13
Amita wished Professor Dumbledore had confronted her since their meeting in the drawing room. She wished he had taken her out of class, summoned her to his office so he could nag enough for her to make up a suitable lie and then close the case completely.
But now, her file was kept open on his study. It reeked of suspicion and secrets, and Amita knew it was enough for her whole life to be scrutinized by whomever Dumbledore appointed. Although her freedom had always been sparse, she now knew—with a certain clarity—that it was completely gone.
A war was brewing and, while it might have been a distant thought for most of the student body, one look at the Slytherin table made her realize that for some students, it was becoming a reality. Amita couldn’t link people to her, couldn’t put a target on their back because of her ability—or curse.
Even though a few weeks had gone by, Sirius Black still blatantly ignored her since their argument in the common room and Potion class was particularly harsh.
“Sirius, did you have time to read about Polyjuice?” She whispered to him as he made his way to his usual seat next to her, trying to ignore whatever tension had been between them recently.
Instead of answering, he plopped on the chair and lounged back, head resting on his arms. Amita had to dodge his elbow.
“Whatever,” she mumbled and took out the notes she had compiled on the potion.
The class had been painfully boring, Professor Slughorn repeated over and over again what she had already read in the library books. When finally—finally—he asked if anyone had questions, Amita’s hand rose faster than Lily Evans’.
“Yes, Miss… Rowle, is it?” Slughorn asked, as if it wasn’t excruciatingly embarrassing how he wasn’t certain of her name after 5 years of teaching her.
Amita nodded, before taking a deep breath. She would get answers. Even if she had to pry them from Slughorn’s mind, she would. She was that desperate. “I take NEWTs Herbology and Professor Sprout talked to us a bit about Knotgrass.”
“Ah, yes!” He exclaimed, cutting Amita off. “A brilliant shade of green, Knotgrass is.”
Amita did not pay mind to his claim and continued on. “She told us that some wixen theorize it is used in the Polyjuice potion as a bonding agent, linking the wizard who consumes the potion to the one whose hair is in the brew.”
“That is a very valid hypothesis, if I do say so myself,” he started with a laugh. “I actually know the witch who first established the theory. A great student she was.” He winked. “Knotgrass, along with the Lacewing flies and leeches, are responsible for the meshing of the two identities; for intertwining them. Fluxweed is responsible for the morphism of the body, and the Boomslang skin, the shedding of the old, to leave space for the new. It’s all a bit confusing, but highly interesting.”
He took a pause and looked around the room as he finished his tirade before they fell upon Amita, as if remembering he was responding to her. “Your question was?”
“Does Knotgrass and other ingredients that intertwine two identities bond their bodies or souls?” Sirius scoffed from next to her and Amita held back the urge to scowl at him. “Professor Sprout did not know, but she said you might,” Amita edged on the teacher, wishing for him to spill something—anything—to dampen her curiosity.
“Intriguing. How intriguing.” The man rubbed at his chin as he paced the front of the class. “I’d say…No. I don’t know.” He smiled, a genuine amazement painting on his features. “I will be asking my connections and will discuss the subject with you when I have a sufficiently good answer.” He laughed, his hand holding his belly as he threw his head back. “I rarely lack the answers, Miss Rowle, and for that I grant you 20 House Points.”
But Amita didn’t feel glad or prideful at the praise. She felt restless, like the truth was slipping between her fingers and she’d never get the chance to grasp it once more. “But ‘sir, what do you think? Surely, it isn’t Soulbonding, right? Or it would be permanent.”
Slughorn seemed to consider her answer, and Amita rubbed at her wrist distractedly. “I believe it could be Soulbonding,” he started. Amita sat up straighter. “But it’s generally a taboo subject, and as such I will not expand much on it. As for why it is not permanent, the answer is quite simple, truly. Does someone know why?”
Amita bit her tongue.
She had been researching for a few weeks now. She hadn’t found any text that even uttered why it would be impermanent, how it was impermanent.
“Yes, Severus?”
“Because whatever bonding is held together by the ingredients’ magic which slowly gets ‘digested’ by the person who consumed the potion. Regular soulbonds like Unbreakable Vows are held together by the caster’s own magic and therefore are not prone to such degradation.”
“Beautiful reflexion,” Slughorn beamed. “10 points to Slytherin. Now, today was quite eventful, wasn’t it, class? I will request of you to write down your hypothesis surrounding the Polyjuice’s bonding quality, while I inquire my potioneer connection. You are all dismissed.”
Students started packing up their bags, but Amita sat still.
“Not prone to degradation.”
She could not get rid of Snape’s words roaming her mind, completely shattering whatever hope she had of getting rid of her Vows. They had been made with her magic, by her own promises and held hostage her own body. She was at fault for the restrictions and she could never get rid of them.
She would need to forever remain silent to what she had witnessed.
“Miss Rowle, would you mind a few words?” Slughorn asked as he approached her desk. He didn’t wait for her response and continued on. “I was gladly surprised with you today and I invite you to keep up the pertinent questions. You have a lot of potential, and as such I wish to invite you to my bi-monthly dinners for you to converse with like-minded individuals.”
Amita didn’t tell Slughorn she hadn’t been barely able to think of anything else in the first place. It wasn’t that she had pertinent questions, but rather that she had an obsession for Polyjuice. That she had thought of nothing else for weeks and that she could feel her mental stability breaking under how hopeless she felt—how it had all been for nothing, how she had wasted her time over and over again.
Amita didn’t tell Slughorn that she hated the company he kept and his habit of collecting students like prized trophies, that she’d rather poke her eyes out than have dinner with students whose parents she knew the death of.
Instead, Amita told him that she would think about it, and left the dungeons. She didn’t head for the Great Hall for lunch, knowing fully well the Headmaster was already there, only waiting to pry into a mind only protected by its own sins.
On her way to the common room, she met a wandering Sirius. He had his right hand in his pocket and back propped against the wall. His eyes were glued upon the old parchment he held in his left, and when she had gotten close enough for her faint footsteps to be heard, he swiftly shoved it into his pocket.
Amita kept her eyes riveted on the ground as she passed him, willing her shoulders not to hunch and cage in her heart; not to show weakness to someone who had already wrecked her enough.
“You really can’t get enough of Slughorn’s praise, can you?” he started as she passed him, voice dripping with malice. When he realized she wouldn’t answer, he continued on, “You wanted it so much you have been studying non-stop to ask the question that would finally land you in his trophy collection. You disgust me.”
Amita’s sigh wavered slightly, as she turned around to look him in the eyes. As expected, they were as cold as polished stone, his occlumency shields keeping her from reading him. “You don’t have to be so sad, Sirius,” she tried to tease him.
He laughed cruelly and pried his back away from the stone wall, leaning towards her. Amita felt irked. Sirius had been irritating her as much as Aiden Carrow recently.
“You wish you’d get invited to Slughorn’s club, if only to refuse,” she spoke just as cruelly, leaning forward as well. “Well, guess what. You won’t. Because you have nothing to show for yourself other than your rebellious nature.”
Sirius crossed the little distance separating them and lunged at her neck. He grabbed her robe and pulled her closer, close enough for her to feel him breathe on her skin and close enough to notice the warning spark in his eyes before he pulled out his wand to prick at her skin.
“Be careful how you speak to me, Rowle,” he whispered in a way that was more reminiscent of Orion Black than the awkward Sirius she had grown accustomed to.
“Or what?” She risked, proof of her sorting in Gryffindor rather than Slytherin.
They looked at each other for a little while before his gaze was broken by Slughorn locking the brewing class’ door and freezing at the sight of them.
“Everything alright there, Miss Rowle?”
Amita bit her lip as a scowl of disgust crept up her face, the name making her skin crawl more than when Sirius had said it.
In the end, the girl didn’t answer, simply pried herself from a somewhat weakened Sirius and left the dungeons.