CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
lose some
AS THEY APPROACHED the infirmary later that evening, after dinner, Sawyer realised she hadn't felt it. That emptiness, that hopelessness, or any sudden rage. Not in the way that she used to around the Dementors. Maybe it'd translated into the aggression she'd channelled into the match, but that theory didn't make any sense. She'd felt their presence sitting like a stone in her gut, that dread, that pit in her chest opening up again, hollowing her out, but she'd pushed through it. But how? Just weeks ago, she'd burnt the flesh in the back of her hand to feel something, to feel nothing. To immolate the dark. To generate something new. This time, even as the Dementors had swarmed the pitch, it hadn't been as serious as before when her mental state bordered on suicidal. Or at least, the contemplation of it.
After they'd put themselves back together, Sawyer led Oliver out of the locker room with intentions to meet Violet in front of the infirmary. After all, coupled with the loss, he was the one who'd taken the hard fall. When they finally arrived, Violet's eyes bounced between them like a pinball in a machine, before settling on the purple blemish on Oliver's neck, just under his jaw. Her eyes gleamed knowingly as Oliver sent her an innocent smile, acting as though nothing had transpired within the past twenty minutes. Sawyer ignored her pointedly and strode in, the other two in tow.
And there he was, Harry Potter, looking so small and so fragile and so washed-out in his cot, glaring at the ceiling like he was daring the entire structure to come crashing down on him. Sawyer didn't think he'd noticed them yet. Or perhaps he did, but wasn't in the mood for more visitors after almost dying. Sawyer wanted to ask what it was like, but Madam Pomfrey would throw her out if she even slightly upset the boy.
"Half an hour," Madam Pomfrey said, sternly, pulling the curtain around them. "He needs his rest."
Tapping two fingers to her temple in mock salute, Sawyer sent her a vacant grin, and Madam Pomfrey shook her head, knowing that Sawyer was just going to do whatever she wanted, and muttered, "why do I even bother?"
Finally, Harry seemed to snap out of whatever reverie he'd been trapped in, and glanced at them with mild joy flashing over his expression. Instantly, he opened his arms, and Violet ran into them with a small shriek of relief. Madam Pomfrey had pulled up a few chairs earlier for the rest of his team, and both of the seventh years claimed two. Watching the two younger Quidditch players, Oliver crossed his arms over his chest, but his expression wasn't rough. Sawyer knocked her ankle against his as a flurry of apologies flew out of Violet's mouth while Harry frantically tried to reassure her that it was fine, that she couldn't have caught him anyway, and that it was sweet that she'd tried, and after awhile of fuss, Sawyer couldn't decipher what they were saying to each other anymore because their voices overlapped midway through their sentences and beginnings had no ends, and fragments of the middle caught on tails. For a glimmer of a moment, they abruptly lapsed into silence, and just stared at each other, before bursting into wild laughter.
Oliver looked a little confused, but all Sawyer could think about was the searing warmth of his elbow pressed against hers.
"Hi, thanks for coming to see me, guys," Harry said, unable to keep the vibrant smile off his face. When his gaze landed on Oliver, his expression turned sheepish. "Oliver, I—"
"Don't," Oliver said, cutting him off with a sharp look. "It's not your fault." A shadow of vindication passed over his face. "Although—"
His accusation was cut off by Sawyer punching him in the arm. Oliver sent her a flat scowl, but there was no heat behind it. That was when Harry's eyes seemed to catch on something on the side of Oliver's jaw. He shared an alarmed look with Violet who only nodded like they were thinking the same thing.
"Are they—?"
Violet sighed in disappointment. "Here's your stupid ten galleons," she huffed bitterly, pulling a fistful of money out of the pocket of her jeans and slapping the coins into his chest with a vehemence. A rush of air was knocked out of Harry's lungs.
"I mean I'm happy I won," Harry hummed, flicking Oliver an impish smile, his eyes shining. "Shame, though."
"What on earth are you gremlins talking about?" Oliver asked, even more confused than before. He cast Sawyer a searching look, imploring for elaboration on a situation they were clearly implicated in, but weren't aware of.
Lifting a brow, Sawyer cocked her head at the two, wanting them to explain for themselves.
Blushing, Violet rocked forward in her chair, propping her elbows on the edge of Harry's cot as she rested her chin on her pale palms. Harry's grin went ear-to-ear.
"We bet how long it'd take for you two to..." Harry clicking his teeth together, as though searching for the right words. "Get back together."
Apparently Harry bet they'd take longer than a year to realise it. Violet had a more optimistic outlook on the situation. It'd been an ongoing bet between them since the end of Sawyer and Oliver's fifth year.
Caught off-guard by their straight forward answer, Oliver let out a surprised laugh. With a devilish smirk tugging at his lips, Oliver scratched the back of his neck and jabbed a thumb at Sawyer. His gaze was tender-fire, burning into her side profile with soft intent. "I'm working on it. Seriously, it's all up to her."
Harry snickered. "Nice."
Sawyer gazed back at Oliver in unimpressed silence.
"WHAT?!" Violet shrieked. Scrunching up her features in an expression that was probably meant to be menacing or malicious though it came across more pained than anything, she jabbed an accusatory finger at Sawyer. Her voice was a lion cub's growl. "You're the reason I lost money. I won't forget that."
"I'm terrified," Sawyer deadpanned, making a mental note to corner Oliver later about what he meant by, I'm working on it.
* * *
THREE WEEKS AFTER THE FIRST MATCH AGAINST GRYFFINDOR, even though the pitch was so thick with mud from the relentless rain of the past handful of weeks it resembled more of a swamp than what it was supposed to be, the professors had come to the general consensus that the afternoon was clear enough to host the Hufflepuff versus Ravenclaw Quidditch match. It wasn't, really, and by the halfway mark, the players were drenched by the light downpour that'd begun to fall in acrimonious sheets, obscuring their vision.
Despite the fact that the Ravenclaws were never as rough and aggressive as the Gryffindors or as dirty and cutting as the Slytherins, they were still an opponent force to be reckoned with. They'd devised fresh and strategic plays that the Hufflepuffs couldn't keep up with under raw power and determination. Sawyer had tongued her medication again to stay sharp-minded, and the Dementors had been warded off the pitch with a few spells from the professors, but it wasn't enough.
At first, still spirited by their victory over Gryffindor, the Hufflepuffs had the odds stacked in their favour. Sanchez had scored thrice in the first ten minutes of the match. After that, however, the rest of the game had been a downward tumble. Though the Ravenclaws' defense line was weak, and Sawyer and Violet had managed to injure all three Chasers and prevent their team members from getting hurt, they were unable to control the point gap, much less close it even though Cedric had caught the snitch way ahead of Cho Chang spotting it. Their Chasers were too unpredictable to mark, their Keeper had begun to pick up the slack, and their Beaters had begun targeting the Hufflepuff Keeper instead.
Even Irene, whose voice was hardly a murmur on a normal day, had started yelling at her teammates when the desperation began to set in, like a slow poison, the realisation that they were about to be flattened. "If you could focus your efforts a little bit more—"
"We are not the problem here," Sawyer had said with unapologetic brutality, gesturing between herself and Violet, when the Ravenclaws scored again. The Hufflepuff Chasers glowered at her, just comprehending the mordacious implications of her words, until Cedric had swooped in to diffuse the situation.
In the end, the Hufflepuffs were forced to accept their massive loss. The Hufflepuff crowd's disappointment and irritation was understandable. After winning the previous match, they'd expected a better performance, but was met with something they were all too familiar with. Cedric hadn't been a sore loser about it, though. In fact, he'd shaken all their hands and congratulated them afterwards, even laughed about their clever tactics. Dazzled by his infectious sportsmanship, the others hadn't taken it too hard, even though they were kicked down to rock bottom again. Everyone except Sawyer, who just wanted to put her fist through the face of the next person who said, good game. Disappointment clawed at her gut, and before she knew it, she'd kicked three lockers shut and scared two of the Chasers out of the locker rooms.
She'd tried. And it hadn't been enough. Maybe this was why she played like she had nothing to lose before. If you didn't set yourself up with an expectation, if you gave the bare minimum, you would never be disappointed. Nothing could be taken from you. The loss could be attributed to purposeful lack of effort. By the time she got out of the shower and changed up, the locker room was empty. As she was shoving her things into her bag, Sawyer wondered why this match in particular had such an aggravating effect on her. Maybe she'd actually been trying, had actually started looking forward to playing, had wanted to win. She hadn't realised it until she felt the first lick of frustration when the Ravenclaws started scoring against Herbert, and then the pinch of disappointment when Lee Jordan had announced Ravenclaw's victory. In that moment, Sawyer didn't think she'd wanted to crush anyone between her fists more than Lee. Or the Ravenclaw Chasers. Without the medication, she was a raw nerve and the world was constantly trying to touch her.
When she finally left, still fuming, Sawyer halted in her tracks when she spotted Oliver leaning against the wall outside the girl's locker room. With a quick once-over to gauge her expression when she pinned him with a stony look, he only inclined his head towards the exit. Wordlessly, she followed him up to the stands, which had manifestly been dried with a spell after everyone had left. Sawyer dropped her bag on the benches at the front and sat with her knees propped against the barrier. Oliver hooked his elbows over the railing and looked out across the pitch. Sawyer watched him out of periphery. Watched the calm that seemed to wash over him each time he was out here alone without the crowd backing him.
"Your Chasers need to make longer passes," Oliver said, after a beat of silence. "Most of the Ravenclaws have Comet three-sixties, and your brooms go much faster. Short passes are safe, but your team can afford to take bigger risks. Especially against them." Sawyer didn't say anything, but she wasn't even trying to hide that she'd been staring anymore, so Oliver glanced back at her, a small smile on his lips. "The loss isn't on you."
"I don't care," Sawyer said, with deadpan indifference that could've fooled anybody. Anybody except the boy sitting beside her.
"It's okay," Oliver said, lightly.
Sawyer shrugged, but the action felt empty. "Why are you here?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"It's just a game."
Smirking a little bit, Oliver levelled her with a pressing look. "It's starting to mean something to you."
Sawyer didn't answer him.
She knew what that look on his face meant. Since he'd taken over captainship of the team, Cedric had given them something no other Hufflepuff captain had in a long time. The team had started acting like a functioning body, all its parts working in synchrony, working in tandem, working together.
"It was something," Oliver said, and his weighted stare seemed to tunnel right through the flesh-cavity of her body. "Don't say it wasn't."
Tipping her head back, Sawyer flicked her gaze towards the sky. "You think you know me so well."
"You're saying I don't?"
This coming from the only person who could tell when she was off her medication, Sawyer had nothing to negate his point with, so she said nothing. Instead, she turned to her duffel bag, unzipped the side pocket, and dug through the stray bits and pieces of things that'd wound up in here because she hadn't bothered to put them back in their rightful places, before procuring something rectangular in her closed fist. Oliver watched her, the way he always did, with mild curiosity, with careful observation. Her fingers unfurled when she pressed the mixtape into his hand. The one her father had sent to her the night Quinn had her panic attack, that she'd listened to every night since then just to drown out every fractal of thought in her head.
Surprise flickered over Oliver's face as he turned the Van Halen mixtape over in his hands, like it meant something more than money, and Sawyer thought she liked that she was one of the few people who could disturb his cold and calculated countenance, like a ripple in a pond. That surprise morphed into dawning realisation, and Sawyer's blood turned to slush.
"You like me," Oliver said, blinking up at her.
"I hate you." Though her voice was granite, her palms went clammy.
"No," Oliver said, more insistent now, disbelief and a little bit of fervency tinging his tone, "you like me. Why else would you give me something without expecting anything in return? You said it yourself. You don't give unless there's something you can take. But all this while, you've been giving without taking. Tell me I'm wrong."
"It's just a mixtape," Sawyer said, looking him dead in the eye, but even that, too, felt like a confession.
"It's starting to mean something to you."
She cut a vicious look at him, but he didn't back down. Again, he was met with her silence. Even if they started something, Sawyer's head felt heavy with the end. There was so much he wasn't ready for. If her mother was testament to how people reacted to Sawyer at her essence, Sawyer, whose mother tongue was lashing out, then there was no reason Oliver would want to stay. And yet, each and every time she gave him the option to walk away, he was the one asking her to stay. And stay, she would. Even though she knew she shouldn't. Some part of her couldn't let go of the self-destruction. Letting this run for longer than it had to would ruin her, she knew. And yet, here she was. The mixtape was just an object, just a thing, but it meant more.
It was something, Oliver had said, albeit not in application to this predicament in particular. Don't say it wasn't.
He was right.
"It means something to me," Oliver said now, his gaze searching, combing her face for any sign that she heard. "It's meant something to me for a very long time."
That's when it clicked.
"Sixth year," Sawyer said. That one's a bit of a minefield, he'd told her, suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly unable to meet her gaze, Sixth year's when I actually realised it, but I think I've always been a little bit interested. That was her. He'd meant her. All of a sudden that realisation crashed down on her like a tidal wave, like the time she'd stayed at her aunt's beach house for a summer and laid in the shallow part of the ocean wishing it would carry her away. Her heart jammed in her throat.
"Why did you say we couldn't be something more?" Oliver pinned her with a questioning look that made her feel cotton-headed and unsteady.
"It's easier to say no to things before they can say no to me."
"It's never a no with you."
"It will be. Eventually. You'll see," Sawyer said, but she couldn't get Rio's words out of her head. Sometimes you have to be selfish. You're always doing impulsive things that hurt you in the end. If it ends, it ends. If he's not staying even though you're trying your best, so what? That just shows he doesn't deserve you. Not the other way round. Some terrible part of Sawyer wanted to believe that.
"You know I don't take risks."
Of course she knew that. Part of the reason why she'd been so hesitant to reciprocate was because she knew that by taking a chance on her, it'd throw everything out of order. Oliver thought in equations and neat lines that mapped the trajectory of his path to his goal. From start to finish, everything was calculated.
"This one's a pretty rotten risk."
"Not to me," he said, his voice slightly ragged. "Not if it's you."
Sawyer slanted him a hot look. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
Pocketing the mixtape, Oliver shrugged, opting not to say anything to that. This time, he was the one who leant forward, his face inches from hers, his eyes darting over her features, like he was trying to memorise it all before he could forget. He tipped her chin up with a light touch of his calloused fingers. "Tell me to go."
She caught his wrist and dug in with her fingers hard enough for him to feel it, feel the weight of his choice, but not hard enough to hurt. Some time ago, she'd discovered that she couldn't tell him no. That she'd give and give and give until he got the message, which he had. There were parts of her that she'd shown him she'd never let anyone else see even it they held a gun to her head. Pieces that weren't pretty. Pieces that didn't have edges. Pieces that did. And now Sawyer had no choice but to tell him.
"Stay."
AUTHOR'S NOTE.
*cue you don't know me by liz gillies / the victorious cast*
it's happening y'all....... idk is this too fast-paced? is this too Sudden????
anyway sorry if this was v short
10 more chapters to go before i release the next gen fic into the wild