10
Lily motioned Amita over to the closest empty bed to James, one that wasn’t taken over by his fans. He was awake and, without his cast, you wouldn’t even know he had been in an accident. His smile was as broad as ever and a part of her relaxed at the sight.
“Amita?” She cautiously asked, trying to catch the attention of her friend—they were friends, right?—whose gaze had wandered out the window. “‘Mi’a?” She tried again, chastising herself for using a nickname. Amita might not be comfortable, she worried, eyes falling on the girl’s irritated wrist. Lily bit her lip.
“Yes?”
She looked up and locked eyes with a smiling Amita. The girl’s smile reached her eyes and they crinkled slightly.
Amita usually never smiled that long. It had always been fleeting, always been vague like smoke. But now it was like cement, etched in stone.
She sat down next to Amita, completely ignoring the ruckus the Gryffindors were making behind her. “Are you alright?” Her eyes roamed the girl’s body in search of what had triggered her panic, eyes falling on the scratches at her neck, at her trembling smile.
Quickly enough, it fell down and Amita bit her shaky lip. “Yes?”
Lily’s eyes travelled up to the girl’s own. She was looking everywhere, but at her, stopping only on James’ figure. After a little while, Amita let out a small sob and bit down on her lip to keep the noises out. A small trickle of blood pooled at her lip before dripping unto her chin, but she didn’t remove it, only rubbed at her wrist more frantically.
Suddenly, under Lily’s worried gaze, Amita stood up and exited the Hospital Wing.
***
James was feeling bloody fantastic and, no, it wasn’t just the pepper up potion he had downed. Who knew getting his arm absolutely busted would make Lily so worried about him? He should’ve tried that sooner.
“The way you fell…” her voice trailed off, “it wasn’t nice at all, James.”
His heart swelled at the mention of his first name—not Potter, not you dirty toerag… No, only James.
He swooned.
“You made 90 points, mate,” Peter fawned. “That’s nine goals! Nine bloody goals! And Marlene,” he turned around to face her, “70! We’ll surely win the Cup this year. Oh, and Pads—where is he?”
“Wallowing in self-pity, most likely,” Remus spoke with an airy voice, but James knew he was being dead serious. And knowing Sirius, it was bloody likely too. “Thinks it’s his fault.”
“But it isn’t,” Lily practically snapped, rubbing her eyes frantically. He loved how put off she was by all this, how much she felt affected. “It’s that crazy bloke, Carrow. He did it on purpose, I’m sure. Did you see the way he smiled?” She shivered. James laced his arm around her shoulder and brought her closer to him slightly.
“Carrow’s certainly deranged,” James spoke. He tried being serious, but he couldn’t help the smile from rippling across his face at how good it felt to have Lily so close to him. “I suppose he got mad at me when I told him to get away from Amita and decided that Quidditch was the best occasion to put me in my place.” He shrugged. He really didn’t care at that moment.
“I’ve never seen Carrow and Amita together,” Lily mumbled to herself, confused. “He doesn’t even look her way. Is he picking on her?”
“No, not anymore,” James reassured her. “I made sure of it.”
He felt Lily tense against him. “What did you do?”
“Bloody screamed at him,” he laughed, and Lily relaxed ever so slightly.
James smiled and looked into her eyes. They were so green. She was lovely.
“Heard from Padfoot that he caught them twice on the map,” Peter broke the mood, face uncharacteristically stern.
“What map?” Lily inquired.
It was James’ turn to tense. “There’s no map, love. Wormtail probably misspoke.” Lily ripped herself from his arm. His skin prickled at the loss of warmth.
“Don’t call me love,” she seethed. “I was worried about you as a Prefect, Potter. Nothing more.” She stood up. “I’m going to see Amita.” And left the infirmary.
James tried not to laser down Peter with his eyes too much.
***
Carrow seemed absolutely delighted with himself, Regulus noted as the older Slytherin sat down next to his two friends, Dolohov and Lestrange, at dinner.
The 7th year smirked as Rabastan slapped him on the back playfully, congratulating him for his actions during the day.
It had been absolutely crass—violent, public and lowly. Regulus felt nothing but shame at the thought that someone in Slytherin could be so reckless, so governed by emotions, so Gryffindor. But nowadays, Slytherins would stoop low constantly : get caught pranking first years, earn detentions for insulting mudbloods in public and even get caught assaulting them. But that was only Mulciber, he reasoned.
Not for the first time in his life, Regulus wished he had been sent to Beauxbatons and made to live with the French part of his family. He would take Kreacher with him and flee the war as best he could. But Regulus was too cowardly to do that—as Siri kept reminding him. He fought the urge to rub at his temple, instead opting to glance at Carrow once more.
“He deserved it,” he shrugged, before another one of his bone-chilling smiles broke free. “Besides, I had already given my word that he’d get what was coming for him.”
Lestrange’s back turned stiff at the words. His hand crawled over to his friend’s forearm and Regulus wanted to scoff at their obviousness. He ripped his gaze away from them.
“Was it Him?” Lestrange whispered.
Regulus could practically hear the smile growing even larger on Carrow’s face. “It’s a secret.”
***
Amita had skipped dinner and already silenced the three closed curtains around her bed for when the party started in the Common Room. Such an event was inevitable, after all.
Who would’ve thought Gryffindors would win against Slytherins? Even if it was a practice match.
Something tugged against her stomach and she brought her knees up to her chest.
She wanted to leave soon.
She knew a transfer for Ilvermorny was possible. If not, she’d self study in America until she could take her NEWTs—or whatever the equivalent was for the MACUSA.
Amita eyed the small bag sitting on her covers. Who knows, maybe she could get hired somewhere even without certificates.
She reached into the bag, removed the few pens hidden inside, and laid it aside. She then opened her trunk lying at the end of her bed and pulled out the canvas, muggle paintbrush and magical colour changing paint Olsen had gifted her.
She spread the contents on her bed and cast a quick Impervious charm on her covers to make sure a spill wouldn’t leave stains.
Taking a deep breath, she started painting.
***
“Pads!” James laughed as he side hugged his best-mate closer to him. “I told you it’s not your fault. Besides, Lily was actually worried. About me! Can you believe that?”
“If I hadn’t been there,” Remus started with a joking tone, trying to alleviate the tension, “I would’ve been convinced you had hallucinated it all while under Poppy’s potions.”
Sirius cackled at that, finally letting go of whatever guilt he had been holding. James felt a bit irked at the thought that they were both convinced Lily wouldn’t warm up to him at all—ever.
“Prongs!” Sirius’ laughter boomed through their dorm room. “Come on mate! Liven up! Let’s celebrate Lily warming up to you—and the Gryffindor win, of course, but that’s less of a miracle.”
James’ slapped the back of his head playfully.
***
Amita dipped her brush in emerald green, a colour like noon in summery June laced with the luxurious mood of New Years’ Eve. She looked at it for a few seconds and shivered softly, before delicately—oh, so delicately—caressing the locket resting inside the canvas. It was impossible to miss the serpentine ’S’ on its front even though the jewel was firmly grasped between brittle fingers.
She knew what that locket was—it had reeked of His soul—, but she could never tell anyone about it. Her painting was as close as she could get, because this wasn’t His portrait, it wasn’t about Him at all.
Amita could visualize the water rippling as hundreds of hands broke free, the movement etched into every brush stroke even if the surface stayed unmoving. She could picture the flames dancing above the surface, reflecting gold, amber and auburn in the troubled waters. And yet the chaos remained simply implied, could only be inferred.
She knew that at some point, she’d have to cast the charm. Wizards couldn’t make muggle portraits. Their magic etched itself into the fibres of whatever they were painting on, and, if unable to break free, the canvas would collapse on itself; implode. It needed the leverage to exist for a few seconds at least—like a moving picture in a loop—or to take form through a personification—like a portrait.
No, this painting wasn’t about His monstrosity at all. It was about that boy with grey eyes she had seen breaking into agony over a potion, risking his life for something he had fought against, loving a brother even after feeling betrayed, wishing to save a mother who had lost a husband to something bigger than both of them—more evil, than both of them.
Amita could still feel his lungs bursting from the water inside them, still feel him suffocate while getting dragged down,
down,
down,
could still feel the boney hands grip at his shins,
at his arms—at his throat—as he sank deeper
and deeper
into death.
An owl knocked its beak gently on the window Amita’s bed laid against.
She opened it.
The DADA notes fell unto her bed and the bird departed.
Amita curled into herself, her painting forgotten.