Link to encyclopedia:viewtopic.php?f=169&t=15710#p244115
Race I am applying for: werewolf
Describe why this fits your character:

Reducio

If you were to ask Paige her favorite thing to do during summer with her family, she would only be able to say it used to be camping. But now, she lives in constant fear during the summer. The camping trips always went well. Always went the same way. Her family packed, they got in the car, had a mini road trip, then rented a cabin in the woods. It was the same thing every time, yet something was always a surprise. Two summers ago, though, instead of a pleasant surprise, the Grant family was left horrified. This is how it went.


"Time to pack your things, Paige!"
Paige was excited, as usual. She had no way of knowing what was to happen so she rushed to shove her clothes into her luggage. Her mom entered the room to find Paige sitting on the luggage, trying to close it. Paige had felt the need to pack a little extra this year. She had decided to pack not only the usual but extra long sleeves, extra jackets, extra everything. She even made her own survival kit to pack which she had seen on t.v. Her mom only shook her head.
"What are you doing?" But Paige only gave a final push and locked the luggage.
"Being prepared." Her mom clearly was confused.
"For what, exactly?" She was met with a shrug.
"Anything. We're going to camp in the woods. In. The. Woods." She turned to start pulling her luggage to the front door. Her mom sighed.
***

"Who's ready?" Her dad had just finished packing the trunk and Paige and her brother, Ross, were geeking out over a creepy comic.
"Awesome! Look at how she runs!" Ross nods. "But then she stumbles and the monster teachers her and then-" Ross held his fingers like claws. "ROAR!" Paige swatted him with her hand before rushing into the car and into the back row. It was the best spot because you could lay across the seat and have your own section. Ross climbed into the car and threw the comic at Paige. She laughed and eagerly flipped through it.
She was glad this stuff could never happen, she was glad this was all fake. If she didn't know any better, she would be afraid because the comic takes place in the woods.

Her mom had just finished saying goodbye to the babysitter and the babies. She got in the car, and her dad started to drive. Paige could hardly contain her excitement.

Hours and hours later, they arrived at their destination. Paige hopped over the seat, landed on Ross, then hopped out of the car sticking her tongue out at him. She opened the trunk to help with the luggage. Her mom took out the keys to the cabin and unlocked the door. Paige walked inside and walked right to the room she stays in every year. She set her luggage down and unpacked. Her mom walked in.
"Go explore and play. I'll unpack and make dinner, okay?"
Paige smiled and grabbed Ross, running outside. She wasn't the least worried for the creepy comic had made its way out of her mind.
"so what should we do?" Ross shrugged but then smiled. "Hide and seek!" Ross didn't want to be outside and he was still annoyed with Paige but she didn't know that. Paige nodded and Ross turned. "I'll count. Go!"
The sun was starting to set, and tonight would be a full moon. Paige sprinted to a good tree. She found a big one that wouldn't show herself. She hid behind it and held her breath. Little did she know, Ross had gone inside.
It was getting cold out. She wondered how long it would take for Ross to find her now in the dark. She heard pounding and crunching. Her first thought was that it was Ross. But then she heard the howl. She heard the cry of a nearby animal, then the pounding again. She froze.

She turned, and up the hill, was a werewolf. Of course, she didn't know that. Paige nearly fainted as its piercing eyes rested on her. But her adrenaline kicked in as she burst down the hill. She gave a scream as she started to run and run. She was fit, yes. She was fast, yes. But nothing could prepare her for the log up ahead. She stumbled, and the wolf had just started to leap over the log when it realized she was beside it. There was a ditch next to the log, and the wolf was hanging off of it. The wolf snarled and clawed its way up, mouth open. Paige backed up to the log, she was trapped. The wolf began to slip. With a yelp, it lunged forward and tried to bring her down with it. The wolf's teeth closed around her leg, but it finally slipped and fell, thankfully not taking Paige down, too. Her cabin was so close she could see it. Her parents were calling her name. She was seeing red and her head was dizzy. Ross found her and screamed for help.
Her parents were carrying her, yelling for help when they came across a strange man. He ran over and took Paige, telling her parents over and over he knew what to do and that they needed to leave. Someway, somehow, they listened and he quickly took her to Saint Mungos.


She woke up in the hospital, a cast around the wound. A nurse was standing there, with some sort of stick her her hand. Her parents were called in and everything was explained to them. At first, her parents couldn't, wouldn't, believe it. But they had to. Paige was horrified and scared. She was lucky to survive. The downside was that she now was a werewolf. She read into them and now is afraid of wolves. She's afraid others will think she is a monster.

Thank you, I made the edits and sent the owl

Mod edit 28.02.21:
While I recognize that in order to become a werewolf you have to meet one in the wild, there still is some issue with your character meeting a werewolf as muggleborn.
First, you would not know that it is a werewolf.
Second, a werewolf bite is deadly not just because it's a werewolf but because it does not heal. A normal hospital would not be able to treat her, she'd bleed to death. She needs to visit a magical one where things can also be explained to her.
Third, a werewolf can't be shooed away by a muggle.
Please make your edits and owl Béatrice Lydursdattir once you are done.

Link to your encyclopedia thread: Imora Corcilius
Name of Ability or Race/Talent that you Are Applying for: Werewolf
Describe why this fits your character: (Wordcount: 730)

Imora had always been a child of delicate constitution. Anaemia chief among these, poor stamina, fatigue and fainting. But she grew up happy and loved, an only child to a mother and a father, and surrounded by her extended family of witches and wizards.

Family gatherings were common; being an only child, Imora's parents kept her close with her paternal cousins. The two eldest—Walter and Eben—were long graduated and working, but she grew up with the youngest, Taylor and Trista. The Corcilius family was one long involved in gathering wand cores for wand makers to use in their wares, a business that often put them into contact with wild animals. Not that werewolves were counted among that, but injuries resulting from that work were not uncommon in the family, who kept land on the countryside for this purpose.

Eben Corcilius, the second eldest of her cousins, was a withdrawn and often standoffish man who nonetheless cared deeply for his family. A member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Eben worked as part of the Werewolf Capture Unit and Werewolf Registry, putting him at odds with a number of people. Although the Unit ultimately sought to help people, put them in contact with Werewolf Support Services, the primary goal was still to stop the spread of lychanthropy and keep both the general populous safe during the full moon, and prevent wayward werewolves from exposing the Wizarding World.

Eben had recently brought in a woman on charges of conspiracy for harbouring an unregistered werewolf. The werewolf in question, her husband, had been attempting to deal with his condition himself by going out into the woods during the full moon, thinking this would be enough to keep people safe. Unfortunately he'd been getting into muggle farmers' livestock, bringing him into conflict with the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Upset that his wife had been arrested, he showed up on the Corcilius family's premise during a full moon, hoping to attack Eben in revenge. Instead, being unable to control himself as a werewolf, he dragged a young Imora into the woods that night.

Imora had taken to astronomy at a young age, something her parents fostered. The plan was to send her to schooling in the New World with her great uncle, Hadley Corcilius, a notable wizard astronomer and astrologist. She enjoyed stargazing, and had gone out with a small telescope given as a gift.

Dragged into the woods and unable to fight off the attack, the small girl was left to bleed out as her family rushed in to confront her attacker, leaving the creature to flee into the woods. She very easily would have died, given a werewolf bite's resistance to clotting, coupled with her own anaemia. The combined care of Eben, an expert on werewolves and werewolf bites, and Walter, a trained healer, kept her stable and alive long enough to be transported to St. Mungo's for emergency care.

The werewolf in question, horrified to learn who he had actually attacked, willingly turned himself in. Plans to send Imora oversees to study were put to a swift end, worried about her health and unable to ensure she'd receive the proper attention she required with her newfound condition. Hogwarts had a proven track-record with caring for students afflicted with lycanthropy. And the Corcilius put their trust in the noble old school.

Looking at Imora, one wouldn't normally equate lycanthropy with the quiet, cheerful girl. Given her pale complexion and anaemia, maybe a jesting diagnosis of vampirism. She was still young, not yet effected by the long-term changes of the transformation. But there was an unwillingness to let the affliction change her demeanor, change her personality, or change her plans.

Quiet and polite, timid but coming into herself with a graceful confidence. A determination to keep on top of her wolfsbane potions, every month—a determination to one day learn to brew the complicated concoction herself, despite no real aptitude for potions (perhaps more wishful thinking, but when a Ravenclaw puts one's mind to something...)—she wouldn't let lycanthropy get in the way of her plans. An absolute, stubborn refusal. She'd been dealt a hand of poor health, and although could not rightly 'overcome' it, she wouldn't let this dampen her prospects. It was quite a lot of resolve and wisdom for a small, bookish eleven-year-old.

Stats:

Stamina 〚2〛| Evasion 〚8〛 | Strength 〚2〛
Wisdom 〚8〛| Arcane 〚4〛| Accuracy 〚6〛

Encyclopedia: Aeron Frey
Ability/Race/Talent: Part-Veela
Word Count: 631+ ish

A brief family history:

[font=Old English Text MT
]Starc Giboran[/font], so proclaims Frey family crest in the High German of old. Born Strong. More colloquially it is boasted: There is no mud in Frey blood.

The statements are bold, provocative— and debatably true. The Frey are noted, even by their critics, for not having thrown out a squib in centuries. Arguably proof positive of the inherent potency of the bloodline. As for the mud, well. The muggle-lovers of the wizarding world may blanch at such frank speech, but it is also well known that the Frey have, in those same centuries, strictly avoided sullying their noble line with those sorry creatures completely devoid of magic— muggles.

How do they achieve such exceptional results, you may ask? Well, it's an open secret in wizarding high society. While their fellow purebloods contort themselves into increasingly consanguineous knots, sneaking muggle-borns on to their tree as much as they dare in order to stave off the worst of the deformities and deficiencies, the Frey have branched out into… new waters.

They say it's part of a storied history, a familial legacy. They cite an ancestor from antiquity that supposedly lay with a siren in Messina and lived. They claim a heritage that spans the ages and a spread of magical beings that spans the continent. Nixies, selkies, melusine, rusalka— veela. Whatever the veracity of the others, the veela is certainly true. For centuries now, when the wizard-born marriage prospects have seemed too weak, or incestuous, or muddied, the Frey have sought the beautiful, dangerous, magicial beings in the remote waterways of Europe.

Not all purebloods are accepting of their methods. Some of their witty detractors quip that that laying with watery tarts in lakes isn't a sound system for magical offspring, but the Frey have been pleased with their results thus far. They bridle at the term halfbreed and consider themselves pureblood— more pure than most that wear the name today. Better a veela than a muggle, they say. Better magic with magic, than magic with mud.

Recent Events:

A little over eleven years ago, Aeron was born to Caspian Rhenus Theodor of the Bavarian Freys and Lysandra Leonora of the Dover Diernans. His parents had been betrothed since birth, a practice still in use by families serious about their bloodlines. He was raised as normally as a wizarding child can be— except for the fact his father was part-veela and his mother was Lysandra Frey, the opera superstar.

Psychological Impact:

Fine. Aeron's childhood experience was pretty unique. With a veela/human hybrid for a father and a famous entertainer for a mother, he's been a student of the laws of attraction all his life— and his finding have been interesting.

The Frey have, for generations, cultivated a certain restraint and poise. Well aware of the emotional tendencies of the veela and the stigma of being less-than-human, they raise their children to be reserved and self-possessed. They aim to be eminently human, though some find them eminently boring. That they are beautiful is undeniable, particularly those benefiting from a more recent infusion of veela blood, but everything in their upbringing has focused on restraining the bulk of those gifts.

His mother is, of course, Lysandra Frey. Renown for her beautiful singing voice, marvelous stage presence and stunningly good looks. Enormously talented, alarmingly famous, completely human. Growing up with her, Aeron was quickly sensitized to the difference between veela magic and the mundane, ineffable, unfakeable force that is charisma.

All in all, Aeron is well aware that attraction born of veela magic is a transient, ephemeral thing. The feelings come and go as the magic does. The desire to impress, the desire to love— none of it matters. None of it's real. Not when he compares it to the effect his mother has on people.

Stats:

Stamina 4 | Evasion 7 | Strength* 0 | Wisdom 7 | Arcane 5 | Accuracy 7
*He doesn't lift with his legs.

Encyclopedia: Dis Link
Ability: Metamorphmagus
Word Count: 519

Reducio

Context:

It was only when, in the midst of a toddler tantrum because it was raining outside and Jacquelyn didn't want to get wet (no one had suggested going outside), that Bertram Gibson remembered that his Uncle Bartholomew was a metamorphmagus. The memory came as his child's hair shifted light brown to grey to black as she lay on the floor and screamed into the carpet. He mused, despite the wailing, whether any of his other relatives had that trait, if they had painstakingly noted from which person on the family tree had gifted them this particular talent-- he certainly didn't have a knack for any kind of transfiguration, and neither did his brothers or parents. He thought about asking whether the proud Gibson family considered this a sign of pureblood lineage, or if it hinted at something not-quite-human.

Old wounds and hurt pride stopped him from asking further. He reached out to St. Mungo's, instead, who assured him that, although uncommon, metamorphmagi was nothing to worry about, and the best they could do was encourage her to learn how to use it with purpose, instead of accidentally or instinctually.

All in all, it was (mostly) easy hiding Jacquelyn's ability-- always wear a hat or bonnet in case of an hair-changing meltdown, always ignore the changes in eye colour and hope the muggles don't notice (they never did). Talks about controlling her abilities began as she started muggle school, lest a teacher or a classmate notice her hair turning purple or her nose mimicking Pinocchio's. It was not to be done for fun, or for showing off, or just because she could-- a tricky sell for any child. The lies and half-truths came easy; single-use hair dye, out of season halloween accessories and makeup. Most of the time, though, no muggles acknowledged it.

Her family, however, was a different story. Jacquelyn and her siblings used to hide away in her room and think of wilder and wilder things for Jacquelyn to change. She and her older half-sister, Agnes, would flip through magazines and search for pieces of people for Jacquelyn to mimic. They would prop up a cosmetic mirror and she would glare intently at herself until she started to change-- a hairstyle, a hair colour. Freckles and birthmarks, types of noses and mouths and eyes. A few occurrences devolved into the pair deciding that if Agnes couldn't magic herself to look a certain way, they would do it themselves through muggle means, mostly with scissors and Mom's cosmetics.

Jacquelyn hadn't really considered what going to Hogwarts meant for her ability. While some metamorphmagi fight to control their transformations or work to moderate their emotions to better utilize their shapeshifting, Jacquelyn is ready to fall headlong into it. There are no parents to tell her to watch herself or to calm down or to be careful. There are no muggles to tiptoe around, and no reason to lie about what she can do. It was a weight she didn't realize she was carrying, and being rid of it (albeit temporarily) will be a massive relief.

Stats:

Stamina 4 | Evasion 5 | Strength 3| Wisdom 7 | Arcane 7 | Accuracy 4

STATUS: Approved

Encyclopedia: Here
Race you are applying for: Werewolf
Word Count: 1695ish

Reducio

Context:

The sacred legacy of old blood, pure and potent, leaves its precise mark wherever it flows. Achillo Hartwick mulled over his grandfather’s words, which were almost certainly his grandfather’s words, with unfiltered pride at the birth of each of his perfect children.

But then there was Alleira.

The Hartwick line is a long, if curiously meandering line that has stretched through the centuries in every direction. Into many noble and equally powerful houses. In many instances donning different skins and answering to other names, though always with that unbreakable thread of magical power linking dynamo to dynamo, remarkable to remarkable. A linkage as strong between siblings as it is between cousins and distant kin that promised broad strokes of brilliance wherever that lucky witch or wizard thought to simply breathe. Even the necessary infusion of less than noble blood, in those few carefully selected muggle-born marriages and even the odd, uninspired outcropping into the uncultured wilds of ordinary muggles, was never enough to dilute the sacred legacy of that ancient, awe-inspiring blood. In each witch it helped mold and create, each wizard it bolstered and empowered, so too did the legacy of expectation pass with it, for the inheritance of remarkable gifts and unrivalled talents remained diamond-sharp in tact, unaltered from one generation to the next.

Then there was Alleira.

If carefully curated tradition could dictate the fate and folly of its descendants, there would be little doubt of the promising destiny of each witch or wizard springing from that well of Hartwick blood, regardless of how close each descendant came to that original line or how little of that ancient, undeniably potent life source raced through their veins.

Then there was Alleira.

One particular branching of that supercilious family tree had its roots burrowing deep into the heart of Welsh earth for quite some time before her birth. Her parents, Achillo and Dorota, comfortable and comfortably proud, had welcomed each of their children without worry of the well ever going dry, without any concern that somewhere along the way something in the blood might have soured or shriveled. Without fear of one in their brood shrinking away from, or falling short of, or never coming even remotely close to the success and renown and glory bestowed upon their others from birth.

The marriage of Achillo Hartwick and Dorota Szczygielski, the intertwining of those old English and old European lines, produced six apparently magically-inclined children just as expected and demanded by their parents. Each eleven year old received their letter from Hogwarts. Just as their father had. Each watched with poorly veiled pride and a complete dearth of surprise when they were immediately sorted into Slytherin. Just as their father had been.

But then there was Alleira.

While distinctly shyer than her older siblings, a forgettably tremulous voice in a sea of exuberance and unshakable confidence, neither she nor anyone else ever suspected something amiss, the sudden invisible break in an apparently increasingly brittle line, until the Sorting Hat declared her a fine addition to Hufflepuff and sent her on her way.

The aftermath was nothing short of disastrous. Shy became shyer. Self-doubt folded in on self-doubt. Most of her siblings became brusque, her father cold, and her place in the family grew tentative, withered into the edges of less. Hufflepuff was an affront in some ways, certainly, but the real insult was in Alleira’s utter lack of success in every subject and venture at school. She performed what her professors assured her was still adequate, for the most part, but she never once came close to the fantastic achievements that came almost as effortlessly as breathing to her older siblings. It seemed there was rot in those old roots and Alleira the unlucky end.

For her first six years of school she did her best-- and the family’s worst-- and eventually grew resigned to the twist of fate that her blood bestowed upon her. With one year left between her and freedom, the end to that personal and familial agony was almost in sight.

Naturally fate had other plans.

The family’s traditional summer vacation in Dorota’s homeland of Poland, a picturesque retreat from the wide open dampness of Wales, was normally a time of reprieve and relaxation. In the huge smattering of extended family and distant cousins, it was easy for Alleira to finally disappear into the background of the villa perched on the edge of the woods of Lwów. Until, that is, one evening in August when her older siblings approached her and encouraged her to sneak out with them after their parents went to sleep and finally explore the deep woods of the estate. Surprised at the unexpected interest in her company, wanting to prove she was actually the same daring and worthy witch as the rest of them, desperate to be finally included in some way, Alleira went.

Initially the trek became somewhat of a bonding experience, a uniquely positive blip in an extended catalogue of cold shoulders. They told jokes, recounted their own misdeeds at school, shared some of the pressures they all had been forced to carry. It was odd, the feeling of belonging. Oddly good.

Just as they decided to turn back home, weaving their way back through the moonlit trees, a hair-raising sound and blinding pain lanced through Alleira’s shoulder before she was thrown to the ground, unconscious.

Her parents were nothing short of furious at their deception, their recklessness, their complete disregard for safety. But it was nothing compared to their horror, their despair, their wide-eyed terror of now having a daughter who’d been not only savaged by a werewolf, but was now destined to be one for the rest of her life.

Nothing else seemed to register with them after that. Not her struggle with her monthly transformations, not her shame, not her isolation, her distress. Not her returning home to live in uncertainty with them for all but a month in Wales when she graduated Hogwarts.

All they focused on was the feverish sound of some monstrous creature that was supposed to be their daughter haunting the grounds of their quiet, idyllic home that first full moon.

By the next one, she was gone. It didn’t matter that she’d eloped with the muggle boy from a nearby farm, a crime they might not have ever recovered from if she hadn’t had the permanent shadow of savagery cast over her. Over them and their blood. All that mattered was that she was gone.

For the next two decades, Eira managed her condition in a state of relative seclusion married with a surprising level of moderate success. The shame she’d brought to her family only briefly overshadowed by her husband’s utter shock to learn that she was both witch and wolf, they nonetheless raised their magically-inclined children on an often-failing farm.

Magic was something Desmond could never quite get his head around, not when it constantly challenged the merit of his own efforts in keeping them afloat, not when it undermined and negated his own role at every turn. Made easy the things that he worked so very hard at. Once in a blue moon he gave in, saw its value, asked for its assistance willingly. If she was lucky.

Lycanthropy, however, was an untraversable subject altogether. Eira learned to manage it on her own, with the exception of her sister Aransia’s assistance in the brewing of wolfsbane. She learned to carry on like she somehow always had. She learned to accept what Desmond could never accept and she learned to love her husband all the same, learned to raise their children on the safe periphery of a world that had brought her such immeasurable misery.

For those two decades, she managed. A small kernel of success in sparing her children any burden of inheritance, the indelible mark of legacy.

But then there was Rhys.

Then there was Rhys, sleepwalking under the light of the full moon.

Then there was Alleira, curled in the old barn, unsuspecting, unaware.

The ten year old hadn’t realized where he was, what had happened, what any of it meant until ribbons of flesh hung open on his arm and his mother had bolted and his father was panicking and shouting at him not to panic and there was blood everywhere and the animals were screeching and his father was crying and the moon was terribly bright.

Rhys has handled the reality better than his mother. They’ve both handled it better than his father ever could. While Desmond clung to the frail hope that Rhys might somehow want to inherit the farm, would sidestep these two fates clawing at his son, at this point Rhys has inherited far more from his mother than any of them can deny.

The worst part (worst only because he currently refuses to see it as an impediment so much as an incredible challenge) is that Rhys has no intention of letting this get in his way. The inner disconnect he’s been nursing for as long as he can remember threatens to grow with each full moon, those constant attempts from his other nature at derailment, but he’s seen what this condition has done to his father, his mother, to her happiness, her ever-wavering sense of self, and he refuses to allow himself to be resigned to a similar fate. It has only strengthened his resolve to truly prove himself, to overcome, to triumph. It fans the flames of following his own destiny into glory, ignites a hunger for more-- more of everything-- that is only growing stronger the older he gets.

And so, despite his mother’s efforts, the indelible imprint of inheritance has left its traces for him to carry as well. Rhys’ moody, changeable disposition (the one thing other than pride that his father has managed to pass on to him) works to both exacerbate and cloak his condition. He’s as accepting of it as he is determined to reject any limitations it might have on his future. While his nagging self-awareness has reached new heights now that he’s finally entered the fold of Hogwarts, so too has his thirst to prove himself as someone capable of greatness. Someone who is a lycanthrope but doesn’t let it define his path, even if it is one where the sins of the mother weigh each and every footstep of the son.

It started with Alleira.

But then there was Rhys. The interweaving of weathered legacy, wolfish affliction, and the wrought iron determination to leave his own mark wherever he goes.

Stats:

Stamina 4
Evasion 5
Strength 5
Wisdom 6
ArcPower 5
Accuracy 5

STATUS: Approved

Mod edit: You are a 12 years old child, your pfp clearly is a man (Jim Sturgess) in his thirties. PLease choose another picture that reflects your age better. I will add the Werwolf to the trunk once you have changed your pfp. Please owl Béatrice Lydursdattir when you are done with editing.

Encylopedia: Here
Ability: Perfectionist

( Why Perfectionist fits Arista )ー

ーFLASHBACK
It was a particularly hot summer, and Arum Elderman, mother of three, would like nothing more than to come back to the air-conditioned house and perhaps sip on some of those refreshing lemonade they put out for guests. But alas, her daughter insisted that she stood guard (for what? She neither knew nor care to ask at this point) under the sweltering sun, keeping the nine-year-old company as she colored some wide-eyed princess in a carriage.

Oblivious to her mother’s woes, little Arista carefully outlined the princesses’ hair with a sandy-yellow-colored crayon, taking extra care not to go beyond the line. In fact, none of her coloring had gone over the line so far; a feat she was genuinely – if not unnecessarily – pleased with.

True, all the other children had finished their coloring sheets around fifteen minutes ago – possibly eating birthday cakes or swimming at the makeshift backyard pool – but perfection takes time, doesn’t it? Arista was perfectly happy spending eternity if that meant her princess was properly and impeccably colored, and if the other kids wanted to leave her alone for it, then let them. A job’s not done until she said it’s done, and in her opinion, a sloppily colored princess was definitely a far cry from finished!

Humming, Arista continued to choose the perfect shade of pink from the tray of crayons next to her. As she put one last touch of pinkish-peach around the princess mouth, she felt that even her royal highness had smiled at her, beaming approvingly with those crayon-tinted lips.

ーPRESENT TIME
It was at times like this that Arista usually remembered her coloring sheet episode. She was at Charms class, furiously writing almost half a foot of notes on wand angles and the pronunciation of the word Wingardium Leviosa – all while her classmates had evidently moved on from parchments and quills and tried their luck on actually reciting the spell.

Not Arista, though. She furrowed her brows and reread her notes. Wandless, she mimicked the swish and flick of the spell slowly, repeatedly. At this point, the boy next to her had already lifted his quill faintly by a breath. She tried not to let his meager success distract her.

By the time everyone had succeeded in levitating their quills an inch from their desks, Arista figured she was ready to give it a try too. Without haste, she picked up her wand and pointed it straight to her quill. Closing her eyes momentarily, Arista took two deep breaths.

When she opened her eyes, she executed the swish-and-flick as practiced and recited clearly, “Wingardium leviosa!”

The quill took off from her desk reluctantly, gradually. But float it did, albeit a little unwillingly, and eventually it reached the same one-inch height as the rest of the class.

But Arista was not done yet. She continued to levitate the quill carefully, and before she knew it, it reached around three-inches height; a full two inches higher than the average student’s quill.

Smiling thinly, Arista thought the princess in the carriage from two years ago would be beaming at her proudly today, too.

Word Count: 519

Encyclopedia: Link
Applying For: Parselmouth
Statistics:

Stamina: 5
Evasion: 5
Wisdom: 6
Arcane: 7
Strength: 2
Accuracy: 5

It wasn’t until the young age of eight that Daffodil showed the unique ability to communicate with snakes. While at the time, she had been oblivious to what she was doing - as magic had ceased to exist within her life before Hogwarts - the talent had manifested into her existence in many ways.

The first instance entailed a holiday in Australia. There had been quite lovely weather; a good day for sunbathing and an even better day for spending the whole afternoon on the beach with family. Daffodil had arrived with her mother mid-afternoon, having set down her belongings to go buy the ice-cream she had spent the last thirty minutes desperately begging her mother to let her devour.

When the two females returned, they found a water snake slithering through their items. In a bout of fear, Mrs Harbourshire had let out a shriek and jumped back away from the snake. Daffodil also took a small step back, refraining from making any noise to aid in further drawing its attention to them. She hadn’t realised what she had done at the time but eager for the snake to leave, she hissed, “Go away, back to the waters.”

The snake had turned its head to look up at the girl who had spoken such words, and perhaps it was out of respect or maybe out of pure knowledge that there was nothing of use for staying - the snake slithered away, back to the waters it came from. Daffodil paid no mind to this, happy for she and her mother were safe and able to relax upon the soft, golden sand like they had intended to do prior to the slithering creature’s appearance.

The second instance of Daffodil’s talent occurred a little over a year before her admission to Hogwarts. Yet again, she had not the slightest idea of her abilities at the time nor had she suspected much of what had transpired, other than it being a mere coincidence.

It was a winter’s evening; chilly and frost fine-coated the air. Daffodil had gone out to dinner with her new friend and her mother from public school. They had made it to the restaurant earlier than had been intended so they took a detour down the shopping row of the small town.

Within the outside area of a store, an animal handler had set up post. Having never seen such a display in public, Daffodil were instantly on the balls of her feet wanting to go up to them.

After waiting for the five minutes to pass, in which she had stood in the queue, seemingly taking more time than those three hundred seconds to Daffodil, it was finally her turn to get to hold one of the animals. She had wanted to wear the glove, at first, and have the owl perch on her hand for a minute or so. However, upon seeing the snake within the confines of its cage, she changed her mind.

The handler placed the snake around the back of Daffodil’s neck and shoulders as it began to loosely coil itself around her. She was enjoying this more than she thought she would, especially when the woman handed the section of its body which was not twined around her nape for her to hold - entrusting her.

It was only a few minutes later when the animal had been about to be taken away by the handler, yet it seemed set on staying in the position it resided in around Daffodil’s nape. “Go back, you’re making me a fool,” She had instinctively mumbled, wanting to draw the attention of the crowd away from her.

Daffodil hadn’t expected it to do as she had said. But it did. It had slowly moved slightly, away and into a position that enabled the handler to take the snake from around her nape for it to be placed into its cage.

There had been no magical people around in Daffodil’s family to inform her of who she was. Due to this, it was unlikely she would ever know who she had inherited her abilities from - whether they were passed on from her mother’s or father’s side, or whether they were from close or distant bloodlines connected to her own. Furthermore, there were no physical attributes to Parseltongue, therefore it was not possible to discern the ability from her appearance alone; only the off-chance that a staff member had caught her muttering to one of the creatures - which was what had transpired before she had been taken to her Head of House and discovered her talent.

While Daffodil may be unaware, this rare talent derived from a distant great-great-uncle of her father and her mother’s grandmother. It is something she will never be privy to yet an explanation as to why she possesses the talent of communicating with snakes.

Word Count: 812

STATUS: Approved