Wishful Thinking

Nora Hargraves desired silence. She required it. Demanded it.

The potion’s next step was the most fragile. A single misstep, one careless sound, and three months of work would be ruined. And for what? So Mitchell Hoffman could scream about the pep rally? So Heather Sinclair could revel in the adoration of her followers?

No.

If Nora wanted silence, then silence she would have. That was why she had moved her brewing to the science labs, used only during seventh-period Chemistry—which began in twenty minutes.

The space was perfect. Thick lab doors muffled the relentless noise of her classmates, sparing her the pounding headaches that followed her home each day. But her relief was only temporary. Her empathic powers were growing faster than expected.

At first, they were whispers. Faint, fleeting. Then they became a jumbled mess of voices, incoherent but insistent. Now they screamed—loud, relentless, inescapable , with no way to shut them out. She heard every thought, every secret, every vile scheme, as though they were her own.

And she had begun to resent them all.

None more than Heather Sinclair.

Nora knew the ways Heather plotted to humiliate her. The whispered insults, the petty tricks. But worst of all, Heather was growing suspicious. There were questions now—quiet ones, but sharper than insults. She was getting too close to the truth—that Nora Hargraves was a witch.

If Heather said it out loud, it wouldn’t just be to humiliate her. She wanted proof. And proof, once it existed, never stayed in the hands of girls like Heather—it ended up dissected, tested, passed around by people who called curiosity concern.

It was now or never.

Nora squeezed the pipette, watching the Wishful Potion swirl in the beaker, its shimmering surface betraying the power beneath. She hesitated, just for a second. What if it worked too well? What if her spell silenced them permanently?

Well… at least it would be quiet.

She let thirty-one drops fall. No more. No less.

Just as the final drop hit the mixture, the class bell shrieked across campus, a fresh wave of voices crashing through the hall. Laughter, slamming lockers, shrill conversations all pressing against her skull.

Soon, it would be gone.

She turned on the burner, waiting for the potion to transform—waiting for the world to change.

Nora knew she had only moments before her teacher and classmates would enter for seventh-period Chemistry. The liquid reached its boiling point, and like magic, the sludgy brown mixture turned clear, its awful scent vanishing. She switched off the Bunsen burner and carefully lifted the beaker to inspect it. False positives were possible—her reading had warned of that. She needed a test subject.

As if on cue, the lab door swung open.

Heather Sinclair.

Perfect.

Heather’s pink mini skirt and tailored jacket were immaculate as always, her heels clicking across the tile as she strode to the back of the room. She barely glanced at Nora before waving dismissively at the cluttered lab station.

“You’re in my way.”

Nora ignored her, but Heather grabbed the pipette filled with the remnants of Wishful Potion, turning it over in her hands.

“Are you done with this?”

A flicker of irritation passed through Nora, but she kept her voice steady. “We’ll find out momentarily.” She plucked the pipette from Heather’s grasp, her fingers barely grazing the other girl’s wrist as she reached for the remaining ingredients. Heather scoffed but didn’t move.

Nora busied herself cleaning up, pretending not to notice Heather’s growing impatience. The trick with Heather was simple: deny her something, and she wanted it more.

Heather’s gaze flicked to the beaker. “Boiling water?” she asked, her fingers drifting toward it.

Nora barely concealed her smirk. “Not quite.” She pulled the beaker closer. “It’s an experimental formula. Scentless alcohol. Incredibly strong. Probably too much for your delicate palate.”

Heather arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “Right.”

Nora turned her back, pretending to rinse the pipette. She counted the seconds. One… two… three—

The unmistakable sound of a sip.

Heather gagged. “Ugh! What the hell?” She wiped her mouth furiously on the sleeve of her sweater, eyes wide with disgust. “Are you trying to poison me?”

Nora barely held back her grin. “I did warn you.”

Heather glared, muttered an insult under her breath, and stormed to her usual seat. Nora watched her carefully. Nothing at first. Loud, invasive thoughts still buzzed from Heather’s mind like static.

Then, the minute bell rang.

Heather slumped. Her normally stiff, perfect posture dissolved. Her head tilted slightly, arms limp at her sides.

Nora’s pulse quickened.

She crumpled a piece of paper and walked past Heather toward the trash can, eyes locked on her the entire time. Heather’s usual sharp gaze was unfocused, dull.

Then, without a word, Heather stood and followed her.

A thrill shot through Nora. No snide remark. No shriek of protest. No loud thoughts pressing into her skull.

Just silence.

Nora turned, watching Heather with newfound amusement. Was she waiting for direction?

Nora gestured to the seat in front of her.

“Have a seat.”

Heather obeyed.

She watched in amazement as Heather Sinclair, the most popular girl, sat down without protest. A ripple of confusion spread through the classroom as her classmates gawked at the interaction. Nora’s gaze flicked to the closed cabinet doors beneath the sink—inside, the potion waited, ready to change everything. She forced herself to stay seated, though her heart pounded with anticipation. The hardest part was over, but how would she spread it to the entire school? Not everyone would drink it willingly, as Heather had.

Her eyes drifted upward. The fire sprinklers.

The fifty-five-minute bell chimed, signaling the end of class. Students shuffled toward the door, chatting and laughing, oblivious to what was about to unfold. All except Heather, who remained still. Nora leaned in.

“It’s time to leave now, Heather.”

Heather stood without hesitation and walked toward the door. A thrill shot through Nora’s veins. It worked. She retrieved the beaker, pouring the potion into an empty water bottle before slipping it into her bag.

“Oh, Heather dear,” she called sweetly.

Heather froze mid-stride.

“Don’t you want to go to the assembly?”

Without a word, Heather turned and made her way to the gym, pushing through the crowd with robotic determination. Her friends followed, confusion and unease flashing across their faces as they tried to get her attention. The realization was dawning—Heather Sinclair was not herself.

Perfect.

Nora stood near the exit, waiting until the crowd was fully gathered inside. Then, unnoticed, she slipped down the hall and toward the boiler room.

The locked door was no issue. She pressed a piece of Lotus Root beneath her tongue and whispered, "Sign Argis." The lock clicked open, and she slipped inside, spitting out the root as the door shut behind her.

The farther she went, the quieter the school became—not peaceful, just hollow. The pipes in the walls began to thrum beneath her feet, a low vibration that climbed her bones like a warning she chose to ignore.

The fire sprinkler water pipeline stood at the room’s far end. She found the hatch, gripped the rusted wheel, and pulled—nothing. It wouldn’t budge.

Panic prickled her skin. She hadn’t accounted for this.

Digging into her bag, she pulled out the ingredients for a quick strength spell, grinding them into a thick paste. Only one thing was missing—a catalyst. Her eyes flicked to the wall, where a cockroach scuttled along the surface.

With a flick of her fingers, the insect levitated into her grasp.

She smeared the mixture onto her palms, muttering, "Vires erunt. Vires erunt. Vires erunt."

This time, the wheel turned with ease. The hatch creaked open.

Holding her breath, Nora unscrewed the bottle and poured the Wishful Potion into the water supply.

It was done.

Only one step remained.

She stepped back into the hallway, heading toward the nearest exit. The gym was packed now, filled with students and faculty, all waiting for the assembly to begin. Nora hesitated, fingers hovering near the alarm.

She had dreamed of this moment for months—of peace, of quiet. But now, standing here, a strange thought crept into her mind.

Would she miss any of it? The noise, the chaos… the humanity of it all?

The doubt flickered, brief but real.

Then, she swallowed it down.

A wicked grin stretched across her lips as she flicked her finger downward.

The fire alarm blared.

Lights flashed.

The sprinklers sputtered.

And then, the Wishful Potion rained down upon them all.

Nora Hargraves desired silence. She required it. Demanded it.

So, she wished for it.