Headmaster's Office
CLOSED ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════ Arkady had settled into his office in a considerable state of disarray; his mind continued to linger on the fact that he had even been appointed to such a prestigious position, so much so that he could hardly focus on decoration. Students and professors alike had witnessed him juggling large cardboard boxes containing an eclectic mix of items, muttering to himself with his eyes trained on the floor. A remarkably odd sight for a presumably very gifted wizard. You see, Arkady had never expected to be thrown into the role of Headmaster at his old school, Ilvermorny, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It had been sprung upon him in what felt like a fever dream of events. Headmaster Dolus stepped down, and his name had been floated around by his doting colleagues. A suitable interim Headmaster until someone more experienced would come along. That’s what they had told them. Truthfully, Arkady only agreed because he could not bear to disappoint his lovely research partners. There was nothing he felt less adept at than assuming a position of authority, not only over an entire student body and platoon of staff members, but to also act as a sort of political chess piece in the North American wizarding community. Everyone knew that Headmasters inadvertently held more bargaining power than the job description let on, prima facie. Oh, what a conundrum. He wondered if it was too late to step down – though the idea of being Ilvermorny’s shortest ever reigning Head similarly made him balk. As he set up his office space, Arek took various breaks to stand before an antique full-length mirror, propped up against a wall. He would straighten his tie, fix his posture and quietly rehearse his introductions. “Hello, my name is Headmaster Piecyk. That’s 'pyeh-tszik' – but please, I insist you simply call me Arkady.” He frowned in the mirror, somehow uncertain on how to say his own name, “Arr-kah-dee.” His accent always flourished ever so slightly when stating his name, ‘R’s perfectly rolled with softer consonants. Over his years of travel, he had slowly adopted a chimaera of dialects between Polish, German and American. Brow furrowed, he played around with each syllable with a terribly-Valley-girl pronunciation. “Ahr-kay-dee. Arkady. Hi, my name is Arkady.” As futile an endeavour as it was, it distracted him from the larger task at hand. Actually unpacking his things. ⏱ The Headmaster’s Office, after a painstakingly slow process of glasses of wine, jazz music and reminiscing through old keepsakes, had finally been set up. A shiny new plaque lay bolted onto the front door in bold serif letters – words Arkady suddenly could not even fathom. Headmaster A. D. Piecyk. Upon entry, one would find the cluttered and cobwebbed office belonging to Headmaster Dolus had been utterly transformed, pristine and welcoming light as it flooded through large bay windows. Calculations and musings were written on the glass in white chalk pen, casting swirling shadows over the room. The wall behind Arkady’s desk was covered in a towering, decadent bookcase, well-loved and neatly organised. To the right of his workspace, you would find an impressive collection of fine wines and scotch whiskey, kept under lock and key in a beautifully crafted cabinet. The remaining walls were blessed with a collection of vintage Romance-era paintings and posters of plays and operas the man had frequented. Beside the doorway, was a large corkboard, adorned with notes from students, pamphlets and adverts for school events and polaroids. Upon closer inspection, one would find some endearing pictures of the Headmaster in his younger days, beaming with pride in his Ilvermorny gowns. The rest of the room was filled with a charming display of furniture. In front of his desk, the floor was blanketed with a rustic, burgundy Persian rug, upon which students often found pesky tufts of white fur and a few comfortable beanbags for them to use if needing a break. At the back of the room, of course, was Arkady’s desk and chair, which were far too imposing and regal-looking for his own humble tastes. Opposite his table, he had placed two squashy armchairs, decked with cushions for any welcome guests. Behind his desk, a classic greenish-black chalkboard stood covered in – you guessed it – more calculations. An enchanted gramophone sat in the corner of the room beside an easel, canvas and array of paints and brushes, with soul music bleeding throughout the space with the scent of white flowers. If you timed your arrival just right, you might find Arkady covered in paint, humming a soft tune as he mapped out his next piece, incense smoke swirling stagnantly in the air. Most other hours of the day, he would be found at his desk, filing through listless equations, papers and theses from his Transfiguration research while snacking on an apple. Regardless, he always makes a concerted effort to greet every guest, welcome or not, with a warm, bashful smile. ACTIONS ════════════════════════════════════════════════════ – please refrain from godmodding arkady besides these suggestions! please do not make up dialogue that has not been provided for arkady! Knock on the door – You will hear Arkady calling from within, inviting you in with a bright tone. Enter without knocking – Arkady will be engrossed in his work and not notice you have entered until you speak. When you do, he will flinch a little in surprise, nervously laughing as he asks if he can help you. Visibly nervous or upset – Arkady will rise from his seat and offer you a seat on the beanbags, fetching a cup of tea for you. Acting hostile – Arkady will grow serious, speaking in a firmer, more stern tone. Despite this, he will still inquire into your wellbeing. Overly familiar – Arkady will chuckle nervously and wave it off, inviting you to sit. INTERACTIVE OBJECTS ═════════════════════════════════════════ – please refrain from interacting with other objects in the room otherwise! Inspect paintings – Arkady will be shy about his artwork, trying to divert the conversation away from himself by asking why you are here. Touch paintings – Arkady will get a little defensive, lightly scolding you. Inspect beanbags, bay window or armchairs – Arkady will invite you to take a seat and offer you something to drink. Inspect gramophone – Arkady smiles and will ask if you’d like to take a seat. Touch gramophone/change record – Arkady will be surprised, if a little perplexed at your behaviour, asking you to take a seat. Inquire about chalkboard/calculations – Arkady will look visibly delighted and ask if you are interested in Transfiguration. RULES ══════════════════════════════════════════════════════ – please read before posting! 1. Only when marked "open" will I be allowing RPs here. 2. Only one person is allowed in the office at a time. When an active RP is ongoing, this thread will be marked "closed". 3. The thread will reopen when the student has left, or when they have not posted for 30 days. 4. This is an IC area, so all posts here must be at least 200 words, follow RP rules, Ilvermorny forum rules, and lore. 3. Interactions in this thread are meant to be short – if you wish for a longer thread, please owl me! 4. Light god-modding is allowed. Anything mentioned in this post is okay to mention, as well as minor actions. Please do not make up dialogue for Arkady. 5. You may attempt to break into the office, but I will be moderating! dpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadpadp |
xxx |  a d p  a d p  |
Headmaster's Office
| AT ILVERMORNY WITH @Arkady Piecyk | JUNE SECOND, 2026 |
Two-hundered and seventy-three days. That’s how many days had passed between the first time Ilias snuck out of the grounds and the day he finally got caught. Ilias had thrown his shoes over the familiar stone ruin in the furthest corner of the grounds, as usual. As was his routine, though a few comfortable hours later than usual, he'd slid his fingers and toes into the dependable cracks, preparing to climb and jump to the other side. Only this time, things didn't go according to plan. One of the professors, the one who bored him to death in class with her nasal wheezing, stormed up behind him and yanked him down from the ruin by his t-shirt. Flailing once he’d lost control over his body, he gaped over the stone edge, his life flashing before his eyes in slow-motion; the only thing on his mind then was his busted hand-me-down shoes lying forlorn in the mud on the other side, left for the coyotes—or worse, trolls. “Where do you think you’re going, young man?!” she all but screamed, holding him still by his upper arms to stop him from running away. Unbeknownst to her, he wasn’t going anywhere without his climbing shoes. Ilias's jaw worked soundlessly, tearing his eyes away from the wall to the hideous old lady’s face, mere inches away from him, who he’d been seconds away from escaping. “Bu–but— my shoes,” he began, pointing vaguely at the stone. “No buts! This is not the first time I’ve seen you sneaking off! You’re going straight to the Headmaster!” She then dragged him back to the castle by his wrist, and Ilias could only stare at the shrinking hiding spot, wondering if his shoes would still be there when he returned. If he returned, he thought grimly. It had been too easy, and perhaps precisely that was the reason he’d eventually exposed himself. He’d gotten too reckless to remember to cover his tracks, or at the very least not waltz straight across the grounds during business hours. As much as it had ruined his day—potentially the next six years to come—it had only ever been a question of when it would come back to bite him. Begrudgingly, Ilias allowed himself to be dragged all the way to the Headmaster’s office, though every so often he had to bite his lip to stop hisses of pain to escape as the professor’s fingers dug into his skinny wrist so hard he feared she’d leave bruises. Assuming the witch would hear no reason, even if he tried to convince her she could let go once inside the castle walls— where would he disappear off to anyway—-he kept his mouth pressed into a thin line. Physical relief only came once they’d reached the door with the looming sign, bearing a name he couldn’t pronounce past the title: Headmaster A. D. Piecyk. The man had only claimed the position a few weeks ago but a series of peculiar rumours had already spread across the student body about the way he acquired the position. If you believed what the students were saying, A. D. Piertycsh—something… had murdered the previous headmaster to get rid of him. Ilias had a pretty strong intuition that it was not true, but it did make the sudden appearance of a new Headmaster all the more interesting, he supposed. Besides that, he hadn’t met the man at all, which meant that his fate was in completely foreign hands, and he didn’t like it. Ugh, he thought, his face twisting slightly even as the grip on his wrist was released, though the phantom pain of her fingernails still lingered. The name looked awfully like what he’d imagined an evil dentist in horror movies to be called. That was, if Ilias watched movies. Still, he waited patiently while the professor firmly knocked on the door three times, announcing their arrival. A bright voice from within invited them inside. The professor turned the doorknob, but they remained rooted for a moment longer with the door slightly ajar. Confused, Ilias dared a glance at the professor from the corner of his eyes. Regrettably. A hard face stared back at him, nodding towards the door and urged him inside. He swallowed once before stepping forward over the threshold. Whatever waited him inside, it appeared he would have to face it alone, he realized as he door shut behind him. For a moment he just stood there, staring ahead with his arms hanging at his sides, awkwardly. “Umm…” Ilias said, at a loss for words, already distracted by the amount of design elements the man had managed to squeeze in during this short amount of time. Paintings covered the vast majority of the walls. The towering bookcase suggested that he was at least well-read, though what stood out to him the most was the large, well-stocked cabinet containing various amounts of alcohol. So, he was one of those, Ilias thought, squinting. His mind briefly slipping back to the distant memory of his mother—what he could remember of her—drinking her life away in their New York apartment. It surfaced less like a traumatic memory and more like an universal fact, something filed away rather than fully felt, though he’d experienced his fair share of those too. A subtle discomfort forced him to shift his stance. Once he'd seen enough, his gaze flickered back to the Headmaster. “I guess I'm in trouble.” Between him and the new Headmaster was only crickets and a persian rug with white tufts of fur, belonging to no cat, from what he could see. |
| SEER | INTUITION |
Camille De Varenne | Hogwarts
Headmaster's Office
❝ ʜᴇʏ, ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛʀᴀɪɴ, ᴡᴀɪᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ. ❞ ═══════════════════════════════════════
The elusive Headmaster stood behind his desk at his blackboard, mulling over complex calculations with his fingertips coated in a delicate layer of chalk dust. Earthy incense, a gift from an old friend, swirled in the air as an instrumental saxophone track wafted from the gramophone. He had been largely undisturbed in his first few days as Headmaster; students eerily cleared the hallways at the mention of his name – not that he minded too much. Arkady did however wish for a chance to get to know his new pupils, having put so much care and attention into making his office a warm and welcoming retreat for anyone passing by.
His mousy brown trenchcoat was tossed over the back of his chair, leaving the man in a form-fitted waistcoat and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Ancient illustrations of black ink wound their way down his forearms. He had thrown on a simple pair of black slacks and brown leather Oxford, discarding his tie on his table and unbuttoning his collar from the cool summer heat. The warm glow from the soon setting sun cast a halo amongst his blonde hair, his soft blue eyes darting with the slight purse of his lips. Against his neat appearance, a bruise blossomed like blood upon milk. A purplish black-eye he had not bothered yet to mend – too preoccupied with equations and reams of academic research. For a Healer, he was oddly found in a state of disrepair very often.
His thoughts were disturbed by a sharp rap at the door. Arkady’s shoulders lifted slightly with surprise, delighted at the prospect of some company. He cast a cursory look at the entrance before calling out in a bright tone. “Do come in!” He did not yet turn around, quickly scrawling the end of his conclusion in looping chicken-scratch only he needed to understand.
There was a long moment of silence, punctuated with the sound of the door swinging open and shut with uncertain, soft footfalls. Arkady turned around with a curious smile, a mellow look in his eyes that could wear down some of the most stubborn walls. The boy before him was unfamiliar – as most students were to Arek. He had untamed curls, dark eyebags and – peculiarly – no shoes on. Ark’s eyebrow gave an accidental quirk at the sight, though his smile persisted, noticing the boy’s incertitude. An awkward thought then struck him – was he meant to discipline this kid? The mere suggestion made him uncomfortable, especially as he picked up on subtle cues in the boy’s behaviour – surveying his surroundings with distrust and a keen analytical eye. He practically shrunk away from Arek, causing the man’s smile to waver ever so slightly.
Arkady’s voice was crisp and clear, notes of Polish sneaking into his rolled R’s. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Call me Arkady. And– you are…?”
As the boy gave his introductions under considerable duress, Arek circled his desk to perch against its edge, arms held politely behind his back. He noted the boy’s mannerisms and clear aversion to authority. It gave him pause. Arkady did not really care for the time being what he had been sent in for – he was rather too focused on his lack of appropriate footwear and honestly how exhausted the boy looked. Ilias was his name.
Arek gave a small nod towards an inviting-looking armchair. “What happened to your shoes? You’re all muddied up.”
═══════════════════════════════════ ❝ ᴡᴀꜱ ʜᴇʟᴅ ɪɴ ᴄʜᴀɪɴꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴡ ɪ'ᴍ ꜰʀᴇᴇ. ❞
@Ilias Lahlou – I'm going to adopt this boy.
Headmaster's Office
| AT ILVERMORNY WITH @Arkady Piecyk | JUNE SECOND, 2026 |
After a minute, Ilias could conclude that the new Headmaster was not anything like the rumors spreading about him, the mellow smile never leaving his face once, like he was simply happy to have company and not supposed to reprimand him for breaking the rules. Not that Ilias had believed the rumors to begin with, but finally standing face to face with the man, he could only ask himself how he’d become the subject for students' wild fantasies. That was, of course, based only on personality and first impression. The alcohol stack looming in the background told him a different story. Naturally, Ilias was still skeptical of anyone who had a full cabinet of whiskey to their disposal, especially at their workplace. Even if the boy had encountered plenty of adults since his mother’s failure who drank frequently and without any major issues, most of them handled well, Ilias thought his prejudices were justified, with his baggage. Out of the two of them, the twelve year old was the least keen on speaking. Being dragged in by his wrist and promised consequences for his (harmless) actions was not the most pleasant experience. Nevertheless, this man—Arkady— was clearly so far clueless as to why Ilias had been shoved into his office. For a fraction of a moment, Ilias's face twitched in surprise. If what the professor had said was true, that she’d seen him sneaking off on multiple occasions, he’d imagined his name and face would have made the rounds in the staff room by now, if it truly had been such a grave offense. When the Headmaster asked for his name, he wondered if he could use this knowledge to his advantage; perhaps he’d get away easier than expected. Granted, the punishment itself was not nearly as bad as potentially losing his climbing spot— and now, his shoes. “Ilias…” he answered warily, clearly not in the mood for unnecessary chatting, if his closed-off body language had left any room for doubts. Simultaneously, he carefully gauged for any signs of recognition in Arkady’s expression. Watching the man— yet still young to be considered a Headmaster—circle back to his desk, Ilias’ gaze darted around the ceilings while waiting for the final discipline. When Arkady had leaned back against the desk and spoke again, the topic was his lack of footwear rather than his rule-breaking. Having almost forgotten that he’d been walking barefoot all the way from the grounds, his gaze dropped to his feet in surprise. They were still covered in mud, despite having left a trail of muddy footsteps from the door, following him to where he was standing on the persian rug. He wiggled his toes, felt the calloused skin formed from months of rock-climbing outside scrape against the warm fibers, probably making it dirtier in the process, too, and then glanced up again with a vacant expression. “I didn’t exactly have the time to grab my shoes before she dragged me all over here,” he answered snarkily with a slightly irritated shrug and eye-roll, assuming he knew which hag for a professor he was referring to. He crossed his arms over his chest, unsure what to do with them otherwise. If the mud would be a problem, Ilias would argue that it was not his fault. His eyes narrowed on the Headmaster, scrutinizing. “You have no idea why I’m here, do you?” |
| SEER | INTUITION |
Camille De Varenne | Hogwarts