Henbane Academy

2 October

Orpheus Dorm; Number 1888

With a limited number of students coming back each year, our school wasn't very lively in nature but the past two weeks have left the halls more hollow than before. It was the serial attack that evening with William and Sarah which left several students packing— without question, concern or any promise of return. One well kept body and a note finally set panic into the heart of the school. The teachers were doing everything in their power to keep the news within school confines, but students wrote letters screaming bloody murder to their family. The younger ones especially, rushed to their families with petrifying fear. Although there remained the few who were unfazed about the idea of a murderer. Like the boy throwing his possessions at the wall.

'If you're going to speak, do so facing me at least.'

'I can hear you perfectly fine Cunningham,' William's backside remained facing me as he sorted through the contents of his trunk, casually tossing things backwards into the air and turning his once immaculate bedroom into a cave of scattered trinkets. 'Catch,' he called as he threw me his signet, likely buried underneath all the broken pens and ink pots. 'What are you here for then? Anything new? Mind your head.' This time a book flew over my head, missing me by centimeters. 'Has anyone else left? Mr. Evans perhaps? His parents are talking about him and his cousin's transfer to a more appropriate school.'

'No, Evans and Carmichael have already convinced their parents to let them stay. I, on the other hand, am not having as much luck with Nick supporting mother.' I sat down next to him. 'And you asked me here. Given the choice, I'd rather stay in, reading. Since they cancelled all our classes, might as well catch up on fictional lives.'

'Are they the same two books you've read for the hundredth time?' He didn't bother facing me. I could clearly hear the smirk he implied.

'You know they're the only two I own.'

'But you know they are not the only two you could own...'

'We've discussed this William,' I fought the urge to roll my eyes. 'I don't need your pity or your family's money, no matter how many times you tell me your parents have allowed it—or that you promise no debt would be involved.'

'I wouldn't have to if you would just ask your brother. He's your mum's favourite—'

'Yes, how refreshing for you to remind me.'

'I'm serious,' he put down the stuffed owl he found and swiveled to face me. 'He cares for you. You could just ask. It isn't fair that Nick should be the only one receiving donations.'

'Well that's how it's been for three years. It's routine.' I shrugged. 'I don't need charity. I don't have money problems and I'm faring well on my own.'

'For now,' he went back to his treasure hunt.

'What are you—no,' I twisted my hands in my lap, doing all I could to keep from strangling him. 'I'm not having this conversation.'

'Of course you aren't.'

'Alright smart arse. What are you looking for then? What is worth turning your polished room into a pigsty?'

'This,' he sighed, heaving a thick volume onto his lap. It looked half a century old, at least. Years of abuse left it's spine frayed, the edges of it's cover torn and splattered with ink.

'You were looking for a broken book?'

'This, is the headmaster's journal,' and he added under his breath when he thought I couldn't hear, 'Twit.'

'Why would Mr. Balding keep a journal?'

'Oh Cunningham,' William shook his head, smiling. 'Cunningham, Cunningham. It still surprises me how slow you can be. Or as you've corrected me many many times, your direct thinking shrivels in the shadow of my brilliance.'