The Disgraced of the House of Black - A Multi-Character Fanfiction - Part One

35. Grief

November 1976

Although Amara had always been popular, in fact, the only students in the school more well-known than herself in their year were Sirius and James, she had never before been subjected to whispers following her every move. Following her parent's death, everywhere she went, she faced pitying glances, muttered explanations, and, worst of all, ponderings of why she had never left school for any amount of time after they died.

Suddenly, Hufflepuff's kind, generous, and loyal queen had a dark side. Rumours spread, all attempting to explain why she had never gone home with theories anywhere from lack of bodies to bury to vicious stories of physical abuse she must have suffered from their hands. Amara never said anything. She heard the whispers, but she could never bring herself to face the mutterings.

Eliana never mentioned them to her, but Amara had overheard once or twice, students speaking about how she had snapped at them for their speculations. But Eliana's silence on the matter was better for Amara than she ever could have guessed. Even better, when she met with Sirius and James to begin brewing the Animagus potion, aside from a sympathetic glance or two when they thought her attention was elsewhere, they acted as though they had no idea her parents had died at all. She preferred it this way. It gave her the chance to ignore it, to try and forget they had died at all.

There was only one person with whom she felt she could confide about her parents.

The final day of November was drawing to a close as Amara walked slowly through the castle, her bag slung over her shoulder. The rest of the school was at dinner, but as Amara was neither in the mood nor the physical state to desire nourishment, she had not joined them. Instead, she walked until she came to a stop outside a familiar office, her eyes fixed on it, just daring to hope.

Knocking softly, she waited, wondering. After a moment, the door opened and Amara found herself facing Professor McGonagall.

"Miss Amara," she said in surprise, her eyes widening slightly. "What is it?"

"I-I...well..." she began hesitantly.

Her expression softening, McGonagall stepped back, allowing Amara to slip inside and take a seat in one of the chairs across from her.

"Have a biscuit," she prodded gently, offering the tin to her.

Amara took one, breaking off small portions, her eyes fixed on her toes as she tried to find the words to explain why she had come.

After a long silence, McGonagall finally said, "I presume this has something to do with your parents?"

Amara let out a long breath, glancing up at her teacher with tears in her eyes. McGonagall instantly got to her feet, approaching Amara and wrapping her arms around her. Amara could not restrain a sob. McGonagall did not move an inch as she waited for Amara to cry herself out. When she had, the Transfiguration teacher took the other seat facing her desk, taking one of Amara's hands into her own.

Wiping tears from her face, Amara asked in a heavy, broken-sounding voice, "How does one grieve a loss they've been begging for?" McGonagall said nothing, unsure what could be said. "My parents were terrible. They were so concerned with themselves, it took them six years to realize I had a job. It took money for them to notice me for the first time in my life. They didn't care that I was raising my brother on my own. They didn't care I was starving myself to feed him. They didn't care that he-" She broke off. "I don't know how to grieve the deaths of people I hated. The entire school keeps speculating about why I never left for a funeral or anything, and I know some are judging me, thinking I'm a terrible person. But the truth is I'm so glad they're dead, but every time I even think that, I feel like a terrible person. I don't know what to do. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing is wrong with you," McGonagall said with a faint hint of her usual briskness, but not the least impatience. "Grief is a fickle, temperamental thing, Amara. Witches much older and wiser than yourself have wondered all the same things you're feeling. The way to survive grief, Amara, is to get through today."

"But what about tomorrow?" Amara replied, more tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Face tomorrow when tomorrow comes," McGonagall said softly. "You don't survive grief by magically getting over it. You survive grief by facing each day and coming out on the other side."

"I don't know how," Amara sobbed, breaking down again as McGonagall wrapped her arms around her. "I hated them. I wanted them dead, but now that they are..."

McGonagall said no more, holding her close as she sobbed, hoping against hope she would be ready to face another day when the sun rose.