Several dances later, the string ensemble is on an interval but there's no such break for us as Al continues to twirl me on the dance floor, currently to the less sophisticated tones of some modern pop sensation. Not that I'm complaining; I'd feel perfectly at home with this guy whatever the background noise. Confidence rising, I laugh flirtatiously at his jokes and attempt to rock my hips in time to his, as a delicious inner warmth of sheer happiness floods my body.

"I don't know where you get your ideas from, but you are most certainly NOT a terrible dancer. You've got a really good sense of rhythm."

No sooner has the compliment left Al's lips, I forget which foot I'm supposed to be stepping with and stumble, collapsing against his torso in a very ungainly fashion.

"You were saying?" I reply drily as he embraces me with a laugh. "I was doing so well until you jinxed me."

"From where I was standing, that fall looked rather deliberate."

My breath catches in my throat at his unexpectedly husky tone and I gaze up in surprise, right into Al Potter's eyes. His pupils are dilated, emerald pushed to the periphery, and as his face hovers ever closer to mine, I'm painfully aware of how incredibly handsome he is. Suddenly, I'm assaulted by an urgent desire to taste his lips, explore their softness, part them with my tongue, thread my fingers through that dark, tousled hair. The tip of his nose is within brushing distance of mine…

"Al?"

He freezes. I lurch; my forehead almost colliding with his cheekbone. There's an unpleasantly icy, tingling sensation down my spine as the spell binding us is broken. For a split second, I can't place that silvery voice, but then it comes to me like a blow to the solar plexus.

Orla.

Of fucking course.

"Please excuse me for a moment, Sunny," Al says coolly, turning his face away from mine to gaze in Orla's direction, his hands still clasping my upper arms. "Hey, what's up?"

Orla doesn't say anything at first. In an unfamiliar contrast to her usual serenity, she appears vaguely panicked as she reaches out and latches onto Al's shoulder with long, pale fingers. Her stormy grey eyes are slightly wider than usual, which only serves to enhance her beauty further. She reminds me of a glass-spun figurine teetering at the edge of a shelf; beautifully brittle and on the brink of shattering into a million pieces.

"I need to leave," she states. "Now."

I obviously have no idea what she's talking about, but Al appears to understand as he simply nods in response, putting up no resistance or argument whatsoever. Aware that he's still holding on to my arms, he offers me an apologetic smile as he removes his hands, which fall limply by his sides. "Would you like me to walk back with you, Orla?"

"Yes please. I'd appreciate that." Orla turns to me, emotions completely back under control, a superior sort of smile playing on her lips. "Sorry - Sunita; that's your name, isn't it? I'm afraid I need to borrow Al for the rest of the evening."

"Oh, that's fine," I laugh lightly, hoping to sound casual and unbothered. "I expect he's only too glad to be spared any further indignity of my eclectic dancing."

Orla glances at me disdainfully before turning away and gracefully settling her hand into the crook of Al's elbow. I scowl inwardly at the back of her head, my scathing gaze drawn to her lizard-shaped diamanté hair-clip which holds every glinting blonde strand perfectly in place. It seems a fitting accessory for someone so cold and reptilian.

"Apologies, Sunny. I'll see you on Monday, yeah?" Al reaches out to touch my shoulder as he offers me a rueful smile, which I half-heartedly return.

"Really, it's fine. See you Monday."

Currently abandoned with only my thoughts for company, I dwell upon the fact that for someone who's not Al's girlfriend, Orla certainly wields an unusual level of power over him. I wish she wasn't so fucking smug about it too.

Sigh.

"Hey Sunny! Why the Hell are you standing around like a spare part? Get your arse over here now!"

Saffron's voice breaks gaily through my disappointed musings and I look across the room to see her beckoning eagerly with a raised arm. Realising I'm now loitering like an idiot on my own in the middle of the dance floor, I self-consciously scurry over to join the security and comfort of our friends in their warm huddle.

Sunday passes in a hungover daze. So much for my self-imposed alcohol-restricted resolution; as soon as Al disappeared on Saturday evening, I hit the free Cava hard, despite Judith's efforts to dissuade me. At least under my friend's close supervision, drinking away my bruised pride was as dramatic as it got, and thankfully, I didn't feel the need to run off and revenge-snog the nearest available candidate at any point, which would probably have been polite, sympathetic Yoshi.

