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Messages - Jeremiah Smallweed

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Archived Applications / Jeremiah Smallweed
« on: 01/12/2016 at 01:07 »

Application for Hogwarts School


Name: Jeremiah Joseph Smallweed

Birthday: 18 August 1938

Hometown: Hackney, London, England

Bloodline: Pureblood (just about)

Magical Strength (pick one): Conjuring & Summoning

Magical Weakness (pick one): Charms

Year (pick two): First (preferred), Second


18 August 1949

It wasn’t often that he got to pick what they had for dinner -- it wasn’t often that any of them did -- but tonight was different. Tonight, it was his birthday. And it was an important one too, because it meant that surely it wouldn’t be too long now until his letter arrived. It was already late -- didn’t they usually come in the morning? -- but it would come. It had to. And when it finally came, when he could hold it in his hands as solid proof… Only then would he allow the excitement to kick in. Only then would he be able to glance over at Ophelia and breathe a sigh of relief that she was not leaving him to go it alone; that she was not going to board that train without him; that she would be taking him with her on her adventure.

(And oh, what a pair they would make.)

It was as his siblings were carrying the empty dinner plates -- scraped clean of fish and chips and ketchup -- away to the sink that Jeremiah slipped out of his chair to hover at Alfie’s elbow. It took several tugs at his older brother’s sleeve before the man noticed; but when he did finally realise Jeremiah was there, he dropped down to crouch beside the boy.


Jeremiah leaned a little closer, cupping his hands around his mouth to whisper. "Was there enough left? For cake?"

"You’ll have to see," Alfie smiled, and Jeremiah slunk back to his seat. It was difficult, though, to hide the grin -- because Alfie was smiling and Jeremiah knew what that meant -- that meant there was cake.

But whether Jeremiah was right, we may never know, because at that moment something tapped at the window; quietly at first, and then louder, more persistent.

It was Ophelia who crossed the room to lift the window latch… Only to be bowled off her feet as an extraordinarily large owl swept across the room and landed on the table in front of Jeremiah. It had a grey heart-shaped face, and thick, speckled feathers; a cruel beak, as all owls do, and eyes of rich amber. But it was the sheer size of it that left Jeremiah gaping as it ruffled its feathers and swivelled its head to stare at him beadily.

"It’s got something," Ophelia crowed, having picked herself up off the floor.

And she was right. There was a cream envelope tucked within the creature’s talons. The writing on the front -- though hardly legible at this angle -- was written in green ink, and he thought that he could just make out the last three letters of his name:

-- eed

And there was a seal too, a stamp of crimson wax. He couldn’t see the design from here, but he had seen a letter -- lots of letters, in fact -- like this before. He didn’t need to see whether the Hogwarts crest was imprinted onto the wax, because he knew.

He was going to Hogwarts.

permission to powerplay Alfie & Ophelia Smallweed granted by respective players.

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

House Request: Slytherin

Personality: A magician, in the Muggle sense of the word. He’s incredibly talented at sleight of hand, and he frequently uses his nimble fingers to pickpocket unsuspecting passersby -- magical or otherwise. Unfortunately, he’s not quite so skillful when it comes to (for want of a better word) real magic, displaying far fewer signs of magical ability than his siblings.

He’s always looking out for people that he can steal a few pennies from, and he doesn’t differentiate between young, old, rich, poor, pretty, ugly. People are nothing to him, save for his family. His selfishness for himself extends to them too; though he has no qualms about robbing others out of everything they’ve got, he’ll happily hand over his stolen goods to his idol: his big brother, Alfie.

Appearance: He’s thin and scrawny for his age; the  result of too many missed meals and nights of gnawing hunger. At eleven years old, he’s still waiting for his growth spurt, but he’s not much shorter than other boys his age. With eyes the colour of muddy water, and hair only a couple of shades lighter, Jeremiah is somewhat unextraordinary -- in appearance, anyway.
Face Claim: Noah Schnapp

Option 1.
There were lots of things in the Potions store cupboard. Things that didn't seem like they were worth much at all -- pickled Flobberworms, for example, which seemed about as redundant to Jeremiah as live Flobberworms -- and other things too, things that seemed like they'd be worth quite a lot.

He didn't know very much about magical plants (or very much about anything that you had to learn from a textbook, because he still struggled with reading longer words sometimes, only there was often nobody to help him out) but he'd asked the Herbology teacher the next Monday about something called Gillyweed.

It let you breathe underwater, apparently; and that was all the encouragement he'd needed. Something that could make a human breathe underwater was bound to be expensive. He'd stolen back to the cupboard the next day and slipped half the jar into his trouser pocket. Later that day, he'd slipped it into his brother’s letterbox. He’d laid low after that, not venturing near the dungeons for a fortnight.

He was here again now, though; it had been long enough since the last incident that he could pass by unsuspected. His hand was already on the handle of the Potions store when he heard the voice.

"Hello! Is Emma Birch here?"

Fingers slid off the handle without any further hesitation. He turned, hurrying several steps away from the closed door. He was rounding the corner when he saw her, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The only apparent source of the noise was nothing but a tiny girl.

"Emma Birch?" Jeremiah repeated, his gaze wary. "Never 'eard of her. I'll tell ya what I do know, though. There's a thief on the loose." He leaned forward, staring her in the face.

"Ain't you, is it?"


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