~VV
My name is Penelope Bates.
But I mostly go by The Velvet Countess.
I'm a female.
I'm forever twenty-one years old.
The House I was in was Slytherin.
My Deathday is May 17th, 1892.
People say that, in a nutshell, I'm very sad. I’ve lost my bitterness in the many years since my death, and now all that’s left is sadness. Truthfully though, I cannot stand the sight of lovers; one kiss, one loving caress, and I am overwhelmed with jealousy. Jealousy and regret dominate my emotions.
My background story can be told like this: Penelope Bates twirled across the hall, floor-length scarlet dress coiling around her body with every movement. Her rose-painted lips were drawn up in an overjoyed smile as she spun and twirled. She was twenty-one, and she was having the time of her life. The blood-colored material fell to the ground as she halted, excusing herself from her partner with a radiant grin. Her indigo eyes had rested upon her soon-to-be husband as he flitted from the ballroom. She supposed he was looking for some air; she felt the same way. They had not had one moment alone since that night, one week ago. The night he had proposed.
Rosy-cheeked and out of breath, Penelope made her way through the sea of well-wishers, brushing shoulders with countless guests murmuring in tones of “Happy birthday” and “Congratulations.” Reaching the double doors that led to the rest of the mansion, she slipped out, stepping into the dim hallway. Shuffling in the lush carpet, she stumbled every several steps, running her fingertips along the sparse walls. Every so often she would pass under an unlit sconce or a painting; or come across a black outline of a doorway. She didn’t stop until she came upon a room with a cracked open door, a minute amount of light seeping through the sliver. Beaming anew, she tiptoed nearer, pale fingertips reaching out in preparation. Caressing the wood for a moment, she gave a slight push, door swinging open in front of her.
Nothing could be seen within the room except an orange-glowing lamp located in the very right corner of the room, light barely reaching a dark outline of a chair situated next to it. She smiled in anticipation. She couldn’t wait just to see his face; to be close to him. Yes, it had only been a week, but they were madly in love. To her, every single waking moment should be spent together. With a slight flick of the wrist, her wand was in her hand, sliding out of an inner band hidden within her long flowing sleeves. With another small movement, the room was filled with light, the lamp now joined by two others, each shining with a white brightness.
She glanced around, eyes flickering around the large room, searching for her fiancé. But what she saw was not a part of her perfect night, but rather a piece of her worst nightmare. There in front of her was her lover, but he was not waiting alone for her like she had dreamed; in fact, he was with another. They were locked in a deep embrace, and had not even noticed her arrival, or the lights that suddenly exposed their treachery. With a sudden and outraged shriek, Penelope charged across the room and tore the traitor she loved from this other woman by his hair. With one hand tangled in the soft strands she had so often admired, the other hand clenched around a velvet pillow so innocently cushioning the cheaters. Taking up her weapon of choice, she released her lover’s head and instead placed both hands on the velvet material, placing it over the lips she’d kissed so many times. With another wild scream, she forced the pillow down, smothering her love for him as much as the man himself, until he was no more. But the guilt was immediate, for she of course still loved him, and she could not believe what she had done.
She tossed away the pillow as if it was burning her, but she could not toss away the pain of what she had just done. Staring with shock at the dead man before her, she did not see the other woman take a hold of the pillow she’d discarded, and all she could do was scream when it was placed over her lips instead. Her last rose-tinted kiss was given to the velvet material she’d used to kill the man she was to marry, as the woman he was cheating with smothered her to death.
I enjoy dreaming and pretending, those who admire me, handsome young men speaking to me, the library, and spring.
I despise beautiful young women, remembering, empty corridors, too much time alone, and when flowers wither.
I look like any other ghost I suppose. I was once beautiful, but it’s all faded. My long curled locks are now only a sad, muted brown. The dress I was so proud of is nothing more than a ragged, graying scrap. And my eyes, once such a bright, deep blue, have become blackened, darkening through the years of unceasing pain.
My name is Penelope Bates.
But I mostly go by The Velvet Countess.
I'm a female.
I'm forever twenty-one years old.
The House I was in was Slytherin.
My Deathday is May 17th, 1892.
People say that, in a nutshell, I'm very sad. I’ve lost my bitterness in the many years since my death, and now all that’s left is sadness. Truthfully though, I cannot stand the sight of lovers; one kiss, one loving caress, and I am overwhelmed with jealousy. Jealousy and regret dominate my emotions.
My background story can be told like this: Penelope Bates twirled across the hall, floor-length scarlet dress coiling around her body with every movement. Her rose-painted lips were drawn up in an overjoyed smile as she spun and twirled. She was twenty-one, and she was having the time of her life. The blood-colored material fell to the ground as she halted, excusing herself from her partner with a radiant grin. Her indigo eyes had rested upon her soon-to-be husband as he flitted from the ballroom. She supposed he was looking for some air; she felt the same way. They had not had one moment alone since that night, one week ago. The night he had proposed.
Rosy-cheeked and out of breath, Penelope made her way through the sea of well-wishers, brushing shoulders with countless guests murmuring in tones of “Happy birthday” and “Congratulations.” Reaching the double doors that led to the rest of the mansion, she slipped out, stepping into the dim hallway. Shuffling in the lush carpet, she stumbled every several steps, running her fingertips along the sparse walls. Every so often she would pass under an unlit sconce or a painting; or come across a black outline of a doorway. She didn’t stop until she came upon a room with a cracked open door, a minute amount of light seeping through the sliver. Beaming anew, she tiptoed nearer, pale fingertips reaching out in preparation. Caressing the wood for a moment, she gave a slight push, door swinging open in front of her.
Nothing could be seen within the room except an orange-glowing lamp located in the very right corner of the room, light barely reaching a dark outline of a chair situated next to it. She smiled in anticipation. She couldn’t wait just to see his face; to be close to him. Yes, it had only been a week, but they were madly in love. To her, every single waking moment should be spent together. With a slight flick of the wrist, her wand was in her hand, sliding out of an inner band hidden within her long flowing sleeves. With another small movement, the room was filled with light, the lamp now joined by two others, each shining with a white brightness.
She glanced around, eyes flickering around the large room, searching for her fiancé. But what she saw was not a part of her perfect night, but rather a piece of her worst nightmare. There in front of her was her lover, but he was not waiting alone for her like she had dreamed; in fact, he was with another. They were locked in a deep embrace, and had not even noticed her arrival, or the lights that suddenly exposed their treachery. With a sudden and outraged shriek, Penelope charged across the room and tore the traitor she loved from this other woman by his hair. With one hand tangled in the soft strands she had so often admired, the other hand clenched around a velvet pillow so innocently cushioning the cheaters. Taking up her weapon of choice, she released her lover’s head and instead placed both hands on the velvet material, placing it over the lips she’d kissed so many times. With another wild scream, she forced the pillow down, smothering her love for him as much as the man himself, until he was no more. But the guilt was immediate, for she of course still loved him, and she could not believe what she had done.
She tossed away the pillow as if it was burning her, but she could not toss away the pain of what she had just done. Staring with shock at the dead man before her, she did not see the other woman take a hold of the pillow she’d discarded, and all she could do was scream when it was placed over her lips instead. Her last rose-tinted kiss was given to the velvet material she’d used to kill the man she was to marry, as the woman he was cheating with smothered her to death.
I enjoy dreaming and pretending, those who admire me, handsome young men speaking to me, the library, and spring.
I despise beautiful young women, remembering, empty corridors, too much time alone, and when flowers wither.
I look like any other ghost I suppose. I was once beautiful, but it’s all faded. My long curled locks are now only a sad, muted brown. The dress I was so proud of is nothing more than a ragged, graying scrap. And my eyes, once such a bright, deep blue, have become blackened, darkening through the years of unceasing pain.
