Double, double toil and trouble

Description

Joy accidentally turns Irene into a bunny, and only true love’s kiss can break the curse.

(There isn’t a time limit but Irene’s been chewing off her essays and parchments for the past week. Definitely with murderous intent.)

Foreword

Joy is in big, big trouble.

Oh no, oh no, oh no, she thinks, as she paces around her room. The beds are unmade, spell books and quills lay strewn all over, tufts of fur and feathers floating around, and a pot of odd-looking liquid is boiling over by the fireplace.

Joy clutches her red hair desperately, as she crawls all over the floor, stacking books in haphazard piles—opening a few to peek into and mercilessly shake open, and turning over throw pillows and quilts, as if she were looking for something hidden.

“Irene?” Joy tentatively calls out, daring to peek within the dust-mote infested area that is the bottom of her bed. She reaches an arm out, sweeping it back and forth within the unwarranted darkness, before taking it back out to no avail but to have her skin covered in dust and tufts, and a teensy daddy longlegs crawling over her arm.

And then she hears it.

It’s a small thump, but it’s audible to Joy’s ears, and enough to set her off. She perks up and freezes, listening closely.

And for a moment, nothing could be heard but the sound of liquid boiling and flowing over the cauldron—she’s certain the color must be a dangerous shade of green by now, the cheerful flicker of the fire, and a gale of wind knocking and pressing constantly against their room’s windows (whoosh, whoosh, WHOOSH!).

Thu-thump.

It’s coming from beneath the wooden dresser. A knock, and then a scritch-scratch, and then Joy smiles in relief.

She crawls over someone’s—her unfortunate roommate’s—discarded robes (definitely Irene’s if the simple ebony, devoid of any patterns or inscriptions, is any indication), presses her cheek against the smooth oak surface of the dresser, and reaches out beneath.

“Ow!”

Joy pulls back her hand as quick as lightning when she feels something small, soft, and warm—definitely with sharp teeth—bite her.

 

XX

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