(no subject)
And this is why A/M is teh squeez0rz. Insert exclamation points as necessary. Here is a... collaborative effort, if you will, between belle_rayma and myself. Yes. The original shippers. Classic Angelina/Montague, j0. And no, it doesn't always have to be about angsty hate!sex, people. EVEN in conjunction with OOTP. That is all I have to say.
Title: Chasing Shadows
Authors: Ray and Thalia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Montague wakes up disoriented after the Vanishing Cabinet incident, and struggles to remember things as he lies alone at night in the hospital wing. When an unexpected visitor turns up, well... perhaps she can help him, right?
Solan Montague was feeling restless after a day of being poked and prodded and clucked over, though he lay still and quiet in the infirmary bed, eyes fixed hazily on the cloudless night sky visible through the window. Madam Pomfrey had explained what she knew of how he'd ended up here, but he still felt as though there were certain things missing from his memories, shadows too blurry for him to make out. He'd obediently drank down the potions that she'd ladled out for him and lain still and silent all day, trying to figure out just what it was that he didn't remember, and now he was alone in the infirmary, and wanted nothing more than to be out somewhere where people might give him some answers.
Unbeknownst to him, Angelina Johnson -- out past curfew -- silently made her way through darkened corridors and up moonlit stairwells away from the high Gryffindor Tower toward the Hospital Wing. A terrible headache plagued her ... it had since much earlier in the day, when Fred and George recounted a story that left her horrified. In listening, she'd felt her stomach work itself into a tight knot as her face worked to mask the horror and anger that accompanied the knowledge of the injury the twins had brought upon the Slytherin Quidditch captain. Since finding out what they'd done, put him in a Vanishing something or other, she'd felt the need to go sprinting off toward Madam Pomfrey's post.
He was just contemplating getting up and getting himself a glass of water when, almost inaudibly, the door of the infirmary opened. The girl who entered was tall, with a rather statuesque, forthright sort of beauty, and she strode quickly towards his bed. When she got close to him, he did sit up. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Her eyes were dark and full of conflicting emotions-- surprise, concern, anger, and something that he couldn't define.
She found the sight of him slightly alarming. He sat upright when she approached, and immediately her plans were ruined. She expected to come and go unnoticed, to spend just enough time there to know that he was alright, unharmed, safe. Comfort enough to allow her to sleep, to keep her from pacing about as she had done all day turning over the horrible possibilities in her mind. She approached hesitantly until she was by his bed, just far enough from him so that she was just out of arms reach ... escape distance. Still, she spoke. "Your lip is cut," was Angelina's first observance. Her voice cracked ever so slightly while her eyes lingered at the thin line on his bottom lip and chin. Cautiously, she let her eyes search for other marks on a face that she knew.
He reflexively raised a finger to his bottom lip. He'd been told that he was lucky he hadn't escaped with greater physical injuries, and that it wouldn't scar. But it was the girl's tone that made him frown slightly. Her voice was well-modulated and smooth, but he picked up a hint of agitation in it, and he didn't want her to be sad for him. He had the vague feeling that she wasn't one who was often afraid. "It doesn't hurt any more," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring voice.
Reassuring was perhaps not the word for what the sound of his voice did, but that he spoke encouraged her to step closer, tilting her head to one side so that she could catch more of his face in the moon's white light coming through the window. "And that one?" she whispered, gesturing to a small cut above his left eyebrow, the only other obvious physical mark of some trouble from earlier in the day.
"It's fine as well," he told her. "Madam Pomfrey said that they'd be gone in a few days." Recalling his manners, he cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. "Would you like to sit down?"
Angelina wrinkled her nose and frowned. It had been a while -- a short while but a notable one nonetheless -- since he'd spoken to her with that sort of formality... No. He was always formal, always polite, so different from her, but ... something about him was different. "No," she answered, but she slipped her cloak off her shoulders and moved to his bedside, until she stood at his side, hands resting on his mattress.
For a few moments, he merely gazed at her, with a vague, uncomfortable feeling that he was supposed to know her, and know her well. But he didn't know the nature of their association, and he wasn't sure if she would be amenable to clearing that up for him. But she didn't show any signs of leaving, so perhaps... "Perhaps you could help me with a few things?"
"Yes?"
Slowly, he reached for her hand, which rested by his pillow, and took it carefully in his, feeling strength and warm fingers and sensibly clipped nails, a few calluses. "I've the oddest feeling that I-- knew you very well-- before now," he said quietly, his eyes focused on her hand. "I'm sorry... things are very blurry in my memories. But even your hands feel familiar, and I'm not sure why."
She froze, the expression on her face tightening as her stomach dropped. His fingers were warm on top of hers -- the gesture was as foreign as his invitation for her to sit -- and instead of being comforted as she should've been, she felt a new sort of anxiety, new fear. His few injuries were deceptive; his condition was worse than they suggested. He didn't remember her ...
Her fingers curled a little bit in his grasp and Angelina inhaled slowly, softly. "You don't remember anything."
"I remember certain things. I remember my name, my age... how to do things and the like. I remember that I was walking down a hall before everything kind of goes dark. I remember how things feel, and you seem very familiar," he said, brushing a thumb over the back of her hand. "I think we were friends... but that doesn't quite seem right. I'm not sure."
Under other circumstances -- the previous circumstances of their secret friendship before now, barely a few months old, fragile and inconsistent and ill-defined -- she might've withdrawn. But at this moment more than ever, she sensed, perhaps hoped, that he needed her ... because she needed to help him. And she needed him to remember her. Without hesitation, Angelina leaned closer to his bed, lowering herself to her knees so that he didn't look up at her. "My name is Angelina."
"Angelina," he tested the name out on his tongue, blue eyes fixed with brown. "It's a pretty name." A pretty name for a pretty girl. His brow was slightly furrowed. "You couldn't have been my girl," he remarked. "I think I would have remembered that." As it was, it seemed strange to him that he could forget someone like her. "How did I know you?"
Angie sighed and a lock of hair fell in her face, obscuring her eyes, for the best, she thought. "No ... I wasn't your girl." She took her hand away from him and crossed her arms, across her chest, prepared to deliver the reality of their situation, of their relationship. "We're captains in Quidditch. Opposing teams. You beat me for a long time."
"It would stand that I should hate you then," he remarked, still gazing at her. A bit of her hair hid her eyes, but he wasn't sure that it wouldn't be taking a presumptuous liberty to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. "But I don't think I do."
She kept her chin lowered and felt her face going red. She realized the reality of the situation. She realized what she could tell him ... what she wanted to say almost. But she didn't. He was vulnerable and couldn't remember a thing, he felt nothing more for her than he would anyone else -- his mind was a blank slate. "I hope not. I couldn't be sure."
He could sense a conflicted sort of sadness within her, and a part of him wanted to comfort her, tell her everything would be all right. "Madam Pomfrey hopes that I'll recall everything soon," he settled for saying, his eyes troubled. "I want to remember you. You seem so... close, somehow. The sort of person it would be worth knowing."
She chuckled sadly and looked up at him. His face was pale in the darkness, his features highlighted just enough to create a beautiful profile. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but instead stood and walked across the room, away toward the place where she knew Madam Pomfrey stored supplies, water pitchers, blankets and such.
He watched her walk away from him and closed his eyes briefly, trying to recall. And then watched her walk back towards him, her gait measured and graceful without trying to. "You're someone I looked up to, in a way. Someone I respected, whether or not I liked you," he suddenly said.
It would've been funny, to an outsider, the way she began to tend to him. Old rivals, yet she poured him a fresh glass of water and shook her head and scolded him. "Don't make up things, Sol," she teased, "You'll confuse yourself. Gits can only handle so much."
He chuckled lightly at her tone, at her words. "Don't deny it," he returned, his fingers brushing hers again as he took the glass of water. "I think it's true."
"I think you tried to break my hand once," Angie said, taking a seat on the side of his mattress. She leaned across his body and took the book that sat on his bedside table in hand before sitting upright again. "You elbowed me in my face in our first game together, pushed me off my broom a few times, and I'm pretty sure you have a couple bruises on me at this moment to your credit."
