Of Portraits and Painted Skin
Monday, 19th September, 1892
The dust had still not fully settled when Clara shifted against him. Only slightly. Just enough to peel her face back from where she’d pressed it into his chest and ignore the dampness that had soaked through the top of his shirt. The same damp that clung salt to her cheeks and traced lines through the ash there.
She’d not entirely meant for him to let go of her, but Sebastian must have mistaken the shift in her movement as irritation because he released her almost instantly. Snapped his arms to his sides and stepped away like whatever part of her had allowed him to touch her in that moment had been snatched away from him. As though he thought she might start shouting at him, with the way his eyes never entirely found hers—skipped from her shoes to somewhere over her left shoulder. Fingers tugging in that too-familiar motion at the edges of his sleeves.
It confused her more than anything.
It wasn’t as though she were particularly mad at him just then. Whatever hurt still lingered toward him had been so eclipsed by the Keepers betrayal it hardly seemed significant in comparison.
Even so, the part of her that had allowed her to lean on Sebastian through the chaos of her magic seemed to have barred the gate, and whatever desire for comfort still stretched its fingers beyond the iron was stifled behind pride that was too stubborn to ask him to hold her again.
He must have taken it as a good sign when she didn’t. Or maybe she simply looked even more unstable than she felt because she soon found his arm wrapped below her shoulders—Fingers pressed hot against her ribs when her bones threatened to collapse beneath her own exhaustion.
“Right, you need the hospital.”
His voice scratched raw through the haze, and he managed to steer her halfway through the cavern before her stubborn drug its heels into the stone, and she refused to go another step. Nurse Blainey couldn’t do any more for her than Clara could on her own, and after the scene she’d already made in Charms, she had no intention of going anywhere near giving people even more of an excuse to stare at her.
She could see the places Sebastian was thinking. The slight pull in his jaw and the pattern his eyes shifted across her face as they flickered between her eyes and the ruined echoes of the cavern.
“Alright, then.” It was more a sigh of resignation than anything else, but her stubborn would count it as a victory. Even as he dug two potions—strengthening solutions, she recognized—from his illegally extended bag and glared at her until she drank them.
Not that she could truly make an argument against him.
And it was only when he held his hand out for the empty vials that she noticed it.
Only when his hand turned out, palm exposed to the still swirling trails of dust and illuminated just so in the wash crimson light that kissed the stones beyond.
His skin was raw there. Burned and blistered through deep, mottled shades of purple and red.
She’d done that.
It stilled her hands against the vials.
He must have noticed the places her gaze lingered over the evidence of his hurt because his eyes followed hers down to the burns across his skin, widened slightly, and he snatched his hand out of her reach, stuffing both into his pockets before she could adequately inspect the damage.
“Seb, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s nothing.” He shook his head. Brushed it away before she could stifle the clawing guilt enough to voice a proper apology. “Looks worse than it is.”
Only the slightest wince as he rifled through his bag and pried the cork from a vial of wiggenweld for himself offered any hint to his discomfort, and whatever glimmers of honey she’d found sprinkled through his eyes were once again lost behind dark walls.
><><><><
The days following passed in a haze—a dreary rotation of class and homework and throbbing headaches.
N.E.W.T level courses had taken no time in living up to their foretold difficulty, and despite her less than stellar aptitude for school work, for the first time since Clara had started at Hogwarts, she found herself grateful for the intense workload each professor had taken upon themselves to give them.
If nothing else, it distracted from the hurt that clawed at her insides. Kept her mind busy from lingering on the truth that had ripped everything from beneath her and left her to scrabble for whatever infinitesimal hold she could find at the edge of sanity.
Ominis and Anne didn't ask much more about the Map Chamber or the Keepers and Clara didn't offer further explanation.
Perhaps they knew she couldn't.
Even Sebastian, as prone to intense curiosity as he was, didn't push her on the details, and whatever had lingered in those moments he'd held her in that cavern was left largely unmentioned. The softest pastels held tentatively to the edges of her thoughts as though to bring it to focus would see it lost to the maelstrom of darker grays and reds.
But what she forced to pass in monotony and distraction by day devolved to a zoetrope of violence and blood by night, and she swallowed her last two vials of Dreamless Sleep Draught mere days apart, barely skirting the edges of the conditions she’d previously agreed to.
With the remainder of her potion gone, what little relief she'd been offered from an already consistent flow of nightmares was left unchecked. Pictures carefully tucked into the darkness of her subconscious were too often found to linger in the daylight. A steady barrage of scarlet-stained reminders of her destruction and the shuttering edges of the memories that brought her there.
The only form of solace came in the form of a tightly wound scroll delivered at breakfast one morning, requesting her presence in the Headmaster's office at 7:00 the following Wednesday evening to discuss her class schedule and the renewed implementation of her Healing Internship with Nurse Blainey, Professor, Weasley, and Professor Black.
Perhaps more important was the little note from Nurse Blainey inked across the bottom, asking that she bring the now empty cherrywood box with her.
The end of the month meant five new vials of that swirling indigo and cerulean potion.
Relief from the nightmares.
And she marked the days to the meeting in bruises against her wrists.
><><><><
Wednesday, 28th September, 1892
Clara had not often had reason to visit the Headmaster's office, and she had never seen the room with the Black himself in it. In fact she’d probably spent more time impersonating the man than she had actually seeing him around the school or grounds, if she were honest about it.
It was somewhat of an open secret that Phinneias Nigiallas Black held no love for his students, the school, or the position other than whatever notoriety the title could accomplish for him. He was so often gone from the school only to appear at opportune moments the media might be present to deliver vague, out-of-context speeches that Professor Weasley had, since his appointment, primarily taken over the roles and responsibilities one might have expected of him. Assuming the role of Headmaster in all but name and privilege.
Even so, it came as a surprise when there was no answer beyond the rap of her knuckles against the Headmaster’s heavy wooden office door Wednesday evening.
When another knock was again met with silence, Clara tentatively pushed through the unlocked door to the room beyond.
“Professor?”
There was no response.
Professor Black had given enough excuses in the past for his absence to be anything but anticipated. Still, she’d expected at least Nurse Blainey and Professor Weasley to be waiting for her, and a quick glance at the clock confirmed the 7:00 pm meeting time.
Still, there was no sign of either woman.
Clara shuffled her feet against the centuries-old flagstones, and tried to ignore the looks the sleeping portraits were sneaking below half-lidded eyes. Curious enough to listen and steal glances but never helpful enough to offer assistance.
“Miss Elmore?” The voice cut beyond the too-loud snores of the dozing portraits
It had come not from behind her as she’d expect for someone walking through the door. But from the loft-like space above the main chamber.
Even so, she recognized the lilting accent at the tips of the woman’s letters. Not quite the same she so often heard traced in varying shadows around the edges of twin's voices, but a cousin of sorts. It settled further forward in her mouth and lightly teased the back of her teeth.
Clara ignored it, and her fingers snapped against delicate skin.
Ignored it, even as the too-familiar voice called out her surname again—repeated requests to speak.
Fingers dug against the underside of her wrists. Twisted deep purples and blues to paint over the mottled yellows there. Forced back the waves of fury to settle before it could burn to crackling sparks across skin still too raw to feel anything but hurt in the woman’s presence.
“Clara?”
Perhaps it was the tilt of humanity in addressing her that way. The forgery and pretense stripped back to see her, not ‘My young friend’ or ‘Miss’ or ‘The Student’ that saw Clara climb the stairs to the loft above.
Niamh’s portrait was smaller here.
It did nothing to stop the way her nails dug against her skin.
Clara said nothing. Whatever constitution she kept over her anger beyond distraction was already too delicate to trust her voice.
Perhaps Niamh knew that because it wasn’t long before the portrait spoke. “There was some truth in the memories you were shown, child.”
“That’s what you came here to tell me?”
The woman’s words shouldn’t have torn laughter from her throat. It wasn’t the reaction she’d expect from her anger. A noise that didn’t sound like her’s, all crazed and hollow with the way it ricocheted against the walls and died behind a faded tapestry.
“You sent me into those trials, into that Repository with no training. I killed people to protect what I was shown in those memories, but that’s fine because only half of it was a lie? Fuck. Off.”
Clara turned on her heel, intent on marching back down the stairs to wait for the professors. She’d already tapped the top step by the time Niamh spoke again.
“I never agreed with Percival’s approach to your instruction.”
Clara spun back to face the portrait. Fingernails dug against her wrists, scarlet to mark the layered purples.
Pain.
Distraction.
Control.
“Your magic has always been more erratic than Percival or Isadora’s ever was–” Niamh continued “–and given that I had hoped he might see fit to further instruct–”
“And yet you still went along with his methods.”
The portrait only offered the slightest hint of a smile. “ It is perhaps the very best and worst in us to only want to see the good in our friends. Those we would call family. To turn a blind eye to their faults, even when we may so disagree with their actions.”
Clara didn't have time for this.
“Do you have anything of use to tell me? Or are you merely here to justify your actions.” She did nothing to dispel the vitriol that licked over the syllables.
Niamh signed and leaned against the edge of her frame. The smallest release of her erect posture. It was more resigned than anything Clara had seen from her before. More human than any of the Keepers had been thus far.
“The contents and power in that Repository are still a danger to the Wizarding World if utilized incorrectly. It is important you know that.”
“Then why alter the memories? Why change things if that’s all true?”
“I cannot speak on it directly.”
“Can’t or won’t? Her anger was surely not tempered enough to hold patience with continued secrets.
Niamh’s lips pulled to a thin line. “I cannot. I am bound on that matter. We all are.”
An unbreakable vow seemed unlikely. A portrait couldn’t die, but if the woman could offer further explanation on the enchantment, she didn't give it. There were several moments before Niamh spoke again, and now that Clara was aware of it, she could see where it snagged at the edges of her attempts to circumnavigate its reach.
“Utilizing ancient magic to remove pain was never meant to be a permanent solution. There was…. more … to Isadora’s research. More to her endeavors than what you were shown. But whatever she was attempting, it scared Percival far more than the magic of the Repository ever did.”
Clara stared back at the woman caught somewhere between disbelief and confusion. “Why tell me of this then? If whatever Isadora was doing was so dangerous–”
“I’ve never taken heart in limiting the knowledge of my students. Especially one given as much to carry as yourself. You cannot make an informed decision without first understanding all of the options and the risks involved.”
“But you won't tell me more?”
“I cannot, but Isadora might.”
The scoff was ready, already tinted with her incredulity even as curiosity tugged its fingers at the edges. “So Isadora wasn’t the crazed mad-woman you all made her out to be then? Another lie then.”
“What Isadora became was a tragedy that should have never come to pass.” Only the harsh snap in the woman’s voice stilled Clara’s tongue—the barest hint of a deeper hurt before it settled back to its familiar lilting cadence. “Regardless, Miss Morganach was nothing if not intelligent, to her own detriment at times, but she was keen enough to realize early on that Percival was making moves against her. If I knew her at all, and I believe I did, she would have made arrangements of her own. A means for others to continue her work beyond her death.”
“I’ve already found that.” The words had hardly left the woman’s mouth before Clara swatted it away, and that hollow laugh crept up to knot around the edges of her voice. “At the old estate in Feldcroft. We completed the tryptic in the Undercroft. Isasora’s portrait was destroyed.”
She had expected shock from the former headmistress. Concern or confusion even. She did not expect the curl at the corners of her lips or the light trill of laughter. “Percival did his work well, I see.”
Clara blinked, still too shocked to arrange the meaning into a clear answer. “What?”
“Miss Elmore, why would Isadora hide the information she’d dedicated years of her life to studying beyond the same symbols Percival used to mark our trials?”
Clara made to respond, but any explanation her mind could conjure died before it reached her voice.
“Why-” Niamh continued, “—would Isadora leave a memory that did little more than repeat information you’d already been given?”
“It wasn’t her’s?” It was barely a whisper under her breath—more a confirmation of the answer forming in her mind than anything else.
“No, Isadora did not leave that memory, but the home in Feldcroft did hold some meaning for her. It is quite possible she left some type of instruction there.”
“And you think I should go there?”
But whatever Niamh’s answer might have been vanished behind the sudden click of the door handle and aching creak of hinges below, and Clara all but tripped down the stairs in her haste to reach the main level before anyone could realize she’d done anything more than dutifully sit beside the Headmaster's desk and wait for the others to arrive.