The Midnight Quill Society Contest Submissions

Name: Xio Arcana
School/House/Year: Hogwarts, Ravenclaw, 1st
Word Count: 2,001 words

Story:

Stained Hearts Chapter 1

Name: Penelope Kneen
School/House/Year: Hogwarts/Hufflepuff/First
Word Count: 1266

Story:

Reducio

The Girl Behind the Glass

In Venus ugly people did not exist.

At least that was what they taught us in school.

Every child received a mirror on their sixteenth birthday. It was not ordinary mirror. It showed you the face you were meant to have, the face that would earn you respect, love and a place in society. All you had to do was follow its instructions.

Straighten your nose. Smooth your skin. Change your eyes.

And if you were lucky enough, one day, you would wake up looking perfect.

My mother called it a blessing.

I called it a nightmare.

My mirror had been showin me the same message for three months.

CORRECTION REQUIRED.

It says my face was beyond saving.

People in Venus were ranked according to their beauty. The highest ranked citizens lived in the Sun District, which is called the most beautiful place on Venus. Those in the middle ranks worked in shops and offices. The lowest ranked citizens cleaned the streets, emptied the dust bins and kept themselves hidden.

Nobody spoke about what happened to people whose scores reached zero.

We were told they were sent away to receive treatment.

I never believed that.

My best friend, Lemi, had a score of ninety nine. She had golden hair, clear skin, and the smile that made people forgive her before she even apologise. She was also the only person who never asked me to cover the birthmark beneat my left eye.

"You know" she told me one afternoon, watching me struggle with my mirror "you would be pretty if you just listened to it."

"Thank you. That's the nicest insult I've ever received." I said giving her a glare.

She laughe then took my hand.

"Come on. The Choosing Ceremony starts in an hour."

The Choosing Ceremony was the most important event in Venus. Every year, the ten most beautiful citizens were selected to enter the Royal Palace. Nobody knew what happened inside but those who entered never returned.

Everyone wanted to be chosen.

Everyone except me.

That evening, Lemi's name appeared on the palace screen.

She screamed with happiness. Her parents cried. The entire street gathered to congratulae her.

I hugged her, even though something inside me felt cold.

"Promise you'll tell me everything when you come back." I whispered.

Before she could answer the royal guards arrived.

She was gone before midnight.

For the next three days I waited for a letter. A message. Anything.

On the fourth night someone knocked on my window.

I almost screamed.

A girl stood outside. Her clothes were torn, her hair was tangled, and a long scar ran across her forehead.

Then she lifted her face.

It was Lemi.

But it wasn't.

Her eyes were the same but everything else had changed. Her skin was covered in marks, her nose was croked and one side of her mouth was higher than the other.

I opened the window.

"What happened to you?"

She grabbed my wrist.

"Do not use your mirror tomorrow."

Then she disappeared into the darkness.

Of course I did not sleep.

At sunrise I covered my mirror with a blanket. I expected nothing to happen.

But something knocked from inside the glass.

Three slow taps.

I stepped closer.

A crack appeared across the mirror and a small piece fell on the floor. Behind it was not a wall but a narow passage filled with blue light.

I should have called the guards.

But I climbed through.

The passage led to a room beneath the palace. Hundreds of mirrors stood in rows each containing a person. Some were crying. Others were shouting. A few just stared as if they had forgotten how to speak.

And there, in the last mirror, stood Lemi.

Her perfect face was back.

She was smiling.

I pressed my hands against the glass.

"Lemi!"

She turned towards me but her expression did not change.

Then I noticed the girl standing beside her.

Me.

Not the me with the birthmark and untidy hair. The other me had perfect skin, a straight nose and beautiful dark eyes.

She was wearing my clothes.

She was standing in my bedroom.

And she was smiling at my mother.

I stumble backwards.

A voice spoke behind me.

"Remarkable isn't it?"

An old woman stood near the doorway. She wore a silver mask and her hands trembled as she held a little glass bottle.

"What is this place?" I asked.

"The reason your kingdom has remained beautiful for four hundred years."

She walked towards the mirrors.

"Your mirror does not change your face child. It takes someone else's."

I stared at her.

"Every correction requires a sacrifice" she continued.

"A straight nose, flawless skin, perfect eyes. Someone has to lose those things so another person can have them."

I looked at Lemi.

The girl inside the mirror was beautiful because someone else had been made ugly.

But that was not the worst part.

"Why me?" I whispered.

"Why have I never been corrected?"

The old woman tilted her head.

"Because your mother refused to choose a sacrifice."

My breath caught.

"Your mother was once the most beautiful woman in Venus. When she discovered the truth she gave up her place among the chosen and hid you from the palace. Your birthmark is not a flaw. It is the only thing the mirrors cannot steal."

I thought of my mother brushing my hair every morning telling me I was lovely even when I hated my reflection.

I thought of Lemi smilin as she entered the palace.

Then I looked again at the girl who had my face.

She wasn't a stranger.

She was the version of me that everyone wanted.

And suddenly I understood why the mirrors had never been able to correct me.

They didn't want to make me beautiful.

They wanted to make me useful.

A bell rang somewhere above us.

The old woman looked towards the ceiling.

"The ceremony begins in ten minutes. If the mirrors remain, another hundred children will be chosen."

I looked at the hundreds of trapped people.

"How do I stop it?"

She held out the glass bottle.

"You break the first mirror. The one that started everything."

"And what happens to the people inside?"

Her silence was the answer.

I took the bottle.

For a moment I thought of my mother. Of Lemi. Of the face I had spent sixteen years wishing I could change.

Then I threw the bottle against the nearest mirror.

The glass shattered.

Every mirror in the room cracked at once.

The screams stopped.

The blue light disappeared.

And for one second I could see nothing.

When I opened my eyes I was standing in my bedroom. My mother was beside me holding my face between her hands.

I touched my cheek.

The birthmark was gone.

I ran to the mirror.

My skin was flawless. My hair fell perfectly around my shoulders. My eyes were bright and clear.

I looked exactly like the girl I had seen inside the palace.

Behind mer my mother began to cry.

Outside the city bells rang. People poured into the street cheering as their mirrors changed. Everyone was becoming beautiful.

Everyone was celebrating.

I should have been happy.

Then I noticed something written across my reflection.

Not on the glass.

On my skin.

'THANK YOU FOR YOUR SACRIFICE.'

I turned towards my mother.

She was staring at me as though she never saw me before.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

And somewhere deep inside the mirror a girl with a birthmark beneath her left eye began to scream.

Name: Paisley Emmeline Fox
School/House/Year: Hogwarts/ Gryffindor/ First
Word Count: 1467/2000

Story:

Reducio

The Girl Who Inherited a Shadow

In the city of Bellwether, beauty was money.

A beautiful smile could buy a house. A graceful walk could earn someone a scholarship. A face that made people stop and stare could purchase a lifetime of luxury.

People were born with a certain amount of beauty, measured in units called Gleams. They could earn more by receiving compliments, lose them through public embarrassment, or transfer them to others as gifts.

Even love had a price.

A person could marry someone above their social rank, provided they could afford the difference.

And those who possessed no beauty at all were called the Unlit.

Nobody knew where they went. The government claimed they had emigrated to a distant land where appearance did not matter.

Nobody asked why no one had ever received a letter from there.

My name is Maren Vale, and I was born with seventeen Gleams.

It was enough to attend school, buy bread, and rent a room above my father's clock shop. It was not enough to be noticed.

In Bellwether, being unnoticed was almost as dangerous as being ugly.

My younger brother, Ellis, had possessed three hundred Gleams before his illness. He had bright eyes, a charming smile, and the sort of face that made strangers offer him sweets. When he became sick, his beauty began to fade. His cheeks lost their colour. His hair turned grey at the temples. His Gleams dwindled until, one morning, the government collectors arrived at our door.

They wore white gloves and carried little silver scales.

"Your brother's account has reached zero," one announced. "He must be surrendered."

My father stood in front of Ellis.

"He is twelve."

"Age is irrelevant to the regulations."

I remember Ellis holding my hand. I remember the terrible quietness of his voice.

"Maren, don't let them make you pretty."

Then they took him away.

For three years, I obeyed every rule. I kept my head down, avoided unnecessary conversation, and never accepted compliments I could not afford to return.

Then, on the morning of my seventeenth birthday, I inherited a shadow.

It arrived in a small wooden box, delivered by a postman whose face I could not remember. Inside lay a black ribbon, a brass key, and a note written in my father's handwriting.

*When the city forgets how to see, go where the shadows gather.*

My father had disappeared two years earlier, after being accused of forging beauty certificates. I had assumed he was dead.

The brass key opened a door beneath his clock shop.

Behind it was a staircase descending far below the city streets. I followed it until the air grew cold and the sound of ticking clocks faded behind me.

At the bottom, I found a train station.

There were no advertisements, no portraits of beautiful citizens, and no shining advertisements promising eternal youth. Instead, hundreds of people sat beneath dim lanterns, their faces hidden beneath ordinary hoods.

Some had scars. Some had crooked teeth. Some were old, tired, or simply different from the people celebrated above.

And all of them had shadows.

A woman approached me. She had silver hair and a laugh that sounded like a match being struck.

"You're Vale's daughter," she said.

"Where am I?"

"Below Bellwether. Where the Unlit live."

I stared at her.

"But the government says—"

"The government says many things."

She led me to a window overlooking a vast underground garden. Trees grew beneath a ceiling of stone, their leaves silver in the lantern light. People tended flowers, baked bread, repaired shoes, and argued cheerfully over cups of tea.

Nobody looked at anyone else with disgust.

For the first time in my life, I felt strangely uncomfortable.

Not because I was unwelcome, but because nobody seemed to care what I looked like.

The woman introduced herself as Orla. She explained that the Unlit had not lost their beauty.

They had lost their Gleams.

Bellwether's rulers had discovered that admiration could be harvested. Every compliment spoken in the city released a tiny spark of light. The government collected those sparks, stored them in enormous glass towers, and sold them to the wealthy.

The richer citizens became more radiant, the more everyone else was encouraged to admire them.

And when someone's Gleams reached zero, the collectors brought them underground.

"The city needs us," Orla said. "Without people to admire, nobody would have anything to sell."

I thought of Ellis.

"Is my brother here?"

Orla's expression softened.

She took me to a small workshop where a boy sat repairing a broken clock. His hair was still grey, and his face was thinner than I remembered, but his fingers moved with the same quick, impatient rhythm.

"Ellis?"

He looked up.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he dropped his tools and ran into my arms.

I held him so tightly that he complained I was crushing his ribs. I laughed and cried at the same time, and for the first time in years, I did not care how either expression looked.

That night, my father returned.

He had been helping the Unlit build something beneath the city: a machine that could reverse the flow of Gleams. Instead of collecting admiration from the powerless and giving it to the wealthy, it would return every stolen spark to its original owner.

There was only one problem.

The machine needed a living shadow to activate it.

Mine.

Orla explained that shadows were the one thing the government could never tax, measure, or sell. They were not beautiful or ugly. They simply existed because a person did.

My father had hidden my shadow from the collectors when I was born, binding it to the brass key. That was why my Gleams had always remained low, and why the government had never been able to claim me.

If I activated the machine, Bellwether would change forever. But I would lose the protection my shadow gave me.

I might never be able to return to the life I had known.

Ellis gripped my sleeve.

"You don't have to do this."

"I know."

Above us, the city bells began to ring. It was the annual Festival of Faces, when the wealthiest citizens gathered to display their beauty beneath a thousand golden lights.

I thought of the people cheering in the streets. The children learning to hate their own reflections. The parents measuring their daughters' smiles against the cost of dinner.

Then I thought of all the people living beneath their feet, making homes from scraps and finding happiness in things that had never been assigned a price.

I placed the brass key into the machine.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then every clock in Bellwether struck thirteen.

The underground walls trembled. A river of light rushed through the pipes, up the staircases, and into the glass towers above. The towers burst into a million sparks, scattering across the city like fireflies.

Across Bellwether, people stopped.

The Queen's golden hair lost its unnatural shine. The wealthiest merchants watched their perfect skin become ordinary. Thousands of citizens felt the strange, unfamiliar sensation of no longer being the most admired person in the room.

But the poorest citizens felt something else.

They remembered themselves.

The machine had returned their stolen Gleams, but it had also destroyed the system that gave those numbers meaning. Beauty could no longer be collected, stored, or sold.

For the first time in centuries, everyone stood on equal ground.

When I woke the following morning, I was lying in the underground garden. Ellis sat beside me, holding a cup of tea.

I reached for my shadow.

It was there.

But it was different.

Instead of stretching obediently behind me, it moved beside me, independent and free. When I lifted my hand, it waved. When I smiled, it grinned.

And when I looked into the little pool beside the garden, I saw something I had never noticed before.

My face had not changed.

My seventeen Gleams had not returned.

I was still Maren Vale, with my uneven teeth, tired eyes, and untidy hair.

But for the first time, I did not feel poor.

Above the ground, Bellwether's citizens began rebuilding their lives. Some struggled to accept a world where beauty could not buy them power. Others discovered talents they had never been allowed to pursue.

And in the underground garden, Ellis planted a flower.

It was small, crooked, and almost entirely green.

"What's it worth?" he asked me.

I considered the question.

"Nothing," I answered.

He smiled.

"Good."

We watched the flower sway in the breeze, and somewhere above us, the clocks began to tick normally again.

For the first time in Bellwether's history, nobody was counting.

Name: Elara Whitlock
School/House/Year: Hogwarts/Hufflepuff/First
Word Count: 1202

Story:

Reducio

The Beauty Tax

Elias nearly dropped his cup when he saw the bill. Twelve silver coins? Last year, I had to pay four. He sighed, reading the bill with disbelief. He checked the paper again. His name was right. So was his address. There was even a little note from the royal assessor about the scar above his eyebrow. Apparently, it made him less attractive this year.

"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered to himself.

He worked at a bookshop in Miravelle. His wages were enough for rent, food, and a few things he didn't really need. Twelve silver coins would take most of them. He folded the bill and put it in his pocket. Pfft another spring, another problem.

Every spring, everyone in Miravelle paid the Beauty Tax. Royal assessors judged people's faces and decided how much they owed. Pretty people paid less. Ugly people paid more. The rules changed every year. Last spring, freckles were fashionable. Now they were considered a flaw. Elias wouldn't have been surprised if ears became a problem next. People who couldn't pay had to give up some of their beauty. The Crown collected it in glass vials and sold it to wealthy customers. The buyers could use it to keep their skin smooth. Hair bright. Faces young. The King and Queen never seemed to need any of it. Elias had always wondered why.

He was still thinking about the bill when Margot came into the shop. She was a seamstress who lived near the market. He'd seen her around plenty of times. But somehow, she looked different. Her hair was grey. The skin around her eyes had become loose. She leaned on the counter while putting down a bundle of books.

"Are you sick, Margot?" Elias asked.

"Not unless being poor is an illness."

He didn't know what to say. Margot explained that she'd missed her tax payment. The officers had offered to collect some of her beauty instead. She'd agreed because she thought they'd take a little.

"They took nearly everything, Elias. I barely recognise myself." she said, almost crying. She sold the books and left in a hurry. Elias watched her go. He wanted to ask if there was anything he could do. But nothing. He couldn't even pay his own tax.

That afternoon, he delivered a parcel to the royal district. On his way back, he stopped outside a beauty shop. There were new vials in the window. One contained golden liquid. Another had a pale, almost silver colour. Small labels sat beneath them. Elias read it. Then he saw Margot's name.

Margot Vale — Golden Hair

He stared at it for a while. A man opened the shop door. "Looking for something, young man?"

"That vial. Where did you get it?"

"Royal suppliers."

"Does the woman know you're selling it?"

The man frowned. "She surrendered it to the Crown. It's no longer hers."

Elias left before the argument got any worse. He went back to the bookshop and told Tomas what he'd seen.

"That's how it works," Tomas said. "People give up their beauty. Other people buy it."

"But why does the Crown need it?"

Tomas looked at him. "Keep your voice down, Elias!"

That was all he said. Elias waited until closing time. Then he searched the old shelves for books about the royal family. He found a few dusty histories and a ledger that looked older than the shop itself. Most of it was useless. Then he came across a page about the first Beauty Tax. The tax had started eighty years ago. Before that, the royal family had relied on an enchantment to preserve their youth. It drew power from a spring beneath the palace. The spring had dried up. The royal magicians found another source of power. Human beauty. At first, the Crown collected it from prisoners and volunteers. Later on, the King introduced the tax. Everyone had to contribute, whether they wanted to or not. Elias read the page again. So that was why the standards kept changing. He took the page to Tomas.

"Did you know about this, Tomas?"

"No, I didn't."

"Do you think the others know?"

Tomas shook his head.

Elias glanced at the bill sticking out of his pocket. He'd spent years worrying about his appearance. Elias even saved money for a treatment that might have faded his scar. Now he felt rather stupid. The Crown had made people afraid of their own faces. And Elias had fallen for it too. The spring ceremony was three days away. The King would announce the new beauty standards in the capital that day. Elias couldn't just keep the page to himself. He decided to bring it.

Elias almost turned back when he reached the square. There were guards everywhere. The crowd was much larger than he'd expected. Then he spotted Margot near a fountain. She was selling her sewing tools. He showed her the page. She read it twice.

"They did all this just to stay young?"

"Looks like it."

Margot folded the paper and handed it back.

"Then people should know about this, Elias."

After that, Elias stepped forward when the King appeared on the balcony.

"The Beauty Tax is a lie!" he shouted.

A few people turned to look at him. Elias held up the page. His hands were shaking, and nearly lost his place while reading. He explained how the Crown collected beauty and used it to preserve the royal family's youth. A guard walked towards him.

"Let him finish!" someone called from the crowd.

Elias continued. People began asking questions. Some recognised the names in the old records. Others spoke about relatives who had grown old after surrendering their beauty. The King tried to silence them. A crack appeared in the balcony wall. The golden lamps went dark. The Queen reached for the King's arm. A wrinkle had appeared on her cheek. The King's hair was turning white. The crowd fell silent. Elias watched the King touch his face. The man looked just as frightened as everyone else. Nobody knew what had caused the enchantment to fail. Perhaps it had run out of power. Perhaps it could no longer survive with so many people questioning it. Whatever happened, the King could no longer hide his age. The ceremony ended early.

Within a week, the Crown suspended the Beauty Tax. The royal shops were ordered to return their vials. But some shops didn't do it. Some merchants disappeared before the officers arrived. Margot didn't get her hair back. Many others received nothing at all. The kingdom had a long way to go. People still judged each other's appearances. The wealthy still had more than the poor. But nobody came to Elias's door demanding money for his face. He kept the old bill for a few days. Then he used it to light the stove. Tomas watched the paper burn.

"Couldn't you have used scrap wood?"

"That would've been sensible."

"And you're not sensible?"

"Not today."

Tomas laughed. Elias went back to work. His scar was still there, and his nose hadn't changed. He didn't look any better than he had last spring. But for once, that didn't bother him.