Settling the Score

The Art of Losing Isn't Hard to Master

"You stir in the Snareroot after the Essence of Clover!"

"Since when?"

"Since always!"

"That's straight bollocks—last time it was reversed!"

"False! It's always been this way!"

"It's always been that way if you've always been wrong!"

So, here's the thing about partnering two Potions whizzes together for an assignment: they argue the bloody shit out of everything. One claims to know a shortcut, the other claims it would make the cauldron bubble over; one claims it should be two stirs, the other claims it should be two and a quarter; one claims you add the Snareroot after the Essence of Clover, the other claims it's straight bollocks.

"Fine, whatever, go ahead and ruin it—see if I care."

Kats and I shot each other wry glances as Angelina slumped back into the seat in front of us with a scowl, watching as Alicia plucked up the bottle of Snareroot and measured its contents out. "Thank you for being my partner," Katie muttered under her breath, angling another glance at the competitively feuding pair in front of us and shaking her head.

"Nooo problem," I said back, equally content with the situation: Potions was most definitely not my forte. Katie and I were completely lost in the subject whereas Alicia and Angelina were at the top of the class, thus our choice in partners. It actually worked out really well for all of us, since Kats and I had a very unique perspective on the class—we saw it as 'chat idly and vaguely follow the directions' time. Occasionally (read: often) our cauldron ended up exploding, but hey, life's all about priorities.

"So now we're supposed to add…" Katie squinted at her Potions book, absently stirring the cauldron without any regard whatsoever for the strict 'stir for twelve and a quarter turns' stipulation, "…er… something."

I glanced down at the ingredients we had yet to use: powdered Snareroot, Essence of Juniper, Hungarian Horntail scales, and Grindylwood Fern sap. Well. It had to be one of them, didn't it? "Eenie, meenie, minee—"

"Miss Wiles," the dry, caustic voice of Professor Snape cut in, slicing right through my song. Great, now I'd have to start over. "The girl who blows things up. I'm curious," he drawled, voice velvet with mockery, "has it ever crossed your feeble little Gryffindor mind that perhaps Eenie Meenie Minee Moe is not the most effective means of choosing the proper ingredient?" He was looming over our lab table now, having come up behind us in a self-important swish of billowing black robes.

My eyes flattened in poorly concealed annoyance. "Sorry, Professor. Won't happen again."

He rolled his eyes in a languorous motion. "For some frivolous reason, I doubt that."

I waited until he'd swooped off to harass some other unsuspecting student before returning my gaze to the ingredients. "Right, so: Eenie, meenie, minee, moe…" I carried on with my little jingle until it was over, leaving me with my finger pointed at a small, purple vial. "Essence of Juniper it is!"

"Brilliant—how many teaspoons?" Katie asked, reaching for the vial and grabbing it.

I shrugged. "Pick a number between one and ten."

"Okay, it's in my head."

"Is it… three?"

"Nope."

"Six?"

"Nuh-uh."

"Four?"

"Yea—"

"No," a distinctly dry and un-Katie-like voice interjected from behind us, and my eyes flattened yet again—Snape really needed to get a hobby. "This," he drawled, pale hand flashing out from his robes and snatching the vial from Katie, "is an essence, Miss Bell." He held it up and stared at us like we were lobotomized cattle. "Essences are measured in dashes, not teaspoons, as any inbred mountain troll would likely be able to tell you."

Kats and I shared dark, resigned looks.

"What's more," he continued in his typically condescending fashion, setting down the vial and plucking up a small box of Snareroot instead, "you're supposed to be adding powdered Snareroot to your draught, not Essence of Juniper. I'd inform you both as to the proper amount, but given the present state of your brew..." he trailed off, shooting a long, acidic glance at our cauldron before slowly meeting our gazes, "I doubt it'd make a shed of difference."

I rolled my eyes briefly, hoping he wouldn't see the gesture, though the slight stiffening of his frame indicated otherwise. "Miss Wiles." Bollocks. "I'm thinking of a number between one and ten… care to guess what it is?"

His mocking smile made my nose twitch in irritation. "Er… not really."

It grew cold. "Try."

"Three," I threw out randomly.

"No."

"Six?"

"No."

"Nine?"

"I'll give you a hint: it ends in 'points from Gryffindor'."

My eyes flattened into a glower. "Five."

"Very good," he said in an acidic voice, face morphing into a scowl. "Now get back to work, and if I so much as hear a whisper of the words 'eenie', 'meenie', 'minee', or 'moe' out of either of you, I will see to it that you're cleaning out the Potions cabinets every other day until you graduate." He shot us a skeptical look. "If you graduate."

And with that, he was off. Lovely man, that Snape. So robust and festive.

"He has to be the singularly most unpleasant person I've ever met," Katie grumbled, staring off after him with an annoyed look.

"Too right," I muttered, shaking my head, though my gaze promptly caught on the dark, sullen pair of eyes that'd been glaring at me from across the room for the past hour.Speaking of unpleasant people, I thought, morphing my face into a 'what the hell is your problem?' look that caused Lee to simply scoff irritably and glance away.

