interaction: @camille de varenne wc: 946 dialogue thoughts

Diagon Alley was the only place Victoria’s stifling family permitted her to go alone during the summer months. And even then, their permission came with a reason as unromantic as it was predictable—she had assured them she needed a new book. Her parents, secure in the notion that their pale, reserved daughter would spend her money on nothing but tomes and paper, had let her slip away.

The Blythe girl sighed as she tucked the newly purchased volume into her worn canvas bag. She slung the strap across her shoulder, holding it close as though the book inside were a shield. Through the glass window of the shop, she studied the crowd swarming the cobbled street outside. Her pale brows drew together in a small frown. Crowds had always unsettled her, the press and tangle of strangers like waves crashing too close. And yet—she had no desire to return home just yet. The money her parents had given her still lay almost untouched in her pocket, saved for the cost of the books.

So, after a hesitant breath, Victoria stepped into the river of bodies that was Diagon Alley, murmuring faint apologies whenever a stranger brushed her shoulder. Her steps carried her not toward home, but toward a place she had never been, though she had long been curious: The Leaky Cauldron.

The moment she pushed open its door, a faint disappointment stirred within her. She had imagined it differently. The air was heavy, the scent of ale and damp wood thick in her lungs. There were fewer young faces than she had expected; instead, tired men nursed their drinks and muttered to each other in low voices. The room felt oppressive, a little too dim, a little too worn.

Victoria lingered near the entrance, uncertain. Should she stay or turn back? Her body swayed with indecision, her hand shifting nervously on the strap of her bag. She had nearly chosen retreat when her gaze caught on a frosted glass of pumpkin juice, glistening in the hand of a patron. The drink sent a pang of longing through her—outside the air was stifling, and even here the heaviness pressed against her skin. Something cold, something refreshing… yes. That, at least, she could allow herself.

She ordered her own pumpkin juice, her voice quiet but firm, and carried the chilled glass to the cleanest corner table she could find. Folding herself into the chair, she tried to let her shoulders relax, to focus on the beads of condensation running down the glass rather than the restless hum of conversation around her.

But then—the door opened again, and Victoria’s blue eyes lifted instinctively.

Two boys stepped inside, burdened with bags and parcels that left no doubt as to their contents: first-year supplies. Her breath stilled as recognition struck her. Camille De Varenne—and his elder brother.

Of all places to encounter them, she had not expected here. She knew the boy from the periphery of another world—the glittering, constricting sphere of pure-blood society. Only a month ago, at one of those suffocating summer gatherings where her family insisted on parading her about, she had exchanged polite words with him. Their conversation had been nothing remarkable, little more than an introduction. And yet she remembered him, perhaps because he, too, had slipped away from the main hall that night, seeking air on the balcony just as she had.

There had been something contradictory in him—reckless, almost insolent in his casual posture, and yet there was refinement too, the easy grace of someone born into expectation. They had not truly spoken, not beyond the pleasantries, but Victoria had been quietly grateful then. His presence, distant as it was, had reminded her that she was not the only one who found such events suffocating.

Now, seeing him here, that memory pricked unexpectedly at her chest. She lowered her gaze quickly, deciding at once that she would not acknowledge him. She was not one to start conversations—especially not with boys her family would no doubt consider appropriate company. And yet… part of her, deep within, longed for someone to confide in about the weight of family, the silent battles waged beneath the surface of every pure-blood gathering. Could Camille be that person? Or was she mistaken in her impression of him?

She took a sip of her drink, cold against her lips, but the thought refused to leave her.

Footsteps neared. Victoria tensed, the sound drawing closer to her table. At first she kept her eyes fixed on the glass, willing herself to be invisible. But when she finally glanced up, Camille was scanning the room, his gaze searching for a place to sit.

Her heart gave a small, traitorous jump.

Victoria dipped her head, uncertain. Should she invite him? Perhaps he wanted only to sit with his brother. Perhaps he had no wish to speak to her at all. She told herself it was better not to interfere.

And yet, when his eyes met hers, everything stilled. For a brief moment, her pale blue gaze held fast to his light hazel one. His expression was unreadable, and she hated that she could not guess at his thoughts. Still—she did not look away. She would not be the first to yield.

It was only after those seconds passed, after she realized that ignoring him now might seem pointed, even cruel, that she allowed herself to move. Her voice, when it came, was soft, low, but steady enough to reach him across the din of the tavern.

“Would you like to sit?” Her voice almost got lost in the noisy cauldron, but it was still loud enough for the boy to hear.