A/N: chapter 2 (this chapter) just went up on AO3 so I figured I'd finally crosspost it here, too.

'Attention class!'

Twenty-seven students fell silent. Twenty-seven textbooks were opened and twenty-seven pens got ready to take notes as everybody waited for the teacher to continue speaking.

Dr Thorn was a very unpleasant teacher. He had been assigned our Maths and homeroom teacher about a month or two after the start of the term, when his predecessor, a woman named Mrs Scotts, had surprisingly fallen ill and died shortly after. During the brief time I had known her, I had liked her well enough, something that couldn't be said about Thorn.

Despite being detested by half the student body, despised for his draconian punishments by some, ridiculed for his accent by others, the man had the unique ability to shut up an entire class immediately. There was a certain look about him, something hungry, that made anyone who faced him reconsider whether it wasn't the more prudent choice to obey and swallow down whatever remark they had been about to say instead of standing up to him.

'Who can tell me what we talked about during our last lesson? Well?'

The class remained silent. One single hand was raised in the air.

'I sure would have hoped that some of you paid attention', Thorn snarled. 'Mr Anderson, go ahead and inform these slackers of our curriculum.'

The boy in question—the one who had raised his hand—grinned smugly before summarising the contents of the previous lesson. In all fairness, I'd had a vague idea of what we had talked about, but hadn't dared to speak up. Nobody wanted to be wrong in front of Thorn's eyes. Better stay quiet than endure his mockery.

'Very well', bellowed the man. 'Excellent, Mr Anderson, as always. Now, as for the rest of you, I'm sure you all took notes during Mr Anderson's explanation. Open your books on page 87 and complete the exercises one through nine using any of the methods we discussed last week. Alone.'

The groans that nobody dared to utter but the absence of which everyone could hear were deafeningly loud.

I opened the book and quickly scanned the page. Absolutely no way I was going to be able to solve these, at least not without help. I squinted, trying to focus, but the numbers danced up and down in front of my eyes. A few variables were named with Greek letters—more advanced Maths than we were supposed to learn, but what did Dr Thorn care—and those, ironically, remained in place and readable.

Eventually, I pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen and began by writing the date in the top right corner. A queasy feeling overcame me as I scrawled in the year. It wasn't the first time, but I still couldn't figure out what was wrong. It was as if I felt like I was missing something obvious. The first few times, I'd asked someone for the date, just to ensure I had the days right.

'Ms Vangeline, the next time I see you passing notes to Mr Hendrings, you can explain yourself to the principal, is that clear?'

'Yes, Dr Thorn.'

'"Dr Thorn, sir", Ms Vangeline. I will see you in my office after class, understood?'

'Yes, Dr Thorn, sir.'

I grimaced at my textbook. The poor girl didn't deserve it. Thorn was known to be most creative with his punishments. Just the week before, he had let someone work cleaning duties in the teachers' dorms for daring to enter his classroom with dirty boots.

By the time the lesson was over, I had just barely managed to decipher the instructions of exercise no. 3, and even before the teacher opened his mouth, I knew he would assign the remaining exercises for homework, on top of the actual assignment. I was immediately proven right, and this time, the groans of frustration were audible, here and there. Equally unsurprisingly, stick-up-his-ass Anderson was exempt from any and all homework. I stuffed my papers into my bag and hurried to get out of the classroom, when—

'Mr di Angelo! A word with me!'

I turned on my heel and found myself alone with Dr Thorn. The last student left the classroom, and without Thorn's or my doing, the door fell shut.

'You didn't complete the exercises, Mr di Angelo.'

It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

'No, sir.'

'Do you have trouble with the subject, di Angelo?'

I shook my head. Of course I did have, but the last thing I needed was being assigned a tutor or the likes. I could manage well enough with Bianca helping me on the weekends.

'No, sir.'

'Then what, exactly, is your problem?'

It seemed to me like he had gotten bigger. His eyes, which were of different colours, bore into me like daggers.

'Nothing, sir. Just a bit slow, sir.'

He seemed unsatisfied. He had to be aware of my dyslexia—it was in my file, after all—but apparently, he couldn't bother to care. Or maybe he didn't think it was an issue.

'What about your parents?' he suddenly asked.

'I—I'm sorry, sir? I don't understand. Sir.'

He rolled his eyes. 'Your parents, boy!' He acted like I was an idiot for not understanding right away. 'Who are they? What do they do for a living?'

The sudden change of topic confused me, and I stammered for a moment before answering.

'Dead. Erm, I mean, they died. My sister and I are orphans, sir.'

He just stared at me, in an unsettling way as if hoping to reveal a flaw or inconsistency in my answer, so I added, 'the family lawyer enrolled us here, sir.'

He grunted. 'Whatever. Dismissed, di Angelo.'

I was still trying to make sense of his odd behaviour the whole time on my way back to the dorms.

Δ

Over the next few weeks, I regularly found myself glancing at Dr Thorn throughout lessons. He acted like usual, dishing out detention left, right, and centre to anyone who looked at him funny, but more often than not, I found him doing the same. Unlike Grover Underwood, he didn't avert his eyes when I caught him staring at me.

