Lustful Alchemy

35. SHARP

The dawn barely filters through the heavy curtains of my room, casting it in a dull gray. I haven't slept. Again. I don't even remember the last night when sleep was kind to me, and I know exactly why.

The thought of Cassandra is a poison coursing through my veins, persistent, relentless. I replay the scene of our argument over and over: the copied note, her expression wavering between guilt and a desperate desire to make her case heard. And my voice – harsh, unforgiving – accusing her without hesitation.

I try to close my eyes again, but it's of no use. Not a single moment passes when I don't feel her presence beside me, and that's what devastates me the most. Despite everything, at least on the surface, we seem to work together in synergy and respect, like good colleagues, especially during our Alchemy lessons. We work side by side, our words measured, our gestures calculated. As if nothing had happened. As if I didn't have a quiet rage growing inside me every time I look at her.

But there's something worse. Beneath the anger lies something else, something I despise. A part of me – a weak, pathetic part – wants to forgive her. It wants to find an excuse for all of this, to let it go and make things go back to how they were before.

I remember how I felt when I discovered the note. The warmth of the fire in the fireplace, the silence of the room, and then that object in my hands. It was like a slap. No, worse. A tear. I felt my heart stop for a moment, followed by a fierce rage. And then... disappointment. The disappointment hit me harder than I ever thought possible. Cassandra, with all her intelligence, with what I thought was respect, had chosen to lie to me, to deceive me.

I've asked myself hundreds of times why, what made her scheme behind my back, believing there would be no consequences, especially after I'd begged her to stay out of it, for her own good. And yet, she chose to act in secret, as if she didn't trust me completely, or worse, as if she thought I wasn't enough to deserve her honesty.
That day, when I confronted her, I felt the words slip off my tongue like knives. I wanted to hurt her. I wanted her to feel the same frustration I was feeling. But right after, when I saw the flash of pain in her eyes, something inside me broke.

Now, thinking back, I don't know what torments me more: the fact that she betrayed me, or the fact that, despite everything, I can't stop thinking about her. Alas, it's not only Cassandra tormenting me, but also the presence of Aleister Rookwood. Since we returned from Egypt, that boy doesn't miss an opportunity to make her life a living hell. Every time he crosses paths with Cassandra, he shoots her poisonous glances, never failing to remind her that it was Dumbledore, not him, who attended the conference. He seems determined to make her pay for that choice, as though it's a sin only he has the right to judge.

And every time Rookwood starts, I feel a spark of rage burning inside me. I can't stand seeing him disrespect her like that. Even though Cassandra betrayed my trust, I won't allow anyone to denigrate her work in front of me. So, I always end up intervening, defending her with words that slip from my mouth without even thinking. And every time, she looks at me, surprised, as if she wasn't expecting that small gesture of solidarity. But despite this, the wall I've erected between us remains solid. It's a line I don't want to cross, no matter how unbearable the temptation might be at times. I don't speak to her unless absolutely necessary, and my responses are measured, detached, devoid of the warmth I once reserved for her.

Yet, there's an emptiness. Every time she throws me a fleeting glance, as if still searching for a sign, a truce, I feel it. That desire to return to those moments we shared, our late-night conversations, the whispers between the silent walls of the school, muffled by the sheets. But I can't do it. I can't ignore the fact that she acted on her own, trampling on my trust, thinking me too foolish to discover the deceit.