Certain Dark Things || Book Two

i. bruises on the soul

The broom scraped along the floor and the sound echoed in Grimmauld Place's oppressive silence.

In Elara's limited memory, the house had never been as quiet and doom-laden as it was now; when Cygnus had been in residence, a breath of life wheedled through the place, and no matter how thin and sickly it'd been, Elara recalled a comforting weight to the occasional wet coughs or the raspy mutterings he shared with the portraits of his forefathers. Now, there was nothing. Aside from Kreacher, Elara Black was alone.

The bristles scratched the wood and she sighed as she lifted the dust pail and dumped its contents in the rubbish bin. The bin coughed, sputtering out half the dirt and earned a tight-lipped glare from Elara. A month had passed since her arrival at the London townhouse and most of her efforts had gone into fixing the damage accrued during her extended absence at Hogwarts. Kreacher, still moping over Cygnus' death, was of no help at all, and Elara didn't have the patience or the wherewithal to chastise him for it.

Giving up for the moment, Elara leaned the broom against the peeling wallpaper and dropped onto the divan below an open window. Outside, a transparent veil of magic created generations before Elara's own birth hung between the house and the sidewalk, blocking the Muggles' view of the property, glittering slightly in the afternoon sunshine. A paltry breeze crossed the sill and stirred the mottled curtains, and though she wished for it to stay, the breeze retreated and the air stilled again. Elara resigned herself to melting in the muggy heat.

Sprawled on the divan, she stared at the ceiling and its weathered paint, then raised one hand before her face. Elara peeled off the sweaty glove, then, with deliberate attention plucked at the buttons on her sleeve until she could yank it down to her elbow. The light played over her pale skin and the scars that started about halfway up her forearm gradually thickened to their worst around her wrists, looking like ugly, scarlet bangles embedded in the flesh.

Elara poked the scar sitting over the tendon that ran into her thumb and the digit trembled.

She sighed louder and dropped the arm onto her middle, then went about shedding her remaining glove and rolling back that sleeve as well. Unsightly as the scars were, the weather was inexcusably hot and she was alone. Matron Fitzgerald would've called it an "Indian Summer," but Elara was fairly certain that was the incorrect term, which didn't surprise her in the slightest. Bigoted and cruel, Matron Fitzgerald had also been a bit of an idiot.

A Doxy made a conspicuous show of tip-toeing back into the draperies Elara had de-infested the day before. She glowered at the tricky devil and, not for the first time, wished she knew and could perform the proper cleaning spells. Doing everything the Muggle way had quickly lost its charm.

Muffled flapping brought Elara's head up and she watched her owl Cygnus come winging through the open window, making a brief circuit around the dilapidated office before landing on the divan's arm. He pecked at her groomed head affectionately and Elara sent her fingers questing over his dark wing, feeling the sun's heat still trapped in the feathers.

"Thank you," she said once Cygnus proffered his leg for her to take the attached letter and package. He hooted, apparently finding her response acceptable, and took off through the open door to find his water dish. Elara pried the red seal open on the letter and proceeded to read. It was from Hermione.

Dear Elara,

I hope your holidays are going well. I know only a month has passed, but it seems inexorably longer, doesn't it? I miss you and Harriet and Hogwarts terribly.

I'm sorry if I've been remiss in sending a letter earlier. Mr. Malfoy keeps us to a very strict studying schedule and I have not had the opportunity to use the owlery much.