Okay, first a little background: a few weeks ago, I experimentally wrote one of my English essays in the second person, and it turned out kinda cool. So, I wondered what it would be like to write fan fiction in the second person, but of course I couldn't just randomly change my main story (Healing, do go check it out ;)) from the third person to the second... so I came up with this little oneshot :) it's kinda weird, and full of run-on sentences (on purpose, though), but still, enjoy! As always, reviews are appreciated.
An Epiphany In The Second Person
You're walking down the draughty corridors in silence, but it isn't exactly an awkward one... more like loaded. You can feel him walking next to you, back straight, staring forward in a way that seems almost forced. You can feel him, but you can't see him, because you too are keeping your gaze fixed on a point somewhere far in front of you, and when that fails, determinedly looking anywhere but at him. You're still somewhat mad at him, and you're quite sure that he's mad at you (because he has every right to be) but the pair of you are Head Students, so you have to patrol, whether you want to or not.
The worst part of it is that you don't want to be mad at him, and you certainly don't want him to be mad at you, but it kind of just... happened. You can't help the fact that you're sending him mixed signals, flirting with him during lessons and during patrols sometimes, but still saying 'No' every time he asks you out. And you wish you could say yes, he doesn't know how much you do, but you always say no, either from force of habit or your own stubborn pride, you don't quite know which. So the no just slips out, every single time, and every single time you have to face these sullen, silent patrols afterward with the both of you sulking and the both of you wishing that one oh-so-significant word had been three letters instead of two. Until the next day, or the day after if the rejection was particularly bad, you start up your tentative flirting again, with the small smiles and lingering touches. Then finally he says those damned words again, and you say yours, and the cycle continues, both of you cursing you to hell and back, neither of you quite meaning it.
Today, you think, was particularly bad – the both of you are beginning to lose resolve. You're pretty sure that there are only so many more cycles that you can take before you either kill him or snog him senseless, all depending on what kind of mood you're in on that particular day. And no matter what you're trying to tell yourself, you know that neither would be a good option, because whichever one you went with, the pathetic sixth-years who think they have a snowball's chance in hell with James Potter (which they don't) would kill you. Nevertheless, you think, something should be done, because continuing the cycle like you have so far can't be healthy. You're honestly not sure whether your teenage girl hormones can stand many more days like today.
It was a Transfiguration lesson, and so far it was progressing exactly like any other Transfiguration lesson. McGonagall collected the homework from the previous lesson, lectured for a while about today's subject and then told you to partner up and get to work, the object being to Transfigure the allotted stuffed animal into a living, breathing representation of that animal. The cycle had reached the point where you weren't surprised when he came up to you with a stuffed owl and a hopeful expression, and you honestly didn't have the heart to tell him no, knowing that was going to happen soon anyway, so you nodded with a smile and he sat down in the empty seat next to you, flashing you that grin that would make any other girl at Hogwarts swoon, but you kept your expression carefully neutral.
"So," you said. "An owl – shouldn't be too hard, right?"
By the time he answered with a "Nope, but I can name other things that are" and a decidedly dirty wink, you were already berating yourself for leaving that wide open, smiling nevertheless at his expression as he tried to determine whether his admittedly weak line had worked. Which, sadly, it had; your mind was full of images that should not be there during a Transfiguration lesson, especially if the subject of those images was sitting right beside you, which he was. With a great force of will, you managed to banish most of those images, if not completely then enough to hopefully not distract you while you brought that owl to life.
Even though Transfiguration is one of your worst subjects, it's his best, so your owl was alive and flying around in no time – not that you could take much credit. You had tried, though, waving your wand exactly like McGonagall had told you to and saying the incantation; but to no avail. He had laughed at your indignant expression (it wasn't often that you failed at anything) and then cowered under your death glare, but in the end he had mock-sighed and moved behind you, guiding your hand in the proper movements, earning himself more death glares, this time from those few girls in the seventh year who still lusted after him and were, in your opinion, even more pathetic than those in sixth year. You didn't say anything, but you were all too aware of him standing behind you, his breath warm on your neck as the both of you concentrated on the small, stuffed snowy owl on the desk in front of you, until it suddenly flapped its wings tiredly and then with more vigour before taking off around the room.
It didn't take long for you to notice the note tied to the owl's leg, and you pointed it out to him, surprised. There hadn't been any notes on the stuffed owl... looking back, you think that this is when you should have smelled a rat. After all, it was him you were talking about... but before you could say or even think anything else, he'd whistled, and the owl had turned to soar over to where you were still sitting side by side with him at your desk, watching others try to achieve what you already had. The owl landed with a soft hoot and held its leg out to you, and that's when you knew. With a resigned sigh, you untied the note and opened it, not wanting to see the words that would undoubtedly be there. And you were not mistaken: you opened your eyes almost reluctantly, only to be rewarded with the dreaded phrase. "Will you go out with me, Evans?" You had seen so many variations on that theme, it was almost ridiculous, and though it was against the laws of everything teenagers had ever believed, you knew that you'd be seeing more and more, until you finally agreed like you had wanted to for so long.
Finally, you turned to him, the 'yes' already on the tip of your tongue, and his adorably hopeful expression and puppy dog eyes almost made you say it, but you suddenly caught sight of one of those pathetic girls, their death glares now directed at you, and the yes that had been so close to tumbling out of your mouth turned into your standard "I'm sorry, James, but I can't." You don't know how much you wish I could, you added silently, but of course he didn't hear it, so his face turned into that mask you had seen so many times, the one that was resigned to another Merlin-knows-how-long of flirting and then finally asking, and that was trying so desperately to hide the disappointment and defeat. The one that almost made you cry, every single time. You gave a small smile, trying to convey how truly sorry you were, and slipped the note into your pocket, making sure he saw. It may have been cruel to give him false hope, but you wanted him to know that just because you said 'no' to going out with him sure as hell didn't mean you didn't care about him. Truth be told, you had no idea whether he'd understand this all from the simple act of slipping a note into your pocket, but you knew you had to try.
And just like you knew then you had to try, you suddenly know now that you have to act, before one of you snaps. Permanently. So you stop walking, quite suddenly, and wait until it has the desired effect – he stops two paces in front of you and turns around, his expression tied somewhere between annoyed at you for stopping and listening intently, trying to hear a reason for you stopping. When there are none, he looks merely annoyed, and your heart beats ever so slightly faster, and you force out his name before your courage completely disappears, and of course it comes out in that stupid, throaty voice, sounding, to your own ears, sluttier than all those sixth-year girls put together. He raises a single eyebrow at your tone but says nothing, undoubtedly still hurting from the afternoon's rejection. You take a deep breath and go on, without a clue what to say. All you know is that somehow, you have to make him understand that, no matter what you say, you care (how could you not?). "Look, James, I... hell, how am I supposed to say this?" You meet his slightly confused gaze, trying to convey as much as you can with that single glance, and decide that you just have to get on with it. "I... when I say – what I mean is... oh, bugger it." And with a single burst of enlightenment, you reach up and kiss him, pouring all you emotions into that one kiss, hoping against all hope that it might possibly be enough. And just as you're about to pull away in embarrassment and maybe run all the way to the Astronomy Tower before jumping off it, he seems to wake up from some trance, and his arms come up to pull you closer, and you wonder why you've never done this before, because it's just so... right.
And the next morning, when you walk down to breakfast hand in hand, you ignore the death glares that are three times as murderous as yesterday in Transfiguration and stand up straighter, leaning into him ever so slightly, secure in the knowledge that you are finally exactly where you belong.