DYLAN

I feel so much heat flush my face, embarrassment crawling up my skin. And there it is. The boy in the second row scoffs at me. I look directly at him. I'm 17. I'm not spending my last apparently two years of high school being laughed at by some prep boy. He stops, and his expression is priceless. He goes completely slack-jawed and his already pale skin looks like it drops a few shades. Good.

"What brings you to Watford?" The teacher thingy asks.

"My dad thought it'd be a good idea to move to England," I decide to leave out the part about him dropping that bomb on me two weeks before we were set to move. And the part where absolutely none of the spells I'd created would work here. Because what are the odds of enough people in England knowing about Morgan Wallen for me to cast whiskey glasses? (I could definitely use that one right about now.)

"Well, why don't you take a seat? I don't suppose the Mage has provided you with your textbooks yet? We weren't expecting you for a few more days," the Minotaur-looking dude asked. (They let 11 year old children be taught by a man who looks like a bloodthirsty Ancient Greek monster?) "I do believe the seat next to Mr. Grimm-Pitch is empty. He can share his books with you until you're issued your own."

I have no idea who "Mr. Grimm-Pitch" is. I look over at the class. The pale-skinned boy from earlier guestures to the seat at his right. Great. Perfect. Lucky me. I take my new seat and the guy holds out his hand.

"Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. Welcome to Watford."

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

This guy.

He reeks of entitlement, but at the same time I can't help but feel myself get pulled into it. He's beautiful. And then there's his voice. His accent is smooth, rich (not in the money way, but in the texture way), and incomprehensibly hot.

I reach out and shake his hand. One firm shake. Just like Dad taught me. You can tell alot about a man and how he was raised by his handshake. And this guy? He might as well be a vampire with how fucking cold his hand is. He points his wand at my desk.

"Two peas in a pod!" He says, and my desk slides so quickly up against his that it probably scuffs the floor.

Tyrannus (who I really just want to call Tyrannosaurus) places his text book on the seam between the two desks. Apparently I'm interrupting Latin class. At least there's something in this damn school I know I'll be good at. I pull out my notebook and start jotting down the shit on the chalkboard, translating it as I go. I can feel him staring at me. Mr. I-Have-Four-Names-And-I-Want-You-To-Remember-Them-All.

"I know I'm good-looking, but it's rude to stare."

"You know Latin?" He asks, his voice thick with confusion. Or curiosity. I can't really tell the difference.

"What, you think those Normal high schools in the Sates don't teach the fun stuff too? It's not all just eight hours of math, y'know." I think I'm going to enjoy sitting next to this guy, especially if that means I get to spend all class poking holes through his enormous, rich, handsome guy ego.

"Mr.Grimm-Pitch, Mr..." the teacher looks down at his paper in his hand. "Carlson? Is there something you'd like to share with the class?"

Tyrannus begins to talk, but I interrupt him.

"Well, sir, my new seat neighbor was just asking me how far my ancient languages studies went back home."

"Understandable. You bring a very good point, Mr. Grimm-Pitch. And, Mr. Carlson, how far have you gotten in your Greek and Latin studies?" The bull-man studied me.

I walked up to the chalkboard and translated everything on it into English, then under that into Greek. And just for funsies, into Korean. Because I'm a show-off. I brush chalk off my hands as I make my way back to my desk. I soooo want to rub my chalky hands all over Rich Guy. He's probably got rich person OCD or something. Gross.