it's that stardust soul of yours

who: open where: potion storeroom, slughorn’s christmas party, hogwarts when: 10th of december, 1945

Gillyweed. Knotgrass. No and no. Since when had Slughorn grown so boring with his wares? Argo pushed the brim of the large hat his sibling had forced upon his head and swiped various vile vials aside as he leaned off the ladder, the necklaces and chains he’d been bullied into wearing jangling with abandon, and into the deep shelves filled to the brim with cheap ingredients and nothing of value. He could have sworn it was around here somewhere. Or, it had been. Six months ago. Or so. Dusty shelves met his chest as he leaned further, covering his garments in a thick lay of grey specks. He removed one foot from the ladder, the other foot also clad in a heeled boot dangling precariously in the air

A loud squawk, right in his ear as if the problem so far for Argo had been hearing, nearly caused trouble. He gripped the shelves with a fervor, looking to his shoulder at The Bird who sat upon him. “No one’s forcing you to be up here.” Why couldn’t it have been Beryl who joined Aether and him tonight? She was much better behaved then this magpie Aether had insisted he bring.

He’s a conversational piece. He was a terror.

With a wince, that unseated The Bird, Argo reached farther into the shelf. Legs now fully off the wooden ladder below him. All the care Argo gave his usual accoutrements was given to his newly borrowed pieces, the cloak catching upon the outdated labeling system of rows and necklaces and rings scuffing against rotting and rough wood no longer polished or gleaming all the way up here. But there. His fingertips brushed it. Nearly! Huffing he hoisted himself forward and his flailing limbs smacked into the ladder below, sending it careening to the other side of the shelves (The Bird along with it) and leaving the intern half inside the shelf but with a bottle of Re’em blood in his hand. 

A quiet latching from below. The sound of footsteps. “Can you get that?” Argo asked the newcomer to the storeroom. He couldn’t turn in his current position without ousting a mess of ingredients from their homes. “It ran away.”

Coming to the party tonight had seemed like a good idea at the time. It had been the only way Miranda had thought of to be able to help the repair efforts, whilst also getting to see inside a fancy event she’d normally have no hope of attending. 

So far it’s been an awkward evening. She’s enjoyed a handful of conversations—and more than a few nibbled appetisers—but most of her time has been spent hovering on the peripheries of the crowd, unsure how to find her footing among the esteemed guests in attendance. Not for the first time, Miranda wonders whether coming was a mistake. It seems a shame to leave though, especially after the money she spent to get here. Maybe, she thinks, a break might turn things around. With her mind made up, Miranda discards her empty glass on a nearby table and begins to look for an exit.

Her search for a quiet spot leads her through a little door at the edge of Slughorn’s office. She’d been almost positive it led to the hallway outside, close to the potions classroom, but it’s soon clear that her memory of the castle has lapsed a little. Miranda enters into what can only be a storeroom of some kind, and not the secluded hallway she’d been hoping for. More alarming still than her wrong turn is that she doesn’t seem to be alone. There’s a figure above her, practically dangling from a ladder in a way that can’t be safe. As Miranda steps forward, aiming to do... something to help, the wix comes a little bit more into focus. From this angle, they almost look familiar. They almost look like—

“—Argo?”

Her  hands  couldn’t  help  but  run  along  the  stone  wall.  In  some  way  she  missed  it,  but  not  the  chill  that  seemed  ever  present.  In  winter,  Hogwarts  had  required  mittens.  Clara  had  often  misplaced  her  own,  hands  shoved  deep  instead  within  the  wool  of  her  own  sweaters.  She  would  have  never  dressed  like  this  back  then,  but  even  by  most  standards  it  was  nothing  fancy.  The  impression  was  always  to  be  serious  and  above  the  frivolities.  But  even  earlier,  in  the  mirror  of  her  own  flat  the  material  shuffled  and  twirled  on  her  in  a  way  that  felt,  well,  felt  like  a  cloud  she  supposed.  Nothing  too  bright  of  course,  though.

