"Fancy meeting you here."

"What a surprise," I reply, my voice filling the vast expanse of the empty Great Hall. Two scrub brushes, cleaning rags, and buckets of sudsy water sit on the floor next to a scuffed-up pair of tennis shoes, one crossed lazily over the other.

My eyes trail upwards to find the owner of said shoes leaning casually against the Gryffindor table. James offers me a faint smile and folds his arms across his chest, sighing deeply before nudging a bucket with his foot.

"I –"

A sharp, pointed cough echoes to our right, and I swivel to find Professor Abberly's razor-edged gaze on me.

"I must say, Ms. Fields, that I, for one, am actually surprised to find you here," he says, taking a few quick steps toward us from a seat in the corner. "Skipping a full day of lessons does not sound like you."

Abberly tuts audibly as he strides further into the Hall, gesturing for me to follow him toward the waiting cleaning instruments. I'd returned to my dorm on Monday evening to find a sealed letter from Abberly already waiting on my bed, outlining the penance for my sins. Three consecutive detentions for three missed lessons, apparently, to begin the following evening.

Thus, why I'd begrudgingly trekked down to the Great Hall fifteen minutes ago, not knowing whom or what I would find. Just an educated guess – a hope, really – that what James had said about scrubbing tables would hold true. And there he was, leaning nonchalantly against the Gryffindor table, just as effortlessly unbothered as always.

"Skipping lessons does, however, sound like you, Mr. Potter," Abberly continues, and the grin James sent me in greeting twists into a wry smile.

"I'm a bad influence, Professor."

"Clearly," Abberly says dryly, but the corners of his mouth twitch slightly. "I expect you know the rules, then. How many times have you enjoyed this particular punishment?"

"Too many to count, sir."

"Just like your –"

"Father? Yes, I've heard that before."

"Actually, I was going to say just like your mother," Abberly comments, raising one eyebrow above the round frame of his glasses. "Not in detention as often, no, but I do recall her being just as cheekily brash as you."

"I'll take that as a compliment," James says, and he hands me a brush silently before lifting a bucket onto the Gryffindor table. A bit of sudsy water sloshes out onto the wood carelessly, pooling into a reflection of the lit candles and vaulted night sky above us.

"As you should." Abberly claps his hands together and gestures to the four tables before us. "But back to the matter at hand. No magic, of course, as you know. I'll be back shortly to supervise."

"Yes, sir," James says dully, and I nod in agreement when Abberly's sharp gaze lands on me. His eyes flicker away seconds later, though, and a bit of warmth melts the icy air our Charms professor so often seems to wear.

"And by the way, Mr. Potter," he says softly, "I don't find you much like your father at all. Your brother, on the other hand, is a different story."

"I agree entirely, sir," James says, nodding, but Abberly's back is already turned to us, striding towards the door. That's Abberly for you, though: an efficient straight-shooter who never minces his words. And while the others in our year might grumble about it – the cold, callous, clichéd head of Ravenclaw – I've never quite seen him that way.

"Divide and conquer?" I ask absentmindedly, surveying the tables before us. They don't look too dirty, but if you stare at them long enough, they seem to stretch on endlessly.

"Absolutely not," James says, and I glance over to find him dunking a brush into a bath of suds. "We work together."

"It'll take twice as long that way."

"But it'll be more fun," he replies. "Come on, Fields. Got big plans for the evening? Busy not talking to anyone?"

"Point taken," I concede, then pick up a bucket and plunk it down across from him. It'll just be back to the privacy of my four poster once we're done here, anyway. "How have you been holding up?"

For a minute, only the sound of our brushes fills the air. Bristles scrape against wood; water drips onto the table with every fresh dip into the bucket. It's a busy quiet, but an uncomfortable one, too, full of scrubbing instead of speaking.

"Not well," James finally admits. His eyes are locked downward on the brush slowly working in circles over and over the same spot – Jett's spot, I think. Or at least it was, as of a few days ago. The two of them used to sit right at the end of the table, either across from each other or side by side, but always together.

"Still sleeping on the sofa?"

"Yes, and I think I will be for the foreseeable future. What about you?"

"I'm dreading tomorrow," I say quietly. My brush pauses on the table, and the cavernous Great Hall feels ever more expansive without the sound of it. "I've got nearly every class with Jett, but honestly, it's the thought of Quidditch practice that I'm dreading the most."

James's brush pauses, too, and he finally looks up to meet my eyes. Clearly, our five-hour nap yesterday did nothing to drive the shadows out from beneath his eyes, and even the spark Abberly managed to coax out of him has already sputtered and died.

"What did he say to you?" he asks, but his words almost disappear into the chilling silence of the Great Hall. "Harrison, that is. After the match. You looked – upset."

That shiver from the pitch crawls down my back again, slinking across my spine like ice as I shut my eyes. Black floods my vision, the candlelight of the Great Hall more of a distant memory than the voice floating up to the surface.

Not Alex, though. A different tone and timbre, dead and buried for months, yet somehow always alive in my worst moments. Forever waiting for flashes of insecurity before striking like lightning to sear my skin.

"At the time," I say slowly, "I didn't quite understand what or why he would – um, suggest what he did. But after overhearing Grace Clarke in the bathroom yesterday –"

James sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth, more like a hiss than an inhale, and my eyes flutter open to find his features frozen intently on me. He looks like he's stuck in limbo between denial and acceptance, as if his head already knows what his ears are waiting to hear.

"Say the word and I'll hex the shit out of him," he mutters, grip tightening around the brush's handle. "Or don't say it, and I'll still do it anyway."

"I haven't even told you what he said."

"Oh, I've got plenty of guesses," James says darkly, and I swear his knuckles go stark white against the dark wood grain of the brush. "Forget the hexes. I'll just go straight for that pretty boy face he's so fond of."

"You will not," I say sharply. I know the hardened glare on his face isn't meant for me, but I still pull in a calming breath. "James."

"I'm making no promises," he all but growls. His brush resumes scrubbing, though, even if his knuckles remain just as white.

"I'm more than capable of standing up for myself, you know," I say, shifting slightly down the table. We've barely made any progress, and despite my lack of a social life, I actually don't feel like spending all evening here. "Both you and Jett seem to have conveniently forgotten or ignored that."

"It's not a question of whether or not you're capable. I know you can, I just don't know if you will."

I let out a breath of annoyance and dunk my brush back in the bucket. "Just because you can doesn't mean you should," I fire back, and now it's James's turn to sigh. "Besides, you'd just be playing straight into his hands."

"I know." James grunts in annoyance and flicks a bit of dried something off the table. "That's what makes it so infuriating. I know he wants me to lose it, but I still can't help myself."

"You're clearly not a Ravenclaw," I say, softening the sharp edge that's slowly crept into my voice. An olive branch, albeit one that's still meant to poke.

James scoffs, and I bite back a laugh at the thinly veiled distaste lacing it. "Clearly. As if there was any option other than Gryffindor worth considering."

"You Gryffindors and your insufferable pride," I hum back, but my eyes are locked downward on a particularly stubborn stain that I can only assume came from a first-year. Ketchup, maybe, or smashed cranberries?

"You Ravenclaws and your insufferable rationality."

My eyes instantly roll, and I glance up to find him leaning forward, elbow propping his chin up, brush abandoned at his side. "I see you're working hard."

Silence greets my words – an unusual, earsplitting silence, no sharp quip or witty retort. Just one brush against the wooden tabletop and the nagging, maddening thud of my pulse pounding through my veins, keeping time until the verbal sparring starts again.

"What?" I finally ask, setting my brush down. "Why are you staring?"

"No reason," comes the smug reply. I dip a few fingers into soapy water and fling it at him, laughing as a few drops land on his cheek.

"Tell me."

"Or what? You'll throw more water at me?"

"Yes."

"Extremely threatening."

"Focus. We've still got three more tables to clean."

