outfit | title reference

The cauldron sat atop the freshly scrubbed laboratory table, its broad and sterile base ready to be heated with magic and might. And some might it would take-- the potion Juliette had promised to brew for an old friend, in exchange for a lovely deposit of galleons to her Gringotts account, was no small feat.

It was why, Graham Bombay’s green thumbs notwithstanding, she had enlisted the help of a certain bibliophilic blond with a rumored skill at concocting tricky tonics. The brew was a two person job, and one she wanted to keep under wraps, here in dungeons after hours, when students were bound to stray far away.

And perhaps she felt a trace more easy in Morgan’s company than the Herbologist’s, however strained their post-faux-solicitation encounters had been. The forced recruitment of Landis for her audience of monkeyish prepubescent book-ruiners had no doubt contributed to a certain sourness.

But with the sourness, there was (an admittedly fun) banter, and with Landis Morgan, Juliette was not worried about confusing greenhouse equipment with... family jewels.

As she waited for the striking but somber wizard to make his appearance on her turf, Juliette whisked into the store room and began collecting bottles. They floated beside her in the air, at eye level, as she perused the shelves and quietly murmured to herself in French.

outfit

A moment later, and there was the faintest knock on the door. Landis swung it open before Juliette could reach it, looking cool and collected as ever in shirtsleeves and tie despite the late hour. Considering he usually wore robes or a blazer outside of the library, there was an obvious concession here, as much of a concession as the dragonhide apron folded over an arm or the way his hair was gathered at the nape of his neck rather than allowed loose. His eyes flickered over the workstation and the ingredients prepared, examining, assessing, before rising finally to Juliette.

Vaillancourt had asked him to assist with the potion a day or two before, and Landis hadn't quite been able to resist agreeing. He was decent enough, but he was no Dazmond, and despite their minor altercations, Juliette was still a professional potioneer. The chance to work with her - and learn from her - was a tempting one. Besides, she'd promised him part of the potion to sell at a profit, and although the Hogwarts income was not as meager as it could have been, Landis was always willing to augment it.

"Ms. Vaillancourt," he said evenly, inclining his head as he draped the apron over the corner of the table. It was a deliberate snub to her earlier requests of first-name basis, but Landis preferred the formality of surnames. It gave some distance even in instances such as this, when he was very aware of the fact that he'd be stuck in this room for the next few hours with a woman seemingly determined to needle him.

Oh, well. He might as well start it, then. He could not entirely pretend to be unaffected, nor dispassionate about the prospect of needling back - he was finding it a new perk of having a fellow staff member with an actual sense of wit. His eyes wandered down from her pale face to the leather trousers she wore; a blonde eyebrow quirked delicately in query. "Interesting apparel you've chosen. Is this regular nightly wear?"

Parade of bottles preceding her like bobbing Mardi Gras puppets, Juliette floated out of the store room and back into the laboratory; three steps in, and her French murmur stopped dead in its echo. Her legs became less springy in their step, and her eyes locked on Landis Morgan, whose shockingly dignified face had come out from its hiding place of romanticist mane.

Masking her very slight embarrassment at being caught talking to herself-- it was fairly normal, for any kind of person in a profession which involved much isolation and time-drenching diligence-- Juliette graced the man with a smile. Her pearly whites made her milky skin look almost pink in the dim dungeon light, but none of that mattered, as Landis was apparently intent on working from the bottom up.

As she joined him at the lab table, magicking the bottles neatly into place with the rest of the ingredients, she shot him a chary glance which annulled her initial smile. Still, she refused to falter-- stubbornly declined to give him the satisfaction.

“As my mother says, if you have it, show it.” Her brows shot up and down in a shrug of a grin, and she lifted her wand, preparing to fill the cauldron. “And look what you’ve been hiding from us all this time, Landis.” She tilted her head, studying his face in its naked state. It was quite the physiognomy. Shame it belonged to such an acerbic muzzle. “Sorry-- Mr. Landis.” Her grin became more cheerful and she waved her wand over the cauldron.

“Did it hurt much, this...?” She gestured with her free hand toward her own hair, miming his ponytail of sorts. “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is very serious and under-reported in men. Something about the ego...” She hummed. “Be a good boy and light the cauldron for me?”

Perhaps if Juliette had not been wearing such intriguing inappropriate apparel, Landis would well have commented on her French muttering. As it were, he was a bit distracted.

“As my mother says, if you have it, show it.”

"Indeed," he said quietly, infusing his tone with as much dark skepticism possible. He was not watching her now, but rather the bottles as they lined up, almost idly, although his mind was very present. But he flicked a glance back at her when she continued to speak - faint lift of the brow again, and the bags under his eyes only set off the blue - which turned back into a deadpan regarding of the cauldron, and solely that.

And his gaze would have stayed there, if he hadn't caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Not that he expected her to attack him - constant vigilance!, his mind supplied helpfully, courtesy of a certain paranoid professor his first year at Hogwarts - but it was distracting, and harder to ignore her than not. So Landis shifted, turning to face her. He leaned a hip against the table to watch as Vaillancourt grinned and mocked his (efficient!) hairstyle, folding his arms over his chest with the solemn care of one who was simply biding his time. 

"I assure you," he said dryly. "That as far as I know, a ponytail has no lingering psychological effects."

 Her sarcasm was both delightful and highly irritating - used to being surrounded by idiots, Landis appreciated intelligence when he found it. Not that he'd be informing her of this fact. She was insufferable enough already.

“Be a good boy and light the cauldron for me?”

If being addressed in such a condescending manner bothered Landis, it didn't show in his reply. Well. Except for the underlying mockery in his murmured, "Of course, ma'am," as he withdrew his wand from his sleeve. A word, and orange flame licked up from the tip and gathered under the base of the cauldron, burning merrily on nonexistent fuel. "How hot would you like it?" Different potions required different flames, and Landis had never made this one before. Well, he'd hardly had use of it, had he? Even under those circumstances that might led to the usage of this potion, he'd never been so hasty as to avoid taking... precautions.

She could feel his eyes appraising, feel the glow judgment, and-- most importantly-- feel their reluctance in refocusing elsewhere. Perhaps he found her insufferable, being a new and mouthy staff member, one who had taken the open Potions post and was not even a Hogwarts alma mater, for that matter. But at least he couldn’t ignore her. Juliette was pleased.

"I assure you... that as far as I know, a ponytail has no lingering psychological effects."

“But then why don’t you wear one more often?” Juliette countered, clearly humored. Her eyes caught his, and again she studied his face. There was something indecipherable written in hers. “You have very aristocratic features.” She waved her wand idly over the cauldron, the water stirring itself as it swelled, becoming more in volume.

“You hide behind your hair, Landis.” Not that it wasn’t beautiful. It was, she conceded silently, quite rich-- like everything else about his appearance. “It’s alright-- I was that way once. When I was twelve.” She smiled. “I bet you would die if I reached over and just...” She helped up her opposite hand once more, but this time the gesture was more tailored. Her pointer and middle fingers acted out the motion of a scissors.

Eyes casting over the ingredients, silently taking stock, she mulled over the old instructions in her head. Juliette always liked to make it a touch more intense-- more effective. It got the job done. Even if the process, the potency of the elixir were a little... woozying.

Her lips pursed in not-so-secret pleasure, but she cast her eyes down faux-demurely, lashes beating against high cheeks. He sounded so lovely when he said it-- Of course, ma’am-- she was tempted to push her luck and ask him to do it again. Juliette liked knowing she was in charge of him... at least for a moment... even if they were technically speaking, a team.

She still had the upper hand: the negotiating of the final quota.

"How hot would you like it?"

Looking up again, her pouting smirk spread, dancing over her face, and then idling, becoming a more... professional, matter-of-fact line. She leaned into the table, and lowered her voice. “Scorching.” After all, it was a delicate and sterile thing they were making. She reached up and brushed the tiniest stray strand of silky blond back behind his ear. Wouldn't want to ruin it in the heat of things. “As hot as you can possibly make it without setting me on fire. I trust you can handle that?” She added, reaching for the first ingredient, a small, pear-shaped beaker of blood red liquid. "As you know, I'll have to add this in a slow stream while it's heating. We should finish out the bottle just as the water starts to boil... Then you can add the salamander venom. Three drops."

"Hmmm, dear me. Is the mere fortnight-old professor commenting on a habit she could not possibly know anything of? Ah, I think she is." Something about his expression and his body language looked impossibly cold, his shoulders stiff and features flat, even lit by the glow of the flames. Landis did not appreciate jokes about his hair. "I wear my hair back often enough - under the appropriate circumstances, and for the appropriate occasions. Don't make assumptions unless you have something solid to found them on." A delicate pause, but his voice was more mild when he spoke. "And that is because I am descended from aristocrats."

He did not lean away from her snipping fingers, but his eyes narrowed and went cold. Mildness gone. "I would not be the one dying," he said pointedly. Landis had a great deal of experience with his hair being mishandled against his will (ie, by Erin). He also had a great deal of experience with executing horrifyingly overkill and unpleasant punishment against those who maimed, dyed, transfigured, or otherwise mishandled his hair (again, Erin). With the sort of spells to grow out hair, it was hardly something to be bothered about, but Landis had always liked to give more than he'd gotten. Particularly when it came to pain.

“Scorching. As hot as you can possibly make it without setting me on fire. I trust you can handle that?”

Oh, quite.

"Trust away," he said, as the flames turned blue and green and white. He continued speaking as she stroked the stray strand into its proper place, as though he didn't feel it, or didn't care. "You hardly seem the type to misplace it." Oh, but let it in him be the first. He wouldn't mind having the advantage over this woman - trust away, he'd never meant it quite so much.

He capped the flame as she began to list the first instructions, head tilted to the side in a listening manner even as he laid his wand aside and picked up the dragonhide apron, tying it behind his waist. In remembrance of his fall incident - poison in his bloodstream and a trip to the Hospital hut - he'd brought gloves this time around, tucked into a pocket and within easy reach.

“Referring to me in the third person only makes me feel more powerful, Landis,” Juliette announced in a sort of tsk-tsk manner. “Unless we’re gossiping... I didn’t know you were the type.” She placed the back of her palm to her alabaster forehead, face the picture of melodrama. “But, oh, that’s right! I’m far too new to know anything about your character.” Dropping her hand, she straightened her shoulders and pressed her palms into the edge of the lab table, so that her fingers curled over it, and her wand teetered like a child’s seesaw. “And you to know anything about mine,” she concluded, more somberly, daring him to challenge her, or to insult.

"And that is because I am descended from aristocrats."

Juliette bit her tongue. It was right there, the perfect answer. Yes, the Harpers, I hear. And the perfect question to follow it needn’t even be recited in her head. But now was not the time. He was far too moody, like a menstruating fifth year girl, or a werewolf before the full moon. It was adorable, but annoying, and agonizingly inconvenient when Juliette only wanted to indulge in a little before (or during) the long process of a tedious potion. She was obsessive about her work, but instinctual enough to be at ease with it.

Instead she said nothing, averted her eyes, neither smiled nor frowned, but let out an almost inaudible hum.

Touching his hair, even under the guise of help, was obviously a mistake. But it was one Juliette had fully intended to make. As if she expected some sort of gratitude. Ha! Save a strand of Landis Morgan’s hair, become the entree at the next meal. All in a day’s work.

She laughed, and it rang through the dungeon, like a clinking of glasses in merry cheer. “I dare you to murder me for cutting off your hair. Dare you. Could you imagine the headlines? Maybe not-- you wouldn’t be able to read them locked up in St. Mungo’s.”

His lack of reaction was somewhat surprising, admittedly. And by admittedly, Juliette was admitting it only to herself. Mimicking his blank face and non-vocal reaction (or lack thereof), she withdrew her hand.

As she began to pour the first ingredient, the sickly, vivid red turning to a pale rose as it hit the water, Juliette finally kept her eyes to herself. Or, rather, on the cauldron. She didn’t see him tie the apron, and was somewhat impressed when she looked up again, the last drop of the red substance hovering dangerously at the beaker’s mouth. “Venom,” she directed.

His attention to detail-- the hair, the apron-- made the wheels in Juliette’s mind spin. “Why did you never apply for the potions post?” She asked casually, curiously, as if they were discussing curtain patterns, and which best matched the rug.

When the venom was added, Juliette took a few quick steps to the row of coat pegs where her own apron and gloves hung beside her wool blend cardigan. She slipped it over her head, red hair frazzling in protest as the strings came down and trapped it to the warm nape of her neck. "Is it the children?" She looked over her shoulder as she blindly tied the the strings.

“Referring to me in the third person only makes me feel more powerful, Landis. Unless we’re gossiping... I didn’t know you were the type. But, oh, that’s right! I’m far too new to know anything about your character. And you to know anything about mine..."

Such dramatics. Landis watched with dispassionate interest the expressions passing over her face, from the mild to the grotesquely exaggerated, and noted clinically the languid curve of her body when it was bent to the picture of faux surprise. He didn't need the change in tone on the last part to catch her intent.

"Forgive me. I will wait for the next dubiously leather article of clothing to make an appearance before questioning your fashion sense again."

Her laughter was light, but sharp, ringing about the small room like mockery. But it was not worth the suspicion to issue a plausible-sounding threat, however tempting the circumstances might be. So instead of musing aloud on some of the many ways one could murder and get away with it, Landis only nodded, eyes intent on the the bottle of venom he held poised nearby. "Yes, hair is hardly worth the madhouse. But neither is the childish dissolution of self-control worth the lack of regard - " among other things - "that would surely follow." He glanced up at her, eyes slanted, half-mast. "Come, Ms. Vaillancourt. Do remember your professional responsibilities. Such as keeping your hands to yourself."

The curt instruction had hardly left Juliette's mouth before Landis was dropping, slowly, delicately, the necessary drops. In the interim he'd also pulled on his gloves, textured on the fingers for better grip.

“Why did you never apply for the potions post?”

Landis withdrew the bottle from the mouth of the cauldron almost as slowly, capping it and placing it aside. His tone was just as casual when he replied - and given his usual quiet, monotone, matter-of-fact tendencies, it was impossible to tell if he sounded at all subdued. "The post was not available at the time of my hiring," he said, straightening up from the slight loom he'd had to adopt when leaning nearer the cauldron. "And you were switched for the last professor with considerable speed. Presumably Analiza prefers me in the library."

“Please. Once I... make myself known around here, you will realize my best looks are lace.” She nearly winked, but didn’t. She didn’t need to. Her countenance was a wink all on its own, wide eyes crinkled, though in very an un-Landis like manner, mouth pillowy and swollen in impish amusement. She was every bit a woman in a child in one fiery-complexioned frame.

“I wasn’t aware we were being entirely professional, Landis. It’s after hours, after all, and we’re filling an order that has nothing to do with the students-- let’s hope.” Handing out contraception was the hippie nurse’s job. Juliette needn’t be bombarded with owl droppings and howlers in her first week at the High Table (second week, but she didn’t count the one in where Bombay regarded her as the Hogsmeade Catch of the Day Two For One Special). “But if we are being by the book about this, your hair is entirely out of code, what with its loose strands falling into your eyes and all... I was only doing my job.”

His answer was curt, but she could hear the silence as he worked, the delicacy filling her ears while she finished tying herself together. He was good. Very good. She didn’t need to use her eyes to know it.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she offered before turning around. “But I suppose I shouldn’t be sorry, or I wouldn’t be here, hmmm...” She drifted off, drifting toward him. Picking up a test tube of something that looked suspiciously like coffee grounds or the black bloody bile which preceded internal bleeding, or both, she poured it in after the venom, and stepped back as smoke billowed like a miniature atomic mushroom cloud. Through the haze, she caught a glimpse of blonde and a now familiar hawkish, narrowed blue.

She lifted her wand and pointed it at the cauldron as the smoke began to clear. The liquid inside stopped its boiling swell, calmed to a fault, and then suddenly stirred itself counter clockwise at roughly the speed of a windmill. Juliette counted the stirs in her head as she talked.

“Funny you call our boss Analiza, but you won’t call me Juliette." Perhaps they'd been lovers. Perhaps Juliette's cousin was his personal mentor. Perhaps Landis Morgan hoped to be the first Hogwarts Headmaster to have never actually taught a class.

"Lace," Landis said, and again his tone was so mild it was difficult to tell if there were undercurrents of speculation, or mockery, or anything. "I see."

It was quite the contrast, very evident at times like this. On one hand, she, the flame-haired coy little slip of a witch, all visible intent and womanly intelligence. He, the colder, harder version of the potion-stirrer, a close-lipped assistant with icy hands, more touchy and more reserved. And so different in opinion - yet so similarly determined to pick the other apart.

“I wasn’t aware we were being entirely professional, Landis. It’s after hours, after all, and we’re filling an order that has nothing to do with the students-- let’s hope.”

Landis murmured something under his breath that sounded an awful lot like I wouldn't bet too heavily on that, but under her next words so that she'd hardly be in a position to hear.

"Your dedication to detail is duly noted," he said gravely, when she'd finished making excuses about his hair. "What a tragedy it would have been should I have been so blinded by my own tresses as to add an incorrect amount." Regardless - she'd best keep her hands off his hair. Under normal circumstances, Landis may have taken this moment to give said hair an arrogant flip. But with it bound, such a motion was sure to look very odd. He refrained.

He watched closely the next steps, more or less ignoring Juliette's musings - they had an absent air to them, the sort of thing said as one worked without necessarily needing an answer. He had nothing to say, at any rate. Yes, it was a shame that she'd gotten the job, and he had not. Yes, he had wanted it dearly. But it was as he'd said - if Analiza had wanted him in it, he'd have had the job. It would be much easier to replace a librarian than a potions professor, after all. So even had he been the sort to beg, it seemed unlikely he would ever fill the post. He could only presume that it might have something to do with her little "project." Easier to check out suspiciously Dark material from the library when one had the librarian in cahoots. The Headmistess, looking into mind-controlling, magic-changing stuff ... an ordinary staff member might be persuaded to talk. Landis would never be, at the very least of all because it would endanger his own skin.

"Analiza and I have known each other for much longer. She was my previous employer at the Ministry as well." It was somewhat of a comfort, being here, now. Even though he was basically an assistant and had little idea of how to concoct this potion, it was familiar work, and therefore soothing. "You and I have only just met."

Speaking of which... "Tell me," he asked, with a slow, almost lazy drawl to his words. "What does bring a French potioneer to Hogwarts? Surely it is not your alma mater."

“Do you?” Was all she could ask, musing over his oh-so-excited (not) reply. She hardly believed he was imagining her in lace-- which was a source comfort and annoyance to Juliette, who had yet to see the man particularly... invigorated.

Until, of course, she brought up the hair.

Nice. She would have to store this information for future weaponry reference.

“I always like a nice braid when I’m working on something particularly hazardous,” she explained, her own hair hanging as loose as day. “Or a knot at the nape of the neck. Safe, but tres chic.”

As they worked, Juliette, forever a lover of detail, failed to notice the way their coupling oddly meshed. The potion was moving along flawlessly, each step steady, but seamless, even as the snarky comments escalated.

“You worked for the Ministry?” She asked, turning around, quirking a feathery, light red brow which was dollishly delicate and near invisible in the dungeon when she didn’t brush over it with a makeup pencil-- as she had that day. Sometimes being a redhead was such a chore. Eyebrows, sunburns, social stigmas. But Juliette loved not being the same as everyone else. “You are full of secrets.”

She’d never considered a job with the government, having felt rather stifled by the idea of working under the roof where laws were made... and enforced. But Landis seemed perfectly capable, like he did at most things, however passionless.

“Yes, we’ve met, and I asked you to call me Juliette. Maybe your memory is poor. Do you think I’m going to bite you if you call me by my first name? Really, we’re colleagues-- and both adults.” She was a woman raised in tradition, one who prided herself retaining more than one aristocratic aspect, but she was also fond of skating under the rungs of belittling social formalities. It was insufferable to be treated like... a woman.

Smiling from her reclaimed position across the table, she shrugged. “Change of scenery. And scent.” Was that reason enough? Perhaps not, but Juliette wasn’t about to quench his thirst. Her own nosiness needn’t be reciprocated. Particularly by the man so determined to call her Ms. Vaillancourt. “I was actually working in England for a while before the post came up. The Headmistress is a cousin on my mother’s side. We know and trust each other-- and I respect her lengthy career. She offered me the job and I took it.”

“I’ve always wandered what Hogwarts was like. Beauxbatons was...” She looked around, appraising the ancient stone walls, which were a dark source of comfort. The French palace been opulent, but it did not hold the same secrets, the same impressively long history. “Different.”

Juliette expounded on her potion hairstyles. Landis considered. "Very practical," he agreed after a moment. But best left to women. Landis did not like to think of himself with his hair braided, however practical it might be.

Yet her hair was loose now, falling all about the place and curling lovingly around her white throat. If Landis had been the vengeful type - vengeful, in this case, used in the loosest of terms - perhaps he would have retaliated for her earlier indiscretion. If a strand of his hair counted against him, then what of her full mane? It was the kind of hair surely meant to be stroked back.

Not by him, mind. But she'd best take care of it before it caught in the foul-looking substance of the cauldron.

“You worked for the Ministry?”

"I did," he responded calmly. He didn't find it necessary to add, in the Department of Mysteries, and it became a moot point once revealed the family connection. Surely Juliette knew which department her cousin had once led.

He already knew what she had been doing, of course. Or at least, he knew her background - potioneer, perfumer, and now professor. He just didn't known the details.

Nor did he know the reason she was so adamant about manners. Or the lack of them. Perhaps the French did things differently... perhaps she'd picked up that his using of her last name was more tauntingly deliberate distance than mere politeness' sake.

He gave her a level gaze over the dittany he was chopping (dictamnus albus, "burning bush," to ease stomach pain and hasten the ejection of certain undesirable bodily fluids). "Ms. Vaillancourt. If I were predisposed to calling you by your first name, I would. Until such a time as you earn the privelige, do be a dear - " he sneered quite impressively at this point, apparently at the dittany - "and stop fussing."

She was family to the Snarks. Well, that explained a great deal. Such as her speedy hiring. And it was reassuring, too - if Landis were to be in this room for as long as it would take to brew this potion, he would much rather not spend his time with a mudblood.

“I’ve always wandered what Hogwarts was like. Beauxbatons was...Different.”

"I imagine so." Landis had not been old enough to be at the Triwizard tournament, but he'd heard about it. Everyone had heard about it; it was rapidly being written into the history books. He hadn't the slightest idea how old Vaillancourt was, and hadn't the slightest intention of asking her, so whether she'd been present for one of the few times students from Beauxbatons, Hogwarts, and Durmstrang were allowed to mingle was unclear. But of course he was curious - even the tournament had taken place here. No one that he knew of had any clear idea of what Beauxbatons was like. "Tell me about it, then."

He kept his tone casual, no hint of greed or calculation in his voice.

She knew it was futile to ask. There were other ways of finding out. More appropriate times. Juliette could be patient-- and quite witchy. She wanted to melt him, to turn him to butter, but she knew it was impossible. And yet, she was sure he had an Achilles’ heel, like everyone else. She simply had to find it.

Privilege?!

It was the redhead’s turn to narrow her eyes, and that she did. Pale fist clenching around her wand, it was everything she could do to stop herself from ruining their careful work by hexing Landis silly. “I should kick you out of my laboratory right now. If I weren’t getting paid so prettily, I would. But galleons are a necessary evil, and I’m obviously a woman who likes her leather pants. So I’ll use you before I throw you away,” she retorted icily. “How’s that for privilege, Monsieur Morgan?”

And then, in a murmur, “Connard.”

Like with everything else, his reaction her mention of Beauxbatons was curt and passive. But then there was a silent shift of sorts, a change in the energy between them, and asked-- or, rather, told-- her to share with him.

She felt a tiny prickle on the back of her neck, and was suddenly reminded of the scent in the Great Hall, the mint and the sandalwood. She could make it out now, masked by the ingredients spread on the work table.

“Opulent.” It was the first word anyone would use. “A palace, not a castle.” The architectural distinction was like that of the sun and the moon. And Beauxbatons was the moon: bright against the nights on the sea cliffs, haloed in a lovely, light blue glow in the winters, and cool in its elegance, as opposed to warm and earthy.

Her voice had calmed, as had her grip on the cauldron. She stirred it again gingerly, and found herself relaxing. It was nice, to think about her old school. Nostalgia. She found she didn’t even mind sharing it with him-- even if he was sort of an asshole. It was the kind one wished to share. Juliette had her secrets, and she guarded them close to her heart, but Beauxbatons was hardly a mystery. It was, in fact, a source of pride. “It is very French in structure-- obviously-- and French in its grandiosity. The academy’s founders desired wide avenue-like corridors and long before Napoleon Bonaparte and Haussmann rebuilt Paris and its famous boulevards.”

But where the pint-sized and power hungry muggle leader had meant to stop the people from barricading narrow streets, the Beauxbatons architects had built it that way simply because they could. And perhaps with a touch of competition to fuel the imagination. Hogwarts might have come first, but the French would be damned before they let it take home the trophy for best. (Ironically, they’d never quite overcome their Small Dog Syndrome, the Headmasters and Headmistresses of the pretty palace on its picturesque cliff.)

“We don’t have these houses-- our competition is entirely independent. Every man for himself. It’s a battlefield. We loved it-- I loved it,” she said softly, eyes now on the ingredients she was grinding with a pestle.

Landis continued chopping, only the slightest hesitation at the beginning of her little rant the indication of his surprise. Well, well. The flame-haired new Potions mistress had a wicked temper on her. How very cliché. He finished up, pushing the prepared ingredients out of the way with the side of his hand and taking a moment to be distantly glad for his gloves, without which his hands would be smelling unpleasantly sharp and organic by now. Then he pinned Juliette with a supremely unimpressed look, one fair eyebrow raised for optimum disdain.

"Do control yourself, Ms. Vaillancourt. If you didn't want an assistant with a tongue, then next time employ a student, they're much easier to cow." Oh look - the sneer was back. Or, as it were, The Sneer. "I don't care in the slightest whether you intend to throw me away when we're done; the compensation I expect is suitable in return for being expendable. But familiarity is a privilege, as is respect or acquiescence to your wishes. Whinging or asking prettily is not enough to cut short the proper earning. Nor is throwing a tantrum." Or calling other people naughty names in foreign languages, tsk, tsk. Weren't the first things that anyone learned for another language the curse words? But this wasn't the first time Landis had been called an arsehole, nor would it be the last. He ignored that particular loss of control on her part, deigning it not worthy of response.

Landis wasn't at all angry enough to even think about flinging curses. He was, at most, annoyed. And that was a very good thing, for if Juliette had not been able to control herself enough to refrain from hexing him, and if he'd been in the mood to hex back, who knew where the evening would have ended? He would not have wanted to jeopardize his position with a dead or injured coworker on his hands. Being cursed himself would likewise be very inconvenient. 

But then - just like that - she was calm again, nearly aglow with warm nostalgia. How very odd. Well, women were known to be particularly moody. Perhaps in the future all he would have to do would be ask about her old school to derail a tantrum, or mention the smell of springtime in Paris. It was certainly a distraction technique to keep in mind.

He tried to picture it, the French castle hidden somewhere in the countryside, as dominating of its environment as Hogwarts was of its wild mountains. Or - no - it would be better arranged, wouldn't it? French landscaping tended towards the organized, the geometric, and the picturesque. Without any reference, he found himself automatically thinking of it as like the Palace of Versailles, a palace that looked as much made of spun sugar and mirrors as any actual building material. He pictured square, high-ceilinged rooms full of delicate breakable furniture, unnecessary curlicues, and troupes of pretty French girls everywhere.

It was not an unpleasant mental image (possibly because of the latter bit). As a student Landis had adapted to the low stone corridors and dark rooms, eventually coming to like the privacy the maze-like halls and thick, sound-muffling walls afforded him, even as he found his fellow students and adults stiflingly stupid. But he could just as easily picture himself if his parents had been the type to send him to France in the light, airy rooms typical of the French. He did not think he would have minded it so much there.

“We don’t have these houses-- our competition is entirely independent. Every man for himself. It’s a battlefield. We loved it-- I loved it.”

He did not think he would have minded that either. For all of his house loyalty, Landis had another particularly Slytherin characteristic that was even more of an influence on his life and ways - the only ones side he was truly on, was his own.

"Sounds lovely," he said, and meant it.

That judgmental stare of his could cut the ingredient all on its own. Really, Landis needn’t overwork his delicate hands. As his eyes seared into her, Juliette stared back, her alabaster cheeks tinging pink and hallowing a bit as her lips pressed together as if they’d been magically glued into their purse-pout-frown.

A student? Was he serious? Or did he find his own sarcasm dreadfully adorable? A student brewing this potion... Juliette wouldn’t have trusted even a seventeen-year-old version of herself. It was a two-person job. And an adult job.

“I chose you because I’ve been told you’re skilled. I want only the best. My clients expect it. I didn’t think I’d have to earn any privileges with my co-workers when I’m offering them a sum of money.” Her voice was slightly less chilly, her fingers had relaxed their grip, but she didn’t take her eyes off of his. It was a staring game, and Juliette refused to lose. “You’ll understand if I’m a bit offended. I thought you might like a change of pace from library.” Not that she expected him to feel complimented. Well, not entirely. Before he’d arrived, of course, the idea had floated into her mind. That they were now somehow even, despite this, like the stint with the first years, being a favor.

As her voice softened into something more pliable, Juliette’s hands took on a mind of their own. They could do certain tasks blindly, without the aid of her bright blue eyes, or even her perfumer’s sensitive nose. Her eyes were watching other things, distant memories in the shadows that played on the dungeon walls.

“It was... but then you grow up, no?” She smiled a little, more so at the back of her knife than at Landis. Young people felt things so much more passionately than adults. It was why it the easiest and the hardest time to remember. Easy, for its vividness, hard for all of the engulfing regrets, the what-ifs, the should-haves. But Juliette, while a nostalgic, did not like to dwell on the past as much as she liked to manipulate the future. She was slowly carving her place in the world, and no number of sweet schoolgirl memories was going to slow her down. “What about here? What was it like? Was it strange, the Sorting?” Having arrived over the winter holidays, she had not seen the ceremony firsthand. "I can't imagine you as a child." Or was she not allowed to speculate on that either? Hair, names, everything seemed to be formal. And yet, if they were crossing this threshold, if Juliette was going to give him little bits of her own memory, he would have to do the same in return.