Chapter 14

Zoe

As you may be able to guess, the day that tags after my corridor confrontation with Seamus and Blaise is tense.

Blaise doesn't speak to me, which is no surprise. Usually, he will at least throw me a few indistinguishable looks throughout the day, but now he won't even meet my eyes. Seamus and I don't talk, either - it's clear that the friendship he and I had is not ever going to return to the way it was. A definitive line has been drawn in the sand.

I keep thinking about what Seamus said, no matter how hard I try not to - that Blaise was not who I thought he was. That he'd done things that would appall me. I look at it from this angle and that, but I can't figure out what it means. Sure, Blaise is mysterious and has emotional walls as thick as ice, but he's never struck me as a Julian-like deviant. A few times, I consider the fact that Seamus might've been lying to save his own skin, but that doesn't feel anywhere close right.

At lunch, I slide myself in between Stevie and Eric at the Hufflepuff table in order to avoid my Slytherin housemates (primarily Blaise). A few seats down, a group of fourth years are working over a thick study guide.

"Hey, gal pal." Eric coos. "What brings you to this neck of the woods today?"

"Avoiding Blaise."

He sets down his fork, looks at me like a stern father would. "What's he done this time?"

I explain to the two of them what happened in the corridor last night. Afterwards, they both look disgusted.

"I didn't think Seamus was like that." Stevie says, her face wrinkled with concern. "He's always been nice to me."

"Well, he's clearly fucking not." Eric says. "Good thing Blaise, hot boy wonder, was there to rescue your ass. Why are you avoiding him again?"

"Because Seamus said some things about him that sort of freaked me out. That he wasn't a good person, and he'd done things that would shock me - stuff like that."

Eric's mouth twitches as he scans the room for the Slytherin table. Once his eyes lock in, they narrow. "Strange. He's the only person in this entire school that I can't find dirt on - or anything on. That meathead can't possibly know more about Blaise than I do."

"He might." Stevie adds thoughtfully. "Speaking of Blaise, Zoe, he's staring right at you."

This catches my attention. Without hesitation, my head snaps in the direction of the Slytherin table across the room. Blaise is sandwiched between Flint and Crabbe, who are devouring a plate of honeydew chicken legs and pointing at some girl's ass. And sure enough, just as Stevie said, Blaise is looking right at me. Not a zoned-out, unfocused trance that happens to fall in the direction of an unlucky individual. This is more of a subtle gaze - a conscious, know-what-you're-looking-at sort of thing that has less of an intensity and more of a intrigue.

Our eyes meet, something mutual clicks, and then he quickly looks away. Whatever may have happened next is over before it even started.

"Well, I'll be fucked." Eric chirps from beside me. Despite his sudden words, I cannot tear my eyes off of the boy in the green. "Sigh. If only Hank would've looked at me that way."

***

The Slytherin quidditch team must've never found a replacement for their boy that quit, because by no later than thirty minutes after lunch, the walls of Hogwarts have been completely smothered in thousands of green posters advertising auditions for a new chaser. They're plastered across the corridors, in stacks by doors that have been charmed not to open unless you grab one.

"Are you interested in becoming part of Hogwarts' most successful Quidditch team?" Eric reads in a mocking falsetto tone, emphasizing each "s" sound as though he were hissing. "Come to the quidditch pitch tonight at 7:00 to audition for the role of chaser! SLYTHERINS ONLY."

"I think it's pathetic." I say. A vivid image of Flint churning out hundreds of these the night before pops into my head.

"You never know. Maybe they just need an extra hand until they can find someone good."

I scoff at the thought of this. "No, Steve - this is begging. I know my house, and they never beg for anything. Clearly, they've hit rock-bottom."

Not a second later, a devious smirk twists itself onto Stevie's face. My stomach begins to churn, because Stevie never thinks of anything devious, so this cannot be good.

"Maybe you should try out, Zo." She sings. "It'd be a great way to impress Blaise."

A noise somewhere between a scoff and a gag emits from me. The idea is absurd.

"I don't want to impress Blaise." I snap. "I want to kick his ass."

"You could do that, too."

As the day glides by, Eric and Stevie become more persistent and buggy about me auditioning for the quidditch team. At the end of each class, I have to make a run out the door and tuck myself into the areas in the corridors that are hidden away from sight. Eric slips two flyers into my bag during break period (each with a raunchy message scribbled on it), and Stevie somehow manages to hide one beneath my platter at dinner.

The more I think about joining the quidditch team, the more and less sense it makes. I try to picture myself on a broom, zooming above a crowd of cheering students alongside a group of boys, all but one of which who hate me. My arms, though skinny, are used to bearing weight due to the amount of crates I carry into the flower shop, and my accuracy isn't horrible. Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if I were to audition.

At 6:55 that night, I am sitting on the corner of my bed, tapping my foot, wringing my wrists, and biting my lip all at the same time - three nervous and unsure idiosyncracies. I'm wearing a pair of shorts I borrowed from Stevie and a Niels Brock crewneck with an ice cream stain on it. My finest athletic attire.

"I don't know." I blurt, my voice much louder than I intend it to be. "I don't think I can do this."

"Don't you dare back out on this now, Zoelle." Eric says. "If you don't do this, your self-esteem will shrivel up and collapse in on itself like a dying star. Then it'll be my job to pick you back up and give you a little trophy that says, 'I am not worthless. I am just an unconfident doormat'. And I really don't want to do that."

Slowly, my head veers in his direction. "Thanks for that, Eric."

Auditions for the Slytherin chaser position are in five minutes. Though I'm ready to go, I can't seem to make my feet move in the direction of the quidditch pitch. I am frozen to the spot - a human statue. Eric and Stevie are positioned on the rug beneath my four-poster, bribing me with promises of new brush sets and romance novels.

I hesitate for another moment, stare at myself in the mirror for just a little bit longer.

"Fine. I'll do it." I say, giving in. I could use a new pair of fine-tipped brushes.

The both of them squeal with excitement.

"But I'm not wearing this sweatshirt. It's got an ice-cream stain on it."

***

The three of us march down to the quidditch pitch at exactly 7:02 p.m. For once, I do not feel afraid - even in the slightest bit. Though I've never played Quidditch before, I have a good feeling about this audition.

When we walk through the doors to the pitch, Flint is giving a speech to a group of watchful Slytherins, all clad in high-end green and silver quidditch gear. At the sound of the doors closing, his voice falters. Every single person on the pitch turns in my direction.

"I'd like to audition." I accidentally yell. A wave of silence sweeps over the group. I clear my throat.

"For the team."

More silence. Across the field, Blaise looks horrified.

A grin begins to grow on Flint's face. "Yeah, Zo!" He shouts, and jogs on over to give me something between a slap on the back and a hug.

"You're just on time. Haven't missed a thing." Flint's hands are gripping my shoulders, and he is staring into my eyes a little too intensely. He twists around. "Blaise, go get her geared up, and be back down here by the time I'm done with intro."

Blaise, who is still gracefully wearing a look of panic, carefully picks his jaw back up off of the ground. Then, he motions me to follow him. His strides towards the end of the pitch are long and quick, and I have to jog to catch up with him. The moment we are behind closed doors, he whips around to face me.

"What the hell are you doing here." He is standing so close to me that I can feel his breath on my face as he speaks.

"What?" I challenge. "You embarrassed?"

His mouth opens as if he's going to say something, and then closes. "No-"

"Good. Then show me where my gear is."

I push past him, leaving him at a loss for words behind me. I am quite enjoying this uncomfortable and clueless version of Blaise. Usually, it's me who's that way.

Blaise paces over to a cabinet towards the back of the locker room, and lifts a spare pair of quidditch boots and robes off the rack. He thumbs through a wide selection of brooms, picking out one of the skimpier ones before heading back over to me.

"Have you ever even played quidditch before?" He thrusts the gear into my arms, his voice spiked with aggravation.

I don't want to answer this question, but something tells me he already knows what I'm going to say.

"No." I snap, and begin to pull the robes over my head. Blaise doesn't answer. He stands still, folding his arms across his chest and observing me in a trance-like state.

"What are you doing?" I ask, pausing when he doesn't move.

Blaise looks startled, a hint of red gracing his cheeks. "Nothing."

Then, he paces out of the locker room.

***

"We're gonna start off with some basic drills and exercises, okay? That way, we'll be able to eliminate any of you who actually suck ass right off the bat. Now, mount your brooms!"

Flint's raspy voice can be heard throughout the entire pitch. He swings one leg over the other side of his broom handle, and I parrot the action.

"Three...two..."

He sneaks in a quick wink in my direction.

"One!"

All of the quidditch players kick wildly against the ground and soar into the air.

The feeling of flying is something I can only describe as tremendous. As I rocket skywards, my robes rapidly stirring in the wind behind me, I feel like one of the superheroes from the children's books my grandpa used to read. All feelings of doubt and nervousness have been left at the ground below me.

Flint shouts a few more commands, and the players gather in a long, airborne line parallel to the Hufflepuff student section.

Adrian Pucey is positioned a few yards away with a quaffle, instructing us to catch the ball as we fly by and then throw it back. The line of auditioning students grows shorter and shorter. The moment a newcomer even fumbles with the quaffle, Flint shoves them off towards the ground. Surprisingly, I'm able to catch the ball and hurl it back without falter when my turn comes around.

"Fletcher, damn!" Flint calls from across the pitch, and Eric follows with an appreciative whoop from the student section. Blaise looks mortified. I shoot him a mocking grin.

After I and a few others make the first round of cuts, we move onto the final exercise - throwing the ball past the Slytherin keeper and in between the goalposts. Flint gives us five chances to score, and somehow, I don't miss one of them. It'd be an understatement to say that I'm surprised at how sharp my quidditch skills are turning out to be - usually, I'm pathetic at any sport I attempt to play.

"Alright, everyone." Flint says after we all migrate back down to the quidditch field at the end of tryouts. "I'd like to thank all of you for coming out today, but after a thoughtful discussion with the boys-" (he motions to the rest of the quidditch team standing behind him) "-we all decided that picking Zoe as our new chaser was a no-brainer. Congrats Zo!"

Flint smacks me on the back, and the entire quidditch team breaks out in a rowdy and untamed round of applause. Besides Blaise and Julian, of course - the former seems to be biting back a surge of irritation, while the latter is nowhere to be found.

***

Blaise

"Congrats Zo!"

The annoyance budding within me amplifies as Flint claps Zoe on the back. Zoe was good - certainly better than anyone was expecting her to be, having barely ridden a broom before. Quidditch practices for the rest of the season won't be anything short of a living hell, with Flint still in pursuit of a night alone with her.

He dismisses the team along with the students who got cut, not wasting any time in slinging his arm across her shoulder and pulling her in close to him, rambling on and on about how clearly, she was destined to be a Slytherin chaser - might even play for the Harpies someday.

It's then that I pick up on the conversation taking place in front of me.

"...it's bullshit. The only reason Flint let her on the team is because he wants to pipe her."

It's Crabbe and Goyle, desperately inventing excuses as to why a girl whose not played quidditch before made the team over them.

"Well, no duh. But it's a smart move. Now that he let her play, she has to put out-"

I am about to step in when a small figure slides between the two of them.

"Sorry, what were you saying?"

Zoe looks pissed - eyes squinted, mouth pressed into a firm line, head tilted slightly to the left. This is the tick she does when she's annoyed - I'd know, because she does it to me all of the time.

"I - We were just -"

"No, really. Say it again."

Crabbe and Goyle look dumbfounded. They glance at each other, and then at her again. Finally, Crabbe clears his throat.

"We were saying that Flint only let you on the team because he wants to bone you. It's all he talks about, and you've never even played quidditch before."

There's a moment of silence, and the air is so brittle with tension that it could snap.

"Great." Zoe says. "Thanks for letting me know. If you have any problems with me in the future, you can just bring them straight to me instead of talking behind my back."

Crabbe is at a loss for words as Zoe twirls around, carelessly walking towards the opposite end of the pitch. She turns over her shoulder one last time.

"Make sure to send your love to me from the student section at the next game!"

A low chuckle escapes my lips when Crabbe and Goyle's faces drop with shock. As Zoe walks further and further away from us, I can't seem to take my eyes off of her. I don't know if I've ever heard any girl talk to a Slytherin guy like that before.

"Damn." Pucey snickers, walking by the three of us. "She got your asses."