Disclaimer: I'M THE KING OF THE WORLD! MUAHAHA! Okay, not really. I don't really own anything, actually. Just a couple ideas. Life isn't fair.

A/N: Trying out a new style. Please stay till the end. It's a one-shot, and very short. Reviews are lovely as well. xD

'Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask,' - Paul Laurence Dunbar

You saunter out of potions, keeping up the mask you tried so hard to make. It took you hours - days, weeks even, but you perfected it, and now it hurts to let go.

Your bag's strap is perfectly casual upon your shoulder. At the perfect diagonal you worked for hours in the mirror to strive for and perfect.

Your hair, you know, has the 'just got off the broomstick' look to it, but you bring up a hand and ruffle it anyway, because you know your fangirls are looking, and your mask was slipping.

You strut down the halls, flashing your dazzling-to-perfection smile at any cute girl that walks by, though you're secretly only looking for one.

You haven't spotted her yet, though it has been five minutes of searching, but you don't care. Well, not on the outside anyway. On the inside you feel as if you might explode with worry - but you'd never show it.

You walk into the Great Hall and cast a quick glance around, but it wasn't necessary. She sits at her normal spot at the Gryffindor Table, all by herself, eating lunch. Inside you are rejoicing, but on the outside, you just allow a slow cocky smile. Your mates near by, (who say they know you like no one else knows you. Well, of course they do, no one really knows you) chuckle to themselves. They know what's coming.

"Evans," you say, with the same confident grin about your face. She turns, hair glinting in the light, to see who calls her name. When she sees that it's you, she affords a small frown before turning back to her food. Outside, you are laughing, this is all one big game, but inside, you are frowning too, and crying a little.

"Evans," you say again as you sit down next to her. "You. Me. Hogsmeade this Saturday." You don't even bother to phrase it as a question. You know what the answer will be.

"No, Potter," she says quietly, perhaps because her mates aren't there yet, but maybe because she doesn't have to hide behind anything. But your mind quickly tosses the latter reason away. Everyone hides behind something.

"Aw, Evans," You say, leaning towards her, your hand upon her shoulder. "Tell me how I can convince you. Do I need to get Ol' Slughorn to do it for me?"

You're laughing now, as is the rest of the crowd, but she doesn't turn around, doesn't do anything but finish her meal. "Goodbye, Potter," she says just loud enough for you to hear.

This is where your other hand comes in. Everyone has two - and you're just like everyone else. In one hand you hold your pretty mask, but in the other, you hold your web. It's your protection. Your guarantee that you are just like everyone else. It tells a story of your lies, your deceit from the very moment you stepped on King's cross six years ago. It's hard to hold - it's grown so much over the years - but you manage.

"Aw Evans, don't be shy!" You say, standing up grandly. "She said yes, everybody!"

The crowd cheers, but Lily doesn't. She looks at you, her eyes betraying her hurt for just a moment, before she runs away.

You would never admit it, but the quiet way her eyes stared into yours touches you somewhere deep that hadn't been touched in a while. You don't hear it, but somewhere near one of your shoulders, there is a small sound of something breaking - the rip of thread pulling away from thread.

In one hand you hold the mask you made, finely crafted, it took you weeks, months, years even to fine tune and perfect. In the other, you hold the web of lies and deceit that holds together your perfect life. She's running away. You can reach her if you just stretch out a free hand.

You only have two hands, which shall it be?

She gets away, like always. Your mask stays up, the web stays in place, and she gets away.

Inside, your heart that you've hidden away is crying out, but you can't hear it. You can feel it - the pain feels like it is going to eat you up - but you can't hear it. All you can hear is the laughter of the crowd that has gathered around you. You say something dry and witty and they're back on your side again.

The fangirls swoon, your mates call to you to come along, so you go. You smile the same brilliant smile, walk the same confident walk as before, but, somewhere, on the ground by your feet, perhaps, there lies a piece of the mask you wear, fallen to the ground sometime during her gaze. You don't notice it there on the ground, you hardly notice it's gone at all, but it is, and it won't come back. And, there, next to it, lies a bit of thread, not large enough to be noticeable, but still there, seen by only those most observant.

If you had seen it there, perhaps you could have found a bit of tape, or some glue, and piece it back into its place on your mask - but, then again, it would never be truly whole again. If you had seen the bit of thread there, perhaps you could have sewn it back on, or found someone else to sew it for you - because you never learned how to. But then your web would've become bigger, and harder to control, to hold on to, so maybe it was better that you didn't see them there.

You strut away, your fanclub joins, and as you turn back, at the end of the hall, you swear you see her behind you, smiling her wry smile, gorgeous red hair in her eyes, as she leans down and picks something slightly shimmery and small off the floor.

You do a double-take, but she's gone, along with a part of you in her pocket.