Tales from Amaranth Academy

Author’s Notes: Welcome to the first one-shot of this collection. Or rather, the first part (the second part will be published between tomorrow and the day after). Although these are standalone stories, they belong to a broader universe; therefore, in each chapter, I will include the reference character/couple in the title. English is not my first language. I am translating my story with the help of Google Translate. Please let me know if there are any errors; if you speak or are studying Italian, you can find the original version of this story on my AO3 profile. Thank you!

***

Fandom: Original (Amaranth Academy)

Characters: Jules/Antoine

Setting: In 2005, Jules and Antoine begin their first year at Amaranth Academy, an elite university of magic. Jules needs to excel to secure the scholarship that will allow him to graduate, while Antoine, the eldest son of an immensely wealthy family of witches and wizards for generations, cannot afford to disappoint his father and his entire lineage. But that rivalry will soon become something more.

Warnings: For now, the angst part; the “comfort” of the hurt/comfort tag will arrive shorty. This one-shot was written for the Anti-Ferragosto Challenge hosted by the Facebook group Hurt/Comfort Italia - Fanart and Fanfiction - GRUPPO NUOVO.

5 Times Jules Suffered in Silence (and 1 Time He Didn’t)

Part 1

Jules, Antoine

2000

The small balcony overlooking the valley was modest, but on New Year’s Eve, it offered a marvelous view.

Whistle after whistle, colorful fireworks burst into the sky, illuminating it with a crash. A rapid succession of green, red, and golden lights brightened the faces of two people leaning against the railing: a woman whose first gray hairs peeked through a brown bun, and a lanky, skinny thirteen-year-old boy whose long hair fell over his shoulders in the exact same shade as hers.

On their heads sparkled two glittery headbands that read “2000,” while their deep-red sweaters were customized with embroidered Christmas decorations and their names: Jules and Selene.

Jules watched the lights before them with a wide-eyed marvel, while his mother, beside him, offered a sorrowful smile.

She wished her son had friends, a real family. Instead, he only had her.

“Mom, look!” the thirteen-year-old pointed toward a shooting star. “We have to make a wish!”

His mother nodded. “I made mine.”

“Me too!” Jules replied, fumbling with a small package beside him. “What did you ask for?”

“I can’t tell you, or it won’t come true!”

“I asked for a puppy!” the boy continued, lighting two sparklers and handing one to the woman.

She took it and sighed heavily.

“Jules, you know we can’t afford that... Maybe when you’re older.”

Jules huffed. “Ugh, Mom, you always say that! At least I’d have some company while you’re at work!”

“Come on, don’t dwell on sad things now. Enjoy the show. It’s the turn of the new millennium, plenty of good things are bound to come.”

“Yeah, sure...”

Jules pouted, almost forgetting the glowing stick in his hands, until he felt a sudden, sharp burn on his fingers.

“Ouch!” he hissed, letting it drop to the floor.

His mother reached out to take his hand, but he pulled it back.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” he insisted. “I’m going to run it under cold water.”

The boy walked away. On the floor, the last sparks sizzled against the tiles.

From the bathroom window came the sound of rushing water mixed with softly muttered curses.

My wish is for you to have a better life, my sweet boy, the woman thought to herself, gazing down at the floor.

Tomorrow morning they would have to scrub the blackened tiles, but for now, she would simply wait for the sparkler to burn out before picking it up.

2001

The first time Jules used his magic, his mother cried.

It was December 8th, 2001. The box with the Christmas tree had just been opened, deep-red ornaments rested on the table, and the radio played an endless loop of holiday songs.

That year, his mother had managed to put a little money aside, so most of their conversation revolved around what Jules wanted for Christmas.

The fourteen-year-old had begun listing an endless stream of books he wanted to read, so many that his mother couldn’t possibly remember them without writing them down. It promised to be a truly peaceful holiday at last, right until the sudden crash of ornaments shattered the air.

“Jules, what on earth, can’t you be careful?!” the woman yelled, spinning around.

What she saw made her heart leap into her throat.

In a fraction of a second, Jules had slipped backward, kicking the tree, which had tilted precariously toward him, only to freeze, suspended in midair.

Motionless. Just as Jules remained motionless, completely horizontal and hovering merely inches above the floor.

Selene pressed both hands over her mouth.

For a few agonizing seconds, nothing moved a single millimeter, as if time itself had stopped. Until the spell broke: Jules crashed down, and the tree tumbled over him.

Selene rushed to her son, shoving the tree aside and helping him to his feet.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I... I don’t know.” Her eyes darted frantically between her son and the broken decorations. “I-I was turned around, I don’t know what... I don’t know how...”

Jules placed a hand on her shoulder. He was trembling.

“Mom, calm down. I’m fine. It’s just that for a second it felt like... I don’t know, like I stopped falling?”

His mother let out a strained laugh. “Oh, come on, Jules, you know that’s impossible.”

Her son looked at her, bewildered. She was keeping something from him.

Instead, she took his hand and led him to sit down. “You might have hit your head. Stay here, I’ll take care of the tree.”

As the adrenaline wore off, Jules realized his entire back ached from the fall and his hands were bleeding. He must have pressed them into the shattered ornaments on the floor.

He opened his mouth to ask for help, but then he saw his mother: her eyes were dull as she hung the surviving ornaments, a single tear slipping down a cheek still made up from her morning trip to the grocery store.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the cuts, leaning back into the sofa to avoid straining himself.

He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep without saying another word.

2002

“The Owls’ Echo! Only for today, get a free Christmas scarf!”

Jules waved his arm toward the passersby, holding one newspaper tightly in his hand with a dozen more under his arm. Small clouds of condensation bloomed in front of his mouth as he called out.

“Newspaper with holiday recipes! Today only! Exclusive offer, not found in kiosks!”

Beside him, dozens of well-dressed, jewelry-laden men and women strolled past, gazing into shop windows and chatting among themselves.

An elderly man slowed his pace, then stopped right in front of him, eyeing him carefully. He looked first at the stack of bundled newspapers at Jules’s feet, then at the single copy in his hand.

“You haven’t sold many, have you?” he noted.

Jules flushed. “It’s still early. I’ll definitely sell them all by the end of the day. There’s a Christmas scarf included, it makes a really useful gift.”

“Newspapers sell in the early morning. Hard spot to sell any in the afternoon,” the old man countered smoothly.

Jules didn’t know what to say. Yes, he had been standing on this street for days now, selling maybe one or two copies a day. As the newcomer, he had been assigned a spot where people rarely stopped; he was well aware that further down, right outside the hospital, his colleague was making a fortune. But this was the hand he’d been dealt, and there wasn’t much he could do about it.

“Give me ten copies,” the man said, cutting through his stream of thoughts.

Jules blinked, stunned. “Ten copies?”

“Yes, ten copies. You’re right: a scarf makes a fine Christmas gift, and I have no desire to wander around crowded shops.”

Jules hurried to count out ten newspapers and ten scarves, handing them over before the man could change his mind.

Maybe he should have mentioned that the scarf wasn’t entirely free, but that the paper’s price had been marked up for December. He had only found out himself the day before when a regular customer complained. But he didn’t write the slogans, and besides, five pounds for a scarf was still a steal, wasn’t it?

He took the £50 note from the man and slipped it into his wallet. His commission was a third of the sales. He had already sold two papers that morning, so he was sitting on roughly £20 now. More or less.

“You really have your head in the clouds today, no wonder you’re struggling to sell!” the elderly man exclaimed, pulling him back to reality once more.

“I-I’m sorry...”

“As I was saying,” the man said firmly, taking Jules’s hands and examining them, “your skin is chapped raw, your eyes are glassy, and your nose is red. It isn’t worth it. Go home and celebrate Christmas with your family, study what you need to study for the break, and stay warm. At this rate, you’ll spend Christmas under the covers with pneumonia.”

Jules nodded softly.

It isn’t worth it.

He knew better than anyone that it wasn’t worth it, not for ordinary people. But when bringing home an extra pound or two meant being able to buy milk and bread, the choice was far from simple.

Not that he was about to explain that to a stranger.

“Okay. Thank you,” he said quietly.

The old man walked off with his ten copies tucked under his arm, and Jules watched him until he vanished around the corner at the end of the street.

No one else bought a single paper for the rest of the afternoon.

The next day, he couldn’t get out of bed.

The moment he tried to sit up, the entire room spun around him. He clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to suppress a wave of nausea. Damn it.

The house was wrapped in total, unbroken silence. His mother was out for work and wouldn’t return until evening.

He had wanted to buy her a present with the money he earned, but his body shuddered violently with icy chills; he couldn’t have gotten out of bed if his life depended on it.

He looked at his hands, raw with cracks far deeper than those the old man had seen the day before.

In the end, he had been right.

He closed his eyes, dreaming of a lavish Christmas with a pile of presents under the tree. A set table, both of his parents sitting across from him, smiling. His father carving the roast chicken and potatoes while his mother lit candles.

And beneath the table, a fluffy white Pomeranian happily wagged its tail.