Chapter Text
The young girl walks with slow steps; the soft, dark carpet covering the floor muffles the sound of her uniform loafers and keeps any noise to a minimum in the library of her new school. Octavia doesn’t know anyone. It’s her first day, and the only conversation she’s had was when someone asked to borrow her eraser and she answered with a “Yeah, sure,” but that can’t really be called a real conversation. She was certain that if she stayed quiet, she would draw the others’ attention. The girl had no other choice; she had evaluated her own social interaction skills and knew there wasn’t much she could do if she approached any of her classmates.
During recess, she waited for everyone to leave, pretending to pack her things into her bag while discreetly watching as they all went off with their friends in groups or simply left alone on their way to the cafeteria. The girl pulled out a package of chocolate cookies that would be her lunch and was the last one to leave the classroom. She walked through the hallways while eating and exploring in her solitude. The school was huge, and she figured that if she was alone, at least she’d have the chance to explore the place during break, so she began her little journey.
She had seen it in the brochures her father had given her, but pictures were one thing—walking through the facilities of such an impressive institution was another. From what she had read, the school had been founded about a century ago and started out focused on teaching the core subjects, shining for its educational level and the excellent prestige that came with it. But with the change in administration over the last two decades, it had become much more diverse in terms of disciplines. Now there were far more extracurricular subjects highlighting the arts and sports, plus the implementation of clubs where students could join and keep learning. The place was impressive: it had multiple classrooms, sports fields, a running track, a swimming pool, and an arena. It was a school equipped with everything for the large number of students who attended from elementary all the way through high school.
Besides the basic subjects that any institution has to teach, the schedule included several extra classes as a way for students to broaden their knowledge, along with the extracurricular activities that were mostly the clubs where students could use the facilities for their academic, athletic, or artistic development. It was a renowned school that, beyond its fame, had won numerous awards—not just for teaching like in the past, but for excelling in other educational areas as well.
That academy had been her father’s choice, and the young girl hadn’t had any problem with his decision because the list of extracurricular subjects had caught her attention from the start. There were several classes and clubs she’d love to join; among the main ones were the photography club, gardening, or French classes. Especially French—she had always wanted to learn the language with the idea of traveling to Paris one day to visit her mother.
After the Goetia family divorce, the young owl had ended up in her father’s custody for reasons she still didn’t understand. She didn’t know why the judge had made that decision or whether she’d even had the option to choose who to stay with, but in the end she accepted it. She talked to her mother regularly, but it wasn’t the same. On the other hand, there was her father who, whenever he looked at Octavia, seemed overly eager to be part of her life, to the point of becoming suffocating for the young girl who felt he still treated her like a newly hatched chick instead of a teenager. The girl knew living with her father would be complicated with just the two of them, but she hadn’t imagined he would make plans like putting together puzzles or going to the park when she didn’t like going out and getting fresh air.
She’d had to explain to her father that she didn’t want to go to the amusement park when she found out one had opened in the city; then she felt bad and they ended up riding the rides anyway.
Everything felt exasperating, but the young bird knew her father was doing his best to make her feel comfortable with the change and their new home. Yet the harder he pushed that comfort, the more out of place she seemed to feel.
She takes a deep breath; those memories only bring confusion to her head and a feeling of uselessness. Her father would never understand her.
Now more aware of her surroundings than her thoughts, Octavia runs her long painted nails along the spines of the books and tilts her head slightly to read the titles: “A Guide to Understanding Yourself and Embracing Your Nature,” “Great Predators in Positions of Power,” “The Evolution of Species.” The young girl stops reading and looks around for something; then she spots a sign telling her she’s in the “self-help books” section. It wasn’t a topic that particularly interested her. She had no issues with her owl nature; sure, she knew the advantages of being a predator animal, but that didn’t matter to her in the slightest.
Society is organized into two castes: predators and prey, with the animal nature further differentiating and classifying people even more if the castes weren’t enough. The first classification relates to dominance and submission, the way individuals might respond to their environment. The other aspect is the animal, where people retain certain visible traits: some have claws, scales, animal ears; very few have gills or fins; minimal features that don’t affect major limbs like arms or legs.
They were fascinating and made people more diverse. However, some traits could bring complications. A few examples were vision problems, sensitivity to noise, or—in the case she knew best—both she and her father, being owls, had very low tolerance for daylight, which caused severe headaches and forced them to wear sunglasses on sunny days just to make the day bearable.
“Ah, the world is shit,” she mutters in the silence of the library, surrounded by shelves, the only place she had found to hide from the stares that seemed to question her loneliness. She felt exhausted and wished the day would end soon so she could go home.
“I agree… Ouch! That curse wasn’t mine this time,” a voice answers from the other side of the shelf, rough as sandpaper, making her wonder about the speaker’s age. Octavia froze, plunged into confusion, until the same voice spoke again. “I’m just validating her brief existential experience.”
“You can’t say that to a student,” replied another voice from the same side—a man’s voice that sounded loud without even trying, yet different from the first speaker. Something about that little argument that had nothing to do with her made her wonder what kind of people she had stumbled upon.
