Chapter 8

For the first time in her life, Q felt the unbearable weight of how others saw her.

She had always told herself it didn't matter, what people thought, what they whispered behind her back. Their opinions were like the wind: fleeting and invisible, impossible to hold. She was proud of how little she cared, of how she shrugged off the stares and the snide remarks. But here, surrounded by shimmering gowns and perfect hair, the judgment was palpable, heavy, like a second skin she couldn't shed.

Maddy's expression was what stung the most. That fleeting moment when her gaze swept over Q—lingering on her patched skirt, her mud-streaked apron, the way her boots left smudges across the pristine floor—wasn't just embarrassment. It was something sharper, a horror that cut Q to the quick. For a moment, it was as if Maddy couldn't even recognize her.

Q clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as the whispers around her grew louder.

"Did she come from the stables?"

"Look at the mess she's made."

"She doesn't belong here."

The words buzzed around her like flies, each one a sting, a reminder of everything she wasn't. She glanced down at herself, at the road-dust clinging to her skirt, the dirt under her nails. The boots she was so proud of—her only pair, mended so many times they barely held together—felt like weights dragging her further into the floor.

Her eyes darted to Maddy again, searching for some sign of reassurance, some flicker of warmth. But Maddy didn't meet her gaze. She stood motionless, her lips pressed into a thin line, her hands trembling at her sides. And then Maddy sighed. It was soft, almost imperceptible, but it shattered the last fragile thread holding Q together.

The room tilted. Tears blurred her vision. Without a word, she turned and ran.

Her boots thudded against the polished floor, each step loud and graceless. She felt the eyes on her back, heard the muffled gasps as she bolted past the elegant figures who seemed carved from marble. Professor Ligarius's voice echoed faintly behind her, his tone measured and unflinching, but she didn't stop to hear what he said.

She stumbled into the hallway, the air cool and silent compared to the stifling room she'd left behind. The marble walls seemed to stretch endlessly, their white surfaces too bright, too clean. She couldn't breathe. Her chest heaved as she pressed herself against the cold stone, sliding down until she was curled on the floor. Her knees hugged to her chest, her tears soaking into the rough fabric of her skirt.

She had been stupid to come here. Stupid to think she could find comfort, or belonging, or anything resembling home. The farm had been unbearable, but this—this was worse. Here, the rejection wasn't quiet, wasn't veiled behind weary sighs or sharp words. Here, it was loud, visceral, a glaring spotlight illuminating all her flaws.

Her sobs came in waves, quiet and muffled but relentless. She pressed her forehead to her knees, wishing she could melt into the stone beneath her, wishing she could disappear entirely.

"Miss Q."

The voice was calm, steady, and she startled at its closeness. She looked up to see Professor Ligarius standing a few feet away, his wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face. His expression wasn't stern or mocking, as she had feared, but strangely patient, as though he had all the time in the world.

"Running is rarely the solution." he said, his tone even but not unkind.

Q sniffled, swiping at her face with her sleeve.

"You don't understand," she muttered, her voice trembling. "I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere."

Professor Ligarius stepped closer, crouching so they were at eye level.

"Don't you?" he asked softly. "You made it this far, didn't you?"

She opened her mouth to protest, but the words caught in her throat. Her tears spilled again, hot and bitter, and she buried her face in her arms.

Ligarius didn't interrupt. He didn't offer platitudes or try to stop her tears. He simply waited, his sharp gray eyes watching her with a quiet intensity, as though studying a puzzle he was determined to solve.

The corridor was silent except for the faint sound of her hiccupping breaths. When the sobs finally slowed, she risked a glance at him through tear-blurred lashes. He hadn't moved, his posture relaxed but unwavering, his hands folded neatly over his knee. His presence was steady, grounding in a way she couldn't explain.

For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like she was being judged. She felt seen.

"Sorry," she mumbled, her cheeks burning as she wiped at her nose. "I didn't mean to… to make a scene."

"There's no need to apologize," Ligarius said, his voice calm but firm. "Tears are as valid as words, though they rarely get the credit they deserve."

Q blinked at him, unsure how to respond. No one had ever said something like that to her before.

After a moment, she spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.

"My name… it's Queenie."

Ligarius raised an eyebrow, tilting his head. "Queenie?"

She nodded, her hands twisting nervously in her lap.

"Yeah. Queenie Weston. But I don't… I don't like it."

"Why not?"

"It doesn't fit," she said, the words spilling out before she could stop them. "I'm not a Queen. I'm not anything close to that. People used to tease me, calling me things like 'Queenie the Clutz' or 'Queen of the Pigs.'"

Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, looking away.

"So I told people to just call me Q. It's easier."

Professor Ligarius was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to her surprise, he smiled—a small, faint thing, but genuine.

"Names are curious things," he said. "They hold power, but they do not define us. A name is a tool, nothing more. What matters is how you wield it."

Q blinked, his words settling over her like a balm. For the first time since she'd stepped foot in RAPS, she felt a flicker of something she hadn't dared to hope for: acceptance. She wasn't sure why, but Ligarius's calm, unwavering presence made her feel safe, like the world wasn't pressing quite so heavily on her shoulders.

"Queenie or Q," Ligarius continued, his voice softening, "What matters is not what they call you, but who you choose to be. And from what I've seen, you are someone worth noticing."

Q swallowed hard, her throat tight.

She wasn't sure if she believed him, but for the first time in a long while, she wanted to try.