Rewritten: 8/7/2020
Chapter 25: The First Christmas (2/2)
She had sent the gifts off upon arrival at the mansion. Not one second wasted except to sign her name on each of the parcels. What had started out as a mild inconvenience of purchasing gifts had ended up escalating into a harrowing ordeal the moment she had tried to bid the professor a pleasant goodbye. She shivered. She could still feel his eyes, a single-minded sharpness that followed her as she slipped back into the crowd.
"The Ins and Outs of Polite Society. Reading up on Purebloods, Cyrna?" Nicolas asked her, his voice in the silence of the library startled her quite badly. She grimaced as she picked up the dropped book from the ground. The grandfather clock chimed as it struck twelve. Noon was when the rest of the household awoke on holidays.
"The book you gave me on Pureblood etiquette didn't cover the details of gift-giving," she told him as she set the book aside. "I was doing a bit of extra reading."
"On Christmas?" Nicolas gave a small hum and settled himself down beside her, his brows knit together. "Politics," he stated in a tone that told her he did not have fond feelings for that subject. "If there is one thing I gained from my seclusion, it was the avoidance of all things political."
"One of my professors said something similar," Cyrna admitted.
"Give that man a golden cauldron," Nicolas muttered.
She was open with her amusement, the smirk showing on her face. "Well, the man probably has one or two of those already, Nicolas," she said.
"Your Potions professor?"
She nodded. "He had one out in the classroom when I went down to do extra work with him. I wouldn't be surprised if he had another one or two in his personal office." She thought of what she saw on Halloween's night and said, "He's very good at what he does—he had more than six cauldrons going at the same time; four being highly volatile potions."
"Oh?"
"Frighteningly intelligent, I think, though terribly stubborn when he puts his mind on something."
"Oh?"
"Loves ripping apart a person's ego. Not picky when it comes to adults or children, unfortunately," she added after a moment of thought to the Gryffindors in her Potions class. Merlin bless any lion who crossed Snape's path.
"Hm."
Cyrna finally paid attention to Nicolas who had leaned back on his chair to scrutinize her.
She tilted her head questioningly.
"I've heard about him," the alchemist said. "You should be careful— "a wry smile rose on his face. "But I suppose you already know the matter with him?"
"I know what I'm doing," she told him. But really, she wasn't sure if she did because nothing ever seemed to go according to plan with Snape. She had planned to stay far away from him, but coincidences after coincidences arose and she found herself spending more time with him than she should. She snapped out of her thoughts when she saw Nicolas smile—it was the gentlest smile she had ever seen on him.
"What?" she asked.
His eyes crinkled like the wrinkles around his smile. "From what you've told me, I'm not sure if he's a good professor, but he does sound like someone who will be able to keep Potions challenging for you in the future," Nicolas said.
'When I'm no longer there,' Cyrna heard the unspoken words. Her next breath seemed to require twice the usual effort, and she felt her entire body freeze. "Well," she said, her words tense as she forced them out. "Potions is already challenging as is. I don't need it to be more."
Nicolas only smiled once more before he ruffled her hair. "Foolish child. If I know your mind, then I know that you'll lose interest in something the moment you think you've fully comprehended it."
Cyrna sat stiffly, neck bent as she stared blankly at the ground in silence as Nicolas' hand repeated its motions. The Philosopher's Stone. She held herself back from leaning into the hand.
"I think, and I hope," she said quietly after a moment had passed, "that I will not forget you."
Nicolas, her first mentor, snorted in amusement. But there was a bright gleam in the alchemist's eyes as he cleared his throat and said, "How touching." Then quickly, he gestured to the book she had set down on the table. "And what's that? Not one of mine, I believe?" He picked it up. "I didn't take you for a poetry lover," Nicolas said as he flipped open the book.
"I'm not," Cyrna answered after a moment where Nicolas' eyes was glued to the book, refusing to look at her. "I was using it to reference for something."
"Ah. A reference! Whatever for?" he said with a teasing drawl. "Something that's got my little student stuck?"
"I'm not stuck!" she snapped reflexively. Immediately, her cheeks reddened when Nicolas smirked. She was not easily irritable, tending more to be the sort that was just passive about everything.
"Well, well," he said. "You are most certainly stuck on something."
Cyrna saw nothing but amusement in the alchemist's expression. Slowly, she felt herself relax from a tension that she didn't know had settled. "I'm stuck—but just a bit."
"Mhm. Just a bit," he said dryly. He waved his hand. "Out with it then."
Her pride smarted as she asked about the Soulflower, though not as much as it would have if Nicolas had not offered to help first. But still, she didn't like admitting that she was lost. When she saw his eyes immediately sharpen onto her face, she grudgingly decided that she had made the right decision to ask. And so, Cyrna told Nicolas what happened that night she had obtained the flower. He listened attentively, interrupting only occasionally for clarification. His expression grew skeptical when she glided over the details of her confrontation with Quirrell then became grim when she spoke of the death of the unicorn and the words the unicorn had spoken to her.
"What am I supposed to do with it now?" she asked when she finally finished her story.
Nicolas sighed heavily as he leaned back, his posture weary. "Do not dig further into this matter."
This came from the alchemist who had always encouraged her to chase after her questions, to continue till she found the answer. That was what people of science did. They sought answers. But even if he told her to leave things be, how could she just… not dig further? She could remember vividly the sudden emotions that had ripped painfully through her being as she watched the unicorn die; watched as the light left is eyes. She had promised it her duty, and she told Nicolas as much. Her word defined her.
Nicolas held his hand up to stop her from saying anything else. He was silent for a moment before he said slowly, "I suppose I could tell you the knowledge you need for your promise, though you cannot repeat this to anyone else. Understood?"
She nodded.
Eyeing her with a severe expression, the alchemist began. "From my knowledge, there are two things one may do with a Soulflower. One, is to return it to magic, allowing the unicorn to be reborn; giving it another chance at life. The second ties in to why the unicorn is a symbol of purity. Like the phoenix heals physiological wounds—even fatal ones—the phoenix for all its glory cannot heal magical wounds kept open by dark magic."
"Purification," she murmured at Nicolas' pause. Why hadn't there been a genocide of that species yet to harvest the flower? Then again, she couldn't remember ever reading about the flower in the books. And moreover, she couldn't believe the unicorn had entrusted her with something so important.
"Indeed," Nicolas continued. "The unicorn purifies. It heals, you could say, magical wounds though it has no effect on the physiological ones. Think curses and the like—the ultimate cursebreaker."
Immediately, she thought of Quirrell, before quickly dismissing the idea. For even if she purified that one piece of Voldemort's soul, there were still many more to go. He would not be dead.
"Then why—" Would a normal person ask this sort of question?
"Hm?"
"Why hasn't there been a mass extinction of unicorns to gather their flowers?" she asked with hesitance.
His brow rose and a small frown made his way onto his face, but when she shrank slightly back on her seat, his expression softened and a glint of amusement made its way to his eyes. "I'll satisfy your curiosity this time, but take care not to ask things like this so mindlessly to other wizards, lest they think you have interest in the darker sort of magic."
"I wouldn't ask this to anybody else," Cyrna said after a pause. "Not even Perenelle. She is too kind."
"Too kind, indeed," Nicolas said with a sort of fond exasperation that told her that Perenelle had always been the type to help anybody and anything in need. "Well, besides the heavy emotional toll on the mind to killing a creature so pure, you mean?" His voice was dry as he spoke. "Kill enough and you might begin to go mad. If that isn't enough of a deterrent, then one of these conditions will be. First, the flower only appears if it is freely given by the unicorn at its death. Furthermore, unicorns only have this choice of giving the flower to a… select group of people. And when given, the purifying magic only works according to the direct wishes of its owner. It is pointless to steal or take, even if you willed the flower to another. No point in hoarding."
"Is it rare then? My Potions professor recognized the flower."
Nicolas shrugged, his thin shoulders lifting the layers of robes. "Its existence is no secret. If you delve deep into enough potion books and herbology books, you will eventually come across a brief mentioning of it." He paused. "Well in some poetry books too, I suppose. Any more questions?" Nicolas asked wryly.
"One more." It had been something that had confused her the moment Nicolas had given her the two uses of the flower. She waited for Nicolas' nod. "Why would anyone choose the first usage of the Soulflower when the second benefits the owner so much more?" she asked.
Nicolas' brows crinkled, the wrinkles on his forehead suddenly making him look even older than his hundreds of years. A feat in itself. He sighed deeply. "Cyrna, just believe me when I say that to those the unicorn gives the flowers, they typically have no need of the second usage." He held his hand to stop her from speaking when he saw the gleam in his child's eyes. "I can't say any more on that matter. You will have to accept my words as they are."
"You can't say or you don't want to?" she asked shrewdly.
"Both. I can't and I don't want to. Do not pry further, child."
She was about to concede—rarely was he this serious—when his expression turned pensive.
"For now, at least. There may come a time when you must, but not now," he said darkly.
And simply like that, any desire she had left to pry withered away. His expression spelled only danger, or at least unpleasantness, and Cyrna knew she disliked both of those things.
o - o - o - o - o
Perenelle had outdone herself on the feast—Cyrna could not even begin to count the sheer variety of dishes that decorated every inch of their long dining table. "Presents?" Perenelle prompted at the end of the night. Gathered by the tree, Nicolas grabbed the single present addressed to the Flamels. Cyrna leaned in to see that it was one from Dumbledore. With a slight crook of Perenelle's finger, the gift floated up and began to unwrap itself.
A card and a yellow tin box.
Nicolas read the card before looking at the tin. "Lemon drops," he rolled his eyes as Perenelle laughed. "Surely the old fool knows that we can't have that much sugar," he muttered. There was a scowl on his face but his eyes betrayed him as they glinted with laughter. "And which pair of socks did you send him this Christmas, Perenelle?" he asked good-naturedly.
"Oh, the ones that had purple and gold stripes with pygmy puffs of all different colours spotting the socks," Perenelle had a devious looking grin when she replied. "The more garish, the better for that man, I say."
By the time the Flamels had turned their attention on her, Cyrna had already opened two of her presents: the one from Hermione and the one from Theodore. Theodore had sent her a pack of fine chocolates. A luxury item, it seemed to her, because the package held only four intricately detailed pieces that looked like it belonged inside a glass display case than in her mouth. The gift from Hermione was a book. A muggle historical romance book, to be exact. For my half-muggle friend, the attached card had read. We've talked science before; non-fiction stuff. So are you surprised that it's fiction? Merry Christmas! She hadn't received a present from either Harry and Ron, not that she had expected to. Harry had no means to send her one, and she and Ron were on shaky grounds of friendship.
Grabbing her last present, the parcel flexing at her grip, she picked up the card attached to the silver ribbon:
Wear it if it sparks your fancy. On another note, I dropped by our favourite bookstore with father and mother. It was deliciously humorous. I'll tell you all about it when we meet again. Best Christmas Wishes to you – Daphne Greengrass.
Out fell a deep green winter cloak, so dark that it was almost a shade of black. Silver fur lined the edges of the cloak and embroidered just above her heart when she wore it was a crescent moon, big enough so that it was visible but not obnoxiously so. The cloak looked pricey, but not so much that it would make a dent in Daphne's allowance.
When he saw her gift, Nicolas gave a sardonic roll of his eyes. "This is too soon," he grumbled to which Perenelle shot him a fond smile.
"Oh Nicolas, it's not that bad," Perenelle tutted, expression relaxed if not amused. "Really, it's just a cloak, they're giving her time."
Cyrna blinked up at Perenelle questioningly.
"The more time the accessory is on a person, the stronger you are proclaiming your alliance to be. So, say if it was a ring, you would be announcing it to the world. An earing, though it has the potential to be worn often, is often hidden by your hair, and so, it would mean a strong alliance, though not as strong as a ring."
Then a winter cloak that would only be worn outdoors in the coldest season would rarely be displayed for others to see. A weak alliance? She didn't know she had muttered this aloud till Perenelle corrected her.
"I wouldn't say it like that, my dear. More like an overture to an alliance. You must have found some friends who like you quite a bit. Friends!" Perenelle looked really happy at that. "But nevertheless, you have another year before the gift-giving season to really make up your mind if you'd like to accept."
Cyrna stared at the gift. This was what Snape was talking about. She had wanted to keep things casual, but never let it be said that when the Greengrass heir set her mind on something that she was slow in obtaining it.
"Messy and complicated!" Nicolas grumped again with a faint scowl. "But nevermind it, Cyrna, here's ours."
He thrust a paper wrapped package to her, held together with twine. Her thumb brushed the wrinkle of the paper. She felt bad for receiving this present. There was no need for them to give one, not when they had given her everything she owned in this world already. It was she who owed them much. But feeling their expectant gaze on her, she set to unravelling the package to find a single candle. Unlike the normal candles with their opaque white, this wax was strangely translucent—like the potion she had brewed for Nicolas the other day. Oh. No wonder why he had tossed her out the room so quickly!
"You only need to think about the wizard whose magic is in this wax when you light the candle," he explained, eyes lighting up with the passion she usually saw when he spoke of his innovations. "The candle will change colour according to that wizard's signature—your silver, Perenelle's orange, and my blue—and the scent will be the scent that wizard smells if given amortentia. One of a kind, I dare say," he chortled smugly, clearly proud of himself. "Well, it's nothing useful, but it is a nice memento. And rare. People who can see and capture magic are few," he gently clasped Perenelle's hand.
Ah so it was ingredients of amortentia for the smell and the other ingredients to form the wax of the candle. "But what was the purpose of the elixir of life?" She paused as a thought dawned. "Don't tell me—"
Nicolas shrugged. "What's the use of a memento if it will burn itself out, Cyrna?" he asked with a hint of impatience. "Of course I'll have it magically restore itself each time after lit."
Choked laughter.
She stared at the couple who would dare use such a potion that many wizards would kill for so nonchalantly. "Only you both would use it like that," she said ruefully.
"We wanted to."
Cyrna swallowed hard at the sincerity she could hear in their voices. "Well, I've definitely never heard of this sort of candle before, so I'm afraid my gift can't top this." There was a quiver in her voice, so slight that she wasn't sure if she herself had heard it. The Flamels only smiled in response, amusement and unmistakeable fondness in their expressions.
"Of course you've never heard of such a candle," Perenelle said with a twinkle in her eyes. "No one would bother inventing something so pointless with such costly ingredients except for the both of us," she said patting Nicolas' hand.
For her. They had invented something for her. Red crept up her cheeks as she summoned her present and handed it over. The packaging falling away at Perenelle's spell revealed a medium-sized canvas that would fit nicely above the library's fireplace. Perenelle's laugh tinkered in the air as she saw the memory Cyrna had chosen for the painter. "You've captured Nicolas' smirk perfectly!"
Stepping past the large mahogany doors leading into the room, she was gazing at Perenelle who greeted her with a soft smile and at Nicolas who was smirking at her. The sunlight streaming in from the arched windows lit up the room as she walked over to the table with Prince leading the way. A small smile lay on her lips.
"Your smile, Perenelle," Nicolas only murmured as he studied the picture. He shook his head, eyes wider than usual as he stared at Cyrna. "Your memory was very detailed at this moment."
Cyrna coloured even more, her heart quickened and she found herself having to stop her hands from wringing together. "Your acceptance and generosity…" her voice was soft, a murmur that was barely audible. Her lashes swept down as she stared at the ground. "I didn't want to forget that—this moment."
Prince who had been feasting on the chunks of turkey finally strutted over with a purr as he sidled up to her legs that lay stretched on the ground. She combed through his fur for a moment before she found the courage to look back up. The gentle gleam of pride and joy in both their eyes only enlarged the weight in her heart.
o - o - o - o - o
Before she knew it, the holiday had passed and she found herself once again ensconced in the stone walls of Hogwarts. "I told you that I wasn't too good," Cyrna said when Ron finally took her king. Her pieces yelled angrily at her from the sidelines of the board, disappointed in her that she had lost after her previous two victories.
"You won twice before," Ron said with a scoff. "You're a fine player."
"Barely," she corrected. "Both times I won by the skin of my teeth."
She wasn't great at chess, though she wasn't bad. Still, she couldn't believe that she had almost lost twice and had lost once to an eleven-year old.
"A win is a win. " Ron shrugged. "If you played less defensively, you could have beaten me faster in the first two games."
Cyrna hummed as she packed up her stuff. "You're not the first to tell me that," she said, thinking of her dad who had told her the same thing when she had last played against him in her high school years.
After Ron forced a promise out of her for another game, she bid goodbye to Harry who had played against both of them once before quickly deciding that he'd rather watch with Hermione, who had eventually lost interest and began to study Transfigurations—
She looked longingly at that subject, sighing once before she left the library. She had tried, oh, she had tried so hard over the holidays. Not a day passed where she didn't read at least one book on Transfigurations or on medical conditions for wizards. She had tried really hard. But eventually, she finally came to the realization that it was foolish to waste anymore time when it was time that was running out for her greatest sources of information.
Making her decision, she arrived at Nicolas' potions room—feeling more comfortable with him as he had helped her with her other problem. But the moment she had said "Transfigurations," a strange expression took over his face and he hurried with her to Perenelle after placing a stasis charm on his work. "You can't say or you don't want to?" she asked in the silence that followed after she had summarized her findings and her little experiment, echoing the previous moment in the library with Nicolas. The Flamels just sat there, expressions uncharacteristically impassive and controlled, then grim looks were exchanged.
"Unlike before," Nicolas had answered, with a frustrated shake of his head, "this time, we can't tell you, but I'm beginning to think that we should if doing so ever becomes an option."
"Perhaps we could guide her to the answer?" Perenelle suggested after a moment.
"Even that would be difficult… but if it comes down to it, we'll figure something out," Nicolas said, exchanging another grim look with Perenelle—the same look that he had given her when she had pushed him for answers about the unicorn.
And upon later reflection, she determined that there was a very good chance that the issues of the Soulflower and Transfigurations could be linked. But she also remembered the dark expression on Nicolas' face. Would it be worth it? Was finding the answer to something that might not cure her inability to perform Transfigurations worth the danger of discovery?
However unfortunate these circumstances were, at least Harry seemed to be progressing accurately through the story. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, had become increasingly twitchy with excitement, like a hound that had caught scent of its first prey. They began to meet less with her, meetings now changed to weekly ones. They had found the story of Nicolas Flamel and the Philosopher's Stone, she was sure.
All this had worked perfectly for Cyrna, and for the next couple of months, she found herself able to spend more time with Daphne, Theodore, and the other members of her House. She learnt the best ways to avoid Pansy—Cyrna didn't know what she had done for Pansy to dislike her so—and to her greatest surprise, found that Draco was actually quite tolerable when he forgot to spit and sneer the words 'half-blood' to her face—which happened less and less the more she hung out with the Slytherins in their common room. It was also then that she began to notice tiny things about Daphne that she had observed but never really paid attention to—her brown hair with white lashes combination; she disliked Potions and pumpkin pasties, she had a hidden love for chocolate chip cookies, she really liked the night, not in a creepy way, just that she liked the moon and the stars. And for all her icy exterior as she stared down people with delicate disdain, she was downright loyal to Theodore, as he was to her as well. It was not a one-way thing, and Cyrna knew that Daphne and Theodore had begun to know her a bit better too. Namely, they began to be able to pick up on her discomfort.
"I don't understand," Daphne said in a matter-of-fact tone as she and Theodore sat with her at the back of the DADA classroom. "He's the least intimidating professor in the entire castle. Why, even Trelawny is scarier when she gets into one of her moods." She paused. "At least from what I've heard from the upper years. Marcus told me Trelawny suddenly collapsed midway through lecture then in the next half-a-second was back up and dashing to the nearest student. Grabbed his hand and started muttering a bunch of nonsense before she froze—like someone had petrified her—blinked and then suddenly she continued lecturing like nothing had happened."
Cyrna had to admit that that did sound very creepy.
"She's probably just a stellar actress," Theodore said dryly. He was always the most skeptical of the three.
Daphne didn't agree or disagree to the statement, and Cyrna knew it had to do with the unit on astronomy that supported divination. Something about using the motion and placement of the astronomical bodies to divine the future.
"He just feels off to me," Cyrna answered when they left the classroom, out of earshot from Professor Quirrell. Theodore looked at her in disbelief, but Daphne seemed considering. "Or maybe it's all the garlic," she added. "Anyone who douses himself with perfume that smells like garlic can't be sane."
Once, she had accidently performed the smokescreen spell then flipendo nonverbally in her practice with Daphne—she had gotten quite comfortable with it after spending quality time with Perenelle in the holidays—and suddenly, from the corner of her eyes, she saw Quirrell staring at her, expression contemplative.
When he noticed her attention, he grinned his twitch of a grin, and her blood ran cold for the rest of the lesson. Daphne saw the grin too, but thought nothing of it. She didn't understand why Cyrna had fallen into a tense silence when they left that class. And maybe it was because Cyrna knew who Quirrell was, but every single action he did screamed danger and creep to her. But on the contrary, Harry and Ron actually seemed to like the man, though they admitted he was a terrible professor, and the other Slytherins found his stutter hilarious and poked fun at him as he taught. No one believed he could even harm a fly, and this was the brilliance of Quirrell's disguise. It was so thorough, so perfect, that she would have doubted herself if she did not know better.
o - o - o - o - o
Hermione and Ron cheered for Harry as the Gryffindor team won the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff. With these points, Gryffindor had overtaken Slytherin's lead for the House Cup. Cyrna who stood beside Daphne opted for a neutral expression at Harry's victory. It wouldn't do her any favours in her House to cheer.
Thankfully, it was when most of the Slytherins around her had left for the castle that Hermione tugged her in the direction to the Quidditch field where the Gryffindors were celebrating their victory. Daphne scowled from beside her—a slight slant of her lips. Hermione hesitated only for a moment, before her brows drew together in a stubborn set. She tugged Cyrna's arm more insistently.
"She should at least be able to congratulate Harry. It's not like the game was against your House," Hermione said in a sniffy tone. A tone Cyrna now knew appeared whenever Hermione was nervous.
Daphne looked at Cyrna with an arched brow to communicate her disbelief before she switched to stare at Hermione, eyes dissecting with their cold precision. "Cyrna is perfectly capable of speaking for herself, Granger," she said icily. Then she reached out, a light touch on Cyrna's other arm. "Unity, do not forget," Daphne's words, spoken in a warmer tone, were only for Cyrna to hear before she left with Theodore, following the rest of the Slytherins back to the castle.
Hermione crossed the field to where Ron and Harry stood with a stomp in her steps. "Ugh! She's so condescending," Hermione hissed, a flush on her cheeks. "Why are you friends with her?"
Cyrna was amused. "She's actually one of the better ones in Slytherin, you know."
Hermione looked aghast.
"I mean, she spoke to you without calling—uh, insulting you. That's pretty tame for a Slytherin."
"That's true. But I don't think she likes me."
Cyrna snorted. "Definitely not," she said. But at least Daphne had for some reason deemed Hermione worthy of a few words, icy though they may be. "She probably just sees you as a small bump in the road of her grand plans. Just an irritant." The more Cyrna thought about it, the more she believed her own statement.
"I haven't done anything to her!" Hermione exclaimed under her breath as she waved at Harry and Ron.
You're wrong. She thinks you're my friend, meaning that it will be harder for her to obtain my sole loyalty. Or, of course, since you're a Muggle-born, she could be worrying about my standing in the House, which may in turn drag hers down since she's clearly chosen to support me. Cyrna said none of those things, only chuckling at Hermione's words.
"Hermione! Cyrna, hi! We won!" Harry called to them from the middle of a crowd of Gryffindors, his face a bright red from the game. He looked around at the people lifting him up and cheering, a bit bewildered, and then whatever shyness remained from his time at the Dursleys was peeled away by the contagious excitement of his House. He grinned widely.
"Congratulations, Harry!" Hermione called back from Ron's side. They were at the edges of the cheering sea of red rather than in the thick of it since Ron had gotten a nosebleed—curtesy of Draco from their little scuffle at the stands during the Quidditch match.
Ron had eyed her for a moment when she arrived with Hermione before giving her a friendly thump on the back. "The snake in a group of lions. That's bold. Sure you aren't actually a Gryffindor? It'd make heck of a lot more sense."
Cyrna shivered hard at that thought. "If you two and Harry weren't here, I'd be on the opposite end of the castle grounds."
Because they were the only reason she was here—there was no way she was going to ruin her carefully formed relationship with the golden trio on the first year of the books for something as small as refusing Hermione's insistence to come congratulate Harry. Even if she had to suffer a bit in Slytherin for doing so, it would be worth it at the end.
The sun was setting now, and it had been a few minutes since Ron and Hermione had left. As per her usual Fridays, she headed to the school shed for a broom, hoping to fly those minutes away in the utter safety and peace of the skies. There was only the light from the tip of her wand—lumos—to help her in the dark of the shed to find a decent looking broom. Hopefully she'd still have twenty minutes to fly. With a broom in hand, she pushed the door. It didn't budge.
She hadn't locked the door. Locked in?
"Alohomora."
But there was no clicking sound of an opening lock—the door wasn't locked.
With a frown, she threw the weight of her body against the door, and she heard as sharp, startled cry as she tumbled outside the shed with her broom.
"Cyrna!"
"Harry!"
They both said at the same time from the ground. They hastily got up.
"What are you doing?" Cyrna snapped from surprise.
"What are you doing?" Harry snapped back in return. "Why are you in the shed?"
"Picking a broom to go flying before dinner!" Cyrna exclaimed. She gestured to the broom that had came out of the scuffle without missing a single straw.
"And I was returning my broom to the shed!"
Cyrna stared at Harry. Harry stared at her. His lips twitched up, and an obnoxiously bright red rose to her cheeks as the racing beat of her heart calmed. "Oh my word—Merlin, hell—this is so stupid," she huffed in the beat of silence, her hand coming up to cover her face. Harry's snickers did not help.
"That was fun," Harry said gleefully. Cyrna was definitely the calmest out of his friends, similar but different from Hermione's levelheadedness. Her calm was cold and kind of unapproachable, unless she was smiling or smirking, then that would spark a bit of the warmth that had him wanting her as his friend when they first met. Too bad Ron wasn't here, Harry bet Ron would pay to see her so ruffled.
Cyrna threw a sideways glare at him between her fingers before she lowered her hand. "Drop it, Harry," she said dryly when she saw Harry try to pull a serious expression. "That doesn't suit you. Leave that expression to me."
The grin appeared again, then suddenly, his eyes narrowed into the distance and the grin slipped from his face. "Are you still holding your promise about following Snape?"
"Of course. I've trailed him whenever possible," which was admittedly almost never, "he hasn't done anything too strange from what I've seen. But then again, he spends a lot of time in his office and teaching that I have no idea what he would be up to in there."
"Great," Harry smiled a smile that was grim but laced with excitement. "Because I think he's finally up to something right now, and since you're here, you should come with me."
Cyrna spun around and saw Snape heading to the forest, and in that moment, she recalled the blasted scene from the book and cursed the movies for confusing them to her. In the book, Snape went to meet Quirrell in the forbidden forest, and Harry had followed with a broom, probably.
"No," she said. She was not going anywhere near Quirrell.
Harry frowned. "Why not? He's clearly doing something he's not supposed to. Look how sneaky he looks."
Cyrna saw only Snape's usual gliding gait, his black cloak flowing smoothly behind him. She turned back to Harry. "He could just be going to gather potion ingredients from the forest, Harry." At his look of petulance, she sighed. "Then did you think of how you'd follow him?"
Harry got onto his broom in answer. "Come on, Cyrna! You wanted to do a bit of flying anyways! And you promised you'd help!"
She winced. Okay maybe she had promised, but Quirrell was there. "Harry, even if you go, you wouldn't be able to spy on them since the professors can probably sense magical signatures," she made up on the spot, "They'd know someone was there, and you wouldn't find anything. If you follow, Snape might choose another route to confuse you."
Said professor was drawing further away.
"Really?" Harry looked confused then peeved.
He bought it!
Harry dismounted the broom. "I should have brought my cloak," he muttered irritably. "All right, let's go back to the castle," he said unhappily.
The relief that had settled in her bones fled immediately at his words. 'Let's go back to the castle,' he had said. The both of them!?
"Wait!" Cyrna called before he could leave. He had to hear the conversation! "You should go, just in case!"
Harry blinked at her with a puzzled expression. "And you shouldn't? What difference does it make if he senses one or two students?"
She searched her mind for any plausible excuse, but at this moment with Harry frowning at her in confusion as Snape got further and further away, she forced herself to swallow back her more logical thoughts of self-preservation.
No escaping it now. She'd have to go with Harry.
A show of taking a deep steadying breath—"All right if we are going to this, then let's stay as far away as possible—out of the professor's sensing range."
"You know their range?" Harry asked in surprise as he mounted his broom again.
"Certainly," she answered crisply. Of course not. "Well, or I can guess it at the very least."
She didn't think the professors would check—they hadn't noticed Harry in the books. Hopefully that would be the same. Calling back most of her magic, just in case, she mounted her boom and kicked off, following the Chosen One closely as they trailed after the black figure into the forest.