Chapter Text
Scene I: Overture
It starts on a particularly dull morning. Grey clouds adorn the grey skies; they are utterly devoid of joy and beauty. Rook would see beauty in this lifeless day, but Rook is not there to see it. Vil is. Standing here, in the dull hallway outside the Potionology classroom, is a perfectly miserable way to start off the school day.
Three heartbeats pass before Vil composes himself enough to straighten his posture. Three long heartbeats. Between each thump, he has to remind himself that he’s still the best in the Advanced Potions course. Of course he is. So what is this foreboding that’s chilling him to his very bones? He fights the urge to adjust his tie as he anxiously waits for the rankings of the top students to emerge onto the noticeboard facing him. It’s approximately two minutes before Crewel typically posts the monthly rankings, and ten minutes before he has to face the music by entering the classroom for said course. He’s still got time before hoards of clamorous students charge through the hallways.
One minute. He’s always been on top of this leaderboard, even after being transferred to the course as a freshmen where all his peers were at least a year older. His potions are always textbook perfection. Always. Something’s been weighing on his mind, though. Ever since last week’s assignment to brew a sleeping potion using only five ingredients, he’s had a very uncomfortable feeling that Professor Crewel’s ranking is leaning towards someone else. Even though Vil’s recipe contained some of the most potent ingredients, even though he delivered perfection and potency wrapped in a wax-sealed bottle; it may not have been the star of the show.
A parchment scroll slowly materialises into view behind the thick glass. Vil waits with bated breath; it’s been years since he’s last felt tremors like these. The gnawing feeling in his gut feels horribly similar to the first time he experienced stage fright. It’s unfurling. Whoever made this unveiling spell needed to be fired immediately; the bottom rankings were being revealed first. Vil sighs in relief as he sees his name emblazoned on top in a deep red alongside his markings.
Hold on.
Someone else’s name is slowly scrawling itself onto the parchment. Who the hell- an annoying ringing permeates his ears as he feels his heart miss a beat. He doesn’t know that name, but as his eyes swivel to the house logo proudly emblazoned beside it, he can clearly see the Ramshackle logo. The Prefect? The magicless human? The orientation disruptor? The beast-tamer? That person?
It’s been precisely two months since you arrived, and somehow managed to worm your way into Advanced Potions class, despite not possessing any sort of understanding of magic or potions. That should have been a sign in itself, but Vil dismissed it as nothing more than a fluke. Foolish. You’ve kept your head down, preferring to sit in the back of the lab as Crewel lectured the students, while Vil’s consistently kept to the middle rows. Of course he hasn’t noticed you.
Still, it must be a fluke. It has to be. How could you, someone who’s decidedly without any magic at all, become the proverbial spanner in the works? Distantly, he feels his hands clench into tight fists as he scans the row of marks next to your name. You’ve been consistently scoring just a couple of points below him, although the marks for the first class are subpar, of course. Still, he cannot fathom how you’ve managed to beat his average of 96.
That’s until the final row of marks - for this week’s assignment - slowly unveil themselves. Your score of 100 sits proudly above his meagre 87. Vil feels a vein protrude on his forehead. That’s impossible! It’s unheard of for a student to achieve 100 marks in Crewel’s classes, especially for an exam assignment, and especially in the Advanced Potions course! There’s no way, absolutely no way you of all people managed that! The next person below Vil only managed to scrape a 50, for Sevens’ sake!
Vil feels his breathing become uneven. He can’t even imagine how you could’ve cheated - those assigned flasks were enchanted with every sort of spell imaginable preventing cheating, and each potion had to be brewed somewhere on school grounds, under teacher supervision, within an hour.
The clatter of students is beginning to approach. Breathing heavily, he shoulders the door open, devoid of his usual lustrous grace. He avoids his usual row, choosing to sit on the far back corner of the lab - your row. Surely, there must be some indicator as to how you achieved a perfect result, some lapse in composure that would betray what must doubtlessly be foul play.
There’s only one seat between Vil and your chair. He can feel the lack of distance sharply. The lab isn’t particularly big; it’s never bothered him apart from now. Feverishly, he stares down the door, watching the slow trickle of students enter to distract that gnawing feeling. From the corner, he can see the hallway, as well as whoever chooses to look at the noticeboard. It’s agonising, waiting for you to walk in so he can observe you.
When you finally decide to show up, you’re in class around a minute later than Crewel and the previous student. Vil can tell by the direction of your body and feet that you haven’t yet seen the rankings. He’s not sure you know they even exist. He can feel his blood starting to boil slowly, which is only heightened when Crewel points his riding crop at you. Your surprise is apparent by the way your feet stutter to a sharp halt.
“Listen up, whelps!” his voice resounds throughout the lab. “I’m sure most of you have seen the rankings for this month that were posted this morning! As usual, most of your scores were abysmal for the final assignment, though this promising pup managed to get full marks-” here he gestures to you with approval. Vil doesn’t miss the way your brows furrow, then a small smile blooms on your face as you look down at your shoes. “-on an assignment that would likely even trouble my fourth years. Next week, we will go over why your attempts were so laughably mediocre, and I will personally make sure that lesson is drilled into each and every one of you pups.”
Crewel’s piercing glare marches itself around the room. Vil can see your shoulders slump in relief as Crewel strides behind his desk and you are free to make your way to the back. Your gaze is trained straight on your seat. Vil leans on his forearms to observe the other students; a few look back at you with congratulatory smiles, which you return. You don’t seem to have noticed your new neighbour. He feels his eye almost twitch. How dare you? You don’t even realise the full gravitas of this situation! Not only did you dismiss the noticeboard, you don’t even seem to be affected by the knowledge that you got full marks! Not to mention you haven’t even looked at him once! Is it ignorance, or a blatant smugness? Vil almost begins chewing his pen in anger before stopping himself.
The rest of the lecture goes by agonisingly slowly. Today isn’t a lab practical day, so Vil hasn’t got a chance to observe just how you’ve managed to secure that top rank. Instead, he alternates between taking notes and watching you watching Crewel and taking your own notes, which seem to be interspersed with pointless little doodles in the margins of your notepad. It’s infuriating.
He’s worked hard; he’s worked himself to the very bone to be the Fairest One. Yet that title was snatched away by some wimp resting on his laurels and looks to snag the roles that Vil yearned for. Now it’s happening all over again. Something within him is twisting, churning, grating his insides and self-control into a bloody pulp. The title of number one in the Potionology department is something he could finally call his own. Something that couldn’t be snatched away by someone’s looks or charm or mere luck. It was a way to prove himself to his dorm. It was a way to finally be held above all others for something you could very well work hard for. It proved his diligence.
So why? Why was this newly sprouted tuber next to him number one? Why the hell weren’t you taking any of this seriously? He seethes. It’s unbelievable. When he surreptitiously glances at your notes, they’re written in a language that he can’t even make sense of. They’re a far cry from the runes of Twisted Wonderland, and even with his studies on linguistics he can’t figure the twisted squiggles out.
“It’s the Latin alphabet,” your voice is suddenly in his ear, and he wishes for nothing more than to explode on the spot. His eyes flicker between your notepad and your face, which sports a tired smile. You’ve clearly misinterpreted the furrow of his brows as a question, because you continue.
“I can barely make sense of the runes here,” you twirl your pen between your fingers. Your other hand props up your chin as you tilt your face towards Crewel’s general direction, but your eyes linger on his. “So I use the language from my world.”
“I see,” Vil’s curt response doesn’t even make you bat an eye; instead, you turn to face Crewel again as if you had never spoken in the first place. This revelation from you is useless information to him, but if he continues talking to you he may be able to glean more information about your supposed genius.
Towards the end of the lecture, you pause in packing up and swivel towards Vil. He masks his startled expression within a millisecond, luckily.
“I never got round to asking your name,” you smiled sheepishly, scratching your neck with the back of your pen. “I think I saw you at orientation?”
That’s it. Vil feels his self-control splinter.
“Vil Schoenheit,” he says coldly. “You would do well to remember it, tuber potato.”
Your expression is nothing short of bewilderment as you toss your pen in your bag, but ultimately you don’t say anything after you nod. Vil feels a swell of the same ugly, twisted emotion that rears its head at the mention of Neige LeBlanche.
As you leave the room, Vil is left watching your back as the bell rings.
Scene II: Interlude
“Bonjour, Roi des Poisons,” Rook’s sharp gaze misses nothing as Vil feels those eyes observing his countenance. Vil elects to be silent, sipping on the fragrant lavender tea. The Pomefiore lounge never fails to ease his mind with its deep blue tones, fit for the Fairest Queen herself, but it cannot help his turbulent thoughts.
“Who is the lucky one who has cracked that beautiful mask of yours?” Rook’s voice is beginning to sound rather jarring after today’s fiasco earlier.
“I can’t say I know what you’re talking about,” Vil’s stiff words are forcibly turned casual as they leave his mouth.
“Tu me mens,” Rook drapes himself over the armchair Vil sits in, taking off his hat in a sweeping motion. “It breaks my heart, hearing sadness in that beautiful voice of yours. Tell me, who is the cause of this pain?”
“Rook,” Vil turns to him contemplatively, observing how Rook’s present grin is all teeth and sharp edges. “The Prefect of Ramshackle has piqued my interest.”
He didn’t mean to admit it, but the truth escaped his lips before he had a chance to think it through. Vil sighs, shutting his eyes and placing his teacup back into its saucer. It’s been a stressful day, one that can’t be amended with just a simple cup of tea.
“How very beautiful,” Rook comments, rising from his draped position. “I will take my leave, mon Roi.”
Vil has no doubt that Rook’s interest will also be spiked by you. He just hopes he gets some worthwhile intel about you in the process.
Scene III: The Hunter
“Félicitations,” a very familiar voice cuts through the tranquillity of the Botanical Gardens. Vil tenses up from where he was crouched harvesting the flowers of a particularly potent species typically used in aromatherapy. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop on Rook, but as fate would have it, your voice responds to the hunter.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” your tone is quizzical; by the rustling, Vil gathers that you’re likely here for the bounty of flora available in the Garden. Judging by the volume, you and Rook are probably three or four metres around the bush he’s facing.
“Of course, pardon my impertinence. Je suis Rook Hunt. I was simply admiring your beauty, when I realised you’re the one I’ve heard so much about,” Rook’s voice is sincere in his flattery, but Vil almost screams at his forwardness.
“What’s been said about me?” a shift is heard in cloth. No doubt you’re rocking on your feet, either in curiosity or nervousness, Vil can’t tell.
“Your scientific prowess has been held in very high esteem amongst my peers,” Rook murmurs; Vil can imagine those green eyes staring into yours at that moment and fights the urge to shudder at his audacious nature. Seems like Rook’s already cut straight to the heart of things. “I cannot help but be curious about what you plan to do with those sprigs of Somniablossoms, les fleurs des rêves.”
“Just some analysis,” your tone turned to that of academic fervour, one that resonated with Vil. “I’ve noticed that a lot of the elements present in this world match the properties of the ones back in mine - meaning that this place is likely in a shared universe. I’m trying to examine some of the flora here to see if the subcellular structures of plants here differ in any way from the ones back home. Then I’ll extract and purify the oil from these sprigs for further use, and use the flowers to see if they’d work as indicators.”
Your rambling catches Vil off-guard. He hadn’t expected you to be passionate about science outside the classroom; he judged by your attitude in Crewel’s classroom that it was more of a one and done occurrence of genius.
“Incroyable. Your mind captivates me. It seems we share the same love of science,” Rook’s own scientific fervour is clearly audible in his voice. Vil feels sickened by this sudden closeness between the two of you. He can’t turn away from the conversation, listening while he holds his breath.
“Yeah,” your tone is once again sheepish, drawing the ‘e’ vowel out ever so slightly. “I can’t read the runes here all that fluently, so it’s up to me to conduct my own research instead of relying too much on textbooks.”
“What tenacity! I would love to see your workspace someday,” Rook praises. It’s too much for Vil; he can’t listen any more without feeling that ugly monster within rear its head. “I’m sure it’s as captivating as that wonderful brain.”
Rook’s sweet talk fades out as Vil quietly slips away. He’s got no doubt that Rook sniffed his presence out; he only hopes you were too preoccupied by the vice Housewarden to notice him as well.
He massages his temples as he walks into the secluded corner of the Pomefiore lounge, seeking out his favourite armchair. It’s thankfully empty, as he’s one of the only ones with a free period at this time. Now he’s got time to think. All these negative feelings were going to damage his health, and he couldn’t afford to lose sleep over this. Not with the SDC a mere three months away.
No, he should treat this as a challenge. You proved yourself to be a worthy opponent with clear wit, something you had clearly worked for. To win against you… to win against you would be a more worthwhile endeavour than winning against that bumbling Neige. You would not take his title away from him. At long last, here was something that he could work hard for instead of it being taken away by something out of his control.
Was that what this was about? Control? After being overlooked for everything, left to play the villain, surely he could achieve this, at least?
“Roi des Poisons, I hope you were adequately amused,” Rook’s sudden appearance almost started Vil from his musings. Almost.
“Quite,” Vil responded, staring out of the window at the blue sky and beyond.