Post by Deleted on Jan 22, 2018 13:35:18 GMT
ALEXANDER FAOLAN MAC BRÁDAIGH
** 28 -- MUSICIAN/BARTENDER -- IRISH -- SINGLE **
"I am brave, I am bruised
I am who I'm meant to be, this is me"
Xander was born the oldest of three to a single mother. He was an only child until he was six, just him and his Ma in the sleepy harbour village of Crookhaven, County Cork. His younger sisters, Laura and Caitriona came later, the result of a short relationship his Ma had. Xander didn't mind that his sisters looked so different to him - there were still his blood, and when their father left, they were all each other had.
He had a normal childhood, for the most part. When he started showing signs of accidental magic his mother made an effort to teach him how to control it, at least in public, and he grew up surrounded by magical theory. When he started his secondary education at the age of eleven, at St. Augustine's in Cork, he already had a solid enough grounding in the theory that the practical came easily to him.
But magical theory wasn't the only thing Xander learned at his mother's knee. She worked at the local pub, renting the flat next door for her and her three children, and when the nights were slow she'd pick up her guitar and sing for the punters, or settle herself at the piano for an hour or two. She had the voice of an angel, and her calloused fingers danced across the keys, enthralling her young son. He used to watch her play on the battered, worn down upright crammed into the corner of their front room, and eventually, she taught him how to play herself, snippet of songs when she hd the time.
He had a normal childhood, for the most part. When he started showing signs of accidental magic his mother made an effort to teach him how to control it, at least in public, and he grew up surrounded by magical theory. When he started his secondary education at the age of eleven, at St. Augustine's in Cork, he already had a solid enough grounding in the theory that the practical came easily to him.
But magical theory wasn't the only thing Xander learned at his mother's knee. She worked at the local pub, renting the flat next door for her and her three children, and when the nights were slow she'd pick up her guitar and sing for the punters, or settle herself at the piano for an hour or two. She had the voice of an angel, and her calloused fingers danced across the keys, enthralling her young son. He used to watch her play on the battered, worn down upright crammed into the corner of their front room, and eventually, she taught him how to play herself, snippet of songs when she hd the time.
As the years went on, Xander fell more and more in love with music with every passing day. Before long he took his mother's place in the pub, playing the old folk songs on his guitar that everybody knew, Muggle or Magical, laughing as the whole pub joined in.
It was a happy life. Still, what Xander wanted was to pursue music - and there's only so far one can go with that, in a small fishing village in Southern Ireland. He thought about moving to Dublin - but there wasn't much there in the way of a music scene, not really, and he knew he'd be doing more of the same, busking and singing in pubs for his dinner. Belfast was out for the same reasons - and he didn't have the money to get to America.
So, London it was, loath as he was to deal with the sodding English. He packed up his things, kissed his sisters and his Ma goodbye, and moved at only 18, settling into a poky set of digs round the back of Diagon Alley. He picked up bar work - as it was steady money, and he was good at it - and found a new freedom, living away from people who'd known him since he was in nappies. He'd always been a flirt and a charmer at school, but now he didn't have to worry about sneaking back in without waking his Ma, and could bring people back.
And oh, did he. He didn't care much for gender, nor for them to stay more than the one night. He was young and independent, he could do what he liked. His Ma certainly never needed to know.
Of course, the world doesn't always cater to what people want. When Voldemort returned, Xander ignored it for a year. The Ministry said it wasn't true - and, well, as much as he didn't want to trust a British government, he didn't really want to believe that a homicidal maniac was back.
A year later, he regretted not listening to his gut.
Xander considered returning home to Ireland - but there was nothing for him there, besides his family. No career, no home other than his childhood bedroom - nothing, really.
So instead he stayed.
He ended up joining the Order. He wanted to try and make things right, if he could. He continued with his normal life - at least, until the wizarding world lived in such fear that it was impossible to do so - and he went out and fought with the Order, because at least they weren't an incompetent British government organisation who buried their heads in the sand, like always.
He regretted trying to help in the end, though.
He'd been on a scouting mission - nothing major, just a tip-off that needed checking out. He and the guy with him thought it was nothing, and were about to turn back when they were attacked.
Xander made it back, carefully hiding the bite mark on his shoulder, but the other guy never did.
Xander didn't register his new-found status then. The legislation was changing, making life harder and harder for werewolves. He wasn't going to sign up for that, not if he could help it. Instead he got Wolfsbane from shady dealers, paying more than he should have - but he managed. He never told his mother, nor his sisters, keeping it solely to himself as much as he could.
Eventually, the war came to an end. Xander felt as if he'd aged thirty years in the time it had taken - and his aching bones certainly didn't help matters - but it was done. They were free.
Xander settled back into the life he'd had before, though his hook ups became less and less frequent. He avoided registering for as long as he could, waiting for legislation to be repealed so that he'd be able to continue working once he was on the register, and only had to pay a fine for his tardiness once he'd explained. He fessed up to his Ma and his sisters, and was given the world of grief for it, for all they'd wanted was to be there for him, support him. He joined up with a band, starting to do a couple of gigs here and there, around his usual bar work, and things were settling.
That is, until tragedy struck. His sisters were caught in an accident in Dublin when visiting friends. An unexplained explosion, still under investigation - Xander doesn't want to know, can't know - that took their lives and their partners' lives, leaving behind Laura's son and Caitriona's daughter, both of them only toddlers still.
There is no law in the Irish Republic banning werewolves from taking custody of children who are blood relatives, and Xander's Ma's health was failing, worsened only by her grief after burying her daughters. So he brought Aoife and Niall home with him to London, for there was no other option - Ma couldn't manage on her own, and he wasn't about to let strangers raise his niece and nephew. He found a better flat, a nicer one, paid for out of savings, and gave Ma her own room, insistent that she stay over as much as possible. He could only get away with them by virtue of the fact that the whole case went through the Irish Magical Courts, not the British ones, and arrangements were made for the children to start with their grandmother on full moon nights, even though Xander dosed himself with Wolfsbane and locked himself away safely.
Aoife is two now, Niall eighteen months, and both of them still cry for their mothers in the night, six months on from the accident. Xander does his best to look after them as well as he's able to whilst buring his own grief for their sake. He always has meals on the table promptly and makes sure they're smartly turned out, like his sisters made sure of, and he sings them to sleep every night.
It's been quite the change, turning from party boy and flirt extraordinaire to Dad - but Xander can't say he dislikes it, not at all.
OOC NAME: bea
