Archive of Our Own

It wasn't what it looked like.

I swear on Helga, that it really wasn't.

Except…

I was definitely in Roger Davies’s lap.

Kissing him.

After the Quidditch game. Ravenclaw won. Congratulations to them, very proud of everything they accomplished. It had been tense at some parts against Hufflepuff, but they made it out alright at the end of the game. Cho was unbelievable. I had half a mind to get after Cedric for not catching the Snitch earlier, but if Ravenclaw winning was what got Roger smiling—I’d allow it.

He was undeniably, undeniable. I melted when it came to him. Roger, with his black hair. Soft espresso coloured eyes. That slight gap between his front teeth. And his—everything, really.

He was still sweaty and, quite honestly, gross.

That didn't stop me though.

It really should’ve.

But it didn't.

I was perched in his lap, one hand in his wet hair and the other on his chest. I scratched his scalp lightly, even though it was making my hand damp. I threaded every strand through my fingers.

Roger tilted his head to kiss me deeper, using one of his hands to pull me in at the small of my back. His hair was matted to his forehead and he was decidedly not wearing his jersey anymore. His other hand was holding onto the small jacket hook above us, until he removed it and rubbed my thigh instead.

I wasn’t sure if he intended to hike the fabric of my skirt up or not. We only kissed. That was our thing. Just kissing.

Crunching footsteps against the gravel leading into the changing room should’ve had me bolting.

But Roger was somehow transferring the loud thumping of his heartbeat through his mouth and I was none the wiser.

“OH!” Michael Corner gasped, “Hi…Waters. And Davies. Nice to see the both of you…here. Together.”

Michael had always been a twitchy kid, anxiously fidgeting with his fingers. His blue eyes were wider than I’d ever seen before.

I froze, my body going completely rigid. Roger’s hands were still moving up and down my back languidly, as if he was pretending Michael had most definitely not come into the changing room we were tucked into.

If anything Roger’s hands seemed intent on coaxing me into continuing.

Roger barely pulled away from my mouth long enough to mutter, "If we ignore him, he'll leave."

I huffed a breathy laugh, and shook my head.

They weren't proper changing rooms we were in. They were curtained partitions with a bench and a hook for robes. And every inch of the space smelt like dirt, the metallic Snitch scent, and body odour.

I pressed a quick parting kiss to Roger’s jaw. Apologetic, like I was sorry to leave so quick. Except, I don't know if it was all in my earnest to try and be apologetic with him. Because I did want to leave. And I needed to leave right then and there.

“Hey,” he started softly, “You don't have to go so soon.”

He leaned and pressed a lingering kiss to my lips. A plea. Stay. Don’t go. I can make it better.

I still climbed out of his lap, ducked my head, and headed straight for the door without another word. I brushed Michael’s sleeve on my way out and squeaked an apology. My chapstick was all over my face.

I overheard a glimpse of Michael and Roger’s conversation as I retreated.

“What the hell Corner, I was in the middle of something,” Roger sounded annoyed.

“I—she was—you were—”

“Having a wonderfully pleasant time? Yes,” Roger rustled around for a bit, likely putting on a new clean shirt, “I’m making the team run cool down laps. Go tell everyone not to change.”

Michael groaned.

And I sped up my pace back to the castle.

I needed to stop acting like kisses didn't count. It was only going to end badly from here on out. Every time I told myself it was only kissing—harmless fun—Roger smiled at me like that, and I forgot every reason I should've walked away.

I wasn't going to build my life around Quidditch schedules, post-match celebrations, and waiting for Roger Davies to come home. He was made for Quidditch, popularity, and all the glamour that came with it. I was made for the quiet, behind-the-scenes world of wandmaking. That had to mean we weren't meant to be. Despite whatever my heart tried to tell me, or whatever it screamed when I walked away.

***

The best way to get over someone you were never dating, was to see them with someone else.

The flaw in my logic was that Roger Davies was never with anyone else.

Either he was with his Quidditch mates, or somewhere in a corner hidden away with me. I figured I needed to eliminate one variable and he’d start talking to other girls. Then, he would fall in love with someone and I could be let off the emotional tether I’d found myself sealing around him.

I couldn’t do it all at once, that would’ve been noticeable. So I began to taper it off. I couldn't quit Roger cold turkey, either. Every healer worth their salt would tell you to taper off gradually. Fewer post-match kisses. Fewer walks back to the castle. Fewer afternoons accidentally ending up in his lap.

But, we were still eighteen and unbelievably stupid about and around each other.

Ravenclaw versus Slytherin.

Slytherin won.

And Roger Davies wanted me around. Like he usually did when his team lost. Or when it won too. Regardless of the outcome, I would be found by him. This time, while I was loitering in one of the less travelled corridors.

The windows were starting to frost in the corners. Each crystalline pattern crawling from the corners up. Foggy Scotland meant that there would definitely be icy wind incoming for the next couple of months. My jumper felt inadequate to keep me cosy.

Roger, unannounced yet I knew it to be him, wrapped one arm around my torso and put his face into my neck. His other hand went to work moving his fingertips up and down my arm, causing gooseflesh to pop up under my skin. November chills.

Roger ran hot. His blood never cooled down, and his body was always warm. I sank into him, into the warmth, leaning my back against his chest. He started to pepper short and sweet kisses to my neck.

“Hm, you smell good today,” he whispered, “is this new? When did you get this?”

I reached an arm behind me to play with the hair at his nape. His medium-length curls spun around my fingers and licked at my palm.

“Got it three weeks ago,” I replied.

He hummed.

Then, his ministrations and kisses stopped.

His other arm went around my torso as well, so he was hugging me from behind.

One of the portraits on the wall gasped at the sight of Roger attaching himself to me, “Well, I never!”

“They’re outspoken today, huh, love?” Roger joked.

Another portrait scoffed, “The nerve to snatch a young lady up like that.”

I nodded with a light chuckle.

Roger chucked into my neck, then directed us to a small nook in the corridor. No more judging portraits, or open air exposure. He turned me around and I leaned against the stone wall. Cupping my jaw, Roger made me look up at him.

“You got new perfume three weeks ago, and it took me this long to realise?”

He was frowning at me while he said it.

The way he asked it, you'd think I'd broken an unspoken rule. As if Roger found it inconceivable that I could change something about myself, and he hadn’t been the first to know.

I lowered my head, “It really doesn’t matter.”

He lifted my face again.

Eye contact.

My weak point with him.

“It matters to me,” he used his free hand to press against his chest, over his heart. He had begun brushing his thumb over my cheek during his little monologue. “I care if you’ve changed something about yourself. Not because it’s wrong, or I don’t like it, but because I want to be involved.”

That was exactly what I didn’t want him to be.

Involved.

Involved meant that this would get messy. We weren’t even officially dating.

I didn’t know how to answer him, so I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him into me. The distraction I needed came to mind easily, I didn’t need to think twice about what I needed to do. It started off small, by kissing him gently. Sweetly, innocent. Like the first time I’d ever kissed him.

Roger stumbled forward into me, like I had caught him in a lure. He didn’t smell like sweat this time. He smelt like sea salt, figs, and something musky underneath. Leave it to Roger to smell like he’d walked out of an advertisement for Greece. His lush tan skin suited the Mediterranean scent. Being outside often for Quidditch meant that his olive-toned skin filled in properly.

Then, I changed the pace of the kiss.

I made the sound I knew he was looking for. It was halfway between a keen and a whine. As soon as I made it, Roger underwent a change in fervor. I also brought my knee up to his hip, giving him space to move forward. He stole every centimeter like it was a compulsion.

Whatever potential argument could’ve happened, I averted it.

I moved from his lips to his neck.

“Can I?” I asked.

He was gone. His brain had turned to mush entirely. Roger being capable of forming a sentence when I let him press his hips against mine wasn’t feasible. He almost babbled, nodding while he tilted his head back barely. One of his hands found purchase at my waist, and the other went to keep my knee locked around his hip.

I bit down along the side of his neck first, just seeing where he would go still if I managed to find the spot. Right at the junction of his neck and shoulder, above his shirt, Roger inhaled sharply.

Found it.

I sucked down on the spot until I was sure it would leave a mark. Not unseemly, or too large. But enough that Roger would notice it on his own body. He was always after me leaving marks on him, asking for them like it was a trophy he could hang up next to his MVP awards and Captain pins.

He almost slumped into me when I moved to the next spot on his neck, and he shuddered.

“Sorry, pet,” he mumbled.

“It’s alright Roger,” I answered.

I tugged at his hair, and I could feel the way his face tensed as he soaked in the feeling. I giggled against his throat at the sensation.

Roger bent down so he could press his own kisses to my neck.

“Can I?”

I didn’t want it to be visible. I’m sure I already looked rustled enough.

He wanted it so badly.

More than that, I wanted to give it to him.

Sweet Roger, always giving me his notes for Charms because he had it the day before I did. Kind Roger, putting non-verbal warming charms on me before I could do it myself. Humble Roger, never bragging or begging for attention because of his talents or skills. My Roger. But he wasn’t really. He wasn’t mine to have.

I could give him this though.

I was wearing a quarter zip jumper, so I unzipped the front of it, and tugged the fleece to the side. Slowly, his ears started to grow pink. I gave him my collarbone and the beginning swell of my breast to work with.

His ears went red the longer he was staring at the uncovered area.

I nipped his ear, which was still within my range.

“Have at it.”

Once he was satisfied, he kissed my cheek. I closed my eyes at the touch.

“You know,” he chuckled dryly, “I’m starting to think you kiss me whenever you’re avoiding a conversation.”

I blinked, and gave a smile.

“I knew it,” he pulled me in for another hug, “You just kiss me until I forget what I asked.”

My brain’s little workers, a hundred little versions of me ripping open files and folders and trying to feed me an answer, were working too slow. Some screamed at me to bolt. Others were saying I needed to tell Roger how much I cared about him and his presence in my life. One particularly loud worker was begging me to give Roger everything I had and climb him like a tree—I tried muting that one. A smaller, quieter voice asked me politely to tell him I loved him.

My heart tightened within my chest.

Roger squeezed my knee, still propped up on his hip. He looked at me like he wanted to get serious.

“You know, we should probably talk—”

I kissed Roger with tongue instead. I could taste the peppermint candies he loved to suck on at parties, because he didn’t want to drink during the Quidditch season.

He blanked.

I knew what he was thinking.

I could tell as he took control of the kiss, going deeper.

His foolish hope wanted him to believe that if he just held me closer—I would tell him why I was slipping away.

***

Cira and Nava were waiting for me before we went back to our common room for the Quidditch Finals Party. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw had made it to the Housecup. Leaving plenty of sour-striken Slytherins and Gryffindors in fate’s wake.

Cira, who possessed all the subtlety of a Howler, appraised my outfit choice like it offended her.

“Roger isn't going to cope with that outfit,” Cira clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

Nava, tugging on her knee-high leather boots, made a disgruntled sound.

“Waters looks hot. Roger likes when she looks hot,” she shook her head, “He’s not a possessive oaf like your boy toy Cee.”

Nava pointed at me.

“You look fine,” smoothing out her skirt, Nava continued, "Don't change.”

My brain had already snagged onto Cira’s comment though.

“What do you mean Cee?”

I looked down at myself.

“What’s wrong with my outfit?”

I could already hear the music rumbling through the stone walls. Cedric had invited the Ravenclaw team over for a "get-together" to celebrate making the finals. Cedric genuinely wanted everyone to celebrate. Ever since surviving the Triwizard Tournament, he never did anything halfway. A small party in Cedric Diggory's vocabulary meant half the school.

Cira walked over to me.

She brushed her hand against my shoulder.

"Fitted here," she flicked the hem of my top. "Shows off your chest, then it flows out like you're some sort of water fairy."

Nava rolled her eyes, “Quit it, Cee.”

Cira laughed, tugging on my jean’s belt loop.

“Your thighs are killer in denim, Waters,” she chuckled, “Did you forget that? You look perfectly plush. And Roger is going to go pazzo for it.”

Nava translated on instinct, “Crazy. He’ll go crazy for it.”

I rubbed my hands over my legs, “I should change.”

Cira wagged her finger in front of me.

“If you change, that’s only going to make me do something silly.”

Nava snorted, “And what is that?”

“I’ll go to Davies,” Cira made a devilish face, “And I’ll remind him that he’s not Waters’s boyfriend.”

Nava stilled.

“Cira.”

Cira raised her hands defensively, “Hey, I’m not the one who hasn’t DTR’d yet.”

Nava huffed.

“Defined the relationship.” Cira sang.

I didn’t want a relationship.

“That’s fine by me,” I managed.

Cira folded her arms, “So…open relationship?”

I raised my eyebrows with tight lips, “No relationship.”

Nava almost choked on air. For the first time since we'd started getting ready, neither of them had anything to say. Nava broke the aforementioned silence.

“You love him though.”

It wasn’t a question.

Love.

Roger Davies.

"I think," I said, clearing my throat, "we're late for the party."

Neither of them moved. I reached for the brass door handle and jostled it. Still nothing from either of them. I sighed dramatically.

"Anthony Goldstein's single again."

Nava blinked, "What?"

"I heard he and Violet broke up."

I only knew because Roger had recounted the entire breakup to me in sordid detail. I'd laughed so hard I nearly fainted. Roger had been unbearably pleased with himself the whole time. I'd mentioned exactly once that I liked hearing stories about his friends' romantic disasters—Ravenclaw boys were impossible—and apparently he'd taken that as a personal assignment. Roger Davies had become the finest investigative journalist Hogwarts had ever seen.

Nava’s attention snapped toward me immediately.

"...When?"

I smiled to myself.

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

"Let's go to the party."

Cedric spotted me almost immediately when Cira, Nava, and I emerged from the dormitory stairs and stepped into the common room.

The room was already alive.

Music echoed off the stone walls. Someone had enchanted streamers in Hufflepuff yellow and Ravenclaw blue to drift lazily near the ceiling. Students were perched on sofas, sprawled across rugs, balancing butterbeers on armrests, laughing loud enough to drown out the record player in the corner.

The party had been going for nearly an hour.

Cedric grinned the second he saw me, "There you are." He spread his arms dramatically. "Now my guest list's complete."

I laughed.

"I thought the party started an hour ago."

"It did."

He nodded once, completely serious.

"But now everyone's here."

I rolled my eyes fondly and gave him an affectionate shove on the shoulder.

"You're impossible."

"I've been called worse."

He flashed his trademark smile before disappearing into the crowd to greet someone else.

Nava left my side as she beelined straight to a slightly forlorn-looking Anthony Goldstein. She was going to get her claws into him quicker than Cira was going to down whatever spicy alcohol someone smuggled in with a second-hand flask.

I scanned the room, trying to find the best ‘people-watching’ spot.

Roger’s hand found my hip before I could spot a look-out point.

I jumped.

Not because it was unwelcome, but because Roger had gotten a haircut.

His curls were shorter.

I hadn’t prepared for that.

I spun around in his arms, both of which were already sliding over my hips, idly toying with the loose fabric of my vanilla-yellow babydoll top.

"I like this," he murmured. His fingers rolled the fabric between them. "I really like this."

I looked down at my shirt.

"The top?"

Roger blinked.

"What?"

"The shirt." I pinched the fabric between my fingers, and lifted it up for him. "You said you liked it."

Roger smiled, slow and crooked, "No."

His eyes lifted back to mine.

"You,” he said coolly.

The word came easily, like there had never been any other answer. Then, almost as an afterthought, he glanced down again.

"...The top's nice too."

His thumbs skimmed lightly across my waist under the top. Skin on skin.

"But mostly you."

I shoved his shoulder playfully. His smile only grew.

“Tease,” I remarked.

Roger tilted his head, "You started it."

I pouted, "How?"

He looked me up and down, entirely unashamed.

"You wore that."

Cira knew. Somehow Cira always knew. Her decision to go and work for the Department of Mysteries could not have suited her more.

An overeager fifth year on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team tugged on Roger’s sleeve. I slid out of Roger’s hands, backing away from him and the fifth year. Eli, I think his name was, he played Beater. Roger extended his hands out to me, as if to catch me.

I wasn’t falling.

“Davies, you’ve got to come defend our honour—Cedric is practically guzzling down all the butterbeer,” Eli begged.

This is exactly how it always played out.

People needed Roger. They wanted him around as much as I did. They asked him things, they wanted him to be a part of their games, jokes, and stories. I could fade away now if I wanted. Escape upstairs and erase the entire lighthearted exchange Roger and I had shared.

The bubble I had pretended existed around us popped, leaving bits of soapy rubble across my common room.

I was always borrowing him.

Roger was looking at me more than Eli. He politely laughed, “I would, mate, but—”

I patted Eli’s back, “He’s all yours.”

Roger’s attention snapped to me.

“What?”

Eli thanked me, “Waters, you’re an absolute star.”

Roger shot him a look that suggested he was very much not feeling particularly grateful for my generosity.

As I stepped further away, Roger tried to catch me. He actually lurched forward to try and grab my hand.

I slid both my hands into my back pockets. Nothing for him to grab.

Eli, blissfully oblivious, had already seized Roger by the wrist and started towing him toward the table by the fireplace.

By the hearth, Cedric had butterbeer dripping out from the sides of his mouth. Cira was watching on with a smirk, sipping something strong. Cedric was her choice of entertainment for the night apparently, anything for Cira to get at Marcus Flint for what he'd done last week.

Roger turned back to me, “Don’t disappear.”

I shrugged, “I’ll try not to.”

He dug his heels in against Eli's relentless pulling.

"I mean it," he insisted. "Five minutes. I'll come find you."

I took one hand out from my pocket and blew him a kiss.

Roger caught it without thinking. Laughed like what I had done was adorable. He pressed the air kiss to his cheek, smugly.

His expression softened.

Then, slowly, his eyes narrowed.

I escaped.

Not back to the dorms, Roger would’ve sent Cira or Nava to get me back down to the party.

No, I needed somewhere Roger wouldn't think to search.

Someplace that belonged to just me.

Not us.

Me.

***

The caverns.

The same place that the first years took by boat and entered in through the dungeons. The dark water had gone perfectly still. I crouched at the shoreline and dragged my fingertips through the surface. Gentle ripples spread outward until they disappeared into the darkness.

The sand and stone weren’t comfortable by any means, but that’s why no one came around to the caverns anyway.

I smelled smoke.

Cigarette smoke.

Gilbert Ollivander stood a few yards away, hands shoved into the pockets of a weathered coat. Garrick Ollivander's nephew. Former Gryffindor. Four years older than me. He had dyed his hair with stripes of white. It made his hair give off a skunk pattern.

After graduating, he opened a second Ollivanders’ workshop inside Hogsmeade. Repairs. Rebalancing. Wand cores. The sort of work that attracted people who thought a wand should last a lifetime instead of being replaced every time it developed a fault. He was talented too, I’d read about him in Wandmaker’s Weekly.

He paused when he noticed me.

I’d forgotten that the caverns were also accessible by the Hogsmeade paths. Making them free game for villagers who lived there.

He took another drag from his cigarette, "Sorry. Thought I'd have the place to myself."

"So did I."

That earned a faint smile from him.

The white body of the cigarette burned orange at the end, then faded to a hot white. Gilbert turned his head to the side and exhaled the smoke.

He nodded toward the stretch of sand beside me.

"Mind if I sit?"

I shook my head, "Go ahead. It’s fair game here anyhow."

Gilbert lowered himself beside me with the weary sigh of someone who'd been standing at a workbench all day. For a minute neither of us spoke.

He simply smoked.

I simply watched the water.

Eventually he held the cigarette in my direction.

"Fancy one?"

I blinked.

"I don't smoke."

I didn’t smoke. I don’t know why I made it seem like I might in the future.

Gilbert looked at the unlit cigarette between his fingers.

"...Right,” his shoulders lifted, "I supposed that would've helped."

I couldn't stop the small laugh that escaped me.

He glanced sideways.

"There it is."

I turned more fully to look at him, "What?"

"You smiled."

His gaze drifted back to the lake. The moon echoed on the water.

"Figured you probably needed one tonight."

I did.

A branch crunched behind Gilbert and I.

Gilbert's wand appeared in his hand so quickly I barely saw him draw it. An actual adult, responsible and capable. Gilbert used to duel before learning under his uncle. I also read that in Wandmaker’s Weekly. He’d toured multiple countries before deciding to settle down and live a quiet life. The interviews about him were actually thrilling reads.

"Who's there?" Gilbert called.

A familiar voice answered before the silence could.

"Easy."

Roger.

He stepped further into the mouth of the cavern.

His eyes found me first.

Then Gilbert.

Then the space between us.

His chest moved.

Gilbert turned to me, “You know him?

“I’m Roger Davies,” Roger explained, “I’m looking for her.”

Gilbert put a hand on my shoulder.

I took a sharp inhale. I already knew Roger was going to have opinions about that.

"Alright, mate," Roger said, remarkably polite considering the expression painted on his face. "You can let go now."

Gilbert glanced down at his own hand as though he'd forgotten it was there. Then, instead of moving it, he patted my shoulder once. His hand was warm.

"I could," he agreed.

Roger's expression flattened. Roger pulled his eyes away from Gilbert’s hand and back to my face.

“Waters,” he softened immediately, “Let’s get back to the party. You said you wouldn’t disappear this time.”

Gilbert scoffed, twenty-two years old and familiar with the things boys say. The indirectly possessive things. I’m sure he had his fair share of experiences like this. He wasn’t exactly unattractive.

"She's not a Quaffle, lad."

Roger approached us, “I’m not a lad.”

I held my breath.

"I'm not a lad,” Roger repeated, like he wanted Gilbert to get it through his brain.

Gilbert took another leisurely drag from his cigarette.

"No chest hair?" He shrugged. "Lad."

Roger took another step forward.

"I'm eighteen."

"Congratulations." Gilbert exhaled another ribbon of smoke before finally taking his hand off my shoulder. "Still a lad."

"I play professional-level Quidditch."

"Ah, a lad who flies."

Roger opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Gilbert nodded, thoroughly satisfied, "Thought so."

I pressed my lips together.

Roger looked at me incredulously.

"Are you laughing?"

"I am trying very hard not to," I said, muffled behind my hand. The humour wasn’t dying out any time soon.

I briefly felt guilty for finding Roger’s behaviour entertaining. I felt like Cira for a moment. She liked it when people lost their rationality.

Gilbert's grin widened, bright enough to be irritating.

"Smart girl."

Roger’s voice cracked, “And what’s an old geezer doing on Hogwarts grounds in the middle of the night with an underaged girl?”

I turned to Gilbert, “I’m not underaged. I’m eighteen.”

The clarification felt important at the moment.

Gilbert smiled lazily at Roger.

"Jealousy's an interesting colour on you, lad."

Roger rounded back on Gilbert, “Look mate, you’re giving my girl second-hand smoke.”

I wasn’t sure I had heard Roger correctly.

Gilbert threw the cigarette into the water.

“Not anymore.” He dusted his hands together, "Now about the other thing you said..."

"Waters. Let's go." Roger ignored him completely. "This git is obviously stoned."

He reached down impatiently and caught my hand.

I felt him pull.

My boot slipped on the damp stones.

"Roger—"

My balance vanished. Instead of being hauled to my feet, I lurched sideways and crashed back onto the rocky shoreline. My elbow struck one particularly sharp stone. I heard the impact before I felt it.

Then something hot trickled down my forearm.

I glanced down.

Bright red blood ran from a split just below my elbow, dripping steadily onto the sand. The pain arrived a heartbeat later.

I started bleeding on my jeans.

I was never good with blood.

My chest tightened.

Gilbert moved first. He caught me gently by my uninjured arm and guided me a step away from Roger before crouching to inspect the cut.

His wand was already out.

"Episkey."

A bitter cold spread through my elbow.

The torn skin knitted itself together, the bleeding slowing to nothing until only a thin pink line remained.

"There," Gilbert murmured. "You'll bruise, but you'll live."

I stared miserably at my now-intact elbow. It still ached. My pride even more so. I'd lost a fight with a shoddy wet rock.

Gilbert rose to his feet, slipped his wand back into his coat, and ruffled the top of my head.

"You'll survive, lass."

"Unfortunately,” I muttered.

"Aye," he chuckled. "Would've been embarrassing if a wet rock had finished you off."

Behind him, Roger hadn't moved.

He was still staring at my elbow.

"I..." His voice caught. "I'm sorry."

The words came out small.

"I pulled too hard."

I shook my head, “No, Roger it’s really okay.”

I gave a curt nod in Gilbert’s direction.

“I’ll be off, thanks Gilbert.” I turned to Roger, “I’m done for the night. Let’s go back.”

Gilbert, all six feet something of him, cool and calm, “Later then, lass.”

Roger’s throat worked, “Don’t call her that.”

Gilbert raised an eyebrow, “Call her what?”

“Lass,” Roger spit it out like it was poison. Disgusted with it.

Gilbert looked at me, “He’s always this worked up then?”

“Only on Sunday evenings it seems,” I said dryly, “Maybe I'll come bother you again sometime. Bum a cig.”

“Door’s always open…lass.”

Roger’s jaw flexed.

"Goodnight," he said, the words directed at Gilbert but his eyes still on me.

Gilbert only lifted two fingers in farewell.

"Night, lad."

Roger made a strangled sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. I bit the inside of my cheek. Then Roger started walking, slower than usual. I fell into step beside him.

His hands had gone inflexible at his sides.

I felt bad.

I slipped my hand into his.

He sighed.

“Roger—”

He hung his head low all the while linking our fingers.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. 'M really sorry."

I brought our conjoined hands to my mouth and kissed the back of his hand.

He sniffled.

I couldn’t believe it. I knew he cared about me. But I didn't expect him to be devastated.

***

I wanted to make Roger feel better. I couldn’t manage it in words. So, I did it the way I knew he’d respond too.

He almost cried over my bleeding elbow.

Now I had him pinned to the wall in the stairwell up to Ravenclaw tower. I kissed his neck, peeking my tongue out to kitten-lick the curves of his throat. I pressed a deep kiss to the junction of his neck to shoulder.

“Is this okay?”

He nodded, a tiny jerk of his head.

His hands went to my sides, caressing up and down. They would slide under my top until they reached the part of my shirt where it cinched right under my chest with elastic, then he would slide them back down, to right below the small of my back.

I left a mark on his neck, then started working on another one.

He moved his head to catch my mouth with his. I was already on my tip-toes, and my calves were straining in a way that told me I might cramp later in the night.

He could tell I was already trying to meet him in the middle, my neck held tall, trying to relieve his stretch down to me.

This is why he preferred me in his lap. It was just easier that way.

He walked forward, and I stumbled when the back of my heels hit the stairs.

"You know this would be easier if you just let me—" he started, already bending.

"Roger—"

He scooped me up like I weighed nothing, one arm under my thighs, and tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

His shoulder was bony and I was suddenly very aware of how high up I was, I tried grabbing a hold of his shirt.

"You are so dramatic," I said, trying not to laugh and failing.

"You were straining," he said, perfectly serious as he started up the stairs, taking them two at a time like I wasn't dangling there. "This is practical."

"Practical?"

"Ergonomic, even."

I thumped his back teasingly. "Put me down. People might see."

"Let them," he said, but he was already slowing, already careful on the turn where the staircase got narrow. "You still good up there?"

He finally set me down at the top of the landing, but he didn't let go. Both hands stayed on my waist like he was making sure the ground was actually there.

"There," he said, a little out of breath. "No calf cramp. You're welcome."

I'm still holding onto his shoulders. My feet were back on stone and my hair was a mess from being upside down.

"Very chivalrous," I said.

"Very," he agreed, and tried to smile. It doesn't quite land. The corner of his mouth did the thing where it wanted to be crooked but couldn’t. Because his hands were still tight. Too tight for someone who was supposed to be joking.

I put my hands over his. "Hey. You can put me down and still be upset, you know."

His throat worked. "I'm not upset."

"You sniffled."

"I did not sniffle," he said, affronted, which was how I knew he absolutely did.

"You did."

He huffed, looked away down the dark stairwell like he's checking for portraits, then looked back at me. The goofy practical voice drops.

"I just—" He squeezed my waist once, like he's testing that I'm solid. "You were bleeding and I was the reason. And then you were nice about it. You were nicer about it than I would have been."

"I was not nice, I was—"

"You kissed my hand," he said, quietly. "Like I was—I don't know. Like I was something worth being gentle with after I messed up."

That's it.

He didn’t know what to do with gentleness when he thought he should be punished. So he turned it into a job. Carry you. Fix your cramp. Make you laugh so you don't see that he's still shaking a little.

I slid my hands up to his jaw.

"You are," I say. "You are worth being gentle with."

He leaned into my hands, finally. Let the practical fall away for a second.

I ran my hands through his hair. It wasn’t the same as before his haircut, but it was Roger all the same to me. I pet his head, starting at his forehead and then pushing the hair back as I moved my hands all the way back to his nape. I repeated the motion three or four more times.

"Can I be gentle back now?" he asked. "Properly? Not—not carrying-you-up-the-tower gentle. Just..."

"Yeah," I said. "You can."

I didn’t hear the riddle to get into Ravenclaw House. The house I did not belong to. I couldn’t understand how Roger already had me under him on the couch in the smallest alcove in the common room. The most hidden part of the room.

He tugged his Quidditch jumper off over his head because he was still warm from carrying me, and tossed it onto the armrest.

Oh.

It fell to the floor from the armrest.

Roger went back to kissing me. As if the time away from me to simply remove his shirt was agonising.

“I want skin to skin,” he said.

I giggled, “Like a baby?”

He nodded in my neck.

The couch definitely wasn't built for Roger Davies. It was built for maybe one, maybe two, fifth years. We ended up with my legs tucked over his lap and his arm around my shoulders, both of us trying not to slide onto the floor.

He moved us again. Deeming the couch unsuitable.

He took me into his dorm room, and locked it behind us. None of his roommates were in yet.

I flopped onto his bed, bouncing on the mattress.

“You’re going to lock out Ben Linwood, Luke Marshall, Conell Grisham, and Martie Lee, like that?” I asked. “Tossing them to the curb. Roger with a little mean streak, huh?”

Roger shrugged, “There’s couches out there.”

Roger crawled over me, then covered me like a blanket. I ran a hand between his shoulder blades. No more jumper meant I could feel and see the freckles at his back, from practices where he decided to ignore wearing a shirt. It got him tan, sure, but also dusted him with speckles of colour.

He moved his head so his lips were against my ear, “I like how you know all my dormmates by name.”

“Pop quiz.” I said.

He pressed a quick kiss to the side of my head, right by my ear, and pulled back.

“Hm?”

“My dormmates. I only have three, so it should be easy for you.”

He grinned. That was his competitive look, the same one he got before a Quidditch final. Roger inhaled at my neck before answering. His words—and the warm breath that carried them—brushed across my skin.

"Cira Potachelli. Nava De Vita. Maris Taylor," he said without missing a beat. "Too easy. Next question."

“You pass this time, Roger Davies,” I chuckled, lifting my head to kiss his shoulder.

“Do I get a prize?”

I lifted my hips, arching off his bed. Roger propped himself up, giving me room to move.

I gave him a loose sheepish smile.

He watched my mouth for a moment, then went back to my eyes. His had dilated beyond what I thought was possible for irises.

I slowly removed my top. Starting at the flowy bottom and then tugging enough to stretch the elastic portion away from my body. I dropped the vanilla yellow blouse on his floor. We matched now. Bare skin against bare skin. Well, except for my simple white bra. But that could stay on.

Roger laid back over me again, one hand at my waist as he brought us up to his pillows. They smelt like him. The Mediterranean was packaged and put into a spray bottle for him to use. I now craved a fig with pink sea salt sprinkled on top.

Roger kissed my neck, languidly.

He’d gone through an emotional wringer and was still fighting sleep because he wanted more time with me. The hand he had at my waist transitioned from dragging up and down, into light brushes of his fingertips. He was still draped over me like a koala, but he'd shifted barely enough to leave a sliver of my side uncovered for his fingertips to wander.

I yawned.

“You’re soft,” Roger said, entranced.

I closed my eyes.

His heartbeat was steady and slowing down.

“Stay?”

I wrapped my arm over his shoulders and scratched gently. That was my answer.

“Thank you.”

His breathing evened out.

His fingers twitched once against my side.

I couldn’t tell how much had passed.

Roger mumbled into my skin before he started snoring. His words were slurred together, already halfway into a dream.

“I didn't know someone like you actually existed.”

***

I went to find Gilbert the next week.

Roger had asked me to go to Honeyduke’s with him for Chocolate Frogs. I told him maybe another time. Mostly because I suspected we'd spend twenty minutes buying sweets and the remaining hour with us kissing every coherent thought clean out of our heads.

I needed answers more than another confusing moment with Roger. He’d nearly cried over my elbow. It didn’t fit. Not with the version of the relationship I thought I had with him.

“Gilbert Ollivander,” I said, ignoring the cheerful jingle of the bell overhead as I stepped into the wand shop.

The smell hit me first. Dragon heartstring. Cherry blossoms. Finishing oil. Fresh wand boxes. It overwhelmed me. I loved it instantly. Professor Flitwick had been giving me random pieces of charmed wood to carve and work with between classes for extra credit. But nothing compared to this workspace. I wanted to work here, in a place like this.

Gilbert popped his head up from behind the cashier’s counter.

He was shirtless.

I turned around.

I’d only ever seen Roger shirtless. And I wasn’t exactly keen on adding anyone else to that exclusive list.

“Lass?”

I sighed, and turned back around.

He was still shirtless, now rubbing his hands with a rag that had seen brighter days.

"Cig?" Gilbert offered. "Saturdays are stressful for me too."

Gilbert laughed easily, coming around the counter and leaning against it, folding his arms.

Slimmer than Roger’s.

I had to remind myself why I was even here.

“You look like you’ve been rehearsing this,” Gilbert said, pulling a cigarette out of the pocket of his trousers. He lit it with a short tap of his wand. He inhaled deeply, then let it go. It wafted around the small shop, probably sinking into my hair.

Would Roger notice the smell later?

Focus. I needed to focus.

I pinched myself.

“I need advice,” I said, and sat down on a small stool near a bookshelf that housed nearly a hundred wands.

“Shoot, I ran out of all my good advice about an hour ago. You barely missed it.”

I shot Gilbert a firm stare.

"Alright, sorry." He tapped ash into a little dish beside the register. "What is it?"

“Do you remember Roger?”

"Ah, little lad." Gilbert smiled into his cigarette. "How's he doing? Still convinced I've got designs on you?"

I went deadpan, “He thought you were flirting.”

“I was.”

I stared.

He was?

Gilbert laughed.

“With my cig.”

This git.

I knew he and I were going to become good friends, unfortunately.

Gilbert took another drag before looking at me.

"Now,” his smile softened. "You didn't come all the way here to talk about Roger thinking I fancied you."

“No,” I agreed. “I don’t…understand him. I thought I did.”

I looked down at my hands.

"He almost cried because I scraped my elbow."

Gilbert hummed. Then made a circle form from the smoke. He poked his wand at it.

"Alright.” He stubbed out his cigarette, "Start at the beginning. And don't leave out the bits you think don't matter."

So I told him.

From the first day of seventh year…all the way to the caverns. I didn’t leave anything out, like he had asked.

Gilbert unfolded his arms, scratched his abdomen. He had been quiet for a long time. Maybe this was all ridiculous. Asking Gilbert Ollivander for advice and insight. He wasn't exactly a sphinx of wisdom. He was more like…an exhausted oracle with nicotine addiction.

“Funny,” he said finally.

“What?”

Gilbert inspected his fingernails, “You spent twenty minutes telling me about Roger. You didn't tell me a single thing Roger ever said about loving you.”

I nodded, “No.”

“You told me everything he did.”

Roger was consistent. Reliable. When something mattered, he always let me into it. He had asked me my opinion on if he should try out for the Montrose Magpies or the Ballycastle Bats when it came time for him to decide on a professional team. Not Madam Hooch. Not his teammates. He had specifically asked me.

Roger had read every book about wandmaking that I had mentioned.

Was Roger’s love language something I just hadn’t translated into my own yet?

Gilbert kicked off the counter and picked up a chocolate wand from the edible section of the story, next to the wand decorations and novelty accessories. He handed me the chocolate wand after he took a bite out of it.

“You mentioned wand stuff when you were talking about the little lad, you looking for a job?” Gilbert asked, chocolate staining his teeth.

“...After I graduate.”

“Great, I’ll need an assistant starting over the summer. You can begin by then, I’m assuming?” Gilbert checked. Then he pulled me off the stool, “You’re in my workspace. Bye lass.”

He promptly kicked me out of the store.

I had a half-eaten chocolate wand, a new job after Hogwarts, and, somehow, Gilbert Ollivander’s brilliant advice.

And, a reason to finally stop kissing Roger.

***

Hufflepuff went against Ravenclaw. It was a match that went down to the skin of both teams’ teeth

But Hufflepuff won. Cho had caught the Snitch right before Michael Corner managed to toss the Quaffle into the hoop. It wasn’t Cho’s fault for catching it without watching the points. If Michael had tossed the Quaffle, then they would've won. Catching the Snitch stopped the game, and the ten points Michael earned had become moot.

Roger’s face in the moment, realising that Hufflepuff had still scored more points than them, was crushing.

Cedric was doing victory laps around the pitch, Heidi Macavoy howling with laughter while trailing him.

I waited for Roger by the entrance of the Ravenclaw changing rooms. One of the Hufflepuff Chasers spotted me, jutted his thumb towards the Hufflepuff rooms instead.

“You should come celebrate with me, lots of extra room.”

I waved him off, staying firmly planted by the entrance of the Ravenclaw changing rooms.

Roger hadn’t seen me yet, so his face was pinched tight with frustration. His body was tense from his shoulders down, every step heavy with disappointment.

Then he saw me. He lifted his head slightly, his eyes caught on my lips first, then when he met my eyes—he mellowed out entirely. His mouth parted enough for me to glimpse the little gap between his front teeth. My heart sprang to life, died, and resurrected itself all at once just looking at him.

The rest of the Ravenclaw team watched as Roger crossed the distance between us in long strides and folded me into his arms. He buried his face against my shoulder for a moment, breathing out slowly, as though the loss had finally settled somewhere it couldn't reach him.

Michael coughed into his fist, “I think they’re about to have a ‘wonderfully pleasant time’ in the changing rooms.”

Cho laughed, “Is that code for something Michael?”

Michael started backing away, “Either trust me or don’t Cho. But I don’t want to run laps. I’m going back to the castle.”

Roger wasted no time, pulling me into the furthest partition within the tent and setting me in his lap. He shrugged his outer robes off, letting his tight dark blue sweater stay. Warm hands interlocked at the small of my back as Roger drew me closer until there wasn't room for another breath between us. He nuzzled into my neck.

But after he pressed an asking kiss to my lips, a request for us to connect, I put both of my hands on his chest.

I could feel the shock in him. Roger made a confused sound as he moved from my lips to pressing his cheek against mine. He nudged me with the side of his face, his chin bumping my jaw.

“I don’t want to kiss you right now,” I explained, not needing to raise my voice above a bare decibel in volume.

He backed his face up, eyebrows twitching. The vein in his neck went from steady pulses to rapid bolts of blood running under his skin.

Roger swallowed thickly, and the sound came out croaky, “I—uh—I want to kiss you. I want to be close to you.”

I could tell it took everything in him to say it. Roger didn’t deal with embarrassment very well. But, he was earnest in all that he did. It was tender that he felt safe enough to say what he wanted with me.

“Can we talk first?”

Roger leaned against the back of the wooden bench.

He turned his head away from me, but his hands around me didn’t move a single centimeter.

“Are you breaking up with me?”

My spine turned to ice.

Roger felt it.

“If you are, you’re going to need to give me actual reasons why,” Roger said. The hairs on his body all stood up at once, gooseflesh racing over his arms. “And, I need you to know I don’t want to break up. I don’t want to end things.”

I slowed down.

Maybe I had gone into this a bit too fast for him. Having this conversation after a losing match might not have been the smartest choice I’d made. Then again, manipulating Roger with my mouth for the past few months wasn’t exactly smart either.

I pressed a kiss to his jaw. I thought it was soothing, meant as reassurance.

Roger didn’t, he saw it as goodbye.

And I realised I was the one who had taught him to expect that from me.

“Don’t pull this shit on me, Waters,” he pulled me tighter, “Don’t kiss me and run.”

I wiggled in his hold.

Roger’s breathing caught.

He let go of me instantly. His hands gripped the edge of the bench instead, risking splinters from the wood. I stayed in his lap and rested my hands on his shoulders.

“I didn’t think there was anything to break up,” I started.

Roger's mouth tilted downward. He resisted the urge to say anything.

“I thought this was impermanent, Roger.”

“You thought we were impermanent?” Roger blurted.

I gave a small frown, “Yes.”

Roger’s eyes flitted over my face.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I shook my head, “No, don’t apologise.”

“I thought we were permanent,” his throat worked for a moment, “What did I do to make you feel like you weren’t in this with me?”

The words hung between us. Permanent. A word I had never once let myself use.

“You didn’t do anything. In fact,” I laughed humourlessly, “You did everything right.”

Tiny droplets of sweat flicked from his hair as he rubbed the back of his head.

I continued, setting one hand behind his neck and pulling him closer—just a little.

I confessed, “I was the one convincing myself it wouldn’t last…stupid right?”

Roger made a face.

“You’re the least stupid person I have ever met, and I know Cedric Diggory and Michael Corner.”

I laughed. A real one.

“Okay, I’m not stupid,” I admitted, licking my lips. “I just made myself think we weren’t going to work out.”

“Because of what?”

“Because of Quidditch, because of wandmaking, because of—”

“The cigarette guy?”

I laughed again, resting my head on Roger’s shoulder.

“Not Gilbert. He’s going to be my boss. So that’s like Dante's Inferno, nine circles of hell.”

Roger laughed quietly.

He licked his lips, “You thought I was temporary?”

Then Roger looked away. His jaw worked once. Not because he was angry, but because he was trying to rearrange something inside himself.

"I kept trying to convince you to stay. I didn't realise you were already planning how to leave,” Roger said, in a way that made me want to undo every time I’d tried running away from him. From us.

I brought my head up from his shoulder.

“I thought everything good about us was temporary.”

He went still.

Espresso eyes met mine. His had a sheen welling up.

Roger nodded, understanding.

“Because if you didn’t expect permanence, then giving it up wouldn’t hurt as much?” his hands found their way around me again, “Did I get that right?”

I nodded, lowering my eyes from him.

“And I really don’t want to let you go, Roger.” I bit down on my bottom lip. “I’ve never wanted anyone to stay as much as I want you to stay.”

For a moment, Roger didn’t say anything.

“I understand why you thought that,” Roger said quietly. “But I need you to understand something too. Do you know I was terrified? I was trying to love you while you kept an escape plan in the back of your mind.”

“I won’t make any more escape plans,” I kissed his cheek. Roger needed to shave. The stubble was pokey.

His arms tightened around me, not because he was afraid I’d leave, but because he was finally allowing himself to believe I wouldn’t. He practically purred. It was technically more of a relieved hum, but coming as low as it did in his chest—it felt like a purr.

“Can I tell you something, pet?” Roger asked. He adjusted our positioning so I was flush against him again.

I cocked my head to the side.

Roger rubbed his hands over my back. He thought for a moment, then went with it. He slid his hands under my top and pressed his hands between my shoulders. Skin to skin. Direct comfort. He liked skin to skin, it was the most straightforward way for Roger to connect to me. Not because it was sensual, but because it was just me and him.

“I love you.”

Roger held his breath after saying it.

I hugged him, rubbing my nose into his neck.

“I love you too.”

Roger started moving slower.

"You..."

His voice disappeared.

I pulled back enough to look at him.

"Roger?"

He blinked hard, "Say it again."

I smiled at him. Then, like giving more sugar to someone with a sweet tooth, I said it again, "I love you."

"I thought I'd imagined hearing it. I was trying so hard not to ask you to say it," he admitted. "Because if you weren't ready... I never wanted you to feel cornered. But I've wanted to hear you say those words for so long."

His forehead rested against mine.

"I knew," he whispered. "I think part of me always knew. I just didn't know if you knew."

“I know. I promise, I know.”

He held me tighter.

Roger had always loved through closeness. He wanted to hold me, nuzzle into my neck, carry me when my legs were tired, sleep tangled around me, exist skin to skin because, to him, there wasn't a clearer way to say I'm here. And I wanted to give him all of that. With my entire heart. Not halfway through a Portkey, or with a handful of Floo hovering over the fireplace.

Roger leaned his head against my shoulder and sighed. Content. Safe.

I wanted to spend the rest of my life loving Roger Davies the same wholehearted, uncomplicated way he had been loving me all along.