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Clash by shenanigan
Chapter 45 : Real
Rating: MatureChapter Reviews: 80

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1. Your headmaster wants to kill you.

2. You’ve wielded the Sword of Godric Gryffindor.

a. You’ve wielded the Sword of Godric Gryffindor while running through the Ministry of Magic.

b. You’ve wielded the Sword of Godric Gryffindor while running through the Ministry of Magic while it’s being ambushed by armed men in masks.

c. The word ‘wielded’ is a part of your daily vocabulary.

3. You’ve been referred to as ‘Girl Who…’ or ‘Boy Who...’ at some point in your life. For example, 'Girl Who Saved the Sword,' or 'Boy Who Lived.' Basically any nickname that involves Capitalizing All The Front Letters So It Looks Important.

4. You are one of the very few people in the nation who know about a secret plot to assassinate the Minister of Magic.

5. You can understand Ancient Runes more than the opposite sex.

6. You hate typical rebellious, teenage things like drinking, or parties, or drinking at parties. While other kids your age have lives that play out like a Levi's commercial, chock-full of house parties, beach bonfires and club nights, you refuse to break the rules. So, rather than run around with your friends getting up to carefree mischief, you prefer the peaceful quiet of having a night in. Carpe Diem? More like Carpe Netflix.

7. For the above reason, you've never had to sneak out of your house. You know — that sacred adolescent ritual, the one that's depicted in countless teen comedies? When you wait until your parents are asleep, climb down the terrace of your house and the comically fall on your butt on the front lawn... all so you can go out and party the night away?

Yeah, that's never happened to you.

7. You have, however, snuck into your house. Your own house. And not for some cute, adorably youthful motive involving fence-hopping, beer-chugging or fun-having. No, you did it simply because:

7a. You are incredibly lame.

7b. And there was no where else to go.


My hand shot out, groping at the wall until I found the familiar switch and quickly flicked it on. Immediately, Freddy and Potter groaned in protest as the room was doused in dazzling white light.

“Next time you try to blind us, can you do it when we’re, I don’t know, not carrying an unconscious human?” Potter grumbled as he trudged forward, holding Evelyn’s ankles in his hands. Freddy grunted in agreement, straining to lift the poor girl's other half by the arms. Together, the two rambled forward, her limp body slung between them.

I ignored Potter's irritated jab, however, as I stared blankly at the room before me. My hand listlessly yanked through my hair, now its usual crimson color since I'd magicked myself back to my normal appearance. I was too bewildered by our surroundings to make even a half-hearted attempt at bickering with Fred and Potter right now.

After almost a whole year, I was home. The last time I’d been inside my mother’s house, I’d been packing my trunk in preparation for my Fifth Year at Hogwarts. And here I was now, back home and shivering in my dark kitchen at two in the morning, a completely different person with a completely different life.

It was weird.

While driving away from the club, we had all quickly realized that we couldn’t return to my dad’s house. I mean, Debbie practically had a seizure every time you set down a drink without a coaster — imagine how she would react to an unconscious body? Likewise, we couldn’t show up at Fred’s, Potter’s or Dom’s house, because parental supervision was also still a problem there.

So, after some careful deliberation, we finally decided to try my mum’s. And by careful deliberation, I mean angry shouting, a lot of heated arguing, and Dom suggesting that we just dump Evelyn’s body in the nearest lake.

But it worked out in the end, and we got here. That was all that mattered.

I walked briskly forward, clearing off the cluttered mass of cups, newspapers and utensils sprawled across the kitchen table. “Put her here,” I ordered, not bothering to keep my voice down. Mum was still in the Bahamas getting her tan on with my stepdad, so we had the house to ourselves and didn't have to worry about staying quiet.

Fred and Potter complied, gently laying Evelyn’s body onto the cold mahogany. She looked strangely small like that. Delicate, almost, with her hair dangling off the table in an icy blonde wisp, glowing pale in the dark.

“Yo,” Dom greeted affably as she strutted into the kitchen. Aidan stumbled behind her and slumped against the doorframe, obviously still a little drunk. (Or suffering the debilitating effects of too many punches to the head — it was hard to tell.) “What’s the plan?”

“Um,” I bleated weakly, rubbing my hand tiredly over my face. “Well, first we have to wake Evelyn. Then we should probably patch up Aidan. Then… we have some things to discuss.”

Fred slid out a chair from the kitchen table, collapsing into it with a huff. “How does one get a stunning spell victim to wake up, exactly?”

“Make a remedy,” Potter replied simply, crossing his arms as he leaned casually against the counter. We blinked at him, surprised that someone had actually answered, and he looked blankly at us as if it was the most obvious solution in the world. “Two parts Pepper Up Potion, one part Rousing Draught.”

I rolled my eyes. Stupid Potter and his stupid Potions expertise. Oh, sure. Let me just take five minutes and whip that right up for you, Potter. Because I definitely had the necessary ingredients just hanging out in my fridge. Finally, something to do with all those extra salamander tails that have been lying around!

“Okay well, seeing as I don’t have a secret apothecary in my kitchen, that’s not going to work,” I snapped, a prickle of irritation stiffening my spine. “Next suggestion, please.”

“I don’t see you with any brilliant ideas,” Potter immediately fired back, jaw stiffening as a familiar, dangerous look flashed through his eyes. Oh Merlin — here we go again.

“Oh, because everything you have to say is a bloody stroke of genius!”

“I’m just trying to help! Merlin, you're freaking impossible, Bennett — “

“No, you know what’s impossible, Potter? Making a NEWT-level potion with the basic home ingredients in my kitchen!”

“Okay, just admit that this is clearly about something bigger than your kitchen!"

"Oh do tell me what this is about, Potter, I'm dying to know!"

"Um, maybe the fact that I'm better at Potions than you, and always have been?" At this, a tiny, baleful smirk. "It bothers you, doesn't it, Bennett?"

"You did not just go there!”

“If by 'there' you mean 'reality,' then yeah, Bennett, I did. Be nice if you could join me."

“You know what?!”

“ENOUGH!” Dom suddenly exploded, whirling on us in a strawberry-blonde tornado of hair and fury. Her voice rang, furious, throughout the dim silence of the kitchen, and Potter and I immediately snapped our mouths shut.

Freddy cringed in his seat, and Aidan gave an involuntary shudder at the familiar tone. On the table, Evelyn’s foot twitched.

There was a beat of silence.

“Are. You. Really. Doing this. Right now?” Dom was breathing heavily, her voice low and hissy at a Professor McGonagall-esque level of terror. In perfect unison, with identical wary expressions on our faces, Potter and I took an instinctive step backwards.

“Do you not see yourselves?” Dom seethed, eyes squinted into incredulous slits. “All you do is fight. I can’t stand it anymore. Everyone knows this isn’t what either of you want. Your relationship is better than this! You deserve better! So why don’t you two just get over your pride and your stupid egos and FIGURE YOUR SHIT OUT ALREADY?”

Her last few words rang out through the ensuing silence, lingering heavily as an uncomfortable tension seemed to cloak the room.

I blinked rapidly, feeling my cheeks glow uncomfortably warm. Part of me was immediately, defensively angry — what kind of right did Dom, whose own love-life was in constant teary shambles, have to criticize Potter and I? What kind of right did anyone have? Potter and I’s relationship was far too complex and contradictory and weird for anyone to possibly understand. Including me. It wasn't an easy matter of just "figuring our shit out" — the solution wasn't that simple.

But on the other foot, I knew Dom’s words held a grain of truth in them. After all that had happened this year, this constant bickering between Potter and I was so juvenile, so pointless. We were just too afraid to admit it and stop — because after the craziness of Fifth Year, Potter and I fighting was the only constant we could hold on to.

Dom breathed sharply through her nose, her eyelids fluttering shut as she composed herself. “Look,” she began quietly, strained voice breaking the stunned silence. “Aggy, how about you get some fresh air, I’ll fix Aidan up, and then we’ll figure out the Evelyn situation? You’ve already done enough tonight. You need a break.”

“But — “ I began, uneasy at the prospect of just leaving. I mean, things never turned out well for Aidan when Dom and magic were involved.

“Go,” Dom said firmly, gesturing to the backdoor.

“But — “


Mechanically, my feet led me towards the sliding glass doors in our kitchen, which I finally managed to squeak open with an embarrassing amount of effort. Feeling somewhat ashamed by Dom's sharp glare on my back, I stepped onto the icy crunch of snow outside, my face immediately tightening in the cold.

Despite being well after midnight, it was uncannily bright out. The sky wavered above, a never-ending stretch of translucent cobalt, the moon a yellow bulge in its center. My shadow stretched out before me, long across the crisp, silver snow.

In the cold, it was easier to think clearly. Slowly, I was beginning to realize just how embarrassing Potter and I’s little scene had been — how embarrassing it was whenever we fought in front of people. All our friends knew the true extent of Potter and I's relationship: not just the fighting, but the hooking up and making up and all the confusion in between. It was a relationship too complex to be reduced to a silly arguments — and yet that was the only side we showed to the public. It was a sham. A lie.

“She’s right, you know."

I bit my lip, turning around to see Potter sliding the glass door shut behind him. There was a cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth. His hair was rumpled, more so than usual, and his face was grim. He looked tired. He looked the way I felt.

