The Price of Knowing
| C | date: 8/9/2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Archer Duncan |
C |
| CV | By the following Monday, and his anti-climactic meeting with a prefect— being promised some course of action, only to find out there was nothing to be done, and that everyone shared a dorm– Camille was more than ready to be sent back home. He’d wanted to argue with her, tried to, but ended up biting his tongue to not lash out the same way he’d lashed out on all of his dormmates, plus everyone else unfortunate enough to cross his path. Camille De Varenne screaming at a magical girl with French heritage, and of finer ranking would have been a scandal. Not only was it beneath him, his father would have beheaded him. Besides, he quite liked her as far as company went, inconveniences aside. Instead, he chose to do better… by leaving. One could argue that he’d been ready since the moment he stepped off that damned train. Later that night, in desperation, he’d sent a hysterical letter complaining about all the injustices he’d faced on the first day alone. Expectedly, his father hadn’t bothered to write him a reply. Yet, he kept sending two more letters in similar style, hoping one of them would bear fruit, or at the very least some attention. That same night, he packed his gilded trunk, a task completed in less than ten minutes since he hadn’t even begun unpacking, preparing for whenever someone might come to collect him. The wait wouldn’t be long. As soon as he sent the next letter he’d been drafting—one he was certain his father couldn’t ignore—Camille expected his brother to be on his merry way. Hell, the entitled boy would even settle for elf escort, that’s how desperate he was. It would be cruel to leave him here, where he absolutely hated it. It didn't matter that it was only the first week of the year, he was certain he would never adjust to these living standards. With no social network to speak of, what purpose was there in staying? Alas, it was decided, in his mind: Camille was leaving. En fin. Though, the problem of an unconcerned father, and the question of transportation, remained. If the boy wasn’t struggling enough as it was, his frustrating cousin had been informed of his pathetic letters by her parents, because compared to his own, they could find time to owl their daughter off at boarding school. The immature witch and her entourage of slobs had cornered him at breakfast to make fun of his misery. "You really should learn to adjust, you know. Boarding school isn’t meant for spoiled boys who can’t share a dorm. Perhaps if you tried being… normal, things would go more smoothly." Then one of the flamboyantly dressed boys by her side quipped in, “I would share a dorm with you, any day of the week, you know.” Both Camille and Juliette stared at him like he’d just spawned wings. “Excuse me?" He demanded, scandalized whether by the implications or by the things he didn’t quite understand. "I already share a bed with one nuisance, I don't need another.” Camille gave him a judgemental once-over. "Especially not someone who dresses so tacky." Then he'd dismissed them a curl of his lip in disdain. Juliette really ought to control her dogs. Unbelievable. All in all, it had been a horrible first week at Hogwarts. Bringing his custom-made teal peacock quill and an empty piece of parchment, Camille sought out a place where he could write in peace. The Ravenclaw tower was ruled out, with the risk of seeing any of his wretched housemates, alas, he had to settle for some empty room on the fourth floor. With large mirrors for walls, it looked more suited for dancing or martial arts than to write letters, but he decided that it prefectly served his purpose. Few people in this whole castle were much better, but if he had to see the stupid visage of Lorenzo one more time in his lifetime, it was one too many. He knew, of course, that this grand pursuit of dropping out was doomed from the start; the odds were stacked mercilessly against him. Yet, that would not stop him from trying. In lack of tables, Camille had to sit on the floor in the dimly lit room, ink and parchment spread out on the floor. You'd never catch him this leisurely in public, but in his solace, he had no qualms. |
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Last edited by Camille De Varenne on 24 Apr 2026, 07:26, edited 5 times in total.
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
The Price of Knowing
08/09/2025 | Rehearsal Room
Here's a joke: Archer was practicing good habits. Piano, in his world, was a synonym to procrastination, and soon, he was tired of himself. A skill he had always ached to learn yet never quite seemed to master, he had found a plethora of excuses. First was a lack of time, second was its associations with his nemesis, third was his overwhelming grief. Yet when Archer came across Evpraksiya that day, it was as if the unjust deities running his life had seized him with the promise that he would pull through this time. And so, as if receiving a message from the universe, he had decided to make it a habit as prevalent as training.
Although not fully successful—the past few days he had been far too distracted with all the aspects of life that suddenly seemed so bright—now, at least, he found himself on the fourth floor, in front of a room now familiar with history. If you asked anyone with his acquaintance, discipline was not a trait first attributed to him. Yet with a book of beginner sheet music under his arm and the Slytherin characteristic of wild ambition, he would have deemed himself ready.
The door was ajar, yet the room was not the empty hall Archer had expected. Instead, it was occupied by a younger boy, sat leisurely on the floor. Archer merely shrugged at the sight, expecting he to be resting after finishing a routine as the room’s purpose intended. Instead, he spied a delicate peacock feather perched over parchment paper, as if the owler was not a proper location for written correspondence. Merlin, Archer thought to himself jokingly, A prefect ought to make a registration list.
He hid an eye roll with vexation, and stepping around the boy on the ground, sat at the piano. He flipped at the book listlessly, fingering through the same tunes someone like Vinogradova would have probably learnt as a toddler. Eventually, he settled on one not particularly embarrassing, smirking at the thought that the other occupant in the room would have been forced to listen to a lullaby. The Rehearsal Room was a public space, and as far as his reasoning took him, it was the other boy who would have needed to put up with him rather than vice versa. Yet, Archer’s attempt to disregard him failed terribly.
His eyes turned cold, the opportunistic serpent showing itself as recognition hit. Tousled dark brown hair, light hazel eyes, the look and behaviour of someone more than twice his age from what must have been a pressured environment, the song and dance of pureblood families that made him sick. Despite no introductions having been made his last name was easily picked up by Archer’s observant ears, and during the very sorting ceremony, where before he had sat bored out of his mind, suddenly perked up and committed that face to memory. At this point it had been three years since he had last heard it.
In stories his mother told him, epics regaling her childhood in Lyon, the surname was an institution she despised. The pristine pomp, the entitled tutors, the weekly piano lessons; ironic how Archer had now decided to subject himself to the same instrument. Yet each evening when she had played for Archer he could not have denied her passion, the same way he could not have denied that boy was yet another step to piecing together a fragmented memory of his maman. Marguerite did not speak often of her childhood, but the same name still graced pursed lips.
Finally: “De Varenne,” he said cooly.
@Camille De Varenne
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
The Price of Knowing
| C | date: 8/9/2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Archer Duncan |
C |
| CV | Camille dipped his quill into ink, scowling at the empty space on the parchment. The fourth-floor rehearsal room was quiet— blissfully so, save for the occasional creak of the castle settling. Bracing himself for the worst, he kept throwing glances at the doorway, lest a housemate— or, heaven forbid, Lorenzo—appear to ruin his solitude. Considering the things he’d had to endure the first week away from home, anyone would become paranoid. He began to write, spilling all his frustrations in ink – whatever was left that he hadn’t already sent in his last owl. Most of it was exaggerated to the point of ridiculousness. If another one of his letters were left unanswered, he at least wanted the satisfaction of insulting his father properly. Pére, I cannot believe I am forced to write this, yet here I am, again, because apparently no one at this school has the faintest notion of how to treat a De Varenne properly. What hurts me the most is that you, worthless old man, my own goddamn father, won’t do anything to fix this mess. With all your political power you so proudly display, where is your influence when its actually needed? You have ignored all my owls, I am starting to believe it doesn’t matter if I live or die here. The dorms are disgusting, the bedding awful, and the air smells like—well, I cannot even describe the filth. How is anyone supposed to live like this? I will not stay here another day– Movement in the corner of his eye made him glance up. An older boy— dark-haired, calm, and impossibly composed— walked towards him. Camille only stared, expecting some kind of apology for intruding when he was clearly in the middle of something important. Like the rest of the inhabitants of this school, snotty children, unprofessional prefects and staff, this boy lacked manners. His scathing glare did nothing to intimidate the boy, if he even noticed. The other paid him no mind, walking past his form and took his spot in front of the piano, idly brushing keys on the instrument to some lullaby. He seemed entirely unconcerned with Camille’s presence. The French boy blinked, torn between insult for being disregarded, and quiet relief that he was left to his own devices, when everyone else had seemed insitent on making his life here an even worse hell. Committed to ignoring him, after listening to the notes from the piano– not the most terrible thing he’d been forced to listen to in his life, though it was clear that the untrained pianist was by no means a professional– Camille returned to his parchment and the angry words that had formed before his interruption. Nothing new had been added on parchment before the intruder finally spoke out in recognition. Out of everyone he’d met in this school, why on earth did this unremarkable boy know his name? Word must have spread throughout the week. “Yes.” Camille answered, clear and unwavering. Even sprawled languidly on the floor, every ounce of arrogance and pride in his own identity seeped into the single word. He glanced over at the piano and the boy occupying the seat. He seemed less unbothered, and more frigid now. “And you’re supposed to be?” he added, letting the question drip with disdain, dismissing the other as utterly insignificant. |
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Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
The Price of Knowing
08/09/2025 | Rehearsal Room
Archer was exactly the type to plan conversations beforehand and this was no different. Just as he was not a great pianist, Archer was not a great conversationist either. To him, it was a thing that took practice from a young age, which, considering his upbringing, was undoubtedly lacking. It was not that he could not express himself well, but rather see no point and had no skill in matters of smalltalk. His mother detested the act as much as he did, and said “practice from a young age” flew off a cliff. Therefore, like his clumsy fingers ran over piano scales, he could only prepare in advance. Somehow, people found him with a charming snark.
“And you’re supposed to be?”
So, the de Varenne heir had attitude. Bien sûr. Expected. It seemed to be a particular trend amongst entitled purebloods, and Archer, for the record, certainly was not one, nor would he have taken particular pride in being one. Small talk was a pureblood skill; it was not, however, the reason Archer was here and he had no plans on wasting his time. Lately he had felt as if he was speeding through a life moving in slow motion around him, and there was nothing more he could do than keep going.
So with Camille asking for his name, he simply shook his head, as dismissive of his own as he was the boy’s prenom. “That hardly matters,” he said in unbothered French. He was not here to make acquaintances, and the surname of Duncan certainly would not help with his reputation amongst the French society of wizards. After all, his father was not famed for his novels but enjoyed a good decade of infamy after allegedly coercing his mother into elopement. Right. His mother who was now dead.
And Camille here, who perhaps, as Archer could hope, held some semblance of a memory for him. He had done the world to salvage every scrap of her yet still, somehow, it was not enough. It was never enough. She would always be gone. He cleared his throat as he attempted to pull himself out of that spiral.
Then, without further ado and in the utmost bluntness, he continued, not a shred of hesitance nor intimidation in his voice, “I need your documents on the name François.” Remaining more or less a pacifist for now, he seemed to be making a business negotiation, and until de Varenne disagreed, there was no use to break out wands.
@Camille De Varenne
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
The Price of Knowing
| C | date: 8/9/2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Archer Duncan |
C |
| CV | Instead of telling him his name, the boy decided to play the game of mystery. He was probably right: his name didn't matter, albeit witholding information in this case, and placing demands on Camille, was not recieved well. "Excuse me?" Incredulously, he paused everything he was doing to turn to the source. “Documents?” He echoed, eyes now fully focused on the boy by the piano. “I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more specific than that. You speak as if I’m supposed to know who this person is,” Camille scoffed softly while rearranging himself to a more defensive position (just in case), mockingly entertained by the sheer gall of this person demanding things of him– someone who mattered so little, he couldn’t bother to tell Camille his own name. With the limited information he’d been given, a name that was common enough in France, he could only assume that he was referring to some old student at one of the art schools that existed in his name. While Camille technically had every right in the book to search through archives and be involved in the business if he requested it, the young boy had never shown any interest in the administrative details. Talents worthy of his attention were sometimes remembered, admired if they were exceptionally good, but overall, he found little interest in the every-day operations of De Varenne’s schools unless it concerned him directly. Most students that came and went, some of them with name of significance, some who managed to rise to the top without their family legacy paving the way for them, passed Camille by completely, talent aside. “Even if there were any documents, where do you expect me to get them? From my trunk?” He smiled, deceptively polite to the untrained eye, but inherently cold. “I’m afraid they’re not that important that I would have brought them with me.” There might very well exist documents of someone named François, though how and why Camille was supposed to know of this person, let alone have the means to provide him any documents while locked up in this castle, was beyond him. Unless the no-name expected him to pull the papers out of thin air or his behind, he couldn’t see how it was a reasonable request. It wasn’t. Shall there be anything to find in the archives, and if the De Varenne child was in any mood to be of assistance– doubtful, since the boy wasn’t the helpful type– the process would take days, if not weeks, to find what he was looking for. Despite himself, there was something mildly intuiging- he wouldn't call it interest per se, but curiosity- to know why this François was so important. If Camille was even going to entertain the idea of helping this stranger out, which he most likely would not, at least not without a payment worth his while, the boy needed more information to make a decision. His name, for a start. Though the boy had decided to play it mysterious. It wasn't so much mysterious as it was simply annoying. |
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Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
The Price of Knowing
08/09/2025 | Rehearsal Room
Excuse me? Archer smirked. Excuse him indeed.
When Camille started rattling off everything that would cause Archer’s grand idea not to work (his lack of cooperation being the first one and evident enough to not require stating), the boy only frowned. He was purposefully making it difficult, playing hard to get, wasn’t he? If only he knew how much simple documents had the potential to mean to him. Archer, however, was far too prideful to elaborate. “It isn’t that logistically complicated. You can contact your parents, no? Unless you are some disowned orphan instead who they didn’t want to send to Beauxbatons.” He paused, holding back a smile. “I apologise,” he laughed, “That was mostly uncalled for.”
“Anyways,” he said quickly, brusquely, “My mother. She would have been registered under the name Marguerite François during her studies. I’m looking for her documents.”
“I’m afraid they’re not that important that I would have brought them with me.”
And so Archer took that as a disagreement, and inferring from his previous logic of remaining a pacifist until information was denied, he decided a threat or two would do no one bodily harm. But then of course, he reminded himself that he was walking a fine line — one between being too straightforward with violence and scaring Camille off, the other being too reserved and leading the entire matter to an end early. “Well,” Archer said finally, drawing his wand and grinning devilishly, “Let’s make this easier, I’ll give you a choice. Do you want money or getting fucked up?”
The former Archer had easily at his disposal. If de Varenne happened to choose the former, perhaps introductions were due indeed, even if just for purposes of negotiation. After all, he had not bothered to remember the boy’s first name either, and perhaps it would be beneficial to the once social-phobe to expand his circle, especially among those who could have held valuable memories of his mother. Despite their disagreements his father still gave him a hefty allowance, buying a haphazard love through money. With a few coins clinking around in his satchel, Archer was in the mood to spend today, and for better or for worse, those galleons would not go to funding Honeydukes or the Menagerie.
If de Varenne happened to choose the latter, however, that would first prove him a fool and second mean Archer would be in for a great deal of fun. The boy was a first year and Archer had spent a year of his studies now in the duelling team. Even his captain had commented (more or less along the lines of) that those who messed with such prowess should consult psychiatry. The fact that today his ego was highly inflated did not better the situation much either. Although anyone with a wrinkle in their brain would have taken the money, he was reckless and desperate enough to try it.
@Camille De Varenne
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
The Price of Knowing
| C | date: 8/9/2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Archer Duncan |
C |
| CV | When Camille refused to cooperate, at least not at his first rude demand, the other turned to insults and a promise of violence. Hearing the ridiculous claim about him possibly being an orphan, his lip had curled in disdain. However, as far-fetched as the idea was, Camille spared him no comment. It would serve him nothing. The older boy's face twisted into something devilish, reaching into his pocket. Catching the movement from the corner of his eye, Camille watched him draw his wand, eyes on his face without blinking. He swept the parchment off the floor, along with his quill when he slowly rose to his feet, not wanting to show his alarm, yet still ready to face whatever came next. The most likely outcome in this situation was running. He was up to date with his magical curriculum for his year. He’d mastered the spells for his level, though to challenge an upperclassman who confidently resorted to violence was not a risk worth taking. Something about his smile struck him as unhinged, before he even had uttered the threat out loud. He should have seen it coming, Camille thought, mentally cursing himself for even entertaining him in the first place. Of course, in his mind, only someone who was unhinged would be so stupid to even think to threaten the one person who served as the connection to his past. Without him, there would be no documents to speak of. The ink, still un-capped, was left on the floor. His pulse had quickened in his chest, warning him that he might have the time to pick it up, shall he need to dart out the door. The ink was, after all, easily replaced. Camille could have written a new letter, though he would rather not give this guy any leverage to keep over his head. It would have been a stupid mistake, leaving an emotional letter for him to read like free real estate once he was gone. The boy had spoken of his mother attending one of their institutions in France; Camille thought it was safe to assume he, no matter how much of an imbecile he was, could comprehend written French. Likewise, the peacock feathered quill was a gift from his mother, carrying some sentimental value besides the gold it was worth. With a slight scoff in disbelief, Camille glared at him, loathing and defiance in his eyes. “You can threaten me all you want,” he said, calm despite everything, his hand brushing the wand in his pocket. Realistically, he could probably “fuck him up,” too, as he’d so elegantly put it — though he would not make it easy. “But if you wish for your precious mother’s document to last through the week, I’d advise you to put that wand down. Lay one filthy hand — or that wand — on me,” he warned, his temper shifting from contained resentment to burning anger, his eyes darkening. “and your mother’s memory will be destroyed. For good — à jamais.” It was simple stakes, really. Camille would only warn him once. “None of your pocket money would be worth the effort.” He gave him and his average-looking presentation a skeptical once-over. “If you’re trying to bargain, you have to offer something that would actually be useful for me.” With a mocking curl to his lip, he noted there was probably nothing– nothing, just by just looking at him— the boy could offer that would be worth his time. |
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Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
The Price of Knowing
| xxx @Camille de Varenne| September 8th, Rehearsal Room. | Banner by Pericles Draltxxxx |
| xxx |
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xxx |
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
The Price of Knowing
| C | date: 8/9/2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Archer Duncan |
C |
| CV | The boy’s smirk faltered when Camille presented his terms— watch the documents be destroyed, or offer something worth his while. Camille was many things, but a pushover was not one of them. Face still hard in warning, he watched cautiously as the cogs turned in Slytherin's half-formed mind. Clearly, he hadn’t expected any considerable pushback, which seemed to buy him some time, and exasperation. Good. Camille wanted him to feel time was wasted picking an unsolicited fight with him. The upperclassman rolled his eyes, prompting, “Which is?” regarding what Camille would rather have in return. It seemed like the older boy had abandoned the notion of attacking him for the time being, though he wouldn’t relax until he was gone, his wand still at ready, if needed. The first phrase of the long-winded rant that followed was almost hypocritical enough on its own to make him bark a laugh. “I do not stand here to engage in childish arguments nor in beseeching despair…” Then offered a loose apology for his violent threat and frankly out-of-pocket behavior, while simultaneously insulting Camille’s maturity. Alarm dwindled into incredulousness. Camille couldn’t remember ever meeting anyone with mood swings so severe it almost caused him a whiplash. Nothing about his behavior was charming. “And yet, you just did.” He tilted his head and regarded him in pitifulness. Pathetic. Despite his exasperation, Camille found it almost comedic that he tried to backtrack, calling him childish, as if it hadn’t been him who decided to pick an argument with Camille— who had been doing nothing but minding his own business until then. The pretentious Slytherin returned to the piano, glancing over his shoulder once in a while, waiting for his response. Any attempt at composure was futile. He had already revealed himself: a lonely, pathetic loser with an insanely short fuse. One or two screws loose in that weak excuse for brain of his, surely. Perhaps he even delighted in the prospect of causing pain and harm to others. A dangerous combination to be around. He possessed no ambition to diagnose him with whatever madness caused him to behave in such fashion. Neither would Camille allow himself be gaslit into thinking he was somehow at fault. He was not. The faster the boy got out of his sight, the better. What the boy hadn’t realized, or perhaps had forgotten, was Camille had no reason to comply. His mother’s memories meant nothing to him—not her loss, not his burden. If he wanted to act “mature,” pretending bargaining with Camille was beneath him, they could as well part ways forever. Camille didn’t care. He never had. Whatever trauma he had gone through would earn no sympathy from him. “You’re calling me the childish one, when you were the one going out of your way to harass a first year?” Camille scoffed, the whole thing becoming even more tragic the more he thought about it. “For someone so 'mature' as yourself,” he said with all due scorn, “don’t you have better things to do? No long-term purpose in life? No friends your own age? Well, no surprise there. I don’t blame anyone for avoiding madness. Especially someone too uncivilized to see reason before violence.” A faint, amused chuckle escaped him. However, he remained otherwise calm. “Honestly, I’d be embarrassed if I were you.” The cruel words rolled off of his tongue, leaving behind a satisfaction unmatched. Perhaps he should have chosen his words with even more careful precision, but he was already censoring several cruel--- but accurate-- remarks. Someone ought to have put this bastard in his place earlier. Alas, it had to be him. Camille was only eleven. Eleven, a brat, yes, but already more composed (when it mattered), more poised, and infinitely more talented and sharper than this pitiful excuse of a Slytherin could ever hope to be. The Frenchman sighed, nothing concrete coming to mind that he wanted from this low-life except some peace and quiet. Both were too late for now. “Anyway, I've heard your desperate pleas. I’ll consider your apology, insincerity of it aside. I’ll have to think about it,” he added, dismissive, if he felt like accepting the boy’s lackluster apology. He might even hand the documents over clean, just to get him off his back. “In the meantime, watch out for my owl.” Shrugging, he turned to leave. |
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Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
The Price of Knowing
“In the meantime, watch out for my owl.”
Archer smiled slyly. Despite Camille’s words, he had finally given in. Turns out he was all bluff himself.
With a sigh as if the action drew on his rapidly decreasing patience, Archer drew out his wand, waving it about in the air as if pondering what spell to cast, what pain to inflict for the blatant show of impertinence. Before he could cast, he shook his head elusively as if he was having second thoughts and pocketed the weapon swiftly. “I would incendio you for your lack of respect, but you’re not worth the bother.” The amount if irony in that one little tease was not lost.
As Camille left with an elegant shrug, Archer called after him: “I’ll see you around, little Frenchman.”
With that, the boy, satisfied, turned back to the black and white it the piano keys. If only the world could be as simple, yet lately his life seemed to alternate between the two drastically. From the deep depression that had plagued him over the summer, when he hardly got out of bed, to the sudden bouts of inexplicable elation he felt come the new school year, he was so befuddled by the entire predicament that he was not even enjoying his euphoria. It did not feel like true bliss, rather some odd demon possessing his spirit to do what he would never think of otherwise. Harassing an absolute stranger for documents he wasn’t even sure existed was certainly one of them. Threatening violence to a young boy barely a teenager, no matter how self-entitled and obnoxious, was another. The amount of confidence, and dare he say, audacity, this entire operation took was beyond him.
He needed to come to his senses. There was no way his younger self would look at him and not wonder who kidnapped Archer and replaced him with such a stranger.
Shaking the sudden flux of thoughts from his mind, he placed delicate fingers in the instrument, lightly tapping on the lowest note, then the highest, before trailing his fingers over the middle parts in creation of a muddled symphony. He paused for buried moments before glancing up at his book, as if uncertain where his hands were meant to go. Then he sighed, and as he played the notes to a lullaby he still remembered from his childhood, he understood the solace people found in music.
@Camille de Varenne
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht