ostium: gate, door, entrance
———
ELARA didn't speak for three weeks.
It wasn't that she didn't want to—it was just that there was nothing to say. She couldn't feel anything, couldn't bring herself to face the reality of it all.
That Iris was dead.
If she opened up that gate, she would crumble. Every single emotion she'd been avoiding would suffocate her, smother her. Drown her.
So she kept it firmly closed and stared at the world from the other side of it.
Her friends tried to get her out of it. Val, Hermione, Luca, Jasper—even Demetrius found it in him to approach her and try to get her to say something.
But Elara just stared at her hands, tracing over the snake tattoo on her finger, fiddling with the bracelet Iris had made for Val and her.
It was a delicate thing, woven from jasmine flowers that only bloomed in the spring and it was already brittle and frail, most of the petals having already fallen away.
But it was the last thing she had of Iris—so she kept it on.
She kept it on as she lay on her side in her bed watching the moon set and the sun rise, kept it on while she sat on the rooftop staring at the trees, kept it on while she knelt in the snow, shivering, teeth chattering and attempted to numb the burning in her hip.
Hermione scolded her for that, of course. Terribly. Elara knew she was being rash—her body still hadn't healed from three weeks ago.
Her shoulder still throbbed every once in a while from where George had to pop it back into its socket and there were stitches under her chin and along the outside of her thigh. There was an ugly purple bruise marring her ribs, another spreading across her collarbone where it had shattered and Jasper had healed it. Her back had been torn up by the explosion—but it had always been scarred from her time as a prisoner so it didn't look very different.
She hadn't been able to hear out of one ear for the first two weeks and it took a mountain of effort to swallow even one bite of food because her throat and neck muscles were sore. Her headache stayed throughout, pounding away behind her eyes and flaring up at random times.
The physical pain was agonising—but at least she could make it go away. She could take a Draught and slip into dreamless slumber or kneel in the snow until her body numbed and she nearly caught frostbite.
But the pain within her—It was something she couldn't face. Not yet. Not so soon. Not when the wound was so fresh, when the sound of Iris' raged scream echoed in her ears everytime she lay down in her bed. Not when all she could think about was how she left her, how she'd left her best friend to die.
And not once did Draco visit her.
And Elara never asked for him.
Because when she shut those gates, when she closed them on the events and feelings that would be her downfall if she acknowledged them—she locked him out too. She locked him out and vowed to keep him there.
Her pain was too raw to deal with. It was best she lock it up and leave it to fester. Acknowledging it would break her.
And she was so tired of being broken.
After the third week, Elara took a shower on her own—she shook her head when Hermione began to step into the bathroom with her. It had been convenient to have Hermione help her bathe, especially with her healing wounds—but she just wanted to be alone now.
So Hermione gave her a kiss on the cheek, a sad smile and shut the door quietly behind her, vowing to wait in the bedroom until she was done.
Elara sat beneath scalding hot water, letting it turn her skin pink despite her wounds for a good twenty minutes.
And when she stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her, she took a long moment to stare at herself in the mirror. At the bruises on her cheekbone, under her eye, on the side of her neck. The sealed gashes, faint scars lingering, the purple splotches fanning out from under the towel, blooming at her collarbones.
At her long hair. Wild and untamed. Her hair that had been her mother's pride and joy, she remembered. Rose Jacobs had always loved Elara's long locks.
And somehow, she knew Draco Malfoy had too.
When he'd kissed her, she'd seen flashes of memories of their past kisses—but nothing more, although the feeling that there was still something she didn't know lingered.
She didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to think about Draco and and his kiss, the imploring look on his face before his mouth met hers. Didn't want to think about him and his silver eyes. Didn't want to even touch the memory of his hand sliding into her hair, warm and firm.
The same hair that had been tangled and matted with blood the day Iris died. The same hair she saw in front of her now, spilling over her chest, clean and free of knots.
She didn't deserve to be free and clean. Not when Iris wasn't. Not when Iris was buried in in the forest behind the safehouse where they'd lain her to rest after Draco had retrieved her body.
Elara hadn't attended the service—had only curled up under her blanket, shivering and cold all over, her head throbbing.
Free and clean while Iris was dead and buried.
Elara cracked open the bathroom door and spoke for the first time in three weeks.
Hermione obliged her, albeit slightly puzzled, but Elara only took what she had asked for from her friend's hand and shut the bathroom door once again.
Then, facing the new tattered, bruised version of herself in the mirror, Elara brought the scissors up and snipped off the first strand of hair. All the way up to her shoulder. Then slightly higher up.
She watched the long strand of severed hair float to the floor. Her mother's favourite thing about her. Draco's favourite thing about her.
She took a breath and did it again.
|
Another week passed, marking exactly a month after Iris died.
February was still accompanied by icy mornings and cold winds, as well as overcast clouds, dark and heavy.
Elara sat on the porch swing, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. Every movement caused the swing to creak, the only sound piercing the air apart from the rustling of leaves as wind coasted through them.
It was the type of wind that foretold rain—Elara's favourite kind—and she inhaled the scent of the earth preparing to be cleansed.
She was clothed in a large hoodie—she was pretty sure it belonged to Luca—and plaid pajama pants that were slightly too big for her. She couldn't do anything with her hair anymore—she'd cut it too short, the tips barely brushing her shoulders. She was relieved it was gone—relieved she could leave some part of that night behind.
Until the other part she was trying to leave behind stepped onto the porch.
She hadn't seen him coming—had been too focused on the bracelet of jasmine flowers around her wrist, fraying and dying.
But as soon as the first stair creaked, her head shot up, her eyes fixing on Draco Malfoy.
His cloak was around his shoulders, hood pulled up, the fabric fluttering slightly in the wind. His hair had grown longer since she'd last seen him, a few more strands falling onto his forehead and there were shades of purple under his eye. She couldn't see the rest of him but she was sure he had more bruises covering his body.
He halted as he climbed the last stair and stood there, ahead and slightly to the right of where she was sitting on the porch swing.
Elara dragged her eyes away and stared straight ahead, her fingers still playing with the bracelet around her wrist.
The silence between them hung in the air like a guillotine ready to fall. He was brazen enough to not hide that he was watching her, that every breath she took was monitored.
Then, he said, his voice rough but exactly like she remembered it, "You cut your hair."
Elara didn't say anything. The squeak of the porch swing was her only answer as she swung back and forth, rocking on her feet.
The wind picked up, the leaves rustling louder, as if trying to fill the silence.
"Granger said you haven't been speaking."
Not much anyway. In the last week, since she'd said her first words to Hermione, asking her to bring her scissors, she'd talked here and there.
Told Luca she was tired before retiring up to her room late one night. Politely declined Jasper's offer to play cards. Told Val she didn't feel like talking when her friend approached her, tears in her eyes, lower lip trembling.
But other than that—Elara still hadn't spoken. Because if she did, she had no idea what would come out. She was scared of what would come out.
"I'm struggling with it too." His voice was gentle, his steps hesitant as he approached the swing.
Elara glanced up and found his eyes filled with emotion—so raw it chafed her insides. Those gates in her mind rattled just that slightest bit, a promise to open if she stayed around much longer.
"I wanted to go back for her," he said, softly, sliding his hands into his pockets. He dipped his head, an ashamed gesture. "I swear I did."
The gates creaked. On the other side lay grief and pain like nothing she'd ever experienced. She couldn't let those gates open.
Abruptly, she stood and moved past him, making sure to keep distance between them, heading for the front door.
And she probably would've made it. Probably would've been able to push open the front door and disappear into the house and continue her routine of keeping to herself until Merlin knew when. Would've been able to keep those gates shut like she'd been doing the past month.
But when Draco spoke from behind her, his voice was so strained and despaired—pained—that the lock clicked and everything came rushing out like a tidal wave. Crashing over her, suffocating her, pulling her this way and that.
"Elara, I don't want to be alone."
Her heart nearly gave out in her chest at the way he admitted it—like it was a fear he'd harboured for years. Like it took every drop of strength in him to say it—say it to her. To show her a little bit more of his soul.
It made everything in her burn.
She whirled around, staring at him, her chest heaving even though she hadn't spoken.
"You don't want to be alone?" Her voice broke as she stared at him, emotion after emotion streaking through her like a blazing wildfire. She couldn't even discern one from the other—all she knew was that she had to get them out. "Where were you, Draco? Where have you been the past month?"
He blinked at her, taken aback by her outburst, the fury woven in her tone.
"I was alone," she said, hoarsely, before he could respond. "You left me alone. You kissed me and—" They both sucked in a breath at the memory. "And then you let my friend die and left."
Draco's eyes widened a fraction, one hand slipping out of his pocket to reach for her. She took a step back, pressing herself against the door behind her, wedging her hands behind her body.
His hand fell away, his expression flickering, still so raw she couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand the emotions he was wearing on his face: desperation, agony, self-loathing.
She hated it. Hated him.
"How dare you," she hissed at him, her eyes burning. "How dare you pity yourself. How dare you have the nerve to leave my friend behind, let her die and then pity yourself!"
Draco's eyes shuttered and closed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. She was hurting him, she realised. She was hurting him and he wasn't even hiding it. But in some sick, twisted way, she liked it. It was a welcome relief from her own grief, from those emotions pouring out from behind the gates, wreaking havoc wherever they went.
Iris is dead, they whispered as they slithered through her. You left her to die.
"I wanted to come." Again, that pleading tone, the imploring look in his eyes as he stepped forward, reaching for her again. His hands closed around her face but she wrenched herself out of his grip, sliding out from the door and backing away into the corner of the porch before she could sink into his warmth.
There was pain on his face like she'd never seen before as she backed away from him, her hands trembling and aching to do damage. To hurt him somehow, to make him feel her pain.
"Elara—" He stopped, took a breath, a tremor in his fingers as he shoved them into his pockets again, far from her. "I wanted to come, I swear. But I—I—"
"Couldn't," she finished for him with a sneer. "Of course, you couldn't. Probably too busy making people kneel at your feet, hm? Enjoying yourself on that fucking throne you've made for yourself, ordering people like you're entitled to it, killing anyone that dares to speak up against you." She strung her words with all her rage and hatred even as some part of her begged her to stop, to stop trying to wound him.
His face fell. "That's not how it is. You know that's not how it is—"
"Then where were you?" Her voice rose, her eyes stinging now, tears blurring her vision and she hated herself, hated herself for crying in front of him. Her heart was a mangled mess, torn and bleeding in her chest. "You didn't even stop by to see if I was okay."
Her voice cracked and she furiously wiped at her cheeks, looking away, focusing on the trees in the distance and the way they swayed in the wind.
"I wanted to." His voice was hoarse but she couldn't meet his eyes. "I swear I—Fuck, I wanted to, Elara." He tore his hands through his hair, the hood falling back onto his shoulders. "You have no idea how much restraint it took to—" He swallowed hard then shook his head. "To stay away. But I had to. I couldn't risk coming here, not when everything was such a mess. I had to deal with the Dark Lord and spin lies and—and heal. I—" His voice quietened. "I could barely walk the first few days."
Elara knew he'd been healed as much as possible at the safehouse—but he hadn't even stayed the night. As soon as he could, a few hours after Jasper had found them in the snow, Draco had Apparated back to his manor.
"I had to wait till everything died down. There was an uproar within the ranks at what had happened and—" His throat bobbed as he glanced away. "And they now know there's a traitor among them. I convinced them it was probably one of the members of the Order who stole a cloak and mask from a fallen Death Eater but—" Again, he shook his head, looking exhausted. "But some of them are still suspicious. I have to be more careful than ever—it just wasn't worth it—"
His mouth snapped shut just as her eyes slid to meet his, his words hanging in the air between them. Thunder rumbled in the distance, an omen to what was coming next.
"Not worth it," Elara repeated, softly, her skin feeling tight over her bones, every breath painful. He stood there, his eyes shut in disappointment at himself. "I wasn't worth it."
His gaze returned to hers. "That's not what I meant." He moved closer, cornering her against the wooden railing behind her. His eyes flicked between hers, desperate. "That's not what I—It was just—It was just risky—"
But the damage had been done and something imploded in Elara, a fire burning so bright, it threatened to consume her if she didn't let it out.
"No, I get it," she spat, shoving away the fingers that slid across her cheek, heading for her hair. "I get it."
His eyes darkened, hand falling to his side and she could see his own temper flaring. "No, you don't."
"I do." She stepped closer, right up to him. Got right in his face so that they shared breaths, so that the only thing she could see was his face. "You're not worth it either."
Elara had never seen the type of hurt she saw slash across Draco's face—like she'd physically wounded him.
"And whatever you promised me," she said, deadly low, everything in her screaming to hurt him, to do something other than acknowledge the hurricane of emotions stirring in her, "whatever you promised me—before—you're free of it. You owe me nothing."
She pushed past him, a tear slipping down her cheek, and made a beeline for the front door.
"That's not how it works." To his credit, his voice didn't betray his hurt—although it was quiet. "You're hurting right now. I get it, I do. But don't push away something we both want—just to get revenge on me."
Her hand faltered from where it was reaching for the door handle. Turn around, she begged herself. Don't leave him.
But another voice—taunting and wholly hers and stemming from a place of immense pain: Don't let him leave you first.
"Elara," he breathed, so vulnerable and his hand closed around her shoulder, about to swivel her around.
"I don't want it," she said, harshly, staring at the door in front of her through her tears. "I don't want your promise. I don't want to be—to be—"
I promised you we'd be together in another life. I made a promise to you and I'm sorry I couldn't keep it.
"I don't want you."
His hand faltered, slid off her shoulder and she squeezed her eyes shut where he couldn't see her, trying to hold back her tears.
Why did this hurt so much? It shouldn't have hurt so much.
"Don't lie to me."
She could hear the waver in his voice now, the pure emotion in it. He'd never been so open with her, so vulnerable.
And all she wanted to do was tear him apart. She had to leave before she destroyed the both of them.
"I'm not," she said, twisting the door handle. "Keep your empty promises. I don't want them."
His rage circled around her, pure agony that made her want to turn back and apologise—but Elara only stepped into the house and let the door fall shut behind her.
For a second, his footsteps made to follow her, advancing towards the door. She held her breath, begging him to come in.
But his footsteps halted as they reached the door. A long moment passed and Elara felt as if they were sharing breaths through the wood between them.
Then, he turned and she waited until his footsteps receded completely before she headed up to her room, one painful step at a time.
|
Elara collapsed.
Everyday, she woke up, blinking up at the canopy above her bed, wondering if it was all a dream. If it had all really happened.
Everyday, as soon as she made her way down the hallway and pushed open Iris' door, reality crashed into her.
Everyday, she felt like someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the room and commanded her to breathe.
The floodgates had opened in her and there was nothing but endless turmoil. Rage, despair, terror, disbelief, grief—they ravaged her and left her trembling in their wake. They incapacitated her, turned her inwards, confined her to her room and isolated her.
Her friends tried. They all did. They tried to draw her into their activities, tried to include her and talk to her—but although a part of her felt guilty that she was pushing them away, Elara couldn't stop herself from rejecting their help.
She kept to her room, only venturing down to sit in the snow—Hermione had finally given up on trying to get her to stop—and only returned upstairs when she was shivering and freezing, her mind just a tad bit clearer.
Luca was always there, hovering in a doorway, watching her from the window, worried and doting. He often tried to reach for her hand, tried to give her a smile—but she turned away each time.
She didn't deserve it—his gentle smiles, his soft eyes. She didn't deserve any of them—not Luca, not Val, not Hermione, not Jasper.
Not Draco.
He didn't visit again. Or if he did, Elara never knew about it which wasn't surprising. Ever since Iris' death, she'd stepped away from trying to get involved in missions.
Her friends didn't ask her to join again. She didn't blame them. She'd been such a failure the last time.
"You didn't come down to dinner."
Elara didn't turn from where she was sitting on the rooftop, her knees pulled to her chest, but Luca came forward, shivering in the cold night air.
"You're not cold?" he asked her and she only shook her head, looking out across the forest. "Here. I brought you some of the shepherd's pie Ginny made."
Elara shook her head again, even as he took a seat next to her. "Not hungry."
She could see the frown that overtook his features from the corner of her eye. "When was the last time you ate?"
She gave a shrug. She didn't even remember but it had to be some time in the last two days.
"Take it, please." His voice was hesitant, cautious—like he was scared she'd lash out if he pushed too hard. She probably would.
"I said I'm not hungry." Her tone was flat, her eyes fixed on the treetops and the sky beyond it. The sky she'd once flown through on Lucifer with Draco at her back. She shoved the memory away.
"You need to eat," Luca coaxed, gently, placing the plate down in the space between them. "And Gin's a really good cook, you know. She—" He hesitated. "She'd like it if you tried what she made."
Elara hadn't spoken to Ginny once since they'd gotten her out. It wasn't because of any specific reason other than the fact that Ginny was healing and Elara kept to her room.
"I don't want it." She lowered her chin to rest on the top of her knees, trying her best not to focus on the emotions swirling in her chest, burning like a flame. "Thanks."
Luca heaved a sigh but dropped the subject. "Will you at least talk to me then? I'm worried about you."
"I am talking to you."
"You know what I mean." His elbow nudged her side and she could tell he was trying to lighten the mood. "C'mon, El. Tell me what you're thinking."
Elara blinked, slowly, a cold wind caressing their faces. "I'm not thinking anything."
He kept quiet but she could feel his frustration building. Unable to bring herself to care, she only shut her eyes and inhaled a deep breath of the cool night air.
"I miss you," Luca said finally, reaching a hand out to lay it on her knee. She shifted away and his hand fell. His face tightened. "I just want you to know I'm here. I understand what you're going through."
"Do you?" she asked, softly, a strand of her short hair whipping into her face. "Do you really know how it feels, Luca?"
He ducked his head, his expression forlorn. "I've lost people too, El. Maybe not—Maybe not my best friends but people I knew and—"
"Then you don't know how it feels," she cut him off, sharply. "You don't know how it feels at all."
He only ducked his head at her harsh tone. "I'm sorry. She—She was the life of this place and I'm—I'm upset about it too. But, Elara, you can't mourn on your own. It's been more than a month—"
"I didn't know there was a deadline for how long I can mourn."
Luca swallowed and shook his head, warm brown eyes troubled. "That's not—I'm not saying that. I just—" He hesitated, took a breath. "We need you back. Val is—She needs you, Elara."
Elara bristled, her muscles stiffening as she turned her head to face him, well aware her eyes were flashing. "No, Luca, she doesn't. I need me. I need to learn how to navigate this world without Iris. I can't do that if I'm busy trying to help someone else."
"Maybe helping someone else will help you."
"It won't," she retorted, turning back to face the view. The stars weren't out tonight, hidden by clouds and a heavy mist. Dark and dismal. "I don't want to help anybody else. All I—"
She remembered the hurt that had flashed across Draco's face, the way he had reached for her, fingers nearly trembling. The way his voice had wavered, the raw emotion in it when he spoke.
And the triumph that had swept through her when she'd managed to wound him. The guilt that struck her at the same time. The welcome distraction it had been from feeling whatever it was she was supposed to feel in the wake of Iris' death.
She didn't voice her thoughts to Luca—she didn't think she ever would—but in her head, she finished the sentence she'd started to say to him.
All I want to do is hurt people.
———
filler chapter cause i think we all needed a break after the last two lmao
vote! or flora will scratch her nails on chalkboard while u try to sleep!!
kisses,
nyx