Hogwarts School: A Harry Potter RPG

CHARACTER INFORMATION

Character name: Indigo Amberghast

Previous and/or Current Character(s) if applicable: Cillian Pryke, Xanthe Amberghast, Tully Twelvetrees.

Character age: 31 (November 11, 1941)

Character education:

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, Gryffindor, Class of 1960

Strength and weaknesses:

For as long as there were thoughts in his head Indigo has been picking things apart — rules, the natural order, and people in particular — possessing a natural aptitude for analysing complex situations, decoding intricate puzzles, and grasping nuanced ideas effortlessly. More practically he is a seasoned duellist with a lightning-quick draw and a composed, fearless disposition. Though his determination has been at times bordered on obsession, and his adaptability and resourcefulness accused of crossing certain lines, there is an inevitability about his investigations, the unwavering, unseeing belief that he would get the job done.

His talent for picking things apart means Indigo is fuelled by cynicism, often refusing to play nice with others or follow rules and expectations despite (or perhaps because of, even more so) his position as a high-ranking Auror. He is unpredictable and emotionally detached, someone who likes to tease and play games, toing and froing from either side of the mask, sometimes appearing to take nothing and no one seriously, navigating his place in their tragic tales with a sharp smile and an even sharper tongue.

Physical description:

Indigo is tall (6’3), lean but strong and broad-chested, moving gracefully, often completely silently, but always with unnerving calmness and composure, smooth and deliberate. Outside of crime scenes, interrogation rooms (and classrooms) he wears his hair down, effortlessly immaculate, though known to grow wild, thick and unkempt with the souring of his mood. His attire tends towards monochrome, mostly black, complemented by his long, dark coat or vast, billowing robes, flowing wraith-like out behind him. He’s seldom seen blinking, and gives the impression that nothing would make him flinch.

Personality:

He is unmistakably and unapologetically aloof, sharp but guarded, and speaks and carries himself in a way so devoid of self-doubt as to resemble arrogance. If his mood is susceptible to anything it’s his own sudden and mercurial whims, always quick to joke (at anyone’s expense) or to turn a phrase, or flex his dry wit, selective in what he chooses to take seriously and almost impossible to control — two traits honed during his initial stint at Hogwarts. He will not hesitate to speak his mind, rarely deferring to the chain of command, and will often appear reckless and obsessive in pursuit of his targets.

Indigo can be extremely loyal and protective but only to individuals, not to surnames or institutions, and is rarely willing to divulge his loyalty, friendship or affection by anything but the most subtle means, using charm to keep even his favourite people only just within reach.

Hopes and dreams. Why are you teaching at Hogwarts?:

Indigo was always more of a thinker than a dreamer. It was never his intention to be an Auror — and for a while he actively avoided it, due in no small part to an unpleasant familial connection — but by the time he realised what road he was on, and how far ahead he was of everyone else, it was too late to turn back. Because it always happened the same way, the same patterns drawn in different shapes, written in different languages. There was always a reason, a pull he couldn’t ignore, always a play, always something, somewhere, ahead in his view, cursed to fester there in plain sight, where no one else could see.

Biography:

As the Amberghast heir the early years of his life are well documented, details scattered liberally through public record, tabloid fodder, and the occasional chapter of some long, dull, pretentious book concerning, purely, notable Pureblood lines. It was an old name, drowned in old money, famous among those who cared about such things, and infamous among those who didn’t; a family renowned for charity in abundance but not a hint of kindness.

Not content with unfeeling charity, there was also the Amberghast family’s tradition of sending even its most talented and provided for members into ‘public service’ roles, often within the Ministry, for a fixed, short-term period, expected to not only learn and manoeuvre socially but to be a living, breathing endorsement of the Amberghast name that only accidentally lords it over everyone. As such Edward Amberghast, Indigo’s father, spent nearly a decade as an Auror, a Hit Wizard retiring in his prime, the more palatable details of his final bust inked on the front page of the Daily Prophet, his career ended in the world’s neatest and most predictable blaze of glory.

Far be it from seeing his father as a hero, or someone to emulate, Indigo had clashed with Edward from the very beginning, as soon as he could stand on his own two feet, able to see nothing of himself in the man. Beyond merely being the first real source of authority in his life, Edward was a stubborn man, hard and unpleasant, cold deep to his bones where all the wells ran dry, unfeeling. Indigo, expected to some day lead his family towards even greater prosperity, promised instead never to do as he was told to do, never to be made over in someone else’s image, and never to yield, not even for a greater good.

It might have been that he was destined for Gryffindor no matter what, but as the first Amberghast in four centuries to be sorted outside Slytherin it was considered close to scandalous — the boring walls his name couldn’t now adorn, the tacky badges he would never fix to his lapel — and drove another wedge into the divide. He never told anyone that a silly old hat had been the first thing to ever call him courageous — reckless was the word they always used.

Detached from these expectations, Indigo did not prioritise working hard, or studying late, or networking academically with his peers, instead drinking and smoking and partying his way through his final years at Hogwarts, coasting by on cleverness and raw magical talent, and in a testament to the extent of his wasted potential managing to nevertheless graduate near the top of his class.

After Hogwarts he was expected, again, to fall into line, but as with Slytherin, as with the insipid Pureblood girls he was ordered to entertain, as with the mind-numbing public appearances at big family events, Indigo refused the door opened to him, fitting their parameters of service to the name, and borrowed the family yacht, only six glorious months later stranding it at sea. Then he began to skirt the upper crust, just for fun, his the kind of name that always opened a door, and it all started as a little game with friends, played at parties and functions and galas — anything that promised charity whilst selling extravagance and overindulgence — late at night slipping into their vaults unseen, and slipping out with whatever they wanted, because they didn’t need a thing.

When he ran out of vaults to rearrange and reappropriate in Britain he moved the party across the channel to France, only to unexpectedly find himself in the middle of the investigation into the mysterious death of a young girl, her body found sealed within a locked room. Called upon as a witness and not a suspect, Indigo was quickly drawn into the case, unable to help himself, the questions inside and outside of his head, rattled off day and night and like a steam train if he didn’t feed it answers, and though he hadn’t even really meant to help, or wanted to, or perceived any of his actions as towards that end, it was he who solved the riddle and exposed the perpetrator, earning him the unpleasantness of a public commendation (more of those to come) and the immediate offer of a job as an Auror with the Ministry in France.

It was at this point, quite suddenly, that he seemed to vanish, for almost two years, communicating rarely and only to avoid being declared dead, unseen besides silly rumours of out of body experiences and spiritual mountain retreats. Then he returned, just as suddenly, nineteen months later, appearing in France exactly where he was last seen and acting as if nothing had happened or were amiss, not hesitating now to accept the job, already fluent enough in French to tell them where to stick their commendations.

By the time he returned to Britain the job, the parts he liked at least, came as easy to him as breathing, his dangerous obsession unseen but for the thin, dark rings around his eyes, his ruthless efficiency praised and commended by plenty who wished to live vicariously through his accomplishments — his family by no means immune — but to Indigo he was simply on the same path on which he’d always been, beholden to no force but his own momentum.

---

Jack was away from the office when the news broke, so it fell to one of his dutiful stooges in middle-management limbo to deliver what Indigo considered a rather limp attempt at a rollicking — Jack would have at least had a few stiff drinks first, perhaps even psyched himself up in the mirror — and by the time the Ministry Man had finished, flustered, hoarse and red in the face, Indigo had for him only a faint, teasing look of bewilderment, like he hadn’t really been listening.

“Jack couldn’t floo back into the office to have his own tantrum?” he asked, as if it were the most pressing question.

“You’re an Auror, Amberghast!” said the man — Johnson, maybe? — irritably, slamming a full deck of folders down on the desk, splayed out like cards, each one crammed too-full with parchment, “you can’t just disappear to Hogwarts without telling us — ”

“This is me telling you.”

Johnson’s eyebrows tried and failed to go vertical, nonetheless managing the unpleasant contortion of his face.

“And who's going t—”

“I am, obviously,” he said, his large, pale hand gathering the case folders and with a flourish of his wand binding them in string, “it would take more than a year at Hogwarts for me to allow any of these troglodytes to undo my work. So don’t you worry — I’ll close just as many cases as I always do.” 

If it had been Jack standing there he might have brought his attention to another stack of files, thicker still, buried in the deep, enchanted drawer of his desk. Not because Jack hadn’t seen it, or because Johnson hadn’t seen it, not because it was any kind of secret, in fact.

A year previous during the Azra debacle — though merely another in a long, long line of debacles for the Ministry at Hogwarts — he had not limited his investigation to one volatile woman nor allowed himself to be poisoned by the Ministry’s seedy and myopic intent. Something worse was festering there, something that could lie, and charm, and make invisible its true nature.

It was why it always happened at Hogwarts — no one there wanted to see.

SAMPLE ROLEPLAY
It was the largest office in Hogwarts and, perhaps to students and newcomers, the most intimidating. The shelves were filled with various odds and ends, with a place of honor for the Sorting Hat, and the walls held all the portraits of past Headmasters and Headmistresses.

In the middle of the room sat a large desk. Everything was in order, for the current occupant had always despised a messy desk. It was the sign of a messy mind, and she had always favored neatness.

A clock sat on the desk, which currently showed the time to be 2:05. The meeting was supposed to begin at 2:00 precisely.

Along with order, Anneka valued punctuality. She was a very busy woman these days. Even during the summer, she had a number of matters to attend to. Interviewing and hiring staff was only of those matters. The newest potential member of her staff wasn't making a good impression.

She paced the room, black heels clicking against the stone floor. When the door finally opened, Anneka turned, her expression reminiscent of a Russian winter. "You are late."

Explain yourself was what her face said.

Roleplay Response:

Two chimes of the clocktower had come and gone by the time he reached the foot of the staircase, and he was half inclined to take the ominous sounds at face value and head back to his office, Anneka having neither the heart nor the face for forgiveness. With most people he would consider five minutes late being closer to five minutes early, Indigo never a punctual or considerate creature, but with Anneka he expected to find her half-catatonic, face glued to the clock, groaning his name with a haunted murmur.

He moved in silence up the spiral staircase (and could have sworn he heard her pacing) entering the room without so much as a knock, lest those additional ten seconds be held against him.

“I know, darling, really it’s terrible,” he said, gliding across the room towards the steaming pot of tea and, not completely immune to her plight, he poured hers out first, a salve to soothe her woes. “I was stuck at the bottom of that staircase for nearly half an hour — honestly, your staff can’t half drone on.”

He fell back gracefully in his seat, cup and saucer in hand — completely steady and unspilt by the fall — taking a long, noiseless sip of the blisteringly hot liquid and watching her, his dark eyes not blinking, over the china rim.

“You know what it is? They need to get out more.”

---

---

---

→ CHARACTER INFORMATION.

Name: Indigo Amberghast

Birthday: November 11th, 1941

Hometown: Richmond, UK

Bloodline:
Pureblood

Magical Strength (pick one):
Charms

Magical Weakness (pick one):
Divination

Year (pick two): Fifth (preference), Sixth (secondary)

Biography:
Indigo was born in the Master Bedroom of Harrowdown Hall to Edward Theo Amberghast, heir apparent, and Penelope ‘Penny’ Moreau, a Pureblood witch from France prized with beauty and grace enough to assimilate into the Amberghast bloodline -- a bloodline without blemish, and without rumour of such. Indigo was named for his eyes of which his mother, upon seeing them for the first time, remarked ‘they were so blue they were purple.’ This strange turn of phrase stuck in a more succinct form, shortened further to the diminutive Indy to anyone who held his favour.

This was from the open book history of the Amberghast Family. What follows is from the closed book.

Edward Amberghast met Elizabeth Dresden in 1932 on a summer’s day in Richmond Park, where her gossamer sheen had him stumbling over premature proclamations of love, and where his easy charm for once belied his otherwise steadfast nature, and so swept were they by this whirlwind romance that unkeepable promises were made in moments too easily forgotten under the immense burden of Pureblood piety that he bore. Edward was heir to a dynasty that traced its roots so deep into the Dark Ages that it blinded people to their enormous tally of sins. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was a nobody, and she tallied just one sin: a lie.

Elizabeth Dresden was not a Pureblood witch, as she claimed the day they met. In fact, her parents were both Muggles, though of course their names were long forgotten, inconsequential even as footnotes in this tale. This made her Muggleborn. Faced with such a defining choice, some might wish to contextualise the decision maker. Edward was a righteous man. His position within the Ministry’s Magical Law Enforcement department gave him full autonomy to express this righteousness. Express or exorcise, depending on who was asked. His unyielding disposition and precise interpretation of the law earned him the nickname, ‘The Lawman.’ It was never meant as a compliment, though sometimes taken as one.

There were other rules set out to Edward. Family rules, life rules. Rules. Who your friends could be. Who you romantically entangled yourself with. Where you worked. How you conducted yourself in public. How you managed perception of yourself and of the family. How you’ve contributed to the Amberghast legacy. The rules, of course, were just obfuscation, and what it really meant was to know oneself, to define oneself in a deliberate way, and ultimately to realise that everyone had to sacrifice something in the end.

Elizabeth Dresden was cast out, her name smeared in private circles, though of course the reason was never given, nor Edward’s involvement even hinted at. Iris Amberghast, Edward’s mother, saw to it that no venue allow her presence, no respectable workplace tolerate her disrepute, that she be as much a pariah as Edward had the lie gone unchecked, had they married -- had they, god forbid, bred. The Amberghasts set out to finish Elizabeth Dresden.

And they almost did.

Iris and Edward Amberghast, mother and son who had once fawned over her beauty and her elegance, traits muddied by blood, were indeed right when they claimed she would never see them again.

Several years later, in 1941, there was a visitor at the gates of Harrowdown Hall. Usually the house elves would see to it but Penelope Amberghast, Edward’s happily married wife, was in the front garden, barefoot and picking fruit, where the warming charm cast at her feet made short work of the morning dew. She was in song, as was her habit, and her gentle melody almost made her miss the clank of a rock on the nearby iron gates.

Penelope approached and smiled her fairest smile, and as greetings were exchanged she noticed that while the woman wore poor and ugly rags, she carried in her basket the most succulent looking fruit she had ever seen. Dark fruits, rich hues, deep reds and blues and purples arranged as to make them irresistible. The ragged woman didn’t hesitate nor beg entrance. She held her basket to the gate and allowed Penelope’s pale, perfectly manicured hand to reach for a length of grapes, deep purple and perfectly ripe. She ate the entire bunch in matter of minutes, ravenous with morning hunger, and though the ragged woman remained standing there she never stirred or made a sound, not until the fruit was thoroughly devoured.

Then she reached a hand through the gate, startling Penelope who somehow stood firm. The woman placed her hand to Penelope’s belly, muddied fingers splaying out, cracked and dirtied nails scratching at the immaculate white cotton of her nightgown, and said just one thing.

“It’s a boy.”


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

House Request: Slytherin

Personality:
Indigo considers himself the physical disembodiment of his father’s every ideal, and there is a striving to his rebellious spirit, perhaps a sort of evolution into the Lawman’s natural enemy: the Outlaw. And despite his father’s stern nature, Indigo’s age and position as heir leaves many of these ventures unchecked, and he plays on this necessity, and indeed the renown of his name in Pureblood circles, to have his fun. He uses sarcasm as both a weapon and a defense mechanism, seldom choosing to take things seriously and often, in any case, not letting others know immediately where the joke starts and where it ends.

He can be studious when necessary, and is bright enough to stay just ahead of the curve, but does have a tendency towards overconfidence in his abilities. Then there is his sense of entitlement, a natural progression to being given everything you so desire by a doting mother, but this manifests itself not in a love of monetary wealth, of which it seems he has too much to run out unless his brain is also lost in the transaction, or of things, but of people, seeing how they tick, how far you can push them one away and how far the other. And manipulation was a very, very ugly word for wanting to get to know people a little better.

Appearance:
Indigo is a tall boy with a lean build, with fair hair and distinctive deep blue eyes. He is aware he is considered handsome and takes care in his appearance without fussing. He wears his blonde hair long, below the shoulder, occasionally tying it up in class or during Quidditch. The Amberghasts often married individuals into their bloodlines based on specific traits - blonde hair from a Latvian witch many generations ago, whose fairness was legendary even today; sharp, cutting cheekbones from his grandmother’s line; and impressive height and hardiness from the Nods, amongst other things. Indigo bares all or most of these traits, as evidenced by the perfect fit of his portrait amongst his kin, but ultimately, and quietly, he is set apart by his eyes, unlike any found in the long, watching corridors of Harrowdown Hall.


→ SAMPLE ROLEPLAY.

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.

---

Indigo relished the Dungeons at this time of day, where it was dark, and just a little dank, and so blissfully quiet that if you didn’t like swimming in silence then you might just drown in it. It had been a Potions book that needed returning, a Professor’s tantrum that needed avoiding too at the prospect of a late return, and though he thought it truly ghastly that he have to spend his precious time chasing up on their flawed policy, Potions was one of the least attractive places to get detention. There were never any pretty girls there for a start and what's more, there would always be some foul, lingering sourness in the air which, depending on his grade that month, he chalked up to either potion-making or bad potion-making.

As Indigo rounded the corner into another dimly lit stretch of slick cobblestone, a dull thud echoed past his left ear and then back again past his right, bouncing off a nearby wall and rattling around his head until he had no idea from where it came. The voice that followed, however, directed his attention over his left shoulder, his hair whipping about his face as he crept slowly into the low light. But when he heard the name Emma Birch he had to stifle a giggle, thinking surely it wasn’t possible people still believed that rubbish about her ghost, a story flimsier than a Hufflepuff’s diploma. Students used to parade the halls with upturned hoods, crying out in ghastly, high-pitched wails at lost little first years claimed by the Dungeon’s labyrinth. Indigo stopped, his head tilting, and shrugged, then with one fluid motion pulled his own hood over his head and hugged the dark edges of the corridor.

“Here?!” he cried out in a ghastly shriek, words spilling over smiling lips. “I live here! Begone foul child before I eat your soul!”

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