Archive of Our Own

The world stops being a bed first, when their ship comes to the water’s surface; ceases to be a cradle once they dock. The round, rained on bricks of the castles slumber under pointy roofs. A nod to witches around this part of the Earth, maybe. Chuuya has seen enough countries to never assume hats and who they belong to. 

Hogwarts takes them in, lights the candles and makes them wait. Outside the tall wooden doors Chuuya stands in his thick fur coat with the others.

“Please greet the proud sons of Durmstrang.” Says the headmaster of the school he would have attended had his father had a different job. Then, they each are arrows. The staffs, the fire, the dance they make is just a pacifier at Mori’s forgotten dream’s mouth. Chuuya does not care for it, but his schoolmates do. Coordinated to the very twitch on an eyebrow, they are one chest. One breath. There is nothing else to do for him. He walks proud, spine skyward, gaze guided. Inside him, his blood taps tiny feet to a rhythm only he can hear. As it always has. Now, in the castle’s dining hall, he knows deep down, he will be the one to compete on his school’s name. It makes his palms itch. His mouth curls up. Hogwarts students, divided into four long tables, and four colors to excite their otherwise black robes watch him. Some have their mouths gaping still. Maybe some even watched Chuuya in his last Quidditch match. Maybe it’s just his hair. Far more alive than the fire a fellow, younger student blows from his wand. All is just another star on his shoulder.

They are seated once the greetings are over. There are lit candles above them, and above their orange glowth, clouds churn. Chuuya helps his schoolmates settle before he himself does. And by then, the only spot left is next to a Hogwarts student.

His robe is a little short for him. It does not cover his thin wrists. The emerald green of his askew tie fails to hold the attention. Because just a little higher, sits a pout Chuuya doesn’t mind, and doe eyes in the loveliest brown anyone could find. Slytherin, it must be. He read about it on the ship. Cunning, was it? Chuuya sits next to the other boy, and only then notices the black cat on his lap. The animal has one eye. A golden moon that blinks. As the headmaster of Hogwarts promises everyone that eternal glory awaits the student to win the Triwizard Tournament; warns that it comes only after three extremely dangerous tasks, Chuuya leans towards the stranger. 

“Is it okay to have your cat with you during dinner?”

On cue, an array of chicken and meat in various sauces appear on his once empty plate. The cat swats and steals a piece. The Slytherin student only blinks at Chuuya. Bored.

“Well, when will she eat?” 

Chuuya scoffs. Guards the remaining of his food with one reluctant hand. 

“At least ask before you take, cat.” 

Sighing, the other drawls:

“She has a name.” 

Chuuya turns his head more now. Enough to see the band aids around the thin fingers of the other. Enough to look, now that his interest is tickled. 

“Let’s hear it.” He says.

“Shiro.” The other answers, and Chuuya looks into the brown eyes of the boy who apparently named his black cat white with a smile.

“Fitting,” He says. “Now let’s hear yours.” 

The boy looks away for a second. A flickering of attention, a remainder maybe, towards the table with yellow ties. He looks back at Chuuya, and idly scratches under his cat’s chin. 

“The headmaster is making an announcement.” He says. “Let’s listen.” 

—

The night is easy. Sleep finds them tucked on earth bound beds, sea legs resting finally. The gentle chuckles of the fire and the flame makes him dream of home. The sun threads fingers through his hair in the morning. Fyodor, who got special permission to not partake in the entrance show due to being sick, is up before Chuuya. 

“What are you doing?” He asks. The taller boy stops fixing his already in place hat. He looks at Chuuya, then back at the mirror.

“Go back to sleep.” He says. Chuuya instead jumps down the bunk bed. 

“Where to?” He asks again. Stretches his arms up and above his head. “Breakfast?” As he finds his wand on the nightstand Fyodor scoffs:

“Why would I care about food ? Have you never heard of the library here?” 

Moving bare foot on the winter chilled floors, Chuuya finds the clothes he haphazardly took off cleaned and folded. 

“I did. But we have classes today. And the Goblet-”

“Please.” Fyodor interrupts him. He only remembers his pleads and thank yous when books are involved. “Tell Mori I don’t feel well.” 

“Lying to our headmaster?” Chuuya hums. He turns his back to his friend, and starts unbuttoning his pajamas. 

“Yes.” Fyodor sounds bored. “It won’t be the first time.” 

Chuuya chuckles. 

“Alright, alright, go to your books. But in return, you’re doing my potion homeworks here.” 

“Agreed.” The other says. With how quick he turns and leaves, a wind makes sleep warmed skin shiver. Knowing him, he already got Nikolai to be his potion partner. Probably even before they boarded the ship to come here.

It’s different from Durmstrang. The plates are empty when Chuuya sits. Then they fill with whatever he craves. He sits where he sat the night before, but he is alone. For a minute or two. The emptiness across fills itself with a half a spoon of a boy. 

“You’re in my seat.” Says the boy with the doe eyes. He looks at the chicken salad sandwiches, scrambled eggs, peeled and cut mandarins sitting among a puddle of purple Concord grapes, then at Chuuya’s face. He lifts an eyebrow. His cat is on his shoulders, balanced like the world’s first purring scarf. 

“Good morning to you too.” He answers.

Long legs are thrown over one by one, the boy sits right across Chuuya. 

“Good morning.” He says. The plate in front of him fills with milk, his cat jumps down with a content mrp. “Found your way easily in the castle, I hope?” A cup appears out of thin air then. The pleasant scent of coffee wafts towards Chuuya. 

“I did, I don’t forget any place or path I saw once. Say, are we early? The hall is empty.” 

The boy takes a sip from his coffee, hums. It is neither an answer to Chuuya, nor a reaction to his beverage. He lets his wand slip into his palm from the warmth of his robe it was hidden in. The cat starts lapping at the milk. Droplets of white fly everywhere. One lands on the boy’s face, some on Chuuya’s sandwiches. He drags the plate closer to himself. The boy’s wand is unassuming at first glance. Calm, dark, wobbly wood; getting thinner and thinner until there is only a silver flower at the tip. 

“Early?” He says, tapping his wand to his glass. “ Incendio .” He whispers and the coffee starts steaming. “You could say that. The morning classes start in two hours.” 

Chuuya stops his smile with a big bite of his food. Just who is this boy, and why does he look like someone forgot him for Chuuya to find, learn and remember?

“Not one with a big appetite?” He asks. The other only sips his coffee and shrugs. “What can I do for two hours around here?” He tries again. More students enter the hall. A group of Hufflepuffs. A tall redhead, some others trailing him. They laugh, and the boy flinches. 

“Snoop around.” He mutters. He gets up, leaves his coffee half, cat with full milk. “Come to me when you finish breakfast, Shiro.” He says. Then he walks away. Chuuya shoves two sweet grapes into his mouth, reaches one hand to the cat’s soft forehead. Even though she is busy with breakfast, she doesn’t growl or hiss.

“What’s up with your human, girl?” 

Chuuya does snoop around. Some doors are locked, but he keeps his wand in one of his tall boots. He doesn’t need to give Mori reason for another scolding of You represent all of us here, each one of you. If they hear it one more time, Chuuya suspects Sigma will write another meter long complaint letter to his parents. When it’s time for lessons, a roll of paper flies down the halls and finds him. Once in his palm, its bug-like wings disappear, but the ink remains. Chuuya unrolls it to see his schedule. And in all of the lectures, sees the boy. But there is no chance to talk to him, because his side is either filled with an equally quiet other Slytherin boy, hair a movie from years ago: Black and white. Or, the redhead Hufflepuff from the morning is there. He talks with others easily; with the boy Chuuya watches, scarcely. 

How interesting. Shiro waits for him in front of the classrooms. Sleeps in the hood of the boy’s robe when he is allowed inside. Chuuya shakes the feather quilt he takes notes with for the cat to play with. Earns a glare from the doe eyed boy. Not what he would prefer, but he’ll take it.

—

The Goblet of Fire is a fancy thing, sitting between a fancier protection spell. When they are allowed to, Chuuya walks with Nikolai towards the room it is kept in. In the piling, whispering, giddy queue the redhead stands with friends. Perhaps there would be a bigger crowd, if the Ministry of Magic official didn’t say for security concerns, only students over eighteen can put their names in. Whatever, Chuuya fits the criteria. Easily, he looks around for the doe eyes. To his left, Nikolai giggles. 

“Looking for your crush?” 

Chuuya jabs a fond elbow to his friend’s ribs, fakes a fawn like innocence when he winces.

“I don’t even know his name.” He whispers back. 

“You don’t have to,” Nikolai hums. He has one hand on his side. Ever dramatic. “I didn’t learn Fedya’s name until the second kiss.” The doors open. Chuuya scoffs:

“It’s because you both are weirder than one another.” 

They walk in, and students scatter about. Almost each palm has a piece of paper to fiddle with. Their names on the paper, in nervous curves. The goblet stands in the middle, but gasps come from the corner of the room. Chuuya turns to the commotion, and sees two girls, arms linked, walking hurriedly away.

“He always does this. How does he always do this?” One whispers.

“I mean, I would too. If I were Salazar’s Heir.” How interesting. It makes his heart a hummingbird. Nikolai tugs him out of thoughts. 

“Come on,” He says. “Let’s do this before it’s too crowded.” Chuuya takes his arm away. 

“You go first.”

“Oh, you are looking for your crush!”

It, surprisingly, isn’t a surprise to hear that. It is less of a shock to walk ahead and see Dazai on the floor sitting in a room that wasn’t open a minute ago.

“It seems you take your own advice.” Chuuya says. The boy looks up at him, bored, tired. 

“From the morning?” He asks. Then nods. “I always snoop around. Glad you see that.” 

“And where else do you go nosing around?” 

Somewhere behind him, the crowd cheers someone up. Some Oda guy. They clap, and clap him on the back too. As if his name is already chosen. Chuuya turns to look at the interruption, and when he turns back, the boy is on his feet. He is taller than Chuuya thought, Chuuya realizes, now standing this close. 

“Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom is a quiet place after classes,” He answers, already walking away. “Let’s go put our names in.”

—

Chuuya gets a name for the pretty eyes, prettier face that evening after dinner. The time, as Hogwarts’ headmaster Fukuzawa says, is over. His white hair takes whichever colors the flames churn in the Goblet. He is a calm man, in the way tree bark is where it is for years. His shoulders are relaxed, yet the gaze stops any whispering among students. The crowd is as big as the first night they arrived. The first years, tiny in their robes, yawn. Chuuya sits between Nikolai and Fyodor to tame them to some level. They keep poking each other behind him. 

“Enough.” He whispers. “Since when bruising my ribs is your love language?”

“He started it.” Fyodor says, Nikolai only giggles in the face of this accusation. Fukuzawa’s voice settles every spine in place. 

“The moment you’ve all been waiting for.” The man says, and every candle in the hall sizzles out. The flames in the Goblet of Fire burn bright and summer like for a second. Red and orange. Up and out flies a piece of paper, only to settle into Fukuzawa’s open palm. 

“Durmstrang champion is,” He says, stopping to trail gray eyes over the faces of Chuuya’s schoolmates. Chuuya’s blood drinks and dances, singing happily: Who else can it be? That voice has never been wrong. Will never be wrong. “Nakahara Chuuya.” Around Chuuya a cheer goes up; he grins, lifting both arms, and Nikolai throws one around his neck. Who else, indeed? He stands up, tall as a tower, strong as the princess that escaped from it. He shakes Fukuzawa’s hand, firm and warm. The old man smiles.
Once Chuuya settles to where the other two champions will join him, he finds time to look through the crowd. The flames turn purple, and a flower comes out, burning. 

“The champion of Beauxbatons,” Another dramatic pause. “Agatha Christie.” Same motions, a blond girl leaps up like a deer, falls like a brick. Her friends clap, clap, clap. She walks to the host school’s headmaster, greets, smiles, grins. When she sits next to Chuuya, green swallows the hall whole. A paper flies out again. This time, when Fukuzawa tries to grab it, it flies and turns around him once. The man doesn’t even lift an eyebrow to this playfulness.

“The Hogwarts champion,” Fukuzawa announces, face of stone, throat unwavering. “Dazai Osamu.” Then, nothing happens. Chuuya claps, because no one else does. A silence sprouts like mold, and a couple of people gasp. Murmurs start like the sea, the voices grow like a wave. The doe eyed boy with the cat stands up. People part ways for him. Someone else, a Gryffindor, shoots like an arrow from where she was sitting. She looks angry. Her face is scrunched up, and red like a bowl of tomato soup. 

“Oh sit down,” Dazai says, before she can utter a word. His voice is smooth and starry. “I’m not the queen.” Chuuya snorts, how can he not? Why doesn’t anyone else do too? Dazai walks up to Fukuzawa, Shiro in tow, tail up and proud. Chuuya notices there is a small patch sewn on his robe, somewhere behind the left shoulder. When the other makes his way to them the silence turns and bites itself on the tail. Chuuya scoots to make space. 

“Osamu, hm?” He says. “That’s a nice name.” 

Dazai gives him a side glance. 

“That so? Was it worth the two day wait?”

— 

Chuuya eats across Dazai and Shiro every morning and evening. The other seems to not need lunch. Well, Chuuya does. Sitting down on the spot he named theirs, he drops the heavy, green, leather tome he borrowed from a Hogwarts student. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. Chuuya first thought the name was an exaggeration. It is never fun to be wrong. As consolidation, a steaming bowl of roasted pumpkin soup appears in front of him. Inviting three fresh slices of homemade sunflower seed bread along, the spoon blooms into existence like a flower in a hurry. Later, some hours after the last lecture today, there will be a friendly Quidditch match. Durmstrang against Hogwarts. But of course, Mori told Chuuya in the morning with no mistake or mercy in his voice, that there is no friendly way to lose to Fukuzawa. Fyodor huffed then. And, when the old man left, he told everyone in the dorms: “It’s embarrassing. The Headmaster is still not over him.” But it has been hours, and Chuuya is dying to be on a broom. He stayed on the earth far too long. The classes started with such a heavy hammer, he even forgot that in a week he will go through his first trial. He finds himself sighing. A shredded coconut dark chocolate bark appears by his hand. It is covered with puffed rice. Maybe, he thinks, today isn’t so bad after all. 

In the evening he walks on lush grass towards the boys milling around, chatting, some with their brooms in hand. Nikolai is there, hair still made of crow feathers since the failed transformation spell he tried in the afternoon. He tells an animated story, making some other students laugh. Anyone who notices Chuuya either nods in greeting or asks how he is doing. On the tall seats, he sees shadows. There is an audience, it seems.

“Hello.” A calm voice catches his attention. The tall redhead from before. Chuuya shakes the offered hand. 

“Hey,” He says. “Why are all of you so nice?” 

“Why shouldn’t we be?” The taller asks. “I’m Oda Sakunosuke.” Before Chuuya can say it is a pleasure, and ask why Dazai keeps following him, a slender boy with slicked back hair throws an arm around Oda. 

“You’re lucky Oda isn’t our champion,” The boy says, the red linings of robe swaying with him. “We wouldn't be so kind then. Right now, with that guy chosen- Bah! You might as well count Hogwarts as rooting for you too!” Right. There it is. How odd. Chuuya wants to shake the guy until the reason why everyone treats Dazai so slips out of his pockets and ears. But Oda is faster.

“No,” He says, elbowing the other gently until the arm around his shoulders lifts away. “Enough. Everyone wants their schools well represented.” But not everyone wants their friends defended, it seems. Something is up with those two. 

“Right.” Chuuya says, finding a broom on the floor close enough. He’ll ponder on it later. “Up!” He calls it. The wood is warming in his palm a second later. “I hope our boys have been behaving as well.” They have. Mori is a hawk over them. Still, Oda nods with a smile. Kind guy. “So then,” Chuuya grins. Inside him is a river, inside him is gold. “Let me give you something to want to smack me over. How about I get the snitch before you can say Whomping Willow ?”

Oda blinks. He has a nice face. It settles like a stone into Chuuya’s stomach. Surely, that is not why Dazai follows him around. Surely, even if it was , Chuuya doesn’t feel jealous. He has no need to. Right? Right. Glory, gingerbread cookies, gods, gargoyles and grandma hugs. Chuuya hears a song no one else does. 

“Don’t be so sure about that,” Oda says, and calls forth his broom. “Coach Yosano only allowed us thirty minutes, but since I’m the seeker, that is more than enough.” 

Chuuya laughs. As if it’s a law of sorts, Nikolai is right by him all of a sudden. Placing one elbow on Chuuya’s shoulder, and resting his chin on the palm of that arm. 

“In your dreams maybe, badger boy,” Chuuya hums. “Who keeps the time? Let’s start.” 

It is the loveliest of all shades of chaos below. Grunts, offended hey s, delighted watch it s, wheezing. They are free as puppies on their brooms. And Chuuya is higher than all of them, close to what crowned him, and never burdened him. He has been playing for years. He flew in four of the seven continent’s seven sunsets. This is his stomach’s second home. Oda, the other seeker, is methodological. Diligent. Chuuya is a bird. Vantage point, his auror father used to say, hauling him up on his shoulder. Vantage point, he still says, watching dark wizards from rooftops. The alarm clock enchanted by one of the Durmstrang students has wings to fly around. Ticking towards the end of their allowance. The wind is cold, HOgwarts is bigger from this height. Sooner rather than later, Chuuya hears the snitch. On instinct, he drops the nose of his broom, lets go and laughs. Hears Oda right behind him. Next to him. Their brooms hit each other, but he doesn’t kick the other boy away, and neither does the other. Still, Chuuya’s blood tells him Dazai is watching, so he leans forward to catch the snitch only with one hand. Relaxes his thighs around the broom to slide until the golden, restless sphere goes slack in his hand. Until he breathes the risk of falling, exhales laughter. The rest is easy, Chuuya fixes the broom, stops his descent, holds victory up for everyone to see. Durmstrang cheers. 

The others lower themselves down slow and sweaty. Once grass sprawls under their feet, they further the friendships they are making. On the field is a constant chatter and occasional loud laughter. Chuuya instead flies towards the audience. It is easy to spot Dazai, once he looks for the emptiest spot. Sure enough, the other is sitting by himself, Shiro on his lap. Even if he wobbles mid air, Chuuya fishes his wand out of his boot. The unicorn hair in the soft yellow, shaped and polished ivory tusk heeds him one more time. The snitch, under his spell, flies to Dazai, twirls around him. On the second turn, Dazai’s expression softens.

“That was quite a catch, Nakahara-kun.” He says. 

“I know, right?” Their eyes meet. The snitch flies up to nuzzle Dazai’s cheek, Chuuya grins. “Call me Chuuya.”

“Chuuya!” The voice is from below. As the black cat swats at the flying ball, Nikolai yells again: “Could you flirt later? The scary coach wants all the equipment back in their place!”

— 

It happens, as it does once in a month or two. Chuuya misplaces his sleep in one of the many fluffed up pillows he has on his bed. Tossing and turning does no good. He peeks his head up from the soft mess, as his mother lovingly calls when he gets to go home, like a meerkat. On the bottom bed Fyodor sleeps. Nikolai is on another bunk bed, the stars he enchanted on the underside of the top bed blink. Chuuya climbs down as quietly as he can, taking his shoes and coat slow as snails. The soft snores around him keep swirling in the night air. Once out of the room given to them, he covers his pajamas from the cold. It is another day that he takes up on Dazai’s advice: Snooping around. 

The stone of the castle is a light color, candles burning makes it warmer. As Chuuya walks, unhurried and unknown, he finds the halls aren’t as empty as they appear. Paintings line the walls, in groups or alone. The figures in some are asleep, some are watching.

“Young man,” A man in a painting depicted with a wand stabbed in his arm, bleeding, says. “Have I seen your face before?” Chuuya stops to admire the brush strokes. A drop of red falls on his hand when he reaches to caress the engrained frame.

“I’m a guest at the castle, sir.” Then, “Is this blood?” 

The man laughs. It jolts awake the mermaid that was sleeping in the painting next to him. “In here, yes. Mine is a story of betrayal and love. But for you,” He leans closer, as if he could leave the artist that made him. “It’s strawberry jam.” Chuuya licks it off. Hums. 

“Not too sweet, I like it.” He eyes the background then, then focuses back on his face. “Sir, would you happen to know if anyone else passed here?”

For that, the mermaid snorts. Bubbles form and pop inside her frame. 

“He know not other people.” She says. Chuuya takes a side step closer to her because she sounds ridiculously far away. “I do.” The painting she is in is murky green, her tail is long and thick. By one of the rocks swallowed by corals sits something bright and round. Chuuya tries to focus on her all black eyes. 

“Did a Slytherin boy my age walk from here?” He asks. She swims away, completely leaving the painting before coming back. 

“Why ask?” She says as her hair swirls. “You already know where he is.” 

Chuuya turns the slope of his nose to the first floor. It makes him think of a big brown labrador, so he ties a note to his collarbone to remember to beg for a dog one more time when he writes home. But that is for later. Now, he has one Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom to find. And one boy his age to hope to see inside. His wishes prove bountiful like the white flowers young mandarins are on trees. There are two boys in the classroom: Dazai and Oda. Chuuya crouches down and peeks inside through the door left ajar. The room is how it is when they are learning inside. Arching ceiling, wooden seats too hard and flat to sit so long on. Magnifying glasses of all sizes wait by the window, jars of dirt, bugs, and bubbling goo in the bookshelf still. Dazai has his back to the blackboard, maybe to make wings from the white powder chalk leaves. Chuuya would help him. By spell or hand. Oda however, only scoffs. 

“You’ll get your robes dirty.”

Dazai’s eyes are on the other, and his gaze is longer than his eyelashes. Chuuya scrunches up his nose. Oda doesn’t have a face that good, does he?

“You’re mad at me.” He says. Chuuya scoots closer. 

“We talked about this, Dazai.”

“You said we could still be friends.” 

Oda sounds tense, Dazai sounds on the edge of whimsical. 

“I also asked if you can give me some time.” 

With that, Dazai pushes himself off the teaching equipment, takes a step closer to the other. Chuuya doesn’t like how sad he looks. He holds the door with one hand as his thighs start whining. 

“I am, Odasaku, but you are avoiding me.” Oda sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. His pajamas have daisies on them. Dazai’s ankles are bare even with the loose sweatpants on him. Does this boy have any clothing that fits him? 

“I’m not,” Oda says, sounding half offended, half annoyed. “I’m just busy lately. You know the Mandrakes got infested with spider mites-” Dazai cuts him off:

“You said this confession changes nothing.” Ah. Well, there it is. The pebble Chuuya was waiting to skip over the pond of his stomach instead sinks. 

“And, Osamu,” The other boy sounds serious now, his voice is a darker color. “I meant it.”

“But?” Dazai pushes. Chuuya focuses on his soft voice instead of the unfurled love in front of him. He feels like a rain cloud. Feels like that time he purposely pushed the snitch away in an official match to make both teams play longer, tire further. The truth is a sparrow, it jumps out of the other redhead’s mouth like it never weighed anything.

“But I know you enough to know you put your name in for the Tournament because I did.” Dazai’s face is unmoving. His eyes seem to shine, but Chuuya isn’t close enough to tell. 

“And you’re angry because I got chosen and you didn’t?” 

A silence stretches on. Chuuya wants to tell them to hurry up, the way he is crouched is not sustainable at all, but instead he holds his breath. 

“Yes.” The reply is breathed out. Oda sounds embarrassed that it isn’t a no, not at all. Still, Dazai’s shoulders relax. 

“I can deal with that.” He says, nodding. “That’s better than-” He doesn’t get to finish. Out of nowhere, Oda hugs him. Chuuya’s arms itch. 

“I promise I will stop being awkward. Just,” He sighs and Dazai hugs him back. “Let’s get tea after the Tournament, yes?”

Dazai laughs, lazily pats the back of his friend, of his once what if.  

“If I survive, you mean.”

“You aren’t allowed to die, remember?” 

Chuuya gets up, his legs have had enough. He has a packet of sesame oil crackers hidden in his luggage for emergencies such as this. His heart sits on a swing in a playground and goes between “Dazai is not over him” and “You are better than him.” So, instead, he chats up an old couple painted in front of the great lawn some decades ago on his way back. Instead, he finds himself smiling once back in his bed, cracker crumbs repelled with a spell. Because, hey, why not celebrate the knowledge that there is a place for boys in Dazai’s heart as well? 

— 

The next morning opens the curtains to a Saturday. Chuuya opens his eyes to Nikolai hovering over him.

"God damn it!" The other says, putting his wand away. "You are unprankable, Chuuya!" 

From below by the fireplace, Fyodor's voice comes:

"Leave him. He might run into someone important today." Nikolai pouts.

"But honey," he whines as if he married Fyodor already. "He could do that with neon green eyebrows as well." Chuuya smacks his wand hand. 

"Off, you heathen. Your color coordination is worse than a frog's." 

Nikolai laughs as he makes his way down. Sits cross legged next to Fyodor and the books he has sprawled open. Some are thick domes, some are parchments unrolled to show their bellies. There is only one book closed. In the middle. Black ink leaks from it to form a puddle, gets sucked in, then leaks again. As if it’s weeping. Chuuya wonders where he even found it.

"Why are you protecting him, Fedya?" Nikolai asks. His hair is messy, spread down his shoulders out of the braids. 

"Because his crush is nice." 

At that, Chuuya leaps down too. What just rubbed the swirls of his earlobes is better than the thought of breakfast; softer than the silk towels his father got gifted once, imported from Turkey. A grin tugs at his lips, even though it looks like it will rain, he is warm. 

"What did you just say?"

"I said,” Fyodor replies, one hand on an open book, the other on Nikolai’s bent knee. “The Hogwarts champion is nice. He stole this book from the restricted section for me." 

Chuuya makes his way to the boys, leans over, giving his weight to both. 

“Really? That one?”
He pushes down, one hand reaching to the book sitting in black ink. 

“No! Don’t!” Fyodor says as Chuuya’s finger makes contact with it. The puddle turns red then, and the book starts shaking, shimmying away as if it’s hurt. Just as the book starts to wail, Fyodor whispers, wand in hand pointed at the book. “ Silencio. ” Then, he turns. Chuuya has seen that angry face before. Mostly directed at Nikolai. Occasionally, their younger schoolmate Karma when he gets ideas like not turning in homework. “Are you leaving Chuuya or do you want to be next?” Chuuya would spell Fyodor’s wand off before he could finish the spell, that is known by his brilliant blood, and both of them. Still, he holds up both hands in surrender. 

“I’m out, I’m out,” He says, walking backwards. “Something big is coming here for the first trial today.” 

“Good luck!” Nikolai calls out.

“Out of my sight,” Fyodor grumbles. “It took me so long to calm it down.”

Sigma throws him a pillow. “You all,” Then the recommended potions class book. And even his telescope. “Woke me up!”

