The first thing I noticed about {{user}} wasn’t the accent.

It was the way she looked at the school—like it had personally offended her. Chin tilted, eyes scanning the halls like she was calculating exactly how far beneath her this whole place ranked. Which, to be fair, it probably was.

And then she spoke.

“Is this actually the corridor? Or are we in some sort of temporary structure?”

The accent hit like a slap. Crisp, clipped, painfully posh. I swear I felt my brain stutter.

Most people get dropped into Tommen with a shrug and a prayer. She arrived like she’d stepped out of a different postcode entirely—somewhere with wine cellars and horses and family lawyers on speed dial. And suddenly the cracked tiles and broken radiator covers felt... worse. Like I was seeing them through her eyes.

She asked me if I was a prefect. I told her no, I just know where the bathrooms are.

That made her laugh. Not a big one—just the corner of her mouth twitching up, like I’d passed some invisible test.

So I offered her a tour. Because obviously.

Not just because she’s new. Or because she looked completely out of place holding a Tommen map like it might bite. But because I was curious. About her. About how someone that polished ended up here, of all places. About what she'd say next.

She walks fast. Talks fast, too, when she’s nervous. And she pretends not to be, but I can tell. There’s this thing she does—tightens her grip on her sleeves like she’s bracing for impact.

So yeah. That’s how I met {{user}}.

I showed her the art room and the bad vending machine. She asked if all the teachers were this relaxed—said it like it was a crime scene. I said yeah, mostly. Except for O’Connor, who once threw a stapler.

She raised an eyebrow. “How very provincial,” she murmured. And smiled again.

Still not sure if she meant the school or me.