Ellerie Saint Auxpris

Ellerie Malthus
Biographical Information
Full name	Ellerie Delilah Malthus (neé Saint Auxpris)
Born	13 February 1918
Birthplace	Kensington, London, England
Deceased	07 January 1939 (age 20)
Residence	Austria
Nationality	British
Blood Status	Pureblood
Education	Hogwarts School, Hufflepuff, Head Girl
Class	1936
Physical Information
Family Information
Spouse	Spencer Malthus (01.01.37)
Children	Persephone Malthus & Declan Malthus
Parents	Pieter Saint Auxpris & Katherine Saint Auxpris (deceased)
Siblings	Imogen Saint Auxpris (deceased), Alethea Saint Auxpris (deceased), Annette Saint Auxpris, Oden Rathburne, Joshua Rathburne, Auster Rathburrne
Other Family Members	The Saint Auxpris Family The Malthus Family
Magical Characteristics
Wand	10.25", rosewood, veela hair
Affiliation
Occupation	N/A
Former Occupation(s)	Foreign Spy, Ministry of Magic

Biography

“Tell me about your family.”

“I don’t like to talk about them.”

“And why is that?”

“They talk about themselves enough as it is.”

“Oh?”

“This is supposed to be about me.”

I was born Kensington, London, in a hospital two blocks from the only home that I’ve ever known. It’s only a home to me, everyone else had homes before it that they loved more than it, and they all found something wrong. But to me, the four-story townhouse with its redbrick walls and white-trim windows was home – my only home – and the best home in the world.

Then again, my scope of reference is limited. When Joshua and Auster speak of the northern cities, my only frame is what I’ve read in textbooks and seen in pictures. And when Imogen speaks – or spoke, rather, as she’s dead now – of Coventry, all that I know are the warm, sunlit pictures that she paints – painted – in my mind. Kensington is my home, it’s all that I do know, and I feel woefully inadequate as a result.

There is a stereotype of the perfect Saint-Auxpris daughter, and it exists no farther than my immediate family. But inside us, and between us, the four – or three and a half, truly, as I am Pieter’s daughter but not Charlotte’s – of us strive to embody the same principles. It’s a trickle-down effect: Imogen emulated Charlotte, her mother, and the symbol of perfection for the rest of us. In turn, Annette emulated Imogen, her elder sister, and the closest thing to perfection that she knew. And truly, in my own turn, I emulated Annette, the wickedly-good daughter whose birth brought her mother’s demise, and ultimately cursed the three of them.

And me, too. I suppose. But I’m only half.

Saint-Auxpris girls are graceful, innately. It’s a gift granted to us, and whether it is from our nature or the nurture that we’ve received, I do not know. It stemmed from Charlotte, and then to Imogen, who very nearly became her mother before her death, to Alethea and Annette, and finally to me – and I consider myself more Charlotte’s daughter than Katherine’s. Saint-Auxpris girls are something to aspire to within our household; it’s not so for MacReady daughters.

To my credit, I am a Saint-Auxpris daughter. I have the same blonde hair, the thin fingers, the slender hips and the pert nose. My teeth are the same as my sisters’, as my father’s, I am at once their doppelganger and their collective project. My earliest memories are of tasting Imogen’s risottos, of trying Annette’s ballet slippers on my much smaller feet, of holding Alethea’s old camera. Katherine was very much a non-entity in my upbringing, whether she was forced out of the picture or willingly elected to be so.

I cemented their marriage, if only to my half-siblings. There were problems for so much of my childhood, tumultuous arguments and disagreements between Oden and Alethea, Joshua and Annette, Pieter and Imogen, Auster and everyone. As a result of a poorly-blended family, we have all clung to our roles –Imogen the surrogate mother, Alethea the educated and educator, Annette the optimist. Amidst them, and perhaps as a result of them and their collective interests, I’ve been forgotten.

It’s not a bad thing. I like it this way.

Annette was my closest sister, as she seemed to understand what it was to be overlooked. Never nurturing, she made time for me when Imogen and Alethea were preoccupied, permitted me to accompany her on whatever mission she was running away to accomplish. She taught me about London, and took me for ice cream, and the one semester that she lived at home between Wadsworth and Maisons-Laffitte, we would catch matinee movies and buy trinkets in small boutiques.

It’s how I remember my childhood, running through London on the heels of my radiant half-sister. Anne is the tallest out of the four of us, and her long legs make it difficult to keep up. She wears boots and denim, and her hair down in loose waves. We have matching scarves and gaudy cocktail rings: a passing interest for Annette, I’m sure, but an eternal fascination for me.

She’s lovely, and they are all lovely together. Alethea wears comfortable clothes, soft textiles often in black, her hair in wispy buns. She looks the oldest out of all of us, and I mean that in the kindest way possible – she’s educated. Alethea loves books, and disappeared to Italy before Imogen’s death. I haven’t spoken to her since, and she didn’t come home for my birthday, but father said that I couldn’t expect her to do so. Alethea is her own person, perhaps more than any of us, she seems to have broken the mold.

But why would you want to break a mold that’s so lovely?

Imogen was the loveliest, with soft features and bright, blue eyes. She was forever sixteen, even in her death, with soft, girlish curves and perfectly straight teeth. She was smarter than she let on, I think – she understood people, and I think that’s a rare gift.

They moved me into her room once she married, when I was seven and she was seventeen. Auster had moved off of the floor two years prior, and his room was covered in dust. It was there that I discovered Imogen’s greatest secret in our Kensington home – a closet, full of dresses and all matter of accessories, a compilation of Charlotte’s gowns and Imogen’s dresses. They amaze me, to this day, their sense of fashion and their ease in obtaining it, and I wear their things.

But I do wear them. Nice things are meant to be worn.

I don’t know if it’s right to do so, as I don’t know if I’m truly a Saint-Auxpris girl like they were, but I want to be one. I want to be lovely like Imogen, and brilliant like Alethea, mysterious like Charlotte. But most, and more than anything, I want to be like Annette – elusive, transient. I don’t want to be categorized like the other three: I’m not a mother, and I’m not an educator, and I’m not an optimist. I’m not sure what I am, yet.

Except that I am, if for no other reason than I want to be, a Saint-Auxpris daughter. I am the product of my sisters.