There are literally a hundred girls I know who would gladly kill me – in cold-blood – if they knew what I was doing at this very moment.
That was the only thought flitting through my snog-addled brain as Potter and I blindly stumbled into my bedroom, knocking clumsily into the doorframe and the bookshelf, kissing all the way. Even as his lips moved over mine, searing and in perfect rhythm, I still couldn’t stop imagining the different deaths I would be suffering at the hands of a wildly jealous fangirl horde. They would probably bury me alive in a fatal pit of romance novels and custom-made James Potter bobbleheads. Or burst my eardrums with their banshee screeching. Make me asphyxiate on their toxic perfume (Eau de Desperation). Whatever tactic they chose, it would be a slow, painful death.
Which meant it was a good thing, really, that I wasn’t around any fangirls at the moment, and that I was instead inside my bedroom snogging James Potter, every inch of my body fused against him, his hand on the back of my neck, his (very talented) tongue in my mouth.
I peeked open my eyelids for a split second, curiosity getting the better of me, and registered a chiseled jaw and the curling ends of inky black hair before I slammed them shut again. No. I couldn’t. Seeing meant believing. And I absolutely refused to believe that this was really happening.
It was all just a dream. A very...er, graphic and enjoyable dream.
And, you know, since I was already in the middle of it... I might as well just play this dream out - see what my subconscious has to say for itself, right? You know. Just for...research purposes. In the name of science!
For example: it was interesting, really, this chemical reaction (see? I used the word chemical! That means science) that took place between me and Potter. How the second our lips touched, it was game over. Our surroundings went up in flames, caution thrown to the wind, and anything we’d ever promised ourselves was shot to hell. Potter’s lips brushed mine, and then instantly, all of a sudden, we were doused in heat. Grappling for each other, frantic hands and the harsh flush of his body against mine, snarling for breath, his hungry mouth bruising and rough. All from one, simple touch. Like chucking a cigarette into a puddle of gasoline.
I made a sound that was suspiciously similar to a moan (and let me reiterate – THIS IS ALL IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE. SCIENCE!) as Potter nipped at my bottom lip, his tongue grazing it ever so slightly before slipping back into my mouth again. Mother of pearl, the boy was good. I grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, my shoulders scrunching together as I drew him even closer.
My brain was never really a fan of oxygen, anyway.
My hands explored, running from Potter’s broad chest to his soft hair to his tensed shoulders. He smelled like clean sky and warm sunshine. Heat lapped at my insides, desire flickering inside my lungs. Potter’s left hand was holding my face, thumb grazing my cheek as his lips melded roughly over mine. The kiss was a surrendering of control, of will, of all that pent up anger and aggression and hate and -
Potter stumbled backwards, and together, in a spectacularly graceful motion, we fell on top of my bed.
He wasted no time in rolling us over so that I was underneath, and I let him take control, too overwhelmed by the weight of his body against mine to do anything other than let the kiss happen to me. His hand pushed underneath my body, against the cold skin of my back exposed by my dress, and I arched against him with a gasp.
Time streaked by in a haze of teeth and tongue and urgency - it almost felt like fighting with him, this snog. We both wanted to be the aggressor, the dominant one, and we both refused to back down. At one point, I’d shoved Potter and tried to roll us over, resulting in the two of us almost falling to the floor.
Which is all to be expected, really, when you and your mortal enemy are on your bed. Together. And both of you are conscious and there is a noticeable lack of prank shaving cream - which would be the only acceptable reason why you would ever be near James Potter and a bed: to smear bathroom products on his face while he sleeps - but no, instead you’re kissing him, this boy you absolutely despise, this boy who has made your life hell with every snarky comment and arrogant smirk and annoying, cocky ruffle of his hair, and now he’s making you feel so whole, and how has it come to this?
I was just starting to really enjoy the kiss, any coherent thoughts of mine fading away in hazy scraps and curls, when the worst possible thing happened:
...No, I did not accidentally knee him in the groin. So I guess it was the second worst possible thing. But still.
It was pretty bad.
Knock knock. “Hey hey, slut! Guess who’s back in town?”
I could’ve recognized Dom’s voice from a hundred feet away (which I have, actually, seeing as one of Dommy’s favorite pastimes is screaming for my attention from the opposite end of Hogwarts corridors), and even from behind my closed bedroom door, I could instantly identify her.
In a flash, I was shoving Potter off me, and he was falling to the floor with a muffled oof.Immediately, panic crashed over me like a wave.
Oh no. Oh no no no. Oh please no.
This was not happening.
“What the hell, Benn - ”
“SHHHH!” I hissed, flapping my hands frantically - which is just great, really, because we all know how much boys love outbursts of epilepsy. My heart felt like it was trying to lunge out of my chest; every beat was a thunder clap.
“Aggy! I know you’re in there! Is this anyway to treat your best friend who just got back from the muhhfuckin’ Alps? In muhhfuckin’ Switzerland?” Dom trilled, as if surviving the land of Swiss chocolate and boys named Sven was a grand feat deserving of an Olympic medal. Oh Merlin.
There was more pounding on the door, and that was when I realized I was totally, utterly screwed. Potter and I were literally trapped in, no way out. Dom would walk in on us, see him in my bed, and... I didn’t want to even think about the ensuing chaos and celebrating and future-wedding-planning from her.
Potter’s annoyed glare fell right off his face as he realized what was happening. We stared at each other with wide, panicked eyes, me crouched on the bed like a hunted animal and him in a heap on the hardwood floor.
Potter gestured for me to speak - the words ‘are-you-sodding-brain-dead-do-something’ written all over his face.
Oh god, this really wasn’t the best time for all my braincells to magically disappear like this - what were they doing anyway? Playing a sodding game of Hide and Seek?
Come on, Agatha, talk.
“Er - just a minute!” I winced right after the words left my mouth. A strangulation victim could have spoken more clearly than I just did. You could barely make out my voice, it was so swaddled in panic. Also, the fact that my heart was lodged somewhere in my esophagus right now didn’t seem to be helping.
Luckily, Dom didn’t notice as she brusquely ignored my comment. “What are you doing in there?” I could sense her impatience even through the door. “Are you busy knitting again? Haven’t you realized that you’re not seventy years old, yet? Ugh, quit being a lame-o and let me in! And don’t bother trying to hide the yarn and needles, Aggy, because I will burn them! I will burn it all!”
Oh great. She’s in a pyro mood, too. That’s always a good sign.
Potter shot me a weird glance, looking thoroughly snogged with his hair sticking all up in the back. “You knit?” he mouthed, like stranger things haven’t happened, and annoyance flared inside me.
“Is that what you’re concerned with right now?” I hissed back, voice barely a whisper.
Potter dropped his mouth open to reply, eyes flashing with the promise that he was about to say something very sarcastic, when Dom knocked again and we both flinched.
I ninja-rolled off the bed, being careful to avoid tripping over Potter’s very unhelpful body, and dusted myself off with shaky hands. What were we going to do?
Frantically, I started pacing back and forth, as if the kinetic energy of simply moving alone could magically produce a bright idea. Potter hastily pushed himself to a stand as well, rubbing his sore elbows (which he must have landed on) as he watched me, irritation flicking across his face.
“Alright, that’s it!” I heard Dom declare, and I froze. “I’m coming in - ”
“NO!” I shouted, louder than I intended. Potter’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned casually against the wall behind him, folding his arms. Obviously, he was giving up, accepting the fact that I’d never be able to get us out of this mess. The thought made anger chafe against the fear inside me. “I mean, sorry, but you can’t come in!”
“And why not?” Dom shot back, affronted.
“Because... Because I’m not wearing any pants!”
Great. So apparantly, I'm the kind of person who enjoys lounging around their room in only their underwear. In the middle of January. Just because.
Potter looked at me, snarky amusement in his gaze, as if to say Really? I tossed him a dirty glare.
There was a long pause behind the door. Then: “And, er, why exactly aren’t you wearing any pants?”
I rounded on Potter, silently pleading for help, and the prat just shrugged lazily. Arrrrrgh! “Because,” Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, “Because, um, you’re right - I’m knitting! Sorry! I know how much you hate it but I just... I can’t be tamed! It’s an addiction! I’m a lean, mean, knitting machine!”
Oh, yes, I’m not wearing any pants because I’m knitting. Well, that clears it up. Brilliant, Agatha. Let’s just check the scoreboard right now, shall we? I believe it says: Agatha Bennett: 1, Common Logic: 0.
There was an even longer silence from Dom this time. Which was a pretty big feat in itself, since my best friend is rarely rendered speechless. After a while, she finally said, voice low: “Okay, so let me get this straight - I can’t come into your room because you’re knitting... While not wearing any pants.”
Sweet baby Jesus.
“Er, yup, that’s me!” I exclaimed brightly. “So just wait a minute while I find something to put on...”
I wheeled around at the speed of light, eyes scanning the room for an escape route for Potter, and my gaze immediately flattened with annoyance when I caught sight of the prat himself, his fist stuffed into his mouth, shoulders and chest shaking as he hunched over in silent laughter.
"Are you bleedin' kidding me right now?” I whispered harshly. Potter straightened, eyes crinkling with mirth, still chuckling away at the bloody hilarious predicament I’d talked myself into.
“Lean - mean - knitting machine?!” He managed to get out through his laughter. My brow furrowed with frustration.
“Oh shut it, you prick!” I marched up to him, shoving his chest with my two hands -
And was promptly cut off when Potter suddenly grabbed my wrists and pulled me towards him, his mouth landing on mine in a full-fledged kiss.
The tension in my shoulders melted away immediately, my squeak of surprise silenced by his lips, searing and soft and making my head spin incredibly. He tasted sweet, dark chocolate, summer days drenched in sun. He was being gentler than before, taking his time, letting me feel every single sensation rolling leisurely through my body. And it felt good.
That didn’t change the fact, however, that this was extremely dangerous. My best friend was right outside my door, and time was ticking by. Potter was playing with fire right now, seeing how far he could push it. But for one split-second, with Potter’s callused hands cupping my face, I found myself not caring.
I could feel him smiling through the kiss.
And then reality slapped me in the metaphorical face.
I pushed him away for real this time, and he stumbled back, smirking, eyes sparking with arrogant laughter.
“Are you bleeding insane?”
“Calm down, Spazzy,” his voice was another taunting challenge as he brushed past me, making his way to the door. “You know what? Why don’t we just invite Dommy in - save us the trouble. Besides, it’s not like she doesn’t know we snog.”
My back went stick-straight as his words hit me. One, because I realized he was planning to doom us to hell, and two, because of the way he had phrased himself. “We snog.” Like it was a regular thing, or something.
Which was why I had to do what I did.
When Potter’s hand grazed the doorknob, I took a running head-start and tackled him to the ground in a brilliant display of physical fitness. Thud. We landed with a conspicuous thud on the floor, me on top of him, straddling his waist.
“What was that?” I heard Dom drone boredly from the other side. But I was a little too distracted to answer, as Potter was leaning up on his elbows, lips barely brushing my earlobe.
“Someone’s eager,” he mocked, gaze glimmering wickedly. I flushed instantly. Even though our bodies had just been glued together, for all intents and purposes, a couple minutes ago, this was different. Our eyes were wide-open right now. I couldn’t pretend this was a dream like last time, as I was fully aware of Potter’s skin on mine, his rock-solid body underneath me, the ends of my hair grazing his chest ever so slightly.
“Er - sorry!” I chirped hysterically towards the door, trying to ignore the feeling of Potter’s breath on my neck, his stare on my skin. “I tripped and fell - you know how clumsy I am. Just give me a second!”
Then I whipped around to face the prat, positively murderous.
“Are you sodding insane? Do you want her to walk in and find us in some compromising position together - ?!”
“Like this one, you mean?” He gestured cockily with his chin to our current situation. “I wasn’t the one who rugby-tackled us to the floor, Spazzy.”
Aasldfjklsowhiowehoiweh. WAS HE SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?
“Stop calling me that!” I hissed frantically, rolling off him and scrambling to my feet. Potter took his own sweet time getting up, lazily brushing his pants off with that same smug, insufferable smirk.
...Which immediately slid off his face when I pointed towards the bedroom window behind him me and breathed, voice harsh, “Out.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re joking.” When he saw the seriousness in my face, the other eyebrow quirked up to join its friend. “You’re not joking.”
“No,” I shook my head firmly, eyes blazing. “I’m not.”
“That’s about a twenty foot drop, Bennett,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a particularly stupid child.
“Do you not understand the situation we’re in?”
“Do you not understand the concept of gravity?” Potter volleyed back, shoving a hand through his hair.
“I don’t give a flying fuck!” I marched towards him, getting a little close for comfort. Potter obviously noticed the crazed, panicked look in my eyes, because he took a wary step back.
“Bennett, as someone who actually enjoys the use of his legs, I refuse to jump twenty feet to the ground just so you can avoid having an awkward conversation with my cousin.”
“You don’t have to jump! You can climb down!”
“Oh, right. Let me just get my Spiderman suit and I’ll be ready to go,” Potter snapped back.
“What, don’t tell me you’re scared, Potter? I thought you were a Gryffindor!”
“Being a Gryffindor doesn’t mean I also have to be suicidal!”
“You are going through that window!”
“There is no way in high hell I’m going through that wi – Ow! Ow! Ow! Okay, fine, I’m going, I’m going through that window – just stop hitting me! Jesus Christ, woman!”
Satisfied, I withdrew my hands, chest heaving feverishly, and watched as Potter stalked across the room and heaved the tiny window open, muttering something about ‘crazy bints’ and his decision to become a monk, ‘shave my fucking head, move to Mongolia and be done with this shit.’
“Yeah!” I rasped after him, voice as quiet as possible while still holding the appropriate amount of scathing. “Go ahead! I'll book your plane ticket for you!”
“As long as it's not a round trip, princess, by all means, go ahead,” Potter shot back oh-so-maturely, slinging his leg over the sill, his broad shoulders hunched so he could fit in the small space.
I crossed my arms, jittery foot tapping the ground. I couldn’t resist getting the last word in. “Fine, I will. Why don't you take a bloody Vow of Silence while you’re at it?!”
The last thing I saw before Potter dropped down and out of sight was the lovely view of his middle finger.
Finally I could feel relief, making my knees wobble, but I was still breathing rather heavily. I stormed over to the door and, patting down my slightly frizzed hair, swung it open. Instantly, I was bombarded by a giant bear hug and an onslaught of Dom-isms.
It was crazy, really, because many people liked to cast-off my best friend as a Vapid Veela, but in reality, she had the observational skills of most international spies. She noticed everything. All she did was take one step into the room and it was like she just...absorbed every detail through osmosis, like a very creepy sponge.
“Oh my god Agatha is that really you holy crap you dyed your hair it looks so pretty like you have a chocolate fondue fountain on your head and did you lose weight are you wearing perfume is that a hangnail I see oh you have a piece of lint on your dress did you get a new freckle one of your eyebrow hairs is crooked and - “ My best friend pulled away and paused in her monologue, presumably because she just remembered she needed oxygen to live. “Why are you so sweaty?”
The last question was different from the other ones. It made me nervous, because it actually had a relevant reason.
...And that reason had to do with James Potter. In my bedroom.
“Oh, you know how...intense I get when I knit,” I said with fake cheeriness. I grabbed my best friend by the skinny elbow, dragging her inside before she could get another word in. “Anyways, enough about me! How were the Alps? Did ya eat hole-y cheese? Meet anyone named Sven?”
Dom, however, was having none of it. She was too busy treating my room like she was on CSI, inspecting every surface with a shrewd glare. “Something’s....different,” she murmured slowly, cat-like eyes trailing over the far wall. “Something’s not right.”
“Okay, Sherlock,” I deflected jokingly, heart rate spiking. “Why don’t you just whip out the magnifying glass already?”
“Aggy,” Dom suddenly turned on me, demanding. “I noticed your window’s open. In the middle of January. What does that tell you?”
“Er... that one day you’re going to make a very scary mum?”
I sighed, relenting after she fixed me with one of her famous glares. “Dude - it’s not a big deal. I just opened it for some fresh air.”
My best friend seemed to want to argue, but then her mouth snapped shut (Dominique silent? Aaaand hell has officially frozen over. It has now been turned into the ever-popular Satan’s Ski Resort. Families welcome). She shrugged, then stalked off to shut the offending window. I plopped down on my bed, taking a few yoga breaths. It felt like my heart was trying to punch itself out of my chest.
“So what have you been up to while I was gone? Besides desperately pining after moi, of course.” Dom took a running headstart and bellyflopped next to me, causing a tiny tidal wave to ripple through the mattress.
“You don’t know?” I mumbled at the ceiling. “Haven’t you seen Freddy’s Wizbook page yet?”
“Oh yes,” Dom mused thoughtfully, ferociously fluffing one of my pillows before she shoved her face into it. “The pictures of everyone at the New Years concert. There was a nice one of him licking the bouncer’s face - great future material for his obituary. Did you go? To the concert?”
“How bad was it?”
I dragged my eyes away from the ceiling to meet her steady gaze. “Potter and I danced. As in, together. And we weren't exactly doing the sodding hokey pokey, if you know what I mean. It was dubstep - I mean, do you know the appropriate way to dance to dubstep? Exactly, because there isn't one.”
Dom whistled, low and appreciative. “Terror alert level?”
“We’ve been at a steady Orange ever since you left.”
You know how airport security usually has levels of danger - like yellow alert, orange alert, etcetera? Dom and I always say that they copied us. Because we’ve been having the same system ever since third year - but instead of being based off bomb threats and terrorists, it’s how hostile I’m feeling towards Potter. Yellow Alert is when I want to punch him (because I always want to punch him). Orange is when I’m feeling slightly homicidal. And Red is when I want to chop off Potter's head and keep it in a formaldehyde drawer on my desk - to be used as a paperweight, of course. But you should be comforted to know that that’s only a very rare level of crazy. When I reach Red, Dom is supposed to lock me in a closet and call the police.
“Ooh, Orange?” Dom winced sympathetically, hugging her legs to her chest.
“Yeah. It’s been bad, Dom. Debbie showed up,” I huffed. “I had to go to a press conference. There were old guys. With toupees.”
“Debbie? Ew! Please tell me you told her to fuck off!” Dom squealed, pointer finger out and wagging in typical Jersey Shore bitch-out fashion. There was only a hint of joking in her tone.
“Actually...” I began warily, remembering with only a pinch of shame The Debbie vs. Aggy Scream-Match. Dom’s eyes widened in delighted surprise, her lips dropping into a smile.
“No way! You didn’t!” Her voice was low with excitement.
“Well, it wasn’t ‘telling her’ so much as ‘screaming it to the heavens’... But yeah, man. I did.”
