10:15am Thursday
May 20, 2010

Hazy sunshine came down into the Apothecary from the second story window.  Specks floated in the air, a visual sign of the rich and complicated smells of a thousand herbs, fungi, and animal bits sitting bottled, hanging, dried, or fresh in the bins and banks, cabinets, and cubbies of the old apothecary.

Today had already been, thankfully, busy.  These days had been rare the last year or so, and Zelda felt more than ever the absence of her husband and two boys.  Before the explosion and Rafe's arrest, she and Rafe had skillfully manned the shop when customers and owls flowed in and out in a steady stream.  And when her sons weren't in school they two would be part of the potion, helping pack orders, keep ahead of the clutter, and run for errands.

But she had been on her own now for many months.

"This is unacceptable! They're shrivveled!"

An irate wizard in fancy clothes and slicked-back hair was at the counter sticking a small piece of fruit in Zelda Sellaphix's face.

"Because it's an Abyssinian shrivelfig."

"I have three boxes sitting in our warehouse and they're all like this! If you can't provide smooth shrivelfigs than I demand a full refund."

Zelda's face was stone blank, the only perceivable expression was that of a person about to murder.  Disdain and totally aloof. 

"I don't think so.  But if you do find a supplier of smooth shrivelfigs, do let me know."

She looked down at her ledger and began the arithmancy task she'd been at when he'd come to complain.  At being so suddenly dismissed, the man paused and his fig drooped.  Then in a fit or rage, he slammed the fig down onto the desk, right on top of the ledger.  It smooshed and squirted out a short of purple pulp and juice. 

He stormed out, leaving Zelda in a foul mood and her ledger stained.

Juliette had managed to step into the shop precisely at the height of the drama.

One could not accuse Sellaphix Apothecary of monotony, not of late. Where the presence of children around cauldrons and supply cupboards might inspire a firm hand and a bounty of caution, the scene unfolding now (a full-grown wizard throwing fits over shrivelfig) earned a few blinks from wide blue eyes as Juliette paused momentarily near the door.

She was both surprised and not at all surprised. There was no license required to buy most ingredients, and so it was the shopkeepers who had to put up with the daily theatrics of fussy or uneducated customers. Or, as perhaps was the case now, the theatrics of customers acting outraged simply because they could.

If there were murmurs about the shop of late, they did not stop Juliette from stepping in. She had paid attention, of course, had the facts as best she could— she was not hurried with her purchases, she did not leave things to chance. But she had also done business with the family several times times since arriving the UK, before the fiasco and after, and she had always been pleased with the product. However unpredictable Zelda’s sons might be, her ingredients were always more than up to standard.

More importantly, though, the potioneer knew how to choose her ingredients.

Unlike Monsieur Shrivelfig.

As he stormed past her, the witch swept smartly out of the way, her head turning only a bit to watch him leave before her eyes returned to the woman at the ledger. Juliette offered a mild, close-lipped smile and pulled out her wand as she approached.

“Smooth shrivelfig,” she echoed. “It must grow under a pile of Philosopher’s Stones.” She offered Zelda a brief look of sympathy, and then looked down at the ledger. “The color is perfect. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. May I?” She looked back up again, holding her wand in an offer to help siphon the mess. The Potioneer had seen her share of spilled, squashed, and otherwise artfully scattered ingredients.

"Mademoiselle," Zelda greeted with perhaps unexpectedly capable pronunciation.  Juliette Vaillancourt was a good customer and knew the trade exceedingly well.  "Always nice to have you in the shop."

She was complementary about the shrivelfigs, which was kind of her.  "They are very good.  They should be.  They cost enough."

While her husband might have balanced quality for cost more often, Zelda was stubborn enough to demand the best whenever possible.  Occasionally customers complained of the price and went elsewhere, but when they needed something good, they were learning where to come.

"Please."  Zelda allowed Vaillancourt to tidy up the mess and as she did, Zelda stepped back so she could reach a bundle she'd squirreled away.  The front desk was pocked with all kinds of nooks and crannies and shelves.  Many were for stowing regular orders for frequent customers or setting aside samples to tempt them.

She placed it on the counter and unrolled it the soft grey parchment.  A rich aroma came out.  Inside were sticks of blackest incense.  "Just in from Cairo.  You like?"

Juliette smiled, knowing well the cost of such ingredients. She was not the sort of potioneer who cut corners. One laboratory explosion had been more than enough, and that had been with stores she had not purchased herself. Lucky for Juliette, it had had a beneficial outcome. As evidenced by the wooden ring she wore.

She smiled as she lifted her wand. “I hope your sons are well.”

Juliette cleaned the mess deftly, then brought her wand to rest, catching Zelda’s eye again as the other witch moved back toward the desk with a bundle. The scent hit her even before Zelda finished unwrapping it. Juliette tilted her head a bit, taking in the aroma before peering down carefully at the incense. She lifted her wand again, tracing over it just barely, with a careful hand: habitual for potioneer, who had struck an expert’s balance between inspecting ingredients and paying respect to their supplier. “Very much,” she said, looking up again with a smile. “How much per ounce?”

She drew up and added: “I also need a half-dozen ashwinder eggs.” The price-tag would be hefty, but so were Juliette’s commissions of late, now that she had started taking them again. “And a pint of armadillo bile.” Despite the new flexibility (and different sort of unpredictability) in her schedule, there was always a nice nostalgia to ingredients shopping, something that hit all of her senses.

"They are, thank you," Zelda said without elaboration.  She was private about her family, but Juliette had taught at Hogwarts and would know of her boys.  Know of Figaro for his poor marks in the family trade.  Her eldest would learn it one way or another.  She planned to keep him busy at the shop during his summer holiday.  A boy of his age was getting to old to just laze around.  It was time to make himself productive and get ahead in life.

"One galleon ten.  I can order it in cakes if you like.  Contains tomb soot, myrrh, sage, lavender, oil of stars, oil of Araby.  Very potent."

And Juliette had more questions, of course.  She'd come for a purpose.  "Here.  Come with me." 

She stepped out from behind the counter and took a quick look at the patrons still perusing between her shelves.  She recognized both and trusted her anti-theft to keep her goods in their proper places.  She had the armadillo bile in the upstairs shelves but the ashwinder eggs had to be kept cold, so she decided to escort Juliette down to the cellar so she could choose her six. 

They had to travel down a narrow hallway to the back of the shop.  There was a door the let out into a tiny alley, and then a tight set of stairs down.  The temperature dropped ten degrees by the time they reached. 

It had once been a wine cellar.  Low cielings, columns, and deep archways in the walls.  It wasn't nearly as full as it should have been.  They just couldn't afford to keep a large stock.  But there was an old icebox just inside the door.

"Pardon the mess.  I keep them down here so I don't burn down all of London."  She opened the door.  The eggs were packed between blocks of ice and their warm glow illuminated their container. 

Juliette smiled politely at the assurance that Mrs. Sellaphix's sons were well. When Zelda did not elaborate, Juliette did not inquire further— she was here for another purpose, and assumed that the other witch would prefer to focus on that. “I’ll buy a bundle of these to start,” she reasoned, though she would undoubtedly find quick use for the sticks.

As she followed the other woman, eyes swept around the shop. And then into the small corridor. It was a mark of experience that the Ashwinder eggs were kept in a cellar well out of the way of the shop proper. Juliette appreciated the apothecary allowing her to choose her own merchandise. “Yes, I don’t like to keep them too near other ingredients or well trafficked areas, either.”

Finding the cold storage more than adequate, she paid the room itself no mind (Juliette had found herself in much less tidy spaces and dodgier locals, where the hunt for good ingredients was concerned). The potioneer moved forward with ginger steps and loomed carefully over the selection, using her wand to indicate each of her choices. After a good five minutes, the six eggs had been separated from their nest of ice and carefully stowed for purchase. “These will do wonderfully.”

She waited for Zelda to secure the cellar before they headed back into the shop. On their way to the armadillo bile, she noted the price of a seasonal ingredient that looked at its prime, and decided she certainly had the time to browse after she collected what was on her list. “I always get an influx of requests for Wit-Sharpening Potions just before the seasons change,” she explained as they made their way to the next ingredient. It would also bring a new set of rings to Juliette’s finger; tomorrow marked the trading of wood for iron, so the witch planned to have her work errands complete this afternoon. “Where was the asphodel grown?” She asked, more out of curiosity than necessity.

Zelda wasn't the sentimental sort, but there was a ancient feeling of witchhood in potion-making.  Perhaps of all the magical arts, it was this earthy craft that truly was a witch's purview.  It felt right in a deep natural way to be set at the task alongside another witch, both of them comfortable with the pieces and process, making exchanges in the ways their people had always done.  And had burned for. 

"Hengeley's farm in the Shetland Islands," Zelda responded from memory.  "Not their best but still better than anything south of Inverness.  It's starting to curl.  I'll knock off 10% if you can use the lot."

"I'll be back, Zelda. Forgot my coffers."  A patron had paused at the door to wave.  Zelda waved back and brought her attention back to Juliette.  She leaned foward on the counter watching her browse.  While they were gone the other patron seemed to have left as well and so the two witches were alone in the shop.

"There's a spike in home-made Wolfsbane Potion circulation," she said without preamble.  There were many a potion-maker who did less-than-legal brewing on the side.  An asphodel was a key ingredient in the complex and propriety potion.

"Had you heard?"

Zelda wasn't making an accusation; if she was she'd not be so subtle about it.  Fact was, she'd rather know than not if her plants were being used for something below board so that she could know whether or not to humor the Aurors who were constantly in her business.

Juliette nodded, in understanding and gratitude both. She source sounded fine to her, and the product was as good as she was able to find this time of year. If Zelda was offering a discount, she was hardly going to refuse; she spent plenty on ingredients as it were (thought it always paid to buy quality). “The curl won’t effect the batch in the least,” she observed, having given it a good look. Even so, it was a smart offer on Sellaphix’s part. “It has another few weeks in it,” she said appreciatively. “But I don’t need any now.”

Her eyes swept momentarily to the customer at the door before returning the array of products and finally the shopkeeper. “Ours is a smaller community than one might imagine.” Juliette smiled as she lifted fingers away from a neat rack of small vials. She had taken no requests for Wolfsbane of late, having plenty of profitable commissions on her plate, but she did not mention whether or not she had received such appeals. “Most of my clients have wholly different needs. I also do perfumery, which is time-consuming but a favorite.” The magic imbued in wizarding perfumes was layered, a mix of skills, potioneering chief among them.

“I’m surprised, though,” she said, continuing to browse. “—That the someone hasn’t bought you out of it.” No doubt the spike had something to do with the influx of werewolf-related headlines.

"I'm not.  Everyone seems to think the Aurors are still watching the place," Zelda said with a scoff.  "They're not, but their stink will linger far after they've moved onto harassing someone else."

Zelda's contempt was less than thinly veiled.  The Auror's interference and investigation over her husband's dealing in Runespoor had been more than enough to scare away some of their well-established business.  Even if what they'd been ordering had been perfectly legal (like asphodel) apparently what they were brewing was not.  And thus, they'd moved to a dealer who they'd felt was safer.  Of course, Zelda had some contempt for them too - they'd pay in quality for their queasiness. 

Apparently contempt was a common feeling for Zelda Sellaphix who was just trying to make a living.

"I've got no problem with werewolves," she stated, "but they cause themselves more trouble than they need to."

If Juliette was surprised that the supply hadn’t been bought, she was not surprised that law enforcement had possibly been overzealous enough to saddle the shop with a (different sort of) reputation. It often seemed to be their primary attribute. Luckily, Juliette knew what she was brewing was legal and was not put off. The aurors were free to be nosy; the idea of them trailing her was almost amusing, in theory. In practice… she was equally free to inform them of their errors. “I can only imagine the annoyance,” she said.

There was money to be found in illegal brews; half-price for a potion as difficult as Wolfsbane was still a lot of money. And that was about the going rate for the unlicensed potioneers, Juliette knew. Such deep discounts pulled in the unregistered wolves who daren’t approach the Ministry. Others simply stockpiled. And with the recent tainted batch in everyone’s memory, they were indeed swimming in trouble. “I assume some werewolves don’t think it’s worth it to be entangled with the Ministry.” She was not interested in brewing it illegally, but if Wolfsbane ever became a big draw for the witch, she knew she would be able to obtain all of the proper licensing, given her cv. “And top-notch wolfsbane from a private licensee is not inexpensive.” There were even waiting lists, sometimes.

“With luck, people will notice soon that the aurors have moved on to Dementors. “Though even with something better to hunt than asphodel, they do find a way to surprise...” She smiled again.