Wither and Bloom
date. {enter date}, 2025 ─ location. herbology class ─ hex. #5d6c47
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▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬There was an undeniable truth that the Scottish magical institution began to slowly recede in appeal that once accompanied the initial acceptance of the esteemed position of Herbology Professor.
Nearly two years ago, the sudden arrival in the numinous Scottish Highlands had been a rather delightful experience, presenting a new adventure of Sarai's very own making. On paper, it had been an quick and easy decision to accept a position that would lure the Toussaint woman far from the humid sun of the Caribbean and the lush greenery of Haiti. With Fabian teaching at Ilvermorny and her sons, Alphonse and Briar, attending Castelobruxo for their first years at the time, Sarai's nest had grown empty anyway.
Such a rare opportunity to experience another country and its culture was always welcomed. That was, until the Caribbean-bred woman experienced her first bout of Scottish winter. As a Caribbean native, Sarai had always been accustomed to the tropical beauty of Haiti and the year-round colours of the constant humid season; Scotland, of course, was a far cry from the normalcy of her islandic home. A brutal, lackluster experience that first winter had been — both the land and skies had been drained of vibrancy and wrought frigid gusts and thick blankets of grey clouds that threatened constant dreadful snowfall.
Upon her reluctantly return to Hogwarts for a second term, the sentiments of quitting were not always on conscious thought at the front of the Toussaint woman's mind, yet remained a notion to ponder on every so often between lulls of the day. There was nothing for the Haitian horticulturist to lose back then upon accepting the esteemed position — but now, upon the birth of her daughters, Célienne and Dèlia, the sentiment shifted and Hogwarts' grandeur was beginning to wane.
Now she had a decent and respectable reason to leave Hogwarts behind, yet still the Caribbean witch remained for the sake of her students.
Her students — the ones Sarai had grown rather fondly for over time, although a severe case of RBF likely misconstrued the woman's sentiments towards them. Affection was a look still being practiced, and the strict Haitian woman oftentimes reminded herself to school her countanence to appear more gentle and expressive, less punitive and... well, her.
Admittedly, the Caribbean-bred witch found herself gazing about her occupied students amid grading recent tests more than she was listening to the prattle of her brown and white serpentine familiar, Badriyah-Abuk. Upon noticing a trend of one Esme Hestridge and a series of subpar marks, a mind remained tumultuous with different ideas how to lend support. Sarai herself could have easily intervened herself, but children these days were so worried about managing social appearances and losing "aura," or whatever the hell Alphonse would say. For now, the woman choose a different avenue to salvage the situation before getting involed herself—
Her gunmetal eyes landed upon Anna Blackberry, an eager Hufflepuff who busied herself with collecting harvestables while yapping some poor Gryffindor's ear off. Poor lad. But it was obvious that Miss Blackberry was a student who excelled and remained enthused and bright-eyed with eagerness for each Herbology lecture — the girl would be a perfect tool for the Holticulturist's machination.
Calling over Anna, Sarai subtly nodded her head towards Esme; "Would you be a dear and see if Miss Hestridge could use some assistance?" The woman would intentionally leave out the details; it wasn't anyone's business but Esme's and Sarai's, but nevertheless the seed had been planted.
Only time would tell if Esme would then blossom under Anna's tutleage, or wither.
Nearly two years ago, the sudden arrival in the numinous Scottish Highlands had been a rather delightful experience, presenting a new adventure of Sarai's very own making. On paper, it had been an quick and easy decision to accept a position that would lure the Toussaint woman far from the humid sun of the Caribbean and the lush greenery of Haiti. With Fabian teaching at Ilvermorny and her sons, Alphonse and Briar, attending Castelobruxo for their first years at the time, Sarai's nest had grown empty anyway.
Such a rare opportunity to experience another country and its culture was always welcomed. That was, until the Caribbean-bred woman experienced her first bout of Scottish winter. As a Caribbean native, Sarai had always been accustomed to the tropical beauty of Haiti and the year-round colours of the constant humid season; Scotland, of course, was a far cry from the normalcy of her islandic home. A brutal, lackluster experience that first winter had been — both the land and skies had been drained of vibrancy and wrought frigid gusts and thick blankets of grey clouds that threatened constant dreadful snowfall.
Upon her reluctantly return to Hogwarts for a second term, the sentiments of quitting were not always on conscious thought at the front of the Toussaint woman's mind, yet remained a notion to ponder on every so often between lulls of the day. There was nothing for the Haitian horticulturist to lose back then upon accepting the esteemed position — but now, upon the birth of her daughters, Célienne and Dèlia, the sentiment shifted and Hogwarts' grandeur was beginning to wane.
Now she had a decent and respectable reason to leave Hogwarts behind, yet still the Caribbean witch remained for the sake of her students.
Her students — the ones Sarai had grown rather fondly for over time, although a severe case of RBF likely misconstrued the woman's sentiments towards them. Affection was a look still being practiced, and the strict Haitian woman oftentimes reminded herself to school her countanence to appear more gentle and expressive, less punitive and... well, her.
Admittedly, the Caribbean-bred witch found herself gazing about her occupied students amid grading recent tests more than she was listening to the prattle of her brown and white serpentine familiar, Badriyah-Abuk. Upon noticing a trend of one Esme Hestridge and a series of subpar marks, a mind remained tumultuous with different ideas how to lend support. Sarai herself could have easily intervened herself, but children these days were so worried about managing social appearances and losing "aura," or whatever the hell Alphonse would say. For now, the woman choose a different avenue to salvage the situation before getting involed herself—
Her gunmetal eyes landed upon Anna Blackberry, an eager Hufflepuff who busied herself with collecting harvestables while yapping some poor Gryffindor's ear off. Poor lad. But it was obvious that Miss Blackberry was a student who excelled and remained enthused and bright-eyed with eagerness for each Herbology lecture — the girl would be a perfect tool for the Holticulturist's machination.
Calling over Anna, Sarai subtly nodded her head towards Esme; "Would you be a dear and see if Miss Hestridge could use some assistance?" The woman would intentionally leave out the details; it wasn't anyone's business but Esme's and Sarai's, but nevertheless the seed had been planted.
Only time would tell if Esme would then blossom under Anna's tutleage, or wither.
——mentions. @Anna Blackberry & @Esme Hestridge
——notes. Apologies about the delay once again. Enjoy your starter!Feel free to godmod if needed; I cannot guarantee quick posts at this time. Left the date ambiguous!
I always knew the wind would blow you back to me one day.
Wither and Bloom
ANNA BLACKBERRY!
HOGWARTS | YEAR 2 | HUFFLEPUFF | ANNA'S SPEECH: "#SPEECH"| xx.xx.2025|Daytime| WC: 470
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T O W I T H E R ? |
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T O B L O O M ? |
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Reducio ACTIONS + MENTIONS @Sarai Toussaint-Fleischer i know you're not likely to answer more in this thread, jst wanted to mention you either way @Esme Hestridge |
Reducio OOC NOTES WOW, Sarai's roleplayer writes soooo well! |
Reducio STATS/OTHER Stamina: 7 Evasion: 4 Strength: 5 Wisdom: 9 Arcane Power: 7 Accuracy: 8 |
Wither and Bloom
| E | ✧  ✧location. herbology class. date. 12th of november. mentions. @Anna Blackberry.  After two months completed at Hogwarts, Esme could, with some confidence, say she quite liked the school. She had always known she would. She held a confidence that this was the place for her, born from all the stories her aunt and her father would tell her of their Hogwarts days. Academy of witchcraft and wizardry, prestigious and world-renowned, with the best professors, teaching in the most important of subjects; a place for budding young academics and intellectuals such as Esme herself. She had always known this would be the school she attended, and was therefore always optimistic, but even she had to admit, the first few weeks had tested that optimism thoroughly. First, of course, was the boat ride, though that could be disregarded (and frankly, should be, by anyone with sense). Then, there was the matter of the house Esme had been sorted into. Just as she was sure she would like Hogwarts, and that it was the place for her, she was sure she would like being in Ravenclaw, amongst the intelligent and creative — that was where her father had gone during his time at Hogwarts, and that was where she would sure she would end up, too. That, of course, did not happen. The Sorting Hat had placed her in Slytherin, like her aunt Alice, instead. A part of Esme’s world crumbled, frankly, once she realised that she would have to break the news to her family. Not that her parents would have cared, frankly, but it still felt like a defeat. The thing she was so sure of had fallen through. For three weeks, Esme felt like her whole identity (one not even established yet) had been ripped away from her, leaving her clawing at the air in search of purchase. It took her a whole three