Post by OPHELIA HELENA DARCY on Dec 10, 2016 19:06:43 GMT 8
Look here, what Do you see? Are You Looking Forward to Get Tangle Up in Me? FULL NAME ophelia helena darcy AGE & BIRTHDAY seventeen, born on May 10th 2007 OCCUPATION seventh year hufflepuff BLOOD STATUS muggleborn FACE CLAIM elle fanning WAND TYPE 12 inches, jacaranda wood, unicorn tail hair PATRONUS a canary PETS n/a ABILITIES/ SPECIES n/a Tell me who you are, I'm sure you're some kind of superstar. Free Style Oh, Ophelia, you've been on my mind girl since the flood Oh, Ophelia, heaven help a fool who falls in love “We could really be related to Shakespeare, you know! Just look at the magic he puts into his plays!” Fitzgerald Darcy exclaimed happily, pointing his ball point pen at a painting on the old wall where the once-beautiful floral wallpaper had almost peeled off completely, exposing the ugly grey of cement inside. This tiny apartment, alongside with the whole building in Morrell Avenue, Oxford, must have been older than he could ever imagine. His daughter, who was sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, enjoying her ice-cream, glanced up at the portrait and laughed lightly as she watched him continue with his writing. His obsession with the great muggle playwright William Shakespeare still remained an enigma to her even after seventeen years of her existence, even when her upbringing had been filled with Shakespeare’s sonnets and play summaries instead of fairy tales. When she was much younger, he used to take her to see all of Shakespeare’s plays in London; some plays they watched twice, even three times a year if possible. The theatre became a sacred place to them both, but in different ways. To Fitzgerald it was somewhere he could be indulged in the passion with the characters of the play and dive in the old and fancy Elizabethan English that he enjoyed studying so much. To the young girl, it was the only place in the world that she could see her father being happy. Truly happy. The crisp sound of the glass bowl stained with melted strawberry ice-cream slipping out of the girl’s white fingers and touching the metal bottom of the sink scared away the little sleepy magpie outside the rusty windows, who just a moment ago was taking advantage of the window sill to shield himself from the sprinkling rain of Oxford in late August. “I’m sorry.” The girl murmured her apology sheepishly as she realized her father was looking. “You are just as clumsy as ever.” He replied gently, noting the faint blush on her cheeks before returning to his work. Even with her back turned to him as she washed the bowl, she could tell that he was smiling, lost in his own world. These moments were rare for the man; thus very precious. As an English literature professor and lecturer of Oxford University, he had to spend most of his time on campus with students, marking essays or exams, writing reports and many other unnamed works. She could not help but becoming nostalgic. The days when her father was still a full-time writer who buried his head in books and papers all the time seemed so far away yet so close. The bright crockery days when money was not such a big problem to both of them. Fitzgerald Darcy was not too famous an author. His main genre was non-fiction and book review. Many of his books were used as references and secondary resources for High school students doing English and University students studying Arts or particularly English literature. Once in a while he would be invited to universities as guest to give lectures and talks about literature, especially Shakespeare; and his daughter would accompany him every now and then, shocking the university students by saying correctly every line in Hamlet and Othello. During school holidays when she did not have to go to Primary school, they would travel across England, tracing back to Shakespearean time, finding rare records of his work and his personal life. The little girl would be crazily fascinated to hear her father talk about the tragedy of the prince of Denmark, or the heart-wrenching mistake of the Moor of Venice, or the insanity of the wicked Lady MacBeth. Life had been easy and beautiful. Life was still beautiful, she guessed. Just not as easy anymore. “You are going back to school next week right, darling?” Fitzgerald said once he no longer heard the water running. “Yes, I am,” she replied slowly, half knowing what was going to follow her response. “All right, I will take a day off and take you to the train station then.” “No, papa. There is no need for that,” she uttered almost immediately on hearing that, “I do not want you to stay up late to finish your work for the day. I can go on my own.” Fitzgerald looked at his stubborn daughter with weary but loving eyes. It was not hard to realize that his little girl was not little anymore, yet it was perhaps almost impossible for him to accept that. Just six years ago when he first took her to King Cross station, she would never leave his side, steadily grasping his coat and was too afraid to let go, even when her magical train had arrived. And now there she was, insisting on leaving on her own. He went on to say that she would probably need his help with the luggage, just as an excuse to tag along; but the girl stood her ground again, leaving him trying in vain to convince her. Of course, he knew she was only worried. Guilty even, although he did not want her to be. It was not her fault that she was gifted with magical talents. In fact, he was rather proud of it, despite him being slightly terrified at her first magical signs, and it was such a pity that he could not brag about it to anyone. But one way or another, it definitely enhanced his belief in their relativity to Shakespeare in terms of blood, regardless of the fact that there was no record of a wizard named Shakespeare in the wizarding world, not that his daughter knew of. A little more than kin and less than kind, indeed. But of course, it was not at all joyful to come back to an empty house every night during her schooling months. His little girl was all that he had, his midsummer night’s dream. If he could he would have kept her to himself until the day he died, and they would have continued their fantastical journey, and at every dinner, she would have awkwardly tried to impersonate a character from one of his favorite plays to make him laugh. Such sweetness was hard to find in this foggy land of apathy and cold shoulders. But she was all grown now, fully feathered, ready to fly. “I’m sure you would need help with the luggage, dear,” Fitzgerald insisted before a mischievous smile crossed his face, “or we could ask that boy who you met the other day at The Vehicle Hobbies’ performance to accompany you to the station.” “It’s The Vehement Harpies, papa!” the girl uttered in shock and embarrassment, her cheeks almost glowed in crimson, “and no, papa, I don’t even know his name!” she murmured shyly, unable to look at her father. “And yet you would not shut up about him,” Fitzgerald grinned from ear to ear as he enjoyed embarrassing his daughter. “Because he was… nice to me,” she retorted unsuccessfully, “I mean I spilled my drink on his shirt. Had it been someone else, they would have got so angry at me.” “Oh, did you forget to mention how you found his ocean blue eyes ‘mesmerizingly attractive’, Lia?” Fitzgerald continued, raising his brows at his little girl who was now covering her colored face in her tiny hands. A laugh escaped his mouth as he watched her making a beeline to her room as though the old wooden door could save her from his “attacks”. His little girl was never good at debating, her tongue was never sharp enough, despite her intelligence. She was that maiden who always trusted too easily and listened to others relentlessly though her heart had its own way, just like the girl who she was named after. Having to leave her alone out there in a world he knew not of was the cruelest thing that ever occurred to him. But perhaps, one day there would be someone who would love her so much that forty thousand brothers, if you added all their love together, couldn't match his. Like Hamlet to Ophelia. His Ophelia. Let's us all just be friend, And together we can start a new trend. ALIAS: anise AGE: eighteen DISCOVERY: blessings CHARACTERS: aisling, caesar, lillian, leonid, annelise, phyllis, ernest NOTES: i love you!  made by paige |
