Catch The Snitch

Devereaux felt a slight decrease in pressure on his shoulders, pressure he hadn’t even noticed until it was gone, as Missy’s hands relaxed a bit. His eyes returned to hers as a half-smirk appeared on her face, followed by her familiar grin. Her words, however, did not contain the same sarcastic snark that he had grown to expect from her.

Instead, their normally offensive meaning was completely swallowed up by the gentleness in her voice. If there was something he didn’t expect to come from Missy, it was gentleness when delivering her sarcastic retorts.

He found himself even doubly caught off guard when her voice quieted some and she continued. His eyes flicked across her face, observing everything he could without looking into her eyes.

“…you definitely dance like one.”

He watched her lips now as she spoke, his eyes drawn there by the drop in her voice.

“...and I don’t mind it.”

Devereaux’s eyes widened slightly, and he reflexively met her gaze as her whisper met his ears. Red bloomed on Devereaux’s cheeks, and he felt his stomach flutter in a way that made him feel less like a growing man and more like a novelized schoolgirl. His gaze retreated over her shoulder once again.

“ah ahum well…” He coughed slightly as he tried to speak. “I am sorry, it seems I must be a peasant through and through.”

Although he tried not to, Devereaux’s gaze continued to flick back to her eyes as they stepped slowly across the floor. His mind was racing, as was his heart. The way Missy had spoken to him was NOT the normal way Missy spoke, at least not to him. It was almost as if she was being…sweet? But that was OBSURD. Missy Dragonov was not sweet to him. She might be willing to compliment someone who impressed her, but he could not remember a time when she had been sweet.

“You’re quite the dancer Missy.” He said finally, his voice came out much softer and quieter than he had intended. “You mentioned a cabbage…. have you ever actually danced with another human before?”

Missy caught his eyes before he could dart them away again. For a half-second, she froze, pinned like a moth in that startled, reddish look on his face. And then—traitorously—her stomach twisted. Not in the gross, "ate too many treacle tarts" way, but in the kind of way that made her want to throw up because it meant something. Something she wasn’t supposed to be feeling.

Her grip on his shoulders tightened a fraction, a grounding move, like she could squeeze the sensation out of herself if she just pressed hard enough.

“Cabbage doesn’t count?” she deadpanned, voice a little lower than she intended. Normally she could toss that kind of line with razor precision, but it came out unsteady, almost… nervous. Her eyes didn’t leave his, though. If she looked away now, she’d lose.

She tilted her chin up, smirking just enough to cover the heat that wanted to crawl into her cheeks. “For your information, Dev the Destroyer, I’ve danced with plenty of humans. I just—” her smirk faltered for a beat, that uneasy flutter tangling with her tongue before she snapped it back into place. “—don’t usually bother remembering them afterward.”

Her heart was hammering like she’d just run wind sprints up the pitch. She never felt this off-balance, not in duels, not on a broom, not anywhere. And it was infuriating.

Still, her eyes lingered on him, longer than they should have. Longer than she could excuse. “You’re lucky,” she added, softer this time, though it was clear she meant for him to hear. “I’ll probably remember this one.”

Her stomach flipped again, violent and sweet, and she cursed herself silently. Hardcore girls weren’t supposed to feel like this.

Missy let her words hang in the space between them, and for once, she didn’t try to claw them back with a joke or bury them under some hard-edged jab. Her chest rose and fell quicker than the slow rhythm of the music should have allowed, and every time Devereaux’s gaze flicked toward her, she caught it. Deliberately. Refusing to let him dodge.

Her smirk softened into something else—still cocky, but laced with a new heat she didn’t want to name. Every turn, every shift of his hands at her waist, only seemed to pull her closer. The Great Hall stretched around them, blurred into nothing. Just shadows and movement at the edges of her vision.

And him. Always him.

Her stomach was practically rioting now, and she was furious at herself for it. Furious that his stupid rugby-shoulder bulk felt steady beneath her hands, that his brown eyes were this close, that she could smell the faint spice of pumpkin juice and trifle sugar clinging to him.

The song was winding down—she could feel it in the slower dips of the strings, the hush of the melody. She tried to think of something sharp to say, something that would break the spell, but when she opened her mouth, what came out was low and startlingly honest.

“You’re not… what I expected, Dev.” Her voice caught a little, and she hated that it did. She forced herself to add, “You might actually make a halfway decent partner—on or off the pitch.”

The final notes stretched and then fell quiet, leaving the Great Hall in a momentary hush before the applause rose. Still, Missy didn’t step back. She stayed right there, her hands still on his shoulders, her eyes locked stubbornly on his. For a beat, it felt like the world waited to see what either of them would do.

Then she smirked again, trying to shove the lump in her throat down. “Don’t get used to it, Destroyer,” she murmured, but it sounded more like a promise than a warning.