Full Name: Richard Alaric Maxwell
Age: 11
Birthday: October 3rd
Blood Status: Half-Blood (Mother: Pure-Blood, Father: Muggle-born)
House: TBD

Physical Appearance:
Richard Maxwell is taller than most boys his age, with an athletic build earned from years of playing Muggle soccer with his neighborhood friends. His broad shoulders and strong legs give him speed and agility, making him a natural at both Quidditch and any sport requiring quick reflexes.

His dark chestnut-brown hair is often in a state of controlled messiness, with a slight wave that makes it seem like he's just come in from flying. His hazel-green eyes, flecked with gold, shimmer with curiosity and a spark of mischief. He has a lightly tanned complexion from spending time outdoors, whether on a broomstick or kicking a football across a Muggle field.

Personality & Traits:
Richard is the kind of person who never walks away from someone in need. Fiercely loyal to his friends and protective of the underdog, he often acts before thinking if it means standing up for what’s right. He has an innate sense of justice, making him brave yet strategic, never reckless.

-The Human Bouncy Ball-
It was a perfectly normal summer afternoon in Balsham, England. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and an eight-year-old Richard was up to no good.
As always.
Richard had never been the type to sit still for long, and on this particular afternoon, he had decided that he was going to impress his sister Cassandra by doing something absolutely legendary well to him at least:
He was going to climb the tallest tree in the village park and retrieve a football that had been stuck there for weeks. No one dared to grab it due to how tall it was.
“Are you sure about this?” Cassandra asked, standing below with her arms crossed. She was twelve at the time, already a student at Hogwarts, and much more aware of the dangers of being an idiot than her younger brother.
“Of course I am!” Richard declared, cracking his knuckles like some sort of professional tree climber. “I’ve got this sis. Soon the other kids won't be scared of this tree either.”
Cassandra sighed. “You could just wait for Dad to get it down. He can just use his magic when no one is looking.”
“Where’s the fun in that? Dad taught us that not everything we do requires magic.”
And with that, Richard began his ascent up the tree.
At first, everything went smoothly. Richard scrambled up the lower branches like an expert, finding good footholds, moving with the confidence of a kid who had zero fear of getting hurt.
Halfway up, he glanced down at Cassandra, who was now watching with a mix of amusement and mild concern.
“See? I told you worry wart I—”
CRACK!
A branch snapped under his foot.
Richard barely had time to yelp before he slipped, flailed, and somehow managed to grab hold of another branch at the last second.
Dangling ten feet off the ground, he gritted his teeth and pulled himself back up.
Cassandra facepalmed. “Richard, just come back down before you—”
But Richard wasn’t listening.
The football was just within reach now, perched between two high branches. He stretched out his hand—
Almost there…
One more inch—
And then like a sick joke the pigeons attacked.
A sudden flurry of feathers exploded from the branches above as an entire flock of very angry pigeons erupted into the air, squawking furiously at having their afternoon nap disturbed.
Richard had about half a second to process his mistake before one of them smacked him in the face with its wing.
“AAGH!”
He lost his grip.
Richard plummeted downward.
“RICHARD!” Cassandra shrieked in horror.
He had just enough time to realize he was about to break every bone in his body before—
BOOM!
A burst of blue energy exploded from his body, and suddenly—
He wasn’t falling anymore.
Instead, he was floating.
Or rather bouncing.
Richard hit the ground like a rubber ball, bounced ten feet into the air, flipped end over end, and then—
BOING.
He bounced again.
And again.
And again.
Like a human basketball, he boinged uncontrollably across the park, arms flailing, legs kicking, screaming the entire time with fear in his voice.
“CASSANDRA, HELP!”
His sister, who had been rushing toward him in panic, now stood frozen, her hands on her knees, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. Richard bounced over a park bench, narrowly missed a very confused old man walking his dog and sprang off a hedge before finally coming to a very undignified stop in a flower bed.
Face-down.
With the football somehow tucked under his arm.
Cassandra was wheezing.

“Pfft—y-you—y-you—” she gasped between fits of laughter. “You looked—like—like a bloody bouncy ball!”
Richard groaned, spitting out dirt and flower petals. “Shut. Up.”
Of course, the commotion had drawn attention. Their mother came rushing into the park, saw Richard looking like he’d fought a garden and lost, and immediately demanded answers on what happened.
Cassandra, still choking on laughter, managed to explain what happened between gasps.
Eleanor Maxwell sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and muttered, “Just like his father.”
That was the day Richard Maxwell awakened his magic.
His family never let him live it down.
To this day, Cassandra still calls him “The Human Bouncy Ball.”
And Richard still hates pigeons.