haven ☞ l.s

0.1

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Harry's shoes are insufferable.

Every time he takes a step, he cringes at the high pitched noise that escapes beneath him, making everyone in the hall turn and stare. It definitely feels like high school all over again, what with the loud gossiping and unashamed giggles, the shrill bells, the feeling of crippling insecurity and self-doubt. Harry remembers it well.

One of his greatest joys was finally graduating high school and moving on with his life. At the time, he didn't know what he wanted to be, but teachers get summers off, so he decided to try that.

It's been a few years now, and he's grown to love teaching in a way that he hadn't known he would. He's been an assistant in a few kindergarten classrooms—which was fun, if a little hectic—and he's substituted in a middle school or two. Thankfully, he hadn't been forced to reenter the Axe-filled, hormonally charged Hell that is high school—until now.

His professor wants to give everyone a "well-rounded" teaching ability, regardless of what grades they prefer to teach. Objectively, Harry can understand this, but as he's walking through the halls of a brand new high school, his shoes squeaking embarrassingly loud, he can't help but curse his professor's demand.

It's just for three days, he thinks. Then he can claim that he's well-rounded enough, and refuse another entry into Hell. He's got this.

The squeak of his shoes stops abruptly as he glances down to check his schedule, confirming that he's at the right room. A16, the English wing. With one deep breath, Harry pastes a half-smile on his face and twists the door handle.

Inside, the room is partly dark, completely silent except for the tapping of a keyboard Once his eyes adjust to the darkness, Harry can see the cheesy inspirational posters hung on the walls, a giant whiteboard with what looks like an entire monologue from Shakespeare scribbled on it, with annotations and all, the tables pushed together into one long line down the middle, like a giant dining table. In the corner of the room is a small desk with a computer from the 90's at the latest, a hulking dinosaur of a computer, and a massive stack of papers.

"Hello?" Harry asks quietly. He knows the teacher must be in here—a Mr. Tomlinson, he's heard—but he can hardly see anything but a shadow.

The shadow stands up, a man slightly shorter than himself, and heads over towards the windows. "Hey!" the teacher says. Harry can't see his face, but he can tell he's smiling. He pulls open a curtain, the room filling with a soft sunrise glow. Mr. Tomlinson is turned backwards, but his hair is light and feathery, shining like a halo. And—Harry is resolutely not looking at this teacher's bum. "Sorry, the screen on my state of the art government-provided computer is so dim that the room needs to be pitch black to see it."

His arms reach above his head to give the second string a firm tug, exposing a small patch of skin on his back, and then he turns around with his hand outstretched.

The already ice-cold nerves flowing through Harry's veins freeze even further once he seems Mr. Tomlinson's face . It's—gorgeous. That's the only word that Harry's mind can produce. He's got cheekbones to die for, sharp blue eyes—a shade unlike the ocean or the sky, more like the blurred softness between them—and a pleasantly scratchy looking beard, not so long, just the right length to leave Harry's thighs looking—

No, no. No. This is a complete stranger, and a teacher at that. One wrong move and Mr. Tomlinson can give his professor a terrible report. He definitely can't get lost in his thoughts like this.

Harry extends his own hand, grasping his' small but firm fingers and shaking them once. Mr. Tomlinson's face morphs into a toothy smile as he takes his hand away. "Hello, then. I take it you're not a new student?"