name. Harvey Dunn age. Twelve birthdate. April 1st 2014 nationality. American school. Durmstrang year. Second residence. Sjlisselburg, Russia

☘︎ Books ☘︎ Coffee ☘︎ Hoodies ☘︎ Music ☘︎ Libraries ☘︎ Pine forests ☘︎ Rain ☘︎ Winning arguments ☘︎ Silence ☘︎ Baseball gloves (that don't belong to him anymore)

✶ Morning people ✶ Authority ✶ Group projects ✶ Church ✶ Full moons ✶ Tight spaces ✶ People who chew loudly ✶ Inspirational quotes ✶ Try-hards ✶ Pity xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Appearance

Reducio

Harvey has a rugged and unpolished look about him, which is reflected in both features, grooming, as well as style. His hair is somewhere between dirty and golden blonde. It is a standard medium length, usually messy and windswept with a bit of gel. A strong and angular jawline along with high cheekbones. Expressive blue-green eyes that shows his emotions more than his actions. Plump lips usually shaped in a smirk finishes off his features.

Harvey is a boy extremely tall for his age. When standing straight he measures 158 cm or about 5’2. His build is very much lean, long-limbed and gaunt looking. Yet there are slight signs of something athletic present. What little muscle he does have doesn’t show, but there is something over his shoulders when he stands straight that suggests he is used to movement.

Skin is pale with signs of spending time outdoors, leaning on sickly when close to the full moon. He has a couple of distinct scars. One on the back of his neck, where he was bitten as a child. A long and thin scar runs down his right forearm. His body as a whole is covered in small belemishes spread across it, where he during transformation has nicked himself through the years.

His clothing is usually worn and a bit rugged. Simple garments, like his beloved band shirts and flannel shirts, along with jeans ripped from use and sneakers that have seen better days. A baseball cap is a usual accessory. Faded or dark colors that do no favor to his tone.

On the night of the full moon, the boy takes a different shape. His werewolf form is gaunt, with a height of about 6’5’’, long limbs and patchy fur along with larger canines. His eyes appear to be glowing a vibrant amber shade. The patchy fur is a shade of blonde that matches his hair.

Personality

Reducio

Many things can be said of Harvey: Snotball, bully, coward, charming, outcast, funny or trouble. It all depends on whom you choose to ask. Harvey is a sharp boy defined by contradiction. He is intelligent and very much capable, yet refuses to apply himself. It comes partly from stubbornness, but also a great deal of fear. Not fear of failure, but of success. Fear of proving his mother and stepfather right, becoming something useful, and inevitably being kept only for as long as he serves a purpose. At his core he believes that people are only valued when they are useful, and everything useful inevitably stops being so and gets discarded.

He uses sarcasm, humor and provocation as a coping mechanism. The role he has assigned himself fits him well. Loud, difficult, and already a problem. It started that way at least. Something to hide behind. Something to control how others saw him before they could decide for themselves. At some point it stopped being a role.

Now it is simply how he moves through the world. Quick with a remark, quicker to deflect. Every conversation turned slightly off course, every serious moment cut short before it can land. Not always on purpose, and not always consciously. It happens before he can stop it. Sometimes just because he sees a golden opportunity to be funny, and sometimes to avoid something. Sometimes he reacts even before he understands what he’s trying to avoid. It does not always work in his favor. Sometimes it pushes too far, turns the wrong moment into a joke, or escalates something that could have been left alone. By the time he realizes it, it is usually too late to take back.

He thrives on reactions of all kinds. Laughter, irritation, attention. It doesn’t matter much which. As long as it keeps things surface level. As long as no one looks too closely, or lingers too long. Witty, loud and entertaining as he is, he knows how to hold a crowd. Attention is easy. It is easier to be something people expect than something they might question.

He does not push boundaries purely out of cruelty, but neither is he above it. Especially when the target is weaker. It is not enjoyment that drives it, but control. If he can make someone else smaller, for a moment he doesn’t have to feel it himself. It also serves another purpose. If he becomes the problem first, then no one else gets to define him that way later.

There are moments where it slips. Small ones. A line that is too honest. A reaction that comes a second too late. Those close to him might catch it, if they are paying attention. The shift between who he is and who he presents is not clean. It never has been.

For all his loud claims of not caring, Harvey takes a great deal of pride in his intellect and values knowledge deeply. It is one of the few things that cannot be taken from him, bargained for, or turned against him. He devours books relentlessly, and has an excellent memory for it. Once something is read, it is never again forgotten. He does not show off with it to any extent, but often enough a quote or a well resonated argument will slip past his defenses, allowing those close to him a brief glimpse at the boy behind it all.

Despite his loud requests for attention, Harvey relishes his solitude. Only nerds read books with other people around, and he could not live a life void of new knowledge to be consumed. Alone, there is no performance to maintain. No reactions to manage. Just quiet, and something closer to himself, whatever that happens to be. It is not always a comfortable thing to sit with.

Beneath everything lies anger, bitterness and resignation. Not explosive, but constant. He knows he could do great things, but refuses to try. If he succeeds, he becomes useful. If he becomes useful, he becomes something to be kept, managed, and eventually discarded. Failure, at least, is his own. He would rather ruin himself on his own terms than be shaped into something that belongs to someone else.

He sees himself partly as a monster, and has yet to meet someone convincing enough to make him think otherwise. Not just because of what he is, but because of how little it might take for that to be all he is. He has never harmed anyone but himself during his transformations. That is his great pride, but also his possible downfall. Control feels temporary, conditional. Something that could slip at any moment.

Since first starting school he has been diligent in taking the wolvesbane potion. It is the one area he does not let himself fail. His ethics might be questionable, but he draws a hard line at being the cause for someone else to suffer the life he has. The condition has its ups and downs, though the perks are few. The transformation itself is agonizing. Feeling every bone in his body break and reform leaves him exhausted to the point he dreads the next transformation before the sun has risen fully.

Backstory

Reducio

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fiom

Reducio

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

Werewolf story

Reducio

He was six. He can not quite remember it all that well, as it seemed so long ago. But to a twelve year old, six years is an eternity. Harvey has many times wished he could have done things differently. Number one on that list is the cursed camping trip between father and son.

It was to be an adventure! Full moon and a cloudless sky, it was truly the perfect conditions for star gazing. That was not what had convinced Harvey to go though. No, the campfire and the possibility of s’mores was a way bigger incentive. Getting to spend the night with his dad, listening to incredible stories, was not so bad either.

They had hiked for what felt like hours. Harvey was tired almost before they left the front porch. But on and on they walked. His dad said there would be no problem getting them out quickly if needed, but moving the body was good for the soul. Harvey tried to keep his complaints to himself.

They set up camp in a clearing, just beneath a small peak. It was truly the perfect spot. It did not take long before darkness fell and the Astronomy lesson could commence. It was interesting and all, but Harvey soon struggled to keep his eyes open. If he could just close them for a second…

When he woke, he found himself stuffed into his bedroll. His father snored softly beside him, and the fire had burned down to a few embers. Why had he woken up? Right. He needed a trip to the little boys room. He sat up slowly, stretching all limbs. Sleeping on the ground was nowhere near as comfortable as he had imagined. Climbing out of the makeshift bed, he shook his dad’s shoulder. He probably didn’t have to, but Grigori had been so adamant on knowing where he was at any given time. After a few seconds he gave up. The man was about as dead to the world as a bear in hibernation.

Yawning, he walked off. Not far, just a stone throw or two. Relief filled him as he finally let go. Had he not been so rudely interrupted, he would have enjoyed it a whole lot more. There was howling in the distance. He knew there were wild animals here, but his father had failed to mention wolves. He ransacked his memory for useful information. Wild animals rarely sought out humans, something about the smell being wrong? They had been camped there for several hours, so he knew their smell probably lingered in the whole area.

It was strange though, the howls seemed to be getting closer? He shook off the last drops before turning toward the camp. It was probably no reason to worry, the wolf would turn soon enough. Treading carefully in the darkness, he made his way back.

He was almost there too, when a branch snapped just off to the side. Looking in that direction and back, he was for a moment stumped on what to do. He wasn’t really all that sleepy anymore. It couldn’t hurt to take a look, right? Stepping off the path, he headed towards the sound of rustling leaves with curiosity. What he failed to notice was that the howls had stopped.

What happened next happened so fast that Harvey still has difficulty piecing it all together. He walked straight at a few bushes where the sounds seemed to be originating. He grabbed a branch and pulled it back to get a better view. He was met with a set of feline eyes and snarling teeth. He must have stumbled back. Surprise or horror, there was no way to be sure. A scream even tore from his throat as he tried to keep from falling when he turned to run. The sound had barely passed his lips before the wolf pounced on him.

Pain. Pure and utter agony. Of course he knew nothing of it then, but he was sure his life was ending as the beast clamped its jaw around his neck. Becoming a werewolf’s chew toy had not been on his agenda for the day, but yet that is what he became. Maybe he passed out? Maybe his father was just that reactive? Out of nowhere colored sparks lit up the area. A wave of air pushed the wolf off him, and it howled in pain. A few more sparks, and his vision was filled with his fathers face who was pale with worry. The Russian words came too fast for him to understand, or maybe he dazed again? He was picked up by strong arms, and what to him felt like a second later they were safely back in the apartment his father owned.

His wound was tended to with quick hands. He was told later the wound was stuffed with silver and essence of dittany. The only useful thing for slowing the bleeding. The only thing that could be done. The hands caring for him seemed to slow after a while, or maybe he drifted off again? Eventually everything drifted steadily out of focus.

Harvey survived that terrible night, even though he often wished he hadn’t. The first of which came only a mere month later. Locked in a shed in the garden, warded with countless wards and defenses thanks to his father. He could not help being scared. Whoever would claim to be otherwise was a liar, and a terrible one at that.

The transformation was agonizing, there was no better word for it. Feeling every bone in the body break and reform, he screamed until his voice gave out and then he screamed some more. His form was yet another thing to add to the list of things he didn’t like. It was tall and scrawny, straight up ugly. Couldn’t he have at least transformed into an actual wolf?! But no, his form was Gaunt. The space he was in was not as cramped as it could have been, but he still bore the memories and scars of him clawing at everything within reach to get out. When he came to the next morning, once again in the body of a boy, he wiped away tears at the thought of it happening again. As horrible as the thought was, thinking of his parents seeing him upset over it seemed somehow worse. Blame childish logic or perhaps the need to prove that he was way more than they thought him to be.