I reach for my bucket, sliding it further down the table. We've been inching closer to the end with every minute that passes, although I'm not convinced that my partner has done a thorough job on his side. Likely only twenty more minutes or so to go on Gryffindor, despite James' lack of scrubbing, so we might very well finish by –

"How am I supposed to focus when you're sitting across from me?"

My brush stops mid-scrub, my eyes frozen on the table. Heat slowly grows like a vine from my chest, tendrils winding around my throat and reaching for my cheeks.

"Don't say things like that," I say quietly.

"You asked."

I shut my eyes for the second time tonight, willing my heart to flutter back down to the infinitely more charged here and now. He never would have said something like that two months ago or even two weeks ago. It was always something else, something light or argumentative or – safe. Every conversation was always safe.

But now, tonight? There are no rules that can't be broken, no invisible lines that can't be crossed. Everything's undiscovered and uncharted and undefined, thrilling and terrifying and torturous.

The world won't let me linger on it, though. My eyes flutter open at the sound of something sliding across the table, and all thoughts and hesitations and questions go tumbling from my head. Because the noise wasn't a bucket or a brush, but James.Sitting smack on the tabletop, the soles of his scuffed shoes unapologetically pressing down onto the section I just scrubbed.

"What are you doing? I just cleaned that," I protest. My head tilts up to look at him, closer than he's been since I fell asleep on his shoulder yesterday, and every excuse seems to turn to ash in my mouth.

"That's your problem, Fields. You're actually doing what you're told, and where's the fun in that?"

"The fun is getting out of here at a reasonable – James!"

My brush dangles from his fingers, snatched away and hanging high above my head. And despite my cry of outrage, I can't fight the smile twitching at my lips or the flush that spreads through me at the look in his eyes.

"I'm a bad influence, remember?" he says teasingly, letting out a grin as I shoot up to my tiptoes. We're still not eye-to-eye, though, and there's no way in hell I can grab that brush without joining him on the tabletop. But I reach upwards anyway, my hand skimming along his forearm and falling miserably short.

"Want to give that back now?"

"No."

"How about now?" I ask, and my fingers curl around his wrist.

"Definitely not," he whispers, but his arm lowers and the brush slips out of his grasp, gently thunking against the table. My eyes are still on his, though, tracing the flecks of amber and emerald across from me.

Eyelids flutter partially over that sunburst of color, his gaze dropping ever so slightly downward. I can feel every heartbeat ringing through my veins, the fabric of his shirt tangling beneath my fingers, the sliver between us closing –

"Do you need a chaperone, Mr. Potter?" Abberly quips, his voice bouncing down the long expanse of the hall. James freezes, lips agonizingly close to brushing against mine, and sighs in annoyance.

"No, sir," James says, but a muscle in his jaw ticks. My hand gently lets go of his shirt and falls to my side, fingertips curled like they're still gripping fabric.

"I'm happy to supervise or assign Ms. Fields to another task if needed."

"Not necessary, sir."

"Perhaps you should separate yourself from my Chaser, then," Abberly says, and I swear I can hear a cheeky grin in his voice. "I would also advise that you relocate yourself to the Slytherin table."

"Yes, sir," James chimes dully before leaning over to grab his bucket and brush, gaze never once leaving mine. "You were right," he whispers to me, voice dropping. "Divide and conquer was the right call."

"But that was much more fun," I whisper back, and the way his eyes flare in surprise almost makes the utter embarrassment of our Charms professor walking in worth it.

"The Slytherin table, Mr. Potter," Abberly calls out again, now more of a command than a suggestion.

Sorry, James mouths over his shoulder, and the Great Hall lapses into silence once more. I roll my shoulders, stretch my arms behind my back, and glance up at the ceiling while James makes his way to the opposite side of the room. It's beautifully clear tonight, the sky a deep midnight black splashed with an ethereal banner of stars.

"Ms. Fields," Abberly tuts, and now it's my turn to sigh, grabbing my abandoned brush and turning back to the table.

James might claim this is an easy detention, but that doesn't mean it's an enjoyable one. Especially not with my Head of House watching us with eagle eyes, every bit embodying the spirit of Ravenclaw. The message is clear: there will be nothing but efficiency until the tables are clean.

Which is exactly how I planned to approach this evening, and honestly, I'm not sure if I like what that says about me.

The minutes pass by in scrubs and silence; an hour passes by in sighs and soft swears. There's one sparkling table, then two, three, and four, their scratched and scuffed surfaces all polished to perfection. My right hand looks raw and wrinkled from suds and soap by the time Abberly dismisses us, and I very nearly groan when he not so gently reminds us to return tomorrow for a repeat of our punishment.

I'm half-surprised that Abberly lets us return to our common rooms unescorted, but then again, I've always thought his no-nonsense exterior was more of a front than anything else. I swear I even saw a twinkle in his eye when he waved us out of the Great Hall and up the stairs, but then again, I might just be delirious.

"All right there, Fields?" James asks, watching on in amusement as I shake my arm. "Thought a Chaser would have more upper body strength."

"I do, just not the scrubbing kind."

"Ah, well, can't win them all," he cracks, and I shake my head as we climb the massive stone stairs framing the entrance hall. "Mind if I walk you back?"

"No, but Ravenclaw Tower's the other way," I call at his back, but James simply shrugs in front of me without pausing, cutting off into a second-floor corridor that I've never taken before.

"We're taking the scenic route."

"Oh? And what does that entail?"

"Winding our way through the whole damn castle."

"It's nearly curfew, James."

"And we were in a late detention." He shrugs again, then spins on his heel to face me while walking backward. "Besides, you've got nothing to worry about. I know every Prefect route and timetable by heart."

"And how exactly would you know that?"

"Family secret," he says, grinning. "One I am definitely not authorized to tell you."

"Not authorized?"

"That's what I said."

"How many secrets are you keeping, exactly?"

"Let's put it this way," James says slowly, stopping short in the middle of the corridor. We're still facing each other, but he glances upward, lost in thought. "I'm more of a rule-breaker than a mischief-maker. Staying out late, cutting classes, nicking biscuits from the kitchen."

I raise my eyebrows. "You make it sound so innocent."

"I am innocent."

"You are not," I say with a snort, and James starts wandering backward again. One hand ruffles his hair like I've seen a thousand times before, a cocky smile flickering across his lips.

"Oh, trust me, Fields. I've got nothing on my cousins. You clearly haven't met Freddie, and don't get me started on Hugo and Roxanne. Those two are little menaces."

"How many cousins do you have?"

We're rounding a bend now, and he didn't even bother to glance back over his shoulder while sauntering backward. Maybe I should believe his bullshit about memorizing the Prefect routes; it's probably easier than memorizing this maze of a castle.

"More than anyone ever needs."

"Who's your favorite?"

"Dom, but don't ever tell her I said that," he says, and I stifle a laugh at the utterly serious look on his face. "I'll deny it until the day I die."

His words wash away into the vast, empty corridor, ringing against stone and bouncing off the arched apex of the ceiling. It always gets so still, so silent around this time of night after the great migration of students back to common rooms.

"Al's my real favorite, though," James says quietly, and once again we're stopped in the middle of the corridor, exposed to anyone who turns the corner. "My brother," he clarifies. "You asked about my favorite cousin. But Al's my favorite out of anyone in my family."

"I don't think I've met him," I say, frowning. His cousin Lucy's a few years below us in Ravenclaw, and I know of Freddie Weasley – seventh-year Gryffindor, usually found running illegal bets during Quidditch season – but James' brother is a mystery.

"You wouldn't have. He's a fourth-year in Slytherin and likes to pretend he's cooler than the rest of us." James smiles fondly, the corners of his eyes creasing. "Al likes his space, and I respect that. We meet up every Friday night in the kitchens, though, and if anyone ever starts shit-talking him, I will not hesitate to end it."

I blink once, studying him quietly in the dim candlelight. He wasn't this way at the start of the year. Even when we started sitting next to each other in class, even when we'd have long conversations during free period, I barely knew anything about him. His grades, sure. His stubbornly wrong opinions? Those too. But not this.

"You're giving me that look again."

"What look?"

"The one that's hard to read."

"You're just – talking about yourself voluntarily," I say, hesitating. He answered every question without a second thought. Offered up even more than I asked for, even.

"Is that so surprising? Here I thought you believed I talk about myself entirely too much."

"No, I –" I protest but pause when I see the teasing glint in his eye. "I feel like –" The words slip off my tongue again, my mind back in long, winding walks around the sixth floor. "We never talk about you. I've told you everything about myself, but I didn't even know your brother's name."

"It's Albus, technically," James says, shrugging. "Al for short. You don't need me to tell you that, though. Ask anyone in this place."

"You know that's not what I meant."

"I know," he agrees softly. "It was just nice to pretend for a while."

The question sits on the tip of my tongue – pretend what? – but I bite it back. It's not needed. I already know what he means. It's instinctive, deep in my bones. An understanding I wish I had recognized sooner, one that he already knew was there.

"We can keep pretending if you want," I offer quietly. My voice fills the silence pressing around the corridor, the space stretching between us. Another olive branch offered up in peace. It's one I would take if the roles were reversed, one I've desperately wanted for longer than I can remember.

Pretend to be normal. Pretend to not ever doubt who you are or if you're enough. Pretend that it can all be stripped away, that someone will just see you.

"I didn't even think you knew, to be honest," James says finally. My offer hangs ignored in the air for a second, two, and when the faintest smile flickers across his lips, that same understanding pulls in my gut. Thanks, but no thanks.

"I didn't," I say simply. "Not until break, actually. My dad mentioned something, and I dug out my old global history textbook. It put me straight to sleep, though. Never finished reading."

"Unbearably dull stuff," James agrees, and that small smile blooms into the grin I've grown so accustomed to. "Skip straight to the end next time. Or better yet, don't read it at all. Let me keep an air of mystery."

"How about," I say slowly, finally moving towards him, "you just tell me your favorite color instead?"
"No, that's far too personal," he quips, and this time I can't keep the laughter from spilling out as we start down the corridor again, now side by side. "But, if you really must pry, I would say blue."

"Blue? Not Gryffindor red?" I tease, and he throws me a look I can't quite decipher.

"No, blue. Navy blue." We've barely been moving for ten seconds before he stops again. My steps falter, and I glance back over my shoulder to find two hazel eyes set intently on me. "Ravenclaw blue."

Heat flames across my face, a familiar flush that practically feels like home now, and I glance down at the hand nervously fidgeting with the sleeve on my sweater. A dark, dreamy, dusky blue mirroring the drapes and domes of my common room, hastily tossed over brown leggings before detention in an unintentional tribute to Ravenclaw's house colors.

"But let me see what color you're wearing tomorrow, and my answer might change."

"James," I say warningly, but it comes out quieter than intended. Less of a sharp correction and more of a resigned sigh, floating over my lips like a breath.

It's not right. None of this is right. The teasing and touching, the dancing around and debating each other – it's not right. It's a betrayal, even now. Even when Jett wants nothing to do with us.

What would have happened in the Great Hall if Abberly hadn't walked in? I would've kissed him, or he would've kissed me, and then where would that leave us? In an even more tangled mess, drowning in a deeper ocean of mistakes.

"I know," James finally says, so soft and defeated that he nearly sounds like a different person. "Trust me, I know. But –" He pauses, cuts off the thought he knows he shouldn't say, and something a whole hell of a lot like pain floats through his eyes when they find mine again.

"But what?"

"But I think about it all the time." James clears his throat and averts his gaze to the stone floor beneath us. "What it could've been like. Should've. If I had just talked to you like a normal person, if I – if I hadn't lost my chance before I ever really had one."

Should've. My mind catches on that one word, every letter aching with regret. Should've. Like nothing happened the way it was meant to. Should've.

