7
Out of all the professors in Hogwarts, McGonagall was easily the most respected.
Sure, she was the Head of Gryffindor—which wasn’t as great as James made it out to be—, but she was also competent in Transfiguration, and didn’t take shit from the students.
To her Lions, she was motherly; to the rest, impartial and just.
Amita respected her as well. Floating in her consciousness was her admiration for the woman, but deep—deep—down in the depth of her subconscious, something battled to trivialize her accomplishments, reduce her to nothing, but an overly strict witch.
But, the truth is, she wasn’t. Minerva McGonagall might have expected a lot from her students, might have been slightly light-handed when it came to giving out Ds, but she never pushed a student who she knew couldn’t be pushed. Minerva’s expectations were suffocating, yet mundane—arrive on time; complete your assignments; behave like a proper Hogwarts student.
“Miss Rowle,” McGonagall addressed the girl as students scurried out of the class, eager to eat lunch, “please stay behind for a moment.”
“Of course, Professor,” Amita replied, suddenly tense. Should’ve worn my tie today. The girl flattened her robe as best she could as she walked towards the woman’s front desk.
The thing with Minerva is that she has a particularly good poker face. She would remain as stoic no matter if she was taking points from a House for a misdemeanour or awarding some with heartfelt praise.
“Your theoretical knowledge on Transfiguration is good. There’s no denying that, which is why I, as your Professor, accepted you in my NEWT class,” she started when Amita was close enough to her for their conversation to remain more or less confidential. “As your Head of House, however, I will reiterate our talk from last May. You have to start acknowledging the world around you.”
Like every 5th and 6th year Gryffindor, Amita had been summoned to McGonagall’s office to talk about her career choice and what she would do in the future.
I’m leaving, she had spoken then, under a curious witch’s gaze.
Where to? The woman in front of her had replied, seemingly unfazed by her claim.
“That means wearing enough of your uniform to be recognized as a Gryffindor student. It means listening in class; taking notes; partnering up when required to.”
Amita had shrugged. Anywhere’s better than here.
“I did take notes, Professor,” the girl tried to reason, tried to defend her failing pride. “And I partnered up with Sirius today.” The boy had practically snapped his neck with how fast he had turned her way to tell her they would be together for the exercise.
“The boy partnered up with you,” the Professor nagged, “not the other way around.”
Amita fought the urge to roll her eyes. What more could she possibly want?
“I think you’d care more about the world if you started caring about the people in it, don’t you?”
As if slapped, Amita recoiled, stepping back.
“If you tried making friends,” she clarified.
She rubbed at her wrist, looked everywhere, but in McGonagall’s eyes.
Why don’t you care at all?
Slowly, she steadied her breathing, raised her chin up, enough to look right in her Professor’s eyes. The woman looked down at her with concern.
You—lied—didn’t you?
She was peering down at her.
“How would you know if I care about others or not!” The girl snapped.
Your powers are a gift, Amita!
“I try,” she bellowed, her affirmation breaking into a desperate cry. “I do—care!”
“Amita—“
You’re so—selfish—, Amita.
“Amita!—Come back here!—Come back here!”
***
Madam Rowle was much more humane than her husband was.
She actually talked to her daughter, actually spent time with her only child. She was the one who understood their offspring. She was the one who would shape their heir for the better. As any pureblood witch, she had been raised to care for the children—of course, she would be the one closest to her daughter.
She knew her tells—the way she would rub her wrist whenever she got uncomfortable, the way her nose would scrunch up when she couldn’t roll her eyes in disdain—, she knew her dreams—I want to become the first witch in the Wizengamot, Mother!—, she knew what to say to make her behave just a little longer; make her listen to her manners’ instructor for a while more. She knew just when to stop tightening Amita’s corset before she passed out, knew the best punishments to make sure such intolerable actions would never be repeated.
She held unachievable expectations to make sure her daughter would always strive higher—like the Slytherin she ought to be—and never gave her the praise that would make her too lax to try and achieve them.
She was the perfect mother, she knew it, Amita had simply been ungrateful by nature.
Which is why she had let the girl lie, even if it had been so painfully obvious—hadn’t she taught her better? Taught her to be more cunning?
Amita had become less useful in recent years anyways, she didn’t lose much, letting her run away.
***
“If you come cheer for me, I’ll give you your potion textbook back,” Carrow announced, sitting in front of Amita once again.
She had managed to dodge him for half a day—half a bloody day!—and here he was again. Sure, maybe she shouldn’t have chosen the library as a hideout if she didn’t want to be bothered, but that was besides the point.
“You didn’t even show up to today’s DADA class!” He fake-pouted. “It’s the only class we have together, you can’t just go on missing it!”
“That’s because you’re a 7th year, Carrow, and only the DADA teacher would be too lazy to teach two distinct NEWT classes,” she dead-panned.
Amita’s book was open on a page about non-verbal charms. She was deeply regretting not signing up for the Charms NEWT. The DADA class assumed its students would learn silent casting in that class—or at least self-study it—and the girl was struggling. She had missed the DADA class, had too much pride to ask one of the Marauders for their notes—Lily wasn’t even an option, she would nag—and needed to learn silent casting in her free time. She wasn’t a genius like Sirius or James were. She couldn’t just go on casting wordlessly without some guidance.
Amita sighed and buried her head in her hands, flinching slightly when Carrow chuckled at the sight.
“Trouble with non-verbal spells? With your upbringing? I’m surprised,” he mocked.
“If you’re only here to make fun of me, kindly piss off.”
“How very Gryffindor of you,” he laughed once more. Amita would very verbally hex him if he didn’t leave. “How about it? Forget the potion’s book. Let’s trade the DADA class notes for you rooting for me at Friday’s practice match.”
He stood up, knowing he had won this round, that she would surely show up and that he’d make sure those Gryffindors knew he had helped her with what they couldn’t.
“I’ll even knock Potter down a few pegs for you.” He winked.
“Never said yes,” she pointed out.
“You don’t have to.”
He placed the potion’s book he had carried under his arms on the table in front of her, smiled and looked down at her patronizingly. “A gift.”
If Amita could touch him, she’d gauge his eyes out.
***
Amita had migrated from the library to the Common Room, absolutely revolted at the idea of inadvertently seeing Carrow a third time in the same day.
She sat in the deserted Common Room as everyone else was off to dinner in the Great Hall, probably too busy caring about the world—she scoffed—to notice she hadn’t attended.
She opened her book on non-verbal spells again, resolute on somehow miraculously mastering them and not having to owe Aiden Carrow anything. It was all about intention, and trust her—she did have intention.
She pointed her wand at the crackling fire with a scowl. She poured her magic into the flames, willing them to dance higher, wider—stronger. They remained placid. She flopped down on the sofa, closed her DADA book and opened another theoretical work on Polyjuice potion.
***
Amita wasn’t in the Great Hall again.
She had skipped lunch, DADA and now dinner.
Sirius didn’t feel worried, just particularly irked. He had tried befriending her, had followed her around for a week when James was too busy to do so, had kept on a friendly smile. He had made sure to include her in conversations, look at her in the eyes when he spoke—even if he hated it—and turn around to fully face her in Potions when she chatted to him.
He had tried, but she was so…so—ugh! She was so closed off, so Slytherin-y.
He knew she would meet that 7th year Carrow when it was just the two of them. He knew she would lean into James’ touch, but flinch whenever someone else came near.
He knew Amita Rowle was hiding something.
He had tried to suppress his gut feelings—even when they were the reason he was alive—to actually learn about her, try to figure out if they had anything in common, desperate for someone to truly understand what he had gone through.
He entered the common room with the Marauders and went to sit on the sofas in front of the Fire place.
There, she was.
He sat down and looked at her, hoping by some miracle that he would understand what was going on inside her head.
***
Sirius had made it a habit to follow Amita with his eyes when they weren’t in talking distance. At first, it had been a bit flattering, she had to admit, but at some point, they had crossed the threshold of what was acceptable and entered creep territory.
He seemed completely conflicted and often his mates had to snap him back to reality with a clap on the back when he would doze off for too long.
James, Remus and Peter had been conversing softly about their newly assigned Transfiguration essay when Sirius finally spoke.
“I just-“ Sirius started, his words sounding jumbled. The Marauders turned silent. “I just don’t understand, Amita. You’re not a brat who insults his mother, nor are you friends with blood traitors. I mean, being a Gryffindor does crush pureblood elitists’ expectations, but they still respect chivalry and courage; it’s not enough to get disowned.”
Amita had dropped her cup full of tea halfway through his speech in shock and the common room turned deathly silent as the boy continued on his rant.
“Mate-“ Remus tried to cut him off, but still, Sirius didn’t relent, he stood up and started pacing.
“It just doesn’t add up! Do you secretly have a muggle lover or something?” Sirius rubbed at his temple, his wavy shoulder-length hair bunching up awkwardly.
“What if she does?” Lily shouted from the other side of the room as she stood up, finally done with the thoughtless boy. “There’s nothing wrong with having a muggle lover, Black!”
“Yeah, but you’re muggle-born, Evans. It’s not the same.”
“Pads-“ James tried, eyes darting between Sirius and Lily.
Marlene opted to drag Lily up to their shared dorm, mumbling a series of ‘of course, he’s a prick’ to quell her friend’s temper. Amita wished she had been dragged up along with the two.
“No- It’s the only thing that makes sense, yeah,” Sirius mumbled to himself before boring his eyes into Amita’s, “What’s the muggle’s name?”
“What does it even matter to you?” the girl finally yielded an answer, shoulders hunched forwards.
Amita wanted the interrogation to end. She hated Sirius’ insistence. She had enough of people playing games with her mind, pining intentions to her actions unwarranted.
He didn’t know her.
He didn’t know everything she had gone through. They weren’t the same, no matter how much James’ seemed to think so.
“Something’s just off with you, Rowle, I just know it.”
“Why would you call me that?” Amita cried out, the humiliation dulling her Occlumency. She wavered to her feet, body swaying as she tried to seem imposing.
Then something seemed to dawn on him, his features elongating in surprise before furrowing together. “Did you lie to me to gain my favour?” Sirius snapped, his face turning hard. He walked towards her, eyes hard. “Did you think gaining my compassion would make us friends? Did my crazy mother put you up to this?!”
Amita’s mind wasn’t working.
She could focus on nothing, but the similarities between Sirius’s and Walburga’s gaze. The way his brows arched in the same arrogant way as hers; the way his eyes crinkled and scowled along with them.
A hand grabbed her arm, and she violently flinched and clenched her eyes shut, afraid of what she’d see. When nothing came, she turned around and burrowed her head in the figure’s chest.
“Amita, you have to breathe,” Remus spoke from behind her, as he sat a bewildered Sirius next to him.
But Amita couldn’t hear anything.
You’ll die alone.
She shouldn’t feel pity for Sirius. He had betrayed her.
A lost heir, an imprisoned son, a murdered husband.
It was war.
You’ll cry to them every night and end your life.
She tightened her hold on James.
You’ll die regretful, responsible for your whole family’s demise.
It was war.