Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Something is off about the Prefect.

Actually, if one were to ask the average Night Raven College student—

…as average as one can be when attending the simultaneously infamous & prestigious school "for budding villains"...

—how they would describe the Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm, many would answer—with the vaguest sense of thoughtful deliberation—odd.

Similar, less considerate words employed include unconventional, unusual, eccentric, strange, crazy, weird, insane, et cetera, et cetera.

(Though among the members of the Watch, whose numbers continue to grow each day, the more derisive descriptors have fallen out of favor, if only to avoid the displeasure of either the Prefect themself or their frightfully protective Inner Circle.

(It should be noted, however, that the first and only person to ever call the Prefect 'off' to their face—"There’s something off about you, you know that?"—was one of the Prefect’s self-proclaimed best friends, who proceeded to get smacked over the head by the Prefect’s other self-proclaimed best friend—"Ace, what the hell? Shut up!"—while the Prefect themself sat there in confusion, pondering over their friend’s words—"Off? Do you mean like when someone describes spoiled milk as off? Or moldy cheese? Rancid meat? Deuce, is my personality rotten?")

D reassured me that my personality is not rotten, it's just A being his rotten self. While I can concede that A can be disagreeable at times, I wouldn't go so far as to call him "extremely unpleasant", or "awful", or w/ever else "rotten" could mean. He's ACE.

Regardless of the specific adjective, calling the Ramshackle Prefect off wouldn't be inaccurate. Neither would odd, unconventional, unusual, eccentric, and so on, and so forth. Perhaps not insane, but the Prefect once had been caught trying to climb the flying buttress connecting the lower ground of Ramshackle’s land to the higher plateau where the main school building sits.

(They made it over the wall into the courtyard in front of the infirmary, an astonishing feat witnessed by a handful of infirmed students, their visitors, and—unfortunately—Nurse Maddox and Professor Andela. The latter then escorted the Prefect to the Headmaster’s office, where Crowley proceeded to lecture them about the dangers of scaling old castle walls and the like, all very dramatic and histrionic as usual. The very next day, several startled students bore witness to the Prefect speeding down Main Street wearing a pair of vintage metal skates, their cat-weasel-monster partner perched precariously atop their shoulders as the Prefect laughed with half-mad, absolutely joyful glee.)

After that enlightening conversation w/ the HM, I was afforded permission to visit Mr. S's shop & purchased a convenient pair of skates—metal strap-on ones like the kind I had Before. If all goes well, I'll be able to cut down the travel time between Ramshackle & the main building w/out resorting to "alternative routes".

& w/out Grim falling off my shoulders en route.

In regards to the Prefect's perceived oddity and the factors contributing to the existence of this perception—

For one, their unconventional introduction to the entire school during the Entrance Ceremony, complete with blue hellfire (courtesy of one weasel-monster-cat), a deluge of rainwater (courtesy of one Asim heir), and a good-ole decapitation/collaring (courtesy of one Heartslabyul Housewarden). How disruptive! How irresponsible, not being able to control their own familiar. How pathetic, to have magic so weak, they might as well not have magic at all.

(How odd, that the Dark Mirror was unable to read their soul, as if something was obscuring its vision. That their magic wasn’t weak due to inherent deficiency from birth so much as from suppression. It’s made all the more intriguing when a few remember the weirdly troubled, unsettled look in the Prefect’s dark eyes.)

Then there’s just the way they speak. As a freshman appearing on the younger side of eighteen, hearing this short, delicate-looking kid speak with such textbook perfect formality is always jarring (they swear, several students will say, if not watashi, they’ve heard the Prefect refer to themself as watakushi, and a few times, yatsugare, of all things, in front of the Professors and the Headmage).

(It’s strange. They sound almost like an old person, whenever the Prefect speaks. Too formal, too respectful, strangely… dated. And it’s not like Common is everyone’s first language—often, it’s not even the second—but the way the Prefect speaks it, it’s like they’ve been familiar with an older form of the language for a long time. Not to mention those moments when the Prefect could be heard muttering to themself in something ancient-sounding and nearly unrecognizable.)

Probably most damning of all—the fact that the Prefect is disgustingly, frustratingly, stupidly, undeniably kind. Not just nice or polite; anyone can play being nice or polite towards people they hate, and even then, the average Night Raven College student fails at even acting polite, let alone being nice towards their classmates. Night Raven College is not a kind environment, which makes the Prefect’s presence so unusual.

Who almost gets roasted alive by an ornery cat-monster, and decides to take them in and shelter them from the rain? Who gets insulted and nearly expelled by two Heartslabyul dunces, and doesn’t hesitate to invite them into their rundown dorm to protect the two from their own Housewarden? Who—if rumors are to be believed—encounters at least four Overblots and survives them, only to end up with actual friends and allies across all seven dorms?

It's stupid. It’s crazy. It’s insane. It… almost makes sense, when you consider the other rumors.

Ask any member of Scarabia—it started when the Ramshackle students escaped a locked room on the Housewarden’s magic carpet, the assigned guards frozen in place once the Prefect opened their mouth and started to sing, the cold sands reacting to the outrage in their voice.

We can’t stay here any longer. K needs help, I can’t abandon him, but they can’t lock me up again, they can’t.

Ask any member of Octavinelle—it started when even the Vice Housewarden was taken by surprise; when, while wiping down tables, the Prefect began to croon the words of an old Coral Sea lullaby; so old, only the melody remains in present memory.

Sen. Blue & Leech the Elder gave me strange looks when I ended my shift today. Wish I knew what that was about. Must focus on finals, though. Poor Grimsby looks close to tears trying to study for Crewel's.

Ask any member of Savanaclaw—it started when the Prefect, indignant over the treatment of their friends by the brutish and boorish students, snarled out the words of a lost song of the Afterglow Savana so fiercely, all the torches in the dormitory were blown out.

Sen. L & RB are going to make a full recovery, thank god. HW-R & Sen. T say to focus on my own health, but it’s hard to ignore the sorry display L & RB make when their beds are right across from mine. Esp. w/ L’s OB.

Ask any member of Heartslabyul—it started when the Housewarden invited the Prefect for another tea party with his hand of Cards (Trappola, Spade, Clover, and Diamond, of course), and a number of Card Soldiers stumbled upon the Prefect in a rather isolated part of the maze, humming a tune heavily restricted to the Queendom’s royal family and the Royal Botanic Society, discerning the sentient flowers from the non-sentient.

It was very kind of RR to let me pick some flowers again for pressing. I think he liked the tea rose bookmark I made him from the last batch. He turned so red when C took a photo of him, it was sweet.

Ask the Vice Housewarden of Heartslabyul, or the Magicam-addicted junior—it started after Rosehearts—again, if rumors are to be believed—Overblotted, and passed out, bleeding heavily, on the verge of death, and the Magicless Prefect saved him in a unbelievable display of warm, golden light and desperate song.

Ask the Prefect’s self-proclaimed best friends—it started when they delved into the abandoned Dwarf Mine on an impossible task to find a magestone, and the Prefect looked upon the decrepit cottage and Overblotted monster with such shock and sorrow, Deuce Spade had to wonder if they’d been here before. It started when Ace Trappola chanced upon the Magicless student who interrupted the Entrance Ceremony, sweeping in front of the statues on Main Street and singing indiscernible words as if casting a spell, squirrels and songbirds gathering at their feet.

If you have the courage, ask the Headmage himself.

It started when he followed the terrified screams of a missing student, subdued a volatile weasel-creature, and found the collapsed child staring back at him with confused, startling hazel-brown eyes—babbling in a language that disappeared when Lysaya Gora went silent along with its Black God.

Sunday, September 6

Where do I begin?

Chapter Text

"Everyone, please, keep him distracted! I'm going to try something!"

"What? Yuu, no, last time—!"

"Please, just trust me!"

"Hurry up! The glass isn't gonna hold up much longer!"

"Finally! The oceans belong to me!"

"What are they doing?!"

"And—now—you—poor unfortunate soul! Time's up! You're through!"

"The Sea Witch's song? But how—!"

"Now the power of Poseidon has been once again made whole! All the magic of the trident and the shell in my control! And now dark shall reign forever—over ocean, sea, and shoal…!"

The golden trident that materializes in their hands crackles like condensed lightning, harsh and wicked sharp and blindingly bright.

"Now see for yourself how banishment feels!"

"Shit, the dome's caving in!"

"YOU POOR—UN—FORTUNATE—SOUL!"

The moment the Prefect steps foot inside the Mostro Lounge, the Heartslabyul and Savanaclaw customers in attendance—as well as a number of the servers—stand to attention, abandoning their conversations in favor of glancing warily over at the Ramshackle student, though the gazes of the Octavinelle students who now know are a tad more awestruck, a bit more fearful.

(A significant upgrade from the looks of disbelief the Prefect’s co-workers used to give them when it became clear that they somehow managed to capture the attentions of both Leech twins without severe bodily harm to their person. When demanded how, the Prefect shrugged, looked back at them with an incredulous face, and said, "Senior Jade and Senior Floyd aren’t so bad, once you get to know them. They remind me of my uncles, a bit."

(Again—insane.)

The Prefect does not pay them any mind, occupied with the excitable Leech twin who comes barreling towards them from across the room with a cheerful "He—e—y, Shrimpy!" Neither do they notice the punched out gasps and sympathetic winces given when Floyd Leech sweeps them up into a bone-crushing squeeze that leaves their legs dangling. "Ya here for Azul's thing?"

"Ah! Mind the ribs, please," the Prefect wheezes, wriggling in his grasp as they adjust their breathing. Hands freed, they wrap one arm around his shoulders and use the other hand to start pinching his cheek (cue more gaping and gasping from their audience). "It's good to see you. Could you take me to Senior Ashengrotto's office, please?"

"Ehhh? Are your skinny shrimp legs too weak to walk there by yourself, Lil' Shrimpy?" Floyd drawls. His words are a little distorted by the cheek-pulling.

"Would you put me down and let me walk there, then?"

"Nope~." Multiple onlookers collectively suffer a stroke as the Leech proceeds to toss the Prefect up into the air long enough to catch them with an arm under their knees and around the back.

To the Prefect's credit, they only let out a startled "Oop," before folding their hands behind his neck. ''Lead the way,'' they say, quite cheerful.

(Somewhere in the background, too many Heartslabyul and Savanaclaw students almost jump out of their seats, torn between running after the Leech walking away with their Singer and staying put because it's the Scarier Leech walking away with their Singer.)

When the Prefect steps back inside the Lounge—this time from the shadows of the low stage set up near the center of the room—silverware is dropped, drinks are spilled and choked on, and two or three people almost upturn their dishes slamming their elbows down on the edges of their plates.

(From the very beginning, the young men of NRC have defaulted to referring to the Prefect with the neutral They, their gender even harder to distinguish than the Pomefiore students with more androgynous features (like the diva Housewarden himself or that tiny freshman on the Spelldrive team). After all, Night Raven College is an all-boys academy. It’s safe to assume that everyone at the very least goes by He.

(Then the Prefect shuffled into the Mirror Chamber with a smaller-than-average stature and waifish figure, with thin hands and delicate wrists, and large hazel-brown eyes with soft edges set in a round face. And then the fat cat and Heartslabyul dunces who hung around the Prefect addressed them with They. And then one day, the Prefect tied their hair back into a sprout of a tail and Spade started using He. And then the next day, the Prefect walked into History of Magic in a handmade skirt and cardigan and Trappola started using She. At that point, everyone who interacted with the Prefect just went with their gut instinct. And even when the Prefect was wearing the ponytail and called She, or the skirt and called He, they never frowned or corrected anyone, so the Prefect’s gender was chalked up as another oddity about them that, at best, only caused mild confusion, with people fumbling over whether to roughhouse with them like they do with their classmates, or treat them as they would a lady, with respect and due regard.)

But in the dim, intimate lighting of the Mostro Lounge, the Prefect blended in with the shadows in their—her black sheath dress, skirts whispering silently against the carpet and collar reaching high to conceal the column of her neck. Exposed arms were clad in long gloves of fine black lace. The sheer scarf draped over her shoulders flows down her arms and spills over her wrists like a stream of violet water. Her hair is even darker in this lighting, making the pearls studded throughout almost as bright as diamonds.

''I won’t even question how you got my measurements, I’m sure you have your ways. It’s very kind of you to lend me this.''

''But of course. You are providing me with an invaluable service; I’m merely returning the favor… And the dress is yours to keep.''

''Now you’re being too generous, Senior—I mean, Azul-san. Ah, do you think my hair looks alright? My father always said pearls suited me, but I’m sure it’s just paternal sentiment speaking, you know?''

“...I’m inclined to agree with your father, Miss Yuura.''

''And now, here with us all tonight, making her debut performance—''

That’s the voice of the proprietor himself, distracting the audience long enough for several to realize that the Prefect isn’t holding a microphone, nor is the usual band onstage to accompany them—her.

''—everyone, please welcome the Prefect of Ramshackle, Yuura Miyajima, with what she describes as ‘a tribute to the Sea Witch.’''

‘A tribute to the Sea Witch’? What could that even mean?

''I admit that in the past, I’ve been a nasty. They weren’t kidding when they called me, well, a witch.''

…was that Barren Tongue? Where was that smoke coming from? Where was that music coming from?

The Prefect steps forward, wisps of grayish-lavender smoke rolling off her skirt to slither across the floor, up half-steps, over the feet of tables and spectators alike, like tentacles reaching out, seeking, searching. "And I fortunately know a little magic." She trails her hand in front of her, and the room grows cavernous—the shadows deepen and lengthen, the lights outside the aquarium darken as mauve and violet cast ominously across the room. "It's a talent that I always have possessed."

What magic?! several audience members outside of the Know internally scream, frozen in their seats. What talent?! You're supposed to be the Magicless Prefect! What kind of sorcery is this?

"And here lately—please don't laugh—"

No one is laughing, Miss Ramshackle Prefect!

"—I use it on behalf of the miserable, lonely, and depressed…"

…where did those echoes come from? That laughter?

"Poor unfortunate souls… In pain. In need."

There's no way the Prefect could know this song. Not even those native to the Coral Sea know all the words anymore—not in their native okeánios Olympikós—poneménis psychís, that's almost all they can remember, hurt, aching soul—let alone in Barren Tongue. No one outside the waters of Atlantica should even know the melody. Yet here the Prefect stands, clad in black and violet like a shade of the Sea Witch herself, singing her Lost Song with haunting familiarity.

The Prefect throws her arms out as if to beckon her audience. That wouldn't be far off. Though the words she sings are in Barren Tongue, it's almost as if the very meaning of the song is embedding itself into her audience's minds. They can't understand the words, but they can understand the intention behind them. A song meant to entice—to tempt and beguile and seduce. A shiny lure for the gullible fish, ignorant to the sharp hooks just waiting to sink into vulnerable flesh.

