Welcome to Hogwarts School :: A Harry Potter RPG! It's 1971!

Author Topic: Indigo Amberghast | Charms Professor  (Read 362 times)

* Indigo Amberghast

    (09/04/2024 at 11:44)
  • ***
  • Charms Professor + Auror - Hit Wizard
  • C21D7T17S17
    • View Profile


Character name: Indigo Amberghast

Previous and/or Current Character(s) if applicable: Cillian Pryke, Xanthe Amberghast, Tully Twelvetrees.

Character age: 31 (November 11, 1941)

Character education:

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry, Gryffindor, Class of 1960

Strength and weaknesses:

For as long as there were thoughts in his head Indigo has been picking things apart — rules, the natural order, and people in particular — possessing a natural aptitude for analysing complex situations, decoding intricate puzzles, and grasping nuanced ideas effortlessly. More practically he is a seasoned duellist with a lightning-quick draw and a composed, fearless disposition. Though his determination has been at times bordered on obsession, and his adaptability and resourcefulness accused of crossing certain lines, there is an inevitability about his investigations, the unwavering, unseeing belief that he would get the job done.

His talent for picking things apart means Indigo is fuelled by cynicism, often refusing to play nice with others or follow rules and expectations despite (or perhaps because of, even more so) his position as a high-ranking Auror. He is unpredictable and emotionally detached, someone who likes to tease and play games, toing and froing from either side of the mask, sometimes appearing to take nothing and no one seriously, navigating his place in their tragic tales with a sharp smile and an even sharper tongue.

Physical description:

Indigo is tall (6’3), lean but strong and broad-chested, moving gracefully, often completely silently, but always with unnerving calmness and composure, smooth and deliberate. Outside of crime scenes, interrogation rooms (and classrooms) he wears his hair down, effortlessly immaculate, though known to grow wild, thick and unkempt with the souring of his mood. His attire tends towards monochrome, mostly black, complemented by his long, dark coat or vast, billowing robes, flowing wraith-like out behind him. He’s seldom seen blinking, and gives the impression that nothing would make him flinch.


He is unmistakably and unapologetically aloof, sharp but guarded, and speaks and carries himself in a way so devoid of self-doubt as to resemble arrogance. If his mood is susceptible to anything it’s his own sudden and mercurial whims, always quick to joke (at anyone’s expense) or to turn a phrase, or flex his dry wit, selective in what he chooses to take seriously and almost impossible to control — two traits honed during his initial stint at Hogwarts. He will not hesitate to speak his mind, rarely deferring to the chain of command, and will often appear reckless and obsessive in pursuit of his targets.

Indigo can be extremely loyal and protective but only to individuals, not to surnames or institutions, and is rarely willing to divulge his loyalty, friendship or affection by anything but the most subtle means, using charm to keep even his favourite people only just within reach.

Hopes and dreams. Why are you teaching at Hogwarts?:

Indigo was always more of a thinker than a dreamer. It was never his intention to be an Auror — and for a while he actively avoided it, due in no small part to an unpleasant familial connection — but by the time he realised what road he was on, and how far ahead he was of everyone else, it was too late to turn back. Because it always happened the same way, the same patterns drawn in different shapes, written in different languages. There was always a reason, a pull he couldn’t ignore, always a play, always something, somewhere, ahead in his view, cursed to fester there in plain sight, where no one else could see.


As the Amberghast heir the early years of his life are well documented, details scattered liberally through public record, tabloid fodder, and the occasional chapter of some long, dull, pretentious book concerning, purely, notable Pureblood lines. It was an old name, drowned in old money, famous among those who cared about such things, and infamous among those who didn’t; a family renowned for charity in abundance but not a hint of kindness.

Not content with unfeeling charity, there was also the Amberghast family’s tradition of sending even its most talented and provided for members into ‘public service’ roles, often within the Ministry, for a fixed, short-term period, expected to not only learn and manoeuvre socially but to be a living, breathing endorsement of the Amberghast name that only accidentally lords it over everyone. As such Edward Amberghast, Indigo’s father, spent nearly a decade as an Auror, a Hit Wizard retiring in his prime, the more palatable details of his final bust inked on the front page of the Daily Prophet, his career ended in the world’s neatest and most predictable blaze of glory.

Far be it from seeing his father as a hero, or someone to emulate, Indigo had clashed with Edward from the very beginning, as soon as he could stand on his own two feet, able to see nothing of himself in the man. Beyond merely being the first real source of authority in his life, Edward was a stubborn man, hard and unpleasant, cold deep to his bones where all the wells ran dry, unfeeling. Indigo, expected to some day lead his family towards even greater prosperity, promised instead never to do as he was told to do, never to be made over in someone else’s image, and never to yield, not even for a greater good.

It might have been that he was destined for Gryffindor no matter what, but as the first Amberghast in four centuries to be sorted outside Slytherin it was considered close to scandalous — the boring walls his name couldn’t now adorn, the tacky badges he would never fix to his lapel — and drove another wedge into the divide. He never told anyone that a silly old hat had been the first thing to ever call him courageous — reckless was the word they always used.

Detached from these expectations, Indigo did not prioritise working hard, or studying late, or networking academically with his peers, instead drinking and smoking and partying his way through his final years at Hogwarts, coasting by on cleverness and raw magical talent, and in a testament to the extent of his wasted potential managing to nevertheless graduate near the top of his class.

After Hogwarts he was expected, again, to fall into line, but as with Slytherin, as with the insipid Pureblood girls he was ordered to entertain, as with the mind-numbing public appearances at big family events, Indigo refused the door opened to him, fitting their parameters of service to the name, and borrowed the family yacht, only six glorious months later stranding it at sea. Then he began to skirt the upper crust, just for fun, his the kind of name that always opened a door, and it all started as a little game with friends, played at parties and functions and galas — anything that promised charity whilst selling extravagance and overindulgence — late at night slipping into their vaults unseen, and slipping out with whatever they wanted, because they didn’t need a thing.

When he ran out of vaults to rearrange and reappropriate in Britain he moved the party across the channel to France, only to unexpectedly find himself in the middle of the investigation into the mysterious death of a young girl, her body found sealed within a locked room. Called upon as a witness and not a suspect, Indigo was quickly drawn into the case, unable to help himself, the questions inside and outside of his head, rattled off day and night and like a steam train if he didn’t feed it answers, and though he hadn’t even really meant to help, or wanted to, or perceived any of his actions as towards that end, it was he who solved the riddle and exposed the perpetrator, earning him the unpleasantness of a public commendation (more of those to come) and the immediate offer of a job as an Auror with the Ministry in France.

It was at this point, quite suddenly, that he seemed to vanish, for almost two years, communicating rarely and only to avoid being declared dead, unseen besides silly rumours of out of body experiences and spiritual mountain retreats. Then he returned, just as suddenly, nineteen months later, appearing in France exactly where he was last seen and acting as if nothing had happened or were amiss, not hesitating now to accept the job, already fluent enough in French to tell them where to stick their commendations.

By the time he returned to Britain the job, the parts he liked at least, came as easy to him as breathing, his dangerous obsession unseen but for the thin, dark rings around his eyes, his ruthless efficiency praised and commended by plenty who wished to live vicariously through his accomplishments — his family by no means immune — but to Indigo he was simply on the same path on which he’d always been, beholden to no force but his own momentum.

Jack was away from the office when the news broke, so it fell to one of his dutiful stooges in middle-management limbo to deliver what Indigo considered a rather limp attempt at a rollicking — Jack would have at least had a few stiff drinks first, perhaps even psyched himself up in the mirror — and by the time the Ministry Man had finished, flustered, hoarse and red in the face, Indigo had for him only a faint, teasing look of bewilderment, like he hadn’t really been listening.

“Jack couldn’t floo back into the office to have his own tantrum?” he asked, as if it were the most pressing question.

You’re an Auror, Amberghast!” said the man — Johnson, maybe? — irritably, slamming a full deck of folders down on the desk, splayed out like cards, each one crammed too-full with parchment, “you can’t just disappear to Hogwarts without telling us —

“This is me telling you.”

Johnson’s eyebrows tried and failed to go vertical, nonetheless managing the unpleasant contortion of his face.

And who's going t—

I am, obviously,” he said, his large, pale hand gathering the case folders and with a flourish of his wand binding them in string, “it would take more than a year at Hogwarts for me to allow any of these troglodytes to undo my work. So don’t you worry — I’ll close just as many cases as I always do.” 

If it had been Jack standing there he might have brought his attention to another stack of files, thicker still, buried in the deep, enchanted drawer of his desk. Not because Jack hadn’t seen it, or because Johnson hadn’t seen it, not because it was any kind of secret, in fact.

A year previous during the Azra debacle — though merely another in a long, long line of debacles for the Ministry at Hogwarts — he had not limited his investigation to one volatile woman nor allowed himself to be poisoned by the Ministry’s seedy and myopic intent. Something worse was festering there, something that could lie, and charm, and make invisible its true nature.

It was why it always happened at Hogwarts — no one there wanted to see.

It was the largest office in Hogwarts and, perhaps to students and newcomers, the most intimidating. The shelves were filled with various odds and ends, with a place of honor for the Sorting Hat, and the walls held all the portraits of past Headmasters and Headmistresses.

In the middle of the room sat a large desk. Everything was in order, for the current occupant had always despised a messy desk. It was the sign of a messy mind, and she had always favored neatness.

A clock sat on the desk, which currently showed the time to be 2:05. The meeting was supposed to begin at 2:00 precisely.

Along with order, Anneka valued punctuality. She was a very busy woman these days. Even during the summer, she had a number of matters to attend to. Interviewing and hiring staff was only of those matters. The newest potential member of her staff wasn't making a good impression.

She paced the room, black heels clicking against the stone floor. When the door finally opened, Anneka turned, her expression reminiscent of a Russian winter. "You are late."

Explain yourself was what her face said.

Roleplay Response:

Two chimes of the clocktower had come and gone by the time he reached the foot of the staircase, and he was half inclined to take the ominous sounds at face value and head back to his office, Anneka having neither the heart nor the face for forgiveness. With most people he would consider five minutes late being closer to five minutes early, Indigo never a punctual or considerate creature, but with Anneka he expected to find her half-catatonic, face glued to the clock, groaning his name with a haunted murmur.

He moved in silence up the spiral staircase (and could have sworn he heard her pacing) entering the room without so much as a knock, lest those additional ten seconds be held against him.

“I know, darling, really it’s terrible,” he said, gliding across the room towards the steaming pot of tea and, not completely immune to her plight, he poured hers out first, a salve to soothe her woes. “I was stuck at the bottom of that staircase for nearly half an hour — honestly, your staff can’t half drone on.”

He fell back gracefully in his seat, cup and saucer in hand — completely steady and unspilt by the fall — taking a long, noiseless sip of the blisteringly hot liquid and watching her, his dark eyes not blinking, over the china rim.

“You know what it is? They need to get out more.”
« Last Edit: 09/04/2024 at 11:58 by Indigo Amberghast »