Post by Shawn Henley on Feb 9, 2009 17:33:45 GMT -8
Shawn Andrew Henley,
what are you fighting for?
Climb in the back with your head in the clouds
And you're gone
what are you fighting for?
Climb in the back with your head in the clouds
And you're gone
name: Shawn Henley. It doesn't really lend itself to nicknames.
age/graduating year: 28 year old, graduating class of 2015.
former house: N/A, studied overseas.
alliance: Unaffiliated, he knows nothing of these political goings-on.
wand: Cedar wood, 12 ½ inches, dragon heartstring.
patronus: A large Boxer dog.
boggart: A wheelchair.
striking features: Sandy blonde hair, light hazel eyes and tanned skin that's just starting to show signs of being sun-damaged and weathered. There's nothing much striking about him, though he supposes he might stand out in Wizarding England.
----
personality & history:
[In narrative form, if that's okay]
It was nothing more than a derelict shed. Its walls were made of corrugated iron, buckled in places where the heat had distorted them, and its two-story-high roof was mottled with bird poo and rust. The windows were open today, letting what small breeze there was inside, but this offered little relief. Nothing around them but hot red sand and hazy heat-wave mirages for miles.
It was perfect.
As Shawn Henley leaned casually against the little shambled building, oblivious to the heat from the iron wall that was turning the skin under his shirt an angry shade of red, he watched the sky.
He stood like that for long minutes, his gaze tracing patterns only he could see, while somewhere nearby Beatles music was blaring out of static-y speakers from an old muggle CD player.
It would work for them today.
As the last strains of a chorus faded into buzzing silence, he broke himself from his trance and pushed away from the wall, turning with determined resolve towards the large sliding doors at the side of the shed.
It took a little effort to work the rusty hinges open, and once he did he found nothing inside but a dusty old building with cement floor tiles, housing a lonely pile of old broomsticks. Same old nuts, then. There was a large sheet of plywood to his right, sectioning off an area as his temporary ‘office’, but there was nothing more interesting behind that than a sad little table strewn with papers, a swivel chair that no longer swiveled properly, and his business partner Benny Martinez.
“Hey Ben?” He called in his lazy Californian drawl, his voice echoed back at him in the empty shed.
“Yeah?”
He wandered around the inexpertly propped-up plywood to find his friend rummaging through a pile of papers covered in vectors, equations, ruled lines and various illegible scribbles.
“I’m goin’ for it.”
“What, today? I said it isn’t ready yet. Let me finish going over all this and you can take it out tomorrow.”
“The wind’s pickin up tomorrow. Today’s perfect.”
“Yeah, well the work isn’t.”
“Well, I trust ya got it right.”
His friend must have seen the look in his eyes then, that same look that appeared whenever he was about to attempt something monumentally stupid (or occasionally something brilliant, but that brilliance always came as a result of the stupidity), and in that moment they both grinned.
“We’re going for it then.” Benny stated, dropping the papers and heading for the pile of broomsticks.
---
In retrospect, they probably shouldn’t have gone for it.
With a small duffel bag slung over one shoulder and his sandy blonde hair gelled into a meticulously ‘effortless’ tousle, Shawn Henley stepped out of a fireplace and into the atrium of the Ministry of Magic.
There was a pair of ratty old sneakers on his feet, and the pastel colored shirt he wore was entirely inappropriate for cold weather. It took all of two seconds for him to realize he stood out like sore thumb.
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he gave the customs officer ahead of him a rakish smile. As he walked, unzipping the top of his duffel bag and rooting around inside it for his wand, a wayward lace from his sneaker managed to work its way under his foot.
With an awkward lurch, the entire contents of his bag scattered and landed in front of the small uniformed man, who (he noticed with an odd respect) didn’t so much as blink.
“Uh…well…there you go, Sir! I knew it was in there somewhere.”
Kneeling awkwardly before the little man, he began scooping the thread-bare underpants and playboy posters back into his bag while passing up his wand to be inspected. 'Nice shoes, Dude,' He thought as a blush crept its way onto his cheeks.
As he sheepishly took back his wand and shuffled out into the cold London air, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was even room for another Henley on this continent.
----
anything else:
His relationship with the other Henleys I’ll leave up to the respective Henley-players to discuss. You guys are the experts. Josie's history with him sounds perfect to me though.
