ALL THE THREADS OF FATE.
PART I.
CRUEL SUMMER.
V.
Professor McGonagall's office was always a welcome sight. Homey and safe, and one I had been to countless times before. For getting in trouble, in search of guidance, for company in many a late night where the professor had caught me wandering the halls. The first four times she'd granted me detention. The fifth and sixth, she'd told Mother. The seventh, I'd burst into tears and she'd brought me back here for a warm cup of tea and fresh-baked biscuits. By the eleventh time, she'd started taking so few house points for my indiscretion she might as well not have bothered. And though I never purposefully went to her office when the nights were long and I was too afraid of sleep, Professor McGonagall always offered and never judged, even if she pressed the subject with that stern yet warm countenance of hers that betrayed how much she truly cared for her students.
Today, however, I knew it would not be an evening filled with English Breakfast tea and shortbread. There was only one reason she would want to see me before dinner our very first day back: disappointment. I'd seen it in the tension of her mouth when she'd handed me my class schedule at breakfast, along with a few clipped sentences about seeing me after class. Professor McGonagall was disappointed in me, and the worst of it was I knew exactly why.
"As I was going through your lessons, Miss Potter-Greengrass," Professor McGonagall began without looking up from the parchment she was writing on, her hawk feather quill wagging in the air.
She was one of the few professors who referred to my siblings and me by our full last name. I always wondered if it was because we reminded her more of our Greengrass cousins, who'd graduated Hogwarts my first year, than any Potter.
"I could not help but notice you appear to have dropped Astronomy."
'Appear' was the wrong word to use. Appear suggested it had been a mistake, an accidental stroke of the quill when filling out my lessons' form for the year, when in actuality it had been quite deliberate.
"I believe I have learnt all there is to learn about the night sky, Professor."
A lie preferable to the truth. Professor McGonagall did not think it so.
She halted in her writing so suddenly the feather in her quill slanted to the left and back in a harsh billow. She looked at me with narrowed eyes, the fine lines edging them growing prominent with the tension. There was no denying Professor McGonagall had truly lived her forty-two years, lived them and loved them and grown into them, as fine laughing lines spiderwebbed all over her face, while streaks of silver perhaps betrayed the weight of her hardships. When she looked at me like this, with pursed lips and stern eyes, it became harder to picture her laughing with her friends and all the easier to imagine her disheartened.
"Is that so?" It was a slow question not meant to be answered. "What a pity it would be, if you were to find yourself helpless in some future predicament after having prematurely learnt all there is to learn about the night sky."
I swallowed. My nails dug into the chair's cushion; its cotton padding gave way beneath, but the fabric proved strong. Good, the last thing I needed was to break Professor McGonagall's armchair.
Time passed. Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting an answer I was unwilling to give.
Astronomy took place in the dead of night. Just because sleep and I were in better terms last year and over the summer did not mean it would remain so. If the last couple of weeks were any indication, we would part ways soon enough. I could not afford to make myself miserable by attending such a lesson.
"Very well." Professor McGonagall sighed. The quill in her hand was abandoned by the inkwell as she sat back on her chair. "Have you given your future career further thought?"
I would prefer to speak about the insomnia.
Shifting on the chair, head lowered, I began to idly pick at my cuticle. I had, indeed, given thought to my future after Hogwarts. It had resulted in nothing but disillusionment.
I wanted to be a curse breaker. I wanted to be the best curse breaker there was, not shackled to Gringotts', but of such great renown I could travel the whole wide world and assess and de-spell all sorts of historical artifacts, as well as those belonging to wizarding families. I wanted to not only purchase Mr Inoue's copy of The Primeval Essence of Magick but work on his own private collection of magical artifacts out there in Japan, some dating to before England could even dream of being an empire.
I wanted to study law. I wanted to take up the Greengrass seat in the Wizengamont and actually do something useful with that power. Work for the international law office. I wanted to work for MACUSA.
I wanted to put my love of research to good use, become an Unspeakable, lead the Ministry's research committee. I wanted…
I wanted to be more than the pretty heiress with her head in the clouds, married fresh out of Hogwarts, with five children and a sixth on the way.
When my mother and father had sat me down the week before Hogwarts to ask me a series of very telling questions about Fabian, I recognised immediately what would follow.
Somehow, my mother was willing to consider Fabian as my future intended—a decision I was certain had been heavily influenced by Father, who was fond of Fabian regardless of his financial holdbacks—which meant already one of the things I wanted most would be irrelevant. If Mother and Father were happy with whatever Mr and Mrs Prewett offered, Fabian and I would likely marry right after I graduated. The timeframe fit: we would have time for a year-long courtship—better than most purebloods got—followed by the traditional year-long engagement to plan the wedding.
That was what they'd done with my sister, and now Adelaide was set to marry a young auror trainee named Kingsley Shacklebolt by July of next year. He was a good fellow from a good pureblood family, who would go far in the field. Or so Father said.
I should be happy—I adored Fabian. I had never considered spending the rest of my life with him, but he'd alluded to it before, and I supposed I could do much worse. My parents could have chosen Rosier. Or some Ministry official's son I'd never met.
By all accounts, the talk with my parents ought to have filled me with joy. Except after they'd finished all their questions, I'd foolishly asked them about becoming a curse breaker. Out of all my interests, that one intrigued me the most. I was the middle child, there wasn't as much pressure on me as there was on Freyr and Adelaide. My mother herself was a freelance curse breaker. It'd be an honour to follow in her footsteps.
They did not see it that way. Father had frowned and sat back on his chair. He'd remained silent the rest of the conversation, scrutinising me with indecipherable eyes. He had not knocked on my door the next morning to offer me a cup of coffee or tea.
My mother's reaction had hurt the most. She regarded me for the length of six of my quickened heartbeats before exhaling a sound between a laugh and a snort.
"A curse breaker," she'd repeated with a disbelieving shake of her head. "Oh, Merry darling, you don't have what it takes."
I knew they'd longed for me to be a musician. It'd been one of the few topics they'd been overly vocal about. Surely, though, they believed me capable in other areas? It appeared not.
Hope had dwindled and died.
"I am still undecided," I uttered at last, unwilling to share with Professor McGonagall my desires.
I hadn't really lied when I'd told Sirius the world was at my fingertips, and all I had to do was reach out. Many of my parents' friends and colleagues were curious, as were the many well-known professionals and businesspeople Professor Slughorn invited to his soirees. In the same light-hearted tone used on toddlers when asking them about their hopes and dreams, but that was something I was happy to ignore. All had ended the conversation with 'if you need anything at all, Miss Potter-Greengrass, do not hesitate to write,' and I wouldn't hesitate, regardless of whether the offer was genuine or merely courteous.
It still didn't exactly fill me with confidence. What if I chose wrong? If my own parents had long ago decided that, if not musician, my fate would be housewife socialite, what would result in my refusal? What if I rebelled and chose wrong? After all, it seemed the whole world was certain all I was fit for was tea parties and brunch with the girls, the odd philanthropic charity and interior-designing every room in the house. A socialite through and through.
Professor McGonagall sighed.
I kept my eyes on my fingertips, on the small bead of crimson blood that had bloomed when I pulled the cuticle a little too hard. Absentminded, I pressed onto it until more blood burst out. It sapped into the crevice between my fingertip and nail plate, spreading across and underneath, ruining the pretty flowers Lily and Regina had gushed over not that long ago. It did not relieve the pressure, but it made me feel a little less caged animal and a little more girl.
"You are one of my most brilliant students, Meredith, if not the most." I gaped at Professor McGonagall, speechless. "Your innate ability to detect magic, your proficiency at foretelling magics, not to mention your tremendous talent in every subject you have chosen to continue studying—well, those are things we don't see every day."
"Thank you, Professor." I exhaled.
