16
Amita recoiled at the shock of being touched, even more so by the fact she couldn’t see what had pushed her back inside the Art Room and closed the door in front of her.
It couldn’t have been Peeves: the poltergeist would rather rat her out to Filch rather than help her escape his notice.
Trying to shake off the feeling, she grasped the handle once more, before a hand circled around her wrist, prying it away from the door.
“Norris is waiting outside the door,” a bodiless voice spoke from behind her.
Amita whipped around and threw her hand forward, expecting to faze through the air. To her surprise, her fingertips grazed velvety fabric which she grasped and pried away from the hiding figure.
Her mind couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening as James appeared before her and the weight covering him up fell completely into her arms. While Amita held the fabric as one would a child, she could still see her feet as well as her hands. She looked back up at James, her eyes betraying her confusion.
He smiled sheepishly, “Ta-da?”
Amita dropped the fabric into James’ arms and walked towards the door once more.
“Norris is still waiting, Amita.”
“How do you even know that?” the girl snapped harsher than she meant. “Sorry.”
James walked towards the windows facing the Black Lake and plopped down unto an armchair. He pried out of his pocket a piece of wrinkled parchment and motioned for Amita to sit down.
Amita grabbed the paper tentatively. She knew James wouldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t play a prank on her that she wouldn’t like, but she hadn’t talked to him in weeks and she wasn’t sure what Sirius had said to him.
Before her, in ink as sentient as the paints she used for her own paintings, laid a miniature version of the castle—and seemingly everyone in it, she noted—as her eyes fell upon her and James’ name in the Art classroom. A small mark informed her that Norris was pacing back and forth in front of the room and that they couldn’t leave anytime soon.
Amita sat down with a sigh and eyed the peaceful waters. Even the Giant Squid was asleep, why did they only meet when everyone else where faraway in slumber?
“What were you doing here? I didn’t know you painted,” James nonchalantly spoke, as if meeting here at this hour wasn’t what was strange, but rather that they were here at all.
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” Amita simply replied before prying out of her bag her wrapped canvas. She handed it to James.
The boy unwrapped the painting cautiously and was surprised to come face to face with a life-like representation of the woman he had first met that day. The exactitude of Amita’s brush-stroke amazed him and he couldn’t help, but gawk.
“He’s cute, Amita,” the portrait teased. “Your boyfriend?”
Amita ripped the canvas out of his hands. “No, Auntie. Now go back to sleep.”
“You just gave birth to me,” she whined, “you can’t lock me into that hell of a bag again! I’m made to exist in the real world.”
The girl sighed and rubbed at her temple. Her Aunt’s portrait was the exact reason why she hated enchanting her paintings : she became responsible for them.
“It’s alright, Amita,” James spoke, “she isn’t bothering me.”
Amita relented and handed the canvas back to James who propped it unto the window.
“Turn me around! Turn me around! I want to see the Lake,” the portrait requested.
James obliged. “Better?”
The picture hummed in delight and Amita laughed softly.
“That woman is your biggest fear?”
“Well,” the girl started, “Concordia Rowle wasn’t such a great person, but as an aunt, I truly have no reason to fear her.”
James didn’t inquire for more, but his presence itself—the warmth he exuded—was enough for Amita to loosen and spill everything.
“She was murdered on my 7th birthday while fetching my birthday cake.”
Silence hung heavy in the air, but the portrait didn’t seem to notice the tension and instead kept singing.
“What was she like?” James inquired, his hazel eyes not once leaving her, and Amita shivered slightly.
“Free.” Amita inhaled. “Gosh, she was one of the lucky ones. She had been widowed a few years earlier and inherited both money, prestige and freewill. She could do anything she wanted, offend anyone she wanted, buy anything she wanted. She was a pureblood girl’s dream. She was my dream.”
“A dead husband?” James joked.
“Anything, but a pureblood husband, truly.” She shuddered. “I’d rather marry Dumbledore than a bigot for the rest of my life, and that says a lot.”
He laughed. “Maybe Sirius’ claim wasn’t so far fetched, after all. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear you have a muggle boyfriend.”
Amita’s mouth turned ashy. “I’d rather go out with a muggle than Sirius, that’s for sure.”
“He was insensitive, but it’s just—“ James started, unable to form the words. “His family really did a number on him.”
“There’s no excuse for humiliating someone like this. I don’t understand what Sirius’ can’t fathom about me being disowned. I hear his cousin was disowned—he was as well—how is it farfetched for me not to want to follow in my parents’ footsteps?”
Amita saw James hesitate. His fingers were twirling on his lap and he inhaled sharply. “He finds you’ve always had complicity with pureblood teachers. Especially ones he’s met during his family’s Yule balls.”
“And yet, has he ever seen me at those balls?” Amita grumbled. “No! Because I consistently stayed at Hogwarts over the break. Because I’d rather stay alone for nearly a month in an abandoned dorm than come even close to my family.” She rubbed at her wrists. “I hate them, James! I hate them!”
The boy sat on the chair closest to hers, placed his hand on her thigh soothingly. “You have to breathe, Amita.”
She tried to recall what Regulus had thought her, but all she could remember was him dying—drowning—; the guilt she felt letting Carrow hurt James. She was a bad person. Maybe, she did resemble her family after all.
“I’m sorry about Carrow,” she wheezed. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault. Oh god, James, I’m so, so sorry.”
“Amita, just focus on breathing, please,” James pleaded.
“I would never ask him to hurt you, you’re my friend. I don’t want you to be hurt.”
“Amita…”
“Please trust me.”
“Of course, I trust you, what’s gotten into you?”
The girl tried to focus on his breathing, on the sound of his voice. “He said he did it for me,” she whispered guiltily, “It’s my fault, but I didn’t— I don’t want— I just..”
She exhaled shakily.
“He said he’d teach me wordless magic if I went to cheer for him, I had no idea he would hurt you, I swear.”
“I believe you,” he assured frantically, “now breathe, Amita, please.”