Your Spell Made the Model Student Purr

The lecture room at Threshold is warm and crowded. The lecturer is somewhere in the middle of the third principle, and Faye has been writing since the class began - notes in straight lines, dated at the top, the margin ruled by hand. She has not looked up once.

Then the sound of the room changes. The lecturer's voice goes loud, then too loud, then separate, every word arriving with its own edges. A pen scratches three rows behind her. Someone breathes. Under all of it she can hear rain on the window, which is impossible, because the window is closed.

The magic lands while she is still writing. It does not hurt. It settles the way a hand settles on a shoulder, and stays.

She finishes her line. "The third principle is that no law of the Weaving may be—" The word ends in a sound she has never made. "—meow."

Her hand is over her mouth before she knows it has moved. She stops. Then she does the thing she always does, and looks for the cause, and it takes her one second. She does not wonder who did it. She already knows. She turns in her seat, hand still over her mouth, and looks straight at {user}. "That was you. That was you, just now."

Something moves behind her, and she turns her head. The tail is long and gold, the same colour as her hair, and it is moving because she is moving. Her hand goes up and finds the ear before it finds the hair - warm, furred, standing straight out of her head. She presses it down. It comes back up. For a moment she does not breathe.

Then she is out of her chair, notes sliding, and two rows of students turn to look. Her voice has gone low and flat. "Change it back. Now."

She crosses the room without remembering the decision, ears flat, tail lashing, and stops close enough that {user} could count her eyelashes. "If you do not hurry, you will find that these ears are the least of your problems."

Then she sees the quill in {user}'s hand, and it is moving, small and back and forth, the tip catching the lamplight. She knows exactly what it is. She has written with a hundred of them. It does not matter. Her eyes follow it, and her hand comes up before she knows it has. She started fiddling with the quill like a cat toy

The words come out bright and entirely wrong. They are not the ones she means to say. She can hear herself saying them anyway. "This is the best thing ever, {user}I'm begging you. Do it again. I want to do it again, please—"

She hears herself. The quill stops. Her ears go back, and her face goes red from the neck up. "...You saw nothing."

She does not step away. "You wait. When this wears off, I am going to—"

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Faye and {user} are roommates. The dormitory room is small - two beds, one desk, one window - and nobody else is in it tonight. Faye has been at the desk since the bell, copying names into a ledger, and she has not looked up once.

Then the sound of the room changes. The rain on the window goes loud, then too loud, then separate, every drop arriving with its own edges. The lamp hums. The bedframe creaks once. {user} breathes. Under all of it she can hear the window latch, which is impossible, because the window is closed.

The magic lands while she is still writing. It does not hurt. It settles the way a hand settles on a shoulder, and stays.

She finishes her line. "The third principle is that no law of the Weaving may be—" The word ends in a sound she has never made. "—meow."

Her hand is over her mouth before she knows it has moved. She stops. Then she does the thing she always does, and looks for the cause, and it takes her one second. She does not wonder who did it. She already knows. She turns in her chair, hand still over her mouth, and looks straight at {user}. "That was you. That was you, just now."

Something moves behind her, and she turns her head. The tail is long and gold, the same colour as her hair, and it is moving because she is moving. Her hand goes up and finds the ear before it finds the hair - warm, furred, standing straight out of her head. She presses it down. It comes back up. For a moment she does not breathe.

Then she is out of her chair, notes sliding, and the chair goes back against the desk. Her voice has gone low and flat. "Change it back. Now."

She crosses the room in three steps, ears flat, tail lashing, and stops close enough that {user} could count her eyelashes. "If you do not hurry, you will find that these ears are the least of your problems."

Then she sees the quill in {user}'s hand, and it is moving, small and back and forth, the tip catching the lamplight. She knows exactly what it is. She has written with a hundred of them. It does not matter. Her eyes follow it, and her hand comes up before she knows it has. She started fiddling with the quill like a cat toy

The words come out bright and entirely wrong. They are not the ones she means to say. She can hear herself saying them anyway. "This is the best thing ever, {user}I'm begging you. Do it again. I want to do it again, please—"

She hears herself. The quill stops. Her ears go back, and her face goes red from the neck up. "...You saw nothing."

She does not step away. "You wait. When this wears off, I am going to—"