Chapter 2 First Semester; Officially Ruined

Echo leaned back in her chair, the legs scraping against the stone floor with a deliberate, grating screech. She didn't look at Willow; she was too busy watching Dean stumble into the room three minutes late.

He had clearly tried to cast a Quick-Dry charm on himself in the hallway, but his haste had backfired. His blazer was now stiff and strangely puckered at the seams, and a faint, wispy steam rose from his shoulders like he was a simmering tea kettle.

“That was a little uncalled for, wasn’t it?” Willow whispered, her voice barely a breath as she set her own bookbag on the scarred oak table. She began arranging her vials in perfectly straight lines—a nervous habit that always picked up speed when Echo was in a "mood."

“What was uncalled for?” Echo asked, her tone light and airy. She didn't even look up as she pulled a fresh roll of parchment from her bag. “What did I do?”

“Really, Echo?” Willow’s eyebrows shot up. “The geyser? The public humiliation? He’s literally steaming, and not just because he’s mad.”

Echo shrugged her shoulders, the movement fluid and unbothered. She pulled out her chair and sat down, the silver Captain’s pin on her lapel catching the flickering candlelight of the lab. “Gravity is a fickle mistress, Willow. And plumbing in a school this old? It’s a tragedy waiting to happen.”

Willow sighed, a long-suffering sound. “We’re still meeting up at the bonfire tonight, right? Please tell me you aren't going to spend the whole night practicing sigils in the dark.”

Echo finally looked at her friend, a sharp glint in her dark eyes. “Will, now how would it look if the Alchemy First Chair wasn’t at the back-to-school fire? People might think I’m afraid of a little heat. Or worse, that I’m boring.”

“Everyone take your seats, please!”

The voice belonged to Mrs. Hisel, a mousy little witch with spectacles so thick they made her eyes look like trapped marbles. She looked like the sort of woman who would crawl into the ground if she saw her own shadow, but she had been teaching the History of Magical Creatures: Extinct to Extant at Dark Grove long enough to know that teenagers were more volatile than a nesting Chimera.

When her soft request failed to pierce the chatter of thirty students, Mrs. Hisel didn't reach for her wand. She reached for her lungs.

She whistled.

It wasn't a human sound; it was a long, shrill, piercing blast—likely a trick she’d learned from studying the Banshees of the Lowlands. The entire class flinched in unison, hands flying to their ears as they scrambled for their stools. The sudden silence that followed was heavy and ringing.

"Thank you," Mrs. Hisel squeaked, smoothing her apron. "Now, for this semester's deep dive into the physiology of the Great Aerie Sphinx—an unfortunately extinct and highly temperamental breed—you will not be working alone. Collaborative field notes are mandatory."

She tapped her podium, and a roll of parchment unspooled itself in mid-air, names glowing in ghostly green ink.

"I have pre-assigned your partners based on... academic compatibility," she added, though she wouldn't look Echo in the eye.

The tension in Mrs. Hisel’s classroom was thick enough to bottle and sell as a hex.

The glowing ink on the scroll was unmistakable: Echo Macfarland & Dean Sterling.

As Mrs. Hisel called out the two names, Echo made a very loud unmistakable gagging noise.

"Is there a problem, Miss Macfarland?" Mrs. Hisel asked, her voice trembling.

"Just a sudden onset of nausea, Professor," Echo replied, her eyes fixed on the name next to hers as if she could set the parchment on fire with her mind.

A shadow fell over her desk. Dean had arrived.

He didn't just walk to the table; he claimed it. With a sneer that suggested he’d already forgotten his recent bath, he swung his heavy leather bookbag off his shoulder and let it drop. It hit the floor with a heavy thud that shook Echo’s inkwell.

Then, in a display of pure, choreographed machismo, he didn't pull his chair out like a civilized human being. He gripped the back of the seat, lifted his long leg up and over the back of the chair in a wide arc, and dropped into the seat with a thud.

Echo made the gagging sound again, louder this time, her face contorting in genuine physical pain.

"Stow it, Macaroni," Dean muttered, leaning in close enough that she could smell the faint, damp scent of "Mountain Mist" cologne and wet wool. He kicked his legs out under the table, his loafers bumping against her shins. "You're stuck with me for the whole semester. Try not to fall in love; it'll ruin your 'ice queen' reputation."

Echo slowly turned her head to look at him, her eyes as cold as the water that had just leveled him in the hallway. "Dean, I would rather partner with a parasitic blood-worm. At least the worm is productive."