misophonia.
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| ---- | date. 9th of september 2025, afternoon location. the great hall mentions. the student body |
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| ------ | For a literal castle, Hogwarts and its students had a startlingly low standard of dining etiquette. It wasn’t that Esme expected a full French service upon arrival — but since the first day’s feast, she was rather underwhelmed by the experience. It was through no fault of the kitchen; the food was great, of course. Everything was warm and delicious, cooked to perfection. She might have been able to relish it more if everyone around her had… a bit more decorum. Even for a buffet style layout, the other students in the Great Hall appeared to be intent on simply inhaling the most amount of food in the shortest amount of time, etiquette be damned. Her very first breakfast service — reminiscent of one in a, perish the thought, comfort class hotel — was no different. Tasty food, enjoyed in the unfortunate company of people with manners not too dissimilar to those of farm animals. Knives and forks being scraped against plates loudly, elbows propped up on the table, sauce and drink spilled and wiped at it with hands dirtied by picking up food… It was a nightmare. Especially for someone so used to dining halls with plush seats and immaculate tablecloths, with three different spoons and knives and forks arranged neatly according to order of use. Worst of all, everyone was so loud — back home, only polite conversation was tolerated during mealtimes, whether that be during events or not. Even when her father brought home stories from work, he shared them at a level appropriate for polite conversation. At Hogwarts, it felt like everyone was always shouting, only stopping for breaks to smack their lips. It was infuriating. Far worse was what also happened at breakfast. Every day, without fail, owls flew overhead to deliver their mail. It was sort of cute, if you could get past the mad flapping of hundreds of wings and the shouting of either joy or dismay as students received their letters. Care packages from overbearing parents, and letters of admonishment from high strung ones. In Esme’s first week, some older year at another table had even received a howler, giving her a headache that lasted the entire day, and making her irrationally worry that one would arrive every time the owls came. As if she didn’t have enough reason to dread them and their stupid letters already. The letter Esme had received from her parents on the 2nd still sat in her school bag, carefully folded. It had now been a week since its arrival, and she still couldn’t come up with an adequate reply. She had drafted about six responses so far, each longer than the previous, all in a desperate effort to delay the inevitable. Sooner or later, she would have to tell her father — her supportive, her loving, her excited-beyond-his-age father — that she wasn’t like him. She wasn’t a Ravenclaw, she wasn’t sure if she cared much for the role of prefect after witnessing them in action, and she might as well be a complete dimwit with how spectacularly bad she was at Astronomy. The longer she waited, the worse it got. Her bag was in her dorm now, sat on the bed — and even as Esme made her way upstairs for dinner, the knowledge that it was there haunted her, filling her stomach with anxiety before she took a single bite. Such a stupid thing to dread , she thought, for what felt like the hundredth time that week. Her mother definitely didn’t care — she went to Beauxbatons. Her father probably wouldn’t care either — his own twin sister was a Slytherin, just like Esme. Besides, she was doing perfectly fine otherwise. Potions classes were going well, and so was her social life. She recognized some students from events, and she was constantly meeting someone new, making connections she was sure her family would be happy about. Really, she just needed to sit down and write the stupid thing— Her train of thought was interrupted by the doors of the Great Hall opening. Esme was immediately hit with the incessant chatter of the students already there. It was still decently early for dinner-time, so hoping to spare herself a headache, she picked a spot on one of the ends of the Slytherin table, where there were less people to be auditorily assaulted by. Esme sighed quietly as she sat down. She forced herself to collect her thoughts — the letter did not matter right now. She could work on it after she finished the day’s homework, and that would come after dinner. No use overthinking things on an empty stomach. She turned her attention to the food before her, instinctively reaching to straighten out her plate and cutlery. She straightened her back, minding every movement as she began to grab a small portion from the middle of the table. Even if her housemates refused to show decorum, she refused to act like a brute. |
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wc. 830
@Livia Machavariani
@Livia Machavariani
✧✦✧
thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
misophonia.
date: 9th september 2025
time: afternoon
location: hogwarts great hall
Meals at Hogwarts, although always quite tasty, tended to grate on Livia's nerves. There was the most obvious problem, which was that she had no say in what would be served; there was a despicable lack of khachapuri at the breakfast table. Livia always sat down with tea and a croissant, sorely disappointed by the lack of familiarity, even if she had established a new routine. However, every time she attempted to enjoy a meal—be that breakfast, lunch or dinner—she always found herself rudely accosted by elbows and hands in her face, and loud, bothersome words being yelled across the tables. The scene was nothing like that which she had been raised to emulate; the most mannerless happening at her home was when her brother would sometimes cry if he did not like the texture of a food.
Livia indeed found herself avoiding the great hall in favour of snacking elsewhere, in a spot far quieter and more peaceful. She had yet to find a suitable spot for a fine dinner. She had just sent off a letter to her younger brother, alongside some sticky caramels she'd pawned off of an older student, and headed downstairs in a far better mood than usual, although the rumble of stomach squashed any hope she had of peace and quiet during her afternoon. It was with great trepidation that Livia entered the great hall, her skinny arms working overtime to force the double doors open. The obnoxious buzz of chatter and aromatic splendour of smoked meats greeted her. She zeroed in on a table and walked with utter promptitude towards it, her gaze as blank as she could make it, her thoughts firmly focused on food so that she would not be forced to listen to and understand the disgusting scoundrels around her.
Livia obtained what appeared to be a well-seasoned tuna steak and asparagus after seating herself. She moved gracefully, every manoeuvre a manifestation of memory, as she acquired her food and adjusted her plate and cutlery in front of her. Her slender, olive-toned fingers arranged a napkin over her lap, and Livia straightened her spine and began to eat.
Her largely glacial green gaze slid over each of the students at the table. Some hunched over like camels lapping at water in the midst of a drought; still others grabbed at food, shovelling it into their mouths like chipmunks preparing for a state of torpor. Given that food was plentiful at Hogwarts, Livia did not understand their intensity; she stared at them unabashedly, her eyes finally narrowing, the only outward indicator of her judgemental nature.
Slowly, her surveillance swivelled to the girl next to her. A kindred spirit greeted her, at least in mannerisms; Livia watched, intrigued, as the girl picked up her cutlery correctly and sat with proper posture. Livia maintained her nonchalant gaze; however, she could not help but realise that this girl, in addition to having wonderful etiquette, was quite possibly the most beautiful girl she had ever seen. Her clear skin seemed to shine underneath the lights of the floating candles above; the girl's lustrous golden hair mirrored the filigree of expensive jewellery. It was with great effort that Livia averted her gaze from the spectacular specimen and returned to her asparagus.
Insatiable curiosity prohibited her from ignoring the marvellous sight of the girl for long. Livia took care to set her cutlery in a V position, with the tines of her fork and knife down, before she folded her hands in her lap and turned to face the girl. 'Hello—and I do apologise for the disturbance, by the way. However, I wanted to thank you for being civilised, when it's apparently so rare here.' Livia hesitated before adding the next part: 'Also, I must say, you look lovely today. I was curious; have you got a specific skincare routine?'
time: afternoon
location: hogwarts great hall
roleplaying as livia machavariani
sta: 2 | eva: 10 | str: 0 | wis: 7 | arc: 8 | acc: 8
terrible presence
sta: 2 | eva: 10 | str: 0 | wis: 7 | arc: 8 | acc: 8
terrible presence
Meals at Hogwarts, although always quite tasty, tended to grate on Livia's nerves. There was the most obvious problem, which was that she had no say in what would be served; there was a despicable lack of khachapuri at the breakfast table. Livia always sat down with tea and a croissant, sorely disappointed by the lack of familiarity, even if she had established a new routine. However, every time she attempted to enjoy a meal—be that breakfast, lunch or dinner—she always found herself rudely accosted by elbows and hands in her face, and loud, bothersome words being yelled across the tables. The scene was nothing like that which she had been raised to emulate; the most mannerless happening at her home was when her brother would sometimes cry if he did not like the texture of a food.
Livia indeed found herself avoiding the great hall in favour of snacking elsewhere, in a spot far quieter and more peaceful. She had yet to find a suitable spot for a fine dinner. She had just sent off a letter to her younger brother, alongside some sticky caramels she'd pawned off of an older student, and headed downstairs in a far better mood than usual, although the rumble of stomach squashed any hope she had of peace and quiet during her afternoon. It was with great trepidation that Livia entered the great hall, her skinny arms working overtime to force the double doors open. The obnoxious buzz of chatter and aromatic splendour of smoked meats greeted her. She zeroed in on a table and walked with utter promptitude towards it, her gaze as blank as she could make it, her thoughts firmly focused on food so that she would not be forced to listen to and understand the disgusting scoundrels around her.
Livia obtained what appeared to be a well-seasoned tuna steak and asparagus after seating herself. She moved gracefully, every manoeuvre a manifestation of memory, as she acquired her food and adjusted her plate and cutlery in front of her. Her slender, olive-toned fingers arranged a napkin over her lap, and Livia straightened her spine and began to eat.
Her largely glacial green gaze slid over each of the students at the table. Some hunched over like camels lapping at water in the midst of a drought; still others grabbed at food, shovelling it into their mouths like chipmunks preparing for a state of torpor. Given that food was plentiful at Hogwarts, Livia did not understand their intensity; she stared at them unabashedly, her eyes finally narrowing, the only outward indicator of her judgemental nature.
Slowly, her surveillance swivelled to the girl next to her. A kindred spirit greeted her, at least in mannerisms; Livia watched, intrigued, as the girl picked up her cutlery correctly and sat with proper posture. Livia maintained her nonchalant gaze; however, she could not help but realise that this girl, in addition to having wonderful etiquette, was quite possibly the most beautiful girl she had ever seen. Her clear skin seemed to shine underneath the lights of the floating candles above; the girl's lustrous golden hair mirrored the filigree of expensive jewellery. It was with great effort that Livia averted her gaze from the spectacular specimen and returned to her asparagus.
Insatiable curiosity prohibited her from ignoring the marvellous sight of the girl for long. Livia took care to set her cutlery in a V position, with the tines of her fork and knife down, before she folded her hands in her lap and turned to face the girl. 'Hello—and I do apologise for the disturbance, by the way. However, I wanted to thank you for being civilised, when it's apparently so rare here.' Livia hesitated before adding the next part: 'Also, I must say, you look lovely today. I was curious; have you got a specific skincare routine?'
@esme hestridge
| [staff] jessamine lancaster even you cannot conquer the sun. | marina alacrán [inpc] her hair is kinda wild and free. |
misophonia.
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| ------ | Attempting to collect her thoughts hadn’t worked. Esme chewed her food mechanically. For a long while, her attention was split. Half of her was intent on pushing away any and all thoughts regarding the letter that had by now etched itself into the walls of her brain. It was unsuccessful — the more she tried not to think about it, the stronger it seemed to come back. The other half was desperately trying not to have a visceral reaction to all the noise. Even further away from the crowd, it felt like her head would soon start splintering at the sutures. The chatter, the lip smacking, the sound of food being chewed with people’s mouths open… all of it was vomit inducing. As a result, her mind felt like a rushing stream. Thoughts flew by, disappearing before she could properly focus on any individual one. All of it left her with the one thing she was desperate to avoid — a headache. Esme remained sitting straight, gaze fixed on her food in an effort to give her frazzled brain something to focus on. Her movements lacked their usual fluidity, and instead were rigid, almost robotic. Her hands shook the slightest bit as she made a concentrated effort to keep to etiquette and not white knuckle her utensils. She refused to act like a brute. Then, as if sent from the heavens themselves — though in all likelihood unaware of how much she was about to help — a fellow Slytherin girl turned to face Esme. She spoke, finally giving Esme something to focus on other than the nausea in her gut and the migraine brewing in her head. “Hello—and I do apologise for the disturbance, by the way,” the girl said, her tone warm yet unmistakably polite. Esme could have laughed. She didn’t — never one for such loud displays of emotion — but her face visibly brightened up with something akin to relief. “No need to apologise,” Esme replied quickly with a slight shake of her head, words coming out quicker than usual in her effort to concentrate her attention on the girl. The current of thoughts she’d been previously caught up in slowed, and she was actually capable of processing what was happening again. It felt like being able to breathe again after having drifted underwater, especially for someone so used to constant judgement and reasoning. Esme smiled politely, turning to properly analyse the girl next to her. She hadn’t noticed the girl until then, but now that she was paying attention, she was seemingly met with a kindred spirit. She was built similarly to Esme herself — tall, skinny, with long fingers and a straight back. She held an everpresent sense of grace and refinement, from her clothes and accessories to the smallest of microexpressions. Green eyes that stared back at Esme’s steel blue ones with a calm confidence that only came from high status. The assumption of her social class was only confirmed by the exquisite manners — the way she set her utensils down in a clean V-shape, the polite tone in her apology. Additionally, the headache had dulled by now, leaving only a mild pulsing sensation in her temples; far less obtrusive, far more bearable, allowing Esme to return that same politeness. “And no need to thank me, either, as much as I appreciate it,” Esme spoke, satisfied with her impression of the girl. Esme's tone was similar to hers, though colored by a small hint of pride. Maybe a bit of conspiracy, too — like they were sharing a secret. The girl couldn’t have known how much this small talk was helping, but that didn’t matter. It made for the perfect distraction all the same. “It really is a shame to see the bare minimum so easily disregarded by our peers.” At her compliment, Esme's eyes widened slightly, quickly followed by her chest puffing lightly with pride. She was used to being complimented — came with the territory of having veela heritage, she supposed — but it was still nice to hear. Especially when it came from the girl in front of her, with her soft looking hair and green eyes rimmed by long lashes. “Please, I doubt you’d need any of my advice. You look perfectly lovely yourself, especially your hair. It's gorgeous,” she returned in kind, a small chuckle on her lips. Her mood was significantly lifted now, a pleased smile gracing her features. “As for my routine, I fear it’s nothing special. Water and soap.” “I’m Esme,” she added, extending a hand out to the girl. “Hestridge. It’s nice to meet you.” |
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wc. 773
@Livia Machavariani
@Livia Machavariani
✧✦✧
thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
misophonia.
date: 9th september 2025
time: afternoon
location: hogwarts great hall
Interacting with the blonde provided Livia with the most well-appreciated distraction from the cacophonous clanging of cutlery against ceramic. Her ears honed in on the other student's voice, the sound offering a lifeline to which Livia could cling. Her gaze zeroed in on the other girl's appearance once again, but she, nonetheless, nodded in acknowledgement of the girl's reassurance – no need to apologise, she had said. Well, then, if such a platitude was not a requirement, Livia would refrain from committing it again.
The other well-raised youth's next words only cemented Livia's positive regard of her. The warmth in her voice, bolstered by the pristine pedestal of pride, portrayed her as the sort of individual accustomed to propriety. Such a history happened to be surprisingly rare at a school that Livia had been told contained numerous well-bred pure-bloods; she had encountered more than her fair share of Muggle-borns who simply lacked decency and decorum.
Livia found herself nodding along with the other girl's statement. Although she did not necessarily smile broadly, a glint in her emerald-green eyes would convey her concurrence with the blonde's words. 'Certainly,' she agreed, hesitating to say more for fear of misreading the situation.
Livia's expression quickly mirrored the blonde's after the compliment – her eyes widened, lashes fluttered; however, because beauty was not some effortless thing to her, nor something she had true awareness of, she would not notice as her cheeks also reddened. One of her small hands came to her head, slender fingers almost checking to ensure her meticulously-done chignon remained in place. She swallowed before speaking to avoid stammering, instead uttering a soft, perhaps borderline raspy, 'Well, I suppose I must extend my utmost gratitude towards you for that kind sentiment. It was... nice to hear.'
Of course, any 'good looks' Livia maintained were simply the result of impeccable grooming and hygiene. She certainly did not try; at her age, the closest thing she had to an 'eye for fashion' was an appreciation for all sorts of boots, but most certainly those of Victorian fashion, with a heel that tapered and then fanned out not unlike that typical of ballroom shoes. Little did she know of any hairstyles aside from plaits and tightly-woven updos meant more for practicality and tradition than style; Livia would be nonplussed if asked to explain trends or even why one might choose specific clothing. She wore dresses because it was what she had always done; there was rarely a greater reason for her actions.
The slight hint of fluster did not leave Livia's expression for longer than she would have liked. However, she found it nearly impossible to halt the corners of her lips from tugging themselves upwards; she averted her gaze even as her mouth attempted to smile at the girl's quip. Soap and water. Livia held back a quip of her own – At least someone here has proper hygiene! – and instead returned her gaze to Esme's, taking the other girl's hand and offering a firm shake. 'Livia Machavariani.' The gentle rasp of her voice floated over the syllables, although, despite Livia's staunch adherence to Englishness, Esme would be able to discern a hint of a foreign accent within Livia's pronunciation of her surname, if she were observant enough. 'First year, and Slytherin at that. Although, I must admit, I haven't had enough interactions with the other houses to properly understand what they're about. Are you a first year, too?'
time: afternoon
location: hogwarts great hall
roleplaying as livia machavariani
sta: 2 | eva: 10 | str: 0 | wis: 7 | arc: 8 | acc: 8
terrible presence
sta: 2 | eva: 10 | str: 0 | wis: 7 | arc: 8 | acc: 8
terrible presence
Interacting with the blonde provided Livia with the most well-appreciated distraction from the cacophonous clanging of cutlery against ceramic. Her ears honed in on the other student's voice, the sound offering a lifeline to which Livia could cling. Her gaze zeroed in on the other girl's appearance once again, but she, nonetheless, nodded in acknowledgement of the girl's reassurance – no need to apologise, she had said. Well, then, if such a platitude was not a requirement, Livia would refrain from committing it again.
The other well-raised youth's next words only cemented Livia's positive regard of her. The warmth in her voice, bolstered by the pristine pedestal of pride, portrayed her as the sort of individual accustomed to propriety. Such a history happened to be surprisingly rare at a school that Livia had been told contained numerous well-bred pure-bloods; she had encountered more than her fair share of Muggle-borns who simply lacked decency and decorum.
Livia found herself nodding along with the other girl's statement. Although she did not necessarily smile broadly, a glint in her emerald-green eyes would convey her concurrence with the blonde's words. 'Certainly,' she agreed, hesitating to say more for fear of misreading the situation.
Livia's expression quickly mirrored the blonde's after the compliment – her eyes widened, lashes fluttered; however, because beauty was not some effortless thing to her, nor something she had true awareness of, she would not notice as her cheeks also reddened. One of her small hands came to her head, slender fingers almost checking to ensure her meticulously-done chignon remained in place. She swallowed before speaking to avoid stammering, instead uttering a soft, perhaps borderline raspy, 'Well, I suppose I must extend my utmost gratitude towards you for that kind sentiment. It was... nice to hear.'
Of course, any 'good looks' Livia maintained were simply the result of impeccable grooming and hygiene. She certainly did not try; at her age, the closest thing she had to an 'eye for fashion' was an appreciation for all sorts of boots, but most certainly those of Victorian fashion, with a heel that tapered and then fanned out not unlike that typical of ballroom shoes. Little did she know of any hairstyles aside from plaits and tightly-woven updos meant more for practicality and tradition than style; Livia would be nonplussed if asked to explain trends or even why one might choose specific clothing. She wore dresses because it was what she had always done; there was rarely a greater reason for her actions.
The slight hint of fluster did not leave Livia's expression for longer than she would have liked. However, she found it nearly impossible to halt the corners of her lips from tugging themselves upwards; she averted her gaze even as her mouth attempted to smile at the girl's quip. Soap and water. Livia held back a quip of her own – At least someone here has proper hygiene! – and instead returned her gaze to Esme's, taking the other girl's hand and offering a firm shake. 'Livia Machavariani.' The gentle rasp of her voice floated over the syllables, although, despite Livia's staunch adherence to Englishness, Esme would be able to discern a hint of a foreign accent within Livia's pronunciation of her surname, if she were observant enough. 'First year, and Slytherin at that. Although, I must admit, I haven't had enough interactions with the other houses to properly understand what they're about. Are you a first year, too?'
@esme hestridge
| [staff] jessamine lancaster even you cannot conquer the sun. | marina alacrán [inpc] her hair is kinda wild and free. |
misophonia.
| E | ✧ ✧mentions. @Livia Machavariani The girl agreed with Esme’s comment, and Esme could physically feel herself relax: her jaw unclenched, and her voice felt less tight. It felt right to have someone so readily nod along, to go “certainly” in that perfectly polite tone she was used to. A warm sense of rightness filled Esme’s lungs, her chin lifting just a bit with pride. She was doing good. She was saying the things she was supposed to, being the kind of person the other Slytherin — with her discerning green gaze and effortlessly high class demeanour — agreed with. Esme had never felt a need for the approval of others, but that’s not quite what it felt like, either. More like the rapids she’d been stuck in earlier not only slowed, but she had managed to get out, too. The other girl’s eyes widened when Esme complimented her, and the feeling in Esme’s chest grew stronger. The week, the dreadful letter, had thrown her off her game. Shook the usually steady foundation of confidence that she was used to standing on. It was nice to find herself on solid ground again, on the shore instead of drowning — and all of it thanks to a pair of pretty lashes fluttering back at her. The girl’s hand drifted upwards to her hair in a movement that, to Esme’s continued, unblinking stare, looked almost instinctual. Esme found it amusing: the girl was far from ugly, and she had a special sense of poise to her, too — it was doubtful this was the first compliment she’d received since the start of the school year. Still, it seemed to have the right effect. “It was... nice to hear,” the other girl said, the gratitude in her voice sincere. She seemed flattered, which only helped Esme regain her confidence. Things were finally feeling right again. This was who she was: agreeable and charismatic, socially intelligent. Like her dad always was with clients and business partners whenever she watched him mingle at events, with a polite smile and something witty to say on his lips. The letter be damned — Slytherin be damned, Esme decided at that moment. For the rest of this conversation, she was going to be exactly who she was meant to. Her back now straight, shoulders relaxed, Esme maintained her polite smile. She leaned back a bit, head tilted as the girl — Livia Machavariani — shook her hand and introduced herself. She had a nice voice; unique, too. Raspy and warm, it reminded Esme of fireplace smoke and static. Livia’s words carried a slight accent, too, though a very subtle one. It did not come close to interrupting the clarity or pronunciation of what she was saying. Everything about the girl sitting next to Esme compounded into a distraction that was more than sufficient, it was gorgeous. She was able to actually think, to set her sights on charming Livia, and to actually have faith that she will come out of the conversation with a positive impression of Esme. “A Slytherin and a first year, too, yes,” Esme replied with a nod. She felt a pinprick at the back of her neck when she realized the girl couldn’t recognize her from the classes they must have shared, and quickly continued. “I must admit, I haven’t been particularly involved the past week. Although, now I regret letting it overwhelm me and making me miss out on such fine company,” she said, hoping her tone came off smooth and measured. She let the girl breathe, then, listening for a response as she gave her a final once over, trying to catch any details she might have missed. Livia’s eyes caught her attention again — they balanced somewhere between sage and sea glass, crystalline with a sparkle of something enchanting behind them. Her clothes were elegant: well-fitted, they looked good and actually stylish, not merely trendy, erring on the side of vintage. She was poised, movements fluid and understated. All in all, a picture of high class and decorum. Esme’s mood brightened even further. She could really see something of a kindred spirit in this girl, with her immaculate manners and the shine behind her eyes. Satisfied with her analysis, Esme reminded herself that staring too long might put Livia off; and it really would have been a shame to squander what seemed like the perfect opportunity to finally focus on the social side of her education and find a real friend. “Pardon me if this is too blunt,” Esme spoke up again, “but I detect an accent. Where’s your family from, if I may ask?” wc. 769 notes. none. ✧✦✧ |
H |
thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
misophonia.
date: 9th september 2025
time: afternoon
location: hogwarts great hall
Observing Esme’s reactions through largely neutral, upturned eyes, Livia sipped at her drink, the sparkling water providing a refreshing – although, given the other girl’s pleasant nature, completely unnecessary – bite. A quick, placated nod accompanied her gently setting her glass down again, but it was also an acknowledgement of Esme’s divulsion of information about herself. The other girl’s easily straight posture and polite words only drew Livia in further, akin to Narcissus staring at his pond. The idea of falling in wasn’t even so dreadful.
Upon Esme’s promulgation, upon the revelation of the supposed fact of her ‘not having been involved’, Livia lifted her eyebrows but maintained her small smile. 'Certainly, that’s not true,' she murmured, her voice dragging over the syllables like a blade on melting ice. 'However, I must similarly opine that it is truly a pleasure to have received this opportunity to foregather alongside such outstanding company myself. With how much time it took for me to feel properly settled, I doubt we could have had a truly meaningful interaction until now.' As the carefully-crafted words glissaded out of her larynx, she kept her vigilant, verdant vision on Esme, vaticinating – she desiderated – a positive reaction.
Every thing about Esme’s behaviour appeared as if she were a child of high society seemingly well-impressioned with Livia. This made the girl want more, want to delve a bit deeper, desiring a dear companionship. The idea of writing home to tell her family of her acquisition of not one, not two, but myriad friends made her have to refrain from flexing her fingers in cordial, cunning calculation. Instead, she threaded them together and primly folded her hands in her lap.
Once again, Esme’s words would cause a small widening of Livia’s eyes, although this time for an entirely different reason. Livia combed through as much memory as she could regarding their interaction heretofore; as word after word rattled through her worried mind, she still maintained an inability to recall what might have caused an ‘accent’ when she so desperately sought to speak in fine Received Pronunciation. Then – oh, had it been her surname? Was this a polite way of inquiring about her origins?
Livia nodded slowly, as if to affirm Esme’s acknowledgement of foreignness. 'I’m from Ewell – southern England, perhaps a suburb of London. I have been told I sound rather English by my mother’s family, who reside in Georgia – near Kutaisi, to be exact. We have ties to Saint Petersburg in Russia as well.' That, she hoped, would suffice as explanation for a surname many struggled to pronounce.
To Esme, both as a conduit of conversation and a consequence of curiosity, Livia would pose a similar question. 'As for you, what is your background like? Esme is such a lovely name, after all – have you any idea from where your parents might have acquired it?'
time: afternoon
location: hogwarts great hall
roleplaying as livia machavariani
sta: 2 | eva: 10 | str: 0 | wis: 7 | arc: 8 | acc: 8
terrible presence
sta: 2 | eva: 10 | str: 0 | wis: 7 | arc: 8 | acc: 8
terrible presence
Observing Esme’s reactions through largely neutral, upturned eyes, Livia sipped at her drink, the sparkling water providing a refreshing – although, given the other girl’s pleasant nature, completely unnecessary – bite. A quick, placated nod accompanied her gently setting her glass down again, but it was also an acknowledgement of Esme’s divulsion of information about herself. The other girl’s easily straight posture and polite words only drew Livia in further, akin to Narcissus staring at his pond. The idea of falling in wasn’t even so dreadful.
Upon Esme’s promulgation, upon the revelation of the supposed fact of her ‘not having been involved’, Livia lifted her eyebrows but maintained her small smile. 'Certainly, that’s not true,' she murmured, her voice dragging over the syllables like a blade on melting ice. 'However, I must similarly opine that it is truly a pleasure to have received this opportunity to foregather alongside such outstanding company myself. With how much time it took for me to feel properly settled, I doubt we could have had a truly meaningful interaction until now.' As the carefully-crafted words glissaded out of her larynx, she kept her vigilant, verdant vision on Esme, vaticinating – she desiderated – a positive reaction.
Every thing about Esme’s behaviour appeared as if she were a child of high society seemingly well-impressioned with Livia. This made the girl want more, want to delve a bit deeper, desiring a dear companionship. The idea of writing home to tell her family of her acquisition of not one, not two, but myriad friends made her have to refrain from flexing her fingers in cordial, cunning calculation. Instead, she threaded them together and primly folded her hands in her lap.
Once again, Esme’s words would cause a small widening of Livia’s eyes, although this time for an entirely different reason. Livia combed through as much memory as she could regarding their interaction heretofore; as word after word rattled through her worried mind, she still maintained an inability to recall what might have caused an ‘accent’ when she so desperately sought to speak in fine Received Pronunciation. Then – oh, had it been her surname? Was this a polite way of inquiring about her origins?
Livia nodded slowly, as if to affirm Esme’s acknowledgement of foreignness. 'I’m from Ewell – southern England, perhaps a suburb of London. I have been told I sound rather English by my mother’s family, who reside in Georgia – near Kutaisi, to be exact. We have ties to Saint Petersburg in Russia as well.' That, she hoped, would suffice as explanation for a surname many struggled to pronounce.
To Esme, both as a conduit of conversation and a consequence of curiosity, Livia would pose a similar question. 'As for you, what is your background like? Esme is such a lovely name, after all – have you any idea from where your parents might have acquired it?'
@esme hestridge
| [staff] jessamine lancaster even you cannot conquer the sun. | marina alacrán [inpc] her hair is kinda wild and free. |
misophonia.
| E | ✧ ✧mentions. @Livia Machavariani Livia’s voice was ever music for Esme’s ears, a melody that felt as gentle and refreshing as it did warm and soothing. There was a slight rasp to it; quiet, but audible, each word catching it slightly as if a stream catching on rocks in the riverbed. Each syllable glided over it, pushed past, and left a mark on Esme’s subconscious, finally rescued from the mud and breakneck pace and allowed to focus entirely on the girl in front of her. Livia seemed similar to Esme herself — the unmistakably high class upbringing, the refined quality of her speech. It really was a pleasure, after all the noise and chaos, to find someone so restrained. Not reserved, but deliberate. Perhaps it was thanks to that very voice, slightly hoarse and paired with the prettiest vocabulary Esme had heard since stepping foot in the castle, each word that fell from Livia’s lips caught Esme’s attention. Everything felt intentional, not drivel spewed only for the sake of being heard. Livia mentioned it took her a moment to get settled, and Esme felt herself nod along before she even processed the movement. Hell, she still didn’t feel settled; the owl sitting in her dorm was proof, clear as day, that Esme had been… prevented from fully setting down roots. The letter and the lack of a response nagged at her still, filling her lungs with an almost suffocating sense of homesickness. Though when speaking to Livia, Esme felt some relief. Perhaps the Great Hall of Hogwarts wasn’t as grand as her parents’ ballroom, nor were the circumstances around them as prim and proper — far too many teenagers wiping at their face to get rid of sauce or chewing with their mouth open for that to be the case — but it was familiar. Much like seeing an old friend for the first time in months. Esme felt right; she was doing just what she had set out to do. This what she hoped Hogwarts would be, not the suffocating discomfort it had been so far. “Truly,” she remarked. “I’ve barely had time to think about extracurriculars, much less socialization,” Esme sighed softly, putting her fork and knife down to engage herself fully in the conversation. The food was irrelevant when faced with such lovely company, and she did not want Livia to think she was rushing her just for the sake of satiating her own hunger; one Esme did not feel as profoundly after the bout of nausea she had just been feeling. Livia nodded along gently, slowly; it seemed neither of them were in a hurry, then. “I’m from Ewell — southern England, perhaps a suburb of London. I have been told I sound rather English by my mother’s family, who reside in Georgia — near Kutaisi, to be exact.” Esme’s eyes widened slightly as she returned the gesture, tilting her head slightly to the side. So, Livia’s family came from Georgia, and had some ties in the northwest of Russia, too. It explained the olive undertone her skin held, shining pretty under the candles the ceiling was sprinkled with, the softest of accents Esme had managed to pick up on. Esme felt a smile come to her face, involuntary — almost surprising, frankly — yet perfectly pleasant, as Livia inquired about Esme’s own ancestry. She wanted to giggle at the mention of her name, and though such sounds would have been far too girly for the role she wanted to embody with Livia at the moment, Esme permitted herself a slight chuckle. It had been the second time in the past few days someone asked about the origin of her name. Camille De Varenne, another peer she had met recently with quite a similar upbringing, also had complimented it. Unfortunately, Esme still had no concrete answer to give Livia, once again thanks to the wretched piece of paper that she still had no draft of a response for. She still hadn’t had the chance to ask, after all, knowing that whatever owl she wrote her parents next would have to mention the emerald and green house she found herself at the table of. Still, with the rather leisurely pace their conversation had taken, Esme felt far less anxiety at the prospect of having to reply nonetheless. The question of her name was merely filed away as another thing to add to the response that she would, regrettably, have to write sooner rather than later. “Ah, thank you,” Esme said, tone soft yet unmistakably sincere. “I’m half-Italian myself, on my mother’s side. From the Cavaleris, in Sicily,” she mentioned. She did not expect Livia to know any further on the topic, but as she tilted her chin up slightly, it felt only natural. “Though I’ve lived in Britain my whole life, just near Canterbury. I’d assume the name comes from my father’s family, but I’m afraid I cannot be sure.” There. It felt better — it felt incredible, really — to finally give a measured answer. One she could actually say she felt vaguely happy with, as happy as she could with the mention of her father bringing forth yet another wave of the softest kind of dread. Still, Livia’s presence an anchor, Esme was not swept up further into the current, and managed to maintain her composure with only a slight clearing of her throat. “How have you been finding Hogwarts so far?” she offered a change of topic instead, armed with a (hopefully disarming) smile and a transition she also could only hope sounded smooth. The anxiety, the discomfort, she was sure would return, but it did not have to be quite yet. For now, she could simply enjoy, as Livia had put it, foregathering among such outstanding company. wc. 960 notes. none. ✧✦✧ |
H |
thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
misophonia.
date: 9th september 2025
time: afternoon
location: hogwarts great hall
Despite the castle's grandeur and despite the all-too-raucous thundering of children's chatter, Esme's polite decorum brought Livia back to earth. She watched through observant irises as the blonde set down her silverware just so, and the correctness of the gesture made the corners of her lips drift upwards of their own accord. This girl was of Livia's ilk; of that much, the young raven-haired girl was certain. Due to this, even if she hadn't taken kindly to Esme, she would have been required by her bloodline to listen intently; that Esme was a respectful youth well-trained in the ways of etiquette only brought Livia pleasure while doing so.
That Esme had delved into neither extracurriculars nor socialisation was hardly something to look down upon; in fact, Livia continued to gaze at the girl with intrigue. Perhaps the young blonde had a great deal of self-control and temperance. Livia herself enjoyed busyness and intense, frequent occupation; although, at times, she had been overwhelmed, she had also found that performing tasks to her utmost ensured the sensation her brother called 'uselessness' had never sought to plague her. Becoming settled at school had been as painless as playing wizard chess and observing Quidditch matches from afar; the more topics and events that filled her day, the more at peace she was.
Of course, it was also familial expectations that had moulded Livia into a procurer of productivity; had she not appropriated numerous titles within the first week, she envisioned her mother might have sent a howler. That would have spelled utter humiliation, which could not be had – at any cost.
To distract herself, Livia allowed herself to lift her glass of cold water to her lips, the chilly liquid refreshing her and knocking her out of her thoughts so she could better focus on Esme. She set the glass down, ensuring no liquid spilled, but her lips pulled downwards at the edges when she realised she had set it too close to her plate. She quickly adjusted its position before once again turning to the other girl and folding her hands above the napkin that she had placed neatly in her lap.
That Esme laughed made Livia smile, her discomfort again forgotten as she was reminded that she, for now, sat alongside a kindred spirit. If Esme was laughing, then, certainly, she had done something properly. Livia's eyebrows lifted when Esme mentioned being partially of Italian descent. She knew plenty of Italy from work trips she had attended alongside her father; her name, and that of her brother, were both products of her father's work as a Roman historian. 'Oh, how lovely. Parla italiano?'
Canterbury, too, tolled a bell of familiarity within Livia's mind. She lived not far from the cathedral city, although Ewell was of far less renown. Although she appreciated the proximity to London, there were times she wished her hometown were a bit more happening. However, since gardens and estates sprawled nearby, she supposed she ought to be grateful, as she truly had nothing about which she could complain. 'Canterbury is lovely,' she said softly. 'I have only been once, and most of my time was spent reading while my father observed an archaeological site. I was quite young at the time, which is why I did not explore on my own as I did in Rome.' The small, albeit truly warm, smile from earlier remained on Livia's lips. 'I must admit, though, I have lacked the privilege of visiting Sicily. Is it as lovely as everyone asserts?'
translations.
- parla italiano? - 'do you speak Italian?'
time: afternoon
location: hogwarts great hall
roleplaying as livia machavariani
sta: 2 | eva: 10 | str: 0 | wis: 7 | arc: 8 | acc: 8
terrible presence
sta: 2 | eva: 10 | str: 0 | wis: 7 | arc: 8 | acc: 8
terrible presence
Despite the castle's grandeur and despite the all-too-raucous thundering of children's chatter, Esme's polite decorum brought Livia back to earth. She watched through observant irises as the blonde set down her silverware just so, and the correctness of the gesture made the corners of her lips drift upwards of their own accord. This girl was of Livia's ilk; of that much, the young raven-haired girl was certain. Due to this, even if she hadn't taken kindly to Esme, she would have been required by her bloodline to listen intently; that Esme was a respectful youth well-trained in the ways of etiquette only brought Livia pleasure while doing so.
That Esme had delved into neither extracurriculars nor socialisation was hardly something to look down upon; in fact, Livia continued to gaze at the girl with intrigue. Perhaps the young blonde had a great deal of self-control and temperance. Livia herself enjoyed busyness and intense, frequent occupation; although, at times, she had been overwhelmed, she had also found that performing tasks to her utmost ensured the sensation her brother called 'uselessness' had never sought to plague her. Becoming settled at school had been as painless as playing wizard chess and observing Quidditch matches from afar; the more topics and events that filled her day, the more at peace she was.
Of course, it was also familial expectations that had moulded Livia into a procurer of productivity; had she not appropriated numerous titles within the first week, she envisioned her mother might have sent a howler. That would have spelled utter humiliation, which could not be had – at any cost.
To distract herself, Livia allowed herself to lift her glass of cold water to her lips, the chilly liquid refreshing her and knocking her out of her thoughts so she could better focus on Esme. She set the glass down, ensuring no liquid spilled, but her lips pulled downwards at the edges when she realised she had set it too close to her plate. She quickly adjusted its position before once again turning to the other girl and folding her hands above the napkin that she had placed neatly in her lap.
That Esme laughed made Livia smile, her discomfort again forgotten as she was reminded that she, for now, sat alongside a kindred spirit. If Esme was laughing, then, certainly, she had done something properly. Livia's eyebrows lifted when Esme mentioned being partially of Italian descent. She knew plenty of Italy from work trips she had attended alongside her father; her name, and that of her brother, were both products of her father's work as a Roman historian. 'Oh, how lovely. Parla italiano?'
Canterbury, too, tolled a bell of familiarity within Livia's mind. She lived not far from the cathedral city, although Ewell was of far less renown. Although she appreciated the proximity to London, there were times she wished her hometown were a bit more happening. However, since gardens and estates sprawled nearby, she supposed she ought to be grateful, as she truly had nothing about which she could complain. 'Canterbury is lovely,' she said softly. 'I have only been once, and most of my time was spent reading while my father observed an archaeological site. I was quite young at the time, which is why I did not explore on my own as I did in Rome.' The small, albeit truly warm, smile from earlier remained on Livia's lips. 'I must admit, though, I have lacked the privilege of visiting Sicily. Is it as lovely as everyone asserts?'
@esme hestridge
translations.
- parla italiano? - 'do you speak Italian?'
| [staff] jessamine lancaster even you cannot conquer the sun. | marina alacrán [inpc] her hair is kinda wild and free. |