Cameron had cried, and he never cried. He didn't cry when he broke his leg at the end of the last school year, and he didn't cry when his father died. He was a big, strong man—obviously—and big, strong men didn't cry. Except he did the night before, because Sloane had decided they weren't friends anymore. He'd tried looking at it from an outsider's perspective, and he saw just how pathetic he looked, but that didn't make it hurt any less (and truthfully how pathetic it was only made him cry more).

The trip to Hogsmeade the next day had nothing to do with her. He was going to get a new scarf, because he'd forgotten that his last one was ruined after cracking and falling into the icy pond in Godric's Hollow at the end of the previous winter vacation, and Merlin knows he had no intention of going to school without one. The pre-Hogwarts bustle was still very prominent in Hogsmeade, and he'd greeted at least three acquaintances before he'd left the shop, but as he was leaving he spotted her.

He considered his options. He could turn, run, and hope she never saw him do that. He could also talk to someone else and pretend he'd never seen her, because there were plenty of students in his general vicinity. Of course, those were the smart, rational things to do, and he'd never been particularly smart or rational about his friendship with her, so he followed his impulses.

He went after her.

He hadn't thought she'd seen him, but she seemed to move with the crowd as he neared her, and only when she turned a corner down a dead-end alleyway did he finally catch up with her.

"You're running from me," he accused, because why not start this conversation off with a casual accusation? That had always worked out well for him.

---

Upon closer inspection, she looked as bad as he felt. He wanted to assume that it was because of their fight (which would make him feel at least a little better about being pathetic the night before) but her words gave him pause. He took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest, his expression a mix of anger and sadness (and probably longing, if he were being honest). He hated this.

“No, apparently it doesn’t have room for me at all,” he replied, instantly regretting how weepy he sounded. Of course her life had room for him, but she’s decided—all based on either a misunderstanding or pent-up aggression, because he wasn’t sure which—that they weren’t destined to be friends.

Ugh, moody girls.

---

It was too hard, so why bother?

She might have well smacked him in the face, because the pain surely showed. They’d met his second year, been perfectly good friends during that year and third year, some sometime during fourth year things had gone awry. This summer they’d been fine—he’d helped rescue her, they’d plotted against Selwyn, and their families shared a quidditch box. Did all that speak to their friendship being too hard?

“You told me I changed. You say I can’t be honest,” he started, accusatory. “But it’s you who’s changed. Don’t pretend like I’m too hard to be friends with when you you’re making it impossible to be your friend.”

---

Him? Confusing and irritating things? That was her, and she’d know it if she listened to herself talk. It was as if she’d forgotten the contents of his letters entirely.

“If you’re talking about the teasing, I’m sorry. I already said I was,” he said on one exasperated breath. “I’ve taken responsibility. I told you I’m sorry and told you how I felt. We don’t have to argue, but you won’t accept my apology and continue to tell me how awful I am to you!” As if he hadn’t sent her a whole bracelet and wished her happy birthday! As if he hadn’t almost been drowned by a sea creature to save her ass! She was obviously so determined to demonize him that she forgot all the times he’d openly cared about her.

“Maybe if you told me your feelings—not about how moronic and infuriating I am, but why everything I seem to say upsets you—we’d be able to go to school as friends this year. You can say I should know why they upset you, but they’ve never bothered you this much before!” He’d been plain with his feelings, as humiliating as they were, yet he was supposed to be some kind of legilimens. His hands balled into fists and he held them stiffly at his side, and his lips dipped into a deep frown. “You should know by now that I’d never insult you or anything. I’m just, you know, poking fun. It’s how we’ve always talked.” Didn’t she know that, or had she conveniently forgotten that, too?

---

So it wasn’t about the teasing—it was about last summer. Of course, that still didn’t explain her sudden howler yesterday, but as he stood there, brows furrowed, he tried to piece together everything. Was this really about last summer?

Admittedly he’d thought very little about what happened that day in Hogsmeade until recently. It was the day their friendship had initially fallen apart, and it was also the day he’d acted like a complete arse—and he hadn’t told her why. He fidgeted in discomfort.

“Last summer was my fault. I know it was,” he said in a small voice. He hated talking about feelings; despite his general stance that girls could do whatever boys could do, he’d always thought he shouldn’t let himself get soft. Sharing emotions showed softness, and softness wasn’t manly—and as he’d realized recently, girls weren’t supposed to like softness.

“But I already told you it wasn’t about your emotions. It was my worries and I’m sorry if I made it seem like I didn’t trust you. But saying there’s no legitimate reason for my worries is just as hypocritical.” Who would have ever thought Sloane would be so worried about the bracelet? He thought she’d throw it aside at worst, not completely go mental!

“I don't know why it went south yesterday. I don't. I was just teasing you one moment and then you told me to shove off, as if I'd intentionally hurt you. I didn't.” He took a deep sigh and shook his head, overwhelmed with defeat and—though he hated to admit it, even to himself—desperation. This was his fifth year. He was supposed to have fun with friends, ruin Selwyn's life, and try not to flunk out of school from poor OWL grades. He didn't sign up for another fight.

---

It was never a good enough answer, was it? Now that he thought about it, she'd never accepted an answer that day in the infirmary when they'd tentatively made up. If only he knew what she wanted to know exactly, he might be able to tell her—but then again, she was never more specific than "wanting to know what happened last summer". Plenty of things had happened, but none that he could pinpoint without going on a long, winded dialogue about his insecurities and fears and emotions, and none of those were topics he was ready to breach when the emotions were this high.

He watched her hair dull, its tips turning blue. Sadness, he thought, remembering how he'd once made it a personal goal of his to figure out what every hair color meant. It was impossible to forget the deep red of anger and the happy pink that made her freckles stand out. He'd seen her hair dull a few times in the past, but never fade to blue. He'd really done it now, hadn't he? (Even if he wasn't sure was it was.)

He'd never seen her in such a state, the words pouring out of her mouth so quickly that it took him a moment to process. He might have stared, might have blinked in confusion or—if she were going on about anything else apart from his apparent stupidity—comforted her, but he fired back with his own long, winded dialogue that he'd just sworn to himself he wouldn't go on.

"I thought you would insult me back, not feel hurt! The only reason I talked about how awful I was at school when I wrote about your 'temperamental wand' was as an invitation to make fun of me! He was insecure about his success in school, but he wouldn't take it personally if Sloane poked fun at him about it... or would he? Merlin. "I like it when you get riled up and when your hair changes colors—except now." The blue hair was really beginning to get to him.

"I never picked a fight! Of course I'm going to worry about whether or not you like a gift. You're a girl and I'm a boy and it might have been different if I bought you something quidditch-related or something for your broomstick, but it was a bracelet," he spilled, shaking his head as if obviously she should be able to figure that much out.

And she was worried about what he thought of her—HA! If only she knew how he'd fretted over that bracelet in the days before he'd sent it.

"I thought you wouldn't like it because... because..." You don't like me, he finished, and luckily in his head, too, because he felt a strange mixture of warmth and absolute humiliation wash over him that him into an internal panic. Merlin's beard, he couldn't just say that.

---

A dozen alarms went off in his head as she once again attempted the whole "this isn't going to work out" angle. Before he could even think, he moved to block her, standing between her and the alley exit. He was pissed and he was confused and he was frankly in too tender of a place to let her leave without coming to some sort of resolution.

"Why do you give up so easily?" he questioned, his hands enveloping her much smaller fists (not in a sentimental way. He knew how angry she could get—how angry she was right now—and wasn't about to get decked before this was through.) "We are going in circles, because one minute you care so much about my feelings towards you, but the next you're tossing me out like you couldn't care less about my feelings."

She was so caught up on last summer, and it wasn't too surprising the more he thought about it. They'd spent an entire school year interacting the least amount as possible, seated at opposite ends of their friend group during meals and on the other side of the room during class. He might have been angry to start with, but his anger had faded—hers obviously hadn't.

"It's about last summer," he started, shaking his head. "You want to know what happened, but..." Merlin, why was talking about this so hard? It wasn't as if he couldn't answer her questions, but he couldn't answer her questions. Physically. Every time he tried to find the right answer, the words slipped from his mouth. Maybe he ought to approach it differently.

He took a deep breath, released her hands, and took a step back. She was so tiny, but he struggled to meet her eyes nonetheless. "I could tell you what happened." It was a simple start. A good start. "But if I told you, you'd probably hate me anyways—no, worse: you'd think me pathetic. It is pathetic. My feelings then would upset you now, but I've grown and those thoughts feel silly, so why bring them up? I thought we'd agreed to move on."

---

There it was: angry voice, threats, rising temper. Anyone else might make a joke about her size, but he knew better than to push her... or he thought he did. He couldn't just not response, because no response meant he agreed, and then taking the time to tell her how he felt (some of how he felt, at least) would have been for nothing.

"If you want honesty, fine." He took a deep, exasperated breath, determined to show her just how pointless he thought this was even if he wouldn't vocalize it any further. "So," he started, taking a step backward to match—a safety precaution at this point. "When I went into third year, I was sad, alright? I was sad because you and everyone else were second years, and I was going into my OWL courses alone." That was before he'd been particularly close to Ned, and there wasn't even a question with Selwyn. "I didn't many other friends in third year, so I blindly picked all of my classes and I ended up hating most of them." Care of Magical Creatures was the exception, but it would be a lie to say he excelled in the class considering the amount of papers they'd written.

"So," he started again. "When all of you came to third year, I was... happy. I wanted you all in my classes, because, for one, I was awful at them, and being awful meant I was lonely in class. Just a bit." Merlin he could feel the heat rising up his neck. He couldn't bear to look at her; his eyes dropped to her shoulder. "And when you didn't want to take the same classes as me, I thought it meant that, Merlin—I don't know—that you didn't want to spend time with... me." He had to cringe—so pathetic.

"But of course I know that's not true now," he rushed, trying to recover whatever of his ego remained. She obviously hadn't wanted to spend time with him her third year, anyways, so unless she took that moment as a chance to dip on their friendship, he assumed they would have been close as ever that year. "We were on the same quidditch team and in the same house. We could have spent time together whenever. I realize, in hindsight, that I got the opposite of what I wanted by being an arse." And now she hated him, or would hate him if she didn't already.

He watched helplessly as she wiped tears from her cheek. She'd said he was heartbroken—what did that even mean? Was he supposed to pick up a cue from that? He felt something of a sob catch in his throat, but managed to stop it before he became the Most Pathetic Guy Sloane had ever met. Why couldn't he get this right?

"Think of you want of me for it." Whether that meant laughing at him or whatever. "Just tell me you'll accept it because it's the truth, whether you hate me now or not."

---