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Author Topic: Spencer Callander  (Read 458 times)

* Spencer Callander

    (17/08/2019 at 20:18)
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  • Seventh Year
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Application for Hogwarts School


Name: Spencer Callander

Birthday: December 29th 1945

Hometown: South Hero, Vermont, USA

Bloodline: Muggleborn

Magical Strength (pick one):
Divination / Transfiguration / Charms / Conjuring & Summoning

Magical Weakness (pick one):
Divination / Transfiguration / Charms / Conjuring & Summoning

Year (pick two): First, Second

Amycus Anicet was the first real life superhero Spencer Callander ever met. He waved his magic stick and walls dissipated before their very eyes. He waved it again a few hours later and all of Spencer's shopping bags followed, floating, behind them. Most importantly, Amycus Anicet saved Spencer's life.

Okay, so maybe that was a bit of a hyperbole.


Sometimes it felt, to Spencer, like a hypertruebole.

It all began a long time ago -- about eleven years or so. As origin stories went, this one was rather bland. Spencer was no alien exile, no genetically modified war hero, no God, no King, no Bazillionaire. He wasn't even a proper orphan. His mother had died with a fever when he'd been seven years old. Since then, he'd been living with his father, the local preacher, and life had been absolutely boring.

He lived in a place called South Hero, and by all means, a place with a name like that should have been nothing but exciting. But it wasn't. It was quiet. It was remote. And he wasn't allowed to do anything.

Dad didn't know how to be a parent. That had always been Mom's thing. Every night he'd stick a TV dinner in the oven (complaining almost every time about the name; TV was the devil's invention and they had never, nor would they ever, owned one) and they'd eat in silence or over a sermon.

Spencer had to hide his comic books under his mattress. When Dad found his stash and threw them all away, his next collection was hidden beneath the floorboards. He started to draw his own adventures, but Dad threw those away, too. Drawing was for girls. Dad promised to teach him how to use a man's tools instead, but in those four years, he'd never found the time. So, Spencer kept on drawing, hiding his crayons and his paper and his pictures beneath the floorboards with his comic books.

He'd woken up once, in the middle of the night, to his father trying to pry up the very floorboard that kept his collection hidden. Spencer's breath had gone right out of him as he watched in mute panic. One single curse word -- the sort of word that had always been expressly forbidden in this household under threat of being force-fed a bar of soap -- broke the night, confirming Dad's failure. He couldn't understand what sort of miracle had saved him that night, but he liked to think it was his mother, who had always encouraged his superheroic fantasies, watching over him.

The years stretched on slowly one TV Dinner at a time until Spencer's eleventh birthday. His father hadn't bought a cake; Gluttony was a sin after all. He hadn't bought any presents, either, because greed, too, would land Spencer right in Hell. And yet, that evening, as Spencer and John Callander ate their meals at opposite ends of their diminutive dinner table, an owl dropped the best gift of all in their mailbox.

Dad only saw it the next morning. He, of course, opened and read it despite the fact that it was his son's name that appeared neatly written on the front of the envelope. That morning, he gave his church a long winded sermon on the evils of witchcraft, and spoke not a word of it to his son. The next morning, more letters came, and more yet in the days that followed. But Spencer only became aware of this one week later, when the letters started slipping in through every crack and crevice of every door and window in their tiny little parish house.

Spencer couldn't remember much of what was written. His memory was muddled by all the excitement the words had brought out in him. He was a wizard -- that, he remembered -- and he was to attend Ilvermorny, a school for people like him. Dad, who had fallen into a rage the likes of which Spencer had never seen, insisted that this was all a hoax. A prank pulled by some lowly satanists out to destroy their church. The letters kept coming for months and months and months. Every time an envelope was pushed beneath the door, Dad would run outside yelling, trying to catch the delivery person red handed. He never did.

Every now and then, when the door was pulled open, spencer swore he could hear the not-too-distant hoot of an owl calling to him from outside.

Around June, there was a knock on their front door. Spencer hadn't thought much of it. Dad was the one who'd gone to answer, while he crept back upstairs to draw while John was distracted. The muffled sound of voices coming from below soon rose to a crescendo, and Spencer's hand paused, only for a moment, over the paper. Minutes later, Dad was barging upstairs and, before the boy could hide the evidence, the door swung open.

Dad's eyes fell on the drawing of a caped hero flying across a white page. Spencer's heart sank -- until his father's eyes moved back to meet his and he saw in them nothing but fear.

"Pack your stuff," Dad said. "We're moving to England."

And that was where he met Amycus Anicet.

As far as Spencer knew, the letters had stopped coming after they'd arrived in London. He hated it here. It was always raining, and their apartment building didn't have any loose floorboards in which to hide any new comic books or artwork. Dad hadn't gotten a new job yet, so he couldn't even sneak of to play or explore and see if there were any exciting spots to find out there, no matter how wet they may be.

