21
James and Amita were sitting together in the Gryffindor common room after curfew.
The familiarity of the crackling flames and the boy’s presence made Amita feel relaxed. A part of her mind however—faint enough the girl paid it no mind—wondered why they both only seemed to talk when no one was around.
And so, there they were, hunched over James’ charmed map of Hogwarts, watching as the Headmaster paced back and forth in his office. Next to them, various paints were scattered on the floor and a bare canvas laid on the girl’s thighs. They had quickly come to the conclusion that entering Dumbledore’s office uninvited would be impossible and Amita had instead sent the headmaster a letter requesting a visit.
The plan should be simple enough: Amita would bring the man a new painting and James would trail behind her, covered by the cloak and search for her painting. It was incredibly risky, they both knew it, but despite it all, the ordeal seemed to make James particularly excited. Amita wondered if that was how he was—coming up with plan after plan, proposition after proposition—when he elaborated pranks with the marauders, how he was when faced with a challenge.
Amita felt herself growing feverish as well, restlessness coursing through her veins at the thought of getting her painting back from Dumbledore of all people. What they were about to do—what she was about to do—was an act of complete freedom. Amita could be free—she is free. For the first time, she could break rules without fearing for her life. There was no vow stopping her from acting.
Her fingers thrummed on the table as the two Gryffindors tried to figure out where in the room her painting might be hiding. Amita believe it to still be behind the man’s desk, where she had last seen it, but James argued that he most likely had moved it, that a full-sized painting would be too bulky to remain left in the open.
She had conceded quickly, and instead devised hypotheses as to where Dumbledore had placed it. Their best guess was that he had hung it up in the room, or propped it between a shelf and a wall—but he probably hung it up, James had reasoned, because your paintings are too well made to remain hidden. She had blushed at the comment.
***
James was sprawled unto a burgundy couch, legs dangling and head turned towards Amita. She was sitting on the floor, her back pressed unto that same couch. He watched as she dipped her paintbrush into ivory paint and dragged it across her canvas, unto the sketch she had drawn half-heartedly.
He couldn’t understand how she could go from such a sketch to a nearly realistic painting. The image of Amita’s aunt came to mind and he corrected himself—to a photo-realistic painting, a lifelike painting. He remembered the way the woman’s face moved, articulated, how the skin pulled taut in places and soft in others, like any regular living person.
Amita now picked up a deep blue and a tad of crimson which she mixed and applied to the portrait’s hair. James didn’t know who she was painting. It was clearly a man older than they were, but clearly younger than his parents. He couldn’t liken the man’s appearance to any wizarding family he could think of. While his dark waves and sharp jaw reminded him of Sirius, his cheekbones weren’t as sharp as the Black family’s and his lips were thinner. And his eyes? Well, they looked strikingly similar to Amita’s jet black ones rather than Sirius’ grey ones.
James supposed the man might be another one of her relatives. He simply hoped she wasn’t painting him because she had trauma regarding his death as well.
“Who are you painting?” He finally dared ask. Amita recoiled at the sound of his voice, concentrated on her painting, and her shoulders tensed when his question seemingly reached her.
“No one,” she replied flatly while continuing to paint. He didn’t miss the slight tremble in her fingers, however, nor the way she raised her brush from the surface ever so slightly so she wouldn’t accidentally smudge the paint with unforeseen movements.
“Family?”
“No.”
The conversation quickly died down, and James was reluctant to continue it, dreading the idea of making the girl uncomfortable. Instead, he watched over her shoulder as she painted, absentmindedly running the tips of her hair between his fingers. Gradually, his eyes trailed away from the painting to solely watch her, paid attention to the way her shoulders loosened, her clavicle moved and her breathing lowered. He fell into intermittent sleep, lulled by the sound of bristles on canvas and soft exhales.
When the painting was nearly finished and the midnight blue sky outside the window was slowly but surely growing lighter, Amita dipped her brush into crimson. The red that reminded James of passion, of Gryffindor, of home, was dropped across the man’s irises. He watched, entranced, still half asleep, as the red hue mixed with the jet black, until it was nothing but an undertone. The red had disappeared beneath the man’s gaze and it did nothing but make him look strangely inhuman, as if James was not looking at a wizard, but rather at a spirit, or perhaps a magical creature of sorts.
Amita washed her brushes, placed her supplies into her bag—the one he quickly realized was illegally expanded—placed a blanket unto his shoulders with a small smile and went to sleep. He smiled back, but she had already gone up the stairs, and he was already succumbing to the weight of his eyelids.
***
Sirius woke up to the whispering pair of Remus and Peter, mumbling and scratching at their heads annoyingly. He threw one of his pillows over in the hopes of quelling the question marks he could practically see floating above their heads, but they swiftly dodged it—Remus with his superhuman reflexes and Peter with his scarily accurate ability to sense danger—and went back to gossiping.
He growled, annoyed, and stood up, grabbed the pair of trousers and shirt he had placed on his bedside the night before, and trudged towards their shared bathroom. Even with the door closed, he could hear them talking, and he fought the urge to slam his head unto the countertop and instead opted to splash water unto his face.
He breathed. He had no reason to be this angry towards his friends. Not when it was barely 8 in the morning.
Sirius quickly showered, dressed up, and cast a few beauty charms to dry his hair and place them. When he opened the door, expecting to be met with the sight of his dorm mates, already ready like they usually were, he was surprised to see James with dishevelled hair and wearing the same clothes as he had yesterday.
He smirked. “Finally got over Evans, Prongs?” he asked, tone amused.
Peter’s eyes opened comically wide and he slapped his hand over his mouth. “Is that the reason you didn’t come back to sleep? Because of a girl?”
Sirius’ laugh burst out of him and he wrapped his arm around Peter, bringing him closer. “Let me tell you what it is birds really want, Pete. After shagging, they need to be cuddled and praised, or they’ll feel insecure.”
Remus rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment. James, on the other hand, turned bright red. “I didn’t shag a girl! I just… fell asleep. In the common room.”
Sirius felt amused at his friend’s reaction. He had never demonstrated any interest in other girls, but Lily. And yet, it seemed like he really had passed the night with someone, even if it had only been a night of talking by the fireplace.
“And you had the mind to cover yourself with a blanket before falling asleep, is that it?” Remus teased, his eyes meeting Sirius’ with complicity.
“What? No, but,” he trailed off, as if suddenly realizing how suspicious he was being. He looked at Sirius as well, but where Remus’ gaze was amused and conspiratorial, James’ was wide and anxious. Sirius’ stomach churned, his intuition telling him not to let him speak, leave the room and act like nothing had happened. “Okay, I.. I was with Amita. We were talking, and I fell asleep.”
Sirius tensed. Of course, he had been with Amita, who was he kidding. The girl latched unto to him like a bloodsucking leech, never letting anyone close but him and that crazy Carrow. She was bad news. He should have worked harder to keep her away from his best mate. She was manipulating James like she had manipulated him, with false hopes of friendship and understanding.
He shuddered to think about the lies she had told him. Was James next? What was his batshit insane mother thinking? What was she planning?
He just didn’t understand how blind his friends remained to it all. How could Peter dismiss the absolutely capital information they had received with a giggle? How could Remus simply smile, as if he knew something even Sirius didn’t? He had warned them, over and over, not to trust purebloods. He had repeated, again and again, how dangerous they were, how cunning they could be! How could they remain so naive?
He slammed the dorm room behind himself and left for the courtyard. Perhaps the winter morning air would numb his mind enough so he’d manage to face Amita in class without accidentally clawing her eyes out.
***
James knew Sirius didn’t like Amita, but he hadn't thought his friend held so much hatred for the girl. He had only seen Pads with such a disdainful face when he couldn’t avoid talking about his family. And he truly despised them—James did as well, of course. How could he not when they had tortured his best mate simply for being himself?
But even with the limited information he had on the Black family, he could easily tell Amita wasn’t like them. She had not once talked about muggleborns or muggles being subhuman, and could even envision herself in a relationship with a muggle.
“Amita is going to meet Dumbledore, this morning,” James spoke to Remus and Peter, not acknowledging the way Sirius had run out. “She was really anxious about it. I’m thinking of heading up there with her before class.”
Remus nodded and Peter worriedly asked if she was alright. “Amita is really nice, I hope she’s not in trouble.”
She won’t be if we don’t get caught, James thought. “You can go to breakfast, I’ll meet you both in Charms.”
With a tap on the back and a see you later!, they were gone and James rummaged in his trunk for the cloak and the map. They didn’t particularly need the latter, but if things went awry and Amita had to leave before him, he’d need it to make a swift escape when someone else opened the door and entered the office.
He quickly cleaned up, wore a fresh uniform and spelled his shoes silent, before heading down to the common room. It was nearly deserted, two second-year students sat in a corner trying to finish their assignments for morning classes, but everyone else was in the Great Hall enjoying breakfast.
His stomach grumbled at the thought of breakfast, but he willed the thought away, and spelled his stomach silent as well. He couldn’t afford the sound of his hunger betraying him.
Amita quickly made her way down the stairs with her painting covered by a piece of cloth under her arm. Her hair was slightly puffy from brushing and she spelled the frizz away when she noticed him looking at it.
“I did my best, but um…” She started, rubbing her neck sheepishly. “An all-nighter takes a certain toll on your body and even spells can’t fully conceal them.”
James thought she seemed particularly well put together, all things considered. It was only the faint blueish hue under her slightly droopy eyes that betrayed her lack of sleep.
“Ready?”
She nodded quickly, opened the Gryffindor Tower’s dorm and stepped out, James in tow.