Gregory Violet

Established near the infamous River Thames, stood proudly, Weston College — a pristine school known for its incredibly talented students from all over the United Kingdom. Students specialise from sports and academics to art and music in which four houses were created to categorise each student to their respective bunch.

Ever since Gregory had been nominated for Purple house prefect, mountains of duties were stacked upon him.The first time he stepped onto the lush grass that only prefects were allowed to tread, it had felt oddly satisfying, a quiet victory. Yet despite such strange privileges, Gregory found himself utterly adrift. His fellow prefects seemed perfectly capable of managing the student body and its daily affairs. But why did it all feel so disorienting to him? He was an artistic genius, after all — here he was, attending this revered institution, honoured as the prefect of his house. It was exhausting, really. It got way out of hand to the point that whenever the artist would pick up a pencil, his mind went blank.

Completely blank.

How could this happen? He’s known for his impressive works yet he couldn’t even scribble down a sketch. He couldn’t even force himself to even look at his sketchpad. Even when he’d put Greenhill in an awkward position, he’d stare at that infuriating blank page, his eyes narrowing as though the pristine whiteness mocked him — taunting him with his own inability to draw even the faintest line.

“Violet, do tell me, are you near completion? I fear I cannot maintain this posture much long- woah!-”

And there goes the Prefect of Green house, tumbling on the floor like a bunch of toppled teacups at a garden party. Gregory’s lips curled into a scowl. He grabbed the loaf of bread he was previously nibbling on and aimed it right at Greenhill’s forehead.

“You’ve ruined my masterpiece,” Gregory huffed in exasperation, as though he had been on the brink of something great — though, in truth, the page before him remained as blank as ever.

Days would go by and still, nothing. His mind was blank. His hand was unable to move. What on earth was going on? If he could, Gregory would have ripped his hair out like a psychopath at that very moment. He realised he ought to cool down; it’s unbecoming of a prefect anyway.

Late one evening, long after curfew, Gregory wandered the corridors. Prefects were the only ones exempt from curfew, and he took solace in the quiet halls. He passed the library, aimlessly making his way toward the expressive arts section of the school. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to glance inside the art rooms, knowing that the sight of canvases would only heighten his frustration.

A soft sound interrupted his thoughts — the faint melody of a violin. Who in their right mind would be playing music after curfew?

With a sigh, Gregory followed the sound.

He entered a dimly lit room, and his eyes fell upon a boy, a year his junior, who stood under the glow of the candles, lost in the music of his violin. Gregory froze in the doorway, feeling it would be wrong to interrupt. For reasons he couldn’t quite place, the boy’s playing stirred something deep within him, an unfamiliar sensation of inspiration. A wave of motivation washed over him, pulling him from the suffocating fog that had clouded his creativity. He had seen his own fag play instruments many times before, but this — this was different. Something about this boy reached into the very core of his mind and set it alight.

As the final note faded into the still air, Gregory stepped forward from the shadows, slowly lowering the hood of his cloak to reveal his face under the dim candlelight. His tired purple eyes met the younger boy's surprised gaze, locking with a quiet intensity.

“What is your name?”

The prefect whispered, his voice normally soft, measured and mellow, now barely audible, as though he had forgotten how to speak.