Bound by Secrets

“Are you sure this is safe to touch?” Nightingale asked, looking into a random cauldron. The pink, nauseous mess still simmered. He shuddered, stepping back and rolling up his sleeves. There were dark burn scars ranging from his palms to his forearms, though it seemed he forgot about it. “I’m not sure—“  Snape growled, cutting him off. “It’s fine! Quit your whining and do it,” he snapped, glaring at the squib over his papers. 

Nightingale huffed, stepping away to go rummaging for gloves or cleaning products. Seeing only bottle after bottle of potions, he looked back to Snape, who was staring at him expectantly. “In the back, third row down, and be quiet,” he instructed, turning in his chair. 

Nightingale nodded, turning to weave through the desks. “Cleaning solution, cleaning solution,” he repeated under his breath, crouching down to scan the blue and green potions. Though he made a mental note to ask for labeling, After finding and selecting, the man stood up again, making his way back to a cauldron. Thankfully, they were fun-sized, so it wouldn’t take much to clean them. 

Picking up the rag and uncorking the bottle, he was assaulted by a suffocating mint odor. He recoiled, letting out a small cough. “Merlin,“ he grunted, his eyes watering. “Quiet.” Snape hissed from the front of the room, shooting a piercing glare. Nightingale gave back a wavering smile, setting down the bottle to wipe his eye. After a moment, he let out a breath and picked up the bottle, tipping it into the rag. Carefully putting the cork back onto the bottle, he leaned over the table to start lathering the sides of the cauldron until the mass of chunky, half-dried goop disegranted into dirty foam, which he could easily wipe up. He would do another coat just to be sure it was clean. 

“One down,” he said, doing a small spin, looking at all of the cauldrons. “Several more to go.”

By the time he was done with the basic chores, it was dark out, or he assumed so. Nightingale stepped into his chambers with a sigh, his arms sore. Owlette squeaked from her perch, fluttering over to land on his shoulder, nibbling at his hair. “Find any bugs?” Nightingale asked, lifting a hand to stroke her downy feathers. His eyes landed on a box, a familiar shape propped on top. He let out a pleased scoff. “There you are!” He exclaimed, reaching for his glasses to finally push them up his nose. 

In an instant, everything came into clarity, and the slight fuzz in his eye had disappeared. “This will make things so much easier,” he exhaled, lifting the beaded strand over his head and over his nape. 

Owlet squeaked, leaning over to nip at the line. Nightingale craned his neck to glare at her. “Hide my glasses again, and I’ll feed you to the kneazle,” the man threatened, feigning seriousness. The corner of his lip quirked up, and he chuckled. “Alright, let’s get you fed.”

Nightingale tilted his shoulder down, allowing the small owl to hop onto the desk. He reached down into a box, pulling out a dirty rag to place under Owlette’s feet. She could get messy when eating, and he really hated cleaning bug guts. Taking a few steps back, he reached into his box of ingredients, grabbing the head of a large jar. Using two hands, he hoisted up the glass container and set it down on the desk, watching as the insects squirmed and crawled over each other. Owlette screeched, flapping her wings impatiently.

“Alright, alright!” The nightingale snapped, finally popping off the lid. Squeezing his eyes shut, he reached into the jar, grabbing onto a small handful. He cringed, quickly shaking off the grappling mini-beasts for the hungry owl to hunt down.

The man shuddered violently, shaking his hands. “No, no, I still hate it!” He squealed to himself. He grabbed the lid once more, trapping the insects back into damnation. He preferred them when they were dead.