Amid unfamiliar fabrics, the young Italian found it difficult to slip into dreams. His heart thudded each time one of the new textures brushed against Lorenzo’s skin, pressing close about his back in a quiet caress. It seemed to him as though the blanket wished to offer him comfort. If only it were not part of the unfamiliar. Even the sight of the bed’s edge stirred his unease. Where once there had been the support of the bunk, with Camille keeping watch above, there was now nothing but tent wall and a pillow. Neither spoke of Hogwarts and despite the drowsiness haunting his eyes, sleep would not come.
At last, it was a quiet sigh that set Lorenzo in motion to rise. He swung his legs gently from the bed and slipped his feet into the lining of his boots before they ever touched the ground. Fur greeted his socks — worn this night by exception, to spare him further contact with the bed linen. With a small curl of his toes, Lorenzo made his way toward the foot of his new bed. Though the tent lay in darkness, he knew all too well where his heavy coat rested. His hand found it without hesitation. More eagerly than intended, Lorenzo closed his fingers around the familiar companion of a garment. He drew it over himself, right before the boy stole his way toward the exit. For a brief moment, Lorenzo held his breath. Under no circumstance did he wish to disturb the other students. Yet, for that moment, the space felt too confined for his thoughts. He had no desire to torment himself for hours longer, when perhaps a walk might offer him some relief.

Naturally, he closed the tent behind him. The night was just as sleepless as him. It received Lorenzo with cold air and the scent of dampness beneath the wind. Snow was falling. Slowly, the flakes settled upon his sleeve, drawing him to stillness for the span of a breath. The delicate white artworks rested in quiet symmetry upon the fabric, to vanish as swiftly as they had settled.
Only then did the reality of the weather break upon him. It was most of all the sharp shift in temperature from the shelter of the tent. His knees immediately stiffened. The air pressed heavily into his lungs, as though a lighteness was forbidden to accompany the surprise. The boy reached for the sides of his coat and drew its heavy wings close about himself. As his steps carried him away, the first button found its place. The second followed more readily, and a third, near his waist, pulled the coat tighter around his slender frame.
Softly, he murmured in Italian a phrase his father was fond of casting into the room: that there is no such thing as bad weather, only poor clothing, or a soul too delicate to endure the company of nature. To the latter, he refused to belong.

Lorenzo moved softly through the fallen snow. His weary mind hoped that his body soon might join him in a slow dance to sleep. There were few places at this school that he knew and trusted to wander toward. Of them all, only the lake remained in his memory and drew him onward. Thus, he continued along the path between the tents. Only to be pulled back into the present by a sudden, burning sensation.
The winter cold bit into his fingers.
Suddenly, it was as though days long past beckoned to him from afar. Lorenzo lifted his head a little higher, almost expecting to find a familiar face, a frozen Fountain and a sanctuary of a garden before him. It was not. Florence lay miles away, and time itself had carved deep chasms between him and that place. At once, his features tightened. A lip threatened to curl and a shiver stirred through his arms. He drew them closer about himself and slipped both hands deep into the pockets of his coat. Lorenzo‘s fingers slid down between the thick folds of the fabric.
When a small object brushed against him within the pocket. It tore him from his thoughts. Startled he flinched, jumped ahead and onto his freezing feet. Hastily, only tensed knees could force them steady against the treachery of snow and ice.
Lorenzo drew his hand from his pocket. Blue eyes fell upon the coat, where deep within its hollow a small beige pouch hung. A thin thread had cinched its filled body shut, and a small tag trailed from it like a decorated tail of a mouse. Lorenzo’s brow furrowed in confusion.

The Ravenclaw student reached in with care and pulled out an old teabag. Now that it hung quietly among the falling snow from his faintly trembling fingers, the little tag appeared blue. A delicate cursive script had been printed over it. The word Chamomile had been inscribed and carried something almost peaceful. Lorenzo’s heart gave a brief, sudden beat. Ever since he could remember, he had liked to carry one or two sachets with him. Like a charm, they reminded him of the boy at the opera ball, the one who had tried to speak to him of chamomile in that old muffled wardrobe.
A smile stirred, seeking a place upon his lips. At least no weight lay upon those memories. They never failed to cheer him up, even the biting cold was almost forgotten.
The gentle wind slowly turned the dangling bag before his eyes. Like a pirouette, it seemed intent on offering him a small performance—when something flickered at the edge of his vision. Far beyond what Lorenzo held, something moved upon the ice.
Lowering his hand, the rest came into view. A figure descended from the frozen surface. Weariness, or perhaps only irritation, rested upon his face. A faint spark of the night lingered, one that Lorenzo liked to interpret as a sleepless haunt. Lorenzo’s gaze drifted down along the boy. A heavier jacket concealed the glittering costume from earlier that day. The teabag had already found its way back into his pocket when his heart leapt into a turn of its own. Of all the souls he could have encountered here, it was Camille.

For that, Lorenzo would have given anything to cast off the lightness that spread instinctively through his shoulders. Despite the silliness of the moment, warmth gathered at the nape of Lorenzo’s neck. Relief unfurled its wings above his now snow-dusted head of dark hair.
«Camille…of all people..», he whispered, slowly casting his attention back to reality. He could scarcely believe it. His Hogwarts bunkmate stood nearby. This time, Camille was not distant upon the ice, with a jury between them and the red-haired girl by his side. It was almost as though they were home again. If one could call the Ravenclaw dormitory such. It was late at night and thus not even the usual resentment was awake. It lay as deeply asleep as the hostility that would otherwise tighten Lorenzo‘s words.
Drawn in, the Italian moved toward Camille. His boots pressed through the newly fallen snow, even where it rose so high it seemed to climb into them from above. In that moment, it troubled him far less than the distance that still lay between them. If there was one person he wished to speak to then, to feel some trace of Hogwarts, and perhaps later find sleep, it was the little devil.

«Camille! Hi,..» Lorenzo greeted, once only two metres lay between them. Yet the question leapt forth just as swiftly: «Did you win?»—even though the memory of the last moment in which he had seen him seemed more distant than ever. The couple‘s figure skating already felt like a far-off dream. The strangeness of tonight‘s cold was too present for that. Too damp, too biting, brushing against the tip of his nose.
The Ravenclaw student came to a halt before Camille, just scarcely half a breath later. His arms drawing closer about himself and the faint trembling could not be stilled.
«Are you not cold out here?»
A smile settled upon Lorenzo’s face. It was small, warmer than intended, and unusually sincere for the circumstances in which they so often found themselves. His blue eyes wandered across Camille’s features, as though to read whether he too had been claimed by the weather, and to find exactly what might be written there.

The pyjama trousers beneath his coat were a pitiful defence against the night’s cold. Lorenzo drew one foot closer to the other, allowing his calves to lend each other a quiet companionship, in the small hope of conjuring a trace of more warmth. Camille’s earlier sigh had passed him by like a breeze, at most, it had merely lent weight to the question of whether he might be cold.
Lorenzo let his dark blue gaze travel across Camille’s face. The faint smile did not leave him as he searched for any sign of blued lips. Yet there was nothing to be found save the well-shaped curve of them — no trace of the cold that had begun to lay claim to Lorenzo’s legs. It nearly reached for the warmth in his face as well, but then the other boy moved, and his attention was drawn away.
Rather than meeting those hazel eyes, he followed the line of Camille’s shoulders. The other boy was seated upon the bench. He moved with an unhurried ease, which, to Lorenzo, seemed nothing less than a quiet defiance against the snow, and a kind of effortless self-assurance.

«Lorenzo,… what a surprise. I was just about to leave», Camille explained, with an undertone that began to turn in slow circles within Lorenzo’s mind. Like Camille’s figure skating routine, the words moved. They traced their steps and leaped into a pirouette in the air, only coming to rest when nothing remained but the final sentence. Camille seated with outstretched legs, and Lorenzo’s gaze drifting to the coat upon the bench. The smile softly faded, as the thought that the French boy had meant to slip away settled like a weight upon the corners of his mouth.
«I see…», Lorenzo murmured, to no one but himself. His shoulders began to yield, ever so slightly, against the discipline of his trained posture.
Then Camille’s next words followed. He had not won. His bunk-bed neighbour had taken second place, having prevailed against older students upon the ice. The news was striking! Something stirred within Lorenzo’s chest. Joy almost found its way back to his face, but knowing Camille, and his theatrical manner, he did not quite dare showing it. Nothing distinctly telling lingered in the air. Camille’s voice was present, neither negative, nor did any particular warmth seem to rest upon his tongue. Lorenzo’s brows drew together in quiet curiosity. He lifted his head, drew his gaze from the coat, and navigated it back to the other’s face. There, too, no trace of Camille’s thoughts revealed itself.

Ordinarily, it would not have mattered to Lorenzo whether his opinion on the matter might cause Camille to bristle. Yet, between cold, wind, and the longing for his usual bed, a small hope began to take shape. If he only responded appropriately, Camille might not immediately disappear again. Lorenzo drew his shoulders slightly closer. His right arm pressed more deliberately against the inner lining of his coat. His skin was shielded only by the thin fabric of his pyjamas from the fur within the sleeve. Calmly, Lorenzo attempted to give voice to his thoughts: «That is truly…impressive. Then next year, you will surely take first place…»
Camille’s fingers began to busy themselves with the laces of his skates. The lips now seemed to press together, almost restraining, as the French boy pulled on his ordinary boots. Lorenzo’s attention shifted to Camille’s hair. A few snowflakes appeared to gather there, just as he himself had found his way to him.
By now, a faint trembling began to spread from Lorenzo’s legs into his torso. The left arm followed the right, drawing closer against his small body.
Despite the cold, Lorenzo did not wish to leave. His bed was not as it had been at Hogwarts. Camille’s quiet breathing from the bunk above would not lull him into sleep. Nor was there any view of Scotland waiting for him. All that was lingering at the back of the bed within the tent was fabric.

Suddenly, Camille asked, «... Why are you out here? Did you need something?», pulling him from his quiet stillness. The question seemed to brush against the nape of Lorenzo’s neck. His hair lifted slightly. At last, their eyes locked.
«Well,», slipped, before the blue eyed boy had gathered his wits «Sleeping isn’t easy here.» It followed within seconds, half-stumbled, and far less composed than he had intended. Uneasily, Lorenzo tilted his head. Dark hair fell across his face, loosening the snowflakes caught in some of his strands. The first question had been easier to answer than the second.
The word need stirred restlessly, rising and falling, conjuring image after image behind his eyes. Most solutions seemed distant, or altogether currently foreign, but one stood out.
It separated itself from the rest, stepped forward from the line, and rang within him with quiet insistence. Lorenzo caught his lower lip lightly between his teeth. An almost apologetic glance found its way to Camille, even as the answer struggled to free itself from his throat. «Would it be terribly strange..,» he began, «if I were to maybe invite you to sleep in my tent?»
There it lay between them now. Lorenzo drew in a breath and held it in his lungs.

The seconds stretched themselves like dancers just before the premiere of their long-awaited performance. His heart beat in the rhythm of an anxious song.  He stared the spectator in the eyes. Between the night and the biting cold, Camille’s hazel-green seemed greyer. Lorenzo let his gaze jump left and right, yet the second time it was caught by «No».  
At once, his tongue pressed itself to the roof of his mouth. Its tip found his front teeth and gently pushed against them, for it sounded as though Camille agreed.  The corners of his mouth dared to think of lifting, but his heart could beat only once. Then something seemed to falter in Camille and the snow was forgotten.
As though he had disgraced himself in a room full of adults, Lorenzo found himself witness to narrowed eyes. The dense lashes of the boy before him softly veiled the green of his eyes. They lowered toward Camille’s cheeks, followed only by dark brows. Slowly, Lorenzo drew his shoulders in tighter. Even though, as silent spectators, the snowflakes had settled upon their clothes, the added weight went unnoticed. «I mean— yes, it would be strange.» the last uncertainty was smothered. Lorenzo’s mouth shamefully tightened. He lowered his gaze, which briefly brushed across the faint flush climbing Camille’s neck.
The thought of the boy‘s throat swelling with anger robbed Lorenzo of his senses. He had known the idea was ridiculous. Deep within him, it had lurked like a childish dream, sneaking into his mind between duvet and pillow. Nor did it help when Camille subsequently explained that it was a considerate offer, and a poor undertaking merely for logistical reasons. Yet then a sentence passed those well-shaped lips. It danced from Camille’s mouth into Lorenzo’s ears and rose, in a perfect pirouette, onto the stage: «—as much as I would have wished to sleep anywhere else right now.»

As Camille’s hinted laugh underscored the saving words, Lorenzo lifted his gaze. The blue eyes looked up at the other boy, widened still. Sunk deeper into the snow, the difference in height between their noses seemed greater to him than usual. Lorenzo did not dare voice his relief. Only his breath escaped him as faint mist from his now parted lips.
Camille turned towards his coat. He lifted it from the bench and slipped his elegant hands into the sleeves. His arms flowed into the fabric, whilst Lorenzo, still conquered by his emotions, observed the spectacle. He might almost have said nothing at all, had an especially large snowflake not come and freed his tongue. It fell so heavily upon his nose that it cured his stage fright. Lorenzo briefly squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his head back against the collar of his coat. «Hm!», he groaned softly and lightly shook his head. «That does make sense, you are right..»,  followed his quiet reply to Camille’s words. By the time he opened his eyes again, the other boy was already wholly surrounded by fur.Their eyes caught.
Yet instead of the expected tempest of orchestra and dramatics, there seemed to stand between them a pleasant stillness. As if for a moment, even the cold winds had decided to rest, Lorenzo’s face softened, too. A small smile, however, caught only in his blue eyes. It warmed the edges of the darker hues.
«Goodnight Lorenzo. I hope sleep will come to you… eventually.»
Lorenzo‘s heart leaped off the stage. «Sleep well too, Camille, I’ll see you», he replied.
Yet before the other boy had fully turned away from him, he quietly added the wish that from then on will accompany him forever: «…please stay safe…»