an unholy hour
The staccato rhythm of her boots—piercing clips on stone, muffled thuds on rug, pause, pivot, repeat—strikes a sharp contrast to the steady, throbbing ache reverberating in every recess of his brain.
Nearly a year has passed, maybe a year and a few months, since he's been in this chair, in her office, in deep fucking trouble, but he hasn't forgotten their roles. She needs to say her piece, and when she is finished, he'll be expected to account for himself.
He doesn't have a good defence, so he's opting for a simple version of the truth: he'd snapped.
The full truth: finally fucking snapped, because it'd been a bloody long time coming.
As those vile words spewed from that git's mouth, James felt his proverbial straw cracking, shattering, collapsing the massive, heaping pile of bullshit he'd been shouldering for the last several months.
See? Snapped.
He can't tell her any version of the truth just yet on account that she is, he estimates, only about a third of the way through her tirade.
She is angry, too—angrier than he can recall ever having seen her before. And although she's been going strong for nearly quarter of an hour, she doesn't show any signs of slowing down. Her voice is cutting, rising and falling in a continuous, disappointed stream of 'conduct unbecoming of his badge' and 'giving into provocation' and 'proper channels of communication.'
Bullshit, again, just a different flavor.
It's not that he doesn't deserve it, because he does; he knowshe does. Still, he cannot force himself to listen.
—to listen, that is. Put on a smile, too, to charm her, but tonight he's too damn fatigued to even feign contrition to try and appease her.
With slumped shoulders, elbows on his knees, and face in his hands, fucking exhausted and beaten to shit—literally andmetaphorically, he notes wryly—James sinks further into the chair and surrenders to the thrumming in his brain.
one hour earlier
He'd asked Lily, more than once, how she was able to ignore the taunts.
Practice, she always answered with the same, sad smile, years and years of practice. The resigned curve of her mouth, the way her eyes dimmed as she said it—that was enough to make his blood—his pure blood—boil, but it wasn't his place to tell her she should retaliate. She wouldn't retaliate, wouldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing they'd got to her, for one thing. For another, he couldn't understand—not completely; so he kept his mouth shut.
She could handle herself, anyway; she didn't need a goddamn protector.
He could handle being insulted, too.
Blood traitor.
Dumbledore's Pet.
Mudblood lover.
He kept his wand in check like a proper head boy should, but the anger didn't dissipate. He tucked it away, burying it down. He could deal. He forced himself to. After all, she dealt with much, much worse. He was sure he didn't know the half of it.
It'd been nothing new, tonight, trying to wrap up rounds. He already had the damn point deduction form mentally composed—use of mudblood, blood traitor, five points. He was two fucking breaths away from telling the idiot he'd caught out after hours to bugger off when that wankstain, slimy, son-of-a-bastard brought herinto it.
Her. This amazing, fantastic girl he was pretty damn sure he loved.
The sick things he was saying…it wasn't going to fly.
It was a split second decision. (Weren't they always?)
Not trusting himself to leave it at a common jinx, he threw his wand to the ground and his fist into the arsehole's jaw. Damn it to hell if that crunch, flesh on flesh, wasn't the most fucking satisfying thing he'd heard all day.
The idiot responded with a punch of his own before he could even feel properly satisfied about it, though. His glasses had been knocked clean off his face and it was, really, a free for all.
Minutes later—five, ten, he wasn't sure—and both were sweaty, bloody messes; robes torn; bruises already blooming; neither quite able to get the upper hand.
He'd never been a good fighter, wasn't sure why in the fuck he'd thought it was a good idea to start one tonight. Of course, he hadn't been fucking thinking, had he?
Then they'dcome, the green and silver cronies—dark marks in training, he and the lads called them—and it was three against one. Not that that stopped them.
He didn't stand a chance.
They beat him damned near unconscious, were just about to try out Merlin knows what foul curse on him, when McGonagall happened upon them all in the far recesses of the third floor corridor.
You'd think being beaten nearly half conscious would garner some sympathy, but it was McGonagall.
an unholy hour, and then some
The office has gone silent. No footsteps. No lecture. Shit; he didn't think he'd been so far gone that he would have missed her wind down.
He lowers his hands and looks up expecting to meet her stern glare only to find her shoulders sagging, her head tilted, watching him, and her face pressed into a small, cheerless smile. Her eyes, peering at him over the top of her thin wire glasses, are lined with dark circles. She seems as tired as he feels, and that has more of an effect on him than all the rest.
"Look," he exhales, launching into an explanation, "I know I shouldn't have—"
"I'm not interested in your apologies, Potter."
Since when? Wisely, he keeps this particular observation to himself. Keep it simple James. The fewer syllables, the better. "Ma'am?"
She nods curtly. "For once, Potter, I do not want your apologies. You were in the wrong—that is obvious—but I do understand."
He can't keep the disbelief from his voice, though he does try, when he asks, "You do?"
She ignores his question and counters with one of her own. "What is it they were saying?
"Lily." It is enough of an explanation as he feels he needs to give.
"I don't see Miss Evans here, in my office, beaten half unconscious, dripping blood onto my carpet."
He looks down—as if she'd be lying or something—and, fuck,small pools of blood form at his feet—pools, plural, because he is bleeding from more than one place; he hadn't noticed.
"Take this," she says, handing him a cool, wet rag. She waits patiently, or as patiently as an angry McGonagall can, while he cleans himself best as he can manage. As soon as she deems him clean enough, she vanishes the rag back into the abyss, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
They stare at each other for a long moment before she prompts, "Out with it, then."
Right. Explanation.
He tries to order his thoughts, to gather them neatly and present them in a way that would best explain and appeal to her sensibilities, but it's impossible. Something, for the second time that night, snaps in his brain and words tumble out—tangled, messy, thudding to the ground before he is aware of the weight or the consequences. He is too tired to care, anyway, so he finds himself, quite by accident, asking the wrong question.
"Do you know how many times a day I hear the word mudblood, professor?"
Without waiting for a response, he continues, "Too damn many. Once is too many, but you've seen the reports. Do you know how bleeding exhausting it is to dock points?"
It's his turn to pace now, feet stomping lines into the floor. Trying to, but his ankle is sprained and maybe broken. It doesn't matter, though; the anger is surging up, an antiseptic, numbing the pain. He laughs mirthlessly, not bothering to keep the derision from his voice, "Points! As it if that makes any damn difference in the world to them! As if anything matters to them but being prejudiced, wanking bastards who think they're better than everyone else because their blood is pure. It's fucking not. She's better than any of them—than all of them. They fucking know it, too."
"Potter."
He doesn't slow down, doesn't give her a change to edge in, but he takes the hint—the warning in her voice always did have the subtlety of a bludger. "I was finishing up patrol and I ran into him—just the one. That…bastard said that Evans, Lily, was a special target. Which we knew, after Christmas, we both knew we were targets. You know that." he said, nodding at her, "But he— Professor, the shithe was saying. He's a sick bastard. You know what they're doing to muggleborns now? The women? They're fucking rapingthem."
She keeps her voice even, though she pales, and her eyes widen. "That hasn't been reported in the Prophet, Potter."
"That doesn't mean it's not happening."
She nods her agreement. "Continue on, Mr. Potter, but mind your mouth."
"That, Professor, is the shite he was saying. About Lily. Lily.And, he called her a mudblood cunt—"He glances at her, sees her flinch. Good. She should flinch at that.He carries on, "—and —and I'm supposed to take points for that? You cannot honestly stand there, Professor, and tell me to take pointsand file a report for that as if it's going to make a fucking damn bit of difference in the world!"
"Potter, did throwing punches make a damn bit of difference in the world?"
It's his turn to wince. She has a point, course she does. "No." He didn't have to like it.
"Then why on earth did you do it?"
"I couldn't not.I can't not."
She sniffs the air. "That's dung, Potter, and you know it. You could, you can. They're tryingto provoke you. They want a rise out of you."
"Well, it's bloody working, alright?" He shouts at her, specifically, rather that the room in general. He knows he's crossed a line. Her entire body rights itself: her shoulders unwrinkle to her full height; her mouth straightens into a razor thin line; her palms flatten out on her desk, as if they've been ironed.
He's realizes, too late, that his outbursts have probably made his situation much, much worse.
Fuck.
He sits down, spent, and anyway, his head is reeling. He waits for his verdict.
"Three months."
Fucking harsh, McGee, he thinks, but he deserves it. He isHead Boy after all but, still, three months?For the first time tonight, he keeps himself in check—mostly—and acknowledges this with a curt nod and, "Fine."
"Potter?"
"Three months' detention, right? Will they be here, or—"
"I'm not going to give you a detention."
Before he can stop himself, "You don't have to pity me, professor, simply because I got my arse kicked."
Shut up. SHUT UP, you sodding fuck. Do you want detention?
There's no trace of pity in her voice when she says, "I don't pity you, Potter. You threw punches, you deserved that bit. You don't deserve detention though. Or perhaps you do, but I shall—against my better judgment, mind—refrain from giving you one. At any rate, you don't deserve any of the rest of it." Her voice softens as she adds, "Neither of you do."
He nods, swallowing, and takes a moment to steady his voice. "Ma'am? Thank you for that. But...three months? All due respect—and I mean that—but what are you talking about?"
"Three months left until graduation."
"Don't I know it."
"Clearly not, Potter, since your normally brilliant mind couldn't make the connection. What are your post-graduation plans?"
"Plans?" he asks, rather stupidly, for she responds in kind. "Did those hard knocks affect your hearing, Potter?"
"No." he shakes his head, and bites back a wave of nausea. "Maybe, actually. After Hogwarts though? I just—I don't know. I thought I did. But I don't...I don't know now." Then, quite suddenly he does know exactly—exactly—what his plans are. "Do somethingabout this. All of it. Anything. I can't not."
She inclines her head slightly. "You may well get your chance. For now, however, you need to be the better man."
"That's shite advice, Professor." Bleeding hell, you idiot.He can't help it though, it isshite advice.
She's just as matter of fact in her response, and it strikes him, quite suddenly, that her frankness is one of his favorite things about her. "Do it anyway. The more you give in, surely you know, the more they'll goad you both."
"I can't protect her."
"Miss Evans can protect herself."
"In here, yes." Bile rises to his throat; he swallows it down. "But it's really fucking awful out there right now."
She sighs in acknowledgment. "I know."
"It's going to get worse." He's asking, really, which is ridiculous, because he knows it's true. But he needs her to say it, if only to know that he's not mad for being so fucking terrified. He hand begins to tremor; he balls it into a fist, and digs into his thigh.
"Yes. Potter, it is."
His hands are in his face, again, and he can feel that damn exhaustion creeping in, again. The adrenaline is long gone.
"This is going to sound completely contradictory, Potter, but I want you to do two things."
"Ma'am?
"Keep your chin up and your head down, ok?"
"Professor-"
"Potter," she says, pointing at him, and narrowing an eye, "if you tell me it's shite advice, I'll give you detention, since you seem to miss me so much. It's a shite situation—I know. We're all doing the best we can."
"It's not enough."
"You're right. It's not, but it's got to be."
"Professor?"
"Potter?"
"Thank you."
"Go on, then, straight to bed with you."
He rises from his chair—slowly, but he manages. He's about to salute, the way he always used to, but he doesn't have it in him. Instead, he asks their same old question. "Do you, by chance, have any biscuits tonight?"
The corner of her mouth twitches, just as he'd hoped it would. She's only mildly reproving when she shakes her head, "Afraid not. I don't keep them stocked like I used to. I'd rather hoped we were past this sort of encounter."
"That's a shame. But you won't—see me in here like this again, I mean."
"I should hope no."
"So three months. And then..."
"It's not my place to say. But I'm telling you as your Head of House, as your Professor, and as someone, Potter, who is on your side:keep your fists—and your wand—to yourself. Chin up."
"And head down…"
"Yes. Keep your head down. Three months."
"And then what?"
"You'll see."
"That's a very Dumbledorething to say, Professor."
She offers a closed mouth smile, but nothing more as she reaches for the door.
He pauses at the doorway, turning his head slightly to face her and says, "Thanks, Professor."
She pats his shoulder, once, before sending him on his way.