Who: Amma & Alain — @fangslikedaggers.
When: December 24, 2029.
Where: The Three Broomsticks.
It had been almost three months since the attack on Diagon Alley, but Amma was still reeling. Her family’s affiliation with the Death Eaters was no secret to her and she had always been aware of the pain and the destruction that they brought upon other people and their families, though she had never before been in a situation where she had to witness the aftermath of their actions. To say that she had been dealing with it poorly would be an understatement — she spent almost every night in front of her fireplace, curled up with a bottle of wine, just trying to forget. And deep down, she knew that she needed to reach out to someone, to get everything off of her chest and out into the open, but that was easier said than done. Though, she usually pushed that thought to the side — she was no stranger to dealing with things on her own, after all.
After work, she had planned on going home, as per usual, when she made the unfortunate realization that she had finished her very last bottle of wine the night before. Begrudgingly, she made the decision to stop by The Three Broomsticks — she knew that it was for the best, that she needed to socialize with people other than her co-workers, but it didn’t make the situation any less painful. As she walked through the door, she was trying to quiet all of the negative thoughts inside her head, determined to make the best out of the night. It wasn’t until she walked a couple of feet into the pub that she noticed him. “Alain.” She said, the high-pitched timbre of her voice giving away just how surprised she was to see him. “I…” Amma trailed off; she could already feel tears welling up in her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here. How are you?”
There was a sort of tension in the air, a feeling that something was amiss, which seemingly followed him wherever he’d gone within the ministry. Perhaps it was just his naturally guarded attitude, but Alain found himself less and less comfortable in the world beyond his flat’s door. Ever since the unfortunate events of Halloween -- during which he was glad to have been tucked away at home -- and the recent change in Minister, things just didn’t feel right or safe. But what made it all worse is that nothing seemed out of the ordinary -- at least nothing within his direct vicinity. So despite his unease, he carried on, though barely. His bills were piling up, he was running low on his dietary supplements, and his expensive taste in clothes and wine were making his life a living hell. He really ought to start accepting the monetary assistance his mother constantly offered from afar, but he politely declined in each written response back. The last thing he wanted was for his family to think he wasn’t doing well on his own, though truth be told he really wasn’t. Despite that, he had enough change to go to the pub that evening and have a glass of wine alone, a sort of luxury he wouldn’t ignore. He spent far too much time cooped up, alone, in his dingy little flat. He needed some Vitamin D. Well... in a figurative way.
So as soon as his shift at the Department of Mysteries was done, he headed to the Three Broomsticks. It would be a quick little stop on the way home, just for a little people watching. And that’s mostly what it was -- He was not one to interact. So he sat in his dimly lit secluded corner, the stem of a nearly empty wine glass pinched between his gloved fingers and blue eyes scanning the area, just idly watching the patrons phase in and out. He’d been unconsciously watching people drifting about that he’d nearly missed the familiar face walking into the semi crowded pub. When his mind had fully registered the face of the woman he’d loved, Alain felt his frail little heart quake and shatter under the pressure of heartache. How cruel it was to finally be back in the same country with the person you adored only to not be able to have them? He threw himself desperately into work and other concerns simply to forget the cruelty of his current predicament, but it was all he could think of when she’d said his name. Sitting ramrod straight in his chair, his shoulders hunching up towards his ears in an uncomfortable stance, he stared back at her for a moment, unable to move his lips and answer. Finally able to regain control of his mouth, he replied, “Amma... Hello.” His voice was stiff, unsure of himself. “I could say the same of you. I’m... Well, thank you. Just busy with work, as I’m sure you are.” Was she? He honestly didn’t know. Swallowing his discomfort, he tried to relax a bit and motioned with a hand towards the empty chair beside him. “Would... Would you like to sit down?” Not that there was a lack of open seating, but there was tug and pull within him, something aching for some closeness to her even there was another part of him defensive and unsure.
