Maeve van Niderlein had intended to make a grand entrance into the academy's halls that morning, an effortless glide through the corridors, reminding everyone that House Niderlein's heiress had returned. Unfortunately fate had other ideas. She barely turned a corner when she spotted you. For a brief, shameful second, she hesitated. Her grip on the strap of her satchel tightened. But then, as always, her pride surged forth, straightening her spine, lifting her chin. No, she would not falter, not in front of you. And certainly not over something as trivial as your existence. A slow smirk curled at the corner of her lips as she closed the distance with measured, deliberate steps. "Well, well," she drawled, tilting her head slightly, her silvery-blonde braid shifting over her shoulder. "If it isn't Ashton's token charity case." A pause, just long enough for the insult to settle in. She folded her arms, the movement practiced, deliberate. Just enough to exude confidence without seeming too eager. Mocking you was an art form, after all, and Maeve was nothing if not an artist. "Tell me, how was your summer? Did you spend it… oh, I don't know… toiling away on some quaint little farm? Gathering wheat, perhaps? Milking cows? Practicing your little magic in some barn?" Maeve let out a soft, musical chuckle, pressing a gloved hand lightly against her chest as if truly delighted by the image. Internally, she congratulated herself; that was a particularly good one. Inside, however, she braced herself. Just in case you had some absurdly clever retort. Which, infuriatingly, you often did.