lx. mischief

"Of course, the Two Thousand One blows the Two Thousand model out of the water, both in speed and in handling. Normally, I wouldn't claim there's much of a difference between models—but Nimbus Racing really outdid themselves this time. The oh-One is a complete departure from its predecessor. It makes Loser Longbottom's twig look like—."

Elara snapped her Charms text closed and shut her eyes, searching for the patience she used to employ to get through Father Phillips' worst Sunday sermons, when she'd sit between Matron Fitzgerald and Kaleb Sanders on the pew, the latter calling her the devil under his breath, the former pinching her side every time her attention wandered. She could still hear his voice like the bang of a hammer on a stubborn nail, "Many will say to me in that day, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? And in thy name cast our devils? And in thy name done many wonderful works? And then will I profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from ye workers of iniquity."

Workers of iniquity, Elara hissed in her thoughts, eyes squeezed shut. Like he would know iniquity if it came and smacked him in the face.

Draco blathered on, leaning on a wing chair by the main hearth, chatting in the ear of the sixth year Hubert Fawly, who didn't much care for the sport itself as he did the money to be made off of it. The longer the blond boy waxed poetic about the broom, the more tempted Elara was to write his mother. Oh, for certain Mrs. Malfoy thought the world of her boy and Draco could do no wrong in her eyes, but boasting like this was grossly uncouth. Narcissa would chastise him.

Despite her misgivings, Elara found she didn't dislike Mrs. Malfoy—or, at least, the etiquette lessons she gave her and Harriet. Elara had nice manners. She had to, given the sisters in St. Giles' were quick to swat elbows off tables and nag anyone who lifted a cup of tea with all five fingers braced on the tableware. Mealtimes were always stressful there, but Elara had learned, unlike Harriet, who'd admitted—after much interrogation—that she'd never been permitted at the family table like a person before Hogwarts. She hadn't been struck like Elara, but in many ways the neglect Harriet experienced seemed worse.

Etiquette lessons gave them both a way to better immerse themselves in wizarding society, so no matter how boring Elara thought the revision, she…appreciated the time Narcissa Malfoy spent teaching them. Half the clergy had been of the opinion women and children should stand about silent as halfwits, so at the very least Elara was happy to know witches were not usually considered idle trophies for chauvinists.

It wasn't very ladylike to hex prats, however, no matter how they ran at the mouth, and Elara didn't want to cross Narcissa. She had enough trouble with Lucius poking and prodding and stirring up issues for her with the Ministry. She was twelve for God's sake, and she had to spend far too much time cross-referencing Mr. Piers' letters with the dictionary just to understand what her solicitor was doing to secure her House and complete due diligence.

A quiet snap stirred Elara from her deeper ruminations, and she glanced across the table to Harriet. The bespectacled witch was staring very hard at her splotched Potions essay, which she'd have to rewrite, since Snape didn't accept messy work. Her hand formed a fist around her broken quill—and, in the background, Draco continued to talk as if he'd already made the Quidditch team.

"Harriet…?" Hermione asked, pausing in her discourse about the Guild of Ethical Potioneering and Standards and their stance on the Shrinking Potion, the subject of Harriet's essay.

"Sorry," Harriet said, letting go of the quill. "Sorry, I—I think I'm just going to go to bed." She pushed her things into a messy pile and shoved it into her satchel before flinging that over her shoulder, leaving behind nothing but the broken quill and a decided air of frustration. Hermione, lips pursed, watched her go, and then glanced toward the common room's main hearth.

"It isn't fair," she whispered, glaring at the blond boy, but given how far their table was situated from any of the hearths, Elara doubted anyone could see them beneath the silver lanterns. "It's ridiculous. There must be someone we can go to."

"He's not doing anything wrong, technically. Bribing is so prevalent because it is difficult to prove, Hermione." Elara rubbed her temple, exhaling. "Besides, if we threw a fit over this, it'd deprive the whole team of new racing brooms. We're hardly popular as is; Harriet would have no chance at the team then."

Hermione scowled but didn't seem surprised, having undoubtedly considered the idea before. Elara spent another ten minutes sitting there, tracing the bent corners of her Charms text, during which Tracey Davis—who was horribly stuck up for a half-blood without an actual House—came over and started asking Hermione about the Potions essay. Elara excused herself and headed toward the dorm.

"—just prove you're halfway decent, Malfoy," Flint was saying, slouched over on one of the better couches. "Old Hooch is already suspicious, and I ain't starting the year out with a penalty again. Slytherin would be right pissed."

Malfoy scoffed and tossed back his head, adopting a low timbre in an ill-attempt to disguise his prepubescent voice. "Don't be absurd. I've been flying since I was a baby—we even have our own pitch at the manor, you see. Not regulation, but good enough—."

Elara sucked air through her teeth as she entered the corridor housing rooms for Slytherin's female population, lost in thought. The dorm she shared with the others was empty despite the encroaching curfew for the younger years—aside from Harriet, who sat at her messy carrell, hunched over and scribbling with her quill.

"What's that?" Elara asked.

"Working on a letter to Mr. Flamel," Harriet grumbled in reply, clearly still irked by Malfoy's behavior. She scribbled out a line on the parchment, leaving behind inky streaks. "Hermione's translated the first few chapters for me—y'know she found a translation Charm in the library? It's a bit finicky, but it's really useful."

"I know, she showed me."

"So I can read enough of the book now to thank him. It's interesting." Harriet scratched out another line, concentrating. "I was going to ask if he knew any curses I could use to throw prats off their fancy broomsticks, but I decided that probably wasn't my brightest idea."

Elara snorted as she leaned on the shelves next to Harriet and picked a discarded sweet wrapper from the desk, flicking it into the bin. "No, probably not. I'm sure we can find something on our own anyway. I do own a library full of dubious Dark books, remember?"

Scoffing, Harriet discarded her draft, crumpling the parchment in her fist. "Yeah, I remember. Elara…do you think I'm making a fuss for nothing? I mean, it's just Quidditch, right? I don't need Quidditch—and I could always try out later, for Chaser or something, when the Chasers leave." Even as she spoke, Elara knew Harriet's heart wasn't in it. She'd been excited to try for Seeker. "I should probably just be happy the team has new brooms."

Elara opened her mouth—and paused, thinking, remembering. She recalled wanting to be in the choir at St. Giles', not because she could sing, but because everyone else had been part of it, and the Matron relegated her to the piano. She thought of all the similar times she'd been told to be thankful for what she was given and to not want, and Elara imagined Harriet's own childhood had been riddled with identical circumstances. She was thankful for so much in this life, but it wasn't a crime to want, and to be upset when what one wanted was taken away so unfairly.

Be thankful, Matron Fitzgerald used to snap. In some places of the world, girls like you still get stoned to death, Miss Black.

"…Are you going to the tryouts tomorrow?" she asked, staring at the silver lantern overhead, brow furrowed.

"Not much point, is there?"

"I think you should go."

"Really?"

"Yes. Malfoy still has to sit a broom; if he can't, then you'll have your chance."

Harriet heaved a sigh, but didn't argue. Instead, she changed the subject. "What d'you think Tonks would like for Yule?"

Elara dropped her gaze from the lantern, puzzled. "Yule?"

"Yeah, I was going to get gifts for our minders. It seemed like a good idea." Harriet shrugged, then gave her a cheeky grin. "I was going to sign both our names, of course, so if they hated anything, I could say it was your idea."

Elara scowled, and Harriet laughed. They argued over prospective thank-you gifts, noticeably skirting the subject of potentially having to give Snape something, until the other girls filtered into the dorm, yawning and dragging their feet. Elara got ready for bed, but once she slipped behind her hangings and laid down, she didn't sleep. Instead, she listened to the muffled movements of the other Slytherin girls, the lights dimming when Prefect Farley came to make sure they'd settled in, though the moonlight still threw weak, watery ripples on the ceiling through the windows.