rin entered the leaky cauldron with her only plan being to have a couple of drinks and then get the hell back to where she was staying. it had been a long day, she had been splattered with mud more times than she could count and had been bitten too. she looked utterly exhausted, combing her fingers through dark strands. the first spot the woman went to was the bar, talking quietly with tbe bartender at first. her posture was slumped slightly, propped up against the bar. at times, her eyes fluttered shut before she opened them with a mumble. her mind was somewhere else completely, though her thoughts were a mystery. rin’s day had been full of wrangling a dragon. quite literally, considering she had to hold the goddamn dragon down. as much as rin loved her job, it was extremely troublesome sometimes. this had been one of those moments as rin had actually had to grapple with a drgaon and hold it down, but at least the dragon was safe now.
the woman got herself a bottle of whiskey, not caring about the taste of it. sure, it might taste like shit but she can handle it. she didn’t care at this point, she just wanted a drink and then to go, having no reason to stay in the leaky cauldron. rin sipped from the bottle, making her way towards the back of the pub. tired eyes darted back and forth, quite happy for the empty seats. she didn’t exactly want to be bothered with someone coming up to her and asking about the mud on her. a sigh escaping her lips, going to sit at the farthest table she could. she had noticed alain there, but kept some distance between him and herself. rin propped her head up on her hand, dark strands falling over a tired face.
her head jerked up, eyes searching for a moment before focusing on alain. a look of panic had washed over her face for a moment before neutrality surfaced and took over. “.. good evening.” she brought a hand up to cover her mouth as a quiet yawn escaped her, shaking her head. “i won’t bother you, just wanted to sit and have a drink.” the woman still had the same weary look on her face, an exhale escaping her as she took a sip of the whiskey she held. if she had noticed anything off about alain, she made no mention of it.
x
The first thing he noticed was the mud. His first instinct was to recoil further away, but he had gripped the edge of the table with his free hand in order to keep himself from cringing. Alain was aware that some of his mannerisms could come across... poorly. As a young vampire at Beauxbâtons he had had his fair share of bullying and harassment, at least one such event ending up in a really uncomfortable situation which resulted in a severe phobia of dirt and germs. He liked things being meticulous, clean. So the sight of dirt struck a nerve in him that could make his skin crawl.
Of course he had to silently remind himself that it wasn’t anyone’s fault -- from the look in the young woman’s eyes it appeared that she must have had a long day, once that included whatever rigorous filthy activity lead to potential mud slinging. As much as his mind reeled over the fact that she could have cleaned off before coming into the public establishment... He knew the last thing he needed was to come across as a pompous ass. So he subtly readjusted his gloves and tried his hardest to ignore her state.
Something about her posture, maybe even her tone of voice, conveyed exactly what he’d speculated. Whatever this girl did that day had certainly been an exhausting feat, perhaps rightfully earning that bottle of whiskey she had with her. His nostrils flared as he took in the drink’s aroma, smelling almost as if he were holding it under his nose instead of it being across the table. Such were the vampiric senses he was unfortunately “blessed” with. He was not a fan of whiskey himself, and he thought maybe she wasn’t either.
The look of panic that had flooded her features did not go unnoticed by him. His face fell in the slightest way, thinking for just one moment that she had caught flash of the fangs and felt uncomfortable. That’s why he sat far away from people, giving them the comfortable distance most wixen craved. Not that he was really a threat -- frankly he was more them than he was that. Her words caused him somewhat calm. Maybe she wasn’t nervous because of what he was and maybe she was just tired. Looking her over once again, he figured it would be rude to not inquire on her wellbeing. “Rough day?” Alain wagered, framing his words as a question though it was technically rhetorical. She was covered in dirt and yawning around a bottle of whiskey. Definitely a rough day. Should I maybe offer her my handkerchief? he quietly thought to himself as he looked over her muddy clothes once again, hand moving to the scarlet pocket square peeking out of his breast pocket.
