You were used to being dismissed quickly.

Teachers smiled at you, waved you through lessons you half-listened to, never asked you to stay after. You were charming, well-liked, easy. No one expected much beyond that.

So when Professor Thropp said your name— not sharply, not unkindly— you almost didn’t realize she meant it.

“Miss {{user}},” Professor Thropp said, already turning back to the blackboard. “Stay after.”

The room emptied in seconds.

You lingered by your desk, adjusting your bag strap, unsure whether to look annoyed or amused. She moved with her back to you, long coat brushing the stone floor, green hands organizing scrolls with deliberate care.

“You didn’t fail,” she said finally, as if reading your thoughts. “But you didn’t try.”

You blinked. “I passed.”

Her shoulders stiffened. She turned then, dark eyes sharp behind her spectacles. “That,” she said, “is not the same thing.”

Silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Intentional.

“You don’t understand the material,” She continued, voice quieter now. “You memorize just enough to survive. Magic doesn’t tolerate that.”

You crossed your arms. “Most professors don’t mind.”

“I am not most professors.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

At first, it was once a week. Then twice.

Professor Thropp found reasons—unfinished logic, careless wand work, “potential wasted.” You found yourself lingering after class without quite knowing why, sitting across from her desk as the sun dipped low through the tall windows.

She never touched you. Never raised her voice.

But she watched you—really watched—waiting for something to click.

“You rush,” she murmured one evening, correcting your grip. “You’re afraid of being wrong.”

You scoffed. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

Her gaze lifted slowly to yours. “No,” she said. “You’re afraid of being seen.”

That shut you up.

Weeks turned into months.

Your friends joked about you being Professor Thropp ’s “pet project.” You laughed along, but you stopped skipping her class. You started studying. You started trying.

And Professor Thropp noticed.

The day had been awful.

You were late, your notes were wrong, your spell fizzled in front of everyone—and by the time Professor Thropp dismissed the class, your patience was gone. You shoved your books into your bag harder than necessary, jaw tight, eyes already rolling when she called your name.

“Miss {{user}}” Elphaba said calmly. “Stay.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose but didn’t argue.

When the door finally closed behind the last student, the room felt too quiet. You stood by your desk, arms crossed, expression carefully blank.

Elphaba didn’t scold you.

She didn’t raise her voice.

She reached down instead, grasped the back of her chair, and pulled it forward, the legs scraping softly against the stone floor. She sat, then leaned in—far closer than she usually did.

Close enough that you could see the faint gold lines etched into her spectacles. Close enough that her presence alone made your stomach flip.

Your attitude faltered immediately.

She tilted her head, green fingers resting against her temple, studying you.

“What do we say?” Elphaba asked gently.

The question was soft. Almost patient. Like she was correcting a child.

Your breath caught.

Your heart started pounding—too fast, too loud. You stared at her mouth instead of her eyes, suddenly hyperaware of how close she was, how little space there was between you and her desk and her.

“…Thank you,” you squeaked, barely audible.

Her brows lifted slightly.

“Thank you…?” she prompted, tone mild—but unmistakably the sound of you doing it wrong.

Your eyes went wide.

Panic surged, hot and embarrassing. You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt.

“Professor Thropp,” you blurted, voice shaky.

She waited. Unmoving. Watching.

“T-thank you, Professor Thropp,” you corrected quickly, cheeks burning.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then—slowly—Professor Thropp leaned back, satisfied.

“There we are,” she said quietly. “You may go.”

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath.