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You are absolutely positive that out of all the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalries in the history of Hogwarts, yours with him is the most intense. Potter-Malfoy rivalry excluded.
He is Alfred F. Jones, a half-blood Gryffindor with a squib brother who transferred from America in his fourth year. He's handsome, popular and the heartthrob of the school.
On the other hand, your name is Arthur Kirkland. Your family is ancient, pureblood and predominantly Slytherin, including yourself. You trust no one, seldom get close to people and are probably the most British person here.
You're total opposites, and you hate each other with a fiery passion.
At least, you think you do. Sometimes you see him on the grounds, laughing with his friends and being his bloody idiotic attractive self. Those are the times when you're at your lowest and alone in your mind, you think it wouldn't be so bad to be Jones' friend.
But then he sees you, makes some embarrassing comment to his stupid friends and you hate him again.
The two of you don't even play the same position and your hatred of each other is the strongest Quidditch rivalry in all of Hogwarts. He's a Keeper and you're the Slytherin seeker, two positions that barely interact. But still you challenge each other, you trying to catch the Snitch and him trying to block all the goals your team tries to make while taunting you.
His name is Alfred F. Jones and your name is Arthur Kirkland and you hate each other entirely.
And then things change.
-+-+-+-+-+-
It's a chilly day in November at Hogwarts, and although it's cold enough to snow all that covers the grounds is a thin layer of frost and wind that bites at your face. You shiver and wrap your robes more snugly around you.
Carefully, you descend the stone steps down towards the greenhouses and gamekeeper's hut. Despite being a Slytherin, you're actually quite fond of both Professor Longbottom and the Gamekeeper Rubeus Hagrid- not that anyone knows that, of course. It's simply the subject matter, the magical creatures and plants that make you want to spend time down there. (Of course it's not the fact that they're both Gryffindors that don't actually shun you or make you feel like a despicable flobberworm - )
You cut your rambles off in your mind, feeling foolish. Looking around, you hurry faster down the stairs, but your hopes of being able to make it down there without getting harassed are shot down almost immediately.
“Yo, Kirkland!”
You pause for only a second before increasing your pace down the hill, mind filling with dread and hoping against all odds that he won't pursue you. Good moods are always ruined by Gryffindors.
But alas, it is not to be. You freeze upon a hand enclosing itself on your wrist.
“Hey Kirkland,” he starts conversationally, sounding for all the world like the two of you are best mates. You easily morph your features into a scowl as you turn and look up to face him. (You hate being shorter than him.)
“The fuck do you want, Jones?” you snarl. He frowns but before he can respond somebody else cuts him off.
“Hey, Alfred! Ditch the snake and get over here!” One of the obnoxious Gryffindors he calls friends yells. They're clumped in a group a little ways away, laughing mockingly at you. You clench your fists and sneer at them, and one of them predictably flips you off.
You direct your attention back to him and he's frowning, looking down at you. The intensity of his gaze unnerves you.
“W-well, what d'you want?” You snap, trying to repress an instinctive blush. You fail.
Jones jumps, shocked and blue eyes wide. You think a smile twitches at the corner of his lips - of course not - but are distracted when he grabs your wrist and pulls you away. “Oi! Hey, you - ”
“Shut up, Kirkland,” he says abruptly, stopping in his tracks so you run into his back. He turns around before you retort and your words die in your throat at his expression, a mix of seriousness and nerves. (You're on the edge of the forest now - the seclusion of your position unnerves you. Only a little, of course.)
He shifts on the balls of his feet. “Look, uh...”
“Just spit it out,” you growl standoffishly, feeling uncomfortable. (Well, it's not like you're supposed to be comfortable with your one amazingly handsome yet irritating rival in the whole school.)
Jones scowls in annoyance but then his scowl fades to something resembling nervousness. “Look, uh...” You quirk an eyebrow at him coolly hiding your confusion, and he swallows his nerves. “We've got the Gryffindor-Slytherin game on Saturday, right?”
You decide that yes, all Gryffindors must be annoying dunces. “...Yes, I'm aware of that,” you drawl, smirking as he blushes. “And you needed to get me alone to tell me this... why? Have you suddenly been Confunded? Not that it would change much,” you mutter under your breath.
He scowls and slaps your shoulder, harder than necessary. “I was getting to that, asshole. Anyway, well... some Gryffindors have a bet going. On who'll win.”
