Work Text:
This story isn't about me. I was never anything special. My grades weren't bad, but they weren't good either. I was even the last one to master my unique majic. I hate to think of myself as a failure, but no matter how hard I tried not to give a damn and to appear independent, I didn't always pull it off very well. I loved breaking the rules and saying whatever popped into my head without a shred of guilt. Yet, I always tried to be attentive and patient—though that doesn't excuse the times I really messed up.
The person I’m talking about, however, was my exact opposite. From childhood, he was under his mother’s thumb: she decided everything—from his meals and free time to simple things like friends, and even his hobbies and personal preferences. Endless practice and study. His entire life was scheduled, demanding nothing less than perfection. He had to look flawless. He mastered his unique majic at an early age, his grades were top-notch, and he honored rules, principles, and traditions more deeply and reverently than anyone else. It seemed like he was truly doing it out of his own desire. That deserves praise. I rarely told him so, but I genuinely admired his willpower. His childhood wasn't exactly happy, and because of that, he grew into a tyrant—but after one particular incident... he really rose in my estimation. I don't know if I helped him at all or just pushed him over the edge, but he truly changed. He became more attentive and even caring. I think he was always like that—he just needed someone to open his eyes to the truth. Yes, I told him he was to blame for becoming a tyrant, and I don't take those words back, but I can't deny it: he had a rough time of it, and for a long while, I refused to see that.
That guy was also my housewarden.
A party. Music, familiar faces, snacks, lights, and conversations—both social and otherwise. Everything was supposed to be fine. And everything was fine. It was a party to mark the occasion of Lilia-senpai leaving our Night Raven College. I didn’t know him all that well, but I knew he was a truly good mentor and a funny friend—someone valued by so many of us. Saying goodbye to him was sad. But we were at a party, after all, weren't we? Everyone was having fun, letting their worries drift away.
Then Malleus arrived with his gift.
And I have only a hazy memory of what happened next. I remember the seashore, the summer breeze, and the house where we were all happy together. We walked along the sand, dipping our feet in the water while the wind tousled our hair. Everyone looked incredibly happy. Even him. I remember we were celebrating passing our exams and finishing our first year—and the fact that Yuu had found a way to return home without leaving us forever. I remember a dream—one I’d rather not. I don’t want to remember wanting to stay there, in that dream world. To give in to that blissful paradise and the feeling that everything was exactly as I wanted it to be. I regret that some people had to witness that—to see how pathetic I must have looked in that moment, refusing to wake up.
And then, we got inside his dream. If I hadn't known it was his dream, I probably wouldn't have recognized him at first. He wasn't the Heartslabyul housewarden I was used to seeing—not the responsible, strict guy who took charge of everything and held rules in high regard. He was... just a playful boy. A cheerful, carefree guy. He dressed in an openly vulgar style—flashy, provocative clothes that practically screamed for attention, dark makeup, and dyed hair. Yet, a smile beamed across his face. It was a smile of such piercing happiness that it actually hurt to look at.
The guy was energetic and open; he told us about his street band—even invited us to join. He was having a blast, speaking and acting exactly as he pleased, without a care for rules or judgment. And it hurt me. It hurt because this was a dream. It felt wrong—seeing him like that felt wrong to all of us. Especially to Trey. Which made sense, of course—they were childhood friends, after all.
Then, we were allowed into the Rosehearts estate. The interior was spacious: red walls adorned with paintings capturing happy memories from the housewarden’s life, and a long table that took up a good half of the living room. He had a vivid imagination—fitting, given that a dream is a direct product of the mind—but his dream was so terrifyingly detailed that it felt real.
We drank tea that was sickeningly sweet—cloyingly so—while we talked. As it turned out, this housewarden didn't even possess magic. That realization made my chest ache. Did it mean he hadn't wanted powers of his own? That he hadn't truly desired all that responsibility? This wasn't my housewarden. This guy was completely different from the one I knew. He kept interrupting us and acting petulantly; and when I told him about the real him—the housewarden I knew and deeply respected, even if I never said so outright—he didn't like that version of himself at all.
We needed to wake him up. Yet, for a moment, I didn't want to; I wanted to leave him here, just as he wanted to stay in his dream just like I was. Shattering that dream felt cruel; seeing that red-haired guy like this stirred conflicting emotions in me. There was irritation—because it wasn't really him—but also a quiet joy that here, he could simply be himself, rather than who others demanded he be. Not the person his mother wanted, nor the one the Queen of Hearts demanded with her 810 utterly pointless rules—but just an ordinary person, exactly as he wished to be. He looked so... free here. Unbound by his mother’s opinions or the approval of others. Here, he was simply himself.
Attempts to wake him were countless. The house had changed; objects had swelled to gigantic proportions—or perhaps we had shrunk to a minuscule size. It made no sense, and honestly, the speculation made my head split. The tea—that cloying, vile liquid—was rising, threatening to drown us in its sweetness. We sought salvation in the mug, drifting with the current. Then it started to rain. How could there be rain inside the house? Or perhaps it wasn't rain; we could hear sobs. Nothing made logical sense anymore. The dream was pulling us deeper, and the housewarden’s weeping would not cease.
In the end, we managed to overcome it and descend to a deeper level of the dream. An endless labyrinth, rose thorns digging into our legs and blocking the path, dead ends rising out of nowhere—all screaming of our defeat. But in that moment, I mastered my unique majic. And for that, I am grateful to the Great Seven. For it saved us—and it saved him, too. My unique majic has the power to overwrite another person's unique majic with my own. That is how I stopped the housewarden: using his very own majic against him. As it turned out later, it worked out perfectly because we were asleep, and my unique magic isn't as effective as it initially seems.
People say many stories have a happy ending, and this one did too. I hadn't believed it possible, yet we managed to overcome the Malleus Draconia's overblot—one of the most powerful mages of all. I cannot help but thank Shroud-senpai for his plan; it proved flawless and saved us from that dream.
After the incident, little changed within the academy—or so it seemed to me. Yet, I couldn't forget my dream, nor could I forget the housewarden's. My thoughts kept drifting back to it—to the fleeting memories of just how happy he had been in that moment. I never spoke to him about it. Perhaps out of cowardice, or perhaps out of understanding; it was clear he didn't want to dwell on it.
At first, everything was normal. He acted just as he always did. He still scolded us for breaking the rules, still grumbled, and still flashed that sly smile whenever the chance arose. He wasn't a bad housewarden. He knew how to let loose and have fun, too. He enjoyed playing croquet with us. I still found it awkward using a flamingo as a mallet and kicking hedgehogs about, but the housewarden took genuine pleasure in the game. I loved those quiet moments where we could forget about our responsibilities. Even he could forget at least half of those 810 rules while playing. He could briefly set aside his role as the stern housewarden to join in our fun—dropping the act of severity to relax and reveal a gentler side of himself, a side he began to show much more often after the overblot.
But no matter what utopias exist, or how desperately we wish for happy moments to last forever, no perfect dream can endure eternally. Stories are never without their flaws; there are always hidden pitfalls waiting beneath the surface. And none of us—not just me, not Trey, Deuce, or Cater, nor any of the housewarden’s other friends—noticed what was happening right under our noses. No one noticed how the seemingly brightest and most striking rose of heartslabyul had begun to wither and lose his color.
I noticed it quite by chance; I hadn't even expected to spot anything.
It happened during the Unbirthday Party. Everyone was drinking tea and devouring Trey’s delicious tarts—and no one was just flattering him; his tarts really were better than store-bought ones. Especially the strawberry and chestnut varieties, which the housewarden loved. It was a fun time. I was chatting with Deuce—I don't recall exactly what about—while tucking into a slice of tart that seemed to melt right on my tongue. But I remember noticing that there was one person in the dorm who wasn't eating anything at all. It was none other than our housewarden. He kept glancing around until his gaze settled on the slice of tart sitting on his plate. The steam from his tea gradually thinned out until it vanished completely, yet the treat remained untouched. For a moment, the housewarden wore an expression that suggested he found the whole situation unbearable, but he quickly changed it the instant Cater turned his attention toward him. I noticed it, but I didn't make a fuss; perhaps he was just tired. Everyone has bad days.
