CHAPTER TWENTY
blood in the water

TO THE SOUND OF Professor McGonagall's stringent voice ringing precise as freshly painted nails tapping against marble tiles, Sawyer colours in a blood-black sky to her doodled comic at the bottom of her Transfiguration textbook, vaguely cognisant of the soft scratching of Oliver's quill as he takes notes diligently. It's not that she's bored of the subject. In theory, Transfiguration was the least dreadful subject in Sawyer's opinion. Her attention span just seems to have collapsed twenty minutes after the class had begun—a deboned, spineless creature made of phantom skin left on the ground to be stepped on and walked over.

Life crawls forward. Slow and stagnant, encased in a glass chrysalis with the light frozen in stasis, watching through the cryogenic lens of falling dust as the world revolves on its axis, as people pass in periphery—it feels more like the prelude to an unknown future rather than the present. Feels too static, holding down the fort on your own head, keeping the light on the torch you used to want to snuff out. But one blink at the wrong moment and you're suddenly somewhere else in a different time surrounded by strange faces in the hallways, on the Quidditch pitch, looking back at you in the mirror. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Moving from Point A to Point B. Life is about searching for something, they say. Everybody's always puzzling together the pieces life serves them, constantly sifting through keys and locks and broken clocks for clues leading them to a grand purpose. Some people search and search and never find what they've spent their whole lives looking for. Some people search and search and still don't even know what they're chasing down. It's all static. All this waiting. The worst part is that it's not supposed to be this way and yet it is. They call it structure.

Sawyer is starting to lose feeling in her legs when a scrap piece of paper drops onto the corner of her desk, over her own parchment bearing sloppily scribbled notes she'd stopped taking halfway through Professor McGonagall's lecture. She stares at it for an endless second, unmoving, before slanting Oliver a blank look. Still pretending to be enraptured by McGonagall's lecture (though Sawyer knows it's really Quidditch and the many statistics and game plans swamping his mind rather than Human Transfiguration incantations), Oliver doesn't look back at her, but the slight quirk of his lips is all the indication he gives that he knows she's looking. For a moment longer, she keeps staring, expecting an explanation, but he keeps pretending not to notice.

It's been weeks since their first class together as desk mates and neither of them have crossed the no-man's land of silence. Until now.

Reluctantly, Sawyer drags her gaze back to the piece of paper. It's blank. She taps the tip of her wand against it, and, suddenly, ink bleeds across the paper. Lines form, four of them cross-hatching over each other. Nine spaces. A solid ring of ink makes a circle in the centre of the grid. Words in Oliver's neat handwriting begin to take form beneath it. Puzzled, Sawyer stares at it longer, fighting to hold down the moving letters, the writhing ink—projected not by magic, but by her own dyslexic brain—until she got the message.

Your move.

Sawyer flicks Oliver a searching look, measuring his expression as he continues to ignore her, idly fiddling with his quill. She glances back down at the grid. No point wondering why he'd decidedly selected now, of all times, to engage with her. It wasn't like they had reason to talk. Still...

She etches a small X in the bottom left corner of the grid, and slid the paper over to Oliver's side of the desk as Professor McGonagall turns her back on the class to write something on the black board. In no time at all, the paper comes back with another circle added to the bottom right corner of the grid. Sawyer etches an X on the top left corner, preventing a score. She flicks the paper over Oliver's arm, onto his parchment filled with Transfiguration notes. And so it goes back and forth for a minute, until, somehow, Oliver wins.

Robbed of insults, Sawyer stares at him for a solid three seconds. She knows he notices, even as he continues paying attention to the lecture, a ghost of a smile in the slightest upturn of his lips.

Narrowing her eyes, Sawyer glowers down at her hands. Frustration pricked at her gut. Was this his way of getting her to talk? Perhaps. But it didn't matter. This wasn't Quidditch, where she could let a couple Chasers slip by unharmed just to keep her team on their toes. This was an inconsequential game for children. She couldn't let him be a smug bastard about winning. And so, without a clue why she had any resolve at all, Sawyer rips out the bottom half of her spare parchment paper, draws a haphazard grid, and stiffly etches a circle in the centre space, and scribbles a messy message beneath it. Without looking over at Oliver to gauge his reaction, she chucks the paper at him, sets her jaw, and stares ahead, looking at the blackboard but not seeing the words Professor McGonagall had written on it. For her attention was discretely focal on her periphery, where she could sense Oliver staring at her, an indecipherable look on his face after decoding her message.

Again.

* * *

MARCUS FLINT HAS NEVER BEEN the confrontational type. He's the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, yes, but instigating fights wasn't a prerequisite of leadership qualities. Competitive spirit was a lot different, though, and where Marcus lacked the argumentative spark, he made up for on the pitch, facing down the opposition team with a savage ferocity they couldn't match.

On the other hand, his boyfriend, Rio, had a short temper and picked fights like he picked his poisons: sparingly, for the cheap thrill, and without regard for any consequences.

It should come as a surprise when Marcus, while making quick exit from the nightmare of his Potions class, turns a corner only to find Rio slamming a burlesque boy—a sixth year Gryffindor—against the wall, hands fisted in the collar of the boy's shirt, teeth bared in a nasty snarl, a feral gleam in his eyes. Except that it isn't. Rio would fight with anything and everything if it came with a name and a pulse, with or without reason—and if it came without, Rio would find one anyway. Around them, a ring of students had formed, spectating like a mesmerised crowd in a boxing match, watching the two boys exchange blows and trading acidic insults.

"Aw, jeez, not again..." Jeremy mutters, instinctively gripping Quinn's wrist. Stuttering to a stop, Quinn only shot Rio and his opponent an alarmed look. Quinn's expression was barely decipherable, though Marcus could read, from the slant of her body and the tension wound up in her posture, like a gazelle poised to flee, that she'd rather be anywhere else.

"Does this happen a lot?" Quinn asks, brows furrowing as she clutched her books tighter to her chest.

Marcus sighs. If she were present at the scene, Sawyer would step in without prompt, and one look would send everyone else running, tail between their legs. But since Sawyer wasn't here, and Jeremy had the natural talent to diffuse all disputes on every level except physical, that meant he would have to be the one to pull Rio out of the water this time. Setting his jaw, Marcus shouldered his way past the gathering crowd, just in time to see Rio throw a punch.

The Gryffindor boy went down, bleeding from his mouth and nose. There was no wavering in the line of the blow. Feet planted in an unbreakable stance, Rio ignored the horrified scream startled from the crowd. Blood stained Rio's collar, so much of it, flowing from a cut on his brow, from his nose, obscuring the lower half of his face. Yet, his expression was hard as granite. Whatever the argument had been, Rio couldn't have been the one who started it. Or that's what he made it look like, anyhow.

"Rio," Marcus started, too late.

Before he could form a plan of action, the Gryffindor boy had sprung back up to his feet and, with an enraged roar, caught Rio in a rough hook to the jaw. Rio spat out a string of profanities so vicious and so varied Marcus was slightly amazed that the words alone didn't skewer the boy there and then. From then on it was a series of knees meeting chests, elbows rammed into faces, backs shoved against the wall, blood on bruised knuckles, fists colliding with jaws, red speckling the wall. This was a real fight, not for show, playing in fast-forward, a brutal blur of motion and vehemence. Both Rio and Sawyer had been in the thick of this sort of fight, but, without Sawyer, Marcus was at a loss of how to handle the situation. Behind him, Jeremy was already dispelling the crowd, desperately drawing them away so they wouldn't attract the attention of nearby professors.

It was a good thing Peeves wasn't around.

Someone was going to be in the infirmary tonight. And Marcus would be damned if he was going to let that someone be Rio.

Resolve hardening his expression, Marcus pursed his lips. He lunged, throwing himself between Rio and the boy, seizing Rio's arm mid-swing. Rio's fingers were hooked in the boy's mouth, as though he was trying to gouge out his teeth, and the boy had fist flying from behind, like violet embrace at the same moment. It was Marcus who caught the blow. Pain exploded in the side of his head, and for a dizzying second, Marcus stumbled. He barely heard Rio calling his name, the desperate pinch of Rio's tone and the fury burning up his eyes as he slanted the Gryffindor boy an incendiary glare. A cloud like there would never be sun again thundered across Rio's razor-sharp features.

"You're fucking dead," Rio growled, seizing the Gryffindor boy by his tie, lips stretching into a sick smile, more skeleton than boy. "You hear me?"

The boy smirks, but before he can say anything, Marcus wrenches Rio's hand away and shoves himself between the two boys without hesitation.

"Back off," Marcus said, the ice in his tone biting, as he stared down the Gryffindor boy. He felt Rio strain against him, trying to pull him back, but Marcus stood his ground. The pain had simmered to a plaintive throb on the side of his skull, pulsing at his temple in sharp spikes. Once this was over, he was going to have words with Rio. "Now."

"Or what, fag?" The Gryffindor boy snarled, shoving Marcus back. Disdain curled his lip as he gave Marcus a condescending once-over.

Rage licked at Marcus' core. His nostrils flared.

"Or I won't be so forgiving," Marcus hissed, whipping his wand out from his pocket and digging the tip into the point between the boy's eyes, hard enough to leave a skin-deep indent. "Turn around or I'll take your eyes out and make it look like an accident. You know I can."

The boy let out a laugh, as though he was biting a chunk of air and spitting it back out, bloody teeth glistering like rubies. "So much talk and no bite."

Without warning, the boy swung. Neither Marcus nor Rio had time to react.

A hand flashed out and clamped over his wrist and twisted sharply, sending the boy to his knees.

A collective gasp of shock rippled through the crowd as Sawyer stood over the Gryffindor boy with a terrifyingly malicious grin etched on her lips, unbalanced and unhinged but precise and certain of her exacted justices. Fear crippled the boy's prideful expression as she bent his fingers back until he had to stifle an agonised scream over the cracking of his knuckles. Until Marcus was certain the boy's bones could bend no further without breaking. Letting out a shaky breath, Marcus backed Rio away, and Rio didn't fight him, only letting out a sick laugh that cleaved the air in two.

The boy's eyes grew wide with pure, unadulterated horror, immobilised and writhing. Sawyer's vice-like grip tightened until his fingers went purple. Until she was on the verge of crushing the ligaments in his wrist. Until it was as though she could pop his hand right out of joint. Until the boy began dry heaving, shaking from the pain, pleading and begging, all the colour drained from his face. Saliva dripped down the corner of his mouth, mottled with blood.

"Hey, hey, shh..." Sawyer mused, black eyes lit with a vacant cheer. "Have you learnt nothing? I don't like when people touch my things."

"I'm sorry," the boy gasped, body wracking with convulsions when Sawyer gave his wrist a sharp tug. "Fuck, fuck— I'm sorry, I won't—"

Sawyer hummed in contemplation. Judge, jury, and executioner. "Your word means nothing to me."

The boy let out a pathetic sob. "Please, please, I'm sorry—"

Jeremy materialised by Sawyer's side in a heartbeat and whispered something in her ear, low enough so Marcus and Rio couldn't catch it. Amusement crossing her features, Sawyer lifted a brow, tossed the boy to the ground without another word, and let Jeremy tow her away. Quinn gave Rio a once-over, shrugged when she decided his injuries weren't serious enough to warrant immediate concern, and glanced over her shoulder, searching for any nearby authoritative figures. Marcus assumed there weren't any. As Jeremy waved away the group of students. He sent Rio a meaningful look, to which Rio rolled his eyes and pressed his forehead against Marcus' in an affectionate nudge.

"He fucking hit you," Rio snarled, temper flaring. They didn't question where Sawyer had come from, nor did they know how she got to their little predicament with such perfect timing, only that she wasn't there one moment, but in the next, she was. Marcus had a sneaking suspicion word got around quicker than they'd expected, and while Sawyer paid no attention to common gossip, rumours of a fight between her friend and someone who wanted to hurt aforementioned friend was a little different. He made a mental note to thank her later, though the sentiment wouldn't go appreciated unless he did something beneficial for her in return. Perhaps he'd buy her something from Honeydukes over the weekend, when they all went to Hogsmeade. Granted, if none of them got detentions.

"Did you swing first?" Marcus asked, lowering his voice as Jeremy and Quinn led their little group down a separate corridor, towards the dining hall. In the midst of the altercation, Marcus had forgotten it was almost time for dinner. As he searched Rio's face, strained in pain, a brutal Caravaggio painting of cuts and bruises and blood, he found that he didn't care.

A devilish glimmer sparked in Rio's iceberg eyes. "No."

"But?"

Despite the split lip, the little flicker of pain any facial movement might've caused him, Rio smirked.

"I let him throw the first punch."

Rolling his eyes, Marcus fought the grin threatening to curve his lips. Idiot, he mouthed, unable to keep a straight face. Rio had obviously gone in search of a fight, and Marcus had long stopped questioning his motivations, and instead, learnt to ask the more important ones. Rio might have the quick-fuse temper of a bull, but he wasn't in Slytherin for nothing. As he gazed into Rio's lethal stare, his heart gave a little jolt. Through a stretch of the empty stairwell where no one could see, Rio pressed a quick kiss to the corner of Marcus' lips, his mouth hot and searching. Marcus didn't think he'd ever get tired of those.

* * *

THERE WAS BLOOD ON THE WALL and it didn't belong to Rio or the boy that he'd fought earlier in the evening. Sawyer didn't notice it until Quinn let out a quiet gasp, fingers seizing Sawyer's sleeve and tugging with a frantic urgency until Sawyer followed Quinn's wide-eyed gaze. Filch's cat hung, stiff and unmoving, by its tail from a blown-out torch on the wall, which was dripping with blood, like a morbid Christmas decoration, as though someone had taken to redecorating.

"What the absolute fuck," Quinn hissed, fingers twisting in Sawyer's sleeve in palpable bewilderment. Sawyer felt Quinn's pulse thrum against her wrist, bucking in anxiety.

They were on their way back from dinner, following the tide of students pouring out of the Great Hall, who were gathering like a blockade in the corridor, a wave of shock rippling over them. Some of them were gesturing to the wall, squinting at the words smeared in blood (THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED, ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE, Quinn had muttered under her breath, saving Sawyer the trouble of decoding the words that wouldn't stop writhing in her vision), and to the water pooled on the floor. Sawyer and Quinn stood far back enough to avoid getting their shoes wet. Behind them, Jeremy, Marcus (who was sporting a pulsing bruise on the side of his face) and Rio (bruised and battered but wearing his injuries like medallions) craned their necks. Sawyer heard Jeremy's sharp intake of breath as he surveyed the scene. He shared a confused look with Quinn, who instinctively inched closer to Sawyer.

"Hang on," Rio said, squinting over the heads of the crowd. "Isn't that the Potter kid? Oh, hell, it's that albino Malfoy brat, again. What's he doing?"

A jolt of familiarity had Sawyer shoving her way to the front, until she broke through the final barrier and spotted Harry and his two friends, standing apart from the crowd, directly under Filch's (possibly dead) cat, facing the wall with abject horror scrawled across their faces. She felt Jeremy come to a halt behind her, his fingers twisted in her sleeve in warning. Even with the firelight flickering in the reflection of his glasses, Harry looked pale. He swallowed, and regarded the blonde boy who'd stepped forward from the crowd, though very much part of it, with a solemn look, though there was a distinct lack of colour in his face. Malfoy smirked, as though he'd said something gutting. Sawyer saw right through Harry's false bravado.

"—You'll be next, Mudbloods!" Malfoy declared, his squeaky voice grating against Sawyer's nerves.

But before Sawyer could intervene, Violet Finch stepped in front of Harry and his friends, fury etched on her features.

"Leave them alone, you... you stupid worm," Violet hissed, slanting Malfoy an incinerating glare, arms crossed over her chest. She couldn't be intimidating even if she tried, but Sawyer had to give the girl points for trying.

Malfoy sneered. "And who're you?"

Fuming, Violet tilted her chin upward as her face flushed red—with a reinvigorated anger or mortification, Sawyer couldn't tell, though her quivering fists betrayed her non-confrontational nerves.

"Harry's friend," Violet gritted out, though whatever shred of combative spine she'd been banking on propping her up through this hostile face-off was visibly crumbling.

Disbelief etched on his features, Malfoy snorted. "Alright, good joke, now move out of the way, girl, or—"

Tired of watching Violet under fire, Sawyer chose this moment to shake Jeremy's grip off and planting herself in front of Violet.

"Or what?" Sawyer cut in, casually.

Silence struck the room as the students held their breaths.

Malfoy paled. All the ugly insults died on his tongue as his words withered in the back of his throat as he shrunk back in fright. Though she wasn't built of impressive stature like Jeremy or Rio, Sawyer still towered over the second years. That, coupled with her track record of the violence she weaved in the hallways to people who didn't follow the black and white rules she set. It was enough to intimidate the illusion of an untouchable boy-god he'd set himself up to be—Sawyer knew the type: never lifted a finger on their own, born with a silver spoon in their mouths, thought themselves superior to the others, raised on trust funds and caviar, ran screaming to his father every time something went any way that wasn't his own. Whatever false power Malfoy had cultivated for himself guttered and died as he searched for backup that wouldn't come. Not against Sawyer, who had little regard for punishment from the destruction that a single swing of her fist would incite. Despite the invincible front, Malfoy had a glass jaw, and Sawyer could shatter it without batting an eyelash, and Sawyer knew Malfoy was aware of that fact.

Granted, Malfoy didn't have to know Sawyer didn't beat up children. Even though the impulse was there, sometimes. But her medication seemed to put a damper on those, lately. In truth, if felt good—though senseless without her past impulses driving her constant search for a fight, justifying her violence—to be able to channel that outlet again. Even for just a second.

With cold eyes, Sawyer stared Malfoy down until he backed up into the crowd, too afraid to even throw her a glare.

Sawyer turned to Harry and his friends.

Amazement scrawled across his features, the ginger boy beside Harry gaped at Sawyer, a disbelieving laugh startled out of his chest. He turned to the girl flanking Harry, whose face was twisted with an indistinguishable expression as she eyed Sawyer warily, and nudged her with his elbow.

"Did you see that, 'Mione? Malfoy absolutely shit himself! Wasn't that beautiful?"

Still staring at Sawyer, the girl let out a thin laugh, wrought with nervous energy. "Yes, Ron. It was."

Still pale, but recovering, Harry grinned at Sawyer. "Thanks," he said, quietly, knotting his fingers together.

Glancing at Violet, whose lips were twisted in a sheepish smile, Sawyer shrugged. "Next time, go straight for the nose."

Tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, Violet clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

"What's going on here?" Filch's shriek echoed down the hallway. "What's going on?"

Before Filch could shoulder his way through, Jeremy tugged Sawyer back into the crowd, and snaked back to where the others were gathered just as the man spotted his cat hanging on the wall, clutching his face in horror.

"Oh, poor guy," Quinn murmured, cringing as Filch started wailing.

Life crawls forward, Sawyer thought, watching as the accusations began to fly and the professors came running. You lose things, you move on.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

shameless plug: please check out my hunger games fics :') feedback is very much appreciated