louis weasley / sixteen / sixth year / ravenclaw / one-eighth veela
"You keep storing up all that anger and grief eventually it spills over, or you drown in it."
Louis Weasley lived in a shaft of sunlight in which he always felt like he was the one shadow, never so intense as his siblings, Victoire with her dragons and Dominique with her rebellion, Louis had only ever wished for one thing: peace. He took after his mother in the ways of France, bilingual before he was five, speaking French around the house with his Maman, and often visiting France when he can, loving to shop and cook with his Mémé. This isn’t to say that he did not also love the very Weasley side of his family, but rather, they lived in the country his parents made a home of, and the Delacours were to be visited as a treat. His Tata Gabrielle liked to whisk himself and his mother off to some fashion show or another, as Louis had always favored his French side.
As for the opinions of those outside of the family, Louis had never given much thought to the proceedings of those outside of the Weasley-Potter-Delacour bubble he had been raised inside of. He had always been rather kind to anyone outside of the family, but only very personal with his cousins and with those in favor, such as the Scamanders, any children of his family’s friends. Louis had never been much for reaching out all on his own, a touch shy, but more distracted with his own wondrous imagination and artistic expression, a writer in his own right. A touch shy, a touch sad, no, Louis had never reached out of his own volition.
Loving the quiet more than anything, Louis can usually be found in the library, though not always reading, as he is one to lounge about with a friend or two there. If he isn’t there, he can be found in the kitchens with the house elves, as they always appreciated the presence of a kind face, a congenial conversational partner, who never made fun of them when they disarranged a few words, here and there. The current stirrings within the wizarding world set Louis on edge, but he did not let it get to him, nor his relations with anyone else. He would not be an instigator of an argument that could end in something worse than detention.
A serendipitous smile here, a expeditious word there, not many could fathom that gentle Louis Weasley supported the Order of the Phoenix with all he could manage, open arms always ready to help, but he had never been a fighter. Even in the gamut of the current conflict, there would never be a Louis that was ready to fight for his life, more of an artist, a lover, than a warmaker, a fighter. Born and raised a hairsbreadth away from where the second war’s effort made its home, Louis is of the firm belief he would rather be there, practically a professional homemaker than out fighting people whom he may have once called a fellow student. He would not lead of the life of his elders. History could not repeat itself again.
