Post by kyndrick carmilla laurent on Nov 25, 2010 1:09:49 GMT -5
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[/b][/div]kyndrick carmilla laurent
seventeen ▪ ravenclaw ▪ mona johannesson
FREE-SPIRITED , WILD , FASHIONABLE , CONFIDENT , UNPREDICTABLE
You know that feeling you get right before you start crying? It’s that kind of choked up, lacking oxygen, panicking and holding it all in just before it comes exploding out kind of a feeling. Sometimes, it feels like I’ve lived most of my life so far trapped in that exact feeling. I mean, I hide it well. I have to. I’m Kyndrick Carmilla Laurent and I’ve got this reputation to maintain. But in reality, I embody that feeling.
I’m an only child. Since I was born, I was taught to be the center of the universe. When I turned eleven and realized that I really wasn’t the center of the universe, it came as a genuine shock to me. It’s still hard to see. I mean, I really secretly love all the attention. Who am I kidding? It’s no secret. Everyone knows I love to stand in the middle of the room and have all eyes on me. Since I was born, I was that way.
The night I was born, my parents rushed to a muggle hospital in France. We were living in Paris at the time. My mother is French. Okay, she’s not just French, she is flamboyantly French. She was. My dad said she went to the hospital wearing a lace night-gown. She looked like an angel who was going to explode because of giving birth to me. I can see that pretty vividly.
My mother was pure veela. It was sort of rare, the kind of relationship my parents had. Anyone who was even part veela was instantly written off as a slutty little vixen out to steal a wizard’s magic. My mom was actually fairly kind-hearted amidst all of her material obsessions and socially centered ways. My father loved her not only for her beauty, but also for her heart.
My father said that the doctors practically swooned at the sight of her when she came into the delivery room. They had to get a female doctor to help deliver me into this world because none of the make doctors could keep their eyes off her face long enough to actually deal with the situation. When I was born, the room went completely silent. Even I didn’t make a sound. That was sort of scary, supposedly. Babies are supposed to cry when born. I was quiet and I had this tiny smile on my face. My father said that I was almost too perfect. The fact that I was born half-veela was obvious. I have my mother face, her expressions, body. I have my father’s smile and his hair color. I am my parents’ child, that’s for certain.
We went home and things dove into routine. My mother stayed at home with me as I grew up. She and I did everything together. We ran errands, made food, cleaned, danced, played, did whatever we wanted. My mother was a stay-at-home mom and a fashion designer. She wasn’t famous, but she did know how to turn fashion into something completely and utterly exquisite. She flaunted her talents on me, her prized and star model. I grew up in the most lovely fashions of the time. I drew attention. People learned my name.
When I was about nine, my parents decided to move to London. My father landed a great job in the Ministry of Magic there and he had to take the opportunity. He had been working abroad too long anyway. My mother agreed to make the move, wanting me to embrace my father’s culture as well as her own. I’d been taught English as my dominant language from my infancy so, there wasn’t much difference to me in the move. I was excited to see a new place.
It was the Summer before I went off to Hogwarts when things got messy. Growing up, I had always assumed that I had the perfect family. My mom and dad were so good at putting on a show for me. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with my mother. That Summer, I realized the truth. It turned out, she suffered severe anxiety and depression. That Summer, my mother killed herself. She left a note saying she loved us and she was sorry for what she was doing. That was it. No explanation, no further information. I wore black the rest of that Summer. We packed away all her things and my father and I mourned together.
I was convinced that a little thing like my mother’s suicide wasn’t going to change the way I went off to school. In a way, it made me act out even more. I was trying to fill the gap in my life. I needed more attention than ever. I wanted all eyes on me. I never told anyone what was going on inside of me. I never told anyone how sad or upset or horrible I felt. I cared only about putting on my biggest smile and charming people into friendships and then turning them into enemies when I’d play one too many mind games with them.
By the time I was about thirteen, I practically had suitors following me around school. I was just old enough to be getting attention from the boys. At first, I took advantage of it. I got boys in the year above me to go out on dates. They’d end up treating me to coffee or a meal. We’d hit it off and then I’d dump them a few days later. I set myself the example that nothing was meant to be long term. I quickly made the opposite sex replaceable, exchangeable, and, essentially, temporary. Even my friends knew that I wasn’t keen on commitment.
By my 5th year, I had created myself a hit list. I had a huge long list in my diary of guys who I had made out with, gotten to second base with, and then had sex with. In my sixth year, the list got out. I was then known as the Hogwarts harlot. I adored that nickname. I knew it was meant to be demeaning, but it made me feel so on top of the world. I had girls all over school talking about me and saying that I was this huge colossal slut. At least they were talking though. I had more guys knocking at my door than I could possibly deal with. I took everything in with a coy little smile and cruel intentions.
That year was pretty much the turning point for me. Things got harder. I went to more parties, started more drama, and got into more messes than I could keep track of. Eventually, I knew I’d messed up. I’d gotten extremely drunk at a party with friends one night and I was starting to feel depressed. That was when Holden Avery took advantage of me. I told him I didn’t feel like fooling around and then he ended up raping me. I don’t like getting into details and, honestly, I don’t remember a lot of it. I was extremely drunk and upset. I do remember crying a lot. I acted like it wasn’t a big deal. I even told Holden that I was okay with it. I wasn’t okay with it, but I didn’t want to lose my new Hogwarts harlot rep.
That Summer, I fell into the deepest depression I’ve ever known. I spent nearly every day walking to my mother’s grave and praying to her that she could help me feel better. No answers and my father was becoming worried. He started going with me to my mom’s grave at least once a week. We sat there together and talked to my dead mom. It was a weird bonding thing. It ended up helping me to know how much he supported me. He obviously understood that I was feeling depressed, even if I never told him why.
Here I am in my final year of school. I don’t know what to say other than that I’ve already kicked off things with a bang. Specifically, in my first week back, I’ve already thrown two parties and stolen one guy’s virginity. Maybe anyone with veela blood is a vixen, but I really don’t see anything wrong with that. This is going to be my year. I’m captain of my quidditch team and my social standing remains at the top of the pyramid. I don’t seem depressed anymore and my fake smile almost seems real. This is my life and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
mother: hadiyyah calanthe laurent
father: simon alden laurent
------
Oh, I could tell you a thing or two about my magical side. Just kidding. Okay, seriously. I’ll try and not mess around too much. My wand is made of birch wood. The core is a single veela hair taken from my mother. We knew a special wand maker in Paris who designed my wand before we made the move to London. My wand is exactly 13 inches. Engraved into the wood is a tiny marking of a sparrow in flight and my initials, KCL. My patronus takes the form of, wait for it, a sparrow. I know, shocking, right? The memory come from my 8th birthday. My mother and I made a whole day of it, just she and I. We ran around Paris and pretended to be muggle tourists. We had a picnic by the Eiffel Tower and danced into little cafes and refused to speak any French while ordering. It was an amazingly good time and whenever I think about my mother, I try and recall that memory above all others.
When I encounter a dementor, I instantly flash back to when my father and I found my mother’s body. She had over-dosed on medication and we found her on the kitchen floor beside our dinner table. My father rushed to her side, trying to see if she was still alive. I just stood there in the doorway, motionless and trapped in that horrible choking sensation. It was this horrible mix of fear and sadness and panic. I didn’t know what to do. So, I just stood there and stared like an idiot.
For me, a boggart changes into my father dying the same way my mother did. In reality, I know this is an irrational fear. My father doesn’t suffer any depression problems and he has told me, more than once, that he would never kill himself. Still, every time I see a boggart, this is the image conjured before me.
When I look into the Mirror of Erised, I see my family together again. I see my father smiling and my mother looking lively and beautiful. It’s a dream that won’t come true, but I still hold it deep in my heart anyway.
I am a 7th year Ravenclaw. I work a part-time job outside of school designing fashions that I have my dad help me sell. This isn’t full time, it’s more a hobby than anything. I do it because it reminds me of my mother. In the war, I support the Order of the Phoenix, although I am not one of their numbers. That’s all I can tell. Anything else would be irrelevant.
You know that feeling you get right before you start crying? It’s that kind of choked up, lacking oxygen, panicking and holding it all in just before it comes exploding out kind of a feeling. Sometimes, it feels like I’ve lived most of my life so far trapped in that exact feeling. I mean, I hide it well. I have to. I’m Kyndrick Carmilla Laurent and I’ve got this reputation to maintain. But in reality, I embody that feeling.
I’m an only child. Since I was born, I was taught to be the center of the universe. When I turned eleven and realized that I really wasn’t the center of the universe, it came as a genuine shock to me. It’s still hard to see. I mean, I really secretly love all the attention. Who am I kidding? It’s no secret. Everyone knows I love to stand in the middle of the room and have all eyes on me. Since I was born, I was that way.
The night I was born, my parents rushed to a muggle hospital in France. We were living in Paris at the time. My mother is French. Okay, she’s not just French, she is flamboyantly French. She was. My dad said she went to the hospital wearing a lace night-gown. She looked like an angel who was going to explode because of giving birth to me. I can see that pretty vividly.
My mother was pure veela. It was sort of rare, the kind of relationship my parents had. Anyone who was even part veela was instantly written off as a slutty little vixen out to steal a wizard’s magic. My mom was actually fairly kind-hearted amidst all of her material obsessions and socially centered ways. My father loved her not only for her beauty, but also for her heart.
My father said that the doctors practically swooned at the sight of her when she came into the delivery room. They had to get a female doctor to help deliver me into this world because none of the make doctors could keep their eyes off her face long enough to actually deal with the situation. When I was born, the room went completely silent. Even I didn’t make a sound. That was sort of scary, supposedly. Babies are supposed to cry when born. I was quiet and I had this tiny smile on my face. My father said that I was almost too perfect. The fact that I was born half-veela was obvious. I have my mother face, her expressions, body. I have my father’s smile and his hair color. I am my parents’ child, that’s for certain.
We went home and things dove into routine. My mother stayed at home with me as I grew up. She and I did everything together. We ran errands, made food, cleaned, danced, played, did whatever we wanted. My mother was a stay-at-home mom and a fashion designer. She wasn’t famous, but she did know how to turn fashion into something completely and utterly exquisite. She flaunted her talents on me, her prized and star model. I grew up in the most lovely fashions of the time. I drew attention. People learned my name.
When I was about nine, my parents decided to move to London. My father landed a great job in the Ministry of Magic there and he had to take the opportunity. He had been working abroad too long anyway. My mother agreed to make the move, wanting me to embrace my father’s culture as well as her own. I’d been taught English as my dominant language from my infancy so, there wasn’t much difference to me in the move. I was excited to see a new place.
It was the Summer before I went off to Hogwarts when things got messy. Growing up, I had always assumed that I had the perfect family. My mom and dad were so good at putting on a show for me. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with my mother. That Summer, I realized the truth. It turned out, she suffered severe anxiety and depression. That Summer, my mother killed herself. She left a note saying she loved us and she was sorry for what she was doing. That was it. No explanation, no further information. I wore black the rest of that Summer. We packed away all her things and my father and I mourned together.
I was convinced that a little thing like my mother’s suicide wasn’t going to change the way I went off to school. In a way, it made me act out even more. I was trying to fill the gap in my life. I needed more attention than ever. I wanted all eyes on me. I never told anyone what was going on inside of me. I never told anyone how sad or upset or horrible I felt. I cared only about putting on my biggest smile and charming people into friendships and then turning them into enemies when I’d play one too many mind games with them.
By the time I was about thirteen, I practically had suitors following me around school. I was just old enough to be getting attention from the boys. At first, I took advantage of it. I got boys in the year above me to go out on dates. They’d end up treating me to coffee or a meal. We’d hit it off and then I’d dump them a few days later. I set myself the example that nothing was meant to be long term. I quickly made the opposite sex replaceable, exchangeable, and, essentially, temporary. Even my friends knew that I wasn’t keen on commitment.
By my 5th year, I had created myself a hit list. I had a huge long list in my diary of guys who I had made out with, gotten to second base with, and then had sex with. In my sixth year, the list got out. I was then known as the Hogwarts harlot. I adored that nickname. I knew it was meant to be demeaning, but it made me feel so on top of the world. I had girls all over school talking about me and saying that I was this huge colossal slut. At least they were talking though. I had more guys knocking at my door than I could possibly deal with. I took everything in with a coy little smile and cruel intentions.
That year was pretty much the turning point for me. Things got harder. I went to more parties, started more drama, and got into more messes than I could keep track of. Eventually, I knew I’d messed up. I’d gotten extremely drunk at a party with friends one night and I was starting to feel depressed. That was when Holden Avery took advantage of me. I told him I didn’t feel like fooling around and then he ended up raping me. I don’t like getting into details and, honestly, I don’t remember a lot of it. I was extremely drunk and upset. I do remember crying a lot. I acted like it wasn’t a big deal. I even told Holden that I was okay with it. I wasn’t okay with it, but I didn’t want to lose my new Hogwarts harlot rep.
That Summer, I fell into the deepest depression I’ve ever known. I spent nearly every day walking to my mother’s grave and praying to her that she could help me feel better. No answers and my father was becoming worried. He started going with me to my mom’s grave at least once a week. We sat there together and talked to my dead mom. It was a weird bonding thing. It ended up helping me to know how much he supported me. He obviously understood that I was feeling depressed, even if I never told him why.
Here I am in my final year of school. I don’t know what to say other than that I’ve already kicked off things with a bang. Specifically, in my first week back, I’ve already thrown two parties and stolen one guy’s virginity. Maybe anyone with veela blood is a vixen, but I really don’t see anything wrong with that. This is going to be my year. I’m captain of my quidditch team and my social standing remains at the top of the pyramid. I don’t seem depressed anymore and my fake smile almost seems real. This is my life and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
mother: hadiyyah calanthe laurent
father: simon alden laurent
------
Oh, I could tell you a thing or two about my magical side. Just kidding. Okay, seriously. I’ll try and not mess around too much. My wand is made of birch wood. The core is a single veela hair taken from my mother. We knew a special wand maker in Paris who designed my wand before we made the move to London. My wand is exactly 13 inches. Engraved into the wood is a tiny marking of a sparrow in flight and my initials, KCL. My patronus takes the form of, wait for it, a sparrow. I know, shocking, right? The memory come from my 8th birthday. My mother and I made a whole day of it, just she and I. We ran around Paris and pretended to be muggle tourists. We had a picnic by the Eiffel Tower and danced into little cafes and refused to speak any French while ordering. It was an amazingly good time and whenever I think about my mother, I try and recall that memory above all others.
When I encounter a dementor, I instantly flash back to when my father and I found my mother’s body. She had over-dosed on medication and we found her on the kitchen floor beside our dinner table. My father rushed to her side, trying to see if she was still alive. I just stood there in the doorway, motionless and trapped in that horrible choking sensation. It was this horrible mix of fear and sadness and panic. I didn’t know what to do. So, I just stood there and stared like an idiot.
For me, a boggart changes into my father dying the same way my mother did. In reality, I know this is an irrational fear. My father doesn’t suffer any depression problems and he has told me, more than once, that he would never kill himself. Still, every time I see a boggart, this is the image conjured before me.
When I look into the Mirror of Erised, I see my family together again. I see my father smiling and my mother looking lively and beautiful. It’s a dream that won’t come true, but I still hold it deep in my heart anyway.
I am a 7th year Ravenclaw. I work a part-time job outside of school designing fashions that I have my dad help me sell. This isn’t full time, it’s more a hobby than anything. I do it because it reminds me of my mother. In the war, I support the Order of the Phoenix, although I am not one of their numbers. That’s all I can tell. Anything else would be irrelevant.
tippy ▪ skype: tiffany.saxe ▪ pacific
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