SOME KIND OF DISASTER ─ oliver wood

[ 035 ] lose some

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.