It was the time of night when he caught the ribbons of moonlight. He felt like a sovereign with the red carpet at (what might have been) his feet. Velvet curtains hung at his side; the artist’s choice of contrast with his blue coat. Yes, his blue coat, every fold meticulously prepared that morning. Every strand of dark hair arranged just so. Tristan Howell Ernest de Ath (the First) stood in the painting of perfection, his language spoken with eloquence.

“My dear lady,” he said with a smirch of gloat, “I know I am very much handsome, but there is no need to stare, really.” Tristan Howell Ernest de Ath (the First) peered at Matilda with his large hazel eyes as the other turned an interesting shade of red.

“I am doing no such thing,” the first year declared indignantly, “merely observing.” Then her eyebrows furrowed, lips jutting out in what might have been a pout.

The painting returned the look, rather bemused. “Observing what, may I ask?”

“How much this is worth,” Matilda said.

“If you must know, I am worth more than your life. Now shoo. Go away.” The painting sniffed and every stroke was painted in distress. The girl scrambled off without another word. Tristan Howell Ernest de Ath (the First) felt the silver ribbons slipping, the way a person would feel time tick onwards. The moonlight shifted slowly to another painting along the wall. There goes his reign, “Discourteous first years,” he mumbled.