12.
Black Mania

WARNING: sports related injuries at the end of the chapter

THE grounds are as still as a graveyard. Silent. It's not yet curfew but the sun set an hour ago and no one is willing to brave the cold and dark. Only a sliver of a moon hangs in the sky, barely bright enough to illuminate anything. A thick, impenetrable fog has settled over the hills. In the distance, the castle stands, a hazy lighthouse in the murky, uneven terrain.

The thud of Elio's shoes against the frozen ground breaks the silence. His ragged gasps feel too loud. Every noise he makes is a target on his back, loudly betraying his position for all those nearby.

Eyes follow him in the darkness. Their gaze burns. He can feel a warm breath on the back of his neck, sharp teeth poised to take a bite. His legs ache, well past the point of exhaustion, but he can't stop. If he stops, they'll catch him. If he stops, he'll die. A stupid, pitiful whine dies in the back of his raw throat.

Somewhere from within the inky, swirling darkness, there's a scream.

No — Laughter.

Oliver yells some instructions to his laughing team, amusement ringing even in his own voice. Of course, the only other people foolish enough to suffer the winter evening are the Gryffindor team. And likely only under Oliver's strict insistence. They've had the pitch for most of the week. Elio has been exiled from running the pitch, instead exercising blindly across the grounds nearby.

Paranoia consumes him when he runs. Even with a magical light source, he still can't see anything. He's navigating with pure muscle memory alone, identifying landmarks only once it's too late. Anyone could be out there. It's an uncomfortable thought that he can't quite shake. Anyone could be out there and, as a result, everyone is out there. Every noise is a pursuer. Every shadow is a threat.

The sound of the team, however, must mean he's close to the change rooms. Safety is within reach.

Elio stumbles into the Slytherin changing rooms, his legs turned to jelly. Nothing is more appealing than the thought of sitting down. But first, a shower. A cold sweat clings to his body like an obsessive ex, uncomfortably sticky.

Dramatic shadows stretch across the room under his ball of light, moving with him. They turn into great, looming beasts. A wolf with its maw wide open, ready to feast. To feast on Elio. He shudders at the thought.

As he approaches his clothes, the light drifts over a figure. They stand in the darkness, patiently waiting — waiting for him. Even as their cover is blown, they remain utterly still. Dark eyes glitter under the dim light, malicious intent shining within them. Elio draws his wand. Something is thrown at him. He fires a hex. The figure barely manages to dive out of the way.

"You've been fraternising with the enemy, Black." Flint spits as the light reveals his face. His voice is mean in its accusatory tone, as venomous as a snake. The lighting gives his face a mean edge, making an cruel mug crueller.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Flint, I could've killed you." Elio gasps, lowering his wand. His legs are shaky and his arms feel stupidly weak.

"I could kill you." Flint retorts and jabs a finger at an outdated copy of Witch Weekly that now sits at Elio's feet. It's one where he made the cover, with Oliver. The pair are grinning — Elio wearing Oliver's awful scarf — when Elio picks it up from the ground. It's a good picture, all things considered. Does exactly what the tabloids want it to do — twists the truth, creates a scandal. "Fraternising with our worst enemy of all people. Wood. For shame."

Flint spits Oliver's name acidly, like the word burns his tongue.

"I haven't been fraternising." Once Elio realises this is nothing, he returns to his previous task. He's still not quite sure he wants to turn his back on his Captain. The older boy is glaring daggers at him like he really wants to kill him. But Elio tries to paint a picture of nonchalance as he collects his clean clothes. "We don't even talk about Quidditch."

"That's even worse!" Flint throws his arms in the air, crying to a god that won't hear him. "I could forgive you if you were playing the game. But friends — I thought I taught you better."

"We're not friends." Elio retorts quickly, casting a glance back at the guilty magazine. Christmas break had saved him from the repercussions of the article, but it also prevented him from doing proper damage control. Who knows what the rumour mill thinks of his acquaintanceship with Oliver and Percy. "It's just business."

"What sort of business?"

"The sort that stays private." Elio says as he pulls his wet shirt over his head. He can't help but smirk at the sight of Flint's face, enraged at being told no. He throws his sweaty shirt at the older boy, eliciting more disgust from him.

"You'd prioritise your business," Flint spits the word like he doesn't believe it. Something in that irks Elio. "Over winning the Quidditch Cup."

"We'll still win the cup. We don't need me spying to do that." Flint doesn't respond. But he doesn't need to — his glare says it all. The fight is still in him. A stubborn dissatisfaction sticks to him. So, Elio insists, "I'm not spying for you. He'd stop working for me if he even so much as thought I was."

"I could have you off the team. You're a liability — who knows what you're telling him." Flint threatens emptily. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Elio is one of the best Chasers they've got and he's not going to risk that sort of loss. They both know that.

"I'll cry foul." Elio replies all the same, growing cold. He casts a glance at Flint, smugness wrapped all around his grin. "Who are they going to listen to — a Flint or a Black?"

Another empty threat. Elio would only use his name in absolute desperation. Not for a petty school squabble. He's not sure if Flint knows that, though.

"Touché." Flint finally surrenders, reluctant. "But I will have you benched if I think you're a leak."

"I'm watertight, Flint." Elio retorts as he steps into one of the shower crucibles. As the pipes scream and hot water shoots from the shower, he can just hear the sound of Flint leaving. He's alone again. The water melts away his tension like snow, as he lets out a slow exhale.

Damage control. That's the next order of business.

*

The family owl drops a rolled up copy of Witch Weekly in front of Oliver, which is already a bad start to the morning. As he unfurls it, greeted by the winking photo of some actor, Oliver tries to think of what he could have possibly done to warrant yet another article. From Elio's assurances, Christmas should have been as anonymous as something like that can be. He hasn't spent any time with Elio since then, outside of class. The Catchers haven't had their reunion yet, too caught up in settling back into the rhythm of things.

The magazine comes with a note that explains enough: Your friend Black has made the Weekly again. Page 2. It's awful. Love, Ma x

Oliver flicks to the page and is greeted with a two-page spread on his classmate. On the left is a photo that looks like it might be from his birthday, all dolled up and smiling, something he's posing for. A bold title above it cries: BACHELOR LORD BLACK TAKING PROPOSALS.

Though a little late (we think it's fashionable) to the dating pool, an insider source has announced that the new Lord Elio Black is now on the market and looking for love — with a twist! The previous Lord Regent Remus Lupin, who historically has turned down most offers for his ward, has stated he still won't be accepting any proposal contracts. That is because Lord Black himself is in charge of his contracts! That's right, anyone who wants the Lord's hand will have to go straight to the handsome bachelor himself.

The new generation of House Black have always been unconventional. This is simply marks another deviation in a long string of such, beginning with the introduction of a half-blood as Lord Regent. But the Witch Weekly finds their approach refreshing, even if they occasionally toe the line just a tad.

[ What do you think? Write to us in our weekly column for only 8 sickles and 12 knuts. Witch Weekly values the public perspective! ]

The Lord Black has kept his type quite close to his chest, but we here at Witch Weekly are dedicated to providing you with the information you want to know. We have compiled all that we know about Lord Black's woefully short dating history and preferences. (Spoiler! Those outside the Pureblood circles still have a chance — perhaps far greater than you would expect.)

"Where was Black hiding that?" A passing student asks as they lean over Oliver's shoulder. He follows their gaze, frowning. On the second page, taking up the entire page, is a photograph from the Slytherin changing rooms.

Elio is caught in a loop, pulling his shirt over his head. As he flicks his hair back, the shot lingers on him. He stands in a state of undress, only in shorts. It's clearly after practice and his cheeks are still flushed. His skin is lightly shinier than normal. Post-practice sweat has been turned into something else — something that's probably meant to be sexy, but just makes Oliver uncomfortable. The Elio in the photograph grins at someone out of shot, entirely unaware he's being photographed. Everything is on display. Nothing is left to the imagination.

But it's not Elio. The Elio in the photograph has been altered to seem even older — sexier. They've given him tight muscles that Oliver knows aren't visible in real life. Gone is his puppy fat, replaced with some chiselled Adonis. His entire body is hard lines and definition.

Oliver glances up, half-expecting to somehow spot Elio in the crowded hall. He doesn't — not at first. But he is met with a sea of Elio's face, copies of the Witch Weekly filling the hall. A group of girls down the table from him are passing around a copy, before a boy snatches it away. The birthday image of Elio, folded, smiles at Oliver.

Then, Oliver finds the real Elio. Glances and outright stares from the students around him provide a convenient arrow right to the other boy. If Elio is aware of the attention he's receiving, he's doing a good job at pretending he doesn't know. All that seems to matter to him — as far as Oliver can see — is the construction of his sandwich.

"Hey, Wood, can I borrow that?" The student across from Oliver asks, pointing at the magazine. Oliver doesn't like her smile.

"No, it's mine." He answers and immediately regrets how it sounds. He wishes he didn't even have a copy. Rolling it up, he shoves it in his pocket. Out of sight, out of mind.

Until, of course, he realises everyone around him is talking about it — commenting on Elio's physique, ranking him against others. And the boy in question is only a table away. There's no way he doesn't know. He'd have to. No sandwich can be that engrossing.

Oliver decides he can't be bothered finishing his lunch here. He grabs an apple for later, and goes to find Percy in the library.

Half an hour later, Elio and Cedric join the two Gryffindors at the usual table. Elio takes a seat beside Oliver, resting one arm against his shoulder as he settles in. The younger grins at Oliver and, before he knows it, the magazine is being plucked from his pocket. The note, fortunately, lands on the table and explains his possession of the copy. But Elio hardly seems to care. He flicks straight to the page, scanning the article.

Comparing the two versions of Elio, Oliver realises the magazine had altered more than Elio's muscles. They'd sharpened all his features and hollowed out his cheeks. Any imperfections on his skin had been brushed until he looked like a doll. Now faced with the real person, Elio looks so much softer, so much more normal. It's as if the stark contrast has exaggerated his features.

"All the Slytherins have the tact to wait until I'm gone to get their Weeklys out, but I figured something must have happened." Elio explains as he taps the page. His gaze drifts toward the changing room photo. Oliver watches Elio, the way his eyes spend a good few seconds on it, the twitch in his brow. Elio is good at making his reaction indiscernible. "At least they got my good side."

"It's pretty awful. I was listening to one of the Hufflepuffs reading it." Cedric comments. There's a frown on his face that makes Oliver's own reaction feel validated. "There's one part where they not so subtly suggest a love potion is the only way to your heart, because of how small your dating history is. They also can't decide if they want to call you a prude or a slut."

All Elio does is let out one, short, 'ha!' that feels completely out of place. There's no amusement in his tone, just simple acknowledgement. Not once has his attention moved from the image.

"Can you sue them?" Percy asks.

"It's not worth it. Reacting will just make more people want to read it and Weekly doesn't post anything they don't think they can get away with." Elio answers, finally drawing his eyes away from the article. He flicks through a few of the pages, before growing bored. Only smiling, glamorised celebrities await him. The magazine is rolled back up and placed in Oliver's pocket, where it rests heavily. It'll be getting thrown in the fire the second Oliver is close to one. "Anyway, tell your mother I said thanks for the read."

Elio's arm returns to Oliver's shoulder as the group moves onto the actual reason for their meeting — Sirius Black. The way he's sitting is all but leaning on the Gryffindor. One leg is tucked up under the other, with the knee pressed against Oliver's thigh. He's warm. The Christmas scents have passed, replaced with something warm, musky and floral. It's airy, but loud. It's all Oliver can smell in the usually musty library.

"I did some thinking after Christmas." Percy says, officially starting the meeting. He opens the notebook Elio gave him for Christmas to the back, where lined pages are already filling up with his neat script. "We have been incredibly unorganised in how we tackle this problem. There's been no focus at all. We've just been... making it up as we go."

"Which is what we were trying to avoid." Cedric adds, with a very pointed look in Elio's direction. It's ignored. Apparently Elio's quill is absolutely fascinating right now.

Actually... Now that Oliver looks at it, his quill is rather nice. It's most definitely expensive — everything Elio owns generally is. The handle's engraving has the intricacy of something goblin-made, a pretty silver that looks out-of-the-package shiny. The feather is a light green colour, flecked with a chocolatey brown.

"... So I've devised a list of things we need to know, before we even think of catching... the dog." Percy is saying when Oliver finally draws his attention away from the quill. The other Gryffindor turns the notebook so the others can read it. A finger taps the first line. "First, we need to know the risks."

"You made the risks quite clear on that first day, Perseus." Elio pipes up. Counting on his finger, he continues, "Poor grades, breaking school rules, breaking Ministry rules, expulsion..."

"My name isn't Perseus and that's not what I'm referring to." He taps the line again. "If we assume he's somewhere within the forests, then we need to know how to survive the forests. We need to know where is out of the question, where someone could feasibly live, what route he might be taking to and from the grounds and Hogsmeade..."

A group of students pass and Percy falls silent, poorly feigning innocence. His gaze drops to his hands, as if there is something terribly interesting going on there. It's so put on, it's become entirely see-through. Percy couldn't be more suspicious if he tried.

"Hi, Percy!" Penelope calls out from the group, as loudly as she can within a library. She waves at him, only to be met with a rather awkward attempt at being casual. Percy waves back, smiling like he's praying she won't come over.

But she does.

"Hello, Penelope." He says as he rises to his feet, chair scraping against the floor. It's as if he's trying to meet her halfway, to stop her from approaching the table, but his legs get caught in the chair and it's only Cedric that stops him from toppling over. The younger boy raises a rather unconcerned hand to stabilise him.

As the attention shifts from the table, Elio presses the nib of his quill against his tongue and starts drawing quick lines across his parchment. Numbers are scrawled in quick, near indecipherable strokes. For someone so well trained, his handwriting is horrifying. Worse than Oliver's. He remains pressed against Oliver, so the page sits in front of him. Though it means absolutely nothing to him, Oliver finds himself mesmerised by the numbers.

"Hi, Oliver." Penelope greets him and he pulls his attention away from the parchment momentarily. Despite Percy's atrocious efforts, she's made it all the way to the table. Her friends have left her, likely off to find a table. "What are all you doing?"

The question is directed back at Percy, who stands gaping like a goldfish, but it's Elio who answers, "Studying. Weasley's been helping me with my arithmancy."

He's still scribbling across his parchment. The lie is told without hesitation, deadpan, and Oliver finds himself believing it. He's not even sure Elio needs tutoring.

"Oh." Penelope looks at Percy with a bewildered expression. The sort that reads: You're tutoring the Elio Black?

Percy simply shrugs, smiling sheepishly.

"Well, I should go find my friends." Penelope says after a moment of awkward silence, pointing over her shoulder. She presses a kiss against Percy's cheek. "I'll see you later."

"I'll see you later." Percy repeats, then grimaces at how he sounds. But she's off, gone before he can save himself. He slowly lowers himself back into his seat, quite clearly reliving the last interaction in all its awkward details.

"Your girlfriend seems nice." Elio remarks, still writing. "Clearwater's a good family."

"Thank you," comes Percy's stilted reply. There's a long beat. He's overthinking things again. "Not that her family matters to me. Not like that."

Elio just hums in response. It's hard to tell if he's even listening.

"I think we should first all focus on finding out as much as we can on the forests. We need maps — or we need to make a map. We need to know who goes in them and when. The sooner we have all that sorted, the sooner we can start properly planning." Percy continues, doing his best to regain his composure. Busying his hands, his finger slides down his short list. "There should be some books in here we can read. Black, is Professor Hagrid still an option?"

"Mhmm," is all that comes from Elio, who doesn't even look up from his parchment.

"Right. Then you keep working on that." Percy continues to stare at the top of Elio's head. "If what I have overheard from my brother is any indication, it shouldn't take very much for him to let slip what you want to hear."

Elio lets out a little huff in acknowledgement.

"If we're all working together, it shouldn't take very long. Even after balancing it against schoolwork and homework."

"And Quidditch." Oliver adds quickly.

Percy sighs, "And Quidditch."

"And these," Elio pipes up as he turns his sheet of numbers to everyone, "Are the days we should absolutely not attempt anything dangerous."

Though Elio taps above a specific line of numbers, the entire sheet lacks labels and makes little sense as Oliver gazes over it. Combine that with the fact Elio's horrendous handwriting, it makes the entire thing read like the scrawlings of a madman. Only Cedric seems to understand what he's reading. A quick scan and he sits back, arms crossing over his chest, nodding his head softly.

When Percy and Oliver continue to stare blankly at the page, Elio explains, "Arithmancy. It's all based around the full moons. They're the unlucky days. These," His finger slides to the left, to another column, "Are our luckiest day."

"I don't think luck is going to have much to do with it, Black." Percy says eventually. "A proper plan is our best bet for success."

"You wanted to know the risks, Perseus." Elio splays his fingers above the parchment, gesturing toward it. "So there you are."

"It's not Perseus. Do you mind if I take the page?" Percy says in the same breath. The sheet is pushed over to him without any complaint. Flicking through his notebook, he marks each of the indicated dates with a short note. "Do you have the full moons memorised?"

"It makes studying arithmancy easier." Elio answers curtly as his gaze drifts away from the table momentarily. A group of girls at a nearby table are huddled not unlike their table, frequently stealing glances at Elio. When he waves at them, an eruption of giggles breaks the silence of the library and quick, excited whispers fill the silence that follows. "I can't do anything crazy for the next week or so. Not unless there's some scandal in the Weekly. All eyes are gonna be on me."

"Like that will stop you." Cedric remarks, to Elio's disdain. "Actually, it'll probably make you worse than normal."

There's a clatter of chairs, a sudden thud, and Cedric keels over. A grin curls against Elio's teeth.

"You're going to get us kicked out." Percy hisses sharply with a nervous glance to the distracted librarian.

"She wouldn't. Pince loves me."

"Well... Not all of us have that luxury, Black." Percy says simply — bitterly. Silence befalls the group. Only its creators can break it, but neither seem like they will. Percy is too proud to offer the olive branch. And Elio seems to just not care. The girls on the other table have caught his attention again. His eyes steal glances at them, as their own focus never drifts.

So much for being subtle, Oliver thinks. This would just be fuel to the tabloid's fire.

Eventually, it's Cedric who ends the stand off. He leaves without any sort of explanation, only to return a few minutes later with a small pile of books.

"Found some things on the forests." He explains. Percy is the one to divvy them out, scanning the titles as he does so. Their names are written down in his notebook, under today's date. Oliver ends up with a rather thick one called Magical Forests of Britain.

"Just skim through to the relevant sections. Don't bother reading all of it." Percy suggests as he pushes the book in Oliver's direction.

"I know how to research, thanks." Oliver retorts sarcastically, huffing softly. Still, he hadn't exactly thought of doing that. He likely would have just read all of it.

Elio's book is much smaller. Something about the history of Hogsmeade and surrounding areas. His eyes scan the page with ease, flicking to the next in a matter of seconds. Oliver turns his attention to his own and finds it takes him significantly longer to make it through a page. The writing is dense, full of scientific language only a botanist might understand.

When the study period finally comes to an end, Oliver shuts his book with great relish. He's not exactly sure he found anything of use within its pages. Just a lot of information about trees...

"We'll keep working on these. I'll develop proper reading lists for us all, Oliver can hand them out." Percy says as he rises to his feet.

"Why me?"

"Because you have class with Black, so you'll see him more often than I do. Black can then pass Diggory's along. It's the most efficient method." Percy explains simply, a frown softly furrowing his brow.

"Right. Yeah. You're right." Oliver brushes off the topic with a wave, feeling strangely like an idiot.

"Hey, Black!" A Ravenclaw, if her tie is any indicator, calls out across the room. "Want to walk to Herbology together?"

"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a heart to break." Elio says far too lightly, a pleasant smile resting on his lips. He looks like evil incarnate. With a tip of an imaginary hat, he runs over to the girl. They rush out before Pince can yell at either of them.

"He's horrible." Percy remarks.

"He's incomprehensible." Oliver adds.

"You two give him too much credit." Cedric says as he puts all the books in a pile. A tap on the top cover sends them floating away to their homes. He offers the pair a polite smile. "Alright, I'm off. See ya, fellas."

"We have Charms." Percy informs Oliver in the Hufflepuff's wake. With a nod of his head, Oliver sets off, Percy right behind. They walk in silence, as is the typical way. It's either that or bickering, but they both have too much plotting on the mind to bother with that.

*

By Monday, everyone in school seems to have a copy of Witch Weekly. Everywhere Oliver goes, the cover is staring back at him. The magazine is quite clearly not the interest — it's a single photo within it. The hot gossip is Elio has a hot bod and no one seems at all interested in how that photo was acquired, or how accurate it is. It's as if Elio isn't one of their schoolmates, someone just as liable to overhear the whispers. That doesn't seem to matter.

At the start of Alchemy, before Elio has arrived, one of the girls has used the break to strike up a conversation with Oliver. It's hardly stimulating. She leans across the table, gesturing at Elio's seat, and says, "I don't know how you manage to concentrate with that beside you. I'd be distracted the entire class."

"I don't know what that is." Oliver retorts coolly. "I've never had any problem focusing."

Elio joins them not long after. The girl offers him a smile that goes unacknowledged and then, fortunately, she takes her own seat on the other side of the classroom.

"Watch out." Elio warns, before he pulls out an envelope he's dumped on the desk. A pink, glittery haze rises up from the paper upon opening. Elio seems prepared for this, blowing it away with his wand before it can be inhaled. He sighs. "If I could hunt down the person who invented love potion perfumes and make sure all they smelt for the rest of their life was this awful smell... I don't even think that would be enough, but I'd do it. I can't, though. The inventor is dead — I checked."

"You're getting love-potioned?"

"The joy of being on the market and unattainable. Now, let's see..." Elio pulls a card from the envelope. It's a garish heart, covered in frills and pink glitter that falls off when he opens it. "Yep, no name. They never do. This one was delivered with a transfigured dove, so at least they were creative."

Elio speaks with a long suffering weariness that tells Oliver he's been dealing with this since the article came out — if not longer. He so blasé, yet tired. Bored, somehow. It's as if his harassers aren't stimulating enough for him — as if that is what the true crime is.

"I don't know how you stand it." Oliver says. "How are you handling it?"

He doesn't expect an honest answer. All honesty seems to be hidden behind a tall wall when it comes to Elio. When the other boy shrugs, he assumes his concern is going to be brushed off.

"You get used to it." Elio answers and somehow that's worse. It doesn't feel like a lie, which means this really is just the everyday to him. "It's like a compliment, really."

"A compliment?" Oliver repeats in disbelief. He wishes Elio was lying to him, now.

"Y'know — the more people try to potion you, the more desirable you must be. So either people find me attractive or they find my money and power attractive." A student on the table across from them slips a sweet in front of Elio. After shooting a pointed look at Oliver, Elio runs his hand over the sweet and one of his rings — a fat, blue gem — glitters darkly. He pushes the sweet to the side, resting his cheek on his hand, and turns his back on the student.

Oliver doesn't miss the way Elio's wand, now sitting on the desk, points toward the student. Or the way the student suddenly develops a case of the sneezes. Somehow, he doesn't feel bad.

"Black... you don't want to be potioned, do you?" Oliver asks instead.

"I'm not even interested in a consensual relationship, Wood. Though I suppose it would take care of that." Words are lost on Oliver, as Elio considers this. He feels a sudden, great pity for the other boy. Elio immediately senses this, frowning. "Don't look at me like that, Wood. All I'm saying is they're a common indicator of social desirability.  Why do you think we take infertility potions?"

"You take infertility potions?" Oliver asks.

"You don't?" Strangely, it's Elio who looks confused. His eyebrows raised up, somewhat concerned. "What are you doing to protect your line?"

"I don't think we have the same concerns, Black..."

"You're the most popular Quidditch player in school, even more so than me when it comes to the field. You're going to be famous, Wood." Elio says, so full of conviction Oliver might feel flattered if it weren't for the context. "You're a Pureblood, even if you are just a minor family. You don't even know the power you hold."

"For all that power, I haven't been potioned once."

"When you get into Puddlemere and your face is all across the magazines, that is going to change. I can assure you." Elio presses a hand on Oliver's arm, squeezing lightly. "You're going to want to figure out a means of protecting yourself soon."

"I hope I never have to worry about that." Oliver decides, because there's little else he can think. Elio's world is utterly alien to him, completely unthinkable. It can't be real — and yet there Elio sits, living proof of it.

Elio just shrugs like he's a lost cause.

*

Elio stands in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, surrounded by a blur of people. They whisper and, though he can't make out what they're saying, he knows instinctively that it's about him. Their staring burns him. It's as though they're tearing him apart with their eyes alone. A magazine twists in his clenched fist. He hasn't read it, but he knows it's Witch Weekly declaring him available. The cause of all this torment.

Someone grabs him and forces a chocolate into his mouth. A force pushes his worry out of his body and he's pulled with it. It's as though someone else is puppeteering his body. He smiles, at ease, but he feels nothing but dread.

When a dog pushes through the crowd, looking rabid and starved, Elio doesn't run. When it growls at him, his feet remain firmly planted on the ground. It bears sharp, white teeth and there's a hungry glint in its eye. It pounces on him, claws digging deep, and Elio still doesn't move. There is another behind him. Claws scratch his back, tearing flesh and clothes alike. He's caught between two dogs and still he makes no effort to escape.

"Elio?" No one ever calls Elio by his first name. The great beasts melt away like wax and, with it, the pain and frozen limbs. He looks to the source, to where Oliver stands. It sounds strange, to hear his name on the other boy's tongue. Oliver tries to say something, but no words come out. Only spiders, crawling from his mouth in a swarm.

"You're not real." Elio asserts, but he's not so sure. What if he's wrong? What if that is Oliver? He takes a step forward, to help the other boy — just in case. But the second he gets too close, Oliver disappears into the wind.

And there he stands. Sirius Black. Looking half a corpse, grinning murderously, the man leaps upon Elio. Sunken eyes fill with hatred as Sirius looks down at his son. Hands around his neck, spitting, "Corrupted my son, ruined him, made him a Lord. Just like my mother, the murderous, conniving, good-for-nothing snake. A cheat. A fraud. Traitor."

"You're a traitor, Black." Flint spits, circling him. Elio is unconsciously aware he's just lost them the match. It's his fault. He'll lose them the Cup. "Fraternising with the enemy."

Traitor. The word echoes, a constant whisper in the air. Traitor.

Just like your father.

Elio wakes and immediately throws up. He sits, shivering, struggling to remember where he is. It's dark. Too dark to tell. The shadows move around him, suddenly looming over him. One grows closer, descending upon him, and he grabs his wand from under his pillow. And then–

"Ah, fuck, Black!" Montague yells as he's knocked to the ground. The sounds disturbs some of the others, but they're quickly shooed away. Even in his pain, Montague manages to bark, "Everyone, go back to sleep."

Though the room grows silent, it's the expectant sort of silence that means no one listened. Why would they? The excitement lays in the land of the waking. Montague moves blindly through the darkness until he finds Black's bed. Closing the curtain, he creates a small ball of light. There's a nasty red welt growing on his forehead from where he fell and a blood nose from where Elio's spell hit him.

"You alright?" Montague asks in a whisper as he spells the bed clean. Though Elio is drenched with sweat and still shaking, he gives an unconvincing nod in return. Here is not the place for honesty. Honesty will get him on the front cover of the Witch Weekly with an unflattering photo and the claim that Lord Black is losing the plot. "Do you want me to get Malfoy?"

"I'm fine." Elio says aloud, hoping that will be enough to get the younger boy off his case. "Just had a nightmare. Hadn't fully woken up when you approached. I might have a fever."

"Want me to take you to Pomfrey, then?" Montague really isn't going to let up. With that realisation, Elio reluctantly nods his head. At least there he can be undisturbed. Slowly, body aching like he's just run a mile, he climbs out of bed. His slippers and socks are too far away to bother with. He sets off beside Montague, hoping his silence will discourage any further prodding.

It does. Montague, thankfully, escorts him wordlessly. Even when he drops him off at Pomfrey's, he leaves with little more than a comforting smile and a pat on the shoulder. And yet, as he disappears, Elio can't shake the dread that he's returning to the dormitory to gossip.

"The migraines again?" Pomfrey asks when Elio alerts her to his presence. He nods softly. Migraines were their decided upon code word for any attacks of paranoia, to keep Elio from verbally admitted to suffering from it and an uninvited ear overhear. Needing little more explanation, she ushers him away to one of the quieter beds, isolated from the others — typically used for contagious cases, especially loud cases, and the occasional case that can't sleep with company. When the curtains go up, the outside world ceases to exist.

While she lets him settle in, Pomfrey leaves to make a warm cup of something calming. The silence grows heavy. Being alone is both a blessing and a curse. There are no eyes watching him anymore, waiting for a hint of weakness. But there is also no one to distract Elio, to save him from the suffocating darkness. It's freezing. Sweat is drying against his skin, turning it cold.

Pomfrey returns at the perfect time, only to place the cup with his hands and instruct him to call out if needed. Elio warms his hands against the cup, still too nauseous to consider consuming anything. He can't even sleep. Every time he tries, spiders run across the back of his eyes. His skin itches, tiny little pinpricks all over his body.

Only a few months ago, Elio had been victim to one of Draco's half-assed Divination projects. It had been a sheet of doom and gloom, easily shrugged off in the moment. But now Elio's starting to think there might be some stock in that. If he's dreaming about the Grim now — about the Grim violently murdering him — then maybe he should be worried about his prophesised ruin.

The cup goes cold in his hands. Eventually, out of sheer boredom if nothing else, Elio drinks the now-foul drink. It does have some soothing effect, but sleep still evades him. The nightmares don't, plaguing him even in waking. It's a long, lonely night.

*

Days before Slytherin's first match, Elio's Firebolt is returned, cleared of any traps. The broomstick is officially his. Snape hands it to him with no fanfare, clearly not understanding the gravity of this moment. As it is placed within his hands, Elio finds heaven. A gift of the highest honour has been bestowed upon him and, for a blissful few moments, he doesn't care who it came from. There's no more classes but plenty of the evening left before curfew — so, naturally, he runs to the Quidditch pitch.

He isn't alone. Running through the halls, without a care for Filch, he's met by Harry and what feels like the entirety of Gryffindor. Harry raises his Firebolt in the air triumphantly, as though it were the winning Snitch. Elio returns the gesture, unable to fight the smile on his lips.

"Race you around the pitch?" Elio suggests as the troupe stumbles down to the field, care lost to excitement. It's dark. Hermione's thoughtful lumos prompts others to follow, quickly illuminating their path. The shadows of the forest still loom, hiding their inhabitants. But none of the students have a care for the dangers right now. All that matters is the Firebolts.

Harry nods eagerly, his pace picking up. Soon, they're at the pitch. With no referee, no starting gun — working on the same excited instinct to get in the air as soon as possible, the pair kick off the ground. Icy breeze bites the unprotected skin.

It's a stiff competition. Elio has years of experience on Harry, but the kid's got a suicidal determination that gives him an edge. He's willing to make the sharp turns, lure Elio into tricks that would kill a lesser competitor. The Firebolt makes it worse, letting him wait until the very last second. In the end, Elio gives him the victory. He's earned it. When they both land, Elio a fraction after Harry, the boy shoots him the widest smile. He's laughing. The wind has tousled his already messy hair, making it stand up like a bird's nest. He looks like a memory.

Elio pulls him into a hug, the sort two friendly competitors can give one another without it getting awkward. If only so he doesn't have to keep looking at Harry's face. Only his hair seems to give him any height, barely reaching Elio's collarbone with that mess. Elio ruffles it, for good measure, just to make sure he irritates him. It works. That and, when Elio pushes him away, his friends have finally caught up to them.

One by one, the Gryffindors have their turn on the broom. Elio even offers his up, letting them have their races. He takes a seat on the ground, despite the cold, and watches. In another life, this could have been him. Somewhere out there is an Elio who wasn't Lord Black, who wasn't robbed of the family he could have had.

"The Firebolt's amazing!" Harry gasps, cutting through Elio's thoughts. He collapses beside the other boy, practically lying in the grass.

"It wouldn't be the top of the line if it wasn't." Elio retorts lightly, unable to commit to anything biting. The mood is too light, even in his own self-imposed melancholy. He won't be the one to kill the mood.

"I know, but– hearing about it is one thing. Actually flying on one... It's amazing." Harry repeats in a breath, gaze drifting toward the Gryffindors currently racing. They're not on the team and they must be in Harry's year, so Elio doesn't know them. "Who do you think bought them?"

"The pool of people who might want to buy both our favour is wide, Potter." Elio answers with a sigh, pulling at some grass. "But I think it's the obvious answer."

"It wasn't cursed, though." Harry says, as though that removes all possibility of Sirius being the anonymous sender.

"I don't know why he might, Potter. Maybe he thinks they'll win us over." He shrugs. The idea that the Firebolts might be an attempt to buy their forgiveness is sickening. It taints the sanctity of the brooms and Elio hardly wants to voice the thought. "I don't think it's worth worrying over. The broom's safe and free. Enjoy it."

Harry is silent for a few seconds. He's thoughtful, processing Elio's words carefully. In the end, he seems to take the advice. The concerns are brushed away with a shrug of his own. As the two flyers land, a gentle nudge pushes Harry back toward his friends. The boy rises slowly, but he does eventually leave Elio to his peace once more.

*

Elio is without a partner in Herbology. Primrose has abandoned him, choosing Pomfrey's company instead. But he isn't alone. There are too many people crowding his table for him to feel alone. There's a Ravenclaw sitting on his bench, her friends leaning against the one in front. Elio doesn't know her, but he thinks he should. There's something familiar about her. She's pretty and she hasn't offered him any sweets yet, but she's wearing a cheap floral perfume that burns his nose. It's a summer perfume, if anything.

"I can't wait for the game this weekend." She says, chewing a piece of gum. "It'll be nice to have some good players for once. Hufflepuff matches are so boring."

"Hufflepuff is a new team, mostly. They won't always be like this." Elio defends his friend, bristling ever so slightly. The girl accepts this easily — though she was never going to disagree with him. No one wants to risk insulting the single Lord.

"Still... Between you and me, Slytherin matches are the best." Her friends offer up a chorus of murmured agreements, as she leans in conspiratorially. Her eyes are painted with a light shimmer, something he only notices as she grows closer.

"Go back to your bench, Diana." Roger Davies, upon approaching, dismisses the girl with a cool order. That's right. She's his ex — recent, too. Diana rolls her eyes at him. But, as he places his books on the bench, she slides off and walks away. Elio is the only one who gets a farewell, a little wave. He's sure the departure is meant for him as well. Davies clears his throat, returning attention to him. "My partner is sick, too. Sprout says we have to work together."

"Alright." Elio shrugs, making space for him. Sprout is game, placing competitors together with the Quidditch match so close. Especially these two, who have never quite seen eye to eye.

"I hear you got a Firebolt." Davies says offhand, like it's no big deal, as Sprout begins her introduction. Elio sighs. There's some fanged flowers writhing violently on the central table and he'd really like to know how to handle them properly.

"I did." He answers curtly, hoping Davies gets the hint. He doesn't.

"It must be nice, having all that money." Davies' pleasant tone drips with saccharine sweetness, presented in such a blasé manner. It's a trap. He isn't even trying to be subtle.

"It was a gift. Potter got one as well." Elio bites. Sprout's instructions go unheard. Even as he tries to focus forward, all he can hear is Davies.

"Well, Potter killed You-Know-Who — he earned it. You just bought yours." Davies offers Elio a polite smile. It's so perfectly innocent, so reptilian. Nothing would be more satisfying than wiping it off his face right now. "Who needs talent when you've got money, am I right?"

The problem is — he's right. Elio has received everything on a silver platter. He could buy his entire team a Firebolt each and still not have to worry about money. Everything he has ever achieved has been biased by his name, his political power, his money. Elio Black is nothing but his surname. He's nothing without his surname.

"All this money is going to wipe you across the field on Sunday." Elio returns the pleasant smile. As the other students start moving toward the flowers, Elio takes this as a cue to collect his own. He rises, before Davies can get any last word in.

"Hey, Black!" Diana calls out, manoeuvring her way through the students so she can take the one beside Elio. "Have you got any plans for Hogsmeade next week?"

They're definitely within earshot of Davies. Even above the chatter of the crowd, her voice is far too loud to be missed by him. Elio casts a glance toward the Ravenclaw boy; sure enough, Davies is glowering at them. She must be trying to make him jealous. Or — better — she left him for Elio. The intent doesn't matter. He's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Not yet, no." Elio answers, knowing exactly where this is going. He did, in fact, have plans to investigate the forest again. But those can wait.

"Do you wanna check out Puddifoots with me? They've apparently got this new cake that's really good."

"Yeah. Why not?" Elio grins. "I love cake."

Davies is still sulking when Elio returns to the table with a grumpy flower. Elio imagines the flower flying from his hands, attacking the Ravenclaw Captain. It would be gratifying to see the horror on his pretty, little face. Wouldn't be so smug then. Or petulant, as he is now.

Should have been a better boyfriend, Elio thinks as he sits down. The flower grumbles agreeably.

"You'll have to forgive me, Black. I misspoke before." Davies says and it would be so easy to believe he was being genuine. He plays the game so well, Elio almost has some respect for him. Almost. "You didn't get where you are purely on your money. The rest you got by cheating, like any good Slytherin."

"Oh, how clever, Davies. You must make Ravenclaw so proud." Elio retorts dryly. He glances around the room, hoping the other students might provide a clue on what they're supposed to be doing. Most seem to be making use of the fertiliser on their tables, feeding their flowers. He copies them. What could be the harm in that?"

"Fucking hell, Black!" Davies exclaims as the fertiliser, unbalanced by the sudden shift in weight, falls straight onto his lap.

"I am so sorry, Davies!" Elio gasps and he sounds genuine. He's actually quite pleased with his performance, utterly shocked at his own 'accident'. His own exclamation garners some attention and the students turn just in time to see Davies wiping shit off his trousers. "Here, let me–"

"Get off me, Black." Davies spits, pushing the Slytherin away. Elio makes sure to look especially pitiful when he's rejected. The poor Lord Black, his aide brushed away like it's nothing.

"Behave, boys." Sprout calls in a warning from the front, casting them both an eye. Davies' mouth hangs open like he wants to argue, but nothing comes out. He knows he's lost. He lost the second he picked a fight with Elio. Because he was right — Elio's power gets him everything. Might as well take advantage of that every once in a while.

Davies settles into a simmering silence, offering no help, a bundle of anger that Elio largely ignores in favour of his flower. He's determined that this must be a geranium. The five petals, stemming from a singular point, look enough like one for him to feel confident in his guess. The only difference is that, instead of the usual stigma, this flower has a small beak. Little teeth snap at his fingers as he prods it, checking for any diseases. He can't see any, so that mustn't be what Sprout is assessing.

Elio picks up a pair of pruners, deciding to stick with what he knows. The flowers are starting to look a little dull, so perhaps this lesson is just revision. He begins with a brown one, a flower he knows for certain must be dead. Unlike its siblings, this one hangs limply from its stalk. It doesn't fight when he reaches for it and falls to the soil without any complaint. As it does, the others leap upon it. Elio watches in horror as the other geraniums consume their fallen brother, attacking the others over shreds of petals. Another is lost to the fight, pruned by the others before Elio has a chance to do so.

It's an all out war. Elio has given his flowers a taste for chlorophyll. He looks around helplessly as his geranium destroys itself, before he even has a chance to do so.

"Yep. They'll do that." Sprout sighs — the sort of sigh that suggests she's seen this before. "What do we remember, Black, about fanged geraniums?"

"They're territorial." Elio attempts, distracted by the carnage in front of him. It's hard to think about schoolwork while standing above flower murder.

"Well, yes, but they are also cannibals. It is important to cut the flower at the stem, not the head. Makes them choke on the stem and discourages them from trying again." Sprout explains, going so far as to place a finger above one of the stems. The geranium attempts to bite her, but is only met with leather. "Better put him back, Black. He's a lost cause."

"Alright." Elio mumbles, feeling stupid. It doesn't help that Davies is grinning smugly to himself, as though he could do any better. Elio bets he's just in this class for the easy grade. Not even that good a Quidditch Captain.

As Elio returns his geranium back to the bench, a force hits the back of his heels. Before he can even register what is happening, he's falling. His head hits the legs of the stool and the chair clatters to the ground somewhere near his head. The flower pot, miraculously, survives the fall. The frenzied geraniums snap at his face, little teeth digging into the skin of his cheek.

Davies stands above him, a look of false concern painted across his face. He's the culprit, of that Elio is sure. In the corner of his eye, Elio catches one flower lurch forward. His hair is caught between its little fang. With a quick tug, it cuts his hair. Davies cut his hair. His hair is uneven and not in any dramatic way, that might warrant Pomfrey using some Hair-Gro on it. Just enough that he'll know, it'll continue to bother him until he gets the rest cut and he wasn't ready for a haircut yet. Davies has embarrassed him in front of everyone and ensured it lasts longer than any fertiliser might.

Elio doesn't realise he's done it until it's happened, but he pushes himself up. Then he pushes Davies off his chair. They fall together. Whether it be fate or Quidditch-honed reflexes, something saves their fall from any serious damage. But that isn't the damage that truly matters.

Sirius Black's son sits atop the student he just attacked, still gripping his collar, and receives the first detention of his life. Within hours, word has spread that Sirius Black's son assaulted a classmate unprovoked. Within seconds, Elio confirmed everything they already thought.

*

Hallway duty, though a great honour, is utterly dull. Percy would have thought, as Head Boy, he might have grown too important to be strolling the halls. But, alas, even the mighty must enforce the curfew. Even Head Boy must suffer the disrespect of students blatantly breaking school rules, acting as though he is the one in the wrong. At least, on those evenings, he can dish out punishments. Other nights, all he can think is this time would be better served studying.

Percy had been starting to suspect this night might be the latter. The halls are as quiet as a crypt, not a soul out of place. Except Peeves — but that is to be expected with the poltergeist. Percy's patrol partner is Dedworth, one of the Slytherins Percy naturally has very little to do with. It was immediately and mutually agreed that they would split the grounds. So he doesn't even have the company of a patrol guard, as he might usually — if it were Penelope or someone else he was fond of (which, in actuality, is not that many people).

The dull evening is made regrettably eventful by the sudden appearance of Elio Black, who is quickly making himself one of Percy's least favourite people to come across. At least, with most Slytherins, their presence is just one of disdain — some predictable bullying that centres around Percy's name, socioeconomic status, and high achievements. But Elio... That just means trouble.

"Black!" Percy calls out, only to be ignored. In fact, he's quite certain Elio picks up his pace. "Black, I'll have you know that it is past curfew and you are not a prefect. You should be back in your dormitory."

Elio does not listen. Percy curses the day he walked up to their table.

"Lord Black," It pains Percy to refer to him as such, but saying Elio's first name feels like a sin and this is a situation that calls for full names. He channels his mother as he continues, "If you do not stop, I will deduct so many points from Slytherin, you have zero chance of winning the Cup this year."

This brings the other boy to a halt. He turns on his heels, hands on his hips. It's the first chance Percy has to properly take in his appearance — dressed in fancy, silk pyjamas, right down to a pair of slippers, hair dishevelled. He's ready for bed, though he looks far from tired. There's a wired glint to his wide eyes, something concerning in his expression.

"You can't do that, actually. You can only deduct ten points for breaking curfew." Elio retorts and he looks as though he's ready to leave again.

"I will find a way, Black. Trust me." Percy assures him. He will. If it means he can hold anything over Elio, he will do it. "Why are you out past curfew?"

Elio does not deserve the benefit of the doubt, but there is something in his appearance that gives Percy pause. Why would someone as impeccable as Elio run around in such a state, if not for a valid reason?

"I think there's a security breach." Elio says with such conviction, it hits Percy's stomach like lead in water. And then, like anything with Elio, he keeps going. "I was in bed, about to fall asleep, when I remembered I hadn't finished my Alchemy essay. And it got me thinking about the Philosopher's Stone — which is crazy, right — but it was here. In fourth year. Potter found it. I remember hearing about this three-headed dog and I was going to go check it out, but I couldn't — anyway, if Potter could get past it, anyone could. But it's probably gone now and You-Know-Who got in that way. If You-Know-Who can get in there, Black probably can, too. I need to go check, Perseus. What if that's how he's getting in?"

The scramble of words is so incomprehensible that Percy very nearly misses the mention of You-Know-Who. Nearly. But the words catch his ear and he feels ice cold terror wash over him. Ginny and the diary wasn't the first incursion. There have been more. More importantly — no one thought to mention the most evil wizard in modern history has been repeatedly attacking Hogwarts?

"How do you know You-Know-Who was here?" Percy asks first. To which Elio only vaguely gestures at himself, as if this should explain it. It does, once Percy thinks about it — the Blacks have always been as prejudice as they come, closely tied to the Malfoys as well. If anyone were to have insider knowledge, it would be Elio. "I'm sure the teachers have already thought of this. Besides, You-Know-Who couldn't have got in by himself. It was likely Quirrell — considering that was the cover story."

"Quirrell still got You-Know-Who in. There has to be a gap." Elio insists. "I have to check."

"You won't. Not only is it out of bounds, it's past curfew." Elio opens his mouth to argue, but Percy pushes on. "You enlisted me to keep you within the bounds of the rules, Black. This is way out of bounds. They might expel you, Black."

"The Stone isn't there anymore, they'll probably be more lenient." There's a breath. Percy can see, in slow motion, the thoughts crossing past Elio's face. And yet, he's powerless to stop it. "I have to see, Weasley."

Then he's off. Running down the hall with all the speed of a Chaser at peak fitness. Percy cannot, in good conscience, let him go. Tempting though it may be, he can't knowingly let Elio break these rules. But he is strangely reluctant to bring justice down on Elio, to go find a teacher to deal with it. Elio doesn't exactly seem in his right state of mind and it feels unfair. Though Percy would like to see him get his just desserts — not like this, not when he can't enjoy it. So, too, does he run.

Percy has never prioritised fitness. When his siblings played Quidditch, he played reluctant referee. Academics was where he shone and it was a better use of time to focus on that, instead. There was never any chance of him catching Elio, stopping him before he reaches his destination. All he can do is try to keep the other boy in sight, not fall too far behind.

When Elio finally stops outside the furthest right door on the third door, Percy's lungs are aflame. His legs ache like they've never ached before and he prays he never has to run that fast again. Elio, on the other hand, breathes heavily but Percy suspects that's more indicative of his emotional state than his fitness. He's seen him on the field.

"You're not stopping me, Weasley. We've come this far." Elio warns. His wand is out. Oh, Merlin, his wand is out. What has Percy got himself into?

Heralding Percy's demise, a cat's meow breaks through the silence. He and Filch have never truly got along, a clash of authority has left Filch always out to get him. But Percy keeps a pristine record and he has never got the chance. Until now. Tonight shall be Percy's fall and it shall be at Elio's hand.

It is Elio's hand that prolongs the end, grabbing Percy's and pulling him into the room. The door creaks tellingly behind them, announcing their location. They are doomed. The room is empty and there is no security breach. They have been doomed for naught.

The pair unwittingly, coincidentally fall into a harmonious team. Percy fretfully eyes the door, ready for any intruder - expecting his demise, while Elio begins his frantic investigations. The trapdoor in the centre of the room remains unguarded, but it's immovable. Though Elio pulls at it, it refuses to budge. He casts unlocking charms to no avail.

An explosion behind Percy startles his gaze from the door. Elio's wand remains pointed at the unharmed trapdoor.

"It's not going to work because there is no breach in security. They thought of this already." Percy hisses through clenched teeth. "You have got us both in trouble for nothing."

"Every door has to open," is Elio's distracted response.

"Are you trying to create a breach? Are you actively trying to get us all killed?" Percy continues and he misses the footsteps on the other side of the door, the muffled meowing of Mrs. Norris. "I thought expulsion was going to be the worst of our problems, but I'm starting to think you've gone insane, Black!"

"You're not supposed to be here. It's out of bounds!" Filch calls from the other side of the door, the horseman of Percy's death.

"We're not getting expelled and we're not going to die, Perseus." As the handle creaks, Elio casts a locking spell. On the other side of the door, Filch grunts. He pushes. And then he realises he's been beat.

"Black, what are you doing? If we give ourselves up now, he might be lenient–"

"It's Filch — when is he lenient?" Elio retorts, pacing. They're both pacing. Percy is the picture of panic and Elio that of thought.

"Well, perhaps not lenient. But it just gives him more grounds to– to do anything!"

"He can't do anything. I'm Lord Black."

"And I'm a Weasley! We are not afforded the same luxuries, Black." Percy rues the day he met someone as self-centred, entitled, self-destructive, and ensnaring as Elio Black. He's certain he'll regret that again and again for as long as he remains in his life. And, considering Percy aspires for Ministry, that will likely be a very long time.

Despite Elio's best efforts, the door finally swings open. A chain of endless keys hangs in the door, a charm no match for good old fashioned muggle gadgets. He grins as he takes in the sight before him.

"Well, well, well, Black and Weasley." Filch tuts his tongue gleefully, like Christmas has come again. "Knew I'd catch you both eventually."

*

The day is warming up by the time everyone is settled into the pitch's stands. It's by no means warm, but the cold is starting to lose its painful bite. It's not the sort that seeps into your bones and clings, even after you've doused yourself with heating charms and rugged up beside the fire. It's just cold. Layers of clothing and the fires on the stands protect against it easily.

The stands feel strangely quiet without Elio amongst them. Percy, too, though Oliver hasn't seen together in the last few days. He suspects an argument occurred, while he was absent. Without his usual group, Oliver sits with the other Gryffindors, Harry on one side and Angelina on the other.

"This'll be a pretty tight match." Oliver predicts, to Harry's attentive ear. The younger boy has far more patience than the rest of the team. "Slytherin'll cheat but Ravenclaw pushes the rule book just enough to keep up. It'll be down to whether Page can hold against the Chasers."

"Do you think he has a chance?" Harry asks.

"Maybe. Depends on if he's prepared for Black. On a Firebolt, no less." Oliver answers, considering the Ravenclaw Keeper's chance. It's slim, probably. "We better hope he's not. We need Slytherin to win this match."

Harry grimaces.

"It's the long game, Harry. They get this win now, so we can secure the Cup." Oliver assures the younger, patting his shoulder. "Lose the battle, win the war."

When Elio steps out onto the field, ushered in by Jordan's commentary with the rest of the team, he's talking animatedly to Montague. Whatever he's saying is punctuated by wild gestures, too dramatic to be anything strategic. As they take their positions, he's still chatting. Hooch doles out the rules and Elio doles out the gossip.

Right up until that first whistle blows, he doesn't stop. It is only how easily he grows concentration that Oliver suspects it all a ploy. Oliver wouldn't be the only one watching the Chasers. If he's a good Keeper, Page would be scanning them all, assessing their state. He'd spot two of them so unbothered and — if he's the nervous sort — it would put him off his game.

As Oliver suspected, it's a fairly even match. The second the game is on, the air is abuzz with players flitting about on their brooms. It is difficult to follow at first, all going as hard as they can. Several calls for foul are made — only three are legitimate.

When Elio and Davies crash into one another, Hooch blows the whistle. Davies is wincing, clutching his shoulder. Elio is yelling. It's Slytherin's foul and the free shot goes to Davies. Though Oliver can't hear him, he can see Elio trying to argue it. Only a look — the look — from Hooch quietens him, though not before the finger is flipped at Davies.

The play is utterly see-through to Oliver, who's so used to catching those tricks from Slytherins. You get good at spotting the trap, when every trick under the sun is hurled at you. But, he realises, the rest of the crowd only sees a Slytherin. They only expect the tricks from the Slytherin, not the Ravenclaw. Truth be told, Oliver has never seen Davies play like this. This is personal.

He'd heard the rumours. He'd be hard pressed not to. Elio had showed up at Alchemy after the now-infamous Herbology lesson a silent, sullen shadow. No words passed between them, save for the minimum required to complete the lesson. Something happened, though Oliver had suspected the rumours are only an exaggerated half-truth. Watching Davies now, he's sure of that.

Grant Page is a good Keeper, especially considering how green he is. The second year is outsized by the older Chasers who have years of experience on him but he holds his own. His only weakness is he hasn't gone up against Slytherin before. He likely isn't used to Chasers that aim for the head, not the hoops. Even Elio, in all his usual fairness, is a terror on the field.

Elio is good. He's excellent. Easily the best Chaser of the year, if not the entirety of Oliver's schooling. He'd shown up in third year a dark horse, having missed most of second. Oliver is grateful for that one year's reprieve, that he wasn't getting into the swing of the things alongside Elio. Third year Elio had none of the restraint sixth year Elio has gained.

The Firebolt certainly helps, too. The first time Oliver has seen it in air in person, since Percy had kept him from its flight because "essays take priority, the Firebolt is not going anywhere". It cuts through the air like butter and Oliver has never seen a smoother ride. Elio is its perfect rider, pushing it to its limit. He moves faster than light, only to pull back suddenly — as though it's nothing. Sometimes, Black makes it look as though he was born on a broom, as if it's just an extension of himself. He makes flying look like an art form.

Trying for a goal, Elio throws the Quaffle as though he was aiming for the head. Page flinches. Elio scores.

As he high-fives Montague, Elio lingers for a second longer than necessary. Whispers pass between them, a nod of the head back toward the goals. Quick fingers then pass a message onto Flint: Want a Double Decker?

This match's theme is food, evidently. Once Oliver had realised the Slytherins communicated with sign language, he'd spent a month studying it only to find out they code their messages. He'd cracked their code one match, only to discover they change every match.

Elio doesn't try the same trick twice. Not exactly. Oliver soon discovers what a Double Decker means this match. Once Page has realised Elio isn't above feints, the attempts to psyche him out take a different form. Instead, it's Montague's feint. Three times, he does exactly as predicted — goes for the Keeper, rather than the goal. Then, on the fourth, Montague looks as though he's going to follow through with that same plan. Only to throw the Quaffle to Elio at the very last second.

Elio scores again.

As he flies nearby, Oliver can hear him cackling. He leans back, clapping his hands together. Somehow, he doesn't even look at risk of falling.

That game must grow old to Elio, as he doesn't trick Page again. He leaves that to his two teammates. When the Quaffle strays from the Ravenclaw goal, Elio hangs back. He's no use to his teammates if he won't play dirty. His talent lies in the goal-scoring. The other two beat their way back into possession, then relinquish control over to their point-winner.

Except for once, when a cleverly placed taunt from Davies pulls Elio back into the game. There's a crash and this is one of Elio's doing — if only because Hooch misses the foul. Even Oliver can't spot where the intention occurred. He only knows because Elio is smirking triumphantly, like he won something.

It's quickly wiped off his face. Oliver doesn't know who is at fault — if anyone is at fault or if it's a case of pure bad luck. Out of nowhere, a bludger suddenly hurtles toward the younger boy. It's quite clear Elio acts on pure instinct. There's little chance for him to truly think about his actions before he's punching the ball out of the way. He all but screams as he almost falls off his broom. When he stabilises himself, he's holding his arm gingerly.

"Do your fucking job right!" Elio's voice carries over as he growls at the closest Slytherin Beater. There's an edge to his voice that turns it into a shriek.

"Merlin's balls, that's gotta hurt — His Lordship's only gone and bloody punched a bludger!" Jordan's commentary calls out, ensuring everyone's attention is on the Chaser. The hand that hangs at his side is dripping — undoubtedly blood — and his fingers underneath the guard don't look quite right. Quite quickly, the visible parts of his sweater turn a dirty brown. "Is he going to call for timeout? That looks nasty."

Elio doesn't. The rest of his team hasn't stopped playing and, clearly, he has no intention of doing so either. Flint, while being chased by the Ravenclaws, throws the ball to Elio. Miraculously, Elio catches it, twisting his broom with his legs alone. The Quaffle is tucked under his injured arm and he continues to play with only one functioning.

"Looks like Black is going to keep on playing!"

Somehow, he scores. Oliver wonders, based on the shocked etched across Page's face, if the other Keeper just didn't expect him to keep on going.

And Elio doesn't stop. When Flint realises what's happened, he hovers near him for a few seconds, only to be pushed away by the younger. The Captain has a reluctant frown on his face and some words pass between them, but the game picks up too much for them to sit idly. It's Elio who returns to the game first. He shoots toward Davies and uses that momentum to keep moving forward while he removes his only good hand from the broom. He manages to snatch the Quaffle from the Chaser's grip, still hurtling forward. He barely manages to shove the Quaffle between his bad arm and his side before he stops himself from crashing into one of the stands.

He misses this goal. This marks the start of several missed goals, though it's hardly unexpected. The injury has forced him to move to his non-dominant hand — anyone who's had to defend against him knows he favours his right. While he would still rival his own teammates' skills, he's lost the speed that usually distinguishes his play. Elio throws like bullets, with an unsettlingly amount of accuracy. That's his strength. Here, he's having to adapt while playing.

This should have given Ravenclaw a chance to catch up. But they're struggling. No one can keep a hold of the Quaffle long enough to move it down Slytherin's side. The other Chasers have risen to Elio's energy, enabling his insanity. They're playing the dirtiest yet — but they're good. Hooch hasn't been able to call a single foul yet.

Oliver's attention is glued to Elio. He should be watching the entire team, assessing what he's up against this year. Pure, bloody lunacy — if Elio is any indicator. It's hard to look at anything else. It's like watching a broom collision. Worse, even.

After Ravenclaw manages to score a goal, a frown passes over Elio's expression. He's hovering near Oliver, so the other boy sees all the thoughts as they occur. He considers something, chewing his lip.

Then, he yells out to Draco, "Get that bloody Snitch soon."

That marks the beginning of the end for Ravenclaw, of what can only be considered some strange form of self-imposed torture.

It hadn't seemed like Elio had been playing it safe. It didn't seem like the Slytherin is even capable of playing it safe. But as he sheds any sense of self-preservation and care like a dead skin, it becomes abundantly clear that he had been. Elio throws himself at the Quaffle with reckless abandon. Gone is his care and precision, replaced with brute force. When Page blocks one attempt with his body, it looks as though all the wind is knocked out of him. Like Icarus, Elio soars.

And like Icarus, he falls. One of the Beaters knocks the bludger toward him and, fortunately, he has enough sense to dodge this one. He swings down right before it makes impact, hanging from the broom by his knees. This angle allows a brief, better look at his injured arm: only his guard seems to be keeping it in place, as there's a bit of something pale sticking out his sweater. Then, with only one hand, he defies his fate. He pulls himself back up, retrieves the Quaffle he'd lost, and scores.

The match is ended by Cho's hand. She holds the Snitch high above her head with no triumphant, just pure concern — a plea, almost. Slytherin still wins, 200 to 180. Despite this, there are a surprising number of non-Slytherin cheers amongst the crowd. Oliver suspects they're all just celebrating the performance Elio has given them. The boy is dripping with sweat as he lands. He manages to plant two feet on the ground, dismounting his broom.

And then he's down.

The teachers must have been expecting this. They're levitating him to the Hospital Wing before anyone else has any chance to react to the collapse. No one is allowed to follow, though that doesn't stop some hopefuls.

Oliver sits outside the Hospital Wing with Cedric, watching people come and go with flowers, cards and sweets. His performance has born Elio anew, returned his reputation to its former glory. Lord Black — Just Like His Father is dead. Lord Black the Spectacle has returned and, naturally, no one seems to have any concern for how that was earned.