Whence Music Doth Speak
The answer Camille gave wasn't, in Maisie's eyes, satisfying. She wondered if he'd thought about his future through countless sleepless nights, like she had done. They had similarities in upbringing: wealthy families, high expectations and a yearning for success and validation. With both families touching the waters of arts, performance or musical, they were both meant to walk the roads paved by them. Some things were not, as she would realize with age, for her to decide. She did not wish, however, to diminish his enthusiasm for his craft. Dancing and singing were remarkable skills to master, professionally or otherwise, and Maisie respected him for it. It was impressive, his burgeoning fame at only eleven years old, so she nodded vaguely.
06/10/2025 mentions
@ Camille De Varenneooc: location: ballroom
Maisie let out a short chuckle at Camille shared his opinions on snails, or, in French, escargots. She was secretly thrilled the particular dish was also disliked by a Frenchman whom she'd regarded many times as a good friend. "Really gives some of Britain's 'delicacies' a run for their money!" She referenced their earlier conversation about some of the more unique dishes of Great Britain.
Upon setting down her flute on the piano case, she suddenly felt conscious about what she was doing. Maisie knew, and was taught, and was yelled at, to treat any instrument that passed through her hands with reverence. Yet she could not help discarding them in any nook and cranny were places that sufficed. The main reason was that the whereabouts simply weren't the first things in mind when she lay them down. And also, she liked a little rogue in her life.
The last time Maisie spoke French out loud was when the French boy visited last year, as she had spent the year before Hogwarts at a prep school learning magic. By some bizarre coincidence, the song Camille picked—Belle nuit ô nuit d'amour was one she was familiar with from a sudden fascination with French opera that spanned over the course of three weeks. "The flute music gets in my head." It was true, she had been blowing into the tube for nearly an hour, and the empty room had amplified each and every note.
The next question left Maisie in silence as she thought why exactly she had no interest in becoming a flutist. "Well... I suppose I don't see it as a real profession? And my parents are mostly against the idea. They pinned all their hope on my sister to be their prodigy, so the rest of us are spared!" She said it slowly, but she wondered, was that what her mother had told her, or was it her real opinion. When she continued, she answered as how she viewed her future career. 'But also because I don't want music to be the only thing I am recognized and defined by. Turning a passion into a requirement usually kills the love for it. Sort of like... If people were to know you only as a ballet prodigy and nothing else. " She had heard her parents discuss the De Varennes, especially the way they educated their son before. Such gave her the impression that his early exposure to dancing was not out of pure interest, but with concerns for the whole family name more than anything.
"You know what? I'll play on the flute." She reached behind her and grabbed the flute. Tucking stray hair out of her face, she put the mouthpiece against her lips. She took a steadying breath, and the first notes of Belle nuit, ô nuit drifted across the room.
Whence Music Doth Speak
| C | date: 6/10/2025 location: Rehearsal Room |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Maisie Fenwick Rose Williams |
C |
| CV | Not a real profession. Quite astounded to hear the girl dismiss her musical talent and the amount of work that went into mastering an instrument to the point of professional proficiency, Camille blinked at her once, slowly. It was true that not everyone, regardless of talent, could make a career out of art. To Camille, nothing else had ever made sense. What would a real profession be, if not something unique, that challenged him, stunned his audience and left a mark? Had he asked, he reckoned he would have received answers such as Auror, potioneer, or healer. All those were respectable choices, important, even—for the average person. The last thing the French boy was, was average, and he would have been horrified at the mere suggestion to settle for a profession like any other. Based on her parents' choice to invest in one of the other daughters—eldest, assumedly— her lacking desire for a musical career was at least understandable, more than Maisie’s own reasoning. Mr and Mrs Williams didn’t strike him as the most strong-willed individuals. Vividly remembering how they’d allowed their daughter to make a habit out of jumping out of the window, he supposed all families with legacies to uphold still were subjected to heir favoritism. The one who was expected to carry the legacy forward, leaving the spares to squabble among themselves. Camille was not the heir to the company like Julien, yet he had other responsibilities that no one else could replicate. His talent was unmatched, to which he was almost inclined to thank Merlin, if his talents hadn’t been entirely self-possessed. To be slummed together with commoners just because he was not the eldest child would have been his greatest insult. Listening to Maisie’s comparison about passion versus responsibility, Camille considered her words. Ballet prodigy, while accurate, was indeed not the only identifying quality he possessed. If there was something he had learned in his first month at Hogwarts, it was that outside his immediate sphere, titles—regardless of status—were quickly reduced to something easily forgotten. To some, he would be treated like no one at all, and once his self-important bubble had burst, the realization still left a bitter taste in his mouth. After a moment, he spoke, almost reflecting, “I see. I’m certain you’ll find something more suitable, then.” Whatever that might be. “As for myself, I’d rather be known as a ballet or singing prodigy than being known for nothing at all.” The words came out sounding rather grim. Frowning, Camille’s gaze dropped to the piano keys in front of him that he had no intentions to play. Tentatively, he pressed on a few notes to no piece in particular, before glancing back up at Maisie, schooling his expression into something more pleasant and unbothered. “So, Belle nuit ô nuit d'amour?” Hopefully, that would be the end of a somber conversation. After previously dismissing the flute, she changed her mind and retrieved the instrument from its ill-placed position on top of the piano, to which Camille smiled. “Lovely,” he said, fixing his posture for better diaphragm support, before she put her mouth on the mouthpiece and the first notes of the French classic filled the room. He listened, savoring the music until the time came for him to join with vocals. As someone who had done nothing but master this song, Camille entered the composition with confident precision, and began to sing. |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny