Hogwarts School: A Harry Potter RPG

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Uriel Jameson Allingham
Gender: Male
Age: 26  (born 8 July 1914)

Education: 
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 1931

Residence:
Diagon Alley, London, England

Occupation: Formerly herbology and spellcraft research; currently between jobs

Do you plan to have a connection to a particular existing place (for example: the Ministry, Shrieking Shack) or to take over an existing shop in need of new management?
Not at this time

Requested Magic Levels: (see here on how to do this)
If you want levels above the usual 32 total, please fill out and submit the Special Request form here.

• Charms: 10
• Divination: 6
• Transfiguration: 10
• Summoning: 6

Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
Yes; also Clemence Allingham; she is Uriel's ten year old daughter who will eventually apply to attend Hogwarts.

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
None

Biography: (300 words minimum.)
Uriel Allingham stepped off the train with smart raps from his heels, casting lengthy glances around him. Years had passed since he'd felt English soil beneath his feet, and though he was very nearly late, such a homecoming mustn't feel rushed. The walk vibrated with energy, a sense of purpose that stirred into the air and made everything seem particularly busy.  Nearly nine years had passed since he had graduated from Hogwarts and gone along his merry way, getting pulled rather unwillingly into research on the spellcrafting properties of South African flora by his charming colleague Jerome.  Nine years of feeling the heartbeat of the earth somewhere below rather than the quicker pulse of London. The time no longer seemed worth it.

In nine years, Uriel had his share of delights and sorrows like every other wizard or witch; he had truly liked herbology, and despite that he'd been pushed to pursue it by his best mate, he had thoroughly enjoyed it.  He and Jerome had been published for their findings on a plant whose extract could aid the transfiguration of living objects like wood or pond scum, before Jerome died of venom from the very plant they'd studied. The irony of the situation lent a special hand to an outside source, a shaman who'd taken offense to some of Jerome's persistent sales to a small village.  They were cheated, he claimed, two days before Uriel's colleague had up and died.  Distraught, Uriel was left to convince skeptical magic-users that they'd urged only the use of root extract, not the bud, but achieved some little success. 

What before seemed like a lifetime of work with a good friend, a breakthrough that would change history, and a promising income were now just gone, done, and failed. He had his inheritance to rely on if needed, but to accept money from his father would be bitter success indeed.

In just one instant the feeling of home disappeared and dread settled around his shoulders like a king's mantle, cold and heavy with responsibility. Readjusting the handles of his bags in his palms, Uriel squared his shoulders and pushed forward. He had a friend to meet.

Uriel, she had written in a familiar short, brisk hand. He recognized it at once.  She had once been a close friend and a lover, who'd thrown herself earnestly into summer romance more than once.  She was unashamed to love and laugh with audacity that had surprised Uriel often.

Uriel,

I hope my letter finds you well. When next you're in town I daresay you'll make time to visit an old friend. There are important matters to discuss.

X

Thus when her letter arrived, he quit long months of mourning and managed to make his way back to London, back to her familiar doorstep. He rang the doorbell, wondering for what reason she bothered to send a message his way. Then the front door cracked open, and a face peeked through, small and porcelain and smattered with just a few pale freckles across her nose.

Befuddled, Uriel knelt down, glanced from the envelope in his hand to the little girl behind the door, and his heart lightened. Was this the daughter of the girl he once loved?

In the next moment, as her face came more clearly into focus, the clear puzzle pieces formed a whole picture in his head. The shape of the girl's lips, the soft wave to her hair – they were all him.  That, and the quick mathematical estimations in his head, drove him straight into denial.

"Are you --?" The mixture of suspicion and excitement across the child's face couldn't give a more obvious message, one Uriel was determined to avoid.

"No."  His feet took him meters backward before he realized he was moving away from the woman and his – and the little girl. "I'm sorry, but I'm not the one who was meant to receive that letter."

Uriel knew.  It was undeniable, unavoidable, but he was convinced he could talk himself into both denying and avoiding the problem.

He just wasn't ready to be a father.

He knew he'd have to be soon.
 

Roleplay: 
You come across one of these posts on the site. Please select one & reply as your character:

Option One -
Amelia Nixon was many things, but she was never a pushover reporter that people could just usher away with a busy shuffle past. She was dedicated and eager to cut to the very middle of the current political tensions because she was Amelia Nixon and her articles would most certainly become front page material.

“Sir, please! It’s for the Prophet, how do you feel-“

Another one brushed passed her, the shuffling busy masses making their way through Diagon Alley for the lunchtime rush. This had been the best possible time to get people, but none of them were giving her anything to go with.

Only momentarily discouraged, the short red headed lady took a seat on a nearby bench. Her quill resting in her left hand and her notepad ready in the opposite hand. Amelia pouted, tapping the quill against her leg as she scanned the waves of people for somebody - anybody - who looked like they had something to say.

She had been dreaming of her name in bold print, Amelia Nixon: The Source of Today’s Tomorrow. She had been dreaming of the larger office and the secretaries that would fetch her the morning coffee and fetch her anything she needed. The VIP interviews and the most exclusive press passes. But all Amelia had was a page seventeen piece on the rising number of frogs in London.

Hardened by a day of no success, the reporter stood up and started to trod off down the alley. A loose stone on the cobble path caught her heel, sending the distraught girl toppling down to the ground.

“Merlin’s fog watch, my heel is broken! Help!” she yelled as she tried desperately to recover her shoe frantically in the middle of the Diagon Alley moving crowds.



Roleplay Response:
Three days.

For three whole days, Uriel hid. Not literally, of course, but he avoided any owls, the post, and in general social interaction, in fear that a mutual somebody would see him and report on his whereabouts and force him to face reality much sooner than he could handle.

Growing up, he wouldn't have ever listed "Fatherhood" as anything he wanted to be a part of.  He knew his own father and detested the very concept of a world that expected fathers to be strict, emotionless, dutiful. Even worse was the anger that came from having been in the dark about the existence of his own daughter for ten years.

Clemence.

Uriel sighed and stretched his legs, unsuccessful as his attempts to find comfort. Too many things were in the way. His whole life had been uprooted in two gigantic events and he had no idea which way was up anymore. Herbology was no longer appealing, apparently high risk and no reward, and his reputation was on the brink of dangerous. Of course Jerome's death had been suspicious and first suspect was his living colleague. Maybe Uriel should start researching poison. It sounded a whole lot more fun than what he was doing now, anyway. Which was brooding.

He finished the rest of his tea – dark and unsweetened with only the tiniest dash of cream for texture purposes – and pushed aside the dark cloud attacking his head. Maybe if he acknowledged the fact that he had a daughter and offered to give them money he didn't have, they wouldn't expect anything else of him.  Or he could be the occasional visitor and male influence in the girl's life and bring goodies once a year.

Pondering the possibilities, he exited the shop, and nearly crashed into a small redhead frantic about a shoe.

A shoe. Oh, to live a life where a broken heel is one's worst problem.

He spared her a sympathetic glance as he passed by, but there didn't seem to be much he could do aside from picking her up and transporting her somewhere else. Complete impropriety to pick up a stranger.

Uriel moved on, and then sighed at himself, turned around, and backtracked.

"How can I help you?" he asked her, coating his voice with formality like men his age were supposed to do all the time.

This had better be quick.


OTHER
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