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ALASDAIR BARCLAY
Halfblood Wizard
Age
23
Wiz Friends
23
ABOUT
Occupation
Seeker for the Scottish National Team
Birthdate
November 27, 2003
Lives in
Edinburgh, Scotland
Sexuality
Bisexual
Status
Single
In a relationship with
No Information
Alias
Billie

PHOTOS

OWL STATUS

ALASDAIR BARCLAY
Last Active: Nov 19 2017, 07:03 PM
epic catch vs. australia in the 23rd minute - watch it on wiztube! great form for worlds.
Expand Reply   Rehoot  


ALASDAIR BARCLAY
History
I.

It was her own fault, she thought, that she couldn’t look at her son without feeling the tiniest pang of regret, try though she might to suppress it.

He took after his father, his dark hair and eyes standing out from many of the other children in Aberdeen as he ran and played alongside them, corners of his eyes crinkling with his young laughter. Yes, he took after his father. That was the problem.

Alasdair Fraser Barclay should have been all hers, from his proud name to the tilt of his crooked smile, but no, he took after his father, and so when Eilidh looked at him she saw -

(a sweltering summer in San Sebastian, the way that her thick Scottish accent fumbling with the romantic cadences of the Spanish language made him laugh, the warmth in his brown eyes as he told her that he loved her, yes, only her, the void that ate up every room after he left it and her)

- she saw something like regret. Missed opportunities and broken promises and a boy that should’ve been all hers, but had those dark eyes that took her helplessly right back to the white-sand stretches of La Concha.

It was difficult. She was young, and the first dreams in her mind, before the ones of a handsome man with an outstretched hand and a come-hither smile, had been about justice, about law, about being the youngest ever sitting witch on the Wizengamot. What to do about all of that with a baby who was never meant to happen, not a part of the plan?

She resolved to do it all.

II.

She…succeeded, more or less, through sheer force of will. Training and preparation for the wizarding bar were interwoven with weekends away for Alasdair’s sake, and even at a young age he could see that she was trying, wearing herself down to nothing simply by trying and trying.

Because of her, Alasdair spent his formative years wandering the high ramparts of Stirling Castle with his mouth gaping in awe as he imagined the proud stone walls under siege by Robert the Bruce. He skipped stones across the clear glass surface of Loch Lomond as Eilidh watched with a smile - she only hummed the famous, lost-love lament of the Loch under her her breath whenever she was sure that he was too preoccupied to notice. He sprinted and rolled through clumps of Highland heather in the summer until his clothes came away stained purple, and he closed his eyes as he ran his hands over the rough rock of the Callanish standing stones, wishing for magic. He scaled the steep steps to ascend Dunnottar Castle and stood at the crest of a cliff overlooking the sea, arms outstretched as though he might take off in flight - and all thanks to his mother.

His love of the rolling skies and vistas of Scotland - sometimes clear and cloudless for miles, often heavy with clouds and lashings of unforgiving rain as long-forgotten Celtic gods and giants unleashed their wrath - saw him develop an early obsession with Quidditch. He watched games and learned the faces of local teams with the fervor of a religious zealot, studied the rugged terrain that formed the backdrop of Portree vs. Montrose games and mimicked manoeuvres with action figures. But Eilidh hadn't the time, the money, to let him sweep around the countryside on a little broom of his own, although she took him to watch games when her steadily more and more busy schedule permitted.

The only thing she asked in return was that he learn his way around the Scottish fiddle, the way that her own father had done - the weight of the instrument was cool and soothing in his hands, and the difficulty of even attempting the unruly trills and runs kept him preoccupied, sometimes for hours. Only sometimes. The rest, spent scrambling and climbing and leaping and living.

It was a wild childhood, an enviable one, marked by thistle and the remote beauty of nature but it didn’t last that way forever, because nothing could.

When his magic came, and along with it the bursts of sparks and emotion and boundless energy, it was alongside his mother’s long-desired qualification as a lawyer, and she was only one witch, not superhuman. She tried to keep up, but she was exhausted, distracted, pulled in all directions by a life that demanded to be lived too loudly.

There was a distance between them by the time that his Hogwarts letter arrived, and it only grew with time.

III.

At first, the Sorting Hat couldn’t decide whether to put him in Gryffindor or Slytherin. A bit of both, it thought, yes, a bit of both, it whispered in his ear. Brave and rambunctious, a show-off among the pack, but the frayed old thing noticed, hidden among the jumble of his eleven year old mind, his love of heights.

The Sorting Hat asked him, did he want to soar? It asked him, how high was he willing to go?

When Alasdair replied - as high as the sun - the shout of SLYTHERIN was deafening.

