CHAPTER FOUR
the antichrist, the mom friend

HOMEWORK, IN THEORY, should be more challenge and less torture, but, sometimes, it was difficult to distinguish between the two.

Midnight, the rest of the world rocked away into oblivion, the chillingly void-like darkness outside her window stitched with shadows like pitch spilled over Hogwarts, and Sawyer was sat cross-legged on her bed with a torchlight clipped between her teeth, pointed down at her textbook, unable to focus on the ridiculously boring Charms homework Professor Flitwick had set her class. The lights in the dorm room had been blown out and the only other source of light was the moonbeams streaming through the window situated next to her bed. Throughout her life, Sawyer had consistently been a selfish person (within reason), but she wasn't above ignoring her roommates' need for sleep at such an hour just to turn on the lights and involuntarily wake them up. She never really cared for other people's' feelings, but she wasn't that inconsiderate.

And so, she settled for using the miserable torchlight stolen off one of her sleeping roommates. She'd resolved to return it when she felt like it. Probably after finishing the stupid Charms homework. For some reason, Sawyer had always found Charms difficult to grasp. Possibly because she was slow. That was it. Nothing profound.

Even as a child, Sawyer had always been slow; a late bloomer. While Wyatt was already running around and actively screaming his first words, Sawyer had waited until the very last minute—while her parents were worrying themselves to bits wondering if there was something wrong with their daughter—to mutter what must've been a slightly less articulate version of every profanity she's ever heard from her neighbours. It'd horrified her mother to no end and her father had only laughed before being reprimanded by his wife.

More so after that, while Wyatt had progressed to being able to read without trouble, Sawyer struggled with concentrating. She wasn't dyslexic or anything. She was just slow. When they got to school with tests or the like, Wyatt always scored better. Sawyer never did well in anything she wasn't interested in. Wyatt was praised and Sawyer was reprimanded. Which eventually birthed that outright hatred for her brother because she was constantly being compared to him. Wyatt was bright. Sawyer was slow. Everybody loved Wyatt, hung onto his every word. Nobody listened to Sawyer; she was the rotten twin.

Always the angry soul, always the dimwit. She wasn't born with that anger, though. It'd manifested inside her over the years of basically being told that whatever she did wasn't enough. Until she got so frustrated that she'd stopped trying completely. The anger fed into her thoughts and actions and mechanisms. So much so that she would be set off with just the slightest comment or even a slight shove in the wrong way.

Eventually, she pushed back. And she pushed back hard. She'd snap at everyone and everything. Sometimes, the anger would be reigned in, locked so deeply it would only ever be targeted at herself. Mostly, though, she became impulsively-compulsively violent. And it damaged a lot of things for her.

Having said that, Sawyer knows why she hates Wyatt. She shouldn't; but she does. It's a shameful thing, really, but also something she wouldn't tell anyone even if they tried forcing it out of her.

You see, Sawyer Lee was a jealous person. Not in the way that denoted the jealousy upon seeing someone else with someone she liked or whatever. No, it was more than that. She was irrationally jealous of success and praise and despised the fact that no matter what she did, she would always come last. Sawyer supposed that was the twisted ugliness about her. Though that jealousy was targeted towards more specific people. People who actually got to her. Like Wyatt. And though she's used to it by now, numb to the comparisons, Sawyer wasn't by any means unaffected.

It still hurt, and nobody understood her standpoint. Because Sawyer was never good at articulating her feelings. Or letting others know that they got to her. So she only got angrier, and more bitter day by day. Attack before you can be attacked—the sentiment that carved her anger, forged it from its smouldering embers. Because Wyatt would always be better. Because every small victory she had, Wyatt had already accomplished so much more.

And it was a detrimental factor to the sibling relationship. Wyatt was nothing but loving towards her. Hell, he'd even wanted to spend time with her when all she ever wanted was to rake her fingernails down his face. She knew he never flaunted this in front of her, but she couldn't help resenting him. It was just his presence that ticked her off.

All because Sawyer couldn't let go. All because there were days where he could say something so harmless, could cut his eyes to her at just the wrong moment without vicious intention, could smile so easily and have so many people flock to him naturally, yet she wanted to hit him so hard across the face his head fell off his shoulders and it was in this thought, this savage, primitive compulsion that terrified her to no end.