"What would it have been like?" I ask, and James glances back up in surprise, a wry half-smile twisting at the corner of his lips. "If you had talked to me like a normal person?"

"Well, for one," he says, finally taking a step forward into the corridor again, "you would have found me far more charming than my best mate."

"Unlikely," I shoot back, stifling a snort. "Have you met Jett before?"

"Fair enough," James concedes, "but you would've at least found me somewhat tolerable. You might've even liked me."

"I do like you," I protest out of habit. The realization sinks in just a beat too late, that all too familiar flush flooding my face, and I duck my head to watch our feet move against stone.

"Only because I spent months winning you over with my sparkling wit and dashing good looks."

"Oh, please," I mutter, but I still don't dare to tear my eyes away from the two pairs of shoes trekking slowly through the castle. Both similar in appearance – athletic but made for style, clearly new but with a retro look – and strikingly, refreshingly different from our usual uniforms.

"And then," James enunciates pointedly, "I think you would've realized that we have far more in common than you're ever willing to admit."

For the third time tonight, we grind to a halt in the middle of the corridor. But I'm the one who stops first this time, eyes and heart jumping up together, and the rest of the world seems to stop, too. The soft shimmer of the candlelight, the shadows dancing across the walls, even the frigid draft of winter air hang suspended in time, not daring to move.

"And if I did admit it?" I breathe, as if my words can break the temporary spell hanging over us.

"I think," he says slowly, "being the – what did you say earlier?"

"Insufferable Gryffindor," I supply at his prompt, but the grin twitching across James' lips gives him away. He's never going to forget that, and I have a nagging suspicion that he's only going to try to live up to it more now.

"Being the insufferable Gryffindor that I am, I would have eventually plucked up the courage to ask you out before –"

James clears his throat, but it's too late. The unspoken words still float between us, tainting the moment like a drop of ink slowly spidering across parchment.

Before Jett did.

"Even then?" I ask quietly. It's a question I've wondered for months but never dared to speak, always too afraid to wander off the beaten path.

"You have no idea how long I've fancied you, Fields," James murmurs. It's only when I feel his breath ghost across my skin that I realize how we've slowly drawn together, so close that I can see every shade of green in his eyes. "It's longer than Jett has, I'll tell you that."

Since September, then. That's what he's implying. From when in September, I don't know and I doubt he'll ever tell, but –

But it could've been any time since that first day, when I boarded the train and he damn near made me crush my foot into oblivion. James and Connor and Jett had all slid past me in that narrow hallway, and I just barely avoided dropping my trunk. And then –

Then James looked at me over his shoulder, and I'd thought his eyes were brown. I don't remember much from those first few moments, but I remember that. He'd looked at me – stared at me, more like it –until Connor nudged him in the side.

Was it then that everything started to derail, or was it later on? Was it when a stupid pickup line was the first thing he ever said to me? Was it when I sat in the Great Hall, dripping with pumpkin juice and utterly mortified? Or was it something else, some other instance I brushed off as attention-seeking bullshit?

God, I had it all wrong.

He's not the person I thought he was. Not at all. I had the right pieces but put them together wrong. Everything's shifting and rearranging, the same shapes fitting into different places, and it's an entirely different picture staring back at me.

"I think we would've still wound up here, though," James says quietly, and my eyes dart back to his. Not brown, like I'd initially thought, but hazel. That warm, golden gradient I've stared at for hours and thought about for even more. "Maybe not on our way back from detention, but still wandering back together. Maybe after a late stroll on the grounds or studying in the library."

"Or after nicking biscuits from the kitchen?"

"Oh, especially after that."

"All because you talked to me like a normal person."

"Yeah," he says simply, and just that one word tells a whole story.

It's been – what, five months now? Months of sitting by silently, never letting on that anything was wrong until we had one real conversation together. That first time we ever spoke like friends, sitting against cool stone in the sixth-floor corridor. All it took was those fifteen minutes together to unravel all of his self-control.