With three knocks on their door, everything changed. The man introduced himself to Dad as Micah Anicet. He had an American accent (yankee, Dad had mentioned, later) and a crooked smile. For a moment, his clothes, a pair of bright green snowpants and a burgundy and mustard striped t-shirt, struck Spencer's curiosity. But then he started talking about some Anglican boarding school up in Scotland and Spencer slunked away in disappointment. Minutes later, Dad found him in the living room and told him to get up, he had been enrolled for school -- some place called Hogwarts -- and he was to go buy supplies today with good Mr. Anicet who'd volunteered time and money for the cause.

With a sigh and steps that dragged across the linoleum floor, Spencer slunked toward Amycus Anicet and his unwavering crooked smile.

Amycus Anicet, it turned out, was not an Anglican. He wasn't even Christian.

He was a wizard. Hogwarts, much like Ilvermorny, was a school of magic. The American school had let them know about John's reluctance to let Spencer attend, and Amycus had been entrusted with the task of changing his mind. His method hadn't been conventional, exactly, but as long as Spencer didn't tell anyone, it shouldn't be a problem. Amycus brought him to some place called Diagonal Alley, a place crawling with wizards. Or, as Spencer preferred to call them, superheroes. The place was beyond anything he'd ever imagined. The people there didn't wear capes, but they did wear cloaks and long, flowing robes. Spencer even got to buy his own set. There were apothecaries full of ooey gooey goops and plants that jittered all on their own. There was a pet shop with owls from which Amycus offered to buy him whichever one he wanted, to facilitate correspondence whenever it was needed. Spencer, of course, chose the weirdest looking one.

The months that followed were almost unbearable. Amycus had taken Spencer's more ostentatious purchases for safekeeping, and he was left only with the bare minimum. Every day, his thoughts were filled with thoughts of all the glorious things this new world promised, and how he didn't think he could possibly survive another day of waiting.

Note: This section is optional, and is up to you to complete.

House Request: Ravenclaw or Gryffindor

You come across one of these posts on the site. Please select one & reply as your character. Remember, you can only roleplay your own character's actions, not Evangeline's or Hugh's.

Option I:

The dungeons. A place eleven-year-old Evangeline had not yet travelled since her arrival at Hogwarts.

A place she really was just fine with not knowing; but it was too late. The dare had been accepted, even if it had been done in fear of being kicked out of Gryffindor, like the older girls had said she would because Gryffindors were supposed to be brave.

The air changed instantly when she hit the main corridor of the dungeons. The dampness was almost too much for her and she instinctively took a deep breath to avoid the sensation of being suffocated. There was also a sour burning smell which Evangeline assumed was from many, many Potions lessons.

Further and further she walked, her steps so slow and gentle they made no noise against the stone walls and floor. The feeling that she wasn't alone crept up her spine and raised the tiny hair on the back of her neck. Shivering, Evangeline wrapped her arms around herself. Suddenly, she missed the warmth and comfort of the Gryffindor common room. The fire was always going and it made her feel at ease.

Why had she let those girls talk her into this? She was only eleven, she didn't have to be brave. Surely the Headmistress would not kick her out of Hogwarts for not being brave.

If only she had these thoughts while being dared to search for the ghost of one Emma Birch, whom supposedly haunted the dungeons. It was not, Evangeline had learned, the place where the sixteen-year-old girl's life had ended but as she had been from the house with a snake as its mascot, it was the place her spirit had returned to. That common room was down here somewhere, she'd been told.

Something - the small blonde girl wasn't quite sure what - but something made her stop in her tracks suddenly. There was a low, dull thumping noise. Or maybe that was her heart beating so loudly she thought it was coming from outside her body.

"H-h-hello?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Remembering that she was supposed to be brave, Evangeline tried again.

"Hello! Is Emma Birch here?"

The sound of her own words bouncing back at her off the walls made her jump.

"Nope," Came Spencer's reply, complete with a sigh that sounded clearly in the corridor of damp stone. "It's just me, Spencer Callander." He didn't know the girl before him, and he didn't expect that she'd know him either, but his full name felt appropriate, symmetrical.

His steps, slow and meandering just a moment ago, hastened as he rushed to get closer to the other girl and get a good view of her face. Spencer didn't like talking to people if he couldn't see them clearly, and the dungeons seemed to cover everything with a thick blanket of darkness. The thought had been mulling in his mind for a while, but in that moment, he made up his mind.

Spencer did not like this place.

It was the sort of place where he'd expect to see creepy crawlies just lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting victim. Spencer Callander was not an unsuspecting victim; he was a prepared hero, complete, now, with a wand and all the superpowers that came with it.

"You lost?" He asked, unwilling to admit that he was, too.


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* Pythagorea Proud

    (18/08/2019 at 01:57)
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Dear Mr. Callander,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Term begins 1 September. Currently, students have gathered at Camp Loki, and we encourage you to spend your summer there. Should you choose, you may also visit our Elsewhere board via the Floo Network to visit or purchase school supplies.

Yours sincerely,

Deputy Headmistress