Morning spilled across Nevermore's stone halls, washing away the secrets whispered in firelight. Students hurried to classes, voices echoing in the vaulted corridors. But in the Headmistress's office, Larissa Weems stood before her mirror, fastening her brooch with practiced elegance.
Her reflection stared back, serene as ever.
Yet she remembered last night—the way Dirk had stood before her, unflinching, pulling threads she thought invisible.
Her order was intact. Her mask was flawless.
But a single crack had appeared.
And Larissa Weems would not allow herself to lose control.
---
The Decision
By the time Dirk arrived in the dining hall, whispers were already circling. His size, his calm demeanor, his duel with Wednesday—Nevermore was hungry for rumors, and he had fed them well.
Dirk ignored it all, settling at the far end of the table, gaze steady on his food though he hardly touched it.
From the head of the room, Weems watched. Not openly, but with the subtle attention of a predator cloaked in civility.
She had decided: today, Dirk Sanchez would be tested. Not with a duel of blades or a battle of words—Wednesday had already tried that.
No, this would be subtler. A measure of his restraint.
---
The Test
In his second class of the day—Alchemy—Weems made an "unplanned" visit. Her heels clicked softly against the stone floor as she entered, her smile gracious yet commanding.
"Please, continue," she told the teacher, before her gaze slid to Dirk. "But I'd like to see our newest student demonstrate."
The room shifted instantly, every eye turning toward him.
Dirk's expression didn't change. "Demonstrate what?"
Weems tilted her head, silver hair gleaming in the candlelight. "Surprise us."
---
The Demonstration
A murmur rippled through the class. Enid gave him an encouraging thumbs-up. Wednesday watched silently, pen poised above her notebook as though she might dissect every move.
Dirk stood slowly, stepping to the front. He glanced at the array of materials on the table—flasks, powders, reagents meant for careful, fragile experiments.
Without a word, he reached for a vial of deep-blue liquid. Holding it in his massive hand, he tilted it just slightly. The class gasped as the liquid didn't pour—it floated, lifting from the glass like ribbons of water bending to his will.
Dirk guided it into the air, weaving it into intricate shapes: a coiled serpent, a blooming flower, then a spinning sphere that glowed with unnatural light.
When he finally let it drop back into the vial, not a single drop spilled.
The silence was deafening.
---
The Reaction
Weems's eyes betrayed nothing, but inside, her pulse quickened. His control was absolute. His touch, godlike.
"Impressive," she said smoothly. "But you'll find that spectacle alone is not the measure of mastery."
Dirk's gaze met hers, calm and unyielding. "And yet spectacle reveals what mastery hides."
A quiet challenge. A reminder: he was not hers to control.
The students whispered wildly, the air alive with awe and unease. Wednesday's pen scratched furiously across the page, her expression unreadable. Enid just beamed, clapping openly.
But Weems? She only smiled, lips curving with an elegance that masked the fire inside.
---
Aftermath
When the class dismissed, Dirk lingered only a moment before heading for the door. But as he passed, Weems's voice followed him, low enough for only him to hear.
"You're dangerous."
He stopped, turning his head slightly, his words soft but cutting.
"And you're addicted to danger."
Her breath caught—just a fraction, but enough.
As he walked away, her hand tightened on her brooch. For the first time in decades, Larissa Weems felt not like the weaver of webs… but like the one entangled.