#c. camille

[viviantraversing]

WHEN: Sunday, 18 October, 1979; morning  WHERE: South Low Street Hogsmeade  WHO: Vivian Travers & Camille Gladstone ( @camillegladstone​ )

Vivian’s icy gaze landed on a witch with particularly vibrant red hair. Her mouth twisted into a smirk as she neared the girl. “Are you watching the match today?” Vivian asked with an artificial kindness.

[avangelines]

@lesfatales​

in the bounds of her apartment, ava is all the more herself — a strengthening of inner nature so acute, so intense that it resulted in the same intensifying of the outer shell — hair colour seemingly lifting even paler, cheeks flushing like some Boucher cherub — until it’s nearly a pastiche. a cartoon of an actress floating over her marble floors to the sound of a record in the next room, skin glistening with imported moisturizer, an elaborate feather robe trailing after her as she paces the same few steps in the kitchen.

that escalation of identity, that bolstering of the self which made her seem all the grander in these moments — it had nothing to do with what ava castro is wearing. it has everything to do with who she’s wearing it with. 

“dorothy,” she calls, a stray feather falling from the sleeve of her robe as she cups a soft palm to her cheek. “oh, i’m hopeless. i can’t remember a thing of how we made the pink drink last time, only that it was wonderful. what was it for the colour, honey, do you know? was it that pink gin or cassis watered down with tonic?”