Navy blue curtains stare at me as my thoughts go swirling and spiraling out of control. I lay on my bed, furious, breathing heavily, and stare up at those damn curtains as if it'll solve every one of my problems. And when the wave of anger recedes and I can finally think with a clear head, the curtains are still right there, draped over and around my four poster.
I hear Mia, Gabrielle, and Sophie wander in an hour later, full and happy from dinner, but I feign sleep behind the privacy of my curtains. I don't want to talk to them and pretend everything's fine, that it's all perfectly okay, when it couldn't be further from the truth.
Things haven't been okay since – well, probably since Jett and I fought last semester. I've been trying so hard to make things right, throwing myself at him as if I can kiss the doubts away, trying desperately to convince myself that I'm falling in love with him. How many times did I lay like this, staring up at the curtains, wishing for that to happen?
And why? For what? I like him, truly, I've always liked him – but is that enough? Is it enough that he treats me well? Is it enough that it's easy? Is any of it enough?
I don't know. I don't fucking know. I have no answers, no explanations, no reasons. It wasn't like this before. He's slowly been slipping away, right through my fingers, like the more I try, the less I feel. I've never been in love before, but even I know it's not supposed to be this hard.
In love.
So fucking in love.
That's what he'd said. I can still hear his voice, rough and raspy, nearly yelling as all those confessions slipped out, one after the other. It's the first and only time I've ever seen him lose control like that.
So fucking in love.
No.
No.
He's messing with me, obviously. Or was he so worked up that he said something he didn't mean? There's no rational explanation for it. None of it makes sense, not an ounce of it, and I – God, I hate that. I hate that I don't understand him, that he's always so cryptic, never saying what he really feels –
Because it's certainly not love. There's no fucking way.
It doesn't make sense.
And I don't want to deal with it.
So I spend all night tucking it away, neatly folding up every irrational thought and feeling and stuffing them back into the dark pit of my mind where they lived all over break. It never happened. Nothing happened. And nothing will ever happen again. I'm hellbent on that much, at least. If that means never being alone with each other, never speaking again – so be it.
And when I look at myself in the mirror the next morning, gently clasping Jett's necklace into place, the only signs of the night before are the dark circles around my eyes, bruised and purple. No trace of guilt, no trace of anger, no trace of anything at all. Just me, ready to tackle our lessons, despite my mere three hours of sleep.
It never happened.
That's what I think all the way down to the Great Hall, that one thought drowning out everything else. It can't have happened. Not again. Because if it did – if I did that to Jett again – if we did that to Jett again –
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
No.
Stop.
It never happened.
"Good morning, Aria!" Gabrielle trills brightly. She, Mia, and Sophie already look well-tucked into their breakfasts, plates half-empty and shoved away in favor of textbooks. "Will you be gracing us with your presence today?"
"If you'll have me," I say, sighing. I'm not hungry, I barely slept, and Gabrielle's sharp voice is giving me a headache.
"Of course we will," Mia says sweetly. I throw her a grateful smile as Gabrielle scowls slightly, but she shifts over on the bench and pats the spot beside her.
"Grab a seat, then. But you have to promise not to abandon us again."
"Gabs!"
"What? It's true!"
"She's right," I mutter. Breakfast looks utterly unappealing today; just the thought of eggs and toast is enough to make me nauseous. "I'm sorry I got so busy. I won't blow you off like that again."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," Sophie hums from across the table. She's flipping through our Potions textbook absentmindedly before stopping on something I can't quite see, but it looks like it's from the chapter we worked on right before break. "Aiden's going to work you to the bone with our first match coming up."
She gestures down the table towards where Aiden sits with Asher Samuels and Tanner Macavoy, our two incessantly chatty Beaters. They're all pouring over a scrap of paper, and I'd bet my broomstick that it's one of Aiden's illegible diagrams.
Sophie's right, though. I glanced at the Quidditch practice schedule pinned to the common room bulletin board when I wandered down this morning, only to immediately wish I'd never seen it. We're booked solid until our match against Hufflepuff in two weeks, sometimes even twice a day when Aiden managed to squeeze in a morning practice.
"What about you, Sophie?" I ask, nudging a piece of toast along the edge of my plate. I don't know what makes me say it – maybe it's masochism, maybe I want her words to hurt me – but I do, and she looks up, an uncharacteristic smirk on her lips.
"What about me?"
"If I recall correctly, you didn't spend all that much time with us last semester, either."
Sophie blushes, glancing back down at her book as Gabrielle tries and fails to disguise a laugh. "I had my fun, and let's be honest, it lasted a lot longer than any of us expected. But alas, it's back to boring old Ravenclaw for me now."
"We are boring, aren't we?" I ask absentmindedly, biting into my toast. Eugh. I was right – breakfast is making my stomach curdle.
"You dating Jett is about as exciting as it gets around here, and even that's gotten boring," Gabrielle chirps. "The two of you are so in love, it's sickening. And also so last term."
In love.
So fucking in love.
