Time has never moved slower than it has this week. Every second, every minute, every hour has dragged on endlessly, from dawn until dusk. Except, cruelly, when I've desperately wanted it to.
I've spent the last two hours staring at a rickety wooden clock in a back section of the library, begging it to stop moving. But it hasn't. It's ticked onward, seemingly moving faster with every passing moment – another flick of a hand closer to impending dread.
I abandoned my Arithmancy problem set on the table long ago, choosing instead to bite my nails down to the quick, frozen in fear by that damn clock.
5:30.
5:45.
5:55.
I give myself thirty more seconds to wallow in anxiety. Thirty more seconds to steel my nerves. Then I shove out of my chair, stuff my bag, and sprint down to the Quidditch pitch, silently cursing myself for once again making things far harder than they need to be.
I can practically hear the scowl in Aiden's booming voice when I breathlessly fling myself onto the dead grass ten minutes later, bag tossed carelessly away and hair pulled up into a sloppy ponytail. At least I had the good sense to change into workout gear after class. That's the only positive thing I can say about myself these days, it seems.
"Nice of you to join us, Fields," Aiden yells across the pitch as I jog towards the team. Wes Page stares longingly over my shoulder towards the Great Hall, eyes as wide as dinner plates, and it's almost enough to make me smile. Almost.
"I'm only five minutes late, Aiden," I huff. Cold air nips at my exposed nose and cheeks, and I shiver when a blast of wind cuts through the pitch.
"That's five minutes we could've spent running drills."
I fight the urge to roll my eyes, barely winning the battle, and pull down the sleeves on my thermal training shirt. It's not nearly warm enough for the Scottish winter; I really should have asked my parents for better gear for Christmas.
"Let me guess," a bored voice drawls from my right, and another shiver runs through me. This one has nothing to do with the frigid air, though. "Lost track of time with your ex's ex-best friend?"
"Oh, shut up, Harrison," Tanner Macavoy moans, fidgeting nervously. He exchanges an uncomfortable look with Asher Samuels from his seat on the ball crate, and Aiden sighs heavily beside him. "Leave her alone."
"Agreed," Aiden snaps sharply. "Harrison and Fields, I'd like a private word. The rest of you can get up in the air and make yourselves busy."
"What am I supposed to do without my Chasing partners?" Jack Murphy protests, but kicks off a second later when Aiden swivels in his direction.
Another shrill gust streaks through the pitch after the team takes off. I wrap my arms around my middle, still standing near the pitch's boundary line, and flinch from both the cold and the sound of the Bludgers bursting out of the ball crate. One nearly unseats Wes before streaking towards Jack, while the other disappears onto the far side of the stadium.
"Fields!"
Aiden's already strode nearly halfway towards me by the time my eyes stubbornly flit away from the Bludgers. Alex trails behind him, looking bored, and my arms tighten around my waist. God, what I would give for one of those rogue iron balls to pelt him straight in the stomach.
Or the head.
Honestly, either works for me.
"I truly couldn't care less about whatever problems you two have with each other," Aiden huffs, cheeks flushed, as he stops between Alex and me. "The moment you step foot in here, you are teammates. Scream or yell or do whatever you have to off the pitch. Understood?"
"Understood," I mumble, and Aiden huffs another sigh above the shriek of air whistling through the grounds.
"I didn't hear you, Fields."
"Understood, Captain," I spit out louder, trying desperately to ignore the piercing green gaze at Aiden's side. "Also, I need to leave practice before eight tonight." Aiden raises his eyebrows, and I tack on a hastily muttered "detention."
A snide laugh rings out, and my eyes finally cut over to the ones I've been avoiding. "I heard about that, come to think of it. Skiving off lessons together two days after tearing Nolton's heart out? Grace said he was a bloody wreck."
Alex's words slice through the tiny tatters of life I've managed to cling to over the past few days, leaving only a familiar hollowness behind. Shredded, carved out, and emptied by the thought of Jett hurting like that, by the thought of him running to Grace in a bloody wreck. By the thought of what I caused.
Liar.
Traitor.
Cheater.
"What did I ever do to you, Alex?" I choke out, wiping a hand across my face angrily. Wetness smears across my thermal, leaving a dark streak behind. "What did Jett ever do to you? Nobody deserves to be treated like that. Especially not him."
My arms press so tightly around my waist that it hurts. Fabric curls beneath my fingers, bunching up in my hands as tears burn in my eyes.
"Off the pitch," Aiden practically growls, pointing towards the patch of grass beyond a curved white boundary line. I sigh, step to my left, and shoot a pointed look at our captain's annoyed face as Alex does the same. "Proceed."
"He didn't deserve for you to be all over his best mate, either." Alex shrugs nonchalantly and absentmindedly tosses a Quaffle between his gloved hands. "Don't blame me because you got caught."
"You have no idea what you're talking about," I spit out, "and you certainly don't give a fuck about Jett. You're just an arrogant ass with a petty grudge to settle and a wounded ego."
Sharp air blisters through my lungs and across flushed skin. I sniffle – whether from the frigid cold or forcing back tears, I don't know – and clench my jaw, staring determinedly at the blank face across from me. I can't believe I ever thought he was my friend.
"And why, exactly, would my ego be wounded?" Alex cocks his head and takes a step forward, eyes glinting beneath the lights of the pitch. "Because the school slag finally had a sliver of integrity? As if I would ever want James Potter's sloppy seconds, anyway."
His words sting like the chill in the air. Brown, barren patches of grass stare up at me through the kaleidoscope of tears sliding down my cheeks, my voice and dignity whipped away in the wind.
"Enough, Harrison."
"What happened to not caring about our personal problems, Wood?"
"Enough." Aiden crosses his arms across his chest and looks like he'd truly, deeply rather be anywhere but here. "I don't give a damn if you hate each other, but making your teammate cry crosses the line. Either get up in the air or get out of my sight. Understand?"
"Whatever," Alex mutters before heading back to his broom. I glance up gratefully at Aiden, but he just shakes his head in annoyance before jerking it towards the pitch.
"Same goes for you, Fields. You've already wasted enough of my time today."
Then Aiden is gone, striding purposefully across the field, and I take a deep breath before wiping the remaining tears from my face.
The rest of practice goes just about as well as the beginning for me. I can't stop hearing Alex's biting words in my head, and even though he doesn't speak to me again, I can practically feel the derision dripping off of him. My head's not in it, my heart's aching, and my body can barely register anything at all.
I drop passes, fall out of formation, lag behind on sprints – and despite Aiden's yelling, I only ever get worse. It's all a numb blur, like I'm watching the world but not in it. Even the cold feels distant, and my mind barely registers the tingling pinpricks of warmth in my hands when I finally cross the castle's threshold two hours later, decidedly late for detention.
I know I must look entirely unpresentable – tangled hair, mud-caked shoes, windburned cheeks – but honestly, I don't care. I don't even care if Abberly docks points for my tardiness. I just want to be done with this day, curled up alone in my bed, and let everything hollow out.
My shoes squeak against the Great Hall's polished floors as I cross the long expanse to the Ravenclaw table. There's already a bucket and brush waiting expectantly beside it that I lift up woodenly, ignoring the pointed stares coming from the tables on either side.
Even while scrubbing silently, I can see James pause at the Slytherin table, twirling the brush between his fingers, and it's so fundamentally him that I almost look up. Almost. He's always been that way, ever since the first detention we had in this very room. He'd sat at that same table, studied me the same way, and did that same absentminded twirl.
The only thing that's changed, really, is me.
He's still the same person – still witty and confident and outgoing. But now, I'm seeing it all differently. I'm seeing him differently. All it took was one real conversation to start rearranging all the pieces.
That's what changed things, right? Sitting together after Ancient Runes in the sixth-floor corridor, even though he'd annoyed me all through class. Or maybe it doesn't really matter at all. Maybe what he said last night was right, and we've always just had too much in common to stay apart.
Not our personalities, not how we think, not our emotions – we couldn't be more different in so many ways, but –
But all those things seem incredibly unimportant now.
My eyes finally flick up, away from the bristles scrubbing mindlessly against wood, and a slight smile instantly flashes across James' face. And that's all it takes – just those few fleeting seconds – to send my heart hammering out of control, that familiar electric edge sparking through my veins.
God, I – I've felt this way for so long, for months, writing it off as nothing, as just the adrenaline from debate, but it's not. It never was.
That's the fucked up part, isn't it? That's the part that everyone's right about. That I want him, that I couldn't even wait two days before running off to skip lessons together.
Two days.
I couldn't even wait two damn days.
Everyone's right. They're all right. Grace was right, in the bathroom on Monday. Alex was right, on the pitch just now. I had everything I ever wanted – I had Jett – kind and caring and so, so good – and it wasn't enough.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Something in my fucked up head, surely. It's my damn mind, overthinking and overcomplicating everything. Isn't that what Ryan always said? That it was okay, everything was okay, even if it didn't feel right. That I should stop being such a problem, stop questioning everything, stop being so emotional, and just relax. Just give in.
He was right. And if I had listened, if I hadn't been so in my head, if I hadn't been so uptight, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe I wouldn't have questioned everything. Maybe it would have been enough.
"Aria?"
My eyes fly open to a halo of sun-flecked hazel. I didn't even know I'd closed them until James' voice shattered my thoughts, hadn't heard him slip silently onto the bench beside me. But there he is, searching my face, scanning from the flush of my cheeks to the teeth cutting into my lip.
"Everything okay?"
I shake my head, tilting it upwards to look at the night sky above. The stars aren't comforting, though. They're supposed to be faint and fuzzy, a small handful flung at the urban skyline. Not blindingly brilliant, not a mosaic of constellations and galaxies. They're wrong. It's wrong to see them like this.
Wrong, just like me.
I didn't try hard enough. I didn't try, full stop. I held part of myself back, then wondered why I didn't feel enough. Why I didn't feel much of anything at all, really. Not after those first few months, not when he gave me that necklace, not even when he dumped me.
"Talk to me, Fields."
Fingers brush lightly against mine before pulling back. James opens his mouth, closes it, and lets out a breath as I study the planes of his face. It's so familiar now, after hours of walking in loops beside him, studying how those angles and lines subtly shifted with each word that I'd said.
"You'll lose your shit."
My voice sounds like a croak, thick and cracked. I clear my throat and gaze back down to the table, where our hands rest inches apart. One large and scratched with bits of dirt hiding in small crevices, the other small and smooth with nothing left to bite.
"Seeing you like this is going to make me lose my shit anyway, so spill."
I can't bring myself to meet his eyes again. I'll crack, just like my voice. So instead, I study the little left of my nails, the shredded cuticles, the skin peeling from hangnails – anything to keep from looking up.
"Fields –"
"He said I was your sloppy seconds, all right?" I spit out. A flinch flies across my face, and I'm not sure whether it's from the words or the truth behind them.
My hand finds the back of my neck, massaging the now-constant tightness there, and I drop my gaze from my wrecked nails to the floor below us. James twists a leg around the bench and plants one foot on either side, but I still can't look up at him. I won't.
"Who," he says simply. It's not a question but a statement – a demand.
"You already know," I mutter, and his fingers clench slightly, flexing and unflexing. "Are you losing your shit?"
"Maybe." James presses his hand flat against the bench, and I follow the line of it up the wrist and forearm I'd skimmed last night. "I'm also debating whether or not it's worth racking up more detention."
"For what?"
"For skiving off right now and finding that fucker."
"I don't want to have this conversation again," I say, finally looking up. His eyes aren't on me, though, but on the door across the hall and Abberly's seat in front of it.
"Fields –"
"James."
"It's rubbish, and you know it," he says, slamming a hand down on the table. Abberly stiffens in the corner of my vision, but there's no reprimand or strict rapt to start scrubbing. "Grace Clarke started it, and Harrison's just latching on. Don't let that pathetic little leech get in your head."
"Because you're so good at that yourself," I snap back. James blinks rapidly, glancing down at the floor as his fingers tighten along the edge of the bench.
"I haven't done the best job of it lately," he admits. Color floods back into his knuckles, and he sighs, skimming a thumb along the dark wood grain. "I guess I've never done the best job of it, really."
There's not a doubt in my mind that he's thinking about Jett. I still hear him sometimes, too. The acrid resentment in his voice, the way he'd spat out line after spiteful line without a second thought, like it'd been simmering for years.
That didn't just cut skin-deep. You don't hear those things from your best friend and move on. That's a wound that bleeds and scabs and scars.
"It's exhausting," James finally says. His thumb pauses an inch from mine, hesitating before gently pulling away. "When everyone has an opinion. It would be so much easier not to care. I wish I didn't."
"If you'd told me that you cared too much at the start of the year, I would have laughed in your face," I say quietly.
"I'm pretty sure you have laughed in my face once or twice."
"Perhaps," I admit, and the corners of his mouth gently twitch. The smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, though, and James sighs before nudging my brush towards me.
"I can't believe Abberly hasn't had an aneurysm yet from our lack of productivity."
"I heard that, Mr. Potter," comes an amused drawl from the table beside us, and James' mouth twitches again. "And you should know that I have better things to do with my evening than listen to you two twitter on."
"Yes, sir," James says before leaning forward and dropping his voice. "He has a soft spot for me."
My eyes flit up, measuring the space between us. Tracking how his knee gently brushes against mine, how that invisible thread wraps around my chest and tightens and tugs and aches. Remember how I had every chance to cut him out, and I didn't. I couldn't.
And even now, even after all this shit –
I still want him.
Because everyone's right. At the end of the day, they were all right. It's wrong – so wrong – to feel this way, to have felt this way for weeks, months – and – and – God, what is wrong with me?
I should have listened. I should have listened to Ryan's voice in my head, I should have stopped holding back, I should have tried, and I didn't, I didn't listen, and I can still feel phantom hands ghosting over skin, and I want him out, I want him out, I want him out –
"Fields?"
I blink, and a tear burns down my cheek. Nothing makes sense anymore, but maybe it never really has. My mind's tangled and knotted and twisted, but the rest of me – the rest of me feels like it's unraveling, like I'm losing my grip on everything, like – like –
"Tell me what you need." James gently touches my hand, brushing his fingers across my knuckles before twining them together.
I need you. That's what Ryan had said over and over and over. I need you. Please, Ree. Don't you care about me?
My hand's gone from his a second later, yanked away like he burned me. James slowly pulls his hand across the worn wood of the table, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to grab it back when I see hurt flash through his eyes.
"I need to be alone," I say, letting out a shaky breath.
"Okay."
That's it – just okay. No pushing, no grabbing me back. Just okay.
I barely have time to process his response before James is on his feet, steps echoing through the silence of the stone hall. But he's not heading back to the section of the table he was working on. He's walking towards – Abberly?
My strict Head of House flips a page of The Daily Prophet, glasses slipping absentmindedly down his nose as James slides into a seat across from him. Abberly glances up, raises an eyebrow, and leans forward, attention clearly piqued. Muted murmurs roll off the Ravenclaw table beside me, gentle enough to get lost before reaching my ears. Then –
"Ms. Fields, you may leave."
What?
That one lone tear rolls further down my cheek, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand, staring dazedly over at James and Abberly.
Go, James mouths, jerking his head towards the door. I blink once, twice, letting the realization wash over me before I'm on my feet. James watches with a faint smile before sighing heavily and settling back down by his abandoned bucket at the Slytherin table.
"Just you and me again, Professor," I hear him say as I cross through the doorway, throwing one look back. "I've been much more well-behaved this year, wouldn't you agree?"
"No, Mr. Potter, I would not," Abberly tuts, his voice fading behind me.
And I – I don't know. I don't know what just happened. I don't know why Abberly let me go, but I –
I needed this. The thought thuds through my numbness, through the silent, empty entrance hall, through the invisible aches and bruises scarring my mind. I needed this. I needed to be alone, to sit by myself, to comb through the mess in my head.
So I trudge back to Ravenclaw Tower, wrapped up in my tangled thoughts, and collapse backward onto my four-poster, all the stress and tension leaking from my shoulders and into the mattress. And when an hour passes, when the clock hits ten, I can't help but wonder if James is following in my footsteps, wandering back to the isolating, stifling silence waiting in his common room.
Clouded morning light leaks through my curtains as I lie in bed the next morning, listening to my roommates bustle about. I've gotten good at feigning sleep when we're all in the room, and they've gotten equally good at completely ignoring my presence, although Mia did slip me a sympathetic smile last night.
I don't emerge until the door slams shut thirty minutes later, then frantically scramble to shower, throw on clean clothes, and cover the dark circles beneath my eyes with concealer. Why, exactly, I rushed to make it down to breakfast, though, I couldn't say. Nothing on the table looks even remotely tempting, and it hasn't since Friday. I don't even know if I've eaten a full meal combined in the last five days.
An untouched bowl of porridge stares back at me this morning, decidedly unappetizing in every way fathomable. I half-heartedly spoon a bit into my mouth, swallow, and shove it away. The second year on my left eyes me warily and shifts over slightly, putting a larger gap between us. Lovely.
My fingers skim the wood before me, tracing two small divots distractedly. Maybe I really am losing my mind because I honestly can't remember them being there, even though I've sat in this same –
Oh.
Oh.
I crane my head to look around a small group of Hufflepuffs at the next table over, searching for the house just beyond it, searching for – there. Inky hair, one lock stubbornly tufting in the wrong direction, nearly parallel to my position on the other side of the hall.
How he managed to do it without Abberly noticing, I have no idea. But it's somehow there, and my fingers press into the grooves again, feeling the shapes crudely cut into the wood.
JP
Not random divots but jagged and sharp-angled initials, more like a checkmark and pennant flag than letters.
It's stupid and small and meaningless, but my heart jumps all the same, quickening and thrumming and then damn near slamming into my ribcage when that perpetually messy head of hair glances up.
"Quite a productive detention, I see," a cool voice says to my left, sliding into the seat vacated by the second year. "Was it you who defaced our house table, or did that pining prick leave you a love note? A little self-obsessed, isn't it?"
"Go away," I spit out reflexively, but Alex simply shrugs and snags my abandoned porridge, popping a bite into his mouth.
"And miss seeing my presence drive said pining prick mental? I think not."
I follow his nod back to where my eyes had just been moments ago. James sits straight up, no longer slouched over his plate, all of his attention taken by the person at my side. Alex can't have been sitting here for more than a minute, though, which means he's either incredibly observant or –
Or he was looking for me, too.
Which I knew, somewhere in the back of my head. I even knew it during the first few weeks of school. My roommates said I was delusional, that he wasn't staring, but I felt it. I guess that's one habit he hasn't quit.
"Self-obsessed and over-protective," Alex continues snidely, an unpleasant buzz in my ear. "What a keeper, Fields. You really traded up."
"Stop," I hiss, but it's half-hearted.
"I wonder what he'd do if –" Alex pauses, and my eyes dart over in suspicion. One hand props up his chin while the other flutters towards me, tugging lightly at the ends of my hair. "Oh, he did not like that."
"Stop, Alex." I try to make my voice sound firmer, more commanding, but I don't think I quite manage it. We both know he's not going to stop, just like on the Quidditch pitch, so I'll do what I couldn't then – walk away.
It's the only thing I can do, really. Arguments and insults have no effect on him. It's what he wants, even. And it feels good to take that away – to stand up, ignore him, not engage. It feels empowering.
Until a hand wraps around my wrist, grabs it tightly, and pulls me straight back down on the bench.
A thousand thoughts register in my head. Alex's painful grip, burning glances and curious whispers, movement flurrying beyond the Hufflepuff table, a stubborn lock of hair, and wandering hands that wouldn't stop, that I didn't want –
"I have to give it to you, Fields," Alex says, nodding across the Great Hall. His hand slips off my skin, but I still feel fingers pressing there like a brand and hear I need you whispered over and over and – "It's so easy to rile him up now. Guess you make a lot of things easy."
His words bite, tearing at me like he intended, but it's forgotten the instant I see what he's watching across the hall: James, nearly halfway to the Ravenclaw table, jaw set in a determined clench and wand already whipped out.
I'm on my feet two seconds later, sliding over the bench and springing to my feet as fast as I can. James is actually going to lose his shit this time, and it's not going to end well for anyone – least of all him. He's so blinded by anger that he doesn't even see me until I slide straight in front of him, blocking his path, and push both hands against his arms.
"Let me go."
"No, James."
"If he puts one God damn finger on you again –"
"You will do nothing."
My fingers curl tighter around his biceps, pressing into fabric while my eyes find his. He's still not looking at me, though, and his nostrils flare as he heaves a breath. I don't need to know Legilimency to read his mind; it's written across every aggravated feature, the strain in his shoulders, the fire burning in his gaze.
"Cowardly bastard," he spits out loud enough for half of Ravenclaw to hear.
Murmurs ripple behind us, but I don't turn or draw my eyes away from him, not even when a figure registers in the corner of my eye. The rest of the world can wait. I don't care if it's Abberly waiting to dole out more detention to us or –
Or Jett.
It's Jett.
"James, look," I say softly, and his head turns slightly to follow mine. His body deflates the instant he recognizes that familiar silhouette beside us, rage dispersing like smoke in the wind.
"Jett," James croaks out, but the protest dies as Jett slowly traces how my hands press against his best friend's arms, face etched with that same crushing betrayal he'd had on the Quidditch pitch. "Jett –"
It's too late, though. He's already gone, leaving nothing but pained silence between us and a wave of whispers in his wake.
"I'll see you in detention," James says stiffly, and I'm left staring at his back as he walks towards the door, passing the sickeningly delighted smile on Alex Harrison's face without a second glance.
If time felt slow yesterday, it feels positively glacial today. The clocks seem to stand still as I beg them to speed up, counting down the seconds and minutes and hours until detention, until we're far away from prying eyes and listening ears.
But when the hour hand hits eight, James is nowhere to be found. It's just Abberly and me standing awkwardly in the Great Hall, no easy small talk or banter between us. Instead, my Head of House looks at me pointedly, clears his throat, and gestures to the bucket of water at my feet.
"You may begin, Ms. Fields," he says, and I sigh before sitting down at the Slytherin table.
Disappointment settles in my chest as I wet my brush and begin scrubbing. Bristles scrape against wood and time slows once more, the evening stretching out into an unbearable, solitary punishment.
Until, that is, the doors fly open ten minutes later.
James walks in, expression blank, and grabs his supplies wordlessly. He doesn't look at me or Abberly or, frankly, anything except the table before him, eyes locked firmly downward. And when Abberly dismisses us an hour later, he walks out just as silently as he entered, like he was never even there.
Abberly pushes his slipping glasses up his nose as he watches me gently put our buckets, brushes, and rags in a corner. He sighs, gestures to the door, and says, "After you, Ms. Fields," but just as I'm about to step out, his voice catches me again.
"I suspect Mr. Potter may need someone to talk to," Abberly remarks calmly. "You have just under an hour until curfew. Please do see that you're back in the dormitory before then."
"Of course, Professor," I say, and he smiles faintly back at me as I step out.
It doesn't take long to find James. It doesn't take more than three seconds, actually. He's sitting at the top of the entrance hall's marble staircase, elbows on his knees and running his fingers through his hair. He doesn't look up as I climb the stairs, and there's no acknowledgment when I sit beside him, but his hands pause, gripping the roots distractedly.
"Are you all right?" I ask quietly.
"No," James says simply. It's the first time he's spoken to me since this morning, and the gravel in his voice sounds like it might be the first time he's spoken to anyone. "I fucked everything up. I – I lost my best friend."
"You didn't lose him," I murmur. James sighs and drops his hands to his face, pressing his palms against his eyes. "He was going to step in between you and Alex. That's not something you do unless you care."
"I fucked everything up," he repeats stubbornly, shaking his head, and that's all it takes for me to reach out and touch his hand.
This must be how he felt last night when I sat in the Great Hall empty and glassy-eyed, mentally checked out and lost in the darkness of my own head. I wish there was something I could do, something I could say, but there's nothing. Nothing except –
"Tell me what you need," I say quietly, echoing his words from last night.
"I need to be alone."
I almost smile at the symmetry of it, and I swear he does the same. James tilts his head to look at me, finally dropping his hands from his face, and the familiar ache in my chest opens up again. A constant reminder of how wrong I am, how wrong this is, how I fucked everything up, too.
"But," James says slowly, "I don't think I need to be alone tomorrow."
"What?" I ask, blinking in confusion, and this time, he does actually smile.
"After detention. Will I see you?"
"We don't have detention tomorrow," I say, brows furrowed in confusion. Has he lost his mind now, too? I know he hasn't been sleeping well, but –
"You don't," James says. "But I do. I –" He pauses and glances down at the stone stairs beneath us. "I told Abberly I'd do an extra night if he let you go early yesterday."
He – what? I swallow and shut my eyes, and when I open them again, his gaze searches my face curiously.
"You shouldn't have done that." It's the only thing I can get out over the lump in my throat, the dryness in my mouth.
"But I'm an insufferable Gryffindor, remember?"
"Yes, you are," I say quietly. And there's so much more I should say – a million excuses I could give, a million reasons why we absolutely can't spend any more time together – but none of them come out. I just – can't.
"So I'll see you tomorrow?" he asks, and my heart thuds painfully. "Just before ten?"
And it's only then that I realize how close we are, that I've slowly been leaning towards him this whole time, that my pulse is thrumming and my skin's flushing and – and –
"Yeah," I whisper, "I'll see you tomorrow."
