Chapter Text
The very first thing I became aware of that morning was the shock of cold air on my bare legs.
The second thing was Tanaka’s voice.
“Wake up, you corpse! We’re late!”
Tanaka seized my blanket and yanked it away. I groaned and turned onto my side, drawing my knees toward my chest in a futile attempt to preserve warmth. I have to admit, my brain tends to operate with all the efficiency of a waterlogged spell book when forced awake after a night of questionable adventures.
“Five more minutes…” I mumbled into the pillow. Clearly not making any attempt to wake up or force myself to be awake.
I dragged myself back to the dorm way past midnight last night. The clock tower had already struck twice by the time I stumbled into the room and plopped into my bed. I’d walked that shockingly beautiful man from the village, the one with blond hair and brilliant blue eyes, back to where he was staying. Once I saw him go inside, I just turned and sprinted all the way back to school.
It was a little insane and slightly ridiculous at the same time. But not to worry! This is my normal. Not the part where I meet gorgeous people like him every day, but the part where I sneak out into the village past curfew.
Yes. That’s right. Seigi Nakata here is a repeat offender.
I probably should be terrified of breaking school rules or getting caught, but we have done this for so long that we’re well past the point of being afraid.
It all started when a group of 7th years dragged us to the village after our fourth-year exams.
“Consider this preventative medicine.” Hase-senpai had said with that trademark smirk, pressing a Ginger-root Draft into my reluctant hands. It’s a hard, fermented ginger beer made with Magmatic Ginger-roots that grow near the island’s volcanic vents. Very popular among the students, or so I heard, “Fifth year will eat you alive otherwise.”
And that set up the precedent for our repeat offending.
The key to our success is that the teachers never check the right spots anyway. We’ve memorized every patrol route, every ghost’s surveillance spot. The teachers might as well be wearing bells with how predictable their movements are around the grounds.
Our route is simple:
We slip back through the service entrance behind the east wing. Not the main entrance, note that. But the one reserved for maintenance staff and house elves. Then creep along the narrow corridor until we reach a long, winding, spiral staircase.
Getting this far? That’s child's play.
The real challenge comes next: a gauntlet of enchanted portraits lining the stairwell wall, each one charmed to report student movements after hours. The school’s perfect little surveillance system.
Or so they thought.
Turns out, these painted vignettes get mind-numbingly bored hanging in the same spot century after century. Just feed them a bit of scandalous gossip about which professor was seen leaving whose quarters at dawn, and suddenly they’re conveniently forgetting they ever saw you. The administration never counted on their watchdogs having such a weakness for drama.
At the top of the staircase, there is a long corridor so narrow that our shoulders brush both walls. No one really knows what lies at its end. It’s too risky. I don’t think I even want to find out. Instead, about fifteen paces in hangs our salvation: a portrait of a plump green pear nestled in a black lacquered frame that’s all swirls and flourishes.
The first time Tanaka showed me this, I thought he was pranking me.
“Just tickle it,” he whispered, “right under its stem.”
I did, feeling ridiculous, and the pear squirmed, giggled, laughed out loud, and suddenly the entire frame swung outward. Behind it, there’s a tunnel that is barely wider than my shoulders that deposits you, after fifteen feet of undignified crawling in darkness, cobwebs catching your hair, behind the back of a bookcase. One push and you’re tumbling into the Gryffindor common room.
Home sweet home.
“Seigi!” It was Yoshida this time. “If you continue sleeping, we will miss breakfast.”
“And be late to class.”
“Yamanaka sensei will deduct points from our house again.”
“You may be the teacher’s favourite, but you know that’s not going to stop her.”
“And then Shimizu-chan, the house perfect will get mad at us. You know how ridiculously competitive she can get for the house cup.”
Alright, alright, I get the point. I will wake up!
Begrudgingly, I sat up in my bed, still half-snoozing and half-awake. This was no time to savour the gentle cruelty of the morning; the room had already become a cyclone of motion and rising panic. Tanaka was stomping across the wooden floors in his one-of-a-kind Spider-Man pajamas, practically vibrating with the perverse energy of someone who had managed six hours of actual sleep. Even though he drank way more than I did and sneaked back into the dorm tower much later than I did. It’s so unfair.
Yoshida, meanwhile, was methodically flossing his teeth and reviewing his study card for Advanced Transfiguration. Wait, is that the first class in the morning?
Why do I remember it differently? Something about a new introduction class or a new elective? I barely remember it. I do remember Haru-Sensei saying something about it. But by then, the bell had rung, signaling the end of the class, and a discussion around the upcoming Herbology class had already captured my attention. After that, I couldn’t remember what Haru-Sensei had said about it anymore.
Anyway, keeping all that aside, I really need to get going for the morning classes, or as both Tanaka and Yoshida mentioned, we will be in trouble. I wouldn’t just be causing trouble for them, but for the entire house of Gryffindor. Which means multiple people will be inconvenienced. I cannot do that. Quite contradictory to all my prior actions, I know.
