Violent Delights

Sahara shrugged at the sight of what must have been first years gawking at her as she changed into her school robes, having just kicked them out of the train compartment. Had they never seen a tank top?

"You can come back in," she said, sliding the door open. "Do any of you know Drake Ruslan?" she asked, her eyes scanning rapidly the handful of boys, each more scared-looking than the next. "Well?" she crossed her arms, tapping her long nails on her arms as she waited for an answer. She realized they were much too innocent to be familiar with her fellow 7th year Gryffindor, so she left, her cloak billowing behind her as she stormed through the train, looking for Gryffindor-populated compartments. Finally she found one, and while the students looked young, they didn't seem quite as petrified of her as the freshmen.

"Hi, Sahara. What's up?" a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl asked, wide smile on her face. Sahara tried desperately to remember anything about her, or at least her name, but to no avail.

"Hello! You guys seen Ruslan?" she asked.

"Looking for me desperately, are you now?" she heard a booming voice, as Drake's all-destructive presence made itself known, breezing by the compartments noisily, making Hufflepuffs rush into their compartments and Ravenclaws shut their doors, annoyed.

"Desperately," Sahara rolled her eyes as he reached her and grabbed her into a bear-hug that lifted her off her feet. Drake had been taller than most of his peers for as long as she'd known him, but he seemed to have grown another foot during the summer. He had also become somehow bulkier and a golden fuzzy beard covered his face.

"Damn, smelling good, Fairbanks!"

"Put me down Ruslan, you brute!" she giggled, punching him.

"Don't tickle!" he teased, setting her down.

"Ronan's gonna have that beard right off," Sahara shook her index finger, referring to their strict Deputy Headmaster, Harold Ronan.

"Maybe I'll have Ronan's precious rules right off," Drake scoffed, casually throwing his arm around Sahara's neck. They had been tight friends for the longest time, and enjoyed a competitive, teasing report. Sahara found herself at ease with Drake, because he understood what it meant to be a disappointment to one's family. Like Sahara, he was a descendant of old wizarding blood, and his parents were flagpoles in the wizarding community, embarrassed by their rebellious son.

While Sahara had disappointed by being sorted into Gryffindor and devoid of any blood elitism, Drake was simply a boy that enjoyed life a bit too much. He was smart and talented, but lazy and wild all at the same time. He dabbled in Muggle pasttimes like smoking cigarettes and even herbs that dilated his pupils and made him laugh and eat like a madman. He smuggled magic fireworks into Hogwarts on a regular basis and trade them illegally. But at the end of it all, Drake had a soft heart and a sharp tongue - and Sahara appreciated and required that in a friend.

"Come, milady. I have something for you in my trunk," he set his hands on her shoulders and pushed her towards his compartment. The compartment was filled with students of various ages, of which Sahara recognised several older Ravenclaws, and a couple younger Gryffindors. Drake almost threw the door off its hinges in a fake rage. "Get out, everyone. Sahara and I need privacy," he sniggered and smiled suggestively, provoking a gaggle of laughter, whistling and cat calls.

Sahara's face remained still as stone, her eyes suddenly cruel and menacing. It was the famous Sahara Fairbanks cold anger that had made many young unaware students beg forgiveness. The laughter was dying out when she reached for her African Blackwood wand, pulling it out of her robe, making it completely silent.

"Get out. All of you," she said, her voice even, without any faltering. Everyone except Drake filed out of the compartment, most of them giving him a worried look. They were certain she would give him hell.

"I thought they'd never leave," Sahara giggled as she drew the curtains.

"You're a demon, I swear," he chuckled, throwing open his trunk. He dug around through the variety of clothes, books and other things thrown randomly inside, until he found a small rectangular box that must have contained spectacles, at least once. He opened it and retrieved a few paper bags, and, with them, a strong smell.

"Is this..."

"Pot, learn the proper name already," he scolded, placing the baggies in Sahara's hand.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Ruslan. You are most kind," she smiled devilishly, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. In a split second, however, as he was wont to do, Drake changed the course of the action by turning towards her, making their lips touch. In the blink of an eye, he placed his large, Quidditch-player hand in the small of her back and started kissing her passionately.

Sahara was too surprised, for a few seconds, to realize what was happening. She had gone in for a kiss on the cheek to thank Drake for the smoking supply. He, however, had crashed his lips into hers, pulling her close and turning a friendly kiss on the cheek into a full-blown snog. He was surprisingly good at it, which is why she decided to enjoy it for a bit before pulling away angrily.

"What are you doing, Ruslan?!" she thundered, her eyes starring intently into his, her gaze like an icy dagger ready to stab at anything that disturbed her.

"I just thought it might be... fun," he shrugged. "It was."

"It was rude. I'm not your plaything," Sahara replied, thinking of that thing he'd just done with his tongue.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm an arsehole, but not that kind of arsehole. I'll wait for permission, next time," he replied, trying and failing to look sheepish.

"There will be no next time, you prat. We're friends!" Sahara spat through gritted teeth. "You know what? Keep these," she said, throwing the pot at his feet and storming off, an avalanche of black robes and golden hair rushing through the halls to her compartment.