CHAPTER THIRTY
paper planes

"I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO DIE," Quinn said, her voice weak as Sawyer forcibly spoon-fed her mouthfuls of porridge that had the colour and consistency of sludge in mechanical motions. She was still in her grey sweatshirt and sweatpants from her morning run, having not bothered to change once someone sent word that Quinn was awake.

Oliver was at her shoulder, arms crossed over his chest. While they were stretching out, Sawyer filled him in with what happened to Quinn last night. Without hesitating, he'd offered to accompany her to the infirmary to visit Quinn, didn't listen when Sawyer shook her head at him, and came anyway. They both skipped breakfast in the Great Hall, and, instead, grabbed slices of toast from the kitchen directly before heading towards the infirmary. The others were still in their first class of the day. Conveniently, both Oliver and Sawyer had free periods. Even if she didn't, Sawyer would've come anyway. Quinn was her girl, after all. Who was Sawyer if not the sole protector of her little tribe?

"You had a diva moment," Sawyer said, and scooped up a little spilled residue from the corner of Quinn's mouth with the tip of the spoon.

"So this is why you didn't show to Astronomy last night," Oliver said, picking up a little cup of pills on the bedside table. A mix of vitamins and medicine Quinn had been instructed to take once she finished her meal.

Quinn grimaces. Medication is a very private, very tender matter to the ill. "Not to be rude, but why are you here again? Didn't you two—"

Sawyer shoved another spoonful of porridge into Quinn's mouth. "You fainted because you've been picking at your food like a child. Don't fight me on this, you won't win," she said, when Quinn let out a shrill sound in protest.

"We're friends," Oliver said, simply. They were a little more than that, a little way past friends, but the finer details didn't matter and Quinn took the explanation without pressing further anyway.

"It's the Dementors, I'm telling you," Quinn said. "I read about them. They literally feed off our emotions. Every good feeling goes away. That's why we've been spiralling." Quinn touches a finger to Sawyer's bandaged hand. The cuts still stung, but Sawyer couldn't stop making fists just to see the blood break out of the scabs. Already, they were healing up, but Sawyer wanted to hold onto the pain a little longer. Call it sentiment. Sawyer tugged her hand away and dug her elbow into Quinn's thigh in warning. Quinn winced, jerking violently.

"Spiralling?" Oliver's brows furrowed, and his gaze flicked to Sawyer's bandaged hand. He took a seat on one of the chairs Madam Pomfrey had offered them by Quinn's bedside and reclined, shoving his hands into the pocket of his red Puddlemere United sweatshirt. Earlier, Oliver had asked about her hand, but Sawyer had given him one of her usual non-answers. Oliver didn't push the subject either, probably figuring that she'd tell him in her own time if she wanted to. Judging by the troubled look in his riven-granite eyes, Sawyer had a feeling he was going to breach it again.

Quinn nodded, eyes shifting in discomfort. "I've been on my meds for a long time, and they've been working really well. But suddenly the Dementors are here and it's like... I can't stop feeling anxious about everything. It's like an assault on the senses. I had to leave in the middle of Herbology because two of them passed by the greenhouse. I didn't come out of the bathroom for the next three classes because I was just a mess."

"You should go to Dumbledore with this," Oliver said. "He could sort something out."

"Already have," Madam Pomfrey huffed, her features pinched as she pushed a cart filled with medicine bottles quaking, and it sounds like a thousand rattlesnakes. "Day in, day out, I have students coming in because they're depressed, because they tried to cut themselves, because they hurt—" her eyes met Sawyer's and something dark and meaningful transmuted the angered spark in them— "and I'm sick of it! What they do to you, to all you poor babies..."

She shakes her head, and the moment passes and her once weary and sad eyes are sharp and focused and stern again.

A stampede of footsteps thundered down the corridor, and when the door burst open, the three Slytherin boys surged in, swarming Quinn's bedside at a go. Jeremy reached over and hugged her fiercely, feathering kisses along her hairline. Rio patted Quinn's knee awkwardly. He looked stronger today, standing on his own two feet without need for support. There was some colour on his face, and there were no bags under his eyes. Sawyer wondered where the pale, withdrawal-sick boy had gone. Had he found a crutch? Where had he disappeared off to yesterday?

"Glad you're not dead, Comet," Rio said, all teeth.

Quinn smiled.

Marcus, on the other hand, was staring at Oliver with calculative eyes, a storm darkening his face as he stared down his rival. While Marcus wasn't vocal about how much he couldn't stand Oliver, especially in fifth year when Sawyer and Oliver apparently had a thing, Sawyer could tell that he thought that Oliver's presence, currently, appeared to be too intrusive. It hadn't slipped Sawyer's mind that they barely knew anything about the tether holding her and Oliver in orbit. Maybe she wanted them to find out this way. Maybe she wanted them to notice something different, notice the way Oliver instinctively stepped away from Sawyer like they weren't melded together this morning on the Quidditch pitch, gilded in sweat and skin on skin on skin. Maybe she wanted them to explain to her what she couldn't explain to herself.

Maybe Marcus could get the ball rolling.

"What is he doing here?" Marcus spat.

The last thing Sawyer expected Oliver to tell was the truth.

"Stealing your girl," Oliver drawled, a thick bite of sarcasm in his steely tone. He gave Sawyer a flat look that read: of course, you're friends with Marcus Flint. As if he'd forgotten.

"You should leave," Marcus said, stiffly, "this doesn't concern you."

Oliver rolled his eyes.

"You're making a scene," Sawyer said, knotting her fingers in the hem of Oliver's sweatshirt and tugging until he sits back down. "He stays."

All four of her friends fixed her with confused stares. Rio smirked, crossing his arms over his chest, as though he'd seen this coming from a mile away. Or maybe he was waiting for the chance to take a shark-bite out of the situation. Sawyer could see it—for all the times he slipped up on his promises, for all the times he wasn't truthful to his friends, for all the times he was just plain awful—he was building a war chest. Something to throw back in her face later, when it mattered more: you've been hiding this for how long?

"It's fine," Quinn said, reassuringly. "I'm getting discharged at the end of the day, anyhow."

"He's not one of us," Rio drawled, his teeth turning sharp, eager to bite, to tear. He fixed Sawyer with a serpentine stare. "Unless there's something you have to confess. Last I recall, ex-boyfriends don't make good company." He glanced at Marcus meaningfully then, his words a double-edged sword.

Marcus didn't wince, didn't look away, didn't betray any emotion he might've been feeling at that point. Dating Rio Alvarez required granite skin, fortified strongholds that didn't whittle away so easily. Instead, he turned to Oliver and Sawyer, waiting on an explanation.

"We're friends," Oliver said, again, looking as bored as Sawyer felt with this conversation.

"Bullshit," Rio snapped, shooting to kill—judge, jury, executioner.

Unfazed, Oliver merely shrugged. "Sure, man, believe what you want. I have nothing to prove to you."

He was a good liar. Sawyer wondered how much practice he got. How many other things has he lied about.

"Anyway..." Jeremy said, offering a diversion as he lifted up a piece of paper and an envelope as he smiled apologetically at Oliver, whom, unlike his teammate and best friend, he had no quarrel with. "My mum wrote to me this morning."

"After, what, months of radio silence?" Marcus scoffed, snatching the letter out of Jeremy's hands, eyes hungrily scanning the letter. After a couple seconds, with Rio sticking his head over Marcus' shoulder to catch a better glimpse of the letter, Marcus threw his head back and let out a laugh. "Oh, this is fucking precious, she gave you her number."

"You're not calling her and you are not writing back," Rio said, like his word was law. When he caught the expression on Jeremy's face, the way he held Quinn's hand anxiously, the way his eyes didn't meet any one of theirs. "You cannot seriously consider being her little bitch after she basically abandoned you. C'mon, dude."

"Jere..." Quinn said, brows furrowing. "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," Jeremy said, shoulders slumped.

"I'll make it easier for you," Sawyer said, the edges of her mouth cutting up in a cruel grin as she leant forward and snatched both the letter with the neat phone number scrawled at the bottom, and the envelope, with the new, unfamiliar address printed on the back, clean out of Marcus' hands and jabbing it in Jeremy's face. "Yes or no. Tick-tock, you have ten seconds to decide."

Jeremy pursed his lips, caught the other end of the letter and pulled. But Sawyer held fast, unrelenting, levelling him with a stare so intense, so intent, that it threatened to swallow him whole the way the night ate the stars. For an endless moment, Sawyer watched Jeremy's face, the determined curl of his mouth. Then the exasperation flickering like a guttering candle in his eyes. The frown when he realised she wasn't letting go. Like a guard dog clamping its jaws down on a struggling man's calve, Sawyer's knuckles blanched as she increased the pressure, the paper threatening to rip.

"Eight seconds," Sawyer said, their little game of tug-of-war over Quinn's cot unceasing. And then she saw it: the little falter in Jeremy's expression. The uncertainty as he was forced to think—to really think about what he wanted, and not what someone else wanted from him. "Nine."

Jeremy let go, looking both defeated and relieved at once.

"Ten," Sawyer said. She crushed the letter into the envelope and stuffed it in her pocket vindictively, out of sight, out of mind. Jeremy wouldn't remember the address or the number. "I'll hold onto this until I think it's time to stop punishing your mother. After that, you can do whatever you want. But I will not allow you to bend over backwards for this woman."

Sitting quietly in his seat, Oliver watched the entire exchange, his eyes flicking back and forth between Sawyer and her friends, between Jeremy and his protectors, his voices of reason, like he was a scientist studying the cross-section of a complex organism under a microscope. There was a slow dawning of realisation in his eyes, like he was finally understanding something.

✷

AT THE FRONT OF THE CLASSROOM, Professor McGonagall was giving them the lecture on turning something into something else, and then changing it into another thing entirely again. She told them about the longevity of a strong spell, about the crucial wand movement, about the precision they needed to have the spell work or else it'd backfire, but all of it flew over Sawyer's head. It was the Valium-cloud in her ears, clogging all sense, her brain saturated in complacency.

At lunch, Jeremy had personally forced her to take her afternoon dosage, watching her down the hatch. She'd even opened her mouth for him to check and earned a bread roll crammed between her teeth in response. And now there were the little noises contaminating the sterile sound of McGonagall's voice—the scrape of a chair leg against the floor, the hush and clatter of a wand rolling off the edge and falling to the floor, acrylic fingernails tap-tap-tapping against the corners of desks, gum smacking in the corner of someone's mouth, someone yelling in the courtyard where the window was facing—and no matter how many tunnels Sawyer built around McGonagall's words, trying to direct them into her brain, trying to filter them out, her concentration was too diluted. Thirty minutes in, and she'd given up.

A moment later, McGonagall had them working in pairs to turn a rabbit into a teapot first before turning it into a pair of birds, on and on, animate to inanimate alternately, until they couldn't change it anymore, and Sawyer had Dylan, her new desk mate, explain everything to her from the top as McGonagall went round placing rabbits on their desks. Unfortunately, both of them were equally as clueless, and Dylan was talking himself in circles, confusing himself and Sawyer even more.

"I think you just do this," he said, and then he swished his wand in an uncertain pattern that nearly took out the rabbit's eye, only startling the unassuming animal. "Aw, hell."

Sawyer glanced towards the other side of the classroom to see how Oliver and his partner were faring. They had a teapot sitting in front of them, but no further progress made as Oliver's desk mate trailed a finger up his arm and let out a shrill laugh, even though, from the way Oliver's expression was flat and unimpressed, Sawyer could tell he hadn't said anything that amusing to warrant that kind of bent-double giggling. As the Gryffindor girl said something, Oliver glanced elsewhere, his eyes meeting Sawyer's and widening—a message: fucking save me.

But Sawyer liked watching Oliver squirm, even if she wasn't the source of his discomfort. This time, she had the power to stop it, but she gave it five minutes, watching Oliver contend with Delilah fucking Addington, who was tossing her bright blonde mane like a shiny curtain, all pearly whites and syrupy eyes. In that moment, Professor McGonagall was called out of class for a second to speak to someone in the hallway, and she left in a disgruntled huff with instructions to keep going with the transfiguration spells, reluctant to abandon her seventh years for even a moment.

Dylan was still trying his luck with the rabbit. He'd gotten the spell down, but he hadn't been paying much attention to anything else. Especially the wand movement, and Sawyer wasn't contributing much either. Now that McGonagall was gone, Sawyer ripped out a piece of parchment paper and drew a nine-box grid in the centre. She folded it into a haphazard paper plane, whispered a charm, and let it zip across the classroom. It hit Oliver in the cheek with a vengeance and he snatched it out of the air. An incredulous look painted over his expression, Oliver unfolded it. Amusement flickered over his face, and he glanced back at her. Sawyer flicked him an impatient smile. First move's yours.

She watched as Oliver marked a cross in the centre box, barely suppressing a grin, and folded it back into a paper plane. He tapped his want against one of the wings and it fluttered back to her. This time it struck her in the neck before falling into her palm. She smoothed out the paper and drew a circle in the corner box. They played this game, back-and-forth, until Delilah caught on that Oliver wasn't reciprocating her efforts to acquaint themselves.

"What are you doing?" Delilah asked, her voice coy.

"Try turning the teapot into birds," Oliver deadpanned. "It's your turn."

Delilah bristled, her face flushing an indignant red. She wasn't used to guys not paying attention to her. That type of girl. Pretty, smart, funny, an abyss of charisma. She fed on attention like it was a poison and she was inoculating herself from the toxicity of it all, rising above it. Oliver's blatant rejection was hurting her pride. Sawyer had seen Delilah in the stands before, cheering on different boys on different Quidditch teams, the only Gryffindor wearing another house's colours around her neck. She dated Quidditch players exclusively. Unfortunately for fourth-year-Sawyer, Delilah only went for the boys on the team. Too bad.

Delilah snatched up her wand and waved it at the teapot, her movements too jerky, her spell a little too rushed. Imprecise. The teapot shrunk, grew black fur and sprouted eight legs. Delilah let out a scream as the spider crawled towards her. She reached out to cling onto Oliver, but he stepped out of range and she clawed at the air for a second.

Oliver met Sawyer's nonchalant gaze then, and grinned.

Later, after Professor McGonagall had rushed back in to save Delilah from further suffering and transformed the spider back into a rabbit, after she'd frowned at Sawyer and Dylan's unchanged rabbit, after she'd dismissed the class, Oliver caught up with Sawyer in the hallway.

"You should be flattered. A lot of guys would've killed to be in your position," Sawyer mused, as he fell into step beside her.

"Not interested," Oliver said, lip curling in discomfort.

"All the girls who've ever had your interest must be something special then, if you're turning down Delilah Addington," Sawyer remarked, smirking.

"Three." Oliver's voice was curt.

Sawyer pressed him with an expectant look. If Oliver ever had a girlfriend in school, Sawyer must have been pretty oblivious to it. She only ever saw him with his little pride of Gryffindor boys, never once a girl on his arm. She'd assumed he was too committed to Quidditch to let it share the spotlight with anyone else. Still, three girls. As they wove through the crowd, more students poured out of classrooms, and Sawyer wondered if they were passing any one of them now. Wondered if any of the girls they passed made his heart speed up a little when he saw their faces. Sawyer had a free period before Quidditch practice was scheduled, and she wanted to drop by the infirmary to see Quinn, but she didn't know whether Oliver was just heading in the same direction or simply finding an excuse to talk to her. A small part of her hoped it was the latter, even if her feelings were a dead end. She could never be the shiny girl by his side, so whole, so unbeaten. At best she was a notch in his bedpost, a footnote in his plans. It was safer to immolate all these unsafe notions now.

"What?" Oliver asked, shooting her a strange look.

"Tell me," Sawyer said.

"The first one was in third year," Oliver said, not even a flicker of nostalgia on his face. "I met her at Quidditch camp and then I never saw her again. Her name was Natalie."

"Did you do anything with her?"

Oliver grinned. "Why? Jealous?"

Sawyer jabbed him in the ribs. "Curious. You're a good kisser."

"Fair enough," Oliver mused. He shook his head. "No. As in, we experimented, but we were young, so it was all very unremarkable. And I never saw it going anywhere, anyway. I think I was just curious about her, y'know, since she was a really good Chaser. I wasn't interested in a relationship with her."

They rounded a corner and the doors to the infirmary was open. Through the doors, they spotted Quinn's cot. Jeremy was sitting at her bedside, and they were laughing, shining and dizzy in the lacuna of their own making, building castles around them with their conversation, the rest of the world ashes, ashes, ashes. Sunlight slanted through the window behind Quinn's cot, illuminating their hair in a golden halo they seemed to share when Jeremy brought his face closer to hers. It felt like an intimately private moment they were intriguing on. Sawyer turned sharply on her heel and headed down the corridor, back where they came. With only a glance over his shoulder, Oliver followed without complaint.

In the back of her mind, Sawyer felt that wayward itch again, like a parasite burrowing under her skin, urging her to do something completely reckless, to damage something so it could look just as damaged as the inside of her brain. Maybe it was envy—Quinn was a broken girl, just as broken as Sawyer, perhaps. How come it was so easy for her? How come she could let herself sink into the uncertainty of someone else while Sawyer was out here, fighting everything that came her way? How come she couldn't stop? It wasn't fair, but Sawyer thought she was way past what was fair and what wasn't. What was deserved, on the other hand, was the real question.

They headed down the stairs, cut across the quad, and wound up at the bridge connecting the entrance courtyard to the Astronomy Wing. Sawyer settled down by the edge of the bridge, dumping her books and wand in her lap, pressing her back against the stone barricade. Tilting her head towards the sun, she let the rays warm her face like she were something unholy in need of purification. She heard the rustle of fabric as Oliver slid down beside her and his knee knocked against hers with purpose, as though he needed to remind her that he was still there.

"Tell me about the second girl," Sawyer said. Each time someone passed them, each time she heard a set of footsteps on the bridge, she felt Oliver lean away from her, a small loss of body warmth.

"Summer before sixth year. Ella Macaulay." Oliver tapped a finger on her knee, and when she didn't push him off, he drew small circles over her bare skin where her skirt rode up her thigh. "That one was more than just kissing."

"Quidditch camp?" Sawyer asked, an ugly pinch in her gut. She knew Ella Macaulay. Ravenclaw Chaser, dark hair, scary pretty, wore a baby blue hearing aid when she wasn't playing Quidditch. Now, each time they played against each other, Sawyer had to wonder if they ever thought about going for seconds. So far both girls had been Chasers. Sawyer wondered if, in some turn of irony, Oliver had done the chasing or if they'd stuck to their guns and went after him while he let them score only if they'd earned it. Sawyer didn't want to ask, but a small, masochistic part of her was itching to know the gritty details.

"Yeah. We dated for a little under two months."

"Oh."

"Oh?" Oliver echoed, mockingly. He turned his head to face her, a devilish grin strung on his lips, like he knew what was in her head. She ignored him. Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut.

"Who broke it off?"

"Me," Oliver said. "I wasn't that invested, I guess, and she realised that."

"The third one," Sawyer pressed.

Oliver's expression closed up, shut tight like those clams on the beach every time the tide went out. Sawyer spent a weekend in her aunt's beach house playing by the rocks, sticking her finger into their gape-mouthed shells, the soft beds of their prodding tongues bubbling. He'd open up again.

Scratching the back of his neck, Oliver ducked his head in discomfort. "That one's a bit of a minefield. Sixth year's when I actually realised it, but I think I've always been a little bit interested. That's all I'm giving up for now."

Sawyer lifted a brow, wondering who it could be. "Touchy subject. No matter. I'll get it out of you soon."

"Maybe another time," Oliver said, too quickly, and Sawyer wanted to press more, wanted to find out what it was about this girl that closed him up so tight, that made him seal everything back up when just moments ago, he was laying it all out for her to see. Then he fixed her with an accusatory stare. "Your turn. You say everything is boring, but you kiss like a small part of that is a lie."

"Five," Sawyer said, the answer slipping off her tongue like water. "Three boys, two girls. Muggles from back home. I've never tried with anyone in this school. They're all stiffs and they don't like me either."

Oliver lifted a brow. His finger stilled on her knee. "Have you... been with any of them?"

Sawyer tipped her head back and let out a cutting laugh, felt it slice through the air, up, up, up into the sky. "Dated? No. Fucked? One of them. Wasn't that special, really. I was fifteen and it was a reckless decision. I wasn't on meds yet. I think I just did it as a fuck you to my mum."

"Oh."

"Oh?" Sawyer echoed, a mocking bite to her tone.

In that moment, it felt like something had slipped between them, like a shadow overcoming his face, like a secret run between their fingers. But she blinked and she missed it.

✷

CEDRIC WAS NOT A DRILL SERGEANT by nature. He was soft, but that didn't mean he was relenting. He had them run up and down the bleachers as a warm-up, their trainers slapping against the wooden planks, hearts pounding against their chests, a stitch stabbing at their cores. But not Sawyer. Morning runs with Oliver didn't just help with toning, it'd rocketed her endurance to levels she wasn't even aware she possessed. And so she was ahead, Violet dogging at her heels, just barely, determined to keep up lest Sawyer leave her in the dust for good. Hammering up and down the steps to the pulse of Cedric's shrill whistle, granted by Madam Hooch. They'll feel it in their shins tomorrow, and three days after that. They'll feel it everywhere.

They stop for a water break, and then it's onto drills. For the Chasers and Keepers, it's a series of passes and coordination drills from different points in the scoring zone organised by Sanchez. For the reserve Beaters, it's precision drills—being able to hold a bat and smack a ball far isn't enough, and Violet instructs the two boys on the angle of their swing, and Sawyer oversees that they don't slack. Cedric deals with the reserve Seeker one-on-one.

Both boys were hopeless and uninteresting. But Violet was determined to take a chance on them the same way Sawyer had taken a chance on her, and since Sawyer had her back, by proxy, she was willing to coach them a little. Every time they overcompensated and made a tiny mistake, they glanced nervously at Sawyer, like she might blow up and strike them. But, gradually, the only form of pain they learnt that they would endure would be the blisters on their fingers from holding up the bat without resting, and the sun in their eyes as they tracked the trajectory of a ball after hitting it away. 

After drills, Cedric gathered them for a scrimmage, two teams, each with half the reserve players and half the lineup. He caught Sawyer's eye, offering her a small, conspiratorial grin.

Sawyer seized Malcom, one of the reserve Beaters, by the back of his Quidditch uniform and turned him round to face her. An anxious look crossed his face, still boyish and wide-eyed, still gummy with unshed baby fat. All that would go away once the season was over. Sawyer wondered if his parents would want a picture.

"Two years ago, you were on this pitch for tryouts and nobody picked you because you were weak and scrawny. Two years later, you're still weak and scrawny but you're here and you're in doubt," Sawyer said, searching for confirmation, and when Malcom nodded, his head bobbing like a rabbit's thumping foot, she flashed him a vacant grin. She recognised his face, didn't remember his name because it hadn't mattered enough, but now she knew. "Don't look so nervous, or the game will eat you alive. My girl Violet doesn't make mistakes. You're here now—you could show some appreciation."

"It's just a game," Malcom said, an echo of Sawyer's underlying message, but the falter in his tone told her he wasn't convinced by his own lie. Then the false bravado crumbled and he glanced nervously at the pitch, then back at Sawyer with fear in his wide brown eyes. "I don't do well in competition."

"By the time you get there, Violet will cut you into shape," Sawyer said, flippantly. "She has a thing for lost causes."

A whistle blew, and the players mounted. Sawyer shoved Malcom forward. He cut her an irritated glare. She jammed her fingers between his shoulder blades and shoved him one more time. She kept shoving him towards the centre of the pitch until he snarled at her, snatching up his broom with anger-sharp movements. By the time they were in the air, taking their positions, Malcom was simmering with a vehement energy, all the anxiety wiped from his features. Sawyer caught Violet's eye and tapped two fingers to her temple in a mock salute. Violet let an impish smirk gloss her lips as Cedric released the Bludgers and they shot into the air with an aggressive roar.

When Cedric pitched the quaffle into the air, the players snapped into action.

Later, when he blew the whistle again to signal the end of the scrimmage, Malcom landed, laughing.

"That was so cool," he gushed when Sawyer landed next to him, his face flushed red. His arm gave a violent spasm and he let go of his bat. He stared at it for a moment as it rolled on the grass, before picking it up with his other hand. He'd tried his best—it was easy to tell—but he'd only managed to hit the Bludger once, but didn't have the strength to direct it anywhere useful. No matter, they still had time to buff and shine the team into competition standard. Even if they were going to lose spectacularly against the other teams, there was no harm in dreaming a little. Sawyer flipped her bat over her knuckles.

"You were so good!" Violet squealed, launching herself at Malcom, crushing him into a hug, grinning so hard Sawyer thought her teeth might pop. She propped her arms on her hips, glancing between the two reserve Beaters with unabashed pride. "It's only your first proper scrimmage, so it's okay if you didn't hit the Bludgers or if you were a little off on your precision."

Knocking his fist against Violet's in reward for her hard work, Cedric sent them off to the showers, and Sawyer watched as a handful of the players limped off the pitch, arms wound around their friends' shoulders like soldiers being dragged off to medical. Madam Hooch hadn't been present, and Cedric hadn't mentioned how he'd gotten her to vanish for this session, but he had. He'd kept up his end of the bargain, therefore Sawyer upheld hers. Since Madam Hooch wasn't around to oversee drills and the practice scrimmage, Sawyer had free reign over how much she wanted to antagonise her teammates.

The girls glowered at her sourly for a moment when she entered the locker room. But Sanchez grinned, like she knew about the deal. Even though she'd have to see Madam Pomfrey later for her dislocated wrist from that Bludger, Sanchez didn't seem to harbour any grudges against Sawyer. It was a moment that Sawyer could respect. After the Bludger had struck her arm with a crushing blow, Sanchez screamed in pain, but it didn't stop her. She'd immediately popped her wrist back into place and carried on with the game. Nevermind that she was clearly still in discomfort, her features pinched with agony, and her wrist had swollen up so badly she'd had to discard her gloves.

Moments later, under the hot shower stinging her skin, Sawyer overheard the reserve players discussing the season. It was clear from the animated energy in their voices that they thought Cedric had put together a strong lineup, and with Sawyer possibly in the bag, there was no way they'd lose. The first match to kick off the season was Gryffindor against Slytherin, and even though that wasn't that far ahead, there was no tension in their voices, a shining confidence that Cedric's captaincy had instilled in them, the same sort of steel in their spines that Oliver had managed to forge into his own team.

