Bad Blood, Brewed and Bottled
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Bad Blood, Brewed and Bottled
| E | β§  β§location. the potions classroom. date. 12th november; morning. mentions. @Cassiel Ahlstrom.  There were a few things Esme had been taught regarding her own heritage. The first, the obvious, of course, was that she was part-veela. A quarter of her blood came from her grandmother, a woman with marble skin and alabaster hair, and a voice that could make men lose their minds β or, as Esme knew her, grandma Victoria, who taught her how to play chess. And a part-veela she would remain, regardless of her fatherβs success, her motherβs connections to Italy, or her familyβs wealth: it was a fact as obvious to anyone who looked at her. The way the sky was blue and the birds outside sang, Victoriaβs genes had skipped a generation, disregarded the tan skin and dark hair of Esmeβs half-Sicilian blood, as well as her fatherβs copper hair and freckles, and took root in Esme herself, making her her grandmotherβs carbon copy. The second, of course, was that people talked, a lesson her family had been supposedly internalising for a good few generations now. No amount of money or success would stop it: people would think what they think, and they would comment, and they would make sure you heard. Though Esme had little innate understanding of social scuffles and scrimmages fought with words as opposed to chess pieces β another trait inherited from Victoria, who much less preferred a book to a ball β her parents had made sure she was well-equipped to ignore any slights with perfect dignity. She did not have to like it. She merely had to keep her chin tilted up and her back straight. The third was that none of that grace applied to the Ahlstrom family. Perhaps this was not a lesson she was meant to inherit β derived straight from a rather heated discussion that Esme was sure she was not supposed to hear, given her fatherβs hushed, irritated tone β but it was one she either way kept in the back of her mind. The Ahlstroms were, supposedly, one of decrepit antediluvians, with antiquated views masquerading as tradition, too busy pruning their βperfectly preservedβ family tree to notice, even for a single second, that they were no longer living in the eighteenth century. She considered this a sufficient enough explanation to need not ask for any further enlightenment on the topic. Still, she was given a practical lesson in this particular tenet of her own heritage every time the name Ahlstrom was brought up. If there was to be an event that included both the Hestridges and the Ahlstroms, Esme got a masterclass in ostentatious avoidance. After a while, she had learned β some family feud, startedβ¦ whenever ago, though one that ensured both sides knew exactly what each one thought of the other. It also ensured that when Esme got to Hogwarts, and heard the name βAhlstrom, Cassiel,β called out during the Sorting, she would only tilt her chin up and straighten her back, and then play at ostentatious avoidance for the rest of the school year. The world, however β or perhaps just professor Asmaralaya β was not so keen to let that happen. Esme had done her hardest for the first two and half months of Potions shared with the Gryffindors to simply not even look at Cassiel. No slight had been committed yet, of course, but she found that she had neither the time nor the energy to contemplate ways to defend her own white-blonde or her complexion. Group projects, however, could not be avoided, and if there was one thing Esme cared for more than she did for her hair, it was her grades. She was a prefect now, after all, she was reminded; her academic performance set the example. At the very least, Esme could be β or at least would try to be β happy that Cassiel at least had some sense and did not make her relocate for the pair work they had been assigned. She watched him impassively as he sat down with rigid posture and a rather displeased expression. She wanted to snort, really, undignified as it would have been. As if he had any right to be upset with her presence, and not the other way around. She scooted her chair away slightly. Though she noted his words, Esmeβs response came delayed as she surveyed the boy in front of her. His eyes seemed to be malproportioned to the rest of his face: so wide open that she thought theyβd bulge out of his skull, and yet so deep-set that it felt like any attempt to do so would inevitably end in failure. Esme raised an eyebrow at the demand in his tone, but made no immediate comment, instead considering that the pallor of his skin would have suggested he had been raised in these very dungeons himself. βOf course,β Esme finally replied, plastering on the most cookie-cutter empty smile she could muster. βWe would want someone actually competent picking out ingredients. How upsetting it would be to have someone mix up mistletoe and snowberry.β Her tone suggested that the only thing she was particularly upset with was having him anywhere near her personal space bubble β every movement pronounced with her own brand of childish distaste as she pushed herself back from their station and ventured to the supply shelves. Her hands were soon full, a fact that did not make the annoyance on Esmeβs face let up a single fraction. She had wanted to linger and prevent her return further; aversion crawling up the skin on her back at the mere thought of enduring the rest of the class period with an Ahlstrom. Unfortunately, standard ingredients, bezoar, unicorn horn, and mistletoe berries were all too easy to find, seeing as they were what they would need for the class. Esme dragged her feet getting back to the work station, only taking a second to put the ingredients down before her nose scrunched up again, her voice barely bothering to hide any animosity. βAre you sure your vials areβ¦ clean?β  wc. 1006 notes. utmost apologies for the delay!! β§β¦β§ |
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thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |