Don’t Sit Down ‘Cause I’ve Moved Your Chair
Banner credit to: Victoria Blythe
September 8th, 2025 “English”
September 8th should have come with a warning label. Not in a dramatic, life threatening sort of way, just a general “approach with caution” sign would have been nice. Because within minutes of Alyss settling into her quiet corner at the Headliner, everything went to hell. Immediate derailment.
Oh, nothing serious at first. Just their brand new Editor-in-Chief failing to answer a perfectly normal, perfectly reasonable question. She’d asked, and instead was met with sass and an insulting tone. “You’re the goddamn Editor-in-Chief. I figured the least you could do was show me where an extra quill would be, you glaikit.” Alyss snapped, lips curling into a frustrated snarl. The words had torn out of her sharper than she’d intended, but honestly? She stood by them. Supplies didn’t just evaporate, and he should know where they were, as the Editor-in-Chief. Alyss wasn’t about to write with nothing but some hopes and dreams.
She the turned to the older seventh year beside her—after clearing her throat and pretending she hadn’t just verbally skewered her superior. “Wait, something happened to my quill and your article outline went missing? What a…coincidence.” Her voice dropped as gears began to turn in her mind. If she couldn’t write, she could at least think, and this puzzle was more enticing than staring at a now blank sheet of paper.
As more members of the Headliner drifted into the office, the environment grew louder but not necessarily more remarkable. Matthew said a greeting and promptly called Silas the wrong name—deserved, in Alyss’ opinion, which brought the faintest smirk to her face, with a wave of satisfaction in a petty sort of way. Then the transfer—Alphonse?—sauntered in, glanced around, and casually launched a nameplate over his shoulder after sitting down like it had personally offended him. Alyss winced at the clatter. The boy had barely arrived and was already adding to the disarray.
Still, nothing truly noteworthy—until Archer Duncan entered the office.
With slightly frustrating nonchalance, Archer mentioned how easy quills were to tamper with. How much better his pen was. How they needed to pay mind their utensils better. Alyss’ mind halted for a moment, considering. Who would have access to nearly every quill in the office? Who would have motive? The thought process was surprisingly simple. And by the look on the older Ravenclaw’s face, Aly—Big Aly, as Alyss had mentally coined her—had reached the same conclusion at the same moment.
Alyss whipped her head toward the Ravenclaw, catching the frantic tipping of an ink pot. Her gaze narrowed instantly, locking on Silas. “Our fault, huh?” she said, voice dripping with spite. “What did you do?” The annoyance she felt slipped free, her eyebrows pulling downward into sharp, angry lines that transformed her face from friendly-ish to fierce in quickly. But Aly got there first—and with dramatically less patience, and a penchant of violence.
“Petrificus Totalus!”
The spell cracked through the room, the older girl’s wand raised before Alyss had even processed that she’d drawn it. The first year froze where he stood. Alyss could only hope the boy had been the culprit of their ink problem, because otherwise she and Aly looked like complete lunatics. Then again, a seventh year shoving a first year into a closet would likely earn her that title, with or without evidence.
Alyss stepped in carefully, hands lifted in something like surrender. “I- as much as I agree he deserves something after that display, he’s still only eight days into Hogwarts. Don’t kill him so soon.” She murmured, mostly to Aly, though her eyes flicked to Silas with something a bit…frostier.
Matthew cast the counter-charm, being all polite and helpful. Alyss did not lend a hand, or offer help to Matthew nor Silas. Absolutely not. Silas had sabotaged her chance to get her writing done. She wasn’t going to swoop in as if she was his little savior. But she also wasn’t exactly going to assist a seventh year Quidditch Captain in exacting revenge on a brand new first year. She was a Prefect, for Merlin’s sake.
Instead, she pulled back from the commotion, scanning shelves, drawers, and stray desks like a hawk, attempting to remove herself from…that. There had to be an untouched ink pot somewhere. She still had actual work to get done, and no chaotic first year—or Editor-in-Chief, for that matter, was going to stop her from writing.
Reducio
Pings: @Silas Norwood, @Matthew Campbell, @Aly Salinger, @Archer Duncan, @Alphonse Toussaint
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