Chapter Text
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Wigland frowned as yet another potion blew up behind him. He was deep into a beginning potions class, and it seemed like nobody was having any luck brewing the “frigidigent potion” but him. Wigland's potion was just about finished, but the rest of the class were in various beginning stages or trying to clean up the aftermath of small explosions.
It had been two weeks since he had started classes at the Phantasmagorical Institute, but he still didn’t quite feel used to his new home away from home. Quinn had set off a stink bomb within the first two hours of being settled into the dorms, and ever since then there was always something going on in the halls.
Impromptu ice sculptures were common, and Wigland would often wake up to find a new unflattering statue Professor Holbroom standing down the way. Then, at some point in the day, they were usually blown up by some rogue spell cast over a dining table. Wigland had yet to see one of the sculptures last a full two days.
Another common pastime for students was dueling, whether organized or otherwise. There was almost always at least two students sparring in some portion of the halls. It made it kind of hard for Wigland to eat lunch outside of his own room. It wasn't easy to drink soup under the gouts of fire, and whatever else happened to be thrown during the fights. Wigland had been challenged to a total of five duels since he had arrived, and so far he had lost each and every one of them. Wigland only knew three offensive spells, and one of them was the standard bolt of focused magic any wizard could cast.
All of Wigland’s duels went about the same way. First, his opponent would begin to cast some big, convoluted, showy spell that took an incantation long enough to be classified as epic poetry. Wigland would then break their concentration with the pins and needles curse he had learned from Collywog. After that, he would try to take advantage of their surprise with either a basic magic bolt, or another spell he learned for festivals which made his wand spout a small fountain of colorful sparks. Neither did any real damage, and after that his opponent knew all of his tricks. It was only a matter of time before they could cast a spell, and Wigland was left bruised both in body and pride.
Wigland had pretty much given up on trying to win duels and instead began trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. He had found there was a certain… art to avoiding potential brawls. He would usually shrink into the corner of the dining hall, and eat his food as quietly as possible. He had to keep out of the areas with the most foot traffic, especially right at the beginning of a break. Most importantly, he had to avoid the gaze of anyone who had just finished a duel. The winners would ride the high of their victory directly into another match with anyone they thought would give a good fight, while the losers were itching for a chance to take out their frustration on someone who might be weaker than them. Wigland was intriguing to both groups, as some new unknown variable to the city.
Wigland had begun to dread break periods. He wished he could just sneak back into his room and eat in peace. Wigland didn't understand why everyone was so obsessed with dueling. It wasn't even a useful skill! There would never be a practical reason for Wigland to summon a tiger made out of fire! Not even one! Wigland had resigned himself to being bad at dueling for the rest of his school, and maybe even mortal, life.
Wigland took a scoop of potion out of the cauldron and smelled it. Frigidigent was a kind of viscous ice-resistance potion that was applied directly to the skin. He let it drip back into the cauldron from his ladle, and the liquid dripped like a kind of blue mucus. That meant it was ready to be presented to his teacher.
“Professor Turbles!” Wigland shouted, “I’m ready for you over here!”
The Professor stopped trying to show another first-year how to properly dissect demon fish for its eggs, and began to slouch his way over to Wigland’s table.
Professor Turbles was a young, thin, and very pale man. Well, young at least compared to most of Wigland’s other teachers. Almost everyone in Wizard city was at least a little pale. The professor had a perpetual scowl, and a set of dark bags under his eyes big enough to carry a picnic with. Wigland was sure he didn’t enjoy his job very much.
Professor Turbles leaned over Wigland’s shoulder and began to inspect the potion.
“Well, what do we have here? What's gone wrong with yours?” The professor intoned.
”Nothing. I think I'm finished!” Wigland said.
“Huh? Oh really? I’ll be the judge of that,” Professor Turbles snapped.
The professor picked up the ladle and went through much of the same process Wigland just had. He sniffed the spoonful of blue mucus and let it slowly spill back into the cauldron in strings.
“I suppose you are done. Very well. Passing marks.”
