It was Monday evening. Elian was strolling back from the dungeons after yet another mind-numbing detention with Snape. To his quiet amusement, it seemed Snape was already regretting assigning him a full week of punishments as the sentence had been quietly reduced from seven days to three. Small victories, Elian thought.
The first thing Elian noticed after entering the Gryffindor common room was a notice pinned up in there. Flying lessons would be starting on Thursday—and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together. He took a seat next to Harry, who was groaning for some reason.
"Oh Potter, already got another reason to weep about?" Elian said while settling down, voice dripping with sarcasm and mock sympathy.
"Shut it, Elian," said Harry. "I'm already worried about making a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy."
"You don't know you'll make a fool of yourself," Ron said reasonably. "Anyway, Malfoy's always going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet it's all talk."
"You're missing the point, Weasley," Elian cut in, his tone dry.
Ron blinked. "Mhm?"
"The issue isn't whether Malfoy is all talk, it's whether Potter ends up looking like an idiot while riding a broomstick."
Harry let out a loud groan and buried his face in his hands. "Why can't you say something comforting for once, Elian?"
Elian's expression didn't even twitch. "And give you a false sense of security? No thanks."
Malfoy certainly did talk about flying a lot. He complained loudly about first-years never getting in the house Quidditch teams and told long, boastful stories which always seemed to end with him narrowly escaping Muggles in helicopters. He wasn't the only one, though: the way Seamus Finnigan told it, he'd spent
most of his childhood zooming around the countryside on his broomstick. Even Ron would tell anyone who'd listen about the
time he'd almost hit a hang-glider on Charlie's old broom. Everyone from wizarding families talked about Quidditch constantly. Ron had already had a big argument with Dean Thomas, who shared their dormitory, about football. Ron couldn't see what was exciting about a game with only one ball where no one was allowed to fly. Harry had caught Ron prodding Dean's poster of West Ham football team, trying to make the players move. Neville had never been on a broomstick in his life, because his grandmother had never let him near one, Everyone agreed she'd had good reason, because Neville managed to have an extraordinary number of accidents even with both feet on the ground. Elian, however, wasn't swept up in the Quidditch frenzy. To him, riding a broomstick felt more like a chore than a thrill. What really interested him wasn't the game but the mechanics behind it, why witches and wizards chose to fly on sticks at all instead of channeling their magic directly through their bodies.
Hermione was almost as nervous about flying as Neville was. This was something you couldn't simply learn by heart out of a book. While she was fiddling around in the library, hunting for anything that might help, Elian noticed her and wandered over. She was so absorbed that she didn't realize he was there until he flicked her ear from behind, making her jump.
As she spun around, Elian already had his usual smirk in place.
"I believe we'll be riding broomsticks, not books, Granger," he said.
"I know that, Elian," Hermione hissed, clutching a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. "And what about that book you're holding?" She pointed to the worn, blue-covered tome in his hand, its spine cracked and pages frayed with age.
"You always ask what I'm reading," Elian replied, his tone half-playful, half-challenging, "but you never bother to join in."
"I only read the books that actually help me learn more about magic," Hermione retorted, her voice both proud and defensive.
"Oh, Granger, being picky isn't a very good habit," Elian said lightly, though there was a hint of seriousness in his tone. "Magic is infinite, so are the books about it."
As he turned to leave, he said without turning, "A word of advice: let your curiosity shine a little brighter than your pride. Right now, it feels like the other way around."
With that, Elian slipped away, leaving Hermione glaring after him, annoyed yet thoughtful.
At breakfast on Thursday, as everyone was being bored by Hermione's flying tips except for Neville, who was hanging onto her every word, desperate for anything that might help him onto his broomstick later, Elian was surprisingly quiet as he was focused on the same blue-covered book he borrowed yesterday from the library. Harry, curious, leaned closer and nudged him. "What are you reading?" he asked. But before Elian could lift his eyes from the page to answer, the arrival of the morning post swept across the Great Hall, breaking the moment.
Harry hadn't had a single letter since Hagrid's note, something that Malfoy had been quick to notice, of course. Elian, however, had forbidden Stephen from sending anything until it was absolutely necessary or Elian asked for something specifically. He didn't get anything from Albert either, which was kind of obvious, but Elian was rather relieved to not get anything from his father.
Malfoy's eagle owl was always bringing him packages of sweets from home, which he opened gloatingly at the Slytherin table.
A barn owl brought Neville a small package from his grandmother. He opened it excitedly and showed them a glass ball the size of a large marble, which seemed to be full of white smoke.
"It's a Remembrall!" he explained. "Gran knows I forget things—this tells you if there's something you've forgotten to do. Look, you hold it tight like this, and if it turns red—oh …" His face fell, because the Remembrall had suddenly glowed scarlet, "… you've forgotten something …"
"And children," Elian said dramatically gesturing at the Remembrall. "That's how a Remembrall works." Everyone laughed, but the laughter quickly died when Draco Malfoy, who was passing the Gryffindor table, snatched the Remembrall out of Neville's hand.
Harry and Ron leapt to their feet, both half-hoping Malfoy had just given them the perfect excuse for a fight. Elian, meanwhile, crossed one leg over the other, settling back like he was about to watch an entertaining play.
"What's going on here?" Professor McGonagall's sharp voice cut through the air, she had a way of appearing precisely where trouble brewed.
"Malfoy's got my Remembrall, Professor," Neville said nervously.
But when they all looked, Malfoy's hands were empty.
"Where is it?" Malfoy demanded, scowling.
Elian let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest. "Oh no! He lost it already!"
"I didn't lose it!" Malfoy snapped. "It just—it just disappeared!" His voice wavered between baffled and defensive.
Professor McGonagall fixed him with a glare. "One point from Slytherin. And you will help Mr. Longbottom look for it later."
With that, she swept off, leaving Malfoy red-faced and fuming. Neville looked on the verge of tears at the thought of losing his gift on the very first day—until Elian casually draped an arm around his shoulder, smirk firmly in place, and revealed the Remembrall twirling in his other hand.
"My Remembrall!" Neville gasped.
Draco's eyes widened. "How did you—" His words broke off, tangled between outrage and disbelief.
Elian tilted his head innocently. "Oh, Malfoy, I have no idea what you're talking about."
Draco's jaw clenched, and for a moment it looked like he might actually call McGonagall back, but she was already gone.
"Vale," he spat, eyes narrowing. "You'll pay for that." With Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind him, he stalked away.
Neville clutched the Remembrall to his chest. "Th-thank you, Elian."
"Oh, don't flatter yourself, Longbottom." Elian smirked. "I just wanted some fun. You were the perfect excuse."
At three-thirty that afternoon, while every Gryffindor and Slytherin headed excitedly down to the front steps for their first flying lesson, Elian turned away from the crowd and slipped instead toward Defence Against the Dark Arts with the Hufflepuffs. Flying held no interest for him, why rely on a broomstick when magic itself could surely achieve the same? And, as he was technically bound to all four Houses, he had the rare privilege of attending whichever lessons he pleased. The only condition laid upon him was simple: pass every end-of-year exam.
Professor Quirrell arrived late, his robes fluttering as if he'd hurried. "S-sorry for the delay," he stammered, "I w-was running an errand for Professor Snape." He launched into the day's lecture with his usual nervous mannerisms, scratching uneven words across the blackboard.
Elian barely registered the lesson. The moment Quirrell turned his head, a sharp pressure coiled around his wrist, the bracelet. It tightened so abruptly that Elian's breath caught. He clutched at it, biting back a hiss. The metal seemed alive, constricting, digging into his skin the longer Quirrell's back was turned.
"Mr. V-Vale?" Quirrell's voice wavered when he noticed Elian holding his wrist. "I-is everything all right?"
"Yes, Professor," Elian forced out through gritted teeth, but as Quirrell turned again, the pressure worsened. A sudden sting. Warmth. Elian's eyes flicked down, blood. It was seeping out from beneath the bracelet, sliding in thin streams down his hand.
"Elian's bleeding!" Susan Bones cried, her chair scraping back as she half-rose. Her voice carried panic.
Quirrell hurried forward, his hands trembling as he tried to examine Elian's arm. The instant his fingers brushed the bracelet, however, the metal constricted violently, the pain white-hot. Elian nearly doubled over, biting his lip hard enough to taste iron.
"D-don't worry, Professor," Elian rasped, forcing the words through clenched teeth. "I'll… go to the hospital wing myself."
Before Quirrell could stop him, Elian wrenched his wrist free of the man's touch. He stood, shoulders stiff, and strode out of the classroom, clutching his bleeding wrist to his chest.
As Elian made his way to the hospital wing, clutching his bleeding wrist, he collided with a woman. She had short, steel-grey hair and sharp yellow eyes that reminded him of a hawk tracking prey. It was Madam Hooch.
"You're Elian Vale, aren't you?" she asked, her tone both curious and assessing. Elian glanced down at his wrist, blood dripping steadily onto the floor. With a deadpan expression, he replied, "Pardon me, ma'am, but I don't think this is the best time for introductions."
"What happened to your wrist, boy?" Madam Hooch asked sharply, her hawk-like eyes narrowing as she caught sight of the blood. Without waiting for an answer, she gripped Elian's arm firmly and began steering him toward the hospital wing.
"Ma'am, I believe I can go by my—"
"Don't speak," she interrupted, her voice leaving no room for argument. She stayed at his side the entire way, only releasing him once she had deposited him onto a bed, ironically, right next to Neville, who was nursing a broken wrist of his own.
Elian opened his mouth, ready to drop a witty remark, but quickly shut it when Neville groaned in pain beside him. Instead, his thoughts drifted back to the strange, throbbing pain he'd felt during Professor Quirrell's class. It lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind, until the heavy dose of painkiller began to dull everything into a haze. Within minutes, sleep claimed him.
Elian woke up around dinner time. Neville was still fast asleep, so Elian didn't disturb him. With bandages wrapped neatly around his wrist, just below the bracelet, he slipped quietly out of the hospital wing.
By the time he reached the Great Hall, the long tables were already buzzing with chatter. Spotting Harry and Ron, Elian slid into the empty seat beside them.
"You didn't come to flying class with us?" Ron asked, leaning forward eagerly.
"My priorities are straight, Weasley," Elian replied, his voice carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm. "And balancing on a broomstick isn't one of them."
Harry's eyes flicked to Elian's wrist. "How did that happen?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing dramatic," Elian said, casually lifting his hand. "Like every other eleven-year-old, I did something reckless. The difference is...I'm just a bit more curious than most." His tone was light, but the gleam in his eye betrayed his amusement. "By the way, what happened to Neville's wrist?"
"He fell off his broomstick," Ron said, then immediately brightened. "But wait till you hear this! Elian, Harry's been made Seeker! Youngest in about a century!"
"Congratulations," Elian said with no enthusiasm at all.
"You are not impressed?" Ron asked, disappointed seeing Elian's reaction, but before he could reply, he noticed Fred and George now came into the hall, spotted Harry, and hurried over. They waved at Elian, to which he responded with a wink.
"Well done," said George in a low voice. "Wood told us. We're on the team too—Beaters."
"I tell you, we're going to win that Quidditch Cup for sure this year," said Fred. "We haven't won since Charlie left, but this year's team is going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry; Wood was almost skipping when he told us."
"Anyway, we've got to go; Lee Jordan reckons he's found a new secret passageway out of the school."
"Oh, the one near the black lake?" Elian asked.
"No, the one behind the statue of Gregory...wait, there is one near the Black Lake?" The twins turn their heads towards Elian.
Elian smirked. "There are a lot."
The twins exchanged identical, mischievous grins. "Well then," George said, "looks like we've got another mission."
"Cheers, Elian," Fred added, and with that, they bounded off.
Fred and George had barely disappeared when someone far less welcome appeared: Malfoy, flanked by the ever-loyal Crabbe and Goyle.
"Having a last meal, Potter? When are you catching the train back to the Muggles?" Malfoy sneered.
"You're a lot braver now you're back on the ground—and with your little friends beside you," Harry said coolly.
"They're little?" Elian cut in, raising an eyebrow. "News to me."
Crabbe and Goyle both turned sharply toward him, cracking their knuckles, but with the High Table full of teachers, they could only scowl.
"I'd take you on any time, alone," Malfoy said, glaring at Harry. "Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel. Wands only—no contact. What's the matter? Don't tell me you've never heard of a wizard's duel?"
"Of course he has," Ron shot back. "I'll be his second. Who's yours?"
Malfoy glanced between Crabbe and Goyle, weighing them up. "Crabbe. Midnight. Trophy room—it's always unlocked. And Vale…" His eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare interfere like you did this morning. This is between Gryffindor and Slytherin."
Elian smirked lazily. "Interfere? I've no idea what you're talking about, Malfoy."
Malfoy's scowl deepened before he turned sharply on his heel, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering after him.
Harry looked at Ron. "What is a wizard's duel?" he asked. "And what do you mean, you're my second?"
"Well, a second's there to take over if you die," Ron said casually. But when he caught Harry's horrified look, he quickly added, "But people only die in proper duels."
"He can still lose a limb or two," Elian said with a perfectly straight face. Harry's eyes went even wider.
"No, he won't, stop scaring him, Elian," Ron said quickly. "The worst you and Malfoy can do is throw sparks at each other. Neither of you knows enough magic to do real damage."
"And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?" Harry muttered.
"Simple," Elian said smoothly. "Poke the wand straight in his eye."
"Excuse me."
They looked up. It was Hermione.
"Of course, who else could it be," Elian muttered under his breath.
Hermione shot him a sharp look, to which he raised his hands in mock surrender.
She turned back to Harry, ignoring him. "I couldn't help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying—"
"Bet you could," Ron muttered.
"—and you mustn't go wandering around the school at night. Think of the points you'll lose for Gryffindor if you're caught, and you are—"
"Slow down, Granger," Elian cut in smoothly. "Look at the bright side for once."
Hermione blinked at him, incredulous. "How could there possibly be a bright side to breaking rules?"
Elian smirked lazily. "If I told you, it would ruin the surprise."
Before Hermione could retort, he leaned back, shutting his eyes as if the conversation itself had tired him out. Harry and Ron exchanged grins, and before long the three of them were drifting off, leaving Hermione fuming quietly in her seat.
All the same, it wasn't what you'd call the perfect end to the day, Harry thought, as he lay awake much later listening to Dean and
Seamus falling asleep (Neville wasn't back from the hospital wing). Ron had spent all evening giving him advice, such as "If he tries to curse you, you'd better dodge it, because I can't remember how to block them." Elian was not in the Gryffindor common rooms; he left, saying he would return by the time of the duel, but he has not come back till now.
"Half past eleven," Ron muttered. "We'd better go."
"But Elian?" Harry asked.
"He would be there by the time of the duel, he said, so we should trust him and go, or we will be late."
They pulled on their dressing gowns, picked up their wands, and crept across the tower room, down the spiral staircase, and into the Gryffindor common room. A few embers still glowed in the fireplace, turning the armchairs into hunched black shadows.
They were almost at the portrait hole when a voice spoke from the nearest chair:
"I can't believe you're actually going through with this, Harry."
A lamp flared to life. Hermione Granger sat there in a pink dressing gown, her arms crossed and her frown firmly in place.
"You!" Ron hissed furiously. "Go back to bed!"
"I nearly told your brother," Hermione snapped. "Percy's a prefect—he'd have stopped you. And where is Elian, anyway?"
Harry couldn't believe anyone could be so interfering.
"Come on," he muttered to Ron, ignoring her question. He shoved open the portrait of the Fat Lady and climbed through the hole.
Hermione wasn't about to give up. She followed them out, hissing and scolding under her breath like an angry goose.
"Don't you care about Gryffindor, do you only care about yourselves? I don't want Slytherin to win the House Cup, and you'll lose all the points I got from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching Spells."
"Go away."
"All right, but I warned you, you just remember what I said when you're on the train home tomorrow. You're so—"
But what they were, they didn't find out. Hermione had turned to the portrait of the Fat Lady to get back inside and found herself facing an empty painting. The Fat Lady had gone on a nighttime visit, and Hermione was locked out of Gryffindor Tower.
"Now what am I going to do?" she asked shrilly.
"That's your problem," said Ron. "We've got to go, we're going to be late."
They hadn't even reached the end of the corridor when Hermione caught up with them.
'I'm coming with you,' she said.
"You are not."
"D'you think I'm going to stand out here and wait for Filch to catch me? If he finds all three of us, I'll tell him the truth, that I was trying to stop you, and you can back me up."
"You've got some nerve—" said Ron loudly.
"Shut up, both of you!" said Harry sharply. "I heard something."
"Elian?" breathed Ron, squinting through the dark.
It wasn't Elian. It was Neville. He was curled up on the floor, fast asleep, but jerked suddenly awake as they crept nearer.
'Thank goodness you found me! I've been out here for hours. I couldn't remember the new password to get into bed.'
'Keep your voice down, Neville. The password's "Pig snout," but it won't help you now, the Fat Lady's gone off somewhere.'
'How's your arm?' said Harry.
'Fine,' said Neville, showing them. 'Madam Pomfrey mended it in about a minute.'
'Good—well, look, Neville, we've got to be somewhere, we'll see you later—'
'Don't leave me!' said Neville, scrambling to his feet. 'I don't want to stay here alone, the Bloody Baron's been past twice already.'
Ron looked at his watch and then glared furiously at Hermione and Neville.
"If either of you get us caught," Ron whispered furiously, "I'll never rest until I've learnt that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us about and used it on you."
Hermione opened her mouth, probably to explain exactly how the curse worked, but Harry hissed at her to be quiet and beckoned them forward.
They slipped along moonlit corridors, shadows stretching long and thin across the flagstones. At every turn Harry expected to bump straight into Filch or Mrs Norris, but luck seemed to be on their side. They hurried up a staircase to the third floor and tiptoed into the trophy room.
Malfoy and Crabbe weren't there.
Crystal cases gleamed in the silver light, filled with glittering cups, shields, plates, and statues that winked like watchful eyes in the dark. The four of them edged along the wall, keeping one eye on each door. Harry clutched his wand tightly, ready for Malfoy to spring out.
Minutes crawled by.
"He's late… maybe he's chickened out," Ron muttered.
A sudden noise in the next room made them all jump. Harry's wand shot up, but the voice they heard wasn't Malfoy's.
"Sniff around, my sweet… they might be lurking in a corner."
Filch.
Horror-struck, Harry flailed his arms at the others. They scrambled silently to the far exit. Neville's robes had barely whipped around the corner when Filch's voice floated closer:
"They're in here somewhere… probably hiding."
"This way!" Ron mouthed, jerking his head.
Harry hesitated. "But what about Elian? If he comes later and doesn't find us—" he mouthed back.
Before anyone could answer, Filch's footsteps creaked nearer. Panic shot through them. They crept down a long gallery lined with silent suits of armour.
The silence broke when Neville squeaked in terror and bolted, colliding with Ron. The two toppled straight into a suit of armour.
The deafening clang rang through the corridor, a metallic crash that could have woken the entire castle.
"RUN!" Harry shouted.
The four of them tore down the gallery, hearts hammering, not daring to look back. They rounded a corner at full tilt, then another, Harry leading them blindly into the dark, with no idea where they were heading.
Then, out of nowhere, a hand shot from the shadows and yanked Harry sideways into a narrow passage. Startled, Harry instinctively dragged Ron with him; Ron grabbed Hermione, who in turn seized Neville. In a clumsy chain reaction, all four stumbled forward—until they spilled out into the deserted third-floor corridor.
"Well," drawled a familiar voice. "I believe you lot just fell for Malfoy's little prank."
Elian stood against the wall, arms crossed, his ever-present smirk playing at his lips.
"Elian!" Ron exploded. "You knew it was a trick?!"
"And why are you even here?" Hermione snapped, eyes narrowing.
"Calm down," Elian said smoothly.
"Calm down?!" Ron and Hermione barked together, their voices echoing down the corridor.
Elian sighed as though they were being unreasonable. "Look, long story short—I was heading to meet you, but then my… let's call it a Hogwarts expedition...sidetracked me." He tapped his temple with mock seriousness. "And as for Malfoy's so-called duel? Just a hunch. Something about him screamed 'trap.'"
Ron and Hermione looked as though they wanted to argue further, but Harry cut across them.
"We can talk later, Filch is right behind us."
Even as he spoke, the echo of hurried footsteps reached them. Neville gave a startled squeak, his face pale in the dim light. The footsteps quickened, Filch was running.
Hermione's eyes darted around and fell on a door a few feet away. Snatching Harry's wand without asking, she hissed, "This way, quick!"
They stumbled toward the door, almost tripping over one another in their panic. Hermione tapped the lock with the wand and whispered, "Alohomora!"
With a soft click, the lock sprang open. The door creaked as it swung inward, and they bundled themselves through, closing it firmly behind them.
They pressed their ears to the wood, straining to hear.
"Are they here, my sweet?" Filch's wheezy voice drifted down the corridor. Mrs. Norris padded ahead, her lamp-like eyes glowing, but after a pause she turned away from the very spot where they hid.
Filch lingered, muttering under his breath as he peered into the shadows. Then, with a grunt, he shuffled off after his cat.
"Good cat," Elian muttered to himself with a smirk.
Harry turned around and instantly realized they were in the forbidden area of the third floor. Why? Because he was struck by a nightmare. This was too much, on top of everything that had happened so far. They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog that filled the whole space between ceiling and floor. It had three heads. Three pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, saliva
hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.
It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them.
"Well...it doesn't look like it wanted to play." Elian said with a deadpan face, but before the dog could do anything, Elian pulled out one of his wands and said, "Lumos Maxima!" The dog's eyes flashed with a blinding light.
"Follow me!" He barked,and then they ran, they almost flew, back down the corridor. Filch must have hurried off to look for them somewhere else because they didn't see him anywhere. They didn't stop running until they reached the potrait of the Fat Lady on the seventh floor.
"Where on earth have you all been?" she asked.
"Oh darling, in your heart." Elian said with a mock bow.
"Not now Elian!" Hermione snarled, huffing.
"Anyway—pig snout," panted Harry, and the portrait swung forward.
They scrambled into the common room and collapsed onto the armchairs, chests heaving. For a long while, none of them spoke. Neville looked pale and shaken, as though he might never find words again.
At last Ron managed, "What do they think they're playing at, keeping something like that locked in a school? If any dog needs exercise, that one does."
"Look who's talking," Elian muttered.
Ron shot him a glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." Elian leaned back, deliberately unconcerned.
"Both of you, shut it," Hermione snapped. Her breath was returning, along with her bad temper. "Honestly, don't you use your eyes? Didn't you see what it was standing on?"
The others stared blankly.
Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line. "It was standing on a trapdoor. It's guarding something."
That revelation hung in the air, thick and uneasy.
Elian stood abruptly. "Fascinating deduction, Granger. Truly. But I'm not obligated to listen to you play detective."
And with that, he strode off toward the dormitories, ignoring Hermione's indignant spluttering.
One by one, the others drifted to bed, but much later, when the common room lay silent in shadows, Elian stirred. He rose, padded to the window, and touched the black stud in his right ear.
"I did what you asked," he whispered. "Next time, be less vague."
The stud gave a faint, unnatural gleam. A distorted sound, half static, half whisper answered him. Elian exhaled heavily, expression unreadable, and turned away from the moonlit window.
He slipped back beneath the covers without another word.