ccxiii. sending a message

He had not stopped watching Harriet, and Elara had not stopped watching him.

It did not matter where they sequestered themselves in the castle over the last few days; Accipto Lestrange found an excuse to linger nearby, always watching Harriet with his dark, deep-set eyes, his face wretched with a hatred even Elara—for all her faults—couldn't fathom.

At breakfast the day before the Triwizard Tournament's final task, Lestrange sat at the table's far side and had not touched a single thing on his plate. Nor had he turned once to address either of his lackeys. He stared at Harriet, who remained engrossed in a tatty, second-hand book while she nibbled on a bit of bacon.

A flutter of blue robes in the periphery of her vision turned Elara's head, and she blinked as Fleur took a seat by her side. "Coucou," she said, her smile so brilliant it caused a first year to dribble porridge down his front. Elara had steeled herself against Fleur's presence enough to only blush profusely—though her insides wibbled and warmed. "'ow iz the food today?"

"Good morning," Elara replied. "It's the usual English fare."

"What a dizaster."

She affected a disgusted expression, and the corner of Elara's mouth twitched upward. Harriet and Hermione didn't much care for Fleur's attitude, but Elara found it funny more often than not. Especially considering for all her snark and snooty airs, Fleur had a good heart.

"There are croissants," Elara commented, Summoning the platter from farther along the table to settle it in front of Fleur. The French witch picked one up and set it on her plate with a sniff.

"They are not as good as Beauxbatons'."

"I'll be sure to pass your comments along to the house-elves."

Fleur poked out her lower lip, fluttering her lashes. "The poor dears," she sighed, tearing a piece off her perfectly delicious croissant. "Zey are doing their best. I will get by."

Elara rolled her eyes and resumed watching Accipto. He hadn't moved during her discourse with Fleur; if anything, his expression had only grown stonier. He dragged his thumbnail along the teeth of his dull breakfast knife. Cassius Warrington said something to him, tried to get his attention, and when that failed, he gave up and stomped off in a huff.

A soft breath blew against Elara's ear. "Why iz it you watch that boy, hmm?" Fleur whispered. "Do you like him?"

"Not hardly," Elara coughed, appalled by the idea on multiple levels. Fleur chuckled, chin resting on Elara's shoulder.

"Then what iz it?"

Elara exhaled, face warming again, though she didn't turn to look at her. "Do you recall my mentioning how my House was competing amongst ourselves for an apprenticeship with our Head?"

"Oui." Elara felt Fleur nod. "I thought it very odd timing, what with za Tournament 'appening."

"Oh, his timing was very much on purpose. Professor Slytherin is not what he appears." Swallowing, Elara continued. "Harriet won the competition. She won by defeating that boy over there in a public duel."

Fleur leaned forward to better see Accipto—tall, sinister Accipto oozing malcontent—and then Harriet, currently stuffing bits of muffin into one of her pockets. She'd grown more wan as the final days of term approached, her wrists especially bony where they peeked above her loose shift cuffs, though she'd been a mite happier today. "She did?"

Her incredulity was tangible, and Elara slid her eyes in Fleur's direction. "You'd be surprised. If she were in the Tournament, I would wager on her winning. Even over you."

Fleur adopted an expression of mock outrage and delivered a playful swat to Elara's arm. "Comment oses-tu!" she complained.

"It's only the truth."

Fleur huffed and settled her chin on Elara's shoulder again. "But what iz it about the boy then that has your attention?"

The small smile on Elara's lips died, her spine stiffening. "I think he's going to hurt her," she murmured. "Because she embarrassed him. Because he'll want revenge."

Fleur said nothing, but the hand she'd loosely tucked around Elara's arm tightened, fingers pressing close. They sat quietly, watching. Terry Boot came up to the table to tap Hermione on the shoulder, and the pair shared blinding, goofy smiles as Hermione hopped up to give him a brief hug.

"Hey, Potter. Do you want to go to the library with Hermione and me?"

Harriet waved them off, not looking up from her book. "After I eat. You two put me off my food." A few Slytherins snickered, though it did nothing to deter Terry and Hermione's moods as Hermione gathered her things, and they departed.

Through it all, Lestrange didn't move.

"What iz it you wish to do?" Fleur asked.

"I…have a plan, of sorts," Elara confessed. She'd been formulating it for days, discussing ideas with Hermione and herself in the mirror. "He's not afraid of me. Strictly speaking, he doesn't have a reason to be, not when he's so much more competent with his wand. I dueled him myself in the competition and did not hold up well." Elara grimaced. "But if I could give him a reason to be afraid…."

Fleur hummed. "How can I be of 'elp?"

Turning her head, Elara's nose nearly brushed the other witch's as she considered her. Merlin, but was she pretty. "Could you convince him to come to the Potions' classroom? You know where it is, yes? Lessons have been called, so it's empty and…suitable to my purposes."

"Oh, ma belle. I could convince a man to do anyzing."

With that, Fleur's lips pressed themselves to Elara's cheek—there and gone—and the witch stood, flipping her long, silvery hair behind her. Every time she did so, it swiveled heads in the Great Hall, and it was more than just Elara staring after her as she sauntered farther along the table to where Lestrange sat. Fleur leaned in to say something in his ear, and he finally—finally—took his eyes off of Harriet.

"Poor idiot never had a chance," Elara muttered, shivering. She reached for her tea and took a long sip.

xXx

It was cold and rather odorous in the dark of the student ingredient cupboard. Having the nose of a dog certainly didn't help. Elara conceded that there were probably better places she could have hidden, but the classroom had been her first idea, and Snape was preoccupied with the Tournament preparations. It was isolated, though not suspiciously so—and, of course, it had the rats.

Her ears swiveled atop her head as she heard footsteps approaching, charming laughter twinkling in the outer corridor. The classroom door swung open—.

"—thought you were with Davies?"

"Who?"

"You know, Davies? The Ravenclaw?"

"Non, non. Roger is—mmm, how do you say? Not my taste."

Lestrange laughed, feet shuffling, the door swinging closed with a finalizing thud—.

Mustering herself, Elara pounced, bursting from the cupboard with a rattling bang! Lestrange gasped and spun away from Fleur, who took the chance to retreat and press against the wall. Lestrange's eyes widened as he took in the sight of the huge, snarling dog in front of him.

"What the fuck is this?!" he demanded, leg smacking one of the desks as he backed up. Elara curled her upper lip as she growled, exposing sharp, white teeth as her silver eyes gleamed with uncanny lucidity in the candlelight. Accipto fumbled for his pocket, reaching—.

In her hands, Fleur twirled his wand.

Elara snapped once, twice toward his knees—and then changed, standing before Lestrange tall and unruffled, an imperious tilt to her head lifting her sharp nose. Some of the panic left Accipto's face as he recognized her. He exhaled.

"Good morning, cousin," Elara said as if she often came barreling out of cupboards half-rabid and ready to bite a man's leg off. "I'm glad you could stop in for a brief chat."

Accipto straightened, slowly, catching his breath after his fright. His dark eyes flicked from Elara to Fleur, settling on the French witch.

"Don't look at her. Look at me; I'm the one speaking here."

His eyes jerked back, jaw muscles twitching. "So, is this the part where you threaten me, little Elara?" he scoffed. "Haven't we already performed this song and dance? As I remember, it ended with you screaming at the end of my wand on the common room floor."

The reminder did nothing to shake Elara's blank expression. "Yes, that's true."

Accipto's brow furrowed when he glanced down and realized Elara held a rat in her hand, thumb stroking its head. It wasn't a real rat, of course. They used golems to test their potions after they were brewed, and Snape kept a ready tank of them in storage. Not that Elara would care if it was real; after dealing with Pettigrew, she couldn't stand the horrid things.

"That's true. You bested me in a fair fight, and I acknowledge I could never defeat you in a duel." She lifted the rat a little higher, and it began to struggle, little claws hooking into her skin. "But Accipto, I never said I was interested in being fair."

The rat started to scream and flail, high-pitched squeals bouncing off the walls.

"What are you—?"

Elara's eyes didn't leave Lestrange's as she reached for that uncomfortable, humming pressure inside herself she usually went to great lengths to repress, letting it pull into her raised hand. The rat's brown fur grayed and flaked off in tufts—pink flesh rippling, bubbling, before it peeled back in rotting hunks. Elara's fingers sunk into tiny, decaying organs. Within seconds, her hand cradled bleached bones, some slipping from her palm to patter on the floor while the others were reduced to ash.

Elara opened her hand to let what remained trickle through her fingers—and then she jumped, grabbing Accipto's wrist. He'd watched the scene unfold, gobsmacked, and only now thought to draw a breath. No color remained in his pale, shaken face as he stared at the dirty hand gripping his unprotected skin.

"You're going to leave Harriet alone," Elara sneered. She sounded firm and composed—but her insides quivered with fear and disgust. "Accept you've lost, because if you don't—remember what happens to rats."

Lestrange jerked free of her grip—which proved a good thing as Elara's hands began to tremble. "You're mad," he spat, voice cracking. "You and your father and your worthless friends—."

Elara made as if to grab him again, and Lestrange startled, toppling one of the desks in his rush to get away.

"Don't touch me!"

He ran for the door. Elara let him go, making no move to intervene—and a sudden burst of panic overtook her when she remembered Fleur's presence. As the door swung shut at Lestrange's heels, Elara scrambled to find her gloves in her pocket and yanked them on. She kept her eyes on the floor.

God, what she must think. How could I forget she was here? That she'd see? Disgusting, cursed—.

Fleur brushed her arm, having approached when Elara looked away. Her hand gave Elara's elbow a small tug to turn her, and Elara dared to lift her chin, surprised to find Fleur's face quite close to her own.

"Hold still," Fleur murmured. A single swish of Lestrange's wand—and wasn't that a laugh? He'd left it behind—conjured a white lace handkerchief. Fleur took it and carefully dabbed Elara's nose. A tiny but bright blood smear stained the pristine fabric when she brought it away. "Remind me not to threaten your 'arriet, hmm?"

Elara laughed, the sound escaping her chest like the grating, mangled burst of a sob. Her entire body shook with it. She could feel the grit between her glove's leather and her sweating palm.

"I thought—I thought you would be disgusted—."

"I am part Veela, Elara. I am not fully human, oui? Do you find me disgusting?"

"No, of course not—."

"Then what? You know they have a word for you? Nécromancienne. It does not scare me."

Gulping, Elara let herself lean into Fleur's careful touch as she cleaned her face. When finished, she vanished the handkerchief.

"There. And look! The coward left 'is wand! I 'ave never seen a wizard almost grown so frightened!" Fleur tossed Lestrange's wand to the floor with a revolted grunt. She stepped closer. "You are too tall! Lean down 'ere."

Elara acquiesced, and Fleur pressed her mouth to hers.

xXx

The stones snapped and bounced upon the surface of the lake as the dark-haired boy threw them into the black water.

"I don't know why it even matters," Vuharith said, voice echoing on the jetty's rocks rising at their side. "You've been out here all day. It's done, innit? You didn't need the apprenticeship, so why—?"

"Fuck off," Accipto Lestrange hissed, throwing the next rock harder. His uniform was rumpled, dirt streaked along the collar and untucked shirttails.

"Accipto—."

"I said fuck off, Mallory!" he shouted. "Or do I have to make you?!"

Eventually, Mallory Vuharith took the point and abandoned him there on the shore, making her way back to the castle. Though night had already fallen, no professors lingered in this section of the grounds, and any of the prefects who might think to come here knew not to bother Accipto Lestrange.

His fingers dug into the wet sand and mud as he picked up and threw another stone. His breath came low and quick, a match to the angry rise and fall of his chest.

"Surely there are better ways to be spending your time."

Accipto spun on his heels to see a cloaked man behind him covered by the shadow falling from the jetty's jagged edge. His eyes, however, glimmered like molten cinders in the belly of a firepit.

The next stone slipped through Accipto's fingers and clattered on the shore.

"I've heard about your unfortunate loss in Slytherin's pointless game," the wizard said, taking one pointed step forward. The moonlight shone on his pale face. "He never was good at appreciating the best talent. To take on a simple, dull-witted half-blood girl over yourself—tsk tsk."

Accipto's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "I know who you are."

"Of course you do, dear boy." Gaunt's lips tipped in a placating simper, one that little matched his cold eyes. He'd come again to Hogwarts for the Tournament finishing tomorrow afternoon. "I'm quite recognizable."

"No. I know who you are."

"As I said…of course you do. Your parents were always clever too." Gaunt approached the boy, one gloved hand extended. "I could use wizards such as yourself in the Ministry. You wouldn't be unappreciated there."

Accipto raised his gaze to meet the Minister's, then dropped to his waiting hand again. Hesitating.

"Come now, Accipto. Imagine all you can gain in my administration. All the power just waiting for the right person to take it." His voice blended with the water lapping against the shore—sloshing, striking, hypnotic. "The Guardians of the Magical Right take only the very best."

Slowly, the boy leaned forward to place his hand in Gaunt's. The Minister's fingers closed around it, and his smile widened as they shook.

"Excellent choice."

A/N: If you forgot, Elara is registered as an Animagus and is vaguely known to be one.

Elara: "Hey, Accipto—catch."

Lestrange: "Catch what?"

Elara: "THESE HANDS."

Or

Elara: "As you can see, my basket of chill is empty."

Lestrange: "Why?"

Elara: "Because I have none."