Chapter 9 #2
Professor Shim Ching looks like he’s been alive since the age of alchemy—small and stooped, with parchment-thin skin and a white beard twisted to a precise point.
His voice rumbles like gravel, every word deliberate and heavy, like it comes from somewhere deep beneath the school’s foundations.
His shrewd dark eyes scan the room—quick to narrow in disapproval, quicker still to gleam with curiosity when something, or someone, interests him.
He is also the first non-Magick I’ve met at Whittaker.
The class turns out to be fairly basic—disappointing, even.
Despite it being my first official Potions course, I covered most of this material during my previous degree.
Crushed herbs, flame management, simple neutralizers.
I go through the motions, my hands working while my mind drifts, already several steps ahead.
After successfully brewing a Scent Veil potion, used to neutralize odors or to mask the scent of an object or person—“Perfect for sharing bathrooms with squadmates,” Professor Ching jokes—he asks if I can stay behind after class.
I walk over to his desk at the front of the room, the pristine surface showing organized rows of jewel-toned vials filled with strange substances. Some glow, some bubble, and one looks and smells suspiciously like wine.
“I’ve read your transcript and file, Miss Farris.
Impressive. Very impressive, as a matter of fact.
” He twists his beard between his fingers.
“You have all the basic knowledge—and even some advanced understanding. More so than your peers.” He looks out across the now-empty classroom.
“What you lack,” he says, fixing me with those sharp eyes, “is elemental knowledge. Understanding how magick breathes.” He pauses then, eyes searching, measuring.
“I’d like to move you into my Advanced Potions course.
We meet in Browning Hall, Thursdays at nine o’clock sharp. If you’re interested.”
I thank him sincerely and gather my things, a quiet flicker of pride warming my chest as I head to rejoin my squad.
* * *
At lunch, I head to the mess hall to meet up with Noa and snag a table with him, Finn, Rozsen, Elliot, and another fourth-year named Mauve—the girl with strawberry-pink hair from the bonfire.
The mess hall at Whittaker is a sprawling, high-ceilinged space filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of trays and cutlery.
Long metal tables and benches stretch across the polished floor, organized into tidy rows.
Light slants through tall rectangular windows, cutting gold ribbons across the floor.
A large electric sliding glass door on the west side opens and closes with a soft mechanical hiss as students shuffle in and out between classes.
The air smells like garlic and yeast, with undertones of sugar and something fried.
Cafeteria workers in crisp aprons move quickly behind the counters, dishing out trays of hot food with practiced efficiency.
Noa’s pink-hatted pancake chef is among them, flipping something sweet with an exaggerated flourish.
It’s just past midday, and the lunch stations are in full swing: a make-your-own sandwich bar with fresh breads and fillings, and a rotating hot line that today features rosemary chicken and garlic mashed potatoes.
Finn is the epitome of politeness and affable charm to Rozsen, who’s settled beside him. The two fall into an easy rhythm—light banter, eyes brighter than they should be for people claiming to be just friends. Maybe it’s something. Maybe it’s not. But either way, it’s easy and carefree.
I sit beside Noa, who leans in, his familiar heat curling around me like a second skin.
“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice quiet. Then, closer, with words just for me: “I didn’t like waking up without you next to me.” His lips brush my temple, and his hand finds my thigh beneath the table—warm, steady, possessive in the gentlest way.
I try but fail to hide the satisfied smile tugging at my lips.
He studies me for a beat, his eyes glinting like he’s about to say something more—but Mauve cuts in, giving me a slow once-over.
“So you’re the girl who walked into Whittaker with Noa Gallegher’s jacket and zero self-preservation instincts.”
I choke into my glass of water, coughing once before managing to look up at her. Noa’s glare is sharp and immediate.
But Mauve just grins, completely unfazed. “Welcome to the circus, Initiate.”
The rest of lunch passes in a blur of mashed potatoes, teasing, and bite-sized stories. Rozsen steals my bread roll off my tray and is mid-bite before I even notice it’s gone. Elliot bombards Finn with a thousand questions about air magick.
Noa never stops touching me—knuckles brushing mine, hand against my thigh, shoulder against my side. His presence grounds me. Even in the chaos. Especially in it.
When lunch is finished and we get ready to head our separate ways, he pulls me in for a kiss, long and lingering. The kind of kiss that makes our friends look anywhere but at us before Finn finally coughs and mumbles something about getting reamed by Professor Kael if they’re late.
The rest of the afternoon is packed with more new faces, syllabus breakdowns, first assignments, and professors who all seem equal parts brilliant and terrifying.
I survive—barely. And by the time I finally make it back to the dorms, my head is spinning and I’m not entirely sure all my notes are in English.
Dusk on campus is quiet, lights blooming one by one across the courtyards like small stars.
I sink into my bed beside Rozsen, trading gossip and stories with lighthearted laughter.
It reminds me of nights back in Virginia with Alissa, Noa’s sister.
She was the closest thing I ever had to something like this.
My head aches in the best way—exhausted but buzzing, like I crossed an invisible threshold, and somehow I know there will be no going back.
Sleep comes fast that night. And with it, dreams.
Dreams of dark caves full of shadow, water full of secrets, and wildfire blooming on the horizon.