cclxxiv. the gallows witch
It hadn't been Elara's intention to eavesdrop.
To be fair, she was in the greenhouse long before Snape and Harriet left the house to use the garden for their training session. She set out after lunch, knowing it would take her an absurd amount of time to harvest what she needed. Indeed, she'd killed one of the yew trees already and was hoping no one would notice or attribute it to her. She continued harvesting the bark from the second tree, going slow and using her gloves and the scraper made of bones. She cracked a window for a bit of air, flipping the latch to pivot the glass out on its stiff hinges, and thus she heard when Harriet and Snape came downstairs.
For a while, they exchanged nothing but spellfire, and Elara listened to the pop and whistle of moving magic, the heavy thumps of their steps on the cold flagstones. Snape barked the occasional correction, Harriet would curse, and they'd go again.
When their dueling slowed, Snape said, "That article was a monumentally stupid idea," and Elara stiffened.
"Probably," Harriet agreed, which matched what she'd said when they left Skeeter at the Tarland Tavern. Despite her reluctance, she didn't throw the blame on Elara or Hermione. "But it's already been done."
Elara knew Hermione was currently at her desk writing a scathing letter to Rita and questioning whether or not to make good on her threat to turn the woman in as an illegal Animagus. Elara had cautioned her against it. Skeeter kept to the letter of their agreement, if not the spirit, and it would only behoove their working relationship if Hermione gave her warning and moved on. If Rita kept pushing, Hermione would have no choice but to turn her in, and the rotten beetle needed to be reminded of that.
"Vol—The Dark Lord wasn't…angry, was he?" Harriet asked, hesitating. "He didn't hurt you again after—?"
"That is none of your business, Potter."
"It is though, isn't it?" she rushed to say. "It's a consequence. It wasn't—I did the article with Skeeter, whether or not it was my idea, I still did it, and if the Dark Lord hurt you because of that—."
"You cannot shoulder the actions of others," Snape replied, sounding testy. "In your narrow perception of the situation, would you also demand credit if the Dark Lord saw fit to reward me for your choices?"
Harriet stayed quiet for a moment. "That's…different. That's from—y'know, your job."
"The coin is two-sided, Potter. Either reward or consequence, they are both mine to bear and both results of my own decisions and the decisions of the Dark Lord. Don't be a martyr. It's tiresome."
They dueled again. Elara set the scraper aside and leaned over the bench, peering out the window. Had anyone been there to witness her doing so, she would have definitely corrected their assumption that she was spying. She was only—curious. So, Elara peeked out the window, craning her neck until she spotted Harriet and Snape.
The latter returned his wand to the brace hidden by his sleeve, looking unruffled aside from an inexplicable scorch mark on his upper arm. Two crudely made swords had been driven into the earth, and Harriet busied herself by yanking them free and grunting with the effort. She canceled the Transfiguration, and they returned to rocks that she placed by the fountain again. Snape smoothed out the path with a silent spell.
Elara watched how Snape turned his head, his gaze settling on Harriet as she tidied the garden. In a rare, unguarded moment, Elara saw emotion flicker over his narrow, sallow countenance, his brows drawing together, his lips pursed in a pained grimace. It startled her, seeing the staid Potions Master appear so anxious, if only for an instant. A moment passed, and his face resumed its usual distant, cool affect. Harriet finished fixing the begonia and turned to him again, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.
"Slytherin will want to see you before the holiday is over," Snape said, and Harriet made a face as if she'd smelled dung under her nose. "Mind yourself. He seems pleased with this newest development, but no matter his iteration, the Dark Lord's mood is mercurial at best."
"Do you really think I don't know that?" Harriet retorted. She let out a frustrated sigh, then wiped perspiration from her brow. "Fuck."
She headed toward the house, and Snape stared after her, hesitating before he followed.
That was odd, Elara thought. Snape must be more worried about Slytherin's reaction than he's letting on. Hermione insists the apprenticeship contract prevents the slimy bastard from heaping abuse upon her, but she's naive to how insidious and cunning abusers can be.
"Do you mean to eavesdrop on the garden for the rest of the afternoon?"
"God—!"
Elara smacked the top of her head on the window as she rushed to duck inside. Andromeda stood next to her, arms crossed, though how and when she'd come into the greenhouse, Elara couldn't say. The older witch arched a brow, and Elara ignored how her cheeks flushed as she rubbed her bruised scalp.
"I wasn't—never mind. What do you want?" she grumbled.
Andromeda smirked as she uncrossed her arms, revealing a small sachet cupped in her hand. "I came to check on your progress and give you this. Ashes from your hearth."
"Thank you."
Elara reached inside her cloak's pocket, removing a square wooden box. It was partitioned inside, and she placed the sachet inside the first. She eyed the yew bark she'd shaved off the tree.
"I truly don't understand why this is necessary."
"It's traditional—and expected," Andromeda told her, placing particular emphasis on the words. "You're asking for a favor. Don't serve insult on your first meeting."
Elara made no further comment, carefully picking up the bark shavings and slotting them beside the sachet.
"Your hair next."
"Isn't it frowned upon to share bits of yourself? And, well, stupid?" Elara asked.
Andromeda sighed. It was a very pure-blood sigh, taken in through the nose and noticeable only in the rise and fall of her straight shoulders. "It is a sign of respect. You bring the salt of your home, the bones of your ancestor, and the blood of your being." Andromeda held up a hand before Elara could speak. "Naturally, over time, totems have come to replace the more literal interpretations. The ashes for the salt, yew for the bone, hair for the blood. Just three hairs, darling. No need to be dramatic. It's traditional."
Elara felt her eyes were in danger of rolling out of her head if she heard another word about tradition. Still, she carefully plucked three hairs from her head, twisted them together, and set them in the box. She shut it, sealing the edges.
They returned inside, Elara tromping up the back steps after Andromeda went first. She happened to see Harriet and Snape heading upstairs in the foyer, the latter directing a sharp glower in Elara's direction. He seemed annoyed when he realized they'd come from the garden without him noticing. Elara met his glare with a raised eyebrow, and Snape eventually curled his lip and turned to follow Harriet.
Andromeda and Elara continued into the lounge, finding the senior Malfoys inside. Narcissa had one of her house-elves standing on the arm of the sofa to hold up her traveling cloak so she could adjust the color of the embroidery on the sleeve. Lucius sprawled on the divan with a glass of wine, as was his wont, and he drawled as he spoke to his wife.
"I question the necessity of this trip, my love," he complained. "Can it not be put off until after the holiday?"
"We've spoken on this, Lucius. You're being tiresome."
"Yes, but it is such an imposition on you." He took note of Elara and Andromeda entering the room, his eyes sliding onto them as he sipped the wine. "Why must you pose as a coven member for a girl who's barely family?"
Elara settled in one of the winged chairs, brushing dirt from the garden off her skirt. "It's nice to see you too, Uncle Lucius. Still homeless?"
Andromeda snorted, then covered her nose.
"Mind your tongue," Mr. Malfoy barked, almost sloshing his drink. "I am merely pointing out the obvious. This excursion comes at a rather inopportune time."
"I did promise her," Andromeda said, folding her hands together before herself. "And my dear sister is feeling so magnanimous after receiving refuge in Elara's home."
Narcissa smiled—tight-mouthed and dark-eyed, the kind of smile that radiated a low, leashed contempt. Elara suffered no illusion that Narcissa wanted to leave the house with them, just as she knew Lucius didn't really care about any perceived "imposition." He was terrified Gaunt would find his wife if she stepped foot outside of Grimmauld.
"Why can she not bring the—." He waved his hand in a vague manner. It shouldn't have been insulting, but Lucius managed to make it so. "The Potter girl or Granger? Though, I would imagine anyone might take offense to the latter showing up on their doorstep."
Elara made a mental note to ask Dobby about placing thumbtacks in Lucius' dress shoes.
"It's more appropriate to have the elders of her coven present her. The Gallows Witch demands respect," Narcissa said. "Do sit up, Lucius. You're slovenly."
He took the reprimand in stride and straightened in his seat, frowning.
Elara didn't know what to expect for this evening. It seemed ages ago Andromeda had promised to introduce her to a witch who knew more about her condition, and at the time, she'd been almost certain it'd never come to pass. Elara hadn't had any inclination to fulfill her sole caveat of attending therapy with a Menslumencer, but she eventually agreed, and had continued to see Healer Lane at Hogwarts. Andromeda had decided it was time for her to meet her acquaintance.
"Melisande Dullahan is the head of the Aeter coven," Andromeda explained, using a strict, no-nonsense tone. "She's very, very old—and very, very Dark. It is rumored among certain circles that even You-Know-Who went out of his way not to cross her. Melisande is not particularly…concerned with affairs of the mortal world, but if entreated with proper respect, she's willing to impart knowledge. Selective knowledge."
"And she's the best option to go to with my questions?" Elara asked, dubious.
Andromeda didn't reply to her immediately, taking a moment to formulate an answer. "She's a valuable connection to have. I would introduce Harriet and Hermione as well, but oh, I don't know. I don't think the poor dears would react well."
Elara, Andromeda, and Narcissa departed Grimmauld just after dinner, at a time when their absence wouldn't stir too many questions among the plethora of people who passed through Grimmauld. They used the Floo for the first half of their journey, arriving in a dark, unappealing tavern somewhere in far-flung Scottish village, and Andromeda Apparated them from there to the outskirts of a wild, gorse-filled forest clinging to a mountain's side.
Narcissa took one look at the snow-clad scenery and wrinkled her pert nose. "You could have mentioned the need for hiking boots," she sniped. Andromeda tucked her plait of thick curls inside her own cloak's hood and rolled her eyes.
"I would have, had there been a need. I can't be blamed for your ridiculous shoe choice."
"Ridiculous? These are from Pierrat's in Paris, I'll have you know."
"Pierrat is a bore and so are his designs."
"You remain frightfully uncultured, Andromeda."
"And you're just as materialistic as ever, little sister."
Elara ignored their squabbling as she studied the trees, approaching the dirt path Andromeda had landed them near. What little light remained in the sky illuminated the thick hoarfrost burdening the spruces and pines, the limbs groaning like old crones in every shift of the evening breeze. Elara's breath escaped her white plumes, and her face prickled against the sudden, intense chill. She peered through the trees, listening.
"Do you hear that?" she asked. "What is that whispering?"
"It's best not to listen," Andromeda told her as she adjusted her scarf and nodded toward the path. "Keep your wits about you and lets get going."
Elara turned one last look upon the darker part of the forest, hearing the inveigling murmurs, then followed her aunts along the path.
They walked for a while, though true to Andromeda's comment, the way stayed relatively flat, if a tad unkempt. A large cottage appeared in the gloom, hauntingly silent in the snow-bound wood, but stately in its own way, buzzing with tangible magic. The wards hummed like unfriendly wasps when they crossed through the garden gate. Andromeda took a breath for courage, then walked up the stone steps to the looming front door. She grasped the iron knocker and banged it twice upon the wood.
"She's expecting us…right?" Elara muttered, and Andromeda nodded.
"We wouldn't have been able to enter the area otherwise."
They waited in silence, but didn't have to do so for long, as the door creaked open to reveal the ugliest house-elf Elara had ever seen. She couldn't rightly say it was a house-elf. It best resembled an erkling, what with its skinny, withered limbs, hunched figure, and the needle-like teeth it bore in a terrifying grin.
"What does it want?" the creature asked, its deep voice heavy with sibilance. "Why is it here? It does not belong. It has no business knocking upon this door."
From inside the house, a voice called, "Druzan? Escort my guests into the parlor."
The elf—Druzan—cowered, his narrow, wrinkled head nearly colliding with the floor as he bowed. "Inside it comes. Quickly, quickly."
Elara was beginning to second guess this visit, but she nonetheless allowed her feet to carry her up the steps, and the trio of witches followed the odd creature as he scuttled from the foyer through a short, unlit corridor. The parlor they entered much resembled Grimmauld Place, if somehow less comfortable. Benches replaced the sofas and they looked like pews, giving Elara the creeps.
She sat between Andromeda and Narcissa. The former looked more at ease than the latter, who, despite her natural composure, kept fretting with her cloak.
"Have you met this witch?" Elara asked her in an undertone. Druzan had scampered away like an imp, but that didn't assuage the feeling of being watched.
"No," Narcissa confessed, sounding uneasy. "Mother introduced Andy and—Bella when they were girls. I was too young."
Elara squeezed her hands together, and though she kept tracing her thumb along the seam of her glove, she otherwise kept herself from fidgeting.
Wooden stairs creaked under descending feet. A shadow crossed the room's entrance, and Elara looked around as a woman entered the parlor. Elara froze.
She knew the woman—or, rather, she'd crossed paths with her before. When Andromeda had said Melisande Dullahan was an ancient witch, Elara had pictured some octogenarian woman resembling a beardless Dumbledore, not a woman who could pass for thirty, if not for the uncanniness of her stark, golden eyes.
Elara had met the witch years ago, in the summer before her third year, when she and Harriet had stayed with the Flamels. She was tall, her features hawkish, black hair as dark and glossy as oil pouring from her pale scalp. When they'd met, Elara had likened the woman to Snape, and she couldn't help but do so again—though Snape frightened her a lot less than the stranger entering the parlor did.
"The Black Coven," Melisande Dullahan greeted, her eyes on Elara. "With new faces, I see. Have so many years passed us by?"
Andromeda smiled—a pleasant, if stiff, upturn of her lips. "Thank you for meeting with us, Madam Dullahan. My mother Druella is no longer with us, and Bellatrix is—ah—unavailable."
"They incarcerated her in that dreadfully trite prison," Dullahan said, folding her long, lissome arms together. "A shame. She had much potential."
Elara thought of Bellatrix Lestrange and the things Sirius had said about her in Azkaban. She didn't comment.
"This is Narcissa, my younger sister, and Elara. She's the Heir to the House of Black."
"Wizards and their Houses," Dullahan replied with a sniff. "Enough. The greetings have been observed. You brought the girl here and your missive requested a meeting. Is your presence required?"
In answer, Andromeda and Narcissa stood, startling Elara. Where were they going?
"No," Dullahan said, her voice sharp. "You shall stay. Druzan shall bring you repaste. The girl will follow me."
Elara didn't retort, "the girl has a name," but it was a near thing. Being spoken about as if she weren't in the room had always irritated her. It'd been a favorite of the sisters at the group home.
Wait—I'm supposed to follow her?
Andromeda and Narcissa resumed their seats while Elara stiffly rose. The former gripped her wrist for a moment, and when Elara bent her ear closer, she said, "Don't forget the box."
She hadn't. As she trailed Melisande Dullahan back into the corridor and through another archway into a cluttered work room, she removed the wooden box from her cloak pocket. She couldn't resist inspecting the shelves, overburdened as there were thick books, glass bottles, and all manner of trinkets Elara could only speculate the purpose of.
Then, of course, there was the wall of skulls.
Dullahan sat on a tall stool by the long, wooden workbench. Doing so put her directly by the mounted skulls, and her slender hand went out to stroke one of their number. "The Aeter Coven, as it stands," she explained, the corner of her mouth hitching. Her thumb brushed over the skull's brow. "My daughter, Delphinia. Forgive her for not having her voice at the moment."
"No offense taken," Elara replied, stilted, wondering if the woman was serious or perhaps a tad mad.
Dullahan chuckled, removing her hand. "Tell me. Do you still have my token, girl?"
So she does remember me. Rather than answering, Elara dipped her hand into her pocket, directly into her purse. The drawstring gave her trouble for a moment, but she managed to loosen it, and she withdrew the plain, black rock with the rune engraved upon it.
"Don't be so quick to hand over a favor," the older witch tutted. "I agreed to a meeting, after all. What do they teach witches these days at that abominable castle?"
Elara returned the rune to her purse and extended the box. Dullahan accepted it, then popped it open, peering at the contents. She shut it without a word—and it disappeared.
"What is it you want to know?"
Elara licked her lips, taken off guard by the sudden shift. "I want to know more about what I am," she settled on saying.
"What you are? That's hardly informative. A human, a witch, a woman. Surely, you've a mother who could tell you such things?"
She got the distinct impression Melisande was taunting her, but Elara didn't back down. She met her stare with a blank expression.
"No, I haven't. And no. You know what I mean. Nécromancienne."
Dullahan's red lips pursed, moved on silent syllables. "A Necromancer, little witch. You know a name for it, but must come to me?"
"Books on Necromancy aren't exactly thick on the ground in England," Elara wryly admitted—and she almost jumped out of her skin when Dullahan laughed. "And even those I could find never spoke about…about how I came to be this way, or how to control."
"That is because there is a difference between a witch practicing Necromancy and being a Necromancer." The witch spun a finger in the air, her nails black and as sharp as talons. "They are not born, but rather made. That ability you have to take life and death into your young, naive hands is both a blessing and curse laden upon you when you slipped the bonds of humanity."
Elara blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Hmm. What do the wizards call it?" She spun her finger again, and a book lurched off a shelf, landing in a cloud of dust on the workbench. Again the finger turned, and the book rose as if tugged by an invisible string until it faced Elara, and she stared at the ugly portrait within of a writhing black mass of shadow and nightmare. "An Obscurial."
"I am not an Obscurial," Elara scoffed even as her heart raced. Obscurials were a thing of the past, from a time when Muggles hunted witches and wizards, and children grew up in fear of discovery.
"I believe the technical terminology is Near-Obscurial. Do you not comprehend? Our state of being is a sliding scale. Upon one end exists humanity, and upon the other exists the Beast. Magic is power, and when it is denied, it seeks to shatter the shell that binds it. When the cracks form, your magic sheds the bonds enforced by nature itself. This is how your hands reach out to touch that which exists beyond our realm."
Elara's gaze fell upon her gloved hands. Her knees felt weak.
"Is it…is it Dark?"
"Exceedingly so," the witch replied as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Dark magic is that which exists in antithesis to the anima of the human body. The Unseelie brought it to bear upon this world to entice and destroy the unaware. But if you are aware…." The woman's mouth curled in a truly spine-chilling smile. "But, I'm getting away from myself. You didn't ask for a history lesson."
"Can I learn to control it?" Elara asked. "I don't want it to…to overcome me. What if it—? You said it's a curse, and what if it hurts someone I love?" She breathed in a heavy, uneven gasp. "But I don't want to learn Dark magic if it means losing myself."
"Then you are a fool." Melisande sighed, but she reached up a hand and summoned another book to her grasp. It was slim, and Elara hesitated to call it a book at all. It better resembled a journal, if thinner still. "Take this. A gift from Aeter to the Black. It will teach you to summon a proper familiar."
"I have a familiar," Elara said even as she accepted the small book.
Melisande tutted. "I said a proper familiar. What you have is a pet." The witch sounded annoyed and increasingly bored with Elara's presence. She turned to the workbench, and her attention strayed to the skulls—Delphinia in particular. "Its shape is unknown until you speak it into being. It is a spell of my own creation. It eats the influence of Dark magic, but you must feed it, little witch. It is the cyclical nature of things."
Elara tucked the book beneath her arm. "Thank you. May…may I write? If I have questions?"
"If you have payment." Melisande arched a dark brow. Her eyes reminded Elara of a dragon's hoard, and she could guess what mysteries resided hidden inside. When she turned away, Elara felt the magic in the air shift, and she knew before the witch said a word that she was dismissed. The Gallows Witch had no further need for her. "Goodbye, Elara Black. Until we meet again."
xXx
Elara studied the aged pages in the lamp's dappled glow.
She tucked her legs firmly beneath her quilt, her finger tracing old words. A vase of French roses sat on her nightstand with the burnished lamp.
When Elara lifted her wand to cast the spell, she didn't know what to expect—didn't know if she should trust the word of a witch who kept company with skulls and mean-spirited imps. But, she spoke the spell regardless, and when the jellyfish made of starlight and strings of glowing ether eddied about her head, she shut the book.
Her bare fingers reached out to caress a rose. The petals didn't wilt. Elara smiled.
A/N:
This is a large difference in how Elara and Harriet were raised. Harriet believed the things happening around her were just weird coincidences and didn't denymagic, because she had no conception of its existence. Meanwhile, Elara was told magic was real—but that it was a curse of the devil. She denied it in a different manner that I believe would have led her to become an Obscurial.