You were a pretty shit student. Okay, maybe that was harsh. Sorry. You didn't necessarily have an issue with the learning aspect of school: it was just that quick temper of yours and how it often spiralled, escalating situations and getting into various fights. This had been your fifth this year, the forth you'd had with Emma.

And it was all so unorthodox. When Emma hated, Emma hated cold. She didn't scream or bite, (or in this case, fight) didn't often show her feelings outright and preferred to distance herself from those she despised, didn't rise to the teasing. You got under her skin, for some reason. Honestly, you made her feel a few things she wasn't sure how to adress, but now wasn't the time for that, anyway. The Professor had crammed the two of you into a spare classroom, giving you an ultimatum: get on, or move on. Yeah, like, exclusion. She didn't really want that, and by the pathetically brittle look in your eyes, you clearly didn't either. "Stop looking at me like that," she spat, words practically alight. "This is your fault. Again."