Daydream Believer

After some deliberation, we pick the jackalope. I guess it’s a good choice, because I’ve never actually seen one in person before, and Hagrid promises to bring in every creature in the book for us to observe.

At lunch, Mary and Marlene demand details of my interactions with Tommy, but he’s sitting only a few seats down with Eric Hodge, so I tell them I’ll report later. We have Arithmancy next, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Transfiguration in the afternoon, and after class there’s the first official prefects meeting.

“Going somewhere without me, Evans?” Potter calls as I’m leaving Transfiguration.

I turn around. “I wish.”

“Haven’t forgotten about our meeting, I hope,” he says, catching up.

“No, Potter,” I say. “Some of us actually store relevant information in our brains.” I tap a finger to my head. “Though I’m sure that’s a foreign concept to you.”

“Huh. Got anything about me in there?” He mimics me and taps the side of my head with his own finger. 

I duck away and smack his hand down. “No, I said relevant.”

“Uh-huh,” he says. Then he speeds up, leaving me in the hallway. “Come on, you’ll be late.”

The room is full when we come in, an assortment of sixth years from the other houses seated around a rectangular table. At the other end, McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Slughorn stand by a chalkboard. Potter is immediately greeted by a few cheerful hellos, while I get one wave from a Ravenclaw named Ellie Adams. I try not to feel offended in comparison.

We take our seats, and I fold my hands on the table, nervous. The first official meeting. I’ve been waiting for this for such a long time, and now that it’s finally happening, I feel dreadful.

I look around at the rest of the prefects, wondering if I measure up. Potter is, apart from his grades, a mindless idiot, so that doesn’t worry me. Ellie is smart, even for a Ravenclaw, and the other Ravenclaw prefect Paul Hamilton is too. The Hufflepuff prefects are Susie Lang and Tim Harrison, who are predictably unintimidating, but the Slytherin prefects are Catherine Heaton and... Severus. He must have been here when we came in, but I didn’t see him. He’s sitting on the far side of the table, close to the front, looking sulky as he usually does these days. A part of me can’t help being curious why, but another part of me says I shouldn’t care. We don’t owe each other anything anymore, he made that perfectly clear.

McGonagall starts the meeting, and I turn my attention to the blackboard as she begins to talk about our duties this year. There’s the Christmas Ball, which we have to plan, organise, and set up for, the end-of-year party that the sixth years put on for the seventh years, and the general task of mentoring and disciplining younger students. Then there are the patrol rounds, which one pair of prefects has to do every night every night until 1 am—walking the halls and making sure no one’s out of bed, deducting points if they are.

“Now there will be a regular rotation for this starting next week,” McGonagall says, “but we need sign-ups for the next three nights.”

Potter’s hand goes up immediately. “Evans and I will do it tonight.”

God, he makes me look bad. I should have volunteered first. I shoot him an annoyed look.

McGonagall peers at me across the table. “Is that alright, Miss Evans?”

“It’s perfect, professor,” I say, smiling, and kick Potter under the table.

He grunts. “What was that for?”

“Just your general existence,” I whisper back, watching our names appear on the chalkboard in the slot for tonight.

“Well,” he whispers. “This’ll be fun.”

The Ravenclaw prefects Ellie and Paul Hamilton sign up after us, and then Susie Lang and Tim Harrison for the next night.

The meeting is adjourned, and I leave quickly, hoping Potter doesn’t follow me. He doesn’t, thank god, but Paul and Ellie are behind me as I walk out.

“Good luck tonight,” Ellie says.

“Thanks,” I say, surprised that she’s talking to me at all.

They turn the other way out the door. “See you later.”

I’m a bit jealous, I’ll admit, as they walk away together. I’d love to be partnered with somebody like Paul—nice, quiet, inoffensive. Somebody I could get along with. Maybe someone I could be friends with, even. There’s absolutely no hope for Potter and I in that department. I suppose I’ll just have to grit my teeth and bear it.

This is what I’m repeating to myself when I go to meet him in the common room at 10 that night. He’s sitting on one of the sofas reading a book of all things—the audacity!—and stands up as he hears me approach.

“Slacking already, Evans,” he says. “It’s 10:02.”

Grit my teeth and bear it.

“Potter, I’ll kick your arse,” I say, heading for the door. “Let’s go.”

He waves his wand and the book vanishes into thin air, probably materialising in his dormitory somewhere. How he mastered that charm, I have no idea, but it only makes me hate him more.

Outside, we follow the prescribed route past Ravenclaw Tower, the basement where the Hufflepuff dorms are, and the dungeons. Aside from the initial “Lumos” to light the corridor ahead of us from the tips of our wands, we don’t speak for the whole first round. It’s a relief, honestly. This way I can pretend he’s not even there, and I’m just off for a peaceful midnight walk around the castle. Not that I would ever normally do that—it’s exceedingly creepy in these hallways at night, and even if I’d rather it not be Potter I was with, I’m actually quite glad that I’m not alone. I find myself glancing over at him every few minutes to make sure he’s still there, and the feeling of safety that floods through me is shameful. 

He looks different this year, I think, as I catch him in profile. The curly brown hair, the glasses he’s worn since second year. The funny thing about growing up with people is that you don’t actually notice they’ve grown up until it strikes like lightning, and suddenly Potter looks more like a man than a boy. He’s taller, too, than I remember, and I feel like I’m walking down the corridor with a full-blown adult.

When we set off on our second leg through the academic wing, he unfortunately finds a reason to open his mouth.

“What creature did you and Riley pick for the project?” He asks, boredom in his voice.

I sigh. “Can we not make small talk?”

“Fine,” Potter says. “If you want awkward silence, have it your way. But I’ll fall asleep by the end of this round.”

He’s right, unfortunately. My eyelids are drooping. 

I surrender. “The jackalope. What about you?”

“Moke,” he says. And then after a pause he adds, “It’s a lizard.”

“I know what a moke is, Potter,” I lie. I only had a faint idea, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He doesn’t respond, and it’s up to me to continue the conversation. For some reason, I do.

“Who’s your partner again?” I ask.

“Hughes,” he answers. “Not exactly the best option.”

I frown. “Who’s better?”

“You.”

It comes out quickly, and I almost think I misheard him. Is that supposed to be... a compliment? I didn’t know he was capable. Or even that he thought anything like that about me. Anything positive.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he says gruffly. “You know you do better in school than he does.”

“And you’d really want to work on a project together all of term?”

He huffs at my disbelief. “We’re working together now, aren’t we?”

“Not well,” I point out.

He shrugs, like he doesn’t think this is necessarily going badly. He’s an idiot clearly, so a compliment from him really shouldn’t mean that much. But my head does feel a little bigger.

The next few days are just rinse and repeat. Quidditch tryouts start on Saturday, and though I am not athletically inclined, Marlene is Gryffindor’s star beater, so Mary and I haul out to the pitch anyway to watch her play.

At breakfast, Tommy sits down beside us.

“Hey.”

I nearly choke on my pumpkin juice. “Hi.”

Mary gives me an amused look before turning back to Tommy. “Hi, how are you?”

“Nervous,” he says, serving himself porridge. “I’m trying out for chaser today.”

“Oh, good luck,” I manage.

“Thanks.” He flashes me a smile.

“Did you play quidditch at Ilvermorny?” Mary asks, all her wits about her. I guess it pays to be taken.

He shakes his head. “No—I mean, we had a team, but I only played quodpot.”

For a moment I think I’m having a stroke. “Quodpot?”

“You don’t play that here?”

We give him blank looks.

“It’s like quidditch,” he explains, “except there’s only one ball, and it explodes sometimes. I guess it’s not really that much like quidditch.” He laughs. “But the position I played was closest to chaser, so...”

“Wow,” Mary says. “Well, good luck. Potter gets pretty intense about it.”

She glances down the table to where Potter’s sitting with his posse.

Tommy’s eyes are lit up. “Maybe I’ll have to give him a run for his money.”

At that, he says goodbye and leaves.

Mary looks at me with her eyebrows raised. “Looks like we’re in for an eventful day.”

“Good,” I say. “Maybe quidditch won’t bore me to death for once.”

She laughs. “Not likely, babes.”

It’s warm and sunny out on the pitch, probably one of the last days like this until April or May. At least this means my quidditch-boredom-induced nap might get me a tan. Though, with my pasty skin, a sunburn and a million new freckles are more likely. 

Mary and I squint at the grass as Potter gathers the Gryffindor hopefuls around, presumably for instruction. I spot Tommy in the crowd next to Marlene and a few younger students. Black is there as well—he’s the other beater—as well as Fran Fletcher, our usual keeper, but no other sixth years. I suppose by this age you realise whether you’re a quidditch person or not, while all the third years are still trying to figure it out.

“Hey.”

“Oh, hi.” I smile as Remus sits down next to me. “Good of you to come.”

“Pete should be coming as well,” he says, looking around. “James’d have our heads if we didn’t.”

I roll my eyes, and Remus laughs.

“Withhold your judgement.”

“I’ll try,” I lie.

He smiles diplomatically.

It’s never made sense to me how someone as kind and smart as Remus could be friends with Potter. It’s good evidence for the argument that there’s more to Potter than meets the eye, but given that it’s the only evidence, I’m not really inclined to believe such a thing. Still, I always wonder.

By the time my attention drifts back to the pitch, it’s become a blur of red and gold specks racing through the air. Marlene gives us a wave as she zooms by—cocky, but she deserves to be. Plus it’s not like anyone else is going to get her spot. Potter makes them all try out year after year, but he won’t replace the usuals.

He’s been captain since fourth year, after the last captain left a bit of a power vacuum. And he was apparently already the star player, not that I know enough to qualify that. It’s regrettably quite impressive.

“What’s Tommy trying out for?” Remus asks.

“Chaser,” I answer.

“Oh, because Holmes graduated,” he says. “That’s smart.”

A whistle is blown and all the players land as Potter motions for them to huddle up. After a few seconds, most of them walk to the side of the pitch. Tommy and a fourth year whose name I can’t remember float up to centre, while the keeper Madeline Albert takes her place in goal. 

Marlene suddenly appears at my side, sighing. “Potter’s being such an idiot,” she says. “I can’t believe he’s making Tommy and Marcus run drills again.”

“Why?” I ask. Not that Potter ever needs a reason to be an idiot.

“I don’t know!” she says exasperatedly. “It’s pretty damn clear who the better chaser is.”

It’s true—even I can tell that Tommy is far outdoing Marcus something-or-other. He makes nearly every goal, and when he doesn’t it’s only because Madeline saves it.

“He needs to get his head out of his arse,” Marlene grumbles. Then she leans around me and looks at Remus. “Sorry. Not to be rude or whatever.”

He laughs. “Don’t worry about it.”

The same conversation is being continued that night at dinner. Potter has at last let Tommy on the team, but not before frustrating the rest of the players with his antics. He sits amongst his little gang all hunky dory, but the mood around is slightly tense. Tommy seems to be the only one who doesn’t realise he’s been slighted, though I guess he’s just easygoing. He must be a better player than I thought—he gets congratulations and comments like “Glad to have you, mate” from all sides. I suppose he’s one of them now.

The first Gryffindor party is that night. It’s sort of a back-to-school tradition. Not that there aren’t other parties throughout the year, but the first is always the rowdiest. It’s also always on a Friday night, but Potter had it moved to Saturday to have his team in tip-top shape for tryouts this morning. Apparently, every single thing that goes on in this school is within his realm of control. Is nothing sacred?

Not that I care so much about this party. I go, of course. Everyone does. But it’s not really my scene. It’s just the principle of the thing.

Mary makes a beeline for the drinks when we get there, so I follow her to the table and scan the room. It’s usually the textbook definition of cosy in here—warped diamond-paned windows, mismatched velvet sofas in Gryffindor scarlet, and a red brick fireplace always crackling. But tonight it’s dim and loud, with clumps of people talking and doing something vaguely resembling dancing as a nondescript disco song plays from somewhere. None of the groups look interesting or unintimidating enough for me to walk up and join them, so I clutch the drink that Marlene put in my hand and go instead to the corner by the window where Remus is smoking.

“Hey, Lil.” He offers me his cigarette.

I shake my head. “Anything else fun to do over here?”

He nods to the nearest coffee table, where there’s a chess board sitting with a half-finished game. “Wanna play?”

I take a big sip of the drink in my hand. It’s foul.

“Sure.”

We continue the game from where it left off, and the side I choose is badly losing, so I lose badly. Not that I blame the previous player for my loss—I’ve always been terrible at chess. And wizard’s chess, where the pieces have minds of their own, isn’t much better. I don’t mind though, because I’m not competitive, and neither is Remus, so it’s fun no matter who wins. 

We’re setting up the pieces for the next game when Potter’s voice booms toward us through the noise.

“Fancy a game, Moony?”

Moony is Potter’s nickname for Remus. The four of them all have one—Potter is Prongs, I think, and then Black and Pettigrew are Padfoot and Wormtail, but I always forget which is which. I’ve unfortunately picked this up in years of knowing them, so Potter must be sloshed if he’s shouting it across the room.

“I’ve already got an opponent,” Remus says mildly, putting his pawns on the board.

“Evans.” Potter’s now standing above the table looking down at me. No doubt figuratively in addition to literally.

I sigh and start to stand up. “Go on, take my seat.”

“No,” he says, and goes and sits down next to Remus instead. His face is flushed. “Play me.”

“You?” I puff out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

Potter is competitive as all hell—his obsession with quidditch is evidence enough of that. I don’t like playing games with competitive people, especially men, especially Potter. Especially when I’m going to lose.

I’m about to leave when he says, “What, are you afraid I’ll win?”

Not afraid, certain. But I turn back around anyway. “So sure of yourself, Potter.”

He shrugs and raises his eyebrows, smug.

“Fine.” I flop back down on the sofa. “One game.”

He clears his throat. “Knight to E4.”

He slaughters me. As predicted. And alcohol content must raise the boiling point of your blood, because mine is bubbling. Potter is so uniquely talented at that particular brand of male condescension, and he pulls out all the stops. He makes me feel like such an idiot.

By the time we’re done, I’ve faded into obscurity, and our corner of the room is crowded with other people, mostly boys, clamouring to get a game in with their king. They’re all big and tall and talking loudly and no one notices when I leave.

The tears come quickly in the quiet of my room. I don’t turn the light on, just head straight for my bed and collapse into it, my cheeks burning and wet. 

I don’t know how he does it. I hate that I give him the power to. I hate that now I’m crying, and he’s probably out there being patted on the back by some fourth year that idolises him to no end. As if he needs an ego boost. He’s just spent twenty minutes stomping on mine. I feel sick with anger.

The door opens. “Lil?”

I take a sharp breath in. “Yeah.”

Marlene comes over to my bed. “Are you okay?”

I sit up. “Yeah,” I say, but it comes out as a sob, confirming that I am not okay.

She pulls me into a hug. “What? What’s wrong?”

I let out another sob. “I played chess with Potter.”

She laughs sympathetically. “Oh, that’ll do it.”

“He’s just—so fucking patronizing and rude and makes everything such a competition.” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand. “I fucking hate men.”

“That’s why I date women,” Marlene says.

“‘Date’ is a strong word,” I say with a sniffle. “Maybe ‘chase after.’”

“Ah!” She laughs. “How rude.”

I smile and let out a shaky breath.

“Want me to kick his arse?” She looks at me seriously.

“Ha.” I wipe away more tears. “No, because the greatest catch about it is that if he ever knew I was upset about this, he’d think even less of me. Like, they do everything they can to make you feel bad, and then if you feel bad, you’re the weak one.”

“I know, babes.” She hugs me again. “You’re not weak, okay? He’s a bitch.”
“Thanks,” I say into her shoulder. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” she says. “Do you wanna come back out?”

I shake my head. “I think I’m gonna go to sleep.”

“Okay.” She stands up. “Goodnight. I love you.”
“Love you.”