Fangirl

The weather was hot in September, almost as hot as it had been in the summer. The sun was quickly burning the dark stone of the Academy’s blackened walls, and it was unbearable to be indoors with the windows closed. The heat was especially maddening in the room of Spellcraft, whose high windows faced south and were not shielded by thick branches; that was where the trees were planted some distance away. From the first day professor Konstantin Vasilievich, who often came with the last students, asked from the threshold to open the windows for airing. The request was strictly fulfilled. The students rushed to open the creaky old sashes to get a breath of fresh air. The wind already carried the light trace of fiery autumn, but it was still caressingly pleasant, filling the chest with the tart aromas of burning herbs. The stuffiness had established its own rules in the classroom with the arrival of damp October. The sky was covered with fat rainworms of clouds. As soon as the cold insides burst from their voracious bellies, they smoldered before the eyes. The sun peeped through, and now the flaming disk shone in the sky like a polished gold coin, demanding the lost moisture back. Thick, soupy mist billowed from the saturated ground, turning the building filled with students into a molten bathhouse. When the windows were open, the wind gusts brought the cold breath of the mountains with them, making us squirm with a palpable chill. When the windows were closed, the humid air trapped inside heated to be suffocating, melting away the remnants of thoughts and causing the eyelids to droop in a dull slumber. The windows were open again. November was getting cooler. The sun showed itself less and less often, letting the darkness slowly weave its web high beneath the whitewashed ceiling, dropping the tiers of curtains lower and lower along the walls, plunging everything into gloom. Warmth was welcomed in such weather, but the thirty two breathing bodies quickly burned the air fit for study and the window had to be open again. ‘Phillip, would you be so kind to open the sash next to you? Just one, thank you.’ The professor asked shortly after the class began. It had been like this for the last couple of weeks. Phillip rose, fulfilled the request, and sank silently into his chair, continuing to take notes of the lecture. His thin, pale fingers with short, clean fingernails held the quill neatly. His head was tilted slightly to the side, his other hand supporting his chin. Soft light oozed through his blond hair, covered in a patina of frayed gilding, touching his perfect shoulders. Not too broad and rounded like a strongman’s, but not narrow and girlish either. It was visible even beneath the cloak that concealed the outline of his figure. It was short after he barely moved, pulled down the cuff of his uniform blue shirt, and put his foot behind his leg. A chill spread through the room. It penetrated deeper and deeper, enveloping the students amid the measured clinking of writing quills. Philip fidgeted, clenched his left palm tighter, then tucked it into his pocket. A light draught came up. It whistled from the window to the door, making the boy shiver and shrink. He must not have noticed that he had ducked down a little, trying to hide deeper under the low collar of his coat. At that moment he resembled a pompous sparrow. Even seeing him from across the room, I could guess at the change in his expression: his eyebrows were drawn together at the bridge of his nose, his lips tightened. He was cold. I kept waiting for him to say so, to ask the professor for permission to close the window. But he didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said anything for quite some time. He started to get cold in the middle of October. He squeezed his nose, but it didn’t help. He sneezed. A stifled, barely audible sneeze. Even then he didn’t ask to close the window, and the professor didn’t notice, enthusiastically preaching from the pulpit about the intricate spells available to students in their final years at the Higher Academy of Magic. Finally, a melodious chime sounded, announcing that the class had come to an end. The professor handed out the assignment and allowed us to leave the room. Everyone seemed to jump out of their seats — it was lunch break. In the narrow doorway there was the usual bustle. Students were talking noisily, rustling papers and robes, laughing excitedly, and hurrying out of the cold room. Usually I was one of the last to leave, but today I was in a bit of a hurry. I was lost in the line of raven robes near the door, so no one noticed my presence. One more step and I was on the same level with the guy. He was the same height as me, but I seemed taller because of the thick hair. In the commotion, I grabbed his palm. He flinched, looked up at me. When he saw who exactly had the courage to such impertinence, his face changed. His clear gray eyes must have darkened with indignation. But I didn’t respond to his direct stare, keeping on to look ahead and walk forward. I didn’t let go of his hand when he tried to take it away. He didn’t act too forcefully, probably not wanting to attract attention. I didn’t let go of his hand until we were just before the door. At that moment, I let go of his fingers and stepped out first. *** The dining hall was as noisy as ever. In addition to the chatter that ranged from whispers to scandals, plates clinked, cutlery rattled, and soups and drinks squished. A horde of students crowded at the serving counters, half the tables already occupied. Unnoticed by everyone, I joined the line and waited my turn. I didn’t worry that I wouldn’t find an empty table. This was the fourth year I had my own piece. I went to one of the dark corners of the hall, dimly lit by torches, took the familiar table and began to do what I had always done — to observe. The mass of living bodies swarming and flowing like an anthill was of little interest to me. All my attention was focused on one single point of space. Occasionally the rippling flames — the students — formed gaps, allowing me to see him. Phillip habitually sat down with his friends. All four of them had long ago decided on their own spot too, and so my table was moved a bit to the right to have a better chance to see him, at least at a glimpse. He was smiling. I exhaled. That meant that I hadn’t shocked him enough with my deliberate action to knock him out of his rut. That would hurt, though not surprisingly. All I wanted was to warm him up a little. My element was fire and it didn’t cost me anything to warm myself, changing my body temperature to the desired. My touch could feel different. I touched Phillip with a hot hand, wishing to share the warmth, that’s all. And I did it quite resourcefully: no one noticed, and so Phillip’s impeccable reputation was not tarnished by my free touch — the touch of an outcast. That was the place I occupied in the group of the forth year. It was the place that became mine on admission. I came from a distant province, spoke with a slight accent that differed from the capital’s, and my unsociable appearance must have been a little discouraging. To be honest, I often looked at myself in the mirror, comparing myself to my groupmates and came to the conclusion that I wasn’t very attractive. My face probably seemed small because of the abundance of thick brown hair that reached my waist. It always hung down on both sides, covering her ears and lower jaw, making my face look narrow. My eyes were almost black, too close-set, the eyebrows too thick, the nose not enough straight, and the lips just strange. The top one was much larger than the bottom one, making it slightly protruding. The others didn’t like to look at me; they either skipped me with a casual glance or averted their eyes as if they’d tripped on the way. That was the reaction I’d expected, though. I’d got the same stares in the place where I came from. I chewed a couple of eggs and put both hands under my chin, staring at Phillip. He was laughing at someone else’s jokes and looked ravishing. He was perfect. Not too tall, thin in the bone, but not effeminate, with accurate facial features except for the brow arches — they were more prominent and splendid. Very typical of the capital, but the eyes… Almond-shaped, the out corners stretched slightly to the temples, giving away a mixture of bloods, but of what kind, I didn’t know. And a pair of moles on his face. One above his upper cheekbone, the other under his lower lip. I swallowed. At that moment, Phillip’s gaze accidentally came across mine and froze. The corners of his laughing mouth fell slightly. I didn’t look away, staring straight at him. So was he. Suddenly he nodded faintly and shifted his gaze. I was numb. What was that? It looked like gratitude. For today? There was a thud in my chest. Anything for you, Phillip.