Name: Elliot Arthur Bexley

School: Ilvermorny

Year: Third

House: Pukwudgie

Blood Status: Muggleborn

Appearance:
A scrawny boy whose height requires most to look down to match eye level, of fair skin and curled ginger hair. His fair complexity is tinged with pink, scattered dustings of freckles, and light scars from rather embarrassing accidents earlier in life adorn his body, most prominently his hands. A wide grin always plastered on, and the bright light of childish wonder and mischief distinguishable in dark blue eyes. He prefers clothing that immediately makes him stand out, with bright shades of blue, yellow, and red appearing the most in his wardrobe. No matter what he wears or where he’s going, the tinted purple glasses stay on. Most say he even sleeps with them on, though the rumour was debunked after two years of hard searching.

Personality: Elliot often compares life to a game, and he strives to become the greatest hero ever seen in the game of living, surviving, nearly dying, and all in between. He wants to be noticed, whether the attention is for saving the cat or deflating the headteacher’s car tyres. This has made him an adaptable person, able to read the room and think of what actions will gain him the most smiles, though his room reading skills don’t usually work in tense situations, as he easily gets uncomfortable when he senses too much negative emotion. He thrives in places that have even a smidgen of potential for fun, even if his rather destructive ideas of fun wasn’t at all appreciated. If any particular thing was to gain his attention, he would immerse himself in it immediately, bordering on obsessive. Though it changes quickly, with remnants of his knitting, rock collecting, dinosaur, and shark years still evident in his bedroom, his most prominent and longest lasting ones include birds, arcades, playing cards. He finds the freedom of the bird something exciting, being able to travel and do whatever he may want being one of his major goals. As for playing cards, Elliot finds it fun to trick people while playing games, and magic has always fascinated him, even if it didn’t include flying sparks and flinging sticks all over the place. And arcades? What teenager in New York didn’t like arcades?

Elliot’s life, it seems, depends on being praised by others. Family by blood, family by choice, friends, acquaintances, people he would like to be his friends, people who wish him nothing but death but he still would like to be his friends, whoever. Most he knows, muggle or wizard, fall into the second to last category, though there are a rare few in his school, mostly muggleborns themselves, who do regard him as a human being, albeit one with no sense of dignity or etiquette, and much more pride than merited. He is extremely impulsive, barely able to foresee the details of his future. In fact, barely able to foresee details of five seconds after any action of his. His temper is something of a ticking time bomb, for if he’s ignored or talked down to for too long, figurative (and sometimes literal, though only with water balloons) explosions are imminent.

While he does know many people, none of them are close enough to be considered friends. With his irritating inability to take things seriously and his deep-rooted fear of getting close to someone only for the reason to be revealed as money or status, most think they’re better off recognising him as a grinning face in the crowd, and until he learns that not everything in life can be made as he wants it, they are much better off not being a friend on his.

History:

Reducio

Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York City, to a mother who simply did not have enough time in the day for yet another crying child and a father who favoured the other crying, redhead child much more. Elliot spent most of his younger years outside the apartment they lived in, befriending an old muggle magician who better fit the title of parent than either of those he lived with, as well as the magician’s son Benjamin, who better fit the title of brother than the one he lived with. Elliot, even before any sort of actual magic appeared, always distanced himself from his family, something they were happy about. They were much too cold for his liking, always thinking of who to befriend, who to connect with, only for business and benefit. Always hard to please, and though Elliot loved challenges, it wasn’t fun at all when the challenge was impossible. The closest he’d ever gotten to approval from any of them was a quiet laugh from his brother Roman after mixing the laundry together and making his father’s business suit a bright shade of pink. It had felt reward enough in the moment, but it didn’t protect him from the months-long grounding that would follow.

While his automatic nature when given any information was to forget it immediately, there is one memory that he remembered clear as though it happened a minute ago but desperately wanted to forget. It seemed an ordinary day: another test barely passed, another piece of homework lost in the lockers, another melting ice cream stolen from the cafeteria, and another parent-teacher conference called for something he did. Elliot had already developed a system to make sure the disappointed stares from his parents and the resentful glares of the faculty wouldn’t bother him: ignoring them. Every fancy, eloquent word that was a synonym of he’s a screw-up became an incoherent buzz as he thought of even more ways to grab the janitor’s keys for no reason other than because he felt like it. Then, a phone call came. He ignored it at first, carrying on with fidgeting with the peeling paint of the chair he was sitting on, until the phone mentioned Roman. Elliot had rolled his eyes, thinking it was yet another announcement about awards, until he heard hit-and-run accident in the same sentence.

Their last words exchanged were you love being the favorite. He couldn’t go to the funeral.

After the death of Roman, Elliot’s home was at muggle school, as weird as it seemed. Academics didn’t come easily to him for the most part, with his brain not being able to focus on a single serif word of a history book without getting bored. After all, why stay in one place reading something he’d forget barely a minute after, when one could be exploring the empty concrete buildings and all its wonders? However, he found after a while that he did love school, just not for the classes. Rather, for the people. Many weren’t nice, of course, but that didn’t deter him from his mission in becoming one of the most popular among the students and hated among the teachers. He stayed away from the studious types, however, as they reminded him a bit too much of his deceased brother.

Ilvermorny was a strange place for him. Back in muggle public school, it wasn’t hard at all to gain the respect of his peers. All it took was a few practical jokes on the stuffiest of teachers and a few gifts borrowed from convenience stores and boom, half the school at his feet. Now, barely any of them would look him in the eye, and if they did, it was more likely to be for an insult than anything else. This didn’t discourage him at all from his pursuit of ultimate fun, if anything, it encouraged him. While, indeed, his usual methods of doing homework had three steps (one, don’t do the homework, two, say that you did do it and forgot to bring it, three, hope the teacher eventually moves on and gives you a C-), he wanted to annoy them and earn their begrudging admiration, and so annoyed them he did. The begrudging admiration part is still in progress, however. He became one of the top fifty in his year, to the surprise of the entire castle. Most didn’t even expect him to make it past five thousandth. With excessive amounts of motivation, an everlasting desire to confound everyone who’s ever doubted him, and unconventional methods of studying, such as dartboards and playing cards, he managed to, for once, be one of the kids considered smart, as well as become a duelist.

FIRST INSTANCE OF MAGIC:
As with many people in their younger years, specifically those at the age of five, Elliot had a temper that the wildest of beasts and the most stoic of fast food employees cowered at. This temper was especially prominent and prevailing whenever one of three events took place: one, his family and their beloved hobby of criticising every fiber in his body making an appearance in the middle of his beloved hobby of criticising every fiber in their bodies silently; two, his family and their beloved hobby of effectively launching every achievement laminated at the office without the boss' permission and every award made of plastic gold his brother had earned into his face showing its ugly mug in the house; and three, the presence of watermelon Kool-Aid. It was just unnatural.

As luck would have it, these exasperating events had met up at Arby's only minutes earlier to laugh heartily, order fries, and to collide in what would be known as the day magic had first stepped into the Bexley residence.

There had been small signs before, easy to miss and wave off as a trick of the electricity bill. Golden sparks near the books appearing and disappearing in less than a blink, nightlights staying on when they should've been shut off minutes ago, things that even Elliot himself missed. Nobody could miss what would happen, however, on a certain evening that marked Roman's eighth year of being properly alive.

Elliot was spread across the couch minutes before the door rang, having little to do other than pretend to read about Mary's lamb and prepare his excuses as to why he just couldn't make his bed in the billion hours he'd been left alone. Then, his parents had come in, all wearing smiles that seemed real for once. Then, he'd noticed the medallion hung around his brother's neck. Elliot could never figure out whether that smile had been real.

What followed was peace for half a dinner. Idle small talk about business, praising phrases told to his brother for the speed at which his neurons worked, comments about the quantity of carbohydrates there were in his mother's meal. It was fun to have a few minutes as a happy family, all balanced in their respective roles and respect in general. Then, the conversation changed to a more touchy subject: Elliot's perceived (perhaps not even perceived to them, but that was another day's worth of arguments a five-year-old and even a twelve-year-old didn't have the capacity for) inferiority. It went from how smart his brother was to how unintelligent he was, that any preschooler. At least, that's what his muddled brain could make out. Maybe they hadn't even said anything like that back then, but that's what he remembered. It was a bit hard to focus on all the other details when the following occurrence, well, occurred.

The pitcher full of watermelon Kool-Aid exploded. The glass didn't touch him or his brother, but that didn't stop him from getting the punishment born of confusion and the pride born of still-confusion.

Is Your Character a Broom Racer? No
Is Your Character a Quidditch Player? No
Is Your Character a Duelist? Yes

Is Your Character a Broom Racer? No
Is Your Character a Quidditch Player? No
Is Your Character a Duelist? Yes

Stats:
Stamina: 8 | Evasion: 12 | Strength: 5 | Wisdom: 8 | Arcane Power: 5 | Accuracy: 12

Abilities:
Fearless

Reducio

Elliot's environment growing up could be likened to one with traps set on the floor, traps near invisible to the eye that if stepped on would trigger a reaction of sharp spikes sticking out, with seemingly no chance of escape. All one could do was keep on avoiding, keep on trying, but fail in the end. Elliot had figured this out soon enough, that he would always be lesser than in their cold eyes, and so he began to become braver. To rebel in any possible way, whether it be through actions involving more than a bit of fire, or words dripping with sarcasm.

His family also tried to use taunts and such to chip away at his confidence, to no avail. He was immune, putting up shields with witty comebacks stolen from action films and endless thoughts of what would, and could, happen once he turned of age and could finally run out of this place with no worries as to where he could go back.

Both parties, parents and child, had learned there was no disappointing or deterring the other from their respective missions, to make Elliot their new golden boy, and in the boy's case, to piss his family off to the point they didn't care anymore. However, both still persisted, even if in his father's mind, Elliot is far too gone now.

While he did have a solid roof over his head, Elliot spent most of his time in the streets of New York as a muggle magician, daring to use quick hands to make more than a few adults lose their money to a game of spotting the peanut under the cups. His pride, for both better and worse, was something impossible to strike down after his first solo act of tricks and cards, with him taking every criticism as a compliment and twisting words with his mouth, unable and unafraid of what would happen when others wished it to be shut.

He'd taken the words the world is your stage to heart after hearing it, doing wild things just for the sake of being able to say he's done it. Jump from one staircase to another for no identifiable reason? Been there, scratched his arm while doing that. Wander alone in the dawn, with nothing but a bicycle and a note? Been there, also scratched his arm while doing that, but it was fine. Anything that was fun was something he needed to do, even if it only brought more problems after it was done.

Once learning that indeed, such creatures as those wolves of the night and vampires from novels were real, he felt no fear. He felt more, a growing flame, one to achieve his wildest dreams and do such at cost of a finger or two. Beasts of the darkest corners of the world do not scare him, as he sees them more as opportunities than as something to run away from. An opportunity to prove himself to others, to be seen as the hero. Besides, with the quality of parenting he'd received (i.e. none), the only thing he would possibly be scared of was magic being fake. And with the scars of adventures past and dueling matches gone wrong tainting his skin, he was fairly certain he would never wake up from his dreams of becoming the hero everyone needs.

Evasive Maneuvers

Reducio

Though Elliot Bexley’s raw ability in magical pursuits is far from the level of refined required to be considered expertise, he is an excellent evader of everything from homework to his home life to most of the jinxes mostly-rightfully sent his way. It would be expected that wearing tinted sunglasses everywhere and anywhere would degrade the quality of his eyesight, but such is evidently not the case with Elliot. He was nothing if not insolent in the face of challenges, and he would’ve worn five hundred pairs of every hue in the rainbow just to prove that he could dodge hexing and hoodoo as fabulously as he excused himself from family dinners. As with everything on his resume, he’s been caught exaggerating his exact prowess in the matter, but the fact that he totally aced the doctor’s tendon test last summer remains. You know, as does the Hello Kitty bandage the doctor’s nose would have to don for a while.

As far as he could tell, there hadn’t been any training montage or Forrest Gump speech serving as his origin story. Simply, he was created a naturally nimble and active specimen of youth, crawling away from cribs to explore as a curious child would do, and eventually his limbs and quarter of a brain caught up with the speed at which he’d have to run away from his latest little accident. After joining the dueling team and witnessing one too many burns or bruises disgusting even to his desensitized-by-Elm-Street eyes before getting healed, his subconscious made it a mission to maybe not get magically kicked on his butt. He certainly wasn’t turning down his flamboyant flair for an inordinate amount of annoying his opponents, but he wasn’t backing down from the sport for the mere reason of danger when the thrills and glory were what he wanted. He had his idols, as any boy would, and among the motley crew were action figures, masters of martial arts, and the odd wizard here and there whose achievements in the ignorance of warlock welfare had caught his…well, attention could never quite be the right thing to describe what Elliot could give, but he gave it anyway. Why not let their influence be used for something, well, useful, right? He wasn’t becoming a chucker of nuns or whatever in between Ilvermorny’s curriculum and his distinct lack of weaponry that wasn’t his wand and the strange substance that had found a home in the holes of his socks, and so it was figured out that, hey, maybe he should focus on ducking right under those bright beams of death instead of trusting his literal redhead stereotype of a body to toughen up and take it.

Further helping the development was his desire to prove himself as someone impressive, someone who mattered. He had a knack for spellcasting and cramming in last-second studying, sure, but that alone wasn’t going to set him apart from the student body in the ways he wanted. He wanted to not get his butt kicked, he wanted. Obviously, physical strength and brute force wasn’t going to work for that, so he had to do what he always did but didn’t want to do: make an effort to improve. Small challenges of sidestepping paper airplanes, veering out the way of an overenthusiastic first year, or simply running along the castle built up his confidence and capacity for cheating a sly Steleus of its prey.

Elliot had, for the most part, enjoyed his time practicing the art of adroit avoidance, only becoming more aware of what could happen if he failed as years passed. He didn’t want to be careful, he never did, but he didn’t really have a choice when trouble came his way. After all, running scared or dying on the spot wasn’t as cool an ending as living to tell the tale with a few scars.

Charmer

Reducio

Depending on who you asked within Elliot Bexley’s social circle that very closely resembled a globe, there were a few possible reasons as to why the peppy Pukwudgie was so vexingly charming. A paradox omelet cooked of a very smiley egg filled with hammy ham and cheesy cheese as much as it was populated by surprisingly salty family grievances and complicatedly emotional tomatoes, Elliot didn’t have layers so much as he had. He also never really learned how to eat or cook an omelet properly, so that probably related to the analogy in one way or another.

All things considered, Elliot’s charm lied in his zinging zeal for life and how it spread like radioactive orange juice through his veins. He may not have been wholly genuine, but he tried his best to be whatever the given victim of his conversation required, and it seemed that most responded to earnest enthusiasm with a sprinkling of sweet talk better than the bitter truth. He understood the partiality, and in a world where everything was unpredictable and wild and as much of a blessing as it could be a curse, he found it fun to play the role of emotional support as long as he got to be the main character in his own movie. Of course, he couldn’t be typecasted for everything. To some, his smile was an irresistible invitation, and to others it was a toothy, lopsided show of arrogance. To some, his ignorance of hair combs was a statement on societal expectations, and to others it was laziness rearing its disheveled head. And to some, the glasses were–okay, he couldn’t lie, to everyone the glasses were just weird, but they still got attention wherever he went. That’s what charm was all about, to him. Being in the spotlight, even for the smallest of moments, and staying in the audience’s minds long after his departure.

Elliot remembers in terrible clarity how his parents’ parties used to go. They weren’t parties of actual celebration, they weren’t things of straight-to-DVD television filtered under pink and purple lights and filled with cheesy late 90s hits. And, yeah, it’s kind of possible that his standards were messed up early on when they had that chick flick marathon running as he baby-babbled and sucked on a tragically plain looking pacifier, but it’s also kind of possible that his parents were boring and hated him. It was never charm or mutual fondness that bonded their family to an executive there or a board member here, it was business and ulterior motives he wasn’t sure he wanted to figure out. He remembers black suits and polite nods stifling him, stiffening him where he stood as it came crashing on him all at once that he did not belong. He didn’t want anyone else to feel that way, and it was a given he never wanted to feel that way again, and the answer to that was being fond of everyone, to a degree, and letting them feel that way.

A silver tongue made not silver spoons to feed it should it not be able to speak, and so did Elliot know that every one of his traits would have to be flipped or folded or otherwise be used in his favor. He could never be consciously, maliciously manipulative, and the wizarding world itself would sooner collapse when put in comparison to his moral pillars. Still, he makes his purposes for being such a social butterfly clear as day: being remembered for brightening up someone’s day and possibly setting their breakfast on fire.

Advanced Casting

Reducio

Let’s get one thing straight real quick: Elliot Bexley is not a nerd. He hasn’t reached the stage in loser evolution where he furiously clicks and clacks at a chip-dusted keyboard about the difference between the two terms, but he and his extensive DVD collection and his five non-school-related books and a singular copy of one of those how-to-draw-horses comic things that he forgot to return to the flower-filled kindergarten library would like the record to show that he is a geek. He isn’t going around correcting people’s grammar on their essays or fixing up their wand wrist posture or dumping down paragraphs and footnotes from his number of begrudgingly-owned-school-related-books, okay? He isn’t half an expert on any of those things, and he isn’t going to pretend to be one.

What Elliot Bexley is, however, is a guy who knows how to play to his strengths. Few and far between as he ultimately believes such strengths to be, he’s noticed that he’s depended a whole lot on magic to get where he is, i.e. alive and passing school. It was a given, considering that he was in a magical school, but the thought of relying on dumb luck and praying that for his entire academic career made him feel weird, almost sick. He’d already won the lottery by wrestling past generations of completely normal people to be what he was, so he had to be running low on the whole luck thing, right?

So, yes, he had his difficulties at first. NatGeo Kids didn’t have all the answers when it came to adapting to new environments, but it did have bad animal puns and a personality quiz about the types of intelligence that he trusted with his life. A visual learner to his core, he knew it wouldn’t be practical to, like, actually practice if it wasn’t explicitly required within class. In times of boredom (which translated to any moment wherein he wasn’t preoccupied with a prank or a procrastinated assignment or shining up his precious sunglasses), he assumes the pastime of practicing wand movements and muttering pronunciations until the words run dry on his mouth. He wasn’t going to settle for less than impressive, so the only logical conclusion was reaching for greatness with all the length of his rather Lilliputian arm. If that meant he’d have to stay up for hours on end getting down that one charm or amass an armada of practice dummies to haunt him with the sins of his past, he would do it. If that also meant he’d have to work on his grammar and read footnotes and stop nearly snapping his bones in dramatic, sweeping gestures, he would do it.

So, yes, Elliot Bexley might be a nerd, and a geek, and a loser whose greatest achievement and legacy will 100% end up being inventing a charm that allows the automatic typing of an inappropriately aggressive online comment, but he’s also a hard worker, whether or not he’d admit it. He’s endlessly and hopelessly fascinated by magic in all its forms, and he can’t let the wonder wane and wax because he needs it to be who he is: a sparkling sun of sorcerer skill who deserved the cards he was dealt, ace or Joker or anything in between. Mixed with the desperation, of course, is childish glee at the euphoric experience of doing something right, and he’s willing to mess up as much as he needs to in order to do more things right.