CHAPTER 1

THE AIR WAS INFUSED with the scent of burning lilacs. Warm, sweet, and that charcoal hint tracing the edges like a peppered kiss of a doomed lover. I could almost picture it, a lilac on fire— its tiny petals curling and writhing in on themselves in agony. I could picture it, but the colors didn't come. They never came. My mind was a canvas that I could only sketch on, and it would forever remain unpainted.

I hurried along the lilac scented corridor, my heels tapping on the carpet atop the wooden flooring, soft thuds that seemed to relax me despite my hurry. My hold on the leather bound An Advanced Guide to Potion Making book in my hands tightened, and I pressed it closer to my chest. It was the reason I was late for class, yet I would never admit it out loud. Placing a blame on an inanimate object would perhaps be the most cowardly thing one could do, and I couldn't see myself doing it just yet.

Classroom 6B came into view, tucked away at the end of the long corridor. There were no other classes on the sixth floor of the Academy castle, and so Professor Pierre's Potion classes in 6B were looked upon with much mixed feelings and equal concern. Apparently, students felt detached from the school during their potions classes, a sentiment that Madame Maxime, the headmistress, dismissed often times with gingerly sips of her afternoon tea.

I approached the classroom, and paused to collect myself. Aside from being a little out of breath, and my thoughts a slight mess, I was alright. I ran my free hand over my sky blue uniform skirts. I hadn't creased it at all, yet my self consciousness wouldn't bid me enter anywhere unless I double check.

"Miss Dominique Lavigne," The expected call of disapproval reverberated in my ears once I appeared at the entrance, like an echo in an abandoned castle. 

"You are five minutes late," Professor Pierre spoke. His voice was loud, dominating, daunting.

I met his narrowed eyes, and was thankful to not find in them the same reprimand that he reserved for some of this other difficult students.

"Je m'excuse, professeur," I answered, my body radiating with heat of the intensity of everyone else's stares.

The classroom was packed, littered with faces I knew and faces I did not, all of them faithful to Professor Pierre's infamous three minute to get to class rule.

"Do you have a reason to justify your lack of punctuality today?"

I nodded, well aware that this question was always a trick one. Nothing really justified being late to Potions class, unless you were dying and had to resort to satanic rituals to barter your soul back in trade with someone else's. Even that, I supposed would still not be justification enough in Professor Pierre's eyes.

"I was studying Professor, and I lost track of time."

"And what were you studying?"

"Angel's Trumpet Draught," I answered instantly, a creeping satisfaction crawling over me as Professor Pierre raised his blonde brow in intrigue.

"A topic I was to tackle in class today," He observed, "Pray, Miss Lavigne, enlighten us with a little of what you have learnt."

Motioning towards me, he took a side, leaving the front of the class— the area behind his desk and in front of the chalk board, free for me to come up. I made my way to the front, acutely feeling countless students' eyes barrel me all the way.

Once I approached, I placed my book on the desk and faced them all head on, while Professor Pierre watched from the side.

"Angel's Trumpet Draught is a soul stealing draught, known to take a living being's soul— be it human or animal, with one sip and return the soul back with another sip. It is unclear as to what actually unfolds between the duration of the two sips. The draught is brewed by mixing a pint of centaur blood with a ray of a solar eclipse. There are three more ingredients, but they are as of yet unknown. The last time an Angel's Trumpet Draught was brewed, was ten years ago, by a muggle."

I paused, glancing at the Professor, and wondering if I should go on, for the gist of all that I had managed to find out, I had already spoken.

"And why do you suppose a muggle has been the last one to brew this draught?" 

Another trick question. This one had no concrete answer, yet, it still wasn't something I had not spent being late to class thinking about. 

"A muggle wouldn't have been able to secure ingredients so exclusive to the wizarding world without a wizard or witch's aid. I believe they were made to brew it, since the Ministry of Magic deemed the practice of the draught unlawful."

At my answer, whispers and shocked observations floated around the classroom as the students all turned to relate their surprise to each other. The theories about this had always been immense in number and size, but the assumption that the muggle responsible may have been forced, was something I suppose I had conjured up myself. I don't think I believed in any other theory more than this one. It was no secret that muggles were clueless, and wizards and witches were not. 

"Interesting opinion, Miss Lavigne," Professor Pierre's voice butchered the hushed whispers circulating in the room and all students silenced themselves instantly. 

I glanced at the professor again, only to find a small smile lift up the side of his lips. I bit back my own smile. 

"Asseyez-vous," He gestured to my usual seat in middle, a single front row back. 

Nodding, I gathered my leather bound book from his desk and made my way over to sit down. 

"Now," Professor Pierre continued, clapping his hands as he took his spot in front of the room, and cast me an acknowledging look. "I would like for any of you, with contradicting theories on the same matter, to come forward. Let us compare and contrast, shall we?" 

"A bummer, your theory," A voice whispered in my ear, and just from the familiar tease in the voice, I could tell precisely who it was. The fact that his usual seat was always beside my own, helped too. "I like to believe the muggle nested a pack of centaurs in his backyard or something." 

"Ne sois pas ridicule, Raphael," I let out, looking straight ahead and slightly rolling my eyes, "Centaurs would rather wreak havoc on the wizarding world than nest in a muggle's arrière-cour."

"C'est plausible," I felt him shrug as he straightened behind his own desk. 

I stole a glance at him, and shook my head, a smile evident on my face. He beamed back at me, his copper colored hair messy with front bits falling into his blue irises as he hovered over his desk. His long legs were straightened, stretched ahead on the ground since the desk was always too low for him. His sky blue uniform was crisscrossed with creases, thin lines on his trousers and shirt, and he made them look acceptable in his own way. 

"Oui, Amanda, that is all very well put," Professor Pierre's voice came over my thoughts and I glanced at the man, flustered as he tried to get the student beside him to quiet for a moment, his eyes having found the audacity of Raphael's legs. 

"Mr Raphael Blanchet," He called, the ends of his ears turning scarlet in anger, "This is not your father's drawing room, monsieur." 

Raphael raised his brow in mock surprise. "I thought not," He spoke, "If it were, there'd be wine." 

A murmur of stifled chuckles escalated in the room, before quickly dying out. Professor Pierre swallowed his fury, turning to grab the Potions textbook from his side shelf. 

"Enough, everyone flip to page thirty-five," He ordered, signaling for work to commence.

Pages flipped, the sound of turning paper overwhelming in the room. I opened my own copy to the required page, eyes skimming over to the contents quickly as my brows furrowed. 

"Professor," Amanda Laurent's voice sounded, high and heavy, "There is no ingredients page, or a methods page. What exactly are we supposed to learn of this draught?" 

The professor sighed, and it was clear moment, full of his tired willpower fighting to redominate his body, before he spoke. 

"Miss Laurent, as we established earlier, no ingredients or a specific method is known of this brew. We will learn what is known, and while that may not be much, it is essential to your course." 

"But hasn't it been declared unlawful by the Ministry?" Elias Dupont chimed in, and I glanced at him, seated a row behind me.

He was one of the only three muggle born students at Beauxbatons. The other two were younger, one a third year student while the other a fourth. I had known Elias since we were both first years at the Academy, longer than I had known Raphael, who joined in our third year, or any other friends of mine for that matter. 

"The practice has," I spoke up, looking at Elias and glancing at the Professor for confirmation, "But I don't think awareness is any crime."

"Awareness is acknowledgement," Bridgette Monet offered, a challenge in her manner as she gave me a wink. 

"And acknowledgement is acceptance," Louis Garnier, seated next to Bridgette added in, holding his chin in his palm, his light eyes bright in the course of this debate. 

"Is not acceptance necessary then?" I asked, turning back from my friends to look at the professor, "In order to believe something is dangerous, you must accept that it exists and that it needs to be avoided." 

"But then how do you separate the ones who learn it for awareness and ones who have other intentions?" Raphael smirked, before throwing his hands up in mock surrender and making an anguished face. "Your honor, Je l'ai fait pour le bien de l'humanité!" 

"Doesn't sound so convincing, does it, Dominique?" He raised a brow at me.

"Well, I have always believed that finding the guilty is not the hardest task in the world, mon ami," I shrugged, folding my arms across my chest. "If you know where to look." 

"Would that be in a classroom then? such as this one?" Elias asked, a hint of tease in his voice. 

"Wait," Amanda silenced him, her hands raised as though she had just figured out something. "Hypothetically, If one of us were to locate all ingredients and brew the Angel's Trumpet draught and use it illegally, would Professor Pierre get into trouble with the Ministry as well? Since it was he who taught us." 

I bit my lip slightly in thought. "Yes, I suppose so. Since we're all seventh years and if we were to commit a crime influenced by the material of our academic course, the responsibility will fall to the establishment. It wouldn't be until our eighth year when we will fully be responsible for our own—" 

"Alright, alright," Professor Pierre raised both his hands, cutting me off mid speech. He had gotten quite flustered, perspiration dotting on his forehead, his eyes flitting anxiously around the debating faces in the classroom. 

"Thank you, for enlightening us, Miss Lavigne," He declared, his voice thinning out as I offered a nod, dropping my eyes to the textbook on my desk. 

"And to everyone else who pitched in today," He tugged at his collar in an attempt to loosen it. "Since we've had this discussion, I suggest you all read pages thirty-five to forty before you show up to class tomorrow. As for now, class is dismissed."  

"Wow, you really did a number on him," Raphael laughed as he jogged up next to me as we exited class, the corridor that had sounded so silent half an hour before pulsated with footsteps.

The sun was still high in the sky, yet its rays were warm rather than burning. It was the thick of autumn, and winter was just peeking right around the corner. I could almost feel the creeps of the cool air gusts, disguised underneath the lingering summer air that hadn't quite left. The Beauxbatons castle was always partial to the change of seasons, somehow, they always touched it late. France would be drenched in snow six inches deep, yet Beauxbatons would only receive a single snowfall to indicate that winter had already claimed land. 

"Me?" I looked at him in disbelief, "It was you who did the guilty and prosecutor theatrical act." 

"Oh please," Bridgette added, her heels hitting the carpeted floor louder than anyone else's for some reason. She was a walking cream statue, loud and bold wherever she went. "We just fueled the fire. And who says it has to be on purpose?" 

"And our questions were understandable, weren't they? We have a right to ask. C'est un pays libre," Elias shrugged, a smirk playing on his crimson lips. 

"You guys just love to fluster him," I shook my head, finding no reprimand in me as they all chuckled beside me. "I hurried all the way to class for nothing." 

"Alright, you, Dominique, need to relax," Louis came up beside me and wrapped his elbow on mine. "Lucky for all of us, we have time and I have a perfect distraction." 

After we had discarded our textbooks in lockers, and in a quick trip to our dorms, and one of us having returned it to the library— "I can't believe you are going to study all of Potions from a library borrowed textbook," I sighed at Raphael, to which he only shrugged nonchalantly, "What, like it hasn't been done before?"

Louis led us all to the pavilion on castle grounds, guarded by the giant cream statues of the two mystical Pegasus on the entrance. The floor of the pavilion was solid marble, tendrils of grey and black etched into the clear foamy surface of the stone inside that it felt as though they were but mere threads floating. The pavilion stood vast and smooth, making up half of the castle grounds. The plains to the far distance around the castle were vibrant in their greens and seemed to roll on for miles until eyes met with the forest of the damned starting all those miles away, opposite the great river. Descent to the forest was off limits, and risky. The plain enabled no such reprieve, and the forest was home to creatures The Beauxbatons Academy, or rather, Madame Maxine, had signed a pact of peace with. They stay away, as long as we stay away. 

For the current occasion, the pavilion was lined with circular pastel blue archery targets set up on cream easels— twenty of them in line. Some of the students were practicing, girls and boys alike, having taken up their bows and arrows, standing seven yards away from the targets, eyes fixed precisely and lips twisting in distaste were they to miss. 

"Come on," Louis, picked up three sets of bows and threw one towards Elias, who caught it efficiently with one muscular extended hand. The second bow was thrown towards Bridgette, as she caught it with both her hands, and the third came towards me. I relaxed at the feel of the curved wood in my palm. Archery was my comfort. It loosened me like a knot, and it kept me on my toes, it was my curse and it was my salvation. 

"Alright, montre nous ce que tu as," Louis clapped his hands, stepping away to join Raphael at the side lines with the other students who had come by to watch. 

I smiled, taking a spot seven yards away from a target, and Bridgette chose the one beside me. She threw me an effortless grin. 

"I challenge you to five with me," She smirked, "Back to back." 

"Challenge accepted," I winked, turning to face my target and fixing an arrow in my bow. Then navigating to my aim, the fine sky colored center point on the cream base of the target, I shut one eye close and adjusted, a silent count to five. Then I released my arrow. 

It whizzed straight through the air, tearing through the wind in a precise angle and thrusting itself into the very center of the target. A wave of satisfaction swelled inside me as muffled cheers and claps erupted behind me. 

"La chance des débutants," Bridgette threw a shoulder back, shooting me a teasing look. Her auburn hair rippled at her waist. 

"Je ne suis pas un débutant, mon ami," I grinned. Beginner's luck was so busy with other witches and wizards, it had no time for me. 

"Now, my turn," She beamed, and in an instant, she had taken aim and her arrow had whisked by, hitting the target with force, straight in the center. 

Claps and whistles sounded again, and the two targets sat side by side on their easels, each sporting a finely hit arrow. 

"Oh, it is on," I spoke, the competitor in me rising. 

A crowd of students had gathered behind us on the side lines, anticipating a heated match between friends. Those were, in fact, the only kind of matches that incited Beauxbatons students. A guy from the crowd offered himself up, as I had turned to look for Louis. It appeared the latter had quite disappeared. 

"May I, mademoiselles?" The sleek looking guy asked, his thin lips lifted in a smirk as he jumped  into our periphery, his eyes lingering on me as he ran a hand through his thickly gelled dark hair. He appeared to be a fifth year.  

"Fetch," Bridgette spoke with a grin and the guy elaborately curtseyed, before sprinting off to the targets and retrieving our arrows. 

I hit another bull's eye then, still feeling the sleek guy's eyes pinned on me at my side. It was irritating, but only if I dwelled on it, and I had long ago stopped dwelling on strange attentions from people. If there was one thing in the world that I did not want, it was attention. But somehow, I always knew that it would find me someday. I just had to delay it, to defeat it in some way, to make sure it didn't find me. But when you had secrets that you knew would shake your world as you know it, attention was inevitable. 

Bridgette scored with another bull's eye, and the crowd went crazy, distracting me from my reverie. Even the other archers had stopped their individual practices, having diverted their attentions to the happenings of our impromptu match. Elias grinned as he watched us, his bow across his chest and his own target sporting five arrows in a perfect circle around the center of the target. 

In the tie-breaker round, Bridgette and I released our arrows at the same time, and when both our targets were struck. The sleek fifth year hurried to determinate which aim was most precise, and it turned out I had secured the very center again, while Bridgette's was a tad nearer to the edge. The crowd of students behind us whistled and clapped, and I tossed my bow aside, smiling at my bestfriend. 

"Well played, comrade," I beamed, offering her my hand in mock truce. 

"You too, mon ami," She grinned, taking my hand and squeezing it. 

Having often played matches against houses, Bridgette and I were good with bow and arrows. We have both played for the Ombrelune Archery team, being Ombrelunes ourselves, since we were in our third year. Elias played for the Bellefeuille Archery team, being of the house himself. For the past two years, there was not a single Archery match Ombrelune had not won, though its biggest competitor, and the worthiest, was always Bellefeuille. They put up a fierce fight, yet the victory was always taken by Ombrelune. 

I remember when I had been sorted into my house in my first year, it was one of the core memories that I had made at Beauxbatons. We were required to shoot a silver arrow, which, according to legend had been forged by one of the founders only to be stolen centuries later by someone from the forest of the damned. It is still a mystery as to why it was stolen, or how and by whom. But it was retrieved and a few years later the peace treaty was put in place by Madame Maxine. The silver arrow, upon being shot, burst into sparks of your house color. A vibrant sky blue for Ombrelune, a gentle green for Bellefeuille, and a scorching purple for Papillionlisse. 

Cunning, logical, ambitious and curious. That was what my house traits contained, and never had I ever sat my twelve year old self down to categorize myself as such. I was just a girl with a silver ice arrow in my hands, the coldness of it radiating against my skin, until I had released it and felt all my knots untighten, until I had seen the burst of sky blue emerge from the remnants of the arrow, until I had felt that perhaps this was were I belonged. 

Coming out of my thoughts, I looked to Bridgette now, happily chatting with a girl who was congratulating her on her marksmanship. Cunning, logical, ambitious and curious too, she had been a kindred spirit to me since the start, though our friendship had taken two years to fully form. 

Suddenly, a gust of wind elevated around the pavilion, and the skirts of my uniform whipped against my legs with force. I held onto my uniform hat, fearing it would vanquish away. Making out the pattern of the air, I looked upwards to spot Monsieur Henri, his soft purple form evident against the clear sky as he flapped his wings to slow his descend onto the pavilion. 

Students gave him a wide berth as he landed on his four legs, his hooves clipping against the marble as he neighed, shaking his head side to side and stretching his wide wings one last time before elegantly folding them at his sides. The students slowly neared him again. Then, Monsieur Henri bowed his head and shut his heavy lidded eyes, his posture going concrete. Students silenced themselves, readying their heads for his message. 

"The following archers of house Bellefeuille, Elias Dupont and Maximillian Toussaint," Monsieur Henri's voice reverberated inside my head and I shut my eyes tight. 

"The following archers of house Ombrelune, Dominique Lavigne and Bridgette Monet, and the following archers of house Papillionlisse, Gabriel Chevrolet and Jean Dubois, have been selected to partake in the Huntlock Games at Ilvermorny to represent the prestigious Beauxbatons Academy. Archers mentioned are summoned by Madame Maxime, in her office at 4pm precisely." 

With that being said, Monsieur Henri's voice vacated my consciousness, and a searing breathlessness sourced through me. I opened my eyes to find his form turning to go, wings elevated as he heaved himself into the air above, and with a gush of wind in his wake, he was flying away.