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Author Topic: Audrey York  (Read 367 times)

* Audrey York

    (09/02/2015 at 19:40)
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E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

Character Name: Audrey York
Gender: Female
Age: 27 as per December 22, 1943
Blood Status: Muggleborn

L’Academy de Madame des Tuileries – Class of ‘66
Beauxbatons – Class of ‘73

In a flat in residential wizarding London

Undercover Auror

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?
The Ministry – Auror Division

Requested Magic Levels:
Adult characters have 32 starting levels to distribute across these four categories (less levels can be used if you so desire, but no more than 32). The number of levels on the lowest ability must be at least half of the highest ability.

Special Request sent
  • Charms: 15
  • Divination: 9
  • Transfiguration: 15
  • Summoning: 7
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Frances Severin, Eve Hallows

Biography: (300 words minimum.)
03 / 09 / 1961

“Qui t’à donné ça?”

Crude French at best, and greasy fingers, stained with a girl’s hunger for fruit tarts, took a hold of her new dress.

“Ta famille, elle est riche?”

It was a boy with big blue eyes and a question that inferred only curiosity, but Audrey stepped away. Someone else grabbed her lunch box and opened it to display the contents to others. There were no fruit tarts in it, and the girl (-brown-haired, brown-nosed-) who’d asked the first question stepped away disappointedly.

Audrey didn’t say a word. Instead, she stretched out a flat palm, indicating that she would like her lunch back.

The boy (-older, a menacing smile playing upon his lips-) considered her, nodded, then returned the food – after grabbing a single grape and popping it in her mouth. She watched the juice overflow and the tongue peek out to lap them up from his skin.

He was still smiling.

An attack from the side; another boy tugged at her hair. The boys laughed, and some of the girls chimed in. Someone else (Audrey tried not to spin into a blur, but it didn’t matter; she couldn’t see them anyway), pushed her while she was looking the other way.

It wasn’t allowed anymore, but someone still said the words.

“C’est un juif! Ils sont tous riches.”

It’s, like an inanimate object. Another push, and so she was, lying still on the ground. The flower petal-dress (-bleu, blanc, rouge it was supposed to be, but her mama had tastes, and instead she sent her daughter to school in salmon, black and eggshell white; Audrey swore to wear drab colours from that day on-) had suffered a tear at the base of the skirtline and sand stained the previously radiant colours.

They’re all rich, echoing in the back of her head, as if the war hadn’t happened and this wasn’t her mama’s attempt to keep her head high.

In lieu of better representatives, Audrey would do it for her.

2.   GRIEF
16 / 01 / 1937

It was her mother’s voice that escaped her first; the dulcet tones when she’d used to sing (lullabies, summer tunes, Irish shanties) that faded into oblivion, drab and average, as if it couldn’t be bothered to haunt her. Of course, there were moments, the odd ones out.

A doorbell rang, clear cut symphonic chiming, and Audrey looked up from her magazine.

The store was still sooty after a fire last month; charcoal and wood blended on the panels behind her, while several boxes were stacked sporadically throughout the exhibition room. Pastel and bright aesthetics seemed out of balance with the evidence of the tragedy, but the glassblower didn’t care for the synergy of the colour palettes in his shop.

Ironically, that was Audrey’s job.

Of course, it was only to pay her way through L’Àcadémie Médicinale.

The man entering was bland and unsaturated, yet commanded a presence that overshadowed his background. A heavy, grey trench coat fell from his shoulders, his eyes were covered in a dark shade from his hat, and he was holding a gold-on-leather badge in front of her.

“Miss York?” British.

Audrey nodded, once.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Policemen, of course, had travelled to and fro the store in an endless search for answers, but Audrey had expected the commute to stop after having proved that the culprit was an oversight rather than a conscious act of vengeance, greed, or both.

(They’d accused the glassblower. Clearly incompetent.)

However, they’d all been French.

“A few questions, Detectif?” Audrey echoed awkwardly. French was her mother tongue (quite literally), and her papa hadn’t had enough time to pick it out.

“Well, one,” he responded. His tone, so unlike her mother’s, reeked of sobriety and depth, “It’s about a job opportunity.”

17 / 06 / 1938

It was either homage or a playing dice with God, rather than with the Devil. England looked like itself, as if the country could be known through bedtime stories and her father’s quilted personality; mashed through a thousand loopholes in French etiquette, he’d retained a certain foreign nature that Audrey had come to know as Britishness.

Papa had ended his existence in France for them, and Audrey would end her existence in Britain, amongst her father’s peers.

The keys clinked in the bowl, circling in a crescent before coming to rest in the middle. A few unopened envelopes lay at the bottom, and Audrey passed them without acknowledgement. The flat was small, but well equipped. A canopy in the living room created a three-wall loft with room for a fat mattress and a lamp (-already, magazines on interior decoration were piling up beside the makeshift bedstand, also made out reading materials-), and below it stood a desk and a couple of low bookcases.

Plants also frequented the premises (none of them placed by her), and Audrey had taught herself to hammer in shelves wherever the landlady hadn’t already thought to hang pictures.

(A particularly disturbing one of a boy squatting had been taken down from the bathroom wall; her landlady had weird tastes. It reminded her of her brother.)

4.   ANGER
02 / 02 / 1938

Her papa would have been furious. Escaping France only to wear a different badge of dishonour was not considered luck, it was considered a Russian novel.

Kafka would have been proud.

The golden retriever placed his head in her lap, looking up at her morosely. He was an intelligent, sentimental sort, and Audrey knew that her frustration fuelled his depressed moods.

Grabbing his collar from the wall (-her grades from Conjuring and Summoning classes reflected how useless she found the ability-), she turned her attention towards the almost-grown pup. Excitedly clapping her hands on her thighs, she called, upbeat, “Who’s going for a run? Are we going for a run? Yes, I think we are, yes I do.”


However, they both wanted to believe that she was sincere, and watching his tail wagging was reason enough for her to continue.

23 / 08 / 1943

Her hypocrisy was evident in the dry, British tone of Norman Crawford.

“At least I won’t be wearing a badge,” she argued sullenly, but the fervour within her was spent by the dull populace of a Wizarding Britain having accepted a Jewish fate.

“Good. Then you can pretend to fight the laws you shouldn’t be protecting in the first place.”

Unamused, the old pianist-

(-she would always see him for his understated classist tendencies; the way he moved laboriously because of a shrapnel in his left knee was deafened by the dignity he commanded in his movements; the scholar shone through the piles of books protruding everywhere in his study, and though his obo and sheets of jazz music held honourary places, his piano still took up most of the space-)

-walked in slow staccato towards the cup of tea that stood unattended in his window sill. He was disappointed, but Audrey didn’t have time to argue every time she was assigned a new case. He was a Voice Coach (-and a comrade, Audrey shuddered to think in how many ways, a discussion partner, a mentor and a friend-), not her father.

“The Blood Status Laws aren’t the only laws in our society. I fight to keep the streets clean!”

“Yes,” Norman said calmly, “of Muggleborn scum like yourself.”

“That’s enough!”

Frustration lay scattered on the floor like the stack of sheet music she’d deliberately torpedoed. At the other end of the room sat Norman, levelling his gaze on her without reproach, but she could see he was shaken. I’m sorry lay tethered on her lips, restrained by her mounting anger.

“This is a great opportunity; these are criminals, no matter their blood-“

“But their blood isn’t insignificant in this, is it?”

She hadn’t expected to be interrupted so suddenly, nor so quietly. Her mentor hooked an index finger through the hank of his tea cup and rose from his retreat by the window sill (-a single, rose-embroidered pillow fell back upon the wooden surface, left behind-) with a hand on his back. Adamant about not using a cane (it stood in the corner like a naughty child), he limped proudly towards her.

“Because they’re Muggleborn and Halfbloods, droven to desperation by a Government who’s given them no alternatives. They’re poor, because they’re not simply being excluded from society, but from holding a job as well.”

Then, more quietly, he added while opening the door, “No one should be a pariah in their own country.”

Audrey, taking an uncertain step forward, felt herself swayed by the poetry of it for a second, but cynicism set in. Ideals were too mighty for her to change her mind; they hadn’t changed her life when she needed it, and he was a stubborn, old man, refusing to see the complexity of the situation.

“I’m going undercover for my country.”

Pausing in the doorway, she lay a single hand on the door frame, looking at him wistfully.

“See you in nine months.”

The snow had been falling steadily all morning and it didn't look like it was going to stop any time soon. Joshua Campbell scrunched his face up in a frown as he lifted his gaze to look to the sky. Snow. It really was quite a bother.

And it certainly didn't make it better that Diagon Alley seemed to be getting more and more crowded. Joshua sighed and pointed his wand at the large box that was currently placed on the doorstep of his shop. He had to get going. He had an order to deliver.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" The elderly man muttered and watched the box hover in the air for a moment. Honestly, did St. Mungo's really need that much tinsel? And with glitter of all things? He sighed again. If it hadn't been for the rather convincing stamp on the order, he would have been likely to believe it had been a prank by one of those orphaned rascals living up there. 

Oh well, there was no point in waiting. Joshua deftly stirred the box down the doorstep and out onto the street, carefully levitating it above the heads of the crowd.

"Coming through! Coming through!" His voice sounded over the chatter of the crowd. "Keep out! Move ahead! Go on!" This was going way too slow. People were in the way and walking like they had all day! He huffed. Luckily the road was down hill.

"Coming through! Coming th--- arrrgh!" Joshua let out a loud shout as his feet suddenly slipped in the snow and sent him, the box, and several long strands of tinsel tumbling into the person who had been walking in front of him.

"For Merlin's sake!" Joshua muttered angrily as he hurried to his feet again, red and gold tinsel now decorating his black coat. "I am so sorry! This blasted snow!" He looked apologetic at the person he had crashed into.

Roleplay Response:
Christmas was synonymous with Diagon Alley bustle. The day was new, her cheeks were red, hands in pockets, breath visible.

The trek to St. Mungo’s wasn’t as satisfactory as the trip to the Ministry; the people in Diagon Alley were angrier, less accustomed to the idea of
weaving (-much could be said about France, but at least, when people were being arses, they had the good sense not to be self-deprecating hypocrites about it; in England, entitlement often went hand in hand with self-delusion-), and generally more infuriating than the calmer, less populated path towards the Auror offices.

Someone was shouting behind her, and Audrey felt irritation before she felt the snow, pushing into her coat sleeve and swallowing her face. Pushing up from the ground (-it was pins and needles, her skin was burning-), she read the social queue (people gasped, stopped and stared, and like proper British people, no one moved a muscle) and looked back.

He was elderly (more so than Norman), but just as irritable (-could have been a kindred spirit-).

Of course, Audrey recognised him.

“Mr. Campbell!”

A successful vendor, Audrey had met Mr. Campbell on more than one occasion (-the beauty of pretending to be a nurse was dealing with deliveries; almost all of the vendors were old merchants with a history of keeping their eyes and ears open-), and she felt a pang of sympathy for the old man. He was quite capable of dusting off his coat himself though, and Audrey had more sense than to offer the proud and elderly help.

“No need to be sorry, I completely agree- Are those tinsels for St. Mungo’s?”

Her ears were stinging.

“Because if that’s the case, why don’t I deliver them? I’m on my way to work in any case.”

How did you find us? mysteryyyyy- aaaalll my life has been a mysteryyy

* Cedric Galyn

    (12/02/2015 at 22:42)
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