17
“Moons', I think Amita, really has been disowned.”
Remus placed the book he was reading down on his lap, carefully opened up so the page he was reading straddled his thigh. He leaned forward, his face too neutral to let his emotions be known. James had always admired his capacity to remain calm without the use of Occlumency.
“Did you doubt so?” His voice was soothing, unaccusing, and yet James felt his defences rising.
“No! I mean—I don’t know…” He looked down at his hand for a while, trying to find the right words and collect his thoughts. What was wrong with him? Why was he so lost, searching for his words, unsure of himself? “I trust Pads, but I also can’t help but trust Amita… They are so alike, Remus, it scares me.”
When he looked up again, Remus hadn’t moved an inch, still held his gaze unwaveringly.
“I’m scared Sirius breaks down in the dead of night like Amita does. I’m scared he hides it, tries to downplay his pain, that we’re kept in the dark. And—“ He inhaled shakily, trying to remember how he had gotten Amita to breathe correctly last night. “And I’m scared, I’ll see her cross my door’s threshold one day, covered in blood, shivering from the Pain Curse’s aftereffects.”
It was barely noon. The common room was empty as pre-NEWTS students were in class and Sirius and Peter were off pranking whomever they saw fit. James rarely had time alone with Remus. Usually, the Marauders stuck to each other like glue, but he could feel a rift forming.
“I don’t think they’re the same,” Moony started, “but rather that you have them mixed up because the only thing they have in common is so foreign to you, you believe it makes up their entire identity.”
James wanted to deny it. He wanted to scream at Moony that he understood—that he understood his best friend—but the words died on his tongue and turned his mouth bitter. He desperately wanted to drink something.
“Would you think I’m the same if you met another werewolf?”
It caught James by surprise. Remus never talked about his lycanthropy, lived in a constant state of denial.
“Sure, we might have certain similarities caused by similar circumstances—the need to hide, the disdain, the secrecy, the way we get attached so intensely—but we are different people at heart. We react differently and have different personalities. I could break under the pressure while they rise; I could decide to embrace my pack while they isolate themselves from everything and everyone.”
“I could never think everyone with lycanthropy is the same. It’s not all they are—it’s not all you are, Moony.”
Remus laughed as he picked up his book once again. “I’d be offended if you did.”
***
Gryffindor Quidditch practice was at eight and, although James had always been punctual, arriving 30 minutes early to a 90-minute practice seemed pretty excessive. Nevertheless, here he was, sat down in the bleachers as the Slytherins passed each other the Quaffle in meticulous patterns. Even the beaters and seekers seemed to be at it, as he noted Carrow and Black were twirling with the others.
As it turned a quarter to eight, the practice died down and the team members headed for their changing room. James could just tell it was clad in green and silver, and decorated with ornaments as pompous as them.
“So sure you’ll lose, you changed your tactic, Potter? Spying, really?” The arrogant tone cut through the air and straight at James. He did not miss the underlying threat carefully hidden under nonchalant teasing. Carrow never truly seemed to let his guard down even when he acted like an open book for everyone to see.
James stepped over the bleachers, striding down and unto the pitch. The seventh year stood unmoving, only his eyes seemed alive as they analyzed each of his movements. James let himself gaze at him in return; the messy hair, the strikes left from the drying sweat on his temple, the slightly crinkled uniform.
He had acted rashly, of course, he never should’ve attended another team’s practice. It was an unwritten rule—never spy an enemy’s play. James had caught the Slytherins in gruelling training, one which required them to leave behind their pompous image and perfect façades. He had witnessed something kept secret, a part of the Slytherins’ hidden humanity.
Still, the Gryffindor did not let his doubts show. He stood strong in front of Carrow’s taller frame, and looked up from behind his glasses.
“Let’s talk.”
The harshness of his tone took him by surprise. Carrow, however, remained unaffected and levelled him with a smile.
“That’s awfully civil of you, Potter.”
James almost scoffed at the man’s goading, but forced his face to remain blank. He tried to picture the way Sirius did so, or how Amita turned void her emotions, but the vision only served to make him angrier.
