Gracefully Falling
| C | date: 7/11/2025 location: Quidditch Training Pitch |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Harlan Montgomery @Lorenzo Vincenti |
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| CV | Quidditch, or anything else that required Camille to straddle a broomstick, was nothing he wished to partake in. A few months into his lackluster Wizarding education— despite earning top marks in nearly every class— he had still managed to avoid the flying lessons once the absolute basics were begrudgingly completed. That alone had been humiliating enough. The mechanics of getting a broom off the ground were technically simple, even as he kept asking himself why those who failed the magical way couldn’t simply lift it themselves, instead of being forced to endure the humiliation of watching the pathetic stick lying there, as if mocking him. Then, if it couldn’t get worse, he’d been expected to ride on it, with no cushion seat to ease the friction. Not only had he left the first, mandatory flying lessons in mortification, but with an ass rash to boot. Camille had sworn to himself ever since then, he would never set his ass on one of those devices again. The Frenchman might have survived in the air, but he could hardly be called a skilled flyer. He still wasn’t. Of course, when Harlan— the embodiment of Quidditch fanaticism and Camille’s ambitious childhood tormentor— asked during their catch-up if he’d ever try out for the team, as if that had ever been an option, Camille laughed in his face. Not a laugh of amusement, just incredulous disbelief. He considered it a joke; no one was less likely to enjoy the sport than him, and the mere fact Harlan had to ask showed how much time had truly passed since they last saw each other. No, Camille had made it crystal clear that the only sport he’d be subjecting himself to was his dancing, and if he were to make an exception, it would be something more dignified than riding on sticks. Any attempt at coercion would not work. If his friend had been offended about the various insulting opinions he had about the idea, he couldn’t have cared enough to notice, hoping to leave the broom talk at that. Expecting that to be the end of it, it had been a few months after all, Camille was in for a rude awakening. On a Friday in November, an unexpected owl delivered a scribbled note with an attachment to the still-unassuming young Ravenclaw at the lunch table. Ever since that Hogsmeade invite from his father— a meeting that still haunted him, both mentally and physically, thanks to a short-statured Slytherin— mail time had been a dreadful experience. Though the note was far too casual to be an official Alain De Varenne handout, Camille could never fully rule out the possibility it was another one of his father’s ominous letters. With his track record, nothing he would send Camille would bring pleasant news. Steeling himself, Camille dabbed his mouth with his napkin after a spoonful of pumpkin soup, staring at the note while already wearing a scowl on his face. After lowering his napkin back onto the table in feigned calmness, he then slowly opened the casually folded (read: messy) note, even as every instinct screamed to rip the bandaid off. Reading the writings first, the contents were short and concise. It was clear by the writing that it was hand-scribbled by a boy, quickly bringing some relief, even though it was still a threat. Meet me at the Quidditch Training Pitch. I’m going to teach you how to fly. Before he’d even finished reading, Camille rolled his eyes at Harlan’s pathetic attempt. Or else? he would have asked, if he’d been around. Having forgotten the attachment, he nearly choked when it slipped out from behind the note and landed face up on the table. Camille froze. A very unflattering photo stared back at him: his younger self, ugly crying. Beside him, a deceptively sweet-looking Harlan grinned, an arm tight around his neck, clearly relishing every second. Harlan was far from sweet, however. Before whatever nosy Ravenclaw that had claimed the seat beside him could get a proper look, he snatched the photo from the table in panic. Holding it up in front of his eyes, squinting, he asked himself. When was this taken? How had Harlan got a hold of it? Though he could not recall the precise moment nor the teasing that had driven him to tears, it was unmistakably him, his features and coloring betraying the memory with cruel accuracy, even if his hair had been a shade or two lighter when this photo was taken. Unless Harlan possessed hidden talents he had never received proper credit for, Camille was certain it could not be photo manipulation. It was a job too well done to be faux. Even the thought of someone replicating his stunning visuals for a prank was insulting. Asking himself what Harlan planned to do with this photo, though he had already conjured a clear visual, he read the last line on the note– the threat that it would be spread if he did not show up. His teeth clenched. The absolute gall this boy had should be studied scientifically, Camille thought bitterly. Hiding the photo inside the folded note, he shoved it in the pocket of his trousers for safe-keeping before he rose to his feet, about to head off to the training pitch. What was left of his pumpkin soup suddenly looked unappetizing; lunch was effectively ruined, all thanks to a certain infuriating Gryffindor. Abandoning his lunch, the Frenchman stormed off to the meeting location, not to learn to fly, solely to give Harlan a piece of his mind. Camille had probably not walked faster in his life than he did then. With the pitch in sight, the bastard was already there, waiting with a smirk in place, prepared with two brooms, one in considerably better shape than the splintered school broom he recognized all too well; the phantom pain of it still lingered in his behind. “What do you think you’re doing?!” Camille hissed when he marched down the pitch. His expression, frankly, was pissed off. “Blackmailing me? Where did you even find that horrendous photo?” He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. |
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Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Gracefully Falling
| —— |  love it, or leave it, you can't understand a pretty face, but you do so carry on, ━━ summary, this thread is happening on NOVEMBER 11TH, 2025, in the AFTERNOON with @CAMILLE DE VARENNE. / wc: 529. One might gather that sometimes if wizards were given enough of a forceful nudge into a particular direction, it may open doors or opportunities that they had never properly considered for themselves beforehand. That's exactly how Harlan felt about Camille's obsession with ballet, or figure skating, or whatever elitist snobby he was committed to bragging out whilst still shit talking Quidditch — the most prominent Wizard Sport that existed. Now, why he felt so entitled could've existed in multitudes, but the one thing that was for certain was that Harlan would make the squawking fletching of a wizard into a proper Quidditch Player yet. The first step would come with his Cherry wood wand that he carefully pulled out from his pocket and quickly began to cast the incantation " Oppugno, " while enacting the proper wand flicks to jinx the quaffle into attacking Camille as soon as he would move into vicinity. That was basic Wizardry 101, to always have one's wand at the ready. With a huge, beaming smile finding its way across Harlan's face, the Gryffindor was mighty pleased with himself for the proper setup as more often than not, his magic would often backfire and cause him bursting out aflame. Now, with a proper favor beseeched from a budding second year with an ambitious eye and a bewitched camera, he had just asked the wizard to follow the Ravenclaw around for a week and seek any opportunity to gather some blackmail against the boy. There had been a few clever photos here and there, but he had quickly spotted the exact one he had wanted to use and signed in feverishly with a time and date required for his childhood's presence at the Quidditch Pitch — a solid second step. The rest he had laid out in school brooms, the bewitched Quaffle eager soar and strike, and the stage had been set for when the boy would make his way down to the Pitch. To know Camille was to know uncertainty, who was to know how he would feel about the circumstance he was cornered into? Harlan chuckled to himself, the young wizard had so much potential but such an air of pretension to him. It would certainly be good to knock him down a few pegs before his big head would get stuck attempting to leave a classroom. “ What do you think you’re doing?! ” Harlan waited a second for the remainder of the words to fly directly at him. “ Blackmailing me? Where did you even find that horrendous photo? ” There it was, Harlan knew that the ugly photo of Camille would be enough to send him over the end. As soon as he stepped close enough, Harlan forewarned him. " Watch your head. " And the Bewitched Quaffle, like a sling shot, aimed straight for the boy's torso with enough force to knock him out if he wasn't careful enough to dodge. " If you're to learn to fly, you'll need to pay attention to your surroundings. " Now, all Harlan would do is watch to see how the boy would handle himself with such an opportunity stacked against him. |
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Last edited by Harlan Montgomery on 12 Mar 2026, 17:26, edited 1 time in total.
Gracefully Falling
| C | date: 7/11/2025 location: Quidditch Training Pitch |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Harlan Montgomery @Lorenzo Vincenti |
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| CV | The warning barely registered before the force of cannon shot through the air and found its target in Camille’s stomach, knocking him down with a yelp, equal measure of pain as pure shock. Curling into himself, bafflement marred his features; he couldn’t curse Harlan for long before the quaffle had retreated and prepared for another strike, sensing its target was not yet neutralized. It shot up in the air with magical force, hovered above his position on the ground and slammed down towards where Camille lay curled together. Eyes widened in alarm, screaming, he summoned his strength and rolled to the side at just the right moment before the bewitched quaffle would have knocked the air out of him again, or worse, broken ribs. “Tu es fou?!”1 Camille screamed at Harlan, in a moment of panic forgetting that the older boy would not understand the words of his mother tongue, regardless of the ire behind them. The Ravenclaw was too busy dodging the quaffle to think rationally, both regarding how he slipped into French, and that his wand and an appropriate spell was just within reach. Dodging yet another strike, Camille continued to roll in the cold, wet and muddy grass, feeling the coldness and dampness seep through his layers. Finally, after an embarrassingly long time of ruining his clothes, remembering that he was a damn wizard, Camille scrambled for his wand. Polished Cherry wood in hand, he rolled onto his back. The