Turquoise is Your Color
1993 April~~~
Manon walked as fast as her legs could carry her down the road, the cool Monday morning brought a few strips of sunshine to the stone pathway as she moved her arms in tandem, trying to hasten her pace. The usual excuse on her lips, “Pardon my lateness, I was working on my research on French immigration policies of the last decade, it’s truly fascinating how it relates to citizens of the Eastern Bloc, you do know how hot this topic is in the papers recently, surely you’ve seen–” and then Bastien would cut her off, preferring to discuss dueling results from the last week. When in fact she’d awoken to the fifth alarm, dragging her body from the warmth of her bed after crashing into it half dressed the night before, yanking off the tights and tripping over dancing heels from a tango social as she swore, trying to gather enough warm clothes for the walk to their brunch spot downtown.
So she hurried along, a recent copy of the economic section of the French wix newspaper tucked into her bag, ready to pull it out and ask Bastien what he thought of the decline in wix stocks and the inflation issues, after all his internship workplace must be reeling from the news. Just a few blocks away now, the walk cleared her head far more than apparition would have, the first time she apparated late to an event after a night of drinks and dancing, she’d upended her whole breakfast onto the cobblestones from the vertigo. Since, she’d made sure none of her meetings were early, and all were within twenty minutes by foot of her apartment after a night out.
The sunlight on her face brought a brighter cheer to it, color lightening her cheeks with the exercise, the gleam off the green of the leaves made the shadows turn a hue uncommon for this time of spring, and the scent of newly washed clothes drifted through the air from second floor verandas. Walking like this brought back a weekend memory she’d had back in Paris among the non-magic folk, the colors of the streets and scents of a nearby bakery bringing a light smile to her lips; after a week without fresh air the streets filled her with awe and delights of wonder.
Throwing out a tempus she noted the time, almost ten minutes late, he’d forgive her. Last time she’d been this late he’d taken one look and said she needed an extra hour of sleep, Manon retorted it wasn’t one of those nights, just that dancing left one’s feet tired. She paused, shoving her wand back into its upper arm holster and turned her wrist instead, looking upon the small non-magical watch, a recent purchase, she often forgot to use it to check the time, and just put it on out of habit, and glanced back up to the cobbled pathway, meeting the eyes of a passerby.
Bright blue jacket, matching trousers underneath, walkable shoes, and a brightly patterned turtleneck. The whole ensemble matched in an eclectic way, it was definitely not anywhere on the “monthly witch trends” she’d seen people peruse in the magazines, those which highlighted the size, the cut, the youthfulness of those upon the cover, both the dream and envy of witches who hadn’t yet seen the conformity pressed upon them. This one though screamed, it screamed someone who dressed how they liked regardless of the current fashion trends. Joan save her, the woman’s hair was pixie short with a few piercings, Manon’s heart stuttered, skipping some beats at the very sight, noting the mismatched eyeshadow coloring, the complementary colors accentuating the whole outfit.
Their eyes met, held, and the stare went on just a moment too long. Manon dropped her eyes, uncomfortable with the extended contact, and kept on walking down the street, her chest tightened as they passed too close, blue and black brushing past one another. Manon would’ve noticed someone with this level of attire at this spot, she walked this way nearly every day. Everyone here dressed very well, very classy, but never before had she seen someone with this level of colored vibrancy, though Manon herself was a cross between the two in this area. Manon turned, her breath caught as she looked back, once… twice… they did too.
Manon pictured it; a compliment, open body language, a flirty smile, asking for her contact information, and the resulting rejection “Oh, sorry, I’m actually engaged” or “Don’t just ask people out on the street, merde, where in Joan’s name did you grow up you–” Well– she swallowed past a lump in her throat, looking straight ahead, steps slowing; nothing to lose except a moment of her dignity, a small price to pay, just last week she’d tripped, spilling her tea all over a poor passerby, and that incident hadn’t gone too poorly. However, the resultative howler sent to her school address by the lawyer whose business robes she’d stained a pale green indicated otherwise; her mind already shoved that into a deep corner, selective memory had its uses. Heaven already knew there was at least two or more years of her life where it had served the same purpose, a recess of murky colors and feelings against her skin much of what made up that time. Manon stopped fully, on the edge of turning around and opening her mouth to ask their name, where they got their cloak, what shoes they wore, whether the socks matched, what their perfume smelled like, if she could twine their fingers together nice and slow, pulling her closer, twining a finger into the buckle of their trousers, how...
“Excuse me” Manon ran back in the direction of the wix in blue who turned instantly, a small grin escaping their lips, Manon’s shoulders relaxed, a calm smile shaking through.
“I haven’t seen you around here before, but I wanted to say your look is absolutely stunning.” She said nice and slow, keeping their eyes locked, hand accentuating the compliment.
“I’ve worked a long time to find something I like wearing, definitely didn’t come easy, so it’s great having someone have the guts to say it; I’ll say even in Paris most wouldn’t. The name’s Jeanne.” They held out a gloved hand, Manon shook it, both held on too long.
“Manon, pronouns she/her,” she paused momentarily, taking a guess on how the wix would react, noting a deep red wand holder strapped to their forearm before disappearing as they slowly pulled back the hand, continuing, “but sometimes I use they/them. I don’t have my name card on me otherwise I’d give you one.” She looked down and furiously tapped all the pockets without success, looking back up and smiling in chagrin.
Jeanne shook her head, “I don’t have mine on me either. Pronouns she/her.”
Manon nodded, teeth worrying on her lips (she didn’t notice how the witch’s eyes were drawn instantly to the action), “This is sudden, I’ve got to run to meet a friend for coffee, otherwise I’d talk more, and I don’t know how long you’re staying, but if you wanted to meet for some food later this week I’m free Thursday evening, we could meet at Thalia’s Restaurant at 8 pm.”
Jeanne conjured a paper and quill, writing down a hotel address in a classic curving script, French education required cursive. “Here’s the address I’m staying in,” the witch paused, “– it’s just for reference, for now of course, but–” Manon laughed heartily, “Not a problem. I might have asked for it later either way.” She responded, tilting her head up to look at the witch, cocking her head to the side, a lazy smile crossing her lips, carefully pulling the paper from her fingers, languidly slow as their fingertips met.
Manon’s stance relaxed further as Jeanne’s smile grew wider in response. "I’m back in town visiting friends for a week or so, then I’m back to Paris for work. I’ll most definitely see you on Thursday, I know the place, the owner is an old friend of mine, give her my name and she’ll put you in a good table on the second floor by the window.”
Manon grinned unabashedly, taking the folded parchment with both hands, she split it in half scribbling the date and address before handing half back. “Perfect. I look forward to seeing you on Thursday.” Jeanne nodded, preparing to turn before her brow furrowed briefly, “I just noticed, the embroidery on back of that cloak is immaculate by the way, hard to notice if you aren’t looking for it. Great taste.”
Manon turned away briefly casually showing it off, “It was a gift from a good friend, we both enjoy subtlety,” and it was subtle, black on black, with only a trick of the light exposing the rich embroidery for what it was worth.
“I’ll see you on Thursday.” Jeanne called, fixing the gloves on her hands, a rarity seen in France these days as the witch continued on her way down the cobblestones. Manon couldn’t help but stand and watch for a heartbeat, before turning away herself, well worn boots hurrying along the street, eager to meet her friend for a coffee.
A few minutes later as Manon sat down for a pastry with Bastien, she kept grinning like a fool. She sipped on her cappuccino, both hunkering down in a small corner of the café waiting for their food, witches and wizards and wix alike sat around discussing the latest potions for ailments, the recent divorce between the Head Policy maker’s daughter and her wife in such an uproarious fashion it made national news the other day, and what their foolish British friends have been up to across the water. If rumor was to be believed, the Triwizard Cup was to be held there soon, and Beauxbatons was positively livid, if they had to go eat dog-shit English food for a whole year, it would be a disaster, how were they supposed to win when they’re living off of beans for Joan’s sake.
Bastien kept turning over the international headlines, “What’s got you so over the moon today? It can’t be Professor Martin, last I heard he tossed out a bad essay and it almost made a first year cry.”
“Good thing we’re second-years now with thick skin.” She chuckled, Bastien shook his head; both knew just how wrong that statement was.
“Here,” – The Daily Prophet – “why you read such rubbish is beyond me.”
“I only care for the society pages, never know when I might have to talk up some pureblood in a shop for the sake of connections. Last I heard they almost always come to France for shopping only because their own tailors are so Joan awful.” Manon put her nose in the air as a joke, leaning forward to take a sip of her coffee.
“Fat chance of that, you wouldn’t last three minutes, I know how much you care about making the playing field for First Gen Wix equitable.” Bastien said, waving the petulant newspaper in her face until she snatched it from his hands, the wizard proceeded to shudder, wiping his hands furiously on his coat as if it might infect him.
“I thought Monsieur Niel was bad talking about the Volpi family’s choice of shoes during their visit last week, but merde, ever since you told me about that Skeeter madame I’ve changed my tune; the witch is terrifying, just how does she find all of her sources? Lucky she doesn’t care too much about international dueling, otherwise the French team may be out before they even see the stage.”
“All the more reason to stay on top of what she cares about, I want to be as far as possible if she ever gets funding to do a piece here in France.” Manon flipped the Daily Prophet to the back page, noting the headline, Another Successful Month for Umbridge’s Anti-Werewolf Legislation. She shook her head in bafflement, “Gosh, and their blatant disregard for the werewolf population is absolutely atrocious,” Manon muttered under her breath.
“Don’t worry, if Skeeter comes this way we’ll run to Spain instead.” Bastien said in full seriousness, “The whole lot of us, Tris, Henri, Pauline, you, me, I’ve got a few friends from Licence Professionnelle who have a house and cottage there.”
“How’s their political leanings? Just curious.” Manon asked, snatching a piece of bread, lathering it copiously with raspberry jam, Bastien wrinkled his nose at her, turning his face away from the sight. Her eyebrows raised in curiosity, before remembering an old conversation back in Italy.
“One is First Gen Wix, grew up here in France. Don’t question him all at once, okay? And you’ll match well with the other one too, let’s plan to go sometime regardless. But back to my original question, you’re in a great mood, what happened?”
“I just ran into the most amazing wix earlier,” Manon said, the sugar hovering towards her hand as she spooned some into the dregs of her cappuccino, unable to keep a grin off her face.
“Spill the tea, Manon,” Sebastien leaned forward as she briefly explained the encounter, “Damn Manon, you’re turning heads everywhere you go, I do hope you realize that. I still remember when Peter asked you on a date to that restaurant, good thing you turned him down, he dated another classmate from the business school later and I heard he got caught cheating… with four people at once. I’ll be looking forward to hearing more about your date with this wix. At the very least they seem as fashionable as you do.”
“Only because I had so much help recently in shaping my style.” Manon rolled her eyes, biting into one of the croissants and saying yes to the second cappuccino. “Your sister is in town right? I can’t wait to meet her this week, you said we’d be having brunch before your Economics test on Wednesday afternoon.”
Bastien nodded, “You two will get along, personas will click too well I say, she’ll be delighted to meet her little brother’s friend, timing is even better, her ex Rosaline moved to Nice recently, otherwise we’d run into her at the brunch place, she used to work there. And the last thing we all need is to see that disaster.”
“You didn’t tell me she was queer.”
“You didn’t ask. Just don’t tell my parents next time we’re in town.” She nodded, leaning forward to the stack of news.
Manon pulled up the paper wondering at what recent shenanigans the Paris and Nice papers discussed, the divorce case, a shock, an upcoming collaborative investigation between the Italians and the French into use of portkeys facilitating illegal border crossings, she wrote that down in a notebook to add to her research later.
“Manon, did you have to get a lot of general classes finished when you applied to this school? I know you didn’t get your bachelors from the sister school like most of us.” Bastien reached out for the recent economic issues Manon brought along with her.
“Thankfully no, the summer classes and my year in guided study gave me enough credits and research work that I could skip those pesky ones, had to argue for it with administrators though, took me a full month to prove my worth.” She shook her head, piles and piles of notebooks still stuck in the bottom of her apartment from the preparation work required to get into this Masters of International Politic program at Anorra University of Magic.
“You’re lucky Bastien, you went straight through without stopping. I took a fairly long break.”
He frowned across the paper, “That can’t be right, you can’t be much older than I am, Manon.”
She raised an eyebrow, “Do you honestly care about ages right now?” She chuckled, “I mean I’ve seen how you go out with Professor Martin every other week to go skull bowling, surely you don’t actually care.” He opened his mouth to respond.
Someone rapped their knuckles on the table, and both looked up from their chairs, “Tris!” Manon jumped up and hugged the woman.
“Fancy seeing you all here, was just headed to spar a bit, thought I’d drop by and steal what’s left on your plates.” She winked and pulled up an extra seat.
“Here, Manon, the book you asked for last week.” A brand new edition of a recent discovery on Potions and Herbology developments for medicinal properties, “Ooooh, Tris you’re always a gem.” She cracked open the brand new spine and read down the list of acknowledgements, pouring over the contents list.
“Why didn’t you join Henri in herbology, or go to potions?” Tris reached over and finished Manon’s leftover croissant, the witch already lost examining the knowledge within the pages.
“Too much time stuck in a greenhouse, or a potions room. I need human interaction. Could probably have switched to French Economic Trade Relations with the British M.O.M too, but I don’t want any more classes with Bastien than I have to.” She said, “Here, take a look at page three of the local paper.” Manon tapped it on the table and Tris reached out to pull it open.
Bastien resurfaced from his analysis of the economics headlines, “What, you don’t like me as a classmate?” His lip pushed out in a pout, before Manon could reply, Tris slapped the current newspaper on the table, Manon nearly jumped from her chair, hand reaching for her wand.
“Guys! You’ve been following the smuggling business recently, haven’t you? The jewelry thieves just lost a whole shipment last week to the auror team. A French investigation unit managed to catch them early this time.” Tris shuffled her chair closer, buttering another slice of toast.
“Tris why are you even interested in this stuff?” Bastien asked.
“Well that’s the thing, I found out because one of my uncle’s family heirlooms was among the stolen items, the smugglers cursed it after nabbing it so they have to wait to get it back. He’d been one of the many families to get called over to identify the missing pieces. What was wild was who he saw in the room, should be coming out in the papers in a few days, but it was an old fart who he recognized from the last time this was stolen twenty odd years ago.”
“Wait, you mean to tell me your uncle had this exact same jewelry piece stolen twice in the last generation?” Manon frowned, leaning forward as Tris nodded enthusiastically.
“Oh far more than that, this was the first successful one since the seventies. But the guy he saw didn’t look like he’d been working with investigators this time around, in fact they’d confiscated his wand and everything, couldn’t hear what they’d said but my uncle was shocked.”
“What’s so special about this piece?” Manon asked, “Got a photo?”
Tris leaned away, narrowing her eyes, “No can do, family secret and all that. It’s not much to look at, but it’s got some magical properties that anyone would want to get their hands on.” Tris unfurled today’s paper and skimmed over it, “Oh, it’s this guy, guess something made the headlines about it.”
Manon leaned over, seeing an elderly gentleman turning his head from the cameras surrounded by a group of aurors, the subheading said Monsieur H was under investigation for connections to a recent smuggling operation across the southern border, no further news was known.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and Lourdes will know a thing or two,” Tris said, finishing the toast, downing the last of Bastien’s coffee against his loud complaints. Manon leaned back in her chair to call over to Tris, “If you find out anything more about it let us know!” Tris only waved in response, hopping the gate and apparating to her destination for practice.
Manon looked more closely at the paper with Monsieur H’s photographs, taking careful note of the aurors surrounding him, skimming the page hoping to find more on the jewelry thieves, but the newspaper remained horribly sparse, most of the information containing the current economic troubles spreading from Paris.
“Bastien, what has your internship discussed about the inflation issues?” The wizard groaned in response.
“I’m not excited to tell anyone about this,” and launched into an explanation that he’d later give to his supervisor on the issues with raising tariffs on goods from both Italy and Britain. Manon nodded and they both got lost in conversation until she checked the time.
“Shit, you’ll be late in five minutes.” He screeched; tossing coins at her to cover the bill before apparating out as fast as he could. Manon laughed in response, she’d lied of course, and snagged the last of his pastry for herself, chuckling as she stepped out onto the street, wishing to see a hint of turquoise in every corner she crossed.