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Post by danielle on Sept 25, 2010 1:06:15 GMT -5
 __________________________________________________________{ A B O U T . Y O U }
Name: fief.
Gender: female.
Age: seventeen eighteen. (:
E-mail: you has.
Twitter: you has.
Years of RPG Experience: six.
Other: removed by staff
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{ Q U I C K . Q U I Z }
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What about ISS inspired you to join?
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{ A B O U T . T H E . C H A R A C T E R }
Name: Danielle Michele Olivier (Dani).
Age: Sweet sixteen.
Gender: Female.
Year: Seventh.
Face Claim: THE TIZZ.
Canon or Original? Original.
Facial Properties:
Eyes are not the windows to the soul; at least, not for Danielle. Though there are many other girls or boys who may be read so easily, she does not number herself among them. While her large, dark brown eyes are indeed soulful, her underlying thoughts are not so effortlessly deciphered. Dani prides herself in her ability to remain closed off; indeed, she counts her eyes as her best feature for this very reason. It’s not that she really has anything to hide, so much as it is that she cherishes her privacy, and she likes airing on the side of le mystérieux. There’s something to be said for a private girl––something to be said for a girl whose emotions aren’t as effortlessly dissected as the heroine’s from some trashy romance novel. Danielle is a heroine, for sure, but she’s the one who makes the guy work for what he wants, rather than just making doe eyes at him and waiting for him to sweep her off her feet. No, she’s not at all about waiting. When she sees something she likes, she goes for it, and she’s always on the lookout for what she likes. Dani’s a naturally observant person, and it’s almost a full guarantee that during class, her huge brown eyes will have flicked in every student’s direction at least once, hoping for some sort of recognition to break the monotony of the lecture. Her eyes are always busy; always at work; searching, scouring, ingesting information. She’s nothing if not a straight audio-visual learner, and less still if she’s not more of a visual learner than anything else. So, her eyes are one of her most frequently used tools. Ringed with thick, black lashes, Danielle’s eyes are of an abnormally large size that, while perhaps unappealing to others, she finds very attractive. They are, after all, her most prominent feature, and it would behoove her to accept that rather than spend time agonizing over just how very large and poetic they are. Oh, she can wax romantic if she wants––or she could wax lachrymose, or she could wax playful, or she could wax just whatever she wanted. Her eyes play a key role in the validity of her expressions––they are a focal point to her psyche. Without them, Danielle would hardly be Danielle. Yes, she’s that proud of them. So much so that she usually wears at least some form of lash enhancer at the bare minimum level of make-up at all times, just to bring them out to play. Yes, to play. Because you don’t know Dani very well at all if you don’t know that she plays games with her eyes. Other times, though, for more formal occasions, or when she is not limited to the bear minimum, Danielle chooses to accentuate her eyes even more, with the assistance of colorful eyeshadow and usually thick black eyeliner and heavy mascara. She wants her eyes to stand out because, frankly, they make her who they are: they promote her natural beauty, and that, coupled with the lingering mystery perpetuated by her furtive glances, is enough to tell a curious onlooker that no, the eyes are most certainly not the windows to the soul. Honestly? You’re going to have to work a lot harder on Dani to get to that point.
Despite her earlier mocking of romance novel heroines, Danielle herself does have a very romantic facial make-up. With her classic oval jaw and high, gentle cheekbones, she gives off the appearance of a Juliet, or a Cathy, or an Antigone, or, better yet, a Cressida––all the romantic heroines of classical literature share in the aspect of Dani’s facial structure. Perhaps this contributes to the reason that she is never without a boyfriend, or at least a romantic interest (or, that could just be her vanity talking), because of her sparkling brown eyes always charged with passionate fervor, tempered by her soft, round face suited for a Victorian cameo. Whether her hair is left in undulating waves to frame her face, or whether it is pulled back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, Danielle’s oval visage is a clearly noticeable and beautiful trait. It’s often been observed by her friends or even her teachers at times (usually her ballet or violin instructors, of course) that her facial bone structure is incredibly elegant and graceful, and that it’s extremely well suited for her more physical hobbies. Oftentimes the other ballerinas at her dance academy would get sick with jealousy over her perfect form and her effortlessly dignified stance––which, of course, could be attributed in large part to the overall delicate look of her face. Her chin, subtly cleft, also fits perfectly on the little black rest of her cherrywood violin, and her graceful, sloping neck holds it in place as effortlessly as if she were professional. Photographers for her violinist portraits, too, have commented on her excellent form; the self-discipline both of her ability to hold her body so still, but also, the firm yet gentle composure of her oval face. But, if Danielle had to pick one thing which sort of irked her about her face, it would have to be her cleft chin. Her butt chin. Even though it’s not so noticeable, usually anyway, it bothers her that she has one. It’s the kind of chin that girls giggled about when they were young and looked at that little dimple at the tip of the face and breathed out amidst hysterical gaps––“Look, a butt chin!” Yeah. But, you know what, it really doesn’t matter that much, does it? Besides, Livy has one too, so Dani can at least comfort herself with that knowledge. In fact... though they don’t know it outright... lots of girls have at least a slightly cleft chin. Nothing to be ashamed of, then. Just sort of... annoying. When noticeable. But Danielle doesn’t let that happen too often. With the amount of smoothing base powder and tickle-me-pink blush she wears, one can’t really tell. She’s become quite skilled at hiding her little butt chin. So, aside from that minor fissure, Dani’s face is smooth, oval, and just as romantic as could be.
Danielle’s skin mirrors the seasons. And, yes, though that may sound slightly strange, just think about it for a moment: in the fall and winter, Danielle’s skin is as purely white as flecks of snow, whereas in the spring and summer, it’s almost as tanned as Livy’s is naturally. It’s smooth and generally quite clear, save for a few odd zits or blemishes here and there, as any teenage girl has been known to possess. She also has a small, silver-dollar sized discoloration on her upper right shoulder, which she has borne on her figure since birth. It’s nothing really that bothers her, and it certainly doesn’t stop her from wearing cut off tanks or tight fitting tees whose sleeves barely cover her shoulder––it’s simply part of who she is. Like her butt chin. But let’s not talk about that. Her skin, during the wintertime, is probably her favorite, though. When she’s pale, she likes to experiment with obnoxiously vibrant colors in order to present a stark contrast to her skin. For instance: she would wear bright red lipstick and perhaps a black dress, and that, combined with her long, white blond hair, would be enough to make a fierce statement. Dani’s all about experimentation with her wardrobe, and what’s especially conducive to that is her slightly paler-than-normal skin. Now, on the flip side, Danielle’s tan, summery skin is definitely something she does not neglect to relish, either. With it, she can be more... daring with her necklines and hems. Which is basically Dani-speak for being able to wear shorter skirts and low cut tops. But, you know. It’s summer! She has a right to wear shorts, thank you very much. And she will exercise that right. Especially when she’s feeling particularly sun-seasoned and is apt to go out and flaunt it. She jokes around with Livy a lot at these times, saying that ‘now they really match,’ and other totally lame comments along those lines. But it’s okay. She enjoys being lame. Especially with Olivia. Best person to be lame with ever, because she doesn’t believe in lame. But anyway. Back to the point. The point being, of course, how utterly gorgeous Dani’s skin looks when it’s tanned. She doesn’t really mean to be vain, but hey, when your skin is as clear as hers and as perfectly brown as Livy’s, then you’d be claiming bragging rights too.
Oh, man. The hair. The hair of Danielle Michele Olivier. Need I say more? I mean, come on. Look at it. The way it flows down to her mid-back and how golden and shiny and perfect it is. Well, not perfect. Perfection isn’t really real. But, still. It sure is extremely close to perfect. And... well, she doesn’t mean to come off as egocentric, but she really does adore her luscious locks. There’s just so much to be done with them: she can twist them into a bun or stick them in a ponytail or curl them or straighten them or, well, just about anything, really. When it comes to playing her violin or ballet-dancing, though, Danielle often pulls it back, either into a lose bun at the name of her neck or a flirty little ponytail toward the middle of the back of her head. When it’s up, she normally accentuates her appearance with pretty dangling earrings or the like, and when it’s down, she sports flattering studs, which are revealed with the breeze, or when she pushes a strand of her honey-blond hair behind her ear. When she wears her hair down, which she tends to do on most casual instances, she usually wears it straight. Her hair is, in fact, naturally curly, but curly is just... well, it doesn’t flatter her face shape especially well. So, she prefers to wear it pin straight, or sometimes wavy, via the assistance of highly useful spells she learned from Witch Weekly (seriously, that magazine is the most useful thing ever). When she used to have shorter bangs, she would pull them back and pin them near the top of her head, or else wear them swept to the side, which she does now, since they’ve grown out. Like everything else in her life, Danielle loves to experiment with different hairstyles, both intricate and sloppy. For instance, she loves braiding her hair to the side, curling it and pinning up most of it save a few strands, weaving it into multiple braids and coiling those into a complex bun, to name a few of the things she’s tried over the years. If she’s feeling really lazy though, she’ll just leave it curly and pull it into a bun. Or, if she’s sick. A good way to discern the state of her mental, emotional, or physical health would be through her hairstyle that day. If she’s feeling particularly down, her hair would be pulled back, without fail, only being left down when she’s feeling moderately under the weather. The sicker she feels, the more of her hair she pulls back. It’s sort of a strange phenomenon, but the same could really be said of any other girl. Hair is an important part of a girl’s life, and this rule is no exception for Dani. Without her hair, she just simply wouldn’t be Dani. She’s been growing it out religiously since she was seven years old, and has scarcely let a pair of scissors near it except for the trimming of split ends and when she went through her ‘let’s get bangs!’ phase. Other than those few occasions, it’s been growing and a-growing for almost ten years straight, now, and that’s how she aims to keep it. Long hair suits her better, in her opinion, and besides that, there’s just more ways to have fun with it. And, to Dani, everything’s about having fun.
Physique:
She’s a ballerina, and a cheerleader. She plays violin and she’s damned good at it. She’s a girl. And she’s short. But, honestly, Danielle’s got a set of muscles on her to rival a pro-wrestler’s. Okay... not really. The point is, she’s strong, and has a relatively athletic build. Not in a very masculine sense, but in a... well, you know. A ballerina sort of way. Though she is very short, her legs are comparatively long with the rest of her body, and she carries herself with a certain grace befitting of her hobbies. She has a degree of poise––just enough to earn her respect, but not too much to make her appear more mature or older than she really is. It’s not that that’s such a bad thing, but Dani does have a level of teenage girl to her, and since she’s only going to be a teenage girl once, she doesn’t want to spoil it. So, she tempers her grace and somber elegance with her teenage giddiness and girlish occupations such as cheerleading and other such activities that are less static and more fluid and athletic. Not only do these things keep her in shape, but they provide her with adorable outfits and an outlet for her daily frustrations. Violin and ballet can do this too, to some extent, but her ballet lessons have had to recently cease due to her school situation, and her violin lessons, too, have been put off: whereas, with cheering, she practices just about once a week. It’s a constant. And she relishes every last minute of it, since this is her last year, after all, and her very first year of being cheerleader. She practices constantly, whenever she’s not doing her homework or ditching it for private violin or ballet practice. Cheering is just so active, and she loves trying out new moves, learning new methods from Coach McKinnon, and being lifted for all those fun tricks, since she’s just small enough to be absolutely perfect for completing the human triangles. She only weighs about one hundred and fifteen pounds, which is a nice, supple weight––healthy, mostly muscle, but also light enough to do fun lifting tricks––and she’s extremely comfortable in her own skin.
