Lustful Alchemy

45. CASSANDRA

Hogwarts is, as always, immersed in its routine. Lessons follow one another, and the castle's corridors teem with students rushing from one classroom to another, shouting and laughing as if nothing has ever changed. Perhaps, for them, it really is so. For me, however, returning to work feels like putting on a worn-out cloak: the fabric is familiar, but the weight is different.

Walking through these same corridors no longer carries the same carefree aura it once held during such a vital part of my life; now I do it almost automatically, as though it's a duty I must perform to avoid falling apart, even though every corner of this castle reminds me of who once walked here and who ensured that nothing happened to the one who could have been my executioner.

If before, Headmaster Black considered me superfluous, now he deliberately avoids me. In his gaze that no longer meets mine, I can read not only disdain but also shame. Whether it's shame for his cowardice in the face of what happened to me or because he's a pawn under the Rookwood family's thumb, it's hard to determine.

Alchemy lessons anchor me to reality, but every time, inevitably, my eyes drift to Aleister's empty seat. He escaped under the favor of the powerful as if nothing had happened, likely already safe at Durmstrang, protected by a system that allows him to thrive despite everything he's done. And here I am, staring at that empty desk every day, his absence louder than his presence, screaming a bitter truth: if you're powerful, or feared, or wealthy, or all these things combined, you can have whatever you want—even if it means obtaining it at the expense of others.

I feel my nails digging into the wood of the desk, an involuntary gesture that pulls me back to the present. I unclench my jaw, take a deep breath, and look away, focusing on the other students, trying my best to fulfill my duties and to be, at least for them, a point of reference and not someone to mock—or worse, pity.

The bell rings, echoing even here in the dungeons, marking the end of the lesson and forcing me back to reality—a reality I don't want to face and that leaves me apathetic and estranged, even from myself.

«Remember to complete the calculations on transmutation for next week. You can leave your assignments on your workbenches,» I tell the students, hoping they don't notice the exhaustion in my voice, yet another addition to the crushing weariness I carry on my shoulders like a heavy burden.

One by one, the students gather their things and leave the classroom, the echo of their footsteps fading along the corridor as they move away. I gather the parchments and move to the desk, stacking them neatly and precisely before setting them aside in a corner.

My gaze shifts to the opposite side of the wooden surface, where another parchment lies, already unrolled and dense with phrases written, crossed out, rewritten, and corrected: my report for Marion. The article she promised would be the first bulletin of The Witches' League.

I sit down, my gaze drifting over the words I've already put down, forcing me to relive everything I wish I could forget, to feel the chill of fear creeping over my skin while anger wells up inside me at the sheer helplessness of it all.

I pick up the quill and take a deep breath, running a hand over my eyes, overwhelmed by the moral duty of my position but also by exhaustion—the overwhelming feeling that I'm incapable of bearing the weight of all my responsibilities.

«I'll take care of these,» says Aesop, approaching me gently, as if trying not to invade my personal space, as if he understands how heavy this entire situation is for me.

He reaches for the students' assignments, but I stop him. «That's not necessary, Aesop,» I protest, trying to halt him. «You already have plenty to do with your Potions work. I don't want you to burden yourself with this as well.»