6.
The Low Hanging Fruit

THE second class starts, it's chaos. Early in the morning, Remus is met with the cries of thirteen years demanding that they never be left with Snape again, proclaiming him as the worst Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher they've ever had the misfortune of having (and they were taught by Lockhart, as Seamus reminds him). He listens patiently because they seem genuinely upset and he doesn't want to make them feel unheard. But he doubts, even if he wanted to, he wouldn't have a chance to speak over them.

"We don't know anything about werewolves!" One student calls out, high above the rest. It's the first insight Remus has been given into what exactly Snape taught them — as both he and the Potions master have been avoiding one another since the full moon — and the revelation rolls over him like a cold shower. The choice to skip ahead to the very affliction that caused him to be absent from the class feels like a pointed jab, a threat. As more information on the lesson is revealed, it starts to feel even more nefarious.

Two rolls of parchment worth of information on how to spot and kill a werewolf. That had been Snape's homework. As far as Dumbledore had made clear, the other professor has promised not to expose Remus as a werewolf — which Dumbledore trusts, which means Remus trusts it as well. But that doesn't mean Snape can't give the students all the information they need, guide them to the right conclusion, and have them do all the work for him. It doesn't mean he can't fill their heads with all the fear and hatred he has, and ensure the next generation comes out just as prejudice as he is. The slimy bastard.

Though all Remus feels is anger, he has no choice but to smile kindly at the students as he tries to calm their woes.

"Don't worry, I'll have a word with Professor Snape." He says, once they've all had their say. "You won't have to do that essay. Though I hope you all won't mind if we touch on that topic again later, when we're actually up to it. I'd like to make sure you're taught what I think you need to know."

The rest of the class passes easily. He teaches them about the wispy Hinkypunk, which looks more like smoke than anything corporeal, and they seem to engage with the information easily. The small glass box is passed around the classroom, with the promise that they all be incredibly careful — because if the glass shatters, they could all be in severe danger. Or so he tells them, to ensure they really are careful. The danger is real, but Remus is confident he would be able to get it under control if a situation would occur. He wouldn't put them in any situation where the danger couldn't be easily controlled.

"They like to lure travellers off their paths, at night. I suppose they get fewer muggle victims since the invention of cars — muggle transportation, for those who don't know." He explains. "The glass has confined this one to its natural state but, usually, they disguise themselves as a helpful friend with a lantern. They act as though they are leading you to safety, and instead lead you straight into a bog."

The Hinkypink shrieks, startling the girl holding it. Fortunately, she doesn't drop it; instead, she passes it along rather quickly, eyes wide.

After class, as he's going to find Snape, Remus steps out of the room and instead finds Hermione waiting for him. The girl has a deeply thoughtful expression on her face that disappears into a smile once she notices him.

"Hello, Professor Lupin. Class was great today." She greets him. "Do you need to be somewhere? I can walk and talk, if you want."

"I was just headed to lunch." He had meant for that to mean he's in no rush, and they can stay here if she wants, but Hermione starts walking. Her pace is slow enough that it isn't too painful for him — something he doesn't tend to receive from people who are unaware of his affliction.

"I tried to tell Professor Snape where we were at in content, but he was very intent on teaching us about werewolves." Hermione explains as they walk, looking up at him. It only feeds the fire burning away inside of the older man. "I was wondering if you would be willing to look at my essay, still. I've already finished it and I hate not knowing if it's correct."

Remus doesn't want to read an essay written by a student on how to kill a werewolf, no matter how excellent the student. But he also doesn't want to disappoint the younger girl or discourage her academic studies. So, instead, he offers her the kindest smile he can — his 'I am not a dangerous predator' smile, that he has had plenty of time to perfect.

"How about you hold onto it until we have reached that topic and, after that lesson, I'll read it. That way, if you think any corrections need to be made based off what I teach you, you have a chance to do that before I look." He suggests, as gently as he can. "While I don't think Professor Snape is a poor teacher," He does, "I suspect we have very different teaching styles and I want to ensure you have all the information."

"Oh. I understand." From the look on her face, it seems Remus's plan was a success. And he thinks he can trust that Hermione wears her heart on her sleeve, as that has been the case for most of this year. If the girl doesn't like something, she is either vocal about it or lets her face do all the talking. "Thank you, professor."

"My pleasure."

"I hope you're feeling better, too." There's a pause, as if she's unsure whether she's overstepped. She then explains further, "Professor Snape said you were unwell."

"I was, but I'm recovering. Your concern is very much appreciated, Miss Granger."

The girl keeps Remus company, comfortably silent, for only a little longer — before their paths diverge with a warm farewell from Hermione. Finally alone, Remus is able to hunt down the Slytherin head. He's still seething, the feeling only festering like an open wound, by the time he reaches the Great Hall. The greasy git is on lunch duty, supervising the students eating and studying in the hall. He watches Remus with suspicion as the younger male takes a seat beside him.

"I know what you're trying to do." Remus says as he piles his plate with food. He maintains a pleasant smile, a light tone, because he won't have any students looking over and thinking they're arguing. "My students told me you skipped ahead in their content to teach them about werewolves, then set them an essay on how to identify and kill one."

"It's hardly my fault your inadequate teaching has caused them to fall so far behind. I only wanted to ensure they learned something in your class." Snape responds, as unpleasant as always.

"I doubt your heart is capable of such altruism, Snivellus." The childhood nickname manages to draw out an angry flinch from Snape, long-held resentment flashing in his eyes. It was always James or Sirius' favourite insult — the two with the greatest rivalry with the other man. Remus hopes, when he hears it, Snape also hears James. He hopes that, despite all the time that has passed, he remembers he's still dealing with a Marauder. The smartest Marauder, Remus would argue. And Remus is more than willing to fight this war, if Snape wants it. "I'm the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, not you, and so I think I would know what is an adequate pace for learning. What I think you're doing is trying to ensure you were able to fill my students' heads with your biases."

"And you won't?" Snape retorts. "Or had you just planned on avoiding the topic entirely?"

"I have every intention of teaching them about werewolves, when we reach it; and I am confident when I do, it will be with far less prejudice than you." Remus answers. "If you're incapable of sticking to the schedule I have them on, I'll speak to the headmaster about finding a new replacement for when I'm ill."

And, with that, Remus takes his plate and leaves. He won't have Snape's foul presence souring his lunch. Nor will he allow him to have the last word. Leave him burning with discontentment, thinking of all the things he could have said.

The library is full of sighs Tuesday afternoon. Oliver Wood and Percy Weasley sit across from one another, sharing a table full of the redhead's books, scrolls, quills, and inkwells. Both boys, as is tradition at this point, have been exiled from their usual groups. Though most would argue that they are each other's group, neither would admit that. Their interests are too different for them to even believe they have an ounce of common ground. And yet, both are too intense in their interests, too disruptive, and as such are forbidden to study with their friends. So, instead, they study together.

Not that Oliver is studying — not in the same way Percy is studying. Much to the other boy's dismay, he's using this time to instead flick through Quidditch: 101 Strategies and Moves, which he thinks he must have read 101 times. Percy has tried to convince him to do some homework or study some actual schoolwork over and over, to no avail. The older boy sits with his feet resting on one of the spare chairs, idling flipping through the pages. He could probably read this book with his eyes shut, but it's the act of reading that matters. While reading the titles, skimming the words, he's provided a means of focusing on one particular aspect, rather than getting lost in the entire game.

"Have you seen my quill?" Percy asks as he begins rummaging around the table and the mess atop it.

"In your hand, maybe." Oliver suggests, not looking up from his book. He hears the other boy sigh heavily and he knows he's staring at him with the most unimpressed expression possible. "The wind will change if you're not careful."

"I put it down for a second and it's vanished." Percy responds, ignoring the comment.

If two Beaters can be trained to work in sync, their attacks become even more powerful. Hitting a Bludger with two bats can pack twice the punch, likely to incapacitate the target. Of course, with double the power can reduce the accuracy...

Oliver needs to organise some one-on-one training with the twins.

"Did you drop it?" There's some creaking as Percy leans over, glancing under the table.

"No."

"Is it hidden under all your parchments?"

"No."

"I don't know where it is then."

"Maybe it was Fred and George. Vanishing my quill is just the sort of thing they'd do. They know how important this year is to me." The younger boy grumbles. Oliver doesn't think he really believes the twins stole his quill. It would be the sort of thing they'd do, but not at school. At school, they have bigger fish to fry than their older brother. So, Oliver doesn't respond, flicking loudly to a new page. So engrossed in reading about Seeker tactics, he doesn't realise they have company until Percy, voice full of annoyance and suspicion, says, "Hello, Black. Diggory."

Now, Oliver glances up. Sure enough, Elio and Cedric stand beside the desk. The Slytherin is looking down his nose at Percy, putting on such an air of snootiness it can't be anything but exaggerated. But then, it's impossible to tell with the Black boy. That's why he's so terrifying. One second, he almost seems normal; the next, he looks as though he'd have his house elf push you off a cliff if you even breathed the wrong way.

Instinctively, Oliver pushes his Quidditch notes away, placing his book on top to hide them from sight. He doesn't think Cedric would intentionally peek at his plans, too much of a Hufflepuff to play the game anything but fair. And he doesn't think particularly poorly of Elio, even if he is unreadable, but he's still a Slytherin. The biggest threat to Oliver's victory this year. He doesn't want to leave that temptation out, not when he's already aware Flint has practically sent out a warrant on him.

"Hey Weasley. Wood." Elio greets them, now smiling widely. Too widely. He oozes with Pureblood charm that mars any of the natural charm he might have. Cedric remains his silent watcher and looks strangely unhappy to be here — begrudging.

"What do you want?" Percy asks bluntly, clearly unhappy with the interruption. For some reason, Elio takes this as an invitation to sit down. The redhead's jaw clenches together as the opposite of what he wanted happens. But Elio pulls a chair out, settling down so he can face Oliver. He leans against the table on his elbow, resting his head in his hand. Percy is clearly not his interest; he doesn't even try to hide that.

"I have a proposition for you, Wood. I need your help."

"What with?"

"Catching Sirius Black." This answer, said so matter-of-factly, causes Percy to splutter. Elio raises a hand, not even looking at the older boy, and silence with a gesture. Despite being the intruder with an outlandish suggestion, he holds all the power. His eyes are glued to Oliver, so serious the other boy is inclined to believe this isn't a joke. "I need to find him, but I'm trying to outsmart the guy who escaped Azkaban–"

"Not to mention a mass murderer." Percy interrupts.

"We need something genius if we're going to catch him. You're the mastermind when it comes to these things; so, if we combine forces, we might be able to do it."

"I've never tried to catch a criminal before. I wouldn't call myself a mastermind." Elio's mask cracks as genuine amusement shines through. A smile pulls at his lips, the corners twitching as he fights it. What settles in its place is a smirk, one more befitting an imp or fay trying to lure some ill-fated person into a trap. Oliver can see the danger; it stares him right in the face. He doesn't run.

"You know what I mean."

"Why would I want to catch Black? It sounds like a death trap."

"Harry Potter. For as long as Black is out there, Potter isn't going to be able to focus on Quidditch completely. Black might try and hurt him, dementors will put him off his game, and there's every risk the Cup might get cancelled again. We catch Black, we get rid of the risk, you get to try and beat us fair and square." It's such an obvious carrot to dangle in front of Oliver. The worst is, it almost works. But, it's not enough. There's too much at risk. The younger boy seems to sense this, as he continues, "If you help me, I'll teach you how to ward off dementors. You can teach the rest of your team and make sure they're protected. I haven't even taught the Slytherin team this — so that's already an advantage."

"He really hasn't." Cedric finally pipes up, in support of his friend. "He doesn't have the patience for teaching."

"But I'll make a special exception for you." That final word is accompanied with a finger gun in Oliver's direction. Still, the Gryffindor hesitates. And still, Elio senses that. "Not only that, but I will buy you a ticket to the World Cup and whoever you want to take — within a certain amount of reason. Take your entire family, if you want, but don't invite the entire school. I'd be murdered. But they will be the best seats you've ever sat in."

"Oliver, this is your final year. You can't afford to get distracted by–" Percy starts. Unfortunately, Oliver answers before he can finish his lecture.

"Deal." Oliver accepts. He's not even sure it is the payment that has him agreeing. It sweetens the deal, sure, but he thinks he just doesn't want to say no to Black. That boy really is dangerous. Oliver wonders, briefly, if the fay have ever interloped with humans, if there could be any supernatural blood in the Black line. "But, if it starts getting too dangerous, I reserve the right to pull out. Until then, so long as I'm not late for training, I'm all yours."

"Brilliant. Really brilliant. Thank you, Wood." The mask is entirely shattered in Elio's gratitude. His smile turns his eyes into crescents; they almost look closed. That's how Oliver knows it's genuine — none of his other smiles have lit up his face quite like this one. Not to mention, when they shake hands, he's a little too eager, a little too tight-gripped.

"Have you all forgotten that this is entirely against the school rules?" Percy hasn't given up.

"I didn't realise trapping Sirius Black was written down in the school rules." Elio says dryly as his gaze turns to Percy. Though he's put on the snobbish expression back on, his eyes are still twinkling. "You'll have to show me where it says 'students may not chase Sirius Black'."

"Student endangerment, for one. If you leave school grounds, that would be another. It doesn't have to explicitly be about Black to break the rules."

"Then by all means, come along and make sure we don't." Elio's voice takes on a light, almost melodious tone and his lips curl into a grin. He's enjoying this. Percy, on the other hand, is quite clearly not. Oliver had thought he was the bane of the redhead's existence, but now he's thinking the other boy just hadn't meant Elio yet. "And if we do get caught, you'll get the glory of catching us red-handed."

"I'm not interested in catching you all red-handed when I can put a stop to this now."

"What about the glory of catching Black? If this succeeds, we'd be famous — heroes. We'd be doing what the dementors couldn't." There's a brief pause, as Elio's gaze rakes the Gryffindor boy with an analytic glint. "The Minister would have to get involved."

Somehow, within minutes of knowing him, Elio knows exactly what to say to tempt Percy. The redhead sits up a little straighter, acting as if he's unimpressed, as if he's above that prize.

"Unlike some people, I'm not motivated by glory, Black." He retorts, blinding jabbing the boy.

"Of course not." Elio clearly doesn't believe him. With a sigh, he sits back in his chair. "Well, you'd better run off to Dumbledore then, because I'm not going to quit. I need to speak to my father before the dementors get him and I'll do that with or without you."

"Elio," Cedric says softly, pressing a hand on the Slytherin's shoulder, a quiet warning. It goes unnoticed by Elio, who's caught in a staring contest with Percy.

Surprisingly, with a huff, Percy caves, "I refuse to have my studies sabotaged by this mission. But, I also won't let Oliver take the fall with you."

Oliver doubts he really is the sole motivation for Percy's acceptance. He knows the glory would have tempted him, but he's never known the younger to be reckless for the sake of achievement. Percy has always got what he wanted through perseverance and calculation. If it weren't for his family's disdain for the house, he would have been a Slytherin — Oliver is sure. He suspects what is actually motivating Percy is his mother and the letter she sent once the news of Sirius Black's break-in reached her. He's under strict orders to protect not only his family from the criminal, but Harry too. The best way to protect him is to get rid of the risk, which Elio has offered.

"Glad to have you on the team." The intensity melts away from Elio's face like butter, a smile shining through like the moon behind clouds. "I think we should get past this Quidditch match, then Sunday, maybe, we meet up. The weekend is easier to organise a time that doesn't clash with studying."

"Works for me." Oliver agrees easily. The day after the match, his team is usually either recovering from their injuries or the victory party, so there's very little opportunity for practice. All he can do is update his notes and start preparing for the next match.

"I don't suppose I have any say in the matter, but I have a meeting with the prefects in the morning. After lunch would be best for me." Percy adds.

"After lunch work for you?" Elio asks over his shoulder to where Cedric is still standing.

"It's fine. Though, I'm obligated to remind you I think this is a horrible idea — one last time." The Hufflepuff answers with a sigh.

"Your criticism is noted and filed away in the 'I told you so' cabinet. Until then, I'm not listening." The older boy retorts. He turns back to Oliver with a smile. In a fluid, poised motion, he rises to his feet and readjusts his robes in one go. He tries to look casual, but there's too much refinement in his movements. "Now that that is sorted, I suppose I'd better leave you to your preparations for Saturday. Give me a good match to watch, won't you?"

Elio struts. He walks as if he doesn't have a single care in the world. As if he's untouchable. But Oliver thinks with plans like his, he probably has quite a few cares.

Percy lets out a frustrated sigh in the silence that follows, throwing his hands up in the air.

"I'm going to have to get a new quill." Then, as Oliver goes to pick up his book, "We have several essays due in tomorrow that I know you haven't started."

"And I'll start them later."

"This is your final year, Wood–"

"I know, Weasley. I'm using my time wisely, winning this Quidditch Cup."

"Shut up, you two." One of the nearby students beats Pince to scolding them. Of course, that draws the librarian's attention and her terrifying shushing silences them all.

Percy sighs, staring disapprovingly at Oliver's book, before they both return to their individual studies.

*

The day of the match brings awful weather, the worst of the entire week. A storm rolls in the sky with heavy, painful rain that feels more like rocks than water. The Quidditch stands are charmed to keep the rain off them, but the audience is still smaller than usual. The wind is bitingly cold and there's no charms protecting against that. Not to mention the walk to the pitch, which has ensured everyone is thoroughly drenched. Even under his gloves, Elio's fingers feel as though they're about to drop off.

It's hard to keep track of what is happening on the pitch in the dark and miserable weather. The rain is almost impenetrable, creating a thick wall of water that turns everyone into a blur. Roaring winds drown out all sound, even Lee Jordan's commentary which is amplified above the rest. Cedric sits high above the pitch, more often an indistinguishable speck than anything else. It's even harder to see Harry, much smaller than the Hufflepuff Seeker and even higher up.

Lower on the pitch, the players are a blur of colours but they're easier to track. Elio is sat near the Gryffindor Keeper — Flint's orders — with Montague. They've been instructed to use the postponement of their Gryffindor match to study Oliver with an eagle eye, to find all his weaknesses. Never mind that they have the entire year before they have their game against Gryffindor and the Hufflepuff one before that. Elio is beginning to suspect Flint is less concerned about winning the Cup than he is just keeping it from Wood.

A Quaffle comes out of nowhere, hurtling past Oliver and into the goal. Even in bright yellow uniforms, it's still easy to lose a Hufflepuff in the rain. Especially at their speeds. As the points are scored, Elio lets out a cheer that is lost in the wind.

"This storm is only going to give us an idea of how he plays in awful weather!" Montague yells as he leans over to the other boy. "I don't think it's going to be like this when we play against him."

"I know, but– Merlin's bloody trousers, look at him go!" Elio's response is cut off by a save from the boy in question. It had looked like a sure goal, only for Oliver to swerve at the last minute and hit it with the edge of his broom. He scoops the Quaffle up on its descent and throws it back out into the field with ease, never breaking a sweat.  "I wish he wasn't on the other team. He is phenomenal to watch."

"Do you think he's cheating?"

"No way! He's a Gryffindor." As Oliver manages to stop yet another goal, Elio can't help but let out another cheer. All strategising is forgotten in favour of enjoying the game. "GET IT, WOOD!"

"Black, he's the enemy. You're not supposed to be celebrating with him." Montague complains, exasperated.

"What? It's just a game. Besides, I can appreciate talent and still recognise he's my enemy." Montague grumbles something that's lost in the wind and crosses his arms over his chest, hunched over in the cold. Suddenly, there's a flash of lightning that fills the sky. After the deafening thunder, Madam Hooch blows her whistle. "You don't think they're cancelling the game because of a little lightning, do you?"

"It was Wood. He's called for at time out." Montague explains as he points toward the Keeper, who's doing his best to gather his team. They're all scattered around the field and verbal communication is impossible. He's stuck waving his arms around and hoping they understand. When they've all huddled around the edge of the pitch, the younger Chaser leans forward as if it might help him hear their conversation. Even lipreading is unthinkable right now. "What do you reckon they're doing?"

"Adjusting their plans to fit the weather, probably. Or not - what's Potter's friend doing?"

"What? Oh, yeah, I see the mudblood." For his comment, Montague receives a rough hit to the back of his head. It pushes him forward, almost causing him to fall over the barrier. "Oi, Black!"

"Don't call her a mudblood. If you're going to try and insult her, at least be creative about it." Elio scolds the younger boy. "For all her 'dirty blood', she's still better than you."

"Merlin, alright, I didn't know you felt so strongly about that. Just don't go trying to kill me next time."

"I wouldn't be so obvious if I was trying to kill you." Elio responds casually. He doubts he'd ever try to kill anyone, but he likes messing with people anyway. The reputation that comes with his name and house makes the lies surprisingly believable and it's always fun watching the concern pass over their face. "She's charmed Potter's glasses."

"Surely that's cheating."

"Doubt it. It's only letting him see. Pretty clever, though." With Harry's problem solved, the teams are quick to return to the skies and the game resumes. The timeout seems to have invigorated everyone, especially with the Gryffindor Seeker now able to see. But, at the same time, the storm has worsened in the pause. Lightning is more frequent, thunder always close behind, and the rain pours so hard it's starting to break through the charms. It looks as though there might even be small pellets of hail hidden amongst the rain. Conversation is impossible, so Montague and Elio fall into concentrated silence as they do their best to follow the match.

With each ear-shattering crack of thunder, Elio's eyes nervously search for Cedric. The younger boy is always fine, but as the conditions worsen so does the Slytherin's concerns for him. Quidditch is a dangerous sport on a good day — but with the wind and rain, the risk of slipping is even greater. And Cedric is up so high.

Elio can't see the Snitch. It's too small and too far away to be visible. But he knows how to spot a Seeker who's found it. One of Flints' favourite tactics is placing pressure on Seekers that might be onto it, dedicating far too many practice sessions to playing 'Harass the Seeker'. Cedric finds it first, speeding off across the pitch. Distantly, Elio hears Oliver shouting and then Harry follows in close pursuit.

Up and up, they go, until they're consumed by some of the lower clouds.

And then down Harry falls.

He looks like a rag doll, clearly unconscious. His body is whipped around by the wind, twisting and turning. It all happens in an instant. Elio's body reacts on reflex, gripping Montague's arm tightly, as he cries out in horror. Unconsciously, he's almost certain he's about to see Harry die. All the trouble Death Eaters and You-Know-Who have gone to, and it's a fall that kills him. He hardly has time to react productively. No one does. Similar cries of horror rise up from the crowd around him, all reaching the same conclusion in the seconds they have.

Dumbledore, Elio will later find out, is the only person who manages to do anything useful. As Harry grows closer to the ground, his fall begins to slow unnaturally. It stabilises. By the time he's hit the ground, it's as if someone is just gently laying him down. The boy is covered by his teammates, then by closer students, and obscured from sight. Elio doesn't know what happened. He can't see what happened, can't see if Harry is alright. He'd have to be, surely, but it's impossible to tell.

When Harry is taken away on a stretcher, Elio follows. He feels out of place amongst the entourage of Gryffindors, so he hangs back at the edge of the group. Cedric is nearby, with Oliver.

"We'll have a rematch. Give Potter another chance." Cedric is offering desperately, guilt dripping from his tone.

"It's fine. You would've got it anyway." Oliver brushes him off. It's clear he's upset, but his need to be fair wins out. As they reach the edge of the pitch, he runs his hand down his face and sighs. He leaves, pulling his jumper over his head. In his departure, Elio takes his place, gluing himself to Cedric's side.

"It was awful. One second he's right behind me; the next, I turn around and he's falling." Cedric mutters as they walk. With the rain, even a mutter is turned into a shout. "I hate this. I'd rather we just had a rematch and gave him a fair go."

"If Wood thinks you would have won regardless, you probably would have. He'd be the first to call for a rematch if he thought things were unfair." Elio comforts the younger boy, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "Do you know why he fell?"

"Dementors. Merlin, there were so many..." Cedric shivers. "Even with them going after Potter over me, they still... It was awful."

Elio rummages through his pockets and finds a chocolate bar. He's not quite sure how old it is or how long it's been in his pocket, but it's better than nothing. It can't be too old — he eats them too often for it to be older than a week. Unpeeling it and shoving the wet wrapper back in his pocket, he passes the chocolate to Cedric.

"Thanks." Cedric wastes little time shoving the bar in his mouth, with no time for manners. He starts to look a little less sick as he does so. "We're up against Ravenclaw in a couple of weeks. You don't think it will be like that again, do you?"

"I don't think so. Not with your unlucky charm in that stretcher there."

The rest of the walk passes in silence. Once they reach the castle, Cedric detaches himself to go shower. His teeth had started chattering on the walk, entire body trembling, and it made Elio realise just how drenched he'd gotten. The Hufflepuff left with the promise that he'd have Pomfrey check him after, just to be safe. Elio stuck with the dwindling group of Quidditch players. He's not sure why he can't just walk away — he has barely any connection to the younger boy. To any of the others, he'd probably just look like a Slytherin trying to cause trouble.

In fact, that's exactly what Fred suggests as he drops his pace to fall in step with Elio, his twin on the other side. With a grin that barely conceals his concern, he says, "Not spying, are we, little Lord Black?"

"You're in the wrong place, if you are." George adds.

"I'm here for Potter." Elio explains, with a nod of his head toward the unconscious boy. "I want to make sure he's okay."

"Look at that, George — the Slytherin has a heart!"

"Shut up, Fred." The older boy nudges the redhead with his elbow, though he lacks the energy to maintain the bickering past that. "Is he okay?"

"Hard to tell. He fell pretty high."

"Nothing seems to be broken, though." George provides some comfort. "I doubt it's anything Pomfrey can't fix."

The group lapses into silence again. It's too cold and everyone is too stressed — or upset, about Harry or the match — to maintain any meaningful conversation.

Harry wakes up not long after arriving at the Hospital Wing. Pomfrey has run her checks, confirmed he's largely uninjured. When he wakes, the Gryffindors update him on what happened. Elio settles on one of the unused beds, sitting on the edge, watching him.

"We didn't lose?" It dawns on Elio then that Harry has never lost — not on the smaller scale. The desolation that passes over his expression betrays as much. He looks like someone experiencing that awful feeling of defeat for the first time.

"Diggory got the Snitch, just after you fell." George explains gently, breaking the news. "He wanted a rematch, but Wood won't accept. Even he knows they won fair and square. It's rotten luck, though."

"Where is Wood?" Harry asks as he notices his Captain's absence.

"Drowning himself in the showers, probably." Fred answers, with a snort. "He disappeared when we got off the pitch."

The joke is lost on the younger boy. He's too caught in his own disappointment, curling up into a ball with his head on his knees, fingers in his hair. Elio feels partially responsible. He isn't. It's Sirius Black's fault, if anyone's. It's his father's fault. That's enough for the wires to get crossed, for pity to turn into blame. Blame turns to anger — directed at his father — and Elio gets caught in that cycle again.

So, he does what he's supposed to. He detaches himself from the thing causing the hurt, to give himself time to breathe. Harry won't miss him. Probably doesn't even know he's there.

I am not at fault, Elio tells himself silently as he leaves the Hospital Wing. No one hates me and it's not my fault.

At first Oliver had assumed the footsteps now filling the Gryffindor showers were just one of his teammates, returning either to collect something they'd left or check on him. Then the person clears their throat and calls out, and he realises he was wrong.

"You alive in there, Wood?" Elio asks. It makes Oliver jump, far from the first person he'd expect to hear. He instantly grows concerned — there's any number of reasons the Slytherin might be visiting him while he's showering and none of them are particularly good. "Fred and George said you were trying to drown yourself."

"I'm not. I'm just thinking." Oliver calls out. It's his post-match ritual, one the twins like to make fun of every chance they get. After every match, after the pleasantries are out of the way and any speeches have been made, he cleans himself off as he runs through the events of the match. He finds the warm water helps his thoughts. This match had been particularly bad, earning a particularly long shower.

"It's only the first match. All is not lost." The other boy responds. Oliver can hear him tapping around the room, never settling for longer than a few seconds. He sounds as though he's pacing.

"I really am just thinking." Oliver says over the sound of the shower. Elio's comfort makes him feel as though he isn't being listened to, that the twins have painted him as someone who's been incredibly gutted by the loss. In an attempt to prove himself, his mouth keeps running even if he doesn't mean to, "Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw are in a few weeks and I need Ravenclaw to win–"

"Ravenclaw has a new Keeper. He's a second year." Elio interrupts. The information is surprisingly useful — Oliver had known the house had held their try outs, but hadn't managed to get his hands on their line up yet.

"Well, I need him to play well enough to maintain a 200 point margin. On his first match."

"Ravenclaw has some good Chasers. They should be able to carry him." It's strange having someone to talk Quidditch with. His team will normally humour him to an extent outside of practice, before they, in one way or another, politely tell him to shut up or talk about something else. Percy only enjoys watching Quidditch, so he often isn't any help. Sometimes they make trades where Percy can spend an hour using Oliver to study if Oliver gets the following hour for Quidditch. But he never has anything useful to say. Sometimes, there might be a gem, but that's rare. Outside of those two groups, Oliver doesn't have many friends.

"But if they don't–"

"There'll be other chances. The next match you have any amount of control over is against Ravenclaw, after Christmas." A voice of reason, simultaneously more gentle than the ones Oliver usually receives and far more authoritative. It's strange. Elio makes himself so easy to dislike, and then robs anyone of any chance to. "You should put your energy into that instead. Make sure Potter is able to deal with dementors, if they try again."

"I don't know how we're supposed to play in these conditions if the dementors keep coming onto the pitch." The reminder sends a flash of frustration through Oliver as he turns the shower off. The pipes squeak as he twists the taps. He hopes that's enough warning that he's about to leave the cubicle, because all he does is wipe himself down and wrap his towel around his waist before he steps out. He's too caught up in his ranting to take a pause, to give Elio a verbal warning. "It creates a whole new element I have to consider and I can't even control it!"

The Slytherin is, fortunately, facing the wall. He's idly playing with a mote of light floating above his wand. Taking this as a sign that he's fine, Oliver begins rummaging through his clothes, sorting his dirty uniform from his dry clothes.

"Potter is an extreme — as well as anyone with seriously bad memories. Most people won't react the same way he did." Elio answers. With a flick of his wand, he sends his mote hurtling up into the air, before it floats slowly back down.

"I know — I have studied them. But even the average player isn't going to be at their peak performance if they're feeling miserable and depressed." As Oliver manages to get all his clothes in two separate piles, he pauses. He'd left his notebook out. That hadn't been a problem when it was only his team in the room, but with a Slytherin present... "Did you read my notebook?"

"No. That would be cheating." Elio says simply, as if that's the obvious explanation — as if it's strange for Oliver to have reached his conclusion. He glances over his shoulder with an unbothered expression, gaze flicking from Oliver to where his hand is hovering over the book. Then his attention returns to his light. "Going for low hanging fruit is boring. It's no fun winning if there's no challenge."

It's the strangest logic to leave a Slytherin's mouth. So strange, it feels like a trap.

As the silence passes, Elio turns to Oliver again and adds, "This is your final year to win, Wood. I have no interest in snatching that from you like candy from a baby." There's a beat. He turns away. "I don't want that on my conscience."

Distrust is still rolling around Oliver's head as he watches the younger. But, the more time that passes, the more the Gryffindor starts to believe him. He's too settled — and has been too settled, since Oliver left the shower — to have moved from notebook to chair with the little time he had. And he'd been pacing before, Oliver had heard him. Elio seems just strange enough to be telling the truth. So, against his better judgement, he decides to give the Slytherin the benefit of the doubt.

"Alright." Oliver concedes. "Don't turn around because I'm going to get changed."

"Do you try to drown yourself after every match?" Elio asks as Oliver begins dressing himself.

"I'm not drowning myself. I told you, I think. I like to go through the match while it's still fresh and I find the hot water helps me think."

"So, yes, after every match."

"Aye. After every match." Oliver echoes dryly and he hopes Elio doesn't plan on making these visits a regular occurrence. As he's pulling his robes over his head, he adds, "You can look now. I'm done."

By the time Elio turns around, Oliver is completely covered and decent. The Slytherin rises to his feet and steps over to the older boy. He's shorter than the last time Oliver stood face to face with him — at his birthday. It's not by much, just enough to be noticeable. And it's only noticeable because the Lord's presence is so loud, so commanding, it feels as though he should tower over all. And yet here he is, looking up at Oliver.

Distantly, he realises it's the shoes. His boots had been heeled at the party.

"You–" Without any warning, Elio grabs Oliver by the chin and, with a surprising amount of force and gentleness, turns his head to the side. His other hand touches the older boy's temple. Oliver only realises he's hurt himself with the contact suddenly stings and Elio's thumb comes back red. "You've got a cut on your head. It's not bad, but you should see Pomfrey."

"I'll be fine." The Gryffindor brushes it off, earning a frown from Elio. He doesn't want to go to the Hospital Wing just yet, not while the emotions from the match are still fresh. Oliver doesn't blame Harry at all. He blames the dementors — and Elio's father, for being the reason the dementors are here. But, as he's had to be reminded countless times, he gets a little too intense when it comes to Quidditch. He'd just as likely say the wrong thing and make the boy feel worse than do anything productive.

"I have a medwizard kit in the dormitory, if you're not going to go see Pomfrey."

"Why do you have a mediwizard kit in your dormitory?"

"I have a healer for a quasi-adopted mother. She dislikes Quidditch on the principle that it seems like brutish violence under the guise of sport and her compromise with Draco and I being on the team is I have a mediwizard kit and know how to use it." Elio shrugs — a loose, uncaring gesture. "I've never used it before, though. We have Pomfrey for a reason."

"I'm not going into the Dungeons with you." That would just as quickly get him killed.

"Don't be daft. They'd murder you on the spot." Elio concurs with Oliver's thoughts. "I'll get the kit and you can meet me in the Great Hall."

"Do I have a choice in the matter?"

"Absolutely not." The younger's lips quirk into a grin. He then departs, leaving his light mote behind. Oliver watches as it floats idly above the spot he'd been sitting, now aimless and lifeless, until it finally flickers out. Only then does he collect his wet clothes and head back up to the castle, running through the rain and mud. By the time he's under cover, the clothes he's wearing are as bad as the ones in his arms.

Not long after, Elio finds Oliver waiting for him outside the hall. Oliver had had just enough time to get his dirty clothes to the dormitory, before running back to pretend he hadn't just been sprinting around the school. The pair settle into the nearest bench, fairly void of other students, with only Flitwick watching over those inhabiting the space.

"You weren't kidding when you said you had a whole kit." Oliver observes as the younger begins rummaging through his bag of medical equipment.

"I never kid, Wood." Elio's gaze rises to meet Oliver's, expression entirely serious. Then, a grin cracks through the façade. Once again, he has no issue manhandling the older boy to get him where he wants. And yet, just as before, there's no roughness to his actions. He's careful not to hurt even as he forces Oliver to face the side. "Do you make a habit of avoiding the Hospital Wing? This is going to sting, by the way."

"No. Why?" His question dissolves into a hiss as Elio's words prove true. There's a sudden stinging on his temple, not agonising but still irritating.

"I'm trying to figure out whether I should make a habit of bringing my kit to any of our meetings." When Elio concentrates, as he does so now, his mouth hangs ever so slightly ajar. His brow is furrowed lightly as he slides a bandage across Oliver's temple.

"I only ever get hurt during Quidditch. Normally it's more obvious and therefore less avoidable."

"I remember our first match. A Bludger hit you in the back and threw you off your broom." Elio says as he tilts Oliver's face to the opposite side, checking for other injuries. Warm fingers push back the short strands of hair covering his temple, before tapping his jaw upward. All Elio needs is a tap and Oliver's head moves wherever he wants. Quite quickly, the younger realises this. A tap on the right and Oliver is looking at the door. A tap on the left and Oliver turns the other way. Right tap. Left tap. Elio grins. "I hated you for that."

"Why?"

"My first goal as a Chaser and I get it because you're unconscious. How pathetic is that!" The younger boy sighs. Then, he pats Oliver's cheek softly. This gesture doesn't seem to direct him anywhere — a concluding touch, to say 'All done.' His words reflect this as he continues, "You're all patched up. Thank you for letting me play healer."

"Thank you, Healer Black." The Slytherin chuckles softly — a breathy noise that is more an exhalation of air coloured by an feeling of amusement than any sort of laugh. His eyes are moons again, his nose scrunched up. Then, he pulls a chocolate bar from his pocket and places it in Oliver's hand.

"Your prize for being such a brave patient." Elio says in response to the confused look he receives. "And because I don't know how far the dementors reached. Better safe than sorry."

"Is that a part of your mediwizard kit?"

"No, I just like chocolate. And Moony has essentially given me a year's supply of them on account of the dementors."

"Well, so long as it's coming from..." Oliver pauses, looking at his chocolate sceptically. "Moony."

"Moony– Dad. Remus. Lupin." The four names spill past Elio's lips in quick succession, as he desperately searches for the one Oliver might recognise. "He's not going to poison you."

"A professor is more trustworthy. Thanks again." The Gryffindor peels back the wrapper, taking one bite to humour Elio. He doesn't feel particularly unwell, but the younger boy is watching him expectantly. His watchful gaze eases once he sees Oliver take a bite.

"Are you still up for tomorrow?" Oliver nods his head. Caramel coats his mouth, making it impossible to talk. Once his kit is all packed up, Elio rises slowly to his feet. "Off the record, given the conditions, you and your team played really well today, Wood."

"They did."

"We did. As in, you did as well– you know what I mean. Don't beat yourself up about the loss." Elio pats Oliver's shoulder once. "Completely off the record, though. If anyone asks, it was the worth game I've watched in my entire life and I hate your guts, you..." Elio sneers, an exaggerated caricature of disgust. He looks like Malfoy. "Gryffindor."

"I'll see you tomorrow." Oliver says, unable to keep his amusement from his tone. In lieu of a farewell, the younger boy gives a flourish of a bow, turns on his heels, collects his kit, and skips off all in one continuous, fluid motion. He makes it look easy. He could probably make anything look easy.

Oliver wants to go the same way. The only reason he's at the Hall is Elio. But, he doesn't want to look like he's following, especially after that display. So, instead, he waits.

Of course, later, when Oliver is flicking through his notes from the last match, he discovers he really shouldn't have given the other boy the benefit of the doubt. There, amongst Oliver's neat notes, is a shaky handwriting — as if written with his other hand, or in a rush — that stands out like a sore thumb.

You shouldn't leave your book open where snakes can slither in and steal them. I didn't peek. On the honour of my name, I swear it. :)

And then, as if Oliver would have any doubt who could have possibly vandalised his notes, is Elio's signature. It looks as though it was meant to be some great swooping signature, but he got bored of halfway through and turned into an incomprehensible scribble. Oliver isn't even sure it says "Elio Black". The 'E' and the 'B' are clear enough, however, and that's all that really matters.

The Gryffindor sighs. Still, he trusts the younger boy. Even if only because the promise reeks with magical sincerity. That sort of promise — the kind of honours and names — isn't generally made lightly. And yet there it sits, in thick quill strokes, on his page.

Despite the promise, Elio has quite clearly peeked at this page. He's made some corrections to Oliver's dot points.

Macavoy favours the left goal. She was trying to push you into the rain. She's also a poor team player. If your Chasers were to lose the Quaffle to anyone, let it be her and she'll forget she can pass it.

And then, further down:

O'Flaherty and McManus aren't in sync. Knock one out and the other struggles. McManus is new — knock his teammate out and he'll be lost. Might not work next year.

They're good points. Things that would take Oliver longer to learn without that connection to the team. But it raises the question of why Elio is betraying his best friend's team. The information could be false, an attempt to lead him astray. With another sigh, Oliver closes his books. Thoughts for another evening.

"Stop sighing, Oliver." Percy groans from his nearby bed. "You only lost one game."

"Don't you two start." Another voice calls out, too addled with sleep to be recognisable. Oliver decides not to respond to either of them. Putting his book away, he rolls over and tries to sleep.

*

"The first meeting of the Catching Sirius Black Committee, name pending, on the seventh of November, is now in sessions. Members–"

"No one is taking minutes." Percy interrupts Elio's great display of formality. The brunet pauses, with a frown, then looks to the older boy.

"Do you want to take minutes?" It's an offer, his tone suggesting he hadn't even considered the possibility prior.

"I don't even want to be here. I just meant– It doesn't matter. I'll take minutes." Percy answers with a resigned sigh. He doesn't seem particularly reluctant to take notes; it's helping Elio that he takes issue with. Fortunately, in the satchel he takes everywhere, is plenty of unwritten scrolls. At the top of one, he writes: Catching Sirius Black Committee (name pending) — 7th Nov. "The name needs to be more subtle, if you don't want anyone else catching and stopping you."

"That's why the name is pending, my dear worrywart. Should the first order of business be devising a new name, or would you prefer to do something more productive?" Percy only graces Elio with a grunt.

The group of four — Elio, Percy, Cedric and Oliver — are hidden away in an alcove only Elio had been previously aware of. It's hidden behind a portrait, though it may be more accurate to say it is hidden through the portrait as they had had to step into it to reach it. It's hard to judge what the room looks like, as the only light source is Elio's floating mote of light. What is illuminated in its soft glow is unadorned brick, floor to wall. The other end is completely engulfed in darkness, impossible to tell how far back it extends. It leaves an unsettling heaviness in Oliver's stomach, constantly expecting something to jump out from the shadows.

But Elio had assured them it was one of the safest places he could think of — at least temporarily. And, occasionally, his light drifts over to the shadows and exposes them, confirming they remain empty.

"We should start by collating our information." Elio continues. "It's going to be hard to plan properly if we aren't all on the same page."

There comes a murmur of agreement from the other three. The Slytherin reaches into the pocket of his pants and withdraws a folded photo of a man, a woman, and a baby in between them. Elio looks enough like the woman for the family connection to be clear before he has even explained it. The parents look young — barely older than Oliver, if not the same age. They haven't quite yet escaped the grasps of teendom, skin still marked by acne, faces untouched by stress or age. The man has Elio's hair, though far longer and wilder — it hangs in a mane of glorious curls, looking stylishly unstyled.

"I think we all probably know what he looks like but, just in case, that's him. Just older, obviously." Elio says as he points at the man. The picture moves, as Sirius presses a kiss into the cheek of baby Elio, and the Slytherin pushes the image away — toward the others. Percy is writing notes on what Sirius might look like and Cedric is staring at the photo as if he's never seen it before and has been offered a window into a part of his friend's life usually closed off to him. So, when Elio tears his gaze away from the image, the only person he has to look at is Oliver — who can't get a good look at the image upside down. As their eyes meet, Elio gives him a tight-lipped smile and his mask rises again. The sad glimmer in his eyes disappears, replaced with Pureblood reticence. "So, we know he's a Death Eater, coming back to finish the job and kill Potter — write that down."

"Okay." Percy responds simply, though he had already started doing just that. "He might think killing Harry will bring back You-Know-Who. I overheard Dad saying that."

"So, if we can't stop him, we'll have a lot more to deal with than just a dead Potter." Cedric's comment is dry, unimpressed. Elio's gaze flickers toward him and lingers for a few, long seconds, before he returns his gaze to the notes.

"He must be nearby or have a way of getting nearby without getting caught, because he managed to get in and out of the grounds without anyone seeing him. He didn't raise any alarms or anything."

"He could be apparating part of the way, then sneaking through the rest." Oliver suggests.

"But if he's apparating, he must have a way to bypass the Ministry's security. They're able to track that sort of thing." Percy counters quickly, poking a hole in the other boy's theory.

"He has already escaped Azkaban, so he must have some way of removing any charms on him. But it would make more sense to stay nearby, because he can keep tabs on Potter more easily." Elio says. "For the moment, let's assume he's in the local area, or something like that."

"We'll have to narrow down the circle of where he is, before we can start trying to catch him." Oliver adds, as Percy starts making a list under the subheading 'Unknowns'.

"We also need to figure out how he's got past so much security he shouldn't have been able to bypass. If we don't have any idea how he is doing that, he might be able to use it on us to escape us — if we even manage to find him." Percy says, making another dot point. "And, if we can determine that, we can inform the Headmaster and Minister of these lapses in security, for the future."

"Look at you, seeing the wider picture." Percy frowns as Elio jostles his shoulder. It's impossible to tell whether he's being genuine or mocking the older boy. "Aren't you glad you came along?"

"I still think this is all unnecessary. But, if we're going to do this, we might as well be useful."

"He probably knows about a lot of the secret passages and rooms in the castle. Write that down." The Slytherin ignores Percy's remark and taps the scroll. He hardly needs to keep reminding the other boy to write things down as Percy remains committed to his role as minute-keeper. The second Elio starts speaking, any useful information is jotted down. "We might be able to trap him in one."

"We'd have to lure him into one, to do that." Cedric points out. "And we've already agreed to not create a bait."

"He's got in once, he'll get in again. All we have to do is wait, for that plan." Elio raises his hands, as if to express his innocence. The very act of doing so makes him seem all the more suspicious, in Oliver's opinion. "No bait needed."

"Only patience." Cedric says and it sounds like he doesn't believe that's a trait the other boy possesses. It wouldn't be surprising if he didn't.

"That should just be saved for if the opportunity occurs. We'd be better off focusing on something more active, so we aren't just sitting around waiting." Oliver pipes up.

"We need to get some answers to these questions, before we can start planning how to catch him." Percy presses his quill against the point regarding his location. "It will be a waste of our time if we go to a great deal of effort and it turns out he's nowhere near us."

"So, new tasks: determine where Sirius is and how he's going to escape when we find him." Elio's words are underlined at the bottom of Percy's scroll, a star placed beside them. "I say, we sneak–"

"If your suggestion is anything that breaks a school rule, I suggest you remember why I am here and come up with a new suggestion." Percy quickly interrupts the younger boy.

"Fine." Elio sighs, like a toddler being refused a treat. "We use our Hogsmeade trips to see if we can find any signs of his hideout. That seems like a good place to start. The next one is a month away, so we can start brainstorming how he's getting past security in the meantime."

"I won't be able to join you the entire time." Percy says. "So, if you have to break any rules, do it when I'm not there."

"Noted." The Slytherin's gaze flicks to Oliver, then Cedric, before it settles back on the Gryffindor. Despite addressing all of them, it feels as though his words are actually meant for Oliver. "You guys don't have to give up your entire Hogsmeade trip — or any of it — if you don't want to. I can do the investigations myself and report back. I don't expect you guys to dedicate your entire free time to this, just because you're helping me. That would be ridiculous."

"I spend all my free time on Quidditch. I have a lot to spare." Oliver tries to reassure him. The younger stares at him, clearly assessing him, before he grins.

"You already know my answer." Cedric says.

"Do you guys want to learn how to cast a patronus?" Elio then asks, the first half of the session clearly over. Sensing this, Percy begins packing his scrolls away. With a tap of his wand, the words he's written jumble and become coded. "It's really difficult, but I think we could give it a go."

"I have nowhere else to be." Oliver's comment is met with a quiet grunt of agreement from his fellow Gryffindor.

"Alright. Well, the technical stuff is pretty simple — flick of the wrist, Expecto Patronum." Without any warning, Elio provides a demonstration and fills the room with a sudden, bright light. As Oliver's eyes adjust, he comes face to face with a large wolf. Something looks off about it, not enough to be truly noticeable, easily brushed off as being a part of its ghostly appearance. The wolf quickly falters, flickering out, before it vanishes altogether. "Thank Merlin that worked, or that would've been embarrassing. Anyway, casting and maintaining it is harder. You have to think of a very happy memory and stay focused, for as long as you need it. I don't think you'll get it first go — Dad has had me practicing it ever since Sirius got out and I still can't really hold it for very long. I've never even gone up against a dementor, so I don't know how much harder it is. Moony says it's a lot harder."

And that's all the instruction Elio gives before he sets the three to work. He watches, silently, from the spot he takes up against the wall. None of them managed to get any sort of patronus charm working, though the room fills with their shouts of varying degrees of frustration as the attempts drag on.

"The memory you're using is working as a shield against all the bad things the dementors drag up. So, it might be better to think of a time that made the bad times good." Elio eventually pipes up. When he continues, the words come out with affected casualness, the blasé attitude of someone acting as though they're untouchable. "For example, my memory is one of the few memories I have of my childhood — from when I realised Moony was my dad. A moment that's good only because it was following a whole lot of bad, I think. It has to be strong if you want it to overpower a dementor."

And then he falls silent again, leaving them to it.

Oliver struggles, because he's fortunate enough to have had a good childhood. His bad memories are too small to be followed by anything powerful enough to conjure a patronus. When he thinks of the lows, all he can think of is the crushing defeats he's been given in Quidditch, year after year, and the doubt that grows with each loss. But they haven't won, yet. There's nothing to prove that doubt wrong.

Percy is the first success. He conjures up a thin, wispy shield that trembles against his wand before spluttering into darkness. A wide smile breaks across his lips, clearly pleased with himself. Though, the second Elio leaps to his feet to slap him on the back, it quickly disappears into a put-on scowl.

"You did that quicker than I thought!" Elio exclaims. "You got one going quicker than I ever did too."

He remains the only success for the rest of their meeting. Each passing failure only feeds the frustration in Oliver, eats away at his pride, and makes it impossible to think of anything but his awful losing streak. It's abundantly clear he isn't going to find a memory bright enough to cast the charm when he's doing the dementors' work for them. But he refuses to be the one who gives up.

The session comes to an end when something hits the back of Oliver's head, neatly in the centre, with perfect precision. He turns around, to where Elio is sitting on the floor again. His hand is posed post-toss, answering the question of who threw it. What he threw should have been obvious, as Oliver looks to the ground and finds a chocolate bar. Cedric, standing beside the Slytherin, is already eating one of his own. Percy has one in his hand, though he seems unsure what to do with it.

"For the pretend-dementors." Elio explains as he rises to his feet.

"There weren't any dementors."

"Yeah, I know. But there were imaginary dementors and I don't know if they have the same effect." The younger says mid-stretch. He lifts his arms high over his head, pulling his sweater up with it to reveal some tattered shirt hiding underneath. The brief glimpse looks too old to belong to someone with money beyond imagination. Then it's gone, and he returns to being filthy rich — though surprisingly Muggle-looking — Lord Black. "Should we meet up next fortnight, unless someone manages to unearth something that warrants a sooner meeting?"

The others agree easily.

"In the meantime, think of a better name for this group, so we aren't going around advertising ourselves to everyone." Elio continues once he's received a positive response from all of them. "I'll try and find a better spot."

"Somewhere less dark, please." Oliver suggests as he takes one last glance around the alcove. The light drifts lazily downward, catching their shadows and distorting them into great beasts looming over them.

"And cold." Percy adds.

"Only the best for my new favourite Gryffindors." Elio gives an exaggerated bow more befitting a servant. "Now, let's go. Cedric has Quidditch training."

"No recovery day for you?" Oliver asks the Hufflepuff as they step out of the portrait and into the hall. It was easier to forget it's the middle of the day inside the hidden room. The sudden light blinds them all, even causing Elio to stagger back as he goes to step out. For a few seconds, he disappears back inside the portrait with only his feet visible. Then he return, rubbing his eyes.

"It's when we have the pitch booked for each week, before our match got switched. Given we're up next, we can't waste the opportunity." Cedric explains. "Though, it'll probably be an easy session. No point overworking ourselves."

"I'll be in the library when you're done." Elio says to the Hufflepuff, leaning against the taller boy.

"I'm also going to the library. I promised Penelope I'd help her with Transfiguration." Percy informs Oliver, as if he's just remembered. "In fact, I should probably go. She might already be waiting."

With that, Percy hurries off. He hardly has to run with his long strides, but he's still filled with an urgency that keeps his pace at the brink of a run. He's gone within seconds. Cedric is the second to depart, leaving in the opposite direction. Then, Elio bows a second time.

"Until next time, Wood."

AUTHOR'S NOTE
Elio, any time he has to leave:

I accidentally got really fixated on a non-magic AU of Black Hole Sun over the weekend. Like it started out as just a funny little "it could be nice" and then I created a premise, a moodboard & a playlist and now I don't know if it'll go away in a week to a month or if it's just gonna get worse (better?) from here. With all the stuff I've gotta write for Elio, I shouldn't be going down a non-magic AU rabbit hole, but boy do I want to (and I don't normally like non-magic AUs)

The premise is the classic depressed musician & nepotism baby Elio does a runner with Oliver, the up & coming soccer [football] player & part-time coach he barely knows, to go on a short, self-destructive road trip that I imagine would play out similar to The Road Within in that he keeps getting caught & it doesn't last long (or, alternatively, if the plot had to be similar to Black Hole Sun, Sirius pulls the disappearing act & Elio organises the search party). Not sure if writing road trips is for me but it's what is consuming a lot of my thoughts

Best bit — no war means all the marauder era gang is alive & healthy. Worst bit — Elio probably wasn't raised by Remus, then

(Wattpad on my phone turns the gifs slowmo which is weird but I'm not going to make the necessary alterations to fix that)

Sorry for going off on that tangent. I'm trying to get it out of my system