Elias

The second-floor corridor was empty when he appeared. Elias Miller walked slowly, in no hurry. He wore no uniform—only a long, dark blue robe, almost black, draped casually over his shoulders, with a silver raven on the back. Underneath, a black cotton shirt, unbuttoned two buttons, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His black trousers and expensive shoes clacked dully on the stone floor.

His hair was black, thick, and styled carelessly. His face—high cheekbones, a defined jaw, a cleft chin, a straight nose. And his eyes—brown, deep, almost black in the shadows, but in the sun they blazed with warm amber, burning right through him. It was a hard look to bear, and he knew it. His dark brows drew together when he frowned, but now he was calm. He was simply bored. As always. A crooked smirk played across his lips—tired, almost lazy.

He thought, "Ravenclaw. A pathetic excuse for a school. Another year and I'll be out of here." He was so absorbed in himself that he didn't notice anyone. He rarely noticed anyone.

The academy came alive outside the windows. The old walls, covered in ivy, gleamed golden in the first rays of light. A coat of arms gleamed above the oak door—a silver raven with a golden key. Below, a plaque read: "Scientia est lux." The school smelled of wood, wax, and morning coffee. Students in immaculate dark blue jackets bustled through the hallways—but not him. Elias didn't belong to the school. The school belonged to him.