ROSENFELD, CYRIL (D)

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THE BASICS

FULL NAME:
Cyril Norman Rosenfeld

DATE OF BIRTH | AGE:
16th June, 1973 | 42

PLACE OF BIRTH:
Basingstoke, Hampshire, England

PERSONALITY

[attr="class","fbidossiertxtboxy"]An incredibly nervous, jittery and neurotic man; he doesn't have that seller's prowess that is usually paramount to his, er, 'profession'. Sometimes he scares the living jeebies out of passing custom; coming across as far too desperate, instead of actually being able to push his stock. Before the days of his transformation (see below), Cyril was known as being strikingly shy, quietly spoken and sensitive person - well-loved equally by fellow healers and patients at St Mungo's hospital. He was known for his unmeasurable passion and desire to heal people: for being caring and nurturing in his ways; but unfortunately too trusting. A push-over.

His shift in personality has a lot to do with lycanthropy, as well as a suppressed malice hidden deep within himself. To some he may seem like the same Cyril they knew before, and most of the time he is. But when he was forced to leave St Mungo's; he didn't exactly fight to preserve his humanity. Greatly influenced by the werewolf inside; Cyril is subjected to feelings of great hatred, vengeance and the desire to hurt others. Increasingly his succumbs to the urges inside of him: as unpleasant and controversial to his previous character as they may be. Truly, he sees no reason to fight against it.

Where's the fun in being the underdog?

HISTORY

[attr="class","fbidossiertxtboxy"]There are not many fitting ways to describe Cyril's family - other than boring and very middle-class. His muggle Father, in particular, was one of those miserly, fuddy-duddy fools who spent most of his spare time sat in the armchair by the fireplace and wouldn't know the meaning of popular culture even if it hit him across the face. He was a collector of antiques: clocks being his particular heart throb and one true calling in life. Cyril remembered being embarrassed of him. He had no idea what his Mother - a witch - ever saw in him. But, he supposed, they did manage to have a son out of their supposed relationship.

But they were never intimate: they hardly seemed to even look at one another, let alone touch. It may be because of them that he never really knew how to go about relationships later on in life. He was utterly useless when it came to women. Even those who found his shyness to be endearing; he never could get a grip on himself and act - well - normally.

Under confident and awkward from an early age, Cyril always had trouble fitting in. He was either seen as the desperate 'wannabe' or the colourless coward; rather undeserving of his place in Ravenclaw house; where the imaginations spun so far from the box he was often left feeling intimidated. Of course: he hadn't a bad mind. He spent most of his time in the library; preferring to keep away from bullies and needing an excuse to not socialise - it always seemed he was at fault whenever he tried to be friendly to people.

It was only after Hogwarts that Cyril thrived. He made a hasty decision to move to London after being accepted as an apprentice at St Mungo's hospital, and to escape his Father's 'clock house'. As an intern, he was made to feel welcome. The Healers of St Mungo's were often kind people: sure, there was the haughty Heads who instantly scared them with an unwritten 'no crap' policy; but they all shared the same dedication to what they did. Their behaviour was infectious. Soon enough, Cyril enjoyed going to work - unlike he had done with school.

He decided to specialise with magical bugs and diseases: doting a lot of his spare time with fellow Healers into discovering the inoculation of Dragon Pox. He particularly liked his younger patients: spending a lot of spare sickles on the gift shop upstairs to buy them toys, especially if they were staying for a while. Perhaps he had lost all confidence in ever being a husband, but at least he knew that he could be a Father. It was a wonderful feeling: the thanks he received day-to-day just for doing his job.

After twenty years of being a Healer, it was safe to say that he had met a true calling. He pledged his entire existance to the cause: never feeling the need to treat himself, to take a day off; to spend earned coin on a multitude of pointless possessions. No - he wasn't like his parents. They were luridly garish; false; hedonistic. There were many things he set aside just to be at that hospital. It was not just a job to him. It was a true path: a deserving act of kindness by whichever Gods or Spirits pitied him as a child.

Karma - he believed in the concept. Truly, a higher entity had finally recognised the goodness of his soul, and rightly blessed it. But somewhere in the ethereal kingdom that housed fate: life had another plan for him. A ruthless, wicked plan.

He couldn't keep track of how many wizards - inflicted by the lycanthropy curse - had passed through the hospital. Some Healers specialised in tending to lycanthropy: mostly it was sterilising the wounds, telling the patient of their Wolfsbane rotations and being more of an informant to the patient and their family. Cyril had little to do with them, really, but often had sympathy for them. Well: back then he thought it was sympathy, but now he feels it was mindless pity.

A young boy, only seven, was the newest addition to the curse. They had a quarantine facility for periods of the full moon: a locked, but comfortable room where the Healer could check on them, ensuring their wolf was sleeping. It wasn't meant to be inhumane: just a safety precaution, even though they were given Wolfsbane in enough time before the moon waned. This boy happened to be in the hospital around the time of the full moon, and Cyril was assigned to check.

He remembers not seeing the boy-wolf on the bed through the window. He remembers unlocking the door, mindlessly, feeling he should check that he had not injured himself during transformation. He remembers the door click; the little pins of lock slotting back; the creak of wood... and then, nothing. Well, not a lot. His memory has blanked the details of pain, and that it was the sight of his own blood which caused a trip-switch in his head to cut off, throwing him into black.

When he awoke, he was a Werewolf.

When he was a Werewolf, he was no longer a Healer.

Someone once said to him that time has no meaning if you choose to ignore it. That person was his Father. His life dwindled to a mere existence, where the hands of time could not affect him. What was it, a year since the incident? He didn't know. It didn't matter - not really. The cold blue ropes at the back of his hands stuck out with ugly Werewolf blood; the lines on his face etched further into his skin as he fought with feelings of hatred towards all those responsible. The boy - the Healers - the Ministry... wizard-kind...

But his misery was not getting him anywhere. If this was going to be his life, he may as well make use of it. From his Healer days he still had a bountiful green house of herbs and plants. So, that would be it, his contribution to wizardkind: a lousy street seller.

He no longer felt sorry for himself. He no longer felt betrayed. This was the cruel wickedness of the world: a dirty trick of some benevolent force. Who was he to argue? At least he got to be around people again: to aid them, in a manner of speaking. Can't argue with that. No: perhaps life had been kind to him. It was giving him another chance, one way or another.