusal to tell me anything, Fiona, the fact that he could see one his best mates harassing me and yet he treated me like the one at fault—it all spiraled together into a moment of pure, unbridled anger. And I kind of snapped.

By kind of snapped, I mean I kind of grabbed his drink and threw it in his face. It was mostly ice, but whatever—beggars can't be choosers. He reared back slightly, wiping his cheek with his sleeve, though all in all he didn't seem particularly surprised with the reaction. I stormed off into the crowd, struggling to get down the stairs. "Wiles," he called.

I ignored him, trying to ride my wave of anger so that the hurt wouldn't set in. Deep down, I felt humiliated—he'd been looking at me the exact same way I'd been looking at myself in the mirror. Like a slag. A stupid girl in a short little dress, desperate for a bloke's attention. Merlin, I knew this was a mistake—everything about this night was just a stupid mistake.

"Wiles, stop," he tried again, following me down the stairs, and I threw a beautiful hand gesture over my shoulder in response. What, did he have more to say? Did he want to comment on my hair, too? My make-up? The fact that my legs were bronzed up, that my nails were done, and that deep down, subconsciously, I'd done it with the hope of running in to him? Well, that sounded like a positively thrilling conversation, really, but I'd rather go hang myself off the chandelier in the common room.

"Andy," he growled, frustration clouding his voice as his fingers found their way around my wrist, yanking me around in the middle of the staircase and causing the room to start spinning around me. "I'm sorry—"

"I say this with all sincerity, Oliver, so listen closely: fuck you," I snapped, noticing that he quite clearly wasn't drunk anymore. Tipsy, obviously, but the slurring mess that'd come into this party was nowhere to be found. "Fuck you for being too much of a pansy to so much as glance at me all night, for not being able to make up your damn mind about what the hell I am to you, and for all in all being a colossal sodding prick!"

He scoffed at my diatribe, his former penitence dissipating slightly and making way for bitterness. "Oh, sure. Play the victim, Andy—it's what you do best."

"Play the victim?" I spat, trying to ignore my growing disorientation. "What the hell are you—"

"You know damn well what I'm talking about," he snapped, cornering me slightly as I attempted to dodge him, arms shooting past either side of me and gripping the banister behind. "You poke and prod into things you know nothing about like their some sort of fun little mystery for you to solve, and when I don't feel particularly chatty about them, you resort to stunts like this!"

"Stunts like what?"

His eyes slitted. "Oh, I don't know—like showing up in a tiny little dress so that it'd be really fucking hard for me to ignore you?"

Indignation swept through me. "I am not wearing this for you, you self-centered asshole!" Liar, a tiny voice echoed inside me, incensing me further.

"Of course you're not," he scoffed, his expression remarkably transparent at the moment—I could see the anger, the bitterness, and the frustration in clear detail. "And Davies feeling you up right in front of me; that was just a coincidence too, right?"

This time, pure outrage soared through me, no tiny voices included—was he fucking serious? That was entirely mental. However, just as my lips sprang open, a strident voice called over the stairwell, "If it isn't our two favorite Quidditch players! Let's hear it for the best Captain and best Seeker Gryffindor's ever seen!" A series of cheers rang around us, swallowing the cutting words off my tongue. Wood and I continued to glare at each other, expressions utterly incensed, though the crowd didn't seem to notice in all their drunken glory.

"Give him a kiss, Andy!" one girl cried, giggling like mad. "'Coz if you don't, I will!"

"Hear, hear!" a chorus of girls cheered, and within seconds, the entirety of the crowd was egging me on, shouting 'Snog him! Snog him! Snog him!' like their life depended on it. My expression was riotous—fucking hell if I was going to snog him!—though the moment I attempted to wrench out his grasp and storm down the stairs, the crowd surged forward.

"Nope! No one's getting down until you give the man his celebratory snog," a particularly obnoxious fifth year announced, his frighteningly large frame blocking the way, and I seriously debated pushing him down the stairs.

"C'mon, Andy, he deserves it!" another girl yelled, laughing like it was all in good fun, and I was struck by how moronic people could be: this was the guy that kicked me off his goddamn team two weeks ago. What, we win and all of a sudden we're a big, happy family again? False.

"A kick in the bollocks is what he deserves," I growled as I once again tried to squeeze past the crowd, though the same stupid fifth year predictably rebuffed me. Jesus, I was going to kill this kid.

"Just one, girlie—c'mon, we all know you want to!" a girl I'd never even met before said with a grin, motioning with her hand for the chant to grow louder, and my head quickly started pounding—I needed to get out of here. These people were a nightmare. However, just as I felt myself preparing to explode, a familiar hand grabbed mine roughly and whirled me around, sending me stumbling forward into its owner: Wood.

And then, without any sort of warning, his mouth was on mine. Shock and fury jolted through me, sending frissions of electricity down my spine, though the feelings were promptly muted by the familiar, lobotomizing heat that seemed to accompany all of his kisses. Anger was radiating off him in waves, manifested in the harshness of his grip and the roughness of his movements, but I found myself incapable of protest—he was rough, raw, and entirely intoxicating.

For a moment, I wanted nothing more than to forget everything and snog the living hell out of him. To pretend to live in a world where there were no conflicting emotions, no underlying dramas, nothing—just a boy who liked a girl and a girl who liked a boy and that was that. But the moment passed quickly, and reality set in: he wasn't that boy and I wasn't that girl. He was Oliver and I was Andy, and for some godforsaken reason, that shot everything to hell. And I was tired of it.

Really, really tired of it.

Thus, with every ounce of willpower I possessed, I shoved him backwards and broke the kiss. And that's when the cheers registered in my ears, the music soared back into my awareness, and the present resettled itself around me—I hadn't even realized I'd lost touch with it. Wood's stare was burning into mine, face entirely too close, eyes a dark, charred amber color that spoke volumes of his mood, and my own eyes slitted in response.

"Satisfied?" I called out to the crowd, eyes trained on his, though my voice promptly lowered into a barely audible murmur. "I'm done with this, Wood. Really, I'm just… done." And I honestly was—I was sick of it all; sick of the drama, sick of the misunderstandings, and sick of feeling like I was stuck in a bloody soap opera where every minute brought on a new obstacle. I was a simple person; I led a simple sodding life—this whole thing was starting to feel invasive.

And okay, yeah, maybe the tequila was exacerbating the situation, but still, this had to be coming from somewhere.

He merely held my stare for a moment, dark and unbearably heated. Then, without responding, he tossed his head back and yelled, "Who's up for a game of Risk!?" A baritone chorus of cheers sounded, and before I knew it, a swarm of rowdy males was ushering him down the stairs toward the balcony. He was laughing and slapping hands with a few of them, totally and completely at ease all of a sudden. My eyes slitted. Oh, sure. The typical Wood M.O.—avoidance. "Can a bloke get a bloody drink around here?" he called out, and one was instantly handed to him. He downed it all in one swig, shaking his head to clear off the effects and hurling the cup over his shoulder. "Alright, now let's play some sodding Risk!"

What a git. Seriously, what a sodding git—what the bloody hell did we get solved? Nothing. I tell him I'm done with him, and he waltzes off without any sort of acknowledgment whatsoever. Christ, it was just—God! Why? Why did everything have to be such a freaking drama? Up in the air, never conclusive—all he needed to say was 'fine', 'sounds good', something. Honestly, could I have picked a worse person to start something with? Wood was just… Merlin, he was just so freaking frustrating, I didn't… he just… he was honestly just—

"Driving me in-bloody-sane," I growled under my breath, watching him and a bunch of other blokes summon their brooms in preparation for Risk. I tried not to feel anything at the sight, but an underlying current of apprehension traversed me anyway. Risk was bad news, particularly when drunk people were involved, although generally only drunk people were stupid enough to play it. It was essentially an incredibly dangerous drinking game: everyone playing would line up along the balcony, jump off, and the first person to summon their broom was out. The remaining players would all take a shot of Firewhiskey, line up, and do it all over again, and the process would repeat until it came down to two. The one who waited longest before calling their broom won.

Granted, the last two or three players were usually completely shit-faced, so a tie was called, but even still, it was an incredibly dangerous game that put everyone watching on edge. The Summoning Charm was extremely precise—if you're inflection was even slightly off, it wouldn't work—so if you messed it up, someone would have to try and stop you from killing yourself. A few students had gotten seriously injured before, so the game was completely prohibited at Hogwarts. Then again, so was underage drinking… goes to show you how rule abiding we all are here…

"So that's seven in, then?" Davies called over the crowd quickly forming around the balcony, making a tally of the number of players. "I have me, Weasley, Weasley, Wood, Killian, Jordan, and Cruz—anyone else?" At the general silence, he shrugged. "Alright, let's get this party started, then!"

"Idiot," I growled under my breath as I watched from the stairs, refusing to go down to the balcony. Since when did Wood even play Risk? Merlin, of all people, he was Mr. Eliminate All Necessary Danger In Life—first he shows up drunk and now this? Had he gotten some sort of brain transplant since our fight in Arithmancy?

"Line up, men!" George called out, hopping onto the ledge of the balcony as if it weren't four hundred meters above the ground. "Has everyone taken their shot?"

"God, I hate it when they do this," a nervous voice murmured to my left, and I was surprised to find Katie standing beside me, chewing her lip. Her cheeks were still flushed from dancing, hair slightly disheveled, but the former laughter in her eyes was replaced with worry. She didn't like the game to begin with, but it gave her a near panic attack whenever Lee and the Weasleys joined in. "Boys are so stupid."

"Tell me about it," came a familiar snap, and I didn't even have to look to know that Alicia had just come up on my left. "I'm not a huge fan of your friend, Andy."

"You mean Gabe?"

"No, I mean the bloody milkman."

Well, someone was in a strop.

"There you guys are!" Angelina's voice called from the dance floor, and I glanced over to see her rushing up the stairs with a bright smile on her face. "Where the hell have you two been? Kats and I were bringing down the house with our disco moves, but you've been totally MIA!"

"I've been arguing politics with Mr. I'm-So-Cheeky-and-Clever for the past two hours," Alicia grumbled, nodding at me. "No clue about this one."

I sighed tiredly. "I don't want to get into it."

Angelina shot me a quizzical look, though before she could lay into me with questions, a loud roar rose from the balcony. My heart skipped an involuntary beat—they'd jumped. A few seconds passed until the brooms started being summoned, disappearing off the balcony one by one, and Angelina narrowed her eyes in confusion. "What on earth are they—?" she halted suddenly, realization flooding her expression. "Are they playing Risk?"

"Yep," Alicia replied, inspecting her fingernails in boredom.

Angelina's eyes cut into absolute slits. "Where's Fred?"

"Probably still hurtling toward the ground," Alicia said simply.

A wave of rage crashed over Angelina as she whirled around and thundered down the stairs, her pretty braids flying around her face. "Fred Weasley!" she screeched, voice murderous—if Katie hated Risk, Angelina loathed it with the force of a thousand suns. A few heads whipped around in surprise as she barreled into the crowd, pushing people out of the way like only an angry girlfriend could. "Get up here right now or I'll castrate you in your sleep!"

He hovered into view a few moments later, hair ruffled and expression sheepish. "'Lo, love…"

"Don't bloody 'love' me—get off that stupid broom now!"

A few people started laughing as Fred landed, head hung low, the very picture of a little boy caught eating cookies before dinner by his mum. She grabbed him by his collar the second his feet touched the ground, yanking him behind her as she stormed off to the hallway for what was presumably one of her 'little chats'. Said chats were often loud and took ten years off the recipient's life.

"Sucks to be Fred," Alicia snorted, dropping the hand she was examining and glancing back over to the balcony. The blokes were stalling about the ledge, chuckling like idiots and egging on the crowd. "C'mon, fucking jump already!" she shouted, rolling her eyes. "They take so long before each round—drives me mental…"

Alicia, quite obviously, had no moral problems with Risk.

"I just really hate this game," Katie repeated, rubbing her tensed shoulders with her palms. "Everything about it—the principal, the objective, the motivation, it's all so sodding stup—" she gasped involuntarily as they jumped again, unable to keep herself from clasping her hand to her heart. My pulse sped up a bit as the five heads disappeared from view, hurtling toward the ground in a literal free-fall. All eyes snapped over to the brooms.

