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Lustful Alchemy

Summary:

As a former Hogwarts student, journalist and magician activist Cassandra Doyle was delighted and honored when she received a letter from the Deputy Headmistress Matilda Weasley, asking her to join the teaching staff as Alchemy professor. However, as she arrives at the school Cassandra discovers she won't be the only one teaching that fascinating yet challenging subject: Master Potion Aesop Sharp will flank her. Two personalities, and two ways of teaching, so different that they will inevitably end up clashing and provoking... but also getting to know each other deeply, forgetting and overcoming their respective past traumas. The two will learn alchemy is not only a subject to be taught, but also a sensation to be felt and lived.
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Tropes: age gap - forced proximity - enemies to lovers - slow burn

TW: explicit content and language, injuries, death, smoking, alcohol and we3d consumption

DISCLAIMER: the story is set in 1898 (7 years after the end of Hogwarts Legacy), so the events that occur are fictional and may not correspond to what actually happened in reality.

Chapter 1: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

Smoke and voices fill the basement where the women are reunited, discussing the most important topics and matters about the women's rights movement that is agitating the United Kingdom and inspiring the whole Europe. Even though I am a smoker myself, a mist soon filled the low-ceilinged room, and my lungs with it.

In another situation I would be bothered, but I can easily force myself to get through it every time I attend a meeting of the Suffragists movement. The words of these women are imbued with an ancestral power that I have never seen, not even from people like me. Being raised in the wizarding world, and having attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, me and other witches never felt the urge to fight for our rights as women: we have the same possibilities as men.

That's why I could easily pursue a career as a journalist at the Daily Prophet after my last year at Hogwarts, in 1888: I had recently turned 18, and the doors of a world full of paper, words and ink were wide open waiting for me. I've never had to fight for a job, or to dress how I want – although some magicians still look at me like I'm a Demiguise riding a monowheel when I wear trousers.

I have to admit: I've always been a bit rebellious. At least, "rebellious" is what others called me when I faced what I thought were injustices. This is the reason why, one year ago, I decided to use all my magic knowledge to write a book for Muggle women, so they could easily know how to use nature's resources and release their inner power. "The First Grimoire to discover and know the True You", this is the title of the book, never actually taught them how to make spells or potions, nor how to ride a broomstick (never been my cup of tea, since I suffer from vertigo), but how they can use herbs to heal some wounds or ease menstrual pain; or how they can understand wind changes and consequently how the weather is going to be. More than anything, I wanted to teach them that they are enough on their own, without the need for a man by their side to guide their existence. Knowledge is power, once said to me late Professor Fig, whose death I still mourn. Indeed, Eleazar has been like a father to me, since my real being has never been accepted by my biological family.

So, since as a child I learned that you should never be ashamed of who you are, I decided to make everything I know available so that others could also know and understand their own power. Of course "The First Grimoire" made me the favorite subject of critics, from Muggles and wizards (some of them truly convinced that the Sorting Hat made a mistake, seventeen years ago, placing me in Slytherin), but I'd never change the grateful looks I receive from these women, whenever I attend one of their meetings, for the respect of a bunch of ordinary men.

As today's meeting ends, I make my way to the door and exit in the light of mid-August afternoon. I've been in that basement since late morning, so I start to walk in the direction of the first place on earth that made me feel at home as a child – even before Hogwarts. The first taste of magic I have ever had in my life, was at the Leaky Cauldron, where as a wide-opened eyes 11 year old girl I saw that I wasn't weird and repulsive as my parents always told me. There, few wizards and witches welcomed me and made me feel the warmth of a family. They already knew why I was standing there, Professor Fig by my side guiding me to the secret entrance to Diagon Alley.

On my way to Charing Cross Road, I stop a boy who's selling newspapers, so I can have something to read and keep me updated about Muggle world while eating. A little further on a man tries to approach me, but with a non-verbal spell the laces of his shoes tie together, making him fall to the ground. I know magic shouldn't be used in front of Muggles, but it is not actual magic when is non-verbal, right?

Once I finally reach the Leaky Cauldron, I open the door and enter in that tiny yet enchanted place. My gaze meet Thomasin, the young waitress who immediately comes in front of me and guides me to my favorite table, one in a corner near the window and quite far from other customers, so I can easily and peacefully read the newspaper while I wait for the egg and leek pie I order from the girl.

My absorbed reading about the removal of spousal privilege in English law is interrupted by Adalbert, the inner, who loudly rushes to welcome someone. Annoyed, I raise my eyes from the newspaper to see a tall man with long brown hair, wearing a light green embroidered waistcoat and a white shirt over brown trousers. He gives me his back, so I can't see his face, but I see his hand patting on Adalbert' shoulder, returning the greeting.

«I would like to stop, Adalbert – I hear the man say, in a deep voice – but I'm in a hurry. Sudden business matters, so I must necessarily drop by Gringotts before leaving»

«I hope nothing serious», replies Adalbert, leading the man towards the entrance to Diagon Alley. I cannot help but notice that the man walks with a noticeable limp.

The man chuckles: «Those days are over. Take care». He hits the bricks to open the entrance to Diagon Alley, which closes behind him as soon as he passes it.

His passing has left a pleasant scent of cloves and sandalwood wafting through the air, and I inevitably find myself thinking how many years have passed since I was last captivated by the scent of a man. Probably too many, and I shouldn't let myself be distracted just now.

Leaving the bill on the table, I get up and walk out of the Leaky Cauldron. Without a clear direction, my steps automatically lead me towards one of my favourite Muggle places: the cinematograph, a new invention that proves that no magic can ever compete with skill and ingenuity, but above all with creativity and ambition. I like to sit in the dark and enjoy the spectacle of moving images, escaping from reality and my thoughts for a while. No one pays attention to you when you are sitting in those chairs; no one notices your loneliness, and you forget about it for a while too, or at least until the lights come on and reality hits you again.

When the show ends, I get up listlessly and drag myself out of the cinema, starting to walk home. The sun has now set and a last sliver of faint light cloaks London; it will soon be dark and, although my magical abilities allow me to run less danger than normal, I am still a woman walking alone. Moments like this, combined with the thought of returning to an empty house, with no one to whom I can tell how my day went, make my loneliness weigh on me more than anything else. Not that I despise being alone, but at 28 years old I sometimes feel the need for someone beside me.

Having arrived in front of the building where I live, I sigh as I open the door and close it behind me. The light bulb dangling from the ceiling flickers as usual, casting a gloomy air on the greyness of the landing, exacerbated by the cold draft of air threading through the jambs. Having been out of the house all day, I haven't had a chance to check my mail, and my mailbox looks more like a face distorted into a grimace, with letters, newspapers and advertisements crammed tightly into such a small space. I laugh to myself because it reminds me of a Howler. I collect all the contents and ascend the stairs, heading for my flat.

I am welcomed at the doorstep by Morgan, my black Kneazle, who rubs against my ankle, purring. I bend down to quickly scratch behind her ears, place the mail on the tea table, and finally kick off my favorite part of the day. I pull out my pink elm wand from my bag and, ensuring the curtains are tightly closed, light all the candles and the gramophone. As I recline on the couch, a bottle of red wine and a glass float toward me, settling on the tea table.

I take a sip of wine and begin sorting through the mail. It takes me a few minutes, and a few advertisements sent flying —literally— into the bin, to notice that envelope.

Chapter 2: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

I immediately place the glass on the tea table, making a sudden noise that startles Morgan. Normally I would apologize, but not this time. I would recognize that paper among millions, as it had changed my life seventeen years ago. With my hands shaking a little, I grasp the corner of the envelope poking out from under the others, exposing it fully to the candlelight. That green ink... and that handwriting! I turn the envelope to the front to ascertain further about the origin of the object in front of me, and my memory has not deceived me: imprinted on the sealing wax is the Hogwarts coat of arms.

I break the wax seal and pull out the letter. Just like the first time, Deputy Headmistress Weasley's very faint scent of rose powder invests me and takes me back in time: back then, I had no idea why she was writing to me... and honestly, I don't now either. Why would Mathilda write to me with official Hogwarts paper, stamp and ink, all these years after graduation? If she wanted to know something about me, she could do so privately as she always did in years past, when she would congratulate me on some article I had written that had particularly impressed her. The reason could not be informal. Nervously, I start reading:

"Dear Miss Cassandra Doyle,

It is with immense pleasure that I inform you that, after a full twelve years, a sufficient number of sixth-year students have applied to be taught Alchemy at Hogwarts. You can imagine that the news has taken us by surprise after such a long time. But, as you well know, we are committed to providing an excellent education. Our need, therefore, is for a capable teacher with an outstanding curriculum. I couldn't help but think of you.

You were, in turn, one of those students who in 1886 requested that the subject be taught, and the results you achieved are still remembered with admiration. It is not my intention to distract you from your work as a journalist or from your life, but I think you would be the most suitable person for the role. If you wish to return to Hogwarts, you know that the school would welcome you with joy.

Please respond by no later than August 15th. Have a wonderful day,

Deputy Headmistress Matilda Weasley"

I have to re-read and examine the letter several times. I can't believe my eyes: Matilda Weasley, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts and talented Transfiguration Professor, has written to offer me a position as a Professor of Alchemy, one of the most difficult subjects ever. This is just yet another token of her esteem, and I can't help but smile at the thought. But am I ready to leave my life? My job? Am I ready not to stay close to the women who in recent years have inspired me and kept me company at times when I felt most alone and had no one?

I can't stay seated; I get up from the couch and start wandering around the room, weighing the pros and cons of my decision. A myriad of questions floods my mind, preventing me from thinking concretely. I still have three days to respond; I could go to bed and decide tomorrow with a clear mind, but I already know that the whirlwind of thoughts would keep me awake. Teaching at Hogwarts would be a choice that would drastically change my life: I would be immersed in a dynamic environment, surrounded by experienced professionals and students with a thirst for learning that matches the wonder they experience every day in the school, honing their skills. Perhaps, I could manage to fill, even if just a little, the void that I have carried within me for too long.

Continuing to ponder the decision, I draw back the curtains and light a cigarette, my gaze lost on the horizon. The darkness has settled over London like a blanket, but it doesn't prevent me from seeing that something, in the distance, is approaching at a certain speed — two dots like glowing embers shining in the darkness, growing larger. I reach my right arm out of the window, certain of what it is. And indeed, a few seconds later, a small owl finds its perch on my arm, attempting to climb up slowly to hand me an envelope — another one! — clutched in its beak. I assist it in the task, but before handing over the money to send it back, I want to read the letter, in case there's a response to include.

The envelope contains a note that simply says: "Do it! Kevinus". The news has already spread, it seems – or perhaps Professor Weasley had pre-informed the Daily Prophet of her intention to entrust me with the position of Alchemy Professor. "Kevinus" refers to Kevinus Morrisons, a journalist at the Daily Prophet just a bit older than me, with whom I shared the entire apprenticeship period. I don't need anything else. If Kevinus, who knows me to the extent that he has had a taste of my great ambition several times, not to mention the fact that he knows how much effort and love I put into my work as a journalist, is advising me to choose the best job from every point of view, let it be. If he has advised me, it is because he would do the same in my place.

I pay the little owl, which takes flight into the night, leaving me standing in the living room, unable to manage the rush of emotions jostling to surface. I don't know what my life will be like, but I do know that I have spent too much time missing opportunities. I don't make this choice lightly, but then again, what is easy when it comes to ourselves? Everything seems to be an act of selfishness, even if it brings us happiness. Only Merlin knows how long I've yearned to feel the fire of motivation burning within me instead of the dim flame flickering.

To help rationalize what is about to happen, I decide to do the most logical thing: I open two large suitcases and start filling them with everything I might need (with a little help from the Extension Charm). The process takes me a few hours, and at the end, I find myself sitting on the couch, exhausted and hungry. Here's the beauty of magic: uttering "Accio!", a few slices of bread land on the table now covered with various items. I start nibbling on one while unfastening my pants and letting them drop to the floor. I stretch my legs on the couch and take a final sip from the wine glass. I don't even bother to answer Matilda: I know exactly what to do when I wake up tomorrow. With a lighter head (thanks also to the wine) and a heart full of emotion, my eyes gently close and I finally fall asleep.

Chapter 3: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

The rays of the sun filtering through the window, along with the voices of the city beginning to come alive, wake me up at the crack of dawn. I open my eyes, trying to focus on the room, and it's immersed in chaos: the two suitcases I took last night lie open, one on the floor and the other on the armchair. The tea table is covered with letters, opened and unopened, and crumbs of bread that Morgan decided to eat in the night. Now she is curled up at my feet, asleep.

I pull myself up, my back aching from the discomfort of the sofa, and as I rise, I drag myself to the bathroom for a quick freshening up. Back in the living room, I grab the wand and tidy up the room. I then have breakfast with a cup of tea and butter cookies, and finally, I get dressed: I wear a pink blouse and a light blue skirt, which I cinch at the waist with a large brown belt. Normally, for the journey ahead, I would prefer the comfort of trousers, but I don't want to draw too much attention to myself, especially since I'll have to travel with a big black cat, two suitcases in my hands and no one helping me.

I slip on a pair of boots and am ready to go. There's just one thing missing: I grab a small cage from a closet and open it, inviting Morgan to enter. It's a challenging task since she hates being confined in a small space, and she starts meowing loudly to express her displeasure. «Come on, it'll only take a moment!», I try to convince her, but she simply turns away. Knowing her conditions for entering the cage, I reluctantly comply to avoid wasting more time: inside the cage, I place treats, a blanket and a pillow to make her journey more comfortable. Delighted that she knows how to get me to give in, Morgan enters the cage and settles down, allowing me to finally close the flap.

I step out the door and close it behind me, casting one last glance at its splintered wood. I take a deep breath and descend the stairs, making my way back to the Leaky Cauldron. I bitterly regret allowing something to enter my stomach, given the unorthodox and brisk method with which I will be traveling. When I reach Charity Cross Road, I see Adalbert on the doorstep, a pipe between his lips. I give him a nod of greeting, and he rushes to help me with the luggage, just as he did yesterday with the stranger. Only this time, there's no scent of cloves in the air.

«Are you going on a journey, Miss Doyle?», asks Adalbert.

«Work, actually», I respond with a hint of pride in my voice.

«Oh, and where are you headed? Do you need a room?»

«No, I need your Floo fireplace», I reply reluctantly, trying to conceal the fact that the mere thought is making my stomach churn. If I can, I prefer to travel by Muggle means – I can endure eight hours on the Hogwarts Express from London to the Highlands better than a few seconds of Floo powder, or worse, Apparition. Not to mention broomsticks, or portkeys. Perhaps it's the stigma that Salazar Slytherin himself has bestowed upon me from the grave for being sorted into his house despite being a Muggle-born.

But this situation calls for speed, and Floo powder is the only one, compared to the previous options, that makes me feel better – if having my stomach in turmoil all day can ever be considered feeling well. I let Adalbert open the door of the Leaky Cauldron for me and lead me towards the fireplace. I enter, and with some difficulty, I try to hold Morgan's cage and the suitcases in one hand, while with the other, I grab a handful of Floo. I look straight ahead and take a deep breath before chanting the name of my destination: "The Three Broomsticks!". I throw the dust at my feet, and immediately, a tall green flame rises, enveloping me and making me disappear from the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron. The flame, contrary to what one might think, is cold as it licks my skin, but soon it gives way to a whirlwind of ash that surrounds me, and within which I spin vortex-like, trying not to breathe. Everything lasts for a few moments, and when I open my eyes again, I find myself right in the Three Broomsticks' lounge.

I try to compose myself and casually brush the ash off my shoulders, hiding the fact that I might actually feel queasy. Behind the counter, Sirona has already poured a glass of firewhiskey - having seen me grow up at Hogwarts, she knows well the side effects of Floo powder on me. Concealing my discomfort, I wear a genuine smile upon seeing her again and, with suitcase and cage in hand, approach the counter.

«Sirona!», I exclaim, delighted to see her again after all this time.

«Well, well, if it isn't Cassandra Doyle in my pub! Last time I saw you here, you were berating Cillian Hawksworth because his escapades in Hogsmeade were distracting you from your NEWT studies», Sirona replies, making it seem like no time has passed at all.

«Only Merlin knows how much I actually appreciated those moments of escape to keep from going mad... and this», I say, lowering my gaze to the firewhiskey that the woman poured for me earlier as a remedy for my upset stomach. I'm not usually one to consume alcohol in the morning, but this time I make an exception.

«So, what brings you here?», she asks.

«The reason that brought me here the first time: Hogwarts. Only, this time, I'm returning as a teacher»

Sirona looks at me with approval: «I knew your talent and care for others would take you much further than an office at the Daily Prophet!». The reference to what, until a few hours ago, was my job, my safe place in the methodical routine I had built, causes a stab in my stomach. A shadow falls over my gaze, and it quickly fades away as it came, but not quickly enough for the woman not to notice. «Come on, don't keep Matilda waiting!», she says briskly, trying to lighten the atmosphere and dispel the slight tension that has formed around me. I gulp down the whiskey in one go, feeling the burn in my throat, and leave the inn.

I am welcomed by the same old Hogsmeade: not a dot has changed, every object is in its usual place, the scents and shops are as they always were, and I'm sure even the wizards and witches are wearing the same clothes as ten years ago. I can't say the same for the cats, but judging by Morgan's eagerness to get out of the cage, I'd say there are some new faces around. I indulge her need to explore and open her cage, saying: «You know where to find me» while stroking her, before she begins to roam the village. Now that I can use magic as and when I please, I cast a Disillusionment Charm on the cage and luggage and start walking towards Hogwarts at a leisurely pace, enjoying the warmth and sunlight that trace their path across the sky. The walk restores me, and at the same time, it allows me not to miss a single detail of my surroundings. I soon reach the exit of Hogsmeade, and in the distance, imposing, stands the Hogwarts castle, silent and solemn, the spires that soar into the sky almost touch the clouds. All around stretches the Black Lake, still and dark on the surface but teeming with life in its depths, thanks to the fauna that inhabits it, which I could peacefully observe during my afternoons of study in the Common Room.

The sensation this place leaves on me is incredible, as if not a single day has passed since I left. Everything remains unchanged, including the immediate sense of belonging and the familial warmth that envelops me as I approach the castle. I try to imagine what it will be like when I set foot in those halls again, this time as a teacher, and a thrill of excitement runs down my spine. I walk slowly, savoring every gust of wind, every blade of grass, every chirping of the Jobberknolls soaring through the air with their colorful wings. Occasionally, I encounter familiar faces, greeting me with a warm smile, heightening the excitement of being back in these places.

When, in the distance, I see the Quidditch field with its enormous hoops and colorful towers, my feet automatically quicken their pace towards the walls of Hogwarts. The desire to enter is so strong that I have to restrain myself from breaking into a run. Regaining some composure, I pass through the gate of the North Wing, and the statuette of Ignatia Wildsmith greets me, not failing to remind me that I often scorned its use during my school years. I continue to the massive door of the Bell Tower and push to open it: before me stands the magnificent marble atrium, with the fountain featuring sirens at its center, while on the left, the wooden wall indicating the Library stands austere. The marbles of the hall make the air cool, and the penetrating silence that envelops the deserted surroundings gives me a sense of peace as I make my way towards my next destination, the Transfiguration classroom.

I walk confidently through the labyrinthine corridors, having learned to navigate even the smallest nooks and hidden secret passages during my seven years at the school. I cross the Transfiguration courtyard, pleasantly shaded by the towers, and the door of the classroom overlooking the porch is already open; inside, there is no one, so I enter politely, my gaze resting on the walls filled with those books and objects still in their place. The office door is also open, and I hear the sounds of a human presence coming from inside. I approach the door frame calmly, and find Matilda sitting at her desk, her red hair still tied in the usual hairstyle braided on her head.

«Knock knock», I exclaim with a smile as I lean against the door.

Matilda looks up from the papers she was consulting and returns a big smile, quickly getting up from her desk and coming towards me: «Cassandra! I knew you would accept!», she says, embracing me with a maternal hug. Our relationship, since my biological family abandoned me at the age of 11, has always been more like that of a mother and daughter rather than a student and teacher.

«I couldn't deny eager students the teaching of Alchemy. Besides, I have the feeling that someone may have already tipped off the Daily Prophet about my... change of plans», I reply, giving her a knowing look, which she receives with a sly expression.

«Why didn't you tell me?», she asks, stepping out of the office and closing the door. She starts walking briskly, and I have to keep up to avoid lagging behind.

«I was too excited to do so. Plus, I read your letter last night and left this morning. I thought my presence here would be a more eloquent response than words»

«That's true – Matilda continues as we descend a large staircase near the Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms classrooms – although a bit of notice would have allowed us to prepare your accommodations. But don't worry, I already have a solution in mind»

«As far as I'm concerned, I can easily ask Sir–», but Matilda doesn't let me finish the sentence. She points her wand at her throat and utters the Sonorus spell. Now her voice is loud and resonates throughout the castle.

«All faculty members are expected within fifteen minutes in the staff room to meet the new Alchemy teacher. Please be punctual». The words still echo in my ears as Matilda opens the door to the Faculty Lounge, a narrow space with a long wooden table and a Boggart's wardrobe against one wall. She gestures for me to take a seat, skillfully preparing tea with precise wand movements.

Soon, I hear a whistling approaching the door, and there stands Professor Ronen, welcoming me joyfully as the «Pride of Slytherin!». His playful demeanor is as familiar as ever, as is his eccentric attire. He is soon joined by Madam Kogawa – who asks if I've finally learned to fly – and Professor Garlick, whom I remember as a seventh-year Hufflepuff when I was a first-year. I greet with joy the familiar faces of Professors Hecat, Shah, Onai, and Howin. I also encounter Ominis Gaunt, a Slytherin just a little younger than me, with his blond hair and veiled eyes: after graduating, he took over from Fig in teaching Magical Theory. Headmaster Black enters as well, visibly bored by the tales of Professor Binns's ghost trailing behind him. He looks at me as if I had never left Hogwarts and attended his class just the day before.

It's strange to be on the other side of the lectern for the first time in my life (metaphorically speaking, as the school year has not yet started), but the strong warmth and camaraderie that all the professors still radiate make me feel comfortable in this new position. Those who know me ask about what I did in my life before accepting the position, and those who have known me little or not at all, like Mirabel and Mudiwa, inquire with interest about my years at Hogwarts.

The buzz of conversation is interrupted by the sound of the lock clicking and the door opening to welcome the last professor. Professor Weasley, casting a radiant (and somewhat relieved, as her strict 15 minutes were expiring) glance toward the door, exclaims: «Ah, Aesop! There you are!».

Chapter 4: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

I turn my head towards the door, where a man in his forties has appeared, tall and with a fit, lean physique. He has flowing brown hair that reaches down to his shoulders. His eyes are piercing and dark, one of them marked by a scar that runs down to his jawline, standing out resolutely beneath a veil of dark beard, adding a determined air to his mysterious and... undeniably captivating look. I find myself blushing slightly as he extends his hand to introduce himself, gripping mine with confidence and briefly caressing my knuckles with his thumb. He keeps his gaze on me, as if trying to peer into my soul, and in a warm and deep voice, he says: «Aesop Sharp, Potions Professor».

In that moment when we stand facing each other, I become aware of the fragrance enveloping him: cloves and sandalwood... and another note, sharp yet more delicate than the others, that I can't quite discern. But it's the same scent I caught just yesterday afternoon at the Leaky Cauldron... he is the same man. As he approaches the table to take a seat, I notice that he limps the same way. That's why he was in such a hurry! Evidently Matilda, having to assign the chair of Alchemy in a short time, had summoned everyone in advance to do the honours.

I take my seat at the table, settling into the empty chair across from Sharp, my nostrils tickled by his fragrance. Matilda positions herself at the head of the table, Black directly opposite her, assuming a disinterested posture that betrays his desire to be anywhere but here at this moment. It's Matilda who speaks up, not failing to shoot a resigned glance at what is formally the Headmaster.

«So, my dear colleagues, now that we've all had the pleasure of meeting Professor Doyle, I can share my joy and pride in being able to once again ensure the teaching of Alchemy. The last time students requested it was in 1886, and Cassandra was actually among those who attended the course With excellent profit, moreover».

She looks at me with pride, a warmth radiating from her gaze, and continues: «Her curious mind and sharp wit, the excellent credentials, coupled with a strong ambition typical of the House she was sorted into – here I earn a disdainful look from Black, who evidently still hasn't gotten over the fact that I am a Slytherin after seventeen years, and a quick understanding glance from Professor Sharp – have made her the most suitable choice for the role».

Some of the teachers smile and offer congratulations, with Ronen lightly pumping his fist in the air in a sign of jubilation. The convivial moment is interrupted by Matilda's voice: «However, given the highly complex nature of the subject, and considering that Cassandra, before returning to Hogwarts as a teacher, was one of the most brilliant quills at the Daily Prophet, I believe it's necessary for her to be paired with an experienced teacher. Someone who can ensure that we provide excellence to our students».

A hush falls over the table, everyone exchanging intrigued glances to figure out who will, in effect, be the other Alchemy professor. Only Mirabel notices that the news that I won't be alone, as if I weren't enough to fulfill the role adequately, has left a bitter taste in my mouth. She places a reassuring hand on my arm.

«Aesop, I thought you would be the most suitable for this role». All eyes turn to the Potions Professor, while my breath catches in my throat. Sharp looks at me first with an unreadable expression, as if suddenly awakening from a dream, and then at Matilda: «No, Matilda, I can't accept. I already have my lessons, the fifth-year classes have the O.W.Ls., and their performance is worse than ever. I can't take on this burden», he retorts.

Professor Weasley, however, doesn't share his opinion. It seems she had anticipated his resistance and responds: «I've already ensured that everyone's schedules, including yours, are adjusted to this new requirement. Besides, Aesop, if no external candidate had accepted the position, I would have entrusted it to you anyway».

«Might as well have said it directly, rather than asking a journalist», he snaps abruptly, shooting me a quick glance that encapsulates all his disdain for my profession. I could say I'm used to it, but the truth is, you never really get used to the gratuitous contempt of others.

I lower my gaze, mortified, hands folded in my lap, while a slight jolt of the table makes me suspect that Madam Kogawa, sitting next to Sharp, attempted to kick him. Fortunately, Matilda has a ready response and steps in on my behalf: «It so happens, Aesop, that Professor Doyle was an excellent student, as well as a skillful and adept alchemist. The career she chose after graduation is nobody's business. What matters is the hic et nunc", and she shoots him a stern look, as if to put him back in his place.

Headmaster Black interjects, now squirming in his chair as if it were scalding: «Well, if there's nothing else to add, I would say we can all get back to our respective duties», he declares briskly, attempting to rise, but Matilda promptly makes him sit back down, not without a resounding sigh of disagreement.

«In reality, there is one last issue to address. Since Cassandra did not notify us in advance of her arrival – and here she shoots me a reproachful look – we have not been able to provide and prepare accommodation for her». She turns her gaze back to Sharp and, in a tone very much like one would pose a rhetorical question, asks him: «Aesop, do you still have access to the room hidden behind the fireplace?».

Sharp widens his eyes, now visibly agitated, but tries to keep his composure. «Yes, why?», he asks cautiously.

«Considering that you'll be working together, I thought Professor Doyle could stay there temporarily», Weasley responds as if she had just suggested the most normal thing in the world.

This time, it's me who speaks up: «Oh no, Matilda, I don't think it's necessary. I can rent a room at the Three Broomsticks until I have my own at the castle».

«I, on the other hand, believe it's the best choice. I'm certain that this "cohabitation" will be beneficial for getting to know each other better and extracting the most from both of you once the school year has begun», Matilda insists.

Sharp interjects: «You can't expect me to accept your conditions as if you were asking me to fly around the castle on a broomstick!».

I try to convey to him that, despite his prejudice against me, I agree with him: «Professor Sharp is right, Matilda. We don't know each other; it doesn't seem appropriate».

But she doesn't give up; rather, it seems like this banter tickles and amuses her. «What better opportunity, then?», she shoots both of us a look that brooks no argument. Sharp slumps back in his chair, running a hand over his face in resignation. I shoot Matilda a pleading look, but she pretends not to notice. «Well, I think we can all get back to our respective duties», she says. As soon as she utters the phrase, Black rises from his chair, mutters some half-hearted greetings and congratulations to me, and slips away. The Deputy Headmistress shakes her head, now resigned, and before Sharp can make a beeline for the door, she calls his attention: «Aesop?».

He turns around, his jaw tight and the muscles in his shoulders and arms tense, betraying his stoic demeanor. «Yes?», he responds.

«Would you be so kind as to show Cassandra the way?», she asks, still with a smile and the cordial tone she reserves for everyone even when she's on the verge of losing patience.

Sharp looks at me for a long moment before nodding slightly, then turns to me, gesturing for me to follow him. I rise from my chair, and as I approach, ready to follow him, I can't help but notice the look from head to toe that he gives me. I can't muster a response before he briskly heads towards the door, starting to make his way to the Faculty Tower. His limp slows him down a bit, so I try to keep pace, walking beside him more slowly than I normally would. It doesn't bother me; in fact, it gives me a chance to savor my return to Hogwarts even more. I can't, however, figure out what he might be thinking, as his expression betrays no hint of emotion.

We walk in silence down the long corridor leading to the Faculty Tower. When we reach the door that grants access to the teachers' quarters, Sharp takes out his wand, black and shiny, the handle spiraled and the details in silver. He performs an Alohomora to unlock the door. Imagining that I might be looking at him skeptically, given the basic spell he just used, he speaks to me for the first time since we started walking: «Of course, the spell is much stronger than what students master. But you should be able to handle it»

«I have an N.E.W.T. in Charms, if that's what you mean», I reply. He didn't expect me to respond to his provocation, and he gives me yet another indecipherable look, but this time I seem to detect a fleeting shadow of amusement, as if the very fact of having a conversation partner who can stand up to him is stimulating.

He guides me up two flights of stairs until we find ourselves in front of a landing with only one door. To the left, there's a display case containing a massive turtle shell studded with gems; to the right, a pile of precarious cauldrons and a cabinet. Sharp waves his wand again, lingering longer on the lock until the mechanism clicks. As if it takes a great act of will, he holds the door open for me to enter. I find myself in a spacious room with dark blue walls; scattered throughout are cases containing glass vials and cauldrons, not to mention bookshelves filled with books lining the walls. On the far wall, there's an imposing fireplace, in front of which stands a single armchair. Next to the lit fireplace, leaning against the wall, is a large dark leather sofa. The tall windows, reaching up to the ceiling, occupy the entire left wall.

On the right, there's an arched doorway leading to another room from which a reddish light emanates. I try to crane my neck to get a glimpse, but Sharp steps in the way: «For your room now – this way», he says reluctantly. He stands in front of the fireplace, points his wand at the flames, and says: «Glacio!». The flames extinguish immediately, revealing a passage to the other side. Sharp gestures for me to crouch down and pass through; for once, I'm grateful for wearing a wide skirt. When I straighten up, I find myself in front of a steep staircase, ascending along bare gray walls. We climb the steps until we reach a room without a door, smaller than those on the lower floor but decidedly more enchanting. The walls, one of which has a small balcony, are covered with drawings, easels, and canvases depicting a variety of subjects: magical creatures, Hogwarts environments, breathtaking landscapes of the Highlands. I step closer to observe every detail meticulously crafted, and a smile of genuine wonder forms on my face.

«Did you make these?», I ask, turning toward Sharp.

«Do you see anyone else around here?»

«They're wonderful».

I start to approach an easel, but it disappears in front of me: «They have no reason to be here anymore, now that this room will serve a different purpose from now on» he says, irritation evident in his voice.

I try to take a step in his direction, but a wayward splinter passes between my legs: Morgan has found not only the way back to the castle but also to her new home.

«What's a Kneazle doing here?», Sharp asks. Then, when he notices Morgan purring against my legs, he adds: «Oh no, forget it. We're already tight enough with two of us here. No need for a giant ball of fur».

«You know, Aesop – I respond, bending down to pet Morgan – I think having an animal around will do you good. It boosts serotonin», and I give him a slightly sarcastic smirk.

He takes a few steps toward me, positioning himself in front of me and looking down where I'm still petting Morgan. I straighten up slowly, his gaze following every movement until I'm back at his level (more or less, given that he's at least six inches taller than me). His eyes lock onto mine, staring at me with such intensity that I don't notice, with a swift movement of his wand, he makes all the objects in the room disappear.

«Do justice to this room by furnishing it decently – he tells me without breaking eye contact, a gruff note in his voice – and make sure that beast stays up here», he adds, starting to descend to the lower floor, earning a hiss from Morgan. Then he takes a step back and turns, heading back toward the stairs: «And don't call me Aesop».

I watch him disappear from my sight, letting out an annoyed sigh. If these are the premises of my year at Hogwarts, I might consider resigning before it even begins. I take out my wand and start conjuring the necessary furniture to furnish the room. The result is simple but essential: I've chosen a light pink shade for the walls, while the furniture is dark wood. Just to the left of the stairs, there's a canopy bed, its violet silk curtains barely moving with the air coming in from the balcony; then, a wardrobe and a large bookshelf leaning against the wall directly in front. On the threshold, I summon a velvet curtain of the same color as the canopy ones. Finally, in the center of the room, a desk appears, on which my suitcases suddenly materialize – those that I had made disappear in Hogsmeade. Near them is Deek, the house-elf, who with a snap of his fingers quickly disappears as he had appeared.

Chapter 5: SHARP

Chapter Text

Matilda must have hit her head this morning. How on earth could she think it was a good idea for what she considers to be a prodigious Alchemy Professor to need, in turn, a teacher to assist her? And to top it off, not satisfied, she decided without any chance for discussion that the journalist should stay in my art room. She didn't even consider asking me if it was okay! All these years of teaching together, and I'm not even worthy of being consulted? Just trying to imagine the reasoning she might have had, convinced it was the right thing to do, gives me a headache.

And so now I'll have to see that girl and her damn Kneazle wandering everywhere, invading my spaces, and especially disturbing my habits. I can already picture her, with that childish expression of wonder plastered on that pretty little face, rummaging through my instruments and touching what she shouldn't. This Doyle's lack of teaching and seriousness manifested itself well before her arrival, when she thought of rushing here without even giving notice. Basically, it's all her fault that I've been caught up in this situation.

She doesn't even know what basic manners are: while I was sitting at the desk drafting the programs for the new Potions lessons, she walked out of my... our room without even saying goodbye. I won't allow this "coexistence" to happen for even one night, and Matilda will have to come to terms with it.

I stride across the suspension bridge with determined steps, as far as my leg allows, heading towards the Bell Tower Wing. Passing in front of the Faculty Lounge door again, I can't help but let out an exasperated sigh due to the morning meeting. I open the door, revealing the spectacle of the Transfiguration Courtyard fully illuminated by the light. Under different circumstances, I would have sat on one of the stone benches to draw, but I don't have time at the moment – and neither the space to display a drawing. I briskly cross the colonnade on the left, slipping through the door of the Transfiguration Class, and just at that moment, someone exits, bumping into me.

I lower my gaze, and it's Cassandra indeed. Her expression of surprise from our sudden collision immediately changes, replaced by a brazen and sarcastic surrender: «Don't bother going in to ask her: she just told me no», she says, curling her lips into a conciliatory smile. Then suddenly, almost as if she realized what just happened, she takes a quick step back, distancing herself from me.

Not quickly enough, though, to prevent me from making a quick and mental assessment of what she's hiding under that pink blouse. One corner of my mouth lifts into a sneer, which she apparently interprets as conciliatory in turn because I see her relax her shoulder muscles and assume a slightly more casual posture. If nothing else, given that Matilda seems deaf to any objection, the thought of a young woman moving above my bedroom, covering and uncovering her pronounced curves, will be a palliative to the torture of having her constantly around, both in class and out.

«Sorry, both for bumping into you and for trying to talk to her – she says, as if wanting to make amends – but I thought she might listen to me, being alone»

«If you think you have more influence on her than her colleagues and friends, you won't last five minutes here», I cut short, turning away and moving away from the Transfiguration Class. I hear her hesitant steps behind me, as if unsure how to proceed.

I step out from the colonnade, under the sunlight illuminating the courtyard, and feel her fingers lightly brushing the back of my arm, as if afraid to touch me. With serene calmness, I turn around again and lower my gaze to her, who is wringing her hands. As much as it pains me to admit it, she is truly beautiful: her facial features are gentle and soft, her skin pale and clear, adorned here and there with a few sporadic freckles, as if sunbeams had bestowed light kisses scattered on her cheekbones. Just below her straight nose, rose-pink lips bloom like a freshly blossomed rose. But what strikes me the most are her eyes: under thick dark eyebrows, bathed in sunlight, her irises take on an amber hue. I barely have time to notice before she shields them with her hand, creating shade, while her long brown hair, gathered at the nape by a pearly butterfly-shaped clip, is gently moved by the breeze.

«Listen, I'm sorry we met like this and that I deprived you of your room», she says. Looking at her had almost made me forget that I won't have a release valve anymore after the disastrous lessons with the first-year students. «I know we started on the wrong foot – she continues – but given the nature of the situation, I'd say it's time we make an effort to collaborate». She stares at me, not showing any sign of looking away, as if demanding a response. How insolent.

«An effort, really?», I ask, frowning and raising an eyebrow.

She sighs, barely concealing some impatience: «Certainly, we can't say we've been put in the conditions to start our professional relationship smoothly»

«If someone had bothered to announce their arrival, the conditions would be different by now».

I turn around and start to leave (where to, considering she'll always be underfoot?), but her voice calls me back: «If someone didn't have prejudices against a simple journalist, the conditions would be optimal by now», Her provocation forces me to stop. I'm extremely annoyed that she's using my own words against me, but at the same time, the fact that she can, and especially that she wants to stand her ground, tickles me internally. It makes me curious to see how far she'll have the audacity and brazenness to go.

I turn to look at her again: «Watch your language, Doyle. I am a Professor»

«What a coincidence: me too», she retorts, setting aside the initial submission and displaying her arrogance. However, she's right: whether I like it or not, we are in an equal position, which means I can't put her in her place as I would like.

Aware that she has reason on her side, she gives me a satisfied little smile and slowly heads towards one of the benches in the courtyard, the light fabric of her skirt rustling in the gentle breeze. She sits, leaving enough space for me to join her, but I remain standing in front of her, arms crossed.

«I think the best thing to do right now is to pretend that our differences don't exist and focus on what we can give to the students. We have a great responsibility, and I don't want to disappoint anyone, especially Matilda», she says, suddenly becoming serious.

«I'm listening», I reply.

«Firstly, I would need to get to know the students: their academic background, the subjects they excel in, but also their personalities». Realizing that the last statement left me somewhat skeptical, she quickly adds: «Alchemy is not just a practical subject; it contains a lot of philosophy. It's essential to know who we're dealing with, on a human level».

I sigh resignedly: collaborating will be more challenging than I thought if this is her approach to teaching. «I'll make sure to provide you with a detailed account of their vibrant teenage personalities. What else?»

«I'll need to get to know you better too»

«Is a boat trip on the Lake enough for you? Or are you more of a Hogsmeade picnic type?», I reply sarcastically.

Cassandra gets up from the bench, annoyed, and starts walking towards the Central Hall door. Reluctantly, I find myself trailing behind her.

«Just a normal chat between colleagues, without prejudices, – she says – if you're capable of that. And no, I didn't have any romantic outing in mind with you. The Faculty Lounge will do just fine». She stops halfway up the staircase and turns in my direction. I could swear I see a flash of triumph in her eyes due to the fact that I am following her. «Or maybe you're the one who would like a romantic outing?», she adds sarcastically.

My patience is officially exhausted. Instead of following her, I head to the right, towards my classroom. «Tomorrow morning at 10 in my office. And don't get any strange ideas!», I specify, continuing to walk without looking back.

«See you tomorrow, Professor Sharp», she replies, while the echo of her footsteps resonates on the tiers, and she moves away. The way she pronounced my name had a mocking tone, but at the same time, her soft and feminine voice gave it a different connotation. As if, spoken by her, it took on a completely different meaning. Irritated, I continue down the corridor, a persistent scent tickling my nostrils. It's probably a house-elf that cleaned the floor with some concoction.

I enter my classroom, enjoying the calm and solitude of this environment that will become unruly in just over two weeks, with the constant coming and going of students at all hours. I open the door to my office, take off my jacket, and leave it on the back of the chair. Then, I begin rummaging through the various files, searching for the material Doyle requested, ready to spend an amusing afternoon compiling utterly useless paperwork.

I leave the office and head towards the round table where I usually sit during lessons, at the back of the classroom. It's the spot with the best lighting in the room, and it's spacious enough to handle a decent workload without going mad. I sit down, absentmindedly placing the papers on the table, and unbutton my shirt collar.

Only at that moment do I realize the persistent scent that has insinuated itself into my nostrils. It's jasmine, and house-elves have nothing to do with it. It's Cassandra's perfume, which she left on my shirt when she bumped into me outside the Transfiguration Classroom.

Chapter 6: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

I storm into the library, my footsteps echoing on the stairs and the carpeted floor beneath.

«Miss Doyle, this is a library, not a brawl!», scolds Madam Scribner, the librarian. I admit to being a bit surprised to see her again, and I'd swear these ten years since our last encounter have made her even more sour. I try to regain my composure and head towards the Reference Section, searching for books on philosophy to help dismantle Sharp's prejudices not only in Alchemy but also in human approach. On second thought, perhaps he could benefit from reading a few. It's absurd that someone named Aesop has such a practical outlook on life!

I spend a few hours in the library, taking notes and preparing a proper dossier that I'll bring to Sharp's office tomorrow. The thought of spending time alone with him in the same room sends a shiver down my spine, but as I catch myself biting my lip, I realize the idea isn't entirely unpleasant. If only his personality matched his physical appearance, I'd be much less reluctant to prove my worth to him. "Prove my worth to him"?! I don't have to prove anything to anyone, especially not to an egotistical man. Circumstances that stuck us together will undoubtedly find a way to make it clear, and I shouldn't even entertain the thought of having to prove anything to him!

To halt this endless stream of thoughts, I rise from the desk, books and scrolls in hand. I record the loans with Madam Scribner and once outside, head towards the Faculty Tower. I notice my heart pounding louder as I approach, genuinely anxious to find Sharp in our quarters, his piercing gaze inspecting me as if I were an artifact for sale at Borgin & Burke. I take out my wand and cast an Alohomora; taking a deep breath, I open the door to the room. Empty.

Now that I have a bit less anxiety about every move being meticulously scrutinized, I head towards the fireplace, casting a Glacius at the flame. I ascend the stairs and enter my bedroom. I arrange books and papers on the desk, then retracing my steps back out of our quarters, including a Locking Charm. Only as I walk back through the corridor of the Faculty Tower in reverse do I realize my stomach growls mercilessly. With lunchtime past, I head to the kitchens, glancing around a thousand times in fear that Sharp and his cutting cynicism might appear unexpectedly. The day has been eventful enough; I don't need any more of his remarks.

I descend the spiral staircase leading to the dungeons and stand in front of the painting with the pear, tickling it to prompt the entrance to the kitchens. The act of tickling the fruit has always amused me, coupled with a genuine wonder for all the magical quirks this school is filled with.

«Miss Doyle!», I hear a small voice to my left call. I turn in its direction, finding a little house-elf peering at me from behind a chest, its large green eyes fixed on me.

«Good afternoon, Gombkey! – I say, approaching him with a smile – I'm truly delighted to see you again».

A surprised murmur begins to spread among the small inhabitants of the kitchens. Apparently, nothing has changed: they still get flustered just like the first time if treated with respect.

«The pleasure is Gombkey's, Miss Doyle», he replies, nodding with a bow. Then he pauses, widens his eyes even more, and exclaims loudly: «Gombkey didn't mean to offend! You're not just "Miss" anymore: Gombkey heard that now you're a Professor at Hogwarts School!».

Behind him, a small group of curious house-elves has gathered, all of them looking at me with admiration. «You certainly haven't offended me! – I reassure him – If you want to continue calling me Miss Doyle, you can». Gombkey begins to respond when behind me, I hear a commotion of pots and dishes. I turn to see three busy elves preparing what I imagine to be a magnificent meal for me, while another tugs at my skirt, presumably intending to usher me to the Great Hall for dinner.

With little difficulty, I free myself and hurry towards the three elves: «You really don't have to bother! – I tell them – I'll eat something you already have in the kitchen». Their surprise lingers, and I continue: «You don't have to serve me. You're already doing more than enough as far as I'm concerned».

Panic ensues in the kitchen: elves running everywhere, some in despair, some crying, and one disappearing under a pile of pots, oblivious to my refusal. With a resigned sigh, aware that no one is bothering to treat them humanely, I take out my wand and say: «Immobulus!», freezing them all immediately.

«Now, listen carefully! – I say in a commanding voice – When it comes to me, I command you not to serve me!». I didn't want to go this far, but they are so accustomed to behaving like servants that even with polite manners, they can't break free from this imposed legacy on their kind. I look around, locking eyes with Gombkey, who, though motionless, has changed his expression to one of submissive understanding. With a quick wave of my wand, I lift the spell, and the elves return to their tasks, putting the pots back on the shelves and tidying up the kitchen. Occasionally, someone mutters, but it quickly falls silent as I pass by. The reverential fear they have towards wizards opens a crack in my heart.

I make my way to a long table where there's a plate with a massive roast and some vegetables. I calmly begin to cut the meat and arrange the vegetables on the plate, lost in my thoughts about the condition of house-elves – as always happens when I see one. I become so absorbed in what's happening around me that I startle when I feel a hand resting on my shoulder.

«Calm down, calm down! I may be getting old, but I didn't think I'd have this effect!». I turn around, and it's Professor Ronen. His remark makes me burst into laughter.

«Professor! – I say, relieved – Apologies. I was lost in my thoughts»

«And of what nature?», he asks, snatching bits of food here and there.

I gesture for him to help himself and sit down with me, and he accepts. «Do you remember how much I cared about the condition of house-elves when I was a student?», I ask, taking a bite of the roast that practically melts in my mouth it's so tender.

«Absolutely! And I also remember how Black was convinced that supporting the cause would distract you from your studies... only to be proven wrong at the end of the year».

I chuckle softly: «Let's say there were many things I proved him wrong about! Although I believe that now, as a professor, I can't take the liberties I once did when talking about him»

«Well, the important thing is not to be heard by Scrope... although I have a feeling that even he, at times, allows himself not to be too severe!», Ronen replies with a chuckle.

Once we finish eating, I get up and hurry to one of the sinks to wash the dishes, despite the protests of some of the more stubborn elves. Ronen watches me amused, although I'm sure he still doesn't quite grasp the importance, for me, of treating house-elves the same way I treat people. At least he has always had the good will to listen to my reasons.

«Up for a match of Summoner's Court?», Ronen asks as we climb the kitchen stairs.

«Why not? – I reply – A bit of fresh air will do me good».

The match is soon followed by others, but they never determine a winner as they always end in draws. «You're still in great shape!», Ronen exclaims.

«I had an excellent mentor», I reply, winking at him.

Proudly, he invites me for a stroll in the garden, updating me on the events of the past ten years. «And you? – he asks – What do you have to tell your old Professor?».

"I'd rather forget the last ten years", I find myself thinking. After graduation, I found myself completely alone. If Hogwarts had been my home, my safe haven for seven years, when I had to leave, I didn't know what to do with my life. I plunged into journalism due to the insatiable thirst for knowledge and justice that has always defined me, but to say that I felt at home at the Daily Prophet would be a misrepresentation. And then there was that moment when I would have preferred not to be the person I am, not to have any magical power. To be perfectly ordinary, a young woman whose only concern was making her husband happy. I couldn't even get to that step. That's also why I wrote "The First Grimoire": I needed, first and foremost, to find myself again and the love for magic, the same magic that had simultaneously denied me the love of someone who should have loved me beyond everything.

Instead of sharing these thoughts with him, I respond to Ronen: «Well, I've written a lot! The Daily Prophet allowed me to apply the subjects I was most passionate about in school».

«I know you've dealt with many issues concerning the Muggle world», Ronen replies, nodding.

«Yes! Lately, I've been passionate about the cause of Muggle women, fighting for the same rights as men. They're truly courageous! I immediately felt at ease with them; they supported and encouraged me, especially during a time when... well, I felt the loneliness more», I say briskly, not wanting to reveal more to Ronen about my past.

He seems contemplative as he rummages through his cloak pockets: «So, I have to assume they inspired you for this incredible read?», he asks, pulling out a copy of my book. The sight of the pink cover, the title and my name in silver letters, in his hands, evokes a strong emotion in me.

«You've read it?!», I ask him with wide eyes.

«More than once! But the most surprising thing is that my wife discovered and bought it! "Abraham", she writes one day, "I have a little book in my hands that I think you'll like! And if I'm not mistaken, the author was one of your students". She wasn't mistaken! After all, I've told her so much about you: how could I not? You were always the best at Charms!».

I can't articulate a proper thank you that doesn't sound disjointed. After Fig, Ronen filled the paternal figure void that I've always missed, and to hear him proud of me still, after all this time, fills me not only with pride but also with the self-confidence I lack.

With flushed cheeks, I look up at him and utter a faint «Thank you», while in the meantime, he conjures up a quill with his wand and hands it to me: «Well, since we're at it... I don't get to chat with the author of a book every day!», he says, inviting me to sign it for him. It amuses me, and I agree to sign the book, adding a dedication. With the same speed it appeared, the quill disappears, and Ronen puts the book back in his pocket.

«Did you really like it?», I dare to ask.

«I wouldn't have any reason to lie to you – he replies, continuing to walk – Why do you ask?»

«Well... I know not all wizards and witches were pleased. They think I wanted to teach Muggle women how to use magic. Imagine that! Some of them can't even attend school...». I see Ronen stop for a fraction of a second, his usually cheerful expression darkening upon learning this news. It's incredible how most Purebloods have no idea of the privilege they possess. «Especially among the Slytherins, it didn't go down well. Many consider me a mistake by the Sorting Hat, while the rest might think it but have the decency not to say it out loud», I conclude with a sad sigh.

«It just so happens that I am a Pureblood, a Slytherin, and also the Head of Slytherin House – Ronen replies, putting a reassuring hand on my shoulder – I've read your book. I consider myself a wizard of a certain level, not to brag! And I found absolutely no trace of magic in your book».

He smiles at me and gestures for me to sit on one of the stone benches around the fountain. I obey and stare into space, not completely reassured by his words. A constant sense of tension has gripped me since the meeting with the other professors in the Faculty Lounge, and it shows no signs of leaving me.

«It will be fine, Cassandra». I turn my face towards Ronen, sitting to my right, looking at me with concern. «You've always proven yourself worthy of Hogwarts, even when at 11, you thought you were different from everyone else because of your upbringing. The school will be your home again, and you won't fail to honor it as only you know how», he continues.

I fidget on the bench, and the words come out of my mouth before I can actually consider if it's a good idea to say them: «Is he always like that?».

Ronen chuckles: «His name is Sharp, not by chance. But he's an excellent professor and a great friend. Proud, yes, and doesn't easily compromise, but that's probably because of his past as an Auror».

I'm not sure if I'm more struck by the fact that Ronen immediately understood I was referring to Sharp or by the revelation that Sharp was an Auror before becoming a Professor. «When did he stop working for the Ministry?», I ask, suddenly curious.

Ronen looks at me a bit puzzled: «Tell me, you two haven't talked?»

«I'd say it was a bit difficult to get him to say anything, and what he had to say wasn't too kind, nor did it concern his past».

Ronen runs a hand over his face and mutters more to himself than to me: «Ah, the usual Aesop... Well! – he turns back to me – Just know that he became the Potions Professor in September 1888, a few months after your graduation. That's why you didn't have a chance to meet him earlier»

«And why would an Auror choose to teach Potions at Hogwarts? I mean, wouldn't Defense Against the Dark Arts be more suitable?».

Ronen sighs, and for the first time, he looks away from me, directing his gaze towards the fountain: «He has his reasons... I'm sure he'll tell you when you get to know each other a bit better».

I'm afraid of pushing too far given his last cryptic response, but I try anyway: «And his leg...?». I leave the question hanging, not quite sure how to continue.

Ronen seizes the opportunity to return to being the playful man he was before and to bring our conversation back to the relaxed and cheerful tone it had a moment ago, before we touched on the Sharp topic: «Ah, rest assured that being professors at Hogwarts doesn't have that effect!».

Yet, his answers have left me with more questions than before. Of course, I never wanted a third person to reveal something about Sharp to me, but since he's so impenetrable, I thought someone else might have helped me get to know him. Instead, that man is nothing but a mystery. My hopes of facing tomorrow's encounter more calmly have been entirely in vain.

Pretending little interest in the matter, I go along with Ronen, and our conversation quickly changes the subject, focusing on the school gossip that has been circulating over the past ten years. Naturally, the main topic is the goblin uprising and the subsequent attack by Ranrok in 1891. The year Professor Fig died, fighting bravely alongside the Slytherin student who defeated Ranrok. It's a real shame she entered Hogwarts only in the fifth year; I would have liked to know her.

Soon Ronen and I part ways: he returns to the castle, while I still feel like strolling in the park, savoring everything I had left behind after graduation. Near the greenhouses, I encounter Professor Garlick, who greets me warmly and asks if I'd accompany her to Hogsmeade to run some errands. I accept, and fortunately, she heads towards the village on foot, without making any mention of the Floo. After making the necessary purchases at The Magic Neep and Dogweed and Deathcap, it's almost dinnertime, and in a renewed burst of youth, we stop at the Three Broomsticks to spend what Mirabel calls, in a hushed tone as if referring to something forbidden, "a women's night".

Given the sparse clientele, after the meal, Sirona joins us for a glass of Butterbeer. However, whether it's because I've been away from the area for so long or due to the day's fatigue, my contribution to the conversation is very limited. I decide to bid them farewell before it gets too dark.

I bid the two women goodbye and step outside, retracing my steps towards the castle, getting lost in the incredible sight of the stars and the moon reflecting in the Black Lake. Inevitably, I find myself thinking about Sharp's drawings, which were hanging in what is now my bedroom only this morning. I wonder if, somewhere, he's seeing what I see and is already immortalizing it; or perhaps he's already back in our quarters...

Once back at Hogwarts, I quickly ascend the stairs leading to the Faculty Tower, driven by fatigue to reach the mattress as soon as possible. In front of the door to mine and Sharp's accommodation, I place my hand on the handle and try to turn it. Locked. I perform an Alohomora and enter: the room is empty, its appearance not too different from what it was this morning when I left for the unsuccessful meeting with Matilda. A sign that Sharp hasn't returned either.

After extinguishing and relighting the fireplace, I go into my room, where I finally kick off my shoes. Morgan dozes off on the chair in front of the desk, and I swear I can see some mouse hairs scattered here and there in the candlelit dimness. Careful not to make noise, I unbutton my skirt, letting it fall, and then my blouse. I take the hair clip out, brushing through the curls, and put on a light white nightshirt.

I move aside the covers and lie down on the bed, the soft mattress welcoming my weary limbs from today's events. With a wand flick, I extinguish the candles. Before I can even notice if there's the noise of Sharp returning from downstairs, Morpheus takes me, and I start to be cradled in his arms.

Chapter 7: SHARP

Chapter Text

I wake up early, my temples pulsating due to the few hours of sleep. I've been in my office until late evening, busy gathering all the material Doyle requested, and here's the result of her clever idea. The thought of having to see her in a few hours, ready to ask a thousand questions and philosophize, irritates me, worsening my headache. With a grunt, I force myself to get up, carefully surveying the rooms. Doyle was already in her room when I returned (of course, since she had the whole afternoon off, having assigned me the more burdensome task), and at the moment, she doesn't seem to have woken up before me, as everything is as I left it last night.

I take the wand from the desk and, with a swift motion, light the candles, illuminating the room so I can choose my clothes. Despite it being summer, my mood couldn't be darker, so I opt for a dark blue shirt and brown trousers and boots. I ensure that the footwear has buckles, allowing me to tighten the left one to alleviate the pain in my leg. All these years have passed, and I still haven't managed to find a cure...

With a frustrated sigh, I put on a dark green silk robe, grab the clothes I'll wear today, and head to the Prefects' Bathroom for my morning swim. I adopted this habit after a trip to Italy, in the summer of 1893, when I decided to visit Claire, who had become known for defeating Ranrok and had moved to Genoa to pursue her career as a magical historian. Well, the reason wasn't simply a courtesy visit. During her seventh year at school, our relationship had intensified to the point of becoming quite intimate, so once our academic obligations were over, we decided to... deepen our connection. Things didn't go as planned due to the distance, but I've happily maintained the morning swimming routine, given the mental and physical benefits it provides, especially for my leg.

I open the door to the Prefects' Bathroom, fortunately still deserted at this hour. I place the clothes on a stool and remove the robe, the cold marble-covered room sending shivers across my naked skin, waking me from the lingering sleepiness. I stride onto the mat and dive in, the sensation of warm water enveloping my body like a soft blanket. The swim brings me back to life, although it fails to alleviate the headache. The throbbing pain in my temples constantly reminds me of Doyle's presence just a few meters away and the day we'll have to spend in close quarters – the first of many.

I realize I think about her far too much, and not in the way I'd normally dedicate my thoughts to a beautiful woman. Her appearance, though pleasant, is overshadowed by the force with which her presence was imposed on me, and clearly, her demeanor doesn't help. If I were a worse man, I'd know how to put her in her place. Inevitably, the thought sends a shiver through my lower abdomen. I turn on one of the large faucets, letting the cold water stream hit me to halt this sensation – enjoyable, certainly, but impossible to indulge – and step out of the tub to dry myself, being careful not to look at the scar on my left leg that constantly reminds me of the end of my Auror career.

From the windows, I can see the sun has risen; so once dressed, I return to my quarters, where there is no sound. A sign that Doyle is still asleep: another demonstration of her lack of professionalism, as she will inevitably be late for our meeting if she continues to delay.

I take a Numbing Potion from one of the cases where I keep medicinal vials and head towards the Great Hall for breakfast. Around me, the few souls currently in the castle are waking up. All except one. I look up at the sky and quicken my pace, sitting at my place at the professors' table, where a hearty plate of porridge, eggs, and fruit materializes directly from the kitchens. I start eating slowly, savoring the flavors and exchanging a few words with Professor Garlick about the plants she'll be cultivating this year, needed for both Potion and Alchemy classes.

When Matilda enters, I notice her smug expression as she greets me, but fortunately, she doesn't bring up the annoying topic of suddenly having an unwanted roommate. I, in turn, decide to ignore the matter, resigned to the fact that this situation cannot be changed in any way.

A whistle announces Ronen's entrance. I envy his constant optimism. He sits down and pulls out a pink book from his cloak, proudly showing it to Matilda. The light catches the silver letters of the title and the author's name... Is it possible?

«Abraham – I begin – what are you reading?».

Grinning, he reaches out to show me the book: «It's written by the new Alchemy Professor! I knew she'd make it big! And look – he says, opening it to the first page – she even signed it for me!». I wipe the corner of my mouth with a napkin and reluctantly take the book from Ronen's hands, examining it. On the first page, rounded handwriting brings forth a dedication oozing with admiration and respect for Ronen – if I didn't know who wrote it, I wouldn't find it so damn cloying.

«And what would this... book be about?», I inquire.

«Cassandra has shared her knowledge of the magical world with Muggle women – he explains, a hint of pride in his voice – Yesterday afternoon, we had an enlightening conversation, and she explained that in the Muggle world, women don't enjoy the same rights as magical women! Without magic in play, she chose to teach them all those knowledge applicable even without magical powers».

I look at Ronen first and then at the book with a skeptical expression. He urges me: «Aesop, I really think you should read it. You'll find it enlightening... and, between us – he leans in my direction, lowering his voice – it might help you have fewer prejudices against her». He leans back, winking at me, and resumes his usual demeanor, adding: «You'll give it back to me when you're done!».

Reluctantly, I put the book in the back pocket of my trousers and finish breakfast, which now seems significantly less appetizing. I don't need to look up; I feel the eyes of the other teachers on me, as if I'm crazy not to accept a condition that has been imposed on me.

I've lost my appetite. I get up and bid farewell to the other teachers, heading towards the Potions Classroom. Before leaving, I glance at the clock on the wall: it's almost 9:00, and still no sign of Doyle in the Great Hall. Growing irritation builds within me, confident that she'll be late. I enter the classroom and then my office, leaving both doors open so that she can notice my presence well before her arrival.

With meticulous calmness, I gather all the folders prepared the day before and organize them alphabetically. Then I jot down a couple of lines, outlining a kind of schedule to reluctantly structure the Alchemy lessons, ensuring Doyle doesn't interfere too much with my teaching method and has limited say. If this needs to be done, let it be on my terms.

I glance at the clock: still ten minutes until the appointed time. I could allow myself a glass of scotch while waiting. Even though it's morning, I feel the need to face the day. I rise from my desk and head towards one of the cabinets where, hidden behind jars containing Boomslang skin and Granian hair, there's a bottle of amber liquor waiting to be opened. I take a glass from a shelf and pour myself a generous dose, then turn to look out the window. I savor the warm and burning liquid down my throat as I gaze at the landscape, which I must have captured hundreds of times since my first step into this school. Yet, the poetry and wonder that surround this place never tire me, providing a slight relief from the rest of the thoughts that daily crowd my mind.

I'm so absorbed that a faint knock on the doorframe startles me. I turn, and there, right on time, is Doyle. She's wearing a light pale blue muslin dress with slightly fluttering three-quarter sleeves. The skirt flows softly to the ground, creating an irritatingly ethereal cloud-like effect—except for the snug bodice emphasizing her already ample curves, barely contained within the soft neckline. Her long brown hair cascades in waves down her shoulders, back, and around her face, adorned with a rosy makeup that gives her fair skin a childlike sun-kissed glow. Despite my reluctance to admit it, especially after resolving to do so just a few hours ago, I can't deny the beauty of a woman when I see one. And she, so young and so mismatched with the appearance of this dark, cold, and gloomy room, seems like a faint will-o'-the-wisp coming to life in the deathly aura of a graveyard. Delicate, rare, and beautiful.

«May I come in?», she asks, hesitating to enter.

«Aren't you a bit too old for a debutante ball, Doyle?», I respond sarcastically, referring to her attire. I take a seat in the chair behind my desk and gesture for her to sit: «Sit down».

«I won't swelter in dark, tight clothing in the middle of August just to match my cosmic pessimism», she retorts, taking a seat in front of me and shooting me a glance, catching me off guard. I had a taste of her sarcasm yesterday, but I must admit I didn't expect her to be so feisty so early in the morning.

I curve the corner of my mouth in a surprised smile: «Leopardi – I say – So, in addition to the brilliant talent in magic that made you "the pride of Slytherin", you also know the great Italian poets».

"Yes, but I don't need to boast about it. Knowledge is meant to enrich us internally, not to make us seem better than others," she responds, locking her hazel eyes onto mine. A boldness that clashes with the schoolgirl outfit she chose today.

«A woman of many surprises», I retort, looking at her thoughtfully. «And also with a sharp tongue. Go ahead, here are the documents you asked for», I conclude, putting an end to this verbal clash she initiated against me.

She shoots me a resentful look but remains silent, taking the first file.

«Black, Arcturus. It wouldn't be...?». She leaves the question hanging, looking up at me, and I nod.

«Even though – I add – relations with the other Black aren't the best».

Doyle nods as if Black's fatherly reputation precedes even that of the Headmaster. She continues to flip through the files: Brown, Helen; Burke, Aleksej; Carrow, Sylvan; Doge, Elphias. Seeing that the next file is noticeably thicker than the others, a keen interest sparks in her eyes, and she begins to leaf through it eagerly.

«Albus Dumbledore. Head Boy, and one of the brightest students I've ever known in all my years of teaching. It's truly a shame he was sorted into Gryffindor», I tell her.

Doyle stifles a laugh but responds with a note of reproach in her voice: «You shouldn't judge your students by the house they were sorted into. Otherwise, students like me would have had to be on the train back to London right after the Sorting Ceremony! But... – and here her tone softens – I must admit, such a student would have certainly brought prestige to our House».

Her long, slender fingers gracefully move over the pages I've written, pausing occasionally to examine some details of Dumbledore's excellent record. Then she exclaims, diverting her gaze from the file and rummaging in a purse: «Since this reading promises to be long and interesting, I want to fully enjoy it», she says, pulling out a cigarette and bringing it to her lips. I stare at her resentfully, offended by her insolence and rudeness, as if she were in her own office.

«Do you really think you can smoke in here? Where do you think you are? And, above all, who?», I burst out loud, standing up from the chair and leaning towards her to take the cigarette away.

Her composure remains unfazed; she moves slightly out of my reach, reaching for a lit candle nearby to light her cigarette. Taking a long drag, leaving a pink lipstick stain on the filter, she continues to stare at me and responds: «A Professor who indulges in vices outside working hours, much like the Professor in front of her», gesturing towards the glass of scotch I left on the windowsill.

I clench my jaw, closing my eyes momentarily, exhausted. Fighting against her is like trying to teach a Puffskein not to lick. I open my eyes again, sit back down, and without breaking my gaze from hers, I reach for the glass behind me, fill it, and down its contents in one gulp. A smug smile forms on her lips, and with the usual insolence, she dares to take the cigarette case and offer me one.

I give in. I reach out towards her to take one, brushing against her fingers—smooth, soft, and slightly cold. Seizing the opportunity, I retort to what she said when she first entered my office: «There's a reason why, even in summer, I dress heavier when I have to be down here», I say in a low voice while, with the cigarette in my mouth, I lean towards her, never taking my eyes off her. If there's a way to keep her arrogance in check, then so be it.

Approaching, I can smell the jasmine scent on her and see the stubborn look in her eyes, hiding a hint of intimidation behind a veil of curiosity. My face is now inches from hers, just enough for me to press the end of my cigarette to hers, also held between her lips, to light it. As I take a drag, eyes still locked on hers, I can catch a glimmer of what seems to be desire in them.

When I slowly pull back, leaning on the backrest again, I briefly lower my gaze to her bodice. I notice with satisfaction the slight bulge in the fabric of her dress, where her nipples are. I let out a satisfied laugh because I know for sure it's not just because she's cold. There's undeniable tension between us on multiple levels, and if she's so inexperienced that she can't mask its effect, I certainly won't be the first to avoid such situations. I love having control, and she's such an easy prey...

«Continue», I say, breaking the tense moment that occurred earlier and redirecting her (or rather, both of us) to focus on the reason we met.

As she regains her composure, she tries to find her natural composed posture again and continues to read Dumbledore's file with interest, occasionally asking me questions about his past. I watch her constantly, memorizing every movement, every expression. I can't deny that she's genuinely passionate; I can sense all her curiosity and the desire to prove to everyone—especially to me—her worthiness of being in this position. However, her attitude changes after a few files.

«Alisteir... Rookwood?», she asks incredulously, suddenly becoming serious.

I knew this moment would come. It always does. «Yes. Son of that Rookwood», I simply say, pouring myself another glass of scotch.

I see her swallow, and trying to mask the note of concern in her voice, she asks: «What can you tell me about him?».

Taking my time to drink, savoring the scotch and reflecting on the best way to explain to her who she will have to teach, as if there's a choice. Licking the liquid from my lips, I begin to speak: «Worthy son of his father: unscrupulous, ambitious, he would do anything to get what he wants. But what makes him, if possible, even worse is that he's been pissed off at the world since... you know what happened. I imagine he wants to find a way to avenge his father's death... and considering it happened at the hands of a Muggle-born student, well, he doesn't have much sympathy for people like her, and he never fails to remind them».

Her gaze darkens, and I can see the deep concern that my story has caused her. Before I can ask, she anticipates me: «So, even with the professors...?»

«Yes. Even with the professors. He doesn't appreciate authority. Only Ronen manages to keep him somewhat in check as the Head of Slytherin». I assume Doyle's concern stems from her background, and who can blame her? She was sorted into the house most known for disdain towards Muggle-borns and Half-bloods. «And you are...?», I venture to ask, surprising myself with the concern I direct towards her.

«Muggle-born», she hurriedly responds, almost wanting to cut off the conversation before it starts. «But I don't like to talk about my... family». She pronounces the last word with reluctance, as if it takes a tremendous effort.

I can't help but feel pity for her. If she doesn't want to talk about it, I imagine she hasn't had a happy childhood. I observe her expression, sad and distant. A thought crosses my mind: if her last name is Doyle, then... «You're Irish, aren't you?», I ask.

She looks at me, the sadness still in her eyes but now mixed with curiosity: «Yes, from Tullamore», she answers in a soft voice.

As I suspected: a witch born in Catholic Ireland, likely raised under those principles. Quickly, various pieces regarding her reluctance to talk about her family fall into place.

Before I can think about what I'm doing, my hand rests on hers, still on the Rookwood file. The contact of my warm skin against hers makes her eyes widen, but she doesn't pull away.

«I'll make sure Rookwood doesn't ruin your experience at Hogwarts in any way. Neither as a Professor nor as a person», I reassure her. A faint smile forms on her full, rosy lips, and I find myself returning it unintentionally. It might be the positivity she radiates or the fact that she feels so vulnerable in a world she knows so well. The world to which she truly belongs and that has embraced her without making any distinctions. A feeling I know well, having experienced it several times myself. A feeling that comes back to me every time I think about that night of the ambush, making me vulnerable. Too much. And I can't afford it.

I quickly tight her hand before pulling away. «Come on, go on with the last dossiers», I gesture with my hand, determined to leave behind this moment where I almost risked showing vulnerability in front of her. A blush of embarrassment colors her cheeks, as if she, too, realized what happened. Despite that, she did nothing to prevent it. Again.

Careful not to let her notice that I'm watching her with a satisfied smirk, I continue to sip my scotch, never taking my eyes off her. I take note of every time she furrows her dark eyebrows, of how her expression changes when she reads some detail that strikes her, of how her lips move silently, repeating some of the information written on the parchments. I wish I didn't, but in a certain way, she's magnetic. Being in this room with her is becoming torture.

As she reaches the last page of the final file, I abruptly snatch it from her hands, closing it and putting it back with the others. «Well, I'd say you've got all the information you wanted for today», I tell her.

She furrows her brows a bit, visibly displeased. «I suppose», she responds.

«Very well», I say, standing up from the chair so she understands she should do the same. At least I don't have to explicitly tell her, as she catches on quickly.

As I leave my office, heading towards the round table at the back of the Potions Classroom, I can hear Cassandra's stomach growling behind me. «Go to the Great Hall, I don't want you to skip lunch», I say, suppressing a laugh.

«Aren't you coming?», she asks timidly.

«No, I have other matters to attend to», I reply, sitting at the table. She stands between the office and me, as if unsure of what to do. Her gaze betrays a bit of disappointment, as if she expected us to leave the classroom together. She nods, nervously biting her lower lip. An involuntary gesture that strips her of any confidence and barriers she erected around herself, yet I find it incredibly alluring.

«We'll still have to work together to outline the curriculum», I continue, grabbing a new parchment to start working. «I'll send you an owl with all the details».

«An owl? But we practically live... together», she responds confused.

I release a heavy sigh, frustrated: «I remember that without your help, thanks. You can go».

She inhales nervously, nostrils flaring with annoyance. She turns and walks towards the classroom exit. Just as she reaches the threshold, I call her back: «Oh, Doyle?». She turns, waiting for what I have to add.

Continuing to arrange my work tools on the table, I tell her: «Next time you find yourself in the dungeons, I recommend wearing heavier clothing». Finally, I lift my gaze to meet hers. «When you're cold... it shows», I add, slyly letting my eyes fall on her bodice.

She lowers her eyes, seeing where I've actually focused mine: on her nipples still protruding beneath the light fabric of the corset.

Her eyes widen, and she blushes violently, hurrying to leave, leaving behind only the trail of her perfume. Once I'm sure she's no longer around, I stop pretending to work on something else and take out the book Ronen left for me this morning, opening it to the first page and starting to read.

Chapter 8: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

I slam the Potions Classroom door shut hastily, perhaps with a bit too much force, eager to leave. I swiftly navigate the corridors and stairs, hoping the marble walls of Hogwarts can extinguish the fire that has ignited on my cheeks and within me.

The air had already become tense when I found out I'd have to be alone with Sharp in his tiny office. But when he leaned towards me, eyes locked on mine to light his cigarette, his intoxicating scent filling my nostrils, a fire exploded deep within me. I could have remained suspended in that tension all day, anticipating the next move, both intoxicated by the idea of provoking and teasing each other at the first opportunity.

I know he's aware of it too, noticing how he lingers when the right moment arises, taking advantage of my lack of reaction, his eyes eagerly expecting a sign of surrender. He luxuriates in his own idea that I'm his prey, waiting to be chased. He knows that in that office, I wasn't just feeling cold.

In different circumstances, I wouldn't behave this way, but I must admit the weakness of the flesh, especially considering it's been a long time since I allowed a man to look at me and talk to me the way Sharp does. The truth is, I didn't allow him; he took this liberty himself, catching me off guard constantly, aware he can play his game and set the rules at his pleasure. Secure in the knowledge that, no matter how many times I may respond in kind, the last word putting me against the wall will always be his.

So why does this attitude, which would typically anger me, cloud my mind so much, making everything intriguing? Why did I want him to follow me out of that classroom... or for us to stay there, away from prying eyes and ears?

The memory of his lingering gaze on my chest makes me flush so intensely that I have to sit by a window to calm down and catch my breath. I close my eyes and take deep breaths, trying to think of anything but Sharp. I attempt to completely detach myself from the world around me to regain some composure, but soon realize it's not working: I feel the touch of his hand on my shoulder, his warm skin that just moments ago held my hand. I try to push him out of my mind when a voice interrupts my thoughts, making me startle.

«Cassandra?». Clearly not him, as he never calls me by name. I turn around, and standing behind me is the petite figure of Professor Hecat, a worried look on her face.

«Professor, hello!», I reply, getting back on my feet.

«Are you feeling okay? You're burning up», she asks, touching my cheek.

«Absolutely fine! Just a bit warm...», I lie, trying to pretend that she hasn't just interrupted a train of thought inappropriate for school hallways, especially with someone who used to be my Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.

«... and hungry! I'm also very hungry», I add, attempting to avoid her scrutinizing gaze and redirect her attention elsewhere.

She looks at me, unconvinced by my evasive answer. «Well, it so happens that I'm heading to the Great Hall for the same reason», she says, gently taking my arm and walking with me in that direction.

I try to politely break free from her gentle yet firm and determined grip. «Professor, actually, I was planning to go to the Kitchens», I object.

«Ah yes, the house-elf thing...», she replies thoughtfully. «Is that why you were absent from breakfast this morning?».

I nod, and she continues: «I don't mind knowing that you've still preserved those values that make you unique and, honestly, make your House a bit less... unpleasant», she whispers the last word, making me chuckle.

«But, as commendable as it is, you'll have to start losing this habit and instead begin having your meals in the Great Hall. Now you're a Professor, and it's only right that you sit at the table with the other Faculty, especially when the students start the year», and saying so, we enter the Great Hall together.

We traverse the long hall, walking between the two rows of tables until we reach the raised platform where the Professors and the Headmaster sit. It doesn't feel real that I'm actually seated on the other side, and in just over a month, all of this will indeed be reality. No longer watching the Professors, but the students, hoping they'll look at me and see a guide, just as I did with mine at their age.

Professor Hecat gestures for me to take a seat on the left side of the table. Not all the staff and Faculty are present, but I can't help but notice the chair to my right remains empty. I don't even dare to think about who should be sitting there when a soft voice behind me exclaims: «Oh, Aesop isn't joining us for lunch?». I turn around, and standing, heading toward her chair, is Mirabel. From the way she looks at me, expecting an answer, I gather that the question was directed at me.

I clear my throat: «No. I don't think so, at least. We met this morning because I wanted to learn more about the students I'll be teaching, but he didn't mention lunch», I say, my cheeks warming at the memory of his last words to me in the dungeons. Mirabel must notice, as she frowns and asks if I'm okay. «Absolutely fine!», I hastily reply, not very convincingly, so relieved that the plate suddenly fills with food that I eagerly dive into it, eating much faster than a genuinely calm person would.

Lunch progresses amid the chatter of other professors, and I do my best to appear engaged and gather as much information as possible. I truly want to be prepared for September 1st, but the truth is my mind is elsewhere. I wait for everyone to finish, and when the plates finally stop refilling, I rise, perhaps too quickly. I don't know where I want to go or what I want to do; I just know I need to be alone and sort out my thoughts, which are now spinning like a whirlwind. Mirabel notices my restlessness and approaches me, taking me aside.

«Cassandra, how do you feel? Are you sure you're okay?», she asks.

I try to appear as relaxed as possible as I respond: «I'm fine, Mirabel. You're kind to worry! I see that time hasn't changed you». I smile at the memory of that lovely seventh-year student, always ready to lend a hand or smile at bewildered eleven-year-olds like me.

This time it's her turn to blush, and she replies, always with her characteristic kindness: «The memory I left in you is like a seed that, sprouting, has become a beautiful flower. But I see that you've blossomed too». She puts a hand on my shoulder and continues: «It's normal to be nervous. I was too, in my first year of teaching! But I'm sure you'll rise to the occasion: if Matilda chose to trust you, then you have nothing to fear».

"I'm not afraid," I think. "I'm just nervous and excited at the same time because I have to teach alongside an impossible man who I'm sure will do everything to make this experience a torture". Noticing that I struggle to formulate an answer that's more than a timid thank you, she looks at me with concern and a hint of complicity: «Anyway, I know a way that might help you relax a bit», she says in a hushed tone.

Seeing that she has piqued my curiosity, she continues as we move towards the exit of the Great Hall: «You know the Prefects' bathroom?»

«Of course».

«If I were you, I'd take a nice bath. You know I handle the essences that scent the water?». Without waiting for my response, she continues: «And then, after you've relaxed... come to me. My room is the first door on the left at the entrance to the Faculty Tower», and winking at me, she bids me farewell, presumably heading towards the greenhouses.

Her behavior has left me perplexed, yet it has also sparked my curiosity. It's as if she knows some secret she can't wait to reveal. Not knowing what to expect, either from her or from Sharp (and his stupid owl), I decide to enjoy this day without thinking about my future as a professor. I find myself walking towards the Faculty Tower. Standing in front of the door to mine and Sharp's room, I'm almost reluctant to enter and encounter him, but I can't help it: I perform an Alohomora, and as usual, an entirely empty room welcomes me. Silly of me to think even for a moment that he could be inside.

I head upstairs, grab my things, and leave again, taking the left staircase and finding myself on the floor where the bathroom is located. I open the door on the right and enter the room covered in marble, bathed in daylight from the splendid stained glass window featuring a mermaid. No one else is there, but I change inside the small cubicle with women's facilities. I step out wearing only a robe, which I quickly remove, hanging it on a nearby hook. Naked, I descend the steps of the large tub and find myself immersed in warm water.

Intrigued by Mirabel's words, I take my time opening the taps and sniffing the various essences she infused in the water, delighting in the various scents that come to life in the form of colorful soap bubbles: peppermint, tea leaves, wild strawberry, rose, jasmine (my favorite), and finally sandalwood. Almost ironically, the last tap I open hits me with water that has the same intense scent as Sharp. I hurry to close it, but his thoughts have already forcefully invaded my mind again and refuse to let go.

With a sigh, I lean against the tub wall, eyes closed, water lapping at my skin up to my chest. I can't help but think of Sharp: the first time he entered the Faculty Lounge, striking me with his elegant yet cursed air; his intoxicating scent; the way he constantly provokes me; how he approached me a few hours ago in his office...

Almost unconsciously, my hand moves gently in the water, resting first on my belly and then descending between my thighs, where a strong and inviting warmth spreads from my responsive clitoris to the slightest touch. The sandalwood scent envelops me, making it seem as if Sharp is near, as if the touching fingers are not mine but his. Imagining that his large, warm, and strong hand is between my legs, I start moving it, savoring every moment of pleasure. I picture his face, his short beard covering his strong jaw; his gaze inviting me to surrender completely to him, his eyes crossed by that scar that doesn't disfigure him but makes him even more fascinating, making me want to give in entirely; his mouth making its way on my skin, causing shivers and lingering on the most sensitive points. His tongue savoring me entirely. At this last thought, I can only surrender and give in to the orgasm, imagining his lips kissing and sucking all my pleasure.

With a broken breath, I open my eyes with difficulty and focus on the room. Fuck. I got so carried away by instinct that I totally forgot where the hell I was. With my heart pounding (first from the orgasm, now from panic), I quickly scan the bathroom. It doesn't seem like anyone is there, but it's definitely time for me to get out of here as soon as possible. I quickly step out of the tub and equally quickly dry myself, the body with the robe and the hair with a spell. I dress quickly, open the bathroom door, and step out, squinting and listening for any movement nearby. Fortunately, everything seems quiet.

With the intention of leaving behind what just happened, I quickly descend the stairs, re-enter my room (which is still empty, of course), leave the robe to dry on the chair near the fireplace, and exit again, as swiftly as I entered. My body still vibrates with excitement, and I realize the urgent need to calm down as soon as possible. Mirabel's words come back to me. I didn't relax at all in the tub; in fact, I'm a bundle of nerves. But I wonder why she advised me to go to her immediately after the bath, and curiosity takes over.

I quickly descend the stairs and find myself in front of her room door, surrounded by plants on the outside. I knock, and after a few seconds, she opens the door: her hair is tied in the usual braids, but she's not wearing the hat and is in a green house robe.

«So, how do you feel? Did you manage to relax?», she asks with a smile.

"Damn well. And bad. Relaxed because I released a lot of endorphins, but at the same time, I just gave myself pleasure thinking about Sharp, the most annoying and fascinating person I know. Don't ask me how I feel, because I don't even know," I think. Instead, I reply: «Yes, thanks for the advice. Your essences work wonders». I try not to smile too much, to avoid making a strained expression that would betray that I'm lying.

«Oh, you haven't seen anything yet. Come in, and close the door», she replies in a hushed voice. I do as she says, and I find myself in a room that looks like a greenhouse: plants and flowers of all kinds cover every inch, walkable and not, making everything overly green. «Make yourself comfortable», she says, pointing to a large, soft, padded armchair next to a tea table. I do as she says, continuing to look around, noticing small details. Behind all those plants, there are also books, bottles, and various small everyday objects that testify to the existence of human life, as well as plant life, in the room.

Mirabel turns her back to me, tinkering with jars on a shelf, all containing what seem to be kitchen herbs and spices. I wonder what she's doing when she turns towards me, holding a small box in her hands. «Since you need to relax – she begins – and sometimes a swim isn't enough, I've prepared a... natural remedy for you to do so». She hands me the box, and when I open it, I see several hand-rolled cigarettes placed close to each other. They don't smell like tobacco, though, but of various herbs.

«There's wormwood, valerian, and sage that you can smoke during the day. Instead, for the evening, I recommend these with lavender and chamomile, to relax and help you fall asleep faster», she says, pointing to some first and then others. «You just have to lie down, light one, and smoke it like a regular cigarette. You'll thank me», she continues, winking.

Noticing that I look puzzled, she casually says: «Trust me! I know what I'm talking about». Undoubtedly, she does, given the overwhelming amount of plants she surrounds herself with every day.

«I trust you. I was just wondering why you thought I needed them», I reply.

«Well, let's say I like helping my colleagues. Aesop constantly asks me for some, but I give him the pain-relieving ones. Ginger, boswellia, turmeric... you know, for his leg pain».

Hearing Sharp's name makes me tense up a bit. However, associating him with what I imagine is a constant and intense pain requiring frequent use of pain-relieving herbs makes me somewhat sad... and at the same time, more eager to get to know him. If only he would give me the chance.

«Do you know anything about...»

«Why he limps? – she interrupts me – Not in detail. I know it happened when he was an Auror, but understandably, he doesn't like to talk about it. And honestly, even if I knew, it wouldn't be right for me to tell you».

Yes, it's understandable. But I wonder if he'll ever tell me. «You haven't asked him?», Mirabel inquires.

«No, and he hasn't told me. I guess when you get to know someone, telling them why you have a disability isn't the first thing you do», I say, trying to steer it towards irony.

Mirabel gives a sad smile and looks at me, understanding: «You haven't talked much, have you?»

«Mostly, we ignore each other. Or stay in silence». "Or we look at each other as if we want to undress each other. Or I masturbate thinking about him".

She puts a hand on my shoulder, her reassuring touch through the fabric of my dress: «I'm sure you'll learn to appreciate each other, getting to know and working together. He's a great professional and a good friend. He's just a bit...»

«Sharp?», I ask, making a pun on his fitting surname.

Mirabel bursts into laughter and replies: «Yes! But you know, he also appreciates some good sarcasm. He's an expert at that». She gives me a conspiratorial glance and then, as if suddenly remembering something important, guides me to the door, removing her robe and putting on the usual cloak and hat. «Sorry, I have to go feed the Chinese Chopping Cabbages. If you need anything, you know where to find me».

We say our goodbyes, and once outside her room, I climb the stairs for the umpteenth time towards mine, still empty. I can't believe Sharp is still in the dungeons. «Do you think he hates me to this extent?», I ask Morgan, who stretches comfortably on the bed while I put the used robe back in my closet. I take advantage of the moment to change and wear more comfortable clothes: a linen blouse and wide white trousers. I lie on the bed and reach for a book on the nightstand. However, near it, I see the box that Mirabel gave me and that I had placed there absentmindedly. Intrigued, I pick it up and open it, taking one of the cigarettes and fiddling with it.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained... and then how bad can it really be?", I wonder to myself. I grab a box of matches and an ashtray from a drawer and light it. The scent of burning herbs spreads throughout the room, bothering Morgan, who gets off the bed and curls up in the armchair, giving me a wary look.

I can't make it halfway because the strong relaxation I feel soon weighs down not only my eyelids but also every muscle in my body, making it impossible for me to do anything. My vision is blurred, and I feel dizzy, but I still have the sense to realize that falling asleep near an open flame wouldn't be a good idea. I put out the cigarette (or whatever we want to call this devilry) and close my eyes, succumbing to sudden fatigue. I suddenly fall into a deep sleep.

Chapter 9: SHARP

Chapter Text

I understand that she's expecting an owl, but plans have changed. Since I know exactly where to find her, there's no need for me to procure a bird.

A smirk crosses my face at the thought of her reaction when I suddenly confront her. I can't help but enjoy playing with her, teasing and pushing her to the limit, catching her off guard and vulnerable. This also means ignoring her completely, or at least that's what she thinks. In these days, I've tried to be as invisible as possible, not speaking to her. It's not particularly unpleasant for me, given her often impertinent questions and behavior that only annoys me. I have no intention of changing my habits just because she has settled in my attic. So, I've continued to pursue my solitude, constantly disturbed by her intense scent that now seems to have permeated every corner of the room. A penetrating and sensual fragrance, Mirabel thoughtfully replacing the honey essence in the Prefects' Bathroom. I can't deny that during my morning swims these days, I've succumbed to instincts: turning on the tap with the essence of jasmine and letting myself be enveloped by the scent, I occasionally imagined her naked, with only long brown hair covering her fair skin, and made sure to find pleasure on my own.

Certainly, it would have been much more satisfying to do it between her legs, but I need to test the waters before understanding her true intentions. I want to make sure that her flashes of audacity are not just a result of arrogance but genuine expressions of desire.

As I mentioned, I haven't completely ignored her. I've started reading the book Ronen gave me. I'm still skeptical, but I must admit that at first glance, it doesn't seem to contain any hint of magic. It appears more like a manual to teach Muggle women to fend for themselves without a man's help. I couldn't help but wonder where such a stance toward the male gender comes from, and I would have asked her directly if only the day after our meeting in my office she hadn't come down late in the morning, too confused and disheveled to react to my presence, with the unmistakable smell of burnt herbs typical of Mirabel's cigarettes. I wonder if Mirabel told her that, besides relaxing or reducing pain, they also tend to increase desire. But I'm a better man than those Doyle warns about in her book, and I didn't take advantage. I simply pointed out where I keep the Numbing Potion for her to recover and left my accommodation, avoiding letting my eyes linger too much on the lightweight fabric covering her.

After these days of solitude, during which I continued refining the Alchemy program, I'm now heading to the Library. I know she's there, as every time I entered or left the Potions Classroom, I found her nearby, loaded with scrolls and books.

I pass the fountain in the Central Hall and open the Library door, descending the small staircase and opening the next one. Morning light floods the spacious room: tiny dust particles peacefully dance in the air, while sunlight streaming through the windows creates shadow play on the shelves and furniture. All is quiet, making the Library seem deserted. I approach Madame Scribner, greeting her politely (I could swear her cheeks have slightly reddened), and ask her quietly if Doyle is there. She points to a spot on the right, toward the end of the Library.

I begin to walk along the shelves, observing the empty tables until I find signs of life near the stairs leading to the upper floor: a table cluttered with books and scrolls, a half-drunk glass of pumpkin juice, a light green stole draped over the back of a chair. Sitting somewhat disheveled at the other end of the table, knees drawn to her chest and feet on the chair, there's Doyle, engrossed in reading a book. Her long brown hair falls in soft curls in front of her face, hiding it from my view, but there's no doubt it's her: the jasmine scent heralds her presence from meters away, and the way it blends with the natural scent of her skin is unmistakable. She doesn't notice my presence, and I pause to watch her subtly move her lips, silently reading the words of the book to herself. With a slight cough, I draw her attention.

She startles slightly, looking up at me. Clearly, she didn't expect to see me: her cheeks redden, and she quickly sits up in a more composed position. However, her eyes quickly light up, and a faint, imperceptible smile forms on her lips as she greets me: «Aes- Sharp! Good morning», she says while trying to tidy up the table.

«May I sit, or are you busy?», I ask, nodding toward the book she was reading.

«Not at all. I was taking a break from studying», she replies.

«You graduated ten years ago, didn't you? With an N.E.W.T. in Charms?», I ask, raising an eyebrow and injecting a hint of sarcasm into my voice as I sit in front of her.

«In Charms, of course, but also in Alchemy, History of Magic, Divination-»

«I get it», I interrupt, raising my voice slightly to drown out her tone, which, in turn, is made unbearable by her eagerness to prove how talented she is.

We find ourselves once again facing each other, scrutinizing and studying each other's moves. I observe how her furrowed brows frame a gaze filled with resentment, while the hint of a pout is imprinted on her rosy lips; the collar of her white shirt encircles her slender and equally pristine neck, and the fabric drapes lightly over her body, down to the waist, where the dark blue skirt tightens and accentuates her figure. I wonder how her voice would resonate if not constrained to a whisper, in the echo of this vast library...

I have to bite my lip to suppress the emergence of a mocking smile. A spontaneous and almost involuntary gesture that makes her take a deep breath and lightly bite her lip in return. I could swear I've made her slightly uncomfortable, and the temperature around her seems to have risen by a couple of degrees.

«So, what were you studying?», I ask, alluding to the multitude of materials on the table.

My question brings her back to reality: «The topics to discuss with the class. Since your owl wasn't arriving, I thought I'd get ahead so as not to be unprepared».

Typical of a personality like hers: eager to please others and demonstrate how capable she is, she had to necessarily bypass my authority and do things her own way.

«I told you we would work on it together», I point out.

«You did say that – she emphasizes – but I couldn't wait for you for entire days».

I quickly glance at the scattered parchment sheets on the table and sarcastically exclaim: «Don't forget that Matilda assigned me to assist you»

«No, indeed, I haven't addressed that portion of the curriculum related to Potions. You're the one forgetting that I am the Alchemy Professor». She raises an eyebrow with a slight smirk on her lips as she utters the word "I", while realigning a stack of papers with her hands, which she then hands over to me.

I take them reluctantly and begin to read as she goes back to her book, abandoned on one side of the table before I interrupted her.

Her approach to teaching couldn't be more different from mine: dense lessons of history and theory that would bore even the wisest and most sagacious of Centaurs to death.

I shake my head. «Lessons like that will never work with adolescents», I say, casually placing the papers on the table.

«If you don't think they're capable of understanding, they certainly won't work. And you forget that some of them are already adults in our world», she replies annoyed, taking back the papers and starting to flip through a new parchment.

«I have years of teaching experience enough to tell you that no, they won't work. Practice and stimuli are needed»

«Well, that's where you come in, isn't it? What better stimulus than being underestimated by your teacher?», she retorts sarcastically.

I must appeal to all my self-control not to succumb to her provocations. I take a deep breath, trying to release all the desire to shut her mouth, to restrain that sharp tongue, and I tell her: «I don't underestimate. You can ask anyone who has been or is still my student: I always reward those who put in effort and achieve results through hard work. But I know well the ones we'll be teaching, and I'm certain that with such theoretical lessons, some of them won't be merciful with you. You are new and inexperienced in this role, and you will learn that teaching adolescents is challenging and constantly puts you to the test. Not everyone is eager to learn and understand; some of them are ruthless. Don't give them a reason to make you their next victim».

From her disgruntled expression, I can tell she's reflecting on what I've said. «Is he really that... harsh?», she asks, approaching me and lowering her voice even more.

The way she pronounced the insult makes me chuckle, and I can't hide it when I ask her: «Who, Rookwood?». She nods, concerned, waiting for my answer: «I shouldn't speak openly about my students, but... well, he's a hothead: disregarding any rule, always justified by his "difficult past", which serves as a guarantee every time he faces a situation where anyone else would have been expelled. Clearly, he enjoys Black's favor, to the extent that it's rumored he's treated better than Black's own children».

A shiver lightly shakes Cassandra's shoulders as she lowers her gaze to the cluttered table. «You know, I've always enjoyed learning, going beyond the visible and the knowable. That's why I enthusiastically accepted this job, perhaps too eagerly. I didn't stop to think, I just expected to give back what was given to me years ago in this very school», she says thoughtfully. Her words make me wonder if even before studying at Hogwarts, she had a tendency to want to prove how good she was at all costs or if it's an attitude that has matured over the years, seeking redemption from her previous life.

She looks up at me again, her eyes slightly moist at the corners, making them even larger than usual. «Is it really that terrible?», she asks, nodding towards the program sheets.

«I never said it was», I reply, taking off my jacket and remaining in just a shirt and vest. From an inside pocket, I take out the sheets I prepared when I was still convinced I would draft the program alone. I continue: «But it's a lot. Maybe too much. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing: it means you master the subject well. And... Matilda was right to trust you», I add, noticing her desperate need for reassurance. My intuition is correct, as her expression relaxes into a smile.

«But we need to fix what you've written: remove some theory and make room for practice, balancing the two things. Also, you mentioned that you haven't touched the Potions part, right?», I ask.

«Exactly. I wanted to leave that to you, so you could handle it as you saw fit», she replies. I nod and hand her the bundle of papers. «While I look for what I need, take a look at the program I've drafted and see how you can integrate it with yours», I tell her as I get up to search for the books I'll need to draft the program.

Even with my back turned, I can still feel her eyes on me. I'm sure she's observing me cautiously, attentive to when I'll make the next move, and above all, expecting me to revert to being the elusive and grumpy Sharp I've always been. Which, in fact, I am. But I'm also an adult man, appreciative of beauty and the pleasures of life. Coincidentally, Doyle can easily fall into both categories.

I grab two tomes and return to the table, starting to work on my own but not avoiding keeping an eye on her. I notice her concentration and the effort she puts in, the care in seeking my opinion, and the concern to ensure that not only the final program suits us, allowing us to work without conflicts, but also for the students.

But I also notice how her eyes shift towards me, how her lips slightly part when I approach her; how she stiffens when I lean in her direction, subtly brushing against her, fingers cool and slightly damp as I draw her attention with a touch.

We spend a few hours in the library, diligently working on the program to finish it before the start of the school year. Mostly we work in silence, each absorbed in what we excel at, consulting each other only when we need a second opinion. However, the tension between us hasn't eased, given Cassandra's upright and rigid posture. My demeanor, on the other hand, is quite relaxed, and truth be told, I've finished my work a few minutes ago. I'm enjoying pretending to be still busy, getting up occasionally to consult books, and every time a mocking smile forms on my lips, noticing how her absolutely reactive eyes don't miss any of my movements and follow me throughout the library.

As a former Auror, I know how vile torture can be: I learned firsthand the consequences of a particularly violent and intense Cruciatus Curse. But this is a different kind of torture: one that the one enduring it would wish to continue indefinitely. Perhaps time and field experience have made me a bit sadistic, but only Merlin knows how much I enjoy having control in these situations, how I revel in the ever less challenging attempt to break down the boundaries and defenses of a beautiful and young woman.

I rise once again, this time more to stretch my legs than anything else. Alert, I walk as slowly as possible between the aisles, occasionally stopping with my back turned to catch her watching me each time I turn around. The sun's rays have been hitting the windows for quite some time, flooding the room not only with light but also with warmth, inevitably raising the temperature.

I turn around and head back to the table, making sure Cassandra doesn't avert her gaze, caught – once again – staring at me. Carelessly, I bring my right hand to the collar of my shirt, and with my index and thumb, I undo the first two buttons, slightly opening it on my chest when I'm in front of her. I stop, standing right in front of her, pretending to look at the shelf overflowing with books behind her chair while, after a seemingly infinite time, I undo a third button.

I feel her eyes on me, glimpse her futile attempts to look away, failing. She only succeeds when I suddenly move in her direction, as if I spotted the book I was looking for and wanted to grab it. Slowly, I position myself behind her, but instead of remaining standing, back to back, I turn in her direction. I place one hand on the back of the chair, and the other on the table, near her books and her arm. Her back, getting closer as I close the distance between us by leaning towards her, stiffens, and I can feel a subtle warmth spreading from her body. To an outside observer, it might seem like I'm leaning to check what she wrote, and I'm fine with the scene appearing that way.

The important thing is how she reacts to our faces being so close that every breath I take moves her long hair and makes the soft, pale skin of her neck shiver. Her eyes are lowered, her mouth slightly open but no sound comes out, her breathing has become slightly heavier. Her scent is more intense than ever.

More for her to hear me than for the fact that we're in a library, in a low and husky voice, I whisper in her ear: «Stop undressing me with your eyes or I'll catch a cold».

My warm, gentle breath on her skin sends waves of shivers, sudden and intense. I can see her cheeks completely flushed with embarrassment, her eyes wide open, mouth shut, and she stops breathing. Slowly, I rise as if nothing happened and sit back in front of her, no longer pretending to work. I watch her, head down, tirelessly writing until she finishes; only then, still with her eyes lowered, she hands me the parchment with the program modifications.

I return it to her as soon as I finish reading. «I have no objections. I suppose we'll see each other on September 2nd in class, then», I say, staring at her, forcing her to shift her gaze from an undefined point outside the window to me. I see her lips move, but I hear no sound. She must realize that her words got stuck in her throat because she clears her voice and, with her gaze wandering between my eyes and her hands, she repeats: «On the 1st, at the Sorting Ceremony».

Her instinct is stronger than her, pushing her to correct me even when, a moment ago, I crossed her boundaries. But if I've understood, knowing her briefly, what kind of person she is, I'm sure it's not a reckless counterattack but a way to make me venture further into her realm, without explicitly inviting or preventing me. So, I can't help but wonder if I am, in fact, the prey that will fall first into the seduction trap.

With this question in mind, I stand up and head towards the Library exit, making my way to the Prefects' Bathroom and hoping to find it empty: I need to let off some steam.

Chapter 10: CASSANDRA

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

I would be lying if I said that his warm chest against my back, his breath tickling my skin, and his deep voice didn't leave me indifferent. With what he did in the library, he explicitly crossed all my limits and barriers, delving into my most hidden and intimate thoughts. He did it in a way that only I would notice... because he was sure I would let him.

I'm not naive: even though we meet infrequently, I've noticed how he looks at me whenever he gets the chance. If I undress him with my eyes, he penetrates me with his dark and penetrating gaze, hardened by the scar. I realize he wants to discover every aspect of me, every strength, but especially every weakness, and make them his so he can play by his rules.

The problem is, I don't know what role to play. If I were to judge Sharp on a strictly personal level, I wouldn't hesitate to call him annoying and arrogant, definitely the last person I'd want to spend time with. If, however, I were to judge him on a purely physical level, I can't deny the intense attraction I feel for him, making me waver at every slight provocation.

What worries me most about this situation is that not even a month has passed since we met: I've never been so attracted to someone in such a short time, imagining him next to me in bed every time I close my eyes, pretending that the hand giving me pleasure between my legs is his rather than mine. I feel like a teenager grappling with the first hormonal stirrings, yet I'm an adult woman who has had her experiences inside and outside the sheets.

Since Sharp left me alone in the library, blushing with embarrassment and heated by his proximity, I haven't seen him much. He rarely shows up for meals, and even less frequently have I seen him in our accommodation. It's almost like he knows my schedule and habits and deliberately avoids our paths crossing. Funny, considering that whenever he has the chance, he wastes no time mocking my attraction to him, using it to titillate his ego.

Now, as I head towards the Great Hall to welcome the students for the annual Sorting Ceremony, I'm torn between anxiety about starting to work together in the following days and being in close contact, and the anticipation of being officially introduced as the Alchemy Professor, making it official beyond the unofficial.

As usual, whenever faced with a situation of immense responsibility, that inner voice that I've managed to keep at bay but not entirely silence torments me again. Always ready to tell me that I'll never be enough and that I'll be a disappointment. That voice so similar to my father's, which even after all these years, I haven't been able to forget.

I push it away by shaking my head and bring myself back, unsteady on the Grand Staircase that connects Hogwarts' entrance and reception halls to the classrooms and various Common Rooms. I take a deep breath, trying not to be influenced by the heavy negativity in such an important moment, and continue descending the steps. As I approach the end, Matilda's voice grows louder, giving orders.

I place my foot on the last step and see her engrossed in a lively conversation with some of the house-elves, the smiles on their bald, round faces widening as they notice me.

«It's lovely to see you, Miss Cassandra Doyle», one of them says, bowing deeply.

«I'm sorry I haven't visited as much as I'd like lately. I'm not officially a professor yet, and I've already had to adjust to the role», I reply, giving him a pat on the back to straighten up.

«Better to always be prepared», Matilda interjects briskly. «Come on, back to work», she says to the elves, who scatter towards the Kitchens, bowing in various directions.

Matilda turns her head toward me, giving me a thorough once-over. Her scrutinizing judgment always makes me uneasy, as if I'm taking an exam I haven't studied for.

«Are you so anxious, Cassandra?», she asks, catching me off guard.

«I... I... Why?», I inquire, the palpable nervousness betraying my voice.

«You're dressed as if you were teaching in a boarding school», she replies with a hint of irony, continuing to scrutinize me. I'm wearing a black, high-necked dress with a tight bodice and a flowing skirt.

My gaze drifts to my attire, and when I look back up, she's smirking. «I thought it was the most appropriate choice not to make a bad impression and to appear professional», I timidly respond.

She bursts into laughter, surprising me even more. «You've spent too much time among Muggles to think anyone at Hogwarts cares about your clothing», and with these words, she takes out her wand and casts a spell on my dress. Intricate silver patterns, like tendrils of vines, appear on the bodice.

«Much better. Silver brightens your face, ever been told that?», she asks, not expecting an answer, as she starts walking, expecting me to keep up. I follow her: we enter the Great Hall, the four tables already adorned with the emblems of the four Houses (seeing Slytherin's table is a tug at the heart) and set in a lavish manner. Matilda passes the Professors' table and stops in front of a door on the left.

«Usually, on the first day, we all wait here – well, everyone except me, who has to play host. You can enter just before all the students arrive», she explains. Then she takes out a pocket watch to check the time and continues: «Ten minutes until the train arrives. I'll instruct Deek to have you seated around half past seven». With that, she leaves me alone in front of the door and briskly retraces her steps in the opposite direction through the Great Hall.

Although my heart pounds in my chest, and a slight sense of nausea begins to creep in due to anxiety, I certainly can't just stand frozen in front of the door. I place my hand on the handle, turn it, and open the door: a spacious hall with a large lit fireplace hosts the faculty, engrossed in conversation. The walls are adorned with paintings, making the already dimly lit room even darker.

«Ah, Cassandra! Here you are, at last!». I hear Professor Ronen's voice calling me, and when I turn, he's already close enough to put an arm around my shoulders. «Nervous?», he asks, with a knowing smile.

«A bit», I reply, probably not too convincingly. The truth is that anxiety is eating away at me.

«It's perfectly normal! It would be worrisome if you weren't! Come on, join us and have a little drink to ease the tension», he suggests, escorting me to a small table where Madam Kogawa and Ominis Gaunt are already holding glasses of a sparkling pink beverage.

«I was nervous on my first day as a teacher too», Ominis confides, glancing at me despite his veiled eyes.

«And how did you handle it?», I ask, bringing the glass that Ronen forced into my hand to my lips. A sweet taste, like strawberry cream, explodes on my tongue.

Ominis chuckles before answering: «Abraham served me a bit too many of these things, and I don't remember anything». He raises the hand holding the glass and takes a sip. It feels really strange to think that a young man like him, who was just a kid when I graduated, has been teaching at Hogwarts long enough to be on familiar terms with all the other teachers and call them by name. But I suppose I'll have to overcome my formality and adapt quickly in turn.

The slight hum of chatter all around is interrupted by the opening of the door, framed by the imposing figure of Headmaster Black. He quickly scans the room, and his icy eyes linger a second too long on me, looking at me as if I were a disgrace to the very house we were sorted into years ago. «Well, I see you're all here», he says before closing the door behind him, as if our mere presence is a great annoyance to him. I hear his footsteps fading away, presumably headed towards his seat in the Great Hall.

The intense scent of sandalwood betrays his presence before he speaks. «And where else should we be?», Sharp sarcastically huffs, sneaking up behind me, his remark prompting some chuckles. I see his arm reaching to my left to grab a glass as well. He subtly brushes against me, just enough to make me tense up even more before joining the conversation between Ominis and me.

«Good evening, Doyle», he says before taking a long sip from his glass.

«Good evening, Sharp. I didn't see you», I reply, struggling to maintain eye contact. The light from the lit fireplace casts dancing shadows on his face, making him even more captivating. He wears a long brown coat that perfectly fits his body and arms, toned beneath the fabric. One hand is in his pocket, while the other holding the glass is elegant yet strong, veins pronounced. I need to stop my thoughts and the fantasies creeping into my lower belly, contemplating where that hand would truly fit.

«My fault – Mirabel interjects – We were in the corner discussing... certain ingredients useful for a Potions Professor». She winks at me, and I immediately understand the herbs she's referring to.

«Of course, I made sure to ensure an adequate supply for those useful during Alchemy lessons, Doyle». His jab, seemingly emphasizing my lack of professionalism in not ensuring I have everything I need before taking up the position, hits me like a slap, and I'm sure the offense is visible on my face.

Ominis promptly responds: «Merlin's beard, Sharp! Give her a moment to settle in!»

«Professor Sharp is right, Ominis», I reply, my voice trembling with anger at being embarrassed in front of everyone. «Fortunately, he compensates for my shortcomings, securing the recognition he evidently craves».

He shoots me a glare, offended by my words. Taking advantage of the few moments before he responds, I distance myself from the group and approach the fireplace, where Ronen is engrossed in a conversation with Professor Binns, who looks at him as if seeing him for the first time.

Trying to ease the tension with the warmth of the fire, I down the remainder of my drink in one gulp. Is he another attractive yet infuriating man entering my life? As if what I went through just a few years ago wasn't already enough...

A slight commotion brings me back from my thoughts, filled with sadness and resentment. Deek is standing at the door: «The esteemed Professors can take their seats in the Great Hall!».

Continuing to chat amicably, the professors head towards the door and start to exit. Sharp and I are the last ones.

«After you», he says at the door. He takes his hand out of his pocket and signals for me to go ahead of him. Just before turning, I catch a glimpse of what seems to be a book protruding from his pocket. A book with a pink cover and silver details, eerily familiar. Could it be...?

He stares at me with that arrogant and impatient look, and I force myself not to think that what he has in his pocket is indeed "The First Grimoire." I turn and start walking, feeling his eyes fixed on me throughout the short distance from the room to the teachers' table, like swords piercing through me. It's a sensation that makes me incredibly uneasy, but at the same time, it leaves shivers down my spine, intensifying when, once seated, it confirms what I had thought a few weeks ago: Sharp is seated right next to me.

He shifts the chair and sits beside me, and glancing at him, I can see a satisfied smirk on his face. For someone who considers me irresponsible, he seems too relaxed and quite comfortable having me by his side.

Now that we're so close, his scent is so strong it makes my nose tingle. I wrinkle my nose to dispel the sensation, while he next to me plays with his wand, pointed at the golden goblet in front of him.

I can't bring myself to ask him what he plans to do before he beats me to it, as if he had read my mind: «I was thinking if it's worth turning water into wine», he says with utmost casualness.

He puts his wand back into his pocket and turns to look at me: «Nervous?», he whispers, his voice warm and husky.

«Quite»

«Wait until they enter... ah, here they are!».

With incredible timing, students of all ages begin entering through the large doors of the Great Hall, forming a massive sea of black with occasional hints of color. They split into four lines, taking their seats at their respective tables in an orderly fashion. A comforting warmth fills my chest, and the sense of belonging I thought had abandoned me reemerges, just like the first time I experienced it, 17 years ago on September 1st. Though I'm no longer seated at the table with the green and silver emblem towering above, the feeling of home remains the same.

The thought rejuvenates me, my shoulders relax, and I even feel the muscles in my face loosen.

«Did you feel it?», Sharp asks me. I turn towards him, realizing he's been watching me the whole time, studying my reaction.

«What?», I ask, not quite sure what he's referring to.

«That warmth within you».

I feel a slight blush on my cheeks: «Yes... Did you too?»

«Well, after ten years of teaching, it has faded a bit. But on the first day, I felt it too. Like when–»

«–we first arrived at Hogwarts». I finish the sentence for him, and I swear I see a flicker of surprise in his eyes, perhaps because, for once, we agree.

A corner of his mouth lifts slightly in what seems like a conciliatory smile. Before I can reciprocate, he turns his head back to the door just in time to witness the entrance of the first-year students. A group of scared yet fascinated children enters the Great Hall, led by Matilda holding a stool and the Sorting Hat. The Sorting Ceremony begins.

After what feels like an interminable time, the last child finally walks towards the Hufflepuff table, where they've been sorted. As Matilda takes away the stool and the Hat, I realize that the gazes of the students, previously focused on the Sorting, are now directed at me, accompanied by some whispers of curiosity.

When Matilda returns, she shoots a reproachful glance at Headmaster Black, who reluctantly rises from his seat and approaches the lectern for the customary start-of-year speech.

«Yes, well... Welcome, and welcome back to Hogwarts. A new year is about to begin, and I am... pleased to announce that we have a new addition to the teaching staff». From the hesitation in saying "pleased", I'm certain that Black is experiencing a wide range of emotions in my presence at Hogwarts, but contentment isn't among them. Beside me, Sharp lets out a scoff.

«We are joined by Professor Cassandra Doyle, who has taken on the role of teaching Alchemy to all those who have requested it». An excited murmur rises among some of the students seated at the four tables, likely those who will be my students. I give them a smile, and some, including a tall, red-haired Gryffindor with blue eyes and an intelligent gaze, reciprocate.

«The news doesn't end here – Black continues – Since Professor Doyle is on her first assignment, we deemed it necessary to pair her with an experienced teacher to serve as a guide and mentor. Professor Sharp has agreed to take on the role».

Next to me, Sharp lets out a bitter chuckle. Among the students, murmurs of protest and complaints arise.

«You certainly know how to endear yourself to your students», I whisper sarcastically to him.

He leans slightly toward me, getting closer and enveloping me even more with his scent: «Judging by how Dumbledore looks at you, I'd say you can handle this task». He nods towards the red-haired Gryffindor boy. So, he's the young prodigy of the school!

«Silence, please!», Black commands in a tone so harsh that for a moment, I think he's talking to me and Sharp. In reality, he's just trying (without much effort) to quell the discontented murmurs of the students. Matilda looks at him exhausted, as if dealing with a child testing her patience. It's clear she's silently telling him to hurry up and conclude the welcome speech.

Determined to end what is evidently torture for him as soon as possible, Black exclaims: «Well, there are no further announcements. Let the feast begin!», and rushes towards his seat at the center of the teachers' table.

«Every year, the speech gets worse than the previous one», Sharp remarks, shaking his head, as all sorts of delicacies materialize on our plates. He leans towards the wine jug and pours himself a generous glass. «Want some?», he then asks.

«A bit, thank you», I reply, grabbing the glass and handing it to him. It's clear we have different concepts of portions, as his "bit" is more than half the glass for me.

Fortunately, at the table, everyone is too busy chatting to pay attention to me. The presentation seems to have gone quite well, if you can call Black's few indifferent words a "presentation": the students seemed enthusiastic, and I'm glad to have seen in them the same eager look I once had, full of a desire to learn.

I'm lost in my thoughts to the point that the chatter in the Great Hall soon becomes a distant and indistinct murmur, while my mind wanders between past memories and future expectations, anchoring itself to the present thanks to that damn Sharp scent, now almost suffocating. The cloves almost make my head spin, while the sandalwood is so persistent, warm, and enveloping that it makes me feel drowsy. I need a breath of fresh air...

«Mandarin!», I suddenly exclaim, words escaping my mouth before I can actually think them.

It's precisely the mandarin that essence in Sharp's scent that I couldn't decipher, and that hit me suddenly like a cold gust of air just when I was losing clarity and awareness, letting myself be rocked by the waves of my own mind.

To my right, I see Sharp reaching towards the fruit basket, holding a mandarin in his hand. He hands it to me, probably thinking that I wanted one and that my exclamation was almost a peremptory order. I don't particularly feel like it, but I accept it anyway: still better than telling him why I exclaimed the name of the fruit out of nowhere.

As I take it, my fingers brush against his, warm and firm around the small orange fruit. I visibly blush and immediately turn my face, lowering it to my hands now too focused on the act of peeling.

Sharp's left hand, now empty, lingers for a moment in the air; then, he lowers it slowly while diverting his gaze. His fingers lightly brush my right thigh over the skirt. For a moment, I think it's a coincidence due to our close seating, but I'm immediately proven wrong: he leaves them there, knuckles moving imperceptibly, like a very subtle caress.

The gesture stiffens me, and I abandon the mandarin, turning towards him. With his free hand, he holds the glass, savoring the wine, his gaze on the Great Hall.

I refocus on the fruit to divert attention from the scene, and in a low voice, I ask him: «What game are you playing, Sharp?».

As if I had said the most foolish thing in the world, he replies: «Game? I have no idea what you're talking about, Doyle». However, he doesn't seem inclined to break contact with my thigh.

«You know perfectly well», I retort sharply.

He presses his knuckles against my skirt more firmly, saying: «No, I don't know. You tell me, what do you mean?».

He continues to avoid looking at me, which tests my patience. At the same time, his behavior heightens the tension between us, and a tingling sensation builds in my lower abdomen.

We're two grown individuals: if he wants to tease me like this, who am I not to reciprocate? I don't feel like delving into the psychology behind his actions. He has deliberately created, for the second time in a few days, such an intimate contact that to think he has no (at least physical) interest in me would mean I've completely lost awareness of the world around me. No, I'm well aware of what's happening and his intentions. If they align with mine, why not take advantage and enjoy it?

But I don't want to appear immediately yielding. I know he's testing the waters, and giving him free rein would imply I'm eagerly waiting for more. It's better to make him wonder a bit – perhaps this is the time his arrogance falters.

I subtly open my legs, and now the back of his hand is resting entirely on my thigh. I hope the fabric of my skirt is thick enough to conceal the shivers on my skin. Just as he's about to turn his hand, so his palm can touch me, I muster the willpower to cross my legs, breaking the contact.

I'd like to close the gap immediately, but instead, I candidly say: «I must have misunderstood, then». I risk making eye contact and see him seething with anger, hitting a nerve in his audacity. I'm certain that if we were alone, he would have taken advantage of my insolence and taken what he wants. His reaction confirms that no, I haven't misunderstood at all.

At the end of dinner, Matilda quickly circulates around the professors' table, informing us about class schedules until it's time to disperse and head to our accommodations. Now that the year has begun, Sharp and I can no longer avoid each other; we must appear conciliatory, so we're forced to wait for each other to go to our rooms.

In silence, we make our way towards the Faculty Tower, the sound of our steps on the stone floors filling the silence between us. We climb a few flights of stairs, and I notice Sharp struggling to keep pace: the tough but stoic expression on his face makes me think he's trying to conceal leg pain. I wait at the top of a staircase, and when he catches up, I adjust to his slightly slower pace.

«No need to wait for me», he comments sharply.

«I know – I respond – but you won't stop me from doing it anyway»

«I don't need your pity», he retorts, slightly picking up the pace with a grimace. I can't tell if his resentment stems from my rejection of physical contact in the Great Hall or from an unwillingness to accept his disability. His words, however, strike me – filled with resentment and needlessly harsh.

«It's not pity. I am just polite», I reply sharply. Despite his suddenly touchy demeanor putting me in a bad mood, I persist in accommodating his pace, the silence between us only broken by his impatient huffs.

Finally arriving at the door of our accommodation, Sharp opens it with a wand flick and slips inside, removing his coat and tossing it carelessly onto the armchair in front of the fireplace. He remains in dark brown trousers, like the tall leather boots tightly buckled on his legs. A green and silver waistcoat, matching the colors of Slytherin, perfectly hugs his torso, beneath which he wears a white shirt. Despite the layers of fabric, I can tell that underneath lies a trained and responsive body; the physique of someone accustomed to staying fit for imminent action, even with the passage of years.

As he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, he looks up at me. His gaze, contrary to a moment ago, is not angry; I would rather say intrigued and, as I discover when he opens his mouth, amused. «Have you forgotten how to enter your room, Doyle?», he asks, as I have remained standing in front of the fireplace.

I'm not in the mood to argue, so I sigh and draw the wand from the suit pocket: «No, I haven't forgotten. Glacius!».

I start to bend down to cross the fireplace, but Sharp's voice stops me: «I see you've learned the lesson and put on warmer clothes», he says, alluding to the small incident in the Potions Classroom.

I close my eyes and clench my jaw, desperately trying to formulate a response, but he is quicker and preempts me with unexpected words: «Silver suits you well: it brightens your face».

With that, he disappears into his room, without waiting for a response or a thank you from me, leaving me alone to climb the stairs, my cheeks a bit red from embarrassment and partly from the sudden uplifting feeling that blossomed in my chest thanks to his compliment. By the time I reach the top of the staircase, I've already forgotten his mood swings.

Notes:

Hey everyone! I have to thank you deeply for the support you are showing to my work. I always loved to write and invent stories, so this means the world to me. I hope to publish a new chapter soon! I have a lot of ideas and I can’t wait for you to read Cassandra and Sharp’s adventure in the knowledge of love 🥰 Thank you again a lot ❤️

Chapter 11: SHARP

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

I wake from a night plagued by nightmares, a recurring ordeal for the past ten years. Over time, they've become less frequent, but they resurface relentlessly whenever I teach sixth-year students how to brew the Draught of the Living Dead. On those days, each night replays the tragic ambush so vividly in my mind that it feels like it happened just yesterday. A memory reopening the poorly healed wound in my heart, causing it to bleed profusely, akin to Prometheus's liver devoured day by day by the eagle for eternity. An emotional pain that adds to the chronic one in my leg, a perpetual reminder of that fateful night. But only Merlin knows what I would give to endure solely a strong and intense physical pain, rather than the emotionally excruciating one.

As if with a mind of its own, my leg starts pulsating and throbbing violently, making it almost impossible to get up and fetch a pain-relieving potion. In my years as a Potions Professor, not a single day has passed without dedicating at least a minute to studying and creating a potion that could permanently alleviate my pain, finally putting an end to my disability as if it had never been part of me. So far, my attempts have only yielded weak potions with temporary effects.

The pain nails me to the mattress. I clench my jaw and repeatedly pound my fist on the bed, forcing my body to follow my will and sit up. Calling Cassandra for help is out of the question; even though I'm sure she would assist me, I don't want her to see me in such a vulnerable state, the wreckage of what I used to be a few years ago.

With my hand, I reach for what I most wish would disappear forever from my life, even more than the scars, pain, and memories: a wheelchair, owned since the day of the incident but still in a condition as good as new. I've consistently refused to use it, making it an integral part of my life. Just like the cane, leaning in a corner near the coat rack. My disability is already apparent enough without the help of an accessory to highlight it even more.

However, in those unbearable moments of pain, I'm forced to use it, at least to manage to stand. I slide from the mattress to the seat, dragging my left leg as if it were an appendage that doesn't belong to me. I move to a cabinet, take one of the potions I've created, and drink it in one gulp. While waiting for it to take effect, I light one of Mirabel's herbal cigarettes, inhaling with anger and gazing out of the window at the Highlands coming to life, like flowers unfolding their petals in the early morning light.

The knots of pain along the long scar crossing my leg begin to loosen. Every time, I hope that the next sip will be the one, but inevitably, it remains that subtle and constant pain scratching my skin and bones. At least, for now, I can bend my joints as much as possible. Determined not to stay seated on this matter for a second longer, I stand up and place the wheelchair in a corner near the bed, as shaded as possible, and get ready for my morning swim and breakfast.

Despite being an additional burden I would gladly do without in my routine, I can't deny that my lack of enthusiasm for teaching Potions to second-year Hufflepuff and Gryffindor today has given way to a strange and mild excitement to face the first Alchemy class with Cassandra. In these days, we've seen each other little and ignored each other much, with me busy with Potions lessons and her with who knows what. Today, considering it's also her official first day as a professor, it'll be necessary to be exceptionally accommodating and patient. Easier said than done.

I don't head to the Great Hall but towards my classroom, instructing one of the many passing house-elves to send breakfast, consisting of toast and, significantly, black tea, to my office. I plan to make the most of the available time to organize work and today's schedule, packed with commitments as the weekend approaches.

Opening the door to my office, I find the desk annoyingly covered with various papers and parchments, on top of which a tray with my breakfast precariously teeters. I conjure a coffee table and with a wand movement ensure the tray smoothly relocates onto it without mishaps. I sit down, stretching my leg to give it some relief, and start tidying up, tossing into the lit fireplace what I don't need. About to do the same with a thick stack of parchments beneath the Alchemy students' files, I notice the handwriting: slightly rounded but hasty, as if the hand that wrote the words felt the urgency to write as much as possible. A handwriting I've seen before: Cassandra's.

She probably forgot them here the day I scheduled our meeting in my office. The day when I got a tiny taste of her body, enticing me to crave more.

Unable to resist my curiosity, and ensuring I lock the door with a particularly potent Colloportus to avoid unexpected visitors, I start taking a quick look at her papers. It doesn't take me long to realize it's a document addressed to me: Cassandra has compiled a comprehensive defense of philosophy and empathy, conditions she deems crucial not only for teaching but for approaching life. Conditions I don't consider necessary, being a fervent advocate of a pragmatic and more scientific approach to magic. Yet, I can't deny that her work, though sharp and arrogant, is extremely interesting, enticing me to read every page, up to the last. A document that reflects her in every aspect, both the negative and the more fascinating facets of her personality.

I find within the lines scrolling under my eyes the same passionate desire for retribution, the same trust in a justice of values higher than earthly, the same relentless and irritating tendency to want to know more and to prove her theses through actions – aspects that, even if far from mine, remain undeniably presented in her unique way.

I can't stand admitting that she might be right. At the mere thought, I can picture her face taking on a pleased expression, the right corner of her beautiful rosy lips lifting into a satisfied and impertinent smirk. Yet, not only does she articulate her reasons excellently, but above all, she has shown in these pages that she can be a better professor than I believed. But most importantly, better than she believes herself to be.

I slump resigned in the chair, running a hand over my face; the beard, a bit more unkempt than usual, scratches my palm. Glancing at the clock, I realize I've spent most of the morning reading Cassandra's papers, without actually accomplishing anything significant. I pick up the tea cup, now cold, and pour a generous amount of whiskey into it to regain some energy and prepare for the upcoming workday.

After a morning dealing with the unidentified concoctions of second and fourth-year students and a lunch spent once again organizing my office, I leave the Potions Classroom and take the staircase to the right, beginning my descent towards the Alchemy Classroom in the dungeons. The corridors are still deserted at this hour, as students enjoy their last moments of freedom before afternoon classes begin, but not the classroom: when I open the door, Cassandra is already inside, facing away, busy rummaging through the drawers of a cabinet against the wall.

Her long hair is loose, cascading in soft waves down her back, and she wears a crimson silk jacket cinched at the waist. She has knee-high boots, but what catches my attention is an item quite unusual for a woman: her legs are clad in dark blue dragon leather trousers, the scales reflecting the light of the flickering flames in the fireplace; from where I stand, I have an excellent perspective causing my gaze to wander a bit more than necessary on her shapely backside, emphasized even more by this type of attire. When it comes to curves, Mother Nature has been exceedingly generous with this young woman, and I certainly don't hold back if I can enjoy her assets.

I approach the lectern, my footsteps echoing on the stone floor beneath the sound of boots. Cassandra doesn't turn around but still addresses me: «Hello, Sharp». So annoyingly informal and familiar.

«Good afternoon, Miss Doyle», I echo, her jasmine perfume growing stronger as I get closer.

«See? I took your advice and opted for heavier attire, more suitable for the underground temperature», she says, turning in my direction, now revealing the white ruffled shirt she wears under the jacket. Still damn snug.

From the mischievous sparkle in her large hazel eyes and her sarcastic tone, I know well she didn't choose to dress this way to stay warmer but to continue the game of provocations that started in the Great Hall on the evening of September first. A game that I initiated, and she seems willing to play.

I return her gaze a bit too long, aware that I'm slightly unsettling her, and I sit behind the lectern. «I believe you forgot these, by the way», I say casually, handing her the papers left in my office.

She approaches to take them. «Ah, there they are! I was sure I left them in your office», she replies, examining them carefully, as if to make sure I've read them.

«Why didn't you come to pick them up, then?», I ask, taking charge of the situation.

My question catches her off guard; for once, she doesn't have an immediate answer. I see the gears in her mind working a bit too fast before she shrugs, avoiding eye contact: «Well, they were for you»

«Well, they didn't work», I say, mimicking her nonchalant tone. «However, I must admit that you write very well. You know how to support your arguments to make everyone believe that what you're advocating is right. You're quite the journalist, Doyle».

My words sting her, and she snaps towards me, hissing like an angry cat: «When the hell will you stop feeling superior to others and belittling the work they do?»

«When you stop thinking you're above all knowledge just to show off your intelligence», I calmly reply, with a deliberately soothing tone to put her on the spot.

She's about to retort, but the footsteps outside the door grow louder, a sign that students are about to enter for the lesson. She takes a deep breath, her nostrils still flared with anger, and turns towards the door, plastering a smile on her face to welcome them. She doesn't sit near me but perches on the lectern, giving me her back... and more: her rear, in fact, is practically in my line of sight.

As the students take their seats at the large square tables, each topped with a massive cauldron, they gaze at her in anticipation, their expressions amused at seeing a teacher perched up there. On the contrary, despite her attempt to control it, all her nervousness surfaces, and she tenses up, arching her back slightly like a cat, offering me an even more inviting view. Suddenly, I realize my mouth is dry.

She clears her throat: «Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to the first Alchemy lesson. If you're anxious, don't worry: I'm probably more so». She pauses, allowing the students to chuckle, more at ease. Now more composed, Cassandra continues: «I'm really thrilled that this year we've reached the required number of students to teach Alchemy at Hogwarts. According to Deputy Headmistress Weasley, the last time was when I graduated in 1888». Hearing that year, I shift uncomfortably in my chair: it was the year of the ambush, when I lost much more than my Auror career.

«I'm genuinely excited to teach you this broad and fascinating subject, full of possibilities, which will make you understand that everything is possible. Alongside me, as you can see and have deduced from the Headmaster's inauguration speech, we have Professor Sharp, who has kindly agreed to lend his skilled Potioneer talent to Alchemy». She turns to look at me, and I raise a hand in a silent greeting.

I'm not the only one doing so: from the last row, a boy with extremely fair skin, dark blond hair, and icy blue eyes does the same, a smug and malicious expression on his face. Rookwood.

Cassandra turns to him with enthusiasm, unaware of who stands before her: «Yes, Mr...?», she asks, with that hopeful smile that will soon be just a faded memory.

«Rookwood. Alisteir Rookwood». He proudly emphasizes his surname, and aside from a few students, others avoid looking at him, all very fascinated by the arrangement of bricks on the walls or the chipped corners of their work tables. Cassandra is also uneasy, vainly trying to find a more comfortable position on the lectern, no longer smiling. Rookwood continues: «I wondered if Professor Sharp's presence isn't meant to compensate for the academic shortcomings of a journalist who happened to find herself at Hogwarts by chance».

«Language!», I exclaim peremptorily in response to his malicious observation. I rise from the chair and move in front of Cassandra: «May I have the parchment you showed me earlier, Professor Doyle?». I take care to underline her role in this school as I wait for her to hand me the stack of papers she left in my office. This gives me the opportunity to observe her wounded and disappointed expression, cheeks slightly flushed with embarrassment.

«Do you have to mock me too?», she mutters, so that only I can hear.

«Remember when I told you I'd make sure he wouldn't ruin your experience as a teacher?», I whisper back, and she nods, avoiding my gaze as she searches for the stack of parchments. «I was talking about this», I conclude, trying to reassure her.

I take the document she hands me with trembling hands and head towards Rookwood. Just today, when my leg hurts so much, and I limp more noticeably than usual, this insolent jerk had to sit in the back row?

I hand him the parchments, barely concealing my disdain: «Since Mr. Rookwood has not missed the opportunity to demonstrate, once again, to all of us how... special he is – I bite my tongue, not to describe him in less flattering ways – he will finally have the opportunity he's been waiting for with a task just for him: to read, summarize, and above all, understand what Professor Doyle has written in these papers about the importance of Alchemy as a philosophical subject, so that we can discuss it in the next lesson. I'm sure he'll find it beneficial, and so will the rest of us».

He shoots me a look full of hatred but snatches the sheets from my hand and doesn't reply. I know that in his mind, he's hurling the worst insults at me, but unfortunately, the school doesn't yet allow us to deduct points for what students think. I turn and return to the lectern, where Cassandra looks at me gratefully, a shadow of a smile on her face. I wink at her, and as I take my seat again, I gesture for her to continue.

«As Professor Sharp said, Alchemy is also a philosophical subject», she resumes, regaining some confidence. «So, for today, I thought of dedicating the first few minutes of our lesson to getting to know each other better. I'll ask you some questions, based on which I'll have a clearer picture of your personalities».

I look at her perplexed, and she notices, giving me a glance. She adds: «Since Professor Sharp already knows you, he won't play along with us», and more giggles rise from the desks. A snort resembling laughter also escapes my mouth, and Cassandra visibly feels more secure. She descends from the lectern and begins to walk among the tables, under my watchful eye as I meticulously observe every inch of her body so skillfully highlighted by her tight-fitting attire while she looks for the student whose academic record has fascinated her so much.

Apparently, the appreciation is mutual, judging by Dumbledore's enthusiastic look and his jovial tone when Cassandra stops in front of him and asks for his name, finally facing that brilliant mind. After the unsuccessful start of the lesson, at least, it's a relief for her that one student is so well disposed towards her.

«So, Mr. Dumbledore... If you had to choose a historical event that has changed our world, what would it be and why?», she asks. "An easy question", I think sarcastically.

But Dumbledore has a ready answer: «It's not an event that I personally consider positive, but I would say the creation of the Statute of Secrecy, as the moment when we stopped cooperating with Muggles and began to build our world from a political perspective as well».

«A truly interesting answer that should be explored further. If you ever want to talk about it, I'll be available», Cassandra replies pleased and then turns to the rest of the class: «Of course, this applies to everyone!».

The exchange of questions and answers continues until it's Ophelia Warrington's turn, a Ravenclaw girl. «Miss Warrington, I hope you have an answer worthy of your House to the question I'm about to ask», Cassandra says. Ophelia sits in a more receptive position, ready to listen. «If you had to name a famous Potioneer, who would it be and why?», she asks as she walks slowly through the class – carefully avoiding Rookwood's table.

Ophelia reflects for a moment, then answers: «Perhaps my answer may sound a bit strange, but I would say Giulia Tofana».

I'm not sure if I heard correctly. «Did you say Giulia Tofana, Miss Warrington?», I ask, intervening for the first time, a note of bewilderment in my voice.

Ophelia nods, embarrassed by her response. On the other hand, Cassandra becomes curious: «What an interesting answer, Miss Warrington! And tell me, why did you choose Giulia Tofana?»

«Because she used her knowledge to help other women who didn't have the courage or means to escape an abusive husband»

«And you? Would you like to use your knowledge to help others?», Cassandra asks with a sweet and conciliatory smile.

«Very much, Professor. I want to become a Healer after graduation»

«I find that to be a beautiful ambition. This, and your answer, speak volumes about the student you are. But, even more, about the person. 5 points to Ravenclaw».

With these words, she returns to the lectern, visibly satisfied and with a lively look. On the other hand, Ophelia's answer has left me somewhat concerned. If I were the actual Alchemy Professor, I would never praise her, let alone award points!

Cassandra approaches a chalkboard, on which she traces alchemical symbols for the four elements, beginning to explain in what is effectively her first lesson. However, I can't concentrate on it as much as I would have liked. Her enthusiasm upon hearing about Giulia Tofana, especially in class and from a student, even going so far as to reward it, is the complete opposite of my teaching ethics.

The bell announcing the end of the lesson jolts me from my thoughts filled with anger. «For the next lesson, read the in-depth chapter on the four elements and their uses and conceptions. Thank you for your attention, you may go!», Cassandra says cheerfully, her voice oblivious to the gravity of what just happened, making me simmer even more.

She approaches the lectern: «It went well... didn't it?», she asks, seeking reassurance, but I'm absolutely not in the right mood to give it.

«Giulia Tofana, really?», I retort, my tone dripping with bitter sarcasm.

She gives a proud smile: «Nice answer, isn't it?»

«Doyle, damn it – I let slip – you just gave 5 points to a girl who called her favorite Potioneer a woman who killed other women's husbands!».

She looks at me as if I asked her what 1+1 is: «What a keen observer», she mocks.

I abruptly stand from the chair, the growing anger producing a muffled sound that forces her to turn towards me, aware that I'm not in the mood for her games.

«You rewarded a girl who said she admires a woman who helped others by killing their abusive husbands, damn it!». I try to control my voice, the volume emphasized by the arched ceilings of the room and the bare stone walls.

She holds my gaze, intimidated by my reaction but still proud: «Yes, I did. And I did it because I also find Giulia Tofana's cause noble. A woman who helped others get out of abusive situations, using nothing but her knowledge»

«She was a murderer!». I'm almost shouting, and I'm so trembling with anger that I have to place my hands on the wooden lectern to keep them steady.

«A murderer in an era when the only way a woman could save herself from certain death was by killing her own husband!». Now it's her turn to be angry: «And if you really want to know – she continues, raising her voice – over 200 years later, nothing has changed!»

«Oh, please, don't play the victim card»

«It's a fact! They kill us constantly like animals, and we can't do anything! No one believes us, no one defends us!». Her tone is almost hysterical, her eyes fiery darts.

I try to regain my authority, enunciating the words: «You can't just go around the school talking to students about a woman who killed other women's husbands as if it were something normal».

She looks at me angrily, with a single mission in her eyes: to strike me where it hurts. «Yet, I've never seen any hesitation in discussing certain topics in this school», she says, lowering her voice and pretending to be calm. Dangerously calm. She approaches me, challenging me, and in a malicious whisper says: «What is it? Are you afraid you would have been one of them?».

She succeeds. Her words prick my skin like large needles, and I can no longer contain the anger. I move abruptly towards her, raising my right arm in her direction and closing my hand on her face. Squeezing her cheeks, I push her against the wall. She points her toes a bit, but she doesn't resist. There's no fear in her eyes, rather a desire to prove to both of us that she's right.

I press my body against hers, trapping her and closing the distance between us, the hand still gripping her face, now very close to mine. I can feel the warmth of her body, her chest rising and falling rapidly. «Don't you dare», I growl, my mouth inches from hers, slightly distorted by my hand on her soft white cheeks.

Her breath grazes my skin, and her scent envelops us, making me focus on details I would never have noticed, like the lighter tips of her lashes or the sprinkle of small freckles on her right cheek. So close, I have to make a considerable effort not to succumb to the temptation to bridge the gap between us even more and transfer all my anger into a rough and insatiable kiss... like the desire that has been growing more subtly inside me since the first time I saw her in the Faculty Lounge.

Cassandra, on the other hand, takes advantage of the situation, catching me totally off guard, lost as I am staring into her hazel eyes. Slowly but almost hypnotically, she extracts her tongue and runs it over my index finger, very close to her lips. She does it in such a sensually aware manner of the undeniable sexual tension between us that it makes it impossible for me to resist what she's doing. In fact, I like it, and for once, I'm happy not to be the one in the commanding position.

As if she understood, without breaking eye contact, she moves her tongue, warm and soft, to the last phalanx, which she then wraps with her inviting and soft lips, sucking my finger. I can't hold back an excited sigh, the gesture so sexually explicit that it makes me wish her mouth wrapped around something much larger.

When she stops sucking, she looks at me with eyes full of desire, but there's another awareness in them: that she has won over me, my hesitations, and my instincts. Her lips curve into a maliciously cruel smile, and from her mouth comes an exciting murmur similar to a cat's purr: «Never tell a Slytherin what to do».

Seizing the moment when I lost all control and grip on her, she wriggles free and slips out of my reach, tousling her hair and heading towards the door, leaving me confused by what just happened and, slightly and undeniably, aroused.

I remain where she left me, but I still watch her, not missing any movement of her feminine and sensual walk, all her curves accentuated by those clothes that would look much better on the floor, torn by an uncontrollable sexual appetite that craves to be satisfied.

She goes to open the door but pauses on the threshold, turning towards me with that satisfied smirk still on her face. With the most casual tone ever, she addresses me one last sentence before disappearing from my sight: «Oh, Sharp? Stop undressing me with your eyes or I'll catch a cold».

Notes:

Giulia Tofana really existed and lived in Italy in the 17th century. A well-known sorceress, she gave women who wanted to get rid of abusive husbands the so-called 'acqua Tofana', a powerful poison that allowed her to act for almost 20 years, during which time she is suspected to have killed at least 600 men.

It is a story I wanted to include in “Lustful Alchemy” to delve more deeply into Cassandra's personality, and it was interesting that it was Sharp who told us about it.

Thanks for your kudos, bookmarks and comments, I appreciate them so much as I hope you appreciate this work of mine! ❤️

Chapter 12: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

I was aware of what I was doing? I would say yes. Do I regret it? Absolutely not.

If one of the women I've helped over the years to escape from violent men, to flee controlling situations, had seen me in class, I can imagine she would have called me a traitor. Not much different from what I would have thought just moments before, vehemently arguing about the legitimacy of Giulia Tofana's actions.

Yet, when I found myself with his hand on my face, his body pressed against mine in a scorching embrace, I couldn't help but yield to my instincts, becoming the boldest version of myself and playing along with his hunter and prey game. In that moment, I wished his hand would go further, his mouth descending on mine to bridge the mere centimeters between our lips. But I decided not to stoop to his presumption of playing by his rules: if he thinks he's the hunter, he's gravely mistaken. I have no intention of yielding to his desires; if things between us are to take a certain turn, then I want to be the one in full control, deciding when it happens.

Great resolutions, so why did I spend the entire weekend thinking about that fleeting moment and eagerly anticipating seeing him again? Why, every time I turned a corner in the castle, did I hope to find him in front of me and resume our game of glances and sharp banter? Not that I was unaware of his temporary absence; I heard him chatting outside the Faculty Lounge with Ronen about the need to go to London for a couple of days, to the Ministry, where he would instruct the new Auror team in Occlumency. At least, this explains why he's so elusive.

What I can't fathom is why on earth it was so easy for me to fall at his feet, prey to his charm. The fact that he's undeniably handsome is not a valid reason; I've seen plenty of handsome men, but I've never been yielding to any of them. With Sharp, though, it's different. Despite our undeniable differences, there's something about him that attracts me to the point of going beyond the rough edges of his character, knowing that it might leave me with more than just a scratch.

If I were to compare him to an object, I'd say he's like an old book, perhaps one of those Forbidden Section tomes: large, dusty, with a ruined cover, the title faded on its spine, worn away by time; a book that no one would feel like reading, but when opened, is a constant discovery, page after page, of a subject as dark as it is fascinating. Maybe that's what draws me in, as if we were two opposing magnetic poles: the desire to delve into him, truly know him, and discover why life has made him so gruff and averse to human connections. If only it was as easy to read into him as it is with books...

Another thing I can't figure out, and which I've been racking my brain over for the past few days, is why a former Auror, who still seems to command a certain respect and esteem, would end up teaching Potions at Hogwarts. Not in London coordinating some operations from headquarters, unable to operate actively in the field anymore; nor at the school teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts, a subject more fitting to his past. Not that Dinah isn't capable, of course; I just find teaching Potions a rather peculiar choice, even though I'm aware that becoming a successful Auror requires being a skilled Potioneer. Yet, I'm sure it's not just that, that there's more to it; otherwise, he wouldn't spend all his free time, between lessons, away from the quarters, often skipping meals, locked in his classroom for hours on end.

With this question buzzing in my head for the past two days (if not more), I cross the Transfiguration Courtyard, heading towards Matilda's classroom. If there's anyone who can answer my questions, it's her. As always, the long wooden room, illuminated by the warm sunlight, welcomes me, as does the door to her office, open for anyone in need. I approach and knock to get her attention.

Matilda looks up at me and speaks, smiling: «Good morning! I was beginning to wonder when you'd come to see me in your Cassandra role rather than Professor Doyle».

I look at her perplexed: «Wh-what?»

«Aren't you here to discuss school matters, are you?», she asks, her voice taking a rhetorical tone that doesn't actually require an answer.

«Well... not exactly, truth be told», I admit.

With a gesture of her hand, she signals me to sit, while with a wand movement, she closes the door behind us.

«Feel free to sit. But first, tell me, how was your first day?», she asks.

«Very well! Better than I expected, I must admit»

«I always had faith in you – she says, looking at me understandingly – unlike you. I knew you'd be the right person for the role. Aesop also told me that you're good, even though you have a very different teaching style. He'll be back today, by the way. But I suppose he might have already told you».

For a moment, I don't connect that Aesop is Sharp's first name, considering he explicitly forbade me from addressing him in this way. I swallow, wondering if he mentioned what happened at the end of the lesson. «Actually, no», I reply. I earn a puzzled look, Matilda's eyebrows furrowed, and I try to cover up: «But he probably forgot. He has so many things to do and think about!». Just like me at the moment, as I have another thought about him to add to the list: knowing that I'll see him again soon has made my stomach do a strange flip. Not the reaction I expected to such news... or is it?

Matilda doesn't respond, merely giving a somewhat uncertain nod. Nervously licking my lips, I continue with a bit more curiosity coloring my voice: «Anyway, what did he say? We only had one class together, and you know how much I care about making a good impression on others».

I must have sounded convincing because Matilda's gaze softens as she replies: «Oh, I know how you are! And you've probably learned that Aesop is a man of few words, but nevertheless, he had some particularly commendable ones to say about you and your teaching style, on par with the students. 'I don't agree, as my students and I are not friends, but I suppose when you're so young, it's the best and most effective way to empathize with them,' he said».

Sharp using the word "empathy" to talk about me and how I teach: if I were still writing for The Daily Prophet, this would be a front-page headline. A sign that something in what I wrote to him on those parchments, now in Rookwood's hands, wasn't entirely useless – even though he claimed it was a total failure. My stomach does another flip, ecstatic with all this silly and inexplicable happiness of having impressed him positively.

Hoping that this doesn't show on my face, I reply: «I'm really happy and flattered; Professor Sharp is an excellent professional and teacher. He... he also helped me in a, let's say, peculiar moment during the lesson»

«Yes, he mentioned that too. Nothing we didn't imagine, of course. Mr. Rookwood is a troublesome young man. That's also why we thought it appropriate to have Aesop support you. I apologize on behalf of the whole school if what happened may have disturbed you», Matilda sighs with a serious tone.

Noticing that I just nod and don't continue, not knowing how to start the conversation I came here for, she continues, in an investigative manner: «But I guess you didn't want to talk to me about this, right?».

This woman knows me better than my pockets; so well that lying to her or trying to divert the conversation in some way would be impossible. So, choosing my words carefully not to sound intrusive, I begin: «No, actually. As I mentioned earlier, Sharp is so busy with lessons and everything else that we haven't had a chance to get to know each other». I pause briefly, also to test the waters I'm venturing into, but Matilda's face reveals no emotion, so I'm forced to continue: «And now, with this commitment to the Ministry, which kept him away from Hogwarts even on a Sunday, I couldn't help but wonder why a former Auror teaches Potions», I say in one breath.

Matilda looks at me for a moment before turning back to me: «And I thought you came to ask why you still don't have your own room».

If I had a mirror in front of me, I could swear that my reflection has suddenly turned pale. Absurd to believe, and yet in these days of constant tension, I never once thought, not even for a moment, about the possibility of eventually having to move into a real room of my own. If, until a few days after my arrival at Hogwarts, the forced proximity to a stranger bothered me, now I almost don't think about it anymore. In a way, I would say it intrigues me; I've accepted to play the game and make my moves, constantly waiting to know Sharp’s. What better common ground than the room we share?

«Oh, well...». I try to find a justification, but unfortunately, I can't come up with a single sentence that's even remotely convincing.

I don't know with what expression Matilda is looking at me, but it's certainly not at all convinced by my attitude. However, she's fond enough of me not to put me in further difficulty. «Aesop is a very ambitious man: that's why he was sorted into Slytherin too. You'll understand that an office job wasn't at all suitable for him, and being always one of the best in Potions, he gladly accepted the position when it was offered to him. As if it represented a new challenge for him».

It's not the answer I hoped to receive; it still leaves many questions unanswered, and from what little I've gotten to know about Sharp, I've understood that behind every choice of his, there's a reasoned reflection, a precise and sensible reason. Yes, he's a Slytherin, and precisely because of that, he never does anything without getting something in return, without the assurance that he can get what he wants.

I realize that no one, except himself, will ever reveal to me the real reason why he became the Potions Professor. I don't believe in the story of the challenge: as an Auror, he could have had plenty of challenges even working behind an office desk, where his sharp and brilliant mind would have undoubtedly come in handy. There must be something more, a deeper and more important purpose... but I'll have to figure it out on my own.

I nod to Matilda, pretending that the answer she gave me was satisfactory. She, in turn, goes back to the room issue: «Anyway, later I have an appointment with Headmaster Black to discuss your transfer. Would it be a problem if you had to move to the rooms above the Grand Staircase?».

I quickly do mental calculations: «Aren't those near the Headmaster's office?», I ask.

Matilda lets out a short sigh: «Yes, they are. They're the only ones free and available at the moment... I'll try to be as convincing as possible».

It's a kind gesture on her part, but the prospect of moving, even just to a tower away from the Faculty's, is not as exciting anymore. And not because of the proximity to Black's quarters, even though I'd prefer not to find myself there (which, I'm sure, he shares). It's just that I don't want to distance myself from Sharp, but I can't express that so blatantly.

Matilda interrupts my train of thought: «Anyway, it's strange», she says thoughtfully after a brief pause, as if reflecting.

«What's strange?»

«That even Aesop, although initially uncomfortable with giving you part of his quarters, didn't come to ask me why you haven't changed rooms yet».

Another foolish and senseless flip of my stomach. The negativity that was enveloping me at the prospect of having to move is replaced by a faint glimmer of happiness in learning that Sharp, in private with Matilda, never mentioned any of our quarrels or misunderstandings. Perhaps this situation benefits him more than it should.

«You know, in the end, we hardly ever see each other, except in class – I say – Maybe he hasn't even noticed the difference».

Matilda looks at me, and her gaze suddenly becomes serious: «I wish it was as you say, Cassandra. But I've known Aesop for years, and I'm certain he strongly felt the difference». She pauses again, as if thinking about something distant and somewhat painful. Then she continues, attempting a hopeful smile: «But maybe he's finally benefiting from the situation, after...».

She stops abruptly. «But there's no need to dwell on that», she says, reconnecting to the present and rising from the desk, politely inviting me to do the same. «As I was saying, today we'll resolve this situation».

With relief, Matilda doesn't bring up what happened between me and Sharp at the end of the lesson, and I genuinely hope she's not aware of it at all. She escorts me to the door, and I feign indifference about the possibility of changing rooms. I knew it would have to happen sooner or later, in fact, but I had probably, more or less consciously, chosen to forget about it. My thoughts have focused solely on my new job and inevitably on Sharp, and only now do I realize how much the simple knowledge of his existence interests me more than expected.

Twisting my hands thoughtfully, also considering Matilda's cryptic comment about the effect my presence might have had on Sharp since I dropped into his life, I enter the Great Hall for lunch. Immediately, my eyes fall on the empty chair next to mine, to the point that I don't notice the voice calling me from behind until the owner reaches me.

«Professor Doyle!». The urgency in Albus Dumbledore's voice makes me turn abruptly, the boy standing behind me in all his height and lean physique, slightly breathless.

«Good morning, Mr. Dumbledore. Forgive me, I was lost in thought», I say.

«Is everything okay, Professor?», he asks. Am I so transparent that everyone sees my discomfort?

I give him a reassuring smile: «Nothing for you to worry about. Did you need something?»

«Professor Binns assigned us a task on female witchcraft, and I was wondering if you could suggest some books for my research».

His consideration flatters me, and I blush slightly: «Thank you for thinking I'm the right person. If you don't have other classes, we can meet in the Library after Alchemy», I suggest.

«Thank you for your availability, Professor! See you later, then», he replies, radiant, and turns back to the Gryffindor table, the sunlight streaming through the large windows making his auburn hair gleam.

After lunch, I head towards the dungeons. I pass the enormous marble statue of the sleeping dragon, and in front of me, at the end of the corridor, the open door frame of the Alchemy Classroom stands, with Sharp's figure seated at the desk inside.

My heart skips a beat at the sudden sight of him, engrossed in reading. I force myself to maintain a steady pace, not wanting to betray the excitement his presence causes me. It's truly absurd when I think about it, considering I've only known him for a month. Yet, I can't deny the effect his concentrated expression, long dark hair shadowing his decisive features, and his finely clad, well-trained physique have on me. I have to admit it: I feel butterflies in my stomach, and I fear that if I opened my mouth, they would flutter out.

He must hear the sound of my footsteps resonating closer because he looks up at me, his eyebrows slightly raised in a pleasantly surprised expression. He puts what he was reading into the pocket of his ever-present brown coat and settles more comfortably in his chair, offering a smile at the corner of his mouth.

«Good afternoon, Miss Doyle», he says, absentmindedly caressing his lips with his thumb, seemingly without a real reason. But from the way he looks at me, I know he's referring to the last time we saw each other. And his voice... Has it always been so warm, or am I simply unreasonably happy to see him?

«Good afternoon to you», I reply with a slight blush on my cheeks, entering the classroom and approaching the lectern. «When did you arrive? You weren’t at lunch»

«It didn't seem polite to enter the Great Hall while everyone was already seated. I preferred to come straight here». And then, unexpectedly, he asks: «How are you?».

This small gesture of concern and interest makes me foolishly happy. «I'm well, thank you. How are you? Did the journey go well?». I would like to ask him for a detailed account of his weekend at the Ministry, so that his deep, slightly husky voice could bridge the gap between our bodies.

«The usual. I would have preferred not to have Sunday engaged, but the Ministry still trusts me, and these business trips pay well». His gaze dances over me and my burgundy dress today, with small black buttons on the bodice and embroidery, paired with laced ankle boots of the same color. I reciprocate his particular attention, focusing on his dark trousers, knee-high boots, and the slightly unbuttoned white shirt, similar to the one in the Library that one time, offering a view of something more than would be appropriate. His lips part ever so slightly, just enough to moisten them with his tongue, and my breath becomes slightly heavier.

This tense moment between us is interrupted by distant voices of approaching students to the classroom. As if I've become accustomed to it by now, and partly because I want Sharp to look at me again, I sit on the lectern, welcoming the students with a smile. They all reciprocate, except for one.

«Professor Sharp!», Rookwood exclaims, impatient.

I can hear Sharp's frustrated sigh behind me: «Yes?».

With a malicious grin on his face, the boy continues triumphantly: «I couldn't do the homework for today – he shoots me a satisfied glance – but I have an excuse signed by the Headmaster». He makes a point of emphasizing the last word as he hands a piece of parchment to Sharp, who has already moved to take it.

He almost snatches it from Aleister’s hands; he reads it, then looks at me, nodding slightly, confirming that it's a genuine excuse. I'm determined not to let this get to me, so I smile indulgently and start the lesson. However, when Sharp places the scrap of parchment on the lectern, I realize that the lines written to justify Rookwood's failure are far too few for it to be a valid reason.

The sense of helplessness that has crept inside me, along with the awareness of being deemed unworthy of any respect by Black and Rookwood, diminishes when it's my turn to sit at the lectern, allowing Sharp to explain. He moves comfortably around the classroom, among the desks and under the attentive gaze of the students (especially the girls), precisely explaining the alchemical uses and properties of the four elements and how they are essential in any type of potion or distillate. I am fascinated by his extensive knowledge, the wit with which he makes different connections, and how he constantly challenges the students, urging them to go beyond their self-imposed limits, not to be afraid to take risks or even to give an incorrect answer. He continually puts them to the test, and I can't help but wonder what his lessons for the new Aurors at the Ministry must have been like. It's stimulating and extremely intuitive, to the point that I find myself taking notes, wanting to capture every word of his in black and white.

When he turns to me, almost at the end of the lesson, he realizes that he has practically had an extra student, given the parchment sheets filled with diagrams and transcriptions of what he has just explained. He gives me a flattered but sardonic smile and, ironically, addresses the class: «Professor Doyle is exactly why a teacher so young shouldn't teach students your age». The typical end-of-lesson chatter quiets down, everyone watching me and Sharp with expectant eyes, probably ready to hear one of his sharp comments.

Contrary to expectations, he gently takes my sheets, which he observes with that same smile that crisps the jagged edges of the scar on his face but softens his gaze, and continues: «Her memories of Hogwarts are still so fresh that she can empathize with your role». He shows the class the sheets, pointing at them: «But this is also why you need teachers like her: extremely passionate, ready to constantly put themselves in the position of learning, without the pretense of already knowing everything but still hungry for knowledge».

I realize I've been holding my breath because my shoulders relax, and I exhale all the air, relieved. His words, as always so unpredictable compared to the attitude he often reserves for me, are a balm for my self-esteem, soothing the abrasions he himself has occasionally caused by emphasizing my arrogance and the desire to prove my worth.

«You have much to learn from Professor Doyle. All of you», he concludes, silently referring to Rookwood, who, in response, slings his bag over his shoulder as soon as the bell rings and disappears.

As the students start leaving the classroom, Sharp and I tidy up our belongings.

«If you were one of my students, you would have given me more satisfaction than all of them combined», he says, making me blush. I hope the strands of hair falling onto my face manage to conceal it.

«We're ambitious, aren't we?», I reply, referring to one of Slytherin's typical traits. «Let's just say that my ambition has always been directed towards studying, the desire to learn and do better than the goals I set for myself. Not much has changed... but that's what happens when you have the privilege of listening to an extremely capable teacher».

I glance up slightly at him, and he looks back at me with gratitude. I imagine that, with his consistently gruff demeanor, he doesn't often receive such testimonials from students. I understand how he must feel, never having received any from those who should have been proud of me when I studied at Hogwarts.

We finish organizing our things in silence, and I'm about to open the door, a "goodbye" to Sharp almost on my lips, when Matilda appears.

«Cassandra, here you are. I just spoke with the Headmaster», she says. I had completely forgotten about her appointment with Black to discuss the room.

«Tell me everything, Matilda. I was heading to the Library, but we can discuss it calmly», I tell her.

Matilda clenches her jaws, her expression serious and resigned. «I did my best, really. But Headmaster Black is not inclined to transfer you to the Grand Staircase tower». She pauses, the words struggling to come out of her throat. I can already guess what she must add, the reasons why Black doesn't want me so close to him, sullying his precious floors with my presence as a Muggle-born. «There's no polite way to say it... He doesn't want you near him because–»

«–because I'm an unworthy Muggle-born who had the audacity to be a witch and, to make matters worse, sorted into Slytherin. Practically a freak of nature. Is 'Toujours pur' still the password of his Office?», I interrupt her, sarcastically referring to his obsession with blood purity.

«I'm mortified, Cassandra. We'll find a solution», Matilda tries to reassure me, her cheeks reddened with embarrassment but her eyes glaring with anger.

I shake my head: «As I told you a month ago, I can always take a room at The Three Broomsticks; I'm sure Sirona wouldn't mind. Or I could stay in Lower Hogsfield...»

«Or, alternatively, you could stay where you are». Sharp's voice, from behind me, inserts itself strongly and confidently into the conversation. When he's sure he has my and Matilda's attention, he continues: «Please excuse me for eavesdropping on your conversation, but since, in one way or another, it involves me... There will be no need to organize any transfer, Matilda. Cassandra can stay as long as she wants in my attic». It's the first time I've heard him say my name, and the way he emphasized the letters gave it an entirely new sound, as if I had never heard it before.

«Aesop, are you absolutely sure?», Matilda asks him, but her tone, theoretically meant to dissuade him, is decidedly unconvincing.

«Absolutely sure. There's no reason why Cassandra should move and give in to the Headmaster. There are far more important things this school should address, starting with the differential treatment when it comes to certain students». We both catch the clear reference to Rookwood and the privileged position he enjoys in Black's favor.

Matilda nods and gives us a smile: «Very well then. I'll report your willingness to the Headmaster. Thank you, Aesop, and goodbye». She bids us farewell, turning her back on us and disappearing into the dungeon’s corridor.

Sharp, standing beside me, closes the door to the Alchemy Classroom and gestures for me to go first: «After you».

We walk side by side in the deserted dungeons, the voices and footsteps of students resonating from the floors above us. His scent is a comforting caress, just like the awareness that he has sided with me for the second time in a matter of a few days.

«Sharp – I exclaim, breaking the silence – Thank you. You weren't obliged to do it, especially since this situation has been imposed on us from the start».

He snorts, a sound that resembles a bitter laugh: «Would I be better off with the attic as it was before? Undoubtedly. But I wouldn't be at all comfortable knowing that, once again, a Slytherin is eager to tarnish our House with insipid and backward remnants of supposed purity». He turns to look at me and continues: «Above all, I don't think anyone deserves to be treated like this. I'm sorry, Doyle. I apologize on his behalf».

Again, he uses my last name. «You don't have to apologize; it's not your fault... And anyway, I have a name. And I've seen that you're also capable of using it», I tease.

He suppresses a laugh: «Don't get used to it now that our... cohabitation is official». There's something in the way he pronounces the word "cohabitation" that sends a shiver down my spine. Or maybe it's the way he looks at me now that we're standing still on the stairs outside the Potions Classroom, at ease in the dim light produced by the torches, making everything more secretive and at times forbidden. It's incredible how the shadow seems to be an integral part of this man, settling on his figure like a tight veil waiting to be lifted.

He clears his throat, bringing me back to reality: «Well, I'll stop here, as you may have gathered. Aren't you tired of always going to the Library?», he asks.

The way he said it makes me smile: «This time it's not about me. Albus Dumbledore asked me to recommend some books on women's witchcraft for a task from Binns».

Sharp's gaze hardens: «He's in seventh year; he can't find them on his own?»

«You shouldn't speak like that about your students! – I reprimand him – And besides, he has shown appreciation for my teachings... at least him».

He looks at me with a raised eyebrow, an annoyed expression that suits him so much and makes him even more fascinating. The already narrow underground space seems to have become minuscule for both of us.

The footsteps approaching announce the arrival of third-year students, ready for their Potions lesson. With a annoyed sigh, he reverts to his usual self as he opens the door and invites the students in. On the threshold, after giving me another once-over (almost as if making sure I am dressed decently), he addresses me with his final words before closing the heavy wooden door, cold and devoid of any emotion: «Have a good day, Doyle. See you».

He doesn't wait for my response, leaving me alone and standing in front of the closed door. Frustrated anger wells up inside me because I'm too inept at dealing with his unpredictable and capricious nature, gratuitously elusive. Swiftly, I head towards the Library, hoping to leave behind what just happened (but especially the emotions I felt seeing him again).

Chapter 13: SHARP

Chapter Text

It's almost dinner time, yet I can't bring myself to get up from the chair behind the lectern, too tired even to think. The last students have already left for a while, but my ears are still ringing with the buzz of their chatter, giggles, and pointless questions, which would have been answered if they had bothered to open the textbook. Between Alchemy and Potions classes, my days are so packed that I don't even have a spare moment during school hours.

I run a hand over my eyes, the fingers exerting a slight pressure on the eyelids, and I force myself to get up to go to the Great Hall. With a wand movement, I tidy up the cauldrons on the tables in front of me and set about sorting out the chaos of scrolls, vials, and ingredients scattered on the lectern. Only then does a small scrap of paper emerge, of which I immediately recognize the handwriting: it's Black's.

Thinking it might be an urgent message I forgot among the various papers, I quickly move closer to the light of a candle to illuminate it and see what's written, and immediately remember why I let it disappear under piles of parchment without much ceremony.

"Dear Professor Sharp,

I, Phineas Nigellus Black, as the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, relieve Mr. Alisteir Rookwood from the duties of Alchemy, deeming it unnecessary for him to perform those you assigned to him in addition to those of Miss Doyle.

Yours sincerely,

Phineas Nigellus Black"

That pathetic attempt at justification with which Rookwood, a few days ago, dared to challenge my authority, and Cassandra's, once again doing as he pleases as if he were the master of this school.

I read the lines written in that small, angular handwriting a second time, as if to assure myself that Black actually signed those bullshit, the anger mounting with every word to explode silently within me when my attention falls on "Miss Doyle." Not "Professor," the role she rightfully holds, but just a Miss, as if she were not worthy of the slightest consideration.

I clench the note in my fist, crumpling it and digging my nails into the skin of my palm to avoid losing my temper. The school shouldn't allow such situations to occur, but as long as we have this mockery of a Headmaster, unfortunately, they will be commonplace. Surrendering to oppression has never been part of my nature, and despite what happened not being directly my affair, I know I cannot let it happen again. I may no longer be an Auror, but I still have morals and a sense of justice.

I stuff the note into my pocket and stride out of the Potions classroom with determination, slamming the door behind me. My nerves are on edge, and near the Great Hall, I take it out on a group of second-year Hufflepuffs who, instead of being at their table already, linger to giggle at goodness knows what joke, making them hurry inside before me. The buzz of the crowded hall greets me, as does Black's constantly bored and annoyed expression sitting at the center of the teachers' table.

I really wish my muscles and clenched jaw wouldn't relax, but the warmth of Cassandra's smile when she sees me makes it really difficult, and that, if possible, makes me even more annoyed. With a great effort, I sit down next to her without much ceremony, maintaining a stoic attitude and not letting myself be swayed by those perfect pink lips and her doe-like eyes. Merlin, I have no intention of letting myself be overcome by thoughts of this nature. It's going to be a painfully long evening.

On the other hand, Cassandra tries to start a conversation beside me, but I can't pay her any attention at all. I stare at Black's sharp profile: his total indifference and disinterest as he looks at things and people, without really seeing them, only increase my contempt for him. I hardly touch my food, but I gulp down glasses of wine as if they were soothing candies.

All of this certainly doesn't go unnoticed, and my nervousness must be strongly visible on my face because I only snap out of it when I feel the light but electric touch of Cassandra's slender fingers on my forearm, and her voice creeping into my thoughts: «Sharp, is everything okay? You're... drinking quite a lot».

Before I can even realize it, my usual gruff demeanor gets the better of me, and I growl harsh words at her that I don't actually mean: «Damn it, Doyle, can you mind your own business for once?».

An expression of hurt and mortification immediately paints her face, struck like a slap by that gratuitous and undeserved cruelty. But I can't tell her what's on my mind, or the real reason behind that reaction. Instead, I swallow my pride and with a more conciliatory tone, I say to her: «I'm sorry. It's been a long day. I'm fine, thank you for caring». I hope to come across as sincere as possible because my apologies are truly heartfelt.

I'm not sure if I succeeded, but if not, she doesn't tell me or show it. She simply overlooks what just happened, demonstrating a lot of maturity and understanding: «I know you don't want to, but... if you change your mind... you can talk to me».

Her immense willingness and kindness, even towards someone like me who hasn't always been equally kind to her, deliver the final blow, the one I didn't need. I swallow another bitter bite of pride and tell her that no, there's no need. She nods and looks away, not making any attempt to continue the conversation.

I don't wait for dinner to finish. I get up even before dessert, excusing my early departure with a strong headache, and head towards the Faculty Tower. Once in my room, I pour myself a generous glass of whiskey and light up a Mirabel cigarette, more to numb my mind than to ease the pain.

I don't want to think about the events of the past few days, about how Rookwood takes advantage of his family's influence on Black and his prejudices. Nor do I want to think about how that makes me feel, how my anger makes me treat Cassandra. Especially, I don't want to think about her, about the lost habit of sharing my time and emotions with a woman, because that thought is perhaps what makes me feel worse. I can confront Black, keep Rookwood in check, but with her it's different: I feel powerless, unable to resist the instinct... But maybe it's the alcohol and smoke speaking for me.

I extinguish the cigarette now consumed in the glass, a last drop of whiskey lingering at the bottom, and begin to undress. I don't know how much time has passed since my thoughts began to devour me from within, but after a while, I clearly hear the door open and close behind the rustle of Cassandra's skirts. My thoughts follow irrationally: I want to leave my room and go to her, take her there on the floor and release everything I feel inside her, see her long dark hair spread messily to cover her fair skin and her eyes silently begging me for more, feel her hands on my chest as I explore every inch of that body so luscious and soft... but I don't. Motionless in front of my bed, I breathe deeply, a last glimmer of self-control forcing me to be better than my basest instincts, as well as not entirely lucid.

I stand still and silent, ignoring the overpowering erection that begins to throb in my pants, and try to understand what she's doing and how she feels from the way she moves. I imagine she's taken off her shoes because her steps resonate muffled on the floor, as if she didn't want to disturb me. It seems to me that for a moment she lingered behind my door, because I don't hear anything anymore, but maybe it's the smoke making me imagine things that don't exist as the next second I hear her moving towards the fireplace and whispering "Glacius!", her steps fading up the stairs.

But what if I didn't imagine anything? What if she really did stop behind my door? I imagine her with her fist halfway up, with that indecisive and brainy expression that furrows her eyebrows when she has to make a decision, a gesture that distorts her face into a childish pout. The thought makes me smile, but my lips immediately return serious when I think that in the end she decided not to knock, probably sighing resignedly and leaving for her room.

Who knows what she's doing now, what she's thinking. Probably that it's better for her to stay away from me, rather than facing another unfounded outburst. Explaining to her the reason for the impenetrable wall of privacy I've built around me in ten years would seem like just a victimizing excuse to take cover every time I burst out against her again. Probably, then, it's better for her to stay away indeed.

Yes, if these are the thoughts plaguing me tonight, I've definitely had too much to drink. I grab another cigarette, this time stronger, and start smoking it greedily, hastening its inhibitory effects. I unbuckle my belt and boot straps, that damn scar that starts pulsating painfully as soon as I release the pressure on it. I remain in my underwear, lying in bed staring at the ceiling while I smoke the last drags.

My disturbed mind has decided to run wild tonight, directing my thoughts constantly towards Cassandra, invisible yet incredibly present upstairs. Her face stands before me, her hopeful and agitated expression during the first lesson, the pain caused by Rookwood embarrassing her in front of the class, and finally the blow she took with heartbreaking awareness when Matilda informed her of Black's refusal to grant her a room on his floor. I don't want the way she's treated by him to become a habit for her, because I know how much pain becoming accustomed to something can cause.

I toss and turn in bed all night, gradually regaining more clarity, despite the few hours of sleep and a fixed thought that has increasingly tightened its claws around my brain: confronting Black. When the first light of dawn begins to filter through the curtains, I get out of bed and as usual head to the Prefects' bathroom for my morning swim, this time longer than usual in a futile attempt to relax better.

Once back in my room and dressed in a black suit under my usual brown coat, I descend the stairs to the Great Hall. I'd prefer to shut myself in my office to continue refining the potion that can finally cure my chronic pain, but I need Black to see me in order to wrangle an appointment in his office. In the Entrance Hall, a house-elf greets me good morning and bows so deeply that his nose touches the ground, so I take advantage of it to order him to send black coffee, slightly spiked if possible, to the teachers' table in my place. With a snap of fingers, the elf disappears and I enter the Great Hall, with still few people seated at their tables for breakfast.

I can't betray the anticipation, so I try to take it as easy as possible, savoring every dish slowly but above all the coffee, the cup continuing to fill thanks to the magical help of a particularly zealous elf. Meanwhile, I observe Black, oblivious to everything that has tormented my mind all night long. From his slow and careless movements, I understand that he'll have a day ahead devoid of any work commitments or worries. Good for me.

My thoughts are distracted by Cassandra's entrance into the Great Hall, accompanied by Albus Dumbledore. Not content with having dragged her to the library with a pathetic excuse for his role of Head Boy, now he escorts her around the school as if she needs protection. I'd like to look away, but I'm captivated by her: by her feminine walk, by her curves constrained inside a white blouse and sugar paper trousers, so wide they look like a skirt and cinched at the waist by a belt. Despite her hypnotic body, what strikes me most about her today are her hair gathered at the nape, with the long, white, tapered neck left exposed in a decidedly inviting manner. She greets Dumbledore with a wave of her hand and a smile, and heads towards the teachers' table. She hesitates imperceptibly when she sees me, but I manage to catch a flicker of excitement in her eyes.

«Good morning», she says, slightly stiffly and without looking at me for too long. It's early in the morning and she's already a cloud of intoxicating perfume that I have to bite my lips to not let myself be distracted.

«Good morning to you», I reply in a conciliatory tone, observing her as she sits down and reveling in her curves.

My tone surprises her in a positive way because she relaxes and turns to look at me, smiling slightly. «How are you feeling today?», she asks.

I take a sip of coffee and deliberately pretend to have had the best and most restful night of my life when I reply: «Much better, thank you».

«I'm glad. I hope I didn't disturb you when I came back last night; I tried to be as quiet as possible».

I hadn't imagined it then; she really had been quiet to not worsen my fake headache. I feel like smiling at her in such a foolish way that I have to appeal to myself and my self-respect not to give in. Keeping one eye on Black, I change the subject, unable to contain a curious annoyance any longer, and sarcastically start: «Why did Dumbledore escort you inside? Was he afraid you'd get lost?».

She stifles a laugh and responds: «He wanted to thank me for the help I gave him the other day, since the History of Magic task went well»

«A task for which, I imagine, he really needed you, as if he isn't one of the best in the school»

«Well, let's just say he asked the right person, and thanks to that, it went better than usual. Not to brag, but I know a lot about the history of female witchcraft», she replies, with such prideful tone that I wish Black had heard her, so he wouldn't doubt her Slytherin affiliation anymore.

«I have no doubts. Just as I have no doubts about why he asked for your help», I respond annoyed.

«I can assure you he didn't do it for some ulterior motive»

«Of course... because you know men and their hidden agendas so well, don't you?», I respond provocatively.

This time, she gets annoyed, turning to me impatiently and raising her voice: «I don't know who you think I am, but yes. I know you all well enough to understand that he doesn't have any grand intentions! And you?»

I feel her fiery eyes on me, and even though I shouldn't, I revel in the awareness that we're back to teasing and provoking each other, in a game of tit for tat that excites me. I don't back down, in fact, my intention is always to push her beyond her limits, to test her defenses. «And you? – I ask – What intentions do you have?».

Clearly struggling, she merely retorts: «No intentions».

I don't intend to let her slip out of my control so easily, so I lean towards her and whisper in her ear: «You didn't seem to have the same opinion when you sucked on this finger». Only then does she notice my phalanx trailing along her thigh, dangerously rising towards her groin, and looking at her expression up close, I would swear she's making a considerable effort to remove my hand and compose herself.

«Even if that were the case, we're consenting adults», she replies, naively unaware of putting herself even more against the wall, like prey seeking refuge in the lair of its predator, remaining trapped.

Savoring a long sip of spiked coffee, I respond with a sadistic and pleased smile: «Oh yes. I consent gladly». I could spend the whole morning playing this perverse game with her, curious to see where it leads us, but the dishes and utensils start disappearing from the tables shortly after, indicating that breakfast is over. Cassandra takes the opportunity to quickly get up and disappear, but I, despite the considerable distractions, haven't lost sight of my goal: I approach Black and draw his attention.

«Good morning, Professor Black»

«Ah, good morning to you, Professor Sharp»

«Are you busy today? I need to speak with you, privately». I get straight to the point, without beating around the bush: the sooner he grasps the urgency, the sooner we'll put an end to this matter.

He mumbles something, and I could swear I see the cogs of his mind spinning frantically to find any excuse not to grant me an audience. «It will only take a minute. I need to talk to you about Professor Doyle and the Alchemy lessons», I add, staying vague but assuming a tone that invites him to take an interest and not back down.

My strategy ignites a small spark in his eyes. «Ah yes, the new arrival», he says with disdain, and I have to take a deep breath to keep any anger from showing on my face. «Yes, I think I can spare you five minutes of my time, Professor Sharp. Come to my office at lunchtime».

I nod in approval. «Thank you, Professor Black. See you later». I say, and I turn to head to my classroom for the first lessons of the day. At the agreed-upon time, I'm already outside his office door.

I knock, and after a few seconds, the door opens. No one on the other side of the door, at least at my height: I just need to lower my gaze to see that Scrope, besides being a house-elf, now also has the task of performing even the simplest tasks like opening a door.

«Good morning, Professor Sharp», he says.

«Good morning, Scrope. I'm here to see Professor Black»

«Just a moment, please, Professor, sir». The elf steps back inside, closing the door. I hear murmuring, with discernible grunts of displeasure from Black: it feels like listening to a petulant child being convinced by their father to do something they don't want to do. The fact that a house-elf has taken on the role of parent speaks volumes.

Shortly after, Scrope reappears at the door. «Please, Professor Sharp. The master is ready to see you», he says, inviting me in. Black is seated at his desk, busy cleaning the corners of his mouth while the elf hurries to clear away the remnants of a meal, betraying the Headmaster's more or less sincere forgetfulness about our meeting.

«Professor Sharp, please, take a seat», he says, indicating a chair in front of his desk.

Before I even have a chance to sit down, I pull the slip of paper out of my coat pocket and unfold it without much ceremony in front of him. «What is this, Phineas?», I ask, adopting an inquisitive tone and setting aside any formalities.

Black glances down for a few disinterested seconds, just enough time to understand what it is. When he looks back up, his expression betrays a smug obviousness: «A note, I would say».

«You know it's more than that», I press impatiently.

«What can I tell you, Aesop? I didn't think the punishment you imposed on Alisteir Rookwood was fair»

«But treating a teacher the way he did is perfectly fair and appropriate, right?»

He shrugs and spreads his arms as if nothing had happened: «He only asked a question out of curiosity»

«He did it to put Professor Doyle in a difficult position, Phineas! And you know it too»

«Come on, Aesop, he's just a young boy...»

«You hate young people! – I interrupt – You would have never taken this job if it hadn't given you the prestige you desired in the magical community»

«Well, I'm not the only one. Apparently, she realized that being a teacher is much more honorable than writing for The Daily Prophet» he replies with a smirk.

I flare my nostrils, taking a deep breath and biting the inside of my cheek: «If you didn't want her, you might as well not have hired her»

«And prevent students from studying Alchemy after all these years?»

«Then why the hell don't you treat her like a person?!», I burst out.

«Watch how you speak in my office, Aesop», he reprimands. He waits a moment, then leans back in his chair, looking at me with malice. «And besides, she never came to complain: I don't see why you should», he taunts, his voice dangerously calm.

«She never came because you wouldn't even give her a bedroom on the same floor as yours, let alone have her sit across from you in your office».

Again, that smirk aimed at testing my patience. He replies, this time mockingly: «But didn't we find a solution, after all? The charming Professor Sharp, so grumpy and reluctant to get to know a woman yet sensitive to female charm, who couldn't resist having one in his room». I'm about to retort, but he adds: «But as a lover of beauty, I certainly can't judge you for that».

He disdains her enough to allow to treat her differently, yet he recognizes her beauty enough to insinuate that I would stoop to his level of callousness? I don't know what annoys me more, that or the fact that beneath the disdain with which he looks at her, there's actually some pleasure in doing so. This conversation has led me down a dangerous path, fraught with dangers, and I don't refrain from telling him: «I'm a better man than you, Phineas».

«Watch-how-you-speak», he repeats, his words laced with anger.

A heavy silence falls upon us for a few seconds, both of us studying each other's attitudes, trying to anticipate the next move.

«It's about Alisteir, isn't it?», I ask after a moment. «His family still has you in their grip because of the substantial donation of goblin silver artifacts that Victor made to your family, isn't it?»

«Aesop, this is my last warning...»

«Is that why you hate her so much, or not? – I interrupt – Not only because she is a Muggle-born, but because she doesn't handle Alisteir with kid gloves like you do, obligated by an old favor with which now all the Rookwoods have you in their grip. You can't stand it, so you make her life impossible...»

«Oh, please, Aesop! As if anyone has ever loved her in her life!». This time he interrupts me, exasperated, throwing out a sentence I never expected to hear. «She's a freak of nature, both for us and for... them. She has always been».

My grip on the chair's armrests tightens, the knuckles of my hands becoming whiter. Black notices my discomfort and takes advantage of it, deriving pleasure from it. He relaxes his shoulders and face, finding a more comfortable position in the chair.

«You didn't know?», he asks me, and this time he adopts a tone that invites me to want to know more, although I know well that it's none of my business, that I shouldn't make someone tell me something about Cassandra that she hasn't confided in me.

Curiosity gets the better of me. «Know what?», I ask him.

Black pauses briefly, as if he were a vainglorious actor enjoying the sight of a packed audience gathered to see him from a stage. Too bad his only audience is me and Scrope, somewhere, who knows where. «Her father disowned her», he simply says.

I don't know what I expected to hear, but certainly not this. Sensing my discomfort, Black sadistically continues: «She was born and raised in an Irish Catholic family... or should I say by a father, since her mother died in childbirth. The only female child, who ends her mother's life with her own and forces a man to raise her. It's no wonder he chose to name her 'Cassandra'... and considering the subsequent events, one could say he was, in his own way, prescient».

He smiles at his own crappy joke. He has just started telling a story as inhuman as it is absurd, and he has the nerve to smile. With that expression on his face, he continues his journey back in time: «Cassandra grows up, and magic begins to manifest in her at a very early age, so much so that her father, not knowing how to explain what she was doing, believed she was possessed and sent her to a Catholic boarding school in Dublin. Can you believe it? Muggles believe in absurdities like the devil, and that he possesses people... They haven't understood that good and evil reside within them, and that their choices determine their personality».

Incredibly, he managed to say something right since the beginning of our encounter. He continues, raising his voice a bit, as if telling an extraordinarily amusing anecdote: «But you know what happened? They sent her back! Even they couldn't explain what she had, so they didn't want to deal with it. Her father then thought to exploit the fact that she was still a female, and instead of abandoning her, he forced her to stay home and do housework, without sending her to school or letting her socialize, for fear that she might show her 'oddities.' But Miss Doyle had learned not only to read and write at the school, but also that if she wanted to survive, she had to be clever: so when her father was present, she tried to control her magic as much as she could and behave like a good daughter, although it would be more accurate to say servant; when he was absent, she eagerly read the few books they had at home and secretly went out into the countryside around their house, unleashing her magic but always careful not to be seen. When she turned 11, a man knocked on the door of the Doyle house».

«Eleazar...», I let slip, remembering how my late colleague was also tasked with introducing into our world all those children born into Muggle families and not very familiar with magic.

Black nods from across the desk: «Fig went to get her on her birthday, at the end of June: he found her tending to the garden plants, without the aid of magic. He greeted her by name and asked why she was doing it; Cassandra was intimidated but also curious, as certainly his attire betrayed his belonging to the wizarding world. She told him that her father didn't want her to and asked if he was like her, and Fig replied yes. They didn't have time to delve deeper, at least not at that moment, because her father swung open the door of the house, drawn by the voices he heard from outside».

He pauses, studying my expression with satisfaction. I try to conceal the guilt that wells up inside me, knowing details that should have been hidden from me, and adopt the most impassive expression I can muster. Black glances at the clock hanging on the wall behind me and continues: «To cut a long story short, Fig managed to enter their house, and explained to Mr. Doyle why he was there, and that Cassandra could study in a school for people like her. I imagine the news wasn't received with enthusiasm, because Fig recounted an extremely exaggerated reaction that ended with an ultimatum for Cassandra»

«Stay there and deny her true nature, or come to Hogwarts and leave her past life behind», I conclude in his place, unable to understand how even the basest ignorance could drive a father to blackmail his eleven-year-old daughter in this way.

«Ah, I see the ambush only affected the physique and not the mind – Black taunts me – Well, you can imagine how it turned out... for better or for worse. From that moment on, she never heard from her father again, and since she no longer had a home to return to, she spent the holidays here at Hogwarts until the day of her graduation».

Slowly, every piece of Cassandra's personality begins to fall into place in my mind, starting to make sense: her great ambition, aimed at proving her worth; the perfectionism and irritating tendencies for protagonism, hiding the need to make it known that she exists, as if she had to claim her place in the world... as if she feared being abandoned, once again.

I get lost in thoughts like these, and my expression inevitably changes as pain, anger, and understanding chase each other disorderly on my face. Black notices it too, because he looks at me with a cynical and arrogant smile and exclaims: «What's this? Don't tell me you're getting attached again, Aesop».

For a fraction of a second, his sharp and cutting words hit me deep inside the most hidden part of my soul. I immediately regain my usual composure and respond snappily: «Perhaps it's difficult for you to notice, blinded as you are by your immense ego and the high regard you have for yourself, but the people around you possess empathy». Empathy: there it is, the value that Cassandra had so stubbornly tried to teach me, thrown back in my face by my very own stubborn and proud conscience.

Black snorts, almost laughing, continuing to provoke me with the intention of striking a nerve: «Fine, fine. So you're not getting attached, but you feel sorry for her? Is that what you're trying to tell me?»

«Phineas, you've just revealed to me that she had a cruel past, of course I feel sorry for her!».

He tries to scrutinize me carefully for a few seconds with those expressionless ice-cold eyes, but then he shrugs and just says: «Different perspectives». Then he stands up, hands behind his back, and turns to look thoughtfully out the window. I also stand up, but I don't move, so when he turns back again, he looks at me with a questioning surprise, asking: «Are you still here?».

"I don't have to lay my hands on him." «Yes, Phineas. I'm still here»

«What else do you need, Aesop? I don't have all day!».

I inhale and exhale loudly: «For you to understand that Alisteir can't do as he pleases. Cassandra is a professor and as such deserves respect. Behave like a Headmaster, for once, and set a good example».

He makes a clumsy and pathetic attempt to reflect on what I've just told him, then looks at me and exclaims: «Well, if there's nothing else, goodbye, Aesop!».

A complete waste of time. «Goodbye, Phineas», I say through clenched teeth, turning towards the massive wooden door that Scrope struggles to keep open.

As quickly as possible, as far as my leg allows me, I walk away from that office, disgusted by what just happened. Not only does Black show no sign of stepping back, at least not towards Cassandra, but he revealed things about her so personal and intimate that I should never have learned, unless she herself had confided in me.

I feel like shit, a sensation of foul remorse sticking to me, and I can hardly concentrate during the afternoon lessons. As soon as the last group of students leaves the Potions Classroom, I lean back against the chair, running a hand through my hair while using the other to gesture my wand to pour myself a generous glass of scotch. I can't stop thinking about Black's face, the way he revealed the most intimate and vulnerable part of Cassandra, violently stripping her of her own secrets and traumas.

Bitter and frustrated, I avidly drink the liquor, quickly emptying the glass. My other arm is resting along the back of the chair, brushing against my coat, the contact with the soft leather interrupted by something harder and sharper. This anomaly brings me back to reality for a moment, dislodging me from my thoughts and my sense of guilt, drawing my attention. Trying to figure out what it is, I also use my other hand: from the pocket, I pull out "The First Grimoire," Cassandra's book that Ronen gave me, with the wish that I find it enlightening.

I don't know if it will actually be so, but I feel like I owe it to her in some way, and for the first time in I don't know how long, I open it again, immersing myself in the reading of those pages with a different perspective, considering Cassandra. I approach what is written with a new awareness and a desire to understand, not what she wrote, but herself. Understanding the true motivation behind her audacity, and the invitation she makes to women to be independent and self-sufficient, now that I know a part of her story takes on a whole new meaning.

Unconsciously, the hours pass and it is late evening when I touch the last page of the book before closing it for good. She doesn't know it, but now it's as if I know her, as if I've spent my time with her. I didn't need advice on being independent: I needed to know her. And although not in the way I would like, it's as if that has happened.

I smile at the thought of how she would take this new perspective, how she would laugh mockingly and splendidly cheeky if I told her she was right. But I can't do that: I have to deprive myself of the vital sparkle of those large dark velvet eyes, because she must not know that I know more about her than I should.

"Don't tell me you're getting attached again, Aesop": Black's words resonate coldly in my mind, his tone deliberately aimed at hitting me in my vulnerabilities. But at the same time, their gratuitous cruelty reminds me why I consciously chose, ten years ago now, not to open up and isolate myself from the outside world. Ten years I've lived in the safety of my melancholy, as alive and full of beauty as everything outside my boundaries may be.

Yet, once back in my, or rather our, room, I can't help but think of Cassandra again. Once more I wonder what she's doing or if she's already asleep, completely and blissfully unaware of what happened today, of what I have learned about her against her will.

I would like to go upstairs, talk to her, look her in the eyes and accept any reaction from her, from disappointment to anger, and even apologize: for that unhappy childhood, for Rookwood, for Black, for me... but for today I've already invaded her privacy too much, and I have to take a step back.

I don't know how I'll look at her from now on, knowing the vulnerable part of her. I don't know with what strength of mind I'll stop myself from giving in, and not to create new scars in her heart. Mine have been there for a long time now, thick and painful, but closed; she, on the other hand, despite being still young, has suffered enough and unfortunately will suffer again, but I don't want to be the one to make her bleed.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, I light a particularly strong cigarette, not to silence the feral screams of the wound in my leg but to numb the senses and thoughts, and to have a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 14: CASSANDRA

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The comforting sound of Morgan's placid purring wakes me from sleep. It's been a restless night: I couldn't concentrate on reading a book, my mind too distracted by Sharp. Even though we only saw each other in the morning, it was really hard not to think about his light touch on my thigh, his finger dangerously trailing towards my groin. I wished he'd let it roam freely on my body, but damn, we were sitting at the professors' table during breakfast! I had to remove his hand, disappear, and think about something else, without getting too distracted... but, as I said, it was really hard. Also, he wasn't seen for the rest of the day and evening, and when I succumbed to sleep, he still hadn't returned.

Wondering what he does in those moments when he disappears from everyone's sight, I leave the warm, soft sheets and face the cool tingle of the mid-September morning air. I approach the basin to rinse off and comb my hair in the overhead mirror, then choose today's outfit, opting for a black shirt under loose trousers, with small black and green checkered patterns, to which I attach suspenders of the same design. I lace up a pair of black leather boots and head downstairs.

As I walk through the fireplace, however, I realize I'm not alone: Sharp is sitting in the armchair across from me. My stupid, childish heart skips a beat when I see him, and a look of eager happiness and relief spreads across my face. Without his usual brown coat, I can feast my eyes on his strong, slightly tanned arms, free from the confines of his white shirt sleeves, buttoned up above the elbows; he wears a green waistcoat and tie, while the trousers, snug on his equally toned legs, are brown like the buckle boots. His hair falls over his face, creating intriguing shadows that intertwine with that scar disappearing beneath the veil of stubble. His scent is strong, warm, and intriguing, and his hands grip the latest issue of the Daily Prophet... those hands I wish would cup my face like they did that time in the Alchemy Classroom... I can still smell it, cloves mixed with valerian and ginger root, betraying his profession...

«Good morning». His voice brings me back to the present. Bloody hell, how long have I been staring at him?!

«Good morning to you», I reply, trying to avert my gaze from the tangle of veins on his hands and arms as he folds the newspaper. «Why aren't you already in the Great Hall?», I ask, focusing on something other than his limbs. But looking him in the eyes is just as challenging.

«I wanted to wait for you», he answers simply as he rises from the armchair, observing me closely as he approaches, towering over me. Despite my height being decently average, he surpasses me by at least 15 centimetres.

«Are you afraid Dumbledore will snatch me away again?», I reply teasingly, but I can't help but smile as I say it.

He reciprocates, though the tone in his voice is firm and determined: «Absolutely. I don't want him to deprive me of your delightful company».

I look at him perplexed, unsure if he's teasing me or not. What on earth happened to the Sharp who was always grumpy and irritated by my presence? He's not telling me the whole story, but I realize I absolutely don't want to miss out on this side of him that he shows so rarely, so I remain silent. Meanwhile, the smile on his face widens, stretching his lips. Merlin's beard, he's terribly fascinating.

«After you». His deep, warm voice rouses me as he gestures towards the door with his arm. When he stops near a coat rack, I realize I have nothing to shield myself from the drafts of the dungeons, and before he can make jokes about my receptive body to the cold, with a casual flick of my wand I summon a black stole from upstairs, which I drape over one arm.

«Non-verbal spells, though», observes Sharp as he puts on his coat, and I can swear I detect a hint of admiration on his face.

I shrug and with the most innocent expression I can muster, I reply: «I did tell you I have a N.E.W.T. in Charms».

He chuckles and shakes his head: «Let's go, Miss I-Know-It-All».

Before I can retaliate against his teasing, he places his hand on my back, the touch light but firm, radiating a warm heat over me as he gently guides me out of our quarters. I take a deep breath and walk alongside him towards the Great Hall, trying not to dwell on how his touch made me feel.

I soon realize that today he moves with more difficulty, limping more noticeably and struggling to maintain a normal pace. I effortlessly adjust to his gait, and if as usual it bothers him, he has the decency not to show it. I wonder why he's walking like this today, what could he have done yesterday that now weakens him to this extent. As I move alongside him, I try to catch a glimpse of his expression, and apart from sporadic moments when he slightly squints his eyes or grits his teeth, he betrays no discomfort or pain. He notices I'm watching him and tries to ease the tension: «If it didn't kill me back then, it sure won't do it now».

I reply with a smile that is not at all cheerful, and sensing that a veil of sad tension is settling over our sudden and precarious balance, he shifts the conversation to another topic: «So, what did you have in mind for today's lesson?»

«I was thinking of starting to practice with the four elements: combining them together and noting the different reactions they have».

He raises his eyebrows in an expression once again tinged with admiration: «Today you really feel like impressing me, Doyle».

We enter a packed Great Hall and make our way towards the professors' table. To my left, a voice calls out: «Professor Doyle!».

I turn around, and the radiant face of Albus Dumbledore smiles at me from the Gryffindor table. «Good morning, Mr. Dumbledore», I reply, sensing that Sharp, next to me, has stopped. «Did you want to talk to me about something?»

«I followed your advice – he responds, waving a newspaper – but there are some events I don't understand and would like to ask you more about».

I approach him and notice with pleasure that he is holding the Daily Mail, one of the most important Muggle newspapers in the country. «Oh, one of my favorite publications!», I exclaim, quickly scanning the headlines, among which the Fashoda incident stands out, a dispute between Britain and France on the shores of the Nile.

Dumbledore points directly at that headline and continues: «I can't understand why something like this would happen in the Muggle world».

How nice it would be to have his innocence and not be aware of the bloodshed caused by colonial policies. I'm about to respond, but Sharp intervenes, «I'm sure, Mr. Dumbledore, you can discuss all that you're unaccustomed to elsewhere and at another time. Professor Doyle and I would like to have breakfast now, if you don't mind».

My gaze shifts between the two: Sharp's is annoyed and impatient, while Albus', after an initial moment of surprise, seems almost amused.

«Of course, Professor Sharp – he says – and forgive me if I've kept you waiting»

«We'll have a chance to talk about it, Mr. Dumbledore. In the meantime, it's important that you know what's happening in the Muggle world. See you in class», I greet him, turning my attention back to Sharp.

«Did you give him a love potion and didn't tell me?», he starts as we start walking again.

I respond with a little laugh: «First of all, he doesn't have those kinds of intentions. Secondly, even if I did, what if?». I can't help but tease him, it's stronger than me.

I notice he clenches his jaw and is struggling with himself not to give me satisfaction with his response. Indeed, a few seconds later he says: «You should have asked the Potions expert in that case».

I give him a sarcastically exasperated look as I start to settle into my seat. However, at that precise moment, he stiffens, and his expression changes, and I notice he's looking towards the Headmaster with little calm in his gaze. Conversely, the Headmaster is observing us, as if he wants to study our moves.

«Sharp... What's going on?», I ask him, lowering my voice.

«Nothing», he replies curtly. Then, in a gesture that surprises me, he pulls the chair away from the table to allow me to sit. «Please, sit down», he says kindly, but his gaze remains fixed on Black's, who, after observing the scene, focuses intently on his smoked herring.

«What did you say to him? Did you dare to speak well of Muggles in his presence?», I whisper to him once we're seated, leaning slightly closer to him and being enveloped even more by his scent.

However, Sharp's tone isn't playful when he responds: «Yes, something like that»

«Alright, there's too much testosterone in the air for me to handle», I say, turning my attention to choosing breakfast, undecided between pancakes or scrambled eggs. However, I'm sure Sharp chuckled, and the sly glance I give him confirms it and makes me smile.

It feels so strange to sit next to him in tranquility, enjoying breakfast and each other's silent company. I'm not used to being devoted to men at all; on the contrary, I enjoy having a lively discussion, and I must admit that teasing him has almost become a pleasant pastime. However, enjoying his proximity, his scent, and even his smiles... his mere presence, I definitely like that more.

I blush at this thought, but I absolutely refuse to admit to myself that I like Sharp more than I should. And I don't want to deceive myself because I don't think the feeling is mutual. Maybe he just buried the hatchet and chose to be kind. Perhaps he simply finds me physically appealing and nothing more. These are somewhat sad thoughts, ones that years of solitude have accustomed me to, and they have wrapped themselves around my brain. Sometimes they leave me alone, but other times, like now, they grip me tightly, trying to convince me that I don't deserve anyone's attention and consideration... and these are precisely the moments when I must summon all my strength to ensure they don't drag me down.

As breakfast ends, Sharp and I stand up almost simultaneously, so I find myself at the level of his chest, very close to him. I raise my gaze, meeting his dark eyes, one of which is marked by a scar that would make anyone else disfigured, but instead, it blends perfectly with his way of being and appearing. I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling at him like an idiot.

«So – he begins, as we finally move after endless seconds – now that I have the pleasure of not seeing you go away with Dumbledore or kidnapped by some other student, where shall I escort you?».

I burst out laughing, my voice echoing off the high ceilings of the Great Hall and causing a few first-year students to turn around: «You can escort me to your classroom since I'll be heading to the Alchemy one. From there, I'm sure I can manage on my own».

But even if he wanted to accompany me, outside the Potions Classroom, there are already fourth-year students from Ravenclaw and Slytherin waiting for him, so he's forced to stop. He holds the door open so that everyone can enter, a couple of giggling girls passing by him. I look at them first and then at him with a surprised expression at their audacity. Sharp, however, seems accustomed to it.

«Excuse me?», I exclaim, feeling my cheeks dangerously warm and probably red. Thank goodness this corridor is poorly lit. «And how do you call this?»

«Occupational hazards», he replies with a shrug and... winking at me. If I hoped the dim lighting would conceal my embarrassment, I'm now certain I've turned into a blazing torch. «See you later, Doyle», he greets me.

«I-I'll see you later», I reply quickly, and the door closes behind him.

I take a deep breath and descend the stairs, heading towards the Alchemy Classroom, hoping that the cool air of the dungeons will help my complexion transition from tomato red to a more human shade of pink.

Once in the classroom, I lay the stole on the chair where Sharp always sits and roll up my sleeves, starting to set up everything needed for the lesson: on each workstation, on the large square tables, small cauldrons now stand atop their respective burners; beside them, a jug of water and a pot of soil and sand. I enchant a chalk to write on the board for me, while I perch as usual on the lectern, reading "Concerning Isabel Carnaby" by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler, the story of an orphaned girl who, returning to Britain from India, seeks her place in bourgeois society despite the skepticism of those around her. I can't say I don't know how it feels.

Immersing myself in the lines and allowing myself to be carried away, who knows for how long, in Fowler's narrative world, I find myself amazed, as I always do, by how women have such a magnificent writing ability, yet are considered less capable and deserving than men, as if with their talent they could somehow overshadow them. In a meritocratic world, we would also have the same opportunities as them, without having to exert twice as much effort to achieve goals that should be guaranteed to us, along with our rights.

Thinking about how much more there is to fight for makes me feel frustrated, and I snap the book shut with a loud click, unable to focus on reading anymore. I rummage in my bag for a cigarette to calm my nerves.

«Is the book that bad?». I look up in the direction of Sharp's voice, leaning with one shoulder against the open door. His hands are in his pockets, his coat draped over his shoulders, and he watches me with a smirk. It must have been at least a couple of hours if he's already here for the lesson, arriving without me noticing, as absorbed as I was in reading and the tangled mess of my thoughts. Who knows how long he's been standing there at the door watching me...

«The opposite, actually», I reply, relaxing my shoulders and lighting a cigarette, confident that Sharp won't find anything wrong with it. «It's a very good book, and it makes me so angry that such a talented author receives little recognition just because she's a woman!». I take a long drag as he approaches me, taking off his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair.

«Is it so different? The Muggle world from ours?», he asks, taking a cigarette from my pack. There's no need for him to ask if he can have one; his gaze is intense and penetrating, and he seems genuinely interested that it's as if I offered it to him. «For you women, I mean», he specifies, as if he doesn't want to be caught off guard or unprepared, wanting to demonstrate that he's aware of the rest of the world out there. Not that it's necessary, given that he's been an Auror, but I still appreciate his willingness to clarify, showing his openness to discuss this topic with me... or maybe it's just the sound of his voice that I appreciate more?

«Our world certainly has its positives, much more than the Muggle one, if you're born a woman... but to think that witches and wizards are considered equal to each other, unfortunately, would be a misrepresentation of reality», I reply bitterly.

He takes a long drag from the cigarette, looking at me intently, as if he wants to dig deep and uncover all my secrets. He stays silent for a few seconds and then continues: «Is that why you chose to become a journalist? To change things?».

His observation pleasantly surprises me, especially after the bitterness he showed towards my previous profession. I can't help but open up and be honest when I reply: «Yes, well... when I was twenty, I had that ambition. Growing up, I learned to recognize its intrinsic presumption, and now I know that I, alone, won't be able to change the course of history, to put an end to mechanisms that are millennia old and historically entrenched in the world. I won't be able to see the change I hope for, but that doesn't mean I can't fight so that the women who come after me can».

He moves closer to me, lips still curved in that cheeky smile that comes so naturally to him. When he speaks, his voice is lower and slightly huskier, and I could swear his gaze subtly wanders over my body as he says: «You're still so young, Doyle. You have all the time in the world to be presumptuous, especially when it comes to your ideals».

I give him a bitter smile as I reply: «For society, at 28, I'm not that young anymore... so I shouldn't allow myself the luxury of being presumptuous - especially since I've never been married».

My expression immediately takes on a note of anxious concern: why did I come up with revealing this detail to him so candidly? Especially considering that the topic of marriage, for me, is a sore spot that I never discuss with anyone. I look at him hoping he won't ask me for more details, that he won't delve deeper and uncover all my weaknesses... and thankfully he doesn't. He stifles a bitter, subdued laugh between his lips, the perennial cheeky smile softening slightly: «But you've spent 28 years studying, even after graduating. Observing the world around you and improving it, and yourself with it. Do you think those years are wasted?».

His words seem sincere and they strike me because he really seems to know me. Perhaps all his provocations were meant to observe and understand me more, without me truly realizing it. In a surge of gratitude like I haven't felt in a long time, I want to reach out to him, wrap my arms around his neck, close my eyes, and lose myself in his scent and on his lips, taking advantage of how close he is... but the sound of the bell brings us back to our school duties.

He takes the cigarette from my fingers and with a flick of his wand makes it disappear along with his own. Then he returns to being the sarcastic Sharp as always: «Today, do you plan on sitting down, or are you going to stay perched up there?». I chuckle as I reply that I have no intention of lowering myself to the social conventions of our world, and he too lets out a brief laugh.

Shortly after, the students enter, settling into their respective tables and observing the workstations that are different from the usual.

«What's this, Professor Sharp teaching Potions here now?». Rookwood's voice resonates loudly, amplified from the back of the classroom, referring to the arrangement of all the school supplies being similar to what one might find in the Potions Classroom.

«Almost, Mr. Rookwood. If it's not clear to you yet, the art of Potions is a fundamental component in alchemical work», I reply, this time determined not to let him walk all over me.

Those glassy, soulless yet cruel eyes stare at me with anger, as if I'm openly challenging him on a ground where only one of us is authorized to stand. «Then why didn't they put him in charge of teaching?», he hisses at me with rage.

I open my mouth to respond, but Sharp intervenes before me: «Because I don't have a N.E.W.T. in Alchemy. Professor Doyle does», he says.

I briefly turn to him, standing next to me, and shoot him a quick glance filled with gratitude: he's not the type of person you'd expect to admit his own limitations, so his help (yet again) is worth double. He responds with a nod of understanding, and as he sits down, he gestures for me to continue.

«So – I begin – if no one else has any objections about the legitimacy of my presence in this classroom, I'd say we can begin. In our previous lessons, we discussed the four fundamental elements: air, water, earth, and fire; how they are present everywhere in nature, whether visible to the naked eye or not. Of course, it's possible to combine these elements and create something entirely new... which is exactly what you'll be doing today»

«It's completely pointless», Rookwood scoffs.

«If you find it pointless, Mr. Rookwood, you're welcome to leave. I'm sure we'll manage just fine without your contribution», I retort.

He jumps up from his seat, knocking over the cauldron, which shatters against the water pitcher. «Don't you dare speak to me like that!», he bursts out angrily.

«It's you who shouldn't dare speak like that to a professor, Alisteir!». Sharp, behind me, stands up and thunders loudly against the boy. «Professor Doyle isn't Headmaster Black, and neither am I: if you can behave however you want in his office - and everyone in this school knows you do - I forbid it here. Now tell us: do you stay or do you leave?».

Rookwood breathes heavily, clearly angry but determined not to challenge Sharp's authority. At least, he respects one of us. «I'll stay», he grumbles finally.

«Very well. Now clean up the mess you've made and listen to Professor Doyle», Sharp replies, sitting back down. «Oh, I almost forgot: minus 50 points from Slytherin. Hopefully, next time you'll think twice before causing a scene like this», he concludes, even though deducting points from his own House clearly takes a great effort; a murmur rises among the other Slytherins, unhappy to have lost so many points at once, while Rookwood silently waves his wand to repair the damage, eyes downcast and nostrils flared.

Taking a deep breath to regain my composure, aware that it will be difficult to pretend as if nothing happened. All my intentions of not letting it get to me and responding assertively vanished in the blink of an eye. Despite what I've experienced in the past, I am still naively convinced of the goodness of others. I swallow the lump in my throat and continue: «You have full freedom to experiment, but do so without risking yourselves or your classmates with spells. You can combine more than two elements, of course. What I want you to understand from today's practical exercise is that there's no limit to what you can, in your own way, create, and therefore to your own potential. A Muggle chemist from the last century said that “nothing is created and nothing is destroyed, but everything is transformed”, which as you know, is somewhat equivalent to Transfiguration».

«Professor Doyle, what is a chemist?», Elphias Doge asks, raising his hand.

«A chemist, in the Muggle world, is essentially what Professor Sharp is in the magical world», I reply, lowering my gaze and directing it at Sharp, who in turn does the same as soon as he hears his name. However, I notice that before he slightly smiles at me, he was glaring angrily in Rookwood's direction, who stubbornly pretends not to notice and keeps his eyes fixed on me.

As if his audacity earlier wasn't enough, he raises his hand and without waiting for one of us to address him, he asks: «Why should we talk about Muggles in a school of witchcraft and wizardry?».

Before Sharp can reasonably respond on my behalf, I speak up: «I deduce that Mr. Rookwood may have forgotten that the classroom right next to ours is the Muggle Studies one».

A chuckle spreads among the students, all careful not to make eye contact with either of us, least of all with Alisteir, who doesn't respond but flares his nostrils even wider: he looks like a Chinese Fireball ready to ignite any obstacle that stands in his way. Primarily, me.

I take advantage of this small advantage to continue: «I hope that, at least during my lessons, you can understand how intertwined our world and the Muggle world are, Mr. Rookwood»

«You speak as if you truly belong to this world» he replies, lowering his voice as if talking to himself, but well aware that he's still being heard by everyone, especially in a situation like this where tension is palpable, and everyone seems to hold their breath just to catch every word of our verbal clash. His words, acidic and cutting, pierce me like blades, reopening old wounds that remind me of the horrors I experienced in the Muggle world, where I was considered abnormal even in what others would call home, and all the effort I made to prove my legitimate belonging to the magical environment, where prejudiced people like him and Black constantly remind me that no matter how much I strive and prove my worth, I'll always be seen as something dishonorable. They hurt me intensely and so suddenly that I struggle for a few seconds to realize what he's aware of: my origins as a Muggle-born. A detail he should never have known, and certainly wouldn't have known if someone who is aware of it hadn't told him... someone like...

"Professor Doyle isn't Headmaster Black": the words Sharp uttered just a few minutes ago resonate loudly in my head, allowing the various pieces to connect. "If you can behave however you want in his office... I forbid it here." So, the two of them know each other, and they have a relationship that goes well beyond the respectful formality that should exist between Headmaster and student. It's possible, then, that Rookwood complained to Black about the not-so-favorable treatment I give him, and he thought it wise to spill everything about my life and my past, almost as if he wanted to attribute to my origins an obtuse reluctance to treat him with kid gloves.

I'm so caught up in thoughts and speculations that I don't realize Sharp, standing next to me, is speaking directly to the boy, maintaining a firm and authoritative tone: «The performance earlier wasn't enough for you, Mr. Rookwood, and apparently neither was losing 50 points for your House. As your professor, I demand that we meet in the Headmaster's office after class to discuss your behavior».

He's defending me again. Despite not being obligated to do so and being able to let me handle this situation on my own, he has once again shown solidarity towards me. This small gesture creates a dangerous crack in the tension I've accumulated inside me, and it truly risks making me burst into tears in front of the entire class. That's all I need!

Rookwood lets out an angry huff, his gaze darting furiously from me to Sharp, probably undecided on whom to unleash his frustration on first.

«Now, if Professor Doyle agrees, I believe it's time to put aside the chatter and focus our attention, and perhaps even our emotional storms, on the assigned task», Sharp says. His tone brooks no argument, and that's for the best. As he sits back down, he keeps his gaze on me, as if to make sure I'm okay.

Taking a deep breath to push back the tears that are beginning to prick at the corners of my eyes, I swallow loudly and try to pretend that what happened didn't affect me. «Yes, yes, I agree. If you need any help, you can ask. Good work, everyone», I say, my voice trembling.

Only when I'm certain that the students are focused on their cauldrons to the point where they no longer have any interest in me, do I release a deep sigh, attempting to rid myself of all the accumulated tension. It always seems so easy when you read it in novels: if you're nervous, there's no problem that a few deep breaths can't solve. Real life, however, is a different story.

And then there's this discomfort on my back that makes me believe for a terrifying moment that the act of sighing only served to somehow loosen some hook of the corset. Quickly, I bring my hands behind my back, where the discomfort persists... and I realize that there's no hook undone. And now that I notice it, it's not even much of a discomfort anymore: my hands have touched Sharp's, lightly resting along my spine, as if waiting for the moment when I let go to make his grip firmer. It might be the warmth of his touch, but he succeeds in his intention: I slowly relax my shoulders and manage to breathe better. Trying not to attract attention from the class, I assume a position with my arms that I hope will hide what Sharp is doing, because yes, I'm allowing him to touch me in quite an intimate way, but I still retain a glimmer of lucidity that reminds me that this absolutely shouldn't happen, especially between two professors.
It's as if he's reading my mind, I hear him whisper behind me: «Relax. They're so busy they wouldn't notice a thing». I don't know if it's the stale air of the dungeons or the warmth emanating from the various lit cauldrons, but his voice is warmer and softer, and incredibly inviting to do as he says.

When he feels my entire back relax and notices my expression soften, his hand fully opens, palm and fingers completely resting on me, and he begins to caress me. I don't want to, but I almost melt under his touch, arching my back like a cat, cursing myself for such an outrageously bold yet submissive reaction, a symptom of not being touched by an attractive man for longer than I care to admit.

Slowly, allowing myself to enjoy every moment of what he's doing, his hand descends along my spine, making me shiver under these layers of fabric I just want to get rid of, until it dangerously reaches my coccyx and lingers there for a moment. Just enough for me to push it away with my left arm—and for a pleasant warmth to spread in my lower abdomen.

I turn to him, noticing that he's already looking at me with a satisfied and cheeky expression that has only one goal: to bring me to surrender. And if I didn't have an ounce of self-respect, he would have already succeeded.

I lean towards him, unable to help but bite the inside of my lip as I look into his eyes: «We're in class, Sharp!», I remind him in a whisper.

In turn, he leans towards me, decreasing the distance between us even more: «We're consenting adults». Screw him: it's just like that arrogant man I met a month ago to use my own words against me to tease me. As if that weren't enough, he winks at me for the second time this morning. What a jerk.

I shift my attention back to the class at work, and Sharp does the same. He no longer needs to caress my back, because I'm completely relaxed now. At the thought, I have to stifle a giggle. Sure, he was really a jerk to provoke me once again, and so blatantly, but he took my defense and wanted, in his own way, to make me comfortable again. Perhaps deep down, very deep down, there's a tender heart beating in his chest.

When the bell rings, I make sure that each of the students writes their name on a piece of parchment and ties it with a string to the handle of their cauldron, so I can know who they belong to and evaluate their exercises.

«I'd help, but as you know... I have other things to attend to», Sharp tells me, raising his eyes slightly, gesturing towards the tower where Black's office is located. All the tension I felt in class a little while ago rushes back to me, not knowing at all what to expect from this meeting; the only thing I know is that Sharp, at least in this, is on my side and cares about me having the best possible experience as a professor. There's no room for ulterior motives: it's his character, always focused on ethics, doing the right thing, fighting for the weaker ones. I understand it, and I'm deeply grateful to him.

Before he leaves, I call out to him: «Sharp!». He turns around, waiting. «Thank you», I manage to say, also giving him a smile.

He reciprocates, a distant but melancholic sweetness in his gaze, and replies: «Nothing you wouldn't have done as well». There's a strange awareness in his voice, but I realize I can't hold him back and that he'll already have his hands full dealing with Rookwood and Black, so I refrain from asking him anything else and let him go, waving goodbye, and finally start focusing on the cauldrons.

I carefully check everyone's work, from which I can get a further picture of their abilities and innate predispositions. Among the excellent ones immediately stands out the work of Albus Dumbledore, precise and meticulous, complete, but no less original and creative, just like him. Following him is Elphias Doge's work, who even attempted to create glass, and then, though it pains me a bit to admit it, Rookwood's work, which despite showing some indifference is still excellent; he didn't give his best effort and yet he's among the best: I wonder what he could achieve if he just applied himself fully.

After transcribing all the grades into a notebook, cleaning the cauldrons, and tidying up the classroom, I allow myself a moment of rest, my back and shoulders hurting badly. Forget about Sharp's touch, what I need now is a hot bath, and I know exactly where I can satisfy this need.

It's late afternoon when I enter my quarters, and Sharp isn't there, and that sense of unease returns, turning into nausea at the thought of him being in Black's office with Rookwood, knowing I'm somehow the cause of that forced meeting. It's not just guilt, however: it's also anxiety, because I don't want to find myself facing Sharp's grumpy and sarcastic side again. The side of him he showed me this morning is much more appealing, and I would really regret it if the meeting with the Headmaster somehow forced him to close himself off again, not opening up to other, more pleasant aspects of his character.

With this thought in mind, I go up to my room and change quickly, putting on a black cotton dress over a pair of knee-high socks of the same color. I know I should put on the corset, and possibly something else, but I hope that at this hour everyone is still busy with lessons and that no one feels like taking a bath, providing proof of how much I actually prefer a much more comfortable attire compared to Victorian standards.

I gather my hair into a chignon at the nape of my neck and, taking the bathrobe from the wardrobe, I leave the room and walk down the staircase to my left, finally finding myself on the spacious landing that leads to both the Prefects' bathroom and the Infirmary thanks to the long corridor on the left. From here, the large pendulum swinging just above me, being in the Clock Tower, loudly marks the passing of time.

I open the door on the right and immediately slip into the cubicle dedicated to the ladies' facilities, changing quickly. Everyone is indeed in class, as the silence and the deserted corridors and staircases confirm, but caution is never too much. I put on the bathrobe, soft against my bare skin, and giving myself one last look in the mirror – I need to do something about these damned dark circles – I step out of the cubicle, and I'm almost startled out of my skin.

«Finally a nice surprise after an extremely eventful day». In the large tub, with his arms open and resting on the edge, there's Sharp... and even though I can't see him, since the water reaches below his chest, he's unmistakably naked, and he's looking at me as if he's been waiting for me to join him.

«Sharp, I'm sorry! I didn't see you! I'll leave right away», I exclaim, ready to turn around and go back to get dressed. And flee, as far away as possible, from the most embarrassing situation I've ever found myself in.

«You couldn't exactly see me with your head down», he replies, still looking at me in that position, while I stand there frozen in the middle of the marble floor with only a bathrobe on, realizing it's the only thing covering me at the moment. «Stay, anyway. It's not unusual for professors to use the tub together», he continues.

«I know, I've done it with Mirabel—»

«And why didn't you think of inviting me?», he interrupts.

I stand there with my mouth open at such a statement, way too cheeky even for him, and I look at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

He laughs, a deep sound coming from his chest, speckled with droplets of water trapped in the dark, light fuzz covering his slightly tanned and taut skin. «I'm kidding. Mirabel is a beautiful woman, but she's not my type», he says. And here I was, thinking for a moment that he wanted to somehow reassure me after his explicit statement.

I should go back into the cubicle, change, and return to my room, and find another way to relax. Instead, I stand there, hypnotized by this absurd situation, curious despite myself to find out where this latest game of provocations will lead us. I cross my arms and furrow my brows when I ask him: «And who is your type?».

He quirks the corner of his mouth, looking at me with mischief in his eyes: «I thought I made that clear».

Oh, you made it clear, damn you. Yet, hearing it said is priceless, and it even boosts my self-esteem. And it increases my desire for him.

«So? Are you coming in?», he presses.

If this is the game he wants to play, I don't see why I shouldn't indulge him. «We'll just take a bath, Sharp—just to be clear. I'm in desperate need of relaxation».

«Don't worry. I prefer more discreet settings, not ones where Abraham could walk in at any moment».

The reference to Ronen makes me laugh and pushes me to give in, to cross my self-imposed boundaries of modesty. «Turn around», I order him, as if I'm not about to immerse myself completely naked in the same tub.

He raises his hands, an expression of resigned acquiescence on his face. «And no peeking», I specify, approaching the tub.

«Sooner or later you'll have to tell me what's on your mind, Doyle, if you have to specify to a former Auror not to peek», he replies, turning around and crossing his arms, still resting on the edge.

«Oh, but I'm not saying it to the former Auror. I'm saying it to you», I emphasize, careful to mark the difference with the Sharp who is a few meters away from me, in a dangerously vulnerable context.

He doesn't respond, but from the way his shoulders move, I imagine he's silently laughing. Damn it, he looks good even from behind. The dark, shiny hair brushes his shoulders, whose defined and toned muscles remind me of his previous job, where physical training was necessarily part of the routine. His is undoubtedly a body that has changed over time, not only because of some scars that now mark his once flawless skin, but also because he no longer needs to subject it to constant strain; nevertheless, he has still maintained the habit of taking care of himself and, within the limits of his current physical condition, of working out. And the benefits are evident, because he truly is a sight to behold.

Finally, albeit still a bit hesitantly, I undo the belt of my bathrobe, and as I open it, I make sure Sharp isn't peeking out of the corner of his eye. I have to concede that he's playing fair, but I don't let my guard down and I strip off as quickly as possible, the cool air of the marble bath teasing my skin. I hang the bathrobe on a nearby hook and prepare to step down into the warm water, enveloping my limbs like a seductive caress and, once immersed, covering me dangerously just a few centimeters above the nipples, which despite the warmth remain stubbornly erect. Any careless movement, and this time Sharp would definitely see them.

«You can turn around now», I say to him, quite surprised by his obedience. He doesn't need to be told twice, but instead of returning to his previous position, he swims in my direction, just enough to make me imagine every explicit scenario possible. He stops near one of the taps, opens it, and immediately the air fills with the scent of sandalwood, an integral part of his incredible fragrance, seductive and elegant at the same time. Just like him, letting the water pour over him, his wet hair falling messily over his face, which he brushes away with his hands. I have the opportunity to observe the lines of his body, the toned and strong but not rough musculature of his arms, the chest rising and falling as he breathes.

Closing the tap, he opens his eyes; just before he realizes that I've been staring at him like an idiot, I quickly turn towards the faucet from which the jasmine-scented water flows, pretending to be occupied and not damnably embarrassed.

However, I'm not quick enough to avoid him grabbing my right arm without much ceremony and running his thumb over the skin above my elbow. «And what's this?», he asks, curious, his fingertip tracing the three thin black lines that form an inverted triangle.

Turning my head slightly over my shoulder so I can respond, I realize he's now just a few centimeters away from me, and my heart starts pounding in my chest as an impatient itch begins to tingle between my legs. Our eyes meet, and I could confidently say that I see a primal and carnal hunger in them, deep-seated, an insatiable and forbidden desire to enter me. I have to muster all my willpower to resist it, but dangerously, I feel my efforts weakening.

Nevertheless, I lower my gaze slightly to where his hand is still gripping my arm. «Oh, just a silly thing I did with some other students in my last year at Hogwarts», I reply.

«I may be older than you, but I'm not so old that I don't know what a tattoo is, Doyle», he retorts sarcastically, his eyes still fixed on me. At that moment, I realize I don't know how old he is, and that's another one of the many things I would like to know about him.

My mouth is dry, and I have to lick my lips to speak. «We did it with a very sharp quill and ink to write a few days before the N.E.W.T.s. Me, Clementine Willardsey, Cillian Hawksworth, and Elisewin Abbott. Each of us had an alchemical element. For me, it was the water»

«Why water for you?», he asks in a low voice, as if he wants me to confess my deepest secret, while his breath tickles my shoulder, making me shiver.

Nevertheless, I feel a push from within that convinces me to turn towards him, facing him truly and looking him in the eyes. Receptive to my intentions, he releases my arm but doesn't move, and we remain close along the edge of the tub, the jasmine-scented water slowly beginning to flow.

My eyes are magnetically locked onto his when I tell him: «Because they said I was the calmest of the group, the most patient and introverted, but also very emotional. Like a calm sea that storms»

«From what I've seen, I'd say that's an accurate description».

I smile, and the fact that he's listening to me urges me to tell him more: «Of course, I'm also a water sign, being born at the end of June»

«Calm, introverted, and emotional, just like a Cancer» he adds, almost catching me off guard.

I never would have thought that a rational person like him would know even a single notion of astrology, and indeed, I point it out to him: «I didn't know you knew where the zodiac signs are positioned during the year».

Though slightly, he moves closer, and the distance between our naked bodies decreases even more. «There are many things you don't know about me, Doyle...», he whispers, leaning slightly towards me. «But there are many things I don't know about you either. For example, I didn't think you knew about Lavoisier», he continues, referring to the quote from a few hours earlier in class. From his tone, though incredibly seductive, admiration also shines through.

His eyes make me feel intimidated, as if I were a young girl grappling with the first hormonal stirrings and unsure how to act. Despite wanting to remain rational, I realize I'm at risk of giving in more and more, wanting to literally throw myself at his body, cling to him, feel the warmth of his skin, and his breath on me. And the more I think about what I want, the more I try to act rationally, the more my head hurts.

I try to focus on his last remark and, albeit a bit reluctantly, I respond: «Before I came to study at Hogwarts, I read some books that my... father owned. Including the encyclopedia».

He smiles at these words, but his gaze, though still fixed predatorily on me, is tinged with a veil of sadness, and before I can protest in any way, he raises his right hand towards me, wraps it around my chin, and forces me to lift my face even further towards him. In doing so, all I can do is rise slightly on tiptoe, the water dangerously lapping at my nipples, but I don't have the strength to free myself from his grip, light yet decisive, surrendered under his gaze. With an incredible gentleness on his part, he lowers his voice to a husky and deep whisper: «On that note... Don't respond to Rookwood's provocations».

At that moment, I recall his meeting in Black's office. I feel the urgency to know more mounting inside me, but my body fails to react, subdued by his gaze and his touch. Adapting my tone of voice to match his softly, I inquire: «Today's meeting! How did it go?»

«Nothing for you to worry about», he tries to reassure me, stroking my chin with his fingertip.

The contact, so close, makes me even weaker: «Sharp... what does that mean? What did Black say? And Rookwood?»

«Doyle, if I tell you not to worry, there's no need for you to do so. Do you trust me?». His voice is warm and deep, and I feel myself being drawn more and more towards the comforting abyss he's leading me into. I can't tear myself away from those eyes, not to be enchanted by his words that sound like a song. Something beyond mere attraction is happening, but I don't know what. But I know it's beautiful, and I don't want it to end.

With the last glimmer of consciousness remaining, I observe Sharp's face: the slightly hollowed cheeks that further accentuate his resolute jawline; the faint expression lines around his eyes and forehead, due to his perpetually furrowed brow; the beard beginning to gray, despite his still-dark hair, where the scar with jagged edges across the left side of his face disappears into. An almost forbidden beauty.

I feel the magic and power of his presence over me, and I know that saying it will somehow bind me to him, but I can't stop myself. «Yes... I trust you», I manage to say in the end, as my head begins to spin more and more dizzyingly.

«Good girl», he whispers seductively in my ear, coming so close to me that my nipples barely brush against his skin, the contact between our bodies causing a strong internal jolt... and just as I'm on the verge of dizziness, he pulls away, stepping back, but still looking at me with a predatory air. As if he were the predator who enjoyed playing with his prey, leading it into his lair, and then deciding at the last moment to spare it, prolonging the inevitable.

Suddenly, I start breathing deeply again, realizing that the air is saturated with the scent of jasmine to the point of being almost nauseating. However, Sharp doesn't seem to be bothered by it. With a couple of strokes, he returns to where he was when I entered the Prefects' Bathroom... which now seems terribly cramped for both of us.

I swim in the opposite direction, towards the steps of the bath, so confused that I don't even think for a moment that, pulling myself up and leaning over to grab the bathrobe, he had a full view of my completely naked back. I wrap the garment around my body and slip into the cubicle to change, the haste betraying the fact that, in that bath, I managed to do everything except relax. I look at myself in the mirror, which reflects the image of a young woman with very fair skin, in contrast to the flushed cheeks and tufts of dark hair cascading out in disheveled curls from the chignon. I untie it and absentmindedly run my fingers through the locks, trying to untangle them and make myself more presentable in case I run into someone, and with a deep breath, I muster the courage to go out and face Sharp again.

When I do, he's still there, with his arms spread out and resting on the edge. I can't just ignore him; with what little dignity I have left, I exclaim: «See you later, Sharp».
I go to open the door when his deep voice resonates behind me, the tone provocative but assertive: «Absolutely yes. See you later, Doyle».

As I leave the Prefects' Bathroom and retrace my steps to return to my room, the realization dawns on me that Sharp and I have crossed a boundary from which we can't turn back.

Notes:

If you read through all this long chapter, thank you! ❤️ I decided that, since it was a while from the last one (I’ve been very busy with work), was appropriate to write something that was worth the waiting, especially since the next chapter will be a spicy one 🤭🌶️
Thank you for supporting me through this journey, your feedbacks and readings mean the world to me!

Chapter 15: SHARP

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Cassandra, beautiful and naive Cassandra. Despite her great talent and willingness to help others, she forgets to protect herself. And it was precisely this way that I could enter her thoughts, sit among the most forbidden recesses of her mind, and wait for the right moment to act. Certainly, I could have done it tonight, in that bathtub filled with warm water, closing the short distance between our bodies completely, but there would have been no pleasure in pursuing this game of provocations and seduction. And, let's say it openly, taking advantage of the slight pressure of her skin against mine would have been all too easy and predictable. What will happen tonight, however, I am sure she does not expect.

I gave her a bit of an advantage, enjoying the sight of her bare, very white and wet back, before she dressed and left the bathroom, and I waited for her to return to her room. After what happened, with the thoughts I have instilled in her, I am sure she will desire nothing but the inviting warmth of her sheets.

However, I wanted her to trust me, so that I could have, tonight and especially in the future, the complete and total opportunity to explore her body fully, to savor every drop of her most inviting juices. The mere thought of being able to taste, one day, all the excitement between her legs only hardens the erection pulsating between mine, already looming since we were in the tub, where I was careful not to show her the slightest sign of weakness.

I get dressed, trying to conceal the large bulge in my pants, and leave the bathroom, retracing the stairs that lead to our quarters. When I open the door, the trail of jasmine perfume still lingering in the air testifies that my intuition was correct, and that Cassandra is just a few steps above, in her room. I could go up and take advantage of it, but the experience she will have tonight will be completely different, as well as the only way to understand how much her intentions align with mine.

I enter my room and undress as if I have all the time in the world, focusing carefully on my goal: her. I picture her face in my mind, the delicate contours, the big eyes, and the slightly moist pink lips that I want to mix my saliva with. The brown hair framing her face in light waves, the eyebrows that rise in two dark arches when she is surprised... as I imagine she is now, while the projection of what I am doing begins to take shape in her mind.

I've never told her, but one characteristic that has allowed me to advance quickly as an Auror is being an excellent Legilimens, as well as an Occlumens. I've explored every aspect of Legilimancy and practiced not only reading the minds of those in front of me but also projecting my thoughts into them, which has also allowed me not necessarily to need to look the other person in the eyes to penetrate their mind. A decidedly enticing skill, especially now, when it comes in handy for seducing a woman.

I think about Cassandra intensely as I remove my shirt and undo my belt, feeling the pressure immediately ease on my erection, which continues to throb under the fabric, betraying all my impatience and excitement. I free myself from my boots and trousers and lie back on the bed, stroking my hot and incredibly hard shaft. I close my eyes, envisioning Cassandra's face vividly, imagining her trembling expression, her cheeks flushed with excitement, and her slightly parted lips, as if awaiting mine.

With my left hand, I lower my underwear slightly, while with my right, I make room inside, gripping my cock at the base and caressing the moist tip with my thumb... and it happens. A flash of intense light and my thoughts pour into her mind, feeling all the emotions chasing each other: surprise, confusion, and an incredible, ever-growing excitement.

I exert my power so that she complies, surrendering to pleasure, imagining that the hand that will soon glide between her thighs is mine, moving up and down on my cock. I think about her white skin, her naked curves that I can't wait to explore, the warmth of her smooth and delicate limbs against my body. The thought of squeezing her soft buttocks, of closing my lips around her nipples, and watching her eyes fill with increasing passion makes me let out an excited groan, and I tighten my grip around the throbbing shaft even more painfully.

I visualize in her mind the image of our intertwined bodies, so that she can experience it firsthand too, her long and slender fingers on my chest as, beneath me, she begs with tears in her eyes to bury my cock inside her deeply and make her climax. I imagine her wet pussy, the swollen clit on which I rub the tip of my penis in a long moment of pleasurable agony before making my way through her wet and soft folds, while she arches her back in pleasure and excited moans escape her mouth. And then I am truly inside her.

Her mind is a whirlwind of luxurious and forbidden images, a veritable feast for my eyes, and I dive headlong into her most voluptuous and carnal thoughts, which clash with the seemingly discreet image she wants to portray of herself. But my intuition, once again, confirms that I haven't been wrong, and that it was worth creating the vibe between our minds, because what she is returning to me goes even beyond my imagination.

In her thoughts, we are in my office, in the evening, dimly lit by candlelight. Inevitably, we are teasing each other as always. I release a laugh that sounds like a heavy sigh due to the excitement coursing under my skin, learning that our continuous banter is also heightening her desire.

She is imagining me leaning towards her, looking at her with hungry eyes, in an episode reminiscent of our first meeting in my office. Except this time, instead of approaching to light a cigarette, I close the distance between us completely by stealing a rough and passionate kiss from her, from which she finally explodes, releasing all the sexual tension accumulated so far. And only Merlin knows how much I long to feel her soft lips, the taste of her mouth, intertwining my tongue with hers.

She welcomes my initiative with hesitant yet lively enthusiasm, cupping my face with her hands as I grip her slender waist and pull her towards me with a tug that only increases the excitement coursing between our electric bodies. Our tongues in each other's mouths stifle moans of pleasure and shorten breaths, while her heart beats strongly in that blooming and candid chest that I have long had my eyes on. Her fantasy indulges my thoughts, as if there is a connection between us much deeper than mere Legilimency, and returns to me the image of my mouth detaching from hers, the short beard scratching her skin as I kiss her jawline and then her neck, lingering to suck on the soft slopes and leaving bright red marks on her white skin while my hands untangle the complicated knots of her corset.

Once I have loosened the multiple layers of unnecessary fabric that imprison her, I crudely slip a hand into the neckline and yank the fabric, finally freeing that young, trembling, and eager body, now covered only by a very light slip. I stroke her shoulders, the skin shivering with excitement at my touch, and in that moment her eyes looking at me, large with dilated pupils, seem real. I have to restrain a moan and focus to maintain contact with her, loosen my grip on my cock if I want to prolong our mental connection.

She imagines that I lower the straps, so now the dress and slip fall slowly around her waist, while I grab a round breast and bend down to bring it to my mouth, teasing the pink nipple with my tongue, while with my other hand I make my way to her buttocks, pulling her closer to me. She tilts her head back, pleasure spreading through her body, and pushes her hips against me. I immediately pick up the signal, the desire that makes her crave even more intimate and carnal contact, and momentarily detaching from her nipple, I guide her to the desk, kissing every inch of available skin. I make her sit down and spread her legs, pulling up the skirts that still haphazardly cover the lower part of her body as I press my hips against her most sensitive point, the pressure of our respective sexes increasing our excitement.

The warmth radiating from her legs doesn't make me clear-headed, so I pull her closer to me, her skin warming my still-clothed body and the light fabric covering her pussy getting even wetter. Cassandra then imagines unbuttoning my shirt, which I help her remove, tossing it somewhere in the room, and touching my body with light and delicate hands, their softness and elegance contrasting with their next destination: my belt.

I feel a strong heat erupting in my chest and groin, and I know it's real: just the thought of imagining a situation like this between us creates an unprecedented excitement in me. My breath quickens and saliva increases, muscles tense, and I can't help but think what the hell reaction it might provoke inside me the day I'll be inside her not only mentally.

Her thoughts are now entirely focused on loosening my belt, the eagerness to have my cock in her hands immediately making the task more difficult than expected.

«Tell me how much you want it», I hear me whisper hoarsely.

She furrows her eyebrows in a pleading pout and whimpering responds: «So much, Sharp... I want all of you».

Damn it, Doyle: you're arousing even when I torture this beautiful perverse mind of yours, which immediately complies with your desires.

Here she imagines that I lay her down on the desk, the contact of her back with the cold wood making her nipples even harder. My mouth closes on one of them, sucking eagerly, each suck directing the rhythm of Cassandra's breath, while I squeeze the other between my fingers. Her right hand closes over mine, increasing the pressure on her breast, while her back arches and excited sighs escape her mouth.

With my free hand, I make my way between her skirts and place the same thumb, with which I'm actually stroking the tip of my cock, on her underwear, wet and warm. «Is this where you want me?», I ask, looking up at her and waiting for an answer, my mouth brushing against her nipple and my fingertip exerting a slight pressure on her clitoris.

She nods vigorously, but with a stifled and almost cruel laugh, I command her: «Say it. Tell me what you want me to do to this beautiful pussy of yours».

Damn, I didn't imagine her mind was so perverse. It's almost a more pleasant discovery than imagining entering her, a thought I've often had and, if this is the tone of her desires, it will soon be turned into reality.

Her voice is a whisper full of expectation, trembling and impatient: «I want you to fuck me, deeply and hard».

I don't need to be told twice. I raise my face to hers, looking into her eyes as if I'm ready to devour her fair and tender flesh, biting her lower lip as she wraps her arms around my neck, brushing my hair and pulling me slightly towards her, her forehead against mine and her breasts brushing against my chest. With my hands, I pull down her clothes, so that I can strip her completely, her sinuous and feline body stretching out like a statue of alabaster under mine.

I stroke her between her legs, wetting my fingers with her excitement, with only one goal in mind: to taste every drop of it. She trembles beneath me, eager to satisfy her pleasure. I lick her lips and press a final long kiss before continuing down her jawline, neck, breasts, and belly. I go further down, reaching the most forbidden and hottest point of her being, as desire pulses through her.

I don't satisfy her immediately: I want to tease her until the very last moment, make her moan in anticipation and pray for my mercy. I want her to understand, even in this situation, that I am the one leading the game, relishing in all her darkest fantasies, because I am the one provoking them. I am the one who controls her mind, guiding her thoughts towards damnation, getting her closer and closer to the edge and pulling her back just when she thinks she's about to fall.

I force the wild flow of her imagination and impose my will, kissing her inner thigh, getting closer and closer to her groin, tracing lines with my tongue to make her believe it's the right moment. I leave her suspended between pleasure and anticipation, firmly holding her legs still when she wants to wrap them around my head. I want to hear her utter the right words, surrendering completely to me, aware that her body and mind belong to me, even if I'm not there physically.

And in the end, those two most magical words of a spell come desperately from her lips: «Sharp... please». She begs me so sweetly obedient that prolonging her wait would be torture for me too, as evidenced by the painful throbbing of my erection in my hand. I give her one last glance before diving with my tongue on her clitoris, enclosing it between my lips and sucking it avidly. If there's one thing I deeply hate about Legilimancy, besides not being able to give her pleasure in person, it's the fact that I can't taste her flavor.

But the way I see her move under me, a prisoner of her most obscene fantasies, trembling with pleasure and stifling her cries, makes up for all the flaws of this ability. We both imagine my tongue tasting all her juice, as if I hadn't drunk for days and she was the only one able to quench my thirst.

I feel there's something holding her back, probably the fear of being heard, and I subtly insinuate the thought of letting go, of feeling free to unleash all her pleasure. Her moans increase, the volume of her voice grows louder, and her hand responds to her desire to lead, finding its way through my hair, gripping my head so that I can continue to pleasure her solely with my mouth. I indulge her, but not before making her desire my two fingers to enter her, following the rhythm of sucking from my lips around her swollen clitoris.

The thought of being able to touch all her wet warmth with my hand makes me shudder, and at that moment a drop of pre-cum oozes out of my cock, dripping onto my hand. I lubricate the shaft, but I'm aware that I need to loosen my control over her, to give her a moment before continuing, so as not to push her to the limit before she herself has surpassed it.

I loosen my grip on her mind a bit, allowing her to regain herself and continue at a slower pace, so that we both can enjoy the pleasure that Legilimancy can provide. As soon as I pull back a bit from her, the image forms in her thoughts of my fingers withdrawn from her pussy, of my tongue stopping licking her clitoris to prefer slow kisses, as I slowly make my way up to her neck.

«Why did you stop?», she manages to whisper.

I'm not sure if it's my mind guiding what I say, or hers desiring me to do so, but I find myself saying: «Because I want to prolong this moment with you. To make it last as long as possible. I want to be able to kiss you for a long time and simply press my body against yours, feel your warmth and smooth skin under my hands». It's disgustingly romantic, and therefore decidedly more in line with Cassandra's personality, yet I realize it's exactly what I think, how I would like to experience sex with her precisely in this way.

So, I find myself looking into her eyes, caressing her soft curves and kissing those inviting lips, parted and moist like a rose covered in morning dew. She encircles my neck again with her arms, which she relaxes on my back, fully enjoying the moment and surrendering to me. I could push her mind to the extreme limit, but I realize I don't want to. It's a realization I can't afford, but one I cling to as if it were the only thing keeping me alive, unable to ignore the fire that ignited inside me the first day I saw her.

«I want to feel more of you...», she murmurs on my lips, eager to undress me with her mind. She pushes her thoughts in that direction, and I also see myself withdrawing, leaning on one elbow as our hands intertwine in the act of removing my trousers. She manages to strip me naked, and I notice with pleasure and a hint of pride that her expectations about the size of my cock are not much different from reality. Her pupils dilate even more when she finally sees me naked, as she wants me, very close to her.

«Do you feel me like this?». This time it's my thought merging with hers, the desire to communicate with her on a deeper and more intimate level, the blood pumping in my veins at the thought of making reality what is still just a fantasy.

She looks into my eyes and nods, caressing my left cheek with her hand, her fingers delicately brushing the scar that crosses it, as she pulls me back to her, kissing me and intertwining her tongue with mine, unleashing, as always, the most conflicting emotions in me. I want to fuck her roughly, thrust my cock so deep that she can't distinguish the boundary between pleasure and pain, see her cry and beg me for mercy for her flesh. But I also want to spend all my time inside her and thrust gently, just enough to make her feel a slow and infinite pleasure, embrace all her fears and heal them with my presence, kiss her body and her lips and look into her eyes without the need to say anything.

Damn it, I hate how she can make me so pitifully vulnerable. And so I push, I mentally push her thoughts to the edge of the abyss, until in her desire-clouded fantasy forms the image of my cock forcing its way inside her.

She also welcomes this deviation, and immediately the shaft finds itself sliding between the folds of her eager pussy, getting wet with her juices and rubbing against her most sensitive spots, and imagining her voice distorted in a moan of pleasure only increases the heat of the fire burning inside me.

I grasp my cock at the base and rest the tip at the entrance of her pussy, ready to push it inside. Her boiling juices start to envelop me, although making my way into her is harder than expected: despite being incredibly wet with excitement, she's pleasantly tight. I lick my lips, the excitement mounting even more as I revel in her expression, teetering between the pain of adjusting to my size and the most lascivious pleasure.

«You're so big...», she whimpers, groaning more and more as I gradually enter her.

«Do you like feeling my cock inside you?», I growl hoarsely into her ear, biting her lobe and scratching her neck with my beard.

«Y-yes... I want to feel it all».

Our minds merge again, our mutual desires meeting and exploding in the most thunderous collision. I thrust forcefully and fill her completely, not leaving a single inch of my cock outside of her. Only the gods know how much I desire to have her beneath me, how much I want to see her face contort in a grimace of pleasure, to push inside her and fuck her passionately.

I grip my hand around the shaft and move it up and down with more vigor, imagining Cassandra's mouth opening and calling my name between a moan and a plea to fuck her harder. I take deeper breaths, to keep her face and body in sight, and the control I still intend to have over them as well as her mind.

I envision her large, round breasts moving beneath me, her spasms of pleasure, her arched back with every thrust, and her nails scratching my back as I lead her along with me to the edge of the precipice, ready to fall together into the abyss, letting ourselves go to the ecstasy our mutual desire is leading us to, unable to reason and obeying only blind passion. My one and only mistress.

I want to leave a mark on her pristine body, push it into a limbo of ardor and damnation. I want to caress her, hold her tight, kiss her, and lick her, giving her all the pleasure she craves as she returns it to me by completely surrendering to me. Surrendering myself to her, to those large eyes capable of making me capitulate at any moment.

I imagine thrusting into her with increasing fervor as I watch her, as I drown in her body and in that amber ocean where the waves of desire crash violently, until the moment when ecstasy overwhelms her.

From upstairs, a feminine scream, hers, muffled probably against a pillow, creeps into my ears and into my mind, where the image of Cassandra taking my cock's thrusts comes to life. Finally, I let myself go too, imagining releasing all my pleasure inside her, cuming abundantly.

One last vision, that of her trembling and overwhelmed body beneath mine, intoxicated by the pleasure of orgasm, and I break the contact between our minds, reopening my eyes. My empty room, my naked body alone in a bed that tonight feels too large, violently brings me back to reality. And now I wish I had lingered in her mind even more, as if I could have truly enjoyed her company... but it's precisely to avoid any risk from such a situation that I preferred to distance myself immediately, once mutual pleasure was satisfied and my purpose achieved.

As I clean up, I think of the not-too-distant possibility of realizing what was only hinted at by Legilimancy, and I realize that I'm trembling with anticipation at the concrete possibility of finally seeing Cassandra's naked body for the first time, of actually being able to touch it, smell her scent, and give her pleasure in every way. I try to push her out of my mind, but she seems to have anchored herself there, as if she wanted to make me pay for violating hers. But the truth is, day after day, stopping thinking about her once I've started becomes incredibly difficult.

"She really fucked with my head," I think, running a hand through my hair as I gather the clothes I've left scattered on the floor, dropping them haphazardly on the wheelchair in the corner, so I won't have to see it tomorrow morning.

Naked, I approach a cabinet containing several vials, opening a compartment and pulling out a bottle of Firewhiskey. I pour its contents into a glass and move towards the window, observing the spires of Hogwarts and the dark meadows of the park, still in the evening's quietness. I let the cold air envelop me, lowering my body temperature to bring myself back to optimal clarity.

The liquor warms me internally, dissipating the haze that lingered in my mind, caused by the orgasm and the strain of such an intense connection. In the end, only a headache remains. I then light a valerian-filled cigarette, mentally noting to ask Mirabel for a more generous dose, and begin to smoke it eagerly as I move towards the bed.

I lie down, my back against the headboard, trying not to look at the empty side of the bed, not to imagine that just a few meters away another mattress is only half occupied, the jasmine-scented sheets wrapped haphazardly around Cassandra's body. As I take the last sip of liquor, I can't help but wonder if she too is thinking of filling this void.

My pride prevents me from succumbing to my own weakness, but it becomes increasingly difficult to deny the turmoil she has generated within me. I don't want to, but I must.

I grab a Dreamless Sleep Potion from the bedside drawer, where I always keep a supply, and down it in one gulp, followed by the last pulls of the cigarette. I cannot allow Cassandra to invade my thoughts or dreams, especially if her effect on me is so powerful as to overwhelm even my Legilimency skills.

But when I finally close my eyes, numbed by the potion, her face is the last thing I see before sinking into darkness.

Notes:

Hey friends! ❤️ this chapter was my first attempt at writing something spicy… so why not make it more difficult and writing a spicy scene through Legilimancy? 😅 I hope you found it intriguing and I promise the next spicy content won’t leave Cass and Sharp separated for too long 😇

Chapter 16: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

The changing colours of the flora from green to orange, the early onset of darkness, and the cold air seeping through the drafts in the castle herald the arrival of October. Now that I've been teaching for a month, I've grown accustomed to my new role and feel more confident when facing the class – and of course, Alisteir Rookwood, with whom I've had my share of disagreements. I've continued to encourage Albus Dumbledore to read Muggle newspapers, often meeting him in the library after lessons to discuss history, politics, and all those matters unknown to the wizarding world. I've been pleased to see a boy who is interested and receptive, though I suspect he harbours some reservations towards Muggles, well hidden behind his extreme politeness. If I were to get to know him better, I'd be interested in discovering the reason for this reluctance.

As for Sharp and me, things seem to have changed since the night we found ourselves together, naked, in the Prefects' Bathroom. Although we haven't spoken about it, it's clear that there's been a rise in sexual tension between us: I can tell by the hungry way he looks at me, by how he lingers when he passes by, by how his provocations are subtly becoming more explicit. It's as if that night a couple of weeks ago he has invaded my thoughts. Indeed, I remember feeling a strong sense of dizziness when we were together in the tub, as if I were breathless and about to faint. And that same night, when I masturbated thinking of him, the image of our lovemaking in my mind was so vivid and obscenely explicit that I truly believed he had accessed my mind, that he had fucked the synapses of my brain until I experienced an orgasm so intense that for a moment, before opening my eyes after reaching ecstasy, I thought he was in my bed, drenched in my fluids.

Come to think of it, he has often anticipated what I wanted to say in the past, or given voice to my silent reflections. Sometimes he looked at me so intensely that it felt like our bodies were melding into each other. And now, seeing the way we interact, it seems as though we've made a silent pact, as if we both know of a dark secret not to be revealed to anyone else. Perhaps it's not noticeable from the outside, but between us, we're sometimes strangely formal, as if we're patiently waiting for the other's move... or as if we know that beneath all this composed politeness lies a beast, avid and insatiable, desperately seeking a way to satisfy its most carnal pleasures. And, I must admit, I don't mind the game. I want to know how much longer he'll be able to resist, and especially when he'll give in.

That's why lately I've been trying to provoke a reaction from him in various ways: brushing against him at the table, responding in kind to all his provocations, maintaining eye contact longer than necessary. Or, like today, wearing tight black leather trousers, a burgundy shirt with a black silk bow at the collar, and a cloak of emerald green velvet, with many silver snakes embroidered along the fabric that slither when touched with the wand: a gift from my group of friends when I turned 17. As beautiful and warm as it is, however, I'll wear it for only a short while: I want to feel all the cold of the dungeons, much to Sharp's dismay.

My footsteps echo on the stone floor as I make my way down the corridor towards the Alchemy Classroom. I push open the heavy wooden door and slip inside, leaving it slightly ajar, and begin arranging the students' workstations. Today, we'll be focusing on Elixir Alchemy and Metallic Alchemy, also known as the Wet Path and the Dry Path, so they'll need cauldrons, vials, and various alembics. After setting everything up on the large square tables, the solemn tolling of the bell reverberates throughout the castle, signaling to students and teachers the change of the hour. The corridors start bustling with footsteps and voices, the human tide of witches and wizards heading towards their points of interest. As the minutes pass, I realize I'm trembling more and more with the imminent arrival of Sharp. My hands sweat, and my heart beats fast in my chest, so much so that I have to take deep breaths to bring it back to a more regular rhythm as I pace back and forth in the classroom, trying to appear busy and casual. I align the work tools on the tables and add some extra measuring cups, all to distract myself from the anticipation of Sharp's arrival.

Until, from a distance, I hear a unmistakable sound of footsteps. I would recognize it among a thousand, precisely because of the irregular rhythm with which he moves. I know he rejects his disability, almost as if it were a shame to be hidden, yet for me there is nothing negative or shameful about it; I see it as a part of him, which makes him unique, almost like a friend who warns me of his presence, or who allows me to enjoy his company more when I have to slow down to adapt to his pace. And as soon as he enters through the door, I don't see the disability: I only see him, tremendously fascinating in all his rugged beauty. He's dressed in black, a colour that gives him unparalleled elegance, with tight waistcoat and trousers that dangerously highlight a remarkable bulge, skillfully hidden by the fabric, but not enough to prevent it from being visible. In my impure fantasies, I had imagined he was well-endowed... and what I see only confirms and brings them to life.

I feel myself flushing and have to force my mind not to wander into forbidden recesses when he fixes his gaze on me and lets it roam carefully over my body.

«Good afternoon, Doyle», he says, advancing into the classroom, his hoarse voice coming from lips curved in his usual arrogant smile.

«Hello, Sharp. Good afternoon to you», I reply, holding his gaze – and trying not to be distracted by the bulge in his trousers.

He approaches me, and for a stretched moment that seems endless, we stand facing each other, the sexual tension suddenly skyrocketing. His scent envelops me, and for a moment I think he'll bridge the little distance left between us, until he lets out a frustrated and impatient sigh and heads towards the lectern, probably reminding himself more than us that we have a lesson about to begin.

«Are you ready to take my place today?», I ask him, indicating the work tables, in an attempt to dampen the electricity between us.

He glances at my agenda, open on the table, where I jot down all the lesson topics. Running a hand through his hair, a gesture tremendously sensual, he says sarcastically: «Wet Path and Dry Path, and lots of cauldrons to clean»

«At least Rookwood will be happy to see you in action», I retort, referring to the little sympathy the boy has towards me, leaning against the lectern with my hands.

Sharp snorts: «As if, with the grades he has in my subject, he could afford it». He notices me suppressing a giggle, and moistening his lips with his tongue, he asks me: «How did you plan to structure the lesson?».

I assume a feigned pensive expression, just to see him watch me carefully as I bite my lower lip with conscious and constructed innocence: «I thought I'd start with some historical and theoretical references to the topic, so that you can continue when it comes to practical work. Obviously, if you consent».

He doesn't miss the subtle reference to one of our past conversations, yet another one where the sexual tension was sky-high. In fact, like that morning at breakfast, he replies: «I consent gladly». The way he emphasizes each word and the look he gives me, so full of anticipation and appetite, makes me suddenly want to moan.

At that moment, the students enter, the only ones capable of dampening the tension between us and making us focus on something other than undressing each other with our eyes. I wait for everyone to take their seats, and with a big smile, I welcome them to the new lesson.

«You all know – I begin – that Alchemy is closely related to the earthly world, to the nature that surrounds us, and even to our bodies: consider that the ancient Greeks believed that the cause of various mental ailments resided in the liver. For many alchemists, the appropriate ingredients to begin understanding the workings of this branch of magic are Sulphur, Mercury, and Salt, as with them we can refer to both natural elements and inclinations of the soul, and finally even to the transcendence of the spirit. If you've read the fourth chapter of The Alchemist's Path, you already know what I'm referring to».

Several students quickly flip through their textbooks, opening them to chapter four, and I continue to explain: «On your personal path, excuse the pun, you will encounter various proponents of these schools of thought, who will try to convince you that one is better than the other. Personally, I believe this is a wrong approach. In fact, each of the three conceptions I've just outlined, if taken individually, is incorrect, as we don't give them the chance to fully express themselves. Instead, if we begin to conceive Alchemy at its fullest potential, touching on every single aspect affected by it, we can also consider these three conceptions independently».

I glance quickly at the class. The students return blank and perplexed looks. Behind me, Sharp exclaims impatiently: «If you had applied yourselves to study, instead of getting excited about the first cold of the year and the extra opportunities to warm each other up, by this time you wouldn't be looking at Professor Doyle as if you were trout on the fishmonger's counter».

I suppress a laugh as the faces of the students flush with embarrassment. A timid hand rises from the second row: «Professor Doyle?»

«Yes, Miss Haywood?»

«Could you give a more... practical example?», asks a beautiful tall and slender girl, with blonde hair and blue eyes, a little upturned nose that looks like the pinch a goddess left on her smooth, rosy face. Her name is Alice, and Sharp has told me she has extraordinary talent in Potions. She has always been kind and respectful to me, but the thought that Sharp might compliment her, even if only formally, slightly unsettles me.

"I wonder if this is how he feels when Albus and I talk", I find myself thinking as I loosen my cloak, letting it slide off my shoulders. As soon as I make this simple gesture, I feel Sharp's gaze fix on me, instead of on Alice and her question. I would scold him, but the truth is that I revel every time his attention is directed at me. Sneaking a quick and furtive glance at him, to make sure he is indeed looking at me, I proceed to remove the cloak with unbearable and frustrating slowness, certain that Sharp will not miss any of my movements. Once removed, I turn to place it on the lectern, and my eyes lock onto Sharp's, ravenous, as if ready to devour me, which only increases my audacity.

«Do you like my trousers today?», I whisper quickly.

«Very much... but I think you'd look better without them», he replies in kind, his cheekiness catching me off guard once again and making me blush violently... although I must admit that I am flattered by what, in its own way, is a compliment.

I turn back to the class and provoke Sharp with the only weapon I have at my disposal at the moment: walking between the tables as if nothing were happening, while answering Miss Haywood's question, so that he can look at my curves. A perverse and silent game, noticed only by the two of us; a continuous provocation that further increases the sexual tension between us.

I head towards the center of the classroom, feeling Sharp's penetrating gaze on me, eliciting different reactions: I am flattered to be the object of his attention, but as usual, I am also intimidated, and at the same time, I feel almost obliged to demonstrate my preparedness to him. It's as if I'm under examination, and my promotion depends on him.

«To give a practical example, Miss Haywood, I want to ask you and your classmates a question. Answer me by raising your hand: who among you has ever been in love?», I ask abruptly.

Many lowered gazes, and few raised hands, all from girls. It was to be expected. «Oh, come on! I can't believe that almost none of you have ever felt butterflies in your stomach!». I then raise my hand too, to encourage them to do the same: «I have also been in love... a few years ago», I specify, as if I had to justify my statements to Sharp; as if he had to know that I no longer feel that way about anyone.

At that moment, several hands go up, although the gazes continue to be downcast. Encouraged by the honesty of my students, I continue: «Alright, and you are also old enough to surely know what it feels like when love is reciprocated, and unfortunately when it is not».

A faint murmur of agreement accompanies my words. I turn to Ophelia Warrington, one of the girls who had raised her hand: «Miss Warrington, can you tell us how it feels when love is reciprocated?».

Timidly, Ophelia clears her throat and begins to speak: «Well... You feel good. You are happy with little, besides the other person. You feel as if together you could conquer the world, only with love»

«And then you don't need anything else», Helen Brown interjects, a Hufflepuff girl with long curly red hair and a sprinkle of adorable freckles on her nose. «You only need that person to feel complete»

«Exactly, Miss Brown. In love, you don't need too much, just the essentials. Don't look at me like that, Mr. Rookwood: you'll understand where I'm going with this if you've ever been in love», I exclaim, shooting him a glance, my last words making his cheeks blush and his gaze shift among the classmates' giggles. «If someone reciprocates your love, you feel complete. If they don't, you feel empty, incomplete, and unhappy. And it is precisely in this way that you must conceive Alchemy in all its aspects: only if you consider them dependent on each other, then they will finally make sense and can be considered true. As if they were each other's soulmates; as if they, in turn, had found true love».

As I say these last words, my gaze meets Sharp's. There is no trace of lust in his eyes anymore, but I see a receptive man, interested in what I have to say not only because I am an attractive woman, but because he likes to listen to me. I have to force myself not to smile at the thought, even though they are all personal speculations, and I'm not sure he really finds what I say interesting. Yet, it is refreshing to be looked at in this way, especially by the person who stirs up a whirlwind of emotions within you.

I clear my throat and continue speaking: «What I ask of you is to approach Alchemy as you would approach a lover: try to listen to it, understand it, see its potential. Now, you should know that there are two Paths within the alchemical journey: the Dry Path and the Wet Path. Depending on the streams of thought I mentioned earlier, they also have different meanings. For example, some believe that they have to do with the regime of fire – impetuous for the Dry Path and moderate for the Wet Path; or who think that they have to do with the human psyche and spirituality, and who instead believe that in one, certain substances are preferred for working the others, and vice versa. What you need to understand is that there is no Dry Path without the Wet Path, and there is no Wet Path without the Dry Path. Although different, they should be conceived exactly like two lovers who complete each other, each filling the other's gaps, because they know they are indispensable to each other and that only by existing together, understanding each other deeply, can they give meaning to their own feelings».

I conclude the speech by looking at Sharp, and I feel the skin of my cheeks and neck blush and begin to sweat, as if suddenly struck by a source of heat. I can't help but think about our differences: him, so rational and pragmatic, damn serious when it comes to work; whereas I am more inclined to let myself go to fantasy and emotion, as is happening right now as he returns my gaze, and I can't help but wonder if he is thinking the same things. Before I even realize it, I give him a smile, to which he responds with a nod, as if to reassure me that everything is going well. And how could it not be? Just his gaze and his presence next to me are enough to calm me.

I try to compose myself and push away from my mind this pleasant and somewhat dizzying sensation, as if I had just drunk a sweet and fizzy alcoholic drink. I head back towards the lectern, always under Sharp's watchful eye. Once I approach him, I can feel all the electricity between us, like a live wire ready to explode into a thousand sparks. «If there are no further questions, I'll hand over to Professor Sharp», I say, smiling at him.

He rises from the lectern, relinquishing his place to me with a hand. That hand, which I have so often desired to feel its weight on my body, to see the veins standing out on his arms as he slips between my thighs to give me pleasure. I take a deep breath, shaking my head as if to shake off an annoying fly, and sit in his place, watching him as he begins to explain the practical aspects of the subject. I don't miss the meaningful looks exchanged between Helen Brown and Alice Haywood as he passes them, and their decidedly more active and interested approach to his teaching. I've been a girl myself, and I know those looks: they're certainly not just admiration for a professor, no matter how capable he may be.

My suspicions are confirmed when, after the lesson ends and all the students leave, the two girls linger in the classroom. They're excited and smiling as they pass by me, heading towards the first cauldron to clean, giving each other light nudges to encourage one another to speak up. I turn my back to them, pretending to be particularly busy but listening attentively to their conversation.

«Don't you have another class, ladies?», Sharp asks impatiently, although I can detect a hint of satisfaction. How egotistical.

«Um... actually, Professor Sharp, we wanted to ask you something», Alice Haywood replies, probably aware of the greater influence she has on him thanks to her prowess in Potions.

«Please, Miss Haywood»

«Alone, if possible», she replies, lowering her voice, alluding to my presence which she evidently deems unnecessary.

However, Sharp doesn't allow himself to be swayed by her beautiful face. «This is Professor Doyle's class, and as such, she has every right to stay here and listen to our pleasant conversation. Please, Miss Haywood», he repeats, leaving no room for objections.

Alice takes the blow and continues: «Well, um, we wanted to know if you would be available to explain the topics covered in today's lesson in more detail. They're a bit complicated, and we'd like to master them as best as possible»

«If you're referring to the practical part, Miss Haywood, I'm sure the assigned tasks will be sufficient to dispel your doubts, and for you, being very good at Potions, they certainly won't pose an insurmountable obstacle. If you're referring to the theoretical part, however, I trust that Professor Doyle will agree to revisit the topic in the next lesson, to assess your exercises and clarify any remaining obscure points».

Sharp's response leaves the necessary suspense hanging in the air for me to join the conversation. I turn to them and, with all the naturalness I possess, say with a smile: «Of course. I consent gladly».

Helen and Alice's gazes surrender, aware that it's pointless to insist; Sharp's gaze, on the other hand, gleams with malice, picking up on the reference to our incessant provocations. Finally, the girls leave, closing the door behind them, leaving us alone in the empty classroom.

«Doyle, Doyle, Doyle», Sharp begins in a singsong tone. «Only you could turn an Alchemy lesson into a discussion about love»

«I hope that's your own way of complimenting me», I reply, as I return to focusing on the cauldron.

«I'll grant you that, you were good and effective. You also managed to get Haywood and Brown to come forward», he replies, clearly intending to provoke a reaction from me.

Determined not to give in to his provocation, I retort: «As if in six years you haven't noticed that they have a soft spot for you»

«A soft spot for me, you say?»

«And quite evident, too».

I hear him rise, the wooden chair scraping against the stone floor under his movement. With serene calmness, he begins to approach me slowly. «And how do you know that?», he asks with interest.

«I've been a girl their age myself: I know how they act and think».

Now he's right behind me: I can smell his cologne, the note of mandarin that stands out fresh in the warm, sensual heat of sandalwood and cloves; his warm breath smells of Firewhiskey as he asks me, in a husky and seductive voice: «Do you know because you had those same thoughts about a professor at their age?».

"Not exactly at their age", I think. Still keeping myself busy arranging the workstation, as if his proximity didn't disturb me, I reply: «Actually, I didn't have a professor to direct such thoughts towards»

«And...what if you had, how would you have behaved?», he asks, his breath teasing my sensitive ear and neck, so close that I can feel the fabric of his clothes brushing against mine. I close my eyes, enchanted by his way of seducing me, by the rough caress of his voice under which I melt, while a faint flame ignites between my legs.

My body reacts before my mind can rationalize: I arch my hips slightly backward, so that the curves of my buttocks brush against his groin. Sharp's reaction is immediate too, as I feel the bulge in his pants harden and grow... decidedly big. «I would have done this», I whisper, tilting my head slightly to the side, observing how the rest of his body responds.

«Doyle, stop», he commands, his stiff body betrayed by his raspy voice. In response, I push my hips even more against him, now completely pressing against his body.
A grunt of pleasure escapes his mouth as he pushes his hips against me, creating an unprecedented, obscene, and explicit contact between us. His erection presses forcefully against his pants and my body, as if struggling to break free and make its way inside me, between my wet and slippery folds.

«It doesn't seem like you mind, Professor Sharp», I provoke, emphasizing his role, while his left hand grabs the flesh of my side and tightens, making me arch my back even more. With his right hand, he moves my hair aside, then descends along my shirt: he unties the bow tight at the collar and undoes the top buttons, exposing the skin of my neck. His mouth descends on me, tracing rough and rude kisses, while his hand moves even lower on the shirt, squeezing one of my breasts.

I am overcome with shivers, and I tilt my head even further back, resting my back completely on him, on his broad and strong chest, wishing only to lie on top of him, to sink my nails into him as I ride his cock. Just the thought makes the warm fluids of my arousal leak out of me, almost soaking my underwear.

His teeth bite into my skin, his beard scratches it when he asks: «Do you know what I do mind, though?». He doesn't continue; he's waiting for me to answer, guiding the rules of the game.

He tightens his hands around my flesh for an answer. But from my lips comes a muffled moan of pleasure before I finally manage to say: «Wh-what?»

«How impractical your clothes are today», he responds, pulling me slightly closer to him and teasing my earlobe with his tongue.

«You said you liked them...», I murmur, now completely enveloped in his scent, while his hair tickles the skin of my shoulder and his right hand dares to undo another pair of buttons on my shirt.

Now my corset is in full view, and Sharp wastes no time lowering its hem, exposing my breasts and enveloping them with his hand. The contact with his warm and hard skin, due to the calluses on his palm, is an overwhelming sensation, and I release a sigh of pleasure as I squeeze my thighs, the excitement vibrating along every fiber of my body.

His fingers play with my turgid nipple as his breath on my skin makes me shiver; his voice sounds heavenly when, in a provocative tone, he whispers in my ear: «I also said you'd look better without them. I'm still convinced».

His lips close on the soft and tender flesh just below my jawline, near my ear, and begin to suck. I feel his tongue move skillfully, and I can't help but imagine the pleasure it would give me if it were engaged elsewhere, further down, in my lower abdomen, where waves of pleasure are rising more and more forcefully. For the gods, he hasn't even touched me there, and this is the sensation he provokes. I dare not think how he would make me scream if he did...

I increase the pressure of my buttocks on his groin, until I feel every inch of his erection, big and rock hard. At this deeper contact, he clenches his teeth around my skin, an excited sigh escaping his nostrils, while the bite momentarily blurs the line between pain and pleasure.

With closed eyes, my right hand moves up to him and stops at his nape; I sink my fingers into his long, dark, and soft hair, and this gesture makes him tighten his grip even more on my left side. If we were naked, in this position, he would already be moving inside me. What I wouldn't give to feel every inch of his cock penetrate me, to feel his hands and his mouth move on me, his tongue intertwined with mine...

«Yet, even with clothes on, I feel you so well», I tell him, referring to the excitement pulsating in his pants.

He releases the bite on my skin, which is now slightly burning under his eager and breathless breath, and forces me to rise on tiptoe and bend slightly forward, just enough for him to better rest his erection, of which I now feel the pressure even between my legs as he begins to rub against me. His right hand releases my nipple and moves from my breast, up, to my throat. It closes around my neck, tightening enough to elicit a stifled moan from my mouth.

«And how did you feel me, a few nights ago?», he asks. His lips move against my ear, and my skin is covered in shivers with every breath of his. He has full control of my body, practically preventing me from moving. But with the words he just uttered, my suspicion that he also had control of my mind sharpens.

«Are you a Legilimens?», I venture to ask him, my voice husky.

«You finally figured it out», he replies, increasing the pressure of his erection on me. His voice is persuasive and warm, and alone it would be enough to make me see stars, to let myself go to the most extreme pleasure.

«I did not consent to that». Mine is a faint and inconsistent protest, insecure and very unconvinced. It's true, I didn't consent for him to penetrate my mind and fuck me like that, and yet I liked it, and at that moment it didn't seem wrong at all.

«Consent is a fluid concept when it comes to Legilimency, Doyle», he replies firmly. «And from what I could see, you enjoyed it».

Indeed, I enjoyed it. My hand caressing me truly felt like a part of him, and I have never experienced such an intense orgasm.

He tightens his fingers around my neck even more: «Say how much you enjoyed it», he orders.

I hate feeling this way, so submissive to him, as if I'm waiting for his attentions and nothing else. Yet I can't rebel, on the contrary, my appetite becomes even more insatiable, and he digs deeper, seeking the primal origin of all my desires, stripping me even in the most hidden corners of my brain and soul.

«Never... tell a Slytherin... what to do», I reply, now prey to his perverse game, knowing perfectly well the kind of reaction I will unleash. But his presence, his body against mine, his cock pressing against my clothes, and how he would have fucked me already if we weren't in the classroom, turn me into a completely different person. They turn me into a huntress pretending to be prey, just so the predator can catch her and do what he wants with her, in a collision of pleasures and desires that it's impossible not to obey.

Sharp tightens his fingers even more around my neck, almost cutting off my breath. «Say it. Tell me how much you enjoyed thinking it was my cock fucking you», he presses, in a tone that allows no retorts.

I try to take as much air as possible and then, in a choked whisper, I manage to say: «To death». He immediately loosens the grip, though not releasing his hand. I can breathe better, and I continue: «I enjoyed it to death... and I wish it never stopped».

Suddenly, he removes his hand from my throat, and in surprise, I also pull mine away from his hair, oxygen finally entering my lungs freely. With a quick movement, he pulls something out of his pocket, and then his arm wraps around me, making me a prisoner of his body. I can't help but laugh at how perfectly our limbs fit together.

«If I were you, I wouldn't laugh, Doyle», Sharp begins, showing me a long, cylindrical glass vial, inside of which gleams a pale blue liquid with a silver powder settling at the bottom. «Do you know what this is?», he asks me. He knows very well that I have no idea: I have never seen anything like it in my years as a student, but it's another way he uses to have control over me, to make me completely submit to him.

I shake my head in denial. He lowers his face toward me, his lips brushing against my ear, and he speaks words that sound as sweet as honey, despite being veiledly threatening: «It's a potion that sharpens the senses, making the drinker particularly receptive to external stimuli. Simple stimuli, like two hands brushing against each other, or a warm breath on the most sensitive points of the body, and they unleash the most intense reactions. An invention of mine of which I am particularly proud».

I can't resist provoking him: «And how many women have you used it on?», I ask him.

He tightens his arms around my body even more and continues, sternly: «It so happens that I got the idea to create it right after our pleasant... let's call it dreamlike encounter. You were the inspiring Muse for this potion, and you might just be the perfect person to test its effects»

«And why me?»

«Because I still want to see your body writhing with pleasure under my will. Now tell me, Doyle: would this potion be more of a punishment or a reward for you?».

I bite my lip, not knowing if I'm more excited by his erection still pressing between my legs or his perversion. «For you? Would you want to punish me or reward me?», I ask him provocatively.

He laughs, a deep and guttural laugh: «Having seen how easily you surrendered to me, I'll be so kind as to consider this potion a reward. Behave well, and I won't hesitate to let it slide onto that insolent and greedy tongue of yours».

And as quickly as he embraced me, he releases me, stepping away from me and putting the potion back in his pocket. I feel an emptiness where he was just seconds ago, and a sudden coldness, deprived of his ferocious warmth.

«Compose yourself», he orders from behind me. «You're still a professor».

I disguise a laugh with a scoff, and I button up my shirt again, making sure to cover my neck with my hair and collar, aware that my skin is bruised, a silent testimony of his passage. Of his way of marking his territory.

I scan the room for the ribbon Sharp loosened to open my shirt, turning around when I notice it's on the floor, tossed there with little care. I bend down to pick it up, while Sharp looms over me. I observe his boots, the buckles tight around his legs, and the expensive fabric of his trousers, elegantly tucked inside, clinging to his toned muscles. Slowly, I rise, lingering for a moment on the buttons of his pants, reveling in his hidden erection, which is deflating but still quite visible.

I raise my eyes to him, and our hungry gazes meet. It would be so easy to take advantage, to unzip his pants and finally see his cock, big and throbbing, ready to slide down my throat. However, reluctantly, I decide not to indulge our desires, for now. I give him a knowing smile and stand up, still looking him in the eyes. My fingers caress the smooth silk ribbon, and a spark flashes through my eyes. Sharp notices, as he raises an eyebrow and impatiently waits for me to make my move.

I reach out to him and loop the ribbon around his neck, under the collar of his shirt, his hair brushing against my hands, tickling the skin. I knot it and tuck it into his vest, as if it were a scarf, letting my hands linger on his chest for a few seconds before asking him: «Do you think Alice Haywood and Helen Brown will notice it's mine?».

Sharp smiles in his usual cheeky and arrogant way, and he replies with a husky, deep voice: «They might notice before the bruise on your neck». His fingers move towards me, caressing the spot on my body that still slightly aches. Despite what just happened between us, his audacity continues to surprise me, and I shyly avert my gaze. Merlin's beard, this man makes me feel so stupid.

Our eye contact breaks, and he withdraws his hand, the absence of his fingers brushing against me feeling heavier than the absence of his body against my back. He looks at me one last time. «Behave yourself, Doyle», he says before walking towards the door, his voice filled with eager anticipation not only for what just happened but for what is yet to come. It's only a matter of time, but we both know that the lustful encounter between our bodies will happen. His words are a silent promise hanging in the air.

I turn towards him as he approaches the heavy wooden door. He opens it and stands there for a moment, looking at me as if to make sure I'm still there. I smile at him, conspiratorially, and reply: «Enjoy the rest of your day, Professor Sharp. See you around».

He nods and returns the smile. «See you in our quarters, Professor Doyle», he replies, and his figure disappears from my sight, his footsteps gradually fading away along the stone corridor.

With a deep sigh, I release all the tension built up in our brief but intense encounter, feeling unsatisfied by the void left unfilled with his body, yet completely fulfilled by what happened between us. I smile like a schoolgirl at the thought of what the near future holds, and only then do I realize that my heart is racing wildly.

I shake my head to dispel the thousand impure and otherwise thoughts that have begun to race through my mind, and I focus again on cleaning the cauldrons and tidying up the classroom, eager to see Sharp again as soon as possible. It's going to be a long day.

Chapter 17: SHARP

Chapter Text

It's been days now, and I can't stop thinking about what happened in the Alchemy Classroom and Cassandra's audacity, her buttocks pressing against me, causing a fierce and painful erection. If we hadn't been in class and I didn't have a lecture to attend shortly after, I wouldn't hesitate to believe that I would have ripped those damn trousers off her and fucked her violently on that table... but even this scenario in the Faculty Lounge would have been just as enticing. I should be grading Potions assignments before heading back to the Ministry, where I'll be staying for a week to continue training the new Auror team in Occlumency, but I've done very little, distracted as I am by her presence at the other end of the table. I've deliberately avoided sitting near or in front of her to prevent my mind from wandering, but it's entirely futile. And as if the situation weren't already ridiculous enough, a valid substitute still hasn't been found to cover for me, and we're definitely running out of time.

With a frustrated sigh, I close my eyes, massaging my temples, my brain swirling with too many thoughts.

«Everything alright?». Cassandra's velvety voice seeps into my mind, momentarily dissipating the disorder residing within.

I nod with little conviction and reply: «Yes. A substitute still hasn't been found for the days I'll be away, but we'll sort it out».

She leans back in her chair, her skin glowing white in the darkness of the room. «Well, as it happens, I've been thinking about it too», she says.

I brush it off with a wave of my hand. «Don't worry, I trust in the powerful means of our Headmaster», I respond sarcastically.

«In reality, I thought that if you agree, I could substitute for you», she says, catching me completely by surprise.

«You?», I ask.

She puts on a feigned offended pout, infuriatingly adorable, and replies: «I didn't expect enthusiasm, but not even this surprised tone! Yes, Sharp: me. I may not be a Potioneer, but I manage well enough».

I observe her carefully, weighing her proposal. It's undoubtedly tempting and would lift a huge burden off my shoulders, but I know how burdensome teaching two subjects can be. It's tough for me after ten years of teaching, let alone for her, who's only been here for a month and a half.

«I appreciate it, but there's no need for you to trouble yourself for me», I politely refuse.

«I owe you, Sharp», she responds quickly, almost urgently. I look at her, and her expression is eager.

«You don't owe me anything, Cas– Doyle», I correct myself immediately, avoiding saying her name. Despite what happened between us, and what will surely happen, simmering beneath the surface, I want to keep things between us as neutral as possible.

But she seizes upon my slight concession, a glint of victory shining in her eyes. She knows she has me wrapped around her finger, and I know it too. She takes advantage of this slip on my part and continues: «You would have done the same. And you've already done a lot for me since I started teaching here. See it as a way for me to repay you».

«You don't need to repay me», I insist.

«Oh, for heaven's sake, Sharp! Then think of it as the only solution you have at the moment. Do you see any others?», she snaps, impatiently running a hand through her long brown hair.

I look away, running my tongue over my teeth and assuming an annoyed expression, because I know she's right: it's the only solution I have, and an Alchemy Professor is certainly the most suitable person to replace me. «Alright then», I concede, resigning myself. I return to look at her, preventing the muscles of my face from distorting into a smile when I see her become radiant and happy. But I can't help but add: «Thank you»

«You don't have to thank me. Just get me the lesson plans as soon as you can. I'll go talk to Matilda about it, if it's not a problem for you», she replies, gathering all her things into her bag and leaving the Faculty Lounge, leaving her unmistakable scent lingering in the air and within me, a strange sense of vulnerability and warmth.

After a couple of days spent organizing the Potions lesson plans for Cassandra, Sunday morning, just before departure, finds me in my room finishing up the last preparations. With an Undetectable Extension Charm, I manage to fit the wheelchair and cane into the suitcase, knowing full well they might unfortunately be needed, and also because I have no intention of letting Cassandra see them, in case she decides to snoop around while I'm away. My limp is already pitiful enough to others' eyes.

I snap the suitcase shut and open the door to the sitting room of the accommodation, where Cassandra is seated in an armchair reading, beside the warmth of the fireplace that soothes her on a particularly fresh morning. She looks up at me, her face illuminated by the sun rays streaming through the windows, beautiful as the innocence of youth, with dark curls contrasting against her fair skin.

«Are you leaving now?», she asks.

«Yes, Black arranged for a school carriage for me», I reply.

She smiles thoughtfully: «When I was a student, I was determined to see a Thestral, you know? I was too young and naive to understand it wasn't a pleasant thing. To this day, I've never seen one»

«And it's better that way», I respond impulsively, without thinking. Before she can pick up on any hint of vulnerability in my voice, I quickly change the subject: «I'll leave the Potions lesson plans with you». I gesture to the table cluttered with vials and test tubes near the entrance, and she rises from the armchair, leaving her book behind and approaching me. Her shoulders are wrapped in a wool shawl, and underneath, she wears a soft, light dress that drapes along her curves like water.

She takes the parchment I've written and reads it with a concentrated expression. I could stare at her for hours when she does this: dark eyebrows slightly furrowed, irises moving along the written page, and lips slightly pursed.

Her voice snaps me back from the whirlwind of my thoughts: «Is there any unwritten advice you want to give me before entrusting me with your class?», she asks, looking up at me.

«Behave yourself. In your own class, you can teach however you like, but in mine, you'll apply my teaching method», I respond firmly.

«So, I'll have to be cynical and sarcastic, tediously rational, and all put together?», she teases me.

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to not react to her provocations. «If you don't behave as I say, I'll know», I warn her.

She holds my gaze, and her lips curl into a faint, mischievous smile: «And if I don't? Would you spank me like a naughty child?».

All the blood coursing through my veins suddenly concentrates in my groin, an erection beginning to swell, constrained once again in my trousers, while in my mind immediately forms the image of Cassandra lying prone across my lap, her bare, round, white buttocks on full display ready to be spanked. I thank my days as an Auror every day because ever since I met her, she tests my most primal instincts, which I can only conceal by resorting to a high level of self-control acquired through years of work and practice.

«Oh, no. I know that's what you desire, so I wouldn't do anything at all if you misbehave» I reply, needling her. Despite remaining still and keeping a poker face, the flicker of panic in her eyes and her flushed cheeks betray her. I step away from her, approaching the door. I place my hand on the handle, and before opening it, I turn around one last time: «But remember our, let's call it, pact: if you behave well, you'll be duly rewarded».

I don't need to add anything else because the impatient look she shoots me when I close the door behind me speaks volumes. She knows what kind of reward I'm referring to, and I know she can't wait for me to use it. That's enough for me to be sure she'll behave. I haven't even set foot on the Hogwarts Express, and I'm already eager to take the train back to Hogwarts, where Cassandra awaits me, trembling with anticipation and desire.

After an exhausting train journey, upon arrival at the Ministry of Magic, I'm greeted as always with great honors by Faris Spavin himself, who launches into his usual spiel about how much he regrets my no longer working at the British Auror Office. Useless, now, to tell him that the greatest loss after the ambush in Scarborough wasn't theirs.

I'm escorted to the room reserved for me on the Second Level and given the schedule of classes I'll have to teach, along with files of the new recruits, many of whom were my students. I relax in the armchair, a glass of scotch in one hand and the documents in the other, and as I read through them, it immediately strikes me that the number of young women wanting to become Aurors has grown. Whereas until recently I would have seen this stay as an opportunity to enjoy the company of at least a couple of them outside of working hours, now my thoughts immediately turn to Cassandra's reaction upon discovering that the ranks of women, in such a risky job, are expanding. I imagine her expression, happily surprised and proud to see more and more girls seeking their independence and emancipation in a world tailor-made for men, and I can't help but laugh at the thought of how much she would have to say about it, full of enthusiasm and hope.

Not a day goes by that I don't think of her during this week at the Ministry of Magic. Forced to stay away from her, not to see her dark eyes or hear the sound of her voice, I spend most of my free time locked within the four walls of my accommodation, drinking and smoking one cigarette after another, thinking about when I'll see her again and cursing myself for allowing her to worm her way into me like this. And the more I get angry with myself, the more I crave to have sex with her, to discover every inch of her white skin and lose myself in the curves of her body.

I could take advantage of the availability of the young women present here, courageous and audacious as only one can be at 18 when they ask me to smoke a cigarette together or to linger and talk about the most boring ministerial matters or my past as an Auror, just to have an excuse to spend time with me and to lead our respective bodies into a bed. Yet it seems that all of a sudden I have suddenly lost the desire to maintain my reputation as a heartbreaker. And the most absurd thing, considering the Aesop Sharp of a few months ago, is that I don't even care.

I spend my days in London teaching, entering and leaving the austere classroom on perfect schedule, where I penetrate the thoughts of inexperienced youths, and my nights on the soft mattress of this luxurious room, trying unsuccessfully to distract my mind from the image of Cassandra that invariably forms before me, especially since I found, in a pocket of my coat, the black silk ribbon that was once tied around my neck. I stroke it over and over again under my fingers, smooth as her skin, and when I'm alone, it has become a habit to inhale its intense jasmine scent imbued among the threads, as if I want to bridge the distance between me and her with this gesture.

I do the same on the train back to Hogwarts, exactly the following Sunday, losing my gaze among the English countryside and hills, often watching the clock whose hands move slowly, elongating the time that separates me from seeing that young, intelligent, altruistic, and beautiful woman who has messed with my brain and for almost two months has made me a complete idiot, vulnerable and completely subjected to her charm. If someone had told me that one day I would become so ridiculous, I would have laughed in their face.

During the hours of travel that separate me from Hogsmeade station, thoughts race through my mind one after the other. I'm eager to speak with Matilda and find out how the Potions lessons went, realizing that I desire more for myself than for Cassandra to have adhered to my requests. The potion I promised her becomes more of a reward for myself, if the result I obtain consists of seeing her moan with pleasure.

Just thinking about it makes me hard, and I can't prevent my mind from reliving our intense encounter after the Alchemy lesson on the Wet and Dry Pathways. Her body pressed against my cock, her soft breasts under my touch, the bruises I left on her neck greedily sucking her flesh make me damn excited. Her sighs of pleasure sounded like music to my ears, and I have to bite my knuckles to avoid taking my cock in my hand in this damn compartment. I force myself to think of something else, but my mind keeps bringing me back to that day.

So I rewind all the threads of that day, almost as if I wanted to relive it from the beginning. I see Cassandra take off her beautiful green cloak and leave it on the chair, move around the classroom under my watchful gaze, compare Alchemy to love...

Love. The love she said she felt once, and now no longer feels. It can't be parental love, since according to Black's words she only had her father to raise her until she was 11, and he certainly can't be described as an exemplary father figure. Adolescent love, then. It could be. Yet there's something that doesn't add up. Her approach to life, to the issue of femininity, to women's rights, and to the denial of femininity that the constant usurpation by men exercises cannot be solely the result of a teenage girl's disappointment in love. The way she writes to women, urging them to independence and autonomy, the passion she has in learning and reading as much as possible about the female universe must necessarily conceal a truth of another kind, more mature and aware.

"For society, at 28, I'm not that young anymore... so I shouldn't allow myself the luxury of being presumptuous - especially since I've never been married." Her words resonate in my head, and I remember the expression on her face: almost mortified by the fact of being unmarried at her age. The marital status of women is not something that interests wizards and witches, so the reason for her discomfort must necessarily come from the conventions of the Muggle world. Perhaps, from a Muggle.

An inexplicable anger rises within me at the thought of her with a man. One with whom she experienced first loves, the beauty and intensity of love, and then the pain of loss and abandonment, the inability to face loneliness. And if that were the case, we have more in common than I thought... and being able to understand her emotions, even the most intimate and profound, puts me in an uncomfortably vulnerable position, an abyss into which I have promised myself never to fall again, to avoid hurting myself but above all others. Yet, I can't help but be attracted to her, and above all, to want to discover what she guards and protects in her heart. And this visceral interest of mine in her heightens the anger I feel towards myself, for allowing feelings to make their way into me.

But as soon as the outlines of Hogsmeade station appear in the distance from the window, I can't wait to get off the train and set foot in Hogwarts and see her again. The Thestrals pulling the carriage that awaits me graze placidly and silently, solemn witnesses to the fact that I have seen the relentless face of death, that cursed night in Scarborough.

The darkness has recently fallen over the hills surrounding Hogwarts Park when I finally step off the carriage and enter the castle, animated by students returning from the Great Hall, heading towards their respective Common Rooms. Instead of heading towards the Faculty Tower, however, I head straight to the Transfiguration Classroom, where Matilda is waiting for me to discuss the progress of the school week in my absence. Outside the Faculty Lounge, however, I run into Ronen.

«Welcome back, Aesop», he greets cheerfully.

«Thank you, Abraham. Good evening to you»

«How was the journey?»

«Exhaustingly long, but I guess I'm used to it by now».

He chuckles: «It's fortunate for the Ministry that you agreed to mentor the new Aurors». He scrutinizes me, looking for signs of fatigue in my expression, and continues: «Everything okay down in London?».

I nod gravely, tacitly aware of what he's referring to: «Everything's fine, Abraham. Thanks for asking».

He claps me on the shoulder, a paternal gesture meant to reassure me and show solidarity. «Good, I'm glad to hear it». Then he changes the subject, returning to his usual cheerful tone: «So, aren't you going to rest? You must be tired»

«I have an appointment with Matilda in her office first. I need to find out if Cassandra lived up to expectations, replacing me in the Potions lessons».

I don't miss the flicker of cunningness that crosses his eyes: «Oh, I see you've started calling her by name. Finally!». If only he knew I almost risked giving her the full name right in front of her, I wouldn't be surprised if he started doing somersaults on the marble floor. «Well, it's not for me to say... but you can rest assured that you have nothing to worry about», he continues, brimming with pride.

«Do you say that because it's true, or because she was your favorite student?»

«Both», he laughs.

A smile also appears on my lips, thinking of the fond memory that young Cassandra left in him. At that moment, I remember that I still have the book she lent me. «Oh, by the way: Accio book!», I exclaim, wand raised, and the silvery flash of the letters on the pink cover hovers in the air, landing on my open hand. «I think I need to return this to you».

Ronen takes the book and turns it over in his hands, as if making sure it's in good condition. «So?», he asks. I raise my eyebrows, assuming a questioning expression, and he presses on: «Have you read it?»

«Yes – I admit – And you were right: I found it enlightening. Although I still have many questions I'd like answered».

Abraham looks at me understandingly. The tone of his voice becomes serious as he says, as if he already knows what's bothering me: «You won't find it in any book, let alone this one, Aesop. If you really want an answer, the only person who can give it to you is Cassandra herself».

I sigh frustratedly, impatiently running a hand through my hair: «Don't tell me anything I don't already know, Abraham»

«If you know it, why not do it? Why do you refuse to talk to her?».

I hold his gaze: we've had this conversation a million times in ten years, so why does it seem like it carries a different weight this time? «You already know why», is all I say.

Ronen nods: «Yes, you've been giving me that answer for years». He's silent for a few seconds, then continues: «You have to allow yourself to move on, Aesop. Why do you deny yourself the chance to get to know her better? Don't tell me you haven't noticed how she looks at you...».

Of course I've noticed. And that's precisely the problem: I don't want her to look at me like that, I don't want her to feel emotions and to risk with someone like me by her side. «Abraham, it's better this way. You know how I feel about it», I reply, closing off any further possibility of delving into this uncomfortable conversation.

He sighs, and finally lets me go. «Alright then. See you tomorrow, Aesop. Goodnight», and he bids farewell, heading towards the Faculty Tower.

I had no desire to have such a discussion, and feeling bitter, I finally make my way to the Transfiguration Classroom, trusting that Matilda will give me good news. Not so much for the nature of the news itself, but because I simply want to indulge my frustrations with desire.

I knock on the door of the Deputy Headmistress's office, and she looks up towards the door. «Good evening, Aesop, welcome back! Please, have a seat», she says, smiling warmly, the typical warmth of a mother radiating from her elderly face.

«Thank you, Matilda. I hope the school hasn't suffered too much from my absence», I reply, taking a seat.

«Oh, not at all. You had an excellent substitute, you know?».

She smiles knowingly, and I can't help but soften my gaze: «Don't keep me in suspense, then».

Proudly, Matilda begins to speak: «Cassandra was excellent. Always punctual and attentive, conducting the lessons impeccably, without letting herself be overwhelmed by the fact that some students might have taken advantage of your absence to act up. Despite always maintaining grace and kindness, she managed to keep the balance intact, just as you left it. For a woman who used to have a completely different profession, and who has only been here for a short time, I can say with certainty that she is a valuable addition to our teaching staff».

Her words make me smile, and they increase my desire to see her again. It might be a bit egocentric of me, but the thought of her eyes widening in surprise when I step through the threshold of our accommodation reassures me.

«I'm glad she was the right choice», I reply to Matilda.

«The best choice», she emphasizes, and politely bids me farewell.

Finally free from any other obligations, I make my way towards the Faculty Tower. I have to force myself not to quicken my pace to avoid weakening and straining my left leg, but today these endless flights of stairs seem to multiply infinitely, as if they want to put even more distance between me and Cassandra. When I arrive at the door of our accommodation, I notice that she has cast a Colloportus spell on the lock, not expecting my return. I purse my lips to keep myself from smiling, adopting a serious and impassive expression.

I cast an Alohomora spell: the lock clicks open and the handle yields obediently to my will. I open the door and see her sitting disheveled in the armchair by the fireplace: her bare legs are stretched out on the armrest and glow white in the firelight. Her loose hair falls in soft curls over her shoulders and chest, while her slender fingers clutch yet another book. She wears a white nightshirt and a light, unbuttoned shawl, made of wool.

When she looks up at me and that surprised expression forms, freeing me from any worry or nervousness as expected, I make an effort not to go to her to finally bridge the distance between us.

«You're back!», she exclaims, a bit too enthusiastically, making me chuckle.

«So it seems», I reply, trying to stay composed. I take off my heavy coat, hanging it on the coat rack, and unbutton my shirt cuffs, rolling up the sleeves on my forearms. «I've just been to Matilda's office», I continue evasively, teasing her reaction as I turn my back to her.

I sense the tension in her hesitant voice: «And what did she say?».

I unbutton my belt, remove it, and put it away in my room. When I return to the living room, I see her eyeing my trousers, devoid of any restraint other than the buttons holding them closed. I smile satisfactorily as I turn back to the coat hanging on the rack, rummaging through the pockets. «She said you behaved excellently», I reply.

«Did you have any doubts?», she asks, clearly trying to provoke me.

I turn back to her. She has closed the book, which now lies on the floor on the carpet, and she looks at me expectantly from the armchair, where she is now sitting a bit more composedly.

With slow steps, I begin to close the distance between us. «No doubts, actually. I knew you would», I reply. Once in front of her, I crouch down so that our gazes are at the same level. Her scent immediately makes me feel at home. «Do you know what this means?», I ask her.

She swallows but holds my gaze. «That you want to use the potion?», she asks me.

I nod, and I look at her intensely, feeling the desire to kiss her lips. But that would only worsen what I feel for her, forcing me into a situation that I must necessarily avoid. Instead, in a low voice, I tell her: «Only if you want it too».

The way she looks at me and twists her fingers betrays all her anticipation: «Yes, Sharp. I want you to use it». Her voice is almost an excited sigh, unable to hide all the longing she feels.

I rise to my feet and with a flick of my wand, I cast a non-verbal Imperturbable Charm on the room, ensuring that it becomes silent to outside ears. Cassandra's expression is questioning, but she doesn't dare move or ask questions, simply waiting for my next move.

I lower my gaze to her, towering over her, and the dominant position my body assumes over hers sends a shiver down my spine, focusing all my anticipation on satisfying her. I lower my voice, not because anyone could hear us, but to further subdue her: «So no one can hear you. Only me», I emphasize.

And then, finally, I take the vial from my pocket and unstop it with a determined gesture, gripping it with my right hand, careful not to let a drop fall. Meanwhile, my left hand cups Cassandra's chin, raising her face even more towards mine.

I bring the vial to her lips: «Now open your mouth and stick out your tongue», I say to her, before sliding the potion down her throat, until the last drop.

Chapter 18: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

I swallow the potion that Sharp had me dribble onto my tongue and down my throat, pressing the fingers holding the vial against my lips, arousing in me the instinct to suckle them. He watches as I gulp down every drop of this tasteless liquid, save for a faint hint of sugar; his eyes fixed on mine, within which glimmers the flame of a primal hunger, while he strokes my chin with his thumb. I am completely at his mercy, without weapons or means to defend myself. And yet, it's what I desire.

However, I don't feel any changes in my body or my mind. Sharp senses the perplexity in my expression, eager to receive what he has promised me.

«You're thinking it's not taking effect, little Doyle?», he asks in a deep voice, catching me completely off guard by using an endearment.

I feel my cheeks burning, and not just from the proximity to the lit fireplace. I nod quickly, and he chuckles lowly, biting his lip, terribly seductive. He leans in closer to me, our faces just inches apart, his scent filling my nostrils and making the situation even more exciting. «And you thought I'd create a potion you'd immediately feel the effects of?», he says, mocking my naivety.

Still gazing at me, he moistens his lips with his tongue, while running his thumb over mine. Instinctively, I kiss him as soon as he touches me, closing my eyes to the pleasant sensation his touch elicits. When I reopen them, Sharp is still looking at me, aroused, and I feel anticipation growing inside me, my heart beating faster.

«I like it when you do that, little one... but I have a feeling you could do better». His voice is now like a stream of molten lava coursing through my body, from my ears to my chest and then to my lower abdomen, as he gently but firmly pushes his thumb into my mouth. My tongue immediately welcomes it, and I obediently begin to suckle it, eager to please him in every way.

Without breaking this contact, he straightens up again, tall and imposing above me, while with a nod of his head towards my shoulder, he orders me: «Take it off». I do as he says and, still without averting my gaze or interrupting the eager suction on his digit, I remain wearing only the nightshirt, light and sleeveless, my bare arms shivering from the cold.

Sharp's gaze travels over my entire body, lingering on those most sensitive points, still covered by the light fabric. I'm desperate to undress. I suck on his finger, going deeper, encircling it with my tongue and clearly sensing on his skin the taste and smell of tobacco, of the cigarettes he smokes, and leather, from the suitcase he brought with him.

It's a sensation I've never experienced before: being so aware of how reactive my senses are, on edge, adept at receiving every taste and smell, unleashes within me a visceral and animalistic desire. And the only one who can satisfy it is the man standing in front of me, releasing a hoarse and excited sigh as my tongue teases his digit.

All of Sharp's excitement pours into his groin, and from this position, I have a perfect view of his trousers, under which his cock begins to swell, becoming harder and larger. The buttons strain against the fabric, and I feel the urgency to free his member, but even more so to touch it, to feel how hard and warm it is.

I move my hand towards his groin, but Sharp is quicker and blocks it with his own, gripping my wrist. «Not tonight. I never said your reward would consist of this», he says, aware of torturing me cruelly... so why is my underwear getting wetter and wetter?

He slowly releases his thumb from my lips, wetting them with my own saliva. «Do you want it so much? My cock?», he asks, and as much as his question sounds more like a command with only one answer, I can only submit to his will and nod, swallowing all my desire and excitement.

Sharp leans back over me, pressing me against the armchair. Our bodies are now very close, boiling and trembling, as he brings my arm above my head, his fingers still tightly gripping my wrist in a painful grip. Even the sense of touch has sharpened, making me so sensitive that I can almost feel the blood coursing through his veins and our bones brushing against each other under our respective flesh. He brings his face close to my ear, scratching my cheek with his beard, and whispers in a deep voice: «Will you be patient enough to earn it?».

Damn it, I hate him. I hate the way he takes advantage of my weakness, how he uses it to hold me in his grip and manipulate me. But I can't silence the excitement flooding between my legs, pressing them together just to feel the slightest contact around my clitoris, and his breath on my skin renders me completely submissive. With a moan, I reply: «Yes... yes, Sharp... Anything you want». Anything just to have him inside me, in any way.

His laughter rings clear in my ear, perceiving every note of his voice, which immediately becomes the most beautiful and enchanting sound I've ever heard, comparable only to the sirens that enchanted Odysseus. «So obedient, and so arousing», he says in a whisper, before biting my earlobe.

A cry of pain escapes my lips, only serving to excite him further: he presses his body against mine, almost straddling me, imprisoning me and preventing me from moving. He takes advantage of my open mouth, from which excited sighs escape caused by his kisses on my neck, to moisten his thumb again with my saliva. Once wet, he moves it along my jawline, then onto my neck and chest, where with a decisive stroke, he lowers the neckline of my nightshirt. The sound of threads giving way and tearing under the pull resonates like bones breaking in my extraordinarily sensitive ears, while Sharp finally takes one of my breasts in his hand and squeezes it eagerly, stroking my nipple with his wet thumb, immediately causing it to harden.

It's as if an electric shock surges from his fingers deep into my body, making me tremble and arch my back as if he's already inside me. A sensation like no other, never experienced before, and one that I almost fear could bring me to climax even before being actually touched. Meanwhile, Sharp's mouth has moved to the curve of my neck, nibbling and sucking on the sensitive skin, with the precise intent of marking his territory once again, to remind me that my body belongs to him. His kisses blend with my excitement like liquid gold, and his hands grip me expertly, as if they were created only to touch me, as if he had always done only this.

But what fills me with the most overwhelming excitement is that he's finally here in front of me, that I can see his body, the muscles flexing under the white shirt trapping me. He buries his face in the hollow of my neck as if he were a vampire and his survival depended solely on sucking every drop of my blood.

With my free hand, I weave my fingers through his long, soft hair, bringing his face even closer to my body, betraying the primal need to feel his skin against mine. He senses it, and from the excited sigh he emits, I can tell he enjoys feeling like he occupies every crevice of my desires.

His beard scratches me as his mouth descends onto my breast, encircling one nipple, while the other is still captive to his fingers, in an endless and pleasantly painful teasing. When his tongue finally begins to touch my sensitive skin, even more so than usual because of the potion, I exhale a moan of pleasure, my hips pushing against his body, desperate to finally be touched in my most intimate spot. I feel him chuckle at my excitement, aware that he is everything I long for in this moment. He sucks more eagerly, almost leaving me breathless as waves of pleasure arch my back and my mind fills with desires, each more obscene than the last, where the two of us are the protagonists.

I tighten my grip on his hair, pulling slightly, only serving to excite him even more. His suction on my breast becomes a bite, and he stops playing with the other nipple to take advantage of my arched back, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me even closer to him. Our flesh is now one, his rough and toned against my smooth and soft, in a contrast that only intoxicates me further, making me think that there is nothing more beautiful and perfect.

He sucks one last time, longer and more intensely, making me whimper with pleasure, and then he lifts his face, his hungry eyes locking onto mine. Returning to my height, he presses me even more against the back of the armchair and tightens his grip on my wrist, immobilizing it painfully. My free arm, meanwhile, lies limply on his shoulder, and he releases his hold on my waist to caress the bare skin of my limb with his fingertips, stimulating points on my body with his touch that I didn't even know were erogenous.

He rests his forehead against mine, completely dominating me, our lips very close. I ardently desire for him to bridge the distance between us, but he doesn't. A moment of clarity allows me to think that he may not want to do so to avoid crossing that thin line that separates sex from something more intimate, emotional.

Before I can even realize that this causes me a slight sadness, his hoarse and deep voice brings me back to the present: «I don't think you need this, what do you say?», he asks, his fingers brushing against the fabric of my nightshirt.

I shake my head slightly, as much as I can, and let myself be intoxicated by his breath, his scent, his eyes on mine. He's so beautiful that it makes me want to scream.

He moves slightly away from me, guiding my movements as well, never breaking eye contact with me. There's an unprecedented energy and sexual tension between us, intoxicating me and giving me confidence to the point where I feel invincible, powerful, and beautiful. And it's all thanks to the way Sharp looks at me, eager to see me naked, to strip me not only of my clothes but also of every defense. I don't make him wait any longer: I kneel on the armchair and he does the same, on the soft carpet, only removing his hands from my body to allow me to remove my nightshirt. I let it slide over my arms, my hair falling in soft curls on my fair skin, and I remain with only my panties on, much smaller and less cumbersome than those in vogue according to Victorian fashion.

Sharp, who was unbuttoning his shirt, stops halfway and looks up at me, surprised but at the same time, if possible, even more excited. «And these?», he asks, intrigued.

I smile at him, biting my lip as his hands begin to slide over my body. «A well-patented Severing Charm», I reply as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

He smiles, as his mouth dangerously approaches the edge of my lingerie, and his voice is a warm caress right on my most sensitive point: «I've always liked Diffindo as a spell».

His teeth grasp the thin and light fabric, pulling it slightly downward and revealing even more of me. He kisses my skin passionately, moving up to my belly and sternum, stopping again on my breast, the turgid and bruised nipples barely covered by my disheveled hair. He moves them behind my shoulders, uncovering me completely, cheeks blushing slightly as I stand almost entirely naked in front of him. He moves slightly away from me, hunger in his eyes as he almost reverently observes every inch of my body.

«Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?», he asks, his hands caressing my waist, moving down to my hips.

Hearing him say that ignites a fire within me, and it makes me feel truly beautiful. «You tell me», I tease him.

His fingers slip into my panties, playing with the fabric, prolonging the wait agonizingly and making me even wetter. «Let me show you», he says simply, grabbing my buttocks with an excited grunt and pushing me back against the armchair, towering over me. He ensures that I lie with my back on one armrest and my legs on the other, and he resumes kissing my stomach, moving lower and lower. I raise my hips towards him, allowing him space, and finally, he removes the last piece of fabric separating my excitement from him.

He strokes my legs as if he has all the time in the world, lingering with slow and long kisses that dangerously ascend higher and higher towards my thighs. I don't lose sight of any of his movements, while getting lost in the fluid and expert movements of his arms. Until I met Sharp, I couldn't imagine that this pair of limbs could be sensual and fascinating, but he is destroying each of my certainties one by one. I could get lost in the intricate network of prominent veins, counting the scars that occasionally stand out on his tanned skin, under the dark hairs that make his rugged and masculine beauty more pronounced.

Almost without thinking, I bring my fingers to his, which sink into the tender flesh of my left side. For a moment, our hands intertwine, and Sharp looks up at me. He lightly tightens my fingers with his, interrupting the contact of his lips with my skin and moving up to my face. We're so close that our lips brush against each other's, but we're both so stubborn that we dare not give in first.

I lose myself in his eyes, dark and deep wells, trying to read every strength but also every imperfection, every weakness. I raise my hand to his face and caress his left cheek, running my fingers over the scar that crosses it. Before I can say anything, I bridge the few inches that separate us and place my lips on his cheekbone, kissing the skin raised by the wound. A soft and gentle kiss, as if I wanted to heal even the deepest ones. He yields slightly, kissing my neck, inhaling all my scent.

I move my hand lower, to his shirt, playing with the fabric. «And I don't think you need this», I whisper, impatient to feel his skin against mine.

He chuckles against my neck. «Patience is a great virtue, little and eager Doyle...», he replies, making me shiver.

«Don't you think I deserve to feel your body against mine?», I ask him, as my hand begins to descend towards the few remaining buttons.

He leans back slightly and replies: «I don't know if you deserve it... but you're so beautiful that I can make an exception». But instead of letting me undress him, he grabs the shirt, pulling it out of the pants that barely contain his erection, and takes it off, revealing his trained torso, the hinted abs, the chest hair that continues in a dark line under the navel, hinting at everything I ardently desire.

«You're beautiful too», I confess, placing a hand on his chest and the other on the nape of his neck, pulling him towards me so that our bodies touch, warm and excited, trembling with anticipation and pleasure. He smiles at me with his usual brazen expression while his thumb caresses my left cheek, where there is a sprinkle of small freckles, with a sweetness that clashes with his typical arrogance, and even with the fact that he insists on not kissing me on the mouth.

Being touched by him is the most beautiful sensation in the world, and I hope it remains so even when the effect of the potion fades away. His caresses seem to enter me, and I am so focused on his hand on my face that I almost don't notice that his left hand, after gently caressing my breast and waist, is now resting on my side, exerting a slight pressure to open my thighs slightly. I comply with his wish, moving my leg outward, my foot dangling on the floor. With agonizing slowness, Sharp's hand moves towards the center, skimming over my pulsating excitement.

His fingertips caress my pubic area and descend slowly, caressing my labia, giving me intense shivers of excitement. However, Sharp doesn't seem to touch me where I want it most, deliberately prolonging the moment when he will finally give me pleasure, reveling in my eyes begging him to go deeper.

An exasperated moan, more like a whimper, makes him laugh. «What's wrong?», he asks me, as if he doesn't already know the answer.

«Sharp, please», I say in a desperate whimper.

«Please, what?», he continues, exasperating me.

«Fuck me... Please», I manage to murmur.

His arrogant smile resurfaces. He knows he has me in his grip, and from how his erection presses against my leg, I understand that this slow torture he inflicts on me is an integral part of his excitement.

«From the moment you ask me so politely...». His voice is a hoarse whisper that leads me to the top as his fingers caress me between the wet folds of excitement. He moistens his thumb slightly and places it on my clitoris, starting to pleasure me with slow and circular movements, while his fingers become tongues of fire as they penetrate me almost completely.

«Am I the one making you so wet?», he asks, looking into my eyes to enjoy every twitch of pleasure.

I want to surrender completely to his will, but I can't help but tease him again, to see how far he can push me: «And who else, then?», I reply, aware of triggering something in him. Indeed, his eyes ignite, with the same spark as when he sees me chatting for a few minutes too long with male students. Jealousy, perhaps?

The hand that until a few seconds ago was gently caressing my cheekbone descends to my neck, tightening his fingers around it and cutting off my breath. «I hope for you, no one», he replies.

A choked moan rises to my lips, in his eyes all the malice and perversion accumulated over these months of close contact, constantly provoking each other, aware that our stubborn back-and-forth would lead us to what is happening right now. He fills me as if he had always done only and solely this, skillfully touching all the points where I enjoy the most, making me feel like the most beautiful and desired woman on Earth. He pleasures me as if it were a vital mission, as if his own existence depended on it. His pleasure resides entirely in the way he looks at me, in how he makes me wriggle beneath him, in the awareness he revels in knowing that after tonight, I will want only him.

Continuing to tighten his fingers around my neck, he begins to avidly kiss it, sucking on the flesh, almost as if he wants to devour me. With one final push, he fully enters his fingers into me, a scream dying on my lips, choked by the grip of his hand on my throat. He chuckles against my skin, nibbling on my jaw and getting closer and closer to my mouth, but never daring to place his there.

With difficulty, I manage to ask him in a whisper: «Why don't you kiss me?».

He slightly lifts his gaze to me. «You're really impatient, Doyle. Should I perhaps think that you don't want my cock?», he replies. The way he's so damn explicit about it excites me to death.

The remote possibility of displeasing him, however, prompts me to confess: «Fuck, I want it»

«Then learn to wait, and you'll have everything you want». He dives back onto my flesh, avidly kissing the hollow of my shoulder, just above the collarbones, while his fingers continue to pleasure me, penetrating and caressing me.

The circular movements on my wet clitoris make me lose more and more lucidity, leading me closer and closer to ecstasy. However, like an expert, he notices when it's too much, when he risks making me come, and then he slows down the rhythm, cradling me in a limbo of pleasant torture, prolonging the moment when I release all my pleasure.

«When?», I ask him in a breath.

«How much you talk, you little insolent», he says, biting the soft flesh just above my breast hard enough to make me grimace in pain.

I insist, unable to accept his refusal to kiss me when he's penetrating me with his fingers and sucking every inch of skin: «When?».

He raises his head again to me, detaching from my breast and returning to look me in the eyes. «If you keep asking, you won't even have my fingers», he threatens, tightening his hand around my neck while retracting the other, leaving me empty and without pleasure. He looks at me with a sustained expression, as if presenting me with an ultimatum to which there is only one possible answer. An answer we both know.

Struggling, I respond with swollen eyes, a touch of panic coloring my voice at the thought that all this might end at its peak: «I hate you, Sharp».

He smiles at me again, the typical arrogance of the winner on his face, which somehow makes him even more fascinating. «No, you don't hate me», he says in a hoarse laugh, while loosening his grip on my neck to cup one breast with his hand. He brings it to his mouth, his tongue playing with my nipple and electric shocks running down my back.

«A little bit», I reply, not serious at all, placing one hand in his soft hair, while with the other, I gently scratch his back.

He looks at me with that smile that has become my favourite thing in the world since tonight. «I hate you a little bit too», he says boldly, but without bothering to disguise the obvious lie in his voice. Meanwhile, another finger makes its way inside me, catching me completely by surprise, and I moan loudly, arching my back to this sudden and more intense surge of pleasure.

I feel my cheeks warm and flush with intoxication when, between moans, I manage to tell him: «That's a lie».

Sharp returns for one last time to the level of my face and presses his lips against my ear, his breath making me shiver as he whispers: «You started it».

His mouth then begins a slow descent, during which he stops to kiss every possible point on my body, skillfully choosing those that give me the most pleasure, like an experienced musician who knows his instrument perfectly and knows how to play the right notes. Once he reaches my lower abdomen, he starts kissing the taut skin over my hip bones, holding me still with an arm wrapped around my thigh, as if he knew in advance that I would push my hips towards him.

His fingers now move relentlessly slowly inside me, while he starts spreading kisses of fire on my inner thigh, making me moan and release all the tension of the anticipation accumulated so far.

The way he shows that he cares about my pleasure is a balm to my heart, the way he worships my body takes me to the top and then makes me fall back down, forcing me into an endless cycle of anticipation and desire. I want him inside me, I want to feel every part of him merging with me, never leaving me. I can't wait any longer.

«Sharp... this is torture», I murmur softly, trembling with anticipation.

His kiss on my groin turns into a light, excited bite, at my words full of desire for him. «I never said it wasn't», he says, kissing me deeper inside and making me shiver at the proximity of his mouth to my most extreme pleasure. His fingers push deeper inside me, and his thumb increases the pace on my clitoris, taking my breath away.

«I'll show you – Sharp continues – that when I fuck you, my cock isn't needed to make you come...». He places a soft, slow kiss on my pubic area, making me even wetter. He pushes his fingers deeper inside me again before adding: «...so you'll desire it even more».

Finally, his lips close around my clitoris, sucking it eagerly while continuing to penetrate me with his fingers. The sensation of his warm tongue on that swollen and highly stimulated little protrusion makes me see stars, and I start to moan louder, unable to articulate any coherent words. I wouldn't be able to: the pleasure he's giving me is too great to think about anything else.

I forget everything around me, the place where we are, the person I have become within these ancient walls: there is only me and this mysterious and beautiful man who has chosen to satisfy only me.

He moves the arm that had been wrapped around my leg, placing it on his shoulder, as if he wanted to imprison himself between my thighs, and moves his hand downwards. I feel him fiddling with his trousers, and the excited grunt that escapes his mouth as he continues to devour me tells me that he has finally freed his cock from the confines it has been confined to all this time. He starts to masturbate slowly, so as not to end this pure moment of ecstasy, in which we are closer than ever, reveling in each other's pleasure, giving ourselves to each other mutually.

As I am overwhelmed by pleasure, by his kisses, and by his tongue savouring all my juices, I can't help but think how much I wish he would penetrate me completely, that we would truly unite, and I hope he truly keeps his word as an Auror. I can't make do with just his fingers and his tongue, as incredibly skilled as he is with both.

He touches me in the most sensitive spot, and I can't control myself: I arch my hips and back, a scream escaping straight from my lungs, completely overwhelmed by the sparks igniting inside me. In an uncontrollable spasm, my leg pushes against his back, bringing him even closer to me. His body is warm, excited, and vibrant; I want him on top of me, fucking me mercilessly.

«Finally, I hear your beautiful voice», he tells me, his lips brushing against my clitoris.

I open my eyes, blurred by tears of pleasure, and look at him while he's still between my legs, a light in his eyes that I've never seen before but I know is binding me to him irrevocably. «I was starting to worry you didn't like it», he continues, well aware of the opposite. The beard glows in the flames of the fireplace, moist with my juices.

«H-how could I... not like it?», I reply, breathing heavily.

I see his arm moving against himself, giving him pleasure. I wish he would let me touch him, but I dare not ask him. Instead, he smiles, running his tongue over his teeth. «Excellent... because you taste divine, and I don't want to be deprived of it». He licks me deeply, sucking eagerly, another scream escaping from my lips, and then removes his fingers. The void he leaves inside me is immediately filled by a cascade of juices because he fixes his eyes on mine as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking all my pleasure left on them.

«Turn around», he orders me, and I dare not refuse. I do as he says, and he immediately grabs one of my buttocks with his hand, arching my hips and offering myself to him.

«It's a shame you can't see yourself», he says in a low voice, with that husky, velvety tone that gives me shivers. He continues to caress me and sink his fingers into my flesh, suddenly as soft as butter to his touch, and then says something that leaves me speechless: «You're so beautiful that you'd fall in love».

Before I can even realize the extent of what he just said, he forcefully enters me with his fingers, penetrating me deeply, making me see stars. He increases the pace, my screams blending with his heavy sighs of pleasure, while hot tears stream down my eyes, streaking my cheeks.

«Sharp... harder...», I beg, moaning, matching the movements of his fingers with my hips.

«Say the magic word», he orders, dangerously slowing down the pace.

I hurry to answer him in a whisper: «P-please!».

«Your every desire is a command», he replies, adding a third finger to the two already inside me, painfully increasing the speed at which he touches every nerve, giving me unparalleled pleasure. I thank every pagan and non-existent deity for granting us magic because otherwise by now my screams would have been heard even in the dungeons.

He leads me to the edge, relentlessly. I grab the soft fabric of the armchair's armrest, the padding bending under my grip and muffling my screams, and I feel like I can't hold on any longer.

Sharp notices it, and at that moment, intensifying the speed with which he penetrates me with his fingers, he leans over me, pressing his cock against my body, between my buttocks: it's hot, pulsating, rock hard, and huge. Just as I've always imagined it in my most impure fantasies.

