Deal with the Devil

Chapter 17

Elena was not an early riser; in fact, because of her condition, she often had trouble turning off her mind to allow herself true rest, staying asleep, and waking once she was actually asleep. Once, when she was younger, she'd sleepwalked to her desk and had found drawings all over her bedroom wall. The next time, it was on her floor. The third, she'd started writing. That was when she realized what it was.

It was a year after she'd moved in with her mother. While her father had merely shaken his head and helped her clean up the mess (buckets of soapy water, scrub brushes, splashing each other and laughing), the family house elf had banished the jagged writing with a snap of his fingers and asked if little miss had gotten up to mischief in the night.

In retrospect, she was grateful for the being's discretion. Her next was finally on paper, and she could make it out well enough that she finally realized what she'd been doing in her sleep all those instances. And she knew her mother would never let her go if she knew.

Elena had made it a point to hide the rare somnolent activity. It was easier with the papers. But she always woke flushed, heart pounding.

Thus, it was not unusual when she woke that morning to sun streaming through the edges of the curtains, a twisted mess in the sheets. She was soaked in sweat, hair tangled and damp, limp around her as she sat upright. A quick tempus told her it minutes after nine, and she laid back for a moment, trying to slow her breathing, before taking stock of herself. Her hands were clean and there was nothing out of place in her quick scan of the room.

Slowly, Elena forced herself out of bed and made her way to the washroom. She had this to herself, thankfully. She vaguely remembered that Riddle said his was adjoined to another room, but Ophelia had prepared this one especially for Elena. She washed herself in a tepid stream of water, clearing away the perspiration of the night as though she could also cleanse away her nightmares.

The bath soap provided for her was scented warm and slightly sweet, her shampoo of something with a touch of rose to it, and perhaps milk. Elena dwelled on the luxury of the scents as she dressed in a plain grey skirt and white blouse, stockings, clean black shoes, combed her damp hair, and set off down the stairs.

There were voices and the muffled clicking of china. She turned the corner down the stairs, walking through the sitting room and into the dining room.

"Look who has decided to join us at last," came Nott's cultured voice. The other two occupants looked over at her and she paused for a moment and then strode forward to sit at the empty seat beside Nott.

Tom eyed her, brow raised at her choice of seats. "Elena, darling, did you sleep well?"

"Fine, thank you," she said, a slight shake indicating she had nothing for him, since she knew what he was asking.

Ophelia frowned. "You seem to have forgotten your hair, dear." The older woman pulled out her wand. "Do you mind if I...?"

"Erm." She bit her lip and pondered whether it would be impolite to tell her Elena never styled her hair, or did much of anything with it. Instead, she said, "Sure."

Ophelia stood and came around to her chair, pulling Elena's limp hair over the back of the chair. "It's lovely hair," she said, stroking it. "Hmm." After a pause, she flicked her wand and the hair dried. Ophelia ran her hair through the newly dry waves, then murmured something Elena didn't quite hear. "There we are. Lovely." She conjured a silver hand mirror to show the girl.

Elena's hair was now in the soft, smooth curls favored by women now, the front curled back and pinned to one side. It looked strange, and she touched the bottom of one curl to see if it was really her hair. It was out of place, made her look older, like the other seventh years at Hogwarts who wore red lipstick and did their eyelashes.