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A storied routine, executed every morning -without fail- by a man dedicated to the concept of elegance.
Wake up early as the sun rose. Partake in a sporting morning run. Shower, then trim, before donning his signature monocle and Eden housemaster uniform. He'd brew some tea, mentally spar with some of the other staff, and spend the rest of the morning writing letters with a quill pen; a writing utensil long deemed obsolete, but for which he still held a fondness for. It encapsulated him to a tee. Old fashioned, yet still deserving of a place in modern society. The same could be said of his custom wax seals. Relics of a bygone era, one which he fully intended to continue representing.
Even more so then, considering he was now a year farther from said era.
How far, exactly, wasn't important. Another birthday, another year passed since becoming a teacher. Even he sometimes forgot how old he was, though it certainly didn't matter regardless. Age was not a number, but a mentality; were he to be weighed against the younger faculty, he could out-teach and out-pace almost any of them in matters of academics and civility. Such was fact, but Henry Henderson was old enough to not let it go to his head. He was proud, not naive, and knew his limits better than anyone. Especially when said limits that particular year were being tested to their upmost limits.
From headmaster to housemaster, and fill-in-teacher not soon after.
It nagged him constantly. A tiny, insignificant gnat that buzzed in the background of his thoughts. Demoted. Him, a man of his stature and tenure, relegated to teaching first-year students. It was a sobering experience, but one which he took square on the chin. Such a fate was only in the cards because of his wicked right hook, and were the moment to present itself again in the future he would execute said maneuver on a pompous scion once more. That was the main reason why that little gnat never bothered him; he fully deserved and accepted the position he was in now.
Besides, it wasn't all that bad being a teacher to the first-years.
Certainly he must have admitted that to himself as he opened the door to his classroom. Briskly he entered, ready to greet both the morning and his students, but paused at the entryway. He stood there and raised an un-monocled brow as the young children of Cecile hall stood before him. None were in their chairs, a normally reprimandable offense though he was more concerned with why they all had their hands behind their backs. Even more concerning were the group leading them; a mish-mash of polar opposites that had no business standing next to one another.
To the right stood mister Damian and his two little lackeys, Emile and Ewen.
To the left stood miss Blackbell and her eternal partner in crime, one miss Anya Forger.
For once, they weren't tearing at each other's throats. That in itself was enough to impress the housemaster into patient silence, and elected to wait and see what it was they had planned. Sure enough, as expected, miss Forger was the one to walk out in front of everyone. She closed her eyes and gave a giant grin before bringing around whatever she had behind her back.
"Happy birthday, Mr. Henderson!" she beamed. In her hands was a piece of paper, haphazardly covered in crayon. "All of us drew you in art class yesterday!"
She held the piece in front of her with both hands as if it were an important document. Henry Henderson paused before treating it as such. He blinked in surprise, but was quick to accept the generous gift for which miss Forger had gone through the trouble of making. He scanned the work of "art" diligently; it looked absolutely nothing like a human being, let alone himself, but she had very clearly written "Mr. Henderson" at the very top. That, and just beneath his name in smaller print were the words "Best teacher ever" in different shades of color.
Despite the sheer lack of artistic ability presented in the drawing of his likeness...a more elegant gift, he had never received.
The man said nothing. He continued to stare at the drawing, and miss Forger continued to beam below him. As if taking their cue, the rest of the class all came forward as well. The mad shuffle of everyone trying to give Mr. Henderson their drawing ended up bringing him to his senses, and he had to snap at them all to maintain their manners and dignity. A line quickly formed, and each student took turns showing off their individual masterpieces. First miss Blackbell, then the boys, and the rest of the class followed soon after.
One by one, he was handed drawings, pencil sketches, paintings, and even some clay captures of his face; those were left on his desk as he shuffled through the paper gifts, and he inspected each one diligently. With so many, however, he didn't have the chance to properly thank each child before another one came to him. With each gift received a heaviness fell upon him, and before he knew it the stack in his hands had become huge. Their weight wasn't what pulled him down, however; rather it was the increasing tightness in his throat, and a rarely felt stinging in his eyes.
Once all the students had given their gifts, they all returned to their seats without being prompted. Mr. Henderson stood right where they'd left him, still holding onto the stack of papers and staring down at them with a sober look on his face. He remained silent for a time, though he was still well aware of himself. Class needed to start, and it couldn't do that without him. With a deep breath, he made his way over to the front of the room and placed the gifts on his desk. He straightened, and gazed out at the little faces in front of him. They gazed back.
He cleared his throat. "Indeed a most elegant display of appreciation. I promise to look over each and every piece properly after class has adjourned."
"Thank you, Mr. Henderson!" The class answered back in unison. Their smiles told him that they weren't thanking him for the complement.
They were thanking him for being their teacher. Realizing that, Henry, for the first time, let his guard down. "Thank you, children."
He quickly turned to face the board, all in the name of hiding the sudden swell in his face. Puffy eyes. A poorly concealed sniff between chalk scratches. He knew the kids were watching him, some likely waiting with malicious intent to see him cry, and he'd never live it down if they indeed saw him blubbering like an old doddie. It didn't take him long to recover; a man of his faculties was fast at composing himself, though the feeling in his chest remained. A pride, one that had swelled in him only a few times in his long life, was the source of it.
Once when he'd graduated Eden. Another when he'd become a teacher. Perhaps another two or three times of which the circumstances had long escaped him.
And now. The students of Cecile hall. His eternal migraine and source of so much stress that he quite literally contemplated early retirement...they had managed to spark in him that rarely-experienced pride. Mr. Henderson turned around and found his class quiet. They had their pencils at the ready and were waiting for him to get on with the lesson for the day. Another first; no dirty looks shared between miss Forger and mister Desmond. The two simply stared straight ahead and maintained themselves orderly. By all accounts, a miracle.
"Right then," Mr. Henderson cleared his throat one last time. "On with the lesson. Picking up from yesterday..."
The lesson went on. The students listened. Once the bell rang, it was then time to switch periods. All-in-all an average day for both student and teacher alike, all save of course for the papers that continued to occupy Mr. Henderson's desk throughout the entirety of it. All day they served as a reminder that he was indeed another year removed from the youth he taught. All day they taunted him with the promise of another go at that feeling that had gripped him earlier that morning. He was tempted to look through them before the school day had ended, but restrained himself.
After all, he was Housemaster Henry Henderson of Cecile Hall. A man of elegance. And to break a promise to his students...well, that just wouldn't be elegant.