ARCENEAUX, CYRILLE VIVIEN

[cyrille]

Player's Name: Noir.
Other Characters: None yet!
Contacts: PM, Chatango ((JudicialNoir)), AIM ((RyuuseiKOUBA)).
Random Fact: I'm a new Harry Potter fan. Also, Benji is my rovery husbando.

Name: Cyrille Vivien Arceneaux.
Alias: Professor Arceneaux, Professor, Cy.
Age: Thirty-six.
Birthday: August 13, 1940.
Gender: Male.
Blood: Pureblood.
Sexual Preference: Pansexual.
Wand: Ginkgo, Veela hair, thirteen inches, sturdy.
Pet: A Screech Owl named Kaepora (( brownie points for anyone who catches the reference~ ;D )).
Special Ability: None.

Experience: Nine years.
Residency: Seven years.
Concentration: Astronomy.

Hair: Cyrille's hair is thick, voluminous, and the slightest bit wavy depending on how it is styled, with a hairline that is knit together by a sharp widow's peak. Although it is a beautiful golden brown color, it has a tendency to grow fast—very fast—so in order to keep it at the length he so desires (just above his shoulders), he uses his own magic to keep himself from succumbing to the sheer wrath of a Rapunzel complex.
Eyes: One could almost say that Cyrille's eyes are deep black in color, but in reality, they are actually a fairly dark brown. It is often hard to depict where exactly his pupils are located unless the light hits them just right (though he would wholeheartedly smack the person who would even think of sticking a damn light directly in his face).
Height: 5'8". Not exactly the most intimidating height for a grown man, especially in comparison to some of his fellow staff. They say his attitude can make up for it though.
Weight: 152lbs. He has a lean, medium build, with tightly-coiled muscles rippling underneath his skin.

--- "The stars merely act as roadsigns, pointing us all into the direction we wish to go. Every star is different, so it's your responsibility to know which star to look at first before you lift your feet. You want to know for certain which sign to follow, after all, before it decides to lead you down the wrong path."

All in all, Cyrille is a calm and collected individual with a thirst for knowledge of all things outside of this world. The shimmering orbs that sprinkle across the navy-black expanse of the night have always captured his eye, and the unfathomable might of extraterrestrial planets still spark some sort of childish excitement in his heart each and every time his gaze falls upon them. He has always been fascinated by astronomy and space, and it looks like that is an unconditional love that will never seem to die. As a matter of fact, it's thanks to these celestial bodies that he is the person he is today, as odd as that may sound. He holds his head high and walks down each hallway and aisle as if the nearest hand would not be able to touch him, like how you may reach to feel the dusty surface of the full moon in the sky and feel nothing but the air creep between your fingers. Also, as a former student of the Ravenclaw house, that knack for solving all sorts of puzzles and riddles still hasn't withered away, even over time. He still finds some amusement in cryptic word-play and tightly-woven mazes, and that is certainly something that will never ebb with the tides of change.

--- "How dare you give me something other than your very best."

Cyrille is a man of authority. He takes his job as a Professor very seriously, and he is definitely not afraid to make it known—even if it means pitting himself into a battle with the Ministry to fight for the well-being of his students' education. He always makes sure that each and every young man and woman is at the top of their game, that their attention is fixated nowhere else but on their work. Very rarely does he truly lose his patience with another student, but those who decide to act like a fool will be treated like a fool. If they don't enjoy looking through a telescope, then perhaps they would enjoy cleaning them instead. If they find reading books and encyclopedias to be boring, then perhaps they would find sorting them in chronological order to be quite the thrill. After all, it's like they say: hard work builds character.

--- "If only I could be what they wish for me to be."

Of course, even the most steady of structures have a point in which they go tumbling down. That proud and authoritative gait is merely a facade on stilts, wobbling, trembling, until they finally collapse to the ground while no one is looking. As the voice of the last student disappears down the tower—with his classroom door closing off the barrier of silence and solitude from the rest of the world—Cyrille would occasionally slide down to the floor, his strong frame crumpled close together like a folded ragdoll and his broad chest palpitating with the struggle for breath. Like any character that plays alongside a facsimile storyline, he is a man with a lot of baggage. He has his downfalls, he has his imperfections, and he has too many skeletons in the closet for one person to count. He succumbs to stress quite easily, and he has the tendency to distance himself from others, even from the people he truly cares about. In a way… he thinks that it would be better off to remain admired from afar for the performance he plays than despised upfront for the person underneath the mask.

Down each cobblestone street of Versailles did the hushed whispers of rain echo -- warm and sweet, yet sincerely bitter all the same. The last breath of summer had barely slipped from Mother Nature's lips in a gentle sigh, and although it was already near the midpoint of autumn, the weather in France was still a bit warm. Nonetheless, it was bound to cool down eventually, as it usually did with the transition of one season to the next. And with the cycles of nature came the cycles of life. The lush green leaves on each tree would turn various shades of scarlet and gold before releasing themselves from the wiry branches in which they've roosted for so long, and even though the chill of winter was on the horizon, light would still shine from the depths of the melancholy grey skies.

"Such a jewel… A beautiful jewel…" A mother had crooned into the night with an exhausted smile, her gentle finger stroking the soft pink cheek of her sleeping newborn child. After so many hours of excruciating pain, of so many hours of yelling and pushing until she could no longer, it was still hard for Nâdiya Idalesse Arceneaux to believe that her efforts would leave her with something so fragile and sweet cradled in her arms. And yet, she had done it all before. With a small chuckle, she looked to her first son—a handsome, dark-haired boy by the age of three—as he nestled closer to his mother's side on the bed, gazing down at the infant with curiosity. "What do you think, Sacha? Are you happy to see your baby brother at last?"

Sacha Diodore had only tilted his head to the side, his cheek pressed to his mother's shoulder.

"I'm certain that your father would have been proud…" He listened to her with his gaze unwavering—and perhaps that was for the best, for his mother's eyes had been filled with tears at that point. Nâdiya leaned back into her bed, and with a tired sigh, she added. "Who knows… Maybe one day, he will grow up to be just like him… or perhaps… even… just like you."

And oddly enough, the boy didn't grow up to be like either his brother or his father.

---

As a matter of fact, he had turned out to be… much, much different. Unlike the young crowd-pleaser that Sacha had taken to be, little Cyrille was far more quiet… and far more reserved. He did not take much of a liking to being shown off like a prized doll to every neighbor and family friend, and having any part of his head touched by a stranger's adoring hand was simply out of the question. Many-a times was his mother forced to rush a quick farewell and usher the fussing boy to a less crowded area until he finally calmed down (which, as it usually is with small children, would happen instantaneously). Aside from all of this, though, he had proven to be a boy of rich intelligence. Naturally curious with the world around him, he would find nearly every question to ask before he was able to speak. And when he did learn to speak… it was hard to keep his mouth shut until he got the answer he wanted. It was always "Who? What? When? Where? Why? How?" with Cyrille (though his particular favorites were always "What?", "Why?", and "How?").

Of course, not everybody had taken so kindly to Cyrille's constant questioning. Some had found it to be a bit grinding on the nerves, while others believed that the boy was simply stupid for knowing so little of the world around him. This problem became more evident as Cyrille was enrolled into school. He had become subject to nasty taunts… and soon, it had grown worse over time.

"Grab 'im! Pin 'im down!"

The choir of older and more intimidating boys echoed, loud and shrill like a murder of crows, as they ambushed Cyrille down the alleyway outside of the marketplace. They had grabbed him by a wrist and an ankle before throwing him into the dusty cobblestone, their large hands grappling onto him like merciless shackles. It was only by mere accident that the youngest of them all had ended up like this: it wasn't his fault, after all, that a barrel of apples had crumbled as soon as he walked by without even touching it. And it wasn't his fault that the merchant had not blamed him, but the group of boys that were about to sneak up to steal said fruit for themselves. If anything, he wasn't even sure how it happened.

But the boys had fashioned a story all to their own.

"Y'think that you could get away with that, eh?" The leader of the group, a hefty, grimy boy who was about as old as Sacha, sneered as he leaned down close to Cyrille's face. Cyrille was forced to hold his breath. "Y'think that you could jus' knock those apples over an' walk on yer' merry way, eh? Think again, small fry!"

He tried to struggle with all of his might to free himself from the other boys, but the leader's fat foot had brought itself down onto Cyrille's chest. "Oh, yer' not goin' anywhere. Not 'til you get what's comin' to ya'. Guilliam!"

Cyrille watched with wide-eyed horror as a greasy, amphibious-looking boy dug into his satchel, pulling out a small jar full of murky water… and something slimy fluttering about inside. The leader grinned with sinister delight.

"Open wide, chump."

Within an instant, Cyrille began thrashing harder than he was before, hard enough that the other boys had yelped and hissed under their breaths to keep hold of him. But the younger boy's efforts were deemed fruitless as the leader lifted his foot and brought it down onto Cyrille's stomach with enough force to knock the wind out of him, and within the moment the boy opened his mouth to cry out in pain, a flurry of grubby fingers flew to curl around his teeth and pry his jaw apart, their ragged nails digging into the roof of his mouth and the insides of his cheeks so hard that they had ripped at his skin. He tried to scream. He tried to yell. But before the misshapen plea for help could escape from the depths of his throat, the top of the jar fell against the cobblestone with a sharp clang, and the dirty water rushed into the open trap before a bundle of hands clasped his mouth shut.

He couldn't even bear to open his eyes to see what exactly slipped from the jar, but he soon regretted it as he felt its oily fin brushed against his tongue.

The gang above him chimed in cruel, heartless laughter as the tears spilled down Cyrille's cheeks, watching him as he struggled to keep that foul creature from slithering down his throat—but also struggling to force it out. Cyrille was feeling sick to his stomach, and what had seemed to have gone on for less than a minute felt as if it had gone on for hours.

And it would have gone on forever, too… if it wasn't for the familiar voice that rang down the alleyway.

"Dégage!" Suddenly, the hands that had pinned his body to the ground had lifted off of him one by one, and Cyrille had immediately thrashed onto his side. "Dégage! Sors d'ici!"

It was at that point that Cyrille couldn't hold it in anymore. He opened his mouth and began to retch, his slender limbs trembling as if a thunderstorm rattled in his veins, with a rain of tears falling against the stones. As the echoes of footsteps dissipated off of the walls, that familiar figure had bent down close to him and rubbed his back out of comfort, a scowl pulling at his thin lips at what he saw.

"Disgusting…" Sacha hissed underneath his breath upon the sight of the tadpole—twitching as it strained for life—and craned his neck in the direction the boys ran. His hand still stroked his little brother's back. "Those sick, stupid Muggles…"

A few moments had passed and Cyrille's gagging had subsided, and he had uttered something that Sacha had asked him to repeat.

"D-… Don't call them that," he croaked once more after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "M-Mother… said not to use that word… in a bad way."

Sacha's face immediately began to harden, and he pulled his hand away as he straightened up like a rigid board. "… Please… Like you know what that word means."

"I don't have to know what it means when you use it like that…" Cyrille's knees knocked together clumsily as he rose to his feet. "Mother said not to use it that way… because… it can hurt people's feelings… so don't say it like that again."

Never had Cyrille been so outspoken about something that had long been a social issue, but for the moment after he had closed his mouth, he had almost regretted ever opening it in front of his brother. The emotions that brewed in Sacha's eyes were unlike anything he had seen before, and before Cyrille could even pinpoint a single one of them in that fixated stare, they had all but vanished within an instant.

"… Right," Sacha finally spoke with a nod of his head. "Sorry, CyCy. I just… didn't like the way they treated you." Then a small smile tugged at his lips as he reached out to ruffle his brother's hair. "But let's not talk about that, okay? Right now, we should go home: you don't have to tell Mother anything about what happened."

Sadly, that had been the only time that Sacha had came to his rescue. Not too long after that, his brother had received an acceptance letter for Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and Cyrille was left alone with his mother until he would come back during the holidays and during summer.

Cyrille didn't spend as much time outside after that.

---

Three years had passed, and already, Cyrille was turning eleven years old. He didn't feel any different when he had woken up that morning. If anything, he felt just the same as he did when he was ten (with the exception of growing a few inches taller, as the top of the doorway to the staircase proved). However… soon… life would change for him faster than the color of the leaves outside, especially when he would least expect it.

It almost seemed as if Nâdiya and Sacha knew about it before Cyrille did, for it seemed as if they were both struggling to hold in their enthusiasm during breakfast. The boy's eyes would roam from his mother to his brother as they occasionally exchanged glances of anticipation—and every now and then, he would hear the stifled giggle from Nâdiya and catch a glimpse of Sacha as he raised his brows and winked.

"Finish up your breakfast," his mother finally spoke just as Cyrille was about halfway through his last piece of toast. "There should be a surprise waiting for you in the mail."

Yet he already knew what was coming. He had seen it all before. Nonetheless, he had done what he was told and rose from his seat.

"This is it, Cyrille," his mother had whispered in his ear, squeezing his small shoulder out of excitement as she ushered him towards the door quickly. "This will be the day. Sacha had gotten the same letter when he was your age, and now, it's time for you to carry on the Arceneaux family torch. The mail is here… Go on!"

As giddy as his mother was, Cyrille couldn't shake off that hefty weight on his chest as he stepped outside. Honestly, he wasn't even sure if he wanted to attend Beauxbatons Academy of Magic like his brother. Certainly, it must have been a decent school… but he couldn't help but think that it wasn't the school for him. He had heard tales about the terrifyingly colossal Headmistress, the flowery eating arrangements, the… horrendous blue outfits. It all seemed so… superficial to him. Nonetheless, the young boy had to swallow his pride before he allowed himself to open the mailbox, as it was what his mother had implied: his life was going to change.

And change it did.

Only with one minor adjustment…

Dear Mr. Arceneaux,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…

For the remainder of the month, young Cyrille would watch as his mother and his older brother sat by the table and examine the letter every night after dinnertime. They would weigh the hefty yellowed parchment in their hands, run their fingers over the emerald-green ink, look closely at the purple coat of arms, and think that somehow… somehow this was a mistake. Whether the letter was truly written for him or not, though, Cyrille did not object to going to this peculiar… Hogwarts place.
At least he didn't have to worry about being smothered in atrocious, pastel-blue silk any longer.

---

As it turned out, Cyrille had taken a liking to Hogwarts within an instant. The mystique, the hospitality, and the complexity of it all had mesmerized him. The many magical treats that were sold by the vendor on the train ride there had delighted him (aside from the Chocolate Frogs, which he still loathes to this day thanks to its rather… amphibious antics), and within the few moments that he had sat down before the staff of Hogwarts, the Sorting Hat had declared him as a part of the wise and intelligent Ravenclaw house. His years went by quickly, but he had stayed at the top of his marks, focusing more on his schoolwork than on his social life (though he did make a few close friends in the meanwhile). There had even been a close friendship that blossomed between him and his first magical familiar, a regal Snowy Owl named Polaire. Whenever the holidays rolled by, Cyrille would visit his home in Versailles as often as he could, though it seemed that the time he spent together with Sacha began to lessen and lessen. It had almost seem as if… he had kept himself busy, even during the summers.

Cyrille was saddened to leave Hogwarts by the time his graduation day had come, but he had carried with him the knowledge in which he had gathered over those seven years. And he did not wish to give it all up.

With his heart set on the field of Astronomy, a class that he had fallen in love with and excelled in throughout all of his years, Cyrille began to travel all across Europe, setting out on a journey that would further enrich his learning experience. In the meanwhile, he had even formed a small "traveling class" of his own, teaching a gathering of many faithful stargazers that adored the planets and constellations alike. This journey had taken him about ten to twelve years, but he had soon returned back to his home in Versailles with a letter written on yellow parchment that was all too familiar. It was a request for him to meet with Albus Dumbledore once again, and as he accepted without a second thought, he was offered the position as Hogwart's newest Astronomy teacher.

Another request from the same man that he just couldn't turn down.

Cyrille's return to Hogwarts, however, did not greet him with immediate joy, as he had discovered that his first owl, Polaire, had sadly passed away due to old age. Although stricken by grief, he had given his partner a proper memorial, and soon, he was united with another magical familiar: a peppy little Screech Owl by the name of Kaepora.

Since then, Cyrille has been indulging many students alike with the rich explorations of Astronomy, and not even time itself can change his attitude within the classroom.

I have read and agreed to the rules of this site. I hereby recognize that my disobedience of these terms will result in punishment at the sole discretion of the admins.

Signed: Judge Judy Noir~