❝HOW COME YOU NEVER TRIED FOR SEEKER?❞
❝I ENJOYED AIMING BLUDGERS AT YOU TOO MUCH.❞
The Gryffindor Quidditch Team finally has some real competition. And Harry Potter is totally conflicted.
warning: this book has many mature, NSFW scenes that contrib...
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FOR ONCE IN his entire life, Harry did not care about Quidditch. Sitting in the crowded stands, Ron and Hermione with him (Woods was sitting on the other side of Hermione and wouldn't even spare Harry a look), he found that whether Slytherin or Hufflepuff won the match didn't matter in the slightest. What mattered was that he hadn't gotten a minute of sleep the previous night because he had been too busy thinking about Indiana Jones. He hadn't been able to choose which part of the night to replay in his brain; the fact that she had literally given him a blowjob (his first one ever, by the way), or the fact that now she was convinced he wanted her in Azkaban. Which was the furthest from the truth.
He knew Jones had to have told Woods what had happened, because the bubbly girl, although acting normal with Hermione, scowled every time he spoke, and had tried to trip him twice. She kept whispering into the Gryffindor girls' ear, and the pair of them would speak in hushed voices with grave faces. Harry knew it had to be about Jones.
"Penalty to Hufflepuff," The commentator announced, and Harry had seen why; Jones had aimed a Bludger for the Hufflepuff Chaser's head, and now the yellow and black team had their sub-Chaser playing. Jones looked more dangerous than Harry had ever seen her; her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and her fingers clutching the Beaters Bat so tight he thought she might crush it.
His mind had been occupied throughout the whole day, flashing with the memories of her hands wrapped around him before they'd switch to the cherry red burns that littered the skin around her Dark Mark. But as he sat watching the Quidditch Match, his mind was empty; all he could do was stare at her.
"Slytherin scores!" Zabini scored a goal, but no one on the Slytherin team seemed very pleased. He whizzed by Jones, his hand reached out to graze her shoulder wordlessly before he zoomed off again. Jones barely acknowledged the otherwise kind gesture.
Harry wasn't sure how he felt about the way she was affecting him. Jones had yelled at him tons of times before, he hated that this one time it was getting to him to this extent. That she thought he would truly want her to go off to Azkaban — to throw her to the Dementors like she was nothing other than some dirty girl who made a fucked up decision.
What had stuck with him was one line of what she had said: "Fuckin' lead me on just to see it and throw me off with all the other fuckers in Azkaban!" Lead her on. Like she fancied him. Like she had kissed him because she... no. No, that was totally impossible. To even think about the idea of that happening was completely and utterly insane.
"... couldn't sleep last night," Harry heard Woods mutter to Hermione during a rather quiet moment of the match, breaking him out of his thoughts. "... stay up all night with her..."
Why had he kissed her? Why had he held her so tenderly? Touched her face like he might break it and held her hand like they were in love or something? And why the fuck had he given her a pillow for her knees? He must have looked like an idiot.
