James was well aware that Gisèle, should she align herself at all, was a Death Eater. And she was not the type to just sit back and let others have all the so-called fun, so it wasn’t so much of an assumption as it was a fact that James simply couldn’t prove with any other evidence than the fact that, as unlikely as it would be to onlookers, he understood Gisèle pretty well. Parts of her, at any rate. There was always that wave of unpredictability between them. She was also a self-admitted killer. His eyes may not see any indication of her alliance on her bare arm, but that mattered little. Such a mark, after all, was now on his arm, and it said nothing of his own involvement in the war. Gisèle wouldn’t get such a mark, no, that was not her style. That would be indicative of her being a slave of some sort, and she was all about control. And what was it she had said the last time they had spoken?
“If you want to win a war, you learn how to do things well.”
Good advice, he supposed, albeit a bit obvious. Gisèle would play the part of loyal, and she believed in blood purity, but he imagined she wasn’t so devoted to the cause that she considered it worth her life. And, in James’ mind, if you want to win a war, you have to be dedicated. The cause had to be greater than one’s own life, something that a person had to put themselves all in for. Choosing a side was much like placing a bet,, and the stakes were one’s own life, their loved ones who could be used against them, and it also came with the sacrifice of peace.
It meant that James could not be as indecisive as he had been. He had to act if he wanted to see this to its end. On his own terms. The pressure was on, and it as quite the weight to carry along with his guilt. If he were to continue on as he was, he’d no doubt fall again because it was too much for his shoulders to bear for too long. So he would need to store his guilt elsewhere, for now, and refocus.
A task easier said than done while he lay in a hospital bed, his arm singed with one of the torches he now took with him. A torch that was impossible to snuff, as far as he knew. So could he then turn it into a weapon to burn his enemies with? Like they had so burned him? James would need to put on a mask for both friends and foe alike. A mask that was not so unlike the one that Gisèle typically wore though she had oddly forgone putting it on before she came to the Hospital Wing. Back in fifth year, after any of their many trysts, she would not so much as think of leaving the room before readjusting her disheveled appearance.
It made her look softer, somehow, less of the caricature girl that she painted herself to be. Only fitting, he supposed, that an artist also made a masterpiece of themselves. “Better be careful yourself,” James drawled, managing a cool, air-tight tone. “Or I might just start thinking you care.” He wouldn’t, but he couldn’t deny she was acting odd.
The lift in her tone also threw him off, as if he wasn’t already knocked down off his feet the way it was. He didn’t like feeling so unsteady, and Gisèle’s presence and demeanor was doing little to get him off the ground. Her smirk wasn’t near as menacing without the blood red color. She was far more human this way, and he wondered if she realized that considering how often she painted herself out to be something else. James had never believed it, though, for when he looked at her, he still saw a lost girl. One who got so good at playing pretend she was even fooling herself.
“No,” James agreed, “It can’t be. But nothing about war is meant to be safe. If you’re not willing to take a few risks, then you aren’t going to get anywhere. Nate clearly just didn’t know me as well as he thought he did. That or he got too arrogant.” James lifted himself further, keeping his arm underneath the duvet. “Either way, he’s nothing for me to worry about anymore.”
The accusation drew her to a hurtling pause. Or I might just start thinking you care. Did she, really? Was that why she was here? For a normal person, sure, they might wake earlier than n usual to come visit an injured friend in the hospital wing. Despite her frequent mental comparisons, though, Gisèle was aggressively not normal. She may not be entirely sure why she was there any more but it most certainly was not because she cared. She was just– intrigued, that might be the right word. Invested was not.
Saying that one didn’t care was possibly the most obvious advertisement for the fact they did, however, so Gisèle did not reach for the complete denial she so intensely felt. Instead, she gave him a particle of the truth, if a deviated version.
“You’re a pretty boy,” she stated dismissively, punctuating it with a shrug. “I do care about aesthetically pleasing things, but you knew that. Further than that, well. We both know you to be far too intelligent to really believe there is any possibility of caring.”
Because sure, now that she thought about it, she was bared far more than normal. But even with the protective shield of a dressing gown, nightwear was not out of the norm when they usually met only in the shadows of a clear night. And it was highly unusual for her to bare her face – pale, barely visible brows and muted blush lips like a washed canvas and all – but he had seen as much of that as anyone did if they weren’t named Ada Vaughn. It did not matter. She liked it, her armour of beauty, but it was not a necessity. She had turned her skin to diamond after all. It took more than washing her face to remove the chainmail, and he knew it. He knew exactly how much she cared, and that just might have been the most terrible thing — that he knew she would not give a damn about him, but that she could; that there were people who made her fingers scramble for purchase and desperation thrum in her veins.
It did amuse her when James Potter started talking about war, though. Last they had spoken, he had spouted high and mighty ideals of love. She was sure the spectacle he had caused by hitting himself in the face { stupid } and the fact that he had broken the imperius had only reinforced those bullshit ideals. She also hoped, however, that they may just have punctured some of the boy’s philosophies. It would feel good to prove his argument wrong.
For now, she stuck to the strange middle ground between humour and sarcasm. Leaning forward to mirror him with elbows balanced on knees, she coughed out a muted laugh. “Oh, there was place for more arrogance? Between that hair and the amount of arrogance already stuffed inside, I doubt there was much space for him to add any more in that pretty little head. Regardless, it’s done, I believe. Welcome to the war. Would you like a drink before you embark on the rest of this wild, wild journey? We recommend the Draught of Living Death.”
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