Eventually, I stopped trying to out-stare him. My curiosity was strong, but my desire to avoid a second heart-to-heart with him was stronger. Whatever it was he was trying to find out, I didn't want to be the solution to his riddles.

We had begun to study area and circumference of geometric shapes. Currently, Thorn was walking around, gathering our homework. He passed by me and I handed in mine—the result of half a Saturday with Bianca explaining the topic to me—and I swear I could feel his eyes staring at me, like spears drilling into the back of my head.

He returned to the front of the room and locked the papers into his desk before turning around.

'Exercise', he barked. 'A room be represented by a square with the sides a of the length 10 feet and b of the length 25 feet. Two dozen crates of ammunition are to be stored inside. Each of them has a length of 5 feet. How wide can they be at most to still fit in the room?'

I scribbled down everything, and in between taking notes as he dictated the next few exercises, I couldn't help but roll my eyes at his words. Of course, Westover being a military school and all, it was understandable, but I found the way he crammed as much army stuff into the instruction as possible ridiculous nevertheless.

'Di Angelo! Are you deaf or what?'

I realised that Dr Thorn was looking right at me, obviously talking to me.

'I'm sorry, sir. No, sir.'

'To the blackboard, Mr di Angelo, if it's not too much effort.'

Sarcasm dripped from his words.

'Now, Mr di Angelo here will be so kind to draw a sketch for exercise no. 2 for us.'

I picked up my worksheet and slowly walked to the front. I nervously glanced at the paper and, with shaking hands, tried to replicate the image shown next to the instructions on the board. The chalk screeched on the board, and I winced.

'Almighty Kr—good Lord, di Angelo, what is that supposed to be?' For a moment, I thought I'd seen Dr Thorn flinch and stumble over his own words, but surely, I had to be imagining things.

'Uhm… the diagram, sir?'

He made a dismissive sound in his throat and wiped the board clean, his hand with the sponge passing inches from my face.

'Again! But less sloppy this time, Mr di Angelo.'

Frustrated, I started over, this time trying to draw the lines a little less wobbly. Eventually, I stepped back, somewhat certain that this had to be good enough to satisfy even Dr Thorn's expectations. He grunted and motioned for me to return to my seat.

The next lesson two days later was no less hilarious, but slightly less boring. We entered the classroom to find an enormous javelin leaning against the wall, next to the teacher's desk. Chatter erupted among the class, before the man ushered us towards the tables and, as usual, had someone recite the previous lesson's topics, before beginning the current one.

'This', Thorn said, 'is a javelin.'

That much had been obvious. He had probably borrowed it from the gym—I knew that during the summer, spear throwing was part of the annual athletics competitions—and the weapon was, I had to give him that, quite impressive. It was about six feet long, the tip protected with a piece of rubber to avoid injuries outside of competitions, and a neat, ancient-looking pattern was drawn around the shaft, making it look like straight out of the hands of a Roman warrior.

Later, I wouldn't even remember why I said it, or how I had known. I was just watching, not paying attention to any word Thorn said, and without even consciously thinking, I felt that something was off, and my mouth acted on its own.

'You're holding it wrong', I said.

'…circumference of 1.75 inc—excuse me, Mr di Angelo?'

'Uh, nothing, sir', I stuttered.

'He said you're holding it the wrong way, Dr Thorn, sir', one of the people in the row behind me piped up, and I died a little inside. No way the man was going to let this go unpunished.

'I see', Thorn growled, and believe me, he looked a dozen times more terrifying with that weapon in his hand. 'And you would know that because you are the definitive expert on throwing weapons, di Angelo?'

I could hardly tell him the truth—that I'd just known, without why or how, that he wasn't doing it right—so an excuse was needed.

'Uh, err, I mean', I stammered, 'it's because, uhm… I play this game', I felt around in my pocket and thank god, found a figurine, 'it's called Mythomagic, sir, and it's all about mythology…'

It was the worst excuse I could have come up with, but apparently, Thorn bought it. His multi-coloured eyes seemed to scan me, and then he put down the spear and pointed towards the door.

'The principal's office, di Angelo. Wait there.'

I slowly stood up and gathered my things before leaving the classroom. A few people sniggered as I walked past them, and I could feel the anger rise up in me. Almost, I imagined, the room was getting colder as I clenched my fists in the pockets of my pants. Thorn paid me no mind, as I shut the door behind me, he had already continued his teaching.

'…as I said, 1.75 inches. Now, if you wanted to wrap this, how would you calculate the required…'

I turned a corner, and almost bumped into someone.

'Excuse me', I asked, realising only now that I didn't know the way, 'where is the principal's office?'

When an hour later, after having me write a humiliating letter of apology for 'undermining his authority', Thorn sent me to the kitchen staff to serve detention by cleaning the dishes, I still hadn't figured out where this sudden desire to correct his handling of the javelin had originated from.