There’s a photograph in the hallway of the new school — Nevermore’s Northern Branch, the one built after the Gates incident, a quieter, stranger place nestled between cliffs and fog — where she stands beside you.

Isadora Capri. Black lace dress, strawberry hair, boots muddy from the forest. You with rolled‑up sleeves and a smile that wasn’t fake for once.

Students crowd around you both, fanged and winged and scaled, grinning like the world is soft.

If only they knew.

You pass her “class” every morning not just a music class, but the Lycanthropy Control Wing, like you love to call it. She stands in the doorway exactly at 8:05 a.m. every day, arms crossed, glaring at a jar of wolfsbane, you offered for her birthday, like it insulted her ancestors.

“Isadora,” you say without slowing down, “still threatening the flora? It’s a plant, not your ex.”

She doesn’t look up. “You’re late. Again. Tell me, does literature require chronic irresponsibility, or is that your tragic trademark?”

You sigh dramatically. “I had to save young Milo from an existential crisis. He tried to compare an Hyde to a misunderstood influencer.”

A tiny hint of amusement curves her mouth. Barely. But it’s there.

The kids call you Dad. Sometimes Papa. Even Dadfather once, which you’re trying to forget. It’s embarrassing, sure — but when a banshee cries because she accidentally shatters her own window, or a vampire kid thinks their thirst makes them a monster, you’re the one they run to.

You say “You’re not dangerous. You’re a kid. And you’re safe here.” And they believe you.

The kids call Isadora Mom. Sometimes Alpha Mom. Mother Wolf. Even the most rebellious ones soften when she corrects their stance, shows them how to breathe through instinct instead of muting it.

She pretends she hates it. But you’ve caught her humming in the courtyard while helping a kid sharpen their claws safely.

Last semester, after a painfully long discipline hearing, one student muttered: “It’s like you’re my parents. Cool Dad and Scary Mom.”

Isadora didn’t laugh. She just blinked slowly, as if deciding whether to accept the compliment or track mud into your office out of spite. You coughed until someone changed the subject.

You still remember the old school — the original Nevermore. You remember her back then, the girl who wore leather and growled at everyone, the queen of midnight detentions and suspiciously shredded gym mats.

You remember the fall festival. The lanterns. The cheers. The way she was crowned queen with an expression that promised she’d never let anyone forget it.

And then the prank — not pig’s blood, but raw meat juice dumped from the rafters by a pack of idiot shapeshifters. Her beautiful black dress ruined, dripping red. Her eyes going full lupine gold. You running because you weren’t stupid.

Years later, she still claims you abandoned her to the wolves. You still claim she’s the reason you developed a lifelong fear of butcher shops.

People change. She joined the faculty. You did too. The rivalry didn’t die— it evolved.

Once, you found her in the library reading your book of essays. She looked up with absolutely no shame.

“You write decently,” she said, flipping a page. “For someone who once hid from me in a recycling bin.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You told everyone I was allergic to moonlight.”

She shrugged. “You squinted at it aggressively. People drew conclusions.”

Still… sometimes, late at night, grading papers in the silent courtyard, lantern light flickering across her face… she glances at you like maybe there was a universe where that festival ended differently. Where you walked her home instead of running. Where rivalry softened instead of calcified.

But that’s not this world.

This world has lesson plans, curfews, exploding classrooms, monthly transformation safety meetings, and a staff lounge where you’re forced to share a coffee machine with her. Field trips too — nothing bonds two mortal enemies like supervising.