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The gloom in the teachers’ room is palpable.
"This year will be hell," Divus sighs, pale makeup not thick enough to conceal the dark circles hanging from his eyes. Mozus is loath to agree.
Being a teacher has its ups and downs, as all occupations. Most of the time, Mozus Trein feels as honoured to teach in Night Raven College as when he got the History of Magic’s professor post, twenty-eight years ago. Even if he owes his early grey hairs to the many, many disasters his students get up to, or if he still groans at grading papers, he does love to teach. Nothing can quite compare to the rewarding feeling of watching his pupils blossom into great wizards.
Night Raven College has also managed to carve itself a place into his heart after all these years, becoming somewhat of a second home. There are few things that Mozus enjoys more than the afternoon sunlight pouring into the quiet hallways, or the slow-as-molasses trickle of time during exams, Lucius comfortably snoring away.
When that time comes, he must remind himself of these facts over and over again. The time where despair floods every teacher's heart, suffocating them.
The midterm parent-teacher conferences.
As a prestigious school, NRC's student body is just as high-profile. Of course, there are students from simple and humble backgrounds, but there is always a prince, a conglomerate heir, an important politician's son, a noble…all kinds of important people.
The kids themselves aren't too bothersome, still malleable and liable to consequences, but the parents…
The parents are another story.
Mozus sighs.
"We can expect the Headmaster to bail out."
"Doesn't he always?" Divus rolls his eyes, carding a hand through his hair. "Just like last year, then? You get the Housewardens and I do the Vicehousewardens?"
Mozus nods tersely. "With all the incidents this year, it won't do any good to change our usual plan of action. The other students will be seen by their respective homeroom teachers."
It's Mozus' silver lining, his homeroom class. At least he got a great batch this year.
Divus sighs again, the longest yet.
"Lucky you. I have Class 1-A," he mutters. Mozus lights a candle for him in his heart.
"Let's hope this will pass quickly and without incidents," he says, ignoring the ill-disguised sobs of the other teachers.
Riddle Rosehearts is the student every teacher wishes for, on paper. Excellent grades, impeccable behaviour and flawless leadership. Perfection incarnate. On paper.
Reality is less kind.
"Are you trying to imply there is something wrong in the way I raise my child, Professor Trein?"
Madam Rosehearts unfortunately shares the same fiery disposition of her son, porcelain skin reddening as her temper rises. Mozus meets her gaze evenly, trying not to think much about Riddle shrinking back on his seat.
"Of course not. I am merely pointing out that for Mr. Rosehearts to keep improving and not put further stress on him, he needs to—"
"He's an honour student, is he not?" Madam Rosehearts interrupts him again. A shard of Mozus' patience cracks. "That's because I raised him. So I don't see anything wrong in demanding NRC to change its curriculum as well as allow me to keep track of his food intake and—"
"No," Mozus cuts her off pointedly. Keep calm, keep calm. This is just one more entitled parent to the bunch.
Madam Rosehearts keeps talking.
" —and an overblot, you don't know how my heart stopped when I got the news! Is there anything you faculty know to do at all?"
"Mother," Mr. Rosehearts speaks up for the first time since he greeted Mozus twenty-seven minutes ago, voice mortified.
"Silence, Riddle. I won't let your magic be jeopardised again nor let this—"
It's a relief when the clock rings and he can kick them out of his office.
"Professor Trein," King Falena greets with a strained smile, a wall of bodyguards behind him. "It's a pleasure, as always."
Mozus wishes he could say the same. If things had gone their course, Leona Kingscholar would have graduated last year.
Mozus was supposed to be free this year.
"Let's wrap this up quickly," Leona yawns, interlacing his hands behind his head. King Falena's gaze is both reprimanding and helpless.
For once, Mozus agrees with Leona. He clears his throat primly.
"As last year, when pressed Mr. Kingscholar has shown he can pass his exams with flying colours. The only problems are the assignments he never turns in… and most pressing, his attendance record."
King Falena groans in a very un-kingly manner, tail flailing on his seat.
"Leona, we've talked about this."
Leona narrows his eyes into slits. "I don't care."
"You need to have a seventy-five percent attendance to pass your subjects, you know this."
"Ah, brother, but don't you know that that one patch of sunlight in the Botanical Garden is very tempting and easy to fall asleep in? I've just been so tired after I went into overblot, I can't help it."
It's a big fat lie if Mozus has ever heard one. But it seems to clamp King Falena shut, face melting.
The bodyguards don't say a word, but Mozus can swear they roll their eyes behind their sunglasses, animal ears twitching.
"Isn't there another way?" King Falena whirls to Mozus, voice sharpening into steel. "Making his grades only practical, using his second year's grades? We could pa—"
"Kingscholar is a student just like any other, and he must achieve the minimum requirements if he wants to make it into fourth year," Mozus says, unwavering.
Privately, he thinks that he's ready to do whatever it takes so Leona can pass this year.
He doesn't want to deal with this for the rest of his life, nor the bodyguards taking one hour inspecting his office for security measures and messing everything up before King Falena sets foot on it.
Great Seven, Mozus begs of you, please let this be the last time.
"Leona, please, you can't be here forever—"
"I will do whatever the hell I want—"
He was supposed to be free this year.
The first time Mozus met Azul Ashengrotto’s mother, he’d been surprised that such a kind lady had spawned such a double-faced boy.
High grades and good behaviour aside, Ashengrotto’s schemes didn’t let many teachers sleep at night. The boy had practically installed a mafia amongst students, amassing power and resources overnight. On the other hand, his mother was a plump and beautiful woman whose silvery voice sweetened the day of whoever heard her. Her hands had been littered with burn scars and hardened skin from cooking, but her handshake had been firm and honest.
Mozus had realised too late that the smile lighting up the room was the same one Ashengrotto bore whenever he performed his benefactor act. Ashengrotto’s was merely an imitation of the real thing.
He knows better this time.
“Tuition is rising again? Where is all this money going?”
Ashengrotto shrugs, sighing. “Isn’t it atrocious, mother? One would think asking for proof of spendings is reasonable, but Headmaster Crowley keeps shutting me down. All that money…!”
“Unfortunately, we’ve seen more expenses than expected this year,” Mozus explains, because loath as he is to defend Crowley’s feathers, he’s still Night Raven College’s Headmaster. “There have been many incidents, as you well know, and—”
“That still doesn’t explain it,” Mrs. Ashengrotto cuts in, baffled, “I don’t mean to sound rude, Professor Trein, but… as you know, I’m quite adept at business. If we apply the increase to every student, there’d be—”
Mozus tunes her out. He’s a social studies professor, not a maths one. Kindly take your complaints elsewhere, thank you.
Lord Asim lives up to his reputation of being a man who always smiles.
Last year, Mozus had met Lord Asim’s first wife, Kalim’s mother, a lovely lady with long white hair falling over her shoulders and eyes as dark as her umber skin. He’d had a rare good time, and admitted only to himself that he’d looked forward to seeing her again.
To his surprise, though, Lord Asim himself comes this year.
Kalim’s father proves to be as joyful as his wife, even bringing Mozus freshly brewed tea and expensive biscuits. He’s courteous and handsome, oozing charm even with the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, or perhaps because of them. He scolds his son playfully when Mozus remarks his bad habit of falling asleep in class, congratulates him when Mozus shares the good reviews on his dorm leadership, wholeheartedly thanks Mozus for his service to the school… he can see why Lord Asim is such a successful businessman, family talents and history aside.
The conference goes well. Almost too well.
In hindsight, Mozus should have expected the other shoe to drop.
Kalim exits his office first, a spring on his step and turban bobbing with his head. In that split of a second, Lord Asim turns back, his smile wiped clean off his face and red eyes glinting threateningly. Mozus stiffens.
“Should I hear again that students were left unsupervised during a holiday on school grounds, I will sue the school to hell and back. I especially better not hear that my son is involved in any incident.” Lord Asim’s grin returns, eerie and too sharp at the edges. There’s a faint ringing in Mozus’ left ear, temperature plummeting. “I chose Night Raven College for my son’s education. I better not regret it.”
A pregnant pause makes Mozus’ heart skip a beat. He stares, almost feeling like there’s someone looming over his back, ready to slit his throat if Lord Asim so desired.
He reminds himself that Viper’s parents are with Divus.
“Pass that message to your superior, who I didn’t have the pleasure to cross ways with today.”
Kalim calls to his father from the hallways, confused and blissfully ignorant. All at once Lord Asim mellows, calling back and assuring him he’ll be out with him in a minute.
The sincere smile returns, full brilliance. It’s perhaps the most unsettling thing of all.
“Have a great day, Professor Trein.”
The door slams shut. Mozus collapses on his seat, shivering. He sneaks a glance at the back corners of his office, shrouded in shadows.
They’re—predictably—empty.
He’s getting too old for this.
“If we can make this brief…” Vil Schoenheit’s father says. The words are muffled by his black face mask, violet eyes hidden behind expensive sunglasses. He dons a chestnut-coloured wig, curls fringing his concealed face. His cologne clogs Mozus’ nostrils, the scent pleasant but far too intense.
Mozus doesn’t care that much about movies or celebrities. He doesn’t know why Mr. Schoenheit doesn’t drop his disguise in his office since Mozus already knows who he is. It’s the third year in a row they’re doing this.
Vil Schoenheit looks pointedly at Mozus.
He sighs.
“Brief works for me.”
“For the last time, Mr. Shroud, no, your son can’t keep getting away with attending class through his tablet.”
The tablet hovering over Ortho's right hand grumbles with Mr. Shroud's voice. "But if he does as well—"
"No means no, Mr. Shroud," Mozus says sharply. The tablet on Ortho's left hand yelps with Idia's voice.
"I'm sorry, professor," Idia stammers, "thank you for trying, dad."
"Well, if that's all…" The tablet on Ortho's right hand lights up. "This is goodbye, then. I have a lot of work to do. Keep up the good work, Idia."
"I have a lot to do too," Idia hastily chimes in, "Goodbye, Professor Trein."
Both of them hang up, tablets turning off.
Mozus stares at Ortho, unimpressed. Ortho shrugs helplessly.
"Thank you for showing up."
Ortho shakes his head, nestling both tablets in the crook of his left elbow and flying to the door. "No, thank you, professor."
Mozus deserves a raise.
The first year that Lilia Vanrouge showed up to Draconia's parent-teacher conference, Mozus refused to meet them until a suitable guardian showed up. No one did. Draconia slipped away after sending a withering glare at Mozus, Vanrouge shrugging and telling him they'd be seeing each other the following year.
The second year, Mozus reluctantly met them, absolutely baffled. It was almost like he was in a movie with the actors casted into the wrong roles, or playing house with one of his daughters when they were younger. Vanrouge’s performance had been so convincing that when the conference ended Mozus had to shake himself out of the idea that he was actually Draconia's father.
The third year, Mozus gives up in any semblance of a normal conference for Draconia.
"I see… so Malleus' problem is his attendance. It's dragging down his grades."
Mozus nods.
"It was a glaring issue in previous years, but this time there are some subjects where his attendance is less than the required minimum. He won't pass those courses if he doesn’t reach it, regardless of whether his exam scores are good or bad. It might endanger his school year.”
And may the Great Seven forbid Malleus Draconia from repeating a year. Mozus has enough with Kingscholar.
“What do you have to say in your defence, Malleus?”
Draconia scowls, although if Mozus didn’t know better he’d say it is a pout. “Human time is complicated. Sometimes I lose track of it.”
Vanrouge sighs, reclining on his chair.
“When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” he chides. Then he looks at Mozus, a grin tugging the corner of his lips up. Vanrouge’s eyes are the exact shade of blood. Sometimes, Mozus finds them more ancient than when he meets his own gaze in the mirror. “Thank you for your time, Trein. Worry not, we’ll take care of this.”
With the snap of a finger, both of them vanish. Mozus blinks at the empty room.
He needs a drink.
The teachers organise a party on Friday night at the teachers’ room.
Although in all fairness, calling it a party is a bit of a stretch. Mozus thinks “excuse for drinking” is better, because that’s what they do. Drink and complain about the week, traumatised but free from the burden of parent-teacher conferences for four blessed months.
“If I never see the Leech brothers' parents again, it will be too soon,” one of the teachers sobs on their second wine bottle, plastered against a table. Ashton pats him on the back, hiccuping.
“Felmier’s grandmother is so scary…” another mumbles back, skin blanched.
“At least you didn’t get the golden problematic trio,” Divus snaps, downing another glass of wine, “when there’s trouble, it’s always those three.”
Mozus just sips quietly, cheeks pleasantly warm. The wine is at its perfect point, a dark sweet flavour bursting in his tongue.
He wants to pretend last week didn’t happen.
“If I had one madol each time Lilia Vanrouge showed up to a parent-teacher conference as the parent, I’d have two madols,” 2-A’s homeroom teacher drawls, blinking at the candles they lit up, “which is not a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.”
“Too many bad puppies in this school,” Divus spits. His hand spasms, almost spilling the wine as he refills his glass again.
With the alcohol thrumming in his veins Mozus thinks he has enough courage to make an argument about how concerning it is that Divus compares teaching their students to training dogs, but he decides to let it slide this time. He’s fought enough battles this week.
He refills his glass.
Just as he ponders if making an escape to cuddle with Lucius in his room is worth it, the room’s door swings open.
Everybody conscious enough groans at the tell-tale swish of a cape.
“Hello everyone!” Headmaster Crowley chirps with an entirely too-loud, too-cheerful voice, “I have returned! I can’t believe you’ve organised a welcome back party for me—”
Someone hurls an empty wine bottle at him. Unfortunately, the aim is far off. It shatters against the wall, leaving a little stain on the wall that Mozus knows will be a pain to clean later.
“Get out!”
Mozus loves teaching, but he really ought to start planning for retirement.