As the rain raged over her, soaking her robes and obscuring her vision, Cassandra ducked and weaved, trying to avoid the curses being rapidly fired in her direction. She could feel her legs burning as she ran down the long, narrow path in the woods. The sound of her boots slapping muddy soil matched the rapid thumps of her heart. Sweat and rainwater had turned her braid into a heavy rope that whipped at her lower back.
Just as she made a sharp left, a blasting curse hit the ground beneath her feet, launching her in the air. When her body hit the ground, she rolled with the impact and propelled herself forward, ignoring the searing pain in her right ankle. Without looking back, she cast stunning spell after stunning spell behind her, hoping to get her pursuer with a lucky hit. Hearing a booming masculine laugh, she ran harder, choking down the cold air, sprinting into the pain.
Once she crossed the pine trees that marked the end of the woods that surrounded the Lestrange property, Cassandra saw her grandfather standing at their front porch. Cygnus Black III was a towering figure: tall and aristocratic, with quick grey eyes, short salt and pepper hair always worn combed back, and skin pale as parchment. Even from a distance, Cassandra could see the thin line of the wizard's disapproving lips as he glanced at the timer spelled to hover above him.
The ticking seconds echoed inside Cassandra's head. She pushed herself to run faster. The tendons cording through her legs wailed for relief. The burning moved to her lungs. Her wand felt slippery in her hand.
Fifty meters. Thirty. Ten.
Once she got within reach she aimed up, and freezed the timer with a spell. 68 minutes and 34 seconds. That's how long it took her to find and revive the seven creatures that had been stunned and hidden in the woods, all while evading a wizard trying to incapacitate her.
She came to a halt right in front of her grandfather, her hands in her knees, breathing in painful lungfuls of air.
"Slower than yesterday," he said, and without another word, turned and walked into the house.
Cassandra scowled at his back, rubbing her shaking thighs. Since she had come back from Hogwarts, there was a new harshness to her grandfather that upset her. She understood why he was on edge, with the possibility of the Dark Lord's return looming in their horizon, but that knowledge did little to comfort her. She missed the man who had embraced her during Yule, and promised to always listen to her.
She startled when she heard a loud pop behind her, and turned around to face the wizard who had been chasing her.
"Slower than yesterday," Boris Ivanovich said in a thick russian accent, and for a brief moment Cassandra wanted to stun her instructor and watch as her raven pecked his eyes out. Not that she would dare. The gruff old wizard who taught her during the summers was a retired Durmstrang Dark Arts professor, who had fought in and survived the Global Wizarding War. If she raised her wand at him he would likely annihilate her, as he nearly always did in their dueling practices. If she ever had to kill him, she would use poison, or a ritual that could be performed from a safe distance.
That he was standing in front of her, dry and nonchalant while she was wet, dirty and visibly exhausted didn't improve her mood any, however. He got to apparate when hunting her, while she had to run through the dense woods by foot, in order to 'replicate real combat conditions', since she wouldn't be old enough to obtain her apparating license for a couple years yet. She would teach herself to fly without a broom out of pure spite at some point.
"I'll do better next time, sir," she said, swallowing down a snappish response, as she did whenever he criticized her performance during one of his training exercises. She hated herself for her failures much more than she hated him for pointing them out. That was his job, after all.
"You do better, or when it counts, you will die," Mr. Ivanovich replied, as he did every time he heard her make that vow. "You will think about what you did wrong. Next time I will not be so easy on you. I could have aimed blasting curse at your legs, not at ground beneath your feet."
"Then you should have, sir," Cassandra said, only somewhat bitterly. Fourteen days had passed since the beginning of her summer lessons, and she felt every minute of those days in her body right then. She was allowed healing potions for bleeding wounds and broken bones, but anything minor had to heal naturally. Her tutor insisted she should be able to perform with her body bruised and sore, because she would likely be forced to in real life. If he had broken her legs, she would've been able to take a potion, and woken up completely restored the next morning. With only a twisted ankle, she would have to limp on a splinted foot for the rest of the week.
"Cygnus said your young man is coming to meet him today, yes? I did not think you want to spend afternoon regrowing bones in your legs instead of making yourself pretty, but maybe I was wrong. I am old man, after all," he said with a shrug.
Cassandra didn't roll her eyes out of respect. It was offensive that the man thought it took her that much effort to look beautiful. But then again, he mostly saw her covered in sweat and grime. "Yes, sir," she answered, "my boyfriend and his parents are coming for dinner tonight. If grandfather hasn't extended an invitation yet, please consider yourself invited to dine with us."
"I will greatly enjoy watching your grandfather test your young suitor, voronyonok," he said. "It is important for man to know that with love of good woman, comes father that will maim you if you hurt her. It keeps us in check."
"You think too little of me, sir," she replied coolly. "My boyfriend knows I'm perfectly capable of maiming him myself."
It wasn't until later, while she showered off the mud that covered nearly every exposed inch of her skin, that Cassandra thought of what Mr. Ivanovich had said. She didn't think her grandfather would be overtly hostile towards Cedric, having given his blessing to their relationship, but the inner workings of the Black patriarch's mind were a mystery to her these days. The time he didn't spend brewing potions in his laboratory or watching her train, he spent locked in his study, 'making preparations' for the war they knew was coming. When she had asked him what those preparations entailed, he'd refused to elaborate, insisting she should focus on her lessons.
She couldn't really object to that directive. Realistically, what else could she do? She had been an infant during the last wizarding war, and didn't have any knowledge or insight that her grandfather lacked, that could contribute to his planning. She had read all there was to read about the conflict, but he had lived it. Survived it, when so many others had not. The best course of action she could see was, in fact, to throw herself into her training. Unlike most, she had received a warning of what was to come, and she wouldn't squander it - she would make sure she was skilled enough to protect herself and those she loved when the time to fight came.
Her mind went to Cedric again. She hoped that after tonight's dinner, his parents would agree to him joining her in her lessons for the rest of the summer. They had been hesitant upon learning of her instructor's qualifications, fearing his proficiency in the Dark Arts, but hopefully meeting the former teacher in person would mollify them. If not, she would ask her grandfather to intervene in her and her boyfriend's behalf. Not many people could muster up the nerve to deny Cygnus Black, and she certainly didn't expect the Diggorys to be able to.
After stepping out of the shower, she quickly dried herself up with a spell and went into her bedroom, where a few outfits Mimi had selected from her closet hovered in the air. Every few moments, the clothes would move to show themselves from a different angle, as if being showcased by invisible models trying to sell the garments to her. Cassandra examined the house-elf's display, trying to decide what to wear. She doubted Cedric would care much about her choice in garment, but she wanted greatly to impress his parents.
She had relayed in her invitation that the dinner would be a formal affair, so protocol dictated the men should come in dress robes. Older pureblood witches favored embroidered robes in rich fabrics for formal occasions, while her mother's generation preferred evening gowns with full skirts, long sleeves and fitted bodices. Purebloods her own age tended to wear less rigidly-built dresses, with looser skirts and lighter fabrics. Cassandra would usually mirror in her own clothes the style preferred by an event's hostess or by her grandfather's guest of honor, if they were the ones hosting, but she didn't know if Mrs. Diggory, being a half-blood, followed the wizarding or muggle fashion. Should she go for something understated, to avoid making the other woman look underdressed, or would her guests consider that a slight, as if she hadn't deemed their visit important enough to warrant something more elegant? She threw herself on her bed with a huff, frustrated at how much she cared about something so trivial. Being in a relationship had truly made her stupid.
