Finished Charmed Encounters Esme

4 Sep 2025, 13:01

date: 4/9/2025
location: Charms

abilities: lovely creature
dialogue: #0a2a28
mentioned: @Esme Hestridge

The first Charms class of his first year, Camille was already going through the motions of being stuck in an environment he hated: waking up unrested from tossing and turning, spending the first hours grudging in the common room, glaring daggers at his dormmate Lorenzo, and trudging off to class. Simply doing what he had to to survive in this awful place. The ruby embellished wand handle served as proof of that Camille, at some point, had looked forward to- and been excited for his first wand, attending classes and learning to wield his magic with it. Now it felt silly to hold, with his mood in constant misery since he set his foot inside the castle. Yet another thing wasted.

The boy had spared no excitement or expectations for this class in particular. Camille was only here because he must.

That being said, even Camille’s carefully maintained disinterest couldn’t prevent him from noticing her. She was already seated, perfectly poised dressed in Slytherin robes, platinum blonde hair catching the soft light streaming through the windows. Not a strand seemed to be out of place. Not a gesture wasted. Camille’s eyes, trained to catalog beauty like currency, registered her immediately: exquisite posture, serene expression, the kind of effortless elegance that made him silently approve while simultaneously rolling his eyes at the absurdity of his own reaction. The kind of beauty that left a mark, had the potential to drive people mad. How the seat could be vacant right next to her was a mystery to him, and yet a miracle for the next upcoming hours of wandwork.

An introduction was mandatory. If he was forced to suffer through yet another uninteresting class among the drivel of his own house, the least he deserved was a beautiful bench partner, not the nuisance he had to share a bunk bed with, to make it slightly less unbearable. He ran fingers through his dark waves, then strolled down the aisle of desks with casual confidence of someone who was used to approaching beautiful girls and had never gotten rejected. Of course he hadn’t.

“Bonjour,” he said in his mother tongue, voice low but smooth, leaning just slightly toward her desk without overdoing it. An understated but effective smile adorned his face for the first time that day. Nothing up until now had been worth smiling for.

“I do hope you don’t mind if I claim the seat beside you. It seems the universe has aligned our destinies for Charms class, and who am I to argue?” Aligned by the power of the school board, more like it. Destiny was nothing more than pretentious nonesense to him, but destiny sounded more romantic.

Last edited by Camille De Varenne on 24 Apr 2026, 07:27, edited 2 times in total.

Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny

8 Sep 2025, 08:42

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----	date. 4th of september 2025, morning location. the charms classroom mentions. Esme's dormmates, the Hestridge family interacting with. @Camille De Varenne

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The very first charms class of Esme's very first year.

It was a milestone, though it seemed like everything was lately. Her dormmates, as well as every first year she met in her new common room — or, well, every first year she met so far, period — seemed to share in a boundless sense of excitement. Their first day of classes, their first breakfast, their first time getting lost on the moving stairs; everything was treated as cause for celebration, a moment to be remembered and looked back on fondly.

At first, Esme was in equally high spirits. After all, this was special, right? Her first year in a school she was meant to spend the next seven in, away from Canterbury and Dover and the white cliffs she grew up on, from England, from her whole family… from everything she knew. Scotland was entirely foreign, the air here thick with the promise of adventure. She felt the flutter of butterfly wings in her stomach as she spent her first night in the dormitories, and she continued feeling it until the morning of the next day. It remained as she chatted with her roommates. They were nice — pleasant people, if a bit awkward, but she found that she even recognized some from various events. The food served at breakfast was good, too, fresh and warm. It would have been a great first day… if not for the mail.

The owls flew overhead in the Great Hall, dropping by letters and packages from family and loved ones. A girl next to Esme got sent a gift box — a boy sat across from her, a letter so long, the envelope it was in looked bloated. And as Esme reached out to pick up the envelope that was dropped in front of her, she felt her stomach drop. The butterflies had dispersed and were attempting to fly out through her throat, if the sudden tightness she felt were any indicator, and she was suddenly very, very aware of the color of her tie.

Emerald and silver, swirled together. Slytherin.

Her family wasn't the traditional pure-blood lineage by any means; they didn't particularly pressure her about the house she would be sorted into. Her mother attended Beauxbatons, so she cared little for Hogwarts matters either way; still, Esme's father was a different story. She spent the past months since her birthday being regaled with stories of his time as a Ravenclaw, his exploits on the dueling team, the house pride he still felt… and she would be lying if she said she hadn't assumed she would be following in his footsteps. Like it was a given.

During the Sorting Ceremony, she didn't care. Hell, she felt excited to be a Slytherin, like her aunt was during her own time at Hogwarts. It felt like an opportunity — confirmation that she was meant for more. But at breakfast, eyes running over her father's words, so excited to hear how his daughter's journey to Hogwarts went, she suddenly found herself feeling less full of potential, and more like she was failing a test she hadn't known about now.

Was she not smart? Intelligent, creative, curious? Was she simply not as good as her father was at eleven?

The letter sat in her bag now, still, a whole two days later. It was placed carefully back in its envelope, the sight of the elegant cursive making her mood sour whenever she spotted it. Esme had been dreading writing the reply. It was stupid, she knew it was. Because realistically, it would be fine. It was one of the very rare moments where Esme's brain, built for and accustomed to arithmetic and formulas and logic, was overtaken by the complicated emotional side of things; a sensation as unfamiliar as it was unpleasant. It was a very ambitious thing, she supposed — this all-consuming need for proof of her own intelligence. The fact it really was such a Slytherin thing didn't make her feel any better.

She got to charms class early that day. Picked out a spot that wasn't too close to the front, but still had a good view of the board, where she assumed the teacher would be. She set up, hoping to maybe use the extra time she had to start on her response — pulled out her quill, her ink, a blank sheet of paper. Esme sat there, staring at it, for a while. Write back as soon as you get a moment, her parents had written; they were definitely waiting, and if she took any longer, they would probably start worrying. The tip of her quill hovered over the page as she debated what she wanted to write.

She was broken out of her deliberation by someone sitting down next to her. “Bonjour,” she heard the stranger greet, turning her head to make eye contact with the boy who now sat next to her. She wasn't sure if she should be relieved by the distraction or irritated by the interruption; she decided on the former. It's not like she was doing much writing, anyways.

“Of course, go ahead,” Esme replied politely to the boy's question, though it didn't seem like he would be discouraged if she didn't give her approval. She took the time to analyse him properly now: very obviously confident, he had an effortlessly high class air to him. He was taller than Esme, though not by too much, and his features screamed elite. Perfectly coiffed dark waves, an easy smile, and an expression that was just as unreadable as it was charming. Beyond that, his tie caught her attention, eyes flicking down for a brief moment, drawn by the color.

A deep blue and bronze — Ravenclaw. She swallowed hard, a pinprick of her earlier nerves returning.

Esme glanced around briefly as the boy spoke — more students were arriving now, though there was still time before the class properly began. It seemed Slytherin and Ravenclaw shared this class period; a fact that made an unpleasant feeling settle deeper in her gut. Still, this was not something she planned on troubling the boy in front of her with, returning her attention back to him.

“So it seems,” Esme laughed, tone rehearsed, perfectly polite as he mentioned something or other about their destinies being aligned; whatever he could mean by that. She reminded herself to stop staring — not blinking tended to make people wary, and isolating herself from her new benchmate during their very first class together wouldn't exactly be ideal. She extended her hand out towards him.

“My name is Esme Hestridge. It's nice to meet you.”

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thales amaro.
second year castelobruxo quidditch.

katherine townsend.
professor of charms, former thunderbird.

14 Sep 2025, 19:42

date: 4/9/2025
location: Charms

abilities: lovely creature
dialogue: #0a2a28
mentioned: @Esme Hestridge

The beautiful girl's reply came without a proper look at him, accepting his company politely rehearsed, like on autopilot. The moment the girl turned her attention towards him however, the way she was staring at him– void of any clear emotion but attentive nevertheless– Camille could practically see her mapping him out in her mind. Drawing her own conclusions about his character, some of them true, no doubt. Her eyes flicked briefly to his tie; perhaps she was weighing him by his House, though it was difficult to tell if the realization was positive or not. Camille, for reference, knew next to nothing about Slytherin to make any sort of assumptions about her based on that. If she’d had the same experience with Ravenclaws as he had, she would’ve told him to go to hell on the spot. He certainly would’ve, had their roles been reversed—if Lorenzo, for some cursed reason, tried to sit beside him. The only world in which Camille would suffer that fate was one where every other chair was taken. He wouldn’t have blamed her for it either, though it was in his best interest that she seemed blissfully unaware of just how unbearable his housemates were. She might, of course, just be better at enduring than Camille was, for the sake of courtesy.

Not wanting to give her any reasons to mistrust him– he was originally here for charms, after all– he offered her a smile that outwardly looked grateful, albeit in truth just as rehearsed as the rest of him when she approved of his company. Without hesitation, like he’d planned all along (he had), Camille set his book and supplies neatly on the desk and slipped into the seat beside her. Of course, the seat had been his to claim regardless of her answer—though asking first was the proper thing to do. His comment about destinies aligning, how stupid it might have sounded, elicited a laugh out of her. To anyone else, it might have sounded perfectly genuine– still could have been, if Camille wasn’t all too familiar with the game, making his default mode deeply suspicious of others. He wouldn’t let himself be fooled to the point of believing it, just enough to entertain it as the truth. To some, that might just be called projection. That aside, it was a pleasant sound, Camille concluded; the voice matched the face.

Learning her name for the first time– Esme Hestridge, familiar in some sense, though too far out of reach for him to make a connection to a shared past, if so was the case– she extended her hand towards him, which he shook with a firm, but not too firm, handshake. Countless high society affairs on his fathers account had taught him the proper ways to make a first impression, including the firmness of one's handshake. A silly detail to linger on, but an admittedly effective way to make a first impression.

“Merci, Esme,” he said with high effort to pronounce it the correct way, an undeniable french accent ornamenting the name, almost sensually; it was the first time that name in particular had rolled off his tongue.

“I like that. Foreign? I haven’t met anyone with that name before. I’m Camille De Varenne,” he introduced himself as an afterthought, assuming this time would be no different in terms of public recognition, though the prideful intent of saying his own name still carried.

Based on accent alone, he couldn’t place any heritage outside of the British islands. Did it matter? No. But it showed, hopefully, some common decency and interest to get to know her. Neither would he peg her appearance for typical English; the platinum blonde and pale complexion fit better the expectations of arctic climate, details he only now while sitting so close to her, got the chance to properly reflect on. Initially, purely her physical qualities had caught his eye, though on closer inspection, there was something else about her, hiding between blonde strands and allure that seemed almost palpable. Nothing he could put words to by himself, regardless. Too focused on the girl beside him, Camille paid the rest of the classroom no mind; who filled the rest of the seats, if the class was about to begin passed him by completely. Without a sign of the teacher, Camille assumed they were in no rush to cut their conversation short.

Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny

26 Sep 2025, 06:29

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The boy sat down next to her, setting out his textbook and supplies on the desk next to Esme’s. For a moment, her attention returned to her own workspace, eyes catching the quill, now with ink uselessly drying out at the tip. Well, so much for writing before class started. What a bother this letter was turning into — three days she’d been worrying over it, and all she had to show for it was a bunch of anxiety and unfinished drafts. She pushed the paper away, tucking it neatly with the rest of her school supplies, then capped the bottle of ink that sat next to it. She’d work on replying to her parents later, she decided, conveniently ignoring the fact that delaying the matter would only make it worse, the boy in front of her providing her with the perfect excuse.

Esme turned her focus back to her new benchmate. She returned the smile he gave her, the subtle curve of her lips just as practiced as the rest of her movements. Her mind cycled through the usual polite checklist. Keep your back straight and elbows by your sides — she instinctively leaned back slightly in her seat, trying for a more relaxed atmosphere to the conversation. Eye contact to show interest — measured blinking to at least try and pretend that she wasn’t staring dead straight at him in a perhaps unsettling way. She was.

The boy shook her hand. He did so with the rehearsed grip of someone older than eleven; someone who had had to repeat the movement many times. His pronunciation of both English and French was impeccable, his enunciation clean, and his voice held a note of undeniable confidence. No detail escaped Esme, and she felt reassured in her original assumption of a high class upbringing. This was the type of behavior not only learned from etiquette tutors and savoir–vivre books, but the type that was also put to use, practiced in banquet halls and ballrooms alike. Frequently, if she had to guess by just how effortless the boy made it look, especially combined with his polished appearance.

“I like that. Foreign? I haven’t met anyone with that name before.”

Esme gave an artfully noncommittal shrug of her shoulders, taking a moment to mull over the polite question. She realized that she hadn’t actually given much thought to her name or its origin, assuming it had family roots somewhere back on the English side of her family. She made a mental note of the deficiency in her own knowledge, and her brain immediately supplied the beginning of another spiral. Perhaps she really was stupid after all; perhaps if she was smart enough to have made it to Ravenclaw, she would have thought of the question earlier, and she definitely wouldn’t have let something so significant as her own name go unexplored, and the origins go entirely unexplained—

Esme cut it off before it could continue for longer than a few seconds. Stupid. Stupid, irrational insecurities not worth entertaining, she reminded herself. Especially since she’d already taken far too long to reply to such a simple question, one the boy definitely didn’t intend to cause her any such strife.

“Thank you. I’m half-Italian, on my mother’s side,” she finally said, not wanting the gap in the conversation to grow any larger. She did her best to keep her voice calm, unbothered, but figured it would probably be best practice to involve herself in the conversation further. Make a good first impression, especially if this was someone she would be seeing on a frequent basis. “You’re French, I presume?”

“Camille De Varenne…” Esme repeated his name on instinct after the boy introduced himself, her tone a soft hum. Her pronunciation wasn’t awful, definitely above average — opera demanded the command of many languages, French only one of them — but hearing it alongside Camille’s, she suddenly felt painfully English. She made a mental note to revisit the works of Lully and Rameau when she had the time. Maybe finally make the trip to the rehearsal room she’d heard Hogwarts offered. Nonetheless, the name flagged something in her mind — nothing concrete, but enough to make her go over an internal list of important families. She concluded she hadn’t met any De Varennes before, at least to her memory, but that the name was definitely familiar.

Only reassured in her decision to start this conversation off on the right foot, Esme leaned in slightly towards the boy, putting on her best smile. “De Varenne…” she repeated again, voice conveying more express interest now, “Sounds familiar. What does your family do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

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@Camille De Varenne

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thales amaro.
second year castelobruxo quidditch.

katherine townsend.
professor of charms, former thunderbird.

7 Oct 2025, 21:33

date: 4/9/2025
location: Charms

abilities: lovely creature
dialogue: #0a2a28
mentioned: @Esme Hestridge

Whoever this Esme was, it quickly became clear to him that she was not too different from himself. Her awareness of social gestures— posture, polite manners and ability to seem interested enough, even if she might not truly be— spoke for an upbringing among nobility. Finding some common ground with the girl, even if it was something so shallow and bland as socio-economic status, felt like a small condolence. Besides her captivating beauty, which was the main reason for approaching her in the first place, he was happy with his decision to sit beside her after exchanging a few polite words. Nothing monumental, but it was familiar. While they might not know each other— yet— perhaps they could. And if not, at least he had fabulous company in Charms.

Esme took a minute to consider his question, longer than perhaps was expected for such a simple query. He didn’t know what to think of the fact, except that it made her come across as more thoughtful than he would have initially assumed. Whether it was conscious on her end, he couldn’t tell. With no hurry, however, since he was stuck in the classroom no matter how long she took, Camille didn’t mind the wait this time. The boy kept his undivided attention on her, waiting with a pleasantly neutral expression until she eventually replied, “Thank you. I’m half-Italian, on my mother's side. You’re French, I presume?”

The recognition of his heritage, while obvious, made him flash her a pearly-white smile. Not in amusement, only pleasure that she had some level of culture behind her, enough to place him geographically. Being half-Italiana herself– while not the first choice he would have argued— was another way they could bond over similar heritage. His family had done business in Italy too, of course. Likewise, many talented Italian ballerinas sought their institutions to advance themselves in the artform. Camille liked Italy; the fashion was fabulous, the food was delicious, and its people friendly and obviously beautiful– with the unfortunate exception of the menace in his bunk bed, that happened to be painfully beautiful, but in no way, shape or form friendly— but during the conversation, he allowed himself to forget about his misery. It was a waste of time to think about him, when he was sitting here with someone far better.

Repeating his name as much as two times, the girl hummed softly in thoughtfulness. Recalling it to be familiar, she asked what his family did, if he didn’t mind. Interestingly enough, that was exactly the feeling Camille had when he heard her last name, though he still couldn’t tie Hestridge to a place or time in his life. With the information he’d gathered by reading between the lines and just analyzing her, it was not impossible that their families had crossed paths before.

“No mind at all,” he reassured, before confirming the obvious, “Yes, I’m French.” And he said so, proudly.

“My family owns several theatres and art institutions with ballet as the main focus. Most of them are in France, but we have some in other southern European countries, and we’re slowly expanding to the UK now.” As much as the family business didn’t interest him beyond his own training, he knew enough to give her the general run-down of it. “We- or well, my father," he said, the tone hinting at unspoken tension, "hosts these balls in Paris where new and established talents perform. Children are generally not invited, but maybe you’ve heard of it?” Camille was one of the rare exceptions, thanks to his training and status as the family Jewel.

He tried to think if there was something else, though only missing a beat in the conversation before he added, “There’s a fashion brand too, but I’m not very involved in that part of the brand.” De Varenne was as much a brand as it was his family. Sometimes it felt like it was only a brand, everything revolving around work. Except for the promise to model the garments when he was older and could fit into them properly, Camille’s involvement was restricted to ballet and song.

"What about your family?" The French boy followed up, mostly to be polite after talking about himself for so long.

Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny

19 Oct 2025, 18:34

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mentions. @Camille De Varenne.

Camille smiled, reassuring Esme he did not mind. He spoke with a practiced sense of self confidence, and a smile — pearly white, unfairly pretty — that spoke of pride, either in his heritage or in his family’s business; Esme could only assume both. She felt what was almost kinship at that. It was the same kind of pride everyone in her family had for their own culture and occupation, audible in basically every word she heard her father or her aunt utter on the topic. She presumed it was only stronger for Camille, judging by the grin, and by the fact his family’s trade was a lot more culturally connected than that of her own.

“My family owns several theatres and art institutions with ballet as the main focus…” Esme nodded along as Camille spoke. She appreciated ballet. She’d loved music since before she could walk, most of her babbling always set to some sort of made-up melody. Her mother, equally musically inclined, had introduced her to opera a few years later. A magical radio sat on the window sill in the Hestridge estate’s kitchen, and when meals were being prepared, it was not uncommon to hear Monteverdi or Bellini echo through the house. Esme’s loyalties then had always lied firmly within the realm of the lyrical, but she would be a fool to deny the connection between ballet and opera. She knew enough of history and of Les Élémens or Les Indes galantes to be sure of that.

De Varenne… Esme considered the name once again, trying to recall anything as the syllables turned over in her mind. She must have heard of it, she decided — perhaps when she was younger, and her family made their way south more often, they had attended one of the esteemed theatres. The balls rang less familiar, but if children were not invited, it was not something she would expect herself to have a grasp on. Whatever the case might have been, she recognized the name and business enough to pieux mensonge her way through any further small talk if need be; not enough to actually want to do so. Camille had moved on quickly enough, and she gave another placid, well-meaning nod.

“I’m sure I’ve heard the name, yes. My mother adores the theatre,” Esme simply said, keeping her tone calm and self-assured, on the verge of tipping over into bored; hoping not to invite any further questions. Figuring the best way to not even inspire the thought would be flattery, she didn’t let Camille speak, tilting her head to the side. “Really? You’re not involved?” Esme’s voice turned saccharine, barely dusted with just enough surprise to try and make it sound genuine. “Color me surprised. You have an absolutely immaculate sense of style— a certain, hm, je ne sais quoi. Would that be correct to say?” She permitted herself a chuckle, tone tilting towards teasing. "My knowledge of French remains imperfect."

Perhaps she was laying it on thick — it wouldn’t matter, as long as it worked. At least for now, the objective was to leave Camille with a good, if not outstanding, first impression, made only easier by the fact the conversation — however simple so far — was turning out to be quite nice. Camille was proving a perfectly pleasant pastime while she tried not to think about the letter she remained stuck on. Reining in her thoughts and not spiraling was far easier when she had something to focus on. Her eyes remained trained on his face, observing for the reaction; only releasing when it was time for her to speak.

“Oh, we're in the potion trade,” Esme said, pulling herself back, leaning away slightly. “Ingredients and brewing on an industrial scale. We did open some new offices in France just this summer, actually,” Her voice had switched, too, back to the same bored kind of pride and self-assurance it held before; as if all this was obvious, commonplace, tedious. Usually a way to at least try and be covert while bragging, learnt in ballrooms and attending dinners; now, just a way for Esme to quickly move onto further flattery.

“Nothing quite as interesting as what your family does, I’m afraid,” she said, “Ballet is such a gorgeous art form.”

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notes.
apologies about the wait + quality on this!!
been a busy start to uni, should get better soon : )

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thales amaro.
second year castelobruxo quidditch.

katherine townsend.
professor of charms, former thunderbird.

24 Oct 2025, 23:12

date: 4/9/2025
location: Charms

abilities: lovely creature
dialogue: #0a2a28
mentioned: @Esme Hestridge

Esme briefly mentioned her mother’s fondness for theatre, but quickly moved on to butter him up with flattery before Camille could ask any follow up questions about it. Her tone, coupled with the swift change of subject, offered no invitation for further conversation, which suited him just fine. Not that he had planned to; he found little interest in other people’s interests — at least not people he didn’t know personally, or cared about. Currently, Esme was one of the rare exceptions by proximity, the only pearl among pebbles; the same intrigue did not extend to her mother.

While not a stranger to flattery and the most desperate kind of ass-kissing, Camille raised his eyebrows in mild surprise when the girl proceeded to compliment his style. The rest of his face hovered somewhere between neutral and a pleasant preen. He agreed with everything she said, of course; his style— his whole presentation— was nothing short of fabulous, but it was difficult to discern how much of her sugar-coated praise stemmed from genuine admiration and how much from the new awareness of his family’s status. Granted, she might have assumed based on his character, that compliments were the safest bet to disarm him. If so, it was an accurate assumption. His impression of her improved, if possible.

He decided that he didn’t care about the motive. Camille was pleased to hear it nevertheless. Hearing her add the little french phrase, instead of the disease of the tongue called English, was also a nice surprise. That was an exaggeration; Camille’s English was, compared to many French, exceptional. Still, it was clear that he preferred his own language. Some might say it was romantic— he could technically see where that came from, even if it wasn’t the main reason. Most of all, it had a certain amount of class and sophistication that others lacked. That was his opinion, which he would stand by until the day he died. He was pleasantly surprised, though she quickly clarified that her French knowledge was limited. With the girl allowing herself a slip of casualty, the French boy let himself relax the facade slightly in return. His posture, while still immaculate, turned more languid in his chair, resting his arm on the backrest to lean towards her slightly. Not enough that he would suddenly spill his heart out — though a melodic chuckle escaped him at her teasing words. He would have been more surprised if she had turned out to be fluent. With the unfortunate exception of his cousin, he hadn’t met anyone at Hogwarts who spoke his language.

The boy knew next to nothing about the logistics behind potion trade. In all honesty, he thought it sounded incredibly dull business, though plenty of gold to collect, he supposed. Nothing he would bother Esme with, not wanting to come across as rude. Camille nodded, looking impressed enough to seem genuinely interested about what went on behind the Hestridge scenes. Without him having to say anything about it however, she had already changed the subject back to him and his family. Camille was proud, sure, but beyond talking about himself and his own achievements, the majority involving the “family business” was just mind-numbing small talk he might as well live without.

Almost praising, he addressed her french, “Ouais, c’est vrai.”¹ Camille studied her, gaze lingering on her blue eyes tinted with grey. If asked to describe the color, he might have said they resembled a fog-covered frozen lake. He smirked subtly, teasing her in return. Suspecting her limited knowledge ended there, he switched back to English. “Not terrible pronunciation, either.”

Regarding his own involvement — or lack thereof, he said with a hint of jest, “You flatter me. With the hours I’m spending in the studio, there’s little time for anything else. If I have time off, I’d rather indulge in something more pleasurable.”

Camille didn't care to explain, letting her interpret his words whatever way she fancied. Play, at his age, was mostly what that meant, though his social circle was extremely limited. Outside of school, he could count his age-appropriate friends on less than five fingers. Inside of these castle walls, that was a completely different story. With his current record, it would be a miracle if he had one, at the end of this school year. Neither now did it seem like Esme was particularly interested in discussing potions trade. Not that he had much to offer in that regard, if she had decided to dive into the different potions ingredients and their potency… Or whatever the business entailed. Having no clear grasp on the market, he couldn’t tell what the current status was like in France either, where they apparently had opened their first bureaus this summer.

“Potion trade? I can't claim I know much about it, but with the market price on Unicorn horns, imagine there’s a lucrative market for that. Paris, perhaps? Let’s hope it proves rewarding." The end results wouldn't affect him regardless, he was just being polite.

"I suppose if they spend half as much on potions as they do on fashion and culture, you'll be spending the rest of your days on a beach in Bali by Christmas.”

Despite himself, he could indulge in some humor, as long as it wasn’t purely on his own expense. He could sacrifice the rest of the French population for that. Camille glanced her over, offering a subtle smile to make it less incriminating, hopefully more flattering; everything about her disposition screamed wealth. Then again, with her air of untouchable poise, there had been no question about whether she came from a rich background or not, new offices aside.

"If you ever cared to practice on your French, though, I'd be glad to help you." He offered finally, hoping to keep in contact with her, one way or another.

1. Yeah, that's right.

Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny