【 devon fondatore 】
—2 february, 2026— Solo —x
—2 february, 2026— Solo —x
The Foundational Magic classroom was ugly.
Most of the other first years didn’t seem to notice, or if they did, they wrote it off as part of the room’s "charm". The thick stone walls, the scorch marks, the high blackened ceiling, the bronze wards running like ribs through the beams overhead, all of it combined into something that was meant to feel sturdy. Safe, even. And it was, technically.
But that didn’t mean it was good, exactly.
Devi lingered after class with his bag hanging from one shoulder, half turned toward the door as the last of the students filed out in a burst of noise and dragging feet. At the front of the room, their professor was stacking something on the desk, muttering under their breath at a pile of singed parchment.
Devi drifted toward the side wall, head tipped slightly. There was a patch in the stone there, about shoulder-height, just left of one of the narrow windows. He had noticed it three lessons ago and had been unable to stop noticing it since. The stone around it was old, worn smooth, but the patch itself was piss poor. It was too flat. Too clean at the edges. The color was almost right, which made it worse. Whoever had repaired it had gotten close enough that someone not paying attention would think it matched. But it didn’t.
Which made it even worse, because shouldn't this be a non-issue with magic?
“Mr. Fondatore.”
He looked up at once. “Mm?”
His professor had glanced over. “Did you need something?”
Devi straightened a little. “No, sorry. Just looking.”
The professor followed his line of sight to the wall and then back to him, trying to decipher what had captured his student's interest. After a moment, the professor waved their hand, dismissing the idea as they began to exit the classroom. “Try not to stay so long you miss lunch.”
Devi gave them a vague little nod as the professor passed by. By the time the door had shut, he was already turning back toward the patch.
The room grew quieter once it was empty. Not silent, exactly. Penwick never was. There was always something, footsteps overhead, a door closing two corridors away, the occasional rush of wind at the windows.
Devi stepped closer. The patch had probably come from a misfire. A bad one, too, from the width of it. A chunk of wall gone, then filled in later. He crouched slightly, narrowing his eyes. The replacement stone interrupted the line of the wall in a way that made his shoulders itch.
"So lazy..." He knew that was not a useful complaint, that the wall was not going to apologize and fix itself out of shame. Still.
Devi plopped himself on the floor, pulling his sketchbook and a mechanical pencil from the bottom of his bag. He flipped past a few pages, a half-finished drawing of a staircase near the second floor, another of the corridor nook he’d found, until he finally turned to a blank sheet and looked up at the wall again. His pencil started moving across the page, lines slowly turning into shapes. The window. The mortar lines. The beams of sunlight.
He tapped the end of the pencil against the page and looked up toward the ceiling.
The beams overhead were cleverly designed. Ugly, too, in places, but clever. The bronze wards had been laid into them in a pattern that actually respected the structure instead of just being slapped on top. Whoever had designed that part of the room had understood what it was for. The windows were narrow and high because no one wanted a twelve-year-old blasting half the mountain open because they’d gotten excited over Levitation Charms. His mind easily tracked all of the choices made in the room's construction, which made the ugly repair job scratch at him even more.
Devi shifted his weight, his attention back to the page as he imagined what the wall should have looked like. Then the rest of the room dropped away as he fixed someone else's wrong.
Not really, obviously. He was not about to march back in here with mortar and stone like some twelve-year-old repairman. Still, there was something satisfying about resolving it on paper.
Devi leaned back a little, looked from page to wall, then page again. Better. Much better, actually.
A noise sounded in the corridor outside. Devi reacted before he thought, snapping the sketchbook halfway shut and turning toward the door, pulse kicking hard. Footsteps passed. Laughter. Two students, it sounded like, still talking as they went by.
He waited until the sound had faded completely before opening the book again.
He pressed his lips together and glanced down at the page. If anyone had come in just then, he had no idea what he would’ve said. Probably something devastatingly honest like, "I’m drawing a wall. Leave me alone."
Humiliating.
This was exactly the sort of thing that would get ruined the second another person touched it. Not because they’d mock him, necessarily, though some of them probably would. Worse than that, they’d ask questions. Why are you drawing that. Why do you care. Why’s it matter if the stone matches. Did he do this often.
No, thank you. This was much better without an audience.
So was he, probably.
Devi ran his thumb over the edge of the page, smudging a bit of graphite without meaning to. He frowned, fixing it quickly.
He glanced back to the wall. “Terrible job,” he muttered. The patch remained unmoved by his critique.
He stuffed the pencil into the spine of the sketchbook and stood up, shoving them back into the bottom of his bag. Lunch had probably started already.
He slipped out into the corridor, face calm, lunchward bound, with absolutely no intention of admitting to anyone that he had just spent twenty minutes having the time of his life staring at a bad repair job.
