Author's Notes: The prompt: incorporate the number 2023 into the fic. There are also three random words that had to be used and those words are bolded.

Cyrus Broods

He made a slashing motion with his wand and the dummy exploded down feathers all over the basement. Its head lolled and the blond wig he'd set atop it slipped off and splayed across the ground, lightly singed. He surveyed his handiwork and nodded to himself in satisfaction.

2,023 days. 5 years and 54 days to be clearer. That's how long it had been since his parents had died. No, had been murdered. He had returned to England with a vengeance after having been stuck in America for the school year, only for there to no longer be an outlet for his fury. Voldemort was dead. His Death Eaters were either dead or on trial, which constituted the majority of Wizarding nobility. Lucius Malfoy didn't escape justice with a mere plea of being imperiused. He hosted the dark lord himself in his manor. There was no denying his involvement. Even if he had abandoned the dark lord in the end, there was still blood on his hands.

My blood even, Cyrus thought bitterly. Even after five long years, amidst all of the flying accusations, as Death Eaters ate one another alive at trial, it still wasn't clear who killed Cyril and Dahlia Alexandratos, much to his chagrin. Though he was normally a seeker of truth, he harbored no compunctions in blaming Lucius Malfoy for the death of his parents. Or at least he had.

But Draco. Draco had escaped justice as far as Cyrus was concerned. It had been ruled that, as he'd been inducted into the Death Eaters before he officially came of age, it counted as coercion. It didn't hurt Draco's case that he had done little more than pick on first-year students. Bullying was wrong and punishable, but not by a stint in Azkaban. He'd received three months of house arrest and was let out just in time for the school year. He rejoined all of his other innocent and suffering classmates. A shadow of his former self perhaps, but an ugly specter nonetheless.

Cyrus rarely blushed, but the thought of Draco's leniency made the color rise in his cheeks from fury. Five years. For five long years, Draco and his band of cronies had tortured him because he dared to be the son of muggleborns and then sorted into Slytherin. His head dunked into the toilet, his bed curtains had been jinxed to nearly strangle him, roughed up by the older students, being tripped with a charm above staircases, his homework shredded into confetti so that he was often forced to stay up late and do it twice, and so much more. They'd even gotten Umbridge to find something to punish him for so that he'd suffer the blood quill.

The house was not his choosing!

Ever since learning of magic and of Hogwarts, it had been Cyrus' lifelong dream to become a professor and teach there. Cyrus glanced longingly over at the workbench against the wall. What he would give to be in a business partnership with Jules. Tinkering, seeing the possibilities in attempting to marry muggle technology with magic. His parents had told him about muggles who went to university and stayed there, completing one degree and moving on to the next. He had planned to forever be learning, and then pass down the lessons he'd learned through the years to every student who walked through the Halls was surely a worthy goal. He thought the Sorting Hat would put him straight into Ravenclaw.

The hat had decided otherwise and now here he was, the last Alexandratos, studying muggle law, and finding ways to impart what he learned to the wizengamot. It was unconventional and he supposed it wasn't all that dissimilar from his original goal, but instead of fresh-faced and eager students, he had cantankerous and snooty men and women. Some were more accepting than others, but they all chafed at his attempts to equalize all magical folk, whether wizard or muggleborn. He'd found some measure of contentment, but there was just one thing ….

He waved his wand and exploded dummy instantly reassembled itself, as every splinter fell back into its original spot. He took aim.

A knock came at the door.

"Cyrus? May I have a word?" Daphne asked.

He glared at the dummy and dropped his fighting stance. It took a moment to unstick his throat: "You may enter."

Daphne floated down the stairs, a vision in dark violet robes. He almost couldn't see the protrusion of her pregnancy, the thought of which always mellowed his foul mood. Or almost always. She approached him carefully, a cloak of sadness hovering around her.

"I … know … how hard this is for you," Daphne said.

"Do you?" Cyrus snapped out and abruptly turned away. She was not the target of his anger and he need not make her one. He bit his tongue.

She didn't rise to the bait, but she gave him a knowing look. "Yes, I do. Perhaps not to the same extent as you, but I do know. Malfoy is one of the Great and Noble Houses. I've had to put up with him since I was in swaddling clothes. A Malfoy's arrogance knows no bounds. My father always said it would be their downfall."

He dared not to speak and kept his eyes trained on the dummy, his lip curling as he sneered at it.

"I told my sister it would be impossible for you to be happy about her marriage to Draco. I only promised that we would tolerate it. For appearance's sake, we must be united," she said.

It was the same old theatre of the wizengamot.

"Draco is many things, but he's not oblivious. He's well aware you hate his guts."

"And yet he insists on antagonizing me with his presence," Cyrus huffed.

Daphne sighed. "I wish there was another way. If it pleases you, father has announced that the Malfoys will be receiving nothing of the Greengrass Estate. That will pass to us."

"I don't care about the inheritance," Cyrus bellowed.

"Perhaps you don't now, but I know I find endless satisfaction that Malfoy will receive not even a single, bronze knut." She closed the distance between them and gently took his hand, leading him to the sofa. They sat down together and she curled into him.

He heaved a great sigh and rested his head against hers. "I hate him so much," he whispered.

"I know," she replied. "You only have to tolerate him occasionally. Ignore him for all I care."

Cyrus does his best to shake his head. He hesitates to speak because he knows how vile the words will sound. Instead, he laid a hand across Daphne's belly, his lips twitching as he felt the baby stirring.

They sat there for a moment, saying nothing and basking in each other's company.

Daphne pulls his wand from his hand and he can feel her frown against his chest.

"Darling, would you do me a favor and make a visit to Ollivander's? I don't like how dark your wand feels."

Cyrus frowned back, though he doesn't lift his head from hers. "You think so?"

"I'm tuned enough into my magic that I can feel the negative energy. It's feeding your foul mood," she said.

"Where's your wand? I'm curious now."

She snapped it to her fingers and handed it over.

He plucked it from her hand and held it up to the ceiling as if he were inspecting it. He's not sure if it's the power of suggestion, but there did appear to be an element of lightness to it. His mood didn't seem so dark.

"My wand again?" Cyrus asked.

She tilted it his way and he took it.

He frowned as dire feelings fell upon him once more. Remarkable, he thought. It reminded him of the wand battle between Voldemort and Harry Potter. Hermione had been the one to tell him about wand loyalty and how it switched between owners. He had never thought of wands as animate objects, but merely a conduit for channeling. Unlike regular civilians, he'd had the privilege of seeing the wands of some of the Death Eaters and he found it curious how many of them seemed warped into twisted claw-like appendages. He had originally assumed that Death Eaters liked such appearances because it enhanced their darkness, but perhaps it had more to do with the type of magic a dark wand handled.

He knew a few dark spells but had largely skirted the bounds of dark magic. He could think of nothing worse than resorting to the kind of magic that his bullies adored.

But now he was faced with a problem. His wand, the wand he'd carried since he first went to Diagon Alley, the wand his parents bought him had indeed been warped by his bitterness. He handed Daphne back her wand and slumped further against her.

They remained quiet again until he whispered against her shoulder, "I'll go to Ollivanders."