“...And this affects me how?”
The houses bet all the time on who'll win. You happen to remember that 5 Galleons of your own money is set on this game, in Slytherin's favor of course.
Jones looks too serious. “Our Beaters are two of them and they'll do anything to win. An' they've got some pretty deadly accuracy - and we all know you're the only chance Slytherin's got to win. So they're going to want to take you out no matter what.”
There's a whirl of thoughts and emotions running through your mind, the loudest of which comes out before you can check yourself. “Why are you telling me this?”
He's taken aback, blue eyes widening as he throws his gaze to the ground. This is the most calm you've seen him, and to actually see Alfred F. Jones talking normally to a Slytherin, Arthur Kirkland at that, is unheard of.
You wait for his answer which he gives hesitantly, rubbing the base of his neck. It's like nothing you expected. “W-well, dude, just because we've got this House rivalry goin' on doesn't mean I want you ta get seriously hurt or somethin'... and a lot of our team despises you.”
“Including you.”
“I don't hate you,” Jones argues and you raise an eyebrow incredulously in understandable disbelief. “Maybe- maybe we don't got the best relationship, but I don't hate anyone.”
His honest expression stirs up feelings in you, thoughts that a Slytherin should never have towards a Gryffindor. You aren't supposed to feel like you can trust him, you aren't supposed to want to take his advice -
“That's a crock of bullshit,” you say, turning away promptly and leaving him to walk towards the greenhouse. “You're just trying to set me off or make me nervous or something, and it's not going to work Jones so fuck off.”
He's silent before calling after you angrily. “Fine! God, see if I ever try caring about you again.”
“You don't care,” you shoot back without thinking, and you shouldn't feel guilty at the hurt look in his eyes when you look back but you do.
-+-+-+-+-+-
And of course, the bloody prat is right.
Saturday is cold and windy again, the chill biting at your skin as you float above the Quidditch game. The Chasers of each team are involved in a heavy battle for the Quaffle so nobody's paying attention to the rest of the players.
You descend a small bit to look lower for the Snitch, squinting and you're only faintly surprised when you have to dodge a Bludger.
What does surprise you is when that Bludger flies right back at you, making you swerve. “Bloody hell! What - ”
Dread creeps up on you as on either side of you the two Gryffindor Beaters appear, each grinning wickedly.
“Hey there Kirkland,” one of the gits grins. “Havin' fun?”
“I was before you showed up,” you roll your eyes but cut yourself off as the wayward Bludger flies back your way, dangerously close to your head. You can feel your hair rustle in the tailwind it makes and swallow nervously.
The other Beater, a burly guy named Adnan, leers at you. “Well, let's make this game a little more exciting, then,” he says before the two of them race from opposite sides at you.
You kick your broom into gear, zooming off and lower towards the stands as the two Beaters fly after you and the chase is on.
Now the school is starting to take notice of what's happening. Elizabeta, the Gryffindor announcer (she's still an acquaintance of yours) begins to monitor your movements. “It looks like the Gryffindor beaters are specifically aiming for Slytherin Seeker Arthur Kirkland and trying to knock him out of the sky. He's trying to lose them but it isn't quite working...”
Willing your broom to go faster at her words, you duck into a near perpendicular dive and barrel down towards the ground at a 90 degree angle, your eyes watering despite your smirk. Let's see how they handle this , you think as your heart pounds in your ears and the ground rushes up to meet you. You have no idea whether they're even following you still or not but you have a feeling the foolhardy idiots are.
“Wait, is that a - Does Kirkland see the Snitch?”
And doesn't that grab their attention.
The roar of the crowd fades as every house watches your speeding towards the ground, or maybe it just sounds like that because of the wind. Wronski Feints are terrifying, and even though this technically isn't one you still feel the pulse of adrenaline and fear in your veins as your broom plummets towards the ground. You only hope those idiotic Gryffindors are still following you, although a realization of how unlikely it is that they are runs through your head as you yank your broom up, pulling swiftly out of the dive.
The landing is harsh and your broom jostles you in the air, as you hover about thirty feet in the air and look around for the Beaters. They're nowhere in sight, and although you should probably be worried about that, a rush of confidence strikes you and you could care less.
"Hah! Beat that, you sons of bitches!" You call into the wind, letting your most triumphantly wicked smirk come out.
"That's a Bludger Backbeat!"
