Victoire reclined in the unnecessarily extravagant chair, golden hinges and fixtures applied here there and everywhere so the headmistress could relax and spin to her heart's content. It was like a barber's chair, except upholstery was light pink, and wooden framing was coated in gold-leaf, enchanted to shimmer endlessly. This was her domain, her 'salón' in the Beauxbatons carriage: a haven away from hormone-suppressing champions and forever questioning staff members. The only people allowed entry were those permitted, and a harem of beauty and cosmetic staff Victoire employed at all times. They were priceless. Every lock of hair, every gem, every strand of ribbon was carefully constructed by the various witches all dressed in identical scarlet pinafores and matching berets. Victoire wanted both herself and the champions to look their very best, and her beauty brigade were the right women for the job.

"Oh, ladies, how you do pamper me," Victoire sighed, her voice teeming with content and relaxation. A beautician sat either side of her, painting long fingernails a classic red. Another, on her knees in front, doing the same to perfectly preened toenails, and the final maiden massaged the headmistress's shoulders. Such sessions were clearly the routine event for Victoire. A silk white turban was wrapped around her head, hiding her damp, unstyled hair (the selection of the do of the day would occur later on), and a bright pink foam was liberally applied to her face: a magical ointment, made by the finest of perfumers at the most ridiculous of prices. Yes, Victoire was quite the sight of luxury to behold.

On that fine afternoon, however, Victoire was expecting company. With most, an outfit would be donned by now, and she'd be ready to face the world; but this guest was an old friend. Somebody who'd seen Victoire in her less glamorous (and more underpaid) days. Juliette Valliancourt, a former student and now a professor at Hogwarts. The two had corresponded sporadically throughout the years but a meeting in-person had been impossible. Conflicting schedules and personal commitments had barred such events, yet Victoire was rather excited to see the former schoolgirl. She would only hope that a little French fabulousness had been brought to Hogswarts; if there ever was a woman for the role, it was Juliette Vaillancourt.

outfit

With just over two weeks until the fall semester, Juliette was busy preparing her lesson plans, replenishing her stores, and reenforcing the 'childproofing' charms of cupboards, cauldrons, and chalices. The Denizens of ship, Zeppelin, and-- piquing her interest the most, stirring memories sure as a Pensieve-- carriage had arrived first, some couple of weeks ago, when Juliette had been lingering between the June-July warmth of Paris and the long days of an English summer (often with a certain Welshman.)

She took the sights of such mobile strongholds as she traversed the green lawn in the direction of the airy, oversized carriage. She was younger than Victoire, several years her junior in school, but it was hard not to know the woman-- indeed, in part, because she now reigned over their alma mater. If there were someone destined for the role of Beauxbatons headmistress, it had to be Victoire Bisclavert, who was practically a walking, talking embodiment of the fierce and oh-so-French ideal that witches and wizards sent their sons and daughters off to the coast to inhabit. Juliette’s lips formed a private smile as she approached, now some five meters from the elegant doors which bore the crossed wands of her forefathers in handsome detail.

She was nodded at, addressed in a carrying, appropriate, non-presumptive murmur of Madamoiselle Vaillancourt, and led up the carriage steps into the carriage proper. Like all things magic, it was wonderfully misleading from the outside, even in its grandiosity. The inner sphere of the coach was no mere sphere at all, but a spacious, graceful hall with many a room and delicate, careful detail. The architecture was dignified as the palace itself, a sort of portable extension of the academy.

Juliette was led into the salón where Victoire was being pampered, regal in a chair that might make any queen cower; the headmistress sat it beautifully, pink-massed and practically glowing amidst her attendance. There was no question who commanded here.

The potioneer nodded at the stewards who had brought her here and stepped away, toward her old friend. She bent nimbly, naturally to offer kisses to the air surrounding the candied cream that veiled Victoire’s face. “I have a gift for you,” she said, pulling back, and producing a small, prettily ribboned bottle with a wave of her wand. The perfume Juliette had made herself, with base notes and elements that reminded her of the stately blonde. “Welcome to Scotland,” she added, smiling a Juliette-ish smile. “You seem to have beat me. How has your stay been so far?”