From A Flat to High C [pv Camille De Varenne] - Elsewhere…

17 Oct 2025, 20:39

xx19/Nov./18x 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭-𝐕𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐚 Alluring Effect »───────────⌲ Speech: "Example"「Lorenzo Vincenti」

I would like to briefly point out that the following posts after this one will, in accordance with RP conventions, fall within a length of 500–1500 words. This one is an exception, having been granted permission to write as much as I wish. What Camille is wearing and all of his reactions mentioned in this post, was discussed.

He pressed three slender fingers between his white dress shirt and his neck. Thereupon, the pulse throbbed against his skin and raced to the rhythm of the music. The cellos purred with the orchestra of the Vienna Opera House at the far end of the hall. Only to be outshone by the bright cry of violins. Lorenzo swallowed carefully. His eyes fixed on his father’s arm. There was no shift in the folds of the man’s suit. The music must have concealed it—just as it did his thoughts. The five-year-old quietly tugged at the stiff fabric of his collar. The poplin pressed against his fingers, smooth as porcelain. No discernible texture offered him company . Together with the tailored black blazer, it felt more like a corset than a home.
“Look, Lorenzo.” The sleeve bent along his father’s arm as he leaned down toward him. Salvatore Vincenti moved with stiff precision, the repertory of patience already half spent on the way down.
Spellbound by the dark voice, Lorenzo released his fingers from the collar. Lifting his head, the gaze met the sharp arch of cheekbones and a nose whose tip pointed toward the table. Obediently, the child followed the line down to the white tablecloth. It lay round before them, covering the fine wood like the skirts of the many debutantes spinning across the ballroom. Elegantly, they turned in their white dresses, gliding between the tables and the orchestra’s grandstand. Lorenzo stared at the whiteness of the tablecloth. Between his father’s tall champagne glass and his own small round one, he searched for the important spectacle. Just as it had hours before, the silverware lay neatly arranged, reflecting the warm light of the crystal chandeliers hanging above their heads. The small child shifted backward on the upholstered chair, knees tense. The red velvet offered little help, and his short legs, dangling far from the ground, were useless too. Uncertain where to look, Lorenzo let his gaze drift. The crystal vase with its orchids and white roses sat patiently in place, and the other two male guests at the table seemed disinterested from anything but the young girls.
Lorenzo’s lip parted to form a question, but his father intervened. Salvatore exhaled sharply. It wasn’t loud, nor particularly deep, but released like a gust from his mouth after long hours of conference fatigue. “Not the table. Over there,” he marked, quieter.
His warm hand slid methodically beneath Lorenzo’s jaw and guided his head into position. It didn’t take much force—since the young Vincenti was well-behaved.

Not far from them was a man. He stood out among the crowd, his blue eyes fixed on the room. Lorenzo’s father commented on the sight: “That is Monsieur Alain De Varenne, from France,”—then released his grip on Lorenzo’s chin. The Frenchman, well-known in higher society, turned around. He moved his head, letting his hardened eyes wander across the dance floor like a hunter searching for a fox in an English field. Lorenzo furrowed his brow slightly and drew his gaze away from his father’s business partner. The question of what he was searching for tempted him, but with one glance at the stern features of Salvatore Vincenti it was fully forgot. His father seemed tense—or at least sharply observant of the hard-faced man. Worry began to boil, when all of a sudden—the two older gentlemen at their table drew everyone’s attention. Lorenzo followed suit. The man on the left had burst out laughing, “For the whole table?!”
A grin leapt onto the face of the company to his right. The thick, rising cheeks pushed his small glasses so high, they threatened to fall. “Indeed, Wolfgang!” he began, confidently crooned something under his breath, then added loudly, “—our Italian tablemates!”
Lorenzo could not understand a word. The sentences tried to enter his ears like a thread through the eye of a tiny needle. Something, it seemed, was going on with the entire table—and the Vincenti.
The blockade between his teeth and lips broke. Lorenzo instinctively shifted on the seat. Before a word could escape, his thumb and fingers found the thick sleeve of his father’s jacket.
“Wha—”
Salvatore interrupted his son, “That sounds wonderful, we thank you kindly,” in English. The five-year-old dug his fingernail into the fine fibres of the fabric. It was warm, as though the material had been steeped in the same heat as his owner‘s fingers. It seemed no immediate threat was waiting for him, yet a faint tremor ran through his narrow shoulders as laughter burst out once more. Then, the man with the glasses replied like a snake. The letter S slid through his English as if he were trying to lure a cat.
Lorenzo turned his head and stared back over the flowers. Brown eyes clung to his. The grin shot up into flushed cheeks, and a full glass of champagne lifted toward thin lips.
“Come over here. I’ll let you try some. It’s made with rose syrup—completely pink!” the old man announced, briefly raising the bubbling drink. The round pearls of champagne seemed eager to escape his fingers. They drifted upward along the walls, away from his fat hand. Lorenzo clenched his fist deeper into the sleeve, but Salvatore remained silent. Instead, he reached for his own slender glass. The heat from the stranger‘s cheeks seemed to seep into his brown eyes. From across the table, they burned down at him so intently that Lorenzo feared—even with his eyes closed—they might pierce through his lids and force an answer. Like a rising tide, polite phrases began to pile up in the boy’s head. Useless words stacked atop one another. He opened his mouth. Then closed it and tugged at his father’s sleeve. The wave wanted to start running and drown him alive. The shriek of the violins grew louder. They sounded as if they were calling for help from the depths of the ocean. Their tone climbed until it finally stuffed his ears. Only to fall silent a moment later—far too abruptly. The chandeliers blazed brighter. People no longer swayed to the rhythm, and white fabrics fell motionless from their hips. Lorenzo suddenly felt as though everyone were breathing in unison.

The air grew thin, his head heavy. The second old man, too, had now shifted his attention from the dance floor to him. Lorenzo dragged his gaze from the glasses and brown eyes, to the new face. It was long in ear and chin and broad everywhere else. His bushy brows rose as their eyes met. Lorenzo tugged again at his father’s sleeve and Salvatore sipped from his glass. Everyone began to applaud.
At first only two or three, before the entire mass of aristocrats broke into cheering. Without rhythm, they slapped their hands together. The hours of sitting dictating each noise like an extra heartbeat in Lorenzo’s chest. All at once, someone leaned closer.
It wasn’t his father. The figure of a servant bent forward and placed something between his silver utensils. The boy didn’t need to take a peek—just glancing ahead was reflecting it back at him. Amid the loud noises and the humming in his ears, a young waiter set down two small plates before the old gentlemen. Porcelain bowls rested upon them, edged in the same gold as the flower vase. The men lowered their eyes. Their lips moved in muted conversation, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Lorenzo managed to escape their eyes. He seized the chance and turned to Salvatore—but the servant had already come first, setting the dish before him as well.
Lorenzo buried his hand deeper into his father‘s sleeve. Instinctively, he tried to cling to the warmth. His fingers began curling into the folds, but with a firm Pull, the older Vincenti abandoned him. He briefly half turned and offered a tight smile to the young woman instead. Then he breathed something in a foreign language and moved on to inspect the dish. The free arm was placed close to the plate. Observing it, Lorenzo drew his legs closer, bending them until the black dress shoes pressed their heels beneath the seat. Feeling the cold in his fingers replace his father‘s jacket, he too turned toward the table. The child stared through the renewed shriek of violins at something brown. Within the thick liquid sat chunks of some hidden substance. A strong smell blew into his face. The applause faded through the elegant room as one of the pieces sank. In its place, a fragment of onion—looking like something decayed—lifted its head through the mush.
Lorenzo didn’t dare breathe. The mere thought of how it might smell drained the colour from his lips.
“That’s Wiener Saftgulasch,” came the snake’s muffled voice.
In English Salvatore replied, “Traditional. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Out of the corner of his eye, his father’s spoon gleamed just before lifting one of the lumps. A satisfied sigh from the old men crawled beneath Lorenzo’s skin, followed by, “Mmhh, Fantastic—I hope your handsome lad enjoys it too.”
“Certainly he will,” came the firm confirmation from beside Lorenzo. The child sat rigid, staring at the bowl. Air slipped only faintly through his lips to keep from tasting it through scent. His jaw hung dry and tense when his father, in a sterner tone, advised, “Go on then. The large spoon.” Slowly, with that instruction on which utensil to use, warmth began to curl around Lorenzo’s neck. The long fingers pressed along his skin in four deliberate paths until he felt both pulse and pressure to move. He had no choice but to yield—his head was guided toward the calamity. An air of expectation settled over the table—how everyone waited.
In this new posture, the smell pressed into his lungs like an intrusive adult. Lorenzo sat as though on a stage, trying to summon the wanted smile. He hoped it would draw itself across his lips, but instead, his whole young face tightened. As if his brows had their own will, they drew together above his small nose. The brown liquid smelled encroaching—sour and thick with a sweet aftertaste. His body shoved back—he didn’t want it. And Salvatore didn’t push against him; instead, his hand slid along the collar until the heavy palm rested on Lorenzo’s right shoulder. The boy’s stomach clenched at the realisation. His legs shot downward, and his toes pointed helplessly toward the distant marble floor. He froze before risking a glance. Brown eyes looked down at him. His father pierced him with a searching gaze, methodical. It felt like a raid, accompanied by the quickening rhythm of the dance floor behind him. “Forgive me, gentlemen—my son seems to have left his manners at home,” he said softly, leaning closer. The warmth of his body was almost tangible, an invitation to bask in it—yet his eyes were so dark, they served as a locking mechanism around it. “You’re embarrassing me”, he hissed.
“I am sorry,” Lorenzo heard his own voice. Coldness had joined the heat on his flushed cheeks, pressing against his eyelids. The apology earned a slow nod from Salvatore and the words, “Now eat.”
In small, jerking motions the child‘s head turned back toward the goulash. He wanted to run. The heavy hand rubbed almost imperceptibly across his shoulder, ready to compel him. More of the smell rose up into his nose. His neck twisted away.
“Lorenzo. Eat,” his father repeated, the hand going still. Trumpets blared for the climax. With a dull sound, the women’s heels struck the floor. The swollen old man began, “Does he n—” but was drowned out by quickening timpani and cellos . The noises battered Lorenzo’s ears. Suddenly the blazing chandeliers seemed too loud, his collar too bright, and the hand far too heavy. He shuffled away—until the fingers no longer touched him. Somewhere between the strained breathing and the orchestra, he heard his name. Salvatore reached out, but by then the boy had slipped from the cushion to the floor. He landed on his soles, standing beside the chair. The room seemed to carry the weight of his father’s reaching gesture. The two older men appeared equally taken aback, leaning forward and trying to glimpse his face. The small child—hardly a meter tall—stood with his forehead level to the table’s edge. His left knee twitched in rhythm with his heartbeat and pushed him to move. One step away, his shoulder brushed along the white folds of the tablecloth.
Salvatore needed no words. The elder Vincenti stilled. The lack of reaction set Lorenzo’s neck aflame where the traces still burned. Hastily, he lifted his gaze. Disappointment stared down at him. Cold and expectant, even the lips did not move to address him—that chapter was closed.

Each breath between them grew more strained. In the corner to the left, the blurred shapes of the old men stirred. A hand reached across the table. Lorenzo’s breath caught in his throat. His heart pulled the air through his body as though time were running backward. The opening of the new symphony quickened. Deep drumbeats pounded through his skull—then he was gone.
Instead, the five-year-old felt only silk slapping into his eyes and the warmth of a passing thigh. He saw red, then white. The table fell away behind him. Accompanied by startled voices, he pressed himself between the standing guests, deeper into the opera house. His fingers trembled, balled into tiny fists against his chest. Lorenzo slipped past a black skirt and a leg. For a second, his ears thought they heard Salvatore— his father‘s voice calling after him, uncharacteristically loud, crying his name into the world. But only the violins did, more plaintively than before. In his overtired haste, the light flashed between every adult, striking down at his hair. Someone gave him a gentle push. The sensation clung to his shoulder and arm even as grey chiffon brushed the cheek. Lorenzo pressed on between two figures, further into the distance.
A faintly trained “Excuse me” tumbled from his pale lips, though it was no longer directed at anyone. He fixed his gaze ahead, seeing nothing but colours far too loud. Panting clung from his throat as his forehead struck against a leg. It stopped the child.
Gasping, the thick mass of air still tried to force its way out of his body. His fingers instinctively dug into the fabric before his nose. It was soft and dense, warm like his chauffeur’s trousers. But lifting his head, Lorenzo found himself staring into blue. Instead of the sky and its clouds, only confused eyes appeared. They belonged to Monsieur De Varenne, his father’s business partner. Cold withdrew into Lorenzo’s fingertips.
Though he wanted to pull away, his joints hands clung to the fabric. They missed their cue. The first crease was pulled, when the trousers finally slipped free from between his desperate grasp.
Lorenzo curled his hands once more into small fists and pressed them against his chest, shrinking in size. He hoped for mercy—that the, to him, unfamiliar man might lower himself and speak softly.
In its stead, “Where are you going?” asked the dark voice, as if seizing the moment of the cello solo to command the room. Exhausted, the child pulled the air so very deeply through his body that his shoulders rose tight and high. His heart beat too fast. A fleeting whisper crossed his mind—he had been holding his breath. Even in running, he showed no talent. Monsieur De Varenne was cold, thus his gaze did not burn upon Lorenzo’s skin. Suddenly, another voice urged its way along the accelerating tempo of the music. “Lorenzo..!” it sighed, carried by the tuba. His body jolted without leaving the ground. He flinched—to the side, and away.
Between the heads of well-groomed hair and two angelic-looking ladies, Salvatore’s pensive face appeared void. His dark eyes drew in the chandeliers and colours as though pulling them and Lorenzo into his gravity. A bright, wordless sound escaped Lorenzo’s closed lips. He reached a hand back toward the leg and opened his fist—only to vanish, with his next step, between two skirts. The second lasted too long—just like the laughter of the lady beside him. She giggled somewhere to his right. Lorenzo pushed himself between two gentlemen, soon her delight was heard to the back of his head.

Time seemed to move like a snail dusted with Floopowder—slowly crawling, only to grope for the ground somewhere entirely else the next morning. He remembered that somewhere between a leg and a table, the pull behind him had weakened. It drove him to run faster. Beyond a yellow dress, the crowd of guests grew sparse. Lorenzo didn’t notice it at first—not until a shadow flooded the ground. Since no chandelier screamed into his eyes anymore, he lifted his gaze. A door rose from the floor ahead. It was plain and looked between the red curtains and golden accents like a bare child. Only a small green light glowed softly above it. On it, a white human posed in an escape. Hounded and exhausted, Lorenzo threw himself against the cold door and pushed.
Out of mercy, the door swung open. Instead of chandeliers and the red, flashing warmth between violins, stagnation took the stage. The door closed slowly behind him. Ahead, there was only cream-coloured white, and an impact. He felt fabric, warmth, and a stranger’s breath, then the five-year-old stumbled backwards. Lorenzo drew in a sharp breath, still trying to catch his balance before, with a dull thud, he hit the floor. An unsheltered sting ran through his thigh and hip.

His eyes widened before he stared ahead. Instead of a wall, his gaze met another boy. The child wasn’t much older than him, and still stood on his two thin legs. The Italian held his breath. The off-white suit not far from him framed warmly toned skin. It was still peeking through at the nape of the neck. Stress whispered that it wasn’t over—that even here, in the silent corridor behind the many guests, nothing waited for him. Lorenzo drew his arms closer to his chest. Hesitantly, he dared a glance at the stranger‘s face. The brown-green eyes caught sight of him, startled. Behind Lorenzo felt something approaching—accompanied by the rising weight in his throat. It seemed to echo every muted vibration of the ground, as though he could feel his father looming closer.
The five-year-old jerked his hand away from the cold ground next to his leg. Before his other hand reached his left eye to rub it, his fingers curled into small fists. Under the still light, the pulsing heat of the chase abandoned him too. Cold rose from the floor into his body. He pulled his legs closer, angling them to shrink.
Lorenzo searched the pretty boy’s face for answers to questions unspoken. His pupils trembled, darting left and right among the green tones of those foreign eyes. Nowhere beneath the thick lashes did he find disdain—or disgust. Like a child before an unfamiliar signpost, he was sitting there without direction. Within two breaths, the lump in his throat gave way and a pitiful whimper escaped. His vision thickened into sludge. Tears pulsed beneath his lashes, falling uncontrolled onto his cheeks. The fist pressed against one eye tried, with trembling movements, to stop a few of them. Meanwhile Lorenzo lifted his other hand. Despite the distance between them, his fingers opened, trying to urgently reach out. But there was too much space separating them. Words refused to form between his shuddering breaths. Through his tear-blurred view, the stranger‘s darling face had dissolved into a smudge of pale tones and darker hair—partly his own, for at least three loose strands of black had strayed across Lorenzo’s face.

𝐼𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛: @Camille De Varenne

𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖽-𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 3288

𝒩ℴ𝓉ℯ𝓈: -

Last edited by Lorenzo Vincenti on 7 Jun 2026, 11:21, edited 2 times in total.

[url=https://hogwarts.io/memberlist.php?mode=viewprofile&u=87739]iNPC: Noel Clavero][/url]
conmarth_reim_spiritum_fadra. xest_paks_hyma_fshn_null.

Camille De Varenne

Second year, Quidditch player, Ravenclaw

489 1 191

20 Oct 2025, 22:39

date: 19th November, 2018
location: Elsewhere, Vienna
wc: 4,010

abilities: lovely creature
dialogue: #0a2a28
mentioned: @Lorenzo Vincenti

The annual Vienna Ball was in full swing. In the middle of the grand ballroom, countless debutantes danced to the orchestra’s music, their white gowns fanning out in graceful rhythm. At one of the luxurious, ivory-clothed tables lining the right side of the room, closest to the dance floor, sat Camille De Varenne with his mother Sylvie by his side. By looking at her, wearing a midnight blue dress that showcased her slim figure, you’d never guess she was already the mother of three. At another table not too far off sat his sister, surrounded by girls her age, eagerly eyeing the young men twirling the debutantes across the floor, while the eldest brother was out there himself, escorting the noble daughter of a duke. A match that had been in the works for years with the hopes of courting that would lead to marriage in due time. Yet no one seemed to pay them much mind, with Sylvie’s youngest darling demanding all of her attention. His father Alain, as was often the case, was nowhere to be seen.

Surrounded by the wives of other esteemed aristocrats, the women cooed and giggled among themselves, their attention drawn to the little boy beside her with adoration in their eyes. Camille, at four years old, was already the star of the show— and easily distracted. His attention was not on his brother and the dancing debutants, nor his sister in her gorgeous, pink empire waisted dress. Camille inspected everything in front of him: the fine tablecloth, the engraved silver cutlery, the untouched gold-rimmed plate. A neatly folded blue embroidered napkin rested on it, held by a golden crown. Soon, he grew bored. Ignoring the women watching him, his attention turned toward his mother, particularly toward reaching his small hands for a loose chestnut-brown lock of her hair as the women around the table looked on with indulgent smiles.

Among the traditional black-tie protocol, with the exception of the girls in white gowns, Camille was the only one who had been dressed in ivory and creams. The custom made tiny white blazer he'd arrived in hung neatly on the back-rest after he'd grown fussy over the heavy layers, leaving him dressed in only an ivory shirt and a pale gold vest. The topic of conversation at this table had revolved around Camille all evening, the ballet classes he’d newly enrolled in, his milestones, with the only occasional diversion to their absent husbands.

“He’ll get hungry soon,” one of the women murmured, her gaze still on the boy. “Should we get the waiters? I heard it’s Saftsgulasch.”

“Excellent. I, for one, am starving,” another replied, lifting an elegant, lace-gloved hand to flag down the nearest staff member. A young man appeared by their table immediately to refill their flutes from a crystal carafe with something sparkling and pink. While they arranged for the course to be served, Camille watched the pink drink bubbling inside the flute glass, his tongue darting over his bottom lip.

“Jus?” The boy inquired hopefully, the first word spoken in more than one hour.

Heads turned towards him, pleasant laughter erupted around the table at his sweet innocence and curiosity. A blonde woman wearing emerald green, dangling earrings grinned at him, trying her best to inform him, “Non. C’est du champagne.” Predictably for a boy his age, Camille had never drunk Champagne, yet it didn’t deter his curiosity. With the beverage looking so appetizing, he imagined it would have tasted like bubblegum and strawberries.

The first woman’s smile stretched, leaning over the table. “Would you like that, darling?” He didn’t need to understand the words when she reached the glass containing the pretty drink over the table. Camille excitedly leaned his whole body forward, pressing his lips to the rim and took a confident sip. His gaze drifted past the rim of the glass, up towards the towering ceiling, catching the shimmering light from the huge chandeliers above. Briefly distracted by the light and glamour of the ballroom, Camille wasn’t expecting the shock on his tastebuds as the champagne hit his tongue. Tasting nothing like he’d imagined– but sour, slightly tangy— he grimaced in disgust and pulled back, slumping in his chair in disappointment. Instead of being impolite, they only found it cute. Beside him, his mother entertained their doting on her jewel with a light, practiced chuckle.

Betrayed by the taste, Camille stared at the woman speaking, his round hazel eyes utterly clueless. Confused, most of all, as to why something that pretty would taste so awful. And why the woman would have given it to him. Since the boy didn't know a single word of English, the conversation drifted past his ears as brown noise, much like the violins in the background. Regardless of the lack of response, the women delighted in having his attention for the brief moment.

“He’s just started with solids,” his mother explained, reaching over the chair to stroke her son’s silky-soft brown hair between her slim fingers. “My husband disapproved of letting Beatrice and Julien nurse for so long, but he changed his mind regarding Camille.” With a fond smile, she glanced down at her precious. “I loved it, I took the last chance that I had.” Camille caught her voice in the French accent, familiar yet strange when woven through English words. The sound alone drew him back, his hazel eyes fixing on her glowing face. His lips scrunched as he made a sound that sounded something between a mewl and a dissatisfied whine. Not loud enough to disturb the ladies, only to get his mothers attention. It had the intended effect. Sylvie, without hesitation, lifted his body off the chair and into her lap. Settled in her lap, Camille was content to wrap his arms around her neck, resting his chin in the curve, seemingly carved out for him. While the women continued to converse, his eyelids grew heavy, closing slowly to the lull of music and the unintelligible chatter around him.

They only opened again when something, the smell of something foul moved past him. Behind him, the waiter had returned to fill their plates with the traditional dish that, to his immature eyes, looked like something dead they’d found buried in dirty pond water, decided to call it a delicacy and served it on a silver platter. The women, on the other hand, did not seem to share his particular tastes. They addressed the man politely, before gracefully picking up the large spoon to dig in. Even his mother shifted Camille in her lap to reach her own spoon.

“Tu vas manger ça?”¹ Camille whispered to his mother, skeptical, though not wanting the other noble ladies to hear him say something that could have been interpreted as rude. He dared such audacity only with his mother. Beneath his father’s stern gaze, he would never have gotten away with it, with the expectations of dinner etiquette.

Keeping a hushed tone, Sylvie turned to her son, reassuring him that the food was not as grotesque as it looked. To prove it, she took a small taste-test herself, scooping up gulasch on her silver spoon and bringing it to her red mouth. He followed the movement with his eyes, expecting her to spit it out as soon as the carcass entered her mouth. No such reaction came. Perplexed, he watched her holding up another spoonful in a gentle offering. Camille shook his head, still not quite that brave to try it himself.

“Ça pue,”² he muttered, his simple senses declaring everything he needed to know about the food.

With a soft sigh, understanding his picky tastes, his mother nodded. “D’accord.” Easing him off her lap and carefully onto the floor, the soles of his tiny oxfords clicked against the polished, parquet floor. She urged him to find his sister at the other table while she enjoyed her meal, the other tablemates currently too busy discussing other topics to notice his absence. With his newfound independence, Camille was let off. Though Beatrice was only ten metres away, for a four-year-old weaving through hundreds of guests, it felt like he was discovering the world anew. With his gaze fixed on the long chestnut colored hair of his sister, cascading down her lightly curved back, Camille slalomed between tableguests in her direction. Halfway there, however, the boy suddenly changed course. A waiter, carrying a tray of molten chocolate lava cake, caught his attention. The rich, sweet aroma wafting through the air pulled him irresistibly toward the doorway at the back of the ballroom. Clueless to where the doorway led— or how he would find his way back if he were to get lost— Camille bolted after with his small legs, dodging any gowns and running into tall men on the way there.

By the time he reached the hallway beyond the ballroom, the waiter with the lava cake had vanished behind one of the countless doors lined up in the hall. Though when one had disappeared, another one appeared, this waiter carried a tray of refills of that deceiving pink champagne. Memorizing what door he’d come from, the four year old backtracked his movement, sneaking a peak inside the kitchen area. A cloud of hot air, along with the same stench from before, somewhere mixed with sweetness hit him like a wall. The industrial kitchen was seemingly busier than the dancefloor; various chefs in tall white hats were shouting orders among themselves, cooking with flame and steam to keep up with the demand of the guests. No one paid attention to a tiny little boy standing in the doorway. Until one waiter on the way inside almost toppled over him, barely managing to keep the tray of empty glasses upright.

Bewildered by the sudden impact, Camille glanced up at the young man who couldn’t be much older than his brother. Though, compared to his stiff brother, this man, after a moment of confusion, smiled at him warmly. It was an easy smile from someone who was clearly not suffocated under the pressure of a family legacy. “Mais, qu’est-ce que vous faites ici?”³ For reasons beyond Camille’s understanding, the waiter seemed to recognize him. At least he was aware of what language to speak with him. Happy to hear someone, clearly friendly, speak his language, the boy felt immediately comfortable.

“Jus?” He asked again– the confidence of someone used to getting whatever they desired, large eyes glittering in the light.

“Bien sûr,”⁴ the waiter promised, crouching briefly before fetching a chilled carton of raspberry juice from one of the fridges. Camille had never been more excited for juice in his life as when the man returned, teared off the straw and slid it through the foil seal before handing it to him. Ready to be enjoyed and savored. Delighted, his lips wrapped around the straw immediately, sipping greedily. This time it was something actually tasty. Thrilled by his loot, the door was held open and Camille stumbled out into the ever-stretching hallway. He glanced down at it, wondering what else there was to discover inside this building. Somewhere in his consciousness, a question stirred about his fathers absence all evening.

Driven by curiosity, Camille pressed onward, his small legs carrying him down the dimly lit, empty corridor before any adults could intervene. Rounding a corner, he dashed into another hallway, just as grandly decorated as the first, before coming to an abrupt stop at a dead end. At the far wall stood a small cupboard door. Camille stood there for a moment, just sipping his juice, looking at the door like it might come to life any second. Nothing about it seemed remarkable at first glance—except for the faint, strange sounds coming from within. A man and a woman, perhaps talking… whispering… or maybe kissing, like he had once glimpsed his parents do. Camille’s four-year-old mind, limited but endlessly imaginative, could not conceive of what else adults might be doing in a cupboard besides cleaning. Instead of turning back to find his sister like he’d promised, the boy’s head tilted gently to the side, and, guided by pure curiosity, he crept toward it, tiny fingers reaching for the shiny handle. Even the door to a simple cupboard was designed with lavishness in mind.

More careful than he’d ever been before, not sure what scene he was about to stumble in on, Camille pulled at the handle and slowly creaked the door open. Just enough to get a peek. At best, it was the cleaning ladies– at worst, it was a monster spider, ready to jump at him. (Not that he knew why there would be spiders at the Vienna Ball, but one could never be too careful.) Inside, it was dark, though the movements of two silhouettes made it distinguishable enough for him to draw the conclusion that it was neither.

In the dimness, two figures moved against the wall—a man and a young blonde woman locked in a strange, breathless tangle. The man’s hand gripped her waist; his mouth pressed against her neck while the woman breathed heavily, mumbling something Camille couldn’t hear. From beneath the hem of a dress, pushed up with the help of a rough male hand, there was a flash of smooth thigh. Camille froze in place, jaw slack. The boy instantly knew that he was not supposed to see this, but he couldn’t help but glance at the man's lips, pressed to the expanse of her neck. His eyes clung helplessly to the man’s face as he lifted his head to whisper something in the woman’s ear. In that second, he saw him clearly. In that instant, his heart, along with his small, innocent world, shattered.

The word left his mouth before he could stop himself. “Papa…?” The half-empty juice box tumbled from his hand, landing on the polished floor.

He was too small to understand, but not too small to feel betrayal. Papa was kissing a lady who wasn’t Maman. His beautiful maman. The best mom in the whole world. Camille could only ask himself why.

Abruptly, everything came to a stop. Alain De Varenne and the strange lady that wasn’t his mom, stared at him, mirroring his shock. Staring into his fathers eyes, it felt like he shrank impossibly small beneath his gaze, the room narrowed, tunneling in on him alone. His legs turned into lead. Time seemingly stretched on for what felt like an eternity. For a moment, Camile almost believed they hadn’t seen him yet. “Camille,” the trance was broken when his father’s voice cut through the silence, a warning laced with something Camille had never heard before. For the first time in his life, his dad sounded worried. Worried he was caught.

It only lasted a fraction of a second, however. His father released the woman, who looked suddenly uncomfortable, rearranging her skirts. “Viens ici.”⁵ He demanded, though Camille, pumped with fear for what might come, had already taken a cautious step back out into the corridor. With his legs on his back in a sudden game of cat and mouse, the boy bolted, running the same way he’d come from like his little life depended on it. Behind him, a sharp shout of his father’s voice echoed, but he didn’t dare look back. His pulse hammered in his tiny chest, his hazel eyes wide, running away from every shadowed corner as if the walls themselves might reach out to catch him. Hallways, doors, oil–paintings moved past him in a blur, with no cognizance of where he was going.

In a series of miraculous events, Camille picked a door at random, managing to stumble inside the ladies room, where he ran inside one of the bathrooms to hide behind locked doors. The stall, in this case, was a glamorous bathroom with its own mood lights and fragrance that filled the bathroom with a mild floral scent. From somewhere, pleasant spa music played, to make the toilet experience less unpleasant. The difference between the chase and the sudden, serene-like atmosphere inside the bathroom felt surreal, for Camille imagined– watching the ominous door– that Alain would be standing outside, banging on the wood any minute now. His heart stopped dead in his chest when he heard a door swing open, but instead of storming over to his hiding spot, the clicks of stilettos stopped by one of the basins. Someone washed their hands, pulled a towel from a dispenser and then left as soon as they'd arrived. Camille dared breathe again when he was alone.

Minutes passed in slow motion to the sound of a piano, yet whatever he was waiting for… didn’t come. Nothing happened. No more footsteps, no father. Feeling his pulse slowly descend from its peak, Camille backed two footsteps, sat down on top of the porcelain seat and curled up with his knees against his chest. Soft cotton rubbed against his cheeks when he buried his face in his knees. Taking a deep breath, heart-broken sobs followed suit in the exhale. Like a tidal wave, Camille released the tears and cried like the boy had never done before. In his despair, he wished for his mother’s soft embrace to comfort him, to reassure him everything was okay. Childishly, he even wished for his father to appear outside of the room and speak with a soft voice for once. Perhaps even give him a hug. He wouldn’t. He rarely did. Yet, he spared his affections to a stranger.

What upset him the most, he didn’t know— whether it was the scene he’d seen or what feelings it had stirred: that he didn’t know his father. Facing him, knowing he hurt mom, felt unsafe. The realization, regardless of if he understood the context of it, made him burst into a fresh wave of sobs. The betrayal, the longing for his father to be his dad, felt like a prison in which he was being tortured, ripping at him from within. Camille didn’t think he’d ever stop crying inside that bathroom.

It was eventually hunger that pulled him up from his fetal position. After what felt like an entire night, when his eyes had been drained of all the tears they could possibly produce, Camille slid off the toilet seat. His crying had left a dark patch on his cream-colored trousers, though it would dry soon. The door handle was cold against his hot hand when he pulled at it. The ladies room was, expectedly, empty when he snuck out. Before he exited, he turned to stare at himself in the ornate mirror, the sight almost conjuring another round of tears. He looked like a mess, his tear-streaked cheeks and blood-shot eyes indefinite proof that he’d been bawling his eyes out. Wobbling his bottom lip, he imagined what his parents would say if they saw him like this, or one of the fine ladies from the table. Biting back another whimper, Camille stood on his tippy-toes to grab a few napkins from the dispenser. Wetting them beneath the spray of cold water, he rubbed his face with the cool, damp towel. When his face felt less hot, though his cheeks were still indefinitely tinted pink, he buried his face in a few sheets of dry paper towels, making sure his face was dry before he ventured out.

If you looked closely, the boy was visibly shaking as he walked slowly down the corridor, each step heavier than the last. The fear tightened in his chest when he finally recognized the door that had started it all—the one leading back to the opulent ballroom. He imagined his mother, still laughing with the other wives, unaware of what he’d seen. Maybe his father had told her he’d run off instead of finding his sister. What if she knew and now they were all angry with him. Camille bit his lip to keep it from wobbling, tears welling in his eyes again. He didn’t want to go out there, he thought desperately, rolling his hands into fists at his sides. The boy stood there, stubbornly, dreading whatever he would face on the other side. Before he could move, the door swung open—and a child about his size came barreling through. Camille barely had time to react before they collided. Wobbling backward two steps, he managed to catch his balance, but the other boy wasn’t so lucky, hitting the floor with a thud.

Camille stood there, staring at the boy his age with wide eyes. Curiosity about the brunette with the pretty, olive skin momentarily distracted him from everything he’d been through. It was the first time he’d met someone his age at this event. He was dressed like the other adults at the ball, black and white, classical attire. He looked proper, yet everything about his current behavior said otherwise. Compared to Camille who was excited about the possibility of an age-appropriate playmate, the other brunette curled into himself on the floor like he wanted to disappear. Blue eyes the color of ocean depths stared up at him, a moment later came the sea of tears. His thick lashes and strands of dark hair were sticking to his face like tentacles. Camille blinked back at him, unsure of what to do.

Something about the sight hit too close to home, even though Camille would never have dreamed of crying in public. Yet, the young French boy didn’t judge him, he only felt bad. Sympathy or maybe self-pity, or perhaps both made him almost cry in unison with him. Though, footsteps thundered behind the doors, approaching like a threat. In his mind, it could only mean one thing: Alain De Varenne was coming. Only his imagination could stop the various scenarios he convinced himself about; his father had somehow seen them, scared this boy into tears and now he was chasing them both. To punish him for what he'd seen, and for running away. Camille’s heart pounded just thinking about it.

“On y va!“⁶ He said urgently, assuming the boy spoke his language and they shared the same looming threat.

The boy didn’t immediately obey his command, for whatever reason the French couldn’t fathom. Camille had never been a leader; at his young age, he was the doted darling, the boy who got everything he wanted. Mostly. His own breakdown prior to this showed how vulnerable he actually was when facing something new and foreign. Though in this moment, he was faced with a situation he’d never been in before. Someone who seemed more helpless than him was in distress. It was simple. He had to help him! With a new surge of adrenaline, without thinking, Camille grabbed the boy’s hand in his--- it was soft and warm--- and using all the strength his little body possessed, tried to pull him up from the floor. This approach had more success, even if it still felt clumsy to try to lift another boy his size. Camille took up the chase again, this time tugging the other boy along with him, holding his soft hand in vice-like grip to avoid losing him.

They only had to run down the first corridor. Instead of turning to the right, like he’d done the first time around, Camille cut off to the left to try his luck there. It led them into a large, dark room that he vaguely recognized from the first arrival. It was called the wardrobe, where all of the guests expensive winter coats hung in rows, creating a thick forest of fur– real and faux— felt and wool. For a child's imagination in the search for a good hiding place, they couldn’t have found anything better. Camille threw one glance behind, catching the sweet face and the eyes of wide, blue eyes. Using his free hand that wasn’t holding the others, he lifted his pointing finger and placed it over his lips, a gesture for him to be quiet. Then gave the stranger a determined nod, before diving into one row of fluffy outerwear. No one would find them there.

1. Are you going to eat that?
2. It stinks.
3. But, what are you doing here?
4. Of course.
5. Come here.
6. Let's go!

Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny

Lorenzo Vincenti

Second year, Ravenclaw

71 61

11 Jun 2026, 21:51

xx19/Nov./18x 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭-𝐕𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐚 Alluring Effect »───────────────⊱Speech: "Example" Lorenzo Vincenti

The ground seemed to thunder. The raging sounds from the ballroom reached the children beyond the door. His heart was pounding. Either his pulse was imitating distant footsteps, or the footsteps parroted his pulse. Uncertain, the five-year-old sank further into his own legs. What remained of his natural posture could scarcely be recognised without opera glasses.
Lorenzo swallowed. His breath caught on his tears — when the blurred figure’s mouth opened. «On y va!» the words urgently forced the space to a halt.
For instead of a clear command, something entirely else now lingered between them — the French language.

From the mere sound of it, memories tried to usher familiar words into his mind, only to drown somewhere between the gasping of Lorenzo‘s lungs and the heaviness of his lashes. He recognised the sentence, but only as foreign. Confusion began to simmer. «What..?»

His childish brows drew together, and though his sight had blurred, his whimpering face searched over the other child. Tears were still visiting his blue eyes. They too had grown cautious now, slipping only slowly beyond the black of his lashes. In the ballroom, the orchestra swelled into fortissimo. Yet the corridor had become almost inappropriately quiet and slow. All at once, the stranger wrapped in cream reached for him. He felt only the small hand locking itself into his fingers and beginning to tug at his arm. Lorenzo felt the urgent pressure in his shoulder. Briefly, he squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself back upon his feet. With a tearful dance still caught in his throat, his trousers felt all the more uncomfortable. His shoes, too, seemed inelegantly too large and yet too small. Half bewildered, he drew in the cold air sharply. And so the boy stood in the corridor, seeming almost beside himself for the second it took before his beautiful saviour pulled him along.
Lorenzo tried to blink the blur away. His lashes beat greedily against one another in search of clarity, whilst his fingers tightened around the stranger’s warm hand. The other child led their way. The place into which he had stumbled only moments before slipped away beneath his feet. Like a woman in the wrong dress at the edge of the dance floor, the sounds remained behind as well. They stayed, where the trumpets now rose in the distance. Suddenly, the door seemed to fly open. Lorenzo‘s thoughts leapt at once to his father, to that grave face with which he would follow him in stern pursuit. At the sound, his fingers pressed into the boy’s warm skin. Before he even noticed it, they were running. His sight began to return as well, and his gaze caught upon the finely cut, cream-coloured cloth of a small suit.
Although the last tears still rolled, they were comforted by the sight more quickly than his trembling fear. For those still hung stiffly in his knees.
The pale colour was unlike anything Lorenzo knew as proper. Everything had always to be dark, drab, and monochrome. Even as trouser cloth alone cream would never have been permitted to call his wardrobe home. His gaze travelled. It caught now upon the collar, where dark hair pressed softly against it. Lorenzo‘s breath stumbled, for all at once they turned sharply into the left-hand curve. It forced his eyes off the other boy.

The stranger had led them into a darkened room. It lay deeper than the corridor. The ceiling hung lower than in the ballroom, though higher than in the entrance hall. Lorenzo held his breath, his shoulder drew closer into his body. He then lifted his gaze. Here and there, pale white points seemed to suggest extinguished lamps. The pieces of furniture, and the doors set into the walls, made the place appear to Lorenzo more like a storeroom than part of the luxurious venue. Only the hints of fur suggested a walk in closet. He could not fathom who would need that many coats. His eyes widened in confusion as he lowered his head and stared upon the back of the stranger’s head. Dark waves lay softly against it. As though order could be natural, no strand seemed to dislike one another. Unlike his own, they fell perfectly. Perhaps it was the contrast that lodged the question of where they were behind Lorenzo‘s lips. Then the boy turned at last — and their eyes locked.
Green or brown, perhaps something in between, rested beneath thick lashes. Full and long, they swept all the way toward the furthest corners of expressive eyes. The question, and his father, Mr Vincenti, were forgotten. The other boy stood before him too sweet and angelic. The lock in Lorenzo‘s knees began to loosen. Even his shoulder slipped slowly from the stage of tension, easing into the stillness. Then clarity marched into his thoughts—enough, at least for the moment, to understand that they were meant to hide. The angel wrapped in cream lifted one of his little fingers and held it before his lips. It was followed by a gesture toward the many garments. The notion stood in the room as near as only his father usually did.

With one final nod, the idea seemed sealed and the prelude complete. Lorenzo followed him in amongst the heavy garments. Fur and wool met him harshly as only lights otherwise did. As though they had grown joyous at receiving visiting children. They struck his cheeks like pecking kisses, differently than before. It smelt of fresh laundry, faded perfume, and a trace of expensive dust. It reminded Lorenzo of finding himself in a hiding place full of strangers, only now all of them lacked the eyes and ears to judge.
The blue eyed boy could almost imagine he still felt the owner’s warmth, touching a coat. The fur smothered his skin. He nudged back a black fur coat with his elbow, then carefully lowered himself to the ground. His heart seemed to be at rest now. Sleepiness beckoned, as if the unfamiliar had become his bed and the woollen sleeve behind them a heavy duvet. Lorenzo crouched further into it.
Drawing up his legs, he let the black coat fall closed again. The view narrowed.
Behind the sleeves, golden buttons and fur, the room ahead partly vanished. By instinct, Lorenzo shifted to the side. Their hands had not yet loosened when he felt the arm and side of the other child press against his own. Like the little fairies in Swan Lake, they huddled close together. His saviour’s brilliant idea had protected them, and at last his thoughts could pause.

His shoulders sank, his exhausted chest folded into his knees, and his head came to rest upon them like a corset fallen to pieces. Even in the darkness, his eyes searched for the angel. Yet instead of the light that had danced upon the cream, the wakeful eyes, and the deeper skin, he saw almost nothing but black. The coats screened them off, seemingly even from the light.
«Grazie», Lorenzo whispered. The Italian nestled cautiously from between his lips. The weeping from before still carried itself in the dry shaping of the r, instead of the usual Calabrian-talian trill. The boy almost sounded foreign to himself, as though he came from the centre, or even the north, of Italy. Lorenzo swallowed. Underscored by a sniffle, he shifted closer. It was in vain, since the distance between their sides had long since been lost.
Quieter still, he asked, «What are you called?», in English, for his language tutor had always grumbled that Italian was of no common use at events. Why exactly, young Lorenzo had not yet understood.

LInteraction: @Camille De Varenne

𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖽-𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 1274

[url=https://hogwarts.io/memberlist.php?mode=viewprofile&u=87739]iNPC: Noel Clavero][/url]
conmarth_reim_spiritum_fadra. xest_paks_hyma_fshn_null.

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From A Flat to High C pv Camille De Varenne