TIGHNARI: Capacious Extremis
The Undetectable Extension Charm, or simply Extension Charms (Capacious Extremis) is a charm that extends the internal dimensions of the target object without affecting the external dimensions.
The sky above Hogwarts is its usual brand of melancholy: charcoal grey, sulking above the turrets like a moody portrait subject, and leaking cold mist down onto the castle stones with the passive-aggressive consistency of a dripping tap. No wonder Venti, snuggled around Tighnari’s leg like a cat who’s claimed the sunniest spot in the room, is fast asleep, his breath soft and sweet-scented from too many sugar quills. They’ve holed themselves away in the comfort of the Hufflepuff dormitory—a subterranean den just off the kitchens, all brass knobs, plump cushions, and the gratifying smell of chocolate eclair and toasted hazelnut—under the noble excuse of a free period. Transfiguration is still a good thirty minutes away. Tighnari would go mad sitting outside in the wind like the rest of them. Besides, he’s reading.
At least he’s pretending to.
The book in his lap is thick and moth-eared, an obscure tome on ancient magical artefacts with a particularly battered chapter on the Invisibility Cloak—the Invisibility Cloak. He isn’t reading for fun, though he’s always had a fascination with relics; no, this is strategic. If such a cloak does still exist, and if someone hasn’t already hoarded it into a Gringotts vault, he’d very much like one. Not for mischief or mayhem, but for survival. Because last week, quite without warning, Tighnari turned into a fox. A fennec fox, to be exact—ears like satellite dishes, memory like a soap bubble, and absolutely no sense of dignity. And he was naked when he changed back.
Mortifying doesn’t begin to cover it.
One moment he was feeling lightheaded, supposing his bones were trying to argue with one another, and the next, he was fur-deep in instinct and confusion, tripping over his own paws, lost in the underbrush. When he came to, freezing and clothes nowhere to be found, he’d stumbled right into a certain Ravenclaw—that Ravenclaw—who had gawked like he’d never seen a boy before. And ever since, Cyno has been behaving as though Tighnari’s bare backside is a Dementor that’s taken up permanent residence in his brain.
Honestly.
For someone who’d seemed so calm at the time—so gallantly helpful, even walking him back to the dormitories like some sort of knight in muddy robes—Cyno has developed a truly unforgivable habit of bringing it up. In front of others. Loudly. Without shame. He doesn’t say it outright, no, but it’s in the way he glances at Tighnari’s behind as though it’s a cursed object, and then pretends to be mortally embarrassed about it, as if Tighnari hadn’t noticed. Eugh!
Take this morning, for instance. Tighnari had waved at him across the Great Hall—an innocent, cordial gesture—and Cyno had dropped his spoon into his porridge as though he’d been hit with the Stunning Spell. That was the third time he’d avoided eye contact in twenty-four hours. It was getting to be a thing.
But … He’s Cyno, after all, and quite possibly the most dorkish fool Tighnari has ever met. Why he was sorted into Ravenclaw, Tighnari might never know, but alas. Tighnari sighs.
He sighs because he knows the real problem isn’t Cyno. It’s himself. The transformation. Because when he’s a fox, he’s not entirely him. His human thoughts slip away like sand through a sieve. He doesn’t remember where he goes, what he sees, or what he does. It’s dangerous, especially in the Forbidden Forest, where one wrong turn can land you in the belly of a Thestral or tangled in Devil’s Snare. He’s read about people like him—curse-bearers, shape-shifters tied to ancestral magic, old bloodlines that sprouted fur once they came of age. His mother had explained it with a half-laugh and a lot of tea. It was normal, she said. It was tradition. Apparently, he’s an “early bloomer,” which is code for “I forgot to warn you this might happen.”
Great parenting, truly.
Two uncles had suffered the same fate, she told him via owl post, both germinating tails before their eighteenth birthday. His aunts, meanwhile, transformed late—another charming quirk of the bloodline. Nobody thought to mention any of this until Tighnari woke up in the woods with leaves in places no leaf should ever be. He’d written a furious letter home; the reply had been infuriatingly cheerful.
And then there’s Cyno. Cyno, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cyno, who asked no questions and offered his cloak. Cyno, who now stares at him like he’s been cursed by a Hobgoblin and can’t shake the image.
What was he doing in the forest that night anyway? Sigh.
Tighnari leans back on the cushion, the book long since forgotten, and watches the fire coruscate in the hearth. Part of him wants to pull Cyno aside, lay it all out, explain the transformation, the risk, the reason he was alone. But the other part—the part curled up like Venti at his feet—wants to stay quiet and see what happens next. Because Cyno, for all his twitchiness, hadn’t run . He’d stayed. He’d even walked him home.
A bit awkwardly, yes. Possibly while thinking very inappropriate things. But he had stayed.
Tighnari sighs and runs a hand through his hair. That Ravenclaw might be the death of me.
The bed gives a subtle creak, and Tighnari peers down to find Venti stirring, still curled along his shin, limbs folded in the odd sort of way that suggests he'd happily sleep through a thunderstorm—or a clash. Tighnari temporises, then reaches out, carding his fingers gingerly through the loose strands of Venti’s hair, the ends glowing a touch of green like sea-glass under moonshine. “Are you awake now?” he murmurs.
Venti yawns, a songbird just roused from its perch, voice all breath and gossamer. “I suppose I am… The thoughts are louder today.”
Tighnari freezes. Panic bubbles up at once. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, not yours,” Venti says quickly, cracking open one luminous eye—jade and gold, glittering like candlelight through stained bifocals. “The others. From upstairs. They’re shouting about Transfiguration homework and last night’s Potions disaster—frankly, you’re a balm in comparison. Yours are always so neat. So thoughtful. Your thinking voice is rather lovely, actually.”
The panic subsides, replaced by something warm and embarrassed. Tighnari rolls his eyes. “You flatter me.”
“I do,” Venti hums, stretching like a vine toward the ceiling. His shirt is half untucked, his robes skewed across his shoulders, and his tie is slung so loosely it may as well be a scarf. He looks like a walking misdemeanour. “Anyway,” he croons, blinking owlishly, “you saw Cyno that night too, didn’t you?”
Tighnari’s spine coagulates. “I—yes.” He hadn’t told Venti. Not that part. Not about the woods, or the full moon, or the way his body had folded inward and shrunk until all he knew was the wild rush of earth and instinct and fur. Not about Cyno, either—the boy who’d found him in the aftermath, trembling and human and entirely, humiliatingly bare.
Venti nods, gaze softening. “That was your first transformation, wasn’t it?”
Tighnari bites his lip. “I didn’t even know it was coming. My mum told me I’d turn at eighteen. I’ve still got months left. It just… happened. Briefly. Awfully.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“You couldn’t have known. I didn’t know. I just—” he trails off, fingers nervously toying with the cuff of his sleeve. “It was sudden. I barely remember anything. Except how cold it was. And how exposed.”
Venti winces sympathetically. “But when Cyno found you, you were already human again, right?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out small.
There’s a pause, delicate as lace.
Tighnari lowers his voice. “What do you think would’ve happened if he’d seen me… as a fox?”
Venti looks at him sidelong, and there’s a mischief in his grin, slow and crooked like a secret knocking to be let in. “Honestly? Probably would’ve tried to pet you. Or built you a little jumper.”
“A jumper.”
“A very Ravenclaw thing to do.”
Tighnari groans, and Venti lets out a trill of laughter—bright, bell-like, one that always makes Tighnari smile in spite of himself. Venti wipes his eyes, still chuckling, and rises from the bed with an exaggerated stretch.
“I’m being serious,” he says, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves. “Cyno’s wonderful. Odd as a jar of pickled Puffskeins, but wonderful.”
Tighnari folds his arms. “Do you read his thoughts often?”
“Hardly. He’s quite disciplined, mentally speaking. Usually thinks about food, Quidditch formations, or obscure Magical Law codes.” Venti glances into the mirror and adjusts his collar. “You should hear the way he catalogues feast menus in his head. It’s a whole system.”
That makes Tighnari laugh aloud. “He memorises the house-elf rotations, doesn’t he?”
“Like scripture. And don’t get me started on how he thinks about his friends.”
Tighnari’s smile falters.
“Xiao, you mean?” he asks, carefully.
Venti doesn’t flinch. “Yes. Xiao. I love him, you know.”
Tighnari narrows his eyes. “Like you want to marry him?”
Venti scoffs, mock-offended, brushing off invisible lint again. “No. Like I want him to live a thousand years, and never feel lonely once.”
“…Right.”
Venti grins at him over his shoulder. “Shall we head to class before the clock hexes us for dawdling?”
Tighnari peers at the grandfather clock tucked in the corner. “Probably should.”
“Give me a moment—” With a flick of his wand, Venti’s hair braids itself in perfect symmetry, not a strand out of place. Tighnari raises a brow, then lifts his own wand and mutters, Orchideous. Tiny blossoms emerge across the braids, white and daffodil-yellow, gleaming against the cool blue of Venti’s ombré strands.
“There. Much better.”
Venti eyes himself in the mirror, then snorts. “Maybe for a ball. Not for Transfiguration. Nice try, Mr. Herbology Genius.” He swishes the flowers away with a wink.
Tighnari blinks. “Mr. Herbology Genius?”
“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know…” Venti sing-songs, adjusting his robes with a theatrical whirl.
“I would, actually. Who said it?”
“Not telling.” And with that, he darts out the door, laughter tracking behind like petals in the wind.
“Venti!” Tighnari calls, grabbing his satchel.
“Better hurry, Tee!” rolls the voice from the corridor. “We do want to graduate eventually!”
And with that, they’re off—two figures melting into the chatter and jumble of Hogwarts, one armed with secrets, the other with questions. All wrapped in charm and robes and that particular brand of magic only friendship can conjure.
**
The trek to Transfiguration with Professor Dainsleif is, as usual, a descent into the sort of social bedlam solely Hogwarts could nurture; a corridor parade of robes, house scarves, and prattle thick enough to choke a Dementor. Classroom 1B, tucked just off the middle courtyard, smells fuzzily of chalk dust and overcooked toadstools, and is already chiming with the voices of seventh-year witches clamouring around Venti like bees to honeywater.
They fawn over him, as always, swathed across desks and dangling parchment, vying for his attention with the desperate poise of girls who’ve long since weaponised curiosity. The reason? Venti’s rare little secret, whispered through every corridor and cloakroom in the castle: he’s a Legilimens. And the worst-kept secret at that.
They don’t even bother to be subtle about it. One moment he’s yawning into his sleeve, and the next he’s fielding breathless questions from half the upper years—“Barbatos, do you think Tamara really dated Yohan?” “Did his thoughts say he’s still into her?” “Oh, Merlin, check if he fancied Trina in fifth year—she had the most awful bangs back then!”
Tighnari sits stiffly beside him, back ramrod straight, quill hovering over his half-inked parchment, pretending to read his notes while pointedly not listening to the gaggle of girls flinging gossip like dungbombs. He’s voiced his disapproval more times than he can count—it’s a gross misuse of Venti’s gift, prying like that—but Venti always waves it off with a breezy smile and that exasperating little shrug that means it's fine, really, I like it. And Tighnari, traitor to his own principles, always lets it slide.
Because it makes Venti laugh.
And because Tighnari would rather set himself on fire than wipe the grin off Venti’s face.
Today’s scandal involves a Slytherin named Yohan, a Gryffindor named Tamara, and a crime against haircuts from fourth year. Venti hums along as if conducting an orchestra of secrets, scribbling observations on spare parchment while Chen, a sharp-tongued Gryffindor with opinions and no filters, sits cross-legged on the desk in front of him, declaring Tamara “utterly insufferable” and “absolutely not good enough” for a boy whose father works with the Quidditch World Cup. Tighnari tries very hard not to judge the obsession with bloodlines—he really does—but it’s exhausting watching witches talk about lineage like it’s a competition category in the Triwizard Tournament.
Just as he’s about to shove a flower stem in his ear to block them out, the door bangs open.
In saunter Cyno, Xiao, and, of course, Scaramouche, all late and radiating the brand of unapologetic audacity that’s practically patented. Professor Dainsleif looks up from his scrolls with a thin-lipped expression of cold disdain. The man could silence a werewolf with a raised eyebrow.
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” he says evenly. “Care to explain?”
Cyno steps forward, calm as he is. “Apologies, Professor. There was a—”
“Why do you care?” Scaramouche cuts in flatly, voice dripping with contempt and just enough pure-blood arrogance to spark a small riot. The room freezes. Parchments hover overhead. Even the enchanted chalk on the blackboard squeaks to a halt.
Tighnari suppresses a sigh so powerful it might have disrupted the Hogwarts weather systems. He looks instinctively toward Kazuha, seated a few spots over by the windowsill, framed in slanted light like a painting someone forgot to frame properly. The boy doesn’t even blink. Just continues gazing dreamily outside, as if Scaramouche hasn’t just insulted a veteran professor with the subtlety of a Bludger to the face.
Professor Dainsleif’s voice is quiet. Reticent. “What did you say?”
Xiao yanks on Scaramouche’s sleeve like someone dragging a niffler out of Gringotts. “Just come on,” he mutters. “Let it go.”
Miraculously, Scaramouche lets himself be towed to the back of the classroom. Tighnari watches with narrowed eyes as they scavenge for seats, Scaramouche towering over a fifth-year until the poor student bolts without even finishing his sentence. Utterly vile behaviour—and Kazuha, upsettingly, merely shrugs, mouthing, I still like him, before returning to his notes as if nothing has happened. As if Scaramouche hadn’t just reminded the entire room why he’s loathed across all four houses and probably the kitchens, too.
