October 6th, 1889 — Hogsmeade Hall, Hogsmeade

"Your first potion will be a Draught of Living Death." And whichever one didn't look like a draught of actual death he'd gulp down because damned if he wanted to be doing this with his spare time. At least he had the professionals for this round, he wouldn't have to stare at first year level potions and pretend to be interested. Perhaps he'd get lucky and someone would entertain him by blowing themselves up. That'd be very diverting.

"You may begin."

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Ari Fisk Richard Gladstone @"Durant Lecuyer" Tilda MacFusty
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She was competing at the professionals level. Tilda did her best to duck her head and be attentive to the directions, not the fact that she was the youngest competeing in this round. Merlin help her she didn't do something incredibly stupid. It soothed her to know at least a few of her co workers - Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Fisk – were here and although she was to compete against them, she held them in high esteem, and felt proud to be in their ranks. She cast them a smile before turning her attention to the front.

After taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that she was a healer for a reason, and this competition was just rather for fun - and to challenge her pre-existing knowledge. Tilda knew how to make this potion - she'd done so a few hundred times. Hopefully this wouldn't be one of the times that she made a mistake. She nodded solemnly once told to begin, rolled up her sleeves, and set to work. Once completed, she stepped back a fraction, observing her finished work.

  

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Richard had decided to take part in the potions competition for the fun of it. He returned the young womans smile when it was cast his way, recognizing her as someone from the other hospital before focusing on the task at hand. He was as diligent as always in his work and once he was done, he indicated to the judge that he had done so.

  

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graphics by Lady!

Ari had never been especially competitive, and wasn’t any more so now; that said, potion-brewing had always been a meditative activity, and he so rarely got to brew them out of pure artistry, so the tournament was not an opportunity he could pass up.

It took him a little longer than usual to reach that state of brewing-calm, given Dionisia and Ben - and Ros, too! - were all placed throughout the hall in their respective groups, leaving him a little disappointed he couldn’t see how they were each getting on. But, as the Draught itself ought to do if he brewed it well, cutting up, measuring, and adding ingredients began to prove deeply soothing; so much so that, by the time he had finished and stepped away from the cauldron, it was a little like awakening from a dream.

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Durant wasn’t entirely sure why he’d entered himself into this outrageous and ridiculous competition. His only certainty was that he was going to win, in spite of the fact that he’d never actually brewed a potion before in his entire life.

Truth be told, he thought them quite pointless and messy. He didn’t understand why anybody in their right mind would actually choose to make potions and yet here he was so then, perhaps, he wasn’t in his right mind. He was starting to think that perhaps there was something wrong with him; he had twin daughters, his wife had died, he’d been spurned by some hussy who thought it best to run away with a boy than have a life – and family - with him and now… this.

His thinking was that he would show his face, prove that he was as brilliant as he thought knew he was, and make a fool of everyone who dared make a fool of him! A sound and logical plan for a sound and logical man, he thought.

The issue therein lied within the fact that he hadn’t brewed potions before. As the others began to work diligently on their potions, Durant stood there and just… watched. He couldn’t recognise the ingredients, but he could see what the others were doing. Clumsily, though attentively enough that he thought his potion could be passable, Durant began to brew his potion and it did sound rather cool, as if boast-worthy (which, of course, was Durant’s true motivation for all things in life); ‘Oh, look at me, I made a Draught of Living Death’. Ironically, if he could pull this off, Durant suspected he would be the life of the party!

Once he had strewn ingredients all over the table and crushed what it looked like he needed to crush, stirred what he needed to, and slapped the side of the cauldron with his hand when the others used their wands (which hurt quite a bit, thank you very much), Durant took a step back with premature celebration on his features admiring his work.

He wasn’t sure what the potion was meant to look like (or smell like, for that matter) but it very possibly probably looked like his potion currently did. Maybe.

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Once the contestants had finished brewing Charles examined each one, his face impassive until he came to Mr. Lecuyer's cauldron. There was a suspicious bubbling going on and the color was a sickly orange color which definitely wasn't right. Amused by he was by the other man's failure, he waved his wand and got rid of the substance before it potentially became volatile. He wouldn't be gloating if he spent the rest of the week in St. Mungo's with half his face melted off.

When he came to Miss MacFusty's potion he was filled with immediate dismay. He couldn't possibly justify dismissing her from the competition when Mr. Gladstone's looked far too thick and rather untrustworthy. It would surely be an insult to Mr. Gladstone's pride as a Healer-in-Charge. Silver linings.

At least of the two healers who ran wards one of them wasn't under performing. If he had to be admitted to hospital any time soon he rather hoped it was due to a poisoning and not a magical disease. "My commiserations, Mr. Lecuyer, Mr. Gladstone." He turned to the remaining pair. "Mr. Fisk and Miss MacFusty, you will now brew a Wound-cleaning potion." With two healers brewing this one it was probably for the best it wasn't between Mr. Fisk and Mr. Gladstone, how would he have decided between two flawless potions then? "Merlin help us all if they're not perfect," he added wryly.

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Scores: Tilda MacFusty — 9.5, Richard Gladstone — 8,  Ari Fisk — 14, @"Durant Lecuyer" —  6
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Bit of a grumpy one, not to mention he looked like he had something stinky immediately underneath his nose. On his remark, Tilda raised her eyebrows a fraction, tempted to scowl, however it wasn't best to make a snide remark back when he was the one judging her.

The redhead swallowed her remark and took to brewing her potion. It was her against Mr. Fisk! She gave him a nervous smile before stepping forwards. At least if Tilda lost the competition, it would be because she was amongst one of her betters. Once she completed her Wound-Cleaning Potion, Tilda stepped back, hoping she did well.

  

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Ari caught what he thought was Miss MacFusty raising her eyebrows at the judge’s comment. Nothing like a little added pressure, was there? Ari shot the younger healer an encouraging smile in return - it would be embarrassing for him if he lost, perhaps, but on the bright side it would no doubt be a boost for her, an acknowledgement of her abilities - before getting down to work on his own potion, one he had brewed plenty of times before over the years.

Hopefully that did not necessarily make one blasé about it. Better to take his time, and make sure he had done all he could.

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Charles couldn't believe his eyes. He'd even had to double check the potion recipe again to make sure he was interpreting it properly. By a mere fraction of difference in hue Miss MacFusty had brewed the superior potion. Were they competing novices he would have probably gone with his bias and let Mr. Fisk have it but he wasn't fool enough to think he could slide that past two fully trained healers.

"Congratulations, Miss MacFusty." And that was all he said on the matter.

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Scores: Tilda MacFusty — 12.5, Ari Fisk — 12

  

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