Tyler Illuya Corner

[Tyler]

Name: Tyler Illuya Corner
Age: 14
Year: 4th
House: Gryffindor
Blood Line:Pure oh gosh I think
Personality:

Tyler has an energy that only a fourteen year old can. She is happy and bubbly and probably more nieve about the world then is safe. she isn't the most stubborn or determined person but she's probably one of the few people who can make you laugh without meaning too or just make you feel wise because of the things you know about the world that she doesn't.
She's not smart with average intelligence and a reputation for daydreaming and becomming easily distracted not to mention being the avid quidditch fan that she is.
Her only talent seems to be for her insightfull look into people that just comes naturally because her head isn't clouded with complication and drama. She's hot headed and can sometimes be disrespectful.
She is not confident and crticism confuses her because she has never seen the world for the cruel place it can sometimes be. She doesn't like to be talked down too but her small size and young mind make it impossible for people to see her as the young adult she tries to be. Still there is nothing she can do about it but pretend to be menacing and hope the giggle doesn't show on her face.
History:

In an attempt to protect her from the world, her parents have left out several key details about the past sorrounding the war and how it was fought practicly in their backyard. in light of this she has led a very sheltered life, and it was an immense topic of deabte whether she would even be allowed to go to Hogwarts.
when she arrived she felt lucky and although she was still rather confused by this new huge world around her it didn't change her excited outlook.
since she's been at school she has grown to know that not all adults are good, children can be very cruel and the past isn't just a word but an entire novel (or several at that).
She has learned a few key details from school books or her friends but she is no expert on it and most of the time she struggles too much with her schoolwork or her quidditch to really worry about her past too much.
Still these revaling secrets had a bit of a hinderance on her relationship with her parents who still treat her as if she has no idea what the definition of the word 'War' is and wish her to not ever know. She steal speaks with them but is more aware of their fears of what she wil become or what she will discover. Living in the midst of secrets is never fun.

Appearance:

She's small even for a girl her age at only 4ft and an inch. She Is of petite body type and her skin is very pale. She has Medium length dirty blonde hair and wide blue eyes. She has very pale pink lips and her face is free of freckles. Her hair is often messy and everywhere.

RP Sample:

[Recycled]

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee sthingys.

-T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

He drinks his coffee black. Today, it's in a muggle café in a sketchy part of old London, people running past the window, heads down, hurrying, hurrying away. Three years today. All of these scurrying people have no idea. There, where that woman is chatting on her cell phone, there Tonks fell to her knees, screaming until her throat was raw. The drunk with the gouged cheek is lying where Shacklebolt exploded like a giant firecracker.

Once, in a different lifetime, he took cream and two sugars with his coffee. In that life, he celebrated Christmas and made airplane noises for a baby with emerald eyes.

Three years. His hand shakes as he lifts the cup to his lips. The tremors are permanent. He was lucky, they said, that he could still feel his hands. Luck, as he knows all too well, has nothing to do with it.

It is not that war creates monsters, it is that war brings out the monsters that are already hidden inside. He knows something of hidden monsters himself. That, more than luck, more than fate, more than f**king manifest destiny, is why he has survived. His monster isn't ready to die yet.

He would have never gotten to know her without the war. She was so young, a friend of his ward, glowing with an energy he had long since lost. She promised him warmth and excitement. He promised her whatever was left of his heart.

Black coffee is the color of her eyes in passion. He has no pictures of her, no other way to hold on to her memory. While he is drinking his coffee he can remember her laughter, her all-embracing love. He can forget the image of her jumping, then falling, in front of him, her eyes as wide and blank as a china doll's.

When the cup is finished, he lays down a tip and quietly leaves. He turns, one last look at the place where his world ended. 'No fear darling,' he whispers. 'I promised that I would live and I always keeps my promises.'

He drinks his liquor from a bottle. Today, it's in his home at his kitchen table

After 26 years of memories, a year of sleepless nights and what must have been hundreds of cups of coffee by now he was still thinking of then. Of that time. Of that day that seemed to be a year within itself. That past life where he celebrated Christmas sliding hesitantly down slippery slopes and listening to the laughter of his friends. No more. Christmas was a time of an empty house and a lot of empty bottles.

There was a time in that past life when he refused the drink, but now the urge for some kind of comfort, even artificial comfort, was calling so often that he was now more interested in the twinge of alcohol then of painful memories. After all a fuzzy brain was better then an aching heart.

He knows he should stop, knows that tomorrow he’ll regret getting so overindulged. But he also knows that right now he’s in pain, and that in a few more drinks it will all go away, and that’s something, even if it’s just a moment.

They all wondered when he would break. He had to break sometime.
He was the only one that knew the battle that raged within. He had been through the first war, and been unfortunate enough to make it out alive with more then a few scars, both physical and mental. He had lost friends, dealt with demons and battled devils both internal and external. He had loved and lost, regained and been broken more then the amount of times it would take any normal person to go insane.

There was no definition for just how far gone Remus Lupin was expected to be. The mere fact that he could sit so silently at the kitchen table of his empty home and drink till he could recall happier times was something to be said for him. Potter was dead, Ginny had cracked ever since Harry and Voldemort had exploded like some giant sinister firecracker, and hundreds of wizards had died in the battle. The wizarding world had lost more then half of its most able bodied magic users and yet he seemed to be the only one who wasn’t lolling about in a straightjacket.

What was fair anymore? Life had never been fair he knew that more then anyone. But this was just too much. It was like some more powerful being was playing with him, poking him with a stick and giving him everything he wanted before snatching it back just to see how long it took him to retract, to curl into himself like a dead bug and give up on everything. The world was a sick and twisted place, and no one would ever be able to convince him otherwise. It couldn’t just be bad luck that three generations of wizards had to suffer war, death, deception. It was more then bad luck that twice Remus had gotten friends, family, a home, and twice they had been snatched away in the most brutal of ways.

Code Word: Bubbles