You're walking down the draughty corridors in silence, but it isn't exactly an awkward one... più like loaded. te can feel him walking successivo to you, back straight, staring inoltrare, avanti in a way that seems almost forced. te can feel him, but te can't see him, because te too are keeping your gaze fixed on a point somewhere far in front of you, and when that fails, determinedly looking anywhere but at him. You're still somewhat mad at him, and you're quite sure that he's mad at te (because he has every right to be) but the pair of te are Head Students, so te have to patrol, whether te want to o not.
The worst part of it is that te don't want to be mad at him, and te certainly don't want him to be mad at you, but it kind of just... happened. te can't help the fact that you're sending him mixed signals, flirting with him during lessons and during patrols sometimes, but still saying 'No' every time he asks te out. And te wish te could say yes, he doesn't know how much te do, but te always say no, either from force of habit o your own stubborn pride, te don't quite know which. So the no just slips out, every single time, and every single time te have to face these sullen, silent patrols afterward with the both of te sulking and the both of te wishing that one oh-so-significant word had been three letters instead of two. Until the successivo day, o the giorno after if the rejection was particularly bad, te start up your tentative flirting again, with the small smiles and lingering touches. Then finally he says those damned words again, and te say yours, and the cycle continues, both of te cursing te to hell and back, neither of te quite meaning it.
Today, te think, was particularly bad – the both of te are beginning to lose resolve. You're pretty sure that there are only so many più cycles that te can take before te either kill him o snog him senseless, all depending on what kind of mood you're in on that particular day. And no matter what you're trying to tell yourself, te know that neither would be a good option, because whichever one te went with, the pathetic sixth-years who think they have a snowball's chance in hell with James Potter (which they don't) would kill you. Nevertheless, te think, something should be done, because continuing the cycle like te have so far can't be healthy. You're honestly not sure whether your teenage girl hormones can stand many più days like today.
It was a Transfiguration lesson, and so far it was progressing exactly like any other Transfiguration lesson. McGonagall collected the homework from the precedente lesson, lectured for a while about today's subject and then told te to partner up and get to work, the object being to Transfigure the allotted stuffed animal into a living, breathing representation of that animal. The cycle had reached the point where te weren't surprised when he came up to te with a stuffed owl and a hopeful expression, and te honestly didn't have the cuore to tell him no, knowing that was going to happen soon anyway, so te nodded with a smile and he sat down in the empty sede, sedile successivo to you, flashing te that grin that would make any other girl at Hogwarts swoon, but te kept your expression carefully neutral.
“So,” te said. “An owl – shouldn't be too hard, right?”
da the time he answered with a “Nope, but I can name other things that are” and a decidedly dirty wink, te were already berating yourself for leaving that wide open, smiling nevertheless at his expression as he tried to determine whether his admittedly weak line had worked. Which, sadly, it had; your mind was full of immagini that should not be there during a Transfiguration lesson, especially if the subject of those immagini was sitting right beside you, which he was. With a great force of will, te managed to banish most of those images, if not completely then enough to hopefully not distract te while te brought that owl to life.
Even though Transfiguration is one of your worst subjects, it's his best, so your owl was alive and flying around in no time – not that te could take much credit. te had tried, though, waving your wand exactly like McGonagall had told te to and saying the incantation; but to no avail. He had laughed at your indignant expression (it wasn't often that te failed at anything) and then cowered under your death glare, but in the end he had mock-sighed and moved behind you, guiding your hand in the proper movements, earning himself più death glares, this time from those few girls in the seventh anno who still lusted after him and were, in your opinion, even più pathetic than those in sixth year. te didn't say anything, but te were all too aware of him standing behind you, his breath warm on your neck as the both of te concentrated on the small, stuffed snowy owl on the scrivania, reception in front of you, until it suddenly flapped its wings tiredly and then with più vigour before taking off around the room.
It didn't take long for te to notice the note tied to the owl's leg, and te pointed it out to him, surprised. There hadn't been any notes on the stuffed owl... looking back, te think that this is when te should have smelled a rat. After all, it was him te were talking about... but before te could say o even think anything else, he'd whistled, and the owl had turned to soar over to where te were still sitting side da side with him at your desk, watching others try to achieve what te already had. The owl landed with a soft hoot and held its leg out to you, and that's when te knew. With a resigned sigh, te untied the note and opened it, not wanting to see the words that would undoubtedly be there. And te were not mistaken: te opened your eyes almost reluctantly, only to be rewarded with the dreaded phrase. “Will te go out with me, Evans?” You had seen so many variations on that theme, it was almost ridiculous, and though it was against the laws of everything teenagers had ever believed, te knew that you'd be seeing più and more, until te finally agreed like te had wanted to for so long.
Finally, te turned to him, the 'yes' already on the tip of your tongue, and his adorably hopeful expression and cucciolo dog eyes almost made te say it, but te suddenly caught sight of one of those pathetic girls, their death glares now directed at you, and the yes that had been so close to tumbling out of your mouth turned into your standard “I'm sorry, James, but I can't.” te don't know how much te wish I could, te added silently, but of course he didn't hear it, so his face turned into that mask te had seen so many times, the one that was resigned to another Merlin-knows-how-long of flirting and then finally asking, and that was trying so desperately to hide the disappointment and defeat. The one that almost made te cry, every single time. te gave a small smile, trying to convey how truly sorry te were, and slipped the note into your pocket, making sure he saw. It may have been cruel to give him false hope, but te wanted him to know that just because te detto 'no' to going out with him sure as hell didn't mean te didn't care about him. Truth be told, te had no idea whether he'd understand this all from the simple act of slipping a note into your pocket, but te knew te had to try.
And just like te knew then te had to try, te suddenly know now that te have to act, before one of te snaps. Permanently. So te stop walking, quite suddenly, and wait until it has the desired effect – he stops two paces in front of te and turns around, his expression tied somewhere between annoyed at te for stopping and listening intently, trying to hear a reason for te stopping. When there are none, he looks merely annoyed, and your cuore beats ever so slightly faster, and te force out his name before your courage completely disappears, and of course it comes out in that stupid, throaty voice, sounding, to your own ears, sluttier than all those sixth-year girls put together. He raises a single eyebrow at your tone but says nothing, undoubtedly still hurting from the afternoon's rejection. te take a deep breath and go on, without a clue what to say. All te know is that somehow, te have to make him understand that, no matter what te say, te care (how could te not?). “Look, James, I... hell, how am I supposed to say this?” te meet his slightly confused gaze, trying to convey as much as te can with that single glance, and decide that te just have to get on with it. “I... when I say – what I mean is... oh, bugger it.” And with a single burst of enlightenment, te reach up and baciare him, pouring all te emotions into that one kiss, hoping against all hope that it might possibly be enough. And just as you're about to pull away in embarrassment and maybe run all the way to the Astronomy Tower before jumping off it, he seems to wake up from some trance, and his arms come up to pull te closer, and te wonder why you've never done this before, because it's just so... right.
And the successivo morning, when te walk down to breakfast hand in hand, te ignore the death glares that are three times as murderous as yesterday in Transfiguration and stand up straighter, leaning into him ever so slightly, secure in the knowledge that te are finally exactly where te belong.
The worst part of it is that te don't want to be mad at him, and te certainly don't want him to be mad at you, but it kind of just... happened. te can't help the fact that you're sending him mixed signals, flirting with him during lessons and during patrols sometimes, but still saying 'No' every time he asks te out. And te wish te could say yes, he doesn't know how much te do, but te always say no, either from force of habit o your own stubborn pride, te don't quite know which. So the no just slips out, every single time, and every single time te have to face these sullen, silent patrols afterward with the both of te sulking and the both of te wishing that one oh-so-significant word had been three letters instead of two. Until the successivo day, o the giorno after if the rejection was particularly bad, te start up your tentative flirting again, with the small smiles and lingering touches. Then finally he says those damned words again, and te say yours, and the cycle continues, both of te cursing te to hell and back, neither of te quite meaning it.
Today, te think, was particularly bad – the both of te are beginning to lose resolve. You're pretty sure that there are only so many più cycles that te can take before te either kill him o snog him senseless, all depending on what kind of mood you're in on that particular day. And no matter what you're trying to tell yourself, te know that neither would be a good option, because whichever one te went with, the pathetic sixth-years who think they have a snowball's chance in hell with James Potter (which they don't) would kill you. Nevertheless, te think, something should be done, because continuing the cycle like te have so far can't be healthy. You're honestly not sure whether your teenage girl hormones can stand many più days like today.
It was a Transfiguration lesson, and so far it was progressing exactly like any other Transfiguration lesson. McGonagall collected the homework from the precedente lesson, lectured for a while about today's subject and then told te to partner up and get to work, the object being to Transfigure the allotted stuffed animal into a living, breathing representation of that animal. The cycle had reached the point where te weren't surprised when he came up to te with a stuffed owl and a hopeful expression, and te honestly didn't have the cuore to tell him no, knowing that was going to happen soon anyway, so te nodded with a smile and he sat down in the empty sede, sedile successivo to you, flashing te that grin that would make any other girl at Hogwarts swoon, but te kept your expression carefully neutral.
“So,” te said. “An owl – shouldn't be too hard, right?”
da the time he answered with a “Nope, but I can name other things that are” and a decidedly dirty wink, te were already berating yourself for leaving that wide open, smiling nevertheless at his expression as he tried to determine whether his admittedly weak line had worked. Which, sadly, it had; your mind was full of immagini that should not be there during a Transfiguration lesson, especially if the subject of those immagini was sitting right beside you, which he was. With a great force of will, te managed to banish most of those images, if not completely then enough to hopefully not distract te while te brought that owl to life.
Even though Transfiguration is one of your worst subjects, it's his best, so your owl was alive and flying around in no time – not that te could take much credit. te had tried, though, waving your wand exactly like McGonagall had told te to and saying the incantation; but to no avail. He had laughed at your indignant expression (it wasn't often that te failed at anything) and then cowered under your death glare, but in the end he had mock-sighed and moved behind you, guiding your hand in the proper movements, earning himself più death glares, this time from those few girls in the seventh anno who still lusted after him and were, in your opinion, even più pathetic than those in sixth year. te didn't say anything, but te were all too aware of him standing behind you, his breath warm on your neck as the both of te concentrated on the small, stuffed snowy owl on the scrivania, reception in front of you, until it suddenly flapped its wings tiredly and then with più vigour before taking off around the room.
It didn't take long for te to notice the note tied to the owl's leg, and te pointed it out to him, surprised. There hadn't been any notes on the stuffed owl... looking back, te think that this is when te should have smelled a rat. After all, it was him te were talking about... but before te could say o even think anything else, he'd whistled, and the owl had turned to soar over to where te were still sitting side da side with him at your desk, watching others try to achieve what te already had. The owl landed with a soft hoot and held its leg out to you, and that's when te knew. With a resigned sigh, te untied the note and opened it, not wanting to see the words that would undoubtedly be there. And te were not mistaken: te opened your eyes almost reluctantly, only to be rewarded with the dreaded phrase. “Will te go out with me, Evans?” You had seen so many variations on that theme, it was almost ridiculous, and though it was against the laws of everything teenagers had ever believed, te knew that you'd be seeing più and more, until te finally agreed like te had wanted to for so long.
Finally, te turned to him, the 'yes' already on the tip of your tongue, and his adorably hopeful expression and cucciolo dog eyes almost made te say it, but te suddenly caught sight of one of those pathetic girls, their death glares now directed at you, and the yes that had been so close to tumbling out of your mouth turned into your standard “I'm sorry, James, but I can't.” te don't know how much te wish I could, te added silently, but of course he didn't hear it, so his face turned into that mask te had seen so many times, the one that was resigned to another Merlin-knows-how-long of flirting and then finally asking, and that was trying so desperately to hide the disappointment and defeat. The one that almost made te cry, every single time. te gave a small smile, trying to convey how truly sorry te were, and slipped the note into your pocket, making sure he saw. It may have been cruel to give him false hope, but te wanted him to know that just because te detto 'no' to going out with him sure as hell didn't mean te didn't care about him. Truth be told, te had no idea whether he'd understand this all from the simple act of slipping a note into your pocket, but te knew te had to try.
And just like te knew then te had to try, te suddenly know now that te have to act, before one of te snaps. Permanently. So te stop walking, quite suddenly, and wait until it has the desired effect – he stops two paces in front of te and turns around, his expression tied somewhere between annoyed at te for stopping and listening intently, trying to hear a reason for te stopping. When there are none, he looks merely annoyed, and your cuore beats ever so slightly faster, and te force out his name before your courage completely disappears, and of course it comes out in that stupid, throaty voice, sounding, to your own ears, sluttier than all those sixth-year girls put together. He raises a single eyebrow at your tone but says nothing, undoubtedly still hurting from the afternoon's rejection. te take a deep breath and go on, without a clue what to say. All te know is that somehow, te have to make him understand that, no matter what te say, te care (how could te not?). “Look, James, I... hell, how am I supposed to say this?” te meet his slightly confused gaze, trying to convey as much as te can with that single glance, and decide that te just have to get on with it. “I... when I say – what I mean is... oh, bugger it.” And with a single burst of enlightenment, te reach up and baciare him, pouring all te emotions into that one kiss, hoping against all hope that it might possibly be enough. And just as you're about to pull away in embarrassment and maybe run all the way to the Astronomy Tower before jumping off it, he seems to wake up from some trance, and his arms come up to pull te closer, and te wonder why you've never done this before, because it's just so... right.
And the successivo morning, when te walk down to breakfast hand in hand, te ignore the death glares that are three times as murderous as yesterday in Transfiguration and stand up straighter, leaning into him ever so slightly, secure in the knowledge that te are finally exactly where te belong.