Vanity and Ruin Esme

5 Nov 2025, 18:26

date: 25/10/2025
location: Corridors

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

The autumn landscape outside the Ravenclaw tower windows were still hidden in darkness when Camille woke up that morning. Being up before the sun was not nearly as criminal now when they were on the bridge of winter, as it had been a few months ago. It was the weekend, a time most tended to sleep in. Unfortunately, Camille found little rest in this castle; he was still the first one to climb out of bed, the rest of his dormmates sound asleep. Camille was expecting a delivery this morning, if the estimated date was correct. Not more than five days had been promised, which would be this Saturday. Considering the amount he was paying extra for priority delivery, he expected them to uphold their promises by having it dropped off in the Great Hall this morning with the rest of the mail. Previous that week, on Monday the twentieth of October to be exact, Camille had made an owl order for his Halloween outfit, which in all actuality wasn’t so much a costume as it was fancy party wear. There had been no mistakes made, just conscious fashion decisions.

Since the other boys were still snoring behind their curtains, Camille took his time showering, picking out an outfit for the day: a cream-colored cableknit with a deep teal v-neck ribbing for accent, a perfect color match to his fitted trousers. Dressed and wearing his signature fragrance, he prepared the finishing touches by his antique vanity, combing his hair into the perfect sweep. The piece of furniture was one of many new additions to the dorm that Camille had arranged delivery for, two months ago, to make the space feel more him. Along the vanity was also a portrait of himself, framed by mahagony. The redecoration had received criticism in the form of annoyed sighs and dangerous glares, which Camille brushed off as insignificant, yet expected, jealousy. He too, would feel terribly envious if he (god forbid) was one of the unfortunate-faced boys he shared a room with, forced to see his perfect visage on the wall every morning and night, reminding them of how much they were lacking in.... well, everything, compared to him. He didn’t pity them enough to put it down, however. Why would he, when it was the one thing keeping him sane these days.

After he had dressed and attended to his sacred morning routine, by grooming himself into perfection to prepare for another day of unexpected chaos and disappointments, the castle was beginning to stir. The corridors were still sparsely populated as he moved unhurriedly toward breakfast. Regardless of what the morning would offer, he was certain the morning’s post would bring precisely what he’d paid for. As he arrived at the Great Hall, Camille sat down by the Ravenclaw table to eat what he could stomach, not making any significant conversation with anyone nearby. Since he was one of the earlier risers, there was plenty of opportunity to sit alone, if he so desired. He threw a wary eye in the direction of the Hufflepuff table, pleased to see that his menace for cousin must still be rotting in the barrel at this time, for she was not anywhere to be seen. Between spoonfuls of rice pudding, he glanced over his shoulder every so often. That one time Harlan had grabbed him and lifted him off the table in front of everyone had traumatized him— the mere thought of it happening again was mortifying enough to make him shudder.

When the owls finally arrived, he spotted a snowy owl, collaborating with a barn owl to carry a large package. That could only be his, the box was too fabulous to belong to anyone else; the box was in the shape of a book, the cover smooth sage velvet, tied together with a satin ribbon in the same color value. The embossed brand logo at the top confirmed it after it was dropped delicately in front of him. Camille ran his hand over the velvet, quietly admiring the luxurious packaging, probably half of the cost of the whole order all in all, though it was fine details like this that made life a little less insufferable. The boy had not been in any particular hurry, though as he heard the grating voice of his cousin's friends disgraced the hall with their loud, flamboyant presence, Camille decided that this breakfast was long overdue.

“Oi, Cami!” The most insufferable one of them, David, shouted to get his attention.

Absolutely not. Calmly, he stood up, placing the package under his arm and turned towards the door. He wouldn’t have run regardless, but when he heard Juliette’s entourage shout after him— something that could have been expected on the filthy streets of New York, not at breakfast— Camille rolled his eyes and picked up his pace. The last thing he desired this morning, or any morning, for that matter, was to get stuck listening to their inappropriate commentary. He walked with purpose, straight ahead as he exited through the large doors, rounding left up the stairs as he reached the reception hall, the usual way to get to the Ravenclaw tower. After walking the same route for months, Camille walked past one floor where some archaeological discoveries were displayed without much thought. The castle was quieter than usual at this hour, a welcome reprieve before the day’s inevitable disturbances. That calm, however, was abruptly interrupted.

A sudden screech and motion right in front of him had him stop in his tracks. His heart made a surprised leap, his whole body jolting backwards. Wild cackles echoed against the stone walls. Bewildered, his gaze darted around the ceiling, landing in a transparent figure in the air with spiky hair and ancient fashion, roughly resembling a clown of sorts. A poltergeist. Of course, Camille sighed, rolling his eyes in annoyance at his own reaction when he realized it was one of those irritating ghouls. Ghosts were not an unfamiliar concept to him, though he did not enjoy animate being that were not alive but acted like they were. No one would find Camille speaking to portraits, nor would he entertain spirits. The poltergeist was circling a marble bust of some long-forgotten wizard, apparently delighted at the prospect of destruction. Clutching his package firmer, his jaw set, he had intended to ignore the ominous thing and move on, when something heavy and delicate shattered against marble.

The sound of cracking stone and splintering marble made him flinch, and Camille’s hazel eyes immediately darted to the source. The bust he had passed only moments ago now lay in pieces across the floor, fragments scattered in a careless explosion. The poltergeist hovered above, spinning and cackling like a complete madman. Camille squinted at the spectacle. “Shattered! Crushed! Obliterated! And whose brilliant idea was it, hm? Who, pray tell, is the architect of this magnificent disaster?! Ah yes… you! Vanity incarnate! Lord of Perfume! Keeper of the Perfect Hair! Yes, it is your fault, every last shard of marble, every splintered piece cries your name! Do you deny it? Speak, little lord, or confess! Your package, your elegant gait, your very being summoned this chaos! Dare you escape responsibility? I think not! YOU… broke the bust!”

Lord of…? Camille gaped at it. The poltergeist continued to taunt him with the most outrageous things he’d heard; why, he didn’t know. It was like he’d decided to make him today’s victim for harassment. For no reason! He shook his head, narrowing his eyes at the ghost while seething. “You dirty little-” Camille began, about to say some carefully chosen words as his temper got the better of him, albeit biting his tongue at the last second to not lash out. It’s not worth it, he thought. If anyone saw him fight a poltergeist, he feared he'd never live it down.

He wouldn’t give it the satisfaction, no matter how irritating. Taking a deep breath, Camille carefully side-stepped the pieces of debris in front of him. Footsteps echoed in the stone around him, perhaps a professor was summoned by the commotion. Nothing that would have bothered Camille, it wasn’t any of his interior design ruined, nor was it his doing. Only the damn spirit evaporated out of sight before he could make his exit, leaving behind only him and a broken bust as sole evidence. Putain. If anyone saw him now, they'd put the blame on him.

“Damned poltergeist,” Camille cursed after being framed as the catalyst, ripping out his wand out of his pocket to fix the mess before anyone could wrongfully blame him.

Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny

7 Nov 2025, 13:06

✧

location. the corridors.
date. 25th of october, morning.
mentions. @Camille De Varenne.

Esme’s days were ruled by numbers.

Since she was a child, every minute of her time was accounted for. When she was younger, it was thanks to tutors and her parents. Private lessons in all manner of subjects took up most of her hours; the rest of her time was spent with her family. Banquets, balls, galas, and other events were always a part of her family’s calendar, marked with both when they were happening and how long her parents expected them to take. Esme always had an idea of what her day would look like, and she had grown used to the security it gave.

After getting her letter and officially becoming a Hogwarts student, the responsibility had fallen to Esme herself to organise her time. With the assistance of her class schedule, she had developed a strict routine which she always adhered to, one she seldom even considered adjusting for any unforeseen events. No matter the day of the week, she went to sleep at ten and woke up at six sharp; she spent forty five minutes to the second getting ready, and arrived at breakfast exactly five minutes before seven o’clock. She took around half an hour to finish eating, allowing herself anywhere from five to fifteen minutes of wiggle room to speak with any fellow Slytherins at her table whose company she happened to enjoy. On Tuesdays and Fridays, she took another ten minute detour to the Gryffindor table to greet her cousin.

Then, it was back to the Dungeons and Esme’s dorm room to go through and double check her bag was packed. She was usually then left with an extra half hour she usually spent reading, before she left and engaged in an equally rigorously scheduled day of classes and activities. Saturdays were no exception — though there were no classes for her to attend, she treated her extracurriculars and social appointments with the same dedication she did her academics. Be it chess, time spent outside, or her vocal lessons, there was always something for her to do.

There were exactly two times Esme had deviated from her meticulously planned routine. One was halfway through September, when she had spent an inordinate amount of her free time trying to find an ever elusive dueling captain; the other was three weeks ago, when she was encouraged (read: forced by her father and his unrelenting enthusiasm;) to speak with one Cecilia Merrick. Neither of these did she particularly enjoy, and instead took them only as confirmation that disrupting her detailed regimen was not worth it.

Since being appointed as prefect of Slytherin last Monday, Esme had been forced to push her schedule; a change she had not been particularly comfortable with. Patrolling was the main problem she had to face, and as the week approached its end, she still hadn’t found a way that combined her new duties with all the activities and appointments she planned throughout the week. She was already dreading when she’d have to give someone detention for the first time: as fun as it would have been to see a certain annoying red-head scrubbing windows or having to clean the Great Hall tables without the use of magic, it meant Esme would be forced to spend at least two hours supervising said annoying red-head. Spending more time than she absolutely had to in close proximity to Cecilia was a fate she would rather avoid.

Esme still attempted to keep to her schedule as best she could. At least until she figured out a new way to organise her days, it was really the only thing she could do. She still woke up at six sharp, took exactly forty five minutes getting ready, and arrived at the Great Hall five minutes before breakfast was served. She took her half hour to eat a scone and some fruit without rushing, then went back down to the Slytherin dormitories to double check her bag. While there, Esme made the difficult decision to sacrifice her reading time and instead get some more vocal warm ups in; her singing took the hardest hit from all her new duties. She barely had time to get into the rehearsal room the past few days, and it felt only right to try and make up the difference now that she had a somewhat lighter Saturday.

Esme was on her way up to the fourth floor, willing the moving stairs to be in her favor this morning, when she heard a loud crash. Her head whipped around immediately to the side corridor that the sound had come from, blinking slightly at just how sudden it had been. It still wasn’t even eight in the morning, and the halls of Hogwarts were quiet. It was the weekend, after all; most people preferred to sleep in, not walk around and cause troubles while the castle was still cold and still and there was no need to get out of bed.

Esme considered ignoring the crash. She wanted to take advantage of the free time she had and get some practice in before her new responsibilities stole her away again, but it seemed it was those very same new responsibilities that now compelled her to approach the side corridor. She was a prefect now, after all — she was supposed to care about mysterious crashes in the morning hours, in the interest of student safety. She suppressed an eye roll at the idea.

Rounding the corner, however, Esme was met with a sight she could not have predicted if she tried. Standing over the debris of what Esme vaguely remembered was once the marble effigy of some wizard important to the school was none other than Camille De Varenne — the boy who had become Esme’s class partner in all the subjects Slytherin shared with Ravenclaw. More than just standing there, he had his wand in hand, looking almost as if he was trying to appear guilty. A strand of his hair was out of place, which might have been the most incriminating piece of evidence at hand; Esme had not witnessed Camille look anything less than perfectly refined in the two months since they first met.

Esme blinked. She liked Camille. He was perfectly nice, charming, and he was knowledgeable about music, too. He spoke French, allowing Esme to practice her own, and in general shared her same kind of high class upbringing; all in all, he was not someone Esme would suspect of running around on a Saturday morning, crashing statues for fun, even if he was currently standing over the rubble of one. There had to be some other explanation, she decided — and either way, she was not particularly keen on doling out punishment without at least some context.

Esme cleared her throat. “Camille,” she greeted, tone polite as always, though now laden with both caution and an unspoken question. She glanced at him, then at the statue, then at him again; hoping there would be no need of a verbal interrogation for Camille to offer an answer.

wc. 1180.
notes. none.

✧✦✧

thales amaro.
second year castelobruxo quidditch.

katherine townsend.
professor of charms, former thunderbird.

10 Nov 2025, 16:13

date: 25/10/2025
location: Corridors

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

The mending charm had been in his repertoire ever since he’d first mastered it, though this would be the first time he’d have to wield it himself. The spell had some limitations taught in class; some damage was beyond repair, even with magic. Gauging the mess on the floor, Camille figured it would do for now. The pieces were large enough that it must be an easy enough fix. He pointed his wand at the rubble on the floor, opening his mouth to say the incantation.

“Rep-” However, he was quickly interrupted.

“Camille,” said a feminine, silky voice behind him, belonging to no one other than Esme. Polite as always, but for the first time, she addressed him with silent scrutiny. Momentarily distracted from his sudden purpose, courtesy of a poltergeist, the broken bust lay forgotten as he turned around to face her, lowering his wand. Except for the strands of hair out of place, the evidence of his lost temper, Camille looked perfectly calm now. Despite knowing what it must look like, in this unflattering position— and also very much aware that she had been awarded the Prefect badge just a few days ago, having every right to punish him, if she so desired— he preferred to have been discovered by her than another professor who might not care to listen. Esme probably took her duties seriously— she was an ambitious witch from what he’d gathered, after all— but he doubted the new position of authority had made her power-hungry to the point of handing out detention and punishments without reason. At least now he had the benefit of the doubt— they happened to have become more than just simple acquaintances since their first meeting in Charms. Music, French and similar upbringings were just a few of the things they had in common.

The girl looked beautiful, as always, even now, when she seemed to ponder on whether to punish him or not. The first time he’d seen her, he’d been flabbergasted. Now he knew why—mostly to blame on part-Veela genes. The moment she’d told him in class, casually dropping her half-breed status on him in conversation, one piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. Bien sûr. That had suddenly explained everything, he’d thought back then. He’d told her, too, in a flirty little off-hand comment about her stunning visuals— nothing she wasn’t already aware of, obviously. It hadn’t changed his opinion of her, of course, just helped him excuse his absurd reaction to seeing her beauty. It was easier to accept feeling like a fool when there was something concrete to blame. She glanced between him and the broken bust, the silent question lingering in the air between them for him to explain himself. He followed her gaze and smiled sheepishly.

“Esme, nice to see you again,” he said calmly, flashing her a soft smile. “It’s not what it looks like.” Words said by all guilty criminals at some point, but he digressed. “There is, of course, an explanation.”

A rather stupid explanation, one he would rather not go into details about, though he only hoped she would take his word for it. Before anyone else walked in on the scene and drew their own wrong conclusions, Camille turned back to the pile of marble to finish off what he’d started. Raising his wand once more, he uttered the incantation, then watched the pieces of marble swoosh through the air in a spiral until it reassembled into its original shape atop the display. It looked brand new. With the main evidence out of the way, he ran a hand through his hair and continued his dramatic rant.

“I was on my way back from breakfast, simply minding my own business, when suddenly a poltergeist— an ugly, old thing, appeared right in front of me.” Scowling at the recollection, the Ravenclaw delivered it theatrically, the whole thing sounding just as absurd as it had felt to him at the time. “It broke the bust, spat some… creative—” absolutely stupid, “insults at me, and then evaporated…”

Mid-speech, Camille’s gaze wandered just to Esme’s left, over her left shoulder. A transparent figure slowly appeared from the stone wall behind her, eyes set on him, flashing a mental grin— only one of several degrading gestures it did to rile him up, all where Esme couldn’t see it. It pointed fingers, stuck out its tongue and rolled its eyes in a series of childish imitations. In an attempted imitation that was clearly supposed to resemble Camille himself, it licked its transparent, dead finger, scowling in dramatic haughtiness while sweeping its spiky hair back into something that almost resembled a proper haircut. His eyes narrowed, trying to stay on topic but failed due to the disturbing distraction.

“As I was saying...” Brows creased and mouth slightly ajar, his words were lost to the poltergeist's antics. Camille pointed at the wall. “There it is again!” Of course, just as quickly as it had appeared, the poltergeist had vanished out of sight, almost as if it was trying to make him look crazy. He feared that was an absolutely correct observation.

Shaking his head, he concluded, “Never mind, it's gone. Awful beings, I don't know why they're even allowed. Anyway, I was just about to fix the bust, when you arrived.” He gestured to the now-perfect display. Now he only could wait and hope Esme would believe him.

Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny

11 Nov 2025, 22:20

✧

mentions. @Camille De Varenne.

Camille seemed, for the first time since Esme had met him, seemingly ruffled; his tone of voice remained calm, but his gaze appeared far less confident than usual, bordering on sheepish. Still, he smiled, reassuring her that there was indeed an explanation to his looking incredibly guilty and standing over some destroyed school property. She nodded, returning the expression, though remained more cautious than usual, not speaking. Camille was not in a hurry to elaborate, either, so she merely watched as he turned back to the marble and raised his wand once more.

Camille cast the repairing charm. Marble lifted itself into the air winding in a pretty helix until each piece of debris found its match, seams merging and quickly disappearing until the bust was whole again, returning to its rightful place. The stone gaze of the figure stared back at the two young wizards in front of it, now permitting them to continue their conversation. Esme still did not deem it necessary for her to interrogate Camille or make a comment, at least for the time being. Silence was as useful of a rhetorical tool as any other, and one that she employed frequently. She reserved small talk for formal occasions, when such idle chatter was called for; events where palaver was a natural part of the landscape, merely a facet of the networking and connection-building in progress.

Outside of such gatherings, when in genuine dialogue with amicable company, Esme did not feel a need to speak; she instead observed carefully until a verbal response proved itself relevant. And as she counted Camille as a friend, she trusted that she did not need to say anything. She continued watching, waiting with her hands politely braided behind her back, as he ran a hand through his hair, and began to explain.

“I was on my way back from breakfast, simply minding my own business, when suddenly a poltergeist— an ugly, old thing, appeared right in front of me,” he recollected in a characteristically dramatic tone. Esme could not help the slight amusement crossing her expression. Camille wasn’t a particularly subtle person, so though Esme trusted her friend wasn’t lying through his teeth, she would not be surprised if he was exaggerating his story somewhat. Especially as midway through his speech, Camille appeared to be getting particularly shifty-eyed. His gaze seemed to drift away from the eye contact she so carefully held, and instead focus on the space behind her.

“As I was saying… There it is again!” Camille suddenly pointed at the wall over Esme’s left shoulder, and Esme’s head snapped around to see the supposed poltergeist.

Nothing.

She turned back around with far less urgency, and even with all her reserved nature, she would not have been able to hide the amusement dancing behind her eyes. Camille seemed to deflate, shaking his head and muttering about how awful he found poltergeists to be. Though Esme generally agreed with him, holding little regard for the admittedly bothersome spirits, she found her smile growing. Not quite with disbelief; she trusted that her friendship with Camille was mutual enough for him to have admitted any wrongdoings, even when faced with the prefect badge pinned to her uniform.

No, it was more the very idea of ever-prim Camille being tormented by some wretched old poltergeist into such an uncharacteristic state of disarray that entertained Esme so. The mental image was plain funny, and she found herself with an-honest-to-goodness grin splitting her face. She quickly schooled her expression into a far softer, more appropriate smile, nodding with as much compassion as she could.

“Well,” Esme found herself gently chuckling still, quickly clearing her throat so as to not look like she was trying to make fun of Camille. “I see. That’s awful, yes. Awful beings,” she echoed, restraining another giggle before it left her, instead turning to look back at the statue, glancing briefly at the words inscribed into the pedestal it stood on. “I suppose that if… Adalbert Waffling is whole again, there isn’t much more to be done.” She shrugged her shoulders, turning to Camille once more.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with one of those wretched things,” Esme offered after another second of thought. As much as she found the situation entertaining, it felt only right to offer some compassion; both since she was now supposed to “represent the school with her words and actions,” according to the prefect’s handbook, and because… well, she had just burst into giggles at something bad happening to her friend. Perhaps not her proudest moment. Either way, it would have felt rather impolite to leave the conversation there. As much as she internally cringed at the thought, Esme decided he rehearsal room would have to wait. “I do hope the rest of your morning has been pleasant, at least?” she added, a gentle query to her tone.

wc. 814
notes. adalbert waffling is a hell of a name.

✧✦✧

thales amaro.
second year castelobruxo quidditch.

katherine townsend.
professor of charms, former thunderbird.

15 Nov 2025, 16:38

date: 25/10/2025
location: Corridors

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

Whether Esme could sympathize with his awful experience or not, she at least found it entertaining. The part-veela had struggled to keep a straight face throughout his story, and at the end of it, she was grinning widely. If it had been anyone else laughing at his misery, Camille would have been offended. In this case, with it being a girl he enjoyed the company of— and her smile was natural and genuine, something he would classify as a rare sight— he found that he did not mind being the reason she was smiling, so long as it was not intended to mock him. In fact, despite himself, the smile was contagious; with the bothersome spirit nowhere in sight— for now— Camille found himself suppressing a small smile too, albeit much less humored. The situation sounded stupid, he knew; he could indulge her with the rare opportunity to have a laugh at him without consequences, if she wished. Instead, she quickly corrected her expression into something more subdued, though the amusement lingered — and he supposed he could understand why. The mental image one might conjure was funny, even if he had not enjoyed being the tormented target of a poltergeist’s antics.

In attempted sympathy, she said, “Well, I see. That’s awful, yes. Awful beings, I suppose that if… Adalbert Waffling is whole again, there isn’t much more to be done.” Not quite able to contain herself, Esme giggled. The Frenchman could rest assured that she seemed to believe him, and with that, the potential detention out of the picture. After another moment, she politely added, “I’m sorry you had to deal with one of those wretched things, I do hope the rest of your morning has been pleasant, at least?” Clear amusement aside, he appreciated that she went out of her way to ask about his morning. Unfortunately, Camille did not have much pleasant news to share: it was still early, too early for his usual tastes, breakfast had been bland and interrupted by his cousins' savages, none of which had enriched his morning. The weight of his package under his arm reminded him that, at the very least, the delivery was timely. And with Esme’s flawless presence before him, who was he to complain about the view?

Unable to help himself when the opportunity to turn up the charm presented itself, Camille gave her an appreciative smile. Casually, he shifted closer, keeping attentive eye-contact, if she permitted. “Well, it’s certainly more pleasant now when you are here. It would be a shame to complain when graced with such a fabulous company.” He, of course, had no shortage of things to complain about—the list, as ever, seemed interminable. The poltergeist was just one of them.

“As for the rest of my morning,” he continued, “it’s been largely uninspiring. I decided to join that Halloween event—don’t ask me why.” He chuckled, his gaze flickering to his polished shoes, embarrassed to admit his participation in case she found it childish. Honestly, he was unsure why he’d decided to participate, either. “A last minute whim, I suppose. Are you joining?" Camille asked off-handedly, mildly hopeful.

"I had to order something for the occasion, regardless. My suit arrived today,” he said with a gentler tone, nodding down at the sage green, velvet box beneath his arm. Esme hadn’t asked about the package yet, though it seemed inevitable with him openly carrying it. “As soon as I get back to my dorm, I will probably spend the rest of my morning making sure it fits well enough to be worn in public.” A slight self-deprecating smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. That was the closest he would come to making fun of himself, though he honestly saw no reason to worry about a wardrobe malfunction. To be fair, he imagined he could pull off even a garbage bag if need be—though he sincerely hoped he hadn’t paid a small fortune for one.

“Why are you active this early on a weekend? Prefect duties?” he asked, inviting for further conversation.

Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny

29 Nov 2025, 06:32

✧

mentions. @Camille De Varenne.

Camille had stepped closer, mentioning his morning was certainly improved by the pleasant company, and Esme found herself nodding along. Her expression had settled now, no longer the ear-splitting grin or on the verge of turning into amused giggling; it was plain, now, the same calm smile that usually graced her features when among friends.

“I decided to join that Halloween event — don’t ask me why. A last minute whim, I suppose. Are you joining?” Camille asked, something akin to hope coloring his tone, gaze flicking between his shoes and her face. Esme’s eyes widened slightly — she had heard of the event, of course, always keeping up to date with whatever new items popped up on the announcement board, but she hadn’t realized it was this soon. Right, she realised, finding a pang of discomfort hit the back of her neck. Halloween was next Friday, less than a week from now. Merlin’s sake, had she really been so caught up that the month had passed her by so?

“I am not, unfortunately,” Esme found herself sighing, regret coloring her voice. She wasn’t Halloween’s biggest fan, herself: her family seldom celebrated with any particular flair, but she had some fond memories of getting into costumes with her cousins and pretty jack’o’lantern lights. She could only imagine how pretty Hogwarts would look, and felt the discomfort deepen at the realisation she had missed out, even if she hadn’t held high hopes of attending. “I have not had the chance to sign up and organise a costume myself, what with… well, everything,” she chuckled slightly, hoping it would serve to mask the disappointment. “I must admit, I’ve been… rather out of sorts, the past week. Perhaps next year, I'll get a chance.”

Camille nodded to the box he had been carrying, calling her attention to it. Sage green velvet, tied together with a lustrous ribbon that could only be satin or silk; clearly, a work of high craftsmanship. A suit, Camille said — Esme nodded her head as he spoke of fittings and necessary preparations. She wouldn’t have expected anything less, frankly, considering both Camille’s family dealings in the fashion world, and his own personal attitude. She would be surprised to hear he owned anything less refined than Loro Piana in his wardrobe; his clothes being custom tailored was nothing new, either.

“Naturally,” she agreed. “What are you going to dress as?” She did feel genuinely curious. Camille’s fashion sense was far above the ranks of most Hogwarts students, and she was sure that would apply to his Halloween attire, too. The idea of Camille in some store-bought thing with plastic accessories that a manufacturer would have the nerve to call a costume was laughable; he clearly had something far more proper in mind, anyway. “It’s a contest, right? I am sure you will do well,” Esme added. “And I hope you have fun. Perhaps I will be able to stop by, even if only for a moment.”

The idea of stopping by was a nice one, though it once again brought Esme’s schedule to the forefront of her mind. Perhaps her duties would be a bit more lax on the 31st, considering the holiday— still, it could go the exact opposite, with the faculty wanting prefects to be vigilant considering a large event was to be taking place. Though maybe, if she got told to watch what was happening during the contest, maybe she could be there that way…

Camille’s next question did not let Esme’s mind drift from the matter of schedules, and instead she was now faced with conveying everything that had been plaguing her in a more approachable manner. She did not particularly want to go on at length about the constant rush she had found herself in and the rather zombie-like state of mind patrols had been putting her in; neither did she want Camille to feel rushed in ending their conversation for the sake of her own rehearsal time.

“Not prefect duties, no, though it’s related, I suppose,” Esme hummed, letting out a long exhale as she searched for the right words. “I was on my way up to the rehearsal room, actually. The new responsibilities have made it all but impossible to find a spot of time for singing. Saturday morning was the last that remained after taking into account all the patrolling for the week.” She hoped she didn’t sound bitter, Merlin forbid. It was a great opportunity, of course — to get prefect barely two months into her first year. Her parents made sure she knew that, anyway; they were both overjoyed when they heard, and seemed to believe it was the result of some sort of extraordinary academic achievement. Esme did not feel it necessary to correct them.

“It’s nice, though,” she decided to add, glancing around the empty corridors. The air was still, calm; a slight chill permeating the thick stone walls, a reminder of November fast approaching. There was none of the usual chatter and rush that seemed to crowd Hogwarts’ halls — not enough people have woken up quite yet to be hurrying their way through, especially on a weekend. “I like the castle when it’s all quiet, and it’s always a pleasure to see you, of course. Plus, the badge is shiny,” she quipped, wanting to offset whatever tiredness might have snuck her way into her tone with teasing.

wc. 902
notes. none.

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thales amaro.
second year castelobruxo quidditch.

katherine townsend.
professor of charms, former thunderbird.