threatening ball hovered in his line of sight. Seeing his life flash before his eyes, or at least his perfect nose, he raised his wand, squinting to brace for potential impact in case the spell failed. “Arresto momentum!” The spell shot through the air and hit the quaffle. Before he could see if it worked, he closed his eyes and covered his face with both arms. After a few seconds, he dared open his eyes to see the results. Above, the aggressive sport’s device was moving in slow motion towards him. Thank fucking Merlin, he thought in relief. With the threat to both his life and body disarmed, he could focus on exploding his rage onto the deserving source. Pushing onto his feet, face set in livid rage, he stormed towards the Gryffindor, rearing his hand back behind him to gather enough momentum to slap the living hell out of him. If he was going to slap Harlan and give him the treatment he deserved, he was going to make it as painful as physically possible, despite their age and strength differences. “What—are you trying to kill me?!” The younger boy barked, swinging his slapping-hand towards his face. Teeth clenched so hard he feared they might shatter in his mouth. He missed, unsure whether it was sloppy aim or Harlan ducking. It mattered little; the failed swing only fueled his fury. “You have finally exceeded yourself, Montgomery. When I thought you couldn’t get more pathetic and desperate for my attention, you never cease to amaze me. I’ve tolerated your childish games for too long,” he seethed, short of spitting out the words. To call this an exercise to prepare him for flying—a lesson Camille had not asked for—was just a poor excuse to hurt him, to humiliate him and to be an insufferable brute. All of his composure had been drained from his body; from his hair draping in unruly wisps around his face, to the raw signs of anger displayed on his face where usually a filter of elegance concealed his true emotions. His eyes were blazing. Barking a humorless laugh, Camille turned towards the direction he’d come from as if he’d suddenly decided to leave and that he was above this. One sudden moment later, he pivoted back with his jaw set, whipping his wand towards the other boy. Wand hand raised high, pointing straight at Harlan’s chest, he fired a spell with furious determination, “Lacarnum Inflamari!” hoping to see fire set aflame in the Gryffindor boy’s attire and his smug smirk wiped off his face when he was burned to crisps. 1. Are you crazy?! |
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Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Gracefully Falling
| —— | love it, or leave it, you can't understand a pretty face, but you do so carry on, ━━ summary, this thread is happening on NOVEMBER 11TH, 2025, in the AFTERNOON with @CAMILLE DE VARENNE. / wc: 596. The reality that Camille lived in seemed to solely be of his own creation with the tiniest hint of logic or reasoning helping to guide him forward. To each their own though, but to watch the unraveling of Camille De Varenne in real time was both deeply concerning and a little sad. Maybe Harlan did play around too much when it came to messing with the first year, but it was always in jest and for his own sake too. Flying wasn't easy but the Gryffindor wanted to see Camille in the sky, he should be prepared for errant bludgers since anything airborne could be a projectile. These were all valid concerns to have once someone took to the air but Camille wasn't in a place to see that — he had decided to choose rage and fury unexpectedly and Harlan could only hope that finally letting go might do the boy some good. The slap was a little wild as it swung towards Harlan's face but the teenager had enough wherewithal to take a step back to dodge. " Woah, there. " It seemed that Camille's descent into a maddening state would only continue as next the Ravenclaw's wand had been aimed directly for Harlan's chest. " C'mon, Camille... I think you may be over-reacting a little bit. " Then the words came out of the boy's mouth Lacarnum Inflamari and flashbacks to his own use of this spell filled his mind as his misfiring of the Clothes-Ignition spell had him gloriously set on fire during his very first and last Broom Racing match and with third degree burns that Raizel had to help him with. Readying himself for his own defenses, the Gryffindor recognized the backfiring of the spell as his eyes widened. " Shit. " It only took a second before the flames shot backwards and onto Camille's own clothes. Harlan would react quickly with his own wand being pulled out and aimed for his childhood family friend. " Extinguo. " The flicks needed were straightforward and easy, a spell Harlan practiced in the off-chance that someone needed help had presented itself to him in the oddest way. Naturally, a soothing jet of water began to spout from the tip of his wand and aimed for the flickers of ember that had just began to ignite were quelled with a ferocity and diligence that hopefully showed Camille that Harlan truly wasn't trying to cause him real harm. Without skipping a beat, Harlan slid off his sweatshirt and offered it to Camille. " C'mon, take this for now. " Sure, it wasn't expensive and it would probably make the Ravenclaw's expensive taste abhorred to even be seen with something so middle class and pedestrian but what other option did Camille have? " Y'know, my very first Broom Racing match last year I used this same spell and lit myself on fire for everyone to see. I wish I could say that was my most embarrassing moment at Hogwarts, but I don't think it even hits top five. " With enough doubt to fill the Nile that Camille would honor and recognize that what Harlan was doing was for Camille's benefit, Harlan persisted for the sake that Camille clearly needed something if he was flying off the handles as intensely as he was. " I think we have some talking to do. " Harlan would gesture to one of the benches, letting Camille gather his composure by turning his back to the boy and moving to sit slowly and methodically. It'd be the perfect chance to cast a spell if Camille couldn't realize what a peace offering looked like. |
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Gracefully Falling
| C | date: 7/11/2025 location: Quidditch Training Pitch |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Harlan Montgomery @Lorenzo Vincenti |
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| CV | When he’d settled on the spell to use in his moment of rage, there had been no reason for Camille to expect anything to go wrong. Practicing magic was admittedly new to him, a mere first year, yet he’d learned the spell without much trouble and passed the class with flying marks. He’d spoken with confidence, and rage. Perhaps his anger had gotten the better of him. Light from the spell blasted from the tip of his wand, but instead of hitting the target, Harlan, the spell rebounded. In the time between the incantation and the moment he felt the smell of smoke curling inside his nostrils, the searing heat at his leg and the realization of the state of his robes hit him, Camille’s infuriated expression had turned into one of unexpected panic. Where he’d envisioned Harlan to stand before him, battling flames in his clothes, stood the older Gryffindor unharmed, untouched, albeit perhaps a tad concerned for Camille’s wellbeing. Meanwhile, he, in his place, was on fire. Camille barely had the time to be embarrassed over the backfired spell, before he was jumping in place, at a loss for what to do. In a futile attempt, he slapped the palm of his hand against the ignited flame. Not even while fighting life and death by fire could Camille lower himself to scream for help. For all his faults, at least his upperclassman had enough compassion and decency to act quickly and accordingly. A jet of water drenched his clothes and the flames that threatened to burn him alive, which was a welcome sensation despite himself. Glancing between the burned edge of his robe and Harlan, his expression betrayed nothing but pure shock, yet the French boy had never felt more grateful for his dear associate and to be completely soaked than he was then, even if Camille mostly had himself to blame. Camille would stubbornly argue that Harlan's actions were the main catalyst for the series of events that had unfolded. His feelings would largely remain unsaid, though no amount of pride could completely conceal the flicker of vulnerability that flashed in his eyes when he regarded the older boy from beneath wispy strands of dark hair. Two issues remained: his clothes were wet and burnt. “C'mon, take this for now,” Harlan said, offering his off-brand sweatshirt to wear. He slid it off his shoulders before Camille could ask what he planned to wear then, revealing layers beneath. It looked cold, he thought in a flash of concern, but he supposed it would suffice for now. Lip lightly curled in skepticism, albeit aware that his options were sparse right now, Camille accepted the shirt with two pinched fingers. Harlan’s wardrobe left plenty to be desired. The December wind against the wet fabric and his skin urged him to hurry to remove his wet and ruined outer layer to pull Harlan’s significantly larger sweater over his head. Tugging the hem over his hip, the fabric fell mid-thigh. He glanced down at his new ensemble, unimpressed. It was the first time he’d worn a jersey sweater, and for more reasons than simply the price tag, it would probably be the last time. His attitude seemed to come to no surprise. Harlan recounted a similar outcome using the same spell at a broomracing event, yet it didn’t even make his top five most humiliating moments. Camille, unsurprised, rolled his eyes. No matter how much he’d relish listening to all of Gryffindor's embarrassing moments, an insignificant detail was the only detail of enough consequence for Camille to comment on. “Broom racing? I thought you played Quidditch.” The French boy sounded almost as surprised to hear that there were more than one sport available. Why subject oneself to more broomstick sports than necessary? After this stunt, he was feeling even less inclined to participate, if that was even possible after his disastrous experience in flying class. Flying would have to wait; Harlan, meanwhile, was already walking toward the bleachers, insisting they needed to talk. Bewildered, he crossed his arms over his chest and followed, wondering exactly what kind of lecture awaited him this time, whether it was the attempted slap, the failed spell, or his aversion to flying. Approaching the bleachers but remaining standing for now, he adopted a defensive tone. “What? Isn’t the embarrassment of setting myself on fire enough?” Scoffing, the boy rested on one hip, glancing around the pitch to ensure privacy. Sensing that Harlan would see it differently, he dampened his bottom lip and snapped, “You tried to kill me with that bludger! Is that how you recruit new players for the Gryffindor team? Blackmail and threaten them? And I thought my day couldn't get worse.” |
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Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny