Hogwarts School: A Harry Potter RPG

CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character Name: Dayyan Mahdi Siyal
Gender: Male
Age: Thirty-seven.
Blood Status: Mixed blood.

Education:
Uagadou, Class 1934 - 1941
Distinguished Achievements in:

• Coniunctio Alchemy
• Transfiguration
• Cypherography & Cryptanalysis
  
• Captain of the 1940 champion Baloot team

*Accelerated Graduation due to the War.

Higher Education
Société Al-Asrār, 1946 - 1948
With an emphasis in Legilimency
**can submit a summary to the wiki for this, essentially a wizarding medrasa sponsored by his family.

Residence:
Bath, Somerset, England

Occupation:
Unspeakable, Department of Mysteries

Do you plan to have a connection to a particular existing place?
Yes, Ministry of Magic.

Requested Magic Levels:
Special Request Submitted.

• Charms: 15
• Divination: 14
• Transfiguration: 14
• Summoning: 12

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:
Laskos et al.

Biography: (300 words minimum.)
Bath, Somerset - 1929 [fifteen]
It was the evening golden hour in the last stretch of summer. The light was without the heat of midday sun and indiscriminately gilded the edges of the bookshelves lining the hexagonal room. Exactly the kind of moment easily etched into memory.

Dayyan could only feel that he had misspent yet another afternoon, his head in propped palm supporting the competing weight of his grandfather’s expectations and dreams of the beach. His efforts to resolve the philosophical riddle set to him had been perpetually interrupted by the thought of waves cresting over bikini-clad curves; the imagined laughter echoed in his ears and his fingers itched to touch smooth, sunbaked skin rather than the insufficient contour of his fine ink pen. The minutes ticked slowly by in this purgatory and Dayyan’s thoughts drifted ever further afield as the woodgrain of the angled reading desk at which he sat pressed ever further into the fulcrum of his elbow.

In his visions for himself, a man in his own rights, he wouldn’t be tied down and so thoroughly quizzed in letters posed by his grandfather. As was due all the men of his family, he would have the freedom to disappear from the house for unexplained spans, returning home at hours convenient to him. His time would be his own. Easily, then, he could battle the restless boredom which urged his lengthening limbs to wear himself to satiated exertion. Cloyed with age-old theoretical aphorisms, the keen mind for which he had been so often praised craved new and exotic unknown mysteries. But such challenges didn’t exist here, chafed beneath sheets of aged vellum and musty parchment all too rife with the thoughts and discoveries and deeds of others.

Soon unable to follow one more unending line of the treatise before him, Dayyan conceded and flipped the hefty book closed. And standing for the first time in what ought to be considered undue torture-- it was still summer retreat afterall-- he strode out of the room just as the honeyed light had already begun to progress to a more demur red. He took the stairs which did not go immediately to the Floo chamber; if he arrived any earlier than dusk he would only be pestered with more questions.

Those which had no right answers and even fewer rewards.

Trekking across several other rooms and up a few flights, he climbed the spiral staircase which rose in the center of this particular turret to reach the Map Room encircled its broad ocean-papered walls and continental expanses. Here too was abandoned-- everyone with better things to do than be cloistered away. To his left, miniature wisps of monsoon clouds stalled over the subcontinent and just outside his periphery a slim ladder clinging to a rail along the ceiling cast shadows over Greenland. He stepped forward to lean casually over the drafting cabinets which ringed the room. His eyes scoured the vast plains of Africa, finding first the shifting mists which approximated Uagadou with not-quite-nostalgia before tracing the contrary Nile from its Victorian source. It was just the other day it was where Dayyan had last found the charmed marker bearing his father’s name somewhere outside Old Dongola north of Khartoum.

His chin found purchase once more in the cradle of his palm and Dayyan envied the once more the scorched heat and arid sands beyond his reach in such stark contrast to the cooling dusk which settled over the quiet stillness which surrounded him. Reaching out on impulse, he pressed his finger to the smooth wall, impertinently relishing the absent scolding for leaving some forbidden imprint of his finger.

But his golden hour was sure to come soon enough.


Somewhere just outside London - 1944 [twenty-one]

Blood had begun to dry in dust-choked rivulets down his wrist, he felt it caked in his hair and staining the wool of his trousers beneath the stiff tourniquet he’d tied almost to the point of numbness. Or perhaps it was to the knife’s edge of sensation. The world was ringing, like his head had been beneath a bell as it was struck. The air buzzed and wailed, the ground rumbled. Everything before his eyes reverberated as if he could feel it down into his core and the marrow of his bones. It pulsed with a maddening drowning in his ears, and he had to strain to focus enough to make any sense of his surroundings. His eyes picking up with shattered recognition what he could make out of the shadows and ash.

And yet, there, only one thing which hummed beneath it all-- I’m alive.

pop.

She had found him like that in the middle of a disheveled street, his chest arched back and head tipped towards the sky. She had been stopped by his echoing laughter just as she had been certain he hadn’t been there only a moment ago. It wasn’t until she had grabbed his arm that his dark eyes snapped to hers and he gripped her tightly in return that he acknowledged her, just as if he had been jolted into awareness.

“Whatever you are finding so funny, young man, this is not a safe place!” she repudiated him as if she were one of his teachers from years ago. Perhaps if they had all been so forcefully attractive, he might have minded them better.

“Oh, believe me, it’s much safer.” But it was only for a moment-- the air raid sirens which he had put behind him had begun to catch up.

“Not for much longer-- don’t you have a place to shelter?”

Whatever objections rational caution might have urged were apparently easily overcome with the mere charm of his unshaken gaze and youthful bravado. And perhaps also in thanks to the combination of stoicism in the midst of adversity, she all but ushered him into her terraced home down the lane, accomplished all with his wand remaining hidden within his overcoat.
Ten minutes past, a rather bitter lemonade lingered on his tongue as he slipped her a flippant grin by way of thanks as she handed him a dampened kitchen towel along with an admonition to ‘wipe that look off his face along with all that dirt.’

In the small circle of her pocket mirror, he saw reflected back a counterfeit version of his face discernible only in the wake of acrid streaks of sweat. His skin looked almost pallid, or perhaps it was only less dirty in matter of degrees. But the intoxication of adrenaline had long since quieted to a lull and he was able to recognize more and more of himself. Although, at the same time, he could sense that at any moment it could crescendo once more. In fact, a part of him was eager in the anticipation of it. Then again, perhaps that was just the tight-rope upon which all of them balanced now in these uncertain and indistinguishable days.

As more of his infallible features became apparent, Dayyan could feel her scrutiny and skepticism returning. But rather than putting up his guard, it only heightened his taste for something sweet, a thirst unquenched by a libation as weak rationed lemonade. Watching the slight parting of her red-painted lips, he watered for that ripened provocation. His eyes met hers with that self-same allure, daring her to draw closer. He had always found the best defense to be that of strategic seduction.

“So just where did you come from?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m from around here,” he evaded, adding, with very little commitment except for the challenge in his eyes, “abouts.”

Her brow arched, “For being from ‘abouts’, your English is quite good.”

“I’m good at a fair few languages. I consider myself lucky to be so talented with tongues,” he said without any insincerity. He had long since mastered a level of indolent confidence.

Her laughter broke through a little of her deportment at that. Such a barefaced assertion had slipped her defenses of what ought to have been logical lines of conversation. Perhaps it was this tactic too which had fooled her into taking him into her home. But unwilling to admit defeat, she sallied with a distinctive tartness in her voice, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve been lucky enough to have escaped death several times over in consequence for such talents.”

“Not especially.” His smile widened, and handing back the dirtied towel he held on to her hand, pressing insistently with his thumb. Daring her to pull away if she could.  “If I am overdue that’ll have to come another day. Then again if you think so, I should consider myself lucky, Miss…?”

But she couldn’t. “Trench. Eloise Trench. I don’t know if I can say I admire your kind of bravery, Mr…?”

“Siyal. Dayyan Siyal.” His hand moved up to her elbow, drawing her nearer. The blue-grey of her eyes was now in greater focus.

“And you say you’re English?” Her skin smelled of soap.

“Oh, I don’t think I should tell you what I really am. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he whispered just beneath the base of her ear. But she didn’t really hear him.

“You’re not one of those Objectors, are you?”

“No?” His embrace tested how far she’d allow him to go.

“Well you don’t look like a doctor or clergy,” she reasoned.

“I would hope not,” he agreed. Afterall, his hands were far from clinical nor his lips particularly pious, despite proving just how persuasively devout once set about their mission.

Easily she found herself preferring to retain the handsome mystery rather than actually reveal the man beneath. It may have been only more dirt underneath it all. But as it was, she could ignore the smell of smoke that still clung to him and imagine instead that it was only cigarettes; she could read the invitation in his eyes to mean the moon and not just this moment. But for this moment, perhaps she could escape elsewhere, somewhere that wasn’t her kitchen, that wasn’t perpetually racked with the sound of raid sirens, and wasn’t always moments away from despair and death. “Oh, you are a silly boy. Are you sure you aren’t quite out of place?”

His virile chuckle sent shivers across her skin. And just as easily the exhilaration he had increasingly craved rushed through him again with triumph, “No, I don’t think this is where I really belong, but for what it’s worth-- I wouldn’t say it has been all that bad of a visit.”

What was a little detour in the line of duty, after all?

Offshore from Holyhead, Wales - 1952 [twenty-eight]

It was a private establishment converted from a resurrected ferry which had run derelict on the crossing back from Dublin during high winds some time ago. Now it spent its nights cloaked by fog to prevent curious outsiders, marked once aboard by the warm lights and convivial mood which was enough to keep out any chill. Inside the main hall, the long oak bar brimmed with banter and repartee. And one this night, the lively to-do was graced with the alto crooning of a bottle-blonde singer perched on a small stage surrounded by dancing couples. Several crowds congregated around some of the high stakes tables.

It was a game of craps. The caster had his wand out, sending a set of dice scattering over the felted gaming table. Garishly painted runes in various denominations were stacked upon betting slots.  Shouts of encouragement erupted as each round raised the stakes.

The caster, confident of his winning streak the last thirty minutes, gave a chip to the brunette with doll eyes and heavy mascara with the demand to go and get him a drink. Her pursed lips made an even more emphatic show as being cast aside, but the man did not seem to notice. As the rest of the table continued their cheering, Dayyan took the opportunity to slip from the table, draining the remainder of the drink in his hand by way of convenient excuse.

Standing, he took a moment to adjust his posture, a slight swagger in his steps, an easy bliss to his eyes. Yet he was still able to easily wind his way through the tables to the bar, just in time to catch the young woman pass her wand over her hair while looking into the mirrored bar backsplash, turning her hair from a rich brown to nearly platinum. Her eyes were all the more dramatic in contrast, as was the determination in them. It was a shame to be wasted on such an unworthy fellow.

As she turned around with drink in hand, Dayyan strode forward with intentional clumsiness. But just before they collided, he took hold of her hands, preventing any loss of the clear beverage. But for a moment, it clouded over yellow, before whatever phantom effect it had been dissolved without a trace to a casual observer. But this was easily distracted from with the slip of his grasp to her wrist, just to ensure she was steady. And a smile never hurt, either. “Well if that doesn’t brighten things up--- weren’t you a brunette a little while ago?”

She looked up at him, her indignation turning quickly to renewed surprise. “Could be. Now would you let go of my hand, I’ve got to get back to the table before the dice cool.”

Granting her request, there was another burst of enthusiasm from the game they’d left behind, and he said, “Oh if I had to guess, I'd bet things will only be getting hotter from here.”

The woman answered only with her eyes, curious, but not enough to guess the danger in his meaning. He didn’t stop her.
But twenty minutes later, Dayyan did get the opportunity to stop a profusely sweating Broch Tadpol as he retreated to the gentlemen’s room seeking to cool himself off from the infernal heat which had begun to imperceptibly sear across his body. It was too late for Tadpol to notice that the figure he had thought was the bathroom attendant was actually a man and not one of the staff House Elves. But by then, his head was thrust into the sink basin and swiftly engulfed in swirling water.

Dayyan lowered his wand arm and straightened his shoulders into his evening jacket. “I did think your table might have been getting too hot for you, Tadpol.”

 He turned the other man over flailing to swipe the water from his mouth. Grabbing the man by his collar with little regard for the hands grasping at him, Dayyan flicked his wand to direct the water away from Tadpol’s nose and mouth.  “That girl you have singing for you tonight--- she’s a muggle-- isn’t she?” He started, in a tone that wasn’t really a question.

There had been leads for some time of extraordinary acts who had begun to make appearances  around the circuit. But their identities couldn’t be traced, and acts which became popular in a flash disappeared just as quickly once word got around. And the music by all measure was different-- one might say, electric-- with catchy hooks and simplistic harmonies. The erudite turned up their noses, but that did not stop the youthful crowds from seeking it out. But then it was only a matter of time before it was noticed some previously seen singer or band showing up on Muggle circuits with different names and no discernible connection to the magical world. If it had only been trafficking, that was one thing, but there was something more his boss wanted him to find out.

“Tell me, Tadpole. Who is it you have wiping their memories for you?” For someone who couldn’t even deflect an Ebublio Jinx, it was unlikely they would be successful at memory modification. With good reason it was a fairly select skill set, and to be adept and routinely successful so many times, Dayyan had his doubts that this was some common working stiff with a Knack. If it was someone with Mungo’s or Ministry ties, what other nefarious connections might exist, and to what end?

With his wand still trained on his struggling target, Dayyan pressed it against Tadpol’s forehead with some deliberate force, “Or perhaps it would be better for me to just see for myself.”

Roleplay: 
Option Two - Roleplay Response:
It didn’t take long for snow to coat the dirty cobblestones and bricks of the Alley’s winding street. But like so much else pure--- it was ephemeral and at best a veneer.  Every year so little on the surface may have changed-- decked storefronts beckoned and beguiled with the invitation of warm candle light beyond battened doors. It was the magic of nostalgia which promised everything was just as the year before, and that nothing was ever really amiss.

But with each passing year, Dayyan himself was changing. He could feel it in the way it lingered in bruised muscles, stiff shoulders, raw knuckles. His own contribution to that supposed filth, to keep worse at bay. It was the aftereffects of which no Mungo’s treatment ever fully resolved. It was a deep memory, grown to be instinctual.

Such that he had gotten very good at knowing when a hit was coming.

Dayyan looked down at the young man who had so artlessly toppled into him, smoke from his Mahāpuruṣa cigarette clouding in the cold air.

“Thank you, you’ve been tremendously---er-- helpful,” he said, taking a thin strip of tinsel from his coat shoulder. “But I don’t quite believe silver is my color.”