Your Nickname: Quinalah
Have you read and do you agree to the Code of Conduct?: Yes
Are you over thirteen? Yes
How did you find us and decide to write with us? Friend
If you have written other characters here: No
If Yes, list them all:
Is this a Primary or Secondary Character?: Primary

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Physical Description:
The physical is obvious enough: strawberry blonde waves of hair (perhaps a bit too long for his profession, but shamelessly pinned away from his face when needed) complemented by the ruddy color of his pale skin and ambiguously hazel-green eyes. Most striking about this character, however, is his warm and kindly appearance, with a gaunt face and narrow eyes that respond to even the slightest hint of a smile-- a curling smile that is best described as a static feature of his face, not an action. Standing at a typical 5'75”, and some likewise average weight, the sunny young man and his expressive features would seem more at-home in a youth classroom than a medical ward.

Though he wears his baby blue Healer-in-Training robes with a certain pride, he does admit they're not to his personal tastes. His closet has more deep colors; reds, blues, and greens in dark, earthy shades, neatly hung near blacks, grays, and browns. Undoubtedly, it's a nice collection of flattering clothing, but perhaps too nice... even his ripped denims are too pristine to possibly be natural. Calculated trendiness is something he pays for, though he doesn't understand the appeal of damaged clothing, or how people manage to rip jeans in the first place.

Though his appearance was something he was raised to believe need be kept, he couldn't say that he keeps the message in mind at all times. It's not uncommon for him to carelessly sweep his hair back, wherever convenient, or allow himself to buy something oversized to “lounge” in (an act he didn't have the luxury of while in his parents' eyes). Though, he'd never be caught outside like so. He’s mindful to look presentable when he needs to be-- and in his mind, he almost always needs to be. He can usually be found in something well-fitting, smelling of a light cologne.

Growing up, his mother would casually point out how his expressions warped his features, turning his noble face into something unacceptable-- it wouldn’t do to look so uncomposed. That was always the first thing to go once out of his parents' eyes. He's energetic in a way that his mother would certainly find unbecoming, and it shines through in his casual stance and easy smile. He sees no harm in a wide grin, letting his emotions absorb all of his features, and allowing his hands to speak with him. Her years of teaching proper etiquette still show themselves in his polite conversation and considerate speech, but his boisterous enthusiasm for nearly everything was certainly not her doing.

His accent is one of his most distinguishing features, and makes his barreling voice more distinct from his English friends. While he’s not exactly a “Quick-Tawkin Ciddy Slickah,” his accent is certainly pronounced in that it’s a far-cry from anything even remotely European. He moves quickly, and a leisurely stroll is more of a brisk powerwalk for him. As much as he will deny New York stereotypes, growing up in The City That Never Sleeps does make him a bit hard to keep up with, both physically and conversationally.



Personality Description:
Ambrose is an unshakable people-person, with an aggressive love for everyone he meets-- everyone, including people that most others don’t dare to even look at for too long. He’s fearless, in that way, as other humans (and humanoids) do not scare him. He firmly believes that everyone deserves kindness, trust, and benefit of the doubt. He is a communicator to the core, and thrives on good relations with others. Trusting, to a fault, and stubbornly nice, Ambrose is easy prey to the less-than-well-meaning.

Which is unfortunate, because he has a lot to lose, if you know where to hit. With a Magical Law Enforcement mother, and his father a wealthy Potioner from a long line of wealthy Potioners, he was raised in a luxurious lifestyle, which follows him to this day. His time at Salem opened his eyes to many different ways of life, so he’s at least aware that his is quite unusual. He tries to not be an Obviously Rich Prat, but between his doting parents, and lack of lifely hardship, the Obviously Rich Prat in Ambrose is not always well-contained.

Money is never a concern for Ambrose. Everything he tries to accomplish is a drive for prestige and pride, never money. He can be generous, if not even wasteful, of money without so much as a second thought. After all, it’s not his, and he’s never had to work for it. That said, Ambrose is aware that waving money around can be dangerous, so he tries to be casual about his spending. The more keen of eye could spot his dry-cleaned shirts, shiny Armani watch, and unusual aversion to preparing his own food, however.

Apart from comfortable finances, his parents left Ambrose with other things, too. Most particularly, a haphazardly self-administered dose of Impossible Self Standards, in tangent with various insecurities. In his mind, his parents built mountains out of accomplishments, and he feels he must do the same, yet he stands with nothing but a clod of useless achievements. He grew up needing to earn his parents’ attention, so he spent his schooling with his nose to the grindstone. With no goals except to excel in everything (for maximum parental pride), Ambrose is now lost without the structure of schooling.

His parents found him a job, but he’s uneasy still. He sometimes wonders, what is it that he’s been working towards? Is he really doing what he wants with his life? He doesn’t know. He’s never had a mind to think farther than acing his next exam. He’s not even sure what he enjoys, as he’s never bothered to explore his own interests. He spends his days and nights socializing, because, when sitting alone, he has no idea what to do with himself. On his worst nights, Ambrose wonders if he can even be considered an individual.

And so, Ambrose chooses to not worry about the future. He can’t stand the wondering and uncertainty, so he enjoys moments as they come. He’s become a pro at convincing himself that he’s happy and everything is fine, and he wears an easy grin to match. In that way, Ambrose could be considered immature. Still, as much as he tries to avoid worrying about the future, it does catch up to him at times. Seeing Ambrose gloomy is as rare as it is uncomfortable, and the quiet and withdrawn man is nearly unrecognizable.

On all other occasions, however, Ambrose is energetic, friendly, charismatic, and kind. He wears his emotions on his sleeve, though he can feign happiness at the drop of a hat. His learned politeness and charisma can get him far when socializing, but he fears that’s about all he can do. Ambrose knows he isn’t leading an interesting life, or the head of any impressive accomplishments, or the holder of any neat hobbies. He tries to keep other people talking, because he doesn’t have a lot to say about himself. He sees himself as more of a husk than a person, though he keeps that information highly confidential.




History:
Prologue
She grew up in a trailer park in Louisiana, her family's pureblooded name earning them nothing after their fall from grace a few generations ago. Somewhere among the lines of laundry left to dry in the sweltering summer air, she toed at the dead grass as she listened to her parents fight. Her bursting excitement had simmered to a glower as she fanned herself with a piece of paper. “We would like to congratulate you on your acceptance to Salem Witches Institute of Magic,” the letter read, but her parents had been going on for God-knows-how-long, and paid her no mind. The girl heaved a sigh as she sat down on the dust, swearing that she'd someday leave this all behind.
 
And she did.
 
Some decade later, a friendly smile graced her face as she shook hands with her new boss: the head of the United States Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Her outstanding grades and glowing recommendations had caught their eye, and she didn't think twice about moving closer to her new employer. Those suffocating nights with her parents were long gone, lost somewhere behind her new stilettos and powerful designer suit.
 
She took her job impossibly seriously, and her patronage alone could have kept the local potion shop in business as she facilitated her long hours. The man behind the counter-- who looked a lanky sort of elegant, with a less hard-working past-- often showed concern for her, but she kept on. She had little patience for dawdling, and only condoned his curiosity in hopes he'd leave her alone.
 
She had no such luck, however. The more months that passed, the more mortified she grew as she discovered the innumerable things they had in common. Worse yet, she found herself looking forward to their conversations, and even looking forward to HIM! She humored him with a date, but that only made matters worse. After years of him talking her down into a more normal lifestyle, and her bringing him up to a more passionate one, the two married. With her authority and his family wealth, the two made for an excellent power couple. They spent many years enjoying the luxuries of life in a childless home.
 
Ambrose Barnaby Darrion was born on August 9th, 1988, into a prestigious and pristine house. His mother's more advanced age made it clear that he had not been planned; however, his parents saw no use in sulking over happenstance. The two saw Ambrose as a bundle of-- not joy-- but potential. A mold to adopt their best traits and cruise through life with nothing but success, as his parents had once done. Between the resources of them both, they saw no reason why raising an honorable child would possibly be difficult.
 
Early
Ambrose's earliest memories are of a high-end private school, nestled snugly into the wealthy community in which he grew up. His friends were many and his studies were easy, and Ambrose cruised into something akin to popularity, as charismatic and intelligent children often did. Ambrose quickly learned the pattern that he would live by for the rest of the foreseeable future: in a home of busy and accomplished parents, stellar grades were an immediate path to their affections. His teachers often praised him, and his parents feigned surprise, though of course Ambrose was growing up exactly as-planned. For his first six years of schooling, he loved all his subjects, especially math, and the easy praise they earned him.

He would not know of the compromises of less-than-wealthy living until much later, and even in the present he never came to fully understand. His mother and father raised him in unhidden wealth, with love and affection that often needed to be earned in order to compete with their busy schedules.
 
