forum A Magical RP (More of an Interactive Story) (CLOSED)

Started December 21, 2019 by Deleted user

tune

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“Lovely choice! You can go sit down if you’d like; I’ll send it right on over when it’s done. And don’t worry, some kind young lady before you paid extra, so you don’t have to spare a single coin! Isn’t that a nice treat?”

“Yeah, that is. Thank you.”

By the time he got back to his seat, Finnegan had come into the shop. Cecil had to admit, he looked strange. Really strange. His hair was slicked back neatly, his shirt was crisp—was it ironed?—and his slacks were pressed. The infamous yellow cloak he’d worn for the whole week they’d known him was nowhere in sight.

“Uh-“

“Not a word, Valentine.”

Cecil winced. He’d always been “sweetie”, not “Valentine”. If he was resorting to last names, then something was definitely up.

“Is everything good?”

“Everything’s fine.” That glare could cut through glass.

“If you say so.” Switch the topic, he thought instantly, swiveling in his seat. “Naomi, how did going to talk to Mister Lars go? I’ve heard he can be brutal.”

“Oh, he was nothing. All I had to do was turn on the puppy eyes and he was like putty in my hands, really. Man’s a softie. People just take his jokes too seriously, I think.”

“That’s good.”

A cup of coffee came flying over their heads and touched down right in front of him. Rising in blissful, steamy waves out of it was the smell of honey, sweet and subtle compared to the sugary scent of Naomi’s tea. He picked it up and gingerly took a sip. The drink was absolutely delicious.

“Are you going to order, Finn?” Naomi questioned. “We have to go in, like, a minute or two. You’d better go do it fast.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“What about breakfast? I ordered some scones for the group that I’m going to grab as we’re heading out, b-“

“Already ate.”

She and Cecil shared a glance. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, but there was no easy way to find out what.

“Well, then… I guess we should start on our way over to Principles, right? I’ve heard Professor Scotch can be downright horrid to kids who’re late.”

(“You go on ahead. We’ll catch up.”/“Yeah, let’s go.”)

“Oh. Uh, alright.” She cleared her throat as she stood to bring her cup back to the counter. The barista handed her a paper bag of a medium size that Naomi tried carefully to balance in one arm. When she finally got it to stay, she strode out of the shop without looking back.

Finnegan didn’t seem too happy with her leaving, but he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he leaned forward on his elbows and let his head dip downwards.

“Come on—talk to me. I know something’s up.”

His expression softened like ice cream in the summer. “I don’t want to talk about it, sweetie. Is that so hard to understand?”

“I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

One of Finnegan’s fingers traced a slow pattern out on the back of his hand. He seemed distant. Cecil’s nerves spiked. He’d been a blurter since they first met. Up until that moment, Cecil hadn’t even been sure that the guy could think anything without saying it first.

“Ihadahearing.”

“What?”

“I had a hearing, alright? I’m on academic probation.”

A million thoughts started racing through his head at once. What could he be on probation for? They’d barely gotten any grades. Had he started a fight with someone? No, surely not. He didn’t have any bruises or scratches. Did he play a prank on a teacher? That didn’t fit, either. As spontaneous as he seemed, he wasn’t the type to mess with people’s stuff. Although, it was possible that Cecil didn’t know him as well as he felt like he did. They hadn’t been friends for that long.

“Why?”

“Can we just leave it at that? Please?”

“Are you going to be allowed to stay?”

“I don’t know, I don’t get the results until later this week. But missing class sure isn’t gonna help. We should head over.”

“Yeah, sure. But first…”

(Mess up his hair/finish drink)

Finnegan’s eyes widened as Cecil leaned forward and pushed a hand through his hair. The dark locks were much softer than he thought it’d be. Before he removed his hand, he marveled at its fluffy qualities.

“Looks better this way. More natural. More you.”

A shaky breathe escaped him. “Oh. Thanks.”

“No need to thank me. Now, come on. We’ve got to get going.”

They hurried out of the café together. With an impatient noise, Finnegan grabbed his hand and launched them both into the air. Cecil screamed bloody murder for the first few seconds as they hurtled through the halls in the direction of Professor Scotch’s classroom. Scotch, who’d been waiting at the door, gasped as they zipped in at the last second and crashed to the floor.

Scotch’s classroom was very spacey and bare for their lesson today. The only thing in sight were carpets on the floor and random diagrams, demonstrations, and charts on the walls. All of the students were standing around awkwardly in clusters, unmoving.

“Good to see that the both of you aren’t late, Mister Morrow and Mister Valentine, but I ask you please to use your legs to enter my classroom. Flying at such speeds can be dangerous.”

“Yes, Professor,” Finnegan said, a hint of charm bleeding into his voice.

“Now, let us begin, class. Mister Morrow, might I ask for your assistance?”

“Ay.“ He moved quickly to her side.

“Please describe how you first learned to use your ability.”

“Ah, well, it kinda just happened. I didn’t have to focus on it much or anything, not like some people do.”

“Some people in this class will be like Mister Morrow. Magic will come easy for you. Most of your classmates won’t be as lucky. You’ll have to focus on it. Today, that’s what we’re going to work on. Get with a partner, everyone, and face each other.”

(Go with Naomi/go with Finnegan)

Naomi came up to Cecil instantly, supposedly to ask to be partners, but he’d already turned to ask Finnegan if he wanted to be with him. When she saw that they were together, she promptly turned to a girl beside her that was wandering around alone and asked her instead. The girl looked relieved to have been paired. Cecil was relieved as well for a much different reason. His own partner appeared to be much less tense than he had been before. If even for a moment, he was glad that he could help put Finnegan’s mind to ease.

“You and me, huh? Y’know, you’ve been spending a lot of time around me lately. I’m starting to get th’ impression that you might like me.”

To that, he could only smile. They sat together on the floor, right across from one another, and stared at each other in the eyes. Every couple of seconds, one of them would burst out laughing. Being serious was hard at the moment, much to Professor Scotch’s dismay.

“Alright. Close your eyes, one of you, and try and focus. Don’t think about anything but using the ability that Mistress Frida claimed was yours. If you have Healing, reach out and touch your partner’s arm. If you have Self Transformation, do try and be careful about it. I don’t want any of you to have to go down to Mister Candon’s office.”

He really did want to concentrate, but Cecil couldn’t help but wheeze-laugh uncontrollably as Finnegan wiggled his eyebrows. “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll be good.”

When he closed his eyes, he tried to think of darkness and lightness together. He imagined golden sunlight dancing on the leaves of trees in a valley and shadows flickering in alleyways at night, the brightness of a candle in the dimmest of rooms, the shimmer of golden paint on a black canvas. Both of his hands twitched in the effort of imagining black plumes or burning, gold swirls bursting from his fingertips. Nothing happened. There was no stirring in his chest or tug in his mind letting him know that he was doing anything right or wrong. He put even more energy into it, getting frustrated, squeezing his eyes shut so hard that he saw spots. In his mind, he started a chant of “light, dark, light, dark”. His heart ached with pressure and fear. Around him he could hear little cries of joy and shock. What if he didn’t have that moment? What if he was stuck without an ability? What if Mistress Frida had been wrong about him? What if he had to be sent home to his dad, to—ugh, he couldn’t even think her name without getting sick—and be a nobody for the rest of his life.

A hand gently landed on his shoulder. He flinched at first, then exhaled when he realized that it was his partner.

“Hey, you’re doing fine, sweetie. No need to freak yourself out.”

“But- but nothing’s-“

“Breathe for me for a moment.” Finnegan’s thumb brushed up and down his arm. “You’ve got it. And if you don’t have it this time, we’ll try again. You’re getting too worked up.”

“I…” He breathed as deeply as he could. His lungs felt tight. “I’m trying.”

“Stop trying. Open your eyes and look at me for a moment, just look at me.”

Cecil did as he was told. Finnegan was sitting right next to him. The taller boy took his hands in his own and squeezed them.

“What were you thinking about?”

“A bunch of things. I was trying my best, I swear, but nothing was happening. What’s it supposed to feel like? How do I know if I’m doing it right? Am I sup-“

“Shh, shh, you’re panicking. Look at me. No, not to the side. Look in my eyes. That’s right. Now, listen to me, alright? Your magic is a part of you. Forcing it out’s probably not going to work. You’ve got to try and do it naturally. Like, think of an emotion. What emotion are you feeling right now?”

(“I’m afraid.”/“Nausea. Is that an emotion?”/“Love.”)

Finnegan’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Are you gonna be sick? We can go out in th’ hall if you need to.”

“I was joking.” Mostly, he thought—no, only somewhat. All of the heavy breathing and shaky nerves had combined with his lack of breakfast to make his stomach churn unpleasantly. He attempted to tug at his collar to let some air into his shirt, but his hands were unsteady so it took a couple of seconds.

“Alright. Well, take that nausea and think about it.”

One of his eyebrows shot upwards. “Think about my nausea?”

“Well… yeah. You’ve gotta think about something, don’tcha?

“I guess.” He shut his eyes and tried to relax. Nausea, nausea- maybe he’d better do a different emotion. Maybe he could try excitement. He was kind of excited, or at least he was trying to be. Magic should excite him! He should be thrilled!

All he could think about, though, was his mother. On holidays, she used to light up the whole house with vibrant beams of colors. She also used to wear a different perfume for special occasions; it was something sweet and sugary. When he was really little and got upset, he‘d bury his face in her sweater and close his eyes so that all the badness in the world would disappear. She’d hug him and tell him that he was alright, that she was there for him.

But she wasn’t there anymore.

He missed everything about her—the way she hum quietly whenever she had a song stuck in her head, how she’d check on him in the night as a kid whenever he’d have nightmares, her horrible cooking. He even missed her most annoying habits, her incessant cleaning, her yelling at him whenever he left out his pencils or spilled paint on the floor. His father had never been that close to him. Neither of them knew how to talk to each other, not about anything important.

A weird, heavy, hot feeling filled up his chest as he thought about her. He assumed he was about to cry, but instead he heard:

“Open your eyes, sweetie.”

A faint light was emanating from his hand. It was a bright color somewhere in between white and pale yellow, and it danced like fire.

“Con-gra-tu-lations!” Finnegan laughed. He was visibly beaming. “Look at you!”

(“This is so cool!”/Thank him for helping/Show Naomi/Hug him)

“Oh. Oh, you don’t need to thank me, I really didn’t do nothing.”

“Don’t say that. You definitely helped.”

“I’m glad I could.”

Professor Scotch came up beside them with a large, blue notebook in one hand and an elegant, feathered silver pen in the other. Eagerly, Cecil showed her his hand. She paused, scribbled something down, and gave him a reassuring nod.

“You’re going to want to work on letting that fade away. Otherwise, you’ll have what my coworkers and I call a Magic Hangover. Mister Morrow here has had a couple in this class already; you might’ve seen him grumbling about it once or twice. He’s not very good at managing his magic.”

“Aw, no need to be rude, Professor! I just like to have a little fun, that’s all.”

“Well, that ‘fun’ can be dangerous. You know, if you use it too much you can end up with some pretty serious consequences. Migraines are an example of a serious effect, but there are worse. I’ve had students black out before. One even ended up messing around with his ability so much outside of class that he had a seizure. There are also some more rare illnesses associated with overuse as well, but those are often limited to certain individuals. I’ve heard of some pretty interesting ones. Some poor child once got extremely severe rashes whenever they went on a magic binge, so they had to use theirs very sparingly. Another experienced horrible tremors and aching joints. I think they got too afraid to ever use theirs again, sadly. So, Mister Valentine, do your best to extinguish that light now.”

