Free & Taken Canon Characters

hello hello

can i revisit Su Li (canon-plus) please 🍑

@Taylor approved!

hello
after much deliberation (and hounding from she who must not be named) i am applying for draco malfoy

a note: i would like to disregard cursed child "canon" for the most part, and have discussed this with @Olivia as to how it affects astoria. i have also mentioned that i would be applying to the trio (@Harry Potter @Hermione Granger @Emily).

1998

Draco sat, back straight and head high, beside his mother as they awaited the verdict. Out of view, his hands balled into tight fists atop his thighs, his short nails cutting into the flesh of his palms. He knew this trial would determine, one way or another, the rest of his life.

One the one hand, he felt an odd, guilt-filled thrill at the prospect of his father being sentenced to Azkaban; he could become his own man, away from the watchful, judging eye of Lucius Malfoy -- a man who, by all accounts, had lost the respect of his peers and drawn only disgust from his enemies. On the other hand, he was still his father -- the man he had idolised for most of his life, whom he had wanted to impress and make proud until some point in his sixteenth year, where he had seen Lucius Malfoy for what he really was.

And then there was his mother. Narcissa Malfoy had played an instrumental role in the downfall of the Dark Lord, and for that she had already been given clemency along with her son. She had reassured Draco that his father would be acquitted too, that his generous donations to the Ministry and commitment to Hogwarts School as a Governor would set him in good stead -- Draco wasn’t stupid, and he thought maybe his mother was if she truly thought any of that would save her husband. More likely, she was just clinging to the hope that they could somehow put all of this behind them and go back to the way things had been before.

Before. Draco didn’t want before. Well, he wanted some of it. He wanted his friends back. Those who were in Death Eater families had kept away -- either through prudence (many were still awaiting their own trials) or through prejudice (who wanted to associate with the family that had switched sides before the battle had been truly lost?) -- and those who weren’t so obviously tainted but still sympathised looked upon him with no less disdain; Draco and his mother -- and Lucius -- had made their choice. They were no longer welcome at the tables they had once sat.

And what did that mean for his future? If his father was cleared, or not condemned at the very least, then the Malfoys would be treated with endless suspicion by the side they had turned to -- the side they didn’t truly belong with nor wish to -- and with contempt by the side they had abandoned. If he was sent to gaol, did Draco have a chance at redeeming himself, with one side or the other? We’ve paid our price, I’m just like the rest of you.

The grand doors of the courtroom opened and Draco stood with his mother and the rest of the room. Kingsley Shacklebolt led ten or so witches and wizards in from where they had been deliberating. They took their seats, and Draco retook his, holding his breath.

hello
after much deliberation (and hounding from she who must not be named) i am applying for draco malfoy

a note: i would like to disregard cursed child "canon" for the most part, and have discussed this with @Olivia as to how it affects astoria. i have also mentioned that i would be applying to the trio (@Harry Potter @Hermione Granger @Emily).

1998

Draco sat, back straight and head high, beside his mother as they awaited the verdict. Out of view, his hands balled into tight fists atop his thighs, his short nails cutting into the flesh of his palms. He knew this trial would determine, one way or another, the rest of his life.

One the one hand, he felt an odd, guilt-filled thrill at the prospect of his father being sentenced to Azkaban; he could become his own man, away from the watchful, judging eye of Lucius Malfoy -- a man who, by all accounts, had lost the respect of his peers and drawn only disgust from his enemies. On the other hand, he was still his father -- the man he had idolised for most of his life, whom he had wanted to impress and make proud until some point in his sixteenth year, where he had seen Lucius Malfoy for what he really was.

And then there was his mother. Narcissa Malfoy had played an instrumental role in the downfall of the Dark Lord, and for that she had already been given clemency along with her son. She had reassured Draco that his father would be acquitted too, that his generous donations to the Ministry and commitment to Hogwarts School as a Governor would set him in good stead -- Draco wasn’t stupid, and he thought maybe his mother was if she truly thought any of that would save her husband. More likely, she was just clinging to the hope that they could somehow put all of this behind them and go back to the way things had been before.