“Have I ever told you how crazeball-amazing you are?” In Dom-ese language, I’m guessing that meant something along the lines of ‘I’m impressed with you.’ My bestfriend plundered on. “Wish I had your guts. The whole trip, Fleurzilla would not get off my case about anything. Whether it was my hair, or how my nails didn’t match my snowsuit, or the fact that my socks weren’t fucking thick enough. Not to mention we pretty much spent the whole vacation catering to Victoire’s every need. Seriously, she just sat there like bleeding Jabba the Hut, watching TLC marathons and drinking diet Hot Cocoa with a spoon. A spoon. Who drinks Hot Cocoa with a spoon?”
There was a beat of silence before I realized Dom expected me to respond. “Er,” I said tentatively. “Old people?”
“No!” Dom launched to a sitting position, her rage obviously increasing. She was viciously hugging her pillow to her chest in a way that made me very glad Dom was not a Teen Mum. “Psycho-bitches! The correct answer is psycho-bitches!”
“That was my second guess,” I muttered, but went unheard as Dom started doing her scary rant thang. If she had a mustache, it would seriously be a-tremblin’ right now.
“You know what sweet ickle Vicky did? She made Louis roll around in her bed for an hour so that the sheets wouldn’t be cold when she got in. She is a fucking psychopath. She is the future aunt of my children, Maid of Honor at my wedding, possible caretaker for me in my old age, Aggy, and she is a fucking psychopath.”
“I thought I was going to be your Maid of Honor?” I pouted, hurt.
“THAT’S NOT THE POINT. THE POINT IS MY FAMILY DOES NOT UNDERSTAND THE CONCEPT OF NORMAL. THE WHOLE VACATION WE HAD TO EAT VICTOIRE’S STUPID DIET FOOD SO SHE WOULDN’T “FEEL ALONE.” IT TASTED LIKE CARDBOARD AND SADNESS. AND THEN LOUIS WOULDN’T STOP COMPLAINING THAT IT MADE HIS HAIR ‘LOSE ITS LUSTER.’” Dom sucked in a breath, her eyes widening to Japanese cartoon size. “I was going to fake a tragic ski-lift injury to get away from it all, but my dad beat me to it. Pretended he sprained his ankle. He spent the whole trip in the infirmary like a little wimp, and then you know what he said when I accused him of stealing my plan? He said, ‘You got out of the scuba-diving trip with the fake lobster attack. Let me have the Alps.’”
“Well, in his defense,” I said meekly. “You’re younger. He’s had to deal with Fleur much longer than you.”
“He said that too!” Dom exploded, throwing her hands in the air. “Said that he had seniority. That I should give him time to live life to the fullest while ‘he still could.’ Yeah, right. I guess living life to the fullest consists of sitting in a hospital gown with your arse hanging out and eating jell-o cups all day. The fat lard.”
“You should really write Hallmark cards, Dom. You have a way with words.”
Practically shaking with leftover rage, she waved my comment away, her coral-painted nails glinting in the light. “Yeah, whatever. It was horrible. At least I had Xander - I don’t know what I would have done without him.”
“Xander?” I asked as I struggled to sit up, attractively sputtering hair out of my face (I should do Pantene commercials, I really should).
I immediately felt wary. Dom’s thrown around boys’ names before, but they’ve all been very French - to the degree that you practically have to italicize the syllables in your head when you say them. Jacques. Emmanuel. Gaston. These were names that belonged to Dom’s conquests from her holiday family trips to Paris. Boys who wore capri pants. Boys who still didn’t know how to make direct eye contact with a female. Boys who Dom, no doubt, chewed up and spat out in a couple of days.
...Ah, summer lovin.’ Happened so fast.
The name Xander, however, sounded like it belonged to a motorcycle-riding, toothpick-chewing thug who called girls 'babe’ and leaned on the two back legs of his chair like a madman.
I did not approve of this Xander.
Dom obviously saw the look on my face because she sighed, raking her fingers through her beachy auburn waves. “Aggy, relax. Xander’s harmless - you know him, actually. He goes to Hogwarts, but his family just happened to be in the Alps with us. They own a condo there. Xander McLaggan... Sixth Year, Ravenclaw, real dishy...”
“Oh, yeah!” Realization dawned soon enough. “Isn’t he the one who peed one the gargoyles outside the Headmistress’ office?”
Dom’s face quickly turned an angry shade of mauve. “That was one time. And he was very, very drunk.”
“Sounds like a real catch. And I mean that as in the way you catch tuberculosis.”
“Har har.” Dom lifted her pillow to give me a smack upside the head, which I quickly failed to dodge. Ah, physical violence. Glad we’re going back to our roots now. “I’ll have you know that Xander was super nice to me the whole time we were together. He’d carry my skis and fetch me hot tea and everything. We spent a lot of time chatting on ski-lifts, and he’s actually really sweet. I know you’re going to do your Grandma Aggy thing - ”
“Grandma? What’s that supposed to mean?!”
“ - where you give him the evil-eye for the next straight month at school, but... Well, I really like this one, Aggs. It might even turn into something serious.”
For a moment, I thought I’d suffer a concussion from that pillow-hit and was experiencing temporary hallucinations. “What? Serious as in... dating serious?” As in forget about Aidan serious?
“Mhmm,” Dom smiled absentmindedly, twirling her hair around her finger in girl chat, 80’s music video fashion. “I know he doesn’t seem all too bright but... He treats me well.”
“Wow.” I sat back against the headboard, taking this in. Dom with a new boo? While the supportive best friend in me was happy she was moving on, my inner cynic wasn’t satiated. And this Xander kid seemed like some sort of wannabee-frat-bro. Peeing on Headmistress Vespertine’s gargoyles? As a girl, I always felt like there were two warning signs that made a guy un-date-able:
1. When he wears jeans skinnier than your own.
2. If he’s ever disrespectful to teachers, waiters and/or authority figures.
And Bladder Boy seemed to fall right under category number two. I mean, even Potter - who I absolutely hated, and who would occasionally snark at Professor Nott - was never outright rude to teachers. In fact, I remember he was even a little...weirdly protective over McGonagall. One time, him and Freddy beat up a Slytherin bloke for mocking her behind her back (i believe the exact words used were ‘skinny hag bitch in need of a fuck’). Potter and Fred put good use to the phrase ‘Fists of Fury,’ while Aidan took all of the unfortunate prat’s underwear (don’t ask how) and dumped it in Hagrid’s flobberworm cages.
The prat had it coming. She was their Head of House, after all.
I blinked, coming back to reality. Despite the cloud of unease lingering over me, I couldn’t bring myself to voice my doubts. Dom had this dopey grin on her face, and it was the biggest smile I’d seen from her in months. I wasn’t about to ruin it.
Instead, all I said was - “What will the Tweedle Trio say when they find out?”
Dom seemed to snap out of her dreamy, lovey-dovey state. She furrowed her brow - obviously, she hadn’t considered that my brother might not react too well to this news (he was probably going to have a sulk-a-thon, slam a bunch of doors, and then hole himself in his room with all his romance novels that he thinks we don’t know about).
“They won’t say anything,” Dom began slowly, chewing on her plump bottom lip, “Because they won’t find out. Okay?”
A secret romance? I was tempted to groan. But then I realized that I had snogged my brother’s best friend (multiple times) and failed to inform him about it, so I promptly shut up.
“Alright,” I held my hands in the air. “It’s your call, Doms.”
My bestfriend gave a relieved sigh, spring eyes flooding with gratitude. With her dainty, haven’t-worked-a-day-in-her-life hands, she grabbed my arm and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you, Aggy. Thank you.”
Even though I smiled back at her, though, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that this would only end in disaster.
Author's Note | That's it for thirty-seven! Thanks for reading, guys. Please review and sorry for the wait!
Next chapter | The gang's back at Hogwarts! Cooper prank is finally resolved! And - gasp - what's this? An actual plot?
Disclaimer | Don't own Harry Potter, Hallmark, or Pantene.