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chapter seventeen;
midnight kitchen talks

Amaya was back in the cruel confines of the small holding cell, she knew it, she could feel it —and by that, she meant the lack of magic, the coldness that came with its absence that seeped into her bones and coated her in fear, an icy void, the dank air thick with the haunting chill of despair and the stone walls whispered of forgotten screams. Her magic didn't work where magic had been restricted, it was just enough to keep her alive—but if she was back in the cell she would rather have been dead.

How had she gotten there, she was sure just the other day she'd been laughing with James at an Opera House, going shopping with Euphemia. They must've found her. They must've found out about her father and taken her in her sleep.

And now she was back in the small room—if one could even call it that—the cold lack of magic overwhelming her as she tried to open her eyes.

Her eyes peeled open and Amaya gasped. No one ever dared enter the holding cells if not necessary, no one wanted to have their magic taken away to the point they could feel its absence under their skin, like a vague hollow inside them, itching to be filled with whatever was closest. So the Guardas never dared to step in, never dared to do what they wanted to, though they mocked her about taking her every day.

But some of them were cruel, and they found it funny to drag the prisoners that wasted away without magic and shove them into her cell. Most were muggleborns. Most of them were children. Children with blank eyes and red-stained lips from their blood, children that sat on the cold stone floor of her cell and watched her go mad.

And now they looked over at her again. Only one this time, but she was sure more were to come. The Guardian had left him sitting against the wall opposite to her, brown eyes watchful of her even through their blank stare. Slouched against the wall, body limp, a solitary child with limbs twisted in odd places.

And when she recognized him, Amaya wanted to scream.

"Recognize that one?" a sinister whisper slithered into her ear and Amaya flinched, snapping her head to the side only to find yet another blank wall. "A child, little one, that's who you killed," the voice whispered by the other side of her head, sounding so much like her father that Amaya let out a sob. Its words dripped with malevolence, taunting her, using her guilt that clawed at the edges of her sanity.

She shook her head. "No, no, no. I didn't mean to—"

"That doesn't change what happened," this time the voice was coming from Elio's corpse, sitting opposite her. The voice she remembered was like a haunting memory, so sweet and childlike, squeaky at times. Elio's eyes looked past her but his mouth twisted into a wry smile, his teeth stained by the blood in his mouth, gnashing at her, painting a horrid picture. "I'm dead."

"I'm so sorry," Amaya sobbed.

I'm dead. Elio's voice grew louder in her head as his corpse dragged itself up, like a puppet on strings. I'm dead, Amaya.

DEAD. He lunged at her—

Amaya woke up with a gasp.

Her heart was racing frantically, her skin clammy and her cheeks wet with tears. She let out a sob as she came back around, realizing where she was.

She wasn't back at the Consortium. It was just a nightmare, she told herself as she looked around her newly decorated room, still trying to catch her breath. Euphemia had taken her shopping on Sunday, while the boys had their fun for their weekly Marauder Day.

They'd explored Muggle London together, in awe at every store they went to, and Euphemia had declared they must finally give Amaya a room that was her own, so she could feel completely welcome, and so Amaya got to pick some furniture and stuff to decorate her room, like a desk, a wallpaper with tiny little flowers, and new sheets and pillows for her bed.

Amaya was reluctant at first to accept Euphemia's offer, after all, the woman was already offering her a house, Amaya didn't need anything else, nor did she have anything else—she had no way of repaying the elder woman. And she told Euphemia that.

"Oh, darling, you needn't repay me," she'd answered, with her kind face and determined eyes, "It's a gift. And it's rude to refuse gifts."

Amaya had tried to put a stop to the woman's generosity many times after that. Like when Euphemia offered to expand her wardrobe— You can't wear my son's jumpers forever, Amaya, she'd told her, not leaving room for discussion, besides soon it'll get cold and you must have clothes to wear. Or when Euphemia insisted on buying Amaya a wand as they traipsed through Diagon Alley.

The latter was a bustling street, full of life and wizards, and its magic was so overwhelming, that Amaya felt her magical core want to reach out to everyone and everything. The cobblestones had magic, the broomsticks sweeping the streets shimmered with it, and the people, old or young, all had something to offer, all had some sort of light in them.

It was true, though, that Amaya could see the effects of the war around them, some storefronts were closed, windows covered in wooden planks, and inside, through the cracks, Amaya could see the places in disarray as if the people leaving had to do so very quickly. There were notices on the walls, arrests, and murders advertised for the public, but there was still a great amount of joy.

"James told me you're teaching him your magic," Euphemia had said as she dragged Amaya along until they stopped by a store by the name of Ollivander's. "He also said he's determined for you to know a spell or two. And you'll need a wand for that."

Amaya had tried to argue. "I don't. Euphemia, I could do it wandlessly, there's no need—"

Euphemia sent her a look that immediately made Amaya clamp her lips together—it was the same look she gave James when he was rambling off excuses for spending all the floo powder without replacing it. She sighed, leading Amaya to a place on the street where they wouldn't be heard by everyone. Euphemia placed a hand on Amaya's shoulders, a motherly gesture that had her insides clench painfully, though her heart warmed.

"Darling, these are difficult times, and whilst I'm sure you'd have no trouble mastering anything wandlessly, you must have a wand on you at all times." Euphemia gave her a meaningful look and Amaya understood.

If she had a wand on her, in case they were attacked, the ones attacking her would believe her harmless without her weapon and thus, undermine her. And that was how Amaya ended up leaving Ollivander's, a store owned by a very curious old man, with a wand that though familiar, felt useless, haunting even.

The same wand, now sitting by her nightstand, and Amaya was sure it had been the wand to bring her the nightmares—it was made from the same wood as her father's. "Santoro?" Mr. Ollivander had exclaimed in surprise, smiling, "I sold your father a wand once. He was visiting. Yes, yes, elderberry wood. Dragon string..." he kept yapping as he went to fetch wands for her to try.

Her wand, though the same wood, was different in design, shorter, slicker, with vines that intertwined. And its core was that of a phoenix's feather, potent enough to adapt to her strength, to match her magic, and still she felt no use for the blasted thing. All she ever saw a wand do, with real power, was hurt. She didn't want that power in her hands.

Still trembling softly, Amaya grabbed the wand and shoved it inside the drawer on the nightstand, before getting off her bed and leaving her room. It was still the middle of the night, and the house was silent, but Amaya didn't want to go to sleep just yet, she figured she'd get a glass of water.

Her nightmares weren't usually so bad. She mostly forgot them come morning though she always knew she had one because she didn't sleep well. She had a hunch this one was worse because, for the first time in a couple of weeks, she was reminded of the past; she remembered the pain, and she remembered her father for what he was—not just a wizard rambling on in a journal about Horcruxes. It didn't matter, though, it wouldn't happen again. She was just glad she was awake.

Amaya made her way to the kitchen, briskly wiping the tears from her eyes, and stopped in her tracks by the doorway when she found James, shirtless, leaning against the counter with a glass of water in his hand, his eyes fixed on a spot on the ground.

The moment she stepped forward though, his eyes snapped to hers and his brows furrowed. Amaya was glad it was dark, she didn't want him to see the tear stains on her face, let alone the blush she could feel on her cheeks at the sight of his bare chest, all hard planes and corded muscle—it should've been a crime for him to look like that; then again it was a great distraction.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.

"You could say that," she said as she went to fetch a glass before standing beside him to pour the water, the heat of his body all too close to her. "You?"

She looked up at him and he shrugged. "There's a lot on my mind."

"Like what?"

He set the glass on the counter and ran a hand through his messy hair. Lips twisting to the side in thought. "Do you think we can do it? Win the war?"

"It's worth a try," she whispered. "We can't just stand by and watch it happen."

"I know. And I'm prepared for the worst. I think." He sighed. "I think we can win."

She smiled softly with a nod, before gulping water, letting it wash the nightmares away. "I just have to find the Horcruxes—"

"Why do you do that?"

Amaya frowned looking up at him. He crossed his arms in front of him as he searched her eyes as if trying to figure her out. "Do what?"

"Say I. You're not fighting this war alone, Maya," he said softly and she looked away, ignoring the way her stomach fluttered when he said her name. He grabbed her chin and gently forced her to look up at him again. "You're not alone in this. We're here to help. You're part of the Order."

She scoffed and stepped away from him, putting the glass in the sink as she did. "I'm not. I've been to one meeting."

"So?"

"They don't trust me, Potter. I'm not in the Order, I'm just a useful asset. That's all I ever will be. And so, yes, I'm in this alone. It's my responsibility to find and get the Horcruxes. Dumbledore only trusts me to do it because he knows that it's not just about the war. And who can blame him? I'm nobody—"

"I trust you," James spoke, interrupting her as he pushed off the counter and walked over to her, causing Amaya to step back until her back hit the island. "My parents trust you. Remus trusts you. Sirius adores you. The girls already claimed you as one of them. The Order might not trust you in full, but you're not alone." He placed his hands on the counter on either side of her, looking down at her with eyes that begged her to understand. "We are willing to help, we're willing to give you anything, including a family. The question is if you trust us. If you'll let us help you, if you'll get your head out of your arse and understand you're not nobody, you're extraordinary."

Her breathing caught in her throat and she felt her heart hammering against her ribcage. "You've not known me for even a month, Potter—"

"So?"

"You can't—How can you—"

"You helped Remus, Maya. You took care of us, you're keeping our secret. You've come here to help end this war. Why is it hard to believe that I trust you?"

"Don't kid yourself, James. I'm nothing but an asset in this war; I'm only useful for as long as I have something to give—"

"That's not true." She raised a dubious eyebrow and he let out a frustrated sigh. "That's not true, not when it comes to us. Whether you like it or not you've become a part of this family, and that's not something you have to earn, the only thing you need to do is be you."

"Family?" she echoed, the word he'd been throwing around, the word she'd been hearing for a couple of weeks now, what she'd felt even though she wouldn't admit it.

He nodded. "Family."

"Whether I like it or not?"

"Especially if you hate it," he replied with a grin and she bit back a smile.  "You're coming to the meeting tomorrow," he informed her, and as she was about to protest he stopped her, clapping his hand over her mouth and making her scowl up at him. "Come on, it'll be fun."

She held his eyes in a challenge, tempted to lick his hand, and when she didn't relent her shoulders slumped and he grinned smugly, taking his hand away from her mouth and cupping her jaw instead, his thumb brushing along her bottom lip, making her heart skip. James seemed hypnotized by her lips, his eyes dark in the night, for a moment she was sure he leaned forward and she wanted him to kiss her, but he just stepped away.

He cleared his throat and smiled. "Come on, it's getting late, we should get some sleep."

He walked her back to her room, and kissed her on the cheek, murmuring good night against her skin and leaving her by the door, cheeks flushed and her heart clenching painfully. Because she loved the idea of being part of their family, but she knew she wasn't worth any of it—how could she? When her own mother had cast her out?

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