"What the hell?"
It blurts out before I can stop myself, but - I mean - Sophie. And James. And - that. Whatever the hell you want to call that. Personally, I'd call it mentally scarring, but that's just my opinion. And probably the opinion of every other sane person at this school.
The silhouettes across the hall from us break apart at that, and James whips around, apparently taken by surprise. Sophie still has her hand clutching his shirt, and I feel Aiden flinch next to me at the sight of it.
"We gotta go," Aiden mumbles, and then he drags me off toward the Great Hall, leaving the scene behind us just as awkward as we found it.
I guess it's earlier than I thought, as the dining tables are still fairly empty, so Aiden and I drop down by ourselves at the end of the Ravenclaw table. He grabs a plate violently, then spoons carrots onto it in silence. I really feel for those poor carrots.
"Aiden -"
"I don't want to talk about it," he mumbles, so I snap my mouth shut and let him be.
Jett joins us about fifteen minutes later, and, as predicted, he's still fuming over James, much to Aiden's delight. He nods along emphatically as Jett complains about his supposed best friend, but I tune them out in favor of watching Dom across the hall at the Slytherin table. She clutches at Connor Finnigan's arm, laughing in that graceful way of hers, and even from here I can see the way Connor gazes at her adoringly.
He's not even subtle about it, and it's utterly shocking that Dom can't tell how much he likes her. I honestly don't understand why Jett refuses to tell them how they feel about each other, but he warned me off of that a week ago when I brought it up.
"Let them figure it out on their own," he'd mumbled, but they're both oblivious, so who cares if we set them up? Some weird bro thing, probably.
What is quite definitely some weird bro thing, though, is the way that Jett instantly stiffens beside me as James wanders into the dining hall. To be honest, I didn't even see him walk in, but I don't need to look to know why Jett's gone all tense. Boys - and, in particular, Gryffindor boys - aren't exactly the most difficult to decode.
Aiden, still sitting across the table from us, also stiffens, and a short second later I hear Sophie's laugh float across the Great Hall towards us. I twist in my seat towards the sound of her laugh and watch as she slides down next to James at the Gryffindor table, nearly groaning at the way he grins at her.
"What the hell?" Jett says in surprise, practically mirroring my reaction earlier, and Aiden glares down at his potatoes, looking as if he'd like nothing more in this world than to stab James with his fork. "Is that Sophie Fincher?"
"Yep." I nod, eyeing the pair of them, and Jett looks over at me, bewildered.
"He's never even mentioned her before. I mean, other than complaining about Potions or her docking points from him for stupid shit."
I shrug, and Aiden throws his fork down on the table before stalking out of the Great Hall. At least he didn't stab James, I suppose.
"What's with him?" Jett asks over a mouthful of chicken, and I shrug again, feigning innocence. He swallows, takes a long swig of water, and stares at Aiden's retreating back as it moves farther and farther away from us.
"Quidditch, maybe."
"Yeah, that tracks."
"I'm done too," I say with a yawn. Jett glances between my empty plate and his half-full one, then pops a chunk of potato into his mouth before sliding off the bench.
"I'll walk you back."
"Ooh, my hero," I coo, channeling my inner Grace Clarke. Jett takes one look at me, with my left hand fluttering against my heart, and simply snorts.
"I love how you're not like that." His fingers tangle themselves in mine, warm and familiar, as we wander out of the dining hall together, into the cavernous entrance hall and up its grandiose marble staircase. "It's refreshing."
"Aren't Gryffindors meant to be chivalrous?" I ask curiously, and he glances down at me with one eyebrow quirked as we round a bend in the corridor.
"You're saying I'm not chivalrous? Shall I take my jacket back, then?"
"No!" I practically shriek, and Jett laughs in that forever genuine way of his while I wrap my arms around myself tightly. I'm never giving this jacket up. I've grown so accustomed to it - the soft fuzz of the inner lining, the way it bags down halfway to my knees, how the bright red always looks so odd against the pale blues of my veins.
"Okay, Fields. You can keep it, I suppose."
"I don't really think you have a say in the matter," I comment, almost off-handedly, and I half expect him to give me a shove, or laugh, or – something. But he doesn't, and I stop short when I realize he's not beside me, either, stuck standing a few feet back next to a medieval tapestry of Arthur and Guinevere. "Jett? I was just kidding -"
"No, I –" He shoves a hand back through his short crop of hair, pausing as his hand reaches the crown of his head, one elbow sticking out into a triangle. "I think you're right."
The last rays of light soak through a window next to the tapestry, drenching him in all the jewel tones of sunset. He practically looks like a painting, standing there angelically, or maybe like a medieval knight in shining armor. Like Arthur.
Every now and then his good looks strike me like a shock, an electric current sparking through my skin. Tall, but not as tall as James; broad-shouldered and toned, but not too muscular. So ruggedly classic in his looks, made not for gothic castles and spires, but for days spent outside, laughing in sunlight, like the forever boy next door.
"I'm just really glad I met you," he says quietly.
"Me too," I whisper.
And that's how I wind up with my back flat against the cold stone wall as I kiss him next to the tapestry. One of Jett's palms presses against the wall while the other grips my waist, and I – I don't know. Normally I wouldn't – not out in public, not like this – but I barely even notice the voices that float down the corridor behind him in the dinner rush. In fact, it's not until I hear Dom's effortless, musical laugh that I pull away, my fingers still knotted in the front of his shirt.
Jett and I turn in sync to look curiously off down the corridor as Dom laughs again. They're close enough that I can hear the distinct murmur of Connor's gruff voice, but far enough away that it all blurs together in a low rumble. Par for the course with Connor, though.
"What do you think?" I whisper to Jett, and he turns away from Connor and Dom's figures to glance over at me. "Double dates?"
"You're assuming Connor will actually ask her out?" Jett mutters back, quiet enough to make sure the oblivious pair won't overhear. "We should go."
"Have a bit more faith in your friend."
Jett's fingers twine with mine, rough calluses brushing against the soft skin of my palm, as he pulls me into the current of students making the post-dinner retreat back to common rooms.
"He's been pining after Dom ever since she did her exchange at Beauxbatons last year. It was like he suddenly realized he couldn't live without her." His grey eyes flash in a roll – so quickly I barely catch it – as he glances quickly behind him at the two in question. "That term she was gone was awful, he would not shut up about her…"
"It's sweet," I comment absentmindedly, and he snorts slightly.
"Unrequited love."
"Romantic."
"A recipe for disaster," he counters, and now it's my turn to snort as we make our way up the spiral staircase of Ravenclaw Tower.
A gang of fifth-years troupes out of the common room when we reach the top, and I just manage to grab a hold of the door before it shudders shut, thank Merlin. I really do not feel like dealing with that damn riddle tonight. I'm not good at it, which Jett finds absolutely hysterical on a near-daily basis, and I do not need his teasing at the moment.
"Do I get to stay again?" Jett asks hopefully, eyes lingering on my hand holding the door open. But I can't, not tonight – I've got an Arithmancy problem set to work on, and it's bound to take me all evening – so I simply send him on his way, pretending not to see him pout in that adorable, lost puppy way of his.
The common room's fairly full when I walk inside, the quiet hush of daytime overtaken by the sparkling sound of laughter and conversation. Groups of Ravenclaws spread out over the furniture, either working in small groups or ignoring assignments in favor of rousing debates – as per usual on a Sunday evening. All except for one, that is.
Aiden sits dejectedly in a corner armchair, legs sprawled out in front of him, and stares blankly out across the room. I've never seen him look – well, so pathetic, and I honestly don't know what to say. What can you, really? I'm fairly certain Hogsmeade doesn't sell "sorry you had to watch the girl you're into kiss someone else" cards.
I smile half-heartedly at him as I cut across the common room for the girls' staircase, but if he sees me, he doesn't acknowledge it. Ah, well. I'm sure Quidditch will take his mind off of it soon enough.
I find my dorm room empty as I finish the six-story climb, and, slightly relieved, sink into my four poster, one hand pinching the bridge of my nose. There's a bit of tightness above my left eye, the knock of a headache about to barge into my brain, and I really need all of my faculties available to finish my Arithmancy problem set. It's been kicking my ass all week.
Groaning, I roll off the bed and grab my bag from the floor, rummaging through it for my notes. The numbers stare back at me mockingly as I spread out parchment after parchment with scribbles and scratched-out equations across my duvet.
The door to the room creaks open about twenty minutes later, and I glance up from a particularly nasty equation, hoping for Mia and her mental mathematical mastery. It's not her pixie cut that stares back at me, though, but rather Sophie's auburn locks.
She's flushed, the skin of her cheeks nearly as bright as her hair, and her eyes more alive than I've ever seen them. "Hi Aria," she says breathlessly as she sits down on her bed, running a hand through the mess of curls at her back.
"Hi, Sophie," I drawl back slowly. I eye her suspiciously as I sort through all my wild, disorganized thoughts – trying to parse together what exactly I'd like to say to her – but before I can get a word out, she giggles and a wide grin splits across her face. "Good evening, I take it?"
"You could say that."
"Sophie," I sigh, and her smile slowly fades. "I know you're excited, but are you sure –"
"I knew you would say that." It comes out quietly, and a flicker of annoyance runs across her face. "I knew as soon as I saw you and Aiden earlier. God forbid you actually be happy for me."
"Soph-"
"I just hoped you would think better of me, I guess."
I bite my tongue at that, swallowing whatever words were about to come spouting out, and avert my gaze to the floor. Damn. She's already got my number. "I don't –"
"Come on, Aria. It's no secret what you think about James."
The sharp tone pulls my eyes back to hers, locking together from across the room. A fire burns in them, hot and defiant, and it brings a flush to my cheeks that matches hers.
"I'm not under any delusions. But I've fancied him forever, and – I guess I just want to know what it's like. For a week, or however long it takes until he gets bored of me. But I guess you wouldn't get it, anyway. You had Jett wrapped around your finger in like two days."
"Oh trust me, I understand," I whisper more to myself than her, heartbeat thumping in my head. The knock of headache turns into a full-blown ice pick at that, almost as if it's trying to shove down the unwanted memories ushering in. I understand more than she knows. Probably more than anyone here knows.
"You do?"
"Yeah." I clear my throat, then glance out the window. Darkness has fallen now, a purple twilight blanketing the sloping grounds. "Being the new girl isn't always easy."
"Being the rule-following prefect isn't always easy, either." Sophie sighs and shakes her head, then flops backward, splaying across the bed. "I know you think I'm an airhead when it comes to him, but I'm not. He's not getting the attention he wants from who he wants, and I'm an easy fourth or fifth or sixth choice. I get that. I get that he wants Lila. And I don't really care."
"I –"
But I have nothing to say, really, so I just clear my throat and let the words fall away. Sophie's right. Of course she's right. It's her life. If this is what she wants, if she knows it's not serious, who am I to judge her?
"So," I try again, and she pushes up onto her elbows at my change in tone. "Is he a good kisser?"
Sophie's flush brightens as she skips over to my bed and grabs a cross-legged seat, eyes practically dancing with joy. And once again, my Arithmancy problem set sits unfinished and forgotten while we sit there for hours, chatting and laughing, and building that bond between us that only good girl-talk can.
Gabrielle Ancrum, of course, was possibly even more excited than Sophie about the news and positively shrieked when she ran into the dorm later that evening. "Aria and Jett, Sophie and James, now we just need to hook up Mia with Connor –"
"I fancy Josh Peakes, not Connor," Mia had protested, but Gabrielle simply waved her off in excitement.
That excitement has barely dimmed over the last two weeks, and, in fact, only grows when Sophie waves her over to sit with James and Connor at lunch today, leaving me and Jett to finish our meals alone.
Jett raises his eyebrows at me silently, and I simply shrug, ignoring the laughter issuing from the Gryffindor table. He and Sophie have essentially switched places recently, although I suspect that has less to do with being mad at his friend and more with wanting to avoid James and Sophie at all costs. I can't say I blame him.
I'm not complaining, though. The more James gets distracted by Sophie, the more time Jett spends with me – but part of me wonders if his best friend is putting distance between them on purpose. They made up early last week, although that doesn't stop the little nagging voice in my head saying something's still not quite right.
"Have you figured it out yet?" Jett asks, as if reading my thoughts. I glance over at the teasing smile on his lips and roll my eyes, but not before accepting the hand he offers to pull me off the bench.
"How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"That I'm trying to decipher the neverending mystery of Sophie Fincher and James Potter."
"Maybe because it's a neverending mystery?" Jett supplies, and I laugh as he tugs me towards my next lesson, Ancient Runes. "And because you won't stop staring at them, mostly."
"Neither can anyone else."
"Just like a trainwreck."
"Trainwreck is putting it kindly," I counter as we begin our climb up the Grand Staircase.
The walk to the classroom is definitely the worst part about Ancient Runes – even worse than translating endlessly dry texts with a syllabary. But that doesn't stop Jett from walking me there every Tuesday and Thursday, even though he has to book it to the greenhouses afterward.
"Well, I'm a kind person."
"And humble, too."
"Oh, shut it," Jett says, giving me a light shove before catching my hand with his. He pulls me over a trick step – one I never seem to remember, just before the fourth-floor landing – and we pause, waiting for the staircase to move back into place. "You and James, I swear."
"Swear what?" I ask curiously, and Jett just shakes his head in amusement.
"The two of you always have some sort of opinion or quip. I never get any peace."
"You don't want peace, Jett."
"No, I probably don't," he agrees, and the half-dimpled smile he gives me nearly makes my heart leap out of my chest. "But now I'll get some when I leave you here. You can sit with James and make snarky comments back and forth."
"I'm not snarky." I grimace, but Jett lands a short, sweet kiss on my lips before it grows into too much of a scowl.
"See you later, Fields."
"Have fun with the plants."
"Always do," he calls back brightly, and I sigh as I watch his broad shoulders disappear down the staircase, straight back to where we came from. I always hate saying goodbye – especially when it means an hour and a half of Ancient Runes.
Most of the school agrees with me, apparently, as our year has barely anyone enrolled. There are only seven of us total, including Mia's crush – a Slytherin named Josh Peakes, who nearly always falls asleep during class – and Alex Harrison, one of my fellow Chasers, who sends me a nod as he slumps into a seat across the room.
I smile back at him, but his expression tightens as a chair grates across the wooden floor behind me.
"I hear you want to exchange snarky comments," a gruff voice says, and I twist around to see James Potter unceremoniously dump his bag onto the table.
"Why do I get the feeling Jett tells you about every single thing we do together?" I ask. James lets out a short breath of amusement as he pulls out his syllabary, which, to be honest, it seems like he doesn't even need half the time.
"Trust me, I'm equally as unenthralled by it as you are," he drawls, leaning back in his chair. Both legs prop up on the desk next to his book, the soles of his shoes practically eye-level with me. "I'd rather not hear all the gooey shit he thinks about and every place you two have made out."
Heat rushes to my face as James grimaces, although it seems a bit unfair given that he subjects all of us to his mentally scarring activities with Sophie. Before I can point it out, though, the door to the classroom bangs shut and Professor Dromgoole strides to the lectern, flipping on the projector with a tap of her wand.
"Mr. Potter, legs down, please," she snaps, and James sighs before shuffling around behind me. "Today we'll be resuming our discussion of numerology within ancient texts, with emphasis on variations in runic creatures between cultures."
"Oh, Godric," James mutters under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. No one's sitting near us – with only seven in the class, we're generally spread out – and Dromgoole barely ever notices anything, anyway. "I'd rather listen to Jett's lovesick babbling about your eyes."
"That's always an option," I whisper back, and I hear him leaning forward on his desk. "I could list off every adjective that describes his – storm-struck, ocean-grey, star-flecked silver…"
James snorts, but Dromgoole pays him no mind. Her perpetual fascination with anything runic is the only reason Josh Peakes gets away with sleeping every class.
"You're funny, Fields."
"I've been told it's called snark."
James snorts again, this time louder, and I glance back at Dromgoole, who doesn't even bat an eye. "Do mine now."
"Your what?" I mutter, tossing a glance at him over my shoulder. He's leaning forward on one elbow, chin propped up in his hand, and looking very decidedly at me and not the projector.
"My eyes."
"Oh, I wouldn't dare steal that pleasure from Sophie."
"No?" He raises an eyebrow as the projector clicks to another slide, and I take one look at it before turning back to him, considering the question.
"Hazel," I say simply, and James inches closer, grinning.
"Such a poet."
"We should pay attention," I whisper, but he simply tuts. "Fine, I should pay attention."
"Peakes is literally snoring."
"So?"
"So, Dromgoole could not care less if you started snogging Nolton right here, right now, as long as you showed up on time." He pauses, that smirk flickering across his features through the dim light, and shoves his book aside to lean closer. "You haven't done that in here yet, have you?"
"Not that it's your business, but no," I hiss back, and his smirk widens.
"Glad one surface in this castle has been spared by the two of you."
Heat flushes my face again and I turn around pointedly to pay attention to the lecture. But I still feel his eyes burning into my back, I'm still aware of every tiny movement he makes, and even though I look attentively at the projector, I couldn't tell you a single thing Dromgoole says all lesson.
Josh Peakes startles awake with one loud, final snore when the window shades fly open an hour later, class finally dismissed. I shove my notes and syllabary into my bag as quickly as I can and dart towards the door, but James is already there, waiting for me, leaning against the archway with his hands stuffed in his pockets.
"That was the most fun I've had in Runes since Peakes swallowed a fly," he says casually, and I try to side-step him, but he cuts me off.
"Can you just leave me alone?" I ask, frustration coloring my tone, as once again his body matches mine. "I have things to do that don't involve you."
"Things like Jett?" That familiar flush hits my cheeks, stinging with heat at the insinuation in his voice, and I shove past him out into the sixth-floor corridor. "Come on, Fields, I'm just joking," James protests. I can feel him catching up, matching my stride, and he spins on his heel to face me. "You're so easy to rile up."
I ignore him, though, and will myself to look anywhere, everywhere, except at him and that smirk I'm sure is still plastered there.
"At some point you're going to need to learn how to tolerate my existence, you know," he says, walking backward with his bag slung over one shoulder.
"I do tolerate your existence," I say simply, which is true enough. James side-steps a suit of armor jutting out slightly into the corridor – how he knows it's there without looking, I've no idea – and swings around to fall into step beside me.
"Barely."
"Your question had no qualifications in it," I reply, entirely over this conversation already, and he cracks a grin at that.
"Snarky indeed."
I glance at him then – the school bag nearly slipping off his shoulder, shirt that's never fully buttoned, tie that's always slightly loose – just as James steps in front of a high, arching window, backlit against the crisp October day. He always looks so casually confident, so utterly unaffected by everything, that it's not hard to see why even someone like Sophie could get swept away by it.
"Do you need something from me?" I ask, stopping short. We rarely talk at all, and usually only when Jett's around at that. "Jett's in straight lessons until dinner, in case you forgot."
"I know his schedule," James says with a shrug. "Can't I talk to you without needing something?"
"You never have before."
"Maybe that's because the claws are always out." He raises one eyebrow, almost daring me to counter him, and leans against the wall next to the window, crossing both arms across his chest.
It's only then, as I watch him in silence, that I realize how quiet it is. There's no bustle of footsteps clanging against stone, no chatter or hum as students shuffle between classes. We never curved off at the staircase entrance; instead, I'd followed him blindly past the intersection and into a deserted section of the sixth floor.
"Where are we?" I ask, glancing around the empty corridor. I don't think I've ever been back here. Usually I bolt straight out of Ancient Runes and back to the common room to enjoy my free period.
James shrugs again, still leaning against the wall nonchalantly. "Back half of the sixth floor. I like to wander around here after class. It's one of the only places no one ever bothers me."
"Is it always so empty?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"I didn't realize you hated being the center of attention so much." Now it's my turn to raise an eyebrow, but he just shuts his eyes and shakes his head with the hint of a smile.
"We could get along, you know," he says after a beat of silence. "Maybe we would if I didn't shoot myself in the foot every time we talk. It's fucking frustrating, honestly."
I take a step towards him instinctively, ready to let a quip spring out, but his eyes snap back open and the words fall off my tongue. And as I soak him in, standing barely two feet away, I almost think he could be right.
Maybe we could get along. Maybe I should trust Jett's judgment. Maybe he's loud and popular and just a little bit cocky, but maybe that's okay. Maybe he's not all that much like Ryan at all.
Just thinking his name shoots a chill through me, a shiver that has nothing to do with the drafty castle. Ever since I cracked that door open with Jett, it hasn't been as easy to slam it back shut. Sometimes I practically feel him standing behind me like a devil, listing off every reason why Jett shouldn't want me and the only reason he does.
And the worst part is that when I'm up late, staring at the navy blue fabric above my four poster, I still think about how fun it was. How fun he was. It was fun to be the life of the party, to get drunk and dance and make out, to be the one people envied. It was fun to be someone because of someone, to not be the loner new girl, to instantly fit in.
But it wasn't so fun to feel worthless without him, to know that everyone knew the shit he did, to be so desperate that I'd always take him back. And I still think about that, too, more often than I care to admit.
"You okay?" James asks, and I blink once, twice, as his eyebrows scrunch together before me. And maybe it's the memories haunting me, maybe I'm feeling emboldened by our banter, but whatever the reason, I suck in a breath and let go of the question that's been lingering on my mind like a cloud.
"Why Sophie?" James's features flare slightly, curiosity burning in his expression, and I take a small step back, unnerved by our proximity. "And don't pretend like you don't know how much she likes you."
He shrugs, then slides down against the cold stone wall, settling on the floor with his legs splayed out aimlessly in front of him. "Because she was there."
"Typical," I snort out. He glances up at me, sort of half-interested, half-surprised, and I can't help but notice the way the candlelight reflects all the swirling colors in his eyes.
"No, I mean – you wouldn't get it anyway."
"Try me." I raise an eyebrow as a small crease appears just above his nose, the one that seems to always appear during our conversations.
"Have you ever felt just…" He pauses again, lost in thought, as that ever-present cloud cover flickers in the window. "Invisible, I guess."
"You?" It comes out sharply, disbelief coloring the word, and James flinches slightly. "Sorry," I say half-heartedly, and he shrugs.
"Hard to believe, I know." A wry smile twists across his face, not his usual smirk, not a smug grin, but something different entirely. "I was right. You wouldn't get it."
"Oh, no, I get it," I say, just as wryly, and slide down the wall beside him. "Trust me. When you've moved as much as I have, feeling invisible is second nature. Not, like, in that you're not seen. Because you are. Everybody sees the new girl. But like… nobody really sees you."
The sentence falls off my lips lamely as I tip my head back against the cool stone wall. Here I go again, spilling my guts to James Potter. There's just something about him that brings out the worst in me. Or maybe it's the best in me. I don't know.
"Sort of, yeah. Like you're trapped in what others see. And that makes you feel invisible."
"Yeah," I say softly as my eyes lock on his, a sunburst of cascading, swirling colors. Something flutters in my chest, something I can't place, and I break our gaze, staring down at his fingers running along the flagstone.
"I thought it was just a stupid crush on a pretty girl." It comes out quietly, almost pained, as sunlight breaks through the clouds, soaking the hallway in a soft light. "But then it didn't go away, and I don't know why because it's not like it's ever going to happen. And I'm not exactly proud of the fact that I'm taking it out on everyone else except me."
"So it's true, then?" I say quietly, and his eyes snap back to mine. He looks almost confused, but not quite, and I take a deep breath as that little flutter beats against my ribcage. "You really do like Lila."
"Right. Lila." He says it almost bitterly and glances away, shadows falling across his face. "Well, Sophie noticed. And then – I don't know. We talked, and I kissed her. And I liked kissing her, so I did it some more."
"Well, when you put it that way," I say, and he hits my arm lightly.
"Oh, shut up, Fields." James rests his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes, and lets out a breath. "I guess I sort of like her. Sophie, I mean. She listens to me. I mean, really listens. Not like how Lila and Grace and them pretend to listen. So yeah, I sort of like her."
"But as a friend." My spoken thought echoes between us, filling the gaps in his sentence, the words he didn't say, and he sighs again.
"As a friend."
I study him quietly, taking in the pensive expression, the cut of his jawline, the one stubborn lock of hair falling against his forehead. He hasn't moved, hasn't lifted his head from the wall, and it's the stillest I've ever seen him.
"You listen to me too."
His words ring through the corridor, almost heavy with their weight, and it sort of feels as if something shifts in the air between us. James cracks open his eyes and they find mine, closer than we've ever been before, close enough to see every shade of emerald and molten gold.
"Well, you cause so much commotion around here that it's hard not to hear you, really." I wrinkle my nose at that, and James laughs – not his teasing laugh, but something warm and genuine that I've never really heard from him before.
"I don't cause commotions, love. I am one." That cheeky grin flickers across his face for a second, two, before it fades away, gone before it ever really began. "Have I ever told you that your dad's one of my favorite Chasers?"
"I don't think so, no," I say, frowning slightly at the abrupt change in topic.
"You have his eyes." James studies my face, as if considering his statement, and my cheeks flush for what feels like the hundredth time in the past two hours. "People say I take after my grandfather, but I've always wanted to look like my mum instead. My dad married way above his league with her."
"So did mine," I say wistfully, a slight smile pulling at my lips. I love my parents to death, honestly, even though I try to avoid talking about them whenever possible. Jett's asked, of course, as he should, but when others poke, I deflect. I always have, for as long as I can remember. I don't like being known for my dad, I don't like when people ask how he's still playing professionally at his age, I don't like watching them do the math when I say he's only 32. I hate it, actually. "I don't really think it matters who you take after, though. You're handsome either way."
"Oh, so you do think I'm attractive, then?"
"I didn't say that."
"You did," he insists, and I roll my eyes.
And it sort of strikes me how odd it is, sitting in the middle of the corridor, having a casual conversation with James Potter. He's not so bad, I suppose, once you strip away all his attention-seeking bullshit. Maybe this is what Jett sees in him, too – what he's tried so hard to convince me of.
"You look pensive."
My eyes fly over to him at that, only to find him looking at me with a strange sort of expression.
"I was just –" I squeeze my eyes shut, letting out a breath of hesitation. I'm going to regret this. I know I'm going to regret this. "– I was just thinking that maybe – maybe – you're not as annoying as I thought."
A slow grin spreads across his face – not a smirk, not quite, but with maybe just a hint of it – and he looks so genuinely pleased that I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling back. "Have I finally won you over?"
"Oh, like you were actually trying."
"You just couldn't resist my charm –"
"Back to normal again, I see –"
The hallway rings with our laughter and James glances down, almost shyly, as his fingers go back to tracing swirling patterns across the stone floor beneath us, nearly brushing against mine.
"So you're admitting that you were wrong, then?"
"I'm admitting that maybe I was slightly too judgmental."
"Well, we'll get there eventually."
But then his fingers slow and he looks up, and my heart jumps at the space between us, just a few inches apart now. Every beat rings in my head, and I don't know why, and my breathing's gone shallower, quicker, too, pulling in the air that feels like it's disappearing with every breath.
This isn't right. I don't know what's happening. All I know is he's close – too close to me – and there's pounding in my head, that incessant beat, rapid breathing – and everything else fades away except the burning fingers skimming across my cheek –
"I have to go."
The world flattens out around me as I choke out the words and stumble to my feet, away from him, tripping slightly with the effort. The hall swirls, my heart pounds, I can't fucking breathe – but I take step after step down the hall, away from him, away from it, footsteps ringing like the blood in my ears –
"Aria."
Oh, God. Everything's tumbling, colliding, and I need to get away, I just need to get away from him and those lips that were so close to touching mine, that I wanted to – no.
No, no, no. No. I didn't want him, I don't want him –
"Aria, I'm sorry." His hand catches my arm, and it burns – everything's burning, like a strike of lightning – "Please, just – I'm sorry. Please."
And when I tear my gaze away from the touch on my arm, from the fingers searing into my skin, all I can see are what ifs, and questions I should not be asking, questions I don't want answered.
"I'm sorry I tried to kiss you," he says quietly, and the world shatters like glass.
"I can't," I whisper. "I – I just – I can't. I can't."
Everything's wrong. I can't even bring myself to look at him anymore. All I can see are flagstones beneath our feet, and I just stand there as the world fractures around me, never once looking up until his echoing footsteps disappear out of earshot.