Okay, I'll admit it: I'm a nerd. Like a fully-fledged, completely unashamed, ridiculously obsessed with academics and good grades nerd. I like school. I do, really. Maybe not writing essays, but learning? Yeah, sign me up.

Sophie Fincher, however, has taken nerd to another level.

We walked out of our last class of the day not thirty seconds ago, and yet she's already started dragging me off towards the library. Apparently, "If we don't start studying today, we'll be behind by tomorrow."

I highly doubt that.

But, you know, I like her. She's taken it upon herself to guide me around this week, so I figure I should at least make some effort to forge a friendship. And I really do appreciate that she seems to take academics seriously.

Sophie drags me through twisting stone corridor after twisting stone corridor and eventually shoves open the wooden doors leading to the library. The doors look massive from the outside, but once I'm inside the library - well, they kind of pale in comparison. Thousands of books line the rickety old shelves, study tables extend as far as I can see, and huge Gothic windows decorate the walls, shattering beams of light onto the flagstone floor every couple of feet.

I rummage through my bag for drawing utensils as Sophie plops us down at a table tucked in just behind a bend in the stacks, perfectly hidden away from the main room. I really don't have any work – apparently, the first week of classes at every school in the world consists of boring syllabi – but sitting through endless photoshoots with my dad has turned me into a pretty solid doodler. I know how to kill a few hours if need be.

Sophie flips open Who Am I? By Gilderoy Lockheart and an auburn curl springs out from behind her ear, swinging back and forth like a pendulum under the slight breeze blowing in from an open window.

Brief snippets of conversation float in from the outside world as students make their way around the grounds in the bright September sunshine. A light giggle, hushed whispers – wait. That's not outside. That's in the library, drifting over from the stacks right next to our table.

I turn curiously in the direction of the whispers, and through a gap in one of the books I can just barely make out the shadows of two figures. A beam of light catches the pin straight blonde hair of one, while the other remains hidden behind the girl, only two rough hands visible on her waist.

"Did you have a nice holiday?" a deep voice murmurs, but the girl's back presses up against the gap in the books before I can catch a peek of his face.

The girl whispers something back before giggling again, and this time it's loud enough that even Sophie catches on. Her eyes dart up from the book in the direction of the stacks and, with one swift motion, she pushes out of her chair and adjusts the prefect badge on her robes primly.

The people next to us have gone quiet now, but Sophie marches around the bend, clearing her throat loudly as I jump up to follow her. Don't quote me on this, but I'm guessing that stacks hook ups aren't exactly allowed at Hogwarts. They certainly weren't at Ilvermorny, but that never stopped people from trying.

I round the bend in the bookcases just as Sophie strolls up confidently to the couple, although this doesn't particularly look like something I'd like to interrupt. I can just barely make out the lacey pattern of the girl's bra behind her – ahem – partner's broad shoulders, and one of her hands clutches at his inky dark hair, while the other pushes off a crisp white shirt and red and gold striped tie.

"Only one week into the school year and already a stacks indiscretion, James?" Sophie tuts, twirling a curl around her finger. The roaming hands stop moving at that, and the now bare back facing me lets out a large exhale of breath. "Five points from Gryffindor. Each."

"For what ?" James groans, finally spinning away from the girl to face us. His eyes land on mine for half a second, no longer, before he turns to Sophie, head cocked questioningly to the side. "We haven't done anything wrong, technically."

"Dress code violation. Shirts required at all times," Sophie responds sweetly. James's eyes promptly roll back into his skull at that, but he snatches his shirt from the ground while the blonde girl behind him does the same. "We'll be on our way now. I expect you two to do the same."

"Always a pleasure, Fincher," he calls after us. Sophie pays him no mind, however, and simply marches back to our table, gathers her things, and hightails it from the library. And man , that girl can move.

I jog to catch up with her, shoving my way through the library's thick wooden doors, and round the drafty corridor outside to find Sophie's back against the wall. Her face flushes a bright pink – which is really rather unfortunate, as it clashes horribly with the red glints in her hair – and one hand flutters to smooth the auburn curls nervously.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she squeaks, dropping her gaze to the floor. "I mean, it's no big deal, I've only fancied him for ages and I know he doesn't go for girls like me, just popular, pretty, party girls like Lila. And I know they started hooking up at the end of last year, so it's like of course they would go at it again when they got back. And why should I care, you know? He barely even knows I exist."

"I guess he's kind of a big deal around here, huh?" I deadpan. Truly, I cannot even begin to count the number of times I've heard professors sharply snap Potter, attention or enough, Potter in his general direction. And we're barely a week into the start of term. "If it makes you feel better, those guys – you know the type – they're no good for you.

Sophie smiles at that, sinking along the cold stone wall to the floor, just a few feet away from where another window spills sunlight across the corridor. "Speaking from experience?"

"Unfortunately," I mutter, running my fingers along the stone beneath us. Smooth, like the pebbles that wash up along the shoreline of the North Atlantic. Pebbles I'd gathered and skipped over the cool, crystal clear water with someone not so different from a certain hazel-eyed attention-seeker.

He'd looked so good, too, basking in the heat on the beach. The quintessential cool boy, dark-haired and effortlessly handsome. But that had ended months ago – and thank Merlin it did.

Sophie takes in my pensive gaze but doesn't push, thankfully, and slowly climbs to her feet instead. "Shall we go grab an early supper?"

