This is written for round seven of the International Wizarding School Championship! The following is judging info for that competition. Happy reading :)

School & Theme: Beauxbatons - Underdog Rising

Special Rule: Squib POV

Mandatory Prompt: [character] Original Character

Additional Prompt(s): [occupation] Potioneer & [object] Dragon Tattoo

Year: 5

Word Count: 3,531

.: the innocent flower (the serpent underneath) :.

Josephine Macmillan knelt in her garden, her pale hands and bare knees covered in soil as she tended her herbs. The sun burned down on her back, but the light breeze coming from the north belied its heat. With every breath she took, the tangy smells of thyme and sage tickled her nose. Jo had forgone her gloves today because she'd missed the feeling of the damp soil — even missed how it burrowed under her nails and seemed to linger for days.

It had been a good year for gardening, with a nice combination of rain, sunshine, and clouds, and her plants were thriving. Despite the sweat dripping into her eyes and the subtle ache in her lower back, Jo was humming while she worked. Pulling the occasional weed, and trimming the plants that threatened to become unruly, came naturally to her after so many years of gardening; it was so instinctual that she was able to keep all her awareness in her senses, not on her task. The earthy smell of the soil, the soft foliage in her hands, and the constant thrumming of insects was a balm to her nerves.

At any rate, her work was more soothing than the work of those around her. They worked with dragons.

It had been almost a year since Jo began working as a potioneer at the Romanian Dragon Reserve, and she still wasn't accustomed to what the dragon trainers did every day. Hell, even after seven months on the reserve, she still jumped every time a dragon roared; which, despite how much she hated to admit it, made her feel exactly like what her family always told her she was.

Feeble.

Cowardly.

Weak.

Coming from a pureblood family like hers — from a Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood family like hers — being anything other than strong, capable, and all-powerful was a grave transgression. When it became obvious Jo possessed no magic of her own, she'd unwittingly committed the gravest transgression possible. A month later — during which her parents made their less-than-positive feelings about her clear — her parents shipped her off to the-middle-of-nowhere England to live with her strict aunt and then pretended she no longer existed.

Life with old Aunt Gertie could have been worse, all things considered. The woman had lacked maternal instincts, and she hadn't been built to raise children, so Jo was mostly ignored and left to her own devices. She'd also learned early on that silence was a virtue, so she'd taken up quiet hobbies — reading in front of the fireplace, baking when Aunt Gertie allowed, and gardening whenever the weather permitted. It had been a lonely existence, but the knowledge that it would be worse if she complained hung over her head like a guillotine with a fraying rope.

It pained Jo to think she'd never know if the way she looked at life — the way she went about life and her interests — was true to herself, or if every piece of herself was molded by her authoritarian upbringing. She'd never been given the chance to be anything other than what she was, but how was she to know if she could be anything else? If she even wanted to be anything else…

Jo's swift yank at a weed jerked her from her spiralling thoughts, and she took a single moment to collect herself as clumps of dirt from the weed's root rained over her lap. She grabbed her mini-shears and clipped the rest of what she needed from the mint plant, placing the fragrant leaves in her wicker basket. She heaved to her feet, smoothed out her plain red dress, and began heading back to her quarters. As she walked, her fingertips trailed lightly over the still-blooming roses she'd planted alongside the path.

The roses were an indulgence on her part because even though she occasionally used them in her potions — potions for both the ailing dragons in the sanctuary and the trainers who worked with them — she'd planted way more than she'd ever need. But she'd always appreciated beauty, even in its smaller forms, so…she planted extra roses. She planted asters, daisies, and carnations as well, because as a young girl, she'd learned to seize any opportunity to bring beauty into her life.

It was her garden, and she loved it like a child. It came from her.

She shoved open the back door to her rooms and kicked off her worn boots on the mat. The door always stuck, but the overseer of the reserve ignored all her requests for maintenance. Her bedroom was small, cozy, and modestly furnished, but she cared little for it. The door on the far wall led to what she truly lauded. Connected to her bedroom was a larger room where she brewed her potions, and, second only to her beloved garden out back, her potions lab was her favorite place to be.

She pushed open that door now and paused on the threshold to take it all in. Everything in this room was hers, and hers alone, and no one — not the reserve overseer or her horrible aunt Gertie — could take it away from her. The clean wooden worktop in the center of the room was worn smooth from use, and the dried plants that hung from the metal rack above the table gave the lab a familiar and comforting aroma. Her spare potions equipment was stacked on the back shelf in neat little rows, and there was a haze of smoke in the air from the cauldron bubbling in the fireplace.

Jo was a fantastic potioneer. She'd been published thrice in Potions Today for her work with valerian root, and her employment contract with the reserve would keep her comfortable for the next seven years, guaranteed. Potion brewing was a methodical practice, but not so methodical that it was impossible for her to find those workarounds for the potions that required wandwork. It was a good thing Jo enjoyed finding those alternative brewing methods, because as a Squib, they were essential to her potion-making.

It made her stand taller to know that there were very few potions she was incapable of brewing. It was a common misconception, but most of the magic in potions came from the carefully cultivated ingredients, not the brewer themselves. Becoming a potioneer had been a perfect way for Jo to find her place in the magical world despite her inherent lack of magic.

She placed her basket on the table and grabbed her stained apron from the hook behind the door. She was wrapping the stems of her collected herbs in twine when a knock sounded on the front door. Jo was used to people coming to her throughout the day for her salves and healing potions. There was a licensed Healer on the reserve, but he was a crotchety old wizard who was a menace to get along with. So, when injuries weren't life-threatening, people came to her — which was saying something, because injuries the Healer could cure in seconds took her much longer to treat.

"Come in!" she called, not looking up from her work as the door opened. She hung the fresh rosemary on the drying rack before looking at her newest visitor. Her breath caught in her throat.

Of course it was him.

The first time Jo had seen Charlie Weasley, she'd almost fainted. When she'd been young, Aunt Gertie had told her about all the great wizarding families — the Weasleys included. Aunt Gertie had said, "They may be blood traitors, but they're still purer than you. Learn their names."

Learning the names of the witches and wizards in the Sacred Twenty-Eight families had been the only wizarding education she'd properly received. (She'd had to sneak potions books from Aunt Gertie's library and pull Daily Prophets from the trash.) Men in pureblood families followed their father's footsteps — they became bankers, investors, and members of the Wizengamot. It was inconceivable to Jo that a pureblood was working as a dragon trainer, even if he was a second son.

She had met Charlie on her first day at the reserve when the overseer was giving her a half-hearted tour of the grounds. Charlie, his auburn hair blazing in the afternoon sunlight, had been holding a heavy chain lead that was leashed to a medium-sized dragon. The day had been blisteringly hot, and he'd been sans a shirt; the scars that wound their way up his muscled arms were pale in comparison to his tanned and freckled skin.

She remembered thinking, This man has 'rebel' written all over him.

What had truly caught her attention about him, though, had nothing to do with his attractiveness or the strength he seemed to carry in every line of his body. No, it had been the dark dragon tattoo that snaked around his bicep and up over his shoulder blade. It was a magnificent piece of art with different shades of blues, purples, and greys, and it rippled with the movement of his arm as he ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair.

Her thoughts had shifted then to, This man has 'hot rebel' written all over him.

When he'd caught her staring, she'd flushed from her chest to the tips of her ears. He hadn't seemed bothered by her regard — or to even notice it, really — but she didn't manage to say one word to him their entire introduction; she'd just nodded in (hopefully) all the right places and shook his calloused hand with her sweaty one when prompted.

And she'd barely managed to keep a strangled sound from escaping her when he'd given her a smile.

These days, they had a couple of real conversations under their belts, and she was no longer at risk of hyperventilating in his presence. He possessed a kindness that was rare in this world; he was so much more than his good looks. He wrote home to his parents every week like clockwork, and he cared about the dragons as if they were a part of him. He was also the only dragon trainer who didn't look at her like her parents always had — like she was worth less than the dirt on their shoes because she was a Squib.

Charlie, fully clothed this time, greeted her with a tentative wave of his hand and an enticing quirk of his lips.

"Wh-what can I do for you, Mr. Weasley?" she asked, clearing her throat.

"Hey, Jo," he began, still smiling as he stepped further into the room and took a seat in the chair she kept for just these moments. "And again, call me Charlie."

"Right. Hello, Charlie."

"Hey," he repeated, smiling — presumably — at her obvious nervousness. "Thaddeus got a little feisty today, and I was hoping for some of your miracle burn cream."