He frowned at that. "So it stands that we should detest each other, I should be ordering you to leave, and you shouldn't be visiting me in the first place," he said slowly. "And yet that doesn't seem to be the case."
"Well," she rolled her eyes and flipped through the novel. "You don't know my part of the bargain."
"And what might that be?" he asked, cocking his head to the side and gazing at her. "Though... a beautiful girl like you, visiting a crabbed old Slytherin like myself... wouldn't your boyfriend have something to say about that? Since we've already determined that I'm not him..."
She cut him a dry look. "I don't have a boyfriend."
"Well then," he smirked in an almost playful way at her. "The blokes of the school must be less intelligent than one gives them credit for."
She placed the book down on her chest and raised an eyebrow. "Don't forget yourself, Montague. I'd say you lot are far more interested in a different breed of girl."
"And what makes you say that, Angelina?" he imitated her expression.
"I'm everything a Hogwarts bloke doesn't want. Big, boyish, dark, loud, mean ..." She laughed a little bitterly. "Not blonde, blue-eyed, delicate and fragile and soft." She looked into his eyes and then ducked away from sentimentality. "I'd rather wrestle in mud on the pitch than wear make up and be someone's arm candy ... the Jane to some prat's Tarzan, if you will."
"You know that not all blokes enjoy the simpering debutante type," he observed. "And for all you say of what the blokes must like, I'm sure I can't be the only one who has ever told you that you were beautiful."
For the second or third time in the conversation, she ignored his compliment, certain it was some odd combination of the potions, the amnesia and the injury propelling it. "You've fallen and gone mad, Sol," she said, attempting to fall into the realm of banter and steer clear of such dangerous territory.
"No, I merely have eyes," he said wryly. "But I'll leave that point alone if it makes you uncomfortable. So... if we're supposedly hated rivals on the pitch, what brings you here tonight?"
Angelina opened her mouth to make a witty, perhaps sarcastic comment, but she stopped, lips parted. With him so vulnerable, laying there and staring at her, she could offer him a little truth. With a slightly shaking hand she reached out and brushed her finger against the wound on his lip. "I had to see if ..."
He reached up, quick reflexes that he didn't quite remember having, and caught her hand in his again. "I'm all right," he said, holding her hand against his cheek. "I can't remember everything, but... right now, I feel quite safe and well."
She sighed and blushed, suddenly shy, but she leaned closer to him nonetheless. "That's all I wanted."
"Good," he smiled faintly at her, wanting to cup her face with his other hand, feel if her cheek was as warm and smooth as it looked, but he refrained. "I'm glad you came to visit me."
They stared at each other in silence for a long moment, and Angelina felt her breath hitch as his grip on her hand tightened. She wanted to say something ... something clever or witty or intelligent, something to impress him or charm him. Something to cover the vulnerability that she felt more strongly than ever. Yet and still, instead of retreating from the feeling, she sat on his bedside, close to him and silent, waiting. Gryffindor courage, she supposed.
He wasn't sure why she wasn't speaking, and he still wasn't sure exactly what their association had been before he'd ended up in here. But... the very fact that she was visiting when rationally she had no reason to... that counted for something, right? And for that-- for her consideration and the odd sense of kinship that he felt with her-- even for the subtle but unmistakable attraction that he felt, perhaps because of a combination of everything, she deserved no less than honesty. "I'm rather glad that I figured out that you weren't my girl before this," he finally said, breaking the silence.
She opened her mouth to respond but hesitated, preparing herself for disappointment to follow. "Why?" she asked.
"If I hadn't, I might have been tempted to take liberties, and I don't think you're the sort of girl who'd put up with such disrespect," he said wryly. "And... Quidditch rivalry notwithstanding, there are certain lines that even I wouldn't cross without permission."
"Tempted to take liberties," she repeated softly. The corners of her lips curled upwards in a delicate, secretive grin and she sat all the way up, withdrawing her hand from him playfully. "What sort of liberties would you be so inclined to take?"
"That would be telling, now wouldn't it?" he asked lightly, relieved more than he could say that she hadn't taken offense and hit him, or, worse, bolted. "You'll just have to use that infamously overactive Gryffindor imagination."