15 Dec 2025, 20:49

date: 25/10/2025
location: Corridors

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

With his guard uncharacteristically lowered in Esme’s company, at least not to the degree where it could fully conceal his disappointment over her planned unattendance, the corners of Camille’s mouth fell into a subtle frown. The holiday was not necessarily one he had cared for, since the De Varenne children had never been allowed, nor begged, to go trick or treating; dressing up had been reserved for formal events, not jests. The only reason Camille had decided to attend this Halloween celebration in particular, was simply because he had nothing better to do with his dreadful amount of time, hence he chose to spend it in more unconventional ways. “I have not had the chance to sign up and organise a costume myself, what with… well, everything,” the beautiful blonde said with a chuckle. Camille imagined her wistfulness when she said: “I must admit, I’ve been… rather out of sorts, the past week. Perhaps next year, I'll get a chance.” He didn’t know exactly what ‘everything’ was supposed to mean in this context, unless she meant her newly assigned prefect position.

Considering the badge had embroidered her robes for less than a full week, he couldn’t see that as the main issue, even if it appeared to have thrown her off orbit enough to mention it. Esme didn’t need to remind him of how tedious patrolling could be; he, most of all, could think of nothing more disagreeable than assuming such responsibility for mere honor. There was probably no need to clarify how unappealing working was to him, when his whole demeanor — and sympathetic smile that bordered on grimace — spoke for itself. Regardless of what she truly meant, he thought there were hints of disappointment behind the practiced chuckle. Politely, she inquired about the costume he planned to wear, and even offered to stop by, if given the chance. Camille, for one, hoped she would. It would certainly raise the standard of the place, something he had little hopes in as it was.

“Oh, I’m not dressed to win, necessarily,” he clarified, his eyebrows raised, his costume not chosen with anything other than style in mind. “Unless it’s a best dressed contest, I’m mostly hoping to dress to impress. I’ll be a devil of sorts, anyway.” Camille smiled lightly, self-aware, inviting her to agree that the choice suited him, though he suspected she was far too polite to insult him properly, even teasingly. The part-veela wasn’t Harlan, for reference — someone more than eager to knock him down a peg or two, no invitation needed, for the brazen Gryffindor.

The memory of him crept into Camille’s mind uninvited, causing a slight shift of discomfort in his stance. Thankfully, the conversation moved on. Esme explained that her early stroll through the corridors was not due to prefect duties, but to find some time to sing, now that her responsibilities demanded too much of her spare time. The Ravenclaw had almost forgotten the reason they’d both been summoned to this hallway until then, the damned poltergeist to blame for both of their disrupted morning routines. Despite the clear burdens of carrying the sigil of authority, Esme added that it was, despite everything, a nice thing.

Nodding, Camille could at least agree with one thing — even if his experience with prefects hadn’t been the best — it was quite an achievement to acquire the position in her first year. At least so he assumed, since every other prefect he’d seen in passing was older. None of his personal vendettas could discredit the fact. Following her line of sight, they glanced around the still empty hallway. The only sounds except for themselves, were distant to the point of insignificant. “I like the castle when it’s all quiet,” she said, “and it’s always a pleasure to see you, of course. Plus, the badge is shiny.” Camille was inclined to agree with her – his gaze dropped to the badge in question, reflecting the lights above softly on the polished surface — besides, her little quip lightened the mood.

“It is, and I hope you find some time for singing. I’m a frequent visitor myself, though it has been a bit too crowded for my tastes as of late... " Hesitantly, he added, "I must admit, I'm not a fan of some of the people you share a house with.”

The corners of his mouth twitched into a light scowl at the memory of unfortunate encounters in the rehearsal room — first being threatened by that foul Slytherin boy, Archer, then insulted by another, who had the audacity to look down on him while clad in nothing but garbage. That he had once arrived to find the room occupied by a rude girl, also a Slytherin, was not the worst of it, yet it remained unpleasant. Previously too occupied with Lorenzo’s constant whining, the realization that most of his traumatic encounters had been in the hands of Slytherin struck him. Inevitably, he felt pity for his friend, who was so unlike them it was surprising they shared a house. With his current rate of mishaps, Esme seemed a miracle in disguise, a reprieve amid chaos. Perhaps they shared more than music and class in common: evil housemates.

Without a watch at hand, Camille glanced out one of the large windows above, gauging the hour. “It’s still early,” he commented with a light shrug, "and a Saturday. I’m sure you could squeeze in an hour or two before the rest of the castle wakes. I can’t begin to imagine how much work comes with being a prefect,” he said with imagined exasperation at the mere thought, though he had not seen many of them adhere to their supposed duties. Camille didn’t think it prudent to mention that part. “I admire your ambition,” finding no more appropriate words to call it.

He didn’t want her to think he was forcing his company upon her, yet still offered, “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear you sing sometime. Perhaps a duet—you’re classically trained, non?”

Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny

6 Apr 2026, 01:46

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mentions. @Camille De Varenne.

Esme smiled — rather genuinely, feeling some of the tension winding up her shoulders release. A devil of sorts, anyway — she chuckled, even. Her friend could be described that way, maybe; she knew well that he was prone to some less than perfectly elegant behaviors, yes, but she would be lying if she said she agreed fully. She only nodded, though; she had already expressed that she was sure Camille would do great, and she had meant it.

Camille was, bless him, not making Esme’s attempts at levity any harder than they needed to be. Merlin only knew she needed the help — exhaustion seemed to have a way of creeping into her tone, and with all the opportunities she was being presented at Hogwarts, she would rather not come off as ungrateful. Camille’s tone, however, and general demeanour, was gentle. As gentle as he could be, anyway; either way, he held the kind of presence that made Esme feel at ease. Like he held little expectations for her and her conduct, other than the bare minimum camaraderie that he also extended freely.

Hell, when he mentioned the rehearsal room being crowded, lately, with his own mild complaint about her house, Esme could only sympathise. She knew her own housemates could be… abrasive, to say the least. Though she cherished the kindred spirit she found in Livia, the others left much to be desired. Principal among them, of course, was the boy (though he would more fittingly be called blight upon Hogwarts) she had taken the prefect position over from, Silas. It boggled the mind, really, to think that such a vile, uncouth, and brutish boy had ever worn the same badge she did; alas, he was not her problem now.

A problem she foresaw having to face more often, however, was one miss Merrick — Cecilia, along with her dogs, Percival and M-ugh-whatever. Percival was dumb as a boot and seemingly had both a habit of staring and problems with actually seeing where he was going. Esme only shuddered at the memory of the way he had crashed into her and destroyed her chess set. Grating. M-something was forgettable only for the fact that a lack of manners or style did not an interesting person make; only turned her into a mild annoyance, one that Esme rolled her eyes at and dear miss Merrick seemed to revel in.

Cecilia herself was combination of both the two little lackeys that followed her around. As senseless as Percival and as boorish as M-what’s-her-face, with no sense of etiquette other than what she must have failed to learn from watching her family and was poorly repeating in an attempt to make others believe that she was a functioning member of society. Worst of all, it seemed her own father had fallen far the ruse…

With the more relaxed atmosphere between them that Camille always fostered so easily, with an effortlessness that Esme did not have it in her to envy right now, and merely admired, she felt inclined to share.

“I most definitely understand what you mean,” she said, nodding with more enthusiasm than usual. A light laugh mixed with an exasperated sigh fell from her lips. “My father — and trust that I mean no offense to him, of course,” Esme quickly mentioned, “has found an old family friend at Hogwarts that he insists I simply must make friends with myself, because she is also in Slytherin. Supposedly he was friends with her father during their school years and wishes us to be just the same.” Esme found herself rolling her eyes, glancing around the corridor around them with a slight huff. It felt a little more undignified, yes, than she would usually allow herself to be; you are not supposed to speak badly of family, after all. Even the mildest of annoyances should probably best be kept under wraps, if she were to consult any of the etiquette text books that lay in her room, both back home and at Hogwarts.

Still, Esme wasn’t thinking about savoir-vivre at the moment, and she felt a little grateful that Camille would allow her the reprieve from it, consciously or not. Returning to eye contact with him, Esme smiled. “What a shame that we were not sorted as housemates. It would have certainly made my life easier.”

The conversation was, however quickly, steered back to the rehearsal room once more, and Esme nodded idly. She followed Camille’s gaze as he glanced out the large corridor windows, staying there for a moment. The sun had fully risen, but the late time of year and the still early time of morning meant there was still some of that early day fog outside. There was a haze to the air that seemed to still and freeze everything in sight, the only movement remaining the sunrise hues of the sky quickly tinting blue and billowing clouds lazily floating across from east to west.

“Yes, and perhaps it won’t be too crowded, as you mentioned,” Esme agreed, almost mechanically, turning back to face Camille. The smile remained on her face, gentler now at the mention of ambition, a trait of her so-called Hogwarts-sorted-and-approved house, but still unmistakably sincere. She trusted Camille understood all that her tone implied without her naturally less-than-talkative self having to spell all of it out. “Thank you. It’s… a good opportunity.”

His offer of company was met with the expression on her face brightening and a quick nod of Esme’s head. “Classically trained, yes. I’d be happy to have you listen or duet sometime,” she agreed. “Though I’m not sure when I will have the time. I would welcome you to join me even now, but I wouldn’t want to keep you from your fittings. At least one of us should enjoy the Halloween festivities.”

wc. 969
notes. none.

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thales amaro.
second year castelobruxo quidditch.

katherine townsend.
professor of charms, former thunderbird.