♤Haru Kobayashi ♡ Second Year ◇ Mahoutokoro ♧

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H. KOBAYASHI’S TRUNK
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[ sta: 6 | eva: 7 | str: 7 | wis: 6 | arc: 6 | acc: 8]

YEAR ONE | YEAR TWO |YEAR THREE | YEAR FOUR | YEAR FIVE | YEAR SIX| YEAR SEVEN

Charmer

Reducio

There are those that command attention. They enter a room and command attention by virtue of drama, of light, of extravagance. And then there are people like Haru Kobayashi—people who do nothing, and are front and center. He doesn't speak louder than a whisper, doesn't dress to impress, doesn't do anything to convince or to amaze. And people notice. People recall. Haru isn't out to win people over. He merely is.

It's difficult to put into words what's distracting about him. It's not really his looks, although by any standard, he's handsome.
He's got a smooth movement to his actions, a flowing, unhurried movement, and an elegant absence of formality that makes mundane actions—folding paper, manipulating his wand, pushing hair out of his face—seemingly intentional. No stiffness in him, no forced move. He never seems to notice how much people stare at him. And that lack of self-consciousness makes him all the more interesting.

From his first day at Mahoutokoro, Haru had that unsettling, charisma-driven magnetism that attracted professors and students in equal measure. No bigger jokes or masterly creations, just stillness. When he did utter words, they were softly, reflectively, and people would stop and listen—when he was as much not saying something spectacular as at all concessory of that spectacularity. His presence never overwhelmed a room; his presence occupied a room. His words were never necessarily persuasive by intent, but had a bizzingly unnatural power to break a pressure bubble, alter a mood, or bump a stream of talk along comfortably. There was never a move to posture—only a casual manner of existing that had a way of commanding other people's attention his direction.

What everyone loves about Haru is not manipulation, or even charisma by that term as loosely used. It's ambient. He takes space not as a flame does, but as a mist—gentle, incredibly transient, and irremediable to dismiss. It clings in your clothing. In your lungs. In your hair. Someone may wake him out of sorts, perhaps a little lost as to why precisely they suffocated—but suffocating there is. And not by chance. It's just Haru.

He speaks less than he listens. He leans to the outside of his head when other people speak, his head cocked to one side, quick little small nods, thoughtful glances, swift sips of a spurring friendliness at the corners of his mouth. These little gentler signs cause people to feel seen, though he has little to say. Students find themselves shifting a little closer, as if anticipating his blessing or anticipating to elicit some response. Adults appear strangely placated by his presence, as if his demeanor is so unarmed that it takes them by their own surprise. He doesn't demand people's affection, and people like him in spite of himself. He doesn't appear naive, and you can't remain angry with him even when he's in the wrong. And sometimes—with no conscious desire to do so—Haru is flirtatious. It's in his glancing up through his lashes when lost in contemplation. In his fingers moving reflectively around book spines when listening. In gentleness in his voice when you're nodding at him, or his lingering a fraction longer when you're speaking softly. None of it on purpose. He's not trying to flirt. But there's a perception anyway. His space is a personal one, a personal knowing between two of you. And sometimes people mistake that as something other than that.

He doesn't flirt, per se. But he unsettles people like a flirt would—without realizing how strained things are. He doesn't pursue relationships. Other people do.

He knows how to give space in a room and not to make it tension. He knows how to sit upright next to a person and not as if he's necessary to control what's going on. It's a kind of self-hold-back that's a rare commodity in a man his age. It makes him feel older, wiser, in control than he actually is. It makes other people trust him, when they shouldn't.

That unconscious smoothness has a price. His buddies get jealous. His enemies use him and then get confused as to why it's so difficult to stay angry.

It's hard to put into words what, precisely, makes Haru Kobayashi a “charmer.” It's not one thing. It's everything. His presence. His listening face. His quiet-into-a-room kind of quiet, his gentle undulation of focus that lingers after he's gone by. You don't necessarily require words to influence people. He doesn't necessarily require plotting or showmanship. His presence does. He's the distraction—dignified, quiet, and tireless.

And to all those attempting, actual frustration is here: It's not something that you will emulate. It's not something that which he will attempt. Charisma is not something that works on Haru Kobayashi. He wears it like a second skin.

Advanced Casting

Reducio

There are others who cast spells as some sort of game: loudly, instantaneously, and with flair. Great sweeping gestures, bellowing incantations, sparks flying hither and yon. These would-be wizards are usually under the illusion that strength is equal to power. Haru Kobayashi is not one of them. His magic is another kind—quieter, razor-sharp, neat. He casts with a sort of silky smoothness that speaks of more than raw talent. It speaks of control, discipline, and a deep, intuitive understanding of the architecture of magic.

It started as early as his first year, whereas others struggled with fundamentals—wrist movement, pronunciation, focus—Haru perfected them. And then proceeded to make them better. He did not attempt to make a spell functional; he aimed to make a spell efficient. Whereas others were good with “good enough,” Haru practiced until he was flawless. Every spell drained of excess motion. Every spell as tough as a knife.

This conscious style was taking its first fruits and his professors were amazed. His actions had miraculous consequences. His defensive charms lingered longer than older students. His transfigures were neater, more proficient. Magic no longer came in spats and flurries but in tidal waves—precise, sharp, conscious.

This was no talent. Haru never used talent. His afternoons and evenings are occupied by reading about theory, practicing motions in front of a mirror, refining grip, practicing pace and breathing. He researches how spell does work—how magic responds to intent, to feeling, to mood. He reads to learn, not by heart. He doesn't just spellcast. He creates them.

There's even a bizarre intuition involved. He waves half a spell and knows somehow its outcome is not merely successful, but better. His professors have pointed out this bizarreness of precision—how his spells always become better than average, especially when there's a time of urgency. It's not sheer strength that makes Haru powerful. It's calibration. While others wave their arms about, he gauges. While others bludgeon, he adjusts.

It's an art. It's as if you're viewing calligraphy on a moving page. His every flailing isn't by accident. His every enunciated syllable falls dead on beat. His poise and manner effectively camouflage the power of his manner—until the magic hits you. And then you see. His magic doesn't dribble. It kills, and makes what kills it all the greater because of how in control it is.

This humility has earned him silent endorsement, even from those in the advanced class. He doesn’t speak of his talents, doesn’t brag or prance, but when his turn again arrives to show off a spell, people pay attention. Not seeking spectacle or pyrotechnics, but seeking results. And Haru never fails.

The increased strength of his magic is not coincidental. It's the result of multiple levels of self-restraint, high to cross, and a mind that does not rest. Other people cast spells like they use a hammer, but Haru uses it like a blade—sharp, pointed, and deadly in its specificity. He lacks a feeling of bravado, but compensates with his aptness. And his aptness is getting steadily robust.