i.o.u

The night air was deceivingly chilly for how toasty it had been in the tatami room, lying wide-awake in his futon and counting origami animals. Now there weren’t scraps of artfully folded paper circling the ceiling but stars — then the overbearing tree canopy, mere pinpricks of moonlight shining through. 

Arty half-wondered how he’d let himself get roped into this unruly scheme, but he supposed it was futile to put up any resistance now. Nikolai’s flitting shadow bounded ahead of the pack, chatting in low, hushed tones with Annika, her long blonde hair glimmering like a fresh pearl. In the semi-darkness, he caught Misha’s eye. The latter only shrugged, and Arty took it upon himself to accept defeat.

It’s just exploration, they said. It’d be fun, they said. 

Because exploring the woods of an unfamiliar island at night was a great idea. Stupendous. Absolutely, a hundred percent safe. 

He should have stayed in his futon.

His wand ignited a pale, ghostly glow at its tip, sweeping over bracken and jutting roots as he forged on — the chill was now settling on something bordering on unnatural. The hairs on his arm were standing on end, and Arty studied in the northernmost parts of Norway.

Yeah, no, he heard something. Like a rattle, a preparatory inhalation of breath. 

If thunderclouds could roil in reflection of bad moods, a generous, ancient mass would have been positively writhing over Arty’s head right then. Not even the pinch of satisfaction at the Japanese students' open-mouthed reactions to their imposing arrival from the sea could placate him. It was the same, shot-through look of awe and murmured fervour as the skeletal mast first broke the surface—like a nightmare vision coming to life—and he merely crossed his arms and watched the volcanic island unfold through a porthole.

Baba Ana had thought the idea of an exchange programme charming, but the appeal was certainly lost on her stoic, homebody of a grandson.

To hell with it! the boy had thought sourly. Yet his opposition was futile—what Baba wanted, Baba usually got. Baba, who could never seem to muster a raised voice or direct order at him, had an impossible knack for the impossible. Arty had been deposited on the Spanish galleon bound for the foreign magic school in a thrice. No wheedles. No last-minute negotiations. No Alexei—the wizard was more spectral retribution hovering at his shoulder than flesh and blood, sometimes.

As the ship ground to a tell-tale halt with a low, carrying moan, its inhabitants began to move. Slowly at first, then gaining traction as the finality of their arrival began to set in. Subtle as ink gliding over black canvas, they disembarked into a full-fledged deluge of sunshine, the green of the island at complete odds with the furs thrown over their shoulders. Arty tossed his ivory head, mismatched eyes sliding across the waiting Mahoutokoro delegation with faint disinterest. They were all so… short. A few were jarring explosions of colour against plain uniforms. Like rows of painted matryoshka dolls. Beside him, Misha swung his elbow at his ribs with a knowing snicker. A brief bout of giggles swept their surrounding schoolmates. His amusement was a flicker of lightning on a horizon before his face flatlined back into placid neutrality.

Not for the first time, there was distinct sense of loss in his chest—the sense one gets from having glimpsed the snitch before it vanishes into thin air. He was a fish out of water, a dragon in a trophy room, an ill-at-ease figure with too-pale hands and horrifying eyes who hung as close to the back as he dared, inspecting his sleeve, without having to overhear pleasantries being exchanged by each of the schools’ representatives.

It was a break in discipline on Arty’s part (or perhaps a well-timed stroke of fate), but the moment he lifted his gaze from something that wasn’t the ground was when he met the bold stare of a girl opposite in a very flowery garment and blue-black hair. Of its accord, his lips curved into a mirthless (but admittedly sultry) smirk.

So this is Mahoutokoro.