Looking at him, it was hard to see that ambition burning bright. He was social and not particularly bothered about his grades beyond doing what he needed to do, didn’t display any overwhelming inclination to lead. It wasn’t until someone first placed a broom in his hands - his mother had never quite found the time - that something flared into life like fiendfyre, and everyone finally understood. This was it, this was his, and there was no going back.

IV.

Nothing made him feel the way that flying did.

Not his first Butterbeer, not his first kiss, not the thrill of sneaking out of his first dormitory room in the small hours of the morning with his hair a rumpled mess. He had friends and he liked them, but he liked the way that they cheered for him from the stands more, loved the way that they hoisted him onto their shoulders and paraded him through the Slytherin common room like a young god-king.

So what? People had been worshipping those with athletic skill and physical prowess since antiquity and he’d seen the black-figure Greek pottery to prove it. Ali was just the latest in a long line of people who provided the talent, and he wasn’t content to let it go unacknowledged.

He was a performer, an acrobat, more artist than Seeker. Lithe and lean like a dancer, he wove around the pitch like it was a show, and it was - the bigger the cheer, the deeper the dive. The louder the gasp, the narrower the miss. And the Snitch? It didn’t stand a chance. When he plummeted into a Wronski Feint, the one moment of weightlessness where physics took over completely represented all of his burdens falling away - in the sky, it didn’t matter that someone was beating him in Transfiguration, someone else had been made Prefect, that every morning at breakfast no letter from his mother, now a Prosecutor before the Wizengamot, had arrived.

By the time that he approached the peak of his final year at Hogwarts, Alasdair had given up hope of those letters arriving, and it was alright - he had something else, something better, something permanent (for now).

V.

He was drafted almost immediately out of Hogwarts to the Montrose Magpies, but it was hard to stop there. Whatever small-pond adulation he’d received at school didn’t compare to the hard-and-fast lifestyle of being a real sportsperson out in the real world. Parties, appearances, endorsements, stunts - for an ego that was already too healthy at the best of times, it sent him over the edge.

Flight consumed his every waking hour, as well as most of his dreams. When he wasn’t at a game, he was practicing, and when he wasn’t practicing, he was thinking about what he would do at the next practice - it became an addiction in a way, the constant cycle of performing under pressure and then letting that pressure loose in the most spectacular and extravagant ways possible.

Even his catharsis came with wings. He finally managed to bring a half-baked idea from as far back as when he was fourteen into fruition several years later, channelling his excess energy into the slow and gruelling grind of becoming an Animagus only so that he could take to the skies yet again as a Scottish golden eagle.

It wasn’t the eagle that got him into trouble in the end. It was a drunken celebration of a Montrose win, a joyride on his broom, and a few Muggles in the wrong place at the wrong time.

VI.

His mother looked slightly more weary than he remembered even after the course of just a couple of months as she stared at him disapprovingly across the Office of the Prosecutor. A violation of the International Statute of Secrecy was a serious offence, did he know? If it made it onto his permanent record, it might damage his chances of qualifying for nationals, or even for re-selection.

Alasdair’s hands balled into fists beneath the table as he forced himself to meet her eyes - in them, he saw regret, and he wondered bitterly if she was reminded of his father, but Eilidh was merely wishing, too late, that she could have done more for him.

The gift she gave him was just a warning, just that - no mark on his record, no charges brought, nothing that would tarnish his meteoric rise, so long as he didn’t do something so stupid again. He couldn’t find it in himself to thank her for a gesture so small when he remembered the way that she had once raced him down the narrow main street of Portree with laughter etched across her features.

VII.

He moved to Edinburgh soon afterwards, removing the last traces of himself from the home that he’d grown up in in Aberdeen, but somehow the pang of that didn’t matter once he received an offer to play Seeker for the Scottish national team.

It was everything that he’d expected. Now instead of juggling one team, he had to contend with two, the Magpies and Scotland, depending on if it was regionals or World Cup or international test season - that meant more practice, more publicity, more parties, more distractions, and most crucially more flying.

In the midst of all of it, the never-ending deluge of work and play, maybe he was more like his mother than either of them could have ever expected. He was spreading himself thin, overextending, and when it came to the crux of him having to make the choice between the game and a green-eyed girl who needed him, he chose his own ambition, the sun that he'd promised the Sorting Hat all those years prior.

This was the point of it all, the pinnacle, and yes, it was exactly what his mother would've done, what she had done with him, but -

- when he told himself that he was happy, that it wasn't people that he needed, it wasn’t hard to believe.

He still plays the fiddle, some quiet nights.