It wasn't the first time Sansa had cried to a professor, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Too often had her daily life gotten in the way of her passion, her studies, her focus in life, but now it all seemed to blur together to the point where nothing was dominant but the need to survive. A whirlwind, some called her. That was a drastic understatement. After family trauma, two self-proclaimed caretakers and an international move, Sansa Stark was a shadow of who she used to be, and it showed in her grades and work ethic. The young student stood before the desk of Professor Baratheon with a slouched back and anxious face. He was not known to be compassionate toward his students. Sansa could only hope she could make him understand.
"Professor," she insisted. "Please, I worked tirelessly on this. If you would just look over it and--"
"I did, Miss Stark. Your grade is final." The professor turned to her with a stern expression. "I'm not sure why you're here."
"I'd like an explanation as to why I got a D." She held out the graded paper with a large, circled red letter condemning her to a lesser GPA. "What was so unacceptable about my proposal? I don't think ending sexual assault with stricter punishment is against any kind of right."
"You suggested that high schools teach consent as a part of their curriculum nationwide, which I saw benefit to, but your mention of reopening cold cases with law enforcement would crush the already sluggish system."
"Task forces!" Sansa shot back. "Are there not ways for it to happen? It would create jobs, seek justice where it was denied earlier, open new routes for victims and the falsely accused--did you read my essay at all?"
"It wouldn't work. I cannot offer a sterling grade to a proposal that wouldn't work. Not to mention your guilty-until-proven-innocent rhetoric?" The professor shook his head in disapproval. "It is biased, Miss Stark, and politicians cannot be biased. There is no benefit that can come from slower--"
The door to the lecture hall opened. Sansa turned to the girl who'd abruptly entered, hearing an apology but not taking it to heart. She had lost this battle. A low grade was a horrible stain on her record, and while she was infamous for obsessing over perfection, this was a new low. An anxiety-triggering low. Professor Baratheon handed her papers back with a deep, unfeeling frown. "I'm sorry. You will have to work harder next time."
Sansa was never a woman with a temper, but when tested, she was fierce in protecting her interests. She took her assignment from him swiftly, straightening her posture to one of authority and determination. "I will work harder," she told him. "Hard enough to make you change your mind. But how can I? You're a man. You don't understand, not at all. The thing you fear about prison is the thing we fear walking down the street at night. You will never know how it feels. Politicians can't be biased, says the American, but are they not allowed to be compassionate either? Sympathetic? Offer encouragement to a plan that could be a beneficial step to ending violence against women in your country?"
Still, she felt like she was talking to a brick wall. The professor's jaw seemed to drop with remorse, as if he'd only just solved the riddle she was presenting him with. He'd figured her out. But Sansa didn't want his pity or his apology; she wanted a good grade, and to be told her decision to skip Bran's recital to finish her paper was a good one. It wasn't.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "Goodnight, professor."
And she left without another word.
The fresh evening air could give Sansa no comfort. She was able to staunch her tears for a time, digging for her keys in a purse as organized as her life, but when she could not hear the jingle of her keychains or see the silver by lamplight, she burst into unexpected tears and sat on a bench helplessly. She covered her mouth and clenched her eyes shut, begging, praying that she could hold it in for just an hour or two, so she could go home and make dinner for the family in one piece. They didn't deserve to see her sad like this, but it seemed there was no stopping the emotions that had been bottled for too long. She buried her face in her hands and wept without control.
"Holy shit," came a voice minutes later, a sweet one laced with concern and care. Sansa looked up to see another girl, another student, approaching her carefully. "Hey, are you okay? You don't look too good."
"No," Sansa replied. "I guess I don't." She sniffled and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Thank you for checking up on me. I'm fine, really."
"Whoa, a Brit! Cool. I'm sorry you're sad. I'll sit with you if that's okay--there are a ton of weirdos around at this time of night, yeah? Good to stick together." The quirky stranger sat beside Sansa, careful not to endanger her space, which she was very grateful for. Sansa awkwardly folded her hands in her lap and tried to compose herself. "So, uh...you sure you're alright?"
"Yes," Sansa replied. "Well, no. My professor's a bloody nutter."
"'Bloody nutter,' huh? Ellie'll love that one." The girl offered her hand and smiled. "I'm Riley, by the way."
"Sansa." She shook the student's hand. "Sansa Stark."
"Nice to meet you, Sansa Stark. Which professor do you have? Anyone I know?"
"Professor Baratheon." Sansa sniffled. "Political science. Or, he thinks he can teach poli-sci, but he can't. It's miserable."
"Ugh! I hate that guy. My best friend has him, she's just--oh, there she is!" Riley stood up from the bench and waved her arms maniacally. "Heeeey Ellie!"
Sansa, in horror, recognized the approaching stranger immediately as the one who'd interrupted her conversation with the professor. She paled and kept still like an animal caught in headlights. "Ellie, meet Sansa!" Riley said happily. "She's from England!"
