give her love » james potter

15

"Why am I so into boys who play quidditch and have nice hair but absolutely no personality traits, except the fact they are already alcoholics," Rachel mumbles into her arms.

I rub her back, "That's oddly specific."

"Well yeah," she says, turning her head towards me. "I'm talking about Henry Montague."

We both look over at the boy, he sits at the Slytherin table and is currently staring absentmindedly at his friend. He has light eyes and a killer jawline, then he smiles, a bit of a bucktooth but terribly handsome anyway. Like most purebloods, he has an aristocratic look about him, pretty and irresistible with fancy cologne dripping off them.

He looks over, sees our eyes on him, and gives us a small little wave.

Rachel smiles, her brighter-than-the-sun smile, then she turns to me and lets out a sound of pure agony. "Why does he have to do that to me?"

Siobhan who's been listening to us the whole time finally cuts in, "It's the smile," she says, "Slytherin boys, and their damn smiles."

They both turn their heads back to the Slytherin table and let out a sigh. Instead of following their gaze, I find myself looking at the Gryffindor table.

"He also doesn't care we're basically the same height," Rachel continues, "don't you just love a man who's masculinity isn't bothered by that."

I nod, though I've never had to face that kind of problem, since third year when Rachel hit her growth spurt and became the same height as most of the boys, she's cried about her 5'11 body many times. Nowadays it isn't very bad though, she's sort of owned up to it. That's something I'll always be proud of her for.

"Sounds like a keeper."

"A husband basically."

Sunlight streams in through the window hitting James' hair in a way that makes it seem like a sea of darkness. I fumble with my camera, trying to zoom into the pretty sight. It doesn't work out the way I want to, and I slump into my chair.

"Don't pout, Peirce," he says, patting my head. "It doesn't look good on you."

I sigh. "Then what does?"

He freezes, the question cutting him off guard. "I'm a guy, how am I supposed to know," he mumbles, rolling his eyes. "But want to know something about me?"

"I really don't . . ."

"You do," he tells me, "so I'm going to ignore that. Anyway, I have a dog, her names Shelley, after my mum's favorite author." Pause. Tilts his head at me. "Have you ever read anything by Mary Shelley."

"No."

("Read it for me," my dad begged, holding the book out and chasing me with it. "I promise you'll love it. Please, Lina."

I quickened my pace, rolling my eyes. "It looks dumb."

He let out a gasp. "Don't disrespect one of the greatest authors this world has created."

We'd both sat down at the dinner table by then. Both munched on our ravioli in silence, mom and everyone else had gone swimming or to some picnic at mum's office. Frankenstein rested between us, my dad's arm protectively close to it.

"It's my soul food."

"What."

He pointed to the book. "That book makes me happy, it makes my soul happy, content, and every other positive word." A small shrug and he looked a little sad. "I just wanted to share my soul food with you, when I was your age, I didn't really have any. If I did, maybe my life would've been a little better."

"Dad," I started, feeling horrible already. "It's--"

"If I could only have three things, the answers so simple," he said. "Poetry by Dylan Thomas, Frankenstein, and any Elvis record. All those things feed my soul in a way nothing else does. I know your young, and there are more important things to you at this moment. But, I hope, when you find your soul food, you'll share it with me."

I nodded and nodded and nodded until perhaps my neck might've snapped. Then I told him about how I was in love with Steve Jones. He'd said he would never let me be with some wannabe gangster. I had rolled my eyes. After we washed the dishes together, and he leaned into me and whispered, if I truly loved Steve, he might reconsider it.

But beneath all that we were both telling each other, I love you.)

"My dad loves, well, loved her."

James smiles. "That's cool."

I feel like I'm going to cry, so it's actually not very cool at all. I look at the ceiling yelling at my eyes to stop being such wusses and blink the tears away. Even after my eyes aren't teary, I feel like my lungs have been flooded with water. I drown in grief for a moment, then another, and then another.

My lungs never empty out, but I try to be normal again.

"Are you okay," he asks me.

I shake my head. "No, not really."

"Oh." He bites his lip, looking around, then back at me. Nervousness fills his body. "Do you need anything? Water? Rachel? Space?"

"No," I say, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. "I just need a moment. Can you just stay here? Sometimes it's nicer to have someone close by."

"I'm here," he says, in a voice like honey, sweet and smooth, that makes me feel a little lighter. "As long as you want me."