With the capture of Verandi Farley and several high-ranking Trossach members, the British wizarding world has finally caught a break. The rate of rogue werewolf attacks have started dropping at a steady rate and, hopefully, things will stay that way. The Ministry is starting to loosen some restrictions, like not arresting werewolves standing on the street for loitering, however there’s still an obvious power imbalance between wizardfolk and werewolves.
The Cotswolds pack are continuing to advocate for the rights of werewolves and petitioning to change the legislation that has been set in motion by the current Minister for Magic, whilst the remaining Trossachs members are trying to stay out of the spotlight and keep a low profile… for now.
Whilst the British wizarding world seems to have calmed down, the same cannot be said for over in Northern Europe where a rebellion of magical creatures has risen. The state of things has gotten so bad that the European Ministry has enacted protocols to protect those under eighteen whilst their adult witches and wizards fight to keep control of their countries.
Students from Durmstrang have been sent to Hogwarts to keep them safe and those not old enough to attend school have been sent to live with relatives or designated British Ministry officials outside of Europe for the time being.
Will the low rates of werewolf attacks in Britain continue? How long will Durmstrang students stay at Hogwarts? Will the creatures usurp the wizardfolk in Northern Europe? Only time will tell.
SEPTEMBER 2019 It's been a very long, eventful summer in the wizarding world. A baby was stolen, several high ranking Trossach members were imprisoned, and werewolf attacks have drastically dropped as a result. What will happen now school has returned?
MAY 2019 An attempt to capture the beta of the Trossachs has been launched. Were the Aurors successful in their mission? Go read more here!
Negative Traits: - self-serving - manipulative - tendency to make horrible, horrible puns - gets caught up in his own lies
Quirks and Habits: - biting his nails when he's nervous - tapping his foot against the ground in order to stay moving - messing with his hair when he's idle - wears his gloves no matter where he goes, mostly to avoid getting his hands dirty.
Likes: - rats - exploring - causing mischief - cleaning and organizing - practicing his flips
Dislikes: - gryffindors - mudbloods - cheaters (that get caught) - dirty places - not being able to clean something
Boggart: his father Mirror of Erised: his mother and sister, happy Patronus: anaconda
A mischievous child by no other name, Medraut seeks attention. He loves the idea of being the center of the world, no matter what cost - He will do anything that results in being the apple of someone’s eye. Be it mischief or lying, or causing a bit of mayhem, he will do whatever it takes to remain in their memories. He was born as the youngest of two, after all, and he wants attention. He will get attention no matter what: Regardless of what the price for it is, he’ll pay it in due diligence. This includes lying to peers and occasionally spreading rumors, although he claims its all within good fun. He wouldn’t dare do something to get someone hurt… Unless it resulted in him being praised or acknowledged as something greater than he was.
He’s a backstabber under the guise of a friend. Those who know him know it well: He can’t tell the truth no matter what, lying and making stories at the tip of his tongue. He’s a snake given human form, making his sorting all the more deserving. He’s cunning with his lies, he doesn’t take prisoners or risk his truth being let out. He will eagerly shut down doubt. He creates webs of stories and fantasies then watches people get trapped in it, only to reveal that it was all false - and yet, most of his tales start out normal, only escalating with each added question. However, this isn’t to say he’s a true deceiver: To teachers and officials, he’s as honest as he is kind. Around authority he could pass as someone else.
He’s a pureblooded liar. He despises mudbloods and anything that’s not a hundred percent pure; However, it is to note, that his ideology has slowly slipped away over the course of his time at Hogwarts. He’s grown to be more tolerant, although he still has prejudices fine. He won’t shake a mudbloods hand without his gloves, but he’ll do what it takes to help them survive. That’s the one thing he can truthfully attest to, obviously: He doesn’t want other students to get killed no matter what the cost of protecting them is. He’ll be their guardian if has to - but lord forbid you tell this tale to anyone else, for his genuine care for other students is a closely guarded secret. He can feign friendships and bitter relationships, but deep down he truly cares for those around him…
As long as they serve their use.
HISTORY
His home. A small cottage, nothing too fancy, but one that fit the needs of his family well enough; Contrasting what one might have expected out of a pureblood family, the Snyders were a more humble bunch. His mother took pride in maintaining the garden that he and his sister often tore up in the summer, and his father was forever occupied with fixing a patch of bent wood on the roof. They were wealthy - his father was the heir to a wandmaker’s fortune, and his mother had long since made a living as an author of vendettas and mandates for like minded purebloods - yet the vast majority of their wealth was either stored away in banks or spent on decorum for the family home. It was an old one, an heirloom in and of itself, after all; Both parents took great care in maintaining the cottage illusion as a rustic getaway, and both siblings made it a personal mission to tear it up as frequently as possible.
It was one of those missions that led the two to tumble down through the garden, their fresh sweaters caked in mud and torn petals. Morgana landed with a thud beside him. She was three years older than him, then, as she had always been; In those days, he was a trouble making six year old, and she was supposedly the more mature nine. Whereas he still possessed some baby fat around his cheeks, rounding out what would eventually be a sharper physique, she had shed most of hers: Working in the garden with her mother had given her a leaner build than her younger sibling, although that was to be expected. The house elves remained indoors, cleaning and sweeping, and the outer yard was reserved for residents of the home who - in their eyes - had proper education and wits about them.
Thus, one had to wonder why the son was allowed to play in the mulch and soil.
“That was bloody stupid,” Morgana was laughing through her words. “I mean - Really, Meddy, you couldn’t have just let me tag you?” She pushed herself up on her palms, and gave her brother a sharp glare. Her attention must have gone from him to her clothing, then to the resident twigs and mulch shards stuck to her sweater, because - in the next instant - all teasing between them was gone. “Now look what you’ve gone and done.” She made a wide, sweeping gesture to her clothing, taking off a few pieces of mulch in the process.
“You can’t blame me,” His voice carried a smile with it. Medraut hopped up from the mulch, shaking pieces of dirt out from his hair like a mutt would have done with fleas or ticks. “You’re very intimidating in tag, Morgan!” He took a step back just as she took a step forward. The chase was prepared to start once more. Siblings were going to race around the house in a matter of seconds, shirking their duties in favor of chasing each other’s tails. “But, since you never got me-”
Medraut would not continue his sentence. He cut himself off with a jovial cry, turning up dust with his sprint in the opposite direction, making an immediate line towards the cottage. The tinted oak door welcomed him in; When he swung it open, it nearly collided with the frail form of the head house elf, Tinker. A quick apology was shouted out on behalf of the youngster, who immediately found himself carving a path towards the upper stories.
“Meddy!” He heard his sister wail. “I’m gonna get you!’
“Gonna have to catch me first, Morgan!”
He was nine, then. Standing at the platform of an unknown station, eyes wide with delight and awe at the wizards and witches brushing by his small frame in their haste to get to wherever they were headed. Work for some. Classes for others. A certain train, a certain world, a certain school for others. It was on that platform that he saw Morgana in her fledgling stage; Her hair had been bleached and dyed multiple times, until it resembled a garbled rainbow over the elegance she wanted it to have. Colors merged together in the worst of ways, yet she had been ensured that no one would dare to mock the appearance of a Snyder. Not someone of their heritage. Not someone of their little known wealth or importance. No, no, not them at all.
His father took his shoulder in his hand. His grip was tight and stern. Medraut could feel his father’s nails digging through the fabric of his jacket as talons through snake scales, his lips drawn into a thin and tight line. This was the appearance of Ul Snyder, the head of the household, the reigning king of their woodside kingdom. He embodied what all wanted to be: Tall and broad shouldered, but gentle in his stance when the time came for it. His suit was tailored to the finest strand, gold woven across obsidian coat tails. Perhaps they looked out of place there, formal in the face of what his father had eagerly deemed as ‘mudbloods and half-breeds’. The glint of malice in his father’s eyes certainly seemed to read as such; If they were out of place, which - by all intents - they surely could have been, it was likely in a good way. At least, the youngest Snyder hoped it was in a good way.
“Don’t let them touch you.” He spoke in a sharp hiss. “You know mudbloods are dirty enough to stain your hands for a millennia, don’t you?” His father’s gaze fell to his mother. “Don’t let her get too close to the other children, please. Last thing I need is her catching some sort of flu from these… things.” Medraut noted, a bit too late, that his father was using a lower tone of voice. He must not have wanted to be heard: Whereas Ul’s voice could have been louder than the boom of a jet engine, it could also remain as soft and delicate as an owl feather’s fold. Almost silent, but not quite. Never quite silent enough.
His mother was on the opposite end of their little spectrum of appearances. Comparing her sunflower dress and wide-brimmed hat to his father’s businessman attire would have given anyone the impression that they were two of the most oddly paired wizards to ever start a family together. His mother’s hair, unlike his father’s, fell down in waves to grace the mid of her back; Her smile was gentle, her expression refined, her voice lacking every droplet of venom that his father’s cherished so dearly. She spared Ul and Medraut a brief glance, her blue eyes contrasting the dreary and rainy-day background of the station with all too poised intensity.
“Let the boy live, Ul.” She chided, tipping her chin up. “Merlin’s sake, you won’t catch a plague from these people.”
“Yes, but-”
“No but’s.” His mother popped the ‘b’ syllable as a bubble, then lowered herself to brace her hands on Morgana’s shoulders. They had the same eyes. No one would say it aloud, for Morgana always favored herself as looking more like her father, but they had the precise same eyes: Bluer than the summer horizon, unfazed by the bustle and hustle going on around them. “You’ll be just fine, Morgana. I promise.”
The burrowing owl in Morgana’s cage squeaked, almost as if to object to what their mother is saying. Morgana’s luggage was enough to fill a train in and of itself, and still have leftovers to forget at the station. However, it was all neatly packed for the time being: The sooner she gets on the train, Medraut thinks, the sooner he can actually get back to what he wants to do.
“Be careful, now.” Freya’s voice was calm and controlled. “Please, darling. Don’t talk to strangers.”
“I know, mum, I know.” Morgana sighed. She spared him a glance, the corners of her mouth twitching up as if to tease him. “See you in a few years, Meddy.”
With that, she turned up loose dust particles in her sprint, and lurched through the pillar that should have stopped her dead in her tracks. The brick pillar appeared to glimmer if only for a moment after her passing.
Ul’s hand braced the back of Medraut’s throat.
“Let’s go.” His voice was bittered. Full of what Medraut could only identify as envy, although he didn’t know what towards. “The longer we’re here, the dirtier we become.”
His mother did not object that time.
Neither did the son himself.
He was twelve and staring down God.
His father’s hands braced on his shoulders. Ul’s eyes were aflame with weariness; The rat on Medraut’s shoulders shifted left and right, scurrying back and forth in an effort to get as far away from the father’s odin-eye as possible. He couldn’t blame the poor thing. Ul had torn through every other option, ridiculed him through the majority of the shopping process, and eventually given Medraut an ultimatum in terms of animal choices: He would either get a burrowing owl like his sister, or he would be demoted to a rat. That which was not fit for their noble blood, not fit for what they wanted to do, not fit for who they were. A piece of vermin.
However, the tiny little bugger had grown on Medraut in the span of five minutes, and the prospective Hogwarts attendant was all too happy to “settle” on the newly named Warble. The animal raced down his sleeve to his elbow, then - with little hesitance - leapt off to claw its way into Medraut’s shirt pocket. He could feel it wriggling and trying to get comfortable, taking the ultimate shelter from Ul’s uncaring gaze. Part of Medraut wanted to join the rat in the pocket, but the rest knew that he was far too large to fit into such a small opening. For that matter, the look his father was giving him likely would have stayed with him even in the best hiding spots; It was burned into the front of his mind, that visage that displayed nothing but unbridled and undeterred disappointment.
Before, with Morgana, Medraut had been given the right to travel with his mother to the stores while his father and sister went to collect their dues. Once all was said done, then - three years ago that day - they had all reconvened at the station. However, one member of the family was absent; A gentle smile and warm eyes were missing from their meeting, as was the confident multi-streaked hair of his sister.
One was currently at the school, having left early and gone on her own, a rebellious spirit in the making.
The other was six feet below a willow back near their cabin, marked by a grave that only revealed itself once someone came close enough to make out the shimmering indent of a charm cast once, twice, three times on the surrounding plot of land. She had died of unknown circumstances; Sickness, Medraut assumed, given by how many doctor visits they went to. Each one said the same line over and over again: You’re out of luck, better make it good while it lasts. Or, well, not those words specifically. They were more professional about it. However, to the eyes of a child, that was precisely what it sounded like. Not an apology. Not an oath to help. Just a shrug, a clipboard setting itself down on the desk, and a door shutting behind them while Morgana lingered outside the room.
“You listen.” His father’s voice had never been so harsh on his ears. The mantra of filth and mud had been repeated over the course of three years, ingraining an ideology that he had never truly understood into Medraut’s mind. Some people were filthy. Their blood made them dirty. It was their job to lead them, not to understand them; They were cattle awaiting a healthy shepard, and he was primed to be the one they had longed for. His sister, too, was given the same speech that Medraut was often delivered. The same ideology for the two of them, albeit vastly different views on their father and family as a whole. The more the yells kept him up at night, the more Medraut had to wonder if his father was in his right mind.
Can purebloods go mad?
“I want a letter every week. Don’t you dare touch one of those things.” He cast a wayward glance to a passing child.
A hasty nod on the part of the child.
Ul relinquished his grasp.
Months passed. Then years. Memories bled together in a stream of consciousness that, admittedly, was partially blocked by tepid forgetfulness. His hands stayed to himself; He didn’t dare make contact with a mudblood without gloves on, and he certainly didn’t care for their opinions. However, as time went on, memories became fonder when in solitude: Within the Slytherin common room, Medraut could often be found studying or writing, taking notes for the best method of grabbing someone’s attention, that which he always yearned for. Letters were imprinted into the back of his mind as a necessity. As frequently as he could, they were sent out to his father, to his remaining family.
Soon, Morgana graduated. Three years ahead of him, leaving in his sixth.
They never talked much prior, and - as she exited Hogwarts for the last time - they never talked since.
He had a feeling she hated him.
He had a feeling he was right.
He since dyed his hair, similar to his sister's. Unlike her, however, he just stuck with gold. Always golden, after all.
PLAYER
RP Alias: Quail!! Pronouns: he/him, they/them Hogwarts House:slther Other Characters: @tag Roleplay example:
The dining hall greeted him with open arms. Golden lights dangled from every corner, the roof above enchanted to resemble the midnight sky that he adored all too much, and knew all too well. He reckoned that, had he kept his eyes forever on the stars, he could have mistaken the bustling sound of chitter-chatter from the tables for the roar of an oncoming creek; People would have become trees, owls into robins, and anything else into everything else that screamed familiar to him in bright bold letters. He could have felt at home, then, if only for a moment. At home, at peace, somewhere without the filth and horrid little lies that he had dragged into Hogwarts on that fateful day years ago.
He could have mistaken the castle for home. Sad though it was, that was the truth: It welcomed him more than his father’s cottage did during winter break, and offered him more splendor then his late mother’s fortune could buy. It gave him everything he could have wanted, interactions with fellow slytherins set aside. Friends that he could at least identify by name. Housemates that drew his attention every other day, and antics that were signed by him in a cursive marking resembling that of a sword pierced through an obsidian shire. He could have done well, honestly. He could have made home out of something that had recently begun feeling as though it was nothing more than a foreign dream.
It scared him, that idea. His home was back in the cottage. His home was where his mother rested six feet under, donned in her Sunday best, her eyes forever shut, and her mind forever wandering some phantasmal afterlife that must have seemed more real than her own heartbeat. His home was with his father, stern and cunning. His home was with his sister, she who likely despised him, though Medraut didn’t know why. He had never ben anything other than adoring towards her, yet she had grown to hate him more over the past three years than she had ever dared to dream of prior. Maybe it was his entry onto Hogwarts territory. Maybe it was that he was a far better spellsmith than her. He didn’t know. All of it - every theory, every daydream, every fragmented occurence - was a complete guess.
He wished he knew the answer to it all. He wished he could get a grasp on everything happening around him, and finally come to terms with what he had lost all those years ago.
For now, though, he could lie about knowing the answer.
If nothing else, he could do that without a doubt.
Welcome to Sonorus, we hope you enjoy your stay! Your character has been sorted into SLYTHERIN and they have been given their wand, 12", yew, dragon heartstring. Feel free to head over to our plotting board or chat with us on our discord server, Don't forget to do your claims and have a good time!
