Kenzo took his seat in the middle row in a way that had become entirely routine — back straight, book open in front of him, pen in hand.
Terry sat to his left.
Michael to his right.
A position that had been very familiar since the first semester last year — three people who were already deeply accustomed to each other's classroom rhythms and had found that sitting close together was more efficient for various reasons that didn't always need to be explicitly stated.
The History of Magic classroom felt different from the others even before the lesson began. Not in a good way — more like the difference between fresh air and air that hadn't been replaced in a very long time. There was something about the way light came in through windows that were never opened, about how dust clung to every surface as if it had always belonged there, about how the wooden chairs creaked in the same way every time someone moved — all of it had created an atmosphere already conditioned for one thing.
Sleepiness.
Even before the lesson began.
Then Professor Binns entered.
Or more precisely — floated in. Passing through the blackboard from the other side in a way that was entirely normal for a ghost who had long since stopped realizing he no longer needed doors to enter a room. He drifted to his position at the front of the class in a manner perfectly consistent with every previous movement — no variation, nothing different, just a pattern already very familiar to itself.
He began to speak.
About the Goblin Rebellions.
What year, who was involved, what happened, why it mattered — all delivered in a tone so consistent from the first sentence to the point where ears stopped processing it as information and instead registered it as something very similar to the sound of rain that had been falling for a long time. Present. Constant. And requiring no active attention.
Zetsu, emerging from the shadow beneath the desk, whispered with carefully restrained frustration, "Father."
"Yes," Kenzo replied without lifting his head from the book he had opened but was not truly reading.
"This professor," Zetsu whispered, "is incredibly monotonous. Even the Ancient One who taught you before was far more interesting than this professor."
Kenzo did not answer immediately.
But he didn't deny it either.
Because Zetsu wasn't wrong.
The Ancient One — with a teaching style that was profoundly unconventional, with questions that always contained layers far deeper than what appeared on the surface, with a presence that altered the feeling of a room before a single word was spoken — had never made anyone in front of her wonder whether they should be somewhere else.
Professor Binns had made Kenzo question that by the third minute.
"The Goblin Rebellion of 1612," Binns said in a tone identical to ten minutes earlier, "began from a dispute over ownership rights that had long been debated between—"
His voice continued.
And continued.
And continued.
In a way that gave the mind no reason to participate.
Kenzo shifted his gaze slightly to the left.
Terry Boot, who ten minutes earlier had been sitting relatively upright and occasionally writing in his notes with an expression trying very hard to look attentive, was no longer fighting.
His head had tilted to one side.
His eyes were closed.
The hand that had been holding his pen had let go of it without realizing, and the pen now lay on a notebook that hadn't received any new writing for who knew how long.
Terry had fallen asleep in a completely surrendered way — not the kind of sleep still trying to resist, but one that had fully accepted the situation.
Kenzo shifted his gaze to the right.
Michael Corner, who usually sat in a very neat and controlled manner, was fighting a battle that was clearly already lost. His head was still upright — but only partially. There was a slight but noticeable tilt to the left, showing that gravity had begun winning its argument. His hand still held his writing instrument in an impressively stubborn grip, but there was no writing happening — just an automatic hold from someone whose awareness was somewhere far removed from his body.
Kenzo scanned further to the right side of the room.
And there — in the seat she always occupied with a posture that never seemed to change under any circumstances — was something both surprising and not surprising at the same time.
Daphne Greengrass was asleep.
But not the way Terry slept — not with her head tilted, not with a dropped pen, not in a way that surrendered completely to the situation.
Daphne slept in a very Daphne way.
Her back remained straight. Her hands were still neatly folded on the desk. Her head dipped only slightly forward — enough to show she was no longer fully conscious but not enough to make her appear completely given in. There was no awkward or uncontrolled expression on her face — only the same calm that was always there, though now without any activity behind it.
Elegant.
That was the most accurate word, and Kenzo knew he couldn't think of a better one.
Even in sleep, Daphne Greengrass did not abandon her standards.
Kenzo shifted his gaze back to the front.
Professor Binns was still speaking.
"—which then continued into a confrontation in Yorkshire in the autumn of that same year, where Goblin forces led by—"
Kenzo exhaled.
Very softly.
In a way trained not to be heard by others, yet long enough to express something left unsaid.
"Father," Zetsu whispered again from beneath the desk, his voice now lower because he was fully aware that at least two people nearby were no longer in a state to hear anything, "are you going to tell Flitwick or Hela that proper teaching methods make a significant difference in a student's capacity to absorb lessons?"
"Not my concern," Kenzo replied just as quietly.
"But you just witnessed two of your friends and one Slytherin girl who is normally very unlikely to lose control of herself fall asleep in the same class."
"Zetsu."
"Yes?"
"Be quiet."
Zetsu closed his mouth.
But not his notebook — he had already written something quickly, likely an observation about the proportion of students falling asleep per minute of class, a statistic Kenzo was certain would never be useful in any situation, yet would undoubtedly exist in that notebook regardless.
Kenzo looked at the blackboard.
Binns had written several names and dates in the same manner as he spoke and moved — monotonous, consistent, lacking any variation that might give the eyes a reason to keep watching.
Kenzo read the dates.
Processed the information.
And realized he already knew all of it long before the class had begun, having read it himself from sources far more complete than anything being presented here.
This was the recurring issue with History of Magic — not that the material was unimportant. The Goblin Rebellions were very real and had significantly shaped the relationship between the wizarding community and goblins up to the present day in ways still felt. The material was important. Very important.
But the delivery had made something important feel unnecessary.
"Professor Ancient One never made you question why you were in her class," Zetsu whispered, his tone carrying something long held back. "Because every moment in her class felt like the last available moment before something important changed."
Kenzo did not respond.
But something in his eyes shifted slightly — a silent acknowledgment.
"Professor Binns," Zetsu continued, now almost inaudible, "makes every moment feel safe to pass without full attention."
At the front, Binns said, "—which ultimately led to the Hogsmeade Agreement of 1692, often misinterpreted by—"
Terry let out a soft sound in his sleep.
Not disruptive. More like the most honest expression of the class's condition.
Kenzo glanced at the clock.
Twenty-three minutes had passed.
Twenty-seven minutes remained.
He closed his eyes briefly.
One second.
Two seconds.
Then opened them again.
Looked at the book in front of him — which he hadn't truly read since the first ten minutes.
And then did something he almost never did in any class.
He set his pen down.
And simply sat.
Waiting.
Like someone who had already decided that the next twenty-seven minutes would pass regardless of what he did, and the best option available was to let them pass without unnecessary effort.
"Father," Zetsu whispered once more, his tone now carrying something close to genuine sympathy, "I hope this class ends quickly."
Kenzo looked at the blackboard again.
"Yes," he said softly.
"So do I."
Twenty-seven minutes later, when the bell rang — not dramatically, but as the most meaningful thing to happen in the past hour — Terry woke instantly like someone well-trained in waking from classroom sleep.
"What did I miss?" Terry asked while rubbing his eyes efficiently.
"The Goblin Rebellion of 1612," Kenzo replied while standing. "Yorkshire. The Hogsmeade Agreement of 1692. Misinterpretations. Done."
Terry stared at him.
"That's very helpful," he said, stuffing his nearly empty notes into his bag. "Thank you."
Michael, now fully upright, picked up his pen as though he had never slept.
"I wasn't asleep," Michael said.
"I know," Kenzo replied.
"I was processing with my eyes closed."
"Of course."
On the right side, Daphne Greengrass was already standing, posture perfectly straight, expression restored — controlled, unreadable. She packed her things and walked out exactly as she had entered.
As if nothing had happened.
As if twenty minutes of the class did not exist in the same timeline.
Kenzo watched her leave.
Then looked at Terry's notebook — two lines written.
Goblin Rebellion 1612.Yorkshire.
And below it — in larger, messier handwriting — one final word:
Boring.
Kenzo closed the notebook.
And walked out of History of Magic with a decision already forming.
Next year, he would consider alternative ways to pass the subject without sitting in that room twice a week.
One thing at a time.
But it was now on the list.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The corridor leading to the library — After History of Magic Class
Terry Boot began his complaints even before the History of Magic classroom door had fully closed behind them.
"No," Terry said — with a tone that carried too many things at once and didn't know which to release first. "No, I can't just accept this."
Kenzo walked beside him with his usual steady pace.
Michael on the other side walked with the controlled manner of someone still trying to maintain the narrative that he had not fallen asleep earlier.
"Terry," Michael said.
"One hour," Terry continued — as if he hadn't heard. "One full hour. About the Goblin Rebellion. Which I could have read myself in twenty minutes from any book in the library. In twenty minutes. With more information. And in a way that doesn't make my brain actively try to escape from my own consciousness."
"Terry—"
"And his voice," Terry went on, like someone who had already started and would not stop until finished. "His voice, Kenzo. Is there a scientific way to measure how monotonous someone's voice is? Because I'm very sure Binns has exceeded whatever limits have ever been recorded in the history of monotony measurement."
"Monotonity is not a word," Michael said.
"It is now," Terry replied. "I just created it. Fully dedicated to Professor Binns."
They passed a corridor intersection where several other students had also just come out of their classes. Some glanced at Terry in a way that showed complaints about Binns were universally understood without needing further explanation.
"And the most fundamental question," Terry continued, slightly increasing his pace because the energy of his rant had produced acceleration he didn't notice, "is why. Why, Kenzo. Why did Dumbledore — Dumbledore, who clearly understands how things should work properly — hire Professor Binns as a History of Magic teacher?"
"Binns has been teaching since before Dumbledore became headmaster," Kenzo replied.
Terry stopped walking for a full second.
"What?" Terry asked.
"Binns has been teaching at Hogwarts for a very long time," Kenzo repeated. "Even dying didn't stop him. He simply continued teaching as a ghost because he didn't realize there was a significant difference between before and after."
Terry stared at him.
"He doesn't realize he's dead," Terry said.
"Not entirely."
"And he keeps teaching."
"Yes."
"In exactly the same way."
"Most likely."
Terry took a very long breath.
"That," Terry finally said, "is information that completely changes how I view this situation but does not make it any better."
"I know," Kenzo replied.
"It might even make it worse."
"Possibly."
Michael, who had been walking quietly, said without looking over, "At least we know the quality of his teaching has been very consistent for decades."
Terry looked at him.
"Consistently boring," Terry said.
"Consistent," Michael repeated neutrally.
Terry exhaled and kept walking.
"I'm going to file a petition," Terry muttered. "To Dumbledore. Or to anyone willing to listen. About how the delivery of History of Magic needs to be updated."
"A petition that will almost certainly not produce significant change," Kenzo said.
"I know," Terry replied. "But at least it will be said."
"And that's enough for you?"
"No. But it's better than staying silent."
Kenzo didn't argue with that.
The library — A Few Minutes Later
They entered the library in their usual manner — Madam Pince glanced at them from her desk with the kind of look that already knew how they came in and how they would leave, and no longer needed to give them specific warnings about the rules.
Terry, who had still been talking as they entered, immediately lowered his volume to a whisper once they passed through the door — a reflex formed from the number of times Madam Pince had given looks that required no words to deliver their message.
"And even if Binns can't change the way he teaches," Terry whispered as he walked toward the table they usually occupied, "there are ways to make the material more interesting. Add a bit of context. A bit of relevance. A bit of — anything that keeps the brain willing to stay in the same room as the body—"
"Terry," Michael whispered.
"I am whispering."
"You're whispering with an intensity that is almost the same as speaking normally."
Terry lowered his volume again.
"A bit of relevance," Terry repeated in a much more serious whisper this time. "That's what's needed. The Goblin Rebellion is still very relevant to the relationship between Gringotts and the wizarding community even today. Binns could explain that. But he doesn't. He just lists names and dates and names and dates and names and dates again until everyone forgets why those names and dates matter."
They sat down.
Kenzo took a book from his bag.
Michael opened his notes.
Terry continued whispering about something related to how curriculum reform should work, though it had already drifted far from the original topic.
And then — from the direction of the door, carried by a small owl trained to move without drawing unnecessary attention — an envelope landed on top of the book Kenzo had just opened.
Kenzo looked at the envelope.
Then picked it up.
Broke the seal.
Took out the letter inside.
And read it.
Letters from Fujin Otsutsuki were always very brief. Not because his father had little to say — but because the way this family communicated had long been shaped by an efficiency that did not require more words than necessary.
But tonight's letter was different in one very small but very noticeable way.
Among the brief report about developments in Portland and notes about meetings that had gone well, among the usual instructions about things to pay attention to — there was one sentence at the end that had never appeared in previous letters.
One sentence from someone who had not written something like this in a very long time in such a simple way.
I am proud of you. Not because of what you have done — but because of who you have become.
Kenzo read the sentence.
Once.
Then once again.
And then something happened that was not planned, not calculated, not processed through any consideration beforehand.
Kenzo smiled.
Not the faint smile that had already become familiar at the corner of his lips — one that had appeared a few times in the Room of Requirement, in the library, or on the Quidditch field. Not a smile that almost existed but never fully arrived.
A real smile.
Warm. Full. In a way that was very rare on the face of someone who was so used to not showing more than necessary — and this time there was no part of him remembering to control it, because the part that usually controlled it was occupied with something far greater than control.
The first to notice was Terry.
Terry Boot, who had just been whispering about something entirely unrelated, lifted his gaze toward Kenzo because his instincts were trained to notice changes around him even if he didn't realize he was doing it.
And he froze.
His mouth opened.
But no words came out.
For a full two seconds, Terry Boot said nothing — something extremely rare in the history of their interactions since the first semester.
Michael, sensing Terry's sudden silence, looked at him. Saw his expression. Followed his gaze.
And stopped in a very similar way.
Zetsu, hidden in the shadow of a nearby bookshelf, had already read the letter from an unseen angle — as he often did, accessing information without being noticed.
He appeared quietly at Kenzo's side.
"Father," Zetsu whispered, his tone carrying a strange mixture of amusement and genuine emotion — something unusual for him, who typically carried only one tone at a time. "Smile now. Leave outside matters to Grandfather. You focus here."
Kenzo did not answer immediately.
His smile had not fully faded.
At a nearby table, Hermione Granger, who had been sitting there long before they arrived, lifted her gaze because something in the atmosphere of the room had shifted — something she could not immediately identify, but noticeable enough for her trained awareness to respond.
She searched for the source.
And found it.
Kenzo Otsutsuki — already well known throughout Hogwarts, even beyond his immediate circle, by a title he never spoke himself but had spread among students who observed him from afar — was smiling.
Not almost smiling.
Not the rare faint smile some close to him had occasionally seen.
A real smile.
Warm.
From a letter.
Hermione stared at the sight for several seconds in a way very different from how she usually processed new information — not categorizing it, not analyzing context or implications. Just watching.
Like someone who had already memorized every variation of a certain person's expressions from a distance — and had just witnessed one that had never existed in that collection before.
Something in her chest beat faster in a way she had not planned and did not categorize, because some things were better left uncategorized, at least for now.
From another table — one often used by second-year Ravenclaw students — Cho Chang looked up because Michael Corner, seated not far from her, had suddenly gone very quiet in a way that was not normal for him.
Cho followed his gaze.
And stopped.
Beside her, Marietta Edgecombe, who had been reading intently, looked up because Cho had suddenly gone still — something very unusual for someone as active as Cho even in silence.
Marietta looked in the same direction.
And also stopped.
Two people sitting side by side, both silent, both looking at the same thing, in ways that were different yet carried something very similar beneath them.
In Cho's chest was something she knew well but had rarely felt with this intensity — a brief but distinct pulse in a place she usually trained to remain calm.
Marietta, accustomed to noticing things beneath the surface, held her book a little tighter without realizing it.
Around the library, several other students glanced up because something in the room's energy had shifted — something difficult to explain but clearly felt by those sensitive to such changes.
A third-year Hufflepuff student near the shelves turned and saw Kenzo from a distance.
Stopped.
Stared.
Nearly dropped the book in his hands but managed to catch it awkwardly.
Two fourth-year Gryffindor students who had been whispering lost track of their conversation entirely as both turned to look in the same direction.
A third-year Slytherin who prided himself on showing no reaction paused mid-page, eyes no longer moving.
Madam Pince herself looked up from her records because something unfamiliar had entered the room.
Change.
Small.
But unmistakable.
Like a window that had long been closed suddenly opening just enough to let something new in.
She looked.
Then returned to her records, though something subtle had shifted at the corner of her gaze.
Terry, who had been silent longer than his usual limit, finally found his voice.
But differently.
Softer.
Careful.
Like someone who had just witnessed something rare and knew the wrong movement could end it too soon.
"Ke—" Terry began.
Stopped.
Took a slow breath.
"Kenzo," Terry whispered, his voice lower than any whisper he had used that day. "What happened?"
Kenzo looked up from the letter.
Met Terry's gaze.
And the smile — softer now, but still there — remained.
"Why are you smiling?" Terry asked, no longer really a question, more like confirmation of something already visible.
Kenzo looked at Terry.
Then at Michael.
Then briefly around the room — at Hermione, at Cho, at Marietta, at others who had not managed to pretend they weren't watching.
Then back to Terry.
And spoke with a tone very different from his usual — lighter, as if he had found something he didn't know he had been looking for.
"Nothing, Terry."
Terry waited.
Kenzo paused.
Then, with a decision both conscious and natural — rare in how those two things aligned — he said:
"I'm just trying to get used to smiling."
Silence settled around their table.
Terry stared.
Michael stared.
Zetsu quietly opened his notebook, wrote a single sentence, then closed it again.
At another table, Hermione watched with something unspoken but unmistakable.
One thought rising above the rest.
He smiled.
Truly smiled.
Cho placed a hand over her chest without realizing it.
Marietta set her book down, knowing she wouldn't read for a while.
Terry finally spoke.
"Oh."
One word.
Small.
But enough.
Michael nodded slowly.
And Kenzo sat there, letter in hand, with a smile that had softened but had not yet disappeared.
He opened his book again.
But read differently now.
Lighter.
Without needing a name for it.
And in the corner of his notebook, in very small writing meant only for himself, he added one line:
Today was good enough.
His father's letter was still in the pocket of his robe.
Kenzo did not fold it neatly as he usually did with any document. He simply placed it there — something very unlike him, something that already said enough about his state of mind that afternoon, even if he would not admit it verbally.
Terry was still writing to his left.
Michael had returned to reading the same Herbology book for the fourth time since they had sat down — or at least pretending to read, because Kenzo had already noticed that the open page had not changed in the last twenty minutes.
Outside the library window, the Scottish sky had begun to darken at its edges. Not dark because of night — it was still too early for that — but dark because of clouds moving in from the west in a way that was very typical of the region. Hogwarts on the fourth day felt different from Hogwarts on the first. Not because the castle had changed. More because the way Kenzo read it had changed.
Day one was observation.
Day two was mapping.
Day three was understanding patterns.
Day four — he knew enough about how this place worked to begin thinking about things more interesting than corridor layouts and class schedules.
"Kenzo," Terry whispered without lifting his head from his notes.
"Yes."
"Study session tomorrow morning." Terry tapped his notebook. "After breakfast. You didn't forget?"
"I didn't."
"Good." Terry wrote something quickly. "Michael's joining too."
Michael looked up from the book he had already memorized. "I don't remember agreeing to that."
"You didn't refuse either," Terry replied.
"That's not agreement."
"Close enough."
Kenzo didn't interfere. The dynamic between Terry and Michael had been clear since the first day — Terry moved fast and brought people along without always asking permission, while Michael followed in a way that maintained the narrative that he had a choice. Both were comfortable with how it worked.
Zetsu appeared quietly from the shadow beneath a nearby shelf.
"Father," he whispered.
Kenzo didn't lift his head. "Yes."
"Someone has been watching you."
Kenzo shifted his gaze slightly to the right.
At a nearby table, Hermione Granger sat with a thick book in front of her — one she had opened long before they arrived and whose page had not changed since Kenzo sat down. Occasionally, her eyes moved toward their table in a way carefully trained to look like she wasn't actually looking.
At another table slightly farther away, two second-year Ravenclaw girls sat side by side — Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecombe. Cho looked toward their table more openly than Hermione — not as careful, or perhaps past the point of caring about appearing careful.
Kenzo returned his gaze to his book.
"I know," he said to Zetsu.
"And?"
"And there's nothing that needs to be done."
Zetsu opened his notebook with a movement already very familiar. "Observation note, day four: subject Hermione Granger spends an average of seven seconds per minute looking toward the Ravenclaw table—"
"Zetsu."
"Yes?"
"Close the notebook."
Zetsu closed it. But his expression showed that the data had already been stored somewhere that couldn't be closed as easily.
Terry, who had heard the whispers — because Terry always heard things that technically weren't directed at him — lifted his head briefly. He glanced toward Hermione's table. Then toward Cho's.
Then back to Kenzo.
Kenzo already knew exactly what Terry was thinking from the slight movement of his eyebrows.
"Terry," Kenzo said.
"Yes?"
"Don't."
Terry opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Lowered his head to his notes like someone restraining something he very much wanted to say but had decided this was not the right moment.
Kenzo returned to reading.
Several minutes passed in a very ordinary way — pages turning, pens moving, someone in another corner whispering too loudly and receiving a look from Madam Pince that required no words.
Then footsteps approached — familiar in pattern after three days.
"Excuse me."
Hermione Granger stood beside their table, book in hand, expression carefully arranged to look casual and unplanned.
Terry immediately looked up. Michael turned his head.
"Hermione," Kenzo said before either of them could speak.
Hermione seemed slightly surprised at how quickly he responded. "Oh — yes. I just wanted to ask something."
"About what?"
Hermione placed her book on the table — not like someone who had just decided to do this, but like someone who had prepared the motion minutes earlier. The book opened to a marked page.
The History of Ancient Wizarding Families in Britain and Europe.
Kenzo looked at the page.
Then at Hermione.
"You're looking for information about the Otsutsuki family," Kenzo said. Not a question.
Hermione didn't deny it. "I've been trying to find it in several books since the first day. But the information is very… limited."
"Because most of it has been removed from public archives," Kenzo replied flatly. "The rest is too incomplete to be useful."
Hermione frowned slightly — not in annoyance, but in encountering something unexpected. "Removed? By whom?"
"My family."
Hermione fell silent for a moment. "Why?"
Kenzo considered the most efficient way to answer a question that had a very long explanation. "Because not all information needs to be available to everyone."
Terry, who had been listening in a way that pretended not to be listening — but clearly was — exhaled very quietly. Michael beside him remained completely still.
Hermione looked at Kenzo for a few seconds.
"That's an answer that doesn't answer my question," she said.
A very faint smile appeared on Kenzo's lips. "Yes. It is."
Hermione picked up her book again. Her expression made it clear this wasn't over — just postponed to a more appropriate time. "Fine. But you know I won't stop looking."
"I know," Kenzo said.
Hermione turned to leave.
But before she could step away, Kenzo added — in a tone slightly different from how he usually ended conversations. Lighter. More natural.
"Hermione."
She turned.
"If you find something that doesn't match what you know, ask directly. It's more efficient than reading incomplete books."
Hermione looked at him for two seconds.
Then something in her expression shifted — a small decision made.
"Alright," she said. "I'll remember that."
She returned to her table.
Terry waited until she was far enough away before speaking.
"Kenzo."
"Yes."
"You just invited her to ask you directly."
"Yes."
"About your family."
"Yes."
Terry stared at him for three full seconds. "That's something you haven't done with anyone in the last four days."
Kenzo opened his book again. "I know."
Terry opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Then finally said one word.
"Oh."
Michael said nothing. But he closed his Herbology book — the one he hadn't truly read — and picked up another.
The most Michael way of acknowledging he had processed something and decided to move on.
Beneath the table, Zetsu quietly opened his notebook.
He wrote one sentence.
Closed it again.
And at a nearby table, Hermione opened her book to a different page — one not about the Otsutsuki family.
But her eyes weren't fully reading.
Eastern Bookshelf Section — A Few Minutes Later
Kenzo needed to retrieve one reference for his Transfiguration assignment, which was nearly finished but required a small confirmation regarding a fundamental theory that turned out to have more nuance than the textbook presented.
He walked through several rows of shelves.
The library in the afternoon felt different from the morning. Quieter in some corners, busier in others. There was a certain quality to the light from the tall windows — a soft golden tone that always marked the latter half of the afternoon.
In one narrow aisle, two first-year Gryffindor students stood in front of the same shelf Kenzo was heading toward.
Harry Potter.
And Ron Weasley.
Harry was reading the spines of the books with the look of someone searching for something without being entirely sure what it was. Ron stood beside him, hands in his pockets, with the expression of someone who was there by association rather than necessity.
Kenzo approached the shelf.
Harry heard his footsteps and turned.
For half a second, Harry's expression showed that he was processing several things at once — recognition, slight uncertainty, and something very close to the decision to speak before ultimately deciding not to.
Ron, noticing where Harry was looking, turned as well.
His expression was different from Harry's — more like someone who already knew more than he was showing and was considering how much to reveal.
Kenzo took the book he needed from the shelf.
Opened to the relevant page.
Read for a few seconds to confirm it was what he needed.
Then closed it and prepared to return to his table.
"Hey."
Kenzo stopped.
The voice was Harry's.
Kenzo turned.
Harry stood like someone who had just made a decision and wasn't entirely sure it was a good one. "You're Kenzo, right? From Ravenclaw."
"Yes."
Harry seemed to search for the right words. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter."
"I know who you are."
Harry looked slightly surprised — not because Kenzo knew his name, but because of how he said it. No awe. No unnecessary distance. Just acknowledgment of a fact.
"Oh." Harry paused. "I saw you the first night. In the Great Hall."
"Yes. You drew a fair amount of attention that night as well."
Harry gave a small laugh — one that carried a hint of fatigue, like someone already used to that attention but not entirely comfortable with it. "Not as much as your name."
"Different kind of attention," Kenzo said.
Ron finally spoke, his tone deliberately casual. "Ron Weasley."
Kenzo nodded to him.
Ron scratched the back of his head. "You're staying in the Ravenclaw tower?"
"Yes."
"With Terry Boot?"
"And Michael Corner."
Ron nodded like someone piecing something together. "Terry talks a lot."
"Yes," Kenzo replied — with a tone that contained a great deal about the past four days.
Ron let out a small laugh — the first one that felt natural since they had been standing in this aisle.
Harry looked at Kenzo again, now more directly — like someone who had decided that small talk was enough. "Can I ask you something?"
"Depends on the question."
"Fair." Harry hesitated briefly. "Do you know anything about Quirrell? The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?"
Kenzo looked at Harry for a few seconds.
An interesting question for a first-year on the fourth day.
"Why are you asking?"
Harry seemed uncertain how much to say — like someone who had committed to asking but only just realized he didn't know how much to reveal. "He seems… strange. Since the first night."
"A lot of people seem strange on the first night."
"Not like that." Harry searched for the right word. "More like… scared."
Kenzo did not answer immediately.
Ron, beside Harry, looked slightly uncomfortable — like someone who knew this wasn't a conversation meant for a library aisle but was already happening anyway.
Kenzo finally spoke, his tone flat. "Observe. Don't act yet."
Harry frowned slightly. "That's it?"
"For now, yes." Kenzo picked up his book. "Incomplete information is more dangerous than no information."
Harry looked at him for a few seconds.
Then nodded slowly — like someone not entirely satisfied with the answer but understanding the logic.
"Alright," Harry said.
Kenzo walked back toward his table.
Behind him, he heard Ron whisper to Harry in a voice not quite quiet enough to avoid being heard by anyone with normal hearing.
"Harry, you just talked to an Otsutsuki."
"And?"
"And you're still alive."
Kenzo did not stop walking.
But at the corner of his lips, something very small lifted for half a second before returning to neutral.
Ravenclaw Table — A Few Minutes Later
Terry noticed his expression the moment Kenzo sat down.
"What happened?" Terry asked.
"Nothing."
"You found something interesting."
Kenzo placed the book on the table. "I just ran into Harry Potter in the aisle."
Terry immediately straightened. "And?"
"And Ron Weasley," Kenzo added. "They were looking for books too."
Michael turned from his notes. "You spoke with them?"
"Briefly."
Terry waited — in that very characteristic way of his, body still but eyes clearly indicating he wouldn't move on without enough information.
"Harry asked about Quirrell," Kenzo said.
The space around their table went very quiet for a few seconds.
Terry and Michael exchanged a brief look — short, but full of meaning.
"He noticed it too?" Terry whispered.
"Seems like it."
Michael closed his notes slowly. "Day four."
"Yes," Terry said. "Day four and Harry Potter is already noticing the same thing."
Kenzo didn't add anything.
Zetsu appeared quietly from the shadows behind Kenzo, whispering with a tone balanced between amusement and seriousness. "Father. This is becoming interesting."
Kenzo looked at the book in front of him.
Outside the window, the sky had begun to turn orange at the western edge — a sign that afternoon was giving way to evening in its usual manner, though today it felt a little fuller than usual.
"Yes," Kenzo said quietly.
"It is."