There is something undeniably sensual about a woman’s hands. Or a man’s, for that matter, but especially a woman’s. You can tell so much about a person by their hands. Whether they are lazy, spoiled, a hard worker; what type of things they do with their spare time, what kind of polish they like, what their taste in jewelry is, how much sun they get on an average basis, even how modest or not they are. And Danielle is, of course, no exception––her hands are small, but with long, spindly fingers to accommodate her budding violinist talent, and are often casually bejeweled with pewter or silver bands, shining pleasantly over her pearly white skin in the winter and her sun-seasoned skin in the summer. Since she is in fact a violinist, she has somewhat of a permanent callous on both her forefingers, though she does not see it as something of consequence. She keeps her nails relatively short for this reason, though they are almost always lacquered or manicured or some variant of done-up rather than left to their natural devices. That being said, though, Danielle never overdoes it with her nails, simply because she recognizes that she is a very physically and athletically active person and spending so many pounds or galleons on expensive nail treatment would really be such a shameful waste. Most of the time she bargain hunts for fun colors at drug stores or goes to the cheap corner salon for a little French manicure, but she usually never exceeds a certain threshold of cost simply because it is impractical. She’ll spoil herself every so often because, let’s face it, she is a teenage girl, but she’s also got a dose of brains in her––at least, enough brains to know that getting a fifty pound French manicure with little gems and special colors and sparkles when she’s a cheerleader and a violinist and a ballerina at the same time is probably not the best use of her money. So, she satiates the feminine chic inside her with a crisp, clear gloss over her nails that match everything and add a fresh, lovely sheen to her appearance. And that’s important to Danielle––appearing fresh, clean, cute, but comfortable and stylish all wrapped in to one.
For the longest time in the world, Dani didn’t think she’d ever find anyone shorter than her. She was fully prepared, though, with eleven years of having dealt with ‘short people jokes,’ to be the most miniscule person in Hogwarts. That was, however, until she met Olivia Thompson. But even then, they’re only about an inch and a half off (not that that doesn’t count, though, since in a short person’s world, every little millimeter counts). She’s just incredibly... tiny. In every way possible. And it’s been like this ever since she was a little girl. She’s the shortest in her family, the shortest on the cheering team, the shortest of almost her whole grade and almost her whole school, were it not for Livy. And first years. Since, you know, she is a little bit taller than them, thankfully. But, other than that, she’s freakishly short. Being all of five two has its perks, though, one of which being the fact that she is ever-so-more feminine in her diminutive little shape. And Samuel likes shorter girls, anyway. And he’s freakishly tall. And she’s freakishly short. So, they make an interesting pair. But really, Danielle prefers it that way: she prefers herself short, because it’s all she’s ever known. She’s used to not being able to reach that cookie jar without pulling up a chair, used to groaning in exasperation for the lack of that one thing out of reach, to jumping up obnoxiously to grab a thing off the top shelf... yes, the world of stunted height is her world, indeed. Her mother used to tease her all the time, playfully of course, about how she would slowly watch as all her sisters bypassed her and how she’d be doomed to midget-hood for the duration of her life. Sadly for Danielle, these maledictions were in fact mostly true, as both Claudine and Alison, though fifteen and twelve respectively, are taller than her by a sizable distance of at least two inches. Even though the thought is slightly depressing that her entire family is taller than her––she’s still wondering where the genetic information came from that made her a freaking midget––it’s not that big of a deal to Danielle. Better to be shorter than everyone else than to be taller, right? ...Just say yes to that and walk away. Now.
Short, curvy, feminine. And that’s honestly the way it should be. Danielle has never been a girl to have issues with her body shape––she’s always found her hips to be enticing and her thighs to be seductively full and her middle to be flat with a faint trace of built-up abs, from dancing and cheerleading. She’s not a stupid stick, thank you, and she’s damned proud of it. She eats. Oh! Gosh! A girl who eats! Pulease. If you look at things that way then you and Dani are going to have serious problems, because she’s one who does not tolerate girls who ‘don’t eat’ for whatever reason at all. Be proud of your body. Own it. It’s the only one you’ve got, and if you sit around whining and moaning and calling yourself names that only you think are true, what kind of life is that? It’s not one, that’s what. No, you’re not cool for throwing away half your food. No, you’re not attractive for wearing size zeros and having them too loose. Zero is not a size. Zero is not attractive. And you are not attractive. ...Okay, so, clearly, Danielle has no issues of self-worth. Just... don’t get her started on her beliefs? Aha. Yeah. Um. Anyway. Dani’s a proud size seven––it’s all in her ass and her hips. She’s kinda short, though, so she often has to cuff the bottoms of her jeans so she doesn’t trip on them, since people who wear size seven are generally much taller than her. That, or she has them custom made or else purchases the petite sizes in the more swanky stores that carry such specials. She buys things to flatter her body; she’s not going to delude herself into squeezing into those ridiculous, skin-tight bellbottoms or anything of the like. The difference between Danielle and the girls who do that is that Danielle has a shred of realism mingled with a shred of confidence, and she realizes that not only would that be unflattering, but it would also be quite unrealistic to wear. She wears dresses and jeans and cute shirts and empire waists and things like that because they make her look and feel beautiful––and she’s all about natural beauty, about feeling good with what naturally makes you look good, and that good stuff. It’s why she tries to eat more organically. Sure, it helps her keep in shape, since she dances and plays violin and cheerleads and such, but also because it makes her feel natural and whole, and that’s something she likes.
Wand Type: 7 ¼ inches, Cherry wood, Leprechaun hair core.
“I’m not exactly certain why my wand picked me––I mean, I’m not Irish and generally Leprechaun cores gravitate toward their kin. Ollivander was, himself, a bit mystified, and seemed to painfully allude to the fact that I might struggle with it later. The Leprechaun hair cores could be ‘temperamental,’ he said, to ‘the non-Irish.’ Later, I would find truth in his words. Too much truth. Most of the time my wand and I get on just fine, but sometimes he can be a nasty little bugger: still don’t know why I, French blooded as I am, stood out to him at all. But he’s my wand and, what can I say? I wouldn’t have any other. Besides, it’s a challenge, and I like those.”
Wand Expertise: Arithmancy.
“...and that’s me, trying to be funny. See, Arithmancy is my only class that doesn’t involve much wandwork. It’s also my favorite class. I don’t know, logic and concrete answers appeal to me? Anyway, no, my wand expertise certainly isn’t Arithmancy. Truthfully, he’s quite skilled at Charms, when he cooperates with me, that is.”
Patronus: Swan––it represents the free spirit of a bird, while at the same time embodying a classical grace that carries through Danielle’s life both as a violinist and an acrobat.
Boggart: Herself, completely out of control.
“I hate being out of control; I hate not knowing what to do or where to go and mostly, I hate not being the one in charge. Yeah, so, I may have just come off as extremely selfish and arrogant, but really... control is just part of who I am. Some people are meant to be followers, others are meant to be leaders. I’m a natural leader, and I’m not going to be shy about it. And the worst thing any leader can experience is a loss of control.”
Personality:
It’s all about control. It’s all about who’s doing what when and why. It’s all about being in charge and knowing everything all at once. It’s all about coordination. It’s all about structure. It’s all about discipline. Where does Danielle get this from, you may wonder? Well, there is no simple answer to that. Her desire––nay, her need––to control people and things stems from both her rigorous training as a ballerina and violinist and from her childhood. Dancing and music has taught Danielle about patterns; about regimented actions; about extensive planning and repetition and practice. She’s learned to do everything on a particular schedule, and to rarely deviate. She plans carefully and sticks to her plans and by God, if you try to get her to budge on them, you’ll be in for a trip. Because she’s also extremely stubborn, especially when she thinks she’s right. Which is... basically all the time. It’s not that she’s cocky, per se, as much as it is that she’s extremely confident––a particularly pronounced trait of hers that has been cultivated by long years of ballet and violin; rigorous, disciplinary training that has thrown her like bait into an ocean full of competition. You either sack up or you founder, and Dani, being as competitive and as strong-willed as she is, caught on very quickly. So, she’s basically been trained to be competitive and confident. And it sticks. She can’t help but feel totally on edge whenever she’s not fully informed on a situation, or when someone else is in charge and she has to take orders from him or her. No, sorry, that’s simply not going to cut it. Danielle has fiery ambition and a drive to succeed, and if she’s not taking the bull by the horns, well, then, she’s not Danielle Olivier. She’s fierce. She’s independent. She’s the Head Bitch In Charge, thank you very much. Has been since she was a little girl and she’ll continue to carry on that tradition. But, that being said, her control issues have been tempered with her maturity, and she’s learned to be a positive leader instead of a obsessive controller. It’s taken time and thought and energy, but she’s grown out of her little tantrums, and she’s grown out of the competitive ‘I’m-better-than-everyone-else’ mindset somewhat, and, in the end, it’s worked to her benefit. Being in positions of leadership and control are good for her; they feed her ambition but at the same time teach her valuable lessons about communicating, about role modeling for the younger years, about being a good example. You really can’t just be a control freak and be a leader and be in everyone’s face all the time without being a positive influence on the younger years, right? ...Not to be totally lame, but, ‘with great power comes great responsibility.’ It’s true. And it’s something that Dani takes very seriously.
What would any girl be without that bad-boy complex? Some girls hide it better than others, some girls just ignore it, some girls go full force at it. But Danielle isn’t some girls, is she? She’s so much more than that, than just a label. And yeah, so what, she’s got a thing for danger; an adrenaline junkie, if you will. But that’s just who she is––that’s why she’s always the first to try something new, the first to accept the outcast kid, the first to date the bad boy. Though she’s not exactly wild or crazy or what you might deem less than respectable in any sort, she does have a tendency to gravitate toward less than respectable people. She doesn’t know how to explain it––just, the social outcasts are the ones who usually have the most to say, you know? Danielle may not be the most culturally enriched person alive, but she does like to listen to the ‘lost generation,’ if you will, and she does share in some of their interests. She reaches out to the unheard (all you Ravenclaws out there had better prepare to be forcibly removed from your shells) and makes them heard. Whether that makes you a brooding Slytherin or a antisocial Ravenclaw or a timid Hufflepuff or a withdrawn Gryffindor doesn’t matter to Dani. She’s all about mixing with the wrong crowd, because, she kind of wants to know firsthand what makes them the wrong crowd. At the same time, though, she’s all about inclusion and totally against elitism and extending her social network everywhere is something in which she prides herself. However, these little excursions to the dark side are not exactly without their consequences. She’s learned through trial and error to perhaps be a little less reckless when it comes to attempting to befriend Slytherins, and perhaps even less reckless when attempting to understand why a Death Eater can slaughter without mercy. Probably not the best idea to ask them to illumine their beliefs on blood purity. The only way she gets away with it, really, is because she’s a pureblood too. Not that she believes in any of that shit. To Dani, blood’s blood is blood is blood and it’s always red and it makes some people faint and it smells gross and that’s just the way it is. Doesn’t matter who’s got what kind. It’s all the same to her. Sometimes she likes to debate these things with the random Slytherin (she’s not so stupid as to go to a Death Eater, of course), or even the one or two odd Ravenclaws that find themselves allied with the flawed belief system of the elitists. Point is, Dani likes to be involved with every type of person imaginable. It stems partially from her need to control. Being aware of everyone and their beliefs is in itself an attempt to control her social life and control her feelings of others.
Ever since she’s been little, she’s been faced with situations that are much above her maturity level. She’s dealt with the constant fighting of her parents and the family’s subsequent instability, culminating in divorce, all before she reached the age of six. Then, there was the moving, and the being uprooted from a comfortable life in France to the alien and unfamiliar England. Then, things were just peachy for a while, before Emery’s girlfriend was slaughtered by these people called Death Eaters in Danielle’s third year. So... yeah. Point is, Dani’s been faced with decisions and problems and drama way longer than any person her age should have been. Death, divorce, failure, the smashing of hopes and dreams... those are all things which Dani grew up with, which Dani learned to accept as normality, which Dani had to accept as normality in order to survive them. Any kid whose parents are divorced, or who’s dealt with a huge, uprooting move, or who’s seen someone die tragically before their time will tell you that overcoming that emotional damage from that isn’t easy. And this was no exception for Danielle. But, what makes her different form the people who never fully emotionally recover is that she chose to make herself better for it. She took it all in stride; became more confident, more mature, more down to earth, more responsible. Danielle’s a strong young woman, and she almost inevitably ends up overcoming her emotional obstacles after a while. It takes time, and it takes discipline, but when it comes to affairs of the heart, Danielle is probably one step above most of her peers. That being said, though, she’s not exactly the most responsible person when it comes to school. Sure, she’s the best babysitter in the area, has great common sense, is organized and methodical and takes her responsibilities seriously, but... school, it seems, she does not count among her responsibilities. She’s a very intelligent girl, but she’s just not interested in all that work. It’s just not worth it, in her mind. She has basically no idea what she wants to do when she gets out of Hogwarts and her mediocre grades can’t really offer her that many options, anyway, so, really, what’s the point? It’s silly, really. She loves everything about school socially, and is super dedicated to extracurriculars, but, actual classes are problematic for her. Motivation is the big issue. She’s intelligent enough to be one at the top of her class, she just doesn’t... try. Danielle doesn’t like all that attention. For her, she goes to school, does a fairly average job, and keeps to herself. She doesn’t need to be teacher’s pet (except for Hagrid, of course, since she finds him utterly adorable in a teddy-bear sort of way), she doesn’t need any extra honors, she just shows up and gets the job done and that’s good enough for her.
That being said, though, don’t mistake Danielle for being an inactive student in class, for you would be sadly mistaken. You know the kid who always asks the really awkward questions that either have no conceivable or no socially acceptable answer? Yeah. That’s Dani. Every time. She can’t help it––she loves sparking a controversial argument, or bringing up a point no one else thought of, or being the devil’s advocate, or simply being the one everyone secretly loves for distracting the teacher. Dani’s all about pushing limits, about seeing how far she can go and still get away with things. She constantly gets on the teachers’ nerves for this very reason, but she doesn’t mind. She makes the class memorable, in her opinion. Oh, come on, even the Ravenclaws admit that Danielle’s funny, and what further validation do you need than that? She even catches the teachers off guard sometimes with a little smirk, or, if she’s particularly lucky, and full-blown snicker. She’s just... all about attention. About getting that reaction. About saying something ridiculous and out there and totally asinine and just seeing how many people realize it. Why? Well, partly for, of course, as aforesaid, the attention, but also for the purpose of releasing some of the tension in the classroom. Have you ever noticed that? Sometimes a classroom can just get so unbelievably tense, with everyone taking notes, their hands cramped and their necks craned down, hanging off the professor’s every word, scrambling to write everything down. Yeah. So, it’s nice to just get all that out when some brave soul asks some ludicrous question and suddenly the whole class is giggling. And Dani? She loves to be that person.
So... there’s definitely a legitimate reason why Danielle is so popular with the boys. I mean, sure, she’s got good looks, and a great personality, and she’s charismatic and jovial and always in high spirits but... there’s something just a little bit more than that that attracts the boys. Maybe it’s because she’s European––more specifically French––or maybe it’s because her mother was this way too, and her mother before that, and her mother before that, but Danielle is extremely touchy-feely. She’s the kind of girl who gives an obnoxious amount of hugs for every single occasion imaginable, the kind of girl who randomly plays with your hair, the kind of girl who likes to hold hands and stroke arms and just, in general, pet. Doesn’t matter if you’re a girl or a boy: she’s all up on you. It’s probably just a byproduct of being super friendly, right? Right. So, when she’s not being casually touchy-feely, as in, when she’s around a significant other rather than her average friend, she goes a little deeper. Well, not that she’s a slut or anything, she’s just not afraid to experiment with a boy’s boundaries, or with her own. Gosh, okay, now she sounds like a whore. I promise she’s not. She just likes to touch people. She likes skin. Especially boy skin. So, when she’s in a situation as one that presents her with a particularly attractive set of boy skin, well, she really can’t help herself. She just strokes it and holds his hand and oggles at his face and makes sort of a fool out of herself by going totally wide-eyed and blushy. She’s not exactly the most boy-crazy girl ever, and besides, how can she be when she’s got the amazing Samuel as a boyfriend, but... she can’t help but admire, sometimes. But she will never be unfaithful. Not in thoughts, not in actions, not in any way at all. No, Danielle doesn’t practice infidelity. Her daddy taught her that. Still, even when she’s in a relationship––which is most of the time––biology doesn’t lie, and what her eyes see, she judges. Anyone’s guilty of that. And, being as totally in-tune with the human body as Dani is, she’s almost unusually perceptive where some people may not be. She notices how the muscles flex and how the tendons tense and how the palms clench and the breath quickens whenever a boy, or anyone, really, is in particular distress. She just... I don’t know, knows these things? How bodies work and how emotions flow and such. That’s why, at least for Livy, she’s sort of the go-to girl for advice on... well... sensual things. You know. That stuff. Danielle doesn’t know why. She’s not particularly promiscuous, but she is knowledgeable about things of a more sensitive topic.
And that’s Dani. Like her? Hate her? Undecided?
We’ll see how long that lasts.
Likes:
+ Boys. “Oh, come on, they’re boys. Silly, yes, but you’ve gotta love them.”
+ Dogs. “Dogs and boys are really very much the same, only dogs are more loyal and don’t leave such big messes.”
+ Ballet; but only the classics. “Modern methods are not to my taste.”
+ Playing the violin. “I’m a bit obsessed, actually, but it’s just so relaxing and therapeutic.”
+ Cheerleading. “It’s new this year, but that doesn’t mean anything to me!”
+ Arithmancy. “Never do most of the assignments, but it’s definitely my best class.”
+ Professor Hagrid. “You know you’ve thought about hugging him. Just once. He’s so squishy.”
+ Herself. “I’m not conceited, but I’m confident, and I love myself. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, I wish more girls were as confident as me.”
+ Lividest! <3 “I don’t even have to say anything, here. She’s the most amazing girl in the world, and I love her.”
+ Pierre Samuel. “He’s the best boyfriend in the world, and I think I love him.”
Dislikes:
– Samuel Pierre. “The most selfish person I know. And that’s all I have to say about that.”
– Being thought of as conceited. “Like I said, I’m really not, I’m just healthily confident.”
– Being included in all that pureblood hogwash. “Honestly, people. Get over yourselves.”
– Doing schoolwork. “It’s just a waste of time. The point is to be taught, not to be given so much work you drown in it.”
– Potions. “Really, what is the point of this class again? How will potion skill get me a job?”
– Feeling useless. “Standing in the middle of a busy room, with everyone doing something but you? Yeah. Torture.”
– Being out of control. “There’s probably nothing in this world that’s worse than that.”
– Breaking peoples’ trust. “Learned from my father the implications of such an action, and I’ll never stand for that again.”
– Her father. “Quitter.”
– Abandonment. “A.k.a., daddy dearest.”
– When Pierre cuts his hair short. “Maybe this is irrelevant, but still. It makes him look fat.”
History:
All great stories begin with a great romance. All great stories have that initial, chemical spark that sends the recipients on a road to a happy ending. All great stories have a happy ending.
Guess this isn’t a great story, then.
The year is fifteen hundred and seventy-six. The day is a calm, altogether peaceable November afternoon, the leaves just beginning to turn all the colors of the rainbow. The Netherlands were always a beautiful place in the fall––the majestic, soaring mountains overshadowing the great northern seaboard, the faint nipping chill of wind pinching the cheeks and noses of beautiful young ladies, making them flush with cold and hug their lace shawls closer to their healthy, plump frames. Farthest from their minds was the fact that, in a few short hours, half would be dead. Half would be raped. Half would watch their loved ones be slain. Half would be all three. It was farthest from the minds of all––especially the young ladies. All, that is, except one. Introspective, dark, alluring, and considered extremely dangerous in her own exotic and seductive way, Dulcinea Olivier was not frolicking in the Dutch fields that day, and her cheeks were not getting prettily pinched, and she was not wrapping her shawl closer to her as she smiled at the passing gentlemen. No, Dulcinea was sitting in the empty row of pews in the local Calvinist church, her hands clasped together, sobbing wildly as she inclined her face toward the heavens. For, you see, she had a terrible foreboding about the day––a terrible feeling that something bad was going to happen. And this feeling was not due to what she liked to call to the boys French intuition; it was due to the fact that she was not, at all, a regular girl. And the worst part was? Now she knew why. Now she knew why she could make things move across the room, why she could make people say and do things, why she could see things in her mind that eventually came true. She’d gone to great lengths to discover this: left he native France and toured all of Europe in order to find that one, simple answer. And in the Netherlands, she had found it. She was a witch. A w-i-t-c-h. A sorceress, an enchantress, a devil kin. Part of her knew that already, and yet, another part of her was still unable to accept it. She was not––she couldn’t be––but she was. And, so, she came to her protestant church because, as what the French would call a faithful Huguenot, she appealed to God to save her. If God would even listen to her, which she doubted, seeing as he was not the sort who associated with the likes of her and her kind. But she had sacrificed everything for him. She and her family had left France in order to escape execution for her faith, and she had come all across Europe, seeking freedom in order to practice her belief in him according to what she believed was the only true faith. And now? Now, that made it just impossible for him to turn his back on her. Just impossible. Still, unsure of herself, she wept. Wept bitterly both for her own plight, and for the plight of the city of Antwerp, which she had just seen unfold within her mind.
It wasn’t long before the screams began. Before the glass began to shatter, before the guns began to fire. Dulcinea, still within the church, decided that the real test of God’s love for her would be if she were to remain within his home, and face the brutalities, face what lie ahead. God would save her; God would protect her, even if her soul had been consumed by the Devil. She searched for the jagged wooden cross tucked behind the stiff fabric of her bodice and pulled it out, clutching it into her palm and offering silent prayers, pressing her lips firmly together as she saw shadows of swordsmen pass over the windows of the parish. But no one could escape that easily. No one could hide away in a church and expect to be found. For, unfortunately, what Dulcinea didn’t know was that the Spanish swordsmen were here, in fact, to slaughter the Protestants and ransack their churches. She was standing on a target zone. It was only a few minutes before someone saw the church. Only a few minutes before someone broke in. Only a few minutes before he saw Dulcinea, alone and vulnerable, cowering in the corner. Only a few minutes before he was done with her, and she was lying, broken and discarded, on the church floor. Only a few minutes, before he zipped up his pants and set the church on fire. Only a few minutes before Dulcinea regained consciousness and realized she was slowly burning alive. What a particular irony this was: half the reason she was here was to escape a similar fate in France. And now she was ravished, and she was slowly going to burn, and hence slowly going to die. God had failed her. God had forsaken her. *
She was forsaken.
And, so, after gleaning that knowledge, it would have been easy to lie there and die. Easy to go from fire to fire as the pits of Hell welcomed her like an estranged lover. Easy to simply get swallowed by the flames. But the Spaniard wasn’t the only one who had seen her go in: a small, rickety-old peasant woman had espied the situation from afar, and having recognized the girl as the little Seer she’d met the other day, the woman hastened to Aguamenti the inside of the church and get Dulcinea away from there. The girl was badly burned, she discovered, but with proper treatment she would be all right. But where to go? And how to get there? The old woman tugged on the limp form of Dulcinea and brought her safely to the rear of the building, temporarily obscuring them from the fray––long enough for her to grab on to the girl’s hand and whisper the apparating spell. With a loud CRACK! they were in the dirty, grimy streets of downtown London, right in front of a dilapidated old building, covered in an inch thick of muck. St. Mungo’s. And, soon enough, Dulcinea was ushered in and received top notch care and everything was just brilliant until she realized that she was pregnant. Pregnant. As in, her reputation was ruined, she was going to have a bastard child, and she was going to go to hell for it. For that, and for the fact that oh, by the way, she was a witch. How many nails does it take to screw a coffin and ship it to hell? Yeah, it was bad. Really bad. Dulcinea was near on the verge of an emotional breakdown when they came. When they saved her life. They were the only people––the only witches and wizards––capable of pulling Dulcinea back from the precipice at which she stood; the only people able to show her that magic could be a force for good, and that God gave her this immense power rather than cursed her with it. His name was Everard, and he was the Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a school, apparently, for witches and wizards. For people like her. Once she was well enough to leave St. Mungo’s, Everard, having been relayed her situation on the part of the old woman, offered her permanent lodging at the castle, where she could partake in classes like the rest of the students and learn to wield her newfound powers. Everard, gentle soul that he was, guided Dulcinea throughout the whole way: she was Sorted into Hufflepuff house* and though she was still a pregnant seventeen year old girl, she was obligated to commence schooling at the first year level. But she didn’t mind––she made friends with the upper years and became a sort of matron to the younger years, fitting in quite smoothly.
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and soon enough, Dulcinea’s baby boy was welcomed to the Healing staff of St. Mungo’s: christening him Eric Everard Olivier, for she still insisted upon saving his soul via a conventional baptism, he was welcomed to the staff and students of Hogwarts alike (excepting of course the Slytherins, who called Dulcinea a harlot every chance they got). She hated him at first. Hated him for what he was, whose eyes he had, from the sin of which he was borne. But eventually... she grew to blame the Spaniard for his sins, and not her son. She chose, instead, to right the wrongs committed by his father and at the advice of Everard she endeavored to raise Eric in the way he deserved. Eric was dark like his ambiguous Spanish descent, but with the mild, temperate personality of his dulcet mother. Growing up within the confines of such a magnificent castle as Hogwarts sculpted him into an intelligent and wise-beyond-his-years sort of fellow, who, it seemed, also carried the ability to perform magic. Like his mother, Eric became a Hufflepuff, and watched proudly as Dulcinea eventually ascended to the rank of Head of Hufflepuff house a few short years later. * The Oliviers were known around the magic world from then on as pious, dedicated, and powerful, though in a very subdued and shady sort of way: they were humble, chiefly, and truly fit the description of loyal, self-effacing Hufflepuffs, despite the wicked gossip that surrounded Dulcinea’s history and Eric’s scandalous conception. Dulcinea went on to marry Everard, though he was significantly her elder, and lived a long enough life to watch her son Eric become a leading Healer at St. Mungo’s, and marry a young woman by the name of Julianne. Eric and Julianne are the founders of the sect of the Olivier family to which Danielle currently belongs––their son and his son and his son, and etc., lived through the seventeen hundreds, being stationed primarily in Scotland and England despite their French roots until the new English monarch, George III, ascended the throne and began a heinous persecution of those of the protestant faiths (the Oliviers had never failed in their religious convictions, and became devoted to what is now known as the Puritan sect). When this occurred, the Oliviers sought religious freedom for themselves in what we’ve all come to call the New World––however, they remained loyal to the Crown during the revolution and were subsequently terrorized into returning to England. But the Britons were not thrilled at the Oliviers’ dalliance with the Americans, and due to their bullying there as well, the Oliviers returned to their native France. Aix-en-Provence is where they originally hailed, and the deviant English branch of the family merged once more with their origins.
And so it has been for close two hundred years.
Which leaves us to come down to one, simple descendent: Philippe Michel Olivier.
Philippe was boy of no principles; Philippe was the sort of fellow who drank after school and experimented with what he believed were ‘harmless, stress-relieving’ drugs, the kind of guy who womanized for the hell of it, who had every single girl head over heels in love with him from the first moment they laid eyes on his slicked-back, kinky-dark hair and tight jeans. And Amélie Duciel? She was no exception. Oh, she liked to believe herself to be: we all like to believe we’re the only exceptions, don’t we? But the simple truth of the matter is that we’re not. But did that really matter to Philippe? No; because Amélie was hot, and whatever she thought to help her crawl into bed with him was good enough. But the problem was that she grew in to an exception. She became the one girl who Philippe hung around more often; the one girl who he envisioned himself committed to; the one girl he went sober for; the one girl, he decided, he wanted to marry as soon as they graduated from Beauxbatons. It was sudden. So sudden. But, then again, everything in the dreamy years of youth and frivolity comes on quickly and with fierce intensity, does it not? And, so, they were married. At first, it worked perfectly. Her serene, calm nature paired with his high-frequency, high-maintenance attitude resulted in him being a more subdued personality, and her being a more open and exciting force in his life. They were perfect––but they were also young.
And perfection comes and goes with the tide, when one is young.
Their marriage, in the beginning, though, was successful. Their first son, christened Emery Nikolas, was born shortly after their marriage and then when he had reached but a little past a year old, his sister, Danielle Michele, was delivered into the world, on December 6th, 1959. It didn’t take long after that for Amélie and Philippe to conceive and bring to term another girl, Claudine, shortly after that, and then... and then, things started going downhill. What makes love fade? Is it a jaded acceptance of plaintive, urban life? A weariness of life and its promises? Or is it rather a matter of differing tastes, of advancing maturation and interest in another? For the Oliviers, it was everything: for the Oliviers, it was simply too much, too fast, and too young. And, while they learned from this, it didn’t come without cost. Soon after the last Olivier child was born––Alison, another girl––Philippe began feeling the weight of social constraints and parental and marital expectations on his shoulders. He was hardly thirty, and he had already been married well over seven years and had had four children over that course of time. It was too much too fast. He had hardly had any time to be a boy, to be a young man, to experience youth to its full, before he had selected a mate and settled down before even dating her long enough to see if it could really, plausibly work out. He took into account the fact that he was young and inexperienced and infatuated: but he regretted it. He regretted it with every fiber of his being. He didn’t regret his love for Amélie, for, no, there was still a piece of him that stored his once-affection; he also didn’t regret bringing into the world his four handsome children, particularly his little favorite, Danielle, whom he affectionately would call his ‘petit bonbon,’ for her little, button-size and sweet nature. No, these things he did not regret. What he did regret was his own foolishness, his own rashness, and his refusal to accept the counsel of his parents, who had pleaded him to wait but one year before marrying the first girl he had ever been in a serious relationship with. But he had been foolish. He knew it. Though there was more foolishness to come.
Her name was Melissa. She was from America, and she was a dark, sultry beauty who worked as a translator for tourists in Paris, where Philippe held his day-job. He met her on a walk through a particularly busy market district, where he often picked up some raw vegetables and fresh pastries for lunch. She dropped her purse, and he picked it up for her. Their eyes met, and the rest? History. It’s funny. Funny, how a man can go from having a happy yet strained marriage with four beautiful children, to a lovesick romantic at just one, simple, fated look. Melissa, he soon discovered, was his ideal woman. She was supple and firm in physique, and equally strong and confident in personality. She made him smile; made him laugh; made him forget his troubles. Most of all, she made him so, unbelievably happy. She gave him hope for the future, and he loved her for it. He truly did. But there was still the problem of Amélie. The problem––that phraseology was cringe-worthy––of his wife. Philippe was not going to practice infidelity on the one constant in his life since Beauxbatons. Philippe could not––would not––hurt her. But his resolved weakened as the weeks passed, each day with Melissa growing more beautiful, and, if possible, more fresh, more young, more defiant of everything mundane. Finally, he committed the act that would forever tear him from everything he loved; he committed the one, treasonous action that would alienate his son and daughters, even his petit bonbon, and, most of all, his wife, for eternity. Did he regret it? Not fully. He loved Melissa; she truly completed his soul. He loved her, and she loved him, even though she knew he was a wizard and she knew he was married and she knew she was getting in too deep and she was being foolish and stupid and she was damned terrified of losing him now, but... she loved him, too. She loved him with the same intense finality that he loved her; and this is how they continued for several months, before Melissa grew thick with the bastard child whose sire was still locked in an impossibly stagnant marriage with a woman he could not longer love––before that woman found out.
Amélie was not weak. But Amélie was not as strong as she had once been, either.
While her husband was off engaging in illicit relations with some little American chit, she was the one in the house, playing the part of the mother, playing the part of a wife who had no inkling of her husband’s infidelity, and who was too afraid to believe it even if she did. Amélie, that year, was a mess––a nervous wreck, a disaster to all who beheld her in her natural state. But she was also a housewife, and a hostess at parties, which she gave in desperate attempts to piece the broken shards of her life together at least socially. But she wasn’t a good actress. And she wasn’t a good liar. And she knew Philippe didn’t love her any longer. Whether or not he was cheating on her was a different story: besides, how could he? He couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly be cheating on her. Because he––he owed her that much respect. He owed her respect enough to not make a fool out of her; to not make her into some senseless virago who pestered him and argued with him more frequently than she ought to in front of the children. Amélie was a rational human being, though, and soon enough, when she noticed her husband’s constant and (if it was at all possible) worse brooding, and found a package of condoms in his briefcase when he’d accidentally left it open in their bedroom. After a little more sleuthing on her part, Amélie discovered Melissa. She also discovered that Melissa was four months pregnant with her husband’s child. And yet, even then, after learning this, Amélie had not the heart to divorce him. Divorce was such a horrid, horrid word. A horrid, horrid label. A horrid, horrid thing. No matter what her husband did, she chanted to herself, she would not leave him.
But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t make his life a living hell in the process.
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