Lustful Alchemy

1. CASSANDRA

Smoke and voices fill the basement where the women are reunited, discussing the most important topics and matters about the women's rights movement that is agitating the United Kingdom and inspiring the whole Europe. Even though I am a smoker myself, a mist soon filled the low-ceilinged room, and my lungs with it.

In another situation I would be bothered, but I can easily force myself to get through it every time I attend a meeting of the Suffragists movement. The words of these women are imbued with an ancestral power that I have never seen, not even from people like me. Being raised in the wizarding world, and having attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, me and other witches never felt the urge to fight for our rights as women: we have the same possibilities as men.

That's why I could easily pursue a career as a journalist at the Daily Prophet after my last year at Hogwarts, in 1888: I had recently turned 18, and the doors of a world full of paper, words and ink were wide open waiting for me. I've never had to fight for a job, or to dress how I want – although some magicians still look at me like I'm a Demiguise riding a monowheel when I wear trousers.

I have to admit: I've always been a bit rebellious. At least, "rebellious" is what others called me when I faced what I thought were injustices. This is the reason why, one year ago, I decided to use all my magic knowledge to write a book for Muggle women, so they could easily know how to use nature's resources and release their inner power. "The First Grimoire to discover and know the True You", this is the title of the book, never actually taught them how to make spells or potions, nor how to ride a broomstick (never been my cup of tea, since I suffer from vertigo), but how they can use herbs to heal some wounds or ease menstrual pain; or how they can understand wind changes and consequently how the weather is going to be. More than anything, I wanted to teach them that they are enough on their own, without the need for a man by their side to guide their existence. Knowledge is power, once said to me late Professor Fig, whose death I still mourn. Indeed, Eleazar has been like a father to me, since my real being has never been accepted by my biological family.

So, since as a child I learned that you should never be ashamed of who you are, I decided to make everything I know available so that others could also know and understand their own power. Of course "The First Grimoire" made me the favorite subject of critics, from Muggles and wizards (some of them truly convinced that the Sorting Hat made a mistake, seventeen years ago, placing me in Slytherin), but I'd never change the grateful looks I receive from these women, whenever I attend one of their meetings, for the respect of a bunch of ordinary men.

As today's meeting ends, I make my way to the door and exit in the light of mid-August afternoon. I've been in that basement since late morning, so I start to walk in the direction of the first place on earth that made me feel at home as a child – even before Hogwarts. The first taste of magic I have ever had in my life, was at the Leaky Cauldron, where as a wide-opened eyes 11 year old girl I saw that I wasn't weird and repulsive as my parents always told me. There, few wizards and witches welcomed me and made me feel the warmth of a family. They already knew why I was standing there, Professor Fig by my side guiding me to the secret entrance to Diagon Alley.

On my way to Charing Cross Road, I stop a boy who's selling newspapers, so I can have something to read and keep me updated about Muggle world while eating. A little further on a man tries to approach me, but with a non-verbal spell the laces of his shoes tie together, making him fall to the ground. I know magic shouldn't be used in front of Muggles, but it is not actual magic when is non-verbal, right?

Once I finally reach the Leaky Cauldron, I open the door and enter in that tiny yet enchanted place. My gaze meet Thomasin, the young waitress who immediately comes in front of me and guides me to my favorite table, one in a corner near the window and quite far from other customers, so I can easily and peacefully read the newspaper while I wait for the egg and leek pie I order from the girl.

My absorbed reading about the removal of spousal privilege in English law is interrupted by Adalbert, the inner, who loudly rushes to welcome someone. Annoyed, I raise my eyes from the newspaper to see a tall man with long brown hair, wearing a light green embroidered waistcoat and a white shirt over brown trousers. He gives me his back, so I can't see his face, but I see his hand patting on Adalbert' shoulder, returning the greeting.

«I would like to stop, Adalbert – I hear the man say, in a deep voice – but I'm in a hurry. Sudden business matters, so I must necessarily drop by Gringotts before leaving»

«I hope nothing serious», replies Adalbert, leading the man towards the entrance to Diagon Alley. I cannot help but notice that the man walks with a noticeable limp.

The man chuckles: «Those days are over. Take care». He hits the bricks to open the entrance to Diagon Alley, which closes behind him as soon as he passes it.

His passing has left a pleasant scent of cloves and sandalwood wafting through the air, and I inevitably find myself thinking how many years have passed since I was last captivated by the scent of a man. Probably too many, and I shouldn't let myself be distracted just now.

Leaving the bill on the table, I get up and walk out of the Leaky Cauldron. Without a clear direction, my steps automatically lead me towards one of my favourite Muggle places: the cinematograph, a new invention that proves that no magic can ever compete with skill and ingenuity, but above all with creativity and ambition. I like to sit in the dark and enjoy the spectacle of moving images, escaping from reality and my thoughts for a while. No one pays attention to you when you are sitting in those chairs; no one notices your loneliness, and you forget about it for a while too, or at least until the lights come on and reality hits you again.

When the show ends, I get up listlessly and drag myself out of the cinema, starting to walk home. The sun has now set and a last sliver of faint light cloaks London; it will soon be dark and, although my magical abilities allow me to run less danger than normal, I am still a woman walking alone. Moments like this, combined with the thought of returning to an empty house, with no one to whom I can tell how my day went, make my loneliness weigh on me more than anything else. Not that I despise being alone, but at 28 years old I sometimes feel the need for someone beside me.

Having arrived in front of the building where I live, I sigh as I open the door and close it behind me. The light bulb dangling from the ceiling flickers as usual, casting a gloomy air on the greyness of the landing, exacerbated by the cold draft of air threading through the jambs. Having been out of the house all day, I haven't had a chance to check my mail, and my mailbox looks more like a face distorted into a grimace, with letters, newspapers and advertisements crammed tightly into such a small space. I laugh to myself because it reminds me of a Howler. I collect all the contents and ascend the stairs, heading for my flat.

I am welcomed at the doorstep by Morgan, my black Kneazle, who rubs against my ankle, purring. I bend down to quickly scratch behind her ears, place the mail on the tea table, and finally kick off my favorite part of the day. I pull out my pink elm wand from my bag and, ensuring the curtains are tightly closed, light all the candles and the gramophone. As I recline on the couch, a bottle of red wine and a glass float toward me, settling on the tea table.

I take a sip of wine and begin sorting through the mail. It takes me a few minutes, and a few advertisements sent flying —literally— into the bin, to notice that envelope.