The weight of the blood cleaned from his face left James with a clearer sense of self and time when everything else had vanished from the moment he had thrown the first punch. But despite Amelia's handy work, the boy's face still throbbed in pain. Much of which he assumed were from cuts and bruises that were now cleaned, but should not be tampered with due to their proximity to his eyes and, hell, he did not want to sit still long enough to have her work on them. Though he no longer felt the fitful anxiety of his restless frustration, he harbored the undeniable urge to sleep for days. He wanted to move toward his dorm and lay on his bed, content with the comfort of familiarity.
"My fists are none too pleased," James assured in a stoic tone before holding up his right hand to show what were once bloodied knuckles, but were now just bruising in the firelight. "And I don't rightly think my stomach can handle much of anything right now. Save for a bit of water." He felt loaded with grief that settled itself directly on his gut blocking all desire to eat.
"The only person I'll be beating on is," he hesitated, the word "myself" hanging on the tip of his tongue, "Sirius if he doesn't fetch me some of that chocolate he's flaunting. And possibly you if you don't accept my sincerest thanks for, well, breaking up the fisticuffs and all that. And not taking this to a professor or a less... understanding Prefect," another pause of thought interrupted his words. "You're not, are you?"