Name: I'm so worthless I don't deserve the title of Captain
Age: Who cares?
Hair: Absolutely sodden and plastered to my face. Definitely not sexy-hair
Current Mood: Deflated. Depressed. Devastated.
Current Location: Guy's locker rooms, trying to drown myself in the showers.
If I wasn't so sure those Dementors weren't already dead, I'd kill every last one of them. They cost me my Seeker, they cost me the game and they cost me my career with Puddlemere United. The only good thing about that game was watching Bell try to crash tackle a Dementor. Only that girl would do something that crazy and cheer me up.
But even Bell's antics couldn't keep my sane for long. I spazzed out a little in the locker rooms. I kicked a few things. I broke a shower tap and sent cold water spraying straight into my face. That sort of cooled my temper down a bit. I made one last kick at the wall and slipped on the tiles, crashing to a heap in the freezing cold puddle of water. And I didn't even have the spirit the get up.
And then in stomps none other than Bell. I had a feeling her temper was going to rival that of the storm's we just played through. But then she takes one look at the showers and turns on her heel. I think in her anger to track me down and give me a piece of her mind, she forgot that being a guy's shower room, I may actually be showering. I swear, that girl has a one track mind.
"I have clothes on." I even manage half a grin. So she marches right back in, all inflated and ready to tell me what a jerk I am. But then she takes one look at my pathetic self and sort of deflates. She takes pity on me and sits beside me. She asks me a bunch of questions and I reply half-heartedly.
I'm a horrible person. I'm a horrible person, not only because I pushed my team too far for my own selfish means, but I'm a horrible person because I should feel guilty about that, but at the moment I can't stop looking at the drops of water on Bell's lashes. She leant her head against my shoulder and I reached up to stroke her hair. I love Bell's hair.
I dropped my arm and let in her lean in closer to me. She was freezing; I could feel her cold seeping into me, and I was the one sitting under a jet of cold water. She is a magnet for cold: she stores it or something, I swear. Whereas the cold doesn't affect me at all. Go figure. She absent-mindedly traced a water droplet down my jaw. It sent shivers up my spine and made my stomach burn all at the same time. My hand sought out her own.
Heaven help me, she was looking up at me with those massive blue eyes, framed by the dark lashes with those water droplet clinging to them. It was a very good thing I was sitting under a cold shower. My eyes dropped slightly to her lips, and I could see they were tinging blue. She must be freezing.
Warm her up, doof-head, my brain told me. I don't need telling twice.
And then Marcus Flint wandered into the boy's locker room.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" Flint sneered. I personally think it was pretty damn obvious, but this guy isn't known for his brains. We both clamoured to our feet, sort of embarrassed and defensive. I was going to thrash Flint during our next Slytherin/Gryffindor game. Bell shivered next to me. I was really going to have to get her back to the castle before she died of hypothermia.
"Come to gloat, have you?" I snapped at him.
"Yes indeed, but it seems I may have found more than I bargained for." At first I thought he was just referring to Bell and I, but then I notice he was staring rather hard at Bell. And that's when it hit me: he was checking her out. His filthy eyes were roaming all over her body. She was just as soaking wet as me, and those robes were revealing an awful lot of shape now that she was standing.
"Hey, Flint, think fast," I said. Years of instinct and being on a Quidditch team made him wrench his eyes away from Bell. And then Flint made possibly the best catch of his miserable life. His face caught my fist square on. It appears Flint didn't think fast enough. But then again, this guy isn't known for his brains, like I said.
Bell gave me a small smile of thanks, and for that I would have taken on the whole Slytherin team barehanded. Which I've attempted last year, and didn't really emerge from that the victor.
Instead, I put one dripping arm around her and we squelched back to the castle.
Yeah, I'm evil. And my English teacher would kill me for those short paragraphs.
So, who wants to abuse me for drawing out the inevitable Katie/Oliver kiss? Call me a Romanticist, but I'm a big fan of the chase and the build-up, as I've mentioned before. I want kisses to be fire-works. Kisses have to be earnt. Or won. But I am expecting some abuse over this delay of afore-mentioned lip-locking and tonsil-hockey. I'm prepared. Go on and hit me with your best shot. (Yeah, groan: more sport's cliches)