Whence Music Doth Speak
Forward Dated October 6th, 2025
Stamina: 6|Evasion: 6| Strength: 5|Wisdom: 4|ArcPower: 6|Accuracy: 8|
Thoughts
Speaking
Mentions: @ Camille De Varenne
The rehearsal room was dark when she slipped through the doors after a few bites of food-- she wasn't hungry. The only exception as to light were the giant windows, streaming moonlight inside the empty room, leaving checkerboard-like patches on the floor. One could possibly play checkers this way, but that was not the point today.Time: 7:38 p.m.
Maisie had came here for one thing: to play her flute in silence, away from stares and whispers. Curtained portraits lined the walls, and she could hear some murmurs, but she ignored it. They were probably minding their own business, and it would be rude to shut their curtains and shush them.
She chose a corner, in the dark, and not the light--she didn't want to be set upon, and anyway, it felt better in darkness, rather than the blinding light.
Settling in her corner, and sliding her flute from her robes. It was gleaming and beautiful. It was also a gift from her grandmother, the one who had taught her to play it in the first place. She did bring her wooden flute to Hogwarts, but preferred this one. This one had molded itself to accommodate her. In other terms, it was like a friend.
Straightening her back, she put her hands lightly on the keys and raised the flute to her mouth. Her breaths came steady and even, like she had been taught, and notes started to come out, filling the room with song. Her fingers moved at ease on the keys, pressing lightly on this and harder on that, but it wasn't a rehearsed or learnt song she played, it was something she made up on the spot. At first, the music was slow, and soft, and stopping then restarting; but as time went on, the song melted into emotions, and her fingers moved along the keys as if it was been playing this song since she was born.
But as she continued, the song was more urgent and faster, and her finger started flying across the flute tube. While, if she was to be seen by any other person, she would have had a composed demeanor, but in truth, her mind was a whirl.
She had come here to let off steam and to have alone time away from the noise of the common room. Though only at school for around one month, letters from her family came almost weekly, if not sometimes three times a week. They were mostly from her mother, sisters, and her adult brother, with the occasional handwriting that belonged to her father scrawled neatly printed on her mother's letters. Though the letters from her siblings were carefree with questions ranging from the number of stairs and if the Chamber of Secrets was true, the ones from her parents were much more serious. True, they were checking in on her, and asking her about her time and classes, but they all ended in nearly the same sentence. "Bring nought shame, taint no name."
She supposed they meant no pressure, only to remind her what had been etched in her mind, it still left a mark on her. Whenever she laughed in class at some joke, she would feel guilty; whenever she upset a cupful of juice or water, and hasten to mop it up, she would feel as if everyone was watching her; wherever she went, she would feel unease, as if she was being judged by every pair of eyes in the vicinity.
Sometimes she wished to be a muggle born, or a half blood, or even a pure blood without that many rules. She was given a happy and mostly free childhood, true, but as she got older she became more and more confined in terms of freedom. She would sometimes sneak through the hedges and walk half a mile to the muggle town just to stare at the kids shouting and playing fun games.
Whence music doth speak, it speaks to the heart, to the soul, and always, in the end, the truth.
Her song stopped slowly, reverberating through the room, and the last notes faded slowly into nothingness, as her thoughts faded into nothingness. The truth... I'm caged. Not free. Not free home, not free Hogwarts. I'm allowed more freedom than most children like me, but still, I'm not free.
Then there was a sound, and her heart skipped a beat. Holy Merlin.
Whence Music Doth Speak
| C | date: 6/10/2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Maisie Fenwick Rose Williams |
C |
| CV | Ever since the meeting in Hogsmeade three days ago, the day when Camille had practically been given a death sentence for his future years at this school to come, the boy’s appetite had been nonexistent. With the exception of a light breakfast and his best attempt at stomaching whatever was served for dinner, albeit not a lot was appetizing to begin with, he hadn’t eaten much at all recently. The ballet world would applaud him, though Camille currently had little care for his body image. It wasn’t a conscious choice of restriction on his end, simply a cruel reminder of the chains his father had tied him to, and everything else that had gone terribly for him. The majority of the time he just wanted to be left alone, practically impossible now with his own personal appendage following his every move, when all he wished for was to face his own demons in peace, demons a boy his age shouldn't even have yet. That was thanks to his fucking father and the old goblin that agreed to the arrangement. Of course, he couldn’t follow him quite everywhere. The Ravenclaw tower, as well as classes due to their age difference, was still a safe-space– technically. Though inside the blue velvet common room, Camille faced worse fates than half-goblin boys without spines and too much greed for gold. The animosity between him and his dorm-mate Lorenzo was still, after a month of threading around each other like shattered glass, severed to the point where they could not be in the same room for long. At least that was his experience, having not bothered to ask Lorenzo what he thought of it all. Since that would require him to speak with the boy instead of the sparse exchange of insults and spiteful comments their current interactions were limited to. His life was miserable, and that was a fact. After yet another tolerable soup for dinner, the french boy slipped out of the great hall to escape before Harvey could see where he went. Instead of going back to the common room, he sought refuge in the rehearsal room. He’d used the room for several of his ballet practices and singing. Some of those times, he’d been rudely interrupted, though the instances were few and far between, giving him enough confidence that he assumed the room would be empty and available tonight. He was wrong, for half-way through the fourth floor corridor, the notes of a flute slipped through the door and into the hallway where he was walking. Camille didn’t stop his stride, though he slowed down, quietly cursing whoever had decided to show up at the same damned time as him. While it was tempting to turn around and find somewhere else, he’d already come too far, however; The addition wouldn’t stop him, even if uninvited company was the last thing he wanted. Though, he supposed, it depended on who it was. Continuing towards the door with purpose, albeit with slight wariness in his steps, Camille strode up to the entrance and turned the door handle just in time for the music on the other end to stop. It could have been a coincidence, but it was difficult to tell. Camille took a step in, establishing his means to enter but staying within close enough distance to the exit in case he changed his mind. Inside, a girl was sitting in a dark corner, partly concealed in the shadows bouncing off of the stone walls. The fact that it was a girl made him instantly less tense. Even more so when he recognised Maisie from classes shared with Hufflepuff, the train ride, and before that, business dinners at her estate. It could be worse by far. Relaxing his shoulders, Camille said softly, politely: “I didn’t know anyone else would be in here at this hour.” He didn’t ask if he could stay, since he didn’t have any intention of leaving. “Don’t stop on my accord. That sounded pretty good.” |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Whence Music Doth Speak
06/10/2025 mentions
@ Camille De Varenneooc: location: ballroom
She stopped abruptly, glancing around, slightly disoriented. She made out a figure standing some feet away from her. Was this a crazy ghost or an entity imprisoned amongst the walls of Hogwarts? Or was it just a human, another student?
The shadow spoke, and it was a familiar sound she couldn't place. It took a few seconds before she registered it as none other than Camille De Varenne, son to her grandfather and father's business partner, company on the train ride and childhood playmate. They hadn't really talked much since the first day, and he wasn't in her house, nor had she any reason to strike a conversation with him either. None of the people in her carriage had been sorted into the same house as her, so she didn't have much time to talk to any of them, with the exception of Frederick Buckley, whom she had met in a corridor.
She glanced down at her flute, then back at him, then to the door. When people compliment your music, or any other thing you do, you're supposed to accept it graciously, even humbly. But Maisie was more uneasy than happy, because she had more or less expected a quiet evening to herself, with her flute in hand. Not another person barging into her private time.
"Hi, Camille, er-thanks, and I didn't expect you here." She said, as nonchalantly as possible, trying to maintain her composure after nearly having a heart attack from his appearance. "So...what brings you here?" Surely he was not going to whip out an instrument and start playing it. Though she didn't recall his ability to play any instrument, Maisie vaguely remembered how her mother had mentioned ballet as his hobby, or his career. She glanced around, uneasy at the awkward silence that ensued.
Whence Music Doth Speak
| C | date: 6/10/2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Maisie Fenwick Rose Williams |
C |
| CV | Camille stood one step into the rehearsal room, watching the girls as the silence stretched between them. The awkward tension, the uneasy look on Maisie’s face that his appearance had caused, puzzled him, since they were friends to some degree. As close friends two children who had seen each other a maximum of three times in their lifetimes, excluding in an educational setting, could be. Perhaps he’d walked in on more than simply a flute practice. Perhaps, similarly to him, she was seeking refuge from something, like the burdens of everyday life— Camille was all too familiar with those, recently. Like the majority of them— children of wealthy, high-society families— she responded politely enough, wondering what brought him here. The fact that she even had to ask what he was doing in a rehearsal room, struck him as comedic. Camille doubted his strict training schedule and achievements had completely passed her and her family by. Neither Camille or his family were prudent when it came to boasting about their own prestige. Stopping himself from scoffing, partly bemused— part offended, he spoke unbothered by it, also acting as if he hadn’t noticed the growing awkward silence between them. It would be ill-placed to pick an argument with someone he was somewhat fond of, and besides, they would inevitably be in forced proximity again. “Oh, I finished dinner early and was just looking for a moment to myself.” Mission unsuccessful. “I thought I might as well practice on my vocals.” Being a singer that sounded like something angel-sent, might not be his most defining trait. Maisie probably— unless she’d been living under a rock during their business dinners— would remember him better by his dancing. He didn’t think he had to clarify why he wasn’t planning on doing ballet now; after dinner was the worst possible timing to squeeze into a pair of figure-hugging tights and leap across a room. Granted, it hadn’t exactly been a hearty meal—few dinners were, when one was forced to eat English traditional dishes. Camille knew he looked good, for he had never had a “bad” day in terms of his appearance. Being who he was, the boy would have accepted nothing less, though he carefully avoided any scenario that might risk him looking bloated. After a moment’s pause, he added, for politeness’s sake, “If you don’t mind, of course,” with a pleasant smile. Though his smile didn’t reflect his mood or reason for being here, it was proper. He took a few more calm steps toward the piano, unclasping the button of his black, pristine cut and tailored heavy outer layer to cool himself down after climbing the many stairs to get here. Composed as he appeared, Camille remained unsure how he would handle her potentially saying no to his company. With a breathless inhale, he glanced over to where she was, still nursing her flute, and asked, grudgingly, “It’s been a while since we spoke. How have you been settling in?” Compared to himself, he suspected she was doing better. Maisie, surely, had not been assigned a spy in recent weeks, though he was not eager to discuss his many troubles. |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Whence Music Doth Speak
06/10/2025 mentions
@ Camille De Varenneooc: location: ballroom
The silence was uncomfortable, as the two eleven year old children stood, facing each other in a semi-dark room. Normally, the bubbly child would be ecstatic to talk to one of her favourite people, but not today, when the world seemed to crush its heaviness on the thin shoulders of an eleven year old child. Truth be told , she was like a saltwater fish in a pool of freshwater: different and awkward. When she contemplated her life, she had always taken pride in the acknowledgement that she had a decent enough upbringing where she was given something rarely found in a household like hers, childhood . But here, with muggleborns and half-bloods, purebloods alike, she couldn't help but compare herself. Their colorful and loud childhoods were a contrast to her lessons with her governesses, tears from being struck and other horrible things. She hoped he hadn't heard every note she played. It was personal, her rawest feelings. Maisie fingered the smooth outer of her flute, leaving behind fingermarks.
"That's nice. How was your meal?" She asked. Even as a British child, the food could get bland and horrible after eating it for nearly 12 consistent years, and she preferred any other cuisine anytime. Maisie remembered their encounter a year back, where he sang and she played the flute after a lovely game of chess. The corner of her mouth lifted as she thought about that evening, escapees of a business dinner they both had no need to join. Here they were again. Full circle, wasn't that what people say? She had a fleeting thought-- perhaps his way of escape was music and dancing? While she obsessed over her flute, with the occasional violin or singing, as her ladder to her inner world, Camille chose ballet and singing. She had always thought, because of his family, was why he danced. But maybe it's different than what she ever supposed?
"No, I don't mind." Maisie replied, watching as he stepped towards the piano and sat down. He's going to play alongside me? The words left her mouth before she could trade it for a more refined, polite question. "I didn't know you could play the piano." She moved closer to him, gripping her flute more tightly, as if her very life depended on the force she implied.
"Settling in fine, made a couple friends, classes, just the usual. My brothers aren't helping much and a lot of teasing.You? How's England? Better than France?" she responded, absentmindedly pressing down on the keys of her flute. Was he going to play a song they would both know perchance or his own composition? It wasn't unlikely he'd be unable to mold music into his own, it was a skill almost all those with an instrument in hand grasped.
Whence Music Doth Speak
| C | date: 6/10/2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Maisie Fenwick Rose Williams |
C |
| CV | Camille weighed his words carefully, not wanting to outright insult English cuisine in front of her, despite having no shortage of critique to offer. Presumably, she was only asking out of politeness anyway, not inviting for any long-windled conversation, at least, Camille hoped not. “Dinner was… uninspiring, I’m afraid,” he eventually answered, non-committal and dismissive, only to not let the question drift without acknowledgement. Ignoring it would have been more impolite. With Maisie’s approval, Camille slid out of his robes and draped it over one of the nearby chairs that happened to be placed beside the piano. Apparently a little too close to the instrument, because as soon as he’d sat down, she commented that she had been unaware that he played. Curiously, Maisie moved closer with her flute, perhaps under the impression that they ought to play together. The French boy stiffened in his seat, debating on whether to lie but potentially embarrass himself when the truth was revealed, or honesty with the risk of being a disappointment, was the best course of action. Truth be told, Camille had never taken any piano lessons. His voice was his main instrument and greatest asset, not only in terms of song, but the way he navigated a room and social games, meanwhile his piano skills were limited to the basics needed, now when he had no access to his regular pianist. It was such a silly thing to overthink, especially considering everything he excelled at, all the things he could be more than proud of, yet it was with internal discomfort he admitted, “As far as the basics and scales go, certainly.” Not a lie, per se, but it was a subtle attempt to control the narrative without completely exposing his incompetence, when it came to instruments. Before the girl could draw her own unflattering conclusions, he continued. “I’ve been missing my pianist lately,” Camille sighed in a carefully controlled manner. He shrugged. “So I’ve had to fill the role myself. Don’t expect any masterpieces,” he added, lightly teasing. His regular routines, personal pianist and trainers, while highly demanding, were only a few of the things he missed from France. A chuckle at her question whether England was better than France was the only reprieve in his otherwise stuck-up presentation. Eyebrows raised, he turned to gauge whether she was serious. Did she even have to ask? Camille mentally asked himself, when the answer was so obvious to him. The French boy couldn’t recall a single thing the Englishmen did better. Granted, he’d never tried to find the flaws, but even now, when he made the effort to dissect his own culture, he couldn’t answer that. At least she seemed to have settled in adequately and made a couple of friends for herself. Good for her. “Better? Definitely not.” The boy shook his head, scoffing in amusement. “The day they decide to serve croissants for breakfast, I might reconsider my judgement.” It was, of course, only said in a joking manner. It wouldn’t be a fair competition in the first place; France would always win in his standards. |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Whence Music Doth Speak
06/10/2025 mentions
@ Camille De Varenneooc: location: ballroom
On the contrary, Maisie's meal wasn't awful. It might be just a classic British meal, but tonight she had enjoyed her yorkshire pudding. "Uninspiring?" She raised her eyebrows. "How so? Didn't you enjoy the...toad in the hole? Or the Stargazy Pie I saw on the far end of the Hufflepuff table? There's bound to be one on the Ravenclaw's." She couldn't help but tease him, thinking the most absurd names she can. The former dish was great, but she had chosen it more for its name; but the second dish was a bit scary. There was just something the girl liked about British food names, no matter how weird they were. In order to confuse the enemy, you must first confuse yourself. The reputation for her country's cuisine was bad even though they were mostly past those post-World War 2 stereotypes. Growing up, she herself had been fed food from different countries, and in comparison, British food only lacked spices...and better names.
Wealthy parents and less fortunate parents often did one universal thing: place an instrument on their children. For those with less money, they would want their kids to have something to fall back into if one day they find themselves on streets. Wealthy parents don't exactly have the need to consider this, and their reasons differ. Maisie was under the impression that all pure-blood children had to learn music owing to the fact every child in her family's social circle performed at least one instrument. By the age of eleven, Maisie had general knowledge of music flute-wise, so she was surprised when Camille knew only the basics of piano. She was about the question this, when he carried on. It hadn't struck her that he would have a pianist playing for him. She had thought everyone was self-sufficient. If they had the ability to play, why ask someone else to? Granted, however, this topic had never found itself into Maisie's mind until just now. Back home, she and her siblings were always entertaining guests, yet the child had never questioned it. All families were indeed different in their own ways. "And do you think you can do better than your pianist?" She teased back.
If Maisie had expected a French boy to say England was better, she'd be barking [mad]. If she had been offered all the gold in the world, she wouldn't say France was better than the UK, either. "Ah, but we have something better than croissants for breakfast—black pudding and jellied eels! She said, her eyes twinkling and her mouth turned upwards into a mischievous grin. But she added, "No, but seriously, we have fish and chips, knickerbocker glories and lots more." She added, in case she scarred him in terms of British food. She didn't know anyone who would hate fish and chips. "But if you're staying in Britain for the next seven years, then something will make you like this country." She shrugged. "So, you want to play a song or something?"
Whence Music Doth Speak
| C | date: 6/10/2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Maisie Fenwick Rose Williams |
C |
| CV | Recalling several variations of pies in the British cuisine arsenal, stargazy pie and toad in a hole did not sound that outrageous to his ears, albeit no more appetizing. He supposed he would never cease to be impressed by the British’s creativity for names and flavor profiles when it came to food, for the worse, in his opinion. He pulled a face when she listed some of the food, unable to imagine himself less uninspired than he was then. Still, he didn’t wish to potentially insult her by calling it the uttermost disgusting, so he remained cordial when he spoke. “I did not. Oh well, the British are quite… creative, aren't they,” he said awkwardly, unaware that the girl was trying to tease him. Camille was not under the impression that he was more competent than his pianist, nor would he ever make such farfetched claims. The whole point of having a pianist was to release him of another burden to conquer, to let him focus on his two main pursuits: ballet and song. After a few visits to Maisie’s home, he was well aware that the Williams children, Maisie included, were well versed in the arts, specifically musically inclined. He knew she was a skilled flutist, able to create pleasant ambiance in a salon with her music, though how she compared to the professionals, and whether she would ever be able to make a profession out of it was too early to say. They’d never discussed her future ambitions, either. If she’d been aiming for fame, he was sure he’d heard it at least once in passing during the business dinners, alas, her life remained a mystery. In the French boy’s case, there was only one goal, and that was reaching fame and global acknowledgement. Someone who aimed to reach—or even surpass—the masters could not afford to indulge in side pursuits or leisurely interests. Hence why, when Maisie asked if he thought he was better than his pianist, Camille gave her an incredulous look, feeling slightly insulted that his full dedication seemed discredited solely due to the fact that he could not play the piano. Out of all his talents, he deemed that a minor, insignificant detail on a larger scale. He’d never claimed otherwise, and his (and his fathers) goals did not align with being “good enough” in various disciplines. Mastery meant excelling in one or two. Breathing out a scoff, he spoke slowly, “No… that’s the point of having a pianist," clinging on to the little patience he possessed without sounding offended, admittedly not his greatest virtue when it came to others. “It would have been lovely to call myself a pianist, I suppose, but in my case, I’m too focused on dancing and singing; adding another instrument to my list would just be a distraction. A pianist is just a necessity to reach my goals. Not everyone can pursue things because it’s fun, unfortunately.” The boy shrugged, his statement subtly suggesting that the Williams children were both fortunate to be versatile, and also not heading for greater success within one particular field. Resuming the discussion of British cuisine, the girls said he ought to find something he’d like in the next seven years. Ugh, don’t remind me, Camille thought, nauseous at the reminder of how many years he had left, still having not finished his first. Luckily, she suggested they play together instead, if they could come to some agreement with his sparse repertoire. “The eggs and the scones are fine.” A bit dry, but otherwise it made for a decent breakfast. “We should, although I’d be better off singing.” For once, Camille allowed himself a smile. |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Whence Music Doth Speak
It was hard to stop her lips, tugging at the corners, to stop turning upwards as Camille tried to say something good about British food, from the few select dishes she said, which were chosen purely for the name, and although she wasn't going to say it, his efforts to say something good about her country's cuisine had failed. "They are creative indeed." Maisie replied, pretending she didn't notice anything, "But we don't eat snails." She smiled at this, trying to show the boy she wasn't insulting French food, merely comparing it with British food, no harm in that.
06/10/2025 mentions
@ Camille De Varenneooc: location: ballroom
While Maisie and her siblings all picked an instrument when they were still learning to talk, their parents had not planned a road for all of them in music or performance arts. Maybe one child, her mother had said, should have arts as a career. Her father, brought up with expectations from his father, had spent his childhood locked in his room practicing the violin for all he was worth just to earn a name and a place at the board of one of the British music schools their family owned. The six children excelled in music, and enjoyed it, but when asked, none—but one—of her siblings would willingly give up their dreams to follow their parents' blueprint. They were not aiming for game, rather, amusement. To think of it, Maisie wasn't in the center of many career discussions, but then again, she was eleven, there wasn't much to talk about it. She wanted to be a healer, though, like her grandmother. Maybe famous or maybe not. On the other hand, she had always reckoned Camille's whole life was paved out in front of him. A budding—or not budding, a skilled ballet dancer and pianist, who strived for fame and recognition. The girl knew it would be hard to make it to the top, but personally, she believed the boy by her would be able to.
It surprised her that he did not think he was better than his pianist. She had thought he'd be quick to say he was better , as had she a personal musician, she would say the same. Wasn't it every child's aspiration to think and believe they were better than others? She was coming to the conclusion that he might be humble, and that he had the ability to produce piano music to rival that of professionals, but he then explained that he was too focused on dancing and singing to care much about piano. She was puzzled, however, about one thing. "What goal do you want to realize by being a pianist if you don't have time for it?" Not everyone can pursue things because they're fun. Camille continued, and Maisie had a feeling he was indicating her unpaved path. It was customary for each branch of her family to produce at least one child who would succeed with a musical instrument. Her parents had already achieved success with their eldest son, given up on their two other disinterested troublemaking boys, failed to interest their eldest daughter with a career in music, and were putting all hope on their second youngest daughter, their youngest unfit for any instrument. "I suppose so,' she mused, 'my parents don't expect me to be a flutist by profession, and frankly, I don't want to. It would be stuffy really quick if the only thing I succeed in is blowing a hollow tube." A question escaped her mouth before she could refine it into something less direct. "But do you really want to be a ballet dancer or a singer? Is that what you want to choose for the rest of your life?" She wondered if ballet was
"My mother goes into the kitchen from time to time and she makes lovely scones. Maybe I'll write to her and you can try some. Britain's best!" A difference of night and day from her last sentence. But her mother could make lovely scones, that was a fact. And she was determined to make the boy like at least one type of British pastry. "Seriously though, why do the French eat snails?" It was a question she never got an answer from.
"I guess I'll sing as well. What song do you fancy?" Maisie laid the flute carefully on the case of the piano, praying to God it would not fall down. She had chosen their last song a year prior, and she decided he should choose this time.
Whence Music Doth Speak
| C | date: 6/10/2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Maisie Fenwick Rose Williams |
C |
| CV | Something must have been lost in translation, because Camille was confused by the question, "What goal do you want to realize by being a pianist if you don't have time for it?" He couldn’t remember once claiming that he wanted to be a pianist specifically, even if his thirst for knowledge and skills preceded the arts he’d mastered. The general message seemed to have come through, though, as she proceeded to inform him that her parents had never tried to force any future career or success on their children, nor was she interested in being a professional flutist, either. Did he truly wish to be a ballet dancer or singer? Camille replied to her question without considering the answer further. “I suppose, yes. I do enjoy dancing and singing. I’m good at it, so why wouldn’t I want to pursue it?” What more did he need to convince him? The decision was final, regardless of his own wishes. How much of his reasoning was his own desire, versus what his father had drilled into him, Camille did not know. The topic returned to food. Escargots were not at the top of his list of favorite dishes, probably not even ranking among the top twenty, if they made the list at all. What he couldn’t quite shake, years after being persuaded to try them by his parents, a typical exercise in parenthood by trying to widen their growing children's palate, was the texture. The taste itself, as far as he could recall, hadn’t been horrible, drenched in garlic and wine. Camille was not a picky eater, though he was concerned with quality and the sensory experience. Not a whole bottle of wine or all the garlic butter in the world could fully mask the slimy texture enough to make it a pleasant culinary experience. “It’s not that awful, if you can disregard the texture,” Camille clarified. “But yes, it’s a… questionable concept, even to a French person.” The French person in question was him. The girl put her flute away, letting it rest on top of the piano. He was reminded of how she’d carelessly handled her instrument last time he saw her in her musical essence. Nothing appeared to have changed when it came to Williams's girl in that regard, except for a slightly taller and older appearance that naturally came with aging a year. Upon Maisie’s request, Camille had to quickly pick a song for them to sing. They had done a playful performance during a family dinner roughly a year ago, so he knew she was already familiar with some of the classics he was used to singing. He stuck to the more known pieces, just in case. “Belle nuit ô nuit d’amour from Barcarolle?” He suggested, though the flute instrumentals were one of his favourite parts of this composition. “Though it would be a shame to miss out on the flute.” A thoughtful crease appeared between his brows, contemplating what she’d told him about rejecting a potential profession as a flutist, even if she would have been presented with the opportunity. “You said you wouldn’t want to be a flutist. Why? You’ve clearly spent a lot of time practising. Wouldn’t that be a waste?” His tone held no judgement, only curiosity, as if genuinely trying to understand her reasoning. As she might have already gathered, Camille’s upbringing shaped a very different perspective. His father firmly believed that skills should be put to use and, ideally, monetised, which meant that nearly everything Camille did had once been framed through recognition or utility. With wealth to secure their family for generations and a lifetime, money was not the main concern. Cultural prestige was more fragile, a title you had to maintain to sustain. You did not reach their level of influence through mediocrity; his father had said as much more than once. |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny