Harvey grew up on the outskirts of eastern Knoxville, Tennessee, as a result of a short and rather explosive relationship between a muggle woman and a pureblood Russian wizard. As an affair baby, Harvey brought little but conflict with him from the start. He was raised by his mother and stepfather, Jane and Henry Dunn, in a low income household that can only be described as rigid. Not really pristine, not exactly comfortable, but tightly held together. Money was never quite enough, and what they had was stretched thin. Still, things were kept orderly. Expectations were high, and discipline strict. There was a right way to do things, and there was everything else.

Despite everything, there was always a sense that things could be better, that they should. His mother spoke of stability like it was something just out of reach. Something that could be earned if only things were done right. School, behavior and presentation mattered. Harvey mattered, in the way something matters when it might become something more. It was never said outright, never in so many words, but it was understood well enough. He was not just expected to do well, he was expected to justify things. To prove the situation they found themselves in could still lead somewhere better.

The household was religious. Church on Sundays, quiet prayers before meals, and certain expectations that were not often explained, only enforced. Harvey had heard enough about right and wrong, about what people should and should not be, that most of it blurred together over time. He learned early how to tune it out. Still, some of it stayed. Not clearly, not in any way he could explain, but enough to leave a discomfort he could never quite shake.

Harvey maintained contact with his biological father through his early childhood. His father, Grigori Sokolovsky, uprooted and split his time between the US and Russia.. His office at The International Confederation Of Wizards was adjusted to fit the move. The man never intended to sire offspring, much less a half-blood, but he claimed responsibility in his own way. His involvement was always kept semi-private. Publicly, it was easier if certain things remained unspoken. The fact that he had another son back in Russia was never mentioned.

Long weekends with his father are probably some of Harvey’s favorite memories from childhood. Harvey adored the man, doing everything he could to earn his approval and praise. Traveling, camping, seeing what the wizarding world had to offer. Grigori was not warm, but he was present. He corrected, instructed, and expected. When Harvey did well there would be a small nod, sometimes a quiet “good.” It was more than enough.

Those visits followed a pattern. Questions that felt casual, but were not. Small tests woven into conversation. Expectations that shifted just as Harvey thought he understood them. There was always something just out of reach, something that kept him trying. It was on one of these trips, at the age of six, the attack happened. Harvey was bit by a werewolf. He survived, but at the cost of becoming a lycanthrope for life.

After the attack everything changed. His father did not disappear entirely. He still showed up, though almost always around the full moon. Protective charms were placed with precision, wards reinforced, contingencies prepared. Everything was accounted for. Everything except for Harvey. There were no more long weekends. No more wandering conversations or quiet moments by the fire. What remained was something else entirely: structured, efficient, focused solely on containment.

As time went on it became increasingly clear that the man no longer wished to be involved. He moved back to Russia full time, and began rebuilding his life. Harvey was never given an explanation. His mother blamed ideology from the wizarding world. Werewolves were unacceptable, and Harvey would never be seen as anything but a monster. Harvey did not believe her at first. His father still showed up, didn’t he? He still made sure things were handled. That had to mean something. It took him years to understand that it did not.

What Harvey does not know is that his father’s presence was never about bonding. It was about responsibility. The situation had to be managed. A child could turn out to be useful, no matter blood status. A werewolf was a different matter entirely. Grigori simply ensured the problem did not spread beyond what was already contained.

He showed up just often enough to keep things from becoming truly disastrous. Always composed and precise. Never staying longer than necessary. Harvey learned quickly that there was a version of himself that was tolerated, and one that was not. The difference lay in how well he could be managed. Harvey started slowly thinking of himself as the monster. But still, he strived to keep his humanity.

His homelife did not improve after the incident. His mother and stepfather were wildly unprepared to raise a werewolf, and much of it was left to Harvey to figure out on his own.

His stepfather set expectations, and Harvey failed to meet them more often than not. Not out of lack of ability, but lack of care. Or perhaps fear. The man worked long hours, the kind of work that followed him home in the way he carried himself. He provided, kept order, and corrected. But there was always something unspoken beneath it all. A quiet, recurring disapproval that had nothing to do with grades or effort.

Harvey had once called him “dad”, just once. The correction had been immediate, and never repeated. Harvey was a complication that had arrived uninvited, responsibility that could not be refused but was never truly accepted. Something added onto an already strained situation. Nothing Harvey did seemed to change that. Success was expected, and failure was confirmation. Even success never quite felt like it belonged to him.

As Harvey became more difficult to manage, his stepfather found ways of keeping him out of the way. Long stretches alone, confined to small spaces, left with little to do but wait it out. Harvey grew to despise it. The stillness, the lack of distraction, the way time seemed to stretch. It lingered in a way nothing else did. There were other corrections, too, brief and firm, but they passed quickly. This did not.

His mother was there, but not in any way that mattered. Tired, worn thin, always trying to keep the peace. She softened what she could, avoided what she couldn’t, and let the rest pass in silence. She was not unkind, just… difficult to count on in the ways that counted.

As he grew older, Harvey started to rebel. An addition to the household in the form of a half-sister only moved things along. Expectations did not lessen, if anything they grew. Whatever he was supposed to become felt less like a choice, and more like an obligation he could not refuse. He hated it, so he took the role that was left over.

He became the troublemaker and scapegoat. Not by any accident, but by his own choice. If he failed loudly and often enough, then at least it would be on his terms. He engaged in petty crimes, graffiti, and a bit of pickpocketing. Anything that gave him a rush, or a break from feeling watched and measured.

He picked on weaker kids like the bully he pretended to be, though he would fold the moment someone stronger came along. It was never really about strength or showing off, but control. If he could make someone else smaller, then he wasn’t the one that was found lacking.

Around the same time, he developed a deep love for reading, escaping into books and written words. He memorized stories and knowledge obsessively, and built something he could be proud of. Something that felt like it truly belonged to him.

When the acceptance to Ilvermorny arrived, his parents were against it. They wanted a more «normal» path for him. What use was a magical education when he was to climb the social-economic ladder. It was only after repeated assurances from the school that his condition could be handled, and possible job prospects, that he was allowed to attend. They set one condition though: Whatever he did, he would be the best.

Harvey left with no intention of meeting that expectation. Instead, he set out to be the exact opposite. If failure was inevitable, as it always was, at least it would be his to claim on his own terms. He was sorted as a Thunderbird and quickly gained a reputation as trouble. Running his mouth, pushing buttons, picking on others, about everything you can imagine. If they already thought of him as a monster, he saw little reason to invest energy to prove them wrong.

Things escalated as they often do. His behavior only grew worse as the year passed, culminating in an incident where he nearly proved that he was the monster he thinks himself to be. Staff intervened before anyone was seriously hurt, but the line had been more than crossed. At the start of June he was sent home. The news hit harder than he expected them to. Despite everything, he had liked the school. Especially the few friends he had made.

During the full moon of June, his father made a rare appearance. The conversation between the adults was held behind closed doors. The outcome was simple: Harvey would go to Russia and enroll at Durmstrang. It was presented like as much of a choice as breathing air.

Russia was cold, he could feel it down to his bones. Endless forests, and heavier silence. His father’s home stood isolated, more structure than comfort. Certainly not a place meant for growing up. Harvey was not introduced to anyone. House elves came and went, the constant eyes on him were uncomfortable. When visitors came, he was simply not there to be seen. He was given structure, expectations, and access to tutors and books far beyond what his mom and stepdad ever could offer. His education was refined, but nothing was given freely. Everything felt measured. Conditional and in need of being earned.

The Sokolovsky family had been upper class for generations, always seeking to rise to aristocracy. A few generations back they got lucky by being elected for a political position. Through long-standing arrangements tied to trade and legislation, they secured access to influence and a standing in high society. Grigori continued the legacy. As Senior Undersecretary for International Trade Legislation and Arcane Standards within the International Confederation of Wizards, he drafts and shapes proposals governing the movement of magical goods across borders. It is a quiet but powerful position, one that extends far beyond formal chambers.

The idea of Durmstrang loomed like something carved straight out of discipline. Harsh and unforgiving. A place his father deemed appropriate. Grigori did not dare sponsor Harvey himself. Public association with a werewolf, especially his own son, was not a risk he was willing to take.

So he made a deal with Astrid Blackwood. Not a new arrangement, but an extension of one already in place. She would sponsor Harvey, and provide leverage against Grigori’s political opponents. In return, Grigori would support her publicly, strengthening her reputation without drawing unwanted scrutiny.

He would also assist her with Magnus Blackwood. Harvey would serve a purpose there as well. An example, carefully positioned. Something to be observed. What happens without discipline. Without control. Harvey was not introduced as a solution. He was presented as a warning.

Harvey knows he needs to prove himself. Not just to the school, but to his father. Grigori does not demand affection, nor does he offer it. What he expects is simpler. Usefulness, control, results. How to bow to a man you secretly adore, but who refuses to call you his son? Harvey is as likely to give up as he is to tear himself apart trying. Only time will tell which comes first.

Harvey’s first instance of magic happened at the age of five. He had been excited all week for that very weekend. His father was supposed to take him out for an adventure, and Harvey could barely wait. He got home that Friday, bursting into the kitchen, expecting to find him waiting. Instead, only his mother occupied the room, stirring in a pot just put on the burner. His father had a situation to handle at work and would not be coming. Harvey’s stomach dropped. Disappointment hit first, but beneath it curled something darker: fear. The kind he did not want to put into words. His mother, busy as she was, took the time to look over her shoulder and suggest they could do something together instead. Harvey doesn’t really know why the simple offer made him snap, it just did. He did not want a weekend with his mom. He wanted to spend it with his dad! Before he knew it, the contents of the pot exploded. The gravy sprayed everywhere. Across walls and countertops. It was hot, but thankfully not hot enough to burn. Harvey just stood there, stunned. The anger slipped away faster than it spiked. It was replaced by something else. He knew magic was a thing, but he did not know it was something he himself was capable of. A small but proud smile tugged at his lips. His mother, on the other hand, was close to panic. What had happened went against all laws of physics, it should have been impossible. She looked between Harvey and the walls covered in gravy in disbelief, turning into fear. But Harvey got his wish. Not even minutes later his father’s presence was requested. This time, he answered. Harvey was pleased down to his very core. He did something impressive, and got his wish. If only he could do it again…

Spell (Incantation) - Year

Potion - Year