Chapter Three - Through Unveiled Eyes
3.1
Despite the looming threat of Voldemort and his Death Eaters in the rest of Britain, the atmosphere at the Hogwarts grounds the evening of the first night back was just as it should be: homey and serene. The sun slid gently down below the Forbidden Forest in an explosion of gold, peach, and lavender rays, sharpening the shadows of the forest and sending them knifing towards the castle; the stars shone with brilliance, having gusto enough to dare try to outshine the first quarter moon, and a gentle breeze was determinedly carrying with it the coolness of autumn.
Inside the castle all was proceeding as normal: friends were settling down before roaring fires to finish up their summer homework, the ghosts were still trying to figure out ways to control Peeves, Dumbledore paced in his study, and I was sitting at the desk in my room, puzzling over what to write to my parents.
The day had overwhelmed me, though I was too proud and too stubborn to openly admit it to anyone but myself. I could not deny, however, that the ordeal at Platform 9¾ had me worried, and the tension of the train ride, plus dealing with fifty new responsibilities thrown in my face all at the same time, had officially hung me out to dry. It's not that I minded the responsibilities per se, it was more that there seemed to be other more important things that should be occupying my mind than if this second year had found her rat, or questioning how and why that fifth year had smuggled Devils Snare onto the train. Needless to say, when the sorting was over and the members of my house were safely into the tower-despite an incident with Peeves on the stairs that completely terrified most of the first years-I was glad to take a breath. Alice went off to bed, and Emmeline and I commandeered the squashiest armchairs next to the roaring fireplace in the common room. After talking for a while in hushed tones about her trial date and marveling over what strings Dumbledore must have pulled to let her come to school before that date, we both retired from the common room.
I was a bit surprised to learn that I had been given my own room at the top of the girls' spiraling staircase of the tower, but then again, throughout my tenure at Hogwarts there had never been a Gryffindor Head Girl. To me, the room-at-the-top-of-the-stairs had always appeared to be some sort of broom closet. Now, much to my amusement, it wasn't.
It wasn't a large room, but it wasn't small either; decorated in gold and red, it held a queen-sized four-poster bed without the curtains, a dresser, a desk, and had a fireplace, two largish windows, and enough room for me to breath. A door (with lock) led off into a cozy bathroom, complete with all necessities and even a much smaller version of the prefect bathtub. But what really got me were the two sinks, and upon further inspection an explanation of the locks-hopefully alohomora-proof ones-became evident when I realized the bathroom was a sort of throughway between my room and the Head Boy's.
But even if I wasn't subconsciously dwelling on the stark fact that I would be sleeping merely paces away from James Potter, prankster of the century-which I was-I would still be having quite a hard time trying to concentrate on a letter to my parents. My mind was a flutter after the day's activities, and I soon realized that I would have to sort it all out to myself before I even attempted to explain the current ways of my world to my parents.
I sat chewing on the inside of my lip, staring off out of my window as I rolled this concept around in my brain: acceptance... Suddenly feeling smothered, I burst out of my chair, crossed my room, wrenched open my window and thrust my face into the sky, eyes closed. "Breathe..." I whispered to myself.
"Oy, Evans?"
I very nearly fell out of the window with surprise. I clutched the window ledge for a full minute, trying to get my adrenaline back down to normal levels, before I poked my head farther out of the window, turned to the right, and looked slightly up.
"P-Potter?" There he was, perched dangerously on the upper rim of his window ledge, tempting fate. His feet were dangling before the pane, and he was lying back against the slanted thatched roof with his hands clasped behind his head and a look of contentment on his face. My stomach lurched with empathetic vertigo and I nearly died looking at him. "What in the name of Heaven are you doing out there?"
He inclined his head toward me and scratched his hair lazily with one hand, sending dark locks flopping about his glasses. "Oh... lounging," he said, as if it were an ordinary thing to practically dangle off the side of a castle tower.
I thought for a moment of chastising him, of telling him that falling off of a tower roof was not a good way to go about not getting himself killed as he had promised, but with a pang I remembered the awkwardness and near-intimacy of the night he had made that promise, so I settled on staring at him blankly instead. "I... see."
"No, I don't think you do," he sighed. He gestured empathically toward the treetops and rising moon beyond, to the stars. "Look... just look."
I followed his hand with my gaze, my eyes alighting over the familiar constellations of the sky above Hogwarts, constellations which, over the last six years, I had cried at, brooded, talked, and laughed at. I closed my eyes, but the blazing pinpricks remained before me, burned into the darkness behind my eyelids.
"No, I really do see," I repeated earnestly.
James chuckled suddenly, and I turned to face him once more. "Care to join?" he asked politely, before I could ask what he had been laughing at.
For one reckless moment I almost agreed. "Er... no," I said quickly. "It's a bit chilly outside, and I much prefer the fire."
He gave me a knowing look, one that said "Ah, so, then why'd you stick your head out of the window a minute ago, if not to get some air?"
Knowing that my previous answer was a lie, and a blatant one at that, I came up with another lame excuse: "I'll fall."
He sighed. "You know," he said, drawing out his words with staged pain. "One day you're going to have to trust me. I mean, I'm just not the type of gent to let you plummet to your death."
My lips twitched into a thin smile. "You're so considerate," I said sarcastically.
"Yeah, well, keep that little nugget to yourself, it might just ruin my reputation," he said smugly, taking care, as he spoke, to wrinkle his nose just enough that I knew he was joking.
I snorted. "Right. I'll be sure to keep that in mind, because even though you wouldn't think it, your reputation secretly governs all of my actions."
There was a short silence. Then, "Are you sure you don't want to join me? It's a bit awkward having a conversation this way."
I shook my head. "Thanks, but no. I, um, I'm in the middle of a letter to my parents that I should probably finish up," I said in a final sort of way.
"Ah... right," said James, furrowing his eyebrows. His voice sounded off-balance, tilted away from our light moment, into shadow. "I guess... good night, then."
"It will be if you don't pull a prank on me or something while I'm sleeping."
"Ouch, Evans," he said in mildly affronted tones as he cocked his head to one side.
I raised my eyebrows at him. "I'm serious. Well, good night to you, too."
He nodded and shifted on the tiling, turning back to lay his head flat against the roof and stare into space. His chest rose and fell with a quick but heavy sigh, and I once again found myself wondering what was going through his mind.
I thought about turning away from the window, but one thought struck me before I could. "Hey, Potter?"
He gave me a sidelong glace, but didn't turn his head to look at me fully. "Can't a bloke get some peace?" he muttered good-naturedly.
I responded with all seriousness before breaking into a grim. "Well, no, you know, not with me around," I said, shrugging casually.
He rolled his eyes. "I don't even think you comprehend the half of that statement," he said, sounding long-suffering. "So... what is it, Evans?"
I took a deep breath, before blurting out, "Good job."
"Eh?"
I grimaced; he was going to make me elaborate, something by pride was not keen on doing. "Good job handling everything today, on the platform, and... everything," I said quickly, rushing, trying to get it all out before I lost the nerve to say it.
Caught off balance by the compliment, he only mumbled "You too, Evans."
I quickly ducked my head inside the window, but before I had managed to close it James called one last thing to me.
"Don't worry, the locks won't open with the Alohomora charm," he said slyly. "I've already tried it."
As I pulled the window closed and latched it, vague disbelief kept me from doing anything other than shaking my head. But I couldn't decide what, exactly, I was denying: that James had tested the locks in the first place... or that he had failed.
3.2
The next morning was cold, dull, and gray, colored by a wet fog that hung in the air, clinging to the foliage and leaving the castle stone slick with moisture. It was the type of fog that would linger well after sunrise, the type that permeates into ones very bones and leeches all the warmth from them. If I had had more sense, I would have stayed inside, knowing that a good day hardly ever follows a thick fog.
But I didn't. Bidden by restlessness and a mad desire to clear my mind, I rose at approximately five-thirty the next morning and, wand tucked accessibly into my pants pocket, set out for a jog.
The mud squelched underfoot and the fog swirled around my body as I made my way toward the greenhouses in the predawn darkness, letting my mind wander and my feet guide me where they would. The air was thick, heavy, immediately clustering on my skin and dampening my clothing, but I didn't mind; the freer my body felt, the easier it would be to let go.
I waved a hello to young Professor Sprout as I passed her on the well-beaten paths between Greenhouses Two and Three, and then another to Hagrid the Gamekeeper-when he materialized out of the fog-as I passed down a stony path that led to the lake. Bolstered by the resounding "Mornin' Lily!" he greeted me with, I gradually picked up my pace from a jog to a run and prepared sprint along the lakeshore.
The water was calm as it lapped along the rocky shore, nipping at my heels, urging me on. With a smile, I plunged through the fog that clung thickest near the surface of the water, watching it swirl before me, watching the stones pass as blurs under my feet, wishing that I could go so fast as to make the lake itself turn into a blur, one large smear...
I skittered to an abrupt halt, sending pebbles flying. My short circuit along the lake had led me toward the Dark Forest, and, as it was hidden by the fog, I had nearly entered it. I always had the sense of being watched when I was near these woods, a feeling that unsettled me no end; who really knew what was in there? I had never entered those woods, and certainly wasn't eager to do it now, alone.
After an uncertain moment, I shivered, and turned back, deciding to skirt the edge of the vegetable patch, traverse back through the greenhouses, cross the main path to the castle, and jog around the Quiddich pitch, anything to get away from the ominous, fog-shrouded, and altogether too-menacing forest.
The sun was barely rising by the time I reached the pitch, the light diffusing softly through the fog and doing nothing to dissipate it; if anything, now the fog seemed brighter, denser. I was hard-pressed to see farther than a few meters in front of my face, and I reveled in the absolute solitude.
Until, that is, a bludger whizzed just over my head, pursued closely by a maroon-clad, club-wielding Quiddich player, who swore violently and swerved just in time to avoid colliding with me. After tossing an incredulous look at me, probably wondering what the blazes I was doing there, the Beater whizzed back into the fog. Jolted by my near escape from severe pain, my heart pounding with a spike of adrenaline and growing anger at the fact that an accident like this should never even have come close to happening, I stood stock still, staring up into the air with growing displeasure, waiting....
I didn't have to wait long. As expected, James dove toward the ground, breaking through the fog as though it didn't exist and leaping impatiently from his broomstick, landing steadily a few paces from myself in a swirl of dampened maroon robes. Thick locks of his hair were plastered to his forehead from either fog or sweat, his cheeks were red from exposure to the morning chill, and his chest heaved from the exertions of handling the Quaffle with undoubtedly all the speed and skill he could muster. He would have looked quite at ease if only his eyes lost the shrouded irritation they now gleamed at me with and the look on his face didn't accuse me of being some sot of intruder.
"Evans," he said wearily, though tinted with confusion, throwing his broomstick across his shoulders and striding quickly over to me. "What's all this about?"
I raised my eyebrows at him and, defensively, crossed my arms, wondering what his Beater had told him. "What's all what about, Potter?" I asked suspiciously, fighting to keep my breath under control.
He narrowed his eyes. "You. Coming here and disrupting my Quiddich practice." I could see where all this was going in an instant, and although James Potter was a force to be reckoned with when it came to his prized Quiddich team, I wasn't about to let him walk all over me.
I snorted. "Me, disrupting your Quiddich practice? One of your Beaters just nearly killed me!" I said hotly, jabbing my finger to point somewhere up in the fog.
James tilted his head at me. "Come on now, Evans," he said in an edgy sort of voice, a frown beginning to slide across his face. "Don't exaggerate. And how was Mischem supposed to know you'd be there, eh? Most people normally don't jog on the Quiddich pitch."
I stared at him, dumb-founded, as some sort of pressure began building in my chest, no doubt a consequence of my growing vexation. "So you're trying to say that this is my fault?" I asked, viciously swiping a piece of flyaway hair from my eyes and glaring at him. Why couldn't he just apologize?
He gaped at me and then furrowed his eyebrows in frustration as he massaged his temple with his left forefinger and thumb. "No, will you relax? I'm not saying that anything is your fault because nothing happened! All I said was that you'd do well not to frolic around the Quiddich pitch when there are teams that need to practice."
"I wasn't frolicking, I was running," I stated, trying valiantly-and failing-to get my temper back under control, still managing to sound exasperated. Sometimes James Potter just made me want to scream. "And I wouldn't even have come over here if there had been a note of practice on the notice board, or if you had told me about it."
"I wasn't aware that as Quiddich Captain I was under any obligation to report to the Head Girl about team practices," James said flatly, his eyes boring into mine as he crossed his arms, leaving his broom to hover patiently a meter or so off of the ground.
I was a bit taken aback by his words and scowled at his unyielding and almost too-protective demeanor as I mentally steeled myself to be just as stubborn as he.
"No, but you do have an obligation to speak with Professor McGonagall about them, and, forgive me, but I doubt she'd approve of five a.m. practices without a supervisor," I reasoned, slowly and coldly.
James raised his eyebrows. "A Supervisor?" he repeated. "Why don't you say what you mean-a babysitter," he snarled, the pitch of his voice rising to match his disbelief at my statement.
"Well, don't you think that with everything going on, someone to oversee your practices would be for the be-"
"No," he said brusquely, before hollering up into the pitch. "Oy, Loring, Mischem. I'm letting out the last bludger!" He whipped out his wand and angrily jabbed it at an old trunk laying some way away, and as the lid opened, a dark sphere exploded out of it and disappeared into the gloom.
"Now, if you excuse me, I have a team to run," said James with forced calm as he turned back to me. "There's a time and a place for everything, Evans, and this isn't either of them. I'm asking you-as politely as I can at this moment-to leave, okay? Just leave. Dumbledore and McGonagall seem to trust that I know what I'm doing. So why don't you?"
"It's not a matter of trust; believe me, I didn't come here to supervise-" I began, but he cut me off with an exclamation of utter frustration as he mounted his broom.
"You don't understand, do you?" he asked, shaking his head at me.
Stung, I furrowed my eyebrows as he savagely kicked off of the ground and left me staring off at him, alone but for my conflicted thoughts.
"No, Potter, I don't understand you," I yelled into the sky after him, before turning away. I jogged back up to the castle, damning the foul mood James had gotten me into and pretending that with every footfall I was stomping on James Potter's big, hard, head.
3.3
My course schedule didn't do much to cheer me up over breakfast. Noticing my scowl as I read it, Emmeline abandoned her oatmeal to whisk the small piece of parchment from my hands. She raised her eyebrows as she read over the noise of a thousand breakfasting students:
"Today: Potions, Arithmancy, History, break, Transfiguration, all N.E.W.T level. Tomorrow: Herbology, break, Ancient Runes, Charms, Defense... all N.E.W.T. level." She slid the paper back into my hands. "Rough Monday, eh?"
I shoved the schedule down into my bag and returned to my breakfast. "Perfect classes for the perfect day," I muttered in response, tearing off a bite of bacon with my teeth and then brandishing the remaining piece at Emmeline, jabbing it at her to somehow try to enunciate my words. "You know, he almost got me killed-twice!-and then the berk had the audacity to lecture me!" I said passionately.
"Don't you mean Mischem almost got you killed?" asked Alice, poking her head out from behind a partially completed letter to Frank, somehow sensing that all my anger was targeted not at the young Beater, but at his Captain.
I sent her a look. "Oh, Potter, Mischem-they're all the same," I said with slightly exaggerated exasperation.
Emmeline rolled her eyes at me as she buttered some toast. "Yes, yes, you've told us several times already. But Lily, honestly? It just sounds like a big misunderstanding-"
"Well that doesn't make him any less of a prat, does it?" I exploded in a frenzied whisper, sending a look of death down towards the end of the table, where James sat surrounded by his fellow Marauders and Quiddich team, seemingly unaware of my wrath.
Emmeline and Alice burst out laughing. "You know, with everything going on in the world, it's amazing to see that some things never change. It's kind of refreshing," mused Alice as she sucked thoughtfully on the end of her quill.
"I'm so glad I can provide a comfort to you, Alice," I said distractedly, never taking my eyes off of my offender even when he caught me looking and stared stubbornly back. He inclined his head at me, as if challenging me, before Sirius tore his attention back to a slip of paper they were poring over.
"If looks could kill-" Emmeline began with a grin,
"James would have been dead ages ago," finished Alice for her, covertly winking at Emmeline. "Come on, Lily, don't you think you should lighten up? You know, cut him some slack; this year has been rough enough on everyone as it is."
I snorted, nearly choking on my pumpkin juice. "Hah, lighten up. This coming from the girl who-"
But I didn't get to finish my statement. The morning post flew in just then, and with the hail of owls and feathers came the Daily Prophet, bearing news of attacks and disappearances from throughout Britain. Two students received tidings of a death in the family and were called from the Great Hall.
Whatever was left of my appetite-and my self-righteous resentment toward Potter-disappeared. I felt suffocated, as though everyone's eyes-especially James'-were not only on me, but boring into my soul, discovering how self-centered and horrible I was. For the first time in a long while, I was ashamed.
3.4
Potions was my one saving grace, a class I just seemed predisposed for, one that I didn't loose much sleep over and that I almost considered easy. It was slow, methodical, forcing me into a peaceful frame of mind that required me to think objectively. Though it didn't afford me the comfort of straying into my own thoughts and getting lost in a self-induced haze of emotion (before I finished my potion, anyway), that was, admittedly, for the best. Potions made me focus, reminded me what I was at school for. And, I thought with a little smile, there was a certain appeal to my childhood image of what a witch was like... slaving over a frothing cauldron, stirring in all sorts of fairy-tale ingredients... I was just thankful I didn't have the warts or long crooked nose that fit in with that image.
"Lily?"
I jumped, tearing my eyes from the surface of my simmering cauldron, where a potion was slowly thinning out from turquoise to clear, the turquoise escaping as a wafting colored steam. In the heavy quietness of the potions dungeon, my partner's voice cut into the air like a knife, sending me flying out of my musings and my heart racing, startling me just enough to make me uncomfortable.
"Yes, Bertram?" I asked, turning to the Hufflepuff sitting on my right. He smiled and a wisp of mousy brown hair fell into his eyes.
"Sorry-did I scare you?" he asked, resting his chin lazily in one hand as he used the other to slice up a piece of frog heart. I saw him glance quickly at me-a flash of gray irises-and then back down at his knife as he finished his task. For some reason I blushed slightly at the glance. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, a half-hidden one that craved to be more than friends, or perhaps it was the way I suddenly noticed how he had grown up and filled out in the torso and jaw over the summer, childhood only claiming a slight hold on him now.
I cleared my throat, thanking the ever-increasing turquoise smoke filling up the dungeon for hiding my face. "Yeah, a little. So, um, what did you need?"
Our Potions Professor, Slughorn, had assigned me to partner with and tutor Bertram Aubrey the previous year in order to bring him up to scratch the N.E.W.T. level course, and when we entered the dungeons for class this year, the seating assignment had just stuck. I handed over the ingredient he asked me for, watched him curiously for a few moments more, and then let my eyes wander past him, to the rest of the class beyond. I played a game with myself for the rest of my lesson, trying to note the changes that had come over my peers since I had first met them. In most cases, it was as though a veil had been lifted from my eyes.
With a start, I realized that many of the students in there with me were slaving over their potions with the heartfelt desire to do well so that they could get a N.E.W.T. and become Aurors or join the Ministry in another department. My eyes welled as I wondered how many of them would be alive to make it to our five-year reunion.
3.5
One of my favorite aspects of Hogwarts was, understandably, its hallways. Lined with amusing portraits, moving staircases, trick doors, hidden tapestries, animated suits of armor, and, in some places, expansive windows that overlooked varying landscapes, the hallways never ceased to offer a distraction. Needless to say, Emmeline and Alice thought my wanderings though the halls were completely insane, but for me, they were a chance to relax, to not think, to just react, and I reveled in it, trying to suppress the guilt I was feeling after the conversation I had just had with Professor McGonagall about Quiddich in the Teacher's Workroom. This break-time wandering led me, surprisingly, to my eventually-planned destination: the doorway of my transfiguration classroom.
I had been following Sir Cadogen (stalking him, rather) as he meandered from painting to painting on spontaneous "quests", smiling at the reactions he got from other portraits when he barged in on their scenery and laughing at the diatribe that followed. I turned away from Sir Cadogan's most recent conquest once its occupant, a very grumpy-looking troll, had knocked him senseless with its club.
Deprived of my amusement, I left my bag at the door and crossed to the window opposite the painting, leaning up against the stone wall adjacent to it and looking out across the expanse of the Hogwarts grounds. I stood motionless for some time, absently tracing the perimeters of the stones in the wall with a finger until the echoing footsteps of a confident stride tore my attention away.
It was James.
I bit my lip, not knowing how to react with him after a fight anymore. In the past I would have ignored him, glared at him, something... but that seemed so childish now. Besides, I honestly had no idea what my constantly-changing relationship with him was-a hardly tolerable acquaintance, a confidant, a friend?-and it was truly unnerving. Not knowing what to do with myself as my pride would not allow me to apologize yet, I settled on throwing him a curt nod.
"Potter," I said simply by way of greeting, careful to sound stoic.
"Evening, Evans," said James distractedly as he walked by. I frowned. Either he wasn't frustrated and resentful toward me at all... or he was pretending not to be. Based on his history, I decided it was the latter. I groaned inwardly; I honestly didn't know. It was so hard to tell, with him.
I watched silently from my post as he crossed into the shadows shrouding the door, yanked on the handle, found that the door was locked, and swore.
"She's in the Teacher's Workroom," I suggested stiffly, turning back to the window.
"Damn it," he sighed, setting his books down next to mine. "I wanted to tell her that we found a new Chaser..." he trailed of. Quiddich, again. The knot of guilt in my stomach grew. I could feel the tension, the un-spoken words, hanging the air between us, and I began to seriously doubt if there would ever be an appropriate time or place for Potter and I to finish up our last conversation. "But I suppose I could just tell her after class," he finished abruptly, before walking back the way he had come.
"Right," I muttered, my face so close to the pane that my breath fogged the glass. Suddenly I stepped back, opened my mouth to call him back... and my voice died on my lips. It was simple: I was afraid to face him. I vaguely wondered if, when I did, it would be the last time James Potter would deign to speak with me.
3.6
It was well past dinner that night when the storm between James and me finally broke. I was sitting on my bed staring vacantly at the numerous lighted candles floating around my room, trying to memorize a concept in my Transfiguration text, when James burst into my room by way of the bathroom, clutching a piece of parchment in his hands. Shocked at his sudden entrance but knowing what this would be about, I calmly set aside the book and stood to meet him.
He marched right up to me and thrust the parchment under my nose.
"What's this?" he demanded in a deathly quiet voice, his hand shaking as he clutched the paper. I glanced down at it.
"It looks to be some sort of notice," I said carefully, gently taking it from his hand and reading it. It stated that the Quiddich pitch would now be out of bounds except during official practice sessions, which would now only be held under the supervision Madame Hooch.
"And...?" James prompted, his eyes squeezed shut as though trying to block out the worst: my response.
"And, I think it is a fine idea."
James' eyes flashed open, and he looked for a moment like he was going to explode. When he spoke, however, his voice was calm, flat, and controlled but for a slight tremor of distress. "Of course you do," he bit out slowly. "But why did you have to go do something like this?"
"It's not like the world is ending, Potter," I snarled, thrusting the paper back into his hands, trying to make him see reason and understand where I was coming from. "I mean, you didn't just get informed that members of your family have disappeared or been tortured and killed, did you? Or that Who-Know-Who has killed the Minister of Magic or taken over the school!" He flinched slightly at my words, as though they had stung him, and took a step back from me. I took a breath before finishing, "Your practices will just be safer, that's all. Doesn't your safety mean anything to you?"
"But we're banned from the field when there isn't practice!" he protested, as though this was of paramount importance.
"Why is it such a big deal?"
"Because!" he began loudly, and a glass vase holding some flowers on my desk exploded, flinging glass shards across the room. I tried not to look intimidated, but the truth was besides that night at the Leaky Cauldron when Sirius was telling me of what happened to Frank, I had never seen James so angry, and then his anger had not been directed at me. He caught himself though, perhaps noticing my apprehension, and after quickly repairing the vase he started over again, quietly. "Because... you just..." he trailed off, and I sensed what phrase was coming next.
I wouldn't understand.
I clenched my teeth. "I've already admitted that I don't understand your obsession with that bloody game, so why don't you enlighten me, hmm?"
James paused, gathering his thoughts before answering. "It isn't just a game," he said, putting his hands on his hips, tilting his head casually back, and taking a breath. As he exhaled, he seemed to loosen all of his muscles; I could see the tension flow from his shoulders, from his jaw, from his hands... from his mind. When he spoke next, he stared into my eyes, refusing to let me escape the old pain and resentment still lingering there from his recent past, forcing me to hear. "We need it-I need it," was his final, simple response.
"Need... what?" I asked softly, suddenly very aware that I was about to be shown a side of this man that few others had seen. The room grew very still, before:
"The... the freedom," James finally settled on, using his hands to articulate his meaning. He began to pace the room, continuing to use his hands to help himself speak. "The escape from all this shite that's going on. You just said that the world didn't end today, and you're right-it's already ended! But when I'm up there, just like the rest of my team, I forget everything but the game. Is that so terrible?"
I hesitated, weighing his words, his emotions, and beginning to come to terms with just how deeply I had unintentionally wronged not only him, but the rest of the team as well. Embarrassed, the guilt beginning to make me feel nauseated, I stared at the floor.
James finally ceased his restless roaming and threw himself into the chair by my desk, straddling it and facing me. He lowered his head to hide his face, clenching his hair with his fists, and muttered, "Christ. It seems so... stupid, to say it out loud."
"It isn't," I responded quickly. Sensing that he needed-though perhaps didn't want-someone nearby, I tentatively went over to sit on the edge of the desk, knees drawn up with my arms wrapped loosely around them. "I think I understand you perfectly."
He looked up and smiled sadly at me. "Do you, now? Well, that's too bad."
"You know, I think we're both stupid," I said suddenly after a dry sigh. "Despite all of our misunderstandings, we really aren't that different. Maybe our experiences are, but other than that..."
"Hmm," he chuckled weakly, sitting up. "We're pathetic. Model students, eh? Can't even get our own acts together. Or, we're just cursed with highly selective hearing," he suggested, as though he couldn't help himself.
I snorted and shook my head. Like two sides of a coin, he is... we both are... I mused. But life keeps playing us in a game of chance, and sometimes our best face doesn't come out on top.
Suddenly, a thought struck me. "I..." I swallowed, trying to come up with the words. "This isn't just about the Quiddich, is it?"
James frowned slightly and scratched his jaw, a natural movement that somehow betrayed his hesitation at voicing his thoughts. "No, it isn't."
I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows at him, silently prodding him to elaborate.
James' adam's apple bobbed as he considered, and he finally nodded. "This school thinks I'm a joke," he said, staring off above my head, his fingers nervously twirling his wand.
I blinked. "What?" That made no sense. "The majority of this student body adores you-"
"Yes, that or they hate me," he said wryly. "Either way, I'm not getting any respect. I've spent too much time playing pranks and causing trouble. If I tell someone off, they'll think I'm not being serious, either that or brand me as a hypocrite. And I keep thinking back over the past six years... sometimes I was such a fool..." he didn't meet my eyes, and he wasn't finished. I got the impression that he was surprising himself by telling me this much. "Now, it's like I use my humor as defense mechanism, trying to call my old self back. It was the one constant thing in my life, and now I just think... that the old James is beyond recall."
His somewhat poetic introspection gave me pause; I had always expected that James thought in absolutes. I remembered his previous words, the world has already ended, and was more aware than ever that something really wrong had happened to him over the summer. I wondered bitterly why no one had yet invented a spell to heal a broken spirit.
"It's true that there aren't many constants left, James," I said reflectively. We both were surprised that I used his first name, but anything else, I decided, would have mocked his sincerity. The air was still, his eyes intent, as he listened to me. "But there is one thing for certain: once this war ends, the real victory won't be which side won, because by that point, the whole affair will be tainted with death and despair-it already is. No, the real victory will be in those who failed to loose themselves along the long, bloody way." I hesitated, not aware of where my insight had come from but knowing it was the truth. I took a breath before continuing.
"We've... we've all been fools, one time or another," I said gently, but with appropriate grim reality. "Like me, today, not bothering to ask you about this notice and going straight to McGonagall-"
He cut me off with a harsh laugh as he stood. "Don't even get me started on that one, Evans."
I bit my lower lip and nodded, my face burning with shame. I deserved that jab. "Listen, I really shouldn't have gotten so worked up as this is so small in the scheme of things. I'm truly sorry about this whole thing-"
"Oh, don't bother with sorry," James sighed dourly, dismissing my pleas as though they were something beneath his time. "It's done. Sorry is overrated these days anyway. It was always going to be a shit time, end of story."
I narrowed my eyes thoughtfully at the bluntness of his statement, and couldn't hold back a sharp, somewhat morbid laugh when I thought about it. "Thank you, for that.... oddly refreshing statement," I told him as he got heavily to his feet.
James grinned ruefully, as if he thought I was being sarcastic. "Yeah, well, sometimes the blunt truth is the best truth," he said lightly as he absently placed a hand on either side of my upper waist and helped to pull me off of the desk, pulling me to stand awkwardly within an arms-reach of himself. "It's best to get the bollocks out of the way up front and stop fooling yourself, if you know what I mean."
His eyes caught mine, and once again, I got the feeling that he wasn't only referring to the spoken topic at hand. There was a hidden meaning there, one that I was afraid to step forward and find. This time, though, I wasn't the one who broke the eye contact first. No, after a moment or two of intense scrutiny between the two of us, James glanced away and caught sight of the partially completed and extremely slipshod draft of the letter to my parents that I had been working on the previous night.
"You haven't mailed it, then?" he asked, reaching out to brush a finger gently over the dried ink of my thin and slightly muddled scrawl.
I shook my head. In an attempt to articulate my thoughts, I stammered, "Er... no. No, I just... haven't found the words to explain... everything." I splayed my hands in defeat as a fresh wave of anxiety rolled over me regarding that letter.
James shifted his hand from my letter and brought it to rest on my arm. "I know `everything' is hard to discuss, but it needs to be done."
I sighed at his reminder and simply shrugged. At my action, his hand slipped from my arm and brushed my own briefly before coming to a stop, limp at his side. He didn't move away from me.
Suddenly it was like the tension snapped. I was painfully aware of the lingering touch on my hand, of our close proximity, of his hot breath on my cheeks, of how the candles on my desk displayed our shadows on the wall behind him, where they danced and flickered, melding into one. James' face was partially thrown into shadow, the candlelight swimming in his irises and upon his glasses. The passion between us was palpable as we stood apart, needing to touch yet not daring to, both afraid to cross the threshold that had been presented to us so unexpectedly. And we breathed.
"Do me a favor," he whispered, seemingly unwilling to raise his voice and desecrate the moment. In that heartbeat of time, I would have done anything-everything-for James Potter.
"Yes?" I asked expectantly, my low strangled voice betraying my frayed nerves. I hated the control he had over me, how he could turn me from the hardest steel to a mere puddle of mercury with just a few simple words.
"You send that letter," he said firmly, before brushing lightly by me and striding quickly from the room. I stared blankly at my lone shadow on the wall, trembling, as the moment passed through me.
"I will," I agreed quietly, biting my lower lip and fighting against sudden, unexplainable tears.
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