And then you go from gloating to gasping as a dark blur appears out of the corner of your eye, slamming into your right shoulder and destroying your balance, sending your broom spinning wildly out of your control.
You think that you hear the crowd fall silent, but the roaring of blood in your ears makes it rather hard to hear anything. Your arm falls limp and you scramble to grab the broom, as you spiral around and down. An experimental shift of your shoulder proves to be a very bad idea, as the searing pain hits just just like the Bludger did. You stifle a yell and squint your eyes open, carefully maneuvering closer to the ground.
"You alright, Kirkland?" Someone yells, and you think it's another Slytherin player, so you shake your head tightly and begin to look around for the Snitch and those damn Beaters again.
Not that it's hard to find them when they fly directly in front of you. Adnan comes to a stop, grinning at you and probably inwardly praising his handiwork, hefting his bat as though it was his next weapon. "Teaches you not to play stupid tricks, doesn't it, Kirkland?" He shouts over the wind.
Your eyes narrow, and without a second thought you urge your broom forward, straight towards him. It listens without hesitation and Adnan yells as you barrel towards him. He escapes just before you smash into him, and as you wheel your broom around to face him again, he yells "What the hell, you crazy snake!?"
"Give it up, Adnan!"
"- the Beaters are still assaulting Kirkland... meanwhile, Slytherin's up by twenty - "
Wonderful. At least the Gryffindor Beaters' obsession with taking you out prevents them from going after the Chasers. "If you're going to score, score now!" You yell but the words are lost in the wind. Then you begin to fly, quickly and randomly, struggling to avoid the Bludgers that seem to be constantly coming at you.
The wind tears at your clothes and your skin and your wounded shoulder. Now you're really glad it's too loud to hear anyone unless they're near you, because the whimpers you're making are sort of pathetic.
Another Bludger zooms your way and you rise sharply into the air, spiraling upward to avoid it and broaden your scope.
There's no gold to be found anywhere through your watering eyes, and even the Gryffindor Seeker seems to be at a loss because she's just circling the field at the same altitude. This Snitch is a sneaky little bugger.
"Why the hell did I pick this position?" You mutter to yourself as you attempt to fall back into your role of searching for the Snitch, but it keeps getting broken by the shouts and assaults of the Beaters and Bludgers. They're dominating the Slytherin Beaters – Karpusi and oh great, a substitute – and you internally lament for a moment over your pathetic Quidditch team.
Elizabeta, thankfully, grabs your attention. "I think the Gryffindor Seeker, Mei Hwang, sees the Snitch! At least, it looks that way, because she's speeding towards the Hufflepuff stands with a Slytherin Beater fast on her tail. The other Beater's still hovering around the inactive Kirkland - "
Inactive?
Oh hell no.
You kick that broom into gear, zooming down and across the stadium towards the Hufflepuff stands even before you take in where Hwang is and what she's chasing. Tears stream down your face from both the wind and the pain.
There she is, still circling around the stadium, and she's gotta be chasing the Snitch because her hand is stretched out as far as it'll go.
You're a Kirkland. You can't let Slytherin lose a game to Gryffindor, and you know it, and so you urge your broom even faster.
You come in right next to Hwang; she's surprised by your appearance but immediately puts on a burst of speed. You're close enough now to see – that is the Snitch – it's right there, right out of reach, going in circles and circles as if attempting to make you both dizzy -
You're neck and neck -
It's right there -
Your arms are just a little longer than hers, you brush the Snitch with your fingertips -
It darts to the left, down, away from you -
Hwang leaps after it – it disappears -
You hear the roar of the crowd in your head before they actually start screaming, because as Mei Hwang starts falling 70 feet to the earth and is stopped by the Headmistress, as Elizabeta announces that she's caught the Snitch and Gryffindor has won, all you can think is I failed -
Then -
"Incoming, motherfucker!"
You kind of just stop thinking.
The Bludger slams into your thigh with all the pent-up rage and vengeance of Sadik Adnan. There is a crack. It echoes in your ears but is otherwise inaudible, unlike your scream. The Bludger isn't deterred, of course. It snaps your broom in half like the Whomping Willow would and you begin falling, falling, falling and you don't care that you're falling because at least hitting the ground will make the pain go away -
"Kirkland!"
The last thing you remember seeing is a red and gold comet speeding towards you.
-+-+-+-+-+-
“Bloody idiot, he deserved to get hit with that Bludger for that dumb stunt -”
“Oh, shut up, you would've done the same thing -”
“Hey, he's waking up!”
