my love should be celebrated @ofeliaestelle-archive - Tumblr Blog

antonin-whoisleft:

“Oh, it’s wonderful, as ever,” Antonin cooed, waving a light hand in the air as if to gesture this old thing? in the fondest way imaginable. Antonin loved these parties, of course he did; he was only human, red-pure-blooded and not yet tied down by marriage, so yes. Maybe a party with more alcohol, less clothing, more Sebastian Nott-types rather than Distant Lestrange Types would have been a more exciting use of his evening. But plenty of his other fellow Death Eaters were in attendance, some more highly regarded than he and some, he was delighted to note, already considered to be inferior to him. That was enough to keep his spirits up even as he finished his third conversation with an ancient DesRosier he’d last seen when he was twelve.

“They can get awfully stuffy, these things, but it’s always so exciting when we have someone new to ooh and ahh over.” He continued, pouring on the charm as hard as he always did. Some people saw through it, sure, felt the way it slid off him like his whole body was a living, breathing mask. It wasn’t fake, but it was far too easily tapped. An endlessly renewable resource, was how he saw it. “You must be so used to more exciting parties, though. Didn’t you attend Beauxbatons, if I’m remembering correctly?”

He knew he was remembering correctly; that was stored away in his mind as a fact about the woman. He always made a point to remember a few key details about anyone who might prove useful to him, and the presumably rich daughter of a presumably powerful foreign wizarding family was always a highly sought after connection for the young diplomat.

“I have a few cousins in Russia who refused to be sent to Durmstrang - too dark and dank, you know - who ended up at Beauxbatons. Strings had to be pulled, of course, but don’t they always? The stories they tell me about the after-curfew parties there are delightful.” He sipped his champagne, smiling warmly behind the rim at the woman before him. “Have you been cornered by any of the matriarchs yet? We do love our gossip around here.”

Ofelia marveled at the ease with which Antonin talked about the party. It was the sort of thing that overwhelmed her, though she tried not to let it show, but clearly he was used to it. She took another sip of her champagne and nodded in agreement, her smile still in place. She would much rather talk to Antonin than any of the many strangers or near strangers that were milling around, and it was infinitely preferable to standing around by herself. Ofelia was not made to be una retraídas, a wallflower.

Still, that’s not to say she was entirely comfortable talking to Antonin. True, he was one of her favorites out of Quentin’s compatriotas, but he was also intimidating. Ofelia felt as if she had to tread so carefully in this new society she found herself in, but Antonin had been born to it, and it showed. Envy was not in Ofelia’s nature, but if it was, she would have been envious of Antonin.

Luckily, she was not, so when Antonin remembered that she had attended Beauxbatons, Ofelia beamed. She was very proud of her alma mater, especially compared to what she had heard of Hogwarts. The British school sounded very much cold and glum to her. According to Quentin it was an incredibly old stone castle, not a glittering palace like Beauxbatons. She knew it had no impact on her education, but Ofelia was still grateful she’d attended a tres jolie academie.

“Oui, Beauxbatons was my, how do you say it...my home away from my home?” At least, she was fairly certain she’d heard such a phrase used to refer to school. In truth, she had no idea what it meant, but she was confident Antonin would be charming, even if she’d misused the idiom.

“Oh, what years did your cousins graduate? Perhaps I knew of them, where they as well Dolohovs?” She did her best to steer him away from talk of the parties at Beauxbatons. Of course, Ofelia had attended more than her fair share, and she did enjoy a good, loud party, but it didn’t seem like an appropriate thing to discuss. She could just imagine the disapproving look April would give her.

Ofelia’s wide smile faltered a bit when Antonin asked if she’d been cornered yet. She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but it didn’t sound like something pleasant, despite his jovial tone. She certainly didn’t want to be the center of any gossip. She’d married Quentin barely seven months ago and already she’d had her fill of whispers behind hands and pointed looks. She also wasn’t certain what a matriarch was, but it sounded similar enough to a word in Spanish for her to make a solid guess.

“I do not believe I have been cornered by any of the matriarchs, should I be worried?” She asked the question lightly, but some genuine concern gathered in the edges of her eyes.

#i antonin #antonin 001

benjy-whoisleft:

Benjy knew better than to not pay attention while walking through Diagon Alley. He’d crashed into others, fallen off curbs, and stepped in things he didn’t like to think about more times than he could count. Each one came with a resolution that he was going to get out of his head and into his surroundings but inevitably, it never lasted. Today, it was the fault of a pamphlet that had been shoved into his hands.

He’d just been flipping it over to see if there was a bold “NOT” written across the back, unwilling to believe it was serious, when he caught sight of a dog. It wasn’t enough for him to sidestep the woman that followed though, easily waving it off.

“Oh, hello perrito,” Benjy said with a laugh. He slipped into easy Spanish the moment he heard it from her. “Aren’t you great?"

He switched his grin to the woman and shrugged it off. "Perfectly fine,” he answered. “You could have told me it was my fault, and I would’ve believed you—usually it is.” He slid his bag up on his shoulder out of habit, having barely slipped in the collision. “As long as we’re not scrambling for stray papers and belongings, I call it a win. And you?"

Ofelia broke into her fullest, sunniest smile the minute she heard the man speak Spanish. So what if he had a strange accent and certainly didn’t sound like he was from Spain, he was still speaking her mother tongue. Ofelia was still Ofelia in any language, still warm and bright and sweet and friendly, but Ofelia in Spanish was a sight to behold. Not only did she speak rapid fire, she was effusive in her word use.

“Oh thank God. I’m not usually so clumsy, not unless I’m drunk, but Ekaitz, my dog, just took off. He’s small, but he’s strong, you know? Oh, but I’d never blame you for something that’s obviously my fault. I’m glad we can call it a win, though, no scrambling for papers.” She laughed lightly, a brief break in her monologue. “But where are you from? I mean, here obviously, you sound like a Brit, no offense, but your family maybe? You speak Spanish like a native, basically, you’re really good.”

She stopped for breath and an answer to her round about question. She didn’t even know the man in front of her but he was already her new best friend. Ekaitz seemed to think so too, as he was sitting very prettily at the man’s feet silently begging for pets with his big brown eyes. In her excitement over finding a Spanish-speaker in the middle of London, she forgot that she was a Jugson and there were certain expectations as to her behavior that she needed to meet. For a moment, she was Ofelia Viteri Romily again, a girl who was anyone and everyone’s friend.

#i benjy #benjy 001

faceclaimed

GRETA ONIEOGOU as LAYLA KEATING in ALL AMERICAN 1.03

#[face tag]#new fc new fc #!!

rxtaskeeter:

Rita did not make friends easily. She never had. Contacts, yes. Acquaintances, sure. Allies, sometimes. But having a friend implied opening up and sharing things with someone, and Rita had never mastered either of those skills. The friends she did have were usually attracted to her extensive knowledge of gossip and excellent fashion advice, and eventually stuck around for her wit and uncanny ability to find the best place for a cheap drink.

And yet with Ofelia, it had all felt very natural. They were the same age, both freshly graduated and not living in the country they were born in, both halfbloods (in theory). It was one of those times where two people seemed to come together at just the right time - and yet, it wasn’t the right time. Not really. Their friendship came to an awkward halt when Ofelia suddenly got married, to a pureblood no less, and though Rita had known that things wouldn’t exactly be the same after that, she hadn’t expected to be essentially sidelined. Their many afternoons drinking coffee and going dress shopping with limited budgets were an increasingly distant memory.

Though ordinarily she would’ve bitterly slandered Ofelia’s name in the press, more than anything Rita just felt rather sad (an emotion that contrary to popular belief, she was actually capable of feeling), and also, somewhat admiring. The young woman had wormed her way into a pureblood family and secured herself a comfortable environment for the rest of her life, that deserved a modicum of respect. Stood in front of her then, Ofelia looked resplendent in clothes much more expensive than the ones they went shopping for many months ago. She had done well for herself, it was undeniable, and in spite of herself, Rita offered her companion a weak smile.

“Yes, Mrs Selwyn invited me herself. No doubt I’ll be wheeled out like a performing monkey to tell some stories and try to liven up her dull event.” She gave an expressive roll of her eyes. “How are you? How’s the husband?”

With a deep breath, Ofelia sat down on the bench…near to Rita, if not exactly next to her. Ekaitz happily settled himself between the two women where he could be easily reached by either. For a moment, Ofelia distracted herself by playing with one of the pup’s silky ears. Ofelia had always been someone who wanted, or more accurately needed, to be liked. Usually, that fact made her fun at parties and everyone’s friend, but sometimes it caused her problems. Like now, when her desire to earn her new family’s love warred with her genuine affection for Rita.

It didn’t help that Ofelia knew she walked a fragile line with Rita, because Rita had a power over her that not many others did, and a unique avenue to exercise it. As an up and coming gossip columnist, and a talented one, too, Rita was perfectly positioned to expose Ofelia as a halfblood, bringing shame to the Jugson name in the process. It made Ofelia feel like she needed to appease Rita, which was not a comfortable feeling for her. And even though she would have insisted that her life was perfect now, part of Ofelia still missed the simpler days when she and Rita had just been good friends.

“You make it sound as if it is tan sombrío. So dull. The women, they love to talk at estas fiestas. Maybe you will learn something interesting.” Ofelia smiled encouragingly. It was her way to always find a silver lining, especially when someone else was being pessimistic. She was habitually optimistic to a fault, even with herself, always glossing over negative feelings, turning them into something rosy or ignoring them altogether.

Ofelia’s smile widened when Rita continued to make conversation, and she answered the other woman’s patented dry wit with her own trademark sunny enthusiasm. “I am well, I am keeping busy with nuestra casa. It needs work but it will be beautiful on the inside like it is on the outside.” Ofelia stopped short of inviting Rita over to see the new sunroom. After only the slightest awkward pause, she pivoted to Rita’s second question. “Quentin is well, as well. He is always so busy with work.” She said it brightly enough that it managed not to sound like a complaint.

#i rita #rita 001

marya-whoisleft

i am a girl like you // marya & ofelia

Marya wasn’t one to stay still for long — many of those close to her weren’t sure she knew how — but she managed to bring a certain grace to the bustling. Flitting from one place to the next like a hummingbird never taking a moment to settle, and never having a strand of hair fall out of place.

So it was not an unusual image to see her navigating the busy streets of Diagon Alley without a care in the world, crowds seeming to separate around her. In one hand she had a bag so oversized it should be at risk of toppling her over, but she was kept grounded by the small hand of her son on her other side. Nathanial kept pointing to various distractions of the street, keeping Marya’s entire attention focused on answering his questions up until the point of reaching the tea shop.

“Ofelia!”Marya called out to her friend once she was close to the outdoor table where the other was set up. “I’m so glad you had time today to meet up. And thank you for allowing Nathanial to join us. – Can you say thank you, Nathanial? – We were just out picking up a few things for him that look oh so handsome.”

It had been awhile since Marya had gotten together with Ofelia outside of the busy atmosphere of formal events. Yet, she saw no reason for that fact to affect their friendship. Ever since the woman made her way into English pureblood society, reminding Marya of herself with her bright smile and quiet paramour, she felt she had welcomed her with open arms. She never stopped to wonder to what extent those warm feelings were or were not returned.

“Tell me, what have you been up to? How is Quentin?”

@ofeliaestelle

ofeliaestelle-archive

Ofelia wanted to like Marya Warrington, after all, they had much more in common than not. They were each of them their husband’s heart, the soft and sweet to his guarded and aloof. They were both socialite-wives, and to Death Eaters no less. Ofelia wanted very much to build a community from that, slightly though not entirely similar to what their husbands shared. She would have expected to share an understanding with Marya, that what their husbands did was incredibly important, and in need of support. Alas, that seemed to be where Ofelia and Marya differed, and to Ofelia it was a crucial difference.

Of course, this didn’t mean Ofelia was anything less than pleasant to Marya, nor did it stop her from trying to build what she deemed to be a necessary friendship. More than anything, it made Ofelia sad and a little lonely, a thing she was loathed to admit. It was not easy, being the wife of such an intense man as Quentin, but Ofelia would never complain. Instead, she threw herself into distractions, and today’s distraction was tea with Marya and Nathaniel.

Ofelia had been meticulous in choosing the location for today’s tea. She could have just invited Marya to Jugson House, of course, but they’d already had tea in the newly renovated sunroom once, and Ofelia had yet to get to any of the parlors. She was not one to be calculating, but she felt that an extraordinary amount of care needed to be put into any sort of society engagement, even one as simple as tea with a friend. So she’d gone above and beyond to secure a reservation at Wizarding London’s most up and coming, but not too avant garde, tea shop.

She smiled at Marya when she saw her approaching, and then gave Nathaniel a special wave all his own. Ofelia was quite fond of the little boy. For all he was a sharp reminder of what her own life lacked, she didn’t hold that against him. She kept smiling as she fought to keep up with Marya’s rapid fire English, managing admirably to get the gist of it. “¡Claro! It is always a pleasure to see you and to see your sweet boy!”

As soon as Marya and Nathaniel settled down, a waiter appeared to take their order. Ofelia waited until after he’d left to answer Marya’s question. “As you know, we have finished la renovación, the renovating, in the sun room. We are now doing our bedroom. I found a beautiful… ¿Cómo se dice damassée?” Ofelia paused as she searched for the word in English, making a curving motion with her hands. “Damask! I have found a damask for the walls, it is silver, for Slytherin. Quentin is so proud of his Hogwarts House.” It was easy to talk about how renovations were going, especially since she knew Marya was fond of redecorating as well.

It was less easy to talk about Quentin, Ofelia told herself it was because he was so private. “Quentin works so hard. Of course, I would like him to always be at home, but he has a great mind, he must keep busy.”

#i marya #marya 001

evanrosier-wil:

This woman was clearly of the wilting variety. Evan hadn’t even been mean and she was already hurt. It was terribly annoying when he wasn’t in the mood for that sort of game, and today, apparently, was one of those days. At least she had her mutt under control again.

“I can see that,” Evan said. The dog did seem young, but he didn’t think that was a god excuse. She’d already wilted once, though, so he held the worst of his tongue. “Puppies are much like unruly children, then?”

The correction of the honorific he used and the presentation of her ring barely registered during his notebook search. It wasn’t until she was handing it back to him, cleaned up by her nice charm work, that he remembered what she had introduced herself as.

“Señora Jugson, was it?” he asked, nodding in thanks as he took his notebook. “Much obliged.”

He turned the notebook over in his hands to be polite, although he was curious about the job she had done. Memories could be faulty - in recently returned items one usually found old scratches that had never been noticed before. However, he could not find a single scuff.

“If you ever feel like escaping, you could make a pretty penny as an archivist,” he said with a wink.

“I would not know that, I have no children of my own.” She offered a tense, dim shadow of her usual sunny smile. It was a raw subject for Ofelia, not that this man was to know that. Every month she went without getting pregnant felt like a month that dragged her closer to the edge of society’s good graces. It was also another month alone and bored in a usually empty house, but Ofelia didn’t like to think about that. She smiled with more heart behind it, not wanting to bring down the stranger’s mood. “I think, yes, you must be right.” In Ofelia’s experience, men loved to be told they were right, and she could sense this man’s exasperation.

“¿Si, cómo se llama?” Again, Ofelia held her hand out to shake. She asked for his name in Spanish, hoping that his use of señora meant he spoke her language. It was exhausting, always having to translate her thoughts, not to mention confusing, with three different languages in her head. Not that Ofelia would ever complain, she loved her life in England and wouldn’t trade it for anything. Still, it was exciting, the prospect of using her mother tongue.

Ofelia’s forehead wrinkled into the tiniest frown when he winked at her. Surely such behavior toward a married woman was...unusual. Perhaps not appropriate? She was not sure if she should act offended or not. She didn’t want to be rude, but she didn’t want to give him the wrong idea either. She was acutely aware that her behavior needed to be above approach, thanks to April. Even if she had not been, she wouldn’t want anyone to think poorly of Quentin. “I promise, I do not have anything to run away from. I do not need to work.”

#I evan #evan 001

antonin-whoisleft

natural habitat | antonin & ofelia

The Carrows were not, perhaps, known for exciting dinner parties but they certainly teetered on the edge of extravagant and gaudy to the point where it made it all worthwhile to make an appearance to one anyway.

That was Antonin’s opinion, at least, long-perfected and tested from so many years of attendance. They were fun so long as one had a proper drink in hand and the right group’s attention, which Antonin tended to excel at anyway. Tonight’s shindig - half-indoors and half-out, taking advantage of the summer but tempting the fickleness of the gray sky above - was no different than the hundreds of others, which meant Antonin was simply thriving.

He wasn’t much a big fan of change, not when it came to playing the part of Pureblood Society’s Golden Boy; a title he’d given to himself, mostly, but often reinforced by the cooing older ladies and respectable nods from the men of his world. It was enough to think it of himself; being fawned over, called over for conversation and asked for his opinion from anything from other Ministry department advice to party planning for the next Sacred 28 dinner.

At the moment he found himself in a rare pocket of quiet, sipping at Carrow-expensive whiskey and casting his large eyes about the fairy-light lit patio, a violinist - not as good as him, he noted, but Merlin forbid he’d ever get asked to perform instead of attend - playing away beneath a glowing tree’s canopy. His gaze traveled on, noting who was drunk and who was getting drunker and who may be the best to pounce on for a future favor - but then he landed on Ofelia Jugson, Quentin Jugson’s… new-ish bride. He’d attended the wedding, of course, but had not lingered long into the reception; he’d had other responsibilities to see to that night, and only Lord Voldemort - and maybe Emma Vanity - could pull him away from a function.

“Hullo!” Antonin greeted the woman, his age but somehow older seeming just from the simple fact that she was already married, his best smile on his face as he approached. “How are you liking the party, Ofelia?”

@ofeliaestelle

ofeliaestelle-archive

Ofelia was still not used to attending lavish parties. She was good at parties, of course. She was great at parties, she had a gift for light hearted and sunny, always complementary and ready for a good time. But the parties she knew, they were not like the parties she attended now. The parties she was used to called for free flowing and most importantly cheap alcohol and a little, tight skirt and música a todo volumen, the kind that you felt in your bones. Those were the parties where a Viteri Romilly belonged, but now Ofelia was a Jugson, and she belonged to a different sphere altogether.

Tonight, she was wearing a gown that April had helped her pick out. It was the closest they got to genuinely bonding, when April was making sure Ofelia would dress appropriately and not bring shame to the family. Ofelia had wanted something in white, but April insisted on color, so they’d compromised on a blush pink sheath that sparked and caught the light whenever Ofelia moved. She had been a little nervous that it would be too flashy, but her dress was neither the most nor the least subtle gown in attendance.

So far, Ofelia had spent the evening close to Quentin’s side. She smiled when he glowered and laughed when he stayed silent. It was one of her favorite things to do, these days, because she felt like she was contributing. It was almost like having a job again, to be responsible for softening Quentin, for being his more approachable side. Ofelia liked to think of herself as Quentin’s public heart, and it was a role she took quite seriously.

Now, however, she found herself alone, drifting aimlessly amidst crowds that were still not entirely friendly as Quentin excused himself to “talk business.” At a normal party, Ofelia would have had no problem socializing by herself, but even with her exquise etiquette courtesy of Beauxbatons every conversation at an event like this felt like an accident waiting to happen. In lieu of all that, Ofelia was hanging back, enjoying the expensive champagne.

When Antonin Dolohov approached, Ofelia broke into her genuinely sunny smile. She did not know the man well, but she knew he was one of Quentin’s associates in the Death Eaters, and one of the friendlier ones, in fact. “Bonsoir, Antonin.” She was relieved he’d used her name first, giving her the option to call him something other than Mr. Dolohov. “The party is tres impressionnant. Are you enjoying your time this night?”

#i antonin #antonin 1

rxtaskeeter-deactivated20210706

date: 2nd august, 1978 time: 7am location: diagon alley OPEN

Rita did not consider herself to be an early bird or a night owl. She found labels of all kinds to be unnecessary and extremely limiting (heterosexual, gossip columnist, Muggleborn), and these were no exception. Not only that, but neither really applied to her, being one of those freakish souls who could survive on astonishingly little sleep; falling into her bed at 2am after a long night of writing and bouncing out of bed again at 5:30am so that she could be one of the first in the office.

That being said, there was something about mornings that she found incredibly energising - the possibilities, the blank slate. Living on Diagon Alley certainly helped, her curiosity always propelling her out of her flat to watch all the shops open, their wares for the day displayed outside or in the windows. Her pace would slow as she passed the market stalls, eyes scanning to see if there was anything worth buying or writing about (there never was) as she sipped a coffee bought along the way.

It was a warm morning already, and Rita happily sat on a bench in the sun, soaking it up as much as she could ahead of her long day in a room where sunlight was often obscured by cigarette smoke and many enormous male egos. Her eyes had closed in contentment for a moment, only for a shadow to fall across her face seconds later and cause her to open them again, expression confused until she registered who it was.

“Oh, it’s you. I wasn’t expecting to see you until later.”

ofeliaestelle-archive

Ofelia Jugson was most decidedly a morning person, a fact she’d quickly learned upon moving to England and gaining new friends who’d slapped the label on her more than once or twice. Morning was her hora favorita del día, her favorite time of day. It was the best time for sketching in her little book and for taking Ekaitz for a walk, which she was doing now. What she wasn’t sure of, was if it was a good thing or a bad thing. She felt that it must be good, mornings were muy vigorizante, so exciting, yet people often said it like it was a bad thing. It was the sort of thing she needed to ask Rita about.

Rita Skeeter was becoming a somewhat complicated figure in Ofelia’s life. They’d first met shortly after Ofelia arrived in England and became fast friends. They’d bonded over being two halfblood young women fresh out of school, albeit two different ones. Ofelia loved listening to Rita talk, she made the whole world seem like it could be a fairytale, reminding Ofelia of Gillian. It wasn’t a problem until Ofelia married Quentin, and April started glaring when Ofelia mentioned her heritage or her halfblood friends. Now Ofelia was torn between doing everything she could to support Quentin and remaining loyal to one of her first friends in England.

As if her thoughts had summoned the other woman, Ofelia spotted Rita relaxing on the other side of the street. Intending to ask her about being a “morning person,” Ofelia gently tugged Ekaitz to heel and crossed the street. She was distracted momentarily by Rita’s greeting, and her friendly smile pulled into a frown.

“Later? When? Oh, are you going to be present at the Selwyns’ this night?”

#i rita #rita 001

Ofelia Jugson; character introduction

Basic Information

Full Name: Ofelia Estelle Jugson, nee Viteri Romilly

Nickname(s): Ofelia has never been gifted with a nickname by anyone, but she’s always liked the sound of Felly

Age: 20

Date of Birth: 9 July 1958 at 9:09am

Hometown: Vitoria-Gasteiz, Basque Country, Spain

Current Location: County Kent, England

Ethnicity: Basque and French

Nationality: Spanish

Gender: Cisfemale

Pronouns: She/her

Species: human, witch

Orientation: straight

Religion: agnostic

Occupation: wife and socialite

Living Arrangements: Jugson House

Language(s) Spoken: Spanish, French, English

Accent: Spanish

#you're tied together with a smile

singing happy birthday to you; closed for gretchen ollivander

Ofelia loved baking for any occasion, and really she loved to bake even without an occasion, but by far her favorite occasion to bake for was a birthday. So she was thrilled to learn that Gretchen Ollivander’s birthday was at the beginning of August. It had taken a while for Ofelia to decide exactly what kind of cake she would make for Gretchen. Her first instinct had been a gateau basque, but she wasn’t sure that would have enough of a wow factor for the bombastic blonde. In the end she’d settled on a savarin, light and boozy and overflowing with fresh fruit, it was the perfect choice for a summer birthday, and for Gretchen.

After all, Ofelia wanted everything to be perfect for Gretchen, a woman she considered one of her dearest friends in England. Technically, they’d first met in a club bathroom, where Ofelia had noticed Gretchen’s simply to die for lipgloss and she’d just had to tell her. That in and of itself was not a remarkable interaction for Ofelia, but what followed later that evening was. Ofelia had completely forgotten the girl with the lipgloss when she found herself cornered by an incredibly forceful, and incredibly drunk, man. That was when Gretchen had swooped in like a guardian angel, rescuing Ofelia from his advances.

So Ofelia had made Gretchen a perfect savarin, and found not one but two just right presents. She was excited to surprise Gretchen, so as soon as she was up and dressed Ofelia set off for Gretchen’s flat, even though the sun was still low in the sky. She arrived at Gretchen’s flat bright and early and knocked loudly. It didn’t occur to Ofelia that Gretchen might still be sleeping until it took her a while to answer the door. When the door finally did open, Ofelia smiled brightly despite her misgivings. “¡Feliz cumpleaños! And many happy returns!” Ofelia added the phrase, despite the fact that it made very little sense to her, because it was something people said to her on her own birthday the month before. “I have a cake, y regalos. Presents.”

@gretchen-whoisleft

#i gretchen #gretchen 001

evanrosier-wil:

Evan did not like dogs. They were annoyingly obsequious creatures - not so very unlike the people who owned them, he found. Mind, Evan didn’t actually know very many people with dogs, so his sample size was extremely small.

The fact that this woman with a dog who had just run proceeded to apologize so excessively didn’t do much to change his opinion of dog owners.

“Yes, I am fine,” he responded tersely as he took a moment to wipe the wrinkles out of his trousers. “If you cannot control your animal, you shouldn’t take it into public.”

He eyed her up and down. She looked young, perhaps about his age. Not someone he immediately recognized. “And you are, Senorita…?”

Evan’s outing for that day had been a nice little read in the park. It was nonfiction, and so he had been taking some notes. The dark green book was still tucked in his waistband, but it appeared that the notebook had note survived their collision.

“Excuse me, but have you seen a notebook? It’s leather and has E.R. stamped onto the cover. Approximately this size,” he said, holding out his hands to mark out its shape.

Ofelia wilted under the young man’s dismissive tone, so like her padre, and for a moment hurt flashed across her face before she fixed her sunny smile back in place. “Ekaitz is well trained, se lo aseguro. He is only un perrito, a puppy.” As if to underscore Ofelia’s point, Ekaitz was now sitting patiently at her feet, tail thumping on the ground as he looked up with big, brown eyes that silently begged for affection.

When the young man addressed her as “Señorita,” Ofelia drew herself up to her full, if diminutive, height and held out her left hand, angling it so her ring caught the light. “Mrs. Jugson, Ofelia Jugson.” This, at least, she knew how to do. She would not let this man say Quentin Jugson’s new wife did not know how to introduce herself, and truth be told, she’d had more than enough practice. She steeled herself for the shock and disbelief that would inevitably follow, but the young man was more concerned with something tucked into the waistband of his pants.

At the young man’s question, Ofelia turned her eyes to the ground, scanning it with sharp attention. With someone less severe, she might have tried to practice Ekaitz’s scent work, but she had a feeling this man would not be impressed with the trick, even if it did work. Quickly, Ofelia spotted the small book and retrieved it from the ground a few feet away. The leather of the cover had been scuffed, but luckily how to clean and repair delicate items like clothes and books was precisely the kind of charmwork taught at Beauxbatons. With a brief, but intricate, bit of wandwork, Ofelia had the book looking possibly better than it had before its fall. “Que bueno. It is good like new.” She offered it back with a smile.

#i evan #evan 001 #had to include a link to the ring #bc it's obscene and i love it

open starter

It was the kind of day that made Ofelia miss Spain, but only privately. On the outside she was smiling, just as excited by the weak sunshine as those around her. On the inside, she was not quite triste, just sombria. Glum, the word came to her after a moment’s thought. It was delightfully British, an ugly word for an ugly feeling, better than sombria, which was too beautiful for its meaning. Yes, the weak sunshine of Britain made Ofelia glum, because it made her miss the true sunshine of her home country. But, only privately.

Publicly, Ofelia was out for a walk with Ekaitz, enjoying the weather for all the world to see. It did, at the very least, give her a good excuse to wear a lightweight, white dress that had been languidecer, languish, in her closet for too long. It was nicer than anything she had ever owned before she married Quentin, but now it was a day dress. It was the kind of dress you would walk a dog in. It was still difficult to get used to being rich, even though it had been many months.

Ekaitz himself seemed happily unaware of his owner’s true mood. He was trotting along with his tail held high, a black flag waving and shining in the breeze. It made Ofelia feel better, to see him so joyful, and her heart became a little bit lighter. The puppy was her closest companion these days, since April wanted little to do with her and society in general seemed to not know what to make of her. It had been Ofelia’s experience, so far, that her husband’s society would rather speak about her than to her.

Ofelia was lost in her glum thoughts and not paying enough attention to Ekaitz when he saw something that caught his eye on the other side of the street. He lunged in that direction with enough force to drag Ofelia with him a couple of steps before she could bark out a sharp, “Detener, ven!” At her command, Ekaitz trotted back to Ofelia’s side, equally content to follow her orders as he had been to chase whatever had caught his attention. She paused to give him a small treat as reward for his good behavior.

With a tight grip on the lead, Ofelia stepped back onto the sidewalk and straight into another passerby. “Ay! I am sorry, mi perro, my dog,” Ofelia tripped over her English in her embarrassment. “I was not paying attention, I am sorry. Are you fine?”

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