Soak Me Not
| C | date: 30/09/2025 location: Lavatory |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Frederick Buckley |
C |
| CV | Potions that morning had been dreadful, not even his stunning class partner had improved the experience. His own concoction had been handed in in splendid quality, of course, though the same could not be said for others in the same classroom. One student in particular had caused a ruckus with his own brew; he wasn’t sure what had happened, or how it was even possible to fail so miserably, but he’d had to suffer the consequences all the same. The smell in particular, spreading like a thick cloud of something rancid, was absolutely foul. With his sensitive nose and no signs of a planned evacuation, which would have been the right thing to do— if he’d been the teacher in question— Camille had spent the remainder of the class with his sweater pulled over his nose like a baklava. As soon as his own potion, swirling in the right, blue color, had been handed in and graded, Camille had stormed out before whatever residues poisoned him. Escaping the dungeons entirely, he marched up the stairs, away from the dungeons. Normally lunchtime evoked no thrill in him, knowing what kind of cuisine awaited him, today was different. With the speed of his march, Camille looked eager for lunch. Frowning, Camille had a change of mind as nature called, luckily before he’d made it too far, redirecting his route towards the fourth floor instead. Camille’s bathroom routine was always an unpleasant experience, much as it had been the first time. Unfortunately, it was an absolutely necessary task to get through. The first time he walked into the old lavatories a few weeks ago, the boy had almost suffered a heart attack on the spot. The memory still haunted him, vivid enough to send shivers down his spine at the mere thought of entering. Back then, Camille had entered with the same confidence as he always had. Upon laying eyes on the dull design, visible pipes following the ceiling structures, he’d stopped dead in his tracks and clutched his chest with one hand. Gasping in horror, he’d been one straw away from turning and running out in the hallway. It had been a miracle he had suffered through it, only because he had to. In Hogwarts standards, the lavatory was well-kept and clean, nothing was inherently wrong with the space; it was functional, though they lacked everything else Camille thought a bathroom should offer. Crammed wooden stalls, merely separated by a wall with enough room beneath for some unfortunate soul to crawl under, were definitely not something he wanted to worry about while doing his urgent business. After several weeks, he knew exactly what to expect: zero privacy, an ice-cold porcelain bowl, no music, and no fragrance except mildew from the pipes. Even so, it remained a feat. Approaching the entrance as he reached the fourth floor, the boy looked to be in physical pain. At this point, he only asked himself why he was surprised, in hindsight, since everything else in this castle had proven lackluster and poor, the rudimentary conditions were expected. To make this a quick trip, Camille drew a long, deep breath, then dove into the lavatory. Pleased to find himself alone, he made a beeline for the stalls, bumping the line of doors open to evaluate the cleanest option before committing. A middle spot was unthinkable; it would leave two crawlspaces exposed, and one was already more than enough. Spotting a stall where no one had left a nasty surprise in the bowl, a new fresh roll of paper ready, Camille sighed and locked himself in, careful to not touch things more than necessary. The only trouble remaining was the gaping under the left wall, staring back at him like an imposing threat. Camille forced his eyes shut, dreading this very moment every damn day. As quickly as he’d arrived, Camille tore a piece of paper from the roll, using it as a carefully folded shield between himself and the metal lock. “Mon dieu,” he muttered under his breath. Only Merlin knew how many others had been there before him. Fumbling the turn lock, careful to keep the paper intact, he shoved the door open as it unclasped. At that point, the biggest problem was over. Discarding the piece of paper, pleased with the successful lavatory visit considering the circumstances, he allowed himself a more casual stroll as he walked over to the basins to wash his hands. |
CV |
Last edited by Camille De Varenne on 24 Apr 2026, 07:27, edited 2 times in total.
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Soak Me Not
〚 •• ✎ •• 〛
| Date: 30/09/25 | Word count: 655 |
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The morning lessons were coming to an end, and with them, Transfiguration class. Frederick still counted it among the trickiest subjects, right up there with Potions, but unlike the latter, he actually liked to put in the effort. He didn’t always get everything right, but there was something satisfying about watching a matchstick turn into a needle after enough attempts. Slinging his bag over his right shoulder, he joined a few classmates on their way out of the fifth-floor classroom, chatting about the lesson they had just finished. Their conversation, however, quickly wandered off course, as it usually did, jumping from Quidditch to Chocolate Frogs to wild guesses about what the elves might be serving for lunch. The pack of first-years spilled into the corridor, voices echoing as they made their way toward the Great Hall.
By that time of day, Fred didn’t even need a clock to tell what hour it was. His stomach usually did that job for him. He was always hungry, but it was a kind of fair trade, since he never stopped moving either. The same energy he consumed, he burned, or probably more, given how much running, climbing, and exploring he managed to fit between classes. Driven both by hunger and his natural restlessness, Frederick took the lead, walking faster than the others toward the staircase that would take them down to the lower floors.
However, upon reaching the fourth floor, Frederick had to make a small detour when his bladder sent an urgent message, and he told his friends he’d meet them at the lunch table. Holding the strap of his bag, which still hung from his right shoulder, he headed to the boys’ lavatory, pushing the door open with his left hand without thinking twice, acting out of routine. Once inside, Frederick walked toward one of the free stalls, picking one at random among the three unoccupied, vaguely noticing that a fourth one was already taken.
As quickly as he had entered, Fred finished his business, flushed, and came out to wash his hands. He noticed, now for the second time, that the door of the only occupied stall remained closed. On his short walk to the four sinks opposite the stalls, the boy adjusted his bag on his back, sliding both straps over his shoulders. During that brief moment, he heard the stall door open behind him. Once closer to the sinks, Frederick glanced at the wide mirror and saw, reflected in it, a familiar face: a boy his age, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes. It only took a few seconds for Fred to remember who he was, after all, they had shared several hours in the same train compartment on the journey to Hogwarts.
Frederick turned his torso slightly so he could see Camille more directly as the other boy stepped out of the stall and approached the sinks. A friendly smile spread across Fred’s face, soon turning into a small laugh, a mix of amusement and surprise at meeting someone he knew there. “Camille,” he greeted warmly. “How are you? I don’t think I’ve had the chance to say hi since the first day.” He continued, referring to the day they’d arrived at Hogwarts, while turning back toward the sink, now looking at the other boy from the side.
The way Frederick remembered it, Camille wasn’t much for small talk, but Fred didn’t plan to drag the conversation out either. Of course, they could always keep chatting outside if it came to that, and if Camille was heading to lunch too, but he just didn’t want to linger in the bathroom longer than necessary. For that reason, as he finished speaking and waited for Camille’s reply, Fred turned his attention back to the faucets and opened the one in front of him, bringing his hands together under the stream, waiting for the water to fall so he could wet and soap them.
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| Interacting with: @Camille De Varenne |
Sta 8 | Eva 8 | Str 6 | Wis 5 | Arc Power 4 | Acc 10
Abilities: Evasive Maneuvers, Keeper's Catch
Soak Me Not
| C | date: 30/09/2025 location: Lavatory |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Frederick Buckley |
C |
| CV | Camille was not alone when he stepped out of the bathroom stall; another boy, with brown tousled hair now occupied one of the sinks. Not an extraordinary sight, in the lavatories. He barely registered the flash of red on the robes and moved toward a vacant basin, his attention fixed forward— until the boy laughed. On high alert, immediately assuming the worst, Camille’s gaze snapped to him, his expression already icy cool. The dimpled smile and bright blue eyes of a Gryffindor met his hazel, greeting him as though they were old friends rather than near-strangers whose only prior interaction had been polite small talk on the Hogwarts Express months ago. Compared to what he’d expected, something about the sound was so disarmingly warm that at first, Camille said nothing, momentarily struggling to recall their prior interaction, caught between disbelief and the novelty of unexpected kindness. He had expected mockery, insults, or some form of petty challenge rather than this easy friendliness. He simply stared into them, dumbfounded, asking himself: Should he know this person? A memory surfaced after a brief pause. They had sat in the same compartment on the train back in September, though the conversation had amounted to little more than fleeting small talk, most of which he had long since forgotten. From what he could remember, albeit little, Frederick had not seemed very interested in tearing down his walls, far more engaged in conversation with the girls. Not that he would have expected someone to take on such an impossible task, neither did he want anyone to even try. After disembarking, the natural order had resumed; they had gone their separate ways and had not made any efforts to interact since, and he would have been far less surprised if the boy had simply ignored him. Yet here was another male smiling at him, unaccompanied by unhinged threats — a disarming anomaly in a castle where suspicion was the default. Unsure of how to react to this baffling progression, Camille forced a bemused, slightly wary smile in return. To Frederick, who had not experienced Camille’s games in deceit before, he imagined it would have looked perfectly poised and convincing. He stepped closer to the sink beside him. “Oh, yes… Fred? Was it?” The Ravenclaw couldn’t remember if it was his full-name or a nickname, having zoomed out the majority of their travels. “I’ve been… busy,” he said with humorous exasperation in an exhale. The word was a severe understatement to address the misery of his first months at Hogwarts, nothing he would bother Frederick with regardless. “And you?” He followed up, glancing down at his red crested robes. “Gryffindor, I see. I assume you’ve been in good company.” His mind wandered to the few Gryffindors he knew personally: Rosaline, whom Fred surely already knew, likely more closely than he did due to proximity; and Harlan, though at around fifteen, the age gap might be too great for friendship unless Quidditch brought them together. Camille looked Fred over once again, this time trying to discern if he could be classified as sporty. At their age, it was difficult to have much of a physique beyond the childishly wrangly limbs. But he supposed… He tilted his head to the side, concluding that the boy might make a decent jock in the future. Turning back to the faucet and the task of washing his hands, he asked offhandedly, “You joined the quidditch team?” Camille had never been to any of the games, finding it far too dull to participate, though it was one of the topics he could remember from the journey. If Fred answered, Camille would not have heard it. The boy only had a second to make a choked sound before the inevitable happened. The water rushed through the pipes and sprayed in every direction like a hurricane, soaking his robes, his face and the floor he was standing on, while leaving the confines of the basin almost miraculously dry. Squinting and screaming, he flailed, whipping his head back as a stream hit the inside of his mouth. With nowhere else to go, he swallowed the water, already feeling nauseus as it drained down his throat. Euww... Not wanting to imagine what germs and particles were inside those pipes, Camille held back a gag, panic and disgust surging among the chaos. He raised one hand uselessly to block the spray, yet he still got wetter by the second. “Ahhh! Putain! Make it stop!” he shouted, fumbling for the faucet in vain. |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Soak Me Not
〚 •• ✎ •• 〛
| Date: 30/09/25 | Word count: 731 |
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For a moment, after asking his question, even without looking directly at Camille, since he had already turned toward the faucet in front of him, Frederick could tell from his peripheral vision, and somehow also feel, that the other boy was staring at him in silence. Yes, Camille really wasn’t the kind to talk to just anyone, he thought. That was something Fred had already noticed during their train ride to Hogwarts, but that realization didn’t make him any less friendly in his greeting; it simply wasn’t in his nature to act cold toward someone without a good reason.
However, before the lack of response could turn awkward, or make Frederick regret saying hello instead of pretending not to have seen him, Camille stepped closer to the sink beside his, offering a faint smile just as the soft squeak of the old faucet being turned echoed through the room, followed by the sound of running water splashing against Fred’s hands and the stained white porcelain basin. “Oh, yes… Fred? Was it?” Camille asked, prompting the Gryffindor to nod quickly before replying once Camille mentioned he’d been busy. “Frederick, actually, but most people call me Fred.”
The boy alternated his gaze between washing his hands and glancing at the familiar face beside him as their conversation continued. “Gryffindor, yes.” he confirmed with another nod, thinking quickly that Camille’s remark about ‘good company’ probably referred to Rosaline, one of the girls they’d met together on the train ride, who was now in the same house as him. “I’d say so. And you’re in Ravenclaw. How’s that been?” Frederick paused briefly as he finished rinsing his hands, trying to recall if he knew anyone from that house and quickly realizing he didn’t. “Haven’t met many Ravenclaws yet, but I hope they’re good company too.”
Turning off the faucet, Fred glanced around for something to dry his hands with. He shook them over the sink a few times, flicking droplets off his fingers, before straightening his posture, showing clear signs he wouldn’t be staying in the lavatory much longer. Camille’s next question, though, “you joined the Quidditch team?”, caught him off guard and made him pause for a moment, long enough for his arms to drop to his sides as he turned slightly to face the Ravenclaw more directly. Fred hadn’t expected him to bring that up, considering that during the lively Quidditch talk back on the train, Camille hadn’t said a word or shown much interest.
“Oh, yeah! I did the tryouts, I’m on the reserve bench…” Even so, despite thinking Camille wasn’t into the subject, being such a huge Quidditch fan himself, Fred started answering with enthusiasm. Any excuse to talk about it was good enough for him. Bu then Camille turned on the faucet to wash his hands and chaos broke loose. Frederick never finished his sentence. Instinctively, as soon as he saw Camille get hit in the face by a powerful jet of water from the tap he had just opened, Fred stepped back and raised his hands in front of his face, palms together, pointed toward Camille. “What the h...?”
Reacting quickly didn’t help. Just like Camille, Fred was splashed by the wild spray shooting from the faucet, soaking his robes, his arms, and even his face. A puddle was already forming on the floor, though Fred barely noticed it. Almost instantly, watching Camille flail and nearly choke on the water blasting his face, he burst out laughing. He wasn’t laughing at Camille specifically, it was the absurdity of the situation that cracked him up. A broken old faucet, unable to handle the pressure, sputtering like a fire hydrant, it was exactly the kind of scene Fred found hilarious.
Still laughing, trying to shield his face and see what was happening with the tap, he shouted, “Mate, what are you doing? Turn it off!” He barked the order and stepped forward again, reaching out to try to help Camille close the faucet. He just didn’t expect the thing to be that old. When he grabbed the handle to twist it shut, more from the water pressure than from his own strength, the metal piece came loose right into his hand, and the spray exploded even more violently. With his hair now beginning to drip and his robes beginning to soak through, Fred looked at Camille, his grin faltering slightly. “Oops.”
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| Interacting with: @Camille De Varenne |
OOC Notes: This post has been translated from it's original language.
Sta 8 | Eva 8 | Str 6 | Wis 5 | Arc Power 4 | Acc 10
Abilities: Evasive Maneuvers, Keeper's Catch
Soak Me Not
| C | date: 30/09/2025 location: Lavatory |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Frederick Buckley |
C |
| CV | Camille grimaced slightly at the inquiry about his house, hoping to redirect the conversation to sports. While he might not have much to share in that regard, at least it kept the other boy talking, guaranteeing that Camille himself did not need to fill the silence before they could part ways for good. Enthusiastically, even. If Camille had possessed any will to discuss his own experience in Ravenclaw (he did not), they were given no time to continue their conversation about houses and Fred’s successful Quidditch try-outs, before the faucet, and consequently, absolute hell broke loose. While the Ravenclaw, now soaking wet, fought for his life to not choke on the water blasting in his face, the Gryffindor had the absolute gall to laugh at his misfortune, a sound that grated on him. Since he was kept rather busy trying to not choke on liters of water, and failing to shield himself, the boy couldn’t react by scowling or screaming at him, just register it in the back of his mind. It did nothing to improve his mood. When he turned his head, the water entered his ear instead, making Frederick’s laugh sound distorted, like it was coming from underwater. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought Frederick purposefully set him up for this prank— entirely believable for a Gryffindor menace. Camille was all too familiar with the kind. He wouldn’t hold it against Harlan to pull a stunt like that, in the past or in the future. At least then he would see it coming, giving him some time to outmaneuver; this time, it had hit him out of nowhere, and every attempt to stop the merciless spray seemed futile. The only thing contradicting that theory was the fact that not even Fred was spared the vicious projectiles, though Camille was still certain he had suffered the worst of it. The element of surprise was almost worse than the feeling of his robes, and the clothes beneath sticking to his skin, draining him of any warmth. Even with most of the sound drowned out, Frederick’s next masterful suggestion was still audible. In a flash of genius, the boy told him to just “turn it off”, as if that hadn’t been Camille’s first instinct. That’s what he had tried to do this whole time, or did he think Camille was simply enjoying the makeshift, ice cold shower? The boy had already showered that morning before class, yet he now felt dirtier than before. Strands of hair hung like a wet curtain over his face, mostly blinding him while funneling more pipe water into his eyes and mouth, forcing him to spit continuously, until he finally hissed, “What does it look like I’m doing?!” Instead of keeping to the side to laugh at him, the Gryffindor decided to take things into his own hands. Camille gladly stepped to the side and let him claim his spot. With his vision compromised, he couldn’t see him twist the faucet, only hear the rusty piece of metal squeak from the pressure. The next moment, he pushed his hair out of his face with both hands to glance at the scene before him. “What the—” he began, only to be greeted with, yet another, even more aggressive fountain hitting him square in the face, shutting him up effectively. The other boy glanced at him and Camille glared back in exasperation, watching his grin slip off his face. Whatever he’d done, he’d just made it tenfold worse. The water was pooling the floor in rapid speed, and he’d had enough. Stepping forward, he slipped once but managed to reach out and clutch the back of Frederick’s soaked robes to steady himself before he fell backwards. With a steady hand on the fabric, not bothering to ask, either, Camille shoved him forward, using the Gryffindor as a shield from the most violent spray. “Merde. Stand still,” he ordered Frederick, ripping out his wand from his robes and slipping his arm over the shoulder in front of him, shaking from the cold water as he tried to aim at the faucet. It was not unlikely that such an old, rusty pipe was beyond repair, but it was worth a try without having to get a teacher. It was embarrassing enough as it was. Still clutching the other boy to keep him in place, he shouted the incantation. “Reparo!” |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Soak Me Not
〚 •• ✎ •• 〛
| Date: 30/09/25 | Word count: 540 |
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In the end, trying to help Camille shut off the hydrant-faucet hadn’t been a good idea. In fact, it had been a terrible one, since Frederick only made the situation worse by breaking the one piece that could have stopped the water from spraying uncontrollably. And not just that: taking the Ravenclaw’s place in front of it turned him into a shield for the other boy, Fred now receiving practically all the jets of water himself.
All of it happened very fast. Frederick stepped forward and, before he could break the faucet even further, heard Camille practically hiss a response to his rhetorical question. From his tone, the Ravenclaw didn’t sound pleased at all. Of course, it was hard to stay pleased in a situation like this, but Fred still hadn’t managed to stop laughing completely and seemed to be taking things much more lightly than Camille, even as he grew more and more soaked. He glanced at the Ravenclaw and then back at the faucet, tilting his head sideways so he wouldn’t get water directly in his eyes, while trying to fit the loose piece back in place with his right hand and keeping his left over the water outlet as a temporary plug.
“Bloody hell. The faucet came off in my hand, this old piece of junk.” Frederick complained between laughs, trying unsuccessfully to fix the situation with his own hands. He tried to put the faucet back, squinting at the sink, closing one eye and then the other, since the spray didn’t stop hitting him.
Suddenly, with a pull backward and then a shove forward, Frederick almost lost his balance, caught completely off guard by Camille’s reaction. “Hey! I’m trying to help you here.” And before he could continue protesting, Fred heard the boy tell him to stand still and saw his wand appear over his shoulder, pointed toward the faucet by a trembling hand. Frederick could still feel Camille gripping his robes, but he didn’t care much. When the Ravenclaw spoke the incantation and Fred saw that it worked, he immediately bent forward to shut the faucet with both hands, using more force than necessary and risking breaking it again.
The Gryffindor had ended up taking Camille’s spot on the front line of this war against the faucet and was now just as soaked as the Ravenclaw. Finally, with the last twist, making the pipes release a rusty metallic groan as all the water flow finally returned to where it belonged, inside the plumbing, Frederick let out a whistle and ran a hand through his hair, now completely drenched, to get it off his face and forehead.
The boy straightened up and turned to look at Camille, smiling again, utterly unconcerned with the situation, which to him didn’t look catastrophic at all, only a little uncomfortable with his soaked clothes. “There, problem solved. You can stop clinging to your hero now.” He said it jokingly, making it very clear in his tone. Camille had repaired the faucet, he’d had the bright idea to use a Mending Charm, but Frederick had to retaliate somehow for being shoved and used as a shield, and for now, he wasn’t going to hand over all the credit for this victory.
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| Interacting with: @Camille De Varenne |
OOC Notes: This post has been translated from it's original language.
Sta 8 | Eva 8 | Str 6 | Wis 5 | Arc Power 4 | Acc 10
Abilities: Evasive Maneuvers, Keeper's Catch
Soak Me Not
| C | date: 30/09/2025 location: Lavatory |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Frederick Buckley |
C |
| CV | The Gryffindor had made a decent enough shield for him to successfully cast the mending charm, a fate he deemed to be entirely self-inflicted on Fredericks’ end, though not even that had saved him from getting soaked to his underwear. All inconveniences aside, at least it worked to repair the faucet back into its original spot — a miracle, given its condition. Frederick quickly turned on the faucet handle again to shut it off. Against the likely odds of the rusty metal caving in once more, it stayed intact this time. The water stopped spraying everywhere, the only thing he could have hoped for amidst the chaos. With the main obstacle gone, the aftermath was inevitable. What remained was a flooded lavatory floor stretching between them, the consequence they now had to deal with— the most urgent, but not the worst of his troubles. Camille glanced down between them at his soaked shoes, realizing the water nearly reached his ankles. Splendid, he thought sarcastically, another pair of fabulous leather shoes ruined. “There, problem solved. You can stop clinging to your hero now,” the other boy’s voice pulled his gaze back to meet his eyes, then down to where his fingers were still clutching the soaked fabric. Grimacing at his own actions, like he'd just touched something unpleasant, Camille released Frederick with a light shove. Despite the clear humor in Frederick’s tone, Camille scoffed, “Don’t flatter yourself,” rolling his eyes for emphasis. He ripped for the nearest napkins to wipe his hands dry, ironically the only part of him that was dry after the napkin had served its short purpose, shooting the other boy a narrowed glare. Despite both of them being soaked from head to toe, Camille wasn’t fully convinced that the Gryffindor was innocent. He was clearly responsible for the escalation by breaking the faucet in the first place, which, given the timing with Camille’s bathroom visit, seemed highly suspicious. “Do you mean to tell me,” he began in mock disbelief, “that you are not the one who hexed the sink?” The skeptical ravenclaw pursed his lips in feigned thought, shrugging as he continued entertaining the idea that it could simply be a coincidence, unlikely as it seemed. While he didn’t outright call the Gryffindor’s bluff, it was obvious by his tone that he assumed guilt. “Isn’t it strange that the exact time I use that sink, it just breaks? With you the only other witness?” The Frenchman was fully glaring at the other boy now, though his voice remained coolly composed, almost as cold as the water trickling down his back. Camille shuddered briefly. “Very strange, indeed.” What motives the boy would have to want to cause him unnecessary discomfort was beyond him, though he wouldn’t naively let it slide without an interrogation. Someone who had gone so far as to meddle with the faucet would likely want to see their sabotage play out. No one but Frederick was in sight to have witnessed it unfold, giving him far enough reason to suspect him. “The way I see it, this was sabotage. So, what do you have to say in your defence?” Crossing his arms, he waited impatiently for the other’s excuse. Still, Camille would hear it once. |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Soak Me Not
〚 •• ✎ •• 〛
| Date: 30/09/25 | Word count: 695 | Notes: Sorry this took so long |
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Camille letting go of his robes with a shove, however light, as if he had touched something unpleasant, made Frederick frown for a brief moment. The thought that the other boy found him distasteful crossed his mind as Fred took a half step back, feeling the weight of his soaked clothes and the cold finally creeping in now that the chaos had ended. The smile he had been holding onto until then lost some of its strength.
Blinking a few times to refocus on his interlocutor rather than on the fabric clinging to his body and the sour thoughts creeping in, Fred listened with genuine surprise. For a second, he stayed silent, staring at the other boy as if trying to decide whether this was meant to be a joke or a serious accusation. The idea that he had sabotaged the faucet wasn’t entirely absurd, but given the circumstances, it was at the very least funny enough to earn a short, almost incredulous snort from him. “Oh, sure,” Frederick began, shaking his head slowly. “Because it makes perfect sense for me to hex an old faucet just to end up as soaked as you are.”
He let his hands fall to his sides after briefly raising them, palms open, as if defending himself from something invisible. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t even go near that sink before you turned it on. And when I came in here, there was already someone in a stall.” Fred tilted his head slightly toward Camille, one eyebrow lifting. “You.” He defended himself as best he could, thinking quickly. From what little he knew of Camille, something told him it wouldn’t be easy to convince him otherwise. So if that was the case, he’d have to play the same game to beat him.
Unlike Camille, though, Fred’s good humor always had a way of resurfacing, and his suspicion sounded more amused than truly accusatory. “I mean… if we’re playing the suspicion game,” he continued, his tone far too light for someone being accused, “you could imagine that you waited for someone to come in, stepped out real quick, did something to the faucet, and ducked back into the stall to look innocent.” He shrugged, clearly finding his own reasoning more entertaining than believable.
Fred ran a hand through his wet hair again, flicking water onto the already flooded floor. “Look around,” he added, gesturing vaguely at the old pipes and the crooked sink. “This castle’s ancient. Things break. Staircases move, portraits yell, faucets decide to turn into fire hydrants. It doesn’t have to be a conspiracy every time.” Maybe he had sounded a bit too harsh, he realized it as soon as he finished speaking. Or maybe he had just been honest, a strong trait of Fred’s. In the end, he half-crossed his arms, quickly giving up because of the soaked fabric, and faced Camille head-on. He didn’t want to fight.
Despite all the discomfort, and the hunger that had twisted his stomach earlier, now oddly dulled, an idea sparked in the mischievous back of Frederick’s mind. What if he did pull a prank on Camille now, to end the discussion? Without thinking twice, the boy straightened and snapped his head toward the bathroom door. “Did you hear that?” he said, still staring in that direction. “Sounds like someone’s coming.” He looked back at Camille, now wearing a falsely alarmed expression. “And if it’s a Professor, I’m not sticking around to take the blame for this mess.”
In a sudden burst of movement, spinning quickly on his heels, Frederick decided to bolt for the exit. As he did, his backpack, just as soaked, smacked into Camille, and the uncalculated impact made Fred lose his balance, slipping on the flooded floor and nearly falling. As he regained his footing, slowing just enough that Camille could catch up, if he reacted as expected and ran after him, Fred called back over his shoulder in challenge, “Whoever gets caught has to dry the whole bathroom, no magic allowed!” And with that, he picked up speed as much as he could without sliding again, breaking into laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all.
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| Interacting with: @Camille De Varenne |
OOC Notes: This post has been translated from it's original language.
Sta 8 | Eva 8 | Str 6 | Wis 5 | Arc Power 4 | Acc 10
Abilities: Evasive Maneuvers, Keeper's Catch
Soak Me Not
| C | date: 30/09/2025 location: Lavatory |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Frederick Buckley |
C |
| CV | The more time he spent dissecting his own words and logic, the more faults he found in his reasoning. Except for a good laugh, Fred had gained nothing from this, currently as soaked as he was. Likewise, the boy had been nowhere in sight when Camille had initially entered; things he’d already considered, only to have them undermined by the harsher facts staring back at him. Whoever was to blame for the faucet breaking, whether that was a deliberate prank or that they merely had suffered the consequences of ill-maintained infrastructure— a crime in its own right, coming from a high-ranking magical institution— it left Camille soaked from head to toe. After staring at him, dumbstruck, Fred let out a snort, then, naturally, denied any responsibility and accusations that he was to blame, though that was hardly surprising. Few had the ability to admit, proudly, their wrongdoings, especially those of malicious intent. Even he could admit that the likelihood of this jock, who admittedly must not possess one of the brightest minds in this castle, judging by house placement alone, being the evil mastermind behind it was growing increasingly implausible as time went on. His soaked robes were ice cold against every inch of his body, urging him to cut the interaction short to head back to his dorm to warm himself. Still not entirely convinced, his bottom lip jutted out in a sour pout as Camille crossed his arms, raising a skeptical eyebrow at the Gryffindor boy. The amount of amusement he found in their current position was still questionable, too much so to write him off as innocent, even if he mentally had already filed away the incident as an incredibly unfortunate accident. Visually scanning the boy, Camille noted something about him— call it his emotionally reactive, entirely spontaneous personality— that made him think Fred would make a terrible liar even if he tried. His accusation had been sincere, but not nearly serious enough to warrant the other boy to raise his hands in defence, as if shielding himself from Camille’s upcoming outburst. That was definitely not the case. His words could be cold, unprovoked, and downright cruel at times, but he never opted to initiate physical fights if he could help it. Brute behavior like that was simply not his style, hence why the physical reaction made Camille scoff, incredulous. The suspicion, absurdly, shifted toward Camille instead. At this point, the annoyance over the potential prank had fully morphed into amusement. Placing his hands on his hips, Camille tilted his head in disbelief, though he listened to Fred’s “points,” which suggested he had gone out of his merry way to spend even more time in an already unpleasant environment, for the only reward of framing someone. To anyone who knew him, it couldn’t get more unlike Camille than that. With nothing to lose, in terms of status or comfort, he sometimes found joy in revealing the faults in others. Today was not one of those days. “And why on earth would I do that?” Camille asked, hypothetically, of course. To Fred’s credit, at least it didn’t seem like he genuinely believed his own reasoning. What followed was another long-winded explanation of something he was already well-aware of; how the castle was ancient, things probably broke all the time, making this no unexpected incident. Rolling his eyes, at least he could agree, nodding faintly. Fred’s head snapped towards the door in a sudden change of thought. “Did you hear that?” Camille stilled, wearing a slightly puzzled expression as he entertained the notion of someone approaching by listening carefully. He couldn’t differentiate steps heading towards the lavatory from the usual creaking and movement of the castle, containing hundreds of students, staff and spirits. Fred, however, seemed certain that someone was coming for them. “...And if it’s a Professor, I’m not sticking around to take the blame for this mess,” the boy said, spinning towards the door; a heavy, wet backpack slapped against Camille’s chest in the process, forcing him a step back. Startled more than hurt by the sudden impact, he gaped after the Gryffindor, though karma quickly had its way when Fred slipped and almost tripped in the same movement. The French boy thought that served him right. Feeling slightly pleased by the outcome, Camille let out a self-satisfied laugh and shrugged off the backpack as a slight annoyance. He took a few steps forward, looking down at the flailing figure. “Fret not Frederick, I don’t hold grudges.” Camille considered his own choice of words, reflecting on moments when he'd forgiven bad behavior and found them sparse, shrugging to himself. Mostly. “I suppose I believe you,” he said dismissively, then headed towards the exit himself. Fred regained his footing and threatened that whoever got caught had to clean up the flooded lavatory. Unimpressed by the childish dare, Camille managed to say, “Are you kidding?” before Fred had bolted out the door, his wild laughter echoing against the stone walls. Standing alone in the flooded lavatory, Camille grimaced at the thought of being caught in such an undignified state, begrudgingly groaning at Fred’s antics as he picked up his pace, eager to escape the scene of the “crime” before any unfortunate witnesses, or professors, turned it into an even greater spectacle. The last thing he wanted was to spend the rest of his evening scrubbing grimy, waterlogged floors and heaving icy buckets of pipe water like some ill-fated house-elf. Thread left. |
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Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny