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Topics - Tully Twelvetrees

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Archived Applications / Tully Twelvetrees
« on: 27/12/2020 at 09:27 »

Application for Hogwarts School




→ CHARACTER INFORMATION.

Name: Tully Jacob Twelvetrees

Birthday: November 5, 1946

Hometown: Land’s End, Cornwall, England

Bloodline:
Halfblood

Magical Strength:
Charms

Magical Weakness:
Transfiguration

Year (pick two): 4th (preferred), 5th

Biography:
At eleven he could not see nor understand what at fourteen seemed now dreadfully obvious.

It was at Hogwarts that everything first started to go wrong for the Twelvetrees family, a thousand year long legacy of blood and gold undone by the rotten seeds from a nearby forest, the twisted, blossoming facsimile of Fiora Callahan ensnaring Hugo, first born son, to a shameful fate.

The Callahan family hailed originally from Ireland, ample baggage in tow, boasting not only a tainted bloodline but deliberate lies and deceit across later generations to hide this unfortunate truth. Their name turned to mud, their gold turned to superstition and good intentions. They existed now as wandering relics, most of them too old or too broken to exist otherwise, a strange cross between what they were and what they believed themselves to be. The truth lost, like all things of value, in exile.

On nearby Dragon’s Belly Farm, just outside Land’s End, an open air commune run by and for the Callahan family flourishes modestly, filled with ancient voices whispering over the squelching rumble of the pigsty about a bright, reconciliatory future that would never come to pass.

Nevertheless, on the day Tully Twelvetrees was born these people danced under moonlight until their feet ached, loudly celebrating the blessing of a healthy child, forcing as many protective rituals on the boy as they could before his exhausted parents managed to escape their hospitality.

His parents lived in a different kind of exile. Meeting on the middle rungs of the social ladder brought with it eventual complications, his father a man of privilege obsessed with the sheltered ease of affluent middle-class eccentricity; while his mother, she was climbing from the day she was born, sorted into Slytherin with an enormous chip on her shoulder and an obsessive ambition that Hugo fostered until suddenly, inadvertently, he didn’t, too happy and too settled to climb any further.

At the very top of that ladder, and certainly not present at Tully’s birth, his grandfather Jacob Twelvetrees presided over the larger family unit with all the grace and sensitivity befitting an iron fist, banishing to far away places anyone who did not behave properly and do as expected. To Land’s End their exile sent them, their backs against the wall.

It was almost eleven years later when Tully first met his grandfather, in a letter. The details barely registered, nor the conversations with his parents that followed, nor the seemingly unrelated news from three weeks earlier that his Pureblooded cousin was strongly suspected to be a squib. It passed into a blur, and suddenly instead of saying Hogwarts they were all saying Durmstrang, his overeager parents and the cold scribblings from his grandfather, the perfect accompaniment for three frigid years in Scandinavia.

He liked it there well enough. Most of the Professors were too busy brooding in the dark of their classrooms to tell him off for skateboarding and the barely enforced curfew made it easy to raid the library after lights out. His grades, under constant scrutiny from afar, remained high throughout his time there, ambition and drive taking him to the top while cleverness and cunning kept him there, helping him navigate the strange political games and constant maneuvering of a school steeped in Pureblood tradition.

It was two weeks after finding out his other Pureblooded cousin was a squib that he received word from his still faceless grandfather. For his fourth year of schooling (and as per the letter’s insistent tone, the first real meaningful year) he would attend Hogwarts after all. And be sorted into Slytherin. And be top of his class. And make Prefect. And so on. Despite the murkiness of his blood he was to carry the Twelvetrees name with exemplary pride, dignity and all around excellence, understanding that he could never be perfect or proper but it was his solemn duty to spend a lifetime and die trying. He was to unsully the gift his parents gave him and earn a branch, of some description, on the family tree.

Strangely his father never seemed to truly care, not beyond saying what needed to be said at appropriate intervals. He was otherwise always too busy with some knickknack or strange new hobby. Like brewing mead. Or collecting antique corks. His mother was always more insistent. Sent more letters. Made louder arguments. It didn’t make sense to him why his mother and grandfather suddenly agreed on so many points, or articulated them so identically, at least not until he noticed the parties getting larger, the spending stretching further, their lifestyle creeping towards lavish excess.

No matter the price, the ladder would not be denied.

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.

House Request: Slytherin

→ SAMPLE ROLEPLAY.

Option I:

Tully had given up trying to make his skateboard glide evenly across the slick stone of the dungeon floor and tucked it under his arm instead, burying his nose into his Potions textbook as if it possessed in its pages the cure to his restlessness. Dryly, like the material, he fluttered out a small laugh, confidence in excess of arrogance, a looming test he was bound to pass, but it met a sudden sound and then a young girl’s voice, his head snapping and his narrowed eyes peering sharply for its source somewhere ahead in the lingering shadow.

His black docs touched carefully off the ground, his tiptoes rendering his footsteps as quiet as hers had been in sneaking past his notice, his hand guiding him steady against the wall. The cold seemed to deepen as he moved further into the dungeons, making him long for his Durmstrang furs if perhaps not the extreme weather that made them necessary.

Closer now and the girl looked genuinely frightened, creeping out of her comfort zone because this castle always seemed strangely ready for another Emma Birch. Despite it’s reputation, Durmstrang was never able to take tragedy so easily in stride.

“No, you’ve got it wrong,” he said from the shadows to her rear, his half-smile lifting the darkness from around his eyes, “you don’t find her in the dungeons. She finds you.”

→ ABOUT YOU.

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