Professor McGonagall did not acknowledge my gratitude. She levelled serious eyes at me, her mouth lined with tension.
"These do not thwart my disappointment in your complete disregard for your future. You'll be taking your N.E.W.T.s next year and applying for placements. Godric forbid you do not achieve the best version of yourself because you procrastinated to make the sole most important decision of your life." She finished.
What if I never found it, the best version of myself? What if I chose wrong? I used to think I'd never fail at anything, yet lately failure was all I achieved. Perhaps I should just be happy with the hand the world dealt me, after all it was great, even if it wasn't everything I wanted. My parents knew me, they knew what was best for me. I shouldn't complain.
"Perhaps," she added with a tentative tone that warned me she knew I would not like what came next. "If an overbooked schedule is the issue, you ought to consider dropping Ancient Studies instead."
"No!"
I spoke before she was even finished, surprising both of us with my insolence. Dropping out of Ancient Studies was unthinkable, though. I'd already given Music up—the only way to convince my parents it was not something I was interested in pursuing professionally, the only career they'd ever consider for me—losing Ancient Studies would be like Dumbledore announcing Ancient Runes would no longer be available: unbearable and unthinkable.
"I will not drop any more classes, Professor." I apologised. "I promise you that."
Professor McGonagall sighed again. She looked away, her shoulders slumping a fraction as she did so. My heart beat so hard and fast I could feel it in my throat. I pressed on that wounded cuticle again, focused on the pain rather than the tingling in my nose, the pressure behind my eyes.
"Very well." Professor McGonagall relented. She picked up her quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and went back to her parchments. "I shall see you later, Miss Potter-Greengrass. Enjoy your dinner."
I knew a dismissal when I heard one. Still, I remained seated for a moment, waiting for I wasn't sure what. Whatever it was never came, so I didn't find out. Standing on legs filled with taffy, I made my way to the door.
Halfway there, I passed one of the old mirrors Professor McGonagall used for the self-transfiguration lessons. Out of the corner of my eye, the reflection fractured, stretched and morphed into a Hogwarts hallway I couldn't identify, colder and gloomier than usual. It startled me.
I turned, saw a different version of Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, and Madam Pomfrey in a sombre discussion of sorts. Blood seeped from the floors and walls, yet they paid no heed. Wall sconces bathed the scene in an orange hue that refracted off the blood, deepened it almost black and glinting like rubies. Madame Pomfrey gesticulated with her hands as Professor McGonagall shook her head with such force wisps of hair fluttered out of the bun at the back of her head. Professor Dumbledore merely observed, hoisting the hem of his robes out of reach of one of the growing puddles of blood.
My lungs seized as I watched, utterly transfixed. I couldn't hear them, just their surroundings. Somewhere off in the distance, a heavy-sounding pair of doors banged closed. The castle clock announced either four in a winter afternoon, or four in the morning at any given season. Lighting flashed outside the arched windows they stood beside. The sudden burst of light made me jump. A gasp escaped my lips.
"Miss Potter-Greengrass? Meredith?"
I twirled. Professor McGonagall stared at me; her eyebrows drawn. The quill hung limply from her hand onto the desk. By the way her expression pinched in worry, I inferred that hadn't been the first time she'd called my name.
"Is that a—?" I turned towards the mirror, wondering if perhaps that had been the result of a spell gone awry in class, the reason the mirror was in the office and not the classroom.
The words died on the tip of my tongue as this time I found my reflection, pale as a ghost and absolutely stricken, but nothing else. No bleeding walls. No school staff. Nothing but Professor McGonagall's office and myself. My stomach roiled. My fingertips began shaking with an emotion altogether different to the shame from before.
"Forgive me," I managed, "I will see you in class, Professor."
"Miss Potter-Greengrass," Professor McGonagall called before I could make for the door again. "Are you alright?"
No. Yes. No.
"Perfectly fine."
Professor McGonagall did not look convinced. She let me go all the same.
Dinner was a blur.
I sat in between Peter and Marlene. James and Dorcas were right in front of me, with Remus and Sirius just to the left. They were talking about something us girls were not meant to hear, giggling amongst harsh whispers that were really not that covert. Dorcas rolled her eyes at the silliness of it all and turned her back on James—and by extension the boys—joining Lily's and Marlene's conversation.
Marlene was currently telling them about how she'd heard from Nicola who had heard from Artemisia that Mary McDonald's owl had been shot by her neighbour over the summer, and that was the reason she'd retired to bed early. An overexaggerated rumour. Mary McDonald's tawny owl had indeed passed over the summer—due to accidentally eating poison, not because her neighbour owned a shotgun and had decided to practice shooting. Mary did not live near muggles anyway. It appeared, however, that the fragile peace shrouding the Wizarding World was simply not exciting enough for Artemisia and Nicola. They needed to add a healthy bout of violence to our run-of-the-mill tragedy.
I sat in silence, playing with my food and eating very little of it, despite how hungry I'd been before my meeting with Professor McGonagall. Suffice to say, if that conversation didn't kill my appetite, whatever that had been with the mirror definitely had.
I couldn't stop replaying it. How real it had looked, the thickness of the blood, the damp stones in the wall. It was Hogwarts as clear and tangible as the walls surrounding me. I listened to that very clock several times a day. Those banging doors I'd heard were the ones leading to the Great Hall, I was certain.
Why, then, the blood?
Nothing made sense.
It'd been more like a nightmare, a distorted figment of my imagination than—Merlin, how I loathed that word, damn Professor Shirtcliff—precognition. Regardless of how much ignorance I feigned, I could tell the difference. Sometimes. Fine, every once in a while.
It didn't matter, because it was done, a funny fluke due to excess magic and bloodlines and reaching puberty and what-have-you. It'd gone away! It'd been so long since anything had happened while I was awake, and it'd been so long since I'd had a Dream and not a dream. Except…
Last week, before Sirius and I argued, I'd woken up in a cold sweat, unsure whether I'd been reliving the past—mine or the house's—or visiting the future or manifesting my discomfort through nightmares.
And before that, the day I'd sneaked out to Marlene's, I could have sworn reality had warped before me, for a split second I hadn't been home but somewhere else.
I stood up so fast the tableware rattled.
"Artemisia says there were guts everywhere, even the—" a startled screech cut off Marlene's gruesome description. Her hands shot out, frantic in their search for purchase as cutlery slanted and goblets threatened to topple. "Morgaina, witch, are you mad?"
Oh, no. No, I was certainly worse than mad. I was about to become an absolute joke to society.
"Sorry." I mumbled and nearly fell on my face in my haste to pull my leg over the bench. "I'll see you later."
"Mer," Dorcas called. "Are you alright? You're looking a little pale."
Her features pinched as she studied me, almost like she was half wondering whether she should let me walk away on my own or not. She was not one to often show concern, so I could only imagine 'a little pale' was an observation full of consideration.
"I forgot how many steps there are to McGonagall's office. Probably shouldn't have eaten a handful of sugar quills before I went," I lied, pressing the flat of my palm to my stomach. "I'm a little queasy."
That wasn't a lie, though it had more to do with the earth-shattering realisation that had just dawned on me than any surplus of sugar.
Peter made a noise of agreement, gesticulating between us with his hand as if to say 'I know exactly what you mean.' I returned the gesture, fondly remembering two Hallowe'ens ago, when he, Remus and I had sat in the Common Room and eaten bagful after bagful of chocolate into the wee hours of the morning until we were sick.
"Do you want some tea?" Lily suggested.
Marlene huffed quietly at the question, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"No, no," I waved the offer off. Hoisting my bag over my shoulder, I dipped my head towards the doors. "I'm just going to tuck in early."
A staccato chorus of bye followed after me as I made my way down the Great Hall, returning Cressida's greeting smile from the Ravenclaw table as I passed her by and ignoring Freyr' shouted reminder that I was posing for him tomorrow and don't forget, Merry, or I'll give you horns!
