sicilian defense.
| E | ✧  ✧location. hogwarts library. date. 12th of september; after classes. mentions. @Rafal Devereux.  It had barely been two weeks at Hogwarts — not even that — and Esme already found herself with a strange kind of homesickness. She had expected it, of course. Going from her comfortable family estate in Canterbury to a castle in Scotland which she shared with hundreds of other young witches and wizards was always going to be an adjustment. She had prepared for this; her parents knew she would most likely write often, and at length, too, and had assured her they would never keep her waiting long for a reply. It was a kind gesture — especially after what little she had heard of her cousin’s disastrous first year at Hogwarts, she was determined hers would not be the same. Her mother probably thought the same. Esme knew the first letter would come quickly; both sides of the family separated and missing each other. There was a comfort in knowing her parents felt her absence just as she did theirs. The letter — that awful letter that she so wished for waking up on September 2nd, but found herself so very unhappy actually receiving — arrived at breakfast of her first proper school day at Hogwarts, and had remained unanswered since. Ten days exactly, a figure that seemed to taunt Esme whenever she remembered it, and she, unfortunately, did so often. She had drafted so many replies since. First was after her classes on the very same day. She sat down in the library, prepared all her writing tools and stationery, and proceeded to stare at a blank page for a solid twenty minutes. Every time she lifted her quill — a neat swan feather model gifted to her by her grandmother — it felt too heavy in her hand. Weighed down by expectations she had no one but herself to blame for, she kept putting it down. Ultimately, after having achieved only a few blots of ink on the page, she decided she was too tired. It had been a big day, after all: all her first classes were starting. There would be time for it later. On the third of September, Esme drafted a response that was too short and would have conveyed every worry she wanted to hide; she overcompensated and did the same with another draft that was this time too long. On the fourth, she wanted to work on her reply before the first class of the day started, but found herself distracted by conversation with her deskmate, instead. Having left the classroom with no response written, but a friendly connection in Ravenclaw, the house she so desperately wanted to be in, made, she delayed the writing yet again. And again, and again, and again — found herself reading and exploring the castle endlessly, just to avoid putting quill to paper and actually writing the damn thing. A few days ago, it got so bad she could barely eat — she only had her new housemate, Livia, to thank for it getting better. Ten days. A week and a half. No response. Her parents would surely be growing concerned soon. Really, that was the one thing Esme did not want, and also the only thing except for trashed paper she was surely managing to achieve. A few days delay would have been excusable by all the excitement of a new school, but ten? The only thing she dreaded more than replying to this letter would be receiving a concerned follow-up, really. What Esme really wanted was to speak with her parents again. Really; she was homesick. She felt childish, but she really did want to talk to her mom and dad. Complain about the nuisances that had been plaguing her. The lack of manners, the house she was stuck in, the boat ride. There were so many nice things she wanted to say, too. She simply found she… couldn’t. The words her chest was so full of one moment disappeared like smoke in the air the moment she tried to put them to paper, only to return, suffocating, the moment she tried to forget them. So, yet again, ten days later still, Esme found herself in the library after class; paper in front of her, swan feather quill in her hand, inkwell open, staring down her biggest enemy in all of Hogwarts so far: a blank page. There really had been no reason for her anxiety. Her father wouldn’t care that his daughter didn’t share his house; her mother certainly wouldn’t, having gone to Beauxbatons herself. Hell, she’d probably be excited to hear her daughter making friends with the french De Varenne family, or with the Machavarianis in Georgia. Her own aunt was a Slytherin — either way, none of this mattered. None of it mattered! Her hand tightened around her own quill, feeling like she would crush it. The only person who had any expectations for her Hogwarts career was Esme herself. None of this mattered, yet it had been plaguing her anyways. What a joke. Esme did not let the clock hit half an hour this time. By the time the discomfort of the empty draft was crawling up her back, she pushed her chair away from the table. The screech of wood on the floor was uncomfortably loud in the quiet of the rest of the library. She looked at the ceiling, inhaling deeply, resolved not to let the everpresent malaise smother her. She needed a distraction, and she needed one soon. She took a moment to consider her options. Despite the usual Scottish weather, it was still warm enough to go outside — maybe sit by the lake. The idea was quickly shut down. She did not need peace and quiet right now; did not want to let herself spiral again. Her leg bounced restlessly under the table, her teeth catching the inside of her cheek on instinct. Her hands worked almost automatically, packing the blank piece of paper and all her writing supplies back into her book bag. Still lost in thought, considering what to do — perhaps she could find Livia and bother her for a chat, or maybe go for a walk with Stella — Esme stood up, getting ready to leave. On her way out the library, however, she spotted a familiar sight. White and black in a checkerboard pattern, delicately carved wooden figures set on top. She felt a fragile smile come to her face, and her feet took her to one of the chairs on their very own. Through all the homesickness that clung to her the past two weeks, Esme realised, she had barely gotten a chance to relax. To indulge and do something she actually, well, was interested in doing: the last time she even thought of the opera was when talking to Camille, reminded she should go over the works of Rameau when she could, and even then, she hadn’t seen the inside of the rehearsal room. Her own wizarding chessboard lay untouched towards the bottom of the trunk. It felt wrong to ignore an owl from her parents and focus on something as irrelevant to the situation as her hobbies… but perhaps this was what she needed. The library board was unoccupied so far, so she only put down her bag by one of the table’s legs and pondered the pieces. For now, Esme focused on theory, merely leaning over the board and considering openings. The move sets clear in her mind, hopefully the repetition of figure names and square coordinates would help. If she got lucky, someone would join; either way, this would hopefully prove a fine distraction from all that fill her lungs.  wc. 1277 notes. none. ✧✦✧ |
H |
thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |