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Author Topic: Lysander Ellwood-Luxe  (Read 660 times)

Lysander Ellwood-Luxe

    (30/11/2011 at 14:31)
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  • Head of Ellwood-Luxe family, Slytherin '37
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Name: Lysander "Sands" Ellwood-Luxe

Former Character's Name (if you had one): Annabel Grey

House Request:

Slytherin, as Sands has been an NPC in the house for the previous term (OOC), but please place him wherever you think suits him best. Two things in life drive him: the desire to win and to be acknowledged and adored. Having grown up in a household where he has had to compete against his brother for any scrap of attention from his father, he can’t conceive of a world where winning isn’t the most important thing or part of his identity. The ends justify the means, and he’s afraid that if he ever loses, he loses everything.

5th, 4th


Pureblood. An Ellwood-Luxe that is not pure is not worth the air he breathes.

Magical Strength:

Conjuring/Summoning. Sands doesn’t have the attention to detail that complex Charmwork would require, nor the patience to research the qualities and theories behind higher-level Transfiguration. What he does have, however, is the strength of will and brute determination to power through and to get what he wants when he wants it – making Conjuring/Summoning his study area of choice.

Magical Weakness:

Transfiguration, as it requires more than just shoving power at an object to make it change. Sands’ transfigurations in fact often go awry, with even a simple thing like turning a matchstick into a needle resulting in twisted, silvery shards of wood instead from where he started attempting the transfiguration but lost patience and overpowered it instead.


The grandfather clock in the background ticked steadily, like the heartbeat of a man who was fazed by nothing the world had to throw at him. A genuine Kieninger clock, early 20th century German make. It was the only thing in the sickeningly chintz room that was of interest, and Sands pulled his gaze back to the person before him with reluctance.

Flavia Merriweather was a St. Mungo’s-certified mind healer, and was mediocre from the wisps of her mousy brown hair (thinning, Sands noted) to the tips of her matronly black pumps (thick ankles, and was that the beginning of varicose veins through the hose? Tut-tut. Some women just let themselves go). Like her equally mediocre office though, she did possess one quality of interest: she was one of the few mind healers working solely in private practice, independent of St. Mungo’s and thus, free from direct Ministry control. It was the one of two reasons the Ellwood-Luxe family employed her. The second reason was that her exorbitant charges per session ensured her silence on matters of the family.

Sir had never said as much, but Sands had been reading between the lines long before he could actually read.

The bright clink of the imitation china cup on its saucer signaled that Merriweather was ready to begin. “So,” she said in false cheer, lashes so heavily made up as to create the illusion that her eyes were drooping, “You’ve gotten older since we last chatted.”

I don’t have time for this. He clamped down on his writhing impatience and smiled instead. “Every year on the 6th of January, I’m afraid.”

She tittered, hands fluttering to the garish butterfly broach at her chest before folding back down in a gesture meant to imply propriety on her lap. “Wittier, too.  And how have you been doing?”

This was a test. The muscles on his jaw clenched briefly before he made himself sit back instead of leaping forward to shake the powdered, presumptuous figure before him. “As well as can be expected, given today’s date.”

Her eyes widened with surprise (faked, the reaction was a split-second late to be real) and she cooed, “Why yes. Today was the day it happened, yes? Poor dear. It’s been what – over ten years now, correct?”

It. A remarkably short word to encompass an event that had changed his life. His grip on the armchair tightened. If he closed his eyes, the disjointed memories of that day would come rushing back like the tide on the shore in winter – cold, dark, roiling and seething –

He didn’t close his eyes. “We are not talking about my mother.”

The painted lips opened in an O, as if she would continue anyway, but then they closed. For a few tense moments, the only noise in the room was the scritch-scritching of her dicta-quill on the end table, punctuated by the reassuring heartbeat of the clock.

Slowly, Sands loosened his grip on the armrest and flexed his fingers. The tension in the room eased just a little, like the faint cracks on the surface of a pond. 

She smiled again, this one not as convincing as her first as she held out a plate. “So we shan’t. Biscuit?” At the curt shaking of his head, she replaced the plate and continued. “Your esteemed father, then. How is he?”

He could not recall a time when Aurelion Ellwood-Luxe had ever been father and not Sir. Then again, his memories of the time before It were scant and elusive. “He is well,” he said shortly, neatly side-stepping the issue of what to call him altogether.

The squeaking sound of her giggling filled the air again. “Oh you Ellwood-Luxes. It must be all fun and games for you growing up with your brother and cousins.”

If by fun she meant having to go away and live on Chaucer charity just to escape Sir’s moodswings and to gain some semblance of a childhood, then yes. If by games she meant living under the same roof with a powerful genius of a wizard who concocted elaborate ways for his sons to vie for his attention, where Sands had to learn out of necessity early on that the single twitch of an eyelid could mean the difference between a verbal lashing or being spared and ignored, then yes.

Persy – Perseus - was older, smarter, the golden boy of their family, quiet and reserved and dignified. But Sands knew that what he lacked in intelligence or talent, he more than made up for in nerve, and sometimes that made all the difference.

I have only one son and heir, Sir had once said. And I will know him when I see him.

Sometimes though, Sands went out of his way to defy the rules of Sir’s machinations, usually looping in his cousin Lucie – Lucretius – just to be able to claim a moment more of Aurelion’s time. To prove that he existed to someone in his family.

Lucie. His gut clenched. “Fun and games all around,” he gritted out.

“You are terribly close to one of them, aren’t you? Let’s see…” Merriweather pretended to leaf through her notes, keeping a slitted eye on her sullen patient all the while. “Ah yes. Lucretius Chaucer. How have you been coping since he left for Beauxbatons?”

The snarl was on his face before he even had a chance to suppress it, and the painted woman flinched minutely, as if recalling the session several years back when a much younger Sands had launched himself at her in rage, prodded a step too far.

Left. As if Lucie had chosen to go away and not been exiled to some powdery blue hell. It had just been a prank on an uppity little first-year that had needed to be taught her place. A dash of something extra in her pumpkin juice that would make her as sick as her presence had made him and Lucie sick. Lucie was the one they sent away, even though he hadn’t known that the potion would’ve had effects that serious.

Sands had known. He still couldn’t bring himself to tell Lucie, afraid to lose the one good and true thing he still had that wasn’t part of Sir’s plan, and then hated himself for being afraid. Maybe it was a good thing Lucie was in France.

“I have been doing just fine, Madam Merriweather,” he said finally, leaning forward and steepling his fingers the way he’d seen Sir do. “In fact, I have been doing so well that I came to tell you this: This is the last session. We will not be seeing each other again.”

The dropped jaw and suddenly wide eyes this time were genuine, her hands frozen in mid-gesture. He took a short moment to revel in this small victory against his tormentor before continuing, “You will release all transcripts of my past sessions to me, immediately, along with any copies you may have. Your contract ends today, and – my father” he stumbled slightly on the unfamiliar word “Would appreciate tying up all loose ends.”

She stood then, nervously smoothing down her tweed suit jacket. “Now, now, Mr. Ellwood-Luxe, there’s no need for an overreaction…”

He did not like being loomed over. Sands too got to his feet and stared down at the squat, fluttering woman. “The transcripts. Now.”

“I must protest, this is highly irregular…”

He slammed a hand down on the coffee table and she jumped, eyes flicking from the shattered remains of her cup to the snarling boy in front of her. Persey would have convinced her through logic, Cassius would have charmed it out of her, but he had none of those skills. Just this.

“If you do not hand over the documents in the next few minutes, I am going to walk out of this office and across the street to the Daily Prophet, where I am sure someone will be interested to hear how you have been…” His eyes flickered. “Behaving inappropriately towards your young clients for years. I can guarantee you that no one will ever consult you again.”

She blanched even beneath her powder, and Sands could see understanding and resentment dawning. “I’ll – I’ll just be getting those then.”

When he walked out, he shoved the documents into the nearest fire grate and muttered “Incendio” before rejoining the somberly dressed figure seated in the parlour of the exclusive club a block down the street.

“You were scheduled for a yearly appointment until you were of age.” The voice was neutral, almost unnatural in its lack of inflection.

“I had had enough.” Sands struggled to keep his face impassive, but his fists were white-knuckled and clenched beneath the table. “Sir.”

Sir’s eyelid flickered, and he returned his attention to the paper. Behind them, a grandfather clock was ticking away steadily, like the heartbeat of the man Sands wanted to be, unfazed by anything the world had to throw at him.



Upon first glance, one would think that he is quiet and calculating like his brother, Perseus. However, Sands is a bundle of contradictions – a boy who desperately wants to appear grown-up, cool and unruffled, but is a powder keg that can explode with the slightest provocation. He craves attention and needs an audience, but doesn’t like admitting or showing this fact, which means he does things like inviting people to a party and then spending said party driving all his invitees away. He loves sports, especially Quidditch, as it gives him an outlet for all the pent-up energy inside, not to mention a chance to exercise his razor-sharp insults on the opposition. Having grown up in an old pureblood family, he disdains all things Muggle and has the deep-seated prejudices; having grown up as the second son of the cadet branch of said family, he has grown up needing to prove himself and resenting anyone that he thinks is better than him (which is a surprisingly large number of people).

He wants to believe he is calculating, but is far too impulsive to carry out his well-thought-out schemes and works best with someone he respects who can steady him. Since his cousin and best friend Lucretius departed for Beauxbatons, however, he’s been at a bit of a loss and thus spends most of his time hanging around his cousin Cassius.


Tall and lanky for his age, with cold hazel eyes and muddy brown hair that he wears combed away from his face. He moves in quick, short bursts, as if constantly irritated, and has a tendency to pace and grind his teeth. He feels skinny and knobbly-kneed, which he hides by never wearing shorts and affecting coats and cloaks even in the summer.


Option II:

“Oh, come now!"

Astrid Bixby’s voice carried down the corridor, the tall blonde girl not far behind. Her interviewee – or victim, depending on perspective – turned a corner and she frowned. They were always soelusive when she needed them. Sure, they would talk as if there was no tomorrow during class, but once she actually needed them to say something, they were nowhere to be found. Gryffindors.

Flustered, Astrid stopped in the middle of the corridor and stared, her parchment hanging limply from her hand. She was a good reporter, really, and she always did her best to make sure that everything she wrote was accurate. She glanced down to the quill, eyeing it with disdain. It wasn’t her fault if her quill misquoted. How was she supposed to know? It made for interesting articles, at least, and if she had misquoted the Head Boy last term as saying he had a love for stuffed animals, then that gave him personality. Astrid sighed.

A pout formed on her lips as she turned away, discouraged. The corridor was mercifully empty, though the doors to The Spellbound – the school newspaper – were ominously closed. Corbridge was a mercifully sweet editor, but Astrid was terrified of disappointing her all the same. She hadto come back with quotes.
Her eyes, blue, trailed her surroundings before choosing a new path, and she turned down a new corridor. A figure was ahead, and her eyes lit up, an impossibly rosy smile blossoming across her lips.

“Hey!” Astrid called, her voice light and singsong. She trotted to catch the person, her shoes clicking on the stone floor. “Wait up! It’s for the paper!” Her legs aided her admittedly poor running, and Astrid gasped as she came closer. “What do you think about serving frog legs at lunch? Some say it’s a delicacy, but others think it’s plain gross.”

Sample Roleplay Response:

Sands had been at this school since he was a first-year, but he had yet to figure out how the castle could be both drafty and poorly ventilated at the same time. The classrooms were either iceboxes or saunas, depending on the class, and the dorms were even worse, while the chill winter air whirled in and would cheekily make papers dance about on desks.

There was a problem when the corridors were the best places in terms of airflow and temperature. Which explained why he had ducked into this one during his free period, checking that the last stream of students had left for the day before digging into his pocket and coming up with the two precious packages that he’d won off a fellow Slytherin.

“George Marx, you sneaky fellow,” he muttered, carefully turning over the clearly Muggle package of cigarettes and examining it. An Ellwood-Luxe would never be caught dead playing with Muggle novelties, but he’d been curious. The nurseman, Bruce something, would light up once in a while whenever he thought no one was looking and while he may have gone mad, he hadn’t rolled over and died yet so these Muggle sticks couldn’t be lethal.

If Lucie were here, they’d be doing this together. As it was...

He broke the plastic filmy seal and pulled out the slender white tube, tucking the rest of the package carefully in his pocket. Marx had also thrown in what he called a Muggle lighter into the pot, but Merlin knew how the wards of this castle would interfere with a device like that. Instead, he flicked his wand at the tip of the white cigarette and muttered “Incendio.”

The tip glowed briefly and soon a thin trail of smoke wove upwards. Here goes, he thought, raising the other end to his lips –


He’d already begun inhaling, more’s the pity, because the shout in what should have been an abandoned corridor shocked him into sucking in a deeper breath than he’d planned. The sticky smoke went deep in and he choked, racked with coughs as he attempted to clear his lungs of the fumes. Muggles did this to themselves all the time, he thought hazily, disgusted, And they wonder why we look down on them.
The girl – of course it was a girl, and a pink-cheeked, wholesomely annoying specimen too – had been speaking, but Sands had only caught the last bit and wished he hadn’t.

“Let me get this straight,” he bit off, each word sharp and cutting. “You ran up here and rudely interrupted me with no reason other than to ask an inane question about frog legs? What, isn’t there anything else worth reporting on, or are your editors so desperate to fob you off that they assigned you a joke topic?”

Belatedly, he realized that he was still holding the Muggle cigarette and quickly dropped it to the ground and stepped on it. If the girl were smarter, she’d’ve known that catching Lysander Ellwood-Luxe experimenting with Muggle substances was the real catch.

Elizabeth Birch-Hurst

    (01/12/2011 at 05:36)
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Mr Ellwood-Luxe

Congratulations! You have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Term begins 01 January. Welcome to Hogwarts

~E. A. Birch-Hurst
Deputy Headmistress
"It seems most strange that men should fear,
seeing that death, a necessary end,
will come when it will come."