Halfblood Wizard

January 5, 2002
Lives in
Brooklyn, New York City
Significant other
No Information

Last Active: 59 minutes ago
great men burn bridges before they come to them.


By the time that he is born, it seems like everyone’s excitement and energy about children has been expended already, leaving almost nothing left for him - the last of five boys, each of whom is a terror and a handful, it's unlikely that he’ll grow up to be a trailblazer or ever do anything that one of his brothers hasn’t done already.

He is welcome, but there are no great expectations here, no big shoes to fill.

Ronan Eamon Cavanagh is brought to a large house that is full of his brothers, various pets, and occasional explosions and magical mishaps.

It is mayhem.

Big families are the Cavanagh tradition almost by default, and have been for centuries. Ronan’s father’s relatives are a jumbled and complicated mishmash of a wizarding family who hail from Ireland originally but made their way to America in the mid-1850s, where they have been firmly and loudly ensconced ever since in Chicago wizarding politics.

Like every Cavanagh man, Ronan’s father is a mountain of a human, tall and broad and a natural centre of attention. It’s unsurprising that he caught the eye and heart of a beautiful woman whilst away on a gap year in Dublin, but Ronan’s mother strikes many as a strange match for such a brash man.

Willowy and serene, she seems to have one foot in the mortal world and one in the heavens, and not many children even in their magical neighbourhood have a mother who can tell them tales of the Morrigan and Cu Chulainn whilst changing her face to mimic the characters of the stories that she weaves. As Ronan grows a little older, he likes to imagine that she is a Selkie who was caught and brought to shore somewhere in Ireland by his father, trapped in human form until the day that she can finally rejoin the sea. It is the only way that he can explain how two people so different could be meant for one another.


He doesn’t so much learn how to fade into the background as he is forced into it by default. When his father isn’t away working with MACUSA, he takes Ronan’s mother with him on the campaign trail in Chicago, and the time that remains at home has to be split between five sons, all of them vying to be the smartest, strongest, fastest.

He has something that sets him apart from very early on, inherited by him and nobody else from his mother - his hair changes colours wildly to reflect his emotions, his eyes go kaleidoscope crazy when he’s been given too much sugar. Ronan is a metamorphmagus. It seems extraordinary, rare, and perhaps it makes him special for a while, but his brothers are more athletic, more intellectually gifted, more naturally political. In the grand scheme of things and in an outstanding family, his talent becomes just that, just a talent.

When all is said and done, Ronan is at a natural disadvantage, the youngest and newest to the Cavanagh family's competitive fraternal dynamic. He craves his share of love, of course, but ultimately finds it easier to avoid being a nuisance, to stay out from underfoot and simply enjoy attention where he gets it, whether it comes in the form of his mother’s stories or in the way that he sometimes catches his father watching him, appraising him, trying to see where and how he fits into the Cavanagh family mould.

But with no one with enough time to to take him and shape him, with a face that can change in an instant, a question starts to grow in him quietly - who am I?

The big house in Chicago swallows him and his worries up easily enough for the first several years of his life as, one after another, each of his elder brothers moves on to Ilvermorny.

And then it is his turn.


He arrives at the school unsure of what to expect and uncertain of who to be, hoping that it is here that someone will tell him and give him direction.

Ronan is disappointed when he fastens his blue and cranberry robes with an intricate gold wreath of a pin and steps onto the Gordian Knot that he hopes will choose a destiny for him. It is an honour, they say, that the Thunderbird chooses to beat its wings with sonic boom sound and the jewel in the Horned Serpent’s head glows bright, but to him it just reinforces his uncertainties - who am I?

On what feels like a whim, he chooses Horned Serpent, and manages to smile for the first time that evening when a wand is pressed into his hand by a teacher and immediately starts to spark and warm to his touch. The wand, at least, seems to have some understanding of him, of what he can be.

But if Ronan thought that living in a house overrun by brothers and ambitions in Chicago made it difficult to forge an identity, then the massive halls of Ilvermorny are not particularly comforting.

The message that he seems to receive over the first few years of his schooling, where everyone is busy, where everyone seems to have something going on and some goal set in mind but him, becomes simple enough.

He asks: who am I? The world answers: it doesn’t matter.


Ronan is a troublemaker, gifted with quick hands, a quick mind, and a smile that is the quickest of all.

He manages to do decently in class to scrape by without drawing too much negative attention from his teachers despite a pronounced lack of focus, but his energies over time have been channelled into the one thing that he has come to realise belongs to him, defines him - his ability to be absolutely anybody else.

He studies people more than anything, habits, mannerisms, flaws and strengths. He is a natural at mimicry not just because of the way that he can shape his face and body, but because he understands how to behave to be believable, from the pitch of his voice to the way that he can forge signatures and documents with a flourish of his nimble fingers.

It is dangerous, perhaps, and perhaps he is a disaster waiting to happen, but it seems innocent enough when he wreaks havoc in the classrooms, and even when it doesn’t he seems to be able to make just the right excuses to skate under the radar and avoid serious consequences.

A few pranks never hurt anyone, right? And even if he were told to stop, who would he be instead?


The thing about having a nice smile is that it doesn’t pay the bills.

The thing about paying the bills is that it’s hard when you’ve spent the majority of your magical education slacking off instead of thinking about the future.

After graduation, Ronan is left with no plans, very little in the way of ambition, a very well-developed but practically limited skillset, and a need to somehow make ends meet out there in the real world.

He and white collar crime are a perfect match, natural and catastrophic like an earthquake, so easy for him to get caught up in once he gets started. So he keeps going, and doesn’t stop. Forgeries, impersonations, clever heists and tricks, information gathering and trading, the sale of secrets - anything that requires discretion, a changeable face, a flawless signature, a keen eye for facts, he can do. It goes well, better than he imagines any honest occupation would pay, and he thinks that yes, he is good at this, yes, this can be who he is.

The world of organised crime is more than just waylaid teenagers with nothing better to do, though - it is also dark and dangerous and full of vices like drink and pixie dust, covert travel across the globe, the occasional vicious duel when things go south, and people who have been at it for far longer than him. He has to learn how to keep his head, how to fight, and how to avoid pissing too many people off along the way if he wants to make it.

But Ronan has become arrogant about his talent because he’s good, really good, and everyone knows it, so good that he’s wanted by both criminals and law enforcement alike. This is what he’s created for himself out of the building blocks of a person that he’s been given, and he is cocky and self-assured like Icarus with his clever wax wings.

Everyone knows how that story ended.

In this case, the sun is a too-ambitious attempt to lift documents from a watertight Ministry facility in London, and the fall to Azkaban is swift and harsh.

Even as they brand a number into the back of his neck, he can’t help but be a little bit impressed, amused - someone has finally told him who he is, criminal, and it’s only taken twenty-three years of his life.


After a while, counting the days off of his sentence starts to drive him mad, even if they say that Azkaban isn’t quite the same hellhole that it used to be decades ago.

To someone trapped in the confines of four chipped grey walls, fed slop and given the bare minimum of contact with the outside world, though, it’s all the same. Hell is hell, however it’s described.

His parents don't contact him, pointedly - maybe they don't even know, having four other sons to send Christmas cards to and wonder and worry about as well. Ronan was already poor at staying in touch with them, even before being caught and sentenced.

He has almost too much time to think behind bars. He thinks about everything, grinding over all of the minutiae of his life that he can remember in excruciating detail, but there are some recurring thoughts: Dad is going to kill me. I won’t get caught next time. I shouldn’t have done any of this in the first place. Maybe I could escape. How long have I been in here? How long until I get out?

When two years into his sentence, the door to his cell swings open unscheduled, he thinks: What the fuck is this?


Cutting a deal with the organisation that he attempted to steal classified documents from on several occasions isn’t among his myriad Azkaban thoughts, hasn’t even occurred to him in a dream, but when it is offered by the Ministry, he takes it with both hands out of desperation to feel the sunlight on his face again.

Early release can be his in exchange for information and his consulting expertise whenever it’s needed by the authorities, because who better to understand the minds of criminals and get his hands on difficult-to-find details than a born trickster and mimic? These are simple enough terms in a language that Ronan understands, since he’s made similar transactions hundreds of times before for money.

What's the price of his life?

Between saying yes - yes to years of monitored behaviour, but yes to freedom - and going back to Azkaban after being given a taste of the sun, there’s no choice to make.

He shakes on it, gathers what little of his life there is left to pick up after two years in the Underworld, and moves to New York City to start over.

Maybe he'll get it right this time.
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