Author's Note: Surprised?! It's me! Did you all miss me so much? It's been more than a year. Try not to hate me, readers. I've had a hard time with writing, honestly. On top of that, I've had a lot of other things on my mind, and many things in my life have changed, I guess. I pushed myself to get this done. Make sure you read this note right here! This is probably not the greatest chapter in the world. I felt the need to get something out. I don't know if it's my best, but I really wanted to get the whole updating chapters thing flowing again. You might want to refresh your memory on the other chapters. Even I did so! And, while doing that, I saw things I didn't like and ended up obsessively fixing things in chapters and reposting. Yeah. I'm picky, which is probably why I'm not such a big fan of this chapter. I hope you like this, though! I really wanted to excite you guys with a new chapter. Hopefully, the excitement lasts throughout the chapter…instead of it deflating because you don't like it. Ugh. It's not very long and eventful. :/. It would probably be a very good idea to review this chapter. Here you go. :)
Jeremy walked past the staircase without noticing James and slammed the front door.
James waited for a little while before entering the kitchen, not wanting Ciara to know he'd been listening. When he felt enough time had gone by, he walked in.
The first thing his eyes went to was her face, checking for marks. Seeing none, he sat down on a stool in front of the counter.
Ciara did not bother to blink away her tears.
"We've just had a little fight," she said.
"Mhmm," mumbled James. "Where did he go? I heard him leave?"
Ciara rolled her eyes. "To have a drink, most likely."
"Now," she said, putting on a fake smile and leaning her elbows on the other side of the counter. "You must tell me about school. How are your friends? How is Quidditch?"
Her smile angered James.
Shrugging, he said, "I wouldn't know. I don't deal with any of the three any longer."
Ciara blinked, confused. "The three friends?"
"The three things you asked about," he clarified.
Surprisingly, she did not express any shock about James' careless abandonment of his favorite sport. Perhaps, she had been told.
"Your friends care so much about you, James. And," she sighed, walking away from the counter, "school is very important."
"Don't lecture me," said James.
"I will do what I want in my own house, James."
James' anger increased. "Oh, like having us over for Christmas?"
Ciara's eyes flashed with something James could not name. "Jeremy surprised me with other plans," she said. "I already told you that."
"Jeremy," said James, "didn't want your family in his house."
Ciara quickly changed the subject.
"James, you're going to have to work with me. Eating disorders are tough, but I feel confident that we can overcome this together."
James rolled his eyes. "You sound like a self-help book."
"Oh, Merlin," he added, thinking it over. "Have you been reading them?"
Ciara grinned guiltily, coming close to the counter again. "Look, you're not the only one in the world with an eating disorder, James."
James raised his eyes to the ceiling, silently asking Why?
"Ciara," said James softly. He reached out and took his sister's hand in his own, looking carefully into her eyes. "I promise you that I'm fine."
Rather than being comforted, Ciara looked appalled. She ripped her hand away from him.
"You lie so well. You lie with so much experience. How long have you been lying to us, James?"
James didn't answer. He didn't think he was supposed to.
"James," said Ciara. She was using that voice, the voice that one could hear when reading the words in one of those self-help books. The voice she was using was meant, in this case, to soothe the person into giving up the reasons for their self-destructive habits.
"Do you want to talk about Dad?" she asked gently.
"Oh, sweet Merlin," said James, rubbing his temples. "Why does everything have to come back to Dad?"
"You can't be naïve enough to not see that he could be the ca—"
"And, you can't be naïve enough to believe that he's my only problem!"
James fell quiet after his outburst, fearing he might have said too much. He tried to focus all of his attention on his sister's black high heels.
"Well," said Ciara. James detected surprise and satisfaction in her tone. "I think we've made some progress."
In that moment, James felt so much hatred that he could not speak. He hated her black shoes, her black tights, her black skirt, her tan long-sleeved turtleneck, her pointless silver Cross, her perfectly applied make-up, her long tight braid, and the small silver hoops in her perfect ears.
Finally, he found his voice and looked up. "Go to hell, you and your bloody progress."
"Your progress," Ciara corrected, smiling. She ignored the anger in James' words.
"No. It's yours. All yours."
Ciara continued to smile. "To celebrate, I'll let you skip making and eating lunch. I'll just get started on your favorite meal for a big dinner."
James hopped off the stool, freed from kitchen duty. "What progress are we celebrating, exactly?" he asked, drumming his fingers on the granite countertop.
"Your admitting that you have a problem, of course."
James blinked. "Are you," he started, walking around the counter to stand directly in front of her. Even with Ciara's heels, he towered over her significantly. "Are you," he started again, "on drugs?"
"Drugs," she repeated, taking a moment to realize what he meant. "Where on Earth would I get drugs?"
"I did not admit I have a problem. This family has a problem!"
Ciara, who liked to think herself nearly perfect, refused to see any truth in James' words.
"I will forgive you for talking so ridiculously, as you're ill. I still plan to make your favorite tonight!"
"Whatever," said James.
He began to walk toward the staircase. "I'm not eating it!"
"Yes, you are," Ciara sang.
"I am not!" James yelled from the top of the stairs.
"You are!" she yelled back.
"I am not!" James screamed childishly, slamming his door.
"Not! Not! Not! Not! Not!" James shouted, tearing up all of the letters on his bed. "NOT!"
He continued to shout, knowing that she'd probably find a way to get food down his throat.
When James had finished destroying each letter, he pushed all of the pieces to the floor and fell onto his bed theatrically. He covered his face with his hands and shook his head back and forth for a good amount of time.
Though he had no belief in a supreme being anymore, and he despised the thought of having anything in common with Ciara at that very moment, he decided to give one more plea to someone who, if there, might have the ability to help him.
"God," he said desperately, "whoever you are…make them stop." Tears were again coming to his eyes. "Make everyone go away."
Six hours later, James found himself in his own personal torture chamber. He could smell the delicious food all around him. His sister sat beside him, attempting to feed him while he continued to push the spoon away in protest. Many of the spoonfuls landed on the floor. Jeremy sat at the head of the table, glaring. James knew he was smart enough not to lay a hand on Ciara while he was in the room with them. He still believed James was oblivious to the abuse.
Finally having had enough of this show, Jeremy slammed his fist on the table.
"I just can't eat while you're sitting there feeding your twenty-year-old brother!"
"He's not twenty," said Ciara, keeping her eyes on James, as if she expected him to try to escape.
She probably did. James might have, too, if he had anywhere to go.
"And, she—"
"Ha!" shouted Ciara triumphantly.
Ciara had managed to shove a spoonful of garlic pasta into James' mouth while he was speaking. James spit the food onto the table.
"James, so help me, we will stay here all night."
"Gladly," said James, covering his mouth.
"I'm not opposed to feeding you in your sleep."
James raised an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure I'd either choke or wake up."
"Well," she said, caught off guard, "we will stay here all night," she repeated. "Eventually, you'll be so tired that you will eat just to go to bed."
It was as if Ciara were a death-eater, trying to get the victim to talk.
Only, in this case, James couldn't call for help. Nobody was on his side.
The smell of the garlic that once made his mouth water was making his head ache. Losing control, he pushed his bowl of pasta to the floor; Ciara had already finished hers, and Jeremy was trying to ignore James and eat his own.
"Perhaps, this isn't the right way," Ciara said to herself. "Perhaps, I shouldn't be forcing you to eat right now."
James couldn't help letting out a sarcastic, "You think?"
He folded his arms over his chest. It seemed he had won this battle.
"Maybe talking is the way to go."
Jeremy, who had had such a problem with watching James be fed, seemed to have more of a problem with this idea.
"Ciara," he whined. "What am I supposed to do while you're playing therapist?"
Ciara got up from her chair. "Honey, we'll go in the living room. Now, you can eat your dinner in peace."
Ciara scurried out of the room while Jeremy mumbled in an irritated sort of way, pulling James out with her.
James knew she would be in trouble when she and Jeremy were alone together.
Ciara was in a good mood again, eager to try out the new plan. She practically danced to the couch.
"So, James," she said, tell me what's going on."
James had always thought Ciara was a smart girl. Did she really think she was going to get the answers she wanted so quickly?
James groaned internally. Maybe she didn't think that. Maybe she intended to sit there with him for days until he spoke, waking him up every time he dozed off.
James was torn between two plans. In one, he would tell lies. He would tell her that, yes, he did have an eating disorder. He would tell her all of the reasons that caused it. He would tell her they could work on getting him better and getting him back to school.
His other plan sounded much more satisfying, however. The first plan might get everyone off his back, but at what price? Pretending Ciara understood him? Pretending that it was an eating disorder? That it (if it were an eating disorder) was all as simple to get through as she seemed to believe it was? Consuming garlic pasta and bread and butter and muffins and more until he was just as bad as he used to be?
And, as for school—well, he'd given up on it. What interest did he have in going back to a school where he could not trust anyone? No interest at all.
So, he'd be stubborn and annoying. Maybe, just maybe, they'd give up on him and leave him alone.
He was happier all alone than sharing a room with a bunch of fakers.
"Nothing."
Ciara rolled her eyes. Clearly, she did not want James to spoil her excitement. "Come on, now," she said, hitting his hand playfully. "You can tell me anything!"
"My family thinks I have an eating disorder, and I hate it."
"James," said Ciara, not pleased.
"What?" he asked, feigning innocence. "You asked what was going on; is that not what is currently going on in my life?"
"Tell me something I don't already know," she said calmly.
"Hmm…" said James, folding one of his legs under him. "I honestly don't know anything about myself that you don't already know."
"That can't be true, James!" exclaimed Ciara.
James shrugged.
While it was silent, he looked carefully around the living room he'd never paid much attention to before, other than noticing how clean it was. Each member of their family had an individual photo of him or herself framed on Ciara's mantle. James glanced at the one of himself, grimacing slightly.
It had been taken when he was eleven, just before his first year at Hogwarts. He had a broomstick in one arm, standing taller than he. His glasses were lopsided, and he kept losing his balance and laughing.
He looked like a completely different person.
His hair was still a complete mess, sticking out in all different directions, but that was about the only similarity he could pick out. His eyes, covered now by newer, classier, more expensive glasses, were no longer alive and excited. They had darkened considerably over time. There was no excitement left.
He never held a broomstick anymore. That thrill he once got from flying quickly through the air with the cool wind slapping him in the face and the rain soaking him from head to toe… That was gone.
The laughter. James couldn't even remember the last time he laughed. It was hard to believe he'd ever been the carefree James Potter, the marauder James Potter, the fun James Potter.
The happy James Potter.
The James Potter his friends liked.
He was a great deal taller. That was about the only positive change between the boy in the picture and the boy on Ciara's couch.
Ciara followed her brother's eyes. She smiled sadly.
"You couldn't have been more eager for school to start," she said, tentative.
James sighed. "I remember," he said softly, not taking his eyes off the picture.
Ciara took advantage of this particular turn of the conversation. "Why were you able to be so happy, then? Knowing what you did? You went through your silent period, and then…"
"Because this isn't about that," said James. He didn't raise his voice or move his eyes.
"What is it about, James?" asked Ciara, putting her hand on his shoulder.
James pulled his arm away and shut his eyes tightly. "I don't know!"
Ciara shook her head. "James, that's ridiculous. How could you not know? And, how come you keep giving me different answers? You're lying to me, aren't you? Aren't you?"
James leapt off the couch.
"And, you wonder why I tried to kill myself," he muttered, walking away. "I'd rather be at Mum's!"
"You think Mum wants you?" asked Ciara, her patience lost.
James blinked. "I repeat: And you wonder why I tried to kill myself."
Ciara let James storm up the stairs, knowing that she was at fault.
Author's Note: MAKE SURE YOU READ THE ONE AT THE TOP. :).