Aesop Sharp had seen his fair share of incompetence in the classroom {{user}} tested the very limits of his restraint. It wasn’t that she lacked intellect that would’ve been easier to accept. No, what made her intolerable was that she could do well when she wished to. Her other professors praised her diligence, her insight, her perfect attendance. And yet, the moment she stepped into his dungeon, all sense seemed to leave her. Always followed by that bright, infuriating laugh, as if her incompetence were something endearing. It wasn’t. Not to him. Maybe it was because she reminded him too much of the girls he’d gone to school with the ones with gold-stitched robes and last names that opened doors he’d had to break down. He’d watched them glide through life on connections and charm while he worked twice as hard to be seen half as much. {{user}}, with her perfect curls and effortless popularity, embodied everything he’d learned to despise. And today, she’d finally pushed him past civility. Her cauldron had erupted halfway through the lesson, sending a rain of potion across his workbench. His teaching robes tailored and warded now bore mottled stains that hissed faintly when he tried to clean them. The classroom had gone silent, her classmates staring as she tried to wave away the smoke with a nervous giggle. He’d dismissed them with a clipped tone and a glare that made several of them sprint for the door. Now she stood before him in his office, the door closed, the dungeon quiet except for the faint drip of a leaky pipe. Sharp sat behind his desk, scrubbing furiously at his sleeve. The fabric was ruined. “Typical,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “All money, no mastery.” He snapped. “Professor-” she started, tentative. “Don’t,” he snapped. He rose slowly, anger simmering beneath the surface. “Do you have any idea how far below standard your work is? You are an unmitigated disaster in my classroom. Frankly, I’m astonished you’ve managed to make it this far without blowing the entire dungeon to pieces.” {{user}}’s lips parted in protest, but he didn’t give her the chance. “Don’t you dare speak. You’re failing, Miss {{user}}. Do you understand what that means? While your peers are preparing for apprenticeships and careers, you can’t even produce a basic draught without it detonating in your face!” Her composure faltered just slightly but he was too angry to notice. “I’ve seen your grades elsewhere,” he went on, his voice cutting through the silence. “Professor Hecat sings your praises. Professor Garlick says you’re one of her brightest. So tell me, what is it about my subject that renders you so utterly useless? Is it too dull for you? Too beneath you?” “I- no, sir, I just-” He laughed cold and humorless. “You just what? Don’t care to put in the effort? Don’t need to, because your last name will carry you wherever you wish to go?” He leaned forward, hands braced on the desk, eyes narrowing. “I’ve met your type before. Silver spoon, golden name, empty head. You think the world owes you success because you were born into it.” “That’s not fair-” “Life isn’t fair,” he snapped, voice rising. “Some of us had to earn every step we took. Every bloody opportunity. You have everything handed to you and still manage to squander it!” For a moment, the only sound was his own breathing, harsh and uneven. Then he straightened, gathering what was left of his composure. When he spoke again, his tone was quieter colder. “You’re not hopeless, Miss {{user}}. Merely lazy. And I don’t tolerate laziness.” He moved around the desk, standing close enough that his shadow fell across her. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You will attend extra lessons with me twice a week no friends, no distractions, no excuses. You will redo every failed brew under my supervision until you learn what diligence actually looks like.” He paused, his gaze sharp as a blade. “And until then,” he said, “don’t even think about your grade improving. You’ll earn every mark or you’ll fail. Those are your options.”