Worthy
The next morning, James woke up with a gnawing headache. A gray light, dimmed by the half-open curtains, cloaked the room in a melancholy indolence. Leaning forward, his big hands gripping the covers, he glimpsed the veil of clouds gathering above the school. A sullen, motionless sky.
For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of relief: it was Sunday. There was no class. If it hadn't been so and the alarm had rung that very morning, James was sure he would have transformed it into a little bird and made it fly away, rather than have to listen to it.
Grumbling, he left the torpor of the bed and moved towards the bathroom, his steps dragging, tired, like those of a castaway just washed ashore. The clock on the wall said eight-thirty when he bent over the sink and let the icy water slide down his face. The streams of water made messy paths down his neck as he stared at the reflection of himself beyond his glossy eyes. There was something puffy and blurry about his face, an echo of the alcohol he had consumed the night before.
James did not usually drink. Not for lack of temptation, but out of discipline. If he wanted to be a professional Quidditch player someday, treating his body like a temple was the first step to achieving that goal. And alcohol, he knew, was a slow fire that could consume everything good that remained in a person.
He returned to the room with a towel thrown over his shoulders, his damp hair wetting his neck. That was when he saw Sirius. He was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched, his brash profile framed by his black hair and the white shirt from the night before still on, now creased. The open buttons revealed the paleness of his chest, fragile and pearly in the dim light of the room. His eyes, usually deep and bold, were now glazed, opaque, like glass through which the light could no longer pass. Tired and distant, they peered at the boy beyond the shadows of his lashes.
Potter didn't have time to say anything. Sirius stood up suddenly and threw his arms around him, pulling him close. His breath vibrated against James's shoulder, frail, itchy in the pit of his stomach, entangling itself in the curve of the other's neck. Potter remained still, his strong arms hooked around the boy's waist, trying to hold him up. And Sirius clung to him in an itchy desolation, wiping away his tears with his shirtsleeve.
He said nothing, because this was not the time to speak. He held him steady, the anchor in the storm that were his eyes.
When Sirius moved away, just enough to look at him, James saw his face. The boy’s cheeks were hot, flushed from the crying. Teardrops had lodged in his face, stuck in his lashes or in the soft curve of his full lips. They shone like diamonds set in his skin.
Sirius sighed, his cold irises cast over James's shoulder, staring into space, then: «I had a fight with Moony.» he whispered, halfway between breath and voice.
James stared into the silence, giving Sirius strong, resolute irises for the boy to cling to.
It wasn't uncommon for him and Remus to argue, especially when Sirius was in the throes of alcohol and any attempt at common sense dissolved.
«I... I think I did something to him.» Sirius muttered, looking down as if his own words were burning his throat. «I just don't remember exactly what it was.»
Potter nodded slowly, his eyes a shadow of apprehension, free of judgment. Sirius finally looked into the boy's pupils, a naked vulnerability unfurling on his face in the most beautiful bloom of pain.
«I remember you leaving, at some point. Moony stayed with me.» He began slowly, uncertainty saturated in his tone.
«He told me I was too drunk and sat me down in a chair. Then he sat down next to me. And I... I don't know, James, okay? It's just that he smells really nice, and his sweater was soft, and I... I leaned over and rested my head in the crook of his neck.»
Potter’s lips tightened, something rough chilled in his gaze. There was nothing new about Sirius's affection for Remus. But the fact that he was now giving it so much importance? That was different.
Sirius continued, his hands moving wildly in an attempt to untangle the knot that were his thoughts. «I started talking to him, the thing is, I have no idea what about, James. I really don't remember. All I know is that Moony must have gotten angry at some point. He went off and left me there.»
«I must have ended up making out with Mary at some point, I do remember that well.» Was the ineffective attempt to dampen the moment.
The words hung in the air like thick smoke, slowly dissipating. James watched him, looking at him with dead seriousness. And then, without saying anything, he put a hand on Sirius's shoulder. He hoped it would comfort him.
Then, a faint echo broke the unwilling silence of the room. Wisps of unkempt blond hair emerged from the purple curtains of the four-poster bed next to Sirius's. Peter appeared, shuffling beside them with the look of someone who had just been roused from sleep, one cheek etched with a pillow mark and his swollen eyelids barely opening. The bewildered look on his face brought a small, indulgent smile to James's lips.
«What were you two chatting about?» Peter began, his voice streaked with the yawn he had just uttered. He stretched awkwardly, his eyes narrowed as he tried to focus on the two friends, his irises frosted.
Potter turned slightly, his chin tilted toward Sirius, peering discreetly over the fogged lenses of his round glasses. He was biting the inside of his cheek in that way he always did when he was restless. James saw the need to intervene. Despite the uncertainty and the guilt scratching the walls of his stomach, he recognized the way forward. And so he did what he did best: he turned the pain into a joke, smiling as his eyes trembled. And he felt so dirty.
«We were talking about the party yesterday.» He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, inhaling in a hollow rumble. «I think I've made an impression on Lily!»
James smiled affably, his eyebrows rising above the rim of his glasses, the smile veiled in rueful disdain. And yet he could not regret it.
There was a moment, just one, in which he saw Peter's face stiffen with a synthetic smile and icy irises. But it was only for a moment, and when he looked again, turning his chin three-quarters to him, Peter was laughing, his eyes still clouded with sleep, turned now to Sirius. His face was no longer numb, but had returned to its usual dim features and color, his lips stretched in a tense smile of elation.
It was as Sirius tilted his head, drawing in air to speak, that the curtains of Remus' bed opened with an awkward, abrupt jerk.
The tall, lanky figure of Remus Lupin emerged from the gathering shadows of the early morning light. His hair was disheveled, the messy curls falling over his pale forehead. His face bore the marks of a sleepless night: his eyes were swollen, shiny with tears, and his cheeks were sunken in to a three-quarter profile. The tendons at the base of his neck tightened with painful rigidity, and Remus turned his head away.
He was still wearing yesterday's clothes. His plaid sweater had bunched up on his thin hips, and his trousers were rolled up upon his calves.
He stopped in the middle of the room and looked at them with a condescending look. Yet the brief smile he gave them was stiff, bitter with feeling.
«Good morning Prongs, Wormtail.» His voice began in a thin breathlessness, his pupils frozen in James's so as not to move elsewhere.
He did not greet Sirius, and the silence that followed became thick. The air vibrated with the unsaid, and James felt an instinctive desire to break the stillness. But Remus did not seem willing to concede anything. He leaned toward the bedside table, picking up his lighter and cigarette with careful gestures, his thin fingers stretching around them.
He muttered an absent-minded goodbye and left the room without looking at anyone, his Herbology book clutched to his chest. He walked out silently, but the solemnity of his footsteps echoed in a distorted vibration on Sirius's face.
James swallowed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from the frown that threatened to crease his features. The guilt that had reverberated through him was not his own, but he carried it anyway, wearing it in a remorse that spread through his blood.
Then, he broke the silence.
«So... breakfast?»
But Sirius let himself fall backwards, flopping onto the bed in a melodramatic gesture. He picked up the pillow and pressed it to his face, emitting a strangled groan. The bed creaked beneath him, and James, watching him, knew it was going to be a long day.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
They dressed in silence.
When they left the room, the cold corridor welcomed them in a bare embrace. The pale light of the morning filtered through the windows, speckling the floor with opaque reflections.
When they reached the great hall, the atmosphere changed tone radically, saturated with heat in a warmth that sweetened the numb skin and softened the edges of the soul.
Above them, the enchanted sky opened up in an intense blue, full of thick and dense clouds. Just below, the candlelight was released in a beam of light, nice and comfortable trough the room.
The entire space breathed Christmas. Braided festoons of holly snaked along the walls with a careful finesse, the red berries shining like drops of still-warm wax. The Christmas trees stood tall, their branches bending under the weight of the glittering decorations, which crystallized the light in their reflection. The snowballs and colored festoons caught the heat of the flames, casting fleeting flashes on the attentive faces of the students. Above them, the enchanted snow fell in silence, dissolving before touching the floor. And yet, its enchantment seemed to permeate everything: the air vibrated with a suspended immobility, frozen in time.
The smells became, thanks to the spells, tangible, full, inebriating. The balmy scent of pine mingled with the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon and ginger, while a hint of warm butter and caramelized sugar hung in the air, promising freshly baked pastries. Noisy echoes of dishes being placed on the laden tables came from the kitchen. There were mountains of meat pies that exuded rich, flavorful smoke, and baskets of fresh bread, the crusts cracking under the fingers of the students. Above all, sweets of every kind commanded attention: chocolate puddings smothered in thick cream, shortbread cookies decorated with colorful icing, cakes glittering with sugar.
The three of them sat down at one of the long tables in a slouched stiffness. James grabbed a jug of pumpkin juice and poured the amber liquid into his glass, watching it slosh around in a hypnotic swirl. He took a slice of warm bread from the pile and buttered it well, bringing it to his mouth in a comfort that reminded him of home, the crusty loaf just like the one Mom used to make, when James was still little and the winter chill knocked angrily on their doors.
Absorbed in bittersweet memories, his gaze fell on the soft profile of a chocolate cake. A sudden wave of worry crossed his mind. Remus hadn't eaten anything, he hadn't had breakfast.
With his fingertips, he took a slice and carefully wrapped it in a napkin that had the school crest engraved on it, hiding it with a fleeting gesture in his school bag.
Peter, sitting next to him, helped himself to porridge, stirring it with a silver spoon while he looked at the Christmas trees in two irises opaque with sleep. He moved in quiet, soft gestures, while the spoon drew imaginary squiggles in the cup, catching fragments of light from time to time. It made James' pupils itch. Sirius, on the other hand, sat frowning, his back numb. A sweet, spicy scent wafted through the air, coming straight from his plate of pancakes. He wore his features in a grimace, an echo of the rigid discipline that had been instilled in him at a young age. He cut each bite with a ceremonial composure, his eyes two irises cooled by the usual heat that cloaked his charisma like a veil.
James studied him carefully, seeing a resonance in him that nestled in the pit of his stomach. The face of Regulus Black emerged in his memory, his face pale and tense, his cheeks streaked with tears in the looming night. It was an image too close, it made his skin tingle.
He chased the thought away with a firm bite at the bread, the warm taste of butter relaxing his tongue. Yet pity, sorrow, bloomed in him, wearing the robes of shame.
It was Sirius who broke the silence. He leaned forward, his graceful features breaking his usual charisma.
«We must think of our next prank on the Slytherins,» he announced, his voice breaking the tension. «Or we’ll lose our reputation.» He winked.
James looked up from his plate, accepting the challenge with a soft but triumphant smile, while Peter chuckled.
The Great Hall was alight with hanging candles, the golden glow woven into the dancing shadows of the Christmas decorations. James, Sirius, and Peter, curled up on the table like the keepers of a secret, plotting in low voices, the buzz of the room a blanket shielding their discussion from being overheard.
Sirius, his jaw clenching mischievously,
finally spoke again: «It’s going to be memorable, our very own Christmas present.» His voice was a challenging echo.
Peter nodded in bewilderment, his chubby face rumpled with disappointment. «Don't you think it's a bit early to be talking about Christmas?» he began, drumming his fingers on the wood of the table. «Besides, we can't come up with a plan without Moony.»
James took off his glasses and wiped them slowly with the edge of his robes, his pupils watching the now stiff Sirius warily. He pointedly ignored Pettigrew's musing.
«I have an idea!» A smile spread across his face. «What if we enchanted the Slytherin team's broomsticks? This way, we could make them follow a choreography and make them start dancing in the middle of the game? Imagine their faces when they find themselves twirling in the air to, say, The Nutcracker.»
Sirius laughed softly, glancing furtively at the teacher’s table. «Amazing, Prongs!»
Peter shrugged uncertainly. «What if they take points away from our house? What if you lose the tournament for breaking the rules?»
Potter shrugged in casual resolve, his sly smile creeping up into his eyes. «That's part of the fun, isn't it? It wouldn't be a real prank without a little risk.»
«We just have to lie low, Wormtail. They can't accuse us without hard evidence.» Sirius's grey eyes reflected the candlelight like mirrors.
Peter nodded uncertainly, while James agreed enthusiastically with Sirius.
When they finished breakfast, they each went their separate ways from the Great Hall. Peter padded down the corridor to the greenhouses, mentioning something about having to meet some Ravenclaws for a school project. Sirius, hands in his pockets and an ostentatious calm hardening his features, headed toward the Gryffindor common room.
James, however, remained still for a moment. Through the opaque windows of the castle, the crisp November air fascinated him with hypnotic affliction, the mist that hovered over the lake an invitation to go away for a few hours, far from the din of the castle. With a flicker of his wand, he materialized a heavy coat, wrapped himself in the wool of the sweater, and stepped out into the cold morning.
The chill greeted him with shivers. The air throbbed around him, cold on his rosy cheeks, shy but sharp on his fingertips. Every breath thickened around him in an opalescent cloud, slowly dissolving into the mist that cloaked the school. The towers of Hogwarts barely emerged from the blanket of fog, graying.
The ground beneath his feet was dark, soaked with moisture. It captured the heat, letting it thin out beyond the soles of James's shoes until it warmed the tips of his feet, the hazy, acrid smell of the earth tingling his nostrils. James advanced in an unsteady calm, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head slightly bowed. The gnarled roots of the ancient trees rubbed against the soles of his shoes, causing an indelicate friction.
The sunlight trembled, entangled in the branches of the trees.
Time had stopped, suspended between the promise of rain and the golden truce of a dying autumn. James walked slowly along the path that ran along the lake, his feet rustling in the echo of the crisp leaves. It was not usual for him to walk so slowly, but there was something that made him take a moment.
It was then that he saw them.
Marlene, Mary, and Lily were sitting a short distance from the shore, talking. They were carved into the frame of the landscape, each of them different but in harmony with the others, like notes in a melody. The damp grass bent beneath them, the lake behind them reflected a gray, pearly sky, and their voices blended with the murmur of the water.
James stopped for a moment, uncertain. He watched the way they laughed together, in an intimacy reserved for their world alone, magnetic. Finally, he came closer.
Mary was the first to notice him. She turned in a slow, quiet gesture, her large eyes relaxed. Her black hair framed a face with well-defined, but elegant, harmonious features. She was wearing a midnight blue sweater that slid softly along her shoulders, revealing the collar of her white shirt and a part of her uniform tie, carefully knotted.
«Look who’s here.» She said softly, tilting her head to the side in an affectionate, but sly smile. «James Potter, what an honor!»
He softened his expression, smiling in that way of his. Disarming. «Pleased to be of service.»
Mary laughed quietly, full lips framing a set of very white teeth. «Of course, of course.» Then, a frown hardened her features. «And Sirius, where is he?»
«Oh, Padfoot can wait!» James replied, slyly. He emphasized it all with a weak wave of his hand. «You, on the other hand, are a rarity.»
At that point, Marlene moved. She was lying on the grass, her body carelessly stretched out, supported by one elbow that was digging into the damp earth. Between her thumb and forefinger she absentmindedly held the filter of a cigarette, which hung lazily from her slender fingers, her nails painted black. Her hair, blond from hair dye, fell in a messy cascade over her small framed shoulders.
She was wearing a gray sweater, loose and worn, that hugged her figure. On her feet a pair of black combat boots, stained with mud. Her tie, undone and abandoned on her shoulders, hung like a a sign of deliberate freedom, testifying, without words, to her unruly spirit.
«What a flatterer you are, James.» Marlene said, raising the cigarette to her lips and blowing out the smoke in a lazy spiral. Her blue eyes looked at him, sharp but affectionate.
James raised his hands in surrender and a laugh broke from his lips, awkward but somehow slyly seductive. «What can I say? It must run in the family. Besides, it's a pleasure to be in your company, truly.»
Marlene shook her head, a sharp smile stretched across her face, her cheeks flushed by the cold air.
Then, as if inevitable, James's eyes fell on Lily.
Sitting next to Mary, her legs folded gracefully beneath her and an open book resting in her lap, Lily seemed immersed in a distant world, unconnected to the conversation around her. Yet every fold of her body, every nuance of her posture betrayed a silent, watchful attention.
Her hair, a bright red studded with golden highlights, fell like a waterfall of molten copper, shining even under the gray sky. The soft midday light crowned them with a fiery, incandescent, yet enchanting aura. Wrapped in a soft sweater of a deep purple shade, she appeared as simple as she was extraordinarily luminous. The sweater hugged her soft hips deliciously, covered by the skirt of her uniform and accentuating the curve of her breasts.
When her eyes rose to him, James felt the usual frenzy swarming in the center of his chest. There was something about Lily's gaze, a bright and vibrant green, that was able to destabilize him every single time. In those eyes burned an imperturbability capable of laying him bare, leaving him in a state of vulnerable wonder, suspended between agitation and admiration.
«What are you looking at, Potter?» Lily asked, her voice firm, on the verge of mockery.
James pressed his lips together, biting his cheek as if to stifle a truth that burned inside him. If Lily had asked him a question like that just a few months ago, he would have responded with a cocky quip, perhaps saying something like, "I’m look at your beautiful face, Evans” winking with that cheeky smile he loved to flash. Maybe even yesterday he would have done the same. But now, now James was tired. Tired to the bone, to the heart, to that corner of his soul that had once been filled with carefree hopes.
Tired of being rejected, of feeling like a walking mistake, a weightless shadow. Tired of being rejected and feeling like garbage. And despite the vivid, painful feelings he still had for her, despite that unshakable faith that he had they were meant to be, he found himself silent. Silence crept into his chest, spreading like an echo of uneasiness that numbed his blood. James loved Lily. He adored her. She was gentle as spring rain, bright as a lily reflecting the light of the dew nestled between its petals. She was selfless and generous, capable of making anyone feel welcome, as if her smile were a home to take refuge in.
He, however, was tired of fighting against a wall. Tired of exposing himself, of showing vulnerability only to find himself taunted by fate. He was tired of making a fool of himself in a vain attempt to win her. He knew he had annoyed her too often over the years – a mistake born of impulsiveness, never of intention. And yet, he longed to be worthy of her. He didn't need it to be - not right away, at least - as a suitor, maybe not even as a lover, but at least as a friend, as someone who could deserve the privilege of her trust.
He wanted to be worthy of it.
Worthy.
A word that weighed on his heart like a sentence.
James Potter, who in life had always had everything without effort, without ever having to truly bend to the work of the heart, carried within himself a restlessness that consumed him. For this reason he had to prove that the things he had now were his, that he had built them, made himself worthy of them.
With Lily, however, that need had become an open wound, a quiet but incessant torment, which pushed him to ask himself, again and again, if he would ever be enough. Deserving enough.
And now, between them, silence. Thick, still, like a river that has stopped flowing. James lowered his gaze, trapped between desire and fear, between hope and tiredness. He knew that that need would not die, that that fever would inhabit his blood for a long time to come. Maybe forever.
He scratched the back of his neck, the ease crystallized on his face to prevent it from fraying. He changed the subject, ignoring the question. «How nice that I met you all. I really needed a little distraction.»
Mary interrupted him with a stifled laugh. «Distraction, huh? We've gone from rarity to distraction in less than five minutes. I don't know whether to be flattered or offended.»
«You're a rarity to me,» Marlene said, her tone dramatic and a sly smile fading across her pretty mouth.
The boy sank onto the grass beside them, his round glasses sliding down his nose. «Anyways, how did you find the party yesterday?»
Lily closed her book calmly, her fingers running over the cover in a slow, measured motion. Then, slowly, she looked up at James. «By the way, how's Remus now? I haven't seen him since the party.»
James frowned. «I don't know, actually. Haven't seen him in a couple of hours.»
Lily nodded, making no move to continue the conversation, and Potter sulked. Did she know more than he did? Why had Moony decided to tell Lily Evans whatever had happened, and not him?
Marlene took a long drag on her cigarette, breaking the silence, the debased filter clutching in between her fingers. James studied the charred end of it for a moment. «What about Quidditch, Potter? Ready for practice tomorrow?»
«Oh, Marlene, you should know by now that I'm always ready.» He chuckled, shaking his head.
Then he looked at Mary and Lily. «What do you think of the next match? Any brilliant predictions?»
Mary cocked her head, pretending to think. «I'd say you'll win.» She began slyly. «But only because Marlene will be playing in your team.»
Potter laughed softly, licking his lips. «So many years and still so little faith in me and Sirius, Macdonald? You should know by now, we're the best.»
Marlene rolled her eyes and a giggle broke out, her large blue eyes peering up at James through the heavy makeup that hollowed them. «There he is. Same old James. He was the same when he was eight years old. Yet, It was always me beating him when we were flying on our broomsticks.»
Everyone laughed, and for a moment, the atmosphere seemed to relax completely. The jokes continued to flow, accompanied by the sound of water lapping against the bank and the rustling of leaves as the wind blew back and forth.
James watched the girls as they talked, each immersed in their roles, but clearly connected.
He leaned back against the trunk of a nearby tree, relaxing as he watched the trio continue to chat. He realized how rare it was for him to have a moment of quietness. Life at Hogwarts was always so busy: lessons, training, pranks. But here, in this little corner of tranquility, the world seemed simpler.
Lily pulled a worn notebook and a quill pen from her bag. James watched her movements with barely veiled curiosity, trying to guess what she might be writing. Her gestures were elegant, precise, as if every little movement were deliberate.
«So?» he asked, breaking the silence with a teasing tone. «What are you writing, Evans?»
Lily glared at him, her green eyes glowing in the sun. «Finishing up my potions notes.» she said, composed.
«Potions?» Marlene leaned forward, the cigarette forgotten between her fingers. «You still take notes of that old man’s lectures?»
«Well, someone has to,» Lily said playfully. «And I've got Sev to help me anyways.»
Potter’s face hardened at the nickname. He really couldn't stand Snivellus. He refrained from making any kind of comment.
«Need a hand? I have Remus's notes righ-»
Lily shook her head, a wry smile playing on her full lips. «I don't need anything from you, Potter. But if you really want to be useful, try not to get into trouble for more than five minutes.»
James bit the inside of his cheek. Lily was sweet, but she was also damn sharp.
He put a hand to his chest, faking an outraged expression to hide his dismay. «Me? Trouble? Evans, you're hitting me right in the heart.»
Mary laughed, the sound clear and clean. «Oh, Lily, you know he can't do that. Taking trouble out of James Potter is making him cease to exist.»
«That's right.» Marlene said, wrinkling her nose. «There's nothing James loves more than persecuting the poor souls of students.»
«Me? Persecuting?» The guy folded his arms over his chest. «Impossible, our jokes are completely harmless.»
Another laugh, this time collective, broke out into the cold afternoon air, merging with the whisper of the wind in the leaves. James watched the girls' faces, the way the soft light caressed their profiles.
Silence slowly descended on them, thick as a blanket of fog. The only sound left was the distant, steady murmur of the lake. James turned to Marlene, who was staring intently out into the dark waters.
As morning slowly turned to afternoon, the group rose one by one. James was the last to move, standing there for a moment, looking out at the lake.
«I think it's time to get back.» He said, but he didn't move right away, taking a moment to take in the scenery.
The Black Lake lay still like a jewel set in the Hogwarts grounds. Its surface was as still as a silver mirror, reflecting a pale sky, dotted with the first winter clouds gathering on the horizon. A cold wind caressed the waters in barely perceptible shiver, leaving a chill in its wake that climbed up the surrounding hills.
He breathed in air, deliciously cold in his lungs,
then returned to the castle.
James stumbled along the corridors, his pace quick but never hurried. The castle, wrapped in the solemn promise of silence, towered over him, numbing his nerves. The walls exuded dampness, a breath of stone that carried with it the echoes of past generations, while the torches, flickering and restless, cast arabesques of light on the floor.
When he reached the door of the dormitory room, he opened it in his resolute way and the interior appeared to him in a comfort embellished by memories.
Turning his head, he found Peter waiting for him. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back bent in a posture that smacked not of rest but of reflection, his hands clasped between his knees, pale and still. His eyes, small and bright, shone like coals in the soft light of the room. There was a rare intensity in them, a hint of boldness that contrasted with his usually modest figure.
James stopped, his erect body silhouetted shining against the warm, shifting light that filtered through the door. His gaze met his friend's, but he did not linger there for long, disconcerted. For a moment, the silence enveloped them both in a suffocating echo.
It was Peter who broke it, his thin voice cutting through the air. «Where were you last night, when you disappeared?»
The question fell across the room in a clear, confident sound, breaking the stillness. James, standing still in the doorway, let the silence answer for him for a heartbeat. Then he took a slow, measured step forward.
«What do you mean, Wormtail?» he asked finally, scratching the back of his head. The light from the torches dappled shadows across his face, accentuating a smile that did not reach his eyes.
Peter tilted his head slightly, looking past his eyebrows. «Don't lie to me, James.» He said softly, but with a firmness that did not belong to him. «I saw you on the Map, with Regulus. Do you think Sirius would be happy to know about your clandestine meetings with
his little brother? You disappeared for over half an hour.»
Regulus.
That name, spoken with a gravity that contrasted with the innocence of the memory it carried, made something vibrate in the air. James stood still, his breathing slightly slower, almost imperceptible. Then he shook his head.
«You misunderstood it all, Wormtail.» He began, his voice lower, softer. «I met Regulus briefly, we didn't even speak. I just walked by.»
Peter peered at the boy with two uncertain irises, a synthetic smile stretched across his lips. «Okay, but I advise you to make sure it doesn't happen again.» It echoed in the air in a vibrating whisper.
James didn't answer right away. He simply watched Peter as he walked past him, out of the room. The door clanged shut behind him.
He closed his eyes, but found no peace in them, cloaked in uneasiness.
When he opened them again, the ceiling seemed as vast as the night sky, and in the heart of that gloom he sensed a thought stirring shapelessly. It stiffened the muscles in his back. He moved, approaching the window. The sky beyond the glass was a stretch of silent clouds, and the wind seemed to sing an ancient lament.
Then, he left the room.
The Hogwarts stairs unfolded in front of him in a living tangle, the marble smooth under his feet. The torches on the walls burned in a slow glare, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. That same light reflected on the colored glass of the windows, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that faded in the reflection of the walls.
From the narrow corridors, cold air slipped through the arches, carrying with it the pungent scent of wet moss and the earthy aroma of burning wood. There was something melancholy about the November chill, an echo of changing seasons and unfinished promises. Looking out one of the windows, James could see the fog spread across the lake like a thin veil, cloaking the landscape in a silent mystery.
Hiss steps quickened as he passed through the corridors that unfolded before him. The chatter of the students hung in the air in the comfort of familiarity. Yet there was something in the quietness that seemed to draw out his restlessness. He let his thoughts get lost in the echo of his own footsteps.
He was startled, when a voice called his name.
«Potter!»
James hunched over, his glasses crooked on his nose, reflecting the flames of the torches. Beside him, in the dim corridor, stood Frank Longbottom, tall and straight. His features were calm, gentle: a balanced face, without any hard edges, but one that exuded authority. His eyes were a deep, velvety brown, and they shone beneath a cascade of dark hair, styled with a studied nonchalance. There was a small mole just below the left corner of his lip, a detail James had noticed many years ago and which, strangely, had back then made him blush.
He knew Frank well, and as harmless as he might have appeared there, Potter knew that on the Quidditch pitch, he could transform into a beast in less than five seconds, a captain who wasn't afraid to raise his voice if necessary. The contrast between his firmness in practice and his friendliness made him a pragmatic but attractive figure.
«Good afternoon,» Frank began, peering at the other from his large, calm eyes. «Ready for practice tomorrow?»
James relaxed, feeling the uneasiness that had accompanied him until a moment ago vanish for a moment. There was something comforting in the interaction with Frank, a familiarity that brought his mind back to a simpler order.
«Of course I am!» he said enthusiastically, his eyes bright behind his glasses. «I can't wait to try out the new formation! We'll beat Slytherin for sure.»
Frank tilted his head slightly, his gaze thoughtful. «The lineup is promising, but we have to be careful. They're getting smarter. We need discipline, Potter.»
«Discipline is my middle name.» James said with a cheeky grin, adjusting the frames of his glasses.
Frank looked at him for a moment, shaking his head slightly with an indulgent smile. «You're lucky to be one of the best on the team.»
«Only one of the best?» Potter said, pouting.
Frank laughed, a short, low laugh, and shrugged. «You're competing with McKinnon. Off the pitch, I'd much rather have to deal her.»
James curled the corner of his lips, putting a hand to his chest. «You break my heart, Longbottom.»
«You'll get over it,» Frank said.
The conversation was light, almost weightless, but there was a sort of mutual respect between the two of them. James knew Frank was demanding, but also fair. Perhaps that was why he admired him, even if he would never admit it openly.
«I have to go. I have an appointment with McGonagall, and as you know, she tolerates no tardiness.» Frank took a step back, his smile fading in his imminent absence. «It was nice meeting you, though. See you tomorrow at practice.»
«See you tomorrow!» James agreed, raising a hand in farewell.
Frank turned and walked away with the silent step of someone who knows exactly where they’re going. James stood still for a moment, watching him fade into the chaos of the corridor. Then he moved too. As he walked, the uneasiness returned. Shrewdness nestled in the pit of his stomach, crystallizing his movements.
By the time he reached the corridor that led to the Arithmancy classroom, the silence had grown thicker, oppressive. The air was colder: still, inert. A single torch burned near the door, its dim glow casting pale shadows on the stone walls.
The key jingled in his hands as he inserted it into the lock, breaking the silence. When the door creaked open, an ancient groan wailed through the quiet of the empty classroom. The interior was shrouded in golden gloom: the wooden tables, polished and worn by time, were arranged in a checkerboard pattern till the edges of the room. On the walls, intricate graphs and formulas drawn in artistic elegance chased each other under the dim light, each line the gentle scribbling of a feather.
James sat down at one of the desks, placing his book and notebook in front of him, but his hands did not move to open them. He remained still, his gaze fixed on the door that had closed behind him, suspended in the tension of impatience.
It was not only the silence that tormented him, but the knowledge of who he was expecting. He bit the inside of his cheek, feeling as if he were doing Sirius a disservice. Then the memory floated once more in the echo chamber of his brain.
Regulus Black.
He saw his gray eyes, inscrutable as the winter sky, his frowning face, and his cheeks contrite with tears.
And he remained there, trapped in the gloom as the passage of time vibrated against him and the echo of expectation grew in the still air.