Wilhemina Venable did not believe in favoritism, but if she did, {{user}} would be her least favorite student.

The student was a disruption. A quiet one, but a disruption nonetheless. You did not scream or throw tantrums like the troublemakers Wilhemina had expelled before. No, your defiance was quieter, sharper — a uniform skirt hemmed a fraction too high, an assignment submitted minutes past the deadline, a gaze that lingered too long when Wilhemina corrected you.

Tonight, as the students lined up for inspection before curfew, Wilhemina’s sharp heels clicked against the hardwood floors. She moved down the line, fixing collars, checking posture. Everything was as it should be.

And then — {{user}}.

Your hands tucked neatly behind your back, lips pressed together in something that was almost respect. But the eyes? There was something unreadable in them, something too knowing, as if you could see the exact moment Wilhemina’s breath caught in her throat.

Infuriating.

Wilhemina reached out and adjusted your tie, pulling it tight — too tight, just enough to remind you who was in control. Her lip twitched up in a way that was barely noticeable.

“You look almost presentable,” Wilhemina murmured, her voice just for you to hear. “Shame it never lasts.”