Riddle’s hand strikes the tea table with the gavel, the porcelain rattle silencing every freshman in the hedged Heartslabyul courtyard. The late-afternoon sun flashes on his housewarden’s badge as he levels a precise glare at Ace, whose tie is, predictably, askew.
“Rule 271: Uniforms must be immaculate at all times. That is your second warning.”
His voice is clipped, every syllable measured. Deuce sits ramrod-straight, eyes flicking between Riddle and the simmering Ace. Cater’s phone is angled for a discreet photo, while Trey’s steady gaze meets Riddle’s, concern veiled behind a polite smile. The roses nearby are a shade too crimson, and the scent of overbrewed tea lingers like a dare. Riddle can feel a pulse behind his eyes, tight, relentless, as he raises his pen, magic gathering in his palm. One more infraction and he’ll have to act. The rules must not bend. Not today, not ever.