Chapter Text
The summer after Dazai’s second year was agonizingly, suffocatingly uneventful—especially when compared to the grand spectacle of shooting Albus Dumbledore and burning down his house.
It wasn't as though Dazai had a personal vendetta against the headmaster, nor did he particularly want to murder the old man, but orders were orders. If Dazai knew one absolute truth in his short, miserable life, it was to never disregard Mori Ogai’s commands. Not unless he fancied spending a few nights locked in the dark, cold kennels. Dazai very much did not. The dogs in Yokohama were not trained to be pets; they were trained to tear meat from bone, and Dazai’s skin was already far too scarred to invite more teeth.
Because of that constant, suffocating oversight, he hadn't sent a single letter to his gang all summer, lest Mori intercept them and read between the lines. As for the correspondence he did receive, it sat in a neat, unopened pile inside his desk drawer—mostly from Blaise, who kept writing to update him on the group's whereabouts while begging for even a single line in reply.
Not that Dazai cared. The Hell Hounds were his subordinates, nothing more. A tool to be used, a shield to be placed in front of him, and a distraction to throw off the rest of the magical world.
Even if Fred and George Weasley had affectionately dubbed him their honorary little brother.
Even if Blaise, Ron, and Hermione foolishly considered him a genuine friend.
Even if Draco Malfoy was starting to accept having a muggle-born for a companion as well, albeit with a great deal of begrudging reluctance and lingering pureblood pride.
Dazai wouldn't get attached. That was the mantra he repeated every morning as he wrapped fresh white bandages around his arms and torso. He refused to acknowledge the raw, hollow ache that settled in his chest whenever he thought about what he had done to Madam Pomfrey. He refused to think about how close he had come to snapping during those late-night sessions in the dungeons, how badly his tongue had longed to spill every bloody secret to Severus Snape.
He had wanted so desperately to tell the Potions Master that, no, he was not safe at home. He had wanted to explain that when he left Scotland, he was not returning to a quiet, loving family, but was instead forced to sit in dark, damp basements full of rabid dogs waiting to tear at his flesh. Dazai had wanted to tell Snape about Mori, about the forced fitting of women's dresses, and about the sheer, suffocating scale of the Port Mafia itself.
But he couldn’t. He never could.
If Dazai so much as flinched or hesitated the next time Snape asked a probing question, Mori would know. Mori knew everything that happened under his watch. So Dazai would keep playing his part at Hogwarts—a quiet, weird, exceptionally talented prodigy—provided Mori allowed him to return in the first place.
Dazai stopped outside the executive office—the one that had belonged to his father until winter break, before Mori had claimed it along with the rest of the organization. Raising a pale, bandaged hand, he knocked three times against the heavy wood.
“Enter,” came the doctor's smooth, unbothered reply.
Dazai pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside, his soft footsteps swallowed by the plush carpet. He walked forward until he stood precisely three feet in front of Mori’s massive mahogany desk.
“You called for me?” Dazai asked, keeping his chin raised high. His single visible burgundy eye met Mori’s cold, calculating plum gaze without a hint of fear.
A sickening, familiar smile slithered onto the doctor's face. “Indeed, Tsushima-kun,” Mori said softly, folding his hands neatly over the desk. “I imagine you wish to return to Hogwarts for your third year?” He smirked, leaning forward slightly into the amber light of the desk lamp.
“Would it be beneficial?” Dazai replied dryly, not bothering to drop the deadpan tone he reserved for his boss. “I imagine you wish for me to continue learning magic, advancing my knowledge of the wizarding world’s political landscape, and reporting back everything I find so you can figure out how best to exploit them.”
“Smart as always,” Mori said, his sharp grin widening just enough to show teeth. “I knew I was right to assign you this task, Shuji.”
“It’s not as if you keep a stock of eleven-year-olds lying around,” Dazai grumbled, resting a hand on his hip. “Certainly not ones who would qualify for a hidden magical school in the middle of Scotland.”
Mori made a quiet noise of acknowledgment, unfazed by the sarcasm. Reaching into his breast pocket, he slid a sleek, crisp white envelope across the polished mahogany desk toward Dazai.
“You’ll find a plane ticket inside,” Mori hummed, his tone dripping with feigned thoughtfulness. “Do try not to lose it. You leave in three weeks.”
Dazai outwardly rolled his eyes, snatching the envelope off the desk before Mori could change his mind. “Great. A whole week early. You just love sending me off ahead of schedule for no reason at all ,” the thirteen-year-old groaned, turning sharply on his heel and striding out of the office before the conversation could turn toward scalpels or dresses.
He walked down the dim corridors of the Port Mafia headquarters, the heavy envelope clutched tightly in his bandaged fingers.
He wasn’t excited. A mafioso did not get excited over something as trivial as going back to school. He definitely wasn’t looking forward to seeing Blaise, Ron, Hermione, or any of the rest of the Hounds—because looking forward to seeing someone implied attachment, and Dazai was not attached.
Attachment was a liability. He had to remain detached. He had to be ready in the event Mori ordered him to dispose of them all. He had to be ready if Mori suddenly revoked his attendance halfway through the term, or if the executive board decided the time was ripe to take over Hogwarts entirely.
Attachments had no place in the Port Mafia, and Dazai would not allow himself to feel any such thing.
He repeated the thought like a curse, ignoring the sharp, hollow ache in his chest that proved he was already far too late.