Chapter 7
Roger Davies
A/N: Katie's POV.
Warning: People using people. Teenaged decision making. Swearing. Horniness.
Three days ago, Roger Davies had been leaning against the wall outside of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, his dark hair mussed artfully, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and hands deep in his pockets.
Three days ago, my first thought upon seeing him had been what an absolute wanker.
Three days ago, it had felt delightful to snub him out like a cigarette when he trailed me down the hall, asking me if I would meet him at Madam Puddifoot's that weekend in a tone that suggested I'd be mad not to.
I think my exact words had been, "Eat shit, Davies."
Today, however, Roger Davies had leaned over me at the Three Broomsticks with that windswept hair and insufferable level of self-interested je ne sais quoi, and I let him buy me a drink. Or several.
Crazy what heartbreak will do to you.
"You did WHAT?" Leanne's forkful of mashed potatoes, a paid actor, clattered onto her plate when I filled her in during dinner. Apparently her sleuthing abilities didn't extend as far as I'd initially assumed.
"Yeah," I punctuated the thought by taking a bite of my dinner roll, "We hung out with Davies and co."
"And to think, I went with Hannah to the stationary shop instead of spying on you," Leanne looked glumly down at her splattered potatoes.
"Missed opportunity," I gave her a sympathetic little frown, "Next time I have a particularly horrible day I'll invite you."
"What exactly did Wood say to you?" Leanne pressed. I'd been vague in my description of the conversation.
"Doesn't really matter. It's not going to happen. Might as well move along!" I tried to say it brightly, but the giant chasm where my heart used to be warped the sound into something more melancholy.
"I'm so sorry, Katie," Leanne sighed, "I really thought, given, you know, all the times he-"
"It's fine!" I cut her off with a tight smile.
Leanne, bless her, shifted the tone of the conversation, "So did Davies stick his tongue down your throat?"
I choked on my bread.
"Merlin, Leanne, have a little tact," I coughed, "We were in public, after all."
"Right, sorry. Did he take you to a broom closet and then stick his tongue down your throat?"
I raised an eyebrow at her. "No tongues were down anyone's throat for the entire afternoon."
"Excuse me," a voice cut in, and I looked up into the face of none other than Roger Davies of the tousled hair and rakish smile, "May I join you?"
"At your own risk," I offered, scooting over on the bench to make room for him and pretending he hadn't overheard our lewd conversation.
Leanne shoved a bite of steak and kidney pie into her mouth, her eyes darting back and forth between Roger and me.
"I'm glad I ran into you at the Three Broomsticks today," he said in a manner that made it seem like it was a happy accident and not the demolition of my romantic life, "I was disappointed when you said you'd be busy this weekend."
Leanne stuck her fork in the air as if raising her hand, "Actually, I'm pretty sure she said 'Eat shit, Davies.'"
Roger continued as if he hadn't heard her, "I was wondering if you'd like to take a walk down to the lake with me after Potions on Wednesday."
He didn't pose it as a question, so it had an air of a mutual thought, as though together we'd dreamed up that we could wander down to the lake to see the Giant Squid sunning on its favorite rock, and maybe if I was lucky he'd stick his tongue down my throat.
I was feeling dejected and, if I was being honest, extremely lonely.
"Sure," I said, giving him a tight-lipped smile, "Wednesday."
"Great," Roger said, grinning lazily, "See you then."
He swung a long leg back over the bench and stood, "Later, Bell."
I watched him saunter away, wishing he were an inch shorter and Scottish and only cared about Quidditch. I swallowed the lump in my throat.
By Wednesday, whatever levity I'd found in my situation had turned sour. I'd spent all of Sunday in bed, miserable. On Monday, I'd skipped breakfast after I saw Oliver smiling at something another seventh year Gyriffindor was saying. He was so handsome. I felt viscerally ill.
On Tuesday, when I would usually pass by Oliver and his friends on my walk between the Charms classroom and Transfiguration, I'd ducked into an empty classroom to avoid our typical awkward wave. Professor McGonnagal had frowned at me in matronly disappointment when I showed up late to class, but I couldn't bring myself to care.
On Wednesday, I was forced to grow a spine due to the inevitability of Quidditch practice that evening. Dread pounded at the base of my skull like a relentless headache. I didn't know how to face Oliver. I wanted to wither away from the untenable combination of shame and heartbreak. I couldn't let myself think too long about the fact that I would never feel that rosy, precious thing that bubbled up beneath my ribs when he looked at me. Never again trust that he might sense it too. I felt like I'd been disemboweled and my insides laid bare.
It was all made worse by the fact that Roger kept trying to make eye contact with me during Potions class.
"He really doesn't let up, does he?" I muttered, chopping worm larvae into tiny pieces.
"You're the one who agreed to go on a date with him," Leanne whispered back, "And you're supposed to crush the larvae, not chop them!"
"Ah, shit," I said, turning the flat of my knife against the tiny pieces of larvae. Surely the grubby things being both chopped and crushed would make this blood clotting potion even more effective.
"Stop," Professor Snape announced suddenly, sneering down at a Ravenclaw sixth year, whose potion had bubbled over in an ungodly shade of orange, "Class is dismissed. Leave now, if you value your ability to breathe."
I didn't need to be told twice. Leanne and I pushed to the back of the classroom, spilling out into the hallway with the other disgruntled evacuees.
"Hey, Bell," Roger's voice carried over our grumbling classmates from where he stood against the wall. Come here wasn't explicitly said, but it was implied. I had the feeling he was used to getting what he wanted.
Leanne squeezed my arm reassuringly. "Just ask, I'll knee him in the balls," she murmured.
"I don't think that's necessary, but thank you," I replied, returning her squeeze gently, "I'll catch you later."
I walked over to where Roger leaned against the wall impudently. He grabbed my book bag, slinging it over his shoulder in a shadow of chivalry.
"Hi," I said. I wasn't certain what he expected of me, but I had an idea. Not my heart, which was a relief. Maybe that was the biggest appeal of this whole thing.
"Hi," he replied, his eyes sweeping over me shamelessly, "How are you?"
"Fine," I said. I let him lead me up the stone steps from the dungeons, out past the greenhouses to the wide expanse of shore between the castle and the lake. It was a glorious day. An absolute mockery of my dark, twisty misery.
Roger told me all about his summer, which he had spent vacationing in the south of France with his family. From what I gathered, the Davies were an extremely wealthy pureblood family who worked closely with a number of Gringotts investors. Figured.
We found a secluded little spot beneath a grove of trees by the edge of the forest.
"What did you do this summer?" he asked as he stretched out on the grass. He crossed one ankle over the other and leaned back on his forearms with a practiced sort of ease.
"This and that," I said evasively, plopping down next to him. In truth, I'd spent most of it with my older sister in Bristol. My mum worked at St. Mongos, and my dad, a muggle, was a public health official for the NHS. Both of them worked long hours, so Emma and I spent the short, stifling days anywhere we could find good air conditioning.
Roger didn't seem particularly curious about what I'd been up to. He was too busy looking at my mouth like he had hit his gentlemanly quota and was owed something.
I cleared my throat awkwardly, unused to being so blatantly checked out. Roger's gaze met mine, and I couldn't help but be disappointed by the fact that his eyes were blue instead of a warm shade of brown.
"Thanks for the drinks on Saturday," I said, "I needed that."
"Always happy to help," he grinned, fingers inching closer to where mine pulled at the grass beneath my knee.
I'm sure you are, I thought. His fingers brushed the back of my hand in a move I'm sure had worked on countless girls before me. I let him because I didn't mind the attention. It felt nice to have someone look at me like that, to want me in that way. It shushed the noise in my brain that had been buzzing since Saturday. It was a noise that sounded an awful lot like the word worthless being muttered over and over again.
Roger's lips traced my ear and I shivered. Not just because it woke up some primal part of me that craved such things, but because his sharp cologne was so distinctly not the woodsy scent I was thinking of. I let him trail light kisses along my jaw, my eyes fluttering closed. If I didn't breathe, I couldn't be disappointed.
"I've been waiting for this," Roger said as his lips brushed my neck.
"Really?" It was a question spurred by insecurity, and I felt an embarrassed flush crawl across my face at my obvious need for validation.
"Since we played Gryffindor last spring," he admitted, his breath ghosting along my throat between eager kisses, "You made a killer pass in the last few seconds of the game, it was brilliant. So sexy."
I froze, mind flicking back and forth between the present moment (Roger nibbling on my neck in a sensitive place that was making me temporarily forget the fact that I didn't feel particularly good about anything) and the sucker punch of guilt and shame when I thought about Quidditch.
I stood up quickly.
"That reminds me," I stammered, "I have to get to practice."
"I'll walk you," Roger said smoothly, picking my book bag up off the ground and brushing off his trousers. He wasn't the type to get embarrassed about a conquest ending abruptly.
"That's okay," I insisted, "I can find the Quidditch pitch on my own."
Despite my gentle recommendation that Roger fuck off, he did not fuck off. In fact, he walked with me all the way to the other side of the castle grounds.
By the time we got to the Quidditch pitch, half the team was already on the field. My heart lurched uncomfortably as I singled out the tall, burly form I'd been so anxious to avoid.
As if he could sense me staring, Oliver turned toward us. My lungs failed to inflate. I was tearing in two all over again. I felt his eyes on me when Roger's lips pressed against my cheek possessively.
Roger handed me my bag, running a hand through his hair with a smirk, "Same time on Friday?"
"Sure," I think I said. I didn't see him walk away. I was too busy keeping my eyes on the grass, ignoring the burn of my Captain's stare as I trudged to the locker rooms.