She doesn’t want to be alone. There’s a lot that Erin doesn’t want, though, and yet she still has plenty of those unwanted things: a heavy grief, a tendency to drink more than she should, and a hopelessness that feels, well, hopeless. When, earlier that evening, she had returned home from work, the quiet of her apartment – which she usually craves after a long day at work – had frustrated her beyond belief. That silence alone had made her thoughts run wild. Everything had instilled her with either great anger or sadness, both of those emotions weighing her down. She did not want to be alone. And so she had grabbed her bag, her keys, her phone and wallet and gone to the Leaky Cauldron.
So that’s where she is, now. Nursing her second glass of expensive whiskey, her muscles tight. There’s a desperation in her, and it craves, but Erin is – for bloody once – trying to look after herself. She knows she can’t function if she drinks herself to near-death, and if she can’t function, she can’t work. Still. A drink or two can hardly hurt. She spends some time at the bar, talking to the bartender who’s seen her in much worse states than she is right now (it’s all contained, after all: for all he knows, she’s just tense from work, and that’s that). But then he’s off on break, and she does not want to intrude, so it’s off to find a new conversation partner.
She could have reached out for a friend, she knows. But there’s a comfort about finding conversations in a pub: the spontaneity keeps people at an arm’s length, allows the conversation to go in any direction. And so she ends up sitting near Alain Lestoat. A colleague. Erin has made it her business to at least know every Ministry employee’s name and face. “That’s quite a loaded question,” she says easily. Erin sips her drink. “But perhaps. I don’t like to drink alone.” That’s a lie, though Alain does not need to know that. She definitely prefers drinking in company, though. Much less depressing. “I’ll buy you a round, in return for a chat.”
x
He hadn’t noticed the woman when she first entered the establishment. Perhaps if he had been paying attention then Alain would have been able to see the clear burden she carried with her. The way she was drinking... Obviously a lot was on her mind and she needed a distraction. If he’d known sooner, he wouldn’t have been so brusque in his greeting. He may have extended a warmer greeting, if that were something he was fully capable of. It probably would have been awkward, but nicer than how he had greeted her. When he’d looked her over, he had felt regret instantly wash over him. Maybe this was why most people abhorred him back home, and not just the biting thing.
Alain quietly considered her words a moment before ultimately giving her a conceding nod. He motioned towards a seat closer to him, the movement causing the chair to push back in a more clear invitation to take it. At the same time he motions towards the barkeep. His glass was empty, and certainly in need of a refill. When she came more closer, he quietly wondered why her face was familiar, but then that question was easily answered. The Ministry. He spent an awful amount of time at work, mostly sequestered in the Department of Mysteries uncovering its many hidden truths, but enough to become familiar with some of the faces that passed him by. She was probably among them.
“What topic should we engage in?” Alain asked as his glass was refilled, blue gaze locked on the burgundy liquid. He’d offered a small grin in silent thanks to the bartender before they floated away from the secluded corner the two Ministry workers found themselves in. “I assume the weather isn’t worthy of this kind of drink.” He tried to be amusing, and he thought he was pulling it off. Kind of, anyway. “Or perhaps we should start with introductions? In which case, my name is Alain... Lestoat.” He hesitated around his last name. It was the name of a famous author after all, one immortalized on a chocolate frog card. And most people knew what was on that chocolate frog card.
not much drama followed being an archivist, yet there were days when anabella’s peers seemed to enjoy backing her into a corner with questions and problems more than anything. no, she couldn’t blame them — the woman was incredibly sharp, and she almost always had the answers — but that didn’t mean she wanted to give them. it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to herself when she entered the doors of the leaky cauldron, knowing hours prior that she would want a glass of wine and the atmosphere of a nice time. tonight the venue was quieter than usual, but it didn’t matter — she wasn’t here to mingle. she never was.
eyes fell upon the man sat in her usual area, which was secluded from the rest of the room. anabella enjoyed her space, and even though this man took it she didn’t want to make a change — a dark corner was a dark corner, cool and usually unbothered. “hmm?” of course the interaction was almost immediate, and even while anabella answered her eyes were on her small clutch that sat on the surface of the bar. a few seconds passed as she finally turned her head and looked at him, cash she was searching for held between her fingers. “did i ask for help? did it pass over my head?” an eyebrow arched, dark eyes locked onto his light ones with no hesitation. there was something about him that didn’t seem entirely safe, but anabella was more than confident in her own abilities.
“if you’d like to sit all on your lonesome simply state so.”
x
Alain was somewhat surprised by the response, brows lifting up. That was this kind of bite to her tone he wasn’t expecting, but he wasn’t bothered by it. In a way... It was kind of amusing. At least he must have thought so since a somewhat tight and dimpled grin made its way over his lips. He concealed it in a sip of his drink. Clearing his throat, he actually let his expression twist into something thoughtful before shrugging a shoulder. “Hmm, I suppose you didn’t,” he conceded, shaking his head at the table. So maybe he earned that response, he wasn’t bothered by it.
He was a little caught off guard when she held eye contact. That wasn’t really normal in his book, but he also wasn’t really used to social interactions in general so maybe if he engaged people more he’d get used to it. He made a point of keeping his smiles tight lipped and his face angled away so the canines didn’t shock people. Maybe she didn’t even notice she was talking to the “living dead”. Maybe he wasn’t as frightening as he thought. That made sense -- between his soft blue eyes and dimpled smiles he looked just about as harmless as a puppy dog, really.
At her words, Alain wanted to scoff. Of course he wanted to sit alone. Was that not obvious with him literally being alone in the most secluded corner of the establishment? His desire for solitude was a given. And yet, he found himself shrugging in response, glancing down at his glass. “I think technically you’re allowed to sit wherever you want, so that wouldn’t really matter much, would it?”
Fleur hadn’t intended on staying in the Leaky Cauldron long, but she sat down at a table anyway (granted, not her own table) to sit for a while. She had just taken a sip of her butterbeer when the man at the other end of the table spoke. She shook her head gently as she looked at him. “I’m sorry, I can move if you are expecting people to join you.”
x
His cool resolve was slowly melting away. Clearly this person meant him no harm, and deep down Alain had felt a little bad being brusque. He hadn’t realized just how bad his social skills were until he’d decided to move away from his homeland. He almost frowned in response to the other’s words. Instead the corners of his lips pulled upwards into a small and gentle smile as he shook his head at the woman. “No, that’s not necessary,” he said against the rim of his wine glass, going for another sip. “I’m afraid my only company tonight is this glass. You’re free to take a seat.” His grin became somewhat wry in his subtle acknowledgement in his lack of friends. He really needed to get out more, didn’t he? Alain sat quietly a moment before offering a more apologetic glance. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rude. Let’s just say it has been a... rough day. Perhaps, should you choose to have another round, I could make your next drink my treat? As an apology, if you would accept it.”
Where: the leaky cauldron, diagon alley.
Who: alain & open.
There was something comforting about the sparsity in the pub that evening. It wasn’t very often that Alain found himself at the Leaky Cauldron without many patrons. As of late, it seemed there were plenty of people floating in and out of the pub. That was enough for him to keep a general distance from it — for one, his germaphobia kept him from enjoying engagement with many different people, but there was another part of him, the vampiric part of him, that much preferred less company. People just didn’t realize how downright delicious they smelled underneath all the perfumes and colognes. And his dietary supplements were hardly enough for him lately. Back at Lestoat manor they had stores that could quench the thirst of his half-vampire father for weeks. In London, Alain had to make due with the tablets he could procure from an apothecary, and the blood pops he covertly purchased whenever stopping at a confectionary shoppe. At the given time, he was popping the last supplement he had. He would need to make a trip the next morning before work, he wasn’t very good at going without for long.
