Certain Dark Things || Book Four

liii. the man in the woods

When Hermione returned to the dormitories that evening and told the story of her afternoon, Elara couldn't help but laugh.

"You're barmy," she told the other witch as Hermione fussed with the sleeves of her nightgown. They'd all readied themselves for bed, Elara already relaxing against her headboard. "I can't believe you did that."

"I can't believe it either, really," Hermione admitted. Harriet started to giggle—and Hermione quickly lobbed a pillow at her, Harriet smothering her laughter in it. "I can't believe the woman's so brazen as to go around as a bug and spy! I nearly couldn't hold it together. I was an instant away from telling Dobby to squeeze her back into the jar so we could leave it in the lake."

"Well, you have already threatened her with Azkaban. I'm sure the lake would be preferable," Elara commented, smiling despite the panicked look on Hermione's face. The witch was brilliant. "Harriet, get off my legs. You weigh a ton."

Harriet sat up and shuffled over, hugging the pillow to her middle. "But you won't get in trouble, will you? If Skeeter gets jammed up and rats on you for knowing?"

"In the current state of things, I really couldn't say," Hermione admitted, hands once more picking at her sleeves until Elara lowered her book and reached out to stop her. "Technically, no. I'm a minor still, and you can't charge minors for abetting crimes unless they're strictly involved—but when has that stopped the Ministry? Especially Gaunt and his goons."

Their conversation pivoted from there lest Hermione worry herself into an early grave—or a panic attack, whichever came first. They eventually returned to their own beds, with Harriet's final yawning remark being for Hermione to warn them if she decided to blackmail anyone else before breakfast. For Elara's part, she mused it probably made her a terrible person to be filled with warmth at the thought of Hermione threatening Rita Skeeter on her behalf. It concerned her more that Hermione had decided to confront a potentially enraged witch with no other help aside from a scatterbrained house-elf. Elara wouldn't have minded an excuse to crush a beetle under her heel.

She settled farther into her blankets as the lights dimmed and the chattering of her dormmates leveled off. Perhaps it was a good thing Hermione went without us.

The next day, the fourth year Slytherins had Herbology first period with the Ravenclaws, which was never Elara's favorite class. It was too early, and they had to take care of their own plot of magical borage—which meant Elara had a planter of dead twigs poking out of her soil. Professor Sprout winced every time she passed their cluster.

Hermione was too enamored with Terry to scold her over it. They tended the garden together on the other side of the row, and their borage had grown to chest height. They could sit on their stools and hide behind it, and Elara knew they stole more than one subtle kiss when Sprout was busy elsewhere.

The affection they oozed was nearly nauseating.

"Stop touching the plants," Harriet hissed as she stepped closer from her own plot and began attacking Elara's with a trowel. She transplanted one of her healthy borage bushes, and it might have been Elara's imagination, but she thought the little blue, five-pointed flowers were already wilting at her proximity.

"I didn't touch anything," Elara complained with a sigh. She held up her thick, mud-stained gloves for confirmation.

"Stop glaring at it! You're hurting its feelings!"

"Plants don't have feelings."

Her plant drooped more.

By the end of the period, Elara had one scraggly borage specimen, and Professor Sprout gave her a passing mark, ignoring the gaping hole in Harriet's planter. The bell rang, and they washed their hands and gathered their things, Elara eager to leave all things nature behind. They had a free period now—but Hermione, hand-in-hand with Terry, skipped off to debate club, and Harriet grabbed Elara's arm to drag her to Hagrid's for tea. That would have been a pleasant way to spend the early afternoon had Hagrid not roped them into collecting fledgling Bowtruckles for the kitchen's house-elves.