Yeah. No. God, that could have been awkward.

Even when Monday rolls around, the phrase "just dancing" is still playing on repeat in my mind, along with Al's rapid shift of attention to Orla as soon as she requested it. I was so fucking close to kissing him too. Bitter resentment curdles the spirals of self-pity that assault my muddled thoughts and I flit temperamentally between silence and sarcasm for the morning, much to the consternation of Veronica. Judith, being sensible Judith, just rolls her eyes and ignores me, but Leonard can't resist taking the piss, which does nothing for my foul mood and very nearly loses him his bollocks.

I'm marginally less hostile during the afternoon, after Saffron has force-fed me with two chocolate-orange segments and Yoshi has made me giggle with a rather obscure microscopy pun. Al joins in the word-play too, but as much as I want to laugh at his antics as well, he has yet to earn my forgiveness. Instead, I treat him to a polite smile and shrug of indifference, which he barely notices as everyone else falls about in appreciative hysteria at his intelligent humour, and thus the only person punished by my actions is myself.

Sometimes, I am my own worst enemy. Actually, let me reconsider that; I am always my own worst enemy.

Now it's Tuesday, I'm feeling somewhat ashamed of myself for ruining Judith's Saturday evening with my plaintive drunken whining and of my slightly cool treatment towards Al yesterday. After all, it wasn't his fault that Orla had a crisis and decided to monopolise him. Nor do I have any claim over him. He's a free agent and if he wants to rush to the aid of his friend - his beautiful beautiful friend - then who am I to stop him? As I pedal my way to University on this bright, breezy morning, I run through the possible reconciliation conversations in my mind, hoping that Al hasn't decided to snub me in return.

He wouldn't, would he?

Thanks to the traffic density this morning, I arrive on campus slightly later than usual. I secure my bike in a spare rack at the base of the lecture theatre building and ascend the concrete stairs, anxiously wondering whether I overplayed the angrily shunned card yesterday. What if none of my friends want to talk to me after my childish behaviour? What if - oh shit, please no, Universe - I now have to find new friends?

Cue silent screaming. Sunita Chandrakumar, you are a sulky, stupid idiot. Honestly, was that silly little dance really worth losing ALL your friends over?

By the time I reach the lecture theatre doors, I'm practically hyperventilating. Of course, this might have nothing to do with fear of ostracism and everything to do with my abysmal cardiovascular fitness and the twenty-seven steps I've just galloped up, but still.

I push my way through the double doors of the auditorium and begin to descend the aisle walkway when I glance at my usual place and suddenly stop short in astonishment, all thoughts of apologies immediately flying straight out of my head.

"Um, excuse me Al, but what the fuck do you think you're doing? I'm getting a sense of deja vu here!"

I glare in annoyance at the handsome raven-haired boy who is casually sprawling in my seat with his legs draped over what has become Veronica's usual place. My seat. My fucking seat! Seriously, has he not learned anything after pulling that shit back in October? Obviously, I didn't drive the message home hard enough first time.

He's smirking, the insolent bugger.

"I'm only going to ask nicely once," I growl at him, hands on hips. "Ignore me at your peril."

"But I'm way too comfortable to move," he grins brazenly, stretching his arms above his head in a passively dominant manner. "It's far too good a seat to relinquish in a hurry. I see why you like it so much now."

Utterly flabbergasted by his refusal, I flounder. "But…but what the fuck's wrong with your seat?"

He inclines his head towards it. "Saffron's occupying it and getting all cosy with Lenny."

"We are NOT getting cosy," retorts Saffron suddenly, whipping around and glaring at Al. "Lenny is simply helping me with this multiple choice revision paper."

"Oh crème brûlée, we couldn't possibly be cosier!" Leonard disagrees, immediately huddling closer to Saffron and earning himself a hard slap.

"So you see," says Al continuing smoothly. "There's simply no room for me there."

"Well you can have Saff's seat, then," I reply snarkily, before seeing that it's also occupied because Veronica is there, deep in discussion with Judith.

