Larch, ten and a quarter inches, with a phoenix tail feather. Rigid.

Augustus Broadmoor, Father [1830], an auror
Millicent Broadmoor nee Fernsby, [1838], a wife
Magnus Broadmoor, Brother [1860], an auror
Cleon Broadmoor, Brother [1865], a poet

Through her mother, cousins to Juliette Fernsby, Nicolette Fernsby, and Violette Fernsby.

Persy stands at five feet, two and a half inches. Her build is not willowy, though not as...full-bodied as some in her years. She would describe herself as perfectly average, if pressed, though nothing particularly memorable in this regard. Like her eldest brother, Persy inherited her mother's blonde locks. Even for ~occasions, it is worn simply, though respectably. From her father, she inherited grey eyes and a stubborn set to her mouth.

Given her druthers, Persy would wander about in robes or, gasp, trousers, considering both more functional than what is deemed fashionable. She is, however, seldom given her druthers, and so settles for simple colours and cuts of good quality. When dragged along to balls, it is almost exclusively in a dress chosen by her mother, often from her aunt's fashion house. She is right-handed.

Her PB is Florence Pugh.

The Story

We lay our scene in the largely muggle town of Bridgerton, destined to fall into obscurity as time marches on. Here, my family lived in the fashionable district (it was approximately a street long) with the neighbours often wondering what my father, an auror, did for a living. The exception was the house across the street, also magical in nature, and the house from which I found my first friend: [Thomasin], and her younger brother Orwell. 

Outside the bounds of town, about two miles in either direction, lay two other magical families, each living a more lavish life than our own—[Henry] to the north and [Gregroy] to the south grew close with my brother and, by extension, me through sheer childhood proximity and shared magical blood. In the winters, we would be invited to skate on [Henry]’s pond; in the late spring, we would take in the garden [Gregory]’s mother so cherished. In the summers, we would imagine all sorts of things—that we were quidditch players or ancient knights or viking warriors, and our favourite place to do this was Baxter’s Knoll, a small hill just outside of town which, in time, we learned to be an Anglo-Saxon burial mound.

Time marches on, and time took each of us in turn to Hogwarts. In Gryffindor, I was introduced to [Ivy]—a muggleborn girl, ironically, from our very town. We were fast friends, and in the summers, she would be embroiled in our adventures. Besides this mismatched group of friends, I cannot look back on my childhood and think it stood out in the slightest.

In the summer of 1885, my family sold the Bridgerton house and relocated to Hogsmeade, citing my impending debut into society. I think I must have been something of a disappointment in that regard, favouring the pursuit of knowledge and my own independence over any bachelor my mother paraded me past.

The Secret

Show

Friday, October 19, 1888.  It is easy, I think, for those born to privilege to want more, to feel they deserve more, and I was no different. I had found it in my research, a ritual to bring about luck, to be performed on the full moon.

I only wish it had specified what kind of luck.

They say pride goeth before a fall, and oh, how we fell, my pride our vanguard leading us to our own destruction.

And so as night fell, we made our way back to the same burial mound upon which we had played as children, me with my book and Cleon grumbling all the while carrying ~supplies, and we performed the rite to the letter. True, “letter” is not precisely apt—I had translated it, you see, from the original Aramaic—but there was no reason it should not have worked.

Something did happen, something terrible: Orwell died. Or so we can only assume. In one moment he was there; in the next, he wasn’t. We might have thought he apparated, were it not for the fact that we had long since learned you couldn’t apparate to or from the mound. No sooner had we discovered this then the blood rain began to fall.

We fled like thieves in the night.

Orwell’s mangled body was found the next day, right where we would have left it, had we known.

The Silence

The police did not come to us right away, but we would have been fools to think they wouldn’t. While I trusted my silence, of course, and [Ivy]’s and even Cleon’s, I worried that the others wouldn’t simply feel as though they had too much to lose if they were found out before they could control the narrative:

• [Thomasin] her fiance
  
• [Henry] and [Gregory] their families and good names
  
• [Evelyn] what respect of his father’s he still maintained
  

And so, at my suggestion, my insistence, we made a series of Unbreakable Vows: we would not disclose what happened that night outside the confines of our group. We eight might’ve become seven, but there would be no disclosing how that happened. In the end, none of us were questioned by the muggle police, though each in turn were approached by a member of the auror’s office. My father is a good man, a good auror, but he is blind where his family was concerned. He believed my lie that I was asleep in bed (where I ought to have been) easily; bore Cleon’s alibi that he was in London with [Gregory] with pursed lips and a look of disappointment. That was the end of it, legally speaking.

But that night is still carried with each of us, resurrected when [Thomasin], precisely one year later, lost her life and became a spirit, leaving her parents childless and bereft. Though it seemed innocent enough, I cannot help but wonder if what we did was somehow involved. 

PROUD — INTELLIGENT — BOLD — PRIVATE

SKILLS:

• Languages: Fluent in English and proficient in French. Proficient written Latin and Aramaic #nerd
  
• Aced her Ancient Runes OWL and NEWT
  
• Schooled in the appropriate womanly arts but generally ignores them.

TRIVIA:

• Boggart: Orwell given some sort of monstrous form
  
• Amortentia: TBD
  
• Current academic projects are becoming an animagus and trying to bring [Thomasin] back from the dead. Both are going about the same.