In the end, Cassandra let the disconcerting, yet sincere remarks made by Mr. Diggory on the day they were introduced guide her. At King's Cross, the wizard had said that being invited to dine at the Lestrange manor was an honor to him, even with the shame of her parents' imprisonment. The excitement made sense, coming from a mid-level Ministry employee from a mundane wizarding family. It wasn't likely that the Diggorys were invited to socialize with members of Britain's pureblood high-society often, and Death Eater relatives or not, that's what she and her grandfather were. The best approach for the evening would not be to try to appear lower in station than they really were, but to impress upon Cedric's parents - his father specially, how much their son had to gain from his relationship with her. She was going to dazzle them.
For that, she chose a full skirted, off the shoulder pale silver gown, with sheer puff sleeves and a fitted bodice that ended on her hips. It was diaphanous and ethereal, something that a witch from a fairytale might've worn. To add to that effect, she twisted her hair up and adorned it with scattered pearls of different sizes, which contrasted with her black locks in a captivating manner. She looked like a more refined, adult version of herself. Like her mother did in the photographs she kept in a locked box beneath her bed.
After dressing up, she busied herself with last minute preparations. She decorated the first floor of the house with vases of flowers freshly cut from the gardens, that filled the rooms with a pleasant fragrance; took out a charmed string sextet from the attic and placed it in the drawing room, setting it to play Brahms; and in a whim, transfigured the landscape painting that hung above the the fireplace from which guests entered the manor to her family's coat of arms. She stared at the fireplace for a while, eager and afraid for the arrival of their guests. Eventually, she noticed her grandfather's presence behind her, and turned her head to look at him. They stared at each other for a few seconds.
"What?" She asked hesitantly. These days, his heavy silences were followed by horrifying statements like, "The Dark Lord is not dead, Cassandra".
He came forward until they were side by side. "I was part of a scene very similar to this one, a long time ago." He offered her his right arm, elbow bent. It was a gentlemanly gesture, characteristic of the indulgent parental figure she had been missing that summer, and she was inordinately grateful for it. She primly looped her hand under the offered arm to rest it over his forearm, and he led them on a leisurely walk around the anteroom. "Back then, instead of you, it was your mother, waiting for your father and his family at Black End Hall. We formalized their engagement that night, and they married not long after."
She didn't know what to say to that. As a child, she had asked him and her aunts to tell her all they could about her parents, and knew their marriage had been one of convenience, arranged by their families; they had accepted and respected each other, but there had been no romantic love between them.
"You can have any wizard in Britain, Cassandra. Anyone you wish, I will get you," he continued. "Are you sure it's this boy you choose?"
"Yes," she answered at once. "He knows me, he knows what's going to happen, and he's still willing to stand by my side."
"Some would call that kind of devotion stupid," he said.
"Not a Lestrange," she replied, thinking of the family that had left her to search for the Dark Lord, even when everyone else believed him dead, and never returned.
"No," her grandfather said ruefully, "not a Lestrange."
The Diggorys arrived not much later, joining her, her grandfather and Boris Ivanovich in the Lestrange Manor drawing room, where they were entertained before dinner commenced. Cedric remarked on how beautiful she looked, how brightly her eyes shone, how much he'd missed her. She noticed all the new things about him, that had changed in the weeks they'd been apart. He had spent that time visiting some cousins in Spain, and his handsome complexion had benefited from the time under the sun; there were freckles on his nose, his skin had a tan that spoke of wholesome vigor, and his brown hair was now lit with honey streaks. He looked every bit the golden boy that he was, and Cassandra felt herself basking in the brightness of his presence.
Mrs. Diggory, good-looking and cordial, was wearing the traditional dress robes customarily donned by pureblood witches twice her age, a choice that did her figure no favors, but pleased Cygnus Black, as did her lively disposition and agreeable manners. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of her husband. Mr. Diggory's uninhibited personality, that at once vexed and amused Cassandra, chafed against her grandfather's rigid propriety.
The hall, the dining room, and all the decorations were examined and praised by the Diggorys, and their admiration of everything would've been wholly pleasing if not for Mr. Diggory's mortifying enquiry as to whether any items had been damaged by the Ministry during their search of the mansion for Dark objects after her parents' arrest. Cassandra tried not to grimace at the inappropriate question, and answered she did not remember, being so young at the time.
"Can you believe, our children in love," Mr. Diggory - 'Call me Amos, please, and if I may call you Cygnus?' - gushed to her grandfather, clasping his hands together. Cedric looked at her worriedly, and she shook her head discreetly, signaling him not to intervene. It was obvious to her, and to everyone else at the table, that Mr. Diggory's sentimentality made her stern grandfather uncomfortable, but he would not appreciate being rescued from their conversation, as if he were incapable of handling the other wizard.
"It came as quite a shock," her grandfather answered.
"What do you mean?" Mr. Diggory asked, guileless. Cassandra drank a mouthful of wine, ignoring the lobster tagliatelle in front of her in favor of exchanging sympathetic looks with her boyfriend. This was excruciating.
"Cassandra had never humored any talk of boys, so I assumed romance wasn't something she was interested in, and that it would fall to me to make her a proper match when the time came," her grandfather said. "Her mother was like that, as well."
She looked at her grandfather sharply. She knew what he was doing, bringing up her similarities to her mother with Cedric's parents, trying to make them uncomfortable. He didn't look back at her, and she was left glaring curses at his profile. Cedric rested her foot against hers, reassuring. She took a calming breath, in and out, and focused on rearranging the food on her plate.
"Well," Mr. Diggory tried, "that's because she hadn't been wooed by our Ced yet! Charming lad, he is, and straight Os, as well. Isn't that right, honey?" he said, turning to Mrs. Diggory.
"Yes, Cedric is a very dedicated student, and we're very proud of him. I hear you have plenty of reasons to be proud of Cassandra in that regard, as well," Mrs. Diggory replied with a genial smile.
"Hogwarts' curriculum has not proven itself particularly challenging for wizards of good breeding for many decades now, but no one can hope to question Cassandra's aptitude as a witch, nor her diligence in bettering herself," her grandfather said. "What would you say of your pupil, Boris?"
"The girl is talented like any wizard I ever dueled, and twice more vicious. It is good, for pretty witches to be vicious. In fight, they are first choice in victims," Mr. Ivanovich said. "Is your soon good fighter?"
Mr. Diggory seemed startled by that question. "I suppose I've never- We're not-"
"I've never been formally trained," Cedric interrupted his father smoothly, "but I would like to be. Is it true Dueling is a discipline at Durmstrang?"
"Of course," Mr. Ivanovich said, "it should be in Hogwarts too, if the British were not so coddling to the children. They do not even teach the Dark Arts at your school, yes?"
"We've had our fill of warmongering dark wizards, sir," Mr. Diggory said with sobriety. "I cannot see what would be gained by teaching children such things."
"Those who will make war do not need school to teach them the Dark Arts, they will seek the knowledge needed to commit their atrocities by whatever means necessary. And they only gain from the others' ignorance. How can you fight what you do not know? I would not have survived the war against Grindelwald if I had not understood the ways of other side," Mr. Ivanovich replied.
"You fought against Grindelwald?" Mrs. Diggory asked, with naked surprise.
"Yes. I was young... Auror, I think you say, back home. Many of my colleagues were killed in the name of that svolotsch. The ones who survived, did because we knew how to fight like his army," the wizard said.
"Professor Ivanovich was invited to teach at Durmstrang because of his actions during the war," Cassandra added, feeling that would be the way to convince Cedric's parents of the wizard's worthiness as an instructor. "He was awarded the Russian Ministry's equivalent to an Order of Merlin, first class, for saving a Muggle village from being attacked by a chimaera let loose by one of Grindelwald's acolytes." Her targets looked suitably impressed by that.
"Cassandra was rather disappointed when your son did not join her for her lessons at the beginning of the summer. I understand that was your choice," her grandfather said to Mr. and Mrs. Diggory.
"We only want what's best for our son," Mr. Diggory replied sheepishly.
"And you do not believe being privately tutored by a condecorated war hero would be beneficial to his education? Or are you so prejudiced against the Dark Arts you would keep him from learning to defend himself?" her grandfather asked calmly.
"We never meant any offense," Mrs. Diggory intervened before her husband could answer. "We simply weren't aware of the Professor's heroic feats, and were hesitant to have an unknown person teaching our son." she said. "I'm sure you understand our… selectiveness concerning Cedric's educators."
"That should no longer be a problem, then," her grandfather said with finality, and nodded with satisfaction when Mr. and Mrs. Diggory agreed. He turned to their son, then. "I understand my family is used to doing things a lot differently from yours, son, so I'll spare all of us any misunderstandings and be direct. How serious are you about my granddaughter?"
"Very serious, sir," Cedric answered, straightening his posture.
"Serious enough for marriage?"
"Grandfather!" Cassandra cut in.
"You are both going to be fifteen within the year," he said, raising an eyebrow at her. "That's certainly old enough for a betrothal contract, at least."
Cedric looked at her, searching for an answer. "No one's getting betrothed tonight," she retorted firmly, turning to stare down her guardian. "With all due respect, grandfather, if and when that does happen, it will not be by your interference."
As soon as the Diggorys stepped through the floo, leaving the house, Cassandra rounded on her grandfather, her friendly smile dropping from her face.
"What did you think you were doing?" She demanded, with venom in her tone. It was unlike her to speak to him in such a manner, but dinner had been a subdued affair after their quarrel, and the wine she had kept drinking in hopes to dull the edges of her embarrassment had only made her angrier. "Why on Merlin's name would you bring up a betrothal contract? What is this, the Middle Ages?"
"I am only trying to protect you, Cassandra," he replied evenly.
She sneered. "Protect me? Is that what you call trying to make me a child bride?"
"You are the one who chose the boy."
"To be my boyfriend! Not my bloody husband! I'm fourteen!"
"What you are is a fool!" Her grandfather roared. She flinched, unused to his anger. "You think this is what I want for you? To marry you off to the first lovestruck boy that suits your fancy? You were meant for so much better than this. But what do you think is going to happen when the blasted war comes, and your parents get out from Azkaban? Because I assure you, when the Dark Lord rises again, he will find a way to release them. And all the freedom, all the protections your family name afford you now will be gone - like that!" He said, snapping his fingers.
Cassandra stepped back, her mouth suddenly dry. "I didn't-"
"It is in your best interest to be married when that time comes, child. I am doing all I can to ensure you won't be without allies, but do not doubt for a second your parents will pull you wand-first into their madness as soon as they're able to. You think me pushing you to marry a boy from a family of nobodies is bad? You have no idea what they had planned for you! You were to be your mother's sacrifi-"
"Stop!" Cassandra screamed, and yelled again in surprise when a small body collided against her, making her fall to the ground, flat on her back. She noticed then the ringing in her ears, and the shards of glass stuck against the protective barrier Mimi had erected around them. She blinked, trying to get her bearings, and sat up slowly. Her grandfather had his wand drawn, and was wiping blood from a small cut on his face. When she looked around, she noticed every window, as well as the crystal vases and all the glass in the furniture had shattered in what seemed to have been a bout of accidental magic on her part.
"Are you hurt?" Her grandfather asked, reaching for her.
"No, Mimi got to me," she answered meekly, avoiding his hand.
"It wasn't my intention to-"
"I can't take this right now," she said, and ran out of the room, out of the house, and kept running until she was joined by Klaus, who flew above her into the woods where she wasn't a Lestrange, wasn't anyone's daughter or granddaughter, where there wasn't any prophecy looming in her future and her choices belonged only to herself.
voronyonok = baby raven; little raven
svolotsch = bastard; scum