Salem Witches Institute of Magic
His switch to Salem Witches Institute of Magic went smoothly. Though Ambrose was sad to leave behind his muggle friends, he made short work of finding new associates. The prospect of not living in magical secrecy was grossly exciting to him. He was already well-versed in many introductory charms and concepts, and he couldn't wait to meet others he could discuss and practice with. Much like before, Ambrose fit into his new life as if he'd always been there.
 
His learned politeness and natural enthusiasm earned him many friends, and even some more-than-friendly interests. His previously isolated, classist lifestyle had been shattered, and Ambrose was fascinated by the diverse history of every student. He could have listened to his peer's childhood stories for hours, and he came to personally know many, many students throughout his time at Salem.
 
His grades remained high throughout Salem Junior, and he ended his first year of Salem Senior with Os in Arithmancy, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, History of Magic, Muggle Studies, and Astronomy, and Es in Potions, Herbology, and Transfiguration.* His excellent grades earned him a loving pat on the head, though he couldn't help but feel strangely about his father's comment on his Potions grade.
 
“MY son! With only an E in Potions?” He had said it gently, but Ambrose couldn't help but wonder about it. He had been completely satisfied with his grades before his father had said something. It hadn't even occurred to Ambrose that there was any reason to not feel triumphant; not before that moment. His parents had never voiced disappointment in him before. It was fact, yes: he had done well... but the comment weighed upon him like an icy blanket of failure. He would do better on the N.E.W.T.s, then. A looming sense of guilt pushed him to do better. This was another pattern that he would live by for the rest of the foreseeable future.
 
A momentary distraction was on the horizon: It was his second year of Salem Senior when a lovely muggleborn witch, with frightened downcast eyes and a tight, closed stance transferred from Red Rocks. He was taken with her immediately, and, though his boisterous friendliness frightened her at first, he quickly worked around her puzzling shyness. She was grateful to have a friend (and a popular boy, at that), but she kept Ambrose at arm's length, still unsure. It took the better part of the year and many long, late-night conversations, but the lovely witch slowly granted him with a different sort of smile. Finally, she took his hand and allowed him to anchor his affections to her.
 
Something else changed, too, however. As his final year of Salem grew closer, Ambrose felt the shadow of his parents creep over him. They began to ask him things: "How are your grades? How are your classes? What do you want to do after Salem?" Their sudden attention was startling. "What would you like to do? What classes do you enjoy? Your parents could get you any job you wanted, we have the ability." Ambrose stalled for an answer, but the more he dodged their questions, the closer they loomed over him.
 
How was he supposed to know? Ambrose had never thought about life after Salem, his mind had only ever been on his next exam. Ambrose had no favorite subjects. He had only ever striven for perfection in order to earn his parents' praise, not to learn and discover what he loved. Nothing was weeded out of his curriculum, and nothing invoked his passion, or interest, or desire, either. And now, he stood at an unmarked crossroad, each path looking just as bleak as the next. Worse yet, a new subject found its way into their concerns: 'Does she distract you? Maybe you should consider focusing on your studies. We know you like her, but you should remember how important your N.E.W.T.s are. She’ll understand. We only want you to do what's best."
 
As the end of his final year approached, the looming threats of failure and decisions made him anxious. Ambrose lost himself in his studies, partially to prepare for his N.E.W.T.s, partially to avoid his parents, and partially to ignore imminent reality. Friendships drifted and severed as he spent more time alone. The lovely young witch begged Ambrose to not be so hard on himself. She stuck it out nearly to the end, but she tried to hide her tears as she, too, eventually bade him goodbye, telling Ambrose that she needed to revise. They did not study together, despite taking many of the same classes.
 
Ambrose received Os in all his N.E.W.T.s-- some only barely (and Potions only after some “parental persuasion” to the school), but it was fact: he had done extraordinarily well, and his parents were ecstatic. Ambrose knew he should have been happy, too, but he felt nothing.
 


Summer of 2006-Summer of 2008
“We found you an internship,” his mother had announced after the second week of Ambrose making no attempt to find a job.
“I'll apply,” he answered hollowly, though his mother smiled.
“That's already done, you start next week.”
Ambrose couldn't even be bitter about his parents throwing him into a job. He was happy to take direction if it meant less decisions for him.
 
He had almost been excited when his parents mentioned he would be working for his father's old potions teacher, now long-retired and running a small clinic in Massachusetts. He spent nearly two years tailing after an old Scottish witch, however, and scarcely even saw her ingredients, let alone her work. She was a fiercely independent coot, and Ambrose was quickly demoted to an assistant rather than an apprentice. Thankfully, what he missed in potion work was made up for with wandwork. She put him to use with healing spells, including many charms, some transfiguration, and a few counter-curses.
 
“Much easier,” she had said. “Potions are persnickety. I've been doin' this for years an' years, I've seen what can go wrong, so why don't I handle this for now?”
 
Though “for now” never changed, she was impressed with his abilities. Wandwork was a skill in which Ambrose had always excelled, though he gladly gave his prideful wand most of the credit. He found the work easy enough, after some practice, and was happy to fall into a lax routine of running errands and patching up scrapes and accidents on patients. He occasionally wondered if the dotty woman had forgotten why he was there, but he didn’t mention it.

As his final year of Salem drifted into the past, Ambrose began to relax. He still thought about his lost friends and the lovely witch-- he considered eagling her many times-- but something held him back. Maybe it was the Potioner’s stories, in which she shrugged off old regrets, or even made them out to be humorous failures. Maybe it had to do with Ambrose rediscovering his love for learning about others-- strangers with vast and interesting lives, who he might never see again outside of the present moment. Such wonderful things made it hard for him to worry about the past. Yet, his parents still loomed over him, asking about the future, and Ambrose still didn’t have any answers.

Here, he settled into a final pattern that he would follow for the rest of the foreseeable future: With the past behind him, and the future uncertain, Ambrose decided that his place was, undoubtedly, the present. He found joy in the here-and-now, without regret or fear. It was immature, maybe, but it rekindled his excitement for daily life, and it gave him a sense of courage and energy that he’d forgotten he had.

Two years came and went, and as the internship ran out, he sadly part ways with the old witch. He never did learn potionry, but the internship would still look good on paper, anyway.
 
Fall of 2010-Present
After over a year of off-and-on work, Ambrose was greeted one morning with an acceptance letter to a healer training program. He was beyond being surprised by things he hadn’t applied for. His mother and father were masters at such subtle parental nudges.

Though his wandwork was a stable crutch to lean on, Ambrose was disappointed to find out just how important potionry was in medical work. He could fake his way through just about anything, however, and found the slow-paced hospital gave him plenty of time to work through his references when he needed. Still, references could only get him so far. He was disappointed-- his O on his Potions N.E.W.T. might as well have been for nothing, as he hardly remembered anything. He couldn’t say he was surprised. Ambrose had always been a test taker, not a learner, and it had been years since he graduated from Salem. For now, his healing spells would suffice. Unfortunately, there was no cram session for life. He could whip off some common potions if cornered, but there was no getting around it: He’d need to go back to his Potions notes at some point.
 
...Later, however. After nearly a month of hospital work, Ambrose received an unexpected call to the head healer’s office. There had been some sort of catastrophe overseas, in wizarding London; an explosion. Saint Mungo’s Hospital had sent out a request for some extra helpers, and his hospital was responding with some of their extra hands. In short, he was being transferred, effective as soon as possible.

Ambrose’s parents were likely more excited than he was, and made short work of arranging his assets for him before seeing him off.
 
Present
Late November 8th, 2010, Ambrose entered his London apartment for the first time, shaking the rain from his hair and jacket. He cringed at the realization that he would need to get settled before he could sleep-- or, at least, he'd need to find his paperwork. He needed to be at St Mungo's bright and early the next day to start his training, though he wasn't sure what to expect...




Saint Mungo's Hospital:
Ambrose is a Healer-in-Training on the ground floor of St. Mungo’s. As a HiT, his true responsibilities are admittedly few, but his work in Artifact Accidents centers largely around the healing of physical wounds and related aftercare. Though he should technically receive experience on all floors, Ambrose favors the ground floor due to its propensity for physical wand healing-- something he himself favors-- and, Ambrose hopes, its lessened reliance on potionry-- something he has been highly avoidant of as of yet.

Ambrose is known as a charismatic and energetic trainee, perhaps even unprofessionally so. “Poker face” is not in his vocabulary, let alone his ability repertoire, much to the disapproval of some of his higher-ups. Still, his optimistic and friendly approach does have its ways of putting people at ease, and is especially effective for more frightened or reluctant patients.

Ambrose’s qualifications are, regrettably, more impressive on paper than in life. Applying to a job with the objective, “To evolve a career involving strong medical work in a challenging community environment” certainly sounds good with his respectable parents’ names, his Salem transcripts (including O’s across all his N.E.W.T.s), and a two-year internship working under a respectable potions master. While nothing on his resume is a lie, it’s certainly… misleading.

It’s dishonourable how little practical knowledge he actually has about potions. Though various knowledge rattles around his head, trying to get those long-ago-learned words into application is easier said than done, and it’s been ages since he’s had any hands-on experience with the more finicky details.

Ambrose wouldn’t be around if he were completely useless, however. Something he does excel in is healing magic, and that’s a skill he will use whenever possible. Charms and spells come easily to him, and he prides himself in dwelling in more advanced magic and counter-curses. He jumps on any opportunity to prove himself with magic, hoping it will help him slide off the hook if he’s ever cornered by his hesitant potions skills.

Overall, Ambrose’s personable friendliness and impressive spellcasting make it clear how he’s still around the prestigious Saint Mungo’s Hospital, and potionry… will hopefully catch up, someday.



Writing Sample:
Ambrose closed the door behind him with a gentle ‘click,’ immediately made obsolete by a hard ‘whump!’ as he chucked his duffel bag across the room. He paused. He checked his watch: 10:26 PM… no, London: 3:26 AM.

“Ooh,” he clicked his tongue as he spun the dial on the shiny timepiece. “Well, sorry, neighbors.” Hopefully he hadn’t woken anyone. Becoming a nuisance in under one minute would be a new record.

Ambrose looked up from the watch, shifting his gaze from one expensive parental gift to another as he scanned the apartment. He didn’t know, nor want to know, how his parents had secured a lease on the place so fast, but they’d certainly outdone themselves. He broke the silence of the air as he slipped off his rain-damp coat. Unlike his home, these rooms were free of grossly intricate crown molding and lion-footed furniture. These walls were sleek and modern, and it took Ambrose many minutes to adjust to the darkness of the rich wood. He took a breath, and even that seemed impossibly loud in the still apartment.

He would get his things together for tomorrow, and then he would sleep. A simple plan. Ambrose was quick to find his bedroom, where he laid his suitcase on the floor. It was different, he realized as he stared into the neatly-organized bag. He gave a huff of a laugh as he sat down on the hardwood. He could see his mother tearing his shoddy packing apart and re-folding everything, most likely clucking to his father about ‘that boy.’ Predictable, though somehow Ambrose hadn’t been expecting it.

“Unnecessary, Mommy, but thank you,” he mumbled to the empty silence, a wide smile set on his face. She had probably complained about “needing” to re-pack his bag, too, even though nobody had asked her to do it. Oh, well. Mothers. Ambrose reached for the stack of documents she had laid at the top of the bag: his Saint Mungo’s paperwork. And... something else? Ambrose set the papers aside, looking at the framed photograph that had been placed underneath.

He sat back, his humored smile fading into something more gentle as he watched: a petite blonde throws her head back in laughter, after what must have been several attempts to take the photo. A lanky brown-haired man smiles and mouths silent words before counting on his fingers: 3, 2, 1… The couple leans in to kiss a disheveled-looking toddler seated between them, who flails his chubby arms, clearly lacking the patience for this parental nonsense. The two laugh with one another and mouth an out-of-sync “happy birthday!” to the camera as they fuss with the child.

A more perfect version of this scene had been set out in the living room for as long as Ambrose could remember. He didn’t even know there were other versions. Did all the precise and beautiful scenes he grew up with have less-than-perfect takes, like this one? He thumbed at the frame as he watched it again, enjoying a warm and genuine feel that he hadn’t even realized that he missed. Lately, he associated his parents with the cold tingling he felt when they snapped at him, or the empty feeling of slipping off to bed after a long shift, without a single greeting from anyone.

Sort of like right now, Ambrose thought as his gaze drifted through the window, out to the unfamiliar city below. He stood and placed the photo on the dresser, taking a moment to look around the bedroom, trying to imagine it feeling familiar and lived-in. Would he someday be unable to remember it like this, so clean and empty and new? Well, now wasn’t the time for sentimentalism. He had to be up early tomorrow, he reminded himself, and Ambrose moved to get ready for bed.

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*The classes he took are subject to change. This is the Hogwarts's curriculum, used for the sake of story, not Salem's.
Ambrose is open for threading and etc. Send PMs to Ambrose Darrion!
P.S. Sorry for the length of this bio. Thanks for any attempt you may have made to read it!