Chuuya walks around the castle after fresh strawberries between bread and whipped cream. Dazai wasn’t there, but he drank coffee to honor their mornings anyways. Then, out of the dining hall, he wears his mother’s brilliant mind like a warm cardigan. In the morning gloom and doom, nothing is outside but fog. Chuuya walks through corridors, stopping to help a first year student with hair all in his eyes find his toad. Afterwards, he starts humming one of his favorite songs. The one about gravity and the man it holds back. He is just at the best part when he looks out and sees the hazy shapes. They must have arrived with portkeys . Chuuya smiles as he makes his way through the lawn. 

— 

The night before the first of his epic challenges, Chuuya talks Sigma out of placing protection spells on him. It takes him too long with Nikolai meddling. Who knows what they would do if Chuuya told them what he will face? Who knows what his mother would do? His friends would tie him to the chair until he gets late enough to be disqualified, probably. But all of them are boys, and boys doze off as it nears midnight. Chuuya settles against the many pillows, thinks of his father, and then his mother, the dog they never allowed him to bring home, and smiles. Surely, no one can say no when the Triwizard Champion asks they can adopt two puppies, isn’t that right? That should be right. Chuuya closes his eyes, the fairies on his shoulders whisper him a lullaby. Before he sinks into a porridge of dreams and prophecies, he thinks of brown eyes. 

They are in a tent with the headmasters in the morning. Fukuzawa had them all in the formal sportswear of their schools, and Chuuya decides for all his beauty, a shiny diamond patterned long sleeve doesn’t suit Dazai. The boy yanks at its tight neckline one more time. 

“Do I need to wear this?” He asks. 

“Yes, the press is here.” Fukuzawa answers. Chuuya twirls his wand in his head, in deep red tracksuits. He points the ivory tusk in the morning breeze to Dazai.

“Want me to fix the neck?”
Dazai turns his body to him, tips his chin up. He hums his approval.

“Give me the most scandalous deep V neck you can imagine.” Fukuzawa stops them with a graceful clearing of his throat. 

“Save your magic, Nakahara-kun. You might need it soon.” 

Dazai, in return, only hums and walks away to check the black cat sleeping on his coat. He has his last name etched behind his uniform. They all have. But Chuuya only wants to trace Dazai’s with a finger on the fabric. Would he get ticklish and giggle? But he has no time to ponder, Mori walks in with Beauxbatons’ headmaster, and the fur lined cape billows behind him as he makes way to Chuuya. 

“You’re ready?” He asks. Or… tells Chuuya that he is ready. He can’t ever be sure with this man.

“Do I look ready?” Chuuya answers. Mori pats his shoulders, fixes his hair. Chuuya fixes it back right away, any moment Dazai can look his way, thank you very much.

“I don’t recall a single moment you haven’t been ready in the four years I’ve taught you.” That’s right. The hills are for Chuuya to slide down from, the rivers run so he can dip his feet as frogs croak him a symphony. His blood sings in him, in his heart, in his veins. All will be okay. Even as the ministry official walks in with a black bag, tells Agatha to go first, Chuuya is okay. 

She dips sure fingers into uncertainty, and pulls out a tiny dragon by its tinier tail. It is green, wings spread as it blows out a fire less than a matchstick’s. The man says it is a Welsh Green she pulled. 

“Nakahara-san.” The man turns to him, his bag dangling in his hands. Chuuya hums as he reaches in.

“Can I keep this afterwards?” 

The man smiles, “Unfortunately. They are only illusions,” And the second Chuuya’s fingers find something to hold, he picks it up. It is red, has a big head, and snarls as Chuuya lifts it up to his face. “The Chinese Fireball ,” The man announces, turns to Dazai. “Which leaves,” He stops again, everyone here is dramatic as ever. Dazai seems to know his dragon before wincing at what happens to his hand in the bag. He pulls out a brown one, covered in spikes from head to tail. “The Hungarian Horntail .” 

“Lucky me.” Dazai says with the same enthusiasm one would have when their sock is doomed to land on a puddle and get wet. Chuuya wants to joke if he’d like to switch, but the expression on Mori’s face is enough to know the time for giggling has ended. The ministry official goes on then. Says that these represent very real dragons, who are given golden eggs, they naturally need to take them, so on and so forth. Simple, right? Simple indeed. 

They all leave at the sound of the canon. Outside is a gloomy sky, outside is a mess of cheers. Or so Chuuya would like to think. It is not a mess at all, the only names yelled and clapped for are his and Agatha’s. The arena is dirt, empty and sheltered by the rows and rows of people watching. He hears cameras flash, but they’re so distant, maybe he imagined them. This stage is on a cliff far enough from Hogwarts. There are three dragons roaring, snarling, spitting fire; shackled by their ankles. Chuuya feels bad for them. Dragged here and restrained for entertainment, not only that, taunted by eggs that can never be their younglings too. But Agatha, to his left, breaks into a dash towards her dragon, so Chuuya grabs Dazai’s boney elbow and runs too. The other boy stumbles at first, but keeps up. Chuuya turns to him, who watches the dragon on top of the rocks, eyes wide as dinner plates. Each horn on Dazai’s luck is as tall as a sword. 

Still, “Good luck!” Chuuya calls out, right before he lets go. The boy flinches, turns to him with surprise Chuuya has never seen on that face before.  

“Don’t die!” Dazai yells back, keeps running. If it is a general well wish or a warning because the Chinese Fireball is narrowing huge eyes at Chuuya, he will never know. He hears the chains rattle first, smells the breath of the beast later. It is of rot and smoke. Chuuya blinks the tears off.

“You really are due to a dentist visit.” The dragon lunges then, offended at his mumble, fire starting in its belly. It burns it’s way up its throat, and explodes into pure terror and heat at the mouth. Chuuya lets his body do the survival. He lunges to the side, ducks behind some rocks. And when the stone heats up unbearably, shoots up from his crouch. He calls out to the golden depths of his soul, wand in hand. “ Aguamenti! ” Water sprouts out of the wand. It quells the flames a little, but most importantly, the arising steam confuses the dragon. It tilts its humongous head, licks one of his eyeballs as if wondering if it saw right. Chuuya can’t help it, he coos:

“You’re a good dragon, aren’t you?” He says. There are other sounds to his both sides. “You want me to take that egg.” The dragon, however, decides it does not. It slams the front claws down, and roars as shrill and deep as it can in the same breath. Chuuya sighs. So it has come to this. 

With a sure elbow, and a strong shoulder, he lifts his wand as high as he can. Dazai is not the only one who stuck his nose into the restricted section after all. Closing his eyes as the dragon closes the distance between them, Chuuya chants:

“Oh Hermes, lend me your power, for Mercury knows me.” 

Thunder giggles down. It hits the tip of his wand. Jumps on his arm, jumps down to the arena. His dragon hisses. The second lighting hits Chuuya’s chest, and it is weightless. He is weightless. He didn’t think the spell would work at first try. Third, surely; second, maybe Chuuya thought. But it doesn’t matter. He has this unimaginable speed for only ten tiny seconds. He runs. The world turns after an old snail. Before the dragon can close its huge maw, the head in its entirety as big as a car, Chuuya has the golden egg in his arms. With his remaining seconds, he runs from danger. 

When the spell wears off, he is almost where he started. He holds up the egg, acting like his wand didn’t fall from his sweaty palm, and a huge cheer starts like a snapping rubber tie. Chuuya chuckles, jumping up and down. He did it. He knew, of course, everything would be well. But still, victory tastes like warm milk in a safe bed. Victory smells like eternity and sweat. An announcement booms over then, louder than his heart in his ears. Fukuzawa’s voice. First place, he says, belongs to Nakahara Chuuya of Durmstrang. Then, it is time to leave, and someone who isn’t falling in love would. But Chuuya instead puts the heavy egg down, and watches Dazai. The boy is limping. There is blood behind him, and two horns, each as tall as his thin arms are stabbed into the ground behind him. One of them must have grazed the leg. Because if both of them did, Chuuya might cast a healing spell. Even if those always fail him. 

Thankfully, he has no need to. Dazai holds his wand in a determined left hand, and turns the tip to his throat. With the magic amplifying it, he says to the dragon:

“Kneel.” 

His voice cracks, still the beast falters in its terrifying roar. Shakes its head like it wants to fend off the command, and Chuuya’s heart skips a beat. He isn’t that close, but he feels like he could make out Dazai’s expression. Determined. Tired. Beautiful. Chuuya mumbles then, to his heart as much as to the boy standing his ground against scales of steel. He is exhausted after an ancient chant he pulled.

“Just a little. Try again.” 

Dazai doesn’t hear him, he is meters away, just as on his own as Chuuya has been. But he swallows it seems, and digs the wand into his Adam’s apple harder. “ Kneel. ” He repeats, and the dragon bends its knees. As the boy cautiously walks to the nest, and picks up the golden egg, the beast doesn’t move a muscle. Ah. Chuuya finds his cheeks hurting from smiling. Dazai’s wand’s core must be a horned serpent horn , since they are sensitive to Parseltongue . Then, he decides to make his palms sting by clapping. No one else joins him at first, but there is some clapping afterwards. Probably Hogwarts teachers instructed the students to. No matter. Dazai got his clue for the next task, so did Chuuya. 

Above them, the silver voice of the gray haired man announces Dazai as the second place, and Chuuya thinks October isn’t a bad time to keep butterflies in his stomach. 

— 

The next weeks are hectic. Somebody wants something from him, most of the time. His participation in  Quidditch practice, an autograph, the spell he did in the first task of the Tournament, his written answers for the transfiguration class... The last is mostly Fyodor. He says he can not be bothered being anything else, when being himself is this difficult. Chuuya rejects him over breakfast, tea, lunch, snacks and dinner. Dazai, who sits across them during dinner, eyes Chuuya’s braised short ribs, French onion soup, and the chewy, warm chocolate chip cookies. When he talks, it is after another slurp of what seems like instant noodles. 

“Why aren’t you helping your friend?” 

Fyodor turns to Chuuya, nodding. 

“Yes,” He agrees. “Why aren’t you helping me?”

“Because it’s easy,” Chuuya answers. “And I know you can do it.” Shiro jumps on the table then, nuzzling her cute head on the hand Dazai has warming around his dinner bowl. He stops eating altogether to cuddle his cat. Chuuya hums around another spoon of delicate deliciousness. Fyodor scoffs to his side, but Chuuya ignores him to ask Dazai:

“Will that keep you full?” 

Dazai hums, arranging the black cat to sit on his lap. 

“No, I just missed my dad.” He says. “I’ll eat something else afterwards.” Fyodor huffs then, leaning over the book he brought to read while eating:

“You two can be emotional later. I need you to back me up!” Dazai looks at him as if he wasn’t expecting more words, and turns doe eyes to Chuuya. 

“You should help your friend.” It is easy to laugh when Dazai is around. Chuuya rips a piece from the duck and blows its heat away to give it to Shiro. 

“Says the guy who doesn’t eat with his friend.”

“It’s forbidden to sit at another house’s table.”

“You mean the Hufflepuffs are scared of you?” 

Dazai smiles then, somewhere between sad and smug, and Chuuya wants to thread a crown of daisies for him, for his cat and one for himself to match.

“What gave it away?” He asks. “The deadly silence when I walk by or the way they leave if I stay close for more than twenty seconds?” Chuuya answers with a shrug:

“Their idiocy to do both.” 

Dazai’s surprise is too much to look at, it makes Chuuya want to rattle some pillars in the castle. Reach confused hands inside moving paintings. Ask everyone why, why, why. Why is the brilliance of the slender boy lost on them? But all in good time. One day, when he is the champion, he will. For now he looks at Shiro, stands up to reach over.

“Does she eat duck?”

Dazai takes it from Chuuya’s greasy fingers. 

“Only when it’s not seasoned and stuff. So,” He eats the piece himself as crab cakes appear in front of him. “Thanks for the taste.” 

To Chuuya’s left, Fyodor groans as if he and Nikolai are any better. They’re the worst. But that isn’t important now, he pushes the cookies closer to Dazai, and there is a drum between his ribs. 

“No need to thank. Dig in.” 

The next day comes too soon. Fyodor forgot to help with Chuuya’s potion homeworks because the day before Nikolai had a high ponytail instead of the usual braids. Kouyou, that’s her name, the Potions teacher, glares at Chuuya over her glasses.

“There is a reason, Nakahara-kun,” She says. “That the work is preliminary work. This potion needs prior knowledge. Preparance.”

Chuuya had a long night, short sleep, and Dazai did the preliminary work across him with a cup of coffee and half a plate of sliced red apples during breakfast. Flipping pages after pages as if it was some magazine. So, patience isn’t a bead on his necklace this morning.  

“I know.” He says.

“You won’t be able to do it now.” Kouyou adds.

“I know,” Chuuya says again, tilting his head. “Should I leave?” Giggles sweep the floor of the classroom, the need to nap is heavier than a sleepy owl’s eyelids. The woman silences the others with a lifted eyebrow. 

“I didn’t think,” She starts, and Chuuya can never know if it is truly amusement in her voice, or is her throat eternally cursed to sound entertained. “The Durmstrang champion would be so willing to skip class.” Chuuya huffs, looking away. Of course she’d say that. Of course. Nothing goes as golden as they do this morning.

“Of course not, Ozaki-san.” Chuuya says because if he doesn’t, Mori would probably be very upset. Enough to go on another long speech about honor, about what and who we represent, about you of all students should be an example, Chuuya-kun. Your parents are leading beacons to all of us.   

“I’m sor-” Chuuya starts, but Dazai cuts him off:

“Maybe he couldn’t get to it from working on his clue.” The doe eyes meet their teacher’s head on, and Chuuya imagines a lazy tiger and a tall swan for some reason. “I would know,” The other adds, the corners of his mouth lifting. It makes Chuuya’s cheeks tingle, wanting to smile too. “Because I am having trouble with mine as well.” 

Kouyou puts both hands on her hips, scoffing fondly. The classroom is as small as Chuuya thought it was the first time he entered. Their teacher’s light pink suit and purple, pointy, pristine hat clash nicely with her hair. Maybe, after all, she will teach Chuuya one thing even if he is hopeless at potions: Purple can work with orange locks, if not, what matters is how you carry it anyways. 

“Is that so,” Kouyou says, placing a gentle hand on Chuuya’s shoulder. “If you are so quick to come to Chuuya-kun’s rescue, why don’t you do this assignment with him, Dazai-kun?” 

Dazai smiles, shifts in his seat. His height teases him by having his knees hit the underside of the table. He doesn’t flinch though, his leg has been treated right after he retrieved the egg weeks ago. As the glass beakers and vials dance with the sudden jolt, the boy pushes the chair next to him out for Chuuya to sit easier. 

“Sure,” He says as Chuuya walks closer. “Shame that we’re not making a truth potion, I’d learn the secrets of my rival.” Chuuya grins as he sits, eyes going from the already perfectly organized table to Dazai’s face. 

“The secret of the Triwizard Tournament is to be reckless.” He answers. For once more, the class giggles. It seems this might be the most positive experience Dazai had with them for some time, because pink dusts his cheeks. As he fiddles with band-aided fingers, Kouyou tells everyone they’ve chatted enough, and reminds them of the steps, the time they have. Tells them to start, and that there will be no submissions after class ends. Flipping one page backwards on the already opened book, Dazai whispers:

“Did you read the chapter at least?” 

“I did.”

“Good, so you know.”

“No,” Chuuya leans closer in hopes to read the scrawled notes at the margins. “I don’t know.” 

Dazai gives him a look, surprised, but then nods. 

“Well its name probably tells you enough.” He says. Chuuya picks up a tiny jar Dazai has on the table. The contents of it shine like a hundred diamonds. The ceiling is still too low for his tastes, even though every desk and pair of students start working like ants. Chuuya lifts the jar up to see better, but still can't tell what it is.

“It makes the one who drinks it pretty, right?”   

“Enhances physical attractiveness, yes.” 

Easy as butter, and the broadsword his uncle is rumored to have; calm as baby’s breath flowers out of a vase, Chuuya says:

“Then you don’t need it.” Dazai’s hand falters on its way to a pink powder. For a second, brown eyes are as big as sister moons, then they look away as quick as serious muggles on their way to work. Chuuya vowed to never be one of those adults. He will never rush, never keep it hush; he will have flowers to stop and smell on the way, and enough time to carry snails to safety after it rains. Especially when he has a job to go to. No settling for less. He wonders if Dazai makes promises like that to himself too. He should ask after class. But for now, the other snorts, face pink once more.

“No one needs it,” He says. “It makes the drinker be chased by hordes of admirers. Must be exhausting.”

“It does?” Chuuya asks. “Well, I’m not surprised. I never trusted potions.” 

Dazai chuckles again, grabbing the pink powder and a measuring spoon set.

“It does. It’s written in the appendix.” With the smallest spoon, he carefully scoops up the powder and adds to the cauldron. 

“You read the appendix?” Chuuya first asks, then, “What’s that? Doesn’t the recipe start with seven petals of a fresh rose?” 

Dazai shoots him a look. It makes Chuuya’s stomach one of the big, stone ovens bakeries use. So he puts down the jar he was inspecting, just to have something to do. 

“You don’t read the appendix?” He adds one more spoon then stops. “And yes, but I found that dried and crushed roses equivalent to seven petals work better.” 

Chuuya hums, reaching for the cauldron and the ladle in it. 

“First, mixing gently.” He says, waiting for approval even though he does it anyway. Dazai nods, and fixes the fire to a calm tongue to lap at the bottom of the bronze pot. On the scarce windows of this suffocating classroom, a pitter patter starts. Chuuya finds himself looking at Dazai again. This time, the other was already watching his face. “Nice measuring spoons.” Chuuya says. Dazai’s eyebrows, both because he is generous, rise. 

“You know these things?” 

Chuuya looks back at the potion, suddenly shy, yet still scoots a little closer to Dazai. 

“My mom is a researcher on Muggles and mixed families. She’s an inventor, too.” Dazai opens a small vial of white liquid, and both shiver. Morning dew, then. Chuuya remembers it in the ingredients list. As the other adds the drops, he gives Chuuya a fleeting look. Maybe he is shy too.

“That sounds cool.” 

“She’s so cool.” Chuuya agrees. “What about yours?” 

Dazai shrugs as much as he can while coaxing the flames to roar. 

“Mix faster,” He says, and adds the lock of unicorn hair. “My dad’s a Muggle. Mom has a whole page in history books.” Chuuya grimaces at the droplets flying out from his vigorous mixing. When he causes that, Fyodor or Nikolai, whichever of the two he begged enough to help always scoffs and scolds. But Dazai only wipes the drop that landed on the open book and says: “This part always has my arms sore.”

Chuuya grins. “It’s because you don’t eat enough eggs.” Then, in the following eye roll from the other, he asks “What’re the pages about?”
For the first time in the class, Dazai sighs. He looks up and around to check if they are being too loud. Then he starts chopping the Lady’s Mantle herb. Chuuya almost wants to stop and offer to switch tasks from how awkwardly Dazai is holding the knife. 

“About how she is a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, and the best Parselmouth after him and all.” There is something in his voice as he answers, something as old as them, and something as hidden as a chest. Dreams, doves, droning crows. Maybe it is not the time to be an adventurer, but when Dazai adds the green pieces and the potion sizzles with it, Chuuya can’t help himself.

“She sounds cool too.” He says. Dazai blinks doe eyes at him, his face artificially bored. 

“I don’t talk to her.” He replies. Ah, well, that explains some things. Chuuya hums, flips to the second page of the book for them. 

“You gotta do what you need to keep yourself well and sane,” He says. He smiles when Dazai’s head whips to him. Then flashes Kouyou an innocent look until she stops narrowing her eyes at them. By then, the surprise takes flight off Dazai’s face, and all that remains is gratitude. He smiles back. Butterflies dance in circles in Chuuya’s lungs. 

“Thanks for saying that,” The other mumbles, and awkwardly takes the ladle from Chuuya. With a fake cough, he tries to move on from the moment. “Can you put the fairy wings in? Three pairs. If you use tweezers instead of fingers, the dust on them will remain and the potion will be more stable,” He says, mixing thoughtfully, eyes strictly on the bubbling potion. “Or at least I think.”

“You’re so clever,” Rolls out of Chuuya’s mouth before he can think. Not that he’d not say even if his brain was caught up with his tongue. It’s something Dazai must know, and still, must regularly hear. “But where is it?” Dazai points to the jar Chuuya was holding before, as he lowers the flames accordingly. “These?” Chuuya asks. “These are so tiny compared to where I’m from.” 

“Really?” Dazai says then, counting with Chuuya to make sure they put exactly three pairs of the translucent, small wings. Then, as they stir more, Dazai asks “What’s it like there?” but Chuuya almost misses it because his eyes catch Oda’s. The Hufflepuff student, the other redhead gives him a smile and a thumbs up. How kind, how wonderful, fate never puts knots in Chuuya’s paths. His blood sings courses in him, warm, wanted, winning. Still, it is nice to be reminded that he isn’t forcing his way between two people. 

Chuuya grins and winks back at the other. Oda laughs, shakes his head and turns back to his potion. Dazai looks up then, confused.

“Did you say something?” He asks.

“No,” Chuuya hums, scooting closer still. His shoulder brushes up against Dazai’s and their potion starts glittering and emanating colors before anyone else’s does. “You have good friends, Dazai.” 

Kouyou makes a comment to the class of how the champions seem to be ahead, and their potion looks and smells strong already. Dazai grinds ginger root to escape the other student’s gaze, but still whispers to Chuuya:

“That, I do. Surprisingly.” They finish in half the time given, and get the highest grade. Since they are so busy with the clues, Kouyou says, they can leave early. In the empty hallways, under high arches, between stone that remembers centuries of families, friendships and fickle spells, Chuuya lets his hand brush against Dazai’s. Gentle as the rain outside.

“You were going to tell me about where you came from.” Dazai reminds him. Chuuya swallows back the sun.

“Right,” He says, wetting his lips. “I wasn’t born there, actually. My dad’s an Auror, so we move a lot .” Chuuya starts. He doesn’t stop talking until Dazai leaves and they don’t say goodbye until after dinner. 

— 

“Maybe you miss your mother,” Chuuya whispers to the egg. Nostalgia is a bracelet made of bread, stale and pale. This Sunday could have been stolen from six years ago. The room allocated to Durmstrang students is empty, everyone has gone to watch the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Maybe not everyone, Chuuya’s sure Fyodor is in the library, and Sigma in the observatory. In any case, this is the perfect time for Chuuya to work without pillows and books thrown at him to stop the screeching voice. “How would a Chinese Fireball feel like?” He scratches his head with the tip of his wand, something his father always told him not to do, then the voice in him starts humming once more. You will find it, it says. You will win.
I know, Chuuya wants to say. I just want to find it now. Because the faster he does, the quicker he guesses he can find Dazai. Or hopes, more accurately. It has been a couple of days after the potions class and he hasn’t been able to sit and talk with Dazai ever since. Nikolai and Fyodor both told him they see Dazai around studying and writing, so at least Chuuya is sure he isn’t being avoided. Still. He has a joke about a unicorn, a centaur and a thestral walking into a stable and he wants to hear Dazai laugh again. But now, he has a pile of books about dragons and reptiles floating by his head, and the golden egg on the stone floor. Chuuya wiggles his toes in the socks his grandmother knitted, and points brilliant ivory to the clue he won. 

“ Incendio. ” Chuuya says, and flames rush out of his wand. Orange and bright, red in delight, they swirl around the egg, lick at it, cradle it. Then, because he loves his fingers too much to burn them for this, Chuuya ushers the second spell to the egg, calling forth the Thief’s Friend: “ Alohomora. ” The intricate mechanism at the top clicks, the slices of the egg fall open like a mandarin or orange from a good enough grandparent’s hand. The screeching voice is worse this time. 

“God-” Chuuya grunts, covering his ears with his hands. “Stop, stop! Sorry!” Of course, the egg goes on until he rushes over and closes it himself. Surprisingly, the metal is cold.

“Okay then,” Chuuya sighs. “It’s not warmth you want.” 

His next idea is admittedly stupid. So he doesn’t tell Dazai. Across him, Shiro the black cat chews away at bland chicken and boiled potatoes with no salt, not a drop of oil. Next to the cat, Dazai mixes his food so the shrimp and rice are better friends. 

“This man’s a gourmet, isn’t he?” Nikolai asks. Dazai nods, looking over the buttered, toasted slices of bread with onion and fig jam over them, and the cheese fondue waiting next to it, both in front of Chuuya. 

“He is.” He agrees. “Where did you even learn all these, Chuuya?” 

Chuuya puts a slice of his sweet and savory, warm and perfect bread on Dazai’s plate, one on Nikolai’s. “Used to attend every fancy work dinner with my parents,” He grins, mixing the cheese fondue to check if it’s ready. “The food was the payment for sitting in a suit for hours.” 

Nikolai saves his slice for later, instead cuts into the pancakes he is eating at seven in the afternoon, but Dazai tries his right away. 

“Fancy is the right word indeed.” 

After food, just before the curfew, Chuuya hides in a bathroom until all the head students of the Hogwarts houses stop being shepherds. And then, he sneaks out into the high tower where the owls are kept. When he enters, dozens of big, glowing, round eyes are on him. 

“Good evening, everyone.” Chuuya says, and walks closer to pet a brown one with all the beige dots and patterns on it. He lifts one finger to the fluffy feathers, but the beak breaks the skin before he can blink. 

“Ow- What for?” He hisses, rubbing his bitten finger on his coat. It doesn’t help much. The owl blinks, ruffles its feathers. It seems not to take Chuuya as too much of a threat to strike again or get into a truly defensive pose. But the offended glare isn’t lost on the boy. “Fine, you’re right,” He says, moving to the big openings already. “I would hate to be woken up like that too.” 

Then, like an idiot, he climbs the roof with the big golden egg. “Alright,” He tells himself. “Alright, okay,” He tells the egg. “Maybe what you want is this freedom, right? Dragons fly after all.” He proceeds to lift the egg above his head and open it. The screeches whip with the cold, harsh winds of the October night. Chuuya wobbles in his hurry to close it back. Once he makes it back inside, the owls watch him like he’s crazy. And his nose feels like it got red. Winter is truly on its way. Fixing his hair, he decides to tell everyone he was in the library. The restricted section, if anyone asks why they didn’t see him. Yes, good plan, Chuuya will do exactly that.

The following weekend arrives on the shoulders of snow swept spirits. The days are now cold, nights bite. Without classes, some leave for Hogsmeade, some stay and study. Some rest in their rooms, and their common halls. 

That morning Fyodor, in caution, already has the scarf Sigma gifted him last Christmas around his neck. “Are you sure you’re staying?” He asks. “A lot of people recommend Butterbeer there.” 

Chuuya stretches his arms up, watching Nikolai search for his other sock, otherwise all ready in his coat to leave. He hums in answer, sighing when the movement pulls his shoulders and back just right.

“Yes. Maybe next time.” Fyodor doesn’t look convinced. 

“I know you wanted to visit Hogsmeade.” His friend presses, hands in his pockets. “This is a good time. There are no major assignments soon.” Chuuya smiles, cracking his neck now. He has been reading too much lately, too long at one sitting. But it has been worth it.

“I’m sure, Fyodor.” He answers. “There will be another chance to go.” He knows that, because why wouldn’t there be? His throat is untouched by worry, promised to stay soft even if it cranes with glory. The boy in front of him pouts, but Sigma is getting impatient alongside the others he is waiting by the door with, so Fyodor fishes out his wand from his pocket. 

“ Accio stinky,” He says, then changes the course of the sock flying towards him to Nikolai’s face. “Hurry up already.” Of course, only Fyodor could manipulate spells with such ease and still call himself more of a scholar than a wizard. Of course. Nikolai huffs that he was just going to do the spell himself, but Fyodor once more turns to Chuuya. “You won’t be alone all day, will you? Or do you need to be alone? We haven’t had much chance to speak much lately.” Chuuya has met many people in his life, and most of them blossom between his ribcage. Everything good his friends, family, and teachers do for him, with him, are petals. It’s a garden that never knows winter. Every green stalk and healthy brown bark helps Chuuya keep his head up. 

“I’m okay, really. I’m so close to figuring out the clue too. But today I’m gonna go find Dazai.” 

At that, Nikolai, who is finally ready, whistles. He jogs to them, links his arm with Fyodor’s. 

“Let’s go and leave him with his crush.” 

Fyodor nods, but hesitates to put his wand back in his pocket. 

“Oh, then, Chuuya,” He mumbles. “Do you need help with that pimple?”

Chuuya’s hands fly to his face, feeling for a small bump. 

“What pimple? There’s a pimple?” 

Fyodor laughs, and doesn’t even hide it behind one hand. 

“No,” He says as Nikolai giggles. “Good luck.”

Chuuya finds Dazai in the great lawn with the black and white haired younger student. They sit on a thick blanket and enjoy the greens left alone because most students are inside to stay warm. Chuuya sits far away on the half wall of a passageway, and opens the novel in his hands. He has no need to interrupt a nice moment, he can have his fun while waiting. Besides, the story in his hands unfolds itself, a recommendation from Sigma. It’s about a traveler searching for his twin in an unknown land. 

That isn’t to say, Chuuya doesn’t find himself stealing glances. He does. He can’t make out what they say, but the Slytherin boys share cookies too burnt and misshapen to be from the kitchen. Then, some time after, Shiro is there on the black haired boy’s lap. Then, after fifteen more pages, Chuuya sees Dazai talk about something pointing to a book and a scroll, feather in hand. He didn’t think Dazai would help others with homework. How nice. Some time later, a silver haired Gryffindor boy is sitting with them, and Dazai’s Slytherin friend is as red as a strawberry. Snorting softly, Chuuya averts his gaze. The way of crushes and friendships are sacred. He loses interest in them temporarily with a particularly good chapter to read. And when his neck is sore, he finds Dazai is alone on the blanket, lying on his stomach, reading as Shiro naps on his back. No time better than the present moment, no, Chuuya tells himself. His blood, sure, pure, noble, sings that indeed, now is the moment . He gets up from the cold stone and hopes he didn’t sit long enough to make him sneeze and cough tomorrow. 

When he approaches, the black cat lifts her head up first. She blinks one eye at Chuuya, sniffs the air, and decides she can continue her nap.

“Hey,” Chuuya says, as soft as Dazai craning his neck back to see him.

“Hi,” He says. “Come sit.” Chuuya lays down next to him on his stomach as well.

“Isn’t this bad for your neck?” He asks.

“It is,” Dazai answers. “But I slouch if I sit up.” 

Chuuya hums, as if the spine of the boy next to him is all he cares about right now. It might as well be. But before Chuuya can say anything, a charmed bookmark, a tiny hand with no body floats and points to the exact point Dazai stopped reading at. The movement makes Chuuya look at Dazai’s fingers, now free of band aids, but sides bitten red and purple.

“You’re not going to Hogsmeade with others?” 

“No,” Chuuya says, looking up to not ask why. He murmurs the spell to dog-ear the page he is at without damaging the paper. “You?” Dazai watches the book with calm eyes, rests his chin on one hand and then gazes back at Chuuya. His eyes are clear. Expression open. It makes a river stretch into a waterfall somewhere, sometime, Chuuya is sure.

“No,” He says simply. “Too expensive.” Chuuya folds his arms, rests his head on them, facing Dazai.

“Let’s go together next time. I’ll pay.” It is calm, even though Chuuya can feel how cold the earth is under them. Dazai closes his eyes like the content cat on him. Chuuya watches the long eyelashes flutter. Would it be weird to touch them? Or trail a finger along his eyebrows? 

“We’ll see about that.” The other says, then opens his eyes to the world again. Chuuya shuffles a little closer, so he can whisper. 

“I read the parts about your mother and her bloodline in the library.” 

Cicadas are no more at this time of the year, it is the wind that scares the silence off instead. Dazai looks into his eyes, searching for something. Chuuya isn’t sure if he finds it, because the other only hums a quiet:

“And?” Chuuya blinks. He wonders if Dazai noticed his faint freckles, if he cares, if he too, finds them as nice as Chuuya does. 

“And,” He licks his lips. “It shouldn’t be enough for the school to act like… that with you.” Dazai sits up then, slow enough for Shiro to jump off groggily. Fast enough to wonder if a line has been crossed. Chuuya follows right away, shifting to sit cross legged across him. Dazai looks oddly sad even if his yawning cat climbs onto his lap now. 

Chuuya opens his mouth to say sorry, he shouldn’t have asked, the other sighs. Maybe this is how a snowdrop feels. When it finally blooms every other flower is asleep under snow and soil. It pierced the white alone. Only to wither when spring comes to others.

“That's not all, some other things happened.” Dazai looks up at Chuuya, and the intense gaze makes him say more. Or at least that’s what Chuuya thinks happened. “A weird room opened. Huge chamber to keep a big snake.” Brown looks away then, brushing cookie crumbs off his knee. “Then I kind of conversed with a, well, diary.” Chuuya leans closer, pursing his lips. 

“What did it say?” 

Dazai sighs again. “A whole load of lies.” He starts. “I mean, it was clear that it was a malignant spirit from the beginning. I wanted to find out what it was that it left unfinished in this world,” He looks down again, now to fiddle with the fuzzy, thin hairs of the blanket. “Then, when I told the teachers,” He stops moving. “There was one back then. The old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, the one before Hirotsu-san now. She made a whole fuss about how I kept it too late. That it must have been a deliberate act to hurt others, that no one can know or control what I say to the Basilisk.” Dazai looks into Chuuya’s eyes then. “Dangerous, ill wished, not a brushable youth mistake, bla bla…” He shrugs, sounding exhausted all of a sudden. “She was a great speaker, it seems. Most students believed even though the other teachers didn’t.” Chuuya takes a deep breath as slow as he can. This is all? Really? 

“How old were you?” He asks. Dazai trails gentle fingers on the cat’s forehead and earns a sleepy mrrp.

“This all happened in second year.” 

“So,” Chuuya looks down at Shiro too, watches her knead with small paws in happiness. “They were all kids, like you. And got scared.” Dazai nods, stays silent for some time. When he talks again, his voice is louder.

“Right. I guess that was just the first domino piece that fell. They lost motivation to befriend me, I didn’t bother with them. And after some point, probably making it worse, I thought, why not have fun?” He shrugs again, livelier this time. “Play a prank or a dozen? I did better than all in everything except Quidditch anyways.” Chuuya can’t help it, he snorts. Loud, nasal, delighted. He looks into Dazai’s eyes, grinning still. 

“Oh they’re jealous then,” He answers. It is interesting, to have someone in his life he is proud of almost as himself. “You are twice the wizard they could ever be. The Goblet wouldn’t choose a weak one.” For that, Dazai stares at him at first. But then laughs too.

“Why, thank you, my rival who is ahead of me!” He says, Chuuya rolls his eyes. They fall into the arms silence cradles them in again; Dazai with all he shared, Chuuya with all he learned. After some point, Dazai hums. “Thank you, Chuuya, seriously.” Chuuya smiles, it is so easy to do that with Dazai. 

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m glad you told me.” Then, slowly, he puts a hand over Dazai’s on the blanket even if he has to awkwardly lean forward for it. “You,” He starts, wondering if he is being too much. But no key has opened a door with being too little, too faint anyways. “You wanted to help the spirit didn’t you? Find out what it resents, fix, so it can rest?” The wind ruffles their hair, Dazai gasps, but doesn’t take his hand away. 

“I,” He looks away. Huffs. “Yes, that was the plan. But it was too fragmented. The conversation made no sense,” He looks into Chuuya’s eyes then, more solemn than the redhead has ever seen them. Maybe the others are scared of him too, if he can look this intense. “It felt like I was talking to only one piece of the soul, and the rest were elsewhere. Lost.” Chuuya once read something similar in the files his father did his best to keep him away from. Unsalvageable psyches, the papers said. But he never paid much thought to them. He never met anyone like that, and there were no stories to hear about them, and so Chuuya never thought of it twice until now. Now, he squeezes Dazai’s hand, hoping the other understands, and asks something else.

“And you told the Basilisk, was that the serpent? Told it not to hurt anyone?” Dazai stays silent for a second. The wind picks up, behind him, students hug their coats and walk inside the castle. 

“I lied,” He says, then takes Chuuya’s hand in his to trace the lines in his sweaty palm. “I told it I am the Slytherin’s Heir, I came to listen to it, it only has to close its eyes and rest,” He smiles, pointer finger on the longest crease on Chuuya’s skin. “And that all will be alright.” Chuuya’s heart charms itself into a drum inside him. Every touch on its tense body is magic, a loud beat. 

“Why sleep?” He asks.

Dazai’s smile grows then, and he looks like a boy that was never left alone, never handled harsher than he ever deserved, never concluded weird . It makes Chuuya’s chest ache. He wants to hug Dazai and tell him he understands even if not completely. Wants to tell him of all the people he left behind, mostly to never see again, each time his father got a new job. He wants to listen, and then when the time comes, be listened to. 

“Because it’s the eyes,” Dazai whispers. “Its gaze is what would turn the others into stone.” 

Then, the voice in him tells Chuuya everything will be alright, just like how Dazai told a giant serpent once. He hugs the other, squeezes until Dazai huffs. Then lets go and grins. 

“You’re amazing, did you know that?” This time, Dazai truly gasps, sitting with an open mouth. Chuuya gets up, rolls his shoulders back. “Let’s go inside,” He adds, holding a hand out for Dazai. “Get coffee, sit somewhere warm. I want to tell you of the time we moved to France and I butchered every spell because of pronunciation.” 

— 

The night before the second trial flutters over furrowed eyebrows like a cape. Chuuya knows the clue, as his many pillows do too. But he wonders, eyes on the ceiling, who will they take. It can’t be Dazai since he is competing himself. And between Fyodor, Nikolai, and Sigma, Chuuya hopes the two not kidnapped won’t be too offended. They shouldn't, he tells himself. Closes his eyes, and thinks if the second trial is as dangerous as the other, his parents will definitely allow him to bring a puppy to their current mansion. 

He thinks of wings, feathered, leather; of prophecies, finished, left undone. Even thoughts of clouds and what they whispered to him one day on the lush green hilltop can’t get him to drift to sleep. 

What a day that was. Chuuya’s mother cried, asking if he knew how long he had been gone, how scared she was. Chuuya only smiled and hugged her back then. Those tears from years ago are still damp on his heart, and they are the reason why he didn’t tell her he has been chosen as the Durmstrang champion. But his father knows. His mother once told him that she worries he is a matchstick. And one day someone will strike him burning. Chuuya doesn’t worry. Doesn’t fret. So long as his chin lifts up, there is no threat. Still he didn’t tell her then, that he is already a burning torch on top of a mountain. That there is no need to worry. That he has been whispered to in the kindest ways this world can muster. 

But now, sleep doesn’t lift him off the bed, so he jumps down quiet as a cat. Fyodor sleeps away the day in the bottom bunk bed, unaware and tired. Chuuya puts his boots on, and takes Sigma’s thick blue cardigan to wear over his pajamas. Library is the place to go, his blood sings. In the dark of the night, Chuuya only walks with a whispered lumos on the tip of his wand. It is light enough to see where he steps, faint enough to imagine what the ghosts see when they wander the halls. 

The library looks exactly as the other times Chuuya was in here, just quieter. He can see why Fyodor likes it, and as he guesses, Dazai too. There are shelves upon shelves of books. Some are thick tomes, some are thinner hardcovers. The scrolls, if fragile, are in glass tubes; the books, if handwritten, are given after you borrow and bring back ten books perfectly in time. Chuuya walks with his wand up, carrying light. The books that are magical enough to snore jolt and grumble. When Chuuya whispers an apology to them, a light dims in the corner of his eye. Naturally, he walks straight there. And finds Dazai on the ground, an empty lantern next to his teacup. 

“Oh,” The other says. “It’s you.” 

Chuuya hums. There is a comfortable margin between sleep and pleasant company, and Chuuya wants to lay on it like a lily pad on a pond. He tips his wand towards Dazai’s lantern, and a hazy ball of light settles in it. 

“What are you doing this late?” Chuuya whispers. Now with enough light, he sees the array Dazai prepared on the ground. It is one with swirling marks and archaic words formed with the powder of something. The golden egg sits in the middle of it, dormant and stubborn. Dazai watches Chuuya sit across him, careful of the array. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” He says, but leisurely takes a sip of his tea. “I merged a summoning and translation array, drew it with linden wood ash.” He explains. “Tea?” He reaches to hold a French press behind him that Chuuya didn’t notice before. Swirls the orange liquid in it.

“Linden tea?” Chuuya asks.

“Thought it fits.”

“Did you squeeze lemon in it?”

“No.”

“Then no.” 

Dazai chuckles then, pouring some to himself. The way he has to hold the lid that doesn’t close properly makes Chuuya think he brought the thing from his father’s place. Does he stay with him? “You’re fussy.” Dazai comments, as fond as a pomegranate drop is of a ruby and Chuuya already starts thinking what gift should he bring if he gets to visit Dazai’s father with him. After another big sip, the other goes back to consulting the book piles by him. Chuuya looks up to see the restricted section's cage wide open. Of course. It’s Dazai, after all.  

Watching him for some time, and the array for a second or two, Chuuya hesitates. Which is always unusual for his crowned head, and finds himself wiping sweat off his palms to his pajama bottoms. Dazai gives him a look when he moves, and the light in his eyes calms the mutiny in Chuuya’s chest. He remembers what the clouds whispered to him then: Never settle, only glory will rain down from us to your shoulders. Chuuya knows, has always known, who else can it be, if not him? He will be the one to win the Triwizard Tournament. He will bring the trophy to Durmstrang, graduate soon after, find himself a job as an auror before he can blink. All of these things were known to him. But now, his blood dances and sings: Why do it alone? Why indeed?

“Dazai,” He starts, and wonders why he’s whispering.

“Chuuya.” The other says. Calm, nose in the book, mind in heaven. 

“This won’t work, but not because your array is wrong.” Brown eyes blink at him, surprised, curious. Chuuya tilts his head, eyes never leaving Dazai’s. “But because the clue is tricky.” 

Dazai studies his face, the books Chuuya disturbed snore again. One in the restricted sessions sounds like it’s crying.

“And you,” Dazai starts, cautious. “Solved the clue?” Chuuya nods. And out of nowhere, realizes Dazai isn’t in his Slytherin robes. Instead, he has a sweater with a couple of holes on it as well as stretched out sleeves. Did he not try to sleep? Judging by the level of details in the work he weaved from ash, likely not. 

“I did.” 

Another silence. Is it because they’re in a library? Or because Dazai has band aids on his fingers again?

“And you’re telling me this because?”

Never settle . Sure, Chuuya thinks, he won’t. His heart itself is a coin now, one side a moth, the other side a butterfly. No matter the time of the day, the doe eyes holding his gaze makes it flutter, stutter, take a step closer to the other.

“Because I want to make a deal.” He’ll never settle. There is so much to love on earth. “I will tell you the clue, and in return,” And Chuuya is confident he can start from the gem of a boy sitting across from him. “You’ll be my date for the Yule Ball.” 

Rabbit holes, running hounds, everything precious and prancing seems to be under Dazai’s throat. Chuuya has no idea how and will not ask why, he has a skyward crown after all, but he hears the other’s heartbeats for a fleeting second. It’s a drum, the mirror image of what has been beating for him as well. 

“If this is a prank-” Dazai tries. Chuuya has no heart to hear such a doubt.

“It’s not. I really want to take you on a date.” 

Dazai blushes, stutters a little even: 

“Even, even at the cost of the second trial?” 

Chuuya nods slow and sure. Even at the cost of more, but he has time to tell Dazai that later. 

“I will still win,” He says. “Even if I wasn’t even chosen to compete, I’d ask you to go with me.” Hearing that, Dazai abruptly hums. Closes the book in his hands, gets redder, opens it again and takes a shaking sip of his tea. Finally, he slams the book closed for good, and startles the crying book on the upper shelves into sobbing. 

“I accept.” He announces, voice shaky. “The clue and the date. Both.” Maybe to show Chuuya he trusts that he will give him the clue, Dazai then leans down and blows onto the ashes he prepared until the shape is no more. It all flies to Chuuya’s clothes. 

“Perfect, let’s go.” Chuuya says as he stands up, patting the linden wood ash off of him. “You will need water.” Dazai flinches as he scrambles up.

“Oh,” He says. “It all flew onto you, sorry.” 

Chuuya takes his hand instead. Easily, he casts a charm he learned from his mother to put the books, French press, and the teacup away. 

“No problem at all,” He says. “Pay me back with breakfast, and I’m a happy guy.” 

Dazai snorts, but puts his wand back into his sleeve. He shifts his hand until his fingers are intertwined with Chuuya’s.

“You always seem like a happy guy.” 

Chuuya grins as he leaves the library with Dazai. He will surely never settle, if this palm is against his, if this shoulder is there to lean his head on. 

“I have no reason not to be.”