"Guys!" I wail. "This is really messing up my OCD!"

"Give your OCD the day off," replies Saffron heartlessly, not even bothering to turn around this time.

"It doesn't work like that!" I whine back. "And now it's all ruffled. Al, please?"

"Sunny, you have to control your OCD; don't let it dominate you."

"Al, if you don't move, I'm going to sit on you," I say firmly, ignoring his infuriating comment.

He raises an eyebrow and grins, gesturing to his lap. "Be my guest."

For fuck's sake. "Al! Fine. I'll - I'll push you off my seat, then."

His grin widens.

Ever tried to physically force a six-foot bloke off a lecture theatre seat?

Yeah. It's not at all simple. Try as I might, I can't even displace him by an inch. There's no good leverage point from where I'm standing and I'm exhausted after only a minute of tussling.

"Al?" I whine, defeated. "Please move?"

He shakes his head and laughs. "It's mine now! Possession is nine-tenths of the law. You'll have to sit elsewhere, Sunny."

This boy has JUST signed his death warrant. Be prepared to die, Al Potter.

"Right!" I snap. "You asked for it."

Hitching my bag onto my shoulder, I summon up all my remaining energy, swing my body over the back of the seat and throw myself as heavily as I can into his lap, hoping to hear him wince as I come crashing down onto his legs.

Of course he bloody doesn't. With graceful ease, Al just shifts his body and catches me mid-slam, before I have a chance to smash his kneecaps. He barely blinks as he controls my descent, wrapping an arm snugly around my waist and effectively pinning me to his body on landing.

"Oh my fucking God, Al; you are way out of order!" I yelp, squirming helplessly against his hold whilst everyone around us begins to guffaw.

"You got yourself into this predicament," he laughs, shaking his head at the incredulity of it all. "Wouldn't it be a nightmare if you were - ahh - ticklish?"

I gasp, curling up as much as I can in self-protection. "Oh you bloody wouldn't!"

"Are you daring me?" He whispers the words into my ear, his warm breath causing loose strands of my hair to flutter lightly against my skin.

"Just don't," I hiss in return, as I shift my weight towards his haunches. "Or you might just find your line discontinued."

Al briefly throws back his head and laughs, but I can tell he's understood the obscure reference to his genitals, and the way he suddenly relinquishes his hold illustrates just how seriously he's heeding my threat.

"How adorable do those little choux buns look together?" Leonard exclaims in delight as he gazes at us. My scowl intensifies on hearing Al emit a low chuckle.

"Oh, get a room, you two," says Saffron, which is a bit rich considering she was practically playing her own game of tonsil hockey with Leonard only a few minutes ago.

"This is my room," I glower at her. "I can't help it if someone has messed with the seating order."

Saffron shoots me a look that is altogether far too knowing for my comfort, leaving me torn between wriggling out of this embarrassing predicament or continuing to secretly relish the close contact with Al. Not only is his lap a surprisingly agreeable place to be, but he smells so deliciously enticing that I want to snog his face off.

In the end, the decision is taken out of my hands. Without warning, Al suddenly moves from under me, sliding across to take up Veronica's usual spot and causing me to land with a thump onto the swing-seat. I'm not sure whether it's as a result of my complaining, or Al's need for personal space and note-taking, but the expression of sheer hostility marring Orla's features leads me to believe that she might have something to do with it. Her glare is focused directly on me from her position a number of rows in front of us. If she could shoot laser beams from her eyes, I'm positive I would have been incinerated into a tiny pile of ashes by now.

Still, for whatever reason, this does mean that I've technically triumphed over Al, and it would be a shame to waste an opportunity to crow over him. I recline back in my reclaimed place and assume a satisfied, gloating expression.

"Can someone pass me some forceps, please?"

"Sure, Al. Do you want to chair mine?" I ask sweetly, as though I haven't bombarded him with seat-related puns for the last few hours.

Al side-eyes me and India grumbles threateningly, as Yoshi laughs and slaps my palm for a high-five.

We're in the anatomy hall for the afternoon, finishing off our neuro-dissection practical from last week. I'm still full of taunting, but to Al's eternal credit he hasn't staged a retaliation or punched me in the mouth yet.

He might not have to; India could well beat him to it. She's never been particularly tolerant of our word-gaming.

"Dissect that nerve chairfully, Yoshi."

"Sofa so good, Sunny."

"For fuck's sake, will you lot shut up?"

"Something not sitting right with you, Treacle?" Leonard says, grinning toothily at his one-time infatuation and reaching out a hand to ruffle her hair. Which is both bold and foolish of him, if you ask me.

India brandishes her elbow and seethes at Leonard, who ducks rapidly behind Yoshi, who overbalances and almost face-plants our cadaver.

"For heavens' sake!" Claire hisses admonishingly, glaring at me with the full force of her icy-blue eyes. "Some of us are trying to concentrate."

India nods approvingly at Claire as she primly picks up a scalpel and painstakingly begins to pare away some fascia.

"May I have your attention please?"

Our heads snap up at the sound of Dr Wainwright's voice over the microphone.

"You might recall a little cranial nerve mnemonic competition we set a while ago. You'll be delighted to hear that Dr Chilvers and I have now reviewed the entries and have decided on our three winners."

There's a collective air of anticipation whilst the course directors rifle through some papers and Dr Wainwright adjusts his spectacles.

"Third place is awarded to table four, who came up with "Once On Our Trip To Australia, Fabio Viviani Got Vegemite And Ham"

A polite round of applause breaks out, stopping almost as soon as it began, because frankly, that's a pretty boring attempt and everyone knows it.

"Second place goes to table twenty-one for their effort. "Oscar O'Brien Occasionally Tells Tales And Feels Very Glad, Victorious And Happy"

There's a resounding babel of voices from a dissection table two rows up from us, and raucous laughter echoes around the hall as Oscar O'Brien, a skinny, auburn-haired guy from St John's, looks mildly offended by the accusation.

"And in first place, chosen for its originality, is table twenty-seven's not-a-mnemonic newsflash "All Factories Opted for Occult Motors To Clearly Try German Oil. It was A Nuisance; Farcical even. We Stay Below Coke Here with our Glossy Foreign Goals. Vague, Us? Ack. So Sorry. High-Power Glass, All."

Yoshi turns beet-red as we wildly clap and cheer our star mnemonic-maker. The inhabitants of table twenty-eight turn to stare at us, their expressions varying from perplexed to forcibly impressed.

"If you'd like to come up here and select a prize, please? First place gets first choice, of course."

"Go on, Yoshi," says Al encouragingly, sensing his hesitation.

"But…we…everyone…group effort," stutters Yoshi, trying to wheedle his way out of accepting the award.

"All yours," I reply, giving him a shove. "Go and choose something for yourself."

He stumbles to his feet and trudges in an embarrassed fashion up to the front desk, where he stands and studies an assortment of items for a moment before picking up a long rectangular box and scurrying back to us.

"Oh bless him! He's chosen chocolates for us all," whispers Leonard happily on seeing the flat container tucked under Yoshi's arm. "You're so selfless, you dear little Malteser! What delightful confection have you chosen to share with us?"

"Confection?" Yoshi looks puzzled. "What are you on about, Lenbot?"

"The box, you silly soufflé. Hotel Chocolat or Fortnum and Mason's? Even Quality Street would do. Put us out of our misery, clever little nougat."

"Are you expecting sweets? Oh. But - but Sunny said to pick something for myself."

Yoshi guiltily places his prize stethoscope on the table without another word as Leonard's expression shifts from expectant to disappointed, finally settling on aggrieved.

"I hope you're going to let everyone else use it too," says Leonard, pouting like a wounded baby. "Are we supposed to have it for two months each per year?"

"Ugh, I am NOT sharing a stethoscope with anyone else," states Claire, looking revolted by the idea.

"It's Yoshi's. He did the work and won it fair and square. Anyway, no-one's sharing anyone else's stethoscope, you dolt," I mutter under my breath.

"But I contributed 'cock leer' which didn't even get a mention!" Leonard shrieks dramatically.

"Lenny, just remind us all again what you got for Christmas?" Al deadpans.

"I wish you lot would grow up," groans India tiredly.