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* Thijs Märchen

    (07/04/2017 at 10:56)
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Application for Hogwarts School


Name: Thijs Märchen
Faceclaim: Max Krieger

Birthday: June 22, 1939

Hometown: Delft, The Netherlands

Bloodline: Pureblood

Magical Strength (pick one): Divination

Magical Weakness (pick one): Transfiguration

Year (pick two): First year. (Second Year as an alternative)


"You mustn't go, Lars," said the mother, clutching white-knuckled onto the banister, "Tell them you have a son to care for; or make up an illness; anything,"
"Dat kan niet, Maria," sighed the father, "There's a war coming- I am not the first to try to jump ship."

The mother could not speak for fear of breaking the silence.

"The army needs men before the Germans mobilise," said the father, "There are whispers on the wind of an invasion, did you hear that?"

"I cannot lose you," said the mother, even though she knew that she would.

"I'll come back, lieveling," said the father, even though he knew that he would not.

The mother could only nod and walk into the other room to look at their son, lying in his crib with shut eyes and clenched little fists, and a tuft of shock-white hair standing upright on the top of his little head. The father placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled at the son.

"Hey thumbling, hey thumbling, won't you be alright?" sang the father, and the mother's answering sob was a laugh in disguise. She clutched onto his hand.

"Thijs is a Märchen, Maria," said the father, and there was pride in his voice, "We are the strongest in the world."

The mother pressed her knuckles to her mouth and bit down; bitter copper flooded her mouth. Nausea rolled in her gut and her sleeping young son was bulletproof to it all. She promised herself that he would never suffer. He would never know hunger, or thirst, or illness. She would love him for ever and ever.

They were a family of liars.


"Hello?" The woman that opened the door was gaunt, squinting into the dark and cold. She was wafer-thin. Weren't they all?

Thijs clutched tight onto his mother's hand and pushed past her, and worked words through gapped teeth with a sluggish, frozen tongue; just like his mother had taught him.

"Ith there a plathe for uth to thtay?" He asked. His little voice was barely loud enough for the woman to hear. She turned a set of sympathetic eyes on him and he sniffled, which wasn't hard. "I'm tho hungry and tho cold," he said, and rubbed at his eyes, "My mama and I are going to our family in Friethland. The'th really thick."

The woman squatted down and Thijs bravely met her eyes, like his mother had told him. "How old are you, kleintje?"

"Five," Thijs said, and trembled when the newspaper insulation in his coat did nothing to stop the bitter ice from reaching his bones. It speared around his joints, spiderwebbing the cartilage and capillaries, reaching with tender fingers the very warmth he tried to safekeep.

His mother was soulless and cold like the night. "Come in," the woman said, before opening the door wider and allowing Thijs and his mother to slip through.

The room was small and stuffy, but warm, and the woman helped Thijs out of his long coat whilst his mother struggled on the doorstep with hers. The buttons were frozen stiff.

"Where are you from?" The woman asked. His mother didn't respond, so Thijs touched the woman's arm and told her. "Delft," he said, small voice garbled by frost. Teeth chattered around the word and the woman's face creased.

"Let me get you something to eat. We don't have much else but soup, I'm afraid," She said. Thijs looked at her and tried for a frost-tinged smile, cold pulling at his muscles and releasing a grimace instead. He tried, he tried. "Thank you," he said.

The woman stood and bustled away and Thijs turned to his mother. His little belly rumbled with hunger; his eyes watered from the warmth in the room. "Wath that alright, mama?" He asked.

For the first time, Maria Märchen seemed to wake. She turned to her son and hugged him to her body, and winced when her son's bones poked into her skin. Thijs Märchen was far too little; far too thin to be as brave as he was. His thin body carried the weight of their fractured family- he was stronger than she had ever been.

She had promised he would not suffer.

"That was more than alright, little thumbling," she told her son, and watched as his eyes lit up. "You're such a good little boy. So loyal."

Thijs burrowed into her and smiled, and greedily ate the watery soup that the friendly woman gave him. The woman tucked him into a large armchair, blanket thrown over his stick-thin legs in front of the fireplace.

He asked whether they would be alright.

His mother told him they would be. It was January. Winter would end soon.

They were a family of dreamers.


"Where's the train going, mama?" Thijs asked her, clutching onto her hand and looking around with wide eyes. For all his bravery, the sight of the heaving goliath in front of him belching smoke and steam and hissing like an animal possessed, made Thijs feel more little than he already was.

People pushed around him and his mother, calling this way and that; jostling rudely and shouting in Dutch and English, German and French. Too many sounds, words, sentences and syllables; too much foreign and known and not enough silence. Thijs' head swam.

"To London, thumbling," His mother said, making Thijs' head flip itself the right way up, and he looked at her.

"Where is that?" He asked. It didn't sound like a place in Holland.

"England, Thijs," said his mother. Thijs didn’t know what she was talking about. England was not Holland, though, and his stomach filled with a horrible feeling.

"Why are we going there?" He wondered, eyes caught on a man wearing a blue cloak and a pointy hat. What bravery, to wander in a world that punished unfamiliarity with a vehemence and a murder.

"Because it's safer there, thumbling," said his mother, and tugged him out of the way of the man with the pointy hat. Thijs watched him walk through the crowd. He almost believed he saw the man disappear into thin air.

"Why?" he asked, and his mother chuckled down at him. She never got tired of his questions. Thijs liked that. There was no one he loved like his mother. He never wanted to leave her.

"It's better for people like us, Thijs," she said.

Thijs' little eyebrows bunched together. "Like us?" he echoed.

His mother nodded. "We're special, you and I," she knelt down and pushed a lock of hair away from his face. His hair was still as white as the day he had been born. Thijs knew the Winter lived in his bones and in his hair, in the arteries that stretched through his body and delivered lifeblood to his extremities. "We've got magic."

"Magic?" he asked, and smiled. It almost sounded like something out of a fairy-tale.

"Exactly," His mother said, and her eyes were glassy, "Your father and I are magic, so you'll be too. Do you want me to show you?"

Thijs nodded.

Then, his mother took out a long, thin stick, and pointed it between his eyebrows. Thijs didn't even notice she was crying until he heard her sniffle. "Mama?" He asked, reaching out. His mother cried harder and Thijs didn't understand.

"I love you, mama, don't be sad," Thijs said, but his mother only sobbed and pushed his reaching little hand away.

He felt the tip of the stick touch his left eyebrow. The horrible feeling in his stomach took root and he wanted it to go away. He wanted to hold Mama's hand again. He wanted to go home now.

His mother flickered for a second, almost looked like she would smile. She tilted her head to the side. "Hey thumbling, hey thumbling, won't you be alright?" She sang to him.

He looked in his mother's eyes and there was a fleeting glimpse of terrifying blankness. "Mama?" he tried again, and felt his mother tuck his hair behind an ear. "Ik hou van je, Thijs Märchen. We are the strongest in the world." She whispered.

The stick lifted away from his eyebrow. His mother sniffed and Thijs wanted to hug her-


They were a family of liars and dreamers.

All must wake.


House Request: Hufflepuff

Personality: Thijs is a young boy with soft hands and a soft heart, taught by mother and misfortune to be good and to be kind; he is a dreamer and a lover, and he would rather live in a fantasy than have it be broken.

However, his naïveté blinds logical judgement. He loves too hard and too quickly, but he can't entertain the possibility of being rejected. He aches for love and for family, yet doesn't know whether he deserves it. He deals poorly with radical change and longs for structure, and is afraid of everything he doesn't yet know. He is incredibly shy, and yet shackles himself to the people that interact with him, and longs for an instant connection.

Appearance: The abuse of the hunger winter has seen Thijs stunted in his physical development. He is short, still the size of a child although he is entering his teens, pale, and noticeably underweight. He has white-blond hair and a set of blue eyes. He tends not to fill his clothes, as the sizes required for him are too small.


Silence came in broad strokes of grey and white across a raucous canvas, stone and earth and human blending in a whirl of life and lifelessness, and Thijs caught in the middle of the maelstrom. The castle was huge and terrifying and new, and loud, thus his harried escape to the greenhouses was completely justified.

But he was not alone, not in his temple of moist earth and quietude, and his company had materialised in an inquisitive rat, nosing along his metacarpals and curling into his palm without asking. Thijs ensconced himself in the silence and built himself a lovely little place among the potted plants, and his dreams came quieter here--

Until a loud voice cracked the vision and a gunshot sneeze punctuated the breakage. Thijs lifted to his feet and inched along the wall until he found the perpetrator, a large boy with a running mouth and a running nose, staring as if he could pin Thijs in place.

Well, Thijs Felt pinned. He shirked under the boy's heated glare and averted his eyes, wincing painfully at every spitted syllable in the boy's speech. His little companion squeaked in his palm, and he lifted his little hands to present the mouse to the altar. "Is this your rat?" he asked, grimacing at the massacre of his words and their ill-fitting sounds; lacking a familiarity and a British-ness even time could not gift him.


Please list any characters you have on the site (current and previous): Helen Kane, Theo Brooks, Adeline de Vauquelin

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* Anneka Ivanova

    (09/04/2017 at 16:27)
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Mr Märchen,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Term begins 01 May 2017. Currently, students have gathered at Camp Loki. Your admission is joint for both the school and Camp Loki, and we encourage you to spend your summer there. Should you choose, you may also visit our Elsewhere board via the Floo Network to visit or purchase school supplies. We look forward to seeing you at the Castle.


and if I'm flying solo, at least I'm flying free
to those who ground me, take a message back from me
tell them how I am defying gravity