Encyclopedia Link: Here
Applying for: Perfectionist [Year 4]
Description:

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Ileen stared at her wand, the familiar warm chestnut wood in her fingers, her anker, her savior, her doom. Normally it was her best friend, the companion that helped her to fight off darkness and help people. And yet, sometimes, when she needed her friend the most, the wand had a mind of its own and it turned on her. Especially when there was urgency panic, in the most crucial moments, it seemed that she couldn’t keep her mind calm and focused and the wand noticed that and threw that energy burst in some direction, just not the intended one. Panicked as its owner.
Her knuckles turned white as she grabbed it tighter, revisiting the most awful moments when that had happened to her. Seeing her classmates being hurt by her hand when she had just tried to help and yet it had backfired. Her own wand twirling out of her hand in duels, over and over again. Cutting her own shirt and skin with a diffindo. There had been countless situations by now where her spell had exploded in her face. No more. Just no more. She needed to be able to always cast the right spell, she was a healer and protector. She was the last one who was allowed to fail. Her failure could equal death.

With a grim look she faced the dummy in the duel practice room. Was Ileen a gifted witch? Maybe. Most of all, she was a stubborn and disciplined student. She was a tryhard. Her talents were dictated by her interest, motivations and then endless practice. Right here and now she made an oath. She would work for it, no matter what it took. Even if she had to stay here until her fingers were bloody, she wouldn’t move. The young Slytherin had seen others do it before. Forcing the magic back out of the wand. They had talked about it and how they had mastered it. Now it was her time.
Her dark brown eyes were slightly squinted when she looked at the dummy. Slowly she raised her wand, aimed carefully and cast the disarming charm. It worked perfectly fine. But she did it, over and over again, to challenge the odds. Thinking about all the failure, Ileen tried to bring herself in an emotional state where her spells would more likely backfire. But it didn’t work and the frustration started to build up in the young girl.
Gritting her teeth she did the incantation less mindful, the wand movement sloopy. And then, finally, as she already was about to give up, she felt how the wand turned against her. She could feel the magic fighting her, trying to come out or the wrong end of the wand. What now? She tried to push it back and press it away from her, but apparently, that had been the wrong approach. Again, she was hit by her own spell, ripping the beloved wand from her hand and sending it through the room. With some curse words on her lips, she stomped to its destination at the next corner and picked it up. Visualize. The word of her co-captain echoed through her mind as she picked it up. Was that the key?
Staying where she was, she picked it up and looked over at the dummy. Then, almost automatically, she cast the spell the exact same way she did before and again she felt the wand rebelling. But this time, she didn’t try to push the magic away from her, she imagined it to go through the wand and come out at the right end of it. Not just sending it away, giving it direction, just with the power of her will. She felt how the power flew back into the chestnut wood and exploded from its tip. With an exhausting smile she looked at her companion. Finally, they were one forever now.

Word Count | 654/400

STATUS:Approved

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Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for: Components (Y2 Ability)

Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):

Reducio

"Ask Méabh, she probably has one."

It was a sentence often uttered around Méabh, whether at home in Sligo or at Hogwarts or even later on. It was also usually a valid guess, as long whatever was needed was small enough to neatly fit into a pocket. It didn't even matter what it was, hair ties or paperclips, dried nettles, a pencil or a handful of owl treats; it usually only took Méabh a bit of searching to produce it from one of the many pockets in her robes, or from the depths of a bag in more extreme cases.

When asked how she had gotten whatever item she metaphorically pulled out of her hat (and more literally out of a hidden pocket somewhere), especially in case of some more... concerning finds such as poisonous belladonna and on one memorable occasion a live frog, Méabh's response was usually a shrug and a cheeky grin. "Found it," she'd say, or, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Truth was, she'd always enjoyed picking up interesting things. It had started with oddly coloured pebbles or seashells as a child, needles and dried herbs when she'd grown old enough to snoop around her mother's things. There were things that were interesting for their looks, for their scent, for their potential usefulness (whether actually useful or just to be used in a prank).

In her early years, the items had been mostly useless. What fascinated a toddler wasn't the purpose of an object, after all, but the way it looked, the sounds it made. As she grew older, her collecting became more purposeful. There were many things that you just never seemed to have at hand when needed, so she made it her job to have a little bit of everything... except the actually important things, and it wasn't rare that she left home without her keys, or money, or her homework. Assuming she'd remembered to do her homework in the first place.

When she started attending Hogwarts, her collecting became a little more focused. No one had been more surprised than herself when she discovered a knack for brewing potions; it wasn't what she'd expected to like, having grown up spending most of her time outside in and around a small town on the Irish coast. Her mother had no affinity for potions, or cooking for that matter. Shouldn't Transfiguration be what came to her naturally? Yet potions were what drew her, the scents and allure of a lazily bubbling liquid in a cauldron, magical in ways that weren't quite as obvious as in spells. So now, rather than quills and chocolate, what found its way into her pockets were plants, dried and fresh, herbs, spices, small animals and insects (the leeches were kept in a jar, though). Things she could use for potions, whether conventional recipes or the odd disastrous experiment.

You never knew when you might just need a handful of wood lice to finish off a recipe, after all.

496 words

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Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for: Wandmaker (Y4 Ability)

Describe why this fits your character (not why you the player want it):

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History

When Méabh was eight years old, she discovered a wand, safely stored in a drawer in her mother's bedroom. It was a beautiful wand, smooth and polished of light wood, simple yet elegant, with delicate swirls carved into it that were easier to trace with her fingertips than to see.

There was an intrigue to it, because it wasn't her mother's wand, that much she knew, but that was also all she knew. Whenever she asked about it, her mother brushed her off, and her grandmother gave her a worried look. Whenever Méabh would sneak into her mother's room to take the wand and examine it, for something so carefully guarded must be special for some reason, her mother would take it out of her hands, lock the drawer, and send her off on an errand.

Yet, the next time she checked, the drawer was once again unlocked, so didn't that mean her mother looked at it just as often?

Perhaps it was the intrigue of something forbidden, or how often she handled it growing up, but Méabh always felt there was something warm and comforting about the mysterious wand. It felt familiar between her fingers, like it belonged, even more so than the wand she had gotten at Ollivanders when she was eleven years old. It felt like she it should be hers.

Méabh was fourteen when she finally stood up, refusing to hand over the wand, demanding to know why her mother had it, where it had come from. It resulted in a fight like she'd known it would, one of those terrible ones that left both sides shaken and in tears, even though there was no shouting involved, and when her mother sat down on her bed, crying, Méabh could feel guilt twisting her stomach. There was an apology on her lips and she held out the wand to her mother, offering it back, but her mother shook her head. Keep it, she said. It used to be your grandmothers.

Not Niamh's, of course, Méabh realised after a moment of confusion. Her other grandmother, whose name she didn't even know. Her father's mother.

She didn't ask why her mother had the wand, and Sorcha didn't explain. It would remain part of the wand's mystery, for now.

379 words.

Traits

Length: 31.3 cm

If there was one thing Méabh Regan knew to do, it was how to put on a good show. Well, aside from being able to change her appearance at will, having an uncanny talent for potioneering, and pulling off absolutely genius pranks, but for the sake of the argument, she knew how to put on a show.

It wasn't really that she was dramatic in the sense of causing scenes or over the top theatricality, she just knew how to time her quips, how to draw in an audience and keep their attention. A knack for knowing what to say and when to get the reaction she wanted; for tugging on heartstrings when it suited her. And if she used that talent for mischief... well, who could really blame her?

118 words.

Wood: Fir

Méabh always thought the reason she was so good at pretending to be someone else was that she was so secure in who she was herself. It was easier to slip on a mask and put on a show if you knew deep down it wouldn't change who you really were, who she would turn back into once her bit was done and the mask had served its purpose. There was never any intention to stay as someone she wasn't. After all, if you didn't know who you were, how could you pretend to be someone you're not?

98 words.

Flexibility: Very flexible

Being secure in who she was, however, didn't mean she needed to be stiff. That, too, was a contradiction with her abilities, wasn't it? To be able to change form and behaviour at will, even if it was a firm will, took flexibility, the ability to bend and adapt, to see the world from a different angle, to imagine what other people might think and feel.

76 words.

Wand Core: Wampus Cat Hair

Hence, Méabh spent a lot of time observing. Watching people and their behaviours, their mannerisms, how they acted and why. Tried to learn their moods, their little ticks. With time, she became better at reading people, sensing moods and motivations from the way they stood, they talked, they moved their hands. It was fascinating, she thought, how much people could say without uttering a word, and in turn, how much a word - the right word, at the right time - could influence how they felt and reacted. How you could draw them in, and keep their attention, how to put on a show.

104 words.

775 words total

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Name of Ability Applied For: Terrible Presence

Description:
Howard can truly possess a terrible presence. Just ask those who have lived to tell the tale of seeing his "bad" side. It mostly has to do with his physical appearance. Once a boy who had always been a touch taller than most his age, he has now grown into a young man. He stands over six feet tall, so besides his part giant peers Howard stands well above the abnormally short students of Hogwarts. He has often been referred to as all arms and legs. As a youth his limbs were long, gangly, and a bit awkward, but years of physical sports and exercise have hardened his muscles. He may not be as bulky as some of the other stronger students, but those limbs would be chiseled and carry a power that can easily intimidate puny spell casters.

Growth from boy to man would not be the only factor in Howard's dark presence. Dhampirs are already considered to be monstrous in appearance by some, but with age these striking physical attributes would only intensify. The smaller fangs of a Dhampir's youth had since fallen out like a babes, only to be replaced by the much longer adult teeth of his race. His large hands and long fingers would end in claws. Elongated and discolored nails that he had honed into weapons when need be. A few lessons from his peers in nail management had seen the end of the often cracked and dull claws. With a strong file often kept on his person Howard now kept his nails in tip top and rather pointy shape. Not only is a Dhampir intimidating in appliance, but there is also the aura they possess that can chill others to the bone.

The unsettling aura almost seeps from Howard's pores when he focuses his willpower. A dark shadow that can fill a room and dominate those of weaker spirit. His growing physical traits would lend to this aura's intimidation, but the real threat factor would come from Howard's maturity. When he was younger he was wild, almost feral at times, but over the course of the years he had learned to control his emotions. The fuel was there, but so too was the focus. Like a furnace he could choose where and when to ignite the flames. A mad man or women with a deal weapon was scary indeed, but it was those with cold and calculated intentions that were truly terrifying.

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Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for:
Fifth Year: Perfectionist I

Abilities

Fifth Year: Perfectionist I (613 words)

Reducio

More important than simple efficiency was dependably successful efficiency. What good were training and speed when one's magic betrayed them in a serious situation? Hogwarts was too perilous of a location to be careless, even with Astrea's current drought of danger. There was no such moral in the tortoise winning a race when the first moves in both duels and desperate situations could result in stacking advantages.

She had always been a meticulous person in habit, one part due to her structured upbringing and the other from personality alone, but her past losses had only enhanced this perfectionism. Had her duels been lost purely as a result of clever footwork and strategy from the opponent teams, she might have accepted her own handiwork and continued to improve herself without the encroaching idea of stagnation. But that was not the case, and instead, it was simply her own actions that were her undoings. It was always her fault. No longer could Astrea, whose entire lifestyle found itself built atop restrictions and respectability, allow for the glaring possibility of inadequacy. She loathed those cycling days of eternal self-scolding, bound by the constraints of her mistakes that did nothing but uselessly weigh on her pride.

An unfortunate fact of life, it was undeniable that Astrea was only one mortal soul. It is said that "to err is human; to forgive is divine" and yet Astrea had never felt human enough to allow for her missteps nor divine enough to forgive her mistakes. Perhaps it was these aspects of her personality that had long estranged her from greater society, clinging to old-fashioned propriety so something half-definite and familiar could exist in the chaotic expanse of the unknown that surrounded her in this modernising society.

Though her Lord and Lady mother held little physical control over her activities at Hogwarts, their influence over her ran as deep as their bloodline and Astrea often found herself at the mercy of strictly self-regulated decorum. Distance, both physically and emotionally, had long been both a preferred state of mind and a coping mechanism... Yet with such an unexpected taste of companionship, a decadent slice of romantic bliss, she had grown concerningly soft- filled with a sappy vulnerability previously unknown to her. It was clear from their separation, just shy of a year's length, that Astrea was not meant for relationships, no matter how many letters she penned or flowers she pressed to declare her veiled affection. More so estranged from her former allies than she had ever been and increasingly unapproachable in possible acquaintanceship, Astrea resigned herself to the same solitude that had once comforted her.

With but her cat, her magic and her reputation as companions, Astrea took to her academics and her soon-increasing pureblooded duties as a coping mechanism. It was in empty classrooms and unoccupied corners of the Duelling club's practice rooms that Astrea worked to tirelessly perfect her spellwork, unbothered by the common crowd's curiosity with only Orpheus as her dutiful disciple. The dark aura that had long surrounded her grew darker with each passing day, thickened with her continued withdrawal. Her already quiet days drifting through the castle's walls became increasingly occupied with bettering herself, no longer driven to distraction by her lost attachments and persistent in a way that allowed for no hesitation.

It had always ever been a matter of time before Astrea was returned to her natural state of loneliness. The sudden lack of company had set in quicker than usual, but it had come around all the same. All she could offer now was her partially refined talent, newly cut and polished into something brilliant. It would have to be enough.

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Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for: Broken Broomshaft
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Ethan was getting bored while playing soccer with his uncle. They'd been doing it every day for a while, and he was interested in learning about different sports. Ethan believed that playing various sports would be entertaining and would help him become more well-rounded. His uncle was a fantastic soccer player, but Ethan wanted to broaden his experiences and try other things.

Ethan and his uncle were playing soccer, and Ethan took advantage of the chance to say something to his uncle that he had been meaning to say for a while. “I like playing soccer, but I'd like to try other sports as well. I know you mentioned quidditch the other day, and I thought it may be something interesting to try,” he added hesitantly, wondering whether his uncle would be offended by what he said. Instead of seeing his uncle upset, he noticed him smiling. This must have been a relief for the boy, who was probably apprehensive about his uncle's reaction.

“I've been waiting to hear you say that since I assumed you were just interested in playing soccer. Besides, certain muggle sports may be tedious, but I'm sure quidditch is entertaining. It is a risky and thrilling sport that is sure to get your adrenaline pumping.” Ethan has already heard what he said the day before, but he continues to listen until he is satisfied. Ethan appreciates hearing his uncle talk about the game since he is clearly enthused about it.

“Hop in your broom, honey!” The wizard rushed to his broomstick and then flew on it. His uncle told him the basic information about quidditch. “..And lastly is Bludger. Bludgers are used by the Beaters to knock other players off their broomsticks. All players must avoid being hit by a Bludger at all costs.” The beater position caught his interest because it seemed like a challenging and exciting role to play. He was drawn to the role because it seemed like it would require quick strength and reflexes, and he felt like he could excel in that role. “I want to play quidditch right now! Can I be the beater?” His uncle was a bit taken aback by the question, but he nodded and said that he could play if he wanted to. Beating was a difficult and dangerous role in the sport of quidditch, and his uncle was glad that he was willing to take on the challenge.

His uncle went down to the basement and took out his Quidditch equipment, which included the broom and the bludger. He then gave it to Ethan. “I'm going to be playing against you, Ethan. I'm not going to go easy on you. You're going to have to give it your all if you want to wi-” He was cut off by the bludger that hit his broom. The bludger hit him so hard that it cut his broom in half, causing him to lose control and crash into the ground. “I won't go easy on you either, uncle.” He said while smirking in an smug, self-satisfied way.

His uncle just laughed off the pain and took another broom and flew. His uncle continued to play until he couldn't find another broom to fly on. All of the broomsticks he used were hit by a bludger, thrown by Ethan.

The boy was too focused on hitting his broom because without a broom, he couldn't fly anymore, and since quidditch requires flying, if he couldn't fly, then he couldn't play. The young wizard practises diligently every day and night, eager to master his skill and impress everyone. He can't wait to play quidditch at Hogwarts and show everyone what he can do. He is determined to become the best quidditch player he can be, and he knows that practice is the key to success.

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Word Count: 1046

Illusia was sat at the Hufflepuff table with no first years in sight. She was beginning to wonder if everyone else was in class and she'd forgotten about it. It was making her anxious.

She caught the eyes of a boy across from her, who had been stealing glances.
"Late to wake up this morning? Don't worry, that's the way it is for most of us. Your pals are the only ones who can't wait to get to class", he said, rather enthusiastically once he'd got his mouth open.
"You're a bit cool for a first year, you sure you're with the right age group?" He grinned.
"Why, me? Of course I am, why do you think I'd get my own age wrong?" Illusia began jesting. At least she didn't need to sit awkwardly by herself.

The boy and his friends encouraged her to try a weird, greenish pudding. Her hair fell down over her shoulder as she leaned forward to accept a plate. She brushed the long curls behind her back before they had the chance to dip in her food.
"That hair is like a Veela's", the boy huffed.
"Veela? Well, my parents are muggles, just muggles", Illusia said, annoyed. Not at him in particular, just at the way everyone seemed to have something to comment on when it came to her appearance. And the backhanded compliments from people who actually didn't like her were the worst. Why did it matter to them if she liked to wear different braids in her hair sometimes, or if she liked making eye contact with people? From experience, she knew to drop a friendship immediately if the friend didn't want her around their boyfriend or girlfriend. She was sick of people making assumptions about her based on her looks or mannerisms.
Well, she might not have liked admitting that she was from a muggle family either.

The boy seemed to pick up on her changed mood. He turned his focus back on his food and sat up straight, shrugging his shoulders outwards.
"It was just a compliment, chill out", he said with a very articulated lift of his eyebrows. She had offended him, clearly, hurt his ego or something. She eyed him for a moment and then relaxed her pinched eyebrows. While she didn't really care to get to know this student, she didn't want to make enemies, especially in her own house. Even if it was someone who just felt rejected when she didn't accept their compliment.
"Oh!" She exclaimed like she'd been mistaken.
"Thank you, that's was sweet of you. It does have a resemblance, doesn't it? The pudding is delicious, by the way, to think that I would've missed out on this?" She shook her head and grinned at the boy, fully expecting him to soften up again.

He did, starting an enthusiastic chat about the upcoming fall ball, not failing to mention that he didn't have a partner yet.