"Must I?" she asked, raising an eyebrow and licking her top lip unconsciously. "And how would you know if you had permission?"
"I'd likely have to have a more intimate and felicitous acquaintance with you than strangely benevolent Quidditch rivals, wouldn't I?" he asked, his gaze flitting to her lips before returning to her eyes.
"'More intimite and felicitous'?" repeated Angelina quietly, smirking ever so slightly. To hell with it, she thought to herself, and with a disregard for propriety or caution, she leaned forward toward Solan Montague, propped up on his pillows and staring at her. She brought her mouth down to his, hovering just above him until their noses brushed and she felt his breath on her mouth. Her eyes were still open, and she took one last look into his eyes before leaning in to kiss him. Her hands remained planted firmly on the bed, and a few locks of her hair fell over their faces and grazed his skin and pillow.
He wasn't sure if he was expecting this, even with the recent turn their conversation had taken, but propriety notwithstanding, he certainly didn't protest, and after a moment, reached a hand up to tangle in her hair, smoothing it back behind her ear. Her cheek was as soft and smooth as it looked, and he was sure that the scene would've been at least a little shocking to others. But this felt like the snatches of flying that he'd recalled from his memories-- except warmer. He raised his other arm to her shoulders, pulling her closer.
She let him pull her closer, but she broke away briefly, eyes still closed and her lips parted. "I'm sorry," she whispered into his cheek, turning to see his bright blue eyes. "It seems I'm the one who didn't ask permission."
With infinite gentleness, he brushed his thumb over her lips, a faint smile on his face. "If you'd needed it," he told her softly, "You wouldn't have been able to."
She blushed shyly and bit her lip, wishing secretly that he'd kiss her. "I understand."
"And as you are braver than me," he quipped, "I'll have to ask permission." Cupping her face with his hands, he gazed her squarely in the eye. "May I?"
Angelina smiled slowly and nodded, closing her eyes as their mouths connected again. She felt a little drunk, like her head was spinning and the young woman wondered if she was really shaking. She felt a little overwhelmed, strange and shocked ... never would she have imagined that she'd end up at Solan Montague's bedside, snogging him. Somehow, though, it didn't feel so strange.
He felt something flaring up through him, heady and fiery, and he dimly supposed it was their latent rivalry, but this-- she was so strangely magnetic at the same time. She felt perfect in his arms, and it was when they both had to breathe that he finally pulled away, skimming his fingertips in wonder over the contours of her face. "If this is what it's like, I should have asked you to be my girl much sooner."
Half-smiling, Angelina sat up again and stretched her arms overhead, feeling her muscles a little sore from the position she had been in sitting up and then leaning over him. She wasn't sure how to ask if there was space for her, and she wasn't certain what would be pushy or inappropriate. Everything was unequivocally new.
He seemed to sense her thoughts, and shifted over slightly to make more room for her. "You can lie down if you'd like," he told her. "I won't bite."
"If you're sure," murmured Angelina as she slipped off her shoes and fit her thin frame into the space beside his body. An arm instinctively slid across his waist as she curved herself into his side, fitting into his body like a puzzle piece.
"I'm sure. On both counts," he quipped, turning slightly to the side to make more room for her, wrapping an arm around her to pull her closer. His fingers idly played with her hair. "Comfortable?"
She was immediately warmed by his embrace, and she chuckled softly. "Completely ... so long as Madam Pomfrey isn't to return any time soon."
He glanced at the clock on the wall in the distance. "It's a quarter to three," he murmured. "I don't think she would. Are you sleepy?"
"A little."
"You should get some sleep," his breath stirred a few tendrils of her hair. "Classes in the morning and all that."
She chucked as her eyes drifted closed and she buried her face in his arm. "Classes ..." she repeated half-heartedly, certain that nothing could take her away from his bedside, away from where she was now, warm, comfortable and safe.
And that was how Madam Pomfrey found them in the morning, two students that everyone had believed deadly enemies, sharing a narrow hospital bed and sleeping peacefully. Montague had his arm around Angelina, and he was even smiling faintly. The nurse stared at them in surprise for a few moments, before assuming a stern expression and shaking them awake, telling Angelina (albeit in a rather gentle voice) to go to classes.
But really, whatever it was-- whatever had caused it... it meant something in this divided school.
Title: Chasing Shadows
Authors: Ray and Thalia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Montague wakes up disoriented after the Vanishing Cabinet incident, and struggles to remember things as he lies alone at night in the hospital wing. When an unexpected visitor turns up, well... perhaps she can help him, right?
Solan Montague was feeling restless after a day of being poked and prodded and clucked over, though he lay still and quiet in the infirmary bed, eyes fixed hazily on the cloudless night sky visible through the window. Madam Pomfrey had explained what she knew of how he'd ended up here, but he still felt as though there were certain things missing from his memories, shadows too blurry for him to make out. He'd obediently drank down the potions that she'd ladled out for him and lain still and silent all day, trying to figure out just what it was that he didn't remember, and now he was alone in the infirmary, and wanted nothing more than to be out somewhere where people might give him some answers.
Unbeknownst to him, Angelina Johnson -- out past curfew -- silently made her way through darkened corridors and up moonlit stairwells away from the high Gryffindor Tower toward the Hospital Wing. A terrible headache plagued her ... it had since much earlier in the day, when Fred and George recounted a story that left her horrified. In listening, she'd felt her stomach work itself into a tight knot as her face worked to mask the horror and anger that accompanied the knowledge of the injury the twins had brought upon the Slytherin Quidditch captain. Since finding out what they'd done, put him in a Vanishing something or other, she'd felt the need to go sprinting off toward Madam Pomfrey's post.
He was just contemplating getting up and getting himself a glass of water when, almost inaudibly, the door of the infirmary opened. The girl who entered was tall, with a rather statuesque, forthright sort of beauty, and she strode quickly towards his bed. When she got close to him, he did sit up. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Her eyes were dark and full of conflicting emotions-- surprise, concern, anger, and something that he couldn't define.
She found the sight of him slightly alarming. He sat upright when she approached, and immediately her plans were ruined. She expected to come and go unnoticed, to spend just enough time there to know that he was alright, unharmed, safe. Comfort enough to allow her to sleep, to keep her from pacing about as she had done all day turning over the horrible possibilities in her mind. She approached hesitantly until she was by his bed, just far enough from him so that she was just out of arms reach ... escape distance. Still, she spoke. "Your lip is cut," was Angelina's first observance. Her voice cracked ever so slightly while her eyes lingered at the thin line on his bottom lip and chin. Cautiously, she let her eyes search for other marks on a face that she knew.
He reflexively raised a finger to his bottom lip. He'd been told that he was lucky he hadn't escaped with greater physical injuries, and that it wouldn't scar. But it was the girl's tone that made him frown slightly. Her voice was well-modulated and smooth, but he picked up a hint of agitation in it, and he didn't want her to be sad for him. He had the vague feeling that she wasn't one who was often afraid. "It doesn't hurt any more," he said in what he hoped was a reassuring voice.
Reassuring was perhaps not the word for what the sound of his voice did, but that he spoke encouraged her to step closer, tilting her head to one side so that she could catch more of his face in the moon's white light coming through the window. "And that one?" she whispered, gesturing to a small cut above his left eyebrow, the only other obvious physical mark of some trouble from earlier in the day.
"It's fine as well," he told her. "Madam Pomfrey said that they'd be gone in a few days." Recalling his manners, he cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. "Would you like to sit down?"
Angelina wrinkled her nose and frowned. It had been a while -- a short while but a notable one nonetheless -- since he'd spoken to her with that sort of formality... No. He was always formal, always polite, so different from her, but ... something about him was different. "No," she answered, but she slipped her cloak off her shoulders and moved to his bedside, until she stood at his side, hands resting on his mattress.
For a few moments, he merely gazed at her, with a vague, uncomfortable feeling that he was supposed to know her, and know her well. But he didn't know the nature of their association, and he wasn't sure if she would be amenable to clearing that up for him. But she didn't show any signs of leaving, so perhaps... "Perhaps you could help me with a few things?"
"Yes?"
Slowly, he reached for her hand, which rested by his pillow, and took it carefully in his, feeling strength and warm fingers and sensibly clipped nails, a few calluses. "I've the oddest feeling that I-- knew you very well-- before now," he said quietly, his eyes focused on her hand. "I'm sorry... things are very blurry in my memories. But even your hands feel familiar, and I'm not sure why."
She froze, the expression on her face tightening as her stomach dropped. His fingers were warm on top of hers -- the gesture was as foreign as his invitation for her to sit -- and instead of being comforted as she should've been, she felt a new sort of anxiety, new fear. His few injuries were deceptive; his condition was worse than they suggested. He didn't remember her ...
Her fingers curled a little bit in his grasp and Angelina inhaled slowly, softly. "You don't remember anything."
"I remember certain things. I remember my name, my age... how to do things and the like. I remember that I was walking down a hall before everything kind of goes dark. I remember how things feel, and you seem very familiar," he said, brushing a thumb over the back of her hand. "I think we were friends... but that doesn't quite seem right. I'm not sure."
Under other circumstances -- the previous circumstances of their secret friendship before now, barely a few months old, fragile and inconsistent and ill-defined -- she might've withdrawn. But at this moment more than ever, she sensed, perhaps hoped, that he needed her ... because she needed to help him. And she needed him to remember her. Without hesitation, Angelina leaned closer to his bed, lowering herself to her knees so that he didn't look up at her. "My name is Angelina."
"Angelina," he tested the name out on his tongue, blue eyes fixed with brown. "It's a pretty name." A pretty name for a pretty girl. His brow was slightly furrowed. "You couldn't have been my girl," he remarked. "I think I would have remembered that." As it was, it seemed strange to him that he could forget someone like her. "How did I know you?"
Angie sighed and a lock of hair fell in her face, obscuring her eyes, for the best, she thought. "No ... I wasn't your girl." She took her hand away from him and crossed her arms, across her chest, prepared to deliver the reality of their situation, of their relationship. "We're captains in Quidditch. Opposing teams. You beat me for a long time."
"It would stand that I should hate you then," he remarked, still gazing at her. A bit of her hair hid her eyes, but he wasn't sure that it wouldn't be taking a presumptuous liberty to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. "But I don't think I do."
She kept her chin lowered and felt her face going red. She realized the reality of the situation. She realized what she could tell him ... what she wanted to say almost. But she didn't. He was vulnerable and couldn't remember a thing, he felt nothing more for her than he would anyone else -- his mind was a blank slate. "I hope not. I couldn't be sure."
He could sense a conflicted sort of sadness within her, and a part of him wanted to comfort her, tell her everything would be all right. "Madam Pomfrey hopes that I'll recall everything soon," he settled for saying, his eyes troubled. "I want to remember you. You seem so... close, somehow. The sort of person it would be worth knowing."
She chuckled sadly and looked up at him. His face was pale in the darkness, his features highlighted just enough to create a beautiful profile. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but instead stood and walked across the room, away toward the place where she knew Madam Pomfrey stored supplies, water pitchers, blankets and such.
He watched her walk away from him and closed his eyes briefly, trying to recall. And then watched her walk back towards him, her gait measured and graceful without trying to. "You're someone I looked up to, in a way. Someone I respected, whether or not I liked you," he suddenly said.
It would've been funny, to an outsider, the way she began to tend to him. Old rivals, yet she poured him a fresh glass of water and shook her head and scolded him. "Don't make up things, Sol," she teased, "You'll confuse yourself. Gits can only handle so much."
He chuckled lightly at her tone, at her words. "Don't deny it," he returned, his fingers brushing hers again as he took the glass of water. "I think it's true."
"I think you tried to break my hand once," Angie said, taking a seat on the side of his mattress. She leaned across his body and took the book that sat on his bedside table in hand before sitting upright again. "You elbowed me in my face in our first game together, pushed me off my broom a few times, and I'm pretty sure you have a couple bruises on me at this moment to your credit."
He frowned at that. "So it stands that we should detest each other, I should be ordering you to leave, and you shouldn't be visiting me in the first place," he said slowly. "And yet that doesn't seem to be the case."
"Well," she rolled her eyes and flipped through the novel. "You don't know my part of the bargain."
"And what might that be?" he asked, cocking his head to the side and gazing at her. "Though... a beautiful girl like you, visiting a crabbed old Slytherin like myself... wouldn't your boyfriend have something to say about that? Since we've already determined that I'm not him..."
She cut him a dry look. "I don't have a boyfriend."
"Well then," he smirked in an almost playful way at her. "The blokes of the school must be less intelligent than one gives them credit for."
She placed the book down on her chest and raised an eyebrow. "Don't forget yourself, Montague. I'd say you lot are far more interested in a different breed of girl."
"And what makes you say that, Angelina?" he imitated her expression.
"I'm everything a Hogwarts bloke doesn't want. Big, boyish, dark, loud, mean ..." She laughed a little bitterly. "Not blonde, blue-eyed, delicate and fragile and soft." She looked into his eyes and then ducked away from sentimentality. "I'd rather wrestle in mud on the pitch than wear make up and be someone's arm candy ... the Jane to some prat's Tarzan, if you will."
"You know that not all blokes enjoy the simpering debutante type," he observed. "And for all you say of what the blokes must like, I'm sure I can't be the only one who has ever told you that you were beautiful."
For the second or third time in the conversation, she ignored his compliment, certain it was some odd combination of the potions, the amnesia and the injury propelling it. "You've fallen and gone mad, Sol," she said, attempting to fall into the realm of banter and steer clear of such dangerous territory.
"No, I merely have eyes," he said wryly. "But I'll leave that point alone if it makes you uncomfortable. So... if we're supposedly hated rivals on the pitch, what brings you here tonight?"
Angelina opened her mouth to make a witty, perhaps sarcastic comment, but she stopped, lips parted. With him so vulnerable, laying there and staring at her, she could offer him a little truth. With a slightly shaking hand she reached out and brushed her finger against the wound on his lip. "I had to see if ..."
He reached up, quick reflexes that he didn't quite remember having, and caught her hand in his again. "I'm all right," he said, holding her hand against his cheek. "I can't remember everything, but... right now, I feel quite safe and well."
She sighed and blushed, suddenly shy, but she leaned closer to him nonetheless. "That's all I wanted."
"Good," he smiled faintly at her, wanting to cup her face with his other hand, feel if her cheek was as warm and smooth as it looked, but he refrained. "I'm glad you came to visit me."
They stared at each other in silence for a long moment, and Angelina felt her breath hitch as his grip on her hand tightened. She wanted to say something ... something clever or witty or intelligent, something to impress him or charm him. Something to cover the vulnerability that she felt more strongly than ever. Yet and still, instead of retreating from the feeling, she sat on his bedside, close to him and silent, waiting. Gryffindor courage, she supposed.
He wasn't sure why she wasn't speaking, and he still wasn't sure exactly what their association had been before he'd ended up in here. But... the very fact that she was visiting when rationally she had no reason to... that counted for something, right? And for that-- for her consideration and the odd sense of kinship that he felt with her-- even for the subtle but unmistakable attraction that he felt, perhaps because of a combination of everything, she deserved no less than honesty. "I'm rather glad that I figured out that you weren't my girl before this," he finally said, breaking the silence.
She opened her mouth to respond but hesitated, preparing herself for disappointment to follow. "Why?" she asked.
"If I hadn't, I might have been tempted to take liberties, and I don't think you're the sort of girl who'd put up with such disrespect," he said wryly. "And... Quidditch rivalry notwithstanding, there are certain lines that even I wouldn't cross without permission."
"Tempted to take liberties," she repeated softly. The corners of her lips curled upwards in a delicate, secretive grin and she sat all the way up, withdrawing her hand from him playfully. "What sort of liberties would you be so inclined to take?"
"That would be telling, now wouldn't it?" he asked lightly, relieved more than he could say that she hadn't taken offense and hit him, or, worse, bolted. "You'll just have to use that infamously overactive Gryffindor imagination."
"Must I?" she asked, raising an eyebrow and licking her top lip unconsciously. "And how would you know if you had permission?"
"I'd likely have to have a more intimate and felicitous acquaintance with you than strangely benevolent Quidditch rivals, wouldn't I?" he asked, his gaze flitting to her lips before returning to her eyes.
"'More intimite and felicitous'?" repeated Angelina quietly, smirking ever so slightly. To hell with it, she thought to herself, and with a disregard for propriety or caution, she leaned forward toward Solan Montague, propped up on his pillows and staring at her. She brought her mouth down to his, hovering just above him until their noses brushed and she felt his breath on her mouth. Her eyes were still open, and she took one last look into his eyes before leaning in to kiss him. Her hands remained planted firmly on the bed, and a few locks of her hair fell over their faces and grazed his skin and pillow.
He wasn't sure if he was expecting this, even with the recent turn their conversation had taken, but propriety notwithstanding, he certainly didn't protest, and after a moment, reached a hand up to tangle in her hair, smoothing it back behind her ear. Her cheek was as soft and smooth as it looked, and he was sure that the scene would've been at least a little shocking to others. But this felt like the snatches of flying that he'd recalled from his memories-- except warmer. He raised his other arm to her shoulders, pulling her closer.
She let him pull her closer, but she broke away briefly, eyes still closed and her lips parted. "I'm sorry," she whispered into his cheek, turning to see his bright blue eyes. "It seems I'm the one who didn't ask permission."
With infinite gentleness, he brushed his thumb over her lips, a faint smile on his face. "If you'd needed it," he told her softly, "You wouldn't have been able to."
She blushed shyly and bit her lip, wishing secretly that he'd kiss her. "I understand."
"And as you are braver than me," he quipped, "I'll have to ask permission." Cupping her face with his hands, he gazed her squarely in the eye. "May I?"
Angelina smiled slowly and nodded, closing her eyes as their mouths connected again. She felt a little drunk, like her head was spinning and the young woman wondered if she was really shaking. She felt a little overwhelmed, strange and shocked ... never would she have imagined that she'd end up at Solan Montague's bedside, snogging him. Somehow, though, it didn't feel so strange.
He felt something flaring up through him, heady and fiery, and he dimly supposed it was their latent rivalry, but this-- she was so strangely magnetic at the same time. She felt perfect in his arms, and it was when they both had to breathe that he finally pulled away, skimming his fingertips in wonder over the contours of her face. "If this is what it's like, I should have asked you to be my girl much sooner."
Half-smiling, Angelina sat up again and stretched her arms overhead, feeling her muscles a little sore from the position she had been in sitting up and then leaning over him. She wasn't sure how to ask if there was space for her, and she wasn't certain what would be pushy or inappropriate. Everything was unequivocally new.
He seemed to sense her thoughts, and shifted over slightly to make more room for her. "You can lie down if you'd like," he told her. "I won't bite."
"If you're sure," murmured Angelina as she slipped off her shoes and fit her thin frame into the space beside his body. An arm instinctively slid across his waist as she curved herself into his side, fitting into his body like a puzzle piece.
"I'm sure. On both counts," he quipped, turning slightly to the side to make more room for her, wrapping an arm around her to pull her closer. His fingers idly played with her hair. "Comfortable?"
She was immediately warmed by his embrace, and she chuckled softly. "Completely ... so long as Madam Pomfrey isn't to return any time soon."
He glanced at the clock on the wall in the distance. "It's a quarter to three," he murmured. "I don't think she would. Are you sleepy?"
"A little."
"You should get some sleep," his breath stirred a few tendrils of her hair. "Classes in the morning and all that."
She chucked as her eyes drifted closed and she buried her face in his arm. "Classes ..." she repeated half-heartedly, certain that nothing could take her away from his bedside, away from where she was now, warm, comfortable and safe.
And that was how Madam Pomfrey found them in the morning, two students that everyone had believed deadly enemies, sharing a narrow hospital bed and sleeping peacefully. Montague had his arm around Angelina, and he was even smiling faintly. The nurse stared at them in surprise for a few moments, before assuming a stern expression and shaking them awake, telling Angelina (albeit in a rather gentle voice) to go to classes.
But really, whatever it was-- whatever had caused it... it meant something in this divided school.