Ever since Katie had rejected him he'd been acting like an absolute git to me. At first, I tolerated it—after all, I'd been the one that'd sprung the whole 'date Kats!' idea on him in the first place. Now, however, it was just ridiculous. Four days had gone by—four. And it's not like I'd lied to him or intentionally led him down some path of romantic doom; I'd just told him the truth!

He needed to man up and get over it. Life's tough.

"Vengeful git," I muttered darkly, causing Katie to hold up a vial of Grindylwood sap in toast.

"Here, here."

"No, not Snape," I corrected in a grumble, though he certainly fit the title as well, "Lee."

Katie immediately dropped the vial in her hand, spilling its contents all over our lab table. "Oh, Merlin, sorry!" she fretted, fumbling about for her wand to clean up the spill, though her cheeks were burning bright crimson. "God, why am I so clumsy?" I rolled my eyes—oh, sure. Act like that was purely coincidental.

Stupid girl.

I chanced a glance over in Lee's direction and, sure enough, he was staring at Katie with a dark, frustrated expression. His stare promptly shifted over to mine, however, and narrowed into a bitter glare. God, who knew that underneath all the goofy smiles and witty remarks, Lee was a petty, grudge-holding, melodramatic girl? I'd honestly never seen this side of him before, and it was starting to irritate the hell out of me.

Stupid boy.

I averted my gaze with a disgruntled look, focusing it instead on our Silencing Draught. It was coal black. "What color is this supposed to be again?"

Kats shoved the fringe out of her face, peering down at the book. "A 'soft, breezy lilac'?"

Brilliant. Here's to another 'Troll', then. Curious, I snuck a glance at Alicia and Angelina's cauldron, and sure enough, its contents was a light, shimmering purple color that oozed of 'Outstanding'. "This class is such a waste of time," I griped, dropping my chin into my palm just as a thunderous crack sliced through the room.

All eyes flew over to Snape, or more specifically, the 11,000 page Potions book he'd just snapped shut directly in the face of a terrified first year boy with a stack of papers in his trembling hand. "You—want—me—to—what?" Snape punctuated in a deliberate hiss, lowering his face with every word so that his beak nose was looming mere inches from the boy's.

"P-Professor McGonagall h-has requested that you g-give your students—"

"I heard you the first time, you infantile little numbskull, I just don't quite understand what makes you think that I would willingly interrupt my class to hand out something asoffensive and insulting as a survey for the Gryffindor Banquet," Snape bit out caustically, eyes reduced to charcoal slits.

Comprehension washed over me—Wood and I had met up yesterday to sketch out the surveys so that we could have them handed out by today. While the meeting had been a bit awkward, it was mostly pure business, so it wasn't that bad. I was expecting a lot worse given the dramatic note things we left things on at our prior meeting, but surprisingly, seeing him again had been okay.

A bit tense at first, but okay.

Today's meeting, however, was scheduled for two hours, so it'd be the true test; yesterday's had just been a fifteen-minute thing. I had mixed feelings, but honestly I was just hoping it'd go smoothly. Planning this thing was going to be a bitch and a half if we couldn't get through a single meeting without some sort of drama.

"—can tell Professor McGonagall that I said that she can squander her class time on whatever tickles her feline little fancy, but I refuse to cut mine short for the sake of distributing this veritable stack of scarlet and gold idiocy," Snape was sneering, expression toxic.

The boy was reduced to a pile of quivering goo at this point, his fingers barely holding onto the surveys. "Sh-she said you'd say something like that, and t-told me to tell you th-that she doesn't want to h-have to bring up the Ch-Christmas Party of '92…"

Snape's face paled instantly, his skin turning an even ghostlier shade of white than it usually was. A long moment of tense, awkward silence went by, the entire class having paused to watch in curiosity, before Snape snapped out of his frozen state, snatched up the surveys, and scowled viciously. "I'd tell everyone to halt their draughts for a moment to listen to an announcement," he said tightly, snapping his glare across the class, "but I suppose you're all superiorly skilled Legilimens, since you've magically stopped without any instruction to do so."

His sarcasm was acrid and obvious, and a few people actually resumed stirring their draughts for fear of angering him further. I knew ours was hopeless either way, so I just kept listening aimlessly.

"To all of my Gryffindor students," he drawled, the House sounding like the foulest of insults on his tongue, "your manipulative, blackmailing Head of House requests that you fill out a survey regarding an event of staggering importance: your upcoming banquet." He dropped the stack onto Angelina and Alicia's table with an unceremonious flick of his wrist. "Take more than thirty seconds and I will light you on fire. Time starts now: thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight..."

I rolled my eyes at the empty threat, watching instead as the surveys disseminated amongst the Gryffindors. It was a little exciting, to be honest—this was step one of a whole new approach Wood and I were trying. If it worked, then there was hope that maybe—just maybe—we could pull this whole banquet thing off.

If not, well… there's always take two.

"What the…?" Angelina trailed off as she peered at the survey, reading the lines with a calculative frown. I almost snorted: she approached absolutely everything in life like it was a logic puzzle.

"The bloody fuck is this?" Alicia snapped, ever the tactful one, and I rolled my eyes.

"It's a survey, genius—just fill it out."

"Survey?" Katie parroted, grabbing the stack as it was passed back to her and arching a brow. "What kind of survey?"

"Wood and I are… trying something new with the banquet," I offered, grabbing a copy and passing the rest back to Damien Prewitt, a quiet kid in our year. I glanced down at the final draft and couldn't help but smile a bit wryly—it looked completely professional, what with the perfectly spaced margins, neatly measured penmanship, and 100% politically correct wording.

In other words, it had Oliver written all over it.

My eyes dropped down the length of the cookie-cutter questions: "What do you think the Gryffindor Banquet is all about?"; "What do you think the Gryffindor Banquet shouldbe all about?"; "In the past, what haven't you liked about them?"; "What would you like to see this year?"; and finally, "What does Gryffindor mean to you? (We're serious.)" Satisfied, I settled back into my chair and glanced around as the Gryffindors began filling theirs in, some chewing on their quill in thought and others rolling their eyes and scribbling in snarky answers.

"Aren't you going to fill yours out?" Kats muttered after a few minutes, puzzling over the fourth question and tapping her quill against her cheek.

"I'm planning it, Katie," I pointed out rather dryly. "I think it's safe to say my opinion will be heard, survey or no survey."

Katie shrugged in response, dropping her hand to jot something down.

"Thirty seconds elapsed precisely seven and a half minutes ago," Snape drawled out, "bringing us to a grand total of eight minutes. While I understand that you are Gryffindors and thus by definition slower than the average witch, wizard, or Blast-Ended Skrewt, I also understand that you are swaggering little miscreants who are averse to learning and prone to stalling. Therefore, I will give you one more minute—no more, likely less—to complete your little surveys. Do hustle," he suggested, lips lifting coldly at the corners, "as I started counting thirty seconds ago."

"Crap," Katie muttered, hastily scribbling in responses to the remaining two questions. Everyone sped up their pace for the remainder of the minute, hands becoming feathery blurs of beige and brown, until Snape unceremoniously called out time.

"Pass your surveys to the stuttering first year," he instructed in a bored voice, walking around with his grade book as he inspected everyone's draughts. "Unless you would prefer them incinerated, in which case feel free to place them on your head."

Katie rolled her eyes as she passed hers to Alicia, muttering something about unhappy childhoods and showering more often. Meanwhile, I gave our potion a few final stirs, contemplating whether it was worth it to actually add the last few ingredients or not—it couldn't very well get much worse, really…

"Should we add the last few things before Snape gets to our draught?" Katie asked, mimicking my thoughts, and without really thinking I just grabbed the measured out ingredients and tossed them in with an impatient, careless motion.

…and then our cauldron blew up.

"Bollocks!" Katie and I yelled in unison, flying out of chairs and under our desks to duck for cover as hot, viscous black liquid sprayed everywhere. We had a routine, you see—it was a lot like a crouch-under-your-desk muggle tornado drill, only effective. How hiding under your desk protected you from a tornado was still a mystery to me…

A few shrieks and cries of displeasure rang through the room as our draught accosted a few unsuspecting Ravenclaws, one in particular having a hole burned through her shirt, and I shot Katie a flat look—it wasn't even that big, the chit needed to calm down. Before I could voice this, however, our projectile-spewing cauldron suddenly stilled.

My eyes landed on the two large, scuffed, dusty black shoes positioned right in front of our table, the soles inches from where my hands were splayed on the floor. Snape. Brilliant.

"Eenie, meenie, minee, mo," he drawled out with deliberate languor, prolonging the syllables so as to infuse maximum amounts of condescension. "Catch a Gryffindor by its toe." He slowly bent down to where we were crouching, face cold and sarcastic. "If she hollers, let her know: I intend to give someone detention and you," he pointed at Katie, "are," he pointed at me, "it," he hissed, dropping his finger and sneering at the both of us.

I internally groaned. Perfect. As if this banquet planning shenanigans wasn't eating up enough of my free time.

"Theatrical git," Katie muttered after Snape had risen and stalked off, climbing out from underneath the desk and dusting herself off. I followed suit, yanking down my skirt and avoiding the glares of all the people with black splotches on their uniforms—it's called Scourgify, hello.

"It's like everyone woke up and decided to be overdramatic today," I commented, stuffing my books into my backpack just as the bell rang.

"People suck," she grumbled profoundly in response. Amazing what rejecting the person you're head-over-heels for can do to even the sunniest, most optimistic of people…

"Andy," a gruff voice said behind me, and I swung around only to come face-to-face with Lee. The problem. My expression immediately flattened, though he pressed on with, "Can I talk to you for a second?"

"Are you going to be a prat?"

"What? No."

I shot him a look.

"Maybe."

My eyes narrowed.

"Look, I'll try my best not to, but don't—I can't—bloody hell, just follow me," he said exasperatedly, grabbing my wrist and yanking me out of the classroom with barely enough time to grab my bag. The second we cleared the door he rounded on me, expression completely and totally crazed. "I'm going fucking mental."

