Glinda P. Dolittle
20 July 2009 @ 05:35 pm
OOC.
Name/Alias: ribbon
Contact Info (e-mail/messengers): thescarletribbon@gmail.com
Timezone: CST
How did you hear about us? (optional) jenna’s coercion

Character.
Character Name: Glinda P. Dolittle
Birthday: March 18th (Pisces)
House & Year: Hufflepuff / 7th
Blood Status: Half-blood / British (With strong Irish lineage on her mother’s side, hence the fiery red hair and temperament bestowed on both her and her older sister, Demelza. Oh, and the freckles, we mustn’t forget them. I’ll be jiggered if there’s a square inch of her skin not covered in them!)
Wand: Rowan wood – supple (Originality, free-thinking, psychic ability, love and understanding), Ashwinder Ash (casts the best protection charms), 10 and ¾ inches

Physical Description: Glinda P. Dolittle is a tall, willowy thing, with long red hair that blows and tangles and with limbs that bow and sway at odd angles – she ought to be a tree in autumn, as its leaves turn bronze just before they fall. She stands at 177 cm (nearly 5 foot 10 inches), and her eyes are the blue of a cloudy day in Derbyshire, just before it rains – there is a hint of grey and a breath of green, as skies about to rain tend to possess. Freckles crop up nearly everywhere, not a patch of skin untouched, really. But she doesn’t seem to mind them; her sister doesn’t have any, and Glinda rather likes anything that sets her apart from Demelza. Even if it would be lovely to have silky, alabaster skin like the Duchess of Lancaster instead of the complexion of her milk-maid.
PB: Cintia Dicker, aww lookit

Personality: Many have said Glinda P. Dolittle was meant to be a middle child and not the youngest daughter, given her circumstances and demeanor. For as long as she can remember, she has been politely overlooked in favor of her elder sister, in return for which she politely looks on in acceptance. Most people expect the baby sister to be the spoiled, demanding, cherished one of the pair, while the eldest is the guinea pig upon whom all the mistakes are made. In the case of the Dolittles, this is not so. Demelza was Queen from the start, and Glinda only Princess on occasion. Which ordinarily, she was perfectly at ease with. While Demelza dreamed of pastels and petticoats, Glinda’s dreamscapes have always been on a much more intangible and bolder plane.

At times docile and silently reflective, she possesses eyes that to some seem much too old for her, as if they have seen quite a lot and have opinions that might offend you. Other times she encompasses all the passion of a Harpy, mostly when not in the presence of her overpowering sister, and those offensive opinions are sure to find you through one medium or another. She can hold an entire conversation with you by playing the piano, but occasionally she finds it is better done by writing in lipstick on your mirror or with a stick in the sand at your feet. It is not so much that her persona is oppressive, but it will command attention unconsciously by simply being abstract, irate, or irritatingly elusive. She has had much practice at being quiet, after all.

Hobbies and talents :
1.) She plays the piano. But if you were to ask her, she doesn’t ‘play’ the piano. She addresses it, or consorts with it, and empathizes with it when possible, if the piano is willing. It is her voice-box in most cases; a sweet amalgamation of mathematical algorithms and soulful enterprise. The exploration one may do of oneself on the piano is of the most pleasurable and invasive kind. It is not for the faint of heart.

Weaknesses:
1.) Her mouth may be blunter than she intends at first, and she regrets some things she says. (Sometimes there is no regret.) She is a girl of infinite feeling and exploration, and thus occasionally speaks and acts before she thinks.

2.) She will try anything once, and that includes activities that are much frowned upon and even forbidden. It is likely, once again, partly in an effort to be very different from her sister. In Glinda’s repertoire of past forbidden fruits are smoking (one of her father’s cigars, and a cigarette or two with her mother’s fancy vintage holder, for which she was caught and punished), playing with fire (more specifically the Incendio charm at school, and duly given a week’s detention), and trespassing on several occasions in the Hogwarts Music Room to be near a piano – although none of them are quite like her old, small, modest cherry wood that has been sold at auction.


Personal History:

The Lesson:

It is not so very grand to be the baby sister of a funnel cloud.

Such was the lesson learned by Glinda P. Dolittle on her fourth birthday, when by all rights she should have been the Princess For A Day, and instead her elder sister reigned as Queen. You see, Glinda and her sister Demelza are witches. I know what you are thinking: witches are hairy, green-skinned villains with large noses and obscene moles who labor over cauldrons beneath full moons.

You are, in fact, only three-fourths correct.

Witches do labor over cauldrons and sometimes it is best done beneath a full moon, but rarely do they have moles of the obscene kind, and if their noses are large (and greasy) they are ridiculed and made into persecuted Potions Masters. Furthermore, they only ever possess green skin on accident, and if they are hairy, well – such an unfortunate genetic occurrence could just as easily happen to you, so hold your tongue and keep your tweezers handy.

When you discover you are a witch, one of two things may happen: celebration or devastation. This all depends on whether you are born into a family of magic or muggles. Glinda’s family is of the magical variety, and extremely well-to-do. So well-to-do, in fact, that their home is Furthing Manor in the countryside county of Derbyshire. Her mother Ermengarde is of the Furthing bloodline and, what’s more, the only heir. Such good fortune and Olde English wealth should have surely entitled Glinda to supreme Princessdom on her Fourth Birthday Party. But it was on this day, when Demelza was at the much wiser age of Eight and Some Weeks old, that her elder sister discovered she was a witch.

That day’s celebration became in Demelza’s honor. Henceforth, Glinda would observe as years wore on that most everything happened in Demelza’s honor.

The Discovery:

Of course, now Glinda had not only the expectation of magic but also the reputation of her dazzling Queen sister to live up to. It is a tricky situation for any little girl, but for a Dolittle it is widely believed to be worse.

When you are a Dolittle, your parents are infamous for their grandiose extravagance and boastful impropriety, along the lines of several Jane Austen’s Mrs Bennetts with actual money to spend. And when you are Glinda P. Dolittle you are doted upon – but your sister Demelza is revered, made much of, written down in history books, and decorated with tulle and tinsel (even while she scatters such things to the four corners of the parlor in her dramatic wake).

When you are Glinda P. Dolittle, you quietly play your piano while Demelza sings opera at the top of her celebrated lungs. And you accept that the praise for the performance is duly given to your sister, who loves you really, even if she forgets to show you much of the time. For actually, when she remembers to show you she cares, you are quite swept up with the rest of the world in understanding why she is Queen. You love her, too.

But on the day of The Discovery even Glinda P. Dolittle was permitted to rejoice, full-fledged and unabridged by sisterly accomplishments. On this day, when she was roughly Seven and a Quarter Years old (younger than her sister had been, a fact she would silently hold dear), Glinda lived up to expectations and reputations. Some even say she surpassed them.

You see, Demelza had a certain insatiable fondness for the apples grown in the orchard just beyond their wildly-sewn gardens. And despite her distaste for dirtying her pretty frocks or for partaking in anything which might appear unseemly for a Queen of her stature, she deigned to climb an apple tree now and then, to fetch one of these sweet delights. It was best not to wash them, and to eat them right there by the tree, or in the tree if at all possible, because it was positively sinful to be so Unqueenly and if someone should catch her she would be quite put out. But on this afternoon, eating a sinful apple of her choosing in the Third Tree from the Right, Demelza sat on a branch that decided it should not like to carry her Queenly weight, and promptly snapped beneath her.

It would appear that just as Demelza took a fall that would have likely broken a few of her Queenly bones, Glinda was there – and Demelza stopped, in mid-descent. Mr and Mrs Dolittle arrived just as Demelza was floating gently to the ground, caught red-handed – or red-appled – and saved only by the timely graces of her sister.

Mrs Dolittle swept up the traumatized Demelza, batting away sticky apples and fat tears that had already sprung to petulant eyes. But Mr Dolittle turned to his youngest daughter and said, “Now if that isn’t the best discovery of magic there ever was, I’ll be jiggered.” And he patted Glinda on the head. Mr Dolittle had a hobby of picking up the latest slang and using it in the most inappropriate places; he was also not so very talented at giving compliments. But anyone could see he was proud of his littlest daughter. Even Demelza had to admit she had been outdone. Once she admitted that, however, she was fully able to admit gratitude for the saving of her bones as well. There was much hugging and praising of Glinda P. Dolittle that day.

The Aftermath:

All has seemed fairly normal in the Dolittle household since the thankful discovery that, yes, both red-haired daughters were witches and, yes, both bright and charming in their own way – Demelza in her outrageous grandeur and Glinda in her decidedly subtle version of the same. One cannot help but be subtle when following in the footsteps of such a dazzling funnel cloud, really. But it is now, in Glinda’s final year at Hogwarts, that the Dolittle family has come to face a trial to trump all tornadoes (and really any other natural disaster). Bankruptcy.

Yes, funny thing: Mr Dolittle has another hobby of incurring large debts and forgetting to repay them. It was bound to happen that one day he would make an investment that proved too risky for his pouch. And so, mid-December, the Dolittles find their Manor quite without rich tapestries and fine, plush carpets and even, heaven forbid, Glinda’s own private piano, small and modest though it was. A cold and lonely Manor it has suddenly become, and the prized daughters are frock-less and penniless and – much to Demelza’s dismay – quite suitor-less, now that the issue of dowries is null and void. Demelza, who had been used to throwing lavish galas and flitting from one young wizard to the next while her parents debated just where she should be married off, is now a pauper and made to go out in the world to find ‘Work.’ A very dreadful and degrading and possibly deadly business.

And Glinda… Well, Glinda P. Dolittle is determined to graduate at the top of her class so that she may find a career in which she shall not only support herself, but her destitute family as well. Her indolent parents are really too much in shock and have lived too long in privilege to know what to do with themselves. Glinda believes it is up to her (because she is the loyal, adventuring, and persevering sort), and Demelza too. But will she be able to sacrifice her dreams and herself, as she has always done?

OWL scores:
Astronomy: E
Charms: O
Defense Against the Dark Arts: O
Herbology: O
History of Magic: A
Potions: O
Transfiguration: E
(And choose 2-3 electives from the following:)
Ancient Runes: E
Arithmancy: A
Care of Magical Creatures: D
Divination: A
Muggle Studies: E

Current Classes:
Potions
Transfiguration
Charms
DADA
Ancient Runes
Herbology
Muggle Studies
Best subjects:
Potions, Charms, DADA, Herbology, (she adores nature and working with herbs and soil and getting her hands dirty, what a delight)

Worst subjects:
CoMC (she keeps wanting to PLAY with the rough ones, tut)
 
 
Glinda P. Dolittle
16 December 2006 @ 09:55 am
“Colton Vane,” she said lazily, “if only you weren’t so insistent on being such a repugnant prat, you might resemble something human.”

Glinda held up a finger.

“I know what you’re going to say. Your habitual line, useless people like me don’t know what real or human is. That we must imagine it to be something whimsical and pretty and preposterous. But that’s not the case.” She gazed at him quite sincerely now. Not lecturing him, not reprimanding… just honest. “Human is the propensity to be ugly as well as pretty. To not fear imperfections, whether they lie in your blood, in your brain, or even in your heart. You admit the imperfection, accept it, and then… you move on. Because it’s part of you, but it doesn’t define you. You just keep going. That’s not being weak, it’s being strong. The capability to move on. It’s what a soldier would do.”

So she had made another speech, as was her habit. She was full of them, because she was full of theories. And theories were just that—not proven true or false. But that didn’t mean she believed them any less. The theories Colton had seemed so baseless, so lacking in spirit. How could one believe in something that had no spirit, no soul—only spite?

Glinda didn’t know why she kept troubling with him, kept delivering her theories in genuine little packages to one who seemed so affronted by them, and so unwelcoming. But it was that same spirit that drove her beliefs, she supposed, that encouraged her to take her time, even on her biggest foe. Perseverance… soldiering on… for humanity.

--

Loosely veiled glares launched across the ballroom, back and forth in succession. Glinda likened them to hand grenades tossed over the barbed-wire-rimmed trenches, amidst the intermittent exposure to tear gas. She felt every so often for her helmet, her mask, realising time and again that she wore no such things. No, instead she was vulnerable in a deep red ball gown (her parents seemed to think it suited her hair, she happened just to like the color), and felt more vulnerable still in the open circle of her friends, talking and trying to laugh.

It was no traditional trench, though open fire was certainly in session.

Somehow, somehow, an unforeseen volley made the battle escalate to new and dreadful heights. Her parents, presumptuous and ridiculous as always, noticed those glares across the room and mistook them for longing stares of mutual affection. Not to be deterred in ferreting out a suitor for their youngest daughter, and well aware of the young man’s respectable status in society, they approached first Glinda, prating on about some urgent merry matter of engagement, dragged her over to said entrenched foe… and then dragged them both over to said foe’s respectable, supercilious parents.

Glinda looked down at her stomach, positive she should see a gaping hole, having been hit by shell and shrapnel.

The Vanes Senior looked down past the ends of their noses at Dolittles Senior and their audaciously redheaded daughter (who offended all reason by wearing a red gown with that hair), wondering what the other family could possibly want with them and their darling prince of a boy, their Colton. If Glinda could interject, she might have volunteered a sincere, ‘Nothing whatsoever, please draft him back across enemy lines,’ but for the moment all she could do was stare miserably and meekly at her own parents and try not to look unkindly upon any of the Vanes.

Colton, himself, was aghast and put upon and generally bemused. As well as feeling a slight headache or perhaps nausea in his stomach. Even both—such things were not uncommon in Glinda’s presence. She made herself so irksome just by breathing… and, well, refusing to even bend when he would so much like to break her. He did his best not to look impatient while he waited for the tedious Dolittles to express whatever it was that seemed so urgent so he could remove himself again, all the while smiling. That pleasant, practised smile, trained not to show any hint of emotion beneath it. He smiled on as his parents nodded and made accommodating greetings to the Dolittles. Yes, the entire Vane family was pleasant and polite even in the act of stepping on you with their respectable, supercilious shoes.

But the Dolittles, in their habitually ridiculous manner, decided to trump them all and suggest airily, “Ah, but wouldn’t it be lovely if Glinda and Colton had a dance? They certainly make a pretty pair!” Husband and wife looked at each other meaningfully and all too obviously with smug smiles, which they turned on Glinda. Beaming eyes fixed on her expectantly, traded to Colton, to his parents, and back to Glinda.

The Vanes Senior exchanged glances, knowing full well that Glinda was a halfblood even if only by a distant technicality. They also knew that halfbloods by any technicality were matters to be treated delicately, even quietly—thus they were not about to make a fuss in such public, polite society. They bestowed tight-lipped smiles on the Dolittles Senior and on Glinda, the latter on whom their eyes narrowed. Encroaching on their son, was she?

Colton panicked inwardly. Never in his life would he have imagined a worse punishment. Dancing with Glinda P. Dolittle, the bane of his existence, the scum beneath his feet? Could it be possible? He was already counting the number of times he would need to wash his hands after he was free of her. But his jaw tensed only a little, unnoticably so, and he nodded a polite bow of his head to the Dolittle parents (the scoundrels, the pests, why one day when he was in charge he would see to it that they… well… one day!). Colton was also not about to make a scene in public or in front of his parents, for that matter.

“Of course, a dance,” he replied smoothly, and he offered Glinda his arm (oh for Merlin’s sake, his silk sleeve)—without so much as looking at her.

Glinda thought she had died and gone to hell.

But, not to be outdone by Colton’s graceful tact, she took his arm and succeeded not to curse aloud as she marched with him out onto the floor.

Mrs Dolittle bubbled happily to her husband, “I just knew she wasn’t cursed. She’s found herself a husband after all, you mark my words, Deacon dear!”
 
 
 
Glinda P. Dolittle
12 September 2006 @ 11:19 pm
[open to everyone in the whole bloody castle! wheee!]

So, my comrades, the time has come.

The Christmas season brings many things׃ gifts, myths of round men in red suits and white beards, spiritual questions and/or affirmation, and—glory of all glories—balls.

It would seem an innocent venture. Deck yourself in your best holiday finery, sip champagne (or sparkling juice if you prefer), make merry with your friends and loved ones, and waltz around a beautiful room.

But honestly, soldiers. Dancing awkwardly with a partner you probably don’t really want, tripping over your heels or dress robes, worrying what your date happens to think of your new haircut or whether you’ll even snag a date at all? Stuff and nonsense!

I am foregoing the whole ‘mating ritual’ completely—there will be a table, in the back of the ballroom, where there may be a game of poker, and where you may be inclined to make bets of the mischievous or even illegal sort. And it may or may not be situated under a cloud of smoke. YOU ARE ALL INVITED TO THIS TABLE OF MAY OR MAY NOT BE PROPORTIONS.

I encourage you, do wear your best holiday frocks and, really, hats would be welcomed if not mandatory, along with a preparation to submit your firstborn as payment in a round of merry cards. Dates, pish posh! We shall all be one polygamous festival of lights, as deemed only appropriate at Christmastime.

I’ll be there, with bells on, and waiting for you!

Signed,
Comrade Glinda P. Dolittle
Tags:
 
 
Glinda P. Dolittle
[charmed for her friends, wouldn't want the hate-ee to have the luxury of responding, now would we.]

How can you pity someone you hate?
The two emotions would appear to be mutually exclusive.

Perhaps I don’t pity him. Perhaps I only want to understand. But at that point he becomes something I want to study, and again, difficult to hate.

And he is so, so hateful.

I am not useless. Imagination is not childlike. It is heroic. Some days you could be without food, or water, or shelter, or even love—but you would always have imagination to help you soldier on. No one can keep that from you.

Unless you keep it from yourself.

I wish he wouldn’t have found me right after I’d read the letter. His words might not have stung as much. But they did, and I was almost as callous as he, in the end. I should hate myself, instead of him.

But I hate him.
Tags:
 
 
Glinda P. Dolittle
09 August 2006 @ 08:13 am
Send all your letters, trinkets, locks of hair, dungbombs, and other delicacies here via the Owlery!

I do very much fancy correspondence, especially of the War Genre, so perhaps when I reply I shall get into my tent and have on my helmet and hope it is a very rainy day and send my letter back to you with courage.

Ah! No, really, with Courage! My owl's name, you see. Oh, I tricked you, did I? I hope it shan't deter you from sending me a letter, after all. I really do like them.

♥,
Glinda P. Dolittle