Oh yes, if you have noticed, I do belong to the house of Gryffindor.
Yes, we have those here. Tsukikage borrowed the house system from Hogwarts when Lady Himiko founded our school. I suppose it makes sense, as Hogwarts is the main founding branch. Professor Yamamoto lectured us once about how Lady Himiko initially resisted adopting the Western sorting tradition, but relented when the first students practically begged for it. Not that I’m complaining. There is something very satisfying about wrapping yourself in scarlet and gold, knowing your dormitory’s hearth will always burn just a touch warmer than the others.
Though I have to mention, Tsukikage’s crest bears little resemblance to its Western counterpart. Instead of Hogwarts’ four-part shield with house symbols, ours features twin dragons—one black, one white, coiled around each other beneath the glow of a crescent moon.
It represented some ancient mythology about duality, balance, blah blah. But quite honestly, as beautiful as that sounds, I prefer it because it looks wicked cool! And the moon theme goes really well with the general vibe of the school. Especially at night, when every stone shimmered with a celestial glaze, like the castle had been carved out of the sky back when the gods still paid attention.
And just as I continued staring into space, Tanaka lobbed my tie at my head. Which hit me with a silent thwack and landed squarely on my lap, effectively bringing me out of my daydreams.
“Seigi!” He said, more like yelled, “If you’re going to be like this after every night we sneaked out, I’m going to start leaving you behind.”
And that was enough to actually wake me up.
I swung my legs out of the bed and staggered through the blurry, treacherous landscape of the 6th-year boys’ quad dorm suite. My room was shared with Tanaka, Yoshida, and Shinomura—who, if you truly must know, conspired to keep me alive out of a sense of house pride, concern for my well-being, and, I privately suspected, a fascination with the spectacle of my daily self-sabotage.
Shinomura, who had not uttered a single word this morning, emerged from the bathroom with his hair already perfectly styled, uniform, immaculately pressed, clutching a mug of black coffee. He eyed my state of undress and my half-hazy expression and said, “I knew you’d be barely functioning, so I made sure your uniform is neat and pressed, just get into it.”
Oh, Shinomura, you absolute angel. I was so happy I could cry.
I changed quickly, racing through the motions. Teeth: Brushed, Uniform: Thanks to the courtesy of Shinomura, fully pressed, no wrinkle in sight, all good! Shoes: neatly polished and kept aside. This one was thanks to me; I remembered to get it done after I returned last night.
Breakfast in the Great Hall (officially the Central Academy Hall, but no one calls it that anymore) was already in full swing. When I first arrived at Tsukikage, I never imagined a place so strange and splendid at the same time. It was lit by thousands and thousands of lanterns that floated in mid-air over four long tables where the rest of the students were sitting. The tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. Up until that point, I had never, ever laid my eyes on a sight like that. Real gold? That was too much for my brain to process.
I grew up in a very modest household that was always struggling to put food on the table. Hiromi, of course, worked two jobs so that we wouldn’t go hungry. And I’ll always remain grateful to her for that. Though coming all the way here and laying eyes on something like this was kind of mind-boggling for a kid like me. It was something I could only imagine in my dreams.
At the top of the hall was another long table where the teachers usually sat, with the current headmistress, Aoyama Haruko, occupying the ornate central chair. A throne, really, carved with the phases of the moon. The portraits lining the wall behind her featured only women: her predecessors, dating back to Lady Himiko herself. Tsukikage’s unbroken matriarchal tradition was something every first-year student learned during orientation; in nearly a thousand years, no man had ever held the school’s highest office.
I almost tripped over a first year as I made my way to the Gryffindor table, scanning for any remnants of the fabled melon bread before Tanaka could snag them all. No luck; Tanaka was already dual-wielding pastries, absolutely demolishing them with the kind of hunger that could only result from a life of rule-breaking and adolescent metabolism. Yoshida, who was seated opposite Tanaka, was not any better. The seat beside him was open, staked out with a single, telltale mug of black coffee—Shinomura’s classic “polite threat” that nothing short of a world-ending event would get him to move.
I slid into my usual spot, next to Tanaka, and inhaled the scent of fried eggs and miso soup. My usual favourite. I also poured myself a cup of liquid consciousness that had kept generations of students functioning despite their best efforts to the contrary. That’s right. As you guessed, coffee.
The steam from my miso soup curled into the air, momentarily blurring the enchanted sky above, which was currently a mocking, cheerful blue. I took a long, restorative sip, feeling the salt and warmth fight back the phantom chill of the mountain path still clinging to my bones.
“It’s a war crime,” Tanaka declared, his voice cutting through the morning clamour like a dull saw. He didn't even look up from his third piece of melon bread; he just pointed a half-eaten pastry at the sheet of parchment he grabbed from a nearby student’s books.
“This,” he announced through a mouthful of pastry, crumbs scattering across the table, “is a violation of the Geneva Convention.”
“Introducing a mandatory elective when we’re eight weeks from finals? That’s insane! Seriously, what kind of sadists are running this place?”
“It’s technically an ‘Introductory Seminar Series.’”
Yoshida corrected mildly, though he was tapping his quill against his palm in a rhythmic, caffeinated twitch.
“Haru-sensei mentioned it briefly last week. Something about a ‘Specialist Consultant’ from the International Association of Arcanologists.”
That caught my attention. A specialist consultant? My coffee mug froze halfway to my lips as an image flashed through my mind: The beautiful man with those impossible blue eyes, whose face I could never forget in a lifetime. I set my mug down with a soft clink. No, that would be ridiculous, like some cliche from one of those romance novels Tanaka pretends not to read. Besides, if that man really turned out to be our new lecturer, I’d be utterly screwed. One major point of concern is whether he really is the new guest lecturer; if so, it would mean that a professor had caught sight of me outside the school grounds past curfew.
So, for everyone’s sake, especially mine, I needed him to be anyone else.
“Arcanology.”
Tanaka scoffed, finally looking up. His Spider-Man pajama sleeves were still poking out from under his school robes, a choice no one had the energy to challenge.
“What even is that? It sounds like just another made-up word so they can sell us overpriced textbooks about why wizards shouldn’t touch cursed objects. Like we need a whole science to tell us that.”
“It’s the study of the internal anatomy of curses and cursed objects, Tanaka,” Shinomura interjected from behind his coffee mug, his voice as cool and level as a deep-sea current.
“It’s highly sought after by the Ministry’s elite units. Though it’s also considered a niche field of magical study. If you actually read the notice board instead of using it to dry your socks, you’d know this lecturer is a world-renowned authority.”
“I don’t care if he’s Lady Himiko’s long-lost nephew,” Tanaka groaned, slumping forward until his forehead hit the golden plate with a soft clink.
“My brain is full. There is no more room. If I have to learn one more runic derivative, my head is going to physically detach from my neck and fly back to Tokyo.”
“I already miss home. I miss Mom.”
“There, there,” I gently patted Tanaka’s slumped shoulders.
“There is not much we can do about that. Look at it this way, at least this Arcanology thing won’t show up on finals. We just have to survive the lectures, nod at the right moments, and it’ll be over before you know it.”
“Easy for you to say, Seigi,” Tanaka lifted his head just enough to shoot me a baleful look.
“Of course you’re not worried. You’ll probably be teaching the class by week two, Mr. I-Disarmed-A-Seventh-Year-With-A-Twitch-Of-My-Wrist.”
I shot him a wry smile, knowing better than to argue. When Tanaka’s mood spirals like this, he becomes an immovable object, dramatic declarations and all.
“Anyway,” Yoshida pushed himself up from the table, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“We’d better move. They’ve relocated to the East Wing Amphitheatre. It seems half the school suddenly developed an interest and signed up for the elective out of curiosity.”
“Interest? Oh, please.” Tanaka muttered, dragging himself upright with a look of profound betrayal.
“They’re just hoping to catch a glimpse of this fancy Arcanologist the Headmistress blew half the annual budget on. Let’s go, Seigi. Time to have our brains liquefied by magical calculus.”
Grabbing my bag, I followed the guys, my heart doing a strange, uneven rhythm against my ribs, as we navigated the crowded corridors to the east wing, squeezing past loose knots of hungover upperclassmen and roving packs of first-years. What are they even doing at this lecture? I thought this was only meant for third years and above?
“Have you seen him? The visiting professor?” A high-pitched voice cut through my thoughts.
“Absolute perfection in human form!” Came a breathless reply.
“I nearly walked into a suit of armour staring at him. Those eyes should require a Ministry warning label.” A third voice added, followed by dreamy sighs.
A group of third-year girls blocked the corridor, huddled in a tight circle. This is bad. Really bad. The more I listen to the chatter, the louder the alarm bells in my head ring. The East Wing was a labyrinth of floating staircases and suspended walkways connecting the great hall to the academic buildings perched on the mountainside. The glass-enclosed bridge offered a perfect view of the four House towers encircling the main structure, their pagoda-style roofs cutting through the morning mist with a protective golden glow that seemed to push back against the surrounding wilderness.
The Amphitheatre stood as one of Tsukikage's finest "New-Era" buildings. Unlike the rounded windows found elsewhere on campus, this hall featured large rectangular windows arranged in neat rows. Cut deep into the thick stone, these windows appeared as simple silver outlines when viewed from the valley. Bright morning light entered through them, illuminating dust particles that drifted visibly through the air. The room was already buzzing, a sea of black-robed uniforms packed into the lecture hall. The air smelled of old parchment and the sharp, metallic tang of stationery charms.
I found a seat in the middle row, flanked by Tanaka’s grumbling and Shinomura’s silent observation. I kept my head down, staring at the grain of the wooden desk, drafting a mental battle plan for the lecture. Blend into the crowd, perfect the thousand-yard stare, and most importantly: Do not at any point make eye contact with the new professor. If he, by any chance, recognized me from the previous night’s misadventures, that would be a world-ending disaster.
Hiromi will either kill me or send me a howler loud enough to humiliate me. She can be very scary when she needs to be.
A deep, resonant creak echoed through the Amphitheatre as the massive iron-bound doors parted, swinging wide with a low, tectonic groan. Every whisper in the room died instantly as every head turned towards the entrance.
That’s when I heard it, the footsteps approaching from beyond the doorway. They weren’t the rushed shuffle of late students or the weighty stomp of the castle guards. These were a rhythmic, deliberate click-clack of polished leather on stone. The measured, unhurried steps of someone who knew exactly the kind of impression they were making.
Richard stepped into the hall, and the room’s atmosphere shifted like a compass needle finding north; every molecule of air seemed to reorient itself around his arrival.
The hush that fell over the Amphitheatre deepened, as if all the students collectively stopped breathing for a hot second.
Even at a distance, Richard’s presence crackled across the Amphitheatre like the snap of static electricity before a downpour. It really was not an exaggeration when I said he was the most beautiful man I had met so far. Last night’s encounter does not even compare to seeing Richard in broad daylight. And I couldn’t help but track his every movement across the room, mentally cataloguing each detail of his storybook arrival, so much for my carefully constructed strategy of being invisible or lying low.
He wasn’t dressed like any other professor or academic I had seen so far. No billowing robes or pointed hats. Not even the long, flowy coats. Instead, he wore a tailored grey three-piece suit that hugged every line of his lean figure, complemented by a white shirt and a deep blue tie. Waves of golden curls swept across his forehead, catching the light with each step he took, drawing attention to his eyes, the precise blue of a winter sea. And in his right hand, he carried a simple leather briefcase. The one from last night, but it seems that the dent it acquired from the misfortunes it suffered back then had already been repaired.
With each tier of the theatre he descended, the students swiveled their heads in unison, one after another like toppling dominoes, to catch a glimpse of the beauty incarnate. For some reason, that irritated me a little. What was this, a zoo?
“Is…Is that him? The one from the Ministry?”
“Oh my! The rumors don’t do him justice at all!”
“He’s so gorgeous! Is he really a professor? I wonder how old he is…”
“Is it against school rules to fall for a professor?”
I winced. They’re not even trying to be subtle about it.
And through all this, Richard moved forward without a single glance at the whispering students. His expression remained calm, eyes fixed ahead as if the room contained nothing but empty chairs. I watched him descend the steps with perfect posture, wondering if he was used to this kind of attention. But I suppose this was a normal Tuesday for someone as beautiful as he is.
As he reached the center stage, a lone circular dais where a single, heavy mahogany table stood waiting. Richard did not break his stride until he was perfectly centered. Then, with a fluid motion, he placed his briefcase on the table with a soft thud and unlocked it. The dual click-clack of the silver latches snapping open echoed up to the rafters, cutting through the whispers like a blade.
He did not lift his gaze even once to acknowledge the audience. Every gesture flowed with rehearsed precision as he reached into the briefcase and pulled out what appeared to be a wooden box that looked so ordinary and weathered that it might have been salvaged from some grandmother’s forgotten storage. The lackluster container seemed entirely out of place beside the immaculate cut of his suit.
He set the box in the exact center of the table. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he closed the briefcase and reset the locks.
The theater had fallen into such profound silence that even the rustle of robes from a fidgeting student three rows up resounded across the whole room. Richard stood motionless, the moment suspended as his fingertips hovered above the weathered lid, his gaze never leaving the box. Just as the anticipation peaked, when I expected some dramatic revelation, he simply moved his briefcase to the floor and reached into his jacket pocket.
Over a hundred quills hovered forgotten. The class didn’t even pretend to be subtle about their fascination. From my spot in the middle row, I could see even Shinomura’s poker face twitch next to me. His usual air of detachment faltering for a split second. As for Tanaka, he leaned over, his fingers gripping the edge of the wooden bench.
Richard then withdrew a pair of ivory gloves, slipping them on with practiced care before, finally, with ceremonial slowness, he opened the wooden lid.
The moment the lid was raised, the entire room experienced something that felt like a sudden drop in temperature. A wave of something vicious and wrong slithered through the rows, coating my insides with something rancid. Around me, students gasped in unison, their faces draining of color. Tanaka’s knuckles went white against the desk edge, and someone behind me made a strangled whimpering sound. I have no idea what was inside that box, but my stomach lurched violently. The sudden nausea that took over me was so overwhelming that I had to clasp a hand over my mouth and lean forward on the desk in a desperate attempt to keep myself from throwing up.
Richard, meanwhile, remained silent as he looked unaffected. His eyes swept over the sea of nauseated faces, the corner of his mouth lifting in what I could only describe as amusement or perhaps excitement. I had no idea what to think of it. I couldn’t decide which was more unsettling: whatever lurked in that box or the fact that he seemed to be enjoying our collective misery.
