Chapter Text
The Hogwarts library was a place where time flowed differently. The heavy, burgundy drapes barely let in any sunlight, which played lazily in the dust dancing through narrow shafts of light. The air smelled of mildew and old parchment, subtly overpowered by a hint of mint drifting in from some forgotten corner.
Hermione sat at a heavy oak table, head bowed over a thick tome whose yellowed pages had witnessed more history than most tales told at Hogwarts. Her fingers glided softly over the page, and her brow furrowed slightly in irritation, though her voice carried a weary amusement.
"I still can’t believe you actually made a bet with a teacher," she said, not lifting her gaze. Her voice was soft, but as firm as steel, every word carefully measured to keep him from catching her off guard.
Beside her sat Dazai, slim in frame, but radiating a strange, hard-to-define energy. He rested an elbow on the table, letting his fingers toy with the rim of his favorite mug: a prize from the wager with Professor Snape himself, who, though he’d never admit it, seemed to secretly admire Dazai’s audacity.
“If I hadn’t done it,” he replied with a faint smile, laced with irony and a mischievous glint in his eye, “I wouldn’t have gotten the book… or my favorite mug. A price well worth paying.”
His voice was soft but assured. The voice of someone who knew the game was always played on his terms.
Hermione rolled her eyes, but the ghost of a smile gave her away—she knew this game too well. Dazai enjoyed her little bouts of exasperation, the quiet disapproval of his nonchalance. It reminded him that not everyone was fooled by his masks.
Moments later, he sprang to his feet, his movements fluid and effortless, like mist caught in a dance. “I’m bored,” he announced, not waiting for a response. “I’ll be back in a moment, just changing my book.”
He headed toward the section on magical creatures. The scent of old leather bindings mingled with the cool air and faint herbal notes. The dragon shelf.
His fingers skimmed the spines of the books, realizing he knew nearly all of them by heart. Yet between the familiar titles, a few hidden treasures still shimmered with mystery.
Then suddenly—
A crack.
Like an explosion breaking the silence. A collision.
A girl, running far too fast for a library, didn’t stop in time. Her body crashed into his with full force, sending them both tumbling into a nearby bookshelf. Books fell like rain, covers and pages scattering across the floor. One of them, a hefty tome on dragon physiology, hurtled straight for her head.
Without hesitation, Dazai grabbed her wrist and pulled her close, shielding her with his own body. The book slammed into his shoulder with a thud that echoed through the rows, but he didn’t so much as flinch.
Silence fell. an aching breathlessness interrupted only by the quiet whispers of students watching in stunned curiosity.
The girl, eyes wide, looked up at him as if he were something unfamiliar, yet safe. In her gaze flickered fear, then gratitude, and finally, a shy blush spread across her cheeks like the soft glow of the northern lights.
Dazai felt his heartbeat quicken: not from shame or fear, but from the dreadful realization that he had crossed a line he was never meant to touch. He was not supposed to be seen, let alone seen as someone… good.
“Th-thank you,” she whispered, bowed hastily, and vanished into the labyrinth of shelves, never looking back.
His fists clenched involuntarily. He snatched the first book he saw from the floor and returned to the table.
“Honestly? I didn’t think you’d help her,” Hermione said, eyes still on her page.
He didn’t answer. A chill had begun to bloom inside him. He knew what he had done wasn’t just a gesture. It was something more. Too much. Too… human.
---
The next morning at breakfast, the atmosphere was tense. Fog curled around the castle, and sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting colorful reflections across the marble tables. The smell of fresh bread and warm butter mingled with the sharp aroma of strong tea.
Ron dropped into his seat with a grim expression, flinging a newspaper onto the table. The Daily Prophet unfolded with headlines that screamed from the page.
“Student Demon Saves Girl!”
“Is Osamu Dazai Truly Evil?”
“Demon’s Shadow—or Hogwarts’ New Hero?”
Dazai read the titles with a stony face, though inside he felt like he was burning. The words sliced into him like invisible knives.
“That’s ridiculous,” he muttered, almost too softly to hear. “I just caught her so she wouldn’t get hit by a book. Nothing more. They’re overreacting.”
“But maybe it’s good?” Hermione offered, a note of tentative hope in her voice. “Maybe now people will start seeing you differently.”
Before he could reply, a owl swooped through the hall, carrying a red string tied to its leg. Dazai recognized it instantly.
It was a message from Mori.
His heart thudded harder. He knew this ritual.
Without a word, he stroked the owl’s feathers gently and motioned for it to fly away. He didn’t wait for the meal to end, leaving behind worried and watchful gazes.
“I’ll be right back,” he said curtly, then disappeared.
---
The path to the “gang’s room” was long and winding. Hogwarts’ corridors, echoing with footsteps and the whispers of generations past, twisted before him like a labyrinth.
Yet Dazai walked with certainty, never hesitating through the turns and hidden passages. The old storage room on the fifth floor was his sanctuary, a place no one else knew.
He closed the door behind him with a soft click. Shadows devoured the corners of the room, and only a single flickering candle cast warm light across the cold, wooden table. He sat down, hands trembling slightly as he reached for the envelope, heavy, cream-colored, sealed with red wax. Mori’s seal. A simple symbol, but to Dazai, it rang like a verdict.
He tore it open carefully and pulled out the letter. The paper smelled of mildew and libraries, undercut with a familiar scent of incense: Mori’s scent. Dazai laid the letter out before him, eyes moving over the elegant, handwritten words that carried a quiet but crushing weight.
---
Hello, my dear.
I suppose you think I didn’t notice...
But they sent me the papers straight away.
I didn’t expect my precious little doll to start gaining admiration at Hogwarts.
You’ve disappointed me, Dazai~
But don’t worry.
Sometimes a gentle push is all it takes to correct someone’s path.
You wouldn’t want those photos to reach your sweet little friends.
Or Snape, who seems to have earned your trust. That would be unfortunate.
So, I have a request.
You’re starting to look far too human. That’s dangerous.
It’s time to step back from your little group for a while.
And don’t try to be clever—I have eyes at Hogwarts.
I trust you’ll obey.
Mori
---
He read the words over and over again, as if searching for some hidden meaning, a glimmer of hope, or even an excuse to rebel. But everything was clear. Inevitable.
The photos lay before him. three images that seemed to throb with a life of their own.
The first: him, stripped of bandages, wearing a red dress trimmed in white lace. Lips slightly parted, eyes half-lidded, as if sinking into the void of a drug administered in Mori’s clinic. His head rested limply on the doctor’s lap, who smiled coldly: tender, and terrifying. A collar shone on his neck. A mark of ownership. Invisible shackles made real.
The second was more brutal. The same dress. This time, his body lay on cold, stone tiles. Around him, Mori’s beloved dogs,creatures that once symbolized safety, tore into his bare skin and muscle. Blood, thick and dark, splattered across the floor, painting a scene of death more vivid than any nightmare.
The third was the worst. Naked, facedown, his back marred with fresh and old scars, each telling a tale of pain or dread. Carved into his skin were words: Property of the Doctor, Do Not Touch, Doll. A faint trail of blood and white fluid slipped between his legs- a testament to cruelty endured.
Dazai’s hand shook, cold seeping into his bones. He closed his eyes, trying to push the images away, images he thought buried in the past, now resurrected with their full horror. He knew those photos were not just proof, but weapons. Mori’s invisible blackmail. A reminder of his helplessness.
He allowed himself a single, fragile moment of weakness, a longing for normalcy. For laughter among friends. For an ordinary morning. For a version of himself that had briefly felt real.
He had to pull away. Not for himself, but for them: for Hermione, for Ron, for Draco, for Fred, for George, for Blaise. For those who believed a demon might still carry a trace of humanity.