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[center][img]/images/upload/lzd3w1.webp[/img][/center] [quote][center][size=125]✕[size=150]✕[/size]✕[/size] [size=200][b]SYSTEM[/b][/size] [size=125]✕[size=150]✕[/size]✕[/size][/center][/quote] [center]│ [b]Broom Racer?[/b] NO. │ [b]Quidditch Player?[/b] YES. │[b]Duelist?[/b] NO. │[/center] [quote][center][size=125]✕[size=150]✕[/size]✕[/size] [size=200][b]STATS[/b][/size] [size=125]✕[size=150]✕[/size]✕[/size][/center][/quote] [center][b]STA:[/b] 10 | [b]EVA:[/b] 16 | [b]STR:[/b] 8 | [b]WIS:[/b] 10 | [b]ARC:[/b] 8 | [b]ACC:[/b] 11
[b]+8 WINS:[/b] [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=306207#p306207]10/21[/url] | [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=19420&start=90#p373363]01/22[/url] | [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=453812#p453812]04/22[/url] | [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=25196&start=150]02/23[/url] | [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=32477&start=80#p1003276]05/24[/url] | [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=33499&start=60]08/24[/url] | [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=36811&start=90#p1179773]02/25[/url] | [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=1291123#p1291123]05/25[/url][/center] [quote][center][size=125]✕[size=150]✕[/size]✕[/size] [b][size=200]ABILITIES[/size] [/b][size=125]✕[size=150]✕[/size]✕[/size][/center][/quote]
[size=130][b]PERFECTIONIST 》[/b][/size] Reduced critical failure chance range by 1.
[reducio]Despite the Swede’s rather sloppy-looking appearance and the façade of an uncaring teenager, Felix has always taken particular pride in how he casts his spells, especially after joining the dueling team at Durmstrang. While he, of course, enjoys adding a bit of flare and pizzazz to his casting, he is always careful when he performs his spells. This is, in part, because of the scholarly pressure he places on himself, desiring to be one of the top students in his year, and the fear of being unable to live up to others’ expectations. He is also terrified of looking incompetent in front of his peers, and considering the high standards he holds for the company he keeps, anything less than the best simply won’t do. After learning a spell in class, Felix retreats to his dormitory and almost obsessively practices the proper pronunciation and incantation repeatedly until he is certain he had gotten it correct, and then he moves on to practicing the hand movements with just as much obsession. Each spell he has learned has been so carefully studied that he could recite them in his sleep. He also believes that mastering the art of spell casting is an important factor of dueling, because there is no room for errors, especially when you have a team relying on your skill. Felix believes that while dueling, a wizard must think quickly about their next move and cast it with great meaning. Any type of slip-up could easily mean a loss for the entire dueling team, and he is not willing to take that chance. While Felix may appear indifferent towards a lot of things, he cares deeply about the art of dueling and refuses to accept anything but the best. This is a standard he holds not only for himself but also for his teammates, and it has caused quite a few arguments in the past. At the end of the day, he is loyal to his team and takes his commitment to them very seriously. If Felix does ever mess up an incantation or movement, he will retreat to his dormitory and continue to obsessively practice the spell until he feels he has relearned it properly. He would not make a reappearance until his studies were complete and his shame had finally faded away. Although, upon returning, he would pretend that it didn’t matter either way to him. [b]Word count:[/b] 401[/reducio][size=130][b]IMPARTIAL 》[/b][/size] Immune to lovely creature and Veela's alluring abilities.
[reducio]Felix learned at a young age to be careful around others. He refused to get caught up in their games; he preferred to trust no one. This stemmed from various events in his childhood, but one that he often thought about took place at a dinner party his mother was hosting. He had overheard a group of beautiful, rather dazzling-looking pureblood ladies trash-talking his mother the moment she stepped out of the room to use the washroom. Even at his young age, he was quick to comment back and call the women out on it. After the party was over, Felix’s mother had grown upset with him, because apparently, the other ladies had complained, despite the fact that they were in the wrong. It was from that age that Felix learned physical beauty does not equal internal beauty. Felix can appreciate the beauty in nature, literature, animals, and in art, but he has always felt rather immune to the physical charms of any young pureblooded lady or man that his parents tried to introduce him to. It always seemed to have quite the opposite effect, leaving Felix to laugh at any of the fake niceties or pointless conversations that people trying to suck up to him always seemed to offer. He could normally see through their façade or would simply assume they would act like the others who came before them. Physical beauty meant nothing to him, and he couldn’t understand why the boys in his year seemed to flock around girls or other boys who often seemed to be as dull as cardboard cut-outs. Pretty, perhaps, but one-dimensional and useless as anything other than a decoration. He found relying on beauty alone to be dreadfully dull, even when classmates possessed veela genes. Unless they had a book glued to their forehead, there was nothing a beautiful person could offer him, especially if he didn’t find they were worth looking at in the first place. He viewed the physically attractive as nothing more than a parade of false praise and manipulation. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to feel attraction or want to find someone charming, but, to Felix, a person’s personality was far more important. In order to pique his interest, a person had to be intelligent and able to hold a scholarly conversation without having to rely on small talk or conversational clichés. Beauty fades, and when it is gone, it would be nice to have an interesting person to have a conversation with. [b]Word count:[/b] 418[/reducio][size=130][b]FEARLESS 》[/b][/size] [size=95]Immune to dhampir's aura, terrible presence, and lycanothrope's intimidation.[/size]
[reducio]Being a member of the Durmstrang's Hexwizard team was not an easy task, especially when the champion of the team was as brutal as Yefim. While Felix did enjoy his friend's company, it often came with an unsetting aura he couldn't quite place his finger on. Perhaps it was his friend's recklessness or seemingly total disregard for his own safety. Regardless of how careless his behaviour was, it was something Felix found admirable. To be fearless was truly the only way to show others you didn't give a shit, and that was something Felix [i]wanted[/i]. Admittedly Felix didn't have any fears to begin with, but there was one that he could no longer ignore, especially after he was pulled out of the Great Lake and rescued by the person he hated with all his heart. That moment had been horrifying for him, and if he didn't want to relive it, he was going to have to face his fear. He was going to have to learn how to swim. He wasn't the only one interested in fighting through fears. It seemed that Yefim wanted his team to be as strong as possible. So, with the erm... Support of his team mate and friend, he was forced to submerge himself into the depths of an icy lake, located nearby school grounds. The cold bite of the water was nothing in comparison to having the liquid surround him from all angles. He had screamed originally, pushing bubbles of air to the surface. Whether or not Yefim had noticed his struggles, his hands did not loosen their grip, keeping the Swede submerged. It was only when Felix fell limp that he released him. After catching his breath the cycle would continue. He started to ask himself why he was scared. Was it the idea of the unknown? Life itself was unknown and he wasn't afraid to live, why the hell was it that some liquid had this sort of effect on him? He had almost died once, but he was still here. It was clear to him that fear could no longer hold him down, metaphorically speaking, of course. Eventually, his mind became as numb to his fear as his body had beneath the cold surface of the water. Yefim no longer needed to hold him beneath the water once he had stopped panicking, and it turned out that once you weren't constantly flailing your arms about and losing your air supply, the human body was quite buoyant. He hadn't exactly mastered the act by the end, but he could at least do a mean doggy paddle. He even found laying on his back and allowing the movement of the water to sway him relaxing. After he had faced his biggest fear, the others seemed less relevant. A fear of his mother controlling his life was lost, because when put into perspective he could easily shake her plans off after he turned 17. Besides, he had survived almost drowning several times, surely he could face the wrath of Linnea Kolbeck. Fearing being pushed around was also lost once he had started to train for the Hexwizard tournament and build muscle tone. By the end of his 13th summer, Felix felt like he could take on the world. He wasn't afraid anymore. [b]Word count:[/b] 548[/reducio][size=130][b]EVASIVE MANEUVERS I 》[/b][/size] 10% total chance to auto-dodge.
[reducio]Felix wasn't exactly known to hold his tongue when faced with situations he found beneath him or worthless of his time, or if a peer or even an adult was to inconvenience him in any minor way. As he aged further into his teen years, the Swede seemed to find more and more situations pointless, and more social interactions to be draining. So, he used his preferred 'coping method' to quickly get out of a situation; his smart mouth. It was unfortunate that he didn't have a filter of any kind, often picking fights that he had no way of winning. Punches were frequently thrown in his direction, as well as spells. He spent quite a few nights getting tended to by Durmstrang's nurse, and a few mornings listening to the howlers his mother sent him, because of course Lin managed to scold him even though she was in an entirely different country. As he wasn't strong enough to overpower his enemies during said fights, the pureblood looked for a simpler solution; just don't get hit. It was easier said than done, of course, but his years enduring one to many Incendios while dueling definitely came in handy. He began to pay closer attention to his opponent's movements during his fights or confrontations, focusing on their body language, looking for any subtle cues or shifts that could indicate an incoming punch, or the way his enemy's fingers seemed to inch towards their wands. By studying their stance, positioning, and the way they moved, he aimed to anticipate their actions and react before they even had a chance to fully enact their attack. He relied on his agility and reflexes, using his nimble nature to his advantage during confrontations. During his fourth school year the Swede even started to read up on some books about Muggle fighting, which helped him become more mindful of his own positioning during fights. The art of karate and jiu-jitsu especially peeked his interest. Through his research he quickly learned to maintain a defensive posture and keeping a safe distance from his opponents whenever possible. This allowed him more time to react and dodge incoming strikes. With his increased focus on his opponents' movements and his own defensive posture, Felix began to see improvements in his ability to avoid getting hit during fights and confrontations. Though the Durmstrang student still wasn't exactly as swift as lightning, but at least he could avoid a few more bruises and the possibility of needing to replace another leather jacket after a dueling match. And that was at least a start. [b]Word count:[/b] 431[/reducio][size=130][b]EVASIVE MANEUVERS II 》[/b][/size] Another 10% total chance to auto-dodge.
[reducio]His newfound ability had been useful during his fifth year at Durmstrang, allowing him to dodge far more incendios than the years prior. Those first year duelists were truly a menace to society, only Merlin knew why they decided to teach 12 year olds how to summon [i]fire[/i] at will. Felix's study of evasiveness continued well into his sixth year, especially as he had tried out to be on Durmstrang's Quidditch team. He had enjoyed his time as a duelist, but felt he had learned all he could from the position. Besides, learning to dodge large bludgers that came barreling towards you was definitely more appealing than getting burnt to a crisp by a first year that insisted on setting everything around them on fire. During practices he often would focus on sharpening his ability to dodge bludgers. Those damn iron balls required sharp reflexes and quick thinking to avoid. Whenever the opportunity came to attend a match, he would study the beaters, noting the subtle cues that indicated when they were about to strike. Dueling had taught him to read his opponent's body language, but when said opponent was on a broom several hundred feet in the air, it things tended to get a bit more complicated. The subtle eye movements and the nudge of the direction they wanted the broom to go in was a start, but the bats were more telling. Unfortunately unlike his studies last year into muggle fighting, distance was definitely not helpful when on the Quidditch pitch. Those damn bats could fling the ball too far, he would have to be hundreds of feet away. Maybe his team mates thought he was crazy when he requested they purposefully try to hit him with bludgers during practices, but Felix would be damned if he couldn't be the best at this. He could almost imagine Yefim telling him that bruises were temporary while the glory of winning would last forever. Not that the guy had actually ever said that, but it seemed like the kind of bullshit he would say to motivate Felix. As days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, Felix finally started to feel like it was easier to translate his evasive abilities to his broomstick. He felt like the broomstick was essentially an extension of his body. Like a true dragon he was able to slink across the field, weaving in and out of clusters of players, his movements fluid and precise. [b]Word Count:[/b] 410[/reducio][size=130][b]ANIMAGUS 》[/b][/size] Allows a user to transform into a single animal of their choice.
[reducio]As Felix slid the mandrake leaf beneath his tongue under the light of a full moon, his face scrunched up. [b]"Fuck, that's terrible,"[/b] he grumbled to himself. He couldn't believe he had to keep the thing under his tongue for a frigging month, but he would do almost anything to become an animagus. He pictured himself turning into something cool, like a sleek white wolf or a maybe a hawk.

Besides the headmaster of Durmstrang, Emery Albrecht, who had agreed to supervise and guide him during the process, only a handful of people knew he was trying to become an animagus, namely his chipper girlfriend, Greta, who had been like a personal cheerleader. The most difficult part of keeping the damn leaf in his mouth was not being able to kiss her adorable face.

The days dragged on and blurred together. Felix found himself gnawing on the side of his cheek or chewing gum just to keep himself from spitting the leaf out. He had never been so relieved in his life when he finally could spit it into that damn vial when the end of the lunar cycle finally came. He stood beneath the rays of the moon as instructed. Thank Merlin it hadn't rained, or he might have actually cried.

He grunted as he plucked a hair from his head and added it to the vial, although with the dew drop and chrysalis. Greta had helped him collected the 'silvered teaspoon of dew' during one early morning, before the sunrise. He had kept it in his trunk to avoid the sunlight or being touched. The chrysalis of a death's-head hawkmoth had been sent to him by his father, after Felix sent an owl begging him not to tell his mother what he was attempting. Aké seemed amused more than anything and had sent the chrysalis a few days later.

He wrapped the vial in several pieces of cloth before placing it carefully at the bottom of one of his spare storage trunk. It remained there for several weeks as the grumpy Swede waited for the right moment. He had never been a morning person but suddenly found himself waking up before dawn to recite the spell.

[b]"Amato Animo Animato Animagus."[/b] Felix repeated each morning and every sunset, with his wand pointed towards his heart.

One night he woke up to a clap of thunder, and his heart hammered excited against his chest. He scrambled out of his bed and rushed towards his trunk, carefully unrolling the vial he he had hid inside of it. He slid a pair of combat boots on, the soles slapping against the stonework floor as he ran outside.

Lightning cut through the sky like a blade, with a scream of thunder following. He found a clearing nearby, the wind howled against his ears.

He took in a breath, and repeated the incantation one more time, [b]"Amato Amino Animato Animagus."[/b] He whispered, his wand pointed to his chest. He popped the top off the vial and drank the potion within it. His face twisted into a disgusted scowl but he managed to keep it down.

He felt himself shifting, changing into something new. Instead of powerful paws, he stood on a pair of four elegant ones. They looked almost... [i]Cute[/i]. His feline body jolted back towards Durmstrang's castle, his lungs burning as he rushed towards the closest mirror he could find.

He saw a pair of blue eyes staring back at him in shock.

NO. NO! This couldn't be happening... How the hell had he turned into a tiny cat, of all things? Months of preparation had gone into this! He hissed at his own reflection, his ears pulling against his head. His friends could never know. [b]Word count:[/b] 623[/reducio]
[quote][center][size=125]✕[size=150]✕[/size]✕[/size] [size=200][b]MINISTRY OF MAGIC FILE[/b][/size] [size=125]✕[size=150]✕[/size]✕[/size][/center][/quote]
[center][img]/images/upload/b2rzpv.webp[/img][/center]
[size=125][b]WIZARD NAME:[/b][/size] Felix Klas Kolbeck
[size=125][b]ANIMAL:[/b][/size] Domestic Cat (Turkish Angora)
[size=125][b]DESCRIPTION:[/b][/size] In his animagus form, Mr. Kolbeck has a black and white coat. His animagus form weighs in at 4.2 kg. Excluding the length of his tail, his animagus form measures at around 45.70 centimeters. His right back foot is white, while the rest of his paws are black. He has white coloration around his neck and on the top of his head. His eyes remain blue in his animagus form.
[size=125][b]DISTINCTIVE MARKINGS:[/b][/size] A tuft of white fur on top of the crown of Mr. Kolbeck's head. His eyes remain a light blue coloration while in his animagus form.
[size=125][b]SIZE 》[/b][/size] SMALL (1)
[size=125][b]SKILLS 》[/b][/size] CLAWS (1) | BITE (1)
[size=125][b]STATISTICS 》[/b][/size]  「 STA 5 | WIS 2 | STR 3 | ACC 15 | EVA 15 」
[size=125][b]POINTS SPENT 》[/b][/size] 11 points
[size=125][b]EXPLAINATION 》[/b][/size] Cats are listed as small animals in the examples above. Cats have sharp claws and teeth that can cause damage but cannot compare to the force of a bite from a stronger animal.

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[center][size=150][b]The Case of Cyrus Alexander Darsel, the Great[/b][/size][/center]
[right][I]page 2: the trunk[/I][/right]

[center][i][b]'why are we already talking about what's next? i'm not done with right now.'[/b][/i][/center]

[center][img]/images/upload/pjn50p.webp[/img][/center]
[center][size=120][b]Stats:[/b][/size][/center][center]+13 to stats from sports wins: [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?f=40&t=8714&start=50#p149357]i[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=15344&start=180#p255616]ii[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?f=40&t=16400&p=269317#p269317]iii[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=19424&start=170#p373361]iv[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=23357&start=70#p522642]v[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=740216#p740216]vi[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=853518#p853518]vii[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=965079#p965079]viii[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=989812#p989812]ix[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=34731&p=1089233#p1089233]x[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=1092314#p1092259]xi[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=1165980#p1165980]xii[/url], [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?p=1277646#p1277646]xiii[/url].
[b]Stamina:[/b] 10 · [b]Evasion:[/b] 10 · [b]Strength:[/b] 10 · [b]Wisdom[/b] 11 · [b]Arcane Power:[/b] 20 · [b]Accuracy:[/b] 17[/center]
[center][size=120][b]Extracurricular:[/b][/size][/center][center]Duellist[/center]
[center][size=120][b]Abilities:[/b][/size][/center][b]Year 1:[/b] Fearless
[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.[/reducio]
[b]Year 2:[/b] 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 [i]always[/i] 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… [i]flyer[/i]... 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, [i]real[/i] 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 [i]irritate[/i] 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 [i]just[/i] strong. No, he was [i]obnoxiously[/i] strong.[/reducio]
[b]Year 3:[/b] 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 [i]harder[/i]. 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 [i]more[/i] dramatic, into even [i]more[/i] 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 [i]noticing[/i] him, as long as he [i]meant[/i] something.

Cyrus was a [i]distraction[/i], and that, for now, was enough for him.[/reducio]
[b]Year 4:[/b] 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 [i]polite[/i] 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 [i]himself[/i] 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 [i]was[/i] 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.[/reducio]
[b]Year 5:[/b] Poison Resistance
[reducio]Cyrus has never been known for his intellect. In fact, to some, he is known for his [i]lack[/i] 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.[/reducio]
[b]Year 6:[/b] 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 [i]Lumos[/i], 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 [i]’Mudblood’[/i]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 [i]Lumos[/i] 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 [i]be[/i] an army.

Cyrus’s studies multiplied. Instead of learning about [i]how[/i] spells were performed, he learned about [i]why[/i] 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 [url=https://hogwarts.io/viewtopic.php?t=8092#p123749]once told him[/url]: ‘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. [i][b]’Flipendo.’[/b][/i]

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 [i]plonk[/i] as the dummies fell to the ground.[/reducio]
[b]Year 7:[/b] Wandmaker ─ 34 cm, Dogwood with Phoenix Feather core, whippy
[reducio]Cyrus had, not once in his life, been the most responsible young man. Many times, he had lost his wand, and he often fidgeted with it when he got restless. Sometimes, he left it in his pocket and nearly snapped it.

It seemed that luck would not always be on his side, because, one fateful day in the summer of 2024, Cyrus had gone to a bonfire party with his aunt, and his wand had mysteriously ended up as some kindling. He had searched for it only to realise it was on fire by the time it was too late. He was inconsolable for days, sobbing himself to sleep. What type of wizard was he without a wand?

His Aunt Teresa grew tired of having a panicked seventeen-year-old in her house, so she told him to pack up for London. They were going to go to Ollivanders.

[b]'I got my wand from Ollivanders back in the day, and it hasn't broken. If there's a wand you won't break, it'll be from there,'[/b] she had said.

He was a sleep-deprived boy when they arrived in Diagon Alley by floo the next morning, and when his aunt took him to Ollivanders for a ‘wand he would not dare to lose’, he groggily followed behind her. They entered the wand shop, and Cyrus found that he dwarfed many younger children, most of whom were probably around eleven. He waved at a few children, the fact that he was around people (and perhaps the mug of tea in his left hand) helping to wake him up. He apparently did not seem so harmless, as he spooked one boy who was trying out what had to be his hundredth wand.

When it was his turn, he stood idly as his wand arm was measured. He began trying to make small talk with Ollivander ─ he did, in fact, ask how the weather was ─ before his aunt silenced him with a well-timed side-eye.

[b]‘Try this,’[/b] said Ollivander, handing the teenager a box. [b]‘Fourteen centimetres, unyielding, rosewood with dragon heartstring.’[/b]

The words meant little to the exhausted teenager. The American opened the box and waved the wand inside. Nothing of note occurred, but Ollivander shook his head. [b]‘Absolutely not,’[/b] he said, and he handed Cyrus a different box. [b]‘Twenty-four centimetres, reasonably supple, larch wood with unicorn hair.’[/b] He watched as the boy picked up the wand. [b]‘Larch wood prefers wizards who lack confidence.’[/b]

Cyrus dramatically waved the wand. [b]‘I think I’m pretty confident, Mr Ollivander,’[/b] he said when the wand felt wrong in his hand. He couldn’t place the feeling, but something about it just wasn’t right. He waved it again and heard a small bang, although if that had resulted from his efforts, he wasn’t sure.

[b]‘Right, of course. Then it might be this.’[/b] Ollivander unboxed a rather long, bendy wand and handed the stick to Cyrus. The American gingerly took it. [b]‘Thirty-four centimetres, whippy, dogwood with phoenix feather.’[/b] The wandmaker smiled at Cyrus. [b]‘The phoenix feather tends to choose particularly stubborn and enduring wizards, something you showed me when you wanted to keep searching for the perfect wand.’[/b] He glanced at Teresa.[b] ‘Your being here today highlights your tenacity.’ [/b]

Cyrus took a moment to think about the older man’s words, and for once, he wished he could articulate a more eloquent response. All he managed to say was a quietly choked,[b] ‘Huh.’[/b]

The more he thought about it, the more that part made sense. Although he didn’t always seem like a tenacious individual, he had pushed himself very far. He had learned how to split spells on his own, staying up night after night to exercise both his body and mind in pursuit of his goal. And he had done it ─ his tunnel vision had paid off. It had taken him until his sixth year to properly join Ilvermorny’s duelling team ─ but he had done it.

He definitely was more stubborn than he let on.

He waved the wand, and, inspired, he took a big step and opted to give his wandwork a small flourish. He remembered his assertion that magic was really just art, and now he was dancing. The wand whistled as he moved, making music to his choreography. He spun the wand over his knuckles, caught it between his thumb and forefinger, and took a bow.

[b]‘Dogwood was definitely the right wood,’[/b] said Ollivander drily, a smile on his lips.

[b]‘What does that mean?’[/b] Cyrus asked, setting the wand back in its box. He, too, was smiling.

[b]‘Dogwood was loud ─ I’m certain you heard it, no?’[/b]

[b]‘Ohh.’[/b] Cyrus’s grin widened. [b]‘So my wand will make noise!?’[/b] He paused, his hands flapping at his sides. He had called it his. He didn’t do that aloud, not ever. He glanced at the stick in the box ─ his partner. His partner. His wand.

[b]‘I love noise,’[/b] Cyrus said, a bit more softly. [b]‘I’ll keep it in good company, I promise. I’ll even sing to it.’[/b] He leaned forward and began a rather awful humming rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

While he was occupied, his aunt took out her money and paid Ollivander. She turned to Cyrus and patted him on the shoulder before closing the wand’s box. [b]‘Happy early birthday, Cyrus. Now don’t break this one.’[/b]

Why does this wand fit Cyrus?

[reducio]Dogwood (54/50): Cyrus is loud. He has always been loud with a flair for the dramatic. He enjoys creative efforts, such as building, dancing and arts and crafts, and he also has a strong interest in fashion. His outfits stand out, making them aesthetically 'loud', and he has an affinity for anything colourful, loud or dramatic.

Phoenix feather (69/50): Cyrus is enduring. He is mostly friendless, but that doesn’t stop him from continuing trying to make friends. Even though he has never been the greatest at his schoolwork, he perseveres until he succeeds in his endeavours. Furthermore, he is also rather stubborn. Although he doesn't share his opinions much, he is strong in his moral compass, and he is not afraid to fight for what he believes in.

Length (34 cm) (67/50): A 34cm/13.39in wand is a long one, and Cyrus is tall. However, he is also 'big' in personality. He finds it very difficult to be quiet, and his presence often makes itself known. He is dramatic and views magic as a theatrical art, which is reflected in the manner of his spellcasting. He takes wide swishes and often ends each spell, once cast, with a spin.

Flexibility (Whippy) (73/50): Cyrus is adaptable and loves trying new things ─ sometimes to a fault. He rapidly switches back and forth between ideas, avoiding commitment to anything for too long, and he is accepting of most things. He accepted that there was a magical world, and he did so without dwelling on it too much, quickly disregarding the newness of it in favour of involving himself in this new world as much as he could.[/reducio][/reducio]
[b]Adult I:[/b] Animagus — [i]Aix galericulata[/i] 
[reducio]During summer camp of 2023, Cyrus had articulated, ‘(Ducks) can fly, they can swim, they can walk… Everything I ever wished [i]I[/i] could do.’

So began his small journey into the world of human flight. He could swim and walk easily, but it was flying that concerned him. Entrusting his safety to a flimsy wooden stick was something he attempted the next year, but he did not enjoy the experience; he ended up falling off his broom rather quickly during his unofficial broom race. Brooms, then, were out of the question.

During his first year out of Ilvermorny, Cyrus travelled. He spent the beginning of his summer in London and in Manhattan with his aunt, getting his bearings, and during that time, he realised he would quickly grow bored of the time he would spend not in school. Steady, consistent work was not promising for the young fashion designer-street performer. Boredom, therefore, would become commonplace; as such, he required something to keep him occupied.

This initially manifested in reading while at parks. Mostly, he read no-Maj literature, including [i]Animorphs[/i] and [i]The Hunger Games[/i]. However, he acquired some magical reading, too, and one thing in particular caught his eye: a book on the animagus ritual.

Although generally lacking focus, Cyrus had focused well when learning how to spread spells. With this new goal of animal transformation in his mind, he poured himself into his studies when he wasn’t looking at new clothing design ideas or trying to train himself for street performance. His book detailed the process in full, as well as how to ensure he did everything legally, which was his aunt’s priority when he mentioned his new goal to her. She supported him when he chose to reach out to Professor Toussaint-Fleischer, and they were both very pleased when Professor Toussaint-Fleischer decided to guide Cyrus in his journey.

He tracked the lunar calendar as best he could before finally putting the Mandrake leaf in his mouth one night. He hoped with all his heart that, by the next full moon, the weather would be kind to him. He was wrong, which staunched his fire-eating fantasies, as he had been researching that in his spare time. But when the internet said a full moon would be, on July 10th, clouds covered the sky, and Cyrus had to start over.

He became rather adept at keeping the Mandrake leaf in his mouth. He learned how to talk, how to eat, how to drink, but still he yearned for the night he could take the leaf out and complete the ritual. However, this obstacle gave him a bit more time to prepare. By that time, he was in Ireland, still working on his travels, and he decided he would remain there for at least a week. He boxed off and covered a section of grass out in a campsite, and he pitched a tent next to it so that he could ensure no one would step on the grass and ruin his ritual. He grew impatient waiting the entire week, but it was worth it when he carefully used a silver spoon to siphon the untouched dewdrops into a phial.

The next task was the easiest. He was able to find a person who knew a person who could barter for the chrysalis, provided Cyrus traded him something [i]unique[/i]. Cyrus had plenty of that—unique would have been his middle name were it  not Alexander. He ended up giving the guy a pair of tie-dye patterned Crocs and a rainbow rubber duck. Then, a few days later, the chrysalis was his, and he was able to depart for rural Scotland. It was quiet there—secluded, calm—and he knew that was the best place for him to finish the ritual would be there. It was just a [i]feeling[/i] he had, a hunch, but he had always been the type to follow his instincts.

He set a different phial outside and waited. And waited. And then August 9th came around, and it was clear, and he giddily spat the leaf into it before plucking a hair from his head, and adding that, along with the dewdrops and the chrysalis into the phial. Then, he slipped the potion into a cabinet in his shack and waited some more. Every night, and every morning, he placed the tip of his beloved wand over his heart and whispered the magic words: [b]‘Amato Amino Animato Animagus.’[/b] Waking before dawn and sleeping after the late northern twilight became a ritual in and of itself, and Cyrus would have been lying if he said this wasn’t the most content he’d felt in a while.

A local in a village he visited warned him of impending rain and storms on the 14th, and Cyrus couldn’t believe his luck. The villager’s warning proved true when, during the afternoon, lightning arced across a heavy grey sky, and Cyrus all but [i]ran[/i] to retrieve his potion. He locked himself in the shack’s lavatory and excitedly murmured the words, wand tip resting upon his quickly-beating heart: [b]‘Amato Amino Animato Animagus.’[/b]

Then, he tipped the potion back. 

It was disgusting—a horrible texture, and slightly hairy, and with an odd consistency—but Cyrus swallowed, and he closed his eyes and waited. Oh, what if he was a horse!? What if he were a [i]pegasus[/i]!? What if he could soar across the—oh, what was that? 

He was shrinking. And fast. 

All thoughts of being a large animal zoomed out of his brain as his feet shrank and became webbed, as his nose and mouth elongated into a very familiar shape. The strange sensation of wings along his sides and a tail near his back confirmed it—he was a [i]bird[/i].

What type of bird, he wasn’t sure. He was hardly that nimble on the cold lavatory floor, anyhow, and as he flapped his wings and tried to climb onto the toilet, he managed to get a glimpse of his colouring in the warped porcelain of the throne. Was that—no, it couldn’t be—

Rainbow. He was a [i]rainbow duck[/i]. Just like the rubber duck he’d given that one guy!!!

A Mandarin Duck, a Wood Duck or a Mallard… and he wouldn’t have minded any of them for the life of him.

(Later, he learned it was a Mandarin Duck, when he was able to transform in front of a mirror. He tried to let out an excited yelp, but it turned into a loud quack, which made him laugh a series of [i]quack-quack-quack[/i]s while flapping his wings. His favourite, the duck that made him feel so close to the natural world… it was all he could have wanted.)

(Later, he decided he would spread his wings and fly.)[/reducio]

[center][b]Ministry of Magic file:[/b][/center]
[b]Wizard Name:[/b] Cyrus Alexander Darsel
[b]Animal:[/b] Mandarin Duck ([i]Aix galericulata[/i])
[b]Description:[/b] Cyrus looks like a standard adult male Mandarin Duck – he is about 45 cm long with a 70 cm wingspan. He has orange webbed feet. His bill is bright pink, and like most Mandarin Ducks, he is very multicoloured. His forehead has a green stripe going up it, he has purple dappling along the feathers on his chest, and he has some orange feathers on his back. His wings are a mixture of white, brown, black and orange, and his stomach is mostly white. However, the ‘whiskers’ that usually frame a Mandarin Duck’s face are a bright, golden blond instead of tawny, mirroring the same colour as Cyrus’s human hair.
[b]Distinctive Marking:[/b] Cyrus’s duck form has ‘whiskers’, as do most male Mandarin Ducks, but while most Mandarin Ducks have tawny/orangeish whiskers, Cyrus’s are the same colour as his hair – a golden blond colour.
[center][b]Size:[/b] 
Small (1 point)
[b]Abilities:[/b] 
Flight (2 points), Aquatic (1 point)
[b]Stats:[/b]
Stamina: 8 | Strength: 7 | Evasion: 15 | Wisdom: 0 | Accuracy: 15[/center]

[b]Patronus:[/b] Mandarin Duck (Aix galericulata) [reducio]Ever since he was little, Cyrus’s biggest goal had been to bring joy to others however he could. He had been five when he told his mother he wanted to use his imagination to make people smile. He had been five when she died.

That didn’t stop him. He internalised his mother’s affection, her creativity, her radiance, and he strove to bring it to others through himself. He did his best to live up to his name — Cyrus, meaning sun, king; Alexander, meaning protector, defender of men. He grew up to be his mother’s child despite his father’s surname or his aunt and uncle’s nurture. He shared facts of all sorts with his acquaintances (later his friends), especially facts about ducks, or flying, or Crocs, whatever made them smile, whatever brought the light of the sun to their eyes.

So when he was trying to cast a corporeal patronus, he thought he would have no shortage of happy memories. When he was in his sixth year, he was the happiest person he knew, the sun always shining in his eyes, the kindest of words always escaping his smiling lips.

But memories of bringing joy to others, however joyous they seemed, did not actually conjure much of anything. The best he could do was when he thought about his last strong memory of his mother, when she took him to London, when he saw a painting and learned he liked to colour. A silver mist emanated from his wand then: not enough to help others, not enough to scare off a dementor, but enough to suggest he had the potential to at least cast the spell.

He stopped trying after a while. He had more important things to focus on — his classes, duelling practice, a new book his aunt had sent him. The idea of defeating a dementor was perhaps something that could represent the culmination of his life’s mission, but he was just a kid at that point. Why should kids have to scare off life-eaters, destroyers of happiness? Why should kids have to do anything but exist?

He found an answer to that question when Hogsmeade was attacked and his optimistic, rose-tinted world was plunged into flame, when every day smelt vaguely of burnt meat and acrid smoke. The sky didn’t look the same for weeks, months, even. Sometimes he had to wear perfume, women’s perfume, to get rid of the stench that seemed to follow him everywhere he went. He was not unhappy; he still smiled, he still strove to be a beacon of light for others. But sometimes he wondered, and anger stoked his blood into boiling just like the pyre of Hogsmeade had stoked the flames of death. Life-eater. Destroyer of happiness. So many of them had been kids.

And here he was, eighteen, searching for answers, for remedies, to make the cruel world just a bit kinder after all that had occurred.

It was December when he tried again. At first, he got distracted — he trailed the Ilvermorny grounds, muttering ‘Expecto Patronum’ under his breath until he was sure he had the incantation right, and then he did the wand movement, and the fluttering noise of wings started him. He did not even conjure vapour. Frowning, he tried to ground himself, but the bird just reminded him of Hogsmeade, when he had seen a bird and thought the world would be the same. He swallowed thickly, the cold Massachusetts air seeming to coagulate around him, and he lifted his wrist to his nose to smell the sharp tang of citrus perfume that he had dabbed there earlier.

It had always begun and ended with birds.

Tapping his wand against his leg, he stared blankly ahead of him, ocean-blue gaze dull in the dim light of the overcast afternoon sky, and he thought back to summer, back to warmth. He remembered meeting Tristan in a dodgy shop in a dark alleyway, remembered the truth of kindness always being where you least expected it. We can all find joy in the little things, Cyrus had said then, and although he was not grinning at the memory, he was contented, so he continued to think of summertime. He recalled squeaky Crocs and glitter gel pens, conversations with a group of acquaintances — no, friends, that was what they were — on the Tube, the magic of Apple Pay, and then, wait, a few weeks before…

It always starts and ends with birds.

They’re round because if you squeeze them… they squeak! Yes, it was coming together now, he thought, smiling warmly at the memory. It had been cold then. It was cold now. Oh. My. Gods. He remembered children smiling widely, a few of them overjoyed, a few of them slightly confused but still having fun. He recalled the silly, nonsense feeling of the rubber ducks in his hands. It had been July, and the world had not turned itself upside down. And he had seen Elias again, stayed with him, even, and he had met Hanya, and Acacia, and Hans, and seen Alyssea, and it had been wonderful.

Chuckling to himself as he remembered the Pokémon he had learned about from Hanya’s nickname for him, Psi-Duck, he waved his wand again, and this time, his voice was jolly and warm, and his hand did not shake. ‘Expecto Patronum.’

It started with vapour. He was not disappointed, not yet, but then his smile widened to reveal teeth as he thought he saw a feather, and then a beak — no, a bill. Decorative plumage formed out of the mist in the cold, cold air, and warmth flooded through Cyrus as he began to recognise the creature that was forming. A duck, of course, how could he not have expected that!? And, as it made its diminutive size known, and as its distinctive crest became apparent, the sunshine boy laughed giddily. The Mandarin duck was one of the most regal ducks, having been associated with emperors and kings. And Cyrus had always said ducks were regal, despite the fact that people probably often thought he was wrong. Now, he thought about all of his facts about ducks, and he sorted through facts about wood ducks, his mother's favourite, and mallards, and canvasbacks, until he remembered his trivia about Mandarin ducks.

He had learned that in some cultures, they represented love, the lifelong type, something Cyrus hoped he would have for himself someday, the type of love he imparted in platonic and familial ways with his friends and family. He knew that ducks, in general, could represent messengers and bringers of harmony — and what was he if not that? And Mandarin Ducks, they could represent joy, they could bring joy, and wasn’t that what he wanted to do?

And they brought good luck.

Cyrus gazed upon his patronus with newfound affection for the creature, and he wondered if this meant that he would not need to smell the citrus on his wrist every time he thought of Hogsmeade. Had he just been blessed, given good luck, given the opportunity — no, given the need to grow? He needed joy for himself before he could bring joy to others, and if this good duck, this lucky duck, was his, was for him, then it was something he needed to do; it was an omen.

His growth would begin with birds.[/reducio]