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Brinley Grisham

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  • Year Level
    First Year
  • Age
    11
  • Blood Status
    Pureblood
  • Species
    Human
  • Pronouns
    He/Him
  • Full Name
    Brinley Abraham Grisham
  • Played By
    Allen Alvarado
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    She/Her
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  • Status Counter 1
  • IC Post Count 8
  • Char DOB Man 12
  • Char PB Allen Alvarado
  • Char RAC Human
  • Char-Stud Ylev 01. First Year
  1. Let the Games Begin

    Brinley shrugged when Alex said experimental potions were more interesting to him than common ones. ”Well, sure. They’re certainly more fun. But Potions Master Today says you can never successfully experiment until you fully understand the fundamentals.” Brinley grinned when Alex went on to say that he made his own pain relief stuff. ”Wicked! You should put a little belladonna in there. I mean, you have to be careful—that stuff’s lethal in high doses—but medieval witches and wizards used it as a pain reliever and sedative. It was so effective at the latter that some suspect that the potion the Friar used in Romeo and Juliet was a sleeping draught modified with belladonna.” Talking potions always put Brinley in a slightly better mood, and a small smile graced his features for perhaps the first time all morning. Still, talk of house elves and their choices had a dampening effect. He missed his home, and Diddy and Stumpy especially. The bit about fate and choice and chance had him baffled, however. Brinley had never considered fate. Choice, certainly—people could choose to behave with dignity, or not—but not fate. ”Do you take Divination, by any chance?” Brinley asked. ”Only you sound a bit like the Divination professor back at Hogwarst… I always thought it was a bit of an... imprecise… magic.” Imprecise was putting it lightly. Brinley tended to think that those who put their lives in the hands of diviners were absolutely mad.
  2. Invite Lost and Found

    Brinley Grisham
    Brinley hadn’t been looking to play delivery-boy Saturday morning. He’d started the morning quietly nibbling a bit of English muffin and jam at the breakfast table while reading the latest potions quarterly, his every gesture a wall against the students around him, and his master plan for the day had been to do a few loops around the pitch to keep himself fit and then perhaps to spend the afternoon in the library finishing his schoolwork—nothing social in the least. As he packed his journal into his satchel, however, he noticed a battered envelope on the floor nearby. He hadn’t seen anyone drop it--just the envelope itself--so it was impossible to know if a student had been irresponsible or if an owl had managed to mislay it in the rush of the morning post. Frowning, Brinley stooped and collected the envelope. He flipped it, reading the name on the front—Scarlett Fate—and vaguely recognizing it as belonging to a blonde girl he shared most of his core classes with. He sighed heavily, resigning himself to a morning searching for some girl he barely knew, and was preparing to tuck the envelope into his satchel when another name—this time on the return address—caught his eye. Rosemarie Langloire. It was a name he recognized even more than Scarlett’s name. Langloire had been in his year at Hogwarts—Slytherin to his Ravenclaw, though not a terrible sort as Slytherins went. They hadn’t been friends or anything, but they’d tackled a couple of group projects together and gotten on well enough. What in the world was Langloire doing communicating with someone all the way over here? Curiosity piqued, Brinley set out with more energy to find Scarlett. He took a moment to remember her house—green crest, house Spencer—located a prefect, and finally got pointed in the direction of the Games Room in Southern Cross. Her blonde hair was impossible to miss. Brinley crossed to her, stepping into her view so as not to startle her. ”Pardon,” Brinley said. ”You’re Scarlett Fate, right?” He slid his satchel towards his hips and extracted the envelope he’d stowed so carefully less than an hour prior. ”I found this and thought you might appreciate the return.” He waited for her to take it before clearing his throat again. ”I… apologies if this comes across as forward, but I couldn’t help but notice the return address… Is that the same Rosemarie Langloire currently in attendance at Hogwarts? I don’t mean to pry, only… Well, I went there myself for the past two semesters, and I couldn’t help but wonder…” His voice trailed, and he ducked his head, embarrassed by his own impropriety but too curious not to have asked.
  3. Invite The Many Uses of Salt

    Brinley Grisham
    Brinley had noticed the note in his first--botched--potions class. Advanced potions and potions theory, Sundays at 8pm. To a boy who had been obsessed with potions since before he could properly form sentences, it was a dream come true. His only fear was that the professor--or other prestigious students who attended advanced potions--wouldn’t give him a chance. He was only a first year, after all, even if the title rankled--he’d completed his first year at Hogwarts, and in his mind he ought to be a second year. And since he’d only made it to one potions class so far--a test, at that, which he couldn’t have hoped to pass after not being at this school the previous term-he wouldn’t blame them for writing him off. He would just have to prove himself. He completed his schoolwork for the week on Saturday to ensure that his Sunday evening was free. He dressed carefully prior to dinner, choosing a long-sleeve polo--tight fitting and unlikely to drape into his cauldron--and a pair of sensible black trousers. He even forewent his robes, though he felt half-naked without them, knowing that in the lab they tended to only get into trouble. After dinner, he packed his shoulder satchel carefully, including not only his potions kit and first year textbook but also his most recent potions quarterlies. In the time between dinner and eight, he reviewed the newest quarterlies to ensure that his mind was as sharp as it could be. And then, at five of eight, he walked through the door of the potions classroom. Well, not through it, exactly. He stepped in, and then froze just inside the doorway, his dark eyes taking in the emptiness. Only the professor was in the room, and he looked to be… grading papers or somesuch. Brinley tugged uncertainly on the hem of his shirt, observing in silence for a moment until the professor himself addressed him. ”Apologies,” Brinley said, ducking his head slightly. ”Only… Perhaps I was confused. I thought I’d read that Advanced Potions and Potions Theory was offered at this time slot. Has that been disbanded?”
  4. Let the Games Begin

    Brinley frowned slightly at Alex’s analysis of Sturt house--the people even weirder than the house itself. It wasn’t exactly a comfort to a boy who prided himself on being above average in everything he set his mind to. He didn’t want to be associated with the weird house. At Hogwarts, being in Ravenclaw had been an honor, its name lending Brinley an air of prestige--similar to Slytherin, without any of the negative connotations. He had hoped Sturt would lend him the same credibility here in Australia. It sounded like he was perhaps not to be so lucky. When Alex showed that he actually knew what a bostrichidae was, Brinley smiled slightly--a little more on one side than the other--and inclined his head. ”Pretty, and versatile. Did you know that bostrichidae shells have 156 common uses--not mentioning the uncommon or experimental ones?” As Brinley followed Alex deeper into the grounds of Tallygarunga, he bristled slightly at the mention of Greyheme, though as he was a step or two behind the older boy, he doubted it was noticed. It seemed that not only had his dearest mother chosen to send him to school on the other side of the world, but she hadn’t even bothered to send him to the good school. What hope did he have of ingratiating himself into this society if she wasn’t sending him to the school with the creme de la creme? Merlin only knew that money wasn’t a concern there. It was as if she were doing it on purpose--as if, in trying to humble him, she had decided to butcher any societal dreams and goals he may have had. It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t be allowed to ruin his future like that. He was distracted enough about it that he missed the beginning of Alex’s answer about house elves. What he caught of it made something twist in his stomach. He hadn’t though, before, about the fact that freed house elves might have the option of staying employed at their previous place of business. Just because Mother freed Stumpy and Diddy didn’t mean they’d had to leave the manor. They’d chosen that. They’d chosen to leave him. Brinley’s left hand tightened, his fingernails digging into his palm. He sucked in a deep breath of air and reminded himself that the hurt he was feeling was a useless emotion, unbefitting a man of his stature. Decorum, Brinley, he reminded himself, and he forced himself to unclench his hand and let out the breath he’d sucked in. ”Do they?” Brinley forced himself to ask. His voice cracked a little, and he cleared his throat before trying again. ”The younger generation of elves, I mean. Do they try to break the norms?” Brinley had spent his entire life trying to live up to the legacy his father had left behind. He couldn’t imagine actively working against his family’s traditions.
  5. Let the Games Begin

    Brinley’s lips twisted slightly in surprise when Alex knew what Ravenclaw was, but he merely nodded. When Alex clarified that the platypus belonged to Sturt house, Brinley frowned slightly in recognition. Sturt he repeated silently, determined to keep it in his head this time. Like the word “sturdy” if the speaker were hanged halfway through saying it. In reality, he supposed it was a last name, though not of a family he immediately recognized. He wondered if that were due to breeding—were Sturts muggleborns, or had they died out since the founding of the school?—or if it were simply due to a lack of familiarity with the Great Families of Australia. At the term bookworm, Brinley made a face. In a dry voice—the closest Brinley came to joking—he said, ”I liked the term studious better. I’m no bostrichidae.” It was a little-known fact that bookworms weren’t worms at all, but the larvae of a certain species of beetle. Little-known, that is, unless you needed crushed bookworms for potions-making. Brinley straightened at Alex’s interpretation of his name. Dignity and intellect. He liked that analysis. He blinked in surprise when Alex admitted being new to the school. ”Oh? I wouldn’t have guessed. Where did you begin your education?” The term rustic was a bit of an understatement, but Brinley nodded anyway. At least he wasn’t the only one wholly unimpressed by the institution’s exterior. He found himself adjusting his view of Alex ever so slightly. Maybe the older boy wasn’t entirely ill-bred. ”I can get my trunk,” Brinley said. ”Thank you.” He carried it to the front of the school as Alex had indicated even as his mind swirled with the new information. ”I thought—at least, my uncles had said—that house elves were emancipated in this country years ago. Is that untrue?”
  6. Let the Games Begin

    As the person he’d approached turned to face him, Brinley began to make observations. He’d read once that in the first seven seconds of meeting someone, eleven assumptions were made. Sure enough, as his eyes scanned the older student, his brain began working rapid-fire. 1.) Long hair – Hippie? 2.) Guitar case as well; definitely a hippie. 3.) Casual Language—Probably ill bred 4.) Maybe even a muggleborn The older boy continued to speak. Brinley wrinkled his nose at the term little man—5.) Agist—and then forced himself to smile when offered assistance, even as his mind connected to 6.) Goody-Goody. “Ravenclaw,” Brinley said automatically when he was asked for his house assignment. Immediately his ears and the back of his neck burned with embarrassment. He shook his head slightly. “Apologies. Habits. Um… Platypus?” He couldn’t remember the name of it, except that it had sounded like someone had been AK’d before they finished saying whatever word they were working on. 7.) Alexander was at least a proper name. Score one for breeding? 8.) But then he went by Alex, which was a slap in the face to those who named him. One against breeding. 9.) Said the word “casual” as if it were something to be proud of. Definitely muggleborn. 10.) And agist. 11.) And ill-bred. Who taught their children to introduce themselves without surnames? “Brinley Grisham.” Brinley dropped his hand away from the handle of his luggage so that he could offer it to the older boy. Decorum, after all. “First year.” The word again rose to his lips, but he swallowed it down, not allowing himself the luxury of complaint. Instead, he offered a stiff, “It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance… Alex.”
  7. Open Skinny Dipping {Mature}

    The one good thing about coming to Australia was the new variety of flora and fauna available as potions ingredients. There was a veritable ton of potions Brinley had always been eager to try that had been impractical due to the ingredients necessary. Now, those same potions were suddenly available to him, and while it meant that other potions were now off of his plate, he was trying to look at the bright side for once. So the first Saturday he was on campus he loped a satchel over his shoulders and began scouring the grounds for ingredients. He’d gotten a pretty good haul by the time he was ready to turn back for lunch. He figured he’d make one final lope by the beach—shells were high in calcium and could be useful—before heading in for his noon meal. As he crossed the beach, his dress shoes shifting awkwardly on the sand, he spotted a blanket laid out with food. Weird, he thought. After all, it was winter by Australia standards, and though the weather was certainly warm enough to him, having come from England, he’d figured the locals would be past their beachcombing days. He shrugged it off, continuing down towards the water, his eyes for the most part on the sand. And then he looked up, and caught an eye full of soooo much more than he had bargained for. Instinctively, Brinley’s hand rose to cover his eyes. ”Merciful Merlin!” he said, the words rising unbidden from his lips without his sayso. ”Is this an Australia thing? Because my uncles left me wholly unprepared for naked women.” His face, he was sure, was as red as a tomato. He took a few steps back from the water, stumbling a bit in the sand as he continued to try to keep his eyes averted.
  8. Lily does pretties

    I could use some images for Brinley (Allen Alvarado). Not particular about the picture, but looking for some of his younger photo shoots like this or this ... Would love something that shows a little flair -- dark around the edges and light in the middle or something like that. Or just something that doesn't look like I chopped it up terribly.
  9. Notice Quidditch Team Rosters

    Name: Brinley Grisham House: Sturt Year Level: 1st Year Position: Beater (Preferred) Secondary Position: Chaser (If Beater not available) Interest in Interschool team? Yes
  10. Let the Games Begin

    Waylon and Edmund had offered to drive Brinley to school--all the way from Melbourne, which would have been a hell of a feat even if it hadn’t involved them closing their shop for a full day. Brinley assured them that he was fine to go alone--he wouldn’t run off, and he wasn’t so violent that he couldn’t be trusted in a cab by himself. In the end they’d agreed, though Waylon had seemed reluctant as he packed Brinley’s trunk into the boot of the cab. He’d handed Brinley a few coins--for lunch, he’d said--as if Brinley didn’t already have a sizeable pursefull on his person--and then he’d given Brinley what had to be the most awkward half-hug on the planet before finally letting him leave. Brinley spent the cab ride reading the potions quarterly that had arrived the evening prior, and barely noticed the distance until he felt the distinct rumbling of gravel beneath the vehicle. He sat up then, peering out the window at the trees that flicked past as they made their way up the dirt road. This couldn’t be right. This was his new school? His distaste only grew when the cabbie finally stopped in front of a weather-worn building that looked more like a farmhouse than a proper educational establishment. Brinley’s nose wrinkled slightly in distaste. Having spent the past nine months in a proper castle, he couldn’t imagine that this was what his life had fallen to--a shabby collection of mismatched buildings. Even as he thought it, he forced himself to lean forward and hand the cabbie a tip through the partition before pushing open the side door and stepping outside. It was cool outside--not cold, exactly, but cooler than it would have been in England this time of year--and he was grateful he’d chosen his thick outer robe in lieu of his thinner school uniform. There would be plenty of time to change. He hauled his trunk out of the boot and waved the cabbie off. Only when the cabbie had left did Brinley allow himself to wonder what he was supposed to do. Was he supposed to meet someone? Go somewhere specific? His hand went automatically to the pocket-knife he kept sequestered in his robes, and his skin began to crawl with a familiar itch, but he pushed the sensation away. Later, perhaps, when he learned the location of his dormitories and had a bit of privacy. He spotted someone walking by, and as much as it pained him to admit his ignorance he stepped towards them. “Pardon? My apologies for the interruption. I’m a transfer student, and I haven’t received entirely clear instructions as to where I’m supposed to go first. Any ideas?”
  11. Class Choose Wisely

    Brinley Grisham
    Brinley loved potions class. The chance to be given guidance in his brewing was not to be taken for granted--even if he did have to share the attention with a room full of blithering idiots who didn’t know the difference between a cauldron and a tea kettle. At least at this school they weren’t separated by years. It meant that even as a first year (only halfway through a year he’d graduated from once!) he had the opportunity to try his hand at some more complicated brews. He’d arrived early, as always, and settled himself towards the front of the classroom, parchment out and quill poised. When the professor said they were going to have a quiz, however, Brinley’s heart sank. The Draught of LinsLann was decidedly not something they’d worked on at Hogwarts. He wracked his brain, trying to think if he’d read of it in any of his recent potions journals, but came up empty--he’d never even heard of the thing. LinsLann sounded like someone’s name, too, which was no help. If it had been Draught of Living Death or something, he might have been able to discern some of its make by the properties of the potions ingredients he was offered. He tightened his jaw in silent protest, but he wasn’t about to actually complain. Instead, he tucked his quill and parchment obediently away and stepped to the front of the room, chin high and back ramrod straight though at his sides his hands were shaking. Potions weren’t something one should guess at--consequences could be dire if you mixed the wrong ingredients together. He hated that he didn’t know what to do--potions was his subject, after all--but as he eyed the chardonnay and octopus ink, he decided that he could at least keep things from exploding or creating noxious fumes. He settled on the octopus ink--the less volatile of the two, more base than acid--and made his way back to his work station, his mind racing for a solution. He had two choices. Well, three, technically, but he didn’t see taking a partner as a choice--not when he knew no one in the class and, as a new transfer who’d never heard of the potion, could bring nothing to the table. That left guessing at what he was supposed to be doing--maybe eyeing the classmates and trying to emulate their actions--or making a potion that he was more familiar with. The first option left him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Every instinct he had was against guessing at potions-making, especially when he had so little to work with, contextually. He’d rather make the wrong potion and be sure that it was made correctly. It wasn’t like he’d get full marks on the assignment anyway--or any marks, if he was being honest with himself. It would be the first time in history Brinley would fail a potions assignment. And the last, he promised himself, even if it meant he had to ask someone for their notes from the previous term and a half and memorize them before next class. He clearly hadn’t been studying hard enough. For now… He stared at the octopus ink in hand, and then carefully put five drops of it into his cauldron and heated it low. Octopus ink was highly concentrated melanin. You could make a halfway decent sunblock out of it--babyfood, nothing exciting, but at least he wasn’t likely to muck it up. He flicked through his potions kit, finally pulling out eleven pumpkin seeds and beginning the process of crushing them with the butt of his knife. ”Zinc…” he muttered to himself, concentrating on crushing them into a fine powder. ”Zinc helps the body create proteins…” And despite the fact that he was certainly failing the test, he found himself relaxing slightly into the work. At least he had this--the sweet space between himself and the cauldron. That was worth something.
  12. Brinley Grisham

    Brinley Grisham
    (TW for spousal abuse and self-injury) Brinley was born into a highly wealthy, pureblood family in England, the only son and heir of Abraham and Carlotta Grisham. Abraham was an unspeakable at the ministry of magic, a dark and mysterious career that Brinley was always intrigued by. Carlotta, on the other hand, was a socialite, away from the home more often than she was there, leaving Brinley to be raised, for the most-part, by the family’s pair of elderly house-elves, Stumpy and Diddy. As a young child, Brinley was unaware of the politics that lay the foundation for his home life. He was unaware, for example, that his parents’ marriage was an arranged one, deemed necessary by Carlotta’s supremacist parents, who would not have included her in the family inheritance if she had married anyone else. He was equally unaware of the fact that his father was an abusive sort, a male chauvinist who saw it as his given right to beat his wife if she didn’t perform as expected, or that the reason Carlotta spent more time away from home than in it was out of fear of her husband. What Brinley was aware of was that his mum was rarely home, and when she was home it was with a class of sherry in hand and a vacant expression on her face. He grew up certain that his mother neither loved nor cared for him, and that his father--distant, but smart and prestigious and brave--was the type of man he should aspire to be. As a result, Brinley threw himself into his studies, determined to be just as intelligent and prestigious as his father. He had an especial fondness for potions, and by the age of five was a regular subscriber to three different quarterly potions journals. Brinley was ten years old when his father passed away--an accident at work, the details never fully disclosed to the family. Brinley was distraught. His mother was relieved, and perhaps as a result--or perhaps because she never had gotten to know Brinley well--she offered him little in the way of comfort. By that time her parents were dead and she, already the heiress to the Castellano fortune, was finally free to live her life as she wanted to. She spent no more time home than she had before Abraham’s death, and if, in the time she was home, she was happier than before, it was no comfort to her son. Brinley turned inward in his grief, and he turned angry. He began self-injuring, marks he hid with long-sleeves and bitterness. By the time he started at Hogwarts at eleven, he was master of keeping to himself. He avoided friendships, instead throwing himself into his studies. When the letter came from his mother informing him that he had a new stepfather and two new sisters, he didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he set fire to his four-poster and spent a week in detention--a childish lark, the professors thought, and nothing worth writing home about. And then Brinley was sent home for the summer, except it wasn’t his home. His mother and stepfather had purchased a new manor together. He suddenly had two step-sisters to contend with, neither of whom he connected with. And his mother had dismissed the house-elves--freed them, at her new husband’s request. She couldn’t understand Brinley’s upset at that, but in Brinley’s mind it was just one more loss in a list of losses--the only friends he’d ever had, and the only creatures who had ever actually seemed to care for him, no longer around. The incident occured one day while Brinley’s mother and stepfather were out of the house. Adelle, fourteen, had been left in charge of Brinley and Fiona. Brinley was in his bedroom, in the attic. He had just started self-injuring when the door burst open and Fiona skipped in. She didn’t mean to impeach on his privacy--and, in truth, at seven, she didn’t entirely understand what she saw. But Brinley, embarrassed and scared and angry, lashed out, screaming for her to get out of the room and pushing her. He didn’t mean to push her down the stairs. He didn’t even think about it. And when he saw her flying backwards, he regretted things instantly, dropping his knife at his feet in favor of rushing towards her. She broke an arm in the fall--nothing life-threatening, but enough of an injury for a hospital visit. Brinley hated himself for it. He apologized to her, and he apologized to her dad. But all Carlotta saw when she looked at her son was her late husband--angry, abusive, and only sorry when it was too late. It didn’t help that he wouldn’t explain why he’d shoved Fiona. Left to draw her own conclusions about it, Carlotta determined that he thought himself better than a halfblood female, as his father would have. She determined that she’d already failed him--that he was a carbon copy of his father before him--and that he was a danger to the household. As a result, she sent him to live with his uncle--her brother--in Melbourne. Waylon was a squib, and had moved to Australia as a teenager to escape bigoted parents to whom his lack of magic was one shame, and his sexuality another. He married young, and he and his husband lived in an apartment above a clothing shop they ran together where they sold items of both muggle and wizarding fashion. It was more than a bit of a change for Brinley. Though his mother sent a substantial stipend to Waylon and Edmund as recompense for taking Brinley in--and though both men were plenty kind to Brinley--he found himself living in a two bedroom flat above a store, a far cry from the manor life he’d grown up on. Worse than that, for the eleven-year-old, was the time change, which meant that, though in England summer vacation had just begun, in Australia they were only halfway through the school year. He had precisely a week to meet his uncles and settle into his room, and then he was sent to school, to complete the second half of first year again. It was like being held back, or sent to summer school, and it was all but unbearable.
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