How Not to Fall for a Liondragon

Yvette's POV

"Sis, I'm begging you, please stop dumping this useless kid at my place!"

The summer I turned eighteen, my aunt drove up in her pickup truck and literally threw me and my luggage into our front yard, yelling at my parents in frustration.

Mom tried to get her to stay for dinner, but she refused. Before leaving, she shot me a nasty look and said with contempt, "A waste of space like her—you should never have had her in the first place!"

After my aunt left, Mom looked at me covered in dust and sighed. Dad squatted on the doorstep smoking, his face dark as a storm cloud.

Disappointment was written all over their faces. And that word—disappointment—had basically been the story of my entire life.

A year ago, I didn't pass the ACT. Dad pulled some strings to get me into a school to study computer science. First semester, I crashed the school's administrative database. Even though they later found out it was a system bug, the school insisted on kicking me out anyway.

Dad had no choice but to ask a restaurant manager he knew to let me work as a server. Three days in a row, I slipped while carrying food and dumped plates on customers' heads. The manager was so freaked out he drove me home in the middle of the night.

Finally, Mom called my aunt. Aunt had a farm in the countryside with dozens of cows and a big organic vegetable garden. She figured just planting vegetables and feeding cows—surely I couldn't mess that up, right?

Wrong. Just as I was about to feed the cows, all thirty of them suddenly went crazy, knocked over the feed troughs, and scattered everywhere.

Aunt chased them down in her pickup and only managed to get twelve back.

That was the last straw. She brought me home.

At that moment, Dad finally finished his cigarette and crushed it out. He stood up.

He walked into the house, grabbed the bamboo broom from behind the door, and headed toward me.

I instinctively took a step back, stammering, "Dad..."

"Get on your knees!"

Dad roared. Mom tried to stop him. "Sylvan, don't do anything rash..."

"You shut up!" Dad pointed at Mom, his finger shaking. "This is all because you spoil her! Ever since she was little, you let her do whatever she wants! Didn't get into college—you said it's fine. Caused trouble at work—you said she's still young. Sent her to your sister's place, and what happened? She practically tore down the barn!"

"Those were all accidents..." Mom said quietly.

"Accidents?" Dad's voice shot up. "How can there be so many accidents? I think she does it on purpose!"

He raised the broom and brought it down hard on my back.

I grunted in pain, tears quickly falling. More than the physical pain, it was the emotional hurt that got to me.

Mom rushed forward to stop him, but he shoved her aside.

Mom stumbled back a couple steps, grabbed the doorframe, her eyes turning red.

"Get out of the way!" Dad was breathing hard. "I'm going to teach her a lesson today whether you like it or not!"

The broom came down again, this time hitting my shoulder. A few thin branches snapped off. It burned.

I didn't dodge. Didn't want to.

Because what he said was true—I really couldn't do anything right.

Every time I tried to prove myself, something would go wrong, like my life was cursed with bad luck.

Dad raised the broom to hit me again, but when our eyes met—mine stubborn and defiant—he slowly lowered it.

He stood there breathing hard, staring at me for several seconds. Then he yanked me up from the ground and dragged me toward the basement.

Mom followed behind, looking terrified.

Dad roughly shoved me into the basement and locked the door. "We can't take care of her forever. Let her think about what she's done down there!"

Darkness rushed in from all sides like a tide, drowning me.

Our basement wasn't big—more like a storage room, really. Dusty cardboard boxes piled in the corner, rusty tools, and a few crayons I'd used as a kid.

The light bulb flickered on and off a few times—probably about to die. I didn't care.

I sat down against the wall, hugged my knees, and picked up half a crayon from the floor.

When I was little, I loved to draw. Even though I wasn't good at it, my parents always supported me.

Until one day, I was mixing paint and nearly burned the house down. After that, my parents forbade me from drawing ever again.

I gripped the crayon and started drawing on the wall. Without thinking, I drew a fat woman in an apron.

It was my aunt. I don't know why I drew her, but once I started, I couldn't stop. Like I was venting all my hurt and anger, I added a little mustache to her round face.

Looking at the "mustachioed" aunt on the wall, I couldn't help but laugh.

I hadn't laughed in a long time.

I knew it was childish, even mean, but I didn't care.

I was locked in a basement, my back still burning with pain—couldn't I at least draw on a wall?

Just then, the "aunt" on the wall suddenly moved. The mustache curled upward.

I thought I was seeing things. I rubbed my eyes hard and stared at the drawing.

The "aunt" suddenly spoke. "That's an ugly drawing."

The voice wasn't loud, coming from inside the wall—steady and raspy, like a man's voice.

I froze, my hand suspended in mid-air, eyes wide with disbelief.

Then I watched as the "aunt" slowly changed. The round face lengthened, the flat nose grew higher, the fat body slimmed down. Those two curled mustache strokes didn't disappear—instead they became thicker, longer white whiskers hanging down past the chin.

In no time, the "aunt" had transformed into a white-haired old man.

He looked at me with an eerie smile, his voice low. "Yvette, I've been looking for you for eighteen years. Do you want to come to magic school?"

After a brief moment of shock, I started trembling all over and screamed.

The monster on the wall could not only talk—it knew my name?

I scrambled toward the door on my hands and knees, pounding on it desperately. "Dad! Mom! There's a monster in the basement!"

No response from outside.

"It's no use. No one else can see me but you," the monster behind me said again.

I turned around, back against the door, legs so weak I almost collapsed.

"Who are you..." My voice shook badly.

"My name is Wetherell. I'm the headmaster of a magic school." The old man spoke slowly. "Yvette, do you know why you've never been able to do anything right your whole life?"

That sentence was like a needle stabbing into the most vulnerable part of my heart.

My eyes welled up, my voice trembling. "...What do you mean?"

"It's because your magic is out of control." The old man's tone suddenly softened, speaking to me like he was coaxing a child. "Yvette, you're not useless. You're just a match that hasn't been lit yet. And magic school is the flame that will light you."

I leaned against the door, body weak, head buzzing. I couldn't process a single word the old man was saying.

I must be going crazy to be hallucinating a white-bearded old man comforting me.

Seeing how upset I was, the old man sighed helplessly. "Since you're so scared, I guess I should talk to your parents instead."

"Talk about what?"

Before I could react, his face started to blur. A few seconds later, the wall showed my aunt's drawing again.

I sat on the floor, completely drained, feeling like everything that just happened was so unreal.

Just as I sat there lost and confused, the door suddenly opened. Mom's familiar figure appeared in the doorway, backlit with warm light.

"This is wonderful! Yvette! You finally have a school to go to!"