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chapter nine; makeshift magic lessons
Amaya wanted to flame the four boys that, like arseholes, called themselves the Marauders —what kind of stupid name was that anyway?
From the day they had the Order meeting and were on their way to getting a mission, they hadn't stopped pestering—it was getting on her nerves.
Amaya was sure their intentions were at least half good, they wanted to help her—despite the many times she told them she didn't want nor need their help, and would much rather have the quiet from before.
But because it was the weekend and they apparently had nothing better to do, since all four of them were prancing about the Manor, they had decided that No, I don't want your help meant that she told them to sit in the library and sigh every few minutes—like a bunch of cabrones.
At some point, she had snapped her book shut and turned to Black with a glare. "What?!"
Black had raised his hands in mock surrender. "Easy there, love. No need to bring out the claws."
"Amor, my claws will be the least of your worries if you don't get the fuck out."
Sirius was undeterred, in fact, her answer seemed to motivate him to stand up and walk over to her desk as he tried to peer over the papers she had been writing (though they were all written in Portuguese or Spanish or a mix of both with a dash of English, and she hardly thought he'd get a word, the Blacks were known for teaching their younger generations French).
He glanced over at her. "We just want to help, Maya. We're brilliant lads and a shit ton creative—"
"And a pain in my arse," she'd added, making them all snicker. She looked over at James who was also glancing at the papers on her desk curiously from his place on the couch. "Potter, can you take your little friends and go play outside like the children you are?"
"No can do, Santoro." He pointed at the window where she could see the rain splattering.
"So?"
"Wizards melt in the rain," said Remus not looking up from the book he was reading, a muggle one if the paperback was anything to go by.
"That's witches," corrected Amaya.
"We don't want to get wet," said Sirius.
"Why? You already smell as bad as a wet dog," grumbled Amaya, noting the looks they exchanged—they were hopeless in keeping a secret if just a comment like that had them looking at each other conspicuously.
"Do not," grumbled Sirius, grabbing his shirt and sniffing it before smiling pleasantly and looking at her smugly.
At some point, the four of them gave up on trying to help her or get her to allow them to help so they could feel useful. Amaya felt bad for them, she knew what it was like to feel like she wasn't doing anything of importance, but she had been serious when she'd told Dumbledore she wouldn't trust people blindly—that was just not a mistake she could afford.
