Post by Deleted on Jan 21, 2014 1:43:09 GMT -5
brady ivan price
CANON OR ORIGINAL: Original.
AGE: Sixteen.
FACE CLAIM: Liam Aiken.
YEAR: Sixth.
HOUSE: Slytherin.
OCCUPATION: --
BLOOD TYPE: Pureblood.
WAND TYPE: Unicorn hair and hazel. 11¾ inches.
PETS: A creamy Maine Coon named Fleece.
ABILITIES: --
freestyle
1. “This is ridiculous.”
You’re sitting on a broomstick. That, you decide, is the first strike.
Your uncle is smiling at you. His right cheek dimples and the corners of his eyes crinkle and you just know he’s finding joy in your terror.
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” you ask. Your toes are barely scraping the grass. Your knuckles are turning white around the handle of the broom. It’s ancient – at least thirty years old – and thoroughly scarred from Quidditch matches.
“You’ll be fine,” your uncle assures you. (This, you realize later, is the second strike.) “I’ve never once gotten hurt on this broom!”
“I’m going to break every bone in my body,” you declare. Your uncle gives the back of the broom a small nudge.
You lean forward, the way you were taught in your first year at Hogwarts: the third strike.
The broomstick rockets forward. You scream the whole length of the football field. Eventually, the broom bucks you off and you break your arm on a goalpost. Your uncle, bless him, comes running two minutes too late.
He’s laughing, because he’s a horrible person, and you’re trying to blink the stars out of your eyes and not cry at the same time. You lost your glasses somewhere along the ride, and your uncle’s face is a blur.
“I think,” he says, as he hoists you to your feet, “that’s enough flying for you.”
2a. Charms have never been your strong suit.
You’re not entirely clear on the why, just that your wand tends to reject charms indiscriminately. It doesn’t matter if you’re trying to cast a simple Wingardium leviosa or summon a book from your comfortable spot on the couch.
The last time you so much as thought about casting a charm, your wand spluttered orange sparks and refused to work for a week.
2b. You would like to pass this off as a quirk of your wand, and claim that you’re a perfectly capable wizard otherwise, and that maybe in a few years, when you’ve grown out of your uncle’s hand-me-down and can purchase a wand of your own, you’ll find casting charms to be as easy as one, two, three.
You would very much like to make that claim. The problem is, you are not a perfectly capable wizard otherwise. Charms, potions, transfiguration: you haven’t got a knack for any of them. About the only thing you’re good at is looking through a telescope and mapping out Orion’s Belt.
(Sometimes you think, I must be a Squib, and it makes your stomach churn and your arms feel like lead and your wand seems so much heavier, because why do you even have the stupid thing if you’re not a wizard at all?)
2c. But you are a wizard: just not a perfectly capable one.
3. You remember when your mother died. You were four, and it was June.
The house was filled with flowers: lilies, of course, but also cuckooflowers and rockroses and bright yellow poppies. Everyone brought over food. You ate, and your father talked with everyone, and your mother’s picture sat in the corner by the fireplace, smiling gently.
You remember driving to the beach, and holding your father’s hand. He brought her ashes with, and sprinkled them along as you walked. You remember crying, because the waves were taking her away.
“It’s alright,” your father had said. “We’re going to be okay.”
4. In the Great Hall, there are four long tables. Each table is manned by several dozen students in black cloaks and pointed black hats.
You grip the stool tighter. The Sorting Hat murmurs in your ear, digs through your memories and laughs, equal parts sharp and kind. Not Gryffindor, it hisses, the syllables forming neatly in your mind. Perhaps Hufflepuff? A pause. No, no, that’s not quite right.
Several dozen faces are looking at you. There’s a splinter in your palm from the rough underside of the stool.
You squint across the Hall, but the doors are lost in a haze. The students at the ends of the tables swirl together: dark, shifting shapes, whispering and pointing and curious. You swallow thickly. Your palm throbs.
“Slytherin!” the Hat bellows. One of the tables bursts into loud cheers. The Sorting Hat is plucked from your head. You somehow manage not to trip and join your classmates, sitting at the very end of a very long bench.
They smile at you, and introduce themselves, and their names fall right out of your head the second after you’ve shaken their hands.
It’s all right, you tell yourself. You’ve got this. You’ll learn them all eventually.
You’re sitting on a broomstick. That, you decide, is the first strike.
Your uncle is smiling at you. His right cheek dimples and the corners of his eyes crinkle and you just know he’s finding joy in your terror.
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” you ask. Your toes are barely scraping the grass. Your knuckles are turning white around the handle of the broom. It’s ancient – at least thirty years old – and thoroughly scarred from Quidditch matches.
“You’ll be fine,” your uncle assures you. (This, you realize later, is the second strike.) “I’ve never once gotten hurt on this broom!”
“I’m going to break every bone in my body,” you declare. Your uncle gives the back of the broom a small nudge.
You lean forward, the way you were taught in your first year at Hogwarts: the third strike.
The broomstick rockets forward. You scream the whole length of the football field. Eventually, the broom bucks you off and you break your arm on a goalpost. Your uncle, bless him, comes running two minutes too late.
He’s laughing, because he’s a horrible person, and you’re trying to blink the stars out of your eyes and not cry at the same time. You lost your glasses somewhere along the ride, and your uncle’s face is a blur.
“I think,” he says, as he hoists you to your feet, “that’s enough flying for you.”
2a. Charms have never been your strong suit.
You’re not entirely clear on the why, just that your wand tends to reject charms indiscriminately. It doesn’t matter if you’re trying to cast a simple Wingardium leviosa or summon a book from your comfortable spot on the couch.
The last time you so much as thought about casting a charm, your wand spluttered orange sparks and refused to work for a week.
2b. You would like to pass this off as a quirk of your wand, and claim that you’re a perfectly capable wizard otherwise, and that maybe in a few years, when you’ve grown out of your uncle’s hand-me-down and can purchase a wand of your own, you’ll find casting charms to be as easy as one, two, three.
You would very much like to make that claim. The problem is, you are not a perfectly capable wizard otherwise. Charms, potions, transfiguration: you haven’t got a knack for any of them. About the only thing you’re good at is looking through a telescope and mapping out Orion’s Belt.
(Sometimes you think, I must be a Squib, and it makes your stomach churn and your arms feel like lead and your wand seems so much heavier, because why do you even have the stupid thing if you’re not a wizard at all?)
2c. But you are a wizard: just not a perfectly capable one.
3. You remember when your mother died. You were four, and it was June.
The house was filled with flowers: lilies, of course, but also cuckooflowers and rockroses and bright yellow poppies. Everyone brought over food. You ate, and your father talked with everyone, and your mother’s picture sat in the corner by the fireplace, smiling gently.
You remember driving to the beach, and holding your father’s hand. He brought her ashes with, and sprinkled them along as you walked. You remember crying, because the waves were taking her away.
“It’s alright,” your father had said. “We’re going to be okay.”
4. In the Great Hall, there are four long tables. Each table is manned by several dozen students in black cloaks and pointed black hats.
You grip the stool tighter. The Sorting Hat murmurs in your ear, digs through your memories and laughs, equal parts sharp and kind. Not Gryffindor, it hisses, the syllables forming neatly in your mind. Perhaps Hufflepuff? A pause. No, no, that’s not quite right.
Several dozen faces are looking at you. There’s a splinter in your palm from the rough underside of the stool.
You squint across the Hall, but the doors are lost in a haze. The students at the ends of the tables swirl together: dark, shifting shapes, whispering and pointing and curious. You swallow thickly. Your palm throbs.
“Slytherin!” the Hat bellows. One of the tables bursts into loud cheers. The Sorting Hat is plucked from your head. You somehow manage not to trip and join your classmates, sitting at the very end of a very long bench.
They smile at you, and introduce themselves, and their names fall right out of your head the second after you’ve shaken their hands.
It’s all right, you tell yourself. You’ve got this. You’ll learn them all eventually.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
HEY MY NAME IS FLO, AND I ALSO PLAY NO OTHER CHARACTERS. I FOUND THE SITE THROUGH CAUTION.
TEMPLATE BY ELIZA @ SHADOWPLAY & RCR
