ccii. the heart of every man

Elara stared at the Transfiguration text open in front of her with dry, sleepless eyes.

The month of February was finally drawing to a close, and with it came winter's last gasp and the looming spectacle of the Tri-Wizard Tournament's second task. For the vast majority of students in the castle, that meant little; they would get an afternoon off of classes to watch a silly game, would lose a spot of money by betting, and then return to their lives.

It meant something different for the champions. Longbottom went from lesson to lesson like a haggard, half-chewed dog toy, and Elara supposed he hadn't deduced the golden egg's purpose yet, or didn't know how to complete it. Diggory didn't share his anxieties—as well he shouldn't, considering Harriet had done the legwork for him. Krum wore his usual surly expression, and Fleur—.

Well, Elara tried not to look at her.

Ever since their trip to the old, rain-soaked church, Elara had gotten little sleep. She tossed and turned at night and spent untold hours staring at the canopy of her bed, listening to the lake move, her dormmates breathe. Rippling moonlight made strange patterns on the cloth. She knew Hermione and Harriet had difficulties as well—nightmares being an old friend to Harriet Potter—but, to her everlasting shame, Elara's reasons were different.

As soon as she'd tasted the odor of fermented sweet-brier and damask rose, Elara had known what Slytherin had put in the rectory. The Doloformido Draft had been cataloged in the Black annals after all, a brief addition to a rather dull grimoire from the time of her great-uncle Lycoris Black. It had been originally used to punish particularly naughty children. The smell of it haunted Elara for all the wrong reasons.

She would lie awake, thinking about that sickly potion, sweat on her brow, wanting another taste more than her next breath.

Of course, the smell had still induced terror in her—the usual stars of her nightmares— Father Phillips and his chanting, the rattle of chains, and half-formed animals—making their appearances, but it had been the magic that stunned Elara in place. It curled through her lungs and down her throat like secret ambrosia, so much so that the fear had ceased to make any kind of sense to her. It had only been the magic—Dark as midnight, soft as a veil upon her skin—that Elara could feel.

She's known within seconds not to inhale the potion—and yet, she couldn't help herself. Accipto must have had the same problem, if he had access to books similar to Elara's. The terror had been worth the infinitesimal touch of euphoria that came with each breath—and the most horrifying aspect of the experience had been her willingness to suffer the handcuffs on her wrists, the brand against her chest, for the magic to overcome her. The Dark enthralled her.

Hermione and Harriet hadn't experienced what she had. Hermione could see the theoretical impact of it, had recognized the warm flush of Dark magic like a buss upon her cheek—but Harriet hadn't. The magic didn't touch her; the girl was so stubbornly Harriet, the inveigling aspect of Dark magic found no purchase in her, nothing to corrupt, and so it only burned—like a mean, petulant child.

Harriet was too good—which was not to say she didn't have petty desires or bad thoughts, moments of weakness, or general faults. She was good in the sense that she did not wish ill upon others, that she could forgive—that through the evils she suffered, she did not lose pieces of herself.

Elara was not good. Not good at all.

She drew in a shuddering breath and muttered a soft, voiceless curse at her Transfiguration book. She dragged a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the perspiration from her furrowed brow, passing off the behavior and her unhealthy pallor as remnants of her recent flu. The…longing had improved, but it still struck at off moments, sharp as fangs slipping through her tender flesh.

The dormitory was loud. Though still early in the evening, most of the fourth year witches had wandered to their beds and the sweltering warmth of the hearth. Pansy had brought out her Wizarding Wireless and had the dial turned to a station playing the latest Weird Sisters hit. She and Daphne spoke animatedly while Millicent and Tracey sprawled on the latter's bed, giggling over a Witch Weekly article.

Hermione had dragged her chair over to Elara's carrel and was sitting with Crookshanks sprawled in her lap. When Elara wasn't blankly staring at her book, she watched Hermione. The repetition of her hand parting through ginger fur was almost hypnotic.

The clock chimed the hour, and Elara stirred to glance at it. "Is Harriet going to meet us here before dinner?"

"I'm not sure," Hermione replied. "A prefect dropped off a summons to the Headmaster's office. I didn't think much of it at the moment, but…. You don't suppose she's in trouble, do you?"

"When is she not in trouble?" Elara meant to say this with humor, but it came out with a sigh, and she propped an elbow on her desk and leaned her head upon her raised arm. Her skin felt tacky under her fingers. The room was too loud, and the walls—despite having been exactly as they were for centuries—seemed to move closer.

"You said you were feeling better, but are you really? You're quite peaky." Hermione laid the back of her hand against Elara's brow before she shooed her away. "I can tell this lot to move out to the common room if you'd like to lie down before dinner?"

"No, we'd never hear the end of Pansy's whinging. I'm fine, Hermione. I'm going to walk and see if I come across Harriet on her way down. I need to clear my head."

"All right. You should pop by the infirmary and see if Madam Pomfrey has any Pepper-Up Potion."

Elara doubted very much that Madam Pomfrey had the kind of magic she needed—wanted—but the sentiment warmed her, and she embraced Hermione with one arm before standing up. "We'll see you in the Great Hall—unless you're with dear Mr. Boot and his, how did you describe them? Oh, yes: his 'very soft lips.'"

Hermione's cheeks darkened, and Elara grinned before heading off.

Most of Slytherin House crowded into the common room—though, crowded was a subjective word, considering how large the space sprawled. But no one wished to sit in the outer edges, away from the main cluster of hearths and torches, as the walls tended to retain the abhorrent February chill. Even now, Elara could feel the coolness emanate through her shoes from the stone floor below.

She cast a curious glance over the others as she turned toward the wall guarding the entrance. Elara neglected to check the shadows, and so startled and jerked when movement in the periphery of her vision caught her attention. A small backstep stopped the reaching hand from touching her arm.

"Hello, cousin," said Accipto Lestrange as his fingers closed upon air, and he let the limb drop again to his side. "Having a good evening?"

Elara didn't bother with the familiar pretense. "Did you need something, Accipto?" she asked, her tone as cold as the floor. "Or are you merely making a pest of yourself?"

Lestrange dropped his friendly smile, though why he'd bothered with it in the first place, Elara didn't know. His dark eyes flickered over her person, and she noted he'd inherited those from the Black side of his family. The silver she shared with Sirius was far more uncommon, a vestigial hue inherited in Orion's branch where McMillans and Malfoys peppered the family tree. The dark, curly hair Accipto tamed with Sleekeasy's looked similar to Andromeda's, and so Elara assumed that, too, had come from the Blacks, though the warm, olive cast of his skin was definitely in the Lestrange blood.

"I've been meaning to have a word with you," he said, leaning back to prop his shoulder upon the edge of the alcove he'd emerged from. "You and Potter and Granger—though, the Mudblood doesn't much matter now."

"Yes?" Elara snapped, her patience thinning.

"It's impressive how far you and Potter have come in Slytherin's esteem, you know? You are a Black, but given your proclivities…." He smiled, and Elara grit her teeth. His hand slipped to the inner pocket of his robes, and she froze, expecting his wand—but Accipto revealed a short, pointed knife. He held it and cleaned his nails with the tip.

That's disgusting.

"Potter, though, now there's a surprise. I keep hearing rumors about her, little bits here and there. Apparently, the little half-blood isn't as stupid as she looks, and given she looks as stupid as a pile of rocks, I'd say that's quite a shock."

Elara didn't clench her hands into fists. She didn't say, "That little half-blood could curse your legs off before you could blink." Instead, she stared—impassive—at her second cousin, and paid no attention to the little blade he continued to play with, no matter how it glinted into the firelight.

a box of eight knives meant to be nine, the dimpled impression in dusty velvet, the Black crest inlaid on the tiny pommel—

"Is that all? I've places to be."

"Yes, I imagine you're busy. I'm quite busy myself." And here he pointed the knife at Elara, casually, but with enough intention to still her once again. "And that's why we're having this friendly chat, dear cousin. Because I'm busy, and I would so appreciate it if you and Potter kept that in mind during Slytherin's final trial. I detest wasting my time."

Elara narrowed her eyes. "Worried, Accipto? Why, when I'm just a deviant and Harriet's the spawn of a Mudblood? You needn't have anything to worry about, right? Or are you finding out that your pure blood and sullied name mean nothing?"

Lestrange leaned forward and, in a low, furious hiss, said, "If you or the mongrel fuck this up for me, they'll never find your bodies."

"Hiding bodies is an old family pastime; I'm not impressed." Elara let her lip curl, hiding how her hands shook in the folds of her skirt. "If you point a knife at me again, I'll geld you with it like the bitch you are."

Then, she was gone, hurrying from the common room before Lestrange could follow—or launch a curse at her back. Her words caught up with her when she reached the bright, cheerful light of the entrance hall, and Elara knew she shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have baited him, but the fury crackling in her chest demanded she do something before she broke her own teeth from clenching her jaw. She could little stand the ache there or in her neck, shoulders, and head. Even the sparse glint of daylight made her eyes sting and throb.

"I'll regret it later," she whispered to herself. "Later."

She came across Harriet on the third floor, making the long, rather grueling trek down from the Headmaster's tower. "It was the most absurd thing," the shorter witch told her, laughter in her voice. Elara realized there'd been a lot less laughter in their lives of late, and the near cackle Harriet let out loosened the tension she felt in her middle. "D'you remember what I said about Diggory's egg? What it said?"

"Yes, of course."

Harriet glanced around them to make sure they were alone. A few younger Hufflepuffs puttered farther down the corridor, but they wouldn't be able to hear them. "That's what it was about. The 'treasure' they're putting in the lake is people, and so the event coordinators—well, mostly Bagman—thought it a good idea to ask me to be Krum's—treasure. More like victim." She snorted.

"And what did you tell them?"

"I asked if they were a few beans short of every flavor. Dumbledore laughed, but he pretended it wasn't funny. I think Bagman nearly passed dead away when I told him I'd rather have flobberworms in my porridge than be in the ruddy lake during February. He looked like I'd insulted his mum."

"The imagery alone is enough to make me ill."

Harriet mimicked the distinct sound a flobberworm made when crushed, and Elara's stomach lurched.

"Stop it, brat. We're supposed to have dinner soon."

"Oh, brilliant. Can we make a quick stop by the library? I need to return this book before Pince murders me in my bed."

She retrieved said book from the satchel hanging off her shoulder, and Elara nodded. The idle chatter they exchanged on the way proved far more calming than the noise and calamity of the dormitory. She could easily picture the scene in Dumbledore's office as Harriet described it, and Elara could only breathe with relief that Harriet hadn't accepted their offer. The girl didn't need to spend any amount of time napping underwater—and Krum didn't need the confusion.

Though, Elara acknowledged. Maybe Harriet truly is something he'll "sorely miss," even if she isn't remotely interested in him. Poor sod.

They reached the library but had to wait by the main desk, Pince loitering somewhere in the stacks, reshelving volumes or haranguing children, one of the two. Elara leaned her hip against the desk and crossed her arms, gaze resting on the far window. Very little light touched the stained glass, leaving it sullen, dim. She let her mind return to the confrontation with Lestrange, and her thoughts churned with potential consequences. She wouldn't put it past him to be as mad as his mother.

"Oi."

Elara stirred and turned her head, seeing Harriet had wandered while they waited. The other witch peered down one of the aisles and again, quietly, called Elara over with a gesture. Elara straightened and went, arching a brow as she peered around the shelf.

Neville Longbottom sat alone at the end of the row at the cluttered table, his neck bent over a thick tome, his shoulders high. He had a feverish mien about him as he turned through the pages, searching for something.

"I bet you anything he's still trying to figure out how to breathe underwater," Harriet muttered.

"Truly? The task is tomorrow morning."

Harriet let out a small groan, as if she'd stepped in something unpleasant. "He's so bloody stupid. Why hasn't he thought of gillyweed? He's great at Herbology and takes Care of Magical Creatures with us." She pinched the bridge of her nose below her spectacles. "Why didn't Diggory give him the answer?"

"Maybe Diggory tried. We both know Longbottom isn't much for subtlety. Or he rejected Diggory out of pride." Elara studied Harriet, then flicked her gaze to the back of Longbottom's red neck. "God help me for giving him an excuse, but perhaps the pressure has scattered his wits. Even an obvious answer can be difficult to see when everything else seems so immediate."

Harriet groaned again and grimaced.

"What is it?"

"If he drowns, we'll never hear the end of it. They'll turn it into a bloody holiday—the national Wanker Who Lived Day." Harriet jerked open her satchel and fished about for parchment, muttering all the while. "It'll be a tragedy, and suddenly all anyone will be able to say is 'oh, poor Neville,' and 'Neville this, and Neville that. Such a hero!' Never mind that he's a prat who nearly got me killed and couldn't find his arse with a map and both hands."

She grabbed a sheet of rumpled parchment and a pencil, and Elara watched, amused, as Harriet scrawled "GILLYWEED" in large letters like a ransom note. She folded it into the ugliest paper aeroplane Elara had ever seen, but that hardly mattered, as Harriet used her wand to levitate the folded note over Longbottom's head. They left just as it started to fall.

"You forgot about your book."

"Sod it. I'll slip it into the stack tomorrow and hope Pince doesn't notice."

They hurried away before Longbottom could investigate. Harriet turned her nose up at the Boy Who Lived and the mania surrounding him, claiming she couldn't stand it if she had to hear people mourning his death—but Elara knew the truth. Despite the wrongs he'd committed against her, Harriet didn't enjoy watching others suffer, not even Neville. She didn't wish others ill, and didn't think of hurting them. She was good.

Elara's thoughts drifted again to Lestrange, the glint of fire upon his stolen knife. Her fists clenched behind her back as she followed her god-sister through the shadowed corridor.

Elara wasn't good. Not good at all.


A/N: Title is from the Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn quote, "The battleline between good and evil runs through the heart of every man."