Hogwarts School: A Harry Potter RPG

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: D’Arcy St. James
Gender: Male
Age: 27
Blood Status: Half-blood

Education: 
Hogwarts, Ravenclaw '34

Residence:
Westminster

Occupation
Shop owner

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
nope!

Requested Magic Levels:

• Charms: 7
• Divination: 6
• Transfiguration: 7
• Summoning: 12

Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?
Nope!

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Skade Larsen, Lucifer Morgenstern

Biography: (300 words minimum.)

D’Arcy St. James was born on a dreary November morning to author Hugh St. James and his then-wife, socialite Margaret Bismarck. The first two years of his life were marked only by extravagant gifts and doting family members- his many aunts and uncles showered him with attention and expensive baubles. Due to his parent’s influence in the higher circles of London society, young D’Arcy grew used to a rather public life. Margaret and Hugh enjoyed the attention they received from newspapers, and were by no means secretive about their personal lives. This was perhaps unwise of Margaret, who had a rather big secret that she should have kept to herself; one September, right before D’Arcy’s third birthday, a small gossip magazine ran a headline that caught everyone’s attention: Margaret Bismarck’s Half-Truths.

As it turns out, she had been concealing her true bloodline. Her mother, a muggle, had passed soon after delivering Margaret, and the stain on her pureblood father’s family’s tree had been swept under the carpet at the first opportunity. Margaret was rejected from her friends, and Hugh was forced to choose between his reputation and his wife. Within a week of the disastrous article, Margaret found herself on the streets of London with nothing but the clothes on her back and a copy of her divorce record.

Around the same time, three-year old D’Arcy began complaining of headaches; his ailments were mostly ignored by his otherwise-occupied father, and by the time he made an appointment with a healer, D’Arcy’s vision was deteriorating. Rumors flew- he had contracted a rare strain of dragon-pox, Margaret’s family cursed her young child in order to punish Hugh- but nothing could be done about D’Arcy’s sudden blindness. The hospital bills were paid, D’Arcy was brought home, and the household adjusted to the young St. James’ new restrictions.

The rest of D’Arcy’s childhood passed without event. He learned to get around using a cane and earnt braille; Hugh published a best-selling novel featuring a blind young boy as the protagonist, and a Hogwarts letter followed shortly. Nine Septembers after the Margaret disaster, D’Arcy and Hugh found themselves on platform nine and three-quarters, a steaming red engine train before them.

Navigating Hogwarts proved to be quite difficult for D’Arcy; he spent seven years colliding with fake doors and getting pulled out of trick staircases, and could never seem to find his way back to the Ravenclaw dorms. Although he picked up magical theory quickly, his aim was (needless to say) bloody awful and for the safety of his fellow students, he refrained from practicing spells.

Upon graduating, D’Arcy did not return to the spotlight on his father’s house. Instead, he bought a small apartment in Diagon Alley, which he converted into the beginning of his fabric shop. Aided by his seeing-eye cat, a monstrosity by the name of Caius Martius, D’Arcy became familiar with Muggle and Magical London, committing entire neighborhoods to memory to facilitate his commutes. Although he kept in touch with a few of his schoolmates, his mostly muggle lifestyle set him apart from them; the difference between his mundane existence and their magical ones discouraged him from forming anything other than professional relationships. That, and his solitary nature, made him a recluse-in-the-making.

Roleplay: 
You come across one of these posts on the site. Please select one & reply as your character:

Option One -
Amelia Nixon was many things, but she was never a pushover reporter that people could just usher away with a busy shuffle past. She was dedicated and eager to cut to the very middle of the current political tensions because she was Amelia Nixon and her articles would most certainly become front page material.

“Sir, please! It’s for the Prophet, how do you feel-“

Another one brushed passed her, the shuffling busy masses making their way through Diagon Alley for the lunchtime rush. This had been the best possible time to get people, but none of them were giving her anything to go with.

Only momentarily discouraged, the short red headed lady took a seat on a nearby bench. Her quill resting in her left hand and her notepad ready in the opposite hand. Amelia pouted, tapping the quill against her leg as she scanned the waves of people for somebody - anybody - who looked like they had something to say.

She had been dreaming of her name in bold print, Amelia Nixon: The Source of Today’s Tomorrow. She had been dreaming of the larger office and the secretaries that would fetch her the morning coffee and fetch her anything she needed. The VIP interviews and the most exclusive press passes. But all Amelia had was a page seventeen piece on the rising number of frogs in London.

Hardened by a day of no success, the reporter stood up and started to trod off down the alley. A loose stone on the cobble path caught her heel, sending the distraught girl toppling down to the ground.

“Merlin’s fog watch, my heel is broken! Help!” she yelled as she tried desperately to recover her shoe frantically in the middle of the Diagon Alley moving crowds.

Roleplay Response:
D’Arcy hated crowds. The noise, the smells, the pushing and shoving- it was all too much for a blind man. His cane was useless as he was practically glued to the shoppers in front of him, and Caius Martius, his seeing-eye cat, had abandoned him for the warm comforts of his London flat. As a loud witch who smelled strongly of tobacco rushed past him, almost sending him flying, he picked up snippets of her conversation:

“And with Eloise starting school next year, we have to start saving some money! Did you know that the tuition alone is…” her voice was drowned out by the countless other conversations spinning in and out of hearing range. It seemed that money was a topic on everybody’s mind, and D’Arcy couldn’t blame them: it seemed that every time he opened his shop’s books, he had lost even more money.

“Sir, please, it’s for the Prophet-” he skirted the loud reporter, who was some ten or so feet to his left. The warm smell of baking bread mixed with the heavier scent of fried food, and D’Arcy made a mental note to pick up groceries on his way home. A wizard, arguing loudly with a colleague about Ministry affairs brushed by him; he wore a heavy overcoat, fraying and with at least one patch. I could fix that for you, D’Arcy thought instinctively before remembering that we was no longer at work.

As the babble of people’s voices rose and fell around D’Arcy, he felt the usual pang of isolation, as if he was being left out of some inherently human event. He brushed this feeling off as melodramatic nonsense since he’d long ago accepted his impairment. Self pity doesn’t help, he had remind himself.

He had walked another twenty feet when he heard the cry for help.

“Merlin’s fog watch! my heel is broken! Help!” came the same voice from before. The pushy reporter, he thought as he made a one hundred and eighty degree turn.
Using his cane, he pushed his way back to the girl, against the traffic. A few sharp jabs of his cane was enough to clear a path, so it wasn’t long before he reached the spot the plea had come from.

“Madam, are you alright?” he inquired in an uncharacteristically soft voice before dropping down to one knee. After placing his cane carefully by his side, he felt around on the cobblestone street for anything that felt like a woman’s shoe, or the heel of one.

“I’m afraid I might not be very helpful in this situation, Madam,” he noted wistfully when he failed to find the lost shoe.

OTHER
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