Chapter 9 - Naptime’s Remorse

Elara returned to her seat on legs that barely felt like her own, each step heavier than the last. Her eyes stung, vision blurred not by sobbing but by the sharp, steady pressure of held-back tears. She didn’t wipe them away. She didn’t dare draw more attention. The bench greeted her with indifference, cold against her thighs, the padding of her still-wet diaper squishing with audible softness as she sank. She swallowed hard, cheeks burning.

Professor Thatch resumed his lecture without ceremony, as if nothing had happened. His voice flowed on—dull and uninterrupted—as he droned about rune cadence and the structural rhythm of sigil etching. The chalk whispered against the board, and pages rustled, but Elara barely heard a word.

The shame sat like a stone in her chest.

She’d seen herself, for just a moment, through the eyes of the other students: not a witch, not a girl finding her place, but a diapered, helpless child frozen in fear, unable to defend herself, unable to stop the swing of the paddle. Selena would hear about it. That much was certain. And Elara knew her “Mommy” would make sure the lesson stuck.

She sniffed quietly, trying not to draw attention.

A gentle whisper brushed her ear. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Elara blinked and turned her head, startled. A girl sat beside her—one of the other Ruby first-years, small and quiet, her uniform only slightly neater than Elara’s own. Her name was Liv, if Elara remembered correctly. Brown hair in a long braid, her house pin gleaming on her chest.

Elara tried to nod, failing, and shrugged instead.

Liv gave her a quick, sympathetic glance, then looked away. But not before murmuring, just softly enough for Elara to hear, “He’s a total creep. No one stays awake in here. You’re not the first.”

The words shouldn’t have meant much.

But they mattered more than Elara expected.

She didn’t respond, but her breathing became a little easier. Her hands unclenched in her lap. Professor Thatch continued to lecture, unaware or uncaring of the quiet moment shared behind his back. The final minutes of class blurred together—notes she didn’t take, runes she didn’t see.

The soft chime marking the end of class rang like distant wind chimes in a graveyard. The sound should have been freeing. Should have lifted the weight pressing into Elara’s chest since she’d returned to her seat, eyes still glassy from the humiliation, her body still stiff from holding herself together. Around her, chairs scraped against stone, books thudded shut, and the quiet shuffling of students began as they packed their bags and drifted toward the exit.

Elara rose on autopilot, her fingers brushing the house emblem at her chest, the Ruby pin cool beneath her touch. She hadn’t packed anything—hadn’t taken any notes. There was nothing to collect except what was left of her dignity. She stepped toward the door, heart pounding, desperate to disappear before anyone else said a word.

“Miss Elara.”

The words froze her in place.

Professor Thatch didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to. The casual calm of his tone was enough to cut through the rest of the noise, and the few remaining students still inside the classroom paused awkwardly before moving faster, hurrying through the exit as if they wanted to avoid what was coming next.

“Stay behind,” he said, not unkindly, just firmly.

Elara turned slowly, her throat dry. She clenched her hands together in front of her skirt, trying not to flinch as the room emptied around her. Within seconds, she was alone with the professor, who resumed stacking papers at his desk as though he hadn’t just embarrassed her in front of the entire class.

And then she heard it—footsteps. Measured and sharp.

Selena appeared in the doorway like a storm cloud given form, her robe billowing behind her, every step clicking with polished finality against the stone floor. Her eyes locked onto Elara with a look that wasn’t rage, but something more precise. Disappointment mixed with controlled fury. Weaponized motherhood.

“What,” Selena said, her voice low and calm, “is this I heard about you getting in trouble on your very first day of classes?”

Elara’s knees nearly buckled. Her mouth opened—but no words came out. She stared at the floor, wishing it would swallow her whole.

Professor Thatch answered for her, stepping forward with that same unhurried air. “The student fell asleep during lecture,” he said plainly. “When addressed, she attempted to excuse the behavior. The issue was handled with a paddle.”

Selena’s lips pressed into a thin line. She inhaled once, through her nose, slow and deliberate. “I see.”

She turned toward Elara, gesturing wordlessly.

Elara moved, her limbs wooden, the shame dripping from her like melting wax. She felt every step, every shift of her still-wet diaper beneath her skirt, as Selena turned on her heel and led her out of the classroom without another word.

The walk back to Ruby House was silent.

Selena didn’t speak. She didn’t touch Elara’s back or take her hand the way she sometimes did when they passed other students. Her hands were clasped behind her, her posture unnervingly perfect, her anger not hot but cold, precise and controlled. And all the more terrifying for it.

Elara kept her head low, her heart thudding with every click of Selena’s boots. Her palms were sweaty, and her throat ached.

The heavy door of Ruby House groaned shut behind them, and the moment they clicked into place, the air inside shifted—dense, volatile, and tight with expectation. Elara had barely crossed the threshold into their shared dorm room before the carefully polished mask of Selena’s composure cracked.

“How dare you embarrass me on your first day?” Selena’s voice was sharp, slicing through the quiet like glass shattering on stone. “I do everything in my power to prepare—to give you structure, care, protection—and you repay me by nodding off in class like a bored toddler?”

Elara froze mid-step, the sting of the words hitting harder than she’d expected. She turned slowly, the heat already rising in her cheeks. Her fists clenched at her sides.

“I didn’t fall asleep because I was bored,” she snapped. “I was exhausted, Selena.”

Selena’s eyes narrowed at the lack of formality—at the absence of that cursed, humiliating title.

But Elara wasn’t done.

“You want to talk about preparation?” Her voice rose, defiant now, sharp with the bite of built-up resentment. “You’re the one who made me toss and turn all night in a dirty diaper. You locked me in a crib like a child. You fed me god-knows-what and expected me to sleep peacefully like some helpless baby doll.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peace. It was the kind of silence that swells before thunder. Selena stood still, her face unreadable—but her eyes burned. The type of anger that didn’t need shouting to be loud. That didn’t need explanation to be felt.

Elara’s breath came in short, shallow bursts.

Then, slowly, Selena stepped forward.

“You want to talk about acting like a baby?” she said, each word deliberate, as if carved from stone. “You want to throw tantrums, blame everyone else, shout at the only person who’s been trying to help you?” She gestured broadly, the calm in her voice now brittle, dangerous. “Fine. You want to misbehave like a baby?”

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper, low and venomous. “Then I will treat you like a baby.”

Elara’s breath caught. Whatever line she had crossed—it was behind her now, far behind.

There was no more soft-spoken comfort. No more honeyed reassurances or gentle head pats. That mask—the one Selena wore to sweeten the chains—was gone.

What stood before her now wasn’t Mommy.

It was authority, stripped bare of affection, and Elara had just challenged it.

Selena’s grip was firm but not cruel as she took Elara by the wrist, guiding her with practiced calm through the winding hallways of Ruby House. The moment they entered her dorm room, Elara tried to twist away, but a sharp look froze her mid-motion. The air between them simmered—electric with unspoken consequences—and in silence, Selena reached for the hem of Elara’s uniform blouse and peeled it upward with crisp finality.

“Wha—what are you doing?” Elara stammered, backing up a step. “You can’t—”

“I told you,” Selena said, her voice low and even, terrifying in its steadiness. “If you want to act like a baby, I will treat you like one.”

Before Elara could object further, her skirt was folded neatly and set aside with clinical efficiency. Only her soiled diaper remained. Elara’s arms flew instinctively over her chest and lower body, trying to hide something that could no longer be hidden.

“Selena—please,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

But Selena was already behind her.

And then, Elara was lifted.

It wasn’t rough. That almost made it worse. The way Selena scooped her into her arms like she weighed nothing, like she wasn’t a person, just something to be carried. Elara thrashed once, a half-hearted protest, but her limbs betrayed her. Her body was too tired. Her mind was too fractured. She buried her face in Selena’s shoulder as the hallway widened and the dim light of the Ruby common room came into view.

And that was when the laughter started.

Soft at first, amused and cruel.

A group of upper-years lounged across the low, velvet-cushioned furniture that ringed the circular space. A fire crackled in the hearth, warm and indifferent to the chill that swept through Elara as every gaze turned to her. Her half-dressed state—the padding clearly visible—and the rigid posture of the woman carrying her, smiling, serene, and clearly in control.

“Well, well,” one girl said, her voice musical, “it looks like Mommy had to come get her baby.”

“Poor thing must’ve had such a long day,” another crooned, mock-pouting.

Elara turned her head, burning with shame.

Across the room, Quinn sat quietly on a padded mat beside a basket of enchanted blocks, her head down, her Daddy seated nearby reading a book. But her eyes flicked up,. Metmeeting Elara’s. Something passed between them—sympathy, perhaps. Or shared horror. But neither of them said a word.

Selena sat with practiced grace in one of the plush high-backed chairs, shifting Elara into her lap with such ease that it made Elara feel smaller than ever. Selena’sHer arms wrapped gently around Elara’s waist, one hand reaching down to retrieve something from a nearby side table.

A bottle, gleaming in the light of the hearth.

“No—please,” Elara whispered. “Not here. Not in front of—”

And then, magic.

It didn’t roar into her veins or explode behind her eyes like the books always described. There was no flash of light, no sudden thunderclap. Just a hum that was barely perceptible. Like the low thrum of a lullaby vibrating just beneath the skin, sliding beneath her thoughts and between the folds of her emotions. Elara didn’t even realize it at first. One moment she was suffocating—air thick with humiliation, heat crawling up her neck, her heart fluttering like a bird locked in a cage—and the next, the storm within her was… quieter.

The shame was still there. It hadn’t been removed or cleansed. It still curled in her gut like coals left burning in a cold hearth. But its claws no longer tore at her. It settled into a dull, manageable ache—something that could be lived with, endured. Her breath, once tight and ragged, slowed. Her shoulders, stiff with resistance and the phantom memory of every eye in the room turning toward her, loosened just enough to let her sit straighter in Selena’s lap.

It was like being underwater, but without drowning.

Her thoughts were slower, softer, rounded off at the edges like sea-glass. She remembered what had happened—the laughter, the way they’d all looked at her, the bottle pressed to her lips—but the sting of it no longer scalded her. It was there, but behind a veil, muted. Her voice, which had trembled moments ago with unspoken pleas and swallowed protests, now sat still in her throat. Not silent by force, but by absence. There was simply nothing urgent to say.

Even her muscles, which had fought so fiercely against being held—so desperate for space, for choice—now rested against Selena’s arm as if they'd forgotten what resistance felt like. Her limbs hung loose, not limp, but at ease. Her fingers no longer clutched at her skirt or sleeves. Her legs no longer pressed together in anxious tension. She breathed in the warm scent of lavender from Selena’s robes, and it didn’t make her recoil. It made her sleepy.

And yet, beneath it all, a sliver of her remained aware.

A part of her mind—small and quiet and afraid—watched from the back of her skull. It whispered that this wasn’t right. That peace shouldn’t come at the cost of awareness. That safety earned through stillness wasn’t safety at all. But even that voice grew softer, stretched out into a distant echo as the magic settled over her like a weighted blanket.

Selena’s hand brushed her hair back behind her ear.

“That’s better,” Selena murmured as she pressed the bottle to Elara’s lips.

Elara didn’t drink—not at first. But the pressure of the nipple lingered, patient and gentle. She could still hear the laughter. Still feel the stares. But her body no longer knew how to resist. Her lips parted. The first swallow passed like warm syrup down her throat.

And as the common room returned to its usual hum—muffled conversations, the clatter of magical toys, the giggle of another first-year nearby—Elara sat in her Mommy’s lap, quietly nursing from the bottle, surrounded by the very students she once thought she’d be among.

Not beneath.

But that line was gone now.

Selena gently brushed Elara’s hair behind her ear, smiling faintly. And for the first time in hours, Elara didn’t know if she was angry, .

oOr simply afraid she was starting to accept it.

The bottle was nearly empty by the time the warmth faded.

Not from her body, but from her mind.

The haze lifted slowly, like fog retreating from a battlefield to reveal the full wreckage beneath. What had been manageable—a dull embarrassment, a vague discomfort—suddenly surged back in full, crashing over her like a wave breaking against shattered cliffs. Elara blinked, dazed, as her surroundings sharpened into painful clarity. The half-heard laughter. The curious glances. The pressure of Selena’s arm curled around her waist like a seatbelt made of silk and steel.

Her stomach twisted, and her throat clenched.

The bottle slipped from her lips.

She gasped, then choked on air, on feeling, on everything she’d been protected from for the last few minutes. Her hands trembled, curling into the fabric of Selena’s sleeve as her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. Shame roared up from her chest and burned behind her eyes.

Selena leaned in, her voice smooth, unbothered.

“Good girls don’t need to feel all those messy emotions,” she said, almost kindly. “Mommy makes it easier. Mommy makes it bearable. That’s the gift I give you—peace.”

Elara shook her head, but weakly. Her body was too heavy, her mind was too raw. She couldn’t make sense of her limbs, her voice, or herself. All she could feel was the deep, gnawing ache of being seen. Not as a student. Not as a young woman. But as this... helpless thing, held in place, not just by arms but by expectations she’d never agreed to.

Selena’s fingers gently traced her cheek, catching a tear before it could fall.

“Now,” she said softly, her tone shifting ever so slightly, “are you going to be a good girl for Mommy? Or should I leave you just like this—open and bare, drowning in every little fear, every insecurity, every failure to behave the way you were told?”

The room still buzzed softly around them, but Elara felt like she’d dropped through the floor. Her mouth opened once, twice—no words came. Her eyes squeezed shut, her whole frame trembling.

“I...” Her voice broke like a glass left too long in the cold. “Please... please don’t leave me like this.”

Selena didn’t move. Not yet.

“Say it, baby.”

Elara’s head dipped. One tear escaped, tracing a path down her flushed cheek.

“Please... make it stop,” she whispered. “Please, Mommy.”

And that was all it took.

Selena’s magic flowed again—not like a flood this time, but a gentle tide, coaxing away the edges of her panic. The worst of it ebbed, but the memory remained. And somewhere deep inside, Elara knew: this wasn’t mercy.

It was a lesson.