Witch, Please

Vess Noire did not walk. She arrived.

The hallway didn’t go quiet, it got tense, like it was holding its breath. A fog rolled in that hadn’t been there a second ago, perfumed faintly with roses, regret, and the kind of incense you’re not supposed to burn indoors. She turned the corner in slow motion. Not literally, but it felt like it. Actually she probably did do it literally.

Velvet cloak? Of course. Dark as betrayal, embroidered with constellations that moved when you weren't looking. No one's really sure if those were accurate constellations or not, and no one really cares enough to find out. Lips the color of a poison apple. Hair like a thunderstorm someone taught manners to. Her heels didn’t click against the floor, they announced her, a stiletto metronome counting down to drama.

And trailing behind her, as always, came the three.

First: a sleek black cat named Morgue, slinking through shadows with the grace of someone who had absolutely caused your recent misfortune and would do it again. Her eyes glowed faintly. Her opinion of you was lower than sea level.

Second: a raven named Hex, perched on her shoulder like a feathered devil’s advocate. He was constantly muttering. Some said it was spellwork. Some said it was gossip. Either way, people listened.

And third: the fog. Lux, technically, though no one knew if it was really a familiar or just a sentient vibe that decided to follow her one day. It curled at her ankles, shimmered faintly when she was annoyed, and occasionally hissed at people Vess didn’t like. Which was most people.

Together, they looked less like a witch and her familiars and more like a power trio that got kicked out of a villainous fashion magazine for being “too intense.”

Students stepped out of her way without needing to be asked. Posters unpeeled from the wall when she passed. Mirrors fogged up in submission. Even the cursed vending machine blinked nervously and dispensed snacks unprovoked.

She was, by all accounts, terrible.

And everyone loved her.

Because if Vess Noire hated you, at least you mattered. If she liked you? You were probably doomed. But beautifully doomed.

She spoke in purrs and passive aggression, with compliments sharp enough to draw blood. She had a list of exes longer than most textbooks and a fan club made entirely of her own haters. She once made a banshee cry out of fashion-based inferiority, and rumor has it her last love confession came in the form of a hexed bouquet that whispered your worst insecurities. It was, apparently, very romantic.

Vess Noire was not a student.

She was a presence.
Okay, but she is a student.