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Diana Cavendish walked through the corridors of Luna Nova with her usual implacable bearing, her back straight, her chin slightly raised, and her gaze fixed ahead, as if the building itself opened before her out of respect rather than habit. The old tiles echoed the firm sound of her footsteps, a restrained and precise sound that seemed to mark the rhythm not only of her walk but of her entire presence. On either side, accompanying her with a naturalness that was almost ironic, Hannah and Barbara walked along, talking to each other with carefree fluency, as if they had just been reunited after a long separation, rather than having shared the same room, the same nightly routine, and the same silences before bedtime throughout the previous year.
Diana never interrupted them when they talked like this. Not because she had nothing to say, but because, in those moments, she found a strange form of relief. Hannah gestured exaggeratedly, her voice rising and falling without much concern for control, while Barbara responded with shorter comments, sometimes ironic, sometimes distracted, but always honest in their lack of pretension. There was no real attempt to impress, or to position themselves, or to measure every word in terms of what Diana Cavendish might represent. When they talked to each other, they did so because they wanted to talk, because silence was uncomfortable or unnecessary, or because sharing trivialities was, for them, a way of existing together.
And that, for Diana, changed everything.
The further words strayed from genuine intent, the more they were distorted for convenience or calculation, the easier it was for her to sense them. Not as an unpleasant sound, but as an absence, an internal void that was activated as soon as the lie was uttered. It was a precise, almost mathematical sensation: the less truth a sentence contained, the lighter it became when it reached her, as if it dissolved before settling. With Hannah and Barbara, however, something different happened. Their words might be exaggerated, even superficial, but they were not empty. There was no uncomfortable distance between what was said and what was felt. That's why Diana enjoyed listening to them, even if she didn't actively participate. That's why she walked beside them without feeling the need to put up walls.
The hallway was lit by a soft light filtering through the tall stained-glass windows, bathing the walls in shades of violet and gold that seemed to change as they walked. The air was cool, heavy with the ancient scent of damp stone and old parchments, a mixture that Diana had always associated with Luna Nova and everything that institution represented. Tradition. Expectation. High standards. And, beneath it all, an invisible web of carefully chosen words.
As they walked along, other voices joined in the general murmur of the hallway. Courteous greetings, admiring comments, compliments uttered with the precision of someone who knows exactly what to say and when to say it. Diana received them with her usual composure, responding just enough, tilting her head at the right angle, maintaining a distance that was neither offensive nor inviting unnecessary closeness. Each of those phrases was evaluated silently, not out of conscious mistrust, but out of habit. It was something that happened automatically, like breathing.
—It's impressive how you maintain that level even after everything that happened last year,— commented a student as she passed by, with a measured smile and a calculated look.
The lie came even before Diana responded. Not because the statement was false in content, but because the intention behind it was not aimed at understanding or acknowledging any effort. It was a functional statement, designed to position the speaker in a favorable light, to demonstrate closeness to someone whose name carried more weight than most. Diana felt it as she always did: an uncomfortable lightness, a word that left no trace.
—Thank you,— she replied politely, without slowing down.
Hannah didn't even notice. Barbara did, but she didn't say anything. Both were used to the way Diana moved through the world, to that invisible barrier that surrounded her and that only a few seemed to notice. To most, Diana Cavendish was simply serious, distant, too correct. Only a few understood that this coldness was not a capricious choice, it was a consequence. A learned response to an environment where sincerity was scarce and convenience abounded.
From a very young age, Diana had understood that words could be subtle weapons. In her family's salons, she had heard compliments that sought not to acknowledge, but to get closer; promises that were not meant to be kept, but to buy time; affections that were offered as investments. There, her gift had fully awakened, refining itself with each experience, teaching her that not all lies were the same, but that the most dangerous ones always came with a spotless smile.
At Luna Nova, that dynamic was not much different. Teachers often lied. Not always out of malice, or even self-interest, but because the institution itself seemed built on a series of half-truths. Automatic congratulations. Softened warnings. Discourses on merit that ignored implicit hierarchies. Diana heard those lies clearly, feeling them slip past her without really touching her. It was tiring. Not painful, but exhausting, like listening to a constantly out-of-tune melody.
There was, however, one exception.
Chariot.
When Chariot lied —because Diana knew she did—, the feeling was completely different. Her lies were neither light nor hollow. They were warm. They settled with a strange, almost comforting weight, like a blanket carefully placed on the shoulders of someone who was about to feel cold. They were lies of care, of protection, born of a genuine intention to shield her students from harm, from excess, from irreversible error. They did not seek advantage, recognition, or blind obedience. They sought time. They searched for space. They wanted to allow things to resolve themselves without breaking.
That's why Diana didn't reject them. That's why she didn't feel that emptiness when Chariot spoke. She had learned to recognize that not every lie was a betrayal, and that some, in their imperfect form, could be an act of love.
The hallway now opened onto a wider intersection, where the murmur intensified and voices overlapped with greater insistence. Hannah continued talking, recounting some irrelevant detail from the morning with exaggerated enthusiasm, while Barbara nodded distractedly, correcting her from time to time with dry but honest comments. Diana listened without intervening, allowing herself that rare moment of inner peace. With them, she didn't need to filter or analyze every word for a second meaning. She could simply be.
That contrast was what baffled her the most.
Because Diana wasn't born cold. She had learned to be that way. She had built her composure like a shield, a way to protect something that very few had had the privilege of seeing. Her capacity to feel was no less than that of others; it was, in fact, more intense. That was precisely why she needed distance. That was precisely why she chose silence when words weren't worth it.
As they walked along, Diana noticed how the emptiness returned intermittently, activated with each rehearsed greeting, with each compliment uttered out of duty. It was a constant sensation, a dull pulse reminding her that the world continued to function in the same way. That convenience remained a widely accepted language. That truth remained a rarity.
And yet, even amid that silent weariness, Diana felt something different beating beneath the surface. A soft, almost imperceptible anticipation that did not come from her surroundings or the voices around her, but from a persistent memory. From the certainty, not yet fully formed, that there was at least one voice in Luna Nova that had never sounded empty to her. A clumsy, impulsive voice, incapable of measuring its words, but absolutely incapable of faking them.
That thought stayed with her as they turned into another corridor, as Hannah laughed and Barbara shook her head, as the shadows from the stained glass windows stretched across the ancient floor. Diana didn't smile. Her expression didn't change. But for the first time that day, the emptiness didn't fill her completely. And in that small space, she began to breathe.
The hallway gradually opened up to the surroundings of Luna Nova, and with it the air changed almost imperceptibly, as if the space itself allowed itself to relax as soon as the stone walls were left behind. Outside, the sky was still overcast, but the light filtered through differently, more expansively, less contained, spreading over the meadows surrounding the academy with a softness that contrasted with the rigidity inside the buildings. There, under the scattered shade of ancient trees, the students used to gather to rest, talk, or simply pass the time between classes, lying on the grass as if the world demanded nothing more of them than to exist for a few minutes.
Diana took a few more steps and, without realizing it, her attention was no longer divided between the voices around her. Hannah and Barbara were still talking, but now their words faded into the background, not because they had lost their importance, but because something stronger was beginning to attract her with a silent constancy. It wasn't a specific voice yet, nor a clear image, but an expectation that was instinctively activated, as if her body knew before her mind where she should go.
She searched without thinking.
She didn't do it with her eyes right away, but with that other sense that was always with her. She searched for something that didn't fade away when it reached her, something that didn't become light or hollow, something that didn't need to be analyzed to know if it was real. She searched for laughter. An easy, disorderly laugh that didn't ask permission to exist. She searched for that almost childlike spontaneity that didn't know how to pretend, and that warmth that didn't depend on any prior calculation. She searched, without admitting it yet, for the only person whose voice she had never learned to filter.
And then she saw her.
Akko Kagari was sitting on the grass, her body leaning slightly forward, gesturing vehemently as she argued with Sucy, who watched her with an expression somewhere between boredom and deliberate provocation. The scene was so familiar that Diana recognized it even before she could make out the words clearly. Akko spoke quickly, tripping over her own words, her tone rising and falling uncontrollably, while Sucy responded with short, deliberately vague phrases, clearly enjoying the effect they had. On one side, Lotte tried to keep the peace, placing a hand on Akko's arm, speaking softly, as if she believed that volume was the real problem and not content.
Diana felt something release in her chest.
It wasn't exactly relief, nor complete happiness, but a more subtle, more intimate feeling: the certainty that, at least in that part of the world, words would not fail her. She watched the scene for a few seconds before approaching, allowing herself simply to listen. Even in anger, even in obvious frustration, Akko's words came across clearly. There were no twists, no strategic silences, no hidden intentions. Every sentence was clumsy, direct, sometimes exaggerated, but absolutely sincere. Akko was offended because she felt offended. She was complaining because she truly believed she was right. There was no artifice in it.
That, to Diana, was almost moving.
—I told you it wasn't normal poison,— Akko protested, arms crossed. —It made me feel weird for hours!—
—That was part of the charm,— Sucy replied with a crooked smile. —Technically, I didn't lie.—
—That's not helping!— Akko insisted.
Diana couldn't help but smile slightly, almost imperceptibly, as she watched them. That scene contained a simple, undecorated truth: Akko reacted because she felt, Sucy provoked because she wanted to see that reaction, and Lotte tried to balance the chaos because that was her nature. None of it was designed to please, impress, or position herself. It was real, in its imperfect form.
Hannah and Barbara stopped a few steps away from the group, and Diana moved a little closer, drawn not only by the scene, but by the total absence of the emptiness that had accompanied her all morning. As they approached, Akko's laughter mingled with her anger, creating a contradictory but genuine sound, a mixture of emotions that Diana recognized as deeply human.
Then it happened.
Without anyone being able to explain exactly how, Akko stumbled. It wasn't a spectacular or dramatic stumble, but something clumsy, almost absurd, as if her own feet had decided to disobey her for a second. Her balance was lost in a disorderly fashion, and Akko fell forward, placing one hand on the floor as she let out a muffled exclamation, more surprised than hurt.
There was a brief silence.
Sucy watched her with renewed interest. Lotte took a small step forward, concerned. Hannah let out a short laugh. Barbara shook her head.
Diana, on the other hand, didn't think.
Before she knew it, a soft laugh escaped her lips. It wasn't loud or open, but a low, restrained, yet genuine sound. A gesture she hadn't planned, hadn't evaluated, that simply happened. At the same time, she took a step forward and extended her hand to Akko, leaning slightly toward her.
—Are you okay?— she asked, with a warmth that didn't need to be forced.
Akko looked up.
And in that instant, everything changed.
Akko's brown eyes met Diana's, and something in her expression shifted. The anger dissipated first, then the surprise, giving way to a strange, almost reverent stillness. Akko didn't take her hand right away. She just stared at her, as if she had suddenly forgotten the reason for the argument, the stumble, even where she was.
Diana held her gaze, not quite understanding what was happening, but aware of a new, subtle tension that was beginning to spread between them. The outstretched hand remained there, firm, patient.
That's when Akko spoke.
—You really do have a beautiful laugh.—
The words fell.
And they didn't break.
Diana felt the impact immediately, as if something invisible had penetrated all her defenses without encountering any resistance. There was no distortion. There was no empty echo. There was not the slightest hint of insincerity. The words came loaded with a direct, undeniable warmth, settling inside her with a weight that left her motionless. It was true. Absolute. Unquestionable.
Diana froze.
Her body responded before her mind, freezing completely, as if any movement could alter that fragile moment that had just formed. Her eyes opened slightly, surprised, not by the content of the sentence, but by the clarity with which it had been uttered. By the total absence of filters. The way Akko had said it without measuring the consequences, without evaluating the effect, without trying anything other than to express what she had just felt.
It was the first time in a long time that Diana didn't know how to react.
She felt something stirring in her chest, a silent accumulation of moments, memories, small certainties she had been storing away without naming them. The first year. The constant arguments. The long looks. The times Akko had said exactly what she thought, even when it left her in a vulnerable position. It all converged now, pressing against a point Diana had consciously avoided.
Akko suddenly seemed to realize what she had said.
Color rushed to her face, staining her cheeks and, particularly noticeably, her ears. She took a small, awkward leap to her feet, finally accepting Diana's hand only to let go almost immediately, as if prolonged contact was too much. She cleared her throat exaggeratedly, looking away.
—I... I didn't mean that,— she murmured, stumbling over her words. —I mean, yes, but... forget it.—
The final sentence came.
And this time, Diana felt it.
It was just a small thing, a slight change in the way the words were phrased. It wasn't a complete lie, nor was it a total denial of what had been said. It was a small, clumsy lie, born of embarrassment, of a sudden fear of having revealed too much. Diana recognized it instantly, not because it was harmful, but because it contrasted so clearly with the previous truth. That slight denial was not intended to erase what Akko had felt, but to protect her from exposure.
And that, precisely, was what affected her the most.
Because Diana understood, with almost painful clearness, that it had mattered to Akko. That the laughter that comment had provoked had not been a trivial detail, but something that had struck a genuine chord. Akko was not retracting because she didn't feel it, but because she felt it too much.
Before Diana could say anything, Akko had already turned back to Sucy, resuming the discussion with forced energy, as if nothing had happened. But Diana was no longer listening to those words. Her attention was caught up in the echo of a truth that had not dissipated, that was still there, firm, warm, claiming a space she could no longer ignore.
She stood silently as the group resumed its usual dynamic, aware that something had changed irreversibly. For the first time, Diana Cavendish had not only heard a truth. She had felt it settle in a place she did not want —nor could— expel it from.
And as the wind gently moved the grass around her, Diana understood that that laughter, the one Akko had seen without filters, was only the beginning.
That day, no one mentioned what had happened again. There were no further comments, no lingering glances, no awkward attempts at clarification. Akko didn't bring up the subject again, didn't seek out Diana to say anything else, didn't repeat the phrase or try to justify it. She simply let the day continue as if that moment had been a stone thrown into water and now only invisible ripples remained, expanding silently. The group continued chatting, discussing trivialities, laughing about unimportant things. The afternoon fell over Luna Nova with the same slowness as always, and at dusk, each one returned to their routine without altering the apparent order of things.
Diana didn't speak either.
Not because she didn't feel it was necessary, but because she had learned that some truths did not require an immediate response. Those words remained there, settled inside her, warm and firm, and Diana allowed herself to keep them without touching them too much, like someone who keeps something fragile knowing that a sudden movement could break it. Over the next few days, life at the academy continued at its usual pace. Classes, hallways, measured greetings, empty compliments. Akko was still Akko: loud, clumsy, impulsive. And Diana continued to listen, as always, to the difference between what was said and what was really meant.
It was several days later when it happened.
Diana walked alone down one of Luna Nova's side corridors, a less traveled hallway where light struggled to enter through high, narrow windows. The air there was colder, denser, and the sound of her footsteps seemed amplified against the ancient walls. Everything was normal. Too normal. Until she felt it.
It wasn't a specific voice at first, nor an identifiable phrase. It was a vibration. An internal shudder unlike anything she had experienced that day. It wasn't the usual emptiness of convenient lies, nor the uncomfortable lightness of rehearsed words. This was different. It was darker. Sharper. A harmful sensation, as if something invisible were deliberately scraping at her insides.
Diana stopped dead in her tracks.
She knew that feeling.
It was the kind of lie she hated most. Not because it was common, but because it always came loaded with silent violence. Lies that weren't told to protect, or to win, or even to take a stand. Lies that were spoken for the sole purpose of hurting. Of breaking. Of knocking someone down from a vulnerable place. Diana had grown up hearing them. She had endured them in her youth, when she still didn't know how to defend herself against them, when every hurtful word found a place to stick.
Without thinking, she turned the corner.
And then she saw them.
A group of third-year students occupied the center of the hallway, forming a closed semicircle, a configuration that Diana recognized immediately. It was a hunting stance, one of numerical superiority, of control. And right in the middle of them, with her back to them, was Akko.
Diana couldn't see her face, but she didn't need to. It was enough to observe the tension in her body, the stiffness of her shoulders, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. Akko's breathing was visible even from a distance, causing her back to rise and fall irregularly, as if she were holding back something too big to keep inside.
The lies came with brutal clarity.
—She doesn't want to be around you,— said one of the students, her voice carefully modulated. —She only tolerates you.—
The phrase cut through the air like a curse. Diana felt a chill run down her spine, a sudden, sharp cold, as if she were suddenly caught in a snowstorm without any protection.
—She feels sorry for you,— another continued. —Do you really think someone like Cavendish could see you as anything more?—
Every word was precise. A sharp blade. Designed to find cracks.
—She's not on your level,— added a third, with a fake smile. —She never will be.—
Diana felt those lies pile up, one after another, vibrating in the air with an intention so clear it was almost tangible. They weren't just phrases. They were attacks. Spells cast without a wand, but with terrifying effectiveness.
—She'll never look at you the way you look at her,— said someone else. —Cavendish is a damn iceberg. Are you really crazy enough to dream that she'll see you?—
Diana's body tensed completely.
They were talking about her. Using her. Taking her name and her image to hurt Akko. To make her doubt. To break her from within. Diana felt a violent mixture of indignation and guilt, as if those words also belonged to her in some way, as if her previous silence had allowed that moment to exist.
She took a step forward.
But before she could do anything, Akko lifted her face.
Her voice came out firm, firmer than Diana would have expected, charged with a determination that didn't need to raise its volume to be felt.
—You can say whatever you want about me,— she said, —but don't talk about Diana without knowing her.—
The third-year students laughed. And that sound was worse than the words. There was no truth in those laughs. None. They were perfect, polished, rehearsed to the extreme. They sounded as if they had been born knowing how to lie, as if falsehood were a second language they mastered with disturbing ease. Diana felt a cold fear as she recognized it. Those were the most dangerous lies: the ones that left no cracks.
—Did you hear that?— one of them said. —She's defending her.—
Diana felt the weight of the scene becoming intolerable. She was about to intervene when Akko's voice cut in again, this time with a clarity that pierced even the noise of the laughter.
—Diana isn't cold,— she said. —It's people like you who made her that way.—
There was an immediate silence. One of the students took a step toward Akko, getting close enough to invade her space, leaning slightly to look down at her.
—Do you think defending her will make her notice you?— she spat. —Damn girl with no lineage.—
Akko didn't back down.
—Whether I like her is my problem,— she replied. —I'm not with her so that one day she'll look at me the way I look at her. I'm with her because she's an excellent person. Because she's the most genuine person I know. Because she doesn't have the malice that you have.—
The lies began to weaken.
Diana felt it clearly. Each of Akko's words pushed, displaced, and broke the distortion field that the students had built. The truth, spoken with conviction, carried weight. It always had.
—It doesn't matter what they say,— Akko continued. —I'll always be there for her. Because she already has too many snakes like you in her life.—
Another student stepped forward.
—Be her freaking lapdog then.—
Akko stood up straight.
—A dog is a thousand times better than being a damn snake,— she said without hesitation. —At least I'm loyal to my instincts and to those I love. I love because I truly want to. Not out of envy, not out of convenience. I'm happy to be a damn dog if it means not biting those I want to see grow. I'll be happy for every achievement Diana makes. I'll be there to celebrate with her, to see her love what she wants to love. And to trample on people like you if necessary.
The third-year students took another step forward.
But Diana was faster.
Her wand appeared in her hand in a fluid, precise movement, trained over years. There were no unnecessary words, no theatrical warnings. Just a firm gesture, and a burst of energy that expanded between Akko and the others, physically pushing them back with controlled force, enough to break the circle without causing irreversible damage.
—Back off,— Diana said.
Her voice did not tremble.
The lies dissipated at once, like smoke in a strong wind. The hallway fell silent, now charged with a different, dense, real tension. Diana stood in front of Akko without looking back, her posture upright, protective, undeniable.
For the first time, Diana Cavendish had not only heard the truth. She had defended it. And behind her, Akko was breathing heavily, still trembling, but steady, sustained by the certainty that this time, she was not alone.
Before Diana could say anything else, the hallway filled with a distinct sound, a rapid, determined rhythm that cut through the tension like a sharp blade slicing through damp cloth. The footsteps were quick and firm, coming from the main corridor, bouncing off the ancient stone with an urgency that was uncommon in Luna Nova, where even haste seemed to be cloaked in composure. Diana didn't move; she didn't lower her wand or alter her stance. She stood there, upright in front of Akko, her body forming a clear, almost instinctive barrier, as if that protection had always been her natural place, even though she had only just discovered it. She felt the air, still heavy with the residue of those hurtful lies, begin to change as the presence of authority approached, as if the building itself recognized the weight of certain names.
The first to appear around the corner was Professor Finnelan, her cloak moving with a harsh gesture, her keen eyes scanning the hallway with uncompromising precision. Behind her, a step away, came Principal Holbrook with her stern demeanor and that implacable calm that only those who have lived long enough to understand that true control is exercised not by shouting but by watching possess. The third-year students stood still for a moment, as if the ground had become heavier beneath their feet, and Diana could feel it as clearly as she could feel lies: a change in the vibration of the atmosphere, a brief, contained tremor that was not pure fear, but the sudden realization that what they had said would not float unpunished in the air.
—Ladies,— Finnelan's voice rose firmly, sharply, and clearly. —You, you, and you. I want your names right now.—
It wasn't a question, it was an order. Diana watched out of the corner of her eye as the older students exchanged quick glances, looking for a way out, a crack through which to escape without consequences. But Finnelan was already calling out their names aloud, one after another, with an accuracy that suggested this scene was not a matter of chance. Diana wasn't really surprised. She had seen how Luna Nova operated behind its beautiful stained-glass windows and impeccable reputation: things were maintained for appearances until someone —very rarely— decided to break through that surface and look beneath.
—To my office, now,— Finnelan continued, not allowing a second of reply. —And it had better be that each of you has an explanation that doesn't insult my intelligence.—
Headmistress Holbrook said nothing at first. She just watched. Her eyes passed over Diana, over the wand still firmly in her hand, over the calculated distance between her and the third-year group, over Akko's figure behind that protection. Diana felt that scrutiny as a real, heavy presence, but not a hostile one. Holbrook was many things, but she was not naive, and Diana silently appreciated that quality. Because in a place where so many things were based on half-truths, having direct communication with the person who decided the rules was a privilege that Diana had always known how to use, not to feed her ego, but to prevent injustice from being hidden under the veil of tradition.
The older students began to move, forced by the weight of authority. They passed by Akko, and Diana perceived with bitter clarity the last glance one of them gave her: it wasn't just contempt, it was a promise. A silent threat, so obvious in its intent that it almost seemed like a spell in itself. Diana felt the urge to tense up again, to raise her wand once more, but it wasn't necessary. Finnelan was already leading them away with a harshness that allowed for no second chances, and Holbrook lingered in the hallway for a second longer, just long enough for the silence, for the first time, to be untainted by those words.
—Miss Cavendish,— Holbrook's voice was low, controlled, —thank you for intervening.—
Diana nodded, and her response came with the same discipline she applied to everything she did.
—It was the right thing to do, Headmistress.—
Finnelan, on the other hand, spoke in a more direct tone, more human in its harshness.
—They've been harassing another student,— she said, looking at the space where the older girls had been standing. —This won't be left unpunished. We will take the appropriate measures.—
Diana sensed the absence of falsehood in those words, and that simple detail brought her immediate relief. It was strange, almost unsettling, to realize how much she relaxed when a promise was real. She assented, and the two figures finally walked away down the hallway, disappearing around the corner like long shadows returning to their natural place within the building.
Then they were alone.
The silence that remained was not empty, but dense. A silence filled with breaths, consequences, and an emotional tremor that had not dissipated, but had only been contained by the presence of other people. Diana still had her back to Akko, and yet she kept her body tense, as if she did not allow herself to let her guard down yet. The wand descended slowly, but she did not put it away immediately; it was as if her hand needed to check one last time that the danger was gone before allowing herself the luxury of letting go.
Diana didn't know what to say.
That was the most uncomfortable truth. She could face spells, she could answer an exam accurately, she could deal with the rigidity of tradition and demands. But when it came to raw emotions, to open wounds in front of her, her tongue became clumsy, as if suddenly she was the one who couldn't find the words.
That was when she heard the sob.
It wasn't loud or dramatic. It was a small, restrained sound, broken only by the failed attempt to swallow the cry. Diana turned almost reflexively, and what she saw hit her with a silent force that tightened her chest.
Akko was standing there, her face bowed, her eyes filled with tears that fell without permission. Her lips formed an involuntary pout, as if her body were reacting uncontrollably to an emotion too great to bear. She was trembling. Not from the cold, but from a mixture of anger, shame, and pain that she had resisted with the most stubborn pride until the threat was gone and her defense crumbled. Diana saw her hands still clenched, her knuckles pale, as if Akko were still fighting something only she could see.
—I'm sorry, Diana...— Akko's voice came out broken. —I didn't want you to hear that... I...—
The words died away, and the tears kept falling, one after another, as if her body had been holding them back for too long and now didn't know how to stop. Diana felt something deep stir inside her, something that wasn't simple pity or compassion. It was recognition. It was the echo of her own story, of her own youth laden with those hurtful lies, those attacks disguised as comments, that feeling of being trapped in a world that used cruelty as entertainment.
Akko didn't want Diana to hear those things because, in her simple and devastatingly honest logic, it wasn't just an attack on her. It was a wound to Diana as well. It was talking about Diana as if she were an object, as if her heart were a rumor, as if her life could be reduced to a cold stereotype. And Akko, who had always seen Diana with a clarity that no one else seemed to allow themselves, couldn't stand that distortion.
Diana understood it with a clarity that took her breath away.
She had always been searching for Akko, even if she hadn't called her that. She had been searching for that voice without lies, that way of existing without calculation. She had told herself it was simple admiration, simple tolerance, simple respect. She had lied to herself in small ways, not out of malice, but out of fear. Because accepting what Akko represented was accepting that her world could change, that her distance could be broken, that her coldness was not eternal armor, but something that could fall if someone insisted with enough truth.
And Akko had insisted.
Without meaning to. Without wanting anything in return. With the absurd strength of someone who loves life with all its chaos and yet dares to defend what she considers right.
Diana took a step toward her, slowly, as if every inch were a decision. She lowered her wand completely and put it away with a gentle, almost reverent gesture, as if recognizing that it was not the right tool for this kind of battle. She leaned down slightly, until she was level with Akko, and the world seemed to shrink, reduced to the distance between their faces and the irregular sound of that trembling breath.
Their eyes met.
Diana's deep blue collided with Akko's warm crimson, and in that glance there were too many things left unsaid. Diana saw in Akko the fear of having ruined something, the guilt of having exposed Diana to such cruelty, the anger at not having been able to prevent it, and, underneath it all, that clumsy, transparent love that Akko didn't even know how to hide completely.
Diana moved closer slowly.
It wasn't an impulsive move. It was deliberate, careful, as if she were walking on thin ice, searching Akko's face for some sign of rejection, some signal that she should stop. But Akko didn't pull away. She just trembled, as if she didn't know what to do with the closeness, as if her body wanted to instinctively retreat and at the same time stay out of necessity.
Then Diana did it.
She gently placed a hand near Akko's shoulder, not to hold her tightly, but to give her an anchor. And with an even more careful gesture, she leaned her face and kissed her cheek. It was such a light touch that it almost seemed unreal, like a feather brushing against skin, like a thank you that didn't need big words to exist. The warmth of the gesture lingered there, brief but firm, and Diana murmured softly, close enough for Akko to feel it more than hear it.
—Thank you.—
Akko immediately lowered her head, as if the weight of that gesture had disarmed her. Her neck turned red, the embarrassment rising with a speed that Diana found strangely heartwarming. But even so, the tears kept flowing, and Diana realized that this crying was no longer just because of the attack. It was because of relief. For the impact of feeling seen. For the confirmation that everything she had said —all that passionate defense— had not fallen on deaf ears.
Diana stood there, close by, holding the silence with a patience she didn't know she possessed, aware that, for the first time, she had responded to Akko's truth with something just as real. And in the middle of the cold hallway, under the pale light falling from above, that little scene had the weight of a promise: unspoken, informal, but undeniable. Because if Akko had sworn to be there for her in the face of vipers, Diana had just proven, without speeches or explanations, that she too could choose to stay.
Diana stood in silence, not because silence was an easy choice, but because at that moment it was the only thing that seemed to make sense. Akko's emotion was too recent, too vivid; it still trembled within her like an echo that couldn't find a place to settle, and Diana understood —with that cold lucidity that had always accompanied her even in the most vulnerable moments— that any words spoken too soon could become awkward or hurtful. She let the hallway breathe for both of them, let the cold air return to its usual temperature, let the distant sound of life in the academy resume its place, and she simply stood there, close by, without intruding, her presence offering a calm that was not imposed, but offered. Akko's crying gradually subsided, as if she were slowly getting used to the fact that the danger was no longer there; her sobs became less frequent, smaller, until they turned into irregular breaths that Diana listened to attentively, not as a fact, but as confirmation that Akko was still there, intact despite what had happened.
They didn't talk about what had happened. Not that afternoon, nor the next day.
And it wasn't because either of them wanted to pretend that nothing had happened. It was more as if they had both been suspended on the edge of an abyss that had suddenly opened up in front of them, unable to decide whether to look down or look away. Akko internalized, in her clunky and fierce way, that Diana was now aware of her feelings; she did so silently, as if admitting it out loud would make everything real in a way that scared her. Diana, for her part, accepted—with a new and disconcerting serenity—that something had taken root inside her that she could no longer call mere admiration or simple gratitude. It was not a logical conclusion or a cold analysis. It was an almost physical acceptance, as if her body recognized before her mind what she had been avoiding for so long: that Akko had entered her life like truth enters a closed room, illuminating everything without asking permission.
During those days, they walked side by side as usual. They talked about classes, homework, spells, little arguments with Sucy, books that Lotte enthusiastically recommended, Hannah and Barbara's comments on whatever came to mind. Sometimes Diana noticed Akko's gaze lingering on her a second longer than usual and then quickly looking away, as if her own attention burned her. Sometimes Akko stood too still when Diana was near, as if reminding herself not to do anything, not to say anything, because everything was now charged with new meaning. Diana sensed it, heard it even in the quiet moments, but she didn't mention it. Not yet. Not because she didn't want to, but because there was a strange feeling of fragility in that state, as if one wrong word could bring it all crashing down.
What neither of them understood —what neither of them saw at the time— was that in the midst of that restraint there was a small misunderstanding, as subtle as a crack in the ice, so silent that it didn't crackle, but it was there, waiting for the exact weight to break it. Diana had assumed that Akko's defense in the hallway had been the impulse of a loyal friendship, a noble reaction to an unfair attack. Akko, on the other hand, had believed —with the almost tremulous certainty of someone clinging to hope— that Diana had understood what was really being said between those words, what lay beneath the anger and shame: that she liked her. That she loved her. That it was not a fleeting, passing feeling, but something that accompanied her like an insistent truth.
That misunderstanding did not come to light until one day that could have been completely normal.
The green, blue, and red teams rested on the grass, under the generous shade of a large tree whose branches filtered the light like a veil. The air was warm, the wind moved the grass with an almost lazy delicacy, and the distant murmur of other students mingled with the song of a bird hidden among the leaves. Diana held a cup of tea in her hands; the heat escaped gently through the ceramic, comforting her in a discreet way. Next to her, Barbara and Lotte talked about a book, discussing it with a seriousness that was strangely adorable to those watching them. Lotte explained a scene with contained enthusiasm, while Barbara listened with that expression of hers that was meant to be indifferent but which, Diana noticed, hid a real interest. Hannah was lying on the grass, looking up at the sky as if the world were something that could only be better endured from a comfortable position, and Amanda —as always— seemed incapable of spending more than a few minutes without looking for someone to bother.
Akko sat nearby, her legs bent, her body leaning slightly forward, as if even at rest she were ready to spring into action at any moment. A stray lock of hair fell across her forehead, and she had a concentrated expression on her face, although Diana knew —she knew because it was impossible not to know— that this concentration was sometimes a crude disguise, an attempt to appear less affected by what was going on inside her. Diana took a sip of tea and let the warmth flow down her throat, seeking in that simple action a way to anchor herself, to remind herself that the world was still the same even though something inside her was changing.
It was Amanda who threw the stone.
—Hey, Akko,— she said with a sly smile, that smile of hers that always heralded mischief, —so what? Now you're sticking to Cavendish so she'll raise your grades?
The question came with the friendly teasing tone Amanda used with the group, her way of provoking without any real intention of hurting anyone. It was a joke. A silly joke, perhaps inappropriate, but not cruel. Diana heard the phrase and immediately noticed the difference: it wasn't a hurtful lie, it wasn't an attack, just a lighthearted comment. However, she saw Akko tense up, and she knew that for her it wasn't so simple.
Akko raised her head quickly, her eyes shining with that mixture of pride and sensitivity that always betrayed her.
—What?— she replied, with almost comical indignation. —No! The fact that I like Diana has nothing to do with me wanting to improve my grades. I want to be the best witch!—
The world stopped.
Not because of magic. Not because of a spell.
But because of the weight of those words falling into the center of the circle, clear, firm, impossible to take back.
For a moment, everyone stared at Akko as if she had grown a second voice, as if someone else had spoken through her. Even Hannah stopped looking at the sky. Lotte stood with her mouth half open, and Barbara blinked slowly, as if processing unexpected information. Amanda, for the first time in a long time, seemed to lose control of her own mockery; her smile faltered a little, and a shadow of embarrassment crossed her face, as if she had thought Akko would keep it a secret, as if the whole group already knew the unspoken agreement not to talk about it out loud.
—Akko...— Amanda murmured, scratching the back of her neck with an uncomfortable gesture. —Don't you think it should be a secret while Diana is here?—
Diana, who had just brought the cup to her lips at that moment, choked.
The tea went down the wrong way, causing her to cough suddenly, which sounded too loud in the quiet. She put her hand over her mouth, her eyes slightly moist from the reaction, and felt a violent heat rise to her cheeks. It wasn't just the tea. It was the impact. It was the phrase itself, and the fact that Akko had uttered it so casually, as if there was no possibility that Diana didn't know.
Akko crossed her arms, lifting her chin with a defensive stubbornness that Diana knew all too well.
—Well... she knows,— Akko said, and there was a dangerous mixture of pride and vulnerability in her voice. —It's not like she's suddenly going to deny it now, right, Diana?—
The world seemed to shrink around Diana.
She felt her heart pounding in her chest as if it wanted to escape, as if her body were gasping for air. She looked at Akko, and for a moment she didn't understand anything. She could see her. She could hear her. And yet, it didn't fit with what Diana thought she had understood from the previous days. She saw the blush on Akko's face, the tension in her crossed arms, the way her posture tried to appear firm even though her breathing betrayed her. Diana swallowed, her throat still sore from the tea, and the question escaped her before she could stop it, low, almost a whisper:
—How would I know?—
Akko opened her eyes completely.
It was an almost devastating expression, as if the ground had shifted beneath her feet, as if suddenly the entire internal structure she had built over days had lost its foundation. Her lips parted slightly, and Diana saw —with painful clarity— how understanding began to sink in.
Akko began to speak immediately, in a disorderly fashion, tripping over her words, as if they were an avalanche she could no longer control.
—You know... that day... when those girls were bothering me... because... because I like you and you... and them... and you...— Akko faltered, blinking rapidly, as if she were short of breath. —Haven't you... heard?—
The question came out almost tremulously, like a deer caught in headlights, not knowing whether to run or freeze.
Diana felt the weight of the misunderstanding fall on her with cruel slowness, like snow piling up until it became unbearable. She cleared her throat, still hoarse from coughing, and spoke slowly, trying to maintain her composure as the blush burned her skin.
—No...— she said. —I just assumed it was because you were one of my friends.—
The silence that followed was absolute.
Diana saw, as if it were something physical, how the gears were turning in the minds of those present. Hannah looked at Amanda with a gesture that seemed to say “I knew it” and —this is going to be a disaster— at the same time. Lotte put her hand to her chest, too emotional to hide her feelings. Barbara looked away, as if she wanted to give them privacy even though they were all there, and Amanda stood still, guilt written in her posture for having pushed the conversation to that point.
Akko, on the other hand, turned red.
Not a soft blush, but a color that spread from her chest upward, extending across her neck, cheeks, and ears, as if her entire body had decided to betray her without mercy. She opened her mouth, closed it, and Diana saw her struggle to find a phrase that wouldn't expose her.
—I... I...— she babbled.
And the worst, the most devastating thing for Diana, was that she could feel it: it was all true. She loved her. Not as a friend. Not as a classmate. Not as a person she appreciated for her loyalty. She loved her in a deeper, more vulnerable, more dangerous way. Diana felt it settle inside her with unbearable clarity, like an inescapable truth. There was no distortion, no emptiness, no lightness. Just that warm, firm, insistent weight.
Akko jumped to her feet, as if staying there would mean certain death.
—I... I have to...!— she said, leaving the sentence unfinished, and started running.
Diana reacted before she thought.
Her wand appeared in her hand with a fluid motion, and she cast a quick, precise spell without unnecessary words. A small magical bond stretched like a luminous thread in the air and wrapped itself around Akko, stopping her a few meters away, freezing her in an awkward position, her shoulders tense and her head hanging down.
Akko stood still, trapped, breathing rapidly, and Diana stood up with a calmness that was more appearance than reality. She cleared her throat once more, trying to regain her voice, and looked at the group with an apologetic gesture that, though minimal, was sincere.
—My apologies, everyone—, she said, her tone still controlled, but I need to discuss a few things with Akko.
All eyes followed her as she walked over to where Akko had stopped. Out of the corner of her eye, Diana noticed Lotte discreetly turning away to pretend to talk to Barbara, Hannah leaning back down but still listening, Amanda biting her lower lip, regretful. No one said anything. No one stopped her. The air was too heavy for jokes.
Diana walked up to Akko, stopped in front of her, and slowly took her hand. Akko's skin was warm, almost hot, as if the blush had spread even there. With a gentle gesture, Diana broke the spell, letting the magical thread dissipate into the air.
—We need to talk,— she said, and although her voice was still low, there was a new firmness in it.
Akko didn't look at her.
She turned her face away, avoiding her eyes, as if the mere possibility of meeting Diana's gaze was too much. Her breathing was still erratic, and Diana felt a subtle pain in her chest as she realized that Akko was hurt, not by explicit rejection, but by the idea that she had been wrong, that she had assumed something that wasn't real.
Diana squeezed Akko's hand with careful delicacy, as if that contact were the only way to keep her there, and took a step closer, not to invade her space, but to let Akko feel that she was not alone, that she was not being dragged into an abyss by herself.
—Akko,— Diana whispered.
And in that name, spoken with a gentleness that was unlike her usual reservedness, there was a silent promise: that this conversation would not be a judgment, nor a mockery, nor a humiliation. It would be, for the first time, the truth laid bare.
Diana said nothing when Akko nodded. She didn't ask questions, didn't try to soften the moment with words that didn't quite exist within her yet. She simply turned around and started walking, and Akko followed her as if that gesture were enough to understand that she wasn't being led to a trial or a farewell, but to a space where the noise of the world could, at least for a moment, remain outside. The walk to the blue team's room was silent, not an uncomfortable silence, but one filled with thoughts that crowded both of them, a silence filled with held breaths and measured steps on the ancient stone of Luna Nova, which seemed to watch them with the same patience it had for generations.
The door opened with a slight creak, and Diana entered first, as always. The room was bathed in soft light streaming in through the high window, filtered by the light-colored curtains that Hannah insisted on keeping clean against all logic. The air smelled of books, dry tea, and a faint trace of floral perfume that Barbara had left floating unintentionally. Diana took a few steps forward and passed by the bookcase that divided the common area from the area where Hannah and Barbara's beds were and the small, more secluded portion that belonged to her. That physical boundary, so commonplace, now took on a different meaning, as if crossing it meant accepting that what was happening was not an extension of the day, but something separate, intimate, deliberate.
Akko entered behind her and closed the door carefully, almost shyly. She stood for a moment, observing the space as if she had never been there before, even though she knew it well. Diana moved a little further and then stopped, realizing that Akko had not quite followed her. She turned slowly.
—Akko,— she called, her voice not seeking to impose, but to invite.
Akko looked up for just a second, long enough to confirm that Diana was watching her, and then looked down again. Her hands were tense, her fingers intertwined almost painfully, as if she needed to hold on to something to keep from falling apart. She took a couple more steps and then stopped abruptly, turning suddenly to face Diana, as if she had made an impulsive decision that she couldn't put off for another second.
—I'm sorry, Diana,— she said, the words coming out quickly, rushed, as if the silence were suffocating her. —I thought you knew. I thought you understood that those girls were bothering me because... because I like you. And I... I assumed something you had no idea about. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable in front of everyone. I really thought you understood, that the kiss you gave me on the cheek was like... I don't know, like “I'm sorry, but it's okay,” that we could be friends despite how I feel, that it didn't bother you. And now... now everyone knows, and I said it like it was nothing, I couldn't even make a real confession. I'm the worst.—
Akko spoke without pausing for breath, as if she feared that if she stopped, the courage that sustained her would evaporate. Diana did not interrupt her. She did not raise her voice or make any sudden gestures. She simply listened. And while Akko mortified herself, while she accused herself with a harshness that Diana found unfair and painful, all Diana could feel was the truth. Not a fragmented or confused truth, but a clear and constant presence that emanated from Akko with every word. She loved her. She loved her unconditionally, without hidden expectations, without fear of rejection itself, but of the void that her absence might leave. Akko wasn't afraid that Diana wouldn't reciprocate her feelings; she was afraid of losing her as a friend, afraid that their closeness would become uncomfortable, afraid of being the cause of a distance that hadn't existed before. Even if she was rejected, Akko seemed willing to accept it, as long as Diana didn't disappear from her life.
Diana felt something tighten in her chest, a mixture of amazement and gratitude that was almost overwhelming. She thought, against her will, about how improbable it all was. How she had come to know someone like Akko, someone who saw her best qualities even when she herself was determined to hide them, someone who had insisted on her truth with an almost stubborn constancy, even when Diana put up walls and kept her distance. She thought about the strange luck she had had, about how someone so bright had noticed her not because of her last name or her perfection, but because of the person she was when no one else was looking. And she thought, with a clarity she could no longer deny, that she liked Akko too. That for the first time she wasn't afraid of what she felt or what she might come to feel, because there was no lie in that desire, only a deep curiosity and a growing warmth.
Akko kept talking, lost in her own spiral of guilt, and Diana realized that if she didn't stop her now, Akko would continue to punish herself for something she hadn't done wrong. She took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
—Akko,— she called again.
Her voice was enough to cut off the torrent of words. Akko raised her head, uncertain, and Diana took another step forward until she was standing in front of her. She raised her hands carefully and placed them on either side of Akko's face, holding her with a gentleness that was not possessive, but supportive. Her thumbs barely brushed Akko's warm skin, and Diana felt Akko freeze, surprised by the contact.
—Really...— Diana said softly, —stop thinking for a second.—
Akko swallowed. The world seemed reduced to that unexpected closeness, to Diana's breath so close she could feel it. She summoned a courage she didn't know she still had and murmured, barely audible, so softly that if they hadn't been so close, Diana wouldn't have heard her:
—Believe me, with you so close, my brain is short-circuiting.—
Diana couldn't help it. A soft laugh escaped her lips, a real, light laugh that made her chest tingle. It was impossible not to recognize the truth in those words, impossible not to feel the charm of that honest clumsiness that Akko carried like a banner without knowing it. Diana rested her forehead against Akko's, closing her eyes for a moment, letting that simple contact stabilize something inside both of them.
—That day,— she murmured, —when they were bothering you... I realized I had feelings for you. Not as a friend, but as something more. I kissed you just because I was being selfish. Maybe I was so blinded by my own thoughts that I couldn't see anything else.—
Akko opened her eyes, and her crimson pupils scanned Diana's with a mixture of disbelief and hope that took her breath away. Diana moved a little closer, without separating their foreheads, aware that she was crossing a line, but also that she didn't want to back down.
—We really need to talk about this,— Diana continued, with an honesty that surprised even her, —but right now my own mind doesn't know what it's doing, and my words are getting worse and worse.—
She didn't pull away. She didn't apologize for the closeness. On the contrary, she stayed there, breathing the same air, letting the tension become something shared and not an individual burden.
—I just know I want this,— she said. —I'm in love with you, Akko.—
There was no fuss or drama. Just that sentence, spoken with a calmness that came from acceptance. Diana tilted her face a little more and, without moving her forehead away from Akko's, brought her lips close to hers. The kiss was soft, brief, as delicate as the one she had given on her cheek, but with a different, more direct meaning. A contact that did not ask for permission because it had already been granted in the previous silence.
When she pulled away, she saw Akko with her cheeks completely red, her eyes closed, and a small, almost incredulous smile on her lips. Akko said nothing. She didn't need to. Diana felt something inside her settle, like a piece that had finally found its place.
She pulled her close without thinking too much about it, wrapping her arms around her, because she needed that hug, she needed to feel Akko's real weight against her body to convince herself that it wasn't an idea, or a misinterpretation of her gift, or an illusion born of exhaustion. Akko, who was almost a head shorter, immediately buried her face in her neck, as if she had been waiting for that gesture without knowing it. Diana could feel the smile against her skin, warm, shaky, absolutely real.
And as they remained like that, without speaking, with the world reduced to the space shared between them, Diana understood that this truth —the one she had learned to listen to all her life— was finally reaching her in a different way. Not as a warning or a defense, but as a silent promise of something that was just beginning.