lxxxiii. rowena's silver
Elara Black was afraid of many things.
It crept up on her, that prickling, engulfing numbness inspired by nascent terrors and smaller, unfortunate triggers. She was afraid of enclosed spaces and high places, loud noises and germs to a certain extent. The dark made her wary, and sometimes she woke in the dead of night remembering the Slytherin dorms rested below thousands of tonnes of earth and water and couldn't get back to sleep. Strangers made her anxious—and so did familiar faces, because had it not been familiar faces who dragged her from her bed and ignored her screams as Father Phillips swung the branding iron closer?
Yes, Elara Black feared many things—but she swallowed the fear down, pushed it back, tempered anxiety with a hard, unyielding stare, and if her heart beat a tad faster than normal, that was no one's business but her own.
Even so, Elara couldn't stop the terrified cry from escaping when she watched Harriet fall into the gaping shadows opening beneath the loo's floor.
"Harriet!" Hermione's hand closed around Elara's wrist and tugged. "Let go!"
"Watch out!"
The other witch's grip increased—too tight, too tight!—and Elara panicked, throwing herself back and out of the way of the closing sinks, which had been Hermione's intention all along. The sinks sealed again with a wet snap.
"Don't grab me," Elara said much too sharply, too hoarsely, but Hermione only spared her a momentary glance before turning her attention to the sinks—and the hidden tunnel below them. The entrance had shut, leaving behind no indication of its existence. "This isn't good."
"This is a nightmare! How did she even fall?! She was fine—!" Hermione hurried forward, putting her head in the middle sink, which confused Elara until she started shouting. "Harriet? Harriet, can you hear me?"
Her voice echoed in the drain, and neither witch could say if it actually reached their friend under their feet. The sound bounced in their ears, and when it disappeared, the loo seemed quieter than ever. The silence sat so heavy, Elara had difficulty believing the crushing weight on her chest wasn't actually there.
Straightening, Hermione took a shaky breath, sinking her large front teeth into her lower lip. "Professor Slytherin's down there with her," she murmured, more to herself than to Elara. "She—if he's down there as well, Harriet should be fine. Professor Slytherin would—well, he wouldn't hurt her. She's going to be fine."
"Or she's concussed," Elara retorted, hands shaking. "Or worse. I don't trust him in this slightest, and neither do you!"
"No! We—okay. We simply need to open the sinks, as Professor Slytherin did."
"If you haven't noticed, we're short a Parselmouth!"
"But we just need to mimic it!" Hermione scrunched her nose in concentration, and then hissed in her best approximation of Parseltongue. Despite her panic, Elara could admit something of the glottal sibilance Hermione made matched the snake tongue's hushed otherworldliness, but it wasn't quite right. The sinks remained in place.
"I think there's more of a rattle to it, and I don't know if I can copy it. Parseltongue is magic, after all. There haven't been many studies on it, given the rarity, but theoretically, humans should be physically incapable of the language, given we lack a glottis and a snake's hissing isn't made with their palate or compressions of air created by the tongue—."
Elara began pacing. Hermione rambled as she was prone to do in stressful situations.
"And snakes don't actually speak to one another, do they? Animals don't have a true language. It's more of a primitive system of innate warnings and bodily communication—."
Elara kept pacing.
"Which would explain why magical creatures have higher intelligence, because the natural phenomenon of magic and successive breeding have changed their brains and morphology, and Parseltongue being a hereditary trait means magic has physically impacted a Parselmouth's brain—but that doesn't make sense, because anyone could consult a simple Punnett square and understand continuous breeding with non-Parselmouths would have long since wiped Parseltongue out—."
Elara stopped and stared at the line of sinks. Her hands still shook, perspiration beading her palms.
"But it's not as if Harriet hisses whenever she breathes, so I should be able to mimic the sound she makes, unless it's impossible without an ingrained gene triggered by magic that really has nothing to do with the language whatsoever—.
"Move," Elara interrupted, whipping out her wand.
"What?"
"Get out of the way."
"Wait! What are you going to do—?"
Hermione finally shifted from the sink and Elara jerked her own arm, concentrating on the spell's formation. "Bombarda!"
A sudden, loud screech filled the lavatory—and the side of the stall behind them shattered like glass, wood splinters flying through the air as their ears rang. Both Elara and Hermione threw their arms over their heads, the latter yelping in surprise. Unlike the stall, the sink remained pristine and unmarked.
Elara almost swore. It appeared Slytherin—either the present professor or the Founder or one of his descendants—had Charmed the plumbing to be impervious.
"Ooh, what are you both up to?" A cool breeze preceded the sudden reemergence of Myrtle's spectral self, the teenage ghost floating through the wall at their backs, swooping low to survey the wreckage. She gasped. "Vandalism! In my bathroom?! Don't you have anything better to do than come pick on me?!"
Her voice, usually sharp and nasally, rose several pitches until it neared unbearable levels, and Hermione winced. "We're terribly sorry, Myrtle," she pleaded. "There was a, err, accident."
"An accident?!" Myrtle wailed. "It wasn't an accident! You did it on purpose! You're going to be in so much trouble—!"
"What's down the drain over there?" Elara demanded as she jabbed a finger toward the stubborn sink and glared at the ghost. The undead residents of Hogwarts were fascinating conversationalists for the most part, but only in short bursts, and while Hermione always theorized on the reasons why the ghosts avoided Harriet, Elara secretly enjoyed her friend's odd spirit-repelling quirk. It saved them from having to endure Myrtle's tantrums, and it spared Elara having to see the Fat Friar.
Myrtle paused mid-shout, and her pockmarked face went slack with thought. "I don't know."
"Why not? You spend tons of time in the plumbing."
"I—." Her eyes scrunched behind her thick spectacles. "I haven't been down there, obviously."
"Why not? Why not go look?"
"Why don't you?!" Myrtle shot back. She rose higher in the air, looking equal parts frightened and confused, her head turning to the sinks and then away as if she couldn't help doing so. "Just because I'm dead doesn't mean you get to order me about! I know you all make fun of me behind my back! 'Poor, ugly Myrtle. Poor, ugly—DEAD Myrtle!"
The ghost broke into hysterical—and, in Elara's opinion, forced—sobs before plunging headlong into the nearest toilet, her shrieks echoing in the pipes.
"There are a lot of places in the castle warded against ghosts," Hermione said in the aftermath. "Hogwarts: A History has a compiled list of areas, and it would certainly make sense for the entrance to the Chamber to be blocked as well."
"Marvelous," Elara replied through gritted teeth. She tried another spell on the sinks, attempting to transfigure their shape instead of simply blasting them out of the way, but they still resisted her efforts. Water began to rise from the toilet Myrtle had disappeared down, and it spilled over the rim, flooding the floor.
"We need to leave before Filch comes!"
"We need to help Harriet."
Huffing, Hermione took her by the hand instead of the wrist this time and tugged Elara toward the door. "We can't help if we're dragged off to his office. He'd take one look in here and have a fit!"
Elara knew she was right. They left the loo but didn't go far, only enough to create plausible deniability if Filch came stomping past.
"Honestly, I've only been back at school for an hour and Harriet's already found herself in trouble and you tried to blow something up—!"
Remembering the Basilisk, Elara reversed Hermione's hold upon her hand and set off at a quick dash, heart still racing in her chest, though her mind felt clearer than it had minutes prior. "We can't stand out here alone." Harriet had Professor Slytherin with her, and should the professor prove treacherous for whatever reason, then Harriet had Livius. Elara and Hermione had nothing but their wands, and if the Basilisk came upon them, they'd make for easy targets while the rest of the school sat comfortably in the Great Hall.
They returned to the school's foyer in record time, and together Elara and Hermione slipped through the main doors into the brightly lit hall, hurrying to their table under the cover of laughing voices and chattering flatware. "What are we going to do?" Hermione hissed beneath her breath, accidentally stepping on the hem of Elara's robes and nearly sending them both careening into the backs of a pair of Hufflepuffs. "Surely we can't just—sit here?"
"We'll wait until after dinner," Elara told her, not at all knowing if that was the right response or if she had the right idea. What was one meant to do when their best friend fell into a secret tunnel under a loo? If Harriet managed to avoid alerting Professor Slytherin to her presence and they caused a scene, they might only make things worse. But what if she was hurt? What if she wasn't? What if she was with Slytherin, and the professor cursed them into oblivion for exposing his ancestor's legacy? "And then—we'll go to Dumbledore."
They'd spent enough time in Myrtle's loo discussing all Harriet had overheard in the staffroom for dinner to be nearly over. Elara and Hermione hunched low in their seats and didn't bother touching any of the desserts arrayed before them, choosing instead to wait and gnaw over their own worry. Professor Slytherin was, naturally, absent from the High Table, and Elara let out a grateful breath when she spied Snape deep in conversation with a professor she didn't remember the name of. She twisted her hands together in her lap, and the empty plate before her jumped and shuddered on the table.
When Professor Dumbledore stood and dismissed them all, Hermione popped to her feet before Elara could, and they darted toward the front of the Great Hall, dodging around speculative classmates wondering where they were going. The Headmaster seemed to see them coming, for he paused in turning away with Professor McGonagall, the latter of which took one look at the pair and formed a tight line with her lips.
"Professor Dumbledore?" Hermione asked, her voice warbling with uncertainty, though Elara could see how hard she tried to keep it level. "May we speak with you a moment?"
His blue eyes skipped from Hermione to Elara, and when they failed to land upon a green-eyed, disheveled girl in the midst, something in the wizard's attention sharpened. "Of course. Let's step through here, shall we? We'll finish our conversation another time, Minerva."
He gestured for them to go before him, and together the trio walked through the side entrance typically utilized by staff, pausing inside the little antechamber squeezed between the Great Hall and the outer corridor. "Now," Professor Dumbledore said, resting his arm against his middle. "Judging by your expressions, am I to guess Harriet has gotten herself into a spot of trouble?"
Hermione and Elara nodded, the former blurting out, "We were in the second-floor lavatory when Professor Slytherin came in—and he didn't see us there, and he—well, he hissed in Parseltongue, and the sinks started to move and revealed a large pipe underneath and he jumped in and—."
"Harriet fell," Elara interjected, though a voice in the back of her mind commented it hadn't looked as if Harriet fell; it looked as if she'd been shoved, no matter how impossible that was. "And the entrance closed again before we could get her out."
"Is Harriet hurt?"
"We don't know, Professor."
The Headmaster led the way into the corridor, the two shorter witches rushing to match his swift, quiet stride. He avoided the main stairs and the crowd of sleepy, yet indelibly curious students that would be there, taking Elara and Hermione through a narrow, dark passage Elara hadn't known was there in the first place. Cobwebs swaddled the ceiling, illuminated by the bright spell-light spilling from Professor Dumbledore's wand, strung along like great globs of candy floss. Without warning, the passage merged again with the main corridor, leaving nothing behind them but a blank stretch of stone, and if Elara hadn't walked down the skinny passage, she would have never guessed it to be there.
"Stay close, if you please," Professor Dumbledore said, which caused both witches to stick to his heels like gormless chicks chasing a mother hen. They turned a corner, torches coming alive, starlight peeking through the shuttered windows holding bastion along the outer wall—and Elara crumpled under the weight of Harriet Potter as the girl came toppling out of a framed mirror.
"Harriet!"
The bespectacled witch rolled herself off of Elara and sat in a wet, messy heap on the stone floor, the smell of brine and old, damp rot radiating off her in waves. The Invisibility Cloak hung on her arm like a twisted wrapper. Aside from a few scrapes and a rather painful-looking raw spot on her shin from sliding down the pipe, she appeared unharmed—if a bit dazed. Livius wrapped himself about her shoulders, shaking his angular head as he eyed the newcomers with what Elara assumed was reptilian wariness.
"Oh," Harriet said when she spotted the Headmaster arrayed in a pair of burnt sienna robes peering down at her. "Hullo, Professor."
"Hello, Harriet," Dumbledore replied. "It appears we were a bit premature in mounting your rescue."
Harriet looked to her two friends as relief swept through her expression. "Thanks, Hermione and Elara."
They muttered their own relief at having her back, and Elara's heart finally slowed from its frantic, painful beat and seemed to crawl from her throat back into her chest where it belonged. Professor Dumbledore turned his attention to the mirror, a large, gilded piece with various spots of damage on the frame or the glass itself. "How extraordinary," the Headmaster remarked as he swept his wand against the mirror's surface, searching for something the three witches couldn't see.
"I don't know what happened," Harriet said as Hermione helped both her and Elara back to their feet. "I was in the—Chamber, did Hermione and Elara tell you about that yet? Blimey, Professor, there has to be about a hundred tunnels down there!"
"And what has happened to Professor Slytherin?"
"I think he's still inside? He was looking for the—erm, snake, and was brassed off when he couldn't find it." Harriet blinked, her green eyes flitting to the mirror. "There was a mirror like this one in what I think was an office, and I told it to open in Parseltongue. Next thing I knew, I ended up here."
"That is what so extraordinary," Professor Dumbledore replied with cheer. "Because this is a perfectly ordinary mirror."
The three Slytherins blinked. "What do you mean, sir?" Hermione inquired, brow furrowed. "There must be a Translocation Charm of some sort upon it, shouldn't there?"
"No. I can detect no magic of any kind upon it." He gave the surface two solid taps with his wand, and when nothing occurred, Elara silently agreed it appeared mundane. "This, my dears, is a Moon Mirror. It is very old, and there are more than a dozen of them scattered throughout the castle. Neither I nor any of my predecessors have ever discovered their true purpose."
"Why're they called 'Moon Mirrors'?"
"These aren't made of glass, you see. Instead, their creator used the eggshells of an Occamy—a rare magical creature out of the east, whose eggs are comprised of solid silver. Early alchemists referred to silver as the 'metal of the moon,' and so the term extends to these lovely mirrors." Professor Dumbledore returned his wand to his pocket and tugged on the end of his beard, lost in thought. "It is said Rowena Ravenclaw herself fixed them to the castle's walls. Fascinating. If I were to guess, I would say the mirrors have pairs, with one being an exit and the other entrance. After you passed through the first mirror, Harriet, it seems the second sealed itself shut behind you. An effective way for Salazar Slytherin to journey about Hogwarts without exposing his secrets."
Elara looked into the polished silver surface and stared at her own disgruntled reflection. It didn't sit easy with her, the idea that any mirror in the school might actually be one of these Moon Mirrors and thus serve as an exit or entrance for people like Professor Slytherin to come slithering through. Magic was as vast as it was frightening, and though one could map out the school's halls and corridors and classrooms, Hogwarts continued to prove itself truly unknowable, a place of infinite mystery and discovery.
In the distance, the clock tower began to chime the hour, and Professor Dumbledore stirred. "Ah, well. If you're unharmed, Harriet, you three should return to the dorms."
"Yes, Professor."
The trio of witches walked away from the Headmaster then, Hermione fussing over Harriet's scrapes, Elara's hand fisted in a part of the Invisibility Cloak, letting the feel of the cold, slick fabric ground her. None of the three looked back at their professor, too preoccupied with thoughts of their beds and the perceived safety of their underground dormitory, and so neither Harriet, Elara, or Hermione saw the shadowy hand dip into the large pocket of Harriet's robes and drop a thin, weathered volume on the floor.
Professor Dumbledore spotted the journal and picked it up. His wizened fingers leafed through the coded pages, spied the familiar, unwelcome copperplate—and his blue eyes rose to watch the three witches until they disappeared from sight. He closed the journal with a snap.
"Extraordinary indeed."