Purebloods have Heirs[Pv] - Elsewhere…

12 Dec 2025, 00:49

Pv with @Esme Hestridge- Feburary 17th, 2025 - Castellano Manor

Theophilus learned about silks and pure cottons: Pim, Egyptian; Mulberry, cashmere. The young boy was dressed in dress robes made of Pashmina, lined with Brocade, covered in Gold accessories, made just for the heir with blonde curls. His closet was stuffed full of robes, all designed and colored to correspond with this pureblood family’s crest or this Aristocrat’s favorite color.

As the only living male left to pick up the title of the philanthropic and well connected Castellanos, invites to balls, galas, and charity events came by owl near daily. Eyes stayed on him when he walked in as the family’s debutant; whispers into the ears of people Theophilus wishes he never meets starting up as his grandmother introduced him to Chairmen, Aurors, and Dukes alike. He would listen for hours alongside his grandmother as women gossiped, men boasted, and children were introduced back to him.

His hours outside those hours though, were full of learning how to present himself properly. His days full of galas, his nights of learning, and his every waking minute spent under his grandmother’s gazes; Theophilus was shaping into a very promising young boy. He learned to shake hands, to never wince at the strength the men would use. He learned to bow, his eyes to the floor for now, as he may be a pureblood but he was yet to have the right to look into the eyes of the powerful witches he met. He learned to laugh and to nod, as he was yet to have anything that the Aristocrats would want to hear. He learned to introduce himself and step back, as his name was all he was needed for as of now. My name is Theophilus Cornelius Castellano, son to the Castellanos.

“Son? No, you are an heir. Purebloods have heirs, the halfbloods have children, and the rest keep dogs.” His grandmother had spat one afternoon as he stood in front of her. “Again, and this time, remember your stature.”

Even in all the hurry that was stepping into the world of the British pureblood society, there were days that Theophilus was still brought in front of a child of a respectable wizarding family in their homes. He was tasked with meeting them as his grandmother spoke with their guardian, parents, or head of family name. Theophilus had met all the children who already walked the halls of their respective wizarding school, and was starting to meet kids who would be going in for their first year in the next couple months.

February was dry for Lambeth, there being a lack of rain in the cold, and an increase of people in the gardens spelling the plants away from their dry demise. The young boy was looking out the window when Poppy appeared, wringing her hands together. “Sir Theophilus is requested to come into the sitting room.” The elf was soon helping him into a new robe, a pretty beige one with white lace lining the bottom and gold lettering over the heart.

He walked into the sitting room shortly after, nodding to his grandmother as he entered the room, the elder giving him no attention as she sent the other house elves around to get things ready for guests. “You will be meeting the Hestridges today, they have a daughter who will be going to Hogwarts alongside you in the upcoming year. You will do your best to make a good impression.” She said when she finished, walking over and then past him. She stopped at the door, before looking back at the young boy. “Well, come here, you have to be ready to meet our guests, they are here already.” Theophilus nodded and walked over, though he was confused as there was a lack of anything that showed that the other family was here. There wasn't even-

A knock sounded from the door.
[644/200]

"Aristocrats have heirs, the poor have children, and the rest keep dogs." — Spike Milligan.

Esme Hestridge

Second year, Duellist, Slytherin

235 174

24 Mar 2026, 01:04

✧

location. the castellano manor.
date. 17th of february, 2025.
mentions. @Theophilus Castellano.

Since she was young, Esme had known she was different.

Different from other kids, yes, but also different even from the kids that were supposed to be similar to her. She was an heiress. Her cousins were heirs too, and so were plenty of her playmates growing up; still, the fact she was different clung to her, followed her around like the eyes of her aunts and uncles did. Their gaze stuck to alabaster skin, platinum blonde hair, and blue eyes that looked far different from her cousins’ dark hair and gentle tans crafted in Italian sun.

The Cavaleri women kept their surnames after marriage. Eleonora Cavaleri didn’t. Esme didn’t fully understand why, not then and not now, still too young to be wrapped up in all the details, but she knew enough. Esme knew that her mother was now Nora Hestridge, like Thomas Hestridge, like the English part-veela Hestridges, like the brewing company and the estate in Canterbury. Esme knew the white cliffs of Dover better than the sandy beaches of Sicily and that her grandmother’s near-white hair was not the result of age, and instead something Esme inherited the moment she was born.

Esme was part-veela. Esme was a Hestridge.

It took her a while to put the pieces together. The world had not blessed her with her parents’ inherent understanding and talent for navigating the high class world she was born into, but Thomas and Nora Hestridge were nowhere near stupid people. They taught Esme what she needed to know, what would be expected of her; and that included how to brush off any relatives’ comments as if they’d never happened at all, how to ignore stares at hair that does not match your mother’s, and how to walk with your head held high despite it all. With the help of savoir-vivre textbooks and etiquette tutors and plenty of practical experience, Esme now had a decent grip on how to behave like she should — not just as an heir, but as a part-veela, as a Hestridge.

That did not mean, however, that she enjoyed it. The stares that stuck to her complexion and eyes and hair when people thought she wasn’t paying attention (as if she could ever stop paying attention) were followed by an unpleasant sensation deep in her bones. Her hands seemed to ache with the urge to clench at her sides, digging distinctly unladylike crescent moons into her palms, causing her train of thought to derail in a rather spectacular fashion. It took conscious effort for her to get it back on track: going through every rule she had learned. Handshake order, table settings, cocktail versus formal versus black tie versus white tie clothing: catalogued, listed, repeated like a mantra until Esme could think again.

Visits and playdates were, paradoxically, more stressful than big events. Though there were less people staring and judging and whispering without a modicum of subtlety, it meant there were less people to cover for her. It is easier to take the attention of oneself when in a crowd; it was also far easier to count on her parents rescuing her from any number of faux pas made. When she was stuck in a playroom with some distant family friend that had less personality than a slab of concrete and less decorum than an American tourist their first time in London, there was nothing that could be done to alleviate the nausea that all the spectacle brought with it.

“I do not see why we cannot go there by using floo powder,” Esme said quietly. She was, along with her parents, in a carriage — one of those flying ones that her parents only brought out for things that were important. The significance of this meeting, implied by the ornate vehicle being pulled along by thestrals Esme only knew were there and could not see, along with the private nature, made nausea swirl somewhere deep in her stomach.

“To look good,” her mother replied, a hand reaching over to pull Esme into her side, gently brushing some hair out of her eyes. “It’s just appearances, cara. Don’t stress yourself out.” Nora’s tone was sont, full of compassion. She knew her daughter; she knew the restless bouncing of Esme’s leg, the mechanical flexing and releasing her fingers into tight fists, trying to contain the nerves. She took Esme’s hand into hers, intertwining their fingers together and squeezing gently.

“The view’s nice,” Eleonora added, gesturing with her head towards the carriage window; Esme following to look. England’s low hills and pretty green plains rolled on by, desaturated by the chill of winter, cloaked in grey skies. The trees, bare of their leaves, curled their branches up, up, and still up further, trying to reach dense, billowing clouds.

After a moment, Esme’s leg stopped bouncing. “It is,” she agreed.

When the carriage descended, coming to a stop, Esme took a moment longer than her parents to get out. She ran over the laundry list of rules in her head once again, knowing it would likely not be the final time she did that day. For now, she simply had to focus on executing the protocol she theoretically knew by heart, and in practice only by the book. Her father helped her step out, allowing her an extra second to take a breath and adjust, a gentle hand on her shoulder as the Hestridges stood in front of the impressive steps leading up to the Castellano Manor’s door.

Esme stared down at the ground for a few moments, grateful for the slight delay. The checklist beckoned once more, however Esme was this time able to steer it to a more productive inspection of her clothing. She examined the shiny polish of her mary janes — plain black, elegant, with the smallest heel and small bows at the back. Another bow, black and silk, sat in her hair — her mother took the liberty of straightening it out for Esme. Esme herself ran a hand over her dress to smooth out the structured fabric of the skirt. Overall, she felt pretty, she decided, and that certainly better than the alternative.

After her moment was over and they entered the estate, a member of the house staff led them through the manor's corridors. Esme kept her back intentionally straight, conscious of every time her lungs expanded to inhale and contracted to exhale, making sure her back stayed straight as a ruler as they walked at a calm pace. Her parents seemed almost casual, compared to her. Thomas — Esme's father — especially, a quiet confidence emanating from him with ever step. Noticing his daughter’s tense posture, he gently patted her shoulder. “The Castellanos have a child, you know. A boy your age,” he said. “He's also going to be attending Hogwarts. It would be good for you to make friends with him.”

Make friends with him. The words echoed in Esme's mind. She wasn't sure what to make of them, really. Her father meant well, and genuinely wanted to calm her down, after all — and it was a perfectly reasonable explanation, merely one her mind could not fully accept. Making friends with a boy like the Castellano heir could not be merely finding a new playmate, after all; and if it had been, there would have been no need for the carriage, the thestrals, the appearances that Esme's mother spoke of. And with the anxiety and sick feeling currently doing its best to throw Esme off her perfectly rehearsed demeanour, even making friends with the Castellano boy seemed like a minefield.

Esme said nothing of this. She nodded and smiled up at her father and straightened her posture once more.

As they finished their walk through the ornate corridors of Castellano manor, the servant came to knock on the sitting room door, and Esme lifted her chin. She was a Hestridge, after all; perhaps different from the heir she was about to meet, but part of a unit when visiting others as one of the Hestridges. The servant announcing them reminded her of it, and for one final time, Esme released her fingers and allowed them to braid prettily behind her back, trying her best to convey confidence. Pride, even.

As they walked in, Esme's parents greeting the adults of the Castellano family, Esme’s eyes wandered around the room for a split second. It was pretty — more than pretty, really. It screamed high class: clean, well-decorated, holding a sense of timeless elegance as opposed to something trendy and dated. With some final anxiety still settling down in her bones, she did not say anything quite yet; only polite to wait for her parents to call for an introduction instead of butting in when the adults were talking. That would be a faux pas she would not forgive herself for making; and though Esme might have been different from other kids, today, that would not stop her.

She was a Hestridge. She was an heir.

wc. 1501
notes. so so sorry about the wait again!

✧✦✧

thales amaro.
second year castelobruxo quidditch.

katherine townsend.
professor of charms, former thunderbird.

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