Wiztuber / Aspiring Actor
April 1, 2006
Lives in
Los Angeles, USA
Significant other
No Information

Last Active: Aug 12 2018, 03:42 AM
new vlog up wednesday 9PM pacific! ...also does anyone know someone in LA looking for a roomie?

[tw: violence, blood]


He is born quite quietly and without a fuss. The screaming and the pomp and ceremony were for his older sister, who forced herself into the world with such a vengeance that she almost killed their mother in the process.

But he is relaxed, he is late to the party. His mother has so little trouble with him that his father is not sure if that’s a good thing, says so under his breath with a dubious expression. His sister pokes and prods at him to make sure that he’s not broken and he blinks up at her with wide eyes and manages an obliging gurgle.

She is not very impressed.

For such a small and unassuming creature to be christened with the names of two very big, very loud men - Rafael Luiz, after his paternal and maternal grandfathers both - seems laughable at first, but his parents are both optimistic that he’ll grow into it. He is given both of their surnames, too, in line with family custom. Vargas will one day make him smile when he thinks of his mother - like her, it conjures gentle thoughts of sunshine and pasture, of freckles and laughter and peeling overripe oranges so that their juice runs sticky between his fingers. His mother is magic, free-flowing and wild, the wizarding world at his fingertips. Monteiro is a name for a hunter - it will someday make him bite his lip at the thought of his father, both envious and afraid of his loping grace and the hawkish set to his features. His father is salt of the earth, a do-it-yourself head of his own self-made construction firm - there is no room in him for magic, but he accepts it in his wife and children.

Rafael Luiz Vargas Monteiro. The weight of the name pins him down and transfixes him like a butterfly already, but unfortunately, it’s only the first and the smallest of what will become a very, very long list of problems.


Parents aren’t supposed to have favourites, his friends say, but as Rafael grows and begins to learn the way of the world he quickly accepts the fact that his father loves his sister more, always wants to take her to work, take her shopping, take her with him everywhere he goes. He tells himself it is alright.

It is alright because he is his mother’s favourite.

Soft and brown-eyed, he follows her like a shadow through the streets of Rio de Janeiro, stays close to her whenever the whole family takes the sun at Ipanema of a weekend, makes a nuisance of himself in the kitchen by insisting on “helping” her make pastels.

When she takes the children aside some evenings to teach them a little bit of magic and give them a taste of her world, it is Rafael who loves it most, reaching for it with small and pudgy hands and delighted laughter. It is Rafael who seizes hold of her world and refuses to let go, and his mother adores him for it.

For a time, he is able to exist in this not-quite-perfect way, and it is more than enough. It is, for Rafael, as close to paradise as he will ever come.


The full moon over Copacabana is heartbreakingly beautiful - the sand has turned silvery pearl in the light, and the sea is stirred by the tide into small, cresting waves. He is not supposed to be here, not alone. He isn’t supposed to be here, but he is all of seven years old and he doesn’t know better, he really only just knows how much he loves the ocean and how especially breathtaking it becomes when the moon is bright overhead.

He is stooping to pick up a seashell to take home for his mother - maybe an apology gift, if she’s noticed that he’s not in his bed - when he’s knocked over forcefully from behind, so hard that the breath leaves his body. At first he thinks that the tide has rolled in and bowled him over, but that is before he notices the smell. It is raw and heavy with animal musk, foul and frightening. Rabid.

The dog, the thing - he isn’t sure what it could be, because it is massive, overwhelming - takes his leg in its powerful jaws and bites down, and Rafael howls in pain. A flash-burn of magic is released from somewhere primal and terrifying within him, and it blinds the beast, sending it staggering backwards.

There is pain. And there is fear. And Rafael doesn’t know what to do because there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He throws himself into the ocean, into the embrace of the waves, and gasps as the shock of the water floods his system, as the salt of the sea stings his bleeding leg and makes it burn. But the creature doesn’t follow and so, at least for now, he thinks he is safe.

Only once he’s sure that it’s gone does he drag himself free from the waves and begin to make his way, soggy and bedraggled and hurting, back home. As he pulls the leg of his trousers over the bleeding wound and bites back tears at the agony, he casts a look upwards, almost beseeching.

The shadow that Christ the Redeemer casts makes a heavy weight settle into the pit of his stomach.


He is being torn apart, rent in two from the inside out as the full moon takes a hold of him for the first time and bends him to her will. He sprouts fur, fangs, loses control and almost tears a hole through his bedroom window before his mother subdues him, binds him with agile chains that sprout from the tip of her wand and restrain him before he can do any more damage.

It is lucky in a way, the magical medical specialists tell them later, that he is young and small still. If not for that, it could’ve been so much worse. If not for that, who knows what might have happened?

A close call is still too much for his father. His father, who has accepted magic as much as he can, even though it pains him to see his son and daughter - especially his daughter - talk about Quidditch and spells and magical plants. His father can accept magic, but he cannot accept what he is told Rafael has become. Dangerous. Uncontrolled. Beast.


When he leaves one night, taking Rafael’s sister with him, he literally breaks their family in two, and it is all Rafael’s fault.


His mother tries to be positive. She moves them to Sao Paulo, and the small flat that she chooses is all she can afford now that her husband has left but it is in a modest wizarding community, where she hopes residents will be more understanding of her son. They are not - not really, but it is still better than the risk of letting him run amok in the non-magical neighbourhoods of Rio de Janeiro.

She enters journalism, writes articles here and there where demand exists, but money is tight when so much of it has to be spent on Wolfsbane potions to keep Rafael from becoming that truly unchained, destructive other of his very first transformation.

Still, she loves him. Still, she cries and hugs him tight when he turns eleven and she has to send him on his way to Castelobruxo.


He introduces himself as Rafael Vargas, leaving his father’s surname behind with a certainty that he’s never felt about anything before. Monteiro has no place in his life anymore.

School is wildly different from his expectations of horror and universal shunning. Castelobruxo is an old, golden institution of learning, revered among many - almost too good, he feels, for someone like him to attend - but it is also a wild place, set deep into the jungle, and its staff and students have an understanding of magical creatures that is lacking in the city.

He has access to Wolfsbane and some guidance from teachers on how he might hope to best control his urges, but far more importantly to a young boy, he has access to friends.

Rafael learns very quickly that he wants nothing more than to fit in, and that this is his best chance to make something like that happen for himself. If not now, never. Here, he has a clean slate and people around his age, other magical people, who are willing to let him walk among them, talk to them, be one of them apart from when the full moon comes.


He has grown up eager to please and easily adaptable, able to move with the tide and say and do the right things in order to fit in. He is earnest and warm, a soft heart still beating strongly beneath all of the sinew that has been built up by years of magical sports and engaging in the outdoorsy, vitality-filled lifestyle that Castelobruxo boasts.

He has tracked Caipora through the jungles, grappled with man-eating plants in Herbology classes, and been knocked off of his broom one too many times by a particularly viciously-aimed Bludger. He has maybe not necessarily excelled in his studies, but managed to scrape by enough that he can hold his head high when he graduates, catch his mother’s twinkling eyes and smile and wave at her.

He has really, truly, done his best to just be like everyone else, and he has just about managed it, too.

His friends laugh and tease him as he sprawls in front of the common room fire, his lanky frame taking up too much space as he seeks out the warmth and stays there, sleepy and sated. Lapdog, they call him, but they say it smiling, and his heart is full.

Leaving is one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do - leaving Castelobruxo, where he is understood, where he feels happiest - but it is nothing compared to what awaits him back in Sao Paulo.


Perhaps he is too accustomed to people, whether grudgingly or not, accepting the werewolf among them, but things are different when he moves himself - now so much larger, so much older - back into his mother’s tiny, cramped flat.

The little wizarding community is not happy. It was better when he was a pup, they say, it was tolerable because they felt pity for him and his mother, they say, but now he’s grown, now he’s dangerous. He tries to work his charms, obliging and sunny and helpful, but they aren’t so easily swayed - his days become a repetition of staying cooped up inside, unable to find work, unable to do anything to make himself less useless, less threatening.

It is out of frustration one day that he takes a seat in front of his webcam and goes on a spiel simply for the sake of banishing his negative feelings from himself. He implores for understanding, tells jokes, does tricks, tries to prove that he’s simply normal, that a werewolf can be normal, and presses upload. He isn’t expecting the response - some of it angry, some of it hopeful and understanding, but bigger than he thought. He’s reached an audience that he didn’t know existed, and so he makes another video. And then another.

WizTube is a way of connecting with a world outside his small magical favela that isn’t otherwise open to him, and it sparks in him a new dream, a passion. This could be something after all - the cameras, the audience. He just wants to fit in. He just wants to matter. Why doesn’t he try to take it one step further? Why doesn’t he try to make it where it really counts?

Against his mother’s protests, he packs his bags and sets off, a little too hopefully, for Hollywood.


He has moved from one tiny, cramped flat to another. The only differences are the city - Los Angeles, not Sao Paulo - and the flatmates, fellow aspiring actors with more dramatic tendencies than he knows how to handle. But if he makes it - if he makes it, a phrase that becomes his mantra - it’ll all have been worth it, won’t it?

If he was thinking it would be in any way easy, though, he is sorely mistaken. In Hollywood, just about everyone is struggling - it doesn’t matter that he has a modest web following who are interested in his particular niche of werewolf vlogging. Everyone in Hollywood has their own thing, and the fact that he’s managed to make his way in the world by being a people-pleaser, by acting the way that he thinks he should, doesn’t by itself make him an actor.

It will take hard work, and patience, and luck. But he’s never been lucky.

He continues his vlog and builds his follower count, keeps trying to book auditions and tries to network to hear about any new roles that open up. But the bills need to be paid and, well, Rafael wants to be an actor - he wants to fit in, and Hollywood is a lifestyle as much as it is a place.

So he borrows. He floods his social media with pictures, acts like everything is going brilliantly, plays the most challenging part to date of his life. But he also works - a busboy, a line cook, a janitor, any odd job to keep making rent so that he can keep chipping away at his dream, with just enough on the side that he can send some money home to Sao Paulo for his mother.

It's brutal.

But if he makes it - if at the end of the day, he can say that he’s a werewolf who managed to make it in wizarding Hollywood - it’ll all have been worth it, won’t it?
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