beyondtheveil

Greatest Accomplishment

Living with the Gaunts didn’t offer much to be proud of. Merope was belittled and abused every day of her life, and her confidence and pride scarcely even existed. So it’s only fitting that the proudest moment in her life was the day she stepped out of that miserable shack, and breathed in the fresh air, and ran away with the man she thought was the love of her life, and finally felt a semblance of happiness and freedom.

Merope's Death

Funny, wasn’t it, that the man she loved also killed her. Or maybe it was her fault, maybe it was her own heart that was weak enough to break and leave her hopeless and despondent. A doctor, if there was one present at the time of her death, would tell you that it was childbirth that killed Merope Gaunt, but she was dead long before that. She was dead ever since Tom left her, and the birth was just an escape. 

Appearance at Death

Merope was never a beautiful girl, and when she died she was even less so. Emaciated from her months living as a pauper, dark stringy hair framing her pale, grubby face and sunken dark eyes, she already looked like a living ghost. She was wearing a tattered grey dress which hung loosely on her wasted frame, but stretched tightly across her postpartum baby bump. 

Writing

The grey walls of the orphanage blurred in and out of focus. Merope was dimly aware of the midwife’s voice encouraging her, but it was no more than murmurs in her half-conscious state. The tangy, metallic taste of blood was everywhere. It filled her mouth and scented the room. She breathed it in and it burned her lungs, her throat, swallowed her whole and spat her back out again. Disconnected thoughts swam through her head, gone as quickly as they had come. Each second brought a fresh new wave of pain, but she did hardly more than flinch. Every inch of her body was numb and screaming at the same time. 

And then, through the haze of pain and blood, came a baby’s cry.

Merope was only vaguely aware of what happened next. Someone helped her sit up, put a cool cloth on her forehead, cleaned the blood from her inner thighs, spoke soothing words she didn’t hear. At one point the baby was put in her arms, but she could scarcely hold him for her fatigue. She was tired. So tired. 

"I hope he looks like his papa," she murmured as she stared down at the baby. It was a red, squalling, wrinkly little thing. She had to give the baby back to the woman at that point. Her vision had started to go dark and her arms trembled from the effort of holding it. She was so, so tired. 

Greatest Accomplishment

Ariana is actually proud of trying to step in to save her brothers, even if she died for it. She is always very afraid of becoming too emotional, but at that point she forgot her fear in order to try and protect them.

Ariana's Portrait

Ariana is wearing her favorite dress and standing in the back yard of the Dumbledore Godic’s Hollow home. She has insisted to be moved to a spot near the Great Hall so she can see and interact with students, paintings, and ghosts.

Other Portrait Locations

No, this is her only one

Writing

Looking at the portrait of her much older brother with his long white beard, crooked nose, and twinkling eyes expression was surreal. She could only remember him how she’d seen him at the age of eighteen—handsome, bitter, biting, intelligent, full of life, and so very unable to express his true feelings no matter how much she tried to pull them out of him.

But also…she felt bitter. He had moved on as if she hadn’t existed and completely changed himself in order to get over what had happened. Once again, she had been hidden away.

"II have many things to say to you, brother," she said after the person who’d put her portrait up left. "Beginning with that I never wanted Muggles hurt, no matter what had happened to me. What they did…" she shuddered, feeling anxious and desperately moved on away from the memories, "it was wrong but they were just children, same as any magical or nonmagical. You had no right to try and seek my revenge on such a large scale.”

She took a deep breath, wishing she could cry and feeling like she should. But paintings could not. “I won’t be hidden anymore. I want my painting somewhere where I can see students, staff, and visitors all the time. I want in death what I never got to have in life. Make them—you’re the great Albus Dumbledore, they’ll listen to you.”

Greatest Accomplishment

Pride has always been a fragile, vulnerable thing for Anne. It was what she clung to; a way of keeping her head high after both magical folk and not found her repeatedly wanting in some way, no matter how she pushed. Her ensnaring of the heart of Henry VIII’s heart was what made that pride a true, solid thing. True, the potion had come off stronger than she had expected (or than it should have at all) but she was finally on the path to seizing control over the course of her life for good. If you were to ask her portrait now, however, Anne would have no qualms about citing her daughter as her greatest achievement. Yet her little girl grew up to fulfill all that Anne once dreamed of for herself, so the subject remains a tender one.

Anne's Portrait

Her painting hangs close at hand to the second-floor landing of the Grand Staircase. It is not, strictly speaking, a place she considers prime seating. The traffic of students can be enjoyable since it puts her in the spotlight again, if only for a moment or two, but there is a part of her that still feels bitter about having to watch students take part in what she was denied. Or, even worse, complaining about it. Being crammed in amongst numerous other paintings also seems to make it clear to her that no one cared much about where she was placed (a thing she finds insulting for a former Queen of England). She is wearing a gown of black velvet—her signature color—and, although not crowned officially at the time of the portrait, she is seated upon a miniature throne. The pearls that line her French hood still seem to sparkle, although sometimes she scorns decorum altogether (no one seems to care about it now, after all) and tosses it off altogether to shake out her long dark hair. Her eyes, as in life, take pride of place, however, flashing like hunks of obsidian. She has managed to make more than a few students forget their way completely once catching her gaze. 

Other Portrait Locations

Her painting hangs close at hand to the second-floor landing of the Grand Staircase. It is not, strictly speaking, a place she considers prime seating. The traffic of students can be enjoyable since it puts her in the spotlight again, if only for a moment or two, but there is a part of her that still feels bitter about having to watch students take part in what she was denied. Or, even worse, complaining about it. Being crammed in amongst numerous other paintings also seems to make it clear to her that no one cared much about where she was placed (a thing she finds insulting for a former Queen of England). She is wearing a gown of black velvet—her signature color—and, although not crowned officially at the time of the portrait, she is seated upon a miniature throne. The pearls that line her French hood still seem to sparkle, although sometimes she scorns decorum altogether (no one seems to care about it now, after all) and tosses it off altogether to shake out her long dark hair. Her eyes, as in life, take pride of place, however, flashing like hunks of obsidian. She has managed to make more than a few students forget their way completely once catching her gaze. 

Writing

Things lie in conflict here; not an uncommon thing when it comes to Anne, truth be told. She knows why her younger self—or counterpart, it gets so hard to keep track sometimes—thought it necessary to brew the potion. It had been determination curdled into something much more bitter. From her mother who robbed her of her true magical heritage through the horrible muddle of her family line to the father that tried to coddle her through her loss by sending her off to one grand court after another, than recalling her as soon as it suited /his/ purposes. And, despite all her wit and charm, eyes still turned to her older sister, simply because of golden curls and a bosom that heaved forward when convenient.

So when Mary boasted that the King of England was too besotted with her to have her head turned by anyone… Well, Anne couldn’t resist seizing a thing for herself, just this once.

It wasn’t her fault that her only instruction came from the old books her mother kept hidden away. She hadn’t meant to make the dose so strong! She hadn’t anticipated all the dark turns passion could take as well. A divorce wasn’t enough for Henry—she had to be swept away from sight before another could favor her.

Despite all the simmering anger, however, Elizabeth remains the one bright spot. Anne might wish from time to time she could have chosen a better man to be her girl’s father, but then Elizabeth would never have gotten to be queen.