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Messages - Athanasia Valenti
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« on: 08/20/2019 at 05:02 »
The cigarette butt bounced off her chest and onto the ground. She wasn't sure what was more infuriating: that, or his most recent insult.
"That's—" not true, she almost said, but he was pushing his way inside the library before she could get another word in. And perhaps, this was better, for it allowed her to pretend that she'd left it at That's because he'd cut her off, not because he was right and she really didn't have any friends (or at least, no more than a handful).
Regardless of whether his comments were starting to hit painfully close to home, Athanasia Valenti was not one to walk away from an argument, especially not one she started. Shortly after he'd disappeared behind the large doors, she found herself pushing through them as well. It only took but a moment to locate him and take up the same brisk walk by his side.
"Why Peiss picked you as her TA is beyond me." Her voice was quieter now, out of respect for the others working in the library, though it was no less demanding. "I'm pretty sure you're supposed to help the students, not insult them."
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« on: 08/20/2019 at 04:22 »
It was rare to find people at UPenn (at any Ivy League school, really) that didn't care about being right. The concept was so foreign to her—if it wasn't already obvious, Athanasia Valenti cared deeply about being right—that for a moment, all power of speech left her. She stared at him, silent, as her eyes narrowed slightly and her mouth shifted from a grin to a small, though distinguishable, frown.
Thankfully, for the sake of her appearance, his next comment was enough to push her back into the swing of discussion.
"Obviously, I don't have one. If I did, I wouldn't be an undergraduate." She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him, for while she was certain she could get away with telling a TA he was wrong—if anything, it showed she had a vast understanding and passion for the subject material—she was not so sure about her ability to get away with former. "And I'm never going to learn enough to get one if you keep providing us with wrong information."
The comment he'd made about Frances Marion's films had been about as irrelevant to the class lecture as she was sure she (and their entire, very one-sided, conversation) was to him. Still, she persisted.
"And also, don't you think that since she wrote over 300 plays, she deserves more than—hey!" She noticed that he had one hand on the library door—obviously, trying to ditch her—at about the same time she noticed the cigarette in the other. Her exclamation was both in protest of the attempt to cut their conversation short and the blatant breaking of the rules.
"You can't smoke in a library." The Duh and dramatic roll of her eyes, though neither were actually expressed, were conveyed perfectly through the tone of her voice.
3
« on: 08/20/2019 at 03:35 »
somewhere within the confines of the university of pennsylvania
two weeks into spring semester of 2019
a little before six pm It was by pure accident—and, she would insist, a massive stroke of luck—that she caught sight of him, Bastién Delacroix, walking in the opposite direction she was headed and looking entirely unapproachable. He was the TA for the Gender History and American Film class that she'd taken partly on a whim, partly because it interested her, and partly because her roommate had raved non-stop about it all of last spring. More importantly, though, he was wrong. A few moments later, once she'd caught up to him, she told him so. “You were wrong today, you know.” She fell into step beside him, struggling a bit to match his strides at first, but eventually managing to take up an easy, albeit quick, rhythm. “Frances Marion won an Academy Award for Best Writing, not one for Best Story, for The Big House.” She spared a cheeky glance up at him, a grin on her lips that truly resembled a cat after it’d caught the canary. “I guess someone didn’t do the reading.” If he knew anything about the reading—and, since he was teaching the class almost half the time, she was positive he did—he would know that there was nothing about which one of Frances Marion’s films had won which award in the textbook. If he knew anything about her—and, since the semester had only just begun, she was positive he knew little to nothing about what she was like (unless, of course, he made a habit of chatting with other TAs, in which case, he might’ve heard that she was an absolute terror)— he would know that she had looked up the information herself just earlier that day. His mistake had been revealed by a simple Google search, completed frantically in the first moment she'd gotten alone after class and based on the meager hunch that finally, finally, he’d produced a statement that was false. It was just her luck that this time—of course, this had happened before, but each time she’d tried to prove his shortcomings, it was her that came short—she’d actually managed to catch his slip up. “Maybe I should be teaching the class.”
4
« on: 04/23/2019 at 23:52 »
Usually she would’ve said something, snapped probably, but Calvin had done her a favor, rescuing her from the bore that was the party, and so she felt she owed him at least a bit of her patience.
“Fine. Just until you learn to say it the right way.”
The way she phrased it made it sound like she’d be seeing him again, and, as she realized this, she also realized that the idea didn’t phase or disgust her like it usually did. She knew what most pureblooded boys, at least the ones at the parties, were like. Most were boring, two-dimensional, and too stupid to be inheriting large sums of money. Calvin Sharppe was none of these things.
At his last question, a sigh drifted out through her lips, parted slightly in their pout. She was trapped with no where to go, and it displeased her severely. Rarely was she so careless to create situations in which she was left without an escape route. Then again, this time wasn’t really her fault. She’d done her best to dodge his prying inquiries, how was she to know he’d still persist?
The feeling of being caught was not a pleasant one, and, in her annoyance, she drifted further away from him, stepping out of range of the effects of his charismatic pull. Instead of bumping shoulders with him, her arm now tingled with each brush of bush, leaf, or flower to her left. It was cold and scratchy compared to his comforting warmth, but still, in stubborn silence, she continued to keep the distance.
Eventually, after many moments of thought, she decided to answer his question. It was her choice, she thought, and she was making it of her own free will, not because Calvin had asked one too many times for her to come up with a suitable excuse and certainly not because she was desperate to keep his company. Athanasia Valenti was never desperate for anything. If it was worth being desperate for, she probably already had it.
“If you must know, I’m still at Hogwarts.” Pause. “A sixth year.” And then, because she was feeling funny, “Is my face really so forgettable?”
It was a joke, but like most of her remarks, it came out in an icy deadpan. The only give away was the soft way the light seemed to dance in her eyes and the slightest quirk of her lip.
5
« on: 04/18/2019 at 01:25 »
It reminded her of Greece; here, on the edge of the balcony, arms outstretched to cut through the gentle night breeze. It trickled through her hair, not strong enough to lift whole strands, but with ample force to toss a few of the tips about. In Greece, the wind was stronger, particularly along the coast. Sometimes she’d lay out atop the big jagged cliffs for hours, just letting the stream blast through her brown locks until the sharp saltiness it carried was so ingrained in her scalp it wouldn’t wash out for a whole week.
Standing on the balcony felt like coming home. The winds were softer and the smell was less piercing, but when she closed her eyes the minor details were easily forgotten and she could almost envision herself back home in Greece. It wasn’t perfect, but then again, nothing could ever compare to her beloved homeland. No other place would be able to own her heart so fiercely, but in this moment the balcony came close enough.
It was this that made her jump, not the boy’s smile, albeit charming, or the reassuring way he gripped her hand, but the familiar feeling of home that filled her bones with courage and instilled her with trust.
She didn’t say anything before she did it, just squeezed his hand a little harder, and jumped.
Air that was typically warm with summers heat turned cold at the rate at which it rushed past her, swallowing her up as she fell down, down, down. Her eyes squeezed tight, bracing for impact… that never came. Much to her surprise, the landing was soft. It felt a lot like how clouds looked; airy and bouncy and light.
At some point, either when she first accepted the gesture or sometime during her Grecian day-dream, she’d chosen to intertwine their fingers. Now, feet safely planted on the ground, she broke the clasp. “Be thankful your spell worked.” Because otherwise, you would’ve just murdered an heiress, she wanted to add, because it made her sound important and, regardless of who she was talking to or whether she valued their opinion or not, she liked to come across as someone not only worthy of their time, but so impressive that they might not be worthy of hers. Instead, she kept her mouth shut, not because she was ashamed or scared of her title, but because she decided that she’d left that part of her on the balcony along with the rest of her inhibitions.
“Well, go on. Lead the way.”
6
« on: 04/12/2019 at 03:04 »
“It’s not important.” Her hand brushed at empty air, waving the question out of their conversation and, hopefully, out of the boy's mind. “I’d rather forget about it.”
Athanasia wasn’t lying. Camp Loki wasn’t important. It was the last thing on her mind. It was forgettable. She was forgetting about it. She was not a liar if she chose to omit information, especially if she knew it would save them from another boring conversation about school and Hogwarts and yuck. The whole reason she’d been so excited to attend the party in the first place was to escape.
“Right now…”
In the few short months she’d spent at the summer camp, it had managed to invade all enjoyable areas of her life and take. Constantly being surrounded by people, majority of whom she couldn’t care less for, and restricted by a wealth of unnecessary rules, like the fact that campers couldn’t use magic— counselors, kids who were the same age, or younger, than her, could, which was moronic— had Athanasia feeling particularly out-of-control. It wasn’t a feeling she cared to have. Her life was lived in a series of instructions. If they weren’t coming from her family, she was being bossed around by some Professor, or, worse, some obnoxious Prefect who thought themself smart.
Now, standing on this balcony with Calvin Sharppe, she had control. If she wanted to jump, she could. If she wanted to run back inside to familiarity, surrounded by family and boring political banter, she could do that as well. A brief glance back inside the party confirmed what she already knew. She didn’t want that.
The sharp click of heels as she crossed to stand beside him ended the silence she’d created; a product of her drawn-out decision making.
“I think I’d much rather focus on you.”
Nimble fingers, quick in their movements, made a beeline for the older boys neck in the hopes of removing his tie. The boy must’ve tugged it at least three times since she’d met him only a couple minutes ago. It was getting sad. No matter how many times he pulled, it never seemed to loosen to his content. “Let me help before you strangle yourself,” she hummed, giving him a pointed why-don’t-you-know-how-to-do-this-already look, though it came off less accusatory and more pitying.
“I’m-” she paused, eyes drifting to the ground. Hard stone stared menacingly back. Did she trust his spell-work? His skill with a tie was certainly questionable. “You’re asking for a lot, Mr.Sharppe. I'm entrusting you with my life. I could wind up dead. We both could.”
7
« on: 04/09/2019 at 01:40 »
A small tilt of her chin, just barely angled in the boys direction, was the only acknowledgment she was willing to give his presence. Out of the corner of her eye, she could’ve sworn she’d watched him look her up and down, though it was equally possible that her mind was playing tricks to keep her from drowning in absolute boredom. The mention of ditching the party was enough to earn full turn of her head. It wasn’t far enough to meet his gaze, but still showed she was listening. She had planned to retain an air of indifference a little longer, but this was an opportunity she didn’t want to miss.
“Well, the night’s just begun.” This was a lie. It felt like the night had been going on forever, but she chose not to reveal her true thoughts on the party in the interest of keeping up the facade. “Besides, is it really worth upsetting my grand mum? She had to fight my mum tooth and nail just to get permission to drag me away from-” Was it wise to mention Camp Loki? If he turned out to be older than he appeared, she wasn’t sure how’d he react to the idea of spending the evening with a girl still in secondary school. Despite the fact that she considered herself to be as mature as, if not more than, any functioning woman in society, some people still got hung up on numbers.
“-a previous commitment.” He was the first person she’d met at the event who could genuinely hold her attention for longer than five minutes. She wasn’t going to let him slip away so easily. “Of course, should you present a particularly convincing argument, I might be tempted.”
This could be fun, but he was going to have to work for it. She was the pickiest with people. Everyone had some sort of purpose or use. The company she kept, no matter how long she planned on keeping it, was the result of a highly selective set of standards. If time was money, hers was counted in diamonds.
In one gracefully fluid motion, she drew herself to her full height and turned so she could properly face her companion for the time being. Hands now free, she extended one in his direction, dainty fingers hanging in the air. “Athanasia Pantazis-Valenti.” She met his eyes for the first time. At a glance, her face gave little away, though a closer inspection would reveal the slightest twinkle in her eyes or the way her lips were just starting to pull up at the corners; the faint beginnings of a smile. “State your case.”
8
« on: 04/07/2019 at 03:44 »
villa ephrussi de rothschild
around 10 pm
When Athanasia had received the invitation via owl, she’d barely been able to keep the smile off her face. The rest of the day was spent exchanging letters with her grandmother, planning what to wear and gossiping about who they’d see. Athanasia couldn’t wait. She hadn’t attended a proper Pureblood event since the Christmas holidays, and, upon finding out she’d been sentenced to a summer at Camp Loki, was sure she’d have to wait a whole year to again. The start of the evening had found her floating from group to group, dazzling party-goers and collecting compliments, mostly about her attire. The dress was v-necked with flowing butterfly sleeves that almost reached her elbows. It clung to her upper-body, cinched at the waist with a small bow, and then fanned out to pool effortlessly onto the floor. It was made of stunning blue chiffon, mixed with the slightest tint of turquoise to give it a pop. The fabric itself was already laced with fine sparkles, but Ioanna had insisted on using a charm to enhance their shine. When she moved, the dress glowed, like a sea of glitter cascading down her body before spilling out across the polished tile. It was perfect. She was perfect. Or at least, she appeared that way, all done-up with her effortless hair and jewelry worth more than a flat in Italy. She was back in her element, untethered from the confines of camp and returned at last to the familiar comforts of her lifestyle. She lived for this. Except tonight she didn’t care to. Instead of continuing to waltz around inside, showing off her enchanted dress and expensive jewelry, she had retreated to the balcony, like she was some pathetic wallflower who wilted at the idea of small talk and socialization. She’d never gawked at such tasks before— maybe as a child, but what six year old didn’t— so one could imagine the shock when accosted by a sudden desperate urge to flee. It became so overwhelming that eventually she’d been forced to excuse herself for air. Lithe fingers reached up to fiddle with the diamond neckpiece she vaguely remembered her mother clasping around her neck earlier that day. It was a welcome contrasting cool to the heat of her hand. The free arm bent to rest an elbow on the railing and her chin fell snugly into the open palm. A heavy sigh escaped her, equal-parts wistful and distressed. Admittedly, it was a tad melodramatic, but it was permissible on the grounds that she felt it adequately summed-up her emotions about the night.
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