Surrender

She doesn't believe it. It's impossible. "What did you just say?" she demands sharply.

He shrugs with the casual air of someone who doesn't find the answer he's about to give at all interesting. "I've given up on you. Therefore, I had no intention of asking you out."

She still can't believe her ears, but somehow she manages to make a comprehensible response. "Oh. What did you want to say, then?"

"I wanted to return your quill. And tell you I hope you have a nice summer, and best of luck for Head Girl next year. I think you really deserve it." He reaches out with the feather and she takes it from him mechanically, still unable to comprehend this new idea.

"Ah... thanks. But why?"

He shrugs cheerfully, and considers for a moment before pronouncing, "Because you're smart, the younger students respect you, you're a good leader, you're responsible... Do you want me to continue?"

She frowns at him in frustration. Surely he's not actually that dense. "That's not what I meant. I mean, why... why are you giving up on me?"

It is only after the words are spoken and dangling restlessly in the air between them that she realizes how vain they sound. She winces, praying he doesn't catch her up for it, or perhaps assume that she wants him to continue pursuit. Briefly, she considers amending the comment, but James looks about ready to speak again and she's afraid whatever she'd say in her current state might just make the situation worse.

He shrugs again, carelessly, and looks her in the eye like he's had trouble doing for the past three years. "I just didn't figure it was worth wasting my life pining for a girl who'd never even consider going on a date with me. So I'm giving up on you." To himself, he sounds like he's just trying to convince himself of the truth of this statement, but if whatever uncertainty is detectable in his voice, she is too shell-shocked to notice.

The wind runs along the platform, brushing up ripples upon the lake and swirling her hair around her. She puts up a hand to push the strands out of her face, but the gesture is purely automatic. There is an awkward silence between them, and he is suddenly aware of the sun beating down fiercely on his back and of the fact that his shoulder blades itch terribly. He wonders distantly if Sirius has given him fleas again.

After a long eternity of silence, she speaks. "Oh. That's... that's odd. That's... new. It's... it's... good?" Even to his ears she doesn't sound quite certain of herself, but he is straining his ears to try to pick up those little nuances of voice that will tell him what she is thinking, when her stammering sentences give no hint as to what she actually means.

He doesn't think either of them is quite sure at the moment what she's thinking. He counts it as a minute victory that he even recognizes that uncertainty in her, and that the uncertainty is there. There - he has to convince himself that the thought is not vain or related to any sort of pursuit of her - because of him.

He studies her face carefully, looks down straight into her eyes, and is surprised to find that he can keep from becoming an instant prat. He can feel just the beginnings of a flush rising in his cheeks, but in her current bewildered state, he doesn't think she'll notice, and it doesn't matter anyway because he can always blame it on the heat.

"Well, then, ah... I suppose... I should go... get on the train, you know?" She is spluttering. Why is this concept so hard for her to wrap her mind around? She should be celebrating, dancing around, screaming in joy, but here she is, hardly able to form an intelligible sentence.

"Yeah, me too. Want me to help you with any of your bags? Mine are all already loaded," he tells her, striving to keep any sort of pleading or forgive-me-please sort of tone, the sort he's used to using, out of his voice. He thinks he's succeeded; she doesn't seem to have picked up on anything.

Of course, that could just be because she's having trouble really noticing anything at the moment because she's so focused on the fact that he's actually given up on her and for some reason she believes him.

"Sure," she says distractedly.

He grins with triumph, momentarily, then remembers and nods like he imagines a nice helpful boy who isn't romantically interested in a girl might if said girl said he could help her with her luggage. Being unsure as to what exactly this expression entails, he cannot be sure whether he has failed or succeeded in the effort. He is suddenly very glad that she seems to be still caught up in her own thoughts.

They stand there a moment more, uncertain of how to act around one another. All those carefully balanced reactions they have spent six years perfecting suddenly don't fit anymore. The rules of their relationship suddenly don't apply anymore. He never really thought about this happening, and now that it has, he is no more prepared to adapt to it than she is.

He almost laughs at the oddness of it; two sworn rivals facing each other on the train platform, and they have nothing to say. They're staring at each other, and the emotion on Lily's face as she looks at him isn't hatred, or anger, or anything of that sort. He can't decipher the emotion that's taken their place.

Eventually, one of the moves, and then the other one does, and then they have both tried to pick up her trunk and have crashed their heads together in the resultant confusion. And suddenly, everything is just a bit more normal. She shakes her head depreciatingly, as if to say that she wouldn't really expect anything better from him. He freezes guiltily, then smiles sheepishly in apology before remembering that she had agreed to let him take it.

And if the world still hasn't completely righted itself, well, that's all right. They'll deal with it, and maybe by the time they come back to school in fall they'll magically relate at the same point again.

"I thought you were going to let me get it?" he asks lightly, and she shrugs and gives him a little almost-smile that, if he were still chasing her, he'd probably spend the entire train ride obsessing over. But he's not, and so he won't, and her uncharacteristic compliance is slightly disturbing. Momentarily, he wonders if he should comment on it, but then thinks better of the idea.

Instead, he levitates the trunk, which is really what they both should have tried doing in the first place, and guides it toward the waiting train. "Where to, milady?"

She gives another shrug - he notices briefly how much shrugging they are both doing - then seems to change her mind. "Never mind. I can get it. Go find your own friends." She didn't intend for the direction to sound so rude, but he doesn't look terribly affronted. He's heard much worse out of her mouth. But just in case, she adds, "What did you do with them, anyway?" in a considerably lighter tone.

He lifts one shoulder and lets it drop again, very casually, as though he couldn't care less. "They're around, I suppose," he tells her. "On the train somewhere, saving me a seat." He knows exactly where they are, actually, but for some reason even he is not quite aware of, he chooses to be vague.

A look of panic flashes briefly across her face. "They don't know, do they? About this?" she asks nervously, fidgeting with the end of a strand of hair. Chewing anxiously at her bottom lip, she watches him intently.

He looks at her, confused, though she is not sure whether the emotion is genuine or feigned for her benefit. "No, why?"

She shrugs and looks away, suddenly embarrassed. The truth is, she doesn't know why it would be so terrible if he had talked this over with his mates before talking to her. And yet, the fact that he didn't is somehow makes her feel terribly relieved. And being relieved by it makes her feel somehow even more discomfited than she imagines she would be if they knew.

She shakes her head at her own silliness, and turns her attention back to the boy standing in front of her. She finally notices, just barely, that he seems just as unsettled as she is by this confrontation. It is lucky she has not come to the point of consciously reacting to his demeanor, because she is utterly at a loss as to how this is supposed to make her feel.

"No reason," she tells him, trying to act casual, as if it doesn't actually matter to her. She flips her hair over her shoulder and lifts her nose in the air just slightly, with that attitude that's meant to tell him that she is far, far out of his league.

And he, as usual, doesn't notice, though the reason is probably different than it used to be. Once, he would have been too busy staring at her and making a terrible arse of himself to notice the little signs, until it was too late and she had exploded in his face. Now, he is convincing himself he doesn't care, and so his mind chooses not to register the fact that she is still acting superior.

The differing causes are indistinguishable to her, but as always she accepts that he hasn't received her subtle message. And, for once, she finds that it doesn't actually matter. It's different, now, and it's no longer important that James Potter doesn't notice the airs she puts on. She can't expect him to notice the little things about her anymore.

There's a lot she shouldn't expect from him anymore, and perhaps it is better that way. Less expectations of him means less opportunity for him to disappoint her, frustrate her, drive her crazy.

"If you say so," he replies, and then adds, with a halfhearted wave, "See you in September, then?"

"Yeah, I suppose." She lifts her hand limply, then lets it flop back down.

And then there is another moment of awkwardness before she waves her own wand and gets onto the train, her trunk bobbing along in front of her. He stands on the platform, watching her go, then boards as well and heads off in search of his friends.