Washing the pill down with a cheap glass of wine, he tried not to grimace at its quality or lack thereof. He was not as ‘liquid’ as he was back in France. This would simply have to do. Taking another sip, as if in some poor attempt to grow a tolerance to the drink, he stiffened when he noticed a presence wavering in and out of his blind spot. He appraised the other patron without turning his head more than a fraction, staring at them from the corner of his eyes. Leaning slightly away in his chair, the part-vampire cleared his throat and moistened his lips, careful to not let his lips curl away and reveal those exaggerated canines. The wine was staining his lips red, and paired with the fangs that wasn’t the best look to most. Jaw tight and lips laid in a hard line, he nodded his head.
“Erm, good evening,” Alain attempted to speak casually. “Can I help you?” he added after a beat, one brow arching curiously as he glanced sideways at the intruder. There were plenty of empty seats around, and yet this person seemed to linger in that secluded corner by him. Perhaps it was his fault for occupying a larger table, too many seats for just himself and his glass of wine to have all to themselves. Could he really blame them for thinking they could also take a seat there? His nostrils flared as he took in their scent, noting how quickly the supplements kept any hint of hunger at bay. At least he didn’t have to worry about any sort of major discomfort sitting near anyone, should they opt to stay in that corner with him.
SINCE moving in with her mother, PIPPA had started walking to work. The house they lived in often felt SUFFOCATING due to the dark magic that seemed to always be lingering in the air. there was no light in that house, it was always drowning in darkness, and not just literally. The hour and fifteen minutes it took to walk to the ministry allowed her lungs to fill with fresh air, to allow the morning sunshine to wash over her and remind her of the LIGHT that still existed all around.
As she turned onto Trafalgar square a familiar sense of anxiety overwhelmed her and she had to STOP in the middle of the busy plaza. FUCK, she didn’t want to go into work, she didn’t want to have to play this SICK game of pretend. SHE DIDN’T WANT TO DO IT, but what choice did she have? People smack into the side of her as they RUSH to get to their morning shifts, and still, she can’t bring herself to move, there’s superglue on the soles of her shoes and a cluster of spark plugs in her abdomen. SHE DOESN’T WANT TO GO TO WORK. what feels like a handbag collides with her left arm and she’s once again reminded of the ugly branding that lies beneath her baby pink jumper. HER BRAIN IS AN ATHLETE DEMANDING ENERGETIC EXPENDITURE BUT IT’S FAILING TO TELL HER LIMBS WHAT TO DO and suddenly she’s squatting in the middle of a bustling Trafalgar square, eyes squeezed shut, SHE DOESN’T WANT TO GO TO WORK.
He was never late. It was one of Alain’s shining qualities, his penchant for punctuality. Since he was young it was engrained in him that there were very few things more disrespectful than arriving to engagements late. Lestoats weren’t late — though his sweet sister Amélie challenged that generalization constantly. Whatever. Point is that Alain was never late.
If you didn’t count today, anyway.
In one swift movement Alain fished out a pocket watch from within his suit jacket, sparing it a quick glance. He let out a string of curses in French, all hissed beneath his breath, and kicked up the speed of his walk. He had to be careful — most vampires could move incredibly fast but he first had to cross a rather busy muggle area before he could make it to the ministry. Last thing he needed was to breach public security — reckless fanged grins were enough risk to that. So he ducked his head and tried to move fast, in a reasonably human sort of speed, towards Whitehall and the entrances to the Ministry. Eight minutes. He was at least eight minutes late. Last thing he wanted was to garner a reputation of being late. Not that that was likely anyway — This was the first time he had been late since he first started working in the Department of Mysteries a year ago. It wasn’t recurring enough to be a real problem, but his anxiety wouldn’t allow him to realize this.
As he rushed through the crowd, Alain had not noticed someone slowing down up ahead. His gaze was glued onto the pocket watch, cursing the ever moving hands as though that would somehow stop time so his arrival wouldn’t be more prolonged. When he’d closed onto the other, his briefcase bumped into their arm. The action was enough to cause the old latch on the case to come undone, and for the contents of his briefcase to pour out onto the concrete. The action caused him to stumble a bit, careful to not step on the highly confidential files which now littered the ground. “Just fantastic,” he muttered, smoothing down his slightly wrinkled suit jacket. “My apologies, I was not looking where I was going.” He was about to flash a toothy grin but thought against it, setting his lips in a hard line. He must have seemed anything but sympathetic, bending down to swiftly grab his paperwork than spare the other any attention.
