It had all happened so fast. Suddenly, Iraida Lvovna Ilyina was cornered and Disarmed before she had time to react, before she could make sense of what was happening. Wandless and trembling, who knew what empty threats had spilled out of her mouth as the shadowed figure had descended upon her. And then she was immobilized, hit squarely in the chest with the Body Bind Curse, frozen and suspended midair, unable to move, scarcely able to breathe. Adrenaline seared through her veins, her limbs unable to execute her instinct to run, to flee. She had never felt so powerless, so terrified. All of the protection that her family’s status and money had afforded her – everything she had depended on her entire life – crumbled at her feet. It was worthless in this moment. It couldn’t save her.
It was fortunate that the attacker had only wanted her valuables. All of it worth a sizable pile of gold, yes, but nothing that couldn’t be replaced. Her wand, her jewelry, her coin purse, even her gown – she would never forget the sickening chills that had rolled down her spine as it was ripped from her body. True, things could have ended much worse for her. It was a thought that haunted her for weeks to come.
But a robbery was all it was. Silent moments ticked on as Ira was left alone in the quiet, dark corridor of the concert hall. Tears trickled down her cheeks and dripped off the edge of her jaw. She could hear the distant sounds of the symphony several floors below. She could only wonder how long it would be until she was found. Hours? Days? Her panicked heartbeat throbbed within the prison that her body had become.
The aftermath had been almost just as bad. The relief at having eventually been found – immobilized, half-naked and alone – was soon overwhelmed by shame. Shame at the indecency, shame at her own foolishness. Her family, of course, was livid. Not just at the situation, but with Ira herself for wandering off without protection –
“You’re smarter than that!†– and for being unable to provide a single identifying feature of her mugger –
“Nobody robs an Ilyin and gets away with it!†But it seemed, this time, they might. Ira had never seen her attacker’s face. Had no idea, even, if they were a man or woman. The voice that had uttered the incantations was a low, almost inaudible growl. The only detail she could grasp for certain was the nauseating stench of alcohol on their breath. It had clouded her paralyzed face, suffocated and nauseated her. But that piece of information was useless.
Could it have simply been a random attack? Had the thief known who she was, what her family was worth, surely they wouldn’t have simply left her. The ransom they could have demanded was astronomical compared to the value of what had been stolen. But there was no way to know for certain. And, despite the Ilyin’s endless resources, the mystery remained unsolved.
Her father had done his best to hush up the whole affair, but it had gotten out somehow. And once the first publication had taken it to press, nothing could stop the storm of rumours that followed. Ira was mortified. Not for the first time in her life, she took some time to lie low. Slowly, as she had time to process the ordeal, her shame turned to anger, her anger to determination.
This would never happen again.
She was decided. It was time to brush up on her defensive magic. Ira had fallen a bit rusty on her duelling skills in the years since graduating Durmstrang, as there was really no use for it in her life these days. Or so she had thought. Next time, she would not be caught off guard. She would react. She would defend herself. She would be victorious.
Ira had expected it would take some convincing to get her father on board with the idea, or that she may even have to conduct such lessons in secrecy. But, knowing not where to look for a capable instructor, she had decided to take her chances on proposing the idea to him. To her surprise, he was supportive. Possibly even impressed? It was difficult to discern her father’s subtle expressions, but Ira was almost certain that she had detected some glint of approval in his eyes.
And so, in a matter of a few short days, Ira was on her way to her first duelling lesson. It would take place at Zimapokrova – the Ilyin family stronghold and her lifelong home – in the building’s own duelling chamber. The expansive stone room was windowless and relatively empty, with exception to a few props stacked neatly in one corner. The Ilyin Crest was carved masterfully into the stone wall opposite the staircase. Gilded torches adorned the enclosure, the bright flickering flames leaving no shadows cast, and affording a feeling of warmth to the otherwise austere room. This was one part of the property which Iraida could say she had seldom visited, for it had no charm, no life, and quite honestly gave her the creeps.
Even as she descended the stone staircase, Ira had the impression she was walking into a tomb. She was uncharacteristically nervous. So much so that she had been tempted to down a shot of vodka before her lesson, just to still her shaking hands – a scandalous urge, indeed. But she had thought better of it. She needed her wits about her, and the vodka would surely cloud her mind.
She felt quite peculiar, dressed in form-fitting black pants and leather boots that went halfway up her calves. Her silk shirt was rose-coloured, with long, billowing sleeves, and was tucked into a black vest that cinched at the waist. She had adorned herself with a pair of simple pearl earrings, and had plaited her hair up intricately around her head. Her new wand was tucked up her left sleeve; she’d gotten some practice with it in the last couple of weeks. It was finely crafted – the best that gold could buy, naturally – but unfamiliar. She mourned the wand that had been stolen from her, one that she had carried with her since her first year at Durmstrang, one that she had grown to know so well.
Ira’s footsteps echoed loudly in the stillness of the grand, empty room. She was apprehensive and at the same time eager to meet her new instructor. He had been vetted by her father, who had later met with him personally to ensure there was nothing unsavory about him. Ira trusted her father’s judgement, and had insisted on meeting the instructor independently. She would make the final decision herself. This was, after all, entirely about her independence.
“You must be Herr Klein,†she said in Russian. To her horror, her voice lacked all of its usual ease and authority. That simply would not do. “Iraida Lvovna,†she continued, more firmly, extending a hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.â€
@Christoph Klein 
