34. Chapter 34

Strangely enough, Ben never brings it up again.

The Mirror of Erised is still in his office the next time Rey visits, and the next, and the next. But he doesn’t talk about what he’d seen within its dark glass, that specific act that she’s starting to come around to thinking of as a viable next step. After all, they’ve already done everything else, so why not—that.

But it might as well have never happened. They shag in his office, in his classroom, and in the Room of Requirement, and he never once tries to do anything to her bum. Rey is bewildered and a little annoyed because, well, he’s gotten her contemplating it, hasn’t he, and now there seems to be no effort on his part to follow through.

It's not until it’s nearly April that she musters the courage that’s necessary to broach the subject. And the events that lead up to the said broaching are somewhat unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome.

It’s a Saturday night and Ben is kissing her as soon as she’s slipped off the invisibility cloak, the door to the Room of Requirement firmly shut behind them. As far as kisses go, it’s soft and sweet with no real urgency, the heat in it more like embers glowing in a hearth than the first stirrings of wildfire.

When he pulls away to peer down at her with that usual vague half-smile of his, she belatedly notices that they’re not in the little log cabin. Instead, towering piles of lost objects surround them underneath a high-vaulted ceiling, and she quirks a brow at him.

“Felt nostalgic, did you?” she quips.

He chuckles, taking her hand and leading her through the cluttered aisles of the Room of Hidden Things until they arrive at the lumpy tartan couch between the three-legged coffee table and the wardrobe with the loose door. The sight of it makes her feel all warm and funny inside; it’s the exact spot where she’d lost her virginity, given it up to this big and sullenly handsome man who’s now standing beside her, his fingers laced through the gaps between hers.

Ben’s wearing a hoodie tonight. An actual, honest-to-God hoodie, black and soft. Paired with a dark gray shirt underneath, and denims, and those pristine white trainers, he looks like a student at a Muggle university and Rey’s more than a little charmed by it.

He sits down on the couch, immediately hauling her onto his lap. He tugs her oversized red sweater down her left shoulder, mouthing lazily at the newly exposed freckles patch of freckles before burying his face in her neck. She wastes no time in stroking his hair, savoring the silky lushness of it slipping through her fingers.

“How was your day?” he mumbles.

“It’s very nice now,” she says in a teasingly saccharine tone. She feels his lips curve into a smile by her throat, and then he’s stifling a yawn against her skin. “You’re tired?” she asks.

He rumbles out some sort of confirmation, sending pleasant little shockwaves through her. Then he falls silent, inhaling deeply every once in a while, and Rey can only be glad that she took a shower after Quidditch practice.

Speaking of Quidditch…

“I’ve got a match the Saturday after this one,” she tells him. It’s not even a beat later that she grimaces, realizing that she hadn’t thought this through. It’s not like he’ll waste his time watching a sport that he has no interest in. “Er, so we probably won’t be able to meet at all next week,” she covers up, “because I’ll be training every day—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Ben says firmly. “Just focus on what you need to do. You’ll be amazing.” His hand slips underneath her sweater, warm fingers pressing to the indents of her spine. “And I can’t wait to cheer you on from the bleachers.”

How lovely it feels, Rey thinks, for both hope and exhilaration to snag at your heart. What a gift, what a gift.

“You—you mean it?” She should probably hate how happy she sounds, but she can’t bring herself to care. “You’ll come to my game?”

Ben lifts his head to peer at her with a slight frown. “Of course. Why wouldn’t…”

He trails off. And it’s there in the air between them, that memory.

“You didn’t come to the match,” she’d blurted out, in the greenhouse, all sweaty and dirt-stained in full Quidditch gear.

“I didn’t know it was required,” he’d said coldly.

And he’d been so distant while she’d floundered, and he’d looked away and she’d just stood there looking at him, her first kiss tasting like ashes in her mouth, every silly little dream she’d ever had going up in flames—

A tremor runs through Rey’s frame, echoing what feels like a spasm in her chest. For a split-second Ben’s expression looks broken—then he’s gathering her into a tight embrace, one hand cupping the back of her head while the other rubs the spot between her shoulder-blades with a quiet, mindless desperation.

“I was an ass,” he tells her solemnly. “Back then, I wanted to deny my feelings so badly that it ended up blinding me to how much I was hurting you in the process. Forgive me, Rey.”

“’S’all right,” she mumbles into his collarbone. “We’re well past that now.”

And she really does mean what she says. It’s just that—sometimes—the lingering hurt catches her off-guard. She’d never imagined that the first relationship-type thing she would ever have with anyone would be this—dramatic, for lack of a better word.

Ben presses his lips to her temple. “I’ll be there this coming Saturday. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll—I’ll wave a little Gryffindor flag, if you like.”

Rey smirks at the mental image. “I doubt that you’re ready to take it to that level. Just wear red boxers or something.”

“Done,” Ben says seriously, and she laughs.

They fall into a comfortable sort of silence and she thinks about how much she likes their weekend assignations, how unhurried every moment is with no school the next day to weigh on the mind. Eventually he flops back onto the couch, taking her with him in a slow fall, his arms still wrapped around her, and this time she’s the one who initiates the kiss, slanting her mouth over his as he sinks into the upholstery. He hums contentedly against her lips, and then he’s smiling, actually smiling, eyes closed, as she scatters more kisses over his face. His tired brow, the tip of his nose, his cheeks, the line of his jaw. She could spend the rest of her life mapping him out this way.

“Well?” he murmurs after several long and languorous and wonderful moments have passed. “Are you and your teammates ready to make the Ravenclaws regret ever being born?”

She blinks. “What? Oh—no, that’s not until May. We’re playing Hufflepuff in the coming match.”

“I could have sworn you’ve been yapping your pretty little head off about Ravenclaw tactics these past few weeks.”

“Yes, because they’re the team we’re worried about,” Rey explains. “Hufflepuff is—how do I put this nicely—they’re not really known for Quidditch. I mean, if you’re putting together a team to, I don’t know, save the world or some such, your first thought wouldn’t be that you ought to go recruit from Hufflepuff House.”

“A Quidditch team to save the world,” Ben echoes, looking utterly mystified.

“Well, it was just an example,” Rey sniffs.

“Right.” He reaches up to tweak her nose and she squirms in annoyance. He cracks another smile and then relents, the offending hand wandering to her backside as she makes a face at him. “I’m not sure if it’s wise to underestimate your opponents like this.”

“It’ll be fine. Gryffindor hasn’t lost to Hufflepuff in centuries. Even Jannah mostly just views them as a nuisance en route to beating Ravenclaw.”

Ben seems… less than impressed by that. His lips purse. “‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,’” he says.

“Shakespeare,” Rey declares confidently, punctuating her statement with a nod.

His features soften. He kisses her again, this time palming her ass through her leggings. Shivery little thrills of pleasure run through her with each caress, exacerbated by each slow pulse of his lips against hers. She is hypersensitized to every twitch of his fingers, each stroke and dip, remembering how it had felt when one had slipped in there.

She wonders if he’ll do it again tonight.

She thinks that she might want him to.

But he doesn’t. He remains a—well, a gentleman, comparatively speaking. Or as much of a gentleman as he can be given the circumstances. And he continues kissing her and touching her in his unhurried weekend way, gradually stoking the flames of desire in her belly until she’s wet between her legs, going mad with it, setting her lips and her tongue and her teeth to his neck as they rub up against each other through their clothes.

It's when his hand moves away from her rump to settle at the small of her back that a sense of crushing disappointment makes her stop trying to shove her tongue down his throat. She lifts her head so that she can glare down at him. “I thought you wanted to put it in my ass?”

Ben chokes on his own spit.

She is unrepentant as she holds his gaze and the minutes pass, his expression conflicted.

Finally, he runs his fingers through her hair. She’d left it loose after her shower, casting a quick drying charm on her way to meet him. She gets the impression that touching it now gives him something to do while he gathers his thoughts.

“I love that you’re always game to try new things in bed,” he says softly. “You can’t even imagine how awed I am by it, by the fact that you trust me this much. But, Rey, it’s a huge next step, and the truth is that I’ve never done—that—before.” The tips of his ears turn pink, his choice of words skirting around the actual topic, and she spares a moment to be amused by this prudish side of his that he immediately tosses to the wind as soon as they’re actually about to shag. “You might end up getting hurt, and that would kill me.”

“Not to mention that that’d definitely be one injury I’ll never take to the hospital wing,” Rey jokes.

Unfortunately, Ben is not amused. “This is serious,” he chides her. “Don’t say yes to things just because I want to do them. You have every right to refuse, for whatever reason. Is that clear?” He cradles the side of her face in one big palm. “You don’t have to constantly be acting out my fantasies. Everything about you is already a dream come true for me, Rey.”

And it hits so close to home, to what she’s been doing ever since that trip to the Isle of Skye, where she’d realized that she loves him. Trying to be his perfect girl, always letting him take whatever he wants, because maybe then he’d keep her around—

Rey bites back a watery smile, hiding her face in the downy material of Ben’s hoodie. He nuzzles at the top of her head.

“This goes for everyone, by the way.” His voice is gruff and taut. “Somewhere down the line, I mean. Don’t go around giving people things that you don’t want to, or that you’re otherwise not sure about. If they—if they insist—” His grip on the round of her shoulder is suddenly very firm and it’s like he’s holding her to him as close as is humanly possible—“then they’re not worth it. Leave them.”

Rey’s smile fades. She doesn’t want to think about ever being with anyone else. She can’t fathom such a concept.

But that’s where this is going, isn’t it? After she graduates, she and Ben will go their separate ways. It’s not like she can keep visiting Scotland. And he might even go back to America when Leia deems that it’s the right time for him to do so…

She shivers, burrowing deeper against his chest. “All right,” she mumbles. “I’ll think about the, er, the butt thing a little more.”

“Good,” he hums.

And she lies there on top of him and tries to let herself be calmed by the steady beating of his heart. Tries to not think about the future, and how it makes her feel so afraid.

✨✨✨

The Quaffle jets up from the foggy pitch below, tearing through sheets of pouring rain, and Rey dodges at the last possible second, yanking hard on the handle of her Firebolt Supreme. The red leather-covered ball misses her nose by centimeters as the lightning-streaked skies tilt precariously before she manages to steady her broom.

Two figures dart across her vision—one in scarlet and gold Quidditch gear, the other in yellow and black. It’s a tight race but in the end it’s the latter who gets to the rogue Quaffle first; Rey’s eyes narrow in intense dislike as Keyan Farlander lets out a whoop and tucks the ball under his arm, descending back toward the field. It’s hard to see what’s going on and it’s almost impossible to hear the commentator in the midst of what is basically a storm, but an explosion of resounding cheers indicates that Tallie’s ex had scored a goal.

The Gryffindor Chaser whom Keyan had soundly beaten to the punch issues a frustrated growl, pulling up short to level with Rey. “What’s happening down there?” Rey asks her, shouting to make herself heard over the cacophony of the elements. “Are we winning?”

Jessika Pava snorts. “Hardly. We’re down by fifty points.”

Rey’s jaw drops. “No way. Hufflepuff is in the lead?”

“Guess they’ve been practicing.” Jess readjusts her goggles. “I’m going back in. If you could catch the Snitch and put an end to this misery, that’d be brilliant.” She hurtles into the fray once more, leaving Rey staring after her.

What utterly rotten luck. Unlike the previous match, Ben’s in the stands somewhere and Rey has the opportunity to show off with what she knows she’s good at. But it’s raining bucketloads and he won’t be able to see a thing, anyway—although, in hindsight, that might be for the best, considering that her team is apparently getting clobbered by bloody Hufflepuff.

Gryffindor had been spending most of their time training with Ravenclaw’s strategies in mind. They hadn’t thought to account for the possibility that Hufflepuff might pose a threat as well.

“I’m not sure if it’s wise to underestimate your opponents like this,” Rey remembers Ben saying. His little I told you so smirk flashes before her eyes.

She shakes her head, both to clear it and to dislodge the rainwater that’s dripped into her ear canals. Then she leans forward on her broomstick, squinting through her misted-up goggles at the blurry silhouettes of the other players below.

There’s no sign of the Golden Snitch yet. Azyln, the Hufflepuff Seeker, is hanging around above the goalposts. But Azlyn doesn’t seem to be scanning the pitch at all; in fact, her body is angled toward Rey and she is completely still.

She’s waiting for me to spot the Snitch. Rey’s gloved hands tighten around the Firebolt Supreme’s handle. She’ll tail me once I make for it.

It’s a smart ploy, Rey will grant Azlyn that. No sense in wasting energy looking for a tiny ball in all this downpour when you can get someone else to do it for you and your team is comfortably in the lead.

Azlyn had been there, with Keyan and Rosh Penin and Zekk, smoking shrivelfig leaf outside the classroom that Rey was getting fucked in on the night of the Celestial Ball. She’d been one of those who’d laughed at Tallie for defending Rey, one of those who’d treated Finn and Rose with such contempt when they passed by. She’d called Rey a little nerd.

Rey vows to make the other girl regret it. Today, here and now. Seized by a sudden burst of determination, she steers her broom to a better vantage point—

—and promptly gets sideswiped by a Bludger.

The world spins.

It is a testament to the Firebolt Supreme’s unparalleled engineering and impeccable balance that Rey corrects herself in the next breath.

“You’re going to pay for that, Warv!” she yells at the most likely culprit—the nearest Hufflepuff Beater.

“Up yours, Niima!” Bazel hollers right back, a fanatic glint in his eyes.

They’re friends, but… it’s Quidditch. She flips him the bird.

And—there.

Just over Bazel’s shoulder. A flash of gold in the gloom, a fluttering of delicate metallic wings.

Rey’s first instinct is to immediately streak down toward Bazel. However, Azlyn is watching her every move like a hawk. And Ben had opined that it’s not a good idea to underestimate one’s opponents.

Can she really afford to believe that Azlyn won’t be able to outpace her?

Gritting her teeth, Rey leans into a swift, sharp plunge—but not in Bazel and the Snitch’s direction.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

The grassy field rushes up to meet her. The roar of the audience crashes over her in a wave of sound. A quick glance over her shoulder reveals that Azlyn had taken the bait and is following her—and is about to close the gap between them at any moment—and Rey wastes no time in gliding back up in a sweeping curve. The crowd gasps and she hopes with all of her wild heart that Ben does, too, as she soars and soars, raindrops drumming on her upturned face, shoving past Bazel, her fingers stretched toward the Golden Snitch.

It waits for her with beating wings, etched in flashes of white-hot lightning that run like veins through the dark sky above. It nimbly dodges her first attempt to grab it and floats higher, and higher still.

Too high.

In this kind of weather, the altitude that she needs to reach is dangerous.

But she can’t turn back now. She’s almost there. She almost has it.

Rey urges the Firebolt Supreme on, the magic crackling off of ebony and hazel and goblin-made iron as it fights against the howling wind. She’s gaining on the Snitch, that’s it, that’s it, she tells herself, just a little more—

Gold brushes against the tips of her fingers.

And another bolt of lightning is spat out from a low-hanging cloud, slamming into the tail of her broom.

An undignified shriek is torn loose from Rey’s lips as the Firebolt Supreme is knocked off-course and sent careening. She can hear screaming from the bleachers. She can feel the wind pick her broom up and toss it around, its built-in resistance temporarily shorted out by the static charge. She has only enough presence of mind to latch on tight while it plummets to the ground at a steep angle, whizzing over the Quidditch pitch and past the castle’s spires and over the sprawling grounds and—

“Fuck,” Rey whispers as sheets of rain part before her to reveal that she’s headed straight for the Whomping Willow.

Hogwarts’ very old, very aggressive sentient tree.

With its thick trunk and sturdy branches that violently attack at the slightest movement, the Whomping Willow is capable of reducing even the finest of broomsticks to mere wood chips.

Rey can’t let that happen to the Firebolt Supreme. Ben had given it to her.

But the lightning has disabled the spellwork. She can’t steer it properly.

She makes her decision in an instant.

Rey yanks the broom handle to the right, forcibly enough that she manages to turn herself around. Her spine hits rough bark with a bruising thud and she lets go of the Firebolt Supreme, kicking it away as hard as she can. It drops to the ground—safely, by the roots—but she doesn’t even have a moment to spare to feel relief, because the Whomping Willow’s gnarled branches are gathering her up and twisting her around and slamming into her prone form, and she hears a horrible cracking sound and she feels a pain so severe that it robs her of breath—

—and then there is nothing.