A kid across the class cried out in surprise, so she was forced to leave their side after she was done speaking. Finnegan glanced at him and nodded.

“She’s right. I know it probably sucks to have to put it out so soon, but you don’t wanna end up with a nasty headache.”

“You’ve never seemed to care about that in the past.”

“With me it doesn’t matter that much. You’re too pretty to be in pain, though, darlin’.”

“Oh, it’s darling now, is it?”

“I was just trying it out. Either way, you’re still gonna wanna work on that.”

Rather than try and keep a motto in his head, he crossed his legs and took a long, deep breath. All of the emotions he’d built up drained away. With them went the magic.

“There you go, nice and easy. That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“No. It actually wasn’t at all, but you know what?”

Finnegan‘s head tilted to the side. “What?”

(“Now I’m kinda hungry.”/“I don’t think I wanna do it again anytime soon.”)

(Awesome. Thank you both for being cool about this. If I ever need another break, I’ll let you guys know this time instead of leaving you in the dark.)

The other boy laughed and pushed a hand through the hair that Cecil had already messed up, making it a completely fluffy disaster. He flopped over backwards onto the ground, rolled over so that his back was facing the ceiling, and continued to cackle in his Finnegan way.

“You’ll get used to it, I swear. Takes a bit of time, though. Your body’s gotta get used to it and all.” He lifted upwards into the air and did a sort of backflip so that he was standing straight up in the air. Professor Scotch shot him a glare that he promptly ignored, instead stretching his hands out so that he could lift Cecil up as well. “The more you practice, the better you’ll get.”

“Mister Morrow, we just had a conversation about this, did we not? You’re going to give yourself a nasty headache, and you’re disrupting the class. Aren’t you supposed to be on your best behavior today?”

“Aw, it’s awfully nice of you to worry, Professor, but I’ve got this under control.” He brought himself and Cecil further up until they were almost brushing the ceiling, spun them around, and then let them float loosely. Cecil thought he was having fun until he took a closer look.

This was bad.

He looked the same as he had in the coffee shop, all tense and ready to bite someone’s head off if given the chance.

“I’m going to ask you again to stop right now, Mister Morrow,” she replied pointedly, “or I’ll have to report you to our committee, and I doubt that’s what you want.”

“What’s it matter?”

She bristled. “Excuse me?”

The air in the room began to stir like wind picking up before a storm. Even from as far up as he was, he could tell that students were whispering. Naomi was staring up at Cecil. Her eyes betrayed her concern.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, does it, Professor? Nothing-“ he broke off, chest heaving, jaw clenched in frustration. “I handle this, not today. I can’t.”

It happened in a blur. Finnegan dropped him to the floor, making Professor Scotch cry out, and blasted open the doors to the classroom. He zipped out of there like the building was on fire. The class practically went insane. Rumors were spreading like wildfires about what he’d meant by all that, how dangerous he was, whether or not he was going to be expelled.

Professor Scotch came over to Cecil and helped him up. “Are you injured?”

“No, I’m fine. He dropped me, but it wasn’t… I don’t know, it was like he stopped me from crashing too hard or something.”

“Well, I’m awfully sorry about that. I shouldn’t have provoked him like I did. He’s had a difficult morning.”

“It’s alright,” Cecil responded, “and I agree. He hasn’t been acting right.”

(“I should go find him.”/“Maybe he just needs some time alone.”)

(No problem, I hope things start getting better for you!

Also: "I should go find him")

Professor Scotch studied him curiously. Whatever she found in him, she appeared to like. She nodded and turned to the rest of the class, who she ordered to get back to work, before ushering him to the doors–or what used to be of the doors, rather, because Finnegan had blown one completely off its frame. "Go and find him, then. And if anybody asks you what class you're supposed to be in, tell them you're on an errand for me. If he's in a good enough state to come back here, then bring him; I'd like to talk to him. If he's not, I understand. I expect to see you both here next class, however."

"I understand. Thank you, Professor."

Cecil didn't waste a moment. He hightailed it out of her classroom and down the hall, eyes scanning every doorway, every corner, every space in between and beside casually strolling couples and friend groups. His friend was nowhere to be seen. That wasn't surprising; he hadn't expected him to just be crouched by a potted plant. He kept going until the tile floor turned to dirt and the ceiling to sky. Only at that moment did he stop, scan the grounds, and find what he was looking for: a certain series of bushes that he and Finnegan had met up at before.

There he was. His knees were pressed up to his chest and his head was shoved down into them. Every couple of seconds, his shoulders would tense up violently. He looked up slowly and asked, in a wavering voice that didn't sound like his, "Cecil?"

He stopped. Man, he didn't look good at all. He wasn't crying, although crying might've been better. His hands were shaking–no, his body was shaking–and his lip was bleeding, probably from being bitten too hard.

"Yeah, it's me. Hey."

"That was so stupid." The 'so' lasted about eight seconds. He was slurring and sniffing noticeably. "I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?

"No, you didn't. Scared me out of my mind, yeah, but I'm fine. You're clearly not. Can I sit?" Finnegan murmured in affirmation and patted the grass. "I'm not going to make you talk to me if you don't want to, but I really think you should. You helped me with my magic. It's my turn to help you."

"I can't-" He pressed the palms of both of his hands into his eyes, lips trembling.

Mimicking what he did earlier, Cecil touched his arm gently. "Hey, it's alright. Give yourself a minute."

"I've never-" he stopped again, swearing loudly. "I've never told anyone about this. Only my nan."

"I won't tell a soul, I promise."

"Can you- can I- can you look away?"

He turned the opposite way. "Sure, why?"

"It'll be harder if you're looking at me."

"Alright."

"So, it's… it's about my family. You know I live with my nan. My parents- they, uh, aren't around anymore. They're not dead or anything. I, uh, wish they were." He chuckled bitterly. "I don't mean that. No, I do. They, uh, they both weren't kinda ready to be parents when they had me. My mama didn't know anything about kids. It wasn't her fault. She was-" his voice cracked, "-fourteen, and she was really, really scared. My dad was older, too old for her. He's in a cell now. I've never met him. Don't think I'd want to. Last I heard, he was up to some pretty bad stuff.

"Anyway, my mama did love me at first, she really did. She moved in with my nan so that she'd have someone to watch me while she went to school. My nan was something fierce, even back then. She loved me too, though, and used to take me on walks and talk to me about all sorts of things. I loved her, still do. We're pretty close." Pride colored his voice, then quickly turned to disgust. "My mama's a different story. When she turned eighteen, when I was about four, she started staying out late. My nan and her got into some mean arguments. She threatened to take me away. My nan wouldn't stand for that. Like I said, she loved me. My mama got mad. She stuck around until she was twenty. Then, when we were alone, she actually stole me away. It lasted for a couple of years. I was eleven when it started getting bad. Real bad. We didn't have any money or, uh, food. My mama started staying out late again. She wouldn't tell me what she was doing but would always come back with money. It got better, then it got worse. She started getting sick in the mornings and got cramps in her ankles. I didn't know it at the time, but she… she was going to have another kid. I guess she decided that she wanted to start over or something, so took me and we started on to a different city so she could find work. We didn't make it there. There were some bad people she knew that caught up with her and stopped us. They-"

He went silent. Cecil quietly called his name. When he didn't answer, he carefully turned around.

"Finnegan?"

Finally, he'd broken. He was sobbing silently, rocking back and forth with it. Cecil stared at him in shock before inching closer.

"Hey, can I-"

The boy leaned over and hugged him furiously, like he was some sort of lifeline.

"They messed me up, sweetie, they messed me up bad," he gasped, then softly added, "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Sh, hey, that's alright. You're doing amazing."

That made him cry harder. He buried his face in his chest and shook his head.

"A team of vigilantes," he started to mumble, "got me out of there after a year. They took me back to my nan. She was heartbroken, and she agreed to take me in. I've been living with her since. She's done so much for me, she's- she's so, so strong, but she's pretty much out of money now, too. She can't afford for me to be here. I need to go home, but this week–just the first week–is the happiest I've been in such a long time. I haven't had… friends before, at least not friends that don't know stuff about me. I'm so sick of fake pity."

("Listen, is there anything I can do to help?"/Comfort him/Offer to take him back to his room)

“Anything you can-“ He shook, but not from crying. He was laughing. “Not unless you’re a millionaire.” Suddenly, he sobered up; no more bitter laughter, much less gasping for air. “I shouldn’t have told you about all this. I’m sorry, sweetie. I prob’ly freaked you out, I know. I mean, we didn’t meet that long ago and here I am, spilling my guts, making a big fuss like some little babe. I wasn’t thinking straight. My head’s achin’ from all that.”

“You didn’t freak me out, don’t worry.” Cecil, albeit somewhat shyly, let his hand to his friend’s shoulder and rubbed slow circles into his shirt. “I’m sorry about your head. I’m not a millionaire, but… is there anything I can do about that?”

“I dunno, I think it’s mostly from bawlin’ my eyes out.” That was interesting. His accent was a lot thicker when he was upset. It was kind of endearing.

“Maybe I could get you some tea or something.”

“You? Makin’ tea? I thought I’d never see the day,” he teased, a flash of a smile crossing his face. Then he sighed. “I still dunno. I kinda feel like crawlin’ in a hole and dyin’ right now, y’know what I mean? My body’s ready to crash for thirty years. I…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Didn’t sleep well last night, thinkin’ ‘bout th’ hearin’, sweetie, if I’m bein’ honest.”

“I can barely tell what you’re saying, but I think I get the gist of it.

Good, Cecil thought, he made him laugh again.

“You want to stay here? You could take a nap. It’s nice and warm out.”

“In public? Nah, I might just go back up to my room.”

“Oh, alright.”

“But… Cecil?”

“Yeah?”

“I know that-“ He swallowed. “I know that I’ve asked so much of you already, but (I don’t wanna be alone right now.”/could you get somethin’ for me?”/do you really think you could make me that tea?”)

“Are you asking me to sleep with you?” Cecil mused. Finnegan barked out a laugh and pulled away.

“Maybe later. I dunno what to say to make it not seem weird, though. It’d just be nice. Sometimes when I’m alone, it almost feels like I’m back there with… them. The people that took me. It doesn’t feel right closin’ my eyes like that. Doesn’t feel safe. I hope I, uh, don’t sound too paranoid.”

“No, that makes sense. Sure, I’ll stay with you. If you want, I can just pull up a chair and read while you nap. I still want to get through that book you gave me, the one about my abilities. Even if I’m not ready to use them anytime soon, I still want to learn more about them.”

“Sounds good to me.”

As they made their way together back to Room 603, Finnegan leaned on him quite considerably. It was clear that he wasn’t feeling very well. He closed his eyes at one point on the way up, and Cecil had to shake him to get him to keep going. Occasionally, a stray tear would slip down one of his splotchy cheeks. He’d push at it with his sleeve and crack a joke if he saw Cecil looking, but he just sounded weary. Guilt surged through Cecil’s body. Some friend he was, practically forcing the poor guy through a confession and then barely being able to help.

Finnegan ended up curling up on his couch, not his bed, with a blanket that Cecil threw over him and a pillow tucked under his head. He didn’t go to sleep immediately; rather, he stayed up and watched the other boy read his book. Sometimes, he’d let a witty comment or one liner slip out. Sometimes, he’d just breathe shakily and shiver.

“I have a sister,” he whispered suddenly after about an hour had passed and rolled into his side. Cecil’s head whipped up.

“What?”

“Remember? I told you when we first met that I lived with my nan, aunts, and sister.”

“Oh.”

“She’s not my biological sister.“

He was at a loss of what to say. “Oh.”

“When my mama took me away from my nan, she was my replacement. My nan couldn’t stand not having a kid in th’ house.”

“That’s horrible.”

Finnegan shrugged, yanked the blanket over his head, and yawned. “I don’t know why I told you that.”

Focusing on the words on the pages in front of him was hard after that. He kept sneaking glances at the other boy, who couldn’t seem to stop tossing and turning on the couch. The blanket slid off of him a lot. Each time, he’d groan and tug it back up so that it cocooned him once more.

Words, words. He intensely stared at them, trying to make sense of them in his jumbled up head. Darkness was often easier for people to use—was Finnegan going to be expelled?—although those that relied more on their light abilities found that they would use them more in everyday life—what had those bad people done to him to make him so scared?—and could often be paid for them. There was a slight stigmatization around those that tended to exclusively use their dark abilities—how many nights had he gone sleepless without Cecil noticing? And how many signs had he ignored?—and an overall public approval of those that didn’t, despite the fact that dark abilities did not technically make a person villainous or evil. He flipped through a page or two about the surprising history of horrid masterminds that used only light abilities before searching for a section strictly on learning how to use both types of magic.

“There’s coffee powder in the cabinet.”

Surprised, he lowered the book. “Sorry, what’d you say?”

“I got some coffee powder. It’s cheap, but it works.”

“You don’t like coffee.”

“I know. I got it for you, sweetie.”

“That’s- oh. That’s very nice, but-“

“But?”

“You got food too, yeah?”

“You’re askin’ if I’m starvin’ myself,” he stated flatly.

“That’s not what I meant.“

“I know. You’re tryin’ to look out for me. It’s sweet.”

Cecil smiled, knowing that he wouldn’t see it, and draped his legs over the side of his chair. “I might make some coffee later. Are you still having trouble sleeping?”

Finnegan pushed the blanket off of himself. “Yeah.”

“You’d probably feel more comfortable in your own bed.”

“Yeah, but that’s kind of weird.“

“It’s not that weird. Besides, anything’s fine with me if it helps you out.”

“Thanks. For all this, I mean.”

“No problem.” He cleared his throat. “So, is there anything I can do right now? Like, I don’t know, get you another blanket?”

“Maybe read to me? I dunno, maybe that’s silly, it’s just- when I was really little, that’s how my nan used to put me to bed. She’d sing, too, but I’m not gonna make you do that. Not that I don’t wanna hear your lovely voice, of course.”

“Sure, I’ll try that.”

It turned out that reading worked well. In about twenty minutes, Finnegan was sound asleep on the couch. He snored outrageously.

Some people thought it was weird, but in the upcoming days Finnegan and Cecil did the same thing several more times. Cecil would grab a book and settle into that chair while Finnegan, looking worse with every night that passed with no news on the status of his probation, would slump onto the couch and chat with him until it was crystal clear that he was about three seconds away from passing out.

Life went on slowly at Ravesson’s. Eventually, Finnegan gave Professor Scotch a decent apology, Cecil received letters from his father, and they saw less and less of Naomi. In every class, she seemed to find another group before she found them, leaving them to always partner up. Cecil’s powers grew; Finnegan started to use his less. Things, as messed up as they were, seemed to have finally found their rhythm.

And then there was a murder.

(And there’s the end of Part Two! It might seem short, but that’s because Part Three is really, really long in comparison. Obviously, if this were an actual book the timing of everything would be much less rushed and things would come out in slower, less revealing blurbs, but it’s hard to do that when you’re doing this sort of unplanned thing, you know?

Anyway, time for choices! How’re you feeling with your choices so far?
I’m happy with them/I’m not happy with them/Unsure

And what do you think of Finnegan’s backstory? Be honest—did you get enough of it, or would you like to hear more later?

Would you prefer to see more of Professor Scotch or read about a new teacher?

Thanks for being patient!)