Should have.

There are so many things I should have done differently. So many mistakes that I can't even begin to make right again.

I should have dragged Jett away. I should have never gone to that damn Christmas party. I should have kept my distance. I should have begged my Dad not to sign with Appleby. I should have thrown a tantrum and refused to uproot my life again.

Because as bad as Ilvermorny was, this might be even worse.

Not even my roommates dare to meet my eye as I walk off the pitch. Sophie's face is pale and withdrawn, Gabrielle's a hateful scowl that sears into my brain, and even sweet Mia looks disappointed. And they don't need to explain why. I know what they're thinking. Lying traitor, probably, just like I've thought so many times, too.

I'd sat there and listened to Sophie talk about James for hours. Hours upon hours of discussions about him, about how much she'd liked him, about how happy she was when she finally, finally, had his attention. Then he didn't even have the decency to cut her loose. Not that it's my fault, but my roommates don't know that. All they know is what Grace and Alex implied, and I don't blame them for thinking that I stabbed her in the back.

I sort of did, in a way.

So, I walk alone. I watch people stare, hear the whispers start, and try to keep my head held high as I march straight up to my dorm. And that's where I stay all afternoon, wrapped up in my duvet, hoping desperately that I'll wake up from this nightmare at any moment.

But I don't. Instead, I just lie there quietly, listening to the sounds of the victory party float up the stairs. It feels so wrong to hear celebration when I'm hollow on the inside, gutted and empty, little more than an empty husk staring up at navy fabric. Their worlds didn't stop turning, I guess. Only mine did.

I don't know what time it is when footsteps finally clang up the stairwell and stop outside our room, pushing the creaking door open. Five minutes could have passed, or it could've been five hours. It doesn't matter, anyway.

"Should we see if she's awake?" I hear Mia ask quietly. "Try to talk to her?"

"No," Sophie snaps sharply, and just that one syllable is enough to convey exactly how she feels.

"Agreed," Gabrielle chimes in dully. "Ignore her."

"But -"

"No, Mia."

Feet shuffle, trunks open, water runs in the bathroom, and it's not long before they tumble into bed, murmurs fading into silence. I almost wish they didn't. Some sick part of me wants them to keep talking, to hear Sophie's anger, if only to quiet the roaring in my head.

I'm not sure if I ever fall asleep or not. It feels like I didn't at all, and if I did, I dreamed I was still awake, still haunted by the look on Jett's face and the crack in his voice. And when I'm unable to take it anymore, I slide silently out of bed and into workout clothes before the sun even rises, shiver as frigid air blasts my skin, and run. And run. And run.

Around the Quidditch pitch, up trails I've never walked before, winding down and across sloping hills. Running and running and running. An hour comes and goes, the sun slowly peaks over the horizon, but I don't stop. I don't stop until I feel like I'm literally about to collapse, until my legs feel like gelatin and every breath burns my lungs.

The Great Hall hums with the warm glow of Sunday brunch when I finally walk back inside, but I don't even bother looking to see what's getting served today. I'm not hungry. I probably won't be for days.

Students swirl around me as I work my way upward toward the common room, fighting against the downward current heading for food. I spot familiar faces – a flash of Sophie's auburn waves, Tanner and Asher twittering on like always – but they all avoid me like the plague. Nobody approaches me, nobody talks to me, and nobody needs to explain it. I get it. I probably wouldn't want to associate with me, either.

But the worst part isn't the bubble of space that no one dares pop or the whispers that erupt when I pass by. It's spotting Jett working his way down the staircase, Connor Finnigan flanking his side and murmuring something quietly.

He looks as hollow as I feel, like all his energy's been drained and dimmed. Usually, you can hear his bark of a laugh or spot his bright smile lighting up the castle from a mile away. Not anymore, apparently.

I step off into a corridor as Jett and Connor near, pressing back into the wall, and stand stock still until they pass – as much for his sake as for mine. He definitely doesn't want to see me today, and maybe not ever again.

Outdoorsy sweetness lingers in the air when I step back into the stairwell. It's the same scent that's been all over me for months, clinging to the Quidditch jacket I still have, spilling over my bed sheets, and now it's all I'll ever get. Faint traces of him, reminding me of exactly how badly I fucked up every time I smell it.

I should feel miserable right now. I thought I would. But I don't – not really. Even seeing Jett wasn't enough to make me feel anything at all. I just feel broken and dead on the inside, with barely a flicker of emotion in my chest.

Maybe it's just a coping mechanism, a shield holding back every feeling that should rip me to shreds. Or maybe I'm just that terrible of a person. I don't know. I don't really care to know, either.

I walk straight back to Ravenclaw Tower, dodging even more stares and whispers, and collapse onto my bed without a second thought. I try to sleep, try to read, try to work on assignments, try to do anything to keep myself busy all day in the privacy beyond my curtains, emerging only for water or to grab notes out of my trunk.

Distraction doesn't work, though, and time trickles on at an unbearably slow rate while a storm rages through my head. More regret, more guilt, more and more and more, and that never-ending replay of Jett's heart breaking right before my eyes.

My thoughts chase me out of bed before dawn again, and this time I grab my school bag when I leave the dorm. It's somehow Monday – somehow, the weekend has passed, even though time means nothing – and the thought of surviving a day of classes fills me with dread.

But first, I run. The same routes as yesterday, winding around the sprawling grounds, pushing myself as hard as I can. Every step burns, every breath stings, but it's better than the alternative. It's better than hearing Jett's voice in my head.

I shower in the Quidditch locker room and stuff my sweat-drenched gear into my school bag, swapping sweatpants and a sports bra for a skirt, tights, and Ravenclaw sweater, then head back to the castle and straight past the Great Hall. I've got no appetite, no desire to hear everyone whispering about me, and no interest in seeing eyes ignore mine. It's been bad enough just walking the corridors.

Instead, I lock myself in a bathroom stall on the first floor to kill time before Charms. It's guaranteed privacy, at least. There's not enough time to head back to Ravenclaw Tower, and it's not as if that's a safe space for me right now, either. Not with Alex Harrison milling around and Sophie angrily avoiding me at all costs. Aiden was the only one who'd even bothered to say hi to me yesterday, and that quickly ended as soon as Sophie scowled in his direction.

I take a seat on the toilet and tuck my knees up to my chest, hugging my arms around them just as the door to the bathroom squeaks open. A few pairs of footsteps ring inside, loud against the stone, and stop in front of the sink on the other side of my stall. This is why I chose the bathroom, though. Nobody can pointedly steer clear of me when they don't know I'm in here.

"God, I'm so looking forward to today." My stomach twists at the voice. Grace Clarke. I'll never forget what she sounds like, not after the Quidditch pitch. "I've been looking forward to it all year, actually."

"Wait, all year?" Someone else asks, but I can't quite place who it is. Probably another Gryffindor, like Grace. I haven't exactly gotten to know their circle, and I'm sure as hell not going to start now. "It's been going on that long?"

"No, not that. I have no idea when that started. But I knew from the beginning exactly what she's like, and it's going to be so delicious to –"

Me.

They're talking about me.

The world goes fuzzy, and I prop one hand against the side of the stall to keep myself from toppling over. I haven't eaten anything since that bite of toast Aiden shoved into my mouth on Saturday morning, but I feel like I'm about to vomit.

"How's my lipstick?"

"Flawless. I love that shade on you."

"Thanks. Rachel Anderson sent it to me from the States. You remember her?"

Rachel Anderson? From – Ilvermorny? That can't be right, can it? She's a Wampus in the year above. We weren't friends, not even close to it, but she was always hanging around with Ryan's clique. Only during the fall semester, though, before she went abroad –

Abroad here.

"She told me everything," I hear Grace say. Blood pounds in my head, now so light and dizzy that I feel faint, and I rest my forehead against the wall. "I wrote her as soon as she started dating Jett. I had a bad feeling. And I was right, wasn't I?"

"Grace," a third voice says sharply, almost warningly. I hadn't even realized there was someone else in here with us, to be honest. I thought it was just Grace and the other girl.

"Oh, come off it, Lila," Grace says, and my eyes widen. Lila Andrews? "I'm only stating facts. Rachel told me exactly what she was like at Ilvermorny. Locked up the popular boy right away, slept her way into –"

"Stop being a bitch, Grace," Lila snipes back, thankfully cutting off whatever Grace was about to say. "Slut-shaming doesn't look good on you, and it's sure as hell not going to make Jett want you. Shut the fuck up and mind your own business for once."

Footsteps ring sharply against stone and the door slams shut, leaving the bathroom in stunned silence. I'm stunned, too. Did Lila just – defend me? She's got no reason to, especially since she's in Gryffindor with – with Jett. I've never even spoken to her before.

"Oh, I'm the bitch?" Grace mutters bitterly.

"Just ignore her. She's been bitchy all year, and she's off again with Lucas, too."

"I know, she's been awful. Nobody even saw her all break."

Oh, God. Lila. James was telling the truth about her parents, wasn't he? Nobody else knows – not even her friends in our year. I can't imagine what she's going through. The holidays were probably so hard –

"Who cares?" the second voice asks. "Tell me what else Rachel said."

"Godric, so much," Grace responds, but her voice grows fainter as they walk towards the door. "Everyone was shocked she didn't get pregnant like her mum –"

The door to the bathroom shuts, and Grace's voice mercifully fades away. I doubt I would've heard the rest, anyway. All I can hear is the blood throbbing in my head and my breaths coming out in short, pained gasps. This cannot be happening.

This is what Jett meant? That everyone thinks – everyone knows – about –

About whatever Rachel told her, I guess. Probably some twisted bullshit that's not even close to the truth. I know what she thought of me, though. I know what everyone thought of me, and I didn't care, not one bit, because they at least pretended to like me. Guess that ended as soon as my relationship with Ryan did, too.

Relationship. As if you could even call it that. As if he ever gave a single fuck about me.

I gave him everything. I gave him every damn thing I could, and it still wasn't enough. He just took it, took it all, took the one thing I can never get back, and gave me nothing but insecurity and doubts in return. And still – still – even now, even here, he's still taking.

Some fresh start.

God, I don't think I can do this.

Everyone in this whole fucking place knows all of it. Every shameful decision, every stupid mistake. It's all out there, even what should've stayed buried in the past. Grace doesn't care, either. She doesn't care how much trauma she's digging up. I doubt she even knows. How could she? No one at Ilvermorny did. Especially not Rachel fucking Anderson.

I won't give Grace the satisfaction of skipping class, though. Not when I'm sure she'd be so fucking delighted to know she chased me out Charms.

That's the only thing that gets me up and moving. All I have to do is walk in and sit down. Don't crack, don't cry, don't run. Otherwise, she wins. And I cannot let her win. I won't.

Dad would be proud of me. Mom would, too. They'd both be so damn proud – Dad for not letting Grace beat me, and Mom for mastering my own mind. So stereotypically Wampus and Horned Serpent that the thought almost – almost – brings a smile to my face.

I take a deep breath to steady myself before walking into the Charms classroom. Most everyone is here already, leaving just a few open seats, so I grab the first one available and try to ignore how Claire Haywood scoots her chair further away. Grace apparently notices, though, and I'd rather endure a Bludger to the ribcage than see the self-satisfied smirk on her face.

She's sitting a row down and to the right, Lila Andrews by her side, and fully twists in her seat to look back in my direction. Lila glances at me, too, but she doesn't seem pleased like Grace does. She almost looks sad, offering up a small, resigned smile when she catches my eye.

I don't return Lila's peace offering, but that's mostly because I'm preoccupied with the broad shoulders in the row in front of her. Connor Finnigan leans over to whisper something to Jett, and his fingers clench reflexively on the desk before splaying flat against the wood.

That's enough, though. It's enough to crack the emotional floodgates open and let a trickle through, then a stream, then a rush. The room feels too small. My face feels too hot. Grace's smirk is too bright and Jett's voice is too loud in my head, the crack in his voice too painful in my chest, and I – I –

I'm not the only one drenched in misery.

James sits at the far end of the classroom's curved U-shape, alone and in the very last seat, right elbow on the desk and hand pressed against his forehead, propping it up. He's got no notes, no textbook, nothing in front of him, just his face angled away from the rest of the room and eyes cast downward.

He doesn't move when Abberly strides to the lectern, doesn't bother looking at the chalkboard, and doesn't even pretend to pay attention. My nerves clench every time Abberly glances at James with clear annoyance, and we only make it about halfway through the lesson before he can't ignore the blatant lack of participation anymore.