"Sounds like a –"

Well, I was going to say a plan, but apparently, the universe has other ideas, such as a loud, booming voice echoing down the corridor towards me.

"Aria!" The voice shouts again, and this time a tall brown-haired boy drifts into my line of sight. He looks really familiar – Brayden, Caden, Aiden? I can barely remember the names of my professors, let alone all the people I've spoken to throughout the first week. "Just the girl I was looking for. I've just booked Quidditch tryouts for two weekends from now. It's more of a formality than anything, but I'll see you there. Oh, and bye, Sarah," he tacks on as he turns away from us.

"It's Sophie," she adds quietly next to me, but Aiden? takes no mind and bounces off down the hall, his massive frame carrying him out of sight in just a few seconds. "I tutored him last year and he still doesn't remember my name."

"Boys," I mutter in disgust, at which Sophie simply nods and begins leading me towards the Great Hall.

The house tables slowly fill over the next hour or so as groups of friends file in together and settle down. Sophie and I sit with the other girls from our dormitory, Mia McCubbin and Gabrielle Ancrum, while Aiden – which is, indeed, his name, confirmed by Sophie – crashes with some boys from our year a few feet down from us. Across the way, at the Gryffindor table, a group of polished girls I recognize from our classes laugh together at some backfired spell that yet another of Dominique's cousins – Fred Weasley, from the year above – just tried to cast. The girl from the library's there as well – Lila Andrews, I think her name was – watching on amusedly as Connor Finnigan levitates a piece of cheese, and a few seats down, James –

"Oh my God," I mutter under my breath, stabbing a piece of meat with my fork. Sophie jumps in surprise while Mia and Gabrielle eye me warily, clearly trying to work out if their new roommate is some sort of psychotic nutjob. "James Potter keeps looking at me."

"He's not looking at you," Mia hums quietly. Everything about her seems fairly quiet, in fact, from her small frame to the muted brown of her hair. "You're paranoid."

"He is! Look, he just did it again." I swear he did. Those hazel eyes of his landed right over here, right on me, and it's really unnerving to have someone keep staring, especially when that someone has a penchant for exploding liquids in my face. "That's it. I'm leaving. He's freaking me out."

"Paranoid," Gabrielle calls at my retreating back, but I'm already halfway out of the Great Hall, my heavy bag of school books slung haphazardly over my shoulder.

Although come to think of it, I really should have just endured the staring because now I have no clue where the hell I am in this massive castle. I think I turned right after the Great Hall, up the stairs, then left, then straight, then left again, and – great. I'm lost.

So, after a solid five minutes of retracing my steps and fuming at the staircases to stop moving, I finally admit defeat and sink down against a random wall, kicking my bag for good measure.

...ow.

"Need some help there?"

A figure drops down beside me, his arms brushing lightly against mine, and two stormy grey eyes meet my gaze when I turn my head in curiosity. "Hi," I huff, watching as a few strands of my hair float up from the puff of breath.

"Bad first week?"

"You could say that," I groan as I lean my head against the hard stone of the corridor wall. My foot really hurts and I'm all sweaty and gross and just generally not attractive and – well, at least I have someone to show me around now.

"Sorry about the pumpkin juice, by the way," Jett Nolton comments. One hand ruffles through his hair, pausing at the crown of his head, and he shoots an apologetic smile in my direction. "I told James not to do it. But when he gets an idea in his head, he just kind of... "

"Can't be stopped?" I supply, at which Jett nods thoughtfully.

"Yeah."

"He's an asshole, then."

"He's not, actually," Jett fires back defensively. "And he's my best mate, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't insult him, thanks."

"Well, because of your friend, I have my first detention ever tonight."

"Good. He's making you live a little," Jett cracks, and at that I let out a snort, listening to it float down the deserted corridor. "I am sorry, though."

"Thanks."

Jett grins at me – a perfect, toothy smile – and jumps to his feet, then offers me a hand as well. He's dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, but looking up at him from the floor – I don't know. He just looks… good. Really, really good. And the toned muscles don't hurt, either.

"Hey, Jett?" The words slip out as he pulls me to my feet, warm hand clasped on mine. Then he drops my hand and slings my bag over his shoulder as that little smile still plays softly on his lips, and I – jeez. "I know everyone around here loves James Potter, but I think you get my vote for prom king."

I don't know what makes me say it. Maybe it's because I've got asshole boys on the brain, maybe it's because I truly, genuinely like him – perhaps more than anyone else I've met here – but either way, I mean it. He's been so kind to me this week, going out of his way to walk me to my next class after Potions every day, making me just feel… welcome, I guess. But not in the "welcome, new girl" way that most people do. Just in the normal way.

"I'm not exactly sure what that means, but thanks," he says with a laugh. It echoes around the corridor, replaying over and over again, before fading out of earshot. "You get my vote for prom queen, then?"

"My hero," I sigh dreamily, fanning myself with one hand, and follow the sound of his laughter down the corridor. I don't know where he's leading me, but to be honest, I think I'd probably let him take me anywhere.

We wind up wandering around the castle for a good two hours, with Jett pointing out little tricks, like the most common moving staircases and a shortcut from Ravenclaw Tower to the east side near the Charms classroom. He truly is one of the nicest people I think I've ever met. Not quite witty or debating, but still charming somehow, even despite his love of corny jokes.

And I, for one, cannot quite fathom why he's friends with James Potter.

I try to work it out as I attend detention that evening, a stunningly original punishment of scrubbing the entire Great Hall without magic. I'm not sure what we're supposed to learn from this, other than that Hogwarts pulls its detentions from cliche high school coming-of-age movies.

