Chapter 33: Spitfire

Nothing. It seems none of the books she had stolen from the school library has any mention of a Horcrux inside of them. Granted, she hasn't been able to read every single word and she wouldn't have even picked it up the first time if it wasn't underlined, but still.

The snowstorm seems to have missed their part of England, and the grounds of the manor stay only victim to a generous dusting of snow. The flakes the fall from the sky are almost angelic and antagonisingly pure.

Cressida's window is decorated in floral patterning from her warm fingertip, the markings remaining against the frosty temperature. The books still lay splayed out over her floor, but she currently has an empty one in her lap. Her journal. The tip of the pencil is shaven down on one side, the soft scratching of it along the textured paper a hypnotising pattern. This time, her subject of choice is Peter. Remus' face still lingers a few pages back. His scars were drawn so gently that Cressida thinks of them more of lines of his character. Scars are victories of battles.

But this time, Peter. Clear skin. It used to have acne around his jaw and cheeks, but it went away in fourth year.

Her drawings aren't good by any means, but they're hers to look at and disappear in just over a day, anyway. Other than James, she supposes, but she doubts he would flick through the book to find them near the back.

Cressida isn't unhappy. How could she be whilst surrounded by two of her favourite people and the most welcoming family she's ever met? But she's struggling. Struggling to put memories behind her.

"Come in," she calls, not looking up from her journal at a soft knock on her door. James opens it softly, glancing around her room.

"Drawing?" he muses. Cressida tears her eyes away from the half-unfinished portrait. Before he can get a good look at it, she closes the cover. James gives her an amused expression. "I'll just go get my one then," he mocks. "I can grab you some paper if you want to keep them."

Cressida shakes her head, sitting up on the end of her bed, pulling the pillow on her lap closer to her chest. "I like that they disappear. Gives it a sense of ease, you know, if I don't think they're good they disappear anyway. No point in making a masterpiece that won't exist for much longer."

James nods in understanding, sitting down on the edge of her mattress. He gazes around her room once more. "Why don't we go to London today? Or somewhere else and have a look for a pendant."

Her lips part, peeling away with dryness from the constant cold or drying fire. She's so content here, holed up in her work. Distracted. Alone. "Another day?" she bargains. "I'm just feeling kinda tired and not up for walking."

"Course," he agrees. "But you've been holed up in your room completely for the past two days. I think the only times you've come out are for food and the bathroom." Cressida can only purse her lips and shrug in agreement. It's working for her. She's putting her mind to work. Being productive. Not spending every hour of the day contemplating things she doesn't have control over. "Mother said that lake should be frozen over, do you want to go skating this afternoon?"

You can think while you skate. "Honestly, I just want to stay in here. I think you can convince Sirius to go this year though. Remus mentioned he was getting better last year."

James' throat bobs as his head gradually moves into a nod. "Just come let us know you exist now and then, alright?"

Cressida nods absentmindedly, already picking up her pencil once more. He leaves her room quietly, shutting the door behind him. She's left in peace for a few more hours, odd sounds of the houses' occupants echoing through the halls now and then. The boys stay home for the day as well.

Another two days pass in the same habit. James asks her each day if she wanted to go, but she can't bring herself to leave. But she agrees with James; she's been in her room almost non stop. Sirius tries to pry her as well, but his attempts are filled with eye-rolls at her refusal. Euphemia is in the kitchen, preparing a meal by hand. The only essence of magic is a carrot being grated over a bowl in mid-air.

"I've always liked to cook by hand," the kind woman tells her at Cressida's acknowledgment of it. "James used to help me before he went to Hogwarts almost every night."

"He enjoys cooking," Cressida muses as a statement over a question. "Now I understand where it came from." Wonderful memories always lead to habits like these. "I can't eat omelettes anymore unless he makes them."

Euphemia laughs from her stomach. "I think if I gave that boy the task of cooking every night, he would do it without complaint. And I don't think any of us would be complaining either."

Cressida smiles to herself. "Can I help? Not to brag, but I know how to chop tomatoes pretty nicely."

Euphemia laughs again and nods in the direction of a chopping board, surrounded by vegetables. "There's a salad if you want to make it. Don't feel obliged to, but cooking can be therapeutic." Cressida hums in agreement, sauntering around the bench and starts slicing up the cabbage.

The two women spend the next hour or so quietly cooking, content in their own minds. It is not until there are a few minutes left of the roast to cook in the oven and Cressida has done all she can that Euphemia finally questions her something.

"My dear, I'm sorry if this may be too personal of a question but considering it has my son involved, I have to ask." Her volume and chin drop simultaneously. "What is happening between the both of you? I've received an array of letters over the year and to put it plainly, I'm concerned. For my son's wellbeing and your own."

Cressida's eyes drop to the black and white tiling. She can't hear either of the boys, assuming they're upstairs. A spark of annoyance rises in her chest at Euphemia. She came down here to get away from these thoughts until she was ready. And now the woman is bringing them up in her face. But it simmers on the remembrance that James is her son.

"I love him," she confesses. It feels like she's said that to everybody but James. "But I just…" Images of a green skull and snake flash in front of her eyes, disappearing as faceless men in black masks march through it. Then it morphs into the image of her mother, Regulus standing over her with his wand pointed at her chest. Cressida reaches for her head, words sticking in her throat. Her fingertips press around the curve of her ears with enough pressure to mimic a headache. "So much," she chokes out, her throat tightening painfully. "I don't want to dump it on him."

Euphemia sighs remorsefully, wiping her hands on the small apron around her waist. "My boy is just like his father, you know. And Fleamont is one of the strongest people I know. If James is honest in how he feels, then I think he'd want to help you." Cressida nods, pretending to scratch her cheek to hide growing tears in her eyes. She knows James is strong. But he's already carrying his friends' burdens. "He said in one of the letters that he thought you were going to turn him away out of fear. Is that true?"

This time, Cressida quickly and fiercely shakes her head. "No," she whispers. "I was scared of him turning away." Her voice barely carries across the room. "I've got a lot of things to sort through and I don't want to drag him through the process."

"Like their deaths?" Euphemia asks the question gently, as though scared to say the words but needing to know the answer. Her parents.

"Yeah," Cressida murmurs. The numbness returns. "Along with other things. It would be unfair, wouldn't it? To say, I love you and here's all my baggage." The tightness in her throat loosens, eyes pointed out of the large kitchen window.

"Have you told him any of this?" Cressida shakes her head. "I think he deserves to know."

"I know. I've talked it through with Remus."

"Not Sirius?"

"I… Don't think he'd understand. Not in the way Remus does."

Euphemia strides closer to Cressida, a hand laying on each of her arms. With a tone both so firm and gentle, it can't help but sink to her core, she says, "You need to tell him that you love him, if that's how you feel. Don't throw away love because you're scared that they will run. James is many things, but he is not someone to turn away from the people he cares about. Don't let fear guide you. For both your sakes'."

Heavy footfalls thump from the main hall, easily recognisable as James. Euphemia straightens her back and Cressida turns away to stand back at the salad she had finished an hour ago. James, with Sirius on his tail, wanders into the kitchen.

"Should I go get…" His words trail off as Cressida looks up, meeting his eye. "She's already here," he finishes with a soft but delighted tone. She smiles kindly towards him.

"Bout time," Sirius drawls flatly. Cressida's throat bobs as he refuses to meet her eyes. Now she's pissed him off too? Euphemia looks at her second son carefully but says nothing particular on the matter, and neither does James.

"Go get your father," she says. James nods, exiting the kitchen once more. Euphemia waves her wand, and the food and utensils float through the air, out of the large archway and into the main dining hall. She looks first at Cressida, then at Sirius. "Come eat when you're ready."

Whether she was leaving an opportunity for them to talk, or just giving them general space, Cressida doesn't know. "Why are you upset at me?" she asks him. Get straight to the point.

Sirius only sighs. "Later." He turns on his heel, trailing after James' mother and out of sight. Cressida' purses her lips, but Sirius' words were a promise. He wouldn't say that unless he truly means to talk later. And just before a family gathering probably isn't the best time. Knowing the thoughts would stew over dinner no matter what she does, Cressida gives in and follows after him.

Their dinner is pleasant but quiet. Fleamont leads conversation but nobody becomes overly invested in it. The room is thick. James offers to carry out the cleaning duties, whisking away the dirty plates and glasses back to the kitchen. While Fleamont and Euphemia bid them goodnight and head back to their bedroom, Cressida sits for a while longer, eyes trained on Sirius who does the same. After a few minutes, he stands and gestures with his head upstairs.

Cressida obeys his request and silently follows after him. They walk past her door and the guest bathroom. Sirius opens his own door, but his hand stays on the handle, stepping aside to let her pass in and closes the door.

Sirius exhales unhurriedly as he stares at the door. Cressida leans her back against his bedpost. "I don't know why you're upset."

Sirius spins on his heel. His dark eyes are even darker, sharp and aimed right into her own. "You don't get to do this Cressida. You don't get to shut me out."

Cressida's chest tightens. "Shut you out?" she echoes in a hushed yell. "What do you even mean?"

Sirius throws his arm out to the side. "None of us know what you're thinking! You're locking yourself in your room, barely talking to us, refusing to do anything but read those stupid books or draw!"

Cressida' jaw loosens. He's never been this directly angry with her before. She can see it in the lines of his face, in the way his eyes darken to black. The way his throat sticks out.

"You don't get to shut me out," he repeats. "I have done my absolute all to be there for you. Because I know how it felt not to have that. I know how it felt to not have somebody to help me. To talk to me. To tell me it's going to be alright. And I am still here for you, willing to do whatever I can to help and you're shutting me out?! Shutting James out?!"

A flash of heat travels up from her lower back like a flame is burning behind her.

"My best friend—my brother—is downstairs, thinking that you don't want to be around here anymore! I'm watching him go through the pain of years' worth of rejection again all in just a few days because you won't talk to him. The thing that hurts him the most!"

"Because I can't!" Cressida cries. "I can't put that on him! Every time I close my eyes I see pictures of my dead mother! Every time I don't know where you are, I'm imagining that you have forgotten me because I fear that more than death! Regulus, who I thought could have been becoming my friend is now a Death Eater who belongs to the group that killed my family. I have to sit in the same classroom as Slytherins that are willing to torture me. Years of being emotionally abused is finally catching up to me! I've got a maniac Ravenclaw who seems intent on harassing me and following me around. I can't even afford to help pay rent on the apartment and every time I look at James, my heart burns because I know that I was the one to fuck up."

Cressida's fingers claw through her hair, the heat rising through her neck, over her shoulders and down into her chest. The world becomes lighter each second.

"So fuck you, Black. You think I'm ungrateful to have you around?" Her feet march hard against the floor, destroying the gap between them. Her palms shove against his chest. Sirius stumbles back. "You think I'm so damn ungrateful that I'm cutting you out because I don't care about you all?!" Another shove. He doesn't fight it. "I have done this my entire life! I need to handle things on my own for once because you aren't always going to be around. I need to be strong on my own." She shoves him for a fifth time, pressing his back against the wall. "I love you so damn much. I love Remus. I love Peter. And by Merlin's name if you accuse me of not loving James-!"

Just as her finger presses a deep indent into his chest, arms tear her away from the now silent boy. Cressida cries out, trying to tear the masculine arms around her stomach. "Cre—hey, Cress. Princess, you need to breathe properly."

Her ears finally registered the hoarse pants her throat elicits. Her lungs feel empty, despite the constant movement of her diaphragm. The arms feel like a snake, tightening which each movement of resistance, constricting tighter and tighter until it will reach the death of its prey. So her fighting doesn't stop, pushing on the arms with all her might.

"Please, you're scaring me."

Sirius steps off the wall. "Let her go, James," he instructs as quietly as he can to be heard over her struggling grunts. "She's panicking."

The arms around her slowly release, as though not to surprise her and have her twist herself to the floor. Cressida stumbles away from the hold, reaching for the bedpost and clinging to it. The heat intensifies, sweat pooling at the base of her neck and her head feels incredibly light. Her weight sways from foot to foot like the floor has suddenly become the deck on a ship at sea.

Cressida blinks involuntarily. Soft. She needs something soft to lie her head on instead of a thin piece of wood. The bed. She releases one hand off the post and then the other. It's only a few steps away.

"You need to lie down." Sirius' voice is muffled, but she agrees with him, though cannot voice so. It's only a few steps away.

Cressida manages to take one shaky step before spots grow in her eyes and her knees bend without consent. The world around her tilts to the side. Ready to give in to the feeling, she lets her weight drop without a struggle, simply hoping blackness would come entirely before she can feel the wood collide with her head.

Hands wrap around her this time. Gentler, but just as strong. Her ears fill with a loud ringing noise and the spots grow like dye in water, only left with the numb feeling of pressure on her face.