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Stamina: 5
Evasion: 5
Strength: 4
Wisdom: 8
ArcPower: 7
Accuracy: 6

Hasianna was born on a cool fall day on October 31st, 2014 and was brought back to an old Victorian home in London, England. Her mother, Shimizu Michiko who attended Mahoutokoro School of Magic before moving to London and meeting her father, Leo Burfitt, who attended Hogwarts as a bright young wizard in Ravenclaw. She is an only child even though she desperately wished for an older brother, the same as both of her parents. This taught her how to accept things you cannot change, yet also gave her time to read so many books and facts. Since sending a Pure-Blood to a Muggle School is far too risky, Hasianna was privately tutored, which is where the spark of the desire to gain knowledge lit the fire of intense curiosity.

Hasianna looks young, with silky black hair which is naturally straight, passed down from her mother. Her eyes are brown, but when you look closely there are very nice details that look like explosions and craters of different shades of brown around the pupil. She is about average in height with a pale-ish complexion. Her eyebrows are neatly kept with a slight dusting of freckles across her nose, passed down form her father.

Her mind is filled with random wizarding facts, lyrics from The Weird Sisters and all the books shes read. Her memory is fairly great, and her parents constant persisting to be her best helped her achieve where she is now. She sometimes has expectations set on her, but she adapts to it and often it helps her. Hasianna is very focused on achieving her goals in life, but theres a small wish where she can hopefully come out on top after all her hard work and perseverance.

As seen by others, Hasianna can be quiet. She was called spoilt before she came to Hogwarts, and she is afraid the same thing will happen here. Once you get to know her, however, she is super nice, funny and willing to assist you with anything!

Her first use of accidental magic was when she was about three years old, eating her breakfast at the table. Her family owl, Alfred, was flying around before knocking over her sippy cup after a low dive close to the table. Before her mother of father could even reach for their wands to stop it, the cup was suddenly floating back on to the table, until Hasianna picked it up and drank out of it like nothing happened.

Stamina: 5
Evasion: 10
Strength: 0
Wisdom: 10
ArcPower: 0
Accuracy: 10

Lucy was born on 31st of August 2015 in Inari, Finland. She was born to an ordinary reindeer-herding Muggle family of six other children, she being the youngest of seven. Most of her memories of that time are just fragments. She doesn't remember the names of her siblings, nor their faces or details. She remembers other kids, snow, forests, lots of reindeer, sitting on one, holding its antlers, and more snow and reindeer.

Lucy considers her biological parents her Old Mum and Dad. They wished to offer her a better education, and life in general, because they couldn't realistically support such a large household financially. They pursued Lucy's adoption in her best interest, but it took a little longer than they and the authorities hoped for. Eventually, she was successfully adopted by her new Mum and Dad in Inverness, Scotland. From an ordinary Muggle family to another ordinary Muggle family. She understands that she came from somewhere else, but doesn't possess a clear narrative of what happened, why it happened, nor is she really bothered by it.

Her new family contains Mum and Dad, both warm and loving. Lucy is their only child. Dad works as a history professor at a university and Mum as a biologist, researching freshwater invertebrates. Their home is tidy, full of books, clean and comfortable. They value education but don't steer Lucy's interests, instead encouraging them. The household is regularly brought to the brink of chaos by Lucy and her shenanigans.

Lucy's muteness was discovered only after the adoption, when she clearly wasn't going to pick up speech like a kid her age should. Her parents sought out professional help but it didn't work out. They instead decided that communication is what Lucy needs, not the speech itself, and they learned Finnish Sign Language to meet Lucy where she needed them. Lucy had the greatest home she could have hoped for.

Lucy doesn't have many friends, not any close ones at least, just some classmates during school hours she gets along with. Instead, her relationship with her parents is great and they keep her social needs fulfilled. She shares a fascination with her Mum about living things such as the tiny freshwater creatures her mom researches. Her relationship with her dad, on the other hand, is upheld by stories and small niche need-to-know information bits, even though she prefers exploring the present HERSELF. But even the present can use some explanation as to why it is so, and that is where her dad comes in.

While Lucy is extremely excited about Hogwarts and what it potentially can offer her, adventures, magic, cute and gross animals, she finds leaving her parents behind for long periods difficult. They are the only people she gets understood by in a blink of an eye.

From home to Platform 9¾
Aboard the Hogwarts Express

One time when Lucy was four years old she was playing around the house. Her parents were both in the kitchen preparing the dinner together. When in the main hallway Lucy heard something bounding on the window in the next room. She obviously goes to investigate the mysterious sound. She enters her dad's study, a room filled with bookshelves, piles of books, and piles of things. She stops in the middle of the room to locate the direction of the sound, which she does. The source of the sound is this huge moth stuck between the window and the partly open curtains, flying back and forth and hitting the glass. After a moment of scanning her surroundings she spots a jar, picks it up and begins the rescue mission. She needs to get on the table to have any hopes of reaching the moth on the window so she moves his dad's chair a bit to climb on it and then the table. The table surface is almost completely covered in books, papers, small objects and this particularly boring looking ceramic vase her dad had borrowed from a museum for his upcoming lecture on ancient methods of storage, decoration and ritual use of items such as vases. While trying to reach for the moth, Lucy lifts one foot off the table to reach the final few centimeters to successfully catch it, but simultaneously she kicks the vase down.


"...Oh..." She freezes for a second and quickly makes her way down to investigate the damage. Maybe it didn't actually break.

Suddenly the uninteresting boring vase had became the most important thing ever and she needs to fix it. NOW! Under the panic of her life she grabs a roll of see through tape from her dad's table and begins to arrange the pieces together. It has proven to be much more difficult than it first appeared to her and she is starting to get frustrated and anxious. She is going to be caught breaking dad's important vase. She begins to pull tape over and around the vase after having the pieces in place. She hears someone is coming.


She is not done! It is too late!

The unfinished taping project on the floor, the tape on the floor right by her feet and her hands behind her back, holding on to the Moth Jar she turns toward the door just as her dad appears in the doorway. She freezes, looks guilty, and begins to cry. Dad enters further in the room and Lucy launches at him and hugs him and cries against him while trying to apologise for what she had done. Dad being unsure what has happened lifts Lucy up to comfort her. While doing so he spots an intact vase with regular see through tape all around it. At this time Lucy's mum enters the room as she heard the crying and she sees Lucy on her dad's lap holding on a glass jar. Dad puts her down and she goes to show off her catch to mum. She sniffles a bit and is no longer crying. Instead a proud grin is forming. Meanwhile dad picks up the vase and removes the tape of it. The vase is completely intact, pristine. He doesn't know what to quite think of what just happened and just puts the vase on upper levels of shelf for time being. The Moth gets released outside soon after.

Time goes by and dad has had his lecture and is returning the vase. The museum has trouble believing the object is the same that was borrowed as it's missing a chipped notch on the mouth of the vase. It seems like too perfect of a replica, instead of the already slightly damaged vase that it used to be.

(WC: 1,279)

Nimue stands at 171 cm and has an effortless hour-glass figure that fashion models starve themselves to achieve. Her soft, dark walnut brown hair frames her heart-shaped face in playful, bouncy waves. Her eyes are also a deep dark, chocolate brown, but where once they were bright and wide-eyed, warmed by the inviting smile that often danced in twinkling flashes at others, they have lately been lidded, seemingly devoid of almost any joy. To look upon them now is like looking at two briquettes of dusty coal.

Though she was born and grew up in Sweden, she is not the stereotypical Nordic snowbunny in her coloration. She, like her father and her older brother, is a dark Swede. Her skin is olive colored, and her lips are often rouged in corals or reds. She prefers dresses and blouses with open necks and this is partly due to her fondness for a beauty mark to the upper right of her sternum that looks loosely like a crescent with just a tiny drop spilling off the end.

She is exceptionally bright, and knows it, but has never felt the need to advertise it. She is accustomed to being a person who understands things quickly, but what she truly enjoys is being intellectually challenged while reaching that understanding. Although she can be quite confident in her knowledge and skill, she can be much less confident in her emotional relationships.

The dark Swede is also polished. Years of being raised in a wealthy, pureblood home where hours were expected to be invested with house elves, tutors, and nannies on the niceties of society were not, as it turned out, a waste of anyone's time or galleons. Her family lived in the deep well of satisfaction that came from knowing Nimue knew how to conduct herself in almost any formal situation.

Almost.

She knew how to enter a room and graciously command the attention of anyone in it, speak with a number of people on a variety of subjects, and maybe most importantly, she knew how to handle criticism, all while revealing remarkably little about her personal life.

Yet with all of her charm and grace, there was a stiffness beneath it all. Not a coldness, exactly. Just a distance. Self-protection.

She had spent years accepting what was expected of her, not because she was some compliant rag doll, but because it was the pathway she saw to creating the least of amount of friction for her herself, yes, but mostly for her parents.

She had never thought much about the concept of happiness. She thought more about duty. Years of accepting what had been expected of her, rather than asking herself what she actually wanted had taken a numbing toll. Her broken engagement to Soren Jarmlinger, her father's mentee and business heir-apparent, was her own declaration of independence and the first instance, when the stakes truly mattered, that she acknowledged, 'No, I don't want this.'

So when Nimue arrived at Hogwarts in the autumn of 2026 as the new Transfiguration Professor, she felt more unsure of herself than at any time in her life. And that, she knew, had to be a good thing.

Her life had been an easy one in terms of creature comforts. Emphasis on creature comforts. Her mother, Belladonna White (née McCoire) met her father, Magnus Stellan White, in the air during a Quidditch match at London's Quidditch stadium in summer 1978. He was a lethally accurate first string Beater for Durmstrang and she was a moderately talented second string Seeker, who happened to be a gorgeous Veela. After Magnus single-handedly knocked her team's Seeker out of the game with one hit, Belladonna answered her team's call of duty. The game could have gone to Durmstrang with just one hit, but when Magnus positioned to launch the bludger her way, and caught a glance of her, he stopped his swing mid-air. That moment allowed Belladonna to find the snitch and grab it, and the rest was history.

Bad history.

They met because he would not bludger her. They married because it seemed like the sensible thing to do. And the rest of their lives together were little more than a long succession of oncoming bludgers in the guise of indifference. And that indifference ricocheted to everyone in the far corners of their "home".

Nimue had friends. She had an active life. And she also had a brother, Arden Hanbury White. Arden was eighteen years her senior and Nimue adored him. He was also a squib. That fact was of some consternation to her father, and possibly to Arden, but it turned out he was Nimue's biggest supporter and cheerleader her whole life while living with her parents and then when she attended Durmstrang.

While at Durmstrang, Nimue studied hard. She had myriad interests, particularly duelling, but her studies always came first. That wasn't a punishment for her. It was a joy. She had a real gift for Charms and Transfiguration it turned out, and her ease with both subjects, particularly Transfiguration, led to the happy discovery of fulfillment when able to help others with complex concepts. The one down side she experienced was usually being judged by her beauty and not her brains. She could understand it being the first thing to strike someone, but did they simply tune her out thereafter? For someone as beautiful as she was, she felt unseen too much of the time.

When she graduated from Durmstrang, she undertook several years of advanced studies in Applied Transfiguration at the Royal Institute of Arcane Studies in Gamla Stan Stockholm. This was followed by an apprenticeship with a specialist in magical transformation and spatial alteration. Her work eventually took her into magical theatrical production, where she used Transfiguration constantly to create and alter scenery, props, stage effects, and occasionally costumes and sets during live performances. It was demanding work: transformations had to be precise, stable, reversible, and often performed under pressure.

Although she enjoyed the technical challenge, the theatrical world was not ultimately where she wanted to remain. So, she packed up and left her little apartment for home where she began a lucrative business of tutoring young witches and wizards in preparation for their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, with a focus on those struggling on the conceptual side of Transfiguration. Nimue discovered before too long that she was better than fair at explaining why a transformation worked rather than simply demonstrating how to perform it.

It was also during this time that she was proposed to by Soren, and for reasons she still cannot fathom, accepted his proposal. Her mother, acting in perhaps the most motherly fashion Nimue could ever remember, convinced her to imagine a life more fulfilling for herself than what she and her father had. So, Belladonna, having heard about an opening at Hogwarts from her father, Nimue's grandfather, Angus McCoire, decided to take matters in hand and applied for the position of Transfiguration Professor in her daughter's name.

Before giving it to the owl to deliver, she had second thoughts and spoke to Nimue about it. Nimue was not at all aggravated or irked in any way about the development. In fact, she wondered at her lack of concern at the prospect of leaving Sweden and Soren, and then she realized her mother was right. She did not want to flatline the rest of her life with mere comfort and mediocrity, so she ripped up her mother's faux application and sent in one of her own.

She always told her students to change their perspectives by changing their relationship to the subject. Now it was time for her to do the same.

(WC: 416)
Nimue was 4 years old when her magic first showed itself. It was a quiet, Sunday morning and she, both of her parents, and Arden were seated at the much too long dining room table for breakfast. Tressa, the Whites' senior house elf, filled everyone's juice glass with fresh orange juice, and came to Nimue's place last. The pitcher was no longer holding much orange juice, so Nimue asked, "May I pour it, Tressa?"

Tressa smiled and did not hesitate in the least. The pitcher thunked gently against the wood of the table top, shrouded in a crisply ironed, pristine table cloth in buttercream yellow. As Nimue tried, with both hands, to wrest the heavy pitcher from its place, she let out an exasperated sigh. Not one to give up easily, she stood and then got upon her chair, balancing herself on her knees. Then she leaned over precariously to pour the juice.

Her father had been watching the whole spectacle, casually peeking over the top of his morning paper, curious to see how it was going to end. The pitcher proved heavier than Nimue anticipated, and it tipped too quickly, knocking over her juice glass. A bright bloom of orange spilled across the table, and her father said nothing but shook his head, and went back to his reading.

Nimue felt her face go hot from both anger and embarrassment, and she had just grabbed her napkin to help Tressa dab up the citrus surge when all of a sudden the orange juice began to lift upwards in perfect spheres, catching the morning light. They hovered and glistened for only a few seconds, like tiny amber lanterns, before drifting back into the pitcher in a quick, but orderly fashion. Nimue, with her napkin hanging limply from her hand, stared at the hovering droplets. She was both bewildered and mesmerized as her mind scrambled to understand what had just happened.

Arden had already leaped from his place across from her and had rounded the table behind their father on his way to scoop her up and give her a tight, congratulatory hug. "Far¹, the magic will not die with you after all." He squeezed her closely to him and whispered in her ear, "I am so proud of you, Lilla vän²."

Nimue threw her arms around his neck, squeezing hard and giggling. She knew something of consequence had just happened, but she was pretty certain it wasn't the now unspilled-spilled juice itself her brother was praising.

---------------------------
1 - Far is 'Pappa' in Swedish (formal)
2 - Lilla vän is a Swedish endearment meaning 'Little dear one'

• A note about AI detection: This application is 100% human-written. I have spent the last 2^1/2 days writing, revising, and refining it myself. Despite that, Copyleaks continues to return a 100% AI-generated result. I wanted you to know that I am aware of this, but have not a clue as to what to do to change the result.

I have tested portions of the application separately. Some paragraphs trigger the detector when submitted in groups of two or three, while most do not. The passages that tend to trigger it are generally those containing deliberate parallelism, structured contrasts, or other features of my natural writing style.

This paragraph, for example, is one that lights up: “Regina became angry. Not irritated. Not stern. Angry. The shift was frightening because it was not theatrical; it was physical. Her familiar form broke apart under the force of emotion. Wings burst from her shoulders. Her face sharpened into something avian and terrible. Heat gathered in the air around her, and Nimue understood in one terrible moment that the stories about Veela tempers were not stories at all.”

• I discovered if I removed the second sentence or the third, the paragraph was miraculously acceptable. But I like it with all three sentences before I hit that fourth “sentence”, so have chosen to keep them.
-------------------------------------------( WC: 1,994)
Nimue Elara White grew up in a family where magic, intellect, and old bloodlines were difficult to separate. Her mother, Belladonna White (née McCoire), carried Veela ancestry through her own mother, Regina McCoire (née Dankworth). Regina was a full Veela, and her beauty and temper were both well known within the family. Nimue’s father, Magnus Stellan White, brought no Vodyanoy blood to the marriage, but plenty of his own magic, pureblood discipline, and stubborn practicality. Their daughter, Nimue, was dark-haired, olive-skinned, and undeniably beautiful, though she did not resemble the stereotypical image most people associated with Veela.

Generations of intermarriage had diluted her Veela blood. Even so, the inheritance remained unmistakable. Nimue sensed it before she understood it by the way people looked at her. She knew she was pretty, and she had no particular objection to being so, but there was something else in the way attention gathered around her, something she could not quantify. Conversations shifted when she entered a room; someone distracted just moments earlier might suddenly become intent on what she was saying. Often, complete strangers sometimes seemed oddly eager to impress her.

Even as a child Nimue enjoyed being beautiful, but over time she often found the attention more confusing than flattering. What troubled her was not knowing how much influence her beauty brought into every interaction that she could not see or measure. When someone admired her, she had no way of knowing how much of that response was strictly due to her and how much should be attributed to her Veela heritage. She never found a simple answer because there was no way to separate the two.

Belladonna taught her the Veela language and the old songs of their family, but Nimue’s interest drifted elsewhere. The mechanics of magic, it turned out, were far more alluring than learning the mechanics “to allure”. She wanted to know why spells worked, what made transformations hold, and why one witch could achieve a result that another could not. Transfiguration offered a kind of reassurance she had not found anywhere else. A successful transformation could be examined, repeated, and improved. If she turned a block of marble into a throne, the throne existed because she had understood the magic well enough to make it happen. No one else’s reaction could change that.

One of the earliest lessons she carried from her heritage came not from her mother, but from someone who could not see her at all. During her advanced magical education, Nimue studied under a blind tutor. He knew her name and her age, but he could not see the face that caused strangers to turn their heads. When she entered the room, there was no pause, no shift in expression, no moment in which attention was captured before she spoke. He simply continued whatever discussion they had been having.

One afternoon, he greeted her by immediately returning to an argument they had begun the previous week. He had been thinking about her idea. Not her appearance. Not her family. Her idea. He had considered it after she left, found a weakness in it, and was eager to explain his reasoning. Nimue remembered that more clearly than anything he taught her that day. For the first time, someone waited to hear what she thought without first being drawn to look at her. It did not settle the question of what other people's attention meant when she could never be certain how much of it was hers to begin with. But it gave her something against which to measure the rest of the world. She began to understand that being noticed was not the same as being taken seriously, and being taken seriously was not necessarily the same as being known.

The lesson grew more complicated when she was still young enough to believe that family was the safest place in the world. Her nuclear family lived in Sweden, while her grandparents remained in Scotland, and visits were rare enough that they carried a sense of occasion. During one such visit, Nimue witnessed something she had previously known only as old family history. The argument began quietly, the way long married people sometimes slip into familiar patterns of disagreement. Angus McCoire was not a timid man, nor was he easily unsettled. He had lived beside Regina’s beauty and her temper for decades, and whatever strength she possessed, he possessed his own. But something in their exchange crossed a line Nimue could not see, and the air in the room changed.

Regina became angry. Not irritated. Not stern. Angry. The shift was frightening because it was not theatrical; it was physical. Her familiar form broke apart under the force of that emotion. Wings burst from her shoulders. Her face sharpened into something avian and terrible. Heat gathered in the air around her, and Nimue understood in one terrible moment that the stories about Veela tempers were not stories at all.

What unsettled her most was not that Regina had become something monstrous. It was that Angus did not become small in front of her. He did not cower or retreat. He stood his ground, not out of bravado, but out of long familiarity with the woman he loved. The danger between them was real, but neither of them was helpless. Nimue happened to be close enough to witness what occurred when two people with enough strength to hurt one another stopped choosing restraint.

Then Regina looked at her. She knew Nimue had seen. For a long moment, neither spoke. No convenient explanation could make the moment disappear. No lesson about good Veela and bad Veela. No promise that love made such a thing impossible.

There was only the uncomfortable truth Nimue would spend years learning to understand: there is something inside my family that even love does not necessarily make safe.

Her mother later explained that Veela magic was deeply connected to emotion, and that anger could transform beauty into something dangerous. Nimue listened, but she did not come away believing that anger itself was the enemy. Instead, she became wary of surrendering control to it. Perhaps that was the beginning of the discipline that would later define her magic.

The knowledge remained theoretical until adolescence gave her an unwelcome demonstration of her own.

The circumstances were ordinary enough that, in retrospect, the intensity of her reaction embarrassed her. She was being teased by a girlfriend, about a boy, as they were trying on different gowns in preparation for an upcoming Ball. The argument went farther than intended; pride became anger, and her anger became something much harder to contain. She remembered the sensation more clearly than the cause: heat rushing beneath her skin, the sudden pressure between her shoulder blades, and a sharpness in her hands that had not been there a moment before. For an instant, the reflection staring back at her seemed almost unfamiliar. Her eyes had protruded and become more rounded. Dark feathers showed briefly along the line of one shoulder before vanishing as quickly as they had appeared.

No fire came. No wings tore free, thank goodness. Whatever lived in Regina's blood had been softened by two generations of human ancestry separating Nimue from her grandmother. Still, softened did not mean absent.

The experience unsettled Nimue less because of what she had become and more because of how little control she had over becoming it. Regina's transformation had taught her that Veela magic could make anger dangerous. Her own had taught her that knowing this was not the same as being immune to it.

And then it began to dawn on her that control was not the absence of strong emotion. It was what happened between feeling something and deciding what to do with it. That distinction stayed with Nimue. Over time, the physical manifestations became rarer, then almost nonexistent, but the memory of that moment never quite left her.

As she grew older, precision came more naturally to Nimue than spectacle. Even her expressions seemed measured; her temper was rarely allowed to outrun her judgment, and eventually her magic acquired the same deliberate quality. Where others were drawn to the inherited aspects of her abilities, Nimue became fascinated by the things she had earned through study. Years of hard work made her exceptionally skilled in Charms and Transfiguration.

That same discipline also shaped the way she handled the attention her Veela inheritance brought her. As she matured, she discovered a peculiar irony in being a young woman whose presence could make people pay attention while simultaneously feeling that people were not necessarily listening. That tension followed her into adulthood. Nimue was polished, articulate, socially capable, and entirely comfortable commanding a room when necessary. She could navigate admiration without encouraging it and maintain grace without allowing fascination to dictate her behavior. Her alluring nature was neither shameful nor a personal achievement. It was simply there — inherited, occasionally irritating, sometimes useful, but always dangerous if treated carelessly.

Most importantly, it was not hers to use as proof of worth. She could not turn her Veela inheritance off simply because she wished to know whether someone was responding honestly to her as a person. Once the attention arrived, though, what mattered was what she did with it. Nimue rarely chose to manipulate it and learned not to mistake admiration for intimacy. Praise required its own kind of scrutiny, and over time, she became better at distinguishing fascination from respect. And she certainly remembered the people who had taken an interest in what she thought before they had any reason to be interested in how she looked.

That distinction became particularly important as she pursued Transfiguration. Nimue did not merely want to perform impressive transformations; she wanted to understand them well enough to explain them. An idea that initially seemed impossible became satisfying once she could break it down until another person could see the logic inside it. Unlike beauty, such magic could not be inherited. Unlike allure, it could not happen to her without her participation. This was a skill she had earned.

What looked effortless from the outside was actually the result of hours of thought, practice, failure, adjustment, and persistence. Every student who finally understood a difficult concept because Nimue had found the right way to explain it gave her something her Veela inheritance never could: proof that her knowledge had mattered.

Eventually, Nimue realized that being Veela was not really a conflict with being herself. The difficulty was that the world often noticed, and fixated, on just one part of her before it had any chance to discover the rest. Her heritage did not make her less intelligent, nor did her natural charm make her accomplishments less genuine. But the hard truth was, the existence of an inherited charm meant she could never be entirely certain what another person saw when they looked at her.

So she learned to value the people who looked further — the ones who challenged her, who remembered something she had said weeks earlier, who wanted to know what she thought rather than simply wanting her attention, who could disagree with her and remain interested in the conversation. Those were the relationships she trusted.

Her Veela heritage was never something she felt compelled either to overcome or to make central to who she was. It was simply one of the strange inheritances with which she had been born, alongside her family name, her magical ability, and the expectations that came with both. It had given her beauty. It had given her a power she could not always control. It had given her an early understanding that appearance and identity were not always the same thing.

What Nimue made of that knowledge was her own. The Veela blood in her family may have taught her that beauty can command attention. Her education taught her something far more valuable: attention is not the same thing as understanding. And understanding, unlike beauty, has to be earned.