Alain remembered how he was running late, and he was ready to level an agitated look at the other. But when he’d straightened and saw the look on the other’s face, his angry expression melted away. He was a perceptive young man, he could see the starting of a panic attack when it was happening. He just wasn’t the most nurturing person. Despite this, he carefully hovered closer to the other, a gloved hand reaching out towards her. “Hey... Are you alright?” His tardiness was forgotten in that moment, a part of him somewhat concerned for this other person. Hand hovering by her elbow, he spied around the area looking for a place to sit. “Er, why don’t you come along with me? You look like you need to sit down for a little bit, get out of this crowd,” he said softly, the faintest French accent coating his words. His gaze narrowed at the sunlight. He had a mild allergy to it and he just realized he’d forgotten his sunscreen. “And out of this damned light,” he added, though that was definitely more for him.
❝ he was a collection of hard lines and tailored edges – sharp jaw, lean build, wool coat snug across his shoulders. ❞
huh, who’s DAVID CORENSWET? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually ALAIN LESTOAT. he is a TWENTY FOUR year old PART-VAMPIRE wizard who is an UNSPEAKABLE. he is known for being RETICENT, MERCURIAL, ALOOF, EVASIVE, and DECADENT but also CHIVALROUS, ADROIT, PRAGMATIC, DEBONAIR, and INTUITIVE, so that must be why he always reminds me of the song THAT’S OKAY BY THE HUSH SOUND and THREE PIECE SUITS, LONE MATTRESS IN AN EMPTY APARTMENT, CODED NOTEBOOKS, INK-STAINED HANDS, BLACK COFFEE GONE COLD, UNSENT POSTCARDS, OLD TABACCO PIPE, SOFT DIMPLED GRINS, PERFECTLY COIFFED HAIR, ÉDITH PIAF RECORDS ON LOW, and RED LEATHER GLOVES. i hear he is aligned with NO ONE, so be sure to keep an eye on him.
GENERAL
FULL NAME: Alain Danet Lestoat
NICKNAME(S): some people call him ‘Drac’ for some reason, but he prefers to simply be called Alain
AGE/DATE OF BIRTH: 24, 09/19/2005 (will update graphic soon)
OCCUPATION: Unspeakable, works in the Death Chamber most days
GENDER: Cis Man
PRONOUNS: He/Him
HOMETOWN: Eguisheim, Haut-Rhin, France
CURRENT RESIDENCE: London, England
ALMA MATTER: Beauxbatons
BLOOD STATUS: Part-Vampire (1/4th) / Halfblood
BIOGRAPHY
If you’ve ever had a chocolate frog, then there’s a great chance you’ve heard the name Lestoat. Among the many trading cards you can find in the packaged confection there is one for an Amarillo Lestoat, a vampire born at the same time that America declared its Independence, immortalized on enchanted cardstock. Amarillo’s rise to fame came with a single piece of literature which the vampire had published during his two hundred and one years. A Vampire’s Monologue, a mind numbingly boring read that offered the vampire a way to disable his victims so he could feed off them without trouble. It’s a story that has followed his grandson Alain throughout his twenty six years -- a fact that isn’t exactly welcome to the 1/4 Part-Vampire.
Alain Danet Lestoat was born on a cold and murky September day in the commune of Eguisheim in Haut-Rhin to Marguerite Babineaux, a pureblooded witch whose family was one of the most prominent pureblood families in France during the 20th century, and her Part-Vampire husband Alexander Lestoat; the unexpectedly conceived son of the bore himself. Amarillo had no intention of fathering halfbreed offspring, but was surprised only ten years prior to his death to find out he’d impregnated a young witch he’d used his book on during a trip to Madrid, thus beginning the equally magical and vampiric lineage of the writer. Sometimes Alain wishes the man had managed to keep to this plan. From the moment he opened his eyes to the world he was instantly met with hardships and difficult hurdles to overcome.
