nott, cecilia }{ [complete]

[cecilianott]

CECILIA G. NOTT

CILIA GRACE, SEVENTEEN, SLYTHERIN, E. HEATHERTON
HAUGHTY, PROUD, RECKLESS, JUDGMENTAL, COQUETTE, SOCIALITE, [/CENTER]

It is seven months, and a mere handful of days past the day she wed Vincent, and Andrea is learning a very special thing about being queen of a pureblood household. The missing handful of days can, and will make all the difference in the way the house looks at her first, sweet little girl. The way the staff, human and house elf alike, compliment and coo over the child is perfectly acceptable. Their hushed whispers, and judgmental gaze as she carries the pretty bundle from one end of the manor to the other, is entirely not. She is not a fixture in this great house, and she knows it. In fact, Andrea Nott nee Alvarez has her feet straddling the threshold, figuratively. Vincent was happy to pluck a bride straight from Hogwarts. He is not so happy with missing days, and a household who believe in varying degrees as to how pure his first child's blood is. Andrea knows this, but she will protect her Cecilia Grace. She dislikes the name Cecilia-- it was Vincent's choice, but she loves the child. Already dreaming of tea parties, and taffeta dress robes with ribbon, Andrea couldn't care less about the breathy whispering behind her back. Vincent insists that the next child will exhibit more of the striking Nott features, demands it in a heated argument, to be precise. The man took just enough time to bless his firstborn with a name, and set aside her namesake's unused wand. The baby will spend the next years alternately listening to, and ignoring the rumors about her birth. Andrea will never stop to consider anyone's feelings on the matter.

It is a grey, gloomy day on the streets of London, puddles and fog and all. This, to the eldest Nott child, is familiar and safe. The riotous energy on Platform 9 ¾, however, is not. At eleven and a half she feels it is her duty to look as diplomatic and comfortable here as in her own home-- she manages to look as if someone has just pinched her bum, instead. These are her last moments with her family, the snot-nose that is nine year old Mercedes, and the already gangley ten year old brother of hers seem to be paying her as much attention as children in a candy store might pay a brussels sprout. Her father's hand is heavy on her shoulder, as her mother leans in for a quick kiss on the forehead, smoothing her daughter's unruliest hairs back from her forehead. Cecilia is told, in a whisper, that she will do amazing-- and they will be proud of her. It does not occur to her that they might well be proud already, the Nott family has never spoken a word of praise, without something to be praised for. She has her last words of encouragement and expectation, and with it she's put on the train. In her own compartment, where she might cry if she needs to. Alone, frustrated and uncertain, she does. And it is a long, long first ride to Hogwarts.


It is freezing, snowing and the window has frosted just thick enough to curl away ribbons of ice as she draws one perfectly cut and polished fingernail over the surface. She hates it-- hatred for the way those big white flakes out there look so much prettier caught in dark hair, and dark eyelashes. Sitting among her peers, in the small train compartment, though, she finds it much less troubling to be fair haired and freckled. They are dull persons to keep around, each one buried under shallow gossip and useless virtues. It has taken years to uncover just one, one measly girl in a compartment of five, not including herself. Just the one has a personality, a real idea of the world beyond what her parents think and say, do and do not. It is this one who is least pretty, obviously. Five girls, not counting herself-- that's one for each of her fingertips on her right hand. Cecilia could count well beyond her fingertips the number of things that made her more desirable than this girl. More than all of the others, too. She won't though, tell them yet. Cecilia Grace knows better than to do such a thing. Mother hadn't reacted well at all, to the news that her youngest daughter, Mercy, was an ugly, stupid thing and deserved the pinch Cecilia had given her. Hadn't much liked the other things she had to say about her younger sister being dull and unlikeable, either. Dull and unlikeable, just like these girls who thought they were her friends. It only made sense that they shouldn't want to hear it-- Cecilia tells them anyway. Stands, and tells them she's bored with them. This year, Cecilia will make new friends. She is okay with this.

It is too dark in her room, too lonesome. Too quiet. And Cecilia is altogether too old to be creeping down the hallway to her brother's bedroom door because she's had a nightmare. Not that she sees it that way. Nightmares scare small children in the middle of the night, what she's been dreaming of woke her up with the sudden force of a broom collision. For some time after she is let in, Cecilia does nothing but shiver and cry quietly-- assured as she is that she is a pretty thing, when teary-eyed and sleep deprived, her brother is the only one to have seen her like this in the past five years. A taxing feat, but then, so is trusting the girls who occupy the other bunks in her room at Hoggies. So, too, is trusting her frivolous mother, or her distant, indifferent father. And she'd jump off a roof before she trusted Mercedes with a single thought that had nothing to do with what a disappointment of a sister she'd turned out to be. That last bit made Cecilia a touch nauseas, and it didn't go unnoticed. By the end of the night, Cecilia has been shaken by the shoulders and told to grow up, be the eldest child like she should. She has been hugged close, had her back rubbed gently in apology for the loss of temper that is almost expected in the Nott boys. More importantly, she walks away from that room with a light feeling in her head, and no weight on her chest. He knows she loves him, she hopes. Though she couldn't possibly fathom whether it's a returned feeling. She hopes so, every time she's shaken.


It is cool for early September, the touch of autumn wind trailing goosebumps up and down her arms. Not that she notices. Several glasses of exceedingly sweet and heady butterbeer, mixed with a taste of only the choicest firewhiskey have left her blood warm against the chill. Her eyes, darkened with the heaviness that comes to her when she drinks, take in the great sea of darkness that is Hogwarts grounds. Ice clinks against the glass, as she drains a last sip-- and casually tosses the pretty thing out into the night. Cecilia's eyes are closed, when the tinkling cry of glass against cobblestones breaks through the muffled noise of nighttime. She smiles, genuinely. Not at the destruction, but the sound, the chaos in the night. It takes a moment, but across the courtyard, the sound is repeated. And again-- again, and again until the echo ripples out over the grounds, across the lake and into the dark forest. A wave of misbehavior, an orchestration of whim, from the mind of a seventeen year old girl with little else to do after double Astronomy, save enjoy a good drink and boss about the mindless cesspool of teenage lewdness and need. It was her idea, passed along, and when the shattering ceases to echo a cool sadness creeps in its stead. Of all the things she could feel, surrounded by people who would follow her every whim in this world she has won, Cecilia is afraid. There were other girls, just like her. Some she followed, others she still strives to be. This world of taffeta and lace, golden galleons, silver spoons and empty heads was meant to be hers this year, her seventh. The cold traces a shiver all down her spine, and she wraps her arms around herself, head bowed. For an instant, she truly doubts herself-- one heady moment later, and she is certain again. This is still her world. Always.

it is not a reverent respect for her place in the social hierarchy of life that leaves young cecilia acting the way she does. at twelve, she simply knows she is prettier, and privileged. she sits at her piano lessons, her riding lessons, with her arithmancy tutor and her poised mother watching because it is easy. it simply works. behind the neatly folded hands, and pearly smile she is amused but restless. another new hobby is demanded of her and she complies at the moment of suggestion. there is little reason for it-- but she is good at it. and she won't admit to the fear of picking other directions. for all her complaints, the idea of deviating is rejected fully. there are risks, for girls like her, who don't please their parents, their parents' friends. it's called disinherited. and it is frightful. and all her excuses turn back to that one bit she'd never admit. this is what she knows, and she is afraid to accept there is so much more she does not know.

it is not a pleasant afternoon, though she promises her mother and father with all the heart she can. it was, it really was. he took her out to the apple orchard on his family's property. they had a lovely dinner, and yes, of course they had the house elf there to bring it along. he's a right gentleman and perhaps she should like to see him again but-- the truth is she simply isn't ready for such a commitment. the truth she isn't telling them is not simple. something about a boy with finer bone structure and softer hands than her own does not thrill her. that's what cecilia wants, a thrill. time and time again she has told the same story, about these boys, these suitors who come knocking and asking after her. there's something much more exciting about the hand on her thigh during history of magic, the hand attached to a boy without a spotless record and enough daring to play at being naughty during class. she takes her enjoyment out of dragging a boy by his poorly made tie into the broom closet while she is on rounds. and merlin forgive her, but sometimes the boys who don't play nice, don't play by the rules she follows-- well, sometimes it's them. but she'd never tell that story.



it is neither her birthday, nor a holiday. today is february fourteenth, the day cecilia intended to lose her virginity-- and the day she failed completely at losing it. there are candles, and everything. he lights bloody freaking candles and sings her the prettiest love song on record to the date. and then there is much snogging, and touching. and right in the middle of all of it, she is entirely compelled to announce that this is her first time. the whole situation spirals out of her control. in the end, mr. chivalry dictates she should make the first one special-- with someone special. and cecilia is left lying in her bed alone, well past the time her roommates were specified entry would again be allowed. she feigns sleep, and in the morning there is the rumor that cecilia denied a boy sex on the simple visual account of his endowment. that is her story. and it ruins what may have been her chances, and it ruins what may have been a reputation, but she is safe. and she knows perfectly well, what she said happened that day is just as perfectly false.

it isn't that they doubt her behavior, they simply want her to set a better example. a better example is all, they say, just teach mercedes a bit more about how to be at hogwarts. try, they say. and she smiles that prettiest smile, dimpling just slightly. because cecilia knows there is nothing she can do to be a better example for her youngest sibling. that child has been nothing but a travesty since the day she was born. mercy is stupid, as slow and lacking in talent as any squib might be. this is what cecilia thinks, full of venom and unquestionable certainty. full of jealousy. for every unkind, spiteful quip she has, cilia has a critique or a comparison. a dull, aching realization that she is not the only girl child, certainly not the prettiest-- and then it starts all over. cecilia grace can not bear to think such things about that wretched, snotty-nosed baby. she does not know what exactly bothers her most about mercedes, but as she nods in respect to her parents wishes for a better rolemodel, cecilia is suppressing the urge to throw something, hit someone. namely mercy. she is jealous.

my father is that certain kind of man anyone ought to be happy to accept into their home. he has never instilled fear into my soul, simply regret and disappointment. that is how i learned what was expected of me, in my father's house. refined, and gentlemanly in all things, i would suppose he runs the department of transportation as well as he does his household. i only regret not knowing what it is he does not see in me. frustrated. i am so frustrated with not knowing. he looks at me with the most dignified of acknowledgments, but it has always, always been mother who dotes and coddles. as demanding as she is of my time, and my talents-- practical things like poise and piano, household charms and other utterly mundane habits, it is always mother. i feel like perhaps it is a hasty generalization but, still. my father never, never seems to view me with warmth. and i don't want him to. i only wish i knew why.

i am not afraid of horace slughorn-- he is soft around the middle, and i happen to think he's also soft in the head. the man told me, right from the start, that i had no place in his advanced potions class. aurors need that mark on their n.e.w.t.'s to proceed, i suspect that a personal assistant, a secretary even, in the auror office should need it too. slughorn sees neither my potential in his class, nor in the auror office. he infuriates me, and it ought to be known i work best when thoroughly in a rage. i've found myself simultaneously wanting to throw things at his head, and yet turning away to begin hours of work on meaningless potions. i am no potioneer-- but i try. and horace slughorn is a stubborn cow of a man, my professor, my head of house. i place the most emphasis on the stubborn cow part of that description, though.

it is just a name. same as i'm just a girl, and he couldn't possibly think of me, i couldn't possibly begin to fathom whatever it is i should think of him. save for his is a name you hear in my circle, when listening in on conversations that begin with scotch and cigars. pointedly not the conversations i am likely to have been welcomed to. decidedly not the conversations i would willingly admit to having spied upon for years now. i know this name, and i know the things that have been done under the angry spark of this name. but, in my world, that is all it is. just another name. with thoughts, and ideas and all those dreadful things that might stand in the way of my closing away the things i dislike most about others, but just a name. and sometimes, late at night, a temptation to something potentially bigger than my whole world. today, it is just a name.

I. 9’ APPLE WOOD WAND, DOXY WING CORE – TEMPERMENTAL & DELICATE

when she was eleven years old, cecilia missed the opportunity to travel to olivanders wand shoppe for her first wand. quite a bit more impressively, she was taken by her father to her great-grandfather’s grave and told a story. at eleven, it was a reeling idea to be out with her father, standing under his umbrella in the pouring rain. the fact that she was inheriting anything was second to that. as it has been six and a half years in her possession, great-grandfather nott’s wand has given her all kinds of hell and then some. it is for this reason that she struggles in potions, and transfiguration. it is because the wand belongs to her father’s grandfather that defense against the dark arts comes so easily to her. whatever the case, cecilia takes her wand for granted. and it demands more respect from her each time she fails to use it.

II. PLAIN, NAVY BLUE BOUND BOOK – PAGE FOURTEEN, LABELED “JUDGEMENT”

for her fifteenth birthday, cecilia was given an empty book. not to be thrown in some dusty corner, the thing has been used in times of need. over the course of two years, not much has changed. there were ideas that became actions, and actions that became consequences and other punishments, or rewards. much of two years of her life, in ink, sit in that book—consequently the most important pages begin in the middle of the fourteenth page. fourteen for her lucky number, arithmancy dictating much of her life for two weeks before she set it aside for a new hobby, or piece of gossip. whatever the case, the fourteenth page of that book is blank, save for one small word, written along the bottom right corner. judgment, and so it begins. a list of things she’s done, and what she’s thought of herself for doing them. this is perhaps the only place where cecilia has ever been entirely honest with herself. these pages are full of fear, and anxiety. and more truth than she could be comfortable with.

born to be the beginning of another generation of a pureblood family, cecilia grace is every bit as comfortable in this world as she might ever be. years of conditioning, to be the child that makes the room stop and look or listen, to be someone her parents may be proud of, sit idly by while she goes about making another day go by. cecilia is under the impression that things are exactly how they should be when all eyes are on her. she is proud to consider herself a step above the ordinary student at hogwarts, even more so because she has a challenge sitting just above her, having fallen just short of head girl. cecilia grace has worked for what she has, been blessed with what she has, cheated and lied for what she has. infinitely unconcerned with what you think of her, and worrisome over how she appears in her own eyes. seventeen and a half years old, the world is set out before her, albeit precariously in these times. she chooses to believe it is balanced idly at the tip of her wand, a plaything for her to shape and enjoy. cecilia is not meant for terribly great things. but in her eyes, she is already the greatest thing. and she couldn’t say it was otherwise, even should she want to.

[/B] Mariah
CONTACT [e-mail]
MEMBER TITLE TERRIBLE TEMPTATIONS
CHARACTER'S

[/b] February 14th, 1959.
HOUSE: Slytherin.
HAIR COLOR: Blonde.
EYE COLOR: Brown. [/ul]

ROLEPLAY SAMPLE

Perhaps this was why Claire was a villain, then, this sudden flush of power she felt having someone agreeably under her thumb, no ifs or ands about it. Micah wasn't truly up for doing anything the hard way, that much she understood and inferred from his reply, but she could feel the slip of a mischievous smile. It was unnerving, feeling that good about having power over someone-- and the realization of it made her feel a little more understanding of Micah's troubles. Why he wouldn't want to let this sort of thing go, it felt good. As she shifted back toward a row of bookcases, trying to guide Micah with her, Claire let the mischief go and turned her attention back to a simple demonstration of her power.

" ...I'll be gentle, promise. Now, just hold real still for me. The tingling sensation is normal-- " she kept her voice even, that quiet but clear tone barely rising loud enough for anyone besides Micah to hear. Claire's shoulders pressed back against the wood of the solid side of library shelving unit. This was the easy way she was offering him, her hand still tucked in his where it would most likely stay until she was done. If there was nothing for her to heal, she'd have to create something-- and when she'd demonstrated for her brother, he had thrown his arms wide and given her a perfect target.

A very large part of Claire told her kicking Micah where it would really hurt, wouldn't help her keep him on the list of friends, despite the fact that she could stop the hurt in a matter of moments. It was real wounds, bleeding or sickness that took more time, more concentration. A swift kick and a kiss, and he'd be back to tip-top shape in no time. Unfortunately, she couldn't explain that-- explanations took all the fun, all the mystery out of what she could do. Considering what she could do meant absolutely nothing vile or villainous? She wasn't about to share.

Taking a slow, steady breath, Claire did the last thing comparable to gentleness. Shifting forward, she brought her knee up exactly like she had the day her brother had so stupidly demanded she show him how her powers were cool and not boring. Unlike her brother, though, who Claire had simply left in a fit, writhing in pain-- Micah was much more lucky. Her hands framed his face, as she pressed close to him and blessed him with as much healing energy as she could. Micah was entitled to the kiss he received at that moment, and Claire threw as much energy as she could, focusing on the healing, rather than the kissing-- despite the small voice at the back of her head telling her that kissing strangers was

[/ul]

THIS APPLICATON TEMPLATE WAS MADE BY JANASAURUS! OVER AT CAUTION!

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[mercedes carissa nott]

*squee*