I dunno. I’m not really in touch with my inner self.
My brother smokes cigarettes. He called it a rite of passage.Â

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@quentin-underwood
I dunno. I’m not really in touch with my inner self.
My brother smokes cigarettes. He called it a rite of passage.Â

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How do you know that’s not the intent?
Is it?
Anybody got a cigarette I can bum off them?
Cigarettes leave tar deposits in your lungs. They slowly suffocate you.
I’m doing well; thank you for asking.
And yourself?
Fine. Just fine.
You're... you're Rosalie Aldric, a-aren't you?
“Dancing is completely out of the question. Other impossibilities include you touching me, speaking to me, standing beside me, or assuming we are in any way affiliated with each other.”
"I-I -- but -- aren't... aren't we supposed to...? I mean, our dates were assigned, and..."

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"This is absolutely ridiculous, and…. it’s not happening."
"I don't... expect you to dance with me, you know."
Good afternoon.
H-How are you?
I stay away from the game, too. At least you have something to offer a team, though. I think the last time I tried to play was at home, and I ran my broom into a fence.Â
I've never touched a broomstick.Â
But it does not change the fact that I do not want to play Quidditch, and no one can change that.Â

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FULL NAME:Â Quentin Absalom Underwood
NICKNAME(S):Â Quinn AGE:Â 16 BIRTHDAY:Â May 7th BLOODLINE:Â Pureblood SEXUALITY:Â Bicurious (leaning Heterosexual) | Greyromantic PLAY-BY:Â Ollie Barbieri
HOMETOWN:Â Ferndale, Rhondda Cyon Taf, England
MOTHER:Â Anne Marie Underwood (nee Bascomb) FATHER:Â Myron Underwood (previously Yaxley)
SIBLINGS:Â Jesse Underwood (18)
HAIR: Chestnut EYES: Blue HEIGHT: 5’11” WEIGHT: 137lbs SKIN TONE: lightly tanned BUILD: lithe, athletic, toned. TATTOOS: None. PIERCINGS: None. MOLES, MARKINGS, ETC: He has freckles covering his shoulders and around his collarbones; three moles on the underside of his chin.
PATRONUS: Hasn’t attempted to cast one
WAND: Beech, unicorn hair core, springy, 9.5”
OPTIMIST OR PESSIMIST: Quentin isn't a pessimist; he tries not to be. He gets caught up in his anxieties and can't help himself from worrying about all the bad that could happen.
INTROVERT OR EXTROVERT: A mix of the two. HOBBIES:
Swimming
Dueling
Playing violin
Composing music
Creating charms
FAVORITE DRINK:
Non-alcoholic: banana smoothies
Alcoholic: red wine
FAVORITE FOOD:Â anything containing banana or banana flavored
GREATEST FEAR:Â
Falling
Flight
Many muggle things (technology, mostly, and transportation)
Unfamiliar people
Being injured, things that can cause him harm.
Broken violin strings
BEST FRIEND(S):Â TBA
SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S):Â none
Time is running out. He’s running scared. Quentin’s heartbeat picks up tempo like the grandest of crescendos, thumping as the bass to a composition that would take ages to master and decipher, even for him, even with his years of experience. His breaths come in heavy wheezes, erratic gasps that he can’t synchronize to his heartbeat as his head feels light. His thoughts are racing, racing, tumbling along in an incoherent mess of panic and he squeezes his eyes shut in a last-shot attempt to quell their onslaught.
He stops suddenly, stops running and topples over with the force of the momentum that had propelled him. Quentin Lemony: teenage boy is sobbing in the middle of the Hogwarts grounds, the heels of his palms scraped where they’d come into contact with the ground, the knees of his slacks stained with the hue of the spring grass.Â
This is what panic looks like.
It’s no problem, really. I know what it feels like to feel all alone, and… well… it’s not nice. -she pauses for a moment, looking a little dazed before suddenly perking up again and returning her attention to her book with an awkward, little smile-
-he smiles gently, nodding quietly in response and feeling as though their conversation has ended there, reopening his book as she turns away. he settles in his chair, resting one ankle on the opposite knee as he returns to the text-

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-she finally pulls back, clearing her throat slightly- I should probably get back to my books… -she offers him another small smile before positioning her chair as it was before, sitting down whilst smoothing her skirt out neatly. She’s all poise and grace herself, despite the earlier mishap-
-he nods, reaching for his own book that he'd set down earlier, giving her another quiet smile- Thank you, by the way. What you said really does mean a lot to me. -speaks softly, fidgeting slightly with the ribbon marking the page of his book-
-she smiles sweetly — a genuine, almost shy little quirk of her full lips reserved only for certain people. She still wears her attitude as a shield, and in most cases, it’s still necessarily — especially concerning several of the girls who have made it known that they don’t like her. Still, she sees a bit of herself in Quentin, or at least something she can identify with. She knows that he won’t be like them-Â
-his body relaxes, slumping slightly but still managing to be upright and dignified, and to a trained eye it would be evident that he'd been raised with a strict set of manners. he glances around at their surroundings, noting that since Lana had arrived, no other students had stumbled upon their little alcove of book-lined walls, and his smile widens a bit, fond-Â