James chucks down his scrub brush in disgust, complete with a whiny, aggravated grunt, like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. Luckily, though, he's across the hall at the Slytherin table, while I carefully wipe away a bit of dried beans from the end of the Ravenclaw section.

"You don't need to try so hard, you know." His voice sounds odd, ringing throughout the pressing silence of the empty hall. We haven't actually spoken since that first morning, although I've definitely heard his voice floating through our shared classes, and of course in the library earlier today.

James pulls himself up to sit on the top of the Slytherin table and leans back on the heels of his palms. He has the sleeves of his school uniform rolled up to the elbows, revealing tanned forearms that I'd bet came from hours of Quidditch in the summertime, and a lazy, too-cool-for-school expression flickers across his features.

He's really not as attractive as he thinks he is. I've met guys like him before, walking around like they're the greatest thing since Pumpkin Pasties, when in reality they've just got a strong jawline and cut cheekbones. And perpetually messy hair, if you're into that sort of thing.

I continue scrubbing away at the really stubborn beans that simply refuse to come off of the table, blatantly ignoring his gaze, as James leans forward and begins twirling the brush between his fingers. The sooner I finish this table, the sooner I can finish my first and last detention and forget this whole thing even happened.

"I mean, really," he drawls, and I can practically picture the smirk flickering across his lips, "you'll rub your hands raw."

"Don't you have a table to clean?" I grunt, shoving my brush against the dried food once more. Just a few more scrubs until it finally comes off –

"It's just the Slytherin table. Not cleaning it probably does more in the service of society than the reverse. Hogwarts should actually be thanking me." My gaze flickers over to his figure, still lounging languidly on top of the table like a king, and I can't help but roll my eyes slightly at the imagery. "Need some help?"

"No," I huff shortly. "I'm fine. Besides, if you don't have a table to clean, shouldn't you go sneak off with your blonde to a broom closet or something?"

"Jealous?" The retort snaps easily from his lips, and at that single, echoing word I finally throw my brush down in frustration. "Joking, new girl. Besides, broom closets are far too cramped. And too cliche."

I glance up in surprise at the sound of his voice, now just a few feet away. I didn't even hear him slide off of his table or walk across the hall, but he's suddenly right there, staring down at me with hazel eyes that flicker from the warm glow of the candlelight – flashes of emerald and molten gold.

James presses one finger to his lips cheekily, throwing in a wink for good measure, and snakes his free hand down to the deep pockets of his uniform. Then, with a light tap of his contraband wand against the tabletop, the beans vanish right before my eyes.

"But they said no –"

"Do you want to get out of here or not?" he asks sharply, sliding the wand back into his pocket. One hand runs lazily back through the mess of inky darkness atop his head, ruffling it up ever so slightly, as the vein in his forearm pops against tan skin. "I mean, whatever, stay here all night if you want. I, however, have better things to do with my time."

James waits for a brief second as silence pulses around us, then turns swiftly on his heel and makes for the grand wooden doors leading out of the hall. And I swear to Wizard God I don't know what possesses me at that moment, but for some reason my big fat mouth opens up and yells "Like what?" after his retreating figure.

"Meet blondes in broom closets," he calls back over his shoulder, a mischievous smile snaking its way across his face.

And despite my aching arms, better judgment, and desire to have absolutely nothing to do with this hazel-eyed, black-haired, king of the castle, I let out a laugh as he continues to amble slowly towards the door. Damn traitorous brain.

"Careful, new girl. People might think you actually find me charming," comes the snappy response, bouncing along the high ceilings of the Great Hall. James pauses, though, halfway to the doors, and – Merlin, I know I'm going to regret this – I jog after him, leaving my scrub brush abandoned on the now pristine Ravenclaw table.

"Yeah, well, people would be wrong," I huff as I reach his side. James begins walking again, a lazy gait that seems to have no aim in particular, and glances down at me, as I doubt I could meet him at eye level even if I stood on my toes.

"I'm really not that bad."

"Says the boy who not only dumped juice on my head but whom I also saw going at it in the library stacks today."

"Oh, like you've never had a romp in the stacks before," he says dismissively, leaning one palm against the heavy wooden door that leads to the entrance hall. And I know he only means it casually, jokingly, but – dammit.

It's like the image of him standing there, a virtual carbon copy of so many things I've locked away, snaps apart all the walls that were built brick by painstaking brick. Memories come flooding out in a deluge – memories I don't want anymore, memories that still sting like a thousand cuts – and I am done. I'm just so done with boys like that. Like him.

I push against the door with a huff and shove my way out, footsteps echoing against the cold marble and ringing through the heavy silence of the castle. "Hey!" I hear James shout behind me, but I'm not stopping for him, I'm not talking to him, because I'm done.

"What the hell did I do now?" he yells, frustration coloring his tone, but I'm already halfway up the stairs in the entrance hall with absolutely no desire to slow down.

"Go hook up with your blonde," I call back bitterly over my shoulder.

I vaguely catch his figure grinding to a stop from the corner of my eye, far beneath me at the bottom of the staircase, but I don't care. Boys like that don't deserve my time. They only give a damn about themselves, about hooking up with that girl in the library because why not? Aria will never find out, and I'm just so done with it.

"Her name's Lila!" James' voice floats towards me, sarcastic and petty, but I'm already long gone, around the bend and off (hopefully) towards Ravenclaw Tower.

The second week of classes passes just as uneventfully as the first, if not more so – which, in my mind, is exactly how your sixth year should be. Heads down, prepping for NEWTs, so you can at least enjoy some of your final year. It's a conversation I've had with my roommates often at the dinner table as the nightly chaos of the Great Hall unfolds around us, more neutral observers than active participants. Mia McCubbin agrees wholeheartedly with me, often pitching in on my side as Gabrielle Ancrum postulates wildly that gossip and drama is what makes all the studying worthwhile.

She's the one who initiates most of our conversations, bringing reports from around the school about all the goings-on that the rest of us often miss, our heads tucked into books or assignments or both.

"Can you believe he's still hooking up with Lila Andrews?" Gabrielle asks earnestly. "Or at least he was as of Tuesday, even though everybody knows about Lucas."

The topic of today's dinnertime conversation is, of course, James Potter, as it seems to be more often than not. We'd just sat down for an early dinner not five minutes earlier, exhausted after our second week of classes, and Gabrielle had been practically chomping at the bit to dig into James and Lila – the hottest topic of the week in the girls' bathrooms.

Mia chews on a celery stick with a thoughtful expression, looking rather angelic beneath the beams of light scattering down from the Great Hall's vaulted windows. "I heard he dated a Muggle French model this summer."

"No way ." Gabrielle snorts at this before spearing broccoli on her fork. "He's far too immature for that."

" I think he'd make a great boyfriend," Sophie chimes in. She's stayed suspiciously quiet throughout the whole conversation, although I suspect that has more to do with her gazing off dazedly in the direction of the Gryffindor table than anything else. "Pass the carrots?"

"Yes, we know how in love with him you are." Mia sighs, grabbing the golden serving platter of carrots and plopping it down in front of our resident prefect.

"She's almost as in love with him as he is with himself," I mutter under my breath. I really didn't think I said it loud enough for anyone to hear, but Gabrielle slaps a hand over her mouth to stop the giggles from escaping while Sophie rolls her eyes slightly.

"You don't even know him, Aria -"

...and here we go. Sophie launches into her defense of James Potter, which, by the way, I've heard about three times in the past week. But I get it, I guess. It's so easy to get swept away by the good looks and the charm and the popularity, no matter how smart you may be. I would know. I've been there.

Granted, Sophie really does have a point – I don't know him. We haven't exactly spoken since our detention last week, although I think I've learned enough from watching his interactions in class, the Great Hall, the corridors – well, you catch my drift.

"– and he's actually quite clever, he gets top marks in almost every subject –"

My eyes flicker absentmindedly to the Gryffindor table as Sophie drones on – even Mia and Gabrielle look bored by this point – and gravitate toward the subject of our conversation. He always sits there, near the end closest to the door, with Jett Nolton and Connor Finnigan. And next to them, of course, sit the sixth-year Gryffindor girls.

I've never actually talked to any of them because – well, why would I? It's not like they've ever tried to speak to me. I don't even know what we would talk about, anyway. They're so… effortlessly perfect. Hair always styled, makeup flawless, sticking in their little close-knit group. They're exactly like the girls I tried to hang out with at Ilvermorny. And spoiler alert – that wasn't exactly my scene.

Lila Andrews, of course, tops all of them. Long, tanned model legs, golden hair that hangs to the center of her back, sparkling green eyes – it's no mystery why everyone calls her the Queen of Hogwarts (a title which Dominique Weasley refutes, as "just because she's in Gryffindor it doesn't automatically make her the most popular, honestly ").

The rumor passed around the fourth-floor girls' bathroom today involved Lila, of course, as most rumors tend to. Apparently – or, at least according to two Hufflepuff third-years I overheard from one of the stalls – the Slytherin Keeper, Lucas DuPont, recently caught her eye. I, for one, pray that he has, as there's only so much James and Lila talk that a girl can take.

"I heard," Gabrielle whispers, leaning forward and nearly planting her elbow in the butter dish, "that Lila had sex with Lucas on the Quidditch pitch."

"Kinky," I deadpan. My gaze drifts back to the Gryffindor table again as Gabrielle and Mia giggle at my comment. Lila throws her golden head backward in laughter, looking practically like someone straight out of a shampoo commercial, and clutches onto James's bicep for support. "Looks like they're pretty cozy now."

"That's just typical Lila," Gabrielle comments with a dismissive flick of her hand. "I'm surprised they're sitting together, though. They usually stick to their separate groups."

"That's because Grace Clarke has been dying to hook up with Jett Nolton for ages. Lila's just playing nice with the boys for Grace," Mia mumbles through a mouthful of roast.

Grace Clarke. Which one is that again? The brunette, maybe? The one with shiny curls? I should probably know, given how her name seems to pop up in the girls' bathroom almost as much as Lila's.

"I don't blame Lila for jumping the James Potter ship, though. Lucas DuPont got fit over the summer –"

Who, exactly Lucas DuPont is, though, I couldn't tell you, as Sophie cuts Gabrielle off with a hushed screech and three frantic whispers of "don't look, don't look, don't look –"

"What?"

"James!" This time the whisper comes out in a panicked frenzy, and I exchange confused glances with Mia and Gabrielle from across the table as Sophie shoves a carrot into my mouth. "Don't look !"

"Sophie –"

"Hello, ladies." A deep, rough voice cuts off Mia's admonishment, and I glance up in surprise as a pair of hazel eyes drop into the seat across from mine. James slides the platter of potatoes to the side so he can lean forward on one elbow, cupping his chin in the palm of his hand, and grins slightly at… I don't know. Something. "So, I'm having a bit of a get-together tonight in the Room of Requirement. Not a party, mind you. Strictly bring your own beverages. See you there?"

"Yeah," Sophie lets out breathlessly. Even Mia and Gabrielle look a bit dumbstruck, though, as they simply nod with a rather dreamy expression. Great.

"Excellent! Festivities start at ten o'clock. Don't be late." James calls the last bit over his shoulder as he slides off the bench, shooting that same, aimless grin back at our little group.

I doubt he's even out of earshot before Gabrielle lets out a squeal of delight. Sophie hisses angrily at her for that – "stop making us look uncool!" – and Mia simply sighs airily at his disappearing back. And they can squirm about it all they want, as I really don't care what James Potter thinks of me, nor do I have any desire to attend his "get-together" tonight. I, for one, will spend this lovely Friday evening curled up with a good book, I think.

Now that sounds like a perfect night.

Loud conversations pulse around me as I stand awkwardly in the so-called Room of Requirement, dressed casually in skinny jeans and a flowy tank top, which I've unfortunately just realized shares its red and gold accents with the Gryffindor house colors. You'd think that the roommates who dragged me to this whole event in the first place would have warned me against the color scheme, but alas, here we are.

I probably wouldn't have listened to them if they said anything, to be honest. But can you blame me? They spent half an hour deciding which skirts to wear, followed by another hour for makeup and hair, then another half hour debating over whether they should change. All of this for a "casual get-together."

Which, apparently, isn't exactly "casual" or a "get-together."

Students push through the room, flowing from one side to the other as they chat amongst each other, catching up on summer holidays and the regular Hogwarts gossip. Almost everyone looks done up for a proper party, too – except for me, of course. Who apparently didn't get the dress code memo.

"Aria!" Dominique Weasley's high-pitched squeal pulls my attention to the other side of the room as she skips towards me, a bottle of Firewhiskey in one hand, and looking every bit like a model stepping straight out from the pages of Witch Weekly. " So glad you came, I've been stuck chatting with my cousins for the last twenty – what are you wearing ?"

"Clothes," I say, shrugging slightly. She frowns at that, an expression that looks ridiculously out of place on her delicate features, and pushes a bit of the Firewhiskey toward me.

"Drink! Didn't you bring any of your own?"

"No, I –"

"Oh my God , you're so lucky you have me," she sighs, casually throwing an arm around my shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll teach you everything you need to know. First of all, Gryffindor get-togethers aren't parties, but you should still dress like it's one…"

Dom's voice fades into the background, though, as I gaze in boredom around the room. Not a party. It's a bunch of kids with alcohol squeezed into a hot and sweaty room – it doesn't get more quintessentially party than that. Granted, everyone did bring their own alcohol, but still. Seems pretty party-like to me.

I still haven't seen the host of the party – sorry, get together – but over in the corner by the windows, huddled next to the sixth-year Gryffindor girls, stand James's best friends. The girls, of course, look fit to go out at a New York nightclub – from the high heels to the tight skirts, it's no wonder the boys gravitated in that direction. Honestly, why didn't anyone tell me to dress up more? I stick out even more than usual, and I didn't even know that was possible.

The girl with brunette curls, Grace Clarke, laughs loudly into her cup as she takes another sip. Like I said, quintessentially party. Especially the way her right hand clutches possessively onto a boy's shoulder in a clear attempt to mark her territory. It doesn't look like he minds though – or, wait, maybe he does, because I swear I just saw Jett's eyes roll back into his skull slightly.

"...I mean, really, half the crowd here is actually related to me, but that's what happens when you breed like rabbits, I suppose, and the other half are invite-only, not like actual parties where everyone's welcome…"

Dom's still droning on, of course, but her words simply flicker in through one ear and out the other. And I know – I know – that I should pay her more attention, but she talks a lot. Plus she's sort of adopted me already, so I figure I'm kind of stuck with her regardless.

Besides, how can I possibly focus on Dom when prom king Jett Nolton just caught my eye? And he looks really good tonight – I mean, he looks good every day, and it's definitely made Potions a lot more enjoyable. There's something about a boy in khakis and a button-up, though. So dreamy.

Jett glances back over at Grace, breaking our eye contact, and says something before stepping away and heading in my direction. Even from here, I swear I see her eyes narrow into little slits like a snake, but a second later she turns towards Connor Finnigan, twirling a curl around her finger absentmindedly.

"Dominique Appoline Delacour Weasley," Jett boasts happily as he wanders towards us. His voice has a lazy warmth to it tonight that perfectly matches the light flush coloring his cheeks, no doubt a result of the alcohol.

"Jett Tiberius Nolton, are you drunk ?" Dom raises an eyebrow delicately in his direction at which Jett simply shrugs, pulling in another sip of… whatever currently inhabits his cup. " Godric, I love Gryffie get-togethers."

"Connor the Finnigan's asking for you, bytheway," he slurs towards her. "Might wanna go save 'im from Grace."

I blink once and I swear Dom disappears like a flash, already halfway to Connor, at which Jett lets a laugh tumble from his lips. His eyes look glazy in the soft golden light of the room – not their usual stormy grey, but almost a liquid silver. Ah. Moondust. That's what he's drinking.

Jett leans his head back against the cool stone wall behind us, breathing in deeply, as the rest of the gathering swirls around us – little snippets of conversation, drunken hysterics, the sticky, hot sweat of teenage bodies pressed against each other. He looks close to perfect as he stands there, frozen in time, while the rest of the room flows with a manic, pressing energy.

"So, Tiberius, huh?" I ask nonchalantly. Jett cracks one eye open at that, squinting at me through the candlelight, and I can't help but burst out laughing at the annoyed look on his face.

"Sod off, Fields." It comes out huskily, but somehow still light and teasing, as he lifts his head off the wall. "Tiberius whoops arse any day."

"Sure," I drawl, at which he punches me lightly in the shoulder, sloshing a bit of Moondust onto the floor in the process. "Smooth."

"Do you have nothing better to do than tease me?" Jett takes a step towards me, our toes nearly touching, and his breath floats across my skin, a mix of Moondust and pumpkin juice. He's close, so close, closer than we've ever been in class, and – Merlin. This is not good. Nope. Not good at all.

"Well, someone's gotta do it, Tiberius," I tease while stepping backward, but my heart's still racing and the nerves still dance through my body, so I step back again, and again, and again.

"You sound like –" His voice cuts off, though, as I take another step back and bump straight into something, or rather someone. "James." Jett's glassy gaze flickers over my shoulder, but I'm a bit more preoccupied with the hand pressing lightly against my waist.

"New girl," a rough voice says in surprise. I take a step away, a step closer to Jett, and spin slightly, feeling the weight on my waist slip off with the movement. Two hazel eyes cut through to mine, flecked with amber and emerald, but they're not glazed over like nearly everyone else in the room. "Didn't think you'd show."

"Yeah, well, I couldn't miss a chance to learn Jett's totally cool and not at all embarrassing middle name, now could I?" It slips out without thinking, and James grins in that lazy way of his, one hand pushing back through the mess of darkness on his head.

"Jett Tiberius and James Sirius," Jett crows drunkenly. He tosses one arm around James's shoulder casually, swaying slightly, and another wave of that warm, liquid happiness lights up his face. "We rhyme, mate. It was meant to be. Best friends for life."

James nods solemnly as Jett tugs him away, one arm still around his friend, rambling on about Merlin knows what. And that, I think, is my cue to leave. Nobody would even notice, anyway. They're all too drunk or too distracted or too busy hooking up in a corner, like… Lila Andrews and Lucas DuPont?

Huh. I guess some rumors actually do have a grain of truth.

I step casually towards the exit, awkwardly avoiding a cup that just dropped to the ground, but a pair of fingernails digs into my arm before I can push against the wooden door.

"You can't leave," Gabrielle whines. Her grip tightens, nails very painfully cutting into my skin. "We only got invited because of you."

"No you didn't," I sigh, but Gabrielle simply shakes her head, hair matted with sweat and blue eyes wide in an apparent effort at innocence. Sophie and Mia trail behind her, looking just as unwound, with equally puppy dog expressions plastered across their faces.

"James never invited us to anything before, and now you show up and suddenly we're invited? What a coincidence."

"Please," Mia whimpers. But – I mean – they haven't even hung out with me tonight! They scampered off to find friends as soon as we walked in through the door, leaving me alone in the middle of endless waves of people I don't even know.

Sighing, I take my hand off the door and wander back into the depths of the not-party with them, much to the girls' delighted squeals and giggles. Most of the giggles are over boys, such as how completely dishy Jett Nolton looks tonight (I will grudgingly admit I felt the smallest twinge of jealousy as they scoped him out), or more Hogwarts gossip, including an intense discussion of Lila Andrews and Lucas DuPont.

The alcohol continues to kick in as the minutes tick by, and as the only sober one, I watch on as their words slowly become less precise and their movements sloppier. Attention wavers, feet wander, and sooner rather than later I'm standing alone again at the outskirts of the party.

This time I really do make it out the door, and the cold draft of the hallway washes over me like ice water, chilling the sweat dripping down my skin. It's dark out here, of course. Nearly black, actually, as I'm sure we're way past curfew, so I tug my wand from my boot and whisper a hushed lumos. Pale light washes over the corridor from the tip of my wand, and I can just nearly see the bend up ahead where I'll need to go right for Ravenclaw Tower.

No, wait. That's the wrong way. I need to face the other direction, so I spin around and – Merlin. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest as James's features swim into view, not two inches from the tip of my wand, his face bathed in cool, blue-tinged light.

"We need to stop meeting like this," he tuts, voice low and gravelly. The words somehow ring sharp and crisp through the corridor though, echoing off the walls, each syllable separated cleanly in the lilt of his accent.

"You're not drunk." The statement slips off my tongue in surprise – almost accusatory, I guess – as his eyes flash in my wandlight.

"Neither are you."

"But it's your party. Why throw one if not to have an excuse to drink?"

"Quidditch tryouts start tomorrow." He shrugs easily at this, as if it contains all the answers in the world, and takes a step into the darkness of the corridor.

"So?" I press. And Merlin, I have no idea what possesses me, but for some God-forsaken reason, I follow the sound of his echoing footsteps. James pauses as I begin, his back cast in that otherworldly blue glow, but falls back easily into step beside me once I catch him.

"I want to know who takes it seriously and who shows up too hungover to function. Helps weed out the crowd."

...what? He's kidding, right? That's absolutely insane –

"Are you for real ?" I ask in disbelief. James pauses again, leaning back against the wall of the corridor, surveying me slowly. I'm not sure what exactly he's looking for, though, as I can barely make out anything through the pressing darkness.

