Joyce had given up on asking Remus, so she moved on to James; she thought that he, of all people, would understand her need to help, to protect Remus.

"James," she whined. "Please hear me out!"

"You won't get anything by asking us in turns," answered James in a deadpanned tone. "We're refusing to put you in danger! Why, why won't you let me protect you?"

"I don't want you to protect me!" hissed Joyce, her dark brows furrowing in anger. "I want to protect you and your friends! I'm sick of being protected, I'm sick of being the damsel in distress! I want to protect my friends this time!"

"Not on this, Joyce." James sighed. "Not on this." James walked away, a few tired steps at a time. But he was still dangerously close when he heard Joyce's ragged breathing. He knew what was happening. Sprinting, as fast as possible, for dear life, he ran towards the closest exit from their deserted corridor. But as fast as he could be was not fast enough; he heard the faint whoosh of Joyce's telltale wind before it hit him.

But when it hit him, it picked him up as easily it would a Bowtruckle; it slammed him into the wall, over and over again. It flipped him every which way, but James had the reflex to curl his body around, protecting his skull from being smashed. He winced as he was slammed on the ground, and was surprised when he wasn't picked up again. Opening an eye, paying attention to the outside sounds once more, he heard faint sobbing behind him. James uncurled himself, looking over his shoulder. Joyce was slumped against the wall, tears streaming down her face. If it was physically painful for anyone standing close to Joyce, it was thrice as mentally painful for her. James slowly and silently stood up and walked towards Joyce. Her head snapped up, and he carefully watched her as one would watch an animal in pain: wearily.

"I'm so, so sorry, James," she sobbed. "I would never have done that to you if I were in control of my own mind."

"I know, Joyce," said James, kneeling by her side and taking her hand. Squeezing it gently, he asked, "did you take your potion today?" Joyce nodded.

"I always do," she whispered. James still heard her voice crack.

"Should you go see Madam Pomfrey?"

"No, I need Professor Slughorn. He's the one who makes my potion, he'll know what to do to help me stop my... seizures." She inhaled sharply. "I could've... I could've killed you, James."

James shook his head. "I've had Bludgers hit me harder," he lied, shrugging.

"That's not true and we both know it," sniffed Joyce. "But thanks for saying that."