Hogwarts Grounds — Late Afternoon
The Scottish afternoon sky began to shift colors as Kenzo walked toward the Quidditch pitch.
It wasn't a dramatic sky. Just an ordinary one transitioning from the blue of day to something warmer at the western horizon, with a wind that wasn't strong but was present enough to be felt against the skin.
And Kenzo—for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts—wasn't heading somewhere because something needed to be monitored or analyzed. He was going to the pitch because he wanted to be there.
A very small difference from the outside. But internally, it felt monumental.
His father's letter remained in his pocket—neatly folded, for once—and its final three sentences had been re-read more than necessary. Focus on Hogwarts. What is there is more important than what is outside for the time being. It wasn't an instruction about a threat or a task or something to be solved. It felt more like permission. Permission to be here—truly present, not just physically existing while his mind was elsewhere.
Kenzo wasn't used to that kind of permission. But this time, he decided to use it.
Terry and Michael walked by his side. "I'll be in the stands," Terry said. "I know." "Did Roger Davies give permission?" "I gave the permission," Kenzo answered. "I'm a member of the team. I can bring two people to watch practice." Terry immediately squared his shoulders. "The privilege of being friends with a team member. I like this." "Don't overdo it." "I'm not overdoing it. I'm appreciating it appropriately."
Michael walked in a way that showed he would be watching differently from Terry—quieter, more like someone observing to understand. "Does Davies know you brought us?" Michael asked. "Not yet. But team practice isn't a military secret." Kenzo paused. "And if he objects, you'll leave." Terry opened his mouth. "Without protesting," Kenzo added. Terry closed his mouth again.
On the pitch, the Ravenclaw team had gathered. Roger Davies stood in the center with the manner of a captain who had zero tolerance for lateness. Two Chasers were practicing short passes. The Keeper was at his post. Two Beaters swung their bats with automatic habit.
And Cho Chang drifted at a medium height above the field on her Comet 260—her hair caught in the wind, her way of flying already showing that the sky was a far more natural place for her than the ground.
Marietta Edgecombe sat in the bottom row of the stands with a notebook—not a schoolbook, but a small ledger she used to record team practice statistics. An unofficial but consistent role she played during every one of Cho's sessions.
Davies spotted Terry and Michael entering the stands. His eyebrow shot up. Kenzo reached him before Davies could speak. "Two people. They won't interfere." Davies stared at Terry and Michael for a moment. Then he looked at Kenzo. "If they leak formations to other houses—" "They won't," Kenzo said. The way Kenzo said it was enough of a guarantee. Davies nodded curtly and didn't mention it again.
Kenzo took the broom Davies had prepared: a Nimbus 1700. Its quality was worlds away from the practice broom he had used that morning—the way the wood responded to his palm, its weight already very different.
"Good," Kenzo murmured softly—not to Davies, but to himself. Davies looked at him. "What?" "The quality is different from the practice broom." Kenzo met his eyes. "Thank you." Davies seemed slightly unsure how to respond. He eventually just nodded. "Mount up. Basic formations first."
Kenzo pushed off and rose. And in the first second he left the ground—something in his chest shifted slightly. It wasn't chakra. It was something simpler. It felt like something long-locked had decided to loosen.
The wind swept across his face from a direction that didn't exist below. Different. Free. Kenzo took one breath—long, slow—in a way he rarely did in front of anyone. Then he looked at the sky above him. Vast. Open. Deep blue at the center even as it bled gold in the west. And for a few brief seconds, Kenzo Otsutsuki—heir to a clan burdened by the weight of worlds—simply stared at the sky without any purpose other than seeing it.
Cho, hovering nearby, turned toward him. She saw how Kenzo looked at the sky. For a moment, she didn't say anything. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Cho finally said—very softly. Kenzo turned. "Yes," he replied. A single word. But spoken without his usual filters. Cho smiled faintly. Then Davies shouted from below, "Formations! Let's go!"
The first ten minutes were standard. Triangle Chaser formations, passing the Quaffle while dodging Bludgers. Kenzo moved in the formation differently than he had that morning—less calculative, more responsive to the wind and timing.
At the eight-minute mark, a Chaser passed the Quaffle slightly early. Kenzo accelerated, snatching it just before it fell out of reach. "Nice!" Davies yelled. Kenzo tossed the Quaffle to the next player. And something very small appeared at the corner of his lips. Not a full smile. Not yet. But already very different from his standard flat expression.
In the stands, Terry nudged Michael. "Did you see that?" "Yes," Michael replied without looking away. Terry said nothing else. He watched with the expression of someone witnessing something that didn't fit into known categories. Marietta saw it too—her pencil froze over her notebook, her eyes locked on one point.
At the twelve-minute mark, a Bludger headed for Kenzo. A Beater struck it, but a sudden shift in the wind redirected it straight at him. Kenzo tilted left—a minimal movement, letting the Bludger whistle past by a narrow margin. But the wind shift didn't stop there. It swept in from the southwest—strong, sudden. It was enough to lift his hair and tug his robes.
And in that single second—His "Handsomeness Jutsu" faded.
It didn't vanish instantly. Rather, a thin layer on the surface of his presence was suddenly gone. No light, no sound—only a subtle yet profound change in how he appeared. But it was enough. And on that pitch—everyone was looking.
In the stands, Terry Boot stopped cheering. His verbal ability was diverted to processing what he saw. Michael stopped writing mid-sentence, his pen still touching the paper. Marietta Edgecombe stopped breathing for a full second; her pencil clattered to the floor.
Roger Davies stared up at Kenzo, his captaincy momentarily forgotten. Cho Chang froze in mid-air, her broom hovering as if it didn't know what to do next.
From Cho's perspective, bathed in the golden evening light, Kenzo looked different. Not just "handsome" in the way everyone already knew. It was something deeper. The evening light hit his face at an unplannable angle. His hair fell back into place effortlessly. And his red eyes reflected the sunset in a way that made those watching forget for a few seconds they were standing on a Quidditch pitch.
Silence lasted for three full seconds. Then Kenzo realized it. He felt the wind against his skin without the familiar barrier. His expression moved. First—a flicker of surprise. Then—something close to awkwardness. Something that had never graced his face before.
He redirected his chakra. The layer returned. But it wasn't fast enough. Everyone had seen it—the change, the surprise, and the second of awkwardness.
Silence was broken by Davies clearing his throat. "Continue formations." His voice tried to remain professional but failed to hide his distraction. Cho finally moved her broom, returning to reality. Kenzo moved in the formation, but he felt lighter. Like someone who had decided there were more important things than maintaining a mask every second.
Zetsu, floating in the shadow below, whispered. "Father." "Yes," Kenzo replied, passing the Quaffle. "Your Handsomeness Jutsu faded." "Yes. The southwest wind. I didn't anticipate it." "Everyone saw." "I know." "They saw your expression, too." Kenzo didn't answer for a few seconds. "Yes," Kenzo said finally. His voice wasn't flat—it was warm. "I noticed." "This will be gossip." "Most likely." "Let it be," Kenzo added.
Latihan lasted another hour. At the end, Davies spoke with satisfaction, though his eyes still drifted to Kenzo. Cho landed last and walked toward him. "Good practice," Cho said softly. "Thank you," Kenzo replied. He paused. "The way you anticipated the wind was not easy to do." Cho met his eyes. "Thank you." She paused. "I won't ask more... but I want you to know I saw it. Everything. Including your expression before the jutsu returned." Kenzo looked at her. "And," Cho whispered, "I think it was the most human thing I've seen from you." Kenzo met her eyes, unsure how to respond. "Yes," he said finally. "It was."
The Great Hall — Dinner
Zetsu was right. The gossip didn't spread like a typical rumor. It started with Marietta telling two trusted friends. In two hours, it moved through the castle. In the library, students were already mourning missing the practice.
In the Ravenclaw Common Room, Terry was quiet for three minutes—a record. "Kenzo. The Handsomeness Jutsu. I heard you and Zetsu earlier. Meaning what everyone sees... isn't how you actually look." "Yes," Kenzo replied. "And earlier on the pitch... that was really you?" "Yes." Michael closed his book. "Why hide it?" "Because there is a difference between attention given because of who someone is," Kenzo said, "and attention given because of how they look." Terry stared at him. "That actually makes sense." "Kenzo," Michael said. "When you caught that Quaffle... the corner of your lip moved. I never saw that before." Kenzo turned to him. "And?" "Nothing. Just wanted to tell you I saw it." Something on Kenzo's face moved—not a smile, but something warm. "Thank you."
Zetsu appeared. "Father. The gossip reached Hufflepuff. And Hermione Granger has been in the library since 6 AM."
Kenzo stared at the window. His father's letter felt heavy. Focus on Hogwarts. He had thought it meant strategic monitoring. Now, he began to think it meant days like this.
"Yes," Kenzo said to Zetsu. "I'm doing it."
Day Seven
Morning of the seventh day began as usual. Terry pulled his blanket; Michael sat with his notes; Kenzo stood by the window. "Father," Zetsu whispered. "The gossip spread further than predicted." Kenzo stared at the lake. "How far?" "Hufflepuff and Gryffindor know. Hermione Granger is processing it." Terry woke up. "What are you talking about?" "Nothing. Go back to sleep, Terry."
As they walked to the Great Hall, the difference was clear. Students stopped talking. Ravenclaw seniors watched Kenzo as if he had become more complex. "How does it feel?" Terry asked. "Different," Kenzo replied. "Yesterday I couldn't predict it. Today... it's interesting." Terry smiled. "Okay."
After Breakfast
At the corridor intersection, Hannah Abbott was waiting. She stood where she could be seen but not in the way. Susan Bones wasn't with her; this was her own choice. Terry and Michael slowed down, giving them space. "Hey," Hannah said. "I'm Hannah Abbott. We're in Herbology together... but you know that." "Yes," Kenzo replied. "I remember." "I just... flying class yesterday. And Professor Sprout said good things. I was impressed." Kenzo stared at her. "Thank you. Yesterday in flying class... how you loosened your grip... that wasn't easy. But you did it." Hannah blinked. "You noticed that?" "Yes." Hannah's expression warmed. "Thank you."
The Library — Midday
The library was busier than usual. People were sitting at tables they didn't usually use, watching the door. Kenzo sat at his usual table. "Seven people are pretending to read. All for you," Zetsu whispered. "I know." "Is it comfortable?" "I don't know," Kenzo said honestly. "But it isn't uncomfortable."
Hermione arrived. She sat down, skipping her usual academic preamble. "I heard the gossip. About practice yesterday. All versions mention your expression. And I thought... that had nothing to do with a jutsu. That was just—you." Kenzo stared at her. A warm expression touched his face. "Yes. That was just me." Hermione stared for two seconds. "Right," she said softly.
The Dawn of Choice
Before fajar on the seventh day, Kenzo sat with Zetsu. "Father. You've been thinking about the jutsu since last night." "Yes." "Tony suggested it at age eight to keep interactions productive. But here?" Kenzo stared at the shifting sky. "Here, I'm learning to be a part of something. Not just watching it. And the jutsu makes me watch from behind a layer." "You're afraid," Zetsu said softly. "Of how people look at you when there's no layer." Kenzo didn't deny it. "If I drop it today... intentionally..." "The reaction will be different," Zetsu noted. "I want to try," Kenzo said.
Aku ingin. I want. Not I need. As morning arrived, Kenzo let the chakra flow stop. The layer faded—not forced by wind, but consciously released. Terry woke up and looked at Kenzo. "Kenzo... you aren't using the jutsu." "No." "On purpose?" "Yes." Terry took a slow breath. "Good." Michael nodded. "Are you sure?" "Yes."
The Great Hall — Seventh Morning
They entered the Great Hall. This wasn't about the name or the family anymore. It was about the choice. Hermione stopped reading for a full second. Hannah Abbott looked up. Daphne Greengrass watched, and a tiny, unnamable curve appeared on her lips.
Kenzo sat and took his tea.
"How does it feel?" Michael asked.
"Like walking barefoot in the grass," Kenzo said finally. Terry almost choked on his toast. Michael stared, deeply impressed.
"You just used a metaphor," Michael said.
"Yes."
"This is good," Terry said.
Kenzo stared at his tea. A full, warm, unforced smile appeared. The fourth day ended. The seventh day began. He was here. Fully present. Barefoot on the grass.