Post by Nieve Ramírez on Aug 27, 2013 14:48:13 GMT -5
Sometimes it felt very much like she didn't belong in England. The English had strange customs, their food was often so very bland and boring, and their skin tones were pale to the extent that her own olive complexion stuck out just enough to be noticeable. Not to mention that the weather was absolutely atrocious! At least she could retreat back home for a proper summer, with sun and glorious heat, but winter in Hogwarts was horrible. Scotland seemed to get the extreme weather at both sides of the scale, which meant that spring and summer were warmer than further south in the country at least, but it also meant that Nieve spent the remaining half of the year wrapped in layers of warming charms and jackets and scarves. Larisa could laugh all she wanted; Nieve had no intention of dying from hypothermia when she was just fifteen years old, think you very much, and, well, there were certainly boys willing to keep her warm but the only one she wanted any attention from was forever and always smouldering in the direction of any girl who wasn't her. For a teenage girl with more than a faint taste for dramatics, that was a tragedy equal to any of Shakespeare's.
The worst part was the language difference, really. Oh, the languages she was fluent in included English, naturally, just as was the case for her siblings and all of her many cousins. They had to be. Daddy's family had always attended Hogwarts, for the past fifteen generations anyway. Nieve wasn't required to know her family tree any further back than that so she had no interest in learning it. They even had five large houses scattered around the British countryside somewhere to ensure that their children remained eligible to be admitted to the school, though Nieve couldn't remember having lived in any of them for more than nine months during her childhood. That didn't accustom her to the way many of her schoolmates tripped over the syllables of her name at first, until they got used to the feel of it on their tongue, and there was a loneliness in not being able to speak her native language unless she was in the company of her family. With Larisa graduated now, and having been Head Girl before that, there was precious little chance of that lately.
Even her name was different during the school year, as if it was necessary to strip everything warm and familiar from her. Her Spanish heritage had gifted her with a long name, as was common for all native Spaniards. By rights, she was Nieve Cielo Ramírez Azarola, daughter of Elí Ramírez Arroyo and Eva Azarola Belmonte de Ramírez. She liked the length of her name. It meant that she belonged somewhere; people knew immediately who her parents were and what her bloodline was, they knew how much respect she was to be afforded and she in turn was immediately aware of who was her social equal or her better. There was none of the guessing and awkward overtures that she generally associated with British social events. In England, she was just Nieve Ramírez, so how were people supposed to know that she was a representative of two families? Truly, the English were a strange lot.
Still, there were a lot of things she liked about being in Britain and one of them was heading for her with a faint smirk on his face. She was a fool for Gabriel, and all the more so since he had made it repeatedly clear that she didn't even register as a girl on his playboy radar. It was for the best, Nieve supposed ruefully. She wasn't likely to keep Gabriel's attention for very long, not when prettier and smarter girls than her had tried and failed, and it would hurt worse to be cast aside. She had still been hard pressed not to join the groups of girls sending poisonous glares in Ashlyn Swallow's direction last year before it had become plain that the blonde was Damon's girl. "You're late," Nieve chided in lightly accented English, nudging her DADA textbook towards Gabriel in a clear hint for him to sit down and hurry up so they could finish Hawthorne's latest project. "And you've got lipstick on your neck," she added darkly, a flash of bad-tempered jealousy sharpening her voice. "Your dates must be getting sloppy at cleaning up after themselves."
The worst part was the language difference, really. Oh, the languages she was fluent in included English, naturally, just as was the case for her siblings and all of her many cousins. They had to be. Daddy's family had always attended Hogwarts, for the past fifteen generations anyway. Nieve wasn't required to know her family tree any further back than that so she had no interest in learning it. They even had five large houses scattered around the British countryside somewhere to ensure that their children remained eligible to be admitted to the school, though Nieve couldn't remember having lived in any of them for more than nine months during her childhood. That didn't accustom her to the way many of her schoolmates tripped over the syllables of her name at first, until they got used to the feel of it on their tongue, and there was a loneliness in not being able to speak her native language unless she was in the company of her family. With Larisa graduated now, and having been Head Girl before that, there was precious little chance of that lately.
Even her name was different during the school year, as if it was necessary to strip everything warm and familiar from her. Her Spanish heritage had gifted her with a long name, as was common for all native Spaniards. By rights, she was Nieve Cielo Ramírez Azarola, daughter of Elí Ramírez Arroyo and Eva Azarola Belmonte de Ramírez. She liked the length of her name. It meant that she belonged somewhere; people knew immediately who her parents were and what her bloodline was, they knew how much respect she was to be afforded and she in turn was immediately aware of who was her social equal or her better. There was none of the guessing and awkward overtures that she generally associated with British social events. In England, she was just Nieve Ramírez, so how were people supposed to know that she was a representative of two families? Truly, the English were a strange lot.
Still, there were a lot of things she liked about being in Britain and one of them was heading for her with a faint smirk on his face. She was a fool for Gabriel, and all the more so since he had made it repeatedly clear that she didn't even register as a girl on his playboy radar. It was for the best, Nieve supposed ruefully. She wasn't likely to keep Gabriel's attention for very long, not when prettier and smarter girls than her had tried and failed, and it would hurt worse to be cast aside. She had still been hard pressed not to join the groups of girls sending poisonous glares in Ashlyn Swallow's direction last year before it had become plain that the blonde was Damon's girl. "You're late," Nieve chided in lightly accented English, nudging her DADA textbook towards Gabriel in a clear hint for him to sit down and hurry up so they could finish Hawthorne's latest project. "And you've got lipstick on your neck," she added darkly, a flash of bad-tempered jealousy sharpening her voice. "Your dates must be getting sloppy at cleaning up after themselves."
