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Messages - Samuel Carter

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Archived Applications / Samuel Carter
« on: 27/08/2015 at 15:16 »

Application for Hogwarts School

Name: Samuel Geoffrey Carter (AKA Slick)

Birthday: July 25, 1928

Hometown: Birmingham, England


Magical Strength (pick one):

Magical Weakness (pick one):

Year (pick two): *7th (preferred) or 5th
* I’d like to switch out Camilla Noble in place of Sammy-boy. Got an OK from Aubs!


Life, according to Samuel Carter, was a colossal irony.

Unlike the glamorous tales he’d heralded Action with, ‘Slick’ was but a preacher man’s only son. The Carters were working-class citizens; Elias, a man of God, prowled the streets of Birmingham, the Word frothing from his mouth, while Dinah, touched with Magic, was reduced to wiping down fevered brows in a hospital. Such a pairing would've never worked; the religious and the magical, Noah’s ark beached on a mystic island; lines that should’ve never crossed each other, but did, anyway.

Elias and Dinah Carter lived in a crusty hovel creeping along the dusty edges of the city proper, where the skies were never as lily-white as Slick’s bum, but an industrial, everlasting grey. The Carters had too many mouths to feed, and not a copper to their name so what’s a mother to do when her baby’s belly distends to the point of pain? Besides, Sammy-boy had the Spark. Elias would rather believe in charity, a whiff of superstition under their roof would set it on fire, and Lord Almighty, Dinah barely kept things lit. They could not keep him.

A couple of miles across England, with the help of a clergyman, the boy arrived in London. At the steps of a muggle orphanage, Samuel was an apology tucked in a wicker basket. He was a matron’s sigh at five in the morning. He was barely a year old.     

At a young age, Samuel toted ‘precocious’ like a badge; he was a charming kid, the kind who'd repeat his neat little antics if that meant the adults would ooh and ahh at him again. Those verdigris orbs made nuns wish they'd go home to their own cradles, and would-be foster parents were left to second-guess their first picks - Samuel made people want things they didn't have. One would think that such an agreeable child would be housed immediately but precocious came with a hefty price: he was a finicky child, difficult to manage with the way he'd twist and cry and want endlessly. An unsettling boy.

At age 5, his mouth felt mealy, and his gums ached. Something was happening. He was forcing a prism into a cylinder when it had occurred; a flashbang of events. He could barely remember the details, but there'd been a sickly glow clinging to the corners of his eyes. As he stared at the water-stained ceiling, silence followed him like a wraith. He couldn't remember anything else, only that he'd woken up under another ceiling; dreamless, cloudy, unknown - a swell of aloneness sprouted between his ribs, and it’s marked him forever.

St. Mungo’s Orphanage: this new & bizarre dream-world (it seemed like a dream-world at first, anyway), Samuel started out reticent - he didn't speak for the first two months, and adapting to his new environment took another. Furniture arranged themselves, and unfamiliar faces blurred into sight, sharp-eyed, flakes crusting around their mouths as they babbled in a new tongue.

The moment he sank into a rhythm, however, he was unstoppable. He chugged through week after week, year after year; he was likeable, charismatic, always a roaring good time. He was the sort who'd be surrounded by a bevy of admirers, girls mostly, never alone yet almost entirely friendless. 

In the time he spent wondering about the uncanny; self-cleaning pots, floating books, and dissembling stairs, Samuel, at one point, became Slick. He’d met Action at age 9 and were inseparable ever since. Slick didn’t know much about him; the tumultuous layers, the defensiveness of a hornet - he’d tried scratching the surface, but he might as well not bother. In contrast, Slick lathered up his lies, letting them seep into the empty grooves of childhood. Glamour was gold, even if it was counterfeit. Each retelling was gaudier, chandeliered, high-octane to the last detail. He was forgotten royalty, bejewelled, his father a Viking hero, his mother a Great Witch. The lies would eclipse him someday, but he didn't care. This was his story to tell, his show to run.

They looked out for each other, and it was more than enough. They would hurl themselves headlong into trouble, all scraped knees and boy sweat - twin terrors until two became three, four, five and six - their little posse. They all shuffled after Action like he was the bloody Messiah and would likely follow him to the ends of the earth.

While Action gorged on his rage, Slick embraced the fickleness of youth, teenage euphoria and sweaty-palmed infatuation. The young man gave chase to every fluttering skirt, every flip of shellacked hair - his girls were nectarine, lacquer-lipped and preening. His to flaunt, his to replace with another hard-to-get. The girls never stayed long, he wouldn't let them. Woo her in, then weasel out; the classic modus operandi. The cycle was never-ending, it was part of his allure, a fragmented boy hiding behind a casanova smile; oh, how they itched to put him back together - this became more apparent during his formative years in Hogwarts.

Age 10; Slick started running away from the orphanage, dubbing it a ‘human zoo’, and vocally expressing his disdain at the orderlies running the place; they weren’t circus performers; they sold dreams, not happiness. He couldn’t stand the watchfulness of adults, the keening hope in their eyes, the wistful curve of the lips; still making them want things they couldn’t have. What about me and what I want? The orphanage unnerved him anyway, he never stayed the night when the ceilings creaked under the brunt of nightmares; it gave him the willies, the kind of unsettling that made his teeth ache familiarly. It made him want to remember beyond the hazy-white cloud fogging the back of his mind. A self-proclaimed Knockturn Alley patron, Samuel was the dandy teen prancing after stiff-backed misses, cheap thrills and answers to the unknown.

Another summer whisked by, and the day Slick turned 11, he received his Hogwarts letter and was carted off to Diagon Alley. He wasn’t very eager about magical education, he likened his attention span to that of a fly’s and it all felt like a huge responsibility. Slick took comfort in knowing that his friends would be there. Turned out, as the boy conformed to routines and coursework, that Hogwarts wasn’t all that bad. 

The following years became a time capsule of many things. A miasmic brew of classes, broken hearts, detentions and late-night talks. Slick barely did enough to pass his end-of-term exams, spending most of his time wooing one girl after another. Romantic pursuits aside, Slick excelled in Quidditch, playing mostly as his team’s chaser or keeper - he liked keeping in shape, and it made him more popular, somewhat unattainable, sigh-worthy. The Crew’s activities kept him busy for a while, but with such a crucial term looming on the horizon, Slick was loathe to admit that he should probably ease off his habits and reorder his priorities should he ever want a decent shot at life.

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

House Request: No preference.

Personality: ^ in bio c:

Appearance: As his nickname suggests, he is very easy on the eyes. He empties tubs of pomade on his hair, enduring that it is shiny and neatly parted on one side. He has very thick eyebrows, and considers them to be his most attractive feature. A proper suit makes a proper man, so most of his allowance would be spent on new threads - he's quite an extravagant fellow, but as he says, the grander the lie, the finer the suit. He’s got a salmon patch on the back of his neck.

Slick descended into the dungeons, weary from Quidditch practice and the landslide of classes that came before that. He’d been tipped off by one of the boys - same time, same place. A Crew meeting sounded perfect right about now, he needed to blow off some steam. Hell, he was even looking forward to Baby harassing his pomaded hair.

Even so, he couldn’t shake off the way Ace’s voice dipped ponderously low. What? Another initiation? He thought seven was quite a crowd, technically he didn’t count Baby because she was a girl, but that didn’t make her a lesser member, just a prettier one.

He heard footfalls growing louder, a girl-pitched voice skittering down the corridor. Oh boy, oh boy. Oblivious to his approach, the girl seemed to have stopped in her tracks, and… appeared to be very much in distress. Well, Slick’s come to save the day.

Wrestling his lips into a mega-watt smile, the boy sauntered over, hands his pockets, confident and definitely approachable.

"Hello! Is Emma Birch here?"

He frowned. The girl that died last year. He hadn’t been there, but just like everyone else, he’d been rounded up in the Main Hall, been whispered to, clung to. Someone died, Slick. Dead. Gone. Did you know her well? No, Slick did not. And now, everyone probably thought she haunted the place. Why come back to this dreary place? If he were dead, he’d haunt a brothel.

“Don’t reckon she’ll appear just yet,” He scratched his slightly-scruffy chin, then winked. “You might want to try threatening her boyfriend, pet. Ex-boyfriend.”


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