A/N: (I know, I know, I overuse the author's note privilege. Sorry). Just wanted to say that although I don't detail it, Rigel's hygiene is not actually that dismal. It's just tedious in a story to say when she showers and brushes her teeth, and you guys don't want to read that every time either, right? So assume it happens some magical time every day unless specified otherwise.
A/N2: Also—mega huge thanks to both TamariChan and DwellingOnDreams7 for your super kind reviews on chapter eight! ^^ You make me happy today.
The Pureblood Pretense
Chapter Nine:
Rigel reflected later that after her first week of school, she really shouldn't have expected the weekend to be any different, but she woke Saturday with naive optimism. She thought she'd get an early start on her and Flint's homework assignments that morning, so she put on her shoes quietly and grabbed her schoolbag, with Flint's letter in it, on her way out the door. She followed the quickest route on the Marauder's Map to the Library and headed toward the stacks, pulling out Flint's letter as she went. There was no salutation or damning reiteration of their deal. It was short and to the point.
Due Monday: 14 inches on the properties of the Venimus Tentacula plant, including how it is grown and harvested and a labeled diagram drawn to scale of the important features.
Due Wednesday: 10 inches on Switching Spells and how they relate to and compare with Swapping Spells.
Also due Wednesday, 12 inches on the late sixteenth century goblin rebellions headed by Urlag the Terrible.
Due Thursday: 1 roll of parchment on the merits and consequences of using different materials in brewing Potions that affect the Nervous system.
Rigel rolled up the parchment and tucked it away. She could do this. She could think of several arguments to make for the Potions essay already, and she knew enough about Venimous Tentacula not to have to look too much up for the Herbology essay- though her drawing abilities were zero, so she hoped Professor Sprout didn't grade on artistry. The History essay she had no clue about, same with Charms, so she headed to those two sections first.
She took out the Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five first, along with a book called Charms of Equal Exchange, which looked promising, and headed over to a nearby table to work quietly through the Charms essay. It took Rigel four more trips back to the shelves for more specific books before she thought she had enough information compiled to do an accurate comparison of Swapping and Switching spells, but a few hours later she had ten inches that she was quite pleased with, so she went in search of History texts.
She ran into trouble, because the History section was organized by author, not by period (which would have made more intuitive sense to Rigel), so she had no idea where to start beyond A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, which contained a brief synopsis of the rebellion, but was really more of an overview of everything than a good source for in-depth information on anything. Rigel only had an hour to look before she would be missed at lunch (and she had already skipped breakfast anyway), so she returned the Charms books to their places and went to ask the Librarian for help.
Madam Pince sat like a ramrod behind her ornate desk in the center of the Library, stamping books lovingly as she picked them up from the Returns pile, while her eyes raked the stacks for funny business. There was something vulture-like about her that wasn't in her stick-like posture, but in the air of underfed savagery about her as her thin, bony hands grasped at the covers of her books with a desperate sort of hunger.
"Excuse me?" Rigel kept her voice to a sotto whisper that wouldn't disturb the peace of the Library.
The older woman turned her clear, sharp eyes on her, "What?" she said in a harsh whisper.
"I need information on a specific goblin rebellion," Rigel said softly, "But I don't know what book I need or who it's by so I wondered if you had an idea."
"Which rebellion?" she asked impatiently.
"Urlag the Terrible's uprising in the-"
"Late sixteenth century," she snapped, "Yes, yes, North side of the fourth stack to the left in that section. Sixth shelf from the bottom. There are three texts, all written by Wilheilma Pofkey, embossed with silver on the spines. Now go, and be quiet."
Rigel blinked several times, but obediently turned and made her way back to the History section. She wondered at the kind of mind capable of retaining such exact information, and thought she understood why Dumbledore didn't replace the old woman with a gentler soul. She counted the stacks and found the books Pince recommended. They looked like exactly what she needed, so she carried them to her table and started compiling information for the History essay. Wilheilma Pofkey had written three books on the sixteenth-century magical world; one on the politics of that time, one on the economy and trade, and one on the art and culture. Urlag's rebellion was discussed in each of them, in light of how it affected each aspect of the time period.
Rigel had about eight inches written when she glanced at the big clock by the doors to the Library and realized she had five minutes before lunch started. She rolled up her work reluctantly—it turned out Urlag was a fascinating goblin for his time period, and had invented several revolutionary techniques for goblin warfare, most of which essentially starved their wizard enemies into desperation by cutting off trade options until they agreed to renegotiate the goblins' contracts.
Rigel stacked the three books on the sixteenth century and toted them over to the checkout desk so she could finish the essay in her room later. Madam Punce looked at her sourly, but pulled the books toward her to update the checkout logs.
"Name?" she asked curtly.
"Rigel Black."
Madam Pince froze, her hands clutching at the air convulsively, "Black?" she choked out, springing into movement and grabbing the books away from Rigel with a speed that belied her age, "No books for you, you-" she glared at Rigel, who was too stunned at the can of vitriol she'd unknowingly opened to defend herself, her nostrils flaring as she exhaled fiercely, "Sirius Black nearly burned down my Divination section! Most of those books are handwritten accounts of long dead seers— priceless tombs of knowledge! No, no son of his is welcome here. Out! Get out!" she was shrieking by the end of her tirade, and Rigel was drawing dirty looks from students trying to study, so she abandoned the books and high-tailed it out of there as fast as she could.
More and more it seemed as though pretending to be Sirius' son was more of a hindrance than a help.
Rigel didn't slow until she passed a series of paintings that were unfamiliar to her and realized she hadn't been paying attention to where she was going. She moved into the shadows behind a suit of armor and took out the Map, pretty sure she had gone up a flight of stairs or two in her hurry to get away from the monster librarian. Sure enough, when she said her name out loud the Map zoomed in to the East-most corridor on the fifth floor.
Deciding the best she could do was go to lunch and work out the Library situation later, Rigel hiked up her book bag, re-zipping it when she realized she had left it hanging open—it wouldn't do for her letter from Flint to fall out accidentally, no matter how innocent it seemed. After double-checking the Map for the quickest route, Rigel made for the set of stairs at the end of the corridor, which were made of crumbling stone and only wide enough for two people, but which led directly to the third floor, by-passing the fourth floor completely for some reason probably only the Founders understood.
Rigel was halfway down the stairs and thinking longingly of rice pudding when something hot pierced her calf from behind. She recognized the feel of a Trip-Jinx immediately; it was one of Archie's favorite tricks to play on her, and she immediately brought her hands up to protect her head and face. She had time to think she would definitely be missing lunch, and then she was toppling, her bag swinging wildly out in front of her and pulling her ever further off-balance, down into oblivion.
When she woke, it was to sharp pain in several places on her body. Her throbbing neck could be explained by the uncomfortable angle it was tilted at—half-scrunched against the bottom step of the stairs she'd apparently bounced down, if she bruises that colored her limbs were any indication. Her tongue felt swollen, as if she had bitten it at some point, and she thought at first her back was injured, because of the awkward position it was in, but then realized she was laying on top of her book bag. She hoped the essays weren't too squished.
She braced her right hand against the steps to roll herself onto her knees, but when she shifted her left hand she let out a whimper that was pitiful both in volume and in the pain it expressed. After carefully maneuvering around that hand, she realized the strap on her bag had been wrapped around her left wrist when she was tripped, and that the fall had caused it to tangle in her other limbs and tighten forcibly until her wrist snapped under the strain. She prodded the broken appendage miserably. Curse Archie and his insistence on unbreakable straps for all their bags.
Rigel levered herself up onto the bottom stair with her right arm and her legs, wishing she knew a spell to detangle the strap from her broken wrist. If she tried to do it manually, there was no guarantee she wouldn't pass out again from the pain. She decided she could possibly carry her bag in her right hand, keeping the extra strap slack, until she got back to her room, where she could find a pair of scissors. She had just checked to see that nothing had fallen out of her bag on her impromptu flight when cheerful voices came from the corridor ahead. She arranged herself as casually as she could and tried to drape her robes over her left hand inconspicuously as the voices grew louder and two boys came around the corner. It was Ron and Neville, obviously on their way back from lunch.
They stopped in surprise when they saw her sitting on the ground in front of them. She tried to act as if she did this sort of thing every day, but knew her voice sounded strained and that her clothes and hair were a mess, "Oh, hi Neville, hi Ron," she gritted her teeth in a small smile, "How are you guys doing today?"
The two Gryffindors gave her skeptical looks.
"We're good," Ron said, "But what are you doing up here?"
"On the ground, too?" Neville added.
"Just got tired from walking around and thought I'd take a rest on these stairs. I didn't realize how out of shape I was until I came to school here. This castle sure doesn't breed lethargy, huh?" she said.
"I know," Neville said, nodding, "I almost wish I had been a Hufflepuff. At least they don't have to walk up and down all these stairs just to go to lunch."
Ron sent Rigel a mulish look that said he wasn't going to be misdirected so easily, "You're a bit far from your Common Room to be taking a walk," he pointed out, "And you don't look tired, you look ill or something. You're paler than usual and you keep gritting your teeth and clenching your right fist on your knee."
Rigel blinked, not having realized how observant the youngest Weasley was. She supposed that came from having so many older brothers to watch out for.
Neville's eyes widened, "Are you okay, Rigel? You're not hurt are you? You can tell us if you are, there aren't any Slytherins around to see."
Rigel thought Neville was taking the Slytherin thing a bit too far; after all, the sorting hat wasn't going to re-sort her after the fact because she stopped acting like a Slytherin, but she just summoned up another small smile and said, "Don't worry so much, Neville. And I just missed breakfast and lunch, Ron, so I suppose I am a bit peckish.
"Well that explains why Malfoy was glaring at the doors in the Great Hall all through both meals today," Ron said, and Rigel winced at the thought of the lecture she was going to get later, "But it doesn't explain why you've been missing all day, your clothes are torn in a few places, and your face is getting greener by the moment. Hell, you look like you just fell off a cliff-" he broke off, his eyes darting from her, to the stairs behind her, to her limbs, three of which looked normal and one of which was hidden from view. His mouth settled into a grim line, "Or down a flight of stone steps. Show us your left wrist, Rigel."
"Oh, no," Neville moaned as if it had been him to fall two stories downhill, "Did you trip?"
"Yeah, sort of," she said, moving her robes more firmly over her wrist, "I'm really okay, though, so you guys just go back to whatever you were-"
Ron strode forward and grabbed her forearm with incredible speed. She thought he'd make a good keeper one day when his reach had grown longer, but as he yanked her left hand out of her robes and it pulled the tangled strap taunt around it, her thoughts turned less charitable. An ugly cry was ripped from her throat, and Ron dropped her arm with a startled sound of his own. She cradled it protectively, blinking back another wave of tears, and Neville hissed sympathetically. She looked down at her wrist. It was still trapped in the book bag strap and bent unnaturally away from her. Her hand was purple from the blood being constricted by the strap, and she swallowed heavily. It really did look pretty bad.
"That's broken," Ron said, "Neville, stay here while I go find a Professor or someone who knows where the Hospital Wing is. I think it's somewhere on the first floor, but it'll take too long to try and find—"
"No!" Rigel gasped out, "No Hospital Wing."
They looked at her like she was crazy.
"I hate Hospitals," she said, "And doctors, and Medi-wizards and -witches, too."
"Well you can't just leave it like that," Neville said, "It h-has to be set, and healed, right?"
Ron was thinking hard, pacing back and forth as he tried to decide what to do, "Okay, if you won't go get a Professor, then we'll take you back to our Common Room. Percy's there, and he's a prefect. He'll know what to do. Maybe he can set the bone, or something."
"Fine," Rigel nodded. The pain was starting to overwhelm her as her brain slowly allowed her nerves to receive distress signals once more. In short, her shock was wearing off.
Neville helped her stand and balance as Ron held her book bag for her carefully, close enough to avoid pulling on her wrist but far enough to avoid accidental jostling. The three of them made their way slowly back up the stairs, down the sixth floor corridor to another flight of stairs, until they stopped in front of a huge portrait of an overweight woman in pink. She knew it was the entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room, though she had only seen it on the Map.
"Flitterglibs," Ron said clearly, and the Portrait swung outward to reveal a hole behind it large enough to clamber through. They all piled in carefully, and Neville took her bag from Ron and led her to the furniture in front of the fire while Ron ran off to find his brother.
She had been sitting on one of the plushy red couches for only a minute or so when something that sounded like an avalanche came clambering down a nearby set of stairs. Judging by the number of stairs placed around the room, Rigel thought they must lead to dormitories. The crashing sound turned out to be Fred and George, both of whom were laughing uproariously as they pulled a protesting Ron along behind them.
"No, Fred, George," Ron grunted, "I have to get Percy, I don't have time for this!"
"Percy is incapacitated," George said in between laughs, "I promise you really don't want to see him right now, baby brother."
"No! Gred or Forge or whoever you are, let go of me! I need Percy right now-"
"Now, now, ickle Ronnikins," Fred said, "What could you possibly need Percy for when you've got us? Just tell us your little first-year woes and we promise not to mock you extensively."
"Unless you really, really deserve it," George grinned.
"Unless you can heal bones all of a sudden, you'd better go undo whatever you did to Percy so he can help me," Ron demanded, his face flaming like his hair as he huffed angrily.
The twins sobered up almost immediately.
"Broken bones, you say? We've some experience with those, haven't we Forge?" Fred said.
"Indeed we have, Gred," George said, "Depending on the type, of course. Whose bones did you break, Ron?" His eyes moved critically over Ron's thin form, "Cause all yours look just fine to me."
"Not me," Ron said tiredly, "Another first year fell down some stairs and his wrist looks pretty bad."
"Ooh, wrist bones are tricky," George said, "Tell him to go to the Hospital Wing."
"He hates Hospitals and Mediworkers," Ron explained, "Can't you do something to help? Or do I need to get Percy after all?"
"Oh, we can do something," Fred said cheerfully, "It'll hurt like Hell though."
Ron blanched, "Uh, never mind, then, I'll just..." he glanced helplessly over at the fireplace, where Neville was watching the exchange anxiously and Rigel listened amusedly. The twins followed his glance and broke into surprised grins.
"Rigel!" Fred cried happily, bounding over to where she sat, "What are you doing here?"
"We didn't expect to see you so soon, little snake," George's smile faded as he caught sight of her cradled wrist, "Oh, so the broken first-year is you, is it? We might have known."
"You do have a talent for falling down stairs, Puppy," Fred examined the break, then shook his head grimly, "I'm afraid we're going to have to amputate this."
Ron blanched again and Neville wobbled dangerously on his feet.
"Just kidding!" Fred said, "Actually, Fred and I break bones all the time."
"You're Fred today, you forgetful git," George said, rolling his eyes affectionately, "But he's right. We do. We can set it for you if you really don't want to go to see Madam Pomfrey, but there are too many little bones in the wrist for me to risk fixing it magically myself. I can get them in about the right places, but they'll need to adjust by themselves a few millimeters here or there over the coarse of the healing."
"Yep. It'll have to heal on its own, which will take about, oh, seven weeks would you say?" Fred glanced at George.
"More like five, with all the ambient magic in this place helping out," George estimated, "But we can't numb it until after it's set, because the only numbing spell we know freezes the muscles as well to prevent usage."
Rigel nodded tightly, "Thanks. Just do it."
The Twins shrugged simultaneously. Ron looked on in horror as his brothers rolled up their sleeves ominously and Neville turned his face away, looking greener than Rigel.
"Hold still," Fred said, taking out his wand. He pointed it at the strap and used a Vanishing Spell to make it disappear and leave her hand dangling free. She moaned softly as the blood rushed freely though her wrist once more.
"I know, puppy," George said soothingly. Rigel wished her mum was there. Lily was the best at soothing, "Just a bit longer. You're going to feel a pop on three. One-"
He snapped out a word in Latin and Rigel blacked out again when she felt her bones grind against one another violently as they returned to their rightful places. The next she knew was a tanned hand shaking her as someone else conjured a stiff bandage around a wrist she could no longer feel.
"Rigel," George said, "It's okay now, Fred numbed and wrapped it, and it should stay numb until your body produces enough endorphins on its own, but you need to eat a big dinner and make sure you position it so you can't roll onto it in your sleep tonight, ok?"
If anyone thought it was funny that a pair of third-year Gryffindors were mothering a first-year Slytherin in their own Common Room, no one laughed.
"It still looks awful," Neville said, peeking at the bandage, which went from Rigel's thumb to her elbow.
"Heh, I might have over-done the bandage a bit," Fred said, "Mum's way better at it. It's really not so bad, Neville. Rigel just won't be doing much left-handed for a while."
"It's not my stirring or chopping hand, anyway," Rigel mumbled, feeling slow and sleepy as her body pumped her with its own natural drugs.
"How're you going to explain this?" Ron asked keenly, "People will want to know what happened, and also why you didn't go to Madam Pomfrey."
"I would like to know that, too," George said mildly, "The last time you fell down a flight of stairs, we ran smack into you in the dark," his youngest brother sent him a questioning glance, which George ignored, "And you don't strike me as the clumsy sort, so who ran into you this time?"
"No one ran into me," she said honestly, "I tripped."
"Who tripped you, then?" Fred asked.
"I...don't know," she sighed, "They got me from behind. It could have been anyone, but it was on the fifth floor, East side..."
"So chances are, it's a Gryffindor," Ron said grimly, glancing around the Common Room.
"Maybe not," Rigel said, "It would be remarkably Slytherin to stage an attack as far from the snake den as possible."
"Either way, someone wants our new toy to be hurt," Fred said sadly, "I'm afraid when we find out who did this we'll have to show them what's what, Gred."
"Well, of course we will," George said, his casual words contrasting with his steady eyes, "Or my name isn't Forge."
After thanking Fred, George, Ron, and Neville for their help, and swearing them all to silence, Rigel made her way down toward the dungeons with her newly repaired book bag, courtesy of George. She'd fixed her bandage so that it was short but tight. It wrapped around her wrist and thumb, but at long as she let the arm hang by her side or kept it in her pocket (which she wasn't actually supposed to do, as it should be elevated, but needs must), the sleeves of her robes would cover it. As far as Rigel was concerned, no one ever needed to know of her injury. That would only lead to a trip to the Hospital Wing, and who knew what Madam Pomfrey would be able to tell with her experience as a Medi-witch? Rigel couldn't take the chance that the Healer would know a girl when she saw one, no matter her disguise.
She entered the Common Room quietly, but her labor of stealth was not to bear any fruit. She had barely closed the door when Pansy called out from one of the study tables, "Rigel, there you are."
Rigel turned just in time to see Draco's head whip around towards her with molten silver in his eyes. It was sort of pretty, but she didn't think it was a good sign. She walked in no hurry over to where they sat. Making sure her left hand was safely out of view, she placed her book bag on the table with her right hand and sat down next to Pansy, with Draco opposite them. She knew Draco was dying to know where she'd been, but she also knew he wouldn't ask out of pride, so she feigned ignorance, politely asking Pansy how her day was going instead of answering the myriad questions simmering in her friend's eyes.
"It's not going very well, I'm afraid," Pansy sniffed, "Certain nosy people kept wondering where you were, and of course I didn't know, and then there's this Charms assignment that doesn't make any sense," she sighed prettily, "I don't think I'm very good at Charms."
"I think your many charms are the best thing about you," Rigel said, summoning the energy to pull her own Charms assignment out of her bag.
"Oh, you know just what to say to make me feel better," Pansy smiled happily, "Let's get this finished so we can have the rest of the day off."
Rigel turned to her assignment. It was a worksheet that asked them to answer 'yes' or 'no' to whether they could lift each of the objects using 'Wingardium Leviosa' or not. There were things like apples, rocks, tree limbs, etc. Pansy kept practicing the Charm, trying to gauge whether it was strong enough to lift a dinner plate or not. Rigel just put 'no' for everything except 'a human' and called it done. Pansy finished hers soon after.
"Wonderful!" she said, rolling up her assignment, "I feel like going for a walk."
"Well, I haven't finished my Potions essay yet," Draco said moodily, "So I guess you'll have to run along without me."
"Actually, I haven't finished mine either," Rigel said, "But perhaps we can go walking another time, Pansy."
"But you looked like you finished yours in class Friday," Pansy said.
"And if you weren't in the Library working on our Charms and Potions assignments then what were you doing all day with your book bag?" Draco nodded his head at the bag that had brought her so much trouble that day.
"I got kicked out of the Library before I could get any work done. Then I went for a walk," Rigel said.
"Kicked out? What did you do?" Pansy asked.
"Nothing," Rigel shrugged.
Draco huffed exasperatedly, "Whatever. Let me see your Potions essay. I'm not sure mine makes any sense in the last section."
"I don't have it," Rigel said.
"Then go get it," Draco waved her toward the dorms.
"It's not there either. I finished it already and gave it to Professor Snape," Rigel said, pulling out a clean sheet of parchment with her right hand and carefully pinning it down with stones while she pulled her dicto-quill out as well.
"But you just said you hadn't finished it," even Pansy looked slightly exasperated with her now.
"Snape gave me another one to complete for Monday," Rigel said.
"Snape gave you extra work just for turning something in early?" Draco said, "Bad luck. He's usually nicer to Slytherins."
"No, I asked for the extra work," Rigel said absently, missing the look her friends exchanged that said Rigel was crazier than they'd thought, "Do you mind if I dictate my essay?" she asked Draco.
"Why don't you just write it?"
"I'm incredibly lazy," she said solemnly.
Pansy and Draco didn't seem like they believed her, but neither could come up with another reason why she'd want to dictate it, so they let it be. Draco shrugged his permission and Pansy left to find Blaise to escort her on a walk around the grounds.
"Quill start," Rigel said, and the dicto-quill sprung to upright attention over the parchment, "Essay on Nimue's Breath. New Line. Nimue's Breath, commonly called The Widow Maker for it's history as the main ingredient in Merlicide, the poison of choice for women seeking to murder their husbands, is a small, blue flower with sharp, black thorns. It is commonly found in dark, damp caves near salty bodies of water. The flower is the only part of the plant useful for Potions, and the flower is usually placed in the cauldron whole (unless the Potion specifically calls for the essence or perfume of Nimue's Breath, such as in certain inhibition-lowering Potions). As such, special care must be taken when harvesting to ensure the petals don't separate or become crushed. It is best to use a small, serrated knife made of anything but gold to cut the stem as close to the root as possible. The thorns are fewer at the base of the flower, although dragon hide or similar gloves are recommended to prevent pricks, because although the thorns are not poisonous like the flower is, any blood spilt over the flower causes it to lose it's potency immediately."
Rigel spoke smoothly, barely pausing between sentences, and soon Draco had forgotten his own essay in favor of just listening to his friend, who was more interesting than any book he'd ever read on Potions. Strangely enough, it wasn't the information that was interesting, for that could be found in any old book. It was simply the way Rigel said it. Like it was the most fascinating thing Rigel had ever known.
"Nimue's Breath is often mistaken for the Parcilia Flower, which is the same size, shape, and color. The Parcilia Flower isn't remotely poisonous, so it is important to differentiate between the two of them, but by no means should one check which flower they've come across by smell. There is a difference; Parcilia smells slightly like Lavender, while Nimue's Breath smells like honey and milk, but the smell of Nimue's Breath is what makes it so dangerous. The perfume released by the flower contains a chemical that temporarily shuts down the brain's ability to make logical deductions and stimulates the part that usually reacts to pleasure. Inhaling it directly causes a wizard to feel so irrationally happy and satisfied that he often refuses to leave the flower, taking in more and more of the perfume and neglecting to do anything else until he either dies of dehydration or exposure or is rescued by someone unaffected. The Ancient Greeks had a myth about an island full of these flowers, which claimed them to be the creation of Orpheus. As long as one does not breathe in directly over the stamen, however, the perfume should not be a problem. New Line.
"Nimue's Breath is used in many variations of Merlicide and other basic poisons, and it is interesting to note that this flower is almost always used in the same manner. No matter which poison one is attempting to create, the base, usually composed of common herbs and spices boiled into water for the sole purpose of disguising the more distinctively poisonous ingredients, is prepared first. Next the Potioneer might add anything from nightshade to aconite, even common gnome poison, so long as whatever is added to the base is deadly. This is the poisonous component, which, if correctly proportioned, disappears completely into the base. Then, Nimue's Breath is added. It only takes a single flower, whole and untouched, placed in the mixture at boiling temperature. The flower dissolves instantly and leaves behind its entrancing perfume. Though it poisons the mind, Nimue's Breath is not deadly on its own. However, Nimue's Breath causes an already deadly poison to become irresistible to the drinker, who believes he is drinking the sweetest of nectar. It was common especially in the mid-fourteenth century for witches to slip a Potion laced with Nimue's Breath into their husband's food or drink, then simply watch as their victim gulped or gobbled the poison desperately, laughing as the victim demanded more of their own death. New Line.
"It is vital that Nimue's Breath be added to a Potion at boiling point; otherwise, instead of dissolving, the flower will either burst and disperse its fragrance into the brewer's face (if the base is too hot), or else congeal into a tar-like substance and stick annoyingly to the side of the cauldron (if it is too cool). Therefore, the flower must be added while brewing a poison for the first time. One cannot purchase or pre-make a poison, then add Nimue's Breath to it after re-heating it to boiling point, because a second heating de-stabilizes most poisons and renders them either harmless or so acidic they smoke and eat through any goblet they are placed in, which defeats the purpose of the poisoning. New Line.
"Sometimes the essence or nectar of the Nimue's Breath flower is added in tiny doses to anti-inhibitors, such as certain alcoholic beverages, recreational drugs, or aphrodisiacs, but the essence is usually added just below boiling point, for better control of the way it disperses, and so it does not dissolve completely. One can recognize the presence of Nimue's Breath in one's drink by looking for a characteristic Mother-of-Pearl sheen out of the corner of one's eye. Nimue's Breath sells for approximately eleven sickles per flower, though it becomes more expensive during the flood season due to the increased difficulty in procuring it as the snow melts and its natural caves fill with water. Stop Quill."
Rigel cast drying sand on the parchment evenly, glad she didn't have to go back and cut things out, as it looked to be right about ten inches. She turned to see if Draco still needed help with his essay, but he wasn't working on it, and the tip of his quill had long since dried of ink. The blonde was staring at her like a kid staring through the bars of the Big Cats exhibit at the zoo. Rigel was half-tempted to yawn widely, as she'd seen a lion do to great effect when she and Archie had gone once, but suspected her teeth weren't quite so impressive.
Draco swallowed heavily before he spoke, as if he'd let saliva pool in his mouth for some time. Rigel wondered if she'd bored him into a stupor and he'd started drooling (or at least the closest a Malfoy came to drooling), like Goyle did during History of Magic.
"Why are you even in Potions?" Draco asked bluntly. Rigel raised an eyebrow to communicate her confusion. Draco ran a hand through his hair, something he seemed to do a lot around her, saying, "I mean, it sounds like you already know everything. You should be teaching this stuff or something."
"Maybe I know more than the other first-years," Rigel said, frowning, "Though I still don't see why parents wouldn't teach their kids this stuff, but by Potions Master standards I'm a raw beginner. Knowledge of ingredients and recipes to a Potions Master is like knowing the ABC's is to a great poet. I've learned all I can on my own, but I need years of instruction before I can even qualify for Journeyman status. I have to know much more than facts about components. I have to develop instincts, and learn the things they don't put in books, because they're only guesses someone's made off of intuition and there's not a clear logic behind them. Not to mention there are tons of Potions I only know in theory, because the ingredients are only sold to licensed Potioneers, and they all require different techniques for stirring and timing, and things which can only be worked out in practice, and-"
"Okay, okay," Draco held his hands out in surrender, "I get it, you're not quite at Snape's level yet."
"As if I'll ever be," Rigel sighed.
"Is my Godfather really that good?" Draco asked skeptically, "I mean, he spends his time teaching kids, after all."
"He's the best in all Britain," Rigel said with steady conviction, "His work is on the cutting edge of Potion's research. He's invented several original Potions recipes, not to mention significant improvements to Potions like Wolfsbane and Blood-Replacement Serum, which are notoriously hard to work with. But it's not just his physical contributions to the science of Potions," Rigel tried to explain, "It's his understanding of the art of it. All the articles in publications like Potions Today, Cauldron Quarterly, and such are impressive intellectually, but Snape's articles are the ones you read again. The way he writes about Potions is like the way other people breathe. Reading it, you can only think that, to Professor Snape, Potions is breathing. It's all so natural to him, and he manipulates a cauldron like it's an extension of himself—that's how good he is. That's the whole reason I'm here," Rigel spoke directly from her heart, "To learn from the best, so that someday, Potions is like breathing to me, too."
"Well," Draco cleared his throat, obviously taken aback by her uncharacteristic fervor, "I'm sure if anyone can surpass Snape, it's you, Rigel. In fact," he smiled across the table at her, "I'm going to be proud to say I know you, one day. I can tell."
Rigel ran her right hand across her face embarrassedly, "Ah, thanks. Sorry I just went off on you like that. You caught me in Potions-mode, I'm afraid."
"No problem," Draco said, though he truthfully still seemed a bit dazed, "It was really interesting, anyway. I never knew all that stuff about my Godfather. He doesn't like to boast about his work. I think that's why he and Father get along so well," Draco smiled wryly, "Father hates people who boast."
Good to know for when I meet him, Rigel noted silently.
"Well, anyway, still need help with your essay?" Rigel asked awkwardly. She couldn't believe she'd spouted off like an obsessive Potions encyclopedia again. Archie would have slapped her by now, if he had been here.
"Sure," Draco grinned, "If you look over it before I turn it in, I'm sure to get a good mark."
Rigel reached across the table for Draco's essay, remembering just in time not to use her left hand. It was going to take some practice before she managed to make using one hand for everything look natural. She was hoping no one would get suspicious simply because they had no reason to be. Without the suggestion of duplicity, most people wouldn't bother to look for it. And really, why would anyone care that she'd injured her hand in the first place?
After all their assignments were completed (the ones Draco knew about, at least), Draco informed Rigel they were going outside to practice their flying. Rigel politely refused, citing exhaustion that was in no way feigned, and Draco leveled a solemn look at her through his bangs.
"Rigel, I've barely seen you in days," he said, face intent as he watched her reaction to his brazen exaggeration carefully, "Tryouts are next weekend for Slytherin, because Gryffindor moved theirs up so early this year, and they just changed that dumb rule about first-years trying out for the House teams a few years ago, so we should take advantage of it."
That wasn't exactly true, Rigel thought. The rules about first-years having brooms and being on the House teams were changed almost immediately after muggleborns were banned from the school. The argument was that the rules were only put in place to even the playing field and give muggle-raised kids, who hadn't had exposure to brooms like pureblooded children, a fair shot at competing by requiring a year of Flying lessons before eligibility to play. The repeals had happened about twenty years ago, when Mr. Riddle's Political Party had gained enough clout to push his anti-muggle legislation packages through the Wizengamot.
Draco's expression was so earnestly imploring, however, that Rigel's resistance crumbled. The blonde boy was endearing himself to her at an alarming rate. She tried mentally overlaying his face with something ferocious, that she could mentally resist, but all she came up with was the face of a stray Labrador she'd found out in the rain once. It suited him, in a quirky way that Archie would appreciate, but she recognized that it made it even harder to say no to Draco when all she could think about was poor, wet puppies.
So it was that twenty minutes later found Rigel on the Quidditch Pitch, holding an old school broom in her right hand and wondering how in Merlin's name she was going to play one-on-one Quidditch with only one good hand, while not letting on that she was doing so.
Normally, it would be the kind of challenge she enjoyed, or at least didn't shirk from. All positions in Qudditch involved some one-handed flying, of course, and beaters more than any, spending the entire game with one hand gripping a bat, but there was a difference between flying with one hand free and flying with no hand to grip the broom, while protecting an injured hand against jostling—a hand that ached like anything under G-forces, despite the numbing spell.
Still, if Archie had wanted to go Flying, she'd have gone with him no matter what, and Draco was her friend just the same, only newer, she figured, so she told herself to suck it up, for her friend's sake. With this attitude in mind, Rigel mounted her broom and accepted a beater's bat from Draco, who also tied a bag of golden-colored orbs that looked a bit like golf balls to her broom. Draco was riding the latest Comet, and leaped into the sky so fast he might have been a firework, just waiting to be set off. She held on to her own broom with her knees, cradling her left hand in her lap, so that from a distance it looked like she was holding on with that hand (albeit with an incorrect grip).
Draco wanted to try out for seeker, so Rigel helped him practice by using her bat to propel the small, gold balls through the air with as much speed as she could manage for him to catch. Beater was Rigel's favorite position to play, and the one she probably would have tried out for, if circumstances were different. After Sirius' letter, she had thought she might actually try out anyway, and deal with any issues as they arose, but now that her wrist was useless, she supposed she'd have to lie to Archie's dad again and tell him she simply hadn't made the team this year.
Draco wasn't too bad as far as she could tell. Rigel wasn't swinging the bat with her usual speed, due to having less leverage without an extra hand bracing her, but her aim was fine, even if it was a bit difficult to set her bat across her lap, grab a ball and toss it into the air, then swiftly grip her bat and swing it to intercept the ball midair all with the same hand. Rigel gave Draco a good workout by sending the little balls one way, then the other, for about an hour. It was too dark to take out a real snitch by then, so she and Draco practiced flying maneuvers—well, Draco showed her all his tricks and Rigel concentrated on staying steady in the air and not letting her discomfort show in her face or body language.
Ten minutes before dinner, they headed inside. Draco was grinning confidently, hair stuck wildly about his head and cheeks flushed from the exercise. Rigel's face was pale, and she was sweating. She knew she probably looked very out of shape, when in reality it wasn't a sweat she'd worked up strenuously, but a cold sweat, from the small waves of nausea and pain that had lapped at her for the last half-hour or so. But while she looked like an over-heated mess (not helped by the slight fever she was running as her body fought off possible infections as a reaction to physical trauma), Draco looked like he'd stepped out of a 1940's add for muggle aeronauts. She could easily picture him with one of those long military scarves and a set of pilot goggles perched atop his head.
He was still talking animatedly about their practice as they sat between Pansy and Nott in the Great Hall, "You're really not that bad on a broom," he was saying, "It's hard to balance with only one hand while swinging a bat if you're not used to it."
"It was quite a challenge," Rigel said, serving herself a large bowl of pasta. Usually she didn't eat many carbohydrates, as they sat heavily in her stomach, and she felt even less inclined toward them than usual with her nausea, but her body needed the energy to heal.
"Yeah," Draco grinned sideways at her, "Don't worry too much about your horrible aim, though. It was actually more challenging, trying to catch all your wild, off-target hits."
Rigel smiled enigmatically at her friend, wondering how long it would take him knowing her before he learned to give her a little more credit. Just what did he think she should have been aiming at? Him? That would hardly help him get better, since she doubted the snitch would fly toward him in a game. Then again, most people never imagined an eleven-year-old could be so deliberate in their actions, so Rigel didn't blame Draco for his easy assumptions.
"Are you guys trying out for the team next Saturday, then?" Nott asked over his kidney pie.
"Yes," Draco said, "I'm for seeker."
"No," Rigel said.
"You could," Draco said supportively, "You could be a keeper. They don't have to aim in order to hit or shoot anything."
"Maybe next year," Rigel said.
"Well, good luck, Draco," Nott said.
"Thanks, Theo."
Rigel wondered when her roommates had switched to first names, and what else she'd missed while being preoccupied with duplicity and blackmail and ambitions the past week.
Rigel excused herself from dinner early and made her way back to the dorms. Her plan was to wake up early the next day and find a way into the Library, so she could finish those essays and mail them back to Flint. As a last resort, she could always use the invisibility cloak. She just wanted to get all of Flint's assignments out of the way so she could spend the week concentrating on her own schoolwork.
She was so tired, mentally and physically, from her first day off that she fell asleep without even bothering to take off her shoes or pull her hangings. Her broken wrist was held protectively against her side, and her last, ominous thought before dropping like a stone into the River Sleep was that she still had no idea who wanted her hurt badly enough to hex her down a flight of stone steps in broad daylight.
[end of chapter nine].
A/N: Almost 8000 words ^^ a new record! Thanks again to you wonderful people who review, it means so much, and this chapter was for you. It's good to be back in the States, where there is a house with internet and therefore happiness (although if you live in Europe, don't get me wrong—it was amazing).