“Of course, Your Holiness of Optimism, but I’m on my break right now,” the man shot back. The girl gathered her courage and walked to the left, the shorter end of the aisle, to face whoever had answered her.
Her surprise was enormous when she saw the strangers and realized they weren’t students. The first clue was that they weren’t wearing uniforms; the second, far more important, was that they looked about thirty years older than her. Both were sitting in the middle of a mess of books scattered around them. The looks exchanged between Octavia and the two men made her think she was in trouble.
“She’s a high school girl. I don’t know her,” says the sturdy-looking man as he puts a book back on the shelf. He’s the one who had answered her; she recognizes him by that distinctive voice that could belong to some bully. “Sorry if we disturbed your search.”
“Well, I… Sorry for my language,” she doesn’t know what else to say. From her position and understanding, she was the one who had used foul language.
“Don’t worry, we get it. Tough days happen. I have them too, and I’m an adult,” says the man with the melodiously masculine voice, grabbing a book from the shelf to add to the pile surrounding them.
She studies the adults carefully, especially the blond one whose appearance is striking. She can only attribute it to the thick-lensed glasses he wears that make his eyes look enormously larger through the glass. Among other things that catch her attention are his flawless pale skin and the few blond strands that fall messily from an otherwise almost immaculate hairstyle, making her think they’re intentional rather than careless.
“In any case… there’s a psychology department that always keeps its doors open to students. Miss Rosie is very kind and a great listener,” the blond adds, successfully selling the idea of going to counseling. Octavia smiles at the teacher’s concern but doesn’t want them to see her as someone they need to worry about.
“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind,” she says with a smile, hoping to sound convincing so the teachers won’t report a depressed student or however they might label her.
“Hey, aren’t you the one who arrived late this morning? Yeah, I think I saw you running toward the building the moment Adam opened the doors for the late students.” This time it’s the turn of the grumpy-sounding teacher. Amid the chaos of books, he looks utterly relaxed, just as he had been during their first exchange. Compared to the other teacher, this man seems far less friendly.
The girl seems to shrink further where she stands, as if her posture could get any less straight at the teacher’s words, and admits that yes, it was her. The teacher nods, puts a book from the floor back on the shelf—only for the blond man to immediately pull it out again. They appear to be collecting books or doing something the girl can’t quite figure out.
“Yeah… my dad got lost. He’s still getting to know the town and wanted to drive me in his new car, so…” She shrugs as she gives her excuse.
“Oh, then your last name must be Goetia. Your father called me this morning asking for directions; I guess I didn’t explain well enough.” Carrying several books, the blond stands up from the floor, revealing that he’s short—slightly shorter than the young girl, who is still growing and stands at 1.70 m. The other teacher also gets up and stretches until his bones crack like paper; he’s almost the same height as the blond.
“Your father and I went to the same university and were classmates. I’m Principal Lucifer Morningstar, and this is Blitzø Rogers, high school P.E. teacher.” The girl nods; now she understands why she hadn’t seen them in the hallways of her building—they weren’t her teachers. She’s only in middle school.
That also answers her question of how her father had chosen the school and, above all, the town: because he knew people here. Octavia hadn’t imagined it; she always thought her father was a loner with no friends.
“Well, I have to go…” she says, realizing the chat has taken longer than expected and recess is almost over. The teachers nod understandingly. It had been an interesting conversation, but Octavia figures she needs friends her own age, not teachers who could ruin her reputation.
The Goetia girl is about to leave when one of the teachers calls her name, forcing her to turn back.
“Young lady, we have a question… Do you know what an emo is?”
For many reasons, that day had not been a good start to the week for Octavia in her new life at her new school. It was only her first day of classes when her father got lost and couldn’t find the school even though he swore he knew the way since he had been there once to enroll her. Of course, that didn’t mean he knew the route—he usually relies on car apps and doesn’t drive much.
That half-hour of circling and street confusion only ended when he decided to ask for directions. It had cost her the welcome ceremony and the crucial first half-hour for interacting with her classmates—the greetings, the exchange of words and names… she had missed all of it and earned stares like she was some kind of freak when she walked in late. Arriving late had been awful.
But the truly surreal part had been having to explain to two grown adults what “emo” means and, above all, calming down a forty-year-old man who looked genuinely upset. Something told her the question had been for him, not the other man—even though the one who asked was Professor Blitzø.
That had definitely taken longer than expected. Octavia had gotten carried away explaining everything she knew about emo culture in a short span of time. She wasn’t sure exactly what information they wanted, so she brought out the heavy artillery: the typical clothing style and the characteristic hairstyle that covered most of the face. Still, when they asked about emo teenagers, she couldn’t say much, though the two men clearly had some mistaken ideas about what an emo actually was.
The girl figured the dark aesthetic, combined with other elements, could scare more than one adult who believed kids should be happy and radiant all the time, something her own father definitely shared. It was no surprise that many imagined the worst when they heard the word “emo.”
When she snapped out of it, the bell had already rung and she was far from her classroom. She cursed inwardly at yet another tardy on her very first day. If she remembered her schedule correctly and she was pretty sure she did, the class she had right then was History.
If she ran, she could at least arrive only a few minutes late. Standing there weighing her options was costing her even more minutes. Just as she was about to sprint past the two teachers who looked perfectly calm, since they wouldn’t get scolded for being late to their own classes, unlike her, her last name was called again. Principal Morningstar asked what subject she had and assured her he could walk her to class and explain the delay to the teacher, something she absolutely didn’t want.
“History with Professor Hartwell,” she answered impatiently. The moment she said it, the teachers’ expressions changed. Professor Blitzø grinned as if it were the funniest joke he’d heard all day. Principal Morningstar, on the other hand, sighed and insisted he would escort her, or she’d be in serious trouble with the professor.
The walk through the hallways was silent. She had nothing to say, and it seemed the principal didn’t either. Octavia hoped the silence felt comfortable to him, because it did to her, though she was sometimes bad at reading the room. For the rest of the way, she quickly glanced at the posters on the bulletin board: some were eye-catching, others blank.
Only when they were close to the door did a bit of panic start creeping in. She was going to be late, and that would draw everyone’s stares. She had already arrived late once, didn’t know anyone, and now she was showing up late again… with a teacher. No, with the principal. Plenty of students would translate that as trouble.
Just swallow me whole, earth, she thought silently, accepting her inevitable fate.
She didn’t even have to knock. Her pessimism showed in the heavy steps that betrayed her reluctance as she approached the classroom. It was her escort who stepped forward and knocked three times. The voice inside the room abruptly stopped lecturing; all noise ceased, and then the door opened, revealing Professor Hartwell.
The first thing she noticed when the door opened was that the professor was tall (much taller than Octavia). It didn’t matter that Professor Hartwell had long ears rising above his brown hair; even without them, he’d still have several centimeters on her. His straight hair had side-swept bangs that partially covered his forehead and fell naturally along the sides, blending into his cinnamon-colored skin and giving him a youthful touch. That touch died instantly the moment she saw his tense smile and the sharp, questioning glare he shot at Octavia.
The young student lowered her head under that severe stare; no words were needed to make his displeasure clear. His serious expression and furrowed brows did an excellent job of silent scolding.
Octavia glanced around the classroom and saw her classmates sitting in complete silence, frozen like petrified statues, worry etched on their faces. Had she committed a crime on her first day? Because it certainly felt like it.
Professor Hartwell looked sternly at the man beside her. The blond principal kept smiling, completely immune to the brunette’s deadly glare.
“Class started ten minutes ago,” he said severely, not a trace of compassion in his voice. “I hope there’s a good reason for this tardiness.”
“Alastor, young Miss Goetia was helping me with some books in the library,” the blond replied calmly, in stark contrast to the man standing like a stone statue in the doorway.
A few seconds passed before Professor Hartwell stepped aside to let the girl in.
Octavia lifted her gaze to those icy eyes. The hesitation in her body kept her from moving quickly, but when the man raised an eyebrow, clearly not understanding why she wasn’t entering, she caught the silent cue and forced her legs to carry her inside and sit in one of the last empty seats.
“Delaying my class on the very first day,” the professor shook his head at Lucifer. The rest of the class followed the conversation happening at the door; everyone remained silent, and Octavia figured something big might happen. “Sometimes I feel you do it on purpose.”
“Believe me, it’s just coincidence. But it’s fun to see you. I’m sure you’ll manage to recover these stolen minutes from your lesson plan. Don’t be so strict with them; they look like they’re made of stone,” the blond said, flashing a smile at the class. Some students returned it nervously; others let out small laughs, releasing the tense atmosphere the professor had created.
To the students’ surprise, Professor Hartwell actually smiled at the comment, an almost forced smile at his counterpart’s words. Many held their breath when they saw it; just minutes earlier, that same smile had sent chills down their spines when he’d shown it at the start of class.
“Wow, showing up late to Professor Hartwell’s class. Not sure whether to call you brave or suicidal,” whispered a girl sitting in the seat to Octavia’s right. Octavia just tried to make herself smaller at her desk; disappearing would be ideal. The girl beside her smiled, revealing sharp fangs. “I’m Verosika. Didn’t see you at the welcome ceremony.”
“I was late for that too…” she whispered, not proud of her repeated tardiness. Verosika called her quite the daredevil, and Octavia couldn’t deny it; her attention shifted back to the teachers’ conversation.
“The behavior and attention of young people are very volatile, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t do anything to deprive students of the value of punctuality,” the professor said, his forced smile contrasting with the blond’s carefree expression.
“I know they’d never dare be late to your classes,” Lucifer replied, almost jokingly, completely unfazed by the severity behind Alastor’s words. “But you’re right; I won’t take any more of your time.”
“Always so considerate. Thank you for your collaboration, Lu,” Alastor finally said, seizing the chance to resume his lesson soon, something that disheartened the students, since more than one had hoped the conversation would drag on and delay class further. It ended sooner than they wanted. In their disappointment, very few noticed the nickname he’d just used for Principal Morningstar.
“The pleasure is mutual, Alastor. Enjoy your class,” Lucifer replied with a radiant, purely cordial smile, as if trying to lighten the classroom mood. But the moment the door closed, everything plunged into silence.
The history teacher returned to the front of the class. He announced a page number, and everyone hurried to take out their books, focusing on nothing that might earn them a reprimand for distracted minds.
Octavia was chosen to start the reading. It caught her off guard, so she inwardly cursed every second it took her to find the beginning of the paragraph before she began reading aloud to the whole class. She started calmly, but her restless heart wouldn’t settle, so she stumbled over words more than once (at the beginning, in the middle, and at the end).
She felt everyone’s eyes on her, that her teacher was watching with annoyance because she kept mixing up the words. She never lifted her gaze from the book that served as her shield until the professor told her to stop. Finally, her turn ended when another name was called. Octavia smoothed her skirt as she sat back down.
The thought took root in the teenager’s mind that she would no longer go unnoticed by that teacher after the first impression she’d left. No matter how many other students’ names he called out, she knew none of them had done anything to stand out and become the target of his attention the way she had.
Class went on normally while the topic of the French Revolution kept more than a few students hooked. Maybe it was the way the teacher told the story, with the excitement in his voice, almost like a tale being spun for children, that sparked curiosity and kept everyone hanging on every detail of the social plot that had led to the revolution. They were all on edge, waiting to see what would happen next.
Except it had already happened, and the weight of history hit more than one of them when they realized just how cruel the world’s past could be, especially a revolution’s. Nobody was taking notes; they were too absorbed to even touch their notebooks, afraid of missing something they could picture in their heads. The teacher had most of the class hanging on his every word, with several hands shooting up, eager to ask more. He turned a subject everyone considered boring into something interactive.
The discussion unfolding made her classmates the stars of the show, and Octavia couldn’t have been happier about it. The more people participated, the longer she could pull out her notebook and focus on something far more entertaining.
It wasn’t that the class bored her completely; she admitted she had paid attention for a good while, listening carefully. But history just wasn’t her thing, though she had to admit it was a lot easier to follow than math.
In that class, most students stayed silent while scribbling calculations in their notebooks, which led the teacher to randomly call people to the board to solve problems. It had been pure terror; quite possibly the most stressful hour of her life.
She sighed, resting her chin on one hand while the other scribbled random words with almost no extra detail; just whatever she felt like writing down from the lesson. Her notes were going to be a disaster come exam week, but right now she didn’t care.
Her eyes drifted back to the front, now fixed on Professor Hartwell. The man was elegant; it showed in his straight posture. Without even trying, he radiated confidence as he moved around the room, speaking with total assurance on the topic. Something she figured had to come naturally when you were a teacher. Then Octavia started wondering: Had she ever had teachers like him? She was sure she’d had terrifying ones who commanded respect just by walking in; the moment they entered, their mere presence could strike fear, whether they were predator or prey teachers. Plenty of teachers came with reputations that preceded them. But she’d also had the boring kind whose classes felt like mindless repetition and never managed to connect with their students.
This was different. The professor clearly loved teaching and listening to what the students had to say. But she soon realized he only let certain people speak, and whenever it didn’t please him, when someone asked something stupid or gave a wrong answer to something he’d already explained, their turn to speak ended right then and there. That was scary, especially with that smile on his lips but never reaching his eyes. It was a constant, polite smile, yet his eyes told a completely different story when they showed annoyance, doubt, or disdain whenever the answer wasn’t what he expected.
A man like that could be terrifying just by existing. She doodled in her notebook; she wasn’t good at drawing, just scribbles that formed a head, a face with big eyes and a smile she tried to make friendly but that ended up looking creepy. Maybe if she added cat ears… no, it looked awful.
The girl wasn’t listening to her classmates’ voices, much less the teacher’s, and a bad feeling crept over her about what was happening. With regret, her eyes slid sideways and she saw someone standing beside her desk. Before she could face the professor, a hand snatched her notebook.
“I recommend you pay attention to what I’m saying if you’re not planning to take notes,” he said, his tone almost kind, his smile flawless, but the hidden edge in his words was unmistakable. He handed the notebook back; it was practically blank except for the grotesque doodle that bore a certain resemblance to the professor himself. Mr. Hartwell straightened up and slowly walked away from her desk.
“Pay attention and you’ll do fine,” he continued. Everyone obeyed as he leaned against the desk, his gaze sweeping the room as a warning to all, not just one student. “Get distracted in my class, and I assure you the consequences will come later. I’ll just say my exams are not easy,” he added softly, stealing the breath from more than one student.
“I heard Hartwell loves watching his students suffer at the end of the semester,” Verosika said as she walked beside Octavia. They had grown closer by passing notes during Miss Sera’s ethics class.
It had been a huge relief and a total contrast after history class. Miss Sera looked calm and gentle in her wool sweater. The bell had rung for break, and they could finally talk freely without teachers around.
“Last year there was drama because some kid’s parents didn’t want him to fail, but the professor wouldn’t budge and the kid ended up transferring schools.”
“That sounds awful…” Octavia was starting to feel overwhelmed. It was her very first history class and she already felt like she’d completely lost the subject, along with any hope. Just imagining the disappointment it would be for her parents if she had to leave the school because she failed a class… that was the worst-case scenario.
The two walked down the hallway in silence. Octavia hadn’t expected company during break, but she didn’t want to push Verosika away.
“Relax, I’ll lend you my notes if you help me study,” Verosika said, giving her a small nudge when she noticed Octavia lost in thought. Octavia answered with a half-smile, pushing her worries aside.
They both heard footsteps approaching, then saw a boy running straight toward them until he crashed into the girls. Complaints immediately followed.
“I thought that class would never end. I was sure I’d died and that was my eternal punishment,” the newcomer said. Octavia was startled by how deep and rough his voice was despite him being very short and having a pretty face. Then she looked closer and realized she had seen him before in their classroom; he sat up front.
Verosika was the first —and only one— to react physically, shoving the boy sideways into the lockers. He let out a small “Ouch.”
“Stop being an idiot,” the brunette says. Octavia can’t quite figure out what kind of relationship these two have; they’re so aggressive with each other.
“Via, this is my friend Fizzarolli. I call him Fizz because saying his full name is too much effort. Fizz, this is Octavia; she’s new.”
“Hi! Man, you really have the worst luck. Show up late and you get scolded by the most screwed-up teacher of them all—” He earns a smack on the head from his friend that finally shuts him up. “Stop abusing me or I won’t make it to the end of the day alive!”
“Don’t bother her, idiot,” Verosika says, immediately pulling a sunglasses case from her pocket and slipping on a pair as sunlight floods the hallway, shining brightly. Octavia winces at the pain in her eyes and takes out her own dark glasses to protect them.
“Though I’ve gotta admit, I didn’t expect to see Mr. Morningstar in our building. He’s always in his office; you barely ever see him around,” Verosika comments.
“Whenever I’ve been sent to the principal’s office, they always tell me he’s in the woodworking shop,” Fizz says, recalling the many times he’s gotten in trouble and been summoned.
“It was a long story in the library… very complicated, I assure you.”
“Well, I was half-expecting them to start throwing punches. The deer looked ready to kick his opponent’s ass. I swear, if we hadn’t been there, it would’ve turned into a fight. You know, basic animal instincts,” Fizz says. Octavia is grateful to have her sunglasses on so they can’t see her rolling her eyes at his words.
“Sure, I’m positive,” Verosika replies sarcastically to her friend’s assumptions. “I think Professor Hartwell would have the advantage. He’s way taller and always scary as hell.”
“Scary?” Fizz snorts, acting all confident as if he hadn’t felt overwhelmed in history class just minutes ago. “Nah, my money’s all on Lucifer. He looks calm, like those quiet types who don’t do anything… but when he snaps…bam! you’re done. He’s part snake, remember? Probably has venom and everything.”
“Stop talking nonsense—”
“We have extracurricular classes today, right?” Octavia asks, changing the subject when she spots a bulletin board covered with posters for sports clubs. She’s never been good at sports; she considers herself clumsy because of her height and long legs.
“Yep. Monday through Thursday are extracurriculars. Which ones did you sign up for?” Verosika asks, looking at the same board and pointing at a dance poster. “I signed up for music and dance. I want to perform in the dance shows.”
“I picked French and photography,” the tallest of the group answers, earning stares from the others as if she’d said something forbidden.
“What…?”
“I mean, I feel for your soul, Octavia, but I also signed up for French—because it’s the language of love!” Fizz exclaims, clasping his hands dramatically and batting his eyelashes. “I know we’re gonna suffer, but at least I won’t be alone.”
Octavia still doesn’t understand her friends’ concern.
“You guys are seriously insane. I already have to see Professor Hartwell in history; I don’t need him in my extracurriculars too,” Verosika complains, giving Octavia part of the answer she’d been looking for. Octavia finally connects the dots from the little information she’d been given and feels herself fade at the realization that she’s basically walked straight into the wolf’s (well, deer’s) den and will have to see the professor during her extra hours too.
“Wait, you didn’t know he teaches that class? My brother told me Hartwell always teaches French; he’s the most fluent in it,” Verosika confirms. Octavia thinks that if she’d known the professor was a literal demon, her first day might have been a lot easier. She covers her face with her hands, pushing her sunglasses up, and groans loudly.
“Don’t tell me that… what the hell.”
Two months later, Octavia was finally certain she had finished unpacking everything. At first it had been a total mess because of how rushed the move was; boxes kept piling up in the corner of her room, waiting to be opened. Every time she saw them, she promised herself she’d do it after school or in her free time, but she’d end up coming home exhausted or simply forgetting. Week after week, she slowly removed the boxes one by one and went through their contents until she was convinced everything was finally organized.
