August 28th, 1890 — High Street

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.

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Sloane Bixby

  

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There was no way her eyes weren't still red and puffy after the amount of frustrated, then all out sad crying she'd done yesterday and into last night. Fortunately her brothers were smart enough to know better than to say anything, because she never cried and clearly whatever it was that was bothering her, was a big deal. Her hair was a deep shade of purple- somewhere between mad and sad and had been since last night. Ugh.

It had faded, but was still obvious by the time she was rounded up with Wally to do some last minute shopping for school. He needed new robes still and they missed one of her text books on the last trip. Double ugh. She was in no mood, tried to convince her mother she didn't want to go but was pulled along anyway, still serving her sentence for the lake.

Self conscious about her hair, she followed along, shoulders slumped, and grumpy as ever. Nobody talked to her, Harry kept a worried eye on her, but that was it as she made her way through the back to school crowds, people staring and whispering about her hair. Merlin she wished she could actually control her powers, then she could literally and figuratively disappear into the crowd.

They made their way to the next stop, which was not for Sloane, so she and Harry stayed outside, he leaned against the outside of the building casually and she slipped into the alleyway next to it, out of sight, tired and frustrated by the stares.

Closing her eyes, she too leaned back against the building, willing herself to breathe through it, to let go of the hurt and upset, hoping her hair would be a normal color again. Of course that was when a familiar yet unwanted voice cut through the alley. Surprised to say the least, Sloane's eyes snapped open, mouth agape as she stared at Cameron.

"My life does not revolve around you Gillenwater." She said through clenched teeth, hands balled up into fists at her sides.

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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.

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Sloane sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes a little. This was the last thing she wanted to do right now. They would just go round and round in the same argument, getting nowhere and she wasn't interested.

Even if the tone of her voice gave her the briefest of pause, her mind was made up. "I'm not having this argument anymore, there's no point." She could feel the headache (and the heartache) creeping back in and it was frustrating beyond belief. "Being friends is too hard for us apparently, so why bother." She wanted to sound angry, but even she could hear the disappointment creeping through.

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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.”

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"Fine! Don't take any responsibility, blame me, I don't care, but I'm tired of arguing all. The. Time." She accentuated each if the last words because she was damn near crying again and it was getting desperately pathetic.

"It goes from so good to so bad overnight and it's giving me whiplash. I may get all defensive but you say the most confusing, infuriating things always and then follow it up with "just kidding"! So how am I supposed to ever know?!" UGH!

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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?

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"I'm not talking about the teasing." That was not the frustrating part. That was normal, expected. She enjoyed the teasing, most of the time. Sometimes she just wasn't in the mood (the letters had admittedly been one of those times) but he stood there so clearly oblivious to the fact that she still had no idea what happened last year.

"That's so hypocritical it's not even funny. I have to tell you my feelings but you still won't tell me what happened last summer?" His excuse of not remembering was such bull. He was the one whose feelings got so bent out of shape they spent most of the year not talking and he still wouldn't just give her a reason.

"It's also hard to share feelings when you assume you know them before I even get a chance to determine them. You were so convinced I wouldn't like that bracelet, for absolutely no legitimate reason, that even after I said I appreciated it, was thankful for it and that I liked it, you continued to doubt it.

I tired so hard to get by everything, this summer was good, great even, up until yesterday. And then we spiral down again and I'm tired of it, I'm emotionally exhausted." Even now she was physically tired, after a horrible night's sleep and what she realized now was a little heart ache, she just couldn't anymore. If calling it quits was what was going to keep her from feeling like this every other month, then so be it.

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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.

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Why was she arguing with him?! Same answer as always. Why did she even bother. "It's not a good enough answer, it's just not. His tone of defeat echoed in hers, just flat and resigned. Her hair faded as her tone did, just the end of her plait a deep blue, hanging long over her shoulder.

"I don't know either, you started it assuming I wouldn't like that bracelet, why would you even think that? You put that on me, then picked a fight, and you got upset when it came back around, how is that fair? Then you're mad that I'm upset because you picked a fight! You continually put down the gift that I actually do like, saying as much several times in letters, until I was out of ways to react, except to just send it back because apparently you didn't think it was good enough." She was on a positive tear now, everything spilling out in quick succession.

"I don't know what you thought was going to happen, intentionally or not, you did hurt my feelings because I actually do care about how you feel about me! Why wouldn't I like anything you of all people took the time to pick out for me?" Boys were so incredibly thick, Merlin's beard!

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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.

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Pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, Sloane blew out a breath. He just wasn't listening. What could she even say to get him to hear her?

"I told you it had nothing to do with that!" Her hands balled up, nails digging into her palms, falling uselessly to her sides again. She flicked her hair over her shoulder, blue out of view as it was no doubt turning red again. She really needed to get that under control; goal for the year and she meant it this time. "All I'm hearing is reason after reason that clearly this isn't going to work out anymore, why does it matter?" He couldn't even finish a legitimate reason. Of course she knew why it mattered to her, but she was so beyond caring about what other people thought. Why couldn't he just get past whatever hurdle this was and move on. It was so time to be done with this.

"We're going in circles, I'm done with this Cam." She sighed one last time and pushed off the wall to leave the alley.

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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."

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She stopped abruptly before running into him, making sure to take a step back before she could get too caught up in being too close. "Because my feelings matter too!" She all but growled at him. "If I didn't care, I'd punch you and walk away and I'm losing the restraint right now." That familiar itch to hit something or someone was building up and she was losing the desire to contain it.

"I am moving on, I tried it your way and it didn't work. I told you I wasn't going to argue with you and yet here I am and I can't anymore. I just want you to be honest with me, I'm over the heartbreak this is causing for me." She swiped the back of her hand across her cheeks knowing she couldn't hide anything now. "If you honestly think that I would think so little of you, I was right, you really don't know me as well as I thought."

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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."

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It seemed, finally, that she was going to get the full, honest truth about whatever it was that had happened last year so she she waited him out, for once without interrupting, while he spelled out exactly what it was that had been going on in that dumb boy brain of his for the last year. What she gathered out of it was probably more than he intended for her to really know, but Merlin it was such a relief to hear what she'd actually done to make him so awkward!

The frustrated tears continued to fall quietly and she kept mopping them up with the only thing she had on her- the handkerchief that had come with the bracelet yesterday. But she watched him the whole time- the color rising in his cheeks, the fact that he wouldn't look at her, the way he rushed through parts. It was oddly kind of sweet, as was the notion that he was upset about not spending time with her, but all of this because she hadn't wanted to take Divination? The second-most ridiculous class aside from History of Magic. Really?

Taking a deep breath, she wiped the remnants of the tears away, trying to think of how best to say something when she knew was that really so hard?" was not going to do either of them any good. "Thank you for telling me," She managed, picking at the edge of the handkerchief idly, thankful for something in her hands to fidget with. "I don't hate you, I don't think I could ever hate you and I believe you." She didn't always like the way he made her feel, but that was her problem to deal with. "Why didn't you just tell me all of this sooner? We lost a whole year, Cam, because I didn't want to take Divination." School year, and this summer had pretty much made up for it, but still, he had to see how ridiculous it was now, all blown out of proportion.

"I'm sorry about the howler," She admitted, still toying with the handkerchief.

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