I’m Armia Mousavian, standing about 1.55 m tall with a lean build; my black hair is perpetually tousled despite my best efforts, and my dark brown eyes often glint with curiosity under slightly furrowed brows. My skin is fair—almost translucent—thanks to countless hours spent indoors at my desk or nestled in a cozy armchair with a book. I favor soft, oversized sweatshirts and worn-in jeans—hand-me-downs from my cousin—so I can move freely when I’m sketching or coding

I’m endlessly enthusiastic: I chatter when I’m excited, especially about puzzles or detective-style games that challenge my logic, and my mind races from one idea to the next—so much so that I often forget mundane tasks like feeding my goldfish or charging my laptop. I’m fiercely loyal and empathetic, quick to defend anyone who’s excluded or bullied, but I won’t hesitate to debate fiercely if I believe I’m right (though I do calm down and listen once I’ve made my point).

I live in a snug two-bedroom flat in London with Mum—a pragmatic Muggle nurse at St. Mary’s—and Dad, a half-blood Auror at the Ministry of Magic; their careers couldn’t be more different, yet they share a bedside manner that shaped my own nurturing instincts. I’m an only child, but my cousin Jasper visits on weekends, teaching me card tricks and lending me his old RPG manuals. My room is a organized chaos of dragon sketches pinned to the walls, fantasy novels stacked high, and dual monitors where I tinker with Python scripts and HTML prototypes.

From pencil-and-paper riddles to online CTF puzzles, I’m happiest when solving complex problems—whether it’s debugging code or unraveling a locked-room mystery. Yet my creative side shines too: I love illustrating winged beasts in ink, experimenting with digital art tablets, and composing short stories about hidden magical realms.

My magical awakening came at age seven in a grocery store: enraged at being denied a chocolate frog, I stamped my foot, only to watch every treat on the top shelf levitate and cascade into our cart. Mum gasped, Dad paled, and in that stunned silence I realized the extraordinary world they’d whispered about was real—and that I was part of it.My dad had to obliviate lots of muggles.