Pureblood Wizard

CEO / Magical Artefacts Dealer
September 18, 1997
Lives in
London, England
Significant other
No Information

Last Active: Jul 19 2018, 07:47 AM
😑 nope.


They say that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and no woman has been more scorned than his mother. By the time that Phoebus is born, she has endured years of being Rabastan Lestrange’s plaything, his broodmare, mother to his children but never his wife. She has swallowed her pride and felt it fester hot and shameful within the pit of her stomach as, with each birth, with each bastard named Lestrange, her hope that he might finally choose to settle down and marry her has diminished into nothing.

And then he leaves her, pregnant with the fourth, for someone younger, less jaded and embittered, a doe-eyed girl who will let him do whatever he pleases.

For any woman, it would be excruciating. For an Avery, it is absolutely unthinkable. She is from a family just as prominent and pure and full of secrets as his, and yet it is Amalia who has wasted the best years of her youth and beauty being whispered about behind gloved hands, laughed at, mocked for being able to open her legs to a man and breed his bastards but not having the charms enough to ensnare him into matrimony.

She has spent long enough in the shadow of Rabastan Lestrange.

The harlot of high society’s mouth is set in a hard line as she drives her youngest child from her body. Phoebus Oberon, she names him, because she has aspirations for him that are so high that nothing less than the celestial will do - but she will not be loyal to a man who feels none of it for her, and so her son will never be Phoebus Lestrange. She shames Rabastan by denying him the privilege of giving his name to one of his own offspring, his son, by subtly but publicly declaring that she has no need of him anymore in doing so, and she moves with her head held high and a frostbite smile as people now marvel at her pride, her daring, her defiance.

Amalia is an Avery, and so is her son.


He is raised somewhat apart from his siblings from the outset - they are real Lestranges, after all, carrying the prominent surname of their father and destined to inherit his legacy. Compared to them, Phoebus is distinctly other. Rabastan takes a vested interest in Phoebus’ siblings, claims them for his own for their upbringing like prized possessions and raises them in his own manor houses, but he does not do the same with Phoebus. His youngest son represents an act of rebellion and revenge that he cannot abide, even if he sees himself in the boy’s black hair and stubborn brow. Amalia continues to see her other children, the Lestrange children, and play some part in their lives in some bizarre, informal shared custody arrangement, but Rabastan refuses to do the same with Phoebus, and it is unlikely that Amalia would allow him to even if he showed any such inclination.

Phoebus belongs only to Amalia, to the Avery family, and so he is raised on an old Avery estate in the sprawling countryside of Somerset, given teachers who are approved by the Avery patriarchs and matriarchs, and fed the ideals of the Avery line.

In all honesty, what he learns doesn't differ too much from the Lestrange point of view - ancient, powerful, secretive, as rich as God, and determined to stay that way through enforced notions of magical supremacy - but it is a point of pride nonetheless, and Amalia wears her pride these days like a badge of honour.

On the rare occasions that Rabastan sees his youngest child, meetings brokered by the Lestrange and Avery families in order to keep a fragile peace between their two great dynasties intact, their interactions are brief and forced. As he grows older and more aware, and no matter how much he is doted upon by his mother, Phoebus can’t help but hear the stories of how Rabastan Lestrange lavishes his other children with gifts and lets them bear the brunt of his pride whilst at the same time hardly acknowledging Phoebus at all.

What’s in a name?

When playing hard and fast with the uppermost echelons of British Pureblood society, the answer is: everything.


Phoebus is perfection.

Well, he is as close to perfection as he can be. For a young boy, it isn’t easy - a part of him is inevitably rambunctious, craves adventure, gets too close to ancient family artefacts that he is forbidden to touch and runs amok through the gardens drop-kicking stray gnomes. That part of him is normal, earthy and real and happy.

He wants his mother to be happy too, and although he isn’t destined to be the great scion of his family - not the Avery family, which overflows with cousins and other relatives, and certainly not the Lestrange line - he is Amalia’s pride and joy, and so he tries to behave as she expects him to. He tries to be such a stellar example of a son that it might make Rabastan Lestrange regret forsaking him, tries to make himself stand out enough so that when his prodigal siblings come to visit he doesn’t feel quite so much the odd one out that his name makes him.

There is a haughtiness in him, a confidence in himself and his place in the world above others, but there is something like fire as well. His own mother set torch to kindling when she dared to shrug off what the world might think of her and forge her own path - she led by example of rebellion, and growing up hearing those stories, Phoebus can’t help admire that courage and want some of it for himself.

The son that Amalia sends off to Hogwarts, her most precious boy, can recite the family trees of the Sacred 28 and the magic is might mantras until he is blue in the face, but he still burns bright.


The Sorting Hat almost rips a seam trying to place him.

Family tradition, Lestrange and Avery both, says that he should be in Slytherin - even though the dusty old hat just about covers his eyes, he can still see one of his older sisters seated comfortably at her table, poised like a queen with green and silver glinting on her robes. He imagines his other siblings, already graduated by now, must have lounged with the same serpentine ease, each leaving their mark on Hogwarts on their way through. Unforgettable. Another legend to live up to.

And yet the Hat is puzzled.

There is something reptilian about Phoebus, yes, but he is hot blooded, too - a daring streak and a fearsome temper, a hard and gritty desire to prove himself.

When he is finally sorted into Gryffindor, nobody is more shocked than himself. The frisson of disbelief that passes through the Great Hall when an Avery is draped in scarlet in gold becomes a seismic shockwave by the time it reaches home in Somerset, and Phoebus thinks it is the first time his mother has ever been disappointed in him.


Curse breaker. Dragonologist. Auror. Quidditch star.

These posters line the wall behind his four poster bed’s headboard, splayed out for his housemates and all the world to see. They are not the sort of careers befitting of an Avery, but Phoebus wouldn’t be his mother’s son without a streak of rebellion and devil-may-care stubbornness a mile wide. He isn’t a shrinking violet who hides away, ashamed of his sorting and wishing it had been Slytherin instead. He can be found in the heart of the Gryffindor common room singing foul-mouthed House Cup songs, playing Chaser for the Gryffindor team, and lamenting over the length of his essays just like anyone else.

If people are mistrustful of him at first because of the reputation of his family, they soon see a side of him tentatively worth getting to know.

He also causes his fair share of trouble. It takes years to work to unlearn the ingrained prejudices that growing up in one of the oldest Pureblood houses in Britain has harboured in him, and they go so deep that Phoebus doubts he’ll ever be free of the occasional unsavoury thought here and there, but he does work at it consciously, slowly at first but then with increasing fervour. He wants to be the perfect son, but respect from him is earned by anyone who can hold their own against him on the pitch, in the classroom, in the common room, and it turns out that has nothing to do with how pure blood runs, but how hot.

Phoebus is not known for being particularly friendly at the best of times - he comes close, sometimes and when he’s in a particularly jovial mood, but he is also brusque and bossy and singularly stubborn, brooding by nature because of his particularly peculiar upbringing and not overly fond of spending too much time surrounded by other people. His temper is a source of renown, though, and people know to vacate the premises when it looks like it might come to a head.

Hell hath no fury like an Avery scorned. But he tries to find productive ways to channel his excess energy, to focus it into something good.


By the time that Phoebus graduates from Hogwarts, he has an odd collection of interests indeed, but through exploring his passions has also found a way to keep a lid on the brash firebrand boy who first walked through the heavy doors of Hogwarts. He feels that he’s achieved balance, and others see it too in the smile on his face at breakfasts throughout his final year, the way he whistles to himself sometimes when he’s walking to class and, most surprisingly of all, the laughter, unimaginably rich and deep, that bursts from his chest when he’s with people who have beaten the odds to become his friends. It’s a sensation that’s something like peace.

He melds his magical history and art lessons from his days in Somerset with his fearsome desire for adventure and an aptitude for performing and lifting curses, and decides that he will attend Eastwick to double major in both. The goal is perhaps to slip away into the night after he is done and travel the world as a freelance magical archaeologist, selling his finds to whoever wants to buy them and living on commission - hard work, not glamorous and not particularly stable, but a dream nonetheless and a unique path. Something that is his own.

Phoebus enrols at Eastwick for curse breaking and the history of magic, telling his mother that he is studying magipolitics in a last-ditch bid to appear the perfect son still while he actively plots his own overthrow of the regime that has governed his life, but the ruse only lasts two years before he is found out, exposed to his family by one of his classmates.

Two things end his pipe dream of peace and balance before he even gets to really live it - his father dies, and Amalia Avery puts her foot down.


Twenty is young to be attending Rabastan Lestrange’s wake, and Phoebus’ head is lowered not because he is sad or trying to pay his respects, but because he is fighting with clenched fists and gritted teeth to keep from losing his temper and causing a scene in front of all of polite and upper-crust wizarding society. He is angry, and it has nothing to do with the fact that his father has died and left him nothing in his will. Phoebus is angry because he doesn’t have closure, hasn’t made enough of himself to wave it in Rabastan Lestrange’s face and prove himself once and for all, and now he’ll never have the opportunity.

The lack of a proper ending, more than anything, drives him wild with frustration.

His mother isn’t there, doesn’t bother going. She is waiting for Phoebus at home in Somerset, and she has had enough.

When he gets there, she has an ultimatum for him. He has indulged himself and she has allowed it out of fond sentiment for him, but it’s time to fall in line and do his job, time to truly take up the mantle of family responsibility and stop fooling around. The consequences of spitting in the face of such a miserable demand are made resoundingly clear - if he doesn’t want to toe the Avery family line, then the Avery family doesn’t want him.

The temptation to break free sets his heart pounding, but in the end, he’s too weak, and perhaps a little too scared as well - he nods and promises to do right by the family.

How could he not? They’re the only one he has.


When he graduates from Eastwick, it is with a degree in magical business. When he puts that degree to use to create his own company with the limitless funding that the Averys give him, it is with the understanding that his family - and, through them, the Purium - can use his books to move money around the world whenever and however they please. When he receives invitations to high society events, he has to attend.

Phoebus finds minuscule measures of comfort in little acts of defiance here and there. He plays the incompetent wastrel so that he almost never has to directly handle any Purium business himself. He is an absolute nightmare to any of the eligible women that his family parades before him in the heavy-handed hope that he’ll settle down and get to breeding the next generation of Avery family stalwarts. He fills his apartment with curios and items, both magical and Muggle, that no self-respecting man of his standing should bother wasting any time with.

He is most proud of the fact that, out of the mouth of the threat of being disowned, he has managed to snatch a small victory in the form of his business, even if it’s used for some unsavoury ends. In establishing a company that specialises in locating rare magical artefacts and art from around the world and selling them to avid collectors or the highest bidder, he sees a glimmer of his old dream come to the surface every now and then, just for a moment. He has crafted an excuse for himself to travel when things become too much, to get his hands dirty with real work so long as he heads right back home to London afterwards and, well, it’s something.

But it isn’t enough.
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