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Ophelia knows this kid.

Not personally, no she's never met him before now, she doesn't even remember his first name. She had taken one look at the school registry, saw the trademark hair, the unique eyes, saw the surname printed in bold black lettering and realised she was fucked.

There really was no escaping from karma, it seemed.

He grins down at her, his stupid face too similar to that of his parents, like somebody had overlapped their faces into one startling image. The kid had the same hereditary hazel-near-golden eyes as his father and aunt but had his mother's red hair and mischevious smirk-- a dead give away to who he really was. She was as familiar to these features as she was with her own.

He looked uncannily like his parents, but even worse, there was something reminiscent of his aunt in the way he held himself, confident and self-assured.

Ophelia didn't know how to look at him, this amalgamation of all of the people she had hurt the most in her life. The ones she had spent the past eighteen years running away from.

She bristles, fear spiking through her. Misplaced fight or flight in a situation that requires neither.

"What is it." She snaps. Anywhere else, please, please could she just be anywhere else.

His grin falters, washed over with a wave of sudden bewilderment.

"I want to borrow a book?" The kid asks, blinking in confusion. "It's a library?"

Right. Of course.

"Of course, excuse me."

With an internalised barrage of curses she takes a deep breath and pushes past her adrenaline high, blocking out the sound of her pounding heartbeat. She has a job to do after all, the past can wait a little longer to drag her under.

°°°°°°°°

The new librarian was fucking weird, but she was, as it turned out, at least massively hot.

It was all anybody had been talking about for weeks and Milo, being forever the troublemaker and loveable bane of everybody's existence, had decided to go down and see for himself.

The thing was he hadn't, like, believed the rumours. Usually when people called teachers hot it was because they were younger and dressed somewhat better than most, you couldn't blame him for being sceptical, and yet;

"They were right." He announces when he throws his already half empty tray on to the table.

Cyril and Maeve stop arguing over the pineapple pizza and turn to look at him with matching expressions of exasperation.

"Who was right?" Maeve demands, eyebrows furrowed.

"Everyone." Milo plops down into the seat next to Cyril and blinks at his food, still half dazed.

"...I don't understand." Cyril eventually admits.

"The librarian," Milo looks up, eyes blazing with newfound vigour, "is hot."

Maeve leans forward with a lecherous grin. "Oh?"

The sigh from next to Milo doesn't stop the onslaught of not-so-poetic description that begins to flow from his mouth.

"Yeah, like, seriously hot! She's got this silvery-white hair that she must dye every other week because you can't see her roots and she has this sexy beauty mark under her eye. And holy shit, her eyes are nearly black, she looks like she wants to kill everyone and then herself but in a dom milf kinda way."