Elysia - The Story Continues

Niamh

‘What was it like? Being so close to the Mother of Hogwarts?’ Skeeter whispered, one eye wary on the camera that had been rolling for close to two hours.

Rita Skeeter’s approach had somewhat softened since her early days, the days that I saw her as nothing but a notorious tabloid hound. Somehow, she had contrived a respectable career, perhaps riding the crest of the Magical Revelation.

‘She was...’ the sentence hung limp in the air, unable to be finished.

I rubbed my hands tensely, noticing the beige age spots littering the skin that seemed to sag off of my flesh. Once those hands had been taut and firm, deft in healing and supple to the touch. It all seemed to happen so quickly, close to a century had melted like wax.

‘How about we call it a day? I’ll come round tomorrow and we’ll finish this off.’

I nodded quickly, raising my eyes to the ceiling in the hope of dissipating the tears. The room was a robust one, with silk wallpaper covered in cream coloured vines and a thick Persian rug beneath my bare feet. I had come to the realisation that I detested shoes years ago.

Perhaps too many press campaigns in ridiculous heels had deterred me.

‘Ni?’ James whispered, resting a hand on my shoulder, offering the comfort of an arm to rest my head against.

‘I’ll be in my study, darling.’ I replied, exiting the room with hindered swiftness; there was no cure for a deteriorating body.

Photos littered the walls, little letter box insights into my life. A tsunami of nostalgia, and perhaps vertigo, begged me to sit down. I reached the conclusion that sometimes in life, you cannot resist reliving the past; and I would not tonight.

Her body hovered in the air at the bequest of Viperous, the white haired witch currently sobbing in a broken heap beside Neville. I hadn’t even noticed him marching through the centre of the room for a long while, I was too busy setting a bone in place to realise what had happened.

Neville was inconsolable, unable to articulate what had even happened, every time he opened his mouth to speak he seemed to be numbed by the pain of a new wave of misery. So, I deduced.

Elysia was covered in wounds weeping blood throughout her robes, wide gashes opening up her abdomen for the world to see. Sectum sempra.

But it was her face that seemed to give it away, the Killing Curse was the most effective at preserving ones expression at the time of death. Strangely, she was smiling, her eyes fixed on an invisible figure above her. I would later learn of her delayed reaction to the curse, and that I was in fact gazing upon a tender goodbye between lovers fixed upon her face.

Hindsight made my evaluation of the situation cold; but sometimes coldness is preferable to devastation. The worst part, perhaps, in seeing the lifeless corpse of your best friend is simply the fact that you have to go back to work.

It was what Elle would have wanted, she hadn’t gone to all the trouble of dying for the healing to end.

I could remember peeling back Elysia’s clothing, erecting a smokescreen around the body, and slowly healing the wounds. I discovered, to my despair, that a deceased body heals much slower than a living one. The penetrative wounds slowly began to knit themselves, spider webs of flesh building up and up until they were skin again.

The wedding dress seem to have come from nowhere, but Elysia seemed to positively jump into it. Even in death she was beautiful; except now it was the haunting kind. Blue eyes totally empty, all that was left was this residual affection for the boy she’d loved since she was a kid.