Most of the other first years didn’t seem to notice, or if they did, they wrote it off as part of the room’s "charm". The thick stone walls, the scorch marks, the high blackened ceiling, the bronze wards running like ribs through the beams overhead, all of it combined into something that was meant to feel sturdy. Safe, even. And it was, technically.
But that didn’t mean it was good, exactly.
Devi lingered after class with his bag hanging from one shoulder, half turned toward the door as the last of the students filed out in a burst of noise and dragging feet. At the front of the room, their professor was stacking something on the desk, muttering under their breath at a pile of singed parchment.
Devi drifted toward the side wall, head tipped slightly. There was a patch in the stone there, about shoulder-height, just left of one of the narrow windows. He had noticed it three lessons ago and had been unable to stop noticing it since. The stone around it was old, worn smooth, but the patch itself was piss poor. It was too flat. Too clean at the edges. The color was almost right, which made it worse. Whoever had repaired it had gotten close enough that someone not paying attention would think it matched. But it didn’t.
Which made it even worse, because shouldn't this be a non-issue with magic?
“Mr. Fondatore.”
He looked up at once. “Mm?”
His professor had glanced over. “Did you need something?”
Devi straightened a little. “No, sorry. Just looking.”
The professor followed his line of sight to the wall and then back to him, trying to decipher what had captured his student's interest. After a moment, the professor waved their hand, dismissing the idea as they began to exit the classroom. “Try not to stay so long you miss lunch.”
Devi gave them a vague little nod as the professor passed by. By the time the door had shut, he was already turning back toward the patch.
The room grew quieter once it was empty. Not silent, exactly. Penwick never was. There was always something, footsteps overhead, a door closing two corridors away, the occasional rush of wind at the windows.
Devi stepped closer. The patch had probably come from a misfire. A bad one, too, from the width of it. A chunk of wall gone, then filled in later. He crouched slightly, narrowing his eyes. The replacement stone interrupted the line of the wall in a way that made his shoulders itch.
"So lazy..." He knew that was not a useful complaint, that the wall was not going to apologize and fix itself out of shame. Still.
Devi plopped himself on the floor, pulling his sketchbook and a mechanical pencil from the bottom of his bag. He flipped past a few pages, a half-finished drawing of a staircase near the second floor, another of the corridor nook he’d found, until he finally turned to a blank sheet and looked up at the wall again. His pencil started moving across the page, lines slowly turning into shapes. The window. The mortar lines. The beams of sunlight.
He tapped the end of the pencil against the page and looked up toward the ceiling.
The beams overhead were cleverly designed. Ugly, too, in places, but clever. The bronze wards had been laid into them in a pattern that actually respected the structure instead of just being slapped on top. Whoever had designed that part of the room had understood what it was for. The windows were narrow and high because no one wanted a twelve-year-old blasting half the mountain open because they’d gotten excited over Levitation Charms. His mind easily tracked all of the choices made in the room's construction, which made the ugly repair job scratch at him even more.
Devi shifted his weight, his attention back to the page as he imagined what the wall should have looked like. Then the rest of the room dropped away as he fixed someone else's wrong.
Not really, obviously. He was not about to march back in here with mortar and stone like some twelve-year-old repairman. Still, there was something satisfying about resolving it on paper.
Devi leaned back a little, looked from page to wall, then page again. Better. Much better, actually.
A noise sounded in the corridor outside. Devi reacted before he thought, snapping the sketchbook halfway shut and turning toward the door, pulse kicking hard. Footsteps passed. Laughter. Two students, it sounded like, still talking as they went by.
He waited until the sound had faded completely before opening the book again.
He pressed his lips together and glanced down at the page. If anyone had come in just then, he had no idea what he would’ve said. Probably something devastatingly honest like, "I’m drawing a wall. Leave me alone."
Humiliating.
This was exactly the sort of thing that would get ruined the second another person touched it. Not because they’d mock him, necessarily, though some of them probably would. Worse than that, they’d ask questions. Why are you drawing that. Why do you care. Why’s it matter if the stone matches. Did he do this often.
No, thank you. This was much better without an audience.
So was he, probably.
Devi ran his thumb over the edge of the page, smudging a bit of graphite without meaning to. He frowned, fixing it quickly.
He glanced back to the wall. “Terrible job,” he muttered. The patch remained unmoved by his critique.
He stuffed the pencil into the spine of the sketchbook and stood up, shoving them back into the bottom of his bag. Lunch had probably started already.
He slipped out into the corridor, face calm, lunchward bound, with absolutely no intention of admitting to anyone that he had just spent twenty minutes having the time of his life staring at a bad repair job.