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“Merlin!” Sansa shouts, jumping half a foot in the air when she turns to see him standing on the other side of the room.
She only just barely manages to save the glass she’s holding from slipping through her fingers, other hand pressed against her chest to calm her heart once she realizes it’s only him.
“Sorry,” he says with a grimace, instantly regretting apparating into the Starks’ kitchen, completely unannounced.
Sansa waves him off. “It’s fine,” she says with a smile, then rolls her eyes, “Robb’s been popping up everywhere for weeks now, just trying to scare everyone.”
Jon grins, feeling a little guilty, “Yeah. I’ve been doing the same to my mum.”
Sansa shakes her head, clearly not surprised, wisps of fire-red hair escaping from the loose knot she’s tied it all into.
“Sansa?!” comes a call from another room – her father. “Everything alright?!”
“Fine!” she calls back. “Jon’s here!”
The announcement seems to rouse the whole house. Ned comes in, hand out for a shake, and a paternal pat on the shoulder. Catelyn appears, with a hug and comment about how much he’s grown over the summer. Bran and Rickon come down the stairs, arguing about something or other until they see Jon and call a momentary truce to begin interrogating him about the Quidditch World finals. Robb, of course, apparates into the middle of the room, making his mother yelp in surprise – and earning him a quick box about his ears from his father.
“Letters!” Arya calls, running into the room, holding a bundle of envelopes in her hands. “Jon’s is here too.”
She hands him the cream-colored envelope, his name printed across the front in emerald green ink. He pulls out the letter inside and reads it over quickly. Just about the same as last year, except for the books list on the second page.
“Robb,” Catelyn exclaims suddenly and Jon looks up. Robb is holding a shiny gold badge with the words Head Boy stamped on the front.
“Wow,” Sansa says, impressed. She’s got her own silver badge already sitting on the tabletop.
“How did that happen?” Arya asks, raising an eyebrow. “Must’ve been some kind of fluke.”
“Arya,” Ned warns, then turns to congratulate his son, “We’re proud of you, Robb.” The room erupts in a flurry of congratulations and so proud and Jon manages to squash the little bubble of envy that blossoms in his chest. Robb is his best friend and he only wants great things for him – but everything always seems to come easy for Robb: top marks in all his classes, favorite of the professors, winning Quidditch keeper, the dream date of nearly every girl in school, Prefect since fifth year, and now Head Boy.
Sometimes it’s hard not to be just a bit envious of it all.
“Who do you suppose’ll be Head Girl?” Robb wonders, breaking into Jon’s thoughts. There’s a few girls who come to mind, most of them in Ravenclaw.
“Maybe Talisa Maegyr,” Jon offers with a shrug.
Robb pulls a face. Talisa Maegyr is one of the few girls that no longer believes Robb hung the moon. Bad break-ups tend to do that, even if it was three years ago.
“Whoever she is, she better have a strong stomach – living with you,” Arya smirks, then hightails it out of the room, laughing, when Robb threatens to give her a pig snout. By the sounds of the commotion upstairs, Arya manages to make it into her bedroom before Robb catches her – until something shatters and Arya screams and then Ned is hurrying upstairs to run damage control before Arya’s tendency towards accidental magic blows up the house.
Inevitably, Bran and Rickon trail after him, eager to see the show.
With a deep sigh after her children, Cat turns to Jon and her frown eases, “how’s your mother, Jon?”
His mother has been friendly with Ned Stark since their school days. “She’s good. Heading off to Braavos for the next few weeks.”
“And she doesn’t mind you staying with us until school starts?”
Jon shakes his head, “No. She’s there on business and she’d much rather I stay here than try to survive on my own while she’s gone.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Sansa comments, with a teasing smirk. Jon glances at her, a little surprised. Sansa Stark does not tease him. Sure, they’ve grown up alongside one another since he was eleven, and Sansa has always been nice to him, even through her too-cool-for-everyone phase she’d been at least tolerable to him – but they aren’t the kind of friends who tease one another.
Except, apparently, now they are, if the playful look in her blue eyes is anything to go by. Odd. But a good odd. Odd in a way that makes his grin come easily. She smiles back, a little wider then, before taking her letter and Prefect’s badge and slipping out of the room.
Jon watches her go, the smallest frown creasing between his eyebrows.
Definitely odd.
He stays with the Starks for the rest of the summer and he thinks it might be the best summer he’s ever had. Not that he doesn’t love his mother; on the contrary. But Lyanna Snow is a single mother, and as is generally the case, she works hard, long hours at a thankless job – more so now that Jon is older – so summers tend to be lonely at the Snow house.
But here, with the Starks, it’s nearly impossible to find even a moment to yourself. Everyone is always somewhere, getting into something. Meals are spent together, around the large dining table, with everybody talking over one another. Days are lazy, wandering around the house when it’s raining or playing pick-up games of Quidditch when the weather’s nice.
They spend a day in Diagon Alley getting school supplies and new robes for Bran whose grown a full three inches since last year. Jon needs a new cauldron, which Ned insists on buying for him, despite Jon’s protests. Sansa picks one out after scouring three rows of everything from pewter to solid gold, and assures him that his potions will never be the same again. They run into Theon and then Sam, and Jon and Robb disappear into the crowd with them, promising to be back later for ice cream.
Eventually, the summer heat begins to fade into the cool mornings and chilly evenings of autumn until, finally, the morning of September 1st dawns bright and blustery, heavy rain clouds hanging in the air.
“Mum!” Robb calls, frantically digging through his bedroom for the sixth time that morning, “Have you seen my Charms book?!”
They were meant to have been packed three days ago – had sworn to Cat, up and down, that they were all set to go.
They’re not.
Half of Robb’s school books are strewn across the bed and Jon’s freshly laundered robes are still sitting in the neat piles Cat left them in a week ago. He grabs both piles and shoves them into his trunk, praying quickly that his ink bottles don’t crack open and soak the whole lot of it.
Some muffled response from Catelyn comes up the stairs and Robb pauses his search to frown and shout, “What?!”
“She said,” Sansa says, appearing in the doorway, neatly packed trunk sitting on the floor at her feet, “That you should have been ready days ago and you’re bloody well on your own.”
Robb rolls his eyes, “That’s not what she said.”
Sansa crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow, “Well that’s what she meant.” She surveys the room – it looks remarkably like a bomb’s gone off – and shakes her head at both boys. “We’re meant to leave in five minutes. Everyone else is waiting.”
“Yeah,” Robb says, head stuck beneath his bed now, still on the hunt for his book, “And we’ll be ready – aha!” He reappears, triumphant, holding up the offending text.
Sansa sighs but it’s more amused than disappointed, “You’re incorrigible.”
“Hey,” Robb protests, gathering all his books together and dumping them, unceremoniously, into his trunk, “Jon’s not ready either.”
“Yes,” Sansa remarks, smirking again, “And you’re both idiots.” She grabs the handle of her trunk, turns on her heel, and marches down the stairs.
Not a moment later, Arya comes skidding into the bedroom. “Have either of you seen my broom?”
Platform 9 ¾ is a wash of colors and sounds, making everything feel rather warmer than outside the station. Robb and Jon stash their trunks in one of the last open compartments before ducking back out to the platform to say their goodbyes. Lyanna is there, already making plans with Cat to get together at Christmas when everyone comes home for the holidays. The train whistle shrieks through the air and suddenly they’re all a whirlwind of hugs and kisses and promises to write, just as they are every year.
When the train finally pulls out of the station, four Starks and one Snow wave from the windows until the scarlet engine turns around a bend and Platform 9 ¾ disappears from sight.
“I’m off, you lot,” Bran says first, heading down the other end of the train to find the Reeds and his Ravenclaw friends.
Arya is gone then too, slipping into the open door of a compartment where two boys – one rather round and the other tall and burly and older – are already sitting.
“Who’re they?” Robb asks, protective big brother frown in place.
“Well, I can’t be certain but I would presume they’re Arya’s friends,” Sansa replies, cheeky.
Jon smirks. It’s rather hilarious how magnificently unimpressed she always is by her brother. Everyone else, even her parents, seems to think that Robb is extraordinary. Sansa seems to think he’s an idiot.
“Just remember,” Robb warns, “I’m Head Boy this year, which means you’ve got to do what I say. I’m in charge.”
Sansa is unfazed. She pauses at the door of another compartment, turns to look at him and Jon, and says, “I might actually believe that if I didn’t know that the Head Girl is Margaery Tyrell.” Then, with a smile that knows exactly what is going through Robb’s head in that moment, Sansa slips into the compartment and slides the door closed behind her.
After a moment, Jon tries, “Robb?”
He hasn’t moved but the color has nearly gone out of his face, making his red hair all the more prominent in the low light of the train. There’s only one girl at Hogwarts – possibly in all of the world – who can, with alarming consistency, turn Robb into a stumbling, stuttering mess, and that is Margaery Tyrell. It doesn’t help that she seems to know exactly what she does to him, or that she apparently enjoys doing it.
And now, they’ll be living together.
“She’s going to see me naked,” Robb exclaims once Jon manages to half-drag, half-lead him back to their compartment and both Theon and Sam have joined them.
“Here’s hoping,” Theon crows, thoroughly amused by the prospect of Margaery being Robb’s counterpart.
“You’ll have separate rooms, Robb,” Sam assures, patiently.
“Sam’s right. And, really, how often are you going to be walking around stark naked in the common room?” Jon reminds him.
“What if I’m in the bath?” Robb asks.
“Ask her to join you,” Theon suggests, leaning back into his seat. Everyone ignores him.
“What if she’s in the bath – and I walk in on her?” Robb’s face is the picture of horror. For someone who has half a dozen new girls fawning over him every day, and who manages to be effortlessly charming around the lot of them, he looks ready to leap from the train window at the mere thought of being in such close quarters to Margaery Tyrell.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.”
Sansa is standing in the open doorway of the compartment, frowning down at them. She’s already wearing her school robes, her scarlet and gold tie somehow complementing her red hair rather than clashing. Without waiting for an invitation, she drops down onto the bench beside Jon, glaring at her brother, “Pull yourself together. You’re acting like a fool and we’ve got to go meet with the other Prefects in a few minutes.”
“Easy for you to say,” Robb mutters low but he does manage to straighten up and look a bit less like he’s about to vomit. They shoo Sansa out of the compartment and change into their school robes, even though Robb is the only one who needs to be wearing them yet. Then Robb disappears down the corridor to the last compartment, promising to tell them about all about the meeting when he returns.
Apparently, he manages to make it through the whole thing without making a total fool out of himself. Although, Sansa whispers to Jon with a smile, he still managed to trip on his robes and nearly take out a passing second year when they’d left.
“You probably know why I’ve asked you to come in today, Snow,” Professor Mormont says, sitting behind his solid wooden desk, great glass window at his back.
To be honest, Jon has no idea. Mormont is head of Gryffindor House, teaches Care of Magical Creatures, and is, frankly, well-deserving of the nickname ‘Old Bear.’ He’s tough and hardly warm and fuzzy but he’s fair and Jon’s always liked him.
Mormont takes Jon’s silence as an answer and continues, “I’m sure you’re wondering why you weren’t made Prefect this year, especially since they named Stark Head Boy.”
He was, actually. That little bloom of envy toward Robb had asked that very question almost a hundred times since he’d gotten his Hogwarts letter over the summer. His marks were certainly good enough, and he only ever got into trouble with Robb anyway, so that couldn’t have been the reason he’d been over-looked.
“Truth is, Snow, we all figured it might be too much. You can’t be a Prefect and Quidditch captain – you’ll never have time to sleep,” Mormont chuckles.
Jon blinks. His brain feels sluggish. He’s what?
“Quidditch captain, sir?” he asks, just to make sure he heard right.
Mormont leans forward, “And we best win this year, Snow. Baelish’s been parading that trophy around all summer, mocking me.”
The grin that erupts feels like it might split his face in two, “Yes, sir.”
Mormont sits back, a satisfied smile on his face. “Good. Now, get out of my office.”
Jon’s grinning like fool when he gets up and sort of wanders, dazedly, out of Mormont’s office. He’s not paying any attention to where he’s going either so it’s hardly surprising when he walks right into someone standing in the corridor. They go down in a tidal wave of robes and school books and there’s a distinctly feminine squeak before Jon is being squished into the hard stone of the floor with a pointy elbow digging into his ribs.
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, trying to untangle himself. The girl on top of him is unfamiliar, definitely younger, and looking severely unimpressed at his pitiful attempts to set them both on their feet. Her friends are grabbing at her arms to help, but it’s only causing more problems, and not one of them seems to be concerned about him at all –
“Jon?” Sansa’s voice seems to float over the commotion and he manages to catch a glimpse of her red hair before the crowd of would-be helpers swallows him again.
After another moment, the girl’s friends manage to pull her back upright and Jon’s on his feet too, Sansa suddenly holding onto his elbow and hauling him off the floor. He offers half a dozen more apologies to the girl but she only glares at him, face bright red, and turns down the corridor, each of her friends glaring at him in turn – as if he’d meant to run her down and embarrass the both of them like that.
“Are you alright?” Sansa asks, running her hands down the sleeves of his robes to brush off the dust.
Jon nods, feeling foolish, “Fine. Just not paying attention.”
She giggles, that teasing sparkle back in her eyes, “Ah, good. I thought this was some new way of flirting I hadn’t heard of yet.”
A flush is creeping up his neck, but he likes the sound of her laugh, so gentle and musical that he thinks he might walk into a hundred people just to hear her make that sound again.
Uh. He blinks and swallows, pulling away from her – and when did she get that close anyway – because that is not the kind of thought he should be having about Sansa Stark.
She doesn’t notice, instead she says, “So what had you so distracted you took out a fourth year?”
His brain feels like it’s short-circuiting, like that Muggle toaster did that time Theon’s older sister told them to try putting a knife in it. Somehow – he’s not entirely sure how – he manages to say, “Mormont named me Quidditch captain.”
Sansa’s eyes light up and – Merlin’s beard – she’s even prettier than she was a moment ago – and she throws her arms around his neck. He sways a little when he catches her and his hands have no idea where they’re supposed to be – well, they do (he has had a girlfriend before, he’s not a total novice at this stuff) but this is Sansa Stark and so he sort of stands there awkwardly for a moment.
“Congratulations,” she says, pulling away from him, and if she’s bothered by his pitiful hug she doesn’t show it. She’s still smiling, wide and bright, and Jon feels like a whole swarm of butterflies has just unfurled in his stomach.
Fuck.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’ll be great,” she nods, sagely. He’s pretty sure she’s never watched a Quidditch match in her life but she sounds so certain of him that it hardly matters.
Someone calls her name from down the corridor and Sansa waves quickly, then looks back at Jon, “Sorry, I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you later, okay?” She grabs hold of his hand and gives it a quick squeeze, and says again, somehow even more sincerely than before, “Congratulations.”
He watches her as she hurries off with a gaggle of girls waiting for her at the end of the passage, tipping his head back against the cool stone of the wall, one thought rushing through his brain again and again: fuck, fuck, fuck…
It’s five full days before he can even think of looking Robb in the face again, absolutely sure that the other boy will be able to see into Jon’s brain and pull out all the inappropriate thoughts he’s been having about Robb’s little sister. Thoughts which, much to Jon’s horror, have only gotten worse in the last week, including one rather vivid dream that had him flushing in shame for hours afterwards.
And Sansa being around all the time isn’t helping. It’s like, suddenly, she’s everywhere. He could have sworn that her schedule had never caused them to cross paths during the day, but now, it seems that whenever he steps into a corridor, there she is. And in the evenings, when the Gryffindors filled the common room, she and her friends used to gather in a knot on the other side of room, but not anymore. Now when he and Sam are sitting at the tables, working on homework, she and her friends drop down around them, smiling and laughing, pulling out their own work and dragging her and Sam into conversations.
Not that it’s unpleasant. Actually, most nights it’s pretty great, especially with Robb off being Head Boy and living in different dormitories, but it’s certainly not helping to quell those inappropriate thoughts of his.
Sam doesn’t mind at all, especially after Sansa introduces him to a girl named Gilly, and then it’s all Sam can do to keep from begging the girls to join them each evening.
Mercifully, Quidditch, at least, manages to keep him somewhat distracted.
He’s rather proud of the team he’s put together, actually. Robb’s the best Keeper the school’s had in a hundred years, and Grenn and Pyp are more bloodthirsty than they’ve ever been. Plus, they’ve got Arya to bolster the other two new Chasers, and if all else fails, Jon will just have to catch the Snitch before the other team can do too much damage. But, honestly, watching them swoop in and out of practice formations, he’s not sure it’s ever going to come down to that.
They’re really good.
Robb laughs, swinging his broom up alongside Jon’s, surveying the others darting around after one another, “Nice team there, Snow.”
Jon grins, nodding, “Not bad, are we?”
“Cup’s ours this year,” Robb crows. “I can’t wait to watch Theon fall off his broom when we play Slytherin.”
Theon’s been a Chaser for the Slytherin House team since they were third years and he’s the only person who has ever scored more than one goal on Robb during a match. Even their years of friendship couldn’t quell the legendary rivalry between them. It usually meant summer pick-up games got a little competitive every year.
“Hey,” Robb says, nodding off toward the stands, “I didn’t think she even knew where the pitch was.”
Jon would love to have said that he had absolutely no idea who Robb might be talking about, but that would be a lie. When he turns, he catches Sansa’s red hair, the wind pulling it loose from her braid, as she drops onto a bench beside Sam. The blustery October air is already turning her pale skin pink and making her eyes shine in the prettiest kind of way.
She waves a mitten-covered hand at them, pulling strands of hair from her mouth, and Jon remembers that Robb – her brother and his best friend – is floating right beside him and feels entirely guilty again.
“She’s probably got some new boyfriend she’s trying to impress,” Robb says, darkly, and Jon’s gaze cuts to him.
He feels like a traitor when he asks, “She’s got a boyfriend?” as nonchalantly as he can manage.
Robb shrugs, “but why else would she be out here?”
Jon ignores the rush of relief that floods him. It shouldn’t matter to him whether Sansa has a boyfriend or not because she is completely off-limits and, even more than that, because he really doesn’t care at all anyway.
This is, of course, a complete lie, but he pretends not to know that.
He’s incredibly grateful for the cold hiding the blush on his cheeks.
Desperate for anything to focus on that isn’t his best friend’s sister, Jon nods back toward the others zooming around the pitch, “Come on. We should let them practice taking some shots on you.”
Robb laughs again, peeling his broom back down toward the goal posts, “Alright, but I don’t think making them feel bad about themselves is such great strategy, captain.”
Jon manages to not think about Sansa for the rest of the practice.
Mostly.
“Are you two going to Hogsmeade this Saturday?” Sansa asks one evening, barely taking a moment to look up from her Potions homework. She’s sitting next to him again, elbow very nearly touching his, and Merlin he feels like he’s twelve again, with his first crush on a girl. It’s kind of humiliating.
“Yeah,” Sam replies, looking over at Gilly, “are you?”
Gilly smiles, “Well, I am,” then smirks across the table at Sansa, “she’s got a date.”
He doesn’t know how exactly his ink bottle ends up shattering on the ground – one minute it’s sitting next to him and the next, it’s in a thousand pieces on the floor.
“Jon, are you okay?” Sansa asks, startled.
Scratch that, it’s very humiliating.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters a quick Reparo and the bottle puts itself back together but he feels like a complete idiot – and also a little bit like he wants to die, which is why it’s remarkable that he decides to ask, “who’s the date with?”
Still a little flustered by the ink bottle situation, Sansa stumbles for a moment, then says, “Uh, um, Harry Hardyng.”
“From Ravenclaw?” Sam says and Gilly nods, thoroughly entertained.
Harry Hardyng. From Ravenclaw. He sounds pretentious, Jon thinks, and arrogant. Never worked a day in his life, most like. Not wanting for anything though, that’s the type. Wealthy without the work. Spoiled, certainly. Jon’s never actually met the other boy, but anyone with a name like Harry Hardyng is probably an arse.
“Jon?” Sam’s voice breaks through the barrage of Jon’s thoughts.
“Hmm?”
Sam frowns, looking a little concerned, but continues, “I thought maybe you and I could hang out with Gilly and Jeyne on Saturday, in Hogsmeade, since Robb’s got that Head Boy thing and Theon’s got Quidditch practice.”
Right. Because Sansa would be on her date. With Harry Hardyng. “Sure,” he says, although he thinks he might rather Grenn smack bludgers at his head than spend the day on a double date with Sam and Gilly.
“Good,” Sansa says, happily, “maybe we can even meet up at the Three Broomsticks later.”
Just fucking fantastic.
Saturday arrives and with it, the first snow of the season. It’s light and melts by noon but the day stays cold and biting just the same. They meet Gilly and Jeyne in the common room and Jon tries to ignore the bitter feeling in his stomach as they head down to the carriages.
Hogsmeade has always been a place he’s loved visiting – the stores alone are worlds to get lost in for hours and hours. But today, walking behind Gilly and Sam, with Jeyne chatting away at him, none of the places seem interesting at all. And he feels like an idiot for it. After all, being jealous about Sansa’s boyfriend is ridiculous, especially since he’s not supposed to like her anyway.
Because of Robb. Who, by the way, would have made this whole trip better, but who is, instead, at another one of these Head Boy meetings he always seems be going to these days.
By one o’clock, Sam and Gilly are ready to eat and Jon is ready to not be wandering around the village mindlessly.
“Sansa and Harry were going to meet us around one-thirty, anyway,” Jeyne explains as they push through the doorway of the Three Broomsticks. The place is crowded so Jon goes to get butterbeer while the others find them a table. He’s moving through the crowd, careful not to spill all over the over customers, when someone with familiar pretty red hair suddenly brushes past him, forcing him to wobble dangerously.
“Sansa?” he calls after her. She doesn’t stop. Instead, she slips through the doorway back into the cold. No Harry in sight.
Jon finds Sam, Gilly, and Jeyne, dropping their drinks down as quickly as possible. He’s not certain if he actually says anything to them before he hurries away but he thinks Sam might have shouted his name, so he suspects not.
When he bursts through the doorway into the November air, he doesn’t, for a moment, see her hair through the crowds milling about on the street. Then he catches it – bright and beautiful – walking back up the street toward school. Alone. He chases after her, sidestepping people and muttering apologies to the glares he gets as he goes.
“Sansa!” he calls, hurrying up the hill. This time, she does hear him. She stops and runs her hands over her face, turning just as he catches up to her. The sight of her tear-streaked cheeks and watery blue eyes pulls him up short.
“What did he do?” he demands, thoughts murderous. He’s going to kill him and no one is ever going to find that little louse’s body, he’d make sure of that.
Sansa, apparently, recognizes this, and grabs hold of his wrist, “Nothing. Jon, nothing happened.”
This is clearly a lie, judging by the lines of make-up, but Sansa’s eyes are begging him to let it be. So earnest is her expression that the tight fist around his heart uncurls a little and he feels like he can breathe again.
Still, though, he can’t just drop it. Not when she’s been crying, “Tell me what happened.”
She hesitates, so he adds, “I promise I won’t hurt him.”
She smiles a watery little smile and her fingers unwrap from their vice-grip on his arm. “Ugh,” she sighs, running her hands over her smudged make-up again, “He’s just an arse, is all.”
“I could’ve told you that,” Jon mumbles. Sansa laughs, sweetly and gently, with only a slight twinge of hysteria.
“Well, why didn’t you?” she teases, knocking her shoulder into his.
They wander up the road in peaceful quiet for a few minutes, the mud squelching beneath their feet.
“Are you nervous for the match next weekend?” Sansa asks softly. “Theon’s been boasting that Slytherin’s never been better.”
Truthfully, Jon’s spent every free minute of the last two weeks planning, then re-planning, then planning again, how exactly they’ll take down Slytherin in the match. Theon has always been rather full of it, but he’s not lying when he says the team is good this year.
“Yeah,” he admits, “but Arya’s got the front line doing extra practices at lunch hours every day and Grenn keeps talking about how he’s got a bludger with Theon’s name on it, so at least they aren’t worried.”
Sansa smiles, chuckling, “Sounds like they’re ready.”
“You’re going right?” he asks, although he can’t decide if he’d rather her be there or not.
“Absolutely,” she says, “I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good,” then he grins, “Who knows, maybe Grenn will even slip and accidently hit Harry with bludger.”
Sansa laughs, bright and happy and musical again.
They win the Saturday match and even though Harry doesn’t get hit with a wayward bludger, someone hits him with a particularly powerful bat boogey hex while he’s leaving the stands and he has to spend the next week in the hospital wing until all the bats stop roosting in his nostrils.
Christmas is a thing of beauty at Hogwarts. Every suit of armor is decorated with garland and wreaths and they’ll start singing creaky versions of Christmas songs whenever you walk by them. The Great Hall is lined with its twelve, massive pine trees, all of which are covered with tinsel and ornaments and real fairies who sit on the branches and twinkle merrily.
Even the residents themselves seem cheerier, despite the winter snows settling in and the days growing dimmer. There’s something inherently magical about the castle at Christmas and it just warms you up from the inside. With only a few days left to term, it’s not at all easy to focus on schoolwork. Which is why Sansa has to force the whole lot of them into the library to study the Tuesday before break.
“Ugh,” Robb says, pushing his parchments aside in frustration. “Remind me why I have to do this again?”
“So you can get a decent job after you’re done and eventually be able to move out of mum and dad’s house,” Sansa reminds, patiently.
“I will have a decent job,” Robb complains, “Dad’s already said he’ll need a new Junior Assistant once he promotes Jory.”
“And if you don’t get enough N.E.W.T.s it will look like nepotism,” Sansa replies, busily reorganizing her notes.
“It is nepotism,” Robb mutters, then adds, “Sam’s the one who really needs to study. You don’t become a Healer with poor marks.”
Sansa rolls her eyes at him, “What about Jon? Aurors need good marks too – he’s got to know all kinds of dark magic and all of the potions that a dangerous wizard could try to use.”
Robb looks at Jon for a moment, weighing Sansa’s words. “Alright, fine. Jon needs to study too. But I’ll be spending the next three years fetching Dad’s tea and running papers back and forth between him Robert. A bloody toddler could do that.”
“You probably don’t want a toddler around hot tea,” Sam remarks. Robb glares at him because, of course, that’s not what he meant.
“See,” Jon says, “That’s why you’ve got to study.”
Robb throws his Transfiguration book at Jon’s head.
“So did anyone else get an invitation to Professor Baelish’s holiday party Thursday night?” Robb asks after a few minutes.
Jon, who is sitting beside Sansa, can feel her take a resigned breath – it’s obvious they won’t be doing much more studying this evening. That’s fine by him; he’s been reading the same passage in his Divination text book over and over for the last fifteen minutes and he still has no idea what he’s meant to be getting out of it.
“I got one,” Jon admits, although he’s not certain why. Professor Baelish has never seemed to actually like him very much even though Jon does fine in Transfiguration.
Robb and Sansa had them too, but Sam, Gilly, and apparently Jeyne – though she was still mad at Jon for ditching her on their date and had not joined them in the library that night – had not gotten invitations.
“That’s typical,” Robb says with a glare. “Baelish only ever invites people he thinks he can use – and he’s got a pretty shallow estimation of that.”
“Well,” Sansa says with a faint smile, “We’ll just have to bend the rules a little. We’re allowed to bring a guest, aren’t we? Sam, would you like to be my guest for the party?”
Sam blinks in confusion for a moment, so Sansa adds, “if the three of us with invitations bring the three people without then we’ll all be able to hang out at the party together.”
That makes sense. Except –
“Gilly, want to be my date?” Robb asks. Which means Jon’s left asking Jeyne. He seriously doubts Sansa’s plan is going to work since he’s fairly certain Jeyne will hex him if he even gets close to her any time soon.
Gilly laughs, “Thanks Robb, but I think I better go with Jon. Jeyne’s still a bit piqued at him.”
Robb throws a dramatic hand against his heart, “Rejecting me for my best friend?! How could you?!”
Dress robes are horrible and when Thursday night arrives, Jon is seriously reconsidering this whole party idea. But Sam, ever the optimist, reassures him the entire time, “We’ll all look like fools, Jon. If anything, you look a whole lot better than me in these things.”
Jon is not convinced. He’s busy fidgeting when the girls come down the stairs of their dormitory to meet them in the common room so he doesn’t notice Sansa until she’s standing right in front of him, clearing her throat politely.
“Hi,” she says and his head snaps up. Suddenly dress robes don’t seem so bad. In fact, they might just be the most fantastic creation ever.
Sansa’s bright red hair is pulled to the side, gathered over her shoulder, and her dress robes are blue, sparkles and gemstones sewn into the fabric to make it shimmer in the firelight. She looks – well, if there’s a better word than beautiful, he’s at a loss right now.
“Wow,” he manages on a breath.
Sansa smiles, glances down at her dress robes and back up at him, “You like it?”
That’s a stupid question to ask since he’s obviously been struck completely dumb by the sight of her. “You look – it’s – I like the sparkly bit.” He manages to only sound slightly like an idiot, so that’s a win.
Sansa’s smile widens though and it makes it all worth it.
“Should we go?” Sam suggests, holding his elbow out to Sansa. “My lady.”
Sansa laughs and loops her arm through his. Jon grins when Gilly does a silly little curtsey and hooks her arm around his. Even Jeyne seems to have forgiven Jon’s rudeness in favor of enjoying the ridiculousness of the evening and she brightens up even more when they meet Robb in the Entrance Hall.
The party is crowded, the food is unusual, and Professor Baelish keeps trying to introduce them to all the people he’s ‘collected’ over the years (he prides himself on being able to recognize talent, apparently), but they manage to avoid him as much as possible and Robb even swipes them some Firewhiskey from a distracted House Elf.
It’s bitter and burning and makes Jon’s head spin.
“Ugh,” Sansa coughs, her face flushed prettily and her eyes shining. “That’s disgusting.” But she’s still smiling and Jon thinks that he really could kiss her.
Which is a terrible idea, he knows.
But the Firewhiskey makes it seem far less terrible.
“Miss Poole,” Robb says, bowing at Jeyne, “Might I have this dance?”
Jeyne giggles and takes his outstretched hand. The band has struck up some kind of jaunty foxtrot but clearly, neither Robb nor Jeyne knows the proper steps so they just sort of hop around looking ridiculous and laughing. Sam and Gilly follow their lead, swaying too slowly and too dramatically for the music. Theon shoots Jon and Sansa a conspiratorial grin then ducks off to find more Firewhiskey, leaving just the two of them standing by the edge of the floor, watching Robb and Jeyne and Sam and Gilly draw the amused attention of the other party-goers.
Sansa probably wants to dance, Jon thinks, feeling a nervous bubble start to expand in his chest. She always liked to dance. At her parents’ parties, when they were kids, she’d always try wrangle Bran or Robb or her father into dancing with her. Never Jon though.
He glances at her but she’s busy watching her brother make a fool of himself, a content smile on her face. He wishes, then, not for the first time, that he had the same air of confidence as Robb. Robb would have no trouble asking a girl like Sansa to dance, even if it meant looking like a complete idiot in front of her.
“So are you and your mother coming over for Christmas?” Sansa asks, drawing Jon out of his thoughts.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “She’s excited.”
Sansa smiles, “Good, I’ve always loved her. I’ve never seen anyone else sass my father quite as often as she does.”
Jon laughs, then says softly, “She likes you, too – your family, I mean. I think it makes her feel like she’s got one again. Besides me, anyway.”
Sansa’s never asked about him about his father before, but Jon can see how much she wants to. It’s not a story he’s particularly fond of telling, even though he can get through it pretty indifferently these days – we were his second family, mum didn’t know, he went back to his wife, blah, blah, blah. Usually people give him that pitying look he hates and try to say something sympathetic, which typically just makes things awkward.
He doesn’t think Sansa would do that though.
But she doesn’t ask him about any of it. She just smiles and says, “I’m glad. I like being your family.”
Jon’s heart sort of somersaults and he really, definitely could kiss her right now.
Except the song ends and Robb and Jeyne come tripping back, both out of breath and laughing, and the moment passes. But Jon is grateful because Sansa Stark is off-limits – completely, absolutely, without a doubt, off-limits.
By March, Jon is going out of his mind. He’s barely been able to look at Robb since Christmas – particularly after Jon had opened up a brand new winter cloak with a wolf stitched into it, a gift from Sansa, right in front of him – not that it was actually terribly difficult to avoid Robb these days. The other boy was spending increasingly more time on his Head Boy duties. In fact, Jon hadn’t seen him put this much effort into something since Quidditch.
But even his curiosity about Robb’s commitment couldn’t combat the gnawing guilt he feels every time he’s around his best friend.
It doesn’t help, either, that Arya is apparently dating that burly friend of hers they’d seen on the train.
“What do you suppose she sees in him?” Robb asks, glaring across the library at his little sister and her boyfriend. He’d been muttering and frowning at the two of them for an hour even though the worst Jon had seen them do was touch elbows. Still, to Robb, they might as well have been snogging in the middle of the Great Hall.
He’s spoken to Gendry once and, frankly, the kid seems nice. Quiet, but Jon’s hardly the one to judge. He kind of seems, oddly enough, perfect for Arya, who’s all wildness and energy and anger compacted into a very small person.
So he just shrugs at Robb and goes back his History of Magic essay and ignoring the constant, clawing shame of his betrayal.
The snow finally starts to melt but N.E.W.T.s keep them too busy to really enjoy it. Sansa and Jeyne aren’t taking N.E.W.T.s until next year but their sixth year professors are all too keen on showing them exactly what their future will look like come next spring. The lot of them spend more time in library than just about anywhere else these days – except maybe the Quidditch pitch (it’s pretty much down to Slytherin and Gryffindor for the Cup again although Loras Tyrell hasn’t let Hufflepuff's chances die quite yet).
Being in a group makes it a little bit easier on Jon, so long as he pretends Sansa is invisible the whole time.
It mostly works.
“Alright you lot,” Robb announces, closing his books. “Midnight’s my stopping point. I need my beauty sleep.”
“Lot a good it does you,” Theon snickers, then ducks to avoid Robb’s swinging bag.
“I’ll see you all in the morning,” Robb adds, grabbing the last of his things from the table and heading out of the library.
“Actually,” Theon says, pushing away from the table. “I’m out too. I can’t cram another bit of information into my brain without it all just going mushy on me.”
“Wait for me, Theon,” Jeyne calls, tucking her bag over her shoulder. “Night all.”
“Night,” Sansa waves. She looks tired but she doesn’t start packing up her things with the rest of them; instead, she sighs and goes back to the essay she’s been working on for the last hour. For a few minutes, the four of them – Jon and Sansa and Sam and Gilly – all disappear back into the quiet of the library and the tetch, tetch of their quills scratching on parchment.
By one, Gilly’s head has slumped down onto the tabletop and Sam is yawning every two minutes. When he dozes just long enough to turn the period at the end of his sentence into a blot on the page, he decides it’s time to call it quits, “Come on Gilly. We both better head off.”
Gilly mutters something sleepily but doesn’t fight Sam when he gently lifts her onto her feet.
“Are you two coming?” Sam asks. Sansa’s still working but Jon’s vision keeps going blurry and he’s been staring at the point of his quill for the last five minutes.
Sansa speaks before Jon does: “No, I’ve just got a bit more. I want to finish it tonight.”
“Suit yourself,” Sam says with a shrug, turns, “Jon?”
He hesitates.
“Will you stay?” Sansa asks suddenly, then looks sheepish. “Sorry, is that horrible to ask? I’m almost done, I swear.”
“Yeah, alright,” he agrees even though the monster of guilt that looks exactly like Robb’s face starts tearing at him again.
“Alright, well don’t stay up too long. We’ve still got classes tomorrow,” Sam reminds them then grabs his and Gilly’s things and sort of half-drags, half-coaxes the girl out of the library with him.
“Thank you,” Sansa says after a moment. “I know you’re probably exhausted.”
Truthfully, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so tired before but he doesn’t say so.
“It’s alright,” he assures, giving her a soft smile. She returns it, even her tired eyes lighting up just a bit, before dipping her head back down to her work.
“Jon.” Someone is shaking his shoulder gently and he startles awake.
“Wha? Huh?” It takes him a moment to remember that they were in the library, that he was waiting for Sansa to finish her essay. He must of fallen asleep because she’s not writing anymore, she’s standing over him, hand on his arm, smiling down at him. Her hair’s all coming out of her braid and she looks like she could sleep for days but she’s still the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.
“I’m sorry I kept you,” she says softly. “I’m done now though. We can go to bed.”
He feels a bit like he’s walking through a dream as she helps him gather up his books and parchments and shove them into his bag.
They slip into silence as they walk back up to Gryffindor Tower, the corridors deserted but for them. It’s begun to rain, softly pelting the glass panes of the windows, but otherwise the castle is quiet.
“It’s so peaceful,” Sansa sighs, wistful. “I wish it were always like this.”
He does too. Just the two of them, with no Robb around to make him feel guilty.
They reach the portrait hole and duck inside. The common room is as empty as the corridors were. There are only embers left in the fireplace, which glow and fade gently, lending a dim sort of warmth to the air. At the stairs to the dormitories, Jon feels Sansa pause. The light is low but he can still make out the lines of her face when she turns to look at him.
She runs her fingers down his arm until she reaches the skin of his wrist, then the back of his hand, wrapping her hand around his. He prays she didn’t feel the shiver that ran up his spine when she did that. His heart is pounding in his chest and he’s certain she can hear it, like some great echo in the room. He swallows hard. He doesn’t know what she’s about to do but a hundred wonderful and terrifying thoughts run through his mind.
She leans over and presses a gentle, quick kiss against his cheek.
“Thank you again,” she says, smiling.
“Yeah,” he breathes because it’s all the words his brain can form.
“Goodnight, Jon,” she whispers, dropping his hand and sneaking up the staircase to the girls’ dormitories with a little wave back to him.
He doesn’t go to bed then. He can’t. He can’t go upstairs and go to sleep and let himself dream about what might have just happened. Robb’s face appears in his mind’s eye again – Robb glaring so darkly at Gendry Waters for touching his little sister’s arm, for just being with her. Suddenly, it’s not Gendry but Jon himself sitting there, with Sansa, while Robb looks daggers at them – their whole friendship ruined.
He doesn’t want that.
Robb, who was his first real friend; who didn’t care about his worn-out clothes or his messy hair; who sat down with him on the Hogwarts Express that first day and bought them more candy than they could possibly eat; who had brought him home, brought him into his family; who was his family, as much as his own mother was.
He can’t lose Robb. He won’t.
Not even for Sansa.
He’s on his way to History of Magic when someone slides their arm into his. He doesn’t need to look to know that it’s Sansa, he can recognize her perfume – and, of course it’s her, because that’s just the way his luck’s been going these days – half desperate to see her again, half hoping that she’ll just stay away.
“Hi,” she says brightly, smiling at him. The feel of her pressed against his side is so inviting and her smile is perfect and his heart spins and stutters and flips in magnificent ways. But he forces himself to think of Robb, to remember the thought of losing his best friend, and he eases his arm out of hers.
“Hi,” he says, politely.
“So,” she begins, her voice happy and dancing, “I was thinking that tonight you and I should get to the library earlier, find a better table – the one we were at last night was creaking something horrible – maybe we can bring dinner with us...”
“Sansa,” he says, his voice strained. He wants it – all of it, all of her – so badly that it physically hurts him. But it doesn’t matter because it just can’t happen.
She’s still chatting happily alongside, making plans for the evening, for the next trip to Hogsmeade, and he can’t take it.
“Stop!”
And Sansa does. In fact, the whole corridor seems to halt at the sound of his voice.
“Jon?” she asks, confused, eyes darting to the other people in the corridor.
“You’ve just got to stop,” he demands.
“What’re you talking about?” A crease forms between her eyebrows. She takes half-step toward him, reaching out, but he steps back, out of her grasp.
He’s angry. Not with her, not even with Robb for being her over-protective big brother – he’s angry with himself, for letting this all happen in the first place. She doesn’t know that, of course, which isn’t fair, but he can’t control the way his voice shakes. “You have to stop – just stop being around all the time. You’re around all the time and it’s just – just stop!”
She blinks a few times, “I thought –.”
“You thought wrong,” he snaps. Their audience, it seems, takes this as their cue to disperse, the corridor suddenly emptying around them. It wouldn’t have mattered though, he can’t stop the words spilling out of his mouth even if he’d tried.
Sansa puts a hand to her forehead, shaking her head as if she doesn’t understand any of what he’s saying. “Jon, we’re friends –.”
“We’re not,” he says callously.
Sansa looks like he might have just slapped her and it’s like a knife in his heart even as he says, “We’re not friends, Sansa. Robb’s my friend – my best friend. And you’re his sister. And every time I’m around you, every minute, I’m betraying him.”
“What?” Sansa demands. “What’re you talking about? That – that doesn’t even make sense! How can you be betraying him?”
“Because I’m mad about you.”
She freezes, eyes going wide, “What?”
“I’m mad about you.” His laugh is borderline hysterical, “and it’s got to stop.”
“Jon –.”
He shakes his head, cutting her off. “No. It’s done.”
Jon doesn’t look at her as he brushes past, as he marches down the corridor toward class, as he turns the corner and leaves her standing behind him. He can’t. Because he knows that there are tears in her eyes and shock on her face and if he sees either he’s going to go back on the promise he’s made to himself, on everything he’s just shouted at her.
So he keeps walking and doesn’t look back.
Sansa doesn’t avoid him afterwards. She’s still around, still studies with all of them in the library and the common room, still sits with them in the Great Hall for meals; she still laughs and talks and makes jokes with them all as if nothing happened. Except she doesn’t look him in the eye anymore and when he does catch her watching him, she looks solemn and frustrated at the same time, which makes him feel an entirely different kind of guilt.
They get on like this for weeks – Jon trying his best to stay away from her, to pretend like his whole being isn’t constantly drawn to her; Sansa, still there, on his periphery, at a distance. It’s torture. Hell on earth, if he’s being honest. He tries to focus on other things – N.E.W.T.s and Quidditch, other girls even – but nothing helps.
So he just exists.
At least term is nearly over.
The Great Hall is always crowded at breakfast, more so with students studying for their end-of-term exams and desperate for food to keep them going through the long hours of classes and reviewing. Every one of the House tables is squished with food and books, parchment seems to be floating through the air as things are swapped for what’s needed this moment, for this page, for that question. It’s chaos.
“Merlin, there they are again,” Robb says, scowling up at Gendry and Arya as they walk in.
Everyone at the table has heard this a hundred times – two hundred even. They know – they get it: don’t date Robb Stark’s little sisters, or you’ll never hear the end of it.
“He’s way too old for her,” Robb mutters.
“He’s a sixth year,” Jon replies tiredly, eyes on his breakfast. Arya’s a fifth year, and her birthday’s in September, so they’re actually only a few months apart.
“Well, he’s probably got way more experience than she does. You know how she is – we’re the only boys she’s ever hung out with,” Robb says, looking at them all as if he expects them to realize that, of course, he’s absolutely right – what were they thinking? Gendry is horrible.
“Actually,” Gilly notes between bites of toast, “He’s never had a girlfriend before – least, not that I’ve ever heard of. I’m pretty sure the only girl he’s ever even spoken to is your sister.”
This, predictably, does not improve Robb’s mood.
“Well –.”
“Oh, enough!” Sansa shouts, slamming her palms down on table, making the plates jump.
They all stare at her in surprise, no one more than Robb, whose eyes are wide and whose mouth is hanging open a little.
“Enough,” she continues, pushing herself to her feet. “You do not get to decide who Arya dates or snogs or marries, for that matter. You are our brother, you are not father, and even if you were, you do not have the right to make choices for us. You have no say in our lives and the people we want in them. It doesn’t matter if we’re dating your best friend –,” Jon’s jaw clenches tightly. “–or your worst enemy. It is none of your concern, so for Merlin’s sake, just leave it alone.”
She storms out of the Great Hall without so much as another word.
“What did I do?” Robb asks, frowning, but no bothers to offer him an answer.
Jon stares at the double doors long after Sansa has disappeared.
The Quidditch finals take place on a Saturday at the end of May. The weather’s finally turned warm, hot even, when the sun beams down on them. The whole school’s turned out for the match: Gryffindor versus Slytherin, to determine the Quidditch Cup. Even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff have divided themselves up into scarlet and green to support the teams.
Jon rocks nervously on his feet in the locker room. He’s meant to be giving a pep talk to them all right now and they sort of look like they need it. Pyp’s gone a little green and Arya’s knees are bouncing like mad. Robb’s been staring at the same spot on the floor for the last five minutes and the two new Chasers – Alys Mormont and Beth Cassel – are both sweating more than they ought to be.
They’ve only got a couple of minutes before they're due on the pitch but he hasn’t been able to think of anything inspiring to say.
So, he just sort of wings it, “Alright, you lot, look, we’re here. The hard part’s over. We’ve just got to win this one and the Cup’s ours. We’ve beaten Slytherin before – they’re good, I won’t lie to you – but we’re better. This is our year. We’ve got the best Keeper Hogwarts has seen in a century – and I don’t know about anyone else, but I wouldn’t want to put myself on the other end of Grenn or Pyp’s bludgers. And you three,” he looks at Arya, Alys, and Beth, “You three are the only reason we’re here at all. So let’s get out there and finish this.”
It’s probably not the best speech ever given in this locker room, but it works. The team leaps to their feet, cheering and fierce. With Jon at the front, they march out of the locker room and onto the pitch, where the roar of the crowd suddenly grows deafening around them.
At the center, Theon stands by Madam Brienne, whose stern face remains stoic as Jon jogs up to meet them.
“Alright lads,” Brienne says, whistle in hand. “Shake, please.” The boys shake hands tightly. “I want a clean match. Mount your brooms.”
Both teams straddle their broomsticks, waiting for the whistle. Tweet. The whistle shrieks and Jon kicks off hard from the ground, rocketing upwards, high above the pitch. Lyanna Mormont, the Old Bear’s niece, is dong commentary for the match, which is really supposed to be unbiased but Lyanna’s not very good at that part.
“And Arya Stark zips past Walder Frey – or is that the other one – Merlin, I’ve no idea, they all look the bloody same, that lot –.”
“Lyanna,” interrupts Mormont’s warning voice.
“Right, sorry – anyway, Arya Stark’s got it, she breaks through the line of Chasers, she’s – oh! And a bludger to the back, that’s got to hurt. And Baratheon’s got the quaffle now, heading back the other way, he swings beneath Grenn, he shoots – and Robb Stark’s got it!”
Jon huffs a breath in relief.
“Alys has the quaffle now – my cousin, you know, great Quidditch player, shite at giving gifts though – one time, she gave me a –.”
“Lyanna!”
“And she drops the quaffle off to Cassel, who kicks it back up to Stark, back to Alys, back to Cassel – and wow, these three look like they’ve played together for years – back to Stark, she shoots – GOAL! Ten points to Gryffindor!”
Jon whoops as the scarlet half of the crowd erupts in cheers.
“Greyjoy has the quaffle – oh! And he swerves to avoid a nasty bludger sent his way by Pyp but he’s still got the quaffle. Some impressive flying by Greyjoy – too bad he’s such an arse –.”
“LYANNA.”
“Sorry! Alright, where were we – oh! Bloody hell! Greyjoy shoots – fuck!”
“LYANNA MORMONT!”
“Slytherin scores on Greyjoy’s shot. So it’s ten-ten even.”
