| MOLLY WEASLEY, THE SECOND |
[March 29th, 2010 at 12:15pm] |
CHARACTER
Name: Molly Perdita Weasley
House/Year: 7th year Gryffindor
Bloodline: Halfblood
Alignment: Well you've all heard of the Weasleys, she tends to be associated with whatever they associate themselves with
Occupation: Student
Sexuality: Heterosexual
Appearance: When one first sees Molly, the first word one would use to describe her – there's really no other good word for it – is cool. With thick, long dark brown hair - and brown, not some caramel chocolate ice cream sounding color - and hazel eyes, a very tall and skeletal physique and a pout reminiscent of a Muggle rock star, Molly is just cool looking. That's really all there is to it. Only, that would be utter bullshit.
At best, Molly could be seen as awkward. She was born with a gargantuan height, followed closely with even longer legs. That would be all well and good, if she wasn't a walking skeleton. Molly has always been skinny, being called thin would be a exaggeration at best, and it seems as if she is disproportionate. Her hands are big and bony, her mouth ridiculously pouty and taking up a good majority of her face, with thick manly eyebrows. Molly often gets second glances, especially considering her taste in fashion is not unlike that of an anarchist.
She purposely mismatches, often goes goes to extremes with facial expressions, and more often then not is not wearing pants. She likes to experiment, to express, and find who she is through clothing. Though usually, the shoulder pads she's wearing are a good way to hide the bruises running down her arm. Molly is an unfortunate girl and is often walking.
But if you squint, she'll look cool.
PB: Sarah Stephens
Personality: Molly is always smoking, often drinking, and sometimes stoned, which tends to contribute to the general impression of Molly that she is a crazy, brilliant, conceited pathological liar with a very tenuous hold on reality. A gifted kid who never worked very hard, Molly’s parents saw early signs that Molly might be a child prodigy – or else, severely autistic – in some of her madder habits, like how for the first three years of her life she wouldn't say a word to anyone and often did nothing but sit in her room with blocks building elaborate structures for hours on end, but for some reason, when she turned six, you couldn't shut her up. It was just out of bloody nowhere, the girl just started talking up a storm and that was the end of it.
While she is cool and flirtatious and constantly talking, she doesn't really care all that much about boys. She figures she'll care more when she's a bit older, and then she'll have some proper relationships with legitimately cool boys, but the male population of Hogwarts is mostly conservative wankers, and she's a rebellious musician type who doesn't give a shit. Despite - or perhaps because of - his many years in Hogwarts, Molly has not by any means outgrown many of the ridiculous activities she and her comrades engaged in as kids, or the character flaws that encouraged them. Especially her love for telling totally insane stories or offering wild interpretations for straightforward and otherwise easily understood facts. Nor, notably, has she outgrown her tendency to do the talking for both herself and most of her friends in a given conversation. In fact, if anything, this tendency has grown to new heights.
It was often noted by the casual observer that Molly tends to ramble on and on about everything, whether or not it's factual, has an bearing in reality, or any application to her. Perhaps these people bore witness while Molly rambled about The You Know Who's influence on German philosophy and subsequently rock while her friends nodded at regular intervals. Molly doesn't much care about what is and isn't true. Mostly she cares about what is and isn't interesting, entertaining or thought-provoking, and then if she decides to take it for truth, even if she knows it's not, then it might as well be. This philosophy made sense when she came up with it once at three in the morning, and she's sticking with her particular brand of denial and truthiness because she happens to like it. She knows the truth in any given situation, and makes sure to separate it from herown reality, which is something very different indeed.
She says it's a bit like being religious and smart at the same time - you decide on believing in something that's factually impossible because it makes you feel better, and that's your reality. Everything else is just the truth, and that shit changes all the time, so what's the point? She much prefers philosophy and theory to the universe, because philosophy is all theoretical shit that would fit with the world no matter what the world feels like that day.
Five Positive Traits: "What you see is what you get with me. I'm pretty much straightforward about the fact that I am a good person, I'm utterly charming, I'm thoughtful and have perspective, I think outside the box, and I'm kind of permanently happy. But like stoned happy, you know. I'm mellow about the cheeriness."
Five Negative Traits: "Oh wow, man. Very easy, see I'm pretty much a pathological liar. And I'm really impatient, idealistic, reckless, have this vomit mouth syndrome that I swear runs through my family. But then, since I'm a liar, this could all be bullshit, you know? Makes you think."
Special Abilities: Molly has always had a certain intensity, passions - if you will - that could often get out of hand and borderline obsessive. Every obsession was like a shooting star. It would consume her life for almost twenty-four hours every single day for a month, two months, maybe more until the fire would flicker out and she would move onto the next flame. This was especially impressive considering during her Fifth Year, she suddenly decided she was interested in her studies.
Family: Her father is Percival Weasley and her mother (born) is Audrey Sloper, alongside her baby sister Lucy. Then it goes into extended family that would take several pages to name all, but there are a lot of them.
History: Every end has a start, such as the end of Percy Weasley's virginity. It existed, a very long time ago. It all began with a letter, a misaddressed one at that. You see, Percival was having the time of his life, or as much of a time as a man who thought that organizing papers was a grand old time. He spent most of his time in his office at the ministry, pretending that this was some type of social life. He was struggling to maintain a long distance relationship with his Hogwarts sweetheart, long distance meaning she lived too far from the ministry for his liking. Yes, he could apparate but he firmly believed that when he apparated from his flat which was a mere fifteen minutes walking distance from his place of work it took less time, meaning more time to work. And though it was not a long distance relationship in the traditional sense, they did live in two totally different worlds. She actually was living life. Percival was sitting at a desk, this desk which was his whole life. But, at that very moment, he was about to make a very grave mistake that would alter the course of three lives, these lives being Audrey Sloper, Molly Weasley, and Lucy Weasley.
He did not address his letter properly.
Cue the gasps of awe, ladies and gentleman. Percival always did things properly. He was a very proper young man. He always arrived at work exactly twelve and a half minutes early because this was how much time he required to set up his work station to his liking. He always woke up at exactly five thirty eight in the morning because he then had the perfect amount of time to shower, primp himself, locate a creaseless outfit, make sure said outfit is completely creaseless, recheck outfit at least eight different times in at least eight different mirrors, eat a healthy breakfast of porridge cooked just right, wash porridge bowl until it is sparkling clean, then arrive at work promptly at nine-oh-eight. Not addressing letters properly was not something that he did, if you could not tell from the above ramble detailing the activities of someone gravely disturbed and who desperately needs to get laid. But, he did address this one goddamn letter wrong.
Instead of writing the location of his troubled sweetheart, the apartment number of Audrey Sloper, who lived three doors down, somehow took its place. Some might call it fate. Others might call it the bumblings of a complete and utter idiot. Either way, somehow a depressingly pathetic letter found its way into Audrey Sloper's hands, a letter that she obviously had to reply to. Being the type of girl who loved to stir the pot, she replied to the letter stating that this "Percival Weasley" was perhaps the most pathetic man she had ever had the misfortune of hearing about and he should promptly kill himself because it was the right thing to do. Natural selection and all that, you know?
Thus the most hate-filled exchanging of letters began.
I will not bore you with the details. As time went on, their letters took an unexpected turn. They began to be friendly. Neither understood what was happening but gradually, they began to meet outside of wordplay, whether it be at cafes or the local bar. By that point, the "long distance" relationship the middle Weasley was attempting to keep going had completely dissipated, leaving him alone and the inevitable happened. He fell in love with his complete opposite. Yes, she was a tad on the crude side and very rude but for the first time in his life, Percival was living and that was not the type of thing he would pass up. He proposed, they had a shotgun wedding, and a couple sessions of frenzied, clumsy lovemaking later, little Molly was on the way, followed nine months later by Lucy because Percival and Audrey just could not keep their hands off of each other.
Quaint, is it not?
Surprisingly, the pair never fought. Not once in her life did Molly ever remember arguments between her parents. As Percy was very much a logical man and Audrey used literary devices, yes you heard correct, the pair often talked their way through trouble. That is possibly why Molly grew up wide eyed and rather strange. Her childhood was slightly atypical, though she swears it didn't affect her mental state in any way, shape, or form. Though Molly Weasley was known to make up shit on occasion.
She had been known to ramble on about his father the Ministry worker on play dates, or tell children that her dad owned four motorcycles and eight swimming pools and six broomsticks and that he made a million dollars all the time without even trying. Other times, she got bored and told children that her father was a wealthy sea captain who discovered the Lost City of Atlantis. Whatever suited her mood. It wasn't that Molly was a pathological liar, or anything, she was just very creative. She liked to exercise her story telling abilities by telling her classmates that her mother was once an acrobat in the French circus, and she took a tumble from a trapeze to her death - or so it seemed! Moments after she began to fall, Percy Weasley rushed out from the audience to save the fallen acrobat, catching her as she was coming down and falling in love with her instantly. Oh, the romance.
Only in truth, her parents were quite romantic. Or just fucking sexual, depended on how you viewed it. They were good parents though, the two falling into categories that you wouldn't have described either if you had known them before Molly. Audrey was very much the enforcer, as even a baby Molly seemed to cause trouble. Percy was weak to his daughter and her bright hazel eyes. The roles were encased in stone, however, when Molly's Irish twin, Lucy, was born. It's sad, but up until recently it never occurred to Molly that her sister was not a play thing. More often then not, Lucy would be the starring role in Molly's neighborhood stories. If you paid any mind to them, Lucy was a French prostitute alien with fish gills and part Hippogriff.
While her mother was supplementing her vivid imaginations with stacks of books - she had the kid reading The Brothers Karamazov by the age of thirteen - her father was always playing classic music after opera album in the Weasley home, teaching young Molly the difference between good music and bad music. It was a vast and important difference, after all, and every eight year old should know it! This, incidentally, was the reason for her interest in music - especially the bad kind.
When her Hogwarts letter came, her parents were not surprised, but were elated nonetheless. Naturally, they immediately started pulling for Gryffindor. Hell, their kid was smart, there was no other place to put her but Gryffindor. In spite of her parents' urgings, as soon as Molly set foot on Hogwarts grounds, she was, in fact, sorted into Gryffindor with relative ease, though she would be likely to tell anyone who ask that the hat thought about sorting her into Slytherin until she threatened it with physical violence, and so scared was the hat that it sorted her into Gryffindor immediately. She also sometimes says that it wanted to sort her into Gryffindor because of her outstanding bravery, but that she was just so bloody smart that it couldn't take her away from Ravenclaw. Really, it wasn't much of a thinker. Another Weasley, another Gryffindor.
Her professors turned out to be rather less impressed by her story telling ability than her peers, much to Molly's dismay. Professor Longbottom never took kindly to Molly's assurances that she had done the Herbology homework, but on her way to class, she was attacked by an acromantula and had to use the alihotsy to demobilize the creature into tears. The plant did not survive, but what a brave life it led, sacrificing itself for Molly like that. Slowly but surely, Molly started telling the truth a bit more often, but not too much more often. About midway through her second year, she at least had a better handle on her magnificent lies, and a proper musical obsession: Bob Dylan. Her peers soon learned the extent to her Muggle appreciation and it was an ongoing joke in her family that she was like Grandpa Arthur.
Basically, Molly was very bright, but school wasn't really a top priority. In the classes she liked, she made straight O's. In the classes she didn't like, he often made E's and sometimes A's. Her parents often complained about her schizophrenic transcript, but it steadily remained that year throughout her years in school. Her years in school weren't that impressive, charming everyone with her charm and sass, in her fourth year discovering what love was, in her fifth what lust was. Sometime in the summer before her fifth year, she discovered drugs and sloppy sex - both introduced by an older, seventh year boy. The boy didn't last, neither did the drugs, but the sex was beautiful and up until her seventh year, Molly went through a hedonistic phase fueled by heavy Muggle rock and cigarettes.
Currently, in her seventh year, Molly snapped back to the fact that she is about to be an adult. She won't be technically a child anymore, and worst of, she'll have to get a job. Even though her relationship with her parents have always been good, she'd hate to be have jobs like either of them; the Ministry versus whatever her mother was doing at the moment.
What year are they coming from?: 2022
Three Random Facts:"Right well, I have a big family right? I'm sure you know, I mean sure there aren't a lot of gingers in this generation. We are still Weasleys (..Potters), and naturally everyone at one point starts to take after someone in the family. When I was younger, I was quite like Grandpa Arthur in that I was just this big, flailing dork who was obsessed with Muggles. I still am, the latter however."
"Awkward as fuck, but I had a wet dream once about Jamesy. Like, my baby cousin Jamesy. Who looks like a girl if you squint your eyes sometimes. I was fourteen and for two months, I couldn't look him in the eye"
"I thought I could talk to animals when I was seven so, without Mum or Dad knowing, I kept a zoo-like place in my closet. Of course, I can't remember if it was Uncle Bill or Uncle Harry, were visiting and it's like he came to visit me in my room. Talk about animal revolution. As soon as Uncle Harry-Bill walked into my room, every animal I had burst through the closet. We managed to find everything, but this little Garden snake. I'm still sure it's made a home in Lucy's room."
SAMPLES
Journal entry: i remember being a child. this long-haired, twiggy thing with delicious dreams of becoming a movie starlet or a princess. of course, you're not entirely logical when you are that young. your head is in the clouds and the future is a million miles away. i think when the clouds begin to clear and you start to see the future there in the sky, you begin to grow up. life begins to sink in. you realise you are not beautiful or elegant enough to become a princess, and your eyes don't sparkle enough to be a movie star. try again.
even though my clouds cleared away sooner than anyone else i knew my age, i was still breathing them. only suddenly i knew who i was, or moreso, who i wanted to be. i was fifteen and i wrote in my diary "i am molly and because of that, i'm going to live. really live." and for me that meant throwing myself headfirst into life. i spent days planning, learning to experience. my studies suffered and my passion bloomed. it was "illogical and thoughtless" but i thought, why should i listen to a miserable, professor about how to live my life?
my grandparents lived by the otter river, on an enormous property with tall grass and a shed by the water where you could watch birds gather at sunset. i remember sitting in the shed with a blank book, filling it with ideas and bumping into broom sticks and spiders. the passion welled up in me and i saw the world through picture-finding eyes. i miss the excitement now, which only greets me sometimes in memory. i discovered that came with my growing up, it became harder to feel.
Third person: Knockturn Alley was not a place Molly was prone to visiting on a regular basis. In fact, she had only ever ventured into its grimy, murky depths resembling, in her opinion, an absolute hovel once in her lifetime; during her third year when she felt the need to prove to a couple of older kids that she wasn’t afraid of the place. Why she had felt the need to prove to a couple of older kids that she wasn’t afraid of the place, Molly couldn’t remember. Of course she had been absolutely terrified, particularly when a haggard old woman approached her trying to sell toenails. Still attached to their toes. But she escaped unscathed. More-or-less. Had nightmares for weeks, but got away without any serious physical injury (she had tripped running up the stairs back to Diagon Alley and scraped her knees dreadfully, but that didn’t count. Neither did her walking headlong into a particularly low and heavy shop sign and ending up with an impressive bruise on her forehead in an interesting shade of purple). The kids had been evidently impressed, much to Molly’s satisfaction, but she didn’t make a point of returning. Besides, she concluded, Knockturn Alley was terribly overpriced. Seventy-five Galleons for a shrunken head? Rip-off.
So to find herself quite undoubtedly wandering about the dreadful place she vowed never to set a single toe in again (a toe still attached to her foot, thank you very much) would have gone against her initial vow quite indubitably, had Molly not ended up there completely by mistake. Setting out that morning—if you could still call eleven forty-five the morning—she had been quite confident in herself that she knew her way about Diagon Alley. She had spent fifteen years exploring the place, after all. She’d been back and forth all her life with family, with friends, on her own before the pandemic. Her Uncle George owned Molly’s beloved joke shop Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes there, and the frequent visits meant she was well acquainted with most of the shop owners. But those fifteen years spent between twisting the ice cream man round her little finger so he’d give her free sundaes. She got lost.
Molly had been thoroughly amused by the Go-Go boots in Madam Malkin’s shop window, and how refreshing it was to see everyone’s faces. The only things on the heads of these bright and intriguing people were bad hairstyles, which she was suddenly aware after a weekend at her Aunt Fleur's. The inhabitants of Diagon Alley too, were quite bemused by Molly’s own appearance, and her vivid black, that for whatever reason was appearing black, was carelessly swept into its usual tousled mess. And because Molly was incapable of dressing herself properly. It came from her childhood: how the majority of her wardrobe consisted of her brother’s stolen clothes, an assortment of clothes from her Aunts closet (Fleur was chic, Ginny was not, Angelina was comfortably inbetween...), and nineteen knitted sweaters courtesy of Granny Weasley; one for every Christmas and each clashing brilliantly with her hair. Her mother never having taken much interest in fashion herself, Molly developed a style reminiscent of a hipster.
But Molly’s mind, prone to wandering as were her feet, wasn’t on clothes at that precise moment in time, although she was beginning to regret having worn a skirt when a fierce draught rushed past her ankles. It was unusually chilly. The great looming black clouds overhead weren’t looking too promising either. Molly loved the rain, but she didn’t fancy the idea of being stuck in this dreadful place during a downpour. Maybe the evil inhabitants of Knockturn Alley came out during a storm, like vampires did at night. The whole horrible place was grim enough for a horror movie set, and it didn’t do much to settle her nerves. She paused in the uncomfortably thin alley; this was certainly no place for a claustrophobic. Fortunately Molly was not a claustrophobic, despite having being locked in trunks, cupboards and dark bathrooms a numerous amount of times over the years by her loving cousins. She raised her head to gaze solemnly up at the darkening sky, visible only by a slim slit of light that was otherwise blotted out by the narrow buildings that seemed to curve inwards to prevent any daylight whatsoever. Knockturn Alley was lined with streetlamps, the old-fashioned sort that ought to be lit by hand if it weren’t for magic, but they were so dim and the glass cases so dirty they barely emitted a dim glow. Eyes still fixed on what was visible of the sky, Molly half expected someone to appear at one of the crooked windows lining the narrow street and tip the contents of their chamberpot over her head (Molly still hadn’t quite grasped her historic accuracy). She thought she felt a droplet of rain gently splash her cheek, or perhaps her anxious mind was playing tricks on her. That or someone really was ready to pour the contents of their chamberpot over her head. She decided quickly enough it was best to start moving, even if she had no idea where she was going. Trying to walk in a straight line along the uneven cobbled street wasn’t the easiest of tasks.
Molly really ought to have suspected she wasn’t in Diagon Alley when she saw an assortment of decaying human hands in the stained shop window. But being even more stubborn than Uncle Ron had been on that trip to the seaside when she spent the summer with her cousins, Molly hadn’t stopped to ask directions. Making a mental note to scold herself furtively and perhaps find a map when and if she found her way back home, she caught a glimpse of herself in the grubby glass. She wouldn’t have been able to make herself out at all had it not been for the chocolate wreck sitting on top of her head. The windows could have done with a good scrub, Molly mused, which, coming from a girl as horrendously untidy as herself was quite the cheek. Of course the hands didn’t perturb her in the slightest, or perhaps she was more intrigued by the eyeballs. She was halfway through scrawling ‘CLEAN ME’ in the grime when she was aware of someone close by. She whirled around so abruptly, mouth open ready to snarl abuse at whoever it was for sneaking up on her, that she received a mouthful of hair. Thankfully it was her own, because the skeletally thin woman in front of her looked like she could do with a good scrub as well.
Knockturn Alley was unnervingly quiet compared to it’s neighboring town. Casting a glance over her shoulder, it was apparent she and the bedraggled woman were the only ones in the street. Probably harmless, Molly assured herself, but she was trying to remember whether or not she had brought her wand with her. Her father was forever scolding her for not having it with her at all times, as if Death Eaters would leap out at her in the middle of The Three Broomsticks. Then again this wasn’t The Three Broomsticks, no matter how much the cleanliness rivalled the place. Meanwhile the little old woman was staring up at her, which was quite the norm to a girl of five foot, nine inches.
“Care for one, my dear?” She asked in a strangled sort of voice that made Molly wince. It was worse than Albus’ singing. At least Molly assumed it was singing. Perhaps he was just imitating a dying cat. The old woman was holding out a rusty tray of indistinguishable objects and smiling sweetly. Well, as sweetly as an old lady with three teeth, two of which weren’t hers and a number of infected looking mouth sores could manage.
“No thank you I… just ate,” Molly answered awkwardly, staring down at the unidentifiable contents of the tray with a contempt sort of curiosity. Even if she hadn’t eaten for days, she wouldn’t have wanted whatever was on that tray. The little old woman’s smile faltered. She shrugged, the bones in her shoulders jutting through her withered old skin slightly alarmingly, and hobbled on her way. She didn’t correct Molly’s assumption that her wears were edible, and Molly didn’t like to think what the blackened, misshapen things were. She was just contemplating the idea of chasing after the woman and purchasing a few to disguise as liquorice, offering them to a few hungry unsuspecting people, when an extremely woebegone owl with an eye missing and several bald patches landed rather haphazardly at Molly’s feet. It limped towards an apparently edible substance in the narrow gutter, wheezing as it moved as fast as it could, which wasn’t very fast at all, as if Molly might beat him to it. “Scruff,” she addressed the disheveled creature, who promptly began choking on whatever it had just swallowed. “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Diagon Alley anymore.”
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