One second…

Three seconds…

Five seconds…

The broom with the name 'Lee Jordan' glowing over it flew off the ledge, followed almost instantly by the one under the name 'Manuel Cruz'. About a second later, George's broom arced back into a dive, disappearing off the ledge and flying down to meet him, and it wasn't until the eight-second mark that Zach's broom jerked into motion and followed suit.

Wood's broom was the last to move, and it did so a full second later than Zach's.

My grip on the banister became painfully tight—he was playing to win. Why the hell was he doing this? He never played Risk. Was this some sort of twisted way of giving me a taste of my own medicine or something? My heart began beating harder as Lee and Manuel surfaced, competitive grins on their faces, wondering who had summoned faster. "Lee's out!" Teddy Killian, the seventh year Ravenclaw who'd been eliminated in the first round, called out, and Katie breathed out a huge sigh of relief beside me.

"Oh, thank God."

"Lee's gone soft," Alicia muttered, dropping her chin into her hand and sighing.

George surfaced a few seconds later, followed promptly by Zach and Wood, who were in the middle of laughing uproariously at something. Anger sparked through me—oh, sure, laugh it up while anyone who cares about you has a sodding meltdown. "Thickheads," I grumbled, trying to keep my heartbeat steady as they prepped for round three.

"Grab your shots!" Zach called out as he downed his, shaking his head in shivery delight before tossing it back and howling like a werewolf. "Nothing like Firewhiskey!" he cried, grinning like only a drunk seventeen-year-old male could.

The other three promptly followed suit, taking their obligatory shots before all of the remaining four lined up along the ledge. "Alright, round three," Teddy announced, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Aaaand, jump!"

My fingers clenched instantly, knuckles turning white as the four disappeared from view. The seconds flew by, each one making it harder to breathe, until sure enough, at the last sodding second, Wood's broom flew off the ledge and dove down into the darkness. My eyes snapped shut—he was cutting it close. He was cutting it really bloody close. Zach was getting a bit more daring, too, his time maybe half a second shorter than Wood's this time, which meant that both of them would most likely face off in the final round.

I bit down hard on my lip at the thought. Zach was one of the people who had almost killed himself in Risk before—he was known for waiting ridiculously long before calling his broom. Problem was, Wood was clearly set on beating him. In this round, Manuel had caved first, which left George, Zach, and Wood, but deep down, I knew where this was going.

And I didn't like it.

At all.

"Oliver! Oliver! Oliver! Oliver!"

"Zach! Zach! Zach! Zach!"

The chants were boisterous and loud, overlapping each other in a cacophonous harmony that had the entirety of the Astronomy Tower vibrating. Blokes were cheering thunderously, roaring out taunts and words of encouragement, and girls were squealing in a mixture of delight and horror, transfixed by the utter spectacle unfolding before them. You see, everyone had pretty much guessed that it would come down to Zach and Oliver in the final round—they were, after all, getting the longest times.

What no one had guessed was that they would be tied for five rounds straight.

"Round eleven, mates!" Teddy Killian cried, holding out two shots of Firewhiskey for either of them. They were completely and utterly wasted by this point, stumbling over to the grab their glasses and nearly tripping over each other in the process, but both refused to call it a draw, stubbornly insisting on determining a winner. "Let's see if the eleventh time's the charm!"

"Hear, hear!" Zach slurred, raising his now empty glass to the crowd before slamming it down on the balcony ledge, and Wood merely tossed his to the side, letting it shatter on the concrete.

"Let's do this," he muttered, words blurring a bit.

The blaring cheers grew louder as the two climbed back onto the ledge of the balcony, wobbling a bit and nearly losing their balance a few times, though everyone was too immersed in the rivalry to really care about the danger of the situation. Everyone, that is, except for the lone girl on the staircase with bright, anxious eyes, hunched shoulders, clenched fists, and cuts from where her nails were digging into her palms like razors.

In other words, everyone except me.

I was honestly, from-the-bottom-of-my-sodding-heart trying not to care. Trying to be like all of those other people in the crowd who were enjoying themselves, lost in the exciting rivalry of it all, totally sucked in—but I couldn't. I was terrified. Completely and totally terrified. With every jump Wood took, I felt my heart leap out of my chest; with every second he waited before summoning his broom, I felt a stronger urge to faint; I was honestly about to start hyperventilating.

Katie had left a while ago after Lee had approached her about something, and Alicia had gone down to the balcony so that her cries of, "Eleven seconds? You guys are pansies—my grandmother has bigger bollocks than you!" could be better heard, which meant I was alone in my panic attack. "This is so unnecessary," I muttered anxiously, nervous energy thrumming through my body. It was ludicrous—why the hell wasn't anyone stopping them? They could barely walk, for Christ's sake, let alone cast a tricky charm correctly! "So complete and totally unnecessa—" a sharp gasp punctuated my words as Wood accidentally stumbled, morphing into a horrified cry as he careened backward and fell off the balcony.

Screams filled the air—it was one thing to jump off knowingly, it was another entirely to stumble off and fail to conjure your broom in all the disorientation—and before I knew it, I was barreling down the stairs. People were desperately scrambling over to the ledge, aiming their wands to try and cast a levitating spell on him, but I processed nothing—all I could feel was my heart pounding bloody murder in my ears, my entire body shaking, and my knees threatening to give in beneath me as I ran. If he… if no one managed to… I couldn't—

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" his voice suddenly called from below, Scottish accent rich and slurred, and a tidal wave of relief crashed over me. I slumped against the bar, hand pressed against my racing heart. Thank God. Thank bloody God. "Really, I'm fine—game's still on!" he announced with a drunken smile as he surfaced from the fall, lazily draped over his broom, and my head snapped up. What? Like fucking hell it was!

"No!" I snapped through the cheers, pushing my way through the inebriated crowd until I broke into the center where Wood and Davies were standing. Zach cheered when he saw me, stumbling over to give me a hug, but I shoved him off with relative ease, instead climbing onto the ledge myself and probably flashing sixty people in the process. "Game's off, people!" I declared once I'd straightened out, ignoring the instant chorus of boos. "Zach and Oliver tie, the end, now go back to the par—"

"Game's not off!" a stubborn voice interjected, and my eyes snapped over to Oliver's. He was climbing right back onto the ledge as if he hadn't just fallen off and nearly died, ignoring me completely and immersed in competition mode. "C'mon, Davies, let's do it."

"Tha'z whatta like to hear!" Zach drawled, grinning as he began stumbling over to the ledge.

"No—Zach, stop," I snapped, holding a hand out and making him come to an unsteady halt. "Game is over. I'm serious. I'm sorry to ruin the fun, but—"

"Who died," Wood suddenly interjected, and I glanced over to see his bleary stare focused on me, "an' made you referee, love?"

A few people from the crowd shouted out in agreement, chuckling at Wood's comment, and my skin prickled with fury. He was watching me smugly, balance shoddy and overall appearance haphazard, and it was with great difficultly that I kept myself from exploding. "You're hammered, Wood," I stated as evenly as I could, fists clenched tightly at my sides. "You're in no condition to be—"

"I believe I am the judge o'that," he cut in once again, "an' I think that I'm perfectly fine! You alright, Davies?"

"Smashin'," the blonde cheered, throwing his hands up and accidentally staggering back into a pretty Hufflepuff. "Nev'r been better!"

"Well, then, it looks like the game's on," he deduced, smirking triumphantly as the crowd began cheering again. "Sorry, love," he shot my way, shrugging completely insincerely. "Rules are rules." And with that, he turned back to face the balcony, taking a dramatic bow in response to the applause and nearly falling over in the process.

And I just snapped: "Alright, enough!" I shouted, pent up fury filibustering inside of me as I scrambled off the ledge, stormed over, and yanked Wood down by the untucked end of his shirt. He staggered backwards once I let go, barely able to keep from falling over as his back crashed against the railing.

"The hell, Wiles!" he cried, fumbling to right himself, though I'd rounded on him before he could finish his sentence.

"You're drunk, Wood! You're bloody shit-faced—you really think I'm going to let you jump off the fucking Astronomy Tower!?" I cried, voice toeing the line between furious and hysterical.

"Let me?" he repeated, laughter suddenly bubbling up his throat. "You're not my bloody girlfriend, Wiles, you don't have to let me do anything!"

I stiffened immediately, taken aback by the statement. He was laughing like it was the funniest damn thing he'd ever heard, growing more and more amused by the second, whilst I merely stood there and tried to deal with the hurricane of emotions swirling through me: anger, embarrassment, and a considerable amount of hurt. I mean, obviously I knew I wasn't his girlfriend, but the way he said it was like the idea was completely preposterous to him, like it'd never even crossed his mind.

People were starting to stare at me with knowing looks—some smug, some chuckling out an 'ouch', and some just irritated that I was interrupting their source of entertainment—and I was hit by the overwhelming need to just get the hell away from it all. The people, the party, the music; everything. Unfortunately, I couldn't leave without Wood. The second I did, he'd climb right back up on that balcony and more than likely accidentally kill himself.

Thus, I found myself swallowing my pride for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past week and grabbing Wood's hand. "We're leaving."

He pulled out of my grasp easily, staggering back a few steps and snorting in amusement. "You're leaving—I have a game to finish."

"Wood."

"Yes, love?" he replied with a drunken smirk.

My eyes cut into slits. "If you don't grow the fuck up and follow me back, I'll join the game."

He rolled his eyes, chuckling. "You can't join the game—against the rules."

"Rules aren't really my thing, remember?"

"Please," he scoffed, ruffling my hair like I was a cute little kid before swiveling about unsteadily to climb back onto the ledge. I took advantage of the moment.

"Oi," I called out to the crowd, eyes trained on his back, "what do you all think about making this game a little more interesting? How does a Keeper vs. Seeker round sound?"

A roar of approval sounded from the people gathered behind us, making my expression harden. I would do it. If it came down to it, I would bloody jump. Wood's retreating frame stiffened briefly at the sound of the cheers, coming to a halt before slowly turning around. He looked considerably less amused than before. "No."

"No?"

"No. "

"Then follow me back."

"I have a game to finish," he growled.

"Then I guess I do, too," I said with a shrug, waltzing over to George's broom and picking it up. "Mind if I borrow this, Geor—"

"No," Oliver cut in, grabbing the broom from my hand with an angry swipe and tossing it on the ground. I stared at him coldly, an underlying part of me amazed at how clearly he expressed his emotions when he was drunk—his eyes were like an open book.

"No, what?"

"No, I'm not going to let you bloody play!"

My stare tapered drastically. "Let me?" I echoed, the mockery frigid in my voice, "You're not my bloody boyfriend, Wood, you don't have to let me do anything."

His eyes were the color of burnt gold as they glared into mine, angry and frustrated and utterly incensed. He didn't say anything for a moment, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line. And then, "Fine." He grabbed my wrist, swiveled about, and yanked me behind him, pushing through the crowd on slightly unstable feet. "Game's over!" he growled as he did so, struggling not to stumble into people.

A silent breath of relief left me, though my expression remained drawn—I knew the night wasn't over, but at least the life-threatening part was done. Suicide avoidance: check! Now stay tuned for the angry, drunken showdown! God, my life's just a picnic basket of bloody sunshine lately…

I shook my head as we finally reached the entrance to the hallway. The cool, silent air struck me the second the door to the Astronomy Tower closed, causing my eyes to shut in relish—Merlin, I'd needed to get out of there. The rowdy crowd, the drunken screams, the music; it's all fine and dandy when things were going well, but when things were as screwed up as they were right now? Not so much.

After a few seconds of silent walking, my eyes fluttered back open, instantly landing on Wood. He was walking ahead of me with long, unsteady steps, frustrated anger blistering over him, hand still tightly clamped around my wrist. I wondered briefly how far we'd get before he exploded, since I could practically hear the ticking from the time bomb he'd turned into, though I didn't have to wonder long—not ten seconds later, he rounded on me with a bleary-eyed, angry expression.

"Not very fun, yeah?"

My eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Being the responsible one," he continued, attempting to walk backwards and stumbling like crazy. "Rather sucks, doesn't it?"

"You're going to hurt yourself, Wood," I cut out, flinching as his shoulder banged into a suit of armor.

He paid the warning no heed, continuing his backwards walk and chuckling darkly. "You don't get it."

"No, I get it just fine," I snapped, irritation evident in my voice. "I just don't agree."

"Really?" he said with laugh, narrowly avoiding crashing into a desk that one of the professors had left outside his office. "Tell me, please, why you don't agree. I'm dying to know, Andy—really, dying."

I rolled my eyes at his mockery. "You're drunk, Wood."

"Why don't you agree?"

"Wood—"

"Why don't you agree!"

"Because it's not the same fucking thing, that's why!" I snapped, drawing to a halt. He promptly followed suit, swaying the slightest bit, but that didn't stop me at all. "Jesus, Wood, you think being the captain of a team with a risky Seeker is anything like what you just pulled? You could've—"

"Died?" he interjected, mouth quirked into a foggy, lopsided smile as he took an unsteady step forward. "Gotten seriously injured? Scared the shit out of all my friends, given you a heart-attack, had to go to the Hospital Wing, blah, blah blah, blah, blah…" he waved a hand, backing me up against the wall with a few ungainly strides and placing an hand on either side of me to steady himself. And then, in a matter of half a second, his expression darkened into a scowl, face lowering to within inches of mine. "Welcome to my world."

"That's not fair," I gritted out, anger and tension starting to traverse me in waves.

"Really?" he mocked, raising a brow. "How do you figure that?"

"Because when I takes risks on the pitch, I take them for a sodding reas—" I cut off as he began laughing—it was a low, languorous chuckle that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

"You think this is just about Quidditch," he muttered, dropping his forehead down against mine. My pulse instantly spiked—heat was radiating off him in dizzying waves, thick with the smoky smell of Firewhiskey. "You really do—you actually, whole-heartedly think…" he murmured the words against my lips, hot breath fluttering against my skin, "that this is just about Quidditch…"

"I'm not—" I began, though the quick movement of my lips caused them to brush against his, causing my eyes to flutter closed in restraint, "I'm not saying that, Wood—"

"Then what are you saying?" he countered, slowly dropping his lips against mine in a soft, melting kiss that ended almost as quickly as it began. "Hm? What is my stubborn," he kissed the corner of my mouth, "opinionated," he kissed the other corner, "heroic little Andy saying?"

I honestly had no bloody idea what we were even talking about anymore, but I knew that I wasn't at all a fan of his tone. "I'm not following, Oliver…"

"Me neither," he murmured, and with that admission, his mouth was on mine. Every brain cell instantly rebelled against the action, commanding me to recoil, but my physical reaction overwhelmed the protest as my eyes rolled back in pleasure—his tongue was slow and seductive and absolutely scalding. An inner voice was screaming to stop—that we had issues to solve, that he was drunk and making stupid decisions, and that I'd just bloody told him I was done with him a few hours ago—but I couldn't bring myself to listen. His hand dropped from the wall to my waist, pulling my body flush against his, and I felt all control slip away from me.

Fucking hell, I felt like drug addict. Spirals of heat were shooting through me at an astounding speed, leaving a low, simmering burn in their wake, and every nerve in my body was pricking with heightened sensitivity. "You have no idea," he murmured between kisses, free hand dropping to skim the bare skin of my thigh, "none…" he pressed on, "how hard it is for me to stay away from you."

The confession shook me out of my daze, and I reared back. "Stay away?"

His hazy eyes met mine for a moment, dark and heavy-lidded. "God, you're beautiful."

"Why are—what do you mean, 'stay away'?" I repeated, ignoring the flushing heat inspired by his compliment. "Why would you have to stay away from me?"

He lolled his head back with a dark, cynical chuckle. "Forget it."

"No, stop," I snapped as he made to kiss down my neck, shoving him back a few inches and glaring at him. "Answer me."

"It's nothing, love, honestly…"

"Wood," I growled, shoving him yet again and achieving far better results than I ever would have were he sober, "my cranial meltdown's over—I'm not going to snog you anymore."

