clv. like father, like daughter
Elara was only halfway through the second chapter of Miranda Goshawk's Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three, when she heard the first plate break. Frowning, she couldn't decide if she should be bothered with finding out what had happened, considering how comfortable she was. But then, the second plate broke, then a third, and Elara sighed aloud as she shut the book and dropped it on her nightstand. Cygnus and her great-uncle's old owl Percival, perched on the armoire, swiveled their heads to watch her leave.
She stepped out into the corridor, brow furrowed, and heard something else fall and break, the distant, muffled mash of voices drifting up the stairwell. She glanced overhead, but Snape was either in the potions lab, not here, or utterly unconcerned, because nothing sounded from the level he inhabited.
Worthless git.
Wondering if the house-elves were having another row, Elara shut her bedroom door and straightened her clothes before heading for the steps. She stopped on the next floor to peek into the living room where Mr. Flamel and Harriet sat in discussion by the window, an open text on the coffee table between them. The alchemist had an animated way of speaking, the sunlight bright on his face, and though Harriet had slumped over to lean on her arm, she listened to him with rapt attention, the breeze pulling at the stray curls escaping her plait.
Satisfied, Elara continued onward.
Crash!
"Master is a horrid, despicable wizard, he is! Oh, my poor mistress, what would she say!"
"Shut up, Kreacher!"
"Hate him! Kreacher hates him!"
Elara quickened her pace once she stepped off the stairs into the foyer and made as if to walk toward the basement where the kitchen lurked, until she heard the voices rise behind her, coming from the parlor. She entered the room in time to see a twelfth-century Goblin-wrought saucer emblazoned with the Black crest shatter on the floor.
Elara stared at the pile of shards in shock.
"What—what on earth are you doing?!" she gasped, her horror building as she took in the decimated tea service, the white porcelain ghastly against the dark color of the rug. Sirius stood before the open china hutch, a creamer dangling from his index finger, and he blinked as he turned to his daughter waiting gobsmacked at the threshold.
Sirius had cleaned himself up in the two days since his arrival at Grimmauld, his curly hair cut short about his ears, his beard clipped close to his jaw. He wore an odd mix of clothes—a faded Muggle t-shirt under an open waistcoat, Wizarding trousers and Muggle trainers. Elara had no idea where he'd gotten those; she couldn't imagine the Aurors agreeing to pop by a department store in London before dropping him off, so she concluded he must have snuck out despite his restrictions to buy himself things to wear. The reckless idiot.
"Oh," he said, fiddling with the creamer before it too joined the wreckage on the floor. Elara's eyes widened. "I'm getting rid of this rubbish."
"Rubbish? Rubbish?!" she repeated, voice rising into a screech. "That's nearly four thousand Galleons you've just tossed out!"
Sirius frowned and reached for another plate, grimacing at the Black crest. He dropped it.
"Stop!"
"The money doesn't matter, Elara," he said, sounding weary and miffed. "It's just a bunch of ruddy dishes belonging to a horde of pure-blood supremacists and arseholes. I don't know why no one else has gotten rid of it yet."
"It belongs to the family!"
Kreacher grasped Elara's skirt and sobbed into her thigh, rubbing snot and tears on the fabric. "He is a horrible, horrible wizard!" he croaked. "Kreacher hates him! He ruins the House of Black!"
"Let go of her, you miserable elf!"
"Leave off!" Elara barked, settling a hand on Kreacher's head—though, really, she didn't much enjoy having him bawling into her skirt, or him touching her. Still, she didn't appreciate how Sirius spoke to the elf, no matter how rude and unhelpful he was.
Her father took a breath for patience, fingers of one hand curling into a fist before he relinquished it with a shake. Lines deepened about his bruised eyes. "Listen, Elara. You and I and Harriet are a family. The Blacks—." He flicked a hand at the remaining dishes and glowered. "They're not family. You didn't know them as I did. They were the worst kind of people—and these bloody plates here? Do you know what they did with them? They served people like You-Know-Who. They served him in this house, with these dishes, and filth like that doesn't ever come off."
Elara stiffened. "It doesn't matter," she said—because to her it didn't matter where the dishes had been used before, or who'd been in the house, because before Sirius strolled back inside, Elara had been the only Black there. This was her home. Before, she'd had nothing of her own; everything in St. Giles' had belonged to the clergy, even the clothes on her back, and the single possession that had ever been gifted to her with the understanding she wouldn't need to hand it back one day was a simple iron cross—the same cross she threw into a bush when the orphanage disappeared behind her. Cygnus brought her into Grimmauld Place and gave her everything an orphan girl could possibly want: money, a house, history, a family.
Sirius didn't throw the next plate, but he removed it from the hutch to add it to the rubbish tip.
"Don't!"
"Stop it," Sirius snapped, irritation growing. "I won't have this cursed shite in the house with you and Harriet here. It goes."
Kreacher pulled his face from Elara's leg to snarl. "Master is a hideous, evil boy! Mistress should have never taken him back! Never, never—!"
"Be quiet, Kreacher! That's an order!" The house-elf snapped his mouth shut, though his lips worked furiously in a litany of silent swears.
"At least sell it!" Elara retorted. "Don't just throw it away!"
"No. I won't have it out there in the hands of some grubby Death Eater trying to relive the glory days." He added another plate to his pile, grumbling, "Bad enough we have to have one in the house."
"What?"
"Nothing. We can get new dishes. It isn't worth the argument."
All Elara could see was a literal fortune doomed to waste like Liquid Luck poured down a sink drain.
Two days. It had only been two days—four awkward meals, stilted conversations, and otherwise uncomfortable hours spent in each other's company, and already Elara felt ready to slap the man across the face. He insinuated himself everywhere like an impossible Doxy infestation, touching everything and anything, arguing and moping and infuriating Elara all the more.
She'd promised Harriet she would try to get along with Sirius—or at least coexist with him. For two days, she'd held her temper, her snide remarks, the ugly, snappish things that welled up in her chest and wanted to come roaring out, and she'd been perfectly polite, if a bit curt. Now, she wanted to hex him, and be damned if the Ministry decided to expel her.
The glass insets of the china hutch splintered, and Sirius jumped. Elara yanked herself away from Kreacher and threw herself into the foyer, stomping toward the stairs. The gas lamps flickered—and between one step and the next, she gave in to the urge to shift forms, turning into a middling black dog, her claws sinking into the carpet as she darted upstairs.
"Elara!"
Being a dog softened the sharpness of her emotions, blunting that desperate, frustrated anger that made her feel out of control. Still, her fur bristled with impotent magic, and Elara shook it off of herself, the static crackling in her ears. She heard Sirius behind her—the thump of rubber-soled trainers on the bottom step—and so she ran to the landing and darted into the occupied living room.
Coming inside, she realized Mr. Flamel must have placed a muffling Charm of some kind over the doorway, which deadened the noise from the rest of the house and was most likely the reason they hadn't gone to investigate the breaking glass. Both Harriet and Flamel looked up when Elara entered, and she threw herself into the former's chair, Harriet huffing a breath as the dog's weight settled on her lap.
"You've gotten bigger!" she accused, arms coming around Elara's middle to hoist her more securely into the chair. Elara, for her part, growled and sulked, letting Harriet pat down her fur around her ears and neck. Flamel chuckled. "What's the matter, then? You never let me pet you unless you're upset."
"'Ave you been arguing with your father again, Elara?" Flamel asked with a knowing quirk of his brow. Elara turned her nose away, propping it on the arm of the chair. Harriet smelled of bland soap and something dry—snakeskin, maybe.
"I will take that as a yes."
The floorboards creaked as Sirius entered the room, the cross expression on his face flickering when he hesitated, meeting the heavy gaze of Mr. Flamel.
"Monsieur Black," the aged alchemist acknowledged.
"Err—," Sirius replied, fidgeting. Elara let out a snort, amused, and he scowled at her, finding his resolve. "Mr. Flamel, how's the afternoon going? Lessons all right?"
"Harriet did very well in her Transfiguration revisions. Merveilleuse."
"That's—good. Minerva will be glad to hear it. Do you mind if I borrow my daughter for a minute? We were in the middle of a discussion." The latter portion of his statement was directed at Elara, who made no move to get up.
"I think non," Flamel said, reaching for his tea. "We are 'aving a lovely conversation. Won't you join us, Monsieur Black? Pour yourself a cup of tea."
"I—I guess?"
Really, he had no choice; Mr. Flamel was the kind of person everyone obeyed—maybe because of his age, but most likely because of the respect his presence demanded. Sirius hadn't even protested his arrival as he had with their other minders; instead, he'd gawked like a gormless Hufflepuff, and then made himself scarce.
Mr. Flamel poured a measure of tea into a glass and handed it to Sirius, who took it and sank into an empty chair without saying a word.
Elara had the impression that the old alchemist didn't like Sirius, and not in the same way that Elara didn't like him or because of his past incarceration. It was because Mr. Flamel loved Harriet like his own flesh and blood; an idiot could see the quiet regard he held for the young witch, the way his eyes brightened when they spoke of magic and their shared enthusiasm. They exchanged half a dozen letters most weeks, and Elara suspected he waited for Harriet's replies just as much as Harriet waited for his. They had an easy camaraderie, and he was perhaps one of the only people Harriet respected as much as Professor Dumbledore. Perhaps more.
Perenelle once confessed to her they would gladly have taken them in if things were different. If the Mirror of Erised hadn't shattered with the Philosopher's Stone forever locked inside. Elara didn't tell Harriet. She would never forgive herself for being there when the Mirror broke.
So no, Mr. Flamel didn't dislike Sirius for some personal failing of his, or because of Azkaban or his house-arrest. He disliked Sirius because he had the opportunity that Flamel, for all his gold and wisdom and longevity, could not have. He would not see Harriet grow up.
Mr. Flamel shot Sirius one last cool look, ascertaining he was enjoying his tea, then turned his attention to the glass lens left on the coffee table. The sunlight coming through the open window shone on the brass rim, and Elara shut her eyes against the glare.
"Now, where were we—?" Flamel asked in a brighter tone, moving the Argonaut's Atlas to spare Elara's eyes. "Oh, excusez-moi." She sniffed in thanks.
"The Dara Knot," Harriet reminded him as she scratched behind Elara's ears. "You said it represents strength and consistency."
"Ah, yes. The Celts used it to symbolize the roots of the oak tree—the King of Trees, as it were. When combined with runes, the Dara Knot becomes a center of interconnectivity and structure. For your needs, it would create better accessibility to the stored information. It would certainly address some of the overheating issues. Et voila!"
He made easy, rapid flourishes with his wand, and the drawn image of the Dara Knot appeared in the air before them, blazing with scarlet color.
"Wicked. Looks a bit like a net."
"Oui! It can be used as such in the right circumstances. You try."
Harriet didn't use her wand to recreate the symbol, instead shooing Elara off her lap so she could lean over the coffee table and use a quill and ink. Elara slunk over to the only remaining free chair, turned into a human, and fell into it.
"Non, non, Harriet, it is one continuous line. Try again."
As Harriet drew some of the most obscene-looking scribbles and cursed under her breath, Sirius carefully accepted the Atlas from Mr. Flamel and looked it over, holding it with his thumb and forefinger braced on the rim. He brought it closer to his eye and squinted—jerking back in shock when the magic revealed itself.
"Merlin! What is this thing?"
"It's an atlas," Elara told him, short and to the point, feeling superior in knowing something he didn't. But then, the feeling passed, and Elara knew she was being intentionally juvenile and a bit daft. "Hermione, Harriet, and I made it this last year, and Harriet bought the lenses in France. It's part map and part encyclopedia, basically."
