Hogwarts School: A Harry Potter RPG

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→ CHARACTER INFORMATION.

Name: Tristan McCormick (elsewhere app)

Birthday: 3rd of September 1952 (modified)

Hometown: Godric’s Hollow

Bloodline: Halfblood

Magical Strength (pick one): Charms

Magical Weakness (pick one): Conjuring and Summoning

Year (pick two): Third (Fourth)

Biography:

"We found him like that."

Tristan found it impossible to blink.

His father paled at the sight of him. Still, it did not match the lack of color on the boy's face. He was half a ghost, staring through the man he'd always wanted to emulate like he wasn't even there. Not even when Louis McCormick's strong hands gripped his shoulders, or when their faces became level, did Tristan seem to notice.

"Tristan, what happened?"

No response came. The family that'd found Tris couldn't tell exactly how long he'd been out in the snow. Perhaps an hour, perhaps several. It'd been dead luck that they had. Farmers whose herd had stormed past the protective runes that kept them, spooked by something that had sent them into a frenzy.

He'd been unconscious. Scrapped and bloodied. His broom had splintered, broken beyond repair around him so they'd left it there. When he'd woken up, it'd still been in a catatonic state as much as had been done to keep him warm.

Getting his name had been pulling teeth, once his brain began to work. Getting in contact with Louis had taken the better part of the next day.

"Tristan," his voice began roughing, more serious. The hold on his shoulders pressed like a vice.

"Where's mom?"


"So, you're quitting?"

Tristan nodded.

He didn't talk much these days. Words didn't sound right coming out of his mouth. The voice he heard sounded like a different person, so far away. His light eyes left his father's gaze to look at the broom he'd brought, a sponsored broom from his club, one that had been gifted to him for promotional work. It was sleek, smoothed over wood; the sort that any kid would be over the moon for.

"We don't qui–" Tris could feel his father giving up before starting. Because he knew. It'd taken a literally truth potion to get the words out of his son, administered by a trained Legilimens. He was aware of the guilt that had anchored Tris to this state, the sheer terror that haunted his restless nights, and how such trauma could linger on in a child.

A heavy sigh escaped Louis, and the boy's attention drifted off because he knew what was coming.

"You know it wasn't your fault, son." He'd heard it repeated from the older McCormick. Over and over. And each time only reinforced that it had been. He was the root cause. He'd put them in the situation. It was because of him, and therefore, it was his fault. His siblings knew it. Even his father knew it; the man just loved his son too much to say it.

When Louis McCormick left them room, Tris didn't watch him leave. Instead, he looked at the broom, his stare growing more hateful until he kicked it aside before going back to bed.

Quidditch had been everything to him. It was what his father did for a living. It'd been what had let him come out of his shell. He'd gotten really good at it, took pride in the hard work that went into succeeding and the merit it bought him. Throwing it away should have hit him more profoundly, but it didn't.


This was the second time it'd happened.

A different shade of darkness traced Tristan's brow, adding a cutting edge to the corners of his frown. His knuckles were proudly held in front, scrapped and bloodied. His own lip was cut, but it was the only other scratch on him. At least visibly.

"He said you started it," Louis said calmly, holding back from yelling at him for the moment. "Last time, at least a few witnesses said he had. But you did this time, didn't you?"

Tris looked up finally, cold and distant. He nodded once more, holding back the impulse to shrug it off like it didn't matter. His hands dropped to his side as his left thumb ran against the blood that had caked over his rightmost knuckle. The beating had been deserved in Tristan's eyes. Last time, the bully's gang hadn't been there. This time, the villain had felt big and bold with an entourage behind him, entirely unaware of just what he was provoking.

Except, when the fists began to rain down, none of them moved in to stop him. Not until Tris was done.

"He started it." The answer was a block of ice.

"I finished it."


Since he'd gotten back from camp, his goal had been to pack up everything in his room. And now, the day before the start of the month and the run to the Express with his cousins and older brother, it was all done.

The still quiet of the place was hard to get used to. His father wasn't back yet, Louis McCormick seemingly less and less at home. It was entirely awkward, everything that was happening within their family, and Tris felt it'd be better when the term started and enough of them would be away that things would cool down.

His presence gone would make it far better, he understood. His younger siblings would be able to move back, even if he'd been reassured that he wasn't the reason they'd left. Either way, with all of his belongings were either in luggage bags or in boxes already stored in the attic, the few months without him would be welcomed.

Silence would continue to haunt that branch of the McCormick family. The silence of their home, the silence in their hearts, and the silence that hung between them like a chasm.

If only he could begin to cross it.

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION.
Note: This section is optional, and is up to you to complete.

House Request: Gryffindor

Personality: Tris had been quiet and shy from an early age. More of an observer than anything. It was really when he was able to be put in a competitive element that he morphed out of that, a shift in his comfort zone where he could become more aggressive, more volatile, more forceful. It's a tough duality to compartmentalize. He prefers the quiet of books, the ease that comes from thoughtful interactions.

Before his mother's death, the boy would describe himself as predictable. Now, he was a paradox of both more-so and less-so.

Appearance: People have said all the McCormicks look alike. Brown hair, bright eyes, attractive features. Tristan falls into the same category. He is thinner than his brother was at his age, lithe and almost wiry, but he's quite fit from all the Quidditch. His shoulders carry him, broader than most kids his age, and he normally has a rather unimpressed or bored expression on his fair face.

→ SAMPLE ROLEPLAY.
You come across one of these posts on the site. Please select one & reply as your character. Remember, you can only roleplay your own character's actions, not Evangeline's or Hugh's.

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:

"Can I help you with something? It is not polite to stare."

The weaselly sound made his skin crawl. Tris had poor timing. On certain days, the chao of the Great Hall chatter proved too much to bear. It could become a roar, and in that he could sense his blood begin to rise, especially when another night had passed where sleep proved to be dispassionately difficult.

In his hand was a slice of buttered toast, half-eaten. He held it aloft, unable to finish as he came across the sight of the flower abuse and gawked at how callous it came across. He didn't know what the purpose was, that it was a trivial boy's errant attempt to capture his missing pet, but it felt wrong.

"Can you stop?" He asked bitingly, eyes narrowed sinisterly.

It was mostly him pleading, but the threat was also laced within it. Tris didn't often make them, preferring to avoid the sort of confrontation he wouldn't be able to control. The flowers didn't deserve to be massacred. And the groundskeeper didn't deserve to have to fix this mess being made that likely wouldn't be cleaned up.

Then, as he took a calming breath, his features softened, and he decided to try to be a little less hostile.

"Are you missing something? Do you need help?" Or was he just deciding to take out his frustrations on a pack of innocent flowers? There had to be some reason and coming to this stranger from this angle was likely the better course of action to take. Something that might have gone differently weeks ago.

→ ABOUT YOU.

Please list any characters you have on the site (current and previous): Theodora Jalson and co.

How did you find us?: Player Rec