1.1 Chapter 4
The Great Hall glittered, one hundred candles floating far above the heads of the assembled crowds. Anticipation was in the air, tingling through the atmosphere and rippling through the people, who whispered excitably to one another. From her seat at the Slytherin table, Cyra eyed the happy faces with distaste. It was just a stupid tournament, but every person was treating it like a historical revelation. The foreign students had arrived on the grounds outside, and for the sake of a charmed ship and an oversized carriage people were enraptured. Every teacher in the school had turned out, dressed smartly as to appear impressive. It was all so petty, thought Cyra. Even Moody had made an entrance, as usual collecting a host of gawking eyes as he took deep swigs from his hip-flask. Cyra thought about the man who had been there before him, and wondered how he might treat this whole affair. She realised she'd been thinking about him a lot.
The Durmstrang students were sat at the vacant seats along the Slytherin table. To distract herself from her own thoughts, Cyra glanced at them. There were only around a dozen – all dark-haired and heavy featured, sitting in a hunched group and addressing the intrigued Hogwarts pupils with careful English. She saw Draco lean forwards to speak to the one everyone seemed obsessed with; Viktor Krum, a Quidditch player apparently. Another stereotype the school had all let themselves be dragged into – this fan club to a seventeen-year-old boy. The word pathetic came to mind.
Slipping her gaze away from the slimy efforts of her second cousin, she found the other new students staring around at the splendour of the hall, and gabbling to one another in rapid Bulgarian. Occasionally they would ask a Slytherin a question in imprecise English, an exchange which often took some delay from both parties. A girl with thick dark hair smiled at Cyra from across the table. She didn't return the smile; the girl's expression faltered, and she quickly looked away.
Everyone was eating around the hall. Over on the Hufflepuff table, Beauxbatons students were admiring the view and making more ready conversation with their hosts. A tall girl with long silvery blonde hair seemed to be the focus of much attention – and not just from the boys; girls too were looking enviously at her slim figure, and a couple couldn't resist to whisper malicious comments to their neighbours. The girl was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, but Cyra had never had much time for beauty. It was little more than a façade – a mask to hide behind. If physical appearance was in the way, people forgot to take note of the person inside it.
For the first time, she looked at the array of food on the table. There was the usual spread, with a few cultural dishes thrown in for hospitality. Cyra had little preference to what she ate – as long as she could satisfy hunger when necessary, she remained indifferent, and her appetite was small in any case. She toyed unenthusiastically with a soup ladle.
"What do you think?"
Cyra looked up abruptly. It was Amanda Thistle, a sullen girl in her class. Cyra could abide her – she didn't try to be friendly and didn't persist with trivial questions.
"Of what?" she replied.
Amanda motioned to the gathering with a vague hand. "The students," she said.
"Oh. Fine," said Cyra, still fishing around with the spoon.
"Fairly lacking in detail, Cyra," said Amanda. "Not interested this time?"
"No," said Cyra flatly.
"I see your dear cousin's taken the bait," continued the other girl, inclining her head in Malfoy's direction. "Is there anyone he doesn't suck up to?"
"No," said Cyra. "Draco would flatter a housefly if he thought it might improve his social life."
"Probably would," said Amanda. "His dad and yours still sworn enemies?"
"Naturally," said Cyra. Amanda was just about the only person who could get away with a question like that. Amanda leaned back.
"Reckon Sophia's landed her eye on anything yet?"
She had switched topics, a remarkably clever tactic in Cyra's opinion. Even Amanda knew her limits. Cyra pursed her lips thoughtfully.
"I can only see the smallest movements as of yet, but I'm sure the tart already has several lined up. There," she said, gesturing across the tables to where Beauxbatons and Hufflepuffs were communing. Amanda followed her gaze and through the heads saw the bright face of the girl in question, laughing excessively at a comment one boy next to her had just made.
"Slut," said Amanda.
"Quite," agreed Cyra, with little feeling.
"Not like you or me, eh Cyra?" mused Amanda. Cyra didn't reply.
Amanda saw that question time was over, and helped herself to some food, turning her back on Cyra, who barely noticed the drop in conversation. Amanda, probably not entirely accidentally, had brought a lot of things to mind. Cyra speared a piece of meat with her fork, and allowed herself to withdraw from the rest of the world.
Her father and Lucius Malfoy. Cousins, hating each other, brought up in entirely different worlds. The reason her name was not, like Draco's, that of Malfoy. It was now two generations ago, but her grandfather, Ascifus, had disowned himself from his family at the age of eighteen. Driven by hate at the malicious nature of his relations, he had severed the bonds as soon as possible – leaving himself with little money and nowhere to go. With a new name he had given himself, he left his mother, father and brother – Malfoy's grandfather – to the past and denied their help, although they had offered him little.
He had grown up, and started a family of his own –Cyra's father, Niro, being the first-born son of the liberated title. But it was him that drew them back together again. He built on what his own father had struggled for, and the name Dracado grew in respect and prestige. But with this came the interlocking of the two sides; Malfoy, a long established title, was well known in the magical society, a black name that nonetheless drew success relentlessly. Both families grew, the names of Malfoy and Dracado side by side as the most recent additions were born. Draco, the only son of Lucius, was born after the arrivals of Niro's children – the eldest daughter Alacia, a son Diran and their younger sister Afsi all making an appearance beforehand. But amidst what was otherwise a rosy scenario for their muggle mother, a trait of the old blood was revealed in Niro. Under suspicious circumstances, a perfect marriage was blemished by the arrival of Cyra – the irreversible consequence of Niro's affair with a fellow witch, who took no responsibility for her tiny daughter and disappeared, leaving only Cyra as the last daughter of Dracado.
Niro's wife reluctantly agreed to treat Cyra as her own, but the girl never believed the story; Niro was dismayed to recognise that the few areas in which Cyra didn't resemble her mother were filled by the Malfoy blood from her father's side. It was clear to everyone that Cyra was not the same as her siblings. When Cassie, Niro's wife, died a year after Alacia joined Hogwarts, Cyra remained unaffected, despite the tears of her brother and sisters. She was an outsider even to her family. She didn't belong. To her father she was a Malfoy, but to the Malfoys themselves she was the child of a traitor; her brother and sisters recoiled from her, because they knew she was different, and Cassie had only ever seen her as a threat. To her father she presented a problem, as she was a mark of his dark roots. Generally, her relations avoided her.
Cyra rather liked it this way. If you weren't wrapped with other people, you could observe them from afar. This gave you much more control and manipulation.
Suddenly, like a pin to her balloon of thoughts, a face from further down the table jolted her back into reality. She glared at the interruption, and met her match.
Two pitch black eyes were regarding her from their position amongst the other Durmstrang students, set deep in a face lined with heavy black features, the eyebrows resting on the forehead like the thick strokes of a cartoonist. The pronounced nose wasn't overly large, but it rose out of the face like a small mountain in a field might; the skin was dark like dirty sand and the thin lips were pinched, as though their creator had been economising. Dark brown hair sat on top like a comical wig – it seemed ragged and uncared for, as if the wearer had forgotten it was there. From the folds of his blood red robes, the Durmstrang boy sat and studied her unblinkingly: his gaze impartial, yet somehow demanding.
No one had ever beat Cyra for staring. She alone had a glare that could unsettle a tomb. But now, with this boy staring so intensely and yet so passively at her, Cyra felt the upper hand slip from her grasp. She held on determinedly. He blinked, once or twice, but the effect was even more unnerving than stillness. She glared, but there was barely any force behind it. He gazed without challenge. She held on for one last second. And blinked.
Looking away, Cyra busied herself with arranging some food on her plate, furious to be beaten. Her eyes screamed for fluids. Water filmed over. Enraged, Cyra beat spoonfuls of potatoes onto her plate, the sharp chink of the metal unnoticed against the background volume of noise. Moisture glazed across her eyes, blurring her vision. She forced herself into calm. All around, people were talking, bickering, laughing in their pointless ways. Cyra tried to block them out.
After about five minutes, she dared a look towards the other end of the table. The boy had turned away. He was calmly surveying other conversations. Cyra, despite his inattention, looked away immediately, and didn't give him another chance to catch her out. Knives and forks clattered in the background. In time, the staff table was filled, as the seats next to the heads of the foreign schools were taken up by Bartemius Crouch and Ludo Bagman. Dumbledore had resumed his seat after his initial welcome and was now deep in conversation with various people around him. The feeling was apprehensive and excited. But against the babble of noise and joviality whilst the rest of the school enjoyed the feast, Cyra couldn't quite relax again and sat in silence for the evening: strangely disinterested in the atmosphere around her, and taking care never to place her eyes in the direction of the unspeaking boy from Durmstrang.
The Great Hall glittered, one hundred candles floating far above the heads of the assembled crowds. Anticipation was in the air, tingling through the atmosphere and rippling through the people, who whispered excitably to one another. From her seat at the Slytherin table, Cyra eyed the happy faces with distaste. It was just a stupid tournament, but every person was treating it like a historical revelation. The foreign students had arrived on the grounds outside, and for the sake of a charmed ship and an oversized carriage people were enraptured. Every teacher in the school had turned out, dressed smartly as to appear impressive. It was all so petty, thought Cyra. Even Moody had made an entrance, as usual collecting a host of gawking eyes as he took deep swigs from his hip-flask. Cyra thought about the man who had been there before him, and wondered how he might treat this whole affair. She realised she'd been thinking about him a lot.
The Durmstrang students were sat at the vacant seats along the Slytherin table. To distract herself from her own thoughts, Cyra glanced at them. There were only around a dozen – all dark-haired and heavy featured, sitting in a hunched group and addressing the intrigued Hogwarts pupils with careful English. She saw Draco lean forwards to speak to the one everyone seemed obsessed with; Viktor Krum, a Quidditch player apparently. Another stereotype the school had all let themselves be dragged into – this fan club to a seventeen-year-old boy. The word pathetic came to mind.
Slipping her gaze away from the slimy efforts of her second cousin, she found the other new students staring around at the splendour of the hall, and gabbling to one another in rapid Bulgarian. Occasionally they would ask a Slytherin a question in imprecise English, an exchange which often took some delay from both parties. A girl with thick dark hair smiled at Cyra from across the table. She didn't return the smile; the girl's expression faltered, and she quickly looked away.
Everyone was eating around the hall. Over on the Hufflepuff table, Beauxbatons students were admiring the view and making more ready conversation with their hosts. A tall girl with long silvery blonde hair seemed to be the focus of much attention – and not just from the boys; girls too were looking enviously at her slim figure, and a couple couldn't resist to whisper malicious comments to their neighbours. The girl was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, but Cyra had never had much time for beauty. It was little more than a façade – a mask to hide behind. If physical appearance was in the way, people forgot to take note of the person inside it.
For the first time, she looked at the array of food on the table. There was the usual spread, with a few cultural dishes thrown in for hospitality. Cyra had little preference to what she ate – as long as she could satisfy hunger when necessary, she remained indifferent, and her appetite was small in any case. She toyed unenthusiastically with a soup ladle.
"What do you think?"
Cyra looked up abruptly. It was Amanda Thistle, a sullen girl in her class. Cyra could abide her – she didn't try to be friendly and didn't persist with trivial questions.
"Of what?" she replied.
Amanda motioned to the gathering with a vague hand. "The students," she said.
"Oh. Fine," said Cyra, still fishing around with the spoon.
"Fairly lacking in detail, Cyra," said Amanda. "Not interested this time?"
"No," said Cyra flatly.
"I see your dear cousin's taken the bait," continued the other girl, inclining her head in Malfoy's direction. "Is there anyone he doesn't suck up to?"
"No," said Cyra. "Draco would flatter a housefly if he thought it might improve his social life."
"Probably would," said Amanda. "His dad and yours still sworn enemies?"
"Naturally," said Cyra. Amanda was just about the only person who could get away with a question like that. Amanda leaned back.
"Reckon Sophia's landed her eye on anything yet?"
She had switched topics, a remarkably clever tactic in Cyra's opinion. Even Amanda knew her limits. Cyra pursed her lips thoughtfully.
"I can only see the smallest movements as of yet, but I'm sure the tart already has several lined up. There," she said, gesturing across the tables to where Beauxbatons and Hufflepuffs were communing. Amanda followed her gaze and through the heads saw the bright face of the girl in question, laughing excessively at a comment one boy next to her had just made.
"Slut," said Amanda.
"Quite," agreed Cyra, with little feeling.
"Not like you or me, eh Cyra?" mused Amanda. Cyra didn't reply.
Amanda saw that question time was over, and helped herself to some food, turning her back on Cyra, who barely noticed the drop in conversation. Amanda, probably not entirely accidentally, had brought a lot of things to mind. Cyra speared a piece of meat with her fork, and allowed herself to withdraw from the rest of the world.
Her father and Lucius Malfoy. Cousins, hating each other, brought up in entirely different worlds. The reason her name was not, like Draco's, that of Malfoy. It was now two generations ago, but her grandfather, Ascifus, had disowned himself from his family at the age of eighteen. Driven by hate at the malicious nature of his relations, he had severed the bonds as soon as possible – leaving himself with little money and nowhere to go. With a new name he had given himself, he left his mother, father and brother – Malfoy's grandfather – to the past and denied their help, although they had offered him little.
He had grown up, and started a family of his own –Cyra's father, Niro, being the first-born son of the liberated title. But it was him that drew them back together again. He built on what his own father had struggled for, and the name Dracado grew in respect and prestige. But with this came the interlocking of the two sides; Malfoy, a long established title, was well known in the magical society, a black name that nonetheless drew success relentlessly. Both families grew, the names of Malfoy and Dracado side by side as the most recent additions were born. Draco, the only son of Lucius, was born after the arrivals of Niro's children – the eldest daughter Alacia, a son Diran and their younger sister Afsi all making an appearance beforehand. But amidst what was otherwise a rosy scenario for their muggle mother, a trait of the old blood was revealed in Niro. Under suspicious circumstances, a perfect marriage was blemished by the arrival of Cyra – the irreversible consequence of Niro's affair with a fellow witch, who took no responsibility for her tiny daughter and disappeared, leaving only Cyra as the last daughter of Dracado.
Niro's wife reluctantly agreed to treat Cyra as her own, but the girl never believed the story; Niro was dismayed to recognise that the few areas in which Cyra didn't resemble her mother were filled by the Malfoy blood from her father's side. It was clear to everyone that Cyra was not the same as her siblings. When Cassie, Niro's wife, died a year after Alacia joined Hogwarts, Cyra remained unaffected, despite the tears of her brother and sisters. She was an outsider even to her family. She didn't belong. To her father she was a Malfoy, but to the Malfoys themselves she was the child of a traitor; her brother and sisters recoiled from her, because they knew she was different, and Cassie had only ever seen her as a threat. To her father she presented a problem, as she was a mark of his dark roots. Generally, her relations avoided her.
Cyra rather liked it this way. If you weren't wrapped with other people, you could observe them from afar. This gave you much more control and manipulation.
Suddenly, like a pin to her balloon of thoughts, a face from further down the table jolted her back into reality. She glared at the interruption, and met her match.
Two pitch black eyes were regarding her from their position amongst the other Durmstrang students, set deep in a face lined with heavy black features, the eyebrows resting on the forehead like the thick strokes of a cartoonist. The pronounced nose wasn't overly large, but it rose out of the face like a small mountain in a field might; the skin was dark like dirty sand and the thin lips were pinched, as though their creator had been economising. Dark brown hair sat on top like a comical wig – it seemed ragged and uncared for, as if the wearer had forgotten it was there. From the folds of his blood red robes, the Durmstrang boy sat and studied her unblinkingly: his gaze impartial, yet somehow demanding.
No one had ever beat Cyra for staring. She alone had a glare that could unsettle a tomb. But now, with this boy staring so intensely and yet so passively at her, Cyra felt the upper hand slip from her grasp. She held on determinedly. He blinked, once or twice, but the effect was even more unnerving than stillness. She glared, but there was barely any force behind it. He gazed without challenge. She held on for one last second. And blinked.
Looking away, Cyra busied herself with arranging some food on her plate, furious to be beaten. Her eyes screamed for fluids. Water filmed over. Enraged, Cyra beat spoonfuls of potatoes onto her plate, the sharp chink of the metal unnoticed against the background volume of noise. Moisture glazed across her eyes, blurring her vision. She forced herself into calm. All around, people were talking, bickering, laughing in their pointless ways. Cyra tried to block them out.
After about five minutes, she dared a look towards the other end of the table. The boy had turned away. He was calmly surveying other conversations. Cyra, despite his inattention, looked away immediately, and didn't give him another chance to catch her out. Knives and forks clattered in the background. In time, the staff table was filled, as the seats next to the heads of the foreign schools were taken up by Bartemius Crouch and Ludo Bagman. Dumbledore had resumed his seat after his initial welcome and was now deep in conversation with various people around him. The feeling was apprehensive and excited. But against the babble of noise and joviality whilst the rest of the school enjoyed the feast, Cyra couldn't quite relax again and sat in silence for the evening: strangely disinterested in the atmosphere around her, and taking care never to place her eyes in the direction of the unspeaking boy from Durmstrang.