Application for Hogwarts School
→ CHARACTER INFORMATION.Name: Nathaniel Ruther Hopland
Birthday: March 24, 1948
Hometown: London, England
Bloodline: Halfblood
Magical Strength (pick one): Conjuring/Summoning
Magical Weakness (pick one): Transfiguration
Year (pick two): Fourth, Third
Biography:The goal had initially been to graduate, to follow the same suffocating routine as his peers, to do the same tricks with his wand, to say the same ancient words, and eventually, his seventh year would materialize right before his eyes. And while the illusion of graduating had never been as sharply defined as, perhaps, the possibility of expulsion, he could at least picture it. That had been enough for him—in his first year.
Three years later, that illusion had been shattered, and then spat on, and then scooped up and tossed into a bin with all the other willful, inconceivable thoughts.
He wanted to graduate, he did, just like how he wanted to be on a winning Quidditch cup team, his name etched onto the plaques in the trophy room for eternity. But in either case, the details of how he got from point A to point B were no longer as obvious to him, or as cautiously optimistic.
Try as he might, Roo couldn’t do the same things his peers did to get ahead. A practiced flick of his wand here, an occasional attempt at discipline there, repetition and memorization, none of it helped the way it seemed to help others. In his first two years, sheer brute force (and a five-fingered pinch of luck) was the only thing that got him through to the next. His third year, however, was where his thuggish ways of conducting magic—and himself—caught up to him: he failed all his classes.
There’s nothing quite so devaluing as recognizing that you’re going to fail a class—let alone nine of them—months ahead of time, as was the case with him. It wasn’t the sort of situation where he teetered between an unacceptable, barely passing grade all year and his final exams tipped him over the wrong edge.
No. If only it had been that.
This was a scenario where he teetered at first and then let himself fall backwards, his grades tumbling uncaringly down into the abyss with all his other responsibilities—until it was too late to climb himself back out.
He’s not sure what has to change for his fourth year. He reckons the answer is roughly somewhere between
something and
everything.
The thing is, he doesn’t need good grades for where he’s going. The national Quidditch league needs someone with a good arm and precise hand-eye coordination, not a git who can recite the top five Transfiguration spells for the modern wizard on the spot. But he knows better than to believe he can claw through the next four years the same way he got through the last three, getting the same results, hearing the same shrill lecture from his mother, year after year, summer after summer.
Maybe fourth time’s the charm. Or maybe he should drop out now and get a head start on his professional career with the English U-17 team.
Hah. If only.
→ RETURNING STUDENTS.Link to your last levels request (if you never posted one, link to your last accepted student application): Levels RequestNumber of New Levels Requested: N/A
New Levels Request: N/A
How your character kept up with their studies: There was no gap in his attendance at Hogwarts. ICly, he finished out his third year and continued on to his fourth year.
→ SAMPLE ROLEPLAY.Option 2:It was just one class.
He could skip one class, his first class that morning, and catch up on sleep in the gardens. It was what he told himself—
one class.
Naturally, that was how it began. One class that week, two the next. Before he knew it, he was delegating all of Tuesdays and Thursdays to the pitch benches, the gardens, the alcoves of the clock tower, or anywhere else he could slot his body for a quick doze, undisturbed.
That year would be different, he had promised, and he intended to keep that promise. That ‘different’ would just have to begin next week.
Or—
(—there was a scuffling noise, a shout, and the tell-tale heaving breaths that precluded a—)
—not.
Eyes fluttering open, they cut to the boy’s ducked head long before the sneeze worked its way through his sinuses. The flowers, inanimate though they were, recoiled in disgust when it finally hit, or maybe that was just Roo projecting. His lip was curled at the boy when their gazes clashed.
“There’s no bloody rat here. You think I’d be laying here”—he gestured to his stretched legs, his cloak and bag strewn to his right—“if there was?”
→ ABOUT YOU.Please list any characters you have on the site (current and previous): Lucy Hopland, et al.
How did you find us?: Google
