Farah Dowling WRITOBER 2O22

This is where the magic happens

You have been in love with Headmistress Farah Dowling since your second week at Alfea and by now you can say it: it isn't ideal.

But what the fuck can you do about it? The woman is magnificent. Two-thirds of the students and at least half the faculty have a crush on her. The fact that she seems totally oblivious of it only makes her more irresistible.

At the beginning it had even been fun: you had though it was a regular crush for your favorite professor, you had sublimated it in your studies, you had enjoyed the excitement of catching her perfume in the air when she walked next to your desk while teaching a class.

But after almost three years, after her almost death by the hand of Rosalind Hale, after brewing gallons and gallons of healing potions for her with professor Harvey because "Please, you're our best potions student and there's no time, she will be gone in a matter of hours if I don't give her enough", after spending long nights by her bedside with red eyes and prayers in your mind – in short, after realizing you loved her with the force of thousand waterfalls – you had started to wish you could forget about her.

It is stupid, hopeless, one-sided, a disaster; she is clearly out of your league; she would never be caught dead with a simple water fairy, and a student, no less.

The straw that broke the camel's back has been an evening a couple of days ago.

There is a huge window ledge in a corner of Alfea where you always go searching for a moment of peace, when you have had enough of your loving but noisy roommates and you need a bit of solitude. You had been sitting there that night. The moon had been shining, but it had rained earlier, and you had been playing with drops of water, stealing them from the glass, making them fly around and draw Farah's name in the air. You had been thinking about her, as always.

"Curfew is long past. Might I suggest you go back to your suite?"

Her voice had made you jump and the water drops had fallen, wetting your dress. Sweet gods, how long had she been there? Had she seen you write her name like the ridiculous lovelorn you are?

You had turned to look at her. She had been barely one step away from your alcove, and she had been beautiful beyond words in the moonlight – so much that for a moment you had thought this might have been one of your dreams, and you had whispered, before even realizing you were doing it: "Are you really...?"

Your right hand had reached out and touched her shoulder. "Headmistress!" you had stammered. "It's... you- you're real."

She had regarded you narrowly for a moment and then, seemingly satisfied, she had chuckled: "Quite real."

Leaving you speechless she had lit a cigarette, taking a moment to inspire and look at the starry night before murmuring: "It's late. You really should go."

You had been so transfixed by the loveliness of her profile that it had taken you a moment to formulate a proper answer. "Sorry, Headmistress. I'll be off to my suite."

You had slid down from your seat and paused to smooth your skirt, magically removing the water from it before walking to the arch doorway.

Then Miss Dowling had called your name. You had turned and looked back at her. She had cleared her throat. "I have never had the chance to tell you- professor Harvey informed me of what you did for me when I was... recovering. I just wanted to say- thank you for all your... help. It was- I... thank you, my dear."

You have never heard her sound so hesitant and lame, but her words had warmed your heart.

"It was a privilege to help you, Headmistress. If I may say it... I'd be honored to continue helping you in whatever way I could. Even after I... graduate, I mean."