Post by Deleted on Feb 2, 2014 22:50:23 GMT -5
marisol yvette quickley
CANON OR ORIGINAL: Original.
AGE: Seventeen.
FACE CLAIM: Cora Keegan.
YEAR: Seventh.
HOUSE: Hufflepuff.
OCCUPATION: --
BLOOD TYPE: Muggleborn.
WAND TYPE: Unicorn hair and willow. 10½ inches.
PETS: A Great Gray owl named Mr. Bird.
ABILITIES: --
freestyle
"It's gotta be fake," your friends tease, the way they've teased you your whole life: because they're not really your friends, and you're not really theirs.
They pull your hair. They put rocks in your shoes. They call you names between classes. Dumb blonde, bottle blonde.
You smile. You keep your head up. You laugh, holding the straps of your backpack tighter to keep your lip from quivering.
You cry.
Mama buries you in her quilt, wraps you up tight and holds you close. Papa makes you your favorite dinner. Together, you watch your favorite movie. You play with your favorite toys.
You'll go to school tomorrow with bandages on your feet and your hair cut short.
Your friends will tease you. They'll say you look like a boy. They'll pull your skirt instead of your hair, kick dirt on your shoes and push you down. You'll skid your knees and your palms and you will rise to your feet and you will laugh.
Jude Mitchell is half your size and makes up for it by being twice as mean.
"Hey Mary," he calls. He knows you hate being called that way. Your name is not Mary. It's not Mary-sahl or Mary-soul or Marshall, either.
"Hi Judy," you say, because today your chin is tilted up and your spine is made of steel and Mama bought you a new backpack and you feel brave.
Jude's lip curls into a sneer. His face turns red. He charges you, and you scream.
Jude Mitchell is floating thirty feet in the air, twenty-six feet above your head, suspended by a giant, invisible hand and bellowing like a wounded animal.
From there, your memories are hazy. A lady morphs in from nowhere and vanishes just as quickly. Jude is settled safely on the ground. The front of his pants is wet.
"Mary did it!" he shrieks, inconsolable. "She's a freak!"
Your parents come and take you home. They give each other worried looks over your head and hold both your hands.
"Soon, Marisol," Mama soothes, rubbing little circles across your knuckles. "Everything will make sense."
"You're not in trouble," Papa assures. His big hand covers yours completely. He winks at you, and you feel warm.
In the summer, you play outside in your backyard. You chase after ladybugs and help Mama with her gardening and you don't think about Jude or your friends or the color of your hair.
Papa invites Grandma over for all of July. She sits with you under the big tree in the backyard and tells you stories about her girlhood.
"I'm a witch, you see," Grandma says, setting aside her crocheting.
You lean up to tell her that's not a very good joke, but Grandma's eyes are twinkling and your stomach twists. "A witch?"
"A real witch."
"With a cat? And a broomstick?"
Grandma laughs. "I never cared for cats. But I am darn quick on a broomstick."
"A witch..." you whisper, your eyes wide and round.
Grandma puts her finger under your chin and tips your head up. "You're a witch too, my love."
Mama is chatting with a woman in robes at the kitchen table.
"My husband's family is the magical one," she laughs. "His mother was wonderful with her wand. I'll never forget the time she fixed our faucet – Marisol, darling, is that you?"
You sit down next to Mama and the woman in robes smiles and hands you a letter. You run your fingers over the neatly-printed address.
"Open it up," the woman encourages.
You do. You tear into it, the same way you tear into the birthday cards from Grandpa with £20 in them.
Your mouth goes dry when you read over your letter. Mama smiles: bright and broad and proud, but there are tears in the corners of her eyes.
"Dear Miss Quickley," you finally squeak. Your hands are shaking. "We are pleased to inform you that – that you have been accepted t-to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Your spine is steel. Your head is up. The woman from your kitchen is smiling at you from a long table. A talking hat is whispering in your ear.
I see, it croons. Well, there's only one place for you!
You want to ask what it means. You don't want to go home. You're not ready, you just got here—
"Hufflepuff!"
A table erupts into cheers. You cry when you run over to it. You cry when two older girls let you sit between them. They run their fingers through your hair and put their arms around your shoulders and ask you what's wrong.
Nothing's wrong, you want to say, but the words get caught in your throat and you keep blubbering.
All you know is that you finally have somewhere you belong.
They pull your hair. They put rocks in your shoes. They call you names between classes. Dumb blonde, bottle blonde.
You smile. You keep your head up. You laugh, holding the straps of your backpack tighter to keep your lip from quivering.
You cry.
Mama buries you in her quilt, wraps you up tight and holds you close. Papa makes you your favorite dinner. Together, you watch your favorite movie. You play with your favorite toys.
You'll go to school tomorrow with bandages on your feet and your hair cut short.
Your friends will tease you. They'll say you look like a boy. They'll pull your skirt instead of your hair, kick dirt on your shoes and push you down. You'll skid your knees and your palms and you will rise to your feet and you will laugh.
Jude Mitchell is half your size and makes up for it by being twice as mean.
"Hey Mary," he calls. He knows you hate being called that way. Your name is not Mary. It's not Mary-sahl or Mary-soul or Marshall, either.
"Hi Judy," you say, because today your chin is tilted up and your spine is made of steel and Mama bought you a new backpack and you feel brave.
Jude's lip curls into a sneer. His face turns red. He charges you, and you scream.
Jude Mitchell is floating thirty feet in the air, twenty-six feet above your head, suspended by a giant, invisible hand and bellowing like a wounded animal.
From there, your memories are hazy. A lady morphs in from nowhere and vanishes just as quickly. Jude is settled safely on the ground. The front of his pants is wet.
"Mary did it!" he shrieks, inconsolable. "She's a freak!"
Your parents come and take you home. They give each other worried looks over your head and hold both your hands.
"Soon, Marisol," Mama soothes, rubbing little circles across your knuckles. "Everything will make sense."
"You're not in trouble," Papa assures. His big hand covers yours completely. He winks at you, and you feel warm.
In the summer, you play outside in your backyard. You chase after ladybugs and help Mama with her gardening and you don't think about Jude or your friends or the color of your hair.
Papa invites Grandma over for all of July. She sits with you under the big tree in the backyard and tells you stories about her girlhood.
"I'm a witch, you see," Grandma says, setting aside her crocheting.
You lean up to tell her that's not a very good joke, but Grandma's eyes are twinkling and your stomach twists. "A witch?"
"A real witch."
"With a cat? And a broomstick?"
Grandma laughs. "I never cared for cats. But I am darn quick on a broomstick."
"A witch..." you whisper, your eyes wide and round.
Grandma puts her finger under your chin and tips your head up. "You're a witch too, my love."
Mama is chatting with a woman in robes at the kitchen table.
"My husband's family is the magical one," she laughs. "His mother was wonderful with her wand. I'll never forget the time she fixed our faucet – Marisol, darling, is that you?"
You sit down next to Mama and the woman in robes smiles and hands you a letter. You run your fingers over the neatly-printed address.
"Open it up," the woman encourages.
You do. You tear into it, the same way you tear into the birthday cards from Grandpa with £20 in them.
Your mouth goes dry when you read over your letter. Mama smiles: bright and broad and proud, but there are tears in the corners of her eyes.
"Dear Miss Quickley," you finally squeak. Your hands are shaking. "We are pleased to inform you that – that you have been accepted t-to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Your spine is steel. Your head is up. The woman from your kitchen is smiling at you from a long table. A talking hat is whispering in your ear.
I see, it croons. Well, there's only one place for you!
You want to ask what it means. You don't want to go home. You're not ready, you just got here—
"Hufflepuff!"
A table erupts into cheers. You cry when you run over to it. You cry when two older girls let you sit between them. They run their fingers through your hair and put their arms around your shoulders and ask you what's wrong.
Nothing's wrong, you want to say, but the words get caught in your throat and you keep blubbering.
All you know is that you finally have somewhere you belong.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
HEY MY NAME IS FLO, AND I ALSO PLAY BRADY PRICE. I FOUND THE SITE THROUGH BEING A MEMBER.
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