* * *

BY THE TIME FOUR A.M. trickled into reality, a whole hour before she was meant to meet with Oliver on the pitch, Sawyer had given up on her Charms homework, completed her Transfiguration assignment, prayed Professor McGonagall could forgive her nightmarish handwriting, and absolutely obliterated her half-done History of Magic essay in a fiery fit of frustration. At such an ungodly hour, nobody but Sawyer was wide awake.

Or, at least, she was trying to be.

Hogwarts was silent, sleeping. It was still dark out, and the sky was still a pitch black, and the grounds weren't even stirring at this time. The only source of light so far seemed to be the moonlight peeking out from behind a veil of thin clouds and filtering in silver beams through the window next to Sawyer's bed. Her four other roommates were still fast asleep. For a moment, she listened, swaying in place, waves of sound lapsing over her like the sea rocking against at the shore, a timeless lullaby, of Irene Dermott's soft snores perforating the quiet of the room, of the castle groaning in the wind, of the birds shaking out their wings in the trees, the trembling branches rustling the leaves in plaintive shushing.

Thankfully, the bathroom was vacant, and Sawyer had the entire space to herself. She didn't think she could stand it if the others were awake too and clamouring for the facilities. (Truth be told, she may just be endangering them since she was particularly snappy in the morning.)

Glowering at her reflection in the dust-specked mirror as though coming face-to-face with a mortal nemesis, Sawyer stood there for a minute, just groggily coaxing herself into full consciousness. She was just staring at her own rugged appearance, but not actually looking at it properly. She already knew her eyes were the same tired brown and her short hair was a mess and she looked like she'd just traversed to Hell and back. Not unexpected, though, since she'd only gotten three hours of sleep. Rio had once told her that she had a face built for scorn, like she always had something nasty to say balanced precariously on the tip of her tongue. He hadn't intended for it to come across as a malicious comment, but she smacked him for it anyway.

In fifteen minutes, she traded in her pajamas for her father's old hoodie with an American muggle space station logo printed on the front, black leggings and grey trainers, and her toothbrush for a broomstick and a bat. Sawyer wasn't a morning person. To be awake at this ungodly hour should be considered a cardinal sin. But a promise was a promise, and if anything, Sawyer Lee kept all of her promises. After damning Oliver Wood to Hell and back throughout her routinely wash-up, glaring at the mirror as though his face might appear so she could scratch his eyes out, Sawyer dragged herself away from the bathroom and worked out the tightness in her joints by walking laps around the empty common room.

At four-thirty, Sawyer skimmed her eyes over the roster pinned to the wall adjacent to the staircase leading to the dorms. Pinned at eye-level was a helpful list crafted by one of the seventh years to help out the forgetful first years figure out where their dorms were and had everyone documented and classified according to their dorm room numbers. Sawyer found Violet's name after a few seconds of combing through names clustered under specified directions to dorms and room numbers.

Much to her convenience, Violet's room was only three doors down from Sawyer's.

So, four-thirty a.m., and Sawyer was barging unceremoniously into Violet's dorm, the door slamming loudly against the wall as the hinges failed to catch. Startling some of the girls in that dorm awake, Sawyer's ruckus kicked up a cloud of confusion like disturbed dust. Lights to flickered on, illuminating the room, and girls in nightgowns and deep scowls sat up to watch. Someone had accidentally tumbled out of bed in shock at the fifth year Hufflepuff's abrupt entrance but lay on the ground, too stunned to react. Disregarding the contemptuous glares and the hostile questions—What the fuck? Who the fuck do you think you are?—flung her way in acidic tones before they realised who they were dealing with, Sawyer scowled, incendiary glower scathing enough to scorch the earth.

Nobody dared to question her motives or protest her rude intrusion as Sawyer stalked over to Violet's bed. Either they'd sensed the animosity radiating off of her skin and knew well enough to steer clear from butting into the situation, or they knew, through the grapevine, of the rumours about Sawyer's violent tendencies and were too afraid for confrontation. Either way worked in Sawyer's favour. The blonde girl was curled up beneath the covers, unaffected by the commotion that was Sawyer's entrance.

Sawyer gripped Violet's shoulder and shook with impatient force. The rest of Violet's roommates watched on in a nebulous haze of disconcertment, rubbing out the remains of sleep from their eyes. Two of them had fallen back asleep, opting not to spectate. Violet had only just began to stir.

"Get up," Sawyer commanded. "Now."

Groggily, Violet blinked slowly, adjusting to the rude awakening. Furrowing her brows, the girl stared at Sawyer, perplexed.

"Sawyer? What are you doing here?"

Features schooled into a blank storm, Sawyer crossed her arms over her chest. She had no patience for coaxing and coddling.

"If you want to be on the team, you will get up now and meet me in the common room in ten minutes in something warm and comfortable or you can forget your place on the team." Sawyer's tone was flat, but there was no mistaking the threat in her words, a knife pressed to her throat, a boot hovering over her spine, seconds from crushing down on bone. "Don't make me regret fighting for you. And for fuck's sake, do something about that lot of hair, would you? You can't expect to play with all that constantly getting in the way."

It took Violet awhile to process Sawyer's words. But as soon as it had registered in her head, Violet sprung up with a stunned "oh!" as if she'd been electrocuted.

"Ten minutes," Sawyer said, tone flashing with the lethal edge of a warning, and Violet nodded vigorously before practically throwing the covers off her small body and barrelling to the bathroom without hesitation. Sawyer didn't stick around to wait, and promptly left Violet's dorm for the common room.

Not long after, Violet was shutting the door behind her and entering the common room where Sawyer was leaning casually against the back of the couch. Upon spotting the younger Hufflepuff, Sawyer instantly noticed that something was different about her.

For instance, Violet's once long, ethereal blonde locks had been mercilessly chopped to where the short strands ended just under her ears in uneven layers that suggested an agitated haste. A pair of large scissors lay glinting in Violet's hands—the weapon responsible—and the girl looked pixie-like and fresh as a daisy, stood to attention as though Sawyer was her drill sergeant. Violet beamed, a youthful glow in the roseate tinge of her cherubic cheeks. Her sweater was mustard yellow and her leggings were bright pink.

Suppressing a sigh at the disorienting vibrance of her appearance, Sawyer only gave the girl a flippant once-over before nodding in approval. Despite Sawyer's nonchalance, Violet still looked like she'd just unearthed a cluster of diamonds in a coal mine.

Sawyer tossed Violet a paper bag, contents rustling in protest as Violet fumbled to catch it before it hit the floor and burst. Fingers carefully peeling off the tape sealing the paper bag, Violet took a furtive peek and glanced back up at Sawyer in confounded dismay. Sawyer huffed, narrowing her eyes in cautionary menace until Violet paled and plucked out one raspberry jam biscuit out of the copious amounts of biscuits in the bag. Its contents could supplement a family of five an entire day.

"Eat," Sawyer instructed sternly, and at Violet's confusion, pinned the smaller girl with a deadpan look. "You need something to sustain you until breakfast. I'll explain everything to you later, but we are not leaving this common room until you finish every single one of those biscuits. Here, have some water—" she held out a water bottle to Violet, an olive branch, an apology, a promise, I'll take care of you— "just incase they're too dry."

True to her word, Sawyer refused to walk out of the common room until Violet had gone through the entire packet of biscuits. A few times, the blonde girl had tried to reason with Sawyer, but was only met with a stony wall of obstinate silence and the impending threat of losing her place on the team. In the end, Sawyer had even forced Violet to invert the packet to prove that it was actually empty, only spilling flakes of crumbs onto the carpet. Someone else could clean that up. By the time they'd left the common room, Violet looked a little green in the face, inches from vomiting over her shoes, and was scurrying after Sawyer who'd started down the corridor without waiting for Violet.

"Um," Violet tentatively began, struggling to catch up with Sawyer's quick strides. A million questions flitted over her soft features, but Sawyer didn't slow, even as Violet was having difficulty keeping up with the ridiculously fast pace Sawyer had set. "Sawyer? What's going on?"

"Be quiet and walk faster. Don't let Mrs Norris or Filch catch you."

Violet frowned, a dainty curve of her lip. Resolve crumbling, Sawyer sighed reluctantly relenting.

"I made a deal with... an acquaintance. He's the captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. You've heard of Oliver Wood, I presume? Of course, of course. I'm supposed to help him train his new Seeker, but I wanted to train you as well so you could have a bit of a head-start before team training resumes for the season. The four of us are now meeting every Saturday morning for training, and I'll try to bargain a later time so you don't lose out on sleep, but knowing Oliver, you'll only be forced to wake up earlier. Fucking psycho– oh, stop lagging, will you?"

"Sorry!" Violet squeaked.

"Hurry up."

* * *

"OI! LEE!" A familiar voice called from behind as Sawyer and Violet were hastily crossing the grassy plain towards the Quidditch pitch.

Sawyer didn't stop to acknowledge Oliver as he jogged up to them with a wooden crate cradled in his muscular arms, annoyance visibly pinching his features. Similarly dressed, Oliver was clad in a grey hoodie and black basketball shorts. Out of school robes, he cut a more imposing figure, more athletically built, more broad-shouldered and taller, towering over her. He thrust a bat into her arms.

"You're three minutes late," Oliver deadpanned shortly, shooting Sawyer an accusatory glare. "It's five-oh-three. We agreed on five sharp."

"Oh, fuck off, Wood, it's too early," Sawyer drawled coolly. Then, she looked down at Violet and jerked her chin at Oliver. "Violet, tell the guy to fuck off."

Blinking nonplussed at the odd request, Violet turned to an unimpressed Oliver, who only greeted her with the raise of an eyebrow. She gulped nervously, shrinking shyly into Sawyer's side. To most, Oliver was as attractive as he was intimidating, a heart attack in the flesh. As one of the few exceptions to his physical appeal, Sawyer had known him long enough to build up a resistance to both factors. A few nights ago, two of her roommates had been discussing Oliver's eligibility as "boyfriend material", to which Sawyer took unceremonious pleasure in scorning their conclusion with a brutal ruthlessness that could rip and rend the world to pieces. Shame that he was too married to Quidditch to even spare anyone else a glance. He scored a solid nine out of ten on their rank—one point lost to personality, nine for his, as Irene so smittenly dubbed, charisma and godlike physique, at which point Sawyer snorted so hard she hit her head on the wall—which was a considerable lot more than what most boys in Hogwarts could hope to clinch.

          He shot Sawyer a questioning look which she ignored.

"This is your kid?" Oliver asked incredulously, squinting at Violet's small stature in blatant disbelief, eyes traversing from the top of her head to the tips of her toes in critical assessment—four foot eleven dressed in a yellow sweater and pink yoga leggings—then he flicked his gaze back to Sawyer in a gesture that essentially screamed, Seriously?

"I'm twelve years old. I'm not a kid," Violet said, her voice just barely above a whisper, but the irritation was present all the same.

"She even has your temper," Oliver mused, mouth pressed into a sardonic line. "That's sweet."

It was obvious he had his arising doubts about Sawyer's choice of player. Especially since Violet was meant to be a Beater, a position usually filled by those built from far more muscular physique. Sawyer herself had gained more weight in muscle and bulk, filling in her uniform more than her brother, who had been a Chaser, as the years had gone by. Violet was evidently nothing of that sort—weak looking and slightly pudgy with an air of palpable anxiousness shimmering around her. Sawyer tutted and reached out to push his face away so he could stop scrutinising Violet and making the second year Hufflepuff cower awkwardly in discomfort. As it was, Violet, dreamy-faced and soft-edged, was gripping onto Sawyer's sleeve, shoulders slumped as though she might cave into herself, a frightful supernova, and disappear at will. Scowling in bemusement, Oliver caught Sawyer's hand and pulled it away before she could grab his jaw.

"Oliver, meet Violet. Violet, meet Oliver, captain of the Gryffindor team, Quidditch fanatic. If you need statistics nobody else cares about, this is your guy. You also have my permission to call him Fuckface at any time," Sawyer said in a voice made of acid and ice. Oliver slanted her a soul-immolating glare. A cheap thrill washed down her ribcage. "Where's your kid?"

"On the pitch," said Oliver, jerking his chin in the direction of aforementioned Quidditch pitch. "We met up here half an hour ago."

Sawyer nodded. A brief memory from last night's dinner surfaced to the forefront of her mind, sending a jolt of electricity down her spine, pooling dread like liquid silver in her gut.

"I need to talk to you," Sawyer murmured, frowning up at Oliver. Askance, Sawyer glimpsed Violet staring between Sawyer and Oliver in measurable curiosity, like a child attempting to decipher her parents' heated whispers, then she brought her eyes back to Oliver, who frowned at her, flummoxed, and added as an afterthought, "later. It concerns one part of our deal."

The space between his brows creased as they drew together. Oliver pursed his lips, but didn't press the issue any further.

They lapsed into a peaceful silence for a bit before Sawyer started to notice Oliver shooting her furtive glances in her peripheral vision. And it wasn't until they reached the pitch that Sawyer understood what those glances meant.

At the sight of her brother sitting in the stands, waving amiably down to Oliver, Sawyer's blood began to boil and she saw red. Wyatt's bright eyes dimmed like a bulb when they met with hers and his wide smile faltered.

Turning on Oliver with what must be the world's most vicious snarl, Sawyer narrowed her eyes into slits.

"What the fuck is he doing up there?" She seethed, dark eyes flashing lethally with murderous intent, a spitting volcano intent on destruction. Violet's eyes widened frightfully, and she let out a weak whimper at the venom dripping from Sawyer's gritted teeth. Oliver, accustomed to Sawyer's jaundiced temperament, only slanted her a hardened look before gently pulling Violet away from Sawyer incase the older girl exploded into another one of her violent moods. He didn't want an injured player on the pitch. Especially an innocent twelve year old caught in the cataclysmic crossfire of Sawyer's rage and his stony resolution.

"Your brother is here to watch because I asked him to come," Oliver told her frostily, setting the crate down on the ground by his feet before straightening to glare down at Sawyer, arms crossed over his chest. "Sawyer, he's your brother. What's your deal with him, anyway? He doesn't even have a problem with you. Grow the fuck up, Lee. You're siblings. You're not supposed to hate his guts so much so that you won't even acknowledge his existence."

"Not that he needs me to," Sawyer sneered, an ugly nastiness coiling in her gut. "Plenty of people do that for me already."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Oliver frowned. He doesn't get it, she thought bitterly. No one does.

Instead of gracing him with an answer, Sawyer scoffed, temper flaring. She brusquely shoved past him, shoulder crashing unforgivingly into his arm, and stalked off towards the edge of the pitch with her broom in hand and two bats in the other, a thunderstorm raging within her skin. Violet shot Oliver an alarmed look before scurrying after Sawyer, to which he shook his head in exasperation.

As anticipated, Harry, Gryffindor's brand new Seeker, was flying fast circles around the pitch on his broom. From where they stood, looking up, she could make out a small blur zipping in circular motion against the sky, morning light trickling onto the grass from behind the thin veil of clouds. Sawyer pressed a bat against Violet's chest until the girl took it, startled from her reverie.

"From now on," Sawyer said, with utmost severity, "you do as I say. And you play like you're fighting for your life. The others aren't so sure about you. They think you're a weak link because you don't fit the physical description of an ideal Beater, and I want to prove them wrong. So you work with me, and I won't give up on you unless you give me a reason to. Give me your game, and I'll make sure you keep your place on this team. Tell me you understand."

Violet, intently transfixed on Sawyer's words, nodded, frantic and eager. "I understand."

Pleased with the response, Sawyer stepped away. "Go fly laps with that Potter boy, I want you to focus on staying centred on your broom."

As soon as Violet kicked off towards the sky, Oliver came up behind Sawyer, eyes watchfully trailing the blonde girl's ascent in concern. Violet was frail enough that a single gust of well-timed wind might knock her off her broom in midair. But Sawyer knew better. He was just assessing Violet, figuring out everything that was wrong with her flight so he could tackle that problem later on during the actual training sessions. Soon enough, Violet was just another blur zipping in quick circles alongside Harry like a flaxen shooting star in elliptical orbit, the pink of her leggings a blurry smudge in the cornflower blue sky.

