Certain Dark Things || Book Five

xv. queen of wands

They set her trial for July thirtieth.

Harriet laughed when she opened the Ministry's letter and read their chosen date. She didn't know if having it the day before her birthday was better or worse. Sirius had spoken tentatively of a shared party for her and Neville, but the looming trial cast a pall on the festivities, and really, Harriet wasn't in the mood to celebrate. No matter what anyone said, her first day of being fifteen years old might mark the beginning of a life sentence in Azkaban.

She had no energy for her letters, no energy for anything, spending many of those final days numb and trapped in her own head. "'arriet," Mr. Flamel had told her, warm hands settling on either side of her face to urge her to look at him. "All will be well, oui? You must know you are not alone."

Harriet had only nodded at him.

On the evening of the twenty-ninth, Hermione and Elara had enough of her moping and dragged her out of her bedroom. They hid in the trophy room, which was less a room for trophies and more a catch-all for the burgeoning rubbish and collectibles they cleared from the rest of the house. The heat seemed to settle there with a vengeance, like a sweltering Boggart lurking out of sight, creeping out from under the curio cabinets to lounge across the carpet. They allowed themselves one candle, lest the light leaking from under the door attract attention from their house guests, and sat together on the velvet sofa.

"Don't get used to this," Hermione said with clear warning as she exposed a bottle hidden in her pocket. "I really don't approve, but just for tonight—."

Harriet took the bottle and turned it toward the light, whistling low. "Firewhiskey? Really?"

"I may have nicked it from Sirius and blamed the Weasley twins."

A laugh escaped Harriet, the feeling rusty. "Barmy. Barmy, but brilliant."

They conjured small glasses, and there was only enough in the bottle to split once between the three of them—though that proved plenty. They each took one sip and sputtered, heat flaring through Harriet's mouth and nose, bringing tears to her eyes.

"Oh, that's awful," she choked, and then started laughing again. "This is a bloody awful idea."

Elara's face looked like she'd licked tarmac, and Hermione's cheeks glowed red. "Merlin!" she coughed, wrinkling her nose. "Well, it is called Firewhiskey. It stands to reason it would burn." She looked into her glass with a critical eye. "Shall we toast to something?"

"Reckon I don't have much to toast to at the moment," Harriet grumbled, so it fell to Elara, seated in the middle of them, to lift her drink.

"To Terry," she said, and that was something Harriet could toast.

"To Terry."

"Terry," Hermione added. In the dim, orange light, her eyes glowed with moisture, though she didn't cry. "And the Muggles. And the Muggle-borns."

Harriet turned her head, about to ask what she meant—then, brief flickers of conversation, snippets of newspapers from across the country, the unmoving pictures of people reported missing rose in her mind's eye. So she lifted her glass again and clinked it with the others. "The Muggles."

They sipped their drinks, the terrible taste matching their terrible spirits and not mingling well at all with the muggy heat. Nonetheless, Harriet found herself relaxing into her corner of the sofa, watching the Firewhiskey glitter like gold as she swiveled it inside the Transfigured tumbler. Hermione hummed part of a song from the wizarding wireless, and around them, Grimmauld Place creaked and groaned like a tired ghoul.

Shifting, Elara reached into her pocket and withdrew a deck of cards.

"Oh, not that nonsense," Hermione huffed as Elara hooked her foot around the leg of the coffee table and tugged it closer. Harriet sat up a bit, blinking, and realized Elara held her tarot deck.