"We're old news, huh?" I ask, if only to distract myself from spiraling again.
"Merlin, yes, and so are James and Lila. Sorry, Soph," Gabrielle throws next to her, but Sophie simply shrugs and tosses a few auburn curls over her shoulder.
"No skin off my back. I definitely wouldn't mind kissing him again, though." She sighs and glances over at the subject of our conversation, and – fuck. I shouldn't have looked. I definitely should not have looked over towards the two of them, tucked in alone at the end of the Gryffindor table, locked into an intense conversation.
It's probably about her parents, the rational side of me remembers. But the irrational side doesn't care, and I hate that more than anything. I hate that I look at him and every logical thought goes flying out of my head. It's insanity, utter insanity, that I cannot get a grip on whatever the hell this is.
Just a crush. A massive, aching crush. And it'll go away, right? If we stop talking, if we stop wasting hours wandering around together, it'll go away. I'll stop thinking about how his hands felt snaking down my spine. I'll stop thinking about how I had my legs wrapped around his waist, how there wasn't an inch of space left to give – oh, God. I've never wanted anyone more than I wanted him at that moment, like I was going to combust if I couldn't –
"Aria?"
"Jett," I croak out. My mouth's as dry as the toast on my plate, still barely touched. "Hi."
"Hi," he repeats, smiling slightly. Amusement dances in his eyes from his position above me, but I – I'm going to be sick. The butter must have gone rancid on the toast, or maybe the orange juice is bad, I don't know, but – "Ready for Charms?"
"Yep."
Nope. Nope, I'm definitely not ready for Charms. If I stand up, I might throw the remnants of yesterday's lunch up, too. But I push to my feet, clutching at the table slightly for support, and try to smile at Jett in a way that doesn't betray the nausea in my stomach or the weight pressing down on my chest.
"So," he says calmly, taking my bag for me, "I take it the whole clearing the air conversation didn't go well."
Jett nods towards James and Lila at the Gryffindor table. A wave of wooziness hits again, made only worse by the sight of his hand now resting on top of hers. The same hand that I'd grabbed and pulled closer, that had touched me in ways it shouldn't.
"Or at least I'm assuming that's why James was angrily throwing his glasses at the wall, repairing them, and then chucking them again for the better part of last night."
"James wears glasses?" I ask, and Jett simply raises an eyebrow.
"Not relevant to this conversation, but yes. Only in the dorm, though."
"We're just – better off not being friends," I finally say stiffly, answering his initial question. Our footfalls ring through the entrance hall, just like they did last night when we'd both shoved past Jett and damn near sprinted in opposite directions. "Let's leave it at that."
"Yeah, that's what he said, too."
"Great. Everyone's on the same page," I say with fake enthusiasm, but Jett just huffs a breath and adjusts both bags on his shoulder.
"I liked it when you two got along."
"Just trust me, Jett. It's better for everyone this way."
"Fine." He sighs, but it turns into a smile when I reach for his hand, twining our fingers together. "I heard we finally get to pick our partners for Potions," he says, changing the topic. "And here I thought I'd get stuck with an idiot like Josh Peakes when we swap today."
"Spencer loves you," I say absentmindedly. We're nearing Charms now, and I tighten my grip on his, squeezing his hand gently. "He'd never put his star pupil with Josh Peakes."
Jett grabs a seat beside me once we enter the classroom, and his grin only widens when I pull him in for a kiss a few minutes later. It definitely has nothing to do with James walking in with Lila at the same time – not that I noticed him, not at all, because nothing ever happened – and I don't let him go until Professor Abberly raps for attention on the blackboard covered in chalk markings, outlining our unit on non-verbal spells.
"I've been looking forward to this for years," I whisper to Jett, at which he simply hisses back a hushed Ravenclaw nerd, and I elbow him in the ribs. Abberly doesn't notice, thankfully, or he'd surely dock Jett points for insulting his house, but I can't quite shake the feeling that someone else did. I practically feel eyes burning into me all class, the hairs on the back of my neck constantly standing up.
It's not James, though, like I thought it would be. He's kept his gaze very pointedly focused on his notes, his textbook, Abberly and Lila, and really, truly, anywhere but on me all class. It's not until I yawn and roll my neck about halfway through the lesson that I catch who it actually is – Grace Clarke, twirling a curl around her finger and leaning over to whisper something to Alex Harrison.
Clearly, the holiday break did nothing to dissuade her intense dislike of everything I do.
I don't have any more classes with her today, luckily, but the look she levels on me when our eyes lock is more than enough to make me shiver. It's not the jealous glare I'm used to receiving from her, but – I don't know. It almost looks like she hates me.
I shake it off on the way down to the dungeons, and true to what Jett predicted, the class breaks into cheers when Professor Spencer announces that we can pick our table partners for the rest of the term. Jett and I slot in automatically next to each other, taking our usual spots toward the back of the classroom as chaos unfolds around us, voices scrambling over each other in fights to figure out who's pairing up with whom.
That's just about the most exciting part of the day, if only because I spy Aiden Wood approaching Sophie with flaming red cheeks, mumbling something, at which she frowns and shrugs before following him to a table. Hopefully, that means he finally got her name right.
Sophie doesn't mention anything about it at lunch or dinner, but I do catch her staring curiously at Aiden more than a handful of times, lost deep in thought. I don't push, though, and instead make a mental note to coach him on conversation starters after practice.
Tuesday dawns as uneventfully as Monday, all of us slipping back easily into the familiar pattern of lessons. Break feels like a long-forgotten memory, not something as recent as last week, but that's good, I think. I like routines and structure, knowing exactly what each day will hold.
But when Jett drops me off at the Ancient Runes classroom after lunch, that sense of assuredness falls right off the side of a cliff. The arched door stares back at me just like those damn curtains did on Sunday night, and all the thoughts and feelings I've tucked neatly away start scratching and clawing for escape.
I can't sit with James. That much is enormously obvious, but I don't want to sit by myself, either. Not when there are only seven of us in this absurdly boring class, when my mind and eyes are likely to wander to someone they shouldn't. The only remotely decent option is Alex Harrison, whom I actually enjoy chatting with during Quidditch practice, even though we've never exactly hung out beyond that.
"Look who's rejoining the rest of us," he comments, raising both eyebrows in surprise when I take a seat beside him.
"Sorry?" My syllabary thunks down heavily on my desk, and I sigh slightly at the thought of an hour and a half of Josh Peakes' snoring.
"You two were thick as thieves up until break," Alex says, nodding at James's figure across the room. "What, you finally realized he's full of shit?"
"Well, I'm a Ravenclaw, aren't I? I was bound to put it together at some point."
Alex tilts his head back and laughs, twirling a quill between his fingers. "Welcome back to the land of the sane and rational, Fields," he says, but my attention isn't on him. It's directly opposite from us, where James stiffens and works his jaw as his gaze scorches over our table.
"How was your break, by the way?" I ask. Alex glances at me, then back to James, who's reverted to his usual, bored self, kicking two feet up on his desk like I've seen a million times before. "Aiden sent me about fifty new plays to memorize. I nearly kidnapped his owl so he'd stop sending them."
"Mr. Potter, legs down, please," Professor Dromgolle snaps as she strides in, the line so practiced and familiar that it feels like we never left.
"He gets so much special treatment, it's absurd," Alex whispers, stifling a snort. "Dromgolle would lose it if I did that every class. Half the professors don't even bother to hide the favoritism anymore."
"That won't matter when we kick Gryffindor's ass at the end of the year, will it?" I mutter back, and Alex grins wickedly.
"I like the way your mind works, Fields," he says, and I return his smile. I know we don't talk all that often, but I always enjoy it when we do. Maybe we should spend time together off the pitch. Jett likes Alex well enough, and if it ticks James off – well, that's his problem, not mine. "I'd like to take him down a peg or two."
I still have no idea why they don't get along other than Alex's vague references to it way back at the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts. I've never gotten any information beyond that, either, even though their mutual disdain is hardly a secret.
Alex gives no hints about whatever happened between them for the rest of our lesson, and it's all but forgotten by the time Dromgolle dismisses us an hour and a half later. My heart jumps as Josh Peakes startles awake and chairs scrape against the stone floor, but that little flutter dies just seconds later. There won't be any more walks together during free period, no more long conversations or debates. Not ever again. There can't be.
Instead, I turn to Alex, shoving my syllabary into my bag, and ask simply, "Heading back to the common room?"
He nods silently, and we fall into step together in the corridor. The bend approaches – the one that splits off to the stairwell or the back half of the floor – and I glance down the corridor out of habit, only to catch a glimpse of dark hair striding away.
"Bet Nolton was thrilled about you always disappearing with his friend after class," Alex comments, and my chest tightens. The air feels thick, because his tone – "He's been dying for you two to be friends for months now."
Oh.
Oh.
A wave of relief washes over me, and I smile half-heartedly. "Well, that dream's dead."
"Can't imagine why," Alex says jokingly as we cross into the stairwell. "Was it the incessant need for attention or all the bullshit that finally wore you down?"
"Alex, why have we never hung out before?" I ask, ignoring his question altogether. He's not right, not at all, but I don't want to touch that with a ten-foot pole. "I feel like I never see you outside of practice, but we're always on the same page."
"We have five classes together, Fields."
"We do?"
"Clearly, you're not nearly as observant as I am."
"Clearly," I echo, but my head's not in the conversation – not really. It's all the way back at the bend in the corridor, wishing desperately to be walking with someone else.
It turns out that Sophie was right: I shouldn't have promised not to blow my roommates off anymore. Quidditch prep is exhausting, never-ending, and, as she'd put it so eloquently on our first day back, nearly works me to the bone.
Free periods turn into strategy sessions, studying gets ditched in favor of extra practice, and by the time the week of our match finally rolls around, I'm looking forward to getting it over with more than anything else. At least then I can have my life back.
I've barely even had time for Jett – something I think Aiden secretly delights in, as I'm still on post-practice clean-up duty –although he makes it a point to eat with me when I'm not forced into sitting with the team. It's been good for us though, I think. I miss him when he's not around, and that's encouraging. Maybe I just needed a little space.
It starts to feel like it did over break again, like it did months ago. My heart squeezes when I see him, my smile grows bigger, and somehow, some way, I think we're closer than ever. I love that he carves out whatever minutes he can to see me, that he makes me his priority, that he just – cares.
He's always cared, but every day shows it a little bit more. When I'm too busy to eat, he grabs me a bit of food to go from the Great Hall. When I'm too busy to study, he reminds me what assignments are due to make sure everything's turned in on time.
He's just so good.
And when he kisses me goodnight outside of the Ravenclaw common room, almost always right before curfew because of my hectic schedule, I've been asking him to stay more often than not. Even though it's always intended for just sleeping, it usually winds up being a little more than that. Never all the way, not yet, but I think maybe soon. Soon, I keep telling myself.
But whenever we walk down to the Great Hall together the next morning, whenever I glance at the Gryffindor table instinctively and feel an ache rattle through my chest, that soon always feels a little further away.
I don't let him stay the night before the match, mainly because Aiden would have my head for it. That doesn't stop Jett from waiting for me outside the common room the next morning, nor does it stop him from taking one look at my face and whispering a soothing, "You'll be fine, Fields," before pressing a kiss to my head.
I can't sit with him, though – Aiden's orders – so I take a seat with my stonily silent team. Aiden shovels down forkful after forkful of eggs and sausage, encouraging everyone else to do the same, but I've got no appetite, and neither do any of my fellow Chasers, apparently.
"Eat," Aiden says gruffly, shoving yet another plate of food towards me, Alex Harrison, and Jack Murphy – his third attempt in about as many minutes.
"Not hungry," Jack groans.
"Chasers need to eat."
"We said we're not hungry," I snap, and Aiden rolls his eyes.
"Eat now. Captain's orders."
"You can't order us to eat, Aiden –"
"Eat, Fields."
I respond with silence as I stare down at my plate, the mere thought of eating making me nauseous. Aiden apparently doesn't care, though, as evidenced by the large piece of toast he stuffs into my mouth haphazardly, looking completely unapologetic as he does so. I swallow a single bite and feel the dry, scratchy toast snake its way down my throat.
Lovely.
"There. I ate," I comment wryly.
"Enough with the sass," Aiden says, but it's half-hearted. "We should go."
My mouth goes dry at his words, and the rest of the team nods and stands. The walk down to the pitch has never felt longer or quieter, and I can't help but wish Jett was by my side, squeezing my hand. That would definitely never be allowed, though, so it's just more silence. Even Asher and Tanner have gone speechless, their near-constant banter as dead as we all surely feel.
I dress automatically in the girls' locker room and sit alone, waiting, until Aiden knocks on the door and tells me to pop over to the boys' side. Anxious faces fill my vision; Asher chews a hangnail on his thumb, drumming the other against his Beater's bat, while Alex's green eyes flash with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
And there's a buzzing, too. A buzzing in my body as adrenaline starts pumping through it, a buzzing in my head from the school slowly gathering in the stands. That familiar buzzing that always feels like home, that I've heard countless times growing up, cheering for my dad from the players' box.
I can do this.
Aiden clears his throat loudly, and six heads swivel towards him. "Right, so we've got a great team this year, and I really think we can win it all –"
Nobody's listening. Not a single one of us is listening. We're too hyped up, too nervous, too fidgety. I know I can do this, though. I feel it in my bones, in the way my blood hums. True, I've never played in an environment like this, but it's all still the same, right? The same tactics, the same strategies, the same instincts I've had since birth.
"Dignity. Always dignity," Aiden says emphatically, and I jerk my gaze back to him. "Now let's go out there and demolish some 'Puffs."
We gather our things quietly and exit the locker room, only to have our ears practically blasted apart from the noise issuing from the stands. The buzz isn't a buzz anymore – it's a deafening roar that nearly rattles the ground as I step onto the pitch.
"You'll be fine," Alex whispers, echoing Jett's words from earlier, and I nod as Aiden marches over grimly to shake hands with the Hufflepuff captain. It looks like he nearly crushes the seventh year, and the referee blows the whistle seconds later – probably to break them apart before Aiden manages to break the Hufflepuff's fingers.
My hand grips the broom so tightly that my knuckles turn pure white as I kick off from the ground. Everything flows in rapid movement, the world shifting into a kaleidoscope of swirling colors and blurring shapes, and I catch a snatch of yellow streaking past me holding a dot of crimson.
Fuck. Hufflepuff has the Quaffle.
"Get moving, you assholes!" Aiden shrieks from the hoops, knocking a shot by the Hufflepuff Chaser away.
Alex snatches the ball out of the air and darts down the pitch, a flock of yellow on his heels, and I duck as a Bludger comes spinning towards me. A Hufflepuff Beater smiles snidely from about ten feet away, tossing his bat nonchalantly, and that's all it takes for me to snap into motion.
Fuck you, I mouth towards the Beater as I streak past. Adrenaline pumps and pounds through every inch of me, and I duck again as another Bludger comes whistling toward my head.
"Watch yourself there," Tanner calls, suddenly appearing at my side. "They're targeting you."
"I know," I spit out through gritted teeth. Jack and Alex are still weaving in and out between the Hufflepuff Chasers, and Alex sends a pointed look back at me. "Do me a favor and break a few minor bones?"
"Damn, Fields. Didn't know you had it in you," Tanner says, grinning before he sends yet another Bludger spinning away.
"I might be a girl, but my dad taught me how to play rough," I call back over my shoulder, just loud enough for the Hufflepuff Beater to hear.
I throw up a middle finger in his direction for good measure, then sprint towards Alex and Jack, snagging the Quaffle one-handedly when the former tosses it my way with a no-look pass. The feel of the ball beneath my fingertips is so familiar, so comforting, that my instincts kick in on contact, and I drive towards the hoops without a second thought. Then the Quaffle flies out of my hand, shoulder and biceps burning with the effort, and sails cleanly through the middle hoop.
Game on.
The Keeper tosses the Quaffle back to a Hufflepuff Chaser, but Asher's already there, pelting a Bludger gleefully. The Hufflepuff scrambles out of the way just in time but drops the Quaffle, and I pick it up cleanly as it falls beneath him.
"Alex!" I yell, clocking two Chasers and a Beater darting for me. They swivel towards him, and I pass to Jack instead. He grins, sweeping past easily, but I roll instead of following him to avoid yet another Bludger flying in my direction.
They're really going to do this all match, aren't they? It's either because I'm new, because they think I'm the weak link, or because they're worried about me – and as much as I wish it was the latter, I think it's definitely option one or two. That doesn't matter, though. They can send as many as they want my way – Tanner's circling like a shadow, which means he'll get his pick of swings all game – and Jack and Alex can cover my absence.
That's what Dad would tell me, at least. If they want to take you out, let them spend their energy on it. Distractions are just as valuable as scoring points. Don't put your teammates at risk when you're getting targeted. I can practically hear him puffing it out on one of our runs over break, his words short, frozen bursts in the winter air. The same strategy's been used against him more times than I can count, but clearly, Hufflepuff didn't consider that.
So instead of focusing on what I do best, I zig-zag and roll and work in lockstep on defense with Tanner, keeping the Hufflepuff Beaters so focused on where I am that Jack and Alex get free runs at the goalposts. We didn't prepare for this – to have our Chasing team down to two, essentially – but I trust them. Aiden's furious, of course, his face a bright, angry red at the relentless Bludgers, and I already know that next practice will be entirely dedicated to this exact scenario.
I duck for what feels like the hundredth time this game and hear a gasp ripple through the crowd, even though the Bludger really wasn't that close. But when my head pops back up, I realize it wasn't for me. The gasp grows into a frenzy, and over the roar I just barely hear the commentator yell out, "Ravenclaw Seeker Wesley Page has seen the Snitch!"
My eyes dart around immediately for Wes, a tall, lean seventh-year who I find streaking low the ground, hot on the trail of a tiny golden blur. No matter how many times I play Quidditch, I'm always awestruck by this part of the match. There's this moment where everything else is just suspended in time. Everyone simply stops – the Keepers, the Chasers, even the Beaters, and all eyes are just glued to that little winged Snitch.
And then, just like that, it's over.
"Page has caught the Snitch! Ravenclaw wins, two hundred to fifty!" the announcer screams into the microphone, and the world explodes back into motion.
Even from twenty feet away, I can see Aiden's face crumple with relief. He sprints over to Wes as soon as his feet hit solid ground and tackles him in a hug, screaming, "I love you, Wesley Aaron Page!" over the escalating volume of the stadium.
Tanner rolls his eyes as we both touch down on the grass, and I shake my limbs a bit to work the lingering adrenaline out of them. "You'd think that he'd be used to Wes catching the Snitch by now. But no – every time, it's the same reaction."
"Thanks for playing bodyguard, by the way," I tack on while we make our way across the field towards Aiden, Wes, and the rest of the team in front of the goalposts. I blow a kiss at the Hufflepuff Beaters passing us, and Tanner laughs loudly enough for them to hear.
"My pleasure, Fields. But let's not make a habit of it."
"Agreed."
The rest of our classmates have started streaming onto the pitch by the time we reach Aiden and the affectionate headlock he has Wes in, mussing up our Seeker's close-cropped hair. I spot my roommates tramping towards us, huge smiles on their faces, and I wave happily. Aiden immediately releases Wes when he sees who I'm smiling at – Sophie, namely – and his face goes an embarrassing shade of pink, but I don't see what happens next. Not when Jett grabs me from behind with a spin and kisses me fiercely, one hand gently cupping my face and the other pulling the small of my back closer.
"I'm going to kill Smith and Fawley," he mutters darkly. "Congrats, though. You were brilliant, even with those assholes trying to take you out."
"You will do no such thing," I tut back, and Jett just gives me a crooked half-smile. "They didn't do anything wrong. It was a fair game."
"It might be fair, but I still didn't like it."
"I can take care of myself, Jett."
"I know you can." His smile widens and he leans in for another kiss, this one much softer, before tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "You should go get cleaned up, then we'll celebrate."
As if on cue, Aiden clears his throat loudly from his spot a few feet away. "Victory party is Ravenclaws only!" he shouts above the assembled crowd, and I swear I hear a groan rustle through it. He wasdefinitelyeavesdropping.
"No celebrating for you, apparently," I say, but Jett swats it off and glances over my shoulder.
"I'll be right back. Just want to say congrats to Asher."
"No problem. I'll be here," I assure him, and Jett wanders off, clapping a hand around Asher's shoulder when he reaches him. The sound of footsteps approaching catches my ear, though, so I turn away from the boys to find Alex Harrison shooting a grin at me.
"Nice work, Fields," he says. "Although next time I'd prefer to have three Chasers instead of two."
"Take it up with the Hufflepuffs," I grumble, and he snorts. "Thanks for holding things together with Jack, though."
"All good," Alex says, shrugging while he leans against the center goalpost. "Sorry about Wood's rule, by the way. Looks like you're zero for two tonight."
"Sorry?" I ask absentmindedly.
"The party," he says calmly, as if it explains everything. "Both of your boys are out."
"Alex, I have no idea what you're talking about." I roll my neck and shoulders, feeling a small knot on my right side, and let out a breath. Jett's still talking to Asher a few feet away, wrapped up in conversation, and might be for a while.
"Oh, come on, Fields," Alex says, and I glance over at him. He's looking at me with amusement, eyes glinting like he has something he's dying to say. "I know you've been fooling around with both of them. I admire it, honestly."
"What?" I choke out. "You're insane."
"Am I?" he asks, but I just scoff, willing my face not to flush. I have no idea what he thinks he knows, no idea how he knows anything, but – "Then why is it that you seem to know exactly who I'm talking about, even though I haven't said any names?"
"I don't know who or what you're talking about, Alex," I say, hoping my voice sounds as even-keeled as I'm aiming for.
"All right, we can pretend if you want." He shrugs again and steps away from the goalpost, raising his hands defensively. Behind him, ten or so feet beyond his shoulder, I spot a head of jet-black hair whip in our direction at the motion. James folds his arms across his chest, and even from here I can read the tight expression on his face. "I was just going to offer to step in for the evening, but it sounds like that's off the table."
My gaze jumps back to Alex, tracing the carefree smile on his lips, and an involuntary shudder runs down my spine when I realize what he's implying. Is he serious? He's suggesting right here, right now, with my boyfriend standing just a few feet away, that I could – what, hook up with him? What the fuck?
"Just keep it in mind," Alex says, leaning forward. I shiver again as his breath hits my ear, disgusted, and give him a light shove.
"Don't ever, ever, speak that way to me again," I hiss, and Alex takes a step back.
"Your choice, Fields. I'm just –"
"Do we have a problem here?" A gruff voice asks. I don't even need to break Alex's gaze to know who it is, but I do anyway – James, standing behind him, expression unnervingly calm and controlled. Only a slight twitch in his jaw gives away the anger he's holding back, like a rubber band about to snap.
"Of course you'd come running, wouldn't you?" Alex says casually, never once looking towards him. "Such a Gryffindor. Tell me, James, is it considered chivalrous to mess around with your best mate's girlfriend?"
I can feel the blood draining out of my face at Alex's words, my heart stuttering at the self-satisfied grin on his face. Jett's still talking with Asher to my right, and my eyes find his back, praying he's out of earshot –he is, I think, thankfully –
"Don't say another word, Harrison." It comes out low and rough, and James's jaw twitches again. "You have a problem with me, not Jett. Leave him out of it."
Alex finally turns away from me, but it doesn't bring the relief I'm expecting, not as he glances up at James with boredom, brushing a non-existent fleck of dirt off his arm. "There's that morally righteous bullshit you always pull. Does it ever get tiring, being such a hypocrite?"
"I'd rather be morally righteous than a –"
"Do I need to pull you two apart?" Jett asks, cutting off whatever James was about to fire back. My stomach drops, sinking somewhere below the grass at our feet, and I pull in a shuddering breath. He didn't hear anything, though. It's okay. Everything's okay.
"We're fine," James spits out. But he hasn't uncrossed his arms, hasn't wiped the hardened glare from his face, and his words are so at odds with his tone that Jett raises his eyebrows. "Harrison here just needs to learn some respect."
Oh, no.
Why did he say that?
Out of all the things he could have said, why that? Why goad him on?
We should just shut up, cut our losses, and get the hell out of here. That's the smart thing to do. But James – oh, God. He's not thinking clearly. He's letting Alex get under his skin, and – fuck.
I'd like to take him down a peg or two.
That's exactly what he said during Ancient Runes the other week. And I don't know why, but it's so obvious that Alex is dying to make James snap, poking and prodding at everything that works his nerves, choosing his words like knives.
"Respect?" Alex drawls. Dread trickles through me, cold and cruel, as he cracks his knuckles, eyes lighting up. "Just like you respect your best friend's relationship so damn much?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jett asks, glancing curiously between the two of them. Oh, God. This is going to end in disaster. The world's slowly starting to spin out of control, and every time Alex opens his mouth the chaos only grows.
"Jett, let's go," I say suddenly. He glances at me, brows furrowed, and I reach out to grab him, to pull him away. But he just brushes my words and hand off, still fixated on the conversation, and a wave of nausea hits. I need to get him out of here. Now.
"James, please," I beg, whirling to him instead. I don't even care if I sound desperate. I just need someone, anyone, to break this up, to get us out of here, but – fuck, he's not listening, neither of them are listening. "Please, just leave. Go now."
"You should listen to your puppet master," Alex says, so teasingly my skin crawls. "We all know she's the one who's got you on a string."
"Shut up, Harrison," James growls, and God, I want to scream, pound on his chest, drag him away, he's being so stupid –
"I bet it's painful," Alex says calmly, flicking another invisible piece of dirt away. "God, I can't even imagine how much it's killing you. But I'm curious – does it hurt more to fuck over your best friend or to fuck her and know that's all you're ever going to get?"
Oh, no.
God, no.
"What's he talking about?" Jett breathes. He's not looking at Alex, though, or even at James. He's staring straight at me, eyes blazing into mine. "Aria, what is he talking about?"
"It's nothing, Jett. Let's just go –"
"I'm just talking about what I saw on the first night of term," Alex says innocently, throwing his hands up and stepping away.
"The first night of term?" Jett repeats. He looks confused, eyebrows knit together as his gaze flickers between the three of us. "Somebody better tell me what the hell is going on."
"I don't feel comfortable repeating it," comes Alex's smug reply, and I shut my eyes, letting the nausea roll through me. "But I like you, Nolton, and since neither your best friend nor your girlfriend is being honest with you, it's the least I can do."
"Alex –" James says hoarsely, and just that one word sounds like he's about to get on his knees and beg, but nothing more comes. He looks as terrified as I feel, both of us utterly frozen, faces pale and breathing rapid.
"Here's a little tip for you," Alex sneers condescendingly. "The next time you two want to go at it, maybe don't do it right in front of a window. People might see things you'd rather keep private."
Fuck.
The rampart off the gravel path. There was a window right between us, and I – I'd stood right there in the light, reached for his hand –
"What?" Jett asks, deadly calm. But there's a quiver, the slightest waver that betrays everything boiling underneath, and I take a step back involuntarily.
"Sorry you had to find out this way, Nolton, but the two most important people in your life don't give a fuck about you," Alex says, sounding not even the slightest bit sorry. He's not looking at Jett, though. He's staring straight at James viciously, a smug grin twisting across his face. "And believe me, I wish I could unsee every mentally scarring second of his hands all over her ass."
"What?" Jett repeats quietly. "No. No, Harrison, you're full of sh-"
"It's true." My head turns towards the new voice as Grace Clarke moves towards us from the assembled crowd, looking so delighted that I start to go light-headed. "I was walking up with Alex from the carriages. They were all over each other in the rampart by the main path. Wasn't that one of your favorite spots with Lila, James?"
"Carriages?" Jett echoes faintly. Then he twists away from Grace to look at me, and my heart pounds so loudly that I can hear it thrumming through my ears, blood pumping furiously in my veins. "On the way up from the carriages, you – you wanted to talk to –"
Oh, fuck.
He knows.
"– and then – then you both came back so angry –"
He knows.
He fucking knows.
"It's better if we're not friends," Jett says slowly. I can see the gears turning in his head, can feel the quiet rage building as he puts it together. "That's what both of you said. Not that you didn't want to be friends. But that it's better if you're not friends."
"Probably because they can't keep their hands off of each other," Alex mutters.
"I tried to tell you," Grace cuts in, and Jett throws a withering glare in her direction. "I tried to tell you all year –"
"Don't fucking start, Grace," he hisses, but then his glare is on us, on James, who simply stands there with one hand gripping a fistful of hair, looking as if he's already resigned himself to his fate. "And one of you better tell me if it's true right fucking now."
Neither of us moves and neither of us makes a sound, but I think the defeated look on James's face is all he needs to know.
"God dammit, just say something!" Jett yells, and I flinch as he turns his eyes to me. "Why won't you deny it? Why won't either of you say no? Just say no, Aria. Tell me it's not true. Just tell me," he begs, but I can't.
I can't make myself say the words. I can't get anything out of my throat. I can't move a muscle, can't look away, can't do anything other than stand here and wish for it to be over.
"Aria?" he whispers, and the crack in his voice shatters my heart.
"I'm so sorry, Jett –"
"Fuck!"
I'm not sure how long tears have been silently sliding down my face. Maybe since this nightmare conversation started. Maybe when I heard the desperation in Jett's voice. I don't know, I don't know, but my eyes are burning so much I can barely see, everything suddenly draining out in a flood.
"How long?" Jett demands, and it's so brutally calm, so silently furious, that I wish he would yell, scream, anything. "How long have you been fucking me over, huh? How fucking long?"
"It's not like that," I whisper, but he's not listening and it doesn't really matter, anyway. Nothing I say or do can fix this. James knows it, too. He hasn't said a word in minutes, face pale and eyes dead, staring blankly at the spot Alex once stood in, even when Jett whirls for him.
"How could you?" Jett yells, voice finally raising. Raw anger and pain course through every word, like he's finally let go of whatever part of him was holding back. "Oh, wait. I know. It's because perfect fucking James gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants, even though you don't deserve shit."
I wince, but James doesn't. Not a single emotion or expression flickers across his face. He just stands there and takes it – every harsh word, every furious glare, never once flinching, never once fighting back.
"What, nothing to say?" Jett tosses out venomously. "God forbid your actions actually have consequences for once. You don't try, you don't care, and everyone just falls over backward for you. I bust my ass every damn day to do everything right, but it doesn't matter. It has never mattered because you're James fucking Potter, and I will always come in second to you."
"Jett," I breathe, taking a step forward. My legs wobble and it feels like I'm about ready to heave up my single bite of toast, but someone has to say something, and it's clearly not going to be James. "Jett, let's just talk –"
"And you," he hisses, and my stomach plummets even further into the ground. "I don't want to hear a single fucking thing you have to say. You have no idea how much shit I did for you. I stood up for you so many times, defended you from –" he points wildly to the assembled crowd, watching on silently, "– from them, from all the bullshit they said about you, and guess what? You just proved them right. Joke's on me, huh?"
He looks so angry, so anguished, that I know the image is going to be burned in my head forever. Maybe that's my punishment. Having to relive this moment over and over for eternity, staring at the rage and betrayal and pain in his eyes, and knowing that I caused it. I did this. I hurt him so much that even someone as good as Jett has absolutely lost his mind in fury.
"You two deserve each other," Jett practically spits. "And I'm done. I am so fucking done with both of you. Go to hell."
James and I simply stand in silence as Jett turns his glare on the crowd and yells out a strangled "nobody fucking talk to me," to no one in particular before walking away. All I can do is cry silently, wishing this moment to end. Wishing this year to end. Wishing I had never come here.
I broke him. Jett. The way his voice cracked – I'm never going to forget it. Every brutal word, replaying in my mind for the rest of my life.
"I'm sorry, Aria," James whispers. "I'm so sorry."
The crowd murmurs around us, a hushed buzz rippling behind Jett's fading footsteps, and I tear my gaze away from his retreating back to look at James. His face is blank, empty, devoid of all life, and God, I just want to scream, sob, do anything other than stand here in silence, do anything other than look at him –
"Oh, you're sorry?" I say sarcastically. Everything's building, burning a hole through my chest, and I can't breathe, I can't breathe – "I don't care that you're fucking sorry!"
I don't know why I'm yelling. I don't fucking know. It's all just a blur of tears and pain and the hurt in Jett's eyes, and oh fuck, I did that to him, I fucking did that to Jett, to the first boy who's ever cared about me like that, the first one who's ever treated me right, and I – I –
"You ruined my life!" I sound ragged and hoarse, and the tears are pouring out harder, faster, but I don't care, I don't care anymore, I'm just angry and hurt and heartbroken, and – "How many times do I have to reject you before you get it through your fucking head?"
I can't control myself. My mind has completely left my body, and I'm just so furious at myself, at Alex, at James,that I can't make myself stop, can't hold back –
"This is your fault." I blink and more tears slide down my face, hot and sticky, and my head's so dizzy, so light that I'm going to pass out, I'm going to fucking pass out – "Stay the fuck away from me, stay out of my life, and don't ever talk to me again."
"I'm sorry," James repeats, and it's so quiet, so devastated, that my heart shatters again. But I can't look at him, I can't even breathe through the jagged, gaping wound in my chest, so I just turn away and walk off the pitch, feeling the eyes of everyone except the only person who might've been on my side.
If I hadn't screamed at him. If I hadn't said everything I could to rip his heart out. If I hadn't been such an ugly monster.
I don't know why I'm trying to blame him for something we both did. I don't know why I couldn't stop those awful words from coming out. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know anything except that I don't hate him, not at all, even if he thinks I do. But he just might hate me now, and I deserve it.
And that only makes my heart hurt all the more.