“Good morning”
Richard called, his Japanese clean and almost too relaxed, lacking any of the stiffness most foreign professors carried. The greeting was so mundane against the suffocating backdrop that it felt surreal.
“I am Richard Ranashinghe de Vulpian,” he continued, his gaze sweeping across the rows of students with practiced ease. “I have been invited by your Headmistress to serve as a guest lecturer in Arcanology.”
He paused.
“I assume, more than half of you have no idea what Arcanology is.”
His words cut through the suffocating atmosphere like a knife, releasing just enough pressure that uneasy laughter escaped from several corners of the hall. From somewhere far behind me, a voice muttered, “You could say that again.”
Richard nodded, his expression betraying nothing.
“Excellent!”
He folded his arms across his chest and surveyed the room, his ocean eyes moving methodically across the tiers of students. I ducked my head slightly, hoping not to catch his attention.
“Let us begin with a fundamental inquiry,” he said, one gloved hand extending toward the wooden box.
“What might you suppose this container holds?”
Various voices called out from different corners of the amphitheater.
“A ring carrying a blood curse?”
“An object of dark enchantment?”
“Perhaps a volatile elixir?”
With each proposal, Richard’s head tilted slightly, his expression remaining impassive as he denied each with the barest movement.
After a moment of hesitation, a lone voice from the back broke through the silence.
“Could it be… a remnant of a soul?”
The faintest curve appeared at the corner of Richard’s mouth.
“It is not.”
Richard let the silence hang for a beat, his gloved fingers hovering just an inch above the box.
He finally reached into it. The nausea in the room spiked as the wave of wrongness intensified, a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. Then he lifted out the source of our collective misery.
"It is, in fact, a mirror," Richard said, his voice dropping into a low, clinical tone.
That…was not what I expected. I had no idea what I was expecting, but that was not it.
In his gloved hand sat nothing more than a small silver hand-mirror, its ornate edges blackened with tarnish, reflecting surface dulled to a murky gray. It looked like something you’d find at the bottom of a bin in a Muggle flea market. After all that dramatic buildup, the reveal felt almost insulting.
Richard held the mirror up, turning it slightly so the light caught its surface.
“No Wizard created this. You’ll find no trapped souls, no forbidden potions, no deliberate curse laid upon it.” His voice softened.
“And yet, meet its gaze for just ten seconds, and you would weep without ceasing until your heart surrenders to grief.”
Richard continued —
“What you’re experiencing isn’t a curse of malice, nor a curse of intention. No dark wizard crafted this deliberately. Rather, this mirror has absorbed decades of tears, of a shattered heart that was looking back at itself on the worst days of its life, until all that raw grief fermented into something that behaves exactly like a curse, though no one has ever cast it.”
His words made sense on the surface, yet they seemed far-fetched. The idea that raw feelings or emotions alone could crystallize into something this potent, without spells or intent, felt like a fundamental shift in everything I understood about magic. I tried to imagine grief seeping into silver and glass, transforming into this poisonous force, but my mind kept searching for the hidden incantation, the deliberate curse that must surely be there. And just as I was thinking of this -
“Professor!” A curious voice rang across the room from the back row.
“If emotions alone can transform an object so fundamentally, without spell work, does this suggest a parallel mechanism to how a Horcrux forms? Could this mirror be classified within that taxonomy?”
I turned my head around, though I didn’t need to see her to know who had spoken. Those precise syllables, that particular cadence, I could pick out of a hundred voices in the great hall, or hear it whispered across the library. It’s the reason I’ve never once been late to Monday’s potions class. It’s the voice that sometimes drifts into my thoughts when I should be focusing on something else entirely. A voice I had fallen in love with.
Shouko Tanimoto. She is the same age as me, a sixth-year Ravenclaw, who has a reputation as something of a prodigy in the theoretical branches of magic that most students avoid: Advanced Potions, Experimental charms, and Magical Theory. Her work earned her special access to the restricted section as early as our second year.
She’s a delicate, raven-haired angel with soft curls styled into a bob. I was pretty sure her favorite color was white, since I frequently saw her wearing skirts and blouses in that color outside the usual school robes. I thought it looked very good on her.
We’d first met last month. No, I mean, I’d been aware of her existence for years, of course, but I first spoke to her last month, after an informative session on our career pathways after Tsukikage. It was also the weekend, so the students usually headed towards Tsukimura after school, and the village square was busy as usual, with packs of students drifting just about everywhere.
At any rate, I was at the crosswalk when I saw a little old man shuffling toward me. He looked so unsteady on his feet that it seemed like he could fall over at any moment.
That was when a short girl who’d been walking in front of me turned as she passed him, offered him her arm, and asked if he was all right. She supported him as he walked, even though her bag was heavy with textbooks and she was heading in the opposite direction. I’d initially convinced myself to pretend like I hadn’t seen anything, but something about the whole scene struck me as odd. So I crossed over to the other side of the man and firmly grabbed hold of him by his arm.
“Sir, I don’t know how many times I’ve seen you cross this road in the past hour, but it’s been more than a few. And you’re always clinging to a different girl.”
The man’s feeble demeanor vanished instantly. He let out a little squeak, yanked his arm free, and took off so fast in the opposite direction that it was hard to imagine he was the same person. The area was too crowded to go after him.
After I’d crossed to the side I was originally headed for, I regretted what I’d done. If I hadn’t said anything, the girl would have been none the wiser and wouldn’t have had to feel gross about the whole incident.
I bowed my head and apologized, and her eyes went wide.
“Why are you apologizing? You helped me. I should be thanking you.”
I couldn’t help but worry about her easy smile. So I ended up sticking my nose into someone else’s business again.
“Even if people look like they need help, there are good ones and bad ones out there. So you should be more careful.” She glanced at me, her head tilting slightly as another smile broke across her face. It was strange. Every time she smiled, I felt like the world got just a little brighter.
“You’re not wrong. But I can’t tell a bad person apart from someone who really does need help just by looking at them, so I’d rather help regardless. I wonder if there’s a better way to go about it…”
The moment she got this bashful look on her face was the moment I fell for her. It even made that unsettling encounter with the creepy old man suddenly feel meaningful, as if the universe had orchestrated our fateful meeting. That was when I learned her name—Shouko Tanimoto, Sixth-year, Ravenclaw. We shared the Advanced potions and charms class in common. It was truly fate indeed.
Richard’s eyes lit up as they found Tanimoto in the back row, his posture straightening like a musician who’d just heard the perfect opening note of his favourite symphony.
“That, young miss, is an astute deduction,” He replied, his mouth curving into an easy smile. He turned the tarnished mirror in his ivory-gloved hand, watching the way the murkiness of the glass swallowed the amphitheater’s light.
“A touch dramatic, isn’t it?” Richard tilted his head, his expression softening further.
“The difference between a Horcrux and a cursed object is critical. Yes, they both have remnants of dark magic lodged in them. However, the creation of a Horcrux requires an act of will, a conscious intent to bind a portion of one’s soul to an object. In the case of this mirror or the cursed artifacts Arcanology deals with are often the result of chronic exposure to intense emotions, long enough, that it can influence objects through a phenomenon we call, ‘resonant layering.’”
He let his words hang, as if waiting for the concept to sink in, before continuing—
“It is not considered Dark Magic. Not in the conventional sense. It is, in fact, the most common type of curse in the world.”
“Objects that have absorbed enough pain, longing, or joy can develop their own strange immunology. Sometimes they become repellent, sometimes they elicit similar emotions in those who handle them—though often with far greater intensity.”
“And in certain cases, they grow dangerous enough that they must be destroyed.”
He paused, his gaze returning briefly to the mirror.
“But more often than not… they are simply a cry for help.”
He held the mirror so it faced us, tilting it gently, the glass barely reflecting the light, showing us nothing back but a flat, exhausted gray. Even at this distance, I felt the weight behind it, the strange gravity, as if everyone in the amphitheater were slowly being pulled toward the object, toward whatever meaning lay within it.
“In classical Arcanology,” Richard continued, “we would refer to this object as a ‘Residual Artifact.’ Its curse is a byproduct of accumulation, not deliberation. What distinguishes it from an object engineered as a weapon is that the spell structuring the curse is essentially… unintentional. There is no clear anchor to it in intention.”
“Professor, sorry.” Tanimoto raised her hand once more.
“Never apologize, Miss—?”
“Tanimoto. Shouko Tanimoto.”
“Well, Miss Tanimoto,” Richard bowed to her slightly, his hand on his chest, like a graceful prince, “We’re here to learn. Never apologize for interrupting me or asking questions.”
Tanimoto nodded her head, a grateful smile on her face, and then continued -
“Is there a threshold?” she asked. “A limit to how much emotional residue an object can accumulate before… before it changes state, so to speak? Or does it simply bleed out into the environment, like leaking radiation?”
Richard’s smile broadened, the curve of his mouth deepening. He looked, sincerely delighted.
“A fascinating question.” He set the mirror down in front of him. “You are thinking like an Arcanologist already, Miss Tanimoto.”
He leaned forward, fingertips pressed together, elbows resting on the tabletop, his eyes practically gleaming. And I hung on to him, his words, his every action. Even Tanaka, who had spent the last year perfecting the art of sleeping with his eyes open, looked actually awake for once.
“Consider the threshold question this way: ordinary objects—your quill, that chair, even most enchanted items have no inherent receptivity to emotional imprints. They’re neutral vessels. The magic lies not in the object’s capacity to receive, but in the emotion’s power to impress itself. Think of emotions as the engraver, not the object as the collector. The teacup doesn’t decide to hold your grief; your grief, however, can carve itself into the porcelain, given it has enough intensity, repetition, and exposure.”
He caught Tanimoto’s gaze and held it for a full second.
“That is why, in some cultures, they grind up cursed objects and scatter the dust in rivers or oceans, letting the residue dilute until it loses potency. Imagine a tea bag in a hot bath: the more water, the weaker the flavor.”
The class actually laughed. Like genuinely. I felt better seeing that. The tension in my chest eased up. Everyone seemed more comfortable now. It was something about him, I think. He talked in a way that made difficult things easy to understand.
“Though I should note that the efficacy of such dilution techniques remains largely anecdotal in the academic literature.” Richard lifted his palms upward in a gesture of scholarly humility.
“Can you reverse it?”
I surprised myself by speaking out loud. The voice didn’t sound like mine, hoarse, but it carried in the hush.
“If enough grief can poison something, can you…” I trailed off, realizing too late that I had everyone’s attention.
Especially Richard’s.
His eyes flickered to me, recognition glinting as he traced a memory back to last night’s acquaintance. The rest of the room faded away beneath the weight of his attention, and I could feel the heat of it prickling at the back of my neck. So much for laying low, so much for not making any eye contact.
Well done, Seigi, oh, Seigi.
“Excellent inquiry from the gentleman in row ten,” Richard called, and despite the formality, I heard a playful lilt in it.
“If enough sorrow can poison an object, can you reverse it?” He repeated, as if truly savoring the words, letting the question fill the air, settle into the grain of the woodwork, echo up the glass panels, and resonate off the bones of the ancient stone.
“A question, in which lies the heart of Arcanology, and arguably, all magic.” Richard’s lips curved into an elegant smile. His beauty truly was unreal, to the point it’s hard to believe a person as beautiful as Richard could actually exist.
“The answer, in short, is yes. Yes, you absolutely can.”
“Though, I would say, it really depends on the structure of the curse,” Richard continued, his chin tilting thoughtfully.
“Some are simple, others as layered and complex as a mille-feuille. The more intricate the layering, the more difficult it is to untangle. But yes, in theory, even the worst residue can be neutralized. It is simply a matter of technique, precision, and dedication.” The brilliant blue of his eyes held my gaze, steady and unmistakable. “It’s a question of willingness, more than of possibility.”
“Curse structure?” Someone from the last row called out.
“Come on, Professor! You have to be joking. Can’t we simply use a counter curse and call it a day?”
“Yeah! What’s the point in sitting and analyzing a curse when we have counter curses or counter jinxes?” another voice followed.
Several students snickered, but others nodded, some already brandishing their wands in mock dueling stances as if they could simply flick away any curse. I turned to look at Richard. I waited for his response, wondering how the elegant Professor would handle such dismissive overconfidence.
Richard’s responding laugh came after a beat, unfiltered, almost delighted. Then he straightened, politely cleared his throat, and returned to his earlier composed self.
“Perhaps this calls for something more... tangible than theory. Would anyone care to assist me in a demonstration?” He paused, letting the invitation hang in the air.
“Someone who prides themselves on their dueling abilities or exceptional marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts would be ideal.”
And no sooner were the words uttered, like clockwork, practically every head in the room turned around until all eyes locked onto me.
Oh, no.
This is bad. Really bad.
“Seigi!”
“Seigi! Our DADA star! Show him how it’s done!”
“Yeah! Seigi! This is your time to shine!”
If I could melt into the ground and become one with it, I would gladly give anything in this world to make it happen. Or maybe I can fall backwards and fake a seizure. But no, that would only land me in the hospital wing, and Katsura-sensei would definitely figure out I faked it. I need a strategic exit out of this madness.
I may be good at Defense Against Dark Arts, but I’m not about to go down there to prove anything or one-up anyone. And I’m pretty sure if it comes to it, the professor could totally wipe the floor with my face; I don’t need to go down there and test it to be sure.
But of course, there is no way out—
Tanaka was already pumping both fists in the air. “You’ve got this, Seigi! Make Gryffindor proud!”
He shouted, voice piercing through the amphitheater’s din with a gusto that could have woken the dead. Everyone else seemed to latch onto the chant with disturbing eagerness.
And Richard.
Richard stood motionless amid the chaos, his eyes fixed on mine like twin blue anchors in a churning sea. The classroom’s clamor continued but seemed suddenly distant, as though someone had thrown a silencing charm between us. His expression didn’t reveal anything. No amusement at my classmates’ enthusiasm nor any acknowledgment of their chants, just that steady, evaluating stare of his cutting across the tiered rows of desks.
Instead, he stepped slightly to the side of the mahogany table, putting a sliver of distance between himself and the weathered box.
“Seigi, is it?” Richard’s voice carried through the classroom, soft yet distinct.
My eyebrows shot up.
Then something clicked in my head.
He was pretending not to know me, acting as if our paths hadn’t crossed just the night before. His eyes told a different story than his words, a subtle signal passing between us through the classroom chaos.
Maybe I don’t need to worry so much about detention after all?
I don’t know. I can’t actually tell what his intentions are.
“What do you say, Seigi? Would you want to join me at the front?”
“The choice, of course, is entirely yours.”
I paused and looked at him. Something in his steady blue gaze held me there, like a fish caught on an invisible line.
“I’ll do it.” It wasn’t even up for question anymore.
Now that I had made my decision, I got to my feet and walked ahead with a ‘whatever happens will happen’ mindset.
This is a demonstration. Of what? I’m not entirely sure, but I trust Richard to know what he’s doing, and quite frankly, he’s the professor here. I know he will step in if it gets out of control.
And honestly, the whole point of trying to lay low was due to my fear of getting caught breaking school rules. And now that seems to be out of the way, I mean at least for now, I don’t see any other reason to be afraid.
Each step down the amphitheater stairs brought me deeper into an invisible current of misery. My skin prickled with goosebumps even as sweat beaded along my hairline. The mirror on the center table seemed to pulse with sorrow, waves of nausea hitting me harder with every step forward.
It’s a miracle Richard remained standing upright, his posture perfect, his expression composed, despite standing at the epicenter of whatever dark magic radiated from that cursed object.
It made me wonder.
Given that, he is an Arcanologist who deals with cursed objects, just how much curse exposure is he used to on a daily basis? Is this normal for him? Feeling these awful sensations day after day?
“Not all curses drain a person or act on their psychology all the time,” Richard’s mouth quirked at one corner, the blue of his eyes brightening. “This particular specimen happens to have quite the... venomous personality.”
Oh crap, I must have said the last part out loud.
Still… it was good to know he didn’t have to deal with something like this every day. Otherwise, I don’t know.
I don’t think it’s particularly good for anyone’s health or well-being to be constantly absorbing waves of something as suffocating as this curse. I don’t suppose anyone could endure that kind of magical toxicity regularly without it leaving permanent scars, visible or otherwise.
“I see you’re still quite the knight in shining armour.” Richard’s voice lowered to a whisper only I could hear.
Hearing the nickname once more caught me off guard, and a familiar heat crept up my cheeks. Must we do this now? I thought he was playing ignorant. Does this mean I’m still in trouble?
My mind raced with a thousand different questions when —
"Mr. Seigi…?”
I stared back at him. I see. So we’re continuing to play dumb. Got it, Prof!
“Seigi Nakata.”
Richard’s eyes gleamed with a sudden, sharp delight.
“Mr. Nakata, the room seems convinced that a simple flick of the wrist is the cure for a century of sorrow. Since you are our resident expert in these matters, why don't you show them? Give us a proper Finite Incantatem. Treat it as you would any other minor hex."
I nodded and drew my wand. That should be simple.
Or so I thought.
My hand was steady, but my chest felt like it was being crushed by a lead weight. The nausea got worse as I tried to focus. Like something invisible was pressed against my sternum, constricting each breath. This is much tougher than I thought. Whoever said this would be simple had never faced a curse like this. It almost felt like whatever had latched onto the mirror seemed to recognize my intentions.
"Finite Incantatem!"
My wrist snapped with textbook precision as the words left my lips. A surge of brilliant white light shot from my wand and slammed into the mirror’s surface like a physical blow, sending ripples across the glass. Any ordinary hex would have dissolved under that spell, vanishing like thin smoke.
But instead of dissipating, the curse recoiled. It absorbed the magic, hungrily, and churned it back in a magnified shockwave of such heavy anguish that it felt like air itself was pressing in on me, suffocating me from the inside out.
My head reeled as my knees threatened to collapse under me.
What is this? I’ve never felt a sensation as overwhelming as this.
I’ve been a part of high-stakes combats, studied dispelling curses and all, but none of that came close to what I am feeling in the moment.
My vision tunneled grey at the edges. It took every ounce of willpower to stand upright, to not let the trembling in my hands extend to the rest of my body.
Behind me, a wave of agonizing cries tore through the amphitheatre. Some students broke out in uncontrollable tears, some were terribly dizzy, some hyperventilating, some screaming; it was a mess.
I see. I get it now.
I see why Richard went for a practical demonstration instead of theoretically explaining it. Using a random counter curse without understanding the structure of the curse will only trigger it further or make it worse.
Now that being said, I have to deal with this situation somehow, without making things worse for everyone else, because this classroom was about to become a sniveling, panic-drenched disaster zone.
I have to think fast.
But my vision was darkening at the edges, like someone had drawn a vignette around everything I could see. My legs trembled. Each breath coming shorter than the last as I fought to stay upright against the curse’s assault. I wouldn’t last much longer like this.
I turned to Richard in desperation, my mouth opening and closing, but no sound coming out. My vision blurred. I tried to focus on his face, but I couldn’t tell if he looked concerned or if this was all a part of his plan. The last thing I registered before losing consciousness was his voice, steady and clear—
“Mitigo Resonare”
And then everything went blank.