CHAPTER THREE
oliver wood and the quidditch hard-on

IN RETROSPECT, perhaps she could have handled the situation better. Perhaps she could have declined the way she always did, hitting him with the glacial wall of a hard no and hight-tailing out the classroom without a glance over her shoulder, like she'd wanted to. Perhaps it was unnecessary, cruel, even, the way she laughed in his face and launched barbed assault on the one thing he dedicated his life to, gearing even the most ancillary mechanism towards refining to perfection. Unlike Oliver, who held the magical sport so close to his heart it consumed his every thought and waking functionality, Quidditch sat in the remote vacuum of subliminal disconnection where Sawyer took to burying causes for concern and smoothed impenetrable layers of apathy over the entombed corpses. Attributable to this contingent detachability, Sawyer would never understand Oliver's perspective. Anathematising Quidditch—or what she granted the antiquated epithet 'bootleg basketball-slash-baseball'—tipped him over. One would've thought that she'd insulted his mother with the way her verbal prodding sent him flying into a scandalised outrage.

          "WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'IT'S JUST QUIDDITCH'?!" He'd exploded and Sawyer could imagine steam billowing out of his ears. As she mapped out all the ways she could have circumvented this volcanic tirade, her lips curved into a lackadaisical smile.

          It's times like these she forgets she used to have a tiny crush on him when they were six. A fact she wished she could obliviate from her mind permanently. A fact she would never admit to his face, even if Jeremy and Rio were on fire and the only way to save them was to let this buried secret see the light of day after a whole decade of rotting away in the darkest corner of her mind.

          Exasperation coloured his features in shades of red, each second passing turning him a darker shade of irritability. Oliver pinned Sawyer with a baleful glare that was equal parts disdain and bewilderment. Like she was more demented than he'd initially thought. Like the idea that a broom may actually come more handy when used as a cleaning tool rather than in a sport was an abomination in itself. There was a crazed mania in his eyes, electrified earthy pools darkening by the second, and the thought that she might have broken him crossed her mind for a fleeting second. Almost as though it weren't him who'd dragged her into the classroom out of nowhere.

          "I'm saying," Sawyer said, offering a one-shouldered shrug, "all Seekers after Charlie Weasley are hopeless and Gryffindor could stand to lose another Quidditch season with or without my help."

         Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, Lee, we'll flatten you even without a Seeker and both my arms chopped off—"

          "Oh, I have no doubt about that. My team's a lost cause and I couldn't care less about them," Sawyer drawled, perching herself on a desk. A small smirk crept over her lips and Oliver's eyes darted down to her mouth briefly before snapping up to her eyes, a red flush creeping up his neck. She cocked her head. "Though, I'd love to see you without arms. May I?"

          "Only if you sit in a room with Wyatt for five minutes, making civil conversation, without cutting his tongue out."

          Sawyer rolled her eyes up into her sockets until only the whites showed and stuck her tongue out. Trust Oliver to fight back with a sore point. They both knew her answer without having her say it aloud. To Oliver, the cold war between his best friend and his twin sister could be considered a tragedy, a puzzle nobody could figure out. It was exhausting to explain. Sawyer stopped caring to give perspective a long time ago.

          "Back to the matter at hand—"

          "Honestly, Wood," Sawyer scoffed, pulling her flip-top lighter out from her pocket and flicking it on. She stared at the flame, a tiny wildfire wavering in her palm, ignoring the intensity of Oliver's glower searing the side of her face, "it's just Quidditch, it's not like you're losing your firstborn to Marcus Flint. Stop being so melodramatic."

          To which he'd gone so red in the face Sawyer was convinced he might have ruptured a vessel. The sound he'd made wasn't remotely human.

          "You— I—"

          "Yes. Me." Sawyer arched a brow, unimpressed. "Would you like to go through all the pronouns in the English dictionary, or would you let me go to dinner instead of holding me hostage in here with ridiculous requests we both know I won't answer to?"

         Oliver scowled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Neither. Listen, I just got a new Seeker on the team who I really, genuinely think is a natural at Quidditch and will guarantee a shot at beating Slytherin."

         "So train with your own set of Beaters."

          "Not an option. I'm trying to keep Harry a secret from them. As well as everyone else. So far, it's not working out all that well, but at least nobody's on the pitch to watch."

         "Oh, lying to your team, Oliver—" Sawyer made a clicking sound with her tongue— "that's not very healthy, is it? Heard it rots your soul."

          "That's rich, coming from you, you soulless monster—" He cut himself off mid-tirade. Pinching the bridge of his nose and screwing his eyes shut, Oliver let out a frustrated sigh.

          A vacant grin spread across her lips. Her voice was level, but there was no mistaking that infinite anger like a serrated knife's edge in her tone. There was no Jeremy or Rio present to act as Oliver's protective shield now, no buffer between her fists and Oliver's nose. A girl of razor tongue spitting words that taste like swallowing bee stings and a boy of inflated, leonine pride should never be left alone together. In such a chemical environment, violence was bound to rear its ugly head. As much as she pretended otherwise, the words were a fishhook to the gut, and Oliver was pulling on the line. She wanted him to pull on the line. Eyes flashing with challenge, she slanted him a daring look. "No, no. Please, carry on. I want to hear what my new label is." Go ahead, you coward. Pull the line. See what happens.

          "No, I—" Oliver lifted his gaze, shook his head, and said, "I just need your help. You're the school's best Beater, and the only one I trust to keep your mouth shut about Harry. I could train him on my own, but with your added assistance, he'll be unstoppable."

          If she didn't know any better, she might have thought it was regret or something akin to guilt tinging his tone.

          "And what makes you think I'd help your team out when I've got my own to defend?"

          "Because I know you don't care who wins and who doesn't."

          She hummed pensively, a sound that made Oliver blink, nonplussed, as if he were surprised she'd even consider the request. That she could be bothered to weigh the pros and cons, that her answer wasn't a flat 'no'. That she might even be willing to entertain his absurd idea that there could be any sort of partnership between them.

          But the reality of the situation was that Sawyer had formulated her answer the moment he'd proposed the question. True, there were a million other things she would rather be doing than wasting her time in a dingy classroom with Oliver Wood, no doubt putting them in a compromisingly questionable position to any outsider's perspective, or anyone in the corridor who could have seen Oliver drag her into the classroom. Truth was, she just enjoyed making him sweat.

          "I'll help you," Sawyer said, after a stretched moment. She flicked her lighter shut, extinguishing the flame. Oliver flashed a bright grin, all animated tongue-behind-the-teeth and blindingly charming. Envy pinched at her gut when she scowled at his two rows of perfectly aligned teeth. She raised a hand pointedly, emphatic on the gesture of afterthought, "but only if I get to bring my second Beater along. We will train together or not at all."

          "Deal." Oliver nodded. "Practice starts tomorrow morning. Five a.m. sharp. Bring your kid."

          The urge to strangle him twitched at her fingers, a leviathan compulsion straining at her skin, all gnashing teeth and hissing vituperation. She curled her hands into fists and locked her jaw.

          "Don't forget yours," Sawyer shot back. Casting a dispassionate look at the door, she tucked her lighter back in her pocket. "I'm going now."

          "You know," Oliver mused, just as she was turning away from him, "I never knew why it is that someone so talented could be so apathetic towards Quidditch."

          Hand on the doorknob, she paused for a nanosecond, but didn't turn to look at him. "Flattery is uninteresting and gets you nowhere."

          "I don't understand."

          "That's not my problem." She slanted him a meaningful look over her shoulder. Crossing his arms over his chest, he tilted his head at her, arching a brow. "I can keep my mouth shut, Wood. Don't worry, if anyone asks, I'll tell them we were making out and not plotting a Quidditch revolution. Have fun explaining that."

          Then, she pulled the door shut behind her, leaving behind Oliver's surprised laugh and the esoteric debate of her apathy towards a talent most would kill for in the dust.

* * *

SINCE THE BEGINNING OF FIRST YEAR, Sawyer had been sitting at the Slytherin table for every meal without fail, and nobody cared to stop her for two reasons. One, they didn't dare to, and two, she wouldn't listen either way. It didn't help that Jeremy and Rio always backed her up. Edging into third year, Rio's boyfriend, Marcus Flint, had integrated into their exclusive little circle, and, quickly enough, he learnt how to defend her unwelcome presence with a savage vengeance. Sawyer decided she liked Marcus Flint the moment he threw a potato wedge at a snide classmate, who had been glowering at Sawyer's smudge of yellow amidst scarves of emerald.

          Tonight, she sandwiched herself between Marcus Flint and Rio, ignoring the wide-eyed first years openly gaping at her jarring presence. A handful of second years who'd just made the cut for the Slytherin Quidditch team had packed around them, pestering Jeremy—who sat opposite Sawyer, a mountain of sausages stacked between them, obscuring him from her line of vision—with questions about the selection process and the team. Amusement lit Jeremy's eyes as he answered each question with equal enthusiasm, all unfaltering grin beaming upon his captivated audience. Sawyer wanted to ask him how he did it without genuinely wanting to die via defenestration, but decided against the effort. She could already foresee the repercussions. Could see Jeremy forcing her into conversation with the wide-eyed freshmen. Could see their faces dawning with realisation as to who she was. Instead, she resorted to scooping her peas out of her mashed potatoes and distributing them evenly between Marcus and Rio.

          In retaliation, Rio dumped his carrots onto Sawyer's plate and Marcus flicked a bread crumb at Sawyer.

          "So, I heard a little something about you, Sawyer Lee," Marcus said, smirking. Sawyer flicked her eyes towards him coolly, snagging a carrot between her teeth with more force than necessary and biting it in clean halves.

         "People say lots of things about me," she said, pointing her fork at him, "you're going to have to specify."

          "Meaning, is it old or recent news?" Rio scoffed.

          "What news?" Jeremy, seemingly granted reprieve from his entourage of second years, asked, raising a brow.

          A wicked glint sparked in Marcus' eyes. "A little birdie told me that, before dinner, she saw Sawyer leaving a classroom looking a little flustered."

          All eyes snapped to her instantly. Sawyer's back went rigid under their crucifying stares. Here it came. The inevitable revelation. She'd promised to keep her mouth shut, and Sawyer was nothing if not a keeper of all her promises. Although, would it count if someone was eavesdropping on the conversation? Technically, she hadn't spoken a word of what Oliver and her had discussed. It wouldn't be her fault.

          Rio reached around Sawyer and smacked Marcus on the back of his head. "Bitch, we sneak in and out of classrooms all the time. Knowing Sawyer, she probably just hid a body inside." Then, to Sawyer, Rio asked, "now we just need to tie up the loose ends. Who's the snitch, Marcus? Who else did they tell?"

          "Shut up, I'm not finished," Marcus grumbled. "Anyway, it was Pansy Parkinson. She was telling all her friends, and I happened to walk by when she was talking about it."

          "Apologies, darling, do continue," Rio drawled, through a mouthful of chewed-up mashed potatoes. Sawyer would've laughed if she weren't praying fervently that Marcus didn't catch wind of Oliver's deal.

          "Thank you. So Sawyer's leaving the classroom, not breaking her stride, and she rounds the corner," Marcus paused, glancing between his friends in a moment of suspense. Jeremy's brows were furrowed. Rio looked slightly dubious. Sawyer's expression was a brutal hybrid of homicidal and self-loathing.

          "Then, what, asshole?" Rolling his eyes, Rio pursed his lips.

          "Then," Marcus sneered, "a couple seconds later, Oliver Wood walks out the same classroom, red in the face, smiling like he's the luckiest fucker in the world. Now, Sawyer, want to tell us what's going on?"

          Jeremy let out a shocked laugh. Sharing a knowing smirk with Marcus, Rio whistled, brows raised. If she weren't so occupied with thanking the heavens for being this merciful, Sawyer might have murdered Marcus and Pansy Parkinson, whoever she was, for the disgusting implication. That, and the fact that the boundaries of the truth must've been pushed to its limits for theatrics. There was no way she had this much of an effect on Oliver. Plus, she wasn't in the least flustered leaving the classroom. Masking her relieved sigh with a plaintive groan, Sawyer narrowed her eyes into accusatory slits, glaring daggers at Rio. This was a window of opportunity she couldn't afford to butcher. Any consequences, she could deal with later. If Oliver knew what was good for him, he would comply with the demands of their tricky predicament.

          "Nothing," Sawyer muttered, vehemently spearing a carrot with her fork, carefully averting her gaze. "I'd rather eat my own foot than do anything that you're implying with Oliver Wood."

          "Oh, come off it, Lee," Rio snorted. "How long has this been going on? Since Christmas? You guys see a lot of each other then, don't you? Does you brother know you're snogging his best friend?"

         Sawyer said nothing. Revulsion at the notion that she would voluntarily touch Oliver like that rolled through her body in waves, but she masked her adversity with a sharp glare. Let Rio and everyone else interpret that however they wanted. She'd dug herself into this hole, and it felt too much like a grave for her liking. There contained the unavoidable question, the elephant in the room, the thundercloud looming over their heads: why didn't you tell us? Why didn't you trust us?

          "I think it's cute," Jeremy offered, shrugging. The bright grin on his features, the grin directed at her incited by a lie, made her flinch. "It just means, maybe, Sawyer has a heart after all. Right?"

          Sawyer fake retched. Her nerves prickled with agitation. One more pressing question and she'd snap. Someone would have to pay the price. "Okay, you know what? This conversation is done."

          Jeremy smiled in sympathy. Sawyer didn't meet his gaze when he turned to ask Rio about his day.

          Still, despite the convenient diversion, she couldn't shake the stinging sense that this was coming round to bite her in the back someday soon.

          Afterwards—after enduring a speech from Dumbledore Sawyer was only half-listening to, after painstakingly avoiding her friends' searching scrutiny, after ignoring Oliver Wood's attempts to make eye contact from all the way across the Great Hall where he sat beside Wyatt and a scrawny, dark-haired boy with circular glasses at the Gryffindor table, after they'd all been excused to retire to their common rooms for the night, Sawyer had been pulled aside by Nia just as she was about to head towards her dorm.

          "Follow me." Was all Nia said, before setting off towards a secluded corner of the common room which was bustling with students—mostly carefree second and third years and buzzing with chatter and joyful clamour.

          The atmosphere within the Hufflepuff common rooms could only be described as jovial. Warmth leaked into every crack and crevice. Throw pillows embroidered with encouraging phrases like, Life's not out to get you, littered the ground, and jars of cookies and other sweet treats lined the coffee table at the centre of the room. Students were sharing food, playing a new muggle game apparently called 'the floor is lava', and making animated conversation. Somehow, the Sorting Hat had seen something in Sawyer that fit into this equation. Somehow, it had looked past the offshore hurricane lurking beneath her skin, the napalm bomb of her nerves, the bruised knuckles and proclivity for vengeance, and seen a glimmer of something behind the broken glass that insisted her place was amongst people stitched together by sunshine and rainbows and everything nice. Everything Sawyer was not.

          Along the way, Nia tapped someone else on the shoulder whilst they'd been engaged in a rather morally questionable debate with someone else, and Sawyer recognised the boy, Kenai Denali, as the Keeper she'd knocked off his own broom during the first fifteen minutes of tryouts this afternoon. He smiled at Nia, scowled playfully at Sawyer (manifestly having not forgotten the afternoon's fiasco) and followed Nia to the aforementioned secluded corner after a few words exchanged in whispers.

          It was obvious that the matter at hand Nia wished to discuss was something to do with tryouts. And Sawyer was already dreading the conversation that would ensue.

          Already gathered in the secluded corner, a good distance from the rest of the students populating the warm common room, were two other Quidditch players. Both were seasoned fourth years, Harriet Jameson and Cedric Diggory. For a full Quidditch line-up, seven players were required. Since Nia and Harriet were both Chasers, Sawyer was a Beater, Cedric was a Seeker and Kenai was their Keeper, there were only two spots available. But Harriet had told Nia that she was resigning from her Chaser position because she was struggling with keeping up with all her homework, which meant that one more position for Chaser was open.

          "Alright, now that we're all gathered here, we need to start picking our replacement players," Nia said with cheery finality, clapping her hands together readily. Sawyer wondered if that was a habitual thing Nia always did. It seemed like it.

           "We'll start with Chasers. Since they have the most open spaces. Harriet, you go first. We had six second years and two third years vying for Chasers. Who're your top two picks and why?"

           "Lauren Sanchez, second year, and Florence Khan, third year. Lauren's fast, and her passing is sub-par, but with a few weeks of training, she'll be able to be ready for matches. In the meantime, Florence makes up for Lauren's awkward passing skills. She says she used to play this muggle sport called basketball, or something, and she managed to make the most shots into the goals. She's a little shaky with her broom, but that's because she's not used to throwing or passing in mid-air. Anyone else have any objections?"

          Harriet glanced furtively at Sawyer, who was busy picking at her short nails and paying them no mind, before surveying the rest, all in contemplation of her opinion.

          "I think Harriet's choices are pretty valid," Kenai nodded in agreement. "Nia? What do you say?"

          "So it's settled, then," Nia grinned broadly, "Lauren and Florence are in."

          "Okay, that leaves the slot for second Beater," Nia said, "Three second years were trying out this afternoon. Thoughts?"

           "I like our chances with that Daniel Kang boy," Kenai offered. "He's strong."

           "No," Sawyer abruptly cut in, her tone hard and adamant, visibly startling everyone.

           Up until now, she hadn't spoken a single word and her demeanour was of nonchalance. Some time ago, her refusal to participate might have annoyed them—as much as they buried their irritation—but, now, they'd accepted her casual indifference to the team less as sabotage but a selfish abstention from putting her decision to vote. That way, she could go without blame for the team's failure, or so they'd thought. What else could you expect from a hurricane-girl so opposed to co-existence? In all actuality, Sawyer just wanted to see how far she could push their buttons until they broke free from their self-restraint and fought back. She wanted to see if they could challenge her as much as she challenged them. So far, they'd all been bitter disappointments. This stubborn silence was her needle put to the balloon of their pleasant will that just wouldn't explode. Nobody thought she'd been listening, which was fair enough an assumption. Though her philosophy was always this: save your words for when they matter. Beaters were her territory. It'd be difficult for them to argue against her word, considering she had the most prominent sway in the issue.

           Their little huddle lapsed into an unsettled silence. For a moment, nobody knew how to respond.

          "Care to share, Sawyer?" Nia offered, smiling placidly, a knowing gleam in her eyes.

          "He played little league baseball back home in his muggle school," Kenai argued, brows furrowing. "He's got decent technique."

          "But not adapted to hit a bludger," Sawyer pointed out. "We don't need someone experienced to be a Beater."

          "Then who do we need?" Cedric asked, curiosity etched across his features.

          "Someone willing to put themselves in the line of fire," Sawyer said.

          "Not everyone has a death wish like you," Harriet scoffed, but not in an unfriendly way. "And I agree with Kenai. Daniel seemed like the best fit. Good build, too. Did you even see his swing?"

          "I did." Sawyer said, unmoved. She flicked Harriet a cool look.

         "And?"

          "And I want Violet Finch on the line-up."

          "But she didn't even hit a single bludger!"

          "She can learn."

          "She looks like she could collapse at any moment."

          "Careful there, Harriet," Sawyer said, smiling with unsettling cheer, "underestimation is only going to set you up for failure."

          Harriet harrumphed. Disgruntled but unwilling to combat Sawyer's warpath of persistence, she raked a hand through her wild blonde curls.

          "Why Violet?" Nia asked, leaning forward in measured interest, hands braced on her knees, drawing out Sawyer's perspective. "She's the weakest out of all the other players at tryouts."

          "Because she wanted to learn." Because she came to me and asked me how to be better, Sawyer wanted to say. Because she didn't think that she was as good as she got like the others and she was determined to improve.

          Nia pursed her lips as she regarded Sawyer, but the latter's face was schooled into its default Rhadamanthine mask, unreadable and unrelenting. Finally, Nia spoke.

          "Tell you what," she said. "You have three weeks of training time to prove that Violet can make it. If not, she's out and we'll bring Daniel in."

          "Three weeks?" Kenai raised a brow. "But that's impossible! She won't make it in time for our first match."

          "Just because you took two months to learn how to block shots in time doesn't mean that she will inherit your incompetence," Sawyer snapped in a voice made of teeth, her tone icy enough to freeze an empire. Something lethal and cold burned brightly in her steely eyes—watch me, her frosty stare said—and Kenai flinched. Cedric sucked in a breath, eyeing both players cautiously as Sawyer and Kenai glared vehemently at each other. Making a clicking sound in her mouth, Nia impatiently snapped her fingers between the two of them in a fruitless bid to get them to cut out the animosity.

          "Must we be so nasty to each other?" Harriet frowned, "we're picking teammates, not gladiators. It's not a life or death situation."

          "With the current climate, it may as well be," Kenai said begrudgingly, slanting an incendiary glower at Sawyer, whose lips stretched into a languid smile, all shark teeth and predatory. The mercurial change in her temperament was nothing new, so they were hardly fazed when Sawyer stood up, and left the group. Not once looking back or responding to Cedric's concerned call for her. She stalked straight towards her dorm and slammed the door shut, the sound loud enough to cut through bone.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

IT HAS BEEN WAY TOO LONG SINCE I POSTED FOR THIS FIC I HAVE THREE CHAPTERS PREWRITTEN AND READY TO GO SO BE EXPECTING SOME UPDATES MY BABIES / WHOEVER STILL CARES ABOUT THIS FIC

ANYWHO

THOUGHTS???? SAWYER X OLIVER DYNAMIC? SAWYER X HER FRIENDS?? MARCUS FLINT DATING RIO?