She didn't know exactly how long she stayed there, unmoving, though it was certainly long enough to doze for a time and for Millicent's snoring to interrupt the Black Lake's gentle roving. Elara peeled open heavy eyelids and, grunting, sat up, feeling about in the dark until she laid her hand on her wand, and then the slim, leather-bound book she kept hidden in her nightstand drawer.

The dungeon floor nipped at her feet when Elara stood. Still, she forewent her slippers and shrugged on her dressing gown, wand and book in hand, pulling back the hangings inch by inch so the rings wouldn't drag on the rail. It was quiet—aside from the snoring, and the soft, low breaths escaping the sleeping girls, though Elara did hear Livius rustling about in his nest below Harriet's bed. Pocketing her spellbook, she was quick to move on before anyone woke.

Out in the corridor, Elara stopped before she could step into the common room, hanging back out of sight as she peeked around the corner. No one was about, having wandered off to their own beds hours ago, leaving the hearths to smolder and shed guttering light through the cavernous space. Elara squinted in the gloom at the painting above the mantel; Harriet had warned both her and Hermione against the watching snake depicted therein, but Elara couldn't see the creature at the moment. Good.

"What are you doing?"

The furious whisper coming from behind her almost killed Elara. She dropped her wand and whispered "Jesus Christ," before she could catch herself, clutching at her hammering heart as she whirled about to see Hermione standing there in her night things. "You scared me!"

"Never mind that!" Hermione whispered as Elara picked up her wand again. "What are you doing, sneaking out of the dorm? If any of the teachers catch you out in the castle after hours—!"

"I'm not leaving the common room."

"Not leaving the—?"

"Shh!"

Elara hurried quietly across the main floor to the opposing corridor, keeping her eyes open for movement—either painted or corporeal. To her credit, Hermione didn't hiss her name again, though she did follow closely at Elara's heels, her face set in grim condemnation. That condemnation twisted into confusion when Elara stopped before the door to the second year boys' dorm and withdrew her book from her gown's pocket.

"Elara—."

"Just keep a lookout." Elara lit her wand with a muttered Lumos, bringing the book closer to her nose. She found the proper spell and, pointing her wand at the door's handle, whispered, "Colloportus."

The lock gave a small click when it closed, and both witches held their breath, waiting, listening hard enough for their heartbeats to sound loud and threatening in their own ears.

Hermione didn't need further explanation to realize what Elara was on about. "They'll unlock that in no time," she said. "It won't stop him from going tryouts."

"No, but this will." Elara flipped a page and studied the depicted diagram, watching the little wizard move his hand. "Epoximise."

Nothing happened.

"Is that the Permanent Sticking Charm? Where did you find that?"

"It's not," Elara whispered, darting a quick look around the narrow corridor. "There's a counter for this one, but it's obscure. It will take time to undo. Epoximise!" Again, nothing happened. Elara sucked in a miffed breath through her nose and tightened her hold on the book.

Hermione, for all her misgivings on their current situation, rolled her eyes and whipped out her own wand. "You're doing it wrong."

"No, I'm not, I'm doing it just as it is in the book—."

"Watch." Hermione flicked her wand and gave it more of a swish than Elara had. "Epoximise!" The door's wood groaned as it adhered itself to the frame. Elara ignored Hermione's smug grin, and the bushy-haired witch flourished her wand again. "Silencio! That should hold through practice. Hopefully. I haven't practiced it much."

"Yes, but you're brilliant. It'll stick." Elara and Hermione shared mischievous smiles, then turned back to the common room, dismissing their wand light. It was still silent but for the lake's movement and the gentle tapping of their cold, bare feet on the stone floor.

"You don't think we should tell Harriet, do you?"

"No. She won't like it."

"It's not cheating. Not—not precisely."

"Of course not," Elara murmured, lowering her voice more as they entered their own dorm again. Millicent continued to snore. "Like Flint said, Draco needs to sit a broom to secure his spot. It's not our fault if he doesn't show up, is it?"


A/N: Elara - "Nice dreams you got there, Draco…be a shame if someone…" *dramatic closeup* "RUINED THEM."