SOME KIND OF DISASTER ─ oliver wood

[ 015 ] point gap

Why can't you be more like your brother?

There were days Sawyer laid in bed and wouldn't be able to get up. Even if she was lying awake under the sheets, drifting in and out of consciousness, in the most uncomfortable position, wherein her spine might be twisted too much towards the wrong direction and her arms could be wound painfully around her torso or splayed oddly at the joints, she would have no strength or see no point in doing anything about it. After all, her entire life is just one uncomfortable position after another. So why bother? Not because she didn't want to, but because the act of opening her eyes seemed too much, too exhausting. Put into perspective like that, cleaning her room seemed impossible in comparison. Reading, writing, trying to hold onto words that wouldn't go right—those would've killed her. Laziness looked like that, according to her mother.

There were days she wanted to put her fist through the window while her nerves were on fire and there was only the knife-bright anger slashing up her insides. Once she'd thrown a plate at Wyatt's head when he'd called her out on being rude in an attempt at defending their mother. He'd ducked out of the way in time and the plate missed his head by mere inches, shattering against the wall—along with all chances of her having any sort of relationship with either of them. This, her mother called 'difficult'. Difficult to manage. Difficult to mould into the perfect child. Difficult to care for. Difficult to love.

"So," Marcus started, regarding his boys and Sawyer with a hungry glint in his eyes. His voice broke Sawyer out of her reverie. "Quidditch match tomorrow. Slytherin versus Hufflepuff. How much are we betting?"

"Fifty galleons says we shoot down offense in first half," Rio said, glancing at Sawyer to gauge her reaction. "You put up a fight and we'll raise it to a hundred to crumble defense. Make it fun for us, would you? It's so boring when you don't care enough to play properly."

"Don't bother," Sawyer said, seeing the end before it's even begun. "Hufflepuff's offense line is a joke."

"You could try to be more optimistic about your first game of the season," Jeremy offered, lips curling into a small grin. "I'd like to see how our Beaters handle you and that Violet girl. That would be pretty interesting, I feel. Plus, we could always learn something from you. Our defense line definitely needs some work."

"It doesn't matter," Sawyer said, waving a dismissive hand. "Even if I bothered, it wouldn't make a difference. The point gap would still be too out of our control to put up a real fight."

Face twisting in malcontent, Marcus grumbled. "Wish you could play for our team. Our Beaters are good, but they can't aim for shit."

Sawyer figured it'd be a waste of breath to bring up the fact that the Slytherin Beaters put two Ravenclaw Chasers in the infirmary last season. They were benched for foul play for the next two matches. Even though their aiming bottomed out, they were still forces to be reckoned with. Just at the risk of a more personal level.

"Okay, dream Quidditch team line-up," Rio said, smacking his fist into his palm emphatically as he glanced between his friends. "Anybody from any house, including alumni. Go."

"Sawyer and Renee Delaney—that Ravenclaw who graduated last year—as our Beaters," Jeremy said, humming thoughtfully. "Charlie Weasley as our Seeker. You, Marcus and I as Chasers. Oliver for our Keeper."

"I hate that you picked Wood, but I'm going to have to agree with you," Marcus grunted. "Sawyer? Thoughts?"

Sawyer shrugged. Anyone with half a brain could see that fictitious line-up was bulletproof, and Sawyer had nothing to contest it with. After a moment's consideration, Marcus hummed in assent, clearly having interpreted that however he wanted and turned to inspect his Fanged Germanium. Notes were scribbled in the margins of his textbook. Without missing a beat, Jeremy picked up his quill and amended a mistake in Marcus' notes. As the slow chatter of her classmates discussing topics ranging from the task at hand to tomorrow's Quidditch match to someone's girlfriend's cousin's brother filled the room and raked like sandpaper against her nerves, Sawyer glanced back down at her own textbook, filled with half-hearted scribbles she wouldn't be able to make sense of later, when revision was long overdue. Perhaps this was why she preferred silence, violence and isolation—straight-forward things. Words were difficult, dyslexia made them look all shapes wrong—coming from someone else's mouth, words meant nothing. Anger was debilitating, a double-edged sword of its own, but it made its distinctions.