DeliriumTrigger
New Member
(( Open to any OC Harry Potter character for now, just jump in, may close this thread later. ))
Tristan Edevane wasn't a well-liked or popular student, but he was certainly infamous. The sixth year Slytherin had a caustic wit, capable of charming one moment and provoking the next. He was likely to whisper sweet nothings in a girl's ear, and lean in for a kiss, only to tell her he'd rather snog a goblin. He frustrated his professor's, too smart for his own good, but only applying himself in subjects that catered to his fickle interests. He came from a long line of dark wizards and criminals; in fact, his father was purported to run the magical mafia, and it seemed Tristan would follow his footsteps.
It was Hogsmeade weekend, and snow blanketed the cobblestone ground, the air chillier than the Slytherin dungeons. Hogwarts students didn't let the cold prevent them from escaping the castle's stone walls; throngs of them swarmed the village like any other weekend. As usual, Tristan went to Hogsmeade alone, dodging a few volatile young witches he scorned or stood up on dates, and evading the thickheaded Quidditch jocks who thought they were his mates. He was a chaser on the Quidditch team, but he didn't live and breathe the sport as they did; soaring in the air and dodging bludgers with quaffle under arm provided a temporary thrill for him, nothing more.
He ducked inside The Three Broomsticks, crowded with other students seeking warmth and a few disgruntled older warlocks who thought the cold may have prevented the adolescents from taking over their pub. Tristan slid over to the front bar, managing to find a spot to sit in the corner. He shrugged off his velvet black cloak; dusted with powdery white snow. He was tall - 6'2" - and lanky, his shoulders broad and his muscles lightly corded in muscle from Quidditch training. With his high cheekbones, strong jawline, and eyes as deep and gray as a brewing storm, he would have been ridiculously handsome, had his nose not looked like it had been broken too many times. His raven-black hair was always disheveled and windblown, as if he had just been high in clouds on his broom. And, his thin lips were usually twisted into a crooked smirk; which hid more secrets than a Gringotts vault.
A buxom female bartender approached him, asking for his order.
"Shot of firewhiskey, luv," Tristan said breezily.
The bartender rolled her eyes, and slid him a frothy mug of butterbeer. "Not very likely. You're underage."
He feigned disappointment, and winked at her. "You'll be first to know when I'm not." He was delighted to see her cheeks tinge pink as she quickly excused herself and helped another customer.
Tristan Edevane wasn't a well-liked or popular student, but he was certainly infamous. The sixth year Slytherin had a caustic wit, capable of charming one moment and provoking the next. He was likely to whisper sweet nothings in a girl's ear, and lean in for a kiss, only to tell her he'd rather snog a goblin. He frustrated his professor's, too smart for his own good, but only applying himself in subjects that catered to his fickle interests. He came from a long line of dark wizards and criminals; in fact, his father was purported to run the magical mafia, and it seemed Tristan would follow his footsteps.
It was Hogsmeade weekend, and snow blanketed the cobblestone ground, the air chillier than the Slytherin dungeons. Hogwarts students didn't let the cold prevent them from escaping the castle's stone walls; throngs of them swarmed the village like any other weekend. As usual, Tristan went to Hogsmeade alone, dodging a few volatile young witches he scorned or stood up on dates, and evading the thickheaded Quidditch jocks who thought they were his mates. He was a chaser on the Quidditch team, but he didn't live and breathe the sport as they did; soaring in the air and dodging bludgers with quaffle under arm provided a temporary thrill for him, nothing more.
He ducked inside The Three Broomsticks, crowded with other students seeking warmth and a few disgruntled older warlocks who thought the cold may have prevented the adolescents from taking over their pub. Tristan slid over to the front bar, managing to find a spot to sit in the corner. He shrugged off his velvet black cloak; dusted with powdery white snow. He was tall - 6'2" - and lanky, his shoulders broad and his muscles lightly corded in muscle from Quidditch training. With his high cheekbones, strong jawline, and eyes as deep and gray as a brewing storm, he would have been ridiculously handsome, had his nose not looked like it had been broken too many times. His raven-black hair was always disheveled and windblown, as if he had just been high in clouds on his broom. And, his thin lips were usually twisted into a crooked smirk; which hid more secrets than a Gringotts vault.
A buxom female bartender approached him, asking for his order.
"Shot of firewhiskey, luv," Tristan said breezily.
The bartender rolled her eyes, and slid him a frothy mug of butterbeer. "Not very likely. You're underage."
He feigned disappointment, and winked at her. "You'll be first to know when I'm not." He was delighted to see her cheeks tinge pink as she quickly excused herself and helped another customer.