My eyebrows shot up. "Wha—"

"I don't even know what's happening, I just wake up and think of her and get dressed and think of her and eat breakfast and think of her and sit in Transfiguration and think of her and I'm just—bloody hell, I'm just going insane!" he cried, bringing his hands up and shoving them into his hair in a manic motion. "I don't know what to do; this has never happened to me before!"

"Lee, breathe," I interjected, eyes wide with surprise, though he bulldozed right through my words, voice frantic.

"I think… hot sodding Merlin, I think I love her," he exclaimed, staring at the wall in horror for a moment as a shockwave ripped right through me.

"You what!?"

"I… love her," he repeated, frenzied stare snapping over to mine. "I bloody love her and it's agony!"

I stared at him like the absolute nutter that he was, unable to believe what I was witnessing. Lee Jordan—cocky, allergic to feelings other than hunger, epitome-of-thickheaded-bloke Lee bloody Jordan¬—was having a meltdown. About being in love. With Kats. The fuck!? "I… am confused."

"You're confused! I'm confused! Or in love! Or both—I don't even know what the bloody difference is!" he cried, flinging his arms into the air in frustration.

"Okay, you really need to calm down," I said, raising my palms and trying to swallow some of my bewilderment: he was going mental enough for the both of us. "Flipping out isn't going to solve anything—you need to approach this logically and rationally."

"You're right," he nodded, swallowing tightly and running a harried hand through his hair. "You're absolutely right, I need to shake this. Calm. Rational. Cool. Composed. Hey, I'm Lee, and I'm cool and sexy. Hey, I'm Lee and I always keep it relaxed. Hey, I'm Lee and I'd never let some bird drive me mental." He nodded stiffly after a moment, body tense, eyes resolutely on the floor. And then his stare snapped back up to mine, wide and desperate, "You have to help me get her!"

"Me? Look what happened last time I tried playing Cupid, Lee!" I exclaimed, motioning at the wreck he'd been reduced to, though he merely shook his head.

"You're the only one that can help—George and Fred would laugh at me!"

"Of course they wouldn't!"

He scoffed angrily.

"Fine, so maybe they would, but why can't you ask Alicia or Angelina!?"

"Because you started this mess," he snapped accusatorially, lifting a finger and jabbing it in my face. "You told me she fancied me, you avoided me afterwards instead of telling me she didn't want me anymore, and now you are going to fix this before I become the Moaning Myrtle of the sixth floor boys loo!"

"First of all, stop yelling at me," I growled, smacking his finger out of my face and scowling. "Second of all, I didn't tell you she didn't want you anymore because it isn't true."

"Well you can just—" he halted suddenly, shocked. "Wait, what?"

"She still fancies you," I explained irritably, and Lee's entire face melted.

"She… but… why…?"

"I don't know, Jordan, Kats is complicated," I grumbled, crossing my arms in a rather resigned fashion as he sank into a series of dazed mutters. Behind me, the door to the Potions room sprang open and made way for the stream of students pouring out, and my eyes instantly sought out Katie.

I caught sight of her shiny brown plait within seconds, swinging lightly down her back as she chatted with Angelina and Alicia about something that had them all laughing. My eyes softened a bit—she deserved to be happy. She'd been keeping up appearances decently well these past few days, but I could see through the bullshit. She was sad.

And it was all because the bloke she fancied was in love with her. This was dumb.

"I'll help you," I found myself muttering against any and all better judgment, causing Lee's head to snap up eagerly.

"Really?"

"Yeah, but don't look so excited," I replied, wary of his exuberant smile, "I can't promise you anything."

"Bloody hell, Andy, you're the best mate a bloke could ask for!" he cried, throwing his arms around me in a grandiose gesture and pulling me into a giant bear hug. I squawked out in protest as he swung me around, struggling not to fly out of his grip, when all of a sudden he stopped. And put me down. And stiffened. "Who's that?"

I glanced over my shoulder with a perplexed expression, though it promptly diffused with amusement at the sight of none other than the 'baby daddy' of third year, Jefferson Sinclair. He was leaning toward Katie with a shamelessly suggestive expression, arm propped against the wall she was standing by in a predatory, there's-no-escape fashion. "Oh, dear God."

"Why is he looking at her like that?" Lee growled, dropping his arms from around my waist and holding them tightly at his sides, and I snorted.

"He's a third year, relax."

"I don't care what year he's in, he's looking at her like she's dipped in melted chocolate!" he replied, though his face promptly grew hazy at the mental image of his words, eyes dazing off for a moment.

I arched a brow. "Lee?"

He jerked back into awareness. "What?" His eyes wandered back over to Katie and slitted at the sight of Jefferson. "Oh, right—I'm going to go over and say something."

"No!" I exclaimed, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him back as he began walking off. "Lee, don't, you'll just embarrass her."

"That slimy git is hitting on her—it's inappropriate!"

"As opposed to envisioning her covered in melted chocolate?" I countered, and his expression grew dazed again. "Lee!"

"Sorry, sorry!" he exclaimed, shaking his head to clear it. "I just… I dunno, I think I should say something."

"You're not her boyfriend, so no, you shouldn't," I pointed out, watching as his narrowed eyes pierced holes through Jefferson's girly, shiny dark hair. "Besides, Jefferson's completely harmless."

"Jefferson," he said in a low, savoring growl, drawing out every syllable. "So the devil has a name."

I almost burst out laughing: that had to be the most soap opera-ish voice I'd ever heard in my life. Seriously, that was the voice Pedro would use when he walked in on Maria and his long lost twin brother Jose Pablo getting it on in some Mexican stable on a show called something ridiculous like Pasión Incontrolable. "The devil is also thirteen years old and has all the maturity of an earthworm," I replied, wondering what the hell was wrong with people today.

"I don't know about this…"

"Trust me, Lee. Let it go."

"But—"

"Walk away."

"Are you—"

"Yes—go."

He cast a final, mistrustful look at Jefferson and Katie before sighing darkly and swiveling around, waving a stiff hand behind him in goodbye. I watched him walk off with a wry look before wheeling around and heading over to Katie, mentally cursing her for being so damn adorable and loveable and inadvertently putting me in these situations.

"…thinking you, me, a romantic picnic under the stars, and maybe a lap dance or two—"

"Jefferson, how completely lovely to see you again," I interjected dryly, shooting Katie a questioning look. She shrugged helplessly.

"'Lo there, doll," Jefferson greeted with a glittering grin, giving my body a very pointed and obvious once over that lingered on the hem of my skirt. "God, I've missed those legs."

I'd almost forgotten how creepy he was. "Don't you have class?" I nodded over to the Potions room where all the other third years where filing in and he merely shrugged.

"I'd be happy to substitute it for some sexual education." Merlin, here we go. "I'm all about diversifying my academics, you see. I like things to be well-rounded." At this, his cheeky stare dropped pointedly to Katie's chest.

"Okay, wow," she said in indignation, hurriedly crossing her arms and shaking her head in disbelief.

"Too hot?" he asked with a smirk.

"More like too disgusting," I replied, causing his salacious stare to slink over to mine.

"You're so deliciously fiery," he purred, raising a finger in what looked like an attempt to drag it down my arm, but he slowed to halt after a moment, expression growing serious. "But unfortunately, I've recently become a one-woman man."

"Oh, have you?"

"'Fraid so, Legs," he replied, voice somber and regretful. "It's tough, but it's the only way Cindy McLaggen will go out with me." He shrugged tragically. "It's hard out here for a pimp."

I struggled not to burst out laughing whilst Katie choked on her own saliva, staring at the spectacle that was Jefferson Sinclair with wide eyes. This kid needed his own show. Like really, that'd be prime time shit.

"Anyway, I should probably get to Potions—Cindy's waiting for me," he explained, wriggling his eyebrows. "The fumes always make her frisky."

"Have fun," I snorted, and he grinned.

"See you around, Legs. Oh, and Wild Cat?" he called out, face growing suggestive as he backed away toward the Potions room. "Maybe sometime, when this whole monogamist rubbish's over, we can get together and talk about my favorite colo—"

"Bye, Jefferson," she cut in, mortified face buried in her hands. I bit my lip, shoulders shaking with laughter as he waltzed into Potions without a care in the world. Merlin, it was so strange to think that he was actually in someone's year—that there were people who had to put up with him on a daily basis. Poor third years…

"That kid needs help."

"That kid needs Jesus," Katie corrected, shaking her head in disbelief.

Couldn't really argue with that.

Eight P.M. was starting to roll around altogether too quickly these days. I wouldn't exactly say I was dreading my meeting with Wood, since that would be an exaggeration, I was just… not exactly looking forward to it. Things were rather up in the air in terms of whether we were friends or not (since we never really had been to begin with), so I wasn't quite sure how to act around him.

Polite? Civil? Chummy? Fuck if I know.

All I know is that it's 8:20 and I accidentally fell asleep before dinner and now I'm sprinting down the corridor to get to this blasted meeting before Wood flips out and goes all Exorcist on me about punctuality. What's more, I'm absolute starving, and I tend to get irritable more easily when I'm hungry. Recipe for disaster? Guess I'll find out.

"Sorry!" I gasped as I threw open the door to the Transfiguration room, panting all attractively as my hair fell into my face. "Accidentally fell asleep—no alarm—slept through…" I paused at the faint sound of chuckling, pushing my hair out of my face with a perplexed look. Wood was sitting at our usual table in the back, gazing down at a stack of parchments with a quill in hand. And he was laughing.

"You have got to read some of these responses, Wiles."

I frowned at the statement, totally bemused. "You mean you're not going to yell at me for being late?"

"Grrr, you're late," he drawled, grin spreading over his face as his eyes continued to scan the survey responses. He all out laughed after a moment, tossing his head back and everything, and I felt like I was in a Twilight Zone episode. Was there something in the water, maybe? House Elves pulling a prank? "Read this," he said, thrusting the survey out to me and meeting my gaze with dancing eyes, "and tell me it wasn't written by your clone."