He scoffed at this, tossing his hands up in surrender and laughing. "As you wish, princess." He swiveled about and began stumbling down the hallway, clothes a mess and hair rumpled in every which direction, and my eyebrows gathered into a dark, cutting frown.

"You said I reminded you of Claire," I ventured, watching closely for his reaction. There was none. "Is that why you have to stay away from me?"

"Sure," he tossed out flippantly, swiveling about and brandishing an arm. "Why not?"

"Oliver."

"I really don't feel like getting psychoanalyzed right now, Andy, so if you don't mind," he slurred, crashing right into another suit of armor as he turned back around. "Damn it—the fucking hell are these things coming from?"

I sighed darkly, shaking my head as I walked over to him and grabbed his hand. "Just follow me." He clearly didn't want to talk and I clearly wasn't going to get him to, so it was probably best to just get him to bed. Merlin, this was a low. He was completely hammered, and I still couldn't get a bloody word out of him—at least, not one that helped explain the giant freaking question mark that was Oliver Wood.

I was starting to think this was hopeless.

I mean, honestly, maybe I should just give up. He was determined to avoid me for some reason or other, and it's not like I could rationalize the 'why' of it all because he wouldn't sodding tell me. Sure, I was irritatingly attracted to him, and yeah, maybe snogging him made me feel like a match that had just been stricken and lit, but what did that all matter in the long run? I couldn't do the whole on-the-side hook up thing—I'd tried it before, and it just wasn't me. Regardless of what I told myself, the feelings either weren't there or were, and if they were, I needed more than that.

Wood didn't seem willing to give me more.

These thoughts stirred silently in my head for the entirety of the trek back, swirling and sorting themselves at a slow, contemplative speed, and it wasn't until we'd reached the common room that Wood finally spoke again. What he said, however, took me entirely off-guard: "Claire was my little sister."

My hand froze on the doorknob to the Seventh Year Male Dormitories, stare snapping over to him. He was facing the wall, forehead propped against the crook of his upraised elbow, eyes closed. "Oh," I said carefully, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

He rubbed his head against his forearm slowly, as if trying to fend off a headache, and remained silent for a few more moments. And then, "She died, but you probably already knew that. She was seven." He chuckled then, darkly. "Guess you can add that to your investigative report."

A pang of hurt flashed through me—seriously? Did he really think that was all I was? Some nosey girl that wanted to figure him out for her own satisfaction? "I'm notinvestigating you, Wood. Jesus, has it ever occurred to you that I want to know this because I care about you?" I asked, bringing my hand to his shoulder, but he promptly dodged it, eyes flying over and cutting into mine.

"Then care less," he spat, taking me aback entirely with how frigid his demeanor had suddenly become. It was like a switch had just been hit inside of him, but before I could properly react, he was shoving the door to his room open. "Goodnight, Andy."

I stared in shock as he staggered in, slammed the door, and left me standing there with at least sixteen thousand emotions drenching me at once. The first one to break through the daze, however, was fury. And it only took a few seconds to detonate. "Oh, sure," I suddenly hissed, hands balling into tight, painful fists. "Oh, fucking sure, Wood, just do what you always bloody do and run away from a problem without fixing it!" I yelled, not caring at all who I was waking up in the process. "That's a great plan—in fact, you should use it more often! Oh, wait!" I cried, throwing my hands up into air, "you already use it in every goddamn argument we've ever ha—"

"Andy?"

The voice that cut through mine was tense, feminine, and came from the bottom of the staircase. I glanced over and saw Kats standing at the foot of the stairs, eyes dark and glittering, hands nervously fiddling with each other as she bit down on her lip. "Kats," I fumbled out, surprise diffusing through my anger. "What are you—"

"We need to talk," she cut in, her stare averting down to her feet for a moment. Worry instantly tore through me—was something wrong? Did something happen to someone? Had Alicia done something even stupider than usual? Fred and George killed themselves? However, before I could ask any of this, she took a deep breath, bracing herself for a moment before raising her eyes back to mine.

And then, "How much do you know about Claire?"

...that, I was not expecting.