gryffindor - half-blood - seventh year - jessica sula - closed
you are born from the flames of olympus as a god of fiery, bubbly existence - a father that worships the ground you walk on and a mother that leaves, before a family of ethereal existences can be formed. your father, perhaps a friendlier, livelier zeus; an entrepreneur of the lovingly magical and magically loving kind, raises you to walk with confidence, a total acceptance of self. you recognise no large family affections; your father, a detached family man that no longer firecalls a family that looked down upon the poorer, less influential woman at the centre of his affections; and you, with no siblings or cousins. yet you love, and care, and find belief in the magical entities of feelings of virtue. the lack of presence of a mother figure does not aggravate you, without a moment’s thought to a hera that disregarded her responsibilities - yet feelings of repressed anger and disappointment resurface themselves, later in your adolescence years, in everyday conversations, with your feared temper.
you walk through the gates of hogwarts with grace, with your eyes curious, your chin raised. you are not fazed even if the crowd of grown children surrounding you seem crippled with nerves; your father has told you that you needn’t worry, after all, and worry you shall not. you walk through the gates of hogwarts with a loud easiness, a sympathetic authority figure from age eleven, and find your path leading you to the great house of gryffindor. your father, a fellow lion himself, is secretly delighted. in the first few months of magical education, you not only build a friendship group around yourself, but become the centre of it, as well - your loud, clear voice begins to ravel itself around the time you unravel your passion for quidditch. a legacy of a seeker like your father before you, you climb the ladder of sports bureaucracy until you are selected captain in your sixth year, barely passing transfiguration, but loving the freedom that flying and the adrenaline of winning always.
it is likely that people will try to avoid crossing you; while you are on the way of figuring out a moral compass that belongs to you and you only, you are dedicated to your friends, but you are always open for conversation to those who have not wronged you. it is mostly dishonesty that you cannot tolerate - in sports, in relations, in academics, all kinds of treachery. you do not surround yourself with laborious academics but the technicalities required for professional quidditch, in which you and your father believe you might have a very ostentatious future. you live and breathe fiercely; no mellowness to your nature, an artemis in making.
the nepenthe: your shared agenda is joy in all things, at all times. if grief comes haunting you from a past you do not remember, it is each other you find shared fury and agony with. both bubbles of social grace and humility underneath a surface of curious friendliness, you also find quick-quiet-secret encounters of juicy teen gossip, epics of genuine laughter, arguing over sociopolitics, turning each other into divinities.
the alexithymic: begrudgingly crushing on and coincidentally hating someone has never been so hard; you admire them, body and mind, from a distance of easy competition and leashes on your teams, angry flirting over the sound of bludgers and quaffles. you will never be compatible in soul, one complete with feelings, one refusing to acknowledge them - and yet, this tension never leaves.
the opulent: two souls of similar understandings of society, and an entirely similar repressed anger of parental misunderstandings. two egos collide under the pressure of potions partnerships; studies in draughts and elixirs have never been either so amusing, or so conflicting. your way into the slytherin world, they bring colour in your life in a way that most people haven’t, and you accept, fully.