"Of course," comes the lazy drawl. "I'm always serious when I care about something."

" You care about things?" I just barely catch James's eyebrows fly up at that, surprise flickering across his features, and I guess – well, it was sort of rude. I didn't even mean to say it, but then again I don't really mean to say most things around him. For some reason he just makes me blurt out even more word vomit than usual.

"What?" This time it's just one eyebrow that moves, cocking up slightly through the pale wandlight. "Oh, wait. I'm the carefree, mischievous rulebreaker right?"

"I -"

"Egotistical, partying prat, maybe?" James's grin flickers with a dry sort of humor as he pushes off the wall and takes a step closer. The blue light seems to sink into his skin, each step illuminating another feature, until he's right there, right in front of me, and every time I take a step back he only seems to get closer. "Tell me when I can stop."

"I get it," I mutter, averting my eyes to the flagstone floor beneath us. The slabs almost look icy in the wandlight, as if I could take a step and slide the rest of the way down the corridor.

"I know you're new here, but you really shouldn't listen to Hogwarts rumors. They're never truthful."

"Oh, like Lila Andrews and Lucas DuPont?" I ask, curiously raising my gaze to glance at him. "They seemed pretty darn close to me."

His expression turns unreadable at that – not quite questioning, not quite interested, but with maybe just a hint of both. And for the first time since I've known him, I think James Potter has absolutely nothing to say. No quip, no joke, nothing.

"What, upset that your toy found someone new?" The words come out harsher than I intend, but – I don't know. Maybe I really did mean it that way. Because I – I hate that. I hate when boys act like him, when they just run around and use people.

"I really don't care what Lila Andrews does or who she does it with," James replies smoothly. "And Lila's not a toy, by the way. She's a person who makes her own decisions. You'd do well to remember that."

James fades from view as his final words hit the air, shrinking into the pressing darkness of the corridor with that lazy grin sparking across his lips again. His footsteps slowly fade out of earshot, but I – God, anger still burns in the pit of my stomach, and no amount of his I don't give a damn attitude will ever wash it away.

The next morning dawns bright and crisp, with beautiful rays of sunshine beaming down onto the sloping Hogwarts grounds. As for why I'm outside so early on such a lovely morning – well, that's courtesy of Aiden Wood, the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, who pretty much kidnapped me the second I'd walked into the common room this morning. Apparently, I had the unfortunate luck of being the first player awake and downstairs.

"You have no idea how pleased I am that Abberly saw you play this summer," Aiden continues over the sound of my breakfast, a piece of toast snagged from the Great Hall this morning. "He briefed me on everything and it sounds like you're exactly what we need to round out the team, Harrison and Murphy have got the strength and speed but need more tactical guidance –"

Aiden's words cut off with a swear, though, as we approach the pitch, which practically crawls with Quidditch hopefuls aiming for a shot at the Gryffindor team. Jeez. There must be at least thirty people here just for tryouts, and another couple dozen scattered throughout the stands. In the States, we got lucky if thirty people even showed up to watch us play.

"Let's grab a seat, yeah?" Aiden inquires, and I nod as he cuts towards one of the tall wooden towers that houses the stadium seats. On my way, though, I spot the familiar broad-shouldered figure of my Potions partner weaving through the crowd with his broom, looking only slightly worse for wear after last night's festivities.

"Hey, Tiberius," I yell, hands cupped against my mouth. Jett spins around as my voice carries towards him, and the annoyance on his face fades into a grin as our eyes lock across the pitch. "Good luck!"

Jett simply swats his hand at that, and I'm sure he'll do just fine. He does have a fairly standard Quidditch body – Chaser, I'd bet, with all of his toned upper body muscles. Not bulky enough for Beater, not slim enough for Seeker.

"Aiden," I comment absentmindedly. My mind's still on Jett – I can spot him zooming around the pitch, as they've taken to the air for tryouts now – but I know it shouldn't be, as we're supposed to be scouting the whole competition, not just the good-looking ones. "Who are all the people up here?"

Aiden glances around the stands at the individuals surrounding us, a rather odd mix of casual Gryffindor observers, girls no doubt hoping for a glimpse of shirtless boys, and adult-looking people, dressed in formal business attire and scribbling down notes. "Scouts, mostly. A lot of the players in the British and Irish League get signed straight from Hogwarts."

"Hm."

As fascinating as that is – and truly, I've got a lot of questions about it – I just can't tear my eyes away from Jett as he stops on a dime. He looks good. Really good. And I don't mean physically, although that's definitely true as well. Surprisingly speedy for his size, a powerful throw, good aim – and, as if on cue, he knocks the Quaffle in straight past the Keeper's ear. A scout nods in approval below me, scribbling something down on parchment, but the paper slides out of view just before I get a high enough vantage point to read it.

"Hey, Aiden." The sound of a third voice draws my attention from the pitch, and I turn in time to catch sight of a blond-haired boy I vaguely recognize from Ravenclaw dropping into the stands behind us. "And Aria, right? I don't think we've formally met."

"Yeah, hi," I respond brightly. Or at least I hope my voice sounds bright. I'm not exactly good at the whole first impressions thing.

"Alex Harrison," he says, leaning forward with a grin. "I've been meaning to introduce myself – if all goes well, we'll be in the same tight-knit unit up there."

"Chaser?"

"Unfortunately."