But  in  the  room  itself,  Clara  was  not  sure  what  she  expected.  Faces  looked  familiar,  distant  as  if  shielded  by  a  veil  or  lense  through  which  she  had  to  squint  to  make  our  the  distinction  of  features  that  defined  an  individual.  On  the  side,  she  gazed  across,  expecting  to  see  someone  soon.  If  not  hear  them.

“And  smells  the  same.”  Her  nose  wrinkled  with  a  grin,  before  her  head  even  turned  to  see  who  started  conversing.  It  was  really  like  letting  out  a  breath.  Oh,  the  apothecary  one.  “You  look  like  you  are  unhappy  or  discontented  at  the  least.”  Her  head  cocked  with  the  observation.  “Maybe  you  need  to  drink  something  warmer.”

The wix that greets Miranda when she turns to follow the sound of the voice is, thankfully, a familiar one. Not a friend exactly, but someone she knows from her shifts at the apothecary and has enjoyed speaking with before. She’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth though, and smiles back easily, pleased to have finally found someone to talk to rather than lingering by herself. Maybe now the evening won’t feel like such a loss after all.

“Oh... no, I’m alright,” Miranda responds with a soft shake of her head. “I was just a bit... I don’t know, unsure what to do with myself?” She’s used to making conversation with people thanks to her work, but it’s a whole different beast to have to break into the gaggles of people in attendance tonight to start one—especially when some of those groups have famous faces among them. “I didn’t come with anyone, so I’ve just been a bit of a wallflower over here so far.” 

“i honestly wouldn’t expect any less from old slughorn, i think he truly missed his calling.” she smiled as pleasantly as she could manage at them, sipping her drink. “that’s a lovely dress, you’ll have to tell me where you got it.” maybe in another life cedrella would have done something with fashion, if she had remained frivolous and empty headed, if she’d remained a compliant little socialite. but this was not that life, it never could have been she supposed. 

“the champagne is also quite decadent, as is the food so far. but i’m not certain on the company unfortunately. not you dear, no my apologies, i wasn’t clear.” 

‏‏‎ ‎

The sound of another voice makes her jump. With a soft gasp, her hand clutched to her chest, Miranda turns towards whoever has joined her. It’s not anyone she recognises, but her time working at the apothecary means she’s used to striking up conversation with strangers by now. “I wouldn’t know,” she replies, returning the smile with one of her own. “I wasn’t ever part of his club, so I never got to see what any of his other parties were like.” At the mention of her dress, Miranda’s eyes glance down, as if to double check her outfit is still presentable. “It’s... um— it’s my mum’s, actually.” It’s a little embarrassing to admit to wearing a hand-me-down, but given her family’s dire finances, it’s something Miranda has been used to since she was little. “It’s not quite as fancy as yours but... thank you.”

It’s strange being back at Hogwarts; stranger still to be mingling with people in one of her former professor’s offices. It’s been years since she last walked the corridors herself, but despite the time that’s passed, there’s a familiarity about being inside the castle that makes it feel as if it were only yesterday. 

Getting enough money together for the ticket to attend tonight had been a struggle, but Miranda had just about managed to scrape together the last of her spare funds to do it. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a way for her to help the reparation efforts after the attack in some way; but standing at the edge of the festivities in one of her mother’s old dresses, alone... now she’s not so sure.

The prospect of this woman–Miranda, she’d called herself–strolling through Knockturn Alley with an apology pastry in hand drew an involuntary noise of incredulity from Tom, though he managed to turn it into a cough. He wondered whether she’d mistaken his friendliness for something more. Then again, he wouldn’t put it past her to go out of her way to foist baked goods on anyone she’d ever managed to wrong. It was undoubtedly a shorter list of names than his own.

He returned her sideways glance. Though their job titles might look similar on paper, she might have been a Muggle for all that she was likely to know about the world in which he spent his days. Unlike the friends he usually cultivated, she showed no particular promise, and gave no indication of being anything beyond what she appeared: a nice shopgirl with good intentions who would no doubt be better off if he left her well enough alone.

“I’m sorry to hear you’ve been put out of work by the attack,” he said. “If this is what Grindelwald’s supporter have been reduced to–inconveniencing people like you by blowing up shop fronts and leaving messages that missed their window for coming off as revolutionary–then I really don’t know why they’re still bothering.”

At the mouth of a narrow side street which led away from the main shopping thoroughfare, Tom stopped. “This is me.” He pulled a card from his pocket and held it out to Miranda, glossy black with embossed silver lettering: Borgin & Burkes, 13B Knockturn Alley. “I get off at 5,” he said. He didn’t really think she’d come, not once she saw the address. As he watched her for a reaction, absurdity welled up until he felt nearly giddy with it. Maybe it was the lingering remnants of dark magic; they tended to have that effect on him.

He’d never managed to leave well enough alone in his life.

“Thank you, but it’s alright.” She shrugs. It’s a nice sentiment, and she appreciates the consolation, but she isn’t overly distressed by the situation. All things considered, she’s gotten off lightly. She’d not been in London at the time, hadn’t been injured... or worse. The lack of income is a bit of an issue, but growing up in a poor household of eleven means Miranda’s used to stretching what little money she has. 

“I’m more upset that people were hurt because of it.” What does pain and death accomplish other than alienating people? “It just makes me so angry that there are people out there who think they have the right to do something like this, as if they’re somehow better than the rest of us.” Just talking about it is enough to irritate her, a small spark to a quiet temper. "Hopefully they’ll be caught soon.”

The journey down Diagon Alley comes to an end far sooner than Miranda had anticipated. Granted, he’d never actually told her where he was going, but one of the gloomy entrances to Knockturn Alley hadn’t been where she’d expected him to stop. “You work in Knockturn? Really?” The words have left her before she has a chance to filter them out. No doubt the surprise is written plainly across her face as Miranda accepts the card, a glossy thing that confirms yes, he very much does without even needing a response from him. 

Miranda isn’t entirely sure what to make of the revelation. Everyone heard the stories growing up. Stay away from Knockturn Alley. The wrong sort of wixes roam there. But Tom hadn’t given her any reason to think he was one of them in the time they’d spent talking. Had she misjudged him—or misjudged the people of Knockturn instead? "I mean— that’s great! Wonderful, even! It must be... interesting work.” It’s a frantic bid to backpedal and even Miranda has to cringe a little at the attempt.

“An accident.” Argo repeats, brows raising so high they’re obscured by his hair as he stares in wonderment. “Do you have a lot of accidents?” The term hazard was filed underneath the section of his mind all things Miranda. He never took her for clumsy. She was far more competent that the others who worked in his favored apothecary. “Isn’t it a wonder they haven’t fixed it? It’s to make a statement. I’m sure of it. Tell me when you received your donation owl. It should be any day now.” The street and shops were still a mess. The lingering scent of iron might have been visibly gone from the cobblestones below their feet but he knew it’d take a good rain to douse it for good if cleaning was such an afterthought of the Ministry.

Clumsy was joined by curious and a hesitant smile dared to make an appearance on Argo’s face. Hardly anyone expressed their joy over his words, written or spoken. “Now I do.” He knew he was doing well in work but that was more of a factor of being a glorified errand boy over actual challenges. Hearing it from a former trusted associate was nice. People should tell him more. “It’s more than okay.” He imagined searching through wreckage, lifting beams and planks to find one unbroken bottle of ingredients laying cushioned on a dust covered cushion. “How caught was it? Is it still standing?”

“No?” Miranda frowns back at him, her brow crinkling as she tries to puzzle out where this line of questioning is going. She likes to think she’s used to conversation with Argo by now, but sometimes something crops up to throw her off. “I mean... probably no more than the average person really...” She flashes him a smile, a small and awkward thing she hopes will cover for the flush of embarrassment blooming across her cheeks. It’s a lie, something her sisters would vehemently disagree with given how many magical mishaps Miranda has experienced because of them, but Argo doesn’t need to know the full and mortifying truth. “I guess they’re busy trying to catch the people who did it rather than—donation owl?” The frown is back again, just for a moment. “Oh! Is it for the shop? We can check now when we call by, if you’d like?”

His expression draws Miranda’s own smile back to life. “And you’d better not forget it either!” Miranda knows what it’s like to be brushed aside, and she’ll never let it happen to anyone else, least of all someone she’d consider a friend. “Just remember me when your discoveries earn you fame and fortune and everyone wants to hear your theories, alright?” 

The natural reaction is just to try and forget.

Was that true? Maybe it was; or if not natural then at least pragmatic. Most people lacked either the means or the motivation to dwell on the various currents of thought and violence which passed through the world with enough force to rearrange it, except where their own lives were impacted. Tom would not allow himself to forget. Not any of it, not ever.

She had such expressive eyes. Tom might not have noticed, in another time and place; but he was accustomed to company where words and expressions were carefully crafted, where revealing too much truth could be dangerous, and the contrast was striking. He felt that he might tell this woman anything at all without consequence or purpose. The novelty was oddly compelling.

“Nonsense; you haven’t kept me yet.” He adjusted his robes–a nondescript black work uniform. “I’m going the same way. Walk with me, will you? I’ll accept it as restitution for the assault.”

He touched a hand to his chest. “Tom Riddle, shopboy extraordinaire. There; now we’re no longer strangers.”

@dearmiranda

The tense line of her shoulders relaxes as the tension melts away at his reassurance. She’d already gone barrelling into him, apparently hard enough to startle him into drawing his wand, but at least she’s not made him late for work in addition to that. 

Her nose scrunches up at his phrasing of the incident, cringing at the reminder. “It sounds terrible when you say it like that, but... sure. Since we’re both going the same way.” As embarrassed as Miranda is about what happened, Tom is both charming and attractive; spending a little more time with him walking down the thoroughfare is scarcely a hardship. “This can’t really be enough of an apology though.” She glances at him out of the corner of her eye as she walks. “Will you let me buy you a tea or... or a pastry or something? I could deliver it to your work when I’m done with my errands.” 

They’d been right, of course. Days after the attack and the thick smell of blood still smothered the alley, worked deep into the crevices and cracks of the cobblestones and filling their head with a giddy sort of elation that made it ever so difficult to just think. It was a lovely distraction, savoury and drip-feeding the soil beneath the alley, and kept their thoughts wistfully adrift from the task at hand — silverware? Candlesticks? Something to be picked up from the vault at Gringotts on behalf of Ambrose and while Aether balked at the idea of playing fetch (again), the key in their pocket was a significant improvement on Ambrose insisting they leave the room whenever business was discussed. Perhaps this was progr—

— Aether staggered at the impact, blinking bemusedly in the direction of the woman who’d collided with them so suddenly and knocked their train of thought aside, right along with their voluminous hat that tipped slowly backwards off their head to flop sadly to the cobblestones beneath them, a descent that was mimicked immediately by the matching downward tilt of their lips. There were few things Aether liked better than a statement piece.

“What have you done?” was perhaps more dramatic than the scene called for, but as they swooped upon their fallen hat and began reverently brushing any hint of dirt or debris from it’s woven surface, it became clear they were entirely serious. “This was an investment.”

The better part of two paychecks and a jaunty angle — Babushka had always said they had the right bone structure for hats. Was it misshapen? From an angle it looked as if—

Their head whipped around the sparsely populated alley, another heady whiff of bloodshed crawling up their nostrils as they loudly continued aloud, “Hello? Is anyone a milliner?”

The collision knocks the air out of Miranda, and she finds herself stumbling back a few steps over the cobblestones in a bid to right herself. She manages to catch her satchel before it slips away from her shoulder and goes tumbling to the floor, regaining her balance a beat later. 

A small, penitent smile—more a grimace, really—curls her lips as she turns towards the stranger she’s barged into, but the budding apology she’d been about to give dies on the tip of her tongue at the sharp words that leave them. Struck dumb for a moment, all she can do is stare incredulously back at them as they speak. There’s something familiar about them, although Miranda can’t place what exactly. She’s given no time to dwell on the matter before they continue... loudly. Her cheeks burn under the attention is draws from the others in the thoroughfare, a flush of red that extends almost entirely to the tips of her ears. 

Miranda’s concerned question drew an amused smile from Tom. “No harm done,” he confirmed. He took in her bird-like build, the sincerity in her eyes. If anyone could still hurt him in ways that counted, it certainly wasn’t her. “It’d take more than a minor collision to do me in.”

As she gestured around at “all of this,” he tried to see it through her eyes; he’d been too busy analyzing the remnants of spellwork to take in the whole picture. “It’s amazing how quickly people get accustomed to the way things are, so long as violence has the decency to stay out of sight,” he said. “You’d think everyone had already forgotten the war.” Then again, even in the thick of Grindelwald’s war, wizarding Britain hadn’t been in the direct line of fire. Maybe that was Dumbledore’s oversized influence. The Muggle war–blackened windows and the air raid horn and the whistle of buzz-bombs–was still fresh in Tom’s memory of summers.

“I doubt an attack like this will fundamentally change anything.” He shrugged. “Three days from now they’ll have it cleared up, and a week later most people will forget to be nervous while doing their shopping.”

He glanced at his watch, and was startled to find that he was due back at work in eighteen minutes. “Merlin. You’ve done me a favour. I should be going anyway, not standing around gawking. Which way are you walking?”

Relief washes over her at the confirmation. Despite her tendency for stumbles and a talent for charms, healing magic has never come easily to her. She’d have done her best to aid the stranger if he had been hurt, but it saves her the flush of embarrassment that no doubt would have followed when her magic failed to solve anything. “Good. I’m glad.” Another smile, this time a little less shaky. “Still, sorry again. I’ll try to keep a better eye on my surroundings next time.” 

Her attention drifts back out across the cobbled thoroughfare as he speaks, passing over the stark words still scrawled across the walls, the burnt out shells of buildings and the piles of rubble still being cleared away. There’s a weight to his words that Miranda can’t deny as she takes in the remains of the acolyte's attack. Just a year ago, hadn’t parts of their world looked exactly like this? In the height of the war, with Grindelwald loose in the world, hadn’t violence like this been the norm? “Is that so surprising? It was an intense time. I think the natural reaction to something like that is just to try and forget. People... a lot of people aren’t strong enough to keep dwelling in such dark days.”

“Powdered erumpent horn.” Argo explained with a blasé wave of his hand as the container by their feet erupted into small flames. Wasn’t it Miranda’s job to know these things? Surely she could tell by the scent rising with the smoke, the sulfur-like aroma invading his senses and leaving him pouting like a petulant child. “I suspected the–” The case shook, a quiet bang changing the dark vapour to a bright orange, causing him to bend back down to the ground. “Jewelweed.”

Slowly Argo rose up once more, his gaze taking it’s time to meet his favorite apothecary clerk’s eyes. “Did I wrong you somehow? I know my last note wasn’t as detailed as it could have been.” He’d written it during the middle of the night, the moon high in the sky and peeking through heavy clouds. Aether hadn’t been home. Beryl, while a lovely assistant and quite talented at stirring, took pride in her self-imposed silence. He needed the opinion of someone he trusted to work out the mess of measurements and steps clouding his mind. Miranda had been upgraded to trusted associate until today.

Each new bang and crackle that emanates from the case at their feet triggers a wince from Miranda. Nose crinkling at the foul scent now wafting upwards in a tuft of vibrant smoke, she can’t quite bring herself to look down to see for herself what carnage is happening within. It’s clear she’s caused irreparable damage to whatever Argo had been working on; the guilt for that is already suffocating without a visual reminder. 

“N-No, no! It was just an accident, I promise,” she stammers out, cheeks flushing and pulse fluttering in her desperation to explain. The last thing she wants is for him to believe this was intentional. They might not be friends in the conventional sense, but Argo’s visits to the apothecary are always enjoyable. “I was distracted seeing all the damage here and I didn’t realise anyone was behind me.” A pause. The smouldering case below temporarily forgotten in her bid to make amends. “You... you know I don’t mind your notes, don’t you? It’s always interesting seeing what you’re working on whenever you come to the shop.”

It was imprudent to linger here two days in a row; no doubt wary eyes peered into the street from behind protective curtains, and the Ministry might have set someone to watch for acolytes returning to the scene of their crime. The last thing Tom Riddle needed was to wind up on some flagged list. And yet he couldn’t seem to stay away. The vestiges of dark magic which still haunted the bones of the Diagon Alley blast site hummed too loudly to ignore, resonated at a frequency which he recognized.

He reached out to brush the words emblazoned across the nearest building: For the Greater Good. A neat little bit of spellwork, the words bonded with the brick so inextricably that to alter the fabric of one would be to undo the other. He thought he recognized the handiwork of one of the customers who passed through Borgin and Burkes from time to time.

For the Greater Good. It was an elegant idea in theory: utilitarianism in its purest form. But once you added people into the mix, their emotions and backgrounds spilling out at cross-purposes, things got messy. This was how Tom thought of the attack: messy. Wasteful. Grindelwald’s moment had passed, and there was no going backwards. The one good thing about it was that it had undoubtedly spoiled Dumbledore’s day.

One minute he was lost in his own thoughts. The next, something collided violently with his shoulder. He reached reflexively for his wand, an offensive spell already forming behind his teeth, and whirled–

–to come face-to-face with a startled-looking witch, hardly older than he. His expression relaxed back to polite neutrality. His hand fell to his side. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m a bit jumpy, what with…” He trailed off, encompassing the destruction with a sweep of his hand.

The half-formed swear word trails off when it becomes apparent that Miranda has knocked into someone—and that someone reacts exceedingly quickly to that fact. She stumbles back a few steps in surprise, her hands thrown up in a surrender and a frankly terrible show of self-defence. They remain in place for a few moments longer, even after his hand drops again. When she’s quite sure her own heart isn’t going to beat out of her chest and he’s not going to hex her for the slight, Miranda offers the wizard a small smile. It’s a shaky thing, but genuine.

“It’s... it’s okay,” she replies. With the remains of the attack still so visible, lingering in both sight and in mind, she can’t entirely blame him. He’s surely not the only one on edge after what happened, and it seems it was just as much of an automatic reaction for him as her aborted swearing was for her. Hardly something to hold a grudge about, especially when she startled him in the first place. “I should be the one apologising anyway. I was caught up in seeing... well, all of this and wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Wide eyes glance downwards, locked on the leather holder now filled with shattered glass fragments (remnants of what were once vials) if the sound they made upon impact was any clue to the mystery of Schrödinger’s carrying case. There was little he could do but stare, his eyelids heavy and the bruising darkness underneath pronounced. It had been a few days without proper rest, midnight ideas being brought to fruition or utterly ruined in a manic haste to make concepts come to life. None of his night soups had lived. 

With a heavy sigh, no look spared to the body that had insisted on ruining his things, Argo dropped to his knees and picked up the case. It jingled upon touch, high pitched twinkling filling the air as his own eyes filled with tears. No reparo would do. Not for anything by Strombergshyttan. The structural integrity never remained the same post-reparo and durability under heat not smashing had been the purpose of his purchase. Not to mention the samples, contaminated. Crushed. Ruined and wrecked in a folly. And warm?

Giving a large sniff, he tossed the case onto the ground and rose up to his feet as it began smoking. “Miranda. This level of violence is uncalled for.”

If the collision itself wasn’t enough to indicate to Miranda that she’d knocked, rather spectacularly, into someone then the smash of glass as something fell to the cobblestones certainly brought the point home. She can feel herself cringing even before she’s fully righted herself from the impact, a wave of guilt cloying in her throat as her face scrunches in embarrassment. Things turn worse still when Miranda finally takes in the poor stranger she’s just crashed into, only to discover no stranger at all. Argo is a familiar presence in her life these days, and the expression she can see written across his face only intensifies the sinking feeling in her belly. 

She dithers above him, uncertain whether bending down to try and help will make things better or worse. It would be just her luck wouldn’t it, to ruin something so impressively? At least her sisters weren’t here to see it. “Argo, I– I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going at all. It was a complete accide–”

Something crunches under Miranda’s boot as she walks, almost certainly glass from one of the boarded up shop fronts nearby. It’s the first time she’s visited Diagon Alley since news of the attack hit, and where she’d expected efforts to repair the damage caused to be almost complete, she instead finds lingering devastation. The little apothecary shop where she’s been working part-time had been caught up in the madness, but Miranda hadn’t realised things were quite this bad.