10.
'Tis the Season to be Jolly

          THE Great Hall is abnormally quiet, with most having gone home for Christmas. Of the Catchers, only Cedric went home. Percy had said he would, but he sits beside Oliver during breakfast the first morning of the Christmas break. Elio sits across from them, as the hall is too empty to stick to Houses. The only other students, sitting further down on the same table, are Harry, Ron and Hermione.

"I thought you were going home." Oliver says to Percy, who sighs immediately.

"I was, until Ron decided he wasn't. Mother doesn't like the idea of him being by himself — or Harry, for that matter — so she has me on babysitting duties." Percy explains. "It's probably for the better; it'll be quieter here than it will be at home. I had been looking forward to going back for the break, though."

"What about the girl?" Elio asks as he cuts into a sausage.

"Who? Hermione?" The younger shrugs. It's strange, to Oliver, not knowing who Hermione is. She, much like her friends, is a girl who demands to be noticed — through her sheer intelligence alone. "I don't know, Mother didn't mention her. Hermione is the sensible one of the lot. If anything, she's more likely to keep them out of trouble."

"Are either of you going to Maternalia?" Elio asks when the conversation starts to drift off. He's met with confused silence, which draws his attention from his sausages to the two boys across from him. Disbelief is etched across his face, in the wide eyes, furrowed brow, and scrunched nose. "You know what Christmas is, but you don't know about Maternalia? What kind of Pureblood are you both?"

"I think it's long been established that the Weasleys aren't good Purebloods."

"And the Woods are only pure by blood. Any status is non-existent." Oliver adds. But both these responses don't appease the youngest, who continues to shake his head.

"It's got nothing to do with status. Even halfbloods go." Elio says. "It's just wizarding Christmas. Or a tradition from when we were more insular, if you're not the religious sort. You two should come."

"I can't. I have to watch my brother." Percy's decline is met with an unimpressed stare.

"You're going to spend that day in the library while Weasley and co. likely do everything to avoid the library." Elio retorts, before shoving a piece of sausage in his mouth. "Come on, it'll be fun. Please, Weasley, just this once."

"I don't want to go to some Pureblood thing and spend the entire evening being bullied for being a Weasley."

"But that's the beauty of it. Maternalia is all about breaking free from that sort of stuff. You dress up, no one's supposed to know who you are and if they figure it out then they pretend they don't." Elio is practically leaning across the table in his enthusiasm. His fashionably ill-fitting shirt is getting dangerously close to his plate. A flash of silver from a hanging necklace glints at Oliver and the Keeper averts his eyes. "We'll change your hair for a night, get you a costume. No one would know."

"I don't have the money–"

"Perseus," Elio sighs, "You have me. C'mon. One night."

"My name isn't 'Perseus'. Anyway, I'd like to point out you haven't even asked Oliver what he thinks."

But all it takes is one look from Elio for the Keeper to decide. The only delay in his answer comes from him being part way through eating some toast, which he nearly chokes on to answer, "I'll go."

Elio grins and Percy sighs, knowing he's lost.

"I'll be gone the day before, for Narcissa's birthday, so you'll have to meet me at my house." Elio says, needing no verbal communication from the redhead. He settles back into his chair and sips some tea. "There's a park nearby — I'll give you the address. I'll pick you up from there in the morning, then you can come back and get fitted for costumes, so we can go in the evening."

"How long does it go for?" Oliver asks.

"All night. You'll be staying at my place." There's no question, no offer. It's a simple statement neither Gryffindor can decline. There's a little burning curiosity to see the elusive Black estate that makes Oliver glad. "What are your two plans for the day?"

He receives two rather predictable answers. Percy plans on studying; Oliver plans on practicing.

"Well I'm planning on visiting Hagrid. Do either of you know him well?" The other two shake their heads. "Neither, but I'm a good student. I'm hoping he might tell me about the forest."

It doesn't take long for Elio to finish his breakfast. When he has, he plucks an apple from a nearby bowl and shoves it into the pocket of his trousers. Then he grabs another, which he bites into.

"I'll see you 'round." He says through that mouthful.

Once he's gone, Percy's attention returns to a copy of the paper that had gone unread after he realised his company. Oliver stares at it over his shoulder without reading. It's too far away for the words to be anything but a blur even if he'd wanted to.

"It looks like the Tornadoes are in the lead again." Percy comments absentmindedly as he pauses on what must be the sport section. He doesn't sound particularly interested in what he's saying.

Still, Oliver scoffs, "The Tornadoes are a bunch of cheats. They're like Slytherin, but professional and worse."

"I suppose you won't be signing up to be on their team next year, then."

"They could be on their knees and I'd sooner go coach some under-elevens team." Oliver isn't sure he means that. He'd like to believe he would — but, if they were his only option... There's no telling what he'd be willing to do.

Elio kicks through some snow, humming softly to himself. His apple is good and the cheer of the Christmas break has left him in high spirits.

There's a strange noise coming from inside the groundskeeper's hut — a wailing, like a dying animal. The sound of it alone makes Elio regret knocking. But it's too late; the damage has been done. It doesn't take long for Hagrid to open the door, too quick for Elio to consider doing a runner. The professor is quite clearly the source of the noise, looking incredibly distraught. As soon as he realises his company, he tries to pull himself together, but it's no use. Even if he stops the tears, his eyes are bloodshot and his nose is ruddy.

"What can I do for yeh, lad– I mean, yer Lordship?" Hagrid is the only teacher to refer to Elio by his title, despite being told countless times there's no need. And yet, despite his commitment, the professor is always the first to forget.

"I had some questions for you, sir." Elio answers uncertainly. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Nothing you need ter worry about." Hagrid brushes the concern away, though he seems anything but. He moves aside to let Elio into the small hut, which hardly seems big enough to house the large man, let alone the dog, hippogriff and the unfathomable amount of clutter it also currently contains. When Elio enters, the dog approaches him, sniffing loudly. He seems as despondent as his owner, though the stranger in need of investigation provides a brief distraction. The hippogriff seems hardly bothered at all, too focused on its food.

"Are you sure, sir?" Elio asks, turning back to Hagrid.

"I just got a letter with some bad news, is all." Hagrid answers, before loudly blowing his nose. As the used tissue is shoved in his pocket, he puts on a poorly feigned smile. "What did yeh want to ask?"

"I wanted–" But before Elio can finish his sentence, there's another knock at the door. Hagrid, distractedly, goes to answer without a second thought. Elio turns his attention to Fang, lowering himself into a crouch to pat him properly. Their sudden closeness leaves him exposed to an attack from the dog, who gives him a cold, wet nose to the cheek.

"So yeh've heard?" Hagrid bawls to whoever stands on the other side of that door.

"What's wrong Hagrid?" Elio doesn't recognise the voice that responds once Hagrid stops sobbing long enough to get a word in. It belongs to some young girl, that much he can tell. He doesn't have to wait long to find out, however, as the professor soon brings three students into the hut: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and the friend that must be Hermione.

Instead of answering, Hagrid passes Harry a crumpled letter, which he then reads aloud:

"Dear Mr. Rubeus Hagrid,

"The Hogwarts Board of Governors has reviewed the case regarding the attack of a hippogriff on student Draco Malfoy while in your class. Evidence submitted by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore has assured the governors of your character. As a result, it has been agreed upon that you are not responsible for the incident.

"However, the responsibility must then fall upon the hippogriff in question. This case then will have to be presented to the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures to decide what ramifications the hippogriff will need to face. The hearing will take place on April 20th, 12PM. Both you and the hippogriff will need to present yourselves to the Committee in London, on that date. Until then, the hippogriff will need to be tethered and in isolation so it cannot cause any further harm to others."

The news fills Elio with anger. The sort of fiery, all-consuming rage that embeds itself right down into his bones. His thoughts are clouded, turned to nothing but venom. Normally, he'd have Remus or Cedric to pull him out of the episodes; but, right now, he has no one.

Lucius Malfoy has absolutely no reason to follow through with all these formalities. Draco was barely scratched. There's been no lasting damage. The only reason Lucius might be doing this is to get back at someone — not Hagrid. The professor and his hippogriff are just unfortunate enough to get caught in the middle.

It's a losing battle. Lucius is going to have a hippogriff killed and drag Hagrid's name through as much mud as possible for no reason other than his own pride.

Reaching into his pocket, Elio pulls out an ever-present chocolate bar and unwraps it. The chocolate provides a distraction. Anything to calm himself down. Fang tries to steal some, shoving his face in Elio's own. He's a fairly strong dog when he wants to be, Elio discovers.

"Buckbeak is a good hippogriff, though." Ron says optimistically. "It'll be alright."

But Hagrid, understandably, isn't so hopeful, "The Committee has it out fer creatures like Buckbeak. It'll be an unfair trial."

It already is an unfair trial, thinks Elio. Hagrid doesn't stand a chance.

There's a crack as Buckbeak bites into the bones of whatever bloody mess he's eating. The sudden noise catches the attention of the other four, drawing it inward. They finally realise their company.

"Oh, hi, Black." Harry greets, with no effort to hide his confusion at Elio's presence. "What're you doing here?"

"I came to ask Professor Hagrid something."

"Oh, right, I forgot yeh had. Sorry, lad." Hagrid says absently. The apology comes through barely contained tears, losing his battle to maintain his composure. As he sobs into a tissue that has seen far better days, Hermione pats his arm comfortingly.

"You just have to prove Buckbeak is safe. We'll help you build a strong case." She offers up as the professor continues to blubber.

"Won't make no difference. They're all in Malfoy's pocket." He responds, before loudly blowing his nose. It's like a trumpet, if the trumpet was so out of tune it had become an ear-aching torture device.

Elio finds he suddenly has the unwanted attention of three children. They're all looking at him as if they expect him to know something — to do something. As if he can make a difference.

And maybe he can. He might even be able to do something relatively legal. But he doesn't exactly want to insert himself into this case. He has no investment — why create that unnecessary attachment when he's still safely on the outside? He's sure Remus is already handling it anyway, being on the Board and Committee.

"You can use us as witnesses. We'll vouch for Buckbeak." Ron suggests when Elio remains silent. It breaks the spell; the trio no longer look to him for help.

"I think I've read something about a hippogriff case..." Hermione says. "I'll look into it. Something will be there."

"It won't be anything between 1985 and 1992." Elio pipes up and the attention is on him again. There's visible confusion on everyone's faces, silently demanding elaboration. Sighing, he rises to his feet, hands shoved in his pockets. "They've only recently changed Heads and the previous guy was really militantly anti-creature. Nothing could get past him. Except maybe compromises — nothing you'd be after."

"Thank you." Hermione says. There's a pause. She looks at him as though she's silently willing him to drop other gems of wisdom. But he doesn't want to. He's already done too much.

"I'll see if I can get my hands on some documents you wouldn't have access to here." He says anyway. Elio must be growing soft.

"Thank you." She repeats.

"Eh, don't thank me yet." He waves the gratitude away, desperate to feel detached again. As all the help must grow overwhelming, Hagrid starts bawling again. He's inconsolable. God damn Lucius. Elio doesn't think he'll be getting any answers today.

"I'll make tea." Ron suggests, after casting a concerned look at the professor. Hermione leads Hagrid to the table with a gentle hand on his elbow, closely followed by Harry. They look like they're settling in — and Hagrid certainly isn't stopping any time soon. Elio wants to leave, but he's offered no chance to pull away from the group. They're all too preoccupied with Hagrid to notice him and he doesn't want to just slip out.

So, instead, when Ron pours five cups of tea, Elio finds himself seated between a half-giant and a third year, nursing a chipped cup of tea in his hands.

"How are your heir tests going?" Elio asks Harry, at a loss for how to speak to him. The only third year he has anything to do with is Draco — and, very occasionally, Draco's friends — but he doubts they'll be any help as a reference. When Harry stares at him with a complete lack of comprehension, Elio's confidence plummets. Oh, how he wishes he could just leave. "Y'know... at the Ministry?"

"What heir tests?"

"The ones that make sure you aren't going to run the Potter family to the ground." What was supposed to be a casual conversation filler, while the others talked, has now brought all the attention on Elio again. He doesn't like it. "I know they're informal, but given you don't have... don't have anyone teaching you this sort of thing, I think, you should be doing them."

"I've never heard of them before." Harry says, though Elio can't believe what he's hearing. What rock has Harry been living under his entire life?

"You've never..." Elio runs a hand down his face. As he contemplates this, Cedric's words come to mind: keep tabs on him, keep him distracted. Reluctantly, he continues, "I think you and I need to have a sit down or three so I can teach you what someone really should have started teaching you the day you started Hogwarts. Earlier, even. Bring your friends, if you want."

The only one who looks even remotely interested in this idea is the only one it barely impacts — Hermione. She watches her friend hopefully, her desire to attend shining clearly on her face. At least one of them cares. Even Harry looks as unenthusiastic as Elio feels.

"I can't miss Quidditch practice." Harry responds and it's hard to tell if he thinks this will get him out of the chore.

"Then pick a different day." Elio brushes away the concern. "Figure out what day after school goes back. It'll be easier then."

He then downs the last of his tea in one unlordly gulp. Rising to his feet, he offers the group at large a polite smile he isn't feeling. This visit has been a complete and utter failure that has left him exhausted and frustrated.

"Thank you for having me, sir." Elio says to Hagrid, before addressing the group as large, "I'll see you later."

Later, when he's back at the castle, he'll put in an order for a Howler. It'll be filled with all the frustration Lucius has made him feel, sent without a second thought of when he might receive it. No one can stop him, after all.

It will make him feel minutely better.

*

"Oh, Elio, you aren't thinking of wearing that tonight, are you?" Narcissa says as Elio enters her room, in the middle of her birthday preparations. He glances down at himself — he isn't wearing anything different from normal, though it's slightly less Muggle than his usual choices. He'd opted for a coat inspired by the old justacorps, red with gold embroidery, and lace everywhere. His hands are almost lost beneath frilly cuffs.

"What's wrong with it?" He asks as he crosses the distance of her bedroom. He leans against her meticulously organised vanity table, though she shoos him away as she reaches for a necklace.

"You wore that coat at Nott's party."

"That was months ago. And a different coat." Narcisa pauses to examine his coat, frowning. He holds his arms out to display it properly. "The other one was brighter, this is more maroon. That coat was a gift from them. This is one of Spindle's — you can tell because it's better."

"The embroidery is similar at a distance, but you're right. I can see her skulls."

"You still think I should change it, don't you?" Narcissa's silence spoke volumes. He sighed, slumping against the table again.

"If I can't tell without proper examination, everyone else is going to think the same. They'll think you're outdated."

"Oh, the horror." Elio mutters dryly — but the thought does upset him. Now that Narcissa has mentioned it, he wouldn't be able to comfortably wear his coat even if he wanted to. "I'll have Kreacher grab something from home. But I wanted to ask you something."

"This can't be good."

"Those heir books you made me and Draco read — do you still have them?" Narcissa nods. "Can I borrow them?"

"I suppose that depends. Why do you want them?"

"I've discovered Potter doesn't have anyone helping him through those and thought I might help him amend that." Elio answers as he runs his fingers across the edge of her table, appearing the very image of casual indifference. Unfortunately, Narcissa helped raise him and such an act is entirely see-through to her. He'd thought about lying, but that too would have been useless. Even if she hadn't seen through it, word would have got back to her one way or another. Then his tutelage would have seemed even more suspect than it is.

"I think that's a good idea." Narcissa, surprisingly, answers. "There may be more hope for the Potter house with you overseeing it than anyone else who might try to guide him. At the very least, it'll ensure he's receiving a range of perspectives."

"I'd only thought to see him through to the tests. Y'know, nothing crazy." Elio says. "Do you suspect something?"

"I'm a Black, Elio. We always suspect something." Narcissa answers simply, smiling softly. "But no, I don't suspect a plot or anything of the sort. I just think he's in an incredibly powerful position, whether he knows it or not, with a very limited circle. Even without foul play, that can go wrong very quickly."

"He'll probably hate me by the end of it." Elio remarks. "I'm not a good teacher."

"Neither was your father. Too self-centred." The idea that Elio might have inherited that from Sirius causes him to bristle. His pride is stung, even though no insult was meant. Fortunately, Narcissa continues, "I didn't know your mother well, but she had the makings of a Quidditch captain. Even in the heat of the moment, her patience could be remarkable."

"Well, we know what I didn't get from her."

"I wouldn't write it off just yet. You might surprise yourself." Narcissa offers him a small smile in the mirror. She has too much faith in him, Elio thinks. But he doesn't say anything, because you can't disagree with her on these sorts of things. She's a mother. She always wins.

Instead he just gives a noncommittal grunt and takes his leave. His coat is off before he's even left the room.

In the living room is Lucius. Elio still isn't talking to him. He thinks the silent treatment might be mutual, but he's unsure. After all, he hasn't exactly tried to spark up a conversation with the older man. Nonetheless, Elio makes sure he enters like a rolling storm cloud threatening to ruin a nice day. The second he spots Lucius, his demeanour changes; he grows more petulant, all his movements exaggerated and aggressive. He practically throws himself into a chair with a loud thump and a huff.

At first, Lucius seems to be ignoring him. He's sat in his usual chair by the window, flicking idly through some scrolls. It's probably Ministry work. It's always Ministry work.

Then, the older man sighs slowly through his nose and looks up — directly at Elio.

"In the future, if you have an issue with something I've done, I'd prefer you choose a less conspicuous method to air your grievances." He says and, as far as reactions go, it's surprisingly mild. He doesn't even seem as though he's truly reprimanding the boy. Still, Elio pulls a face.

"I'd prefer you weren't setting up innocent animals to die, but we can't all get what we want, can we?"

"No, we cannot." Lucius sighs again. "You have to understand, my hands are tied. I hardly care about the hippogriff or the trial — but it's the principle of the matter."

"That's not a good reason for a death!" Elio exclaims. "It would be better if you cared. Then at least it'd mean something."

Lucius places his scrolls down, turning his body entirely toward Elio. This can't mean anything good. Full attention can only mean a lecture is coming — which the younger isn't in the mood for.

"I promised Narcissa I wouldn't argue on her birthday, so I'll keep this brief." A small mercy. Elio rolls his eyes for good measure, glaring at the piano that sits in the corner. He can sense Lucius staring at him, a burning sensation like he's about to spontaneously combust. "You are going to find, when you start gaining more of your Lordship responsibilities, that the principle can be one of the most important things sometimes. Your entire reputation will hang on that. In court, you will be expected to be consistent. If you ignore the principle and do things on a whim, you'll quite quickly be seen as unreliable and untrustworthy. I have to push this trial, because it's a matter of principle."

"It's not fair." Elio whispers and his tone has lost its bite. He just sounds sad — defeated.

"No, it isn't." Lucius grows silent for a few seconds. "I'm sorry. Really. But, as I said, my hands are tied."

Elio doesn't respond. Instead, he continues glaring as he picks at the arm of the chair. He looks the image of a Black — in fact, it's like looking at a ghost, at generations of his dead family members. Lucius watches him silently, having dealt with Narcissa and Draco enough to know to let him simmer.

Eventually, once he's had time to stew, he'll be able to process what he's been told objectively. But, for the moment, his fury will always win.

It only takes a few minutes for Remus to find them. The other man limps in, leaning heavily on his cane — his condition has only worsened with the approaching full moon. Elio doesn't notice him at first. He doesn't seem to notice anyone. Then there's a hand pushing his curls off his forehead and he looks up. The change is almost immediate. The angry tightness to his body softens like butter, melting off into something that almost seems content.

*

Despite the size of the park, it isn't hard to find Elio on the day of the Maternalia festival. With the weather being as cold as it is, snow blanketing the grounds, most people have enough sense to stay in the warmth. Those that are around are dressed in various types of active or leisure wear, still rugged up for the weather. Elio is wearing a brightly coloured dress shirt that stands stark against the white backdrop tucked into dark trouser pants, with a pair of thick-soled boots that make it abundantly clear he isn't here for sport. It still somehow surprises Oliver that Elio never looks dressed for winter.

There is, however, a bright ball in his hand. A skinny, tan dog is watching it expectantly as the boy stands with his hand raised. He seems entirely unaware of the fact he's teasing the dog as he chats to the boy next to him, pointing off at something. The other boy laughs, nudging him in the side, which riles Elio up. Oliver can't tell what he's saying from where he's standing, but he's clearly talking quickly and loudly. Then, he throws the ball. It hits a branch and Elio shouts something triumphantly.

"Do you know who that is?" Percy asks as the dog speeds after the ball. Oliver looks to Elio's company, trying to recognise him from a distance. Unlike Elio, this boy is dressed in shorts, a shirt tucked into them, and sneakers. He looks freezing, but he also looks ready for a workout. He has a shock of bleached blonde hair — as white as the Malfoys, but visibly unnatural. He looks about their age, but Oliver doesn't know anyone with hair like that, who isn't also a Malfoy. So, he shakes his head.

"Don't think so."

"Do we go over?" Another question Oliver doesn't know the answer to. Elio is still playing fetch with the dog, in between conversing with the stranger. They've settled into a rhythm and the younger has subdued a bit, mostly just listening to whatever his company is saying. His attention rarely drifts away; it's only drawn to the dog when the ball isn't placed within his grasp and he has to figure out where it is. It doesn't look like he's going to notice the pair, standing at the entrance. "They look... I don't really want to interrupt their conversation."

They look close, Oliver silently finishes for Percy. Of course, whether they actually are close is impossible to judge with Elio.

"Neither." If it were someone from school, Oliver would have less hesitance. But he doesn't know who this boy is and so he doesn't know what he'd be interrupting.

Eventually, it's the stranger that seems to spot them. He points in their direction, causing Elio to drag his gaze to their direction. An arm raises over his head as he waves, beckoning for them to come over. Finally invited, they start moving. Oliver only hopes it didn't look like they'd been hovering. He hopes they give off the air of someone who has only just arrived, and not spent the last few minutes staring. The bug-eyed dog leaps at Percy's legs as they grow closer, greeting him eagerly.

"Down, Pidgeon! Down!" The stranger calls out through a laugh. Pidgeon doesn't listen, moving onto Oliver. Her little paws dig into his side as she jumps up, using him as a springboard, only to do it all over again. "I'm sorry, she'll get bored of you pretty quickly. She just likes new people."

"You guys came!" Elio exclaims as they finally reach him. His smile is wide again, loud and excited. Then he places a hand on the stranger's shoulder and it grows smaller. His eyes are still so crinkled they've turned into crescents, but the smile on his lips isn't the toothy or crocodilian ones Oliver is used to seeing. It's like he's holding it back, about to laugh, teeth pressed against the inside of his lips. "This is Alex. Alex..." There's an almost imperceptible pause. It would be unnoticeable if it weren't for the fact Elio's gaze flits toward Oliver and Percy in that gap. His brow furrows. Then he continues, "This is Oliver Wood and Percy Weasley."

"Pleased to meet you." Alex shakes their hands. It's a firm handshake — the sort that instils an innate sense of confidence. "How'd you three escape the confines of your fancy school?"

"My gran's hosting a Christmas dinner. Very big, full of snobs — gonna be awful." Elio lies without hesitating. What's worse — if Oliver didn't know why they were really out, he'd believe him. It sounds like the truth, spoken in full confidence. "She likes to do it ahead of time, 'cause Christmas is for the family or whatever. You know how it is."

"Glad to say I don't know how it is. But I get you." The younger grins, a slight chuckle leaving him. Then he chews his bottom lip, pulling back the smile again. "I'd better let you three get ready for that then. Was good seeing you, though. Pidgeon's been missing her favourite snob."

"Bastard." Elio mutters and jabs Alex lightly in the side. Despite his feigned annoyance, the strange smile remains on his lips. Then, he gives a flourish, as if he's tipping an invisible hat. "Cheerio then, old friend."

Elio has put on an exaggerated posh front, the accent dripping from a single tone. It's affected, but it doesn't sound unnatural.

"Pip-pip." Alex tips an imaginary hat back, before whistling to his dog. They break off into a run, gone in under a minute.

"How did you meet a muggle?" Percy asks once the other boy has left. For a second, Elio doesn't respond.

"Just met him around." Elio eventually answers vaguely — too vaguely. Oliver doesn't know how he knows, but he can sense a lie. Or, at least, the lack of a desire to answer. The younger doesn't allow any opportunity to press, either, as he starts walking off the way they'd come.

The walk is quiet, comfortably so. The almost-silence is softened by Elio's quiet humming of a song Oliver doesn't recognise.

Elio comes to a halt between two houses. There's nothing particularly conspicuous about where he's stopped. It's right on the fence line separating the two connected front yards to seemingly muggle houses. His hand rests against one of the spikes, before it pushes into something that isn't there. He beckons and disappears.

Percy makes the first move, bravely stepping into the fence. When he too disappears, Oliver has no choice but to follow. Fortunately, he doesn't walk into a fence. He steps through, suddenly in a front yard that wasn't there previously. Another building has suddenly appeared between the other two, the best kept on the entire street. There's a flourishing garden, where the others are just grass. Elio is already at the door, waiting on the other two.

"We have an insane amount of security measures. My grandfather was incredibly paranoid, I think." Elio explains as he withdraws his wand from his sleeve. As he presses the wand against the door, Oliver realises there's no doorknob. Something clicks inside the door and it swings open, revealing a long hallway. "Welcome, to my humble abode."

Shoes are kicked off at the door, magically finding their place on a rack. Elio's height is lost again as he's now only wearing mismatched socks — a pink one covered in strawberries and one decorated with blue geometric patterns. He approaches an empty portrait hanging on the wall. Then, without any warning, screams out, "GRANDMOTHER!"

An older woman steps into frame. Not a single bit of her is out of place, perfectly presented. She's pale, with dark eyes and dark hair that make her look like a ghost. The severe expression resting on her face melts into a restrained but no less warm smile.

"Welcome back, grandson." Her gaze travels from Elio to the new pair, all warmth leaving her face. "Who has entered Grimmauld Place?"

"Oliver Wood and Percy Weasley. They're my guests and you're not to shout that them."

There's a pause, then the woman gives a polite smile. It's empty, purely for etiquette.

"Oliver Wood and Percy Weasley. Be welcome."

"She shouts at unwanted guests." Elio explains as he pats her frame. The woman frowns at his hand, but says nothing. "We have to make sure any newcomers are introduced once, just so she doesn't start accusing them of being trespassers if she happens upon them. It's not all she does, but she's very good at it."

"Pleased to meet you... ma'am." Percy says uncertainty ringing in his voice. The portrait sniffs at him, before walking out of her frame.

She pauses at the edge, adding, "Don't slouch, Helios. It's unbecoming."

"Come along, then." Elio directs as he pulls his shoulders back. "To the sitting room we go."

The sitting room is the largest sitting room Oliver has ever seen. A fireplace flickers against one wall, a portrait of a sleeping old man above it. Wide couches stretch out on either side of a table. In each corner is a divider that looks out of place. When Elio takes his seat, he rests his feet on the table and appears entirely too laidback. He looks like a bored prince.

"Spindle will be here soon to get you both fitted." Elio informs them as he gestures at the surrounding chairs. Oliver and Percy take a seat side by side one another, on the opposing couch to Elio. Percy sits far closer to the other Gryffindor than he has to. Once everyone has settled, Elio calls out, "Kreacher!"

An old house elf suddenly appears beside Elio. His ears are almost as long as his body, sticking out against a wrinkled head. An upturned nose only adds to the pompous expression that rests upon his face. Unlike most house elves Oliver has seen, this one is dressed in a neat suit that matches Elio's proclivity for patterns. He looks more vain and snobbish than Oliver thought possible for a house elf. And yet, when he bows low to Elio, he's full of fond deference.

"Could you please bring my guests some tea?" Elio asks politely. Then, he grins, "I think, maybe, our guests deserve the good biscuits, too. Don't you agree?"

Kreacher's gaze turns to Elio's guests and he eyes them all critically. Oliver has never been so judged by a house elf before.

"If Lord Black deems his guests deserving, Kreacher will trust his judge of character." The elf answers, bowing again. Somehow, Oliver feels as though he's failed the elf's assessment. "Kreacher will prepare tea."

And then he's gone. Only to return a few moments later with a tray of tea and biscuits. These are placed on the other end of the table, away from Elio's feet — though he's since removed them and sat upright. Kreacher then takes his leave with another bow.

"They're imported." Elio explains with a strange amount of glee, plucking one from the plate. He shoves the biscuit in his mouth in one go. With the reputation it's been building, it feels like a biscuit that should be savoured. But, apparently not. "We have them for special guests, but we rarely even entertain basic guests. Not here, in any case. Narcissa handles that."

"Is that why your birthday was at the Malfoys'?" Oliver asks and receives a nod in return. That had caused him the most hesitance in attending the party, at the time. His parents had hardly cared — they barely know the Malfoys. But, as it turns out, running into the little Slytherin was borderline impossible at a party that size. Had Oliver known Elio would attract so many guests, that would have been his reason for wanting to decline.

"This house has been a safe house for so long, I think it's forgotten how to hold guests. It's too protective. But the Malfoys' — now that's a house made for guests." Elio explains, taking another biscuit. Though he hardly feels deserving of the 'special guest' biscuits, Oliver decides to be the first of the guests to actually try one. Percy, with his hands clamped firmly on bouncing knees, isn't likely to try one any time soon.

It's dry, as most biscuits are. As soon as Oliver takes a bite, it starts to crumble and Elio's one-bite policy starts to make more sense. He's forced to shove the rest in, lest the crumbs scatter across his pants and the couch. There's a lemony tang to the biscuit that tingles across his tongue, not quite sour but still no less present. If Oliver had tried it blind, he doubts he would have realised it was imported. But, it tastes good. That seems like the most important feature of a biscuit.

"Weasley, eat a biscuit." Elio demands, mouth full of his third.

Percy leans over to take one, as ordered. Much like Oliver, he attempts to take it in two bites, only to quickly realises his mistake. "It's nice. Thank you."

"Lord Black, Seamstress Spindle has arrived." Kreacher announces when he returns to the room.

"Bring her in, bring her in." Elio says eagerly. He bounces to his feet, grinning at the other two.

Seamstress Spindle is a blonde, spidery woman with an impeccable up-do and brightly coloured clothes. From top to toe, she's dressed in a turquoise suit, accented with silver. Even her green eyes are lined with silver, which sparkles against her skin. A small bag is perched within ring-clad hands and placed on the table once it's within reach. Not a single thing looks out of place. Everything is as it should be, working together to create her outfit. Like a well-rehearsed show.

"Elio, my dear, it's so good to see you." Spindle greets the boy, placing a kiss on both his cheeks. He returns the gesture, before they hug like close relatives. When the warm greeting has passed, she turns her gaze to Oliver and Percy. A wide smile lights her face, still mirrored on Elio. "Oh, and you've brought me such models."

The seamstress paces slowly, examining the two Gryffindors with a careful eye. She moves in a circle around them, the tap of her heels filling the quiet of the room.

"Must we change his hair?" Spindle asks Elio as she comes to a halt beside Percy. There's a pout on her lips, to which Elio only grins. He's since moved to a sideboard on the wall, leaning against it languidly.

"Unfortunately. You know what Purebloods are like." He reflects her disappointment in a slightly lighter, playful manner. They share a knowing look. Words go unspoken between them. Oliver feels as though he's missing a joke.

"Such a shame." The seamstress sighs, admiring Percy's hair with a dismayed expression. The low spirits are quickly lost, replaced with the smile the two share. "It may be cliché but, since we're losing that hair, a phoenix seems a fitting homage. You wouldn't say phoenixes are common now, would you, Elio?"

"Not really. It'd be a throwback."

"People do love a bit of nostalgia. What better way to ease your woes than pretend there was a time when you didn't have them?"

"Nostalgic fashion is having another resurgence, I think." Elio comments as he examines one of his rings. The pair talk quickly, bouncing off one another with ease. The conversation is snappy, as if they're the only two in the room. "Why reinvent the wheel?"

"Are you fine with phoenixes?" Spindle then asks Percy. The redhead doesn't seem to have much of an opinion — he awkwardly nods his head and says it's fine. "We'll want to accentuate that wonderful height of yours. And your bone structure..."

Percy's face threatens to turn as red as his hair. He stands so straight he seems frozen stiff and his fingers haven't stopped fidgeting with the hem of his raggedy sweater. His mouth is set in a tight, twitchy line — as if it can't quite decide if it wants to smile or grimace. Though Percy likes commanding attention, this sort of focus sits wildly outside of his comfort zone. He's unused to the appreciation. Fortunately, Spindle's gushing doesn't last much longer.

Unfortunately, this is because she moves onto Oliver.

Experiencing her scrutiny is significantly different to simply watching it. Oliver feels as though every fibre of his body is being judged. He's suddenly hyper aware of the state of his clothes — which he'd chosen, as he has always done, based on practicality and warmth. Never before has he cared so much for how he looks. Never has he felt so unacceptably dull.

"And you — there's a roguishness to you. I can see it in your eyes. Pretty, too." Spindle remarks and the compliments turn his sudden drop in confidence into a soaring high. It goes right to his face — he can feel his ears warming right up. No doubt he's as beet-red as Percy. "A forest spirit, that's what you'll be."

"Make sure he's a warm forest spirit." Elio pipes up, eyes solely on Oliver. "Mr. Wood likes his layers."

"I'll see what I can do." Spindle assures him.

"Do you think you can get them done in time?" Elio asks as his attention eventually drags from Oliver to the seamstress. His question is received with a stern frown, which only seems to feed his good mood. He's the real roguish spirit — a Maternalia elf, whatever that may be.

"You insult me." Spindle sniffs. "I could get them done in half the time."

The seamstress soon sets about her work, pulling a great number of tools and papers from a bag that shouldn't be able to fit them all. The boys are sized up and their measurements are recorded by Elio. Spindle has him playing assistant for her, which he does with ease. They work well together, needing little verbal communication between them.

Then, once Spindle starts working with the fabrics, Elio disappears. He leaves without any sort of explanation and doesn't return for quite some time.

"Have you two known Elio long?" Spindle asks as she pins a mock-up of the outfit to Oliver. She's had them slip into some form-fitting underclothes and Oliver is grateful for the fire.

"Just under two months." Percy answers for them. When put like that, it feels so short. Oliver hasn't spent half as much time with Elio as it feels. He wonders, briefly, if that's because they clicked or because Elio is just good at playing friendly.

"I thought so." Spindle grows silent, focusing on Oliver. Playing mannequin, Oliver discovers, is difficult. He's never had to stand still for so long before. It's agony. His entire body feel as though it's burning to move. All of a sudden, every part of his body is in need of itching. "You must be the Quidditch star, yes?"

"I... I play Quidditch." Oliver says once he realises he's being spoken to. "I'm not a star. Not yet, anyway."

"You will be." Spindle has far too much confidence for someone who barely knows him. "That makes you the future Minister of Magic, then, correct?"

Percy is silent, clearly at a loss for words. So jovial is the seamstress, it's impossible to truly gauge whether she's being genuine or not. She could just as easily be joking.

"I don't know..." The Gryffindor eventually says, his uncertainty ringing in his voice. "Is– Is that what Black has been saying?"

"Perhaps." Spindle shrugs, eyes twinkling. "Perhaps I just have an eye."

It's easier to believe the latter. It's strange to imagine Elio describing them so optimistically. It feels wrong.

There's a sudden crack and Kreacher stands at the doorway. Once he has the attention of the group, he says, "Lord Black wishes Kreacher to ask you if you have all you need."

"Tell him we're fine, thank you, Kreacher." Spindle answers.

"Lord Black said, if Mistress Spindle were to say she was fine, to offer some more tea and biscuits." The elf adds.

"Do you boys need anything?" The seamstress is met with two shakes of the head.

"And lunch?" Again, the question is met with a declination. This time, Kreacher continues, "Lord Black says once the clothes have been fitted, lunch will be served."

"Thank you, Kreacher." Spindle says and the elf is gone. She fondly shakes her head, a smile on her lips. "He'll be back in a second with biscuits."

Sure enough, Kreacher returns only moments later with a plate full of biscuits. These, he says, come at Elio's insistence.

"I taught that elf how to sew." Spindle comments once Kreacher has departed, presumably to return to Elio. "Him and Elio."

"I thought elves just knew those things?" Oliver says, though he feels foolish the second the words have left his lips. What would his assumption matter? What would he know about what house elves do and don't know? It's not like he's ever had that much to do with them. His family doesn't even own one, too far separated from whatever estate the Wood family once might have had.

"They know how to do things magically." Spindle corrects gently, with no judgement in her tone. It's like a teacher correcting a small child's mistake. "But to make clothes that are worth something, parts of it have to be done by hand. The magic weakens, otherwise. And young Elio wasn't going to have his elf wearing second best."

"How does he wear clothes?" Percy asks, echoing Oliver's own curiosity. At least he can ask that without fear of sounding stupid. Even Oliver knows with a great deal of certainty that house elves can't accept clothes.

"One thing you are going to have to learn about Elio, if you haven't already, is he's remarkably good at getting what he wants. And, when he was a child, he was worse." The seamstress explains, with the fondness of an aunt remarking on her nephew. "He couldn't abide the thought of Kreacher wearing rags. I was privy to a few tantrums when he couldn't give the elf the clothes he'd made for him. But, eventually, he figured out Kreacher specifically couldn't be given clothes. That didn't mean he couldn't be given fabric, to then make his own, nicer clothes."

"A loophole." Percy murmurs.

"The problem with raising a child to be a politician is they get quite good at spotting those." Spindle lightly slaps Oliver's hand away as he unconsciously starts fidgeting with a loose piece of fabric. "We'll be done soon, don't worry."

True to her word, the ordeal doesn't last much longer. Then it's lunch, which is simultaneously a simple and extravagant affair. It passes much like any other meal, with idle chatter and comfortable silence. But the presentation is another matter entirely. It comes to no surprise that Elio's dining room is as opulent as every other room Oliver has seen so far — a spacious room with wide windows overlooking a garden, an ostentatiously glittery chandelier above a round table, abstract sculptures that Oliver can't make sense of but assumes is expensive. There's something for everyone in the food spread out around the table. Oliver thinks they might have really been eating off silver, too.

After, Spindle allows them a brief reprieve from the living room. She says she wants to remain undisturbed while she sews but, from the way she looks, Oliver thinks she might just be tired of all the fidgeting. Either way, he's grateful for the escape.

Elio gives them what he claims to be a brief tour of the house, but in actuality only shows off a bathroom and a nearby study. There's plenty of other rooms they pass, but the tour is over as quickly as it begins.

"I found some things that might help us." Elio explains his previous absence as he pauses outside one door. He pauses as he grasps the doorknob, waiting until a quiet click emanates from the door. When he pushes the door open, it's to reveal the largest room yet. It's clearly a bedroom — the bed betrays that much. The four-poster bed looks far too big for one person, dark wood ornately carved. Yet another chandelier hangs from the ceiling, crystals sparkling in the candlelight.

The room's lavish decorations are marred by the posters that cover the walls — of Puddlemere team members, one that doesn't move for something called 'The Lost Boys', another for some kind of 'Star Wars' — and the other Quidditch memorabilia scattered around the room. A bookshelf lacks books, instead filled with disorganised knick-knacks and a few photos. The vanity table is full of jewellery, none of it stored particularly well.

Elio plucks a file from atop a pile on an otherwise empty desk. Waving it in the air, he explains, "I found Sirius' case files and all the research Grandmother did when she found out he wasn't given a trial."

"How do you have his case files simply lying around?" Percy asks.

"The Blacks are incredibly well documented. How else do you prove you're so pure, if not by having the details of every moment of a members life in the library?" Elio answers. "We collect anything related to them from birth until death, so the historical records are as accurate as they can be."

"But... how can you just take it whenever you feel like it?"

"Weasley, I'm the Lord Black." Elio says gently, a soft tremor of melodic laughter in his voice. "I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, and I don't even have the family to coup against it."

"Oh." Percy answers simply, his ears growing red. It's tricky. Elio talks of his misfortune so casually, to react to it normally would feel like an overreaction. But to treat it as indifferently as he does feels similarly wrong. "That's convenient."

"Very." Elio takes a seat at the desk, facing the pair. There's nowhere else to sit, but Oliver feels incredibly awkward just hovering as he is. "Now, tonight, it's very important we don't refer to each other by our names. Anonymity is a must."

The other two nod, with no reason to disagree.

"Other than that, it's on neutral ground — so no fighting. The whole festival is about lawlessness and being... well, free." Almost as soon as he's sat down, Elio is back up. He drums his fingers absentmindedly against the files and Oliver gets caught up watching the dark bruises under a few nails move in a blur. It seems a strange thing to notice, but even stranger that he hasn't noticed them before — quite a few are bruised.

A silence settles over them, aside from Elio's drumming. Their host's gaze grows vacant, clearly lost in thought, as if he's forgotten he has company. He exhales slowly, one long breath.

"I know you said you met him around," Percy starts hesitantly and Elio blinks back to life, "But how do you just meet a Muggle around? You're the most Pureblood person I know."

"The Malfoys probably have me beat. I have adopted Muggle family." Elio responds, still not answering the question. "But, if you must know, I own the land he works on."

"You own the land?"

"Store, too, I suppose." Elio shrugs with a blasé attitude so affected it has the complete opposite effect. They've entered territory he doesn't want to talk about. "The Black family wealth is maintained through a lot of passive income. I basically inherited a collection of businesses, land, whatever. Unimportant. What is important is that, one day, we're crunching numbers and there's this tiny amount of money unaccounted for. It would have been insignificant, but we have absolutely no idea where it's coming from. So, we're doing the rounds, seeing if any of our places know what it is. There's Alex working, we get chatting. Moral of the story — be rich or something, I don't know."

"Did you figure out where the money was coming from?"

"Absolutely no idea." Elio shrugs again, before he pulls away from the desk. "Let's go see how Spindle is doing."

As it turns out, Elio's timing couldn't have been more perfect. Spindle is just about ready for them once they return to the sitting room. Then it's just a matter of getting dressed and making sure everything fits. And it does — a perfect fit.

Fortunately, Spindle had heeded Elio's suggestion. Oliver's costume consists of a skintight shirt and trousers, both of which are warm and snug. The fabric creates the illusion of bark, impossibly realistic. Over the top of these are a wrap-around skirt and a cape which look like bushes. Vibes wrap around his arms, blossoming flowers. How Spindle managed to make all this in the time they were gone is a mystery.

Oliver and Percy step out from behind their privacy screens at the same time. It's almost difficult to recognise his friend, so extravagantly dressed. Gold robes end above his knees and exaggerate his already significant height. Fiery tendrils hang from the robes, flickering brightly with every movement. He looks like he's on fire. It's eating him whole and he's entirely unfazed.

His sleeves are covered with feathers which create large wings. He's like a burning Icarus. Except he's not plummeting to a watery death; he's just standing awkwardly in the Black's sitting room.

"What's the matter? Is there something you don't like?" Spindle notices immediately. Percy is quick to shake his head, but there's no use hiding his discomfort.

"It's just the..." He gestures at the headpiece atop his head. It's big and elaborately decorated with glittering red gems buried beneath the same feathers that cover everywhere else. It looks not unlike a peacock tail, if the peacock was red. Or a volcano, mid-eruption. It's spectacular, but also excessively garish, and Oliver is just glad it's not atop his own head. "They're just too– I don't think I..."

"I understand." Spindle says gently, smiling. She helps him remove the headpiece, discarding it on the table. Instead of it, she tucks a few of the feathers into his curls. "Does that feel better?"

"Much. Thank you." Percy still looks awkward, but Oliver thinks that might just be his permanent state of being.

"Elio, how are you going?" Spindle asks as their third member remains hidden.

She gets a grunt in response, which then turns into, "Yeah, it's just the paint."

"Do you need a hand?"

There's silence for longer than feels necessary.

"No, I'm alright."

Elio remains there for quite some time. Spindle has managed to go through both Gryffindors' outfits and make any final adjustments by the time he finally reveals himself. But, when he does, the effort makes more sense.

In terms of a costume, Elio is wearing very little. A short, white toga drapes across his body like some Roman god, a sash wrapped over his shoulder. Shimmering gold paint creates cracks against his tanned skin, agonisingly intricate. He looks otherworldly. It's as though his human form is breaking, unable to contain whatever brilliance rests beneath. Even his hair wasn't safe. For the first time since Oliver met him, Elio's curls have been tamed into metallic waves. They look more like snakes than they do actual hair. He looks like a statue, a precious carving of a god that some artist loving sculpted all the fine details into.

Then he bares his teeth in that obnoxious grin of his and the illusion is shattered. It's hard to deny he looks good, but it's made worse by the fact he clearly knows he looks good.

However, as he takes in the two Gryffindors' outfits, the cocky grin softens into a more genuine smile. It's easier to forgive him, then.

"Oh — ohoho — you both look brilliant!" He exclaims, sounding genuine. "Everyone's going to be wondering who these newcomers are. They're going to be so jealous."

"Aren't you going to be cold?" Percy asks, deflecting the compliment. Elio glances down at himself, as if seeing his clothes — or lack thereof — for the first time. He shrugs, uncaring. The cracks of gold paint shimmer in the movement.

"You have to suffer for your fashion, Weasley." He asserts, but no one but Spindle looks convinced. When Percy continues to eye him with a concerned gaze, Elio continues, "I'll be fine. I run pretty warm."

"What he's failing to mention is the clothes he is wearing are charmed against the cold — as are yours as well." Spindle says as she places a hand on Elio's shoulder, carefully avoiding any paint. "They've all been made with the weather in mind, so you should be fine."

"There's bonfires, too." Elio adds. "So we can always huddle around those if we need."

The final touch to all their outfits is masks, as Spindle soon announces. However, in place of masks, for the sake of comfort, they're all instead wearing enchanted paint. Supposedly, anyone who didn't see them put the stuff on shouldn't be able to recognise them — no matter how hard they look. But even Oliver struggles to believe that. He trusts the seamstress knows what she's doing, but he can't quite believe a little bit of green paint around his eyes is going to make him unrecognisable.

Percy's hair is turned brown, as well. That's strange. It feels wrong, brown hair on a Weasley. Percy still looks like Percy, as a brunet with fiery paint across his face. But he doesn't seem like Percy. He almost looks like a Black — if Oliver squints his eyes.

Elio is watching him with that same appreciative smile, which only seems to grow as he says, "I've always wanted a brother."

"Trust me, you don't." Percy retorts dryly. There's a joke in there, but the Gryffindor is still too tense and the delivery is slightly off. It just sounds like a shutdown. The edge of Elio's smile dims.

"Yeah, you're probably right." Elio says, and then shoves a biscuit in his mouth. Staring blankly at the plate seems to consume his attention for a few long seconds, as he chews the food.

In that time, Remus makes his entrance. The man looks tired as he limps into the sitting room, heavily reliant on his cane. He's dressed more casually in a neat shirt and trousers, wearing only half the usual suit. Even that is strange, seeing him outside of Hogwarts in what could be described as dressed down. It's like seeing something Oliver isn't supposed to see.

"I hope you have an actual outfit prepared, Mr. Lupin." Spindle sighs as she takes in his appearance, clicking her tongue.

"Don't you like this?" Remus asks and there's a strange sort of grin on his lips. Teasing. That's where Elio gets it from. When Spindle frowns, the mischievous grin only grows. Yep, Oliver can definitely see some Elio there. "Don't worry — I'm not ready yet. I'm going to put a jumper on."

Spindle sighs slowly through her nose, giving him a long stare. There's an edge that would unsettle Oliver if he were on the receiving end, but Remus hardly seems bothered.

"Which one of you is mine?" He asks as he looks at the three boys. There's no recognition on his face. His eyes slide just as easily off Elio as they do the two Gryffindors. The paint works.

"The sun, obviously." Elio announces himself with a flourish. "We talked about this, remember?"

"Now that you mention it, I do remember." Remus says, his attention finally settling on Elio. The hand gripping his cane has gone white at the knuckles, slightly trembling, but he smiles through whatever is bothering him. If it weren't for his hand, he'd seem entirely fine. "Which is which, between you two, then?"

"Wood," Elio says as he places a hand on Oliver's shoulder. Then he does the same to Percy, "Weasley."

"Your costumes are very nice, boys. Spindle, well done."

"It'll be all for nothing if their chaperone doesn't dress up." Spindle mutters. "Remus, dear, I know your measurements like I know my own name. I can make you something now, if you genuinely don't have anything."

"I have something. I was only teasing." Remus brushes the seamstress off. She and Elio share a glance; something is communicated, unspoken. The younger nods his head, which makes Spindle huff.

"It's the same thing as last year, isn't it?" Remus doesn't answer the woman, which is answer enough. "You have so much money at your fingertips. Why do you insist on wearing outdated clothes?"

"I only wear them once year. It seems like a waste."

"Darling, you've been wearing the same outfit for four years now."

"It's comfortable." It's a losing battle and Spindle surrenders with her pride still intact. She gives the professor one last hard stare, lips pressed into a tight line, then shakes her head.

"I'll let you all ready yourselves, then. May we cross paths at Maternalia." She says, before pressing kisses on Elio's cheeks again. Remus only gets one, but her hand rests gently over his quivering own and their parting seems no less warm. Percy and Oliver only get smiles and a handshake. Oliver doesn't mind so much. "It was a pleasure meeting you two boys."

Once she's gone, Remus eases himself into one of the nearby chairs. Kreacher is by his side in an instant, a cup of tea in hand. The professor accepts the drink with a thin-lipped smile, a silent thanks.

"Long day?" Elio asks as he leans on the arm of Remus' chair.

"The usual. You know how it is." Remus says, then sips the tea. "How have you boys been?"

"Cooped up mostly." Elio answers for them. "It'll be worth it, though, for tonight."

"First time for you two?" Remus asks the two Gryffindors, who both nod. "Excited?" Another set of nods, though their sincerity may be questionable. "I hope it doesn't disappoint, then."

"It won't." Elio assures them, firmly — as though he can see into the future and predict the evening's success.

Once he's finished his tea, Remus leaves the trio to get ready. The boys sit in comfortable silence, too caught up in their own anticipation to expend energy on conversation. The crackle and pop of the fire fills in the space, ensuring the room never feels suffocating in its quiet.

Then Remus returns, dressed in formal wizarding garb, and it's time to go.

AUTHOR'S NOTE
Maternalia, which will be the focus of next chapter (or part of it, in any case), is inspired by Saturnalia, the Roman festival. Hence the similarities in name