(In the privacy of her mind, Yuura Miyajima is caught between excitement, fear, and guilt. Fear, because she didn't expect Poor Unfortunate Souls to be so potent, only halfway through the song. Guilt, because she doesn't want anyone to be scared of her, not really. Excitement, because this is as much of a gift as it is a threat. A gift to Azul-san and the other Octavinelle students. A threat to them as well as everyone else listening. Perhaps a healthy dose of fear is needed, because if they are afraid, they'll leave her and hers alone, and if they're afraid, then maybe Yuu can use this to protect just as much as she can use it to hurt—)

"The men up there don't like a lot of blather." She lifts her skirts to climb the steps leading up to the tables and booths near the aquarium glass, an uncharacteristic, dismissive air to her. "They think a girl who gossips is a bore. Yes, on land it's much preferred for ladies not to say a word—"

(Her hand comes to rest on her throat, and the action does not go unnoticed by the Octavinelle Housewarden, whose eyes never strayed for even a moment since she started singing the song of their beloved Sea Witch. Not after he was informed of the events of his unfortunate Overblot and the trump card the Prefect finally played. After they were both knocked out, and he came to before she did. After he caught a glimpse of the black marks encircling her neck.)

"And after all, dear, what is idle prattle for?"

"They're not all that impressed with conversation! True gentlemen avoid it when they can." The Prefect clasps her hands to her chest, an almost perfect picture of innocence were it not for the thick fog now crawling up the walls and trickling down from the shadowed ceiling. "But they dote and swoon and fawn on a lady who's withdrawn."

Those clasped hands move up to wrap around her throat, the Prefect's face twisting into an impatient sneer, so out of place and all too dreadful to behold. A few people whimper. Some of the Octavinelle students grow weaker around the knees. Near the bar, Floyd Leech looks about ready to snatch the Prefect up, performance be damned.

"Come on, you poor unfortunate souls!" Rose and cerulean lights explode in the darkness, shocking and blindingly bright. There's a thud here and there as bodies hit the floor. Those Octavinelle servers fall to their knees. Those in the Know—those in the Watch—hold their breaths and watch the Prefect cast her spell in terrified awe. "Go ahead! Make your choice!

"I'm a very busy woman and I haven't got all day. It won't cost much—"

Why would you want our voices when you already have one like that? more than one student cries.

"You poor unfortunate souls! It's sad, but true." Gold light outlines the Prefect's features as she turns to face the Octavinelle Housewarden himself, seated at the bar with his left and right-hands, unable to conceal the wonder clearly on display. She taps her temple, lips curling into a mischievous grin. "If you want to cross the bridge, my sweet, you've got to pay the toll. Take a gulp and take a breath and go ahead and sign the scroll."

Amusement dances in those dark eyes as she extends her hands to the Vice Housewarden behind the bar with an unreadable expression and his twin brother standing nearby with a greedy one. "Floyd and Jade Leech, now I've got 'im, boys! The boss is on a roll~!"

She spins away, smoke and fog surrounding her as she returns to the stage center of the room, taking in all of the eyes staring at her in awe. In dread. In fear.

It's too late to turn back now.

"This POOR—UN—FORTUNATE—SOUL!"

"Hey, join our club."

"You mean your cult?"

"So what if it is? You were there That Night at the Mostro Lounge, weren't you?"

"...so Heartslabyul and Savanaclaw already, huh?"

"Oh, man, you should've seen what they did to Leona-san back in October."

"Do you think she'll be amicable to private performances?"

"Azul, I can assure you, she'll be willing to do almost anything if it were you, me, Floyd, or any of those parasites she calls friends asking her to."

"Who knew Lil' Shrimpy could do scary~?"

Is it terrible that I enjoyed it so much? Maybe I should consider AA's contract to be a regular performer at the Lounge…

Chapter Text

"You STUPID brats! I am in the right! I am right! ME! Stop getting in my way!"

"I summon thee—!"

"Sleight of Hand!"

“I CAN'T BE WRONG! If I am, then wha—why?—this whole time... what have I been living for?"

"Riddle…"

"Senior Cater, look out!"

"Doodle Suit!"

"Why are you doing this? WHY? Just go away—leave me alone, LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"Take this, you bastard!"

"Ace, NO!"

"Yuu—!"

"Wait!"

"RIDDLE, STOP—!"

More time must have passed than any of them realized. There's a beautiful sunset just over the horizon, once the warped skies clear and the air is no longer thick with the stifling, sickly-sweet stench of Blot. Watercolor streaks of coral and honey and rose wash over the blue-violet clouds. The ruined shambles of the garden are set ablaze in crimson light.

There's nothing left of the Blot monster—no trace of sluggish tar or shattered glass, once Ace and Deuce dealt the final blow. The only indication that a battle for life-or-death even occurred is the wreckage of the Rose Maze—uprooted rose bushes, mangled hedges, gouges in the earth. That, and—

"Riddle!"

There was so much black, just a few moments ago. Blot like ink—like oil, like tar—thick, and congealed, and glossy dark. Streaming down pallid skin, blooming like old bruises beneath the surface. The fathomless black of slate eyes constricted with fury and madness. A queenly abomination that dripped and gurgled and continued to squirm and writhe even when it was reduced to a disgusting, gelatinous mass on the ground. The darkness of a twisted sky.

It's all red now. Too much red, there's too much red. Where there was once black, it's now just red.

The red sun striking red hair. Growing patches of red on white cloth. Rivulets of red streaming down the young man's temples, pouring from his nose, bubbling from the corners of his gray, parted lips. It's even trickling from the corners of his eyes.

Is blood supposed to be such a bright red?

Trey gets to him first, making a mad dash across the broken ground, skidding on his knees with a painful thud. He clutches Riddle's shoulders with trembling hands. "He's bleeding, why is he still bleeding?" Why is he still dying?

"Trey. Trey, don't shake him," Cater snaps, covering a white-knuckled hand with his own. That eerily serious set to his face is still there. "You're gonna hurt him even more."

Deuce is almost as pale as Riddle when he stumbles over, falling to one knee then the other. "Did—did we kill him?" Even back in high school, he'd never seen so much blood before.

"He's not dead, idiot." Ace stomps over with the Prefect and Grim in tow, having finished chewing the former out for the little stunt they pulled during the fight.

(Were the two seniors not preoccupied by their bleeding Housewarden, they might have demanded to know what was that about? One moment, Ace was in the path of the Blot Queen's rose bush, nothing left but skeletal branches covered in thorns and engulfed in flames. The next, the Prefect was standing in front of him, head ducked and hands clasped to their chest, and then there was a flash of light as the bush was deflected off something, bursting in a shower of charred branches and embers.

(Isn't the Prefect supposed to be practically Magicless?)

Ace releases the Prefect's sleeve, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. Like the other active participants in the fight, he's lightly dusted in gray ash and looking a little worse for wear. His uniform is sooty and rumpled, and when he lowers his left arm, he winces. "We didn't go through all that trouble risking our necks, keeping him alive, just for him to fucking die anyway."

"He's not going to die." Trey shakes Cater's hand off. "We need to get him to the infirmary, now."

"He's bleeding all over the place, how're we supposed to get him through the mirror?" Deuce's eyes are still blown wide, still shaken by everything. The fact that Riddle has already grown paler than him is alarming.

Cater grimaces. "He's in no condition to be moved, and none of us are in any condition to move him without messing him up even more."

"Aren't you two supposed to be our seniors? Can't you do something about it here?"

"I can—"

"Nothing as delicate as internal bleeding or hemorrhaging, excuse you."

"Guys, he's still bleeding!"

"Now's not the time! Riddle's losing too much blood, we need to—"

"Let me—"

"Trey, how are we supposed to—"

"Hey! My henchman's tryin' ta—"

"Where the fuck is the Headmage?"

"Please, just let me—"

"Is he even breathing? Did anyone check his pulse!"

"He's not dead—"

"Please!"

Honestly, they'd forgotten about the Prefect, still standing off to the side. Even with every little way they stood out—too many, almost—it was a little too easy for them to slip away and slip from everyone's minds at times, whether they meant to or not.

It just happens, sometimes. A hard habit to break, after 13, 14 years.

There's an indignant flush to their face—

(—not anger, never anger; not even Ace or Deuce have seen them angry, and if they ever were angry, the two doubt they'd ever be so "selfish" as to be angry for themself—)

—but just as quickly as the group's attention is turned to them, they deflate, shoulders slumping with a heavy sigh. Grim looks offended enough for the both of them, claws caught in the fabric of their pant leg.

"Senior Clover…" They move to kneel by Riddle's head, fiddling with the messy ends of their short hair, then with one of the pendants dangling from their neck. Trey only caught a glimpse of them in the kitchens, that day they made that damn tart that helped kickstart this whole mess. This one is a silver hourglass, filled to the brim with a fine, gray-white powder.

"Senior Trey," they amend, meeting pained gold eyes with an awfully sympathetic gaze. "Housewarden Rosehearts—Riddle is your friend. I can help him. There's something I could do, I can try."

He hesitates, of course. Cater's eyes flicker uneasily between Riddle's still form and the Prefect, and even Ace and Deuce are exchanging wary glances. The Prefect is only a freshman, and a nearly Magicless one at that. They couldn't do anything during the fight against the Overblot. They chose to stand back instead. What can they do about Riddle dying that he can't?

(But they didn't stay out of the fight entirely. No, the moment Ace was in imminent danger, they threw themself in front of him. And then there was that flash of light. What was that?)

"Please," they ask again, their voice barely a whisper. Despite the conviction in them, something old and hurt lurks behind those hazel eyes. Remorse. Regret. Why would their eyes be so guilty when Trey is the reason this entire situation even escalated this badly?

—couldn't let it happen again. Not after

Not another one. Not again.

"Let me help him." They rest a steadying hand atop Grim's head. The proud monster doesn't even bother to give them a half-hearted reprimand. "I can do something."

...at least the Prefect seems to have a plan beyond whatever the four of them were arguing about.

Trey relents, nod firm and lips pursed. "Hurry," he says, squeezing Riddle's right hand between his own. It's limp and ice cold. "He doesn't have much time."

The Prefect murmurs to themself, "Time...," fingers hovering over their pendant, then further up to their throat. Another precious second passes before they strip off their gloves, a delicate hand smoothing the hair back from Riddle's brow, the other resting lightly on his chest.

"Mama, day mne sily..." A deep breath, and then—

"Flower, gleam and glow. Let your power shine…"

This isn't the first time Trey or Cater have heard the Prefect speak in Barren. No, that surprise caught them off guard the day Cater first introduced the trio of freshmen to Trey, when the Prefect started conversing with the Vice Housewarden of Diasomnia, so lively and eager for a dead language. It's extremely rare to hear it outside of high academia, magical incantations, and those fussy, old choral songs they sing in church. The same could be said for Deuce, who was as stunned as they were that day. As for Ace, the first time he heard the Prefect sing, he barely registered that the words were in Barren, too distracted by the fact that the kid and the cat-monster from the Entrance Ceremony were sweeping Main Street after that whole debacle.

None of them have ever heard Barren Tongue sung so warmly or kindly before. Like a wish—a plea. A plea for Riddle’s life.

The Prefect—Yuura closes their eyes and bows their head as if in prayer. Grim leans into their side, a solid, stable weight to focus on. Warmth and heat in stark contrast to Riddle's claminess and chill. "Make the clock reverse. Bring back what once was mine…"

Beneath their fingertips, golden light glows like sunbeams on a summer afternoon, as gentle and warm as their song. It seems to sink into Riddle's skin just as the warmth of Yuura's voice sinks into the tired, weary bones of those listening. Dry and sticky trails of blood flake away into red dust. A flush of color slowly returns to his cheeks, his lips, the lids of his eyes, overtaking the sickly gray pallor. His hand grows warm in Trey’s desperate grasp.

Cater barely smothers a gasp in the cuff of his sleeve. "No way, it, it can't… Der Zauberspruch?"

Trey can only spare him a quick side-glance—that was Pyroxisch; what could have shocked him enough to make Cater slip into his Native tongue?—before Riddle starts to bloom.

"Heal what has been hurt…" Wispy tendrils of light spiral from the part of his lips, the space above his heart.

"Change the Fates' design." They dance above their heads, twirling and winding and entwining, brushing against their hair and faces in tender caresses. Ace can already feel the ache in his shoulder fading. Deuce, the nicks and scratches from close calls with the Overblot's rose bush. Cater, the bruises from when Riddle seized him. Trey, the sting in his throat from when he screamed.

"Save what has been lost…" From Riddle's mouth and heart, gorgeous lilies of pure sunlight unfurl, ethereal and ephemeral, dissipating just as quickly as they appeared. They cast his face and Yuura's own in brilliant gold.

"Bring back what once was mine..."

Yuura inhales sharply, a soft gasp. Their stuttering heart echoes in the shudder in their voice, the faint tremors in their hands. Trembling on a precipice, on the edge of something miraculous...

They only just refrain from jerking away from the hand that touches their own, only just.

"...was einst war mein," Cater offers, low and soft. And then there's Trey's broad hand covering Yuura's own, and the shuffle of feet as two more hands rest firmly on their shoulders. Ace and Deuce.

Grim nudges their side as Yuura breathes deep again, and sighs.

"...what once was mine."

"Mm...? Tr—Trey? What in the world...?"

"Riddle!"

"Hey, Prefect, get up. Prefect? Yuu. Yuu!"

"Der Zauberspruch. Literally just the Magic Spell. Gotta be the nicest Song to come out of Pyroxene... and even the original words for that were lost."

"Then how did the Prefect—how did Yuu...?"

"I don't know. I really don't know."

The bands still sting, a bit. Was difficult to talk, right after waking up. I don't think I care much. RR in the infirmary. HM and Maddox said he's made a full recovery.

I'm glad.

Chapter Text

Despite however long the Headmage claimed the building to be abandoned, Ramshackle itself is still in fair condition.

Now that the dormitory houses more than three mischievous ghosts, the water and electricity have been turned back on. The hardwood floors are scuffed and carpeted in a thick layer of dust, but they seem to be properly treated and stained; jumping up and down on one of the upper landings didn’t result in Yuura crashing into the floor below. Where the wallpaper is peeling, it's at the corners of individual sheets that could be easily glued back down. The broken furniture could be shoved into an empty storage room to be tended to at a later date.

And in spite of Ramshackle’s rundown appearance, the foundation is solid, the walls could repel the wind, and the roof could keep out the rain and sun. It's nothing more than a large clean up job.

Stains in the wallpaper? Nothing some warm, soapy water can’t fix. The staggering number of cobwebs dangling from the ceilings and sticking to the hard-to-reach corners? There was a broom conveniently abandoned in the entry hall, and a ladder in the back shed. The copious amounts of dust everywhere? In the attic, Yuura found a box of old but clean rags alongside a feather duster that still had all its plumes and a sturdy racket that was perfect for beating carpets and mattresses. The laundry room they stumbled upon was still stocked with cartons and boxes of powdered soap and cleaning detergents. There's even a full set of mops and buckets, and a large metal tub with its own old-fashioned steel washboard.

This, Yuura cataloged with a notepad and pencil, spending the free hours of their day exploring the building. There was no map they could find, so they drew up their own crude copy, counting the rooms and learning of their old designations from the resident ghosts (kitchen, supply closet, parlor, bedroom, study, bedroom, bedroom, bedroom…). Counting windows and determining which ones got top priority (bottom floor to top, front-facing, kitchen and master bedroom). Stacking scattered books and fallen paintings. Remembering which carpet belonged to which room after cleaning. Fixing the clocks and frames they found askew on the walls.

"What do you think, Mr. Giddens?” Yuura asks, hopping off the last step of the stairs connecting the first and second floors. They’d been testing the boards for levels of squeakiness rather than overall sturdiness (a little creaky towards the middle, but muffled by the carpet, and silent if you used the edges instead).

The Chubby Ghost of Ramshackle Dorm floats lazily to their side, taking a peek at the notes in their hand. It was a scribbled mix of Barren script, Common, and neat sketches of the building’s layout littered with numbers, arrows, and doodles of dancing mops and brooms.

"I think this seems like a tall order for one person to handle,” Mr. Giddens drawls.

"Especially for someone as small as you!” pipes in Mr. Weylin, dropping in from the ceiling alongside Mr. Melrose.

The Tiny Ghost nods in agreement. "Your arms will fall off before you finish sweeping the lounge." He shakes one of Yuura’s arms for emphasis.

"I’m sturdier than I look," Yuura insists, already making their way to the supply closet, pencil tucked behind their ear. "I helped my Uncle Sandro clean all the time, and our house was a little bigger than this.

"Besides, I won’t be alone." They turn on their heel, their smile rather cheery for someone who was about to spend the next several hours walking into spider webs. "I’ve got Grim with me, haven’t I?"

Among the Heartslabyul students who were present during the Housewarden’s Overblot and witnessed the aftermath, having fled into the Rose Maze before the destruction and missed the Headmaster’s call for evacuation, there was a vote—who to send as pseudo-emissaries to the Prefect who may or may not be a long-lost god of healing.

That’s how one freshman, two sophomores, and one junior find themselves standing on the creaky front porch of Ramshackle Dorm one Saturday morning, two weeks after the first Incident, less than a week after the second Incident when the Prefect was found singing All in the Golden Afternoon in the maze. As if that song isn’t highly restricted in use by the Queendom’s Royal Botanic Society.

"...so who’s gonna knock?"

"Not me! Make Quentin do it."

"What? What did I do?"

"Are you that much of a coward that you can’t even knock a door?"

"You wanna say that to my face, Poncy?"

"Bring it on, Angie."

"Oh, for fuck’s sake—look, there’s a doorbell. Let’s just ring the doorbell, and get this over with."

The doorbell does not work—properly. Rather than a chime or a tinkling tune, their ears are assaulted by a grating screech that lasts long enough for someone to answer the door.

"Hohoho, what do we have here?"

"Visitors? Visitors here?"

"Visitors, or intruders? What do you think, Mr. Giddens?"

"Heartslabyul, I think. And I see nary a red heart or a black spade among them."

"Intruders, then. Heheheh, do you know what that means, Mr. Giddens?"

"I think I do, Mr. Weylin."

Well, we don’t! the four hapless Heartslabyul students cry, huddling together despite their earlier animosity. Is this how it ended, joining the ranks of the ghosts who haunted Ramshackle? There's a reason why everyone avoided the building for decades!

"Oy! What did Yuu say about harassing visitors?”

The quartet would have sighed in relief, were it not for the fact that their savior came in the form of that fiery cat-monster that nearly burned down the Mirror Chamber during the Entrance Ceremony. It’s a little hard not to gawk when the creature comes waddling in with tiny rubber gloves over its front paws and its fiery ears tucked under a checkered kerchief.

(Huh. You’d think that’d be a safety hazard or something).

Bright blue eyes narrow on sight. "Hey, you ain’t Ace or Deuce. What’s a buncha Heartslabyul prisses doin’ here?"

One of the sophomores—the one referred to as Poncy—leans through the open door to shake his fist. “What’s that supposed to mean, ya cúl tóna beag?”

Someone hisses, "Pontius!" and tries to drag him back inside when the ghosts start leering again.

The monster bristles, nose scrunched up and forked tail flicking in agitation. "You wanna fight? I'll show you what the Great Lord Grim can do!"

"Gri—i—im!" Students, ghosts, and cat-monster alike all jump at the call. The voice comes closer, from the slightly ajar doors at the end of the entry hall. "Grim, are you alright? I heard the doorbell ringing. Oh! visitors."

Peeking into the hallway, a great pair of owlish, hazel-brown eyes, framed between an off-white kerchief around the mouth and over the nose, and a blue plaid kerchief around the head, pushing back a tousled mass of dark curls.

"Welcome to Ramshackle!" The Prefect steps into full view, revealing a full-length apron atop faded gym clothes that look several years out of date, bright yellow rubber gloves, and a broom in hand that looks like it's been through the wringer. "Pardon the mess, but today's a cleaning day and we weren't expecting visitors." Once he's close enough, the Prefect extends his free hand, retracts it upon realizing how grimy it is, and settles for a polite yet welcoming nod. Even with the mask in the way, his smile is visible in the corners of his eyes and the lift of his cheeks.

He doesn’t look much like an immortal in hiding or—as some of the guys suggested—a forgotten god of healing. Not with the secondhand clothes, or the messy hair, or the broom.

But they had seen the Prefect fend off that Blot monster’s attack when it came straight for Trappola; if it had been any of them, it would have been every man for himself and Trappola would be mulch. They’d seen him sing a Lost Song that made Diamond lose some of his composure and brought Rosehearts back from the brink of death. Those who were close enough to the spectacle had felt the lingering effects of the Prefect’s spell—warmth like a kind touch, like a sunbeam in the darkness, soothing their aches and pains. And then there were others who were convinced that he was the god of something more, because when they found him singing to those flowers, they not only moved in response, they sang back, unfurling their petals and leaves to reveal uncanny faces, singing with the Prefect in perfect harmony as they swayed like they were dancing in the breeze.

Which brings us back to why they were here in the first place.

Any persisting pride the four Heartslabyul students might have had is dwarfed in comparison to the awe and gratitude that they have towards the Prefect.

“Prefect!” The junior steps up first and bows almost parallel to the floor. The Prefect lets out an inelegant squeak. “My name is Octavian Kendrick, third-year, and on behalf of the other guys in Heartslabyul, we wanted to thank you for what you did for us.”

The Prefect blinks, lowers his mask, opens his mouth, closes it, then blinks some more. “Thank me for what, exactly?”

The other students look at each other incredulously while Octavian shoots up straight in disbelief. “For what?”

“For taking the ruler out of Rosehearts’ ass and making him chill out, obviously—ow!”

“Angus!”

“What Angus means,” the junior continues, blocking his bickering underclassmen from the Prefect’s line of sight, “is that ever since the Housewarden’s, er, Incident, he’s been… mellower. Less… severe when it comes to enforcing the Queen of Hearts’ rules.”

“Less anal retentive, you mean—ow!”

“Angus!”

Octavian sighs.

The Prefect rolls his broom between his hands, humming. "I don’t understand why you would be offering me thanks. Senior Riddle has been doing remarkably well improving himself with Senior Trey and Senior Cater’s guidance, and I didn’t help during his... Predicament as much as Ace and Deuce did. If anything, you should be thanking them."

How is this guy a student at Night Raven?

The sophomore with a club over his left eye and rubbing his ribs—Angus—snorts. "Didn’t help? All of us saw the way you threw yourself in front of Trappola—"

"Like some sort of self-sacrificing idiot—"

"Pontius!"

"And then there’s the part where you used a Lost Song to bring the Housewarden back from the dead!" the freshman with a blue heart on his face exclaims, stars in his eyes. "In Black Tongue, too. I’m from the Shaftlands, and even I don’t know any of the words besides the first line in Pyroxisch. And you need to be really, really good at magic to use a spell that powerful, and you used it to bring the Housewarden back from the dead."

"Quentin," the sophomore with a diamond—Pontius—cuts in sharply, while the Prefect corrects, "He wasn’t dead."

"But he was dying," Angus says, "Like, on Death’s doorstep, and then you started singing in a dead language, and it was like nothing happened to him! We all thought you were supposed to be Magicless."

"Basically Magicless," Pontius clarifies.

"You saw all of that?" is what the Prefect takes away from All of That.

Octavian nods. "About a dozen of us or so. We were in the Rose Maze when it happened."

"A bunch of guys ran in there after the whole Egg Thing and the Housewarden started going on a rampage," Quentin helpfully explains. "We saw everything."

"Ah," the Prefect says thoughtfully, as if he hadn’t been witnessed performing something akin to a miracle; something that would definitely make global news if word ever got out. "To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t entirely certain if that would work."

"What."

"Mm-hm." The Prefect starts sweeping idly at the dirt the boys had tracked in. "Let’s just say… It’s been a long time since I last sang, and I couldn’t be sure if the Song would work or not. But I needed to try, for Senior Riddle’s sake. You understand, of course?"

No, they did not understand. Where did this kid come from? Why is he even here? Everyone in the area had fled or hidden during Rosehearts’ Overblot, besides the Suits and the Prefect (who all appear to be of the same breed of freaking crazy). And then when the tiny, red tyrant was only a pint away from bleeding to death, the Prefect whipped out a Lost Song like it was nothing! Like the ones with surviving lyrics or melodies aren’t guarded as national secrets. Like the only people who remember all the words in their original Barren Tongue aren’t all dead.

…except for one, it seems.

Octavian bows to the Prefect again, and this time, his underclassmen follow suit. "You saved the Housewarden’s life, and because of whatever else you did to make him calm down and not decapitate people left and right, Heartslabyul Dorm is in your debt."

At the word debt, the Prefect’s eyes widen. "Debt?" he echoes. "Oh no, oh no, oh no! You don’t owe me anything, least of all the entirety of your dorm. I only wanted to help—Senior Riddle, and my friends, and..." He trails off, sheepish. "I suppose the rest of you as well."

"And that’s why we’re indebted to you, id—" Pontius falters at the several pairs of glaring eyes that lock onto him—from his senior, his junior, the cat-monster standing at the Prefect’s side, and the trio of ghosts still lingering nearby. "Ahem—Prefect. You helped us all out, so now we have to pay you back."

"That’s the rules here," Angus shrugs, leaning onto a protesting Pontius’ shoulder. "Trust us, no one here wants to remain indebted to anyone. Have seen Octavinelle? Have you seen their Dorm Leader?"

"Actually, I am familiar with Senior Ashengro—"

"Anyway," Octavian interrupts, because he did not like where that sentence was going, "you get what we’re saying. You helped us deal with Rosehearts; we help you out in any way we can."

"Within reason," Quentin adds. "That’s what the others back at the dorm said."

Again, the Prefect appears lost in contemplation, rolling the handle of his broom back and forth.

"Myah, Yuura." They all look down to see the weasel-cat—Grim—yanking on the Prefect’s pant leg. "It’s cleaning day, 'member?"

The big ghost starts chuckling, deep and booming. "Hohoho, I see!"

"It would be nice to have a spare set of human hands helping you out," says the skinny ghost, floating over the Prefect’s shoulder. "Or four, or twelve."

The Prefect glances back at the open door at the end of the hall, and for the first time since they arrived, the Heartslabyul students finally notice the sounds of shuffling and… clacking? coming from that direction.

The Prefect offers them a shy, hopeful smile when he turns back. "You wouldn’t happen to be free later today, would you?"

"What, exactly, is going on here?"

"Hou—Housewarden Rosehearts, sir!"

"Nothing’s going on, sir!"

"Nothing? Then enlighten me—why would nothing require a dozen students disappearing together on a Friday afternoon?"

"Uh, well, you see, clubs—and other such after-school activities—"

"Oh, for the love of—"

"Ramshackle, sir! Everyone’s leaving for Ramshackle Dorm!"

"Finnian!"

"I’m sorry! I panic under pressure."

"...Ramshackle?"

"Senior Ruggie! Horrible news!"

"So you know how the Housewarden’s tryna to—"

"—heard it from the Hearts guys in my club—"

"I didn’t know the Prefect was accepting offerings—"

"—going on for weeks, apparently—"

"—they don’t even have a washing machine—"

"EH? What d'ya mean Heartslabyul’s—!"

Anyone passing by Ramshackle Dorm one Saturday morning in early November would have doubletake'd at the assembly of characters standing at the dilapidated building’s front porch. Certainly, the poor Heartslabyul freshman who volunteered to answer the door swears his heart seized in that moment as he struggles to not immediately slam the door in their faces.

"Housewarden Rosehearts!" he salutes, forgetting the feather duster in hand that sends a cloud of dust flying. "Er, and Housewarden Kingscholar!"

(Nearby, a Savanaclaw student almost drops the wall sconce he was screwing back into place. Turning the corner from the larger storage room, a Heartslabyul pair stumbles and knocks the newly repaired sideboard they were carrying into a wall.)

"...and entourage," the freshman tacks on, rather pathetically.

("Why are we ‘entourage’?" mutters Ace from where he stands by Deuce, narrowed eyes trained on the Savanaclaw trio beside them.)

The Heartslabyul Housewarden studies his dorm member with a critical eye, noting the feather duster, the lack of his uniform blazer, the kerchief in his hair. With the door open, the hubbub of many people moving around inside is obvious. So is the distant sound of singing. "...Quentin Herzfeld, I believe."

"Yes, sir!"

Even out of dorm uniform and carrying what looks to be a covered basket with a bright red bow, Riddle Rosehearts cuts an imposing figure. "Well?" he snaps. "Are you not going to invite us in?"

"Yes, sir! Right this way, sir! Please excuse the mess!"

Someone further back has already run ahead into the lounge, shouting something that sounds like, "—ner Circ—!"

Those still present in the entry hall watch Rosehearts and Kingscholar try to enter the building at the same time, only to knock shoulders and start glaring at each other.

And they just finished gluing down the wallpaper after the last scuffle, too…

"So, friends, even though you’re vermin, we’re a happy working throng—oh! Senior Riddle, Senior Leona. I didn’t expect to see you two here. Welcome!"

"Prefect." Riddle sounds close to having a conniption. "There’s vermin in your dormitory."

"Senior Riddle, they’re not vermin," the Prefect chides the Heartslabyul Housewarden, stepping around the line of rats scurrying across the floor. "They're friends." They set their heavy tray down on the coffee table, already crowded with similar trays laden with stacks of painted glasses, old metal pitchers and crystal jugs, and porcelain plates of finger foods. Almost immediately, several students scattered around the lounge drop whatever’s in hand and swarm the Prefect, laughing their thanks and sighing in relief.

The Prefect laughs with them before turning to address their visitors. It’s quite a sight for them, seeing the young men they consider their friends standing together (even if Riddle is steadily turning red; and Leona is looking distinctly vexed; and Jack bewildered; and Ruggie and Trey plainly amused; and Ace and Deuce particularly annoyed; Cater is just taking pictures again). "It’s been a while since I’ve seen some of you together. How are you?"

"Prefect, the rats."

"Yuurachen, love what you’ve done with the place! Smile for the camera!"

"Hey, Yuu-kun, are those sandwiches for everyone?"

"I’m just here to make sure the guys I sent were actually doing their jobs and not slacking off."

"As if you’re one to talk about slacking off…"

"Oy, Yuura! Since when were you inviting other guys into Ramshackle?"

"What about the rats! Yuu, did you replace us with rats?"

"Have you just been cleaning your dorm in your free time for the past two months? Prefect, no."

"We brought you a goodie basket."

Unbelievably, that's what the Prefect zeroes in on, extracting themself from Diamond’s hold to retrieve the covered basket from Clover. "Really? Oh, you didn't have to, thank you!" Removing the gingham cloth fills the air with the yeasty, spicy, sweet aromas of fresh baked breads and pastries. "You wouldn’t mind if I shared these, would you?"

"Well, actually—"

"Hey, don’t ignore us!" Ace whirls them around by the shoulders. "Why's this the first we’ve heard of you bringing a buncha Savanaclaw meatheads and our own dorm-mates into Ramshackle—hrmph!"

Yuura withdraws another cinnamon palmier from the basket and holds it out to the hyena beastman. "Of course, help yourself. I'm making more sandwiches in the kitchen, and there are brownies in the oven, if you want any."

"Score!" Ruggie knocks Ace aside, the redhead's yells muffled by the arlette in his mouth. Half of the pastry in their hand disappears in one bite. "You're the bes', kidege."

"Ati, Ruggie—who're you calling kidege?" Ace is further knocked aside—this time into Deuce, nearly choking on flaky crumbs—as Leona inserts himself between the pair. Somehow, he looks even more irritated than usual, though that could easily be attributed to the presence of not only the Heartslabyul prigs, but also their damn Dorm Leader and his Suits. If he’d known the Little Red Queen had the same plans as him, he wouldn’t have bothered stopping by Ramshackle in the first place.

("You didn’t have to stay, y’know," Ruggie will later point out about an hour later, when Yuura bids everyone goodbye and sends Savanaclaw off with leftover boxes and promises to visit on Sunday.

(To which Leona will answer with a "Tsk," and proceed to avoid the question.)

"Shishishi! Why, jealous?" Ruggie slings an arm over the Prefect’s shoulders, already reaching into the basket for a square of caramel shortbread. "Maybe you shoulda been nicer to Yuu-kun here if you wanted them to love you as much as they love me. Jaza ya ihsani ni ihsani. Anipendaye, nami nampenda."

Several Savana residents choke on their drinks as their Housewarden scowls and retorts, "Ihsani iandame imani." He sweeps his arm around the lounge, more polished and spruced up compared to the beginning of the school term. A few of his dorm members are still hard at work caulking squeaky floorboards in the upper landing, reinstalling fallen light fixtures, and replacing heavy curtain rods over the windows. "What do you call this, then?"

"Compensation, I should think, for the injuries the Prefect incurred trying to clean up your messes." Riddle appears to have recovered from his rat-induced shock, because now he’s stepping in between Leona and the Prefect, eyeing both beastmen with obvious displeasure. "Uninspired, as well, seeing as Heartslabyul already had renovations well underway by the time Savanaclaw decided to stick their muzzles where they don’t belong."

"Eh?" Leona stalks forward, towering over his fellow Dorm Leader. "Word travels fast, Riddle. We all know what happened between you and the Prefect in September. Your hands are as red as mine."

Everyone in the room (and in the adjacent kitchen, entry hall, and dining room, because all the doors are open and sound travels far in Ramshackle) stiffens, the tension palpable between two powerful Housewardens who are still recovering from the aftermath of Overblotting and nearly dying.

Everyone except for the Prefect, of course.

"Excuse me, please." The Savanaclaw trio and Heartslabyul quintet jump back as the Prefect draw circles in the air with their broom handle. "Mostro Lounge rules apply here, gentlemen—no fighting between dorms. And no soliciting, as well, I suppose." They lower their broom and plant a hand on their hip, their mild disappointment evident and more devastating than any anger or upset.

("Why bring up the Mostro Lounge rules, anyway?"

("Dude, they work at the Mostro Lounge."

("They what?")

"Really, Senior Riddle, Senior Leona—your students are present. As their Housewardens, shouldn’t you set better precedents for them when it comes to fostering interdorm relations?" It took many promises and placations to calm everyone down that first day, when both Savanaclaw and Heartslabyul appeared on Ramshackle’s doorstep the previous week and immediately clashed. Yuura would not tolerate all their hard work being undone, not even by Riddle or Leona.

To the astonishment of all those watching, both Housewardens actually look ashamed—they look away from the Prefect and each other, Riddle flushed with embarrassment, Leona clicking his tongue, contrite.

Riddle coughs into his fist and smooths down the front of his waistcoat. "I… apologize, Prefect. You’re absolutely correct. It would be disrespectful of us to engage in altercations while we are guests under your care."

There are too many people in the room for Leona to properly avoid any eye contact. Eventually, he closes his eyes, sighs, and says, "Fine. Whatever. As long as you don’t insist I act all buddy-buddy with Mister Queen over there."

"It never hurts to dream." Disregarding Rosehearts' indignant sputtering, the smile the Prefect gives is like a reward in and of itself—kind, and lighthearted, and encouraging in its genuinity.

("By the Seven…" a Savanaclaw junior murmurs in awe. Like many of his dorm-mates, he's wearing his uniform bandana around his head and an old apron the Prefect found in a box filled with equally old aprons.

("I know, right?" his Heartslabyul year-mate whispers back excitedly, passing a plate full of tea sandwiches.

("Is this what they mean by beast-taming…?" another Heartslabyul student mumbles in a daze. His expression is reflected in several other faces.

(Someone else from Savanaclaw mimics a whip cracking, and is immediately shushed.)

The Prefect smacks the top of their head. "Oh, but where are my manners? Sit down, sit down, please!" They usher their guests around the lounge, mindful of the recently shampooed carpet and the various animal tails lying around, both beastfolk and rattus. "The Cards helped me clean the cushioned furniture a few weeks ago, and the Savana boys helped finish up the rest of the lounge." They turn to the dusty, grungy students delegated to sitting on the floors. "Again, thank you for the assistance. I don't know what I would have done without all of you."

They're answered by an overlapping chorus of "It's no problem," and "You can count on us!", and "Anything for you, Mx. Prefect!"

(On separate couches, Leona and Riddle share the same expression of vague betrayal—from their own dorm members, or from the Prefect, or perhaps both. Seated with Riddle, Trey and Cater share a meaningful, silent Look. On the third couch, Deuce cracks his knuckles and Ace throws a menacing glance at his fellow Card Soldiers. Leaning against the staircase banister, Jack is frowning even more so than usual. And Ruggie? Ruggie is snickering to himself where he's sat on the carpet, cradling the goodie basket the Prefect kindly entrusted to him like a treasure chest.)

Ace takes the glass of lemonade the Prefect pours out for him with a petulant air, grumbling rather loudly, "I don't see why you had to ask these cretini e scrocconi for help, anyway."

"You're one to talk, Trappola!" someone who sounds like one of his dorm-mates says. "Vai a vendere il culo!"

"Cazzo si, Campana! Bacha ma culo, tu brutto figlio di—mrph!" He yanks the sandwich triangle out of his mouth. "Yuu, I'm not Grim, stop doing that!" The Prefect tugs lightly at an unruly lock of red hair. "Yuu."

"Stop antagonizing my guests." They pass the plate in their other hand to their blue-haired friend. "Have a sandwich, Ducky; there's egg salad and tamago sando."

"O—Oh, thank you." That mollifies Deuce for the time being, if the slight fluster means anything. Yuura grants him a pleased smile and a pat on the head.

"Tsk. This is blatant favoritism."

"I don't play favorites so obviously, Pip, you know this." Just in case, they pat his head too. Ace groans some more, but doesn't move away from their hand.

(Blatant favoritism, is the thought on many people's minds as the Prefect fusses over their best friends. Then they move across the room to hand Howl a full glass and to pat his arm. He accepts both gestures with a neutral face, a nod, and a conspicuously hidden tail. Howl, you too?!)

"And your dorm-mates offered to help me, as well as Savanaclaw," they call over their shoulder as they bustle to the open kitchen door. "I couldn’t very well refuse them when they were so willing to help, and kind enough to offer it. What was I supposed to do, turn them away from my door?"

"Yes."

"Ace."

"Wait, wait, hold on a minute." Jack waits for the Prefect to pull their head back in from the kitchen—"Could someone put a kettle on, please?"—"I’ve got it, Mx. Yuu!"—before nudging them back into the room’s focus. "If Ace and Deuce weren’t helping you, and you only started getting help at the end of September…" He shoots them his own disappointed stare. "Don’t tell me you were cleaning your dorm by yourself for a whole month."

"It wasn’t a whole month," the Prefect insists, reaching higher to pat his shoulder. His frown doesn't abate. "I swear it! I had Grim to help me, as well—"

"Grim can barely hold a pen."

"—and, well…" They fiddle with the chain of their necklace, actually hesitant for once. Hazel eyes flicker around the room between their latest guests. "I had a little help on the side, I suppose you could say."

"Oh! Oh, Prefect!" A Savanaclaw freshman with blond hair and the dark ears of a hyrax—the one who was shushed earlier—starts bouncing on his knees. "Prefect, you have to show them that Song you used!"

"Emmanuel!" someone hisses.

"Song?" the Prefect’s Heartslabyul friends echo, curious and intrigued.

"Song?" the Prefect’s Savanaclaw friends echo, ears pulling back almost flat against their hair.

(And who can blame them for being on guard? Everyone who witnessed Leona Kingscholar’s Overblot was also privy to the Prefect at their most destructive and ruthless. Heartslabyul had seen the Prefect protect their friend and heal their enemy; and saw a god of healing, forgiveness, compassion. Savanaclaw had seen the Prefect split the earth in two and summon columns of green flame and geysers of boiling steam; and saw a god of retribution and mercy that came in the form of a swift, humbling defeat.)

The Prefect flaps their hand in a vaguely reassuring manner. "Nothing so drastic or damaging, you needn't worry about that. But… it is a little overwhelming, in its own way."

"Overwhelming how?" Riddle asks with a scrutinizing gaze. By the way he's shifting his feet, he seems to have remembered the numerous rats dotting the lounge floor. Probably because one skirted a little too close to his shoe and nearly sent him flying off the couch.

...is that one wearing a bow?

"Well…"

"Oh, c'mon, Prefect—!" That sets off a clamoring from all directions of the lounge, over a dozen young men begging and pleading with the Prefect, with a comfortable informality and ease born from spending many hours working alongside the suspected immortal (possible god), who so far has displayed a greater preference for goodwill and charity than vengeance and retaliation.

(Which is all well and good for those who initially derided the Prefect for being so small, and weak, and supposedly Magicless, or close to it. Especially Savanaclaw; none of them will be forgetting anytime soon just how easily the Prefect could have ended their Housewarden right then and there. Instead, they healed him completely at the expense of their own health. Truly a merciful being.)

Riddle appears close to beheading people, and Leona to nursing a migraine, before the Prefect throws up their hands and laughs, "Alright, alright, settle down, please!" Then, with a tentatively eager grin, "Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt, just this once." And that’s enough reassurance for their friends to settle down. If there’s one thing they’ve learned about Yuura Miyajima, it’s that they hate harming others, necessarily or otherwise. Even being left bedridden in the infirmary didn’t prevent them from making sure both Riddle and Leona were fully recovered from their Episodes.

Whatever this Song is, it can’t be anymore dangerous than Der Zauberspruch or All in the Golden Afternoon.

Cheering, the lounge bursts into action as people leap off the floor and scatter around the room, tossing dirty rags, kerchiefs, and aprons, and tools and supplies onto the ground, throwing open the curtains and windows, and the back door in the kitchen—all under the Prefect’s direction.

"Could someone get the windows, please?"

"We got ‘em, Prefect!

"Everyone grab what’s left on the plates, if you will!"

"Way ahead of you!"

"Now where did I put my broom…? Oh! Thank you, Khari."

"’S nothing, Mx. Prefect."

Slipping away to find a good angle to film from, Cater finds one of his fellow Cards and asks, "Hey, so what’s this super mysterious song everyone’s so hyped about?"

The sophomore—his last name might’ve been Pfenning or Farthing, or something like that—flinches. "Oh, Senior Diamond, it’s just you. Uh… you’re from Pyroxene too, right? You remember that clean-up song kids used to sing? Wer bei der Arbeit pfeift?"

"Wer bei der Arbeit pfeift?" two voices exclaim. Cater startles and turns to the direction of the other voice. Little Jack Howl stares back at him, first with mild surprise that he had heard him from across the room, then with shared bafflement. Wait, you heard that? Wait, you know Pyroxisch? Wait, did you hear what I heard correctly?

In the center of the room, lit up by the midday sunlight pouring through the open windows, the Prefect readjusts the kerchief in their hair before crouching and knocking the floor, steadying themself with their broom. “Gustav, Yasha, Marusya, come here, everyone.”

Everyone not accustomed to the Prefect’s Little Friends—mostly Riddle, he still hasn’t moved out of that stiff stance—jumps back and retracts their feet as well over a dozen rats scamper across the floor to congregate around the Prefect, who smiles and pets them like one would a cat or a dog, and not a mischief of grubby, possibly diseased rodents (again, mostly Riddle’s words).

(Never mind that all of them have sleek, fluffy coats and seem to be wearing some sort of miniature clothing item or accessory. When did the Prefect have the time to knit that fat one a sweater?)

"I’ll have to ask for your help again today, but you’ll get to see your friends. Aren’t you excited?"

It feels like foreshadowing, how responsive the rats are to the Prefect speaking in Common as they bob their heads and chitter in agreement.

Then the Prefect stands up and whistles a painfully nostalgic tune that reminds the native Shaftlanders of clean-up time and overly enthusiastic kindergarten teachers—and something from the woods outside whistles back.

"Please don’t be alarmed," the Prefect says, before a fluttering, flocking shadow descends.

"So were you expecting a crap-ton of birds and forest animals?" Ace whispers, his voice a little weak even in his own ears. The rabbit on his lap continues to paw at his waistcoat.

Careful not to disturb the birds that decided his shoulders and head were adequate perches, Deuce leans over and replies, "I’m more surprised there were deer in the woods."

"Honestly, same."

Said deer—a doe—and its fawn seem to have taken a liking to their green-haired senior and Housewarden, with Trey struggling not to laugh in the face of Riddle’s bewilderment as the mother-child pair nudge their legs and the fawn attempts to clamber onto Riddle’s lap. "No, wait, don’t do that. No, stop—"

Leona isn’t faring any better—no matter how many times he growls or lashes out his hand, far too many chipmunks and squirrels return, circling the Savanaclaw Housewarden in hopes that he’ll let them climb on his person. "Herbivore," he says through gritted teeth. "What is this?"

The Prefect’s shoulders shake with stifled laughter, the birds resting on them undisturbed by the movement. "It means they like you, Senior Leona," they say, oddly calm for someone whose lounge is now crowded with an excess of squirrels, chipmunks, and rats, a herd of rabbits, a pair of large turtles, a family of deer, an entire nursery of raccoons, and too many birds to count.

"Totes adorable," Cater declares, taking pics of the rabbits gathering around him for Magicam.

"Hey. Hey, no, not there." Jack waves at the bird that’s made its nest in his hair. It jumps and flutters in the air for a moment before settling down again. "What did I just say? Not there."

"Shoo. Go away." Ruggie kicks a foot out towards the raccoons that keep approaching him. He’s still got the basket in his arms, plus a couple plates he managed to snatch from the coffee table. "These ain’t for you, now beat it!"

(Inner Circle, their dorm-mates think with envious sighs, their persons woefully bereft of any curious or cozy forest creature. Even the animals can tell who the Prefect favors over others. Lucky bastards.)

The Prefect claps their hands. It’s a little unnerving how that instantly catches the attention of every animal in the vicinity. "Alright, everyone," they start in a chipper voice, slightly more pitched than usual. They point to various parts of the room, and in the smoothest transition into Barren any of them have heard, says, "Now you wash the dishes. You tidy up the room. You clean the fireplace—"

They hold their broom aloft. "And I’ll use the broom!"

They whistle again, and then the birds whistle back, and then…

"Just whistle while you work!"

"Off the couch, off the couch, off the couch—" Their dorm-mates probably had the right idea, retreating to the stairs and the upper landing overlooking the lounge. The moment every bird takes off into the air and the animals start moving, Ace and Deuce bolt, ducking their heads and nearly tripping over various rabbits and rodents as they stumble up the stairs. Close behind them are Ruggie and Jack, the former expertly dodging every animal underfoot and the latter nearly getting his ears clipped by a pair of birds lifting a plate.

"How are they carrying those?"

"I dunno, freaky Prefect magic crap?! Where’s the music coming from!"

Their seniors are not so quick in their escapes.

"And cheerfully together, we can tidy up the place." As they sweep around the carpet, the Prefect passes by Riddle and Trey. Riddle has given up all sense of decorum to kneel on the couch, very much dismayed by the number of animals dusting with their tails and carrying very delicate dishes and glassware.

"I—what? No, wait—" Riddle grips Trey’s arm, his expression somewhat (very) panicked. “Trey. Trey, there are squirrels dusting the mantle.”

"Let it go, Riddle." His face is somber and resigned. He only steps aside when a turtle waddles past carrying a stack of overturned glasses on its shell.

"But—"

"This is Ramshackle Dorm. Only the Prefect’s rules apply here."

"So hum a merry tune—hm-mm-mm-mm, hm-mm-mm..." When the Prefect passes by the other occupied couch in the room, they find a certain lion lying face-down, a decorative pillow thrown over his head. They’d worry more about his ability to breathe if it weren’t for the exposed tail snapping back and forth. Instead, they laugh again and kick a dirty rag on the floor up into the air. It’s swiftly caught by a diving sparrow. "It won’t take long when there’s a song to help you set the pace.

"And as you sweep the room…" They start twirling with the broom, moving with remarkable ease around the rats with dusters in their tails, and chipmunks with dishes in their paws, and raccoons with aprons and kerchiefs on their backs. "Imagine that the broom is someone that you love, and soon—"

"Oh!" Before their forehead can collide with someone else’s chin, someone’s there to catch them. And when they raise their head, they find green eyes glinting playfully down at them, one hand on their arm and the other still recording with his phone. "Senior Cater!" They beam, positively delighted that another person knows this song that was a part of their childhood.

(Unbeknownst to them, they share this trait with every Shaftlander in the room, and in fact, the entire school. It’s pervasiveness is on par with that Yahoo! nursery rhyme.)

"Drum sei gescheit—"

"—the time will fly—"

Oh, you smooth bastard, is the bitter sentiment shared by those watching from up above as Diamond takes the Prefect’s hand and gives them a twirl, eliciting giddy laughter from the Prefect and disbelieving looks from even his Housewarden and the other Suits.

("What’s he doing?"

("Not on my watch—"

("Whoa, Deuce, chill! Get back here!")

The Prefect wasn’t exaggerating when they said the effects of the song would be… overwhelming. But there’s also something so fascinating, almost whimsical about it, too.

For an army of forest creatures, they set about their given tasks with great efficiency. Squirrels swipe their bushy tails over railings, the mantle, and the blackened bricks before beating the dust out of them on the window sills. Rats and turtles carry abandoned tools and empty plates into the kitchen. Dirty rags and aprons are draped over a buck that bumbles after them on its way to the backyard. A few of the braver students make their way downstairs and follow the deer, only to find more squirrels and rabbits washing dishes in the overflowing sinks with startling dexterity.

("They shouldn’t have the motor skills to do this!")

Back in the lounge, a succession of songbirds fly in and out with yellow and white autumn flowers in their beaks, dropping them one by one into a water pitcher that had been left on the table (did they coordinate that?). From the back door in the kitchen and through the open windows in the lounge, there’s a clear view of the laundry set up in the backyard, where the buck sheds its load and the raccoons and chipmunks take over, half-submerged in white suds as they scrub dust cloths and kerchiefs. More little birds fly by, depositing more laundry into the water before plucking clean pieces from the wash tubs. Those are sprawled across the grass and hung on the nearby clothesline to dry.

All the while, the Prefect continues their Song, humming along with the disembodied music and vocalizing in a register many didn’t believe they could reach until now.

("This shouldn’t be possible. At least Der Zauberspruch is an established spell. This is supposed to be a children’s song."

("Wait, so you’re saying…?"

("Whatever’s going on right now, it’s the Prefect affecting the Song, not the other way around."

("The Prefect’s manipulating a children’s song like a Lost Song?"

(What a terrifying thought.)

"So, whistle while you work!"

But perhaps not so terrifying, when the Prefect pauses in their sweeping to offer their finger as a perch to an approaching passerine.

It lands and warbles back, and the Prefect sings, and it’s like something from a fairy tale.

"Bye! Bye, Mx. Prefect!"

"Drop by Savana tomorrow! You promised!"

"Hey, come by Heartslabyul later!"

"See ya later, Mx. Prefect!"

"We’ll talk on Monday!"

"Goodbye, everyone! Take care!"

"What a bother. Should’ve just stayed in and slept."

"You didn’t have to stay, y’know."

"Tsk. Gotta make sure the herbivore doesn’t do something incredibly stupid. Kid’s too naïve for their own good."

"Ridiculously trusting and naïve, maybe, Senior, but not defenseless."

"Ch. No, not defenseless."

"What did we say about trusting people so easily, eh? Don’t play innocent with us, Yuura Miyajima."

"I don’t think they’re playing; they're always this foolish, remember?"

"Aww, Deuce, not you as well."

"Hey, we’re not done with this conversation!"

"Of course not. Will you two be stopping by Ramshackle after class next week? With Senior Riddle’s permission, we could have a sleepover. It’ll be like old times."

"Pfft. I know your tricks, Yuu. Don’t think you can avoid the topic that easily."

"I’m not! I swear it on my mother’s ashes. If Riddle agrees, I’ll even make breakfast for you both. I just went grocery shopping. Those omelets I made before? The fluffy ones with milk and sautéed vegetables? I even got a tin of hot cocoa."

"Hot cocoa? What do you think we are, little kids?"

"Ace, c’mon…"

"I’ll make cherry turnovers."

"...Fine."

At the very least, they could say they got to Yuura first and had them the longest.

(Unless you asked Grim, of course. That's a whole 'nother story.)

"I think it goes without saying, that no footage of the Prefect Singing should be released, especially considering what happened the last time it happened."

"What do you take me for, ay? Hey, we all learned a lesson last time! See? No video, I just uploaded some of the pics I took."

@OkayCayCay: @iseeyuu hard at work making the rest of us look bad #CayToday #NRC #RamshackleRenovations #shabbychic #broomdancing #mädchenfromamärchen

@SuziQChuChu: is that the new nrc prefect? cute! <3

@enamel_eclipse: That's the brown eyed kid from last time, right?

@mamamiya: hey, its the person from the nightingale video

@cecilily: what's the nightingale video?

"...Cater—what is the nightingale video?"

"...You're gonna find this hilarious."

"Cater."

It’s a little blue songbird that leads them away, alighting on Yuura’s offered hand as they clean up the tubs and washboards outside. "Hello there, ptichka,” they giggle, recalling one of the many endearments their uncles used to address them by. “What are you doing here, all on your lonesome?"

The bluebird chirps, shaking its head and ruffling its feathers. It hops up and down on their finger before flying off and landing in the grass some distance away. It turns around and hops some more. Well? What are you waiting for?

Now, having been partially raised on the many, many tomes and texts that made up their family’s library, Yuura is well-read enough to know that even following a tiny bird into the woods could spell trouble. Why, it could just as easily lead Yuura to imminent peril or their disastrous doom as it could be guiding them to some great treasure, or perhaps even the love of their life! Wouldn't that be a tale to tell? Still, what harm could there be in following? They didn’t get to where they are now without taking a few (read: several) risks here and there. "Lead the way."

The woods behind campus have become quite familiar to Yuura. There are always apples and berries and flowers to be found there, the strong boughs and knotted bark of the trees are perfect for climbing, and it's where their animal friends reside. There’s always a lovely atmosphere, even at night, but especially now in the late afternoon—golden-amber sunlight dappling the soft green grass underfoot, filtered by the lush, fruit-laden branches above. The mildest of autumn breezes that whispers through the leaves and stirs the mess of curls about their face. It’s a gentle, sleepy atmosphere, dreamy and suspended in time.

The little bird flits about up ahead and Yuura obediently follows. In the hazy afternoon light, the figure cradled in the twisted roots of a tree becomes apparent. The birds and squirrels surrounding the figure turn to look at Yuura, but do not flee as they approach, slowing their steps with barely a rustle in the grass.

A standard NRC uniform with a striped tie and the vibrant green waistcoat of Diasomnia House—maybe he knows Yuura’s midnight visitor? A peculiar baton of green and black hanging from the belt. From the relaxed position he’s in, his gloved hands folded atop his stomach and the steady rise and fall of his chest, this person must’ve fallen asleep here, rather than having passed out. How odd. How curious.

"Oh!" Yuura gasps, moving to kneel by his side, "I remember him!"

It's the boy from the Spelldrive Tournament, the quiet, aloof one who had accompanied Sebek Zigvolt and Senior Lilia.

Yuura recalls his hair being gray, but up close, it shines like spun silver in the shaded light, distinct from Jack's grayish-white, or Senior Kalim's pearly white. Up close, Yuura discovers a lovely, well-shaped face; it reminds them of Tsunotaro's unearthly allure and noble mien—charming and enchanting, something straight from a storybook. He's beautiful.

"Like Sleeping Beauty in the Woods," Yuura whispers. "Do you think he's a prince? Or maybe a knight?" The little bird only chirps in response.

As loathed as they are to disturb such a peaceful slumber (speaking from experience), the hour is growing late, and they'd rather not abandon this man in the woods.

"Hello?" He's sturdier than he looks, barely budging when Yuura shakes his shoulder.

"...Hmm?"

They shake him some more. "Hello—o—o. I'm sorry to disturb you, but it's getting late, and it'll be dark soon—ah!" He lurches upright, nearly knocking foreheads with Yuura.

"Oh! my goodness, are you alright?" Yuura leans away, resting a hand on his shoulder as he sways. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Blue-violet eyes stare at them, cloudy with sleep, blinking with a syrupy slowness. "...This is strange," he murmurs, "You seem... familiar. Have we met somewhere before?"

What a mysterious thing to say. Yuura grins, unable to help themself. "Once upon a dream, perhaps," they say with a wave of their hand.

(They do not notice the sudden alertness in those lethargic eyes. Why would they?)

"I suppose you know where you are? I'm the the Prefect of Ramshackle Dorm, Yuura Miyajima. Class A, freshman year." Shifting into a proper seiza, they bow their head to him. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"...I have heard of you. Silver. Diasomnia, Class A, sophomore year. Likewise."

Chapter Text

"Aim for the glory beyond! Run like a meteor shooting through the sky!"

"Wait... this is—!"

"Me too! I want to go on an adventure with you! I want to be a hero who beats up the bad guys with you!"

"A hero... maybe you can be one, but I can't."

"Why not? I want to do it together with my big brother."

"There's something at the end of the hall over there!"

"Grrrr..."

"A monster?!"

"Ortho!"

"I want my brother to make the dream we had that day come true."

"Our dream...?"

"I'm sure it will be a long journey. There may be times of frustration, but... My brother... My big brother can go anywhere.

"No matter how far away that dream is, you can definitely reach it."

"It's okay. I'll be with you always.

"So don't give up."

"Ortho, wait! Ortho!"

"What? Who—?"

"Wait, you're—!"

"How are you—everyone...?"

"Wait, how—come back!"

"WAIT!"

When dusk begins to descend and their guests must eventually return to their own dorms, Idia Shroud stays behind at the silent request of the Ramshackle Prefect. It only takes a few words from the both of them for Ortho to nod in agreement and leave with the others for the Hall of Mirrors, departing with an enthusiastic wave and a cheerful goodbye as he floats after the Pomefiore trio and the Scarabia duo.

"You think we should follow them?” Deuce and Ace linger on the steps behind the gated entrance. They watch the Ignihyde Housewarden’s bowed figure follow their friend's smaller form into the newly renovated Ramshackle. Even from this distance, the green ribbon in Yuura’s hair stands out in stark contrast to their dark silhouette.

Ace is silent for a few moments before he shakes his head. "Nah. Yuu can handle themself." He shoves his hands into his pockets, a wry quirk to his grin. "Wouldn’t have been able to survive six Overblots otherwise."

"Six." That snaps Deuce out of his worried contemplations, instead replaced with the usual vexation that arises whenever Yuu Miyajima is concerned. "Six Overblots, can you believe this guy?"

Ace scoffs, already turning to leave. Riddle will have their heads if they break curfew, even after everything. "This is Yuu we’re talking about. 'Course I believe it."

"Let me show you something."

Idia has to fight the urge to flinch away from the hands they extend to him. It’s not an irrational reaction, he reasons with himself. He’s seen what those hands can do.

Actually, no, it’s not the hands he should be afraid of—it’s the voice. The voice that thrummed with terrible power, ancient and unknowable, drowning out the wails of the damned and striking the fear of the divine in the hearts of those both privileged and misfortune enough to witness it. Idia had been on the receiving end of that voice; just another Overblot in a long line of Unfortunate Incidents. It’s been weeks, and he’s still not sure whether to be more insulted that he was just another Thursday afternoon for the Prefect, or flattered that the Prefect had to compile a playlist of Lost Songs in order to get through his Titans and then flatten his ass like an agravikí pita. Maybe both.

But he still heard that voice calling out for him, when he parted ways with Ortho—the original Ortho—for what he hoped would be the last time. Still saw those golden lights floating above his head that practically screamed "overpowered healing magic". And then when everyone else hurried for the chariots, the Prefect had stopped, turned around, and hugged him. It was just a quick thing, but it was enough to physically stun him and nearly miss the Prefect’s quiet, "We’ll be waiting for you. Stay safe."

Yes, the Prefect’s terrifying. Yes, they’re everything that scares Idia and everything he isn’t and can never be.

But that’s exactly it. They’re popular, and outgoing, and friendly, and kind—they're kind even to the closed-off introverts of his own dorm, wife-beaming everyone from the Ignihyde freshmen in their class to Idia's own junior dorm-mates—and... he can trust them not to hurt him for no reason, good or not.

It’s still nerve-wracking and awkward as hell to hold his hands out and let the Prefect lay their own beneath them. Is it weird to notice how small their hands are compared to his? It’s probably weird. Still true, though.

This isn't the first time he’s heard the Prefect perform their magic. Having access to the school’s surveillance system has its many perks. He’s still wary from when they took him down during his Overblot, and from that frankly terrifying flash mob they incited during the Cultural Festival, and from every time he caught footage of them practicing some new, seriously OP Song with their friends and those NPCs he’s 100 percent sure have already formed a cult around them (smart thinking there).

But the Prefect is holding his hands like they’re valuable, like some sort of package cushioned in bubble wrap in a box stamped Fragile, and This Side Up, and Handle with Care. If it were anyone else, he’d probably be offended, and also disturbed by the fact that someone’s touching him at all. But it’s the Prefect, so he’s not, and he’s only a little on edge.

The Prefect squeezes his hands when he jumps at the disembodied tinkling of metal pins plucking the tines of a comb—the chimes of a music box. "Sorry," he mumbles quickly.

They shake their head. "It's alright. But… forgive me if I'm overstepping." Idia flinches again when their joined hands start to glow. Motes of pale, gold-amber light drift into the air, like specks of backscatter in a blurry photo. Again, the Prefect squeezes his hands. "There's something I want to show you."

Idia barely has any time to freak-out and think, Wait, I've heard that melody before, when the entire world brightens and dissolves in flashes of yellow light.

For a moment, while his head spins, and the ground tilts beneath him, and he blinks away colorful light spots like camera flash, it seems as if nothing has changed. Then Idia's eyes readjust to the dimmer lighting and he realizes the ceiling is far, far lower than it was before.

"Wha—What is this?"

The room they're in resembles Ramshackle in aesthetic—all dark and shiny carved wood and antique floral wallpaper; elaborate carpets and upholstered furniture; beaded lampshades and braided curtain tiebacks; molded baseboards and a marble fireplace. Very two centuries ago, very period piece. Very walk-in museum, if not for the little signs of life scattered here and there. The hazy sunlight streaming past parted curtains, through frosted glass windowpanes. Hardcover books haphazardly stacked on the mounted shelves, the accent tables, the fireplace mantle, the nightstands. On the bed in the middle of the far wall—as much as there is one, now that he notices the room is circular in shape—a rumpled, dark brown overcoat, tossed aside with little thought. Papers crammed with tiny writing and ink sketches, leather folders, and an uncapped fountain pen litter the surface of the desk standing in the middle of the room.

The Prefect breathes, shaky and low, their hand tense in his. Idia almost forgot they were still holding hands. The tight grasp they have on each other loosens. He doesn't stop it from slipping away.

"It worked," they murmur, their voice barely a whisper, like they're afraid to break the silence. Idia finds himself breathing even quieter in response. "I didn't think it would—I mean..." They stop in front of the desk, hand hovering over the decorated curve of the chair, pushed back as if someone had just been sitting there and left in a hurry. "I never thought I'd see this place again."

"Y—You know this place," Idia says, stupidly obvious. He pulls at his sleeves. "Where... Where are we?"

The Prefect—Yuura looks over their shoulder at him, hazel eyes cloudy and dim. He's never been the best at interpreting the minute details of people's faces, but even Idia can see just how sad their face is—lost, wistful. It's clear this place holds a lot of memories for them, both good and bad.

"This place... we're—"

"Papa!"

Idia shrieks, bolting to the Prefect's side. Yuura stumbles back, nearly colliding with him. One of the double doors by the fireplace swings open, and a tiny, little figure drowning in poofy white skirts rushes in. A tiny, little figure with a round face, and chubby cheeks, and a mess of loose, dark brown waves, and wide, hazel eyes.

"Wait, that's—!"

"Papa!" the tiny, little Yuura chirps again, making a beeline for the desk. They throw a glance over their shoulder. "Mama! Mama, hurry up, Mama!

Another voice fades into existence to the pair's left: "...a-chan." Idia stumbles away, grabbing onto the Prefect's sleeve and nearly tripping on his own feet in the process. Yuura doesn't resist, fingers curling in the baggy sleeve of his sweater, eyes wide and face slack.

An older man sits at the desk now; a seriously handsome one—tall and slender in black trousers, a fitted waistcoat, and an off-white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the topped buttons popped, revealing the wide black choker encircling his neck and the matching bands around his wrists. His long, narrow face is stern, hard-lined; chiseled and austere like one of those old marble busts that are everywhere in Olympic courtyards and gardens. Long hair a shade darker than Yuu's warm chestnut falls over his shoulder in a neat braid. Behind wire-frame glasses perched on a slim nose, sharp, upturned eyes shine amber-gold.

Idia wasn't sure what he expected Yuura's dad to look like, but definitely not 'Tall, Dark, and Handsome' or a 'Long-Haired Pretty Boy'... er, as Pretty Boy as a man who seems to be in his thirties can be.

The man—Mr. Miyajima?—lifts his head where it was resting on his gloved fist, twirling a pen in the other. In an instant, those sharp eyes soften, the tight clench of his jaw relaxing. He sets the pen aside and pushes back from the desk, arms opening wide. Little Yuu takes that as an invitation to clamber onto his lap, rambling a mile a minute as they pull at his vest, his shoulders, the glasses on his face. The man laughs quietly and nods, giving the frames over for Yuu to play with, and listening to their babyish babble with more patience and attention than Idia's father ever gave him even when he was speaking more intelligently and coherently.

Something tugs at Idia's arm. Glancing down to his side, the Prefect stares at the parent-child pair with something like longing and shame. Where their hands are bunched in Idia's hoodie, their knuckles are white. "I—Papa..."

"Slow down, malyshka. You'll run out of breath before you finish your next thought." A young woman leans against the frame of the open doorway, an amused curve to her lips as she crosses her arms—toned, defined, and lightly scarred where they're exposed by the short sleeves of her blouse. Dark auburn hair frames her face in short, messy curls, and when she grins, her freckled nose scrunches and her blue-violet eyes gleam. Where the man has an almost untouchable, unapproachable aura to him, even with the happy toddler on his lap, the woman at the door seems warmer, friendlier—more human.

Idia didn't think it possible to be anymore self-conscious than he already is, looking between the brunet man and the red-haired woman. It's almost unfair how pretty two people can be. If these are Yuu's parents, he... he actually wouldn't be surprised. He can see the shape of their eyes on their mother's face, the same wavy curls in a dark reddish-brown, their father's nose and how it wrinkles whenever they laugh. Idia would know; Yuura tends to smile and laugh a lot around him.

If the Prefect seemed sad looking at their father, their expression when they turn to see their mother is devastating. "Mama...!"

The woman—Mrs. Miyajima, right?—approaches little Yuu and their father, pushing some books and papers aside to sit on the edge of the desk. Mr. Miyajima gives her an exasperated look, offset by the hand he removes from the child in his lap to play with the ring on her left hand. She shrugs and, with her right hand, tugs at a stray lock of dark brown fringe.

Idia ducks his head just as the woman leans hers down towards the man.

It's all so weirdly... domestic. Affectionate. He doesn't think he's ever seen his parents act this way in front of him, or with each other, or with him and Ortho. Is it just his parents, or is it the Prefect's who are the outliers? He's never had any reason to research the statistics of such things. But, he thinks as he cautiously lifts his head again, finding the younger version of his—his friend giggling happily between their smiling parents, it's clear how happy they are. Completely, undeniably happy.

In contrast, the older Prefect on his arm stares with such sad eyes, every inch of them wound up and tense. They're upset, but Idia doesn't know what to say. When was the last time he really had to comfort someone—anyone? So he stands there and let's them hold onto him tightly, like he's the only thing keeping them anchored to reality. A reality where their parents are most likely gone, and this is a memory they can never return to.

Idia gets it all too well.

...there it is again—that music box. It still doesn't appear to have any clear source; it's just everywhere, faint, barely audible in the background. A few notes in, and the Prefect exhales, trembling as they release their grip on him.

(He almost wishes they hadn't.)

With staggered steps, they back away from the desk, spinning slowly on their heel, taking in the room. The many frames on the walls, the crystal curios on the mantle, the abandoned wooden figurines on a nearby table, surrounded by stray threaded needles and scraps of cloth. "Everything seemed so much bigger back then."

"Was this..." Idia swallows. "Was this your home?"

When Yuura turns to him, their eyes are somewhere else, far, far away. "I—yes. Yes, this place was..." They close their eyes, purse their lips, then open their eyes again. They still won't look at him.

"This is the palace of my childhood." They lift their arms, gesturing to everything around them. The overstuffed bookshelves. The plush, worn furniture. The soft shadows and softer lighting from the windows.

Slow steps to the open window behind them, where their fingers trail over the curtains, the sill, curling over the glass. "These were the borders of my life. In this crumbling, dusty tower..."

They huff out a laugh, ragged and wet. "Where an artist loved his wife."

Idia doesn't wait for the Prefect turn back around. He looks behind him. The family sitting together at the desk have gone eerily still—a picture perfect family frozen in time. Two loving, devoted parents doting on their child—their only child, probably, if he's reading into this right. They look like they really loved Yuura. He can't imagine how the Prefect can keep on smiling everyday and being nice to everyone after losing one of them, let alone both of them.

"Easy to remember..." Yuura moves past him, shuffling with heavy feet towards the family—their family. "Harder to move on..." Standing next to them, the resemblance is made even clearer, between them and their parents. Them and their child self. But for probably the first time, looking between little Yuu and older Yuu, Idia can see how... weighed down they are. The same weight that pulls at his own shoulders; that makes him hunch over and curl in on himself.

Oh. They're still mourning.

Yuura raises a hesitant hand, stopping just shy of touching their father's hair. It curls back to their chest. They raise the other hand, reaching out for their mother's face. They can't bring themself to touch her, either.

"Knowing the palace of my childhood..." They take a step back, then another, and another. With each step—staggered, reluctant, conflicted—the family in front of them starts to disappear, growing fuzzy and golden around the edges, dispersing into specks of light. When they finally fall against Idia, it's with a heavy slump, like all their stamina had been depleted just crossing that three foot distance. "Is gone."

Their family vanishes, leaving the desk and chair empty once more.

Yuura takes a deep breath... and then they sink to the ground, head bowed, fists clenched in their lap.

After a moment, Idia follows them down.

They don't say anything for a long, long time. Even with the sun on their backs—weirdly warm and real for a conjured memory—Idia finds his hands clammy and cold as he pulls at the hem of his hoodie. He really doesn't want to get the first word in, but Yuura looks like they're in a bad way, and even someone as emotionally stunted as Idia knows it would be a horrible idea to push or prod when it's not wanted. Not now.

Of course, Yuura does him the kindness of breaking the silence first. "After your... Overblot, I saw..." Their eyes flick over to him before looking away. More out of guilt than anything else, he thinks. But why? "When you were, well, dying, I saw... you. You and Ortho. Your memories of Ortho when you were younger, I mean."

Idia stiffens. "You—you saw all of that?"

They nod, apologetic, eyes still trained on the patterned carpet. "I didn't mean to invade your privacy or anything like that. It just happened. That's how it's always been." They shift, moving off their legs to hug their knees. "It happened with Riddle, and Leona, and Azul, Jamil, and Vil. And now you, as well."

"Oh." Idia thinks he might pass out. "S—So you saw...?" Saw his biggest mistake? His greatest failure? Saw what a pathetic loser he really is, unable to protect his little brother when he needed him most?

"I'm really sorry, Idia-san, about what happened with Ortho. I'm sorry you had to lose him—that you had to go through that alone. And so young, too."

What?

Yuura continues, oblivious to the blue-screen overtaking Idia's face. "I wasn't sure if this Song would work the way I hoped it would, but it did, and... and since I intruded on your memories, I wanted to show you mine in exchange. Because—because I wanted you to know that I understand. That I know what you went through. Are going through."

"Because you lost—you lost your parents?" Idia asks, wincing—again, stupidly obvious.

They shrug, pause, then shake their head. "In a way. My father is still alive. Though there is the fact that I'm here, and he's not, so he's very, very... very far away. But my mother..." Their gaze falls further to the ground.

"Death has always been a significant part of my life, growing up. My family runs a mortuary, you know." He did not, in fact, know. But it actually sort of makes sense, if he remembers their attitude and reactions towards death in general over the past few months. "Well, a mortuary-slash-funeral home, to be precise. And we've had a fair share of tragedies over the generations. A lot of grand-aunts and first-cousins once-removed disappearing before I was born. My grandmother. My older sisters and brothers. My cousins, though I was too young to realize what was going on at the time."

Idia can only stare at them. Because... wow. By the Greats, that's a lot of dead relatives. He didn't even know the Prefect had siblings. This is pretty heavy stuff to drop on a guy, Prefect! But than again, he did sort of Overblot and try to destroy the world less than a month ago, so... He can bear with it.

Yuura picks at the pendants dangling from their necklace—the hourglass, the locked heart, the needle case, the key. "My world wasn't very big to begin with. But then I was fourteen—barely fourteen—and Mama—when my mother died..." Their hands carefully close around the charms. "It was like a piece of myself disappeared, and my world grew that much smaller."

Their voice cracks, and Idia nearly double-takes at the sound. Yuu's voice never cracks. "I wanted her back so badly. She was my mama. She promised to be with me always. She was supposed to be there, and then she was gone, and I..." They release a shuddery breath. "I just wanted my mama back. I missed—I miss her so much."

So that was their voice, talking to him before. Is that what they meant by being right? Did Yuu recognize something in Idia that reminded them of themself? Realize something was wrong—what was wrong? They've always been pretty perceptive to other people's emotions, far better than Idia will ever be.

He kind of wishes they didn't understand him like this.

Yuura takes a deep, steadying breath. Their body relaxed and no longer tense, now they just seem tired. "I was like you, Idia-san. I wanted my mama back—all of her. Her eyes, her warmth. Her laughter and her smile. And when I couldn't get her back—bring her back... I wanted to be with her."

A pit opens up in Idia's stomach. "No."

"Yes." Yuura rests their cheek on their knee. "Granted, I never actively tried. But it never scared me, the idea of closing my eyes and waking up wherever she was. There's no escaping Death, no matter what measures and extremes one takes to avoid it. No matter how desperately one tries. Today, tomorrow, in a hundred years—we all have to die, someday. That's what my family has taught me, all my life. And I would venture to say that there is no family more familiar with Death than mine. At the time, I preferred mine to be sooner rather than later, just so I could see her again."

"...what happened?"

Yuura huffs, the slightest tug to the corner of their mouth. "I finally realized how selfish I was being."

"Selfish!" Selfish?

"Selfish. My mother gave up so much to make sure I survived, from the very moment I was born. For a time, I even thought it was my fault she died, because she chose my life over her own. Because she wanted me to live. But Mama was her own person, and it was her decision to make, and I have to respect that. Yes, I want to see her again... but I'd be dishonoring her memory and her final wishes if I let that happen too soon. She couldn't stay with me like she promised, but she didn't mean to break it; vows are a serious matter, after all. But I know she's waiting for me, wherever we go afterwards, and I know she wouldn't mind waiting centuries for me, if it meant I could live out my life to the fullest.

"And there was my father to think about, too. He didn't have anyone before my mother. Mama at least had her brothers, but Papa? For years, he had no one. If my world was small, his entire world was made up of her and me. The only time I ever saw him cry was the day Mama passed away. If he lost me too... I couldn't hurt him like that. Let him lose his only living child. Not after he lost six before me. Especially not after he just lost the love of his life."

When they finally turn to meet his gaze, it's with misty eyes and a soft smile. "My mama loved me more than life itself, I know that. And I know that Ortho—your Ortho—loved you so, so much. So I think..." Their eyes drift downwards again, in thought this time. "I think he would have wanted you to live your life to the fullest, too. Because he loved you, and he would have wanted you to live. To be happy. Because it wasn't your fault, and eventually, you need to forgive yourself."

It's kind of ironic—as forgiving as they are, even to those who've wronged them personally, it seems the only person Yuu couldn't forgive so easily was themself.

Idia nods, a little stiff at first, before relaxing. "...yeah." Yuura starts listing to the side, leaning into him, and Idia lets them. "Y—Yeah, he would've."

"It's always going to hurt. Sometimes, you just remember that they're not here anymore, and everything just starts hurting all over again. It's been four years, and it's still hard to look at myself in the mirror, some days. Papa and my uncle Misha would always tell me I had my mother's eyes."

"...more than ten years. For me. And I'm still..." He gestures vaguely at himself.

"Doesn't matter." Their head is a strangely comfortable weight on his arm. "You loved him. You still love him. But it'll get better, with time, and a little help from others. However long it takes. However long you need."

Again, Idia doesn't know what to say.

Neither of them are sure of how much time has passed, with them sitting in this life-like illusion. Could've been minutes, could've been hours. The sun outside has not changed its position.

For once, Idia speaks up first. "Should've expected you to grow up in a place like this."

Yuura snorts. "What do you mean by that? Someplace old? Stuffy?"

"You said it, not me."

Yuura laughs again, and Idia thinks he knows them well enough to be certain they're not laughing at him. "It was a very old house, I'll give you that. But it was big, and open, and warm, and it had Mama and Papa, and my uncles, and our cats... and that's what mattered."

"I guess." And then, "You mentioned your cats before. Could—could you tell me more? About them? I—If you want, I mean."

"I'll do you one better." Yuu lift their hands, palms facing each other as if holding an invisible sphere, their face wrinkled in intense concentration. In bursts of golden light, a clowder of cats pop into existence. They swarm the pair where they sit on the edge of the carpet, in front of the open windows, a chorus of niaous replacing the heavy silence.

"You can summon cats," Idia gapes. This has got to be better than summoning multiple SSRs and URs in a single tenfold pull.

"I can conjure the memories of cats," Yuura corrects, reaching over his lap to pet an absolutely chunky Ragdoll that's begun rubbing its fuzzy head against Idia's ribs. It's so fluffy. "They are very tangible memories of cats, though. This one's Nonnie."

"Nonnie?" he snickers. "The one you named Anonymous?"

"Don't you give me that grin, Idia Shroud, or I'll dispel these cats just like that." They snap their fingers, and are immediately buried in mewling and yowling Calicos, and Shorthairs, and Folds, and Blues. "No, my intimidation factor!"

Idia chokes out that dorky wheeze that makes normies stare and the Prefect laugh in return. They struggle to sit back up and sputter on the bushy Ragamuffin tail that brushes over their open mouth, falling back to the floor with a muffled thump. Idia wheezes again, and gingerly scoops up a very placid Blue that fits nicely between his crossed legs. "What about this one?"

Resigned to their current position, Yuura points and answers where they're laid flat on the ground, multiple cats settled on their legs and chest and stomach and their undone hair. "That one's Greymalkin. He's very sweet, as you can see. And this one's Kikimora, and Mamie. This here is Araminta, and Maomao—"

"Maomao?"

"Idia-san. And that's Pyewacket. Gretchen. Odie—Odilon. Over there is Algernon—"

"Algernon."

"Idia!"

The sun is warm on their backs.

Chapter Text

What is that saying again, about patterns? Once is happenstance, twice a coincidence, three times a pattern? What would the fourth occurrence be, in this scenario?

Yuura pushes the thought aside. Whatever the answer is, she'll have to ponder upon it later. The closer they approach Scarabia Dorm proper, the clearer the signs of Overblot become. The overall oppressive atmosphere, making hairs stand on end as if in anticipation of lightning. The choking miasma of Blot in the air—cloying and almost tangible, that same sickening sweetness, this time undercut with a sharp, bitter pungency. The warped sky she saw in Heartslabyul, in Savanaclaw, in Octavinelle—turbulent, roiling clouds like an incoming thunderstorm, heavy with something thicker than rain, wine dark and foreboding.

In the middle of the day, at dusk, at night, under the sea—it's always the same sky.

She coughs and presses the back of her hand to her nose, the one not holding Kalim's hand in a white-knuckled vise. She doubts it'll ever get any easier, breathing this stuff in. It's like trying to breath in dense fog, or a haze of filtered tobacco smoke.

Their Octavinelle companions are already on the move as soon as Floyd and Jade shift back into their land forms. Grim darts past her, pausing for a split second to snap his tail against her leg with a thwack. "Quit gawking, henchman! No time for sightseein'!"

"Ah, my apologies." She gets an eye roll and a headshake from Grim before the cat monster dashes after Azul and the twins. Probably eager to get this over with, probably excited by the thought of humiliating Jamil and putting him in his place, since that's most likely all he derived from Yuura's quickly laid out plan.

Yuura sighs. "Senior Kalim..." Turning to her upperclassman, she falters—at the conflicted expression on his face, struggling between indignation, and determination, and trepidation. At the stiffness in his arms, the near painful grip he has on her hand. Those lively red eyes are downcast now, his thin lips devoid of that persistent smile. That phantom ache in her chest where her heart should be grows harder to ignore.

A cold desert wind sweeps past them from over the dunes. Already chilled to the bone after being half-submerged in water for the better part of an hour, the pair shiver, huddling close together. Yuura rubs hard at the goosebumps that break out across her skin, and her worried mind returns to Kalim. Even with the supposed temperature-regulating charm woven into his clothing, she suspects even that has it's limits.

"Senior Kalim," she says again, tugging at his hand. He finally turns to her, eyes wide, like he's just remembering now whose hand he's holding. "Kalim, do you trust me?"

His answer is immediate: "Of course I do." His eyes fall again. "You're the only person I can completely trust right now."

The smile she offers him is tight-lipped. "Then trust that this plan will work, and that we'll be able to save Senior Jamil in time."

Oh, she meant what she said earlier—that he was a bad person for manipulating everyone like he did. For manipulating and hurting Kalim as he did. For betraying his trust.

But there's blame to lay on both sides. Kalim isn't entirely faultless, either. And he's still Jamil, and Yuura can't—won't stand by and lose him like this. Not with so much left unsaid.

This isn't her first Overblot. She's done it with Riddle, and Leona, and Azul. She can do it again.

"...okay." Kalim nods, almost mechanically, stepping closer so that their shoulders nudge together. "I can do that."

"Bring on the food! Bring on the drinks! Today we celebrate the deposal of the old, useless king, and the crowning of a far more deserving successor!"

"I couldn't agree more, Master."

"You are most fit to be king of Scarabia, Master Jamil."

"Long live Master Jamil!"

"Long live Master Jamil! Long live Master Jamil!"

Everything happened so quickly—Azul's deception, Kalim's denial, Jamil's breakdown. Yuura barely had time to think about the other Scarabia students beyond dodging their attacks, not when Jamil was actively Overblotting in front of them and poised to punt them into the sky.

Somehow, it's so much worse seeing them like this—eyes glazed over, tinted with the soft red glow of Snake Whisper's mind control. From her vantage point behind one of the marble pillars, Yuura tries to identify and name the students she can recognize. Sadık, Yousef, and Haroun are over there by Jamil, who's lounging on a luxurious mountain of pillows like one of those pictures from her copy of One Thousand and One Nights. She sees Kyros and Efraim from Freshman Class A, her class. Selim and Yahya from the newspaper committee, standing near where Floyd and Kalim are hidden. Then there's Binyamin, and Yaser. And Zoltán, and Mehmet, and Timur...

Yuura's heart sinks. She recognizes all of them.

Jamil's echoing laughter draws her attention back to him. "Tha—a—at's it." He waves a dismissive hand over his hypnotized dorm-mates. "Go on, keep singing my praises."

Azul steps out of the shadows, followed close behind by Grim and Jade.

"I never realized what a gallant figure you cut..."

Yuura slinks behind another pillar, pulling the striped bow around her neck loose.

"You oughta live on a throne...!"

She pulls her hair up into a tight tail, letting her collar fall open to reveal the garnet red choker Kalim gifted her... what must've been a scant few weeks ago. It feels like ages.

"Your intelligence is beyond compare..."

Crouched low to the ground, scurrying behind a row of Scarabia students, the gloves are shoved into her pockets, her blazer knotted around her waist. In the process of rolling up her sleeves, she elbows one of them in the back of the knee.

"There's royalty, and then there's you..."

The charmed student merely sways in place. Yuura risks standing up to wave a hand in front of his face. Unresponsive.

"You look so strong and powerful!"

To the devil with it. Yuura slips between still bodies and low tables to take her place beside Kalim. She cups her hands around her mouth and cheers: "Jamil, Jamil, he's our man!"

"Heh, you flatter me... Wait, it's you?!"

"Cower before my might! Phenomenal—cosmic—power!"

Yuura is absolutely intimidated, for sure. Only a fool would claim otherwise, in the face of a powerful, unstable Overblot. But the effect is rather mitigated by the fact that Jamil... just quoted the movie? It isn't even something Jafar said, that's a Genie quote. And considering his reaction—the entire dorm's reaction to that Song she performed during that one training exercise a week or so ago...

"Gyaah! This is still one scary monster!"

"I'll knock some sense back into him!"

"Focus, Grim!" Yuura doesn't bother looking over at the Octavinelle trio. The painful grunts and sounds of bodies being thrown are telling enough. "Azul-san! Jade-san! Floyd-san! Remember the plan—take care of the mind controlled students!"

"Our trust is in your hands, Miss Yuu!"

"Give 'im hell, Shrimpy!"

"Grim, Kalim—I need you buy me some time, just a little bit."

"Pfft. Are you doubting the Great Lord Grim, henchman?" Grim evades a spiraling blast of dark water, retaliating with a gout of blue hellfire.

Kalim shoots her a resolute nod, readying his own staff. "Take as much time as you need, Yuura!"

It happens faster than she can blink—a flash of light, and the Shield flares to life inches from her nose. Interlocking geometric shapes in shades of gold, amber, and violet—like pieces of stained glass—shudder under the impact of Jamil's fire spell. Yuura grimaces, fixing her chain to sit over her clothes.

"Senior Jamil!" she shouts. Narrow black eyes meet hers through the fading Shield. "You were wrong about Azul-san, and me! He's no more your 'genie in a bottle' than I am!"

"I have nothing to say to backstabbers and traitors like you." Another stream of fire, another flash of light.

Yuura laughs, an humorless, choking thing. "Traitor? You have the audacity to speak of betrayal to me?" The Shield shatters as she rushes through it, running ahead of both Grim and Kalim.

"Whoa! Henchman, what're you doin'!"

"Prefect, be careful!"

"You should be glad that I'm not an actual genie." She cracks her neck, letting that strange, familiar tingling sensation wash over her skin.

"Genies can't kill anyone..." Kalim catches a glimpse of the smile that stretches across her face and stumbles. "But you'd be surprised what you can live through."

"Oh, spare me your dramatics." This time, there is no light—only a blast of black-edged fire, and the spot where Yuura was standing is empty.

"Yuu!"

"Prefect!"

Jamil cackles, smug triumph twisting his gray face. "Who's laughing now, Yuura?"

"Why... I believe it's me."

Kalim and Grim gape as Jamil whirls around, snake-like hairs whipping through the air and spitting ink. The Prefect stands behind him with a bemused expression, a rich blue haze rolling down her shoulders, her arms, off of her skin.

Jamil hisses. "You."

"Me!" And Kalim and Grim brace themselves as solid blue swallows their surroundings, that sourceless music blaring to life.

"I must admit, your parlor tricks are amusing." She jumps and digs her fingers into the folds of Jamil's headdress, dragging him into a dizzying spin across the room. Wait, were they even still in the dorm lounge?

"I bet you've got a bunny under your hat." It unravels in a long, slick black train, and a giant, fat rabbit bursts from its confines, sending Jamil sprawling to the ground with a thud.

"What the—!"

Somewhere, Kalim shrieks as the rabbit bloats up, pink eyes bulging and limbs inflating, exploding into bursts of shiny confetti. Jamil has barely a second to lie on the ground, dazed, before an invisible force yanks him up into the air by his ankle and drops him back down onto his knees. The gold chains of his headdress—all that remains of it—dangle over his face in awkward angles as he lifts his head to find the Prefect standing over him, shuffling a deck of Heartslabyul-backed cards with an ominous grin.

"Now here's your chance to get the best of me—" She flicks the deck into the air. Cards expand and fall around them, forming a wall of stern-faced suits staring down at Jamil with disapproving, judging dark eyes. "Hope your hand is hot!"

The Prefect reaches towards him, this time tangling her hand in his chains on his face and throwing him into the card walls with alarming strength. They explode into more blue smoke as Jamil crashes through them, bouncing along the ground as playing cards scatter from above. He lands on his back, and then there's a sudden pressure on his sternum. The Prefect leers down at him, digging her heel into the curtain of gold beads draping his chest. "Come on, clown, let's see what you've got!

"You can try to slam me with your harder stuff." Jamil snarls and throws a hand out, crackling fire licking at blackened fingertips. But the Prefect's already gone, disappearing in a puff of smoke. The ground tilts and Jamil slides across the floor, clawing at grooves in the tile and the tufted carpets as throw pillows and metal decanters come dangerously close to smacking his face.

He's deposited into an empty void of swirling shades of blue, where the Prefect waits for him with a cartoonish, oversized mallet in her hands. A manic grin splits her face as she lifts it above her head. "But your double whammy isn't up to snuff."

Jamil's sent flying once more. "I'll set the record straight—" Head still spinning, he finds the Prefect looking down on him again, having caught him in a dip, mallet slung over her other shoulder. Brown eyes flicker blue, pupils constricted into pinpricks. "You're simply out of date. You're only second rate."

She disappears, dropping him flat on his rear. Her voice continues to ring out from all directions—whatever counts for directions in this hellish abyss of solid blue. Jamil can barely tell up from down. What is he standing on?

Confetti explodes around him with ear-ringing pops. Gigantic house cats emerge from the smoke, encircling him, kneading the ground and eyeing him like a tasty treat.

"You think your cat's a meanie, but your tiger's tame."

"No, wait—!" The cats pounce with hungry yowls, claws sharp and fangs bared. Jamil ducks, throwing his arms over his head.

"You've got a lot to learn about the genie game." Human hands wrench his arms away. He's sitting at a desk now, the Prefect leaning over him—one hand tapping a pointer at a chalk board reading 2 + 2 = FISH, the other holding a paper cone that says DUNCE. She nudges the glasses on her face further up her nose with an imperious sniff. "So for your education, I reiterate—you're only second rate!"

She slaps the dunce cap onto his head, and everything turns upside down. Jamil flails, bracing himself for impact.

It's a very painful impact—Jamil thinks he might be back in the lounge. He also thinks he might have carpet burns and bruises from falling and skidding across the carpeted stone ground. It hurts to lift his head, but there's the Prefect stalking towards him, empty-handed this time. He can't scramble away fast enough, limbs tangling in gold jewelry and tattered skirts. The Prefect only smirks, lifting her left hand with the pinky extended.

"Men cower—at the power—in my pinky..." She rolls her wrist in a circle, faster and faster. Looming behind her, a column of sand churns, coalescing into a colossal hand. "My thumb is number one on every list!"

Jamil shoves himself off to the side, just in time. Mimicking the Prefect's movements, the hand slams down where he was just a moment ago, shaking the whole ground, grains of sand spraying outward.

The Prefect seems miffed, but undeterred. As the hand rises back into the air, reforming, she spins on her heel, spreading her arms wide to Jamil. "But if you're not convinced that I'm invincible, put me to the test!" She swings her arm again. This time, sandy, clawed fingers dig into the floor next to Jamil, tearing through stone like wet paper, exposing a yawning, dark blue chasm. The Blot monster tethered to him tumbles in first, dragging Jamil down with it, even as he scratches for purchase into the carpet. "I'd love to lay this rivalry to rest!"

He's on his feet, for once, when he lands. And there's the Prefect, standing across from him. Whether out of genuine anger, or maybe desperation, Jamil throws out another attack, another spell that bounces uselessly off of that damn shield.

"Go ahead and zap me with the big surprise!" The Blot monster behind him points to her. Rivulets of ink stream from its glass vial head, shooting out with enraged hisses. They slither up her body and coil around her limbs, binding her in place, strangling her. Her amused expression does not waver. "Snap me in a trap, cut me down to size!"

She vanishes, her bindings collapsing on themselves. "I'll make a great escape—"

"Whoa—!" The void beneath his feet turns into... cake frosting? Jamil slips, sinking partway into a thick layer of white icing decorated with blue and pink cream rosettes and green leaves. Winding candles sprout from the rosettes, spewing pillars of white hot fire. The heat is enough to start melting the frosting into sugary sludge and send molten hot droplets of wax down like rain.

"It's just a piece of cake—" A powerful gust of wind extinguishes the candles, blowing them out of place and Jamil along with them. "You're only second rate!"

Jamil hits the ground with a wet SPLAT, leaving a smeared trail of frosting that evaporates into blue mist as he slides to a stop. This time, the Blot monster is dragged along for the ride, leaving its own streaky black marks.

"You know, your hocus pocus isn't tough enough—" Choking down another gasp, Jamil ducks and rolls. There's a scorch mark on the solid blue ground inches from his face, and a grinning Prefect just a few feet away, holding aloft a crackling, faceted black gemstone between her fingers.

(In his whirring mind, slowly growing clearer with each fright and near miss, Jamil tries to recollect where he's seen that gem before. A black one, at that. Is it... that brooch the Prefect wears on her blazer?)

The magestone in her hand sparks. His Blot monster yanks him further back, narrowly avoiding another electrifying ZAP that cracks the ground this time. "And your mumbo jumbo doesn't measure up. Let me pontificate upon your sorry state—you're only second rate!

The Prefect clutches her stomach and giggles—half-mad, and menacing, and absolutely maniacal. "Run, little garden snake, run! Ahahahaha!"

He does.

Jamil bolts with no regard for direction. Away, away, far, far away. Away from here. Away from her. The blue void shifts and reshapes around him. Dark, judgemental eyes blink in and out of existence. Gaping mouths melt open, chattering and gasping and spewing venom. Grasping hands reach out from the aether, clawed and spindly and broad and thin, shackled in gold and grabbing at whatever catches in their nails—his hair, his arms, his clothes, his ankles.

"Zaba-caba-dabra!" Jamil shouts and skids to a stop. He veers in another direction, leaving the Prefect's disembodied head cackling behind him.

"Granny's gonna grab ya!" Burning hot hands seize his arms. The Prefect stares up at him, smile stretched tight, blunt nails cutting into his skin. She shoves him to the ground, panting heavily, her shadow growing longer, wider, taller.

Jamil can only gape, tilting his head back as the Prefect swells in size, towering over him, growing bigger and bigger with each breath. Her hand is big enough to eclipse him as she bends down and snatches his Blot monster like a wriggling doll. The inky chords tying them together snap as she stands.

"Alakazomnibus..."

"Stop! No!"

The Prefect ignores him, twisting the Blot's glass head with a sickening crack. Sticky strands of black string between its detached head and stump neck like guts, like viscera. The vial shatters in her fist.

"And this thing's bigger than the both of us!" Digging her fingers into the stitches of the monster's headless, writhing body, she tears it in two. Thick tar splatters the ground, oozing down her hands and wrists, staining her grinning face. The pieces fall at her feet, a nauseating thump, thump, a jerk and twitch before going still. The Prefect stomps on them with her giant shoe, grinding them into dust with her heel.

Horror grips Jamil, more aware of the ink spraying his face with each twist of the Prefect's heel, than of the Blot sloughing off in viscous sheets, his body regaining heat, his clothes returning to their normal state.

The Prefect cocks her head to the side, clutching black hands to her chest. "So spare me your tremendous scare!"

Jamil isn't fast enough this time to evade her sudden lunge. She grabs the hood of his uniform with her thumb and forefinger, lifting him up to her face. Jamil kicks the air, tugging at his hood, unable to look away from the Prefect's taunting smile.

"Prefect, stop, please! Yuura! Ahhh!"

The Prefect shakes him up and down by his hood. His teeth rattle in his skull. Jamil plummets, bounding off the yielding surface of her open palm. Dangling above, his hoodie and vest remain pinched between her fingers.

"You look horrendous in your underwear."

Jamil throws his arms over his exposed undershirt. "Prefect, wait!"

"And I can hardly wait to discombobulate!"

A giant nail punches him in the nose. Jamil goes flying.

"I'll send you back and packing in a shipping crate!"

His back slams into something cold, smooth, and hard. The air is punched out of him, bruised body screaming. Then the world starts whirling and blurring, and Jamil clings frantically to the edge of the shiny white platform with what little strength he can muster.

"You'll make a better living with a spinning plate!"

Cold ceramic folds like wet clay, collapsing and shrinking. It closes around Jamil before he can reach the opening at the top, sealing away the light and plunging him into darkness.

"You're only second rate!"

"Let me out!" Jamil bangs his fists on the walls. The space grows smaller, and smaller, and smaller. He trips, crying out when his knees are forced to his chest, the walls pressing painfully down on his bent ankles and outstretched arms, jabbing his elbows into his own ribs. "Yuura, let me out, please! Yuura!"

"...Jamil?"

"I was finally going to be number one... I was finally going... to be free..."

"...who's trying to understand me?"

"Stop. Just stop."

"I... I want... I want to be number one, too."

From out of the blue haze, a furry bundle of gray and blue flames tumbles out first. Then it spits out Kalim, staff and all, forehead to the floor and hands on his knees as he pants, trembling and shaken. By the time the smoke finally clears, most of the beaten Scarabia students are regaining consciousness, groaning and cursing.

"Kalim!" Azul's cane tap-tap-taps the ground as he approaches his fellow Dorm Leader. "Kalim, where are the Prefect and Jamil?"

Kalim's head snaps up, eyes wide as saucers, mouthing wordlessly. "I—the—Yuura—Jamil—"

"Housewarden, look!"

"Yuu!" Grim scampers over to the Prefect's motionless form. He nudges her arm, curled protectively around a strange, glassy orb, about the size of a basketball. "Henchman, get up! C'mon..."

The Prefect stirs. "Hmm... Grim?" She pushes herself up with one hand, her movements stiff. "What... what happened?"

"What happened? You don't remember going vengeful, psycho-mode on the slimy snake?"

Slimy snake...?

Yuura gasps. She cradles the orb in her lap, swiping her hand over the polished surface. The fog within clears. Inside...

"Jamil!" Kalim cries.

Inside, a tiny Jamil curls up in the cramped space, spine bent into a severe curve, face buried in his chest, arms wrapped tight around his knees. He shakes with silent sobs.

"Oh, god!"

"Yuura, you have to get him out!"

"How did the Prefect even—?"

"Is that the Vice Housewarden!"

"Yuu, what did you do?"

"Ahh!" Yuura heaves the orb as high as she can and throws it onto bare tile. It shatters, flooding the lounge with pink mist. But instead of glass shards, when the air clears once more, there lies Jamil, back in his dorm uniform and perfectly still.

Kalim trips over his feet getting to him first. "Jamil!"

Yuura jumps to her feet. Her knees buckle and her vision blurs.

"Miss Yuu." White gloved hands hook under her arms. "I would advise you sit this one out."

She squirms. "Jade-san, let me go. I need—I need to—"

Another gloved hand settles on her arm. "Miss Prefect, we must insist—"

"Senior Azul." His hand jerks away, startled by the bite in her voice. "Let me go." Yuura glares, struggling out of Jade's hold. He doesn't stop her.

She staggers over to Kalim; he's crying now, shaking Jamil's shoulders and pleading for him to "Wake up, please, wake up!"

"I can fix this," Yuura mumbles, staring down at her hands, expecting them to be dripping with tar and ink. "I can fix this, I can, I can—"

Jamil's pulse is sluggish as she cups his face. Barely a flutter beneath her fingertips—but there, still there.

"Flower, gleam and glow, let your power shine..."

"Go on, everybody! Eat, dance, and sing the bad times away!"

A raucous cheer rings out across the oasis. Yuura laughs and claps along with them, though her eyes keep drifting back to a certain brunet...

"Myah, Yuu." Grim frowns up at her, dusting sand from his fur. "You gonna talk to the guy, or are ya gonna keep staring at him like a creep?"

"I'm not staring at him, Grimsby," she insists, readjusting the parasol balanced on her shoulder. She sighs. "I doubt Senior Jamil would even deign to speak to me, anyway. Not after what happened."

Grim shrugs, circling around her legs before resting in her shadow. "Eh, he'll turn around like the others. Happened before, didn't it?"

Yuura sinks to the ground, crossing her legs and settling Grim in her lap. "Perhaps. But that still doesn't guarantee it happening again." Once is happenstance, twice is a coincidence, and three is a pattern, but even Yuura isn't so optimistic as to believe Jamil will forgive and forget what she did to him.

And what a shame that is. She really did enjoy his company.

(Finally shaking an annoying Dorm Leader off his back, a certain Vice Housewarden finds his gaze falling upon a certain figure sitting on the sandy bank of the oasis, half-concealed by a fringed parasol that shakes with quiet laughter, gold tassels swaying.

(Maybe, if he just...)

"...eyy! Heyyy! Heyyyy!"

"What's that runnin' up from across the desert?"

"Heyyyy! Yuura! Grim!"

"Are you two okay!"

"Wha—? Ace! Deuce! You came!"

Tossing her umbrella aside, the Prefect stumbles as she stands, throwing her arms first around the panting redhead, then the gasping blue-haired boy. "You actually came! I missed you both so much!"

(He turns away.)