Cyrus Darsel
The Case of Cyrus Alexander Darsel, the Great
‘I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one.’
quote from edna st. vincent millay’s ‘afternoon on a hill’
'Sometimes I choose a cloud and let it cross the sky floating me away. Or a bird unravels its song and carries me as it flies deeper and deeper into the woods. Is there a way to be gone and still belong? Travel that takes you home? Is that life? ─ to stand by a river and go?'
quote from william stafford's 'quo vadis'
Basic Information
Full Name: Cyrus Alexander Darsel | Age: 17 | Date of Birth: 01 September 2006 |
Gender: Cisgender Male | Height: 6'1 | 185 cm | Weight: 170 lbs | 77 kg |
Hair Colour: Blond | Eye Colour: Blue | Wand Arm: Right |
Birthplace: Manhattan, USA | Residence: Manhattan, USA | Sexuality: Straight Asexual |
Blood Status: Muggle-Born | House Thunderbird |
‘Barefoot. And with rose petals in your hair.’
quote from patricia a. mckillip’s ‘winter rose’
Appearance:
Cyrus has relatively long, curly hair that is dark blond. It is often wild and uncombed since his hair is his least favourite part of his appearance. Instead, he prefers to focus on his makeup and clothing: often, Cyrus wears eyeliner, and his clothes are usually name-brand. Duck motifs are common in his clothing. He has been known to wear wide ranges of clothes ─ ranging from suits and ties to Donald Duck crop tops ─ but can often be seen in T-Shirts and cargo shorts.
Cyrus is 6’1” (185 cm), and he weighs around 170 lbs (77 kg). He is decently muscular obnoxiously strong, but he is very lanky for his height, which he is still in the process of filling out. His shoulders are a bit too skinny, and his neck is a bit too long. He hopes this will change before he graduates.
Cyrus has dark blue eyes that are almost always wrinkly at the edges due to his ever-present smiles. He almost radiates joy, and he aims to make everyone happy charmer. This comes across in the way he holds himself: he is often grinning, and his clothes draw attention to him by being silly (something like the frilly Donald Duck crop top mentioned earlier).
‘ “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
“Kind,” said the boy.’
“Kind,” said the boy.’
quote from charlie mackesy’s ‘the boy, the mole, the fox and the horse’
Personality:
Cyrus may not be an introvert, but he has no friends. This is largely due to his being a sixth year his loudness and his being a Muggle-born. He wants friends more than anything, and his efforts to draw attention to himself have only grown more and more frantic throughout the years. Some call him annoying, but he is, in reality, just lonely.
Cyrus used to not be known for his intelligence ─ in fact, he was notable for his lack of book smarts and street smarts. This has since changed. During his fifth year, he studied quite a bit. He began to delve into magical theory, spurred on by past interactions with Hogwarts professors and his own curiosity. This led to a giant increase in book smarts as he learned about spellwork and finally created his own style of duelling (not really his own style, he just calls it that), which involved casting a spell at two opponents and then striking a pose once the spell was successful spell spread. Cyrus sees magic as acting, or dancing, really. It is simply fun.
His street smarts, however, are still up for grabs. Cyrus spent an entire summer having multiple near-death experiences. He learned from none of them. In fact, his body changed because his mind wouldn’t ─ now, he has a mild poison resistance since he kept ingesting poisons and not learning from his mistakes. He didn’t mean to, you see. He has just never been the smartest.
Ultimately, Cyrus is loud and silly. He loves jokes and can be very sarcastic at times, but his heart is in the right place and he just wants to make people laugh. Cyrus is very flamboyant, which comes across in his appearance, but he can be serious if the situation requires it.
‘Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, “Stay awhile.” The light flows from their branches.’
quote from mary oliver’s ‘when i am among the trees’
History:
Cyrus was born on 1 September 2006. He was born to two Muggle billionaires who travelled abroad for their work. He was either left at home or with his aunt and uncle, who lived in Manhattan. By the time Cyrus was three years old, his parents left him in the care of his aunt and uncle for months at a time before transferring legal guardianship over. Cy still sees his parents, but it is more as if they are family friends than his biological family. Cyrus's aunt is a witch, and when he first showed signs of magic - by healing a finger which he cut while chopping carrots - she told him about the Wizarding World. Cyrus was pleased to know that he could use magic, but he didn't know how. He also did not learn much about Illvermorny until he received his acceptance letter because his aunt was from Ireland and therefore went to Hogwarts instead.
Cyrus was Sorted into Thunderbird due to his love of adventure and his mannerisms. He was always shy, but once one got to know the boy, he was a real troublemaker. The kid would usually manage to get out of trouble, be it by begging or just not getting caught. Based on what his aunt told him about Hogwarts, he was extremely glad he didn't go there because he has heard many bad things about it such as the Battle of Hogwarts. His aunt tells him that it will be fine, but Cy can't be sure.
Cyrus was born in America, travelled with his parents to live in London for a few years, and then he went back to America where he would stay with his aunt and uncle. Cyrus has always been looking forward to go to Ilvermorny, and now that he is in his Second Year he believes that things cannot get any better. He can only wait and see. During his First Year, he made himself familiar with watching duelling, so he knows strategy but is too shy to get involved himself. Cyrus is ready to make new friends and break out of his shell.
Thread Tracker:
Reducio
First Year:
Second Year:
Third Year:
Fourth Year:
Fifth Year:
Summer 2023:
Sixth Year:
Reducio
TBA
Second Year:
Reducio
- Red, White and Blue -> Private with Professor Cypresse Lian
- Raspberry Flavored Regret -> Private with Thea Knott
Third Year:
Reducio
- American Boy -> Private with Thea Knott
Fourth Year:
Reducio
Fifth Year:
Reducio
tba
Summer 2023:
Reducio
- Phoenix: The Happy Bird Club
- OAP: Old Age Partygoers -> Private to Sixth & Seventh Years
- Fighting ‘Til Twilight -> Private to OAP
- Liber-Tea Time -> Open with Alyssea Brown, Amaris Knight, Vyacheslav Preobrazhensky and Estelle Hughes
- Niffler Hunt
- Spin the Bottle Beans: Group 1
Sixth Year:
Reducio
- The schools arrive at Hogwarts
- [Fall Ball] Candlelit Banquet
-The 10 Duel Commandments -> Private with Chiaki Hiroi
- Monsieur! I challenge you to a duel! -> Private with Milosh Rehnquist
- On Creating Ducks -> Abandoned
- New York, New York -> Private with Elias Travers
‘You’re the only person I’ve ever met who seems to have the faintest conception of what I mean when I say a thing.’
quote from virginia woolf’s ‘the voyage out’
Relationships:
Reducio
tba
Original acceptance note:
Reducio
Accepted
Being muggle-born he would have a "unique" at least in his school setting perception of muggles. The billionaire status of his parents would suggest that his idea of a muggle life-style is not entirely accurate as it would be from the context of what a billionaire child sees as "normal" which might be an interesting thing for your student to discuss -- how interesting and fine life is for the average muggle since that would have been the limited muggle view that he had seen. Since he is now a "wizard" and culturally there is a separation (even since the law has been repealed), in addition to his parent's indifference consider the fact that his aunt (who is not blood-related to your parents) would likely also discourage visiting or "for his own safety" insist on being there as well as an "involved caregiver."
Last edited by Koko Riddle on 25 Jul 2023, 00:18, edited 7 times in total.
Koko · #85200C Alluring · Eva. Man. · Scream · Calming Presence · Charm · Keeper's Catch 20 · 10 · 3 · 7 · 5 · 17 | · | Cyrus · #000000 Fearless · Obnox. Strong · Charmer · Impartial · Poison Res. · Spell Spread 10 · 10 · 10 · 16 · 10 · 10 |
Cyrus Darsel
Stats:
+7 to Stats from Quidditch wins: i, ii, iii, iv, v, vi, vii
Stamina: 10 · Evasion: 10 · Strength: 10 · Arcane Power: 17 · Accuracy: 10 · Wisdom: 10
Stamina: 10 · Evasion: 10 · Strength: 10 · Arcane Power: 17 · Accuracy: 10 · Wisdom: 10
Extracurricular:
Duellist
Abilities:
Year 1: Fearless
Year 2: Obnoxiously Strong
Year 3: Charmer
Year 4: Impartial
Year 5: Poison Resistance
Year 6: Spell Spread
Reducio
Cyrus was the type of boy who was full of chaos; the type of boy who would answer the "if someone jumped off a cliff, would you?" as "absolutely". Cy would do anything to prove himself, and he began running around Manhattan at the young age of seven. His parents didn't care, and he feared nothing. The world didn't scare him, so he did as he pleased.
By the time his aunt and uncle became prominent figures in his life, Cyrus was used to doing things by himself. He made breakfast without fear of burning himself on the pan, although he needn't make lunch or dinner - his parents always ordered things for him. While the boy might have lived a moderately sheltered life - what child of businesspeople didn't? - he was lonely, and there was always a bundle of energy manifesting inside the child's heart, waiting to be set loose.
After ending school one day Cy came across a group of kids. They weren't usual schoolboys; he could see that from a single glance. Their beat-up leather jackets stood out in stark contrast to his school blazer, and the fact that some of them didn't wear shoes let Cyrus know he'd ventured into the "wrong area of town". They surrounded a much smaller boy, one that wasn't in Cyrus' year; no, he was quite a bit younger. This kid was maybe nine, if that.
Cy wasn't deterred; he wanted that child out of the situation. "Hey, idiots!" yelled the blond, only glancing down to make sure his duck-print shoelaces were tied. A brazen grin decorated his expression as he charged forward, imagining he was a knight in medieval times and that the other boy was a lass, or lad now that he thought about it, in distress. "Make way for the king!" he shouted, his words echoing around the alley.
Now, any other child would have noticed how stupid the plan was. With Cyrus, however, there really was no plan. He did things on impulse, having no fear of the consequences that might arise from his actions. Putting one foot in front of the other, he charged at the other kids, shoving one of them as hard as he could.
He wasn't quite strong enough to knock the kid over, but he got the group's attention away from the young'un and onto himself. "Get out of the way!" he whisper-yelled to the smaller boy, and he was pleased to see the other kid running out of the corner of his eye as he felt a blow land on his arm.
Cy hadn't been strong enough to fight off the kids, but it had been your average schoolboy fight - everyone got hurt, to some extent. When Cyrus returned home, a triumphant grin on his face, his aunt shot him a questioning glance as he flopped down on the couch, exhausted, and shouted "No Regrets!"
Because really, he had no regrets. The feel of adrenaline in his veins had been amazing, and he would do it again. Cy wasn't a wimp. In fact, one might call him fearless.
By the time his aunt and uncle became prominent figures in his life, Cyrus was used to doing things by himself. He made breakfast without fear of burning himself on the pan, although he needn't make lunch or dinner - his parents always ordered things for him. While the boy might have lived a moderately sheltered life - what child of businesspeople didn't? - he was lonely, and there was always a bundle of energy manifesting inside the child's heart, waiting to be set loose.
After ending school one day Cy came across a group of kids. They weren't usual schoolboys; he could see that from a single glance. Their beat-up leather jackets stood out in stark contrast to his school blazer, and the fact that some of them didn't wear shoes let Cyrus know he'd ventured into the "wrong area of town". They surrounded a much smaller boy, one that wasn't in Cyrus' year; no, he was quite a bit younger. This kid was maybe nine, if that.
Cy wasn't deterred; he wanted that child out of the situation. "Hey, idiots!" yelled the blond, only glancing down to make sure his duck-print shoelaces were tied. A brazen grin decorated his expression as he charged forward, imagining he was a knight in medieval times and that the other boy was a lass, or lad now that he thought about it, in distress. "Make way for the king!" he shouted, his words echoing around the alley.
Now, any other child would have noticed how stupid the plan was. With Cyrus, however, there really was no plan. He did things on impulse, having no fear of the consequences that might arise from his actions. Putting one foot in front of the other, he charged at the other kids, shoving one of them as hard as he could.
He wasn't quite strong enough to knock the kid over, but he got the group's attention away from the young'un and onto himself. "Get out of the way!" he whisper-yelled to the smaller boy, and he was pleased to see the other kid running out of the corner of his eye as he felt a blow land on his arm.
Cy hadn't been strong enough to fight off the kids, but it had been your average schoolboy fight - everyone got hurt, to some extent. When Cyrus returned home, a triumphant grin on his face, his aunt shot him a questioning glance as he flopped down on the couch, exhausted, and shouted "No Regrets!"
Because really, he had no regrets. The feel of adrenaline in his veins had been amazing, and he would do it again. Cy wasn't a wimp. In fact, one might call him fearless.
Year 2: Obnoxiously Strong
Reducio
Cyrus always possessed an unmistakable amount of energy. In fact, it was one of his defining traits. His feet would always tap the floor during his Muggle classes, and his hands would always be moving.
He couldn’t help it. He just had too much energy.
Since he didn’t have very many friends (he was simply an unapproachable lad sometimes. It may have been his parents; he didn’t know), he didn’t have people who would listen to his endless chatter about who knows what. His parents were always far too busy to listen to his ramblings, so he sat quietly and allowed his appendages to move as much as they liked.
After a particularly embarrassing visit to his aunt’s where he had shattered a glass while dancing as he put up the dishes, Aunt Teresa had shown him an advertisement for child memberships at a fitness centre down the street.
At first, Cyrus hadn’t been at all interested. He was perfectly fit, and he saw this… flyer... as an insult to his amazing physique.
After thinking about it for a while, though, he asked his parents - who he had still lived with at the time - to sign him up. They obliged relatively quickly, probably glad to have to worry about him less, and he began to take classes.
He started out with swimming classes, but those didn’t really stick - Cyrus was already fast, and swimming didn’t really challenge him that much. The private lessons his parents had invested in made that certain.
He then went on to both weight lifting and kickboxing. He was interested in learning how to fight, both because his parents said it was something he should never learn and also because he was reminded of his favourite movie characters whenever he thought of it. Weights, though? He wanted to build up his muscles so that any fighting he learned would have an effect on whoever he used it against - not that he would attack anyone, of course.
As the years passed, Cyrus began to develop muscles, real muscles. When he moved in with Aunt Teresa, he began to help around the house, and he easily surprised his aunt with how easily he could lift things. He got into fights more often, but usually to protect people [as mentioned in previous fearless app], and he changed from an annoying idiot who managed to irritate bullies away to someone who could actually fend them off. He didn’t even have to punch them; he would flex his bicep and watch with a goofy grin as the spindly bully ran away from whatever younger kid they were bothering.
Cyrus was strong, but he was never just strong. No, he was obnoxiously strong.
He couldn’t help it. He just had too much energy.
Since he didn’t have very many friends (he was simply an unapproachable lad sometimes. It may have been his parents; he didn’t know), he didn’t have people who would listen to his endless chatter about who knows what. His parents were always far too busy to listen to his ramblings, so he sat quietly and allowed his appendages to move as much as they liked.
After a particularly embarrassing visit to his aunt’s where he had shattered a glass while dancing as he put up the dishes, Aunt Teresa had shown him an advertisement for child memberships at a fitness centre down the street.
At first, Cyrus hadn’t been at all interested. He was perfectly fit, and he saw this… flyer... as an insult to his amazing physique.
After thinking about it for a while, though, he asked his parents - who he had still lived with at the time - to sign him up. They obliged relatively quickly, probably glad to have to worry about him less, and he began to take classes.
He started out with swimming classes, but those didn’t really stick - Cyrus was already fast, and swimming didn’t really challenge him that much. The private lessons his parents had invested in made that certain.
He then went on to both weight lifting and kickboxing. He was interested in learning how to fight, both because his parents said it was something he should never learn and also because he was reminded of his favourite movie characters whenever he thought of it. Weights, though? He wanted to build up his muscles so that any fighting he learned would have an effect on whoever he used it against - not that he would attack anyone, of course.
As the years passed, Cyrus began to develop muscles, real muscles. When he moved in with Aunt Teresa, he began to help around the house, and he easily surprised his aunt with how easily he could lift things. He got into fights more often, but usually to protect people [as mentioned in previous fearless app], and he changed from an annoying idiot who managed to irritate bullies away to someone who could actually fend them off. He didn’t even have to punch them; he would flex his bicep and watch with a goofy grin as the spindly bully ran away from whatever younger kid they were bothering.
Cyrus was strong, but he was never just strong. No, he was obnoxiously strong.
Year 3: Charmer
Reducio
Cyrus was always too much.
His parents sometimes thought it; he knew that. He didn’t mind, though. Often, he embraced it. After all, he was liked well enough, and ‘too much’ wasn’t always a bad thing.
He began to flaunt it - he would use his parents’ money to buy the most ridiculous things, such as his trademark duck-print garments or his designer jeans. He even bought a solid gold duck tie tack for his school uniform.
Things changed when he moved in with Aunt Teresa. She never thought he was too much, at least not openly.
This meant Cyrus needed to try harder. He wore the most flamboyant clothes; he cut his hair into a mullet. These things never fazed Aunt Teresa, but when he went to school with a green mullet and a clown nose that squeaked, no one could stop looking at him. He was eventually sent to the headmaster’s office because he was distracting students during a test.
He received a letter from Ilvermorny the following year.
The headmaster, Lazarus Plott, was a good example in Cyrus’s mind. A very extravagant man, his mannerisms encouraged Cyrus. Cyrus grew even more dramatic, into even more of a class clown, until he was certain everyone would notice him.
The thing was, Cyrus didn’t know when to stop. Not by a long shot.
He dumbed himself down sometimes, trying to make people gawk. It worked, sometimes. He adopted ducks as his trademark even more, wearing them no matter what. No one would be able to look at a duck without thinking of him, nor would they be able to look at him without thinking of ducks.
He never felt the need to explain himself to anyone, although to a certain Thea Knott, he did try. ‘Regal,’ he had said about ducks, ‘strong.’ He had said they reminded him of himself, but was that true?
It was as true as he had wanted it to be, he supposed, because then maybe he could be seen as regal. He was strong. Right?
Maybe some people - Aunt Teresa - saw him as those things: elegant, regal and strong. Some others most certainly didn’t - namely his parents - but he had long since trained himself not to care. What others thought didn’t matter as long as they were thinking about him, as long as they were noticing him, as long as he meant something.
Cyrus was a distraction, and that, for now, was enough for him.
His parents sometimes thought it; he knew that. He didn’t mind, though. Often, he embraced it. After all, he was liked well enough, and ‘too much’ wasn’t always a bad thing.
He began to flaunt it - he would use his parents’ money to buy the most ridiculous things, such as his trademark duck-print garments or his designer jeans. He even bought a solid gold duck tie tack for his school uniform.
Things changed when he moved in with Aunt Teresa. She never thought he was too much, at least not openly.
This meant Cyrus needed to try harder. He wore the most flamboyant clothes; he cut his hair into a mullet. These things never fazed Aunt Teresa, but when he went to school with a green mullet and a clown nose that squeaked, no one could stop looking at him. He was eventually sent to the headmaster’s office because he was distracting students during a test.
He received a letter from Ilvermorny the following year.
The headmaster, Lazarus Plott, was a good example in Cyrus’s mind. A very extravagant man, his mannerisms encouraged Cyrus. Cyrus grew even more dramatic, into even more of a class clown, until he was certain everyone would notice him.
The thing was, Cyrus didn’t know when to stop. Not by a long shot.
He dumbed himself down sometimes, trying to make people gawk. It worked, sometimes. He adopted ducks as his trademark even more, wearing them no matter what. No one would be able to look at a duck without thinking of him, nor would they be able to look at him without thinking of ducks.
He never felt the need to explain himself to anyone, although to a certain Thea Knott, he did try. ‘Regal,’ he had said about ducks, ‘strong.’ He had said they reminded him of himself, but was that true?
It was as true as he had wanted it to be, he supposed, because then maybe he could be seen as regal. He was strong. Right?
Maybe some people - Aunt Teresa - saw him as those things: elegant, regal and strong. Some others most certainly didn’t - namely his parents - but he had long since trained himself not to care. What others thought didn’t matter as long as they were thinking about him, as long as they were noticing him, as long as he meant something.
Cyrus was a distraction, and that, for now, was enough for him.
Year 4: Impartial
Reducio
Cyrus’s Muggle teachers had always called him selfish, and for good reason. Cyrus simply didn’t care about others, or so it seemed. He was always flaunting his clothes, bragging about his wealth… Simply put, he seemed like a jerk.
Throughout the years, Cyrus had learned to only care about himself. He wasn’t necessarily self-centred - he was still polite to others, after all - but he never complimented others’ appearances, never smiled without reason. One might have called him cunning had they not known that he never really had a plan in mind, that his ‘calculated’ smiles were really just his following social cues.
Because Cyrus wanted himself to stand out, he tended not to notice when other people did, at least not unless they stood out more than he did, which was incredibly rare. Even the most brazen of people didn’t meet Cyrus’s standards. They had to be bold, flamboyant and witty, but they also had to possess a certain type of charm that wasn’t necessarily superficial in order to pique Cyrus’s interest - and even then, it was usually brief at best.
For example, the first person who had made Cyrus interested in them was none other than his Aunt Teresa. She was as unassuming as could be - petite, with lightly tanned skin and average features, but there was a certain kindness in her eyes that had interested him. Her nature was sweet, and she helped people without strings attached. Seeing a person so obviously good had interested Cyrus - she had not stood out. She was one with the crowd, but he was still interested in talking to her, in knowing more about her.
The only flamboyant person whose name Cyrus could easily remember was Headmaster Plott, AKA his role model. From afar, Cyrus watched in awe as the man made spectacles, and he hoped that one day he could do the same, that one day he would be powerful enough to. Once he surpassed Headmaster Plott’s abilities, something told him he would no longer feel the same level of awe. He was pretty sure, however, that he would remember Headmaster Plott’s name, and not just because it was a name he heard daily as he roamed the halls of Ilvermorny. No, a role model was someone special, someone to be remembered.
He often remembered no one else.
He did remember Thea Knott, but she, like his Aunt Teresa, did not stick out in a crowd. She was shy and quiet, and that intrigued him. He was not distracted by pretty girls or pretty boys; he did not often raise his eyebrows at amateur wannabes of class clownery. He did not care what they were doing because their attempts at flamboyance could never match his own.
He really was quite impartial to those sorts of things.
Throughout the years, Cyrus had learned to only care about himself. He wasn’t necessarily self-centred - he was still polite to others, after all - but he never complimented others’ appearances, never smiled without reason. One might have called him cunning had they not known that he never really had a plan in mind, that his ‘calculated’ smiles were really just his following social cues.
Because Cyrus wanted himself to stand out, he tended not to notice when other people did, at least not unless they stood out more than he did, which was incredibly rare. Even the most brazen of people didn’t meet Cyrus’s standards. They had to be bold, flamboyant and witty, but they also had to possess a certain type of charm that wasn’t necessarily superficial in order to pique Cyrus’s interest - and even then, it was usually brief at best.
For example, the first person who had made Cyrus interested in them was none other than his Aunt Teresa. She was as unassuming as could be - petite, with lightly tanned skin and average features, but there was a certain kindness in her eyes that had interested him. Her nature was sweet, and she helped people without strings attached. Seeing a person so obviously good had interested Cyrus - she had not stood out. She was one with the crowd, but he was still interested in talking to her, in knowing more about her.
The only flamboyant person whose name Cyrus could easily remember was Headmaster Plott, AKA his role model. From afar, Cyrus watched in awe as the man made spectacles, and he hoped that one day he could do the same, that one day he would be powerful enough to. Once he surpassed Headmaster Plott’s abilities, something told him he would no longer feel the same level of awe. He was pretty sure, however, that he would remember Headmaster Plott’s name, and not just because it was a name he heard daily as he roamed the halls of Ilvermorny. No, a role model was someone special, someone to be remembered.
He often remembered no one else.
He did remember Thea Knott, but she, like his Aunt Teresa, did not stick out in a crowd. She was shy and quiet, and that intrigued him. He was not distracted by pretty girls or pretty boys; he did not often raise his eyebrows at amateur wannabes of class clownery. He did not care what they were doing because their attempts at flamboyance could never match his own.
He really was quite impartial to those sorts of things.
Year 5: Poison Resistance
Reducio
Cyrus has never been known for his intellect. In fact, to some, he is known for his lack of brains. He does not make up for his lack of book smarts by any common sense. So far, he has managed to get by due to sheer brawn and laughter, but the day was bound to come when he would no longer be able to joke his way out of a nasty situation.
The summer before his fifth year, multiple instances challenged his ability to stay alive.
The first: cleaning.
Cyrus’s aunt made him get a summer job in order to gain a ‘work ethic’, whatever that was. Cyrus personally didn’t think he needed a job─after all, his parents and aunt were filthy rich. Nonetheless, his aunt deemed work ‘good for him’, so he looked at open positions. One was a janitorial position at a hotel, and he decided he might as well apply. He did not expect to be hired, but two weeks later, he received an email telling him he’d gotten the job.
Although Cyrus was trained on what every chemical did, he had never been the smartest. He had never had the greatest memory. He soon forgot which unlabelled bottle had what, so he tried to stick to the labelled bottles. However, when a sink didn’t clean itself fast enough, Cyrus glanced down at his cart full of soaps. He thought about every bottle and noted that vinegar could disinfect counters and bleach could whiten them, so if he mixed them together, the sink would be disinfected and whitened. His supervisors would be so proud!
He put the stopper in the sink and mixed the chemicals. His gloves were on, so he assumed there would be no problem. However, soon after he began to mix the chemicals, he started coughing and found it increasingly difficult to breathe. He stumbled around the bathroom for a bit, wheezing, before he remembered he had a phone (perks of being a no-maj born!) and quickly dialled his boss’s number as he fumbled his way out of the bathroom.
His boss dialled 911, and Cyrus didn’t remember much after that. He woke up in the hospital and was informed that his very not clever mixture had created chlorine gas, which was toxic to breathe in. The hotel had needed the gas removed from the floor he’d been on, and Cyrus’s clothes were no longer any good. His hospital gown wasn’t nearly as cool as his duck-themed T-shirt.
He was promptly fired from his job after that ordeal.
The second test of Cyrus’s will to live? Driving.
Since Cyrus had been sixteen for a while, his aunt decided it was high time he learned how to drive. His aunt took him up to Lake Placid, where she had a vacation home, and began to teach him how cars worked. One day, she was visiting some of her friends, and Cyrus thought it would be nice of him to bring the car to pick her up. He was pretty sure he had done everything right─the car was on, the mirrors were all in the right places, his seatbelt was on… But the car wouldn’t move. The garage door was still shut because he didn’t know where his aunt put the garage door opener.
He began to panic, looking through the glove box and the other compartments before realising that he had no idea at all where the opener was. And when he pressed the gas, the car still wouldn’t move.
Once again, he remembered he had his phone, and he called his aunt to ask, but his vision wavered, and he passed out.
Luckily, his aunt had gotten the garage door open, and she had called 911. He woke up at Adirondack Medical Center with an oxygen mask over his face. The doctors informed him that he had given himself carbon monoxide poisoning, and his aunt tiredly told him he had forgotten to take off the parking brake. The garage door opener had been on the kitchen counter this entire time.
Cyrus was okay, though, if not a bit shaken up by the entire ordeal. His body didn’t feel as weak as he had expected it to. In fact, a few weeks later, he swallowed mouthwash─completely by accident, he would tell his aunt, since he had genuinely forgotten that Listerine was not meant to be swallowed. She had stared at him in complete and utter exasperation before asking if she should call the Poison Control hotline. Cyrus thought about it, and although he knew he was probably making a mistake, he shook his head. He had swallowed a fair amount of mouthwash, but he felt fine.
Maybe, he thought, the poison caused by the chlorine gas and the carbon monoxide had hardened his body against the future clumsiness that would almost certainly come someday.
The summer before his fifth year, multiple instances challenged his ability to stay alive.
The first: cleaning.
Cyrus’s aunt made him get a summer job in order to gain a ‘work ethic’, whatever that was. Cyrus personally didn’t think he needed a job─after all, his parents and aunt were filthy rich. Nonetheless, his aunt deemed work ‘good for him’, so he looked at open positions. One was a janitorial position at a hotel, and he decided he might as well apply. He did not expect to be hired, but two weeks later, he received an email telling him he’d gotten the job.
Although Cyrus was trained on what every chemical did, he had never been the smartest. He had never had the greatest memory. He soon forgot which unlabelled bottle had what, so he tried to stick to the labelled bottles. However, when a sink didn’t clean itself fast enough, Cyrus glanced down at his cart full of soaps. He thought about every bottle and noted that vinegar could disinfect counters and bleach could whiten them, so if he mixed them together, the sink would be disinfected and whitened. His supervisors would be so proud!
He put the stopper in the sink and mixed the chemicals. His gloves were on, so he assumed there would be no problem. However, soon after he began to mix the chemicals, he started coughing and found it increasingly difficult to breathe. He stumbled around the bathroom for a bit, wheezing, before he remembered he had a phone (perks of being a no-maj born!) and quickly dialled his boss’s number as he fumbled his way out of the bathroom.
His boss dialled 911, and Cyrus didn’t remember much after that. He woke up in the hospital and was informed that his very not clever mixture had created chlorine gas, which was toxic to breathe in. The hotel had needed the gas removed from the floor he’d been on, and Cyrus’s clothes were no longer any good. His hospital gown wasn’t nearly as cool as his duck-themed T-shirt.
He was promptly fired from his job after that ordeal.
The second test of Cyrus’s will to live? Driving.
Since Cyrus had been sixteen for a while, his aunt decided it was high time he learned how to drive. His aunt took him up to Lake Placid, where she had a vacation home, and began to teach him how cars worked. One day, she was visiting some of her friends, and Cyrus thought it would be nice of him to bring the car to pick her up. He was pretty sure he had done everything right─the car was on, the mirrors were all in the right places, his seatbelt was on… But the car wouldn’t move. The garage door was still shut because he didn’t know where his aunt put the garage door opener.
He began to panic, looking through the glove box and the other compartments before realising that he had no idea at all where the opener was. And when he pressed the gas, the car still wouldn’t move.
Once again, he remembered he had his phone, and he called his aunt to ask, but his vision wavered, and he passed out.
Luckily, his aunt had gotten the garage door open, and she had called 911. He woke up at Adirondack Medical Center with an oxygen mask over his face. The doctors informed him that he had given himself carbon monoxide poisoning, and his aunt tiredly told him he had forgotten to take off the parking brake. The garage door opener had been on the kitchen counter this entire time.
Cyrus was okay, though, if not a bit shaken up by the entire ordeal. His body didn’t feel as weak as he had expected it to. In fact, a few weeks later, he swallowed mouthwash─completely by accident, he would tell his aunt, since he had genuinely forgotten that Listerine was not meant to be swallowed. She had stared at him in complete and utter exasperation before asking if she should call the Poison Control hotline. Cyrus thought about it, and although he knew he was probably making a mistake, he shook his head. He had swallowed a fair amount of mouthwash, but he felt fine.
Maybe, he thought, the poison caused by the chlorine gas and the carbon monoxide had hardened his body against the future clumsiness that would almost certainly come someday.
Year 6: Spell Spread
Reducio
Cyrus had always had a bit of a dramatic flair. This was exemplified by his choice in clothes (duck-themed everything, often thousands of dollars worth) and his style of speech. However, Cyrus wanted to channel this into his magic as well.
He was not the best spellcaster. Even simple spells, like Lumos, tended to give him grief. But Cyrus wasn’t popular amongst his peers, and he wanted to defend himself if stolen rude glances and muttered ’Mudblood’s turned to something more serious.
Thus, Cyrus practised. He practised more than he thought he was able to, finally becoming familiar with the feeling of his wand in his hand. He read book after book until he thought maybe he could feel his brain cells multiplying─or perhaps that was just him being tired because it was three in the morning. He studied spell movements until his Lumos was perfect most of the time. He practised evasive footwork, and sometimes he wished he had more friends who could throw things at him so he could evade even better.
His movements became precise, no longer a jumble of jittery motion but instead a dance-like agglomeration of knowledge. Cyrus was an actor, and his spellbooks made up his stage. He found himself imagining he was a conductor, waving his wand in precise movements to command an army of musicians, and that was when the thought came to him: he could be an army.
Cyrus’s studies multiplied. Instead of learning about how spells were performed, he learned about why they were performed the way they were. Magic was an art, he realised, a type of performance not unlike singing or acting. And actors could play multiple parts. He read about spell theory and how one could focus one’s magic into a single spell, how spells would differ in their outcome depending on the person and their preferred style of casting despite ultimately being the same spell doing the same thing.
He also thought a lot. He thought about what one of the old Hogwarts professors had once told him: ‘Making more questions is a good thing, not a bad thing.’
He had lots of questions about magic. Where did it all come from? His parents didn’t have magic, and he wasn’t blood related to his aunt, so why did he? His uncle, also a no-Maj, was dead now, so he couldn’t ask his uncle about what coincidence might have made him have magic.
It didn’t matter now. He knew he had magic, and he hadn’t embraced it as much as he wished he had in retrospect. Cyrus began to attend classes in earnest, to write down notes on even the most arbitrary of things. He would be a proper wizard.
Gradually, his spells grew stronger. He learned how to channel his emotions into his spellcasting, yet keep them in check so he remained in control. He poured his grief over his uncle’s death, his repressed anger at his parents and his appreciation for his aunt into his spellcasting.
And then there was the real test. Cyrus had set up two dummies to practise on, and so far, his spells had only been able to hit one. His accuracy was fairly decent, and his spells packed a punch. But his ability to cast spells was never consistent. Cyrus hoped that after all of his studies, this might be better, so he thought long and hard and decided on a spell he’d known for a long time─flipendo.
Cyrus held out his wand and focused. He imagined his uncle alive and well, smiling and telling him he was proud. He imagined his aunt nodding at how he had grown. He imagined his parents happy with his existence, willing to look away from their work. He imagined his spell, fuelled by his heart, knocking both of the dummies over.
Then he waved his wand and said the word. ’Flipendo.’
It took a moment, as if his magic were hesitating, and Cyrus thought for a second that all of his studying had been for nothing. But he watched with wide eyes, willing to have patience, and he heard a satisfying plonk as the dummies fell to the ground.
He was not the best spellcaster. Even simple spells, like Lumos, tended to give him grief. But Cyrus wasn’t popular amongst his peers, and he wanted to defend himself if stolen rude glances and muttered ’Mudblood’s turned to something more serious.
Thus, Cyrus practised. He practised more than he thought he was able to, finally becoming familiar with the feeling of his wand in his hand. He read book after book until he thought maybe he could feel his brain cells multiplying─or perhaps that was just him being tired because it was three in the morning. He studied spell movements until his Lumos was perfect most of the time. He practised evasive footwork, and sometimes he wished he had more friends who could throw things at him so he could evade even better.
His movements became precise, no longer a jumble of jittery motion but instead a dance-like agglomeration of knowledge. Cyrus was an actor, and his spellbooks made up his stage. He found himself imagining he was a conductor, waving his wand in precise movements to command an army of musicians, and that was when the thought came to him: he could be an army.
Cyrus’s studies multiplied. Instead of learning about how spells were performed, he learned about why they were performed the way they were. Magic was an art, he realised, a type of performance not unlike singing or acting. And actors could play multiple parts. He read about spell theory and how one could focus one’s magic into a single spell, how spells would differ in their outcome depending on the person and their preferred style of casting despite ultimately being the same spell doing the same thing.
He also thought a lot. He thought about what one of the old Hogwarts professors had once told him: ‘Making more questions is a good thing, not a bad thing.’
He had lots of questions about magic. Where did it all come from? His parents didn’t have magic, and he wasn’t blood related to his aunt, so why did he? His uncle, also a no-Maj, was dead now, so he couldn’t ask his uncle about what coincidence might have made him have magic.
It didn’t matter now. He knew he had magic, and he hadn’t embraced it as much as he wished he had in retrospect. Cyrus began to attend classes in earnest, to write down notes on even the most arbitrary of things. He would be a proper wizard.
Gradually, his spells grew stronger. He learned how to channel his emotions into his spellcasting, yet keep them in check so he remained in control. He poured his grief over his uncle’s death, his repressed anger at his parents and his appreciation for his aunt into his spellcasting.
And then there was the real test. Cyrus had set up two dummies to practise on, and so far, his spells had only been able to hit one. His accuracy was fairly decent, and his spells packed a punch. But his ability to cast spells was never consistent. Cyrus hoped that after all of his studies, this might be better, so he thought long and hard and decided on a spell he’d known for a long time─flipendo.
Cyrus held out his wand and focused. He imagined his uncle alive and well, smiling and telling him he was proud. He imagined his aunt nodding at how he had grown. He imagined his parents happy with his existence, willing to look away from their work. He imagined his spell, fuelled by his heart, knocking both of the dummies over.
Then he waved his wand and said the word. ’Flipendo.’
It took a moment, as if his magic were hesitating, and Cyrus thought for a second that all of his studying had been for nothing. But he watched with wide eyes, willing to have patience, and he heard a satisfying plonk as the dummies fell to the ground.
There is something about ambition, how it not only propels you but also defines you.