Aesthetics
Summer 2025
The Gemmell Home/Studio
Pollockshields, Glasgow
These were the best kinds of appointments: the custom ones. Her mother's little helper, Maisie loved getting to meet clients and help dream up whatever wondrous garment might meet their needs. And sometimes if she were lucky, the client was someone really cool like a band or artist.
Today, the rumor was they would be visited by an artist—an eleven year old one. She’d cocked one eyebrow at the idea when she’d first heard it. Although Maisie considered herself an artist like both her parents, she wasn’t cocky enough to commission a whole outfit for her presence. (There really wouldn’t be much point—she loved to make some of her own.) But money was money, and maybe this would be easier in some ways—to get inside the head of someone her age.
So, when the doorbell rang on their Victorian-era flat, she ran to meet it. Stumbling past her mum's tall and well-put-together figure, heading to the same place, she reached out and placed her hand on the door knob and turned it. Above her, she heard her mother remind her not to just open the door to strangers, but this time she had to admit she was excited despite knowing very little about this young boy who now stood on their front stoop.
As her mother invited him inside, Maisie couldn’t help but add, “And I’m Maisie. I’ll be at Hogwarts too.” Perhaps it was presumptive, but Maisie didn’t really know where else you would go, unless you were a muggle. And truth be told, Maisie could have been mistaken for a muggle—they all could have—with the easy way she held herself, the handmade elements of her dress (including a knit short sleeve cardigan she made herself), the way her signature side plait hung at her shoulder, and the way mundane objects like picture frames and pots of mallowsweet and dittany stood on the fireplace mantle. It was a modest flat in a modest neighborhood in a city with a less-than-stellar reputation.
But inside, after they would pass through the most ordinary rooms, was windowed studio, a little cramped and filled with shelves of fabrics and mannequins, but functional. The bay window looked out on the street below: the circling, bustling streets that hid a wonderful underground music scene and crime that the city was famed for. And yet, Maisie wouldn’t change a thing; this was home. She’d never known the life of a longtime wizarding family like her mother had chosen to walk away from.
Althia invited them all to sit down at a rounded table as she brought out some drawing paper for herself and Maisie. “Now, Camille, why don’t you tell us a little bit about your event and what you’re looking for?” She asked. Maisie promptly added, “And do you want some tea or anything?” With her hand, she gestured up to a cabinet full of old vintage tea ups. Nearby, several mason jars held various types of tea. Her mother had taught her hospitality was an important part of making clients comfortable.
But Maisie was excited to get into the meat of this appointment and get designing. It was so exciting to work on something for someone her age—besides herself, that is. She had a tape measure ready around her neck, and quill behind her ear, and everything.
@Camille De Varenne
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Aesthetics
| C | date: Summer, 2025 location: Elsewhere, Glasgow |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Maisie Gemmell |
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| CV | Camille had never previously been to the northern parts of the British islands, making this trip to Glasgow his first impression to remember it by. At this time of the year, with the green stretching across the highlands, when the sun cared to show its shine, it was beautiful. It wasn’t a scenic tour that summoned them to this part of the country however, but another business meeting. Camille was no stranger to being dragged along for his father’s business trips, albeit this time, he alone was the focus of the appointment. For the first time, his opinion would carry weight, instead of following whatever orders his father demanded of him. The approaching summer would be busy for the young artist; he’d be spending two weeks warming up his ballet technique at one of his family’s ballet incentives. His first– ballet– stage debut was fast approaching, and he needed a custom made costume to fit the part he was playing, which also showcased the amount of money De Varenne could afford to splurge on originals. The type of clothes that would only be worn once, though admired through a photograph for an eternity. To be dressed in the same, default attire as any of the other dancers provided by the theatre, was unthinkable. Camille needed something original, fabulous and glamorous to represent him and his legacy. Something that set him apart from his peers, apart from his stunning visuals, of course. The designer they’d picked for this milestone occasion in Camille’s career had her freelance bureau in Glasgow. While he might have a say in the kind of costume that would be made, the boy had not influenced the decision of picking a designer, despite his skepticism whether English would be up to par with French fashion. Nowhere in his limited worldview, would they ever compare. The young Camille knew better than to pick a fight with his father, however. Regardless of his childish, cultural prejudices, his family had high expectations of this Gemmell designer in particular. Compared to the picturesque countryside, the part of the city they arrived at left a lot to be desired. Some of the buildings were badly kept, pavements were worn down and broken in places, like no one cared to take care of it. In one corner of the street, someone old wearing tattered skirts was sitting carrying all their belongings in a bag. This was the first time Camille had seen a homeless person, and he did not like it, manifesting in the way he gripped for his fathers shirt. In response, the man he loosely called father, jerked him off his arm with a stern look, a silent warning to stop acting like a child. Clinginess had never been rewarded in their family. Remembering himself, Camille retreated his hand and glanced away, pretending as if it hadn't happened. The building he was finally escorted to, likewise, made his gaze dart to his parents in alarm, wondering if this could truly be the right place. It was probably not in worse condition than most average folks' homes, perhaps even above middle-class for all he knew, but compared to Camille’s luxurious standards, it was comparable to an abandoned hut in terms of quality. A reputable, expensive designer lived here? He wouldn’t have believed it, if his family didn’t insist. Even then, he was skeptical. Left to his own devices while his parents had errands to run, Camille was beckoned inside the Victorian apartment. The fact that he’d be going alone would have left him thrilled any other time, if he wasn’t shaken after his long-distance encounter with a homeless person. The boy could only begin to imagine what lurked behind that door when he knocked three times on the wood: an ugly hag, mouth hanging open with sharp, predator teeth, scissors ready in hand to cut him into man-meat, surely. When the final reveal happened, you could practically see the boy take a breath in relief; The woman on the other end of the door, with a younger, sweet-looking girl– presumably her daughter– by her side was not scary, not even close to resembling a hag, as his imagination had so creatively curated. "Thank you," Camille said smoothly when he was invited inside, a gentle smile sliding into place. Maisie's quip about Hogwarts distracted him momentarily from quickly scanning his surroundings. Though he noted, relieved, that the inside was not as bad as the streets in the neighbouring area. He saw items he'd never seen in his life before, though nothing immediately threatening. He supposed Hogwarts was the only school someone from this area would consider, making her assumption less far-fetched. It was true that he'd been formally invited, though. It didn't seem like his father would arrange for a move anytime soon, meaning they might very well meet. That would make for the second Maisie from this country he'd met for business purposes. What an odd coinsidence, he thought, but decidedly didn't bother her with that information. "I'm Camille. Pleasure." As if they didn't know already. The boy tilted his head slightly, regarding her with polite curiosity. "Will it be your first year too?" Though they didn't have much time for smalltalk before they'd moved to the studio room to discuss designs. They were, after all, on a tight schedule. His fathers patience only stretched that far. “Now, Camille, why don’t you tell us a little bit about your event and what you’re looking for?” The designer asked with paper and pen ready in hand, Maisie, her daughter adding: “And do you want some tea or anything?” Assumedly, his father had not informed them about anything except that Camille would need a custom design. Of course. Mentally fuming over his fathers disregard, he told them with great importance, of the upcoming event. "No tea, thank you. The design is for one of my father's grand galas, there will be a ballet performance, naturally. My first stage debut as a dancer, making this costume in particular very special." The boy let the expectations that accompanied those words settle for a moment. "For the role I'll be dancing, bluebird, the costume needs to be light blue, royal and form-fitting enough to showcase the lines properly and ready by the beginning of August. I assume my father informed you of the logistics." Camille reached for inside his pocket and pulled out some inspiration pictures, in case they had no previous knowledge of any famous ballets. "But I want it to be glamorous, a bit more extravagant, one-of-a-kind to represent me. Perhaps some teal accents and jewels?" he suggested, off-handedly. |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny
Aesthetics
He didn't want tea. He didn't ask for coffee either or even water. He seemed very...focused, measured. Maisie, of course, had seen all kinds of people come and go from her mother's studio from the very demanding who knew exactly what they wanted to the very unsure who were purchasing a gift for someone else. They'd never really been in the position to refuse work. Only her father had that economic freedom because ethics were imperative to his work as a political journalist.
Still, this boy seemed unlike any she'd met before. He wasn't a wannabe star, but rather he already sat there with an air of confidence—like he was above the tea collection her mother had so carefully curated over time. "Second, actually. I'm in Ravenclaw," she explained as she picked up her quill to take notes just as her mum did. (Only Maisie's notes were sparser and larger.)
Leaning in, she listened closely as he explained what he was looking for. A gala. She'd never been to a gala. Looking across at her mum, who just nodded and wrote, it seemed like she wasn't phased at all. She'd dealt with pretty much everything, Maisie knew. And at least Maisie had one Hogwarts ball under her belt so she had some idea of what to expect from working on Reyna's gown last year.
"Merlin, that does sound special indeed," her mum said as she gave the boy a reassuring smile, "You must be so excited. We'll get you something just right for the occasion."
Maisie still listening, trying to conceive exactly what that might be. A bluebird, he said. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied a bird on the tree outside. The color wasn't quite right, but her vision followed it for a moment, paying attention to its movement: the way the wings flapped just so with each breath, so fast and so precise. Was that what it is like to dance?
"Yes, your father's been in touch about delivery and I've sent him an approximate schedule for fittings and alterations," her mother said and thereby brought Maisie back into the moment as the boy emphasized how he wanted to feel himself. On that, she felt confident they could deliver because that was the purpose of design: to make someone feel confident, able and real as the best version of themselves. "When do you feel the most like yourself? What do you want people to feel when they see you on the stage?" Maisie was quick to ask just as her mum was about to ask a similar question.
With a nod, Althia encouraged her daughter's questions as she started to sketch after looking over the photographs he'd provided. Drawing a elongated shoulder, she asked the question that hadn't come up yet, but was just as vital as color, fabric, and embellishments: "And how do we feel about magic in the garment? It could be as simple as the fabric changing color or a more complex illusion embedded like wings." Maisie always perked up when they started talking about things like this—the things that set them apart from a muggle designer. She was curious where the boy's imagination might go.
Her brown eyes looked across at the bolts of fabric, and began to pull some swatches in various light blues while her mum continued sketching. Maybe they'd need to import something, but the point of this meeting was establish some details for the project. And she was excited to learn about it and about him, too.
@Camille De Varenne
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Aesthetics
| C | date: Summer, 2025 location: Elsewhere, Glasgow |
abilities: lovely creature dialogue: #0a2a28 mentioned: @Maisie Gemmell |
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| CV | The daughter explained that she was already starting her second year at the school. She was in “Ravenclaw”, more specifically. A subtle crease appeared between his brows, momentarily confused as to what the word meant, though he could only assume it was one of the houses one could belong to. Clueless to the Hogwarts lore, Camille didn’t have much to offer on the topic, except a loose promise that they might meet there. They didn’t linger on the topic before they moved on to discuss possible designs for his performance. When he mentioned his upcoming event, her mother exclaimed, "Merlin, that does sound special indeed. You must be so excited!” The designer showed far more enthusiasm for his first grand ballet debut than Camille himself displayed. He sat with his legs neatly crossed, his hands clasped over his knee, leaning forward just enough to appear engaged in the sketching process. For any young dancer, it would have been a privilege to perform on such a stage — especially at his age, before such a distinguished audience. To Camille, however, it felt entirely natural, the spotlight merely his rightful place. The boy was looking forward to showing off the technique he’d been building recently, of course, albeit he revealed no more emotion than a polite, agreeable smile. Camille expected much of the world to arrive to him on a silver platter, but he was not blind to the advantages of his name. It had served him well before, and he was no stranger to wielding it when convenient. This time, however, what excited him most was the promise of a costume designed solely for him — tailored brilliance for an up-and-coming star. He took the designer at her word when she promised they’d create something special for him; the bare minimum, he thought, considering how far his family had travelled to bring their business to Glasgow. “Yes, I am looking forward to seeing what you’ll create. And the performance, too, of course,” he said, though keeping his composure. With the logistics out of the way, he was peppered with questions about his vision, to help the sketches come to life. Maisie’s question about what made him feel most like himself rendered him into a brief state of dumbstruckness. What he wanted the audience to feel was simpler: adoration. Awe. Even envy was more preferable than indifference. Pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, the boy had to ponder the answer for a moment. In all honesty, Camille had never considered it before, the question— when was he ever himself?--- danced in his mind. Most of his young life, he was simply what his parents had made him into. Ballet classes and vocal coaching had been his life since he was old enough to walk and talk, every public appearance carefully curated to showcase him and his family in the best light possible. Few had seen the real Camille, and sometimes, he wasn’t sure he had either. The closest to himself he had felt was in his solitude, away from his family’s constant surveillance. Forced to investigate himself for the first time in years, a distant memory surfaced: a much younger Camille playing on a beach in his hometown. A girl around his age by his side making him feel childishly alive in their play. Weddings and birthday parties bossing around an older boy while the adults mingled, the closest person to his age at the time, even if he’d been at least four years older. Those were moments he’d felt… more autonomous, though it had been so long ago, he could hardly be considered the same person any longer. Aware of how long the silence had stretched already, he forced himself to speak, albeit still sounding at a loss for an answer. “Oh, god…” Camille started, breathing out a huff of air that became a breathless chuckle. “You’re asking good questions. Umm…” He blinked a few times. The boy was usually never at a loss for words, and he did not enjoy the sudden position it put him in. He was granted a brief reprieve when Althia interjected, asking for his thoughts on incorporating magical elements into the garment. His brows lifted, a flicker of intrigue softening the tension between them— a tension perhaps only he’d felt. The thought had not occurred to him before, though perhaps it ought to have. It was, after all, the most natural resource in their world. Still, the notion of blending it with the discipline of ballet— an art so grounded in form, control, and precision— felt almost scandalous. Yet the idea stirred something in him. Magic was not traditional in the performing arts, but then again, Camille had never been one for tradition. If anything, he fancied himself the exception to it as the singular figure who might dare break it. “I haven’t considered magical elements,” he admitted, yet the intrigue about the possibilities was evident in his voice and expression. “But I’d be open to it, of course. It has to be tasteful to not draw too much attention from the actual performance.” That brought him to the other questions. “The piece I’ll be performing will be very jump-centered. So, perhaps something that moves with the jumps? As for what I want the audience to be… captivated, awed, enchanted, perhaps even a little envious.” The laugh that followed softened it into a light-hearted joke. With all that said, realizing he still hadn’t suggested anything concrete, Camille offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I can’t be more specific in terms of the actual costume.” He was not the designer, after all. His eyes followed Maisie as she had already begun pulling out fabrics, his answers apparently enough to stir her creativity. “I’m confident in putting my trust in your competent hands.” He told the designer— not that he had much choice— his gaze lingering on the girl his age |
CV |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny