She whispered

by Lucas Chesterton

  He breathed, felt how tired he was after a long day with a lot to process and think about. He felt the urge to indulge in the feeling of exhilaration that made his spine tingle pleasantly. And after a while, he tilted his head to one side and allowed his cheek to lightly rest on the crown of Elena’s head. Again she purred, like a cat rolling up in someone’s lap. It was a beautiful picture that made him smile.

  ‘What do you want me to find out about Crowley?’ Elena asked in no more than a whisper.

  ‘What he does, who he meets. With a focus on dirty secrets. Things he doesn’t want others to know.’

  ‘I’m not sure how I’m supposed to do that. Like I said, I saw him at the Academy this week, but only this once.’

  There was a short pause. ‘Do you see his wife?’ Daysen asked eventually.

  ‘I spoke to her this week.’

  Daysen turned his head, looked at her as she was raising her eyes up at him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Just ��� small talk. She asked how I was doing and all that. She asked about our ��� you know, falling-out.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘When people ask me that, I always act as if I didn’t want to talk about it. That’s how they leave me in peace and make up their own truths in their heads which are mostly far more absurd than I could ever dream them up.’

  He couldn’t help grinning at the shrewd observation. ‘Maybe you should ��� take her into your confidence.’

  ‘Get closer to the Crowleys ��� and thus to Aeneas ��� by entrusting them with my woes?’

  ‘For instance.’

  ‘But I don’t have any woes’, she said with dancing eyes. ‘In fact, I’m very happy.’

  Jack understood what she wanted to tell him. He pressed her fingers; his thumb had long ago started to stroke the soft skin of her hand, it had happened almost unconsciously. ‘Make something up’, he whispered, close to her ear.

  ‘What if they’re not interested?’

  ‘Something tells me they will be.’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  ‘I know you will.’

  Again, she tilted her head upwards, smiled at him. Challenged him. Oh, how he wanted to kiss her! But then again, he didn’t. He couldn’t trust himself to stop there, and it would make matters infinitely more complicated, would make it impossible for him to keep the clear head that he needed in the weeks to come.

  Her eyes became calculating, maybe she sensed his inner conflict. Slowly, she straightened up and gently pulled her hand out of his. Her smile was still on, though.

  ‘I promised to teach you how to drive’, she said.

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Why not? I’m not tired yet. Are you?’

  He was, but he didn’t say so. In fact he was grateful for the opportunity to stay with her a little longer, in this their safe haven ��� a Muggle car, fancy that ��� without having to battle with himself all the time whether to kiss her or not. Plus, he really wanted to learn how to make this oddly impressive machine do as he pleased!

  ‘Alright then.’

  And for the next two hours, Jack Daysen found himself at the receiving end of a careful inauguration into the automotive process. Obviously she had read up on it because she was able to tell him very clearly what would, or should, happen once he turned the ignition key. He found her explanations logical, and logic was something he could work with very well. As it turned out, he was fully able to please her ��� ‘Like a duck to water’ she said with a satisfied grin once they got to cruising around the block ��� and it left him with a sense of achievement. It would provide very sound sleep later on.

  Reluctantly, Elena tore her eyes away from the window and the sight beyond, wet meadows, hills, a forest in the background, and lazy flakes dancing down from a grey-clouded sky. How soothing it was to look at it, the slowly drifting snow, putting her in a dreamy mood. How easy it was to let one’s thoughts get carried away, to let them dance and chase one another as the flakes did, and how far it had brought her from the classroom with its desk and, most importantly, Charles Redwood, her Magical Philosophy teacher. He was a medium-height man with thinning red-blonde curls, a pouch and intelligent eyes; he was also American (rumour at the Academy had it that he’d been thrown out of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry due to unorthodox teaching methods) and contrary to most other teachers at this peculiar institution he left an altogether relaxed and open-minded impression. He didn’t like people drifting off during his lessons, though, and now examined Elena with an ironically cocked brow.

  She sighed. ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t hear the question.’

  God, what a drag! Occasionally, she felt like a university student that had been thrown back into kindergarten. She, who was close to getting her literature degree and had studied largely independently for years, was being called to attention again, scolded for being inattentive and ��� horror of horrors ��� asked to do homework. The question of what she had gotten herself into came up in her mind almost every day now. At home, her thesis lay untouched. Again, the things she had to do, or should do, were too many to fit into an ordinary day. She caught herself thinking how good it would have been if Jack had really induced Theodore Nott to steal the Time Turner for her. Charming idea of Crowley’s, that one. Romantic, even. He clearly didn’t know Daysen very well.

  ‘I am interested in your definition of magic from a philosophical point of view’, Redwood informed her with a frown on his face. ‘Your home assignment, remember?’

  No, she didn’t remember. However, the advantage of studying literature was certainly that you could rattle off some halfway sophisticated-sounding crap at any time. Elena turned an impassive face on Redwood ��� she had learnt how to do that from the master ��� and informed him that ‘I like to take a modern point of view on this.’

  At the back of the classroom, someone sniggered.

  ‘Could you elaborate a little, Miss Horwath?’ Redwood asked with a small wink at the corner of his eye.

  Elena took a deep breath, preparing to be bolshy. ‘I must admit I’m not very impressed with the ‘gift-from-God’ theory. In my mind, that’s an arrogant and entitled attitude and it doesn’t accord at all with 20th century findings in natural science. ��� Take quantum mechanics, for instance. In my opinion, it’s the best explanation for magic that anyone has come up with so far.’

  ‘Quantum physics?’ Redwood repeated, doubtfully but not without interest. ‘Have you studied it, Miss Horwath?’

  ‘Naah’, a voice roared up, ‘she’s just trying to prove that even Muggles are on to something. Some might call that self-deception.’

  Elena turned sharply and glowered. A blond and burly wizard was grinning at her broadly. She didn’t remember his name; in fact, she made a point not to because she hated him so much. A pureblood boy so stupid (or lazy, or entitled, or all of it) he hadn’t made it through Hogwarts and the Crowley Academy was now his parents’ only hope, for which they very likely spent a lot of Galleons. He reminded her of Arcadius Selwyn, a student of Daysen’s she’d had a run-in with.

  ‘Please, Mr Rowle, it’s Miss Horwath’s turn’, Redwood smoothened the waves. ‘Miss Horwath, this is interesting. Where exactly do you see the points of intersection between magic and quantum physics?’

  It was an old idea. She had already explained it in depth to Jack ��� who’d grudgingly admitted that she ‘might have something there’ ��� and now spun it off in class. The conclusion Elena arrived at was that magic wasn’t an elitist thing, not a gift from God (the preferred theory of the wizarding world), but could theoretically be tapped into by anyone provided they learnt how to purposefully direct energy. Of course, she had no illusions as to the reactions. Scoffs and sniggers all around. Witches and wizards were so invested in the notion that they were special that they hated to let go of it.

  Redwood followed the ensuing discussion ��� which Elena didn’t join in,
she just listened, rolling her eyes ��� with distinct amusement, but let it run its course in the expected direction. The consensus was that quantum physics had no place in the magical world. It was a Muggle eccentricity, only worth to be disregarded. By the end of it, Elena blew up her cheeks in frustration, but that was the moment when the shrill sound of a bell announced the end of the lesson and the start of lunch break. She gathered up her things and left the classroom as quickly as she could.

  The corridors of the Academy were clean and spacious, its charm nowhere as medieval as Hogwarts. In fact, it was a nice place, only Elena wasn’t able to really see that. To her, the walls were too close for comfort; the sound of her own steps reverberated on the stone floor and made her want to constantly check over her shoulder. When she’d taken on this assignment for the Order, she hadn’t expected how lonely it was going to make her feel and how endlessly on edge. She needed a break and hurried towards the gardens.

  They had become her safe haven. She found herself a corner with a frosted stone bench and wrapped herself up in her cloak (the one Jack had given her) as a salty wind from the sea blew sharply into her face. She took out a book on Arithmancy and tried to concentrate ��� Elena found the subject unbearably hard ��� but her thoughts drifted off, drifted North, towards Scotland, towards Jack. And in spite of herself, the thought made her smile.

  The night they had spent at the Malfoys’ was almost two weeks past by now, but the feeling, the glow of it was still inside of her. The way he’d held her, buried his face in her hair, eagerly inhaling her scent ��� nothing in the world could have persuaded her now that he didn’t care for her, not even his coldest demeanour. She’d felt his need, specifically the need for tenderness, closeness. She had also felt his desire and why he hadn’t acted upon it had been a little difficult to understand for her, but she was developing a theory for that, too. Maybe things had gone too quickly for him that first time; maybe he wanted to make up for all the steps they had left out before their first, well, tumble. Maybe it was some kind of wizarding concept about how to suitably woo someone (they were more prudish and old-fashioned than Muggles, there could be no doubt about that). Whatever it was, it was alright with her. Elena had never been so certain of his affections. He would come around eventually. In fact, he was coming around.

  The blissful thrill of this realization made everything else bearable for her. The non-too-subtle pureblood vibe of the Academy, the fact that everyone constantly sneered at her extremely short career as a witch and her ‘Mugglish’ appearance. The constant feeling of apprehension caused, of course, by the knowledge that she was here as a spy and not by way of an honest pursuit, and her fear that others might read it off her face, that she might give herself away. The loneliness she suffered. It was about time she got Draco into the Academy ���

  With a sigh, she forced herself to focus on the book. It was the upshot of her spying venture that being here wasn’t enough, no, she had to play the eager student, too; in fact, it was by far the better strategy not to generate undue attention by bad grades. So she had to study. Rows of numbers, vertical and horizontal cross sums, the principle each number was governed by and all kinds of complicated operations to finally arrive at the result which was invariably magic. She was able to see the beauty and order of the arithmantic process, but the rigidity of the method frustrated her. It certainly wasn’t an intuitive way of doing magic, and that was the reason why soon enough her thoughts drifted off again.

  She remembered Jack’ account of his conversation with Aeneas Crowley and his request that she do what she could to find out more about the man. The problem was that she didn’t know where to start. She had met Crowley only once, in the previous week, when he had joined his wife who had been making polite small talk to Elena. He had no more than nodded to her; it was doubtful whether he had even realized she existed. Not that this was a problem. The less note he took of her, the better. But how on earth was she to get close to him?

  Trying to concentrate was futile. Her eyes were only scanning the pages, but none of the contents made it across the barrier into her consciousness. She got up, clamped the book under her arm and walked around aimlessly in the gardens. Those were at the back of Abrasax House, a space enclosed by a withered brick wall and sporting a romantic green-and-brown chaos, even at this time of year. It was easy to hide among the shrubs and overhanging branches, to find a private corner, which was exactly the reason she liked to come here. However, it began to dawn on her that the job of spy wasn’t exactly about retreating; in fact, it was about mingling, talking to people, sounding them out. Not for the first time, she wondered how Jack had pulled it off, considering that he wasn’t the world’s greatest conversationalist.

  She made herself walk around as if she saw the gardens for the first time. It was another thing that Jack had taught her: looking at a place and getting used to it ensured that you didn’t notice the details anymore because your mind was convinced that there was nothing new to discover. Making yourself look at a place as if for the first time was a matter of attitude, of freeing one’s perception of expectations; it wasn’t so different from the little mind tricks he and Draco had taught Elena for Occlumency.

  She walked the length of the brick wall. She heard voices, stopped, listened. A couple of students was hiding under the overhanging branches of a willow tree, kissing. Elena smiled and crept on, doing a little detour. It sent her deep into the shrubs that pressed against the low wall, but there was a path, trampled-down thickets, flat soggy grass. She followed it and stumbled over a narrow fissure in the reddish bricks and a gate. Curiously, she pushed down the handle; there was a screech and the iron-wrought gate swung back.

  The path led down a drop of worn and crumbling steps between wet weeds and roots, and Elena found herself in a small cemetery. It was an ordinary graveyard, not too groomed, but not completely neglected either. Flowers were freezing to death on the graves while the weeds grew, confident that they would not be disturbed any time soon. High hedges surrounded the graveyard, it was completely hidden from view. Hence, it was no miracle she had never stumbled upon it.

  ‘A secret cemetery’, Elena thought, ‘but is it secret?’ She walked along the lines of tombstones, some of which were withered, the writing faint or illegible. She tried to read them anyway, especially the dates. Cemeteries weren’t morbid places to her and within the academy’s grounds, she felt oddly at ease in the company of the dead. Slowly relaxing, she strolled between the graves ��� only to get a horrible shock when one of the tombstones started to move.

  ‘Stephen! You gave me such a fright!’

  Stephen Periwinkle straightened himself up and for a moment he stood a little shakily, peering at her from under a shock of black hair that had fallen into his face. Long sensitive fingers cramped around a sketchbook. ‘I ��� I’m sorry’, he stammered.

  In fact, he seemed immensely chagrined. Elena saw that she had thrown him off with her reaction much more than his sudden appearance had shocked her. ‘Don’t worry’, she murmured, ‘I just ��� didn’t see you there. What were you doing, anyway?’

  He hadn’t quite recovered yet. With a twitching hand, he raised the sketchbook. Elena discerned some lines, then looked into the direction that Stephen had been facing. She saw that he’d been trying to sketch one of the graves, a rather small stone, but made of white marble with mossy patches. The writing on it was faint, but Elena didn’t take the time to examine it as Stephen was still fidgeting nervously and she wanted to put him at ease. She also wanted to ask him why he was drawing this specific grave ��� which seemed to ordinary compared to some others ��� but her instinct told her that the question might upset him even more.

  ‘Don’t you have classes?’ she asked instead, gently.

  He only shook his head, large dark eyes staring at her from out of a pale face.

  Something occurred to Elena and she narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you have classes at all?’

/>   Stephen carefully observed her face for a while, still wary. After what seemed like an awfully long time, he shook his head.

  ‘No? Then what are you doing here?’

  ‘My father wishes me to be here’, Stephen replied flatly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So that I cannot do any harm.’

  Elena closed her eyes, sighed. ‘I’m sorry’, she said.

  ‘I do receive tutoring’, Stephen volunteered. ‘Kind of.’

  ‘What do you mean, kind of?’

  The chocolate-coloured eyes evaded her. He twitched once more, and in that he reminded Elena very much of Jack. They were similar types, pale skin and very dark hair, thin but stringy with not an ounce of excessive fat on them, brainy and often nervous. Maybe Stephen was more delicate, but he was also quite a bit younger. Usually, Elena rejected the idea of having ‘a type’. There was no denying, however, that something about the ‘dark lost boy’ invariably got to her. She watched as Stephen started to rummage in the pockets of his rather shabby brown robe and brought out a book. ‘I’m reading it’, he announced, giving her an unexpected shy smile.

  Elena saw well enough that he was trying to distract her. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help smiling. ‘How do you like it?’

  Stephen nodded to indicate his approval; Elena felt pleased. She had given him the book the week before; ‘I, Claudius’ by Robert Graves. It had been a spontaneous idea and she still remembered the look of astonishment on his face when she had presented him with it. Normally, it was hard to read emotion off Stephen’s face; his obvious pleasure on receiving a gift had surprised her. ‘There are Sybils in there’, he said now.