November 15, 1992
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Last Active: May 29 2018, 08:53 AM
fuck off

✖ The name.

Miach. Pronounced MEE-OCK. It’s Irish. I’m Irish. My family is from Dublin. “Family” being the two people that gave birth to me and the arsehole that raised me. The parents are dead. Flionn and Aileene O’Reilly raised me to believe that every person in the world deserved a fighting chance. When I was six they were killed by death eaters who were after my dad due to some 'rebellion' he was inciting at the ministry. More on that later. Once they refused to go in quietly...there went their fighting chance. My brother, Séarlas, raised me after that. He controlled every aspect of my life. He still tries to. We stayed in Dublin for as long as we could, but I didn’t want to stay there anymore. No one in the mutant wars did. Especially when you lived with a mutant.

✖ The bite.

Unfortunately, I'm part of the generation of kids that grew up during the whole 'Harry Potter vs. Voldemort' fiasco. I was young, and didn't start Hogwarts until the whole thing was over, but my father was working at the Ministry while it was under control of death eaters. A man named Fenrir Greyback came after me, as he had many children around that time, and bit me. I'm leaving out details specifically because it was the most painful and gut-wrenching experience I've had to this day. Unlike many of the werewolves offered a 'family' by Greyback afterward, my parents opted to keep me at home. Cue the murder. By the time I was six, my brother and I were cursed as orphans that had to deal with a fairly problematic transformation every month.

✖ The structure.

From a young age I was always interested in potions. It was simple for me and I excelled in it. Logical. I kept my head down all the way through Hogwarts, for Séar's sake, and then took off as soon as I graduated. I was never overly concerned about him. he had a good job lined up at the Ministry and was much more content going after men and playing politician than about me. I figured we were both better off with me gone. He had been dealing with my transformations every month since I was a wee child. It was time he had a break and I take my issues elsewhere.

Potions became a way for me to connect to make money and stay, mostly, off the streets. It was something to fixate on. I reveled in being a dealer of sorts. I could make anything, but no one bothered me with artificial relationships. I was a resource that was all. Nothing is ever expected of me: no social scene, no sexual relationships, no emotional attachment. Like a robot. Or a vending machine. I never joined a pack. I never asked anyone for help or protection. I understand what it’s like to be hard coded to work one way. Never did I feel human, and never did I want to. It was only when I got high or got a rush that I felt something. And, as much as I’d like to say I didn’t want to feel, I liked it. A lot.

✖ The rubber bands.

I admit I am never satisfied with myself. It’s a flaw in my personality, one of a billion, however it proves to be more useful at times than not. When I was a child I was prone to ‘punishing’ myself when I did something I deemed stupid -- this usually entailed pushing on my nose until it hurt or hitting myself in some odd fashion. I was a child…it didn’t seem out of the ordinary to me. It wasn't due to the bite...when I was at home and in school I wasn't aware of just how the world viewed someone like me. However, once my actions, just as illegal dark potion brewing, began to become more serious, rather than the trivial things I did in my childhood, the punishments did not stop and became more severe. It seems like guilt and numbness are just hardwired into me. However, after my brother did some sneaking and found bloodied knives and razors stashed away in my room, he kept a close eye on me. I still resort, from time to time, but most often I wear rubber bands on my wrists. The sting of them satisfies me enough that I do not need to make a bloody mess of myself. My arms are usually littered with the slim, pink line of a rubber band’s wrath along with old track marks. People don’t usually ask about them…then again people don’t usually talk to me.

✖ The glare.

I don’t like people. I don’t like human interaction or stupidity or…anything. I like machines. Robots. Business. Tradition. Order. Anything that coldly logical and can be tampered with. I can’t control human beings. I can’t make them do one thing or another. They’re unpredictable, annoying, careless…they don’t use common sense. I can bewitch an intimate object to have common sense. I can’t program a human. I’ll talk to a person, and I’m quite good at playing nicely when I need to, but usually I don’t need to and I don’t like to. It’s easier to deal with people when I’m high or…something. Then I’m usually in a better mood.

The more people care, the more I seem to hate them. Not deliberately, that just seems to be how it works. My brother…he cares. He comes around a lot…tells me what to do, offers to help. I hate it. It might be because I think I don’t deserve the attention, but I’m not going to psychoanalyze myself.

✖ The school.

I didn't care too much that Hogwarts was gone. I don't really know what these Purium bastards are about, and I'm not about to go after them or put my life on the line to help or hinder them. I'm staying out of the whole mess...unless someone is prepared to offer me a lot of money and maybe some guaranteed protection.
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