LINK to Application: Corbin Donahue
Pick a Creature: Thestral
What type of magic appeals to you: Dark Magic, Protection spells
Most Proud of trait: Resilience
Which subject would you do best in Ancient Runes
How would you describe yourself: (pick as many as you want) Clever, Protective, Resilient, Cautious, Dark
After Hogwarts, what would you like to do: Auror
What are you afraid of: Being forgotten. Disappearing like my mother, without leaving anything behind in the world.
---
August 15, 1918
Diagon Alley, London
The morning had been bewildering from the moment they'd left the castle.
Corbin tugged at his collar, still unused to how perfectly it fit. His father had dressed him with unusual care - pressed robes of deep cobalt wool, polished boots that didn't pinch, even a proper cloak instead of the patched hand-me-downs he usually wore. Every seam was perfect. Every button gleamed.
"You represent the family today," his father had said while adjusting Corbin's cravat. "Act accordingly."
Their first stop had been the robe shop, where seamstresses circled him with measuring tapes and pins. Corbin kept his elbows locked at his sides, chin up, while they tugged at fabric and muttered about adjustments. His father selected the finest materials with sharp nods, paying without his usual complaints about expense.
The bookshop made him dizzy. Shelves towered above him, crammed with leather spines and gilt lettering. He spotted Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit sitting openly on a display table. At home, his father dismissed dragons as "brutish creatures for brutish minds." Here, anyone could learn about them. When the shopkeeper asked what year he would be in, Corbin kept quiet. He knew better than to speak. His father answered for him, disdainful of the presumption.
At the apothecary, Corbin stopped in front of a jar filled with what looked like liquid mercury, shifting and pooling against the glass. The label read Essence of Dittany - Healing Properties. It kept moving even when no one touched the jar.
They walked through Diagon Alley's afternoon crowds, past families with chattering children. The ice cream parlor drew his attention - not the window, but the sounds spilling from inside. Laughter. Arguing over flavors. A child demanding "more sprinkles." Corbin had never argued with his father about anything, let alone sprinkles.
His father's sharp glance pulled him forward.
Now they stood before Elder & Ash, its narrow shopfront wedged between larger stores. Faded gold lettering. Window boxes lined up like small coffins.
Corbin's collar felt too tight. His own wand meant leaving behind everything familiar. Castle corridors. Evening tea in the warm kitchen with the house elves. The predictable dangers of home traded for the unknown dangers of school.
The bell chimed as Lord Vulpes Donahue swept inside. Corbin followed, blinking against the sudden brightness after the gray street.
Every wall held narrow boxes stacked floor to ceiling. The air felt thick, charged, like the moments before thunderstorms at home.
"I require service," Lord Donahue announced without lowering his hood or glancing around for the proprietor. Rain dripped from his traveling cloak onto worn floorboards. "My heir needs a wand."
His hands found each other behind his back.
"Boy." His father's voice carried that edge. "Stand properly."
He dropped his hands to his sides, shoulders back. His father continued, addressing the shop itself. "He is eleven. First year at Hogwarts. You will provide only the finest of whatever pitiful examples you might have to offer. The Donahue name will not be associated with inferior craftsmanship."
Some secrets are worth
discovering
"I require service, My heir needs a wand."
Bernie looked at the pair as the older man announced their entrance.
"Boy. Stand properly." Oh, no no no. We did not like this man. Not one bit! Bernie thought, hoping Clyde was ready for a bit of eye poking.
"He is eleven. First year at Hogwarts. You will provide only the finest of whatever pitiful examples you might have to offer. The Donahue name will not be associated with inferior craftsmanship."
Luckily for the boy, and Bernie honestly, she had no reason to converse with the elder. Looking exclusively at the young man she went on with the business at hand.
“Good day to you! Welcome to Elder and Ash, I am Bernadette…Hmm… Or Bernie or Miss Hawthorn or Witchy McWitchface,” she titters with laughter, high and squeaky. “Don’t you fret, I will answer to just about anything… Except Clyde.” She shakes her head emphatically. “HE is a bowtruckle and can be quite persnickety, so watch your eyeballs, he likes to poke.” She nods at the young student, but side-eyed his father. He should definitely take note of the bowtruckles proclivities for injuring eyeballs.
“Now, lets get on with things! Much to do!” Not waiting for a response from either, Bernie comes around the counter and begins measuring the patron who just entered her shop. Lifting this arm and that, measuring each individual finger, kneeling and quickly measuring their feet, then popping back up to look deeply, and awkwardly into their eyes. “Fascinating. Did you know a quarter of the bones in your body are in your hand? No?! I didn't think so. OK! Let’s find you a wand. Pop Pop!”
Bernie ran around the shop, spitting out random nonsense facts that most people really didn’t need to know. “Did you know that your left lung is slightly smaller than your right? Did ya? Nope. Why? To make room for your heart? Awwww, so sweet.”
“Ok, let's try this one on for size.” Coming down from a ladder with a long box, Bernie handed the wand over to the student. It was rare to find a match with the first box, but it could be done. “Go on then,” she said, waving her hands about. “Give it a flick.”
Blackthorn Wood, Basilisk Horn Core, 13in, Sturdy
Blackthorn Wood:
Blackthorn, which is a very unusual wand wood, has the reputation, in my view well-merited, of being best suited to a warrior. This does not necessarily mean that its owner practises the Dark Arts (although it is undeniable that those who do so will enjoy the blackthorn wand’s prodigious power); one finds blackthorn wands among the Aurors as well as among the denizens of Azkaban. It is a curious feature of the blackthorn bush, which sports wicked thorns, that it produces its sweetest berries after the hardest frosts. Typically the blackthorn wand will become as loyal and faithful a servant as one could wish.
Basilisk Horn:
The ideal owner of a basilisk wand is never dim or a shrinking violet. They are ambitious, cunning, brilliant and often exude charisma and power. These wizards make incredible leaders and planners. Entirely self sufficient and pragmatic, they know what they want and they are ruthless in their determination to get it. They often want to be remembered for their great deeds and prodigious skills, and so constantly work to be the best at everything they do.
Sturdy < slightly less common, harder to learn and cast, slightly more power
If you love this combo, great! If you like one piece of your wand (core, wood, flexibility, etc.) Put that at the bottom of your next post in an OOC message. I will keep that the same for the next option. Or, I can come up with an entirely new wand. UP TO YOU!
The woman's voice hit him like a splash of cold water. So many words, tumbling over each other without pause or careful consideration. Names, warnings about something called Clyde, cheerful threats about eye-poking. At home, every sentence was weighed, measured, delivered with precision. This torrent of sound made his head spin.
Corbin's shoulders locked. His father hadn't been addressed. The woman looked only at him, as if he mattered more than the adult in the room. This was wrong. Adults spoke to adults. Children waited to be noticed.
His father's voice cut through the woman's chatter, ice-cold and precise. "I expect competent service, not this... theatrical nonsense... from some addled shopkeep."
But she was still talking, something about getting on with things, much to do. Her voice bright and strange. Like the ice cream parlor sounds he'd heard through windows but never experienced.
Then she moved.
His body went rigid as hands reached for him, lifting his arm without warning. Touch meant punishment. Touch meant his father's cold fingers adjusting his posture, positioning him like furniture. Touch meant magical silence pressed against his skin until he learned to behave.
The measuring tape wrapped around his wrist. He couldn't breathe properly.
She was measuring his fingers now, each one individually, chattering about bones and hands and things he didn't need to know. Her touch was quick, professional, completely different from anything he knew, but his skin crawled anyway. He held himself statue-still, the way he'd learned to endure his father's corrections.
Don't flinch. Don't pull away. Don't show weakness.
The woman knelt at his feet, measuring quickly before popping up to stare into his eyes. Too close. Much too close. He could see gold flecks in her irises, smell something sweet on her breath like honey. More facts about lungs and hearts that he couldn't focus on properly.
She darted away, and Corbin remained frozen where she'd left him. His collar felt damp with sweat. The shop's charged air pressed against his skin like a physical weight.
A long box appeared in his hands. He lifted the lid with careful fingers. Inside, nestled in faded velvet, lay a wand of dark wood - darker than anything in his father's study. When he wrapped his fingers around it, the wood felt warm against his palm. He tried to focus past the lingering sensation of unwanted touch.
The woman gestured for him to try it, give it some sort of movement.
Corbin raised the wand. It felt wrong in his grip - too eager, too hungry for something he didn't possess. He gave it the smallest movement he could manage.
Nothing. Not even a spark.
The silence stretched for three heartbeats. Then his father's voice, cold as winter stone:
"Clearly your inventory is... subpar." the words were cutting, almost cruel, "I trust you have something more... suitable... for a Donahue."
---
OOC: Wand wood is perfect, but the core could be improved to suit him better I think!
Some secrets are worth
discovering
“Hmmmm... nope nope nope! That was NOT the one. This is a process, we must SOLVE THE PUZZLE!” Snatching it out of their hand, Bernie packaged the wand up gingerly, folding the gauze ribbon over the wand as if it were a sleeping baby. The box was carefully placed on the back counter under a sign that read “NOPE!” Those would be cleaned and checked for damage before returning to the shelf.
Still not addressing the adult, HE was not her customer. The boy was. HE was the one getting a wand, the man could kick rocks. After all, Elder and Ash was the best wand shop in all of Diagon Alley, and Bernie, the best wand maker, yep yep yep.
“Ok, let me think, let me think. Hmm..” Turning abruptly, Bernie went to stare at the poor young soul in her shop. Arms crossed, fingers tapping thoughtfully on her chin. After a couple rotations around the student, she stopped and closed one eye… Then the other. “Did you know there are no muscles in your fingers? No? Shocking! Well… you do now. Ok, I think I have an option.” Skipping up a ladder and over a short walkway Bernie grabbed without even looking and popped down the ladder, coming to stop behind the counter.
“Ok, let's see if this one does something, ANYTHING would be better!”
Blackthorn Wood, Occamy Feather Core, 13in, Sturdy
Blackthorn Wood:
Blackthorn, which is a very unusual wand wood, has the reputation, in my view well-merited, of being best suited to a warrior. This does not necessarily mean that its owner practises the Dark Arts (although it is undeniable that those who do so will enjoy the blackthorn wand’s prodigious power); one finds blackthorn wands among the Aurors as well as among the denizens of Azkaban. It is a curious feature of the blackthorn bush, which sports wicked thorns, that it produces its sweetest berries after the hardest frosts, and the wands made from this wood appear to need to pass through danger or hardship with their owners to become truly bonded. Given this condition, the blackthorn wand will become as loyal and faithful a servant as one could wish.
Occamy Feather:
The ideal owner of an Occamy feather wand is, like the Occamy, uniquely aggressive. Though they are not overly combative and do not go looking for conflict, they react quickly and viciously to any threat-perceived or otherwise-and can go overboard in their attempts to defend themselves or those people and things they care about. This is not due to an inherently antagonistic or hostile nature, but, because, like the Occamy, they had to learn to defend themselves early in life. For whatever reason, an aggressive approach to their surroundings and quick reactions were essential to their survival.
They are also often quick thinking and adaptable, and very opportunistic. With excellent survival instincts and intuition. There is also a tend to suffer from anxiety disorder, and can be overloaded by too much audible stimuli, leading to panic attacks.
Sturdy < slightly less common, harder to learn and cast, slightly more power
Again, if you want this one great, or a portion or a fully new one. YOUR CHOICE! One more option available!
The woman snatched the first wand from his hands before he could properly set it down, wrapping it carefully despite its rejection of him.
She circled him now, arms crossed, fingers tapping against her chin. More facts about fingers and muscles that he couldn't quite focus on through the buzzing in his ears. Her voice was too bright, too much, overwhelming his senses.
Then she was moving again, up a ladder and across some sort of walkway, moving without looking, grabbing another box.
The second box felt different in his hands. Heavier somehow, though the weight was the same. He lifted the lid and found another wand of dark wood, similar to the first but... not. This one didn't feel hungry. It felt watchful.
Corbin wrapped his fingers around the handle. The wood was warm against his palm, not with the eager heat of the first wand, but something steadier. More careful.
He raised it, expecting nothing.
A gentle pulse ran through the wood, like a heartbeat against his skin. Magic, but not the kind he knew - not the cold burn of his father's spells or the sharp bite of punishment. This magic felt warm. Protective.
The air around him shimmered for just a moment, barely visible, like heat waves rising from summer stone. It settled over his shoulders like the weight of a cloak.
His father stepped closer, and the wand grew warmer in his hand.
Lord Donahue's eyes narrowed, studying the subtle shimmer with a look of disdain. "Phoenix feather?" he mused, then shook his head. "No... the resonance is wrong."
He circled them slowly, watching how the shimmer strengthened when he moved closer. A longer pause as he considered the evidence.
"Occamy feather." The words came out flat, heavy with disappointment. He studied Corbin with something cold in his eyes. "Of course. My heir requires... shielding."
Corbin's fingers tightened protectively around the wand, clutching it closer to his chest. Maybe it wasn't a phoenix like his father wanted, but it was his.
Some secrets are worth
discovering
“OH GOOD FUN! We have a winner!” Bernie sings, dancing a jig behind the counter. “That is fantastic! And you didn't destroy my shop like the last kid. Thanks for that, I appreciate the restraint.”
Flitting around behind the counter, mumbling to herself while pulling a few things out here and there. “Ok, ARE YOU LISTENING?!” Green eyes wide, red hair fluffed out with her exertion. “I hope you are…” She said slowly, looking at the student carefully. “Here are the things you will need. FIRST!” She said with a flourish, “is your wand holster. You may strap it to your leg, or arm, sew it into clothing or use a pocket on the inside of your robes. DO NOT EVER! Put it in your back pocket. No No No. That's how little Tommy blew off a butt cheek. Yes he did. Big tadoo.” She trailed off, shaking her head at the poor unfortunate state of little Tommy.
“NEXT! Here is a jar of polish and a rag. Keep. Your. Wand. CLEAN! Do not make me say it again. It is important. And don’t even get me started on using it to pick your nose or itch your ear.” Wide green eyes met those of the student, her hands went up over her head, miming an explosion, “Boom!”
“AND THIRD! Wait… What's the third thing… umm, OH YES! Silly me. Have fun dear. Be good at Hogwarts, eat your veggies and stay away from the East Wing, I hear it’s haunted.” She gave them a knowing smile and walked away. As her back turned to the student, a small green leggy creature could be seen hanging on to her hat. Little Clyde, watching over his favorite human.
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