In-Character
Full Name: Henry Ferdinand WithersNicknames: Called "Harry" as a child, but turns his nose up at it now.
Birthdate: May 5th, 1863
Current Age: Twenty-Eight Years
Occupation: Heir to Aethonan Tea Company
Reputation: 9.
Residence: The family estate in Bridgerton, England
Hogwarts House: Gryffindor Alumnus ('81)
Wand: Cypress, 11¾ inches, Unicorn hair, Bendy
Blood Status: Halfblood
Social Class: Upper Class
Family:
Milton Withers, Father [1834]Appearance:
Margaret Withers (née —), Mother [1841]
[Evelyn], Cousin [18XX]
Henry stands at five feet, nine inches tall, but has otherwise been decidedly average. Like his parents he has wavy, medium brown hair, and although he would rather not worry about proper styling he does so to save himself his mother's fussing. His eyes are brown. He has no sense of fashion but opts for muggle suits to blend in with the locals. He has a habit of smiling to mask his feelings, which can prove awkward in situations where he ought to be frowning. He wields his wand with his left hand.History:
My future was decided for me by the time my mother had recovered from childbirth. My father was Milton Withers, the owner and overseer of Aethonan Tea Company, one my great-grandfather founded sometime around the turn of the century. I was taught the dates as some grand plan to educate me on family heritage alongside everything else a young man apparently needs to know, but I can assure you that I took none of it seriously.Personality:
At this point you're probably thinking, "Why take pride in your lack of effort?", to which I tell you: my father was an asshole with no regard for anything except his own legacy, and I wasn't stupid enough to believe that he viewed me as anything more than a mere part of that. He never took interest in the things I cared about. When I wanted to show him how high I'd managed to stack a deck of playing cards, he only asked if I'd managed to translate into French the poem I'd been assigned. Another time I wanted to watch how fast I could fly the broomstick my Mama gifted me for Christmas, and he told me he was only interested in seeing me ride one of the Aethonans we kept for absolutely no good reason. Bloody fucking horses—I never learned to ride one out of spite, and he hated it.
So at the young age of ten, but a year before I journeyed off to Hogwarts, I decided that I would not fill the shoes he'd laid out for me. On mere principle. I could act the part, but I would never try my hardest. I would never reach my full potential. I would never be him.
— ※ ※ ※ —
When I began Hogwarts, my grand plan to disappoint my father did not include terrible marks. In truth, the castle became something of a refuge for me; I was my own person, could have my own interests and my own friends, and there would be no one to ridicule me for my choices. Unfortunately academics turned out to be one of my weaknesses even when I did put in the effort, and it was all too easy to eventually convince myself that my grades could be yet another thing I could weaponize against my father's pride.
But I wasn't a complete failure—at least not a big enough one to warrant my withdrawal from Hogwarts. Natural talent got me by in Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts, and I was interested enough in Astronomy that it became a hobby even outside the classroom. I liked quidditch, too, but I wasn't nearly good enough to play on the house teams during my first few years.
You might think that I dreaded going home for the summer holidays, but I didn't. Somewhere along the line I stopped caring what my father said whenever the owl came with my marks for the previous school year. It became easier to stare at him, tight-lipped and expressionless, when he yelled at me and claimed he'd taught me better. But what really made it easier was the fact that I found friends.
My cousin [Evelyn] began visiting us during the summers for reasons I never thought to question until he thought to confide in me, and even alone we were a fun pair. But then we met [Gregory] when his family came to dinner one evening, and after realizing we shared a number of classes at Hogwarts it was all the easier to continue our friendship during the quiet summer months in Bridgerton. Through him I met [Cleon], who introduced us to his sister Persephone, who introduced us to her friend [Thomasin], who introduced us to her brother Orwell. We were a funny group, separated by years and sometimes status, but by magical blood and proximity we grew close.
— ※ ※ ※ —
I sat for my OWL examinations alongside my classmates, realized I didn't know what I was doing in most of them, and turned in at least three of them unfinished. My father said I didn't study hard enough—what he didn't realize is that I hadn't studied at all. The rest of my time at Hogwarts was spent with three courses on my schedule, and I graduated alongside my classmates without much ado.
The transition into adulthood started off steady. My father saw fit to send me to the continent for a year and a half. I'm not sure if he thought being immersed in culture would make up for all the time I spent ignoring my language lessons or if he merely wished to rid of me for a few years, but I can't say I cared much at the time. In truth I did learn new things, even if they weren't what my father intended me to learn. I couldn't have cared any less about the Nîmes Arena in France or the mythology surrounding the Knossos. I spent time with the people—the rich, the poor, the magical, the muggle. I returned home with new ideas and a newfound appreciation of people, which didn't help me in my newly-assigned task of defrauding society with overpriced tea that my father claimed was infused with magic that could cure all sorts of ailments. Some of the claims were true, but more often or not they were fabrications. I didn't want to learn the family business; on more than one occasion I even suggested that [Evelyn] learn the ropes instead.
But he persisted. For years—well, at least five years, but they were the longest five years of my life—I was stuck behind an old wooden desk surrounded by paintings created artists I couldn't name. My youth stripped away, I found myself forced into a role I never wanted like a foot shoved into an shoe one size too small. I only survived due to [Frobisher], one of my old schoolmates who I hired as an assistant. At first he'd prepare my papers for the day, but as the weeks and months went by I found that he had more business acumen in his thumb than I had in my whole body. Soon most of my day's work was put on his plate. I paid him handsomely of course—a hefty salary for his work, and a lump sum for his silence. My father still think I do all the work.
— ※ ※ ※ —
Life continued as normal. [Frobisher] did my work. I took up a corner of the family library, where I read two novels a day all with a half-finished stack of the day's paperwork in front of me in case my father happened across me. It became a routine of sorts, and if adulthood taught me anything it's that I thrived on routine.
Which is precisely why the fall of 1888 ruined the life I'd made for myself.
Persephone summoned us to Baxter’s Knoll, the place we spent countless hours a children. Perhaps it was the longing for childish adventure that made me agree to participate, or perhaps a desire to relive the closeness of childhood friendships. We were to perform a ritual, Persephone had said, and I'd thought little of it. Magic like that only worked for ancient sorcerers and dark wizards and the kind of characters I'd read in my silly novels, so why should I think anything would happen for a group of ordinary witches and wizards from Bridgerton?
But it did—or I think it did. I did not have time to grasp what the goal of the ritual was, and I truly don't think Persephone did when we cast it. Nobody wanted Orwell dead. I remembered the panic on everyone's faces when he disappeared from the burial mound and the glances we exchanged at the funeral when it was held after his body was discovered. The muggle police never came, but the aurors knew better. We were all interviewed one-by-one, but not before Persephone had managed to concoct a plan to ensure none of us ever exposed the others.
We made an unbreakable vow. It was then the weight of what we'd done really hit me. We were murderers. I couldn't read for weeks and instead spent my days staring at the library walls or the stacks of paperwork and even the paintings made by artists whose names I soon began to recognize. Even after we were cleared by the auror office I couldn't go a week without waking from the sight of Orwell or the burial mound or his flower-covered casket in my mind.
Even though the guilt never faded the nightmares eventually did, and soon enough I was once again spending my days lounging around the house with a book in hand and [Frobisher] completing the work my father thought I was doing. Even as the year anniversary of Orwell's approached I did not think much of it, and the morning of it hadn't even crossed my mind until my mother entered the library that evening to inform me that [Thomasin] has perished earlier that day.
And, once again, my routine was interrupted. Indefinitely.
Stubborn. Unmotivated. Outgoing. Cares about those he is closest to, even though he often struggles to express it. Does not enjoy being told what to do. Spiteful. Irresponsible. Struggles with emotional intimacy.Other:
— SKILLS —
- Languages: English. Has learned various European languages at a conversational level, but through disuse has lost the ability to speak them.
- Magical skills: A natural with charm work, but is otherwise useless in most areas of magic, both practical and theoretical. He's always had a knack of Astronomy, though, and can read star charts in his sleep.
- Possesses an apparition license but prefers the floo network whenever possible.
— TRIVIA —
- He never learned how to cast a patronus.
- His boggart takes the form of a coffin with bloody fingers peeking out from the lid's opening.
Out-of-Character
Name: BreeAge: 22
![[Image: TrSGeWR.jpg]](https://i.imgur.com/TrSGeWR.jpg)