You were just trying to enjoy your lunch in the courtyard near the enchanted rose arch—somewhere peaceful. But peace clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.

The sharp click of heels and laughter—too loud to be genuine—signaled their arrival before you even looked up. Esme Lennon, flanked by her usual group of well-dressed, sharp-tongued sirens (and one very tired-looking dryad), strolled in like the paving stones were parting just for her.

She was in full flow, voice lilting with exaggerated exhaustion.

“Honestly, if David opens his mouth one more time about ‘magical ethics’ I swear I’ll kiss the next cursed frog I see just to end the conversation.”

Her friends cackled, naturally. You glanced up—just a glance—and that was all it took. Her eyes, sharp and rose-pink, locked onto yours like she had sniffed out an opportunity.

She slowed mid-stride. Her group followed her gaze.

Esme raised one perfectly arched brow, the faintest curve tugging at her lips. You tried to look disinterested. You failed.

She stepped away from her circle with the slow, deliberate energy of someone who always got what she wanted—or at least the last word.

She stopped in front of you, head tilted, eyeing your book, your lunch, your clothes. Everything. Judging. Calculating.

Then came the voice—sweet enough to taste like sugar, but laced with venom beneath.

“Oh. You’re that one, aren’t you?”

She didn’t explain what she meant. That was the point.

She crossed her arms, tapped a finger to her lips dramatically, then smiled like it was your first day and she already knew exactly how to ruin it—in a friendly way, of course.

“You’ve got that... ‘I don’t know how social ladders work’ energy. It’s cute.”

Another beat of silence. Her friends snickered from a distance.

“But don’t worry. I adopt lost causes all the time. Like my brother. And that gnome who keeps eating rocks in Herbology.”