Post by CHARLES ALDEBARAN HARKISS on Aug 24, 2014 15:46:10 GMT -6
[googlefont="Yanone Kaffeesatz:400"]
It was all green gardens and bumblebees, post-dawn, not quite midday. The optimal time for a summer shindig - objectively speaking and clearly without any bias for the host, of course. Sounds of revelry came from every direction while enchanted serving trays, afloat near clusters of mingling guests, balanced sloshing mugs of coffee and cutesy bite-sized breakfast foods.
Insurmountable color, courtesy of the flowers and the decor. Blue, yellow, red, pink, green, green, and more green. Charlie allowed his eyes to wander absently over the bright scene while his hands handled the busywork, peeling a leaf from the surface of his freshly shined shoe, expertly adjusting the collar of his shirt, flattening the cowlick at the back of his head.
It was early enough that when he took his first steps, the grass, damp with dew, squelched in protest. A restless sigh slipped through his teeth, it was apparent that the current state of affairs would not allow for tidy footwear. He soldiered on despite himself, weaving through a sea of people, injecting his best blue-ribbon smile into each "hello, how are you?" and "pardon me" that flowed from his mouth as naturally as his own breath. A friendly pat to the shoulder here, a handshake there, warm eye contact all around.
After a bit of one-handed rifling through his jacket, metal winked in the sunlight. Charlie's index finger gave a distinctly familiar rub to the periphery of a golden pocketwatch. A casual gesture, if not for the wear that had already begun to show in the fresh brown leather of his glove. Checking the time was routine and one that paid off, at that. His finger tapped triumphantly against the face of the watch before he stashed it away, grinning to himself.
And that is precisely when someone took him by the arm and yanked, "Harkiss! There you are, boy."
"Right on time as well - over here," Mr. Yaxley said, his voice booming, as they pulled up to a trio of men standing at the sidelines of the gathering. A swan swimming in a nearby fountain stared baldly, but the other wizards gave little indication that they had even noticed their arrival. Unless the tall, grey-haired one considered scratching his nose a proper hello.
The bottoms of Charlie's shoes scraped loudly against the gravel underfoot as he steadied himself, but Yaxley was as unconcerned as his company.
"Charles here is my new assistant," Yaxley's large hand gripped Charlie's shoulder fondly, "Was out to be an auror, this one, but I snatched him up."
The same one that had been scratching his nose spoke up, "An auror, huh?"
"Yes, sir," Charlie responded, somewhat haltingly. Going by the average progression of his introduction, this is when he would be chuckling and insisting that they all called him 'Charlie'. Something about the air that surrounded them, however, led him to think that they would not be as charmed by the suggestion as the average conversation partner.
"And pure of blood too, aren't you?" The man squinted at him, as if trying to find something hidden in his features.
"That's right," It was clear that this conversation was heading to the topic of war but Charlie's heart skipped a few beats at the question regardless. Yaxley held him firmly in place - he had intended for this to happen. Dimly, Charlie wondered if it was his father that had paid the greying one to assess his responses or if it was Yaxley himself.
Whatever the answer to that question was, he was given a smile, "I think I know someone that could use a young man like you. What do you say to that, Charles?"
"Well," Charlie returned the smile graciously, his hands clasped behind his back, "My parents always told me that it was in bad taste to discuss politics at a party."
They all began guffawing , even the two that had not spoken. Charlie had the distinct feeling that he was not in on a joke. Yaxley was beaming down at him and, as if rewarding a well-behaved dog, he mussed up Charlies hair, "Very wise, son, very wise."
Prior to Charles's conception, the Harkiss surname was not a terribly familiar one in the British wizarding world. It was already 1935 when Gilroy Harkiss and his newly widowed mother arrived at the gates of an antiquated family manor in Britain left to them by Gilroy's late father. The Pure-blood Directory had been in print for three years by then, naming twenty-eight British dynasties as truly pure lines. Gilroy left for his first year at Hogwarts with the weight that came with his thick Irish accent, dead father, and the general suspicion toward his claimed blood status. It was not like home, where his family had once presided over a relatively thriving monopoly, just out of reach from Britain's sacred twenty-eight, but the sorting hat had not placed him in Slytherin without reason. Green would prove to be Gilroy's color - by the time he turned 17, he had carved out a foothold for himself and found himself a suitable bride in Lydia Burke. Their union was both socially and fiscally beneficial, which made the pair a perfect match. Gilroy had long played politics like a game of chess and Lydia dutifully veiled their plans with lace, simpering all the while.
