Chapter 7
She woke on Sunday to find she had overslept. Cyra hated over-sleeping – it set her out of routine and usually was as a result of something else being wrong in her life. She didn't even bother to recognise the offender this time: she knew exactly who was the problem and she didn't feel like addressing it.
Dressing, she left the dormitory and wandered around the castle for a bit, but by lunchtime the lack of purpose unnerved her too much, and she returned to her room to find something to better occupy her time. Books and parchment and writing materials were crammed in her case, standing ready for a rainy day, or one where the theories of the magical universe weren't enough to interest her. She tossed them aside; words and writing didn't seem appealing today. Delving to the bottom, she pulled out a large bundle wrapped in black linen, and pulling at the cord that bound it, let the contents fall onto the bed. Rough-ended sheets of yellowed cartridge paper lay there, and on top of them a collection of charcoal, pencils, pens and inks. Cyra regarded the pile as one might a long-lost relation. It had been a long time since she'd drawn anything.
Silently, she wrapped it all back up again and slipped it under her arm. Even if people wondered what the black bundle was, she doubted that they'd ask. She left the dormitory and the common room behind, and upon reaching the Entrance Hall mounted what would be the first of a long succession of stairs. Not one other person in the school could know where she was going – no one else had been aware of it before. It wasn't a secret annexe, but merely a place left to dust and decay, concealed since Cyra had discovered it. This was where she left her thoughts, high above the boundaries of the castle, level with the sky. This room was a safe to her secrets, a confidant of stone walls and small windows. And as far as she knew, no one else knew anything about it. That's how she wanted it to stay. Her feelings had leaked into the damp air of the room, and hung about the walls like posters of her life. Six cold walls and an untended roof had in effect become her centre – the heart and emotions that Cyra apparently didn't possess: more like a real person than anything else people saw of her. This room was no man's land but her's. It wasn't school, it wasn't home. But it belonged to her. Finders Keepers.
Outside, the feeble sun pushed through the grey clouds, and shrank away into the black shadow of the night. How long she sat up in that freezing room Cyra didn't know, but it was dark when she returned and the castle was silent. Out of the windows sparked the stars, glittering and shining in the pale of the moon: and sighing through the turrets, so breathless you could barely hear it, the northern winds whispered. The dormitory was dark, its inhabitants asleep. Cyra slipped into bed but it was well past midnight when sleep overtook her. In the darkness, the face and words of Levir returned to her and she lay uncomfortably on the sheets. The last thoughts she had were his words, "Then maybe I will see you again…"
Sleep, when it came, was sporadic and uneasy, and laced with reluctance at the coming days.
*
The next day she managed to wake in time for the school day, and arrived at her first lesson with a few minutes to spare. Arithmancy was difficult first thing on a Monday morning, but Cyra accepted challenges and as soon as she geared up her brain she was completing the set questions in half the time of everyone else. Professor Vector gave her some extra problems and left her alone – most teachers were wary of bringing Cyra any sort of limelight within the class. Potions and Transfiguration completed the day up until lunch, and afterwards she endured a gruelling session in Defence Against the Dark Arts with Moody, who seemed not to have grasp the fact that she was best left unspoken to.
The rest of the week raced by, until it was Friday, and Cyra had seen nothing more of the Durmstrang boy since they last spoke. (She was still loath to call him Levir because she considered him rude and untrustworthy). She was glad when the classroom hours were up and she could retreat to her own thoughts. On a dreary Friday afternoon the October winds batted against the windows and howled angrily. Cyra intended at first to return to the dormitory, but after catching a glimpse of Sarina doing likewise, she changed her mind and headed for the library instead. Her apparation notes were still in her bag, untouched since a week ago and messily thrown together. Entering the library she saw that the table she had used before was empty, and sat down to work there. She took out a book, but didn't open it immediately, and instead began rewriting her notes into readable text.
There were few other people in the library and Cyra was glad for her out of the way position, because Madam Pince found reason to be suspicious for anything, and Cyra wouldn't be surprised to get kicked out on grounds of being the only one in there. She put her head down and avoided eye contact with the occasional straggle of students that wandered past.
She was onto the final paragraph of the rewrite when a shadow fell over her. Immersed in her work, she took a few moments to realise something was there, but when she did, her head shot up irritably.
"What do you want…" she began, and stopped.
Levir Tznevski stood there, his black hair framing his face like the stray ends from a ball of string.
"Hello," he said. Cyra's mouth stiffened instinctively.
"Hello."
Automatically she reached out to cover her work, but he was too quick.
"This looks intriguing," he said, bending down to get a better view.
"It isn't," said Cyra shortly, snatching it away from him and throwing it into her bag. His eyes narrowed with amusement and he smiled.
"Whatever it is, you seem very keen to hide it." Cyra shrugged in a manner that very much discouraged conversation.
"Perhaps that's just you thinking like that."
He smiled even more. "Perhaps."
Cyra averted her attention to her bag, intending to leave, but Levir had already taken the seat opposite. He waited for her to face him again. She tried to look uncaring.
"So – you alvays seem keen to be rid off me, Cyra."
She glared. "Oh?"
"Well, I am here for a year, no matter vether I am the champion or not, and I see making friends as therefore being rather…essential."
"I'm not a charity case."
He smiled even more. "Obviously."
Cyra was a little put out. "Why are you targeting me?" she said hotly. "Surely there's hundreds of others you could have chosen. Just because I don't hang around in a group and you don't seem to give anyone else a thought."
"Strange as it may seem," said Levir, the smile dropping, "I haff not been targeting you exclusiffly. It was mere coincidence ve kept meeting; however, I have noticed Cyra, that to acquaint myself vith you may not be without gain."
The vibes Cyra was giving off was frosting the windows. "Really?"
Levir seemed as a gentleman in the lion's den. "Indeed," he said courteously. "You are, if I may say, quite unlike the other girls in your class."
"How original," said Cyra icily.
"I mean you are not as trivial as them."
"How observant of you."
"Do not take offence, Cyra."
"I'll try."
At her flat tone, Levir finally gave up.
"You know," he said, his pleasant manner vanishing in a flash, "you are the most trying person."
Cyra smiled grimly. "Thank you."
A less controlled side of Levir was now apparent as he beat his knuckles on the table. "I am trying to be nice…"
"Please," said Cyra," don't let me keep you if it's such an effort."
"I did not mean it like that –"
"Oh. I do apologise."
Something remarkably like a snarl threatened on Levir's face. "I am not entirely sure vy you are –"
"Why I'm what? Acting like this? I hate to disappoint you but this is how I normally act."
Levir opened his mouth angrily, thought better of it, and forced a smile onto his face.
"This looks interesting," he said woodenly, picking up the book on the tabletop and sliding it towards him. "Such a large library you haff here. You read much do you?"
Cyra could see he was putting every effort into controlling his temper. It looked painful. She said nothing, but gave him a look that told him she knew exactly what he was up to, and retrieved her notes from her bag.
"Vot is that?" inquired Levir politely.
"Something not concerning you," said Cyra flatly, without looking up. There was a silence, as Levir considered his next sentence.
"A…personal project?" he ventured, at length.
"Isn't everything?"
"I meant is it an individual thing outside the classroom?"
Cyra looked up snappily. "Well considering I have been sitting here taking notes on my own – or would be if you left me alone – I have to say that yes, this is an individual-outside-the-classroom sort of thing. Now can I finish it. Please."
Levir noted the lack of question mark and wisely shut up for a few minutes. Cyra finished the remaining notes very quickly but her irritation at Levir increased. He obviously wasn't going to go away. She completed the notes and folded them into her bag. He was still there.
"Look, what is it you want?" she snapped, fastening her bag aggressively.
Levir gave another courteous smile, but under the pleasantries the strain of calm was showing. "I haff told you," he said. "You seem more interesting than the others in your class. I merely wanted to talk to you."
"Yes, and now you have," said Cyra, standing up and swinging her bag over her shoulder.
"For only a little while."
"If you wanted specified time slots you should have made a booking," she replied tartly, returning the book to its shelf and sweeping down the aisle. Levir followed her. Cyra was walking very speedily. He had to do a kind of hop skip to keep up with her.
"You have a natural tongue for sarcasm," he said scathingly. They were at the library doors.
"Once again, I thank you," she said, and stomped out.
She swung the door behind her with such force that Levir had to leap out of the way. She was halfway down the corridor when there was a loud thud and a rapid stream of incoherent curses behind her. She wheeled round. Levir was just outside the doors, clutching at his face. The door had hit him in the nose.
