I kissed Jett Nolton.

Scratch that - I'm kissing Jett Nolton.

Still.

Like, a lot.

And he's a really, really good kisser.

I don't want it to stop. Ever. I just want to stand here, with my back pressed against the smooth stone exterior wall of something called Madame Puddifoots, and feel his lips against mine, his hands on my waist, the heat from his skin.

But it does sadly end as Jett takes the tiniest step away, his face flushed with color, and glances down at me with those storm-colored eyes. His hands haven't moved, though, and neither have mine, save for slipping slightly down to lock around the back of his neck.

"So," I begin, but Jett simply groans and leans down to press his forehead against mine.

"I know you're a Ravenclaw, but please just don't analyze," he breathes, and just as I'm about to let out a supremely witty retort, his lips kiss the words right off my lips.

Oh, Merlin. He's perfect. I am utterly convinced that Jett Nolton has actually achieved perfection. I mean, God. I came up with the prom king thing as a joke, but - wow. Maybe that's just the hormones going to my head, though, because I can't seem to get my body to do anything other than kiss him.

So I do, and he doesn't seem to mind, either, as my back presses even harder against the wall and the seconds – minutes? Yeah, definitely minutes – tick onward without either of us making a move to stop.

Until, that is, Alex Harrison's voice floats out of nowhere, sounding unnervingly confident for someone interrupting a private moment. "Aria! There you are. We've got Quidditch tryouts."

Jett's lips pause, and he takes the smallest step backward, hands still on my waist, as my eyelids flutter open. Sunlight filters into my vision as Alex shoots me a cocky grin from behind Jett's frame, and before I even have time to come up with a sassy quip, he grabs my arm and starts towing me away from the wall.

"Bye?" Jett calls after me, tone somewhere between amusement and confusion.

"Oh, bye!" I manage to yell back. Jett smiles slightly as he shoves his hands into his pockets, hair tousled more than usual, and strolls off further into the village while Alex tugs me around a corner. Ass. I mean, who does that, yanking someone away from a perfectly good make-out session?

"You'll thank me when Aiden doesn't rip your head off," Alex mutters under his breath, almost as if he can sense the annoyance radiating off of me. "By the way, you might want to take that Gryffindor Quidditch team jacket off before we get to the pitch."

Huh?

Oh, right.

Wow. My brain's still kind of all fuzzy and foggy, but can you blame me?

As it turns out, though, he was right and I really should have listened, as evidenced by the aggravated… something that leaks out of Aiden Wood's mouth the second he sets his eyes on me. It's somewhere between a grunt, sigh, and scream - an odd combination that I have no desire to ever hear again in my life.

"First new girl barges her way onto my team, now she's wearing a - dammit, Fields, would you just take it off already?" he huffs as he approaches, a well-loved older Firebolt model slung over his shoulder. "I shouldn't have to ask twice, traitor."

"Sorry," I mumble, pulling the sweatshirt over my head. The clothes beneath it still feel slightly damp and with the breeze blowing through the stadium I might actually start shivering, but I suppose it's better than getting murderous death glares from the bulky figure in front of me.

"Better." Aiden nods with approval as I gently fold the jacket and place it on the ground by the ball crate. "Now let's get going."

"I - oh, okay -"

"Order, everyone!" he barks, and for the first time I turn to face the assembled group of Quidditch hopefuls milling about on the pitch. Most of them look vaguely familiar; I recognize faces from the common room, various classes, and the Ravenclaw dining table. About thirty, I'd guess - mostly guys, but that's not unusual with Quidditch.

Damn. I know I thought about this when I observed the Gryffindor trials, but this place really takes its Quidditch seriously. Thirty people doing anything involving Quidditch probably would have set a record at any of my previous schools. Not to mention the scouts and general fans peppering the stands.

Oh, God. I think I'm going to be sick. I'm going to screw up in front of all these people and then everyone will think I'm a fraud, only getting by because of her dad –

No. I'm being ridiculous, right? Abberly hand-picked me to join the team. I've worked hard all these years - even when nobody even cared about the sport back home - and spent summers on the pitch and days of my life watching professional games and learning strategy and - yeah, I can do this.

...except maybe I can't, because Aiden already has the groups in the air, and I'm still stuck on the ground like an idiot. Fantastic.

Tryouts took forever.

Three and a half hours.

And I know showing up was mostly a formality – Aiden made it very clear that there was pretty much no way I wouldn't make the team – but it still felt pretty damn good to kick some ass. I haven't been on a broom in weeks, let alone played against anyone, but at this point, it's all muscle memory – beautiful instinct instilled from practically growing up on a pitch. And I love how it feels to know I earned it. On my own, up in the air, with no one to catch me.

I'm still coming down from the high after the rest of the pitch clears, most dreams dashed by the final list of names Aiden barked out ten minutes earlier. The sun sinks lower in the sky, casting its brilliant reds and oranges across the massive stadium, and I soak in the post-Quidditch glow while slowly struggling to push the ball crate back to the broomshed.

Or I was struggling, at least, until the end of the crate lifts up and a pair of grey eyes glance down at me in amusement. "Need some help?"

"Yes please," I puff out, throwing my entire body weight into lifting the other half of the crate. Aiden assigned me with clean-up duty "as the newest member of the team," but I honestly think it was just payback for wearing the Gryffindor jacket.

Somehow we miraculously manage to shuffle the crate over to the broomshed – okay, Jett did most of the work – and the hero of the day casually tosses his arm around my shoulder after we shove everything back into place. "Ready to go? I'm starving."

"Yeah - oh, wait!"

"What?" he calls after me, but I'm already sprinting back towards the pitch to grab his jacket. A bit of dirt got smudged into it when Aiden angrily kicked it, although I figure Jett's so chivalrous that he won't mind, right?

...or maybe not, because as soon as I jog back and shove it towards him, Jett cocks an eyebrow and simply states, "It's dirty."

Great.

"Blame Aiden?" I ask, at which Jett simply laughs and throws his arm around my shoulders again.

"That guy's absolutely insane," he comments lightly as we work our way out of the stadium. The sun's sunk even lower now, the brilliant hues fading into muted purples and blues as the last rays of light scatter off the glistening surface of the lake. "James's family reckons he's even crazier than his dad was in school. Something about those neurotic Ravenclaw tendencies."

I snort at that, and Jett laughs again as we trek up the sloping grounds to the castle. "Not all Ravenclaws are neurotic, you know."

"Sure."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I shoot back, stopping short. We've made it about halfway up to the castle now, and a cool breeze whispers through the grounds as nightfall continues to blanket us in ever-growing darkness.

"Just… you know." A slight grin plays on Jett's lips as he reorients himself to face me. "You're a bit high-strung."

"I am not."

"Gryffindors don't take everything so seriously," he continues, crossing his arms across his chest. "That's what makes us such a good pair."

"Us?"

The word floats out quietly as all the air seems to disappear from my lungs, but Jett apparently hears me and pauses, face flushing with embarrassment. "Oh - I mean - I thought - sorry. I thought, you know, after the village - I thought you - I misunderstood, I guess."

Wait, what?

I'm not quite sure what's going on because my stomach's gone all fluttery and I can't stop thinking about how he said us and - shit, does he think I don't - "No, Jett, I -" But now it's my turn to stutter because I've got no idea how to say this and why is it so hard to just say I like you? "I like the sound of us."

"Me too," comes the shy response, and I glance away as the heat of a flush stains my cheeks. "Shall we?"

My words get stuck in my throat, though, as his fingers twine with mine - rough and calloused, evidence of hours tossing a Quaffle around on the pitch. True dedication. I don't even get callouses until about halfway through the season.

And that calloused hand stays stuck in mine until we drop down a few minutes later at the Gryffindor table, seated at the section down towards the doors, the spot that everyone knows Jett and Co. always take. Him and James Potter, primarily - always together, the two of them - and usually Connor Finnigan as well, unless he's off trying to flirt with Dom or chatting with other Gryffindors.

"Congrats." James smiles wryly as I slot in next to Jett on the bench and drops his gaze back to his food, spearing a piece of potato onto his fork. "Glad to see someone's finally locked up the school's most eligible bachelor."

Jett snorts at that and shovels a bit of chicken onto his plate, but - I don't know. James sounds playful and light on the surface, like always, but I swear there's a bit of sarcasm in there as well.

"Maybe I'll inspire Connor to finally make a move on Dom," Jett comments thoughtfully.

This time James snorts as he drops his fork onto the still-full plate before him. "Doubt it. Where'd Finnigan get off to anyway?"

Connor has, of course, slunk over to the Slytherin table, where he chats animatedly with Lucas DuPont and Lila Andrews in a totally not obvious attempt to spend more time with Dom. It's almost painful how the two of them dance around each other, always too scared to cross the line.

"Sorry, mate, I know she's your cousin, but I really don't get what he sees in her," Jett states solemnly before taking a long swig from his goblet.

"Yeah, well, I really don't get what this one sees in you," he replies with a slight smirk. "Real mystery, that."

"Ouch," Jett comments playfully, flicking a pea off his plate towards his friend. He misses badly, of course, as he's currently more concerned with pressing a kiss against my cheek. Which, by the way, has gone a bright, burning red, seeing as I've apparently become the most interesting thing to look at in the Great Hall, as evidenced by the little posse of GGGs currently shooting whispering glances in my direction.

"Better watch out, new girl. You've just invoked the wrath of Grace Clarke," James comments, nodding in their direction down the table. Grace hasn't taken up whispering with her friends, though, nor does she respond to James's friendly wave. Kind of hard to do that when you're more concerned with sending death glares in my direction.

"Grace can fuck off," Jett spits out. I flinch slightly, not used to the harshness in his tone, so he shoots me an apologetic glance and wraps one arm around my waist. "I don't know why she won't take a hint."

"Some people are just thick like that. Others, though - others get the message loud and clear," James says cryptically as he lifts himself off the bench. One hand shoves itself back through his hair while he casually surveys the hall, eyes skipping from one table to the next beneath the soft glow of the candles. "I'll see you later, then."

"Where are you going? You barely touched your food," Jett calls after him, but James has already nearly made it to the Hufflepuff table, where he drops next to a brunette I vaguely recognize from a few of my classes. Can't remember her name, though. Claire, maybe?

"Unbelievable," I mutter, averting my eyes back to my plate. My tolerance for watching James Potter in general - let alone watching him flirtatiously swipe forks away from brunette Hufflepuffs - lasts for only mere seconds at a time, as I've discovered over the past few weeks.

"He's a good guy, really," Jett mumbles.

"Right," I comment dryly. I've definitely heard that one before.

"I know you two got off on the wrong foot, but -" He pauses, shooting me a slight glare as I let out a snort. Wrong foot. That's a nice way of putting pumpkin juice explosion and first detention ever. "He's my best friend. Can you at least trust that I wouldn't stay mates with a horrible person?"

I guess he sort of has a -

Well, nevermind. I was going to say Jett has a point, but I take that errant thought back.

"He just likes attention, that's all," Jett continues earnestly. "Give the guy a break. You probably would too, growing up like he did."

I don't really know what that means, but to be honest, I'd rather not argue about James Potter anymore. He already consumes far too much of my time, and when we moved I promised myself not to allow negative people in my life again. New school, new start, right? Might as well follow through on it.

"Whatever you say," I mumble under my breath, and Jett smiles, apparently satisfied, before pressing his lips to mine.

I'll take that over arguing about James Potter any day.

The next few weeks pass in a blissful blur of stolen kisses in the hallway, lazy afternoons spent exploring the castle, and aimless study sessions that don't involve nearly as much studying as they should, although I'm sure Jett doesn't mind that. September warmth sinks into the chill of October, and the leaves outside the castle's drafty walls fade into the fiery foliage of fall.

I don't totally mind the change in seasons as much as I thought I would, though. Jett's jacket never leaves my body once classes end each day and neither does his hand, always gripped tightly in mine. It's like - I don't know. I'm not complaining - God, no, I love it - but I've noticed how… protective he is. Or maybe protective isn't the right word. I'm not really sure how to describe it.

There are definitely some not-so-great moments as well, though, mostly thanks to a certain Aiden Wood. He appears to have taken up glaring as his new favorite hobby, sprinkled in with a muttered "Judas" every now and then, as some sort of weird punishment for "dating the enemy."

Then there's Grace Clarke, although she's far easier to avoid than Aiden. The blistering looks have ramped up in the past few weeks, though. It started out with just Grace, but now the rest of her friends have taken up the venomous glares as well, save for Lila Andrews (too busy hooking up with Lucas DuPont to care, according to the rumor mill). Ah, well. So it goes.

At least the Ravenclaw girls in my year - Sophie Fincher, Mia McCubbin, and Gabrielle Ancrum - don't mind my relationship. Quite the opposite, in fact.

"Any reports from red and gold world?" Gabrielle asks earnestly as I drop down heavily at the Ravenclaw table. Her blue eyes flicker hopefully beneath the shimmering gold of the candlelight, falling ever so slightly as I shake my head once in denial.

"Won't see Jett until he gets back from Quidditch later. Sorry to disappoint."

Sophie furrows her brow at this, a puzzled look on her face, and throws a glance over to the "red and gold world," as they've taken to calling the Gryffindor table. Personally, I don't quite understand the fascination, but everyone at Hogwarts has some odd predilection towards gossiping about the Gryffindors, sprinkled in with a few select individuals from elsewhere - the Lucas DuPonts and Dominique Weasleys of the world.

"The rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team is at dinner, though," Sophie comments, spearing a piece of broccoli.

"Something about polishing brooms or whatever," I say with a shrug. Jett mentioned it vaguely in passing the other day. We tend not to talk about Quidditch together, just to play it safe. "Apparently James has really amped up the intensity or - I don't know, he doesn't say much about Gryffindor Quidditch."

"And you better not be saying anything about Ravenclaw Quidditch," a deep voice grumbles out of nowhere from behind me, and I nearly jump in surprise at the sound of it. Merlin. Give a girl some warning, will you? Sophie, meanwhile, simply lets out a small laugh and wiggles her fingers at the person behind me in greeting. "Oh, hi, Sarah," Aiden adds as an afterthought, tone much lighter.

"It's Sophie," she squeaks, face twinging with a bit of heat.

I twist in my seat, neck craning to look up at the burly figure behind me, half-expecting to see the usual look of annoyance twitching across Aiden's face. It's not there, though, and he simply blinks once, twice, with a dazed expression, then shakes his head slightly and stalks off towards some of the sixth-year Ravenclaw boys sitting further down the table.

"He's so weird," I mutter, spooning a bit of potatoes onto my plate.

"Not talking about me, I hope," another voice murmurs from behind me, this one just as low but much softer, tickling my ear with hot breath.

"Always," I hum in my best attempt at innocence, and Jett lets out a bark of laughter as he drops next to me at the table, face slightly flushed from the sting of the chilly October air. Must have just made the walk up from the Quidditch pitch, then. "Brooms polished?"

"Not a speck of dirt to be found."

"Handsome and useful. I'll have to keep you around."

"Very funny," he tuts, grabbing a slice of pork off my plate. "But if I ever smell broom polish again, I might vomit."

"Ew." Mia McCubbin wrinkles her small pixie nose from across the table - the first noise she's made since I sat down, but that's not so unusual for her.

"Well, it's not my fault." Jett shrugs slightly and bites into the slice of pork. "Blame James for going mental."

"Oh?" Gabrielle perks back up at that, attention piqued once more, and casually tosses a few strands of bleached hair over her shoulder. She's definitely the worst gossip fiend of the three, but Sophie usually beats her to it whenever James Potter comes up in conversation. "Spill, please."

"Nothing to spill, really. He's just been in a pissy mood lately."

"Well, that's hardly gossip," Gabrielle says dismissively, pouting as Jett takes a swig of water. She has a point, though. Anyone with a functioning brain knows he hasn't exactly been a ray of sunshine recently. Granted, I do try to avoid as much contact with him as possible, but James Potter seems to have a way of annoyingly inserting himself into my life at the most inconvenient times. I suppose that's an unavoidable side-effect of dating his best friend.

At any rate, public consensus around the school seems to be that the increasing affection between Lila Andrews and Lucas DuPont rubs him the wrong way, although I'm not quite sure I buy it. He certainly didn't seem invested in her at all - but then again, he never really appears invested in anything.

"Personally, I just think he needs to get laid," Jett comments absentmindedly. Sophie giggles at that, her face flushing with heat again - a rather unfortunate hue that clashes horrifically against her auburn hair - while I whack him on my arm with a spoon, earning a grin of approval from Gabrielle.

"Don't be crude, Jett."

"What? It's true."

"That doesn't mean you have to say it."

Jett simply rolls his eyes at that and grabs another slice of pork from my plate. "You Ravenclaws can be so boring sometimes. It won't kill you to lighten up every now and then, you know."

Rude. Having a filter during dinner-table conversations does not make you boring and serious. But before I can even formulate a proper response, Jett cuts off my train of thought by pressing his lips against mine.

It's short - way too short for my liking - and when he pulls back my eyelids flutter open to meet his stormy grey gaze. "But I like you anyway," he murmurs, and even an apparently boring, serious Ravenclaw like me can't stop the little flutter of happiness in the pit of my stomach. "Want to get out of here?"

"Only if you promise not to insult me again," I say with a sigh, and Jett lets out that loud bark of laughter I've practically memorized by now.

"Promise."

"Bye, Aria," a voice hums from across the table, and somehow I manage to pull my eyes away from Jett long enough to take in the sight of Gabrielle wagging her eyebrows as Jett tugs me up from the bench.

"Bye!" I squeak back over my shoulder, but I doubt they heard me over the clatter of the Great Hall.

Jett shoves open the door, towing me along behind him, and his lips find mine the moment it thuds shut behind us. Merlin. I just love kissing him - how his fingers dig into my hips, the outdoorsy smell of his cologne (tonight, unfortunately, mingling with broom polish), the heat of his body -

"Nolton!" A voice echoes towards us through the vast expanse of the entrance hall, that uniquely gruff tone I've come to recognize, and Jett pauses mid-kiss. Annoyance flickers across his face for a half-second as he turns slowly towards the voice, tugging my hand lightly along behind him. "Brooms done?"

James Potter lounges against the cold marble of the staircase, legs outstretched over the steps, surveying us with an unreadable expression. He has the sleeves of his school uniform rolled up to the elbows, as per usual, and a few of the buttons undone at the top, exposing just a hint of the tanned chest beneath it.

"Yes."

"And I take it you won't be late to any more practices?"

"No, captain," Jett practically spits out between his teeth.

Oh, right. That's what it was. He showed up five minutes late to the pitch on Monday evening because he'd walked me back to Ravenclaw Tower and James gave him an earful for it. He did actually mention that, come to think of it. Along with the other ninety-five ways James has pissed him off during Quidditch practice over the past few weeks. I believe the exact quote was, "He's been such a nightmare lately, honestly. I'll break up Lila and Lucas myself if I have to."

"Good."

Jett nods slightly and makes a move toward the stairway, but we don't even reach the first step before James stretches to his feet and blocks our path. That same unreadable expression obscures his features, and one hand stretches back through the inky mess of hair atop his head slowly.

"You know, I was talking to Grace Clarke today and she told me something interesting," he comments in that lazy way of his. "But I bet you've already heard all about it."

James's eyes flicker towards me at that, lingering on my face before sliding to our clasped hands. I don't know why he's acting so weird and cryptic, but I've kind of given up on trying to understand him in general. He's like some sort of puzzle that I don't have the picture to. You can't put it together if you don't even know what you're looking for.

"She's the reason your head hasn't been in Quidditch, right? Only fair that I do my research."

"Don't," Jett snaps warningly, taking a step towards the figure in front of us. "And you can piss off with all the snarky Quidditch comments, too. I work harder than anyone on the pitch, so cut the bullshit nitpicks. If there's a problem, tell me about it."

"I don't have a problem," James comments nonchalantly, and I feel Jett tighten his hand instinctively on mine.

"Good. Because if anyone should have a problem here, it's me."

"Oh?"

"I work my ass off every damn day, you know that?" Jett spits out. James cocks an eyebrow, and I can just tell he's fighting the urge to smirk with every fiber of his being. "I study more than you, I train more than you, I work harder than you, and what do I get for it? Nothing. You get the best marks. You get the captaincy. You get the professional scouts. You get everything without even trying."

Silence rings around the hall as Jett takes another step closer to James, dropping my hand, and glares at his friend. I know it's been building for a while – just small, meaningless comments on correct passing form and deceleration and the like – and it's been slowly driving Jett insane. I can't count the number of times he's come back from practice fuming about it, pissed off and ranting about the extra laps he had to run because of his "incorrect technique."

"Come on, Jett. Let's go," I murmur as I relace my fingers with his. "Please."

Jett glances over at me, jaw set into a hard clench, but his eyes start to soften as soon as I meet his steely gaze. Thank God. I may be new to this place, but even I've already figured out just how hot-tempered the Gryffindors can run. Probably part of what makes them so ripe for Hogwarts gossip.

Instead of going up the staircase as planned, though, I tug him back silently toward the main doors. We could go outside, enjoy the sunset, cool off, and everything will go back to normal. He usually just needs a few minutes to calm down.

"Go," James spits out after us, and I feel Jett's muscles contract again through our clasped hands. "And don't let that slag distract you from practice anymore."

"That's it," Jett snarls, and then he lunges at his best friend.