House Unity: Questions

where_is_truth

Rating: PG13
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Ron & Luna
Book: Ron & Luna, Books 1 - 5
Published: 01/08/2004
Last Updated: 05/11/2004
Status: completed

Sequel to "House Unity: Lessons." Ron and Luna have never exactly bonded, but how will they get on as Muggles in an entirely different world? AU-ish with some Hogwarts settings.

Chapters

1. Enter the Alter-Egos

2. Facing the Facts

3. Something to Prove

4. Chaos Starts

5. Post-Game Jitters

6. Confusion and Courage

7. Sketches and Skeptics

8. Revocation and Interrogation

9. Objective Interviewer

10. A Proper Goodbye

11. When Things Grow Thin

12. Regaining the Past

13. Cowardice and Timing

14. In Which Dinner Isnt Black Tie

15. Winning and Losing

16. Papers and Planning

17. The Time for Questions is Past

1. Enter the Alter-Egos

**Author’s Note: This is the first chapter of “House Unity: Questions.” If you have not read its predecessor, “House Unity: Lessons,” I suggest it. It’s a D/G story, and if you’ve already decided you don’t want to read it, then you should still be able to follow what is happening here. If not… email me at hiptoship@yahoo.com and I will give you the entire rundown needed to happily peruse this story, which is the middle story of a trilogy that begins and ends with Draco and Ginny. Now… off you go! Read!**

CHAPTER ONE- Enter the Alter-Egos

He looked over the Great Hall, his eyes keen despite his age, and watched as a spirited young witch hexed a spiteful young man, making his ears grow to twice their normal size and twice their usual pointiness. Across the Hall, a kind-hearted but often short-sighted young man rolled his eyes for the hundredth time at the gentlest soul the school had to offer.

He had watched for many years, and after many years, Albus Dumbledore had finally seen enough.

“If you will, Severus, gather the heads of houses together,” he murmured to the dark, slim man at his side. As the Potions Master obeyed, departing with a single arch look, Dumbledore templed his fingers beneath his chin and nodded sagely.

With the attack at the Ministry and the arrests of Death Eaters, it seemed things had gotten more and more explosive at the school. If the students could not be persuaded to come together, then he would nudge them along.

When the four heads of houses were gathered in his office, Dumbledore spoke sparingly, with few words and even fewer allowances for interruption. Waving off concerns voiced from each professor, Dumbledore summed his plan up concisely.

“I will need great support, for sustaining these sorts of endeavors is draining at best. But these children—these students—are our only hope of overcoming the constant threat surrounding us.” He shot a trademark glance over the rims of his glasses and sized up those employees he trusted above all others. “If they are to be unified, they must be removed from Hogwarts and removed from the circumstances which keep them at odds.”

A plan so large had never been devised, and as they left Dumbledore’s ornate chambers, each professor wondered and worried about his or her students and the possibility they would be sent on Dumbledore’s lunatic mission of house unity.

Of them all, Severus Snape had the hardest time imagining any of his students faring well in the situation laid before them.

Exported to an entire other reality—a Muggle reality—magicless, with new names and no memory of their lives as witches and wizards. Students taken away from all they’d known, their hearts and brains the only things left of their previous existence.

Banished, in Snape’s way of thinking, to a Muggle world until they could learn to get along.

It was entirely possible, more than one of the heads of house thought, that Albus Dumbledore had started to go a bit soft in the head.

But in his chambers, a very sane and very sound headmaster chuckled softly at the plans he’d laid.

~~~

Every bloody inch of his body ached.

It was really his own fault, and he knew it, but it didn’t change the fact that he felt like rolling over in his barely ample bed and dying.

What on earth had he done to get so absolutely wrecked?

He wracked his brains, groaning when he came up with the answer: he’d fallen off his broom twice during the match yesterday, and then had done laps and extra practices, self-imposed penance for humiliating himself yet again.

Ron Wesley opened his eyes, his red brows already furrowed.

Brooms?

He couldn’t even dream about football properly. It was no wonder his team was doing so badly. He tried to be manly, tried to hold in the noises he made when getting out of his bed, and in the end, he decided extra practices were in order for the whole team again tonight.

They’d need them.

~~~

Luna moaned quietly in her sleep, shifting a little as her pen slid from her fingers and blotted on the assignment in front of her. She really didn’t want to wake up with parchment marks on her face again, but drat it all, it was just so comfortable in the common lounge, with the fire blazing and her inches already written. Granted, they wouldn’t be any good if she’d gone and dribbled all over them in her sleep.

Lucia Lovejoy sat up, peering blearily at the article she’d written for the student newspaper. She saw there were no drool marks, no puddles, and nothing she wanted to change, and so she shifted the paper aside, not even aware it had changed, and laid her head back down to sleep on the massive oak desk in her bedroom.

She could always sleep in her bed any old night. Tonight, she’d sleep sitting up at her desk and get a new perspective on things.

~~~

“Rob!”

The voice bounced up the stairs, off the walls of his bedroom, and into his already overtaxed ears. “For the love of all’s good and holy, Gen, shut your bloody gob,” he muttered, but he was talking into the pillow and hadn’t the energy to change things.

“Honestly, Rob, if you don’t get your arse moving, I’m leaving without you and you’ll have to make it to school by your bloody self!”

Rob Wesley wasn’t entirely sure how or why he’d laid back down in his bed after eating, dressing, and brushing his teeth; it had just seemed the logical thing to do. After all, it took Genevieve ages upon ages in the loo, and so he had to get up fairly early just to beat her into the shower.

Besides, if he didn’t, he’d be stuck with cold water, and as sore as his muscles were, he bloody well deserved the one hot shower of the day.

He winced as he heard her string of curses and wondered how on earth their mother had raised such a hell-cat. He took only the slightest glance in the mirror as he passed it, passing a wide-palmed hand through his unruly red hair as he snagged his football boots and jersey from where he’d left them on the floor.

“Don’t have a kitten, Gen, I’m right bloody here,” he retorted, knowing full well she’d been waiting on him. Because her hands were planted on her hips, her eyes already searing, he stomped down the stairs with the aplomb of a rowdy five-year-old and kissed her cheek. “Can’t be all that bad, eh?” With a lopsided grin, he snagged a single book off the table by the door and pushed past her, knowing she wouldn’t have a single word of response for him.

Some routines were just too comfortable to change.

~~~

Today was a good day, she judged, staring at herself intently in the spotted mirror hanging in the bathroom. It really did need to be resilvered, it was just a matter of remembering that… and then making her father remember, as well.

Though other people wondered, Lucia Lovejoy never once wondered how she and her father had managed to make it on their own without starving to death or wandering away.

She tugged on the ends of her hair, wishing in vain (and vainly) for a little curl, just a little shape to the long, thick blond tresses. But no, they were as straight as a poker, and a dull color, to boot.

For a fleeting moment, Lucia wished she could have Genevieve’s hair, wavy and gorgeous and red.

Like her brother’s.

Lucia scowled at her reflection, screwing up her nose and sticking out her tongue. There was really no reason to be melodramatic, she judged. She had a perfectly good life, and was really quite happy.

She’d just be a bit happier if she could get noticed.

She pulled her hair back into a haphazard bun, tresses of it framing her face in a way she would never be able to find fetching; as she passed the hall table, she plucked a black ink pen off it and stuck it into the bun, making a mental note of its location. Really, she was always needing a pen and never able to find one.

By the time she’d gathered her books, scooped a spoonful of peanut butter from the jar, and made it out the door, Lucia had two pens and one pencil in her bun, and another pen tucked behind her ear.

She never once noticed the odd looks she got while walking down the halls of Holforth.

~~~

“You were assigned, I’m sure you remember, to bring one story idea to the table for discussion.” The advisor for the school newspaper paced around the table, his eyes lighting on each student in turn. “Enlighten us, Mr. Collins, on your idea.”

Connor fought the urge to squirm in his seat; he was horrid at this, absolutely horrid. He just wanted to take pictures, but as a “learning experience,” they were all forced to write for the Holforth Herald. “I’d thought a bit about a photo story,” he said, feeling miserable at the transparency of his suggestion. “You know, photograph people around Holforth, achieve as much honest and diversity as possible.”

He cringed, waiting for the rebuke, but his classmates murmured their approval and Lucia patted his hand encouragingly.

“Miss Lovejoy, please do not hesitate to avail us of your latest scandal or outrageous tale,” the advisor said, but his tone was amused rather than censorious. She never failed to liven up these often-dreary meetings a bit, and if there was one thing she did have, it was the spirit of a Briton journalist.

No story too ridiculous.

Lucia ruthlessly tamped down the nerves in her stomach; this idea was going to be a bit unlike all her other ideas, a bit more… commonplace. “Headmaster Dunmore actually gave me an assignment,” she said, handing the advisor a handwritten note. “You know, since football season is just starting, he suggested I do a profile of the team captain.” She glanced around at her classmates, wondering what they’d say. She didn’t really know what to think herself—the headmaster had approached her in the hallway that morning, a broad smile on his face, a note held in his hand.

“Miss Lovejoy, my dear, you are just the enterprising young writer I wished to see. I’ve an assignment for you, and as I’m an enormous and unflagging fan of football, I feel I should be indulged, don’t you?” And then he’d patted her on the arm and wandered away in a manner that would have seemed daffy to anyone but Lucia Lovejoy.

She hadn’t known whether to be ecstatic or dismayed. Spending time with Robert Wesley was definitely something she thought she’d enjoy.

She just didn’t know that he would.

“Rob Wesley?” a young woman across the table snickered, bringing Lucia back to the present. “I was under the impression he didn’t have much of a personality to profile.”

“Of course he does,” Lucia said hotly, narrowing her eyes at the girl and bringing forth a surprised gape from Connor. “What an imbecilic thing to say.”

“Lovey, you may take that assignment,” the advisor said loudly, wishing to avoid a catfight at all costs.

Bloody adolescent girls, they were a handful.

And Lucia lapsed back into her own little world, thinking of a football player with messy hair and absolutely no eye for her.

2. Facing the Facts

CHAPTER TWO- Facing the Facts

It was disconcerting.

He’d not noticed at first, making his way up and down the field, sometimes stopping in the middle of the exercises to shout a suggestion here or there or to powwow with the coach. Rob didn’t consider himself a particularly thick-brained fellow, but he’d certainly not seen her sitting there on the top tier of seats until one of his teammates nudged him with a sharp elbow during a break, a leer plastered across his muddy face.

“Hey, Wesley, looks like you’ve got yourself an admirer up there. She’s got a notebook and everything.”

Rob looked up at the bleachers in mid-swig, his eyes closing in a pained wince. She’d been over to the house, of course, with Genevieve; it had only taken him a few awkward encounters, however, to know Lucia Lovejoy wasn’t the sanest of chits, and he’d studiously steered clear ever since.

She sat at the top tier, her skirt pulled demurely over her knees, her long, fine hair tossed into disarray by a breeze she didn’t seem to notice

And oddest of all, when Rob met eyes with her, she didn’t look away, wasn’t a bit ashamed.

Rob jerked when he felt cold water trickle down his chest, and he jerked his water bottle away from his mouth and his sharp blue eyes away from the blonde in the stands. “She’s a bloody loon, that one,” he noted, feeling an uncomfortable itch between his shoulderblades when he turned his back to her. “All right!” he shouted, wanting desperately to be doing anything to occupy his mind. “Lap around the field, then back to the match where we left off!”

From her spot in the stands, Lucia sketched a lean figure in mid-stride and below it wrote “single-minded.”

She’d recorded her first observation about Rob Wesley’s personality.

She just had to get up the nerve to ask for an interview.

~~~

“You need to keep your friends under control.” It had been nagging him for hours—which was how long the practice had lasted, from the afternoon until sunset, and Lovejoy had been there the entire time, sitting in the same position, scratching on her notepad. It was just… plain… dotty. He addressed Gen that evening around a mouthful of food, gesturing at her with a fork, flinging crumbs as he did so.

She didn’t rise to the bait as he’d expected her to, though; she didn’t even yell at him for tossing crumbs in her plate. No, Gen looked a bit perturbed.

“’Oi,” he said, tapping his fingers on the table in front of her and earning a scowl from his mother. “Did you hear me? Lovejoy staked out football practice this evening. She was there the whole time. Go shopping or something.”

“I have other things to do than fend off your female admirers,” Gen said, balling up her napkin and tossing it at his head, laughing as he missed catching it by a good half meter. “Such the athlete you are, love.” Her mind had been a million miles away, ruminating on things best left alone. Tutoring Drake Mallory shouldn’t infiltrate into her family time, she judged, looking fondly at her brother as he nearly tipped his chair over trying to pick up the napkin.

It’d be a shame to miss these times together, and Gen honestly doubted she’d find as good a jester anywhere else.

~~~

“I’ve a question.” Lucia looked at her father intently, watching as he shuffled through the incomprehensibly large pile of papers on his desk. She knew he wouldn’t hear her the first time; he never did. She was just trying to figure out exactly how many times she’d have to repeat herself before he came back down to earth and acknowledged her.

“Whenever you have a moment, Father, I have a question,” she repeated patiently, resisting the urge to step forward and brush his hair off his forehead, take the ever-present smoldering cigar from between his fingers, and push his glasses up just a little on his nose. It seemed as though he’d been harder and harder to reach ever since her mother died, but he’d been a perfect father, in Lucia’s opinion. He just needed someone to take care of him.

Because she knew it would be another two minutes, at the very least, she sat down on the corner of his desk and read the papers he held, her eyes easily adjusting to the upside-down type. It seemed she’d read more often than not that way, a curious little girl always wanting to know what her father was so interested in now.

Luckily for her—and him, as well—she had also found the world of journalism and reporting interesting, and so the widower and the motherless girl had made quite a bond over words.

Exactly three minutes and fourteen seconds had gone by when Alfred Lovejoy looked up, cleared his throat, and jabbed a finger at the nosepiece of his glasses, missing altogether and making the gesture ineffectual. “Hello, love,” he said, his brow furrowing a bit. Had she asked him a question already, or was she about to?

“I’ve an assignment for a personality profile,” Lucia said, suddenly feeling foolish about even asking her father this. It seemed ridiculous, really, to ask your father how to speak with men. She should have learned it years ago, really.

But of course she hadn’t.

“Good for you!” he said, patting her hand absently. She could see he was preparing to plow ahead in the article he was editing, his red pen poised, so she jumped back in immediately before he could forget she was there entirely.

“I have to interview a boy,” she said, and at the raise of his bushy eyebrow, she corrected herself immediately. “A young man. A football player. Do you have any advice for me?”

There, that sounded normal… or as normal as any of their father-daughter conversations were.

He pulled himself to his full sitting height—still short—and pointed his red pen at her. “Don’t… fall in love with the boy,” he said with finality. “Reporters don’t fall in love with sources.”

Lucia jerked, toppled off the edge of his desk, then made a big show of straightening his paperweight. “Beg pardon, Da?”

He brows drew together and he sat back, slightly deflated. “Or perhaps it was that a doctor should never fall in love with a patient. Or a barrister with a client.” He shook his head as though clearing it and smiled at her, a beautiful, loving, and completely present smile. “It’s no matter. Was I any help at all?”

Too much help, she thought, but she stood and kissed him in the middle of his forehead. “Of course you were. Supper’s at six.”

~~~

It just took a little courage, she judged, and though she didn’t really even have a little, she could certainly feign it. She’d been waiting all morning for him to call a halt to his solo conditioning, and now that he was done, there were only a few minutes left before morning bell.

Lucia knew she had to make the most of her time; she was a real reporter, blast it all.

Real reporters, she was sure, didn’t pay so much attention to the way a football jersey clung to a player’s chest.

Blast it all.

“Robert!” she called, jogging to fall into step beside him. “Do you have a moment?”

“Clearly you do,” Rob said, resisting the urge to openly roll his eyes. She’d watched his entire morning of laps and exercises. He’d fallen twice, and he didn’t really see anyone to blame but her. After all, he never fell when running laps any other morning. She’d just gotten his ire up, that was all. It was just irksome. It wasn’t as though it was any big deal.

But now she was looking up at him with those wide, pale blue eyes, making him feel as though he’d already done something wrong, and it bloody well irritated him.

“What is it, Lovejoy?” he finally asked. “Have out with it, I’d like a quick shower before classes.”

It was her reporter’s mind, her visual, detailed mind that quite cheerily volunteered a mental picture of him slicked with water and soap, his red hair made auburn by the water, the freckles on his shoulders—

“Oh!” she exclaimed, jumping a little and garnering a suspicious look from the older boy. Oh, God, she moaned internally. He thinks I’m completely mad. “Well, it’s just… it’s that the headmaster, Dumbledore—I mean… Dunmore!” She was going to absolutely bite her own tongue out once this encounter was over. “He wanted me to do something with you. For you! About you.”

Rob goggled at her, his own expression comical as she quickly shifted prepositions. What on earth was wrong with her? “Have you taken something, Lovejoy? Perhaps something illegal? Do you do marijuana?”

“I’m just writing an article,” she said crossly, suddenly and uncharacteristically embarrassed. “There’s no need to be a prat.”

Rob felt his own face turning red under the freckles. “Why don’t you write that down on your little notepad, then. ‘Rob Wesley is a big prat.’” When she didn’t say anything, he heaved a sigh. His mother would absolutely blister his arse if she knew he’d been so rude. “Look, it’s flattering or whatever that you want to do an article on me for the newspaper, but… I need to take a shower.”

Somehow, that sounded extremely lame coming out of his mouth.

But she seemed to take it for an excuse, her lips pressed together into a thin line, and she nodded once and turned on her heel to walk away, her hair bannering behind her.

Of course she was angry.

He’d gotten her thinking about that buggering shower again.

~~~
She managed just fine for the first half of her day, letting herself daydream her way through her classes, taking notes on what she already knew about Rob Wesley. If he didn’t want to cooperate, she’d write an article around him. It was what a good reporter did.

But then there was the whole matter of what Lucia had mentally termed “the problem.”

No one else knew about the problem, no matter how many times Lucia had been tempted to confide in someone. Her only choice for confidant was Genevieve, and she was hardly an intelligent choice. After all, what was Lucia supposed to say? That she was infatuated with Genevieve’s brother? Gawky, wide-eyed, Lunatic Lovey had a bit of a fascination?

It even seemed ludicrous to her own ears, to her own mind.

But she was thinking of him as she walked into the commissary with the pineapple she’d snagged from the fruit bowl at home, wondering if he’d be in there, eating with just a few mates, never with scads of people around him as the other athletes did. She saw a flash of red hair and for a moment, she started to smile…

And saw it was Genevieve, sitting with Connor and arguing none-too-quietly over Drake Mallory.

It was an easy enough topic, a good topic, really, to set her mind apart from Robert. If anyone in the school were his complete opposite, it was Drake.

“You know,” she said of Drake, speaking quietly so as not to jar either of them, nor to give away any of the jitters she’d felt at the possibility of encountering Robert. “He’d be quite handsome if it weren’t for that scowl and those clothes and the attitude…” she thought about what she was saying, realizing she knew more about the infamous Drake Mallory than she did Rob. It irritated her, and for a moment she forgot what she’d been saying. At Gen’s look, she shrugged a bit. “Hm. I suppose I’ve nearly named everything, haven’t I?”

“Lovey!” Connor elbowed her, and she looked at him assessingly. He wasn’t difficult to talk to at all, so what gave with the football star? After a moment’s observation, she turned back to Gen.

“Hello, Genevieve,” she said. Now girls were another story—a bit dotty from time to time, but on the whole much easier to approach than boys.

“Lovey, don’t tell me you’re here to get a scoop for the school rag, too?”

Lucia nearly jumped at the question, intuited she’d read far too much into it, and smiled casually. “Of course not. I’m reporting on Robert.” There. It sounded natural, as though she hadn’t a giant, idiotic yen for the boy.

“My brother?” Gen asked, raising an eyebrow at Lucia. “You’ll never get anything useful from him. An interview with him would make nearly as much sense as two rocks banging together.”

“Less, I warrant,” Connor laughed.

She shouldn’t have been irked; after all, she barely knew Rob, and what she did know had given her no reason to think favorably of him.

But she really didn’t think she could listen to them insult him anymore.

“My father says Drake Mallory’s father is a thief,” Lucia stated matter-of-factly. “I wonder if that car is stolen.” She wanted to slap her hands over her mouth for the perversely purposeful non sequitur, but she didn’t move. If she said it, she’d stick behind it.

Gen rolled her eyes and tossed the remainder of her sandwich on Connor’s plate, effectively signaling the conversation was at an end, much to Lucia’s relief. “I’ve things to do before class.”

“Hm,” Lucia said, both worried and guilty about her friend’s sudden departure and feeling even guiltier because she’d been too self-absorbed to notice what was really going on. “I believe Genevieve seems a bit stressed,” she said lamely, and hoped Connor could tell her why.

But even as he made some little remark in response, her mind had wandered, and when Rob walked in a few moments later, she knew stress never lay its burden entirely on one person.

3. Something to Prove

CHAPTER THREE- Something to Prove

He hadn’t been looking for trouble, really. It just seemed to be attracted to him, for some bizarre reason. No, Rob Wesley rather enjoyed sliding just under the radar, as it were, and had done so quite successfully until he’d been somewhat shockingly nominated captain of the football team at the start of term.

It was a bit insane, really, and brought more insanity with it. After all, he reasoned, if it weren’t for the bloody captainhood, he’d not have Lucia dogging his every step. But whether that was fact or not, Rob found himself scanning the hallways for her in the precious few minutes he had before practice, wanting to apologize for his behavior that morning. She’d merely caught him off guard was all, and it wasn’t as though an apology really was that big a deal. Good manners, was all. Good rearing.

He heard the blow before he saw the source, the loud, resounding smack that cracked through the hallway, and his eyes shot to the source of the noise; as soon as he had it located, the blood rushed to his face.

Drake buggering Mallory had his hand near Genevieve, by the looks of things, had nearly stricken her.

In this sort of situation, Rob found no reason to stick to his manners or his rearing, or the rules, for that matter.

The sleaze wasn’t worth ten of Gen, and what was more, would never in a million years have any good reason to talk to her, in Rob’s opinion. He’d had classes with the git, watched him parade around the school like God’s gift to academia, and had never once flown under Drake’s radar. No, the peaky, blond little bastard always seemed to have something snide and superior to say to the athlete.

Well, he wouldn’t have anything to say to Genevieve at all, if Rob had any say in it.

“I’d just love to know what in the hell you’re doing talking to my sister, you slimy git.” Rob crossed his arms over his chest and looked directly into Drake’s eyes, the bright, shocking blue meeting cold, indifferent gray. There was something in those eyes, a certain attitude, that nearly had Rob backing down.

But that would be quitting, and Wesleys didn’t quit.

“Stop, Rob,” Gen said, which didn’t particularly shock Rob, independent as she was. “It’s fine.”

Fine my arse, he thought, noting the rise of color in her cheeks. “I hardly think it’s fine, Gen. Why’s he bothering you?” The million dollar question, he reckoned. This didn’t look like a random harassment at all. No, it looked very… purposeful.

“Oh-ho, that’s rich,” Drake snickering in that maddening way of his. “Not only am I harassing beloved baby sister, but I’m also going to get my arse kicked by an addle-brained athlete who can’t even fasten his shoes. Surely, Wesley, they can find some boots that don’t require any motor skills to put on.”

Rob bared his teeth, ready to rip Drake’s throat out just to stop that flapping mouth.

“Stop!” Gen commanded with all the aplomb their mother would have wielded. “Listen, Rob, I’ve been assigned to tutor him. I got in a spot of trouble last week, let my temper get away with me. It’s only a temporary punishment, Rob.”

He didn’t particularly want to listen to reason just this moment; what he wanted was to take one of those unlaced boots and mash their pattern right into Mallory’s face. It would serve the pretty boy right, Rob thought, to walk around with a neatly matched set of holes in that sneering, smartass, snide, rude—

Gen laid her hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly. “You don’t want to lose your temper, too. You’ll be removed from the team.”

She was right. He bloody well hated when she was right, and he bloody well hated how his day was ending up. If he’d only been able to start with a normal, leisurely practice… “I don’t like this,” he stated, but found he had no other words to say to her. She had fire in her eyes, and Rob suspected that if she’d wanted to, she could have Mallory shredded to ribbons in a matter of seconds without any help from him.

But there was just that feeling of protectiveness he couldn’t shake, so he stuck one long, blunt-tipped finger in the other young man’s face and glowered. “You don’t want to be crossing her or me, Mallory. She’d chew you up before you’d even have time to squeal for Daddy, and I’d do it twice as fast,” he concluded.

His mouth was still clamped in a thin, tight line as he stalked onto the practice field, and he was not in the least surprised to see his newly appointed second shadow sitting in the stands once more. She hadn’t bothered pulling her skirt down over her knees this time, and the wind was stiff again, blowing hair and skirt and notebook pages, and for just a moment, Rob got a glimpse of one long, golden thigh.

“Wesley!” the coach bellowed. “Onto the field, you’re already late. Be an example, Wesley. An example!”

No, this day was absolutely not turning out satisfactorily.

He let his mind drift from her as his attention narrowed to the patterned ball, the span of green grass, the white nets at either end of the field. He built a rhythm step by step and with every strike of his foot on the ball, a melody made up of step, slap, and heartbeat punctuated by the counterpoint of his and his teammates’ breathing.

He took his aggression out in the game, as he always had and likely always would. The peaceful Rob Wesley turned into something else entirely on the field, something he’d never really be able to see, his awkward first tries at the sport still branded in his mind like a constant assurance of uncertainty. He’d come quite a long way from the fumbling player he’d once been, but no matter how smoothly he made things run, no matter how accurately he would always be able to pinpoint the proper play, to his own way of thinking, Rob would always need to prove something.

His adrenaline was high when they finished practice, his hair wet and curling with perspiration and the water he’d taken time to dump over the locks during breaks. Sweat stung his eyes and he squinted, trying to see through salty tears if she still sat in the stands.

What had she written? She was infamous for her scandal-stories, infamous for her wild speculations and farfetched rumor-mongering. He had no doubt she never meant ill, but he worried about what was scratched on that notebook.

And in his uncertain mind, she was writing in a fine, feminine hand that he did, indeed, have something to prove, that his skills were lacking and he was a poor leader. Rob Wesley was a big joke, and perhaps she’d already added onto that the observation of his prattiness.

It was the game still coursing through him that had him climbing the stands to her, taking long, loping strides up the seats rather than walking up the stairs, and when he stood over her, he ignored the fact that he was dripping sweat and water at her feet. “I’m not going to give you an interview,” he said between breaths. “I don’t know what the hell you’re writing, Lovejoy, and frankly, I don’t care. Write about someone else.”

She’d been frozen to the spot the minute, nay, the very second he’d started climbing toward her, his boots leaving muddy prints in a track all the way up to her, her breath caught in her throat. It was like, she thought, being spotted and stalked by some sort of predator.

It was a bit exciting, and then he’d opened his mouth.

At his words, her eyes widened and her breath shot back into her lungs in a hurt gasp.

Don’t fall in love with a source, eh? Fat chance of that here.

She was ready to throw a retort at him, to shove him down the seats with both hands, to watch him topple right onto his arse, and then Lucia took a good, long look at his eyes.

He was afraid.

It shouldn’t have made a difference to her; after all, he’d been as rude as rude could be, but for some reason, it softened her, nearly charmed her. Something in him was scared of something in her, and judging by the glances he was sending her notebook, it didn’t take a genius to figure it out. He was afraid of what she might write.

She wanted to say something, wanted to reassure him, so she stood and looked up at him, her chin tilted back, her pale hair falling down her back, the tips of it touching the pleats of her skirt. Before she could say anything, however, he had backed off, his eyes now shifting and wary, as though he knew he’d said something wrong.

“I’ll not write about someone else,” she said softly, the hurt now coming from his retreat, from his withdrawal. She’d made a mistake agreeing to this one, a juvenile mistake to go hand-in-hand with a childish crush. “I’ll write about you, and I’ll do it without asking you questions if I have to.”

She stepped around him, walking down the seats as he had, her steps light and careful, and when she was a few tiers below him, Lucia turned to look back at him, at his drooping shoulders, his odd, somehow heartbreaking stance. “But don’t count on me having to,” she said, so unwilling, so unable to let him be. She recognized that shifting, uncertain, insecure stance. She’d seen it enough from her own father, a man more comfortable surrounded by papers than people, a man who hadn’t been sure of a thing ever since his wife’s death.

Robert Wesley needed something, needed someone.

He just didn’t know it yet.

4. Chaos Starts

CHAPTER FOUR- Chaos Starts

“You’re not eating much, love.” Gen reached across the table and lightly tapped the back of his hands with her fingertips. She’d been mortally afraid he’d mention Drake to her parents, which would have started an interrogation, which would have started a string of tiny white lies she didn’t wish to get tangled in. It wasn’t as though she could tell her parents she’d gotten in trouble, after all. But he’d spent the meal preoccupied, his face a shade paler than usual, and he’d not said a word of his encounter that day.

She’d waited until her parents had gotten up from the table, her mother engaged in writing a letter to one of their older brothers, her father elbow-deep in nuts, bolts, and screws in one of his latest gadget-improvement projects, and then she’d spoken quietly, trying to get his attention without getting theirs.

He didn’t feel like eating, for once. He’d walked home from practice with a heavy, uneasy feeling plaguing him, a cross between guilt and doubt. After Lovejoy had left him standing alone at the fields, he’d sort of… come to, embarrassed at what he’d said to her and worried about that ever-scribbling pen of hers.

And mixed in there, maddeningly and frighteningly and inexplicably, was that length of leg he’d seen, the unintentional revelation, like an overheard secret. And had she been wearing white under that skirt?

If he concentrated hard enough on that split-second memory, Rob thought she had been.

“Hm?” he asked, looking up at his sister and blinking owlishly. He just needed rest, was all. A well-rested young man didn’t think about Lucia Lovejoy’s knickers. She was insane, after all, and you didn’t think about insane people in that manner, it was… insane. “Oh. Fine, thanks.”

Genevieve’s immediate reaction was to giggle at his inappropriate answer, but the light laugh morphed into a frown. It was unlike him to act this way.

“I said you weren’t eating much,” she repeated. Was the whole world going mad, then? First she’d gotten in trouble, then she’d been paired up with Mallory, and she’d even gotten in his car.

Perhaps both she and Rob were going mad.

“And I said I’m fine!” Rob said loudly, embarrassed at his thoughts and the fact that he’d nearly been caught with them, standing up from the table and setting his plate on the counter with a hard snap of ceramic. “Anything else, Mother Hen?”

Gen got up from the table and stood near him, her eyes cast up to his. “You’d do well to remember that particular label next time you try to play queen’s guard with Drake Mallory in the hallway, brother.” With a raised eyebrow and a smirk Rob would have sworn he’d seen somewhere else, she turned on her heel and walked up the steps to her room.

It was a full two minutes before Rob realized it was supposed to be her night to do the dishes.

A bad day, indeed.

~~~

Determination bloomed in Lucia, giving her the courage she hadn’t been able to muster on her own. Doing something for herself was hard, but doing something for someone else was much, much easier.

She armed herself with memories, the thoughts of her father directly after her mother’s passing, the memory of a gangly young girl tailing her father around the house and pestering him endlessly, trying to get him to respond in someway. It had worked, and worked well enough. Alfred Lovejoy may not have blossomed into a social butterfly, but he was at least responsive now.

Well, discounting the tendency to daydream that seemed to be heredity, he was responsive.

At the moment, she’d been waiting five minutes for her father to answer her. Finally, when he’d finished scouring a years-old layout with a magnifying glass, he looked up at her.

“Ah… did you ask me what to do with a particularly reluctant source, darling?” That seemed to be what she’d asked, but it was ever so hard to remember, and God love her, she was so endlessly patient.

Just like her mother.

She nodded, pen at the ready to take notes. She needed to be fully armed, she thought, to deal with the oddly vulnerably athlete she’d been assigned to write about and whom her heart and mind had somehow attached to.

“A particularly reluctant source, my dear, is usually a source with the best story to tell,” Alfred said, standing and circling around his desk. “I always find it best to encounter such a source with caution, give them a few days to ruminate on the story they really and truly want to tell, and then attack again with fervor!” He pounded his fist on his desk to make his point, sending a smattering of papers flurrying.

He watched as she nodded her head, obviously thinking about her own plan of attack, and he reached out a large, wide-fingered hand and tucked her hair behind her ear. “My little writer,” he said fondly. “Is this the footballer you referred to?”

“Yes, Father.” And so much more, she thought.

“Well, bring him to supper one evening,” he said, easing his hip off the corner of his desk and retreating once more behind it. “Let your old man get the story out of him, eh?”

She couldn’t stop the wide grin that spread over her face at the thought of Rob Wesley sitting down to a nice supper with her. She ducked her head to hide her blush and was gone from her father’s study even as he re-engrossed himself in his work.

~~~

She gave it just a few days’ rest, doing independent research, looking over the old Heralds, scouring through all the sports coverage, making a note each time his name was mentioned.

She was in her third year of back issues, starting out with a fall issue, loving the feel of the slightly stiffened paper beneath her fingers, careful not to smear the black newsprint as she pressed gentle fingers to the creases, when she stopped and frowned.

Rookie player Robert Wesley made his first appearance on Holforth’s hallowed greens last night, kicking and blundering his way to what was possibly the poorest showing Holforth has ever seen. This reporter hesitates to call it football at all, instead choosing to call it folly.

She looked through the next several issues and read jab after jab, all from a nameless sports reporter, and Lucia found didn’t want to read any further. She folded the paper back up, reflexively wiping her fingers on her skirt as though to rid them of something dirty. She propped her chin on her hands, her long hair curtaining the sides of her face, and thought once more about Robert and his reluctance.

Finally, when the bell rang and the hour she had for independent study was over, Lucia gathered her books and took to the halls.

She fell into step with him easily just outside his last class, knowing all too well which classes he had, and where he had them. Gen had sought him out often enough with Lucia in tow, and whether she had wanted to admit it or not, she’d always been paying attention, had always remembered exactly where he was and when.

It sounded a bit odd when you put it like that, she reckoned.

It was no wonder he was wary.

And speaking of wary, he was looking at her with an expression akin to alarm as she strode beside him, looking up at him with bright eyes. “Hello, Robert,” she said kindly, trying for nonchalance. Perhaps if he didn’t see her as a threat, he would talk a bit more.

But he only walked faster, his face flushing a bit under those darling freckles. She kept up with him easily, merely quickening her own steps to match his long strides.”

“Lucia,” he greeted her tersely, not realizing (though she certainly did) that he’d failed to address her by her surname.

“You know, I’d really planned on letting you be,” she lied sweetly, fishing her notebook out of her pocket and deciding once and for all that all he needed was a little persuasion, a little flattery. “But you’re the hero of the school, Robert, surely you can take the time for a really small piece. Even the Headmaster’s interested.”

He rubbed his hand over his hair, risking a glance down at her. She was like a bulldog, that one. Nothing put her off, nothing made her give up.

Rob wondered briefly if she was that tenacious about everything.

He made a strangled little noise in his throat and looked at her with a shocked expression. “I have to go,” he said, his voice coming out in a wheeze.

He’d been knocked in the head at practice the evening before. Perhaps that was what was wrong with him.

“Really, this time I’ll only ask one question, all right? We’ll go at it nice and slow.” She felt a hitch in her step as the words left her mouth. Freudian slip, she judged, but she’d play it cool. After all, perhaps he wouldn’t notice.

He choked, coughed, wheezed again. Could she even hear herself? Normal girls didn’t talk like that; they had some conception of what things sounded like coming out of their mouths.

“What do you do in your spare time, Robert?” Lucia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing at his reaction and his obvious retreat as he pivoted to turn a corner and never looked back. This was a bit fun, really, putting him off his normally steady routine. Lucia wondered why he was so edgy—was it because she was a reporter, or was it because she was a girl?

She’d really and absolutely love it if it were the latter. She could be a reporter any old time. This time, she rather wanted to be a girl.

When he didn’t answer, she addressed herself, bringing up her pace a notch and staying directly behind him. “Perhaps he didn’t hear me,” she said to herself, accidentally kicking the back of his foot. “I said, what do you do in your spare time, Robert?”

She heard people laughing around her and wondered what on earth they found so funny.

Rob felt his shoulders tense, felt himself nearly lose his cool, and stopped right in his tracks, knowing if he’d done so on the football field, his opponent would breeze right by him. Instead, she ran into his back, and he was all too aware of her pressed up against him, laughing as he jumped and turned around.

“Listen, Lucia…” He rolled his shoulders, still trying to rid himself of the feel of her against his back, her knees pressed just below the backs of his.

“Lovey,” she insisted, her own brain addled now. He was so warm, damn it, and solid. She’d very nearly wrapped her arms around and buried her face between his shoulder blades. As one butterfly popped up in her stomach, then doubled and trebled, she wondered if she was even capable of doing this.

Perhaps she should just go to Headmaster Dunmore and tell him she couldn’t do it.

But really, the thought broke her heart. She had something to prove to Robert Wesley, and she meant to do it.

“Lucia,” he repeated, “I am not, nor am I planning on, giving you an interview for the Holforth Herald. Now… go terrorize someone else.” She was… writing. He wasn’t saying anything, really, but she was writing on that notepad of hers. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Lovejoy, would you just—don’t—” He stopped talking, now desperate for her to stop writing. What on earth could she be writing? He craned his neck a little, trying to read her writing, but found he couldn’t.

Trying to stay casual, Lucia sketched a ‘P’ in the corner of her notes, but knew it was more than just paranoia bothering Rob. He certainly had a right to be a bit paranoid, considering what had been written once before. She saw movement from the corner of her eye and breathed a silent phrase of gratitude for whoever was interrupting the tense moment… even if it was Drake Mallory.

“Hello, Drake,” she said brightly. She’d never once spoken to the young man, but she knew who he was, as everyone did. And it seemed of late there was something different about him, and he’d cropped up more and more often in Genevieve’s conversation. “You look as though something’s the matter,” she continued, and seeing the murderous look on Rob’s face, decided to try and make some peace. “How might Rob and I help you?”

Rob wanted to tell her to keep her nose out of it, but first things first. “I thought I told you to stay away from me and mine, Mallory.” His frustration with Lucia and her insatiable flood of questions came out easily when directed at a target as deserving as Drake Mallory.

“Very overdramatic of you, Wesley. Where is she?” Drake stepped between Lucia and Rob, fully expecting the lunatic girl to move, but instead she stayed arm-to-arm with him, staring up at the two of them guilelessly.

To an outsider, she may have looked clueless, but Lucia Lovejoy wasn’t about to budge an inch. If Rob would be getting into a physical altercation, he wouldn’t be doing it as long as she was there to insert herself and make it completely impossible.

“She who?” Rob asked, though he had a sneaking suspicion. His sister hadn’t looked all that sick when he’d left the house that morning, but she’d certainly sounded sick.

“She your idiot of a sister,” Drake shouted, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. “Why else on earth would I talk to you?”

This was more than tutoring, Lucia thought, feeling the tension, the sheer passion radiating off Drake in waves. It was really a bit romantic, all that energy over one woman. She sighed and turned her attention back to Rob like a woman following the ball at a particularly good match of tennis.

“And because you’re clearly dafter than I originally thought,” Rob said, stepping up and wishing he were just a mite taller so he could really and truly look down at the overpriveleged arse, “I’m going to have to repeat myself. Stay away from me and mine. You’re a loon if you think I’ll tell you where she is.” He was angry, nearly blindingly so. His sister wasn’t telling him everything, and Rob knew he couldn’t count on this prancing dandy to tell him a damned thing.

“Home sick, then, is it?” Drake asked, surprising Rob. “Not so hard to figure when she’s been gone all day. Thanks again, chum.” Sliding his sunglasses to the tip of his nose, he roughly thumped Rob’s shoulder in a mockery of camaraderie and took off down the hall.

Rob started after him thoughtlessly, wanting him nowhere near his sister. Things were just getting out of control, his little sister, his best friend slipping out from the meager protection he could actually offer her. But Lucia spoke softly, her statement surprising him into halting.

“He seems to be a very unhappy boy.” She stared after the retreating young man, sighed, then looked up at Rob, wishing he could display just a little of that same passion. But hadn’t he? Hadn’t he nearly bitten her head off in the stands? “You never answered my question.”

“He’s not unhappy, Lovejoy, he’s an arse. I can’t figure out why she’d even bother putting up with him, punishment or no. It’s not like Gen to get into trouble.” He rubbed a hand over his face, wanting to call home but thinking of Genevieve the evening before, implying he was a mother hen.

“What about her first year?” Lucia asked without thinking. When Rob’s eyes lit on hers, confused, she shook her head and the thought was gone. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I must have been thinking of someone else.”

Rob shook his head, impatient with her, impatient with himself, and completely unwilling to deal with one more thing; he turned on his heel and walked out the double doors to practice, not looking back.

Lucia stood exactly where he’d left her, one hand touched to her temple, trying to figure out why she’d said what she had. Words were her life, her toys, her passion. It wasn’t like her to mix up her words, and it was even less like her to mix up her facts.

Chalking it up to Robert—after all, she’d not been able to concentrate around him for quite some time now—Lucia shook her head and headed out to the fields just behind him.

5. Post-Game Jitters

CHAPTER FIVE- Post-Game Jitters

She didn’t take notes this time, found she couldn’t. It was a real match, the first of the season, and she found her stomach was tied too tightly in knots to take notes. She was bloody well nervous, and she wasn’t even playing. Lucia settled herself on the top bleacher, as had become her custom, and shoved her notebook into her tote. She’d not be using it, anyhow. This game was just to be watched, to be enjoyed.

It was fast-paced, at times a bit too much so. Lucia found herself contemplating feints and moves that had occurred halfway back the field, completely forgetting to watch where the ball was now. More than once she got caught up in watching Robert, even if he was nowhere near the ball.

He was addicting to watch, all watchful eyes and occasional encouraging shouts. He stood between the posts of the net, poised on his toes, bouncing back and forth with an energy Lucia envied. He prowled when the ball was downfield, nerves apparent, the general leading his soldiers into battle.

Little by little, he became disheveled, muddy, grass-stained, sweaty, and little by little, Lucia became enthralled, enchanted, ensnared.

She found herself shouting along with the other eager spectators, waving her hands in the air, standing when a particularly good play was made—or missed. She booed, she cheered, and she nearly wept when Holforth lost.

She’d been so certain they would win, so sure.

She clasped her hands to her chest, watching for Robert, and when she saw him, her breath caught.

His face was pale, the smudges of dirt standing out in sharp relief, his eyes wide, tired, and hurt, and she couldn’t help but think of the articles she’d seen.

She knew he questioned himself.

“’Round the field!” he called after they’d greeted the other team appropriately. “Then goalpost to goalpost and around the field again!”

They’d looked tired no more than fifteen minutes into the game, and no amount of goalkeeping was going to change that. That started with training, and between Rob and the coach, they’d trained them poorly.

The coach stood on the sidelines, his arms crossed over his chest; he rarely got a chance to discipline the players. The team captain did most of that disciplining for him, and in the coach’s opinion, that made a good team captain.

Now all they needed was a good team.

He made them do the round twice more, then didn’t have the heart to make them continue. He should have let less by, should have been tighter on the goals, shouldn’t have been thinking about his sister and Mallory and Lovejoy up in the stands. He should have been concentrating.

And so when the rest of the team showered, Rob ran a few more laps and thought about everything he’d done wrong.

He wasn’t in the mood to talk to her, not here, in the half-dusk, when he was exhausted and filthy and smelly and just plain angry. Rob Wesley didn’t like himself very much at the moment; he could hardly be expected to like anyone else, could he?

“I need to go home, Lucia,” he said, walking past her without stopping, but she got in his way.

“You played very well this evening,” she said sincerely, her eyes wide, trying to fix a bead on him. He wouldn’t look her in the eye, no matter how hard she tried, and she bit her lip, anticipating his reaction.

He snorted in disbelief. “Like you’d know,” he said, pushing past her and veering left, away from the school.

He’d shower at home.

She very narrowly kept herself from giving into the urge to toss her book bag at the back of his head. She had a hunch it would only bounce off, anyway, as thick-skulled as he clearly was. “Must you be so stubborn?” she asked, running to catch up with him, skidding in the gravel to slow down when she reached him. “Can’t you just accept that someone would like to be your friend?”

Rob stopped, looked down at her, and prayed for patience. He counted to ten, at technique which had kept his big gob out of trouble more than once, but it didn’t seem to help. “I can accept someone wanting to be my friend,” he said slowly. “I can’t accept it if it’s for the sake of a precious story.” He grabbed her by the arms and looked her, finally, in the eyes, seeing no fear in the translucent, pale blue. “We lost, Lovejoy. I bloody well don’t want you scribblin’ about it.”

He meant to let her go, meant to set her down, but instead he held onto her, feeling that itch, that weird, uncomfortable feeling that made him want to roll his shoulders, that feeling that he wasn’t quite comfortable in his own skin, jittery, restless.

Her eyes widened just a bit and locked on his, and he felt his anger dissipate.

The door that led outside from the locker rooms slammed shut and Rob jumped guiltily, letting her go. He definitely needed some sleep. He turned on his heel and started to walk again, knowing if he had his back to her she wouldn’t see how red his face was. What in the bloody hell was he thinking? God knew she didn’t need any encouragement, or any more inspiration for whatever trash she was writing.

Lucia dropped back to her heels, for she’d been stretched up onto her toes like an anticipatory fool, and she pressed two slim, cool hands to her cheeks, cursing herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid! A fool, indeed, to think what she’d been thinking. Defensive now, but unwilling to show it, she jerked her notebook out of her bag and dogged his steps. If he was willing to think so little of her, then she may as well go ahead and do what he already assumed she was doing.

She’d take notes.

“You made those boys run,” she said matter-of-factly, knowing full well why he had and knowing full well it was likely the last thing he wanted to talk about.

Lucia Lovejoy may have been odd, but she was a woman just like any other, had feelings just like any other, and even her fury could hold some candle to hell’s.

Strange or no, she emoted just fine.

He nearly stopped again, but didn’t want to give her a reason to look up at him again, didn’t want to give himself an excuse to meet those eyes. Shower, food, and sleep. In that order. He was prioritizing, by God. “Yes, Lucia, I made those boys run,” he said through clenched teeth, wondering what, exactly, it would take to get a few moments of peace and quiet. He couldn’t think with her tagging about after him.

She tucked her tongue in her cheek and decided to aim another barb at him. “I would have thought a boy like you would be out with a date on a Friday night.” Like he had enough manners for that, she told herself. But really, what matter were manners? He had no manners, and she’d certainly still go about with him, if only he’d ask.

Like he’d ever ask.

As far as hints went, it wasn’t the most subtle one he’d ever heard, Rob reckoned. “It’s hard to find a date when you’ve a second shadow,” he shot back. He heard her footsteps halt, felt a coolness on his right side, the wind chilling his back and arm where she’d been standing before, blocking it. When he turned, she was standing at the curb, ready to cross the road, and he knew even she had her limits. It was easy—too easy—to forget she was human, too, even if sometimes she acted as though she were from a completely separate planet. “Come on, Lovejoy, don’t take it personally. I’m just tired. You should go home, or… go out. Have yourself a date.” But as the words came out of his mouth, he was forced to wonder who she would go on a date with.

Then he was forced to wonder why that thought bothered him a little.

Shower, food, and sleep, he reminded himself sternly, alarmed.

“I don’t date,” she said stiffly, wishing a hole would open up in the road and swallow her up. She had hoped, no matter how naively, they could have a normal conversation, but every one seemed to go like this. And no matter how much she thought she could hold her own against him, she always ended up the same way—feeling incredibly stupid and wondering why she even bothered. “In case you’ve not noticed, Robert, boys don’t like girls like me.” It was too true, and something she hadn’t precisely wanted to admit out loud. But he deserved to know, she thought. Guys deserved to know how idiotic they made girls feel now and then. She tossed her hair, and started to step off the sidewalk, the moisture that had just started to sting her eyes rendering her unable to see the car coming straight at her.

He would have cursed, would have shouted, but there wasn’t time even for that, and Rob wrapped an arm around her, his fingers resting on her ribs as he yanked her out of the street and back to safety.

Later, when he was nearly asleep and vulnerable to such nonsense, he would think about the feel of his heart under his hand, the intake of her breath, her hair against his cheek just before he released her, but for now, all he could think about was that she’d nearly died, and that he’d recognized the car.

The loss of the day’s game, the complete and utter confusion Lovejoy was starting to rope him into, the fear he’d had for a single moment when she’d started to step, all narrowed down into one white-hot point, given something to focus on.

That was Drake Mallory’s overpriced, showy, poncey car.

And it was on their street.

“I have to go home,” he told Lucia tightly, finally turning to her and shaking her a little. “Go home, and don’t walk out in front of any autos,” he said, and though later he would, indeed, spend far too much time thinking about Lucia, right now, all he could think about was Genevieve.

And all Lucia could think about was the breathless moment when he’d yanked her back against him.

She was in big, trouble indeed.

Don’t fall in love with a source.

6. Confusion and Courage

CHAPTER SIX- Confusion and Courage

He read the note before he did anything else, exhausted and filthy though he was.

At Connor’s for assignments. Will return as soon as possible, don’t wait up. Love, Gen.

It would have been perfectly feasible, and Rob wasn’t conceited enough to try and claim he’d have disbelieved it on any other day.

But on any other day, Drake Mallory wouldn’t have been driving down their street, and on any other day, Rob probably wouldn’t have noticed that Connor was still at the school, printing up the Herald. But he’d somehow learned to pay attention who was lurking around that newsroom.

Too bad Lucia Lovejoy wasn’t there, lurking around the newsroom instead of jumping into traffic and nearly scaring the—

Gen. Think about Gen. You can’t let her go off with some guy, the last time that happened, she—

Rob stood in the middle of the kitchen with a glass of water in his hand, his brow furrowed. Where in the hell had that come from? He was starting to sound like Lucia. There had been no last time, but deep in his mind, there was a hiss like that of a snake, and rocks falling—

The glass slipped from his hand, luckily settling on the counter with a sharp smack instead of shattering. Though he hadn’t made a mess of his glass, Rob’s stomach was still tied in knots, worry swamping him.

He’d deal with his sister when she came home.

He barely ate the food his mum had left heating on a plate in the oven, his mind divided between Genevieve in that green car and Lucia nearly stepping in front of it.

For a moment, he hadn’t thought of the article she was writing, but had thought of her. He’d be a bloody liar if he claimed anyone else—article or no—had given him that sort of attention, had lavished that much time on him. It seemed the other members of his family had gotten plenty of attention, athletically or academically, and Genevieve was the only girl, so she’d had her own little fame.

But Rob had always felt his attention lay in notoriety, in mistakes made and disappointments.

Thinking such, it wasn’t at all difficult for him to imagine the worst of the attention he was getting now. All he wanted—or at least all he told himself he wanted—was to play football and go home. But now that he was home, he was lonely, worried, bothered, a score of things that had nothing to do with football.

Now the lost game was a million miles from his mind.

He took a long shower, letting the hot water taper to warm as it sluiced mud down the drain, letting the warm water taper to cold as he stood in it, hands braced on the wall, blowing the cooling spray from his mouth, his head ducked down, hair in his eyes as the water ran down his back, over his chest, and he let his muscles relax and his thoughts wander.

And wander they did; though he knew, dimly, he should be trying to figure out where in the hell his sister had gone and why she’d lied about it, flashes of sensation niggled at his mind, flashes of Lucia. The sharp intake of her breath as he’d pulled her back against him, a gasp—the soft swell of the underside of her breast pressed against the top of his hand as he thoughtlessly placed his hand wherever he could to pull her to safety—the rapid pace of her heart—

Rob’s eyes flew open, water stinging them, and he slapped at the tap, turning off the water. He was half-hard, damn it all, just thinking of it. Thinking of her. He wouldn’t do it, by God, wouldn’t give into her funny little mind games and her weird little bewitching ways. She was driving him crazy on purpose, dammit, and he refused to give into it.

He stood in the shower, listening to its incessant drip—had he told his mum he’d fix it, or had his dad said that?—pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, wondering if perhaps he was going completely mad.

~~~

She was having a difficult time writing.

That was a first for her, a record, even. She’d never had trouble with words, not since she’d first wielded a castoff pencil stub of her father’s.

I have lost my journalistic integrity, she wrote on the paper in front of her, composing longhand as she always did. Her father had taught her to write whatever came to mind when she was at a loss for words, but she’d never been so sorely lacking before.

I cannot write with any amount of objectivity on the subject of Robert Wesley.

He is brave, somehow, in ways I cannot quite see, brave in actions I have never witnessed.

She paused, the pen stuttering over the page. What on earth was that supposed to mean?

“Keep writing, Lovey,” she said quietly, catching her tongue between her teeth in concentration.

He doubts himself though he has no reason to, and he blames himself when there is no blame to be had. He counts himself the least among his peers and things they count him the least among them.

Her heart wrenched for the truth of it, the simple truth of it, and she laid her pen down.

What was the purpose of this assignment, really?

She’d lost sight of it.

Lucia crawled into her bed, leaving her pen uncapped and her paper laid out. She could work on it over the weekend, if she needed.

For now, she needed sleep. She needed sanity. She needed respite from the confusion. Never before had something—or more specifically, someone—come between her and her words.

Never before had writing taken second place.

But as she restlessly braided the ends of her hair and stared at her ceiling, Lucia knew she’d much rather have Rob than have the story, and it worried her greatly.

~~~

He dozed a few times; he knew he must have. Every time he awoke, he checked the clock. Homework at nine at night seemed unbelievable. At ten it seemed laughable, and at half eleven it seemed downright insane.

At twelve in the a.m.—the next day, he noted grimly, now a Saturday and she still wasn’t home—he heard the blare of a horn, someone shouting, an engine throttled back to a low, somehow threatening purr, and he tensed.

Slapping footsteps made their way up the walk, the doorknob turned, and his sister slunk in the door. His eyes already accustomed to the dark, Rob could see her all too clearly, her hair hanging in wet ropes around her face, her feet bare. For a moment he thought she was sporting two black eyes, and he nearly choked on his own rage, but the iota of rationale he had left reasoned that it was makeup on her face, not bruises.

And then she peeled off that ratty, much-loved sweater and he lost it.

Genevieve was wearing next to bloody nothing, and the fact was made worse still by the knowledge she’d been out with Mallory.

She would walk right past him, he knew, if he did nothing, so he stood and stopped her by placing his hands on her shoulders and shaking, his fear manifesting itself physically. “What in the bloody hell are you doing?!” he hissed, uncomfortable with her state of undress. He looked her over once more just to prove his point—

And saw a love bite standing out on her neck in sharp relief against the trademark paleness of her skin. Fucking Mallory, Rob thought, and he felt his face turn red, the scalp under his hair burning hot. “I’m going to kill that bastard, even if I have to spill his blue blood to do it.” He set her aside and headed for the door, ready to run all the way to the Mallory fuckin’ mansion if he had to do it, ready to use Mallory’s head as a football, ready to take every bit of the last few weeks’ frustration out on the albino arse.

She spoke quietly, and he nearly didn’t hear her through the roar of blood in his ears. How many young women would he see misstep tonight? “Rob, no,” she said. “Please.”

Rob stopped with his long-fingered hand on the doorknob, his shoulders drooping a little. What had he missed, what mistake had he made, that allowed his sister to stick up for Drake Mallory?

“It’s nothing, Rob. I’m a big girl, you know, if I’d not wanted to go out, I’d not have gone.”

He turned because he couldn’t think of a reason not to, needing to see her face, to see the eyes that went with this plea, and he put his hand to her chin, wanting to make an affectionate remark, wanting to hug his sister and tell her to go put on something warm, but he found himself moving her head and looking pointedly at the hickey on her neck. “Nothing, eh?” His voice grew thick and he forced himself to continue speaking, already cursing himself. He’d seen it coming, hadn’t he, and had done nothing about it. “Did he hurt you? Did he threaten you?” His mind swam with possibilities of drugs, of force, of coercion of all kinds.

She jerked away from him, stinging them both. “No! Listen to me, Rob! I wanted to go. I have a life, too, you know.”

“Well, yeah, but not like that. Not with him. This is totally unlike you, Gen. You skive off classes all day, then you leave at night and lie about it.” And was that jealousy he was feeling? That she had the nerve to go out and do her own thing and he was still hiding behind a football and the dumb jock exterior?

“If I hadn’t, Mum would have had kittens,” Gen said, and he couldn’t help but smirk at that. It was true, so very true, and well they both knew it. “Oh, God, Rob, you didn’t tell her, did you?”

He winced and wished he’d thought of it. But such betrayal wasn’t in him. “No. But by God, Gen, I should,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders and eyeing her warily. Insanity. Absolute insanity reigned all around him, and he was just watching it all pass by. The day couldn’t be any weirder, truly. He’d lost a game, his sister had lied to him, he’d nearly kissed Lovejoy…

Strike that last one, he thought as his face turned red again as the thoughts he’d been having in the loo returned with a vengeance.

“Oh, right. Just as I should tell her about that time you and that blighter from one of the other football teams got pissed one night on his mum’s cooking sherry,” Gen said, and the memory gave him something to latch onto other than the discomfiting thought of Lovejoy pressed up against him in the shower.

Fuck.

Gen kissed him on the cheek, and he thanked heavens for the dark of the room. If she could see his blush, she’d certainly ask him what was going on. “I love you, Rob,” she said sincerely. “Can’t you just trust me on this? He’s not all bad, you know.”

Their expressions were nearly identical, surprised gapes and wide eyes, and then Gen streaked up the stairs, leaving Rob by himself, his anger burned away, leaving more mystification and the helplessness to do anything but follow suit and go to bed.

When he fell asleep hours later, his sleep was made restless by thoughts of a train, by a willowy blonde with some sort of stick behind her ear, holding a newspaper the wrong way and sneaking covert glances at him.

~~~

It felt like something was missing.

He passed the ball and made his way down the line, the familiar drill now nearly boring. He’d have to think of new ones, he knew, if the team were ever to make any sort of progress at all.

Saturday was their lazy day, their leisurely day, and no matter how much Rob wanted to give them a pounding for their loss last night, he wouldn’t do it. These days were nearly sacred to the team.

As they started a pick-up game among themselves, each man playing a position he didn’t ordinarily play, Rob realized what was missing.

There was no one in the stands, not even a lone young woman with big eyes and long hair.

It made him melancholy, somehow, when paired with the disconcerting dreams he’d had the evening before. Even his sister had found something (he refused to say someone), and yet he persisted in pushing everyone away.

He showered quickly when they were finished, not entirely at ease with his teammates. He didn’t know how they’d ever named him captain, and oftentimes he concluded it must have been a jest, and a grand one at that. They’d kept it up for such a long time, after all.

“See y’on Monday, mates,” he called, throwing a wave back at them with a little more friendliness than he usually risked.

Two of the players exchanged surprised looks. Rob Wesley so rarely brought himself down to their level that they nearly didn’t answer him back, nearly couldn’t think of anything to say. But one of the older players swatted the two underclassmen on their backs and grinned at Rob.

“It rained all last night, Wesley, try not to dirty your skirts on the way home.”

He was nearly insulted, already felt the flush working its way up from his toes, but then he chastised himself. Just a jest, that’s all. Just taking the mickey out a bit… “No worries. I borrowed your petticoats from your locker.”

He smiled to himself, pleased as he walked out the door, and instead of heading toward his house, he headed east, thinking perhaps it was a day for change.

He wouldn’t be confused anymore. He’d clear things up and move on with his life with just a little more confidence.

~~~

She hadn’t finished an article, Lucia thought, but she had completed what she considered quite a lovely little sketch at the bottom of her page. It wasn’t art, by any means, but it was a reasonable likeness. She’d even managed to give him freckles that didn’t look like he’d come down with a horrifying case of pox.

She scowled at the paper, listening to her father’s ancient typewriter in the next room, and judged herself only millimeters away from repeatedly writing Lucia Wesley over and over again.

And when the knock on the door came, she was seriously trying to talk herself out of doing just that. When had she ever indulged herself in a little childishness, after all?

Well, never, that’s when.

Knowing her father wouldn’t answer the door even if someone had knocked right on his head, she pushed away from her desk and turned the knob without looking to see who stood on the stoop. If her father had been a bit more present—and of course, he wasn’t—he’d have told her to check.

But the tapping (bloody Poe’s raven in there, she thought) persisted and she swung the door wide. Any greeting she may have had ready died on her lips and she simply said “Oh.”

She hadn’t even known he knew where she lived, much less would have cared enough to recall it. His hair was damp and curling just above his ears, and the white button-up he wore was rumpled, a handmade jumper slung over one arm.

And he was smiling at her.

It threw her off balance, and she stumbled back into the foyer before she really could think of anything to say.

“I suppose that means I can come in?” She seemed softer here, somehow, less threatening. And on the retreat—well, that he could understand. He saw her giving ground and immediately thought in terms of

Quidditch?

Football, his mind supplied, tracking over the odd word without so much as a real skip.

“I’m not really used to having guests,” Lucia stuttered, nearly groaning and closing her eyes. Why couldn’t she say something else? Why couldn’t she think, dammit?

He was stealing her words, one by one, and she didn’t know what she thought of that.

He gave her a lopsided grin, looking around the house and its dark, heavy furnishings. It was a man’s house, definitely, and he dimly recalled knowing her mother had passed away years before.

“I won’t stay long,” he said, looking with awe at the framed newspapers on the walls, some centuries old, some fairly recent. “I actually came by to ask you a question.” He walked aimlessly, forgetting his manners as he scanned the headlines. “Those are absolutely wicked,” he said, never thinking newspapers would look appealing. But it was definitely an alternative to all the flowery prints his mum preferred.

“Thank you,” she said, growing more befuddled with every passing moment.

And then he stepped into the room which had once been her parents’ room, converted into a study for her when her father had no longer been able to sleep in a room full of memories and Lucia had no longer been able to fit at the cramped corner of her father’s desk.

There was absolutely no time for her to get across the room and move the papers without him seeing them, without him seeing the sketch of himself, the odd, incomprehensible things she’d written.

Now that he was here, Rob was trying to work up the nerve to just out and ask her what, exactly, was going on in her head. It was more than an article, that he knew. And while he was at it, he figured he could muster an apology for the way he’d behaved.

And then the courage he’d gathered, the forthright, apologetic speech slipped from his lips as he looked at the desk covered with papers and saw himself.

7. Sketches and Skeptics

CHAPTER SEVEN- Sketches and Skeptics

“Excuse me,” Lucia muttered, pushing past him and shoving the papers off the desk in an unceremonious move. She never would have made such a move any other time; she respected her work far too much to toss it on the floor. But it was an emergency, and emergencies called for rash actions.

She stood with her back to him, her hands spread out over the desk, her head hanging. She knew he’d already seen it. How could he have missed it? And how was she to turn around and face him? He already found her loony, completely crazy, absolutely intolerable.

So how would he find her now?

Rob rubbed the back of his neck, his head ducked. He could feel the blood creeping up his neck, reddening his face, and he cursed his propensity for blushing so easily. It’d been a cunning little drawing, if a bit inaccurate. She’d drawn a handsome face, a strong one, and though he’d been too stunned to take in all of the writing on the page, he’d caught the word brave.

It was absolutely incomprehensible.

Wanting to see her face, needing to see if she was joking, pulling his leg, making a fool of him, he grabbed her arm and spun her to face him.

She kept her head down, hiding behind the curtains of her hair, feeling her heart yawn open in humiliation, in pain. What had she been thinking, letting him into her home?

What had she been thinking, letting him into her heart?

Of course he was angry. She’d invaded his privacy more than once, disobeyed his requests, even when he’d stated them reasonably, and drawing pictures of him was just plain weird. He was probably angry and more than a bit freaked out, she reasoned.

“I can’t talk to you if I can’t see your eyes,” he said tersely, tugging back her hair a little so she was forced to look up at him. He didn’t think to be gentle, so great was his confusion, and he looked at her directly, his face bright red and his eyebrows drawn together. “Is that how you see me?” he asked, his voice laden with disbelief.

It spurred her into action, her own embarrassment forgotten in the face of his self-effacing behavior, the incredulousness of his voice shoving her own discomfort to the rear and raising her ire. “And why shouldn’t it be?” she asked, moving his hands away from her hair and looking at him under her own power. “That’s what you look like, Robert.”

“Brave?” he repeated, dumbfounded.

“Yes, brave,” she insisted, putting her hands to his cheeks and pressing, her chin raised so she could look him in the eye. “Why can’t you see that?”

Now that her hands were on him, Rob was suddenly very uncomfortably aware of her proximity to him, of their positions, of all the thoughts he’d had the night before, of how he’d treated her, how he’d came here to apologize, and how he’d known, just known it was more than an article she was after.

And how she saw him in a way he’d never seen himself.

She stood flat-footed, watching the expressions flit over his face, feeling the heat of his skin under her palms, and for a moment, she was brave as she saw him as being, brave as she knew he was, and she rose to her toes, wanting to show him just how he looked to her.

She brushed her lips over his tentatively, drawing back mid-movement, then forging on again, the result a stuttering, chaste touch of the lips.

He felt her start to draw away, and before he even registered what she was doing, he knew he didn’t want her to stop. Rob captured her wrists in his hands, the often fumbling fingers closing over slim bones—

She’s so slight and I’m so damned clumsy—

And he kissed her, unable to make himself close his eyes though he knew he should, wanting to see her expression, trying to figure her out. She jerked when he tentatively touched his tongue to hers, and he stepped back, his face now an alarming shade of crimson.

“Oh,” he said stupidly, looking at her wide eyes, her parted lips, the papers all over the floor.

With the desk already cleared, his brain was going to completely unreal places.

He dropped his sweater on the floor, bent to pick it up, fumbled, dropped it again, and abandoning pride, snagged it with the toe of his shoe and finally secured it in one tightly balled fist.

“I should go,” he concluded, feeling like seven kinds of an ass and needing quite desperately to puzzle this out. He’d rather hoped she’d respond a little bit more favorably, as long as he was actually going to plant a real kiss on her, but instead she was looking at him as though she’d never seen him before, and really, that was just a bit more than Robert could actually digest at the moment. “I’ll… I’ll see you Monday, then, eh? Keep… keep up the good work.”

He was a good half mile away from her house, having let himself out (after bobbling with the doorknob), when he realized what he’d said.

“Keep up the good work?” he squawked, sending errant birds scattering from the walk in front of him. “What the bloody fuck is that supposed to mean?”

And a half mile back, Lucia Lovejoy sat on the floor of her little study, a strew of papers laid over her lap, fingers resting on a likeness of the young man she’d just kissed, a young man who had all but run out of her home as though the hounds of hell were at his heels.

He’d never even gotten to say why he’d stopped by.

~~~

He caught her in the hallway, though she’d tried her best to sneak into her first classroom while he’d still be at football practice. She’d spent the whole weekend wondering how to make amends to him, and had come up absolutely empty-handed.

Well, so to speak. She hadn’t been empty-handed, really, if you counted the bloody drawing she’d taken to keeping on her at all times, or the phantom feel of his flushed skin against her hands.

She’d taken the coward’s way out, no longer brave as he was, and tried to sneak to her classes.

And damn it, she’d failed even that.

For his part, Rob had spent the whole weekend just where he’d started off on Saturday morning—wondering what, precisely, was going on in Lovejoy’s head. She’d kissed him, hadn’t she? And drawn him? Rationally, it would only mean one thing, but Rob wasn’t about to peg her as rational, and his thoughts on the remainder of the weekend sure as hell hadn’t been rational.

He’d let himself build up a tiny head of steam, just a little bubble of confidence, something he rarely ever allotted himself. After all, it did no good and nearly always got rather rudely burst, but this time…

He’d even given himself a reprieve from his morning training, something he knew he’d regret later.

But not now. No, just now Rob wanted to test something out.

“Lucia!” he called, jogging down the hallway to catch up with her. When she didn’t turn, he tried again. “Lovey.”

She turned at the nickname, her eyes darting around the hallway, flitting to the students around them. “Robert,” she said faintly, licking her dry lips. She wouldn’t be able to speak, wouldn’t at all, wouldn’t be able to manage so much as a sentence.

“Listen, about the other morning,” he started, starting to walk again, acutely aware it looked like he was escorting her to her class.

But she wouldn’t give him the chance to finish. “Yes, about the other morning,” she picked up, finding she could speak even when her tongue was tangled and her throat was parched. “I’m really terribly sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.”

He’d had collisions on the field that had carried less force than that.

He stopped in the middle of the hallway, his face suddenly colorless. “You’re sorry?”

He was upset. Of course he was, Lucia rationalized, forcing herself to look at him. She owed him that, she figured, though he probably thought she was going to do something completely insane like try and kiss him again. “I’m really very sorry,” she amended. “Though I know that’s not half enough to make up for what I did.”

“What you did…” he repeated, his bubble of confidence replaced by an entire biosphere of confusion.

“Was inexcusable, I know,” Lucia said, really warming up, getting on a roll. Once you got started, apologizing wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t as though she had a surplus of pride to begin with, so swallowing it for his sake was hardly any chore at all, and she truly was sorry.

Well, she was sorry for him.

She didn’t regret what she’d done at all.

She’d replayed the moment in her mind countless times over the weekend, knowing in some corner of her mind that he’d kissed her back, attributing it to his nerves, and tossing it away. She’d assaulted him standing in her study, and it was inexcusable.

She’d remember it forever.

“Inexcusable?” he repeated, and before she could pick up the thread, he held up a hand. “You think I wanted an apology from you? Great, Lovey, you’re sorry we kissed. That shouldn’t surprise me. It probably was quite sorry for you, wasn’t it?”

And the bubble of confusion was now a bubble of derision, aimed completely at himself. He would wonder what he’d been thinking, going over there in the first place, but the answer was the same as it usually was. He hadn’t been thinking.

He looked at her, her silence now passing for agreement, and he felt just a little bit desperate.

She’d called him brave, after all.

Thankfully, even blessedly, at that moment he saw something he thought he’d never be happy to see: his sister standing face-to-face with Mallory, holding his finger. When she walked away from the albino bastard, she gave him the perfect opportunity to enter, and the perfect opportunity to walk away from Lucia—again.

He was getting very good at doing that.

Lucia put her back to the wall, inhaled deeply, exhaled with tears standing in her eyes. She didn’t understand, not one bit. She couldn’t even pretend to understand what had just transpired. He looked so… enraged and disbelieving. She’d thought his anger had been aimed at her, but as she watched him rail against Drake, she replayed his words in her mind.

It probably was sorry for you, wasn’t it?

And here she didn’t think she could make anything worse.

As the headmaster approached the two young men—they looked ready to come to blows any minute, Lucia thought, and seeing that sort of power in Rob was oddly enticing—she took the opportunity to slip past the odd trio, the rich boy, the poor athlete, and the free-spirited headmaster, and she slipped into Dunmore’s office.

He’d assigned her the article, he could get her out of this mess.

8. Revocation and Interrogation

CHAPTER EIGHT- Revocation and Interrogation

Surprises in Albert Dunmore’s—or Albus Dumbledore’s—line of work were few and far between, but a surprise he had as he strolled into his office whistling after sending young Robert Wesley and his nemesis Drake Mallory onto their classes.

He’d nearly let his hair down, so to speak, nearly let himself become Albus Dumbledore as his office door shut, and then he’d seen Lucia Lovejoy sitting in the chair across from his desk.

Had he been a lesser man, it would have given him quite a fright. As it was, he merely raised an eyebrow at her and smiled serenely. “I seem to have missed an appointment,” he said pleasantly. “With what may I assist you, Miss Lovejoy?” She was a jewel, he thought, the kind of girl—and the kind of witch—who would never look at her talents askew, who would never doubt. No skeptic she, he thought, and appreciated it greatly.

She reminded him of his mother.

Lucia folded her hands in her lap and stared forthrightly at the man. He didn’t seem crazy to her, even though that’s what everyone said.

But, she thought uncomfortably, perhaps she wasn’t the best judge. Her actions of late hadn’t been altogether cohesive.

“You requested an assignment of me, sir, and I wish it revoked.” The words shocked her as they left her lips. They were uncharacteristic, for she wasn’t a quitter. And she hadn’t planned on stopping—she liked asking Robert questions. She liked learning things about him, even when he wasn’t answering her. He told so much, in the way he held himself, in the way his eyes looked, in the way he played, the way he defended his sister.

And he’d told her plenty when she’d kissed him, and even more when he’d kissed her. She blushed at the thought and dropped her eyes to her hands.

Perhaps she wasn’t quite ready to listen to that yet. It was much easier to think she’d been right to apologize.

“Revoked?” Dunmore asked, bringing her rather rudely back to the present. She’d just been about to replay the whole vignette in her mind again, to think about the strength of his hands, gentle hands with rough skin, chafing over her wrists, the bump of his knees just above hers—

“Yes, revoked,” she said impatiently, tossing her hair back. “If you need me to be more specific, sir, it’s the assignment for the—”

“Personality profile of our illustrious young footballer,” Dunmore said, inexplicably smiling once more, voicing a small harrumph as he leaned back in his chair. “No, no, no, that won’t do,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to finish the article. You’re quite committed already, you know. You even told the newspaper staff what you were planning.”

It was a tightly knit school and staff, certainly, she thought, but it was bordering on eerie how the man seemed to know the oddest things.

“He’s uncooperative,” she said faintly, feeling that sense of dread, that twist in the pit of her stomach that said she wasn’t about to be taken off, not in this lifetime. “I feel he would rather someone else complete the assignment.”

The headmaster had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing outright at the poor, mixed up girl. She looked miserably, and he pitied her immensely, but youth… well, he hated to be trite, but ah, how it was wasted on the young. Any old fool—or ancient fool, as he proudly considered himself—could see poor Rob Wesley was suffering from little more than a severe case of female frustrations. And as unwilling as Lucia was to see what was plainly in front of her—a trait the headmaster thought she and Rob had in common—it was no wonder they were both so tightly wound.

“I feel,” Dunmore said graciously, poking through a candy dish with one long finger, looking at her over his glasses, “That you are the ideal scribe for this particular tale, my dear.” And as though that answered everything, he leaned over, dropped a brightly wrapped toffee in her hand, and winked. “I look forward to reading your opus.”

She started to walk out of the office, dazed and holding a candy in her hand, when Lucia turned and looked back at Dunmore. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Professor, you would have made a smashing reporter. Something tells me you’d get an interview whether the subject happened to cooperate or not.”

He was still chuckling to himself, flattered, when the door shut and he faded back to Hogwarts.

~~~
“Bloody fantastic!” The coach blew his whistle and jogged across the field—it was rather badly battered after three hours of practice—and stood in front of his goalkeeper. Robert Wesley had been a player to watch, even from his first few practices, but he’d never played with confidence or aggression. Instead, he’d always played as a strategist, trying to do everything right rather than doing what he felt.

But tonight’s practice had been different.

In a weird hybrid of masochistic self-discipline and brilliant training, Rob had commanded the other players to scrimmage using only one goal—his. Each squad would be required to defend more voraciously to keep the ball from falling into enemy hands, and each squad would now focus on small, tight movements, the movements that often mattered most in a game.

And Robert took every single kick that came his way, and he missed very few. He was forceful, nearly belligerent in his keeping, paying no attention to the scrapes that arose, the knocks he received, the risks he took.

He was angry, damn it, good and well red at the thought of what she’d done to him. He’d spent Saturday night suffering—yes, suffering—over the memory of kissing her, over the odd thrill that she’d initiated it, over the smug feeling that he’d known it was coming.

And he’d suffered over the shame of scuttling away from it like some sort of goggling idiot, over saying “Keep up the good work” like he couldn’t control his flapping jaw. But in that moment, he’d been so dangerously close to something…

It had felt not like watching your team make the winning goal, but like batting out the one shot that would have made it a losing game.

Saving the day.

Football was the only thing at which he’d found himself good, or even passable. He wasn’t smart, he wasn’t funny like some of the guys on the team, he wasn’t as personable as his sister. He didn’t have money, prestige, or in his opinion, looks.

What he had was the stupidity to get between the posts and let people kick things at him, and by God, he was all right at it.

He didn’t think he’d find that feeling elsewhere, and the prospect of doing so had been a bit unnerving.

And then she’d apologized for it.

Like it had been some sort of sodding mistake.

And with every goal he prevented from happening, Rob tried to get that glow back, that just right on the edge feeling.

He saved nearly every goal, and didn’t get that feeling. Even when his coach and players broke practice to come and ask him what had gotten into him, he didn’t feel it.

Instead, he just heard the word sorry buzzing around in his brain like some sort of annoying fly.

“You play a hell of a lot better without Loopy Lovejoy hangin’ about,” one of his teammates said, clapping him on the shoulder. They didn’t notice his eyes harden jut a bit, his mouth firm beneath the muddy smudges on his face.

“Yeah,” a first-year player chimed in, all too eager to congratulate his team captain on a smashing practice. “Guess you really told her the other night, di’n’t you, out in the parking lot? You were really givin’ her wha’ for!”

Rob winced; it was precisely what he’d needed to hear, and precisely what he hadn’t wanted to hear.

He really had told her what was on his mind, and the worst of it was, she hadn’t deserved any of it. In fact, she’d taken more than her fair share from him, and he’d just kept dishing it out.

“Bugger and shite,” he said quietly, too tired to be miserable. He’d exhausted himself on purpose, and then come to the stunning conclusion that he’d been a major arsehole.

No wonder she thought he was mad at her.

He’d given her no reason to expect he’d react in any other way.

“Bugger and shite!” the first year repeated, as though to cheer on what Rob had said.

“That’s enough,” the coach said quietly, shooting a dirty look at the first-year. The kid clearly had more brawn than brains. Hell, the kid probably had more toes than brains. “Practice is over,” he said, concerned that his captain, his best player, was about to have some sort of breakdown. For a few moments, he’d looked as though he were going through every emotion he could muster.

“Thank you, sir,” Rob said absently. He wandered to the shower blindly, seeing her face in his mind, the shocked, hurt look on her face when he’d all but bitten her head off. He’d gone over there to apologize once, and he’d buggered that all to hell.

So he’d give her the only other thing he knew she wanted.

Twenty minutes later, he wandered down the corridors of Holforth, led by a hunch, a feeling, a stupid intuition. He was scrubbed clean but no less sore than he had been when he’d flipped on the cold water, and the hooded sweatshirt he’d thrown on gave him something to shove his hands into.

He didn’t want to grab her again, for God’s sakes.

Well… that was a matter he’d have to hash over with himself later, he thought as he stood in the doorway of the Holforth Herald newsroom, watching her type at an unbelievable pace, her eyes affixed to a handwritten sheet next to her.

“Lovey?” he said quietly, watching her shoulders tense, her head stiffen. She didn’t turn around, didn’t even acknowledge his presence, but because Rob knew he’d heard her, and because he’d planned this, had decided this the appropriate tactic, he continued to speak.

“I’m ready to answer your questions.”

9. Objective Interviewer

**Author’s Note: I’m really, really sorry if this chapter sucks. A lot of things have been going on lately, so it may very well be affecting my writing. This felt well enough, but who knows… read and feed the monster.**

CHAPTER NINE- Objective Interviewer

She breathed in slowly through her nose, exhaled through her mouth, utilizing the patience that was most often second nature to her. Now, she wanted to jump, wanted to leap and shout, but she didn’t know whether for joy or in anger. What was he doing to her? This wasn’t her, this unfocused, scattered young woman. Other people saw her as a dreamer, as daft, as odd, but she was simply observing, soaking things up, gathering material. Of late, she’d only observed him, and of late, she’d missed a great many other things.

Her friend Genevieve, for instance, was clearly going through something big, and Lucia could only make a guess as to what it was. And her father—when was the last time she’d taken the time to see what he was working on, read over his shoulder, fruitlessly offer to help him edit copy?

It had been long days, and all because she’d been wrapped up in the young man she knew stood behind her.

Lucia Lovejoy could tell anyone and everyone she had only been honing in on a story, but she knew the truth, and she thought others would, as well.

She had been honing in on him. And now that he had come to her willingly—didn’t he come to you willingly on Saturday?—she wasn’t certain what to do with him.

Rob wanted to fidget, but each movement sent lances of pain zagging through his sweetly aching legs. It felt good to have worked that hard, but he had no wish to further tax himself. He saw her reach for her notebook with slow, deliberate moves, her finely-shaped fingers closing around the binding after a single flutter. She still hadn’t said anything, and for a moment, he wondered if perhaps she’d toss it at him. He certainly deserved it.

“Have a seat,” she said, looking at him through her lashes. “And we can get started.”

For a moment, he stood utterly still, wondering if he’d misheard her. That was it? Have a seat and we can get started?

He’d rather hoped for something a little more dramatic, something like You bastard or Thank you.

Though he supposed saying “Keep up the good work” wasn’t quite what she’d wanted to hear, either.

But Rob was nothing if not well-trained, and his manners had him immediately sitting in a chair beside her, his long hands clasping and unclasping between his knees. “Er… all right then,” he said, unnerved by the way she kept staring at him, not saying a word. She’d nattered on endlessly before, why couldn’t she say something now?

Lucia was wondering the same thing. Her tongue felt pasted to the top of her mouth, all the questions she’d written neatly in her notebook had turned to meaningless jumbles of letters and scribbles.

“What are your hobbies?” she blurted, knowing she’d asked him that at least once before—hadn’t she? She flipped through her notebook with unsteady hands and scowled unseeingly at the pages before her. She didn’t want to be this giggly, idiotic, typical girl. With concentrated effort, she gripped her pen in her fingers and steeled herself to write.

Hobbies.

He had to redefine the word in his brain before it would really stick, and even then he was having trouble coming up with an answer.

“Football,” he said, and on the heels of the declaration came a sigh. “Obviously,” he added, running one hand through his hair nervously. He wanted to flip up his hood and pull the strings tight, but somehow he thought that might be a wee bit awkward. “I don’t really know… I spend all my time on that, really. I’m not really a good student, and… I’m really bad at this.” He stood, no longer caring about his aches and pains, and paced the floor. “This is why I didn’t want to do this!” he said explosively, turning on his heel and looking at her.

Now she was looking at him. She couldn’t look at him when he was composed; no, she had to wait until he’d come all unhinged, and now she was looking at him with those wide blue eyes like she expected him to say something of importance.

Like… keep up the good work.

“Ask me something else,” he said pleadingly, just needing to be off the subject, to get this over with. He’d have rather taken twenty footballs straight to his head than try and answer these questions, but he was going to do it.

He owed her at least that.

She hadn’t planned on it—then again, she hadn’t really planned on any of this—but the words slipped from her mouth quietly as she watched him pace the floor. “Why did you kiss me?”

Had she really allowed herself to admit it before then, or had it been easier to think he hadn’t done it at all? She didn’t understand other people, especially didn’t understand men, and most especially didn’t understand the young man standing before her. But as he looked at her, obviously miserable, fidgety as a caught mouse, all long arms and big hands and bright hair, she thought again of bravery.

He didn’t want to be doing what he was doing, but he did it anyway because it was the right thing.

She just didn’t have it in her to be upset with him.

“’s that for the paper?” he asked, laughing a little and wincing at the edge of panic in it. She was looking at him like…

Like that drawing. Like he was truly that person.

She shook her head ‘no’ and he nodded jerkily, balling his fingers into fists and relaxing them repeatedly. “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath. How had he gotten here, exactly?

How had he gotten from thinking she was crazy to trying to prove to her she was worth kissing?

“Because it felt right,” he said in a rush. “And because… you were looking at me like that.” He crossed to her and looked down at her as though to try and decipher that look, to dissect it and figure out exactly what it meant.

Lucia blinked, surprised, and sat back in her chair, her cheeks suddenly hot. If she’d been looking at him like she’d been thinking about him, then he should have been afraid she’d eat him alive.

And that thought merely made her cheeks burn hotter.

“Like what?” she asked, her voice coming out unsteadily.

She needed a drink of water. She needed a sanity check.

She needed him.

Rob threw his hands in the air, wondering why she couldn’t simply take an answer and keep it as an answer. She had to elaborate. What was he supposed to say? That he’d kissed her because he knew how his hands felt around her ribs, around her wrists, knew how her hair floated in the wind?

That he kissed her because she was the first and only person to persist in any sort of interest in him?

“Like you wanted me to kiss you,” he finally said, his mind circling back to that look she was giving him. “Did you want me to?”

He was certain other people their age didn’t have this much trouble progressing into courtship.

She stood then, pleased that he didn’t step back when she stood toe-to-toe with him, and she tilted her head, looking him in the eye and letting her hair fall down along her back. “You don’t get to ask the questions,” she said, nearly having to catch her breath at the giddy, unfamiliar, out of control bubble that was rising in her chest.

And this time, she didn’t think about whether or not she was doing it right, or why he was standing in front of her, or how he’d pushed her away, she only thought brave and beautiful and let the feeling spin through her, touching one fingertip to the soft fleece of his sweatshirt and kissing him like she’d wanted to the night he snatched her back onto the curb, her heart jackrabbiting against his palm, her breath backed up in her lungs.

He bent his head without even realizing it, leaning into her even as she was standing on her toes to reach him, and he put his hands to her hips, more out of protectiveness than possessiveness; for a moment, he’d been afraid she’d stand so high she’d simply tip into him.

It had the same punch as Saturday, but wilder, lacking the nerves of the first encounter, adding the confusion and anger and testosterone he’d sulkily packed around all day.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, changing the angle of the kiss and taking control of it, stroking his tongue over hers and wondering why he’d spent so damned much time on the football field.

Lucia felt her head reel and knew what it was like to be treated with the same sort of intensity he directed at football, knew what it was like to be the recipient of the forthright gaze she’d sketched in her notes.

He clung even after she leaned back, big hands covering her slight swell of hips, and he licked his lips, feeling the back of his neck heat up.

He wasn’t about to forget that anytime soon.

“I have another question,” she said frankly, as though the kiss hadn’t affected her at all. She had resolved to lose control later, reserved the right to press her hand to her chest and feel how quickly he’d made her heart beat, but at that moment, she’d regained the upper hand along with her composure.

He couldn’t do anything but gape at her, trying to think straight. Another question? For God’s sake, she’d just wiped his mind clean and now she wanted an answer?

He hoped it was a simple yes or no question.

“There’s a masque a week from Friday. Will you take me?” She wasn’t supposed to ask him, she was sure—it was improper, probably—but she so badly wanted to do it.

She so badly wished she had a mother to ask for advice on the matters, but she didn’t.

So she stuck with impropriety.

The masque? The what?! Rob’s mind stumbled over and around the fact, rounded back for another sniff at the thought, then bayed in recognition.

The masque. He had to go, if only because it was a football team tradition.

But go with someone?

Well, he’d wanted a simple yes or no question.

“Yes,” he said, finally letting his hands slide from her hips, thrusting them into the front pocket of his shirt and gripping his fingers together tight enough to make his knuckles ache. “I’ll take you.”

And then she surprised the bloody hell out of him by making a satisfied little ‘hmph’ noise she’d learned from her father, turning her back, and sitting back down.

“Don’t you need to ask me more questions?” He sounded lost, and hated himself for it, but he felt as though he were drowning.

And then she made it worse.

“No,” she said, tapping her fingers consideringly on the keyboard. “I finished your article a long time ago.”

10. A Proper Goodbye

**Author’s Note: I need to address several things here, mostly because I don’t have enough time to reply to each of my reviews, though I hope to regain that time soon. Firstly, I know several of you have asked about H/Hr interaction in this story. There hasn’t been any because I feel this story is simply a supplement to the first (and eventually third) piece of the trilogy. All of the Hogwarts angle was more or less covered in Lessons. Secondly, this story does feel different than my D/G, and that’s probably because this is meant to be more light and fluffy. R/LL are fun to write, and so… fluff with a few obstacles. Hopefully I’ve managed to keep them in character. It’s not quite over yet, however, so keep readin’ for a few more chapters of football player Rob/Ron and school-rag writin’ Lucia/Luna. They’re a darling couple. Now… go read!**

CHAPTER TEN- A Proper Goodbye

Only his eyes showed any sort of reaction when she slapped her hands on his desk, obscuring his current reading material, and he raised one bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrow at her before he laid down his red pencil.

In truth, Alfred Lovejoy had nearly had a stroke when his ordinarily quiet-natured, peaceful daughter had stormed into his study and slammed those pretty little hands—so like her mother’s—down on his desk. The action was also very like her mother, impulsive and brash and cheeky.

There were times, more often than not, when Alfred felt he’d stifled his daughter, made her more like herself and less like her mother, because he’d simply known no other way. No matter how much he’d loved her mother, he hadn’t precisely understood her. So when his daughter, his lovely, motherless daughter, had started taking an interest in his paper and in his profession, he’d been relieved.

But now, as she beamed down at him with her hands blocking his way, he was relieved, as well.

Perhaps he hadn’t stifled her, after all.

“Let’s get dressed and go somewhere,” she said, circling the desk to lay her chin on top of her father’s head. “Save the cooking for a drearier night.”

“Is it an occasion?” Alfred searched his memory, wondering if he’d possibly missed something—her birthday… his birthday… Christmas?

It didn’t feel like Christmas.

An occasion? Lucia wondered. Was it an occasion? She felt like dancing, and that was an occasion. Someone had come before her writing, and that was an occasion.

Rob Wesley had agreed to take her to the masque after kissing her senseless, and that was absolutely an occasion.

Later, reality might set in, doubts and objectivity, but for now, she was giddy.

Rob had left her, his silence heavy, puzzled, befuddled, and somehow empowering, when she’d told him his article was finished. Part of her had hoped he would ask to read it, and part of her thrilled at how he was too addle-brained to ask.

She’d proofed the article after he’d gone, but didn’t remember changing a thing.

Everything had seemed perfect.

Now, with her arms around her father and her heart light, she knew everything was perfect.

It could be fleeting, of course, but what good thing wasn’t?

She’d hold onto it as best she could.

For now she had something brave and beautiful, and she didn’t intend to squander it.

~~~

He remembered walking home—sort of—though he certainly didn’t remember it very well. Rob had sort of… put one foot in front of the other, and thought of her lips opening under his, the way she tasted of cherries, the way she’d made a tiny little half-moaning, half-sighing noise as he really went for it, the way her hips had bumped against his before he’d stilled them with his hands.

Lucia Lovejoy, of all people.

He was having a hard time getting past it.

Though the night was cool, Rob was warm by the time he got to his house, tugging off the sweatshirt before he’d even shut the door behind him.

He’d always prided himself on not being like the chaps he played football with—the ones who, at the least provocation, would talk about what they’d done with whom, and be none too discreet about it. His teammates seemed obsessed with the fairer sex at times, and though Rob had never denied the appeal, he’d never quite seen how it was worth so much time, energy, and concentration.

He’d chosen datelessness for the last several years, and considered himself a better player for it, less distracted, less… sapped of energy.

But he was starting to wonder what he’d missed.

He grabbed the makings of a sandwich from the icebox, listening consideringly to the quietude of the house. His mum was off with her knitting group, no doubt, making something hideous for their use, and his father was probably poking around some market for old radios and the like. Gen was undoubtedly tutoring that horrifying Mallory git—he tried to rouse the anger but found he felt too damned good to do so—and so Rob had the house to himself, at least until his mum came home and insisted on fixing a supper, no matter how late.

Brushing the crumbs from his hands over the sink (with a sneaking glance over his shoulder to make sure his mum wasn’t about to clout him over the head for not using a plate), Rob headed back toward the front door.

He wanted to be somewhere else—or more to the point—with someone else. There wasn’t any particular reason he shouldn’t be.

~~~
They ended up compromising—a specialty of theirs, used in the rare occasions they didn’t see eye to eye—and got Thai take-out to eat while they availed one another of their latest journalistic endeavors. It never mattered to Alfred that his daughter wrote for her school paper—any writing was an accomplishment. When she’d been smaller, struggling to make her writing read precisely like his, he’d tweaked her nose and told her he’d be proud even if she wrote copy for biscuit tins.

But she’d done much better than that already, he noted as he reached for his glass of water once, twice, thrice before actually setting hand on it. Her article for the school paper was magnificent—if a bit biased.

He didn’t know what to think of his daughter’s infatuation; he only knew it had to be mighty clear and mighty strong to end up shining through in her writing.

But he’d always told her to write with her heart first and her head second, facts be damned.

It seemed she’d taken that advice to heart.

“It’s flawless,” he proclaimed, setting it on the desk, peering at it, then making one mark with his red pen. “Well, almost.”

Lucia smiled and ducked her head, trying to focus on her father’s editorial through eyes now wet with tears.

It didn’t matter how many times he showed he was proud of her. Every time was a surprise.

She got up to take her dirty plate to the kitchen, pausing as she heard something clatter against the front door. Silence followed, then another sharp click and a rolling rattle, an exasperated, half-voiced curse.

She at least had the good sense to set her plate down before opening the door, narrowly missing the small stone that whizzed by her head and rolled to a stop just beside her father’s study door.

“Sorry,” Rob said abashedly, letting the rest of the rocks in his hand fall to the ground. As casual gestures went, it was poor, indeed.

As touching gestures went, Lucia had never had better. “Hello, Robert,” she said, her frank guilelessness genuine rather than artful. “What are you doing?”

Dusk may have dimmed the blush, but it didn’t make him feel any better. He’d come to her house hoping to turn the tables, at least a little, and do something to surprise her. After all, every time he talked to her, she seemed to yank the rug out from under him and turn him completely upside-down.

The least he could do was surprise her by bouncing back so quickly.

He’d walked up to her house with the grand idea of tossing pebbles at her window, a silly, schoolboy thing to do that he’d never admit to anyone else, but when he’d picked up a few of the small, round stones from beside her walk, he’d realized…

He didn’t know which room was hers.

Throwing them at the door had seemed an okay idea, at least, but now it seemed a bit ludicrous.

He started to step toward the door, not exactly ready to start having loud, public proclamations right in the street in front of her house, and he stumbled over his feet, catching himself on the lamppost at the corner of the walk.

He expected her to giggle, to simper, to something, but instead she watched him coolly, her expression now a picture in vague concern. “Are you all right?”

She felt a little funny herself, she reasoned. Red-faced and short of breath and the like.

Perfectly natural signs of attraction, she told herself as she stepped down to meet him. Pheremonal reactions.

“I just… wanted to say goodbye a little better than I did… earlier… at the school,” Rob said haltingly, wondering now why he’d come. She made him feel the fool, and though he was starting to be certain she didn’t mean to, it wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

“I thought you said goodbye just fine,” Lucia said, smiling up at him. He was such a gentleman… when he put his mind to it. “You’re welcome to come in and meet him. Or is that not social protocol?” She frowned and tapped her fingers against her side. “I’m rather bad at that.”

“Ah…” Meet her father? Rob wasn’t a coward by any means, but he wasn’t likely to go cavorting right into the lion’s den, either. “You know, I was mostly… in the neighborhood.”

It sounded plausible.

But when she stared at him in such a way that Rob found he could attribute literally hundreds of female emotions to the expression, he figured he should probably elaborate.

He was sinking, and his best course of action was complete and absolute honesty.

“I like you,” he said simply. “And could we make this as unconfusing as possible?”

“Unconfusing is not a word,” she stated, her brows drawing together. “Though context and syntax do give me a good idea of what you mean.”

He blew out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a cry for help.

“That’s what I’m talking about. Confusing. I’m no good at this, so I just thought I’d tell you that up front. And I hope you’re not goin’ to get all girly on me, ‘cause chances are, I’m going to muck it up sooner rather’n later, and if you get all girly on me, I’ll not know how to deal with it.”

It could hardly be beaten for sheer, untarnished truthfulness.

“I don’t know how to be girly,” Lucia stated. “But for what it’s worth, I like you, too. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have allowed you to kiss me. Though you really are a nice kisser.”

She couldn’t have hooked him any more effectively if she’d tried. There was something just a little addictive about hearing a woman contend in a nice, rational, factual, convinced voice that you were a nice kisser.

So he kissed her again just to prove her right and whispered “Good night” in her ear, more satisfied than he had a right to be when he walked back toward his home, knowing her eyes were on his back.

Now that felt like turning the tables and giving a proper goodbye.

11. When Things Grow Thin

**Author’s Note: A bit shorter of a chapter than I’m used to posting, but for now, it feels right, and I’ve kept you waiting too long. Life has been hectic lately, and work, and everything, so my apologies. Also, a little credit to Stephen King for a concept—the world growing thin. Enjoy, go read.**

CHAPTER ELEVEN- When Things Grow Thin

He wasn’t really an observant chap to begin with—not in this world or the other—so it was no real surprise that Rob Wesley failed to notice things around him. His mind was a bit addled, after all, filled with her and her raspberry scent and the silk of her hair tickling his face.

He didn’t notice his sister’s absences, longer and more frequent, the languid, loose-limbed look about her, like a woman well-loved. Had he noticed it, he’d likely have tried to put a stop to it, and altered her life—and his—greatly.

He also didn’t notice how his word had started to change, how in places it felt downright thin. If the neatly painted and ever-flawless walls of Holforth briefly shimmered into ancient stones, he took no notice. If the football he held between his hands took on a different color, a different shape, indented and curiously heavy, he took no note.

All he observed was her.

And for him, it was enough.

~~~
It had been days—only a few, though it felt like more to Lucia—since she’d asked him to the masque. She’d kept it to herself, not knowing exactly why, only feeling that she should.

After all, boys like Rob Wesley didn’t go to masques with odd ducks like Lovey, no matter how just that morning before jogging off to the field, he’d stood with her behind the stands and pressed his lips tentatively to the spot just under her ear, making her stomach plummet to the ground.

No matter those things, she kept it to herself.

Because deep down, she thought saying it out loud would jinx it, would hex things.

She thought saying it out loud would make her carriage turn into a pumpkin.

Now, as she watched him at his afternoon practice, just wanting a single glance before she headed home, Lucia couldn’t quite get herself to focus, to concentrate on him.

Because every time she looked at him, she saw a spinning room, a flaming X on a door she seemed to know, and she saw Rob’s head bent next to a raven one—

But she couldn’t seem to get any farther than that.

She didn’t dismiss it, not in a million years would Lucia ever shrug something off as insignificant, but she let it slide away for the moment.

If she didn’t immediately know what it was, she might later.

For now, she was content to take one last look and head to her home.

~~~

He was disappointed. It was hard not to be, really; he’d made it all the way through practice hoping she’d be there waiting for him, but she wasn’t.

The rational part of Rob Wesley—the same part that had asked Lucia to make things as unconfusing as possible—understood why she was gone. It was a school night, they both had lessons, her father would be expecting her.

But the irrational part of him—the same part that had kissed her in the first place, the part he was learning to like a hell of a lot—still wished she was there.

He’d tried to puzzle it out all day Tuesday and most of Wednesday, then he’d simply… tossed it out. If something didn’t make sense, he’d just give up. It was his nature, no matter how many times his Mum had clouted him over the head for not doing a particular problem on an assignment or not fully thinking before he’d said or done something.

He liked life to be black and white, and more often than not, he tried to make it that way.

Perhaps Lovey was his bit of color.

It was easier to think of her, after all, than to think of what Ginny had breezily told him and their mother on the way out the door that morning.

“Drake Mallory’s coming to dinner tomorrow night, hope you don’t mind,” she’d said, just as neat as you please, just as though she were saying the sun was shining.

And their mother, for God’s sake, hadn’t said anything but “Well, that’s wonderful, honey, I’ll set another plate.”

The whole world was going dotty.

He wished he’d had the presence of mind—or the courage—to ask Lucia to come, but he wasn’t about to subject her to the night of torture that supper with a Mallory was likely to be.

And didn’t just a teeny tiny part of him suggest he wasn’t really ready to have her there, with his family, at his house, sitting across from him at the worn table?

Maybe just a teeny tiny part.

~~~
“This doesn’t look like working on the newspaper.” He sat down beside her on a narrow wooden bleacher and looked out at the football field instead of looking at her. He so rarely got to see it from this angle, and besides—his mother had told him more than once it was rude to stare.

He wanted to look sidelong at her but didn’t, wanted to tell her he’d thought of her the evening before but didn’t.

Instead, he simply sat where he was and they looked out over the field in silence.

She smiled a bit at his greeting and felt her hand tense slightly in her lap. She wanted to reach across and slide her hand into his, but didn’t. She wanted to simply lay her head on his shoulder, but didn’t.

She wanted to open her mouth and let the story spill out, and perhaps a few tears with it, but she didn’t.

She’d gone home the evening before as she’d intended, full of thoughts of him, but with dread lurking somewhere in the background. The date had been imprinted on her mind years before, first as a reason for making silly little cards and presents, then as a reminder of her father’s grief, the grief he hid so well most of the time.

Seven years before, the evening had been spent exchanging gifts and cooking everyone’s favorite dishes, the wedding anniversary marked the same way every year. Every year, Lucia’s parents had tried to cook for one another, every year, they had included her, and every year, the food ended up burned or ruined or only halfway palatable.

And every year, the love was so evident that Lucia never questioned it.

And for the past six years, the house had been silent, save for her father’s memories clinging in the air, and occasionally, as there had been last night, the sound of him talking to his departed wife as he tried to go to sleep.

And in her own room, Lucia had stared at the ceiling and wondered about the weakness that came when you split yourself in half and gave that half to someone else, asking for theirs in return.

When they left, they took their half back—but never returned yours.

It seemed foolish and unfair, and though she’d worked hard to keep the pettiness from touching her memories of her mother, there were times when she couldn’t help it.

So she sat silently, looking out across the field, and took both comfort and despair in his presence next to her.

And wondered if she’d made a mistake.

12. Regaining the Past

**Author’s Note: A bit of a short chapter, as things have been crazy on my end. But rest assured, there will be more soon. Happy reading!!*

CHAPTER TWELVE- Regaining the Past

He may not have been the smartest person in his classes, and he may not have been the first one to come up with a clever answer or retort, but Rob knew there was something wrong with Lucia. She was, after all, the one thing he really was trying to keep an eye on these days.

At first he thought she was just quiet, sitting beside him in the stands, looking contemplatively out on the fields he most often spent his time on, where he’d had most of his strongest emotions. Victory, loss, strength, weakness, joy, even an inanimate sort of love.

Sitting beside her, he thought he could feel them all, mixed and layered and confusing and wonderful.

Then she stood up and given him an absent (sad? Did it look sad?) smile.

“I have to go to class. Today’s the day, you know—the class reads my article.” Lucia searched his eyes for the flash of unease she’d come to expect, his reluctance for exposure. But there was not so much as a flinch, confirming what she suspected. He trusted her. She’d given him no other choice, and now she wished he would have resisted.

She wanted her objectivity back, but she wouldn’t hurt him to get it.

So she ruffled his hair, giving into that one small urge, to touch those unruly red locks, and she stepped down the bleachers away from him, not once looking back.

She paused for a moment at the bottom, the sun and the football field at her face, Rob at her back, and as he looked at both—Lucia and field, backlit by the yellow-white morning light, something clicked in his mind, and he thought Ah, there it is.

But she did not stop. She kept moving, breaking the picture and making him wonder what, exactly, had changed.

~~~
The class was too quiet.

It wasn’t that she thought they’d dislike her article—there was really nothing for them to dislike. Her toughest critic had pushed it back to her over his wide desk, smiling down at his daughter with pure and honest pride, so she knew there was nothing to criticize.

But the quiet gave her too much leeway to think.

Rationally speaking, she surmised her current funk would pass.

The only problem was, she had no particular frame of reference. She’d never been with someone before, and she’d certainly never had to deal with her own set of emotions while trying to deal with the dissected, shattered emotions of the remnants of her family.

The silence was broken when someone snickered. Lucia glanced up, unsurprised to find it was the same girl who had ridiculed the idea of an article about Rob.

“Well, this is rather flowery, isn’t it?” she asked snidely, crossing her arms over her chest. “You know, I have classes with Rob Wesley, and he’s certainly not all you’re making him out to be.”

Connor glanced from the clearly jealous girl to Lucia, wondering what she’d say. He’d found out some time ago that being the lone male in a group of females gave you several options—he’d taken the option of being silent most of the time, and he found in being silent, he found out a lot.

So what Lucia did next surprised him greatly, in light of what he’d surmised in his silence.

She said nothing. She didn’t defend herself, didn’t defend her article, and most surprisingly, didn’t defend Robert.

She shrugged and looked back down at her notebook.

But it didn’t feel objective to Lucia. It simply felt cruel.

She sat still for a few more minutes—how many was it? Two? Ten? Ten thousand? When she could take it no longer, she looked up at the newspaper advisor.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, and did not wait for an answer before bolting for the bathroom.

~~~

He waited for her as long as he could, until the coach was yelling at him and the other players were miming checking their watches.

Rob ran onto the field, trying to push it all aside for the sake of the game. She’d probably gotten caught up in something, or just wandered home, not thinking. And it wasn’t as though it was any big deal, was it?

No, it was no big deal at all.

So what was different about today than any other day?

Well, she turned in her article today, he thought, absently kicking aside a poorly-placed shot.

That thought sent a noise through his brain, sharp and shrill and altogether unpleasant. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, Rob forgot where he was.

Cover the rings, he thought fuzzily. Fly left to right, fake them out—

A ball flew by him, jouncing the net and catching his attention. His thoughts split into a triad then, to football, to Lucia, and to… his brain tried to call up the word, call up the game he’d been thinking about, some imaginary, dream-wrought game…

“Wesley, pick it up!” the coach roared.

And the fantastical game slipped from his grasp.

So why should she need you anymore? The odd little voice—was that really him? Rob wondered—insinuated, sounding just millimeters away from snickering.

And the completed thought hit him just as he caught a ball, its impact driving into the hard muscles of his stomach—it was harder to say which took more breath from him.

If she’s done with her article, what does she need from you?

He hated himself for that thought, hated himself for that doubt—both in himself and in her.

But it wouldn’t go away.

Rob thought he might have a few questions of his own.

But for now—

Well, he’d done just fine playing football before she’d come along, and he intended to do just fine after.

~~~

Albus Dumbledore hadn’t expected that bringing people together in harmony would cause him so much dissonance.

Not only had he invested a great deal of time and energy holding up the elaborate glamour he’d crafted for his dear students, but he was no forced to expend even more time and energy waving his meddlesome faculty away.

Yes, they meant well, but the old wizard had made it for years and years without a score of mother hens—the image of Severus in chicken feathers did hearten him a bit, though—and he thought he could make it quite well now.

If only his students weren’t so continuously Hippogriff-headed.

The Malfoy boy and the Weasley girl—now there was a couple making progress. Dumbledore sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, promising himself he was just resting them, he wasn’t going to nap, no matter how tired he’d been lately, how awfully tired…

He yawned as he thought about how sparks would start flaring from the Gryffindor and Slytherin counterparts any time, red and green sparks. But Ron Weasley and Luna Lovegood—well, it was almost beyond his not inconsiderable powers to do anything about them.

They were more like embers, but a good strong wind would blow them out.

So he thought he would let them be for the time being, just let them be…

While he rested his eyes.

Fawkes kept an eye on the door, ready to raise the wake-up call if anyone would entreat.

13. Cowardice and Timing

CHAPTER THIRTEEN – Cowardice and Timing

She worried about what she would tell her father upon coming home from school early the day before, but as it turned out, he didn’t even notice. Alfred Lovejoy never quite bounced back in one day; if the man went down, he went down hard, and he sat in his office, staring at one article for the better part of four hours before going outside, taking a walk, and talking to his wife, staring at the clouds.

And though he felt a great deal better when he returned, he didn’t know his daughter was in her room, trying to write herself to sleep at two o’clock in the afternoon.

She started out writing about her mother, asking herself the questions she asked herself every year—what was her mother’s name, how did her mother look, how did her mother’s voice sound? She needed these questions, and more importantly, needed to know she knew the answers to them.

But somehow, once she answered her own questions, she found herself writing about Rob.

When she finally emerged from her room in time to fix a cold supper for herself and her father, it was well into the evening, and she hadn’t slept a wink. But she had come to a few unsettling conclusions.

One was that she had written more about Robert than she had about her mother.

Another was that she’d been rude to Rob that morning, purposely or no. There was no excuse for such distance, no reason.

The last thing she realized was that she was being a bloody coward. She hated that part of herself, that cringing, hiding part of herself who reveled in her weirdness simply because it was a means to hide. A means not to live.

She sat the sandwich down in front of her father and spoke while she still had his attention.

“Do you ever wish you hadn’t met mother?”

There was no hesitation, no absence, no forgetfulness, no hiding in his eyes when he looked at her. This time, he was really paying attention, because Alfred Lovejoy hated cowardice just as much as his daughter did.

“No,” he said simply, forthrightly. “Because that, love, would be completely ridiculous and ridiculously wasteful. Death means nothing when compared to what precedes it. Disappointment means nothing compared to the hope that comes before it.”

~~~

He slept poorly and dreamed vividly—a beautiful train materializing where there was no platform, a blond head ducked behind an upside-down magazine, a dark-haired boy with serious, vibrant green eyes, a curly-haired girl with her hands on her hips—

And through it all, a wistful blonde with big, pensive eyes focused on him, paired with a feeling in the pit of his stomach, akin to butterflies—

He jerked awake from a jarring scene with a giant chess board, broken pieces, a sense of impending danger.

Rob sat up in bed, breathing so hard he choked for a moment, his fists clenching in the sheets. He put the heels of his hands to his forehead, trying to clear his mind. “Stressed out a bit, eh?” he asked himself, his voice shaking. It was school, he reckoned, tests and lessons and football games.

And Lucia. Of course, Lucia and all her bloody questions. She’d disappeared sometime the day before—(just after she turned in her article, he reminded himself glumly)—and he hadn’t seen her since.

And people wondered why he preferred to spend his time alone. His own company might be dull, but it was at least safe.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Rob looked at the clock and knew he’d never go back to sleep.

He’d lost too much training time the last week, so he’d just go and make it up.

~~~
His mouth was set in an uncharacteristically hard line, his posture tense as he strode down the hall.

Rob Wesley, it seemed, had little to be happy about. Hew as going to have to sit through supper with that monumentally unparalleled git Drake Mallory, who Rob was strongly starting to suspect was sniffing around his sister; his team had absolutely no motivation or interest in the next day’s game, as he’d been the only one training that morning. And Lucia Lovejoy—well, Lucia had more likely than not taken his story and ran for the hills.

So she was the only person—and somehow the last person—he wanted to see obscuring his path in the middle of the hall before first bell. He’d worked himself to the point of exhaustion already that morning, hoping it would take his mind off her and those inexplicable dreams. But all it did was let his guard down, so when he saw her, she was completely incapable of saying a word. He merely looked at her, his eyes big and questioning as she looked back at him with the same expression.

And yet, no matter how much it was needed, there was no chance for words.

“Captain!”

Both Rob and Lucia jerked at the boisterous voice filling the hall, breaking eye contact and standing away from one another as if by instinct, unable to stand side by side.

Rob looked at the several members of his team approaching him with something very close to exasperation. “Trained this morning,” he said matter-of-factly. It sounded stupid when phrased like that. Why couldn’t he just speak up and tell them to get their arses in gear and take a little bloody initiative?

Because he thought it his responsibility to play well enough for the whole team.

“Great,” the first year who had so fawned over him said, bobbing up and down on his toes and thrusting a large garment bag at Rob. “The guys said to give this to you.”

“The guys” apparently referred to the upperclassmen in the back of the throng—good enough blokes as far as football went, but a bit hard to tolerate off the field. They stood with foolish grins and arms crossed over their chests, and Rob felt impatient and embarrassed and acutely aware of his not-girlfriend standing just behind him.

“What’s all this, then?” he asked, terribly discomfited.

“It’s for the masque!” the first-year exclaimed, all too happy to divulge the idiocy of it all. “Holforth tradition dictates we get to pick your costume.”

“Now all you need is to find a date,” another teammate piped up, staring critically at Lucia.

She felt her cheeks burn but found she couldn’t speak. She hadn’t even mentioned Rob or the masque to Gen, how was she about to defend herself—or Rob—in front of his teammates?

A beat of silence passed, and Rob wondered if she’d say anything or if he was supposed to (she was the one who asked, he thought irritably, she can speak up) and suddenly he was annoyed with her for her silence and for not telling anyone and for chatting his ear off one day and leaving him empty-handed the next.

“Yeah, well,” he said nonchalantly, “I thought I had one.”

And this seemed to be enough for his team, who laughed and pushed and crowded down the hall, leaving him standing with a garment bag in his hands and that feeling of her behind him, her disappointment matching somewhere right along his.

She wanted to be angry that he hadn’t said anything, but how could she?

It would only be more cowardice.

“Rob,” she said, reaching out a hand to him, stung when he jerked away, the heavy bag draped over his arms.

He looked angry now, and tired, and confused, and she wondered if that could possibly be all her fault, or even partly her fault, and how could she feel a small gladness at that? At her power over him?

It bore thinking on.

“Your timing is bloody spectacular,” he said stiffly.

He’d known something was the matter the day before, had known it in his heart, and now, seeing her dejected before him, he knew it with more certainty.

And that certainty made him ache, and in aching, he grew more frustrated.

He leaned down and looked her in the eye. “You can ask me all the questions in the world you want,” he said, his arms moving unknowingly to crumple the garment bag to his chest, “But until you start making statements instead of asking questions, I can’t tell what’s wrong with you.”

He walked down the hallway, and without turning around, he added, “I can’t tell what’s wrong with us.”

She stood in the spot where he’d left her even after first bell rang, and wondered how she could be even remotely pleased that he was upset.

He’d called them “us.”

Things couldn’t be too wrong.

14. In Which Dinner Isnt Black Tie

**Author’s Note: Firstly, due apologies for the shortness of the chapters. If only I could explain with words how positively harried my life has been lately, and how I’ve been struggling creatively. However, here is a chapter. Yes, it’s a little silly, and the fun of it is, it’s supposed to be. The ending of this chapter—also a little silly, and very Muggle, and that’s why I love it. You’ll see what I mean, but I think you’ll have a hard time saying it doesn’t fit Rob Wesley to a tee. Hehe… happy reading**

CHAPTER FOURTEEN- In Which Dinner Isn’t Black Tie

He’d tried to hold onto that anger all day, insisting to himself he’d need it to survive the day’s classes, to survive the short practice after school, and to survive supper with Drake Mallory. Whether or not Mallory himself survived, Rob didn’t much care.

But frustration or no, anger or no, as the day passed by (some moments too slowly, like arithmetic lecture, and some too quickly, like the timed history quiz), Rob found himself regretting his treatment. He should have asked if she was okay. That was the right thing to do. But he’d been so relieved to see her, relieved and confused and puzzled at the depth of his emotions, he’d just gotten cross with himself and his incompetence.

Part of him worried about her article, which would likely be printed the next Friday, what it would say, how it would sound.

But most of him didn’t care about the article itself; he mostly wanted to know he’d see her again once she was done with it.

Well, seen her he had, and he’d bollocksed it all up.

Rob Wesley, he with five brothers and one sister, didn’t know how to handle women, specifically one as idiosyncratic as Lovey, and no amount of classes or football strategy was going to change that.

All he wanted to know was that she was okay, and that they were okay.

~~~

She watched him practice from outside the field, standing in a spot where she could easily see without being easily seen.

That felt apropos to her, to her whole life. After all, where did Lucia Lovejoy fit among the social butterflies and the athletes? Where did she belong among families and normal people?

She didn’t mind, really—as a reporter, it had benefited her to have that unerring outside eye. But…

But until you start making statements instead of asking questions, I can’t tell what’s wrong with you.

She supposed there was a time when she’d have to let people get to know her, as well. It was a fair way to do things.

She felt her stomach do a long, pleasant roll as Rob leapt into the air, curling his body around a ball midair. And rational Lucia knew it wasn’t about fair or unfair, or even making a choice. Some people had a way of getting to you whether you let them or not. The team called practice early, the few wind-carried words telling Lucia it was because of their game the next day.

Rob hadn’t mentioned a game.

But then again, Rob wasn’t happy with her. No, he’d gone back to how he’d been before: tense, impatient, but now with a keen light in his eye that made her feel a little weak-kneed.

A little irrational.

She wanted to run, to head home without seeing him, for the sake of her sanity, her privacy, her independence.

But going home wouldn’t change that she’d already left part of herself there. So she waited for him, banding her hair back to keep it from tangling in the wind, trying to be practical. Rob surely wanted practical, yes? Practical and unconfusing.

Rob slung his bag over his shoulder, stutter-stepped toward the showers, then shook his head and continued on his way. Early practice at least allowed him time to shower at home before sitting down with that walking dysfunction Mallory.

Besides, he felt rushed, as though there was something more urgent than stepping into the big, tepid community shower. When he came around the corner and caught sight of her, he thought he’d found his matter of import.

“Lovey,” he said matter-of-factly. Good, good, keep it light, casual. “How are you?” He stepped to her side, pausing for only the barest moment to give her the signal that he was going to keep walking. He couldn’t stop or his fingers would start to itch, and he’d just have to soothe them by putting them in those yards of pale hair.

She thought carefully before answering, falling into step with him and admiring a spectacularly shaded bruise on his calf. “I’m well. You’re looking well.” There. No questions in that exchange.

He snorted, looking sidelong at her. “I’m filthy, bruised, sweaty, and I was an arse to you… again. I doubt I’m looking well.” But he was certainly pleased to hear her say it in this odd moment, this mixture of comfort and discomfort.

Lucia smiled genuinely at his candor, unable to help herself. “You always look well to me.” She stopped then, put her fingertips to the crook of his elbow, feeling the heat there, the tug as he stopped to look down at her. “You weren’t at fault, you know. It’s only that I was scared.”

It sounded silly when it all boiled down to “I was scared.” Three words, and she’d wanted to push him away for them.

His brow furrowed comically, confusion writ clearly on his features. “Scared of what?”

Was there a good way to explain it to him? She thought not. Not just now, at least, when she wanted to answer a question with a question, when she didn’t want to tell him what was on her mind. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” she said instead, hoping it was just honest enough. “And you… well, you’re you.”

Simple, to the point. Succinct, her father would have said, tapping it with his red pen. The simplicity of the last sentence would have made it a good closer. She needed to stop thinking of life as an article, though.

Rob put his hand to her cheek. “I’m not scary,” he said finally. “Well, perhaps if you get me behind the wheel of an auto, I’m a bit of a fright. And first thing in the morning, the hair’s really a bit of a screamer.” He grinned then, pleased with himself and flooded with relief at the simple contact. “But other than that…” He trailed off, shuffling his feet nervously and wondering if it would be untoward to fall back into the barely-formed habit of kissing her.

Then he caught a glimpse of the small watch clipped to her bag.

“Bugger!” he yelled, jumping and causing her to jump. His face turned bright red and he looked wild-eyed at her face, then at his watch. “Not you,” he said desperately. “It’s just… I thought I had more time than I have. Damn it!”

“You’re late.” Even now, as he was panicking and backing away from her in the direction of his house, she phrased it as a statement and not a question.

“Supper with Drake Mallory,” he spat, backstepping down the sidewalk and looking at her forlornly. “Gen invited him, the crazy bird.”

She raised her voice, trying to walk faster to keep up with him. “You underestimate him, Rob.” Gen had been happy lately—Lucia may have had her head in the clouds, but she’d noticed that. He looked dumbfounded, so she added, “And you underestimate yourself.”

That stopped him, and he jogged back to her, cupping his hand to the back of her head and looking down at her. Then, without a word, he slipped the band from her hair and grinned, a quick flash of dimples and teeth, and turned and ran away from her toward his house.

~~~

He wished she were there with him.

It was his own fault, he knew, but hindsight was rarely ever wrong, and this particular hindsight was making Rob Wesley wish he’d invited Lucia to dinner. Granted, he hadn’t exactly let on to anyone that he was even talking to her, but…

He knew he could have brought her to dinner, and while his parents would have been surprised, and Ginny certainly would have been shocked, no one would have turned her away. They hadn’t turned away a bloody Mallory, after all.

Rob snuck another glance at the fair-haired boy across the table and scowled. What had Lovey meant, underestimating him? There was nothing about the git to underestimate, except perhaps for the way he’d clearly seemed to pull the wool over the eyes of Rob’s entire family, especially Genevieve. The two were paying more attention to one another then they were to their food, and the hell of it was, no one but Rob seemed to notice.

Granted, his nerves might have been a little on edge, and narrowing his eyes at Mallory, Rob wondered if like recognized like—after all, being a little… frustrated over Lucia might very well lead him to other conclusions.

He damned well hoped those weren’t the conclusions to be had, though. In Rob’s opinion, if Mallory was thinking about Gen in any way similar to how he’d been thinking about Lucia—well, a football wasn’t the only thing Rob could kick, in that event.

And besides, the pigment-challenged freak was sitting right bloody next to him. Surely he could manage to stab him with a fork before anyone—

“Robert, Drake is asking for the salt,” Mrs. Wesley insisted loudly, watching with amused eyes as her son’s ears turned red from the pains it took to be polite.

She had such obedient children.

Thinking such, she edged her serving spoon closer in case of disciplinary needs.

By the end of the meal, Rob had only gotten a blow to the wrist once with that bloody spoon, but that was surely once more than if he’d not have had to eat with—

“Robert Wesley, will you listen to me for once?” His mum was hovering over him, hands on hips, a dishtowel hanging from one. “I found a garment bag balled up in your duffel. There was a tuxedo in there, Robert. Wadded into a ball.”

“A wha?” He hadn’t even noticed Gen get up to escort Mallory out, so intent had he been on trying to pinpoint what, precisely, about the two of them bothered him. “A tuxedo?”

“Isn’t my wedding tux, is it?” his father piped up. “Seem to have misplaced that.”

In the manner of long habit, his wife ignored him and focused on her son. “A garment bag with a tuxedo inside. Surely you didn’t steal it, you have to know where it came from.”

“The team got it,” Rob said distantly, trying to think of why they’d have gotten a tuxedo. It was a masque, for God’s sake, he needed a costume, not a penguin suit. As he looked into the living room where his mother had hung the abused suit, he groaned.

A white note card was pinned to the garment bag, and his mum had likely mistook it for a cleaners’ number.

007.

Rob was going to have to find a way to turn Lucia into a Bond girl.

15. Winning and Losing

CHAPTER FIFTEEN- Winning and Losing

It all fell away.

There was no way of explaining it in words, and if Rob and Lucia had ever bothered to talk about football, she’d have undoubtedly been puzzled at his lack of verbiage to describe the game he loved so well.

But there were simply not words.

From a tot on, he’d lived the game—eat, sleep, breathe—he’d even had his bedroom covered in pictures of his favorite team. And from the moment he’d been able to choose for himself, Rob Wesley had always favored the underdog.

But even those years of devotion to the teams and the sport fell away when Rob himself got on the field in a real game. He would not have been able to explain the difference between a practice and a match, only that there truly was a difference, and a great one.

He may have been angry with his sister the night before, ready to throttle Drake Mallory, confused and elated in turns about Lucia, and totally despondent over his team’s choice for a masque costume, but none of that mattered now.

Now it was all about Rob and how he planned to defend what was his and his team’s.

When the game ended, Rob felt as though only moments had passed—minutes, perhaps, but not hours. He didn’t feel those long moments, not yet. There was no burn in his muscles, no weariness in his joints, only pure adrenaline.

Lucia sat in the uppermost level of the stands, her hands clasped between her knees as she alternately prayed for his safety and for his saves. He was magnificent, but she already knew that.

As his teammates gathered around him, celebratory and laudatory, hooting like the bunch of teenaged boys they were, Lucia stepped down the stands and slipped away from the school, knowing full well there would be no clichéd look up to the stands from him; football was in his blood for the moment, and she fully understood that. She’d not have noticed if Rob himself had landed on her desk if she was well and truly into her writing.

So, with the sounds of their victory—his victory—behind her, Lucia walked home with a smile on her face.

The underdog had done quite well, she thought.

Her underdog.

~~~

He showered despite his discomfort—it was just bloody difficult to try and shower with a cadre of teammates slapping your back when you were all mother-naked in a communal shower.

But really, it felt damned good to have won, and by so great a margin. There could be no fault with his game that day, and he could find no fault with his team’s performance. There would be no extra practices this weekend, only celebration.

“My house!” one of the older teammates shouted, banging on the lockers as he ran down the row and back. “First game of the season deserves a bit of a bender, eh?”

Rob could only grin in agreement and let the wave sweep him along.

Everything fell away.

~~~

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

He was having a positively lovely dream… about flying, of all things, and he seemed to be playing football in the air.

“Get up, you great prat!”

Perhaps it was a great deal more complicated than football. There really seemed to be more than one ball, which made him want to panic a little. After all, it was hard enough to keep one ball out of the—

—rings—

— net, but more than one?

“You are blocking the door!”

Something rolled him over, and Rob’s head smacked soundly into something hard and wooden. He jerked, flailing his arms, and knocked his sister squarely in the chin.

“Oh, you bloody fucking—”

His guttural moan cut her off. He felt as though he’d been dunked in a barrel of nails several times, eyes-first. As he sat up, Rob decided it was likely a few of those nails had actually slipped inside his ears… making their way to his brain.

Buggering nails.

“Ginny…” he rasped, holding up a hand. “I am dying.”

“You’re so hung over you’ve forgotten my name?” Genevieve’s shrill voice was doing positively nothing for those penny nails sliding through his cranium. In fact, Rob was fairly certain the keening complaint had actually dislodged a few of the pointy buggers and sent them careening to as-yet uncharted corners of his skull.

“Mercy?” he asked, pleased with the question. He wasn’t too far gone, then, if he could coherently… sort of… ask for mercy, right?

“Ohhhh, you so cannot tell Mum about that night with Drake now,” Gen said, and though Rob had since squeezed his eyes shut in self-defense, he could actually hear that his sister’s arms were crossed.

Remarkable.

“What time is it?” One syllable words, minimal lip movement. He commended himself once more and struggled into a sitting position.

“It’s 3 in the morning, Sunday. Wonderful way to spend the Lord’s day, love. Positively reverent.” Gen grabbed him under the armpits and moved him toward the couch, glad he’d grown tall but not bulky. It would have been ever so much harder if he’d been built like Charlie.

He provided a welcome distraction for her. She’d been on her way to the kitchen to make herself warm milk, troubled by dark dreams inhabited by a fair-faced, black-souled boy and the sound of a massive snake. She’d hardly slept at all, and when she’d seen Rob slumped in the doorway—poor git—she figured both their misery could use a little company. He’d been gone since the game, not even their parents had gotten the opportunity to talk to him.

But they’d parented five other boys, so it was well they knew what behavior to expect. A team full of boys getting a little buzzed on watered-down brew wasn’t going to hurt anyone, especially considering none of them would be let within a mile of a set of auto keys.

She headed for the kitchen, ready to make him a cup of tea and herself that warm milk, but she saw he’d fallen asleep.

Gen covered him up before she went back to bed.

~~~

Less than a week. Sunday through Thursday… definitely less than a week.

For a young woman as resourceful as Lucia Lovejoy, five day seemed plenty of time to gather a costume and await the printing of an article she’d poured her heart and soul into.

But it wouldn’t be just any costume, she knew, and it wasn’t just any article.

Beyond that, she didn’t feel she needed to offer any rationale. But the truth of the matter was, it was becoming hard to concentrate. Her waking moments as well as her moments of repose were filled with strange images she couldn’t quite comprehend, but wasn’t quite ready to discard.

Large, equine-looking creatures pulling carriages marched through some of these dreams; in others, Gen and Connor and Drake Mallory and Rob were all walking through stone corridors, but never together. A long red train wound its way through her daydreams, spouting off great gouts of steam as laden carts rolled down its halls.

These were the things wonderful stories could be made of, if only she could grasp them fully, and if only she could bring herself to write about them. But they felt so real, Lucia was reluctant to touch them with a pen. It was almost as if they belonged somewhere else, not on a piece of paper. So she left them alone, knowing her concentration was suffering, but not quite ready to confront the reasons why.

She’d come up with some sort of costume, just as soon as she knew what Rob was going to be.

~~~
“007.” He looked up at her through his eyelashes, gauging her reaction. “I swear it, Lovey, I’m not making it up.” Rob toyed with her fingertips, leaning back against his locker and looking at her through new eyes.

Most Mondays just felt treacherous. This one felt wonderful. He’d won a game, then he’d nearly died of the most murderous hangover imaginable. Rob felt he’d gotten a new lease on life. With his sister’s voice hammering nails into his cerebrum, Rob hadn’t really ever expected to see Lucia again.

Now that he was seeing her, he felt wonderful, if a bit guilty. It didn’t matter how much she told him she’d been fine all weekend, he wished he’d thought to see her.

He’d just have to write himself a note next time, that was all.

“I believe you,” Lucia said, wanting to cuddle into him like a cat. He felt wonderful and shy and forward all at once, and damn it all, she’d missed him that weekend, no matter how much she’d pretended she didn’t. “Well, you looked very capable of saving the world Saturday,” she said proudly, no trace of hesitance to her tone. “I think it’s a wonderful idea. I’ll find something to go along with it.” At his skeptical look, she laughed lightly, patting his cheek. “Oh ye of little faith,” she said. “I’ve class to get to.”

And because they’d been interrupted on Friday, she leaned up and kissed him, soft and quick, a brush over his lips, and walked down the hall satisfied with herself and knowing full well he was watching her go.

She had to restrain herself from adding a little jump of joy.

~~~

“Here, Lovey, thought you might want to read this.”

She’d been trying to write out a few of her thoughts—trains, singing hats, a castle—just to see if they sounded as fascinating on paper as they looked in her mind. The last hour of the day was a study session for Lucia, one she often used to hand out the Holforth Herald on its print days.

It wasn’t a print day—print day wasn’t until Friday—and she had a paper sitting right in front of her.

“Sports supplement.” The girl—the same one who was constantly challenging Lucia in newspaper… and what was her name, exactly? Lucia cursed herself for not remembering, for not paying attention to someone other than Rob for once—smiled sweetly, the saccharine so poisoned Lucia nearly gagged. “Covering the football game this weekend, and the wonderful captain who led them to their win. Were you there? I didn’t even see you.”

“I was there,” Lucia said quietly, touching her fingertips to the photograph of Rob on the front page, the tiny dots that made up the moment of him jumping in the air as the game came to a close. “You’re trying to scoop me,” she finally said, looking up at the girl. “Why would you even bother?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” was the clichéd answer the girl gave, and as she flipped back her perky little ponytail, it struck Lucia that this was the kind of girl Rob’s teammates undoubtedly saw him with.

This girl wouldn’t have to think twice about how to be a Bond girl.

“It’s a personality profile,” Lucia finally said, standing and looking the girl in the eye. Blast if she could remember her name, but Lucia would be damned if she really cared.

Someone like this didn’t deserve a name.

“If you’ve nothing better to scoop than a feature, then I think I should feel sorry for you.” Lucia gathered her books, tucked the paper on top of them, and hoped they were as close to last bell as she thought they were. She simply couldn’t stand still, so eager was she to read what this cannibal had written. But she couldn’t do it here, not in public. Not in front of her.

What would Father do? She asked herself the question over and over, simply staring unflinchingly at her adversary while waiting for that bell. When it finally rang, Lucia wasn’t the first to move. She stood her ground and waited for the young woman to slink away.

When she finally walked into the hallway, she saw Rob standing among all of his teammates…

And every one of them was waving a copy of the supplement.

16. Papers and Planning

CHAPTER SIXTEEN – Papers and Planning

Lucia shrunk back before he could see her, terrified of what might have been hidden in the newsprint she held in her hands. Ducking around a corner, she stood with her back to the wall, unfolding the paper and letting her eyes skip the too-large headline even though she couldn’t quite seem to skip over the large picture of Rob, the tiny dots that made up his face, the grass, and the goal behind him.

When she was finally able to focus on the article, she felt a dual moment of relief and heartsickness.

It wasn’t derogatory, and Lucia thought she should be primarily grateful for that. No, the student editor who had scoffed at the idea of Rob as news only days before had written a very glowing article about Rob Wesley, with hardly a mention of the team that helped him win the game.

And the caption under the photo grated worst of all: Rob Wesley, Holforth’s Most Eligible Athlete.

Eligible.

She supposed it was true, all things considered, but the fact that she’d been scooped mingled far too easily with the fact that, like the article, Rob wasn’t entirely in her grasp.

Or even at her fingertips. Closing her eyes, she could feel his fingers on hers, and her heart gave a thick, mournful bump. Why couldn’t she just be normal? Why couldn’t she just… walk out there and stand beside him?

Why couldn’t she be the kind of girl who they would allow to do that?

The chattering voices of the young men around Rob reached her ears all too easily, the catcalls, the tidbits of the profile read aloud, growing louder as the throng grew closer, and Lucia flattened herself to the wall, trying to make herself invisible from these young men whom she didn’t understand and whom she couldn’t seem to associate with Robert. She could see him from the corner of her eye, the red-orange shock of hair bobbing in the center of all those other heads, Rob being jostled along by his mates without so much as a word of agreement—or disagreement. One of them spoke, and she watched as he jerked forward a bit—slapped on the back, no doubt, by the young man speaking.

“Well, being the school’s most shaggable athlete ought to help you find a Bond girl for the masque, eh, mate?”

Lucia Lovejoy steeled herself, raised her chin, and mentally went to war.

~~~

Damn it, why wouldn’t they just give a bloke a few moments’ peace? Someone had thrust the paper into his hands the minute he’d left his last session, and he’d no more than read the byline—and who the hell was this bird who’d written it? He thought Lovey was writing about him—than his team had surrounded him, reading the damned thing out loud over one another and pushing him like a bunch of drunken gits.

He was looking forward to graduation, really, because even the game wasn’t worth suffering the behavior of the team. He loved them at times, of course, but there were plenty of times… oh, say, now… when he’d rather have swallowed a pound of rocks than listened to them for one more moment.

“Says here you’re ‘Holforth’s Most Eligible Athlete,’” the assistant captain said, nudging him.

“I’m really not eli—”

“We’d be pissed that they paid no one else any mind, but really, you deserved it,” the fawning underclassmen broke in, cutting him off.

“We’ve gotta go show Coach before practice,” someone else said, and the roar of agreement made Rob think his head was going to fall off his shoulders.

He needed to talk to Lucia, ask her what she knew about this, if anything.

He just needed to see her, damn it, for more than a few minutes in the hallway. He wanted time with her, time to sit down and be with her, and as he was pushed from behind—someone was gong to run laps for that one—he realized that lack was his own fault.

No date, no dinner, no long moments. Nothing but stolen moments scheduled around his football.

He turned his head, desperate for an out, and just before he was hustled into the coach’s office, he thought he saw a flash of flaxen hair.

Damn it all.

~~~

Aloof.

She could do aloof, hard to get. If there was anything the underdog appreciated—her underdog—it was a challenge.

Lucia placed her fingers carefully on the cloth, depressing the sewing machine’s pedal as she pushed the fabric through, making the first seam of many.

If Rob Wesley was eligible now, he wouldn’t be for long, and he wouldn’t be lacking a Bond girl, either.

Lucia let her mind wander as she looked back and forth from machine to pattern, pattern to machine, and she found herself picturing the scene, the masque and all its details. Genevieve with Drake Mallory, of course—that’s what it had to be, what with all of the long sighs and big-eyed looks Gen had been casting lately, Connor walking around like the chaperone, approving or disapproving of pairings as he saw fit. And Robert, in his—

— dress robes--

Tuxedo.

Lucia frowned as the fabric bunched and the machine jammed. Where had her mind been exactly?

On Rob dressed to the nines, no doubt. But as she snipped the offending thread out of the costume she was making, she thought of all the ideas she’d wanted to write down as of late.

Something was going on. She just wasn’t sure what.

~~~

“I tried to call you.” He had, and a daunting experience it had been, trying to use the telephone in his house with a bit of privacy. Not that it had mattered—she wouldn’t come to the phone. “And I stopped by your house.”

Rob walked alongside Lucia in the parking lot, wondering what that little half-smile on her face was all about. She looked… cryptic. He’d hoped she’d come to his practice, since he’d had little choice but to go and spend the whole time getting the mickey taken out of him about what a stud he was.

But she hadn’t come to practice, she hadn’t come to her front door, and she hadn’t come to the phone. And to look at her, you’d think that was completely fine by her.

Women were bloody weird. Gen had been moping around the house, acting ill and pale and just… weird. And now, here was Lucia, acting just as dotty but in a different way.

He was tempted to ask her about the time of the month, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

“I know,” Lucia said, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Aloof. Cool, aloof, hard to get.

Mysterious.

Like a Bond girl.

“You didn’t answer the phone,” he said obviously, wondering what had gotten into her.

He almost wished she’d get back to asking her damned questions.

“I know,” she said again. “Are you ready for Friday night?”

“Friday night?” Now that she’d asked him a question, Rob couldn’t think. “What?”

If you forgot about the masque, this whole aloof thing is getting tossed away in favor of something a heck of a lot clearer. “The masque, Robert.” Her voice was soft now, patient. It was either that or panic, and she just didn’t think she had it in her for a full-out panic.

“Ah… yes. The masque. I’m ready. Are you ready? Am I suppose to help you with a costume?” Now it was his turn to panic. He slowed his steps as they reached the school, reluctant to hear that first bell, suddenly filled with the manic urge to skive off classes and take her with him. “Or is that something your… dad would do?” He winced at the hesitation, only narrowly catching himself before mentioning her mother.

She never talked about her mother, and the only reason Rob knew a damned thing about it was because Gen had mentioned it all of once.

Damn him and his big mouth.

Lucia felt it… literally felt the heartache trying to push its way in, but she wouldn’t give way. It felt traitorous, but she couldn’t—wouldn’t—keep doing this.

“I have everything I need.” The five-minute bell rang and she struggled to find that balance between what she wanted and what she needed, between staying cool and clinging.

He grinned at her statement, knowing an opening when he heard one. He could get the hang of this. “So do I,” he said pointedly, putting his hands to her hips and leaning down to kiss her. But she merely turned a bit, kissed his cheek, and stepped back with that little unreadable smile.

Rob was left in the hallway, thinking he’d liked her much better when he could chalk it all up to her being just plain weird.

It didn’t hurt him to wait a bit, she thought. She’d done plenty of waiting, between his football and his mates and his stubbornness in general. She’d done quite a bit of waiting.

If it drove him crazy, so much the better. She’d flippantly rejected his pleas for her attendance at Tuesday’s practice, and hard firmly rejected his scheme to skive off classes on Wednesday. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other a lone—between her free-floating anxiety about losing him and his need for independence, they’d created an odd, disjointed alliance of sorts.

But now, Lucia thought on Thursday, picking at her lunch and hoping he’d seek her out, she was intentionally keeping him at arm’s length. If he couldn’t talk to her, he couldn’t break things off for the masque, for one. And if they didn’t see each other…

Well, he couldn’t tire of her.

And by Friday night, she’d be the kind of girl everyone wanted for him. Her costume was done, the Bond girl complete. She just had to find the attitude that went with it, nonchalance and cool.

But the fact of the matter was, somewhere along the line she’d fallen for Robert Wesley.

She wasn’t sure she liked it one bit.

It gave him an awful lot of power over her, and where did it leave her? Powerless. And what was more, wordless. She just hadn’t the words for it, and that scared her.

A flash of red caught her attention, and Lucia stiffened, none of her attention on the article in front of her.

“I need a favor.” That voice wasn’t Rob’s, but a voice Lucia had come to know even before his. Lucia looked up at Genevieve and said nothing, merely looked at her, saw the dark circles under her eyes, the empty stare that looked as though it would melt into tears at any moment. She hadn’t been sleeping, and Lucia would bet on eating, as well.

And Drake Mallory hadn’t been at school all week.

“What sort of favor?” She tried to keep her voice level, to keep the high note of hope out of it. She may have been confused, giddy, mixed up, and entering entirely new territory, but the young woman standing in front of her was a friend in need.

Those took priority.

“It’s about the masque,” Gen said, and for the second time in a week, Lucia started to think of plans for Friday night.

17. The Time for Questions is Past

**Author’s Note: This story got a little bigger than I meant it to! My apologies for how long it took to finish; I’m working on NaNoWriMo. Thank you for all the wonderful reviews and continued support. Keep an eye out for the final part of the trilogy, a D/G piece called “House Unity: Unified”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – The Time for Questions is Past

She had shut the door in his face.

She’d done it gently, sure, but it didn’t change the large, unbreachable slab of wood that had come between them.

He was dying for her, just a touch, just a sight, just a taste.

Rob Wesley had gone head over heels, and the hell of it was, he couldn’t even tell her because she wouldn’t… bloody… see him.

Sitting on the walk in front of her house, Rob tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that his sister was in there, and she was probably the reason he couldn’t come in. Surely it wasn’t Lucia’s decision.

Inside, Lucia knelt in front of Genevieve, an array of pins held between her lips as she scrutinized the overlong skirt of the billowing grey dress.

She’d found it among her mother’s things, things her father had asked her to take away long ago. She hadn’t been able to part with them, hadn’t been able to throw away her mother’s clothes just for the sake of a little comfort, a little forgetfulness. So she’d stowed them in her room, knowing he’d never find them, and suspecting one day she would need them.

Now, Lucia knew the dress had found its proper owner. She would do it for Genevieve, this broken-hearted girl who needed so much… even if it meant giving up something of her mother’s.

She wasn’t afraid to forget anymore. She wasn’t afraid of what her mother had left behind.

Lucia tried not to smile at Rob’s shadow passing back and forth in front of the window—if she smiled, she’d surely drop her pins. He was pacing in front of her house, for heaven’s sakes. It was really flattering. She wanted to let him in, but she was helping Gen, for one thing, and the girl hardly looked up to answering her brother’s questions.

And besides, there was only one more day until the masque.

He could wait.

“My brother isn’t here to find me.” Gen made the statement while peering out the window, barely restraining the urge to stand on her tiptoes to better see her brother walking back and forth and staring at the front door. She looked down at the silent blonde girl kneeling at her feet, pinning up the hem of the dress, and wondered how she’d missed that particular tidbit.

Lucia and Rob. It seemed… right.

It seemed right in a way she and Drake hadn’t, Gen thought, and felt a small spark of anger directed solely at herself. She’d been a fool, and a blind one. She hadn’t even noticed the actions of her friends, of her brother.

And noticing his actions now, Genevieve blinked back tears.

That was a man in love.

When Lucia didn’t answer her, Gen risked pinpricks by bending down and laying her hand to Lucia’s head, making her look up. “He’s lucky you’ll tolerate him,” Gen said, smiling softly.

And Lucia smiled back, knowing she was really the lucky one.

~~~

“It’s not as though it’s a wedding, Lovey. I can see you before the bloody masque.”

Friday had come, and Rob Wesley’s patience had passed. For once, he was making time, and this lunatic woman wouldn’t take three minutes out of her day to talk to him.

It was maddening.

And still he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“You’re seeing me now, aren’t you?” Lucia gave him a half-smile, tired of the façade but not willing to destroy that which she’d so carefully built, the intrigue she hoped she’d produced.

She didn’t really know why, but she wanted to hang onto him for a while. She wanted him to want her just as much as she wanted him.

Thinking that, she cringed.

A sentence like that would look absolutely awful in print.

“Speaking of print,” she said aloud, making him look at her as though she’d lost her mind. “I’ve something for you.”

“Don’t go kissin’ my arse now,” he muttered, but he stopped even as she did, as she rummaged through her bookbag, her long hair curtaining her face. Unthinkingly, he reached out and tucked her hair behind her ears, getting it out of her way so she could properly look in the bag.

Her eyes skipped up to his, a pretty, serene blue, and he cursed inwardly.

He was getting to be just as bad as a bloody woman.

And the worst of it was, when she looked up and caught him staring, he just didn’t give a damn.

“Here,” she said, handing him a copy of the paper she’d pilfered from the newsroom. They weren’t to be distributed until last hour, but scooped or no, she’d wanted him to have one.

She just didn’t want to be there when he read it.

“Sneak preview,” she said, and found her voice a bit shakier than she’d have liked. “I’ve got to run to class. Don’t look for me after school, Robert, I’ve preparing to do for tonight.”

A distraction, then. A feint, if you will, he thought, staring at the paper in his hands and her retreating form.

She’d given him the paper to keep him from stopping her.

Clever, ridiculous, beautiful girl.

He started to shake the paper open, and stopped when he saw he needn’t have. His photograph took up a quarter of the front page, and the headline “Have You Seen This Man?” blazed just under the masthead.

Odds are you really haven’t, the subhead ran.

You see him every day, in the halls, on the field, in the classroom. You know who he is, what he does, and what he stands for.

But does the student body of Holforth really know Robert Wesley?

If they don’t, it’s truly their loss.

First bell rang, and Rob stood in the hallway, transfixed by the words she’d written about him.

~~~
She bolted as soon as last bell was over, her stomach a complete mess of jumbled nerves and no food. She’d been unable to eat, camped out in the newspaper office, afraid of what he’d thought of her article, afraid she wouldn’t be able to pull off the evening’s festivities, just plain afraid.

He’d made her accept him and his place in her life, and now she just didn’t know if she’d be able to go back to before, even if she wanted to.

And she didn’t. Not even a little.

The halls were unusually quiet after last bell as students stayed behind in their classrooms or stood by their lockers, reading about the young man they’d simply stopped seeing.

And Lucia ran past them all, unseen, unheard, unnoticed.

She had a masque to prepare for.

~~~

She channeled her nerves into helping Genevieve. She was beautiful, Lucia thought without a touch of envy. Stunning. It was sad, Lucia thought, a waste that she’d not have the man she wanted on her arm.

But she looked just as good without him, if a bit lonelier, a bit sadder. “I’ll be right along,” Lucia said after putting the finishing touches on Genevieve’s hair. “I’ll just need a few minutes to get into costume.” They’d already done her hair, and though Gen had really wanted to know the purpose of all the work they’d put into it, Lucia wouldn’t tell her.

And that was okay, Gen thought, slipping out of Lucia’s house, holding the skirt of her dress off the ground as she ran toward the school, feeling like Cinderella.

Lucia watched her out the window, then turned and looked in the mirror.

It was time to make mediocrity into mystery.

~~~

He was pacing again.

If he had to guess, Rob Wesley would say he’d covered more miles pacing in the last week than he had running laps around the field in practices. It was bloody ridiculous, all the waiting he’d done for her this past week.

He’d only been at the masque for ten bloody minutes, and already five people had stopped to talk to him about her article.

He’d read it three times over, the last time as he was trying to tie the thing around his neck that was currently strangling him. He’d gotten distracted, reading her words, reading the him she’d written. She’d made him so much more than he would ever see himself as.

And now, all he wanted was her hear with him, because the simple fact was, he felt like the person she’d written when he was with her.

When he’d paced one side of the floor to exhaustion, he thought a cup of punch was in order.

She was ten minutes late.

“Missing your Bond girl?” One of his teammates clapped him on the back—Rob was really starting to hate that particular habit—and made him spill his punch on his hand.

“She’s coming,” Rob said stiffly, wondering idly if she’d decided to leave him solo. He didn’t know why she would, but then again, he didn’t know why she’d been acting so bloody weird all week, either.

“You’re not wearing a mask,” the athlete said, shaking his head, the mouthpiece flapping wildly off the American football helmet. “But for the record, I think you’d make a great Bond.”

Rob grinned tentatively, patting the fake gun in his right pocket.

And then she walked in the door.

~~~

They didn’t recognize her.

She couldn’t really get over it, over the people who were whispering and asking who she was, the wide eyes and the curious stares.

People didn’t look at Lucia Lovejoy like that. In fact, people usually didn’t look at her at all.

She felt exposed, naked, but she’d put herself in that position. She wanted to be the person who could be with him, and she thought she’d done that.

No one would recognize this young woman—thin rows of long, blonde braids hanging down her back, held away from her face by a jeweled band, her powder-blue top leaving most of her stomach exposed, a single blue jewel secured in her navel. Her skirt flowed all the way to the floor, touching the tips of her painted toenails. And underneath the veil covering her nose and mouth, Lucia was smiling.

She looked exotic. She looked worthy.

And when she walked in the door, she spotted him immediately, the beacon of his hair, the classy black suit, and she felt her confidence falter.

Then his eyes met hers.

~~~

He was glad he’d spilled the punch and put it down.

If he hadn’t, he might have choked.

It was the eyes that gave her away, the soft, uncertain blue underneath the long lashes she’d painted black.

She looked bloody… freaking… amazing.

Rob walked toward her, straight past someone trying to talk to him, wondering how the hell he was supposed to touch her, talk to her, looking like that, as crazed as he’d been for her all week.

He settled for putting his hands to her waist, kneading the soft, warm flesh there with his big, calloused hands. “You’re going to kill me,” he said, putting his lips to her ear and smelling something exotic and flowery in the soft spot behind her ear.

Things were going to get ugly quick if he didn’t get some control over himself.

Lucia took in a shaky breath, stirring her veil when she felt his hands on her skin. She’d felt foolish until she’d seen the look in his eyes, pure hunger.

Now she felt validated.

“I wanted to be a good Bond girl,” she said, putting her hands to his chest. “Did I do okay?”

Music was playing, but Rob really didn’t think he was going to get his feet to move. He’d trip. He’d fall on her. He’d break her. “Okay? No. You passed okay some while ago.”

He stared at her, unable to stop, until she cast her eyes aside, blushing.

And something in the look made him think of the young woman with her pen and notebook, and he put his hands to the sides of her face, forcing her to look at him.

“The article?” he said. “How do you see that? How did you make me so… important?”

Not negative, not ridiculing. Complimentary.

The questions she’d asked hadn’t ever mattered, because she’d seen him before that.

Lucia put her hands to his wrists, uncomfortably aware of all the people looking at them. “You are important to me,” she said, not trusting herself to say anymore.

She closed her eyes, feeling dizzy. There was something… something here. Her ears popped and she grasped his arm, steadying herself. “Rob, did you—?”

“Ihavesomethingtotellyou,” he said in a rush, the words running together. It seemed urgent, now, to tell her what he’d been waiting to tell her all week, what had hit him like a cold down pillow square in the chest when he’d read what she’d written about him.

“Something’s happening,” she whispered, her fingers digging painfully into his biceps, but her eyes were wide and excited, and she didn’t seem scared.

Something was clicking back into place.

Brave and beautiful and dragons and danger and carriages and castles, the train to school, mustn’t miss the train—

“Rob,” she gasped, looking in his eyes. Where had Gen gone? She’d just been right there, dancing with someone dressed as a derelict… “Rob!”

Not Rob…

He shook his head, so intent on his confession he didn’t feel what was happening around him.

“Lovey, damn it, would you just listen to me before I botch it all up? It’s not easy for a bloke—a very confused one at that—to tell a girl he loves her when she’s on about something else entirely—”

He lifted her veil and kissed her before she could say anything, and Lucia sunk into it, feeling her head spin and the ground tremble slightly beneath her feet as his lips parted hers, his tongue lapping gently over her lower lip before he settled in again.

Here, she thought, bringing her arms around him. This is right.

“Love you,” she whispered between kisses, wondering why she’d been scared of it at all.

This could never take away, only build.

The noise began with her whisper, growing to a roar, plateauing in a clamor of voices that hadn’t been there only moments before.

Guess the team caught on to Lucia, he thought, breaking away, trembling, breathless, putting his forehead to hers and letting the veil drop back between their lips, their breath strained through the sheer fabric.

And then he opened his eyes, found himself—

In a castle? What the bloody hell?

At Hogwarts, with Luna Lovegood in his arms. Her eyes were still half-closed, and through the veil, he could see her lips lifted in a faint smile.

Casting shocked glances around at his classmates—his Hogwarts classmates—Ron moaned uneasily.

He’d been hallucinating. Dreaming. Perhaps he’d been bitten by a spider. Panicked, he stepped back, slapping a hand to his forehead to check for fever, his eyes bugging with disbelief as he took in the sight of Loony Lovegood.

She was hardly wearing any clothes. He could see her navel, for Merlin’s sakes, and a hell of a lot besides. And she was just standing there, swaying as if nothing had happened.

“Luna!” he shouted, oblivious to the laughter around him, oblivious to his sister rushing past with Draco Malfoy, oblivious to everything but the way the dotty bird in front of him was acting.

She opened her eyes, dreamy now, and felt completely at peace, unfazed by their apparent transport. This was why things had felt off.

Now they were home.

Ron shrugged off his jacket—the nice suit had come with him, he saw—and covered Luna with it, noticing the stares they were getting. The students seemed confused, but the faculty—

Well, he noticed Snape was glaring down the hallway at something, and Dumbledore was looking quite pleased with himself.

“Ron!”

Harry and Hermione all but skidded to a stop beside them, and Ron tightened his arm protectively around Luna, not even thinking about it.

He’d marvel over that particular instinct later.

“You’re back!” Hermione looked at Ron, barely glanced at Luna, then looked back at Harry. “We were right!”

“What the hell is going on?” Ron exploded, not quite able to wrap his head around everything.

He’d played a game, something like Quidditch. He’d gone to classes, done homework.

He’d kissed Luna.

His parents—but already they were fading from his memory, leaving Arthur and Molly stoutly where they should be in his mind.

“Where were we?” he added when Harry and Hermione did naught but look at one another. Fed up with their silence, he looked at Luna. “Why aren’t you saying anything?!”

“Ronald,” she said finally, sliding her hand down to squeeze his reassuringly, “Stop asking so many questions.”