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act one chapter four
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LYRA'S EYES sharply focus on the vial of leech juice in her one hand, the other gently squeezing the pipette to add the correct number of drops to the vial. Finished, she places the half-full vial on its stand, ready when she needs it in a few minutes. She begins chopping the shrivefigs, each the size of her eye and soft enough to slice with ease, into little, thin strings.
"I think you're cutting them too small." Theodore says, eyeing her share of shrivefigs placed to the side, dwindling in number as she slices.
Lyra scoffs, eyes watching her hands. "I think that if you don't mind your business, I'll punch you in the face."
"As if you could reach me."
"You know what-!"
"Lovegood, Nott." Snape appears at their table, just in time, too, because Lyra had a lovely idea involving the knife in her grasp that would lead to her growing old in Azkaban.
"Is there a problem, here?"
"No, professor." Lyra replies respectfully, slightly shaking her head.
Snape's eyes flicker between them, before walking off to a different table.
"No professor." Theodore mocks, shoulders shaking as he chuckles and Lyra doesn't hesitate to harshly whack her hand into his stomach, making him grunt. Snape snaps his head in their direction, and they pretend to be busy with their own brewing until he looks away and Theodore glares at her.
"Real mature, you're such a child." Lyra glares back.
"At least I don't hit like one."
"You literally made a noise when I hit you, what are you talking about?"
"I play quidditch, smartass. I get bruises."
"Whatever, Nott, I'm trying to concentrate and you're distracting me-"
"I distract you?" He didn't mean to say it out loud and Lyra picks up on that.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Theodore says nothing, looking down at his own ingredients and ignoring her curious eyes. He really did not mean to say the thought verbally so she can hear it.
Theodore wants to tell her that for the past forty minutes of potions she has been his biggest distraction. He is slower as his mind keeps drifting to her presence no matter how much he tries to drag it back. He wants to tell her that before, he could just look up and see the back of her head and still focus on his tasks. He wants to tell her that now that they stand almost shoulder to shoulder, every narrow of her eyes as she pays extra attention to a step in the instructions, every smile she smiles when the potion turns the right color or when Wren pulls a face at her from across the room. Every second she innocently brushes his arm as she moves or the divine smell of her vanilla perfume that he has never been close enough to fall weak too until now - they drive him crazy.
