Dog Days PV | B. Collins

@Cyrus Darsel

This day was a long time coming. Bridget believed asking for help was a virtue, but she was loathe to actually do it for this thing in particular. She had, once. Way back in her third and fourth years when she was just getting into duelling, she would watch her peers slowly master the art of splitting their spells and she would ask them, if she knew them well enough, how they did it. Then she would take their advice and try, and try, and try. The nothingness she had to show for all her efforts and questions grew into a sore point, one she determined to hide, so she kept trying but stopped asking.

Years down the line, that same nothingness clung to her. Maybe this skill just wasn't for her, but she was even more averse to admitting defeat for something this important. The unfiltered commentary of a child after a duel in late December planted a seed that would not sprout until late March. Finding herself trapped in a bloody tomb, of all things, served as a reminder of why she really wanted to do this. The benefit to her duelling was a plus, not the purpose; Bridget cared most deeply for her ability to defend her friends, when it came down to it, and for that she could finally swallow her pride.

It still wasn't entirely straightforward as a knock of someone's door the next day. She knew many a spell-spreader from Hogwarts and from the Magic Marinas. Many of them were even friends. But Fianna thought about magic in a way that was far too mystical, Illowy was often travelling for her work, and Astrea, though she cherished her old teammate, would probably be a terrible teacher. Her other friends fell into many of the same categories. Then she remembered Cyrus. She didn't know if he was busy and he might be a poor fit... but maybe not. She didn't know if they were friends. He was American, he liked ducks, he could be considered a bit naïve. That was the product of this kindness and optimism he radiated, though, the kind that might really believe in her ability to finally, finally pull this off.

This deliberation and then second-guessing carried her all the way to mid-July, when finally she was fed up with her own circling worries. It might be a horrible idea, but she'd decided Cyrus was unlikely to judge. That was worth something. More than anything, she needed to try, and trying started with sending an owl. It wasn't her first draft; the first was painfully long, riddled with crossed-out sections, and even annotated in the margins. What she sent, via wizard post office and their great, hardy owls, went like this:

Cyrus,

This is an odd request you are welcome to say no to.

I noticed your ability to split your spells in two, a skill I have been trying to learn for years. If you would be willing, I would appreciate any advice or assistance you can provide. You seem quite different from the people I used to ask about it, and I think this may be a good thing.

If you say yes, I think meeting would work well, but I would appreciate even owl correspondence. I can come to you, wherever you are these days. I would also appreciate if this stays between us.

I hope you have been well and have avoided getting sealed in any more tombs.

Best,
Bridget

She attempted not to think any more of it until his reply came. Written in glittery ink, Cyrus said he was willing to help and even included little hand-drawn emojis. His transformation from the formality of her letter to the friendliness of his own was rather endearing, actually. Even if this didn't work, there was the consolation of ice cream.

She went to owl back to say she would come (teaching was easier in person) and set up a date, then considered how long all of that would take. Wizard communication was so painfully slow sometimes. And she really needed her international travel to happen in August, before preliminaries started. It was easier just to take three days off, pack her bags, puzzle out how the Macmillan London Center worked, and hope he was around.

New York City in August was warm and in constant buzzing motion (she believed the latter applied year-round). Her adult life in Cork thus far was not very comparable, but she'd lived in London a few summers and felt confident enough catching a muggle taxi to the address she'd been given, the dollars she'd exchanged for pounds and Cyrus' letter in her pocket. With her (currently unfortunate) lack of a phone, she was stuck in conversation with her rather chatty driver, but soon enough she was standing on the street outside Cyrus' aunt's place, one hand on her bag, the ends of her long patterned skirt swishing around her shins as another car drove past.

This was worth trying. She reached out and rang the doorbell.

Outfit reference: something like this
(she has just little silver hoop earrings and no bracelets)

@Cyrus Darsel

Little time at all passed between her hand's retreat and the swish of an opening door. And there was Cyrus, somehow capable of single-handedly lighting up a doorway. He had enough energy for both of them, but she was more or less ready for that. "Hi, Cyrus." The handshake -- less predictable -- was just as easily returned. This was a sort of business arrangement, she supposed. He was aiding her professional development, since spell-casting was her profession.

She smiled as politely as she could at his Aunt Teresa, feeling rather like a child at a playdate in that moment, hands clasped behind her back. Parental figures had not had such a big presence in her life in the past few years, limited to summers and now separated by a sea. Bridget imagined the woman must be lovely if she'd had anything to do with how Cyrus turned out, though. "Thank you for having me." She shook Cyrus' aunt's hand and the corners of her mouth twitched into a fraction of a real, amused smile at the offered cookies.

As Cyrus' student (not an inaccurate description, though it had sounded odd), she followed him and confirmed she had her wand by fishing it out of her bag. She had assumed he was joking about using his backyard in his owl, but she should have put greater weight on his unless. It was really cozy, actually, blankets and lanterns hung up like their own great fort. Huh. Any compliment or jest caught in her throat.

Bridget blinked a few times. It helped the silly rise of emotion to glance around again at the barbies and stuffed animals and consider what they were actually there for. They were presumably not decorations. "You don't really care about those, do you?" she checked, because apparently sentimentality had her in a sort of chokehold at the moment. Bridget was a practical person, and she hadn't even brought any of her old stuffed animals from her parents' house to her flat (besides her teddy bear, but it had been with her at Hogwarts, a consistent resident of her trunk, so didn't really count). But someone's beloved childhood toys were simply not targets.

She slipped her bag off her shoulder and left it by the back door, then wiped her palms on her skirt. Start with flipendo. "That works." The jinx was a frequent first cast for her during warm-ups, so second nature by now that she barely had to think about it: the squaring of her feet and shoulders, the bounce and hook of the motion, the incantation she didn't even need to say. But she was thinking about all those things, a tiny furrow of unnecessary focus along her brows. "Flipendo." She aimed for a classic, fair-haired barbie (if Cyrus had confirmed he didn't mind) and aimed true so that the barbie flipped a few times as it skidded back across the yard. Eyeing the fence -- visually protected, but any Muggle neighbor could be listening in -- she followed it with, "Muffliato." It was difficult to tell if this spell worked from within it, but it had felt right, a proper flow of magic through her wand. With that covered, she awaited Cyrus' initial judgement.