Excuse My French
If there is one collective conjecture of most all wizardkind, taken for granted and so deeply ingrained into their society that it is surely impossible to ever fully dispel, even with effort that will undoubtedly never come, it is their unquestionable superiority over the more magically mundane of their species. Muggles.
The word carries with it, for the majority of wizards and witches, a certain patent taste. Not outright antagonism - no, that would suggest a level of regard they do not pay. Perhaps a more accurate euphemism would be one’s feelings towards a simple cat or dog, attempting to mimic their actions. They would never be remotely close in level, but the effort is commended.
Rafal is a pure-blood through and through, brought up where household chores are completed by an invisible force, sports synonymous to broomsticks and magic. But as the second year makes his way up the winding staircase reaching the top of the West Tower where the Hogwarts Owlery resides, heels dragging on grotty stone, he cannot help but wonder at the true validity of that belief. Surely, these self-proclaimed all-knowing masters of sorcery could have managed to devise a more efficient system than owls?
Wizards had been relying on their pets for message relay for thousands of years, and if things went on at this rate, they would for the next millennium. He is no expert on Muggle inventions, but did the lot not at some point, concoct some sort of freak magic, sending messages in the blink of an eye? In his twelve-year-old humble opinion, actually magical folk really ought to take a page out of that book.
Whatever. He may just be in an elusory mood today. The Owlery is a common destination for most students, yet the Slytherin had never really been one of that bunch till now. Recent developments, mainly taking place over the unexpectedly eventful summer, can be blamed for his sudden presence here. He does not want to think too much into anything relating to the occurrences, does not wish to let his mind wander to the punctiliously crafted letter clutched tightly between fingers and getting rapidly more crumpled by the minute.
There are three levels to the owlery, and Rafal finds himself in the rudimentary landing as he at last arrives. The second year supposes it is possibly not his first ever visit here, though he does survey the surroundings with far more heed. Maybe he is attempting to put off the inevitable mailing of his message, perhaps he just wants to make sure to choose the best possible owl for the journey. Everyone knows fuchsia coloured owls make the best long-distance travellers, so it is absolutely vital that he picks one of that shade. It is for the good of everyone involved.
And from an elementary quick scan up to the middle two platforms (yes, of course he can see from this level!), it looks as if there are none meeting his requisites! Ah, what a shame. Looks like Rafal shall simply have to come back another day, when those specific owls are back from their travels. A short and sharp exhale of breath as he crumples the paper in his hand with far too much vigour than is necessary, Rafal spins back to face the direction whereby he came.
Interacting with @Camille De Varenne
All your blues like a mood ring changing colours
Excuse My French
| C | date: 20th October, 2025 location: Owlery |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Rafal Devereux |
C |
| CV | The end of October was fast approaching; the leaves had turned crisp and bright—orange, red, and yellow painting the grounds and the trees that still clung to their last signs of life before winter buried the landscape beneath a blanket of snow. Camille had never experienced a truly white winter in his life; back in Windsor, rain and grey skies were to be expected, meanwhile the south of France remained too mild and warm to drop to the appropriate degrees. It was colder here up north, however; the crisp autumn air that bit at his cheeks on his stroll to the Owlery carried a promise of something different. Suppose only time would tell, but it was already cold enough that he regretted not adding another layer before venturing out. On this particular October afternoon, Camille was not visiting the Owlery tower in utter despair in hopes of reaching his father’s mercilessly cold heart, with another one of his heartfelt (desperate) letters. The boy had learned the hard way what happened then, acutely aware of the demon he was running from in the very halls of this institution, the result of his last dramatic demand to be sent back home. Since he was still here, it clearly hadn’t had the intended effect. “Good mood” might be an overstatement to call his current state, though he climbed the stairs with a surprisingly relaxed stride. Neatly folded in his hands was a designer order form filled out in french, asking for a tailored, blood red suit in particular for his Halloween costume. With the Halloween event just a little more than a week away, a decision to join he’d made on a whim, Camille needed to sort out his costume before it was too late. The suit itself did not qualify for costume, not that any reputable designer brand would ever advertise their fashion as jests anyway, it was the tiny red devils-horns he’d wear on his head that would make and break his ensemble. Camille always aimed to be best dressed in a room, in this case it did not necessarily mean by being the scariest. The holiday wasn’t important enough for him to purchase an outfit for that alone. At least this suit would find more use than one night among questionable company that couldn’t appreciate true art (him) when they saw it. Climbing the last set of stairs, reaching the entrance to the ground level, he didn’t make it further than to the doorframe. Eyes sharp and growing wider by the second, his gaze swept the floor of the owlery. Everywhere he turned, the floor was soiled with owl droppings. One burning question echoed in his mind. Has it always been this filthy? Camille asked himself, horrified. The French boy had been here more than a few times in the last month, yet he'd have been too caught up in his own rage and sorrows to pay enough attention to the interior. How on earth that was even possible was beyond him. Shaking his head— he did not want to imagine that he’d waltzed right into the building back then, when it still looked like this— Camille clutched the order form tighter between his fingers, refusing to move a step unless it was the same way he'd come from. He had no intention of walking inside and risked him stepping the soles of his fabulous leather shoes in piles of bird-poop. Camille had not even noticed that he wasn’t alone with the birds, until another boy turned around to leave the Owlery. Registering him for the first time, he catalogued the boy; blonde hair, moderately attractive at first glance, if not a bit scruffy. He seemed to be around his own age— he would do. Other options were sparse. “You,” he addressed the boy, purposefully albeit with a soft tone. Reaching out an arm, he gently brushed his hand on the front of his outerwear to stop him from leaving too soon. If this boy had been one of the unfortunate people to have run into him any other day, he would have quickly discovered that Camille could be far less pleasant in his demands. The softness of his voice and warm enough smile that followed, was proof that he had decided to at least try to make an effort this time, before he scared him off for good. Previous experiences had shown that things tended to escalate quickly whenever he didn’t bother to put on the public mask. Sometimes that was the least of his concern, but today he did not want to stall. He retreated his fingers and held the order form out towards him instead, flashing him a charming, rather hopeful smile. “I need to send this, but I would rather not step foot in there.” Gesturing to the floor behind him, his lip curled in mild disgust. The point was made. “Would you be so kind and post this for me? I would very much appreciate it.” |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Excuse My French
He is not alone. It is this realisation which slaps the Slytherin in the face most mercilessly and with no previous foresight, yet apparent at once upon spinning around in his intention to at last, embrace the most enticing - however ineffective in the long run - state of denial with wide open arms and leave this ghastly place behind. It is truly of great contrition to Rafal, that just when he should, after great agony and anguished rumination alike, finally make up his mind to deal with his existing woe by burying the safe containing it six feet deep underground and vowing never to step foot on the soil ever again - here comes the next item on the itinerary, only he must take it upon himself to make the countless necessary entombment preparations all over again. It is a bloody damned loop. And with no breather in between, which would hardly have been objected to!
People are great. Are you kidding? Rafal loves people! Big, small, young, old. Magicked and regular. Bearded and non-bearded. Whichever type alluded, he is utterly and whole-heartedly an avid supporter of the human species as a whole. Pro-mankind, without doubt. Folks are unequivocally phenomenal. The flavour of life, as they say. He is a big fan.
However, not when the individual in question is the sole witness of what can only be chronicled as a most singular and isolated case of some haply abnormal behaviour. As Rafal freezes sharp in any movements and blinks, blankly and rather in a dumbfounded manner at the unbidden intruder, several arbitrary thoughts make their way to the front of his mind, in subsequent to each other. First, and perhaps the most overriding concern at the moment - when the hell did anyone get here? Fine, it is possible the second year’s attention had been somewhat more divided than usual, sue him, twelve year olds are immensely angsty - still, it is frankly distressing to consider that relatively large modifications to such close surroundings may have been overlooked. Merlin’s beard, what in the world is happening to him?
The next mental query on his list is even less pleasant to contemplate, if possible. In a world where plants make their best effort to strangle their caretakers on a daily basis, and the common household puppy possesses twin tails, the word strange has plainly lost all meaning. Nevertheless, the series of continuous events which consists, in a nutshell, of marching into the owlery as if entasked with some great and salient mission, casting barely two seconds’ sweeping glance over the rows upon rows of available messengers, then immediately spinning back round and making to leave; it is certainly not reassuring of Rafal’s mental facilities to an alien onlooker.
Ultimately, the depth of the potential impression of disturbance the Slytherin may or may not have given to this foreign peer is entirely dependant on the exact period of his friend’s presence in the room, and sadly, that is one factor Rafal has no hang of, whatsoever. And as such, he shall simply have to wing it. This delightful kaleidoscope of postulations runs through his mind in a few beats, lasting around the same measure as his candour countenance of startlement. And as it turns out, this is the exact time this newcomer requires to formulate his own linguistics.
Rafal raises an eyebrow somewhat inadvertently at his associate’s extremely specific mode of address, one which leaves no room for doubt as to the addressee. And as if the pointed word, along with the utter lack of a third soul anywhere nearby does not already make this element as crystal as could be, an accompanying hand reaches out to brush against the Slytherin’s outwear. Somewhat redundant, but Rafal cannot truthfully express much internal opposition for this particular motion, at least any that adds to the vexation which was already there. Is he heterosexual? Probably. Is the face which accosts him one of starkly astonishing comeliness? Probably. Yes.
Almost involuntarily, the second year’s hand raises to point a finger loosely at his own chest, in a manner that almost seems to silently implore a dubious, "Me?" This slightly dazed state is hardly standard for Rafal, but there is something about this boy. Something distracting, something arresting. He cannot place the exact quality of it just yet, though he can recognise, even being so much more thrown off than usual, that it is not a feeling which is wholly unfamiliar. Or specifically, the spread is more concentrated at Hogwarts. There have been no few instances where fellow pupils have brought with them this particular disconcerting air, almost as if these select students hold some sort of special ability. Rafal almost laughs out loud at the notion he arrives at, which would have been most ill-suited in his current situation. Utterly ridiculous, but wouldn’t that really be something?
A progressing development in his current interaction brings Rafal back to earth. He looks down, and there is an … envelope? No, not that upon closer inspection, though one cannot really blame the Slytherin for his assumption. Most people come to owleries with a letter sealed tight, ready to mail, after all. As it turns out, this boy cannot be counted amongst that mass. The article presented so courteously by his pleasant company is instead what appears to be a singular piece of paper, jotted with writings and overall condition most impeccable, almost to the point of absurdity. So to sum up, quite befitting Rafal’s impression of its author thus far.
He listens along to his company’s accompanying explanations, and nods along habitually. Fair enough, he supposes. Rafal does find the boy’s aversion of what is the most negligible bit of squalor slightly (extremely) absurd, but the two of them do not know each other nearly well enough for him to voice this opinion. It’s this fellow’s aristocratic business, not his to prod.
"'Course, my pleasure," Accepting the offered sheet of paper, Rafal shoots the intruder a reciprocating smile. Might as well do a nice deed for a fellow classmate. There is likely not anybody keeping score, but what’s the harm in a little bit of a good dead once in a while? As he glances down automatically at the contents of the package entrusted to him, a distinct detail cannot help but jump out. Or more specifically, the language used in the crisp scribbles upon the page, bringing out a rusted memory from within the depths of his mind.
He speaks almost without thinking. "Hey, would that happen to be French?"
Interacting with @Camille De Varenne
All your blues like a mood ring changing colours
Excuse My French
| C | date: 20th October, 2025 location: Owlery |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Rafal Devereux |
C |
| CV | At first, the boy only stared at him in a way Camille interpreted as dumbfounded, seemingly startled by his order, his presence, or perhaps a combination of the two. Nothing about his reaction was so far out of the ordinary that it deserved a second thought; Camille was so used to being the center of attention in a room— often demanding it— that glances of admiration or glares of envy were commonplace. In this case, he didn’t dwell on whether the prolonged staring was positive or not. As far as he was concerned, time would tell, if he chose to be cooperative. Camille’s ego preferred affirmation, but it wasn’t a necessity. In almost a comical display, the addressee raised one finger, pointed it at his chest like he couldn’t quite believe it to be true, or at the very least, seemed uncertain if he was Camille’s target audience. The silent question of his gesture made Camille’s face light up in amusement, the corners of his mouth curled upward, eyebrows lifting slightly from their usual prominent spot. Who else, in this empty (and filthy) owlery, could he be talking to but the blonde in front of him? Camille didn’t deem it necessary to repeat himself, when the inquiry was quite obviously stated. Eventually realizing the reason he had been stopped in his tracks, though still looking as confused, the blonde glanced down at the neatly-written form between them. Unexpectedly, instead of giving him some poor excuse, the stranger politely replied "'Course, my pleasure," and then proceeded to accept the form from him. Camille handed it over, pleasantly surprised by his willingness to be of assistance. Not only was he surprised by the boy’s willingness to help, but by the smile he offered, which made him reconsider his earlier judgment of him as merely moderately attractive. Leaning back, he tilted his head a bit to the left, curious, almost as if he was seeing him in a new light. Perhaps he had judged too harshly; the boy deserved more recognition. It was the first time he’d met him, granted, his first impressions at this school so far had been underwhelming. One thing he’d learned these recent months was that you never knew what imbeciles he'd run into, what lousy attitude he’d be given while doing the most mundane tasks. In this instance, Camille thought it was miraculous luck that just this wavy-haired blonde had picked the same time and date to visit the owlery as himself. Looking at the form, the boy asked if it was French. The Ravenclaw boy blinked; he had not expected him to recognize the language from such a brief glance— or at all. “It is,” Camille confirmed, further intrigued, albeit with subtle caution in his tone. As much as he would never admit it, he was beginning to warm up to the idea of entertaining smalltalk with him. He'd been nice enough to accommodate, that was more than you could say for the majority he'd met. Clearly, he could not be a native if he had to ask, but perhaps he was not intending to insult him, only curious to learn more. “Thank you for your help. What’s your name?” A question merely asked in courtesy. Ever proud to share his mother tongue and culture with those he considered deserving the effort, Camille followed up, “Why the interest? Do you speak French?” |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Excuse My French
Is it just him, or does this peculiarly enchanting fellow seem to be loosing a tad up as the pair’s interactions advance further on? Granted, Rafal is hardly well acquainted with the lad, and the scarce few seconds of exchanges under his belt thus far have mostly been invested in committing much of his companion’s countenance to memory as he can manage - in an extremely normal and strictly pragmatic manner, naturally, and it’s only since he has no handle on whether he shall ever come to find himself in this peer’s company again. And it truly would be a shame for all that to slip from his mind’s eye.
But no, Rafal can recognize the telltale signs of begrudging amusement (subtly lifted eyebrows, mouth lightly curved upwards and the such), and the fella is doubtless exhibiting all those minuscule indications. And… is that a good thing? The Slytherin’s addled mind cannot come to a definite conclusion at the very moment. After all, laughing with you and at you are two completely different things. Though wholeheartedly, he does not think that in this case, he would mind either to a very great extent.
He is pleased to hear that his suspicions had been correct, that this increasing enigmatic young chap is indeed conversing to some unknown soul in the most winsome language of France. Well, he sneaks a quick glance at the student once more and thinks, this new piece of information certainly fits with the whole aesthetic he’s got going on. And it is one Rafal is certainly not opposed to, in the slightest.
Gaze unconsciously dropping back to the thin paper in his hands, the second year vaguely attempts to discern some of the words scribbled onto the fitted lines. "Ah, you’re very welcome. Rafal Devereux, charmed to make your acquaintance." He looks up and offers a polite smile, holding out a hand to shake.
"And as for the French, I do know just a little bit. Read a few books, but never really actually got anywhere." Truly, the Slytherin had tried his utmost; but at the end of the day, there’s only so far one can go in their language skills without any actual real-life practice. Plus, it does grow to be rather exhausting, never knowing if your pronunciation is correct or the furthest thing off from actuality. And it’s not like a whole lot of chances to chat with the French come by for him. He looks to his associate with a new air of appraisal, head tilting. "Since you’re obviously pretty adept in the language, I’m guessing… French parent? Or is it more like a, relocation sort of situation?"
And now there’s just one thing he needs to make sure of, before Rafal can set out for the task he had first been entrusted with. "And uh, by any chance, this," he holds up the boy’s letter, "is not some sort of ingredient list for a satanic ritual, is it? I mean, I would still totally help you, cause I did say so. Because…" he pauses for a moment, considering. "I kinda did see something about a devil in there. So you can see how that would kinda keep me up at night."
Interacting with @Camille De Varenne
All your blues like a mood ring changing colours
Excuse My French
| C | date: 20th October, 2025 location: Owlery |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Rafal Devereux |
C |
| CV | “Rafal Devereux,” the boy introduced himself and offered his hand. Camille glanced down at the older boy's slightly larger, paler hand, still childishly smooth-skinned from lack of physical labour, stretched out towards him. He pretended to consider it for a second, the corners of his mouth tugging lightly into a smirk. Meeting Rafal's eyes again, he accepted the handshake with a firm but graceful hand. A French name, he noted with subtle interest. It was the second French-sounding student he had run into at Hogwarts, a noteworthy experience, much like the previous one, in case this boy, too, was someone from a shared past. Doubtful, yet he found himself surprisingly willing to broaden his cultural circle. Camille racked his brain to search for any trace of familiarity; alas, nothing stirred. It mattered little, perhaps for the better, sparing himself the potential embarrassment of unmet expectations. “Camille De Varenne,” he introduced himself, then let Rafal continue. For a brief moment, discussing their shared interest in French culture felt like a breath of fresh air he hadn’t realized he needed. Urgent business aside, Camille was willing to continue to entertain the boy for a while longer, listening to him recalling attempts at reading a few books, an effort admirable enough, though clearly limited. Still, it was enough to impress him, more than could be said for the rest of the castle, except for the darling Rosaline, whom he’d offered to help grasp the language after witnessing her struggle with the basics. “Mhm, I wouldn’t call reading a few books ‘not going anywhere’,” Camille mused, amused by his previous modest understatement. Of course, without further questioning, it was hard to truly gauge his proficiency. "Since you’re obviously pretty adept in the language, I’m guessing… French parent? Or is it more like a, relocation sort of situation?" Rafal guessed. Adept was one way of putting it; his guesses were otherwise not far-fetched. Only the detail about both parents being French was off. His attention turned back to the order form when Rafal held up the letter, cheekily wanting to reassure himself there were no sinister intentions behind it that would keep him up at night, now that he’d agreed to help. The suggestion that Camille would engage in something so absurd as satanic rituals drew a laugh out of him, one that lasted for a second or two, leaving a slightly amused smile lingering behind. He recognized it for a joke his planned costume invited, one that was quite creative, and further proved that he could grasp the context. Sweeping a stray lock of hair out of his face and back into place, Camille reassured him: “You can rest assured, there’s no sinister intent behind it. Just a Halloween costume. I’m the Devil,” he said lightly, indulging the joke. Whether there was more to read between the lines, literally or symbolically, Rafal could interpret it as he wished. Camille rarely felt the need to clarify, he was simply engaging in play. “Although… If you’re losing sleep over me… well, that’s hardly my concern.” He shrugged nonchalantly, albeit with a teasing smirk, as if the idea of being the cause for Rafal’s restless sleep might even amuse him. Returning to the topic of his own heritage, Camille explained his connection to French culture. “You’re not completely wrong, except that both my parents are French. We did move to Windsor just a few years ago.” In case Rafal wondered what exactly had brought them, he added lightly, “Business,” not wanting to elaborate on the topic. Camille sighed with a theatrical heaviness. “It’s largely uninteresting, I wouldn’t want to bore you. Your name though, Rafal Devereux,” he repeated slowly, almost intimately, “sounds very French.” |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny