#currently unlearning some deep seeded self-hate

[universe-of-peoples]

Who else grew up a youngest sibling that was constantly told you were annoying and not as smart as everyone else until you internalized it, convinced that you were bad and annoying and forever the villain?

No one? Just me then

[goldenmvry]

𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒑𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 | 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

full name :  MARY HELOISE MACDONALD. The miracle child named for miraculous women. Mary, for the mother, and Heloise, for the French philosopher with divinity and humanity tied to her name. The Macdonald family thought that perhaps they’d never be given a child, but when she finally came along, she imbibed the household with a light and fervor characteristic only to one destined to be one of those miraculous women. And how right they were. How right they continue to be. 

birth date :  3 March, 1960. Mary is a Pisces, though the confidence attributed to the zodiac sign is, at present, uncharacteristic. Once upon a time, however, she exemplified all the qualities characteristic of her zodiac. gender and pronouns : Mary identifies as cisgender, using she/her pronouns. sexuality : bisexual, biromantic

character traits : [ + ]: EMPATHETIC, INTUITIVE. You will never meet someone more in tune with the human condition, with the struggle so pertinent to the war hanging like clouds atop their heads. On a higher level, Mary is a figurehead for the sort of person the Order fights to protect, but on an interpersonal level - where she truly shines - she simply sees people. She is entirely un-judging, open-minded, a confidant in all aspects. She is understanding in a way uncommon in times such as these, perhaps thanks to the way in which she was raised. Mary is, first and foremost, a kind soul; she loves as deeply as she hurts, and she always does her very best to set aside grudges and see the humanity behind every mask. Oftentimes, this is to her detriment. There are some masks that are simply not meant to be peered beneath. This is, perhaps, what will make her an excellent healer. Bodies can be healed quite easily, but it takes a special touch to mend the wounds inflicted upon a soul. [ + ]: FORGIVING, COMPASSIONATE. Things change. People change. Skills are learned and unlearned as quickly as the weather shifts overhead; this is a fact of life - perhaps it makes her contradictory, perhaps it lessens the purity of her character, but quite frankly she could not be assed to care. Once upon a time, Mary would forgive every slight, would see reason in every wrong. She would do her very best to forgive, to be the forgiveness and understanding that even the most horrid monsters needed. And though, today, she is still as compassionate as she once was, though she remains a kind word and a warm shoulder upon which to lean in times of trouble, she has a harder time forgiving. She can do it, of course; she of all people knows the necessity of healing and forward motion; but a seed of doubt has been planted. Now possessing the capacity to hold a grudge, Mary makes a point to work twice as hard to be forgiving, to be kind, to be understanding. But fuck if it isn’t hard. [ + ]: HARD-WORKING, PERSISTENT. She learned the merit of hard work and persistence before she could hold a wand; before there was the magic of spell-work, there was the magic of blood, sweat, and tears, and this has instilled in her a sense of independence that lends to a work ethic unmatched. She is a workaholic by definition and an obsessive by trade, and will go above and beyond without a second thought in both career and relationships. She has always believed in the power of calloused fingers and tired eyes; and though she is nothing but tired nowadays, nothing but the strange, pulsing, ragged hole between her third and fourth rib, she will run herself into the ground before she allows herself to stop. She is like her mother this way; should she stop, should she teeter off the edge, she will fall into a bottomless pit, the nature of which is not kind. And, without a doubt, hard work is now a coping mechanism - at least it’s productive. 

misc: restless, maternal, overprotective, meek, easily led, holds grudges, identity crisis, spiraling

[ - ]: PESSIMISTIC, FATALISTIC. She’d never have thought that she’d feel such pain, see such vibrant shadows of death, but she’s seen it, and she can’t stop seeing it. Where once she believed she had a destined place at the heart of the Order, with her fate firmly grasped in her own capable hands, she now feels as if she is hurtling toward something horrid and inevitable. Quite often, she wishes she could simply disappear, for there is something thoroughly broken inside of her that she cannot piece back together. She is fearful, angry, living out of her own control - she hates what her life has become, this strange fluctuation between manic action and miserly isolation. Though she does do her best to remain kind, to remain supportive of her friends, of her own dreams, and of her needs, she hurtles toward something terrifying and inevitable, and she no longer feels powerful enough to stop it. [ - ]: PARANOID, AGITATED. There now grows brimstone in Mary’s garden. The attack she suffered has both demolished and set ablaze something terrible inside of her, lighting her from the ribs outward and setting her on a constant knife’s edge. It’s true that she is still kind, still Mary, still the friend they all know and love, but she’s changing with every passing moment. And how can she not, when she sees dark shapes in every corner, horrifyingly familiar faces in every shadow? She’s sleeping less, and this is making her less patient and more on edge; there lives an insatiable itch beneath her skin nowadays, and she snaps more often than she once did. Once upon a time, she was the most patient person in the world. But now, with near-constant knitted brow and deep circles beneath her eyes, she is a shell of her former self, with embers fleeing from between the cracks with every flare of a temper that was not there before. [ - ]: CHANGEABLE, DISTANT. See - Mary’s greatest flaw and her greatest strength is her ability to change. Change is good, for it makes us stronger. However, it does not make strength that lasts when it happens as quickly as it’s happened to Mary. The Mary that stands before you today is a shadow of the Mary we’d all like to know; such horror has befallen her that the once-fiery girl, made of passion and nothing but, is a husk, a mere shadow of what she once was. She is moody, often isolating herself for periods of time. Though she does make efforts to return to herself, to return to that blaze of love and passion that once streaked the halls of Hogwarts, she feels as if she is looking at herself, her old self, from the wrong end of a long tunnel. She is an echo, a hint of what once was. The old Mary is not dead, but she is somewhere far away, difficult to reach. 

affiliation : THE ORDER. It was never a question. What sort of person would she be, to sit on the sidelines while innocents fought and died for people like her? Even if she were the sort to willingly neglect a challenge, which she is heartily not, she would feel a sort of divine duty to her personhood, to her dignity, to her honor to fight for those like her who cannot fight for themselves. And that’s just what it is - honor-bound nature aside, she wishes to aid those who cannot help themselves, who cannot put up walls and hide behind them from what is yet to come. She is a staunch advocate of squib rights, goblin equality, and the like; it’s only natural that she would be a very vocal member of the Order. Her skill set and experiences lend her to be an excellent healer, rather than someone out on the front lines - though people change. Times change. Necessity is predestined to change. 

     plot lines :

[ LIVE TOGETHER, DIE ALONE ]: As I’ll mention in her bio, Mary’s involvement in the Order is honestly everything to her. It’s become somewhat of an obsession, to be frank, and as a thoroughly independent and strong-minded person (beneath all the fear, of course), she isn’t going to let anyone shield her from being involved in the Order. Even broken dolls have sharp edges. She was alone when she was attacked, and so has found comfort and strength in being by the side of other Order members. Mary knows the cool, bitter taste of solitude, for the attack alienated her in a way she’d never thought possible, and she never intends to feel that again. I want her to throw herself wholeheartedly into the Order, and feed the obsession that’s going to propel her forward.

[ THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME ]: There is an enormous storm coming - there’s no denying this. And even though Mary had an ever so short stint in the Dueling Club, she isn’t exactly the most proficient fighter in the bunch. Though her healing abilities are unmatched, she could stand to use a little help in defending herself - and in going on the offensive when necessary. I would really like for Mary to seek out some help in this department, if only so that she can defend herself more proficiently - be it a Neutral or someone in the Order, I think that she could really benefit, even mentally, from being able to toughen up a little.

[ I AM WHAT YOU MADE ME ]: This is a total given, but I obviously would really like to explore Mary’s relationship with Avery and Mulciber. She hates them more than she thought she could ever hate another human being, and not just for what they did to her - but for what they stand for in the grand scheme of their current world state. I want her to be able to confront them directly - and not in just a crossed-wands sort of way. The damage they inflicted on her was more psychological than physical, as they are the source of the fear that cripples her, and is making her very much not herself. She doesn’t know what she will do when she faces them again, and that’s something that will surely come with time, development, and input from whoever plays them, so I’ll just leave this idea dangling here, ready to turn into something twisted, dark, nasty, and hopefully therapeutic.

[ HEALING HANDS THAT NEVER FAIL ]: Despite the title of this section, I can’t help but wonder what might happen if Mary fails to heal someone. She has a really spotless track record as it stands now, but I can only imagine how it might wreck her should she not heal someone as well as she could have. What happens when someone dies in her care? What happens if her hands shake a little too much? She’s already precarious enough as it is, and though it’s quite masochistic for me to want to wreck my own characters, but I can’t help but be curious about what might face Mary as she continues to heal, both in the hospital and on the field. And in that same vein - what might happen if she were to have to heal her own mother? 

[ FALTER, FALL, FAIL ]: In that same vein, I would like to see Mary heal just as much as I would like to see her struggle with overcoming fear in the name of regaining her warlike strength. I wonder if perhaps the act of regaining it might taint the purity of her strength, for no one can stay truly pure in a war such as this. All snow mixes with dirt, all masks lose their luster. And when someone as pure as Mary passes through something as morbidly dubious as that - there’s no way she’ll return to herself completely unchanged. She’s trying so hard to regain her strength, her fire, her whole self, just as it was - but what if it returns different? 

[ AN UNCLEAN WEAPON ]: Fear marks her entirely; there is no Mary without a hint of fear behind every breath. She wishes she had a weapon to use against them, something they’d never expect her to use. But maybe she does. I am fully aware of how far-fetched this idea is, and how far down the road it might be - and how shallow we would wade into this pool before Mary would turn back with her conscience bugging her to run as far away as she could. She wonders if it would be possible to dip her fingers into the pool of the knowledge of dark magic, if only to use its secrets against the Death Eaters. She’d never wield it herself, she knows this; but in her most desperate moments, in the middle of the night, when she sits awake in a cold sweat, on the threshold of a nightmare, she wonders if it might turn the tide. Same weapon, different hand - Mary can only wonder if it might not be so evil after all. But I highly doubt she could wield the same magic that hurt her so; that’s just not her nature.

     biography :

There is a house on a hill in which her heart lives - in which it will always live. It all began with the house, within the daisy-colored walls and fluttering curtains, the smell of the herb garden outside the first sensation to herald the arrival of the first and last Macdonald child, though it was not for a lack of trying. She was born hollering at the top of her lungs to a man and his wife, but she only ever knew the latter, for her father left the house on the hill, the herb garden, the tire swing on the willow tree in favor of a woman neither Macdonald woman had ever cared to meet. She never knew her father, never saw his face; he’d send letters at holidays, and before Mary was too old to understand what the little parcel with her name upon it meant, her mother would hide them away, insisting that Mary had not been born of a man, but of a fairy, and that she belonged among them. It was a story to thrill any young girl - but thrilling and fantastical tales can only thrill and fantasize for so long before the world catches up, before the reality seeps through the cracks.

And thus has been the tune of Mary’s life - reality seeping through cracks unable to be plugged up, unwilling to budge.

But though she wouldn’t know it for years to come, her childhood was an empowering one, a lively one; not the picture-perfect textbook ideal of a family, but Mary thought it better than that. She was a cacophony of sundresses and skinned knees, tree-climbing and flower-planting, for it was but she and her mother in that house on a hill - her mother who acted more as a best friend than anything restricting. Mary was, from the start, incredibly protective of her mother, for the way she saw it, she had been born to replace the man fated to leave them - though she’d never forgive him for making the decision to bow to fate. She took up the role of protector and provider in the household, even as a young girl, for her mother’s flower shop seemed to amass less and less business by the day. Helping in the garden, collecting mushrooms in the wood just beyond the house, pulling her mother from her bed and leading her out into the garden to watch her swing on days when dear Elizabeth Macdonald simply could not rise. She was the sun, this miracle baby, and she burned too brightly. She was a creative force as well as a destructive one, nurturing and protective of her mother, while being outspoken and brash in the face of those who would underestimate a single mother and her child.

A strange child, around whom strange occurrences befell any close enough to see. It earned her a bit of a reputation, this oddness. But she minded it not.

Even before she was old enough for it to be entirely appropriate - though she had never been one to live by the bounds of her age or stature - Mary took a job riding her bicycle on a route between the neighboring villages - with the house on the hill nearly always in sight - as a courier, carrying odds and ends for the various shop-keeps in town. It was a seemingly idyllic life, to spend the day out in nature and the evenings at home with her mother, with days in between which consisted of nothing but frivolity in the yard, the garden, playing dress-up in Elizabeth’s closet; Mary studied in her free time, leaving the books her father left behind and that her mother brought home from customers and friends at the flower shop. Though her mother insisted she attend the all-girls’ school in the next town over, Mary insisted she remain at home, for she worried at the thought of leaving her mother unattended for so long. And so Elizabeth consented to educate her within their home, as Elizabeth herself had been taught by her own mother. Mary was unconcerned, in her younger years, with continuing her book-bound education, but was more enthralled by what the world had to teach her. But as her mother read from history books and assigned her trips to the library, Mary discovered a passion for learning, and a need to see what learning could do for the betterment of her life - her life; perhaps the first time she had thought of the future in the singular.

The realization came at an apt enough time, for on the eve of her eleventh birthday her mother thought it apt to reveal a box full of hidden letters, packages, trinkets from a father she had never met. It felt the ultimate betrayal, and in her anger Mary set the box aflame, right there in the middle of the sitting room. She and her mother stared at it in utter horror before the both of them leapt upon it - and then as if by magic, the fire extinguished, leaving Mary with nothing but ash upon her birthday dress, and a small char at the ends of her hair. It was at this that all the strange occurrences seemed to fall into place, for as the clock struck midnight an owl appeared at the kitchen window, beckoning to Mary as if it had known her all along.

Her mother embraced Mary’s magic as if she herself possessed the ability; both women expressed a bit of indignation at the plebeian sound of the word “muggle”, for Mary thought her mother much better than a generalization. But the utter wonder of the new world which unfolded before her seemed a reward for eleven years of premature adulthood at her mother’s side; she was suddenly allowed to be a child in utter wonder, suddenly born into a universe as fresh and unaware as the day she’d arrived at the house on the hill.  It felt as if she stepped into a second, more appropriate skin, the storm of energy and vibrance that had always been her signifier suddenly arriving at a home that befitted it. In a moment of pride, she mused that she perhaps had always been to much for a normal life, that she deserved this —

— but what would become of her mother when she left?

It was both the most selfish and the most wonderful thing she had ever done, leaving for Hogwarts. Her mother encouraged it, pushed her forth, for she could see Mary’s untamed wildness, her unconventional start, her unrefined nature, as something that would become her here. It suddenly did not matter that she didn’t have a proper education, that she had only clothes hand-stitched by her mother, that her life had been nothing but filling and mending a void left behind by a father; she felt, for the first time, both quelled and enlivened. She saw greatness before her, like a trinket dangling in a shop window - and thus the brightness of her nature exploded into a thousand suns.

What she was unprepared for, however, was how out of place so many would go through efforts to make her seem. She knew nothing of the wizarding world, of this universe that had merely been waiting for her; no matter how much wonder became her, there was always a voice, always a looming presence, pointing fingers and insisting that she did not belong. Mary was not the only one, of course; it seemed as if a small collective of students, all from the Slytherin house, were determined to belittle those who came from non-magic families.  And while some would have wilted beneath it - and, Mary noticed with chagrin and anger, some did - the criticism only made her louder, more brash, more competitive. It was at their taunting that she was pushed to join every club, to study her hardest, to battle her way through every obstacle to show them, to show herself (to show her mother, in all the letters written home) that not only was she the equal of the purebloods - she was better. And she felt it, for a time. She flourished once she broke from the shell of shock at her arrival; Mary made friends easily, for she was an extroverted, opinionated, loud entity of pure light. Not a wilting flower, not a fixture in a garden, but the very sun itself.

However, all lights fade. She didn’t think she’d believe it; Mary had always been the sort to think the light of the deserving, the true, the kind, to be unbreakable, unfettered. She thought herself untouchable, and for a time she thought it her own fault. But the attack she suffered, at the hands of two purebloods who had antagonized her in the past, was in no way her fault. Never had she felt such a victim, never had she felt so small. She had never been the sort to hide from what ailed her, but as she hid away in the Hospital Wing, shrinking at every flickering light, flinching from every touch, she thought that perhaps the safety of the anonymous shadow befitted her much better than the glaring sun. Mary did not write home about this to her mother, but merely pretended that all was as usual; her letters were much shorter, more concise, and no longer signed by her name with the doodle of a small flower, and so her mother knew that something was wrong.

But she’d never say it aloud. Even in the world of magic, the undeserved guilt of the victim is crippling.

And so her days became marked, once she returned to her classes, by sideways glances, wide berths, and muted colors. Her marks slipped, her enthusiasm dimmed; evenings once spent in clubs, with friends, in the grounds, now turned to nights tucked away in far corners of the library and the Gryffindor common room. She hated herself for being weak, hated herself for being afraid, hated herself for not fighting back - but not once did she hate herself for the reasons that they hated her. Perhaps this was the only hint that they had not extinguished her fire entirely, for she was stuck in the shadow for the remainder of her Hogwarts career.

Leaving school, however, meant a broader world, and more opportunity to step into the sun again. Joining the Order without question, as she entered into a training program at St. Mungo’s, seemed the perfect alignment of the stars. Many of her friends joined the Ministry, entered into programs to become Aurors and Hit Wizards; they often asked why she had chosen to heal rather than to fight. At this, she could only think of evenings spent in the Hospital Wing, long after her accident in her last year of schooling, aiding Madame Pomfrey in the healing of injuries oh so similar to her own. It was also a sort of personal challenge; she could see Avery and Mulciber scorched upon the backs of her eyelids whenever she closed her eyes, and by healing those who’d met their own personal demons, she could work to scrub them away.

And yet, she still dreamed of fighting back. Sometimes, in her dreams, she killed them. When she awoke, she thought she would be remorseful - but she was not.

Remaining in St. Mungo’s, under the safe umbrella of the hospital’s protection, was never enough, despite her fear - or perhaps because of it. She spoke to Dumbledore privately about healing in the field, for she could not stand the thought of her friends, those she loved so dearly, fighting and dying, without her at their side. They looked at her like a fragile, broken marionette, giving her a wide berth while putting themselves between her and harm’s way whenever they could. No matter how crippling her fear, her love for her friends, for the cause, and for those who did not have it quite as lucky as she did gave her the certainty that she needed - to find the strength again, to step into the sun, to return to something bigger and better than her former self. She always fought for what was right, always fought to protect - from her mother to her friends - but the violence characteristic of so many had never touched her. She could heal in the field, and then return to the hospital. She could stand alongside her friends, alongside the Order - and then perhaps she could see it up close when those who wronged her fall on the battlefield.

She would quite like to have a hand in the assured destruction characteristic of righteous justice. She could not save the world, in the meantime, but she could save the soul in front of her, if she worked fast enough.

Every week, however, she takes a moment for softness, that which has left her so. She travels, with galleons and sickles changed into muggle money, and sends a letter to her mother, hand-written and wrapped in a wad of cash. She likes to imagine that, even as the war wages on in her world, in her mother’s there is still a flower shop and a little house on a hill.