Round 1 – International Wizarding School Championship
School: Hogwarts
Theme: Beauxbatons
Prompt: Purple (4pts), Convoluted (3pts) Sulking (3pt)
Year: 2
Word Count: 2150
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Amaranthine
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The clouds hung heavy and purple over the mountainous landscape. It left a feeling of ominous anticipation, the downpour clinging to the precipice of the clouds, just waiting to spill forth and drench the crags and valleys of the Pyrenees. It flattened the air and dulled the sound, like the Earth was holding Her breath with apprehension.
It was a beautiful sight, one that Perenelle Renardi was utterly unaware of as she rushed through the halls of Beauxbatons, late for her Potions class. She was in her eighth year, an optional year for those wishing to pursue further training. She would undertake TRITON exams at the conclusion of the year and would then continue on to the Parisian magical university, aptly named Université Magique Parisienne.
Well, that was the plan, if she ever made it to class. She stopped for a moment by a Charms classroom, clutching her ribs as a stitch overcame her. Beauxbatons was a château that spanned a number of floors and was as complex and convoluted as a particularly difficult maze, and despite her seven previous years at the school she often got lost.
The bell chimed, signalling the morning classes had begun and Perenelle cursed under her breath. Bracing herself, she took off in a run again, northbound and upwards. She rounded a corner in the Northern Wing and nearly tripped over the hem of her robe in a spectacular display of grace, coming to a halt in front of the heavy wooden door of the Potions and Alchemy classroom. She cast a Tempus to check exactly how late she was – 3 minutes, on the dot – and then braced her hand against the door and pushed to open it.
She noted with some relief that Monsieur Claudus had not arrived yet. She slipped in and was halfway to her desk before the burning, acrid smell invaded her nasal cavity, burning her nose hair and making her eyes water.
She scanned the classroom, locating the source of the smell in the corner. Nicolas Flamel was hunched over a cauldron, robes pushed up his forearms and long, dark hair haphazardly tied into a braid with a length of twine. He looked like he had been in the classroom for a lot longer than the five minutes it had now been since the bell had pealed the start of morning classes.
"Flamel, what on earth are you brewing?" She cast a Bubble Charm, encasing her head in a source of fresh air.
Flamel jumped, having not heard her enter the room, so caught up he was in the contents of the cauldron. He looked sheepish, "It is... well it was supposed to be... that is to say I think it could be described as... well, goo."
She leaned over his should to examine the aptly described goo. It was gelatinous, luridly purple, and appeared to be melting the pewter bottom of the receptacle.
"Hmm," she said. "Yes, goo appears to be an excellent descriptor. What was it meant to be?"
"I really thought I'd figured out the trick for transmuting quicksilver into gold," he said, mouth pulled down into a sulk. "Instead, I have to buy a new cauldron because these accursed classroom standard ones haven't got a thick enough bottom to take a beating."
Perenelle resisted, with great difficulty, the urge to roll her eyes, "Has it occurred to you that maybe it isn't the cauldron's fault you keep failing spectacularly at alchemy?"
"You couldn't do any better," he retorted. He looked the picture of a petulant child, lip jutting out in a pout and brows furrowed.
"Maybe not," she acknowledged. "Potions are my forte, as you know. You are meant to be the Alchemy scholar."
"I tried adding flowering aconite to counteract the drowsy effects of Valerian root."
"You tried adding a poison to counteract drowsiness?" she raised an eyebrow.
"It's only poisonous if you drink it," he snapped, irritable again. "I'm obviously not going to be drinking Mercury."
"Still, the ingredients are both delicate and reactive, so putting them together was always going to create a..." she trailed off, looking at the contents again, "...volatile result."
"Quicksilver is volatile, that's the point!"
"Well, the valerian explains the colour," she commented, not willing to delve into the convolutions and complexities of elemental alchemical reactions. "Where is Claudus? It's ten past the lesson start time."
"He's ill, we've been instructed to do private study."
"Hence the... goo."
"Yes, hence the goo, thank you Renardi." Flamel looked exasperated at her teasing.
Perenelle slid into her seat at the workstation next to his, securing her hair at the base of her neck by twisting her wand through the honeyed locks. She pulled out a roll of parchment that had the sketchings of an essay exploring the Arithmancy link between Potions and Alchemy. It referenced rudimentary Alchemy from the Muggle Egyptians and was a fascinating topic.
Flamel vanished the contents of his cauldron and began examining the damage.
The pair had a complicated relationship. They were the only two taking the TRITON exams for Alchemical Potion Making, aiming for admittance to the Université and then Mastery apprenticeships beyond that. They had been neck and neck for best students in their year their entire Beauxbatons career, fiercely competitive, not even to mention how infuriating each found the other.
Somewhere around their sixth year, however, their relationship had shifted. Perhaps it was the realisation that their combined intellect could probably result in world domination, should they desire it. Perhaps it was that after the five previous years arguing, they were too busy and tired to devote the energy required to outwit the other in a battle of words.
Or perhaps it was because Nicolas, one winter's afternoon, had caught sight of Perenelle watching the rain and thunder colliding over the Pyrenees like a pair of serpents battling for dominance, and when the lilac skies bowed and parted before the evening sun, the aureate light formed a halo around her, framed by the library window.
Two days earlier she had told him that she would be leaving Beauxbatons at the end of sixth year to pursue training for a mediwitch career (one for which she over-qualified and under-enthused for).
Before then he had looked at her like she was the sun; her blinding radiance had stopped him from beholding her. He basked in her warmth and complained when she was gone but shied away from her when she was at her most fierce. He only really looked at her when she was leaving, and in the resplendent light of the waning sunset, he wondered how he had never seen her beauty before.
And so, subtly, their friendship built on sharp tongues and ferocious competitiveness was disbanded in favour of a gentler one; battle of the wills became melding of the minds, irritation to fond exasperation.
But Nicolas never told her that he'd seen her watching the wayward weather, nor that his heart had skipped a beat at the sight of her long, honeyed hair rippling over her shoulder like a waterfall of the gold he was so determined to create. His fondness for her had developed well beyond a casual friendship, and he clung to the moments he had alone with her, convinced he would wither and wilt without his source of sunshine.
So yes. His life's works in alchemy may have been complex, but his feelings for Perenelle were a veritable labyrinth of emotions and justifications for his lack of action.
"Are you okay, Nic?" Perenelle's voice interrupted his stream of consciousness, concerned. He had been staring for several minutes without noticing.
"Just thinking... about what comes next. The Université hopefully, but beyond that?"
"When was the last time you slept?"
"What?" he asked, not expecting the question.
Perenelle pursed her lips, leaning over to tilt his chin up and examine him. Her sharp green eyes made him feel like he'd made an error and was about to be reprimanded for it. She smelled of woodsmoke.
She smoothed her thumb over the mottled-plum skin under his eyes, "You look like you've not slept in a week."
"Er..." he thought over it. "I've been here since dinner time last night."
She sighed, "So only one day then."
"Twelve hours," he allowed.
"Well you're not staying shut up in a classroom any longer then," she declared, standing.
He frowned, "But Nell, I'm so close to figuring this out."
"Come with me for a bit, and I'll help you when we get back."
"Okay," he said. She really didn't have to do much to convince him.
She led them to the top of the Astronomy Tower in the Eastern Wing. It opened onto the roof, giving them an unparalleled view of the mountain ranges around them. The air was heavy, damp.
"That looks ominous," he said, indicating the clouds, perse and lilac, reminiscent of the day he had been bathed in her sunlight in the library.
"Oh but isn't it wonderful?" she said, arms akimbo facing the oncoming storm. The tempest brewing seemed to hear her words, a breeze picking up and howling through the turrets and trees to embrace her, strands of hair whipping around her face.
"Yes," he said, not speaking about the storm. "Wonderful."
"What are we going to do?" she asked, dropping her arms but not her smile. "In Paris, I mean. It's going to be so different."
"I'm going to crack the alchemy problem," he said, dropping down to sit with his back pressed up against the stones that fenced the tower. Perenelle joined him after a moment, head tilted to watch the clouds.
"Do you really think you will?" she asked.
"You have so little faith!" he said, the sulky expression on his face only half a jest.
"I think I have too much faith, and I might be disappointed if you do not achieve it," she smiled, bumping her shoulder into his.
He was about to retort when there was a thunderous crash and the heavens opened up to pour their tears upon the pair sitting on the roof.
Perenelle let out a shriek, not of shock or horror, but of pure, unadulterated joy. She leapt to her feet, pulling him with her. She stretched her arms to the sky in thanks and the sky rewarded her with another crash, accompanied by a streak of electricity slicing through the overhang.
They were drenched to the bone in a moment, and somehow, he didn't care a whit.
The rain did not last very long; the wind howled and tore through the cloud cover and they submitted and retreated in face of the superior force, leaving the weak strands of sunlight to alight upon Perenelle's face.
"Do you know why I stayed at Beauxbatons, Nic?" she asked, her eyes closed and face lifted to the sun.
"No," he said, watching a trail of rain drops trickle from her hairline, down her nose, and glistening for a moment in the light like a diamond before it dropped to the ground.
"I did not want to have to leave you," she replied, a smile on her face.
"Me?" he echoed, not comprehending her words.
"Yes you, you silly man," she laughed, turning from the sun to face him. "Gods, Flamel, do you have any room in your skull for human interaction with all the alchemic equations rattling around in there?"
"Perenelle Renardi, I have been utterly in love with you for three years," he surged forward, seizing her hands. "If that is what you are asking, then yes, I am constantly distracted. Your beauty is bewitching, and your mind is brilliant."
With that she reached for him; she was a daisy with each petal carefully unfurling to reach towards him like he was the source of heat and light and everything good.
They collided, lips and arms and magic, and the air seemed to crackle with heat and the promise of a lifetime. Each lift and press of their lips together whispered a promise, I am yours and you are mine, yours, yours, yours.
When they broke apart, breath heavy and hearts light, the words fell from his lips unbidden, "Nell, I will discover the secrets of immortality so I can spend more than a lifetime by your side."
"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were asking me to-"
"Marry you?" he finished, and then repeated, "Marry me, please."
"I will," she said, delighted. "I will, Flamel, I will marry you."
For all that their relationship was complicated, the question was the easiest Perenelle had ever answered.