Lustful Alchemy

48. SHARP

I sit in Cassandra's seat, letting my gaze travel along the jury's bench. The chair is stiff, uncomfortable—or maybe it's just my body rebelling against the idea of being here, on the wrong side of the trial. I used to be on the other side, with the Auror badge gleaming on my chest and a clear mission in mind. Now I find myself absurdly at the defendant's table, defending someone who should already be safe, trying to prove the truth in a courtroom that has already decided otherwise.

Once, I would have said that justice was a simple concept: the law is the law, and it was my duty to enforce it. But I've learned that the law is only an illusion when the ones interpreting it are corrupt, when those who enforce it do so out of fear or self-interest. Justice means nothing when it's a word spoken by those willing to shut their eyes to the truth.

I clench my jaw and tighten my grip around the cane, feeling the unpleasant familiarity of the wood against my palm. Funny how, out of necessity, you get used to the very thing you once rejected.

Spavin clears his throat, impatient. «Let's keep this short, Sharp.» He leans back in his chair with bored condescension, drumming his fingers against the armrest. «Do you confirm Miss Doyle's accusations against Mr. Rookwood?»

I can feel the irritation settling deep in my bones, but I keep it in check. I raise my gaze to meet his, my voice steady. «I confirm them.»

Spavin scoffs, clearly displeased. His gaze grows colder, his expression tightening with thinly veiled annoyance: it wasn't the answer he wanted to hear—perhaps not even the one he expected. Maybe, in his arrogance, he believed I would back down, hesitate, choose the safer and more convenient path.

But I've never cared much for convenience.

The Minister adjusts his jacket with an absent gesture, as if wasting time on a matter of little importance—something he knows he can no longer avoid, despite how much he would like to. «Very well,» he says, his tone weary, betraying his irritation. «Then enlighten us, Sharp. What exactly did Mr. Rookwood do that was so terrible?»

I take a deep breath to steady the irritation rising in my chest and let my mind retrace the past months, all the way back to the event that changed Cassandra's life—and mine. Every word, every look, every attack from Rookwood returns to me with exasperating clarity.

«From the moment Professor Cassandra Doyle set foot in Hogwarts as a teacher, Aleister Rookwood made it his mission to humiliate her.» My voice is calm, but I feel the cold burn of restrained anger beneath the surface. «There wasn't a single occasion where he didn't try to undermine her competence in front of the students. Every time she spoke in class, he had a sarcastic comment ready. Every time she gave instructions, he laughed with his peers, insinuating she didn't know what she was doing.»

My eyes scan the jury, ensuring I still have their attention. Some lean in, listening. Others still waver. I need to give them something undeniable.

«But it didn't stop there,» I continue. «He targeted her personally. He mocked her past as a journalist, claimed a Muggle-born had no place teaching at Hogwarts. He insulted her, repeatedly and openly, questioning her authority, sending the message that she wasn't worthy of respect.»

A pause. I let the weight of my words settle.

«Professor Doyle reprimanded him, took house points, issued detentions. Yet Mr. Rookwood persisted. He challenged every decision she made, made her job harder every single day. Not because he was a rebellious student—but because he had a goal. To destroy her credibility. And when words failed, he chose a different method.»

No murmurs ripple through the room. No exchanged glances among the jury. None of the lukewarm curiosity that had tainted Cassandra's earlier testimony. Now they're listening intently—and that angers me more than I can admit.