SOME KIND OF DISASTER ─ oliver wood

[ 027 ] the pros and cons of breathing

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
the pros and cons of breathing

THE MOMENT HE SPOTTED Professor McGonagall storming towards them, Oliver paled. Sawyer could see the fear flooding his features, cleaving through his chest. While Sawyer didn't have much to lose except lose House points and earn a detention—something she was very accustomed to in her time at this school, and was mostly desensitised to—Oliver had his entire life riding on his golden title as captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. When Professor McGonagall stopped before them, Sawyer instinctively stepped forward, meeting the professor's steel glare head-on.

"This is the sort of behaviour I would expect from first years," Professor McGonagall fumed, pinning Sawyer and Oliver with a glare that could melt bone, steam practically billowing from her ears, "not from two sixth years who know that there's danger eminent within the school. Curfew was established for a reason, and leaving your dorms in the middle of the night endangers not only yourselves but the people who come looking for you. Your actions bear consequences. Mr Wood, as a student in a role of leadership, I expected more from you."

"Hey, back off, lady," Sawyer snapped, the words spilling from her mouth like hot lava. Irritation flashed through her veins, a flare of something held dormant and compliant inside her for too long breaking free of its restraints. Her fingers twitched and for a second she thought: if I punch her hard enough, we'll have time to run. Pure rage crippled McGonagall's face. Oliver turned his head sharply towards her, flashing a warning glare, which she ignored. After all, it was the truth, and if this conversation went too far south, Oliver might lose Quidditch, and Sawyer couldn't let that happen. "It wasn't even his fault—"

"It was my idea, Professor," Oliver cut in, before she could say more. A muscle in his jaw flexed as he stared down McGonagall without wavering. "I blackmailed her into playing with me. If anyone should get into trouble, it's me. I was selfish and angry about the match being cancelled and I wasn't thinking clearly. It was stupid of me, I know. I'm sorry."

Sawyer felt her lips part, but no sound came out. A part of her brain knew what to say, but that part of her brain had run into a blockage because her body had stopped listening. That disconnect had cost her. At the same time, another part of her wanted to stake her fingers into Oliver's shoulders and shake him until some sense was knocked into his head. What did he think he was doing? A third part of her was seething. She'd won this game. She'd gotten the quaffle through the hoop, and Oliver had lost. If he thought stepping in to shoulder the brunt of the avalanche of punishment they were being dished would negate that, he was wrong. She wasn't going to owe him anything.

McGonagall sighed, but the tension in her stern face remained. A shadow passed over her sharp features and for a second, Sawyer glimpsed the wrinkles and weariness in her face.

"Since you confessed, Mr Wood, it'll be a hundred points from Gryffindor. Your detention will be served tomorrow afternoon. Come to my office before your first class and we will sort that out. And for your participation, willing or unwilling, Miss Lee, it'll be fifty points from Hufflepuff." McGonagall levelled the both of them with incendiary glares. "Now, off to bed, the both of you. If you're caught again, the consequences will be even harsher. Don't say I haven't been fair, considering the risk you've both foolishly put yourselves at."

The entire way back, they didn't dare speak—especially with Professor McGonagall marching them both back to their common rooms—but there was a question simmering between them both that neither had the voice to ask or the know-how to answer with. The whole time Sawyer kept her eyes forward, her blood humming, even though she could feel Oliver stealing glances at her each time they turned a corner. When Oliver returned to the portrait of the Fat Lady, all Sawyer could think about was the way he stood so close and how he'd looked at her with that indecipherable expression on his face, and it was that summer day by the creek with her feet in the water all over again—serenity, the small tickle in her heart that some things were worth staying alive for after all. As he disappeared through the little doorway, she watched him go and wondered what it'd feel like to have his mouth on hers.