Sirius blinked, puzzled—though, whether he was puzzled over the Atlas or over his daughter's sudden helpfulness, Elara couldn't say. "A map?" he asked, a small smile tilting his mouth. "That reminds me of this old thing we made up in our school days. We called it—."
"The Marauder's Map," Elara finished, observing her nails. "That tatty bit of parchment."
That was intentionally rude, though Elara pretended not to notice. Sirius either didn't care or had grown inured to his daughter's spite, which made a certain amount of sense, considering where he'd grown up. Something like guilt squirmed in Elara's heart, and she ruthlessly stamped it out.
"You found it, then? We lost it to Filch years ago."
"No, someone else found it and gave it to Harriet. We used it as a model to make something more useful."
"Hermione heard the word 'mischief' in the passphrase and almost had a fit," Harriet put in, judging her newest effort. Mr. Flamel hummed and had her try again. "And there were a lot of places not on the Marauder's Map, y'know. After I found the school's blueprints, there was so much more to be added."
"Like the Chamber of Secrets. Or Ravenclaw's Aerie."
"It's called the Underneath, not the Chamber of whatever. Salazar doesn't know where that title came from."
Elara rolled her eyes. "Of course not. It's not as if it's a secret chamber or anything."
Sirius' eyes bounced back and forth between the pair. "Wait, hold on," he demanded, setting the Atlas down before he dropped it. "What's this about—you know where the Chamber of Secrets is?"
"The Underneath, aren't you listening?" Harriet frowned, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrated on finishing the Dara Knot. It was still lopsided but much better than her previous attempts. "And of course I know where it is. I fell into it one time."
"And you found the Aerie."
"You and Hermione did much of the work with that in the translations. It was a lucky guess on my part."
"And you have all your secret little conversations with Salazar Slytherin's portrait."
"They're not secret conversations! You make it sound so sinister. And last time we spoke, he got in a bit of a strop because I laughed at something Rowena said." Harriet glanced at Sirius and explained for his benefit, "Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin were mad for one another. They have a portrait together in the Aerie, and she likes taking the Mickey out of him whenever she can." She laughed. "I swear Livi is him reincarnated. So bloody snooty."
"…who's Livi?"
Harriet, Flamel, and Elara all stiffened, all three of them thinking of the rather large, venomous serpent sequestrated somewhere in the house. Unfortunately, Livius' appearance did not lend itself to friendly encounters, and whenever Sirius found out about the snake, Elara hoped someone like Dumbledore was on hand to deal with the fallout.
"No one!" Harriet chirped, clearing her throat. "I'm getting hungry. Who wants lunch? Maybe some tea. Mr. Flamel, would you like some more tea? I'll get it!"
She hopped to her feet and darted from the room before anyone could breathe a word of protest. Mr. Flamel breathed a fond sigh and rose, ruffling a hand through his hair. He picked up the tea service and followed Harriet, though Elara heard him mutter, "Je plains Albus pour les ennuis que vous trouvez," as he went.
Which left Elara alone with her father again. She crossed her arms and fought not to scowl.
"Elara…."
"Don't."
Sirius rubbed at his face, dragging his fingers through the rougher hair of his beard. "Listen," he said, addressing his hands rather than her. "I don't get it. Help me understand, yeah? They're just bloody dishes. Are they really worth the row?"
Elara stood and didn't look at him, keeping her eyes averted toward the rug—this rug free of porcelain shards. "They're not just dishes," she snapped. "They're my dishes."
He threw out his arms in a fit of pique. "We can get new ones!"
"No. We can't."
She strode toward the open door, and behind her, still seated in the afternoon sunlight, Sirius groaned and slouched in the armchair. "Merlin help me, Marlene," he cursed. "Why did she have to inherit my stubbornness?"
Elara didn't acknowledge him or his words; she stomped back to her bedroom and did not emerge for the rest of the day.
A/N: In canon, Sirius hated everything in Grimmauld, right down to the cutlery, while Elara—who never had anything—is intensely attached to it.