Tighnari wants to shake him. Kazuha, not Scaramouche. Though the latter would be satisfying as well.
He doesn’t understand it—never has. Kazuha, who’s soft-spoken and curious, a Muggleborn with an affection for ordinary things like pencils and lamplight and music players that click instead of charm. Kazuha, who should be the last person in the world to admire someone like that. But admire he does. Not romantically (Tighnari is almost certain of that), but with a fascination so pure it borders on academic. As if Scaramouche is an unusual magical creature to be studied in its natural, brooding habitat.
Once, in the dormitory, Kazuha said Scaramouche reminded him of firewood left out in the rain—difficult to light, but warm once you managed.
Tighnari thinks he’s more like a cursed cauldron. Explosive, bitter, and very likely to kill you if handled improperly.
Still, he watches Kazuha watch Scaramouche, and he can’t help but wonder what secret layer Kazuha sees beneath the sneering, sash-wrapped pomposity. Maybe one day he’ll ask. Or maybe he won’t. With Kazuha, the mystery is part of the allure.
As for Scaramouche—well. He’s an enigma best left unsolved, like whatever foul spell made him that rude in the first place. And Tighnari, who prefers plants to people nine days out of ten, has absolutely no interest in digging deeper.
Probably.
Maybe.
Fine—only if Kazuha insists. Pft.
The lesson ends with the wonted flurry of scraping chairs, gossiping students, and someone accidentally setting a scroll on fire. This subject in particular has never been a sober affair, and today is no exception. As students file out, Haypasia, green-haired, goggle-eyed, and perpetually distracted, sidles up to Venti with the nimbus of an intruder about to bring light to something dishonorable.
“Venti,” she asks, wringing her hands, “do you know if Scaramouche fancies anyone?”
A question so harebrained Tighnari nearly chokes on his quill.
“Oh?” Venti tilts his head, blinking slowly. “What a curious inquiry. Intriguing, even.”
“He’s always so—” Haypasia makes an odd threshing gesture, like someone swatting at a Billywig. “—intense. But I’ve fancied him for ages . And I’m pure-blood,” she adds, a little too proudly. “That must count for something, right?”
Venti’s eyes twinkle. “He mostly thinks everyone around him is detestable, but I suppose that tallies as romantic neutrality.”
Tighnari mutters, “Neutral, my tail. He’d hex his own reflection if it blinked wrong.”
Ignoring him, Venti turns back to Haypasia. “I could tell you if he likes someone, but not who he likes. That would be cheating.”
Her face lights up like a lantern charm. “Oooh! Like a riddle!”
“Exactly,” Venti grins, scribbling something on the corner of his notes. “Let the game begin.”
He glances at Scaramouche across the room, who sits with his standard mien of murder-in-progress. No flutter of thought. No bat of sentiment. Just the intramural holler of a boy allergic to everything around him.
“Well?” Haypasia prompts.
“Nothing,” Venti announces. “He thinks Transfiguration is a waste of breath and Professor Dainsleif should be turned into a frog.”
“Oh…” she murmurs, visibly deflating.
“But I’ll keep an eye on him,” Venti appends cheerfully. “Could be a slow burn.”
With Haypasia gone, Tighnari rolls up his vellum and levels a look at his best friend. “You really ought to stop feeding their fantasies.”
Venti shrugs, packing up his bag with thespian innocence. “What can I say? I like making people happy.”
“You’re violating privacy. Scaramouche could hex you six ways to Saturday.”
“He wouldn’t dare. Besides, I only pick up what’s on the surface—nothing too deep.”
Tighnari arches a sceptical brow. “Except Tamara’s third-year cheating scandal?”
Venti winks. “Ancient history.”
They exit the classroom into the hallway, jostled by students scuttling toward their next period. But before Tighnari can launch into a proper scolding, Venti falters halfway point—his body stuttering like a clock gone off-beat. His eyes, bright a moment ago, brim suddenly with tears.
“Oh no,” Tighnari grouses, catching him before he crumples. “Not again.”
“It’s not mine,” Venti whispers, clutching his temple. “The thoughts—I didn’t mean to hear them. Someone’s... someone’s hurting, Tighnari. Missing their mum. Feeling abandoned. Like they’re all alone and just—adrift.”
Tighnari’s heart twists. This part of Venti’s gift, the part that tears him open like paper, never gets easier to witness. He pulls his friend into a protective hug as Venti sniffles into his collar, and students pass them by with wary glances, pretending not to stare.
A tap on his shoulder. Tighnari turns to find Xiao and Cyno watching them with wordless concern. Cyno, unfortunately, speaks first.
“Hi, bum—I mean—Tighnari!”
Tighnari narrows his eyes, exhaling hard enough to rustle his own fringe. “Say that again, and I’m feeding you to my compost pile.”
“Sorry!” Cyno squeaks, distinctly wanting to disappear.
Xiao, ever the saviour, steps in. “Did something happen?” His voice is soft but close-grained, his amber eyes trained on Venti, who’s still dabbing at his face.
Cyno frowns. “Is he alright?”
“I’m fine,” Venti croaks unconvincingly, attempting a smile that fools no one.
And then—of course—Scaramouche appears, arms crossed, impatience rolling off him like dark fog. “Oi. Xiao. Cyno. Let’s go. I’m not waiting around for your little tea party.”
Tighnari turns to respond, but Kazuha arrives first, calm as a lake with no waves. “Something wrong?” he asks, gaze flitting between the group.
“Venti remembered something sad,” Tighnari explains tightly. Not a lie. Not quite the truth either.
Kazuha nods. “Want to talk about it, Venti?”
But before anyone can answer, Scaramouche steps in and ruins everything.
“Oh, for Salazar’s sake,” he sneers, marching up and grabbing Venti’s arms. “What is this? Are you deaf and dramatic now?”
“Oi!” Tighnari snaps, fury boiling in his chest.
“Scara!” Xiao barks, louder than anyone’s ever heard him. Even Scaramouche stumbles. Xiao pushes him back, teeth clenched. “ Don’t touch him.”
Scaramouche blinks, caught off guard. He looks like he’s about to argue—until Kazuha steps forward, pacific and lethal, and gently cups Venti’s face like one would a shattered teacup.
“This,” Kazuha says softly, “is how you handle people.”
The corridor goes silent. Even Scaramouche stares, a peculiar expression passing over his face; something crabbed, a nictate of thought he doesn’t voice. Awe, maybe. Or recognition.
“I… I need to go,” Venti murmurs suddenly, stepping back, his voice cracking. “Tighnari, Kazuha—let’s go.”
And they do, slipping into the crowd, the bustle of the corridor swallowing them whole. When they’re far enough from the others, Tighnari casts a sideways glance. “Venti, what was that?”
“I’ll explain later,” Venti mutters, voice as thin as palimpsest.
But Tighnari knows that look, that far-off ache in his friend’s eyes, and he suspects this time, it’s not just someone else’s pain he’s feeling. It might be his own.
**
They tumble out of the stairwell like a mismatched set of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans—Kazuha with his orthodox countenance of windblown serenity, Venti ambling behind, fingers twitching as if plucking invisible harp strings, and Tighnari, ears alert, senses prickling, eternally the vigilant observer, as he should.
The corridor leading to the kitchens is dull, save for the soft squelch of their footsteps against the flagstones. Tighnari’s nose twitches; no scent of vinegar—good. They haven’t triggered any of the Hufflepuff barrel traps today. He taps the rhythm of ‘Helga Hufflepuff’ on the correct keg, and it swings open to reveal the earthy passage leading to their common room.
Inside, the Hufflepuff common room is an oasis of balminess and comfort. The low ceiling, reminiscent of a badger’s sett, is adorned with hanging copper-bottomed plant holders, from which ferns and ivy dangle, brushing against their heads as they pass. The walls are lined with circular shelves holding various cacti, some of which sway gently, as if greeting them. The room is bathed in the cheerful bee-like colours of daffodil and jet-black, with honey-coloured wood gleaming in the firelight. Above the mantelpiece, a portrait of Helga Hufflepuff raises a tiny, two-handled golden cup in a perpetual toast.
They flump around the fireplace, each claiming a cushion. Tighnari’s ears quiver as he picks up the soft murmur of voices—Ganyu and Collei, a Gryffindor, engaged in quiet conversation. It’s rare to see a non-Hufflepuff in their common room, but not unheard of; the warmth of the Hufflepuff abode has a way of drawing in kindred spirits.
“This is Collei, my friend,” Ganyu introduces.
“How did you get in?” Tighnari inquires, sniffing the air. No hint of sour scents, only the inviting aroma of waffles.
“Through me, of course,” Ganyu replies simply.
“Of course,” Kazuha nods, then turns to Venti. “Barbatos, would you care to explain? What happened back there?”
Venti fidgets with his fingers, looking troubled. “I accidentally read his thoughts.”
“Whose thoughts? Xiao’s?”
“Yes…” Venti whines. “And I feel awful… I promised I’d never—”
“Tch. And then? What did his thoughts reveal?” Kazuha continues to probe. At that moment, the entrance swings open, and Layla enters with her Slytherin girlfriend, Faruzan. The two stroll forward, holding hands, with Faruzan leading the way. Tighnari redirects his attention back to Venti, who is still moping.
“He… He…” Venti stammers.
“What is it, Venti?” Collei urges, leaning in with keen interest.
Venti covers his face with his hands. “I can’t say.”
“Why not?” Kazuha’s mouth forms an O of surprise.
“It’s—I mean, it’s Xiao, I don’t want anyone to—”
“Stop, Venti. You don’t need to tell us,” Tighnari interjects, unable to bear seeing his best friend struggling any longer. “Just keep it to yourself.”
Ganyu nods in agreement. “Yes, Venti, you don’t need to share.”
Venti peeks through the gaps between his fingers. “Really?”
“Yes.”
He sighs in relief. “Okay... Thank you for understanding,” he whispers. Despite his gratitude, the blush on his face is blatant. Tighnari chooses not to dwell on it—after all, Venti could likely hear his thoughts.
They exchange a look, and Venti’s face turns beet red.
**
The Library at Hogwarts is not merely vast—it is bewildering. Imagine a cathedral swallowed by a hedge maze, crossbred with a dragon’s hoard of books and secrets, and you've got the idea. Tighnari swears the place reconfigures itself by the hour, as if the staircases aren’t the only things in this school with a knack for perceptible entrances. Crimson carpets hush your footsteps while rows of bookshelves brood in uncommunicative conspiracy, some swiveling to reveal secret corridors that Filch, the cantankerous, cat-smelling, corridor-haunting fossil, uses to pop in and out of rooms with disturbing stealth, like a particularly bitter ghost.
Above, varnished wooden walkways snake between stained-glass windows depicting obscure assemblages and long-dead wizards. The whole library coils upward like a serpent, climbing the guts of the Astronomy Tower, ending at a domed observatory where students like Mona and Layla can sometimes be seen sprinting in panic, clutching charts and telescopes like they’ve just been told Mars is falling. Tighnari remembers accompanying Chongyun up there once under Professor Kaveh’s orders—something about dark cloud constellations and “how to interpret celestial omens without fainting like a Victorian heroine.”
Two floors. One for general research (or “the legally safe stuff,” as Ganyu calls it), the other for the brave, the reckless, or those who know how to fake Professor Alhaitham’s signature. The Restricted Section lurks behind a deceptively ordinary door, which is neither ordinary nor particularly friendly. Booby-trapped with pressure plates, vanishing stairwells, and enough cursed parchment to give a duppy indigestion, it’s the kind of place that eats first-years whole and belches out their shoelaces.
Tonight, Tighnari sits in his customary hidey-hole: a corner tucked between Arithmancy Theory and Unethical Transfigurations, with books stacked like miniature monuments around him, ears tingling at every floating tome that dares zoom past his head. He ducks one that hovers too close. Still alive, he thinks grimly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He unbuckles his satchel, places his wand gently beside him, and exhales. The bosom hush irons out. For once, it’s just him, his notes, and the deeply miserable saga of cursed bloodlines.
He searches. He scans. Flipping through yellowing pages on lycanthropy, metamorphmagi gone wrong, and cases of self-transfigured squibs with tragic endings, he scours the records for one sliver of hope. Something, anything about shapeshifters who retain memory post-transformation. Not for the first time, he wonders what cruel ancestor thought turning into a fox every full moon would be a useful inheritance. His family tree must’ve forked directly into madness.
He’s deep into a footnote about lunar-triggered amnesia when plonk—a chair squeals next to him. He startles. Side glance. One’s a redhead. Then white hair. Oh, for the love of Merlin. Cyno.
He considers pretending to be dead. Maybe slumping over dramatically, muttering, “Too late, the curse has taken me.” But alas, Cyno speaks.
“Tighnari?”
Cue the internal scream.
“S’pose I can’t ignore you now,” Tighnari drawls, eyes still locked on his book. “Oh. Hey, Cyno.”
“What—”
And before that sentence can do more damage, Tighnari yanks out his wand and levels it right between Cyno’s startled eyebrows. “If you even breathe a single word about my arse again, I will hex your voice box into a kazoo.”
Cyno blinks. Slowly. Then raises his hands like he’s about to be arrested for high treason. “I…was just going to ask what you were reading.”
“Oh.” Blink. Beat. Wand lowers.
Next to Cyno, Heizou stares like someone’s just told him unicorns are real and carnivorous. “You saw his arse? When? How? WHY?”
“Don’t ask,” Cyno hisses, cheeks now a delicate shade of mortified mauve.
Tighnari has had enough. He slams his book shut with a decisive wham and stands, ears twitching. “Cyno. Word. Now.”
The Ravenclaw blinks again. “Yes?”
“Outside.” A dab of his sprig and the books obediently zip into his satchel. “Capacious Extremis.” Shoulder. Sling. Scowl. And they’re off.
They march through the echoing hallways, silent save for their footsteps and Heizou’s baffled muttering fading behind them. They don’t stop until they’ve reached the Owlery, with its scent of papyrus, feathers, and judgment.
“Why all the way up here?” Cyno pants.
“Because I need to tell you something important, and I’d rather not have it overheard by, say, Peeves or half of Gryffindor.”
Cyno nods solemnly. “Alright.”
Tighnari hesitates, then says it. “The night you saw me in the woods…”
Cyno’s expression is innocent. Too innocent. “Butt-naked?”
“Yes, thank you, that bit is implied—”
“It was a nice—”
“Shut up.” His cheeks burn.
Cyno flashes a charming smile, looking at Tighnari as if he were a tasty morsel. This fellow… Alright, Tighnari reassesses his opinion of Cyno being a Ravenclaw. He definitely is one—clever and sharp. It seems Tighnari’s the one who’s been misled into thinking otherwise.
“Ah—whose owl is that?”
Tighnari glances up at one of the birdhouses and spots Carmen Dei fluttering its wings. “That’s Venti’s. But hold on. Let’s stay focused. What we’re discussing is crucial.”
“Alright, I’ll be serious.”
Tighnari sighs. “Right, so I’m going to let you in on a secret. Merlin knows I need a few people to be aware of this, in case I transform. Then someone could protect me from potential dangers.”
“Dangers around you?”
He nods. “Yes, I’m cursed.”
“Cursed?” Cyno reiterates, furrowing his brows as he tries to connect the dots, conceivably.
Tighnari decides to clarify. “Yes. I turn into a fox during a full moon…”
Cyno’s carmine eyes widen as the revelation sinks in. “Oh. So when I saw you that night, you—”
Tighnari affirms with a nod. “Yes, I had transformed back to my usual self.”
“I suppose that explains why you didn’t have any clothes on.”
“Exactly.”
“So you’re not aware of what happens when you're in your fox form?” Cyno pieces it together.
“No.”
There’s a pause. Then, softly: “You trust me enough to tell me that?”
“I do.” He shifts, glancing away. “That’s why I need someone to know. To keep others safe. To keep me safe.”
“Then I’m honoured.” Cyno steps forward, suddenly serious. Something about the moonlight makes him look older. Brighter. Wiser. “Who else knows?”
“Just you. And Venti.”
Cyno takes his hands. Just like that. Bold. Unblinking. “You can count on me.”
Tighnari’s heart commits a triple backflip. Traitorous muscle.
“…Thank you,” he whispers.
The walk back is quiet, except when they realise they’ve wandered near the Ravenclaw tower. “I’ll walk you back,” Cyno offers.
“No, I’ll walk you.”
“Please.”
“Please.”
“Alright.”
At the base of the tower, they meet the riddle-knocker. “Feed me and I live. Give me a drink and I die. What am I?”
“A fire,” they chorus, in eerie unison. A small, amused glance passes between them.
Cyno grins. “You should’ve been a Ravenclaw.”
“I’m smart enough to know better,” Tighnari retorts, ears flicking.
“Fair.” A pause. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Cyno. And thank you.”
“Anytime.”
And just like that, Tighnari turns and walks into the murks of the corridor, heart beating a bit too fast, head spinning just a touch too much, wondering what, exactly, he’s just gotten himself into—and why it doesn’t feel half as terrifying as it ought to.
**
Tighnari awakens to find Venti snoring with ostentatious delicacy, head flopped sideways like a broken puppet, mouth ajar, and a thin thread of drool arcing lithesome down his chin to soak into the pillowcase like ink on paper. The sight would be cataclysmic if it weren’t so appallingly adorable.
With a muzzy sigh and a whisk of his rod—“Levigare.”—he gently adjusts Venti’s head so it rests properly on the pillow. Venti responds with a sleepy giggle, snuggling deeper into the quilts, murmuring something about sugar quaffles and flying goats. Tighnari, now rather used to these odd slumber mutterings, tugs the blanket over his friend’s shoulders before turning to Kazuha, who is dangling halfway off his own bed like a swaying vine about to snap.
Another flick, a subtle swish, and Kazuha is nudged safely back from the brink of gravity’s betrayal. Tighnari steps back, inspects his work, and nods like a gardener satisfied with well-pruned hedges.
He dresses in scrupulous gag: robes, scarf, wand holstered, a sheathed thought. The sun outside the high dormitory window is a sleepy yolk in the mist, Hogwarts Castle blinking awake with groans and creaks, an old man rising from his chair.
Behind him, a rustle. Then a bleary voice, muffled by sleep and bed-sheet creases. “Will you come with me later? To Diagon Alley?”
Tighnari doesn’t look up from the incantation folding his socks into his satchel. “Hm? What for?”
“I’m going to buy a broom.”
That gives him pause.
“A broom, you say?” he asks slowly, arching a brow. “As in… a Quidditch broom?”
Venti, now sitting up with hair like seaweed after a shipwreck, nods proudly. “I’ve joined the team.”
There is a moment of heavy, stupefied silence. Tighnari gawks. “You’ve joined what?”
“The Quidditch team,” Venti warbles, rubbing sleep from his eyes like this isn’t an absolute declaration of war against common sense and personal safety.
“Do you… even know how to play?”
Venti shrugs. “I just wanted to.”
Tighnari blinks at him, then looks away, chewing the inside of his cheek. Quidditch. The sport of concussions and broken limbs. He can already hear Madam Pomfrey squawking.
After a pause long enough to border on dramatic, he sighs. “Are you certain about this?”
Venti’s face softens, his smile earnest. “I am.”
Tighnari studies him, really studies him—the stormy eyes, the determination coiled beneath his stock entropy. “Fine,” he mumbles. “If you’re set on it.”
“I know you’re worried, but it’ll be fun!” Venti beams, launching himself at him in a sudden, smothering hug. “Thank you!”
Despite the sting of dread, Tighnari can’t help but smile. Venti’s joy is infectious, like a charm you forgot someone cast. “Alright. So, Diagon Alley after school?”
“Yes, please.”
“Okay.”
Later, in the Great Hall, upheaval reigns in its typical glory: the air is rich with the scent of Yorkshire pudding and toast, and students babble at full volume as if breakfast were a competitive sport. Tighnari sits between Kazuha and Venti, his plate a graveyard of sausages poked to death by a distracted fork.
Yoimiya and Lumine swoop in like twin hurricanes, giggling about broom polish and whether Ragnvindr has ever smiled (jury says no). Keqing, meanwhile, is pretending not to look at Ganyu three seats down with the pained expression of a youth trying to ignore the sun. The two have been locked in mutual yearning so long Tighnari suspects it qualifies as an elective.
He tunes them out. He’s perfected this skill. Fork, stab. Chew. Exist.
Then, Haypasia—always with timing as graceful as a flobberworm in ballet flats—appears, starry-eyed and murmuring about that “divine specimen” of a Slytherin Quidditch captain.
Tighnari snorts. “Haypasia, what precisely do you see in that over-lacquered boy?”
She pouts, then frowns in deep, unconvincing thought. “Well, aside from the face? Um… the aura?”
“That is not a feature,” he mutters, returning to his meal with resigned despair.
Then he sees Cyno. Across the room, Ravenclaw table. Laughing with Xiao, animated, bright. And with—oh no—sauce on his face. Again. Why is it always the sauce? Like clockwork, girls are giggling, whispering, swooning. As though a dab of marinara is a mating signal.
Tighnari sighs, cups his hands, and calls—loudly—across the hall, “Cyno! You’ve got sauce on your face!”
Cyno blinks. “Oh. Thanks!” He scrubs his cheek.
Immediately, a gaggle of girls beside Tighnari twist in their seats, collectively inhaling. “Tighnari, oh my gargoyles! Are you and Cyno close?”
He doesn’t flinch. “No.”
“Introduce us!”
“Please, please, introduce us!”
The desperation is physically painful. He slams his hand on the table with a sharp thwack. Silence falls like snow. “If you want to talk to him, talk to him yourselves. I am not a matchmaking postal owl.”
He stands, brushing crumbs off his robes. “Excuse me.”
Venti and Kazuha exchange apologetic glances. He nods and walks away, needing—desperately—to not be here anymore.
The loo is blissfully silent, enunciating slightly, tiles cold underfoot. He doesn’t need to go; he just wants a splash of water and a moment not filled with screeching girls or pastry-based embarrassment. But as he leans over the basin, a strange snugness loops through him—hot, tight, unaccustomed.
His skin prickles. Head swimming. Breath tapering and tottering.
He grips the basin, knuckles white. Not now. Not here. Not in the middle of breakfast, in the lavatory, next to a mop bucket named Trevor.
Rip.
He hears it. Feels it.
His trousers. Torn. Something moves behind him. He whirls, glancing down. Tail.
A dark green, swishing, traitorous tail. Fully out. In broad daylight.
“Oh, no,” he mutters, chest tightening. “Oh, no no no—”
He stumbles back into one of the stalls, clutching the door shut, brain racing. It’s not the full moon. It’s not even night. Why now? What triggered this? Stress? Sausages?
And then—footsteps. Someone approaching. He presses against the stall wall, panic setting in, tail thrashing like a cat in a thunderstorm.
Of all the times, in all of Hogwarts, why now?
And that’s when he hears the voice. Familiar voice.
“Mate? You alright in there?”
Of course it’s him. Tighnari resists the overwhelming urge to scream. Instead, he swears under his breath, “Brilliant. Just brilliant.”
**
Alas, Tighnari wakes to find himself splayed inelegantly across a very novel bed—no pyjamas, no trousers, not even socks to cushion the mortifying reality that he is, in fact, starkers beneath someone else’s duvet. He sits bolt upright, clutching the blanket like a life-raft as scads of memories trickle back with the unpleasant clarity of spilt blot. There’d been heat. A headache. A tail—Merlin, a tail. And now here he is, not in the hospital wing or the Hufflepuff common room, but in what looks suspiciously like an abandoned hunting lodge… or worse.
The room is a peculiar amalgam of functions: kitchen, sitting room, and bedchamber all rolled into one like a badly folded howler. A copper kettle is bubbling away merrily in the hearth, casting gleams on walls lined with hanging hams and dusty game birds. There’s a long wooden table bearing the scars of time and a history of haphazard mealtimes. Through a soot-smudged window, a pumpkin patch waves gently in the autumn breeze.
Ah. Of course. Hagrid’s old hut.
He doesn’t get long to marvel at the surroundings before a soft snore interrupts his thoughts. On the sofa, tangled in what appears to be a veritable army of knitted blankets, lies Cyno; legs half off the side, arms thrown notably over his face, hair tousled as if he'd gone ten rounds with a pillowcase and lost. Tighnari feels something complicated and warm stir in his chest. He clears his throat. “Cyno,” he calls gently.
Cyno shoots erect like he’s been hit with a Jelly-Legs Jinx. “Tighnari! You’re back! I mean—you’re you! A human again!”
“Well, I certainly hope so,” Tighnari grunts, checking under the blanket just in case. All limbs accounted for. No fur. That’s something. He swallows hard, still clutching the duvet. “How long was I out?”
“Hours. Nearly missed dinner. You—you were a fox again. Mid-morning. Right in the Great Hall.”
Tighnari groans. “I knew I felt something coming on…” Then, eyes widening, he remembers, “Oh no. I was meant to go with Venti—to Diagon Alley—he wanted a broom—”
“Relax,” Cyno cuts in, waving a hand. “Xiao went with him.”
He pauses. Xiao. And Venti. “Oh.”
“Indeed.” Cyno leaps off the couch with the zeal of a thriving wizard who has survived a weeklong essay crisis, joining Tighnari on the bed. They talk for a bit. The guy explains how he’d found Tighnari mid-transformation in the gents loo, and, after some chasing, clever concealment involving a levitating charm, a fallen tree branch, and a scarf, had snuck him here. “You scared me half to death, you know,” Cyno divulges. “I followed you into the forest. You ran like a maniac. But when I caught you, I had to carry you. Do you have any idea how hard it is to levitate a fox without drawing attention?”
“Judging by the fact you smuggled me into a condemned cabin, I’d say you managed well enough.” Tighnari sighs, adjusting the blanket to keep it from slipping off his shoulder.
“I suppose. And, um, I figured no one would think to look in Hagrid’s hut, so,” Cyno tip-toes, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s… remote. Safe. I didn’t know where else to take you.”
“Not the worst hideout,” Tighnari admits. “But utterly devoid of trousers,” he adds, burying his face in his hands. “You didn’t see anything… alarming, did you?”
“Only emotionally,” Cyno replies brightly.
Tighnari groans.
“Well, I guess I owe you another thank-you.” He dithers, scoots a little, then wraps his arms around Cyno’s neck and hugs him without ado—an impulsive gesture that startles them both. “I’m really grateful. And I’m sorry.”
“S-sorry? For what?” Cyno squeaks, understandably overwhelmed.
“For all the trouble. You missed class,” Tighnari murmurs, holding on tighter. “And you had to babysit a fox.”
Cyno’s arms come up, tentatively at first, then more confidently, wrapping around Tighnari with a gentleness that throws him completely off guard. “I did what I had to.”
They stay like that a moment, long enough for Tighnari to feel his pulse slow and something inside him settle.
“So,” he starts softly, still not pulling away, “it really was you in the loo this morning?”
“Yeah. You were transforming. I figured you’d rather not do it in front of a crowd.”
Tighnari sighs. “It wasn’t a full moon. I don’t understand.”
“What did it feel like?” Cyno asks.
“Like fire under my skin,” Tighnari mutters. “Like I had swallowed the sun. Headache, heat, and then—I was gone.”
Before Cyno can answer, the moment is broken by the familiar thump of footsteps and a knock on the door; Xiao and Venti enter, bearing packages from Diagon Alley wrapped in brown paper. “You’re decent, right?” Venti calls cheerfully, peeking in before Tighnari can answer. “Ah. Guess not.”
“Clothes are over there,” Cyno offers helpfully.
Tighnari grabs the nearest pile and retreats behind a conjured curtain Venti whips up with his wand, mumbling the incantation with skillful flourish. As Tighnari dresses, the conversation resumes. Xiao is asking about the time.
“Two hours before curfew,” Cyno supplies. So they’ve truly been out of the castle for quite a while. That’s how long he was a fennec fox.
Fully enshrouded, heart stuck in his mouth, Tighnari steps out and smooths his hair, noting the jitters. His shaky fingers. “Let’s head back,” he barely manages.
He’s about to head for the exit, thinking about what his next course of action should be, when Cyno stops him with a hand on his arm. “Wait. What’s the plan? If this can happen without the full moon, you could turn again—anytime.”
“Indeed. It’s a significant issue. I’ll write home and inform my mother. She might know more. For now—” Tighnari looks at Cyno, feeling a stab of apprehension. “In the meantime, if you see a fox roaming Hogwarts, please—”
“I’ll handle it,” Cyno says immediately, firm as stone. “Xiao too.”
“I will,” Xiao nods.
“And I’m always here,” Venti intones, stepping forward. “I’m sorry I wasn’t earlier, I—”
“Wanted to stay, but Cyno told you to go,” Xiao interrupts, rather defensively, and, ah.
Tighnari chuckles. “It’s alright. I’m not a hazard on paws. It’s more like—well, like watching a dog.”
“More like a puppy,” Cyno mutters. “You kept licking at my—” He clamps his mouth shut. “I—I brought you mushrooms! You liked those best! I tried giving you fruit, but you spat them out.”
Tighnari stares. “I see…”
Venti nearly chokes trying not to laugh.
“Right,” Cyno coughs, clapping his hands. “Shall we head back before anyone thinks we’ve gone missing?”
“Yes, let’s,” Tighnari agrees. He feels Venti link an arm with his as they step out into the night air, the moonlight glinting on the pumpkin patches ahead. Cyno walks beside him, eyes watchful, ever loyal, and Xiao follows just behind, steady as always.
“Thanks again,” Tighnari says quietly. “All of you.”
“Anything for you, love,” Venti sings, swaying against him like a lullaby on legs.
“So,” Tighnari asks, glancing at the brooms. “What else did you get from Diagon Alley?”
**
By the time they finally clamber through the Hufflepuff common room’s circular door, they’re out of breath, slightly windswept, and thoroughly frazzled. The sultriness of the room greets them; a grandmother’s quilt: cosy yellow light, crackling fireside, badger carvings on the walls blinking sleepily, and a bleached odour of cinnamon scones lingering from supper.
Their shared dormitory, however, is dim and sequestered—save for the very faded, scholarly murmur of someone whispering, “Nox.” A quick flash of white disappears as Lumos Maxima retreats into the tip of Kazuha’s wand, extinguished like a polite sigh.
“You’re back,” he remarks quietly, perched cross-legged on his bed with parchment splayed across his lap and a pair of reading glasses balanced precariously on his nose supposing he’s playing at being a professor. “Where did you lot go?”
Tighnari lets out a breath that’s less exhale and more existential crumble. “It’s a long story.”
Kazuha tilts his head, glasses slipping down a tad. “Lucky for you, I’m all ears.”
That earns a huff of laughter from Venti, who jerks his squiggly dowel and sends their mess spiralling back to their rightful places: socks zip into drawers, scarves somersault onto hooks, and a jumper with mustard stains shamefully tucks itself under a pillow. Tighnari watches as his own satchel plops beside his bed, looking about as exhausted as he feels.
Venti gives him a subtle glance. Go on.
Tighnari nods, resigning himself to the inevitable. He sits down austerely, the duvet rustling beneath him like sheepskin under quill, and begins.
And oh, he tells everything. Not the edited-for-your-sanity version, but the whole awful chronicle: his fox-form heritage, the transformation that struck mid-bite at breakfast, the panic in the lavatory, the trousers incident (which he glosses over with diplomatic finesse), Cyno’s forest-side heroics, Hagrid’s abandoned hut, mushrooms, blankets, and a very nosy broom-shopping trip he missed entirely. He names Cyno and Xiao with the kind of reverent gratitude reserved for war comrades or particularly dependable library partners. By the end of it, he’s slouched back, arms folded, tail (now invisible, thank goodness) metaphorically between his legs.
Kazuha, as expected, doesn’t caterwaul or faint or clutch his pearls. He simply exhales, thoughtful. “Oh, wow,” he says, as if someone just delineated the weather.
“‘Oh, wow’ is all I get?” Tighnari muses, partially gleeful.
“I’m digesting,” Kazuha ripostes, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’ve just presented me with a particularly chewy piece of truth. Fox-heritage transformations are rare—older than werewolf lore, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not,” Tighnari says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But mine doesn’t follow any rules. I thought it was the full moon, but clearly breakfast sausages now qualify as a magical trigger.”
Kazuha props his chin on his palm, gaze unfocused. “You know, I’ve read about foxes. Kitsune in Eastern magical texts. I believe Professor Yae Miko may be one herself.”
“Oh—right.” Tighnari frowns, suddenly intrigued. “But does she lose control? Is her condition like mine, or does she just swan about in high heels with her tail perfectly curled and not a single misplaced whisker?”
“Well,” Kazuha murmurs, “there’s only one way to find out.”
“Tomorrow,” Venti yawns dramatically, flopping backwards onto his bed in a cloud of robes and melodrama. “For now, I’m positively done in. Diagon Alley was lovely but my legs feel like I’ve walked the entire length of the Nile.”
Tighnari turns to him, gentling. “Oh—we haven’t even talked about that. I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you.”
Venti rises, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves, and pads over to Tighnari without a word. Then, in that disarming way of his, he leans in and wraps his arms around him—loose, warm, free and easy, and unreasonably comforting. “Don’t apologise. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you. But we’ll make sure to do better next time.”
Tighnari leans into the hug, cheek against Venti’s shoulder, sighing as the last of the day’s nerves melt away like snowflakes on skin. He means it. They both do—Venti and Cyno. Maybe even Xiao, in that mysteriously intense way of his.
They aren’t just housemates. They’re becoming something stronger. Something unuttered but fiercely rooted.
“Next time,” he says softly. “We’ll all go. And I’ll stay human the whole time, ideally.”
“Let’s not get our hopes too high,” Kazuha drawls from his bed, already pulling the blankets over his legs. “Though if you do sprout a tail in the apothecary, I’d like front-row seats.”
Tighnari groans into his pillow. “You lot are the worst.”
“Sleep tight, fox-boy,” Venti chuckles.
“Don’t lick anyone in your dreams,” Kazuha adds. “Unless you’re in dire need of it, I’m a bed away.”
Tighnari throws a pillow, and Kazuha catches it with frightening ease, already laughing.
And despite the burden of mystery still pressing down on him, on the when, the why, the what next, Tighnari closes his eyes with a smile haling at the corners of his mouth. Because for now, in this little golden dorm, he is known. Fox and all.
**
The next morning begins with plumes, excerpts, and a mild empiric hysteria.
Tighnari, perched at the east tower’s drafty owl post with a half-buttoned robe and an extensively full head of worry, fastens a scroll case to Vulpes Zerda’s leg—his owl, dignified and disgruntled, who blinks at him with an expression that reads, quite clearly: You’d better not be asking me to fly halfway across the country on an empty stomach again, you leaf-chewing menace.
“I know, I know,” Tighnari rumbles, giving the feathery leg one last secure tug before releasing her into the pale morning sky, where she vanishes into the mist with a sharp beat of wings and a look back that says next time, snacks. He watches until she disappears, heart thudding with the average cocktail of hope and dread that comes from writing your mother to say Hello, slight magical crisis, might be randomly turning into a fox now, thoughts?
He trudges down the tower steps, mind still churning. The transformation—unplanned, unmooned, unforgivably inconvenient—bothers him severely, the way a conundrum with missing clues might bother Hermione Granger in the afterlife. He retraces the morning before like a potion recipe gone sideways: breakfast, Haypasia gossiping about that troublesome Slytherin again, Cyno stuffing his face with such reckless gusto that Tighnari had felt morally obligated to inform him of the sauce smear, then—the headache, the heat, the awful, snapping shift of bones and fur and tail and trousers. Again.
But what dilly-dallies is stranger: the memory of being carried. As a fox. Awareness intact. Vaguely mortified. Is that even possible? Shapeshifters, he knows, often lose their minds to the beast—but he hadn’t, not wholly. He remembers the smell of Cyno’s robes. The steady heartbeat. The hands. It’s troubling.
So troubling, in fact, that he doesn’t even question why Venti is in the kitchens when he wanders in next.
The air smells like sugar and nutmeg and the kind of magic that makes you believe in birthdays again. House-elves scurry like wind-up toys, and in the middle of it all, there’s Venti at the counter with his sleeves rolled and a saucepan of melted chocolate swirling like a potion of love and indigestion.
Tighnari blinks. “Chocolates? It’s not Valentine’s.”
“No,” Venti says cheerfully, tossing in chopped almonds. “They’re for him. It’s that time of the month.”
Tighnari, used to Venti’s quandaries and deliberate vagueness, arches a brow. “You’ve been doing this since—?”
“Our fifth year,” Venti confirms, darting his wand to keep the chocolate from scorching. “It’s a tradition now.”
Tighnari sidles up beside him, casting a spell to nudge a few apricots into Venti’s mixing bowl. “And how long do you plan to keep it up?”
“Until I’ve repaid him,” Venti murmurs. “For pulling me out of the lake.”
Ah. That day. The one they don’t talk about. Second year. Black Lake. Cold water. One small boy who couldn’t swim, and one who did.
“You’re too kind,” Tighnari says, watching the way Venti’s gaze drags near the pantry where Xiao’s shadow had just passed. “Just—don’t get yourself heartbroken, alright?”
Venti clears his throat with a wittingly loud ahem. “He’s just a friend, Tighnari.”
“If you say so,” he hums, not looking up.
Venti changes the subject in the way only Venti can—by veering straight into someone else’s business. “And what are you up to?”
“I’m sending chocolates to Cyno,” Tighnari informs, almost defensively, almost too whimsically. “He’s been helpful. He deserves thanks.”
“Of course,” Venti says, far too innocently. “You can take this tray. I’ve made plenty. Don’t want him growing fangs.”
“I thought he already had those,” Tighnari mutters, accepting the truffles.
“Box?” Venti asks, eyeing him with mischief.
Tighnari shakes his head. “No. If I use one of yours, he’ll know. The design’s too distinct.”
“True,” Venti sighs. “My craftsmanship is criminally recognisable.”
So Tighnari does it his way. He plucks a blossom from one of his potted vines (magically enhanced, naturally), then charms the petals to curl inward like fingers until the flower becomes a velvet-soft box. The scent is woodsy, slightly citrusy, bodily non-suspicious. Inside go the truffles, along with a hand-scrawled note: Thank you for everything. Truly.
And because subtlety is a rare herb in Hogwarts, he decides to drop it off at lunch.
Then comes Potions class, which, in a word, is abrasive.
Professor Yelan has replaced their scheduled Erumpent Explosive assignment with something much less thrilling and infinitely more fragrant: Dragon Dung Fertiliser, which makes your cauldrons stink like scorched manure and your self-respect slowly evaporate. The switch was due to mysterious thefts from the potion stores; someone’s been nicking vials and, more worryingly, not returning them. No one wants a first-year inadvertently detonating the greenhouse.
By the time lunch rolls around, Tighnari’s hands still smell moderately of fireweed and fertiliser, but his resolve is intact.
Venti’s already at the Ravenclaw table, half-trapped by a swarm of girls pestering him about unrequited crushes and dreamy upper-years. Tighnari ignores them all and homes in on his mark: Cyno, eating like he hasn’t seen food in days. The boy looks up, in the middle of a greedy bite, and smiles. It’s a strange smile—genuine, unguarded, uncharacteristically lovely.
Tighnari can’t help it. He walks over and places the box gingerly in front of him. “Thank you. For yesterday.”
And just like that, he pivots on his heel and walks away, pretending he can’t hear the squeals, the whispers, the rising tumult.
Venti is smirking when he gets back. “Adorable.”
Tighnari groans. “Sod it, Venti. What are they saying?”
“They’re teasing him,” Venti divulges gleefully. “I think someone called it a love offering. Also, Xiao’s looking.”
Tighnari glances up just in time—just as the owls swoop into the hall in a flurry of wings and feathers and morning crumbs. Carmen Dei is among them, regal and gliding, a parcel clutched in her talons—and then, with a gentle flutter of wings—
She drops it.
Onto the table.
Tighnari’s eyes widen.
Realisation crashes down.
“Oh… Merlin’s saggy drawers,” he whispers.
Because the note. The sweets. The box.
He told Cyno… the owl was Venti’s.
Bugger.