Jon swears. But it’s fine, they’re only tied and Slytherin will still need to win the game to take the Cup.
Jon watches Robb shake his head and stretch his shoulder a bit. When he retrieves the quaffle, there’s a dangerous smile on his face and it’s directed right at Theon, who, rightfully, starts to look a little nervous.
Something gold flashes across the corner of Jon’s eye. He spins, whipping his head around to try and catch sight of the tiny golden Snitch. But it’s gone. Instead, much to Jon’s dismay, Ramsay Bolton floats into view, emerald robes making his pale skin look pallid and sickly.
He’s a good Seeker, great even. His skills on a broomstick have been impressive since they were children – but he’s never beaten Jon.
“See anything, Snow?” he asks, a sneer crawling across his face.
As a matter of fact: “Yeah, I see you’re about to get hit with a bludger,” he says with a smirk just as one of the dangerous balls comes rocketing up from behind Ramsay, knocking into his back and sending him and his broomstick somersaulting forward.
Jon glances down and catches Grenn giving him a little wave. Jon laughs and waves back.
“Arya Stark has the quaffle again – to Cassel – Mormont – Cassel – Mormont – Cassel – she shoots! SHE SCORES! ABSOLUTELY BLOODY RIGHT!”
Another surge of excitement from the Gryffindor supporters, and a chorus of boos rings out from the Slytherin fans.
Jon feels the rush of adrenaline running through his fingertips. His eyes scan the crowds, hunting for that streak of gold. He zips around the pitch then pulls up to hover as one of the Freys attempts to score on Robb again. Robb drops upside down and snatches the quaffle out of the air with both hands just before it crosses through the hoop. More thunderous applause from the crowd.
Then he sees it: the miniature golden Snitch, floating down near the center of the pitch. But Ramsay’s seen it too. Jon kicks his broomstick forward, pressing himself as close to the handle as he can get. The crowd knows now too – everyone is holding their breath, even Lyanna Mormont is silent as Jon dives toward the ground. He’s inches from it, hand outstretched. Ramsay reaches out.
Jon’s fingers wrap around the fluttering ball just as he crashes into Ramsay, both of them toppling off their brooms and onto the grass. Jon sits up and his head spins a little but he’s clutching the Snitch in his fist, its tiny wings buzzing like mad.
Brienne touches down next to him, whips out her whistle and blows two shrill blasts into the air.
“AND HE’S DONE IT! SNOW’S CAUGHT THE SNITCH! ONE-HUNDRED AND SEVENTY POINTS –GRYFFINDOR WINS THE QUIDDITCH CUP!”
The stands seem to explode in sound. Then the team is there, leaping off their brooms and surrounding him. Robb’s pulling him off the ground and hugging him. Arya’s arms are on his shoulders and she’s bouncing up and down and screaming in his ear. Grenn and Pyp are dancing and shouting and singing. And then the fans are racing onto the pitch, too. Suddenly, there’s hundreds of people around him, shouting his name, cheering. He feels like he’s still flying.
And there’s Sansa, laughing and smiling and looking like the most wonderful thing in the whole world. She throws her arms around his neck and hugs him and when she pulls back he doesn’t think about it at all, he just kisses her.
It’s just as glorious as he’d always imagined, but then it’s better because she kisses him back and – Merlin, he could kiss her for the rest of his life. It feels like flying and laughing and family and love and pure and utter happiness. When they pull away, he presses his forehead against hers, trying to catch his breath. Sansa, he’s pleased to note, seems to be doing the same.
She looks at him from beneath her lashes and she’s grinning like mad and he wants to kiss her again.
Ahem.
They both turn. Robb’s staring at them, an indescribable look in his eyes, Arya at his side, canary-eating grin splitting her face in two.
“So,” Robb begins and the bottom drops out of Jon’s stomach, “this is why you were yelling at me the other day.”
Sansa looks haughtily at her brother, wrapping her hand around Jon’s, “And?”
Robb opens his mouth to say something when, rather suddenly, Margaery Tyrell appears out of the crowd and slides arm around his waist.
“There you are,” she says, ignoring or oblivious to the half a dozen raised eyebrows around her. Arya looks like Christmas has just come very early.
Margaery glances at Jon and Sansa, still holding onto one another, and smiles, “Oh, finally. Robb’s been telling me about your little will-they, won’t-they for months now.”
What. Robb, who had been whining about Arya and her boyfriend almost non-stop since Christmas, who had threatened to hex anyone who even looked at his sisters – that Robb had been...what.
Jon glares at Robb’s wincing face, “I’m going to bloody kill you.”
“What?” Robb says, “She’s my sister! Besides, you two figured it out on your own anyway.”
“Yeah,” Sansa huffs, “with no help from you.”
“I thought,” Robb smirks, “that it was none of my concern.”
If Jon weren’t so deliriously happy at this moment, he’d probably have hexed Robb right then and there. Instead, he lets Sansa pull him away from the crowd still celebrating on the pitch. She laces her fingers through his and smiles, bright and beautiful, and he thinks that this might be the best day of his life.
When she presses him back against a tree and kisses him again, he’s certain that it is.
“Alright, you two,” Robb cuts in, nudging Jon’s foot with the toe of his trainer. “There’s other people around.”
Sansa pulls away from Jon’s kiss, smiling and rolling her eyes in amusement. She’s curled into his side on the ground beneath a tree by the Lake, Sam and Gilly sitting nearby, and Jeyne and Theon trying to outwit each other with questions about Muggle television programs.
Strangest of all, of course, is Margaery Tyrell laying with her head in Robb’s lap, knotting little blue flowers together into a crown. Apparently, all those meetings Robb had been attending about Head Boy duties were, in fact, complete rubbish. Instead, he and Margaery had been sneaking off to snog in unused classrooms in the castle.
Arya was having have a field day with the lot of it.
“So, tomorrow,” Sam says, knowingly. Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow they’ll gather up their trunks and head back down to the platform, board the Hogwarts Express and go home – the last time for Jon.
Jon looks at Robb, who looks at Theon, who looks at Sam.
“We’ve had a good run of it, lad,” Theon says.
“Aye,” Jon agrees, “the best.”
They drift into contemplative, bittersweet silence.
“Alright,” Sansa says, pushing herself to her feet. She drags Jon up with her, “We’ve got a whole day free and you lot aren’t going to spoil it.”
Theon pops up onto his feet, “Whose up for some Quidditch? Boys against girls!”
“That’s hardly fair,” Margaery says, brushing off her robes, “None of us play.”
“That’s true,” Robb admits, then crows, “first team to find Arya gets her!”
Theon laughs and takes off running with Robb, a determined Margaery close behind. Jeyne laughs, sprints after them, Sam and Gilly jogging behind.
“So,” Sansa says, watching them run up the hill toward the castle with a smile on her face, “do you think we should tell them that Arya’s over by the greenhouses?”
Jon laughs and pulls her close.
And then he kisses her, just because he can.