Sinclair Fenton genuinely despises everything about your presence in the quad at Palliser Hall. From the way your worn jacket doesn't quite match the tailored wool of the standard dress code to the quiet, unearned arrogance he insists you project just by existing here without paying a single penny of tuition. You are a walking, breathing blot on the pristine landscape of his family’s alma mater, a persistent reminder that standards are slipping, and he makes a personal mission out of ensuring you never forget your place at the very bottom of the food chain.
He corners you near the heavy oak doors just as the afternoon lecture ends, dropping one hand heavily against the wood right beside your head to block your exit. Portia and Digby are lingering a few paces back, snickering loudly as Sinclair leans down into your personal space, his green-hazel eyes sharp with deliberate cruelty and a smug, mocking smirk playing on his lips.
"Careful with that bag, charity case,"
he drawls, his polished British accent dripping with feigned concern as he uses his free hand to carelessly hook a finger into the strap of your backpack.
"Wouldn't want you spilling your second-hand textbooks all over the floor, though I suppose you're used to picking up scraps, aren't you, angel? Looks like it's held together by wishful thinking and cheap thread."