I can't help but laugh at that – it's true, Chasing is absolutely thankless – and Alex nods at the hopeful Gryffindor Chasers streaking through the sky. "Wood here might be batshit crazy, but at least we get to control our own trio. Those poor Gryffs are stuck with Potter as a captain and a Chaser this year."

"I don't appreciate that," Aiden says, but it's half-hearted. His eyes skim constantly across the tryouts, flickering from group to group, and I can practically see the gears spinning in his head. " Fuck, Nolton's good."

"He practically lived on the pitch this summer," Alex comments. The dark brush of his shadow shifts above me, and I glance back to see him lounging languidly across the seats above us. "Training is a hell of a productive coping mechanism."

Coping?

Alex must catch the way my eyebrows quirk upwards questioningly, as he pulls his gaze back from the Chasers before us to Aiden and I below. "Breakups sting, you know?"

"Oh."

"Don't sound so disappointed, Fields," he says teasingly. A grin snakes across his face, and he flicks my back with a forefinger playfully. "But word to the wise – watch your back, and maybe don't be quite so obvious about it."

"Watch my back?"

At that, Alex simply nods towards the front row of the stands, maybe twenty or so feet away from us, towards a pack of Gryffindor girls. And right smack in the middle, staring up at my Potions partner, sits Grace Clarke, looking impeccably well-dressed and put-together for this early in the morning, party or no.

"Nolton can't stand her, but he's far too nice to ever actually do anything about it. Loyal to a fault, that one."

"What are you two talking about?" Aiden asks suddenly, as if he's just realized we're still here. Which, granted, he probably has.

"Aria's got a taste for Gryffindors, apparently."

Alex laughs as Aiden whips around to face me, one finger pointing threateningly in my direction. "Don't - even - think - about it," he hisses, but whatever threat's on the tip of his tongue gets wiped away the second Jett tosses in another goal before us. " Fuck !"

Aiden's curse echoes across the stadium, ringing out against the backdrop of commotion on the pitch, and Jett's head instantly turns in our direction. I swear I can see him grin as he flattens against his broom and streaks towards us, sliding to a shuddering halt just a few feet in front of our faces.

"Spying, are we?" he asks teasingly, and Aiden simply grunts in his direction.

"Nice throw, partner," I say. Jett's eyes flicker over to mine – and God, I hate how my heart flutters a bit at the way they light up – and he motions with his right hand for me to follow as he starts drifting down the stands.

"You look utterly unaffected by last night," he comments as I clamber down a row to make us eye level. It's tight, but there's just enough room to meander alongside him slowly as he heads towards the middle of the pitch, where the Chaser hopefuls are lining up for another drill.

"I could say the same about you."

"Eh," Jett says off-handedly, brushing at the air as if swatting a fly. "Bit of a headache, but good otherwise. Did you have fun?"

"I did, yeah."

"Good." He beams as we slow to a stop, one dimple popping on his right cheek. "I'm glad you made it. I actually wanted to ask you something –"

But what he wants to ask me, I'll never know, because a gruff, booming voice that I've unfortunately heard far too much recently echoes across the pitch.

"Nolton! Get over here now !" James yells, and I glance in his direction half-heartedly before turning back to the boy hovering beside me.

"Ah, sorry," Jett says apologetically. We've nearly reached the center of the stands, close to where James and the other Chasers are waiting – but, perhaps more importantly, where Grace Clarke and the Gryffindor girls are sitting. "I'll catch up with you later."

"Sure," I say, and he races out of the stands.

"Good luck, Jett!" Grace calls, but he's already halfway towards the center of the pitch. Then she flicks her gaze over me and lets out an amused sort of huff before turning back to the tryouts.

For some reason, I have a strange feeling that she and I won't be friends.

"Don't mind her, she's just bitter," someone calls from the stands above me. Grace and I both twist around, eyes drawn upwards, to find Alex Harrison looking in our direction. "And not even subtle about it."

"Oh, piss off, Alex," Grace snaps. Her face flushes a pale pink – even embarrassed she looks so delicately prim – and she lets out another huff. Alex ignores her, though, and waves at me to head back over to his seat with Aiden, who's scribbling furiously in a notebook.

"Any thoughts on Nolton?" I hear Aiden ask as I approach. He's not talking to me, though, and Alex simply shrugs as I drop back onto the wooden bench beside him.

"Don't ask me. James banned me from playing with them this summer."

"Damn, too bad."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather not spend more time with him than necessary, anyway."

"Right," Aiden says absentmindedly. His notebook's covered in chicken scratch too messy for me to decode; even his diagrams are barely legible. "Forgot about that. Between the two of you and Murphy, we'll figure something out."

Alex shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His eyebrows furrow, staring off into the distance at the Chasers, and as usual, I feel like there's something I don't know. Being the new girl means constantly catching up on how social circles run, stitching together bits and pieces to form a haphazardly disorganized quilt.

"So," I begin, turning towards Alex, "the Gryffindors don't like you either?"

"Not all the Gryffindors," he corrects brusquely. "Just one Gryffindor. That's all you need to know."

"Okay, then," I mutter, and my eyes dart back to the pitch. Brooms swirl through the air, energy thrums, voices yell – and it's all so familiar, yet at the same time, so incredibly different from what I know.

"And by the way," Alex says quietly, leaning towards me, "different Gryffindor, but the same goes for you."

Then he stands and starts walking towards the stairwell, and maybe I'm imagining it, but I swear I see James Potter throw him a dirty look from across the field. But I suppose that's a mystery for another day.