Hogwarts School: A Harry Potter RPG

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Agnes L. Bryant
Gender: F
Age: 6

Education: 
School of hard knocks. (J/k). Zoe's school for fashionable and quiet children?

Residence:
London

Occupation:
None at all.

Do you plan to have a connection to a particular existing place (example St Mungo's, the Ministry, Shrieking Shack) or to take over an existing shop in need of new management?
No.

Requested Magic Levels:

• Charms: 0
• Transfiguration: 0
• Divination: 0
• Summoning: 0

Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
No.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Elizabeth Birch.

Special Phrase: Gargantuan Violet Kittens Hop through Tibble's Beard of Power while gnawing on Dark Chocolate Rocks. Idek.

Biography:
Christmas, 1972.

A lamp casts its rich orange beam over a little room. Low to the wooden floor, and surrounded by six tiny wooden chairs, complete with pink seat cushions tied around their frets, is a table. On the table is a tablecloth, hand-knotted white lace, and a carefully laid tea set, white china with floral patterns in an intricate twist of vivid blue.

Four of the settings have silver spoons. One is at the end, where a photograph rests on the seat. It is of a pretty witch forever caught flipping her pretty hair behind her pretty shoulder. The second sits in between a brown bear and a cocoa-haired doll with spiral curls.  The third is on the other side of the table between two more dolls, porceline and uncomfortably identical, down to the dead stares of their painted blue eyes.

The final spoon rests by the little plate in front of Agnes Bryant. Because it is Agnes’ party, and she does not share her things with anyone.

From outside, and down the hall, the clock chimes the eleven o’clock hour. Carefully, small hands cradling the teapot, Agnes pours out measures of water into the little cups. In front of the dark haired doll, Mathilda Peacock is her name, Agnes pauses. Her blue eyes travel over the dark smudge marring the doll’s cheek, and she pouts, her tiny, sweet lips slipping into a little moue.

With further care, she sets the teapot down in the centre of the table, the cups of A Bear and Mathilda still unfilled. With her thumb, she rubs over the hard rubber surface of Mathilda’s face, but the streak remains. Agnes stands, smooths down the velvet of her Christmas dress and scoops Mathilda into her arms, cradling her as she slips out the bedroom door. It is unlocked today.

Clack-clack, clack-clack as the girl’s shoes move in steady rhythm down the dim and empty hall. Clack-clack, clack-clack as they edge down the staircase, one hand lifted to hold the railing and the other still clutching Mathilda like a sleeping infant. The sound of the shoes follows the little girl around the corner, and to the kitchen door, where a small hand finds the brass doorknob, and turns it with some effort.

In the kitchen, it is dark. Agnes pushes the door wide to let the light from the hall seep in. She grips the stool by the cupboards and drags it to the light switch. Clack- clack. Up onto the stool, and the light switch is pushed upward, flooding the kitchen with light. Clack- clack. Clack- clack. She steps down, drags the stool over to the washbasin, and scales it again.

The hot water handle is tugged forward, and water rushes from the faucet, steaming after only moments have passed. Agnes shifts Mathilda in her hands, and holds her face under the stream of scalding water.
Mathilda’s hair begins to flow loose in the stream. Her pretty spirals unravel, her silk dress spots under the flecking sprays of the water. But the mark on her cheek remains. Upstairs, the clock reverberates, once, for the quarter hour passing.

Agnes leans forward and pushes on the hot water handle to shut off the tap. She shakes Mathilda, gently, letting her hair drip into the sink. Her small fingers wrap around the doll’s hair to ring it out, but withdraw quickly, because it is still far too hot to touch. Instead, she glances down into the sink, and retrieves something from it, slipping it through the ribbon around her waist for safe-keeping. Clack- clack. The little girl steps down from the stool. Clack- clack. She shuts off the kitchen light, and slips back out the kitchen door.

Mathilda’s wet hair drips on the rug in the hall.

In the dining room, a fire still burns, low, but with surviving licks of flame. Agnes pushes the grate aside and sinks onto her knees, careful to keep her white tights clear of the ash. Without flinching ,she shifts her grip on Mathilda and tosses her into the centre of the fire. The flames spit around the water, but they do not die, and soon Mathilda’s dress is caught by the flames.

Agnes pushes the grate shut. Clack-clack as she walks back to the stairs. She pauses at the bottom to pull the spoon from her skirt ribbon. She smiles, satisfied. Everyone would be so pleased that they wouldn’t need to share anymore. In the fireplace, the dolls cheek begins to melt, the smell of burning plastic staining the night air. Mathilda was ugly, and she did not belong.

ROLEPLAY

Roleplay Response:
It didn't matter where they were.

Zoe walked, and Agnes followed, her gaze more or less level with the hem of the taller woman's skirt, and the people in the crowds around them utterly unimportant. There were racks of clothes, the world washed in them, and little more. On this one was something light as air that clung to small fingertips when they brushed over it, not quite so smooth as it seemed it should be. Agnes wanted to wear it, and felt certain that she would, soon, because it was a lovely thing and lovely things were meant for her to wear.

Something tugged at her coat, and she turned, blinking at the tugger. Another girl, no bigger than she was, no older also, perhaps. Agnes smiled at the girl, lips closed, for she had lost a bottom tooth the week before and had been too horrified to see the effect on her own smile to share it with anyone. The girl's clothes were plain, the colours dull and ugly. They were rough, and she didn't like the girl at all for wearing them.

“You look very ugly, and my dress is much prettier,” Agnes offered sweetly, her gaze sweeping over the other little girl, assessing. “Is it because you’re poor?”