The young owl’s bedroom was huge, not much bigger than the one in her old house, but that wasn’t an issue for her. She had decorated it exactly to her taste: the walls were painted a bluish gray that wasn’t overwhelming, and the room was complemented by lights she had strung across the ceiling that could bathe the space in a soft hue whenever she wanted. She usually kept them on a gentle purple. Posters of her favorite bands hung on the walls; small picture frames sat on the shelves; and on the nightstands were essential items, like a jewelry box full of tangled trinkets that gave everything a messy look. To her, everything was exactly where it belonged.
She felt relief as she got rid of the last box, tossing it in the trash, and finally collapsed onto the sofa her father had recently bought her. It was comfortable (perfect for napping whenever she felt like it). Besides, her dad, Stolas, spent hours working. It wasn’t a demanding job, but when he got home he preferred to rest; he wasn’t used to the rhythm anymore, since he had stopped working when the family decided to take care of them. After the divorce, though, he realized they no longer had that support, so he had to go back to work.
The owl man worked as an office clerk in a company in town. Getting the job had been relatively easy thanks to a few acquaintances who helped him out, but fitting into an environment where he practically knew no one turned out to be quite the challenge. He couldn’t deny that the workplace was pleasant: whenever he approached his coworkers with that timid demeanor so unusual for an adult, they answered his questions and patiently explained how things were done. It was a much calmer atmosphere than the previous companies he’d worked for, where his former colleagues had tended to be overly apathetic and cutthroat. Here, people were different. Of course, nothing was perfect: he had already identified a few with rather difficult temperaments. Isn’t that always how life is?
He usually joined his coworkers for lunch, and they showed him nearby spots where the food was good and he could eat in peace. Stolas had no problem going along; in fact, he started doing it after discovering how bad the cafeteria food was. Little by little, thanks to his friend Moxxie, who always included him in everything, he became known to the rest of the departments. He stopped feeling like an outsider at the office. Over time, everything turned into a routine (in the best sense of the word). They were adapting, and both Goetias had the feeling that things were going to be okay.
The young girl had stopped feeling overwhelmed by her father; now he came home tired from work and simply asked how her day at school had been. He no longer forced her to go to the park, though they still went to the movies on weekends whenever there was something interesting playing. Other times they ordered food and stayed in the living room, watching whatever was on TV and chatting about their week. Then Monday came, and it all started over again.
Octavia’s afternoons boiled down to studying biology or history, or wrestling with math problems. She wasn’t the best with numbers, but she put in the effort once she learned that Professor Zestial liked to randomly call students to the board. Many nights she stayed up late trying to solve his exercises; they were always so complicated that, to her dismay, she couldn’t even find the answers online! They were equations pulled from some textbook with no clear guide on where to start. It was exhausting. When she got to class, she’d usually find several classmates comparing their different answers while others —like Fizz or Velvette—frantically copied whichever ones looked most convincing.
Octavia started hanging out more with her classmates, especially when the teachers put them into groups for class projects. Still, the people she talked to the most were Verosika and Fizz. On Fridays they had a standing date to go to the town cafeteria after school, where they pretended to do homework while eating sweets, drinking coffee, and gossiping about everything happening at school. There were only a few times they managed to meet up after extracurriculars, since they were usually scattered across campus, in some classroom, the gym, or the auditorium. The only times they all coincided was when Fizz and Octavia left French class together and waited for Verosika so the three of them could head out.
The extracurricular classes were a whole topic on their own.
After her disastrous first day, Octavia went to the principal’s office and asked about switching classes. She wanted to know if there was any chance of making a quick change, but they told her it wouldn’t be possible until mid-year, when students were allowed to pick different activities. She remembered thinking that option sounded amazing for students in general, but at that moment it was useless to her, there was still far too long until mid-year. That meant she had to roll with the rules as they were.
Photography class wasn’t anything special; just the basics, and most of the time they focused on theory. They covered boring topics like the history of photography or the digital camera. Halfway through class, Octavia had to look away at Professor Peter’s clumsiness; he clearly wasn’t the most knowledgeable on the subject and often seemed like he had no idea what he was doing. He just played the slides and assigned photo-taking homework. Octavia was certain she wouldn’t choose that class again unless she actively wanted to waste her time.
And the other class she was absolutely not continuing with was French. She decided that the very moment she walked into the room and saw the teacher waiting for them (punctual, as expected). Octavia avoided eye contact to spare herself the awkwardness; she just followed Fizz and they took seats in the front corner of the room.
Learning the basics of French had sounded great: a few essential terms to start with, like how to pronounce the words they’d use most often (hello, goodbye, please, yes, no, I have a question, and others she carefully wrote down in her notebook to keep handy and review). What came next was pronunciation practice, and that’s when the real challenge began.
The classes felt endless. Even after several weeks, Octavia was still clumsy with pronunciation, tripping over even a small part of a full sentence. She had the professor’s words burned into her memory: “It’s not ‘mer-see,’ miss. It’s ‘merci.’ Listen carefully: mɛʁ-si.”
That day she’d had French, luckily the last one of the week, since it was Thursday, which meant the long-awaited weekend was almost here. The sun was hiding behind clouds, the weather felt cool, and Professor Carmilla hadn’t assigned any essays for the next class, so they were completely free of obligations for the rest of the afternoon.
“No way…” The girl rummages through the books in her bag, searching for something specific. No matter how much she checks between her notebooks or in the smaller pockets, her biology notes are nowhere to be found. She thinks about where she could have left them, not many options: just home or the classroom. She’s sure she brought them because she showed Fizz the digestive system… oh no, she left it in the classroom.
“Guys, I forgot my notebook in the room. Be right back,” she says with a sigh, pressing a hand to her face as she pictures the trek back to the classroom. At that moment, all she wants is to go home and crash. They’re in the middle of campus after Verosika’s practice. Despite her friends insisting on coming with her, she brushes them off, hurrying toward the classroom and promising she’ll be quick.
As expected, the place is completely deserted. Her only company is the gentle breeze rustling the tree leaves. In the distance she sees a few students heading for the exit, some teachers ignoring her presence as they walk with their briefcases. When she finally reaches the building, there’s no one nearby, but she doesn’t slow down and rushes through the still-lit hallways.
Half an hour has passed since the bell ended classes; students have gone home or are wandering campus, and teachers should be in the faculty lounge or their offices. It’s quiet —not completely silent, since the hum of the air conditioners keeps the place feeling a little alive—, but it still feels different without people around, footsteps echoing down the halls, or voices filling the air. Octavia takes her time walking the hallway; she’s in no rush to get home or back to Fizzarolli and Verosika.
She reaches her classroom. She doesn’t bother knocking; the absence of voices and movement inside makes it clear no one’s there. She pushes the door, thankfully unlocked and slips in without issue. She walks between the rows of desks, her footsteps barely audible on the floor, light, like a stealthy bird’s. Then a sound startles her. If she had to describe it, she’d call it a huff.
For a second she thinks it’s the janitor. She’s ready to apologize, explain she forgot her notebook, and promise to leave right away. But when she turns her head, the blurry shapes she’d caught in her peripheral vision start coming into focus. Off to the side of the room, near the desk by the bookshelf against the wall, stand two teachers: Professor Hartwell and Professor Morningstar.
Both adults look just as surprised as she is, and she has no idea what to say. She hadn’t expected anyone in the classroom, let alone two teachers. But it’s not just that. Professor Hartwell appears to have the other one pinned against the bookshelf. One of his hands is gripping the collar of Professor Morningstar’s jacket; his fingers look a little pale from the pressure on the fabric. They aren’t excessively close, but the scene could easily be misinterpreted. The brunette’s expression is a mess: a mix of surprise and a tense smile is all he offers as a greeting to Octavia, who still doesn’t fully understand what’s going on. The three of them stand frozen in an awkward silence, as if the tiny young girl’s presence alone is enough to freeze the air in the room.
“Uh… don’t forget what I told you. About the papers… I need them this afternoon,” Hartwell says, moving for the first time since she walked in. His demanding words and the hands gripping the jacket give the shorter man a forceful shake, an insistent demand. Octavia stares, bewildered by the scene.
“Yes, don’t worry. You’ll have those minutes this afternoon,” Morningstar replies. He seems to refocus his gaze after the rough shake, a bit dizzy from his colleague’s grip. The man is finally released. Lucifer offers a kind smile and steps aside to defuse the situation that had put Alastor on edge and prevent further misunderstandings. Still, he notices the professor turning toward the bookshelf, as if searching for something important among the books behind him. “Classes are over. Students shouldn’t be here at this hour, young Octavia,” he finally says, addressing the teenager.
“I forgot my notebook… I need to review for tomorrow’s class,” she explains, pointing at her desk. She’s worried she’s in trouble for walking in at such an inopportune moment and witnessing a private conversation between the adults. To her relief, Lucifer nods and tells her to go ahead and grab it. Octavia doesn’t hesitate; she heads straight for her notebook. Her nerves aren’t visible, but inside she’s a wreck. When she reaches her desk, it doesn’t take long to spot the notebook, so she snatches it and stuffs it into her bag.
“Well, next time don’t forget your things. Sometimes they get lost and it’s hard to get them back,” the professor warned. The girl explained it had been an oversight on her part and promised it wouldn’t happen again. To her surprise, Professor Morningstar stayed calm and understanding, even though she had broken the rules. As she had thought before, the man seemed far too peaceful for a snake-type predator. He had a gentle aura; he even looked a little ridiculous, which made it strange that he was a predator at all. She never would have guessed it from those huge glasses… though his sharp fangs gave him away whenever he smiled.
Professor Hartwell picked up a few books and held them against his chest, then stepped over to grab his briefcase from the back of the chair. Both men looked ready to leave the classroom, just like young Octavia. She hurried out first when Professor Morningstar kindly held the door for her. Professor Hartwell followed, and Lucifer came last, carrying no extra weight since he had neither briefcase nor books like Hartwell.
Now in the hallway, the girl said a quick goodbye to both and walked away in a rush, practically running until she disappeared around a corner.
