Her Shadow

A/N: i've been on drabble crack it seems, I haven't written so much since I was convinced my story about Arthur the magic boy will become a best-selling novel when I was 7. But anyways this is set during the spinoff, in New Orleans. I am not sure if Camille knows that they are vampires in the spinoff but in this story she doesn't. Enjoy!

He closed the door of his study as he made his way over to the living room. After all the work that he had been doing, he needed a good glass of scotch even if the hour had just past 1pm. He knew that Marcel and Elijah had left earlier to meet with Hayley and the werewolves, he was tired of their pointless group plotting that always ended with someone threating to kill another and no concrete plans, so he stayed at home to work through his own findings.

The bottle had barely reached the glass when he heard it, the sound of a human breathing within the walls of his home. A number of scenarios ran through his head: maybe Marcel had left his meal still alive? Perhaps it was a burglar? But the breathing was too even to be that of a dying person or an adrenalin-filled burglar. He flashed up the stairs in record time, determined to decapitate the intruder who dared to enter his home. He had barely made it to the landing on the second floor when he deduced that the breathing was coming from her room.

He noticed that the door was ajar and he pushed it open, not too forcibly, not wanting to ruin anything in the room, the intruder won't die in her room, that's what the cellars were there for.

His eyes widened in surprise when he saw the blonde woman looking through his numerous paintings stacked against the wall.

"What are you doing here?" He asked her, he wasn't sure of her name, but he had seen her with Marcel and he knew that she worked as a bartender at Rousseau's, but trivial details like her name did not seem like a priority to him.

She looked taken aback by his interruption, "Um, I was here with Marcel and he asked me to wait for him. I got bored so I started wandering around."

"And you ended up here?" He asked while leaning against the doorframe.

"Yes," she replied when she realized he wasn't going to chastise her for entering his private space, "This room, it's so beautiful, it's like the light of the midday sun hits it perfectly."

"Well it was positioned as such," he responded, "The room with the most light."

"Is this bedroom for someone?" she asked curiously, "I ask because it's so different from all the other rooms in the house, it's so personal, custom-made for someone."

Klaus looked around the room, taking in the white antique dressing table with the large mirror, the finely-carved jewelry box which a diamond bracelet was peeking out of, the large four-poster bed with pale blue coverings and then there were the paintings that increased everyday.

When Klaus didn't answer her, she decided to approach the subject with a different question (getting people to answer her questions was a nifty trick of hers and why psychology was such an apt course for her to be studying), "Is it her? The women in the paintings? Is this room for her?"

Klaus lifted his eyes off of the floor to look at the woman; he had a vacant, nostalgic look in his eyes. "I'll take that as a yes," she replied, "So where is she now?"

"Obviously not here," Klaus responded coldly.

"You're waiting for her. You're waiting for her to decide to be with you, because you love her," she commented with a tone of finality.

"What makes you think that?" he spat out.

"Other than the fact that you tailor-made an entire bedroom for her? It's the paintings. I've seen your other work throughout the house; they are usually dark, with hard strokes and a kind of general feel of hurt and pain. But these," she said, gesturing to the paintings, "These are different, they are lighter, the brush strokes are softer, and the detail on her is so precise, like you're committing it to memory. Even I, who has never met this woman, feels a kind of affection towards her after seeing the love in these paintings."

Camille lifted up a painting of the woman in a cream dress with a white cardigan, her back was to her and her head was slightly turned, looking at the person behind her as her blonde curls cascaded over her shoulder. "She really is beautiful," Camille noted.

"I know," Klaus muttered, entranced by the vision in the portrait.

Their thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door below them slamming and Elijah's eloquent tone mixed with the harsh southern accent of Marcel. Klaus moved from his position at the door and proceeded to usher her out of Caroline's bedroom.

As Camille walked out she turned to Klaus, "You know I think she will come around eventually. No woman can deny the allure of such a powerful love, no matter what has happened in the past or what she fears of in the future, there is nothing that is better for you than to be with the one whose love you share. But don't give her too much time to think about it either, you won't be young forever."

A/N: Once again follow me on tumblr at klaussnowflake, that's where the magic happens (and by magic I mean nothing).