“I usually would’ve let it go,” he started and Carrow’s smirk grew, “would’ve retaliated with a few pranks and forgotten about it, but it wasn’t on me that you wanted to assert your power, was it?”
The Slytherin didn’t reply, didn’t incriminate himself with poorly chosen words, but James didn’t need him to. He already knew everything.
“Stay away from Amita,” he finally snapped, letting his emotion rip out of him in waves. “I thought I had already made it clear.”
The eldest’s eyes were still locked on his, had not moved since he had first talked to him. It was unsettling, but mostly infuriating. He wanted Carrow to break, to spill everything, to rile him up enough for James to be justified in hitting him.
“There you go, overstepping again,” Carrow almost whispered, his voice suave in a way James’, trembling with anger, could never mimic. “Why is it any of your business who Amita is friends with?”
“Of course it is!” The shout ripped out of him. He tried to will back his impulses—brashness could not win a fight with a Slytherin—but his resolved wavered. “I’m her friend! And you’re purposefully playing with her—making her hurt.”
“And you made her cry.”
James wanted to break down at the sight of his smile. It was patronizing. He was the one here to scold Carrow, not the other way around.
“I never made her cry! I would never hurt her.”
“I don’t think you realize how much that girl trusts you, Potter. You and that redhead are the only ones she’s ever touched.”
The Gryffindor’s thoughts came to him in an incoherent jumble—what is he talking about?—she does touch people!—why would he know whom she chooses to touch?—had he tried to touch her?—that bastard—just what had he done?
“She has complete faith in you, and yet you play with her, ignore her when you deem fit. You aren’t friends. Why do you think she didn’t ask you to help her with wordless magic?”
James felt a hand rest on his shoulder before he saw it, just now realizing how lost in his mind he had gotten.
“She’s too good for you. You’re manipulative and a bully. And that best friend of yours—he has a particular knack when it comes to inflicting trauma. Who do you think had to take care of Severus last year when that poor boy crumpled into the common room in the dead of night?
You call Slytherin evil, and yet you’re the truly evil ones. Amita should’ve been sorted in Slytherin, at least then, she would have people who stand for her through thick and thin.”
“Captain? Are you alright?” the youngest McKinnon inquired as she set foot unto the field.
James mouth had turned ashy, his words stuck to the roof of his mouth as he simply looked at her, mouth gaping like a dead fish.
“Of course, young Mckinnon,” Carrow’s obnoxiously melodious voice replied for him. “Potter here is simply a little…” The hesitation was punctuated by a vile smile before he continued, “…confused. Now, I’ll let you two practice. Spying is unacceptable, after all.”
James had never lost as obviously as he had with Carrow. The Marlene had to coordinate Quidditch practice while he stood, lost in thought, by her side. He only now understood what Moony meant when he said that words hold as much power as curses. His legs felt weak and his mind slow, the opposite of his usual captain persona.
Sirius twirled on his broom trying to catch his attention. James barked a half-hearted “Focus Pads!” before going back to ruminating. Perhaps he had been ignoring Amita recently.
***
Amita woke up that morning completely exhausted. She had cried herself to sleep, curled up in James’ side only to awaken with a gasp when the boy had taken her hand in his to wake her up. It’s cold, he had tried to reason, let’s head back. Guilt had bubbled up in her then. Had she been stealing his heat?
She should feel grateful for James—grateful for his kindness, for his friendship, for dragging her into his world—but all she felt was guilt. Guilt for dragging him into her mess with Aiden Carrow, for being a burden, for wasting his time.
James had covered them both in his cloak—a family heirloom—and they had made their way up to the Gryffindor tower.
It was late into the night when she finally reached her bed. Had James fell asleep in the Art Room too? Or, had he simply let her sleep while he stood awake, chatting with her aunt’s portrait?
Amita groaned at the sight of another one of Slughorn’s invitations on her bedside table. How he had gotten the house elves to deliver his mail was beyond her, she simply hoped she could find a suitable excuse not to attend. Her last one had been atrocious—I have to study for tomorrow’s Charms exam. She didn’t even take Charms.