After my fiction seminar ends, I walk across campus to McKenna Hall, home of the school's history department. Alaric's office is on the top floor, so I huff it up four flights of stairs. My messenger bag bulges from the combined weight of my books, laptop, and the two hundred page draft of my novel that I printed out for Alaric's review. It bangs against my legs with my every step, causing hisses of discomfort to slip from my lips.
I exhale a sigh of relief when I finally reach the fourth floor. Desperate to relieve my shoulders the agony of bearing a thousand pound bag, I hightail it over to the group of chairs in the waiting area outside of Alaric's office. As I sink into the comfort of the plush armchair, all of the aches that I just acquired seem to magically melt away.
I haven't been in McKenna since last May, so I take a quick look around the floor to reacclimatize myself. I feel so comfortable in this part of the building. If I ever become a professional academic, I want my office to be located somewhere as cozy as McKenna Hall. The professors' offices are located on either end of the hallway, five individual, triangular shaped rooms arranged in a semi circle around a cluster of waiting chairs. The middle of the hallway opens into a study alcove with oak furniture, endlessly stuffed bookshelves, and glass encased historical documents. It is a perfect workspace, welcoming and homely, and I am quickly reminded why I always came here after hours to do my schoolwork last year.
As I look back at Alaric's office, my eyes drift over the name placards outside of the four other rooms on this side of the hallway. Arthur Mallite, Medieval Europe. Judith Burns, Modern Britain. Gordon Wilhelm, European History.
Damon Salvatore, American Civil War.
Oh.
I stare at Professor Salvatore's office so intently I wonder if I'm going to burn a hole through his door. I debate whether or not I should knock on it, but I quickly decide against the notion. His door's closed, so either he's not in there or he wants privacy from interrupting grad students such as me. And anyways, I should really get Alaric's opinion on my thesis before I start asking random history professors to read it.
Then again, Professor Salvatore's not exactly a random professor. Alaric did introduce us at Donovan's. I'm pretty sure he wants me to ask Professor Salvatore for help with my novel. Talking to him now would just speed up the writing process.
Satisfied with my decision, I stand up from the armchair and smooth the wrinkles from my denim shorts. I walk over to Professor Salvatore's office and raise my fist to the door. As I'm about to knock, the door unexpectedly opens.
I jump back.
I peer into Professor Salvatore's office.
My eyes widen.
There, standing just inside his office door, is a disheveled looking Professor Salvatore...and an equally unruly looking Dr. Katherine Pierce.
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What songs do you think Donovan's Band should perform?
