Star-crossed

Rigel smiled at the girl. Somehow, in moments like this, she sounded even more passionate than him, hands animated and green eyes bright and wild.

"So we'll have to seclude the dragon bile from pixie wings," she concluded, "really, the only other alternative is to completely remove the aconite, and well, that basically ruins the potion."

"It doesn't ruin it, actually," Rigel said after a pause, "With a little tweaking, it'll still be good for treating scars from acid exposure."

Harry shook her head, "I meant it ruins this objective. If we figure out how to make this work, I'm sure we can modify it to make several others much more easily."

Rigel cast her a look sideways, "As much as this excites me, you know Snape would have my head if he knew I was free brewing, right?"

Harry's smile was so very innocent, "Even with adequate protection?"

"Even with adequate protection," Rigel said solemnly, "Which you claim and haven't explained, anyway."

Harry looked sheepish, "I—uh—so there is a Ward Master who commonly works for the alleys—"

Rigel raised his eyebrows, "Are you talking about Will? I don't mind—"

"No, no—" Harry shook her head sharply, "It's Regulus Black."

Salazar save him. How closely connected were the alleys and those he met in society circles? He'd need to be much more careful.

As if reading his mind, Harry tapped his shoulder, "I hope you're not being an idiot and reconsidering our plan."

As much as the idea was easy to fall back on…

"No, I'm not. Don't worry."

Her suggestion was not bad, really, though it posed its own risks. Making his own place in the community as himself was something he'd always wanted, hadn't he?

But he'd never had the means to. He was not the shining Heir to House Black, after all— Just a French alley kid. No last name, and just a hollow first that Rigel felt like a mocking imitation of— Raziel. Keeper of secrets. That’s what the name meant. How ironic, and how fitting. A cruel reminder that he could only hope to embrace before breaking. His family always skirting the line of poverty; Englishmen migrated from Britain to France with no support system to back them up. They'd been living in the version of the lower alleys prevalent there: souterrain du centre-ville, or downtown underground, as people liked to call it.

It had been a miraculous stroke of luck that he'd gotten into the International Quidditch League. The tryouts had been free— free! —with brooms provided if you could get in. And there was even prize money, if you did well enough. He'd only coincidentally come by the advertising posters, but once he had he couldn't get his mind off them.

He could do it if he tried, Raziel told himself. He'd never know if he didn’t try.

And he did. First time touching a broom since that one day an old lady in the alleys had let him ride on her ancient, rusting one, and he'd done it.

He'd come home to his mother flushed with pride, and they'd managed to scrounge up a decent dinner.

And then he met Archie.

On a spring day in the medic tent, he met the person who would change his life with a single offer. They didn't think of it, at first. Only bonded over shared interest in Quidditch. But when the topic shifted to schools, Raziel found it hard to keep a bitter tone from his voice.

Archie didn't even want to go to Hogwarts. Was that how he would have been, too, had he had the money and privilege to be choosy? Would he have argued over which school he'd rather go to? Raziel supposed he would have, but he found it hard to imagine.

Nevertheless, he had enjoyed their conversation, enjoyed an interaction with someone who didn't look at him with pity just because he couldn't put together enough money to attend his own ancestral school— though the look Archie gave him towards the end wasn't promising.

He didn't need pity.

He was fine.

"Rigel?"

And it was her that had suggested it, Archie had told him. And wasn't that poetic? So alike, so very alike in ambitions and dreams and heart, born in different backgrounds but held back from what they loved all the same, so wasn't it something out of the muggle fiction books that they would have come to similar suggestions? For he had thought, seated beside Archie that day, how it would have been had they switched places. He hadn't dared suggest it, but she had.

Harry had, and they did.

Harry had, and he'd got to live his dream. Even if in another's name.

Potions. The one constant in his life. His support in the hardest of times.

Raziel was seven when he'd first had the chance to brew. It was the worst of days— his mother and he had hit the rock bottom of their savings, relying almost completely on the minimal rations provided to the alley folk, and were really worried about whether they could pay even the reduced tithe due in a week.

He'd been roaming the alleys in a tired, dejected manner, wondering if maybe him disappearing was better for his mother after all. Surely she could scrape by with one less to care for? Surely people would feel sorry enough to care for her further, at least for a while. His mother was still in mourning, still lost after his father's death, though, and he couldn't do that to her. He couldn't. And besides, since when was he one to give up?

Raziel had shaken his head sharply. No, he would find a way out of this, he had to.

And it was then that he'd heard singing from one of the nearby sheds, and out of curiosity, made his way toward it.

An old man was pouring some sort of purple liquid into a cauldron, smiling as he spoke the words to himself. The melody he sang seemed simple enough, and Raziel found himself transfixed at the so clear pleasure of another, the tune by-hearted without even conscious thought. The man continued to brew… whatever he was brewing, sometimes sprinkling a stange sort of mixture over the steaming cauldron, other times crushing other ingredients in patient waiting.

Raziel stared and stared, something in him relaxing at the distraction, the quiet peace, until the voice startled him into reality once more.

It was strange, how different the man sounded when he wasn't singing. Raziel almost couldn't believe this hoarse voice had delved in those deep tones moments ago. 

"Need something, petite chouette?" The man's curious eyes were still smiling.

"I—uh—" Raziel swallowed. Had the man just called him little owl? "What are you doing?"

Well. That was not what he'd been meaning to say. Raziel wondered if the old man was going to shout at him to get lost and stop gawking at him like an idiot.

Instead the man wrapped one gloved hand around a vial and beckoned him closer with another, "I'm making a potion called the Strengthening Solution. Would you like to see?"

Raziel shifted nervously. Should he?

"Yes, thank you."

He moved closer and gasped. The potion was the most dazzling green he'd ever seen, bright and yet so, so deep, he thought he could get lost in its depths and never find the bottom.

The man chuckled, "Marvelous, she is, Oui? This has always been my favorite part. Watch—" he uncorked the vial, and carefully poured it into the potion.

Raziel took a step back in surprise as the potion blurred into a beautiful turquoise.

"That's… wow."

"Wow indeed," The man looked at him appraisingly, "say, 'ave you joined the pickpockets yet?"

"What?" Raziel's confused frown must have been answer enough.

"Do you not know?" His eyebrows rose, "Children usually train to become pickpockets around now, Oui? I am asking if you are."

Raziel shook his head mutely. Did they? Maybe he still had a chance, then. Maybe he could get enough money together—

"Would you like to help out here?"

The question took him by utter surprise.

The man's smile was back, as if warming up to an idea suggested impulsively.

"I— yes, yes—" his stomach sank, "But I don't know w-what to do—or how."

The man waved his worry away, "You only need to follow instructions right now, mon garçon. The rest will follow. Let's see— Ah ça va marcher."

"Sit," the man indicated at a roughly hewn stool a few paces away. Raziel did, and accepted a cup-shaped vessel with one thick stick in it he's seen the man use to crush ingredients.

"Mortar and pestle," the man explained, "they are called that."

He gave him a bunch of crunchy looking leaves.

"Crush them finely," he said.

And Raziel did. Some more tasks, and the man said he would work just fine with some guidance and time.

"I needed help around 'ere," the man said sheepishly, "Was going to take someone up anyway. My wife will not be surprised it was the first person who drifted near."

And so it was shook on. More like hugged on, really, with Raziel taking both himself and the man by surprise by embracing him tightly in thanks. The wizard would pass him some ingredients, give him brief instructions on what to do with them, and Raziel would try, to the best of his ability, to fulfill the tasks to perfection. He knew he was nothing, if not a person who tried. And he decided that was enough, right then.

So he did. For his mother, for him, for the man, who, it seemed, was struggling to brew the more different, complex potions the alleys medical faculty needed in his old age alone. And because, strangely, somewhere between grinding newt's eyes and watching them shimmer in the cauldron, Raziel realised he liked this so much more than he could have imagined. That he enjoyed this feeling of simultaneously applying his mind and yet being lost in the beauty of the art.

They had managed to pay that tithe, and the many more to come.

And he had found something he loved.