Lustful Alchemy

11. SHARP

I wake from a night plagued by nightmares, a recurring ordeal for the past ten years. Over time, they've become less frequent, but they resurface relentlessly whenever I teach sixth-year students how to brew the Draught of the Living Dead. On those days, each night replays the tragic ambush so vividly in my mind that it feels like it happened just yesterday. A memory reopening the poorly healed wound in my heart, causing it to bleed profusely, akin to Prometheus's liver devoured day by day by the eagle for eternity. An emotional pain that adds to the chronic one in my leg, a perpetual reminder of that fateful night. But only Merlin knows what I would give to endure solely a strong and intense physical pain, rather than the emotionally excruciating one.

As if with a mind of its own, my leg starts pulsating and throbbing violently, making it almost impossible to get up and fetch a pain-relieving potion. In my years as a Potions Professor, not a single day has passed without dedicating at least a minute to studying and creating a potion that could permanently alleviate my pain, finally putting an end to my disability as if it had never been part of me. So far, my attempts have only yielded weak potions with temporary effects.

The pain nails me to the mattress. I clench my jaw and repeatedly pound my fist on the bed, forcing my body to follow my will and sit up. Calling Cassandra for help is out of the question; even though I'm sure she would assist me, I don't want her to see me in such a vulnerable state, the wreckage of what I used to be a few years ago.

With my hand, I reach for what I most wish would disappear forever from my life, even more than the scars, pain, and memories: a wheelchair, owned since the day of the incident but still in a condition as good as new. I've consistently refused to use it, making it an integral part of my life. Just like the cane, leaning in a corner near the coat rack. My disability is already apparent enough without the help of an accessory to highlight it even more.

However, in those unbearable moments of pain, I'm forced to use it, at least to manage to stand. I slide from the mattress to the seat, dragging my left leg as if it were an appendage that doesn't belong to me. I move to a cabinet, take one of the potions I've created, and drink it in one gulp. While waiting for it to take effect, I light one of Mirabel's herbal cigarettes, inhaling with anger and gazing out of the window at the Highlands coming to life, like flowers unfolding their petals in the early morning light.

The knots of pain along the long scar crossing my leg begin to loosen. Every time, I hope that the next sip will be the one, but inevitably, it remains that subtle and constant pain scratching my skin and bones. At least, for now, I can bend my joints as much as possible. Determined not to stay seated on this matter for a second longer, I stand up and place the wheelchair in a corner near the bed, as shaded as possible, and get ready for my morning swim and breakfast.

Despite being an additional burden I would gladly do without in my routine, I can't deny that my lack of enthusiasm for teaching Potions to second-year Hufflepuff and Gryffindor today has given way to a strange and mild excitement to face the first Alchemy class with Cassandra. In these days, we've seen each other little and ignored each other much, with me busy with Potions lessons and her with who knows what. Today, considering it's also her official first day as a professor, it'll be necessary to be exceptionally accommodating and patient. Easier said than done.

I don't head to the Great Hall but towards my classroom, instructing one of the many passing house-elves to send breakfast, consisting of toast and, significantly, black tea, to my office. I plan to make the most of the available time to organize work and today's schedule, packed with commitments as the weekend approaches.

Opening the door to my office, I find the desk annoyingly covered with various papers and parchments, on top of which a tray with my breakfast precariously teeters. I conjure a coffee table and with a wand movement ensure the tray smoothly relocates onto it without mishaps. I sit down, stretching my leg to give it some relief, and start tidying up, tossing into the lit fireplace what I don't need. About to do the same with a thick stack of parchments beneath the Alchemy students' files, I notice the handwriting: slightly rounded but hasty, as if the hand that wrote the words felt the urgency to write as much as possible. A handwriting I've seen before: Cassandra's.