“I’d like to believe shaking me around like a maraca was enough to convince her nothing was going on,” Lucifer said, walking beside the brunette. Alastor no longer had his bag or books; his husband Lucifer had taken them and was now carrying everything for him. He’d told him countless times he could carry his own things, yet Lucifer always insisted on making it easier for him.
No matter how hard Alastor tried to hide it, he could picture Lucifer biting his lower lip and a blush creeping onto his cheeks.
“Come on, it was funny.”
The brunette refused to look at him, denying him those chocolate-brown eyes whose shine made his gaze enchanting even when he was upset. Alastor could stay mad for days, grumbling at his side and complaining about the tiniest things, but he would never leave his side or go sleep in another room. Sure, he’d build a pillow wall, but he wouldn’t leave.
“This is your fault…” he muttered through clenched teeth, quickening his pace to leave the blond behind. It was childish and completely unbecoming of the strict teacher image he maintained with the students. He wasn’t really angry; embarrassment just made him act like a kid.
“Come on, I’m not the one who got caught red-handed,” Lucifer teased. “And to think you’re the one who set the ‘zero affection at work’ rule and the three-meter distance thing.”
“I’m not talking about this…” Alastor kept muttering as he walked.
He still clearly remembered when he’d made those rules.
It had been a long time ago —seventeen years, actually—, and, as always, it had been Lucifer’s fault.
After their wedding, he discovered his husband was the touchy-feely type, someone who didn’t even realize it until he was caught in the act. At home it was easy to handle; Alastor simply let him touch because he actually liked having his ears stroked, a little squeeze around the waist as Lucifer passed by, or the way he sought his skin with his fingers, tracing invisible shapes while Alastor read the newspaper.
But when Lucifer hugged him from behind in the faculty lounge, minutes after they were completely alone, Alastor knew he had to set a limit. Everything at work had to be strictly professional. Back then he was practically new to both the town and the job, so he wanted to be extremely serious about it. That’s when he made the rules.
Some of the most important ones: stay three meters apart, no affectionate comments or pet names like the ones used at home, no couple lunches, no casual visits to each other’s classrooms, and above all, no physical affection.
Over time, though, Alastor reconsidered and relaxed some of the rules because he felt he was being too harsh on his husband. Besides, napping in Lucifer’s office was too good to pass up. And they both loved talking during lunch breaks, about students, their kids, work, or things they needed at home. They still kept the image he wanted: that of an exemplary institution, without complicating things by revealing anything about their personal lives.
Still, Alastor knew Lucifer all too well. That handsome, dramatic man was a walking disaster on his own. He always dressed sharply in the morning elegant black suit and tie, but all that effort went to waste once he started working. He’d end up looking completely different after stopping by the woodworking shop to build something whenever he got bored: huge glasses or sometimes safety goggles while wandering the school, a pencil tucked behind his ear, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, clothes covered in sawdust, or in the worst cases paint splatters after some accident in the shop. He was, without a doubt, a mess.
Today had been the exception. Lucifer had an important meeting, so he’d stayed busy. But when he stepped through the classroom door for a visit, Alastor immediately noticed his shirt collar was crooked, one side of the hem tucked in wrong and wrinkled. He remembered they’d be heading home soon, in just a few minutes, but he couldn’t let him walk around like that, even for a short time; it triggered his OCD. He approached to fix the small flaw —a simple, casual, kind gesture— that ended with Lucifer kissing him on the lips.
One of the most important rules, the one that encompassed all the others, was no affection, no kisses, no touching in classrooms or offices.
But this time Alastor couldn’t say anything. They were completely alone, at an hour when no students were around, and Alastor was especially weak when Lucifer grabbed him by the neck to pull him closer, right where the bonding mark was, the one he’d gotten when they married.
It could be said that, over time, the rule had become flexible and had its exceptions: like in the principal’s office, where Lucifer controlled who could come in and who couldn’t; or in the woodworking shop, which offered less privacy but was a place almost nobody visited since it was set apart from the rest of the classrooms.
“Let’s talk about something else… you said you were taking me out to eat,” the brunette said. He could feel the emptiness in his stomach; he’d only had breakfast and had been surviving on coffee and some stale cookies, but it was far too late to keep filling up on the teachers’ lounge’s dry biscuits.
“Hey, we can’t just drop it. You and I were in the middle of something important back there,” Lucifer teased. His hand slid down and traced Alastor’s pronounced waist, pulling him close to resume what they’d started moments ago. His intentions didn’t get far, though; a hand swatted him away.
“Forget it! I’m going to grab something with Rosie in the cafeteria,” Alastor declared, lifting his chin with that proud, utterly haughty attitude he always pulled when he wanted something —something that never failed to catch Lucifer off guard—. This time he walked away faster than Lucifer could react, leaving him standing frozen in the hallway, watching his silhouette disappear.
“Love, darling, come on, I’ll buy you anything you want, the whole menu if that’s what it takes!” Lucifer called out, no longer caring if anyone heard. They were the only ones left in the lit hallways. He chased after him all the way out of the building, greeted by the afternoon sun. The weight in his arms felt like nothing when he was running after his spoiled husband.
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