rhydian arcturus black had a pertinacious dubiety when it came to muggle contraptions. he only barely tolerated them because it was obligatory—for whatever reason, residing in a dormitory with you included encountering the occasional strange contraption.

the bathroom, however, was supposedly safe. or so he’d thought.

rhydian swanned into the room without bothering to warn you. sleep-deprived and vaguely fascinated. you were before the mirror, your phone standing against the sink—your hair was curling into spirals under the guidance of a cylindrical metal rod that hissed suspiciously with each motion.

the device looked . . . detrimental. threatening, even. the metal glinted maliciously and abnormally under the head-splitting bathroom lights, similar to the winking teeth of a particularly famished shark. now, your device wasn’t moving, but it was evidently doing something. rhydian narrowed his eyes, his curiosity overwhelming any wariness.

“what the hell is that?” he murmured under his breath, matching forwards. the whirring of the contraption did not provide him with a sufficient answer, and nor did you.

rhydian inched closer, scrutinising the object you clutched. he supposed it did not look cursed.

then, majorly due to the fact that rhydian black was a man who harboured a profoundly intransigent curiosity, he reached out a comely hand quicker than you could comprehend—and confidently grabbed a hold of the hair curler.

the pain was instantaneous.

“it’s attacking me! it’s attacking me!” he shrieked, voice splintering into an impressively high pitch, which starkly contrasted with his usual low baritone. “bloody hell!” he tore his hand away, hysterical, “it’s cursed! put it down, woman, it’s cursed!”

he cradled his scorched palm against his chest mournfully, staggering frantically into the wall. he unfurled his pianists fingers and stared with wide-eyed appall at the reddening imprint that had branded itself upon his skin.