Lustful Alchemy

5. SHARP

Matilda must have hit her head this morning. How on earth could she think it was a good idea for what she considers to be a prodigious Alchemy Professor to need, in turn, a teacher to assist her? And to top it off, not satisfied, she decided without any chance for discussion that the journalist should stay in my art room. She didn't even consider asking me if it was okay! All these years of teaching together, and I'm not even worthy of being consulted? Just trying to imagine the reasoning she might have had, convinced it was the right thing to do, gives me a headache.

And so now I'll have to see that girl and her damn Kneazle wandering everywhere, invading my spaces, and especially disturbing my habits. I can already picture her, with that childish expression of wonder plastered on that pretty little face, rummaging through my instruments and touching what she shouldn't. This Doyle's lack of teaching and seriousness manifested itself well before her arrival, when she thought of rushing here without even giving notice. Basically, it's all her fault that I've been caught up in this situation.

She doesn't even know what basic manners are: while I was sitting at the desk drafting the programs for the new Potions lessons, she walked out of my... our room without even saying goodbye. I won't allow this "coexistence" to happen for even one night, and Matilda will have to come to terms with it.

I stride across the suspension bridge with determined steps, as far as my leg allows, heading towards the Bell Tower Wing. Passing in front of the Faculty Lounge door again, I can't help but let out an exasperated sigh due to the morning meeting. I open the door, revealing the spectacle of the Transfiguration Courtyard fully illuminated by the light. Under different circumstances, I would have sat on one of the stone benches to draw, but I don't have time at the moment – and neither the space to display a drawing. I briskly cross the colonnade on the left, slipping through the door of the Transfiguration Class, and just at that moment, someone exits, bumping into me.

I lower my gaze, and it's Cassandra indeed. Her expression of surprise from our sudden collision immediately changes, replaced by a brazen and sarcastic surrender: «Don't bother going in to ask her: she just told me no», she says, curling her lips into a conciliatory smile. Then suddenly, almost as if she realized what just happened, she takes a quick step back, distancing herself from me.

Not quickly enough, though, to prevent me from making a quick and mental assessment of what she's hiding under that pink blouse. One corner of my mouth lifts into a sneer, which she apparently interprets as conciliatory in turn because I see her relax her shoulder muscles and assume a slightly more casual posture. If nothing else, given that Matilda seems deaf to any objection, the thought of a young woman moving above my bedroom, covering and uncovering her pronounced curves, will be a palliative to the torture of having her constantly around, both in class and out.

«Sorry, both for bumping into you and for trying to talk to her – she says, as if wanting to make amends – but I thought she might listen to me, being alone»

«If you think you have more influence on her than her colleagues and friends, you won't last five minutes here», I cut short, turning away and moving away from the Transfiguration Class. I hear her hesitant steps behind me, as if unsure how to proceed.

I step out from the colonnade, under the sunlight illuminating the courtyard, and feel her fingers lightly brushing the back of my arm, as if afraid to touch me. With serene calmness, I turn around again and lower my gaze to her, who is wringing her hands. As much as it pains me to admit it, she is truly beautiful: her facial features are gentle and soft, her skin pale and clear, adorned here and there with a few sporadic freckles, as if sunbeams had bestowed light kisses scattered on her cheekbones. Just below her straight nose, rose-pink lips bloom like a freshly blossomed rose. But what strikes me the most are her eyes: under thick dark eyebrows, bathed in sunlight, her irises take on an amber hue. I barely have time to notice before she shields them with her hand, creating shade, while her long brown hair, gathered at the nape by a pearly butterfly-shaped clip, is gently moved by the breeze.