Light bled into the hallway as I pushed the door open, chatter followed, much louder than it had appeared inside, before cutting off as the door whined closed. I breathed in the crisp breeze whistling in through the windows, gave myself one moment to settle my racing heart, and started down the hallway in the general direction of Gryffindor Tower.
I musn't have walked more than ten paces or so, when the doors opened again and quickened footfalls bounced off the stone walls.
"Oi, Mer! Wait up!"
I slowed but didn't turn, mentally preparing myself for this conversation.
James and I hadn't spoken since that blasted sleepover. Something within me had splintered that following morning when he hadn't even deemed to look at me. The night before, I'd convinced myself he hadn't knocked on my door because Aunt had already left, whereas Sirius had yet to return from his conversation with Uncle Fleamont. James would surely talk to me the day after. He hadn't. Hadn't owled. Hadn't dropped by.
Petty as it sounds, once he finally decided he was done punishing me, I didn't want to talk to him. So I'd avoided him, and had continued to avoid him on the train ride up, and here. I kept pretending to be busy with Prefect duties and extracurriculars, never mind it was only our second day back.
My greeting was curt, succinct, lacking all the warmth I reserved for him. "James."
He pretended not to hear it. I say pretended because his footsteps quickened, gained a cheery gait, everything about him perked up with an attitude altogether too carefree for the conversation. He twisted, walking backwards as he positioned himself in front of me. His mouth split into a wide grin.
"You going up to the Tower?" he wondered.
I didn't even smile. Kept walking, kept looking ahead while the hollow clank-splat of his brogues against the floor mirrored the rapid beating of my heart. I would die a premature death if I kept finding myself in situations where my anxiety increased this rapidly.
"Mmhm."
James faltered. His feet halted where his body didn't, and he almost toppled backwards in his efforts to remain with his feet. I never stopped.
"Alright," he reappeared by my side, much closer than before. I was the shortest in my family. As a result, James towered over me, his presence heavy as smoke. "What is going on?"
"With what?"
His eyes bore into the top of my head; I had never found the old walls and tall ceilings of the castle's many hallways as interesting as I found them in that moment.
"You've been ignoring me." James complained, whiny almost in his outburst.
I huffed and hoisted my bookbag higher on my shoulder. James matched my quickened pace step for step.
"Have I?" I mused aloud, flashing a faux-sweet smile. "Curious, I haven't noticed."
James' face scrunched up into a frown, lips twisted as if he'd tasted something sour.
"Oh, drop it." James groaned. His hand darted out, latching onto my elbow as he came to a stop. "You're not cute."
Supressing a sigh, I allowed his insistent tugging to bring me to a stop. For the first time since he'd followed me out, I looked at him. With surprising difficulty, I noted.
There had been a time, once, years and years ago, when James had been shorter than me. I'd use the top of his head as a rest for my elbow just to see him go mad. My aunt's frog-shaped biscuit tin had ended up on the topmost shelf more than once—I couldn't reach it, either, mind, but it was hilarious, watching James jump and hoist himself onto the counter to try and reach it, while I insisted I could do so without help. Then, our growing patterns caught up, remained the same for about two years before mine drew to a halt and his continued, increased. Though not as tall as Remus, within six months, James had grown so much that my head only reached his shoulder. Never before had this bothered me.
Until now.
James's looking down at me resembled a sentence imparted by a jury of my peers, which somehow made it worse than any judgement imparted by the adults in my life. It was all in my head—there was no harshness in James's expression, nothing but befuddled frustration in his hazel eyes—but I couldn't stop thinking about that morning.
"I know you were awake," I said, breaking the heavy silence between us.
If anything, James looked even more confused. It started to give way to exasperation. I didn't understand why until he spoke.
"What, like you don't eavesdrop every chance you get?"
I shook my head. That wasn't what I meant. I just—I didn't know how to make sense of all I was feeling. It was like my heart was encapsuled in an impenetrable box, tangled up in barbwire and thickened by sludge. No matter how deep I dug, it remained unreachable, uncomprehensive. So much had happened in the span of weeks, and it was only the beginning.
It was a lot to put into words. I wasn't sure where to start.
I began picking at my cuticle, scratching at the scab there with my nails. James didn't look away from my face. The corners of his eyes softened even when his mouth remained tight. His left leg started to jitter. Fighting with me was not something James had ever enjoyed; I couldn't see this going any other way.
"How could you listen to what he said to me and still choose him?" I pressed.
James blinked once. Twice. He looked properly taken aback, with his parted mouth and raised eyebrows.
"He's my best mate," James stated like it was obvious. "He's got no one but us now."
"Your best mate." I repeated. My mind, however, had snagged on the last sentence. No one but us now. There it was again, that irrational jealousy that had reared its ugly head during my conversation with my aunt. This time, I let it burn. "What am I then?"
"You're my cousin, Meredith! We're not ten anymore, you don't have to be my best friend, just like I don't have to be yours."
James ran frustrated fingers through his hair, winding and pulling until strands upheaved. Under his breath, he muttered something else too quiet for me to hear. I doubted it was anything flattering.
"Fine," I bit out. "Duly noted."
Without waiting for a response, I swirled and hurried away.
Too many things were happening all at once. I had prefect duties commencing in two hours, and my boyfriend would maybe, possibly? be popping a very important question very soon, one my parents would likely not give me the option to say no to—did I even want to say no?—and maybe my dreams the past month hadn't been dreams, and McGonagall still wanted to know where I'd go after school, I needed to decide soon, too, considering I would have to start working toward it next summer, applying by next Christmas, and Mr Inoue's letters were stones in my pockets, and—and…
I needed to stop thinking about Sirius Black. Needed to stop poking at the grave like I expected the corpse to reanimate.
"That came out wrong." James retracted, hurrying until he was once more striding beside me. "What I meant was—I don't—" he huffed. In my periphery, I saw him push his shirt's sleeves up in a haste, like they were in his way. "I've been very careful not to choose sides, but he is my best friend, Meredith, and you were brutal."
It hit me, then, why James's taller figure was so imposing when before it'd never been an issue. Why I'd struggled to meet his eye. They were all so disappointed that Sirius had hurt me and I'd reacted in kind, like they'd expected me to do better. To be kind. Shame, that was the thing weighting my stomach and turning my insides slimy.
I'd never meant to let James down, but I would not apologise for this.
I stopped, looked my cousin dead in the eye and said:
"So was he."
"He wasn't cruel." James disagreed. "You were cruel, I mean, talk about kicking a dog when he's down."
At that, he allowed the tiniest of smiles to quiver on his lips before he swallowed it back, sobered. He stepped closer, sticking his hands deep in his trouser pockets and crouching until he was level with me. His eyes were pleading—that look might as well have punched me in the stomach.
"And Dad was mad, I'd, I'd never heard Mum talk to anyone like that, and Padfoot came to us for help. I—"
"Stop it." I cut him off. A shudder stumbled down my spine. I tugged at my earlobe. "Stop saying 'us', like I was a part of it."
They all kept saying 'us', like they expected me to be accountable.
"You were there." James countered.
Unwilling, my mind flashed with the memory of chapped lips and trembling fingers, limp hair and heaving breaths, the horrifying realisation that it wasn't sweat turning my hold on his arm slippery but blood from a nasty cutting spell.
Another image superposed the memory, green flames instead of the orange glow of candles, blood patches on a once-pristine rug rather than a splattering of droplets, but every other difference so minute I was once again confused as to what that dream had meant. A chill seeped into my bones.
I swallowed. "Briefly."
Unbeknownst to me, James had monitored my reaction and drawn his own conclusions. His eyebrows peaked, eyes gentled in what could only be sympathy.