Before. Draco didn’t want before. Well, he wanted some of it. He wanted his friends back. Those who were in Death Eater families had kept away -- either through prudence (many were still awaiting their own trials) or through prejudice (who wanted to associate with the family that had switched sides before the battle had been truly lost?) -- and those who weren’t so obviously tainted but still sympathised looked upon him with no less disdain; Draco and his mother -- and Lucius -- had made their choice. They were no longer welcome at the tables they had once sat.

And what did that mean for his future? If his father was cleared, or not condemned at the very least, then the Malfoys would be treated with endless suspicion by the side they had turned to -- the side they didn’t truly belong with nor wish to -- and with contempt by the side they had abandoned. If he was sent to gaol, did Draco have a chance at redeeming himself, with one side or the other? We’ve paid our price, I’m just like the rest of you.

The grand doors of the courtroom opened and Draco stood with his mother and the rest of the room. Kingsley Shacklebolt led ten or so witches and wizards in from where they had been deliberating. They took their seats, and Draco retook his, holding his breath.

approved, please make a sheet!

hello hello
i would like to apply for michael corner, if the minor character w no bearing on major plot events niche ain't broke......
have discussed with @Ginny Weasley for ex-girlfriend reasons, have put much much much thought into it
ty for ur consideration, cheers

---------
sample:

His back hurt, like he’d slept on it funny; as Michael was spooning ground coffee into a filter, humming tunelessly around his toothbrush, he twisted his entire torso to the left, then to the right. He was too young for chronic back pain -- only twenty-three, barely an adult -- but there were plenty of other things he thought he was too young for. Caffeine addiction, for instance -- he went through more coffee in a week than his mother did in a month, he’d done the math once. He put the filter in place and poked the coffeemaker with his wand; it started to gurgle faintly. He cracked his neck; now his neck hurt, too.

His mother spent more on coffee than he did, at least. He was winning at something.

"Ick hey,” he said, awkwardly around his toothbrush; he took it out to enunciate, “Pick up the pace. It’s almost three-thirty.” The coffeemaker wheezed out some steam and a bit of hot water, but no coffee; Michael rolled his eyes and got his wand out, in case prodding it arbitrarily would do him any good. It didn’t. He left it alone for two minutes in case it just couldn't go while he was watching, spat out his toothpaste and rinsed, but it was still sitting stubbornly and immobile when he returned. “I should just buy a French press,” he threatened, as a last resort. That got a response -- the coffeemaker spat out a dollop of coffee, almost petulantly.

It was wholly unappealing, sort of like sludgy, caffeinated mud, and so hot that he couldn’t pick up the mug without a potholder; he had a seat, legs stretched out under the table, and took an experimental sip. It scalded past his lips and over his tongue and scorched down his throat; he coughed and set the mug down to wait for a few minutes.

Michael wasn’t actually going to buy a French press. His coffeemaker was a piece of junk but it’d cost two galleons, his mother thought it was an eyesore, and it was the most interesting thing he owned -- he felt obligated to love it. He’d probably sell his soul before his coffeemaker. Who could blame it, if it was awful at the one thing it was expected to do? This coffeemaker hadn’t asked to be created.

He sure didn’t keep it for the coffee. If he wanted to drink good coffee he’d go to a shop.

He took another sip, out of pure curiosity -- either it was more palatable now, or he’d numbed his entire oesophagus with the first drink -- and tilted into a stretch, let the back of the chair dig up under his shoulder blades. His kitchen in the morning was always a morbidly miserable experience -- the tiles felt at once grimy and gritty, even though he cleaned often, and the light was both dim and too harsh -- but it was his kitchen, and his morbid misery, so he loved it. He was barely an adult, after all. He would grow to like his life eventually.

But for now, he would finish his coffee.

hello hello
i would like to apply for michael corner, if the minor character w no bearing on major plot events niche ain't broke......
have discussed with @Ginny Weasley for ex-girlfriend reasons, have put much much much thought into it
ty for ur consideration, cheers

---------
sample:

His back hurt, like he’d slept on it funny; as Michael was spooning ground coffee into a filter, humming tunelessly around his toothbrush, he twisted his entire torso to the left, then to the right. He was too young for chronic back pain -- only twenty-three, barely an adult -- but there were plenty of other things he thought he was too young for. Caffeine addiction, for instance -- he went through more coffee in a week than his mother did in a month, he’d done the math once. He put the filter in place and poked the coffeemaker with his wand; it started to gurgle faintly. He cracked his neck; now his neck hurt, too.

His mother spent more on coffee than he did, at least. He was winning at something.

"Ick hey,” he said, awkwardly around his toothbrush; he took it out to enunciate, “Pick up the pace. It’s almost three-thirty.” The coffeemaker wheezed out some steam and a bit of hot water, but no coffee; Michael rolled his eyes and got his wand out, in case prodding it arbitrarily would do him any good. It didn’t. He left it alone for two minutes in case it just couldn't go while he was watching, spat out his toothpaste and rinsed, but it was still sitting stubbornly and immobile when he returned. “I should just buy a French press,” he threatened, as a last resort. That got a response -- the coffeemaker spat out a dollop of coffee, almost petulantly.

It was wholly unappealing, sort of like sludgy, caffeinated mud, and so hot that he couldn’t pick up the mug without a potholder; he had a seat, legs stretched out under the table, and took an experimental sip. It scalded past his lips and over his tongue and scorched down his throat; he coughed and set the mug down to wait for a few minutes.

Michael wasn’t actually going to buy a French press. His coffeemaker was a piece of junk but it’d cost two galleons, his mother thought it was an eyesore, and it was the most interesting thing he owned -- he felt obligated to love it. He’d probably sell his soul before his coffeemaker. Who could blame it, if it was awful at the one thing it was expected to do? This coffeemaker hadn’t asked to be created.

He sure didn’t keep it for the coffee. If he wanted to drink good coffee he’d go to a shop.

He took another sip, out of pure curiosity -- either it was more palatable now, or he’d numbed his entire oesophagus with the first drink -- and tilted into a stretch, let the back of the chair dig up under his shoulder blades. His kitchen in the morning was always a morbidly miserable experience -- the tiles felt at once grimy and gritty, even though he cleaned often, and the light was both dim and too harsh -- but it was his kitchen, and his morbid misery, so he loved it. He was barely an adult, after all. He would grow to like his life eventually.

But for now, he would finish his coffee.

@Nan approved!

we return, once again, to the minor/mentioned canon niche
applying for Anthony Goldstein, to no ones surprise
have discussed primarily with @Michael Corner for Ravenclaw boys reasons, some with @Emily for Zach reasons, and @Christine for Hermione reasons, with more discussions with canon character drivers to come.

as one of the few things we know about Anthony comes from the 2014 tweet by Joanne with the text "Anthony Goldstein, Ravenclaw, Jewish Wizard," I've take the liberty of adding pieces of that background to the sample. It can be secularized/generalized if needed.

cheers
When was the last time there had been a party for Anthony Goldstein?

1993, his bar mitzvah. It was over the summer, had to be, he couldn’t come home over the weekends during the school  year. Terry and Michael and a few of their other yearmates had come, but it had mostly been a family and family friends sort of event. He had invited Granger, too, but she hadn’t been able to make it, something about recovering from petrification. 

From then on, he was an adult, and adults don’t do more than a nice dinner with their families on their birthday, or maybe shots of firewhiskey with their friends in a swanky London club after surviving a secret war. Not parties.

This, however, was certainly a capital P Party party. His mother had insisted on inviting everyone from the small wizarding synagogue, plus their children*, plus the American Goldsteins, and then some of Tatti’s work friends, and then finally he had been allowed to edit the guest list himself.

Michael was invited, of course, and Terry, and most of the living members of the Ravenclaw DA. An invite had gone to some choice others - Zacharias Smith, Granger - and a few friends from the program and his internship. All told, maybe a couple dozen of Anthony’s people had shown up.

