Hogwarts School: A Harry Potter RPG

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→ CHARACTER INFORMATION.

Name: Virtue Marie Hir

Birthday: 2 February 1940

Hometown:  Swansea, Wales

Bloodline:
Pureblood

Magical Strength:
Charms

Magical Weakness:
Divination

Year:  THIRD, fourth

Biography:

FADE IN

EXT. HIR HOUSE - THE BACK PATIO - DAYTIME - RAIN - CLOSE ON TEAK TABLE

An ashtray rests on a teak table which is hewn in such a way that we should be able to almost smell the leathery scent of it through the frame.  In the ashtray rests a lone CIGARETTE, carefully rested on its edge and rimmed with true red lipstick.

Moody French jazz--Edith Piaf, perhaps--plays from the other room, from a RECORD PLAYER.  The noise of it is distinctly muffled--no less lovely but perhaps more haunting, particularly the note-quite ghost of, suppose, the clarinet and of course Perhaps Edith.  There is the sound, too, of RAIN off screen and off the patio.

A HAND comes into frame.  It has impeccable and red polished fingernails, shaped into elegant ovals.  The HAND picks up the CIGARETTE, which leaves the frame.  We hear the noise of an inhale, and then an exhale.  SMOKE enters and exits the frame before the CIGARETTE returns to its perch with a fresh coat of red lipstick.

For a while, we hear a frantic scratching, familiar to anyone in the audience who has ever written as the sound of a freshly-sharpened pencil giving birth onto a blank page.  As they are given life on the page, we can assume, we get a series of quick flashes--insight, perhaps, to what is being written with such a sudden and intense surge of passion.

QUICK FLASHES - VARIOUS - INTERSPERSED

---EXT. HIR HOUSE - DAY
A bee feasting on a red rose in the garden, birds chirp.

---EXT. SWANSEA HARBOR - DAY
A ship sailing out of port, the sound of male voices; there’s singing.

---INT. HIR HOUSE - DAY
Two sets of children's’ feet running down a hallway, sound of smacking bare feet on hardwood and young, careless laughter.

---EXT. SWANSEA PROPER - NIGHT
Raucous voices and flashes of light drift from a pub window; there’s singing.

---EXT. SWANSEA HARBOR - NIGHT
A hand-knotted pearl necklace with golden filigree clasp falls through frame into the sea.

---INT. HIR HOUSE - TIMELESS
A quill scratching from the other side of a stately and closed office door.

---INT. ANYWHERE - ANY TIME
A hand, resplendent with red polished fingernails, flips through a book of American prose or poetry, then moves to scratch a note we cannot read into the margin.

BACK TO SCENE - EXT. HIR HOUSE - THE BACK PATIO - DAYTIME - RAIN - CLOSE STILL

For some time the shot hovers.  It’s not a lazy feel but a comfortable one, as if the place here on the patio is separate from the glimpses we have just seen--as if those were a distant reality from the harbor of this one.

The scratching slows and, finally, stops.

The same HAND enters with her red painted fingernails, this time pushing an OPEN JOURNAL into frame.  The handwriting is artfully untidy.  The HAND raises the CIGARETTE once more, taking if off screen.  In the background, the French jazz on the RECORD PLAYER finishes, the only sound now left that tender scratch-scratch-pop, scratch-scratch-pop of a spun-out record.

The HAND reappears, crushes out the CIGARETTE in the ashtray, brushes a stray ash from the OPEN JOURNAL’s top page.  It leave a streaked stain that is not unattractive.

The TEXT on the OPEN JOURNAL reads THIS SCREENPLAY.

The RAIN persists.

FADE OUT.

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.

House Request: Slytherin (99%), Ravenclaw (1%)

Personality:
The first thing you’ll notice about Virtue Marie is that she’s probably noticing you.

Virtue likes to watch, likes to know, likes to figure out.  Don’t mistake her, though, for some noble pursuer of knowledge for knowledge’s sake.  That’s not what’s going on here at all.  True--as she likes to be call--is a relentless collector of human truths, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, for all that boatload of romantic bullshit.  She’s a realist, and she’s forever pushing the boundaries--yours, mostly, if she’s taken an interest in you--to find the real truth of life, those things that, ugly or ugly beautiful, make people do what they do with whom they do it.  It’s all in the name of writing--she’s going to write the next great cinematic masterpiece.  You (or some part of you, rendered of the garbage parts and polished into art) will probably be in it, if you ever catch her with her journal in the same room as you.  She says you’re welcome.

The second thing you’ll notice about Virtue Marie is that she is unapologetically cool.

She’s got other hobbies, of course, but being cool is her favorite one.  She has curated herself very carefully, from the clothes she wears to the music she listens to on her record player to the books she reads and the films she watches.  It goes beyond all of that, though.  For True, cool is a lifestyle--her lifestyle.  One of a long and illustrious line of squares, she’s determined to break free and do her own thing, on her own terms.  Everything she does oozes effortless hipness.  It’s an effort--a huge effort--but she’d never tell you that.

The third thing you’ll notice about Virtue Marie is that she’s thirteen going on twenty-one.

There’s nothing about the girl that screams girl.  She smokes cigarettes (thanks, Pax Fellwater--but that’s another story), she drinks black coffee, and she swears in elegant and interesting ways.  Combined with the fact that she’s not a small girl, and the whole cool thing discussed above, True reads as well above her age--or so, at least, she hopes.

Is she more than you bargained for?  Absolutely.  Is she totally worth it?  She’d roll her eyes if you even had to ask.

Appearance:
Puberty has been kind to Virtue Hir.

For one, it shot her up to five foot seven, making her tower over most her classmates of any gender and fit in much better with the older crowd.  For another, it (combined, probably, with her pension to over-indulge on french fries) has rounded her out nicely; she’s got that whole soft, hourglass thing going on.  Perhaps most importantly, it’s given her a rather nice pair of bosoms, though True would argue they’re almost more trouble than they’re worth.  Almost.

Either way, it’s definitely been a confidence boost.

Otherwise, Virtue is fairly average, though, of course, she’d argue otherwise if pressed.  She has dark brown hair that falls naturally in curls, and dark brown eyes that are neither too small nor too large.  Over the later, she sometimes wears glasses, though it’s not quite clear if it’s because she needs to or simply because she wants to.  Virtue almost always wears red lipstick (it’s a little bit timeless classic, a little bit terribly daring), and keeps her nails varnished at all times.  When she plucks her eyebrows--and you better believe she stays on top of those babies--she might over-emphasize the sharpness of the arch on her left one.  It’s her arching eyebrow.  She practiced too hard getting it to go that high and that sharp for it not to look perfect.

→ SAMPLE ROLEPLAY.
Option 2:

“Listen, Harry.”

His name was Hugh.

“I wasn’t staring.”

She was absolutely staring--was doing much more than staring, in fact.  Virtue Marie Hir had followed Hugh from the entry hall to here.  How he hadn’t seen her before, she wasn’t sure.  It wasn’t like she had made an effort to conceal herself.  Hugh wasn’t even one of the major fifth years.  A secondary character at best.  An extra, really.

“And no, I don’t need help with anything.”

In truth, Hugh was already helping True, he just didn’t know it.  On more than one morning, the third year had watched the same boy disappear into the same garden for a reason until today she had not known.  Her curiosity had been mostly idle, but this morning was a Tuesday, which she thought of as a particularly boring day, and, caught in an absence of the usual suspect, she had decided that today was the day to find out what Hugh and his excursions to the outdoors were all about.

Snot, it seemed like.  Maybe she wouldn’t be needing her journal, tucked tight into the crook of her elbow, after all.

From the pocket of her sweater, she retrieved a lace-trimmed handkerchief.  Embroidered in red and a dainty little script in the corner were the initials v.m.h.  Slowly, square by rich cotton square, she unfolded it.

“But it looks like you could use mine.”

She wasn’t offering.  Not yet.

→ ABOUT YOU.

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