waiting in the wings.
| E | ✧  ✧location. the grounds; right by the entrance to the castle. date. 3rd of october, late afternoon. mentions. @Cecilia Merrick.  “... I'm also writing to you to inform you of a social engagement I've taken the liberty of arranging on your behalf. While on a business trip west recently, I had the most lovely of run-ins in Somerset. I got the chance to speak with the parents of an old, dear friend of mine, Theodore Merrick; I'm sure you don't remember him now, but I am sure you met him as a child, before he passed. A few weeks ago, I happened to meet Theo’s father, Ambrose. We spoke over tea later, and I discovered Theo’s daughter, Cecilia, is now attending Hogwarts — and she happens to be a Slytherin, too! Ambrose said he will speak with her about approaching you when the new month starts. Though I know you may not be a fan of the idea after what you described in your last letter, I was excited, and of course, I couldn't refuse…” The letter went on. It just kept going on; how her father was so sorry, but he was just so excited to meet Ambrose; how they actually ended up arranging for a proper meeting, October 3rd. Cecilia was supposed to approach her outside, by the grounds entrance; where Esme was expected to be. Her father did not say outright she had to be there, but it was reiterated, time and time again, as objective truth. Esme would be there, Cecilia would approach, and they’d end the weekend by skipping off into the sunset together. Frankly, the entire letter seemed far too long. Esme had already reread it thirty times over by now, her distaste with the situation growing with each pass. The letter her father had written this in response to was long, too, sure, but she was sharing everything from her first month of Hogwarts. Instead of replying to anything she mentioned — her classes, her wish for a pet, the abysmal group project from just a few days ago — she’d been so excited to see a return letter so quick, but no. Her parents had spent a paragraph or two on the catch up, only for her father to spend six (six!) whole paragraphs detailing the arrangement he made for her, without her knowledge. As much as Esme was annoyed — and she was, very much so — she had half a mind to refuse the… invitation, let it be called. It was clearly important to her father, and she did not have the heart to tell her father she very plainly did not care for Cecilia Merrick, even if they were the same age, even if they were both Slytherins. She barely had the heart to tell him how much she resented being a Slytherin; her letter at the beginning of September barely glossed over the issue, quickly moving past it. He was so excited about this, it was almost unlike him. Besides, it would look bad to the older Merricks if she did not show, and it would take too long for an owl that denied the request to be delivered. So, here she was — October 3rd, Monday, after dinner. Her spirits were already low, as usual when the day ended with History of Magic, perhaps one of the most boring courses Hogwarts had to offer. The weather was starting to get colder now, but some autumn sun still shined through the yellowing leaves of the trees scattered around the grounds. The grass was bathed in a subtle golden glow that would surely only grow more intense as the day came to a close and the sun dropped below the horizon. All would have been a pretty sight if not for Esme’s exponentially expanding ire. For the time being, however, all Esme noticed was that it was too cold, it was getting dark out far too quick now, and the sun was shining in her eyes, making her squint whenever she turned her head the wrong direction. Worst of all, Cecilia was late. Esme thought (assumed? hoped?) that her “potential new confidante”, as her father had described Cecilia, would have at least a rudimentary understanding of manners. Punctuality was crucial. Esme lived her life by numbers; a small wrist watch always sat worn on her right arm, an ever-present assistant in managing her schedule. And now, it was telling Esme that Cecilia was late — twenty-two minutes, to be precise. She’d been given a vague description of what Cecilia would look like, and so far, was confident that she hadn’t missed anyone who matched it. “Bright red hair” would be hard to miss, after all. No, Esme was sure — Cecilia was just nowhere to be found. It was rude. Tasteless, tiresome, and tactless — downright disrespectful behavior, even. She had left Esme to just sit by the stairs (leaning against a railing, of course; Esme was not so far crestfallen that she would have sat on the dirty things) and rereading the letter her father sent her, again, and again. Perhaps hoping for something she’d misread. Maybe it would be better if she had made the mistake, misread the date or the time. At least then she would have had the option to go out and fix it. Use that ambition or pride Slytherins were supposed to be known for—- Esme caught herself before another spiral started. That issue was over and done with. A scab she did not intend to pick at. Slytherin was... nice enough, after all. Livia was there, and she was shaping up to be a great friend, and her roommate, Sophia, was also great. Esme glanced down at the paper again, words catching one of the later sentences in the letter. “I really think you’ll like her.” Sure. As if.  wc. 957 notes. so it begins! ✧✦✧ |
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thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
waiting in the wings.
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MENTIONS: @Esme Hestridge  ────────────────────── |
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xxxxxxxx𝔖ea salt spilt, many mirrors marred, corvine creatures crowding. A myriad of ill omens forewarned of the calamity that awaited, yet all were disregarded by the red-haired witch who had more pressing matters to tend to. Flames flickered as her grip on the parchment tightened, eyes darting over the seeped ink. With a derisive scoff, it was immediately cast into the fire. Esme Hestridge — such a beautiful name, she mused. Indeed, it was like no other and carried some sort of sanctity. It was a shame to see it engulfed in flames, though the other contents of that wretched letter deserved no better fate. It was nothing personal. It never was. Cecilia simply considered herself well past the age for her grandmother’s attempts at playmate matchmaking. She assumed that previous failures had taught her better, but she was sorely mistaken. Truly, she could never understand what went through that old witch’s head – and after reading that letter, she was fairly certain that she never would. What did the daughter of her late father’s dear friend — whom she never heard of, by the way — have to do with her? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It did not matter how ‘delightful’ the girl was said to be, nor how ‘clever’ she seemed — Esme Hestridge meant nothing to her, and she was fairly certain the sentiment would be shared. She had half the mind to write to the girl herself and call the whole thing off. Unfortunately, reason grabbed a firm hold of her. Failure to entertain the arrangement would likely be met with a flood of disgruntled letters or even another howler. Cecilia would not be the first young witch to find themselves on the receiving end of such chastising, but Merlin forbid, she become the next. The last letter from her grandparents nearly reached the young witch’s knees when she unfolded it. And though the parchment-turned-kindling held two signatures, it was clear who wrote this time — her grandmother. Imagining a howler that long, screeching in the old witch's voice, horrified her. Cecilia would rather hear a veela scream than suffer through that ordeal. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she sank into a seat. This is almost as dreadful as an arranged marriage, she thought glumly. The notion lingered for a moment – though not a beat longer – before she suddenly sat up. It certainly was not; those were worse. Far worse. Though this predicament was still very much dreadful. Then a silver lining slowly began forming in her mind. Perhaps tolerating this Esme Hestridge would placate her grandmother, albeit for a short time. Though the old woman was as proud as a hippogriff, she seemed to reserve a soft spot for this family. Unsurprising, given their reputation, but this was something that surpassed appearances. The tone of the letter was tender, pleasant, and dare she say, enthusiastic. And not once did it mention academics. It was incredibly uncharacteristic. Indeed, there seemed to be more to this matter that was worth investigating. With a decisive nod, Cecilia rose from her chair. She would meet this esteemed Esme Hestridge and determine whether she was worth her time. Speaking of, her gaze drifted to the nearest clock as she realised an important detail had slipped her mind. What hour had they agreed upon again? ────𓃦──── Upon her entrance, Cecilia noticed a pearl-blond witch leaning against the railing. Trickles of light from the sinking sun lit her hair like a shimmering halo. As she neared the girl, a heavy silence seemingly draped itself over the grounds. Her steps slowed, eyes flicking to the parchment in her hand before drifting back up. Standing before her was the Esme Hestridge. When their eyes met, the air stiffened, as though early frost began permeating around them. Her lustrous hair was akin to a silken rabbit coat, but that bone-chilling stare belonged to none other than a hare. Much like her posture, her complexion was flawless, and altogether, it was far too much to take in at once. The hare’s blinding beauty bound the fox – her body stiffened, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though she was ensnared by a trap that only released its hold on her once she drew a steady breath. Sure enough, Esme Hestridge was divine and undoubtedly befitting of her name. Yet a creeping discomfort warned the flame-haired fox to keep her remain vigilant. After all, hares were far more cunning than the rabbits they often were mistaken for. One would be a fool to think otherwise. With that in mind, the young witch chose her next words carefully, but perhaps not carefully enough. “Good afternoon, Miss Hestridge. I am pleased to see that the cold has yet to consume you,” she remarked, her honeyed voice breaking through the suffocating silence. Admittedly, she could have expressed an apology as a greeting, but that would be anything but sincere. And who was Cecilia Merrick if not sincere? At least, according to her. Whether the young witch before her was worthy of an apology was yet to be decided. “How gracious of you to wait for me. This is truly a pleasure,” she added, the corner of her lips twitching ever so slightly as her gaze remained unwavered as she stood her ground, waiting. |
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waiting in the wings.
| E | ✧ ✧mentions. @Cecilia Merrick. The watch on Esme’s wrist suggested Cecilia was now twenty three minutes late. The cold and the wait had put her in a particularly sour mood, tired and ire beyond even her usual scope. Esme considered ditching; writing a letter to her father saying they’d missed each other, or that she was busy and couldn’t go, or any number of excuses. Even getting scolded for lying, if her parents ever found out, had to be preferable than freezing her fingers off, wishing she had worn a thicker sweater. Esme’s feet tapped impatiently on the ground, both eyes and head rolling backwards in the most annoyed expression she could manage — one she wouldn't usually be caught dead making, considering the utter lack of dignity, but now? Did it even matter? It’s not like anyone would be there to see it, least of all the girl who was supposed to have been here nearly half an hour ago already. Esme was broken out of her irritated musings by the sound of the castle door behind her opening. She barely had hope, but to her surprise, the person that stepped out… actually matched the description she was given of Cecilia. To say Esme was surprised would be an understatement — she had seen enough people pass through the doors, each with a confused glance at why Esme was standing there, alone, lightly trembling, looking like a right moron. Her suspicions were confirmed and her surprise intensified once the girl took a brief glance around and approached Esme. Esme, in turn, took the time to take a proper look at the girl, trailing her figure up and down with steel blue eyes, barely doing anything to hide the contempt behind them. The girl was tall — perhaps a few centimeters taller than Esme, even, not a common sight considering Esme’s own lanky proportions. Of course, the most striking thing about her was her hair. Red, like a fox’s fur, and as untamed as the creature itself. It surrounded Cecilia’s face, auburn curls, clipped in the back, still managing to effortlessly fall in whatever way they pleased to her shoulders. On another day, Cecilia would have been pretty. Beautiful, even. The rays of the sun caught the ginger hair in all its glory, lighting it up, turning it almost fiery. She fit perfectly in the autumn landscape — the oranges and yellows of the falling leaves fell all around her, as if her very presence made wind rise up just so they could spiral by all pretty. One passed by her nose, even, though low enough not to block the gentle turquoise of her eyes. It was so perfect, it made Esme want to gag. Today was not the day for pretty things — for flaming red hair and rushing sea foam eyes that you could swim in, for speckled freckles like little constellations. And even if it was, Cecilia certainly did not deserve them, not after making Esme wait so long out in the cold that the tips of her fingers were turning red. Today was a day for shitty autumn weather, sharp winds that prickled at your skin, so cold you felt it in your bones, and for backaches from stone digging into skin when one leaned against the wrong wall of the castle. That was what Cecilia Merrick deserved, and that was what Esme would make sure she got. For a while, they just stared at each other. Esme refused to blink first; it felt like it would have given Cecilia some sort of strategic advantage, as if instead of the Hogwarts grounds, a battlefield extended all around them, and all you could smell was smoke instead of soil and a chill in the wind. Finally, Cecilia spoke, and Esme felt like she could release her breath, though the relief was bitter and short-lived. Cecilia barely acknowledged that she was late— scratch that, she didn’t acknowledge it at all, mentioning the cold in such brevity it felt like she almost forgot they were supposed to have met at all. Esme would have laughed in her face if she were in any less foul of a mood, or perhaps if she had less decorum. Not like lack of manners seemed to be much of an issue for Cecilia, but it wasn’t like Esme had to stoop to her standards. “Miss Merrick, I presume? Of course,” Esme finally replied, sizing the girl up once again. Merlin’s sake, does she even want to be here? Her mind bit out, bitter, wilfully disregarding Esme's own enthusiasm or lack thereof. She kept her tone mostly polite; if a bit of venom cut through, well, she did her best to restrain it. Perhaps she would have done a better job twenty three minutes ago. “Good things come to those who wait, no? And judging by how fondly your grandmother speaks of you, you're the very best.” It was bullshit, obviously. Esme had never met the old woman, and right now, the letter and all the praise in it meant less than dirt to her. Really? This was the girl father said was so bright? So very sweet and clever? What a joke, Esme thought. Still, it wasn’t like Cecilia was privy to any of Esme's musings, allowing her to plaster on a cookie-cutter smile and move along. “The pleasure's all mine,” Esme lied, words coming to her lips as easy as if it were dress rehearsal, a script she'd been practising so long it had become second nature. She forced her back straight and her shoulders down, not wanting Cecilia to see her clenching her teeth. She maintained eye contact still, trying to be optimistic. There had to be some redeeming qualities to this girl — perhaps she was reacting extremely. No one was ever all bad; even if Cecilia appeared to have zero manners so far. She hadn't even offered to shake Esme's hand. The sudden realisation made Esme bristle, optimisim quickly dwindling. Merlin, was she going to have to carry the level of this whole conversation on her own? Was this really how low her father expected her to go? Esme extended her hair out for Cecilia to shake, swallowing down her pride; feeling like she had to do the very same with every book on the subject of etiquette, knowing each of them dictated the exact opposite order should be at play. Her hopes for companionship were low from the start; now, it was time to focus on just… not being entirely miserable while talking to this girl. “You're a fellow Slytherin, from what I hear. I'm surprised we haven't met until now. We have a whole month to make up for now, hm?” Esme said, trying to keep her tone light. Perhaps she had heard Cecilia's name in passing, in the Common Room or during classes; it really didn't matter. Whatever the case was, if Cecilia had any sense of good manners, or any sense at all, for that matter, she'd respond in kind — or at the very least, dismiss the platitude without further comment. It seemed that was the best Esme could (and would now have to) hope for. wc. 1198 notes. none. ✧✦✧ |
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thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |