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Chapter 31: L'Artificier
Narcisa fanned her face with a long hand, brushing damp hair back from eyes that were stinging under the assault of dripping sweat. As fond of the warmth as she often was, there was no denying it was too humid for mid-April. The most unpleasant part was that her sun-soaked skin felt rough and dry despite the moisture.
The situation made her want to tear her sweat-soaked hair out. When she had been bored by countless trivial commissions, she would have given anything to migrate here. Given enough time, she would probably have wound up owning a storefront on these streets, purchased with her own gold and plastered with her own name. There would have been no higher honour — Paris was the beating heart of France, who herself was known as the capital of enchanting.
When recalling how she had come to walk these hallowed streets, there was no surge of pride, no memory of loved ones celebrating all she had achieved. There was only burning heat all over her body and a handsome face twisted with suppressed murder.
Narcissa clenched her fists. Hatred roiled at the mere memory of Tom Riddle — hatred for what he had attempted, for what he had turned her sister into, for the countless unnamed lives that he had ruined, and for where his psychopathy had landed her.
"I will not slave away beneath some old fool who thinks he knows the beauty of enchanting." Furious tears had shone behind her eyes as she glared at her grandfather. "I will not!"
"Do you think I would allow your talents to be wasted?" All her fight had faded when he moved his hand through her tangled hair. "You will settle for nothing but the best, Narcissa. I will make sure of that."
Settling at all was sickening. She was Narcissa Black, daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She did not settle!
Not until there had been no choice…
"It's too late, isn't it?" she'd sobbed. "That's why you're sending me away. My only choice is running."
"No." Her grandfather's embrace had tightened like the coils of a great snake bearing down upon its prey. "I'm sending you away because I want you safe when the time comes for us to finish Riddle."
And so she was here, scuttling through the streets of Paris with her tail tucked between her legs. I hate him! She had never hated anyone the way she hated Riddle — the man who had, in one fell swoop, driven her from her homeland, uprooted her career, and deprived her of an opportunity whose like would never present itself again.
All so she could sweat through fine robes in front of an age-worn building made from weathered brick, inside which she was soon to be at work.
"I know you don't like the idea of being an apprentice," her grandfather had correctly guessed. "I understand that and have used all the connections I have in France to make it worth your while. Everyone I ask tells me this man's the best there is. Securing you a place under him was no small coup, so make the most of it."
Narcissa stared first at the enchanted glass, which showed a spread of sun-touched waves stretching into infinity, to the artful letters etched into the bricks.
L'Artificier
It could be far worse, she told herself, lifting her chin and approaching the front door. Owned by a merchant family who had capitalized on high demand during the Renaissance, the business had thrived for nearly five hundred years, passed down through generations.
Damn you, Malcolm Renn, or whatever your real name is, she thought while dragging up a practiced smile. If you had just let me explain…
No, she was just projecting blame and that was unbecoming. Her hopes for Malcolm Renn had been the fancies of a girl. He could not have stood against Tom Riddle. Even if that was untrue, there was no reason he would have done so for her. Expecting such heroism from a stranger had been silly. All she could really hope for was that he stayed alive and made Riddle's days a living hell.
There was no chime when she pushed open the wide glass door and stepped inside. Her nose wrinkled. The lobby was a pig sty. Tables littered the tiled floor without regard for space or order. Strewn over them all were rings and bracelets, kettles and teapots, wands and staffs. Scattered in greater disarray were countless contraptions she had no names for; elegant gadgets made out of glass, crude lumps shaped from stainless steel, abandoned heaps of unknown alloys. Most damming of all was the sour stench of sweat and… sulphur?
Her slim hope shrivelled up alongside her nose. No one who kept a place like this could be worth her time. If the 'Master' slobbered over their space like this, they were no artist. Proper art required care.
Disappointment seeped back in to fill the place that hope had briefly occupied. L'Artificier's spotless reputation had made her believe there might be a chance of salvaging some scrap of worth from the heap of misery she had been floundering in since that morning at St. Mungo's.
It was a shame, seeing what must once have been an elegant enchantry turned into a dump masquerading as an artificery. The current owner must have been a special sort of arrogant if he had undone centuries of work so fast. Doubtless he was one of those pretentious dolts who viewed the furthering of his family's prestige as being beneath his lofty talents. No, only reinventing the wheel would do for stuck up twats like him. Many artistic dynasties had crumbled under the weight of such fragile egos.
A door creaked open along the backmost wall. Gliding through the disorder was a squat, old man, half a head shorter than her but with broad shoulders and thick arms.
Stopping a safe distance away, he looked her up and down. Had she thought he was old? Little chance of that, the way he moved. His manner was not swift or strong. Rather it was smooth and seamless. When a cat stretches, it does not think, it simply does. When this man stepped or turned his head, it simply happened. "You are the Black girl, I presume?"
She had misjudged him again; spry as he might be, every inch of him, from his slippered feet to his steel-grey hair, bore the marks of refined age. "I am Narcissa Black," she said, straightening her posture, "daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and a recognized master in the field of enchanting."
"I'm afraid your name means little here." With indignant outrage, she decided her second guess had been correct; that brash dismissal screamed of egotistic youth and made her seethe. She ought to slap that block of a head. "You will have to lose that attitude of yours if you would like to work here," he said as if reading her thoughts. "Plenty of ill-tempered snobs come knocking on my door — the surest way to send them off would be pointing out how much more important than them you think you are."
Narcissa plastered on an artificial smile. She would show him how much better she was. "I'm sorry, Master Vieilla. I'm just a bit put out, is all. I was under the impression that enchanting was your forte."
"Alden will suffice." A faint frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. "While formality has its uses, I would not encourage deploying it in pursuit of deception, least of all where it concerns myself. I have enough pretty girls grovel when they think my prices are too high for me to not recognize your insincerity. Remember that, Miss Black."
Narcissa's eye twitched, but she kept her smile wide and bright. She would not stoop to his level, no matter how hard he prodded or demeaned her. "I will, Alden. Though I'm not sure it will matter. I came here hoping to further my abilities in enchanting."
Vieilla smiled for the first time, a knowing smile she immediately disliked. "Do not assume with such haste, Miss Black, for I think there is much that I can teach you. For instance, an old lesson — where did assumptions based upon a thing's appearance land the Trojans?"
Why was she blanching? It was a simple, silly question. "The Trojans were routed and brought low by their Greek adversaries. Their city was left burned and ruined."
"And what lesson can we learn from their downfall?" Vieilla pressed.
She jutted out her chin and answered, "Never judge a thing based upon the way it looks."
"So with that in mind, Miss Narcissa Black, I will have you know that the bulk of this shop's income stems from my enchanting." His words were firm, yet heatless. "Just because I desire more than what my reputation dictates does not mean that reputation is unearned."
She bit her tongue to quell the retorts it yearned to speak. "I'm sorry for assuming."
"I somehow doubt that. Nonetheless, you have been corrected, so now we can move on." Narcissa could never work for this self-righteous prick. It would be a week before she murdered him and was shipped off to Azkaban.
Wrestling her ire under control, she resolved to make him show off every inch of this wretched place before rejecting his employment and…
And what? There was no returning home, and her grandfather had been firm in denying her the gold needed to start her own enchantry overseas.
"You are too skilled by half," he'd said. "Your name would spread and Riddle would find you, no matter what alias you hid behind."
"I believe my grandfather has been in contact with you." Narcissa forced out the words, each more galling than the last.
"A good man, your grandfather," Vieilla said as a way of answer. "Shrewd, yet free of the afflictions most shrewd men suffer from."
Narcissa drew in a deep breath, smothering her pride underneath the terror she had felt while pinned against a wall by Riddle. "I would like to work for you as an apprentice."
Vieilla smiled, that same knowing smile. "Unlikely, though I think you will once the two of us have had a walk around."
Keeping disdain from her face was not easy; this pigsty was about as likely to sway her as a heap of dung. "Will you show me around, then?"
"I will." They passed through a wooden door. Beyond it was a narrow hallway with three doors on each wall and a seventh beside the ascending staircase at its far end. "The bathroom, bedrooms, studies, and conference room." The artificer indicated each door in turn — all except the seventh.
"Any questions?" She shook her head. "Good. You have a sense for when to hold your tongue. It is a rare gift these days."
They climbed the steep staircase, pausing on a small landing. "This"— he gestured to the landing's lone door, "is a storage room. It is a mess and I would not advise you grapple with it."
They ascended the second flight of stairs and came out on the building's second level. The wide window and teeming street below earned only a single glance before Narcissa came up short. The parade of tables on this floor were arrayed in even rows. Half their surfaces were covered in parchments that had been shuffled into neat stacks, while the rest were occupied by what must have been the artificer's ongoing projects.
A stab of envy knifed through her. There were common articles — sets of robes and three large cloaks, pots and pans, boots and shoes, racks and hangers — yet most objects in her line of sight were delicate and complex; silver cauldrons, gold necklaces, emerald daggers, battered broomsticks, ragged carpets she was sure must fly.
Vieilla had donned his knowing smile yet again. "I see that this floor more closely resembles what you hoped to find."
"It's an impressive haul." She could admit the truth, she was not above that.
"I am glad you think so." Vieilla gestured for her to stay put as he strode off through the tables, returning with a long, dark wand. "How would you propose I fix this?"
Narcissa arched an eyebrow. "Take it to a wandmaker."
"This wand has been made already," Vieilla pointed out. "Craftsmanship will not be its salvation, but enchanting might." He held the wand out for her inspection. A shallow crack sliced down its length. "So, how would you begin?"
"I…" Narcissa paused to breathe, having been wrongfooted. "It depends on the extent of the internal damage." She pursed her lips, turning over possibilities. "Is the core still whole?"
"The unicorn hair is frayed, but otherwise as it always has been."
"Then it can't be fixed." She was not about to fall for a trick question.
"Imprecise, and therefore incorrect." Vieilla held up a hand before she could explode at him. "The wand cannot be restored to its full power, granted, yet a portion of that power can be salvaged. With work, the wand can be made functional."
"That's impossible," Narcissa argued. "When my uncle's wand was shattered, he begged Garrick Ollivander to repair it. My uncle loved that wand and offered outrageous bribes. Ollivander admitted he would have loved to cash in, but he said wands whose cores had been compromised were beyond fixing."
Vieilla moved his head in a dismissive motion. "Ollivander is a great wandmaker, but he is only a wandmaker."
"I'm sorry, but are you saying you know more about wands than Ollivander?"
"Not at all." If the condescending tone she had used caused any offence, Vieilla did not show it. " I am saying that if you make a living solely off of wand sales, it is not in your best interests to repair wands that have already been paid for. Do not misinterpret what I am saying," Vieilla said as she straightened up. "I am not implying dishonesty on the part of any wandmaker. I am saying that if the time and effort spent repairing wands will not be profitable, why would a wandmaker ever learn the skill?"
Arguments about artistic interest fizzled on her tongue. "I've never heard of enchanters who repair wands," she said instead.
"I am unsurprised. The work involved is taxing and laborious, and yet, you will never restore the wand to its past lustre. Most enchanters do not think that work to be worthwhile, and those few who might are so hung up on perfection that they would never settle for leaving anything imperfect."
"They're right not to," Narcissa responded with a sniff. "Perfection is the goal of artistry. It's what all of us should strive for."
"Every rule has its exceptions."
"That sounds like an excuse one might make for imperfection," Narcissa countered.
Vieilla dipped his head. "Touche. I see that clarification is required."
The artificer paused. No glaze came over his eyes, yet It was as if a part of him had drifted off. "Many years ago, a young boy named Hennig called on me. His wife had died in a potions mishap and her wand had broken. Their experiments had left them all but destitute and it was the only thing of hers he still possessed.
"Hennig told me, frankly, that he knew the wand could not be made the way it was, but that he had heard tales about me doing things that people could not do. He got down on his knees and begged for me to mend the wand the best I could."
Narcissa stood stalk still, leaning in and listening. The man's retelling had ensnared her more completely than the best bewitchment.
"Hennig admitted he could not pay me back in gold, so he offered his eternal gratitude." The first hints Vieilla had become lost amidst his tale showed themselves in the wistful twisting of his lips. "You must understand that many men make such bold promises in haste, yet few mean them. Which is why I found it so remarkable that this one did."
"How were you sure?" Narcissa asked. "For all you knew, he could have been a con artist."
"If you will forgive me saying so, it had been many years since simple men could slip their true intentions past me." The wistful shape his lips had made shifted into a wry smile. "I admit, I was intrigued, both by this young man and his bold request — I, like you, had never heard of this thing being done — and an offer like that which he had made is not a price wise men turn down."
"And?" Narcissa prompted when the next pause stretched too long.
"Hmm? Oh, yes, the wand. It took most of a fortnight, locked up alone and neglecting my exhaustive list of duties, but I repaired his wand and earned a lifelong friend by doing so. Hennig became my first apprentice and his work paid many times the gold he had so lacked."
Narcissa ran the numbers in her head. "What happened to him?"
The moment Vieilla's thoughts returned to the present day was evident in the sagging of his shoulders and the excess years that claimed sanctuary in the lines of his plain face. Dead," he said in a flat voice. "Years ago now."
Narcissa cocked her head. A young boy who had become a lifelong friend of this man's and had passed on years ago had been Vieilla's first apprentice? "You… understand if I'm a bit skeptical?"
"Certainly." Vieilla produced his own wand and waved it toward the room's rear. Narcissa's eyes lingered on its handle, which looked to have been carved from some kind of horn. The artificer snatched a third wand out of the air, this one short and unadorned. "Take this and tell me what you feel."
She weighed the wand across both palms and closed her eyes. A current flowed through its length. No, she thought, not flowed. "It's… jittery," she said, eyes still pressed shut. "It's like… water running through a canyon after a landslide. It moves smoothly until hitting a pile of rocks and then falters, just for a second but long enough to change the sound."
Vieilla clapped three times. "Your grandfather did not exaggerate your gifts. Now, are you satisfied that this wand is as I described?"
"I don't know that it would function," Narcissa said slowly. "Nothing feels broken. Just… discordant."
"Such a way you have with words, yet I assure you it is functional." Vieilla held out a hand. "May I?" When she returned the wand, he swept it out away from him in a broad arc. Ribbons of sparks unfurled from its tip, weaving into a multi-coloured tapestry suspended in the air. Three dragons coalesced. Every few seconds, one's form would flicker and begin dispersing before snapping back together.
Vieilla wore his knowing smile. Narcissa could do nothing but gape back at him. "I presume you are now satisfied?" She nodded mutely. "Good. I trust that will suffice as a demonstration of my skill?" A second nod. "And you are now convinced that there are things to be learned from me?"
"Yes, Master Vieilla. It would be an honour for me to study under you." She was Narcissa Black, daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She could be humble when given just cause.
"Wisdom is not a product of schooling but of the lifelong attempt to acquire it."
— Albert Einstein
A special thank you to my high-tier patron, Cup, for her generous and unwavering support.
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