Still a bit bewildered, I walked over and sat down across from him, grabbing the survey with a wary air. He chuckled again before picking up another one, shaking his head briefly, and I shot him a final odd look before lifting the survey and reading it.

What do you think the Gryffindor Banquet is all about?
Sadistic professors watching students wriggle and squirm in agony as we die of boredom.

What do you think the Gryffindor Banquet should be all about?
Sadistic students watching professors wriggle and squirm in agony as they die of boredom.

In the past, what haven't you liked about them?
Their general existence.

What would you like to see this year?
It cancelled.

What does Gryffindor mean to you? (We're serious.)
Shitty banquets. (I'm serious.)

I found myself chuckling, grin pulling up the corners of my mouth. "I like this kid."

"I figured," he replied, scanning over another set of responses with an amused expression. "I've been going through them all and marking down things worth mentioning to you, but so far, I haven't got much. Most are just cheeky."

I reached out and grabbed another one from the pile, scanning it briefly. Every answer was 'your mom'. Witty. "This could be a problem."

He shrugged. "As long as the serious answers pick up at some point, we'll be alright."

"Hopefully." I tossed the survey aside, reaching for yet another one, and after a moment of reading I burst out laughing. "In the past, what haven't you liked about them: Nobody spikes the fucking punch."

Wood chuckled, shaking his head and quoting his own. "'What would you like to see this year: I'd like to see the Cannons beat the Harpies.' Useless."

"And will never happen."

"Ever." He burst out laughing suddenly. "'What do you think the Gryffindor Banquet should be all about: rainbows, happiness, and being able to accomplish your wildest dreams!' Who gave this to a Hufflepuff?"

I snorted derisively, and we carried on like this for a good hour or so, trading funny responses back and forth and inventing some of our own. And you want to know what? For the entirety of that hour, he wasn't Wood and I wasn't Andy: we were just two people laughing at stupid things without any awkward tension or history.

It was… different, to say the least. But not entirely unpleasant. Just… I dunno, lighter.

"Huh," he muttered after a moment, cocking his head to the side. The responses had gotten more serious after a while, and since then we'd fallen into a rather intense silence. "That's interesting."

I glanced up from the survey in my hand. "Hm?"

"This person says that they'd like to see the location change this year," he replied, tapping his quill against his cheek.

"As in move it from the Great Hall?"

"Yeah—they said everything's always in the Great Hall and it gets old."

I frowned at this, considering it. "That's a good point."

"Yeah, I'd never thought about moving it, but it'd be a great way to shake things up."

"Like a blaring statement of 'this year's going to be different'," I added, propping my chin onto my hand. "Where would we move it to, though?"

"Quidditch pitch?" he offered, and I rolled my eyes.

"Funny."

"I was serious," he said perplexedly, and I shot him a dark look.

"No."

"Astronomy tower?"

I shook my head with a grimace. "Too much of a snog spot—that's only good for parties."

He breezed through another few suggestions, all equally bad, before tossing his hands up in defeat. "Well what's left then, Wiles, the bloody lake?"

I tossed him an irritated look, though it froze after a moment, filling with revelation. "The lake." His face crumpled just as mine ignited with excitement. "The lake, Wood! That's genius!"

"What are you on about?"

"We'll have it on the lake!"

"On a boat?"

"On a boat!"

"On a boat?"

"On a boat!"

"Wiles, look at me: on a motherfucking boat?" He looked totally thrown by the idea, and I nodded eagerly.

"Yeah!"

"How… would we even begin to pull that off?"

"Well, think about it: we have a lot of money left over from previous years since no one's ever bothered to put effort into planning this, so we might as well use it on something cool," I reasoned out, thrilled with the idea. "We could rent one of those huge boats with a giant, open deck at the top and use that as a dance floor, and we can have food and decorations and music and lights—"

"Slow down," he interjected, holding up his hands, and I could tell he was doing that annoying thing where he resisted anything fun or spontaneous.

"It'd be spectacular! People could arrive at a certain time to board and then we can set off and sail around the lake—"

"It wouldn't technically be sailing."

"—and then at midnight or so, we can head back to the dock and people could hang about for a bit or go home or whatever," I finished, grinning like a four-year-old. "People would love it, and no one else has done it before!"

Wood looked skeptical. "I dunno, Wiles."

"What's there not to know?"

"Cost, liability, booking, permissions—"

I groaned, lolling my head back, "Can Grandfather Wood go fix his walker for two seconds and let me talk to seventeen-year-old Wood?"

"—not to mention finding a sound company whose references check out—"

"Oh, right, they're the same person."

"—get insurance involved, and that's just a hassle, Andy," he finally finished, shaking his head. "This is a bad idea."

"No, it's not," I said stubbornly, crossing my arms. "It's a great idea, you're just complicating it."

"I'm just rationalizing it, there's a difference."

"Well, they're both boring," I countered like the epitome of maturity that I am, and he scoffed.

"Better boring than ill-thought-out and dangerous."

I tossed my hands up exasperatedly. "It won't be dangerous—it's a cruise!"

"Tell that to Titanic survivors."

I dropped my hands, shaking my head in disbelief, "You're being ridiculous." I know I told myself I wouldn't argue with him anymore, and I know I promised myself I'd try and understand where he was coming from more, but this was just crazy. You'd think I was pushing a skydiving party.

"Maybe, but I'm still against it."

"Well, I'm for it," I snapped, entirely annoyed, "and I'm taking it to McGonagall."

"Fine."

"Fine."

He merely shrugged in response, leaning back into his seat all self-righteously. Merlin, with all the craziness going on lately, it was so easy to forget why I used to hate him, but moments like this gave me an inkling. Git.

He waited a beat before talking again. "So, besides this whole boat thing, what other options do we have?"

"None—the boat's going to happen."

He rolled his eyes. "Stop being difficult, Wiles."

"Disagreeing with your 85-year-old opinion doesn't mean I'm being difficult, Wood," I snapped back, growing more and more irritable by the second, and he sighed.

"You didn't have dinner, did you?"

Annoyed confusion swept through me. "What does that have to do with—"

"Thought so—get up," he cut in, getting to his feet and dropping his quill on the desk. I stared at him in blazing bewilderment, having no idea what he was getting at, and he sighed impatiently at my immobility. "Up!"

Irked, I pushed my chair back and stood up, abandoning my survey on the desk. "What exactly are we doing?"

"Getting you something to eat," he replied, waltzing over to the door and motioning for me to follow. My stomach cheered at the prospect, though my gaze was narrowed and lost.

"Why…?"

He swung the door open, holding it open and glancing back at me. "Because you turn into a shirty cow whenever you're hungry and I don't really feel like dealing with it at the moment. Now c'mon—don't you want food?"

"No." My stomach growled. "Maybe." He shot me a skeptical look. "A bit."

"Great, then stop complaining and follow me," he replied, holding the door open wider and motioning for me to pass through. Begrudgingly, I made my way over, shooting him a brief glare as I walked out the door and into the hallway.

"To the Kitchens, then?" I guessed, glancing over my shoulder, and he looked surprised as he shut the door.

"You know about them?"

"I'm friends with the Weasley twins—of course I know about them."

"Oh," he replied, falling in step next to me. "And here I was, thinking I was being all gallant and impressive."

"Life's tough like that."

"Pity, isn't it?"

"Devastating."

"Tragic, really."

"Nothing short of dreadful."

"Almost egregious."

I shot him a look. Was he challenging me? The barely visible smirk on his face confirmed it, and my eyes narrowed into slits: it was on. "Ghastly."

"Vile."

"Cataclysmic."

"Horrible."

"Frightful."

"Appalling."

"Atrocious."

"Despicable."

This went on to the point that, by the time we reached the Bowl of Fruit portrait, we were engaged in all all-out synonyms battle.

"Shameful!"

"Horrid!"

"Absolutely wretched!"

"One might even go as far as to say reprehensible!" Wood enunciated in a purposefully pompous English accent, causing me to laugh despite myself—I don't think I'd ever heard him speak in any accent but his own.

"Nah, bloody terrible is what it is!" I replied in a gruff, overdone Scottish accent, hand flying out dramatically, and he shook his head as he tickled the pear.

"You need to roll your r's more." The portrait swung open merrily and admitted the both of us, and before it could even fully close, two House Elves were at our feet. Damn. Speedy service.

"Mr. Wood!" the taller one cried out in delight, grabbing his hands and kissing them exuberantly. "You have come to visit Missy and Pearl!"

I arched a brow as he chuckled and fended her off, patting the shorter one fondly on the head. "'Course I have. I was actually wondering if you two lovely ladies could get my friend here something to eat?" He gestured at me and their wide eyes snapped over, bright and eager. Or at least the shorter one's were—the taller one's were steadily narrowing.

"Of course! Any of friend of Mr. Wood is a friend of Missy!" the shorter one exclaimed gleefully, scampering off into the pantry and disappearing. The taller one—Pearl, I presumed—remained in place, struggling with her scowl.

"Mr. Wood has never brought a girlfriend with him before," she observed a bit tightly, bony hands curling into fists. "Pearl is confused."

"Oh, I'm not his—"

"Pearl was talking to Mr. Wood," she snapped at me, expression angry, before turning back to Wood with a lovesick look. I almost choked—Pearl was in love with Wood. Oh, dear God.

"She's not my girlfriend, Pearl, she's just a friend," he replied in a placating voice, and I shot him a look of disbelief.

"You're explaining yourself to a House Elf?"

"Mr. Wood was talking to Pearl!" Pearl snapped yet again, fists growing tighter at her sides, and I held up my hands in surrender.

"Sorry, Merlin, calm down."

She glared at me intensely until Wood spoke up. "Would you actually mind getting me a glass of water, Pearl?"

"Anything for Mr. Wood," she replied immediately, blindingly bright smile replacing her scowl as she turned around and scurried off.

"Charming friends you've got," I muttered the moment she'd disappeared from sight, causing Wood to send me a flat look.

"Missy's great, and Pearl's just a little—"

"Psychotic?"

"—territorial," he finished, walking over to the counter and pulling himself onto a stool. I rolled my eyes and followed suit, taking a seat across from him.

"Whatever you say." I propped my elbow up and dropped my chin into my palm, surveying the Kitchens idly. "So how often do you come here, 'Mr. Wood'?"

He shrugged. "A few times a week, I s'pose."

That was a lot more than I ever did. "Why so often?"

"Just busy, I guess," he muttered, rubbing his jaw. "Balancing Quidditch and N.E.W.T.'s and stuff doesn't really leave much time for dinner."

"It would if you weren't such a perfectionist," I teased, though internally, I couldn't shake the thought that perhaps he kept himself so busy to forget about his home life. The notion depressed me a bit.

"Perfectionist—I wish," he said with a wry look, shaking his head. "Arithmancy's completely kicking my arse."

I perked up. "Really?"

"Yeah," he replied, lips curling a bit dryly at my bright expression. "Not all of us can be Vector's little favorite."

I laughed, brushing my shoulder off in a cocky gesture. "What can I say? I've got skills."

"You want to give me some of them? I can't afford to keep getting tests with 'see me's written on them," he said, and my face scrunched in confusion.

"Isn't seeing Vector after class like every male student's dream?"

"It's not that great, trust me," he muttered, and my gaze flattened.

"Oh, shut up."

"What?"

"Don't try to act all unfazed."

"I'm not, I'm just—"

"Vector's smoking hot and you know it."

His brows shot up at my statement, surprised laugh escaping from his mouth. "I never said she wasn't."

"Good, because there's nothing more annoying than a bloke pretending he's above everyone else when really he's the same red-blooded, hormonal dog they all are," I tossed out, waving a hand arbitrarily. "Girls get it—we see through the bollocks, so the least you lot can do is be honest. We probably agree with you anyway."

He looked rather surprised by my statement, though after a moment, his eyes narrowed into a curious expression. "Interesting. So by your logic," he began, slowly leaning forward onto his elbows, "a guy should point out whenever a fit girl walks by to his girlfriend."

I scoffed. "If he wants to get dumped."

"What? Why?"

"Because there's a difference between lying about something you were asked about and needlessly pointing something out," I retorted, crossing my arms.

"So what if she asks him something touchy, like if he think her sister's fit?"

"Tell the truth."

"But what if she is fit?"

"Then she already knows her sister's fit, so lying to her isn't going to fool anybody."

"But what if she asks which one of them is fitter?"

"Then she's an insecure cow who's purposefully putting you in an awkward situation and you should break up with her," I retorted, tone a bit tetchy. "Is this coming from personal experience or something?"

"No, just curious about the way you think," he replied, watching me closely, and for a moment, a glimmer of the tension that had been so gloriously absent thus far in the night resurfaced. His eyes were locked on mine, dark with something vaguely mysterious and alluring, and I felt the beginnings of heat trickling up my spine.

"Why?"

His expression grew a bit dryer, though his eyes kept their same strange, dizzying quality. "Why do you think, Wiles?"

Thankfully, Missy made her grand reappearance before the conversation could escalate. "Water for Mr. Wood!" she announced cheerfully, climbing onto her tiptoes to place the glass on the counter, "and dinner leftovers for Mr. Wood's friend!" She placed a glorious plate of spaghetti in front of me, steam curling from the tangled noodles and a spicy aroma wafting from the sauce, and I honestly felt myself melting. "Would you be liking some breadsticks, miss?" She smacked a basket down beside the plate before I could even answer and gave me a wide smile, scampering off without another word.

"You're right," I said after a moment, glancing back over to Wood. "Missy is great."

"Told you."

I smiled, digging into my spaghetti with all the grace of a hippogriff, and the remainder of the meal went by relatively uneventfully (besides the occasional scowl from Pearl). In fact, it wasn't until we were walking back to the Gryffindor common room that I realized something: we'd made through the entire night drama free.

A few spats here and there, maybe, but compared to what it'd been for the past week or so, that meeting had been downright peaceful. So naturally I had to mess it up.

"I'm serious about the boat thing, by the way," I announced as we entered the common room, eyes sweeping over the couches for any sight of Angelina, Alicia, or Kats.

"And I'm serious about being against it," he replied in the same casual tone, similarly assessing the common room's inhabitants. I fought down the surge of annoyance triggered by his words, forcing myself to stay relaxed.

"I respect that." He snorted and I glared. "No really, I do, but once McGonagall gives it the okay, can I count on you to help me with it?"

His eyes finally strayed over to mine. "She's not going to give it the okay, Wiles."

"Yes, she is."

"Not without my backing."

My eyes narrowed at this. "You don't think I can convince her by myself?"

"Frankly, no."

My lips pursed in irritation. "Fine, then. Watch me."

"Best of luck," he chuckled darkly as I turned around and walked off, heading over to the Girls' staircase.

"No luck necessary," I shot back, stubborn determination sweeping over me as I began drafting the letter I was going to owl McGonagall in my head. It had to be respectful. Responsible-sounding. Professional. Something like:

Professor McGonagall,

My partner is incompetent and senile and his ideas are about as exciting as flobberworms. Can we chat?

Smooches,
Andy

Wood was going down.