GENERAL INFORMATION
Full Name: Clara Nikolaevna Ivanova Age:ย Twenty Eight (28)ย Birthday: 21 March 1957ย Zodiac: Aries Sun, Capricorn Moon, Aquarius Risingย Blood Status: Half-Blood | Werewolfย Education: Koldovstoretz (1967 - 1974)ย ย ย Occupation: Unemployed; Former Magical Creatures Smugglerย
BIOGRAPHY
Positive Traits: Determined, Patient, Strong, Protectiveย Negative Traits: Self-Loathing, Stubborn, Paranoid, Lostย
BIOGRAPHY
Born in a backwater ditch just north of Dobrich, Clara learned quickly that the world was unkind to gutter rats. She was nothing more than that; not really, not in any way that mattered. She knew what it was like to skip meals so her sickly younger sister had enough to fill her belly. After all, it was the only way she wouldnโt cry all night. Clara always knew what size clothes her mother wore so she knew what size to steal from the local shopkeepers. And just like the rats, she saw just as much without ever being considered a threat. She saw the cruelty of her father โ sweet as pie when he came looking for money, and violent when there was nothing to fuel his gambling addiction. She never understood why her mother let him return, time and time again; how she could let him treat them like they werenโt even human? She was a witch, one of considerable powers and talents. Why didnโt she fight back against this inconsequential man who hurt them and bared nothing of significance to the world? ย He took what little they had, until there was less than nothing left. Then heโd disappear again, giving no consideration for the women he left to fend for themselves.
Even as a child, Clara always felt she always had to rob Peter to pay Paul. Hardly an ideal circumstance, particularly against the harsh and hostile landscape of northern Bulgaria. But when she got her letter for Koldovstoretz, she finally felt like there was an answer. She could learn to control her magic. She could be strong the way her mother never was, and finally show her father what real power was. She took her studies seriously, perhaps more so than her classmates, though she was diligent in her effort to not call attention to herself or her accomplishments . After all, gutter rats were used to living in the dark and she didnโt want anyone to know where she had come from. Leaving her mother and sister, who they eventually learned was infected by a maledictus, was always hard. Goodbye always tasted like ash on her tongue, and her holidays were the brightest moments of her adolescent and teenage years. When she was home, she knew she could keep them safe.
Despite her insistence on remaining inconspicious, Clara became a star quidditch player on her school team. She was pursued by scouts at the start of her sixth year, and was being offered scholarships and contracts for reserve playership. This way, she could finish her schooling then funnel out into a team. The opportunity to make something of her life so she could protect her mother and sister was tangible. She could finally make something of herself. But tragedy is never far. As tensions in the wizarding world rose, so did those in the muggle world. Sure, muggles didnโt have magic, but they had bombs and guns and prejudice, an equally lethal combination.ย Returning home for the summer holiday after her sixth year, she came to discover her family was killed in the crossfire of the muggle conflict. She couldnโt eat. She couldnโt sleep. She couldnโt even pick up a broom. Her future was gone and she didnโt even care, what did it matter with out her mother and sister?
The only person who had been left was Claraโs father, and when they tossed the last shovel of gravel over her motherโs grave, he didnโt offer condolences. He didnโt try to build a bridge to mend the gap between them. He looked at her, his eyes as cold and harsh at the Bulgarian wind, demanding money from her life insurance. Clara had never known a hatred so pungent as she did that day. She couldnโt go home; there was no home left to go to. She wanted justice. She wanted revenge. She wanted to hurt the muggles like her father, who had taken everything from her, with no remorse for the damage of their actions. She wanted them to understand what it meant to have nothing, to be helpless in the face of destruction. Having no better prospects, she actively sought out Voldemort and his followers after graduating, seeking the power and freedom the Dark Lord promised all of his recruits. There would be no justice without blood. Blinded by the violence of her rage and the ignorance of her youth, Claraโs induction into the death eaters was forceful and violent. A condition of her initiation, Fenrir had turned her, cold laughter engulfing them before his fangs ripped into her flesh. In the weeks and months that followed, it became apparent that they had lied to her, their promises nothing but empty words and broken promises. She wasnโt stronger. She wasnโt important. She was a slave to the full moon and to their cause, receiving nothing she was promised in return. Agony was a constant companion in the days of the war, receiving only menial tasks with hollow words of โencouragementโ that sheโd get her revenge eventually. There were not a comfort, only resulting in a reminder of her dispensable insignificance . She had given up so much and, now, she had lost herself in the process. With nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, and facing the hatred and fear that accompanied her lycanthropy, Clara stayed with the Death Eaters. She was in a cage, one of her own volition.
When Voldemort died, she didnโt know how to feel. Was she free? Not really. Did she get the revenge she had been promised? Absolutely not. She had nothing but disease to show for her efforts. Clara did stay in London following the war. Bulgaria was too painful to return, littered only with the memory of those she lost (including herself). Her position within the Death Eaters was not one of consequence, low enough that it didnโt even warrant an investigation. It was like she didnโt exist; she felt like a ghost. She was, for all practical purposes, which is precisely why the Dolohovs found her in the first place. They had a need for people that didnโt really exist and this time she could at least get paid for her servitude. ย What were a few years of service in exchange for the money she needed to build a life for herself, and paperwork that could help her be a real person again?
Afflicted as she was, there werenโt many opportunities for Clara to work safely. She was good with animals, almost as good as she was on a broom, though she didnโt fly anymore. It was how she ended up as an exotic creature smuggler. Her animals always arrived alive and in good health, no others in her line of work could say that. Anything from Appaloosa Puffskiens to Romanian Longhorns. If you had the money and the space, Clara could get it to you, 27 days out of the month at least. But life has never been easy or kind to Clara. Attacked and left for dead by a rival organization, with all of her cargo stolen. She should have been killed, that would have been easier. Instead, she has the foggy memory of a man standing over her. Dark eyes with an equally foreboding presence, like a pair of river stones, a soft light quickly washing over her. Her memories only get fuzzier from there. She remembers what she did, who she was, but she could not quite manage to recall who she worked for. No matter how much she wanted to, or how many times she was asked. Her only concrete memory of that night is being dumped at St. Mungoโs, a bloody broken mess with a few pieces of parchment noting her name and a Gringottโs vault number. Enough money to make a life, as soon as she can leave the confines of this god-forsaken hospital bed.
