My Best Mistake

The music's loud.

My body slides with the beat, no longer uncoordinated and confused. Every cell in my body is alive and on fire. I am a vessel. The music vibrates and buzzes through me. I'm breathing hard and my feet ache in my impossible heels.

It's hot.

I'm sweating. Drips glide down my neck, between my breasts while more slip down my back. I feel his body, supporting me as I move. His hands cling to my hips. His breath is on my neck. I'm not a kid now.

It's bright and dark at the same time.

Colors magically spin from the ceiling, cutting through the blue darkness of the room, occasionally refracting off my sparkly, too short halter top. I feel older, like I want to be. I seem to have lost Alicia and Angelina, but I don't mind.

The song fades, and a slower beat follows.

He turns me to face him, and our eyes meet. He looks a bit out of it, but I can tell he knows it's me. He keeps looking at me, a longing I've been waiting what seems like forever to see. If he's nervous, he's not showing it.

I wrap my arms around his neck.

His wrists rest on the small of my back, and his gaze is intense as ever. I know what he's thinking, and I'm wondering if I should be thinking about it, too. We rock back and forth until it's only me, him, and the music in the world.

And he kisses me. It's a proper kiss. Or it starts out as one. His hand is cupping my face, like the gentleman he is. It's funny, how even in these circumstances; Oliver manages to be a gentleman.

But I don't know if I want him to be.

I pull him closer to me by his collar and we keep kissing. It's deeper now. All the passion I've had all year is being put into his mouth and it must do justice. He has passion, too. After a year of resistance, he's finally given in. I don't mind.

He tugs at the belt loop on my jeans.

We stumble into a nearby room that feels cool after the hot dance. He closes the door and fumbles with my halter. I unbuckle my shoes. Then I give in, too.


It's bright and sunny outside, a stark contrast to my emotions. We are on our way to the quidditch pitch, our voices piercing the stillness of the grounds.

"It was just a party, Katie..."

I snarl despite my rising tears, "Oh, so you do remember!"

"Of course I--" He faces me. Then he sighs, but not the annoyed kind of sigh. He doesn't look mad or frustrated. "We can't do…this." He indicates the space between us (which has considerably lengthened, as I'm standing stubbornly still) as though I needed reminding of what "this" is.

"Why not?" I ask, somewhat childishly and Oliver raises two fingers to massage the bridge of his nose, which he does when one of the team members doesn't understand a new maneuver.

"We've been over this a thousand times…"

"I'm not a kid, Wood."

This use of his surname makes my point.

"Maybe not," he says, more calmly now, "but that doesn't change that in three weeks, I'm leaving Hogwarts. I'm going out on my own and, Kate, you're still growing up."

If it's possible, I crumble even more inside. I feel… naked, vulnerable. I suddenly have the urge to crawl into my mother's lap and cry. With this scary, frightening feeling inside me I realize he's not as strong as I thought he was. "So," I stammer, "that's it. After we… after I… after I gave you everything…? And you're just going to… take it and that's it?"

I'm crying now, so hard that I am shaking and Oliver has to put a hand on my shoulder to steady me. He's trying to be rational. "I mean, we were … intoxicated…"

I shove his filthy hands away. "So you were just looking for an excuse?" I feel incredibly shocked and angry at my own stupidity. I should've known it. I know what seventh years want. "Well, now that I'm 'intoxicated' I can just screw her and get out of it no strings attached. No, you knew exactly what you were doing!" I jab at him angrily with my forefinger and raise my eyebrow, almost sarcastically. "And it's not like you didn't want it. I've seen you looking at me during practice! And it's not like we haven't been seriously flirting for months now…"

I falter a bit. I am trembling so hard, I can't control myself. I feel weak, stained, and dirty. I want more than anything to shower. To cool off. To curl up under my covers and forget. To cry without being ashamed.

But somewhere during my tantrum, Oliver finds his way over to me. He's holding me and speaking a soothing voice into my ear. I find myself cuddled against him, crying onto his shoulder until it's sopping and I realize how pathetic and weak this makes me.

By the time I stand up, he's staring at me with those same intense eyes from the party. My knees wobble a bit, and I find it harder and harder to hate him. "It's not like that. You're right. I should've been more mature, I know better." He's holding my forearms now, so gently. "Look, I…" He stops and takes a deep breath. "I wish things were different. I wish I wasn't leaving yet, that you were older…"

While I wipe my eyes with the hem of my quidditch robes, I feel a new round of tears coming. Only this time, it's not out of anger.

"Come back to me, alright?" Oliver doesn't seem to blink as he looks, almost pleadingly, at me, "When you're seventeen, and I'm a famous keeper." We both smile, and I laugh rather wetly. Even though it's hard, I nod anyways. It hurts. Then he embraces me, running his hand through my hair. I know likes the smell of my shampoo. I know he's remembering it. I know he cares about me, even though it's stupid for me to believe him. And I know I can't hate him.

I may not be a kid, but I'm not quite grown up either.

A/N: Well, how was it? I'm sort of proud of it, I guess. I could write one more chapter, although it would be short, but now I'm thinking it sounds alright as it is…