Amaury Favreau Beauxbatons

Broom Racer? NO
Quidditch Player? NO
Duellist? YES

STATS |
Stamina: 7 | Evasion: 14 | Strength: 1 | Wisdom: 12 | ArcPower: 14 | Accuracy: 16

total 58 (+4 for Quidditch wins 1,2, 3, and 4)

ABILITIES |
YEAR ONE | LOVELY CREATURE

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Amaury drew looks; this, he knew well, because his own looks were fit for a king. And lucky that was, because amongst their French community, the Favreaus were royalty-- at least, so they assumed of themselves. Never did they shy away from parties, showing off their children, or splurging on the latest fashion trends, and Amaury was more often than not on the receiving end of these luxuries. Their appearance reflected their status-- that was what their parents had told them, what their parents’ parents had told them. Fashion was not for the lowly, the commoners. And so Amaury had been styled, primped, and preened since the day he was born, always prepared to be shown off like the righteous Pureblood he was. God forbid he make a complete embarrassment of the family by appearing in unfitted clothing or, god forbid, wrinkles. Their reputation would be scorned for eternity-- there would be no recovery from a fashion faux pas.

Of course, it helped that the Favreaus and Beauforts were, and always had been, a family of good genes, and not just the wizarding ones. Lucille Favreau was gorgeous, and Aldéric was stunningly handsome. It was no surprise, then, that Amaury and his twin inherited the genes they did. And there was no question where Amaury got his genes from. The sharp jawline, the fair skin, and the full lips were all traits passed on from his mother, although his stature, dark hair, and deep brown eyes were all very clearly inherited from his father. His often quite intense stare and the way he held himself with poise and presence, often set people off, but nonetheless was oddly compelling, almost magnetising. It was not difficult, then, to charm the crowds-- they followed him blindly, entranced by his beauty and wiles.

His dress, too, was something to admire. It wasn’t as though he was fashionable, per se-- he didn’t go shopping for new outfits, and he certainly didn’t play dress-up in the mirror-- he simply always looked his best. With his hair meticulously styled to look as though it wasn’t styled in the least; clothes perfectly tailored to fit his tall, slender frame; and a jacket that likely cost more than his entire private tuition, although it wasn’t as though he himself had paid for it; Amaury’s bouts into the town never failed to draw a few stares-- primarily from the ladies of the town, but amongst the onlookers, there was no shortage of men as well.

wc: 419

YEAR TWO | CHARMER

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Amaury could do nothing if not charm a room. The family name was simply too important to disgrace with a misspoken word or half-hearted compliment. It was all or nothing for Amaury’s family, and as such, from the moment he could talk and walk, his parents would teach him the ways of the world alongside his brother and sisters-- social etiquette, manners, and, of course, manipulation. By the time he was seven, he knew how to ballroom dance. By nine, he could host a small party, greeting his guests with a firm handshake, eye contact, and a sickeningly sweet smile. And by the ripe age of eleven years old, his charm was simply intoxicating, leaving none immune to his childish smile and thorough manners. Though he matched the mannerisms of his family when they were alone-- cold, quiet, and aloof-- by the time he left home for Beauxbatons, he was adept at covering up his intimidating demeanor and plastering on a manufactured smile within a moment’s notice. He was unstoppable when he paired his easy smile with tossing a few well-timed compliments and flattering the enemy-- for, of course, to the Favreaus, they were all enemies. And the Favreaus lived their life by keeping their enemies closer.

And close, they were. The Favreaus had a particular penchant for throwing parties: dinner parties, tea parties, cocktail parties-- if there were drinks, there were Favreaus. And the extravagant amount of parties in the Favreau manner were, of course, the perfect outlet for Amaury’s charm. By the time he was ten, he knew just how to play the room, using an equal mix of diplomacy and flattery to get his way. He held himself with an air of grace, hoping to impress his elders and impress upon them the fine stature of the House Favreau. The Favreaus were not unworthy hosts; they were not mere wizards; they were not just some family. No, they were Purebloods-- affluent and dignified, and their behavior, naturally, must reflect such eminence.

And where Amaury went, his charm only followed. Beauxbatons was not ready for 115 pounds of pure charisma, and Amaury was completely ready to use that to his advantage. For he had realised that smiles were not only useful for upholding the family’s reputation; his wiles could also be particularly useful in social manipulation, buttering up his mark until he was ready to make a move. While he spent his off-time practicing charms and jinxes rather than on his assignments, he would simply beseech them to write it off, or struck a deal with his professors that often worked out better for him than it did for them. For, even the most wiley of professors were not immune to the charms of one Amaury Favreau.

wc: 459

YEAR THREE | PERFECTIONIST

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Amaury couldn’t stand to lose. He hated the feeling, hated the judgement, hated everything about it. He wasn’t a sore loser, of course-- he took his defeats with grace, putting on a show of sportsmanship. Only a disgrace to the family would throw a fit over losing-- but then, only a disgrace to the family would lose in the first place. He would fight to the ends of the earth to secure a victory, as his siblings well knew. But as competitive as Amaury was at home, it was nothing remotely comparable to his attitude on the duelling stage.

From the moment the boy was introduced to the respectable yet aggressive sport of magical duelling, early in his first year at Beauxbatons, Amaury was absolutely enthralled-- caught hook, line, and sinker. The admirable sport had all the thrill and bragging rights of traditional fisticuffs, and the competition and victories of broom racing, but with none of the physical aggression and the stupid outfits. No, when duelling, Amaury could fight, legally and acceptably, with his favorite weapon-- his wand, and magic.

And so Amaury, from the moment he got his hands on a spellbook, threw himself in, head-first, to duelling. It was perhaps nearly an obsession, but absolutely nothing would be allowed to stand in the way of him and his sport. And although he wasn’t much for school, he found a passion in learning new spells, jinxes, and hexes he could use to destroy his opponents. He perused anything he could get his hands on-- mostly textbooks, old and new-- long into the night, evading the responsibilities of his assignments. They weren’t worth his time anyway, he told himself, as he read just one more chapter under the covers.

Magic came easily to him, he realised as spells flew from his wand without a hitch time after time. But nonetheless, he practiced. He practiced, and practiced, and practiced until he thought his wand might break, at which point he stopped, because Merlin knew his wand was the most valuable thing he owned. He practiced at home, he practiced in class, he practiced in between classes. He expected nothing less than absolute perfection and, soon, so did his family. He took it upon himself to become a world-class dueller, for nothing else would suffice. Not a single spell would fail; not a single spell would miss. That was the expectation, and that was the undeniable result of Amaury’s hard work.

wc:409

YEAR FOUR | EVASIVE MANEUVERS

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Amaury had a tendency to get in over his head. Always reading ahead in his spell textbooks, practicing charms and hexes that were perhaps a bit too difficult for a wizard of his young age. Nevertheless, warnings from friends, professors, family, against such activities, warnings in his best interest, still would not deter him from building his arsenal of spells, one large step towards becoming the greatest dueller of his time. And so he would practice such spells perhaps a little recklessly, such spells much too unfit for such a young wizard to know in theory, let alone use in practice.

And of such unprotected and advanced practice came predictable, yet unavoidable disaster. A poor combination: an old book, a difficult incantation, a backfired curse. Disaster; a searing pain slicing through Amaury’s arm, fuzzing his brain, his vision; red, warm, wet. Pain in his knees as he dropped to the stone floor. Black, quiet, then light again, and a scream, an incantation-- ferula. A servant or a parent, Amaury didn’t know, couldn’t tell. Bandages flew around his arm, cinching tightly to hold in the blood seeping out. Black again. Light again, but this time he was on his back. A ceaseless sting of beratings from his parents, his sister’s face, his brother’s face, his twin’s face. A burning pain in his right arm, his forearm. Bandages still cinched tightly around the area. Black again.

Two years later, the scar still remained. A thin, faint line of raised skin, stretching six and a half centimeters down the inside of his right forearm. It was hard to notice unless one looked closely, although Amaury never let anyone get close enough to quite make it out clearly. But even if it wasn't obvious to outsiders, Amaury was painfully aware of its presence, taking it as a warning. The warning, though, was not of getting ahead of himself, of biting off more than he could chew. No, contrary to expectations, the warning was this: to stay on his toes. To stay on his toes to know his abilities, know his limits. To stay on his toes to avoid stray spells, or non-stray spells that were specifically aimed at him.

Although his façade claimed he could take a hit, he was fully aware of his weak and lean stature, so he relied on his quick dodges and powerful spells to keep him standing. And as he duelled, as he practiced, he only got quicker, faster, lighter on his toes-- his dodges became more anticipated, his evasions became more fluid, and he was nearly untouchable.

wc:431

YEAR FIVE | FEARLESS

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Amaury never intended to find himself in an illegal duel during the short days he spent at the Hogwarts castle, but the enthusiastic Russian boy who accosted him one autumn afternoon seemed to have other plans. Duelling was the topic of conversation, one Amaury knew plenty about. The other boy, too, seemed similarly interested, and Amaury couldn't resist delving into the topic with a fellow duellist, however frivolous he may seem. And although Amaury feigned apathy at the Durmstrang student's suggestion that the two have a "fun" practice session, he couldn't help but be intrigued. Duelling was duelling, no matter the opponent, and Amaury was simply eager to get back on the stage-- so to speak.

It was truly a shame, Amaury thought as he made his way towards the location the two had agreed upon, that a boy so optimistic had set himself up for failure at the wand of Beauxbaton's finest dueller-- at least, in Amaury's eyes. He stood across from the boy, wand at the ready, as his competition raised his own.

Amaury knew people. He knew what they would say, how they would react, what topics made them tic. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the onslaught that bubbly little Maksim Preobrazhensky released from his wand that afternoon. The boy seemed to morph into a different person, smiles and small talk replaced with intimidation and concerningly colorful insults. The spells came towards Amaury at a furious speed, a deadly glare in Maksim's eyes, unlike anything Amaury had seen before. This was the face of a boy who had nothing to lose, the face of a boy who knew what he wanted, who could send Amaury to the infirmary with just a look.

Amaury saw death in this boy's eyes as they slung their spells, all ground rules and forethought out the window. This was a fight for his life. He seemed to shrink as he shot his spells with the same intensity that usually came naturally but now felt forced as he simply held his ground and waited out the storm. There would be no risky, offensive moves today. The typical cocky confidence that held his head high and ego higher slipped away, until it all suddenly... stopped.

The smile sat comfortably on Maksim's face, as if it had never disappeared. As if not one minute ago he was targeting Amaury as the victim of his deadly slew of spells.

Amaury left Maksim, feeling shaken yet determined. He had felt, standing across from the other boy, helpless. Perhaps even... scared? Neither were feelings Amaury was particularly familiar, or comfortable, with. So, determined. Determined to take the stage with an air of confidence, and leave the same way, every single time. None of this fear nonsense. There was no one in this world who could stand up to Amaury now-- why should they? He had faced God today, and dammit, if he wasn't going to come out the other side stronger, better, and unafraid of Death himself.

wc: 504

YEAR SIX | SPELL SPREAD

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No one living in the Favreau Manor ever did anything small. Go big or go home, that was their way. There was no room in such a rich, Pureblood lifestyle for moderation. From pranks to parties, lush extravagance and profligacy were always at the forefront of a planning committee’s minds in the Favreau Manor. Everything, everything was over the top, ostentatious, showy. And Amaury was no different, particularly when it came to his strongest suit: duelling.

Amaury was no stranger to powerful spells… or a little underhanded trickery to give him a leg up. Not that he needed any sort of crutch, because he was perfectly capable of winning a duel with sheer talent alone, thank you very much. But that didn’t mean that a few tricks up his sleeve wouldn’t help, or, y’know, just look cool as hell. And he was all about looking cool as hell as he knocked his opponent out cold. And this trick he learned was, indeed, something to admire.

It was only for the most powerful spellcasters, this skill. Those who are just a bit reckless, just a bit too powerful for their own good, those who are perhaps lacking a bit concerningly in self-preservation. Splitting one spell into two distinct beams of light, capable of hitting two separate targets– it was a wild, unpredictable force that took great talent and concentration, and a little bit of sheer luck. It was perfect for Amaury.

Amaury was reckless. He was reckless enough to perhaps one day stumble upon this spell-splitting technique by accident one day. But he had heard tales, read tales, of the great wizards who could control the magic, summon immense power, and split their spells into equally powerful fragments. It was no accident that the boy had developed this skill. He sought it out.

Amaury had been burnt before in his boundless quest for knowledge and power, literally at times. He had scars to show for it. But although he had learned lessons, sure, never before had the boy managed to learn the proper lesson that should be taken away from these injuries. He hadn’t learned that attempting skills above his age level seemed to always end in some sort of disaster– no, he had just learned that he needed to try harder next time. And this was what he did. Again. And again. And again. Because although the young Favreau was a mere sixteen, the great wizards of the past were no match for his sheer stubbornness and determination. And so Amaury, just a child, learned to wield the power, splitting his spells into two distinct beams of light on command. It was still unstable, sure, and never had he managed to get it more than a few times in a row without it backfiring on him, but he had done it. He had conquered the spell spread.

wc: 483

All mentions of Amadea Campbell’s iNPC, Sylviane Favreau, have been approved by Amadea.