See No Evil Potions Championship I Fin.

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Calming Presence in Effect: Figaro Affected

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When one looked at the most likely infamous Jester character that had blighted the halls of respectable Hogwarts for nigh on six years now, one likely saw idiocy pure and simple. Lack of a light in the head, curtains drawn with nobody home, emptiness behind the eyes that indicated a hollowness in the skull that went hand in hand with a complete and total lack of meaningful intellect. No ambitions, no aspirations, no care, no effort, not even the remotest interest in trying to achieve anything more than a chimney-sweep job (if such a job had existed nowadays anyhow)--and even then such a base job would have been too complex for such a fool as he. Perhaps, to a certain extent, Piérre believed that as well. He hadn't exactly had the most... intellectual tenure at Hogwarts. Reputation preceded him, truth be told. Reputation preceded him, and reputation had made him into what he was today.

Reputations were loathe to change. But then again, there were few that were as rawly determined as Piérre and his convictions--his foolishly unshakable hope and determination that should have gotten him killed long ago and that had resulted in an almost complete social suicide. For better or for worse, the boy was a wild card. For better or for worse, unpredictability was his calling card. For better or for worse, he did what he did--at times--purely out of spite. Purely to prove someone wrong, even if it was himself.

Especially if it was himself.

There was the clinking of glass bottles in his enchanted satchel and the clicking of feline claws on the floor as the boy swept through the competitive area and glanced around for a few seconds to find his year's designated area. Standing still for a second, he took a deep breath and then let it out in a colossal sigh before a small smile curled the corners of his lips upwards in contentment and dedication to the thing he had allowed himself to rope himself into and he took a few more smooth steps to a station and began to get himself comfortable. Other teams of two and three milled around, but the boy Marchonné merely continued set things out and up, pulling out a notebook filled nearly from cover to cover with left-handed chicken scratch that only he had been successfully able to read. He had nobody else to wait up for, after all--he was doing this all on his lonesome.

And perhaps that had been for a reason as well. He had wanted to prove himself. Had wanted to do something to try to show to others that he wasn't simply the idiot that they saw. He wanted to try to do something productive, to offset his otherwise terrible OWL grades that had gotten him a scolding by Mathilda that last summer. It wasn't a lack of trying that was the culprit for those grades... truthfully Piérre had other theories as to the rhyme and reason for the failing with not least among them being the fact that those exams had taken place almost less than a month after he had been purged of a hag slug by Evelynn. Suffice to say more important things had been on his mind overall--learning about St. Mungo's or discerning the deeper and more nuanced ramifications of advanced runes. Heck... he hadn't even been able to focus much on the stars for that matter--the greatest crime of all, perhaps, considering that they had once been his most constant companions despite their inabilities to speak.

He had floated by like flotsam, and that had resulted in his academics plunging into abysmal standings. Just barely scraping above an academic demerit that would prevent him from participating in sports, but far below graduating with any kind of notable honors even in the basic subject of charms, Piérre simply... seemed a hopeless cause.

So in that regard, in participating in this event he had very precious little to lose--no academic standing, no pride, no self-confidence, no friends, no shred of dignity--besides his health, but even with that in mind... he suspected that it was rather expendable in the long run to be perfectly honest.

He didn't even look at the panel as they spoke on the importance and the art of brewing potions. He had heard it all before, anyways. Reaganomics had harped on it before, and he had been harped on it by potion professors before her. He didn't need to be reminded of how precious the ingredients were and how the right hands had to handle them. Had he not participated directly in the theft of such precious materials before? Of course he knew all of this. He just wanted the show to get on the road.

Glancing at the panel perhaps only once for his own amusement, his eyes narrowed at the school 'nurse', the corner of his lips twitching once in an amused but irritated mannerism before he rolled his eyes and read the task that his age group would be expected to complete and compete with one another over. Children began to talk, and the elder teens began to discuss. Piérre only looked at the words blankly, reading them over and over again as if they would sink into his mind faster than if he had simply read it once and then began to mull on his own. "Swooping evil cocoons..." He murmured. "Look for a certain item..."

He groaned before rubbing his eyes and then knocking on his head with light knuckles. "Okay. Okay... yes. This is doable. Definitely doable." He whispered to himself. "One person casually strolling in a nest of highly sensitive cocoons that will burst into very angry encephalophages that excrete a psychosis-inducing venom if stung or induction of corrosion if dripped upon by it. Yeah, that's perfectly doable. Perfectly."

Slowly, the cogs in his mind began to turn. "They probably want us to create an antidote. The venom is really bad. Like... really, really bad." He continued to talk to himself, walking himself through the scenario on his lonesome. "There's a chance that an Antidote to Uncommon Poisons may work, but I don't think it can be relied upon to be strong enough. A seventh year would have more luck, or someone with a partner that can afford a second chance or someone that can administer the draught to them." His eyes narrowed. "I don't have that luxury."

"How else could I get in there and ensure I can get out, preferably without observation?" Emerald eyes flicked back and forth as if he were reading a book. At his side, Figaro purred and then meowed loudly. "No, Figaro. You're not allowed. Completely out of the question, buddy." His hand stroked the feline, careful when nearing the bengal's lower spine to tender the dark scars that lay there. "You've earned your meat more than several times over. I haven't. You can be a lookout for if things go wrong, but I have to be the one to go in there and figure out what this 'item' is that I need to obtain."

He was wasting time. "I want to get in and get out unseen. I may as well play to my strengths." His brow furrowed and he looked to the ceiling and the depiction of the current weather on it. "I can't use items other than the blasted potions... so I may as well use one to capitalize on what I'm good at." His green eyes met Figaro's own. "Invisibility potion it is. Unfortunate that it has such a long brewing process..." He grumbled again, turning away and starting to reference his notebook as he started to get the instruments and physical tools prepared. He would need a standard size four for this one... large order indeed... Nobody could say that his first choice being that of a rather advanced potion wasn't ambitious enough. Then again, the boy had always rather been of the "go big or go home" mindset as a whole.

Checking and double checking the ingredients, he retrieved each one carefully. Three measures of beetle's black eyes ladled into a phial, another scoop of spider legs in another bowl for the eventual two measures of ground spider legs, six ripened cherries were hand-picked by the Marchonné as the imperfect ones were separated from the desirable ones, a small phial of essence of demiguise (something he was familiar with due to his experience with prior pilfering), several sponges (he knew he would need them), and then when these were safely placed at his work area he went to retrieve the first ingredient that would serve as the base for the rest of the potion--the whole and raw chicken already pre-plucked.

The easy part was done. The hardest part was just beginning.

But it didn't matter. Not when he was confident enough to put his best foot forward and do his best regardless of what came of his efforts. Looking upon all of the materials, the boy felt a small chill go down his spine. Closing his eyes for a second, the impression of a blue eye flashed behind his eyelids--a crooked smile and the pop of light that came in conjunction with the lashing of a whip.

Slowly opening his eyes again, Piérre firmed his lips into a thin line. Yes. Coincidence that was. Perhaps, if he was thinking positively, he could believe that Gitano's propensity for potionmaking had rubbed off on him. After all... was he not a surprisingly adept potioneer compared to Romeo? Even compared to some of his peers whenever a batch turned out right? Not all of them, certainly, but to some?

"Aguamenti." He commanded, causing the yew wood wand to fill the size four cauldron with pure water, surrounding the chicken totally in preparation for its eventual boiling.

Now, what others may have done was use the water heating spell, but Piérre didn't like the idea of not using a flame to heat the entire cauldron in favor of only heating the water. Uneven heating and incomplete boiling could, potentially, lead to disaster. That would mean he would need some wood. "Keep an eye on this, would you Figgy?" He commanded his cat before going to fetch a well-sized faggot. It was going to have to burn for three hours, he reflected as he set the bundle down and began to arrange the sticks into a pyre-structure before setting it ablaze with a tame Incendio Duo. He would likely have to keep coming back to get more. Making his way back and forth, he didn't fail to keep an eye on the Nurse--the Malocchio continued to glare and pierce. Sure, there was a good deal less terror in his eyes, but that terror had transformed instead into a cold gleam: an expression of resolve.

He wasn't done with It yet.

Besides tending the flame for three hours, Piérre paged through his books, trying to determine the best option for the second potion in the meanwhile. He had a few ideas but was tossing them all in the air. Though his arsenal was large, the risk of going with more advanced potions was fairly obvious--failure to brew, or disaster tailing him if he attempted to utilize the brews for his benefit. There were several good options, but none came without notable risk if things went pear-shaped.

Clicking his tongue, Piérre encouraged the flames to keep heightening, having starting his 'timer' when the bubbles of the cauldron had begun to rise constantly. It was a rather boring three hours, the time over which people began finishing their own potions or at least starting to finish them up. It was almost frustrating, the fact that he had so much to do still and that so many people were already packing up for the first task. He had to remind himself why he had chosen to do this. Why he had chosen to put himself out on a limb, let alone why he had chosen to do this all on his own. He had something to prove. He had something that he had to show of himself. That he wasn't just a muttering fool, a disappointment to others who knew full well that his mind was not all there. That maybe, just maybe, he could stand alongside his peers and not feel that he was detached by the perimysium of 'otherness' that came with the way that the world seemed to bend and warp in his own eyes. Warping that he knew full well others did not see, warping that he quite obviously imposed on himself--lingering in his own madness.

Eventually, though, the three hours passed, and the boy returned to life as he quelled the flames to a low burn--he would need the flames for later--and brushed the charcoal aside and onto the floor, stamping out the remaining sparks so that God forbid a fire didn't form. Sponges held in black-gloved hands were placed into the water, soaking up the water that surrounded the chicken. The chicken was not the important element, the substance around it--the thing that held its essence and the invisible nature of the thing formerly boiled in it--the water, was.

The sponges were placed into a bowl so that not a drop would be lost, and the boy removed the chicken and the unfortunately peeled flesh that was all over the interior. A quick washing charm Lavabit removed everything and left no scrap behind. No tainting of the potion. No errors.

Flicking open his locksmith's knife, Piérre stared at the damask blade for a few seconds, turning the handle in his hand as he recalled its recent use over the summer--something he thought he'd never have to do but had of course done in self-preservation. It had been cleaned since then, naturally. It was clean enough to further sterilize and then chop the six cherries into coarse chunks with. Pits set aside, the flat of the blade swept the cubed cherries into the empty cauldron to be followed by the wringing out of the sponges containing the chicken water over them. Unfortunate that even in the short time absorbed the water had slightly evaporated, but the boy was still left with a respectable amount of liquid. With three turns of a large stirrer clockwise, Piérre restored a few sticks to the fire, letting it leap quietly so that the water only barely hissed and popped on the caldron walls--a thin steam began to fill the air, scented with chicken and cherry. The chunks swirled deep within the clear water, but slowly the pigmentation altered into that of a deep and rich midnight purple.

Having spent his time during those tedious three hours both removing and then grinding up the spider legs into a very fine and powdered form with the help of mortar and pestle, the boy proceeded to measure out two measures and add them to the purple potion. Setting aside the extra, the stirrer moved once clockwise, spinning the elements together and allowing them to mix fully.

Black beetle eyes were added, three measures total, the concoction beginning to bubble as they met the violet liquid. Nodding softly with acknowledgement and satisfaction so far, the small phial of essence of demiguise was uncapped and with the help of a pipette a single drop was added in the center of the cauldron.

Removing the stirrer, Piérre tapped it on the edge of the cauldron to ensure not a single drop of the precious Invisibility potion in the making could be lost. His eyes flicked back and forth again, looking at his notebook and spinning a pen in his fingers to read back over his process, checking his tasks and the order in which he had executed them to ensure that nothing had been left out or forgotten. All he could do now was wait. Wait for twelve minutes as the final color shift occurred and became that of a shimmering silver that had an eerie parallelism to that of unicorn blood. From the center out, the swirling potion began to lighten and then gleam a moon-bright silver. It wasn't quite long enough, though. Only ten minutes. Those last two minutes were, for whatever reason, essential to the brewing process. So count them out he did, all one hundred and twenty seconds of them.

Bone white yew with emerald detailings spun once in his fingers before he waved it over the cauldron and potion. With a extinguishing charm incantation, he extinguishing the fire beneath it totally and then prepared to bottle the potion. It was what it would be. Whether or not he had done it right, he had indeed brewed the Invisibility potion to the best of his ability. The magic in his bones had found its outlet in the cauldron, that keen and whining ache in his very marrow satiated... at least for now.

Statistics: Stamina 7 | Strength 8 | Evasion 18 | Wisdom 12 | Accuracy 16 | ArcPower 9

Abilities:
Keen Eye • Calming Presence • Beast Master [Cat] • Cat's Grace • Animagus • Muggle Condition

Items:
Wand [Yew & Snallygaster Heartstring] | [Violet] Deck of 52 Playing Cards | Soda
[Sharpened] Locksmith's Knife