I want so much to open your eyes
'Cause I need you to look into mine

Tell me that you'll open your eyes

All this feels strange and untrue
And I won't waste a minute without you

-- Snow Patrol, Open Your Eyes

When I come to breakfast, and when I go through the whole day today, I don't mention my musings, or my terrible plan conceived this morning.

Ainsley can tell that something's up (of course she can) and she does ask me during lunch if something's up, but I only tell her that I can't forget my conversation with James as easily as I want to – which is the truth, but not the whole of it. But, Ainsley knows better than to press me, so she only nods and continues to eat and change the subject, her gray eyes worried but peaceful; she knows I'll work it out on my own, and she won't stop me.

Like Michael, she thinks I need space. Unlike Michael, however, she doesn't skirt around me like I'm a leper – if anything, she's even nearer to me, just in more subtle ways than her usual Ainsley-ness. I appreciate it more than I can say.

But, watching everything unfold as it is, in the midst of our quiets and our giving-me-space and our unspoken conversations, I wonder how much I truly regret the conversation I'd had with James the other day.

Maybe I hadn't wanted to hear it, but hadn't it been important to me? Hadn't it made such the massive, boundless difference I necessitated so explicitly? Weren't those things you didn't want the things that you needed most?

It was the biggest shake-up I'd ever experienced; because all of a sudden, in the middle of my standstill life, something extraordinary took place. Like a shooting star lighting up the sky; like a sole flower growing in a barren field; like the first snow of the winter sprinkling with heavenly leisure down to earth's vast exterior, he threw me for the spin he hid from me for a year and a half, and I heartily welcome the change – or, the reverting back to old times.

And, I think to myself as I sit here in class next to Ainsley, that's why I'm going to do it, after my patrol with James tonight. I'm going to tell Michael that we're done, that we're finished, that we can't be together anymore.

I'll be as gentle as I can, but these are things that must be said.

I am done with my hazy mundanity – I am done with being anything less than me. Remaining unsaid is going to do me no good, and that's why I'm going to do it.

Because I'd rather he hated me for living up the truth than try to perform CPR on a relationship that had been dying on us anyway.

--

When I meet James for the patrol in the common room, I'm not surprised to see him a little tense leaning against a sofa, his eyes on the floor and his normally loose mouth tightened with thought.

With the fire playing gold shadows against his well-boned face, he looks more pensive than ever, the flames flickering in his eyes. I'm nervous about clearing my throat to announce my presence.

"Ready to go?" I ask with uncharacteristic timidity.

James jumps upon seeing me, and says, "Yeah, okay. Let's go."

"Okay." I make my way to the Portrait Hole as he does the same, him awkwardly letting me go first because we're not at our old point, where we could teasingly climb in one after the other without a single doubt in our heads. When we're both out, we set off down the corridor together.

I'm at a loss for conversation, as we go, all business when we used to be all friendly. I knew this would happen. I knew we wouldn't know what to say. I knew we would be caught in this hideous deadlock we're currently in.

But, what I hadn't known was that we wouldn't remain in our deadlock – that James would be the one to break it with one of his calmly monumental questions.

"So, Evans," he says, being careful to use my last name instead of my first. "I was wondering…"

"Yes?" I'm so grateful I'm not the one changing this atmosphere – which is thicker than cold custard after Petunia's done with it – that I sound almost over-eager to hear what James Potter is wondering. That says something big about my nerves, I think.

James, too, is a bit taken aback by my over-eagerness, but he takes it in stride as he continues, "So I was wondering, Evans…why did you ask me that question about you and Davies yesterday, if my answer upset you so much?"

Only James would ask me this type of question the day after a titanic explosion. He's never been one to beat around the bush – and right now, I can't decide if I like this or not.

And, because I can't decide, my lips keep opening and closing like a goldfish's as I attempt to construct a response that will not embarrass me further. James must think I'm mad – and if so, he's right.

Eventually, though, I do say, "Erm…I'm not quite sure. I suppose I only wanted to get your opinion on the matter."

"Why would you want my opinion?" James wants to know at once. "We never talk about our girlfriends or our boyfriends."

"You have a girlfriend?" This is news to me. I can't say why it hurts me so much.

But, I cool down when James shakes his head, some ancient grief in the way he averts his eyes from mine – because he knows I might see something he doesn't want to expose in them. "No, not anymore. I broke up with Georgina Clark a month and a half ago."

He did? And he never told me? I'm hurt all over again.

"I'm so sorry," I say, because there's nothing else to say.

"You shouldn't be," he says. "We agreed it was for the best."

I can think of nothing to say back to this, so I say nothing; after waiting a moment, James clears his throat and says, "But let's not get off the topic here. I want to know why you asked me what you did yesterday."

He's being perfectly light and amiable, so I decide to do the same – why overcomplicate an incident that doesn't need it? That's why I shrug, and say contemplatively, "Well…there really wasn't a reason. I said what I was thinking."

"I think there was reason," James says, pressing in a little harder but not too much harder. He's obviously learned from yesterday's mistakes. "Was I right? Was it because you were having issues with Davies you weren't telling him about?"

"My relationship is my business," I say stiffly.

"But I told you – I'm in too deep now," James says. "You can't get rid of me anymore, it's not an option. I'm part of the problem."

He's sort of right about that, but I'm not about to admit it.

"Look, Potter, I don't want to discuss this right now," I say quite impatiently. "You're prying in matters that don't need prying. I don't tell you how to live your life and you shouldn't tell me how to live mine."

"There was a time when you did," James says with such emotion in his voice that I can't stop myself from stopping and facing him properly.

"I did?"

"You did," he confirms, tone unchanging. "You told me to put my tie straight, comb my hair, stop goofing off, do my homework, don't play pranks – don't you remember all that?"

"Of course I do," I say, my voice whisper-thin.

"When you care about someone…you're supposed to help them, to a certain degree, live their lives," he tells me, his eyes smoldering so beautifully my internal organs do their melting thing again. "Because on your own, you're just you…but when you want to be something bigger, something worthwhile, then you do need someone there. Someone you trust, someone you're partial towards."

"And Michael was going to be that for me," I say, my throat aching, my voice almost pleading. "Because I did trust him. I was partial to him." I try to ignore all the past tense in my sentence.

"Look, I know I'm not your favorite person in the world," he says. "And I know you don't think I mean what I say, or that I'm anything more than a prat that used to flirt endlessly with you when we were kids. But no matter what becomes of you, or of me, just know…"

He trails off here, about to say something, but he's waiting for me to say something first – and I don't. I only stare back at him, all the raw emotions I don't want to pay attention to bubbling near my surface again, like they always do when James is being honest with me.

After the explosive conversation of yesterday, it seems a lot of our uncomfortably cordial walls have been torn down, and now he suddenly thinks he can do this; this melting-me-with-his-emotion deal. It's difficult to listen to him, difficult to hear him start to bring about the things we've tried not to speak of, difficult to have us progress forward while Michael and I fall apart, but these events are out of my control. All I can do is swallow my worries down and look at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

So, when he's sure I'm listening, he then says with an intimacy that takes my breath away without his even being physically close to me, "Know that even after everything that's happened with us, after everything I've said or you've done, I think you're worthy of more than anyone can give you here – me included. But, if you'll let me, I'll sure as hell give it the best shot I've got, all right?"

It takes me several moments to regain my composure and find my voice, but when I do, I baffle us both by smiling weakly and asking, "Do you say this to every girl you used to fancy?"

To his credit, he smiles as well, and shakes his head a second time. "No, not every girl," he says softly. "Always just the one."

I keep my eyes on the ground like he did before, and I vaguely wonder if there's a spell I can do to make myself melt through the floor and stay there for at least twenty years before I resurface. But there isn't – I know there isn't – so I look up again and see that he's already gone.

I check my watch. Ten o'clock exactly. We have a short patrol today – how perfectly the time seems to work out.

I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale apprehensively, the shockwaves washing over me again. It's time to do my second most-painful thing of the night.

Walking back as slowly as I can, my eyes always on the ground and my hands fidgeting in preparation, I keep my breaths heavy and long…

Here we go again.