1 Chapter 5
Later that night, under a thick blanket of dark sky, Cyra suffered another sleepless night. She always got these; she could never, and had never, maintained regular sleeping patterns. When her brain had a lot to think about, it refused to let her rest. This was the case now.
The dormitory was asleep, the slow breathing of contented people rising up from the blankets like a rhythmic lullaby. The school slept. The teachers slept. The foreign pupils, greeted warmly into their new environment, slept.
Cyra did not sleep. Sometimes it wasn't that she had something specific to think about, it was just that she had thoughts – thoughts that chased each other round her head, and appeared for a second as a wisp of an idea, before dissolving immediately into the patchwork backdrop of her memory. So many thoughts and past experiences were plastered onto this – the bottomless hole, the cavity of her mind; and she never forgot them, they never escaped once she had hold of them. But they grew harder and harder to distinguish from one another, until she couldn't tell them apart – meaningless, like the deciphering of an impossible code. At times like this, when the rest of the world was dark and it was just her own company, an idea could seem so real it almost had form, like a person standing beside her. But thoughts came and went as they pleased, and all Cyra could do when her brain wanted to sift through it all, was sit and be satisfied with flowing stream of images and memories rolling over and over in her head.
Tonight she stood by the window. The moon hung in the air as a silvery orb, illuminating the clouds that congealed around it. A faint glow bathed the windowsill. Soft snores filled the room. Cyra stood, and let the continuous mass run though her head, like the gathering of clouds before a storm. The air was very peaceful, the place very calm. Cyra shut off her eyes from the objects in front of her, and became oblivious to the world.
The Tournament was officially open. She wondered how many underage hopefuls would attempt to submit their name under the cover of dark. Not many would have the nerve, she thought. The challenge was too sudden, the possibility had only presented itself tonight; few, she expected, would have the daring to accomplish a task like that without having at least a few days to think about it. Briefly she wondered why she cared so little for the Tournament, when it had set the rest of the school buzzing with anticipation. She knew she regarded her fellow pupils as little more than sheep, but strong feelings within the school could usually provoke some response from her. She did, she supposed, have some emotions after all. But not about this. The whole affair seemed to have passed her by like a soundless stream of events viewed from behind an impartial pane of glass. Something else was playing on her mind.
Dumbledore's speeches had come and gone, the rules for entering had been lain out; the casket had emerged, and from in side it, the fabled Goblet of Fire – and yet still Cyra found herself disengaged from it all. Though this might seem like her usual approach to all things, it was not. Cyra only ever appeared disinterested, and even the event itself didn't engross her, the people involved would. She would normally just as interested in other people's reactions as they themselves were about the situation in question. But recent happenings stirred not even the tiniest flutter of emotion in her. She had a horrible sense that she wasn't controlling her own feelings this time. The feast – such a prime chance to observe the castle's other inhabitants – had slipped by unnoticed, and now she could remember barely anything from it. There was also a feast set for tomorrow night. The food would seem bland and repetitive after tonight's display.
Suddenly, through her thoughts, interrupting like it had done before, the face of the silent boy pierced her memory. The two eyes, deep set in their swarthy skin, stared at her inside her mind, unrelenting. Cyra felt unnerved by their presence. She didn't appreciate this feeling. It was the wrong way round. She was meant to be the unnerving one, not the other person. But his steady gaze injected her with restless unease. She felt obstinately that something must be done. She would find out his name, from afar – you must never ask a subject directly, that lost effect. She would find out everything about him, and learn to deal with this unsettling experience. She would start tomorrow.
She felt glad when the string of thoughts tugged the eyes of the boy away and onto another memory. She wasn't at all comfortable with the feeling she had been left with. Outside, clouds rolled over the moon. Someone close by turned in their bed.
Another image came to her – a memory from a time last year: a face, and a person. He had been a very…interesting experience. More than that. He had left her with more mixed emotions than anyone else ever had. She didn't mind this thought. At first she had tried to ignore thinking about him, but in time, as the memories had persisted, she stopped all retaliation. However fast thoughts might be swimming through her brain, this one would always linger for a much longer time; and she let it stay there, drifting through as a lazy river might, avoiding the rapid currents that thundered past. The moon was completely covered by now. Images rested in her mind, peacefully repeating themselves with idle content.
In time she went and lay on her bed. Covers pulled over out of habit, Cyra closed her eyes. The outside world was shut off, soft noises intruding her ears only now and again. She could no longer see a thing beyond her eyelids, but within the confines of her head the large expanse of thought stretched out before her. Engulfing the empty space, memories of him were unfolding. And eventually, when her mind fell into sleep, the conscious images joined seamlessly with the finely woven fabric of dreams.
*
If the tide of students flocking outside the Great Hall next morning was anything to go by, Cyra's guess at who risked a night-time visit was correct. What seemed like the whole school had accumulated around the Goblet, set dead centre on the floor of the Entrance Hall. As Cyra emerged from the dungeons she could see already that the interest in this Tournament was doing nothing but grow. Groups of people clustered round the edges, fringing just outside the thin golden line that traced a ten-foot boundary around the Goblet, all of them careful not to overstep it. Despite the clamour in the Hall, there seemed to be constant movement – no sooner would one person disappear into the Great Hall for breakfast than another would take their place. Everyone was eyeing the Goblet with excitement, their eyes dancing as though it was a sacred monument; conversations were ceaseless and echoed throughout the Hall, and the air seemed to be a constant babble of whispers.
Cyra felt a stab of the old contempt, and held it close to her mind, relishing it. A wooden cup that danced with blue and white flames, and still they treated it with awe. They would be satisfied with anything if it looked mildly impressive. Cyra walked unnoticed from the dungeon entrance and crossed to the marble staircase, where already people were descending to replace those that had gone into the Hall. As she neared the banister she heard an eager,
"Anyone put their name in yet?"
To be replied with,
"All the Durmstrang lot. But I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts yet," from a nearby girl.
Cyra slid her vision in the direction of the exchange. She vaguely recognised the first speaker: a lanky redhead from the year below. Probably a Weasley; the school was always crawling with them. His friend behind him spoke up, voicing what Cyra had already suspected.
"Bet some of them put in last night after we'd all gone to bed," he said; and as he came further down the staircase he came further into view. Cyra would recognise him a mile off, anyone would. Famous Harry Potter – still looking, in her opinion, exactly the same as when he first turned up to be Sorted. His unkempt black hair sat awkwardly on top of his head, his round- framed glasses were so childish. Cyra moved an unimpressed gaze to the other side of the hall and walked past.
But just as she was reaching the Great Hall, excited whispers behind her made her stop a few paces from the doors. Turning, she saw the Weasley twins and their friend, bounding eagerly down the stairs. Their conversation as they drew level with Harry and his two friends (the brown- haired girl was also with them) was evidently meant to be low-key, but their spirits were high and Cyra was an expert in any case.
"Done it," said the first twin, and Cyra was certain by his boisterous manner that he was Fred, the louder of the two.
"What?" said their brother stupidly. Evidently intelligence wasn't a part of this family.
"The Ageing Potion, dungbrains."
Cyra settled herself for a longer wait than she first expected. This could prove interesting.
"One drop each," said the other twin, clearly brimming over with excitement. "We only need to be a few months older."
"We're going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins," explained their friend.
The brown-haired friend of Harry spoke up with warning. "I'm not sure this is going to work, you know. I'm sure Dumbledore would have thought of this."
Now Cyra remembered her, reprimanding as the others ignored her. Hermione Granger, or something – a studious girl in the fourth year, apparently passing practically every exam with top marks. Cyra hadn't much time for people who found their consolation in books and lessons. She considered real intelligence as a very diverse thing, and high exam marks wasn't one of them.
The conversation had moved on; the twins and their friend, excited and driven by adrenaline, had moved to the edge of the circle; the eyes of everyone were upon them, the anticipation falling like a blanket of silence on the expectant crowd. Fred walked right up to the edge of the line, and stood there, rocking on his toes like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot drop. There were three seconds of complete concentration, before he took a deep breath and stepped over the line.
Everyone remembered to breathe again, and George, thinking it had worked, gave a triumphant whoop and sprang in to join his brother. There was a split second of success, but almost instantly there came a sizzling sound, and the twins were hurled from the circle with such painful speed that Cyra had to stand aside to avoid collision. They landed sharply, and bounced once or twice. Cyra looked on with rare amusement, and actually laughed when the pair stood up and found themselves sprout long white beards. She didn't usually go for clown antics, but she couldn't resist a little snigger when they brushed themselves down and discovered their chins burdened with several feet of facial hair.
"I did warn you," said a deep, amused voice, and all eyes turned to see the headmaster emerging from the Great Hall.
In one movement Cyra had stepped into the background. She could do without Dumbledore's attention, however brief. He made her very uncomfortable, like a patient who makes the doctor feel as though he is the one under examination. As his tall frame made a path towards the Weasley twins, Cyra escaped into the bustle of the Great Hall.
Halloween had transformed the open cheer of the expansive hall into a flickering waltz of shadows; carved pumpkins leered from every corner and bats screeched through the rafters. Cyra went and took a vacant seat on the Slytherin table, helping herself to a slice of toast. Shortly after her, Harry and his friends appeared, unaccompanied by either the twins or their friend, and made for the Gryffindor table. Cyra watched them lazily from her seat at the Slytherin table, as they began talking to another two boys from their class. Suddenly there came cheering from beyond the doors: Cyra saw the host of Gryffindors turn in their seats, and next second a sixth- year girl entered, grinning with happy embarrassment.
Angelina Johnson, Cyra realised, as the tall black girl took up a place next to the small crowd of fourth years. She recognised her from Quidditch matches – the ones she could be bothered to attend. From what Cyra could gather from afar, she had just entered herself into the Goblet. The girl certainly had talent on a broomstick, but if an entire school were to put their hopes in you, Cyra felt a certain degree of arrogance was necessary for any kind of success. But good luck to her, she thought vaguely, as the gathering on the far table continued to chatter excitedly. She wondered abruptly what on earth had got into her. From scorning every individual in the school she had suddenly begun extending her best wishes to them. This Tournament seemed more trouble than it was worth. She looked down and saw she'd forgotten to put anything on her toast.
Just as she was reaching absently for the knife, a snide voice sounded from down the table.
"Not hungry, Dracado?"
Cyra looked up, and automatically switched a cold glare onto her face. Pansy Parkinson, an ugly girl from the year below, was sitting with her usual gang of Slytherin girls. On the other side of the table Cyra saw Draco and his cronies; his eyes were narrowed and the thin smile on his lips was only supported by the fact it wasn't him addressing Cyra.
"Hungry enough," replied Cyra. "Thank you for noticing."
Pansy persisted.
"Entering the Tournament? I hear the death rates always been successful in previous years. It could do you some good." The gang around her chuckled maliciously.
Cyra took care not to take her eyes off the fourth-year girl, and set the knife down with a chink. "It's not my business if some people want to display their weak ability in front of a thousand people," she said calmly.
"Speak for yourself," said Pansy nastily. Cyra could see she really wanted to score some points on this one. She could also see her cousin sitting opposite.
"I will," said Cyra graciously. "Although some people may have others do the talking for them…" she moved her gaze very deliberately towards Malfoy, who flinched slightly "…on account of their own cowardice, I prefer to fight my own battles."
Pansy attempted a smile, which looked fairly painful, and didn't reply. Cyra maintained eye contact, much to Pansy's discomfort. Opposite the gang of Slytherin girls, Malfoy looked a little less self-assured.
"Come on," he muttered to Crabbe and Goyle, getting up to leave, but Cyra was faster.
"Don't worry about it," she said, standing up and moving briefly in his direction. "I was already going." She didn't extend her gaze to Pansy, who was still seated and looking unattractively disgruntled, but turned on her heel and vanished from the Hall.
Pansy always delighted in being unpleasant to Cyra, not least when Draco was in the vicinity. Cyra rarely responded with much more than a steely gaze and a few remarks. She stepped out of the Great Hall feeling glad that she at least hadn't lost her interest in disturbing people. The problem with Pansy was that with every defeat she only became more determined that she would succeed next time. That had to be the fifth time this term alone she had tried to annoy Cyra, and despite consistently coming off worse she refused to give in. Cyra wasn't even bothered. Pansy was a precocious upstart from the year below and evidently had a crush on her second cousin. Cyra didn't see what there was to be bothered about.
The sounds of breakfast receded behind her as Cyra made her way down the narrow passages of the dungeons. She felt the air – cold already with the end of October – grow chillier as the corridor in front of her continued. Today was Saturday, and she had the whole day before the feast. She had a fair idea how best to occupy her time. Taking the swiftest route to the common room, she slipped in behind the stone wall and crossed the room without anyone taking the slightest notice. She went to the dormitory, collected the necessary things in her bag and went out again. Once outside she slung the bag over her shoulder and started up the warren of passages, passing people in twos and threes. On reaching the Entrance Hall she walked past the Goblet and its golden ring, climbed the marble staircase to the landing and then headed for the library.
Later that night, under a thick blanket of dark sky, Cyra suffered another sleepless night. She always got these; she could never, and had never, maintained regular sleeping patterns. When her brain had a lot to think about, it refused to let her rest. This was the case now.
The dormitory was asleep, the slow breathing of contented people rising up from the blankets like a rhythmic lullaby. The school slept. The teachers slept. The foreign pupils, greeted warmly into their new environment, slept.
Cyra did not sleep. Sometimes it wasn't that she had something specific to think about, it was just that she had thoughts – thoughts that chased each other round her head, and appeared for a second as a wisp of an idea, before dissolving immediately into the patchwork backdrop of her memory. So many thoughts and past experiences were plastered onto this – the bottomless hole, the cavity of her mind; and she never forgot them, they never escaped once she had hold of them. But they grew harder and harder to distinguish from one another, until she couldn't tell them apart – meaningless, like the deciphering of an impossible code. At times like this, when the rest of the world was dark and it was just her own company, an idea could seem so real it almost had form, like a person standing beside her. But thoughts came and went as they pleased, and all Cyra could do when her brain wanted to sift through it all, was sit and be satisfied with flowing stream of images and memories rolling over and over in her head.
Tonight she stood by the window. The moon hung in the air as a silvery orb, illuminating the clouds that congealed around it. A faint glow bathed the windowsill. Soft snores filled the room. Cyra stood, and let the continuous mass run though her head, like the gathering of clouds before a storm. The air was very peaceful, the place very calm. Cyra shut off her eyes from the objects in front of her, and became oblivious to the world.
The Tournament was officially open. She wondered how many underage hopefuls would attempt to submit their name under the cover of dark. Not many would have the nerve, she thought. The challenge was too sudden, the possibility had only presented itself tonight; few, she expected, would have the daring to accomplish a task like that without having at least a few days to think about it. Briefly she wondered why she cared so little for the Tournament, when it had set the rest of the school buzzing with anticipation. She knew she regarded her fellow pupils as little more than sheep, but strong feelings within the school could usually provoke some response from her. She did, she supposed, have some emotions after all. But not about this. The whole affair seemed to have passed her by like a soundless stream of events viewed from behind an impartial pane of glass. Something else was playing on her mind.
Dumbledore's speeches had come and gone, the rules for entering had been lain out; the casket had emerged, and from in side it, the fabled Goblet of Fire – and yet still Cyra found herself disengaged from it all. Though this might seem like her usual approach to all things, it was not. Cyra only ever appeared disinterested, and even the event itself didn't engross her, the people involved would. She would normally just as interested in other people's reactions as they themselves were about the situation in question. But recent happenings stirred not even the tiniest flutter of emotion in her. She had a horrible sense that she wasn't controlling her own feelings this time. The feast – such a prime chance to observe the castle's other inhabitants – had slipped by unnoticed, and now she could remember barely anything from it. There was also a feast set for tomorrow night. The food would seem bland and repetitive after tonight's display.
Suddenly, through her thoughts, interrupting like it had done before, the face of the silent boy pierced her memory. The two eyes, deep set in their swarthy skin, stared at her inside her mind, unrelenting. Cyra felt unnerved by their presence. She didn't appreciate this feeling. It was the wrong way round. She was meant to be the unnerving one, not the other person. But his steady gaze injected her with restless unease. She felt obstinately that something must be done. She would find out his name, from afar – you must never ask a subject directly, that lost effect. She would find out everything about him, and learn to deal with this unsettling experience. She would start tomorrow.
She felt glad when the string of thoughts tugged the eyes of the boy away and onto another memory. She wasn't at all comfortable with the feeling she had been left with. Outside, clouds rolled over the moon. Someone close by turned in their bed.
Another image came to her – a memory from a time last year: a face, and a person. He had been a very…interesting experience. More than that. He had left her with more mixed emotions than anyone else ever had. She didn't mind this thought. At first she had tried to ignore thinking about him, but in time, as the memories had persisted, she stopped all retaliation. However fast thoughts might be swimming through her brain, this one would always linger for a much longer time; and she let it stay there, drifting through as a lazy river might, avoiding the rapid currents that thundered past. The moon was completely covered by now. Images rested in her mind, peacefully repeating themselves with idle content.
In time she went and lay on her bed. Covers pulled over out of habit, Cyra closed her eyes. The outside world was shut off, soft noises intruding her ears only now and again. She could no longer see a thing beyond her eyelids, but within the confines of her head the large expanse of thought stretched out before her. Engulfing the empty space, memories of him were unfolding. And eventually, when her mind fell into sleep, the conscious images joined seamlessly with the finely woven fabric of dreams.
*
If the tide of students flocking outside the Great Hall next morning was anything to go by, Cyra's guess at who risked a night-time visit was correct. What seemed like the whole school had accumulated around the Goblet, set dead centre on the floor of the Entrance Hall. As Cyra emerged from the dungeons she could see already that the interest in this Tournament was doing nothing but grow. Groups of people clustered round the edges, fringing just outside the thin golden line that traced a ten-foot boundary around the Goblet, all of them careful not to overstep it. Despite the clamour in the Hall, there seemed to be constant movement – no sooner would one person disappear into the Great Hall for breakfast than another would take their place. Everyone was eyeing the Goblet with excitement, their eyes dancing as though it was a sacred monument; conversations were ceaseless and echoed throughout the Hall, and the air seemed to be a constant babble of whispers.
Cyra felt a stab of the old contempt, and held it close to her mind, relishing it. A wooden cup that danced with blue and white flames, and still they treated it with awe. They would be satisfied with anything if it looked mildly impressive. Cyra walked unnoticed from the dungeon entrance and crossed to the marble staircase, where already people were descending to replace those that had gone into the Hall. As she neared the banister she heard an eager,
"Anyone put their name in yet?"
To be replied with,
"All the Durmstrang lot. But I haven't seen anyone from Hogwarts yet," from a nearby girl.
Cyra slid her vision in the direction of the exchange. She vaguely recognised the first speaker: a lanky redhead from the year below. Probably a Weasley; the school was always crawling with them. His friend behind him spoke up, voicing what Cyra had already suspected.
"Bet some of them put in last night after we'd all gone to bed," he said; and as he came further down the staircase he came further into view. Cyra would recognise him a mile off, anyone would. Famous Harry Potter – still looking, in her opinion, exactly the same as when he first turned up to be Sorted. His unkempt black hair sat awkwardly on top of his head, his round- framed glasses were so childish. Cyra moved an unimpressed gaze to the other side of the hall and walked past.
But just as she was reaching the Great Hall, excited whispers behind her made her stop a few paces from the doors. Turning, she saw the Weasley twins and their friend, bounding eagerly down the stairs. Their conversation as they drew level with Harry and his two friends (the brown- haired girl was also with them) was evidently meant to be low-key, but their spirits were high and Cyra was an expert in any case.
"Done it," said the first twin, and Cyra was certain by his boisterous manner that he was Fred, the louder of the two.
"What?" said their brother stupidly. Evidently intelligence wasn't a part of this family.
"The Ageing Potion, dungbrains."
Cyra settled herself for a longer wait than she first expected. This could prove interesting.
"One drop each," said the other twin, clearly brimming over with excitement. "We only need to be a few months older."
"We're going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins," explained their friend.
The brown-haired friend of Harry spoke up with warning. "I'm not sure this is going to work, you know. I'm sure Dumbledore would have thought of this."
Now Cyra remembered her, reprimanding as the others ignored her. Hermione Granger, or something – a studious girl in the fourth year, apparently passing practically every exam with top marks. Cyra hadn't much time for people who found their consolation in books and lessons. She considered real intelligence as a very diverse thing, and high exam marks wasn't one of them.
The conversation had moved on; the twins and their friend, excited and driven by adrenaline, had moved to the edge of the circle; the eyes of everyone were upon them, the anticipation falling like a blanket of silence on the expectant crowd. Fred walked right up to the edge of the line, and stood there, rocking on his toes like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot drop. There were three seconds of complete concentration, before he took a deep breath and stepped over the line.
Everyone remembered to breathe again, and George, thinking it had worked, gave a triumphant whoop and sprang in to join his brother. There was a split second of success, but almost instantly there came a sizzling sound, and the twins were hurled from the circle with such painful speed that Cyra had to stand aside to avoid collision. They landed sharply, and bounced once or twice. Cyra looked on with rare amusement, and actually laughed when the pair stood up and found themselves sprout long white beards. She didn't usually go for clown antics, but she couldn't resist a little snigger when they brushed themselves down and discovered their chins burdened with several feet of facial hair.
"I did warn you," said a deep, amused voice, and all eyes turned to see the headmaster emerging from the Great Hall.
In one movement Cyra had stepped into the background. She could do without Dumbledore's attention, however brief. He made her very uncomfortable, like a patient who makes the doctor feel as though he is the one under examination. As his tall frame made a path towards the Weasley twins, Cyra escaped into the bustle of the Great Hall.
Halloween had transformed the open cheer of the expansive hall into a flickering waltz of shadows; carved pumpkins leered from every corner and bats screeched through the rafters. Cyra went and took a vacant seat on the Slytherin table, helping herself to a slice of toast. Shortly after her, Harry and his friends appeared, unaccompanied by either the twins or their friend, and made for the Gryffindor table. Cyra watched them lazily from her seat at the Slytherin table, as they began talking to another two boys from their class. Suddenly there came cheering from beyond the doors: Cyra saw the host of Gryffindors turn in their seats, and next second a sixth- year girl entered, grinning with happy embarrassment.
Angelina Johnson, Cyra realised, as the tall black girl took up a place next to the small crowd of fourth years. She recognised her from Quidditch matches – the ones she could be bothered to attend. From what Cyra could gather from afar, she had just entered herself into the Goblet. The girl certainly had talent on a broomstick, but if an entire school were to put their hopes in you, Cyra felt a certain degree of arrogance was necessary for any kind of success. But good luck to her, she thought vaguely, as the gathering on the far table continued to chatter excitedly. She wondered abruptly what on earth had got into her. From scorning every individual in the school she had suddenly begun extending her best wishes to them. This Tournament seemed more trouble than it was worth. She looked down and saw she'd forgotten to put anything on her toast.
Just as she was reaching absently for the knife, a snide voice sounded from down the table.
"Not hungry, Dracado?"
Cyra looked up, and automatically switched a cold glare onto her face. Pansy Parkinson, an ugly girl from the year below, was sitting with her usual gang of Slytherin girls. On the other side of the table Cyra saw Draco and his cronies; his eyes were narrowed and the thin smile on his lips was only supported by the fact it wasn't him addressing Cyra.
"Hungry enough," replied Cyra. "Thank you for noticing."
Pansy persisted.
"Entering the Tournament? I hear the death rates always been successful in previous years. It could do you some good." The gang around her chuckled maliciously.
Cyra took care not to take her eyes off the fourth-year girl, and set the knife down with a chink. "It's not my business if some people want to display their weak ability in front of a thousand people," she said calmly.
"Speak for yourself," said Pansy nastily. Cyra could see she really wanted to score some points on this one. She could also see her cousin sitting opposite.
"I will," said Cyra graciously. "Although some people may have others do the talking for them…" she moved her gaze very deliberately towards Malfoy, who flinched slightly "…on account of their own cowardice, I prefer to fight my own battles."
Pansy attempted a smile, which looked fairly painful, and didn't reply. Cyra maintained eye contact, much to Pansy's discomfort. Opposite the gang of Slytherin girls, Malfoy looked a little less self-assured.
"Come on," he muttered to Crabbe and Goyle, getting up to leave, but Cyra was faster.
"Don't worry about it," she said, standing up and moving briefly in his direction. "I was already going." She didn't extend her gaze to Pansy, who was still seated and looking unattractively disgruntled, but turned on her heel and vanished from the Hall.
Pansy always delighted in being unpleasant to Cyra, not least when Draco was in the vicinity. Cyra rarely responded with much more than a steely gaze and a few remarks. She stepped out of the Great Hall feeling glad that she at least hadn't lost her interest in disturbing people. The problem with Pansy was that with every defeat she only became more determined that she would succeed next time. That had to be the fifth time this term alone she had tried to annoy Cyra, and despite consistently coming off worse she refused to give in. Cyra wasn't even bothered. Pansy was a precocious upstart from the year below and evidently had a crush on her second cousin. Cyra didn't see what there was to be bothered about.
The sounds of breakfast receded behind her as Cyra made her way down the narrow passages of the dungeons. She felt the air – cold already with the end of October – grow chillier as the corridor in front of her continued. Today was Saturday, and she had the whole day before the feast. She had a fair idea how best to occupy her time. Taking the swiftest route to the common room, she slipped in behind the stone wall and crossed the room without anyone taking the slightest notice. She went to the dormitory, collected the necessary things in her bag and went out again. Once outside she slung the bag over her shoulder and started up the warren of passages, passing people in twos and threes. On reaching the Entrance Hall she walked past the Goblet and its golden ring, climbed the marble staircase to the landing and then headed for the library.