23
Amita buried her face deeper into her pillow. It was so soft, like cashmere—or perhaps silk—and despite the tinge of warmth emanating from it, was as refreshing as cold satin. The sensation felt so novel, and a distant part of her brain—perhaps the small parcel of her mind already awake—wondered why it felt so.
After all, its smell was so familiar. The delicate fragrance of chocolate lingering in the air; the slight tang of burning oak; the slightly cinnamon-y scent of sleekeasy potion.
The girl opened her eyes, but couldn’t grasp the sight before her, her vision overwhelmed by brightness. She rubbed softly at her face, as if it would help her fully awaken. Eventually, her sight focused, and she was able to gaze around the dorm room.
In the center of the room—which she quickly realized wasn’t hers—stood a round table and three chairs made out ebony, the same wood as the canopy bed she lay in. James was sitting in one of these chairs, focused on a canvas placed upon the table.
It wasn’t hard for Amita to infer what James was looking at, and clearly, he was scared of it—of her—of the painting in front of him. She could see the cautiousness, the tinge of doubt behind his eyes as well as the guilt born from feeling that way. Amita’s heart tugged at the sight, and she willed herself to look away, rustling the sheets as she did so.
“Are you feeling better?” James’ voice sounded, its tone slightly raspy.
Amita didn’t answer and instead climbed out of bed. Her shirt was crinkled on one side and she absentmindedly tugged at it, trying to remove the unwanted pleats. It was only when she was sitting next to James that she noted his appearance.
He wasn’t wearing the same uniform he had that morning. Instead, he wore a muggle cardigan and loose pants. As for his hair, Amita noticed the way it curled and framed his face, giving him a softer appearance. She was surprised to note that she preferred him that way, free of his usual hair potion.
“I must have fallen asleep,” she replied, a ghost of a smile on her lips—fleeting but burning, like a lone flame.
The boy nodded, but didn’t reply. He was sitting stiffly, unmovingly, and Amita quickly realized he was trying to block the canvas from her view. She placed her hand on his shoulder and he plopped back down without resistance, back pressed unto couch’s softness. James simply looked on as her fingers grazed the painting, angling it towards herself.
Regulus stared at her in terror as countless hands grasped his body, their movement following the same sickening rhythm of the waves he was submerged in.
Her heart ached, but Amita realized she didn’t feel the same nausea she usually did while looking at it. Perhaps it was her still hazy mind, not fully awake, that made it so, or perhaps it was the presence of James next to her—anchoring her in their world—that stopped her from immersing herself into the pictures of her mind.
Amita fought the urge to tell James everything about her ability to predict death with a single touch, about the unbreakable vows encasing her wrist, her loveless family, her guilt. Instead, she uttered the single word that had grown to mean so much, “Nightmares”.
Something seemed to ease in the boy’s gaze as he brought her into a hug. His hand was both warm and large where it lay on the small of her back.
“It’s alright now, Amita.”
She cautiously brought her hands to his own.
“Thank you.”
The words tumbled out of her mouth, and she was astounded at how easy it had been. She couldn’t remember the last time she had used them sincerely—she wasn’t sure she had ever uttered them sincerely before.
“Do you want to talk about them? Your nightmares?”
Of course, she wanted to. She had never stopped wanting to. The desire burned her from inside out, ever present, wishing to break free. But the vows on her wrist kept the fire at bay, quelled it in a way that didn’t ease the pain, but aggravated it.
“I don’t want to burden you with it.”
James released his hold on her and looked into the eyes. The sun reflected on his glasses slightly, but the girl was glad to still make out his hazel eyes behind them.
“Amita… It won’t burden me—you’ll never burden me,” his voice trailed off midway. He nibbled at his lip, as if trying to find the right words. “I overheard what Dumbledore and that new professor said about the war, about the incoming deaths…” She tensed. “I can take it.”
Amita hesitated, the words suddenly difficult to come by.
“Please, Amita,” James practically begged this time, and the girl couldn’t figure out if it was because he was simply that curious to know about the war, or because of something else, something she didn’t dare to admit had nestled into herself as well. “We can share whatever burden it is.”
She couldn’t help the astonished laugh that ripped out of her throat. It felt so surreal. Why would someone voluntarily subject themselves to the truth—the one she so desperately wished to claw out of her mind?
She had always known James was brave to the point of recklessness, but the realization that she deeply paled in comparison overcame her abruptly. She was a fluke of a Gryffindor.
“I’ll answer your questions if I can.” Her voice wavered, treacherous. James’ familiar smile grew upon his lips, and she felt lighter.
“Do you want to answer them?” He started, wishing to make sure it was really fine with her, that he wasn’t forcefully prying the answers out of her mouth, out of her being.
“I do want to,” she muttered softly, as if frightened of her honesty. The underlying ‘but I’m scared to do so’ remained silent, but it must’ve been perceptible by the way her eyes roamed around freely, or the way her fingers clasped around her right wrist, because James buried his hand into hers as if to reassure her.
He nodded, lost in thought, while rubbing at her knuckles and the tiny bones that moved when her fingers stretched.
“The things that haunt you, they aren’t really nightmares, are they?”
“No.”
***
Remus tried to quell Sirius’ worsening temper as the Charms lesson went on. Usually he would quickly ace the demonstration portion and start duelling with James—or whatever it is they usually did—but today, the latter was absent.
“What has gotten into him lately?” His friend muttered under his breath, voice clipped.
“Focus, Pads’.”
“How can I? What if that harpy snogged his virgin body to death and then stuffed him in a moving cupboard? What if we never find him again?”
Remus suspected that Sirius was aware of his flawed reasoning, and that, despite his lack of trust towards Amita, surely he knew he was reaching. Not only was James furiously loyal to Lily, Amita was also the least likely Gryffindor student to successfully murder someone.
“Amita can barely fight with a wand, mate.”
“Don’t speak her name,” he shuddered and looked around, as if saying her name would somehow summon her to them. For Merlin’s sake, the girl didn’t even attend Charms! “Besides, who knows if she’s being truthful? The Rowles all have perfectly above-average innate magical qualities.”
Remus rolled his eyes. “And Lily has as much magic as her parents. Now shut up, I’m trying to listen.”
Sirius shook his head. “You know it isn’t the same.”
***
“Is that Regulus?”
It was Amita’s turn to fiddle with James’ hands. Her eyes were riveted on the way his skin flexed—she couldn’t possibly look anywhere else. The painting was daunting and James was too…
“In the future,” she let slip.
The boy turned silent, but she could feel him nod calmly besides her. “Okay. Yeah, all right.”
What? She looked at him questioningly.
“So, the future as in, like… divination, right?”
Amita’s stunned eyes were wide open, and she simply nodded in response.
“You didn’t choose it as one of your electives, though.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I told my parents whatever visions I had were gone.”
James seemed to realize they were entering dangerous territory, because he took a while to reply, as if carefully tasting each one of his words.
“Was that when you were disowned?”
Surprised, she replied to his question with another, “Did you believe me? That I was disowned?”
“Of course—“
“But Sirius—“
“Amita,” James cut off, voice slightly harsher than she had expected, more grounded. Before then, his voice had been soft like cotton, reminiscent of textured clouds or stacked ice cream. “I trust Sirius when it comes to him, and I trust you when it comes to you. I’m not picking sides, I need that to be clear.”
The girl’s shoulders hunched ever-so-slightly at the reminder, but she acquiesced quickly. “Of course, he’s your best friend.”
James nodded quickly and pried his hand away from Amita’s, not before giving it a last squeeze.
“It’s almost lunch time, we should head out. We haven’t had breakfast, and my mother would nag us to death if she knew.”
Amita watched as James maneuvered Regulus’ painting with cautious fingers and expertly wrapped it with his cloak. He then slid it behind his bed’s backboard with the promise of handing it back to her whenever she’d want to.