only child.

loneliness is the FRACTURE that never heals right.

[vellichvrs]

what does the god of your childhood look like? a soft apparition pigeoned in the attic, a WOUND eating you one year at a time?

#VELLICHVRS. a dependent merry lestrange established by rachel on the 2nd of june, 2020.

biography.     statistics.     pinterest.     noxtms.

[vellichvrs]

brcathlcss​:

Immediately stifling a laugh behind her hand, Elodie ducks her head to avoid scrutiny from the stall owner. Her eyes linger on the hat, of course, and on the woman holding it. Normally, she’s better at keeping her composure than this, but frankly, she’s had more than a few tankards of mead just to keep this whole event from being a bit too much, and it’s resulted in… whatever the hell is going on with her now. “It’s certainly an… acquired taste.” The nicest thing she can say about the accessory, really, and she is genuinely trying. No reason to be upsetting people over their creations when the rest of them seem perfectly normal. Just… this one. “Where do you suppose the inspiration came from?” 

“i would love to meet the sort of person that you think would wear this in all seriousness,” merry stage whispers back at her, though thankfully that’s low enough for the individual manning the stall to miss her continuing shit talk. she tugs softly on one of the near luminous feathers glued around the edges and then decides she liked it much more resting where she plucked it from, setting it back down on top of the mannequin head and making sure it’s straight. “a fwooper, perhaps?” that’s the only thing it puts her in mind of, and even then, it still seems like a strange extreme.

[vellichvrs]

cvriousheart​:

oriana felt bad. it was a horrible, slimy sort of feeling—distinct from the grime that coated them whenever they publish an obvious lie about someone in their gossip column. (in that moment, they thought back to the article that was filed away in their drafts, about the woman in front of her and her very very dead husband. they ignored it.) they wondered how sybill got used to it, if she ever did. for the hundredth time, they wished for the chance to just ask. “uh-” they didn’t think they would get this far, had no scheme ready to get more money out of her. “drink some tea?” their voice was shaky, unsure. “every day at 12:04 am exactly until you find love, you need to drink a cup of green tea.”

she didn’t notice their nerves. she wasn’t looking for them, and even if she were, she’d probably have chalked it up to an effect of the second sight, at this stage. according to seraphina, her great great grandmother had seer genes that didn’t pass on, so merry really has no reason to doubt oriana when she so strongly believes in what they’re selling. “tea?” she scrunches her nose up in disgust ( she’s always been more of a coffee drinker than tea, especially when it’s green ) but files away a mental note about it anyways, feeling it important to ask, “but how will i know when i find love? how will i know when to stop?” 

[vellichvrs]

scapegrvce​:

( 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 ) — the leaky cauldron, diagon alley  ( 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 ) — closed ( 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 ) — merry lestrange ( @vellichvrs​ )

a coffee sat on the table in front of augustine—no cream, no sugar, and cold. it wasn’t forgotten, more-so ignored in favor of studying the door across the room. she itched to run, to leave merry with the check and go back to the shitty apartment she called home. but the woman she once called sister sat in front of her, had for the past half hour, as they stumbled over small talk. she forced her attention back to merry, looked her in the eyes, before she looked at her coffee. she grabbed a spoon, stirred the coffee—anything, anything, anything to do with her hands. before the words could die in her throat, she spoke, the first meaningful thing the estranged pair had exchanged—”how’s seraphina?”

it feels strange to be somewhere so public, and merry has to keep reminding herself that there’s no such thing as too much so, anymore, when the secret of augustine’s birth has been made common knowledge. there are two instincts at war within, these days, and she’s never quite sure which one to listen to - part of her might always be the young woman instructed to forget her young sister had ever existed at all, while the other cannot deny the comfort it brings to be sat across from the only other person who can possibly understand the lives they led. it’s all been small talk and pleasantries, which merry appreciates, but she can’t pretend as if she didn’t know they’d get here, eventually. she taps her coffee cup with the nail of her right index finger, over and over, wondering what to say before she realises the silence is stretching just a little too far and is forced to swallow back the lump in her throat, deciding the truth is always the best, “she’s been better. the article was tough...- i feel that every time she thinks herself finally free of the stain our father brought on us all, something more happens to drag her down.” and it’s deserved, and merry can’t deny that either, but she’ll never really be able to forsake her mother the way that augustine surely can.  

[vellichvrs]

cvriousheart​:

( 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 ) — cadbury castle ( 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 ) — cadbury ren faire ( 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 ) —  closed ( 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 ) — @vellichvrs​

“your love life is turbulent.” oriana held merry’s hand in their own. with their free hand, they traced the lines of her palms. “it’s bound to end up in tragedy, no matter how hard you try.” it was a lie, in truth, influenced by the knowledge that merry was tragically widowed. when it came to sybill’s divination lessons, they remembered next to nothing when it came to palm reading, remembered more so the ways they sneered at it, even outside of school. “there will love, real love, but there’s no happy ending in sight.”

well, that just seemed painfully personal. merry did her best not to show how STUNG she was by the immediacy in which oriana was able to decree such a thing, but it wasn’t easy - in trying to paste a smile over the instinctive frown, she ended up with a kind of grimace in place, instead. she hated the thoughts of pyotr it conjured ( never the one though he never quite got the chance ) and hated even more the way the thought of being destined for tragedy settled in the pit of her stomach. in the level way of someone trying too hard to come off as casual, merry asked, slowly, “is there anything i can do to change it?” 

[vellichvrs]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:   cadbury renaissance faire  ! 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆:   @mxterfxciendo​ / @endeavorisms​ / @evitantiisms​ / @brcathlcss​ / @valiantiisms​  ! 

"oh, this is so silly.” she really didn’t mean to speak so loudly, though. a cluck of disapproval from the stall owner forces merry to drop her volume a couple notches, but it doesn’t stop her from lifting the odd little hat right off the table and holding it up for her nearest fellow shopper to see. a little more respectfully ( but directing the sort of smile towards them that betrayed she wasn’t taking this particular item as seriously as she perhaps ought to be ), merry added, quietly, “don’t you think this is sort of ... tacky ? i mean, look at it - it’s so garish.” 

[vellichvrs]

anxtherhxliday​:

location: diagon alley status: open ( @startertms​ )

“–Oh shit, sorry–” A burst of annoyingly peppy elevator music spills out into the world and Rhea pats hurriedly around her person to find it–not in the jacket pockets, not in the back pockets, must be–ah yes. There it is. She snatches her cell phone free of the confines of her crammed, messy bag and immediately silences it, wincing apologetically as she glances at the crowd around her. “That was–I uh. Sorry.” Successfully embarrassed, she drops the phone back in her bag and looks around. “Nice day out, eh?” 

“no need to apologise,” she says, simply, though her expression remains politely confused. merry’s a lot more old school than young british wix have proven to be; she’s never owned a ‘cell phone’, and she probably never will. they don’t seem worth the HASSLE, especially when one considered the effect that magic apparently had on most technologies - owls were the far more reliable option. “are they all that tinny?” is a genuine question, though it’s clear that what she MEANS to ask is whether they’re all so annoying, “i don’t see the appeal.” 

[vellichvrs]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:   outside of rosa lee teabag, diagon alley   ! 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆:   @persiistents​​ / @sqviidboy​​ / @qviddiitch​​ / @tiimetvrners​  !

“oh, je suis désolé. did you want that chair?” people watching from a table bathed in early morning sunlight, a cup of coffee held between her hands, merry had grown so blind and deaf to anything happening in her immediate area that she hadn’t noticed anyone approaching until they were right there. her assumption from their stance - construed as hovering, awkwardly - was that they couldn’t find a place to sit themselves down at, and she had been hogging this particular two seater for a while. her 'alone time’ had only been enjoyable for as long as it had taken her to wake up properly, so with a hint of something hopeful lacing her tone, she added, “it’s free. if you have nothing against my company, you’re welcome to sit.” 

[vellichvrs]

𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:   eastwell estate, london   ! 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆:   @qviddiitch​ / @tiimetvrners​ / @wandmaking​ / @persiistents​ / @sqviidboy​ / @unfcttcrcd​ !

“excuse moi,” she whispers so as not to disturb the uncomfortable silence that has fallen since the arrival of the aurors, just barely brushing her hand against the others elbow to better grab their attention. “do you think this will take much longer?” she doesn’t imagine they know anything more than her, least of all for sure, but she came alone - she doesn’t have anyone else to discuss the matter with, and it’s just as much about having any conversation at all so as to pass the time as it is discussing the matter at hand. “i’ve never experienced anything like it. surely we should be allowed to apparate back to our homes, don’t you think ?”

[junebugjules]

when gillian flynn wrote “i just think some women aren’t made to be mothers, and some women aren’t made to be daughters.” and when sylvia plath wrote “that afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. ‘save them for my funeral,’ i’d said.” and when jeffrey eugenides wrote “being the girls’ mother, i should understand them more than anyone. but that’s what’s so frightening. i don’t.” and when mitski said “mom, am i still young? can i dream for a few months more?” and when lorde said “my mother’s love is choking me.”

[honeytuesday]

mothers and daughters existing as wretched mirrors of each other: i am all you could have been and you are all i might be.

[atelierwriting]

– joy luck club, amy tan

[luxe-pauvre]

“Beauty was my mother’s law, her religion. You could do anything you wanted, as long as you were beautiful, as long as you did things beautifully. If you weren’t, you just didn’t exist. She had drummed it into my head since I was small. Although I had noticed by now that reality didn’t always conform to my mother’s ideas.”

— Janet Fitch, White Oleander

[classicfilmblr]

MIRIAM HOPKINS in THE STORY OF TEMPLE DRAKE 1933 │ dir. Stephen Roberts

[aconissa]

Desireé Dallagiacomo, ‘Origin Story’, Sink / Deborah Levy, Hot Milk

[voirlvmer]

“What is lineage, if not a gold thread of pride and guilt.”

— Ada Limón, “The Hurting Kind,” published in The Rumpus (via bostonpoetryslam)

[vellichvrs]

   ( lindsey morgan, cis woman, she / her )   isn’t that 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞-𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 ? i read a daily prophet article on them, once ; the thirty one year old pure blood witch is a BEAUXBATONS alumnus who has gone on to be a ministry archivist. i’ve heard they can be quite sedulous & amenable, but i don’t know... they came off very acquiescent & recreant in that interview. it really is hard to know what to believe these days, isn’t it ?

                     ——     REDIRECT HERE TO BIOGRAPHY.