The following Monday dawns bright and clear, a welcome relief from the near endless gray hanging over the castle, and it takes every bit of mental strength to not spend my free period gazing out at the crystal sky.
But when the next day rolls around and still no dimness blankets the grounds, I can't stop myself from snagging a bit of lunch to go and tucking up on a windowsill, legs drawn up to my chest as I soak in the glorious, cloudless view. There's even the slightest tinge of warmth where beams of sun break through the glass, a taunting reminder of how life could be – how it once was, even in November.
Summer feels so far away that it's barely a flicker of hope. There's still all winter to suffer through, the holidays, spring, exams… and then, at the end of it all, pure salvation. Sun beating down, sweat beading on my neck, salt air gently flowing through my hair like a whispered breath of relief. Not here, of course, but home. My real home.
Only three months of school and I'm already daydreaming about those glorious summer days on the California coast. I'm not cut out to live anywhere else, really. I've practically perfected my warming charm over the last few weeks and have started avoiding windows like the plague, preferring to endure the bleakness of the castle rather than see that awful winter sky.
I've never avoided the outdoors like this before. Growing up with a professional athlete for a father meant endless days in fresh air, no matter the season. It meant weekend hikes in Malibu, early mornings zipped up in a wetsuit and paddling into the Pacific to surf, runs on the beach as each step burned with that good kind of pain. Even my earliest memories are outside on the Quidditch pitch, running around on the grass or daydreaming in the stands, back when my mom was working as many jobs as she could to float us before my dad made it big.
But now I can barely even stand to look outside, let alone venture into it. Even Quidditch practice is torture, every slice through the air like a knife sheathed in that God damn endless gray.
Eight more months. Eight more months of this, and then I can go back for the summer. For a few weeks, at least, like we always do. My parents promised we could, like they knew it was the only way I was going to get through it. It's probably the only way they're getting through it, too – although I'm sure that massive contract my dad signed helped to lessen the sting.
"You look lost in thought."
I nearly jump at the voice as Jett sinks onto the windowsill, his back to the glass. It's been just over a week since we've spoken – a week and three days, to be precise, but who's counting? – and he offers me a soft, half-smile, the first I've seen directed at me in just as long.
"I was just –" I clear my throat, glancing back towards the rolling grounds. "I was just thinking about home."
Home. I still think of it as home, even though it's been almost three years since we lived there. My parents still think of it that way, too. They've tried to make everywhere else feel like home, but it's not the same. It never will be.
"Sorry if I scared you."
"That's all right," I say softly. "I'm glad to see you."
"Yeah, I –" Jett pauses, and I soak in his familiar silhouette. Broad shoulders and tousled bronze hair and that small scar on his jawline, the one he got when he was nine, he'd told me, from smacking his chin on a rock while wrestling James. "I'm sorry," he finally says, the words spilling out in a rush.
"No, I'm sorry –"
"I should not have said that, my parents would be so disappointed –"
"I should've paid more attention, been more present –"
"– I didn't mean it, really, it was awful to say –"
"– I knew how much it meant to you, how hard you've worked –"
Our voices spill out over top of each other, cutting off sentences, apologies, and both of our mouths shut at nearly the same time, fighting not to laugh.
"Forgive me?"
"Of course. Forgive me?"
"One thousand percent," I say, and this time Jett does laugh, that warm, gentle sound that I've come to adore, as he softly pushes my legs off the windowsill. He leans toward me, amusement in his eyes, and – God, he still makes my heart flutter every time I look at him, like there's someone gently squeezing a hand around my ribcage.
"I missed you," I whisper, and then my hand grabs his shirt and pulls him close enough to kiss. I can feel the grin on his lips, the smile on mine, and everything feels right again, like the world's settling back into place. Like it had been tilted off its axis since - well, since that Thursday in the sixth-floor corridor.
"I missed you too, Fields."
"Let's not fight again."
"Let's not," he agrees, and then he's kissing me again, one hand sliding into my hair as the other dances at my hip. "Want to skive off next period?"
"Jett!" I exclaim, smacking him lightly on the chest. Now there's full-blown mischief sparkling in his eyes, like I've seen in his best friend so many times before, and I let out an exasperated sigh. "You're terrible."
"How dare I suggest a Ravenclaw skip a lesson," he teases, but he offers me a hand as he stretches up and grabs my bag. "Come on, then, let's get you to Runes."
But the familiar feel of his calloused hand in mine drives all thoughts of lessons from my head, and we barely last a minute before we're kissing again, my back against the wall and arms around his neck, because I just missed him. I missed how he makes me feel so calm, so certain of myself, missed how I never have to guess what he's feeling, how it's always written right there for me to see.
And so it goes as we slowly trail upwards, stopping what feels like every other minute to make up for all the time we lost last week, barely even caring as a crush of students streams past. And it's not until Josh Peakes gingerly steps around us to enter the Ancient Runes classroom that I realize we've wasted the better part of lunch kissing each other senseless, taken nearly the whole period to make it up to the sixth floor.
"Shit," Jett says breathlessly, staring at his watch. "I'm going to be late. I'm going to be so late."
"I thought you wanted to skive off anyway," I say, arching a brow, but he ignores the taunt and simply presses another kiss to my lips.
"Only with you, Fields. See you at dinner."
"You better run, Nolton!" I tease as he starts walking backward, like he can't bear to turn away until the last second. "Jett, watch – out."
The last word tumbles out lamely as he backs straight into the even taller figure behind him, but he just glances over his shoulder, utterly unconcerned. "Sorry, mate," I hear Jett say, and James shrugs as he steps to the side. "Thanks for the advice, by the way."
"Anything for you," comes the gruff reply, and he tosses a glance in my direction. "Glad it worked out."
"What advice?" I ask, trailing James as he strides past me into the classroom. He drops his bag onto a desk in the back row, a heavy thunk that echoes through the nearly empty room, rattling Josh Peakes from where he's already started nodding off.
Two hazel eyes find mine curiously as I slide into the seat beside him. "None of your business," he says simply.
"Seems like my business."
"It's not."
"Really?" I challenge, and James rolls his eyes.
"So nosy," he tuts, leaning forward slightly. I swallow as my pulse switches into overdrive, beating and thrumming against my skin, a nervous energy I'm never able to shake around him. "If you must know, I told him he was being a miserable git and to swallow his pride and apologize. You happy now?"
"Oh," I say lamely. James scoffs and flips open his book pointedly, as if finished with the conversation, and the sharp click of Professor Dromgoole's perpetually high heels clips through the silence as she strides to the lectern.
Jett really is going to be late. Incredibly late, in fact, if class is already starting. He's probably barely down the stairs by now. Maybe I should've skipped this period with him after all. It's not like I hear Dromgoole as she outlines the runic variants we'll be studying the rest of the semester, nor do I spare a glance up at the projector.
Instead, I watch James's quill scratch against parchment, the jet-black ink bleeding into its surface. I never realized he was left-handed before. I never realized a lot of things about him, actually. Never bothered to think about if he actually wants me to sit beside him. Or if he even wants me near him at all, really.
He's the reason Jett apologized. That much is glaringly obvious, even if he tries to play it off. He could've said nothing, could've let our own stubbornness get the better of us – and maybe it would have, too. But he didn't. And I –
I wonder how much that stung.
That's what I think about for most of the lesson, really. I'm sure it hurt more than he would ever admit. It's the first time I've thought about that, too, the first time I've considered how he feels, how he's felt since – well, since whenever it all started.
He's had to listen to Jett for months now. They're best friends, share a dorm, tell each other everything – he even mentioned it last week in this very classroom, casually throwing out how he can't stand to listen to Jett's lovesick babbling. I thought he was just being snarky as usual – but he wasn't. He was dead serious, the truth of it hidden behind that perpetually unbothered mask.
It must really fucking suck.
"All right, Fields, spit it out," James sighs, as if reading my thoughts. His voice is barely more than a whisper above Dromgoole's lecture, and his eyes cut over to me. "You've been staring and haven't taken a single note."
"Nothing," I say too quickly, and I see him fighting a smirk as he tips back onto his chair legs. The window shades snap open not ten seconds later, though, and James snatches his bag as his chair crashes back down.
"Spit it out," he repeats, but he's already up and moving, nearly halfway to the door.
"I just –" I pause as I spring after him, falling into step at his side when we exit the classroom. "I wanted to say thanks."
"For what?" he asks, voice almost bored.
"For talking to Jett," I say softly, and he doesn't look down, doesn't acknowledge me, but his jaw twitches ever so slightly. "Thank you."
"It was more for my sanity than yours, really," James drawls, his casual, indifferent tone betraying nothing. It's the same tone that drove me up a wall just a few weeks ago, but now – now I can almost see straight through it. "Somehow hearing him moan about how much he missed you was worse than all the romantic shit. I couldn't take it anymore."
"Well, I appreciate it anyway," I say, but if he hears me, he doesn't let on. "I'll leave you to your wandering, then."
His head tilts, as if he's just realized where we are – the intersection with the staircase, where he always splits off to walk by himself, or so he'd told me – and that same muscle twitches in his jaw.
"Want to join me?" he asks simply, nodding towards that empty half of the sixth floor. "We've both got free periods."
"I don't want to intrude on your peace and quiet."
"You're not intruding if I'm offering," he counters. "We never finished our debate from the library on MACUSA, anyway."
He crosses his arms as he stares at me, bag nearly falling off his shoulder, as if he can't be bothered to fix it. But I think maybe – just maybe – that's all part of his facade, too, just like that bored tone he pulls out so easily. I think he does care. Too much. About everything – his grades, his friends, what others think of him, what I think of him.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I ask quietly. "I don't want to – I don't know. Make things worse."
"Don't flatter yourself, Fields," he says with a grin, lightly shoving my shoulder. "I can handle a friendship with you, honestly. We're not twelve."
"All right, then," I say, and his smile widens as he spins around to walk backward into the sixth-floor corridor, hazel eyes almost flickering in the sunlight. "But you are so entirely wrong about Quahog. He's got no worthy challengers in the next election and everyone likes him, at least on the West Coast."
"Prove it," James calls back, already halfway down the hall, and once again I'm jogging to catch up, mind already spinning with arguments and practically crackling at the prospect.
Life falls into an easy rhythm as the sharp, bitter winter days march onwards. We're all keeping a countdown until the holiday break in our heads, I'm sure, as assignments pile up and end-of-term exams loom menacingly. But despite all of it – despite the never-ending workload, the incessant, grueling Quidditch practices Aiden throws at us, the constant chill seeping through the castle – I think I've never really felt happier. At least not here – not anywhere, really, except maybe home.
I thrive when I'm busy, and I suppose that's half of it. Nearly every spare second of my day is accounted for, so jam-packed full of class, Quidditch, and kissing Jett that I pass out the instant my head touches my pillow every night. I've barely spent any time in our dorm at all, other than sleeping – a fact that isn't lost on me, especially not when Gabrielle Ancrum frowns whenever we pass in the hallways.
She's upset that I've blown them off recently, but it's not intentional. I just don't have time for my roommates like I once did. It's either them or one of my other commitments, and I can't sacrifice anything else. It's like they said back at Ilvermorny: you can have good grades, enough sleep, or a social life, but not all three.
The only exception I make is for Jett. He's busy, too, but I try to squeeze in as much time with him as I can. We walk to class together, study together, eat every meal together – and yet it still never feels like enough. They're stolen minutes, here and there, and oftentimes taken up more by kissing than talking.
It's like – I don't know. Sometimes I look at him, especially when he's all flushed and wind-swept from the Quidditch pitch, and just can't help it. I love feeling his warmth against me, hearing his laugh light up a room, and on rare nights when I don't fall asleep instantly, I half wonder if I'm falling in love with him.
I wouldn't know. I've never been in love with someone, never even been close. The rational, analytical part of me – the part that usually seems to win – screams that it should be him. That he's safe and secure, that he cares about me, that he respects me and treats me well. I truly couldn't ask for anything more.
And yet, on those same sleepless nights, the other half of me can't help but question if maybe I'm not falling in love with him at all, and never will.
I think about it a lot during the rest of the semester, especially during our increasingly boring Ancient Runes lectures. Josh Peakes' snoring has gotten even louder, if that's possible, and yet it's quickly become my favorite class. I look forward to it every week, practically counting down the hours until our Tuesday and Thursday lessons.
It's probably because it's the one class I don't have to pay attention to. Everything we cover is in the syllabary, and it's all rote memorization, anyway. So my notes no longer grow during class, and my eyes no longer watch the projector, and instead I sit next to James every lesson, whispering back and forth about anything and everything.
And when the window shutters fly open, the projector clicks off, and Josh Peakes stops snoring, we simply switch back into normal voices, our conversation never missing a beat as we spend the next hour walking aimless loops around the sixth-floor corridor. Sometimes it's a debate, sharp and witty, about whatever it is we disagree on; other times I ramble on about myself, about how my heart still longs for the fog that rolls in across the Pacific, about how it feels to so deeply appreciate the life you have and yet wish it was never that way at all.
He doesn't care what we talk about, really. He just listens to it all, asks the right questions, and then listens some more. And I'm not sure when it happened, but at some point along the way I stopped thinking of him as Jett's friend and started thinking of him as my friend instead.
I could talk to him for hours, and sometimes I do. Sometimes we talk straight through Ancient Runes, our free period, and on the way to our next class, then resume our conversation until dinner as if we never stopped.
It's one of those days today – I don't know why, but they seem to happen more often than not – and I roll my neck as I slide down at the Ravenclaw table, letting out a breath as the end-of-semester relief sinks through me.
"Ready to go home tomorrow?" James asks, as if marking my exhale, but his eyes are across the Great Hall, watching Connor Finnigan talk animatedly with Dom at the Slytherin table.
"It's not home, but yes," I say, feeling the frown at the corner of my lips. "What about you?"
"Godric, yes, this term's lasted forever. I always look forward to it, though. Nothing beats our annual Christmas party."
"Party?"
"Jett didn't tell you?"
"No," I say, but he only has half of my attention. The other half's directed down the table, towards where my roommates sit – Mia, Gabrielle, and Sophie – all three of whom are decidedly looking in our direction. "Why are they staring at us like that?"
"Who?" James asks, and he looks up, following my gaze. "Oh, fuck," he mutters, pink staining his cheeks. "I've kind of blown her off."
"What do you mean?"
"Sophie – I thought she'd taken the hint – I know it was shitty, don't look at me like that," he tacks on, holding up his hands defensively. "She keeps trying to corner me after Potions, and I just – it was never a thing, anyway."
"Maybe not to you," I mutter, and his flush darkens. Now that he mentions it, though, I haven't seen him with Sophie in weeks. I've been so wrapped up in everything else that I've barely said more than hello or good night to her, let alone considered why Sophie's been more uptight than usual.
"Anyway," James says pointedly, and I roll my eyes at the less-than-subtle change in conversation. There's no point in arguing with him over it now, I suppose, when we'll all split up for two weeks of break tomorrow. Maybe some distance will do her good. "My parents have this massive Christmas party every year. There's every dessert you can imagine and my mum makes this really potent punch – the first time I blacked out was off of that, it's sneakily strong –"
"He's right. It was fucking hilarious," Jett practically snorts as he drops down beside me. "It was two years ago. James passed out in a corner by eight and missed the whole rest of the night."
"I learned my lesson," James protests, and Jett tosses his head back and laughs, that infectious bark of sound that always makes me smile.
"Mate, you only made it until nine last year."
"So?"
"So, you know damn well you can't hold your liquor."
"Whatever," James says, swatting at Jett from across the table. "We can't all be as composed as you. Someone's got to be the fun one."
"You should really leave that job to Freddie," Jett says, nodding towards James's older cousin at the Gryffindor table. "He's much better at it than you are."
"Oh, shut up, Nolton."
Jett ignores him, though, and presses a kiss to my cheek as his hand finds my waist. "It's a fun party, and I'd obviously love for you to come with me."
"When is it?" I ask, glancing over at James, but he's hyper-fixated on watching his fork turn a potato over and over, totally zoned out of the conversation.
"This Friday," Jett admits. One hand scratches the back of his neck and he looks at me expectantly, almost anxiously. "I meant to ask you sooner, but it just kept – slipping my mind."
My face flames at the implication and I clear my throat, avoiding the lusty haze shimmering in Jett's eyes. We've been so busy recently that talking has been minimal, choosing instead to spend any spare seconds kissing each other. He doesn't mind, of course – he definitely doesn't – but – I – I don't know. At first I told myself it was because I missed him so much during our fight that I needed to make it up to him, wanted to make it up to him desperately, but now – now, I'm not so sure. Now it almost feels like if I don't kiss him, if I don't want him like that, then why –
I don't know. Maybe it's nothing. It's probably nothing.
And I know he wonders why it's never gone further, why the closest we've gotten was last Thursday, when I'd grabbed him as soon as I saw him, skipping dinner altogether because I just had to get that annoying, irritating ache out of my chest that had started after free period, because it was so strong I couldn't even think over how badly I needed to numb it.
"Better get it out of your system now. I don't want to see any of that in my house," James says as he stands, that light, teasing tone in his voice. But he hasn't looked at me, not once since Jett sat down, and I can't help but feel like he meant every word of it.
I sleep fourteen hours on the first night of break and twelve hours the next. The house is nearly silent at all times, save for morning and evening meals with my parents, but especially so at night. The solitude's refreshing – no press of bodies swarming to class, no jostling to grab the best seat in the library, no snoring roommates – and Christmas in London feels almost like a fever dream. It's what I imagine New York City's like around the holidays, with twinkling lights winking over shops, garland and bows gracing doors, the smell of fresh pine drifting from bedazzled trees.
And for the next two days, as I wander around the winter wonderland, I agonize over what to get Jett for Christmas. He lives in a part of London I find myself gravitating towards often, near a massive park outfitted with a frosty skating rink, and seeing his neighborhood only frightens me more. I suppose I should've guessed that his parents are wealthy – he's vaguely referenced the fact that his family's old, like really old – but I didn't expect him to live smack in the middle of embassies and museums.
The more I ponder it, the more I have no idea what to get him. There's probably nothing I could buy him that he couldn't afford, anyway. That's all I can think about as I jog through his neighborhood on Friday morning – I've settled into a pattern of crossing through the park and looping around the Natural History Museum on my daily run – and when the thought drifts through my mind again, I stumble to a stop.
I should get him something money can't buy. Something I can give him, but no one else can.
So when Jett knocks on our front door eight hours later to pick me up for the Potters' party, I can't help but utter a whispered thank you to whatever Wizarding gods exist for gifting me a pro Quidditch player for a father. It might be a pain in the ass sometimes, but it also absolutely saved my ass today.
"Hello, Mr. Fields," Jett says, clearing his throat as the door swings open. I'm standing behind my dad's back, peeking out around his shoulder, and instantly feel my cheeks twinge with heat at the sight of him.
"Call me Hayden, son, please," my dad says, and I can practically hear the wink in his voice. It's odd to see Jett standing there in our doorway – even odder, almost, that I called the stoop to the London home we're renting ours – and he shifts nervously on his feet.
He looks so good, maybe even better than I've ever seen him before, dressed in khaki slacks and a gray sweater that nearly matches his eyes. One hand holds a bouquet of flowers – for my mom, I'm guessing, who isn't home – and the other a small box wrapped in shimmering gold foil.
"I wasn't raised that way, Mr. Fields."
"Oh, I like him, Aria." My dad's eyes twinkle beneath the warm lights splashing through our sitting room, and he waves Jett inside with one smooth motion. "Come in, then. Let me see you properly before I send you off with my daughter."
Jett steps in, eyeing my dad's assessing gaze warily, and puts the bouquet down on our entryway table, an antique catch-all draped with keys and jackets and even one stray shoe. He looks so uncomfortable that it makes my heart hurt from the sweetness of it, how badly he's dying to impress my parents.
As if there was ever even a chance that they wouldn't love him.
"So, let's see then," my dad says, circling Jett with a mischievous grin. He's always been like this, playing everything up for the cameras, for our family – it really doesn't matter where. He eats up any chance to be a ham. "Nice shoulders, perfect height, strong biceps, good forearms, too – yep, that's a Chaser if I've ever seen one."
"I –" Jett stutters, but my dad simply waves him off.
"I'm just messing with you, son. If Aria speaks highly of you, that's all that matters."
"I certainly hope she speaks highly of me," Jett says, finally letting a small smile crack across his nervous expression. "I – um – for you," he tacks on, handing me the small box in his left hand. My dad throws a glance at it but steps away, heading towards the couch and the replay of an old Quidditch match blaring on our WizTV.
"I got you something too," I comment, almost absentmindedly, as I gently tug off the gold foil.
"You can give it to me later." Jett sounds anxious, and I glance up to find him fidgeting again, tugging at his hair. "I want you to have yours first."
"All right," I say, tearing away the last bit of paper. It's a small navy blue box with the name of a store embossed in silver, one I've never heard of before, and I lift the top off curiously. "I – oh ."
My breath catches in my throat at the vivid sapphire staring up at me, all words and thoughts lost the second I see it glimmer beneath the light. It's slightly larger than a button, suspended in four tiny silver clasps that barely touch the edges of the jewel.
"Jett," I whisper, voice almost hoarse, "this is –"
But I can't finish, my words stuck again, and I blink a few times to clear the tears threatening to spill from my eyes. It's beautiful. No, it's more than beautiful. It's like a drop of the twilight sky distilled into one perfect, stunning stone, and I – I definitely don't deserve it.
"I thought it might match your dress tonight," he says quietly, stepping towards me. One hand brushes against the hair at my back, moving it gently to my shoulder before he lifts the silver chain from its velvet folds and slides it around my neck. "And it goes with your house colors, too."
"Jett, I –"
This time the words fall away as he cups my chin upwards and kisses me, as if he knows what I'm going to say, as if he doesn't care that it's too much – it's way too fucking much – he should not have given me this, not at all –
"Do you like it?" he breathes, almost teasingly.
"Yes, of course. I – I love it." It's all I can manage over the lump in my throat, and I think he knows that. I wish I could say more, say anything, tell him what it means to me, what he means, but I just – can't. I just can't. "It's gorgeous. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Fields," he says quietly. I glance up at him, into those piercing gray eyes I've practically memorized, and – and it feels like something cracks in my chest. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but suddenly it hurts to breathe, like something's broken deep within me, something I don't want to think about or understand. "We should really get going, though."
My dad stands up, as if he's been eavesdropping on our conversation, and I see his smile glow approvingly when he spies the sapphire now hanging from my neck. His eyebrows raise as if questioning me, challenging me – don't you dare let this one go, Aria, I can practically hear him say – but he simply strides over and claps Jett on the back.
"All right, you two. Be back by – when does this thing end? Eh, it doesn't matter. Just be back before the morning," my dad says with a wink, and I know that if my mom was home she'd absolutely blow a gasket. "Kidding, of course. Let's say midnight unless you absolutely can't bear to leave. Have fun, be safe, and don't Apparate if you're drunk."
He tosses the last line out with a glance in Jett's direction, who grins sheepishly. He'd passed his exam flawlessly right before the holidays, and couldn't stop bringing it up every chance he could on the train. One of the perks of a September birthday, I suppose.
"Bye, Daddy," I say, throwing a quick kiss on his cheek. "We'll be fine."
"Absolutely, Mr. Fields. She'll be back by midnight at the latest."
"It's Hayden," my dad protests, laughing slightly, but the world disappears with a pop as Jett grabs my hand. Darkness presses down like a tube, just for a second, two, before the frigid winter air kisses my skin and soft light halos around us.
"Ready?" Jett asks, but he's already knocking on the door as I soak in the steeply pitched roof and eclectic stone of the house before us, moss and ivy growing over every inch it can reach.
"Do I look all right?" I ask Jett, gazing through the window at the swirl of dresses and sharply pressed sweaters moving on the other side. My own dress suits me well, I think – a crisp white mini with raised embroidery and thin straps cutting across my exposed back. It's simple and tasteful, delicately walking the line between form-fitting and appropriate.
"You –" But Jett cuts off as the door swings open, and I swear my heart stops dead the second it does. "Hey, mate."
It's as if warmth spills out of the open door, every inch of my skin flushing with heat, and suddenly everything's too hot, I'm too hot, despite the frigid night air around us. My heart still sits there, terrifyingly frozen at the sight of James leaning against the doorframe, exactly the same as every day I've seen him in class, and yet – different.
And – fuck. Fuck.
It's like I've utterly forgotten what he looks like, as if I haven't seen him in months instead of days. It must be that he's dressed differently, like Jett – khakis and a deep maroon sweater, not the perpetually not quite up-to-code school uniform I'm so used to. That's what the rational part of me says, anyway. But that doesn't explain why it hurts to look at him, a physical stab of pain, like a knife cutting straight to the bone.
My hand clutches at the sapphire around my neck, squeezing it desperately, as if that will force air into my chest, as if I can grab it hard enough to make the aching stop. His gaze flits towards me, clocking the necklace, and I swear I see something flicker in his eyes, like he knows where it came from, who gave it to me.
But he says nothing, barely even looking at me before turning back to Jett and waving him in. "Make yourself at home. You know the way."
Then he's gone, blending into the crowd floating through the house – adults, mostly – and it's not until his back disappears that I feel like I can breathe again. Jett steps up and through the door and turns back to pull me inside, one hand lightly grabbing mine. But it feels wrong. His touch feels foreign and empty and wrong, and it takes everything in me not to pull away.
Life and warmth seem to emanate from every inch of the house, like it's been lived in and well-loved for centuries. I don't know what I was expecting – maybe something like Jett's neighborhood, imposing white stone buildings gilded with wrought iron and sweeping bay windows – but it certainly wasn't this. Creaking wooden floors, multi-colored rugs so worn in spots that they're nearly threadbare, furniture that doesn't match yet somehow fits together.
"Come on, all the good stuff's in the kitchen," Jett says, tugging me forward. There's a small sitting room to our left, the one I'd spotted through the window, and what looks like an office to the right, split by the hallway we're weaving up. "Finnigan's probably in there already."
Christmas blasts every sense when we step into the kitchen – cinnamon and spices filling the air, fire crackling in a larger living room to the right, silver lights hanging like snow globes suspended mid-air. There's laughter and hugs, mulled wine and eggnog, mouth-watering sweets and treats spilling onto every surface.
"Who are all these people?" I ask Jett as he scans the room, searching for Connor.
"Family, mostly," he says absentmindedly. "Their family's massive – well, you probably knew that. Family friends, too – they've got a ton of those as well – and some select guests. But mostly family and friends, I would say."
"So I'm a select guest?"
Jett glances over at me, a warm smile lighting up his face, and shakes his head, almost in disbelief. "Come on, Fields. You're with me. You're as close to family as it gets."
"I've never met any of these people before, Jett –"
"That doesn't matter. You're stuck with us now, so better get used to it." His eyes glint beneath the soft light spilling over the room, and something cracks in my chest again. "Oh, there's Connor."
He waves across the kitchen towards a sliding glass door, and Connor Finnigan raises the bottle in his hand as if in greeting. He's strategically positioned himself between a table piled high with desserts and a crystal bowl full of a glistening red liquid, and Jett snags a cookie as we wander towards him.
"What have you got there, Finn?" he asks, nodding at Connor's drink. "Not brave enough to risk Mrs. Potter's punch? Some Gryffindor you are."
"Not after last year." Connor pulls a grimace, and Jett lets out a bark of laughter. "I can't even remember half of what I did. I'm staying the hell away from that devil drink."
I think it's more than I've heard Connor say all year, let alone in one conversation. He's much quieter than Jett and James, and not nearly as attached at the hip, often floating around to other friend groups, but always seeming to find his way to Dom at the Slytherin table.
"I love you, mate," Jett says, still fighting his laughter as he slings an arm around Connor. "How about we all make a pact to remember the party tomorrow?"
"Agreed," Connor says emphatically, but he takes a swig of his beer anyway, and now it's my turn to stifle a laugh.
"So what's the deal here?" I ask, waving a hand around the kitchen. "Everything's a free-for-all? They don't care that you're underage?"
"Nah." Connor frowns, glancing at the alcohol dancing around the room, some in the hands of adults, others gripped by some of James' cousins I vaguely recognize from around the halls at school. "I mean, officially it's not allowed, especially given that half the party works at the Ministry. But unofficially, they stopped caring – when was it Jett? When we were fourteen?"
"I think so, yeah. All the adults want to have fun, and they'd rather have us drink here where they can see us than have us sneak it off in private. And technically, I'm not underage," he tacks on, throwing it casually in my direction. "And neither are James and Dom. We're all early September kids."
Connor's face flushes violently at Dom's name, and he takes another long sip of his drink. I haven't seen her yet, although I'm sure she's around somewhere, probably flitting gracefully between groups and conversations.
"Connor, honestly," Jett says, sighing, "just grow up and ask her out already. Or at least find the mistletoe and drag her under it."
"I wouldn't do that to her," Connor mumbles, but Jett simply laughs again and pats him on the back.
"I'm going to go get a drink. Do you want anything, Aria?"
"I'm good for now, thanks," I say, and he presses a kiss to my cheek before wandering off elsewhere in the kitchen. Apparently, he's staying away from the devil punch beside us, too.
I don't really know what to say to Connor as we stand there, waiting for Jett to come back. He seems content enough to wait in companionable silence, though, and honestly, I appreciate that. Sometimes it's exhausting, hanging around with Jett and Dom. They're so outgoing, so sociable, that it's nice to have a breather.
That's probably one reason why Dom likes Connor so much. I never really got it before – and it's not like she ever talks about him, anyway – but even now, just from the five minutes we've stood here, it's starting to make sense. He's very grounded and calming, like you could lapse into silence or hold a serious conversation, and it'd be equally as comfortable. She needs someone like him, really. Someone who can handle her energy without trying to match it, someone who knows how to pull her back down to Earth.
I fidget with my purse as the seconds tick onward, adjusting its strap on my shoulder. I'll need to find a time to give Jett the gift that's in there – and James, too, for that matter. I haven't seen him since he opened the front door – not that I'm looking for him, or maybe I am. I don't know. Maybe I should just do it now and get it over with while Jett's occupied by his alcohol search.
"Do you know where James went?" I ask Connor curiously.
He glances at me, surprised, and simply nods out the sliding door to my left. "He went outside a bit ago," he says as I peer out the glass. It's so dark that I can't make out anything ten feet beyond the house. "There's a big tree out by the stream. He likes to sit there, especially during the summer. That's my best guess."
"Thanks," I murmur, and Connor nods again. He bites into the glazed sugar cookie in his hand, and I can't help but notice that his eyes aren't on me, or his dessert, but looking into the room next to us as Dom's sparkling laugh warms the air.
She looks absolutely beautiful tonight – long, blonde hair sleek and straight, a shimmering dress hugging her body – but it's the aura that she gives off that shines the most. I glance back at Connor, at the pure longing in his eyes, and give him a small pat on the back.
"Just go talk to her already," I say, trying to stifle a laugh, and he nods for the third time in as many minutes before stumbling away.
Merlin.
Chill air blasts my skin the second I slide the glass door open, almost frigid enough to reconsider, but I grit my teeth and steel myself as I step outside. The backyard seems to stretch endlessly before me, a rolling field big enough for a Quidditch pitch, lined on one edge by a frozen stream and dotted with bushes and shrubs. I bet it's beautiful out here in the summer, when lush green replaces the brown, dead grass kissed with frost.
There's a lone tree off in the distance, just as Connor said, and I can barely make out a figure sitting beneath it through the darkness. Light from the party spills out onto the field, casting elongated shadows, but it slowly fades as I approach the tree, my breath puffing before me in white bursts.
"Hey," I say, and James turns his head to look at me.
He's sitting beneath the barren branches of the massive tree, tossing a rock in his palm, and smiles half-heartedly in greeting. That same ache slices through my chest, worse, almost, than what I felt when he opened the door, and I pause a few feet away to pull in a breath.
"Hey, Fields."
It's the first thing he's said to me all night – the first time he's even acknowledged my existence since I walked in. I fidget nervously with my dress, tugging it down slightly with one hand, while my other reaches for the sapphire around my neck, gripping it tightly.
"Mind if I sit?"
"Not at all," he says, voice that same gruff timbre I've come to recognize, but it feels stiff. "You need something?"
"Well, yes, I suppose," I say, and he turns his head away from the frozen stream to look back at me. "I actually wanted to give you something."
"Really?" A bit of wind nips at my back as I take a seat beside him – probably not the best idea in a white dress, come to think of it – and I glance over my shoulder at the sudden breeze, but it's gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Yes, really. Hang on," I say as I zip open my purse. Thank Merlin that my mom loves luxury as much as function; she's practically mastered the art of finding fashionable bags with massive extension charms. "Here."
A bright blue jersey hangs from my fingers, practically thrumming with vibrancy and color, even through the darkness pressing around us.
"Shut up," James says, almost in disbelief, the stiffness gone from his voice. I toss him the jersey, streaked with seven black signatures across the fabric, and watch as his fingers trace over each, lingering on the one I've been able to forge since I was twelve. "Is this –"
"My dad's, yeah. Game worn. From last week's match against Kenmore."
"Shut up," he repeats, but this time it's filled with awe. "Thanks, Fields. Seriously."
"It was nothing, really," I say, shrugging. I'd written to my dad weeks ago after a conversation we'd had during free period, known instantly that he'd love adding Appleby's signatures to his collection. "I know a guy."
James grins at me, a warm, genuine expression lighting up his face through the darkness, and that's all it takes for my heart to start crashing through my chest. He looks so damn good that I can barely breathe, barely even feel the cold air burning into my lungs, barely hear my thoughts above the pounding in my head.
"I thought about getting one for Jett, but he hates Appleby," I say, and I feel James shift almost imperceptibly beside me. I know what I'll see if I look back at him. I know how his smile's faltering so minutely that it's barely noticeable, so well-masked that you have to look for it to see it.
"Yeah, he's a Wimbourne fan for life," James says, but his voice is tighter, and I know my words found their mark.
I hate that I said it. I hate that I chose that sentence on purpose, hate that I have to keep making those tiny, stinging cuts. That's how it has to be, though. It's the only way we can ever be friends – or at least the only way I can be friends.
Maybe it's selfish of me to want to keep him around. Maybe it's selfish to look forward to Ancient Runes every Tuesday and Thursday, to our whispered conversations, to the hour we spend talking during our free period afterward. Maybe it's selfish that I like how it feels to be near him, to feel that edge of anxiety running through every second spent together.
Maybe it's not a maybe at all.
It's just plain selfish.
I know it is. I know. He says it's fine, he says he doesn't care, but I know better. And I'm really damn selfish for not wanting to keep my distance.
"Aria?"
I'm not sure how long I've been drifting in my thoughts, but the sound of his voice pulls me out of them. It's quiet and unsure, and I glance over to find him staring straight ahead, eyes boring out into the darkness.
"I really don't know if I can do this." He swallows roughly, one hand clenching around a fistful of dead grass. "I'm trying, really. But – I – there's only so much I can take, and I think I might've finally hit my limit."
His words sink into me even deeper than the sharp chill in the air. My heart shudders, not that familiar flutter, but like – like a beat of something else, something that hurts – and silence washes over us. Not even the faint murmur of conversations from the house reaches us here; it's still and quiet, almost painfully so.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, and I hope he doesn't hear how the words almost get stuck in my throat.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," he says, letting out a short breath that hangs in the hair. "Really. I put you in a shitty position, then I told you I was okay with everything, but I'm not, I'm really fucking not. And as long as I'm being completely honest, I only came out here because I really did not want to see you dressed like – like that with my best friend in my house, because I couldn't fucking breathe when I saw you, and I – I just – I can't. I can't."
It comes out in a rush, the words nearly blurring together, and I blink as they sink into my skin. Shit. Guilt weighs down on me, as heavy as the impenetrable cold in the air, and – and he won't look at me. He won't take one damn look at me.
"I'll just go, then," I say quietly, and I stand up, brushing a bit of dirt from my legs and rubbing them slightly for warmth. James is still staring determinedly at the ground, though, that fistful of grass in his hands, so I simply turn my back on him and step towards the house.
Except nothing happens.
I can't move.
Literally.
It's like there's a force field in the air, and when I lift my palm up to investigate, it falls flat against an invisible barrier. "What the hell?" I mutter, and I push with both hands but nothing budges. It's curved like a circle, extending in both directions. "James?
"What?" he asks, and I turn around to look at him. He's still staring at the ground, but then his eyes flicker up towards me, land on my hands flat against the air, and – "Oh, fuck."
"What?" I echo, but his face has gone pale and his gaze whips up to the tree above us.
"Oh, fuck," he repeats, and this time it's almost panicked. "This can't be real."
"What?" I say again. I don't think he hears me, though, because his body shakes with laughter as he collapses backward onto the grass. "Merlin, what's wrong with you?"
"The universe hates me," he says as if that explains it. He's stopped laughing, at least, but he still won't look at me, and no matter how hard I push, I can't move so much as an inch back toward the house. "The universe really fucking hates me."
"I'm freezing, could you just –"
"Look up, Fields."
So I do, eyes drawn towards the tree he's sprawled out beneath, but I don't know why the hell he's telling me to do it or how it has anything to do with my utter inability to move. "You see it?"
"No," I huff, watching as my breath hangs like a frozen cloud. "Just spit it out."
Then he points, and I lift my head, glancing upwards again. There's nothing up there, though, just barren, empty branches, and a little clump of something dangling from the very tip of the tree, so high up you can barely see it.
"What's that?" I ask, squinting at it. It's hard to see through the darkness swirling around us, the silver night sky our only source of light.
"It's fucking mistletoe," he says, voice amused but also pained, and my eyebrows scrunch together in confusion.
"So what?"
"So what," James says slowly, tone still wavering, as if can't decide how to feel, "is that my uncle fucks with us by hiding it every year. So what is that it's enchanted, so you can't fucking move until you –"
But he cuts off, pulling himself back up into a sitting position, and through the dim light, I can just barely see how his cheeks stain with pink at the unfinished sentence. Unfinished, because –
"Oh, fuck," I breathe, echoing his words from earlier, and he simply snorts before pinching his nose.
"Exactly."
"There's no other way?"
"Not unless my Uncle George takes mercy on us," he says. "He does occasionally, like last year when my little sister got stuck beneath it and my mum threatened to hex him. That's probably why he put it so far out here this year."
"Can we get him?"
"I don't know, Fields, you'll think he'll hear us from here?" he replies, glancing pointedly at the distance between us and the house.
"All right, let's just get it over with, then," I say, willing my voice to stay steady. But it's not, it's really not, and I'm not sure if he hears it as he stands, and I – I – fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Blood pounds through my veins, my heart shudders in my chest, and the air's gone so heavy I can barely pull it into my lungs. That same, pulsing ache I've felt all night shatters through me, the knife carving infinitely deeper at the sight of him, and I know in the back of my mind that nothing good can come of this.
So I shut my eyes, my back against that invisible shield, and I count down the seconds, my pulse heaving with each tick of my mental clock, three, two, one –
But nothing happens. So I wait another beat, two – and still nothing.
I crack my eyes open only to find him frozen to the spot, chest rising and falling, as if he's willing himself to control his breathing. Grass crunches beneath my foot when I step towards him, taking a deep breath, and then –
Then I push up on my toes and kiss him.
James pulls back, as if surprised, but he kisses me back a second later, soft and hesitant, and the world goes so hazy that I can't think straight, can't feel anything but the fuzzy short-circuiting mess of heat and sparks in my head. And I'm not even sure where we are or what time it is or how long I stand there, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, really, except him and this and now.
It's not until cold air nips at my face that I realize he's stopped, that the breeze is blowing straight through the small gap between us, and I take a step back and another and another before the burning fingers on my cheek slide to my hand. I swallow roughly, gazing down at them, studying how small my hand looks in his, and when I look up –
Oh, fuck.
That painful ache beats through my chest, my head, dulling every other thought, every feeling, because I know exactly what question lingers in his eyes, exactly what he's asking as his fingers tighten over mine. So I let his hand pull me back towards him, feel the invisible barrier slide back up behind my back –
"Whoops," James whispers, but his lips are back on mine before I even have time to blink.
And it's not like before. It's not hesitant, it's not soft, but hungry and needy, and I can't think, I can't breathe above the aching desperation in every touch, but it's a good kind of hurt, the kind that only wants more, like I could kiss him for hours and it would never be enough.
His hands run up the bare skin on my back, all the way to my hair, pulling at the roots, and his mouth is rough and hot as the world spins, nothing solid, nothing real except the tree bumping up against me, the feel of his sweater gathered in my hands, trying to pull him closer, as if that's possible as if there's any way to make the non-existent space between us even smaller. But I can't, so I let my fingers slide up to his neck, his hair, feel the burning grip on my waist, the rough bark of the tree pushing into my back as the seconds and minutes fade away, everything meaningless except how badly I want him. How badly I need him, need more of him, need it to never stop, need him everywhere, because I've never felt like this, never kissed anyone like this, not even Jett –
Jett.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Everything shatters back into place the moment I think his name. When I remember where I am, what I'm doing, who I'm doing it with.
Fuck.
I yank away, stumbling backward as cold air nips at my flushed skin, until there are five feet between us, six –
And I can see the realization in James's eyes, too, I can see the moment reality snaps back into place, how guilt floods every feature. But I don't stay to see any more, I can't stay, so I turn before he has time to speak and trip over a root, running until the soft lights of the house cascade over me.
Breathe, breathe, breathe –
But I can't, I can't fucking breathe, because something's fractured inside me, and I don't know what it is, I don't know, I don't know, I can't think, I can't breathe –
Jett. Jett. Fuck, fuck, fuck –
How could I do that to him? How could we –
No – there's no we –
Why didn't I think of him? Why didn't I fucking think of him? Why couldn't I think of anything else, anything other than how much I wanted –
No, no, no.
Fuck.
Oh, God. Breathe. Breathe, fucking breathe, breathe –
My head leans against the side of the house as I will the world to stop spinning, will air into my lungs, will myself to force down the panic, but I can't, I can't, I can't –
Fuck.
I still feel him everywhere, his lips and hands and chest and heat and fuck, I want him, I fucking want him – now, still, I can't stop, I can't breathe –
Jett, oh, fuck –
My fingers run through my hair like James was doing just minutes ago – fuck, I want him – and I rip at it like I can pull that stupid fucking want straight out of me. My other hand slides down my face, my neck, clutching at the chain there, the necklace Jett gave me –
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I want to die. I want to curl up in a ball and fucking die. He gave me that beautiful necklace – that sapphire suspended in silver - and I –
I did the worst thing I could ever do to him. Oh, God. I can't breathe.
I betrayed him.
It sinks into my stomach, ugly and twisted, poisoning me from the inside. I've lied to him, lied to myself, lied to fucking everyone and –
He can't find out. He can never find out.
It doesn't matter, anyway. Whatever I feel – felt – it's not an option. It was never an option. I made damn well sure of it on that day at the lake, when I kissed Jett for the first time.
It won't happen again. It will never happen again. I don't care what I felt, what I let myself do, what I wanted to do. It doesn't matter.
Sharp air fills my lungs as I pull in a breath, letting it blast away the flustered heat still stinging my skin. Everything will be okay. It's done, it's over, it's settled. It won't happen again. Ever. It never even happened in the first place.
Warmth washes over me when I slide open the glass door to the kitchen a few minutes later. Cinnamon and spices fill my nose, anchoring me to the moment, to here, to now, wiping away the lingering trace of a cologne I should have nowhere near me.
It feels like I never left. Desserts still deck every surface, wine sparkles beneath shimmering holiday lights, faces look flush with happiness and alcohol. Everyone, it seems, is having the time of their lives. Everyone except me.
I cut across the kitchen and into the hallway, staring at myself in a long, rectangular mirror accenting the wall. I look flushed, almost delirious, and I brush a bit of dirt off my dress, trying desperately to forget how it got there.
But I can't. And I don't think I ever will.
Dom's laugh sparkles from the kitchen, golden and melodious, and I send Merlin a faint prayer for throwing me a lifeline. She could talk to a brick wall, and that's probably about where my conversation skills are at right now.
I take another deep breath, throw myself one last look in the mirror, and step back into the kitchen, searching for her. She's not hard to spot – her dress looks like a mirrorball, glimmering beneath the lights – but I pause when I see Connor at her side, looking at her like there's nothing and nobody else in the world, like how –
Like how James looks at me.
Oh, fuck.
"Hey," a voice says warmly behind me, and my stomach drops somewhere below my feet. Jett slings an arm over my shoulder, pulling me to his side, and my breath hitches as that sweet, outdoorsy scent hits me like a Bludger. "Where'd you get off to? You've been gone for half an hour."
"I just – I was outside," I stutter, and my head whips at the sound of the glass door sliding open. James steps inside, face flushed from the cold, that God damn Appleby jersey in his hand, and I wince as Jett presses a kiss to my head.
"Outside?" he says questioningly, and just the thought of where I'd been, what I was doing, burns a hole in my chest, guilt seeping into it through every pore, every breath. "Why? It's freezing."
"I was –" I clear my throat, looking down at the scuffed wooden floor beneath us. "I was giving James a Christmas gift. Signed Appleby jersey."
"I didn't realize you'd got something for him – brilliant idea, though. I bet he loved that."
"Yeah," I say faintly, my voice small. The whole room feels small, too, suffocating and sweltering, the walls collapsing in on me as I try to pull in a breath. "I got you something, too."
"I know. I've been waiting," he says, nudging me in the side, but it feels like a punch as I shove my hand back into my purse.
"Merry Christmas, Jett Tiberius Nolton," I say, and I hold up the two passes I'd begged my dad to get for me this morning. Jett's eyebrows scrunch together as he takes them and reads the embossed golden lettering. Appleby v. Wimbourne, All-Access, Players' Box.
"No way," Jett breathes. "These are for the Wimbourne match? How did you – they're impossible, I tried –"
"I know a guy," I say weakly, repeating that same line I'd used earlier and cringing at the thought. "It's full access and you'll go in through the players' entrance, they've got pre-game food and everything, and the seats are in the box –"
Jett's lips cut me off, though, a short, sweet kiss that takes me by surprise, not anything like what I'd just been doing outside, and the thought of it nearly makes me rip away from him.
"Thanks, Fields," he murmurs as we break apart. My chest aches when I meet his eyes, a jagged crack cleaving me in half, and the look in them only makes it worse. "You look so God damn beautiful tonight, by the way."
It's barely more than a whisper, but his words ring in my head like he screamed them. Then he's kissing me again, still soft, still sweet, and I – I just let him. I let him kiss me, I want him to kiss me, to wash away the feel of someone else's lips on mine, to make me forget what it felt like.
But it doesn't. It only makes me remember more. And when I take a step away from him, see that gentle smile I've come to know so well, I don't know how I'm ever going to forgive myself.
Maybe I never will. Maybe I'll just live with the weight of it forever. But the least I can do is be here for him, be present, be his like I'm supposed to be. Like I want to be.
Because that's what I want. I want to wear the necklace he gave me, I want him by my side, so comfortable and familiar, and I want to want him. I want it to be like it used to be.
So I kiss him desperately against the counter in the kitchen, trying to will myself to feel something, feel anything, but I – I don't. I can't. I can't feel anything other than that horrible tidal wave of guilt, of shame, can't think of anything except how badly I've hurt him, how badly I've betrayed him.
And it's too much – it's too fucking much – but he – I – I don't know. I don't fucking know. I need to get out, get away, get space –
Jett looks at me as I take a step back from him, confusion sweeping across his face, but I pretend I don't see it, pretend it was a natural time to stop and pull away.
"I'm gonna go find Dom," I say, glancing away like I'm searching for her. She's not in the kitchen anymore, and I can faintly hear her laugh from the next room over. "I haven't spoken to her all night."
"All right," he agrees. "I'll find you in a bit."
I move towards the archway that separates the kitchen from the living room, but I barely make it five feet before stopping short, that knife carving straight down through my chest. James stands there, his back resting against the edge of the archway, surveying the room in silence. His gaze skips right over me like I'm not even there, but I know – I know – that he saw me with Jett, saw me practically throwing myself at him.
So I ignore him as I brush past him into the crowded living room, as if blazing heat isn't burning through my body, as if I didn't see him, either. As if he doesn't exist.
"Ary!" A shrill voice pierces through the soft hum of conversation the second I step into the room, and I smile almost involuntarily at the sight of Dom skipping toward me. Her face looks flushed and a bit of wine spills out of her glass carelessly, but somehow it's still unnaturally graceful.
"Hey, Dom."
She presses a kiss to my right cheek then my left sloppily, even more wine drizzling out – deep red, like the color of her lipstick. "He kissed me," she says breathlessly, as if all the air's gone out of her lungs. "He kissed me!"
"Who?"
"Connor!"
"Shut up!" I exclaim, and Dom squeals quietly, squeezing her eyes as if she can't quite believe it. "He finally made a move?"
She sighs airily and wraps both arms around me, swaying slightly with the motion. "I don't know, maybe it was just the wine –"
"No, Dom, stop," I say, putting both of my hands on her shoulders. I push her back to look into her eyes – sparkling with joy as much as alcohol – and give her a slight shake. "He's absolutely nuts about you. Trust me."
"Oh my God," she breathes, "it was perfect. It was fucking perfect."
"How? When? Where?" I demand, and she sets her wine glass down on a side table to my left before slinging another arm around me.
"Just five minutes ago, we were chatting in here on the sofa, and he had his arm around me, and then he leaned in and kissed me." She sighs musically again and leans her head on my shoulder, golden hair spilling into mine. "He's just gone to grab another drink. I couldn't wait to tell you."
"If I had a drink, I'd say cheers to you."
"Oh, you don't have one?" she asks, as if breaking out of her trance. "I'll have Con grab you something when he's back."
"Con? He's got a nickname already?"
Dom flushes an even brighter red as I step aside to look at her teasingly, but just as quickly it dissolves into another squeal of delight. She's so damn happy that I could say pretty much anything, and I bet she'd just laugh it off.
"I love this for us," she says simply, beaming, before pulling me into another hug. "You, me, and the two fittest boys in school. I love it!"
She still has that effervescent smile on her face as she leans back, as if she's glowing from the inside out. I didn't think it was possible for Dom Weasley to look any more beautiful – and yet, here we are.
"What about Lucas DuPont?" I ask, half joking, and Dom rolls her eyes. "You sure he's not higher on the list?"
"Lucas is so Quidditch-addled he can hardly think straight, and that automatically knocks him down a peg. I do not envy Lila."
"He's handsome, though, don't you think?"
"Yeah, he is," Dom says simply, then she tilts her head back and lets out that sparkling laugh again, as if the joy she's feeling can't help but bubble over. "So fucking dull to talk to, though."
"Who's dull?" A rough voice asks over my shoulder, and my heart freezes for half a second, two, before sprinting at double-time, like it's damn near about to jump out of my chest.
"Lucas DuPont," Dom says absentmindedly. She picks her wine glass up again and clinks it against the glass bottle in James's hand before shooting him a wicked grin. "We were just discussing if he deserves to join Jett and Connor on our list of the fittest boys in school."
"That's the whole list?" James asks in that bored tone of his, drawling out the question. He's standing beside me now, so close our arms nearly touch, and it's all I can do to take one breath after the other. "What about me? I don't make the cut?"
"You're my cousin. That's disgusting," Dom says. Her nose wrinkles at the thought as she takes another sip of wine, nearly draining it. "You'd make Lila's list, though."
I'm not sure if it makes things better or worse that he hasn't looked at me. Better, probably. Because just the accidental brush of his hand against mine undoes nearly every ounce of composure I was able to build, the only thought throbbing in my mind how that same hand had touched me, how I want it to – no, wanted –
"What have you heard, Dominique Weasley?"
"Only that Lila and Lucas broke up for like the fifth time," Dom says with a shrug. "They're so off and on again, it's awful. Just, you know, for your own information. In case you ever want to ask her on a proper date."
"Do not encourage him." I flinch at the sound of Jett's voice and the light press of contact at my waist, but I doubt he notices, not as he takes a long sip of the red-colored punch I'd spied earlier in the kitchen. "James and Lila would rip each other's heads off."
"Oh, come on," Dom pouts, stamping a small foot clad in a shimmering high heel. "We could have a triple date – I mean, if Connor ever asks, you know – and I adore Lila, we grab tea together every week after Divination –"
"You've never seen them in our common room, though," Jett counters before passing me a glass of the punch. "It's unbearable. They row all the time over the most meaningless shit. Lucas is much better suited for her."
James shifts beside me, crossing his arms, and I risk a glance at him as I take a sip of my drink. He looks amused and yet totally uninterested, eyes glazed beneath the warm light glowing from the fireplace next to us.
My heart twinges again, aching with every thought and feeling I've denied myself for weeks. Aching at how fucking good he looks, at how much I want him, at how much I've wanted him, endlessly, forever unable to accept it. Never able to let even the thought of it cross my mind, locking it so tightly away that it's been killing me slowly, eating away at me from the inside out.
"I'm going to say this only once," Dom warns, pointing a swaying finger at James, "because the thought of it disgusts me, but –" She shudders as if steeling herself, bracing one hand against the wall. "Lila says you're a way better shag than Lucas, so, you know, the door's still open. Merlin, I hate that I just said that. Eugh."
James's mouth twitches and he stares down into his glass bottle, a bit of steam swirling into his face. "She irritates the hell out of me, Dom," he says, punctuating the sentence with a sip. "But I suppose that's what made it so good."
Jett sniggers beside me, and Dom makes a gagging noise before downing the last sip of her wine. And I –
Fuck.
Everything hurts. It fucking hurts, and it shouldn't – it should not hurt, the thought of him with someone, not like this. I have no right to feel that way, no right to hurt over it, but I do, I fucking do, and I think he knows it, too
"What do you think, Fields?" James asks, and I stiffen as his arm drapes over my shoulder. "Should I start things up with Lila again? Weigh in, the vote's split."
"What are we voting on?" Connor murmurs gruffly behind my back, and Dom's face instantly brightens.
"Cheers, mate," James says, nodding to Connor as he swaps the now-empty bottle in his left hand with one offered up by his friend. His right hand's still draped around me though, touching me, burning me, and I shrug out of it as I lean into Jett.
"We're voting on whether James should ask Lila out properly," Jett says, catching me as I step even closer to him, putting as little space between us as possible. "I say no, obviously."
"Connor's vote shouldn't matter. He's taken a year just to kiss fucking Dom, so I'd rather not get advice from him," James says, ignoring the angry middle finger his cousin shoots at him. "Jett's the only voice of reason here. He had Fields falling all over him in – what, three weeks? And now he's got that giant fucking rock around her neck, too."
"Oh my God, that's from Jett?" Dom asks, but I barely hear her. I can barely hear anything over the sting behind his words, crafted just as carefully as always, never lying, but never really telling the truth, either. "You did so well, Nolton. I'm impressed."
"Hey, can we get some air?" I whisper to Jett, and he simply nods before putting his hand on the small of my back.
"We'll be back in a bit," he calls back behind us as we step away, sliding back into the kitchen. I set my untouched drink down on the counter and lean back against it, shutting my eyes, as I feel Jett brush against me. "He's in a mood, isn't he?"
"Who?" I ask. Sounds pulse around me – fire crackling, conversations humming, glass clinking – and it's too much. It's too fucking much.
"James."
"Yeah," I say shortly. "But let's not – let's not talk about him. I just want to spend time with you. And maybe Dom and Connor, too."
My eyes crack open to find Jett's gaze, and he smiles softly. I wish I could feel something, anything, at the way he looks at me, at the way his hand hovers at my waist, the way he pulls me towards him.
I grab my drink from the counter, that deep red punch everyone's so terrified of, and smile back at him as I touch my glass to his. "Cheers, Nolton."
"To what?" he asks, amusement dancing in his eyes, but I simply shrug and pull in a deep, refreshing sip. It tastes like winter distilled in a glass, cranberry and spices so delicately sweet that it's no wonder everyone always drinks too much of it.
"To you. And to me, I guess."
"To us," Jett says, and when I look at him – look at the joy in his eyes, in his smile – everything aches again.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of glass after glass of that delicious cranberry punch, Jett's arm around me, dancing with Dom and Connor, letting go of every ugly thought and feeling poisoning my heart. And when the room's spinning, the lights are swirling, and I can barely see straight, I almost manage to convince myself that everything's okay.
Almost.
So I drink more, drink until Jett's the only thing I can see, drink until I have to lean on him to stand upright, drink until I forget how long we've been kissing, and I kiss him until everything else is just a bad dream, until my heart doesn't hurt so much anymore, until I look into his eyes and see how much he cares for me, how much he wants me, like the way I wish I could want him.
And maybe I do. Maybe I could.
It's a hazy thought drifting through my foggy brain as the room spins and spins and spins, my head spinning with it. I should just do it. I should give him everything he wants, I should give him every piece that I have to offer, not because he asked and not because I have to, but because –
Because I want him to be mine.
Because he cares for me more than anyone ever has. Because he treats me better than anyone ever has. Because I never have to guess with him. Because he only ever makes me feel safe.
And that thought only pounds through my head as I stumble towards the door, following Jett as the clock nears midnight, ready to fall into my bed, maybe even with him.
And maybe I would have. Maybe I would've snuck him upstairs quietly, maybe I would've asked him to stay, maybe I would've finally let him go as far as he wants. Maybe all of that would have happened if I hadn't looked to my right as I reach for the door, if James wasn't sprawled there in an armchair, looking so fucking perfect that it makes my heart ache all over again.
"Hey, Fields," he says hoarsely. It comes out flat, almost dead, as he spins an empty bottle between his hands, toying with it restlessly. "Good call on Jett's gift. He fucking loves it. You're just a perfect girlfriend, huh?"
His words sting, and I know in my gut – I know – that he was aiming to hurt. And it does. It fucking does, probably more than anything else he could say. Worse than telling me the truth. Worse than telling me I'm a liar, a traitor, a cheater.
"I'm leaving," I say, and his eyes flicker up towards my hand clutching the archway, clinging to it for support as another wave of dizziness hits me.
"All right, then. Have a nice holiday."
Then he looks away, flipping the bottle in the air as if it's nothing more than that rock he was tossing out beneath the tree so many hours earlier. And I know, I just know, that coming to this God damn party might've been the biggest mistake of my life.