cv. moment of the yew-tree
Elara had never been to the sea before.
She'd seen it on the telly and had heard one of the parishioners chatter about her holiday to the Spanish coast, but she didn't have any personal experience with the ocean—and the first day Mr. and Mrs. Flamel took them to the shore, she didn't much like it. The sun was too bright, the sand got trapped in her socks and gloves and hair, and she was too hot in her long sleeves and skirt. She ended up with a headache, terribly sunburned, and stinking of aloe vera.
She grew fonder of it as the days passed. She would wake too early in the morning, anxious and irritable, and would walk from the Flamel house to the shore by the village. Once there, she'd sit on the rocks and watch the fishermen on the jetty pull cod and bass from the water, a merperson stopping by sometimes to barter with fish from deeper depths. Elara would wait for the first light of dawn to peek over the forested hills and whisper, "Amato animo abunati animagus," with the tip of her wand over her heart.
She'd roll the new wand between her fingers, testing the unfamiliar grain and handle. Ebony wood. Rougarou hair. Mrs. Malfoy had taken her to get the replacement early in the summer, and Elara had been surprised when Ollivander looked at her, at her scarred hand, and came back with a wand he claimed he hadn't made.
"It's from a wandmaker in America," he explained. "We wandmakers exchange a choice selection every few years as not every person of a region is perfectly suited for the elements located there. Normally I would send you off to Gregorovitch, but there's no need for that. This particular wand comes from Violetta Beauvais in America. Eleven and a quarter, quite rigid. Ebony, with one Rougarou hair. Go on, then, give it a wave…."
Her first wand had been blackthorn and dragon heartstring. "A bit temperamental, but good stock nonetheless," Mr. Ollivander told her the first time. "A wand meant for a warrior, no doubt in my mind."
He didn't say anything about the new wand. Elara had gone back home and looked it up in an old wandlore book she scrounged in the library. She realized why the wizard hadn't told her about it when she read Rougarou hair was drawn to Dark magic.
Elara spent early mornings on the shore and grew accustomed to the quiet, to the iron-gray curtain of fog that balked and tip-toed away once the sun came out. If she stayed too long, Perenelle sent a Patronus summoning her back, so Elara always left before the sun could clear the treetops proper. She'd walk into the house and hear the clatter of dishes being set out by Harriet, Mrs. Flamel cooking, Mr. Flamel sitting at the table with the Daily Prophet or a paper from aboard. She'd sit down without saying a word and let the scene enfold her.
It was…nice. Surreal in a way magic never had been for Elara. The sisters had talked about the devil and his cheap tricks a lot more often than they ever discussed anything familial, and so Elara wondered what would scandalize her old caretakers more, the wand waving or the group of heathens sitting down to a meal together like normal people?
They went to the village or the beach during the day more often than not, and Elara grew to love the afternoons by the sea. Sometimes it was just her and Harriet, and Elara would wear shorts and a t-shirt just like the other witch—or least she did once Perenelle fashioned a pair of bracers like Harriet's for both her wrists, covering the marks. They'd play in the water or lie on the beach with their feet buried in the sand, or they'd duel with Mr. Flamel on the dock and he'd send them sailing into the cool water more often than not. Harriet finally managed to trip him in and he came up sputtering, soaking wet, and shocked, much to Perenelle's amusement.
They'd return, count new freckles on their cheeks and arms, and help with chores about the house. In the evenings, they would sit in the den and eat sweets made for dessert, listening to the wireless or to Perenelle chattering on about Astronomy while Mr. Flamel smoked his pipe and read periodicals. With her day so full, Elara found it surprisingly easy to fall asleep at night—but always she woke too early.
Yes, she'd never been to the sea before, just as she'd never had a family before, and though Elara quickly became very fond of both, she knew it wouldn't—couldn't—last. Reality threatened and waited beyond the quiet, cloistered borders of Trefhud and time passed too fast that summer. Snape or Kreacher forwarded Cygnus a day or so after their arrival and though Elara sent him out each morning, he never returned with news. Sirius Black had not been caught. He was free, and he was out there. Waiting.
She wrote Professor McGonagall every day; sometimes just a quick note scribbled at the breakfast table, sometimes a longer letter. McGonagall wanted her to write down what she felt, which meant Elara spent a lot of time trying to figure that out. What did she feel? Anger, mostly. Inexplicable in its intention and arrival. Anger for her father, for Dumbledore and Snape, for McGonagall, herself, the Flamels, Harriet. It was irrational, that anger, but Elara carried it with her, bound tight in anxiety, nervousness, and dread.
"I'm afraid," she told the professor. "Not for myself. For Harriet. I'm afraid he'll come after her. I'm afraid of what will happen when she finds out the truth."
"Miss Potter is a kind and level-headed girl," McGonagall wrote back. "She will not blame you for your father's faults."
Elara wanted to tell Harriet the truth, wanted to tell Harriet Sirius Black was her godfather and he betrayed her parents—because it seemed everyone else already knew. Dumbledore knew. McGonagall and Snape knew. The Flamels knew—and Harriet wasn't as unfailingly kind as McGonagall assumed. She didn't have a cruel bone in her body, but Harriet had a distinct stubborn vindictive streak in her like a knife held to someone's back, no matter how slight. She'd never forget, and she might not forgive. The longer it took for Elara to come clean, the harder the reaction would hit.
I'm afraid he'll come after her.
Elara spent the days in the sunshine and for once in her life lived like a girl and not a strange, cursed burden. At night, she slept next to the witch she loved like a sister—and always she woke too early in the morning, dreams haunted by a stranger wearing a face too similar to her own.
Your father has escaped from Azkaban.
She would dress and walk to the shore before the sun rose and watch the men toil with the sea.
I'm afraid—.
She would sit on the rocks and memorize the feel of her new wand in her hands. Elara would turn it over and over, remembering Mr. Ollivander's haunted eyes, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly when he let the wand go. She'd think about her father, about the life he threatened, and the anger would return.
She'd never hated a man as much as she hated Sirius Black.
x X x
Elara stared into her father's face and sneered.
The Prophet had taken to posting his original mugshot on the front page. He'd been young when he was arrested; tall, dark, and handsome, Elara imagined Sirius Black had never been denied anything in life—not until they put him in a prisoner's robes and dragged him in front of the camera, a sign held before him, an Auror on each arm. His gray eyes looked hollow and spiteful, and his mouth moved in a slight repetitive motion as if he was grinding his teeth.
They had the same jaw. The same brows and eyes and nose.
Elara took joy in tearing his image up and putting it in the compost bin.
"Elara? Come hold this for me, dear."
Brushing off her hands, Elara rose and returned to Mrs. Flamel and took the sack of soil from her, shifting it so the weight settled on her arm. They leaned over Perenelle's planter of Shrieking Violets, the blooms' screeches muted by a Silencing Charm. She could hear Harriet and Mr. Flamel inside Mr. Flamel's study, his voice carrying through the open window, occasionally accompanied by the pops or swoops of spellwork. Livius explored the garden somewhere, and though she hadn't mentioned anything, Elara got the impression the Horned Serpent unnerved Mrs. Flamel quite a bit.
Well, she thought as Mrs. Flamel gestured for her to pour out some of the soil. I guess I've become inured to his presence, but Livius is hardly the pet anyone would think a witch would have.
"Parfaite," Perenelle hummed as she settled the soil around her plants. "They will need the extra cover once autumn begins."
The mention of autumn sent a bolt of anxiety through her. Conceivably, the Ministry had to capture Sirius before school began, right? There were only so many places a convict could hide in Britain, so if they didn't find her father before September began, should they assume he left the country?
Please God, Elara prayed without realizing it. Please let him be caught or leave Britain. Please.
"Elara?"
Blinking, she looked up at Mrs. Flamel, who had her hands out waiting for her to give the half-empty sack over. She did so—almost dropping it—but Perenelle caught the lip of it and held on. "Oups! Careful of the flowers there, they bruise so easy."
Elara was always careful of plants and didn't know how she wound up as the one helping Perenelle in the gardens, but she knew to never touch anything green with her bare hands. The older witch knocked dirt from her gloves and, seeming to know Elara's mind had wandered, folded them up and stuck them in her apron pocket. "That is enough gardening for today. Let us go see what those two are up to."
They headed inside. Perenelle popped open the study's door and Elara heard Harriet incant, "Confundo!" A pale pink spell flicked through the air and collided with a crooked wooden dummy. The dummy creaked but didn't otherwise move.
"Non, non," Mr. Flamel said, shaking his head. "Your wrist needs to twist. Twist et flick. Like so: confundo!"
His spell didn't fizzle quite like Harriet's had and it hit the dummy with a lighter touch, encompassing its dented head with a wispy cloud instead of smacking into it. Harriet frowned and wrinkled her nose.
"Nicolas, what are you teaching her?" Perenelle said with a frown of her own.
"It is a good spell to know!"
"She is only thirteen."
He spun his wand through his fingers, the motion idle like a stage magician spinning a coin. "Elle devrait savoir se défendre."
Perenelle huffed as she came into the room proper, skirt swishing by her knees, and she took Harriet's face in her hands. Harriet complained and Perenelle let go, taking her hand instead to reposition her wrist. "Try again, but like this."
She did so, rounding the twist more with motion from the wrist. "Confundo!"
Pink mist warbled over the dummy's head and it shuddered.
"Better!" Mr. Flamel cheered. "Almost there!"
Mrs. Flamel huffed again as she eyed her husband. "You had best teach Elara as well."
"Oui, okay."
"And then we will go somewhere. Take our minds off things for a bit."
If the wizard had any questions about what she meant, he didn't mention them. "Okay, yes. Elara! Come, come. Show me what you can do…."
x X x
After an early supper, the Flamels, Harriet, and Elara found themselves in Cumbria, walking on a barren country road among the rising gray plinths and tipsy dolmens littering the summer plain beneath Elva hill. The shadows stretched long as the evening settled. The last dregs of sunlight glittered opalesque in the old wards dotting the vicinity, and as it grew darker still, small lights began to appear in the tall grass. They danced among the thin trees and disappeared when Elara concentrated on them. Soon enough they heard voices, music, laughter, and above their path swayed a purple banner with golden letters.
WELCOME TO THE NIGHT MARKET.
The letters swiveled and swirled, changing languages and alphabets. Elara almost tripped trying to watch it, but she had her gloved hand in Perenelle's and the older witch caught her. Both she and Harriet grumbled about being too old to hold hands, but it seemed from one step to the next they stumbled into a large crowd of magical people and beings, and Elara admitted to herself having Perenelle there made her feel more secure. Harriet was a different story.
"I've been here before," she grumbled, giving her arm a tug. "I'm not going to get lost."
"Comment? What do you mean?" Mr. Flamel asked, brow raised. "The Night Market is not a place for young witches to go about on their own."
"Well, no one told me that."
Mr. Flamel shook his head and Elara saw something like concern in his dark eyes, if only for an instant. "Ah. You know the rules then, yes? Be careful what you barter. The fée can be tricky beings…."
They wandered from stall to stall and Elara marveled at the things for sale, some of it legal, some it…not. A wizard sweating in a parka had a cage full of Erklings dressed like house-elves. One Erkling pilfered his pockets as the wizard stood too close, arguing with a bloke in maroon robes—an Auror, most likely. Perenelle bought them Marvelous Macarons, sweet biscuits sandwiching a Charmed ganache that made their breath glow like an aurora. Mr. Flamel paid by winning two games of noughts and crosses.
Perenelle finally let them off on their own so long as they stayed within sight of a large, scraggly oak in the market's middle, its limbs decorated with charms and long, flapping pennants. The Flamels went to barter with a vampire for a jar of Wallachian dirt. Harriet stopped to chat with a Centaur bearing vibrant, forest-green hair. For the moment, Elara was alone.
She didn't wander from the tree as she walked. She could have reached out and brushed her fingertips against the rough, peeling bark as she observed the people around her. Elara didn't believe Sirius Black would show his face here—she needed only to glance back in the direction of the Auror to know the Ministry kept just enough presence here to ward off an escaped convict. No, she didn't think her father would prove a problem, but her scarce years in the Wizarding world had already convinced Elara it wasn't always a safe place to be, especially on ones own, so she kept Harriet and the Flamels in sight and stayed by the oak tree.
"You, girl."
A witch stood in Elara's path, dressed in dark tailored robes with a hem that came to a point down by her boots. With her slick, ink-black hair and severe, hawkish features, the woman could have passed for a distant cousin of Snape's if not for her wide, golden eyes. The sudden brunt of her attention unnerved Elara and she forced herself not to step back from her.
"…hello," she greeted, her tone flat and suspicious.
The witch canted her head to the side. "You're an enterprising sort, are you not?" she asked, sharp and commanding like a schoolmistress calling her to task. "Well?"
"…sometimes."
The woman flicked her hands—Elara staring at the long, black nails tipping her fingers—and a pelt appeared from nowhere. "A Shifter's coat. Interested?"
"No." Given Elara didn't wish to see the inside of Azkaban, she had no desire to own a Shifter's coat.
A subtle, indifferent motion dismissed the pelt and replaced it with a small cloth doll, its eyes comprised of frazzled red stitches. "A poppet for the little girl?"
The witch sounded snide when she held the cursed object out and Elara leaned back, scowling. "No. I'm not an idiot."
Laughing, the witch dismissed the poppet—and it disintegrated into a pile of gray ash. Distracted by the ash catching the wind, Elara didn't see the witch's other hand until it grabbed hold of her wrist and squeezed.
She gasped and pulled, fear spiraling through her. The charms hanging from the tree shook, leaves flying, and the candles on the nearest stall guttering one by one. The witch's eyes burned, her fingers pressing cold, searing magic into Elara's skin until—
Elara pushed back.
The tingling sensation alighted over her covered palms and the witch released her wrist. For a moment, Elara thought she saw a new mark on the woman's hand, a raw spot glistening in what little moonlight shone through the oak's leaves—and then, like the pelt and poppet, it disappeared. The witch stepped back.
"Hmm." She tilted her head, face lost to the shadows, and her fingers continued to rub against one another as if memorizing the feel. "Unexpected."
Harriet's voice sounded in the distance. "Elara?" she called as she peered around the accrued people. "Where'd you go?"
Elara startled when the witch pressed something into her hand. She peered at the smooth obsidian pebble—an small, unremarkable stone, if not for the forked rune cut into its face. It felt heavy to the touch but not magical. "Come see me when you're older, girl."
"What—?" Elara jerked her gaze away from the stone—and the witch was gone.
"There you are." Harriet bumped into her arm, carrying a box of teak dowels. Elara couldn't fathom where she'd gotten those, or why. The bespectacled girl looked at the stone still in Elara's grasp. "D'you find something?"
Elara closed her fingers around it. "I…don't know."
She should have dropped the rock. She should have tossed it away from her, but she didn't; Elara tucked it into her pocket, and later, when she laid in bed about to fall asleep, she turned it over again and again, flipping the rune around and around.
She kept it—because that ice-cold feeling in her hands had been familiar, and Elara had to wonder why that was.
A/N: I'm not overly fond of giving characters "special" wands unless it serves a greater purpose, but the canon lore behind the Rougarou and its symbolism were too choice for me to overlook. Elara chapters are so hard to write, I swear. I don't know why.
Chapter title from T.S. Eliot's Little Gidding. "The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree / Are of equal duration." Meaning life and death have equal worth and presence in a person's life.
Witch: "Aha! Let me curse you—."
Elara: [whips out UNO Reverse card]