camille gladstone

“No, I don’t really do resolutions. I find they just make me nervous, as if failing at them makes me a failure, too.” Remus was more than aware of the general mood around the castle, perhaps more than most given the state he had found Doris in. But even then, among the fear and sadness, he couldn’t help but have high spirits. He was human, capable of feeling more than one thing at once. “Better to just try and slowly become a better person, whatever that means.”

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A smile spread out through Camille’s face. She could understand that. “I just had one, and it wasn’t really a serious one, but I think I’m already failing at it.” It wasn’t entirely true, but it was the perhaps slightly self-centered conclusion she got to from discovering that, out of the blue, Jen was getting married. “But yeah, I’m shaking things up a lil’ bit, this year. Joined duelling club, of all things. Still don’t have the guts to tell Zoe that means I’ll need to drop Astronomy, though.”

He wished, in all the languages he knew, there was another—less terrible—word to describe what he felt when he realized he’d gotten away with it, but there wasn’t one other than this: relieved. It was, at the very least, a better word than ‘proud’. He managed not to feel that one; but not feeling pride did not  mean he felt its antithesis either, which would have been the more noble feeling just then to have: shame. 

“But we’re on the same page now. You and me.” He gestured between them. “So you don’t have to worry about it.” He paused a moment, angling himself back towards her. More friendly, less closed off. “Right?”

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“Right,” Camille replied at once, maybe hoping that the steadiness of her reply could shake off the embarrassment of her position. It did not. Curled up as she sat, Camille still felt petty and small for her questioning. It all robbed her of the excitement she ought to be feeling for what they were beginning. Anyone could understand her being nervous, there and then, butterflies in her stomach and all of that, but it seemed she felt it for all the wrong reasons.

"It’s a good thing,” she tried, thinking perhaps she could bend the mood into a more positive one through sheer force of will, but praying her smile didn’t look forcibly bent itself. “I’m happy we’re doing this.”

The strange thing was, as Camille spoke, the words seemed to twist and distort, so that Clem wasn’t hearing what had come out of her mouth, but a different story— her story, one that lived so violently in her skin still. It did not matter that it was The Oracle Camille’s story was published in; all Clem heard was The Daily Prophet, which had printed the words from her dad’s press conference word for word. It did not matter that Camille mentioned Caroline; all Clem heard was her mother’s name, a different life that had been snuffed out. She tried to blink it away but could not— it was all she could hear, all she could see, all she could feel, her own trauma being dug up where she couldn’t have guessed it would have been dug up at all. Was the rest of her life to be like this? Reminders everywhere they shouldn’t be?

Her chest tightened, her breathing becoming more sharp. “I didn’t meet her,” she managed to say with difficulty. She felt lightheaded. “You know, I don’t think I’m feeling well, I think— I might go to the Hospital Wing, or one of the overnight prefect rooms, to lie down a moment.” She paused, to catch the breath that was suddenly so evasive. “I’ll put your name down for Duelling Club.”

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The time elapsed between her question and Clem’s answer could have been seconds or a minute. Adrift in her own thoughts, Camille couldn’t tell. Over and over she could hear ‘Do you think that was a good idea?’, almost feeling the cogs turn inside her brain to convince her that no, it was not. 

So, when she grasped Clem’s reaction, Camille’s first thought was that she might have missed something. “Are you ok?” She asked, failing to understand how any of that would have had such an effect on her. “Yeah, I can walk you there, if you wanna.” Something told her she wouldn’t, though.

“Oh, you know, I bet you can get anyone who’s on the Pre-Auror track to help you out. I mean, I’m sure there’s plenty of people not doing Pre-Auror who can tutor you in duelling, but they might be the most eager for the extra practice, I imagine,” she nodded. “Yeah, she did. But, honestly, I’m not sure. The papers weren’t too clear on much, which is why I want to talk to her. Get her side of the story, see what she knows and remembers.”

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Camille’s mind went to Clem, then, but after their talk earlier that day she guessed she wouldn’t be entirely fond of the idea. “Yeah. Or someone in Auror Academy. I dunno,” she shrugged. It was, like most things, a problem she was postponing, instead of actively trying to solve. “Is she... Muggleborn? Or...?” Hard as she tried to ask it naturally, her tone was still too grave, her hopes too compromised not to show through.

when: february 5th, 1979 where: great hall, breakfast who: @camillegladstone​

“Everything has been tasting a little better recently, don’t you think?” A moment’s reflection, and he might’ve been able to pin down why. Of course food tasted better. His stomach was no longer constantly feeling sour, which gave way to actual enjoyment of things, including a nice warm breakfast on a chilly February day.

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Camille was almost surprised to find Remus at the emitting end of that sentence. Maybe she was judging him unfairly, but on most occasions Remus seemed rather gloomy. Today seemed to be an exception. Maybe there was a story behind that. She grinned fondly at him. “You think so?” Camille took a bite of her toast, which didn’t pop up, particularly. “Since when, you figure?”

“Oh,” Peter said, sitting back a little, consciously putting a breath’s more space between them. And though his shoulders sagged a little, though his brows furrowed in what looked like contemplation, the only thought on Peter’s mind was this: oh good, it’s not about the kiss then. He held that relief in tightly and close, and only once he was certain it was indistinguishable in his mannerisms did he speak. “Yeah, I went with her, but as mates,” he explained, and had the sense to keep a degree of confusion in his voice. “I mean, that’s what I meant it as anyway. If she got a different idea about it…” Peter shook his head, only feeling slightly bad for shucking the blame off of himself. “Should I talk to her?” he asked. “Y’know, make sure she knows…” He wasn’t going to, of course, but it was important to ask. “Wow, I feel bad.”

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Subtle as it was, Camille noticed Peter leaning away from her, and immediately she knew she shouldn’t have said anything. This certainty crept deeper into each and every strand of her muscles and gnawed uncomfortably at her bones the more he clarified the confusion, the more evident it became that he felt terribly bad about it, and for no reason at all. She reached a hand toward him, and placed it weightily upon his knee. “No, no, don’t –” she begged. “Don’t tell her anything, it’s fine. Obviously, it’s fine. You’re friends.” Her face said it on its own, but she still voiced it: “I’m sorry.” She refrained from telling him she didn’t want to be this person – jealous or controlling. That she wanted to trust him, and for that to be easy and natural. And that it wasn’t, but that was not his fault at all.

“There’s nothing wrong with practice.” She noticed Camille’s had neared closer to becoming limp. “Or with relaxing. Shall we have a glass of water?”

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Camille’s brows rose up at Hestia’s suggestion, though her eyes didn’t quite follow, as she felt herself increasingly groggy and uncomfortable with her position on the couch. “That’s a good idea,” she uttered. 

The moment when Hestia left to get her water was the very last she remembered from the party, clear and sharp – after that point, all became a blurry meddle of scenes and sounds. And finding herself at Hestia’s care, the following morning, safe and sound, might not have made up for how dreadful she felt soon after waking up, but it was, in the very least, a reminder that she could count on the most unexpected people, indeed.

Clem felt a rush of irrational fear as Camille recounted her story, an icy hand that walked up her spine and lifted all the hairs on the back of her neck. She looked down at her arm and saw goose bumps. It sounded like the start of a tale - no, a nightmare - she had lived through. Hadn’t that been what had happened to her, to her family? A publicised stand, an ambush, a death? The thought chilled her, causing her to look up suddenly in alarm. “Do you think that was a good idea?” she couldn’t help but ask.

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Camille felt herself falter over her feet at Clem’s question. Clem visibly did not think it was a good idea, and guessing that came like the confirmation to all the insecurities she’d felt before. So this was, certainly, what everyone she spoke to had been thinking, from behind their concerns and encouraging words. She lifted up apprehensive eyes at Clem and was at a loss of words for a moment. “Maybe it wasn’t... But doing nothing felt wrong, too. I really did think someway this could help.” Now, she wasn’t so sure. Her thoughts went back to the murders, to Caroline and Jacob, and how her potentially being next did nothing at all to help them, and she shivered. “Caroline was from Cambridge, you know... I dunno if you ever got to meet her.” Not that it mattered, she thought. What she’d done wouldn’t help her, either.

“Oh, that sounds delicious. You’ll have to share the recipe with me sometime.” She smiled brightly. “It was quite warm, which was lovely. A nice change of pace, you know? Anyway, I’m happy to be back home—at school. I think I may have actually missed the cold, somewhat.”

Daphne sighed as she glanced at her wristwatch, suddenly feeling flush. “Gosh, I’ve got somewhere to be, but let’s grab tea soon yes?” She turned on her heel soon after, making a beeline toward No. 7 Low Street.

Dawn gently reached out with her leg, poking the device away with the toe of her boot. “Surely someone is more qualified than us, anyway.”

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Camile nodded slowly, half grinning and half scowling in apprehension at the strange object as it bounced away from them. A quick reminder, if any was needed, that Hogwarts still had one too many secrets that might be left misunderstood.

Olin offered her a smile, warm and reassuring. “It might take a while, but I hope you achieve it.”

“Maybe we should just kick it back over there.”

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“But what if it– “ hurts him, she was gonna say, before realizing this was unlikely. “Can you?”

“Oh, that sounds lovely, bringing friends home. Do you do any baking? Holiday biscuits?” Daphne sighed. “Mhm, I did. I ended up going to Turks and Caicos for New Years Eve.” She decided to leave out the part about Cory. 

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“Oh, yes. Lemon butter biscuits. I know – not that Christmassy, but we do it all year long. This time of the year we just use the tree-shaped cutters, but it’s still our same old biscuit.” She tilted her head sideways to rest it over her hand, elbow on the table. “Ooh, that sounds–” expensive? “Fancy.”  

And stuck they were. The new year had come, and with it, new possibilities, and old friends. No matter what came next, Zoe was positive she could handle just about anything. As long as she had her friends.

“I don’t think so.”

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“But then why–” Camille would’ve gone on to question why they were called genies if they can’t grant wishes, when the object in her hand began moving about with a mechanical sound, much like little cogs turning and coils unwinding. In a gut reaction, Camille drop the somewhat spheric shape to the floor, and watched it as it continued moving.

“Probably not, no. I – don’t know that much about them, honestly. Just that they exist.”

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“Well–“ she had so many questions. “I’ll just ask this: do you know if they grant wishes?”

“Uh huh. I learnt about them this year. River genies, they live in the Ivory Coast. Not quite the same thing, but –”

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“Oh.” Camille did her best not to sound disappointed as she brought the object to her hear and shook it, as if that could tell her what was inside. “So this means he couldn’t be here– He? Or she? Are there female genies?”