Harry asked me out to the Quidditch Pitch.

It wasn't even a very good proposal, because I barely walked out of the Potion's classroom when Potter shoved himself into my face and screamed 'FOLLOW ME!'.

To avoid the concerned looks of my students, I grabbed his hand with a laugh, following him out of the school and towards the giant stadium I so frequently visited.

"I don't play Quidditch, Harry," I laughed, tilting my head to look up at the towering Gryffindor pike we passed by, "if this is your way of trying to get me on a broom, I'm going to decline."

The boy laughed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "I know better than to put you on a broom."

"Good, and don't you dare bring up why."

I shouldn't have said that, because Harry obviously was going to bring up why. It wasn't as embarrassing in the moment, but now that I've been teased about it relentlessly by my friends, I shudder to remember it.

"Could it be perhaps..." he teased, tapping his chin in pretend thought, "that you were flirting with Oliver Wood, got your foot stuck to his broom, and accidentally got dragged through the mud?"

Cue the shudder.

"Thanks for bringing it back up," I scoffed, nudging him in the shoulder, "at least Wood apologized."

Harry grinned, his eyes glistening deviously, "I still haven't."

"And why would you need to?"

There was a flicker of suspicion in his gaze, and he brushed his hair off to the side to cover his scar. Whenever Harry did that, it meant he was hiding something. How did I know this? Because the bloke would steal my pumpkin pasties every single feast day when we were younger.

"I'm just saying," he smirked, shrugging his shoulders, "who do you think tied your shoelace to his broom in the first place?

...

I didn't need to let it click, before I found myself chasing the boy around the field with venomous rage.

"Harry Potter, get back here!" I yelled, my boots thudding against the grass as I sped after him, "I'm going to kill you!"

He tilted his head back to laugh as he ran, "that's what you get for flirting with Wood!"

"I can't believe you!"

"Then believe it!"

"You're such a jealous prick!"

"Then deal with it!"

I didn't know why I thought I could ever catch the prodigy Quidditch player, but I kept running after him until I collapsed onto the ground in exhaustion.

Staring up at the clear, blue sky, I watched as Harry skidded to a stop next to me, tilting his head to stare at where I lay. He looked silly from this angle, but still cute.

I held out my arm.

"Sit," I said, smiling, "I promise I won't kill you."

I was going to kill him.

Harry puckered his lips teasingly, clasping his hand in mine and giving it a firm shake. I grinned back at his silhouette figure, the sun shining down onto him like a spotlight, squeezing his palm in what he thought was infatuation.

I lied.

It was revenge.

Pulling my arm down harshly, Harry went toppling onto his back, his robes tangled up in his arms as he clunked against the ground. That's what he got for embarrassing the hell out of me back in first year.

"How does it feel?" I jeered, a smirk on my face, "to be dragged onto the ground?"

Harry chuckled softly, "it hurts."

"Oh, does it? Who would've thought?"

"Fine, fine, fine, I'm sorry for tying your shoelace to Wood's broomstick."

"And?"

He cocked a brow, "and?"

Propping himself onto his elbows, he turned to look at me with an inquisitive stare. It was quiet in the field, the only sounds being our simmering conversation and flags blowing through the wind.

I batted my eyelashes, before pushing him off of his elbows. He fell onto his back again.

"For being a jealous prick, that's why," I pressed, rolling onto my side to hover over him slightly, "do you feel threatened by other boys, Potter?"

He rolled his eyes, "absolutely not."

"Then why couldn't you stand it when I flirted with Oliver?"

The boy opened his mouth harshly, as if to whip up some reliable excuse, but nothing came out of his mouth. He was caught off guard, off balance, and apparently found my hair a more interesting subject.

Extending his hand to push loose strands of my hair behind my ear, he changed the conversation completely.

"Are you wearing perfume?" He asked, sitting up to match my level, "you smell quite pleasant."

I nodded my head, "I am."

"Do you normally wear it?"

I shook my head, "I don't."

The only reason why I was wearing it was because Hermione and Ron had cooked up their half-baked plan of getting Harry to kiss me (and the perfume was awful, by the way, so it made no sense how everyone seemed to like it).

I didn't think it had any truth to it, but the look Harry was giving me in the moment was something out of the ordinary. It was subtle, but I saw him shift his position to inch nearer to me; Hermione was right, again.

The boy's gaze flickered down to my lips, then back up to my eyes, a smile growing on his face.

Was this where things changed? I didn't wake up this morning expecting to kiss my best friend, and I still wasn't sure if this is what I wanted, but it was all happening so fast and so quickly that I couldn't think clearly.

Maybe I shouldn't think at all, and just go for it—

"Am I interrupting something, Potter?"

Before I had a chance to close the gap between me and Harry, the sound of a sickly familiar voice echoed from a few paces behind us. Sickly familiar. Turning my head, I saw Draco standing on the top of the hill, surrounded by a gaggling group of his goons.

Harry clenched his jaw.

"Yes, actually," he spat out, standing up to face the blond, "what are you doing here, Malfoy?"

Draco was wearing a green leather jacket, the Slytherin Quidditch crest embossed on the left, and a Nimbus 2001 clasped in his right hand. Contrary to his usual pampered look, his platinum hair was pushed off to the side messily; he seemed stressed.

"Practicing for the first game," Draco stated, rolling his eyes, "unlike you two."

I frowned, rolling my eyes, "I don't even play Quidditch, you tw..."

I trailed off, unable to finish my sentence. Draco cocked a brow at the insult I was about to throw his way, pursing his lips devilishly. I remembered the last time I dared to call him something of the sort, and a repeat of that was the last thing I wanted to happen.

Harry didn't notice my taken-aback expression.

"Quidditch practice doesn't start till next week," he scowled.

"Then why are you in the field?" Draco shot back, sneering, "let me guess, your idea of a date was sitting in the mud?"

"Shove off, Malfoy."

"Make me."

Ugh, men. Always confronting each other and making a huge deal out of nothing when the problem can be easily solved. Since the Slytherins were clearly here to practice, I had no problem leaving the field.

It would be better to steer clear of Draco, anyways.

"Let's just go," I said, grabbing Harry's hand, "best be gone before he tells his Father that we were sitting in the ground"

I made sure to mumble the last part under my breath, an image from the Room of Requirement scaring me out of my wits. Petty rich boys didn't bother me on the usual, but not all petty rich boys were enemies of Harry.

And an enemy of Harry's was an enemy of mine.

_