Dead King's Sword (Old Draft)

7. Hair Regrowth Potions and the Nonmagi

Zeren

***

What this magic school needed was a comedy club. How were we to go about our dreary lives without having something or someone to laugh at? Principal Bast sat behind his wooden desk. White light reflected off his bald head. A wispy ponytail at the back, no thicker than a finger, rested on the shoulder of his white robe. A white squirrel with blue eyes sat on his desk; his familiar. Its eyes were slightly watery with age. Its whiskers twitched as it sniffed the air then ran up his master's arm.

Principal Bast frowned and rubbed his chin. "And what would this comedy club do?"

"Well, we would tell jokes, put on performances, lighten the mood. After the passing of two students, I think this might be something that would improve our school rather than distract from it."

"And does it have a supervisor?"

"A supervisor?"

"All clubs need a teacher or twelfth-year student to supervise it."

"I see."

Well, that deterred my plans.

He slid a form across the table. "Think about it some more, and when you have a supervisor and five potential members, I'll make it an official club."

"Thanks." I accepted the form and tucked it into one of the deep front pockets of my robe.

"Will you be joining any sport's teams this year?"

"Not this year, no."

He scowled and tutted. "I heard you were good at flyball."

"If I have magic and Erin and I aren't on the same team, then I'm pretty good." Otherwise, we were too busy trying to kill each other to focus on winning the game.

"She didn't try out either. Is everything alright? Are you two getting along?"

"We're doing great. As a matter of fact, I think we're ready to have our magic back."

He smiled. "Of course, you are. Shouldn't you be getting to class?" He checked his laptop. "You have Potions and Nutrition?"

"And I'm heading to that right now." I picked up my bag from the foot of the chair. "Think about the comedy thing."

"Get the signatures, and I will." He winked.

The moment I stepped outside of his office, my false confidence left me, and sadness replaced it. He had no idea how hard it was to find a warlock, or witch, interested in comedy at a boring school like this. Comedy was considered a waste of time for those who only cared about increasing the range of their attack spells.

Sighing, I went to class.

Potions and Nutrition occurred in a theatre-like room with raked seating and desks climbing upwards from the teacher's stage. On cedar tables, small black cauldrons hovered above blue flames. One pot for each group of two. I noticed Princess Anne sitting next to a boy with bronze hair. He was handsome, and the golden broach on his grey robe suggested he was from a noble house whose emblem was a gecko or some sort of lizard. Irritation clenched my jaw. Why was she sitting with a bastard like him?

Since the other places were taken, I settled next to Erin with a heavy sigh which she ignored.

Water boiled in our cauldron as blue flames caressed the bottom. Our Professor, Natalie Trowse, was a tall, lean woman with a motherly smile. Bushy brown hair with a few black and grey streaks framed her oval face. She rubbed her hands together. "Good morning, everyone."

Students murmured a dying greeting in response.

Trowse motioned to a student in the front who wasn't wearing a robe. The boy stood and bowed to everyone. He was somewhat dull in his appearance, having glasses and bushy black eyebrows. A freckled white face. He was shorter than me, about five-foot-seven and lean.