A/N: Big thanks to Son of Whitebeard and TamariChan and AlainnRain and CathyWillow for you reviews of chapter 12 :) you guys make my world spin a little faster. (Though I'd like to apologize for not getting this chapter out in my usual week; I, too, will try to spin this tale a bit faster). I've outlined Harriet's first year, and I think it will take about 25 chapters in total at this point, though with the way I tend to drag things out, it might be more ^^' There will be only a chapter or two more of setting the dominoes up, however, and I hope you all enjoy the way they fall.
A/N2: So in this chapter we have a major POV switch in the first part, away from Harriet, just a heads up. I'll try to be clear about where it switches back. This chapter is a bit disjointed in the beginning, though, because of all the little time skips. For any Chaucer fans—this one's for you (though you won't know why until later).
A/N3: Wow, idk what's up with the fanfic server, but did anyone else have problems logging over the last day? So that's partially why this is a day later than it already was—much apologies, everyone who's reading this. But still… 11,000 words (does smug little dance).
The Pureblood Pretense:
Chapter 13:
Part One—No POV
Every September, on the third Friday of the new semester, Albus Dumbledore met with his Heads of House to assess the progress of the term. They assembled in the staff lounge, instead of in the official meeting room, and took it in turn to bring up anything that might be of pertinence to the others, all very informally and off the record.
It was not, as Professor Sinistra so often claimed, an excuse for the closest-knit members of the staff (who just so happened to be Filius, Pomona, Minerva, Severus, and Albus) to gossip shamelessly about the school and everything in it, but rather it was a chance to address the more delicate matters that really should be kept within the Heads of House. Really.
"Well," Albus twinkled fondly at them all, his very own collection—nay, family—of some of the greatest minds in the modern magical community. The Headmaster was sitting on a rocking chair by the fire, his hands twiddling idly as he spoke, "Here we are again."
"Some of us more willingly than others," Filius chortled, glancing from his seat on a plushy velvet footstool at Severus, who favored them all with a sardonic twist of his thin lips as he sipped a very black cup of tea and sat in a very black leather armchair across from Albus.
Pomona, who was sitting next to Minerva on the couch, patted her co-worker's arm conspiratorially, "He does that so well, doesn't he?"
Minerva pursed her lips to hide her smile of agreement. She and Severus had a friendship that only worked because neither of them admitted to it, "A little too well. How many of my cubs have you traumatized this month, Severus?"
"No more than deserved it, Minerva," Severus smirked, "As always."
"Now, Severus," Albus paused in his rocking for a moment to summon one of the warm, knitted blankets Hagrid was always making and then leaving in the cupboard, "We know how much you value a controlled work-environment—"
"Potions is an exceedingly dangerous and in the presence of adolescents unpredictable art."
"—and none of us would ever dream of telling you how to run your classroom—"
"I highly doubt that any of you soft-hearted molly-coddlers would have the stomach to prevent the number of near-maimings I deal with every day."
"—but was it really necessary to tell your class of third-year Ravenclaws that you would personally make sure they failed their OWLs in two years if they didn't produce a satisfactory Weakening Solution by the end of the period?" Albus gazed mildly at the ceiling, "I'm told Madam Pomphrey ran completely out of Calming Draughts that afternoon, as you had apparently sent several Hufflepuffs into hysterics earlier that morning by insinuating that you would test their antidotes by poisoning them all."
"As I am the one who provides Poppy with those Calming Draughts, and therefore the one who will have to replace them all, I see no reason for anyone else to complain," Severus refilled his teacup unconcernedly, "Besides, every single one of those brats produced satisfactory results, so at the very least my methods are effective."
"Leaving the subject of Severus' notorious teaching habits for the moment," Pomona put in, "There were a couple of students I thought we should discuss."
"Yes, I would say the same," Minerva said tersely, "Who are you concerned about?"
"Well, first, I wondered what you all thought of Neville Longbottom," she said, "He seems to be quite bright," (Severus snorted incredulously), "but extremely timid, at least before he became friends with Ronald Weasley."
"His behavior is a bit unusual," Filius said, "Considering how lively both his parents were here at school. Do we have any reason to believe his home life is unpleasant?"
"Frank and Alice abuse a child?" Minerva huffed, "Never."
"The grandmother, though…" Filius grimaced apologetically at Albus.
"Ah," Albus nodded sagely, "As much as I admire Augusta, she always was a bit overbearing, especially when it came to children. I believe she lives with her son now to help in raising her grandchild, so it very well may be the case that she has induced a low sense of self-confidence in the child. Keep an eye on the boy, Minerva, and see that he makes a few friends."
"On the subject of students with troubled home lives," Pomona said tentatively, "I also noticed something off about Marcus Flint. After being forced to repeat his fifth year and denied his OWLs, I expected more resistance, if anything, but has anyone else noticed that his work so far this year is… well… good? It's always on time, and always done to specification. I assigned a diagram the first week, and it was so flawless that I would consider it a tracing, but I've no idea how he could have traced it through such thick parchment." She shook her head bewilderedly.
"Yes, I was going to mention Mr. Flint as well," Minerva said, "He has completed every essay I assigned, and yet… it doesn't sound like him. His tests and quizzes were always slightly sarcastic, as if he were bored and annoyed by the very idea that he be asked to prove what he knows," she set her mouth thinly, "Now, though, his quizzes are neutral, and his essays are factual, but peppered with conjecture and suggestions about the theory, which usually betrays a sense of curiosity and captivation with the material. I cannot tell if he has found a new, more subtle way to mock the assignment or if he finds it amusing to completely subvert our expectations of him."
Severus put his cup down on his saucer with a pointed 'click' and said, "Flint is not doing his assignments this year any more than he did last year. The handwriting charms are convincing, but he has arranged somehow for someone else to complete them. I've no doubt he has changed the tone of his in-class assignments to match the essays' and create less suspicion. I have been monitoring the situation from the second week of school, when he began turning assignments in to me. I suspect he knows that I am aware of his duplicity, but he also knows that without proof—that is, without knowledge of the person doing the assignments—we cannot do anything about it. The fact is, as long as he doesn't cheat on any tests, which he has no need of doing, it will be impossible to prove that he isn't doing the assignments."
"What have you uncovered so far, Severus?" Albus leaned forward as if he were going to listen very carefully, but then he leaned back again and his incessant rocking continued.
"His home life is less than ideal, as you know, and so it used to be unusual for Flint to receive mail. Lately, however, he receives suspiciously thick letters from what I imagine are regular school owls, as they are never the same. It is my belief that he is receiving the work from another student, and not the help of someone outside of the castle, though I do not know whom. I have not seen a marked similarity to any of the other fifth-years' work as of yet, so I am reasonably confident the accomplice is not in Flint's year," Severus explained.
"We will have to watch the upper-years for signs of inexplicable stress or fatigue," Minerva frowned, "If this is true, someone at this school is carrying a doubled work load, which would be nearly impossible for an NEWT student to sustain for long."
"Could it be a younger student?" Filius asked thoughtfully, "Now that I consider it, there is a tone akin to naive fascination about Flint's essays this term, which would fit with a child who hadn't already covered the topic in a previous year."
"I doubt it is anyone younger than a fourth-year," Minerva said, "Much can be gotten from books, but Flint turned in a very complicated essay on Vanishment Theory recently, which showed a firm grasp on both non-being and the logical consequences of an object retaining properties after vanishment. No third-year at this school could have understood so much on their own."
"Since nothing is proven yet, continue to treat Mr. Flint's work as you would any other's," Albus said, "In the meantime, Severus, I trust you to keep an eye on the situation."
"I keep both eyes on my Slytherins without your prompting, I assure you," Severus said shortly.
"Then I hope you'll be having a word with young Mr. Black, as well," Minerva sniffed, turning her head to pin Severus with a stern look, "I don't know what to do with the boy. He is becoming exceedingly difficult to teach."
Severus' eyebrows furrowed, "I'm sure I don't know what you are implying, Minerva. The boy is polite and hard working. His written assignments are well thought out, and his practical work is nearly flawless. And don't you twinkle at me like that, Albus, the past does not cloud my eyes so much that I can not see when potential lies undisguised before me."
"Well, it sounds as though we are acquainted with two very different Mr. Blacks," Minerva said, "I admit his written work is generally good, and in fact his impeccable comprehension of the theory behind the material is the only thing keeping him at a passing level. His practical work is non-existent. I have yet to see him perform a single piece of Transfiguration, though I have evidence that he succeeded rather quickly in the very first lesson."
Severus frowned, as did Pomona.
"I've not had any trouble," she said, "Mr. Black is a veritable fountain of knowledge when it comes to plants, particularly the ones useful in Potions," she nodded in acknowledgment to Severus, "And he certainly isn't afraid to get his hands dirty, though he's so un-ambidextrous it's like he forgets he has another hand at times." She chuckled, but the other Heads of House look seriously at one another.
"It's quite a discrepancy," Filius piped up, "I have to agree with Minerva, however. I try to give him as much credit for his written work, which is supreme, but although he knows the incantation and the wand-movement, he never actually does the spell in front of me."
"He refuses to?" Albus asked mildly.
"No," Minerva tapped her foot agitatedly, "He seems to try very hard, numerous times, but it's as if… well…"
"Mr. Black cannot be a Squib," Severus snapped, "I have watched him brew, and he has no trouble unconsciously imbuing his Potions with magic—indeed, he puts a bit too much in at times, which I believe is due to his enthusiasm for the subject."
"Rolanda tells me that on the day Mr. Longbottom fell from his broom, his motion was inexplicably arrested before he hit the ground. Rolanda believed it to be an incident of accidental magic, but she says that Mr. Malfoy claimed it to have been Mr. Black who stopped Mr. Longbottom's fall," Pomona told them.
Filius raised his eyebrows, "I wondered why, on his first homework assignment, Mr. Black wrote that he could not use the Wingardium Leviosa Charm to levitate any of the listed objects, except a human being," he sighed, "But as far as I know he has never even made his feather twitch."
"It seems we have a puzzle on our hands," Albus said as his staff looked around at one another. He was rocking more slowly now, carefully braiding sections of his beard, "A young wizard has all the necessary understanding, diligence, and potential to perform magic—and yet, he doesn't. His ability reveals itself in spontaneous or unconscious ways, but he cannot seem to channel it on command. He is neither so traumatized nor so introspective as to have formed a natural block on his magic—indeed, he is purportedly highly social, with friends not only in his own House, but in Gryffindor, too. So, any ideas? Severus? He is in your House, after all."
Severus scowled, "I had not realized there was a problem until now, though certain things—like how he always asked Mr. Malfoy to light his cauldron or Miss Parkinson to perform the protection charm on his eyes even after asking me for the proper spell—make sense in hindsight. I know that his interest is primarily in Potions at this time, but I had not thought he would go so far as to dismiss the other subjects completely."
"It isn't that, really," Filius said fairly, "Mr. Black does try, and his friends encourage him as well. I have even over-heard him say that he goes to the Library on weekends for extra study. He isn't using a hand-me-down wand or some such, is he?"
"Not to my knowledge," Severus said, still visibly irritated that such a thing had escaped his notice, "But I will schedule a conference with him this week, after I collect progress reports from all of his Professors. This will not be allowed to continue."
"Keep us abreast of you decisions, won't you, Severus?" Albus smiled when the Potions Master nodded briskly, "Very well, what else?"
"The prefects have presented me with a petition for increasing the number of Hogsmede weekends around the Holidays…"
Part Two: Rigel's POV(and small time skip)
The last week in September came too slowly for Rigel's peace of mind. Her wrist was feeling slightly better, and finally beginning the slow, torturous healing process, which would be complete by Halloween, the twins estimated. She was quite busy, keeping up with both her own and Flint's assignments, not to mention the punishments her teachers heaped on her for her poor spell-work, and she didn't see her friends as much as she would have liked, but part of this was due to Draco's own schedule, which was as arduous at least as Rigel's.
"We have practice every other evening," Draco bemoaned Thursday morning after he drifted off at the breakfast table and Pansy nudged him awake sharply, "It's like Flint doesn't have anything better to do than play Quidditch, never mind that us mere humans can barely keep up with our classes on top of his schedule."
"Doesn't the captain care about his own grades?" Pansy asked, puzzled, before biting into a muffin daintily.
"That's the weird part—his grades are fine. Better than fine, according to some of the upper years on the team," Draco said, "I heard them say he must have a time-turner or something, since the other fifth years have started skiving off some of their assignments to make all the practices."
Rigel tried not to look guilty, though she supposed it wasn't really her fault that Flint had so much free time. After all, he hadn't done the assignments last year, either, but then he had to serve so many detentions for not doing his work that he couldn't schedule so many practices. This year though…
"Well, at least you'll be a shoe-in for the Cup," Rigel said, "None of the other teams are practicing so hard, are they?"
"I think Wood tried to enact a similar schedule, but apparently his beaters and chasers revolted," Draco sighed, as if thinking wistfully about inciting a revolution of his own.
"Maybe when you win the first match he'll back off some," Pansy said, "Until then, hurry up and eat so we can look over our Transfiguration assignments before Potions."
The three of them were packing up after a particularly interesting Potions lecture on the classification of dark and light ingredients when Professor Snape said, "Mr. Black, see me in my office after afternoon classes."
"Yes, sir," Rigel said automatically, finding no clue as to the Potion Master's intentions in his customary scowl. She hoisted her bag over her right shoulder and hurried to catch up with Draco and Pansy, who were waiting patiently at the door.
"What do you think he wants?" Pansy asked, "You didn't get caught doing anything, did you?"
"Nothing I know of," Rigel shrugged, "Maybe he has another assignment for me."
"He just gave you that essay on ingredients taken from magical beings," Draco pointed out as they climbed the stairs toward the Great Hall, "And he doesn't need you to come to his office to give you an assignment. If you're meeting after classes, it means whatever it is will take some time."
"I'll find out this afternoon, I guess," Rigel said.
Pansy looked as if she would nibble on her lip until she realized they had entered the Great Hall and smoothed her face into a poised mask, "Let us know, then, won't you?"
"Of course."
If Rigel thought a summoning to Snape's office would be less nerve-wracking the second time, she quickly reevaluated this misconception as she stood before the solidly imposing door, steeling herself to grasp the silver handle and turn it.
A voice called impatiently from within before she got the chance, and she sheepishly entered the gloomy space and saw, to her surprise, that Professor Snape had provided her with a chair this time. She sat, quietly surprised at how comfortable the chair actually was, and glanced unsurely at the dark man sitting across the desk from her.
"I'm sure you are wondering why I have called you here, so I will not waste your time with pleasantries," Snape began, folding his hands before him precisely.
Rigel nodded her agreement, though it hadn't been asked for.
Snape considered her for a long moment, inhaling slowly and fixing a weighty stare in her direction. She tried not to fidget, but was glad when he seemed to come to a decision and began speaking again.
"Mr. Black, it is my duty as a Professor at this school and particularly as a Head of House to pay close attention to the students in my care, and when there appear to be… discrepancies in a certain student's work, it does not fail to come to my notice," he said. His voice was just loud enough to fill the small room without echoing, but it could not be called 'soft.' It was deadly.
Rigel felt her face blanch and tore her eyes from Snape's to conduct a detailed study of her knees. Her mind flew back to the last batch of corrected essays she'd received from Flint. In it had been the essay on Fusing Potions that she'd completed for Flint, from the same week she'd helped Percy with his, and written on the top of that essay in red ink where the letter grade should have been, were the words: Well done, Mr. Flint, but not quite well enough. Make no mistake; the source of your newfound interest in schoolwork will soon be exposed.
At the time, she'd written it off as untenable suspicion on Snape's part. After all, how could he ever suspect her? She'd taken extra care with the Potions essays to make them sound as unlike hers as she could. In Flint's essays, she used certain words and phrases repeatedly, and then took pains to make sure she never used those identifiers in her own papers. But what if she hadn't been careful enough? What if he knew…?
"I see you have some idea of what I mean," he drawled, and Rigel realized with a start that looking down ashamedly was as good as admitting her guilt. She raised her eyes slowly, widening them to a believable level of innocence as she did, until they rested steadily and blankly at the level of Snape's forehead. He was still speaking, but now a faint frown creased his brow as well, "I assure you, I am not the only Professor who is displeased with this incongruities, Mr. Black. Your Transfiguration, Charms, Flying, and Defense Professors have all brought their concerns to me as well, since I am your Head of House, and as such it falls to me to deal with this situation."
Rigel willed herself fiercely not to allow her face to crumple even slightly, but her eyes became bright with suppressed despair. How could she have messed up so badly that so many professors had connected her to Flint's essays? She had been so careful, it just didn't make sense—wait. It didn't make sense. Flint didn't take Flying; it was a first-year class. Why would madam Hooch have any relevant concerns? Unless she had mentioned that Flint had unusual amounts of free time to schedule practices, which seemed a bit unlikely, it would certainly be unusual for Snape to include Hooch in the list of professors who noticed something strange about the essays…
Unless it wasn't about the essays.
Rigel cleared her mind of panic and tried to focus instead on what the Professor was saying. "I daresay I have never had a student with problems of this exact nature before," he said, making Rigel blink confusedly. Now she knew he couldn't be talking about Flint, after all, students probably copied essays all the time, but she had not the slightest idea of what he was talking about. "Usually when a student does poorly in one area, he performs poorly in other areas as well, or else his ineptitude is limited to one class in particular. You, Mr. Black, appear to be doing both remarkably well and impossibly abysmal in several of you classes, while at the same time showing talent across the board in other classes. Perhaps you can explain this phenomena to me."
Oh, Rigel thought, right.
"My interest is primarily in Potions," she prevaricated weakly. She really should have known that this would come up soon, but she'd been focused on so many other things that she was left without a plan for dealing with this sort of attention.
"That does not give you leave to disregard everything else, foolish child," Snape snapped. Rigel shrank back, not understanding why it mattered so much that he would become so vehement about it.
"I really haven't been," Rigel said, adding, "sir," hastily as Snape's nostrils flared, "I do all of my assignments and even study for the quizzes with Pansy and Draco."
"And your practical performance on these quizzes?" he pressed. "What can you say about that?"
Rigel dropped her eyes once more, "I try."
Snape sighed heavily, "You must understand that this cannot continue the way it has been."
She peeked up through her lashes at him, as if to say why not?
"There are many kinds of magic that do not require the use of a wand to master," he said carefully, though his white knuckles from where his fingers clenched one another belied his calm tone of voice, "But no wizard can afford to ignore one part of his power entirely. It is folly, not in the least because it is vital for the development of your magical core that you exercise your magic consciously at this age. In addition to that, it is an embarrassment of a wizard who cannot manage basic spellwork. I will not have an embarrassment accredited to the House of Slytherin, do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," Rigel swallowed heavily. What did he expect her to do? Didn't he think if she could do the spells, then she would have? Certainly she wasn't earning detentions left and right from McGonagall and Quirrell—the later of whom seemed to delight in assigning her particularly disgusting work with Filch—and barely passing half her classes for kicks. She looked across the desk at the Potions Master with defeat in her eyes.
Something in her expression must have spurred a reaction, for he pinched the bridge of his nose carefully and said, "You truly are unable to perform these spells for some reason? And you suffered no magical accidents when you were younger? You are not taking any significant medicinals? Very well," he stretched one hand out toward her briskly. She stared for a moment, still caught in the rhythm of shaking her head yes or no.
"Let me see your wand, Black," he said, and she ducked down to rummage in her bag for it immediately, eventually handing it over when she found it stuck between two books near the bottom. He looked as if he would comment on her treatment of it, but held his tongue. He inspected it gently, his long fingers probing it for abnormalities or fissures, "Ash?"
"Yes. Twelve inches, unicorn hair," Rigel said.
"And you received it at Ollivander's?" Snape verified. She nodded. "What magic did it manifest?" She gazed blankly at him. "I mean, what happened when you first held it?"
"Oh," Rigel thought about it, "It got sort of warm, I think."
Snape stared. "That's it?" he raised an eyebrow, "No sparks? And Ollivander let you buy it?"
"He didn't have many left to offer me at that point," Rigel shrugged, "I went through most of his stock, trying to find one that didn't make things explode violently when I touched it, and this one didn't make anything explode, so I kept it. I guess he wasn't too happy, thinking back, but he said it's very well-balanced."
In truth, he'd said a bit more than that—something about apathetic customers sabotaging the wand-matching system—but she hadn't paid much attention, having been ready at that point to leave the creepy shop and pick up a new ingredient at the apothecary.
"Well-balanced it may be, but from the sound of it this wand doesn't suit you very well," Snape said, sounding exasperated at the world in general (and perhaps Rigel in particular).
"It was the best fit I found," Rigel said, a bit defensively, "Better this than a wand that just explodes everything randomly."
"Be that as it may, settling for an inferior match in a wand can be very dangerous. I suppose Ollivander only allowed it this time because this particular wand is so non-reactive it probably wouldn't cause any destructive problems. Unfortunately, not being a danger to your health is not the usual standard for wands," he glowered fiercely, "And if you cannot do magic with it, it might as well be a stick you found on the ground outside."
"It might not be the wand, though," she said, hesitantly giving voice to a secret fear, "Maybe I just can't do wand magic. Maybe I was meant to do Potions, and nothing else."
Snape snorted, setting her wand back on the desk with ill-grace, "Mr. Black, there is no difference between the magic which imbues Potions and the magic that turns a teacup into a rabbit besides the manner in which it is channeled. All magic is at heart the same, and if you can perform to a certain level in one area then you at least have the potential to do as well in others. That is why weak wizards and squibs cannot even grow magical plants properly, and why wizards who are Masters in their chosen fields are almost always extremely gifted in other fields as well, and simply haven't specialized in them out of personal interest. Power is power and everyone recognizes this fact. If you think that anyone will hire a Potion Maker who can't perform a hover charm—"
"But what can I do?" Rigel interrupted loudly. She was standing now, glaring down at Snape and not caring that she was being rude or disrespectful, "I've tried, I tell you, I've done those spells again and again and nothing happens." Rigel was shaking slightly, finally frustrated beyond her capacity to contain. All month her professors, her friends, and even her Housemates had been pushing her and pushing her, as if being told again and again that she was wrong or weak or stupid was going to help. "I know I'm a failure as a wizard," she said quietly, her anger as unfamiliar to her as shouting was, "But I can't just leave. My whole future is here at Hogwarts, and if you can't teach me just because of something that has nothing to do with Potions, then all my hard work will have been wasted on nothing." And it will prove them right, she added silently, if I fail then it will prove everyone who thinks that half-bloods don't deserve to go to school here or can't keep up with 'real' magic right.
That was why she worked so hard to prove herself early on to Professor Snape and bent over backwards like a worm for Flint and pushed herself to her limits hiding her injury and doing normal things with her friends so that no one would be suspicious of her or find a reason to kick her out. She had to stay at Hogwarts, for all the kids who didn't get the chance, who didn't have a pureblooded cousin as kind and generous as Archie, who were scorned and practically exiled from their own country for something they could never change. And on top of standing up for everyone who couldn't take a stand themselves, she was taking all this crap for her dream, hers and Archie's.
And she'd be damned if she let something as stupid as a piece of wood stand in her way.
Rigel's temper flared once more, and she snatched her wand off the desk and whipped it down toward the row of glass jars sitting on a shelf beside the desk. The jars flew upwards like they'd been catapulted, crashing against the stone ceiling and shattering into a shower of glass and embalming fluid and dead, preserved icky bits, but Rigel was beyond caring.
"See?" she cried staring wildly into Snape's shocked face without really seeing it, "See? I can do the spells. I can do them all!"
She slashed her wand in the pattern she'd slaved to memorize at the chair she'd been sitting in just minutes before and the entire piece of furniture exploded into hundreds of needles, each Transfigured from a tiny splinter of the original wood, which flooded the ground in a shiny puddle, sounding like rain hitting a metal roof—only the rain was the metal.
She instinctively cast two simultaneous Shield Charms over Snape and herself to keep them from being embedded with flying needles, and by the time the dull haze of the Shield Charm flickered out she was left staring, exhausted and numb, at the utter wreck she'd made of Snape's office. Rigel would have sunk to the ground if there had been any spot of it that wasn't covered with needles or glass or animal parts, but as it was she merely swayed slightly, her sense catching up with her now that her emotions had been effectively drained off. She was almost too cowardly to look Snape in the face—almost. She raised her eyes in a kind of distant horror, physically steeling herself against his inevitable wrath. His office looked like an earthquake had passed through it as the same time as a museum of pointy objects, and the whole room smelled like preservation fluids.
"Well," Snape had found his tongue at last, it seemed, and Rigel prepared herself for a verbal lashing. "I would ask to see the Lumos Charm, but I've no desire to be blinded on top of nearly shredded."
Rigel's brain didn't process the words at first, and then—
"Sir?" she gaped, taking in his relaxed posture and half-lidded eyes. His face was blank, but his eyebrows were lifted sardonically, and there was something darkly amused about the way he held his mouth.
"I think it's safe to say that Ollivander was vastly mistaken in thinking that this wand was not just as destructive as the other ill-suited ones," he said calmly, taking his own wand out and methodically setting the room to rights. The needles and glass and ingredients were vanished, the fluids dried up, and a new chair conjured systematically, "The only difference is that this wand was so 'well-balanced' that it took monumental effort of will to push the magic into manifesting though it."
"But—I—" Rigel sat dazedly in the new chair, placing the ash wand carefully on the desk and rolling it out of her reach. She had shocked herself, yet again. Her magic, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor, in addition to being violent and sporadic.
"That little demonstration, while indicative of repressed emotion unbefitting a child of Salazar Slytherin, was nevertheless very informative," Snape said, rolling her wand very pointedly back toward her and speaking very slowly and clearly to make sure she understood him, "I would guess that as a child your incidents of accidental magic were as rare as they were powerful, am I right, Mr. Black?"
Rigel shuddered, "It was horrible. It only happened when I was so upset I couldn't stand the world anymore, and my magic would… ravage the immediate vicinity. Luckily it never happened when anyone else was too close. It used to explode things, tear them, turn them inside out, and sometimes it just banished things completely, and we never found them again." Her face darkened considerably as she remembered. Such a thing had only happened three times in her youth, but each time was terrifying, and more disturbingly—exhilarating. She learned never to get too upset by anything, never to get too excited or disappointed by things, in order to prevent her magic from stepping in and taking over.
"Mr. Black, are you afraid of magic?" Snape asked, in what was for him a gentle tone.
"What?" she blinked in surprise, "No, of course not. How would I survive in a magical house or school if I was?"
"Ah, allow me to re-phrase that," he said, "Are you frightened by your own magic?"
Rigel opened her mouth to deny it, but paused, considering. Was she? Was Pansy right when she accused Rigel of not trying hard enough, of not really wanting the magic to work?
"You think I am… unconsciously preventing myself from using magic?" Rigel asked, the sinking feeling in her chest telling her she knew what his answer would be.
"It is one probable explanation," Snape said evenly, not a trace of pity or disgust in his tone, for which she was pathetically grateful.
"But then… wouldn't I have reason to be?" she bit her lip, "My magic seems to be unusually destructive."
"Not destructive, necessarily," her professor regarded her seriously, "Just improperly channeled. Magic is not inherently violent or mellow. It is we and our emotions that give it shape and force."
"So then I'm what's making it so dangerous," Rigel breathed, "It's my fault, not the wand or the magic. There's something wrong with me."
"There is nothing wrong with you," the Potions Master snapped, visibly reigning himself in once more and continuing in a more neutral tone, "It seems more likely that your first bout of accidental magic, which probably occurred when you were too young to recall, startled you in some way that made you reluctant to repeat the feat. You probably began unconsciously suppressing your strongest emotions in order to avoid catalyzing your magic, which then caused the magic to build up over time, until the next time you couldn't suppress an emotion, when it burst free all at once. Of course it took a negative shape; the emotions that are hardest to control are fear, anger, frustration, and the like."
"And so I became even more unnerved and suppressed more of my emotions and therefore more of my magic, until it became a cycle," Rigel's eyes widened with dismay, "So all this time I've been trying to carefully control myself was actually making it worse." She let out a sharp breath and slumped in her chair dejectedly. "What about my wand?"
"You undoubtedly had such a strong control on your magic by the time you entered Ollivander's shop that it didn't call out to any of the wands there, which is how Ollivander usually knows which wands to try. I suppose he tried to guess blindly and make you try every wand there, but of course your magic was so pent up that unless the wand was perfect it reacted violently," he explained, "The wand you ended up with was, I hesitate to say, probably the thickest and least-conductive of the wands Ollivander had. It didn't cause anything to explode, but it prevented you from using magic even when you consciously tried to, unless the force of your will flooded the wand and overrode the buffers."
"Oh," Rigel said weakly. She tried to think. What did all this mean? She wasn't a squib, obviously, but would her magic be able to stabilize itself if she tried consciously using it more, or would she need some kind of therapy to overcome the unconscious reigns she'd put on it? "So… what now, sir?" she asked, trying to collect her psyche into something resembling a rational young adult, "Do I have to get a new wand?"
"I suppose we'll have to see the Headmaster" (Rigel wondered why he looked so sour at that prospect) "about obtaining a waiver for someone to come and collect you this Saturday," he said tightly.
"Couldn't you do it, sir?" she blurted, new panic coursing through her at the thought of Sirius coming to get her—her, not Archie—from Hogwarts, "I mean, not that I'm trying to take advantage of your kindness" (she ignored the noise Snape made) "But wouldn't it be better if someone from the school took me, so it doesn't look like I'm getting special treatment? You already understand the situation," she rushed on before he could answer, "And it really wouldn't take that long since I've already tried most of the wands Mr. Ollivander has, and also, also… I don't think I'm ready to talk to my dad about this just yet. He might not understand it." She mentally congratulated herself for saying 'dad' instead of 'parents' and hoped her half-hopeful, half-shamefully forlorn expression was convincing.
Snape was silent for a long, brooding minute, before he said, rather tiredly, "I will speak to the Headmaster about this, but either way you will be acquiring a new wand before you shame the House of Slytherin any further."
Rigel smiled gratefully at her Head of House; she rather thought he was only gruff and dismissive because he didn't know what else to be sometimes.
"Everything else can wait," he went on, "It is late and this meeting has been more taxing than either of us likely anticipated. I will appraise your other professors with just enough information to keep them from failing you in the meantime. You may go now if there is nothing else."
Rigel rose and was almost to the door before she cringed and turned back around to say, "I'm sorry for making a mess of your office, Professor Snape, especially about the preserved ingredients. Were they valuable? I can pay—"
"I do not require your filthy father's money," Snape was suddenly hissing, his face contorted into a spasm of loathing that froze her insides and stole her breath with its potency. For a moment neither of them moved, caught like statues and arrested in each other's gazes. Rigel didn't know what Snape could see in hers—confusion, perhaps, and a fair amount of startled fear—but in his she found hate, a hate so old that it had festered somehow, and she wondered how heavy a memory must be to sink emotion so deep, and how long a secret must be left in the dark to grown such fangs. Then he blinked—or she did—and the air was breathable again as some intangible darkness returned to the edges of the room, the edges of consciousness, where it belonged.
Snape's entire frame shuddered slightly, and his eyes went as blank as a new blackboard once more, "Forgive me, Mr—" he scowled fiercely at nothing, perhaps himself, "Forgive me. I—"
"It's fine," Rigel said, her voice making up for his in neutrality, "It's been a trying evening for us both. I was only going to say, though, that I could pay you back with work if you wanted. You know, scrubbing cauldrons and the like, but that can wait as well. Good night, sir."
"Good evening."
Friday morning found Rigel sitting calmly at the Slytherin table, enclosed on either side by her friends, and pretending that she wasn't avoiding looking at the staff table. Her friends didn't seem to notice her preoccupation, but knowing them they'd noticed and politely declined to comment on it, for which she was grateful. For some reason the hatred between her Head of House and her father and uncles hadn't seemed real before. She had been aware of it, in snide comments James or Sirius would toss around when they noticed her reading one of Snape's articles, and in the way Remus carefully edited stories from their youth in deference to her respect for the Potions Master, but it had been nothing more than an abstract sort of obstacle to her. A barrier to be overcome like any other in her determination to be taught by the greatest (in her opinion) Potions Master alive. She hadn't thought of what that enmity meant for Professor Snape, who was faced with the child of his enemy and asked to shovel the foul mud of the past beneath a thin academic veneer every day, and for that she was ashamed.
Who was she to think that almost two decades of grievance—and the kind of emotions that could fuel a fire for that many years—could be swept aside with the work of a few weeks? She would try harder, and be more patient, she promised herself. She wouldn't give up, but she wouldn't expect to be seen entirely in her own light for at least a couple years. She could live with that. As long as he was giving her instruction, no matter how bitterly, she could live with the specter of her uncle's adolescent memory hanging about.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a speckled Eagle Owl swooped down and dropped a letter in front of her before sailing off once more, not even stopping to nip at some bacon. The letter was only saved from being dunked in her oatmeal by Draco's quick seeker's hands.
"Thanks," she said, taking the letting carefully from Draco and checking the envelope. It was definitely for her, but aside from the words 'Rigel Black' on the front, the envelope was completely nondescript. She tucked it slowly into her robe pocket, glad for once that her injury meant she only had to keep her one visible hand from shaking. She didn't recognize the handwriting, but if it was from Archie, an Eagle Owl meant an emergency letter that couldn't be read in front of others, so in case he'd used a handwriting charm for some reason, Rigel didn't dare open it with so many curious eyes around. Her fellow Slytherins might not come out and ask her about it, but her every reaction could be noted and weighed if she wasn't careful. Maybe she was being paranoid, and certainly she'd been accused of being overly cautious in the past (though Archie's exact words had involved a stick wedged in an undesirable place), but she'd rather be safe than thrown into prison for blood-impersonation.
She didn't get a chance to read the letter until halfway through Herbology, when Draco and Pansy (and everyone else) were distracted by two of the Venomous Tentacula plants trying to strangle one another. It took Professor Sprout ten minutes to calm the plants down, but Rigel didn't need even a fraction of the time to read the strange letter—it was more of a note, really.
Mr. Black,
Be at Greenhouse Four by sundown, or everyone will know your secret.
Come alone.
That was it. Rigel crumpled the parchment into her good fist and stuffed it into her pockets before anyone noticed, but the words played themselves over in her mind throughout the rest of the lesson, and even Nott mischievously 'brushing' some dirt off of Draco's forehead (while really streaking the dirt onto it) could not lighten her mood for long. The message was vague enough that she almost had to go. She wasn't stupid, she knew that it might be an elaborate trap—a bluff to get her on her own—and the person who wrote it might not have any secrets she'd care about being exposed, but if they did… well, a bluff always worked if the one it was aimed at had too much to lose to call it.
The only thing to decide was how to slip away.
In the end, she reverted to the timeless maneuver often favored by toddlers when faced with a pile of vegetables: she faked a stomachache. She didn't fake it well, of course, and so her friends naturally assumed an underlying cause.
"Is this about whatever Professor Snape called you in for last night?" Draco asked.
"You can talk to us, you know," Pansy said.
Rigel insisted (in a rather convincing 'unconvincing' way) that it wasn't about that, and told them she was going to see the nurse and perhaps lie down for a while. They were appropriately unconvinced and thereby entrenched even deeper in the idea that her reticence was just about her meeting with Snape the night before, and so neither of her friends looked for a more hidden motive. They agreed to go to dinner without her, but she had been careful to leave them suspicious enough that if Rigel wasn't back by curfew someone would come looking for her.
While everyone else was at dinner that evening, Rigel was slipping past the cheery warmth of the Great Hall and out into the fading light of the setting sun. By the time she got to the greenhouses it was nearly twilight, and she waited with iron patience for the letter-writer to appear.
She had the strange feeling that she was being observed, which was validated when two figures appeared suddenly in the dim light, melting out of the shadows as if they'd thrown off invisibility charms after checking that she had, indeed, come alone.
"Well, well, what have we here? He really came."
"Looks like you were right; he did have something to hide."
Rigel set her teeth—she'd been prepared for a trap, but she hadn't thought showing up was the trap, and that by doing so she'd give away the very existence of her secrets. She'd have to reevaluate the estimation of her own intelligence.
The figures emerged from the shadow of Greenhouse Four and she recognized them with little real surprise—their voices alone were quite distinctive.
"Welcome, little secret-keeper," Aldon Rosier smiled like a saber-tooth tiger and his honey-colored eyes glowed eerily in the light of the fading sun, "It seems I had reason to suspect you after all. Come, won't you tell us what secrets you hold so dear that you willingly endanger yourself for them?"
Rigel backed away slightly, but too late she realized that Rookwood had come up on her other side and boxed her in against the greenhouse. She stopped backing away and lifted her chin with the kind of stubborn pride Draco would have shown in this situation, and Rosier's darkly whimsical laughter twisted the air before her face as he leaned closer to inspect her expression. Perhaps even more unnerving than Rosier was Rookwood's silent, watchful presence to her right.
"No? A shame," Rosier leaned back again on a sigh, "But, ultimately we did not come here to learn your secrets, petty though they undoubtedly are."
"What is it you want, then?" Rigel asked, barely able to keep her voice above a hoarse whisper.
"We don't trust you," Rookwood spoke suddenly, his ocean-deep voice pulsing through the shadows.
"That's right," Rosier smiled sadly, almost apologetically, "Pansy vouches for you, but as much as we adore that girl, she is young, and innocent enough to be easily misled. By coming here you have shown us that you keep secrets, even from Pansy and Malfoy, or they would be here with you, and for that you can't be trusted."
Rigel's face was blank but her mind was incredulous. She couldn't be trusted? Who's the one sending cryptic, threatening notes to eleven-year-olds?
"And those who cannot be trusted," Rookwood said ominously, "Must be tested."
"Tested?" she repeated blankly.
"Yes, tested!" Rosier looked gleeful, now, like a child on his birthday, or like a crazy person with a bouquet of dead mice, "If we're to approve your friendship with Pansy, you must be worthy in some way, and since it is obvious you aren't trustworthy, we'll just have to see if you're another kind of worthy."
Rigel didn't like where this was going.
"It was very brave of you to come out here alone to face an unknown enemy," Rookwood said.
"Either that, or very cowardly—were you terribly afraid we'd spill you precious secrets?" Rosier asked tauntingly, "Shall we find out which it is?" Rigel's face must have given something away, for he said, "Oh, don't look so scared, little snake. We just want to see if you're worthy of your House, that's all. Just run a little errand for us, and you'll be on your way."
"What kind of an errand?" Rigel asked, partly relieved that they were finally getting to the point of all this.
"The kind that tests your resourcefulness, of course," Rosier said, still smiling that winning smile of his, "You really can't be a Slytherin without Slytherin's qualities. Of course, if you don't want to do it, all you have to do is agree to break off your friendship with Pansy. If you won't be around her, we don't care how unworthy you are."
"No," Rigel said, louder than she'd intended. She glared at the two upperclassmen, "Pansy's my friend, and if you know her half as well as you think you'd know that Pansy doesn't let anyone decide her life for her, and she definitely won't appreciate this kind of maneuvering behind her back."
"Yes, that's true," Rookwood said, "But what Pansy doesn't know won't get us into trouble with her. You won't be telling her."
It wasn't a question.
"Well if you're sure Pansy's worth all this trouble…" Rosier trailed off airily.
"She is," Rigel scowled. Pansy wouldn't be happy with her if the blond girl ever found out about this, but Rigel wouldn't trade her friendship for anything, now that she had it. And if she had to do something to earn it in Rosier and Rookwood's eyes—so be it.
The two older Slytherins smiled at one another, and Rigel wondered if refusing to renounce Pansy wasn't part of the challenge in itself.
"Wonderful," Rosier pressed his hands together delightedly, "Then here is your task."
Rookwood spoke then, slowly and clearly, though not exactly reassuringly, "You will acquire two sprigs of fresh Canterberry and bring it back here. You have two hours."
She stood gaping at them. Canterberries grew in trees. In trees that would probably be found quite a ways into the Forbidden Forest, considering how little sunlight the plant required.
"Go," Rosier said, and laughed again at the disbelieving stare the young first-year was leveling at him, "Be glad it's not a full moon tonight."
Rigel rolled her eyes disgustedly, but she had already agreed to do their ridiculous task, and the sooner she figured out how to get it done, the better.
She took off at a jog toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest, careful to give Hagrid's cabin a wide berth, in case his dog had sensitive ears. The only thing worse than traipsing through the Forbidden Forest at night would have to be being caught traipsing though the Forbidden Forest at night.
The forest, which seemed so hauntingly silent during the day, teemed with life and sound once the sun had set. The tiniest breeze set the leaves to whistling, and every twig snapping beneath her feet sounded like a gunshot going off in the middle of a concerto for strings—not eerily loud compared to the sounds around it, but awkwardly out of place.
Rigel carefully studied the trees that she passed. Canterberries grew in bunches on vines, much like common grapes, and the vines liked to wrap themselves around the widest trees they could find. The trees on the edge of the forest weren't nearly wide enough, so she'd have to keep going. She knew that trees got bigger as they got older or as they got closer to water. The older trees would be in the very center of the forest, where it had first begun, but that was also the most dangerous section of the forest. Since the trees seemed to be growing bigger in two different directions, she assumed that there was a water-source nearby and followed the trees that grew larger parallel to the edge of the forest to be safe.
About fifteen minutes of walking later, she came upon a good-sized stream, which judging by the current probably ran into the Black Lake eventually. At the edges of the stream, the trees were wide and stately, and sure enough the distinctive twisting vines of the Canterberry plant trailed conspicuously from the sturdy branches to skim the surface of the water. Rigel gazed up at the bunches of berries, hanging tauntingly out of her reach, even if she jumped. She might have had time to run and grab a broom from the Quidditch sheds, but they were locked after sundown and her useless wand would probably freak out again if she tried an Alohamora with it. Instead she grimly surveyed her surroundings for something that would help her climb a tree one-handed. She thought she could manage getting the sprigs once she was up there, but reaching the lowest branches with one good arm was going to be a pain.
Rigel first pulled a few of the looser vines from a nearby tree and began braiding them together, using her teeth when necessary to get a good, tight braid. Next she shucked out of her robes, glad the slacks and shirt she had on underneath were fitted enough that they wouldn't catch on anything. She hefted her new rope-braid and after a few tries managed to loop it over the lowest branch (which was still a good eight feet above her head) of one of the trees. She tied one end in a slipknot and tightened it until she had one long strand of rope fastened securely to the branch above her.
Now came the annoying part. Her robes were wrapped quickly around her right arm from palm to elbow, and she looped all the excess rope around her forearm, outside of the robes. It cut off circulation slightly when she put her full weight on it, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been without the padding. Gripping the makeshift rope tightly in her right hand, she cradled her left wrist protectively against her chest and made a running jump toward the tree, pushing off against the trunk with her feet as hard as she could and wrapping the slack around her good arm furiously while in midair. She sagged with a grunt against the rope, but she was now about three feet off of the ground.
Rigel swayed back and forth on the rope until she could touch the bark with her feet. She dug in with her shoes and propelled herself upwards as hard as she could again, gaining another loop of slack around her wrist before gravity took over once more. She did this several more times, gasping and swearing each time her body weight pulled the rope taunt across her arm, but soon she was high enough that one last push against the trunk gave her the leverage to twist and swing one leg over the top of the branch she was tied to, and she lay, panting but victorious, across the thick branch as she slowly unwound the rope from her groaning arm. Her left wrist was only a bit jostled from swinging up onto the branch, and by the time she got her balance and sat up straight on the sturdy limb she was feeling pretty pleased with herself.
The Canterberries were growing on vines just a few feet higher up, and she easily broke off a few springs by standing and leaning on the trunk for balance. Getting down was much faster. She wrapped her right hand in her robes again and used the rope to slide down as slowly as she could manage, thankful that years of playing beater and weeks of relying solely on her right arm meant she had good strength and grip in that hand. Though it was more free-fall than repelling, she managed to get to the forest floor without spraining anything. Rigel was disheveled, her white shirt covered with leaves and dirt and her robes torn through in places the rope had rubbed too hard, but she was flushed and smiling cheerfully as she wrapped the sprigs of Canterberries in her ruined robes like a makeshift sack.
Her smug mood evaporated when an amused voice broke into the clearing from behind her.
"Quite pleased with himself, isn't he? Little popinjay."
She whirled, keeping a tight grip on the 'sack' of berries, and nearly groaned aloud when Rosier and Rookwood dropped Disillusionment Charms simultaneously.
"I'd say he's earned a bit of self-satisfaction," Rookwood shrugged, "He certainly made quick work of our task."
"Yes," Rosier looked a bit disappointed, "It seems our two-hour time limit didn't give Mr. Black enough credit. And he even retrieved them manually right off—I was so looking forward to seeing him try to sever a branch or summon one of them with those magic-resistant spells I cast on most of the trees in place."
"You've been watching this whole time?" Rigel frowned at herself for not noticing she was being followed.
As if he'd read her thoughts, Rookwood said, "Don't beat yourself up over it. We used muffling spells and were always out of your line of vision, so even if we hadn't been invisible I doubt you'd have spotted us."
Rigel sighed, "Well, I got these ridiculous berries. I doubt either of you really want to make bunion cream, which is about all these are good for, so do I really have to haul them all the way back to the greenhouses?"
"No, no," Rosier waved a hand dismissively, "The berries don't matter. What's important is that you completed your mission and showed resourcefulness. You pass, feel free to befriend Pansy, etc. Now what I really want to know," the slim young man walked toward Rigel until he was right in her face, which he seemed to think the appropriate distance for examining someone closely, "Is why you tried to climb that tree one-handed?"
Rigel inwardly groaned, of course they had seen that if they'd watched the entire thing. It figures that she would come out here for the exact purpose of keeping her secrets, only to reveal one (albeit a minor one that several people already knew) in the process.
"His left hand is injured," Rookwood commented, "Likely broken."
Rigel made an ungrateful face at the stoic upperclassman for pointing that out, but snapped her head back with a yelp when Rosier took it upon himself to prod the wrapped area firmly with the tip of his finger.
"Hmm, the wrist does appear to be fractured, at least," Rosier smiled like he'd found a new game to play, "Why on earth are you walking around with an injured wrist in a school with a certified Mediwitch on staff?"
"My reasons are my own," Rigel said shortly, moving her injured arm behind her back and stepping out of Rosier's reach.
"Ooh, it looks like we found a secret after all, Edmund," Rosier smiled conspiratorially at Rookwood, who raised an eyebrow in return.
"I guess making him complete the task was unnecessary, then," the taller boy said unconcernedly.
"Indeed, he has turned out to be trustworthy after all," Rosier laughed at Rigel's flummoxed expression.
"Now having secrets makes me trustworthy?"
"Mr. Black, try to think like a Slytherin once and a while, won't you?" the golden-eyed boy tutted admonishingly, "Us knowing one of your secrets makes you trustworthy, because a person can always be trusted to protect their secrets. Everyone has secrets, Rigel, and a person we know has secrets is always less dangerous than a person who appears to have none."
"If you say so, Rosier," Rigel shook the berries out of her robes and bundled them under her arm, "If our business is concluded, I would like to get back before my friends miss me."
"Oh, our business is far from completed," Rosier's smile was a dangerous blade, "But we'll be happy to walk you back to the castle now—wouldn't do to let Pansy's new friend get lost in the woods. But first—Edmund, would you mind?"
Rookwood stepped forward and drew his wand with a practiced grace. Rigel stumbled backwards but the quiet Slytherin grabbed her shoulder before she could retreat any further. Rookwood slid a broad hand down her biceps to bring her left arm back in front of her carefully. She flinched when he reached for her wrist, but it was only to peel the sleeve of her once-white shirt out of the way. Rosier came over to help with unwrapping her bandages, bringing his left hand to seize her right wrist firmly when she tried to bring up a hand to stop them.
Once the wrist was uncovered they both bent their heads to study it critically.
"Hmm, I'd actually expected worse," Rosier said thoughtfully.
"The bone has already been set," Rookwood said, "It just wasn't healed." The stoic boy's fingers were gentle as he probed the area around the break, "How long ago was this broken?"
Rigel glanced between them confusedly. Rosier's magnanimous smile did not reassure her, but Rookwood's unflappable calm did, so she said, "I broke it the first Saturday of the term."
"How?" Rosier asked curiously.
"Fell down some stairs," she shrugged. Rookwood's mouth turned down in a puzzled frown, obviously comparing the pattern of the break to her story, so she elaborated, "The strap of my bag twisted around my wrist and probably caught against something when I fell, so it was pulled taunt until it snapped."
Rookwood nodded easily, but Rosier winced sympathetically, "That must have hurt. I supposed you passed out?"
Rigel grimaced, but nodded.
"Thought so," Rosier said, "If you were awake when it happened the scream would have brought someone running, and you'd have been shipped off to the Hospital Wing. Still don't see why you didn't go there anyway, but I'm sure I'll figure it out eventually."
Rigel was distracted from Rosier's chatter by Rookwood pointing his wand at her broken wrist with a look of fierce concentration on his face that foretold a complicated spell of some kind.
"Don't worry," Rosier said cheerfully, "Edmund's uncle, the one who doesn't work on the creature reserve, is a resident at St. Mungo's. If he accidentally, oh, vanishes all your bone or something, his uncle will probably fix you up for free."
"Don't listen to Aldon's nonsense, Black," Rookwood said, his voice was rough but soothing, like sand being swept across a Zen garden, "I mend animals at the shelter my family runs all the time. Take a deep breath and hold still."
Rigel found herself automatically listening to the upperclassman's soothing voice. She could see how he'd make a good handler for temperamental magical creatures with his calmly capable demeanor.
Rookwood cast a numbing spell that made her ears roar strangely for a moment. She missed the incantation he spoke next, but a hot-then-cold sensation rushed up her elbow from the break and the next moment she was staring in awe at her perfectly mended wrist.
"You'll have to be careful to build up the strength in it again, but the muscle won't have atrophied much," Rookwood said, "I wouldn't recommend climbing any trees for a few days."
Rigel was completely confused, but also extremely relived. She wouldn't have to do everything one-handed anymore, which meant she could stop failing Flying class, and she had one less thing to lie to her friends about now, "Thank you very much."
"It was no trouble," Rookwood assured her.
"Secrets aren't that interesting once you know about them anyway," Rosier yawned, "Now that this one is gone, I'll just have to find out another of your secrets before I can trust you." He winked playfully at her, but Rigel was too grateful to roll her eyes, and as they made the long trek back up to the castle, she thought maybe Rosier didn't really mean anything by it.
Even though they'd dragged her out to the Forbidden Forest and made her climb a tree for a bunch of useless berries, they hadn't really hurt her. They couldn't have known in setting the task that she had an injury, and they hadn't let her really wander through the forest by herself, though she hadn't known that at the time. Rosier had even had Rookwood fix her wrist, saving her another month of trouble in the process. Maybe she was being too forgiving, but Rigel was a big proponent of turn the other cheek and let bygones be bygones except perhaps in the most extreme of cases. It just wasn't in her to hold onto her annoyance in a grudge or vendetta. That was probably why she had a hard time understanding the level of hostility that lent itself to the twenty years of enmity that Snape and the Marauders had held on to.
Seeing the way Pansy's face lit up happily when Rigel entered the common room flanked by Rosier and Rookwood kind of made the whole thing worth it, too. She was clearly ecstatic to see that her oldest friends approved of Rigel, and Rigel didn't think the other girl even noticed that all three of them (though mostly Rigel) were strewn with leaves and twigs and smelled like moss. Later as she tried to fall asleep, after tossing and turning just because with her wrist no longer broken she could, Rigel thought that perhaps an easy, 'settled' life was overrated, anyway.
[end of chapter thirteen].
A/N: So, my apologies, again, for taking two days longer than I had anticipated to finish this—it gets away from me more often now, perhaps because more exciting things are soon to come. I wonder what you all think of Rosier and Rookwood. I sort of imagine them like the Weasley Twins' evil.. um… twins ^^'. As for Harriet's wand—don't forget she's Harry Potter, as well as an OC-ish configuration. Of course I wasn't going to leave her without the Holly wand. Prophesy or no, Horcrux or no, there will always be a connection between Harry Potter and Tom Riddle. Without that, it's too AU even for me to call it fanfic :) so, yeah, tell me what you think, and thanks for reading!