James Potter was hurting. He was being torn apart from the inside, blood gushing out from his tattered organs, his mind driven mad, his soul crying out for mercy. Okay, maybe not that bad. But James Potter was still hurting.
“Then forget about me, Potter.” She spat it out like my name was something vile, disdainful; poison. Yet another dagger hit me in the heart. It was a miracle how I was still standing, and not curled up on the floor with my heart bleeding out its thrice its worth in blood. It was a miracle how my voice never wavered, although it felt like it failed me a few hours ago. It was a miracle how I could even focus on the matter at hand, when it felt like I was floating in space and being pulled down by thousands of bony skeletons, hungry for their next prey, at the same time. The sky captured my mind, held it captive, and the skeletons ripped my heart from my chest. Yet, somehow, I could still walk and talk. But I did not feel alive.
“I can’t.” It came out in barely a whisper. I couldn’t simply forget about her. The way her hair flares out into a red halo crowning her head, her emerald-green eyes that were kind and understanding, her tinkling laugh and amber freckles… It was as if they were etched into my mind, built into it, and if I were to forget it it would be like I forgot my very essence. My own life force would drain away if I were to drain her face away, for one was the other. Another dagger found its way to my heart, and embedded itself there mercilessly. My heart gave a twinge in reaction to the pain, yet it found itself tied down and restrained. It could not escape. Tears found its way to my eyes, and I instinctively blinked them away.
Something in my voice must have signalled to her that I was being genuine, and she spun around in a fiery circle of whipping flame. Her green eyes were red and swollen, but they held a sharp penetrating gaze to it. Upon seeing me, they softened momentarily, and I felt my heart swell as all the pain, the tears and stabs faded away. Then they hardened again, and my heart seized up. I let out an involuntary gasp, and then buried my head in my hands. It hurt to look at her, hell, it hurt to do ANYTHING.
Because this was Lily Evans, and James Potter was nothing without her.
“Let me see them.” My voice echoed in the deserted common room. I extended my hand, hoping that he would see sense and accept my help. I stared into his now flat grey eyes, begging him silently to show them to me. My heart thudded painfully in my chest as he held my gaze, contemplating his choices. When he broke his gaze, my heart broke along with it. It sunk to the bottom of my stomach, and I knew the answer before he could even open his mouth.
“No.”
Despite already knowing the answer, I still felt despair as he turned away and thudded slowly up the stairs. I slowly lowered my hand, ready to shoot it back up if he miraculously decided to change his mind. My heart perked up at this thought, and beat painfully with suppressed anticipation. It never came, and my heart sank back to the dark pit.
“Please.”
My voice had failed me, and it came out as a breath of air formed into words. You could barely hear it. It hurt, to see him in this state. Welts and gashes on his skin, reopened scars. New wounds and old, all bleeding. And these were only on the visible parts of his body. There were many more, surely more deadly than those on the surface. Bruises blossomed blue, purple, an angry red littering his whole body. He had a black eye. But what hurt me the most, were his eyes. They had lost their usual glimmer of hope, of happiness, of being alive. The boyish, childish innocence, the flame of life that never wavered and burned bright, was now suppressed, put out. What lingered was the thin tendrils of smoke, drifting, floating.
Leaving.
His eyes were haunted, with a hollow look to them. Broken, like fragile glass having been crushed into powder. They had a faraway look to them, and fear was evident. My heart shattered again. How was I still standing there, trying to comfort him, when I myself was dust too? How was I still acting strong, when I felt broken too? How was I still trying, when I felt like I’ve already lost? It felt like an impossible maze, trying to find something, anything, to get him back from the cold clutches of the monster inside.
Because this was Sirius Black, and James Potter was lost without him.
Yellow bore into hazel.
The wolf saw the stag.
A howl pierced the late night air.
The wolf pawed impatiently at the door, but the stag lowered its antlers, ready to charge.
Enraged, the wolf paced around before tearing into itself.
Hazel bore into amber.
The broken figure of a boy, lying on the cold, hard, wooden floor of the Shrieking Shack caught the attention of the other, bespectacled, messy-haired boy walking towards him. Tears sprang into my eyes as I saw the extent of the damage. Scratches and cuts littered the other’s skin. There was a deep gash stretching from the left eye, cutting across the nose and into the right cheek. Two smaller gashes ran parallel to the main one. An arm was twisted into an impossible position. Blood stained the once-pristine flooring. The boy’s eyebrows were creased, and he winced all of a sudden. A leg twitched, then jerked, and soon, the smaller boy was thrashing about, slamming knuckles and joints alike, battling an invisible enemy. I wrapped my arms securely around him, and salty tears flowed as my heart broke. He stopped thrashing, but still twitched occasionally. It hurt to see him, the kindest and most caring person on the planet fighting this horrendous monster. It hurt to see him covering it up every day, from applying concealer on his face to wearing oversized robes and sweaters. It hurt to see my friend going through the unthinkable - bones snapping, joints cracking, fangs sprouting - once a month.
Because this was Remus Lupin, and James Potter was useless without him.