CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
it was something. don't say it wasn't.

IT HAPPENED SO QUICKLY nobody knew what to think. One moment they were sitting in the Great Hall dreading the beginning of a downward spiral into a massive workload threatening to pulverise their bones, the next the owls began to pour in and drop their exam result slips into their laps like leaflets on D-Day, swirling the hall in flashes of white, rocketing anxiety suffusing through the air. In the aftermath, they were left with an echo of a moment, breaths held, hearts pounding, palms growing clammy as they tore open envelopes with shaking fingers and eyes half-closed, bracing for the worst, hoping for the best. Where did all that time go?

And now...

"Hold still, would you?" Quinn grunts, trying not to jab Sawyer's eye out with the eyeshadow brush in her hand. Getting ready for the ball was a tireless effort, and with the constant chatter of their roommates serving as background noise, as Georgie preened in front of the mirror, turning this way and that, the hem of her ruffled skirt swishing around her ankles like waves, as Pauline had Vera in a chair and was coiling a curling wand around her pale blonde locks, Sawyer found it cumulatively difficult to comply when there was so much itching under her skin. It would also be the first time that they'd be doing anything together, as a small community of five. Even though they'd all been roommates for years, Sawyer and Quinn had always stuck to themselves. Getting ready together felt ritualistic, and each time one of them put on their dresses, the others would cheer loudly while they paraded around like models on a catwalk and shower them in compliments until their teeth ached.

Sawyer let out a heavy sigh and watches Quinn sink with her stomach. Five minutes ago, Quinn tried to do Sawyer's makeup with them both sitting up on the bed, facing each other, but since she wasn't an artist, nor was she any sort of makeup savvy, she'd decided having Sawyer lay back and straddling Sawyer's midsection would make it easier to manoeuvre without her shaky hand getting in the way. At first, Sawyer had been skeptical. She'd never been particularly inclined to doll herself up for anything, but since the route of conventionality was the route Quinn wanted to take, then so be it. After downing her afternoon dosage of medicine, Sawyer decided her brain had been dulled and dunked deep enough into the drug-induced haze that she could tolerate two hours of creamy chemicals and powder slathered all over her face, as unpleasant as that might be. Hence, the subjection to an hour exhausted on hazarding between deep blue eyeshadow or a smokey eye to match Sawyer's dress, the mind-numbing choices between shades of lipsticks, the glitter dusting her bed and speckling her skin.

"A smokey eye on mono-lids is going to be incredibly difficult," Georgie, who'd kindly and happily taught Quinn most of the basics of working her way around a set of makeup equipment, remarks, twisting away from the body-length mirror posted in the corner of the room to face them, smoothing her creamy hands over the skirt of her a jarringly turquoise dress, sea waves for an evening gown. "Try the white eyeshadow look I showed you."

Quinn shot her an appreciative smile and set to work. For an eternity, Sawyer clenched her jaw and let Quinn smear foundation and concealer over her acne-scarred face, painting her into colour, shut her eyes when instructed, blinked into a mascara wand when coaxed, held down a shudder when the cold gel of lipgloss ghosted her lips. And then it was over, and Quinn hummed, smirking with a satisfied smugness of an artist who knew they'd outdone themselves.

"I'm a fucking genius," Quinn said, disentangling herself from Sawyer and pulling her up to sit.

"Woah," Vera breathed, staring wide-eyed at Sawyer's face. In periphery, Vera was a glistening presence. Her dress was shell-pink with a ballerina-type tulle skirt, and it went up to her mid-thigh. It was the shortest dress in the room.

Narrowing her eyes conspiratorially, George cocked her head as she swept her deep eyes over Sawyer's face like a cross-body analysis. "You're missing a little something."

As she approached Sawyer cut her a lethal look, and Georgie held up her hands in mock surrender, one hand curled around a pack of silver glitter.

"Hey, Quinn, if you're done, I can do your hair now," Pauline said, setting down the curling wand. She flicked a lock of red hair over her shoulder. Her dress was something out of a fairytale. A sleeveless purple top that scalloped over her chest, and defied gravity with a green skirt that cascaded down to the floor. Custom made, Pauline had said. She'd wanted to look like Ariel from The Little Mermaid. Earlier, she'd told Quinn to wear her hair exactly as it was when Quinn had asked if she should straighten it. Even though they hadn't really spoken much, Pauline had always admired Quinn's wild hair, and had offered an alternative instead. Something about decorating it to match her dress.

"It's almost seven, guys," Vera called from the adjoining bathroom. Sawyer could see her through the doorway, fluffing her glossy curls and admiring herself in the mirror. She turned, poked her head out of the bathroom, and pinned Quinn and Sawyer with a devious grin. "Time to get into your dresses."

Nodding stiffly, Sawyer glanced at Georgie, whose grin blew wide, and, quickly but precisely, she dipped a brush into the liquid glitter and slathered it in strategic strokes under her eyes.

"Time to move, ladies," Vera warned, clapping her hands the way Madam Hooch did. Hustle, hustle, grandmas.

While Quinn took her dress into the bathroom, Sawyer unwrapped her dress from its plastic packaging and slipped it on, not caring that the others were watching. They were all girls, and Sawyer had changed out in the locker room after Quidditch practice in front of her female teammates so often she was numb to the prying eyes. The material was satiny, and it rippled like water running down her skin as Georgie zipped up the back before turning the mirror and letting Sawyer glimpse herself. During the weekend prior to the ball, Sawyer and Quinn had gone dress shopping in Hogsmeade while the boys were too busy trying to sneak alcohol out of every pub they could find. Sawyer had spotted her dress instantly, picked it off the rack, and purchased it without fuss. Quinn had to try on at least fifty to find one that she really liked, and they'd spent almost two hours in the shop.

Now, as she stared at her reflection in the mirror, hardly able to recognise herself, Sawyer wondered if this was what crawled out of the wreck of the year like daughters leaving their mothers' bodies. The girl in the mirror looked newborn and bored, lacquered in glitter like some kind of fae-creature ripped from a folktale. Her dress was slightly translucent and a blue so deep it was almost black, pulled from the evening sky when the sun had just dipped below the horizon and all the colours had bled out and the sky wasn't yet pitch dark and the stars were just beginning to shine through. Stars were stitched onto her skirt, cascading past her knees, tumbling down to pool at her feet. The sleeves were long, covering up her scars and she was so unlike herself she was almost perfect. Her dark hair had been left alone, swept over one shoulder and sifting like black sand against her jaw. When she blinked, her eyelids shimmered, and beneath her eyes where Georgie had artfully smeared silver glitter it looked like her tears had gone supernova and dried a boneyard of stars onto her cheeks.

"How do I look?" Quinn asked, and Sawyer saw her emerging from the bathroom in the reflection of the mirror. Pauline let out a delighted squeal as Vera wolf-whistled and Georgie's cherry-red mouth drew into a soft 'O'. Sawyer turned.

Quinn's dress was pearl-white, striving against her deep brown skin. Scattered with white gemstones that looked like pearls, her wild hair remained untamed. It didn't need to be. Tiny rhinestones lined her eyelids, and Quinn was glowing like a goddess in a renaissance painting.

Cocking her head, Sawyer shot her a smirk. "Jeremy's going to shit his pants."

Pursing her lips to hide her cat-like grin, Quinn ducked her head and fiddled with the seashell-shaped pendant of her necklace.

A sharp hiss sliced through the room as Vera leant over Sawyer's bed and drew back the curtains. Outside, the sky was peach bruised, the sunset leaking colours over campus. "Time to put on your shoes and go, ladies!" Which, as they filed out of the room, unearthed the avalanche of:

"I'm so excited!"

"Where are you guys meeting your dates?"

"Probably there."

"He said he'd wait for me in the common room."

"Smart."

"Pauline?"

"Don't have a date, but it's fine. My girls and I are just going to stuff our faces until our dresses explode."

A laugh. "Sounds like a plan."

Hand-in-hand, Sawyer and Quinn spilled out of the common room where they'd shed Georgie into the shy arms of a tawny boy with dark skin and a world of nerves in his expression as she approached him coyly and lost Pauline to her four friends, who let out a collective scream, flashing pearly white teeth, when she ran into their embrace, and already, Vera was busy kissing the lipstick off her own date, whose bejewelled dress made soft tinkling sounds when Vera tugged her closer. In the hallway, boys in suits were awaiting their dates, leant against walls, and girls were gathered around one another, showering each other in compliments like confetti. A crowd of friends in fancy dress were chattering away excitably, and someone was complaining about the starchy neckline that was beginning to make their skin itch. Conversation hummed around them like the beginning of something rather than the end. There were so many people swarming the corridors, hurrying to get to the Great Hall or taking their own sweet time, heels clicking against the marble tiles like pebbles skittering over the floor, that they spent a good ten minutes searching for their friends and still couldn't spot their faces over the heads of the tidal crowd.

As she shouldered her way through a bunch of boys who had deer antlers attached to their heads—some kind of stupid play on "going stag", she supposed—a warm hand caught her elbow. Sawyer pivoted, ready to swing, when she met Jeremy's wide grin. Quinn stopped in her tracks too late, bumping into Sawyer's back.

"Holy cow," Jeremy laughed. "So this is you in a dress. I thought you were going to be taller today."

Flicking him an unimpressed look, Sawyer bunched her hands in the skirt of her dress and lifted it to reveal a pair of beat-up high-tops converse. Unlike everyone else who wore heels, Sawyer had opted for something a little more within her comfort zone. After she'd bought her dress, she'd accompanied Quinn to buy a pair of heels, but abstained from getting a pair herself because she knew she would never wear them again, thus, avoiding wasting money. Chuckling to himself, Jeremy shook his head and clapped her shoulder so hard she stumbled.

"I like your shoes," he mused, and Sawyer felt the sudden echo pinging in the recess of her mind, reminiscent of the first words he'd said to her when they were smaller, when they'd seen less of the world as it was, a distant memory trawled up to the surface of her brain. Then, Jeremy's gaze flicked over Sawyer's shoulder and it was as if the entire world had melted away but it didn't matter. Sawyer sidestepped, crossing her arms over her chest and cast her gaze elsewhere. She dug a hand down the front of her dress and retrieved a silver flask from the inside of her bra. Lips parted, Jeremy took Quinn in, starstruck and speechless.

"Hi," Quinn said, softly, her grin like a new budding rose.

"Hi," Jeremy said, blinking like he was seeing the world for the first time.

Sawyer took a swig. The firewhiskey slipped down her throat, but she didn't wince. The first time she drank this, she'd thrown up from how much it hurt and her eyes were red for days, as if she'd had nothing but ghost peppers for all three meals. At that time, she hadn't understood why people voluntarily drank something so foul and made entirely of pain, like she'd swallowed freshly boiled thumbtacks, unless they were all masochists. After awhile, her body acclimated, and she'd gotten used to it. It still burned like hellfire all the way down, and she felt the heat crawl through her veins until it settled, leaving her skin tingling with a pleasant warmth.

Before she could take another as Jeremy and Quinn let out embarrassed laughs at their own awkwardness, someone snatched the flask straight out of her hands.

"Ashton just shoved his tongue down his date's throat, and all my friends have abandoned me," Oliver grunted, and took a long swig before handing it back. Lip curling in disdain, Oliver glanced over his shoulder at something—presumably Ashton and aforementioned date, swapping spit—and then snapped his head round so fast as though he was dying to erase the image from his mind. "Are we that disgusting as well or are we better?"

"You want me to lie?"

Oliver pinned her with a bemused look. Smirking, Sawyer tapped two fingers against her temple in a mock salute as she gave him a glancing once-over. In a way, this version of Oliver—an otherwise avid inhabitant of his Quidditch attire and basketball shorts and athletic fit shirts and his worn-in Puddlemere United sweatshirt—was both foreign yet strangely familiar. Foreign, because outside of school robes, Oliver never wore anything formal. His suit was deep dark blue, evening ocean, a coincidental parallel to her dress, and though his clothes were different, his mannerisms were more pronounced. He was still broad-shouldered and cool, his expression as bored as hers, blank-faced and sharp-featured, the unimpressed slant of his mouth holding that wired tension a lot of people found quietly intimidating. But as he looked at her now, studying her like she was a painting hanging on a wall, she could see the edges softening marginally Could see, if not stars, then her dress shimmering in the dark of his eyes. A corner of his lip twitched.

They didn't need to say anything. And they wouldn't get the chance to, as Jeremy herded them away.

"Where's Marcus?" Quinn asked, frowning, craning her neck to search for the lost member of their group.

"He's already there," Jeremy said, cryptically. "He said he'd catch up with us."

Oliver shot Sawyer a questioning look, to which she merely shrugged, because she didn't know what Marcus' intentions were. If he was there to spike the punch, Sawyer was going to be sorely disappointed in him. Doing so this early, when majority of the student body were still hanging around anywhere else but the venue of the ball, in plain sight of the prefects and the chaperoning professors, wasn't a very smart move on Marcus' part. But she was trying not to think of the heat of everyone's gaze as they watched Oliver and Sawyer walking together, the space between them almost non-existent as he curled his calloused fingers around hers like he was trying to anchor her in place, until someone shoved past them to get to their friend, their shoulder knocking into hers, and though Sawyer barely hitched in her step, Oliver sent them a piercing glower that could've incinerated them on the spot as he placed his hand on the small of her back.

When they stepped into the Great Hall with the bulk of the crowd slowly trickling in, Sawyer could tell they were blown away by the aqua-blue lights hovering close to the ceiling, washing the walls in a deep blue hue, like the bottom of a swimming pool when the light scintillates over the marble tiles, and the seaweed green streamers enchanted to swish back and forth in languid strokes, and the tables crafted to look like jellyfish containing an assortment of restaurant-grade food on sea-shell platters and a tower of sparkling grape juice (that Marcus and Sawyer had big plans to spike) and what Quinn was most excited about, a chocolate fountain. At the front, an enchanted set of instruments were playing music, which resonated around the hall like a soft fanfare. In on corner of the hall, someone had set up an old-fashioned camera on a tripod stand and a backdrop entailing a vibrant coral reef. Already, a handful of girls were there, posing for a picture. Quinn pointed out how, under the light, Sawyer's dress cast scintillating lights glancing off the floor.

Even though both Sawyer and Oliver looked mildly unimpressed, there was no denying that the committee had gone all out on this. And those were their default expressions anyway. Jeremy let out a low whistle and Quinn was practically shaking with excitement as she tugged on Sawyer's elbow.

"I think I found Marcus," Oliver mused, and Sawyer followed the trail of his gaze to a table where Marcus stood facing them, talking to someone. His suit was black, his shoes polished, and he'd even put in the effort to slick his hair back. Over the weekend he'd gotten an undercut that made his face seem sharper. Marcus could clean up nicely, Sawyer could admit, though it didn't surprise her since he was pretty vain.

But what struck them most was the boy Marcus was talking to, who turned when Marcus' eyes snapped to Jeremy's, like a pair of magnets, and his lips pulled into a vulpine grin. The boy with the buzzcut, everything else unchanging except for the life in his eyes and the way he filled out his suit perfectly like the young god he was, where the last time they saw him, he was all bones and gaunt cheeks and haunted eyes, shadows sifting in the hollows of his face.

Rio Alvarez's suit matched Marcus', and Sawyer didn't think it was any coincidence.

The moment Quinn spotted Rio, she let out a shrill scream of pure delight, not caring that she'd drawn the attention of everyone within the vicinity, and launched herself at Rio, throwing her arms around his neck and crushing him into a tight hug.

"You're here!" Quinn shrieked, her grin so wide Sawyer felt something in her chest loosen. As he reciprocated the hug, arms winding around Quinn's waist, Rio's smile was foreign, like someone had plastered the lower half of someone else's face over his.

When Quinn let go, Rio glanced over to Sawyer, something like hopefulness glimmering in his eyes.

They'd waited for him. They were all here for him. That included Sawyer.

"How'd you break out?" Sawyer mused, flicking a piece of lint off Rio's suit.

"Oh, y'know," Rio said, feigning nonchalance. "Getting cut off from your parents does wonders to the human psyche."

"So you're finding your own way, then?"

Rio hummed. He might've lost everything, but it wasn't a loss. And he looked much happier. People like them—Sawyer and Rio—didn't get to taste happiness very often. And when they did, it was fleeting.

"I told you," Rio said, grinning devilishly. "I have a plan."

And then it was Jeremy's turn to pull Rio into a tight embrace, and Sawyer drifted over to Marcus, who stood off to the side, quietly watching.

"You're here," Sawyer said, as Marcus handed her a glass of sparkling beverage that smelled suspiciously like alcohol already, sending him an amused look, "with him."

"I am," Marcus said, a pleased smile on his lips. He glanced back at Rio, who was engaged in conversation with Jeremy and Oliver, who'd been dragged in at the last minute. "The rehabilitation centre said he's been surprisingly compliant, and he might actually be cleaning up his act this time. He's good. We're... Well, we're not together. Not yet. But we decided, y'know..." Marcus trailed off, and drew in a shaky breath. "There's too much between us to ignore, so we're starting again. From the beginning. As friends."

Sawyer hummed, and raised her glass slightly in a mock toast. "To however long that may be," she mused, and Marcus rolled his eyes but clinked his own glass against hers before they downed it in unison.

Big mistake.

Sawyer held down a gag. "This mix is fucking disgusting." It tasted like battery acid.

Marcus made a face. "I know. We should try the firewhiskey and lemonade next time."

A sharp clinking sound caught their attention. They turned to face Rio, who had one leg propped on a chair like a sailor, hitting a fork against his glass, which Sawyer assumed was spiked too. Jeremy had his face buried in his hands and Quinn was pretending not to know Rio by busying herself with shovelling food onto her paper plate. Lifting a brow, Oliver folded his arms over his chest and sent Sawyer a surreptitious, half-cocked smirk. Letting out a sigh, Marcus shook his head, but met Rio's eyes with a fond smile over the rim of his own glass.

Sawyer was beginning to think that the expiration date on this friends thing was coming up soon.

"Ladies and gents and non-binary bitches," Rio declared, not caring that the majority of the looks he earned were acerbically judgemental. But just like Rio, he didn't care. Like Sawyer, everyone outside of their immediate circle of friends was merely peripheral. Unimportant. Irrelevant. The rest of the world could burn and still he wouldn't bat an eyelash. But to his friends, his shark-like grin burned like firewhiskey, and his gaze was a pyre waiting for a fire. "To the end of an era, to the beginning of a new age. To Marcus Flint, who's going to be the world's most annoying Chaser, to Oliver Wood, the world's most immovable Keeper, and to Sawyer, the world's most terrifying bitch of a Beater. And a bitch. May the world never be ready for you motherfuckers."

          (On the last official day of school, a miracle happened. It was during lunch, when they were all gathered by the Slytherin table, loosed by the relief of the end of exams, when Wyatt had tentatively approached them with his group of friends. A sting of red ties in the Slytherin crowd.

          "Can we sit?" Wyatt had asked, quietly. Immediately, all eyes went to Sawyer, who'd stabbed her fork through her sausage so hard they flinched (except Oliver, who'd already been greeted by Jeremy and was thus engaged in an conversation about the recent Quidditch season nobody could pry him from). But she'd only done that to mess with them.

           For an endless moment, she'd been stone-faced and silent, and Wyatt looked like he was ready to abort mission. Until she turned back to her food and said, "do whatever, I don't care."

          Wyatt's smile blew ear-to-ear as he planted himself in the space between Sawyer and Marcus. Him and Jun were immediately suckered into the Quidditch discussion while Dylan and Marcus made awkward small talk about their common class. Off to the side, Ashton and Quinn talked about something that flew over Sawyer's head. As always, Sawyer didn't engage. Just sat there, watching her boys—her family—interact with her brother's circle. After awhile, the conversation veered towards the draft. To everyone's shock, Marcus and Oliver were congratulating each other on their invitation to join Puddlemere United, and seemed to actually be having an enjoyable conversation about it.

          "I'm surprised Sawyer didn't get one, though," Marcus said, pursing his lips in displeasure.

          "That sucks," Ashton said, frowning at Sawyer. "But you're so good."

          Sawyer met Oliver's gleaming gaze from across the table. She shrugged. "Puddlemere United didn't like me, I guess."

           "Jokes on them," Dylan said, drowning his mashed potatoes in gravy.

           "The Appleby Arrows liked me, though."

         Everyone froze.

          Oliver let out a quiet laugh.

           Jeremy made an inhuman sound. "Holy shit!" He exclaimed, his voice strangled by disbelief. "How long have you been sitting on that one?!"

           She didn't answer him, but they celebrated anyway.)

With that, he lifted his drink and tipped his head back and poured the contents of his glass down the hatch. In response, the others let out a resonant cheer, and followed suit. Immediately, Oliver's face twisted in disgust as he recoiled and stared down at his glass like he'd just ingested poison, Jeremy grimaced, and Quinn looked like she was going to keel over. Marcus must've spiked all their drinks too.

"What the fuck is in this?!" Oliver said, horror tinging his tone. Sawyer offered him the flask of firewhiskey, and Oliver took it to wash the foul mix out.

"That was the grossest thing I've ever had. My mouth feels like the ass end of a hippo," Jeremy said, setting his glass down wearily. Marcus rubbed his back in sympathy.

"I think I'm dying," Quinn moaned, clutching Jeremy's arm. "Oh, god, I can feel my insides withering away."

"You're all so dramatic," Rio said, rolling his eyes like they were being petulant children. And, as though trying to prove his point, he poured himself another, and downed it all in one gulp.

"You just have no tastebuds," Oliver deadpanned, shaking his head.

Marcus scoffed. "I'll drink to that, my guy."

"I would rather not."

"Yeah, you're right."

Offended, Rio narrowed his eyes at them. "I wish you were both rivals again."

Just as Marcus was about to retort, the lights swept to the front of the hall, where a stage had been set up, and with a wave Dumbledore's hand, the enchanted chorus settled into their inanimate forms once more.

"Welcome, seventh years," Dumbledore said, his voice booming through the air. "Congratulations on passing your exams." Out the corner of Sawyer's eye, she caught Rio bitterly snatching a flask out of Marcus' hand and chugging it when the chaperoning professors weren't looking. Dumbledore's eyes swept through the crowd, his glistering eyes catching each and every one of them. "You've all worked so hard this year, and I wish you all the best of luck once you leave the nest. Enjoy the ball your fellow prefects have tirelessly put together, and know this." He paused, the hall falling into a theatric silence so deafening Sawyer's ears popped. "Hogwarts will always welcome you home."

With that, he stepped off the raised platform, and the crowd began to cheer as a fast-paced song began to play.

It started with a couple of people pulling their friends to the cleared-out space Sawyer assumed was the dance floor. Then more and more people started to join them in a flurry of colourful dresses. At first, the six of them were seated at a table, just snacking on scallops and chocolate-coated strawberries, and passing a bottle of expensive Chocolate liqueur between them that Marcus and Sawyer had pilfered from a bar armed with a faulty security system Marcus had managed to outmanoeuvre, and the more tipsy they got, the more comical everything else began to look in their hazy vision. Jeremy and Quinn were the first to detach from the group, stumbling towards the dance floor, Jeremy steering Quinn by her shoulders. Then it was Rio, who stood, and dragged Marcus by the tie after them.

"Fuck it up, bitches!" Rio yelled over the music, before they were swallowed by the crowd.

And then there were two.

Neither Oliver nor Sawyer were dancers, and they were perfectly content sitting here watching everyone else. A group of girls glittering in a cloud of expensive-smelling perfume swanned by in their pretty dresses. Oliver was leaning against Sawyer, an arm wrapped around her shoulder, and though they occupied their own seats, they were so tangled together it seemed like they were sharing one. His friends had disappeared into the crowd of dancers taking the floor. Sawyer held out her hand and watched the way the light flickered over her skin, like she was submerged underwater and the light slanting through the surface of the waves was calling her home.

"Happiness looks good on you," Oliver murmured.

Sawyer turned to face him, and found him already staring at her.

"We're free," Sawyer said, the full weight of her realisation crushing into her, a hand reaching through her stomach and untangling something that'd been dead-knotted up deep within her for years.

Retrospect did no one any good, and once she was out of here, Sawyer never wanted to look over her shoulder. And though the previous years had been too tainted to be worth going back to, she could admit that there were its shining points. In the consuming dark hellbent on desecration, there were the moments where she could pull her head out of the water and breathe. Moments that were devastatingly few and far between, but moments she could count on.

"We are," Oliver echoed in agreement, nodding.

They turned to the dance floor again, heat creeping into her veins, loosening the screws in the machine of her body. Sawyer tried to convince herself it was the alcohol. They'd already finished an entire bottle of Chocolate liqueur, and Sawyer could feel the sugar rotting in her aching teeth. Before the others had escaped to the dance floor, they were working their way down a bottle of Dragon Barrel Brandy, which had a much more powerful kick.

"Wanna get out of here?" Oliver asked, his breath a whisper against the shell of her ear, a faint tingle in the nape of her neck.

Sawyer shook the flask of firewhiskey at him. "About time."

Slowly, they slipped away. Out the double doors, clocking past the patrolling grounds staff searching for stray students heading where they aren't supposed to be, ducking out of sight from Professor Sprout who was marching a couple of students away from their secluded corner back to the Great Hall, thundering down the corridor, dodging behind a corner to avoid Peeves when he drifted like a shark past them, howling like a wolf.

"Where do you think you two are going?" A familiar voice stopped them in their tracks.

They turned, and Sawyer shot Professor Lupin an innocent smile. Professor Lupin lifted a brow, and shot them a knowing smirk.

"Take a left turn that way," he said, cocking his head in the other direction. "Professor Snape's making his rounds down the other stretch. Have fun."

Relief blasted through Oliver, and he nodded at Professor Lupin in gratitude, who began to whistle a tune, and carried on his way. Eventually, they spilled out into the corridor, Sawyer holding up the skirt of her dress so she could chase after Oliver, who'd broken out into a sprint towards the familiar path towards the Quidditch pitch. For the first time, she was running towards something and not expecting resistance, diving head-first into the dark, but her feet seemed to remember the way.

"Beat you," Oliver mused, smugly, leant against the doorway.

Flicking him a cheerless smile, Sawyer threw the flask of firewhiskey at him. It struck him square in the chest, its liquid contents sloshing audibly, and he caught it before it fell to the ground. "You had a headstart."

"And longer legs."

"Fuck you."

"Not now."

"Oh. My. God," Sawyer growled.

Oliver nudged her with his hip.

As they strolled into the pitch, where the torches began to flare up and light the place in an amber ambience, Oliver unscrewed the lid, tipped his head back, and poured a stream of firewhiskey into his mouth. Swiping the back of his hand over his lips, he handed the flask back to Sawyer, who did the same. With how much they were drinking today, Sawyer was glad Jeremy had charmed the flask to hold more of its contents than it appeared. In the light gilding their bodies, they looked something godly. Backlit and selfish.

They sank to the grass, Oliver's head in Sawyer's lap, his eyes tracing the lines of her face, her hand carding through his hair as they passed the firewhiskey between them, drinking until their hands went numb. Above them, the sky was starless and dark, but they didn't need it. The centre of the universe was right here.

"I didn't get to tell you earlier," Oliver said, his tone gentle now that they were alone, "but you look beautiful."

Sawyer bit down on her bottom lip. "Flattery is uninteresting and gets you nowhere."

Eyes lighting up, Oliver hummed. "You said that to me. Once. A long time ago."

"I hated you."

"You did. I thought you were being difficult, and I didn't like you all that much either."

"So?"

"Now I want to say," Oliver said, and Sawyer heard the nerves in his voice. "I don't know if this is a terrible idea, or if it's the firewhiskey talking, but once Wyatt gets sick of being my flatmate, I was just thinking that you and I could live together, y'know. If you want. If you think this—" he flicked a finger between them, drawing a line connecting them both— "is worth it. I've calculated my starting salary as reserve Keeper, and it's more than enough. I'm serious. We're going to be working apart during the season but we can still come home to each other. On the off-season, all that time will be for us. I don't know about you, but I really like that idea."

Sawyer tapped a finger to the place above his heart. "I never knew you were that much of a romantic."

"It's called planning ahead," Oliver deadpanned, catching her finger and holding onto it. "It's practical."

They were only eighteen, Sawyer thought. They were only eighteen and talking as if their whole lives could be seen on a meticulous spreadsheet, going from one point to the next. How would he even know if they could still feel the same in a few months? The old paranoia came creeping back in. If one day he woke up and looked at her and saw nothing but the ugly parts and decided he didn't want that anymore, what would they do?

Sawyer would be lying if she said she wasn't thinking about it. She'd also calculated her starting salary as Beater, and it wasn't nearly as flash of a pay check as Oliver's because, apparently, female athletes got paid less even if they played the same positions as their male counterparts, but it's something she'll continue to fight.

The silence was almost punishing.

If surgeons opened up her body they might find an unending winter within, a stillness, a slowness, no birdsong or wings rustling evergreen needles, no quivering bushes or fleeting foxes, only dark trees and white snow, a blizzard like on the TV screen when the antenna's a couple inches askew.

Life always teaches lessons that you learn the hard way. It comes down to this:

When the world kept taking and taking and taking, you learn not to put yourself in situations where you end up giving. You learn to keep everything inside, every piece of yourself you cling to with a vice grip until your fingers bleed because you'd rather slice yourself open on the broken shards than let them snatch away and then take advantage of those potentially vulnerable bits and then discard you like a morsel of trash.

When the world kept taking and taking and taking, sometimes you don't become kinder. Sometimes you learn to be selfish because you know from prior experience that if you give these people an inch, they'll take a mile. A little will always end up becoming too much. So you learn that sharing means showing weakness, showing you're easy. People are users. It's in their nature. Learn how to use them before they use you. Learn to lock your toys away and be guiltlessly nasty to those who want to take a look. Look them in the eyes and tell them: no, go fuck yourself. Grow sharper teeth, whetted by the anger forging the double-bladed knives slashing up your insides; grow tougher flesh and steel your organs, because ice melts and evaporates when exposed to the right degree of heat and stone can crumble when you strike it at the right angles with the right tools, but steel will make them think twice. Especially if it's shaped like a loaded gun. If you're not the monster you are the prey. So you become the wolf and in your dreams, you do not cower like you once did. Canines slide out of your gums while you grow twice as big and devour him whole. Otherwise, if you don't learn to keep what's yours and don't let go, the world will chew you up and spit you out.

It was confusing, how freeing today had been. The dilemma of how much of this was real, she'd already gotten over. She'd decided that it didn't matter. Before, she might not have let herself accept it. Let herself accept that, in this universe, she could be happy. She could be content. She could have things and not constantly have to keep a vice grip around them for fear of being stolen from. Everything she's ever let go of had claw marks in them. But not this. (Whatever this was.) Not this.

She didn't have to hold fast to that rage anymore. But letting go was easier said than done. So maybe not today. Not tomorrow. But eventually.

Eventually.

It sounded like a promise.

And Sawyer realised that even though this—whatever she's feeling now, maybe whatever she's always been feeling—was dangerous, she could lay down her arms. She could stop fighting it.

So even if this was just a teenage fantasy, even if it was completely unfeasible and way too early to say now, even if it might not last, even if this did last forever, she told him, "I'd like that."

And when he grinned up at her like he was looking up at the stars for the first time, those three words sounded a lot like another three words.

(It was something. Don't say it wasn't.)

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

oliver wood will say "i know a place" and take you to the quidditch pitch

THIS IS IT Y'ALL!!!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎊🎊🎊🎉 thanks for sticking around!!!!!! no other couple will measure up to sawyer and oliver 🥺 anyway. i hope y'all liked this chapter!!!! please let me know your thoughts! i'm very emotional rn i can't believe i'm finally letting go of my babies fhdbsbsbs THEY GROW UP SO FAST

also i know that oliver and sawyer have Not Once said the L word and no, your eyes do not deceive you, this is very intentional. because a) their relationship is kinda new still and b) they dont need to say it for the other to Know.