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Date: January 16th, 2013
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Read Today's Daily Prophet: Knights of Walpurgis attack Hogwarts; Belleford steps down as Hogwarts closes until further notice
Welcome to Hogwarts Interactive Role Play, one of the net's best in Harry Potter and Hogwarts role plays. We hope you enjoy your visit.

Here at Hogwarts our students are currently in their Seventh Year. Last year, the war against the Knights crescendoed into a direct attack against the school. Disappearances are still reported (or not) daily, and the Dark Lord and his Knights of Walpurgis have succeeded in spreading their message of "do as thou will" far and wide across the globe. Magical Law Enforcement, which is now the only authority in the wizarding world under Martial Law, has responded by tightening security, controlling the media, and strictly enforcing curfews and other laws. Their control is damaging to the people's freedom, and their hierarchy is a suspicious lot. It is clear that some members of the MLE like their new found power a bit too much, others see it necessary, but all are in serious danger of being consumed by it. But with the picture of just what Azariah Amaranth is after becoming ever clearer, and a third player in the form of a group called SAVIOR entering the scene, what will the MLE do next to ensure that they've got the situation under control?

The Elementium, the Higher Plane that had once been hidden just beyond the veil in the Department of Mysteries, and the Deathly Hallows. The pieces of the puzzle have been identified, but what picture do they make?

Today is Day 1 of Year Seven. Students have had time to recover from the Knight's attack, and are beginning to reluctantly return to the walls of Hogwarts. The safety of the school has been diminished, bringing up the question everyone must ask. Are you safe anywhere these days? It's up to each individual to decide their fate, where will you decide to go?

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The Weighing of the Wands; Year 5 - Day 3 - Weighting of the Wands
Topic Started: Aug 2 2009, 07:37:57 PM (1,156 Views)
Professor Nate Aphelion
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Deputy Headmaster & Transfiguration Professor

Professor Aphelion was the first to arrive, dressed in rather splendid dress robes he had bought just for the occasion. Representing Hogwarts to their international visitors, not to mention the Ministry, called for some amount of formality and not normally one to dress too regally, he felt that today he should make an exception. And yet his joy at seeing the Tournament up and running again on top of one of his own students being chosen as Hogwarts Champion was overshadowed by all that he had read in today's Prophet: Azariah Amaranth had escaped custody and had leveled the entire Ministry, sending their world into near chaos.

He folded his hands pleasantly and awaited the others to arrive, his mind still dwelling on the state of their world and what they were going to do about it.
Edited by Ian de Ponte du Lac, Aug 6 2009, 08:58:48 PM.
Cheers to Savannah Edkins for the signature.
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Angelma Baiulus stomped into the room, her clunky strappy boots making heavy thuds as they hit the floor.

Angie had decided to go with the emerald green nose ring today, and had magicked her dreadlocks pink and blue today. Her lilac eyes saw that she was the only press in the room so far, and a familiar member of the Hogwarts faculty was there.

"Natie!" she said, clapping him on the back, her zebra print robes clashing horribly with her ensemble. "Still stuck here at Hogwarts, I see. Top of our class, Head Boy and now the Deputy Headmaster." she said cheekily, folding her arms. "Not much has changed!" Angie boomed jovially, halting her Quick Notes Quill behind her.

It was always nice to come back to this old, musty, familiar place.

"Quick word for the Quibbler, Nate?" she asked eagerly, motioning her quill to begin the stenography spell.

"I hear that the Hogwarts Champion is a 5th year, which is completely unusual--do you see this as a hindrance to Hogwarts in this tournament?" she asked.
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Professor Nate Aphelion
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Deputy Headmaster & Transfiguration Professor

Nate grinned at the rather eccentric editor of the notorious publication The Quibbler and nodded, "Why not, Angelma. Always good to see The Quibbler still hanging in there and giving it to the Prophet." Admittedly he was a Daily Prophet subscriber but tat was more out of compulsion than habit. He needed to keep up with what was happening in the wizarding world and the Prophet did report the more conventional stories of the day, albeit in a somewhat sensationalized manner. He preferred unbiased journalism but unfortunately the alternative was The Quibbler. He read the magazine occasionally but usually put it down after a few pages because the articles more often than not were completely ludicrous and intended only for cospiracy theorists and alternate individuals. Still, if they were wanting to report on the Triwizard Tournament he would gladly help, if only to promote competition within the wizarding media.

"It is indeed quite unusual, Angelma. Not in several hundred years I believe have we seen another student so young selected. But I have no doubt Mr Nightshade will compete admirably." He couldn't remove the slight grin on his face. Everything about Angelma Balulus suggested abnormality; her hair, her nose rings, her robes. They had gone to Hogwarts together back in the day and she was always the unusual one, dressing differently, talking about weird and wonderful topics. It seemed only fitting that she would grow up to become the editor of The Quibbler.
Cheers to Savannah Edkins for the signature.
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"Aha....excellent, excellent. Just making sure our alma mater is giving it the best she's got!" Angelma exclaimed, exhuberant, as her quill scratched across the parchment.

***The Quill***

"As Professor Aphelion talked, one could almost count the Flitting Flurbies as they jumped around his shoulders, playing cricket to demonstrate his confidence in Tristan Nightshade..."

**End**

"So, Natie, level with me--does anyone know yet why he was chosen? Were none of the 6th or 7th years capable of a better level of wizardry? With the events happening in our world--our readers are concerned. Espcially for the children here."
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Professor Nate Aphelion
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Deputy Headmaster & Transfiguration Professor

Professor Aphelion had given the matter a great deal of thought, each of his theories as possible as the next. "I don't doubt that there are many 6th and 7th years who are more capable in a magic sense, but the Goblet of Fire doesn't pick it's Champions based purely on magical ability. There are other traits it looks for - logic, bravery, ingenuity, creatiity, and dozens more. Perhaps it decided that Mr Nightshade was most suited to compete for those reasons. But having said that Mr Nightshade is exceptionally talented and will more than hold his own in this tournament." And he meant that. Tristan was one of the best spellcasters in his year and could likely take on a significant amount of the older students in a fight.
Cheers to Savannah Edkins for the signature.
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"Good Show!" she shouted.

"Then the Quibbler wishes him the best of luck, as the other Champions of course--where are the champions, anyway?" she asked, distracted from her story to note the absence of the Champions themselves.

**TheQuill**

"And there you have it. Hogwarts, toting it's child prodigy (which are quite rare and all have traces of Cydonian Luridna in their bloodstream; see the article on that by Xenophilius Lovegood) threatens to upset Durmstrang and Beauxbaton's finest in this tournament..."

*END*

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Tristan Nightshade
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Kidnapped!

Tristan stepped inside the Unused Classroom to find he was the first Champion to arrive. In fact, only Professor Aphelion and a witch with very strange hair were present. He had been summoned to this brief ceremony by a Patronus he assumed was the Deputy Headmaster's and had come as quickly as he could. His hand was resolutely in his robe pocket fondling the handle of his wand as if to make sure it was still there. Even though he had never once lost his wand in five years he couldn't help himself from holding onto it just in case.

The classroom, despite its tag as 'unused', saw its fair share of visitors. If the walls could talk he could only imagine the stories they could tell, even in his five years alone. He himself had been in here several times before for reasons ranging from alone time with the odd girl, to dueling with Julian and various other Slytherins. And now it seemed he would take part in an integral part of the Triwizard Tournament within them also. It still maintained that mustiness that suggested a room never got any fresh air and never saw natural light. He shivered slightly before approaching the pair.

"Good morning, Professor." He nodded and smiled politely at the witch, waiting to be introduced or spoken to.

Rule #76: No Excuses. Play Like a champion!
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Constanta Lupei
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Fifth Year

OOC: Excuse the identity crisis. :P

Madame Leclair entered the unused classroom with Mariane in tow, prepared to give her champion a pep talk if she had to. The closer they got to the First Task, the more excited she became. Almost hyperactive, actually, since she had overdosed a wee bit on caffeine this morning. Her foot tapped anxiously as she stood, eyeing the other people in the room. She closed the door behind her and turned to face Mariane.

"Bien, Mariane. Est-ce que vous êtes prêt?" she asked. All right, Mariane. Are you ready? "Beauxbatons is counting on vous, my dear. I know you will not let them down."
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Charlie Johnson
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[ * ]
Charlie entered the classroom, carrying a small briefcase, looking a bit peaky. His hair was now significantly grayer since the last time he had set foot in these halls. He probably had far more wrinkles as well, though his sharp set of black robes was free of them. He was profoundly tired, and looked it.

"Good morning, everyone," he said, sounding exhausted. Looking around, he spied, to his unhappiness, Angelma Baiulus of the tabloid news magazine, The Quibbler. "Angelma," he said tersely, nodding. The Quibbler was trash, pure and simple. And just like her rag, Angelma was the antithesis of proper and responsible journalism, with her pink dreadlocks and strange clothes. Not that Charlie was any better an example at the moment...what most would mistake for tiredness (and indeed, he WAS tired) was actually a profound sense of failure and the depression it brings in a driven man like Charlie.

"And this must be Mr. Nightshade. Congratulations, my boy." said Charlie, with the tired, fake enthusiasm that was coloring all of his actions, extending his hand to the young man, "I suppose that means we're just waiting on the remaining two champions, then? Oh, and Mister Olivander, of course."

((OOC: Kiki, nows a good time to start the plot we discussed. Or we can wait till the room's cleared and they're alone. Hm...perhaps Tristan could pull a Harry Potter and stick around to eaves drop? It has some bearing on the plot.))
Edited by Charlie Johnson, Aug 4 2009, 06:55:19 PM.
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Mariane had started stretching the muscles in her hands, anxiously. Cracking her knuckles, popping her fingers--she did this when nervous.

"I--" she started, "I shall do my best. I won't let Beauxbatons down." Mariane stopped her assault of her hands and started fussing with a curl that had escaped her ponytail.

Failure was not an option. She wasn't worried about the little one, she was more concerned with the Durmstrang.
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Tristan Nightshade
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Kidnapped!

Tristan got the distinct impression that this French girl had already dismissed him as unworthy of her attention. He had attempted to catch her eye to be polite and introduce himself and wish her good luck but she hadn't even come close to looking back and so let it drop. He still couldn't place why she looked familiar but was sure it would come to him eventually. Instead he acknowledged the graying man who had spoken to him, "Thankyou, sir," shaking the offered hand. He took this man to be from the Daily Prophet given the way he acted towards his Quibbler counterpart. He hid a smirk and waited to be told what was to happen.

Rule #76: No Excuses. Play Like a champion!
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Bidelia Belleford
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Headmistress and Head of S.A.V.I.O.R.

Bidelia entered the room, navy blue robes swaying with her steps. She smiled and nodded to the Beauxbatons and Press, before making her way over to Nate and Mr. Nightshade. "Well, well, the big day finally arrives. How are you feeling Mr. Nightshade?" The old woman asked with a kind smile.

This morning had certainly been eventful so far. She glanced over to Nate, nodding slightly. This morning the Aurors had met in her office, discussing their course of action. She would have to inform Nate at some point.
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Plot with Addie --- Plot with Bidelia --- Plot with Rhea
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Tristan Nightshade
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Kidnapped!

He forced a small grin back at the Headmistress, "A little nervous, Professor." His stomach was churning like cake mix in a muggle blender. He checked his watch, noting they were running late. Where in the world was the Durmstrang Champion and Headmaster? Surely they knew what time they had to be here. Tristan was anxious to start; the sooner he began, the sooner he'd know how well he would do in the Tournament.

Rule #76: No Excuses. Play Like a champion!
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Piotr and Dr. Ootenbucker attempted to enter the Unused Classroom in as much a dignified manner as possible. Piotr knew that being late was not something the prim, proper and (usually) punctual Doctor was used to. But, as it were, they had gotten terribly lost.

"Good morning, everyone," said Dr. Ootenbucker, in a tone that was polite enough to be condescending. The Headmaster of Durmstrang still fully expected Piotr to win today.

"Good morning," said Piotr, bowing. He was dressed for the fast-approaching First Task in a sort of modified version of the Durmstrang uniform: It was scarlet, and tight enough that one could see the armor plating under it, covering his chest, arms, lets and groin, with spaces in the joints so that he could move easily. Over that, he wore a fur cloak. His face revealed nothing of his mood, and appeared hard and intimidating. However, Piotr was anxious on the inside.

"Piotr," said the Doctor, gesturing over to where the champions from Beauxbatons and Hogwarts stood.

Piotr moved to stand with his fellow champions as Dr. Ootenbucker engaged in the obligatory formal chit-chat with his equals. Not that Dr. Ootenbucker considered Piotr's opponents in this tournament to be the young man's equals in any sense. And, though he would not admit it aloud, Piotr had serious doubts as well. He looked to his fellow champions. One, Tristan Nightshade, a boy of fifteen whom Piotr considered to be in far over his head. Still, the boy exuded a sort of anxious confidence, though that may be because he did not understand just how dangerous this tournament was supposed to be. We shall all find out soon, Piotr thought.

His rival from Beaubatons was his age, yet Mariane seemed a bit frail, and perhaps Piotr was being sexist, but he couldn't help thinking that she seemed a bit too...feminine to compete in such a deadly game. He wanted to say something to the two of them. "Good luck," perhaps. But, he found that he could not. His outward look of confidence seemed to hinge entirely on his remaining stonily silent, and so he could not bring himself give his rivals more than a surly nod in their direction.

In the midst of it all, Piotr was still trying to figure out whether or not he even liked this tournament. There were plenty of reasons in his mind to hate it, the fact that he was making enemies of people whom he had nothing against being one of them.
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Charlie Johnson
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Daily Prophet Editor
[ * ]
Only a moment later, Mr. Olivander, the wand maker arrived. He would be weighing the champions' wands.

"So it looks like we're all here,"
said Charlie, after Olivander greeted everyone in turn and made his apologies for his lateness, "Angelma and I will be taking turns to interview two of you while the other has their wands weighed by the world's greatest wand maker, Mr. Olivander. Mr. Nighshade, how about you come with me? Just a few short questions. Angelma..." Charlie looked over to his ridiculous "colleague with contempt as well as tiredness in his eyes, "Take whichever you want and the other can remain with Olivander. Then we can rotate. I believe this is fair."

((OOC: Whoever is left with Olivander may control him when he is examining your wand.))
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There was a flash of light from a camera going off, and Piotr was sure he had blinked as the photographer from the Daily Prophet snapped a photograph of the three champions. After which, Ollivander approached approached him.

"Good morning, young man,"[/color] he said to the rather large and muscular boy, whose hardy appearance made the old man certain that he was indeed the Durmstrang Champion.

"Hello, you must be Ollivander," said Piotr, being polite as possible, "I hear the Britons put a lot of store in your vands."

"Well, that they do, that the do," said Ollivander, humbly, "Now, if you don't mind, may I see your wand, my boy?"

"Yes sir," said Piotr, handing over a long wand, the wood that comprised it being fragrant and a deep reddish brown.

"Hm...twelve inches, rather long," said Ollivander, running his fingers along the shaft as he examined it, "Very sturdy. Very smooth texture..." He takes a large whiff of the fragrant wood, "Cherry, am I wrong?"

"That is correct," said Piotr.

"Knew it. Though is rather thicker than I usually see. And it has an odd core...Is that...no...certainly...the vocal cords of a Banshee? No one I know made this...unless..."

"It vas one of the last of Gregorovitch's vands," said Piotr, "It vas my grandfather's on my mother's side."

"He disappeared, did he not, a short time after selling this wand?"

"I assume so," said Piotr, "He vas a celebrated vand maker, the best in Eastern Europe, some might say he vas the best in the world, though again I understand that many put much store in your vork."

"An old wand, then..." said Olivander, still examining it, "That explains the richness of the color of the wood. As well as the unusual core. Made a class B non-tradeable good in recent years. I wouldn't have used them even if they were legal, though to each his own. There's nothing wrong with you using this wand, however. The Banshee who had been killed for this wand had died long ago, after all. Now...just a quick test..." Ollivander flicked Piotr's wand, and a flock of small finches flew from the tip and flew quickly out the window.

"Perfect working order," said Olivander, handing Piotr's wand back, "Thank you, lad."
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Charlie Johnson
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Daily Prophet Editor
[ * ]
"So...Mr. Nightshade," said Charlie, beginning his interview. He had his quill and parchment ready. "You're the youngest champion for any of the three schools in at least three centuries. How must you be feeling now?" His tone was professional, if not a bit exhausted, and it implied nothing but Charlie's thirst for the absolute and honest truth from the young man he was interviewing. How could he be dealing with the looming prospect of the danger he would be facing in a scant few hours? He had a commitment to the wizarding public to deliver the honest truth, not to sensationalize it for entertainment.

And he would certainly not be using a quick-quotes quill. Blasted things. Unprofessional. Another reason why Angelma was a second-rate tabloid writer, and Charlie was a true journalist.

Just keep telling yourself that, Charles, he thought bitterly.
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"Then I'll start with the Beaux-bie! Get it? Beaux-bie? Muggle Barbie?" Angelma guffawed, laughing at her own play on words. Of course, no one else laughed at her weird sense of humor, so she just grinned and clapped Mariane on the back, much to the girl's chargrin.

Mariane, who had been slowly inching away from the extremely bright reporter, was suddenly clapped roughly on the back by the exhuberant woman.

She righted her robes, shot Madame a look, and gingerly handed her wand to Mr. Ollivander with a smile.

The old man blinked at her, then started mumbling something under his breath about the summer of 1947 or something.

"Light maple, with veela hairs....three drops of the blood at the core, which signify the..."

"...Treaty, oui, Monsieur."

Ollivander grunted, and Angelma interjected her first question.

"So tell, me, Mary Ann--"

"Mariane--"

"Yes, yes, have you ran into any Vermacious Knids since your stay here at Hogwarts?"

Mariane stared blankly back, her eyes wide.

"Pardonnez-moi?"

"Vermacious Knids. They're only visible when covered in ectoplasm, so you might not have seen them yet. Moving on..." Her rainbow quill was scratching away furiously at the parchment.

Angelma twirled another pinked dreadlock, and continued.

"I notice there are a lot of Snozzcumbers all over your clothes--"

"WHAT?" Mariane said, jumping as if there were some sort of insects on her personal being.

"Calm down, they're glowing red, actually, so they haven't started mating yet--"

Mariane looked at her incredulously.

"Do you think I am swizzfiggling you, gixie? They're good luck, the Spanish say."

Angelma clapped her hands together excitedly. "I'll definitely be watching you, now. I've never seen French Snozzcumbers up close."

Ollivander grunted, and swished Mariane's wand, sending blue sparks out of it.

"Light, airy, and in perfect working condition." he said.

Mariane practically snatched her wand and tried to put as much distance between herself and Angelma as possible.

Angelma waved her off with a smile, and waved over the next Champion.

"Excellent! Next!" she boomed.

(OOC: lotsa dialogue. too lazy to color the dialogue prettily lol)

(OOC II: Also, homage to Roald Dahl, the best author of my childhood. Snozzcumbers are excellent with peanut butter. and I'd hate to get stuck alone with a Vermicious Knid without my wand.)
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Piotr replaced his wand in the custom-made wand holster strapped to his left leg. Just as he did so, however, he found himself staring down at the odd woman who Mariane had been talking with. She seemed to have a rather large smile for him, which was unusual for Piotr, and he gave a reluctant twitch of the corner of his mouth in response, which would have to serve for a proper smile. Smiling at strangers was not in the Russian culture. And neither were the flamboyant colors of the woman's hairstyle, for that matter. The landscape of Piotr's country was quite breathtaking, but the people there were often somewhat drab in appearance. Again, it was just their culture. He considered these Brits too outlandish for his tastes...for the most part--the image of Ella in her flowing white dress and the flowers in her hair sprang to his mind as a pleasing exception--and the French even more so.
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Angelma waved him over excitedly.

"Come, come! Sit, sit!" she crowed. "So you must the Durmstrang Champion. Piotr from Durmstrang! My readers are most interested in you, you know. They've sent me their burning questions--like this one from a Mr. Horace Crittendon--he writes, 'Have you ever come across the Terrible Bloodsuckling Toothpluckling Stonechuckling Spittler in your native land of Russia?' The only one ever slain was by Eustace Higgenbotham, and he died later from the stress."

Not even stopping, she continued, "Since Russia has the highest number of uncommon beasts living in their forests, my readers go on to ask about the Whangdoodles, Hornswogglers, Snozzwanglers, Grunchers and Minpins! Have you seen any of these creatures where you hail?"

Angelma's lavender eyes were wide with excitement, and she stared at him, unblinkingly and inside his personal space, her Quill poised and practically humming.

((OOC: "Those who don't believe in magic will never find it."--Roald Dahl, 1916-1990. He gave us magic before J.K. ever sat down and had a latte.))
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