From his father’s side Alain had inherited a severe allergy to garlic, an acute aversion to direct sunlight, canines that were far too long and awkward for braces, and, of course, a slight penchant for the taste of blood. For her part, Marguerite had managed to pass down dark, thick curls and dimpled smiles, but that was not enough to quell the sort of fear that one got whenever he flashed a toothy grin at them. In Eguisheim, among the non-magical denizens, it was important for the Lestoats to stay incognito. Wixen could hide easily among the non-magical, ashen complexed and fanged Vampires could hardly do the same. As such, his childhood was rather isolated and sheltered. He spent most of his days roaming the rather large manor house they had acquired on the edge of town, reading the vast collection of books his two-centuries-old grandfather had left in his father’s possession, consuming knowledge about the world outside he could seldom take part in.
It wouldn’t be until he’d received his invitation to study at his mother’s alma matter that he would get to see the outside world. With its sprawling gardens, never-melting ice sculptures and enchanting fountains, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic felt more like it belonged among Perrault’s stories than in the real world, and yet it was very real. Equal parts excited and horrifyingly nervous, Alain travelled to the secluded chateau to begin his education. His only hope was that among the magical folk of France he would be able to be more readily accepted. He was only a fourth vampire after all -- he was more like the other wixen around him, how could they abhor him? Disappointment would soon become a constant acquaintance for him. All it had taken was one excitedly large toothy grin to a fellow first year within the first minutes of the welcome feast and Alain’s reputation had been set. Leech. Bloodsucker. Monster. All desperately unfair labels since, as he constantly reminded others, he was more wizard than vampire, but it hadn’t mattered. Having knives for teeth was enough to cause anyone to instantly write him off as a danger and liability.
After a particularly disastrous first year, including a rather humiliating question-and-answer session during a DADA class, he had sworn he would turn his back on the wizarding world and never come back. I’ll run away into the words, become the Bête in an enchanted castle and make friends out of the utensils I’ll steal from maman’s cupboard. It hadn’t been until Alexander intervened, having gone through a rough schooling experience himself, that Alain would be comfortable with returning to the academy. You’ll just have to prove to them they’re wrong by showing what kind of person you are. It was with this advice that Alain would come back year after year, despite the harassment from his classmates, in order to study. He had resolved to be the best wizard he could. He studied hard -- an easy feat since he was rarely invited along to field trips or outings with his classmates -- excelled at his academics and managed to be top of his class. Despite the naysayers, he’d graduated from Beauxbatons with top honors, and plenty of prestigious internships and job proposals to choose from. Tired of the isolation of both his small commune and the secluded chateau, he had taken what he felt was the most lucrative option -- an internship with the Bureaux des Mystéres in the Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France.
It wasn’t a particularly glamorous position -- he mostly helped file nonsensical reports. He wasn’t allowed anywhere near the actual Chambers within, but he’d caught on quickly enough to know that some really interesting and important stuff happened in there. Why else didn’t anyone talk about it? When he was able to, he applied to become an Unspeakable trainee and before long he was finally setting foot inside those elusive rooms and learning their secrets. He could be trusted to keep them; he was never one to socialize anyway. Who was he going to tell? The only person who was ever privy to his intimate thoughts was his little sister Amélie, and she was still too little to have discussions about his job. Quickly, he’d come to find the secretive and confidential world within those chambers were far more comforting than the vast world outside. His hunger for knowledge about the things he was studying had lead him to submit an application for another Ministry of Magic across the channel. It was said that in the UK they had made more headway with the types of things that were being studied within their own Department of Mysteries, and Alain was desperate to understand everything. When he’d gotten a response back from their Department head eagerly welcoming him to the team, he left first thing and didn’t once look back. France had already taught him enough, it was time to find something more on other shores.
He’s been in the UK for only a year and a half now, and most of the time he’s spent sitting before a stone arch and shroud, listening to voices calling to him. The Death Chamber. There was something kind of funny about a vampire studying death, but Alain doesn’t care. Each day more mysteries open up to him, keeping him from sleeping and eating as his mind reels with everything. He’s been so occupied with his highly secretive work that he hadn’t noticed the climate changing around him. As a foreigner he understood the past conflicts in England in a textual sense. The Wizarding Wars and the Death Eaters were footnotes in his textbooks, a foreign problem to learn from. They weren’t close to home or part of his own history, so he hadn’t given them much thought. When a string of high prolific deaths began taking place they were sad, no doubt, but not warning bells of something dark to come. As such, he hasn’t taken a side. Per his letters home, he insists that should things become grim in England then he will secure a portkey back to France and resume his post in the Ministére, but Alain figures that whatever is happening will eventually de-escalate. Hadn’t they stopped a rise in dark wizardry in this country a matter of decades prior?
ok so basically: alain is an introverted part-vampire who migrated to london about a year and half prior to start of game to work at the department of mysteries in the ministry. he started his career as an unspeakable in france’s ministry but is eager to learn more than he thinks was capable back in his homeland.
BULLYING AND SLIGHT NON CON TW. generally he’s kind of introverted and keeps to himself; this is because he was harassed and bullied a lot as a beauxbatons student for being “halfbreed”. he’s 1/4 vampire and the grandson of a famous vampire writer, a legacy he really hates. in particular he hates that he’s 1. labelled as a monster by ignorant people (he lives off regular food, thank you very much) but also 2. if people know about his grandfather, then they know he wrote a boring af book and in a shady way to get people to submit to him for feeding. kinda feels non-consensual ya know??
PHOBIA MENTION TW as both a vampire and a frenchman, he dresses impeccably, so he’s usually seen around in long trench coats and thin tailored suits. he wears red leather gloves as both a fashion statement and also because he is a bit of a germaphobe. he won’t divulge details but this has to do with a vicious prank that was done to him when he was a student. he was kinda carrie’d if ya feel me.
despite an air of decadence and debonair, he’s kind of poor (rip) and lives in a dingy little shoebox flat where he sleeps on a barren mattress and eats instant ramen and boxed wine for dinner. most of his money goes towards his closet or to his family back home, who doesn’t really need it but he loves spoiling his little sister so he would rather fund her life than his own. claims he’s making enough to live elegantly so they don’t realize he’s a l i a r.
look he’s gonna be a bit of a hard egg to crack but i promise once he is cracked he’s charming and sweet and a loyal good friend so pls don’t give up on his interactions if he’s aloof and distant ;-; give the boy a chance.
idk i’ll probably add to this as I think of stuff; it’s 3 am lmao
MISC
SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Demisexual
ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Heteromantic
LANGUAGES: English, French, Spanish, Some German
FAMILY: Alexander Amarillo Lestoat (father, b. 1967 in Madrid, Spain), Marguerite Celeste Lestoat neé Babineaux (mother, b. 1981 in Mulhouse, France), Amélie Marguerite Lestoat (sister, b. 2011 in Eguisheim, Haut-Rhin, France), Amarillo Lestoat † (grandfather, b. 1776 in Philadelphia, America, died 1977 in Madrid, Spain; vampire and author of a vampire’s monologue)
PETS: Barn Owl named Archimedes and Black Kneazle named Persephone
FACE CLAIM: David Corenswet
ZODIAC SIGN: Virgo
MBTI: TBD
PINTEREST: (x)
WANTED CONNECTIONS
tbh i have nothing in mind so just hmu if you have ideas. if not, we will brain storm :)
bonus:
alain danet lestoat, beauxbatons first year c. 2017. ignore that wonky ass eye i’m too lazy to fix it
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