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chapter six; flying girls and poker faces
Don't hurt me, the words echoed in his head. He'd put Santoro to sleep in her bed, pathetically tucking her in, looking at her face calm with sleep. There were bags under her eyes, and her bottom lip slightly chapped as if she'd been biting on it, worrying.
James felt guilt swirl around in his stomach. She'd been in his house for three days now, and even though, yes, he did drag her along for lunch (albeit only after some convincing) he hadn't paid her much attention, instead spending his time with his friends at their flat or out in Muggle London.
And she'd been holed up in the library working on whatever secret task Dumbledore had put her in charge of. James felt useless. He'd been out partying and Amaya had been exhausting herself for a war that wasn't hers to fight in the first place. He'd left her room, quietly and forced himself to go to sleep and refrain from going through her stuff in the library, instead leaving it untouched no matter how curious he was.
Don't hurt me. Why would she think he'd hurt her? Who had hurt her? And why didn't those three words leave his mind in peace?
The next morning Amaya acted like nothing happened, perhaps she didn't even remember what had happened. He found her returning from her usual run, her silky hair pulled up into a ponytail that was falling apart, her skin sleek with sweat, and it looked so soft and flawless he had the urge to kiss it. He obviously didn't.
She was wearing the same pair of shorts and vest she wore for her run and her trainers that were practically falling apart. Instead of bidding her good morning and going on about his business as usual, James stopped her on the way to the stairs.
It seemed she didn't even notice him because she bumped into him, nearly falling over if it wasn't for his hands steadying her. He let her go and she scowled at his grinning face.
"Morning, sunshine."
She narrowed her eyes. James was undeterred though, he was dressed and ready with a plan to get Amaya Santoro to have fun. If she didn't let him help in whatever mission she had (not that he'd given up on trying to) he would help her relax and live a healthy life that didn't include being locked up in the library with dusty books like a swot, with a penchant for war ending schemes.
"Fancy a race?"
"What?"
James smiled showing her the broomsticks in his hand. His broomstick was one of his most prized possessions, the newest nimbus in the market, but compared to Amaya's it was an ancient broom. He had asked her during lunch one day where she had got it and she shrugged, "My father liked to mess with them. He made it for me."
