HOWARD, Peter Alexander William
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HOWARD, Peter Alexander William

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Post by Peter Howard Mon Apr 07, 2014 8:47 pm

HOWARD, Peter Alexander William Tumblr_n3bnrbYa5g1sq3xw2o1_250 HOWARD, Peter Alexander William Tumblr_n3bnrbYa5g1sq3xw2o3_250
HOWARD, Peter Alexander William Tumblr_n3bnrbYa5g1sq3xw2o2_250HOWARD, Peter Alexander William Tumblr_n3bnrbYa5g1sq3xw2o4_250



BIRTH NAME: Conall Deaglan Daithi Hayes
Conall (KAHN-al) ~ Irish-Scottish-Gaelic-Celtic origin: means ‘strong wolf,’ also possibly stems from the Gaelic phrase that means ‘high and mighty.’
Deaglan (DECK-lan) ~ Irish origin: means ‘good and full (of goodness.)’
Daithi (DAH-hee) ~ Old Irish origin: means ‘swiftness, nimbleness.’
Hayes (HAYE-s) ~ Irish, stemming from the Gaelic polygenetic surname: ‘O hAodha’ which means the descendent of Aodh (‘fire’) or of Aed, the Irish mythological God of the Underworld.

ADOPTIVE NAME: Peter Alexander William Howard
Peter (PEE-ter) ~ Greek origin: means “rock.”
Alexander (al-ek-ZAN-der) ~ Greek origin: means “man’s defender, warrior.”
William (WIL-yum) ~ Old German origin: means “will helmet, protection.”
Howard (HOW-erd) ~ Middle English origin: means “sheep herder.”

AGE&BIRTHDAY&SIGNS: Thirty, b. October 18th 1996

Sun Sign
- Libra
Element: Air
Quality: Cardinal
Ruling House: Seventh
Ruling Planet: Venus

Chinese Sign
- Rat
Fixed Season: Winter
Fixed Direction: North
Fixed Element: Water

Mayan Day Sign
- Grass
Mayan Name: Eb
Direction: South
Qualities: Careful and Useful

- Eight
Ruling Planet: Saturn
Colours: Black, Purple
Gemstones: Ruby, Amethyst
Qualities: Born leader, Visionary


BLOOD TYPE: Half-Blood

His son, Finley.
His fiancée

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Hufflepuff House
Hufflepuff Quidditch Team

The British Ministry of Magic
The Department of Law and Enforcement
The Auror Office
Azkaban Prison

The English National Football Team
The Irish National Football Team
The English National Quidditch Team
The Irish National Quidditch Team
South End United Football Club
The Chudley Cannons

Hamstel Junior School – Aged seven to eleven
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – Aged eleven to eighteen


Core Classes:
Astronomy – A
Charms – P
Herbology - EE
History of Magic - T
Potions - A
Transfiguration - P

Care of Magical Creatures - EE

OCCUPATION: Carpenter, Thief

WAND: Blackthorn and Cedar inlaid with Dogwood and Ivy, Dragon Heart-String, Unicorn and Veela Hair core, 13 inches, rigid.  


As a child, Peter was always the smallest in his class. He was a small, delicate boy with little hands and even littler in stature and gait. It was because of this that there was never much hope of him being a tall young man. Despite this foresight, Peter’s father did not and could not prevent himself from trying to turn the boy onto his sport. But, predictably, Peter was also the smallest in the local under-fifteen rugby team and whilst as a ten year old he was quick, he had more than a few broken ribs to answer for before his father finally gave up. The early seeds had been sown, though, and so even when he was very young, Peter grew to covet fitness – even if when he grew older he’d use it for more suspect endeavours.

If he had anything to boast about when he was a child then it was the fact that he had strong arms. Peter wasn’t picked on for being the shortest, skinniest – whatever it was that he lacked in comparison to the bigger boys – but instead had a large circle of equally mischievous friends who enjoyed climbing trees as much as he did. From the age of seven, he was swinging from the high branches of the towering fruit-bearing trees at the bottom of the garden. Up to the highest, thickest branch he would bring himself and he set himself there and ease scarlet fruits from the clusters hanging there, ripe and full. He’d return to the house with clear juice running down his cheeks, reddened fingers and a cheeky, broad smile – one which has not changed in all his years. And though he’d be hit around the back of the head with a tea towel by his mother who knew he wouldn’t eat his dinner, his grin wouldn’t cease and she’d embrace him anyway.

This trait followed Peter into early adolescence when, blessedly, he began to grow. First of all it was his hands which grew to a bizarre size in relation to the rest of his skinny frame. However he soon grew into, well, himself and he shot up quickly, taking on more of the build that his father had wanted in him. It wasn’t quite right, of course, but Peter got taller and broader and began to look more masculine. It was around that time that he began to take up a few sports of his own volition. Football became a passion that he and his father could bond over and they’d go to a game every Saturday if they could. When he wasn’t at the professional games, he was playing as a centre forward in his own youth team. He also took up sailing with his uncle and that was much harder, he found, but even more enjoyable than the football.

This chap with his blue eyes and sandy brown hair is a good-looking sod, let’s make no mistake. It’s no wonder that at Hogwarts he found it relatively easy to get a date for Hogsmeade trips. Quidditch became a minor obsession for him which he reaped the benefits of – the best of which being that girls love Chasers. As it turns out, Peter holds a rather fervent affection for women, too, and as a result he used what he had to get, well, them. A combination of risky Quidditch playing and the climbing of both the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor Towers during his Hogwarts years have left him calloused and cracked here and there in the old skin and bones. Nevertheless, he did well for himself.

Peter has always, for as long as he’s been able to grow it, had some form of facial hair. As a teenager he played around, growing everything from a Guy Fawkes moustache and goatee to a full beard. Now he just keeps it trimmed and, along with that, the hair on the top of his head, too – anything particularly long always tended to get in the way. Of what you ask? Everything really.

Clothes have never ever been particularly important to Peter – not least because he prefers them off rather than on. Regardless of that, Peter has always been happier in jeans and a t-shirt than anything elaborate. However, what he found during his adolescence was that the ladies he liked tended to like the better dressed gentlemen. But of course, that wasn’t really his cup of tea – not entirely -- he brushed up though, regardless. Very little of his sense of dress has changed since he was a teenager and though he moved onto shirts and thought a little bit longer about what he wanted to wear and dress himself in, he maintained a casual sense of style. Fond of dark colours, Peter sticks to woody greens and browns and blacks but eventually and sometimes he will branch out into brighter shades. Jeans are a must. Boots even more so. Heavy jackets, scarves and woollen jumpers are also of the upmost importance. He has habits, needless to say, and an old yet timeless wardrobe.

When we think about this, we have to consider what’s a little abnormal. Scars, you ask? He has plenty – but so does everyone else. He’s got a scar on his left forearm where he burnt himself getting a tray of pizza out of the oven. He’s got scratches and cuts healed up awkwardly across his torso from dancing through the woodland, duelling with his peers and the odd skirmish with a Bludger. It’s no different, really, from any other wizard. What makes Peter a bit interesting is his collection of tattoos. He has four particularly interesting ones, all the same, and hail from his time in Azkaban. These tattoos are of his number which distinguishes him from the rest of the inmates. One is on his neck, another on his collar bone, one on his hip bone and the final one on his ankle. He can always be found and identified that way – even and especially if he gives a false name. On his left forearm, Peter has his son’s birth date written in roman numerals: XXIX – IV – MMXXIII. Around that he has a small bird in flight and that particular one is charmed to fly all over his torso and arms at will. One the other arm, Peter has a tattoo of a rampant lion – both a testament to his family’s coat of arms and to his former fiancée whose Gryffindor bravery was both the trait he treasured most in her and the trait that brought her to her end. Other than that, he has his upper arms tattooed with various dates and pictures, the beginnings of two sleeves that he worked on during his late teenage years and early twenties. They’re unfinished but he intends to finish it eventually when he can find the money. Other than that, Peter has one earlobe pierced with a gold look strung through – enough to pay for his funeral, he would tell you – and he wears a handful of rings. One particular ring he doesn’t wear on his fingers is his fiancée’s engagement ring which he keeps on a silver chain around his neck, wearing it closer to his heart.

PLAY BY: Sean Maguire


001. Ambitious,
002. Artistic,
003. Athletic,
004. Charming,
005. Chatty,
006. Clever,
007. Competitive,
008. Deceptive,
009. Dedicated,
010. Fair,
011. Fickle,
012. Generous,
013. Good-Humoured,
014. Hard-Working,
015. Indecisive,
016. Inquisitive,
017. Kind,
018. Loving,
019. Non-Confrontational,
020. Organised,
021. Over-Protective,
022. Patient,
023. People-Person,
024. Polite,
025. Practical,
026. Quiet,
027. Responsible,
028. Romantic,
029. Sly,
030. Romantic.

001. Architecture,
002. Astronomy,
003. Autumn,
004. Camping,
005. Folk Music,
006. Football,
007. Good Food,
008. Hiking,
009. Quidditch,
010. Swimming,
011. The Countryside,
012. The Seaside,
013. Warm Climates,
014. Wine,
015. Women.

016. Azkaban,
017. Courtrooms,
018. Crosswords,
019. Dancing,
020. Exams,
021. Galway,
022. Hogwarts,
023. Hospitals,
024. Illness,
025. Lawyers,
026. Poor weather,
027. Potions,
028. Raspberry Jam,
029. Sudoku,
030. Winter.

001. Always spills/knocks over his drinks,
002. Calls everyone ‘darling’ or ‘love,’
003. Clicks his wrists,
004. Compulsively washes his hands,
005. Constantly fidgeting,
006. Forgetful – especially when it comes to remembering vault numbers,
007. Hums to himself when doing something,
008. Keeps his shirt sleeves rolled up,
009. Purses his lips when thinking,
010. Rarely swears unless he’s absolutely livid,
011. Rubs his eyes a lot,
012. Speaks out of the corner of his mouth when stressed or lying,
013. Strokes his chin,
014. Takes in waifs and strays – animals and humans,
015. Taps his lips a lot – a leftover habit from smoking during his teenage years,
016. Uncannily good at braiding hair,
017. Vegetarian – unable to digest protein-rich foods,
018. Wears odd socks,
019. Writes things he has to remember on his arm,
020. Writes with his left hand but uses his write for everything else.

BOGGART: “Finley. If I lost him, I’d die.”

PATRONUS: “The night I proposed to Sarah.”

DEMENTOR: “My parents’ funeral. Then… then Sarah’s. They blur together now.”

VERITASERUM: “There’s nothing Howard about me. I’m… I’m a Hayes.”

MIRROR OF ERISED: “I want my family. I want my mum, my dad… my brother. I want Sarah. I want Finley. I want it right this time.”

It would be a cardinal sin, in Peter’s mind, to betray his friends. Other people have always been his main priority over himself as he thrives on the companionship of his friends. Friendship has been a driving, grounding factor for Peter for as long as he has been on his own and without his friends he doubts highly that he would have survived as long as he has done. He loves them fiercely, as fiercely as he does family, and would move mountains if it meant that affairs could be settled and no one was hurt. He isn’t so naïve to believe he can fix everything, though. He’s learnt about that the hard way but that doesn’t stop him from trying, of course. He’s painstakingly loyal and steadfast in that manner and that will makes him stronger than he has ever imagined himself. He would battle the fiercest of dragons or Dark Wizards if it meant he could protect his friends. He could never betray them.

“The Peter I know,” the said friends would begin fondly: is a man with a rampant humour unlike any other. Quick to joke, even quicker to guffawing laughter, he never seems to be without a smile or a goofy piece of mischief. He’s still got childlike qualities, as though he’s making up for missing time when he was very young, and seems incapable, at times, of any form of seriousness. That was what makes him quite intimidating when he does grow irate or solemn – because it is such a rare occurrence. He is a playful man and highly affectionate, too. He’s a hugger, to give you fair warning. Some people greet others with a firm shake of the hand. Peter? You’ll get the shake but you’ll be pulled into an embrace, too, and if you’re especially lucky then you’ll get a sloppy kiss as well.

Behind the kind, generous man, however, is one who has been through untold upset and he has not emerged from that unscathed in any manner. Rather, he has come out of those scenarios shaken and unsure how to progress. The first: spending his early years bedridden in St. Mungo’s. Coming to terms with the fact that abandonment was almost inevitable was the first instance that began to sow ruinous seeds in Peter’s character. The second: when he ran away, a trauma which his adoptive parents began to heal. The third? Their deaths. Their deaths. Understanding that he wouldn’t have his little measures of happiness. The third and a half? Living with his grandmother. As much as he loved her… it was hell. The fourth: Azkaban. The fifth: losing Sarah. The sixth: losing his real father, a man he never knew. From these things, Peter has never fully recovered. But he’s trying. Merlin knows he’s trying. It’s left him with this deeply ingrained fear of abandonment, however, and a secondary fear that, perhaps, happiness isn’t meant for him after all.


ADOPTIVE MOTHER: Amanda Jean Howard née Elliott | b. 1966 | d. 2011 | Former Banker

ADOPTIVE FATHER: Thomas James Howard | b. 1965 | d. 2011 | Former Accountant

Richard Dean Howard | b. 1940 | d. 2020 | Former Cobbler
Gwendolyn Moira Howard née Stafford | b. 1939 | Former Accountant

Colin Michael Elliott | b. 1939 | d. 2000 | Former Greyhound trainer
Elizabeth Patricia Elliott née Wilcox | b. 1940 | d. 2000 | Former Tailor  

BIOLOGICAL MOTHER: Bridget Mairen Hayes née Rookwood | b. 1972 | Muggle Author

BIOLOGICAL FATHER: Aiden Brennan Hayes | b. 1969 | d. 2026 | Former Potions Master

Raghnall Rookwood | b. 1945 | Entrepreneur
Emelia Rookwood née Conrad | b. 1946 | Unemployed

