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When Arnold returned to school that year there was a different air about him. Something darker and more menacing than ever before surrounded him like a Dementor’s aura.
Though he did well hiding it, it was obvious to Rishe that he now walked with a slight limp. When he sat down he leaned heavily on his right side—developing a new habit of crossing his leg and leaning on his fist—as if he were in pain and trying to ease it away.
It weighed on Rishe. Though their relationship had become stronger since their first year, Rishe still felt out of place asking about his new injuries when he returned to school after any break: after all, she never had previously, and Arnold was just her classmate. But this autumn, something had shifted. Rishe couldn’t put a name to it if she tried.
It felt as if Arnold had been avoiding her since the beginning of the semester, distancing himself in ways he’d never done before. He wasn’t there at the usual time during breakfast, lunch, or dinner. He kept his textbooks and work totally separate from her during their shared classes. In the corridors, he was always distanced by two or three people, so unless Rishe wanted to embarrass him and herself, she couldn’t call out to him.
Rishe preferred not to experience negative feelings, as they were mostly useless, but she couldn’t help sitting with her irritation this time, letting it boil and seethe in her gut.
Sitting next to him in fourth-year Charms and trying not to stare at his bandaged shoulder, carefully hidden beneath his robes, at the jagged edge of a wound trailing down his temple, at the blackened trail visible in brief flashes on his left elbow, was uniquely horrific.
Rishe preferred not to be angry, as well, but her teeth itched with some nameless urge.
At last, when class ended and the usual chatter broke out around them, Rishe broke. “Madam Pomfrey,” she said, quite nonsensically. “You should go see her, Arnold, she might be able to—”
The clatter of him sweeping his quills, parchment, and textbook off his desk and into his bag made Rishe flinch. Arnold stood, brusque, and swung his bag up onto his right shoulder. He left without saying a word. In her stunned silence, all she could do was watch him go. With the crowd of fourth-years closing in around him, it occurred to Rishe that he was rather small.
“Weitzner?”
Rishe blinked. Her lower lip stung. She tasted blood. “Professor Tully?”
“Class is over,” Professor Tully said kindly. “Are you feeling alright, Weitzner? You’re usually very focused.”
“I’m alright, Professor,” Rishe said. She wasn’t the one he needed to concern himself over. Belatedly, she stood, and cleaned away her things. “Thank you.”
Really, it was simple when she thought about it. There was a problem: her friend was suffering and he refused to accept help, even if it was offered. There was a solution: if he wouldn’t go to Madam Pomfrey, then Rishe could handle such things herself. Her late grandmother had left her a few books she had yet to read, but if she remembered correctly, one of them was about pharmacology. Maybe she could find a way to help Arnold through there without having to tiptoe the line.
For the rest of the day, she was distracted. As soon as her last class finished, Rishe leapt up and rushed to her dorm as fast as she could, her lungs burning as she took the stairs two at a time. She yelled out the password and jumped right through the entrance, sprinting up the tower before she could even hear the painting’s response. Whatever it took, she was going to help Arnold get better.
_____________
Thump.
Arnold didn’t look up from his textbook. Undeterred, Rishe set her hands on the table and leaned over him, her satchel framed between her arms. His work—transfiguration, from what she could read upside-down—could wait.
“Arnold Hein,” Rishe began, unintentionally loud with the force of her determination, before quickly being hushed by the other students in the library. Her cheeks flushed a dark crimson in embarrassment, but her gaze never faltered. Lowering her voice, she continued with the same fire as before.
“You are going to drink these right now,” Rishe demanded, pulling out three small vials, each containing liquids of different colors and consistencies. She laid them all out in a neat little row.
“I’ll pass.” Arnold stated. He hadn’t even bothered looking at what she had brought. Rishe grit her teeth and sucked in a steadying breath. Arnold was injured, she wasn’t supposed to get mad at those who were injured.
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Beg all you like. If you're not going to go to Madam Promfrey or do anything to take care of your injuries yourself, then I’ll do it.” She tapped each vial in order as she continued: “I brewed some potions to help with bruising, to relieve pain, and to stop any permanent scarring. Take them.”
“Rishe,” Arnold grit out, sending the small girl a deadly scowl. “Stop.”
“No. I’m not going to ask what happened, all I’m asking is to let me help you.”
Arnold leaned on his elbow and met her glare with pure iron. “My shoulder is cursed,” he said flatly. “Who knows how your potions will react to it.” He pushed away the vials, and Rishe scrambled to catch them before they fell. “Leave me be. I have work to finish.”
Rishe opened her mouth: to do what, she wasn’t exactly certain. To plead her case, to ask to see his shoulder, to tell him that there were more important things than a transfiguration essay: perhaps all three. But Arnold didn’t give her the space or time to do any such thing: he gathered his textbook and parchment, then left.
She didn’t follow him. She dropped the vials back into her satchel and took a deep breath. Cursed, of course it was cursed! Rishe should have predicted something like that. Turning on her heel, Rishe went to find the only person that could likely help her: Professor Raul.
Rishe had already visited Professor Hakurei and Professor Hevin several times in her quest to figure out medicinal herbology and potions at various times of night and morning. Both had seen her in all sorts of states, whether she was struggling to stay awake or after downing trial potions. Professor Raul was the only one who hadn’t seen Rishe yet, and somehow he still anticipated her with a large grin and a merry wave. “Weitzner!” he greeted. “The best Gryffindor! Seems like I’ve won that bet, then.”
A bet? Not particularly surprised, Rishe hastily greeted him, and then she couldn’t wait anymore. “Professor Raul!” she said. “Do you have any information on what kind of curse causes blackening on the skin?”
“Plenty! Are you asking for a friend?”
“Just out of curiosity,” Rishe said—clasping her hands in front of her—and it wasn’t even a lie. “Apparently they can interfere with how a potion works?”
“Mmm… well, that’s situational,” Raul hummed. He nodded to her bag. “What magical ingredients did you use in those potions? Any spells involved in the process of making them?”
“How did you know I had them?”
“Just a feeling.” Raul shrugged, taking a seat at his desk. “So?”
Ducking her head slightly Rishe pulled out the three vials she had concocted. “Only one of the potions used magical ingredients.” She tapped the potion which stopped permanent scarring. It was a faint silver in color. Rishe knew from experience that it tasted like soap. “I used essence of Dittany, Murtlap essence, and phoenix pellets diluted in water.”
“Didn’t know Michel kept phoenix pellets around,” Raul whistled, and eyed Rishe with a knowing grin. Rishe smiled back shyly, shifting nervously on her feet. “Well, in any case, that’s a pretty safe mix. Dittany’s nice like that, it tends to neutralize most minor curses. Most things from a phoenix do the same, though the pellets are more volatile. Murtlap essence…how much did you use? Pure or diluted?”
“Mmm… not much, but it was pure. I boiled it, though.”
“I see. Murtlap, especially when pure, is a little trickier when it comes to curses. You said that this curse causes discoloration?”
“Yes.” She traced the shape, or what little she could remember of it, out on Raul’s desk. “It makes the skin look blackened. Like burn marks.” Rishe chewed on her lower lip, and hesitantly stipulated, “It might be a curse that prevents wound healing. But I don’t know.” Why else curse an injury? Then again, what did she know about Arnold’s family other than how much more powerful they were compared to her own?
“I see…it sounds rather severe. In that case Murtlap may cause more harm than good. Though there’s a chance it could heal the base of the injury, it may increase the effects of the curse itself.” Raul picked up the vial of silver liquid. It moved sluggishly when he spun it between his fingers. “Of course, your first goal should be to get rid of the curse. But this is just out of curiosity, right?”
“Right,” Rishe agreed a little too quickly. She picked up her bruise healing potion, and set it back in her satchel. “The other two are fine, though?”
“Perfectly fine.”
“Thank you for your help Professor!” Rishe smiled, hope burning brightly in her chest. Now Arnold had no excuses not to take them! With a wave, she ran out the door, determined to hunt down her friend.
Unfortunately, tracking Arnold down since Rishe had last confronted him turned out to be a bit of a trial. Arnold was naturally gifted at hiding, especially when he decided that he did not want to be found. He switched up his usual routes in the corridors, he sat next to different people in their classes—much to their shock and mild discomfort—and it all felt so perfectly executed, Rishe couldn’t help but wonder who was tracking who.
Maybe if she spotted him during meals she could slip a sleeping draught into his drink, just to make him stay still for once. Rishe let go of that idea very quickly, however: he’d never trust her again if she did that. But Professor Raul said that the curse would have to be removed first in order for the potions to work for peak potency. And in order to figure out what it was, she’d have to get a better look at the wound or find a way to take books from the Restricted Section of the library: likely both.
Neither option would be easy, but at this point borrowing from the Restricted Section sounded like less of a hassle than wrestling Arnold—physically and/or verbally—would be. Rishe preferred not to violate rules—something her fellow Gryffindors often laughed at her for—but some things were just necessary for the greater good.
Early in the morning, before the sun had the chance to see her, Rishe crept down into the library. She sat at a convenient table for a little bit, reading an encyclopedia of various magical flora and fauna, keeping one eye through the shelves on the librarian. When there was no one watching, she slipped out and swiftly moved towards the Restricted Section, ducking behind a shelf of books that, at first glance, seemed to talk about potions.
Muffling her steps with a spell, Rishe began to browse through the titles. She skipped over most of them, leaving a mark in the dust on the texts she thought might be of use, and went around to the next aisle. Magick Moste Evile stood out to her immediately, and she left a mark. So did Diaries of Penelope Elworth, Cursebreaker, and Experiment Logs of Victor Rookwood.
Upon turning the corner her leg caught on something she couldn’t see. A squeak of panic left her lips, but before she could hit the floor something had stopped her, holding tightly to her wrist.
Of course, she still couldn’t see what was preventing her from falling on her face, yet she had an idea. She’d know that cold aura anywhere. Before he could even think about running away, Rishe grabbed his arm and pushed him into the shelf, boxing him in. With her free hand, she felt for the edge of what she’d slipped on and took hold of it.
“There are professors who come by sometimes in the morning,” she whispered. “I need to ask you something, and if you don’t answer, I’ll make sure you get detention with me.”
A breath tickled her skin. She could feel his eyes on her. “I suppose they’re professors who you’re familiar with.”
Rishe didn’t deign that with a response. Of course they were professors she was familiar with, otherwise she would have gone at night. “Not important. Now, what’s the curse on your shoulder injury?”
She could feel him tense beneath her, breaths becoming shallower; more controlled.
“I think I’ll take the detention.”
“No you won’t, because we’d be in it together.” Rishe smiled with all her teeth. “You should know that I won’t stop bothering you until I find out. There’s no point in delaying.”
Arnold remained silent.
“You’re so stubborn,” Rishe grit out, digging her heel into the carpet in frustration.
“That’s funny coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Arnold held his silence. He was probably raising an eyebrow, or sighing at the fact that she couldn’t figure out his riddles. Perhaps he believed her to be an idiot. The thought rankled her nerves.
“Fine, don’t tell me,” Rishe snapped, narrowing her eyes. “I’ll stay here. Try to throw me off and I’ll stun you.”
“If you’re looking for a fight, then go bother Joel for another one of your practices.”
“I’m not looking for a fight! Besides, Joel isn’t the one currently injured, you are.”
“Why do you even care so much?!”
“Because you’re my friend, damn it! And I can’t stand the idea of you having to suffer alone when I can help!”
“Keep your voice down,” Arnold hissed, straining against her. But Rishe only grinned, hearing footsteps in the distance pause, then start to approach them.
“Last chance,” she sang. She recognized the faint smell of herbal smoke in the air. “Want to be stuck with me for a few weeks? I can commit a few more offenses, just to keep us in detention for as long as it takes.”
“You’re a damn snake.”
“Mmhm. What’s the curse?”
Arnold struggled. When it was clear that Rishe wouldn’t be letting him out of this, he sagged against her forearm.
“Fine. You really want to know?” His voice was a low growl, colder than she’d ever heard it before. Rishe nodded.
“My mother used a few curses,” Arnold hissed. “The wound itself is from the repeated use of Sectumsempra paired with a Cruciatus Curse set directly against my shoulder. Then she finished it off with Victor Rookwood's Curse to make sure it all stuck. Are you happy now?"
Rishe pulled away from him. She felt weak-kneed, but still managed to spin around and yank some random book down from the shelf. It started screaming.
“Oh, dear,” a familiar voice hummed. Rishe turned around. Professor Hevin regarded her with a curious gleam in his eye. “Weitzner. My, what are you doing in here?”
“Ah..,” Rishe quickly glanced down at the book she was holding, trying to decipher it from a glance. She recognized the words blood and magic, and decided that she would have to improvise. “Well, to pursue my dreams of becoming a dark wizard.”
“Very daring of you,” Professor Hevin said merrily. “Well, 50 points from Gryffindor, and detention on… I suppose Wednesday evenings, 7:00, until December.”
“I understand, Professor,” Rishe sighed with a rather exaggerated pout. “I’m truly sorry for the trouble I have caused you. I’ll rethink my plans of being a dark wizard.”
“That’s good to hear. I hope to make sure that you stay far away from such thoughts in the future.” He didn’t sound very serious about it. Rishe returned the book she had taken, and made to leave the restricted section.
“Professor, I wanted to ask you about the Draught of the Living Death.” Professor Hevin was following her. Careful not to look towards Arnold, Rishe inquired, “What happens if you swap out the powdered Asphodel root with poppy or pomegranate seeds?”
“I’ve never considered that before,” Michael stated, gently tapping his pipe against his lip in thought. “You’ll have to test it with me tonight as your first punishment for breaking the rules.”
“Of course, Professor.”
_____________
“How was your ‘detention’?” Arnold asked dully on the next day in their shared History of Magic class. Rishe had almost been late and–unfortunately for Arnold–the chair on his right was the last available seat.
“Went fine,” Rishe mumbled. Her shoulder continued to ache as she took out her textbook and her completed essay. There was no injury to be seen, but the phantom pains made her want to check nonetheless. Idly, she tapped her quill on her desk: Professor Hevin had cheerfully discouraged her from trying to cast a Cruciatus or Sectumsempra spell on herself, but how else was she supposed to test her potions?
The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Arnold was regarding her with a darkly calculating glint in his eyes. Rishe often wondered if he could read her mind: it was moments like these when she desperately hoped he couldn’t.
“What did you do?”
Dang it!
“Nothing. Professor Hevin just had me do all of the stirring last night.” She wasn’t even sure why she felt guilty. Rishe hadn’t used Sectumsempra, too afraid that the blood would draw too much attention. But it was the Cruciatus curse that was the biggest cause for concern, which was no doubt causing him the most pain paired with The Rookwood’s Curse.
Generally speaking, professors weren’t supposed to curse their students. But if Rishe had been taught a hex that mimicked the spell’s aftereffects, then used it on herself, that was merely coincidence. Despite that, she had learned that she would need to either up the dosage or find a way to make it more potent. Maybe swapping out the Bluecap viper venom for something else could work.
“Don’t lie to me. You’ve never been good at it.”
“I’m not lying!” And she wasn’t. Professor Hevin had made her do all the stirring before she was hexed, yet Arnold still didn’t believe her.
Facing towards the front as the professor began his lesson, Arnold mumbled, “If you don’t tell me, I’ll inform the Headmistress where you’ve been obtaining your unicorn hair.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Arnold merely raised a brow and offered her a vindictive glare that said, ‘try me.’ She supposed it was only fair, considering how she had found out his secret the morning before.
“Not here…” Rishe mumbled, unable to meet Arnold’s gaze.
“Fine. But you're telling me once class is over.”
“Okay…”
Rishe couldn’t explain why she felt so nervous. Her stomach felt as if it were twisting itself into knots. The time seemed to go at a trickle, patient as syrup, and yet the end of class came much too fast. Before she could take a few breaths and prepare herself, Arnold was dragging her out by the edge of her robe’s sleeve as soon as her quill made it back in her bag. Though panicked, part of her delighted in the situation; afterall, it was the first time he had wanted to be around her in several weeks.
Once he had found an isolated stairwell, he let go of her sleeve and stared her down.
“What did you do?” Arnold repeated, a new edge to his voice that set off alarms in the back of her mind.
“Well, I needed to make sure that my pain relief potion would work on your wound…” Rishe mumbled, twisting her fingers into her sleeves and pulling, eyes locked onto the small gargoyles on the wall to her right. “So I-um. I used a spell that imitates the effects on myself so I could test to see if the potion would work…”
Arnold stared at her in wide-eyed shock, speechless.
“Unfortunately you were right and it wouldn’t have helped you, it was far too weak. But don’t worry! We brewed some test potions and I’ll figure it-”
“Stop talking.”
“But-”
“No. Listen to me closely, Rishe.” Arnold took a step away from her, still glaring. She felt like a mouse in a hawk’s grasp, and it was unpleasant to the utmost. “You can’t fix this. There is nothing you can do to take away this curse. Get your head out of your Gryffindor fantasies about being able to solve every problem by being a self-sacrificing idiot! Because if I find out you did this again then-”
Rishe inhaled, long and deep. Tears prickled at her eyes, but they wouldn’t be of any use to her. “Then what?” she asked tonelessly, cutting him off. “You’ll get me expelled?”
Arnold pursed his lips, glaring daggers at the girl before him.
“Besides, the only way for you to find out if I act recklessly is if you continue to be my friend and stop avoiding me!” Rummaging through her bag, she pulled out the potions that could be used and tossed them at him. “You can drink those, by the way. They won’t do any harm.”
“You—”
“And I already know I can’t fix this,” Rishe said, steamrolling right over him. “I did my research. I asked professors to explain things to me. I’m not an utter idiot, Arnold! If I can’t remove those curses, I’ll at least do what I can to mitigate their effects!” Rishe was panting now, breaths coming out in harsh bursts. Her cheeks were warm to the touch. “If you’d just go to Madam Pomfrey—”
“Absolutely not. And you know exactly why I can’t. Think of what would happen if word got out that the famed Hein Family cursed their own son with an Unforgivable Curse, Rishe. Whatever would happen to your family for such stories, mine would suffer far worse, and I’d pay the price.”
Whatever fury had built up from the start of this whole mess dissipated rather swiftly. Rishe clutched at her head and stumbled back, hitting the wall. She sank down, utterly exhausted. In the shameful echo of silence around them, her shoulder felt even worse.
She wasn’t the one paying the price. If Rishe wanted to cry, no doubt that Arnold wanted to scream. Yet there he stood without even an expression of discomfort. Like he wasn’t fazed at all. It made her want to burn something down.
Rishe slapped herself without a word and forced herself back onto her feet. As it always did, the pain jolted her back into moving.
“Rishe!”
“I’m fine.”
Arnold clenched his fist a little tighter around the vials, but made no further comment on it. Instead, stiffly, he said: “Let’s make a deal, Weitzner.”
“A deal?”
“I’ll take whatever concoction you give me as long as you swear to never hex-”
“Absolutely not!” Rishe snapped, appalled. “That’s a losing deal on your end. And the effects on me are negligible compared to how it could affect you.”
“That’s not the point. Besides, my life is not more valuable than anyone else's, that includes yours. If you hex yourself again, then I won’t take any potions you give me. You get to choose one option.”
Rishe grit her teeth. In theory, she could get a friend to hex her…
“Whatever you're thinking, cease it at once.”
There was that stupid mind reading trick again!
“Then I need a sign!” Rishe demanded, crossing her arms in frustration.
“A sign?”
“A sign that you’re alright. Just something that only the two of us would know.”
“Fine,” Arnold sighed, exasperation heavy in his tone. “What will this sign be?”
“Well when you take it I want to make sure your vitals don’t spike. So…you could squeeze my hand! Once to say things are okay and twice to say that something’s wrong.”
“Very well. So then, do we have a deal?”
Though he’d strong-armed her into it, Rishe was forced to nod. “Deal.” She’d just have to be very thorough before feeding him anything.
“You’re not allowed to hit yourself either,” Arnold added, and held out his hand for her to shake. Unable to refuse, with a grimace, Rishe nodded and shook his hand. Briefly, she wished she could hug him: she felt unsteady on her feet, and though it wasn’t good to be so demanding, wouldn’t it be nice to lean on him?
She didn’t, of course. All Rishe let herself say was, with a bit of guilt, “So you’ll stop avoiding me now?”
Squeezing her hand once before letting go, Arnold gave a curt nod. “Only if you don’t threaten to put me in detention with you again.”
That was easy enough to agree to. Unable to help it, Rishe beamed. “I won’t! Thank you!”
Not even being late to her next class could wipe away the silly grin on Rishe’s face.