rancour.
| E | ✧  ✧location. the Slytherin table. date. 2nd september; dinner time. mentions. @Stella Bianchi.  Esme couldn’t eat. It was dinner-time. The food, as always, smelled delicious. The Great Hall was, also as always, loud, full of chatter and laughter and people smiling at each other like idiots. Esme, perched at the far end of one of the benches, felt especially isolated. Every breath fell past her lips with a slight shake at the end. She stared at her plate. Duck roasted to perfection, mashed potatoes she could already tell would be delicious, with some sort of sauce — cranberry, if she had to guess. Still, all she felt was nausea. Esme found her grip on her fork and knife tightening and relaxing every few seconds. She was acutely aware of everything around her: every slight shift in the Great Hall, the candles moving up and down slightly as they floated above each of the long tables. She lifted her gaze for just a moment, and caught the banner that hung above her head. Emerald and silver, the same silver that sat pinned to her uniform, curved into a snake symbol. Slytherin. The house name felt like ash on her tongue, whatever appetite she might have had gone with it. Esme swallowed hard, eyes flicking back down, now staring off into space. The reason for the odium swirling deep in her gut was simple; in fact, Esme could tell you exactly where it currently was. Down in the dungeons, past the Slytherin common room with its large windows into the lake, there was a small corridor leading to the girls’ dormitories. The one of interest to Esme’s present sickness was the Narcissa Malfoy dorm. There, one of the semi-private rooms was her very own. Just this morning, she had discovered that she had been roommates with Sophia Brown — a girl she already knew from the various parties and galas she’d attended as a child. They had a lovely, perfectly pleasant conversation, only a few hours ago. Now, the idea of coming back down to the dorm room and the wretched emerald green canopies above the insultingly comfortable beds made Esme tense up. Inside of the room she shared with Sophia was her desk, paired with a wooden chair that currently had her book bag slung over the back. There in the leather satchel sat the cause of Esme’s lack of appetite and sour mood. An envelope, a letter within it: three paragraphs of neat black ink, signed by both Nora and Thomas Hestridge, both of her parents expressing they hoped she had a great sorting ceremony and will have a lovely first day of classes. “Write back soon!”, the letter taunted at the end. Perhaps a loving letter from one’s parents was an admittedly stupid thing to be so worked up over. Still, when it had arrived at breakfast, and Esme first read it, she felt like she wanted to puke. She’d excused herself then, with an unsteady tone to her voice — she went to the bathroom and calmed the sudden nerves coursing through her. Now, though, after a full day of classes, it had all fully settled in: the letter’s contents and what she would have to, inevitably, write in her reply. Esme was a Slytherin. She was not like her father; she was not a Ravenclaw. Esme knew, logically, that her parents wouldn’t care — her mother attended Beauxbatons, after all, and her father made it clear he’d be proud of her no matter what, time and time again. Her house did not matter. She’d repeated that fact to herself time and time again, over and over, until it pushed to the forefront of her mind whenever the letter appeared, like instinct. It was a skill she had mastered over years, replacing an undesirable train of thought with one she preferred. She did it during etiquette training — refined her train of thought, forced out undignified and tactless habits, until good manners and polite alternatives were all that remained. She thought it would have been an easy switch, now, but no; even with all the effort she put in, her mind circumvented every attempt, and Esme found herself spiraling once again. Thomas Hestridge had been a Ravenclaw. Thomas Hestridge was intelligent, capable, and creative, and all the things his daughter should be. Nevermind that her family also had Gryffindors and yes, Slytherins among their ranks. Nevermind that Thomas’ own twin sister and Esme's aunt, Alice, had been a Slytherin, and that’s not even mentioning her cousins on her mom’s side — no. Esme should have been a Ravenclaw. It had been obvious. It should have been obvious to everyone, and that included that moronic old hat that had instead placed her… here. In Slytherin. At first, thanks to all the buzz of emotion of the Sorting Ceremony, Esme was excited. She didn’t want to be exactly like her father, a potioneer just taking over the family business. She wanted to pave her own path, be her own person. At the same time, she was now faced with the prospect of telling her family that she was wrong. She would have to write out a letter and tell her father — her loving, supportive, incredibly excited father — that she wasn’t like him after all. She wasn’t the kind of smart, witty, and curious that the Sorting Hat deemed good enough for Ravenclaw. She didn’t make the cut, and it felt like a waste; like all of Esme’s own enthusiasm and all the hours spent studying with tutors and coaches, with her own family, at times, had been wasted. Esme did her best, dedicated herself to all of her academic pursuits since she was old enough to understand what that meant, and it was still simply not enough. Esme sighed, looking back down at the duck. She let her fingers relax, putting down her utensils before she could be tempted to start picking at her food like a brute. She could barely eat at both breakfast and lunch, and her stomach was now protesting the fact. She was hungry, but she still couldn’t eat. What a sick joke. Not very funny, either, she thought. The duck was growing colder by the minute. She was shaken from her thoughts by the sound of soft footfalls to her left. Esme lifted her head, straightening her back as soon as she registered someone was approaching, eyes quickly whipping to check who it was. She was sitting at the end of the table, a bit far from the other students there, so it could have been someone just passing by to get to their friends, but she quickly realized that wasn’t the case. The footsteps belonged to none other than one of her aforementioned cousins — Stella Bianchi, only a year older than Esme herself. Esme’s gaze flickered briefly to the red and gold of her tie, before she forced herself to look away. She did her best to smile — Stella was a friend, after all, and she had gone through her own fair share of… issues with Hogwarts. There was no need to ruin the conversation before it even began by looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here. Esme cleared her throat softly, nodding at her cousin. She scooted over a bit, making room for Stella to sit, opening up her posture with a slightly lifted chin. “Stella,” she greeted. She knew students from other houses could visit each other during mealtimes, but was nevertheless curious as to what specifically brought Stella over now. “How are you?” Esme asked politely. She swallowed hard, her voice holding just a hint of strain.  wc. 1268 notes. slight god-modding approved by Stella. ✧✦✧ |
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thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
rancour.
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| ───── | Stella's first day back at Hogwarts had passed in a bit of a blur as she tried to become accustomed to the routines and quirks of the castle after nine months away. It had been more difficult than she'd anticipated to answer the questions about her absence—not that anyone asked out of malice; on the contrary, their curiosity was most understandable. Are you new? a classmate had asked, voice pitched with polite interest, and Stella had hesitated, caught on the swell of memory that pressed against her throat. How was she supposed to answer such a question? New, in a way, and yet not new. She'd managed something brief and neutral, and it'd seemed to satisfy the curiousity of those few students, though the effort it took to navigate even these small exchanges left a faint ache in her chest. For the young witch, the end of the day could not have come soon enough. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Stella found herself walking into the Great Hall for dinner, allowing the sound to fold around her as she looked over the tables with a steady eye. The Gryffindor table was on the far side of the Hall, the reds and golds contrasting pleasantly against the dark stone and flickering candlelight, but her attention snagged on a familiar shape—Esme—closer to the entrance, almost at the edge of the hall, among the students of Slytherin. Oh—that was right, wasn't it? Stella recalled giving an small, untroubled smile when her cousin had been sorted into the house of silver and green the previous night. Not because she believed Esme belonged there in any grand philosophical sense, but because the fit struck her as harmonious, in a way. Esme's elegance, her discipline and careful self-containment, they all echoed subtly in what she knew from her older sister Fran, who was also a member of House Slytherin. In spite of her cousin's earlier predictions of Ravenclaw, Stella found the Sorting Hat's decision rather easy to accept, and believed Esme would too. Seeing her cousin now, sat at the end of the Slytherin table, something in Stella shifted: a small inward turn of instinct rather than decision, and before she fully registered the movement her feet had changed direction, guiding her toward her cousin, the way a sunflower turns towards the sun. It seemed only natural, after all, to greet Esme now that she'd seen her, the thought of bypassing her entirely seeming discourteous when the two of them had shared a friendship since, well, birth, and she'd been meaning to track her down for a catchup sooner or later anyway. Esme was one of the few people in this world whose presence could make the careful lines she carried everywhere else seem less necessary, like a sketch finally loosened under a gentle, artistic hand. She reached the end of the table and paused—not hesitating, but attuning herself. Esme looked up at her approach, and offered a soft greeting—politely, evenly—followed by an inquiry into how she was doing. Sitting in the offered spot on the bench next to the blonde, Stella's response was given without hesitation, letting her words fall in that gentle, almost absentminded way she often did when speaking to someone she trusted and valued more than she could say aloud. "Oh, I'm alright," she said, brushing a light breath between words. "Classes were fine. Gryffindor Tower's a bit noisy, but that's to be expected." A smile tugged at her mouth, small and genuine, as she added, "It's good to see you. I just wanted to congratulate you on the Sorting... I think Slytherin's a good place for you." | ───── |
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ACTION..:..SITTING AT THE SLYTHERIN TABLE ; TALKING TO ESME ABOUT HER SORTING─────
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ACTION..:..SITTING AT THE SLYTHERIN TABLE ; TALKING TO ESME ABOUT HER SORTING─────
a nameless girl in the freshest summer greens, a saint, an angel;
rancour.
| E | ✧ ✧mentions. @Stella Bianchi. Esme watched her cousin sit down, taking in the sight. She was so casual; seemed so relaxed, the opposite of the nausea turning Esme’s entrails into a tight coil. The smile on her face was so simple, a natural curve of Stella’s lips making Esme acutely aware of the way her cheeks were starting to ache slightly from the tight expression she maintained. She tried to relax it, to make herself seem just as at ease as Stella was. There was no need to worry her cousin, after all; especially since Esme knew that Stella’s first year didn’t go exactly according to plan either. What did a house matter, anyway? She tried to force the logic back into her thoughts, and almost immediately was met with another bout of discomfort. “Right,” Esme forced an exhale out of her chest, lips parting at the seams. Something close to a chuckle, though not quite there. “Par for the course, I’m sure,” she echoed. Not that she had much knowledge of Gryffindors quite yet, beyond her grandfather's surely rather outdated stories. The Slytherin Common Room, on the other hand, where she was led last night by one of her new prefects, was the opposite of what she expected — no tower to climb up the stairs of, no bright reading nooks next to large windows. Only heavy stone columns and the stifling greenish glow of the lake. She wanted to say something, truly — give a witty response, or ask a question, perhaps. The words fell from Stella’s mouth with such warmth and familiarity, it felt wrong not to return it. It’s good to see you, too. I’m glad we’re talking. I’m glad you’re here. I missed you. Still, she didn’t. Couldn’t. Electricity ran under Esme’s skin, buzzing and itching and making her hands shake. She quickly moved them, resting her palms in her lap. Manicured nails clenched tight around the fabric of her robe, and she had to force herself to release the death-grip before her knuckles turned visibly white. Still, Esme found her fists snapping together back again, joints and bones replaced by pneumatic springs and an unfamiliar feeling of surge. “I think Slytherin’s a good place for you." The words washed over her, in a way that was far from pleasant. More like a bucket of ice cold water dumped over her head, clashing with the wired sensation in her chest and causing the worst kind of shock. It brought forth the acrid taste of something burnt and sour on her tongue; a thin film of something black and tar-like suddenly clinging to the interaction, staining the moment like the soot from a warm fire long gone. “You do?” Esme couldn’t bite her tongue in time; neither did she manage to stop the way every muscle in her face tightened and relaxed momentarily. It took considerable effort to not have her expression fall entirely, only a flicker of her feelings shining through. She couldn’t have named the feelings themselves, not wanting to linger on the confusing mix of sadness and disappointment and even perhaps rage that Stella’s words had stirred. Her cousin didn’t mean anything by it. She was being nice. Congratulating her, as she said. Was there really that much to congratulate on? A house of the cunning and deceptive, with a dark common room and a darker reputation. Merlin, Esme didn’t even like the colours Slytherin brandished — emerald green and silver were fine, she supposed, but she liked blue far better, and bronze came far closer to her most beloved gold. Even through the fabric, Esme could feel her nails dig into her palms, sure to leave little crescent moons behind the next time she looked. She didn’t for the time being, focusing her energy on trying to find something to be grateful for. Her aunt was a Slytherin, all those years ago. One of her older cousins and Stella’s sister, Francesca, was a Slytherin, after all, and Esme knew that Stella held her siblings in high regard. Fran was smart, to add compliment to injury: it’s not like Esme would call any of her cousins stupid, but Francesca did certainly have an edge to her. Even Fran’s twin brother was a Ravenclaw, so it’s not like the family ties to the house were non-existent, either. It was just that Esme… hadn’t been sorted there. She sat at a table with the ambitious: with the people whose sharpness referred to ruthlessness rather than smarts. Even if Stella hadn’t intended it to be, it felt like an insult to her intelligence. A defect. “Right. Well, thank you,” Esme quickly course-corrected, forcing her hands away from her robes once more. If there was one thing Esme wanted to remain steadfast in her belief in, after having the ground torn out from under her last night, it was that Stella meant her no harm. Perhaps it hadn’t been exactly a compliment, sure, but she would meet it with grace and composure. There was no need to trouble Stella, who surely had her own troubles to ruminate on, with silly matters such as this — troubles which Esme knew to be entirely illogical and Stella would surely recognise as such, too. For now, the only thing Esme resolved to be thinking of is the pleasant company she was in; or to at least try. “It was… definitely a surprise. But Aunt Alice will be overjoyed to hear of it, I’m sure. And it’s nice to have a familiar face there, too.” wc. 920 notes. none. ✧✦✧ |
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thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |
rancour.
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| ───── | The feeling that she'd said something wrong was sickening and immediate, prickling keenly over her entire body like a wave of static beneath her skin, for a moment depriving her of every other sensation. She perceived it before she understood why, a natural response triggered by the infinitesimal tautness in Esme's voice, the flicker of something behind icy blue eyes. You do? It had passed so quickly another person, any other person, would not have noticed it—there one moment, gone the next, faster than a blink unless one knew precisely where to look. Stella did know. She'd known Esme as long as she'd known herself, with too much affection and attachment to be deceived by so small a change: knew the grave concentration with which, at six, she arranged the sugar cubes beside her tea because the symmetry pleased her; knew the fervour with which, at eight, she practised her music as though the reputation of all Europe depended on her performance; knew the secretive smile that would steal upon her features as she played the winning move in games of chess. There were expressions her cousin wore openly for the rest of the world, and others that existed only in fragments; Stella recognised both, as instinctively as one recognises their own reflection... and she certainly had said something wrong. Yet, perversely, it was Esme's words that echoed dumbly in her mind once again, not her own. You do? Such an innocent question, in theory. Not even a real question, simply polite conversational repetition. Only beneath it Stella had heard something strained thin. For a fleeting instant, she was overwhelmed by an absurd urge to apologise at once, though she scarcely knew for what. I'm sorry. I did not mean it like that. I only meant... What, what exactly? The defence refused to arrange itself coherently even within her own head. It had been no more than an idle observation, spoken lightly and made without design, a compliment to her cousin's elegant composure and its accordance with the proud house of Slytherin. There was nothing beyond that, though looking sideways at Esme now there was something inevitable in the sight of silver and green against her pale hair. Yet it did not occur to Stella that this could be registered in a negative sense; contrarily, it only served to exacerbate her confusion, her mind unable to fasten upon any definite, sensible source of her cousin's apparent discomfort. And because she could not identify the wound, she found herself unable to understand how she might repair it. "Right. Well, thank you..." Esme was already smoothing it over, drawing composure back around herself so swiftly that Stella almost might have believed she had imagined the entire thing. Though was there a note of tension still, beneath the smile and polite words? A restless conviction persisted that she ought to say something, to ask after the slip. But as clear as the notion was–ask her what's wrong—the execution was proving exceptionally difficult to imagine. Stella considered and rejected one form of inquiry after another with increasing uncertainty. Did I say something upsetting? sounded idiotically self-important. Are you angry with me? felt childish, almost ridiculous. Even the simplest version, What is it? now seemed strangely impossible. Of course, the result of such anxious contemplation was that she was hindered from speaking any word at all. Had this happened a few years prior, Stella knew she would have simply asked, tactful choice of words be damned. Or perhaps Esme would have made it clear from the outset, admitting in a quiet tone the exact cause of her reaction. They would have spoken plainly by now, or as plainly as they ever spoke. The situation would be returned to intelligibility and all would be well in the world as far as their ease of mind was concerned. Some part of her was still clinging onto the hope that the old logic of their relationship would follow through—though perhaps it was merely for how she wished this moment would unfold: Esme would explain, Esme would tell her what was wrong. Only the pattern did not complete itself, had not completed itself. The failure was not Esme's alone; she too had allowed the opportunity for clarification to pass in silence. Once, Stella believed, they would have moved instinctively towards one another in moments like these. Bridged the uncertainty before it could form. Now, however— Now Stella found herself very still. Upon further reflection, though, she could recall no memory of a situation in which such a correction had been required. No scenario of misery or disagreement beyond scraped knees and banged elbows. Their childhood lay before her in a continuous, agreeable line, a state of perfect harmony, long-established familiarity that rendered explanation unnecessary and misunderstanding impossible. Whatever this was did not fit her recollection at all. It was foreign. Unnatural... not merely Esme's expression, nor the faint residual tension in her voice, nor even the unsettlingly rapid disappearance of both. Most disturbing of all was the sense that something had come between them without having announced itself, subtle enough to evade identification but present all the same, encroaching upon the beautiful world they shared like hairline cracks in glass. Stella did not know what to do with it. "...overjoyed to hear of it, I’m sure. And it’s nice to have a familiar face there, too." For the briefest of moments, Stella sat and stared back at her cousin in uncomprehending silence, registering a beat too late that Esme had reached the end of her sentence and a reply was now expected. "Ah," she said blankly, scrambling for some construction of a response. "Yes. I imagine it would be. Fran seemed very pleased too, when I saw her..." It was not quite the correct thing to say. The words emerged gently enough, but the warmth and ease she had felt mere minutes ago had dissipated into thin air. A strange caution had overtaken her, one she immediately disliked for its stiffness but could not seem to dispel. It reminded her unpleasantly of last year's Christmas break, those days before her parents had told her they'd withdrawn her from Hogwarts, when every conversation with her family had become a matter of delicate navigation. Everyone trying not to touch the bruise directly. Speaking around things rather than through them. Stella hated it now as much as she had back then—only this time she was standing on the other side of the glass. She tried to clear the idea from her mind, casting her thoughts back to the anecdote of Francesca's gratified reaction. Propriety demanded she continued her train of thought verbally, though Stella could not recall the last time etiquette had dictated her and Esme's conversations alone. "She nearly walked right past me on the staircase," she said, making an attempt at a smile. "Fran, I mean. I think she was late for Arithmancy. She said you were in the, uh, Narcissa Malfoy dorms?" She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth; the remark sounded trivial even to her own ears, absurdly insignificant beside the obscure discomfort that had taken possession of the conversation. Dormitories, staircases, passing encounters between lessons—what possible interest could such particulars hold for Esme at the present? Yet Stella had grasped at them nonetheless, seizing upon them with the desperation of someone caught in a landslide. | ───── |
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| ───── | TAG..@ESME HESTRIDGE......NOTES..IK YOU NEVER THOUGHT YOU'D SEE THE DAY!STA 5 EVA 9 STR 0 WIS 7 ARC 4 ACC 10.../ / /...SEER & WANDMAKER .ACTION..:..REACTING TO ESME ; BEING AWKWARD ; READING INTO EVERYTHING | ───── |
a nameless girl in the freshest summer greens, a saint, an angel;
rancour.
| E | ✧ ✧mentions. @Stella Bianchi. There was a beat there, of silence, as if the world had been dunked in water, turning all the noise and chatter of the Great Hall to nothing but white noise: the sound of blood rushing through Esme’s ears, of an inhale that came too sharp and an exhale that came too quick. The rhythm of the conversation was off, somehow. From the natural andante they could so easily fall into, the pace of a gentle walk through a garden estate and a June afternoon — to something jagged that didn’t want to decide between too slow for a run and too fast for a march. She didn’t know what she was hoping for, during that very still few seconds before Stella’s response came. An explanation? An apology? Perhaps, she thought for a second, before correcting herself. No, that would have been ridiculous. Stella had done nothing wrong: nothing to apologise for, at the least. She had meant her words as a compliment, and Esme was the one who was refusing to act the way she was supposed to, finding it ridiculously difficult to force a single word past the lump forming in her throat. This — talking to Stella, looking her in the eye, and simply speaking her mind, freely and fully and blissfully so — used to feel easier. Now, there was no common language there: only a tension in her jaw that she did not know how to make disappear. What had happened? The taste of Esme’s own tongue soured in her mouth as she ran it over the back of her nervously clenched teeth. Since when was she nervous with Stella nearby? Whatever it was, the conversation dulled. Perhaps due to the ice cold water Esme and Stella seemed to have been thrown into the deep end of, everything turned static. A fuzz crept through Esme’s skin: something deceptively soft. Too soft. The kind of fleece layer that came with dust bunnies that hadn’t been swept away, or the sickly grey and white fluff of mold on fruit. She did not want to call it disappointment — she would not have known who to be disappointed with, really. She wanted it to be with Stella’s small lapse in judgement. She knew it was with her own lack of authenticity. With the sudden gap between them. Esme’s next words came on auto-pilot. “That’s kind of her,” Esme replied, acutely aware of just how her lips barely opened. The words simply fell past the pink of her lips with no weight behind them to make them fall and land with any significance, the too-soft bloom wrapping around her. What a pitiful courtesy that she wouldn’t have ever expected to hear herself say to Stella, of all people. Stella was not a gala guest to speak in pleasantries to — Stella was exempt from the etiquette tutoring and books on savoir-vivre that Esme used to stay up reading. Stella was simply the favourite cousin, simply Stella, simply one of hers. As indispensable to Esme’s life as a vein was to the blood currently coursing through her. Another beat passed, too long to be polite, and too short to comment on, and something sharp hit her through the scratchy blanket of wool and fiberglass filling her mouth. What had happened? Esme found her thoughts going from a hazy lento to a sudden presto, so rapid it was dizzying. A scratching formed in her throat to act, to bring back the ease from a time she suddenly didn’t recall as recent. To do something, Merlin, to do anything. “Did she?” She tried to force levity back into her tone, leaning her elbow back against the table. Would breaking a rule usually so sacred help, as small as the gesture of skin against wood was? It felt desperate — somehow both too little and too forced all at once. “Yes. I’m in the Narcissa Malfoy dorms,” Esme felt like she was stalling for time by repeating the words, somehow all too aware of how the bone of her mandible was shaped with every too-quick syllable. Her head spun, trying to find something — an anecdote to tell, a joke to make, a memory to reminisce over — that would bring them back up to their usual speed. She blinked. “It’s nice. We have semi-private rooms there, so I am fortunately not forced to quarrel with too many roommates.” “And how— do you have roommates?” The words felt clumsy in Esme’s mouth, as did her own teeth, a poor justification for the admittedly foolish question tacked on. “It’s… interesting to hear how the houses at Hogwarts vary, and… handle things.” wc. 773 notes. andante, lento, and presto all being musical tempo terms: moderate, slow, and fast, respectively. ✧✦✧ |
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thales amaro. second year castelobruxo quidditch. |
katherine townsend. professor of charms, former thunderbird. |