❝HOW COME YOU NEVER TRIED FOR SEEKER?❞
❝I ENJOYED AIMING BLUDGERS AT YOU TOO MUCH.❞
The Gryffindor Quidditch Team finally has some real competition. And Harry Potter is totally conflicted.
warning: this book has many mature, NSFW scenes that contrib...
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HARRY DIDN'T SLEEP that night. He couldn't. He could barely let his eyes close without seeing Indiana fucking Jones, whether it be a picture of her in literally nothing covered in soapy bubbles, body pressed against his chest, or her dark eyes narrowed in malevolent glare as she cursed him out. Or, perhaps, the look on her face when she saw him looking at her empty left forearm. He had hurt her. He knew he had.
The next morning, Harry realized he had a hickey on his neck. A dark one, too, and it had turned wonderfully multicolored against his skin. Unfortunately, he had zero clue how to do a Glamour Charm and didn't quite feel comfortable asking Hermione to borrow her makeup to cover it. He just prayed his hair would be long enough to hide it.
Hermione had noticed his slight absence throughout the week more so than Ron; not his absence as in he wasn't physically there, but the way he'd zone out into his thoughts and not snap back unless Ron hit him on the back or Hermione snapped a finger in his face. Harry avoided any sort of lingering glances of concern from the latter and kept his head down throughout the week.
He had had a difficult time containing himself, however, when it came time for the reoccurring study session with Jones and Hermione. Luckily, he had snagged the seat beside Ron so he didn't have to torture himself by sitting directly next to Jones, but it hadn't helped that she was right across from him.
She had looked different that day. Her usual mess of curls was wrapped up in a knot at the top of her head, loose strands brushing the edges of her uncharacteristically flushed face as she moved about. But what had really gotten to him — more than it should have, now that he thought about it — was that there was a hickey on her neck; and he knew it wasn't from him. She looked like she had just gotten fucked.
"You alright?" Hermione asked her as she sat down, regarding her knowingly. And then, once Jones was seated, she leaned over and whispered, "Nice neck."
"Fuck off," Jones replied swiftly, adjusting her shirt so it was higher up on her neck, but the fabric didn't cover the bruise in the slightest and it only slipped down further. Ron had heard her curse, however, and his eyes immediately darted up at Jones, then Hermione, then Jones again. Hermione gave him a look to tell him not to worry.
Harry had never really been one to be possessive. He cared about his friends more than the average wizard, sure, but they were their own people, allowed to do whatever it is the hell they so desired. It wasn't really any of his business. But he hadn't expected him to feel so angry at seeing Jones in such a state. Who gave her that hickey? Who had she shagged? And so soon after what had happened? Had the Prefects Bathroom just been a meaningless hookup?
"Indiana," He heard Hermione whisper, leaning closer to the Slytherin in hopes that only she could hear. Harry refrained from rolling his eyes; Hermione had never been a good whisperer. What had struck him was that Hermione and Jones were not officially on a first-name basis; hearing one of his close friends call Jones 'Indiana' was definitely strange. "Your friend, Woods — is she a Pureblood?"