I grimaced. Deep down, some part of me had known he would follow me out here.

“Smoking’s bad for you,” I said quietly, keeping my voice blank and neutral. “You should quit.”

Potter’s mouth flattened into a sardonic smile. He shoved his left coatsleeve up, revealing an arm polka-dotted with nicotine patches. “I am quitting,” he said simply.

“Off to a great start, then,” I shot back, but I couldn’t quite muster the right amount of biting sarcasm. Potter scoffed in what was either agreement or scorn, turning against the wind to light his cigarette.

I sighed and bent down to sit on the stoop that jutted out from the doorstep, ignoring the sore creak of my joints. Wordlessly, Potter sat down next to me, knees bent, mouth a perfect ‘o’ as he poured silvery smoke into the night air.

“Are you here to argue with me?” I said wearily, eyes trained on a glimmering blotch of snow by my shoe. “Because I’m really not up for it.”

Potter remained silent, looking at the glimmering darkness before us, his hazel eyes squinted contemplatively. He seemed deep in thought as he stared ahead, and I smushed my lips together, resisting the urge to burst out with another frustrated insult.

It was always the same with Potter and I, wasn't it? Make up, make out — rinse and repeat. I was sodding sick of it, I realized. I was sick of playing games and reading between the lines in our relationship, lines that all blurred into the same, murky grey area anyway. I had finally realized Potter and I’s true problem. It wasn’t our mutual hatred. It wasn’t the fact that we had very little in common. It wasn’t even the fact that I constantly used Potter as a verbal punching bag (and, on a few occasions, an actual punching bag).

No. Our true problem was that we were never honest with each other.

Throughout the entire time we'd known each other, Potter and I had never had a single truthful, straightforward conversation. About our weird, quasi-relationship, about Nora, about Vespertine's plot. We just couldn’t do it. I doubt we’d even be able to discuss a topic as inane as muffins or crockery without there being some sort of secret psychological warfare behind it.

I’d had enough. Suddenly, almost as if my body had acted on its own accord, I whipped around to face Potter, eyes blazing with all the anger spilling over inside of me. I was so fed up, I could hear my own heartbeat and the blood rushing in my ears.

“Look, Potter, you can stay if you want. You can sit if you want. You can even talk if you want. But I’m not looking for another fight.” I shook my head fiercely from side to side. “Not now.”

“Actually,” Potter began slowly, eyes trained on the smoke ribboning from his cigarette, and I scoffed. Typical — ever the one to contradict me. “I came out here to make sure you were doing okay.”

“Okay?” I repeated, slightly hysterical, and my voice slid into an octave that I’d previously considered too high for the human ear to register. “Okay? Why, yes, I’m just dandy. Forget the fact that I’m being accused of stealing a priceless artifact! Or that my headmistress is out to assassinate my Minister. Or that, last night, we slept together and then proceeded to act like nothing happened! Forget all of that because — you know what? — none of it will matter when crazy Vespertine offs me tomorrow! I’m completely okay!”

Potter’s bright eyes travelled over my face as I ranted, not betraying a single hint of emotion, of empathy. I took in his inscrutable expression — the clenched jaw, the arched brow, the flat mouth. Swallowing, all I could do was stare back as my last word faded into the air and my anger started to dissipate into sadness. And…something else. Something tight and clenched. Fear.

Looking into Potter’s eyes, I finally realized I was this close to breaking down.

“I’m so tired.” My voice came out in a hoarse, attractive croak.

Potter swiveled his gaze to the stretch of snow in front of us and dropped his cigarette, smearing it under his shoe for good measure. “I know.”

He looked back up at me, hands clasped in prayer, eyes remarkably sincere.

And then Potter asked me something that he had never, in all our five years of knowing each other, ever asked me before:

"Do you want to talk about it?" he said carefully, frankly, and I reared back in surprise.

But then I realized: I did. I did want to talk about it. I wanted to sodding scream about it, to get it all out in the open, to throw this unbearable weight off of my chest. I hadn't realized how badly I'd wanted to until he'd asked me, leaving me incapable of speech as I absorbed the full magnitude of his words. Never would I have guessed that this particular question, this unique string of syllables — do you want to talk about it? — could bring so many of my emotions to the surface, could actually make me feel so... relieved.

I exhaled sharply.

And then something happened. I don’t know what prompted it — call it an accident, a sign of the apocalypse, hell freezing over, whatever — but it actually happened: for the first time in our five years of bitter, complicated, messy history, Potter and I had an honest conversation.

It happened like this:

A: [suddenly, in an outburst] It's just that all this shit is piling up, you know, and I have no idea how to act. I'm so ill-equipped to handle Vespertine, the Sword's gone, Freddy's still expelled, and to top it off, thinking about what happened between us that night... it makes everything all the more difficult.

J: [beat] It does?

A: Yes.

J: I’m sorry.


J: Can I say something? Something that might be, um, kind of potentially devastating to you?

A: Fuck it. Sure. Go ahead.

J: I don’t regret it. That night.




J: I don’t.

A: Seriously?

J: Yeah.

A: [weakly] Why would you say that? It happened and then we never talked about it. You called it a mistake. I know I’m partly responsible for it, but the way you acted about the sex just made me feel… dropped. After that night, I felt like you had dropped me and anything to do with me.

J: I’m sorry, Bennett. I never wanted you to feel bad or ashamed or anything —

A: How can I know you’re not just saying that?

J: You can’t. And I haven’t given you many reasons to trust me, but if there’s anything you should know, it’s that throughout this whole… mess, all I’ve been trying to do is make sure you don’t get hurt.

A: Well.

J: I’ve been doing a pretty shit job, I know.

A: That’s problematic, Potter, because I’m not some just delicate flower you have to protect. You shouldn’t hurt me, but you shouldn’t tiptoe around me either. You should just respect me.

J: I do respect you. That’s why I’ve been trying so hard not to fuck this up. I just freaked out about last night because I… I didn’t want it to happen like that.

A: Okay. Fine. I get it. But where does that leave us now?

J: I don’t know.

A: None of this changes the fact that we always keep coming back to each other like this. Again and again. We can't stay away from each other, Potter, and it's time we just admit that. There must be something there, right? There must be something that keeps pushing us together?

J: I don’t know. It’s not like we have much in common.

A: I think we have more in common than you think.

J: Like what?

A: Like we’re both stubborn and cynical and sarcastic and mean.

J: So we share each other’s worst traits. That bodes well.

A: Maybe it does.

J: Elaborate.

A: I mean, you know all the bad things about me. After all, you point them out constantly. That’s why I’m so comfortable around you. That’s why I can talk to you the way I do. Around other people, I feel like there’s always an act I have to put on — the perfect prefect who perpetually has her shit together. But around you…Well, you’ve seen me at my worst, you’ve seen me fall flat on my face. I don’t have to act when I'm with you.


A: And… you can tell me if I’m completely off here, but I feel like I may be the only person who doesn’t see you as Harry Potter’s son, or Hogwarts’ Teen Heartthrob, or whatever. I see you as a person. A really obnoxious, incorrigible person, most of the time. But still a person.

J: You’re not off.

A: Our relationship works because our relationship is real.


A: What are you thinking right now?

J: [beat] I don’t just respect you, Bennett. I admire you.





A: [surprised] You do?

J: Yeah. Most of the shit you do is fucking crazy, but…you’re brave. You’re smart. You’re kind and incredibly self-assured.

A: That’s not true. [laughs bitterly] I’m a mess. I mean, I can’t manage to do anything right, and I care too much about what other people think of me. Everything I touch somehow turns to shit.

J: You’re wrong. You don’t realize how much people look up to you, Bennett, how highly Dom and Freddy and Aidan think of you. You... you care about the things that are important. At the end of the day, you always know what's right to say or do.

A: Seriously?

J: Seriously. [smirking] You’re kind of a badass.

A: Thanks, I guess.

J: And as crazy as you are, and as crazy as you make me... Bennett — Bennett, I like you.

A: Really?

J: Yeah. Yeah, I do.



A: I like you too, Potter. [pause — then, smirking as well] Despite what's in my best interests.

J: So where should we go from here?

A: I’m not sure. I mean, it's not like everything's going to be rainbows and lollies between us now, right?

J: No. I don't think we can ever be that way.

A: So maybe we just take it one day at a time, then. And maybe some day, when this whole Vespertine thing blows over, I’ll let you ask me out on a date.

J: Do you really see us having a future? After everything that’s happened?

A: I see us having a future because of everything that’s happened, Potter. All that time we spent arguing and fighting with each other – it has to count for something, right? It can’t just be a waste. So I think we should have a future, even though we’ll probably mess it up a couple times, and we’ll bicker and argue and drive all of our friends nut… But we owe it to ourselves to at least try. So if you’re up for it, yeah, I think we can.

J: I’m up for it.

A: But from now on, we have to be honest with each other.

J: I know.

A: I’m tired of lying, of hiding how I feel, of "playing the game."

J: Me too.

A: I’m tired of the game in general.

[A land J look at each other.]

J: So let’s stop playing. I was losing anyways.

[J kisses A. On the silent, freezing stoop, the snow drifting softly around them. They stay like that for a while.]

[It’s the best kiss ever.]

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