Post by marlene on Apr 9, 2012 23:46:16 GMT
marlene alana mckinnon
[/i]
full name: Marlene Alana McKinnon
age: Sixteen
year: Sixth
birthday: May third
blood line: Pureblood
occupation: Student
former / house: Gryffindor
- Create my own potion.
- Become a professional Quidditch player.
- Learn to speak French fluently.- Get a tattoo.
- Explore a jungle.
- Start a rock band.
- Learn to tango.
- Swim with sharks.
- Swim in the ocean under a full moon.
- Get kissed in the rain.- Bet during a Quidditch match
- Win the bet previously mentioned.- Eat nothing but ice cream for an entire day
-Travel to Paris.
TWO. memories.
She doesn't know what to expect. Whenever something went wrong she was called to McGonagall's office no matter what it was. Not once had she been told to go see Professor Dumbledore in his office. She didn't even know where his office was. A million possibilities were floating around in her mind, each one worse than the one before. The only thing that kept on her on route was the sound of McGonagall's shoes in front her, hitting the stone steps leading out of the dungeons. What was so important that she had to be taken out of Potions class for? Especially in the middle of a fifth year Potions class. This had to be important, and for once she knew it wasn't any prank she had pulled.
What if her mother had decided to take her out of Hogwarts and force her to stay home and take some proper lessons like a 'young lady' should? Or maybe her mother had instead gotten hurt and was in St Mungo's? As much as it would be a good thing to have her mother off her back for a while it wasn't exactly a fate she would wish on many people. Now that she thought about it she seemed to be thinking of the worst that could happen. Perhaps it wasn't anything bad at all but some sort of congratulations. For what, she couldn't figure out, but there was always a possibility. Whatever it was, she was about to find out. Professor McGonagall had stopped walking in front of a giant gargoyle and had spoken some odd term that Katie didn't quite catch. A small wave of McGonagall's hand had made her move forward and up the stairs until she reached an oak door, where she knocked and waited.
"Come in."
It was Dumbledore's quiet voice that lead her into the office without very much hesitation. Once inside she acted very much like a child in a candy store, looking at everything there was to take in. It took a few minutes before Professor Dumbledore broke her out of her thoughts and asked her to sit down, something she did quite reluctantly.
"I'm afraid, Miss McKinnon, that I have some terrible news to tell you."
Heart hammering, Marlene tried to keep a straight face. Terrible news? Oh she knew it. She just knew it was coming.
"There was an attack made by Death Eaters on a small wizard pub near the Ministry this morning. I'm afraid your father, Michael McKinnon, was there at the time of the attack. He was brutally murdered by the Death Eaters. I'm sorry Miss McKinnon."
Her father. Death Eaters. Attack. Killed. Those were the only words that registered in Marlene's mind. Her mother getting hurt? It was probable. Her father? Impossible. Not in a million years would she have thought that her father would have anything happen to him, let alone get killed by Death Eaters. He was a pureblood for Merlin's sake! Why would they attack him of all people? Of course she knew deep inside of her that it had to do with his completely anti-Voldemort support. He had never quite been to keep silent on the matter, and apparently it had caught up to him. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. It seemed that everything around her was shattering into pieces. Pictures flashed in front of her eyes. Her father picking her up in his arms. Showing her how to fly. Buying her a broom. Hiding from her mother in the closet with him. His smiling face as he led her onto platform 9 3/4 for the first time. Memories from her life. That was all she would have from her father from now on. He was gone. Long gone. Gone so far she wouldn't see him ever again. That was when the tears started streaming down her face.
Purebloods were supposed to be sorted into Slytherin. Ravenclaw was also often acceptable. Hufflepuff was usually looked down upon, and Gryffindor was outright disliked by many for their ‘too good hearts’. At least those were the words which Bethany tried to implant in her daughter’s mind before she left for her first year at Hogwarts. Bethany herself had been a Slytherin, whereas her husband had been a Gryffindor. It hadn’t fared too well at the beginning with her family, but he was of a decent wizarding line, so their thoughts were kept to themselves for the most part. Now it was up to her daughter to make things work out and please her family. She knew quite well that Michael hadn’t uttered a word about the houses to Marlene, and so she desperately hoped that her words would stick in the eleven year old’s mind.
It did. In sorts. Marlene had all of her mother’s advice in mind when she came to be sorted. She also had in mind though that her father had been a Gryffindor, and how much she felt a lot more similar to him than her mother. Everything was a ball of confliction in her mind, and landed her for a whole three minutes on the stool with the sorting hat atop her head. The hat could see the desire she had to please her mother and be in Slytherin, and while she did possess some traits from the house her excessive recklessness tipped the scales slightly on the Gryffindor side. Her conflicted mind between her mother and father didn’t help one bit, and the young girl merely sat there as the hat deliberated. It was one or the other, Slytherin or Gryffindor. She didn’t have the patience to be a Hufflepuff nor the willingness to learn of a Ravenclaw. That left her with a choice. A small choice, but one nonetheless. She knew her father wouldn't particularly mind where she ended up, as long as she was happy. Her mother on the other hand would probably tear her apart the moment she stepped back inside their home in London when she went back for the Christmas holidays. Then again she didn’t want to have to pretend to be someone she wasn’t.
So there she sat, unable to make a decision for herself. The hat wasn’t saying much, but she could hear some murmuring in front of her in the crowd of first years waiting to be sorted. The word squib floated to her ears and flooded her with dread. She wasn’t a squib. She wasn’t, and she would show them all that she wasn’t. She was going to be the greatest witch there was! Well in her year at least. She could almost feel the sorting hat smiling (though then again she had probably imagined that -hats can’t smile) as it shouted out its final decision. “GRYFFINDOR!”
It was both relief and regret that Marlene felt as she hopped off the stool and head for the Gryffindor table. Relief to have been sorted and to know she was just as her father had been once before her. Regret that her mother would be disappointed in her. She sat down at one of the empty seats and couldn’t help but smile at the cheers that were around her and the congratulations she was receiving from the older students. She was still hesitant to enjoy herself until an older female student-not very much older by the looks of it- looked at her directly and said “You know what? I can tell you’ll be a great addition to Gryffindor.” Too stunned to reply, Marlene couldn't feel a grin break out on her face. Maybe being a Gryffindor wouldn’t be so bad after all.
THREE. letters that were never sent
May third of nineteen seventy six.
Dear Michael McKinnon - aka dad,
Today is my sixteenth birthday. I know, it's nothing special since my seventeenth is only next year and I'm not legal and all, but does a girl need a truly special occasion to write to her father? It's been a little less than three months since you've left this world, but the wounds that I obtained through your death still feel so very open. I miss you. A lot. And I know that mum does too, even though she won't admit it. You were the one who always had the words to make me laugh, and even though you were rarely at home, those few rare moments I spent with you are some I will never forget. I wish there was a way to bring you back, even if it was only for a minute. I would finally get to tell you how much I love you and how much you've meant to me all these years. I could finally tell you a final goodbye. I....I have to go now. But please remember that I'll always be you're little Marly-bird, no matter how old I get.
With love,
Marlene
September third of nineteen seventy six.
Mother,
I don't need a big bloody party for my seventeenth birthday. Even less one where everyone will be. I'm quite happy just going somewhere with my own friends than listen to you talk about useless things with your pureblood friends during what should be an event for me but is quite really an event for you to socialize. I refuse to take part of any of it if you force it upon me, and will lock myself in my room for the night. Or better yet, I will take my broom and fly right out of my bedroom window. I'm sure your friends would be rather pleased to see that occur. We both know how much they adore Quidditch right? So please stop trying to control every bloody aspect of my life and leave me alone. Isn't that what being seventeen means anyways? To be your own responsibility and an adult in the world? I mean honesty mum, I'm quite tired of your antics! Please do not force me to say more.
Your daughter,
Marlene
July eighteenth of nineteen seventy six.
Dear Future Marlene McKinnon,
Heck I sound fancy now. This is to inform you (in case you are unable to remember it) that you were the one that hid Pettigrew's cheese in the common room in fifth year. He never found it, and if he ever asks for it back, don't tell him where it is. It's disgusting enough as it is. Oh, and you're also the one who hid Slughorn's rat tails in the laundry room. Really, teat oldfartman just should have stopped insisting your potion sucked. Anyhow, this was just to remind you to never change. Except maybe eat a little more. Anorexia is never a fun thing to deal with. Also, do try to calm yourself and not angry so often. Believe me life would be a lot prettier if that was the case. Until next time!
Marls
FOUR. rumors that circulated.
Marlene McKinnon is a prude.
"What? Where did this come from? You know just because I didn’t snog in the middle of the hallways every now and again doesn’t mean I’m a prude. Or perhaps you say that because I’m so physically unattractive? At which point that would be rather harsh. I may not flaunt my personal life but that isn’t to say I don’t have one. I mean I may only have dated a guy or two in the past and I may happen to easily fall for someone due to looks, but I wouldn’t label myself a prude. I mean sure, people call me naïve for placing too much on appearances sometimes. I just can’t help it though, it hooks me. Although I’ve never really let things get very far when they’ve started. Don’t call me irresponsible for that just hopeless in the love department."
Marlene McKinnon is a stuck up know it all who never failed a course.
"I appreciate the fact that people get the impression that I’m so smart, but I’m not Lily. I’m not stupid though, before you try to bring that up. It just isn’t easy when you join the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Especially not after it becomes your number one priority. Oh the late practices and the full day class wouldn’t have been so terrible, especially not for a tiny, energetic third-year like me. That is, until you add astronomy to the mix. I mean midnight classes? After having been on the pitch until some ungodly hour? Oh believe me that class was the absolute death of me. I mean you try to stare at something light years away when you are completely sleep deprived and worn out from practice. Oh, and don’t forget the charting of it all. I never quite had the patience for it. Especially the memorizing of ninety odd bloody constellations by the time I got to fifth year. Professor Sinistra also seemed to have taken quite a dislike for me early on. So yes, I failed astronomy when O.W.Ls came round. And you know something? I couldn’t be brought to care less. Course you could also count that time I only got an acceptable in Potions and a troll in History of Magic, oh and there was that one time where I almost got a dreadful in Herbology. I did make up for that one though.
Marlene McKinnon is a complete fake. She's a full out blood supremacist and hates muggleborns.
"Well this has got to be the funniest thing I've ever heard. No really, brilliant job. This make me sound just like my mum. It isn't as though I've told Lily Evans that she was a truly brilliant witch and meant it. I mean really, who would do that? Well let me tell you. I would. I respect any witch or wizard no matter what blood runs through their veins. If you wish to be an arrogant prat about my pure blood, then feel free to consider me a halfblood. It would almost be better if I was."
Marlene McKinnon is a fake blonde. She only dyed her hair to get with the guys.
"So I'm a prude but would dye my hair to get a good shag. Huh. Curious things our heart does, right? But no. I'm a natural blonde, nothing dyed or charmed. Goes quite well with my green eyes don't you think?"
FIVE. random questions.
"Good morning Miss McKinnon. First, I would like to know the basics about you. Name, age, date of birthday, all of that kind of stuff which will be recorded for possible future use"[/size][/ul]
"What exactly is this future use? Because I don't giver a damn about it. Alright, alright I'll answer. No need to need to tell ol' Minnie about that. My birth name is Marlene Alana McKinnon, but no one calls me by that whole thing except my mother when she happens to be in an excessively angry mood. The name Marlene is from German in origin, and it means star of the sea and from Magdala. I don't bloody know where Magdala is either. My middle name, Alana, means precious. Surprisingly enough it's quite a popular name in Ireland, and I suppose my parents only picked it because it was popular among Irish citizens. Lastly there's my last name, McKinnon. There aren't really many meanings to that.
"As far as nicknames go, I've gotten quite a few over the years. Marls, for one. Or Mars. Mar, McKinnon, oh hell there are too many to list. I've also been called Blondie, that Gryff, Oi you, and just a bunch of other stuff. I'd rather not quite get into it.
"As for my age, I'm sixteen. Now in case you're wondering exactly how i came to be sixteen, that is because i was born on May third of nineteen seventy six. The only problem I have with my birthday is that there were no special events that happened on it. Like there wasn't a war, or a fight, or even a bloody Quidditch game on it! It's not as though I haven't been trying to make my birthday a wizarding celebration, but up to now I haven't been able to even get a response to my owls sent to the ministry concerning the matter."
"That is....interesting Miss McKinnon. You seem to enjoy talking a lot. So can you tell us more about yourself? You know, personality wise?"
"I could, but that does not mean I want to tell you all about me."
"Now now Miss Bell, we need this information, it's quite important. Plus we do have some incentives if needed."
"Right. Sure. No problem. No need to say anything to anyone. Not that I want to but if you really insist, I suppose I could.
"I was a generally quiet child before getting to Hogwarts. I kept my opinions to myself and rarely spoke anything that actually meant something, since I was afraid of getting hurt or embarrassed for saying something i shouldn't have. That lasted until second year, where I realized that keeping things in wouldn't really help me. Afterwards was when I didn't start giving a bloody damn about what I said and what people thought about it. I told someone to go bloody screw themselves once in fourth year. That was probably the most excitement I had had in a while. Now, I never seem to be able to shut up. I'm always talking about something or another, but I do know when the time is right to just shut up for a few minutes. I just hate having some awkward moments in conversations when things are simply quiet. I would much rather have those filled with words and lively conversation. I suppose I also just can't keep my thoughts to myself. What fun is there when you go around pretending to like everyone and lying about everything they do or say and be all like 'Oh yes, I quite agree with you madam. May I have more tea?' I refuse to be one of those people. If I don't agree with something, I'll say it.
"I'm always being told by my mother how I'm horribly stubborn. According to her 'it is improper for a lady of my caliber to not listen to what she is told.' Absolute bullocks if you ask me. A 'lady' should be able to do whatever the bloody hell she wishes too, even tell a wizard to stick his wand where-the-sun-don't-shine. That's exactly what I don't hesitate to do. I will do what I want to. I prefer the term stubborn, although my mother has used pig-headed. I truly feel that to be an insult, hence my preferring stubbornness. My mother has told me I tend to think of myself sometimes, and only myself. Well, everyone has a bit of self-centeredness right?Alright, so maybe I think a little too much about myself and not enough about others, but you can't blame a girl for wanting what's best for herself, right?
"Don't tell me that it's impossible for me to do something. I'll probably laugh in your face and prove you wrong. Trust me, I've done it. I've got just as bad a temper as I do stubbornness. I may not be about to blow things up everywhere I go, but it doesn't take very much to get me fired up. I swear I should have been born a bloody ginger -no offense to them of course- rather than blonde. It would be easier to explain my temperament. I do also tend to get carried away in that state of mind though, and I have done some things I regret when mad. Although I'm never truly to be blamed for it all.
"I've been known by the people I care about to be caring. It's not exactly my choice of emotion to display all the time, but I suppose that I can be at times. I mean the last time some jerk insulted Lily I basically hexed his way into next Sunday. Trust me when I say that you don't want to mess with the people I care about. I'm dreadfully loyal to those I love, and saying that I would protect them could probably be considered an understatement. I suppose I'm like a lioness in that way. Protecting her little ones from harm, although I do that with my friends and my family. You see it takes a while for me to grow to care about someone. It isn't as though I meet someone, become friends and they mean the world to me. It takes years for me to truly care about someone that way. And through those years I need to be able to believe they won't leave me for some truly out of nowhere reason. That isn't to say I'm not open to meeting new people. Like I mentioned before, I'm a rather talkative person, with mostly anyone. A small conversation is all you need to help pass the time, so why complain?
"I'm also a very reckless kind of person. I’ll throw myself into whatever situation arises and do what I can to get out of it. Some call this pure courageousness, some completely stupidity. I mean my friends find me excessively dumb for doing a lot of things. People say that I'm just fearless and not afraid of anything. That couldn't be more far from the truth - I'm far from fearless; in fact, I'm actually afraid of a lot of things. I am terrified of enclosed spaces, I'm afraid of dying young, but I don't allow these fears to control my life. Bravery isn't something you are born into, brave is something you become. Loads of people are born into the world fearlessly; some people never shudder when alone in the dark, some men don't think twice when they see a Death Eater, but I was never given that gift. No, my stomach twists into knots when I am put on the spot, my breath gets quick when I'm put in a closed space, but I put on a brave face. I don't allow anyone to see the fear that I feel, and that in itself makes me courageous. Because being naturally 'brave' is not a feat, in fact it is no accomplishment at all, it is simply in your character. But when you push yourself, when you learn to master your emotions, is when you become a force to be reckoned with. I refuse to allow myself to be the girl cowering in the corner, to be the damsel in distress that some prince has to save. I want to be able to save myself from a dragon, or better yet I want to be able to protect others. I've never wanted to be the helpless princess in story books that is the way I live my life. I never allow anyone to take care of me, I take care of myself."
"So you would say that you definitely belong in Gryffindor?"
"If at this point you believe I shouldn't be I don't see why this interview thing is still going on. That answer your questions?"
"Yes...yes. Quite."
"So tell me about your family."
"What is there to tell? My father and I were very close when I was younger. He was my idol, the person I looked up to really. He taught me to fly, to be myself, pranks, oh just about everything. It hit me hard when he was murdered...I still have trouble believing it sometimes. My mother on the other hand was raised a pureblood woman and acts like one. She's tried to instill it into me as well, but it never really stuck quite honestly. Drives her bonkers. We rarely actually get along, most of the time we're screaming at each other and calling each other names. Lovely isn't she? As for siblings, I've got none."
"Well I suppose that to be enough information. Just one more thing, if your grades permit, what job do you see yourself having in the future."
"Finally an easy one. I mean of course everyone dreams of becoming Quidditch Player, but realistically speaking I'm aiming for the Auror's office. That square it all off?"
"Quite, yes. Thank you for time!"
alias: Mel
gender: Female
rp sample:
The cup was finally his. He may have won it already in the previous quidditch season with the Falcons, but nothing beat winning the cup as team captain. It had been one of the proudest moments in his life when he had been named captain of the Falcons. And now, right below that, there was winning the Quidditch Cup as captain with the Falcons. Any normal parents would have been proud, but he knew that even if he personally brought the cup to his parents' place and told them that he had won it, they would merely shrug it off and give him their congratulations without meaning it. Or even worst, they would ask him if that cup would help him attain a wife. Bloody gits. It didn't matter. The cup was his now, and there was nothing any witch or wizard would be able to do to destroy this moment. No one. Marcus stood with his back straight, and a modest grin on his face, clearly indicating he was happy, but not claiming the victory to be his alone. Although he had been the one that scored seven out of the twelve goals that the Falcons chasers had scored. Seven out of twelve. That was approximately....well a majority of goals. Who cared about percentage? He would read about it in the Prophet the next day anyways. And finally, there he was. The head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The man who made sure everything ran smoothly for these tournaments. He was walking on the pitch, brightly smiling and waving at the ecstatic fans in the stands. Back-to-back championships had never occurred in the history of the Falcons, so there was more than enough of a reason for them to be excited. Marcus could feel the excitement of his teammates who stood slightly behind him. They were cheering, high-fiveing each other, anything a winning team was expected to do. The ministry worker finally reached the spot where Marcus stood. He held out his hand for Marcus to shake, as he loudly announced: "Wizards and witches! I give you your 1997 British Quidditch League champions! The Falmouth Falcons!" The fans roared with delight at the announcement, and then Marcus saw it. The Quidditch Cup. It was brought onto the pitch by two buff looking wizards. They handed the cup to the department head, and turned around to leave. The head turned to Marcus with a beaming smile, and reached his arms out with the cup, presenting it to the captain. A genuine smile spread across the chaser's face as his hands reached for the cup....
TIC. TIC. TIC.
The faint noise woke Marcus up. Who the bloody hell sends an owl at this time?! He thought. He got out of his bed and headed for the window. He recognized Eriol, the royal owl his teammate Adrian Pucey owned. He was dead. Marcus opened the window and took the letter from the owl's outstretched leg. Just thought you'd like to see this. And Coach says no practice today. We get a day's rest. Adrian. Marcus gave a small snort. Official practice or not he was going to the pitch. He wouldn't get anywhere just sitting around his place and doing nothing. The only remedy to that was practicing anyways, and that was what he was planning on doing. With this in mind, he undid the other thing Eriol was carrying. A copy of the day's Prophet The main page showed a picture of the Falcon's team. All six of them. The title read Falmouth Falcons: A Little On The Short Side? Marcus knew they didn't mean the size of his players. All six of the current team members were of the male gender, and all were either well above or very close to being six foot tall. The Prophet was obviously talking about how it was one week from the first game of the Quidditch season, and still the Falcons were short a player.
Marcus angrily threw the paper off to the side, and shut the window, resulting in an angry peck on the windowpane from Eriol before flying off. Pucey could feed him. After all, it was his owl. Marcus quickly dressed into his Falcons' practice uniform, grabbed his wand, and without so much as a second thought, apparated from his flat. Barely a few seconds later he stood in front of the Quidditch pitch. The pitch in question was the one that the Falcons used for practice when they didn't want media attention from the Prophet or otherwise. When they weren't practicing though, the pitch was open to anyone. Although there were very few wizards that actually showed up for open flying sessions. He just hoped this was one of those days where no one bothered showing up. He entered the pitch through the players' entrance, where they had their own locker room. A few quick spells on the room's door and he was in. He grabbed his own broom from the row of them on one wall, and headed straight for the pitch itself. A nice few laps around the pitch would calm him down and get his mind off of the stupid reporters of the Daily Prophet and their insinuating that the Falcons were going nowhere this season. Just as he was about to mount his broom though, he looked up to spot a small figure flying around. Great, now he would have to share the pitch with some want-to-be. The figure was flying around in no particular pattern, and when it passed near, he could notice that it was a she, and she was blond. The figure seemed to click something in his mind. He knew this witch. He knew it. But as to how and who she was, he couldn't remember. He was definitely NOT going to share a pitch with a woman. No matter who she was. "You know this is a private pitch." He called out when she neared him again. It was perhaps a little mean to kick her off the pitch like that when she was more than allowed to be there, but Marcus wasn't particularly in the mood at the moment.
TIC. TIC. TIC.
The faint noise woke Marcus up. Who the bloody hell sends an owl at this time?! He thought. He got out of his bed and headed for the window. He recognized Eriol, the royal owl his teammate Adrian Pucey owned. He was dead. Marcus opened the window and took the letter from the owl's outstretched leg. Just thought you'd like to see this. And Coach says no practice today. We get a day's rest. Adrian. Marcus gave a small snort. Official practice or not he was going to the pitch. He wouldn't get anywhere just sitting around his place and doing nothing. The only remedy to that was practicing anyways, and that was what he was planning on doing. With this in mind, he undid the other thing Eriol was carrying. A copy of the day's Prophet The main page showed a picture of the Falcon's team. All six of them. The title read Falmouth Falcons: A Little On The Short Side? Marcus knew they didn't mean the size of his players. All six of the current team members were of the male gender, and all were either well above or very close to being six foot tall. The Prophet was obviously talking about how it was one week from the first game of the Quidditch season, and still the Falcons were short a player.
Marcus angrily threw the paper off to the side, and shut the window, resulting in an angry peck on the windowpane from Eriol before flying off. Pucey could feed him. After all, it was his owl. Marcus quickly dressed into his Falcons' practice uniform, grabbed his wand, and without so much as a second thought, apparated from his flat. Barely a few seconds later he stood in front of the Quidditch pitch. The pitch in question was the one that the Falcons used for practice when they didn't want media attention from the Prophet or otherwise. When they weren't practicing though, the pitch was open to anyone. Although there were very few wizards that actually showed up for open flying sessions. He just hoped this was one of those days where no one bothered showing up. He entered the pitch through the players' entrance, where they had their own locker room. A few quick spells on the room's door and he was in. He grabbed his own broom from the row of them on one wall, and headed straight for the pitch itself. A nice few laps around the pitch would calm him down and get his mind off of the stupid reporters of the Daily Prophet and their insinuating that the Falcons were going nowhere this season. Just as he was about to mount his broom though, he looked up to spot a small figure flying around. Great, now he would have to share the pitch with some want-to-be. The figure was flying around in no particular pattern, and when it passed near, he could notice that it was a she, and she was blond. The figure seemed to click something in his mind. He knew this witch. He knew it. But as to how and who she was, he couldn't remember. He was definitely NOT going to share a pitch with a woman. No matter who she was. "You know this is a private pitch." He called out when she neared him again. It was perhaps a little mean to kick her off the pitch like that when she was more than allowed to be there, but Marcus wasn't particularly in the mood at the moment.
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