Application for Hogwarts School
→ CHARACTER INFORMATION.Name: Agatha Wallace
Birthday: February 21, 1952
Hometown: Cookham, Berkshire, England
Bloodline: Muggleborn
Magical Strength (pick one): Divination
Magical Weakness (pick one): Transfiguration
Year (pick two): Seven, Fourth (would require aging down; please allow for revision)
Biography: Agatha was going to be something some day.
She just wasn’t—not yet, at least.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. Agtha was any number of things, really. Rolling to her side on the antique sofa in the back parlor of the funeral home, she bit another cherry straight through to the pit and thought of them then.
She was a student, and a perfectly average one at a school that was anything but. This, of course, was because Agatha was a witch—the only one of her three siblings to earn such a distinction, which she didn’t at all know was one until she turned eleven and a stern old woman showed up to tell her she was one. Some days, she supposed that in itself made her somewhat remarkable; her two little sisters, Issy and Florence, couldn’t do any of the things Agatha could, or at least the things she could when she was at school and permitted to do magic. Some days, she also thought it didn’t matter much, for she wasn’t allowed to use it on her own time until she turned seventeen, and even then, she was sure her mum would be cross if she—Agatha pursed her lips and spit a cherry pit into her open palm, then plunked it into a waiting brass bowl on the floor below—oh, turned the family dog into a dog-sized toad with pink polkadots.
(She was, coincidently, more of a cat person.)
She was sixteen, but that was really only a number. Sometimes she wasn’t even that. Depending on the day and her mood, she sometimes told people she was eighteen, or fourteen, or sometimes twenty-one and would put on an American accent, when she went to the corner pub for chips. Of course everyone knew Agatha was sixteen and as properly English as they come; most everyone had known her since she was born, or else knew her since their loved ones died, as Agatha’s father and mother ran the only funeral parlor in town and relied heavily on their three daughters during the busy season (which was, perhaps unexpectedly, January) for help.
She was mutable, Agatha thought with a huff, plucking another fruit from the plate on the ornate side table.
She was fat and she was also pretty, and charming when she wanted to be. She was well-off, but only by the standards of her small village in the English countryside; it didn’t translate outside the patchy roads of Cookham and certainly not to a place like London, where she sometimes wished she lived in a vague sort of way. She was smart, but only just enough to not want to do much with it, and any time she started to get good at anything,
actually good, she promptly grew bored and gave up.
She pursed her lips. Her mother would say—had said and explained at great length—that
that was her problem. She could be so much, if only she put her mind to it.
Instead, Agatha put another cherry in her mouth, rolling it between her front teeth, splitting its red, juicy flesh. Spitting the pit, she pouted.
More than anything, Agatha was out of time. After Christmas, she’d be seventeen, and soon after that she’d be graduated, and she had absolutely no idea who she was other than a list of dreadfully average things. So many of her classmates
knew. Like something truly magical moved inside their blood, they knew from twelve, or birth, or at least last summer that they were meant for something. Ministry work. Traveling the world. Poetry. Motherhood (Agatha, despite being alone in the room, rolled her eyes). Even her own sister, Issy, three years younger than Agatha and if she were honest not half as bright or interesting, had been dead-set on taking over the family business since she was six and held a funeral for a bird that hit the kitchen window. Agatha had never felt any such calling, any such pull. At best, she felt happy sometimes at a job well done, but never in a way that made her want to do whatever it was again.
Drawing in a deep breath, the taste of it tinged with dust at the back of her throat, she thought,
really thought, about it: if she could be anything, go anywhere, do anything
right now, what would it be?
Her hand fished over her shoulder for a cherry but found only slightly damp porcelain. With a frown, she pushed herself up to look at the tray. Empty.
Drat.“Agatha, darling,” her mother’s tender voice called from somewhere not too far away. “Come ‘round for tea, won’t you? There’s leftover biscuits from the Ogden service.”
Agatha pursed her lips. She was a lover of biscuits. Her something could wait until after tea. But it wouldn’t wait forever. With a sigh that was neither disinterested nor entirely committed, she supposed that she had one year to figure it out.
“Coming,” she called, and she dried her fingers on the hem of her skirt.
→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.House Request: Sort me.
Personality:Well, she’s trying to fix that, really. Agatha is more than a bit indecisive, tends toward melancholy, and is a little wiggly when she’s feeling bored. If this was 2023, she would be diagnosed with ADHD, but it’s 1969, so she probably just gets “Lacks Motivation” on her above-average report cards. Altogether, she’s been a bit of a dud through her years at school. A background character. But this year’s going to be
different. She’s going to say yes more, and she’s going to stick with it if it kills her, whatever it is, and she’s going to step outside of her comfort zone, and—well, she’s going to try, at least. Agatha is a girl in the middle of it. I suppose we’ll have to watch and see what happens.
Appearance:Agatha is of average height, with brown hair and brown eyes and a smattering of freckles over her nose in the summertime that fade but never truly vanish come fall. She’s not thin, but doesn’t mind; though she doesn’t carry herself with confidence as such, she carries herself unbothered. She moves through the world like she’s not wholly of it, and has at least a few less than socially acceptable mannerisms (hello, staring) thanks to the line of work her family is in. She’s attractive, but plain. Recently, she’s taken to wearing denim jeans, much to her father’s chagrin.
→ SAMPLE ROLEPLAY.Option 2:That rat of his was in for it now.
The gray little rascal had disappeared from his clutches at breakfast. Again.
Before Hugh even knew what was happening, Merlin had shot across the floor, somehow managing to avoid all the feet walking across the hall and had escaped through the open doors.
Which meant that Hugh was now stomping through rows of flowers and other various flora, searching for the small creature. It was like the rat knew Hugh was allergic to most flowers. Merlin always chose to run to the gardens whenever he got away from Hugh. It was as if the rat did not want to have him for an owner.
Hugh had named his pet Merlin because he had hoped the powerful name would give the rat more incentive to be more than a rat. Not that he expected Merlin to change into a wizard or anything, but rats were just so...useless, for the most part. With a name like Merlin, Hugh thought it might give the rat purpose.
The only purpose Merlin seemed to have was getting away from Hugh as often as possible.
As the fifth year trudged into the second row of flowers, not taking much care to avoid trampling the first row, he felt the first sneeze building up pressure in his nose and behind his eyes.
"You blasted rat! Where are you?"
He pulled apart a section of bright red flowers; he didn't know what they were called because he despised flowers, and ducked his head low to peer into the depths of the flowerbed. It was moving closer in proximity to the flowers that finally did it. Hugh took in three great breaths and then let out an almighty sneeze. It was strong enough to disturb some of the dirt on the ground before him.
Groaning, he stood up again and wiped his nose on his sleeve. It was as he was turning his head, his nose running up and down his arm, that movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. Normally one who preferred to put his best face forward, Hugh was a bit embarrassed to be caught wiping his runny nose on his robes.
Nevertheless, Hugh put on his best haughty voice. albeit a bit thickly with his plugged nose and said, "Can I help you with something? It is not polite to stare."
Roleplay Response:“Oh. Right.”
It
wasn’t polite to stare.
But summer had only just ended, and Agatha always felt a bit feral, coming back to school from the funeral parlor. The dead didn’t mind so much when you stared, and by and large the living there didn’t either. They were too wrapped up in their own goings-on to notice.
And so had been this boy—Hugh, Agatha noted vaguely, cocking her head to the side—until just a breath ago. She couldn’t decide what it had been that had betrayed her—the motion of her straightening up, a clutch of flowers balled in her left fist, or the whispered
bless you she’d said when he’d sneezed. It was a force of habit, and polite beside.
Unlike Hugh. Agatha sighed.
Some time ago—she had lost track of how long ago, now—she had come out to the garden to gather flowers for her bedside table. It was always what she missed about home first: the overwhelming floral scent of the place. Already, it had sent her scurrying to her trunk, sniffing deeply of her still-folded jumpers. They smelled like green and wool, and not quite right. She clutched her carefully-selected chrysanthemums to her chest, breathing in the correct scent of them deeply, and considered.
“Well, it looks like
you need a spot of help, actually.”
Usually, Agatha would not be the one to give it. Now that her flower collecting had been disturbed, her work here was done. She had some stolen glassware from one classroom or another waiting on her bedside table for these. But she was trying to be better—well, maybe not better, but
something. Something different. And while Old Agatha might have said
good luck and good riddance, this Agatha instead added, “And it looks like I have disturbed you just in time.”
Did people even talk like that? She couldn’t be sure. Florence, probably, would laugh at her and call her Space Girl. Agatha shrugged.
Tucking her fist-full of flowers into the back pocket of her blue jeans, she picked her way much more carefully than Hugh had toward the snot-nosed boy and tried her best to smile. She was successful, she thought.
“What did you say your rat’s name was? Merlin?”
Did people even give their rats names like Merlin anymore? Agatha shrugged again.
→ ABOUT YOU.Please list any characters you have on the site (current and previous): Mason, Sloe, Hir, etc.
How did you find us?: Peer pressure.
