Cyrus Wroxton, Headmaster

“The human soul can always use a new tradition. Sometimes we require them.”

[mrcharminggermain-deactivated20]

Ah yes. I see exactly what you mean. It is very…homey. I understand why you would want to say in only one place. It does have a sort of charm to it. I feel very comfortable here.

[cyruswroxton-blog]

Well I'm quite pleased to hear it.

So what are your thoughts of the Tournament? I've heard many arguments against it from all sides and am always fascinated to hear the thoughts of others.

[mrcharminggermain-deactivated20]

It is definitely not as exquisite as Beauxbatons. It is better than I expected though.

[cyruswroxton-blog]

Well we do try our best.

We want our guests to be as comfortable as happy as possible. Of course, this is an old castle. Magic helps with certain more undesirable aspects of such an old building, but it is, I feel, part of the charm of Hogwarts. Some have suggested over the years that we relocate to a more modern establishment, but this school reflects our heritage as wizards. We belong here. Nowhere else.

[mrcharminggermain-deactivated20]

It is quite nice.

[cyruswroxton-blog]

To your standards, I hope? Beauxbatons, if I remember, is rather much more exquisite than Hogwarts. I do hope we are keeping to your standards.

[cyruswroxton-blog]

How are you finding our school? Is it to your liking?

[cyruswroxton-blog]

Catching Up {Cyrus & Dinaldo}

[dada-dino]

His magic was spreading around the room, filling the corners and little nooks. His magic was rarely inside of his body, always testing his surroundings, showing him what was there that he could not see. He was grading essays, having whispered a spell so the essay would be read out loud by a monotone voice. Sometimes the voice liked to comment on the horrible grammar that was used by some of the students. His magic had evolved so much it was getting a life of its own it seemed. And sometimes the comments made him smile, other times it made him sigh, making his red pen slash over the words, correcting it in a spidery font. 

Dinaldo had closed his eyes, it was calming. Keeping his eyes open was tiring. It was straining his muscles to let his eyes go around the room, trying to follow the sounds. Instead he just closed his lids, sinking back in the black. It was comforting to him. The black, he resided in it, knew it. He was familiar with it and although there had been moments it made him incredibly angry in the past, he had accepted it. He couldn’t imagine living without it. There had been days, long ago, where he closed his eyes, prayed and hoped that when he would open them, there would be a world full of greens and blues and lovely yellows. 

All of a sudden, a knock sounded on the door. Dinaldo opened his eyes out of reflex. His eyes flitted towards the sound, not able to see anything but black. The voice stopped talking as he pulled the magic that had spoke back into his body. The pen fell down onto the essay and the papers rearranged on his desk, tidying everything. ”Dinaldo?” he heard all of a sudden. It was the headmaster. Dino felt around for his desk and placing his hands palm down onto the wood, answered: ”Yes, door is open!”

[cyruswroxton-blog]

Cyrus pushed the door open to find Dinaldo in the middle of grading papers. He found himself glowing with a sort of fatherly pride (though he was not sort to let himself become too doting), for Dinaldo's methods around his blindness were quite impressive. As a test of his ability to manage both himself and his classroom, Cyrus had offered no suggestions for how to overcome a lack of sight. There were, being wizards, many options of course, but over the years he had encountered witches and wizards lacking the creativity to adapt to their situations.

Dinaldo had not been one of those, and during his interview he had proven himself a more than capable instructor.

It was also for that reason that he refused to infantilize him. His successes were his own, yes, and they were brilliant, but he was no more or less than another teacher. He functioned as he needed to to perform a job, and he performed it well because he was able to instruct his student well. That was all Cyrus would ever let himself comment on.

"Good afternoon, Dinaldo. How are you finding this year? I apologize for my absences. This tournament is far more taxing than I'd imagined it could be."

[cyruswroxton-blog]

Catching Up {Cyrus & Dinaldo}

With the headache of the Tournament--it had been far more of a logistical nightmare than he'd anticipated--Cyrus had neglected other, more personal matters. Specifically, the attention he had once paid to his staff to ensure their comfort and contentedness had been overshadowed by discussions with Ministry officials, meetings with his fellow school Heads, and panicked letters from parents who were certain that his allowing a Tournament to be hosted at his school was a sign that he was, at 50, past his prime and due to be replaced with a younger, more sensible wizard.

(The mother who had written that he was "a nuisance" and "due to learn lessons from fresher, more able" minds had made him laugh out loud in the middle of the Great Hall.)

A much-needed gap formed in his schedule--the unfortunate hospitalization of a Ministry contact--allowing him time to visit his favorite  employee. (Not that he would ever admit that. Having favorites never ended as well as people hoped.)

"Dinaldo?" he asked, knocking on the door to the professor's study. "Might I come in?"

[cyruswroxton-blog]

The Kingdom

Cyrus did enjoy formality, though some of his staff seemed a bit on the rebellious side. There was, to him, something quite cathartic about organized meals, students lined in rows, service choreographed, while the instructors looked on. This was now doubly important given the fact that Hogwarts was the tournament host. Neither Beauxbatons (always snobby and elitist) nor Durmstrang (delusionally elitist and quite displeased with everything) would be able to say anything about his school or the way he maintained order.

Or perhaps he simply enjoyed lording over his kingdom.

He had already that day scared a young Beauxbatons boy—perhaps the younger brother of a student hoping to compete?—and as he sipped his tea he considered, was he really that intimidating?

Perhaps to children, those accustomed to less structure and more individuality, he was. But he was simply a man who enjoyed—and, indeed, expected—a certain level of deference, respect, and tradition. He had flirted with frivolity in his youth, traveling and being accountable to none but himself, but that was temporary. His excursions had been quite exciting, and he was grateful for the experiences, but a quiet life, filled with routine and structure, was his ideal.

Yes, as he sipped his tea and looked out on the Great Hall at all the children before him, he realized that he was exactly where he needed to be, and he was doing exactly what needed to be done. Any who would question that were entitled to their opinions, but Cyrus felt confident that his school and his methods were in need of no changes.