Gilroy was persistent in his desire for a son to carry on the family name. First given a daughter, he was ready to try again right away. The girl would keep their appearance in the court of public opinion, but Gilroy had always been more ambitious than that. The eventual birth of his promised son did not propel them to the top but it, at long last, put them in the running.
Charles would grow to become a well-mannered, patient child and Gilroy was possessive, his ownership requisite. The boy was victory personified, a living, breathing trophy. There would not be a moment of his development not overseen by his father. Before he could walk House-elves would carry him, pattering after their master's coat-tails. They two were rarely apart, a bassinet in the manor's study cradled him the infant more often than his own mother was allowed. Charles was loved to the extent that Gilroy was capable of. Love that was born from avarice, from a thirst to prove himself supreme, but love nonetheless. Though it was not pure, it was more than enough to sustain a child lacking a proper frame of reference. When he was old enough, Charles fell into step behind his father and became his shadow. He gave no struggle, living according to his father's specifications was the only option and it felt right. If Papa endorsed it, Charles had no complaints. He would sit quietly for as long as instructed, would clear his dinner plates of vegetables - he lived only to reassure his father of the value that he had placed in his son. At least, until his younger brother caught his eye.
An older sister had not been very stimulating for him. They were a year apart, but Charles would never learn to properly relate to the fairer sex. Jasper, on the other hand, was fascinating. He cried and threw tantrums, he bit fingers and pulled hair. His difficult nature drove off emotionally weak employees and gave their mother something to consume herself with. By the time that Jasper was five, the entire manor had become his playground. His will was strong and there was not a person in the estate willing to challenge him. Their father was indifferent and their mother was coddling. Father did not know what to do with Jasper and Mother was at a loss when it came to Charles. Charles himself was astounded by everything that concerned Jasper, often finding himself hanging near doorframes to observe the world that his brother inhabited and then, without fail, his father's hand would drop to his shoulder, waking him from the trance. There was no time for games. His brother and him were born with different variations of the same priviledge. Which was alright, Charles thought as he craned his neck for a last look at Jasper.
Jasper grew increasingly alien in his behavior, but Charles followed the laws that governed the sphere he lived in to a T. He was expected to be sorted into Slytherin, so he became a Slytherin. Tactfully, he neglected to mention that he was an inch from Hufflepuff. The hat had been swayed by both by Charles's learned qualities - namely his frank intolerance and his willingness to step on toes - and the natural ambition that led him to deciding that he would one day be the minister of magic. If he had any Hufflepuff inclinations, he was quick to bury them. The only path that he was interested in was the one that benefited him best and fit his role as his father's heir. In Slytherin, he learned to apply the skills that his father had lectured him on for so long. He discovered that, like his father, he had talent for potions. He also discovered that he was gifted in carrying out instructions, that his magic was not necessarily powerful, but it was precise. Everything that he did was by the book and that made him a good student but crummy when it came to anything that required "street-smarts". After spending so much time at his father's leg, he was unsure of his ability to carry out his obligations to the family without a guide. His first year was awkward overall, something that he only went through the motions of.
It was when he joined the Quidditch team in his third year that he decided "Charles" was too formal. One original thought led to another, it seemed. He played chaser on an elegant broom that was a gift from his father for making the team. As he branched out, he realized that he was a little like his mother after all. He had not been socialized as liberally as his sister or his brother, but camaraderie came naturally to him. Having listened to his father outline The Pure-blood Directory time and time again, he reached out for those with clean blood and cultivated new connections and relationships. He allowed himself to become quick to smile, to loosen up and step out from his father's shadow. When he was back at the manor for holidays, he would play with his brother and show him what he had learned at school. His father never gave a word of disapproval, so Charlie kept at building his own identity, one that was separate from his father's.
