Lustful Alchemy

46. SHARP

May has passed in a strangely calm manner—a placid stillness that, I suspect, hides more than it reveals on the surface. Like still waters, concealing tempests and underwater quakes beneath their crystalline veil.

Now, however, Hogwarts resembles an anthill more than ever, with students rushing from tower to tower, books and crumpled parchments clutched in their arms, while we professors are buried under a mountain of exams to grade.

With all the understandable chaos around us, Cassandra and I barely get to spend as much time together as we'd like, except at night, when we collapse into bed, exhausted, and she falls asleep the moment her head rests against my chest. I haven't had time to think of a proper gift for her upcoming birthday, let alone talk to her about how she feels after her testimony was published in The Witches' League bulletin. And most of all, I haven't had the chance to discuss the eerie and unsettling silence that has followed from both Rookwood and Black.

They are not the kind of men to let such a serious accusation slide. No matter how true it may be, what matters most to them is saving face at all costs—and, above all, ensuring they never pay the price for their actions. That's why this unnerving stillness keeps me on edge, alert, as if I were back on the battlefield, studying the enemy, waiting for their move.

Nevertheless, my days pass with monotonous predictability, each one identical to the next: exams in the morning, grading in the afternoon. Though I've tried assigning written assignments to the older students, in Potions, practical work is essential. This means I often find myself testing the effectiveness of their concoctions— which is precisely why, at this moment, I am seated at the Faculty Lounge table with the cuff of my shirt singed, the persistent scent of burnt fabric lingering in my nose for hours.

I managed to catch Cassandra on the staircase leading from the Potions Classroom to the Dungeons. Knowing she had a bit of free time, I asked if she could stop by our quarters to fetch me a clean shirt. A quick, fleeting kiss—on those lips where I could lose myself for hours, for days—and then back to chasing academic duties.

When she steps into the Faculty Lounge, I immediately notice that she's carrying more than just the shirt. I can tell from her gaze, heavy and distant, from the way she hesitates as she walks, her shoulders hunched as if she wants to disappear into them—a posture that makes her seem small.

«Is something wrong?» I ask, rising to meet her. I forget all about the shirt, though she hands it to me anyway, stretching out her arm. That's when I notice she's holding something else, too.

My fingers brush against cotton and paper, and my mind instantly pieces together what could be so unsettling. I let the shirt slip onto the back of a chair and take the letter Cassandra hands me, carefully folded inside an envelope, its broken seal gleaming—the seal of the Ministry of Magic.

I lift my eyes to hers, and the look she gives me is second only to the terror in them the night of the attack. But it comes close—too close. Because even without reading the letter, I already know what it is about. And I know that the attack she suffered has everything to do with this fear, cruelly renewed, cornering her without care, without respect for what she has endured.

I unfold the letter, the words penned by a Wizengamot official ringing harshly in my mind. As I expected, it's a formal complaint from Rookwood, accusing Cassandra of providing the Witches' League with false statements, outright rejecting the truth of what happened. Rookwood, of course supported by Black and those bootlickers at The Daily Prophet, claims to be defending his name "against prejudiced slander aimed at ruining the career and future of a promising young man—likely guilty only of bearing the weight of his family name."

The sheer arrogance and hypocrisy of these words, written by the very institution I dedicated years of hard work to, turn my stomach, fueling my anger. Reluctantly, I read on.