This idea hit me hard like a damn brick. Imagine if yuu isn’t magicless and the only reason why the dark mirror said no magic is because it couldn’t detect or feel the magic energy due to yuu not being from their world? Like maybe the mirror couldn’t recognize it.
Anyways, let me know if this deserves a part two🫣 [Harry potter was my main inspiration for this too😭 I gotta rewatch the movies again]
Words: 573
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“No magic”
That’s what the dark mirror said when you first got here. Voices erupted from every corner of the room. People whispered and some looked at you weird, others were curious, and some confused.
You were also confused
No magic?
That’s funny.
You literally attend one of the most prestigious schools in the entire wizard world. Ranked number one in the entire country. And you are an excellent wizard.
So no magic?
-
You soon found out during your stay here that you do in fact still have your magic. The dark mirror probably couldn’t detect your world's magic which caused it to basically call you magicless.
Yep
You are known as the magicless prefect of ramshackle dorm. You were later paired up with a companion. Grim is his name. You found him quite annoying at first, but you soon warmed up to the small furry thing. He’s the only one who knows about your magic. The others don’t, but it’s not something you really mind. You actually find it amusing when they are trying to show off their magic to you, something along the lines of “I bet you never seen this before”.
True, but again their magic is kinda different from what you’re used to.
I mean, you haven’t seen them summon any animal guardians on a random Wednesday morning.
Or how to fight off a blood sucking monster in one of the campus forbidden forests for an exam.
Yeah, very different.
But that’s what makes you enjoy this place a bit more. You don’t have to worry about random hard over the top magic assignments that you have to master and complete by the end of the week, being thrown to defeat a random monster for extra credit, etc. just peace.
Well, besides the overblots.
But you manage.
Classes ended for the day. You and grim were walking down the long halls of Night Raven as the two of you chatted.
“So how’s that school of yours like? You said it was ranked number one?” He asks curiously. You smile.
“Yeah, it’s one of the top wizard schools in all of the world, well in the wizard world”
“Huh…how’d you get in?” You playfully ruffle his head and he yelps.
“I’m not dumb grim, nor weak”
“I was just curious!”
“My parents are well known wizards. Strong too”
“Ever since I was little I was always trained to handle my magic well and to exceed my abilities. My father taught me all I needed to know while my mother helped train me, by the age of ten I was able to summon familiars and cast protection spells”
“Woah…I mean! Yeah cool whatever” You giggle as you two continue to chat. It was late, no students were nearby and it was just you and grim.
“Mm? Why’d you stop?” You looked around, checking to see if anyone was nearby before you pulled out your wand. Grim just observes you before you tap over your head with it, the two of you soon go invisible.
“Want to prank Ace and deuce again?” Grim eyes lit up at your suggestion. The two of you giggle like a bunch of little kids before making your way to the library to terrorize the unsuspected duo. For the 5th time this week.
Unbeknownst to the two of you, a certain hunter has been lurking in the trees of the courtyard near the halls of Night Raven.
Doll! Yan! Vil Schoenhiet, who used to hate how people always chose the new, sweetest Neige life-sized doll over him.
Children, pleading and tugging on their parents' sleeves, shrieking, "I want that one!" with watery, fat tears filling their big, naive eyes. Adults and teenagers looking at their checking accounts, wondering if they could afford it; if it'd be worth the tens of thousands for the "Knight and Shining Armor," who defeated the evil queen. The Fairest One. Praise slipping from their lips, seemingly never-ending.
Furthering that twisted, sickening feeling that coiled within his cloth-stuff-filled chest. Why didn't they look at him with such reverence? He was far fairer than the messy-haired brunette, wasn't he? Prettier. Yet no matter what. They only spared him a meaningless glance. A small comment, maybe two.
But it wasn't enough.
Until you showed up, gawking at him through the glass case that enveloped him and not that pesky faux hero. Your eyes shimmering with what could only be described as infatuation. A need for him. So enamored, he was half certain your eyes would bulge out of your head, oblivious that he could see you through the glass eyes that'd been structured in him. A sight similar to ones he'd seen from others—staring at Neige—but never him.
To a point, when you turned your heel and walked away—with purpose, he now recalled—he almost missed your presence in front of him.
And when the deep, crimson velvet curtain, draping him in a shroud of darkness so thick it felt suffocating, he couldn't shake the spike of worry that he'd never see that expression on any other. On you, again. Even as he was taken from his glass case, instead replaced with a cheap cardboard, and hauled away to a land he'd never been, from everything he'd ever seen. Ever known.
Only to meet your eyes once more, however long later. One of your hands clutching a box cutter, the other holding apart the flimsy cardboard opening. The illumination of the sun's beams from behind you hitting your features in a way that made you glow. Determination and awe rippling off of your mien in waves.
This time, without a silly glass pane between the two of you.
Doll! Yan! Vil Schoenhiet, who can’t help but love you after you picked him up from that dump of a store… So much so that he drowned in it.
Drank in your attention every time you touched up his paint and dusted him off, your brush feather light against his porcelain. As if you were worshiping the statue of a deity, and not some doll who'd shatter into pieces if you nudged him too much. Making sure he was never blemished, swathed in the finest clothes you could seize from life-size doll makers and collectors.
Always so “pretty,” as you cooed one day, so close to his ear that he was certain his heart would’ve beat if he were human. Alive, in the way that you were. Talking to him as if he was real—well, technically, he wasn't that you knew of—rambling about your day endlessly, filling the place with the melodic sound of your voice. Turning the television on when you had to leave, making sure he was always entertained whenever you weren't home… Even if he wasn't that much of a fan of it.
He'd even heard you on the phone once or twice, asking for a custom design for him, and he couldn't help but chuckle to himself, knowing you were too distracted with the other person on the line to hear. You could be so cute, sometimes.
And he'd consider this life rather… Nice.
In a way, it was limiting. Having to only move when you weren't around or asleep, 'forcing' him to take careful note of the time and your schedule. Your habits… Surreptitiously stretching his ball joints as he wandered about the house. Looking for new things you'd manage to slip past him, going through your closet and dressers, organizing them—purely out of generosity, of course; you'd done so much for him…
And how could he possibly let you be so disorganized in return..? How could you possibly leave your keys there? In that little bowl? Don't you know how vulnerable they are? Sigh… He'll put them somewhere safe. Don't worry, darling. Not a soul will get into your home, or out, not with him there. He'll make sure of that.
Just what was he going to do with you, spuddling?
But it wasn't bad, being someone's… Being yours, and only yours. Just as you were his. It wasn't like you could possibly think of bringing a partner here, of course… Someone subpar to him. You wouldn't want to make them feel oh-so-jealous, would you...? They wouldn't even have a chance against him, even if you'd presumed him to be… Unmoving.
You knew that, and so did he.
He wasn't named the "Fairest One of Them All" for no reason.
Until the day you brought home a Neige doll.
You'd come home later that day, an unusual thing for you, but he wouldn't put it against you. He'd be merciful… But when your voice rang out, something dragging behind you, something in him stirred. A sinking suspicion. And he knew, whatever was in that box, so similar to his when he arrived, he wouldn't enjoy it.
And he didn't.
The betrayal was instant as soon as you'd opened the box. Seeing those soft, rounded cheeks and warm, deep chocolate eyes—a stark contrast to his elegant features and calculating lilac irises—made whatever warmth he'd felt from your arrival frigid.
How could you do this? To him?
He couldn't believe it. Refused to, perhaps, even when faced with clear evidence of your treachery. The very doll that'd imprinted itself inside of his memory, taunting him mere feet away with his lovely and saccharine smile.
His eye twitched before he could stop it, and your gaze snapped toward him almost immediately. Your eyebrows drew taut as you looked at him, not with love or adoration, but instead with heavy accusation. "Did… You just move?" You drawled out, squinting at him as you placed the very same box cutter you'd freed him with on the floor before you cautiously stood up, keeping your gaze fixed on him.
But he didn't move again. Didn't allow himself to show that his composure had shattered for just a fraction. No matter how close you drew, not even when he could feel the way your breath fogged against his cheek. Hesitant, you backed away, giving up. "Maybe I'm just imagining things… Gods, is this is how people get murdered in horror movies?" You grumbled, mostly to yourself and the universe.
But Vil made a promise to himself, in that moment. That he'd fix this rather… Unfortunate situation.
No matter what he had to do.
Doll! Yan! Vil Schoenhiet, who waits until the day you leave to run errands, saying you'll return later that night to set the very plan he had into action. Who mutilates the doll, ripping apart every joint tied with string, hurtling limbs into walls without a care in the world, and relishing every crunch and tatter to the doll's figure. Who litters the floor with a disseminated doll body, his other half's.
And when he finished, there was not even a trace of blood, like he would see in the movies and shows you'd played for him. A strange feat, now that he looked down at the strewn-apart 'corpse.' Because in truth, he didn't murder it. It couldn't even be described as similar, not by mortal standards. All he did was break a doll, which would amount to nothing besides the title he'd been given.
When the door opened with a creak, he stilled momentarily. You were home earlier than he'd expected. A silence folded between the two of you until bags slammed to the floor with a loud crinkle.
Vil cracked his head and looked you straight in the eye. His permanent, sly smile, one you'd once loved and fawned over, now ever so haunting against the harsh shadows on his face, plastered on his face. "…Why?" A mellifluous, smooth voice rang out of him, lacking the miserable touch of his words, but his mouth didn't move. It couldn't. "Why couldn't you just look at me? Why did you have to get him?" He spat the last word out.
You stood frozen, grocery bags scattered across the floor beneath you, only one still clutched in your hand. Cans and jars, he guessed, by the way it sagged. Your knuckles were notably paler than before. "…Huh?" You managed to utter past your stupor. You'd likely been expecting to see your two dolls posed beside each other—tactless choice, really, considering everything—but all you saw was Vil hovering over what could only be described as a ceramic crime scene.
He twisted his limbs to face you in such a way that it made you stumble back, petrified, a foot past the threshold of your home and the outside world. He took a step closer, careful, like he was approaching a scared stray cat. "My… Don't you get it?"
You took a deep, shuddered breath as he inched closer. And closer. Staring at him with such wide eyes that enthralled him so dearly. With each stride, your irises began to shake a little more—
CRACK.
He staggered back, surprised, clutching the right side of his face on instinct at the blow that'd struck him. The tips of his fingers grazed the slender, spider-web-like crack that'd embedded into his cheek, passing through his eye and further until it reached his hairline. He stiffened for a moment, just as you turned your heel, turning away from HIM again—
Before you could leap into a sprint, he grabbed your wrist, his fingers encased around it so roughly, he knew he'd ingrain the mark into your skin with a bracelet of deep purple blotches, and pulled you back. This time, flush against the chill of his porcelain, slamming you right into him. Goose bumps ran up your spine as you shivered against him. The door, your escape, shut as he discarded the fracture in his visage.
Vil enveloped his arm around your waist, clinging onto you, as he let go of your wrist. Did you feel the way your heart raced? Did you hear it, just like he did? "You don't need another. All you need is me, don't you get that..? Just look at me. Only me." He placed his head on your shoulder. "I am the fairest one of them all."
Your eyes met his, and your breath hitched at the sight of him—at the crack that marred his face. With a trembling hand, you reached up to cradle the fractured side of his face, tears swelling in your eyes. "Was that so hard now?" He murmured, somehow sounding softer despite his voice bank, knowing it was terror that swallowed you whole. That made the choked-out noise that crawled up your throat instead of concern for him, but he didn't care.
Couldn't bring himself to, as the remnants of his other half, the heroic to his villainous, lay sprawled behind him.
Not when you looked at him, and only him, instead of Neige.
"What? .. Am I not pretty now, darling?"
I hope it turns into a trend and by the end of the season every time Asa begins to act sus we as an audience are all like "Alright, which daemon is pretending to be Asa this time?"
Everyone needs three hobbies: one to give you carpel tunnel, one to leave you sore and bruised, and one for your distant relatives to insist you monetize