In his fifth year, he decided that he wanted to become an Auror. Though his skills as a duelist were not exactly honed, he was molded to reach for glory wherever it could be found. Vocalizing that and his rapidly intensifying In his seventh year, he came out with marks that would allow him to pursue that dream and so he did. It was at this point, however, that it was time to choose a stance on the war. It came to light that his father's relaxed hold on him had come with the expectation that Charlie would side with Lord Voldemort. Not only that, but Jasper had already begun to show an acute interest in becoming a Death Eater one day. After a refreshment on what it meant to be his father's first son, he began his studies as a trainee Auror.
When it came time for him to take his qualifying exam, however, his feet were as cold as blocks of ice. The war was nearly as insistent as his father, forcing him to consider his choices. The worry that he was a Hufflepuff at his core began to plague him, that if he dedicated time to fighting criminals and dark wizards, he would lose sight of his duty to his family like plenty of blood-traitors had before him. Voldemort could likely use Aurors, but Charlie could not trust himself to stay in his lane. When he slept, he had nightmares where he was forced to kill his brother. When he was awake, he dwelled on what a brilliant choice it would be socially to side with his father and the better fraction of the sacred twenty-eight. His father was so certain that Voldemort would be victorious and, while he spoke of war, there was light in his eyes. When the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement offered him the position of his Assistant Head, Charlie took it without question.
Father was cross with me today. Which, I suppose, is a shade more preferable than a day of Mother's ill temper. It isn't like I did nothing to deserve it - to start, I called a bit of negative attention to myself in front of his guests. He brought an Owl home for me last week and she's sort of a madcap (when I get to thinking about it, it's really his fault for buying the bird for me in the first place). Anyway, I accidentally let her loose in the drawing room. She's this real tiny thing and it took a few minutes too long to corral her back into her cage.
He let me off with a warning, it wasn't so bad. I really didn't mean to mess up anything for him and I think he knew that. The strange part came later, when I asked him if he'd play a game of Wizard's Chess with me in his study. Usually he gives in right away but today he told me that I ought to be reading my new History of Magic book. I said "yes, father" and, for some featherbrained reason, that set him right off. So he tells me that I've got to think about my future, that it is "imperative" that I make Slytherin next year. I'd heard him lecture me on this before, but this time he was more serious. He was pinching his nose - and I've only really seen him do that when talking to Mother. Then he looked me right in the eye and told me that he didn't want me getting off track, said that I was "different than the others, better". I nodded, thinking that would fix everything, but he only continued to frown. After a minute, he told me to go make the rounds with my sister so that he could get back to what he was doing.
I guess I did something to make him think badly of me. I'm not sure what it is, but I won't let him down again. He's been stressed over something lately, he and Mother have a load more visitors than usual and they whisper a lot. I guess I'm starting to miss him, maybe I'll see about that book.
Charlie is the middle Harkiss child, but the first son. Where his siblings have elbow room for theatrics and individuality, he is simply whatever he has to be at any given moment - in a way, he does it so that the rest of his family is not forced to pick up slack. Though his system of belief was beaten into his head without remorse, he is not the type to discuss the topic freely. More often than not, he does his best to be accepting under polite circumstances, despite the lense that he views the world through. Overall, he does not wave his stance on blood purity over his head, he allows his brother to be the fanatic in the family. To him, belonging to a long line of magical folk is only convenient. Promoting pureblood supremacy aids the people that he is responsible for, so he does. It's a means to an end.
He is a Slytherin, but he is not very underhanded. He says exactly what he means and is honest right up to the point where he is forced to be dishonest. If he is having a pleasant conversation with someone, it is very likely that it is exactly what it seems - but, on the other hand, his sincerity is what makes him a rather decent liar when the situation calls for it. The sort of person that can trick themselves into believing what they are saying, Charlie is just unassuming enough to get away with a thing or two.
In supporting the Death Eaters, he is quick to rise to any challenge. Whatever the assignment is, he does what is asked of him and only what is asked of him. While a fraction of what originally drove him to the Dark Lord's service is the eventual political leverage, he tends toward staying anonymous about his involvement. In the end, he is no Bellatrix Lestrange and would not cross that threshold unless it was absolutely necessary. To put it plainly, he takes no pleasure in torture but he would never dare complain if that was what was requested of him.
His grey morals aside, he is gregarious and affable, his disposition often mirroring that of a seasoned politician. When alone, he sometimes practices for interviews in front of the mirror or his Pygmy Owl. He is incurably social and does not waste a chance to engage anyone in conversation, always insisting that they call him "Charlie" rather than Charles, as he fancies the idea of being "Charlie Harkiss, Minister of Magic". The only people that he is somewhat uncomfortable chatting up are blood-traitors and muggleborns. He figures it is easier not to get attached to them, preferring to use his energy in search of friends in higher places. Friends that he has no chance of one day being forced to brutally murder or forcibly extract information from.
Above everything, Charlie is always efficient. He may not always appear to be the most serious person but he is not a clown either (at least not a useless one). He never misses an appointment, is always organized, and will run himself into the ground in order to maintain his reliability. There is very rarely a hair out of place on his head, as appearances are very important to him.
Pulled in an array of directions all at once, he has a heavy tendency to compartmentalize his life. He is his father's champion, a role model for his brother, a ministry employee, and now a fiancé. He approaches everything with the same business-like attitude but adjusts himself according to each role. All in all, he has a decent heart, but his heart belongs to his family. He has no higher loyalty than to the Harkiss name.
"I wrote this for a baby who has yet to be born, my brother’s first child. I hope that womb’s not too warm. 'Cause it’s cold out here and it’ll be quite a shock, to breathe this air, to discover loss. So I’d like to make some changes before you arrive, so when your new eyes meet mine, they won’t see no lies, just love."
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CHARLES A. HARKISS
RIGBY || PST || PM
[PTabbedContent][PTab=I]TWENTY-FIVE
DEATH EATER SUPPORTER
PUREBLOOD
SLYTHERIN
ASSISTANT TO MLE DEPT. HEAD
LOUIS TOMLINSON
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"Have some composure, where is your posture? Oh, no no. You’re pulling the trigger all wrong."
— TIME TO DANCE,
Panic! At the Disco
Panic! At the Disco
16TH AUGUST 1976
THE YAXLEY ESTATE
THE YAXLEY ESTATE
It was all green gardens and bumblebees, post-dawn, not quite midday. The optimal time for a summer shindig - objectively speaking and clearly without any bias for the host, of course. Sounds of revelry came from every direction while enchanted serving trays, afloat near clusters of mingling guests, balanced sloshing mugs of coffee and cutesy bite-sized breakfast foods.
Insurmountable color, courtesy of the flowers and the decor. Blue, yellow, red, pink, green, green, and more green. Charlie allowed his eyes to wander absently over the bright scene while his hands handled the busywork, peeling a leaf from the surface of his freshly shined shoe, expertly adjusting the collar of his shirt, flattening the cowlick at the back of his head.
It was early enough that when he took his first steps, the grass, damp with dew, squelched in protest. A restless sigh slipped through his teeth, it was apparent that the current state of affairs would not allow for tidy footwear. He soldiered on despite himself, weaving through a sea of people, injecting his best blue-ribbon smile into each "hello, how are you?" and "pardon me" that flowed from his mouth as naturally as his own breath. A friendly pat to the shoulder here, a handshake there, warm eye contact all around.
After a bit of one-handed rifling through his jacket, metal winked in the sunlight. Charlie's index finger gave a distinctly familiar rub to the periphery of a golden pocketwatch. A casual gesture, if not for the wear that had already begun to show in the fresh brown leather of his glove. Checking the time was routine and one that paid off, at that. His finger tapped triumphantly against the face of the watch before he stashed it away, grinning to himself.
And that is precisely when someone took him by the arm and yanked, "Harkiss! There you are, boy."
"Right on time as well - over here," Mr. Yaxley said, his voice booming, as they pulled up to a trio of men standing at the sidelines of the gathering. A swan swimming in a nearby fountain stared baldly, but the other wizards gave little indication that they had even noticed their arrival. Unless the tall, grey-haired one considered scratching his nose a proper hello.
