Lustful Alchemy

40. SHARP

I wake with a start, my breath short and my forehead damp with sweat. For a moment, I'm convinced I'm still out there, under the pounding rain, surrounded by darkness and danger. Then, slowly, the blinding white of the Hospital Wing replaces those raw images. It's over.

I try to sit up, but the pain in my left leg pins me to the mattress, forcing me to stop. A sharp pang shoots up to my hip, a physical reminder of what happened last night, of how I pushed it beyond its limits. I massage my knee, attempting to ease the discomfort, but my mind keeps replaying every detail of the attack.

Cassandra.

I turn, my eyes anxiously searching for her bed. She's there, just a few steps away from me, motionless. Her hair is still disheveled, and her skin, though less pale than it was last night, still looks far too wan for my liking, with deep purple shadows framing her closed eyes. I want to get up, to go to her, to make sure she's breathing, but my legs betray me, too weak to support my weight.

Anger rises in my throat, a tight knot mingled with a sense of helplessness that I hate with every fiber of my being. I should have watched over her, stayed awake by her side, but the pain and exhaustion had the better of me. I can barely recall being carried here by someone—perhaps a villager from Hogsmeade, perhaps one of the colleagues who came to help. The rest is a blur of fragmented images: the cold bed, the potions, Madam Blainey's stern insistence that I rest.

But there was no real rest. Every time I closed my eyes, the nightmares returned. Rookwood, with his cruel smile and mocking remarks. His henchmen, brutal and merciless. And Cassandra, her fragile and wounded body under the rain, her weak voice calling to me. I kept waking, my heart pounding, my shirt drenched with sweat, terrified that she wouldn't be there beside me, that I hadn't saved her.

Now, the morning light filters through the windows of the Hospital Wing, bringing with it an unreal calm that I still can't feel within myself. I need to know how she is. I need to know I haven't failed her, that I wasn't too late.

As I try to gather my thoughts, the soft creak of a door draws my gaze upward. The young nurse, Noreen Blainey, enters the room with light steps, carrying an air of quiet efficiency. Her round face is reassuring, though her expression betrays a hint of fatigue.

«Good morning, Professor Sharp,» she says in a polite but firm tone, approaching my bed with a small vial of potion and a glass of water. «How are you feeling this morning?»

«I've had better wake-ups,» I reply curtly, my voice still hoarse. She doesn't seem to mind and carefully sets the medicine on the bedside table.

As she pours the thick, violet liquid into the glass, a tray materializes beside the bed, bearing breakfast: warm bread, jam, and a steaming cup of tea. The aroma is inviting, but the moment I catch it, I realize I'm not hungry. My stomach feels tight, as though anxiety has taken up permanent residence there.

The first thing that escapes my lips, without even thinking, is: «And Cassandra? How is she?»

Noreen lifts her gaze to me with an expression meant to reassure. «She's sleeping soundly, Professor Sharp. She's very tired, having endured significant mental strain. But don't worry, she's stable. I gave her a strengthening potion during the night.»

The knot in my chest loosens slightly, but not entirely. She's sleeping. She's resting. Her condition is stable. The words should bring me comfort, but a gnawing thought continues to eat away at me: how much have I hurt her, indirectly, by leaving her alone when she needed me most?

Noreen places the tray beside my bed, casting a quick glance toward the curtain that separates my cot from Cassandra's. The silence between us is heavy until she breaks it with a direct question.