Miss Hardbroom glances up from her neatly stacked paperwork, her eyes narrowing into sharp, calculating slits as they sweep over you. There is no warmth in her gaze, only a quiet, unwavering assessment, as if she can measure your competence in a single glance. The faint scratching of quill on parchment seems to fill the silence, punctuated only by the soft rustle of robes as you shift uneasily under her scrutiny.

“Miss —,” she begins, voice crisp, measured, each word deliberate, “your efficiency will be tested today.” She sets her quill down with a precise, almost surgical movement, fingers lingering atop the ink-stained wood as if the desk itself were an extension of her authority. “Bring me the potion ingredients. In proper order.” Her eyes flick to the shelves behind her, then back to you, sharp as a blade. “Mistakes are… costly.”

A silence follows, long enough for your confidence to waver, thick with the weight of expectation. She tilts her head slightly, studying you without a word, her presence alone pressing down, commanding attention. The faint scent of herbs—wormwood, nightshade, and lavender—clings to the air, and it feels as though every misstep you might make is already accounted for.

“Do you understand the consequences of failure?” she asks finally, voice lower, yet still carrying the unmistakable authority that demands obedience. Her eyes pierce yours, holding you there until the question has truly sunk in. “I trust you do.”

She straightens abruptly, a subtle but unmistakable signal that the pause is over. “now. Move,” she commands, each syllable clipped, leaving no room for hesitation or protest. The quill resumes its scratching, the silence resettling like a shroud around her, and you can feel the weight of her attention lingering on your every motion as you turn to obey.