"You…bitch," he managed, groping at his nose and jumping on the spot in agony. "Complete…bitch." There followed several unidentifiable words which Cyra could only assume were Bulgarian translations of the same thing. From between his fingers blood was seeping out. "Oh…fuck," he moaned, expressing himself in a way that is universally understood. "Stupid…cow…"
Cyra wavered on the spot for a few seconds, unsure of whether or not to help him. He continued to hop on the spot. A piercing voice suddenly sounded from in the library.
"What's going on out there?" There were rapid footsteps.
Cyra made a quick decision. The last thing she needed was Madam Pince.
"Come on," she hissed, finding her feet had carried her to Levir, and were continuing down the corridor, chivvying him out of the way. "Come on, you don't want her poking around."
Levir spat foreign insults at her through his splayed hands, but allowed himself to be guided along the passages.
"Stupid whore," he growled, as they lumbered down some stairs.
"Well done," drawled Cyra, "you've learnt every English insult. Now come on."
She led him, not entirely sure why she was doing so, through the mazes of corridors until they reached the hospital wing. They had left a trail of blood flecking the floor behind them. With one hand Cyra steered Levir, who had buried his face into his palms, and with the other she pushed open the door. It was awkward, as Levir was taller than her and heavily built, but somehow she forced the pair of them into the wing at the same time. No one was in there.
Realising they'd stopped moving, Levir looked up for the first time, and seeing where they were, started angrily.
"Vy haff you brought me here?" he demanded.
"Best place," said Cyra. "I'm not seeing to you."
"English bitch," he snarled, and disappeared back into his hands. Cyra cast him a sideways glance.
"Go with your robes, that will," she muttered.
Madam Pomfrey came bustling down the rows of beds.
"What's happened here?" she said impatiently. "I've already seen to three burns from Bubotuber puss, two others from some Care of Magical Creatures monstrosity and four separate incidents of fighting with curses. Cauliflower boils all over their faces and one boy had managed to rearrange his limbs. This had better not be serious."
"It isn't," reassured Cyra. "It's just a bloody nose."
"Just!" exclaimed Levir. "This is my nose here!"
"Quiet boy," snapped Madam Pomfrey, and went to move his hands from his face. She had to drag them away. "Let me see, let me see," she muttered. "Ah yes, I see. Walked into a door was it?"
"Exactly that," said Cyra.
"You pushed it in my face!" shouted Levir furiously.
"Be quiet boy," said Madam Pomfrey. "You're getting yourself worked up." She picked up something from a table behind her.
"I am not –"
"Hold still."
"Ow!"
The matron performed some very speedy ailment that sent Levir reeling off in pain again.
"Does everything in this school haff to be so painful?" he groaned, doubled up around his knees.
"Most of the time," said Madam Pomfrey grimly. She turned to Cyra. "It's nothing serious – nothing broken. But you might want to get him cleaned up. He's already spotted this floor a nice scarlet. Doesn't require anything magical – soap and water will do the trick. I have other things to see to."
She returned to her office at the far end, and slammed the door. Cyra glanced round resignedly.
"Come on," she said sharply, grabbing a handful of Levir's robes and dragging him to his feet. "Apparently I have to clean you up."
"I can do that myself," protested Levir, stumbling along behind her.
"After that display in there? You couldn't even wet the flannel."
She led the way to the nearest bathroom, throwing occasional comments back in Levir's direction, who was winding his way down the corridors behind her, swaying like a drunk man and swearing loudly. She caught a venomous "bitch" every two or three minutes.
"Surely one of us shouldn't be in here," complained Levir, as they reached the bathroom.
"Oh shut up," snapped Cyra, pushing him inside. "No one's going to say any different."
She leaned him against the nearest sink and collected some toilet paper from a cubicle. Levir looked at her in horror as she ran it under the cold tap.
"You are going to clean me vith that?"
Cyra glared at him. "Have a better idea, do you?"
"No," he answered moodily.
"Good, then hold still."
"Vait, vot are you…argh!"
He recoiled under the damp tissue, twisting to get out of the way. Cyra was irritated, and probably a little more forceful than needs be.
"Hold still!"
"Ow! You hurt more than the matron –"
"For god's sake…"
"Stop it!"
"You're acting like a kid."
"You smashed in my face!"
"The door hit you. I think you're overreacting."
"You vern't the one getting hurt by it."
"No one hurts that much. It was wood, not a death-ridden curse shot by Voldemort."
Through his anger, Levir stared at her amazed. Cyra stood confused for a second, and then scornful. "What…? Oh – I said the name. Wonderful. Yes, everyone run off and hide. I said the name, Voldemort. Put it in the headlines."
Levir's amazement was replaced by intolerance.
"You shouldn't take it so lightly," he lectured. "It wasn't something to joke about."
Cyra was thrown off-balance again. "And?" she said challengingly. "I wasn't joking, just said the name, that's all. Here – you've still got blood on your cheek."
Levir was unrelenting. "You shouldn't take it so lightly," he repeated, dodging her hand. "People died. It was a serious event."
Cyra stepped back, annoyed. "I know," she snapped. "I don't know why you're treating the name like such a big issue though, that's all."
They both glared at each other.
"It's complicated," said Levir. It was Cyra's turn to be unimpressed.
"People only say that to avoid the truth," she said flatly. He didn't reply immediately.
"You're right," he said eventually. "Complicated isn't the word. But in any case, the years of the Dark Lord were black, and it doesn't do to forget the dangers."
"Lighten up," said Cyra, more bewildered than she liked to admit. This time Levir did not reply. He gingerly touched his nose.
"I think it is better. Thank you."
Cyra nodded. "It's okay. Maybe you won't follow me next time."
Levir gave a wry smile. "I did not know English girls were so vicious."
"I don't think we're all like that."
"I hope not."
It was strange as they left the room, because there was almost an unspoken parley between them, and an agreement for each to abide the other, for the time being. Cyra walked without aim for a time, and it was a while before she realised that Levir was following her lead. He was striding along with his head buried in his chest, as though speculating, and didn't notice when she stopped. Cyra looked around. They were at the top of the marble staircase.
"Sorry, I didn't realise –" she began, but broke off as Levir walked straight into her. His head jerked up on collision.
"Sorry," he said, "sorry, I didn't see you –"
"No, no it's my fault, I just stopped in the middle –"
They both stopped in mid-sentence. Cyra was embarrassed, much to her annoyance, but could tell Levir felt the same.
"So," he said aimlessly. "Vot har we doing here?"
"Oh, nothing," said Cyra. "I…I didn't realise you were following me. I wasn't thinking where I was going…"
A faint tinge was coming into Levir's face. "Sorry. I wasn't meaning to follow you – I just didn't think."
Cyra was surprised to hear herself say, "No, that's fine."
There was an unwelcome silence. It seemed to have been saving itself up for a time when it was least needed. Both parties, alien to small talk, smiled blankly and prayed the other would say something.
"So, when do –"
"I suppose –"
They both burst out talking at the same time. And stopped.
"No, you say it –"
"No, you first –"
And then repeated it.
"Tomorrow is Saturday," said Levir, after he was fairly certain Cyra wouldn't burst into speech as well.
"I'm aware of that," replied Cyra, vaguely aware she used to add sarcasm to a line like that. Levir smiled shiftily.
"The weekends are proving a trial; our day is free like yours but everyone else seems at home. I wonder, would you meet me in the morning?"
"Where?" said Cyra guardedly. "I'm not a great fan of the Great Hall – public engagements aren't my style."
"Then there are two of us made like that."
"I think the phrase is 'that makes two of us'."
"Ah. Vell, how about here – the bottom of the staircase, at least – after breakfast."
"I eat early," warned Cyra.
"I'm not a great sleeper either," said Levir, in what Cyra felt was a very abstract response. "About eight?"
Cyra thought for a moment. She had little else planned.
"Alright," she agreed at length. "Eight o'clock tomorrow. Here."
"At the bottom of these stairs."
"How ironic." She smiled.
"Indeed," replied Levir, "the first place we met." The comment was not flirtatious, but stating a fact; Cyra was just astounded she hadn't had to explain the concept of irony to a foreigner. Not for the first time, she had doubts about this being his first trip to Britain.
"Eight o clock," she said again, and descended the stairs slightly awkwardly. Levir nodded, and followed a little way behind, unspeaking. They crossed the Entrance Hall a small distance apart, and when he disappeared out of the doors and over the lawn to the ship, she turned left down to the dungeons.
A strange voice in the back of her head seemed with the vague notion that the few hours until eight the next morning were her last ones of freedom; but the voice was barely more than a whisper and she dismissed it without thought. She had arranged to meet someone. She hadn't done that for years – and the last time was hardly the same circumstances. This was new territory. There may have been doubt in her mind, and apprehension at inviting another person into her life – but all she could hear, or at least all that she allowed herself to hear, were the were the little possibilities tomorrow could bring, running over and over in her mind.
She woke on Sunday to find she had overslept. Cyra hated over-sleeping – it set her out of routine and usually was as a result of something else being wrong in her life. She didn't even bother to recognise the offender this time: she knew exactly who was the problem and she didn't feel like addressing it.
Dressing, she left the dormitory and wandered around the castle for a bit, but by lunchtime the lack of purpose unnerved her too much, and she returned to her room to find something to better occupy her time. Books and parchment and writing materials were crammed in her case, standing ready for a rainy day, or one where the theories of the magical universe weren't enough to interest her. She tossed them aside; words and writing didn't seem appealing today. Delving to the bottom, she pulled out a large bundle wrapped in black linen, and pulling at the cord that bound it, let the contents fall onto the bed. Rough-ended sheets of yellowed cartridge paper lay there, and on top of them a collection of charcoal, pencils, pens and inks. Cyra regarded the pile as one might a long-lost relation. It had been a long time since she'd drawn anything.
Silently, she wrapped it all back up again and slipped it under her arm. Even if people wondered what the black bundle was, she doubted that they'd ask. She left the dormitory and the common room behind, and upon reaching the Entrance Hall mounted what would be the first of a long succession of stairs. Not one other person in the school could know where she was going – no one else had been aware of it before. It wasn't a secret annexe, but merely a place left to dust and decay, concealed since Cyra had discovered it. This was where she left her thoughts, high above the boundaries of the castle, level with the sky. This room was a safe to her secrets, a confidant of stone walls and small windows. And as far as she knew, no one else knew anything about it. That's how she wanted it to stay. Her feelings had leaked into the damp air of the room, and hung about the walls like posters of her life. Six cold walls and an untended roof had in effect become her centre – the heart and emotions that Cyra apparently didn't possess: more like a real person than anything else people saw of her. This room was no man's land but her's. It wasn't school, it wasn't home. But it belonged to her. Finders Keepers.
Outside, the feeble sun pushed through the grey clouds, and shrank away into the black shadow of the night. How long she sat up in that freezing room Cyra didn't know, but it was dark when she returned and the castle was silent. Out of the windows sparked the stars, glittering and shining in the pale of the moon: and sighing through the turrets, so breathless you could barely hear it, the northern winds whispered. The dormitory was dark, its inhabitants asleep. Cyra slipped into bed but it was well past midnight when sleep overtook her. In the darkness, the face and words of Levir returned to her and she lay uncomfortably on the sheets. The last thoughts she had were his words, "Then maybe I will see you again…"
Sleep, when it came, was sporadic and uneasy, and laced with reluctance at the coming days.
*
The next day she managed to wake in time for the school day, and arrived at her first lesson with a few minutes to spare. Arithmancy was difficult first thing on a Monday morning, but Cyra accepted challenges and as soon as she geared up her brain she was completing the set questions in half the time of everyone else. Professor Vector gave her some extra problems and left her alone – most teachers were wary of bringing Cyra any sort of limelight within the class. Potions and Transfiguration completed the day up until lunch, and afterwards she endured a gruelling session in Defence Against the Dark Arts with Moody, who seemed not to have grasp the fact that she was best left unspoken to.
The rest of the week raced by, until it was Friday, and Cyra had seen nothing more of the Durmstrang boy since they last spoke. (She was still loath to call him Levir because she considered him rude and untrustworthy). She was glad when the classroom hours were up and she could retreat to her own thoughts. On a dreary Friday afternoon the October winds batted against the windows and howled angrily. Cyra intended at first to return to the dormitory, but after catching a glimpse of Sarina doing likewise, she changed her mind and headed for the library instead. Her apparation notes were still in her bag, untouched since a week ago and messily thrown together. Entering the library she saw that the table she had used before was empty, and sat down to work there. She took out a book, but didn't open it immediately, and instead began rewriting her notes into readable text.
There were few other people in the library and Cyra was glad for her out of the way position, because Madam Pince found reason to be suspicious for anything, and Cyra wouldn't be surprised to get kicked out on grounds of being the only one in there. She put her head down and avoided eye contact with the occasional straggle of students that wandered past.
She was onto the final paragraph of the rewrite when a shadow fell over her. Immersed in her work, she took a few moments to realise something was there, but when she did, her head shot up irritably.
"What do you want…" she began, and stopped.
Levir Tznevski stood there, his black hair framing his face like the stray ends from a ball of string.
"Hello," he said. Cyra's mouth stiffened instinctively.
"Hello."
Automatically she reached out to cover her work, but he was too quick.
"This looks intriguing," he said, bending down to get a better view.
"It isn't," said Cyra shortly, snatching it away from him and throwing it into her bag. His eyes narrowed with amusement and he smiled.
"Whatever it is, you seem very keen to hide it." Cyra shrugged in a manner that very much discouraged conversation.
"Perhaps that's just you thinking like that."
He smiled even more. "Perhaps."
Cyra averted her attention to her bag, intending to leave, but Levir had already taken the seat opposite. He waited for her to face him again. She tried to look uncaring.
"So – you alvays seem keen to be rid off me, Cyra."
She glared. "Oh?"
"Well, I am here for a year, no matter vether I am the champion or not, and I see making friends as therefore being rather…essential."
"I'm not a charity case."
He smiled even more. "Obviously."
Cyra was a little put out. "Why are you targeting me?" she said hotly. "Surely there's hundreds of others you could have chosen. Just because I don't hang around in a group and you don't seem to give anyone else a thought."
"Strange as it may seem," said Levir, the smile dropping, "I haff not been targeting you exclusiffly. It was mere coincidence ve kept meeting; however, I have noticed Cyra, that to acquaint myself vith you may not be without gain."
The vibes Cyra was giving off was frosting the windows. "Really?"
Levir seemed as a gentleman in the lion's den. "Indeed," he said courteously. "You are, if I may say, quite unlike the other girls in your class."
"How original," said Cyra icily.
"I mean you are not as trivial as them."
"How observant of you."
"Do not take offence, Cyra."
"I'll try."
At her flat tone, Levir finally gave up.
"You know," he said, his pleasant manner vanishing in a flash, "you are the most trying person."
Cyra smiled grimly. "Thank you."
A less controlled side of Levir was now apparent as he beat his knuckles on the table. "I am trying to be nice…"
"Please," said Cyra," don't let me keep you if it's such an effort."
"I did not mean it like that –"
"Oh. I do apologise."
Something remarkably like a snarl threatened on Levir's face. "I am not entirely sure vy you are –"
"Why I'm what? Acting like this? I hate to disappoint you but this is how I normally act."
Levir opened his mouth angrily, thought better of it, and forced a smile onto his face.
"This looks interesting," he said woodenly, picking up the book on the tabletop and sliding it towards him. "Such a large library you haff here. You read much do you?"
Cyra could see he was putting every effort into controlling his temper. It looked painful. She said nothing, but gave him a look that told him she knew exactly what he was up to, and retrieved her notes from her bag.
"Vot is that?" inquired Levir politely.
"Something not concerning you," said Cyra flatly, without looking up. There was a silence, as Levir considered his next sentence.
"A…personal project?" he ventured, at length.
"Isn't everything?"
"I meant is it an individual thing outside the classroom?"
Cyra looked up snappily. "Well considering I have been sitting here taking notes on my own – or would be if you left me alone – I have to say that yes, this is an individual-outside-the-classroom sort of thing. Now can I finish it. Please."
Levir noted the lack of question mark and wisely shut up for a few minutes. Cyra finished the remaining notes very quickly but her irritation at Levir increased. He obviously wasn't going to go away. She completed the notes and folded them into her bag. He was still there.
"Look, what is it you want?" she snapped, fastening her bag aggressively.
Levir gave another courteous smile, but under the pleasantries the strain of calm was showing. "I haff told you," he said. "You seem more interesting than the others in your class. I merely wanted to talk to you."
"Yes, and now you have," said Cyra, standing up and swinging her bag over her shoulder.
"For only a little while."
"If you wanted specified time slots you should have made a booking," she replied tartly, returning the book to its shelf and sweeping down the aisle. Levir followed her. Cyra was walking very speedily. He had to do a kind of hop skip to keep up with her.
"You have a natural tongue for sarcasm," he said scathingly. They were at the library doors.
"Once again, I thank you," she said, and stomped out.
She swung the door behind her with such force that Levir had to leap out of the way. She was halfway down the corridor when there was a loud thud and a rapid stream of incoherent curses behind her. She wheeled round. Levir was just outside the doors, clutching at his face. The door had hit him in the nose.
"You…bitch," he managed, groping at his nose and jumping on the spot in agony. "Complete…bitch." There followed several unidentifiable words which Cyra could only assume were Bulgarian translations of the same thing. From between his fingers blood was seeping out. "Oh…fuck," he moaned, expressing himself in a way that is universally understood. "Stupid…cow…"
Cyra wavered on the spot for a few seconds, unsure of whether or not to help him. He continued to hop on the spot. A piercing voice suddenly sounded from in the library.
"What's going on out there?" There were rapid footsteps.
Cyra made a quick decision. The last thing she needed was Madam Pince.
"Come on," she hissed, finding her feet had carried her to Levir, and were continuing down the corridor, chivvying him out of the way. "Come on, you don't want her poking around."
Levir spat foreign insults at her through his splayed hands, but allowed himself to be guided along the passages.
"Stupid whore," he growled, as they lumbered down some stairs.
"Well done," drawled Cyra, "you've learnt every English insult. Now come on."
She led him, not entirely sure why she was doing so, through the mazes of corridors until they reached the hospital wing. They had left a trail of blood flecking the floor behind them. With one hand Cyra steered Levir, who had buried his face into his palms, and with the other she pushed open the door. It was awkward, as Levir was taller than her and heavily built, but somehow she forced the pair of them into the wing at the same time. No one was in there.
Realising they'd stopped moving, Levir looked up for the first time, and seeing where they were, started angrily.
"Vy haff you brought me here?" he demanded.
"Best place," said Cyra. "I'm not seeing to you."
"English bitch," he snarled, and disappeared back into his hands. Cyra cast him a sideways glance.
"Go with your robes, that will," she muttered.
Madam Pomfrey came bustling down the rows of beds.
"What's happened here?" she said impatiently. "I've already seen to three burns from Bubotuber puss, two others from some Care of Magical Creatures monstrosity and four separate incidents of fighting with curses. Cauliflower boils all over their faces and one boy had managed to rearrange his limbs. This had better not be serious."
"It isn't," reassured Cyra. "It's just a bloody nose."
"Just!" exclaimed Levir. "This is my nose here!"
"Quiet boy," snapped Madam Pomfrey, and went to move his hands from his face. She had to drag them away. "Let me see, let me see," she muttered. "Ah yes, I see. Walked into a door was it?"
"Exactly that," said Cyra.
"You pushed it in my face!" shouted Levir furiously.
"Be quiet boy," said Madam Pomfrey. "You're getting yourself worked up." She picked up something from a table behind her.
"I am not –"
"Hold still."
"Ow!"
The matron performed some very speedy ailment that sent Levir reeling off in pain again.
"Does everything in this school haff to be so painful?" he groaned, doubled up around his knees.
"Most of the time," said Madam Pomfrey grimly. She turned to Cyra. "It's nothing serious – nothing broken. But you might want to get him cleaned up. He's already spotted this floor a nice scarlet. Doesn't require anything magical – soap and water will do the trick. I have other things to see to."
She returned to her office at the far end, and slammed the door. Cyra glanced round resignedly.
"Come on," she said sharply, grabbing a handful of Levir's robes and dragging him to his feet. "Apparently I have to clean you up."
"I can do that myself," protested Levir, stumbling along behind her.
"After that display in there? You couldn't even wet the flannel."
She led the way to the nearest bathroom, throwing occasional comments back in Levir's direction, who was winding his way down the corridors behind her, swaying like a drunk man and swearing loudly. She caught a venomous "bitch" every two or three minutes.
"Surely one of us shouldn't be in here," complained Levir, as they reached the bathroom.
"Oh shut up," snapped Cyra, pushing him inside. "No one's going to say any different."
She leaned him against the nearest sink and collected some toilet paper from a cubicle. Levir looked at her in horror as she ran it under the cold tap.
"You are going to clean me vith that?"
Cyra glared at him. "Have a better idea, do you?"
"No," he answered moodily.
"Good, then hold still."
"Vait, vot are you…argh!"
He recoiled under the damp tissue, twisting to get out of the way. Cyra was irritated, and probably a little more forceful than needs be.
"Hold still!"
"Ow! You hurt more than the matron –"
"For god's sake…"
"Stop it!"
"You're acting like a kid."
"You smashed in my face!"
"The door hit you. I think you're overreacting."
"You vern't the one getting hurt by it."
"No one hurts that much. It was wood, not a death-ridden curse shot by Voldemort."
Through his anger, Levir stared at her amazed. Cyra stood confused for a second, and then scornful. "What…? Oh – I said the name. Wonderful. Yes, everyone run off and hide. I said the name, Voldemort. Put it in the headlines."
Levir's amazement was replaced by intolerance.
"You shouldn't take it so lightly," he lectured. "It wasn't something to joke about."
Cyra was thrown off-balance again. "And?" she said challengingly. "I wasn't joking, just said the name, that's all. Here – you've still got blood on your cheek."
Levir was unrelenting. "You shouldn't take it so lightly," he repeated, dodging her hand. "People died. It was a serious event."
Cyra stepped back, annoyed. "I know," she snapped. "I don't know why you're treating the name like such a big issue though, that's all."
They both glared at each other.
"It's complicated," said Levir. It was Cyra's turn to be unimpressed.
"People only say that to avoid the truth," she said flatly. He didn't reply immediately.
"You're right," he said eventually. "Complicated isn't the word. But in any case, the years of the Dark Lord were black, and it doesn't do to forget the dangers."
"Lighten up," said Cyra, more bewildered than she liked to admit. This time Levir did not reply. He gingerly touched his nose.
"I think it is better. Thank you."
Cyra nodded. "It's okay. Maybe you won't follow me next time."
Levir gave a wry smile. "I did not know English girls were so vicious."
"I don't think we're all like that."
"I hope not."
It was strange as they left the room, because there was almost an unspoken parley between them, and an agreement for each to abide the other, for the time being. Cyra walked without aim for a time, and it was a while before she realised that Levir was following her lead. He was striding along with his head buried in his chest, as though speculating, and didn't notice when she stopped. Cyra looked around. They were at the top of the marble staircase.
"Sorry, I didn't realise –" she began, but broke off as Levir walked straight into her. His head jerked up on collision.
"Sorry," he said, "sorry, I didn't see you –"
"No, no it's my fault, I just stopped in the middle –"
They both stopped in mid-sentence. Cyra was embarrassed, much to her annoyance, but could tell Levir felt the same.
"So," he said aimlessly. "Vot har we doing here?"
"Oh, nothing," said Cyra. "I…I didn't realise you were following me. I wasn't thinking where I was going…"
A faint tinge was coming into Levir's face. "Sorry. I wasn't meaning to follow you – I just didn't think."
Cyra was surprised to hear herself say, "No, that's fine."
There was an unwelcome silence. It seemed to have been saving itself up for a time when it was least needed. Both parties, alien to small talk, smiled blankly and prayed the other would say something.
"So, when do –"
"I suppose –"
They both burst out talking at the same time. And stopped.
"No, you say it –"
"No, you first –"
And then repeated it.
"Tomorrow is Saturday," said Levir, after he was fairly certain Cyra wouldn't burst into speech as well.
"I'm aware of that," replied Cyra, vaguely aware she used to add sarcasm to a line like that. Levir smiled shiftily.
"The weekends are proving a trial; our day is free like yours but everyone else seems at home. I wonder, would you meet me in the morning?"
"Where?" said Cyra guardedly. "I'm not a great fan of the Great Hall – public engagements aren't my style."
"Then there are two of us made like that."
"I think the phrase is 'that makes two of us'."
"Ah. Vell, how about here – the bottom of the staircase, at least – after breakfast."
"I eat early," warned Cyra.
"I'm not a great sleeper either," said Levir, in what Cyra felt was a very abstract response. "About eight?"
Cyra thought for a moment. She had little else planned.
"Alright," she agreed at length. "Eight o'clock tomorrow. Here."
"At the bottom of these stairs."
"How ironic." She smiled.
"Indeed," replied Levir, "the first place we met." The comment was not flirtatious, but stating a fact; Cyra was just astounded she hadn't had to explain the concept of irony to a foreigner. Not for the first time, she had doubts about this being his first trip to Britain.
"Eight o clock," she said again, and descended the stairs slightly awkwardly. Levir nodded, and followed a little way behind, unspeaking. They crossed the Entrance Hall a small distance apart, and when he disappeared out of the doors and over the lawn to the ship, she turned left down to the dungeons.
A strange voice in the back of her head seemed with the vague notion that the few hours until eight the next morning were her last ones of freedom; but the voice was barely more than a whisper and she dismissed it without thought. She had arranged to meet someone. She hadn't done that for years – and the last time was hardly the same circumstances. This was new territory. There may have been doubt in her mind, and apprehension at inviting another person into her life – but all she could hear, or at least all that she allowed herself to hear, were the were the little possibilities tomorrow could bring, running over and over in her mind.