"Of course!" She winced at the volume of her voice, and she jolted even more when she took note of his burned forearm. She bustled around the room, gathering up the necessary supplies as quickly as she could. "Wh-which one is Thaddeus, again?"

"The Welsh Green. He's new to the reserve, so he's not quite as used to being around so many humans as the other dragons."

"Do dragons ever get used to b-being around humans?" she asked as she rounded the worktop towards him, arms full of bandages, wound disinfectant, and her burn salve.

"Most weren't made for captivity, but some do. Take Lulu, for example — the Swedish Short-Snout." Charlie rested his forearm on the arm of the chair as she settled on her little stool. "She's basically a giant kitty-cat, though that might be because she was born here. She'll put her head right in your lap if you let her."

Lucky kitty-cat.

"Have you — ah — let her?" Jo dabbed at his wound, cleaning it, and he didn't even flinch, though she knew the disinfectant burned like...well, dragon fire.

"Oh, yeah, of course I have! She's my favorite breed. I couldn't not take every opportunity where she's concerned. I mean" — he chuckled — "I've even got a Short-Snout tattoo."

"Oh…um, so t-that's the breed on your arm?" she asked lamely. "I've — ah — never gotten close enough to tell."

She didn't know why this made her blush.

Charlie grinned again and pulled his short sleeve over his shoulder, extending his arm so most of his tattoo was in view. Unbidden, and before she could think about it properly, she reached out and ran her fingers over the tattoo — over his skin. When he sucked in a sharp breath, she retracted her arm to her chest, quick as a cobra, and blushed.

"Sorry."

"No, it's alri—"

"Um, wh-why are they your favorite?" she asked, returning to her work with a singular focus as she applied the burn salve. If I pretend my face isn't on fire, then it's not actually on fire.

She heard the mirth in his voice as he replied. "Most researchers say they're the tamest dragon breed because they're credited with the lowest number of human deaths, but people forget that correlation doesn't equal causation. They have the lowest statistic because they prefer to live in isolation and are rarely around humans to kill them in the first place."

"But you still let Lulu p-put her head in your l-lap?"

"Yeah, well, she's still a baby," he reminded her.

"Right. Yeah. Of course," she said as if she had any idea of what he was talking about — as if this whole conversation wasn't completely bizarre. She began wrapping his arm with the bandage but looked up as he spoke again.

"People always underestimate Swedish Short-Snouts," he said, "and not only because of their statistics, but also because of their demeanor. They're kind animals, and they even make sure other dragons are taken care of before they take care of themselves. This sometimes makes people forget that they're still dragons, you know? They're still dragons, and dragons can't help but roar."

He was looking at her…strangely, with a tilt to his head and a gleam in his eyes.

"Plus" — he reached out and tucked a strand of her blue-black hair behind her ear — "they have really pretty blue scales."

Charlie's hand lingered on the shell of her ear and goosebumps erupted across her neck. His intent gaze transfixed her, and her flushed skin felt charged with an emotion she couldn't quite name, but when she tried to voice this feeling, her tongue felt too big for her mouth. Unsurprisingly, Charlie's stare rendered her altogether useless.

Before she could recover her composure, the moment was broken by a glass jar of preserves shattering on the stone floor. For a moment, she thought a mouse had gotten behind the jar and pushed it, but then the walls of her potions lab began to shake, and a dragon's roar deafened her.

Jo started violently. The walls had never shook before, and it told them both the same thing: the dragon was much closer than it should be. Charlie jumped to his feet, his chair clattering to the side and his arm ripping from her grip. She hastily grabbed his arm with a small cry of surprise, and he fidgeted impatiently but allowed her to tie off the bandage. Almost before she'd finished, he rushed out the door. Jo followed him without thinking, and it was only after he stopped suddenly and she collided with his broad back, that she realized she'd likely be in the way.

It was complete pandemonium outside.

A plume of fire was billowing into the sky to her left, and someone was screaming up ahead; for a moment, every part of Jo's body locked up in fear. The acrid scent of smoke burned her nose, and she stumbled into Charlie when the ground quaked from another deafening roar. Two trainers were carrying a third between them as they hurried towards the Healer's tent. This was chaos, and yet no one was attempting to wrangle the rogue dragon — people were just scattering as if they'd never counted on a dragon escaping the reserve, never planned for what to do.

"Come on, we've got to move!" Charlie yelled, grabbing hold of her hand and tugging.

"But…" Jo watched as the dragon came back into view, closer this time. It was the Swedish Short-Snout, if Charlie's tattoo was to be believed. It was small for a dragon, she noted as it flew overhead, about the size of a Muggle car. It was a beautiful creature, and its underbelly — she blushed — was the exact shade of her hair.

Charlie was still tugging on her hand, but Jo continued to watch as the dragon made a loop in the sky and flew behind her quarters.

Her gardens.

Jo pulled her hand free from Charlie's and raced around her building, heedless of Charlie's yelling. He didn't understand.

She skidded around the corner, her bare feet aching and her hair flying in her face. She gasped for breath as she faced the dragon — Lulu, she remembered — and the dragon puffed, small clouds of smoke wisping from her snout. Her claws scored the earth as she stamped her feet, and her large blue eyes were wide and panicked.

She's scared, Jo thought. Lulu didn't want to be among the humans and their buildings any more than the humans wanted her among them and their buildings. This was new territory for the young dragon, as the dragon enclosure was some way up the hill — far away from the human encampment. The puffs of smoke came more quickly from Lulu's snout when the dragon registered Jo's presence.

"Hi," Jo called, her voice even despite her nerves. What the hell am I doing?

Lulu shuffled a few feet closer to Jo's gardens, and Jo's expression tightened. She had to do this.

"No, no, no," Jo said. "Hey, just look at me. My name's Josephine, and I really don't want you to trample my gardens. I really love my gardens, Lulu."

Incomprehensibly, her near-constant stutter had disappeared.

Lulu's large head tilted, and Jo's stomach twisted painfully when the dragon took one giant step towards her. Everything Charlie had told her about Swedish Short-Snouts came rushing back with extreme clarity.

Lulu was staring at her with a keen sort of awareness, and Jo had a thought. Lulu had been raised in the sanctuary, always around humans — she had no human deaths on her, well, claws. What if being around humans made Lulu smarter, too? She became sure she was right when Lulu looked over her left wing at Jo's gardens as if she understood Jo didn't want her to move towards them.

Jo wasn't a talkative person — her stutter embarrassed her, so she never said more than she had to — but she started talking then. She spoke in low, even tones about anything she could think of, but mostly about how much she loved her gardens and how pretty Lulu's scales were — "You know, this man I like thinks my hair looks like your scales. I think that's a nice thought, don't you?"

Eventually, Lulu stopped her agitated movements and settled on her haunches. Slowly, and exactly like a kitty-cat, she wriggled towards Jo and peered up at her with large eyes.

As Jo took a step towards the powerful beast, Lulu's large membranous wings and razor sharp claws contrasted oddly with her sparkling, inquisitive eyes. Jo knew then that Lulu was gentle, but she was also a ferocious dragon that could burn an entire encampment to the ground. She was a complex being who possessed many personality traits, and Jo…Jo was complex too. Just because she enjoyed her garden, her potion-making, and the general quietude of her life, didn't mean she wasn't capable of standing up to a dragon. She could be more than one thing, and there was a special kind of power in deciding to love the softer parts of herself.

And she didn't like these soft and gentle things because of her strict upbringing. Perhaps her upbringing had simply allowed her to appreciate these things earlier than she otherwise would have — because she didn't know what she would do if she'd grown up to be as jaded and cruel as her parents. And being a Squib didn't make her weak. She had as much power as anyone else, and there wasn't anything she had to make up for because she lacked magic. Jo carried her strength in many ways, and she…she was proud of the person she was. Proud she'd retained her kindness in the face of such hateful conditions.

She smiled and reached out a steady hand to place it on Lulu's head. After a moment, a large freckled hand joined her own. Jo looked up at Charlie and grinned unashamedly, and she only blushed a little when his fingers entwined with her own. As Charlie stepped closer, she remained blissfully unaware of the gathered group of dragon trainers that were now watching her with new eyes.

thanks for reading! i've never written a story, from start to finish, entirely from the perspective of an oc, so this was a challenge to include all the information i thought was relevant. i hope i've succeeded, and that y'all find jo to be a compelling character! plus, when i first plotted this i really wanted to see jo meet all the weasleys, so i'm gonna write a little drabble with that! part two coming by the end of the week :))

the title of this comes the macbeth quote, "bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue. look like th' innocent flower, but be the serpent under 't." thanks again for reading :))