Wigland heard someone drop something very loud and clangy behind him. Professor Turbles cursed with a word that Wigland had only heard late on the nights of festivals behind closed doors. Wigland turned and saw the thing he dreaded the most. Vincent Velvetine, flanked on either side by Carmelesandre and Hogby, had dropped his tray of ingredients, and was giving Wigland a death glare from across the room.
Vincent was from a very prestigious and long-lived family in Wizard City, and he had taken a particular interest in Wigland. Three of Wigland’s five duels had been against Vincent, and each time Wigland lost Vincent came out angrier than the last. It was lucky they lived in different dorms, or Wigland was sure Vincent would be waiting to ambush him behind any corner he could find.
Carmelesandre and Hogby usually tailed behind Vincent, but the girls didn’t seem to take much interest in Wigland at all. They helped Vincent pick up his roots, tools, and demon fish, and then returned him to his seat. Wigland was sure he could see the air above Vincent's long blond hair begin to waver in an angry haze.
Professor Turbles stomped his way over to Vincent and began to scold him, at first for making a mess, but then for his half-done potion. There was a black foam oozing out the top of Vincent’s cauldron, and it was threatening to set the table on fire.
Wigland used to make the same kind of messes way back when he very first started to brew medicinal potions with his family. Most of the issues Vincent was facing came from not balancing the amount of magic he put in with each ingredient. If you put too much or too little with even a simple clover, it would do something completely different when it was brewed. When Wigland had tried to tell that to some of his classmates, they just looked at him like he was trying to give them an elixir for growing an extra head.
Wigland frowned. On second thought, there were a good number of his classmates who would probably readily agree to having a second head.
Wigland's thoughts were interrupted as the potions teacher, looking rather fed up after cleaning up his third corrosive mess of the day, stalked past him to the front of the class. Professor Turbles swung around and cleared his throat.
“All right everyone, stop whatever it is you’re doing. I have a few things I need to announce, and after that I’ll be stepping out for some…” he trailed off, ”Personal business.”
“First off,” He said, bleary red eyes returning to the class, “In just two weeks the school will be holding its fifty-third annual magic fair. This year the topic for your projects will be…” Professor Turbles paused for a few seconds, and his temples slowly began to knit together. He growled, having clearly forgotten what he was supposed to be talking about, and rummaged around the top of his desk until he found a forest green file that was completely covered in glitter. He opened it and flinched.
“Something to make our incredible city even more grand than it already is,” Professor Turbles looked like he had just been forced to eat something unsavory by a well-meaning aunt, and wasn’t allowed to spit it back up.
“Second, as you should all know, a representative of the Wizard Council will be visiting the institute tomorrow evening. The faculty expects all of you to be on your best behavior, and to help show off the ‘delights of our most fair academy,’” Professor Turbles fingers came up in quotes that looked like the curled leaves of a withering fern. A few of Wigland's classmates snickered in the back.
“As such,” he continued, but then stopped as if to brace himself for an impact, ”Classes tomorrow will be canceled-”
The classroom may as well have exploded. The student's shouts were probably even louder and higher piched than the Silver Lining’s train whistle. Papers and books flew through the air, and at least two more cauldrons went off in plumes of pastel steam. Professor Turbles was shouting something, but he had been completely drowned out by the stampede of glee that could only come from a child being told that they didn’t have to go to school tomorrow.
Wigland wasn’t any different. He almost put too much magic in his potion out of excitement, and it had changed colors from a light blue to a deep pink. It would still work, but it would probably give whoever used it a minor case of the hiccups.
Wigland had no idea what to do with a day off of school. Campus was slowly starting to make sense in his brain, at least to get to his classes, even if he had to ignore the creeping feeling that several of his classrooms probably existed in the same space as each other without touching. Apparently there was a nice garden that was toward the top of school. That might be nice to visit. Wigland hadn’t seen any living plants around since he had gotten into Wizard City. The closest he had gotten was the pre-prepared ingredients to stick in his cauldron.
Honestly, he had learned so much more about potions at home than in class that he kind of wondered if he should even bother showing up to his potions class until he was farther in school. Maybe he could ask Professor Baldurghast to let him do something else? No, that wouldn’t work. She would probably just respond with a wheezy half breath and slowly float away.
Professor Turbles had finally gotten the class back together, and was looking haggard and red. He had been singed by at least three more volatile potions, and looked nearly ready to blow up in a cloud of steam himself.
“Listen here you little rats,” he spat, “I’m going to step out of this room, and if even ONE of you does so much as leave their seat, they are going to have detention for the next month. That means no time off tomorrow, and the worst chores the faculty can think of. Is that clear?”
A smile crept onto Professor turbles face as he spoke those last words. The class nodded.
“Good! Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have a date with the corpse of a chimera.”
He stalked toward the door, making sure to glare at every student at least once before he left.
“Remember, one month,” he said, and with one final look around the class, he closed the door.
Vincent Velvetine was already up and charging his way to Wigland’s desk as soon as the door had closed. He planted his fist into the table and tilted back his head to just look down his nose at Wigland.
“Wigland!” He started, “I challenge you to a duel!”
Wigland groaned. “You’ve already beaten me three times! Why do you want to duel me again?”
“You were obviously holding back. There’s no way a mage that can brew a potion like this only knows three spells!”
Vincent gestured to Wigland’s potion, which at this point was one of only three in class that hadn’t exploded, or caught fire, or otherwise failed in some shape or form. Vincent’s own potion was beginning to foam over the brim and was filling the class with a smell like burning sulfur.
“This is just what I did back home.” Wigland said, “My family was way more focused on potions and runecraft than spellcasting. Also, can’t this wait until after Professor Turbles gets ba-”
“And I’m not buying it! There isn’t a single wizarding family in the WORLD that doesn’t focus on spells.” Vincent interrupted.
He looked around the classroom for someone to challenge him. The rest of the students were also clustering around in different conversations, heedless of Professor Turbles’ threat. Nobody bothered to correct him. Vincent turned back to Wigland with a smug grin.
“See? Now, I’m not going to let some backwater nobody show up ME, the preeminent mage of our generation! I expect you to meet me in the dormitory after lunch tomorrow, and no more holding back!”
“I’m not going to duel you again! There’s no point because I’m not holding back!”
Vincent’s eyes lit up. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at Wigland’s desk. Vincent began muttering under his breath, and his wand began to crackle. Wigland knew he only had a few seconds before there was a giant explosion, or something else where his stuff should have been. He grabbed his cauldron and jumped back a few steps, almost tripping over his chair and spilling some of his potion on the floor. There was a large crash and Wigland's table had been broken in two like a wooden board by a karate master, except the kung-fu artist in question was a gigantic tiger made out of fire.
“What the heck!?” Wigland shouted.
“If you aren’t going to duel me after lunch tomorrow, I'm going to settle the score right now!” Vincent sneered, and flipped his hair back.
Hogby giggled and shouted, “Get ‘im Vincey!”
“With pleasure,” Vincent sneered and flicked his wand in Wigland’s direction again. The tiger leaped off of what had been Wigland’s desk, and came charging for its main course. Wigland dropped his cauldron and rolled under another student's desk like he was hiding from an earthquake. Carmelesandre gushed over Vincent’s spell almost as much as his potion had gushed all over the floor while it had been unattended.
The other students had formed a rough ring around the edge of the room and cheered as the tiger flew over Wigland’s potion and into another desk. Wigland briefly wondered how they had organized themselves so quickly, but had to cut his thoughts short as Vincent’s tiger pounced at him again. Wigland rolled out from under the desk, and found himself about in the middle of the room. The tiger prowled forward and placed itself between Wigland and Vincent.
“With all that rolling around you’d think that Bartholomew had already gotten you!” Vincent taunted from behind Professor Turbles desk, having sat down in the teacher's chair. “Aren’t you going to cast one of your spells? Oh right. You don’t have any.” Vincent leaned back and started cackling.
“Aww, that's so cute! He gave his tiger spell a name!” Hogby said, elbowing Carmelesandre.
Vincent cackle stopped and he choked like a bug had flown down his throat. He stood up and whirled toward the girls.
"Th-that’s not-!”
Wigland saw his chance. A series of images flew through his mind in the blink of an eye. The flash of a new fire, a slamming door, juicy crushed blueberries, and his family's home wobbling in the wind. Wigland felt as the cold rush of magic coursed up his spine, across his arm, and finally, to the tip of his wand.
He carefully tossed the spell, and it flew straight through the Tiger, who may or may not have been named Bartholomew, and it found its mark right on the back of Vincent’s head.
Vincent visibly flinched as he felt his whole body prickle like he had sat on everything wrong for the past hour, and the Tiger disappeared like a candle’s flame snuffed out by a bowl. He turned back around with a dark scowl.
“Oh, come on!” He said, exasperated. He took a deep breath and started to mutter under his breath for another spell. Wigland started to look for somewhere to hide, but was cut off as another of the students suddenly let out a hiss.
“The Professor’s coming!”
Everyone froze for a few moments. Then, the class seemed to spring in every direction all at once. The tables which had been moved or broken during the fight lifted themselves into the air to get out of the way of the storm of running students. Wigland was almost having more trouble dodging stray elbows and knees than he had dodging Bartholomew.
Scorch marks cleaned themselves off of the floors, the tables began mending themselves in the air, and in a flash everyone was lined back up in neat and orderly rows. Then, the chairs and potion tables fell from the air, and almost in an instant, everyone was exactly where they had started before Professor Turbles had ever left the room. Wigland didn’t even know at what point he had found his way back to his seat. He had just kind of been… swept up in everyone else's frenzy.
The door opened with a creak, and Professor Turbles slowly poked his head in, seemingly in fear of a stray explosion or glob of failed Frigidijent potion. When none came, he crept into the room more earnestly, and glared around at all the students like they were all tacky garden gnomes in a detested neighbor's yard. He scanned back and forth, looking for any slight change in position anyone had made. Wigland started to feel sweat form on the back of his neck.
Then, Professor Turbles deflated, and started grumbling as he made his way back to his desk. Wigland let a small sigh of relief escape the prison of his lungs. Now, all that was left to do was finish class with his head down to avoid detention, collect all his stuff, and run back to his dorm fast enough that Vincent wouldn't be able to catch up to him and resume their duel. Simple!
Wigland took a tally of his class supplies. All of his textbooks were in order, The potion ingredients had been prepared by the school, so he didn’t need to worry about them as long as they were presentable. He had his regular wand, AND a backup wand that he was taught any responsible wizard would carry with them. Too often a wizard would lose their wand in a duel and be left without a focus for their more complicated spells. It would be disastrous.
Wigland smiled. Everything seemed to be in its proper place. That meant the last thing for him to do in class was to bottle up his potion if he wanted to use it later. Wigland picked up a ladle to pour the Frigidijent into an empty bottle, but then froze. Everything had not been in order. His cauldron was not on his desk.
Wigland’s smile stuck as he internally panicked. Where was his potion? Why hadn’t it come back to his desk like the rest of his things had? Did its own magic properties interfere with whoever had cast the room cleaning spell? Wigland didn’t know who cast it and didn’t have time to ask.
Wigland took a secret glance around the room to see if he could spot the potion. He had almost scanned the entire room before he found it. Directly behind him, under an empty table.
He stole another covert glance around the room to make sure no one would see him eyeing the cauldron. Why was it over there? The cauldron should have been right on his desk. He hadn’t moved it until Vincent had…
He looked at his potion and the room again. It was right where he had left it. Wigland had dropped the cauldron after dodging Bartholomew. Now it was just about half of the room behind him.
There was no way he could just walk over and put it back on his table. Professor Turbles would spot him instantly, and wonder why the potion was off of his desk in the first place. The only thing getting up would do was earn him a cozy seat doing whatever mundane chore the detention hall wanted to punish him with.
So, what was next? Could he try and sneak to grab it as class ended? No, he would probably stand out even more heading into class instead of out of it when the bell rang than if he just went to go get it now. Wigland couldn't think of how to get his potion without also getting detention. Maybe he could just… leave it there?
Wigland stole a few more glances around the room. It didn’t seem like anyone else had noticed the stray cauldron. He might be able to just walk out when class ended without anyone saying anything. He didn’t really need the potion anyway. There was no way Wigland was going to be back in the frigid wastelands around the school until next year, when he was leaving to visit home.
That settled it. He would simply wait until class ended, and then leave without it. Wigland leant back in his chair, and did his best to look as relaxed and unsuspicious as possible. The classroom had been enveloped in an eerie silence. Before, the room had been loud and brash, with loud talking and occasional screaming as someone lit themself or their neighbor on fire. Now everyone was still, seemingly hoping to escape notice. Professor Turbles was seemingly unbothered, and went about his business with his usual tired scowl.
There were barely a few minutes left in class, but the seconds began to pass like time was full of a hearty home-cooked meal, and was unwilling to get out of its favorite chair. Entire weeks went by as Wigland stared up at the ornate clock above Professor Turbles desk, and felt like he had discovered the secret to eternal life. If he ever only had a few minutes to live, this was a sure-fire way to make them stretch on for as long as possible.
Then, the curse of silence was broken as the sound of distant chimes came from just about every direction. The many clocks around campus had turned to two o’clock. Wigland could feel the tension melt out of his spine as he gathered up his books and did his best to melt into the crowd of students as they fled out the door.
Wigland felt the sweet hum of victory as he crossed through the doorway, but then he saw Vincent, far ahead in the hall, turn around and smirk at him from over his shoulder.
It was over. Wigland’s face wrinkled as he braced himself for whatever came next.
“Wigland, would you come back here for a moment?” Professor Turbles cooed from inside the classroom. Wigland slowly turned around and walked back in, feeling like he had just been given a life sentence. Professor Turbles was waiting for him at the door. Wigland could hear Vincent finally resume cackling as the professor closed the door behind him.
The classroom was just as silent as it was before, but it no longer felt quite as stiff. It was brighter, and almost felt cleaner without everyone else being there. Wigland, however, was rigid. Professor Turbles stalked his way around the room and sat behind his desk. Wigland clenched his fingers around his spellbooks even tighter. His cauldron was waiting on the Professor’s desk.
“Wigland, come bottle up your potion.” Professor Turbles said. His tone had become perfectly neutral. Professor Turbles had only ever complained and snapped at students. Wigland was terrified.
Wigland slowly shuffled his way over to Professor Turbles’ desk, and after a raised eyebrow from the teacher began to fill empty vials from the cauldron. He would take a bottle with tongs and place a glass funnel on the top. Then, he slowly ladled the frigidigent into the bottle, careful not to spill over the funnel. Once it was full, he removed the funnel, placed it gently to the side on a cloth, and corked the top of his glass.
Professor Turbles was watching all the while, and once Wigland had filled his first bottle, gave an approving nod. The teacher got up and began to pace the classroom while Wigland finished working.
“Out of the thirty-four students who were in this class, you were one of only three to produce a potion that could actually function,” He began.
“Furthermore, both of the other students with successful potions were third-years,” He turned to give Wigland a glance, “the oldest in class.” The Professor paused, waiting for Wigland to respond.
“Well… I’ve just had a lot of practice is all,” Wigland said, “My grandma always used to say there wasn’t a problem in the world that couldn’t be solved with a bubbling cauldron or a few scrawled runes...”
Wigland trailed off as Professor Turbles stalked toward him again and picked up one of his bottles. Wigland had corked another two while they were talking. He swished it around a few times, and then muttered something under his breath.
“What was that, Professor?” Wigland asked.
Professor Turbles glanced at him again, then returned to swishing the potion.
“I know about the fight, you know.” He stated.
Wigland almost choked.
“I don’t particularly care what happened. As long as you keep bringing results like this,” he gestured to the cauldron “nothing else matters.” The Professor finally turned to look directly at Wigland.
“I have high hopes for you. Now don't let me down.”
He let his words hang in the air for a moment before strutting to sit back in his seat.
“When you’ve finished with your last bottle you are free to go.” Professor Turbles voice returned to his usual pointed disinterest. Wigland capped off his last bottle and tried to hurry out of class as fast as his legs would take him. He almost dropped a few vials, but managed to open the door. As he stepped out, Professor Turbles called out one more time.
“One last thing,” He grinned, “You’ll report to the library during your month of detention. As a punishment for being sloppy enough to get caught.”