xciii. deeper waters
Elara stared at the inside of the book without reading a single word.
Instead, her attention lingered overlong on the pink, shiny skin marring the fingers and knuckles of her right hand. The scars made the hand stiff and they ached still, too warm to the touch. Madam Pomfrey warned her it'd take time for the pain to ease and for the magic inherent in cursed wounds to dissipate. Elara flexed her fingers, curling them in and out of a fist, feeling the skin tug against itself.
She didn't hate the scars like she hated the others. These came from resistance, from fighting, from her own mistake; the others were products of weakness, at least in Elara's eyes. In the grand scheme of things, she guessed she should be happy about still being able to use the hand. They should all be thankful to be alive.
Elara pulled her gloves out of her pocket and tugged them on.
At the head of the classroom, Professor Flitwick paced the length of the desk as he chattered, his face gone a bit red from the endless monologue. After Professor Selwyn went missing, Flitwick and several other of the professors took on the burden of teaching History of Magic, and the Charms professor took to the task with gusto. He'd tossed whatever curriculum Selwyn left behind and instead filled their classes with discussions on the origins of Moon Mirrors or Ravenclaw's background. Currently, only Snape or Harriet could open the Aerie—not that anyone knew the truth as to why Harriet could—and Flitwick challenged his students to figure out the lost key Ravenclaw meant for people to use centuries ago.
I wonder how Snape managed to get through. He's not a Parselmouth. Elara sighed, smoothing the page of the spellbook on her desk, tracing a finger over the aged, macabre drawing. Ignis Monstrum. No matter how long Elara studied the page, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the flickering drawing of spindly animals spooling from the wizard's wand. She kept remembering the surge of emotion, physical heat mirroring the hot, curdling morass in her own heart, rage and fear and elation, all those feelings she usually encountered in spare, measured doses pouring from her as sparks had from her wand. She nearly killed them all with that spell, and Elara felt oddly…betrayed by the journal. It hadn't warned her of what would happen.
Some unexplainable part of her wanted to cast it again.
"The production of the Moon Mirrors suggests a previously unknown—and most likely now extinct—clutch of Occamies in the isles, or Rowena had an acquaintance in the Far East," Flitwick squeaked from the front of the room. "Now remember, children, this was in a time before the invention of the Floo Network, the advent of the I.C.W, and several historical sources lead us to believe Apparition hadn't yet been created. How extraordinary it would be for Rowena or any of the Founders to form bonds with witches or wizards half the world away!"
Elara glanced at the two empty seats next to her and slowly closed the book, tucking it away in her satchel. She instead turned her attention to taking notes, knowing her friends would want them once they were well.
A chair squeaked as Malfoy leaned closer to her. "I heard Granger's going to be woken up today."
Elara's eyes cut in his direction. "Who told you that?"
"Madam Pomfrey has to keep father informed as her guardian."
Elara almost scoffed at the thought of Lucius Malfoy being the guardian of any child, but Draco sat there in direct contention to the thought. Bigoted idiot he might be, but Malfoy clearly had a happy childhood and adored his parents, something Elara couldn't relate with. "Are you going to go see her?"
Draco blinked. "What are you on about?"
"I asked if you were going to go see her. Hermione."
Red crept into his pale cheeks and he sputtered, wide-eyed. "W-why would I do that?!"
"Quiet please, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Black," Professor Flitwick called.
"Sorry, Professor."
Elara returned to her notes and ignored Malfoy as well as she could, though he continued to shoot her infuriated glances and hissed at her to clarify her meaning. As if she would.
Eventually, Flitwick finished his lecture and dismissed the class, allowing the students to pack up their things and run out into the busy corridor. Elara hadn't noticed it before, but in the two weeks since the Heir's defeat and the "Chamber's" closure, the Slytherin students walked lighter, having shed a dark and constant pall of suspicion and unease. The weather outside grew warmer and the whole castle felt—brighter, for lack of a better word. Laughter came easier.
Outside the classroom, Elara found two people waiting for her.
"Hey, Elara!" Ginny called, waving her over. Luna, standing at Ginny's side, waved as well. She looked happy in a way she hadn't all year, her smile wide and pale eyes lucid, a whole chunk of garlic hanging from her neck by a woven bit of twine. Elara decided not to ask about that.
"Hello," she said when she reached the pair, feeling off-balance without Harriet or Hermione. "How are you doing, Luna?"
"Much better, thank you." She beamed. "We know you don't have anyone else, so we wanted to know if we could go with you to see Harriet and Hermione."
Elara hesitated, torn between being indignant that two first-years thought she was a loner and touched they'd thought of her at all. She decided to accept the gesture for what it was; Luna outside of the Diadem's control was quite blunt and Elara could appreciate the honesty. "Sure, that'd be great."
They walked together to the hospital wing, a route Elara had grown familiar with over the past weeks, and entered the ward to the sound of arguing voices. That, too, Elara had come to expect whenever she visited. Harriet proved a compliant patient for two or three days—but beyond that, she became a right terror, and Elara thought Madam Pomfrey probably considered strangling the witch on a regular basis. Either that or liberal use of Dreamless Sleep.
"Miss Potter," she said, exasperation plain in her voice. It drifted from behind the row of curtains drawn about the Petrified victims. "For last time, you're meant to be resting. Preferably in your bed, and not underfoot!"
"But I'm bored," Harriet complained. "Can I leave?"
"No. Not until you're fully healed—which would happen faster if you rested."
Elara came to a sudden stop and her heart stuttered, snippets of memories clouding her mind. She remembered the frantic burn in her lungs, the hollow pounding her feet on the stone floor as she ran at Longbottom's side and Harriet's screams grew ever louder. Elara would never tell her, but she'd cried for her Aunt Petunia. Having never known another mother, Harriet's pain-riddled mind must have latched onto the first person it could, like an animal instinct, and it hurt Elara in indefinable ways to think that in her most desperate hour, Harriet begged help from a woman more likely to turn a blind eye than intercede on her behalf.
Damage from the Cruciatus Curse didn't heal overnight. Dozens of curses could be used to inflict pain on a person and weren't considered unforgivable; only the Cruciatus Cruse excised a toll on both target and caster. Harriet might not feel the aches and creeping numbness in her nerves anymore, but Madam Pomfrey—and, by extension, Professor Dumbledore—thought it best she stay in the infirmary until the magic's residue fully disappeared.
"All right, Elara?" Luna asked, noticing her pause.
"Yes, I'm—."
The curtains rustled and Harriet darted into view. Elara didn't have time to brace herself, and they collapsed in a heap when Harriet launched herself at her.
"Miss Potter!"
After a thorough dressing down from the matron and getting all but dragged back to her bed by the ear, Harriet settled and sat cross-legged on the mattress in her hospital gown, giving the other witches room to sit too. "What's happening out in the school?" she asked, her eagerness for conversation obvious. "Have they found Selwyn yet? Or the Aerie?"
"Well," Ginny began, taking a breath. "It's not like they're telling us much of anything, is it? You know Dumbledore's back, 'course, and so's Slytherin." Her freckled face scrunched in a grimace. "Being a right tosser, that one. Hasn't given any of his classes any kind of break even though he's been gone for weeks and we're all terribly behind. If anyone so much as mutters the name 'Selwyn' around him he all but flies off the handle."
"I guess that means they haven't found him."
"Nah. There's been nothing in the Prophet, either."
Harriet hummed, a stubborn set to her jaw as her gaze roved away from her friends and landed instead on the nightstand holding the torn remnant of Chocolate Frog package. "And the Aerie?"
"Professor Flitwick and the Headmaster managed to find the corridor with Professor Snape's help," Luna piped up. "They know the trick to get there now, but they haven't figured out the Moon Mirror and asked the school at large to put our brains to work trying to figure it out. Apparently the mirrors don't stop Professor Snape anymore."
"What, really? Why not?"
"No one knows for sure. I think it's because he asked nicely."
Ginny snorted, then smothered the sound in her hand. "Yeah, who knows? No one else has figured it out. You might be right, Luna. Ron said Snape's reflection was so horrified of him, it ran away and let him walk right on through."
A strangled sound left Harriet and Elara didn't hide her smirk. Luna frowned. "That's mean, Ginny."
"Don't look at me, Ron said it."
They moved on to safer topics, and not a moment too soon; not five minutes had passed before the infirmary doors came open with a decisive bang and the black-clad git himself stood at the threshold with a cauldron floating along behind him. He caught sight of them all huddled on the single bed and glowered before moving on.
Madam Pomfrey came out from behind one of the hangings and sighed when she spotted the Potions Master. "There you are, Severus," she said, wiping off her hands on her apron. "The Draught is ready, I take it?"
"Apparently." He flicked his wand, summoning a blanket into his hand, which he then turned into a table and used as a place to set the large, fire-blackened cauldron. He produced a graduated beaker from his cloak pocket. "The cat first, then. To assure nothing is…amiss with the brew."
The thought of inadvertently poisoning Filch's cat put a smile on the man's face, and the four witches on the bed knew without a word shared between them that it'd be best to stay out of his way.
Snape and Pomfrey went about prepping the potion and patients respectively, and Elara fidgeted with her gloves as she watched, eager for Hermione to wake up again. The Draught wasn't drunk as she'd assumed it'd be; rather, Snape applied it directly to the soft, permeable tissue of the mouth, nostrils, or eyes, given whichever was available. Not ten seconds after applying a liberal dollop in Mrs. Norris' eye, the cat went limp, stirred—then rocketed up from the bed she'd been sequestered in and clawed up Snape's robes. The man cursed wildly, his hands full and occupied, and eventually Mrs. Norris reached his head.
"Poppy!" he roared.
"Hold still, Severus, for Merlin's sake, it's just a cat…."
Madam Pomfrey got the distraught cat off Snape with Luna's help, who held the disgruntled feline secure in her arms. She volunteered to see Mrs. Norris back into Filch's care, and once she skipped off with Ginny in tow, Snape moved on to the next patient. Both Harriet and Elara noticed the angry claw marks on his face and had the good sense to keep their mouths shut.
Colin Creevey received the next dose of potion and woke with far less drama than Mrs. Norris. Really, he appeared more enthused that he'd been attacked by a giant magical creature than scared, and Elara put it down to some strange Gryffindor impulse she didn't understand. Finch-Fletchley came next, the Hufflepuff confused and disoriented. The Gryffindor ghost got a healthy misting delivered by a Transfigured aerosol can—and immediately vanished through the nearest wall the second he spotted Harriet. Snape and Pomfrey exchanged befuddled glances. Clearwater cried when she woke, and Madam Pomfrey had to take her aside to calm the poor witch down. Finally, Snape came to Hermione's bedside, and Harriet and Elara hopped up to join him, earning a sharp reprimand to keep their hands to themselves.
He dribbled the remainder of the Draught into Hermione's parted lips. She seemed to exhale, sinking into the bedding, her eyelids fluttering—and then she sat up and knocked the beaker from Snape's hand before he could react. It shattered on the floor.
"Professor!" Hermione cried. "Professor, the Basilisk! The—the Aerie! That's where it is, where the Heir's taken it! I don't know where, but—!"
"Hermione!" Harriet said, grabbing her arm before she could whack Snape again. The Potions Master had a murderous look about him as he swept his wand over the floor to clean up the glass.
"I—what?" Hermione blinked again as she realized she and Snape weren't alone. "Where—? Oh, the infirmary? But what happened? I—."
"You were Petrified! You scared us half to death, you know!" Harriet clamored halfway onto the bed to hug Hermione, who hugged the other witch back, puzzled. Snape stepped back from the scene, rolling his eyes. "What were you thinking, going off like that on your own? We told you half a dozen times that we had to stick together."
"I—it was important," Hermione murmured, one arm still tucked around Harriet, the other rubbing her furrowed brow. "I realized…the Aerie. That's where it's being kept, the Basilisk. And I figured out no one had died because no one had looked the snake straight in the eyes. They saw it in reflections—in water, or mirrors, or glass. Not directly."
Ah, Elara thought. That would explain the compact she nicked from Pansy. At least she had that much sense.
"Penelope was with me in the library, and I heard an odd noise so we used a mirror to look about the corners. I remember of pair these horrid eyes—." She gasped. "We have to find the Aerie! That's where the Heir's keeping the Basilisk, I—!"
"Err, Hermione?"
"Yes?"
"We already found it."
"You what?"
"Already found the Aerie, the Basilisk's gone, the Heir's gone, all settled! You've got a lot to catch up on…."
Harriet jumped right into the story and Elara was content to sit back and listen to the verve Harriet told the events of the past few months with—until Snape caught her by the arm and Elara started. She'd forgotten he was there. Looking up at him, Elara paled.
"A moment of your time, Black," he said, leaving no room for argument. In fact, he didn't remove his hand from her person, leading her with a harsh, rather impersonal touch into Madam Pomfrey's deserted office. The sound of the latch closing set Elara's teeth on edge and her heart beat an uncomfortable rhythm against her sternum. The cleaned vials set in a rack on Pomfrey's desk rattled and didn't stop rattling until Snape let go and Elara took a step away, rubbing her arm.
It seemed an age the wizard said nothing at all, just looked down his long nose at her with his back to the door and Elara fought off the sudden rising panic in her chest. She could see the resemblance in him again to Father Phillips—the starkness of his black robes, the splash of white at his collar—and in the semi-darkness of the office illuminated by the dying fire, and she felt far too close to that place. It trembled in her memories, a nervous, terrible bundle of sick dread she couldn't stand to let touch her. She wanted out of the room. She wanted away from him.
"What do you want?" she demanded, not caring how rude the question was. Her voice shook.
She really missed her wand.
Snape tipped his head, black eyes hard and cold. "I want the book."
Elara paused. "What book?" What is he on about? I haven't got any book of his.
"The book. Oh, don't take me for a simpering government fool, Miss Black. I know for a fact neither Potter or Longbottom cast Fiendfyre in the Aerie. Give me the book."
"I—I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. I imagine you haven't let it be for weeks—months, even. It's a small distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. I fully assume you have it on your person right this moment."
He wasn't wrong. Elara stopped her hand from touching her satchel. Why hadn't she dropped it once she reached the infirmary? The weight dragged at her shoulder. Why hadn't she set it down? Why hadn't she noticed?
"Give me the book. I am not asking. I am telling you to hand it over—and don't you dare continue to play dumb with me, Black."
Slowly, Elara tucked her fingers under her satchel's flap and found the small, leather-bound book with unerring precision. She tugged it free and held it out in front of herself, trying to remember the last time she'd left it in her trunk, or in the dorm. When Snape snatched it from her hand, she almost lashed out, almost lunged for it, but that was ridiculous. It was just a stupid book and she had dozens and dozens more just like it at home. That didn't explain her outrage, however, that voice in the back of her head hissing how dare he, when Elara knew Snape was well within his rights to confiscate a primer of Dark magic from her. He could expel her. She should have been expelled for casting Fiendfyre in the first place.
She thought Snape would dismiss her, but he didn't. He flipped through the book, his pale fingers moving silently over the aged pages before he shut it and dropped it on Pomfrey's desk. Elara's eyes followed it and stared at the gilt snake on the emerald cover.
"Typical Black arrogance. You're in the deep end now, girl, and you have two choices. You can take the book with you. You can keep reading it, absorbing whatever malicious magic it has written on its pages, and I won't stop you. Take the book and know that, someday, you might lose control again. You might not. You might master the spells to no ill-effect, or you might hurt yourself—or Potter, or Granger. You might say something they cannot forgive, and you might find yourself alone. It will change you. The magic will take pieces of you and, if you're unlucky, you will look into the mirror one day and not recognize the person looking back. How else do you think the Dark Lord became the creature he is today?"
Snape loomed closer and Elara fidgeted, a lump forming in her throat. "You can take the book, or you can leave it here. You'll be tempted to delve deeper—it will never go away regardless of your choice, but it's simpler to ignore if you remind yourself of better things to hold onto—like your friends." He sneered at the sentiment. "In the end, it is your choice, Black. The consequences are yours to bear."
He swept by her without another word, the door opening and shutting in his passage, the air cold against Elara's sweaty nape. Snape's assumptions infuriated her; how could he assert such lies? It was just a stupid little spellbook. Yes, it had Dark magic in it—but it also had normal spells, too, and it was so old, Dark was a relative term, wasn't it? It wouldn't change her. She'd never hurt Harriet or Hermione!
But I almost did, didn't I? I didn't mean to, and yet—.
Elara picked up the spellbook and wanted to return it to her bag. The damage had been done; she knew at least half of the magic written therein and could do so much good if she could just master them. What did it matter? It was an heirloom, wasn't it? If she hadn't lost control of the Fiendfyre, if she could just learn to wield it and the other spells, if she could just practice—.
Out in the ward, she could hear Harriet laughing, Hermione scolding her for something. Luna and Ginny had returned. Colin and Justin and Penelope had come to hear about the things they'd missed, their voices mingling together. The office felt smaller and smaller with every passing second.
Inhaling, Elara jerked and tossed the book into the hearth where the slim leather volume fell into the guttering flames.
She turned and walked out without looking back.
A/N: I kind of equate Dark magic with addiction, like alcoholism; some people drink just fine and enjoy it, and yet it can ruin others' lives.
My favorite thing is that Lucius Malfoy fighting Arthur when Harriet was in Diagon Alley was just a red herring. Lucius Malfoy is a giant fish, confirmed. He catfished us. "My flounder will hear about this!"
