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Right after the Quidditch match…




At the pier by the boathouse, a crowd of people had formed on either side of it, along the vague dirt path. As Gracie approached (–accompanied, perhaps, by a teammate or two), she could pick out a familiar face here and there from the sea of faces—all of them staring at her with varying degrees of amusement and disbelief.

The consensus, though, seemed to be encouragement, and once someone caught sight of her he hooted, spurring on cheers and catcalls.

Gracie choked on a laugh. When she’d announced the wager she and Raine had made before the match, she honestly hadn’t expected this much interest.

Hours earlier, with the tantalizing glory of the Cup looming over them, the girls had come to an agreement: before the match, they would give their teams a speech. Traditionally team captains gave one anyway—and for regular matches, even—but with the traditional pressure that came with the Cup, they figured they might as well make light of it. What was bucking a few centuries worth of House rivalry– tradition– anyway? Surely there had to have been those who had said bugger this before. Anyway, it was the twenty-first century. Whatever silly stereotypes that had been were now obsolete. Only idiots kept them alive, and unironically at that…

And then the losing captain would have to take a dive into the lake. Naked.

In hindsight, Gracie maybe regretted this part of the wager, just a little. It was May, but the week’s forecast had stuck to a rut of fifties, and as predicted it was cloudy. You could barely see your shadow. It wasn’t warm. And a stunt such as this tended to color one’s image for… a long time, if not forever.

At this thought, though, Gracie smirked. She was Gracie fucking Slant. If she was going to lose, she’d lose—with style.

“Make way!” someone shouted. “Make way!” A clear path to the deck began to form. Smirking even more widely, Gracie threw her shoulders and lifted her chin. There was not a shred of fear or embarrassment to be found in her face. She stopped at the start of the pier and turned around, facing her audience.

“For those who’ve heard—yes, I am going to take a dip,” she said, as she unzipped her hoodie, and laughed as more cheers went up, hearty and enthusiastic. “Pervs.”

She shrugged out of her shorts, kicking it away. “Anyway, I thought, ‘it’s the Cup, last game of the season. Why not?’ But more importantly, it’s our favorite Gryffindor captain Raine’s last game.” Boos, then a smattering of applause. “Right? Frankly–” Elbowing out of her shirt, Gracie yanked it over her head. “I’m still a bit upset about it myself.”

But she looked at Raine and smiled, almost painfully affectionate. “But since she promised she’d write… I’ll get over it.”

All there was left was her underwear, now, her tattoos on display. “Now! I did mention I had a bet to honor, didn’t I?” She beamed. The crowd roared. “Right then.” A hand disappeared behind her back, clearly about to unclasp her bra–

Wickedly, she turned around. “Oh, stuff it,” she laughed, letting it drop, and shimmied out of her boxers. Her bun, too, went the same way, shook loose until it streamed down her back in a glorious mane.

Then she ran. Feet thudding heavily against the planks and hair streaming behind her, Gracie hurtled down the walkway, reckless and free.

With a broad, almost manic grin, she leapt.