hoarfrost deluge
| E | ✧  ✧location. koldovstoretz. date. 16th of february. mentions. @Camille De Varenne (and @Cecilia Merrick).  Esme was pretty sure she was going to have a stroke. Perhaps she was already having one — she was certainly experiencing the vertigo and confusion that came with one, staring ahead at Lake Bear with lips slightly parted and a brow furrowed. Still, the state she was in (absolute bafflement, maelstrom, and downright agitation) was not caused by any cardiac event; it was, rather, underscored with two distinct feelings. The first, rage. Bordering on homicidal, and though Esme despised that kind of overdramaticisms, there truly was no other way to describe the ire currently making her gloves hands fist at her sides. She felt bile rise in her throat, and for a moment was concerned she would humiliate herself utterly by actually vomiting when faced with what she was being subject to witness — that, of course, being a young boy, and a young girl, with her head on his shoulder, and his arm at her waist, gentle piano echoing out over frozen water. She had seen a routine like this already, she was sure; pretty students in pretty leotards with pretty music was what the event was, after all. Unfortunately for Esme, these two particular pretty students were ones she knew far too well. Camille De Varenne was her friend, her close companion since the very beginning of the school year. He had seen her both be assigned to the position of prefect and seen her resign from it; he had, just some few days ago, dragged her out to a Quidditch game — where, despite all odds, Esme had fun. Next to Esme’s dear Livia, he was the one person in that stupid castle that Esme had considered reliable. Someone to trust. He had attended her family’s gala in December, he had listened to her rant on many an occasion; so it only stood to reason that he knew, perfectly well, that the girl laying her head on his shoulder, and the girl he was currently lifting into the air with a subtle snowflake charm cast soon after, was the one girl that could throw Esme into a proper fury-induced paroxysm. Cecilia Merrick was many things. She was very pretty, Esme would have to admit, forced to look as the pair glided across the glistening lake. The teal hue of her leotard shifted slightly as the sun reflected off ice and hit the fabric, swirling as if Cecilia was clothed in the aurora borealis herself. Her hair was as red as it always was, a flaming storm of ginger curls, now tamed into a pristine style, matching the serene, gentle expression on her face. The hue matched the rouge of her gently parted lips. She looked ethereal. Esme, however, knew that Cecilia was anything but. She was boorish — with awful manners and worse bedfellows, except for, apparently, Camille — crude, impolite, and a manner of other insults and curses that Esme found running through her head. Impudent, stupid, and annoying, Cecilia was little more than a crude imitation of all she tried to be; of all things good, lovely, and proper. She was a delinquent with little more to her empty life than a few equally abject peons and a mission to make Esme’s life more miserable than it ever ought to be. Suffice to say, Cecilia was currently succeeding, and smiling unfairly elegantly while doing so. The second, betrayal. It was one thing for Cecilia Merrick to be acting like a perfidious, duplicitous ghoul — that was who she was, after all, and no amount of playing dress-up in outfits that shimmered like the northern lights would change nature. What was not natural, what was odd, what was weird, however, was the fact that the hands lifting Cecilia into the air and holding her waist, and the face leaning into hers, belonged to Camille. The same Camille who Esme considered smart, polite, well-mannered — and, well, honourable. Esme considered Camille a friend. He had been an ally, of sorts. A confidante. He knew, without a doubt, what Esme thought of Cecilia, and had still chosen to do this suffocatingly intimate activity with her. Make no mistake, this was not a spur of the moment decision, too: they were coming to a synchronised jump, now, for Merlin’s sake. Even with, admittedly, little knowledge on figure skating, Esme knew this whole routine they were performing now could not have been arranged on the spot. So, perhaps the worst part of it all, Camille not only knew who Esme took Cecilia to be, and chose to partner up with her, but also did not have the guts to tell her. For weeks, they had to have been practicing. The ungrateful witch Camille had been complaining about, to Esme, no less, had to have been Cecilia. And he kept her in the dark through it all. This was not a decision born of ignorance. He had to have been aware of the fact that fraternizing with the girl Esme considered hostile, a rival if she ever had one, would be a betrayal. It would hurt. Camille chose to do this with full knowledge of what it was he was doing. Esme found herself uncharacteristically sad as the realisation hit her. Her mouth that had fallen slightly open in shock was closed, now, lips twisted downwards into a pout; she had to grit her teeth to stop the bottom lip from trembling. She would not let these two humiliate her, too, while they were at it — more than they had already done so, anyway. She blinked, rapidly, vision blurring with unwanted tears, as the outfits Camille and Cecilia had on turned to crimson with a spell, and that seemed to be her final straw. Muttering, “excuse me,” as she ducked slightly, Esme pushed out of the row of other spectators in a fashion far less elegant than she would have liked to. Desperate times. The event was coming to an end soon; she had absolutely no intention to see it through and watch the final scores. Cecilia did not deserve her attention, and neither did Camille after what he just pulled. Esme did not make it far before stopping, a few minutes, maybe, digging her heels into the snow. What was she doing? This was stupid. This was awful. She did not know where she wanted to go, now; usually, if she wanted to talk to someone about whatever latest wrongdoings, she would have gone to Camille. Now, who was she supposed to talk to? She had no clue where her cousin was, and she had no clue if Livia was not busy with preparations for her own solo skating event. Besides, to bother her dear friend with something that made Esme feel so embarrassed would have been, well… embarrassing. Livia would have known what to do instead of breaking down crying like a child in the middle of an international event. Merlin, Esme was already not looking forward to owling her parents about this. The barrage of thoughts that ran through her head was almost loud enough to drown the roar of thunderous applause that now came from the lake and the spectator stands. Camille and Cecilia’s performance must have been over now; and if anyone was leaving the area to go to their own yurt, they would have been met with a peculiar sight. Overrun with decisions to make and a cannonade of emotion she did not quite know how to handle politely, properly, like she should, Esme just stood there, frozen, as if Russia’s cold had finally gotten to her. Her fists clenched and unclenched, and though she usually towered over her peers, she seemed small, now, an ice statue of a slightly shivering girl in a blue coat and winter boots. Esme was (humiliatingly so) unable to stop the tears from falling down her face, now. It added to the sensation of sheer cold that already bit at her cheeks, and could only be slightly comforted by the notion that in the harsh light of winter sun, they must have looked more like crystals of ice.  wc. 1349 notes. none. ✧✦✧ |
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thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
hoarfrost deluge
LOCATION: KoldovstoretzTAG: @Esme Hestridge @Cecilia Merrick |
DATE: 16/2/2026WORDS: 940 |
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NOTES: RIP |
STATS: STA 5 | EVA 6 | STR 4 | WIS 8 | ARC 7 | ACC 5 ABILITIES: LOVELY CREATURE |
Ilias Lahlou | Ilvermorny