ur the twst mc but ur dead

girl they're in your house

You're watching the entrance ceremony from where you stand, invisible to the world as you linger in the air, sweeping over the students silently. You take a great interest in the first-years; they're all so young and excited to stand in front of the mirror, and you can feel a phantom of feeling in your chest flutter as they excitedly join their dorms.

You love watching them bounce off to join their new friends, jumping around as they meet their dorm members and getting lectured by their dorm leaders. You smile, feeling something similar to pain make your chest clench. If you could be able to breathe, you don't think you would've been able to anyways.

You never got that. You were thrown into a world you didn't recognize, you weren't given anyone to lean on as you got sent to that run-down excuse of a dorm with a magical mix between a cat, a raccoon, and a demon, and then you died.

You don't remember your death. You don't want to, anyways, because it's probably better like this.

You shake your head before you can delve into your thoughts too much. You don't want to ruin this moment for yourself. Instead, you focus on pretending like you're one of the first-years, bright-eyed and in awe at the amount of pure energy coursing throughout the mirror chamber.

Which dorm would you have been sorted into? Heartslabyul, perhaps? The rules would be a pain, but the tea parties would make up for it. Octavinelle, maybe? They look kinda shady, but you're sure that there's nothing too serious going on behind their business. Pomfiore is intimidating, but you'd give anything to be able to dress yourself up just one more time.

You're still wearing the school's uniform. You'd made adjustments to it before your untimely death; there were pins piercing the fabric of your lapels and little stitches that covered the placed you'd ripped your jacket and pants in, decorating the tears with swirls and stars. You'd sewn white lace onto the outside of one of your sleeves, letting it trail down to your upper thigh, and stuck it in place with little pearls. Your shoes had laces you'd dyed yourself, laced up high and tight with chains jingling down the heels and eyelets. Your gloves were cut off above the wrists and had little patterns painted onto the backs of them, tracing up your fingers and around the seams. Your tie had been punched through with pins and strings, looping around themselves like a spiderweb and falling delicately over the soft material.

You were creative, that was for sure. It wasn't bad for a ghost outfit, but you were missing two things—a magical pen and an arm ribbon. You hadn't been given either at the start of your year at Night Raven College because of your lack of magical energy and your lack of a dorm, so you'd stood out from the other students—even more after you decided to take some artistic liberties with your uniform.

You sigh, and with a shake of your head you leave the mirror chamber. Best not to dwell on the things you couldn't have.

You floated through the halls of NRC, watching the students all file out in their respective groups. You smiled as you caught a glimpse of Vil Schoenheit; he was always easy to pick out from the crowd. After all, that was what his image was created after—individuality. You'd listen into the advice he gave others frequently, even though you couldn't use any of it for yourself.

Leona Kingscholar passed through your unseen form. You shivered, watching him walk away with the rest of his dorm; he had always been a sort of enigma to you, but being unable to talk to him meant that you didn't have any way of finding out more. All you could do was wait and watch for his next move.

Riddle Rosehearts marched after him, barking rules at his hoard of first-years. You grinned as you listened to him rattle off the entire list from memory, listing each one off yourself—you'd spent enough time within the school to memorize all of them, too.