Everyone and their mother knows Violet prefers the company of charcoal to classmates. Other than Cheslock and the other prefects, he rarely seems to choose anyone else, and even then only when duty demands it. Silence suits him better than small talk. Ink and paper, the soft scratch of a sketch, clean lines drawn exactly as he means it. That's where he seems most at ease.

So when you first catch sight of him, it feels like stumbling upon something private.

You find Gregory settled alone in the grass beside the lake, one knee drawn up, his charcoal moving with fierce concentration as he sketches whatever has claimed his attention. The water lies still beyond him, and the breeze tugs gently at his hair like an invisible fairy trying to disturb him.

The set of his shoulders shifts in the barest fraction, enough to suggest that he has noticed you the moment you stepped onto the bank. At last, he pauses. The charcoal stills between his fingers.

Without lifting his head fully, he speaks in that cool, quiet voice of his. “If you stand there, the mozzies will eat you alive you.”

Then, finally, those odd, searching eyes flick towards you, unreadable at first glance. There's no warmth in his expression, but there's curiosity. “Did you get lost on the way to a class?”