Certain Dark Things || Book Three

xxiv. in the spirit of things to come

For the next several days, Harriet and her friends returned again and again to Ravenclaw's Aerie, spending as much of their free time as they could delving through the quiet, sprawling halls of the Founder's archive. Any subject they could fathom learning about leapt forward—references, encyclopedias, dictionaries, biographies, indices, all just a thought and a few steps away. Hermione had to be physically torn from whatever tome she'd buried her nose in every evening, lest she fall asleep there and never be found again.

Harriet spent hours wandering the area, familiarizing herself with the details and small quirks of the Aerie. Her anxiety lessened as she explored, but she couldn't deny it remained rather creepy, given how sound didn't travel in predictable ways and the silence pressed close enough to become its own tangible being, like a second heartbeat hovering at her ear. She spoke with Salazar Slytherin and Rowena Ravenclaw—what little she could manage—though both Founders proved their brilliance when they started to assimilate bits and pieces of the modern language the longer they conversed. She also learned, perhaps unsurprisingly, that Salazar Slytherin loved to talk about himself—and that Rowena Ravenclaw loved to make fun of Slytherin talking about himself, resulting in Slytherin stomping off in a huff more than once, chased by Ravenclaw's gentile laughter.

For the most part, Harriet sat on a stool at Ravenclaw's work table, tracing the lines of Hogwarts' design with her fingers or quill, studying those spots of carefully made illustration and embellishment. Kevin and Rick would inspect the old instruments shuffled off to the map's extremities, and Livi would wrap himself around the stool and Harriet's legs, occasionally peeking above the desk's edge to converse with Slytherin.

"We almost don't need the Weasleys' map," Hermione muttered one afternoon, partially hidden behind a tower of moldering tomes. "We have a better, if outdated map available to us—and it seems so limited! The potential for more—." She pouted and spun her wand in her hand. "If only we could figure out how it works."

Unfortunately, figuring out how one might go about making something like the Marauder's Map was more difficult than Hermione, Harriet, or Elara expected. Two successive attempts at the Protean Charm resulted in two spectacular fires, the latter of which led to a rather awkward conversation with Madam Pomfrey where Harriet tried to explain how she'd misplaced her own eyebrows. Hermione tried for a third go, but Elara put her foot down.

Beyond their peaceful escape of the Aerie, Hogwarts continued to bubble with speculation over Sirius Black—how he'd gotten inside the castle, if he'd actually gotten inside, where he could have gone and if he'd come back again. Harriet admitted to herself she was leery of the deeper, darker parts of the dungeons now, never entirely sure what might come crawling from a drafty crevice or the damp mush. Surely Fred and George would go to Dumbledore if they saw Black strutting about on the Map—but how often did they actually look at it? If they were ready to hand it off to Harriet, how much use did the Marauder's Map actually see these days?

Life continued despite all murmuring of escaped convicts, Dementors, and accidental face-singeing. The arrival of November meant Quidditch season was about to begin, and nothing proved more gossip-worthy than speculations on upcoming Quidditch matches. Not even Sirius Black could compete. Flint assigned more practices later in the evenings and Harriet savored her time in the air, the sharpness of the cold wind against her skin, the heady feel of the world dropping away. She could do without being subjected to additional time with Malfoy—a new Chaser—or the Beaters aiming Bludgers at her head.

Friday evening provided a rare chance for Harriet and her friends to relax, waiting for Astronomy to start later that night. They gathered at their preferred table in the common room, holding their cold hands close to the jar of Bluebell Flames Hermione had conjured for them, talking about nothing specific. Hermione's familiar, Crookshanks, sat in her lap, the top of his ginger head barely visible, and Kevin wound about Harriet's wrist. Elara twirled her wand over a matchstick, idly changing it from one material to another, the soft winnowing of magic almost loud against the common room's stillness. Their dormmates had all gone off to bed, and only a few upper-years remained by the main hearth, discussing Quidditch or reading books.