I wonder if he's thinking about that, too.

Only the sound of our feet rings between us, a gentle thud of soles on stairs as we wind up a staircase I've never used before, one tucked away and hidden in the castle's depths. I don't know where we are or how we got here, have barely paid attention as we twisted and turned and stopped and started through the never-ending maze before us.

"Let's talk now, then."

I don't know what makes me say it. I shouldn't say it. It's only going to make things messier and blurrier, and nothing good can come of it, really. But I do say it, and I let out a silent breath of relief as the words hit the air, as I spot the way it makes his eyes spark with that familiar hint of challenge and debate.

"We are talking, or didn't you realize?"

"You know what I mean," I say, swatting aimlessly at the shoulder beside me. A hand catches mine, though, hesitating just a second too long before letting go. "Let's – I don't know. Pretend we just met. Pretend I want to get to know you."

James steps off into a corridor as we clear another landing on what must be the fourth or fifth floor. It's getting late now; the candlelight dims with each passing minute like a timer ticking down. Curfew can't be more than a few minutes away, but my guide doesn't seem anxious in the least.

"Ah, pretend. Because clearly you would never actually want to know me."

"You know what I mean," I protest again with another swat. And just like before, his hand catches mine lazily, twining together before pulling away.

"And what, pray tell, would you want to know in this hypothetical scenario?"

"I'd want to know about your family." His posture stiffens next to me slightly, the only unconscious habit of his that I've ever been able to catch. A nervous tic, the tell that always betrays how he's really feeling. "And what your hobbies are, what you want out of life, what pet peeves drive you crazy."

"Oh, is that all?" James asks sarcastically, and he reaches instinctively out again as if expecting another swat. But it doesn't phase him when his hand meets the air, and a second later I feel familiar warmth threading through my fingers.

Is this okay?

That's what the gentle squeeze of his hand seems to say, a question offered up for me to decide. That's the way it's always been with him. When we worked on my Arithmancy homework in the library for hours, when he invited me to invade his peaceful free period after Ancient Runes, and when –

When he squeezed my hand, just like this, beneath the tree at Christmas.

It's always my choice.

That's the way it should be, and yet everything feels backward. It feels different. I've never done things this way, never talked and waited and talked even more before jumping into it. There was always anticipation and expectation, flirting that dove straight into the physical.

Even with Jett, I – I don't know. There were times when all he'd want was to kiss me, and I'd just let him, even if I didn't feel like it or didn't want to, constantly talking myself into thinking I did. And I never said no, never told him not to, because –

Because I tried that before, with someone else, and it didn't matter. I didn't matter.

"Well, make a list, then," James says. His fingers suddenly drop from mine, and the castle draft nips at the skin no longer touching his. "And I'll answer them all for you tomorrow."

Tomorrow?

I nearly let the question fall out of my lips before a flash of bronze catches my eye. Ravenclaw Tower – or, rather, the entrance to it, that damn eagle-shaped door knocker flashing in the fading light.

"You promise? Don't want to keep your air of mystery?" I ask, and James sighs before leaning his shoulder against the sealed arch doorway, practically daring someone to open it.

"I'm now regretting telling a Ravenclaw to make a list, but yes," he affirms, that grin flickering across his features again.

Cool metal presses against my palm as I wrap around the handle of the knocker beside him, but I pause, waiting for – I don't know what. Just waiting, I suppose, to see what he does. Wondering what thoughts are running through his mind. Hoping that he might – nothing. Hoping that nothing.

And nothing does happen, either. James simply shoves off the wall and stuffs his hands into his pockets with one final, "Good night, Fields," before strolling off. Who knows how long it'll take him to make it back to his common room –his scenic route added a good thirty minutes onto the walk back to Ravenclaw Tower, after all – but I suspect he doesn't care all too much.

For all I know, he likes wandering around after hours, skirting around Prefect routes and mapping all the cut-offs and shortcuts and trick stairs in this place. I guess I'll add it to my list to ask him tomorrow after detention.