"When it mattered most, I'd argue," he said.
His hand found my shoulder, squeezing once before retreating. His condolences. Whatever reason he'd conjured for my reaction to his words was no doubt miles away from the truth.
"Yeah, well," I laughed, the sound decidedly bitter. "If only he would have done the same."
James drew back. His face scrunched up in confusion, a little arrow crinkled his nose.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
I sighed. That was one can of worms I didn't want open.
"Nothing." I gave a wave with my hand. James opened his mouth to protest; I barrelled on before he could. "Listen, James, I get it. Really, I do, but don't expect me to act the same as always. You don't get to be dissatisfied with my behaviour when it is a direct consequence of your actions. I am allowed my emotions just as you were allowed yours that night."
Especially when he wasn't even trying to understand. Trying to see my side.
"Blimey. Big words." James grimaced. His head did a little bob. "So you're really mad."
We stood in the middle of the hallway, only paces away from the main doors. The sconces on either wall burned, creaking and dancing. Silence descended. I wanted to leave, but that resembled admitting defeat.
James hesitated. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the heel of his hand, the gesture nervous and careless.
"How long will it last?" he asked, timid like he feared the answer.
I floundered for an accurate timeframe before settling on: "As long as it lasts."
"Merry…" he inhaled. His mouth fell open, eyebrows drawing together in mounting outrage. "C'mon! We've never gone longer than a week without talking."
We hadn't indeed, and the last couple had made their presence known. I missed him like an arm missed a hug, aching, waiting, knowing there was more out there but unsure as to when it would return. This was, all things considered, an easy fix. I just had to walk up to Sirius and apologise for my behaviour. I just had to look James in the eye, right then and there, and explain I hadn't meant to cause him distress. Yes, we were alright.
But I was petty, and proud, and when I opened my mouth something entirely different came out.
"You'll be alright," I said. "I'm just your cousin."
James flinched like I'd slapped him. His face twisted into a grimace, his shoulders slumped.
"That's not what I meant!" James persisted. He tugged at his hair with one hand, eyes dancing all over the hallway before reluctantly setting on me. "Don't ask me to stop talking to him, Meredith."
I never would. How I loathed that his words were more warning than request.
"I want both of you," he said. His jaw worked like he wasn't quite sure how to get the words out. The glint in his eye grew desperate, conflicted. "Please, don't, don't ask me to choose."
I shook my head, wondered at his blindness.
"You already did, Jamie." I told him, slow and steady in hopes that he would understand.
James sucked in a breath at my conviction. The arrow at the base of his nose returned, bringing with it a tiny array of wrinkles and dimples on his chin. Their appearance made my eyes water, emotion pressing on the roof of my mouth. James cleared his throat. His shoe kicked at the floor, once, twice. He followed the motions with his eyes, head bowed low and hair dangling in front of his forehead.
"Okay." He mumbled, wretchedly despondent.
"Okay." I echoed.
My voice was a mere whisper, more movement than actual sound. James sniffled. I bit into my bottom lip; it wobbled anyway.
Neither of us spoke. James walked back into the Great Hall and I went towards the Tower.
A/N: So it was a little longer that a couple weeks, whoops! The two weeks without my computer became 3 and I didn;t want to post this chapter until chapter 8 was finished. Not that a lot of people seem to be reading this story, so I didn't feel super guilty or anything for not posting.
OryxGreen: Thanks so much for always reviewing! You're pretty much the only one who does, so it feels nice to know at least someone out there is reading this. About your review, it is such a tense situation, I feel. Like if they choose Meredith, like Remus and Dorcas, then it's going to be as awful for Sirius as it is for Meredith. But by choosing Sirius then Meredith feels terrible. No one can win, really. Marlene, of course, is choosing Sirius for her own scheming. It's my understanding that James sees Meredith as better abled to cope and bounce back than Sirius in this context, because as far as James is concern Sirius is having a little bit of a more vulnerable moment. So he means well, at least.