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 Isaac H. Jackson

Isaac Jackson


don't threaten me with a good time


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Jan 8 2018, 09:28 PM   LINK Quote
ORIGINAL POST.


Name: Isaac H. Jackson.
Age: Seventeen.
Year: Sixth year, failed it the first go around.
Bloodline: Pureblood.
Do you have more than one character? If yes, did you get permission to make this one, and from which admin?: I do not!




Appearance: general idea
character board

He’s small and slight by nature; his height (5'2) used to be a big source of insecurity for him, but since then he has grown to be louder for the lack of space he takes up. He makes up for small size via delightful intensity: all big smiles and wild gestures, lots of hand motions and hops, enthusiasm in every action.

Typically, he dresses in a mixture of street clothes- things like big hoodies, thick flannel, ripped brand-name jeans that were ripped from actual use. It’s not unusual to find him donning boxers and nothing else: he’s not one for modesty. He does own some rather nice, unmarked clothes, but it’s more likely you’ll see him looking like a delightful hooligan rather than the posh rich boy he was raised as. If he whips out that persona, however, he’s got plenty of well-fitting button-ups and sweater vests; chinos and khakis and slim jeans. A suit or five in his arsenal for if he really wants to impress.

Another trademark of Isaac’s daily look would be bruises. He bruises like a peach that’s been left on the counter too long, any little bump can give him nasty black marks. Coupled with his clumsy nature, he normally has an array of bruises literally anywhere on his body. No place is safe.

Isaac always seems to look a little rumpled, like he’s just rolled out of bed. He doesn’t often put a lot of effort into his look due to the fact that he always seems to have an easy kind of prettiness to him. Which is true, the boy is naturally handsome, and doesn’t really have to put much effort in so he doesn’t. When he really cleans up, he tends to look a lot older, but on the typical he looks to be late teens and baby-faced.

Distinguishing Marks: Has a floral tattoo on his left forearm which encompasses most of it. His white hair has always been a staple of his and is usually one of the first things people recognize about him.




Personality:

Isaac is a showman. From the get-go, his upbringing was about appearances and looks, upholding a reputation, he has been groomed to perfect smiles and shake someone's hand properly. His voice can grasp the attention of an entire room, his laugh grand, his words colourful and well-chosen; he is a spectacle of pureblood genealogy and social politics, he knows the game and he can play it well. But what is perhaps most important to remember is that the showman Isaac h. Jackson is the person he slips into when he wears his fine dress robes, his suits. It's a glove that fits him, but whose fabric has always felt uncomfortable on his fingers. He can play the role perfectly, when he wants, but that isn't who he is.

That leaves the question: who is Isaac Jackson?

It would be easy to say that Isaac is the boy who, when he was five and his sister was born, tore through their well-kept mansion to pluck a flower from one of his mother's fine glass vases and tuck it clumsily behind her ear, telling her that she looked pretty. Even when he personally thought she looked like a smushed red alien. He could be the boy who took in an elderly, three-legged, one-eyed cat that wandered- er, dragged itself- onto their property. The boy who shooed away the hounds and took the cat inside, personally cleaning it when he could have had a number of servants help.

But Isaac is also the boy who screamed himself hoarse when he found his father had taken his cigarettes, and once the worst of it was over, he collapsed against their barn and let the tears come. He's the boy who told his sister scathingly how he wished she hadn't been born, because ever since then he's been compared to her in every way, but he also walked his apologetic ass through the pouring rain to get her favorite candy when he found out how much it upset her.

The Jacksons do a lot of charity work, because they have the money, and because his mother wants the favor of her fellow ministry workers. You see, she's high up there, she's important and thus she needs all the support she can get. But at these events, Isaac would stand in the glaring sun in his perfect robes and try to find escape routes to the nearest quiet place to breathe. But he'd also participate the most. Rumors of his habits, (the cigarettes and alcohol, and the time he showed up at the ministry drunk in the heat of summer to find his mother,) was countered by his smile and the way he'd give his little sister piggy backs at such events.

He's focused, when he wants to be. His studies don't often get his attention, but other projects do-when he has friends, or lovers, they get all his attention. He's a giving friend, he hardly takes even when it drains him; because friends are a rare commodity when you're raised by politicians. It's easy to find fake friends, or someone who you can bed and ditch on mutual terms, but someone you can trust is so much more valuable. Isaac wants that, more than he wants anything.

Who is he, though? His parents see him as a disappointment- to an extent. They raised him well, they tried to teach him work ethic, they bought him things he wanted. They offered to get him a purebred maine coon, and he came home with a disaster on three legs. They got him great high quality robes, and he wore muggle clothes and wore rips into them. When they questioned him, Isaac found words fleeting, because all he knew how to make were jokes abut his feelings, not actual details. So his humor came across as flippant, and his parents trained in negotiations didn't understand and weren't going to try to. Between his drinking and his smoking, his breakdowns, his progressively worse grades, and his sister who excelled at the things he didn't... It wasn't difficult to compare him, and subsequently find him lacking.

But we've not yet asked the most important question: who does Isaac Jackson want to be?

He wants to be the boy who makes you laugh, he wants close friends, he wants his sexual interactions with a side of actual romance rather than just the word game. He wants to find places to stay during the summer so he isn't surrounded by grandeur that doesn't seem to fit him properly. He wants to be sweet, to say things and mean it. Isaac wants so much. But where he wants, he finds gaps, he finds spaces between his ribs. All he can offer is humor and grandeur and money, because what's sweetness and what's kindness in a world where the backbone of everything is negotiation, politics, greed, trade-offs and deals?

Isaac wants kindness to matter. Isaac wants his feelings to matter. He doesn't want his family name to matter.

Isaac H. Jackson wants to matter.

Character Background:

Isaac was born to rich, pureblood parents, and that's important to remember. His mother and father raised him to be poised and perfect, so that their name was intact, so that their boy would have the best chance to climb to their level, and pass it. from the get-go, he was slower to take up lessons, but he learned them deeper. He didn't understand why he was in so much trouble for getting mud on his good robes, but he learned not to. He learned to square his shoulders and stick his chin up, to shake hands steadily even when he was daunted, because he knew that nothing could keep him from having to do it.

As a child, he wanted to be far away from the action. He grew into his role of the eldest son and the loudest Jackson, the pint-sized boy who grinned, gestured, and spoke with more energy than his form seemed to be able to hold. Isaac started as a quiet boy, playing with his stuffed animals in his room, making friends of fabric and stuffing rather than the living and breathing sons and daughters of fellow politicians. He didn't play the romance game with his parents' co-workers pureblood children, even when they forced him into uncomfortable roles in his early teens, when they had paparazzi sneak pictures of him with girls of his age in pretty dresses, when they painted pictures of him there.

He told his mother he liked boys and girls, and it didn't go well. He knew it wouldn't. He knew, even from knee height, that there were expectations of him that he wouldn't be able to fill. But with every passing year, day, hour- he grew into inevitability. Until he was thirteen, he tried to be the picture they painted him into, the canvas that they splashed and altered any time an organic stroke would come. But it died with him, when he was offered cigarettes by a rugged muggle boy who would break his heart later.

They lived in the country next to muggle London, close enough to walk if you didn't mind about an hour of it. Isaac didn't. Muggle London was not a place where he had to be a Jackson, and so it was always ideal. A place where his sister wasn't excelling in Beauxbaton, and he was steadily getting worse at Hogwarts, where his parents wouldn't listen to him about having a learning disability. In muggle London, he was no one, and that was quite alright with him. Until Nate Rottenski offered him cigarettes when he was fifteen, and he stared at Nate's pale skin and ghostly eyes and long hair and thought he was every reckless, perfect thing Isaac wanted to have the courage to be.

In the summers, Nate became his friend, and shortly thereafter, some kind of lover. The boys spent every moment they could together, because if they didn't, Nate got upset. Isaac didn't want to upset him. Nate supplied him with cigarettes and liquor, and they got drunk, and they kissed, and they spraypainted buildings and Isaac got found by his parents and scolded every now and then. Nate convinced Isaac to confront his mother about her passive-aggressive nature, and waited as Isaac stumbled into 'her work,' offering to meet Nate 'round the block. He was drunk enough to fall into the fountain and make a spectacle of himself in front of the entirety of the ministry, only to be dragged home. His mother screamed until she was hoarse while he sat numbly on the receiving end, and when she finally dismissed him, she broke out the good scotch and he fell to tears quietly in his room.

Nate grew more and more costing to be around. He was possessive, he told Isaac dangerous things wrapped in flowery language, he shared his cigarettes and ran his bruised fingers through Isaac's hair, he gave Isaac marks to remember him by, and Isaac stayed loyal at his side. Nate kissed him like he meant it, like he wanted Isaac for more than his family name, and that alone was enough. But as all things do, this too came to an end. A firey, explosive end.

Isaac went to visit Nate one night in the summer, a week before returning for his sixth year. Nate was in a bad mood, and Isaac was never good at walking on eggshells, so he went home bloodied, but quiet. His sister was the first to find him where he was smoking outside the barn, his fingers trembling around a cigarette. She asked him what happened, and she carried the kindness in her voice that was genuine, that he had always both craved and despised because she managed to be perfect and kind but he could only be one or the other. So, he cried. He hugged her and bloodied her white blouse and sobbed into her shoulder, sixteen and full of hurt and turmoil.

He went back to Hogwarts quietly. The pressure from his parents was worse than ever, and now he didn't have Nate to think about either. That image had been soured in his mind, so he scorched it from his thoughts. He didn't want Nate, he didn't need him. He slept around at Hogwarts instead, he goofed off in his classes, he made people smile, he ditched the homework for flying his broom when he could and he slowly failed his classes. By the time he realized he was going to fail, it was too late. It was almost summer and he was struggling, floundering, begging his teachers to give him work to raise his grades- but they, like his parents, had seen him too flippant to give him the chance to succeed now.

He failed his sixth year, and that summer he returned to a cold household. His parents gave him the ultimatum: you pass, or we take you out of school. Fear gripped him: Hogwarts was his escape, he was still a Jackson but at least he wasn't home. He spent the summer pacing, he stopped drinking, but he allowed himself cigarettes. He spent more time reading, like he had when he was young, and he didn't return to muggle London. Depression seemed to drown him. His parents no longer chased him, or pressed him, or asked what he had done that day. They no longer tried to coax him to work. He was vividly aware of their lack of presence, and he wasn't sure what was worse- being bothered, or knowing they didn't care enough to bother him now.

When it was time to return to Hogwarts, he felt chilled. He felt grateful for the escape and trepidation for the journey to come, he knew he had to clean up, he knew he had to do better. He didn't smoke on the platform, he did it later out the train window where his parents wouldn't see. He kissed his mother's cheek and shook his father's hand, and he waved at them with a broad grin from the train. They waved back, but their smiles didn't reach their eyes.

Isaac was on his own hook now, no one to save him but himself.


The Sorting Hat is placed on your head. What are you thinking at that moment?: This stool was uncomfortable. Isaac sat, his feet dangling, shiny leather shoes glinting in the candle light, blonde hair poking out from under the hat. It smelled funny, he was pretty sure, because he didn't think he smelled quite like that. Distantly, he wondered if Beauxbatons had this kind of tradition, but the thoughts were put out of his mind when a voice seemed to speak into his head. It said he had potential.

He doubted this immensely. Everyone had always told him such things, but they said it with a smile that spun lies, and they always said it after he had messed something up. Isaac pursed his lips. He didn't want to be the best, he just wanted to be himself. He wanted to matter.

Special Request (available at Novice**) None currently, will evaluate later on.

OOC Name: Ben/Benno!
Your Pronouns: He/him!
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--------------------

Isaac Jackson


don't threaten me with a good time


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Jan 10 2018, 08:16 PM   LINK Quote
user posted image
Isaac Jackson
seventeen -- pureblood -- 6th year -- bad boy good heart

moodboard -- playlist


Appearance
general outfits


Isaac is the kind of boy who walks into a room and you already know he's going to talk too loud and take up too much room. Despite his small stature, (a whopping 5'2), he seems to grow out from physical boundaries and become a presence wherever he is. He may be slight and thin, built for high speeds and perching atop a broom, but he's made up for it through delightful intensity- he gestures wildly with his hands near-constantly, his grins are always so wide you think they might crack, his laugh is bubbly and loud. Every action is full of energy, every expression bountiful.

He’s small and slight by nature; his height (5'2) used to be a big source of insecurity for him, but since then he has grown to be louder for the lack of space he takes up. He makes up for small size via delightful intensity: all big smiles and wild gestures, lots of hand motions and hops, enthusiasm in every action.

Typically, he dresses in a mixture of street clothes- things like big hoodies, thick flannel, ripped brand-name jeans that were ripped from actual use. It’s not unusual to find him donning boxers and nothing else: he’s not one for modesty. He does own some rather nice, unmarked clothes, but it’s more likely you’ll see him looking like a delightful hooligan rather than the posh rich boy he was raised as. If he whips out that persona, however, he’s got plenty of well-fitting button-ups and sweater vests; chinos and khakis and slim jeans. A suit or five in his arsenal for if he really wants to impress.

Another trademark of Isaac’s daily look would be bruises. He bruises like a peach that’s been left on the counter too long, any little bump can give him nasty black marks. Coupled with his clumsy nature, he normally has an array of bruises literally anywhere on his body. No place is safe.

Isaac always seems to look a little rumpled, like he’s just rolled out of bed. He doesn’t often put a lot of effort into his look due to the fact that he always seems to have an easy kind of prettiness to him. Which is true, the boy is naturally handsome, and doesn’t really have to put much effort in so he doesn’t. When he really cleans up, he tends to look a lot older, but on the typical he looks to be late teens and baby-faced.

--------------------

Isaac Jackson


don't threaten me with a good time


Benno Profile Plotter Tracker Ranking Extra Info Etc

Hufflepuff
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Member ID.
Send a PM
Hufflepuff
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Age
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Year
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8-January 18
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Jan 10 2018, 08:17 PM   LINK Quote
user posted image
Isaac Jackson
seventeen -- pureblood -- 6th year -- bad boy good heart
moodboard -- playlist

♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢


Appearance
general outfits


Isaac is the kind of boy who walks into a room and you already know he's going to talk too loud and take up too much room. Despite his small stature, (a whopping 5'2), he seems to burst out from physical boundaries and become a presence wherever he is. He may be slight and thin, built for high speeds and perching atop a broom, but he's made up for it through delightful intensity- he gestures wildly with his hands near-constantly, his grins are always so wide you think they might crack, his laugh is bubbly and loud. Every action is full of energy, every expression bountiful.

Most people notice his hair first; a floppy, often messy lop of near-white, curled in places and straight in others- it typically looks like he just rolled out of bed. But despite this, the look suits him and his generally boyish appearance. It makes him seem endearingly unkempt, like he could cock his head and it would all curl and flop wherever. It's not unusual for him to run his hands through his hair to keep it from his eyes, and because he's all too aware that it looks good when it's mussed.

But his hair isn't the only thing that's delightfully messy. Isaac can be seen dressing in an array of clothing both muggle and magical; punkish robes with metal studs, knee-length and ratty at the ends where it's been worn in from use. He does possess a dozen or so dress robes for all occasions, some in satin and black, some silken and burgundy, some vibrant blues or greens- and some pristine white. Throughout his childhood, he stood dreadfully still for robe fittings every time he'd outgrow his old ones (which wasn't often, thankfully,) and so the practice has become old hat to him. On the muggle side, he's got an array of name brand clothing that's been worn in from actual use, the rips not for style but rather from slips and tumbles throughout the years. He's climbed too many fences, fallen off of too many brooms, and been hit by too many hexes for his clothes to be perfectly intact. However, despite the worn appearance of his clothing, Isaac still seems to carry the aura of the prominently wealthy.

Perhaps it's the pristine porcelain skin, or the soft curve of his nose, the slender arch of his brow. When Isaac isn't being boisterous and boyish, it's plain and easy to admit; he's pretty. His lips are full and a soft, pale pink; his eyes heavily lidded with long lashes and his irises are pale medley of grey and hazel. Occasionally, they've got soft purple shadows under them, where he keeps his sleeplessness and his stress. Another cardinal to Isaac are his bruises. His body is laced with black and blue marks that blossom into yellows and oranges under the right circumstances. You see, he's easy to mark, and he tends to be clumsy when he isn't paying attention, and so it's not unusual to see him covered in them. For those who don't know better (and perhaps those who believe rumors,) they may think said bruises come from bedmates or brawling, but Isaac has always been a lover not a fighter- even when he does participate in bedroom games.

Isaac has two settings: who he really is, and his rich boy persona. You see, it would be forgiveable to see him in the latter and make assumptions about his personality based off of it. If you plucked him from the prophet pictures he's featured in, with his fitted robes and his similar-looking family placed perfectly around him, his mother's name on the article, you'd think he was a high-browed sneering little git. If he cleans up, it's possible for him to shed most of his boyish aura and adapt an older, cleaner-cut version of himself, true. But he is not made for this. It would take someone who knows him well to understand the difference: his fluid movements are a facade to mask how uncomfortable the show makes him feel.

But despite this, his voice is still chirpy and slightly high in pitch, closer to birdsong than it is to anything else. Even when he's as deep as he can go into his showmanship or rich boy upbringing, it still seems to fit him incorrectly. Perhaps his voice gives it away, with his mannerisms and stutters, or his slightly awkward and endearing gesturing. Or, even better, maybe it's the way he pales in comparison next to his pristine sister and his parents. No matter, whatever it is that sets him apart, it's there to those who know him well enough. It's always there.

♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢


Personality


Isaac is a showman, right? From the get-go, his upbringing was about appearances and looks, upholding a reputation, he has been groomed to perfect smiles and shake someone's hand properly. When he was five, he went to the Ministry of Magic for the first time, and tried to climb into the fountain to swim, because the coins at the bottom glittered and he wanted to reach them. But his mother grasped his arm tight enough to bruise, and told him sternly, "No, Isaac- you're a Jackson, you're my son, stop acting stupid." He remembers this, even to this day, and it set the tone for his behavior. Even as a young adult he has a boyish, endearing air about him; he laughs the loudest, the silliest.

But let's not forget his training. His childhood was full of politics, his mother and father curbed and trimmed his wants and behaviors as they went, steadily showing him he was not to act how he wanted. Now, his voice can grasp the attention of an entire room, his laugh is grand, his words are colourful and well-chosen; he is a spectacle of pureblood genealogy and social politics, he knows the game and he can play it well. But what is perhaps most important to remember is that the showman Isaac h. Jackson is the person he slips into when he wears his fine dress robes, his suits. It's a glove that fits him, but whose fabric has always felt uncomfortable on his fingers. He can play the role perfectly, when he wants, but that isn't who he is.

That leaves the question: who is Isaac Jackson?

It would be easy to say that Isaac is the boy who, when he was five and his sister was born, tore through their well-kept mansion to pluck a flower from one of his mother's fine glass vases and tuck it clumsily behind her ear, telling her that she looked pretty. Even when he personally thought she looked like a smushed red alien. He could be the boy who took in an elderly, three-legged, one-eyed cat that wandered- er, dragged itself- onto their property. The boy who shooed away the hounds and took the cat inside, personally cleaning it when he could have had a number of servants help. He gives, and gives, and gives without discrimination. Yes, he bought into illegal broom racing, and yes, he fought and threw jinxes just like everyone else, but if someone was actually injured he was always the one to stay behind and help.

But Isaac is also the boy who screamed himself hoarse when he found his father had taken his cigarettes, and once the worst of it was over, he collapsed against their barn and let the tears come. He's the boy who told his sister scathingly how he wished she hadn't been born, because ever since then he's been compared to her in every way, but he also walked his apologetic ass through the pouring rain to get her favorite candy when he found out how much it upset her. He was also the boy who hexed his opponent off of his broom when the insults stung just a bit too much, and he watched the kid spiral into the stormy sky, and he did not look back.

You see, his parents also taught him this: do what you can to get what you want and don't get caught. Politics are messy, and one has to be pragmatic and cautious when they fight for what they want. Isaac has always known this, because family discussions in the Jackson house are negotiations and nothing else. Typically, he uses this for good. It's not unlike him to negotiate with teachers on behalf of classmates, or throw himself into the line of fire because he knows he can talk his way around an argument.

The Jacksons do a lot of charity work, because they have the money, and because his mother wants the favor of her employees and bosses and the general public. You see, she's the Head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, she's important and thus she needs all the support she can get. But at these events, Isaac would stand in the glaring sun in his perfect robes and try to find escape routes to the nearest quiet place to breathe. There was always so much pressure- and like that day when he was five and all he wanted to do was swim, he was acutely aware that his first instinct was probably wrong. That is another source of insecurity. His wants do not align with his mother's, and therefore, his desires are wrong. Even if all he wants to do is be alone, or fly, or be anywhere else.

He's focused, when he wants to be. His studies don't often get his attention, but other projects do- when he has friends, or lovers, or his racing, they get all his attention. He's a giving friend, he hardly takes even when it drains him; because friends are a rare commodity when you're raised by politicians. It's easy to find fake friends, or someone who you can bed and ditch on mutual terms, but someone you can trust is so much more valuable. Isaac wants that, more than he wants anything.

Who is he, though? His parents see him as a disappointment- to an extent. They raised him well, they tried to teach him work ethic, they bought him things he wanted. They offered to get him a purebred maine coon, and he came home with a disaster on three legs. They got him great high quality robes, and he wore muggle clothes and wore rips into them. When they questioned him, Isaac found words fleeting, because all he knew how to make were jokes abut his feelings, not actual details. He was going to be wrong anyway, right? So why try? Thus, his humor came across as flippant, and his parents didn't look past face value, and he fell into silence. Between his drinking and his smoking, his breakdowns, his progressively worse grades, and his sister who excelled at the things he didn't... It wasn't difficult to compare him, and subsequently find him lacking.

But we've not yet asked the most important question: who does Isaac Jackson want to be?

Does he want to be the rich boy? The one who wears fine robes of satin, who will grow to walk in the footsteps of his parents. The one who will get claps on the back from Ministry workers, whom will tell his parents he's "a chip off the old block." Someone who his parents will profess their fondness of, who will be the object of their pride. But he doesn't like uniforms and standards, he likes loud music and the wind in his ears and the ice-cold grip on his broom and the rain lashing his cheeks.

So, is he the racer? Is he the illusive and ground-breaking champion, the record-holder. London's very own underground broomstick rider, the one who usurped his master and took to the skies. He likes this version of himself, sure, he loves the adoration of his peers, the way they look at him and want him (his body, his skill). Isaac loves it when he finishes a race, he loves the snark almost lost to the howling wind around them, he loves the cigarettes and the money and the bets. But he doesn't like the way he has to scam people, to take their money when he knows they are short, to win bets that they genuinely believed they would win. He loves the confidence and the showmanship and the fact that he's the sex icon of them all, desired, but he doesn't like the kind of cutthroat he has to be to stay there.

When he pries open his reluctant ribs and looks into the damaged, broken-winged parts of himself, it's plain to see. He wants to be the boy who makes you laugh, he wants close friends, he wants his sexual interactions with a side of actual romance rather than just the word game. Isaac wants to race, but he wants to do so in the sun with friends, not interchangeable opponents, and he wants to bet on who's buying icecream. He wants to be sweet, to say things and mean it, he wants to be able to go with his first instinct and not wonder who he's going to disappoint when he does. Isaac wants so much. But where he wants, he finds gaps, he finds spaces between his ribs. All he can offer is humor and grandeur and money, because what's sweetness and what's kindness in a world where the backbone of everything is negotiation, politics, greed, trade-offs and deals?

Isaac wants his desires, his thoughts, his kindness that he offers in shaking hands to matter; he doesn't want to be the face attached to his last name and his parent's careers. He wants to be more of himself and less of their perception of him.

♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢-♢


History


[R] for language, abusive relationship dynamics, and unhealthy relationships with parents. You've been advised!

Isaac was born to rich, pureblood parents, and that's important to remember. His mother and father raised him to be poised and perfect, so that their name was intact, so that their boy would have the best chance to climb to their level, and hopefully they could one day pass their manor house in Hampstead on to him and his wife. But from the get-go, he was slower to take up lessons, but he learned them deeper. He didn't understand why he was in so much trouble for getting mud on his good robes, but he learned not to. He learned to square his shoulders and stick his chin up, to shake hands steadily even when he was daunted, because he knew that nothing could keep him from having to do it.

Every time he would do something just for the joy of it, it would lead to punishment. His mother had an appearance to upkeep and wasn't going to let it be damned by a wayward child, unabashed to her ways, to the ways of their genealogy. He loved to explore; he would wander their property even as a knobbly-kneed boy and splash in the mud or run with the hounds or offer to play with the house elves, whom always humored him because he was sweet to them. As a child, he loved to love things, to search until he found something he liked about everything that surrounded him. But this habit was broken, because he always got his best slacks muddy, or he ruined his shoes, or he missed dinner, or he was supposed to be with his french tutor and had opted to hide in the barn and feed the growing mice problem instead.

As a child, he wanted to be far away from the action. He grew into his role of the eldest son and the loudest Jackson, the pint-sized boy who grinned, gestured, and spoke with more energy than his form seemed to be able to hold. Isaac started as a quiet boy, playing with his stuffed animals in his room, making friends of fabric and stuffing rather than the living and breathing sons and daughters of fellow politicians. He didn't play the romance game with his parents' co-workers pureblood children, even when they forced him into uncomfortable roles in his early teens, when they had paparazzi sneak pictures of him with girls of his age in pretty dresses, when they painted pictures of him there. There was many a dinner held to push him towards other girls, and sometimes he didn't mind it, when they were like him: eager to be anywhere else. His first kiss was with one of these girls, out behind his family's barn where they kept their imported Arabian horses who's manes always glittered. But they kissed because they thought they should, rather than because they wanted to. Isaac's heart still beat out of his chest, and he still went starry-eyed, but they went back inside and pretended it never happened and he wondered why affection like this is always kept secret.

He knew, even from knee height, that there were expectations of him that he wouldn't be able to fill. But with every passing year, day, hour- he grew into inevitability. Until he was thirteen, he tried to be the picture they painted him into, the canvas that they splashed and altered any time an organic stroke would come. But it died with him, when he was offered cigarettes by a rugged boy who would break his heart later.

London was not a place where he had to be a Jackson, if he was in the right company, and so it was always ideal. A place where his sister wasn't excelling in Beauxbaton, and he was steadily getting worse at Hogwarts, where his parents wouldn't listen to his few kind teachers about him requiring more support. In London, he was dimly recognized, but it didn't matter. Until Nate Rottenski offered him cigarettes when he was fifteen, an older boy, and he stared at Nate's pale skin and ghostly eyes and long hair and thought he was every reckless, perfect thing Isaac wanted to have the courage to be.

He was exploring, on his own, in London- which isn't something his parents ever knowingly let him do. Either he'd lie about where he was going, or he would pretend to be home, or they would be too distracted to notice his absence, but either way, he escaped. He met Nate because all at once he saw people on brooms soaring through the air, invisible to the muggles bustling below, pops of light and sound ricocheting off of them as they dived and swerved and tried to push to the front of the pack. He was instantly allured, and he chased them on foot until he arrived red-faced and shallow-breathed at the end of the race in an old warehouse where the hoodlums were either celebrating or exchanging cash. They all looked up at the clearly rich boy in their presence and, at first, no one knew what to do with each other. Isaac asked what he had to do to race, and Nate offered him a cigarette and lit the end of it with his wand, and Isaac fell a little bit in love with him right then and there.

At first, he practiced on Nate's broom. It was an old model, but it had been illegally modified, and had a damn good kick to it if you accelerated. Nate saw things in Isaac that Isaac had never thought to see in himself. "You'll be a damn good racer," Nate proclaimed, taking lazy drags from cigarettes and joints, watching Isaac with a gaze that was either predatory or loving or both. He saw Isaac's slight build and fast hands and daring nature, but he also saw Isaac's need to please and his eagerness to be accepted, and he knew he could use all of those things. Isaac won his first race, despite being hit by a hex mid-flight, and Nate kissed him after he counted their earnings.

Isaac made a lot of money that summer, but what mattered most to him was that he etched a name out of the warehouse's old brick, he became known for something more than his last name. He wore skin-tight handmade leather cloaks and flew through the skies at break-neck speeds. He caught the attention of all the underground racers. That year, for his birthday, he asked for a broom and his parents were thrilled with the aspect that he might want to do more than listen to loud muggle music and smoke, so they bought him the newest model. He and Nate spent hours in that warehouse, or at Nate's house (but never Isaac's) adding modifications via rune and enchantment. Isaac learned fast, because if he didn't, Nate had a temper that rivalled his mother's and unlike her, Nate wasn't shy about physically expressing it. Isaac learned to say the bruises came from falling off of his broom.

The boys spent every moment they could together, because if they didn't, Nate got upset. Isaac didn't want to upset him. Nate supplied him with cigarettes and liquor, and they got drunk, and they kissed, and they spray-painted buildings and raced and won copious amounts of money doing it. Isaac became known as Nate's golden boy, and he didn't mind the title. But the sport grew more dangerous, and Isaac's anxieties mounted with it. Racers were getting caught and busted by Magical Law Enforcement, and Isaac begged Nate to let him lay low so he wouldn't be caught by the ministry, but Nate threw these regards out the window.

"You need to race, baby, we gotta' make money, I gotta be able to buy food," He would plead, his brows upturning, and his breath smelling of liquor. Isaac felt the guilt tug at his heart.

"Why won't you just let me give you some money?" He asked, exasperated.

"I don't want your fuckin' rich cash," Nate snapped, cold in an instant and so far away. Isaac felt fear flutter in his chest.

He went quiet, and Nate told him he would race. He was possessive, he told Isaac dangerous things wrapped in flowery language, he shared his cigarettes and ran his bruised fingers through Isaac's hair, he gave Isaac marks to remember him by, and Isaac stayed loyal at his side. Nate kissed him like he meant it, like he wanted Isaac for more than his family name, and that alone was enough. But as all things do, this too came to an end. A firey, explosive end.

Isaac tried to argue that he couldn't race. Nate forced him, and so he donned his cloak and got on his broom and he took off. He crossed paths with Jiang mid-air, one of his usual opponents whom he didn't mind, and watched as ministry officials soared out of the clouds and detained him. Driven by fear and terror, Isaac pushed his broom to it's limit, he soared and ducked and weaved as they gave chase. He, it seemed, had been their target- and why wouldn't he? Racing had boomed since he had started. His cloak read 'DEAD BOY' across the shoulders, a name Nate had picked out, no one knew him for who he actually was- but if he was caught? Nothing would keep his mother from disowning him.

He only escaped by a shred, but they caught everyone else. He was even richer than he had been at the beginning of that summer, and he was terrified. Isaac went to Nate at one of their safehouses and refused to race anymore. He went home bloodied, injured, and quiet. He would never kiss Nate again.

His sister was the first to find him where he was smoking outside the barn, his fingers trembling around a cigarette. She asked him what happened, and she carried the kindness in her voice that was genuine, that he had always both craved and despised because she managed to be perfect and kind but he could only be one or the other. So, he cried. He hugged her and bloodied her white blouse and sobbed into her shoulder, sixteen and full of hurt and turmoil. They had never really been friends, he and his sister, but they had been allies. He had kept quiet when he'd caught her sneaking out to kiss the neighbor's boy (a pureblood, at least) and she kept quiet now as she helped him limp to his room and sneaked him healing potions from his father's study to mend the bruises and the hurts.

He went back to Hogwarts quietly. The pressure from his parents was worse than ever, and now he didn't have Nate to think about either, only the bruises he had been left with and the broom they had worked on together. That image had been soured in his mind, so he scorched it from his thoughts. He didn't want Nate, he didn't need him. He slept around at Hogwarts instead, he goofed off in his classes, he made people smile, he ditched the homework for flying his broom when he could and he slowly failed his classes. By the time he realized how far he had fallen, it was too late to catch it, no one could help him. He was spiraling. It was almost summer and he was struggling, floundering, begging his teachers to give him work to raise his grades- but they, like his parents, had seen him too flippant to give him the chance to succeed now.

He failed his sixth year, and that summer he returned to a cold household. His mother stared scornfully at him on the platform as he walked up to her, head cowed, fingers shaky. They went home, and they had a talk.

Isaac's mother questioned him relentlessly as he stared empty-eyed at the table between them, his shoulders tense. She paced, she shouted, she went through cycles of anger and disappointment and confusion and exasperation. She finally asked what he had to say for himself. He couldn't tell her about racing, and he couldn't tell her about all the money he had made, and he couldn't tell her he was sorry because he knew she wouldn't care. He did the only thing he could think to do: he told her about Nate.

"I had a boyfriend," He stated, quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "his name was Nate. He hurt me. I loved him." His voice came out in bouts, clipped, unable to be fluent when there was so much pressure behind every word. He sucked in a breath and finally looked at her, where she was quiet. She sighed, and he saw the expression of exasperation, where he was certain she was clutching the corners of her mind for patience.

"Isaac, I understand break-ups hurt. But that's no excuse. You have to focus, it's not rocket science. Life won't be kind to you in the real world, it won't give you chances like we have given you. I need you to grow up."

Isaac nodded hollowly, and he went up to his room, and he clutched the broom he and Nate had worked on together and cried.

He spent the summer pacing, he stopped drinking, but he allowed himself cigarettes. He spent more time reading, like he had when he was young, but found it hard to focus. Depression seemed to drown him. His parents no longer chased him, or pressed him, or asked what he had done that day. They no longer tried to coax him to work. He was vividly aware of their lack of presence, and he wasn't sure what was worse- being bothered, or knowing they didn't care enough to bother him now.

Before returning to Hogwarts, he went to London one last time. The underground racing ring was in full bloom again- hydra-like, the ministry may have cut off a head or two, but tons grew in it's place. The old friends and acquaintances he had made greeted him enthusiastically, but there was something large and unspoken caught in all their throats. Jiang, fresh out of holding, told him that Nate had overdosed and died halfway through Isaac's school year. He didn't ask Isaac to race, but everyone else did. Isaac raced at least two dozen times in that last week before he left, earning enough money to support himself for some time if his parents chose to disown him. This Isaac was going to try and build himself a safety net, even if it was with his own two trembling hands.

When it was time to return to Hogwarts, he felt chilled. He felt grateful for the escape and trepidation for the journey to come, he knew he had to clean up, he knew he had to do better. He didn't smoke on the platform, he did it later out the train window where his parents wouldn't see. He kissed his mother's cheek and shook his father's hand, and he waved at them with a broad grin from the train. They waved back, but their smiles didn't reach their eyes.

Isaac was on his own hook now, no one to save him but himself.

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