Keiran Conall Finley Hayes | b. 2000 | Transfiguration Professor
m. Melissa Adriana Hayes née Finnigan | b. 2010 | Unemployed
- Liam Wesley Hayes | b. 2027 |
- Kelly Isabette Hayes | b. 2027

Uncles, Aunts and Cousins
Thaddeus Rookwood | b. 1967 | Entrepreneur
m. Desdemona Rookwood née Mascherano | b. 1971  
- Catherine Goyle née Rookwood | b. 1989
m. Gelos Goyle | b. 1978
+ Medea Goyle | b. 2010
+ Ariadne Goyle | b. 2015
+ Poseidon Goyle | b. 2025
+ Hestia Rookwood
- Lionel Rookwood | b. 1993
- Irina Yaxley née Rookwood | b. 1997
m. Isaac Yaxley | b. 1989
+ James Yaxley | b. 2017
+ Thaddeus Yaxley | b. 2019
+ Henry Yaxley | b. 2022
+ Helen Yaxley | b. 2022
- Adriana Rookwood | b. 2001
- Theodore Rookwood | b. 2006
m. Hallie Rookwood | b. 2008

Eamon Rookwood | b. 1975
m. Rosie Rookwood née Hudson | b. 1973
- James Rookwood | b. 1994
- Jeremiah Rookwood | b. 1997
- Joseph Rookwood | b. 2000

Cedric Rookwood | b. 1983
m. Meredith Rookwood née Walsh | 2006
div. Jane Rookwood née Kavanagh | b. 1980
- Edith Rookwood | b. 2000
- Nigel Rookwood | b. 2002
- Niall Rookwood | b. 2005

Illegitimate line via Kaeleigh Lambeth
Augustus Rookwood | b. 1988 | Ex-Unspeakable
m. Cordelia Rookwood née Birch | b. 1988 | d. 2026
- Kendall Rookwood | b. 2005
m. Athena Rookwood née Goyle | b. 2006
+ Augustus Rookwood, the Younger | b. 2026
+ Archibald Rookwood | b. 2026
- Katarina Rookwood | b. 2011
- Cordella Rookwood | b. 2011
m. Gisele Delacour-Rookwood | b. 2011
- Aurelia Rookwood | b. 2021
- Cecilia Rookwood | b. 2024

PARTNER: Sarah Miriam Jones | b. 2000 | d. 2020 | Former Auror

OFFSPRING: Finely James Thomas Howard | b. April 29th 2020


BIRTHPLACE: Galway, Connacht, Galway, Southern Ireland.

HOME TOWN: Rochford, Essex, United Kingdom.

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Southend-on-Sea, Essex, United Kingdom.




Early Years:
After a long and difficult birth, Conall Deaglan Daithi Hayes was born at seventeen minutes past two on the morning of the 18th October, 1996. The first son of Aiden and Bridget Hayes, he was a little miracle, and once the first crackles of the infant’s cries could be heard, that miracle was realised truly. The cries were strong, loud and clear and the baby Conall, with his bright, wide blue eyes and a shock of bright red hair across his scalp, was swaddled in warm blankets and set into his mother’s waiting embrace. He was perfectly healthy, at least at first, with all ten fingers and toes and the other trappings that made a perfect miniature person. He went home that very same day, the happiest bundle in all of County Galway, they were all sure. However, if this was going to be a happy tale then Conall would be Conall Hayes, still, and not Peter Howard. It’s not a tale of the most wonderful upbringing in a lush, green setting – it’s not a tale like that, at all.

In April, amidst the blooming flowers and buzzing bees, Conall was taken ill. Bearing all of the symptoms of Dragon Pox, barring the green colouring, his father administered the cure that Gunhilda of Gorsemoor had created decades before. The potion had no effect. The only place for him was St. Mungo’s and so it was to the children’s wing that the couple took their son. Before they could even stutter their concerns into being, however, the boy was whisked away and the Healers disappeared into the inner sanctum of the hospital. It was hours before any news was broached but when it was, it wasn’t good. Was it ever going to be, you ask? Well, no, but that did not stop them from holding out hope. It wasn’t Dragon Pox. It was something much worse.

There was no name for it; for what afflicted Conall. A name, the Healer said, suggested a comprehension of the pestilence. They had none of that, he added. They didn’t know what caused it. They feared they’d never know. He was the third ever. They hadn’t studied it. There was no name. No real symptoms. No rhyme or reason. Dragon Pox, he did have, but it was mild and could be flushed out of his system, but when they inspected him, his skin was ripe with blue smudges beneath the skin, some in the shape of their hands where they’d held him. His magic was reacting against him. Too much, or perhaps too little, had prevented his magical core from taking proper shape in the womb. It was bleeding out, like a haemophilia only much more dangerous. One Healer quipped later to his colleague that a haemophiliac would have been treatable. Conall was not. All they could do was alleviate the symptoms.

The boy did not go home with his parents. His first birthday was seen in the hospital. His first steps were photographed by one of the nurses whilst another helped him along. He was a lively, talkative child when he finally got round to it and his magic was strong, buoyant and wicked at times – but whenever he used it, his infancy unable to afford him any real control, those sky blue marks showed in his creamy skin and he would be reduced to tears as the magic was drained away to protect him, to ensure he lived. But what life was it, really? It was no life. His mother was there as often as possible. He saw little of his father, in truth, but Aiden he can recall just as vividly as he can Bridget – he’d never forget them.

Subsequent birthdays were seen out in St. Mungo’s and Conall became part of the furniture. Every day, a pretty nurse called Gina would take him for a walk and he’d sit with a gentleman in the waiting room who had come to visit his mother. With him, Conall learnt to perceive letters and soon enough, construct his own with a pencil and paper. Thereafter, the hospital staff provided him with books and magazines and other things to read. That was how he passed the time and as he got older, he progressed on and soon enough began to learn about magic and, crucially, his condition. The Healers, having been with Conall since the beginning, understood more of his condition than any other and were far more forthcoming with information as a result.

The cases of magical deficiencies came in swings and roundabouts. Some people had too much magic, some had too little. Conall, ironically, sat smack bang in the middle. It was this that made his condition more manageable and as he got older and his magic slowly came under control, the magical bleeding grew less and less – however, the Healers at this point rightly began to prophesise that the magical bleeding would occur in times of stress and/or events of over-magical-exertion. His magic was manageable which meant his illness was too and that meant that eventually, he might get to go home, as well.

Things in the Hayes household were changing, however. In the spring of the year 2000, another baby was born – the second son of Aiden and Bridget. Keiran was the apple of their eye and something within Conall, even at his own young age, could sense that immediately. The fact that both Aiden and Bridget went to the hospital to introduce Conall to Keiran was evidence enough in the elder boy’s mind. He was being fed, slowly but surely, stories from the points of view of the elder inmates – those whose parents had forgotten them and in the subsequent years, Conall not just listened to it but he began to believe in it, too.

Just before his seventh birthday, Conall ran away. He ran as fast as his little legs could carry him and by the time the nurses had noticed he’d disappeared, he was long gone. He was, however, picked up by a Muggle charity in the intervening hours. He was taken to an orphanage and left there while appeals were made by the charity to his parents. No parents ever came for him though and Conall was forced to settle in the orphanage. He spent nearly a year there before anyone came for him. He was too old, many of the staff complained, too old to be adopted. But adopted he was by Amanda and Thomas Howard. Then, then things began to look up for him.

After that, Conall took a new name: Peter Alexander William Howard. Peter had the perfect childhood after that. Amanda and Thomas were hard working people who loved their son dearly. He grew up in Rochford, Essex and found a fast group of friends in the local area. Thomas taught him his times tables, different sports and how to be something of a lady’s man even from a young age whilst his mother taught him what she called ‘proper maths,’ ‘proper sports’ and ‘how to be a gentleman.’ They were charming people, Amanda and Thomas, and after a while Peter began to forget his former life. He also began to forget magic, too. He could live without it. But it couldn’t live without him.

In the August before his twelfth birthday, an ambassador from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry appeared on the doorstep of the Howard home. The Witch explained everything about the Wizarding World, everything about the school and shed light on everything that Peter was. This, of course, wasn’t news to him. The little blue spots that popped up every so often in his skin were little memories of everything that preceded his life with Thomas and Amanda. He didn’t want to go into the Wizarding World again, he realised with a start, but he had to understand the world of his real parents. He had to understand why they’d forget him – why they wouldn’t want him. So, he agreed to go. He agreed to join the Wizarding World.

Hogwarts Years:
Muggles weren’t strictly meant to see Diagon Alley but so long as they were accompanied by someone from the school, Thomas and Amanda were more than welcome to accompany their son to get his school books. A vault was set up in Gringott’s almost as soon as they arrived and not long after that, Peter forgot the number – though his father, thankfully, had thought to write it down whilst Amanda deemed it necessary to hold onto the key lest he lose it. Thereafter, they went along to Ollivander’s and it was in that pokey little shop that Peter bought his first wand and, for his trouble, got quite puzzled look by the man himself who, more aged than ever now, was sat behind the counter, letting his son take down the boxes. He seemed to not believe, almost, that there, stood before him, was Peter Howard. It was as though he saw through it all and though his twinkling blue eyes gave nothing away, Peter could not help but feel slightly uneasy. He stayed beside his mother, watching and waiting as several boxes were taken down. All the while, Mr Ollivander the Elder watched him intently, curiously, but did not open his mouth except for once when he instructed his son to take down a box from one of the higher shelves. The younger Ollivander said nothing but merely instead shot his father a puzzled look before climbing the ladder once more. It was once the box was brought down and handed to his father that the elder Ollivander spoke again but not to his son or to the attending witch or to Peter’s parents – but to Peter himself.


“Come here to me, boy.” Ollivander instructed, extending a long, wrinkled finger before curling it towards himself, beckoning Peter closer. The boy would not have gone but the soft hand of his mother pressing on his shoulder prompted him forward and he came to a stop on the rug just before Mr Ollivander.

Peter watched with fitful eyes as the man, with shaking hands, lifted the lid from the box. Settled within deep purple satin was a dark wooded wand, streaked through with a rich maroon colour and speckled here and there with a far darker colouring. The handle itself was stark white in comparison, jewelled with opal set into what the elderly man carefully explained was dragon bone. He held it out carefully, his hand no longer quivering, and Peter extended his own grasp to curl his fingers around the handle.

“Ivy,” Mr Ollivander murmured, running his index finger down the spine of the wand, “with Blackthorn and Cedar. The core is Dragon Heart-String and Veela Hair. Thirteen inches. An impossible wand, rigid and unyielding to the core. Much like its wielder I should think, hmm?”

Peter nodded slowly and turned the wand over in his fingers. A few sparks shot out of the end, bouncing off of a lamp and turning a nearby arm chair into a hat stand. The younger Ollivander started to open up a few more boxes.

“That’ll be enough, my boy,” Mr Ollivander indicated to his son. “This is the correct wand for this one.”

Peter frowned and looked up at the wizard. “How can you know?” He asked.

Mr Ollivander eased the wand from his grip and turned it over, inspecting it carefully, repeating Peter’s question thoughtfully before looking at him over the rims of his glasses.

“How can I know? Why, I made it, my boy. But that doesn’t quite answer your question, does it? I know because this wand has a brother. Not quite as elaborately made but, none the less, there another sprig of unicorn hair in one of these wands here and I would wager, I think rightly, that there’s another one in your family that’ll come and pick it up, hmm?”

“No,” Amanda’s voice trailed over their heads and Mr Ollivander’s eyes flicked up to meet her gaze. “There’s no one else. Peter’s our only child.”

Ollivander’s gaze returned steadily to Peter’s and a smile lifted the sides of his lips, he handed the wand back to the boy.

“Time will tell, won’t it, Mr Howard?” Ollivander inquired with a smile.


Once the other goods were gathered and Peter had been fitted for his robes, his parents bought him an owl and some stationary before the trio made their way home. After that, it was just a waiting game but Mr Ollivander’s words certainly weighed on his mind. Nevertheless, he maintained the air of anticipation for the sake of his parents. They were overjoyed that he was a wizard. If they could have, he was sure they would have told all of their friends but they were quickly reminded of the Statute of Secrecy. Eventually, September 1st called and Peter was whisked off to Hogwarts on a rolling steam train – from Platform 9¾ to Hogsmeade Station, arriving at just before eight o’clock.

On the way, Peter shared a compartment of a group of first years that had grown up together. They happily accepted Peter into their group and told him as much as they could about the Wizarding World during the journey. What he discovered was that the majority of them had siblings already at the school. They were in an array of Houses too and it was then that Peter learned about them and their reputations. Gryffindors were brave, almost reckless. Hufflepuffs were loyal but generally uninspired. Ravenclaws were bookish and boring. Slytherins were traditionalists, blood purists. None of the Houses were particularly appealing to him, he found, but if he recalled correctly he supposed his mother, real mother, was in Ravenclaw. He couldn’t say he remembered too well, though. Was his father a Slytherin? He couldn’t be sure and he stayed quiet about them, crucially, letting the other children believe him to be a Muggleborn. He liked that identity – even if he’d come to loathe it.

When the first years poured into the Great Hall, all of the elder years were seated, talking amicably amongst themselves. The Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall was waiting, seated at the head of the great table with all of the other teachers. Heading their group was the Deputy Headmaster, Professor Flitwick who was also Keeper of the Sorting Hat. They were called up in alphabetical order and one by one, Peter watched as his friends were sorted into a variety of houses – the majority of them going into Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. One went into Ravenclaw, a pretty blonde named Rhea, but there were no Slytherins. When his name was called, he was the last of the group and he walked slowly up the steps, plopping himself down stool he winced as the Hat was set on his head. It fell down over his eyes and it was then that he heard it: the Hat’s voice in his ears.


“Well, well, well… Mr Conall Hayes,” the Hat whispered, his voice only for Peter’s ears. “It’s curious that you are sat on my stool when you were never meant to. I don’t think you were supposed to leave St. Mungo’s were you?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Peter murmured in reply.

The Hat chuckled, “I should think that has a lot to do with everything, don’t you? I can sense nerve in you. Spirit. You’d be perfect for Gryffindor… oh, but what’s this? Cunning! Slytherin cunning and ambition. Bookish too, if you get a quiet moment but not as intelligent as some of the Ravenclaws I’ve sorted. Ah, here we go… Hufflepuff. That’s where you belong. Loyal and fair. Self-sacrificing to boot. Yes.. that’s where you belong.”

Then, to the crowd he announced: “HUFFLEPUFF.”


Hufflepuff really was where Peter belonged, too. It was a mishmash of all the other Houses, though none of the others were concede that fact. He settled into the basement with the rest of the Hufflepuffs and the majority of his classes were, thankfully, with the Ravenclaws because almost immediately, Peter seemed to rub the Slytherins the wrong way. He wasn’t keen to submit to their ruthless will and he was quite happy to take them on, beginning the New Year after Christmas with a duel in the defence of his friends. After that, Peter was sanctioned with a term’s worth of detentions and a reputation to go with it – he was not a duffer like the rest of the ‘Puffers.

Thereafter, Peter’s Hogwarts years were relatively undisturbed. In his third year he picked Care of Magical Creatures and Divination and started to play Quidditch a bit more seriously, getting onto the Hufflepuff team as a reserve Beater. It wasn’t until his fourth year, however, that things took an interesting turn in his fourth year during the Sorting Ceremony because it was then that he first caught sight of his younger brother. Peter had never enjoyed the Sorting Ceremony after his own and the year before had taken up playing cards at the back of the room. However, when Keiran’s name was called out, the cards were forgotten and the ceremony finally had Peter’s full attention.

His little brother wasn’t so different from him, he discovered with a start. He was little, skinny and looked exactly like Peter did when he was his age. He had a smattering of freckles over his cheeks which Peter would come to watch disappear. His hair was a little long but would come to be taken up short and it was this rich, dark colour which Peter himself had possessed at the time of his sorting but annual holidays had seen it colour to a soft, almost mousy brown-cum-blonde. However, they differed drastically because it was to the Slytherin table that Keiran went and Peter found himself feeling rather deflated but he was pulled back into the card game and for a while he was allowed to forget his little brother – but he was sure that throughout the subsequent feast he could feel the Hat’s eyes on his back.

Whether his little brother ever found out or not, Peter tried to watch out for him. Amidst this self-imposed task, he began to explore the world of girls – albeit rather belatedly. His friends had been dating since Third Year but he’d held back a little, focusing on boyish mischief and his classes instead. To make up for lost time, Peter threw himself into the pursuit of the Hogwarts female population with gusto, his first kiss now long forgotten amongst all of the others. He was a romantic, he found, and took a different girl to Madam Puddifoot’s every weekend. Quidditch also became a massive priority and between these things he managed to keep an eye on his brother who was comparatively quite calm and steady – there were certainly no duels.

The first time Peter saw his real parents since before he’d run away was when he got off of the train belatedly at King’s Cross, having been slow in getting off and getting stuck behind the Slytherins as a result. He caught sight of Keiran just as he got off and arrived on the platform and he followed the young man with his gaze to see him be pulled into a woman’s embrace. Peter didn’t believe he could ever get her face – or that of the man beside her. Bridget and Aiden. Keiran. Their little family. To his surprise, Peter found that he didn’t care, too much, he was sad but he had to be rational – he had to accept that it was the way it was always going to be. He’d made his bed. He wasn’t going to be able to go back to them, ever.

He wasn’t going to be able to go back to his adoptive parents, either.

In the subsequent November he was pulled out of his Defence Against the Dark Arts class and he was told that his parents had died in a car crash. The newly invested Prefect was said to have fallen apart in front of Professor Sprout’s eyes and for weeks afterwards he was inconsolable. He was immobile throughout the funeral, unable to shed tears and unable, also, to say anything. He accepted the pity without any words of thanks and he spent Christmas and the New Year moving in with his grandmother Wendy – the only person in the world he had left. His relationship with Granny Wendy was strained, though. They had never ever gotten along particularly well and during that summer he spent around a week there before going to live with one of his friends.

After that, Peter’s world seemed to fall apart. He alienated his friends and fell in with a group of more suspect individuals. He threw away his O.W.Ls and didn’t treat his N.E.W.Ts with anymore esteem even two years down the line. He barely graduated and certainly didn’t stick around for the ceremony. He didn’t attend any universities and fell off the grid essentially. He reappeared, though, around four years after graduating Hogwarts: in chains bound for Azkaban.

You never plan for your career. Whether you get your dream job or not, you always fall into another. Thievery found Peter. He’d always had nimble fingers but he’d never stolen for himself, rather he always had a sponsor. Within a year he appeared on the Knockturn Alley scene as a young man with nothing to lose and a price depending on what it was you wanted. However, like all of the amateurs before him, Peter got caught. And caught again. And again. Again. After that, he rarely got snatched up, getting better and better at his trade. Around that time, he worked free-lance for the Death Eaters and rich old divorcees with an axe to grind with their husbands. He took what they wanted and picked up the gold for himself. But of course, there had to come a time when he did his turn in the hallowed halls of Azkaban and that came just after his twenty-first birthday. Getting caught in a mark’s house was the last straw and he was pushed off to one of the low-security cells that were not patrolled by Dementors and it was there that he remained for around six months, the sentence later increased to a year after he was caught brawling with other inmates.

When Peter was released, his grandmother tried to set him on the straight and narrow and for a few years he worked for a carpentry company as an apprentice. However, old friends came knocking and he’d learnt his lessons – he was certainly much better at thievery now after spending a year stealing food and gems from his fellow inmates and he’d certainly suffered for his brashness. As far as his grandmother knew, though, he was on the right path again and he was flourishing as a carpenter. Within those years he built up a small customer base of his own and he got used to carving, lacquering and even took a course in upholstering in order to have that extra edge.

He settled in that job and it was around this time that he met the young Auror: Sarah Jones. They fell in love, to cut a long story short, and he proposed a few years after the started dating. However, he fell into his old habits soon enough, desperate to make their wedding as wonderful as possible but not for the first time, he was caught. This time, however, Peter was incarcerated for an extended period of time - eighteen months all told and when he emerged Sarah was dead.


“Paula! Wendy! Let me in! Paula!”

The distant sound of an infant’s cries broke out from somewhere and with both fists, Peter threw himself against the front door. An upper story window was thrown open and Sarah’s sister, Anna, stuck her head out. Peter stepped back from the porch and open out his arms wide, staring up at her accusatorily.

“No, Peter. Mum’s not going to let you in.” Anna told him firmly, her body language deflating a little as regret shadowed across her face. “Please, just go.”

“I’m not leaving here without my son, Anna!” He spat in response. “Get Paula to let me in. WENDY!”

“Peter, please! Just go away!” Anna shrieked, leaning further out of the window.

“Anna!” He pressed, grabbing hold of the railing by the porch steps. “Just let me in, for Merlin’s sake, please! I need to see him!”


The sound of the door unlocking stole his attention and he pushed away from the railing to see Paula standing in the door arch. He stormed past her without as much as a ‘hello’ and followed the sound of the crying to the living room where he found his son in his grandmother’s arms. But she wasn’t his grandmother – that fact Peter remembered with a harsh start. He liberated his son from her arms immediately and quickly sourced the changing bag which they had yet to fully unpack. He slung it onto his shoulder and tucked the blankets tightly around his son before brushing back out into the hallway and through the door Paula had left open. After that, they never saw hide nor hair of Peter again.


Peter settled in Southend-on-Sea with his son, returning as best he could to the place he’d grown up himself. It was in a small apartment right on the seafront that he brought up Finley and it is there they have lived to this day. Since then, Peter hasn’t done anything without bearing his son in mind. He’s returned, for all intents and purposes, to his carpentry job but still bears in mind his thieving expertise – quite a bit of gold has made off of the back of it. But now, as his son’s seventh birthday approaches, all he wants his for life to pan out simply for him and Finley. It's doubtful Peter could take anymore pain.




HOW YOU FOUND US: I live here.


PURPOSE OF CHARACTER: For bits of plottage. If I don’t get him up now, I never will. Razz
Peter Howard
Peter Howard
Hufflepuff Graduate
Hufflepuff Graduate

Number of posts : 336
Occupation : Owner of the Hog's Head | Carpenter

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HOWARD, Peter Alexander William Empty Re: HOWARD, Peter Alexander William

Post by Khaat Lupin Mon Apr 07, 2014 11:33 pm

you know i'm going to accept him, don't you?

accepted and sorted to grads!
Khaat Lupin
Khaat Lupin
Gryffindor Graduate
Gryffindor Graduate

Number of posts : 22123
Special Abilities : Energy Worker, Medium, Heightened Sensitivity
Occupation : Director of St. Mungos, Owner of Sparks Bistro

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HOWARD, Peter Alexander William Empty Re: HOWARD, Peter Alexander William

Post by Tessa Di Angelo Mon Apr 07, 2014 11:36 pm

Im sorry to eavesdrop but i have to say, Well done *Claps and bows before the almighty poster*
Tessa Di Angelo
Tessa Di Angelo
Gryffindor Graduate
Gryffindor Graduate

Number of posts : 172
Occupation : Actress l Muggle Studies Professor at Hogwarts

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