The bottoms of Charlie's shoes scraped loudly against the gravel underfoot as he steadied himself, but Yaxley was as unconcerned as his company.
"Charles here is my new assistant," Yaxley's large hand gripped Charlie's shoulder fondly, "Was out to be an auror, this one, but I snatched him up."
The same one that had been scratching his nose spoke up, "An auror, huh?"
"Yes, sir," Charlie responded, somewhat haltingly. Going by the average progression of his introduction, this is when he would be chuckling and insisting that they all called him 'Charlie'. Something about the air that surrounded them, however, led him to think that they would not be as charmed by the suggestion as the average conversation partner.
"And pure of blood too, aren't you?" The man squinted at him, as if trying to find something hidden in his features.
"That's right," It was clear that this conversation was heading to the topic of war but Charlie's heart skipped a few beats at the question regardless. Yaxley held him firmly in place - he had intended for this to happen. Dimly, Charlie wondered if it was his father that had paid the greying one to assess his responses or if it was Yaxley himself.
Whatever the answer to that question was, he was given a smile, "I think I know someone that could use a young man like you. What do you say to that, Charles?"
"Well," Charlie returned the smile graciously, his hands clasped behind his back, "My parents always told me that it was in bad taste to discuss politics at a party."
They all began guffawing , even the two that had not spoken. Charlie had the distinct feeling that he was not in on a joke. Yaxley was beaming down at him and, as if rewarding a well-behaved dog, he mussed up Charlies hair, "Very wise, son, very wise."
Prior to Charles's conception, the Harkiss surname was not a terribly familiar one in the British wizarding world. It was already 1935 when Gilroy Harkiss and his newly widowed mother arrived at the gates of an antiquated family manor in Britain left to them by Gilroy's late father. The Pure-blood Directory had been in print for three years by then, naming twenty-eight British dynasties as truly pure lines. Gilroy left for his first year at Hogwarts with the weight that came with his thick Irish accent, dead father, and the general suspicion toward his claimed blood status. It was not like home, where his family had once presided over a relatively thriving monopoly, just out of reach from Britain's sacred twenty-eight, but the sorting hat had not placed him in Slytherin without reason. Green would prove to be Gilroy's color - by the time he turned 17, he had carved out a foothold for himself and found himself a suitable bride in Lydia Burke. Their union was both socially and fiscally beneficial, which made the pair a perfect match. Gilroy had long played politics like a game of chess and Lydia dutifully veiled their plans with lace, simpering all the while.
Gilroy was persistent in his desire for a son to carry on the family name. First given a daughter, he was ready to try again right away. The girl would keep their appearance in the court of public opinion, but Gilroy had always been more ambitious than that. The eventual birth of his promised son did not propel them to the top but it, at long last, put them in the running.
Charles would grow to become a well-mannered, patient child and Gilroy was possessive, his ownership requisite. The boy was victory personified, a living, breathing trophy. There would not be a moment of his development not overseen by his father. Before he could walk House-elves would carry him, pattering after their master's coat-tails. They two were rarely apart, a bassinet in the manor's study cradled him the infant more often than his own mother was allowed. Charles was loved to the extent that Gilroy was capable of. Love that was born from avarice, from a thirst to prove himself supreme, but love nonetheless. Though it was not pure, it was more than enough to sustain a child lacking a proper frame of reference. When he was old enough, Charles fell into step behind his father and became his shadow. He gave no struggle, living according to his father's specifications was the only option and it felt right. If Papa endorsed it, Charles had no complaints. He would sit quietly for as long as instructed, would clear his dinner plates of vegetables - he lived only to reassure his father of the value that he had placed in his son. At least, until his younger brother caught his eye.
An older sister had not been very stimulating for him. They were a year apart, but Charles would never learn to properly relate to the fairer sex. Jasper, on the other hand, was fascinating. He cried and threw tantrums, he bit fingers and pulled hair. His difficult nature drove off emotionally weak employees and gave their mother something to consume herself with. By the time that Jasper was five, the entire manor had become his playground. His will was strong and there was not a person in the estate willing to challenge him. Their father was indifferent and their mother was coddling. Father did not know what to do with Jasper and Mother was at a loss when it came to Charles. Charles himself was astounded by everything that concerned Jasper, often finding himself hanging near doorframes to observe the world that his brother inhabited and then, without fail, his father's hand would drop to his shoulder, waking him from the trance. There was no time for games. His brother and him were born with different variations of the same priviledge. Which was alright, Charles thought as he craned his neck for a last look at Jasper.
Jasper grew increasingly alien in his behavior, but Charles followed the laws that governed the sphere he lived in to a T. He was expected to be sorted into Slytherin, so he became a Slytherin. Tactfully, he neglected to mention that he was an inch from Hufflepuff. The hat had been swayed by both by Charles's learned qualities - namely his frank intolerance and his willingness to step on toes - and the natural ambition that led him to deciding that he would one day be the minister of magic. If he had any Hufflepuff inclinations, he was quick to bury them. The only path that he was interested in was the one that benefited him best and fit his role as his father's heir. In Slytherin, he learned to apply the skills that his father had lectured him on for so long. He discovered that, like his father, he had talent for potions. He also discovered that he was gifted in carrying out instructions, that his magic was not necessarily powerful, but it was precise. Everything that he did was by the book and that made him a good student but crummy when it came to anything that required "street-smarts". After spending so much time at his father's leg, he was unsure of his ability to carry out his obligations to the family without a guide. His first year was awkward overall, something that he only went through the motions of.
It was when he joined the Quidditch team in his third year that he decided "Charles" was too formal. One original thought led to another, it seemed. He played chaser on an elegant broom that was a gift from his father for making the team. As he branched out, he realized that he was a little like his mother after all. He had not been socialized as liberally as his sister or his brother, but camaraderie came naturally to him. Having listened to his father outline The Pure-blood Directory time and time again, he reached out for those with clean blood and cultivated new connections and relationships. He allowed himself to become quick to smile, to loosen up and step out from his father's shadow. When he was back at the manor for holidays, he would play with his brother and show him what he had learned at school. His father never gave a word of disapproval, so Charlie kept at building his own identity, one that was separate from his father's.
In his fifth year, he decided that he wanted to become an Auror. Though his skills as a duelist were not exactly honed, he was molded to reach for glory wherever it could be found. Vocalizing that and his rapidly intensifying In his seventh year, he came out with marks that would allow him to pursue that dream and so he did. It was at this point, however, that it was time to choose a stance on the war. It came to light that his father's relaxed hold on him had come with the expectation that Charlie would side with Lord Voldemort. Not only that, but Jasper had already begun to show an acute interest in becoming a Death Eater one day. After a refreshment on what it meant to be his father's first son, he began his studies as a trainee Auror.
When it came time for him to take his qualifying exam, however, his feet were as cold as blocks of ice. The war was nearly as insistent as his father, forcing him to consider his choices. The worry that he was a Hufflepuff at his core began to plague him, that if he dedicated time to fighting criminals and dark wizards, he would lose sight of his duty to his family like plenty of blood-traitors had before him. Voldemort could likely use Aurors, but Charlie could not trust himself to stay in his lane. When he slept, he had nightmares where he was forced to kill his brother. When he was awake, he dwelled on what a brilliant choice it would be socially to side with his father and the better fraction of the sacred twenty-eight. His father was so certain that Voldemort would be victorious and, while he spoke of war, there was light in his eyes. When the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement offered him the position of his Assistant Head, Charlie took it without question.
20TH JANUARY 1963
THE HARKISS MANOR
CHARLES HARKISS, AGE 10
CHILLED AIR, DENSE SNOW
THE HARKISS MANOR
CHARLES HARKISS, AGE 10
CHILLED AIR, DENSE SNOW
Father was cross with me today. Which, I suppose, is a shade more preferable than a day of Mother's ill temper. It isn't like I did nothing to deserve it - to start, I called a bit of negative attention to myself in front of his guests. He brought an Owl home for me last week and she's sort of a madcap (when I get to thinking about it, it's really his fault for buying the bird for me in the first place). Anyway, I accidentally let her loose in the drawing room. She's this real tiny thing and it took a few minutes too long to corral her back into her cage.
He let me off with a warning, it wasn't so bad. I really didn't mean to mess up anything for him and I think he knew that. The strange part came later, when I asked him if he'd play a game of Wizard's Chess with me in his study. Usually he gives in right away but today he told me that I ought to be reading my new History of Magic book. I said "yes, father" and, for some featherbrained reason, that set him right off. So he tells me that I've got to think about my future, that it is "imperative" that I make Slytherin next year. I'd heard him lecture me on this before, but this time he was more serious. He was pinching his nose - and I've only really seen him do that when talking to Mother. Then he looked me right in the eye and told me that he didn't want me getting off track, said that I was "different than the others, better". I nodded, thinking that would fix everything, but he only continued to frown. After a minute, he told me to go make the rounds with my sister so that he could get back to what he was doing.
I guess I did something to make him think badly of me. I'm not sure what it is, but I won't let him down again. He's been stressed over something lately, he and Mother have a load more visitors than usual and they whisper a lot. I guess I'm starting to miss him, maybe I'll see about that book.
Charlie is the middle Harkiss child, but the first son. Where his siblings have elbow room for theatrics and individuality, he is simply whatever he has to be at any given moment - in a way, he does it so that the rest of his family is not forced to pick up slack. Though his system of belief was beaten into his head without remorse, he is not the type to discuss the topic freely. More often than not, he does his best to be accepting under polite circumstances, despite the lense that he views the world through. Overall, he does not wave his stance on blood purity over his head, he allows his brother to be the fanatic in the family. To him, belonging to a long line of magical folk is only convenient. Promoting pureblood supremacy aids the people that he is responsible for, so he does. It's a means to an end.
He is a Slytherin, but he is not very underhanded. He says exactly what he means and is honest right up to the point where he is forced to be dishonest. If he is having a pleasant conversation with someone, it is very likely that it is exactly what it seems - but, on the other hand, his sincerity is what makes him a rather decent liar when the situation calls for it. The sort of person that can trick themselves into believing what they are saying, Charlie is just unassuming enough to get away with a thing or two.
In supporting the Death Eaters, he is quick to rise to any challenge. Whatever the assignment is, he does what is asked of him and only what is asked of him. While a fraction of what originally drove him to the Dark Lord's service is the eventual political leverage, he tends toward staying anonymous about his involvement. In the end, he is no Bellatrix Lestrange and would not cross that threshold unless it was absolutely necessary. To put it plainly, he takes no pleasure in torture but he would never dare complain if that was what was requested of him.
His grey morals aside, he is gregarious and affable, his disposition often mirroring that of a seasoned politician. When alone, he sometimes practices for interviews in front of the mirror or his Pygmy Owl. He is incurably social and does not waste a chance to engage anyone in conversation, always insisting that they call him "Charlie" rather than Charles, as he fancies the idea of being "Charlie Harkiss, Minister of Magic". The only people that he is somewhat uncomfortable chatting up are blood-traitors and muggleborns. He figures it is easier not to get attached to them, preferring to use his energy in search of friends in higher places. Friends that he has no chance of one day being forced to brutally murder or forcibly extract information from.
Above everything, Charlie is always efficient. He may not always appear to be the most serious person but he is not a clown either (at least not a useless one). He never misses an appointment, is always organized, and will run himself into the ground in order to maintain his reliability. There is very rarely a hair out of place on his head, as appearances are very important to him.
Pulled in an array of directions all at once, he has a heavy tendency to compartmentalize his life. He is his father's champion, a role model for his brother, a ministry employee, and now a fiancé. He approaches everything with the same business-like attitude but adjusts himself according to each role. All in all, he has a decent heart, but his heart belongs to his family. He has no higher loyalty than to the Harkiss name.
"I wrote this for a baby who has yet to be born, my brother’s first child. I hope that womb’s not too warm. 'Cause it’s cold out here and it’ll be quite a shock, to breathe this air, to discover loss. So I’d like to make some changes before you arrive, so when your new eyes meet mine, they won’t see no lies, just love."
— No Lies, Just Love
Bright Eyes
Bright Eyes