"Do you care to learn anything today, Mr. Potter, or would you rather continue staring at the floor?" Abberly finally snaps, interrupting his lecture on nonverbal focus techniques.

My entire stomach feels like it's in a knot, tangled and heavy, as the class shifts and hisses with whispers. There's a snort of amusement somewhere to my left, and I whip my head around to find Alex Harrison grinning and tossing an inkpot between his hands. Asshole.

"Sorry, sir." James's voice sounds hoarse, raspy, and so damn dead that even our professor pauses for a beat.

"Pay attention, please," Abberly says, but there's a hint of kindness to it, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Now, where were we?"

Abberly doesn't admonish James again for the rest of the lesson, even though he never does as instructed. He just sits there, head resting on his hand, and stares blankly at the stone slabs beneath our feet. And when Abberly dismisses us half an hour later, James still doesn't react – not when chairs scrape, when conversations buzz, or when our classmates slowly filter out.

Jett, though – Jett bolts out of his seat the second he can, practically sprinting for the corridor. He's out of sight by the time I emerge from the classroom, apparently already racing off to the dungeons, as if he's trying to put as much space between us as possible. Except –

Except we're Potions partners. Except we chose to sit next to each other for the rest of the year. Except we're going to have to work together.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse.

The knot in my stomach feels like a pit now, painful and nauseating, and that same lightheadedness from the bathroom stall sweeps over me again. This time there's no wall to lean against, so I just stand there and shut my eyes, but throw them open seconds later when someone bumps into my shoulder.

Grace Clarke, of course. Her curls bounce away with every step, swinging back and forth, and I truly, deeply wish I could just sink into the floor and disappear forever. Grace would probably love it if I did exactly that – if she could finally be rid of me like she so desperately wants.

I'm not the only one who caught what Grace did, though, and Dom shoots a spiteful look at her back before catching my eye. She opens her mouth when she's just a few steps away and a bit of hope blooms in my chest, but it dies the second Connor reaches for Dom, tugging her tightly away. Of course he's angry with me, too. He has every right to be.

Sorry, Dom mouths over her shoulder, and I smile faintly. It's okay, I mouth back, and she disappears behind a corner.

The seconds tick by, and I still haven't moved. I've barely slept or eaten since Friday, and just the thought of sitting next to Jett is enough to bring hot pinpricks to my eyes. I don't think I'll be able to keep it together once I see the look he's sure to give me. Thank Merlin Grace isn't taking Potions.

I wrap my arms around my middle as the corridor empties and quiets, nearly silent save for Abberly's voice floating through the doorway to my right. I can't hear what he's saying, but I don't need to, really. He's standing at the far end of the classroom, concern etched across his face, and speaking softly to the only person who hasn't moved. James replies with something short and shakes his head, and Abberly simply sighs before patting him on the shoulder.

James finally stands, grabbing his unopened bag from the floor, and I hesitate by the door. I shouldn't wait for him. I know I shouldn't – not when we have our next class together, not when walking in with him would be pretty much the worst thing I could do – but I hesitate anyway, long enough for him to see me standing there. And the sad, half-hearted smile he gives me just about shatters what little I've been able to hold together.

God, I wish I could take back everything I said to him. I've regretted it since the moment those hateful words left my mouth, and now I'd give just about anything to turn back time. He didn't do anything to deserve what I said.

Now's not the time to talk about it, though, and we both know it. Maybe if we find a time later, in private. But not between lessons, not in the corridor where anyone can see. And definitely not on the way to a class we share with Jett.

A class that I'm going to be very late for if I don't move now, and I don't really feel like adding detention on top of everything else. Professor Spencer practically hands them out like candy.

The descent into the dungeons mirrors my mood, slowly growing grimmer and colder. I will never understand why they have this class down here. The only thing that makes any sense is temperature control for ingredients, but even that could be done with a bit of magic somewhere else. It feels like it's just to torture me right now, honestly.

Jett's not in his seat when I finally steel my nerves enough to enter the classroom. The relief doesn't last long, though. I spot his bag beside our two-person table as I take my seat, then glance up to find him talking with Spencer near the front of the room. About what, I don't know, but Jett's always been his clear favorite – partially because of his knack for Potions, and partially because the Nolton family business has had the corner on rare ingredients for centuries.

That's why his parents were never home, he'd told me over break. Always off in India hunting for Occamy eggs or building goodwill at dragon reserves in Eastern Europe, forever traveling and finding new suppliers or maintaining relationships with old ones. It's one of the many reasons why he'd gotten so close with James, too, often staying over at the Potters' for weeks at a time. He'd called it his second home.

I doubt he'll think of it that way now, though.

"Attention, please," Spencer drawls, and my gaze snaps back up to the front of the room. "Before we get started, Mr. Nolton has requested to change partners for the term."

A hushed ripple flows through the classroom, and I slink down lower in my seat. That's why Jett bolted out of Charms. He wants to make sure he never has to speak to me again, and Spencer was clearly happy to oblige.

"And before anyone else gets ideas, I am allowing this for the top of your year only. The rest of you are stuck with who you chose. Now, any volunteers?"

"I'll switch," a gruff voice says a few tables behind me, and Spencer nods approvingly.

"Thank you, Mr. Finnigan. You may change seats with Ms. Fields."

I gather my supplies stiffly, pulling out my textbook, ingredients kit, and cauldron from the cabinet beneath the desk while Jett watches on silently, arms crossed over his chest. It looks like a vein's about to pop in his temple, and his jaw clenches so stiffly that I can practically see his teeth grinding together.

Connor tips his items onto the desk I'm still standing behind with a mumbled "sorry," although I'm not sure why he's apologizing. He didn't do anything wrong. I did. But then I turn, scouting for the seat he's vacated, and my heart plummets instantly, falling into the depths of hell that Jett so kindly told me to visit.

James meets my gaze from two tables back and shuts his eyes in resignation. Whispers erupt again as I woodenly drop into Connor's vacated chair beside James, neither of us daring to look at the other. My cheeks flush so brightly that they might catch fire, which wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, come to think of it. If I disintegrated into a pile of ash right now, at least I wouldn't have to deal with this.

"Thanks, Finn," I hear Jett say, and I glance up to see Connor throwing an arm around his shoulder.

"I've always got your back, mate," comes the rough reply, and the telltale sting of tears burns in my eyes. I take a deep breath, then flip my textbook open to our assigned page, watching as a single drop rolls off my skin and blurs the ink.

I somehow manage to hold it together for the rest of the lesson, speaking curtly to James only when strictly necessary, careful to never once brush against him, to keep my chair as far as physically possible from his at all times. It doesn't matter, though. None of it matters, not when Jett stretches up from his seat when class is dismissed, walks past our table, and lets out a disgusted scoff.

As if the look on his face wasn't already enough.

"Aria?"

I barely hear my name over the throbbing pain and shame in my chest. My feet stumble towards the door, bag slung haphazardly over my shoulder, and I almost trip over my own feet as I fight the tears threatening to spill out. The world's hazy and blurry through the dampness welling up, the corridor one long, endless passage leading straight to Jett's back, quickly disappearing out of sight.

"Aria!"

I didn't even realize I'd stopped until I feel arms around me, a solid chest at my back, and warm hands turning me around. Tears slip out faster – so fast I can't see anymore, so hard I can't keep the shaking contained –but those arms lock around me tight enough that it doesn't matter.

"Not here," James whispers. "Not here, Fields."

I don't even know where we're going, and I don't care. Everything's numb yet painful at the same time; I gasp for breath, but no air enters my lungs. My head tucks in tightly against his chest, wet cheek pressed against fabric, and the arm around my shoulder gently guides me like a tether up the stairs and into the entrance hall.

A crush of students surrounds us, changing classes, but I only see one person across the marbled floor, gray eyes shooting daggers and utter loathing sketched across his face. James doesn't let me look at Jett for long, though. He angles our bodies away, tugs us up another set of stairs, down a corridor, another, and I have no idea where we are, somewhere on the second floor, stepping through a doorway –

"Okay," he says softly. "Let it out."

His words are barely finished before I start sobbing, before I can't hold back the tidal wave of grief shaking me to my core. It's everything I haven't allowed myself to feel, flooding out in tears and shudders and ragged breaths. It's Jett's fury and Grace's smirk and Ryan's shadow and my awful, selfish choices, all slamming down at once.

"I said – horrible – things to you." It comes out hoarse and stuffy, muffled against his shirt, broken up by gasps.

"You didn't mean them." Fingers twist through my hair, and his thumb rubs soothing circles against the back of my head. "I know you didn't."

"You – shouldn't – be here."

"I'm exactly where I should be."

"James –" I protest, but the words fall away when I lift my face and meet his eyes. The hand at my waist moves to gently brush a tear away, leaving only a burning trail behind.

"You're a mess, Fields," he murmurs, and I know it's meant to tease, to make me smile, but I'm sure he's right. I can barely breathe through my nose, hair sticks to my cheeks, and I'm embarrassed to look at where my face was pressed to his shirt.

"Mess or – no mess, you shouldn't be here," I repeat stubbornly, my gasps slowing. "It's only going to – make things worse. He saw us, the whole school saw us –"

"I only care about one person's opinion, and he already despises me. I don't give a damn what anyone else says or thinks."

I close my eyes as guilt crashes down again. Despises. Jett despises him, and James – what did he say, back in the rampart? He loves Jett more than anything. Loves him like a brother.

"Besides," he adds softly, "didn't you hear Jett? Everyone always falls over backward for me. Half of the school will forgive me within a month."

I'm not sure if the sting of hearing Jett's name or the bitterness coating his voice hurts more. He bites back a harsh laugh and glances out the lone window leaking light into the small room we're standing in, snapping away from my eyes like he can't bear to look at me.

"But I'm not you," I counter quietly. That was what he didn't say, written between the lines. They'll forgive him, not us. Not me.

"No, you're not. And I hate that you'll pay the price for what I did."

"What we did," I correct, but he just shakes his head stubbornly.

"It's my fault. All of it. I haven't done one damn thing right since I met you." Regret hangs in the air, in every word, nearly palpable between us. "I can't even let myself grieve. I don't deserve to."

My fingers skim beneath his cheekbones, gently pulling his face back to look at me. Sadness swirls in every feature, sorrow masking the unbothered expression I'm so used to seeing. He looks awful – no two ways around it. Dark circles bruised beneath his eyes, hair messier than ever, no spark of a smile or signs of life on his face.

"Of course you deserve to grieve," I say gently. He shakes his head, though, eyes downcast. "Grief is natural. You don't have to earn the right to process loss."

I can't even imagine what he's going through. It must be a thousand times worse than anything I feel, and he's not even allowing himself to mourn. Just forcing himself to endure everything, like he did when Jett lost it on the Quidditch pitch. All because he thinks he deserves it.

"Will you look at me, please?" I whisper, and that familiar string wraps around my ribcage, squeezing it when his eyes jump to mine. "Do not blame yourself for a choice we both made. Don't you dare."

His hands shift on my waist, and I nearly flinch as the sheer intimacy of the moment hits me. I'm still wrapped up in his arms, his face is still gently resting in my hands, and we're so close together that I can count his breaths. Jett would absolutely flip the fuck out if he ever saw this.

"Where are we, anyway?" I ask, pulling away. My eyes sweep across the area around us that's more qualified to be a closet than a room, with a stone bench carved into the left wall and a single window across from it.

"Hidden alcove on the second floor, behind some horribly ancient portrait." James sighs and takes a seat on the floor, ignoring the bench. "I'm so bloody tired that I couldn't think of anywhere else to go."

I slide down beside him and pull my knees to my chest. There's barely room for both of us to sit side-by-side, and even with his legs slightly bent, James's feet still rest against the wall across from us.

"How's that been? Sharing a room with Jett, I mean."

"Wouldn't know. Haven't been in there."

"Where are you sleeping, then?" I ask curiously, and he sighs again.

"On the sofa in the common room, but I haven't really slept at all. Just a few hours here and there."

"I've barely slept, either," I say, and I feel a hand gently knot itself with mine. "It takes me forever to pass out, then I wake up before dawn and run for hours. I haven't slept well since –"

Since the party. Since you kissed me. Since I can't get you out of my head. Since I started thinking about you every night. Since I should've told Jett I needed a break. But I can't say any of that, so I don't, letting his imagination fill in the gap instead.

"Jett went easy on me," James says quietly. "That's what I can't stop thinking about. He could've said much worse things – should've, probably – but he didn't. I hurt him in the worst possible way, and he still held himself back. He's a much better person than I'll ever be."

"James –"

"He didn't say anything I haven't heard a thousand times before, and I don't blame him for feeling that way, honestly. He's not wrong, but he's not right, either. I'm the one who can never win, no matter how much he believes he's always second-best."

"What do you mean?" I ask softly, hesitantly. He sounds so pained that I don't want to push him too far. Not when I've never heard this much vulnerability in his voice before.

"If I work hard and earn something, it's written off as favoritism," James says, practically spitting it out. "And if I fail, it's because I thought I shouldn't actually have to try. But God, the worst is when I completely fuck up because, according to this whole damn school, I just expected to get off easy. There's no winning."

James tilts his head back to study the ceiling, as if he's hoping to find the answers staring back at him. It's how I'm sure I've looked every night since that damn Christmas party, blankly lying in bed and going around and around in my head endlessly.

"What the hell am I supposed to do? Tell the professors to punish me more? Turn down Quidditch Captain? Try or don't try. Succeed or don't succeed. Either way, it wasn't because of anything I did. I can't fucking win. It's all just pointless."

My heart squeezes, constricting painfully as his words sink in. This isn't just frustration about Jett bubbling over. He's felt this way for a long time, clearly. He's felt – trapped. That's what he said months ago when I blindly followed him into the sixth-floor corridor. Trapped and invisible.

"I am so damn lucky, and I know that. I don't want to make excuses or sound sorry for myself. And I sure as hell can't ever, ever say this shit to anyone because then I just sound like an entitled prick."

"Speaking of entitled pricks," I say slowly, and James lets out a breath of amusement. "I overheard Grace Clarke shit-talking me in the bathroom this morning. She's just a gem, isn't she?"

I half expect him to laugh or grin or something, but he doesn't. He just stills, hand tightening on mine, and clears his throat. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough to infer."

"Infer what?"

"That the whole school thinks I'm a slut."

"I – I'm sorry," James says, voice raspy. But the grip he has on my fingers screams that there's so much more he wants to say, and I think – I think if he does say more, he just might lose it.

"Lila stood up for me," I say quietly, and that draws his attention instantly. I feel his head turn towards me more than I see it, but I don't have the nerve to look at him. "She didn't know I was there, but she told Grace to shut the fuck up and mind her own business."

"Yeah, that sounds like Lila," James says, and there's a warmth to his tone that makes me smile, too. "She annoys me to no end, but there's no one else I would want fighting in my corner. Hell, I'd take her over Jett."

"Why don't you two get along, then?" I ask, but I don't really want to know the answer. Even if Lila shut down Grace, even if she'd sent me that peace offering of a smile, I still don't want to think about the two of them together. It's irrational and I know it, but that doesn't make it any easier.

"Honestly? We're just too much alike."

"Oh," I say lamely, and James laughs. A real, genuine laugh that I haven't heard from him in what feels like weeks. I hadn't even realized how much I missed the sound of it.

We lapse into silence once his laughter fades, letting the stillness of the tiny alcove settle over us. A dark cloud still seems to hang above us, still threatening to break at any second, but it feels smaller, somehow. No longer an endless sea of gray, but with patches of sunlight peeking through.

James' fingers slowly loosen on mine as the minutes press onward, his grip slipping, and I glance over to find closed eyes and a drooping head. He looks so peaceful that I can't bring myself to wake him up, even though he's definitely late for his next class.

I'll just sit here for my free period, let him get an hour of sleep, and then I'll wake him. He deserves that much, at least. He's clearly exhausted, and I don't think it's the sofa that's keeping him up all night.

Besides, I could use a nap, too. Just for an hour. One hour, then we'll brave the heated whispers and stares. One hour.

When my eyes flutter open again, though, it's incredibly apparent that one hour has turned into at least five. There's no more light leaking through the window across from us, just the vibrant fire of sunset, the day all but gone.

James is still dead asleep, but we've gone from sitting side-by-side to tangled up in each other. He must have woken up at some point to put his arm around my shoulder, and I'm collapsed against his chest, knees flopping over his legs.

But honestly? I don't care that we slept through the rest of our lessons. I don't care that we're going to get at least a detention for it, even though I was so desperately trying to avoid one earlier. I don't even care who noticed that we've both disappeared all day.

And I definitely don't ever want to move from where I am right now, even though my neck is killing me.

We should, though. We're going to need to go back at some point, and the longer we spend in here putting it off, the harder it's going to be.

"James," I murmur, squeezing the hand that's still gripping mine. He twitches slightly beneath my cheek, and the breath that catches ever-so-slightly in his chest says he heard me. "Come on, wake up."

"I'd rather not," comes the mumbled reply, and I grin into his shirt.

"It's nearly five."

"Damn." James yawns, stretching both arms upward, but they're back seconds later, holding me tightly to him. "That was more than I've slept since Saturday."

"How much trouble are we going to be in for playing hooky all day?"

"We'll be scrubbing tables for a fair few evenings, I expect," he says, tapering off into another yawn.

"Again?" I wrinkle my nose, remembering the bit of dried beans that stubbornly refused to come clean on the Ravenclaw table. "There's nothing better they can come up with?"

"Oh, there's plenty of other detentions," James says, and I shift to tilt my head up at him. "But I get assigned to clean the Great Hall nearly every time. They can't get away with not punishing me, so they just give me an easy one instead. Perks of being James fucking Potter, as Jett would say."

Resentment colors every word. Not at Jett, not at what he'd said on the Quidditch pitch, but at everything, I guess. Just a biting bitterness flung out into the world, not so different from the tone he'd used earlier.

"Longbottom's the only one who's ever given me something remotely awful." There's a small smile on his lips now, replacing the sharpness from seconds prior. "He made me polish every bloody candelabra in the castle. Took a whole week to finish, and my arm hurt for just about as long. You do not want that one, trust me."

"What'd you do to piss him off that much?" I ask, and that small smile widens.

"Nicked a few plants from the greenhouses for – ah, personal reasons."

"Personal reasons?"

"I've got to keep some secrets to myself, Fields. You already know far too much."

"Secrets? Plural?"

"You Ravenclaws don't miss a damn thing, do you?"

James glances down at me, amused, and I nearly sigh with relief. Despite the bruised under-eyes, the disheveled hair, the spark that's gone – for that one second, he almost seems happy. He almost looks like himself again. Like my James.

The one laughing in the corridor after class, eyes lighting up at every sharp retort, making my head spin with double meanings and arguments and carefully crafted comments. He's smart – so fucking smart that it's infuriating sometimes – and passionate and annoyingly stubborn, even when he's dead wrong, and –

And what the fuck am I thinking?

He's not mine. He was never mine, and I need to stop acting like he is. Was. Whatever the right verb tense is.

"What in the world is going on in that mind of yours, Fields?" he asks teasingly, and I blink in surprise. "Sometimes you get this look that's like – I don't know. You just stare at me, and I can't tell if it's good or bad."

"It's good. I promise."

"Good," he repeats, and I bite my lip and glance away. I have to, or else I'm going to do something inordinately stupid like – like kiss him.

And God, I want to. The pain in my chest sharpens, and my fingers tighten around his shirt instinctively. That's what it is, isn't it? The horrible ache that never gets better, only worse. The ache that I've felt for months now. The ache that I always had after Ancient Runes, that got so bad that I'd grab Jett and kiss him senseless just to make it stop for a few minutes.

I was using him.

Just like James used Sophie.

"We should get going," James says, stretching to his feet. He offers a hand to pull me up but doesn't let go once I stand. "Dinner will be starting soon."

I look up at him, studying the stress lines that never used to be there, the dullness in his eyes, then glance back down at the fingers gently laced with mine. I don't think we've stopped touching since I ran out of Potions. A little ironic, I guess, that I've touched him more today than all year combined.

It doesn't matter, though. It doesn't matter how Alex made it sound or what Jett thinks happened. It was still wrong.

"So, see you in detention?" I ask, and James drops my hand to shove the alcove door open.

"Only if you're lucky," he says with a wink. Then he glances quickly out into the corridor – double checking that no one's around, I suppose – and steps out, shoving his hands into his pockets casually, as if both of our worlds haven't completely shattered apart.