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chapter five; post-nightmare morning runs
If she had any nightmares, Amaya was thankful to say she didn't remember them. In fact, she woke up feeling much better than she had in a while—a good night's sleep after weeks would do that to anybody, of course. The bed she was given at Potter Manor was infinitely much better than the creaky and stiff cot that the Iberian Consortium, oh, so generously gave her in the small holding cell she was kept in.
She shivered just thinking about that wretched cell, how she was trapped inside like a criminal. She could only pace its length during the day, or entertain herself with trying to find the magic in a cell that was made not to hold any; if she was being quite honest she was nearly sure the imprint of her footsteps was still marked on the spent marble of the floor.
Of course, the blasted bed and walls stripped of magic were hardly the worst thing about her weeks confined to the Consortium, but Amaya didn't much like to think about such time.
That first morning she'd found out that both she and Fleamont were the early risers in the house—unlike James and Euphemia who apparently slept to their hearts' desires, though the latter hardly woke up late, she just didn't get up with the sun.
Amaya had found the older man seated at the head of the dining table coffee in hand, and reading the morning paper. He'd looked up from his glasses at her and smiled warmly. "Morning, Amaya, could I grab you some coffee?" he'd asked politely and she shook her head.
"I'm fine with tea," she said, pouring herself a cuppa from the spread on the table, and getting some fruit into a plate—she wasn't too hungry. She gestured at the newspaper, "Anything interesting?"
"Well, the Bulgarian Quidditch team is thriving," Fleamont said with a smile before his face sobered up and he placed the paper on the table with a grim look on his face. "There was also an attack in the suburbs of London; it appears the Death Eaters have started to pay house visits to the Muggleborns."
Amaya's stomach formed into a knot and she grimaced. Muggleborns in England were hardly ostracized from magic, but they were oppressed by the families and wizards who thought them beneath them.
Honestly, Amaya was quite content to learn that Muggleborns attended Hogwarts just like any other wizard. She had met Lily Evans, a nice girl who'd made sure to tell her to wait for an owl, because they had to hang out sometime and have some quiet time, without worrying. The way the girl had said that was light enough, but somehow Amaya could feel the weight of the war on Lily's shoulder. Amaya liked the girl, and meeting her proved how wrong what so many people had tried to tell her during her life was—Muggleborns were as much of a wizard as any other.
"Muggleborns never quite catch a break, do they?" she asked Fleamont and the latter shook his head with a somber smile.
"It appears they don't." He sighed, running a hand over his jaw. "I never got the prejudice, then again my parents were... Well, to put it lightly they believed themselves above even thinking about those who weren't worth their time. I'm glad I turned out with a good head on my shoulders and a heart that could see beyond bigoted foolish ideas."