"Do you really believe you can keep that promise?" Oliver's tone was soft, and there was no venom behind it, but Sawyer's spine went rigid all the same.

"Get my brother off this pitch, then I'll talk to you."

Oliver sighed in defeat. She turned to face him, hating how she had to crane her neck to look up at him, simultaneously ignoring how close they were.

Sawyer had three weeks with Violet. Three weeks to prove that Violet was more than just a hopeless case and the weak link her team assumed she was. Three weeks with Oliver Wood and then she was done, and she could wash her hands off of Harry Potter. She could go back to ignoring the Gryffindor Quidditch captain until the next Christmas dinner with both their families, and then the subsequent one after that, and then there would be graduation where she would finally be free. The future was still uncertain and she didn't know what she wanted out of life, but Sawyer hoped hers wouldn't be intertwined with her brother's—which meant that Oliver had no place in it either.

"I won't ever understand this bitter, one-sided cold war with your brother," he murmured, fixing Sawyer with a pointed look, "but Wyatt is my best friend, and even I know he loves you unconditionally. So he knows you don't want to talk to him, or even acknowledge that he even exists, but he does and he is your brother. Look, I'm not a professional relationship therapist, but I know that this grudge against him is unhealthy. You can't ignore him forever."

Fix it, was what Oliver was implicitly imploring. Pointedly disregarding the pleading message in his tone, Sawyer cut her eyes impassively to him. A smile stretched her lips as she cocked her head in withering appraisal. Oliver's gaze turned to steel at her vacant cheer.

"You're right," she said, saccharine smile sweet as poison, as if his words made some sort of sense. "You'll never understand. And neither will Wyatt. It's not your job to. Frankly, it's none of your business, and it's not anyone's mess to fix."

"It's yours."

Sawyer pressed a finger against Oliver's firm chest, pushing hard until he was forced to step backwards to let up some space between them. Flicking him a bored look, she said, "I'm not entertaining this."

"Someone has to."

"Not me," Sawyer made a flippant gesture. "Are we going to play or not?"

"You know, I never thought I'd ever live long enough to hear you say that."

"Better get it embroidered on a pillow then."

Oliver scoffed. "I'll hug it to sleep every night."

Her lip curled in disdain. "You disgust me," said Sawyer, with feeling.

Rolling his eyes, Oliver grinned at her, as if finally remembering his inextinguishable passion for the wizarding sport. He called the two junior players down, waving at them from the ground and gesturing for the younger pair to join them.

Once their feet were firmly planted on the grass, Harry and Violet approached the two older players, brooms in hand. Sawyer eyed Harry dispassionately as he came to a stop before Oliver and Violet did the same for Sawyer.

"Harry," Oliver said, proudly throwing an arm around the boy's shoulders and gesturing vaguely at the two girls, "meet Sawyer, Hufflepuff's Beater, also known as the Antichrist. She's going to be an integral part of your training. That's Violet, incase you haven't already acquainted yourselves during your laps. She's training to be a Beater. Sawyer, this is Harry, my new Seeker."

Harry Potter. The boy who lived, Sawyer remembered Rio telling her on the day the first years were sorted into their houses. She remembered how the entire Hall seemed to hold its breath when the Sorting Hat had called his name, this tiny scrap of a boy struggling to seat himself on the stool, this scraggly war orphan marked by the infamous lightning scar of tragedy, destined for glory. In the same spatial thought, she could hear Jeremy's nagging admonishment lurking in the back of her head: read the wires once in awhile, mate, get informed. In person, the boy who lived didn't look like much—all scrawny build, messy black hair and tired green eyes. But Sawyer knew the things people said about him through the grapevine; he was a child celebrity, an impossible miracle. Still, he was a boy, and he was here for Quidditch. She would do her part and leave him alone. After all, she had nothing to gain by associating with him. She was just Psycho Sawyer next to Harry Potter, boy-wonder, fascist killer, the boy who lived.

Harry gave Sawyer a lopsided smile that faltered tentatively at the edges. In acknowledgement, she returned his greeting with a two-fingered mock salute.

"Now, here's the plan," Oliver said, grinning maniacally. Infected with Oliver's vibrant enthusiasm, Violet and Harry exchanged earnest glances. "We're going to train together four times a week with a day to recover properly between each session. In addition with your individual team training, this won't give you two enough of a boost to catch up immediately, but there will be improvements that'll be noticeable if you learn quickly. We will go through Quidditch tactics tomorrow morning..."

At that point, Sawyer stopped listening.

Soon after Oliver had gone through his speech, they were onto running drills until the sun came up. Because the weather was relatively temperate and the gentle winds kept the air cool enough amidst the last dregs of midnight fog, they weren't tired out as much. Sawyer made sure Oliver included Violet in all his rigorous Quidditch drills, and he gladly did without her having to resort to brute force and threatening him with death and injury.

They even played a round of mock Quidditch where Oliver launched small tennis balls into the air for Harry to catch. Sawyer was tasked with obstruction, hitting bludgers targeted towards Harry, and Violet played valiant defender, batting Sawyer's bludgers away as best as she could. It was a tiring process, and Harry had actually fallen off his broom once from attempting to avoid crashing into Violet, who struggled to defend her mark from being hit.

It was obvious Violet was trying her best, but it wasn't enough.

"Come on, Finch, throw your bat at Sawyer's head if you have to!" Oliver hollered from across the pitch, loud and clear.

"Shining sportsmanship, Wood," Sawyer mocked as she slammed another bludger directly at Harry with vicious force. The boy let out an audible gasp when he finally spotted the bludger rocketing towards him like a battering ram, and instinctively zipped out of the way in a moment of self-preservation. Releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding, Oliver turned to Sawyer with an exasperated glower.

"Merlin, Lee, you're supposed to train my Seeker, not kill him!"

"Don't pretend you care about his welfare."

"That doesn't mean I don't need him alive and in one piece for Quidditch matches," Oliver shot back and threw another tennis ball into the air where it sailed in a neat arc and Harry rushed to catch it.

Sawyer fired the incoming bludger in Harry's path. She watched Violet closely as the girl raced after the speeding bludger and swung at it. The bludger was deflected successfully for a bit, but was now shooting back on the course that Sawyer had intended it to. The blonde chased after it once more and went at it again. Violet's flight had stabilised, but it was evident that she was still trying to find momentum for a tight swing.

"She's going to fall off her broom if she doesn't correct her technique," Oliver remarked, flying up behind Sawyer. Harry caught the tennis ball just as Violet batted the bludger away before it knocked Harry off-course. Oliver lobbed what must've been the millionth tennis ball in the opposite direction and Harry followed its trajectory.

"She needs time." Sawyer slammed a bludger at Harry.

"What's so special about her, anyway?" Oliver asked. "I heard from Nia that she was the weakest player who showed up to tryouts, but you insisted on keeping her. You could've picked someone who was stronger and knew what they were doing, but you didn't. Why is that?"

"Complacency kills."

"So does incompetence."

"It's not about strength," Sawyer said irritably, eyeing a bludger closing in on her in the distance with detached interest, "and I don't want to work with someone who thinks they've already got it in the bag. Those types don't tend to listen. Too argumentative, too arrogant. I don't need a perfect soldier."

Oliver finally understood. "You need someone who knows that they need to improve, someone who's willing to go to any lengths to do so."

That wiped the irritation off her features as she hit the bludger towards Violet. Violet, who knew she wouldn't be able to block the shot in time, dove out of the way, Harry in tow.

"She can learn how to correct her swing once she knows where she needs to improve."

In the distance, Violet and Harry were laughing at something too indistinct for the older pair to hear. Oliver turned to Sawyer with a raised eyebrow.

"So you do care about your team after all."

Sawyer rolled her eyes.

"Don't make stupid assumptions."

This time, it was Oliver's turn to roll his eyes.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
this chapter is totally self indulgent i can admit that

i've also resolved to stop caring so much about comments / feedback as motivational factors to keep going with this story bc i just enjoy writing and i want to write for me.