weeks to find her footing again and feel stable enough to send a response back to her parents. As she predicted, they were happy for her either way, and at least for a week or so, Esme’s life at Hogwarts was peaceful. Of course, then came October, and brought along its own difficulties; mainly one in the form of a letter from her father and an arranged meeting with one Cecilia Merrick, who later Esme found herself locked in a room with during the fall ball. She still found irritation crawling up the back of her neck the moment Cecilia's name was even mentioned in her presence, though she would never want to admit it. She had plenty of other social prospects to look forward to — the inconveniences and annoyances of redheaded girls or boys with dark and ill-fitting clothes were counteracted by the more pleasant peers she had found in Hogwarts. She had her cousin here, after all, not to mention the friends she had found in Livia or Camille. Esme fell into a rhythm. She enjoyed her classes, enjoyed the spirit of the school — she was prefect, even, for Merlin’s sake. And as much as she overall liked Hogwarts, and would say so with confidence if ever asked, there were things she found she disliked. Well, one thing, in specific. Herbology. Throughout all the ups and downs of the past two months, Herbology always felt like rockbottom. A blight infecting Esme’s schedule, making her expression turn sour and her tone turn grumbled whenever she thought of it. There were other classes she didn’t care for, or even did not like — flying classes made her broom-sick, and she found History of Magic dull beyond belief, but Herbology was the only one she would say she actively disliked. The material was dreadfully boring, while the work somehow both monotonous and unpredictable, tedium given form. Dirt that always wormed its way under her perfectly manicured fingernails, extra stains on her robes, a headache from the stuffiness of the greenhouses. E’s and A’s where Esme wanted O’s. To boot, Esme was sure the professor hated her, if not everyone else, too. Even now, she was glancing about the classroom with an expression Esme could only ever interpret as contempt, her lips pulled into a tight line that made Esme look away on instinct, not wanting to incur any anger or further scrutiny. Esme wasn’t used to looking away. Still, for now it felt prudent — she was still struggling with re-potting the Sneezewort in front of her. Though usually sharp and on top of her class work, she realised she had already forgotten basically everything of professor Toussaint’s lecture on it. Used in the… befuddlement draught? She tried to recall. The name felt bitterly appropriate for how she had been feeling for the past half hour: lost and confused. "Hi! You're Miss Hestridge, right? The teacher asked me to see if you need any help!" The voice was sudden, high-pitched, and loud — Esme was startled, suddenly acutely aware of a presence right behind her, looking over her shoulder. She flinched slightly, turning to look at the girl properly, giving her a once-over with widened eyes. The colors of her robes suggested a Hufflepuff, not one Esme recognised from any of her classes; she couldn’t have been too much older than Esme herself, though. With curly hair in bountiful pigtails on her head and a brown dress peaking out from under her uniform, the strange girl looked a lot more enthusiastic about this class than Esme felt. What? Esme blinked a few times as she came to fully register the words that came out of the girl’s mouth. The teacher asked this girl to see if Esme needed any help? What a ridiculous notion, she wanted to huff, really. She was fine. She didn’t need to be assigned help by the professor; the very notion was humiliating— She inhaled sharply. There was no need to let herself grow irritated after a single sentence exchanged; she had made the mistake of shutting down someone’s harmless good mood before, and she would rather not repeat the Lucille situation again. She got to feel that horrible sense of awkwardness and unease before, and she was intent on not feeling it again. Besides, the sneezewort still needed repotting, and it’s not like Esme’s grades were going to fix themselves… Esme swallowed down her pride and put on a tight smile. “Yes, I am. And your name?” she confirmed with a nod, extending a hand for the girl to shake; internally cringing at the fact they still had their gloves on. In any other scenario, it would have been a faux pas, but then again, the Herbology greenhouse wasn’t comparable to a banquet hall, and the opera gloves you were supposed to take off for handshakes there held a much different purpose to the protective ones worn here. “Help would definitely be… most appreciated,” she let out a small chuckle, hoping it didn’t sound too self-deprecating. She turned her gaze back to the Sneezewort, looking and feeling slightly deflated.  wc. 1158 notes. ikr!! sarai, thank you so much for writing the starter ♥ ✧✦✧ |
H |
thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
Wither and Bloom
ANNA BLACKBERRY!
HOGWARTS | YEAR 2 | HUFFLEPUFF | ANNA'S SPEECH: "#SPEECH"| 12.11.2025|Daytime| WC: 511
_____________________________________
T O W I T H E R ? |
|
T O B L O O M ? |
_____________________________________
Reducio ACTIONS + MENTIONS @Esme Hestridge |
Reducio OOC NOTES and you write super well too :o, taking notes |
Reducio STATS/OTHER Stamina: 7 Evasion: 4 Strength: 5 Wisdom: 9 Arcane Power: 7 Accuracy: 8 |
Wither and Bloom
| E | ✧ ✧mentions. @Anna Blackberry. Esme observed, a slight confusion taking hold of her face, as the other girl looked down at Esme’s extended hand and proceeded to ignore it, opting instead to… curtsey. A comical sight, considering both of them were in their work wear, protective gloves almost coming to stain the older girl’s clothes, though not quite. Esme blinked, all the etiquette rules she was so sure she had down perfectly coming crashing down within moments. Was she supposed to curtsey? Surely not. Curtseying was more formal than a handshake, and this was not a more formal occasion than all the events and banquets Esme had attended in the past. She was doing what she was supposed to do, she was sure — well, she had been, until five seconds ago. Handshake order is determined by social hierarchy: the younger person greets and offers a handshake to the older. Curtseying was not a part of the equation Esme had accounted for. Having run through every protocol she could think of in the span of ten seconds, Esme decided the most appropriate way to move forward was to move forward; doing her best to hide the outright baffled expression she had just been wearing, she nodded, face turning to a polite, if a bit strained, smile. “Right,” she said, putting her hand down, allowing it to hang by her side once more. “My name is Esme Hestridge, and I’m the daughter of Thomas Hestridge of the Hestridge Brewing Company, and Eleonora Hestridge, of the Cavaleri family of Sicily. It’s truly a pleasure to meet you,” Esme replied in kind, matching how Anna had structured her introduction. It was, perhaps, far more elaborate than what she would have usually said, but she figured it would be best to try and remain on par with Anna. “Thank you for offering your help. I only hope I don’t keep you from your own classwork for too long.” Anna stood back straight, and Esme followed suit by fixing her own posture. She’d been slouched over the table and that stupid plant for so long, she didn’t even want to think on what she must have looked like to anyone who saw. Anna turned to the work station, where the sneezewort still sat, still decidedly not repotted, looking miserable. Esme cringed as Anna, clearly far more knowledgeable than Esme, inspected it from beyond her glasses. “Is that a sneezewort? It looks dry. What are you trying to do with it?” “Ah, yes, it is,” Esme replied with a nod, feeling a note of shame creeping up her skin at the plant’s rather pitiful appearance. Merlin, it was like it could tell that Esme hated herbology and all that came with it, and was reacting appropriately. “Well, the task was to repot it, but I had missed the explanation on how to do it properly.” A lie; she had heard professor Toussaint-Fleischer explain the appropriate process in its entirety, it had merely gone in one ear and out the other. It was simple — or so she had assumed, anyway. Take the plant out of the old pot, put it in the new pot, done, right? Wrong, apparently, considering how much trouble it had been giving her thus far. Esme’s jaw clenched, shoulders raising involuntarily, wound by something tense at the back of her neck. “Right, dry,” she repeated after Anna, nodding along. “Let me just…” Esme’s eyes scanned the work station, quickly spotting a watering can nearby. She reached for it, grip feeling unsteady thanks to the thick fabric of the protective gloves, the discomfort and tension in her shoulder blades certainly not helping— Before Esme could even register what was happening, the watering can tipped over. Perhaps the wide sleeve of Esme’s robe had gotten caught along the handle; perhaps she didn’t get a proper grip, or perhaps her footing was off and her foot slipped out from under her. It didn’t matter: the result was the same either way. The water that had been inside was now outside, spilling out onto both Anna and Esme herself, while the can itself fell to the ground with a clatter. Though Esme’s robes had taken the brunt of the water, Anna did not get away unscathed either. Esme felt her face sting as she turned red. If she thought she’d been embarrassed by the idea of even needing help, this was infinitely worse; downright humiliating, really. Anna was being helpful, and nice — even if the professor had merely assigned her to Esme, she was being particularly gracious about it. And Esme was repaying that graciousness with a dreadful lack of grace, and getting water all over the two of them. It dripped down her robes and the table, falling onto the ground beneath them with the quietest of drips. “Merlin, I’m sorry—” Esme sputtered, head swiveling around, both to hide the redness across her cheeks, and to find anything to dry off with. Perhaps a towel, or some tissues. “Truly, I am— I really did not mean to. Ah, let me find something…” wc. 844 notes. tysm! your writing's lovely as well ♥ ✧✦✧ |
H |
thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |