Pin It All On Me
Chapter One, June 12th 1976: Pin It All On Me
You go sleep with the fishes
There's no room for you here
There's no room for you here
Wrap your teeth around the pavement
Cause your body's a message
Send my regards to hell
Fall upon your knees, sing:
"This is my body and soul here"
Crawl and beg and plead, sing:
"You've got the power and control"
Don't pin it all on me
Don't pin it all on me
Blame by bastille (2016)
“I told him. I told Snivellus about the Whomping Willow, how to get past it,” Sirius’ voice a dull whisper as he turned away towards the window.
“You did what? Merlin, Padfoot, that isn’t even remotely funny!”
Diisbelief. Sirius would never. No way. It was a sick joke, it was –
“Is that…?” Peter pointed out of the tall common room window.
In the shadow of the rising moon, a thin, slightly hunched figure, head bent down to avoid the heavy downpour, with shoulder length dark hair, walking in the direction of-
“Sirius, what the fuck did you do?” he seized his friend’s arm and swung him around, grabbing him by his shirt collar, hazel eyes blazing, blood pounding in his ears.
“It’s Snivellus,” Wormy said, nervous blue eyes flickering between James’ flushed face and Sirius’ expressionless white one.
“ANSWER ME YOU BASTARD! WHY DID YOU TELL HIM?” a vice-like grip on his shirt, practically lifting Sirius into the air.
Sirius stayed silent.
“Get McGonagall,” he turned to Peter. “Tell her Snape found out, get her to the shack, now!”
Before Peter could reply, he was already gone, hurtling down the stairs, running faster than he had ever run in his entire life.
Don’t think, just run, don’t think, just run…
Over and over, relentlessly pushing away any thoughts about why or how or what.
Don’t think, just run, don’t think, just run…
Running, racing against time, unable to see with the pelting rain, wand gripped tightly in his wet hand as he forced his legs onwards, peering ahead, seeing Snape’s figure now almost at the willow.
Don’t think, just run, don’t think, just run…
***
James ran his left hand through his unruly hair for the umpteenth time and looked at Dumbledore expectantly. It was midnight, and they had been sitting in silence in his office for a few minutes, which felt like hours. Dumbledore had finally poured them both a strong cup of tea. The headmaster picked up the dainty pink and blue bone china teacup and brought it towards his lips when James started to speak.
“Sir, it was all my fault,” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I don’t know what came over me. I told Snape to go to the Shrieking Shack, how to get past the Whomping Willow. I was angry with him, we’ve never gotten on, you can ask anyone… ask Evans. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanted him to get a fright. I realised it was a shit decision, Professor, when I calmed down a bit. Horrendously stupid. He knows that Remus is a werewolf now.”
“But he didn’t get hurt?” Dumbledore asked.
James shook his head. Dumbledore stared intently at him, taking in his cracked glasses, the dried blood streaked across his chest.
“You tried to rescue him, Potter?” Dumbledore said.
For all his mild manners and flare for the ridiculous, his eccentric Headmaster was always so astute.
His mind flashed back to earlier that evening, standing in the pouring rain near the Whomping Willow, listening to Snape, who held his friend’s future in his hands.
“Those are my terms and conditions, if you want me to agree to your stupid idea. Take it or leave it, Potter.”
Of course, he should have guessed Snape would twist the knife in as deeply as possible. He stayed quiet, bile rising in his throat. It was his fault, certainly, for bullying Snape, for antagonising him for the past five years. No wonder the guy hated him. But Snivellus hadn’t exactly been an innocent victim either. Practicing them since the beginning, hadn’t he known more Dark spells at the start of First Year than most Seventh Years? Hadn’t he personally invented hexes with the sole purpose of humiliating his enemies, like Levicorpus? And vicious curses such as Sectumsempra, which he hadn’t hesitated to use on James? Hanging out with mini Death-Eaters like Wilkes, Avery, Mulciber - who regularly targeted muggleborns, including Mary MacDonald (and the Marauders), just as much as they targeted the wankers back? Befriended and cultivated by pureblood, bigoted assholes the likes of Lucius Malfoy, which didn’t happen without good reason, James well knew. They weren’t friends with him for his status or money, or his delightful personality, obviously. They were after Snape’s exceptional skills, which even at his age he had trained, honed, in developing potentially deadly poisons, potions, curses. Snape wasn’t innocent. He was a bastard.
Fuck Sirius Black. Fuck his damned family. Something had happened to him during the Easter Holidays, and he hadn’t recovered from it. He’d been constantly on edge, irritable, jumpy, nervous. Traumatised. He had guessed, but he hadn’t managed to get Sirius to tell him about it, to help his friend. And now this. He wasn’t letting Sirius get expelled, despite the fucking awful thing he had done tonight. He would be sent home to his vile parents – what would happen to him then? No, it didn’t bear thinking about.
“Suit yourself, Potter,” Snape turned again. “The deal is- “
“Fine, I’ll do it!” he called after Snape.
“Fine?” Snape turned back, lips twisted in a cold sneer, rain streaking down his thin face, whiter than usual after the life-threatening escapade they had both endured.
Snape was a bastard, but he didn’t deserve to die.
“Fine. Good. Thank you,” he said, trying to sound a bit like he meant it, and failing, rain mixing with the blood seeping through his torn shirt.
Snape stared at him wordlessly.
“You don’t sound very grateful, Potter,” he said eventually. “I want to see some gratitude.”
His mouth tasted of metal. He supposed Snape had a point. He could so easily have refused. He nodded, sinking to his knees.
“Thank you, Severus,” he said. “I’m very grateful to you.”
Snape left him kneeling there for what felt like hours, eyes shining with victory. He stretched out his thin arm.
“Deal,” he said.
“Deal,” James whispered back.
As soon as he had gotten back to the castle, he had obliviated Peter and Sirius, a powerful spell, one after the other. Both utterly dazed and stunned, they had ended up in the Infirmary. He had given Poppy the impression his friends had suffered a significant head injury, a bad concussion, after a prank gone astray. She had thanked James, surprised, and disappointed in the other boys for doing so during a full moon. She would soon hear what had happened. They all would. But his friends would remember nothing.
“Save him? Merlin, no, not at all,” he lied, sticking to Snape’s script. “I tried to lock him in with the wolf. Luckily, he managed to overpower me after I dropped my wand.”
“Why?”
“Why?” James thought desperately. “Because… because I hate him. Isn’t that enough of a reason?”
Dumbledore stared at him over his half-moon spectacles, his gaze hard, hands steepled together, elbows on his desk.
“So, your wand is still in the Shrieking Shack?” he said mildly.
“No,” James winced at his stupidity. “Snape, er, well, he managed to rescue it before we got out.”
“I see.”
Dumbledore didn’t seem very convinced.
“I take full responsibility for my actions, Sir, I know that you’re going to have to expel me. There is no excuse for what happened. I’m sorry to have to put my parents through this. And Professor McGonagall, I just really wanted to tell her how sorry I am and …”
His voice trailed off. Dumbledore’s cold periwinkle eyes regarded him intently, as though engaging in some complicated mental Arithmancy.
“If Severus Snape corroborates what you just told me, I’m afraid that is correct, you will be expelled, Mr Potter.”
He was freezing cold, the cuts on his chest were killing him. He shivered and nodded, unable to speak.
“I am disappointed in you, Mr Potter, more than you can imagine. I hoped someday you would rise above your immature nonsense and become a leader. I heard you were in line for Quidditch Captain for the Gryffindor Team next year. I even had you in mind for the post of Head Boy someday.”
James blinked back at Dumbledore. The man was clearly insane, but he hated disappointing him.
“You could go and live with your parents now, they would no doubt forgive you, in time. Get you an excellent job with one of their friends, let you reap all the benefits of being a pureblood, spoiled heir - what some people would call the perks of the nauseatingly rich elite. But everyone will know what you really are. Nobody will respect you, Mr Potter.”
“Or, you could do something worthwhile with your life,” Dumbledore continued, seeing as James hadn’t answered, hands gripping the side of his chair tightly. “Redeem yourself. Prove that the Sorting Hat didn’t make a mistake when it placed you in Gryffindor. Prove that even though you almost murdered a boy today, and almost turned your friend into an unwitting killer, you feel some remorse for your actions. If you are not a coward, that is? Money cannot buy respect.”
James swallowed the rage that was threatening to spill out of his eyes.
“I am not a coward, Sir.”
Dumbledore looked at him and sighed, leaning back against his armchair, shoulders drooping, almost with relief. Almost satisfied.
“Prove it,” Dumbledore said.
He knew that Dumbledore knew what he was like. That his headmaster knew he could never resist a challenge. That he was not one to back down. He knew whatever Dumbledore had in mind for him, it was a bad idea. A very bad idea. But the thought of the headmaster believing him to be a coward, and of not doing something worthwhile, something good with his life? He had been a useless prick up until now. Besides, bad ideas were his forte.
“How?” he answered.
Dumbledore smiled.