xxxxx ❝ superboy and the invisible girl.
xxhe's the one you'd wish would appear.
xxhe's your hero, forever your son.
xxhe's not here. i am here.❞
look in my magic mirror
My parents say that I am very pretty to the naked eye: on the tall side, with my legs contributing to most of my height. I have these beautiful dark, dark brown locks that brush my face every time I move (which, to be honest, gets annoying sometimes) and deep-set blue eyes. My hands are gentle but sturdy, with rounded square nails accenting my pale skin. My skin tans easily, and doesn't burn, so that is excellent for when I go on holiday to Greece or other countries. My main imperfections are too-small ears; an extremely sharp profile ; a pointy, all-angles chin; and way-too-small size-four feet. These abnormalities are quite obvious when one gets near me, but I don't mind all too much. They distinguish me from others, and showed that I am certainly not an entirely unreal airbrush.
I play around a lot with the way I look. Mostly because I have no idea what I'm supposed to really look like, being adopted. I have had blonde hair, cropped ridiculously short; bright red hair that almost made me look like a Weasley (they wouldn't know if I were or I weren't, there are more than enough to go around); and a buzz cut of pitch-black hair that made me look way too butch for my actual sexual orientation. I sort of wish I had freckles- I saw a tan-skinned model with freckles and honey-coloured hair and they looked gorgeous. I want to know if I could ever get freckles... probably not, because I take care of my skin too well for freckles. Oh well, better a pale beauty than a sickly, chemotherapy-anorexic skin cancer patient.
it's what's on the inside that counts?
It's not that I have superiority issues, it's that I really am better than most of the people at school. I have no problems with working with others, not at all, but in my experience, it's better to treat number one better than everyone else. Other people are not so dependable as everyone considers themselves to be, and that's something that you get to learn the hard way when you're adopted. Not so if you were young like me, but you hear stories. Poor parents, parents who are never around, parents who forget to feed you, abusive parents- abusive boyfriends! If there were any two people you were obligated to trust more, it would have to be the ones who contributed to your creation, the one who gave birth to you and the one who helped. When that trust is broken, it doesn't exactly heal cleanly. That's the sole reason why I have reservations when trusting others- adults more than my peers, though, to be honest.
I'm not spoiled, oh no. Far from that. My adoptive parents made sure to raise me as normally as possible. But, like all parents should be, their main focus was to give me the best of everything that they had. I had lavish birthday parties (when I didn't have lavish gifts) and vice-versa. We learned to make do with what we had or do without, which I think is a very good way to live. I wasn't raised to be the "I want a squirrel. Get me one of those squirrels. All I've got at home is one pony and two dogs and four cats and six bunny rabbits and two parakeets and three canaries and a green parrot and a turtle, and a silly old hamster! I WANT a SQUIRREL!" kind of girl. No Veruca Salt here- only little Felicia-May Alora Baylin.
The problem with adoption is that you never really get to know who you are until you're left alone- which by then, you should probably already be sick of, unless you were placed in an orphanage. I've learned to navigate the streets of life on my own, with no help from anyone, so you'll be able to say I'm independent. Because of the whole distrust thing, I don't feel the need to (nor do I want to) depend on anyone. Relying on others is simply a way of setting yourself up for disappointment that I've felt way too much in my life already.
Conniving. It's a quality every Slytherin needs to have, and is probably primarily the reason I was Sorted as such. I have no reservations when it comes to getting what I want. Of course, Captain Lanson is much more so than I, because I use it when the situation is absolutely dire (or at least, close enough that it will make a real impact on whatever the hell people are doing at the time). So in this case, I am careful and have supremely good timing when it comes to my goal-setting. I know a lot of Slytherins considered being Ravenclaws, and vice versa, but even though I'm good when it comes to saving my emotions, I'm not quite smart enough to have made Ravenclaw. If anything else, I would probably have ended up being a Hufflepuff. Oh, God forbid.
I have endless amounts of sarcasm stored inside my brain for a rainy day. I tend to want to call this radical honesty, but honesty is an exorbitantly overrated way of putting things. I won't just say what's on my mind because it's in there. Again, it's all about the timing of things. When s**t hits the fan, I will take charge. If you don't like the way I do things, then either usurp my privileges as honourary leader (ha ha ha, like that would ever happen) or shut the ******** up. As displayed, I have no problems with swearing, either. I usually only do it if it's in the lyrics of a song or when I'm unnaturally irritable that day. I am indeed easily angered, so make sure you stay on my good side, okay?
history books are always biased
I was born somewhere out of my knowledge. I am pretty sure it was somewhere in the West End district of London, England. I know nothing about my true parents: who they were, how old they were, if they were magical or not, nothing, and my adoptive parents know nothing as well. I was apparently placed into an adoption agency in Kirkwall, Ireland, my 'father' Jon Baylin's birthplace and the place where he spent the entirety of his life. My 'mother' was the Glaswegian playwright Siobhan Grey, who came to Ireland by a severe case of wanderlust, bearing my 'half-brother' Artagnan, who had been born from an affair out of wedlock.
I grew up surrounded by musicians, philosophers, and artists- of magical degree. Of course, they never wanted me to know about their wizardry, as they assumed I was not going to be of magic descent. My parents moved to London, of course, like all aspiring artist-types. My brother Artagnan was the unruly one in the household; on the contrary, I was the one who did everything 'right.' My parents doted on both of us and pressed the arts on us as soon as we could walk and talk. They gave us books on Aristide Cavaillé-Coll and Élie Halévy, wondering every day what our talents would be when they finally shone through. Unfortunately, books on French organ builders and French philosopher-historians weren't exactly helping us become all that we could be, you know?
A few years later, my parents' enthusiasm for the school of life and wanderlust was beginning to wane a little bit. Artagnan was fourteen and exploring all of his possibilities, wandering around London during the summer when he wasn't at school, picking up pieces of the city life to take back home and piece together these amazing sculptures he called 'urban casts.' Or that's what my parents had told me he was doing. I'd never actually seen a single sculpture, which would turn out to be pretty damn important. He'd finally found his shining space in life and in our parents' eyes, and I stayed awake long after my parents tucked me in, studying lower-level books on obscure art and design jobs for years (come on, how intelligent could I possibly be at age eight?). I remember a time when I longed to be a professional hobo- and before you start, it was really called professional backpacking. My father gave up his flowy peasant tops and moccasins and holed up in his room with my mother, who only wore kilts and halter tops. Artagnan moved back to Kirkwall, and now I was alone again.
I hadn't had regular sleeping patterns since I was seven, and it whacked out everything I'd ever really known. My teachers and counsellors refused to believe there was anything seriously wrong with me and instead chalked it up to bad behaviour, drugs, and alcohol abuse. And of course, my parents were excited out of their minds. That was how Artagnan had started out, and look where he landed: back in Kirkwall making his "astonishingly alternative artwork" that really wasn't artwork, it was absolute crap that he'd pieced together in his room.
By about age ten I was unable to do anything of importance altogether, and finally my parents gave up on me. They should have known from the start I wasn't a talent waiting to shine, like I knew from day one. But lo and behold, when I turned eleven- an envelope delivered by a ridiculously white owl. I was floored. I'd had no idea that they had hidden this much of their lives from me. Artagnan had never been an artist. He was a wizard, and so were my parents. Obviously I was pissed.
Of course, my parents were really quite old by then. Probably nearly thirty-four, thirty-five. They had given up all hope because I hadn't shown any signs of magic at all- of course, they didn't know about all the crazy s**t I got up to at night because they hadn't cared enough about their little Muggle ward. I hadn't known what the hell it was, I thought I was seeing things because I stayed up so late. But no, these Ravenclaws were actually harbouring a burgeoning witch in their household- something they had never in the entire universe expected (though they'd hoped beyond hope it was possible). By then I began to resent Artagnan to no end. I had to be better than him. I had to outshine him. I had to be everything that he never was. That was why I was Sorted into Slytherin. And ha, wasn't that a shock to old Jon and Siobhan?
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