There was a clear divide between the older and younger folks here. Anthony could imagine neon signs directing people to each group: Dumbledore’s Child Soldiers over on the north end, Everyone Else on the south side. House elves scurried between the two, offering plates of mock shrimp cocktails and other assorted treats to anyone looking downward.

In this corner, with his actual friends, there was an argument about the Ministry intramural Quidditch league going on that Anthony was only half listening to. Pulling at the collar of his robes - it was sweltering in here - he glanced over at his parents. Mother had gained back the weight she lost in Azkaban, thank God, and was gleefully gossiping about something with Mrs. Smith.

His mother had told him once about her older brother’s bar mitzvah, how it had been a party for all these European refugees more than it had been for her brother at all. “They were not celebrating your uncle, not really,” she had said. “They were celebrating being alive and having children at all.”

Looking around the banquet hall, it was becoming clear this party wasn’t about him becoming Solicitor Goldstein. Most people were ignoring his presence entirely. This spectacle was for his mother and father. It was an excuse to say, look, we did it, our family survived another war. The epitome of “they tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat.”

Some small paranoid voice in the back of his head wondered how many more genocides this family would witness. Anthony told the voice shut it, we’re having a party, and took another shot of whiskey.

we return, once again, to the minor/mentioned canon niche
applying for Anthony Goldstein, to no ones surprise
have discussed primarily with @Michael Corner for Ravenclaw boys reasons, some with @Emily for Zach reasons, and @Christine for Hermione reasons, with more discussions with canon character drivers to come.

as one of the few things we know about Anthony comes from the 2014 tweet by Joanne with the text "Anthony Goldstein, Ravenclaw, Jewish Wizard," I've take the liberty of adding pieces of that background to the sample. It can be secularized/generalized if needed.

cheers
When was the last time there had been a party for Anthony Goldstein?

1993, his bar mitzvah. It was over the summer, had to be, he couldn’t come home over the weekends during the school  year. Terry and Michael and a few of their other yearmates had come, but it had mostly been a family and family friends sort of event. He had invited Granger, too, but she hadn’t been able to make it, something about recovering from petrification. 

From then on, he was an adult, and adults don’t do more than a nice dinner with their families on their birthday, or maybe shots of firewhiskey with their friends in a swanky London club after surviving a secret war. Not parties.

This, however, was certainly a capital P Party party. His mother had insisted on inviting everyone from the small wizarding synagogue, plus their children*, plus the American Goldsteins, and then some of Tatti’s work friends, and then finally he had been allowed to edit the guest list himself.

Michael was invited, of course, and Terry, and most of the living members of the Ravenclaw DA. An invite had gone to some choice others - Zacharias Smith, Granger - and a few friends from the program and his internship. All told, maybe a couple dozen of Anthony’s people had shown up.

There was a clear divide between the older and younger folks here. Anthony could imagine neon signs directing people to each group: Dumbledore’s Child Soldiers over on the north end, Everyone Else on the south side. House elves scurried between the two, offering plates of mock shrimp cocktails and other assorted treats to anyone looking downward.

In this corner, with his actual friends, there was an argument about the Ministry intramural Quidditch league going on that Anthony was only half listening to. Pulling at the collar of his robes - it was sweltering in here - he glanced over at his parents. Mother had gained back the weight she lost in Azkaban, thank God, and was gleefully gossiping about something with Mrs. Smith.

His mother had told him once about her older brother’s bar mitzvah, how it had been a party for all these European refugees more than it had been for her brother at all. “They were not celebrating your uncle, not really,” she had said. “They were celebrating being alive and having children at all.”

Looking around the banquet hall, it was becoming clear this party wasn’t about him becoming Solicitor Goldstein. Most people were ignoring his presence entirely. This spectacle was for his mother and father. It was an excuse to say, look, we did it, our family survived another war. The epitome of “they tried to kill us, we won, let’s eat.”

Some small paranoid voice in the back of his head wondered how many more genocides this family would witness. Anthony told the voice shut it, we’re having a party, and took another shot of whiskey.

approved! Please make a sheet @Fosse

Hello I would like to apply to create Mavis Grant, @Michael Corner 's half sister. I have spoken with @Lianne about it <3333

Hello I would like to apply to create Mavis Grant, @Michael Corner 's half sister. I have spoken with @Lianne about it <3333

approved! please make a sheet! @Samm

hi as discussed with @Olivia i am releasing my claim on draco malfoy thank you

hi as discussed with @Olivia i am releasing my claim on draco malfoy thank you

noted <33

Hiya,

after discussing things with @Olivia and @Christine I'm going to try my hand at this guy again <<

Further discussions with other canon folks also welcomed!

Thanks for reading

Anyway, here's wonderwall Draco:

Draco sighed softly as he stared at himself in the mirror for what was probably the tenth time that morning. His hair was impeccable, along with the dark robes with the British Ministry of Magic crest embroidered on the chest in a golden bronze thread. He resisted the urge to rub his face or run his hands through his hair again. He was fidgety this morning and had had to re-do his hair a few times after he’d not caught himself in time. 

Instead the wizard deliberately turned away from the mirror, not wanting the company of his own reflection and toward the brunette who was sitting on the chaise lounge in the middle of the room. He offered her a wane smile and gestured at himself with upturned palms “Well, Ria…how do I look?” He asked her the question knowing full well that he looked fine, but Astoria’s opinion of him mattered all the same. He wouldn’t leave for the Ministry without her approval, as long as it wasn’t going to make him late.

He smiled widely at her response, a genuine reaction and squeezed her hands gently but gratefully as she approached him. He laughed softly at himself then, as he looked down at his fiancée “I don’t think I was even this nervous to start at school” he told her conspiratorially, as he dropped a hand to gently run a thumb along her cheek affectionately. He didn’t say anything for a moment, content to touch and look at the witch in front of him. The door to the room was open, and he had no ill intentions, but at the moment, someone could have rebuked them and he would have wholly ignored the reprimand.

He stepped back then still holding one of her hands in his and queried her again “Cufflinks or no cufflinks?” His robe more or less obscured what he was wearing underneath and they’d gone over his outfit multiple times but it had to be exactly right. He was seeing Hermione Granger, and likely a handful of other old schoolmates for the first time in at least a few months if not years. And, even though the connotation associated with Draco Malfoy, or even the Malfoy name had changed dramatically since then, he’d be damned if he wouldn’t show up looking his best. His mother had raised him to do just as much, if not more.

Frowning slightly, Draco pulled the watch from his pocket and checked the time. It was almost time for him to go. The blonde sighed again and his frown deepened, giving away his inner turmoil. He looked at Astoria again, his expression soft but serious “This is the right decision, isn’t it?” He hated to fret. He was typically good at making decisions, taking action, but the rolling in his stomach made his mind waver each time he felt a new wave of nausea.

When he couldn’t wait any longer, the wizard looked to Astoria for one more approving nod, kissed her cheek, and made himself move away from her and step towards the fireplace grabbing some floo powder as he went. He steeled himself and threw the powder into the grate, watching as it flared to life full of the familiar emerald green flames. Draco turned and shot Astoria a wink before stepping into the flames and calling out “Ministry of Magic.” He was Draco Malfoy, and it was his first day at the Ministry of Magic. 

- - - -

The wizard stepped out of the floo and found himself in the atrium of the British Ministry, and he had to fight the onslaught of emotions and memories that came hurtling at him before they threatened to overwhelm him, tucking them away for a more private moment. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, inhaled and exhaled, and rolled his neck before turning his gaze towards the mass of bushy brown hair that he could see floating in his peripheral vision.

“Hello…” he greeted the witch carefully as he thought about his next words “Hermione…” he finished a moment later, the word feeling strange on his tongue. His tone was polite, polished, but cautious. He cleared his throat before he went on “I hear you’re to escort me to my first appointments of the day?” He had been told he would have to go through extensive meetings with HR and loads of other bureaucratic red tape and that Hermione would be ‘minding’ him from today on. Draco blinked at his old schoolmate, half wondering if she was going to say something or hit him again. Though this time, he would at least admit he probably deserved it.

Hiya,

after discussing things with @Olivia and @Christine I'm going to try my hand at this guy again <<

Further discussions with other canon folks also welcomed!

Thanks for reading

Anyway, here's wonderwall Draco:

Draco sighed softly as he stared at himself in the mirror for what was probably the tenth time that morning. His hair was impeccable, along with the dark robes with the British Ministry of Magic crest embroidered on the chest in a golden bronze thread. He resisted the urge to rub his face or run his hands through his hair again. He was fidgety this morning and had had to re-do his hair a few times after he’d not caught himself in time. 

Instead the wizard deliberately turned away from the mirror, not wanting the company of his own reflection and toward the brunette who was sitting on the chaise lounge in the middle of the room. He offered her a wane smile and gestured at himself with upturned palms “Well, Ria…how do I look?” He asked her the question knowing full well that he looked fine, but Astoria’s opinion of him mattered all the same. He wouldn’t leave for the Ministry without her approval, as long as it wasn’t going to make him late.

He smiled widely at her response, a genuine reaction and squeezed her hands gently but gratefully as she approached him. He laughed softly at himself then, as he looked down at his fiancée “I don’t think I was even this nervous to start at school” he told her conspiratorially, as he dropped a hand to gently run a thumb along her cheek affectionately. He didn’t say anything for a moment, content to touch and look at the witch in front of him. The door to the room was open, and he had no ill intentions, but at the moment, someone could have rebuked them and he would have wholly ignored the reprimand.

He stepped back then still holding one of her hands in his and queried her again “Cufflinks or no cufflinks?” His robe more or less obscured what he was wearing underneath and they’d gone over his outfit multiple times but it had to be exactly right. He was seeing Hermione Granger, and likely a handful of other old schoolmates for the first time in at least a few months if not years. And, even though the connotation associated with Draco Malfoy, or even the Malfoy name had changed dramatically since then, he’d be damned if he wouldn’t show up looking his best. His mother had raised him to do just as much, if not more.

Frowning slightly, Draco pulled the watch from his pocket and checked the time. It was almost time for him to go. The blonde sighed again and his frown deepened, giving away his inner turmoil. He looked at Astoria again, his expression soft but serious “This is the right decision, isn’t it?” He hated to fret. He was typically good at making decisions, taking action, but the rolling in his stomach made his mind waver each time he felt a new wave of nausea.

When he couldn’t wait any longer, the wizard looked to Astoria for one more approving nod, kissed her cheek, and made himself move away from her and step towards the fireplace grabbing some floo powder as he went. He steeled himself and threw the powder into the grate, watching as it flared to life full of the familiar emerald green flames. Draco turned and shot Astoria a wink before stepping into the flames and calling out “Ministry of Magic.” He was Draco Malfoy, and it was his first day at the Ministry of Magic. 

- - - -

The wizard stepped out of the floo and found himself in the atrium of the British Ministry, and he had to fight the onslaught of emotions and memories that came hurtling at him before they threatened to overwhelm him, tucking them away for a more private moment. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, inhaled and exhaled, and rolled his neck before turning his gaze towards the mass of bushy brown hair that he could see floating in his peripheral vision.

“Hello…” he greeted the witch carefully as he thought about his next words “Hermione…” he finished a moment later, the word feeling strange on his tongue. His tone was polite, polished, but cautious. He cleared his throat before he went on “I hear you’re to escort me to my first appointments of the day?” He had been told he would have to go through extensive meetings with HR and loads of other bureaucratic red tape and that Hermione would be ‘minding’ him from today on. Draco blinked at his old schoolmate, half wondering if she was going to say something or hit him again. Though this time, he would at least admit he probably deserved it.

approved! please make a sheet! @Michaela

Hello I'd like to apply for Stewart Ackerley. He was a mentioned character but was moved to minor. My Stewie, who I played for a while, is now an intern potioneer and researching cures for magical bugs and diseases. He's 20 per canon. ^^

Thank you.


Stewart raised his protective goggles from his face to sit on his head, feeling quite accomplished about the potion that he had just finished producing. It was in its fifteenth version, a way to reduce the scarring effect of Spattergroit. There were many ways to reduce the time one had spattergroit, but hardly anything with its aftereffects. The young man was assisting Edwin with the potion, mostly because it was his job to. His side project of reducing the overuse of cruciatus curse effects on someone was just that, a side project, at least until he got his own little research place of his own. He'd call it Ackerley's Medical Apothecary. Maybe he could sell some simple potions over-the-counter for colds and the like while staying busy behind the scenes doing wonderful research.

"Edwin," he called over, beckoning with his gloved hand, "come take a look, I think this one is promising from your recommended changes." The head of the group of potioneers wandered over and Stewart nervously stood still as he inspected it. There was a long silence of note observation, color observation, and swirling the potion delicately in the cauldron. A nod of approval meant this version was to go into the next phase of production, the trial stage. It was a good feeling for Stewart as he sighed a breath of relief when the man wandered away to check on a few of his other underlings.

If the former Ravenclaw could help produce this healing potion to the point of actually getting it into the hands of Healers, he'd be really happy about it. Sure there was the whole Potion Masters Guild that he was a part of, and if he did well on this potion it meant he was ready to sit for the Silver Cauldron exam and gain his own potioneer seal. Edwin was Platinum on the Guild scale, which was really amazing to work under. Stewarts goal was to reach Nimue, and how he'd do it, he was unsure.

The potioneer realigned his goggles to his face, ensuring his protective equipment was properly aligned before pouring the potion into several small vials where it'd some would be stored, and some would be introduced into testing in a bunch of modified lab flobberworms to figure out the effects. From there, they'd either go back to stage one, or continue onto stage three.

Hello I'd like to apply for Stewart Ackerley. He was a mentioned character but was moved to minor. My Stewie, who I played for a while, is now an intern potioneer and researching cures for magical bugs and diseases. He's 20 per canon. ^^

Thank you.


Stewart raised his protective goggles from his face to sit on his head, feeling quite accomplished about the potion that he had just finished producing. It was in its fifteenth version, a way to reduce the scarring effect of Spattergroit. There were many ways to reduce the time one had spattergroit, but hardly anything with its aftereffects. The young man was assisting Edwin with the potion, mostly because it was his job to. His side project of reducing the overuse of cruciatus curse effects on someone was just that, a side project, at least until he got his own little research place of his own. He'd call it Ackerley's Medical Apothecary. Maybe he could sell some simple potions over-the-counter for colds and the like while staying busy behind the scenes doing wonderful research.

"Edwin," he called over, beckoning with his gloved hand, "come take a look, I think this one is promising from your recommended changes." The head of the group of potioneers wandered over and Stewart nervously stood still as he inspected it. There was a long silence of note observation, color observation, and swirling the potion delicately in the cauldron. A nod of approval meant this version was to go into the next phase of production, the trial stage. It was a good feeling for Stewart as he sighed a breath of relief when the man wandered away to check on a few of his other underlings.

If the former Ravenclaw could help produce this healing potion to the point of actually getting it into the hands of Healers, he'd be really happy about it. Sure there was the whole Potion Masters Guild that he was a part of, and if he did well on this potion it meant he was ready to sit for the Silver Cauldron exam and gain his own potioneer seal. Edwin was Platinum on the Guild scale, which was really amazing to work under. Stewarts goal was to reach Nimue, and how he'd do it, he was unsure.

The potioneer realigned his goggles to his face, ensuring his protective equipment was properly aligned before pouring the potion into several small vials where it'd some would be stored, and some would be introduced into testing in a bunch of modified lab flobberworms to figure out the effects. From there, they'd either go back to stage one, or continue onto stage three.

@Heather   approved! please update the sheet!