Post by Beatrix Conelly on Aug 17, 2013 8:08:15 GMT -6
BEATRIX GUENDOLEN CONELLY*
SIXTH year, SIXTEEN years old
representing RAVENCLAW, bearing a WAND wand
to know beatrix conelly is to be well-acquainted with the study of self-destruction.
a fury of anger and disappointment, really. no one does it quite so beautiful or perfect as her. born into the world three months shy of her predetermined birthdate, beatrix conelly weighed barely anything, and yet for someone so weak, her grip was strong around elinor conelly's finger, who would never fully stop regarding her daughter as being something other than an easily broken porcelain doll. beautiful, but ultimately destined to fall apart all together like a string of pearls. born weak but gifted with conventionally pleasing aesthetics. it's probably the only time she doesn't smell of ash and a broken mind is an unfortunate but fair exchange for beauty in addition to life.
and what a shame you are. your parents have truly done nothing to merit taking care of someone as wicked and cracked as you are. they've given you a good childhood, the nicest things they possibly can with their small salaries that they make in the muggle world. but you continue to need fixing. something inside you twinges in a strange, faded facsimile of pain, too distant and abstract to truly hurt. but you explore the feeling, detachedly curious, studying at a young age what it truly means to make someone uncomfortable. you're not quite sure why you do this. it obviously hurts the people around you. maybe it's the fact that you, yourself are perpetually uncomfortable, caught somewhere between wanting to push a bookcase over, laughing until your sides are sore, or sobbing uncontrollably if someone even stared at you a particular short length of time. you hiss at your father that you hate him at the dinner table for no reason. completely unprovoked, but you shudder slightly from the sense of power you feel in saying terrible things sometimes. bi-polar disorder they later diagnose and medicate you for. it helps.
'let's act with sagesse and not recklessness!'
the sorting hat attempted to warn you.
she barely lets you go when the letter comes, proving there's more than just a broken brain that's wrong with you. magic. you're fucking magical and that's what they deem to be the reason why you're so different from them. perhaps to be with your 'own people,' would make you happier. it's a scary thought at first for your parents, but probably the best decision they made for the both of you in shipping you off into a foreign world you knew nothing about. 'muggle,' they call you, when you reach the platform, rolling suitcase in hand still with a look of apathy and disinterest painting your pristine, young features. what an ugly word, you think to yourself in your compartment. but still not quite as ugly as 'mudblood,' sounds, scoffed under the breath from a tall boy wearing black and green. it only takes you a year to begin showing the pompous morons just what mudbloods are able to accomplish with their fists instead of wands. after the third broken nose, your headmistress suggests you take your anger in a more positive way. and thus, you are welcomed to the quidditch team, bat in hand, wrestling with a demonic enchanted ball that they appropriately call a 'bludger.'
third year and you already have a reputation and popularity that you never really asked for. you're an exceptional student for the most part with what little effort you put into your studies. just as you remember every insult, comment, compliment, or joke thrown in your direction, you're also able to tattoo most lectures into your brain without a second glance and echo the instructions you're given with only a few swishes and flicks. brilliant. unparalleled intellect.
not that you care. you don't care about much besides maintaining your cool demeanor as someone desirable and yet unattainable. you take out your frustrations on the pitch, try to feign shallow interest in the gossip about sally and joey, get half-stoned on gillyweed and firewhiskey, then chat your usual arrogant bitchery in the hallways. you thoroughly enjoy the fact that most students try to please you, you take pleasure when they stumble over their words, charmed by whatever starlight they see in you that you fail to see in yourself. maybe it's fear, but you're just a lower middle-class girl from brighton. pretty, but overall, no one to be proud of knowing or parade around with. if anything, you're unworthy of associating with most of the people you call 'friends.' the opposite sex doesn't really entertain you. you're too busy keeping up with the caricature you've made of yourself as some sort of queen of the marble hallways to invest yourself in something as petty as a 'relationship.' no one could love and hate you as much as you truly do. but you laugh hollowly at their persistence and callous charms. when they buy you drinks and nicotine, you don't mind them lingering in your presence.
it doesn't matter. trivial things like boys and school politics don't matter. nothing matters, you think. you play your part, smirking your condescension and elitism in the hallways. no one can see your percolating emotions as you tip your head back in laughter.
you're the most desirable debutante, the ever-evading maid. warm, feverish, thrilling, intoxicating— a siren, an enchantress, a blossoming flower. galahad’s chalice or guinevere and the grail. the quintessential viper and reflection of your matriarch, all bright eyed and a voice full of money and power. but even you can acknowledge that you're truly not worth anyone's admiration behind the fleshy masquerade.
alias: sally
how did you find us?: caityboo told me.