Work Text:
Caelum considers most correspondence with his colleagues about as favorable as scouring cauldrons, so he’s surprised by the scrap of parchment waiting in his lab. He goes so far as to draw his wand as he turns the note over in one hand, wary of a trap or some antiquated Potions Guild hazing ritual.
Foremost on his mind is the lab’s stringent privacy wards; most Guild interns stand no chance of bypassing such security measures, and most Potions Masters simply know better than to try. That narrows the list of potential culprits down considerably to a smattering of foolhardy apprentices. The barely-legible penmanship, then, is what gives the game away. Only Potter could rock the potions world with all the grace of a mountain troll while still barely capable of writing her own name. That he now recognizes her sloppy scrawl by sight is a disquieting revelation, one he quickly pushes to the furthest recesses of his psyche.
He has half a mind to set the note aflame and get back to his work. Sure, the two of them have resolved their latest dispute, but that hardly means he’s interested in another torturous interrogation over lukewarm Chinese. Nevertheless, he’s found himself in her debt since the debacle with the qilin, and he is rather curious how she managed to tie that particular bugaboo up with a bow.
Caelum whiles the morning away in a dark cloud, quite literally, as thick vapors from his experimental brew fill the lab with the aroma of sandalwood essence and powdered kneazle whiskers. It’s blissfully quiet while he works, a fact he’d usually take for granted. For some reason, however, he finds the oppressive silence vexing…not that he aches for the company of his typical brewing partners. Master Whitaker always has a reproving remark on his tongue, desperate to establish a veneer of seniority despite his utter ineptitude in the field of shaped imbuing. Pucey, conversely, would have nothing to offer but frivolous natter on Caelum’s work, or the state of his lab, or worse yet, the note now crumpled in his pocket like some shameful secret.
But isn’t it just? He can only imagine what the other pureblood apprentices might say regarding such clandestine meetings with the self-taught Potter heiress. However, Caelum Lestrange did not achieve this lofty status by giving a whit what his lessers think of him. A lifelong proclivity for contrarianism is the real reason he decides to meet Potter, or so he tells himself as he bottles the rapidly cooling tonic. And if he inwardly yearns for another opportunity to brew with her, well, he gives the idle thought no quarter.
His mind made up, the Guild’s youngest Potions Master sweeps through its intricate vascular system of narrow corridors and out to the open foyer. He spares only a cursory glance for the swarming interns and is pleased to see them scatter in his path like roaches. Pucey awaits him, sprawled across a bench in the vestibule, but he casts the delinquent brewer a baleful glare to stave off any attempt at frivolity. On most days he might entertain his former schoolmate but not today; Potter’s note said to meet in the Leaky Cauldron at noon (or so he thinks, from her illegible hen scratch) and she’s not one to fritter away her valuable time. If she believes he’s stood her up, Caelum can’t imagine she would linger on his account.
A stiff summer breeze buffets him as he slips out to Diagon Alley, stirring his dark brewing robes into a frenetic dance about his ankles. Caelum casts a wandless cooling charm to keep the blazing sun at bay before he begins the trek to the tavern. Though he doesn’t dawdle, he also refuses to rush himself on Potter’s account. That his strides lengthen as he walks is merely indicative of the unbearable climes of the alley. He can only imagine the expression of wry amusement on Potter’s face should he turn up sweaty and panting like some second-string beater; he’d rather play Quidditch with a Hungarian Horntail.
So intent is Caelum on his destination, he nearly stumbles over a tiny, mud-streaked vagrant as she scampers down the road. Only his quick reflexes, honed from madcap experimentation with volatile ingredients, spare the both of them from an ignominious collision. He recovers first, drawing himself up to his full height to loom over the derelict child.
“Watch where you’re going!” Caelum barks directing a withering glare at the street rat. “I nearly tripped over you, you…guttersnipe!”
His ire is effortlessly parried by a cheery, gap-toothed grin, the girl’s devil-may-care countenance bizarrely reminiscent of the plucky apprentice he’s on his way to meet. She holds up a wicker basket overflowing with a resplendent array of wildflowers in his direction enticingly.
“‘pologies, sir! Can I interest ya in a bouquet?” The basket sways in two diminutive fists, raised high above her head for his perusal. “I’ve got lots of peonies or roses for a lucky lady!”
A lucky lady, really? The sheer impudence to address the Lestrange heir like some coltish libertine stuns him into silence. To Caelum’s credit, he only hesitates for a moment before his lips twist in a sneer. He crosses his arms within the voluminous sleeves of his robes and turns up his nose at the offering. “Don’t be absurd. I’ve better things to do than haggle over weeds with dirty wastrels.”
Before she can even ask what a wastrel is, he’s already stalked off to Diagon Alley’s hidden entrance. He fumes at the disruption to his brewing schedule as he approaches the Leaky Cauldron, and all for one insolent apprentice. If Harriet Potter hasn’t made another breakthrough on par with shaped imbuing, Caelum is going to hex her for the inconvenience.
The door to the pub swings shut behind him and, once ensconced inside, he finally takes the opportunity to breathe. Caelum has never been what simpler minds might call a ‘people person’ but today the teeming masses strike him as especially irritating. Yet here he finds himself, five minutes early to reunite with the most enduring irritant in his life.
Still grousing under his breath about all the potions he’d planned to brew, Caelum situates himself opposite the nearest Floo-enable fireplace and fixes a bored mien across his regal features. By Merlin’s beneficence, he at least doesn’t have to wait long. Moments later, the crackling hearth erupts in a flurry of green flame and smoky plumes to deposit Harriet Potter unceremoniously on the floor of the tavern.
He doesn’t deign to offer the soot-streaked potioneer a hand, content to watch her struggle to her feet as a well-practiced smirk steals over his face. Gone is the simmering rage that threatened to boil over mere minutes ago, replaced by the self-assured composure of an apex predator in his own territory. When the brat finally stands in front of him nonchalantly, like she didn’t just topple bum-first onto the floor of a seedy barroom, Caelum affords her the slightest incline of his head in greeting.
“Hullo there, Lestrange,” the witch chirps, gallingly good-natured as ever. She clasps both hands behind her back and leans forward as if inspecting his robes for blemishes with those all-seeing emerald eyes. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
“Potter.”
He doesn’t ask if she’s well. The day a Lestrange stoops to engage in small talk is the day their once-proud house can truly be counted among the innumerable fallen bloodlines. But somehow, his eyes fall to her lips, to the small cut marring her complexion.
“You’re hurt,” Caelum says, and isn’t that so much worse than some offhand remark on the weather? It’s the damnable halfblood in front of him that draws out this inane chatter, like drawing blood from a rock. Perhaps he’s still unaccustomed to her new visage. Small mercies she’s long since shed the resemblance to that whelp Arcturus and the enigmatic Rigel Black Child.
Those lips quirk up in a faint smile, just for a heartbeat, and Caelum very pointedly does not notice how much fuller they are than Black’s simpering, thin-lipped moue. Just as he doesn’t recognize how much…fuller her figure is too. The shabby, boyish robes she traipses around in are all too snug for a girl—a woman—of her figure. He’d much prefer her in dress robes, he decides, something silvery and viridian green to draw out the color of her eyes.
“Oh, this?” Her tongue prods at the tiny wound curiously before she writes it off with a toss of her head. Thick, black curls bounce around the soft curve of her jawline haphazardly, and Caelum has to resist the urge to sweep back those dark locks himself. “It’s nothing. I had a few errands to run earlier…”
She makes for the door as she chatters on about the mundane details of her morning, leading them on a winding trail back to Diagon Alley. As though she is the Potions Master and he the ever-obliging apprentice. It’s maddening, just like everything else about Potter, but Caelum endures each indignity with stoic resolve.
“…not to mention the utter fit my father would have. That’s the last time I wear brewing robes to a duel,” Potter continues, somehow oblivious to the brief lapse in his attention. How this brat manages to outmaneuver the Head Auror with such a single-track mind, Caelum can only imagine. She shoots him a sidelong glance. “Why the sudden concern over my halfblood features, Lestrange? Missing the old look?”
She says it derisively enough that he almost misses the hurt buried in the self-deprecating barb. But it’s unbecoming of Potter to talk like that, to even entertain his doctrine on proper class standing or blood purity. Caelum meets her gaze, his second mistake of the day. Her sharp eyes flare with eerie greenish light, like the flame under a copper cauldron. The effect is almost hypnotic.
“No need to take offense, Potter. You realize not all potioneers are as inattentive as you?” The jibe, if it can be called that, is delivered lightly. Cajolingly, even. He’s pleased to see her relax just a hair, though he’s not sure why that should gratify him in the first place. He’s not exactly in the habit of coddling her delicate sensibilities. “It’s hardly my business if you’re still gallivanting around with those Lower Alley urchins you’re so fond of.”
“They’re not—how do you know about that?” Potter demands, hands planted on her hips like an incensed schoolmarm. “Have you been reading the Daily Prophet’s society pages? Or Witch Weekly?”
“Don’t try to insult me, it only makes you sound more piteous. I just like to stay abreast of these matters,” is all he says in response. As if he would ever reveal the embarrassing truth, which is that he’d simply asked around. He likely wasn’t the only one, but he’d done his research long before that imposter’s likeness was plastered over the front pages of those tasteless rags. It’s little wonder Caelum was unfazed by the sequence of dramatic reveals following the Triwizard Tournament, while the rest of the world descended into anarchy. Well, mostly unfazed. He finally breaks away from her piercing stare with herculean effort. “You really should pull your nose out of those dusty tomes once in a while. You could stand to learn something beyond your remedial potions lessons.”
That earns him a scoff, which turns into a hearty laugh at the pointed roll of his eyes. And suddenly they’re back in their rhythm, the repartee of insults and backhanded compliments. It’s nearly as engaging as brewing alongside the uppity brat, though he wouldn’t venture quite that far.
There’s nothing so exhilarating as brewing with Harriet Potter, he can privately admit. Her precision, her encyclopedic knowledge, the sheer magical power she can bring to bear…she’s nothing less than a world-class potioneer. ‘You sound like a smitten schoolboy,’ a jeering voice in the back of his mind interjects. He quashes that voice swiftly and ruthlessly, refusing to tolerate the very idea. His ears burn red despite himself; there’s something terribly wrong with him today.
Fortunately she’s yammering away again, and it’s only her puerile fixation on Potions Master Snape’s curriculum that saves his dignity this time. Not that her respect is entirely undeserved, Caelum allows, but something in that awed tone just rubs him the wrong way. Snape has never published a treatise on shaped imbuing. Has he even progressed the narrow discipline beyond, at best, a few leading comments in his discussions with Potter?
Doubtful.
He drags his feet as they walk on. Now Caelum recognizes the circuitous route they’re taking, a branching backstreet off Knockturn she’d once identified as ‘Tasty Turnpike’ or something equally banal.
Unfortunately he also recognizes the unkempt waif from earlier who now loiters in their path, a fistful of yellow marigolds already extended toward his companion. Potter quickens her pace to reach the girl and accepts the bouquet with a broad smile. It’s nothing like the sardonic grins she’s directed his way on rare occasions, noncommittal and almost guarded. He can only assume the two must be thick as thieves; just his luck.
“Lestrange, this is Margo,” Potter informs him, the bundle of flowers clutched to her chest like a corsage. The sharp glance she shoots his way demands nothing short of his most unreserved cordiality. Caelum can already feel an aggrieved sigh building up in his chest before she continues. “And Margo, this is my close friend, Caelum Lestrange.”
Whatever form of address he was expecting to spill from Potter’s lips, it wasn’t that particular arrangement of words. Caelum can feel the exasperation leak out of him like steam from a kettle. He swallows and finds the instinctive response inexplicably difficult.
“Good afternoon, Margo,” he forces out, and for once it’s not the ignobility of the situation that’s got his tongue tied. He doesn’t protest the unexpectedly familiar label, nor does he correct her, and he’s not entirely sure why. Sure, the little girl with streaks of dirt on her face will hardly be rubbing shoulders with Bellatrix Lestrange at the next S.O.W. function, but he’s still never tolerated such overt closeness with a halfblood. And yet, all he says is, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Any friend of Harry’s is a friend of the Alleys,” Margo says decisively. She bounces on her heels as if ready to bolt off once more into the path of some other unsuspecting pedestrian. “You won’t have to worry about any pickpocketing or backstabbings down here, sir. Witch’s honor!”
Potter presses her nose into the bouquet, looking ridiculously chuffed at the exchange. She only lowers the flowery arrangement to address the little girl again. “Sorry I’ve been so scarce lately, you know how it goes. How’re your studies progressing? How’s Cora?”
Caelum finally lets the disgruntled snort escape through his nose as the two jabber away, his trademark Lestrange sneer back in full force. He still has two more potions to brew before this evening and the last thing he wants is to squander his precious time on this mawkish reunion. Potter doesn’t seem to notice the discourtesy, or perhaps she’s ignoring him.
Margo, on the other hand, is not content to let bygones be bygones.
“Harry, what’s a wastrel?” the little reprobate inquires innocently, batting her eyes at Caelum over their mutual acquaintance’s shoulder. “Someone said that to me today and I never even heard it before…”
That’s enough to break Caelum free of whatever spell Harriet Potter has cast on him. He flips a galleon at Margo, who divests herself of the heavy basket to catch the glittering gold coin with a look of pure glee. “Jog on, flower girl. Aren’t there any easy marks to fleece around here?”
“Right you are, sir!” Margo shoulders her basketful of wares at long last and flashes the two of them an impish grin before scampering off. “Bye Harry! Have fun with your friend!”
Why the emphasis? This is why he prefers Pucey’s company; the man might be as sharp as a cauldron’s underside, but at least he’s not so damned cryptic about everything.
Caelum fully expects to be harangued by Potter for his churlishness once the little girl is out of their hair, but his companion has nothing more to say about the chance encounter. If anything, she’s still delighted by the bloody flowers. There’s a spring in her step as they proceed down the road, a sharp contrast to Caelum’s dour temperament. He can’t fathom what’s got her in such high spirits, but it’d better have something to do with her potions research. As if it could be anything else where Harriet Potter is concerned.
After a moment she falls back to amble alongside Caelum, swaying like a metronome with each step. He eyes her with mounting bemusement, suddenly suspicious. She still hasn’t brought up the qilin, nor his apology, nor anything preceding that whole encounter in Hogsmeade. The words still hang heavy over Caelum’s head though. She called him a ‘colleague’ when last they spoke and she’d seemed quite confident in her assessment. So what could possibly have caused her to reassess since then?
Perhaps he’s overthinking what was nothing more than a throwaway remark to a child. Perhaps that’s all it was, he allows, but Potter is not one to couch her words or curb her perspective on anything. ‘A close friend’ is what she told Margo, and Caelum hasn’t the faintest idea why.
The first time her arm brushes against his, Caelum chalks it up as mere clumsiness. Potter is always sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong, so it’s little wonder every other extremity is fair game. He can hardly contain his shock, then, when she loops her arm through his to tug him onward. If only he could contain the undignified squawk that elicits.
“Gah!” He doesn’t recoil despite every instinct demanding he pull away and draw his wand. He must be in shock, as the only response he manages is to splutter, “What are you doing?! Have you no sense of decorum?”
“I know all about decorum, Caelum.” Her tone is long-suffering, as if they’ve been over this a thousand times before. It’s something he’s come to associate with her demented sense of savoir faire. “I’m pretty well-read on the conventions of pureblood society. Now hurry up.”
“I’m not talking about pureblood society right now,” Caelum grits out as though under duress. He certainly feels that way, from the crackle of magic under his skin where their arms are joined to the humiliating heat in his ears. He can only hope Potter doesn’t notice his absentmindedness.
“Well there’s a first.” She finally turns her gaze upward from whatever backwater establishment has caught her fancy, the ghost of a smirk dancing on her rosy lips. “Did you hit your head or something?”
“Forget it,” he hisses. Caelum resolves to ignore the tingling sensation that’s overtaken his traitorous body and the alarms clanging in his head as a mass of curly black ringlets tickles his shoulder. He’ll not be reduced to a stuttering prat by some upstart witch who hasn’t even passed her O.W.L.s yet. If he doesn’t assert himself, she’ll run circles around him just for the fun of it. “…Where are you dragging me this time, brat? Another greasy spoon you found while wandering the streets?”
“Not exactly.” She wears a crooked smile now. It’s not quite the expression of unabashed joy she shared with Margo earlier, but something about it feels different from the smugness she usually radiates. “It must’ve been earlier this summer, actually, when I finally slipped the leash to go on a potions run.”
“Only you could make Potter Place sound like Azkaban,” Caelum scoffs, for a moment forgetting his trepidation. He knows she spent half a decade scarpering about these streets, but she seems to dread her family estate more than he despises Dartmoor. What a pair they make, two master brewers afraid of their own homes. He almost remarks on it when Potter shrugs, the motion jostling their linked arms. Caelum bites his tongue instead.
“Prisons come in many different forms, don’t they?” She looks to him for assent and seems to find it in his expression because she continues. “Anyway, half of Aroma Alley was closed, probably due to all the commotion after the tournament. I didn’t realize at the time, though, I just assumed it was another—”
“Potter,” he interrupts, cutting off what promises to be another lengthy diatribe on the exceedingly dull affairs of the Lower Alleys. She looks up at him and blinks owlishly through smudged lenses, a question apparent on her face. Caelum purses his lips and drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You never told me why you wanted to meet in the first place. Is this about the qilin?”
“Oh,” she says with an answering shake of her head. She pauses for a moment, but only to tuck one of those stray curls behind her ear. “No, of course not. I just wanted to see you again.”
He can’t stop his stomach from contorting into knots at that.
“Come on, then,” Harriet calls, finally breaking away to usher him inside the unassuming little eatery. He can’t even bring himself to scowl when she flashes that infuriating smirk once more. “Aren’t you hungry? Let’s get some food already!”