Temporary
“Growing up is losing some illusions, in order to acquire others.”
- Virginia Woolf
Tom took an easy pace as he walked to the greenhouses for Herbology. The air was still chilled, but the fresh smell of spring was carried as an undercurrent and daffodils shook in the breeze.
He opened the door of the greenhouse, adjusting the collar of his taupe gardening robe and was hit by a wall of heat and humidity that was trapped by the magicked glass panels of the building. He took careful steps to the high table the other students had gathered at to wait for lessons to begin, cutting a cautious path as he sidestepped curling vines, delicate shoots, and vicious looking thorns.
When he reached the table, Tom gave a polite hello to the Ravenclaw girls Ixchel had befriended, and they smiled and waved back to him. He had never forgotten her words and had benefited from the advice, even though he found the others on the whole terribly uninteresting.
Ixchel stood amongst her friends, hair pulled up off her neck in preparation for class and Tom took his place next to her. She gave a distracted greeting as she tugged on her gardening gloves and collected her shears and potting soil.
Tom pulled an inexpensive journal that looked a bit worse for wear from out of his pocket and slid it in her direction. “Your last attempt set a page on fire.”
She picked up the journal flipping through the singed pages with a wince. “Oh no!” She laughed. “It must have been my combining gemino and aparecium. Gemino is notoriously unstable.”
“I warned you that it was too heavy handed. Very good of you to take responsibility for your mistake.” He sniffed.
Ixchel snorted inelegantly. “Those Slytherins are rubbing off on you.”
He shrugged, privately pleased with her assessment.
“What about adjusting it with a protean charm?” Tom mused.
“Hmm, it could only help.” Ixchel considered, thoughtful. She brushed a tendril of hair that had escaped her hair tie out of her face with the back of her hand. Tom was pleased to see that on her wrist was a bracelet with a preserved petal from the flower he had spelled for her birthday.
Not wanting to be in her debt after Christmas, Tom had been determined to get her a gift for her birthday back in February. As he had to begrudgingly admit he didn’t have money to buy a gift, he set out to learn a spell he thought a girl might like. He hid from his housemates, curtains drawn as he practised the floresco charm, his bed covered in daisies, violets, and freesias and he shoved them all under the duvet to keep the smell from perfuming the air.
Shafiq, who had overheard their conversation, gave an unhappy huff and crossed her arms. “You two are going to get yourself in trouble. You can’t just go into spell creation like you know everything, Ixchel. You’re going to cause an explosion or something equally horrific and honestly, you look best with your limbs as they are.”
Tom was irritated that the girl thought she could say anything critical to him but swallowed it, and raised a brow with a false smile. “We’re always careful. I’ll make sure she doesn’t test out any mad ideas, I promise.” He said in a placating tone.
Shafiq pursed her lips, but conceded. ‘That hooked nose is always in a book yet she has no imagination’ Tom thought unpleasantly.
“Such a secret softie, Husna.” Ixchel razzed.
“Quiet down, children.” Professor Beery called out, stepping into the greenhouse, a splotch of earth smeared on his cheek. Tom wasn’t sure if he had ever seen the professor not dirtied in some way. He snapped the wrist of his gloves, wand in the breast pocket of his grubby khaki shirt. “Today we will be working with Asphodel, specifically learning how to harvest their roots for potions such as Draught of Living Death.” Potted asphodels were placed in front of the students on the table. “Now as you’ve all done your reading,” he gave a pointed look to some of the less dedicated students, “you’ll know they can be quite fussy when exposed to air. The person to your left will be your partner for this project.”
The work was tedious as one student had to simultaneously hold the root ball and water it with a syrupy feed whilst their partner teased out appropriate roots and cut no more than two and a half inches from the ends of the tubers. Tom had been partnered with Avery, but they worked together easily enough in silence.
However, Tom had gathered Lestrange and Diggory were not well suited Herbology partners if their childish arguing was anything to go by. It seemed Diggory believed Lestrange was purposefully making his task more difficult and dripping the feed down Diggory’s hands; which was probably true.
“Quit it, mate!” Diggory spat, shaking his gloves off of the sticky mud that coated his hands and forearms.
“I’m not doing anything.” Lestrange smirked.
Diggory obviously did not believe him and went to grab the canister- whether to switch roles with Lestrange or to douse him as well, Tom wasn’t sure. “Shove off!” Lestrange grunted, and pulled the can closer to his body.
Tom turned his head to Professor Beery, curious as to whether the wizard had yet to notice the altercation and thus missed the moment when the canister was swung out and an arch of the sticky feed mixed with mud sailed through the air. He did however witness the instant the umber sludge slapped Ixchel across her face and robes, catching her unawares. She gave a startled yelp and sputtered; stumbling back, her feet caught on her robes and her arms windmilled in an attempt to catch herself. Her fall was made all the worse as she pitched back into a Spiky Bush plant and one of its monstrous spikes pierced clean through her left hand.
The class was silent, gaping at the wound and Ixchel’s wide, dark eyes.
“20 points from both Ravenclaw and Slytherin and detention with me tonight, Misters Diggory and Lestrange!” Professor Beery bellowed, stunning the Spiky Bush and his thick grey eyebrows furrowed in anger. “Someone help Miss Eztli to the Hospital Wing.”
Diggory took a rushed step towards Ixchel, muttering apologies and mild curses. Tom shot him a glare and cut him off, walking to Ixchel and gracelessly lifting the dazed girl by her underarms. He wasn’t going to let that incompetent berk make things any worse.
They walked out of the greenhouse, Ixchel’s steps heavier than her normal poised gait and Tom was bewildered that class started up again- Professor Beery had begun lecturing once more and students returned to trimming roots before the door behind them even closed. It was as if no fuss was needed when a child had a four inch spike impaling her palm like a stigmata.
The two walked the grounds in silence. Ixchel had fat tears dripped steadily down the swell of her cheeks but she otherwise kept quiet. No sobbing noises or whimpers such as the ones he had heard uttered from the other orphans back in London; embarrassing noises that made Tom cringe.
“Don’t look.” Ixchel said through gritted teeth when she caught Tom’s eyes carefully studying her tearstained face. Tom snorted at her vanity and ignored her.
“Shouldn’t they care more?”
“Hmm?”
“Shouldn’t they care more? Why didn’t Professor Beery stop class?”
Ixchel took a shuddering breath, eyes focused on the blood weeping from her plugged up wound dripping from her hand down her wrist to the grass beneath them. “Almost everything can be fixed with magic, so I suppose people know it’ll just be temporary. There’s less meaning in the breaking of something if it can be just as easily sorted.”
“What about death? Can death be sorted?”
“Well this bloody hurts, but I don’t think it’ll kill me.” She weakly joked, frustratingly not answering his question.
They returned to silence. The only sounds their steps and the wind whistling through the castle.
She was right that it was an easy fix as Madam Jones healed her hand in no more than a quarter hour. He didn’t ask her how her hand felt as he thought the question would be stupidly redundant as she wouldn’t have been allowed out of Madam Jones’ care if the problem hadn’t been solved.
As class would be nearly over by the time they returned to the greenhouses, and Madam Jones had warned her to let her hand rest, Ixchel and Tom sat in what he thought of as their courtyard. He watched as she squeezed her hand, contemplating the shiny pink scar.
The Diggory boy must have legged it after class to find Ixchel as he turned the corner, coming into view of the courtyard not ten minutes later, placing his hands on his knees as he took deep breaths.
“Ixchel!” He called, penitent. “I’m so sorry! That arse Lestrange… no offense, mate.” Diggory cut himself off as if just remembering Tom’s green and silver tie.
Ixchel waved her hand dismissively, the scar catching the light. “It’s alright, Elis. All patched up now. Though it’s a bit embarrassing to be maimed in Herbology . You didn’t even have the manners to just curse me in D.A.D.A like a gentleman. Much more dignified.” She teased.
“I’ll be sure to hit you with a particularly harsh knockback jinx.” Elis deadpanned and Ixchel laughed. Tom didn’t find the conversation very funny.
Tom eyed the boy as he left with a wave and another apology, thoughtful.
“You can’t.” Ixchel warned, startling Tom.
He glared at the girl, annoyed she had read his face.
“Obviously you can, you’re magic enough for the both of us,” she rolled her eyes when he took on a triumphant expression, “but he’s a friend; it was an accident.”
“He’s a bell end.”
Ixchel primly hid her grin at the rude remark behind her hand. “Thanks for helping me.” She said softly.
Tom tried not to squirm uncomfortably in his seat and changed the conversation away from feelings. “I’ve been reading…”
“I’m sure you have.”
He heaved an impatient sigh, “I’ve been reading and came across parseltongue.”
“It’s very rare.” Ixchel supplied.
“I can. Speak parseltongue that is.”
Ixchel turned her face to his, dark eyes full, but not with the trepidation he had seen on Professor Dumbledore’s face, the expression that made him worry he was wicked in the magical world as well as muggle. No, her eyes simply held surprise and curiosity. “What do they say to you?”
“Nothing interesting.” He grumbled, and Ixchel’s laugh rang out through the courtyard.
That evening, Ixchel walked serenely back from the Hospital Wing after coaxing Madam Jones into providing her with a scar paste that would completely eliminate any sign of her Herbology mishap. She could be a vain creature as Socorro enjoyed pointing out during sisterly spats, but so be it.
The cream had left a greasy sheen to her hand that picked up the light from the sconces and torches.
She hummed a muggle tune half remembered from trips out to London, considering whether she should test her luck with the knocker or just find another Ravenclaw also on their way back to the Common Room when her path crossed Professor Dumbledore, who appeared to be coming back into the castle from an errand.
“Good evening, Miss Eztli.”
“Oh, good evening, Professor.” She replied, surprised out of her thoughts.
“Would you be kind enough to walk with me to my office?”
Startled, Ixchel nodded her agreement and followed curiously behind the tall man splendidly dressed in cerulean robes embroidered with goldenrod suns.
“Is this about my Transfiguration essay, sir? Perhaps I was a bit harsh saying transfiguration stifles all creativity, but it was an opinion piece.”
He chuckled, tucking his long auburn beard into his belt. “I shall be candid with you Miss Eztli, I have yet to read your assignment but by the sound of it, it is a spirited read; I look forward to it.” They reached his office door and with the password “Rhubarb and Custard”, the two entered the cosy and eclectic room.
“Lemon sherbet?” Professor Dumbledore offered her, and she picked up one, placing it on her tongue, enjoying the tart acidity before it began to fizz.
“You appear to be close with Mister Riddle.”
Ixchel waited a moment, seeing if he would expand upon the statement, but he didn’t. A bit puzzled, she responded. “I suppose so, sir. We wrote to each other over the summer before term and we keep in contact. Tom came to my house for New Year’s with Professor Slughorn.”
“Ah, so you became acquainted before you came to the school, that’s quite unusual with his circumstance. Do you know of his origins?”
“If you mean the orphanage, then yes. I know of it at least; I’ve never visited him there.” Ixchel was wearing her confusion like makeup painting her face. He brought her to his office to speak of Tom?
“Is he kind to you and the others?” He sounded awfully tired.
She gave a light laugh. “Kind? No. But he’s interesting and polite to everyone. We like to study together. Is everything okay, sir?”
Professor Dumbledore folded his hands on his stomach and looked around his office. Stacks of books bound in rich leather crowded the shelves and fragile instruments reflected the warm candle light. He ignored her question. “Well, I’m glad he has your friendship, Miss Eztli. Friendship is arguably one of the most important aspects of life.”
He handed her another lemon sherbet and prodded her out of the office with a good night.
Perplexed, Ixchel regarded the heavy door now closed behind her, mind whirring on what possible meaning Professor Dumbledore’s line of questioning could hold and the weariness he carried.
After cajoling the eagle knocker that sewing needles as well as potatoes had eyes that could not see, Ixchel stepped into her Common Room, and walked the steps to her room, his questions placed in the back of her mind for another time.
“Ah, there’s our favourite kebab!” Olethea hollered, cheering when Ixchel bobbed a curtsy before falling into her bed.
“Where have you been, missy?”
Ixchel, unsure how to explain her run in with the Transfiguration professor to the others as she could hardly explain it to herself, only detailed her visit to the hospital wing. “What are you lot up to?”
Juliet sighed and rubbed her eyes, “Nothing exciting, unfortunately. Studying for potions tomorrow. Can you believe finals are coming up? I think I’m going to need a calming draught from Madam Jones.”
Olethea grinned, “You could always become a muggle actress if you fail, you’re dramatic enough. How’s your dancing?”
“How much mistletoe goes in the forgetfulness potion, Olethea?” Juliet asked pointedly.
The Scot’s face dropped. “Blimey, I’ve forgotten.”
Ixchel listened passively as Juliet declared they would all be meeting Saturday after lunch for a study date, no exceptions, and changed into her pyjamas.
She took out her quill and parchment, finishing up a letter home to Tully asking after him, when Husna came out of the lavatory, a dark frown on her face before laying face down on her bed.
“Husna?” The other girls shared a concerned look.
Husna mumbled something into her pillow.
Olethea raised a brow. “Anyone catch that?”
She raised her head from the pillow. “I’ve started my period.”
“You’re a cranberry woman!” Olethea joked before quieting down after the glare from Husna.
“Oh,” blinked Ixchel, “congratulations.”
Husna scoffed. “It doesn’t feel like something to be congratulated on.”
“No really,” Ixchel smiled, and moved to sit next to her friend, giving her a gentle pat on the back. “It’s only witches in my house, I know what I’m talking about.” She quipped. “It’s blood not shed from violence or sickness. It’s powerful. The ancient brujas used it for the strongest protection and good fortune spells.”
Juliet pondered Ixchel’s words. “Oh, when you word it in such a way it sounds quite lovely.”
“I suppose.” Husna grumbled.
“Here, let me show you a spell my mum taught me.”