unspeakable | jegulus

you're sad and you're sorry, but you're not ashamed

chapter title: little green by joni mitchell

James didn't like wandering the halls of the House of Black alone. This place felt haunted. Haunted by ghosts, maybe, but mostly it felt haunted by memories. He knew if Sirius walked these halls, the ghosts of everyone he'd ever been would haunt him. He knew it. James felt haunted by proxy, just because he knew him.

When he got to Regulus' room he stretched out on his bed and picked up one of the books from the stack Regulus had procured for him from his family library. The title was ominous. The Imperious Curse: Mechanisms of Control. It was bound in black leather, with the title emblazoned across the cover in a murky shade of blood red. Not exactly light reading material. James kicked off his shoes and burrowed under the blankets, hiding from the world, and stuck his nose in the book.

This felt like something he shouldn't be reading, was his first thought, after the introduction advised him to practice casting the curse on vulnerable members of society, ones that no one cared to listen to when they approached aurors with any sort of complaint. The book advised him that muggles under the influence of drugs or alcohol would write off his control as a side effect of their indulgences the next day. It advised him that children were easier to control than adults. It instructed him to practice at least twice a day to improve the length of time he could hold the spell. It described the effects of long term use of the curse on the mind, the devolution into madness so many people endured. The book theorized that the effects of long term imperious use on identity should be studied, and tested on muggles. When the author descended into fantasies about what such an experiment would look like, and how it would work, James closed the book and lay on the bed with an arm over his eyes. How was this his life?

James rooted through his trunk and dug out his book of poems. For the first time in his life, he wished he kept a journal. Maybe he should. It would also serve as a record of his activities during the war. If he did something unforgivable, it might save him from Azkaban. He'd just need to find a way to hide its contents. Maybe he could enchant a book with the same spell they'd used to guard the map from prying eyes. That might just work. He flipped through the familiar, well worn pages, lying on his side, the words washing over him like comforting rain. This wasn't so bad. He needed to calm down. He needed to get a grip. What was he going to do in a week, in front of Voldemort, if he couldn't control himself now? That would be horrible. It would be almost unthinkable for him to break in front of him. James had to remember all of the emotional management tools he'd learned in childhood.

He tossed aside his poetry book, adding it to the pile on the pillow beside him of his failed distractions. He laid on the bed with his head on the pillow, under all of Regulus' nice soft blankets, and closed his eyes.

Where do you feel the anger in your body? In my chest, and my neck, and my jaw, and my hands, and my stomach, and in my blood.

I am feeling angry because Barty hates me and he won't tell me why. Scratch that out. Why are you really angry, James? Stop lying to yourself. Stop lying. James drummed his fingertips over the top of the blankets, over his hipbone blunted through all the layers of fabric. I'm angry because Barty is Regulus' best friend, and I see all of the things that make my skin crawl about Regulus inside of him, which makes me hate him, maybe more than he hates me. There, the voice of his childhood therapist, blurring with the voice of his mother, seemed to almost coo in the back of his mind, you're not lying to yourself anymore. Isn't that a good thing?

Is the anger rational, James? No. Can you control your anger? No, despite his most fervent wishes. Is your anger justified? Maybe, it was hard to tell. What can you do to process your anger and let it go? James scrubbed his hands over his eyes. He didn't know what to do. Usually, he'd distract himself with movement somehow. He'd run, or fly. How was he supposed to do that here? What could he do? Well... he could always just do a floor workout. How ridiculous would that look when someone came to look for him? James, after storming off and starting an argument he'd likely have to finish later, doing pushups and crunches on the floor in Regulus's room....