MAD HATTER ; school for good & evil

01 | the princess, the witch, & the mad hatter

MAD HATTER !
( school for good and evil &&& sge!various x reader )

CHAPTER ONE : the princess, the witch, & the mad hatter

THE RUSTED CEMETERY GATES OPENED WITH AN ECHOING CREAK, gradually drawing your attention off your parents' graves, and onto your friend, who eyed her gloomy surroundings in poorly hidden disdain.

Sophie (very evidently) stood out from all the monochrome the depressing cemetery offered.

Her hair fell to her waist in luscious golden waves, her skin was like a healthy peach in colour, and her eyes were seas of a captivating emerald green.

She exuded confidence in her familiar glass clumps and pink dress, which greatly complemented her princess personality (though most of Gavaldon would object). But as she caught sight of the graveyard girl crouched by the seventh row of tombs, her frown turned upside down and shone true.

You were an odd one, everyone, including yourself, knew. You had your little (big) quirks. That much, Sophie and the mundanes of Gavaldon could agree on — it went from your waist-long (H/C) locks that were littered with natural blue, near-lavender highlights (something Sophie could barely come to terms with), your questionable preference in company ("the woodland critters are very friendly," you would constantly claim), the dazed, dreamy look forever plastered on your face, and also your even odder (though not for long if Sophie had anything to say about it) choice in clothing — however, that's where their similar insights ceased to an end.

She would loathe having much in common with those simple folks. . . The horror, her spine racked with a shiver at the mere thought before refocusing on the girl that, like always, unblinkingly gazed at her.

"Y/N, darling!" she called out cheerily, waving her woven basket in the air. "Have you been waiting on me?" Sophie cooed, feeling a sense of pride swell at the thought—

"Not frankly, no,"

Immediately, that feeling crumbled, although you were oblivious to this, rather going with Sophie's flow, and allowing her to drag you off toward your home's relatively (very) uninviting door.

1 Graves Hill stood in the middle of the thickest batch of tombs. It wasn't boarded or bolted shut like the cottages by the lake, though that didn't make it any more welcoming. The steps leading up to the porch glowed mildew green. Dead birches and vines wormed their way around dark wood, and the sharply angled roof, black and thin, loomed like a witch's hat.

As you climbed up the moaning porch steps, Sophie clung tight onto you. Despite the neverending words that spilt her tongue (she went on another rant about cucumbers), your mind drifted off, much rather pinning its focus on the beautiful, blue butterfly that remained perched on your father's grave. You could barely remember him, but you did remember his fondness for the peaceful creature, often drawing detailed illustrations of such in his leather notebook. Or if not that, there would often be beautiful melodies echoing in your home — he, having been passionate about music, and more specifically, the piano, much like you've learned to become over the years.

The familiar stench of garlic and wet cat hit your nose, causing your lips to momentarily twitch upward.

Home, sweet home. . .

Sophie, on the other hand, was not as pleased. Instead, attempting to ignore the horrid smell, as well as avert her eyes from the headless birds sprinkled around, no doubt the victims of your foster sister's cat.

You were ready to knock your pretty little tune along the door when Sophie went ahead and did it for you ("'tis more polite for the guest to make herself known," she said with her nose held high), however, was looking almost as though getting ready for a fight.