You would know those voices anywhere, even in your pained, hazy, probably potioned-up state, because they've tortured you for years. Angus, Scott, Owen and Eileen must have been in the stands. They don't make you very eager to get up.
Trying not to appear awake, however, is difficult because measured breathing makes you ache all over. Your leg and shoulder are throbbing and you struggle to remember exactly what happened. It was... the Quidditch game. Bludgers. The Snitch -
“Did we win?” Now they know you're awake, because you bolt up to sitting then slump back down, both because of the pain and your realization. “Oh. We didn't, did we.”
“Arthur!” Eileen throws herself over you in a hug and ow, that hurts, but you don't tell her that because she's crying and sniffling and likely to smack you any moment. “You idiot!” Yep, there it is.
“Aren't I injured enough?” You say, only half joking. Not hugging her back is not an option, and you have to awkwardly push her off when she leans on your broken leg, because ow that really hurts . “Shit, don't do that.”
“Wouldn't be in this much pain if you hadn't gotten yourself into that mess,” pipes up your oldest brother Angus with a stern expression. The bulky redhead wraps an arm around you in greeting and hugs you warmly, being watchful of your shoulder. “Those Beaters have a grudge against you or somethin'?”
“I know I've got a grudge against them,” mutters Scott from his chair at your bedside. He's always been the most protective one, when he's not busy harassing you. You're touched.
“They just really needed to win today's game,” you say. And they did. You're upset with them and yourself, but try to put it out of your mind to figure out exactly what happened. “How did I get here?”
Eileen grins at you. It's vaguely unsettling. “Oh, don't you remember? The Gryffindor Keeper, Jones? Dove to catch you. Screamed your name, too.”
What? You don't believe her, can't believe her. Alfred F. Jones, screaming your name and saving you? Impossible. He doesn't care about you – but he had warned you about Adnan and his plan... and you remember someone racing towards you before you passed out... No. Your siblings love to tease you, they must have made this up. You brutally repress the disappointment that you feel at realizing this. “Nah, you're lying,” you say to Eileen. “He's probably off celebrating right now and laughing about my failure -”
“Wrong.”
His voice interrupts you. And there he stands, Alfred F. Jones, clad in not the glory of his Quidditch uniform but a plain white robe. You'd forgotten that he helps out in the infirmary after games. You gape at him, him and his stupidly perfect face, and his neutral expression is sculpted of marble as he approaches with a tray of potions.
“I'm going to have to ask you to say your goodbyes,” he says quietly, staring at the ground. “Arth – ahem, Mr. Kirkland has a lot of healing to do.”
He won't look up at you, and Merlin how you want him to, if only to meet those blue eyes. You want to figure out the truth, if he actually cares.
The rest of your siblings look at him in that way that always makes you painfully uncomfortable. It makes him uncomfortable too, judging by his fidgeting and pink blush. Eileen is the first to give in, throwing herself at you in one last hug. “Get better soon, okay?” She says loudly, then whispers into your ear, “Remember, Artie, opposites attract.” The words make you blush.
Scott is next, but he just pats your leg. Unfortunately, he pats the wrong leg and you seize up in pain.
“Sorry, lad,” he says, but he's grinning. “See you later.”
“Fuck you.”
Angus wraps you in a bear hug before trailing after him, shooting suspicious glares at Jones. Owen, the last of your siblings, has said nothing to you so far. He's usually like that. He continues that trend, but does press a kiss to your forehead, which is worth more than words from him. Then he leaves, the infirmary door clicking shut behind him and suddenly you're alone with Alfred F. Jones.
Shit.
Jones still doesn't look at you as he sets his tray down and sits at your bedside, tentatively, like he's ready to fly away. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I was used by a giant three-headed dog for a chew toy,” you say honestly. His lips twitch into a half-smile.
“Makes sense – you've a dislocated shoulder and broken leg now. Both are fixed now, but it'll take a few days until you're back to normal. Those Bludgers beat you up pretty good,” he adds, and suddenly he's not smiling anymore. In fact, he looks deadly serious when he manages to look you in the eye. “I want you to know that the Gryffindor beaters will be receiving heavy punishment for their actions today. I'll be seeing to it personally.”
That makes you feel a little better. But right now, all you want from Jones is an answer to the question that's been plaguing you since you woke up.
“I heard you were the one who caught me,” you say nonchalantly.
Jones stiffens. “Yes,” he says after a moment. Then he hands you a potion. “Here, drink this. Madam thinks it will help.”
You look at him curiously – what a way to avoid the question – then do as he says. The potion burns on the way down and you cough and sputter, only more so when Jones pats your back gently. As you recover you manage to get out, “Why?”
Jones appears even more reluctant to answer this question. “Because,” he says curtly. “Here, this one too. All of them, in fact.”
You scowl. “That is not an acceptable answer, Jones. Why wouldn't you let me fall?”
“Nobody else was going to catch you. A hero can't let people get hurt, can they?”
“A teacher would have done something.”
“Maybe.”
“You left Gryffindor's goal posts open.”
You're goading him into admitting something and you both know it, because he glares at you. What else are you supposed to do? You need an answer, need to know if he feels the same strange allure towards you that you feel towards him.
“The game was over.”
Shit, you had forgotten about that. “W-well...”
Jones hands you the next potion and you drink it as you try to figure out how to bring the conversation to a head. It's cool going down but tastes like artificial pumpkin juice and makes you gag.
“Artificial flavor not doing it for you?”
“Hell no,” you say. “Jones, just – just answer the question, damn it. Why did you save me?”
He's silent.
“Could it be that... you actually care about me -”
“ Yes! ” Jones explodes. You're struck speechless by the ferocity in his voice and the fire in his blue eyes. “Yes, Arthur, I saved you from falling 300 feet to your death because I care about you. We've been rivals in everything since I got to Hogwarts and I'm tired of it. I don't hate you anymore.”
His voice drops to a whisper. “I... like you, okay? I like you a lot.”
Oh.
Well.
Shit.
You suddenly very much hope that the next potion you take is a sleeping one, but as you reach over Jones - Alfred? - grabs your hand firmly.
“What do you think of me, Arthur?”
Your voice shakes against your will. “I think you're a typical Gryffindor, saying things before thinking about them. We're in Gryffindor and Slytherin. We can't just suddenly become – best friends.”
“Why not?” He's loud, and passionate, and everything you're beginning to realize you don't hate about him. “This house rivalry thing is stupid. Can't we all just get along?”
“It doesn't work like that.”
It can't work like that, because you've wasted years hating Alfred F. Jones and you're not supposed to stop now. But as you are beginning to realize, you already have.
Alfred frowns deeply at you. Now you're the one who can't meet his eyes. “What if I want it to? I know you don't hate me, Arthur, I can see it in your eyes.”
“You see nothing,” you say coldly.
“Yeah? You're not telling me to leave. And,” Alfred adds, “I bet you won't protest if I do this.”
Suddenly he's so close, much too close for comfort, and his eyes are the blue sky that you feel like you're flying in when he kisses you. It's short, sweet and conveys his intentions better than any words could. When he draws away his expression is sincere enough to convince you of his honesty, and his gaze hopeful enough that it makes you want to believe in that Gryffindor optimism.
“Believe me now?”
“...I...”
You're speechless. Out of all the thoughts racing through your mind, one sticks out: I want to kiss him again.
So you do, deeply and desperately and pulling him close until the two of you are falling back onto your stack of pillows and Alfred narrowly avoids pressing his weight on your bad leg. The emotions that you can't make into words you try to infuse into every noise, every caress of his perfect skin, every breath. I'm scared. This is unfamiliar. But so nice.
You are both breathless and flushed when the kiss breaks. Alfred's blue eyes refocus onto yours after a moment and he shoots you that familiar grin, this time with no mischief or malice behind it.
“Does that mean you like me back?” He asks.
“Maybe,” you respond with a smile. You can't believe this is happening.
Alfred giggles, then laughs brightly. You wonder if this is what he's like around his friends in Gryffindor. “Cool.”
“Cool is all you can think to say?”
“Shut up and let me be happy, okay?” You laugh and drink the next to last potion on the tray. The burn down your throat is barely noticeable. “So can we put all that Gryffindor-Slytherin stuff behind us and just be friends? Or... more than friends?”
Yes , you think. Your rivalry may be the most intense in history, Potter-Malfoy rivalry excluded, but if Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy got over their differences, so can Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland. How a friendship slash relationship is going to work, you have no idea.
But right now Alfred is rambling again, so you decide to put it aside and shut him up with another kiss.