PAPER CONFINES.
17. / No Knight of Mine

✶

       Colette had been sitting in Claude's bedroom for twenty minutes and could not take her eyes off the blue bergère glaring in the furthest corner. She also couldn't comment on it—how strange that would be—but the tap of her foot on the carpet had earned the occasional flash of Nadya's gaze, for whom none of Colette's nervous ticks seemed to pass without scrutiny. Every time she became aware of the fact she was tapping her foot, she moved on to chewing her lip, which made Nadya raise an eyebrow, which reverted Colette to her previous foot-tapping, and the cycle went on subtly enough that Claude said nothing about it. That or he allowed this unspoken exchange to go on because he couldn't be bothered to comment on it, or knew Nadya would berate him if he did. These sorts of things were meant to stew uncomfortably between the two of them. It was what they did best.

Upon entry, Colette had contemplated it hectically, as her brain—wrought with this stupid, insignificant recollection—scrambled for explanation to fill the suddenly re-opened wound. She wondered whether it was a staple of the Ravenclaw dormitories. The colour fit well enough. Only there was no bergère in Banks' bedroom, so that couldn't have been true.

Colette knew wealthier students often decorated their chambers with personal pieces; her own roommate, Rosalind Loriss, had used an undetectable extension charm to fit her mother's récamier next to their window (and Colette had spent all night fixing the dents that left). But Claude had a reserved tendency to keep his riches at home, and this chair was a shrieking statement if any inanimate object could speak: deep blue, velvet, with silk tassels dangling from the skirt, albeit that opulence was buried in an slovenly mountain of sketchbooks and loose parchment. It looked, otherwise, like the plum bergère Papa used to sit in as he read Colette the morning newspaper, a Perique cigar between his fingers. When Colette would hang upside-down on the opposite sofa, her feet perched on the backrest, her head dangling off the seat, giggling as she swatted the curling smoke with her hands.

It looked like the one Maman sat in when she asked her to leave.

Of course, of course Claude and his estate and his dittany fields and his vault full of gold would own the most abominably rich seat Colette had ever seen in her life. And of course her parents would own the same before it had all gone wrong—the shining token left to the dust in Megève. Her mother hadn't even brushed it clean before she sat on it and buried her head in her hands. And then the words: Lette, tu sais que nous t'aimerons toujours.

(You know we will always love you.)

What followed felt nothing like love. And Colette wished now she could say to her what she'd recited in the years since, with all her lonesome hours spent plucking daisies in the endless yard of Ottery St Catchpole: Mais pas comme avant.

(But not like before.)

"So, you take one—" Claude handed the device to Nadya— "And I keep the other."

"And we'll be able to hear you?"

Colette perked up, peering at the reflective tablet in Nadya's palm. She brushed over the ridges and made a sound of disbelief. "I guess we're about to find out if your mother is a genius or a madwoman."

"Both, I like to think."

"Well, you get it from somewhere."

"You think I'm a genius?"

"No."

"You think I'm a madwoman?"

"I think you're a karmic punishment."

"You are in need of one," he said sardonically. "Don't look so horrified. I've tried them once already, they work."

"How?" Colette asked.

"She speaks." Claude handed her the twin device. "They're made of silver—best conductive metal—and enchanted, of course. Mum's been working on activation charms, so the magic itself is... dormant, for lack of a better word. Until someone uses the spell. Sort of like touching a port-key."

"What spell?"

"Amplifying charm. But I mentioned that already."

Colette flushed, handing him back his mother's invention. "Sorry. I was distracted."

Nadya and Claude spoke in unison. "It's fine."

Nadya crossed her arms.

"Like I said, it isn't exact." Claude held the tablet out to Colette to display. "Sonorus is the regular spell, but for this—satus sonorus."

With that, it whizzed like a crackling radio. Claude waited for the initial hum to go quiet and then whistled a flat note. It echoed a second later in Nadya's palm, an exact replica.

"Putain..."

"That's French for, 'thank God Claude's mother is a genius and not a madwoman.'"

"And to think you had no faith in me," Claude gasped.

"Oh, I still don't. This is the barest reassurance, Ozanich."

"You're delightful."

"I know."

Colette sighed. "Can you shut those off so I do not have to hear you bickering twice?"

"Yes, yes. Arresto sonorus."

The silver gleamed as Nadya clinked it against her bejewelled fingers. "The spell can be activated from either of these, right?"

"Mhm." He straightened his tie in the mirror. "But yours projects the sound from mine; they can't be used interchangeably. Give it about five minutes from when I leave and I should be in Dippet's office. Unless you want to listen to me trek the corridors. I've been told my walk is satisfying."

"Who in God's name told you that?"

He turned to Colette.

Nadya shot her a stupefied look.

"What?" Colette exclaimed.

"How can a walk be satisfying?"

"I don't know!"

"You're a treasure," Claude beamed. "Both of you."

Nadya fell onto the bed and groaned. "Go do your part, please, so I can be free from my purgatory."

"So dramatic. Don't throw a fit and break that while I'm gone; I'm hoping to sneak at least one back into my mum's workshop during winter break."

Colette knew his words were for Nadya, but she nodded fervently. As if false assurance could shake off the weight of this day. How heavy this plan was, even when it seemed so simple. Get in Dippet's office, get the book, get out. And the implicit next step, the most essential: get Banks back.

She took a steadying breath. "Good luck, Claude."

He thanked her with a polished smile, tucking the finger-breadth tablet in his pocket and closing his bedroom door.

Silence swept over the space. Birds chirped outside the half-moon window, soaring through what were visibly rough winds, but the sound was muffled. Unreachable. Grey soaked the skyline and bled into jagged treetops—muted evergreen and vibrant, autumn red—and Colette, no artist by brush, glanced at Claude's mess of sketches to be sure he had used his gift to enshrine this view. Sure enough, the sheet at the very top of his pyramid of pastels was an oily blend of oranges and yellows and deep, dark greys. Long trees formed waves, and were charmed to sway and glisten with foggy white light. He'd even captured the flock of birds departing from the forest. There was something urgent about artwork that way—catching a moment and thinking frantically, one hundred years from now someone must know this existed.

Colette glanced at Nadya. Yes, the urgency was there too.

It was laughable. Of course it was there. Colette wasn't sure what on earth could draw breath that was more deserving of that dedicated frenzy than her. Even after knowing her for two years, she sometimes looked at Nadya and felt overwhelmed by the need to commemorate her, to write about her, to compose a symphony or a thousand. She must have been made eternal somehow.

Ridiculous. Soft-hearted. Mad—but weren't all the best composers? Wasn't that what propelled them forward?

Colette sat at the cushioned windowsill facing the quidditch pitch and sighed, pushing away the thought. She watched as a mother eagle settled in a nest on the roof between two towers. The eagle regurgitated food for her children, and held the weight of the aerie with her talons, firm against the wind. Colette knew things were bad when she could draw familial comparisons to wild animals and be made upset by them.

"It's been five minutes, hasn't it?"

Colette turned around. Nadya was swapping Claude's device between both of her hands like a child might toss a ball back-and-forth. She raised an eyebrow that Colette knew meant "it doesn't actually matter, I want to listen either way" because Nadya lacked the patience to wait and despised long bouts of silence and despite her attempt at carelessness, she was frightened to death that Claude wouldn't get that book.

"I'm not sure."

"I think it has. We could always start regardless and listen to Ozanich's satisfying walk."

"Stop it," Colette whined.

Nadya fought a grin. "What? It's not everyday you get the opportunity."

"You're going to do it, I know. So just do it."

"My sweet Colette, you know me so well. Satus soronus."

The tablet crackled once more. Colette rolled her eyes and sat on the edge of the bed, but she took happily to any name Nadya gave her.

Footsteps pattered under the slight rustling of fabric, but otherwise there was nothing on the twin tablet projecting here.

"God, is it going to scratch like that the whole time?" Nadya said on a sigh.

"It's in his pocket, of course it will."

"Well, he'd better find a place for it before it drives me insane."

Sure enough, there was the familiar grate of the headmaster's statue turning, and Claude's shoes clacking against the stone as he walked the spiral stairs.

Colette took a sharp inhale and scooted closer to listen. Gloriously, Nadya didn't move away to fill the closed gap between them. Their robes brushed. Colette refused to misinterpret a non-action. It was a non-action! But it was also Nadya, and when did she ever sit still if she didn't want to?

"Ease up," was all she had to say to Colette's anxious demeanour.

"You ease up," Colette returned bitingly, which might have made it all the more obvious how devastatingly unnerved she was.

A hoarse voice interrupted from the infinitesimal dots lining the edge of the tablet.

"Claude! You're early."

"Headmaster."

"Thank you for coming—by Merlin, between our... most unfortunate incident and yesterday's festivities, I've been so overwhelmed with work I haven't had the chance to rest. Or eat!" Dippet laughed, and then coughed. "I'm sure you've all noticed my absence in the great hall."

"Rambling," Nadya noted. "It's nice to know he's suffering at least a little."

"Shush."

"Of course, sir. Take all the time you need."

"Well then." A large sigh. "How was Halloween?"

"Shockingly uneventful. The usual drunken antics, a few bottles of firewhisky I had disposed of, one fight between a second year dressed as Yardley Platt and a fourth year wearing his mother's nightgown. Nightgown was the instigator. But nothing so terrible to earn a place in the dungeons, if that's what you're wondering."

"Goodness. How many points off his house?"

"Only five. I may have been biased. Ravenclaw's doing poorly this teem and I didn't want another loss."

Dippet's wrinkled smile could be heard in his voice. "Just this once, Claude, I'll allow it."

Colette thought of how he'd react if Nadya ever tried pulling something like that and frowned. "Yes," she muttered, "it is nice to know he's suffering a little."

Nadya snorted.

There was the sound of a screeching chair as it pushed from its desk. "How are things otherwise?"

The muffled susurration of Claude's robe pocket cleared before it was wrapped by his hand. "...Difficult, Headmaster, if you're looking for honesty. Amoret's disappearance—and Tom's—students are afraid, sir. I've heard things. Some say they won't return after break."

"Well, we—I—" Dippet spluttered—"I am doing all that I can to ensure the safety of this school!"

"Of course, sir."

"And, you know, if that boy would—if the students being called to question could just answer candidly, I'm sure this conundrum could be solved with haste."

Nadya grumbled, "He'd put anything in wrapping paper and call it a gift. He's arranged a bouquet of shit and he wants to be thanked for it."

Someone paced the room.

"Sir, if you don't mind my saying—perhaps it would be best to hand this over to the Ministry now. A private investigator, even. Someone trained for it."

Dippet laughed monotonously. "I appreciate your conjecture, my boy, and it is well-intended, but believe me, I am doing more than you know from right here. Best not to involve the Ministry unless we want the entire school to deteriorate—I trust you know that includes you and your hard work."

There was a pause. A click in place.

"He hid the device," Colette said.

"Students with family in the Ministry may well write to them."

"The book, now, Ozanich," Nadya said against her knuckles, and it was her tapping her foot on the carpet now.

"All correspondence to and from the castle is being reviewed before exit or entry."

"I—we're monitoring letters, sir?"

Dippet sighed. "As I said, I am doing more than you know. And I would prefer that that information remains between us, Mr Ozanich."

"Of course, Headmaster." He cleared his throat, and someone's footsteps grew quieter. When Claude spoke again, it was evident it was him who had moved. "I should have the posters for curfew printed across the entire school tomorrow."

"Thank you. And how are your grades coming along?"

"Well enough. Potions is suffocating, though."

"Ah, Professor Slughorn. Yes, he does have that effect."

"No, sir, I mean the potions are actually suffocating. Angel's Trumpet Draught. Feels like breathing clouds."

"Oh, Merlin, it's been ages. I must admit I don't miss it."

"No?"

Colette swore she heard something squeaking, so slowly and faintly she wasn't sure whether it was coming from the tablet or the room around her. Nadya gave her a look that asked the same question.

"Yes. My, yes. I'll show you the pensieve one of these days, Claude. I showed Amoret and Tom plenty."

"Poor Banks."

"When I was in my nineties," he went on, "I realized I was starting to lose some of my memories—ones some might deem unimportant, but I digress—I began storing them here. The simplest things. Days at school, visits to the Ministry, the nook under the staircase in my father's house where I used to read in the summer."

Another drag of that low, squeaking sound. "Really?"

"He must be opening the drawer," Colette said, horrified and hopeful at the same time.

"Of course. When you're my age, I have no doubt you'll do the same. This plight will be over with and you'll long to remember it, much as you might be certain now you only want to forget."

"That bottle looks older than a century, sir."

"Ha! Yes, this one is Bridget Wenlock's. Thirteenth century."

"That's marvelous."

"Certainly."

There was a chime of glass, and then silence.

"You're sure you're all right, Claude?"

"I'm... doing as well as I can under the circumstances. Amoret is a close friend of mine."

"Of course. Of course..."

Silence again. Lingering, stark, silence. Then a fast squeak, the reverse of the last. Another click.

"Fascinated by my desk, Claude?" Dippet laughed.

"Fuck." Nadya stood up. "Fuck."

Colette wanted to curl into her body like a crab into a shell.

"It's black walnut, isn't it? My father has the same."

At least Claude was a good liar.

"A man with a good eye. Shame about..." He paused. "Well, what your family went through."

"Mm, well—all in the past. I'm sure he appreciates the stability."

"As do I."

Now what?

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Headmaster?"

"Oh... no, no. You've done more than enough, Claude. I'm guilty of overworking you. Such is why I invited Miss Rosier to take some of this week's burden."

"Rosier? I'm sure whatever it is, I can fit it in my schedule, sir. I know she's very busy right now."

"Oh, you mustn't be the exemplar every day. Playing hero is a tired trope. Besides, she—well, I told her I was meeting with you but I asked that she come before noon—she should be here any minute now."

Colette grabbed her head between her hands. "Putain."

"We need to go."

"What? And do what?"

Nadya paced the length of the carpet. "I don't know! Stand outside and stop her before she gets there!"

But Rosier's voice had a distinct wolfishness. You could hear that bite as soon as the first word escaped her lips.

"Headmaster?"

Nadya launched one of her thicker rings at the wall and it left a dent in the old plaster. She looked like she was going to scream. "I'm leaving."

"Nadya, there's nothing we can do! We must trust Claude will fix this."

"Trust that Claude will—Colette! If she sees him digging around Dippet's desk, she'll take the book herself!"

"Then Claude will not dig! We'll come back another day!"

"Ah, Augusta, you brought guests."

"I should have told you, sir. Zenith and Abraxas wanted to be a part of the added curfew. Antonin, too, only he's tutoring between classes."

"Colette..."

She stuttered a breath. "I know."

"Well, we've already filled the necessary corridors with the prefects and professors who volunteered."

"Surely it would be best to leave no stone untouched, sir," Mulciber said, so falsely generous it oozed what might be mistaken as sweet. Colette knew the poison underneath.

"I'd happily take a shift."

"No, Claude, I said already, you're doing more than enough. Your duty is to your house, as is Augusta's. Confer with Mrs Mallard when you have the chance and she'll help you."

"I saw the board, Headmaster," Malfoy joined, "there's a blind spot in the East wing. Here."

Paper shuffled.

"Hm. I'll consider new additions after we see the first venture tonight." Dippet paused. "Claude, my only task for you now is not to be late for Potions today. Suffocating angel's trumpet and all."

"But sir—"

"I'm indebted to you already, my boy. Go."

"...Thank you, Headmaster."

Nadya opened the door.

"What are you doing?"

"Leaving," she said plainly. "Arresto sonorus."

The tablet hissed into a discomforting quiet. Colette glanced at the bergère again and was reminded of the sting of failure. It wasn't all lost yet, but the sense that it would be was beginning to swell. Her ceaseless optimism was exhausting, and Colette was too tired to straighten her spine and wear it proudly today. She was too tired to wear it at all. It slipped off like a sad, shapeless coat.

Nadya raised her eyebrows. "Are you coming?"

Colette grabbed her cane.

It was odd to traverse the corridors at the speed they were moving. There was a gravity to this they were both ignoring—or refusing to address. Yes, it was what they did best. And occasionally it was a comfort: the silent knowledge that they didn't have to acknowledge whatever monstrous something loomed over them, that they only had to share a glance and understand. But when it wasn't a comfort, which was most of the time, it made Colette feel like she was stuck under a cloud of Angel's Trumpet Draught herself, locked in as the white nebula thickened, where she could only turn the doorknob helplessly and hope it would eventually open. She wondered if Nadya felt as suffocated by it as she did.

Now wasn't the time to ask.

"What the hell happened in there!?" Nadya seethed at the sight of Claude around the corner, leaning miserably against the wall.

"This was not his fault, Nadya."

"No," he said, "it was. I hid the bug first. The book was the priority—I'm sorry."

Nadya kneaded from her jaw to her temples, pacing again.

"Now what?" Colette croaked.

"Now we have an ear in, and we pray that gives us an opening to come back and finish this."

Claude scratched his head. "I'll keep the tablet on tonight. I'll listen."

"We can each take a night," Colette said. "We will take turns. Maybe there is more to find just by listening to Dippet alone. He—he said something to you, Claude—"

"Said what?" Nadya inquired.

"We cannot know if it means anything now, I just—um, he interrupted himself, he said—'that boy'. He was upset about students not cooperating, but before, he said there was a boy."

Claude nodded. "I remember."

"Okay, what does that mean?"

"I don't know!" Colette cried, and there she was tapping her foot again, leaning next to Claude on the wall.

"Maybe there's a lead Dippet's following. Someone he's waiting for."

Nadya made a face. "That's plenty to take away from 'that boy', Ozanich."

"Context clues, Sidhu."

"If you'd just gotten the book, I wouldn't need a damn context clue—"

"Nadya."

She caught Colette's warning and heeded it. Reluctantly. She was grumbling into the sleeves of her robe.

It was in good time, too, because the stone before Dippet's office trembled and the stairs began to revolve. Someone was leaving. Colette stood straighter, clutching her quartz, and Nadya shuffled next to her and Claude to get a look at whoever was about to emerge. Colette doubted it was to give them a friendly greeting on the other side.

Her heart thrummed at the sight of his shoes.

She almost wanted to turn away, but the sharp click of those heels on the floor made it impossible. It was too familiar a scene. The slow reveal, the steps, the dawning fear that she could not run away—and there he was, smirking at her as the statue rotated. Colette sunk at the full sight of him, practically deflating to Nadya's height as her eyes lowered.

Beyond his cuff-links and his porcelain fingers, the black book dangled tauntingly in Mulciber's grasp.

He ran his thumb over the spine as he got closer, and Colette watched the etching Nadya had spoken of reveal itself as he brushed over the words. Tom Marvolo Riddle—engraved like a golden epitaph. The book wasn't just at the scene of his crime, it was his. And it meant enough that the Knights of Walpurgis stole it before they could.

Colette only had a moment to stare in horror before Nadya was lunging at Mulciber and Colette's free hand was holding her back with all the strength she had.

"You fucking—"

"Language, Sidhu," Rosier clicked her tongue, checking to see that the statue had finished turning. "Do remember your place."

Claude gave her a silencing glare. "Do remember mine."

"Is there a problem, Claude?" Mulciber chimed in. The book was pressed so lazily to his hip, his hold on it so agonizingly casual, no fear of it being ripped away. He seemed to taunt, as his eyes lingered on Colette: take it. I dare you.

"Not yet," Colette answered in his stead. She tried to hide the shock at her own words—they'd spilled without a second of forethought.

Mulciber laughed, and Nadya strained at Colette's arm. There was an odd inclination to let go. Let her at him. An even odder part of Colette squirmed at the thought; not because Mulciber didn't deserve it, but because somewhere long forgotten, she wanted the satisfaction of doing it herself.

"Day's still young," Nadya jeered. "That could change."

Rosier snarled, "Such loud claims. You forget how easily you were quieted once."

"And you forget how close I've gotten to quieting you permanently."

Colette's hand itched to release. No. No—she would not give in to what was so obviously bait, even if Nadya's nails were probably digging holes into her sleeves. How could she scold her for her impulsivity so often and suddenly want to encourage it?

Claude stepped forward and put a warning hand to Rosier's shoulder. Still, Mulciber and Malfoy had their eyes set firmly on Nadya and Colette, Malfoy more unhinged than his apathetic senior, one step higher on the ladder of Knights in Tom Riddle's absence, but not high enough to make any move without Mulciber's direct concession. And Mulciber—only apparent by the jut in his chin that Colette ascertained long ago to be restraint—knew he couldn't make any move without Dolohov's either.

"Walk away," Claude said. His voice was gentle, always dignified, but there was a hidden layer of promise in it that Colette hadn't heard him use before. It had never been so easy to deduct the wealth in his voice as it was then, and Colette was familiar enough from her years at Beauxbatons to recognize it: Claude was a child of nobility, and he smiled through his threats like one too.

Rosier stiffened.

Claude kept his hand there, waiting.

"Meet me in the Great Hall after Astronomy tomorrow," she said through gritted teeth, "I'd like to finish those posters quickly."

"The sooner the better."

With that, she strutted away, dusting off the shoulder where Claude had made his warning.

Mulciber smiled softly, but his hold on the book was firm now. "Keep that grip on her, Chapdelaine," he said with faux concern, "so many terrible things happening to our muggle-borns lately."

Nadya was writhing, and Colette almost stumbled with the combined effort of restraining her and keeping balance on her cane. Claude glanced over and came to assist, clasping Nadya's hands in his larger ones. Colette knew if he wasn't she'd be plucking off rings and taking one of Mulciber's eyes out with them like they were throwing knives—she'd been wanting to for so long. But he didn't seem bothered. He began to follow after Rosier, Malfoy in tow, and turned again and lifted the book like a glass raised in congratulatory prosit.

"We'll give Banks your best wishes when we find her, Sidhu."

And then they were gone, and the sense of failure reeled Colette in on a line she couldn't break free from. The cloud spilled in. The door remained shut.

[ . . . ]  hey look things are still going comically awry! but claude is in the gang now. so its ok  /  word count. 4364

©  Crierayla  ✶  2022