Some witches and wizards claim to know the sense of magic. Whether by sight, sound, taste or something else entirely they purport to be able to detect its presence and caress. Often dismissed by their peers, they learn either to be more believable in their lies or more selective with their confidence. Regardless, to magical Britain at large the idea that magic is anything but an abstract, that it has measurable properties or a existence beyond what flows from a wand, is absurd.
The first thing you ever experience is magic.
The instant of your birth is awash with it, surging and spreading, carrying a foreign sense of being along with it. At first it seems you will continue expanding forever -- before your self halts at an apparently arbitrary perimeter. From this confinement, your perception of what is and is not you swiftly develops.
The energy pouring into you stems just as quickly, the overbearing thrum of power dying down to a barely noticeable thing at the utmost edge of observation. Without its distraction, your more conventional senses finally make themselves known -- the feel of cold, dry air and a faint scent of smoke most apparent.
When your eyes first open candlelight greets you. You are seated in a dimly lit chamber, upon a sturdy wooden chair. The room is small, the ceiling low enough that you are forced to stoop on standing, nearly cracking your head against it as you rise with less resistance than expected. There is little of note here besides the seat and scattered candles -- some smeared markings on the floor in various colors, what looks like a large pile of ash, and
{Rolling 2d6+5 (Subtlety) against a threshold of 14. 9+5 = 14, pass.}
a wand, dark green and twisted in on itself, near one of the walls.
Take it?
[X] (Wand) Yes
[] (Wand) No
You know what wands are -- at least, you know what they're called and to what ends they are used -- yet have never seen one before. It's strange, coming into being fully-formed, and stranger that you can recognize your knowledge as something unusual. Unfortunately, it lacks an answer as to its own origin.
Just then, as you are bent towards the wand, a crack sounds from outside the room's sole door. You freeze on instinct, head snapping towards the noise. The door bursts open, a short, irate witch -- with her broad and pointy
hat there's no reasonable chance she's a muggle -- stalking in, wand in hand and eyes darting madly around the room. Her wand is in hand and half-raised, though not towards you.
[] (Action) Raise your hands in surrender and claim you mean no harm.
[] (Action) Charge her and attempt to escape.
[X] (Action) Write-in: "Yes? Can I help you?"
If you took the wand you could:
[] (Action) Ready your own wand. You might not know any spells, but she might believe you do. Demand that she explain who she is and what's happening.
Or choose any of the other (Action)s listed.
I promise this isn't a cop-out. I'm not just making you an amnesiac in order to avoid discussing your character's background, you literally never existed before this scene. There is a fairly detailed reason for it which I hope will prove interesting, and it's intended to work with several other factors to justify your character being put in charge of Hogwarts despite lacking a relevant skill set. You weren't manifested by the school or anything silly like that, either.
Anyway, non-combat and non-spellcasting tests will be handled as above, with 2d6 being rolled, added to the relevant primary attribute (modified by any appropriate traits), and compared to a set difficulty threshold. In this case the outcome was binary -- you either saw the wand or you didn't -- but there can be degrees of success and failure in some instances. Double sixes and double ones are critical successes and failures respectively. Other characters play by the same rules when they perform some difficult task in a scene.
I'll be vetoing write-ins if I feel they don't work for whatever reason.