When it was all over, Deuce and I—being on cleanup duty—tidied up after the feast. While clearing away tables and chairs and watching Deuce sweep the lawn, I spotted something unusual for an Unbirthday Party: a white rose petal. I went back to check the rosebushes and found that one of them was indeed white. Although the housewarden had become more lenient about bushes being missed due to carelessness, he would usually ask for it to be fixed or resolve the issue himself. But he always noticed. He always made his rounds, checking every bush—no, every single rose in the garden. Every rose had to be red. That was the rule of the Queen of Hearts herself, whom he revered so deeply. It was very unlike the housewarden. And that unsettled me even more, given the state I’d found him in.
I didn’t see anything like it again later on. But I began to wonder just how skillfully he hid his feelings—and how terrified he was of appearing weak, especially after his overblot. I hadn't even realized I was paying closer attention to him. Yet the more I watched, the more unreachable the housewarden seemed. It made my heart ache—made it shatter into a million pieces that I kept trying to gather up, only to watch them scatter further whenever I saw that detachment in him.
And so, some time passed. Maybe a few weeks... that sounds about right—until something inside him finally snapped. He crumbled; he looked genuinely exhausted, as if the last of his strength—and any will to pretend that nothing had changed—had been drained right out of him. I had an inkling of the reason, but I kept quiet. He had withdrawn completely; the proof for me was the moment he ignored a rule I’d broken.
I don’t even know which rule it was exactly. I hadn't intended to memorize all 810 of them, though I did remember a few. And I knew for a fact I’d violated one. I suppose I’d done it partly to get the housewarden’s attention, but mostly as a test—to see if he’d notice... if he’d react.
But he didn’t. Those who didn’t know him well might have said the housewarden had simply become more lenient regarding the more absurd rules. That’s how it looked from the outside. But I knew he wouldn’t accept rule-breaking so easily. Depending on the rule, he might have softened the punishment or issued a reprimand or a warning—but he certainly wouldn’t have let it slide or simply ignored it. That was the exact opposite of his nature. And that uncharacteristic behavior was proof—clear as day—that he was withering away right before our eyes. He stopped acting like himself entirely. The others noticed it too—first Trey, then Deuce soon after. The housewarden’s state gradually began to worry the rest of the dorm as well. Many tried to help him, to lighten his burden and responsibilities, assuming the weight of his duties was the cause of his despondency. But the reason lay elsewhere; I was certain of it. The reason was that he had come to a realization—that he, too, could not shake the memory of his dream. It was a place where he had been happy: an unattainable utopia that contradicted every principle he upheld as housewarden in the waking world. It pained me, too. I thought about it—about his dream, and my own. But the pain was his, first and foremost. He remembered exactly how happy he had been in that dream, right up until we intervened and shattered his illusions. And now, realizing that what existed in his dream would never come to pass in reality, he had lost all heart. I understood him. I understood how hard it must be to accept that he would never find true happiness—that he would never again feel the euphoria and genuine joy he had experienced in those reveries.
The days dragged on, feeling more like whole weeks. Watching the housewarden was unbearable. Soon, he stopped showing up altogether, staying in his room; occasionally, he could be found in the kitchen, staring blankly at his food until he forced himself to eat at least a little. During those moments, Trey was almost always by his side. Trey, too, seemed like a shell of himself back then; he would hover around the housewarden for as long as he was allowed—until asked to leave or until the other walked away. It was precisely because of Trey that the housewarden went to the kitchen at all; had he not been reminded about meals, he likely would have left his room even less often.
He still attended classes—physically, at least. He couldn't afford to skip lessons or neglect his studies, no matter how unwell he felt. I wasn't in his year, but I heard that he would sit apart from everyone else, mentally absent from the lesson—or perhaps simply unnoticed. He would take notes in silence, ignoring everyone around him. After the bell rang, he would linger in his seat, gathering his things and leaving only after everyone else had gone. This behavior worried Jade, too; that was how I found out about it.
It became increasingly painful to watch him wring the last drops of life out of his days, merely existing. He still looked presentable, though his hair was sometimes disheveled, as if he hadn't given it enough attention. He was usually meticulous about his appearance, so even that minor detail seemed like a major issue. His eyes had lost their spark, and his face had grown slightly pale. He no longer played extra rounds of croquet with us. He didn't look satisfied while playing anymore; his movements were stiff and jerky, as if every action required immense effort. His posture had become tense, and he no longer looked at us. He stared into the void, as if he weren't there at all. It was clear just how exhausted he was—and I wasn't the only one who found it painful to watch.
Deuce was often around the housewarden, chatting away and helping with absolutely anything he could. At first, the housewarden hadn't been too keen on it, but eventually, he resigned himself to the help. Cater would join in too, trying to reach him through conversation; I thought Cater understood him on some level and hoped he could get our housewarden to open up. But he simply wouldn't engage. He didn't even grumble anymore. He would just walk silently back to his room with slow steps and lock the door.
And me? I watched. Whenever the chance arose, I’d help alongside Deuce, assist Trey with the cooking, and simply keep an eye on him myself—looking out for ever-increasing, alarming signs of his spirit breaking. I saw his gaze grow duller, his uniform less tidy, and those heart-shaped bangs lose their distinctive shape.
Then, one day, I’d had enough. I was tired of just watching from the sidelines and guessing. If I didn't deal with this, who would? That’s how I ended up at his door. On a dark evening, in a dim corridor, I stood outside the housewarden’s room, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. There was no answer to my knock, yet the door was unlocked—which surprised me, as he usually kept it bolted. Stepping inside, I was horrified: he was sitting motionless on his bed, staring straight ahead—not at me, but right through me. It was as if he hadn't even noticed I was there.
"You noticed when I broke the rule, didn't you?" the words escaped me as I looked at him—so lifeless and weary—sitting on his impeccably made bed in that dim room. The answer didn't come right away. But then he flinched, fixing his gaze on me.
"What?" he breathed, blinking as he focused on me. He had been so lost in thought that he hadn't even noticed me enter.
"You knew I broke the rule," I repeated, louder this time, though I remained in the doorway. I couldn't bring myself to step inside; I simply stood in the threshold, holding the door with one hand. It was as if something were holding me back—as if an invisible barrier stood between me and housewarden, who was sitting just a few feet away.
"Of course I noticed," he replied after a painfully long silence, during which we stared at each other, unable to utter a word. No words could explain what was weighing on my soul—or his—or everything I had wanted to say to him while silently watching him slowly fall apart.
"Are you going to leave us, Riddle?" I didn't know how else to voice my concern. I didn't know how to broach the subject gently. But I knew it was all inevitably leading to one outcome—and not the one I wanted. Or anyone else, for that matter.
He didn't answer. But I noticed his eyes widen before he turned his head away and lowered it. I couldn't make out his face; strands of red hair obscured his profile. Yet, I didn't need to see him to know the expression the housewarden was wearing. My gaze darted to his hands, which were clutching the bedsheet, fingers working the fabric restlessly.
In the quiet, dim room, I heard nothing but my own breathing and the soft sound of Riddle’s breath. My hand remained on the doorknob as I stood there watching him, letting the silence envelop us. Words were superfluous; nothing could be explained by something as simple as speech. This went deeper—something I couldn't name, yet something that made itself felt all the more intensely whenever I looked at Riddle.
"You know as well as I do that this is a coward's move," I said, breaking the silence with words that were hardly flattering. I had never been good at offering comfort, but I was good at speaking my mind. Right then, the only thought circling in my head was how to somehow get through to the housewarden—to that devastated mind of his—and convince him he didn't need to leave us behind. Summoning all my resolve, I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to it.
"I enjoyed playing croquet with you," came the words—spoken in that quiet, uncharacteristically gentle voice of the housewarden. Not an attempt to explain things, not a heart-to-heart, or even anything that made sense. No. These were revelations. And I knew what that meant: we were at a deathbed confession, where Riddle was saying things he likely wouldn't have voiced if he didn't intend to leave us. But why croquet, of all things? I never did understand if it held some deep significance for him.
"Yeah, sure. Croquet," I replied, staring at the floor. I heard the rustle of movement—he had probably turned toward me. But I couldn't look at him right then. Not after that realization and the aching sensation in my chest—something like regret. Maybe even grief. I hadn't even noticed a tear rolling down my cheek and landing on my hoodie. Appearing weak didn't even seem wrong anymore. I wanted to run over, grab his hand, and force him to reconsider. But how could I do that? How could I fix something that was already broken beyond repair?
"Riddle, please," I breathed out with a heavy sigh. For some reason, the air suddenly felt scarce the moment I truly contemplated everything that was happening. I bit my lip until I tasted the vile tang of metal on my tongue. I never thought I’d say such pathetic yet sincere words. I hadn't expected anything, yet I’d desperately hoped I could somehow prevent this outcome—somehow make him reconsider, make him think twice about such a risky course of action. But I also knew there was nothing left for me to do, no matter how hard I tried.
I looked up at him, and our eyes met. My crimson gaze locked onto his bluish-gray ones—or rather, they looked simply gray now. All brightness had vanished; the dark circles beneath them only underscored their hollowness, their lifelessness. A bead of cold sweat—born of sheer, paralyzing, bone-shaking fear—trickled down my forehead. Riddle was smiling at me. Perhaps I’d imagined it, conjured up that slight upturn of his lips. Or perhaps he really was offering a faint, final smile.
"Goodnight, Ace," he said softly, looking impossibly gentle. At the sight, a second bead of sweat rolled down my brow, faster this time. Panic churned in my mind; I was on the verge of rushing over to hug him tight—maybe even begging him to stay. But those gray eyes gazed back with a quiet resignation that seemed to hold me spellbound.
"Goodnight, Riddle," That wasn't what I’d wanted to say! I’d wanted to shake some sense into him—shake him—to burst into tears and begged him to stay. I would have done anything but utter those words—words I didn't even believe myself as I spoke them. A second tear slid down my face as I closed the door and found myself back in that same quiet hallway. I don’t remember his face, nor do I recall if I even looked at him in that moment. Perhaps he was smiling. Perhaps he was crying, too. Did he feel relief at my answer? I had no idea. All I remember is the sound of my footsteps—ringing too loudly in my ears as I walked to my room late that night—the night that drew a line through my life, leaving nothing but a "before" and an "after."
The next day, I cried the hardest of all. I hadn't intended to; I wanted to react with as little emotion as possible. But when I realized my hopes had shattered just as Riddle’s life had after what he saw in his dream, I couldn't hold back the ugly sobs. I kept trying to wipe the tears away with my sleeve, yet they flowed with renewed force each time I tried to clear them. I remember little of what followed. I remember Deuce’s hands pulling me back, and his sobs as he buried his face in my shoulder, trying to stifle the sound. I remember Trey crying, too—though it was silent and I couldn't see him, I knew for certain he was weeping. I remember Cater crying as well; I had rarely seen him so downcast, and hearing his quiet tears was a new experience. I buried my face in my hands, no longer trying to hold back.
I never managed to say what I knew. I couldn't come to terms with it; I didn't want it to be true. The fact that I had spoken to Riddle that night—and simply let it happen. That I had allowed Riddle’s dream to pull him down to the deepest level—the one from which there is no return.