Once Sawyer was out of the shower, towel wrapped around her, she dug through her duffel bag for her clothes. She was back-facing the three sixth year girls, laying her things out on the bench when their conversation became clear to her.

"Cedric's a ten," one girl said, sagging against the locker on the other side of the narrow room, her palm feathered against her chest, miming lovesickness. She was still in her towel. "Really fucking fit."

"I don't even like boys and I think he's pretty," another snickered.

"Do you think he's a good kisser?"

"More importantly," the third girl said, her tone steeped in something lewd as she brushed her wet hair out. "How good is his—"

"Laila, stop it!" The first girl shrieked.

"You were thinking it, too!"

"I was just thinking that he was the prettiest captain this school has ever had."

Laila made a buzzer noise. "Wrong. Roger Davies from the Ravenclaw team."

"He's an eight out of ten at best," the second girl pointed out. "Now, Jeremy Knox, on the other hand—"

"The one on the Slytherin team? He's an eleven, I swear it. He lent me a quill in the library the other day when I lost mine. He's so nice."

Sawyer lifted a brow. He has a girlfriend, she wanted to say, just to shatter their hopes a little, but decided against it.

"Oliver Wood's more my type, actually," the first girl said, swooning a little bit. Sawyer almost choked on a sharp inhale.

"I rate him a solid nine," Laila said. "Take off one point for his maniacal obsession with Quidditch."

"At least he's passionate about something. Half the boys in this school literally have no aspirations, it's getting a little bit ridiculous. Plus, passion is hot."

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Sawyer bit down on her tongue to suppress the laughter threatening to bubble up from her chest. Wait till the moron hears this, she thought, making a swift exit from the locker room. Since she had time to kill, she strode back onto the pitch, where the Slytherins were gathered, getting ready for their scheduled practice. The late afternoon sun was a yolk in the cloudless sky, soaking the pitch in a rum-coloured hue, and Sawyer spotted Jeremy's golden halo of hair almost immediately. Marcus stood beside him, miming something dramatically with his hands, talking a blue streak as Jeremy listened. Sawyer scanned the stands for the third Slytherin Chaser, but Rio was absent. She took the steps three at a time and emerged onto the stands where Jeremy and Marcus were situated.

"Where is he?" Sawyer asked, approaching her friends. She set her bag down on the first seat.

"Don't know," Jeremy said, frowning. "We've been looking for him, but it's like he disappeared. He wasn't in the library for study period either."

"We should start without him," Marcus grunted, evidently displeased with Rio. "If he wants to show up, that's up to him."

"It's so weird," Jeremy said, shaking his head. "He's never missed a single practice since second year."

"Don't hold your breath," Sawyer drawled, laying down on the bench with one knee erect to the sky, her other leg dangling off the side.

"You staying to watch?" Marcus asked.

Sawyer shrugged, her foot tracing circles on the floor. "Go."

Without having to be told twice, both boys mounted their brooms and shot towards the pitch. Sawyer felt around for her duffel bag, and when she caught the strap, she tugged it closer to her head. She unzipped the side pocket and fished out her lighter. She'd excavated it from the bottom of her trunk last night. Flicking the top off, she watched the flame dance in the breeze before ghosting her fingers through it, each time lingering a little longer until her skin began to burn.

When Rio finally showed up, he was half an hour late and his eyes were clouded over, his fingers shaking like he was trying to grasp at something, but missing, and he was sinking fast.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
ok so sawyer and oliver would definitely have to have that conversation at some point........

also jeremy's mom makes me so angry like i know someone whose mom did that same thing and maybe sawyer's reaction might've been a little unsympathetic but she really has a thing against bad moms.