Chapter 94 Laughter Between Spells
The practice classroom smelled faintly of ozone and dust, the kind of lingering scent magic left behind when it had been worked too often and too carelessly. Sunlight streamed through the high arched windows, casting pale gold patterns across the stone floor. Liora stood near the centre of the room, wand held in both hands, shoulders slightly tense as she stared at the chalkboard covered in half-erased incantations.
Mattheo leaned against a desk a few feet away, arms crossed, watching her with that familiar unreadable expression. He’d insisted—quietly, stubbornly—on staying after class to help her refine a charm she’d struggled with earlier. She hadn’t argued. She rarely did when it came to him.
“Alright,” she said, exhaling slowly. “One more time.”
“Slow down,” Mattheo replied. “You rush the last movement. That’s where it destabilizes.”
“I’m not rushing,” she protested lightly. “I’m being efficient.”
His eyebrow lifted. “You exploded a quill five minutes ago.”
“That quill started it,” she muttered.
Despite himself, a faint curve touched his lips.
Liora raised her wand again, concentrating hard. “Levioso minor,” she said carefully, tracing the motion exactly as he’d shown her—upward flick, pause, controlled sweep.
The spell shimmered into existence… and immediately sputtered.
Instead of lifting the feather gently into the air, the charm misfired with a soft pop, sending a burst of silver sparks fluttering like startled fireflies. The feather shot straight up, hit the ceiling with a dull thwap, and drifted down slowly—smoking slightly.
Liora stared at it in horrified silence.
Then Mattheo snorted.
The sound was so unexpected that her head snapped toward him.
“You—” she began, incredulous. “Did you just laugh?”
“It wasn’t dignified,” he said quickly, trying—and failing—to compose himself. His shoulders shook once before he straightened. “But it was impressive.”
“Impressive?” she repeated, cheeks already warming.
“I’ve never seen a levitation charm protest so aggressively.”
She groaned, covering her face with one hand. “I swear I’m not usually this bad.”
“I know,” he said, softer now. “That’s why it’s funny.”
She peeked at him through her fingers and caught the unmistakable glint of amusement in his eyes. It was rare—so rare—that it stole her breath for a moment.
“You look different when you smile,” she said before she could stop herself.
The words hung between them.
Mattheo stilled.
“What does that mean?” he asked, carefully neutral.
Liora lowered her hand, suddenly flustered. “I—I don’t know. Just… lighter. Less like you’re carrying the whole castle on your shoulders.”
His gaze softened, just barely. “Careful,” he murmured. “You’re starting to sound observant.”
She laughed then, unable to help it. A small, genuine laugh that echoed softly through the empty room. “Someone has to be.”
Encouraged, she tried the spell again.
This time, the charm held—mostly. The feather lifted a foot into the air, wobbling uncertainly before drifting sideways and landing directly on Mattheo’s shoulder.
They both froze.
The feather twitched, then settled.
Liora stared at it.
Mattheo glanced down slowly, then back up at her.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
Then she burst out laughing.
“I am so sorry,” she said between giggles. “It’s got a mind of its own.”
“So do you,” he replied dryly, reaching up to pluck the feather from his shoulder. But his tone lacked any real irritation.
Her laughter was contagious.
Before he could stop himself, a quiet chuckle slipped free—low, surprised, and unmistakably real. The sound startled him as much as it did her.
Liora’s laughter softened, fading into a warm smile as she looked at him.
“You almost never laugh,” she said gently.
“Good,” he replied, but there was no sharpness in it. “People might get ideas.”
“Like what?”
“That I’m human.”
She tilted her head, studying him with open curiosity. “You are, you know.”
His eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something far more complicated. “That’s debatable.”
She stepped closer, not realizing how little distance remained between them. “I don’t think it is.”
He didn’t move away.
The room felt smaller suddenly, the air thick with quiet awareness. Liora became acutely conscious of how close they were—the warmth of him, the faint scent of parchment and something darker beneath it, the way his attention seemed fully, dangerously focused on her.
Her cheeks warmed again.
“I should… try again,” she said, breaking the moment, lifting her wand.
“Probably,” he agreed, though his gaze lingered on her a second too long.
She attempted the charm once more.
This time, the spell didn’t explode, wobble, or rebel. Instead, it gently lifted the feather into the air, holding it steady, glowing faintly gold.
Liora gasped. “I did it!”
“Yes,” Mattheo said quietly. “You did.”
Her excitement was infectious. She turned toward him, eyes bright, forgetting herself entirely. “See? I told you I could do it.”
“I never said you couldn’t,” he replied.
The feather drifted down, landing between them. Liora’s wand hand lowered—and as it did, her fingers brushed against his.
It was an accident.
But neither of them pulled away.
The contact was light, fleeting, yet it sent a familiar spark through her chest. She felt his fingers tense slightly beneath hers, the warmth of his skin unmistakable even through the briefest touch.
They looked at each other.
Liora’s smile softened, turning shy. She tried to withdraw her hand slowly, but his fingers lingered for half a second longer before releasing her.
The silence stretched—comfortable, fragile, charged.
“You’re blushing,” he noted quietly.
“I am not,” she protested automatically, though her face betrayed her.
“You are.”
She laughed again, softer this time, rubbing the back of her neck. “Maybe it’s the spell residue.”
“Convenient excuse.”
“Very.”
He watched her for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled again—not wide, not obvious, but real.
And for some reason, that smile felt like a secret just for her.
“I’m glad you stayed,” she said suddenly.
“So am I,” he replied, surprising both of them.
She looked up at him, heart skipping. “You are?”
“Yes.”
No sarcasm. No deflection.
Just honesty.
The realization settled between them gently, like the feather had—quiet, undeniable.
They spent the rest of the afternoon practicing minor charms, trading quiet remarks and occasional smiles. Every now and then, their laughter bubbled up again—over misfired spells, drifting parchment, a chair that tried to walk away on its own.
Each time, the laughter lingered longer.
Each time, the blushes took a little longer to fade.
And when they finally packed up their things and left the room together, the air between them felt lighter—warmer—like something fragile but promising had taken root.
Neither of them named it.
But both of them felt it.