"And what about Hercules?" Hermione asked, pausing halfway up the stone steps that spiraled toward the dormitory towers like the vertebrae of some ancient, petrified serpent. Her trunk scraped against the weathered flagstones with a sound that echoed through the cavernous stairwell, books threatening to cascade from her overstuffed bags like an avalanche of academic ambition. Her tone carried that razor's edge of concern that only she could make sound simultaneously urgent and scholarly. "Where would he fit in this… taxonomical framework you've been developing?"
The question hung in the air like incense, thick with implications and the kind of intellectual curiosity that made Wednesday's eye twitch with something dangerously close to approval.
Enid practically levitated off the step, her entire body vibrating with the kind of manic energy usually reserved for caffeinated squirrels or first-year students discovering they could actually cast spells. "Oh my gosh, Hercules Black! I've been following every single paper Andromeda Black published on him—her integration theory is absolutely groundbreaking! I mean, hybrid stability between dragon, werewolf, and phoenix essences? That shouldn't be theoretically possible outside the fever dream of a completely deranged magical geneticist with access to way too much research funding and a disturbing lack of ethical oversight!"
Her hands gestured wildly as she spoke, nearly knocking Luna's dreamy expression sideways as she bounced from foot to foot on the narrow step.
"Sounds like a recipe for spontaneous combustion," Wednesday observed, her voice flat as gravestone marble and twice as cold. Her pale face remained expressionless, as though she were discussing the weather rather than a walking magical impossibility. "Which, frankly, makes him the most interesting person I've heard about all semester. I do so appreciate individuals who carry their own potential for dramatic incineration."
Susan's arms crossed with the precision of a lawyer preparing for cross-examination. "Interesting is one word for it," she muttered, her voice carrying the weight of someone who'd spent far too many hours reading liability clauses and emergency protocols. "Catastrophic liability nightmare with potential for campus-wide evacuation procedures would be several more accurate words."
"Not catastrophic!" Enid protested with the kind of manic brightness that suggested she'd definitely spent hours researching this topic instead of sleeping. "He's… integrative! Harmoniously stabilizing! He actually creates better pack dynamics instead of destabilizing them through traditional Alpha dominance patterns. Instead of using violent territorial aggression and fear-based hierarchy maintenance, he generates this incredibly supportive resonance field. Like, other werewolves actually want to transform around him—they actively seek his presence during lunar cycles—and when they do transform, they do it better. More controlled, more cooperative, more… community-oriented!"
She paused to catch her breath, her cheeks flushed with enthusiasm and the exertion of climbing stone steps while carrying what appeared to be half the Nevermore Academy library.
"An Alpha through peer mediation instead of terror-based subjugation," Hermione mused, her analytical mind already dissecting the implications like a particularly fascinating specimen. Her brow furrowed in that way it did when she encountered something that challenged established magical theory. "That's… highly irregular according to every lycanthropic social structure study I've ever read. Traditional Alpha dynamics rely on dominance assertion through physical intimidation and territorial aggression. This suggests an entirely different paradigm of pack leadership."
"Unnervally wholesome," Wednesday deadpanned, her dark eyes glittering with the kind of amusement usually reserved for funeral directors at comedy clubs. "Imagine a wolf pack that holds group therapy sessions and discusses their feelings instead of tearing each other apart under the full moon in a glorious display of primal carnage. It's a miracle no one has set the entire forest on fire out of sheer disappointment at the lack of bloodshed."
Ginny's laugh rang out sharp and bright in the echoing stairwell, her red hair catching the flickering torchlight like living flame. "Don't tempt him, Wednesday. You'll give him ideas, and then we'll all have to deal with werewolves who want to schedule emotional check-ins instead of hunting. Can you imagine the paperwork?"
"Actually," Luna interjected in her characteristically dreamy voice, "the Nargles mentioned that emotional transparency often leads to more effective hunting strategies. Apparently, wolves who communicate their feelings have better coordination during pack hunts. It's all about spiritual alignment with lunar energies."
"Of course the Nargles have opinions about werewolf therapy," Susan muttered, though not unkindly. "Do they offer relationship counseling too?"
"Only on Tuesdays," Luna replied with perfect seriousness.
Enid's nervous energy suddenly shifted, her usual rainbow glow dimming like someone had adjusted a cosmic dimmer switch. For the first time since they'd started climbing the endless staircase, her manic enthusiasm wavered. She began tapping her claws against the stone banister—a unconscious nervous habit that created a delicate clicking rhythm like rain on glass.
"Actually, um…" she began, her voice uncharacteristically small, "I was kind of hoping he might be able to help me. Personally. With a… situation."
The group collectively slowed their ascent. Even Luna's perpetually wide, dream-dazed eyes blinked in what could generously be called surprise—which, for Luna, was the equivalent of someone else gasping and clutching their pearls in shock.
Wednesday's head tilted with predatory interest, like a raven that had just spotted something particularly intriguing to dissect. "A situation. How delightfully vague and potentially catastrophic."
"I can't…" Enid's voice cracked slightly, and she swallowed hard before continuing. "I can't transform. Not fully. I've got all the enhanced senses—hearing, smell, the whole supernatural sensory package that makes grocery shopping an absolute nightmare of overwhelming input. I've got the instincts, the territorial feelings, the inexplicable urge to howl at inappropriate moments during lectures. I've even got the whole fur-adjacent aesthetic thing happening." She gestured at her colorfully streaked hair that seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly quality. "But the actual shapeshifting? The fundamental werewolf transformation that defines our entire species? It just… doesn't happen. Like my body physically and metaphysically refuses to cooperate."
The stairwell fell silent except for the distant sound of wind through the ancient stones and the soft crackle of torches. Even their footsteps seemed muffled, as though the castle itself was holding its breath.
"Refuses, or wisely resists?" Wednesday asked, her voice carrying clinical curiosity mixed with something that might have been concern if she were capable of such pedestrian emotions. "There's a significant philosophical difference between biological malfunction and subconscious self-preservation."
Enid bit her lip hard enough to leave marks. "Dr. Kinbott—my therapist—thinks it's anxiety-based psychological blocking. Like, if I actually shift into wolf form, I'll lose complete control over my actions, hurt someone I care about, or stop being fundamentally… me. Stop being the person I've worked so hard to become. She thinks my subconscious is protecting my sense of identity by preventing the transformation."
Hermione's eyes flickered with immediate academic recognition, her brain already cross-referencing every relevant text she'd ever absorbed. "Transformation-block syndromes are extensively documented in lycanthropic medical literature, though they're relatively rare. Usually they're trauma-based responses to negative experiences with shifting. Have you tried progressive exposure rituals? Guided moon meditation? Controlled transformation therapy with experienced practitioners?"
"Everything," Enid said, her voice bitter with frustrated exhaustion. "Individual therapy, group healing circles, hypnosis, herbal regimens specifically designed for transformation anxiety, meditation retreats, screaming into pillows at three in the morning until my throat was raw, specialized breathing exercises, acupuncture, aromatherapy, crystal healing—which I know sounds ridiculous but desperate times call for desperate measures—and even that weird technique where you visualize yourself as a happy wolf frolicking in meadows full of organic, free-range sheep."
"Sounds like puberty with claws and a significantly larger therapy budget," Ginny offered, only half-joking but with genuine sympathy threading through her voice.
"It's isolating," Enid admitted, her words barely above a whisper. "It's like being part of a band but never being allowed to play your instrument. Like everyone else gets to participate in this fundamental aspect of our nature, this incredible transformation that connects us to centuries of werewolf heritage and community, and I'm just… stuck. Watching from the sidelines. Forever the werewolf who can't actually wolf."
The pain in her voice was raw and immediate, cutting through her usual bright optimism like a blade through silk.
"And you thought," Susan said, her legal mind immediately grasping the implications, "that maybe exposure to Hercules's unusual Alpha influence could override your psychological block. That his integrative resonance might provide the external support your internal systems need to feel safe enough for transformation."
"I was hoping," Enid whispered, her usual volume control completely abandoned. "Maybe if I'm around someone who makes transformation feel safe and collaborative instead of violent and isolating, my stupid anxiety brain will finally let me shift."
Wednesday tilted her head with the slow, deliberate precision of a predator sizing up particularly interesting carrion. "Or perhaps," she said in that bone-dry tone that could freeze blood, "your subconscious recognizes what you refuse to acknowledge aloud. The werewolf is not a cuddly pet. It is a predator—a creature of hunger, violence, and primal instinct. A predator you fundamentally do not want to meet because it would devour your carefully constructed persona of pastel optimism, friendship bracelets, and unshakeable belief that group hugs can cure all of humanity's wounds."
Enid flinched as though she'd been physically struck. "So you're saying… I'm afraid of myself? Of my own nature?"
"I'm saying," Wednesday replied with the inexorable certainty of a death sentence, "that you've built your entire identity around glitter, motivational posters, and an unshakeable faith in the power of positive thinking to overcome any obstacle. Becoming a werewolf—truly becoming one—would demand that you admit you genuinely like the taste of blood, that violence can be beautiful, that sometimes the most honest response to the world is to bare your fangs and growl. Your psyche is wisely refusing to trade cotton candy dreams for the stark reality of carnage."
The silence that followed was thick as cobwebs in a crypt, heavy with uncomfortable truths and the weight of words that couldn't be taken back. Even Luna's perpetual dreamy smile faltered slightly, like clouds passing over the sun.
"That's…" Hermione began slowly, her analytical mind clearly working through the implications despite her obvious discomfort with Wednesday's brutal honesty. "Actually quite compelling from a psychological defense mechanism perspective. The mind suppressing physical transformation to prevent existential identity collapse. It's a preservation strategy designed to maintain self-coherence in the face of fundamental change."
"Which means I'll never transform without completely killing off essential parts of who I am?" Enid asked, her voice cracking with the weight of potential loss.
"Or," Ginny interjected firmly, her voice carrying the kind of fierce determination that had made her famous for hexing people who deserved it, "it means you need to learn how to redirect those predatory instincts instead of suppressing them entirely. Be territorial about protecting the people you love instead of snarling at imaginary shadows. Use the predator instincts to defend and nurture your pack, not to consume everything in sight."
Susan's eyes lit up with the sharp recognition of someone who'd spent years studying political systems and social dynamics. "Which is exactly what Hercules represents—a completely new model for Alpha behavior. Not suppression of predatory instincts, not dominance through fear, but integration of all aspects of lycanthropic nature into something functionally healthy and socially beneficial."
"The Nargles have been quite clear about this," Luna announced with serene confidence, her voice carrying the otherworldly quality of someone who regularly received advice from invisible creatures. "Transformation doesn't make you someone fundamentally different. It makes you more authentically yourself—it reveals aspects of your nature that were always present but hidden. Maybe you can't shift because you've been trying to be the wrong kind of wolf. Maybe you're meant to be a protector wolf instead of a hunter wolf."
Wednesday's lips twitched in what might have been the faintest ghost of a smile if she were capable of such mundane expressions of amusement. "Or maybe the universe just thinks it would be cosmically hilarious to watch you squirm in psychological discomfort a little longer. Personally, I approve of any force that creates existential anxiety. It builds character."
"That's surprisingly supportive for you," Ginny observed with amusement.
"I contain multitudes of darkness," Wednesday replied without missing a beat. "Some of them are even occasionally helpful."
They had finally reached the third-floor landing, a place where the stone walls narrowed like the ribcage of some great, long-dead beast, the ancient torches flickering in rhythms that suggested they were sighing rather than simply burning. The flames cast dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with their own mysterious intentions, creating an atmosphere of gothic romance mixed with architectural menace.
Susan and Hermione paused to catch their breath, heaving their impossibly heavy trunks onto the uneven stone floor. The wheels scraped against centuries-old flagstones with a sound that could have been mistaken for a skeleton's protest against being disturbed.
"Well," Hermione said, her voice crisp and urgent despite her obvious exhaustion, "as I mentioned earlier, you should absolutely speak to Hercules about this transformation issue. Based on everything I've read about his unique hybrid status and integration capabilities, he's… well, he's genuinely generous in ways that transcend usual magical mentorship boundaries. His personal experiences with complex hybrid transformations could provide insights that textbooks—or even the most qualified therapists—simply cannot offer."
She paused to push a particularly stubborn trunk into position, the sound echoing through the stone corridors like distant thunder.
"Plus," Susan added, her tone measured and diplomatically smooth in that way that suggested years of training in political discourse, "bridging connections between different social categories promotes overall institutional stability. Cross-tribal alliances ensure smoother integration into the broader campus community, and current Nevermore policies actively support collaborative relationships, even—or especially—in supernatural contexts where isolation can be dangerous."
Ginny rolled her eyes with the kind of fond exasperation reserved for friends who couldn't help but sound like textbooks even in casual conversation. Her grin was sharp and playful as she said, "Or, in plain English that doesn't require a political science degree to understand: if anyone can survive a late-night emotional conversation about werewolf identity angst without either throwing furniture at your head or offering unhelpfully simplistic advice, it's Hercules. The bloke's got nerves of steel and the patience of a saint. Plus, he seems to have this genuinely weird but effective calming influence on chaos and crisis situations. Makes him… trustworthy in ways that are rare around here."
"Wrackspurts have also expressed strong approval for cooperative personal growth through communal support structures," Luna added, her dreamy voice floating between the flickering torches like smoke. "According to their observations, the most difficult and meaningful personal transformations tend to occur not in isolation, but in the company of those who understand your essential nature and can provide both challenge and support during the process."
Hermione gave a small, approving nod as she hefted her trunk once more, preparing for the next flight of stairs. "That's entirely consistent with developmental magical psychology literature. Supervised, community-based integration approaches are statistically more effective than individual-focused interventions, particularly for identity-related magical issues."
"And with that scholarly endorsement," Susan said, adjusting the strap of her trunk with the precision of a general inspecting military equipment, "we shall retreat to our suite to implement proper research protocols and begin our nightly review of magical governance best practices. Some of us have essays to write about inter-species diplomatic relations."
"Don't forget about the Transfiguration assignment," Hermione called over her shoulder as they began disappearing down the corridor toward their rooms. "McGonagall specifically said she wanted detailed analysis of transformation theory applications!"
"Already finished!" Susan's voice echoed back, growing fainter. "I submitted it three days early!"
"Show off!" Ginny laughed, the sound bouncing off the stone walls.
As their voices faded into the distance, their heels clicking like distant bone tips on the marble floors, the staircase seemed to settle and sigh, welcoming the next phase of the night's journey.
"So," Enid said, bouncing ahead with renewed energy, her curls catching the torchlight like tiny neon suns that had somehow achieved sentience and decided to live in her hair, "what do you think about Nevermore's social categorization system? Do you think having these informal tribal structures will actually help with magical integration and student support—or is it potentially too constraining for individuals who don't fit neatly into predetermined categories?"
Ginny shrugged, dragging her trunk up another step with the casual confidence of someone who'd spent years reading official rules primarily for the purpose of finding creative ways to circumvent them. "It's clear enough that you can understand the basic social dynamics and expectations, but flexible enough to allow for creativity and individual expression. And honestly? Knowing the official rules just makes breaking them even more fun when the situation calls for creative problem-solving."
Luna tilted her head, following the gentle upward curve of the spiral staircase as though it might whisper ancient secrets directly into her ear. "The Nargles have warned that overly strict social categories can sometimes trap people in limiting definitions, preventing them from discovering hidden aspects of their magical nature. But they've also mentioned that community frameworks can significantly reduce feelings of isolation while individual self-exploration and growth continue to happen organically."
"Balance," Enid said, her eyes practically glowing with enthusiasm for the concept. "Supportive community structure combined with personal freedom for exploration and growth. That's exactly what makes Nevermore Academy so… special compared to other magical educational institutions."
Ginny's laugh rang out bright and clear, her red hair gleaming like living embers in the flickering torchlight. "Special, chaotic, mildly haunted, and definitely full of students who are way too interesting for their own good. It's the perfect combination for memorable educational experiences."
"Don't forget potentially dangerous," Wednesday added helpfully. "Educational institutions should always carry the possibility of permanent psychological scarring. It builds character and prepares students for the inevitable disappointments of adult existence."
"You're so optimistic, Wednesday," Enid said with genuine affection, apparently completely immune to the morbid implications of her roommate's worldview.
As they reached the fifth-floor landing, maneuvering their trunks into position for the final ascent to the tower suites, the ancient torches flickered and warped, casting dancing shadows that seemed almost alive with mysterious intent. Somewhere in the distance, they could hear the fading voices of their friends discussing room layouts, protective enchantments, and what Luna was insistently calling "Wrackspurt-approved decorative flourishing techniques."
Enid and Wednesday pressed onward into the upper reaches of the tower, their silhouettes stretching long and thin against the spiraling stone walls like figures in a Gothic fairy tale.
Wednesday's footsteps were deliberate and silent, like a predator stalking prey through moonlit forests—or perhaps simply measuring the available space for optimal corpse placement should the need arise. "I find myself wondering," she said finally, her voice low and thoughtful, "if anyone has ever bothered to catalogue the precise number of accidents that occur during staircase transitions in magical boarding schools. Death by furniture transportation seems tragically underrepresented in educational safety statistics."
Enid flinched slightly but maintained her determined grin, refusing to let Wednesday's characteristically morbid observations dull her enthusiasm for their new living situation. "You really think of everything, don't you? Is there any topic you can't make sound ominous and potentially fatal?"
"I think of what endures," Wednesday replied with that flat certainty that made every statement sound like an eternal truth carved in gravestone marble. "Decay is inevitable, entropy is universal, and death comes for everyone eventually. Anticipating these realities is simply efficient planning. And occasionally… genuinely entertaining."
Enid laughed nervously, bouncing ahead to the very top of the final spiral staircase, dragging her trunk behind her with bright determination that refused to be dampened by discussions of mortality and furniture-related fatalities. "Well, lucky for both of us, I'm here to keep things at least slightly more optimistic! Even if it's only to delay your inevitable complete appreciation for universal entropy!"
Wednesday didn't immediately reply. She simply tilted her pale head, her face illuminated by the flickering torchlight in a way that made her look like a classical sculpture come to life, and followed in perfect silence. She absorbed every creak and groan of the ancient staircase like a scholar cataloguing the precise anatomy of architectural decay.
At the very top of the tower, they finally reached their door—an imposing piece of dark wood that looked like it had witnessed centuries of student drama, midnight confessions, and probably at least a few supernatural incidents that the administration preferred not to discuss in official reports.
The key turned with a deep, resonant click that seemed to echo longer than it should in the cathedral-like stillness of the tower's peak. Enid's hands trembled slightly, not with fear, but with a manic sort of anticipation that made her entire body vibrate with barely contained energy.
"Just wait until you see what I've managed to accomplish with our shared living space!" she exclaimed, her voice frantically bright as she shoved the heavy door open with enough force to make it bounce against the stone wall. "I know we have… fundamentally different aesthetic preferences and lifestyle approaches, but I tried really hard to create something that could potentially work for both of our very distinct personalities without requiring either of us to compromise our essential natures!"
The door swung wide, revealing a room that looked like two entirely different universes had collided at exactly ninety degrees and decided to coexist through sheer stubborn determination.
On Enid's side, every conceivable surface had been transformed into a kaleidoscopic explosion of color and optimism. Pink and purple fabrics draped like cotton candy clouds from the ancient stone walls, creating a dreamy, ethereal atmosphere. Motivational posters featuring inspiring quotes and adorable animals glared down from strategic positions, their aggressive cheerfulness almost weaponized in its intensity. Her desk and study area glittered as though industrial-grade sequins had been harvested by a committee of sugar-crazed fairies and applied with mathematical precision to every available surface.
A miniature shrine to academic excellence dominated one corner, constructed entirely from rainbow-colored stationery supplies arranged with the kind of obsessive attention to detail usually reserved for religious ceremonies. Fuzzy throw pillows in every color of the spectrum were scattered across her bed like soft, cheerful casualties of a battle between interior decorators and happiness itself.
The other side of the room was a study in gothic restraint so absolute it bordered on artistic statement. Bare stone walls stretched upward without adornment, their ancient gray surfaces speaking of centuries and solitude. Furniture had been stripped to skeletal outlines—essential function without unnecessary decoration. A faint trace of dust motes hung in the air like tiny ghosts, suspended in perfect stillness as though waiting patiently for Wednesday's hand to arrange them into more aesthetically pleasing patterns of decay.
Wednesday lingered in the doorway, her dark eyes methodically cataloguing every surface, every color, every glitter-encrusted pen with the meticulous attention of a coroner conducting a particularly thorough autopsy. Her lips twitched almost imperceptibly—perhaps in amusement, or maybe as part of an intricate mental blueprint for future psychological experimentation.
"Colorful," she said finally, the word rolling out flat and measured, carrying the weight of cosmic understatement. "Aggressively, alarmingly, almost violently colorful."
Enid's grin immediately began wobbling around the edges like a photograph left too long in sunlight. "Do you… completely hate it? I mean, I tried really hard to balance all the colors with psychological harmony principles and feng shui energy flow concepts. Not that I actually know very much about feng shui beyond what I could learn from YouTube videos at three in the morning, but I thought maybe…"
Wednesday moved with deliberate precision to her trunk, retrieved a roll of black duct tape with the ceremonial gravity usually reserved for religious artifacts, and began unrolling it across the floor. The tape bisected the room with mathematical exactitude, creating a border that seemed to shimmer slightly under the combination of torchlight and Enid's aggressive glitter applications.
"Your chromatic chaos," she announced, her voice echoing with the kind of finality usually reserved for legal verdicts or death sentences, "is hereby confined to this designated territory." She gestured at Enid's rainbow explosion with the precision of a surveyor marking property boundaries. "Beyond this line lies an aesthetic void under my exclusive jurisdiction and creative control."
She paused to examine her work, ensuring the tape formed a perfectly straight demarcation.
"This is not merely a spatial division for practical cohabitation purposes. It represents a metaphysical demarcation between optimism and reality, between chaos and inevitability, between rainbows and the long, patient gaze of mortality that eventually claims all things."
Enid stared, blinking rapidly as her brain processed this declaration. Slowly, relief began to curl through her shoulders like warmth after stepping in from winter cold. "So… we each get complete creative control over our respective territories? No forced compromises or awkward negotiations about decorative choices?"
"Precisely," Wednesday said, stepping into her designated corner with the regal bearing of a queen surveying her personal tomb. "Separate yet adjacent existential frameworks, coexisting through mutual respect for boundaries rather than exhausting attempts at aesthetic compromise. Though I do reserve the absolute right to provide commentary on your decorative choices, should your interior design decisions present particularly unusual psychological anomalies worthy of analysis."
Enid's face split into a grin so radiantly bright it could have powered the electrical systems of the entire dormitory tower. "Oh my gosh, this is absolutely perfect! I was genuinely worried we'd have to find some terrible middle ground that would make both of us completely miserable and compromise both of our authentic self-expression! But now—now we can experiment independently! Observe each other's creative methods! Learn from our differences through direct comparison! It's like… it's like living in a real-time social science laboratory dedicated to personality and aesthetic studies!"
Wednesday's head tilted with that slow, predatory precision she'd spent years perfecting, her dark eyes narrowing in the calculating way of someone cataloguing interesting specimens for future reference. "A tolerable living arrangement with potential for fascinating observational data. Though I feel obligated to warn you: my aesthetic preferences and lifestyle choices tend toward themes that most humans find deeply unsettling. Death, decay, existential dread, the occasional ritual sacrifice for purely academic purposes…"
"That sounds absolutely incredible!" Enid exclaimed, bouncing in place as though she were absorbing her roommate's words like some kind of magical, morbid caffeine that could power her enthusiasm for weeks. "I can't wait to see what helps you feel most authentically yourself! This is going to be the most educationally enriching roommate experience in the history of magical boarding schools!"
Wednesday allowed herself a slow, deliberate survey of her designated territory, running one pale finger along the edge of her trunk with surgical precision. Each placement of her personal supplies would be calculated, each object positioned as a potential artifact for psychological analysis and aesthetic contemplation.
"I intend to monitor entropy progression rates, document decay patterns, and study the psychological impact of spatial austerity on cohabitants," she announced with the professional detachment of a researcher outlining experimental parameters. "You may observe these processes… entirely at your own risk."
Enid laughed, clutching a glittery notebook against her chest like armor made of optimism and academic supplies. "Risk is totally my middle name! Well, not legally—my middle name is actually Sunshine, which my parents thought was hilarious—but risk is definitely my middle name in spirit!"
Outside their tower window, the Vermont sky had deepened to a rich velvet black, studded with stars that looked like scattered diamonds against dark fabric. The gothic windows framed a crescent moon that seemed to smile down at the castle with mysterious approval. Somewhere in the distance, the ancient bells of Nevermore Academy began to toll, slow and sonorous, their sound rolling across the grounds like a funeral dirge for the day while simultaneously welcoming the night—and all the curious, sometimes terrifying magic that darkness could bring.
And as the shadows lengthened and began to curl around the high stone ceilings like living things with their own mysterious intentions, Wednesday and Enid began their delicate dance of cohabitation: one of chaos and order, color and absence, optimism and morbidity, rainbow glitter and existential contemplation.
The semester at Nevermore Academy had officially begun, and their room—divided by tape but united by mutual respect for authentic self-expression—would serve as ground zero for what promised to be the most educationally fascinating and psychologically complex roommate relationship in the school's long, occasionally supernatural history.
"So," Enid said, already pulling out enough craft supplies to stock a small art store, "want to help me organize my motivational quote collection? I've got them categorized by emotional impact, color coordination, and inspirational effectiveness!"
Wednesday surveyed the rainbow explosion of positivity with the clinical interest of a scientist studying a particularly exotic species. "I suppose I could provide quality control analysis. Someone needs to ensure your optimism maintains proper standards of psychological manipulation."
"This is going to be the best semester ever!" Enid declared, and for once, even Wednesday didn't argue with that assessment.
---
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