He knows I can't resist anymore, and he rubs against me at the same rhythm his fingers are fucking me. It's as if a hook grabs my heart and pulls it down, right to the point where my pleasure explodes rampant, in a liberating scream, intoxicated and clouded by the most intense orgasm. We plummet down the precipice together, Sharp collapsing against me, his chest on my back and his satisfied and satiated sigh in my ear, his seed pouring out in hot droplets on my skin as I convulse, shaken by shivers.

We breathe together, synchronizing our breaths, accompanying each other in the euphoria of the magical sensation that follows the orgasm, where everything is blurred and confused. His fingers slow down until my breathing becomes more regular, while he kisses my shoulder and neck, slowly. Warm kisses, full of care and attention.

He doesn't stop until he's sure he has satisfied me enough; he removes his fingers, leaving me exhausted, mumbling disjointedly, while he chuckles in my ear: «Tell me how it feels to be the inspiration for this potion».

«I want more», I whisper, with a cheekiness that isn't usually mine.

His laughter is deep, genuine. «If you're good, and patient», he emphasizes, and I find myself hoping with all my heart that there will be a second time as he kisses me one last time before getting up. «Don't move», he tells me, as the cold starts to take over my body, creeping over my previously warmed skin from his touch.

I feel him fumbling somewhere in the room, unable to move, with my eyes closed and weakened by the wave of pleasure that crashed within me. After some time, I feel his hand on my back, along with something light and soft: a handkerchief, with which he's cleaning me from his semen and my juices. A gesture completely unexpected from him, of unparalleled sweetness.

«Thank you», I murmur, opening my eyes, watching him as he folds the handkerchief. His pants are slightly unbuttoned, allowing me to see a few more inches of skin, the dark line of hair disappearing into the fabric. His long hair is slightly tousled from the fervor, and if possible, he's even more beautiful, with the tongues of fire from the fireplace illuminating his bare chest and arms. A subtle awareness creeps into my heart; I've felt this sensation before, and I had promised myself it wouldn't happen so easily again. But this damned and mysterious man has done nothing but dismantle every certainty I had.

He smiles at me and extends his hand to help me stand up. I struggle to rise, my legs trembling slightly as his hand on my waist helps me stabilize. He looks into my eyes, tall and so close that I think he's about to kiss me... but he doesn't.

He bends down to the floor and picks up my nightshirt and panties, so I can get dressed. When he straightens up, however, I don't miss the expression and the pained grunt he stifles between his teeth.

«Are you okay?», I ask, concerned.

He nods, shrugging, as if it's no big deal, a nuisance he's used to. «Don't worry», he tries to reassure me.

Noticing my furrowed brows and worried expression, he tries to lighten the mood by smiling, caressing my face. «You're too beautiful to frown like that», he says, surprising me and leaving me breathless for a moment. As if he's just realized he's made a misstep, he moves away from me, leaving me alone in front of the fire. With a sigh, I dress myself, and when I turn around, I see him open the tobacco tin and light a cigarette. I know he won't come near me again tonight, and the wonderful euphoria from a few minutes ago gives way to a sea of sadness.

«Go to sleep, it's late. Tomorrow we have duties to fulfill, Professor Doyle», he says, taking a long drag from the cigarette.

I try to suppress the smile that his stubborn stoicism always causes me, masking it with an exasperated expression. «Professors don't behave like us», I reply.

«No. Not in class. But in their room…», he answers, holding my gaze, with that spark of mischief still in his eyes, reigniting a small flame of hope in me, wishing to spend more time like this together with him.

I bend down to pick up my book and wand, abandoned on the carpet. I extinguish the flames of the fireplace, and before crossing it to go back to my room, I say to him: «Goodnight, Professor Sharp».

«Goodnight. See you tomorrow», he replies, before retiring to his room and disappearing from my sight.

I climb the stairs slowly, trying to piece together what happened between us, not just tonight but in the last few months. I lie down in bed overwhelmed by a whirlwind of emotions, stroking Morgan's fur as she peacefully purrs next to me, while I welcome into my heart the only certainty I can rely on tonight: I'm falling in love with Sharp.

Chapter 19: SHARP

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The corridors are half-empty on this cold Saturday at the end of October. Everyone is in Hogsmeade for the first outing of the year, and I take advantage of the castle's tranquility to focus on perfecting the potion in the solitary quiet of my office; a task to which, lately, I've allowed myself less time than usual, distracted as I have been by what happened between Cassandra and me. The tension between us is palpable now, eager to tear each other's clothes off every time our gazes or paths cross – which, sharing a class, happens often. Seeing her finally naked, beautiful, and perfect, writhing and bending completely to my will, ignited an unprecedented desire in me. What happened a few nights ago in our quarters wasn't enough for me: I want more, knowing I'll never be satiated.

However, I've had to maintain strict self-control to not succumb entirely to the desire to penetrate her, to bury my cock deep inside her; all the while we were together, enjoying mutual pleasure, Ronen's voice kept echoing in my ears: "Haven't you seen how she looks at you?". As if it were impossible to realize or not to have noticed that Cassandra's attitude towards me has inevitably changed, even before ending up naked on that armchair.

I've seen it, I've noticed it, and I'm aware of it; I know that a deeper feeling is growing in her, much more serious than mere attraction, and that's why I didn't want it all to happen right away. That's why I make sure not to join her in our quarters when she's still awake, because she must not fall in love with me, she must not feel anything more than a colleague's affinity. I need her to be sure that things between us will not evolve, that they will remain as they are now, that there can only be great attraction between us and, with the consent of both, perfect sexual understanding... Perfect, like her. So much so that I cannot allow her to ruin her life behind someone like me, anchored to a past she can't let go of, which, although populated by traumas, is the only thing that keeps me alive. The memory of what happened that night in Scarborough keeps me prisoner in chains, slow but well-closed, blocking me forcefully every time I dare to believe I can move freely, surpassing the limits they impose on me, reminding me that I belong to that night, after which I stopped living like a normal person, starting to survive instead.

I can't let her, so young with her whole life ahead, waste time chasing me, trying to pull me out of the guilt I've been drowning in for ten years now, unable to truly succumb to it. She can't desire to spend her life beside someone like me, who out of pure egocentrism and too much self-assurance has lost everything he had. She can't force herself to live in this limbo, next to the ghost of the man I once was. And even if she did, she would soon realize what it means to live with me, with my demons, constantly tormented by physical pain, which however unbearable is nothing compared to the emotional pain, increasingly agonizing as time goes by. And then I know she wouldn't stay, she would leave me to follow her own path, her life as a free and happy woman where there's no place for me.

"Why don't you kiss me?", she asked when our lips were so close. And that's exactly the reason. It would have taken very little to give in, and I believed several times that I would, letting myself go, caught up in the emotional madness of the moment. But I had to resist, for me and for her. I can't deceive her with a promise I won't be able to keep, and I don't want to be the cause of her suffering. Those same sufferings I would like to make her forget with a kiss, losing myself completely in her eyes, venturing onto her lips like a pirate at the helm of a ship in a storm, her long dark hair like sails moved by the wind, and the curves of her body like high and sinuous waves...

An explosion and a sharp, acrid smell bring me back to reality: like a clueless first-year student, I let myself get distracted by thoughts that absolutely shouldn't cross the threshold of this classroom, and I added way too much spleenwart to the cauldron, making a mess and rendering the potion completely unusable. I empty the cauldron with a frustrated grunt and immediately pour myself a glass of Firewhiskey, sipping it with my back turned to the classroom, my gaze wandering over the expansive park before inevitably turning towards Hogsmeade. The smoke rising from the chimneys of the houses is visible even from this distance, thanks to the clear sky devoid of clouds. I imagine the chatter of the students on their trip, their comings and goings between shops and boutiques, the excited expressions of the younger ones and the relaxed ones of the older ones, finally free from studying. And I imagine that someone, even in this scenario, would seek refuge in the quiet of a shop like Tomes and Scrolls, their nose buried in the pages of a book. I can't help but think of Cassandra, it's stronger than me.

I sigh in frustration; the last thing I wanted was to feel so at the mercy of her influence. Even when she's not around, she manages to capture my attention, distract me, and make me wonder not only what she's doing, but especially who she's with. I tighten my grip around the glass, my knuckles turning white at the thought of someone approaching her with the intention of violating the same intimacy we shared a few days ago.

I empty the contents of the glass with a gulp, carelessly placing it on the worktable. I quickly glance at the remaining ingredients useful for the potion, and it turns out that a visit to Hogsmeade is precisely what I need, to see my old friend Parry Pippin. I put on my coat and leave the classroom; just outside the corridor, I use the green flame of the Floo Powder to save myself a tiresome walk along the rough path, and in a few seconds, I find myself at the crossroads of High Street, as expected, bustling with kids. I shake off the ash from my shoulders and, pulling my coat snugly around my neck to shield myself from the wind, I begin my reconnaissance tour of the village.

The streets are already adorned with carved pumpkins, enchanted paper cutouts shaped like howling ghosts and fluttering bats, and orange lights to welcome Halloween, and the excitement is palpable in the crisp air as the door of Honeydukes is continuously opened and closed, the scents of all sorts of sweets wafting into the nostrils. Despite the festive and exhilarating atmosphere, I avoid getting distracted once again and keep my eyes peeled at every corner, searching for that long mane of brown curls that I would recognize among a thousand. I peer into the windows of every shop within reach, searching for any motivation for her presence inside.

«Can I help you, Professor Sharp?», Albie Weekes asks me, after I've been wandering for over five minutes inside Spintwitches, feigning interest in saddles and baskets to attach to a broom handle.

«Oh, I was just browsing, Albie».

Normally, I'd happily stop for a chat about Quidditch, but not today. Yet, Weekes seems particularly chatty: «Next week, I should be getting an extra supply of Montrose Magpies scarves. I've had triple the requests compared to last year! Probably because of their win in the last European tournament, making them the favorites across the UK for upcoming competitions. Do you want me to set one aside for you?».

I smile and begin to excuse myself: «The one I have will be just fine, Albie, thank you». I've already grabbed the door handle, ready to step back out into the crowd, but I can't resist: I turn back to the shopkeeper and ask: «Have you happened to see a young woman pass by, with long, wavy brown hair and a cloak of emerald green velvet with silver snakes?».

Albie ponders, trying to remember: «Do you mean... Professor Doyle?»

«Yes. Has she passed through here?».

«No, but that cloak of hers caused a stir down at the school: the Quidditch team players came flocking in asking if it was possible to have one like it as their uniform for the matches».

I nod and finally take my leave, plunging back into the bustling streets. My feet lead me to Tomes and Scrolls, surely a stop more suited to Cassandra's outings, and there I pose the same question.

«Yes!», the young daughter of Thomas Brown responds eagerly from behind the counter. «Cassandra... I mean, Professor Doyle always comes here when she passes through Hogsmeade. She's one of our most loyal customers, isn't she, Dad?».

From the stairs, the owner leans over: «And when she was at Hogwarts, she was no different! I remember like it was yesterday the first day I saw her: it was summer, school had just ended, and Professor Fig decided to take her for a tour, to show her how wizards live among each other. She didn't go home, since...». He stops, realizing at the last moment the personal and private nature of this detail he was about to reveal about why Cassandra spent the holidays at school. Little does he know, much to my dismay, I am aware of it as well. He quickly changes the subject: «Well, from that day on, whenever and however she could, she never failed to pay me a visit. When she came of age, she was almost always here! And she was the only one who returned to the castle with her bag full of books, instead of sweets and Zonko's jokes».

Brown smiles, and I find myself doing the same, thinking of seventeen-year-old Cassandra, absorbed in examining the spines of books, reading their titles, choosing the one that struck her the most. I imagine her younger, in her school uniform, the Slytherin colors standing out against her fair complexion. A faint warmth radiates in the center of my chest.

«And do you happen to know where she was headed?», I ask, steering the conversation back to the main reason I entered the shop.

«No, but strangely enough, she didn't buy anything. It seemed more like she was killing time, as if she had an appointment with someone and was waiting for them».

I expected to hear everything but the word "appointment". «An appointment?», I repeat, surprised and annoyed.

Before Thomas Brown can speak again, his daughter intervenes, steering the conversation back to books: «But she was very interested in this book!». She steps out from behind the counter, heading to a shelf from which she takes a volume with a red cover and shows it to me as I approach her. Even before reading the title, I realize I'm genuinely intrigued by what Cassandra might like. And the coven of dancing witches, under the words "Covens and Rituals: A History of Female Magic" embossed in gold on the book cover seems to have realized it too.

I realize Miss Brown is waiting for a reaction from me, so I start with the first thing that comes to mind: «Yes, it doesn't surprise me. Professor Doyle is very interested in the subject»

«Yes, I've read her book! Truly an enlightening read!», the girl responds enthusiastically. «She would definitely like this», she adds, continuing to show me the book insistently. She gives me a knowing look, and I understand where she's going with this.

«I'll be sure to let you know then. How much do I owe you?», I exclaim.

The girl winks as she escorts me to the cash register, perhaps too aware of what went through my mind when I imagined Cassandra on a hypothetical date with someone. «That'll be 8 Galleons and 13 Sickles».

I lean in slightly towards her and lower my voice so no one else can hear: «And for your silence?»

«Free. I'm not interested in gossip about customers».

We exchange a knowing smile, and I leave the shop, putting the book in my pocket and continuing my search for Cassandra, already regretting what just happened. Not only will I have to give her a book, but my annoyance at the thought of her with someone was so evident that even the shopkeeper noticed it.

I light a cigarette, as if wanting to draw in all the annoyance this situation has caused me, and I head decisively towards Pippin, hoping to at least accomplish one of the two reasons I came to Hogsmeade for. Inside the shop, after Parry has provided me with the ingredients I need from the stock he keeps in the back, I'm about to ask him the same question when a crystalline voice comes from behind me: «Good morning, Professor Sharp!»

Turning around, I narrowly avoid bumping into Alice Haywood, who smiles radiantly and doesn't seem at all bothered by it.

«Good morning, Miss Haywood. Stocking up on ingredients for upcoming lessons?»

«Yes! Of course, Pippin's shop is a must-stop every time I come on a trip to Hogsmeade. How about you?».

Once again, I have to admit that Cassandra was right: I already suspected that Alice had a soft spot for me, but the enthusiasm with which she talks to me makes it obvious. However, I can use this to my advantage. «It's practically a must-stop for me too, Alice». I dare to call her by name and soften my voice a bit, wanting to make our conversation a bit less formal, and judging by the way she holds her breath, I'd say I hit the mark. «I was just about to leave. Do you mind if I keep you company? I won't steal your whole day, just the time for a cigarette»

«Oh, not at all, Professor», she replies, and follows me outside, sticking close to me.

I light my cigarette and casually say, being careful with my choice of words: «If we were far from prying eyes, I'd offer you one. But I'm afraid the news would reach the Headmaster even before we could return to school».

Alice looks at me with wide eyes, honored by the possibility that I might have even thought of offering her a cigarette. «Don't worry!», she replies politely.

«Are you waiting for someone?», I ask, exhaling smoke.

She nods: «Yes, Professor Sharp. I'm waiting for Helen Brown; she was supposed to stop by the post office first, so I thought I'd take the opportunity to stock up on ingredients for Potions classes»

«A wise decision», I reply.

She flashes one of her best smiles and continues, eager to make the most of the time I'm granting her: «Thank you! And are you waiting for someone?»

Now or never. «I'm supposed to meet Professor Doyle – I lie – but I really have no idea where she could be».

Alice's expression darkens, and her tone changes: «Oh, I see. Well, when I saw her, she was actually sitting at The Three Broomsticks with someone else». I don't miss the venomous tone with which she pronounces the words, but at the moment, I'm more interested in the fact that Cassandra did indeed have an appointment with someone rather than avoiding hurting the ego of one of my students.

«I hope my chatter about Alchemy classes won't ruin her pleasant company» I continue.

«I'm sure it won't, Professor. Work is work: the trip to Egypt they were talking about can wait».

I choke on the cigarette smoke. A trip to Egypt? Who the hell is she going to Egypt with? Why there? And when? Before I can ask her, Alice is joined by Helen, who greets me with the same ecstatic expression her friend had a few minutes ago.

«Come on, Helen, let's go inside. Goodbye, Professor Sharp, and have a good day», Alice says seriously, taking her friend's arm abruptly and entering Pippin's shop again.

«Goodbye, ladies», I reply, trying to regain composure and appear impassive and stoic as I head towards the Three Broomsticks. I'm not even sure if Cassandra is still there, but at least I could use the same excuse I used with Alice on Sirona to at least find out who she was with.

I open the door of the inn and observe the faces that populate the crowded establishment, with historians, patrons, and children with lips smeared with Butterbeer foam. No sign of her. I'm losing patience, and although I want to turn on my heel and start searching again, I know it wouldn't be a good idea to leave without consuming anything. It would seem suspicious, not to mention foolish. So, I approach the counter, greeting Sirona and ordering a glass of Dragon Barrel Brandy. I'm about to ask her if she's seen Cassandra when a voice to my right calls out: «Professor Sharp!». I turn and see Albus Dumbledore waving to catch my attention. What does he want now?

I suppose my curiosity will have to wait. I take the glass that Sirona hands me, pay the due amount, and make my way towards the table where the boy is sitting. I navigate through the crowd, dodging two traveling merchants, and as I approach, it's as if a bright light enters the room, illuminating it: Cassandra sits at Dumbledore's table. She's wearing a simple black wool dress, with embroidered collar and cuffs snug around her bust, and the smile she gives me when she sees me wipes away the impending anger rising within me at seeing them together once again, probably intent on organizing this much-discussed trip to Egypt.

«Professor Doyle, you're here too?», I start.

«It's a pleasure to see you too, Professor Sharp», she replies sarcastically, brushing her long hair behind her shoulder, just as I did the evening we were together to get a better look at her naked body. She's breathtaking.

«Please, take a seat, Professor!», Dumbledore exclaims, interrupting my flow of thoughts, all dedicated to the other person sitting at the table. «We were just talking about you, you know?»

«And what do I owe this honour to?», I ask, accepting the invitation and sitting between the two, observing closely how they behave and interact. In doing so, I subtly move my chair closer to Cassandra, our knees touching under the table, neither of us making any attempt to move away.

«Albus was talking to me about his plans for his imminent future...», she begins.

«Albus?», I interject, visibly annoyed by her addressing him by name.

«Yes. Albus, his given name. You know, people use it amongst themselves», she retorts, and from the way she looks at me, it's clear she's not happy that I don't afford her the same treatment.

Dumbledore senses the growing tension in the air and intervenes: «You see, Professor Sharp, my interest would be in teaching, but I don't want to close off other possibilities. So, it is my intention to get to know environments different from Hogwarts»

«That sounds like an excellent ambition, Mr. Dumbledore. Odd that the Sorting Hat didn't assign you to Slytherin», I retort, and I hear Cassandra stifling a chuckle. I realize that I quite enjoy making her laugh.

Dumbledore, slightly uncomfortable, continues: «I wanted to speak with you because, as a former Auror, no one knows the Ministry of Magic better than you»

«Do you want to join?», I inquire.

«Not as an Auror, Professor, but as a member of the Wizengamot. Professor Doyle believes it would be a more suitable role for me».

Now both of us look at her, waiting for an explanation. She clears her throat: «You see, Sharp, I believe that Albus could be a worthy Youth Representative to the Wizengamot. In addition to having excellent grades, he also has many interests, which would enable him to understand and take an interest in various branches of Wizarding Law. And for the school, his presence at the Ministry would certainly be an honor»

«And where do I come into play?», I ask, actually well aware of why they've drawn me here.

«Professor, given the high regard and admiration that the Ministry still holds for you, I would like to ask if you could put in a good word for me. If I'm not being too bold, of course», Dumbledore says all in one breath.

I lean back against the backrest, calmly drinking my brandy, weighing his words. «Undoubtedly, you are bold – I tell him – But luckily for you, Professor Doyle's words are all true. No one would be a better Youth Representative than you». I look at both of them, hanging on my every word, waiting for me to say what they desire. I relent: «I can't guarantee success, but I'll see what I can do».

Dumbledore lets out a sigh of relief, and Cassandra smiles reassuringly at him. «Thank you, Professor Sharp! It means a lot to me. Please, tell me how I can repay you».

"Stay away from her," I immediately find myself thinking. I know full well that it's me who's pushing her away, denying both of us the chance to spend time together and get to know each other better, but the fact that she shares more of herself with this boy than with me still irks me. Against all odds and common sense, I feel inexplicably bound to her.

I take another sip of my brandy: «Perhaps you could tell me what all this gossip about you two going to Egypt is», I toss out lightly, as if the worm of curiosity weren't gnawing at my insides.

This time it's Cassandra speaking, not without stifling a laugh: «We also wanted to talk to you about this, actually. Unfortunately, it's not something juicy like gossip». She holds my gaze, aware of the possibility of triggering a reaction from me, her eyes subtly lighting up as I slightly tense my jaw. «A few days ago, I received an invitation to attend the International Alchemical Conference in Cairo, which will take place in March. I talked to Albus about it because I believe he has a good chance of participating as well and getting to know the world's most important alchemists. Surely you agree that, with his excellent grades, he could present a good project that could seriously be recognized as innovative. But... I'm not the only one teaching Alchemy at Hogwarts»

«I remind you that I'm only assisting you in your first experience as a teacher», I reply, still irritated by the words Matilda used in August to practically force me into accepting the position.

Cassandra shakes her head. «Your contribution is valuable to the students, Sharp! And to me... it's important». She takes a breath, as if searching for the right words, and continues: «So... Albus and I will be going to the Conference in March. Would you... come?».

She looks at me hopefully, as if she needs to convince me. As if my voice doesn't want to shout yes, that I want to go with her, be together away from the school walls, from a code of conduct and rules that prevent me from living as I would like... As if I don't have a brain that brings me back to reality, immediately making me rationalize that it would be the most stupid and dangerous thing we could do. A brain that brings me back to reason and to which I must listen, no matter how beautiful the woman in front of me is or how much I would like to get to know her. I shake my head: «It would be a huge problem for the school. You've also seen that it's not adequately prepared to replace a teacher who has a heavy workload like mine. You two go; I'll cover your classes. So you'll have plenty of stories to tell when you return. And I can repay you for when you offered to substitute for my classes».

The hope in Cassandra's eyes turns into disappointment, and she looks away from me, fiddling with the petals of her Rosewater. I immediately regret rejecting her proposal, but I know it's the best thing I could do. Although she may think I'm rejecting her, I'm actually protecting her, shielding her from the demons that have plagued me for years, from the person I've become. It would be simpler if I gave her an explanation, but I can't burden her with my own baggage, because I know she would shoulder the weight, pretending to be fine, carrying it on her shoulders with tranquility, while it collapses underneath inexorably.

I observe her profile one last time and then briefly meet Albus's gaze. He looks at me with an expression that's indecipherable, somewhere between reproach and mortification. However, he understands that his presence is now too much in the sea of tension in which Cassandra and I constantly find ourselves floundering. He gets up from the table, saying: «Excuse me, Elphias Doge is waiting for me at Scrivenshaft. Thank you again, Professor Sharp. Thank you, Professor Doyle».

He walks away towards the door, leaving us alone, our knees still touching under the table. She doesn't look at me, but I could stare at her for hours: every wave of her hair, every flutter of her eyelashes, every movement to lose myself in, as if cradled by that water so similar in every way to her.

I know I hurt her, but better now than later. Nevertheless, I can't stand her contrite expression, and I try to remedy it.

«Doyle...», I begin, but she cuts me off, her voice unusually harsh.

«You regret it, don't you?».

I look at her confusedly: «What do you mean?».

She looks up at me and tries to control her voice, although her eyes are just a bit more watery than usual. «What happened between us. You regret it, right? You think we've made a mistake, and you want to tell me it's better to put an end to... whatever it is between us».

Her words hit me. I should grasp the wisdom hidden beneath her resentment, take advantage of the fact that she herself has hinted at the concrete possibility of ending it all here, of continuing our relationship with the formality required of two colleagues without any physical or, worse, emotional implications. Ending it before it becomes dangerously definitive.

«No. I don't have that intention», I say instead. Her eyebrows relax slightly, although her expression is veiled with a shadow of suspicion, as if she expects an attack and wants to be on guard, ready to face yet another disappointment. I feel a tightness in my chest, and I try to shake it off by rummaging in my pocket, avoiding those wonderful amber eyes of hers, large and dark, because I can't stand them looking at me like that. «I hope this makes you forget about Egypt for a moment».

I pull out the package of Tomes and Scrolls from my coat, certain that she'll immediately recognize the wrapping paper. «I dropped by to greet old Thomas – I lie – and it caught my eye. I thought you might like it». I know for sure that she'll like it, yet I can't wait to see her unwrap the package and smile.

Her fingers brush mine as she takes the parcel, her eyebrows still slightly furrowed but her eyes alive with curiosity. She unwraps the paper meticulously, enjoying every second of the anticipation that separates her from discovering what lies inside. When the red and gold cover is revealed to her, her expression changes completely, giving way to surprise and happiness.

«I can't believe it, Sharp! I saw it just this morning and wanted to buy it, but then Albus showed up and I promised myself I would come back later... and then you thought of it», she exclaims in one breath, looking up at me and meeting my gaze. In hers, all the gratitude and appreciation I didn't think I needed.

«Thank you» she says finally, smiling awkwardly, her body nervous, betraying her inability to contain all her enthusiasm. I must appear insensitive and apathetic to her because I don't show the slightest emotion, but the truth is that I'm just better at controlling them and hiding my desires.

«Your reaction was already thanks enough», I reply, returning the smile. She blushes slightly and looks back at the book, flipping it between her hands, glancing at the chapters and carefully observing the illustrations inside. Merlin's beard, I could watch her doing this for hours.

«Do you plan on lingering a bit longer, or may I have the honor of enjoying your company back to Hogwarts?», I ask suddenly, regretting so blatantly betraying my desire to spend my time with her.

She doesn't seem to mind. On the contrary, she joyfully accepts the proposal: «No, I don't have anything else to do, to be honest». She gets up and puts the book back in her bag, moving gracefully as she makes her way to the door of The Three Broomsticks, the patrons shifting to let her pass, watching her more than they should. I quicken my pace, as much as possible, trailing behind her, one hand already on the snuffbox and the other on my wand.

Outside, the wind has picked up, causing the temperature to drop. Cassandra tightens her cloak around her neck as I try to get the lighter to work, to make the feeble flame win against the icy gusts. The tip of a pink wood wand approaches me, glowing like an ember. I look up at her, who already has her cigarette in her mouth, lit and smoking. I light mine, nodding in thanks, and we head towards the edge of the village, crossing the bridge and emerging onto a beaten dirt path, dazzled by the sunlight reflecting off the vast expanse of the Black Lake, the massive rock upon which Hogwarts stands imposingly and which gives us a magnificent view.

We walk side by side in silence, enjoying the distant chatter of the students and the sounds of nature. I notice with sweet awareness that I no longer find her adapting to my pace annoying, moving much slower than she could, and as I scrutinize her face, I find no trace of annoyance or boredom in doing so. Just relaxation, of someone savoring and enjoying the moment. And I also enjoy her silent company, her presence, and the jasmine scent that lightly wafts in the air; I don't regret not suggesting we return with Floo Powder.

«Who would have thought – she says, breaking the silence – that the impenetrable Professor Sharp would give me a gift». She takes on a mock contemplative expression as she pretends to be interested in looking at the horizon, as if talking to herself.

«You're a terrible liar, Doyle, has anyone ever told you?» I reply, stopping and forcing her to turn towards me. «Your expressions always give you away». I resume walking, hands in my pockets, approaching her. When we are face to face again, I lower my voice slightly: «Even though you pretend otherwise, the desire to tease me is evident on that pretty face of yours».

She raises an eyebrow, pleasantly flattered: «Pretty face?»

«Don't pretend not to know that I think you're beautiful. I don't do what I did to you to just anyone».

She blushes visibly but smiles: «I'll have to find an appropriate way to return the favor, then», she replies. I knew she wouldn't resist my hint, and although I had promised myself to avoid continuing this game, although I try to resist temptation, I don't want to back down. I intend to get more and more entangled in danger, fully aware of the risk; to push myself as far as she desires, the growing desire to lose ourselves again and in a thousand other ways in mutual pleasure.

I suppress the desire and a laugh: «Patience...»

«... is a great virtue», she interrupts with a sigh, looking up at the sky and resuming walking towards the school. I follow her amused, with my hands in my pockets, observing all her movements and realizing that it's the first totally spontaneous moment we've spent peacefully together, without tension or ulterior motives. And I like it.

Despite walking slowly, my leg soon begins to stiffen, the scar burning with pain. The more time passes, the more I have to come to terms with the awareness that my resilience is decreasing, slowly but inexorably, like a continuous drip that erodes the rock. Before long, the pain becomes unbearable, as well as the burden of being a liability to the people around me, even more than to myself. For the splendid woman walking alongside me in Hogwarts' park, headed towards the Bell Tower.

As we pass through the walls, I can't hold on any longer. However well I can endure and swallow the pain, I've pushed my strength and energy beyond the limit, and now I'm paying the price. I'm forced to stop.

I don't call out to Cassandra, but it's unnecessary; she senses that I'm no longer walking beside her and turns towards me. We look at each other, and there's no need for words. I know she understands. I hate to garner sympathy, to show my greatest vulnerability. I want to shout at her to leave, not to think of me, not to pity me. But then she walks back towards me, shortening the distance between us once again. She doesn't say anything; she simply takes out a pack of cigarettes and offers me one, while already bringing the other to her lips.

«Here seems sheltered enough from the wind to use the lighter», she says, smiling at me knowingly, and for a moment it seems like she doesn't care at all about my disability, that she doesn't see it. That she only sees me. And since the day of the incident, it's the first time I've felt like this.

I light both cigarettes, unable to avoid looking into her eyes while she's so close to me, and that insane desire to kiss her wells up again, to savor her lips like one does with a ripe, juicy fruit. But I can't let instinct, no matter how strong, overpower reason.

«Do you want to sit down or would you rather stand?», she asks, trying to appear as natural and disinterested as possible.

«I prefer to stay here, on guard, so I can confiscate some Fanged Frisbees or Dungbombs when the kids come back», I reply, deliberately changing the main topic of conversation to divert attention from the reason we stopped.

She laughs, not hiding the disgusted expression that forms on her face. «Those things have always disgusted me! I can't understand why Alberic Grunnion invented them!»

«Do you even know the inventor of Dungbombs?», I ask, genuinely impressed by the amount of information crammed into her brain.

She shrugs: «Why, don't you?».

I sigh, playing along: «Doyle... I've already told you that you're a terrible liar and that your pretty face speaks for you», I say, emphasizing once again those words that struck a chord with her.

She blushes but doesn't back down: «Or you could admit that I know more things than you».

I take one last long drag of the cigarette and lean down slightly towards her, brushing her ear. I lower my voice to tell her: «I could... or I could think of the best way to make sure you're not so insolent».

Her fair skin shivers, like those times when I've made it bruised, sucking her greedily. I brush her lips with my thumb: «I know that more satisfying sounds can come out of your mouth than your arrogance».

She barely closes her lips around my fingertip, kissing it, trying to conceal the excited sigh my words elicit from her. She turns to look at me, our faces very close once again; she locks her breathtaking eyes with mine and whispers back: «Someone told me that patience is a virtue».

I bite my lip, cornered once again by my own torture game. «Someone very wise. I'd listen to them if I were you», I reply, distancing myself from her and thus interrupting any contact just as the voices of some students grow closer.

Cassandra waits for them to pass us, moving away just enough to ask me: «Shall we go in?».

My leg still hurts, but I've shifted all my weight to the other one, so I could give it some rest. «Gladly», I reply, starting to walk.

«Sharp, if you prefer, you can lean on me», she suggests. She does it without looking at me because she already knows I'll refuse, but I try to make the rejection as easy to digest as possible.

«I'm neither old enough nor willing to face the gossip that would arise if I dared to lean on your arm», I reply, thankfully making her laugh.

However, she holds the large wooden door open for me, allowing me to enter the marble-covered hall without difficulty.

«Thank you – I say – I guess our paths diverge here»

«Unless you're headed to the Library, I believe so», she replies.

I show her the bag of my purchases from Pippin's: «I have some duties as a Potions Master to fulfill»

«And I have a book I can't wait to read», she responds. She hesitates for a moment, then adds: «Thank you again, Sharp. I really appreciated it»

«It was a pleasure», I say. And it's true; I did it without any ulterior motive, just to see her look at me as she is doing now.

I feel time dangerously dilate around us as we hover in the middle, in a limbo that admits only one ending. I manage not to give in and bid farewell: «See you at dinner», I say, and no one can imagine how much it costs me to part ways instead of staying with her.

She nods, perhaps herself aware of that magic stronger than any spell that was enveloping the atmosphere around us. «Until later», she replies, and turns away, distancing herself definitively from me. I watch her ascend the stairs, the fabrics of her clothes accompanying the feminine and elegant movements of her body, and reach the door of the Library, disappearing inside. Suddenly, the Central Hall seems to darken, as if Cassandra had taken all the light with her.

Notes:

Hey friends ❤️ sorry for the late update but life (and work) happened 🫠 I hope you liked this new chapter and to publish a new one soon as well. Thank you for your support! ❤️

Chapter 20: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

I've spent the past few days organizing lessons and engaging in a flurry of correspondence with the most important figures in Alchemy, to prepare myself and Albus for the International Conference in Cairo. I haven't even been able to fully enjoy the Halloween celebrations, my favorite holiday of all. Together, we've started to develop an ambitious project to present during the event: combining the four elements and the key basic ingredients to actually create Energy. It seems contradictory, but my energy levels are practically depleted from the excessive amount of work I've put into the cause. Fortunately, after Albus requested assistance through the Wizengamot at the The Three Broomsticks, Sharp immediately stepped in to facilitate the boy's ascent, relieving me of a significant burden.

Ah, Sharp... We're both incredibly busy with our respective commitments, and now we never meet alone but only on occasions when we gather together with the students and other teachers, so either during classes or meals – definitely not the best times to test our undeniable mutual attraction. But when night falls and I lie in my bed, sleep struggles to come: I miss his hands, his kisses on my skin, the way he looked at me that October evening. I miss spending time together, and it's stupid to say considering it's been so little.

Sometimes I get the feeling that he's deliberately avoiding me. The fact that he refused to come to Egypt has opened a small wound in my heart. Maybe I was too confident, but I was convinced he would accept. And when I received that no, I was certain it would put an end to what had developed between us, to what we are. Instead, surprising me once again, he didn't, but he surprised me by giving me a book I wanted. It's not so much the gesture, undoubtedly appreciated, but more the thought he put into risking melting me like ice in the sun. I think he knows I like him, and a lot, and I would be truly naive to think it's not mutual. Yet, I don't know how far his attraction to me can go, if it's only physical or perhaps something more.

He's an extremely enigmatic man, and it's impossible for me to understand his emotions, he's so good at hiding and disguising them. He's so impenetrable that sometimes I get lost looking at him, trying to catch the slightest hint of vulnerability, losing myself in his beauty, in his dark eyes full of desire and passion. I want to be close to him, let myself be overwhelmed by his scent, bury my hands in those long, soft hair that I like so much, and feel the warmth of his skin against mine.

I'm thinking about this, watching him grade papers while sitting at the Faculty Lounge table, when Ronen and Mudiwa enter, abruptly pulling me from my comfortable cloud of desires and thrusting me back into the real world.

«Good morning, everyone!», Abraham booms with enthusiasm, addressing the two of us and Dinah, seated a few chairs away. He approaches Sharp and gives him a paternal pat on the shoulder: «And happy birthday, Aesop!».

Happy what?

«Happy birthday, Aesop! This seems like the perfect occasion to read the stars and know your horoscope for today, don't you think?», Mudiwa adds. In contrast, I furrow my brows. I had no idea it was Sharp's birthday, and I can't deny that finding out this way causes me a slight sadness. Sure, it's true that I never asked him when he was born, but no one (least of all him) even bothered to tell me. What's not clear yet about the fact that he doesn't open up to me?

Sharp leans back in his chair, resting his back and head against the backrest, sighing, visibly skeptical of Professor Onai's proposal: «Thank you for the wishes, but I'm reluctantly forced to decline your enticing offer, Mudiwa»

«Why not, though?», I say, and all four heads turn towards me, but I'm only focused on one of them. «Let's see what the stars have in store for you, Sharp, since it's such an important day». He looks at me sternly, surely sensing all the venom and resentment in my voice, stemming from the disappointment of learning such an important thing this way.

Mudiwa doesn't need to be told twice and takes a piece of parchment, moving her wand over it: «Aesop Sharp, born on November 17th, 1854 in Montrose, Scotland, at 3... what time, Aesop?».

He runs a hand over his eyes, clearly annoyed but resigned to the whole process: «At 3:43 pm».

Mudiwa nods and continues: «Born at 3:43 pm under the sign of Scorpio, with a Taurus rising. Sun in Scorpio, Moon in Libra».

As the professor moves her wand over the parchment, tracing lines, circles, and intertwined symbols, I reflect on the few pieces of information I've just acquired. Sharp is turning 44 today... 16 years older than me. I had gathered he was considerably older, but knowing exactly how many years, and therefore life experiences, separate us is a whole other thing. At least, knowing he's a Scorpio explains why he's so enigmatic and mysterious.

«Mars predominant with Mercury influencing it try to counter the advances of Venus and the Sun», Mudiwa begins. Perhaps I'm the only one in the room who truly understands what she's talking about, so I listen attentively. «It seems to be a period of prosperity, but Saturn blocks you, demanding perfection and control. And Neptune... really?». She gives another wave of her wand and the lines move again on the parchment: «Neptune has been casting shadows over some certainties for a few months now»

«Please, with all due respect, enough with this stuff», Sharp says, skeptically.

«For how long, Mudiwa?», I ask instead.

She looks at me, thrilled that someone is genuinely interested in the topic, and promptly responds: «For about three months». Then her gaze changes and her expression becomes pensive. She slightly lowers her gaze to Sharp and then turns it back to me, as I nervously bite my lip. We both know that Neptune can indicate reluctance, confusion, but also the transformation of uncertainty into certainty; and the fact that it has been influencing Sharp's life since we met can't be just a coincidence.

«In any case, the Moon invites you to welcome Venus and not to be distracted or influenced by the temporary beauty and benefits of Jupiter», Divination Professor concludes briskly, closing the parchment, which has meanwhile turned white again, with a firm and decisive wave of her wand.

«Thanks for the warning, Mudiwa. It would be really helpful if only I understood anything», Sharp replies, sarcastic as usual. I, on the other hand, have understood enough: Venus is the feminine planet, of beauty and seduction, which the rationality of Mercury and Saturn try to block. Venus is me, balancing between rationality, Mars's passion, and the desires of the Moon, while I float in Neptune's mist, waiting for informed certainties to materialize. But who the hell is Jupiter? And what does it want? Why does it influence him and risk distracting him?

Ronen's voice brings me back to reality: «You'll be there tonight at The Three Broomsticks, won't you?».

Right. Sharp's birthday. The birthday for which celebrations are planned that I'm not included in. «I'm afraid not, Abraham», I say, gathering my things to leave.

Ronen's expression is genuinely astonished: «No? Why ever not?»

«Because it so happens that Sharp couldn't be bothered to invite me. Until just now, in truth, I wasn't even aware that today was his birthday. And now, if you'll excuse me», I say, seething with anger and sadness, not looking anyone in the eye so they don't see the tears that sting to come out and I struggle to hold back. I'm behaving immaturely, I'm aware, but at the moment I don't care at all if I give the professors something to talk about.

I move quickly, passing by Sharp and hearing him sigh in frustration as my surname dies on his lips. He should stop calling me Doyle! I have a first name, like everyone else, that I much prefer to the surname that reminds me so much of my father. I swing open the door of the Faculty Lounge and close it firmly, making sure not to slam it: I don't want to attract the attention of students who would be much less forgiving than the teachers with their gossip.

I walk, without a specific destination in mind, but simply letting my feet carry me as far away from Sharp as possible. But the marble echoes the irregular rhythm of his footsteps, and it takes very little for his voice to follow, calling out to me: «Doyle!».

I don't intend to turn around, and for the first time since I've known him, I quicken my pace up the stairs, hoping to make him give in, to make him understand that I want to be left alone. Since he didn't include me in his plans, it shouldn't be too difficult a concept for him to grasp.

But Sharp doesn't give up: his footsteps echo behind me, and his voice tries to draw me to him, the tone increasingly pained, making me feel terribly guilty but I mustn't give in.

«Cassandra!», he finally bursts out on the landing of the Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom. I freeze and turn to face him, terribly confused. My heart pounds in my chest, absolutely thrilled that Sharp has finally called me by my name; my head, however, tells me not to give in to the emotion and euphoria of the moment, not to allow him to play with my feelings at his leisure.

The chest on which I've placed my hands is heaving and moving to catch its breath, and his left leg trembles slightly. I hope he's not suffering because of me, but as good as he is at simulating the opposite, I know it's not true.

«You finally remember my name! Or perhaps you chose to use it only to get my attention?». The words come out harsh from my throat, perhaps a little too bitter. But I can't pretend not to be angry and disappointed.

«It worked, it seems», he replies, not at all upset by my bitterness. I didn't expect him to respond like this... actually, I don't really know what I expected. Maybe that he would fall at my feet begging for forgiveness? Poor fool!

I approach him slightly: «What do you want?», I ask, maintaining a tough and determined expression.

«I want to apologize. It wasn't my intention to procrastinate. I really wanted to invite you»

«You had plenty of moments to do so, Sharp»

«I know. I'm not shirking my responsibilities. I could have asked you days ago but... it's complicated, Do-... Cassandra». He confronts me on equal terms. He doesn't place himself submissively to me, he doesn't beg for my forgiveness. He shows himself as a mature man capable of recognizing his own shortcomings and mistakes, even if admitting them seems to cost him a great effort. I notice the furrowed brows with a hint of concern and the deliberate choice to call me by my name again, breaking down brick by brick the wall of impenetrability he erected between us.

But I don't want to give in so easily and stubbornly retort: «What could be so complicated about it?».

He starts to respond but a voice interrupts us: «Professor Doyle!». We both turn in the direction from which it comes, and Sharp's hand moves towards me, as if to shield and protect me from Aleister Rookwood, who strides purposefully towards us.

I clear my throat: «Mr. Rookwood, to what do I owe the pleasure?».

The ice-blue eyes of the boy could burn, they are so fiery. «I've heard about the Alchemical Conference, Professor, and about your intention to leave with Albus Dumbledore»

«I suppose so»

«Let me say that I think it's a mistake. Albus is certainly talented, but he's not decisive or ambitious. I, on the other hand...»

I understand where he's going with this and interrupt: «Mr. Rookwood, I thank you for your interest, but I'm afraid it won't change my mind. You see, I don't agree that Mr. Dumbledore isn't ambitious, quite the opposite: he is, very much so, but he's very good at bringing out other sides of himself, such as chivalry and kindness». While Aleister's eyes are on me, I feel Sharp's presence beside me, so strong that it gives me the courage to continue: «Mr. Dumbledore is the right person to attend the Conference, but that doesn't mean you're the wrong one: you're among the best students in my subject»

«You could have shown it», he replies arrogantly.

«Sometimes esteem or interest are shown in other ways, not necessarily obvious ones». I take a step towards the boy, looking him in the eyes, digging into his sharp features and his perpetually angry expression, searching deep into his beating heart. «You're an exceptional student, Aleister, at least in my subject. But this fire burning inside you will never take you where you want to go if you use it only as fuel for your anger». His eyebrows twitch; there's no need for words for those who, like us, share a similar past, made of shortcomings that weigh perhaps more than the presence of those we've lost or left behind. «Channel the desire to excel and to retaliate into something that enriches you and you alone. Don't think about others and what they achieve: think about everything you can have if you channel your energies and efforts into a specific goal». He looks at me unconvinced, and I conclude before he can reply: «Anger and disappointment are valid emotions. But they must find a concrete way to express themselves and to generate something positive. Build something that can take you elsewhere, never forgetting where you came from, because it's part of you. There are things we can't change, but we can change ourselves».

We look at each other in silence for a moment, the myriad emotions crossing his gaze reminding me of what I was like at his age and how I felt when I experienced them; the sense of helplessness towards the world, the desire to be better than my father and the weight of his legacy always on my shoulders, along with the bitter awareness that he would never be there to see the woman I had become.

Like all people who fate has embittered, Aleister doesn't know how to react to kindness: he breathes irregularly, his nostrils flaring and his neck tense, as if making a huge effort to repress his anger. He clenches his fists and finally gives in: «Good day, Professor Doyle. Professor Sharp», he bids farewell, walking away. And finally, I too can release all the tension from facing not only Rookwood, but the demons of my past.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, feeling the warmth spreading in the centre of my back where Sharp has placed his hand. «Are you alright?», he asks, a note of concern in his voice.

By the gods, how easily I melt at the sound of his voice… «Yes, I'm fine», I reply without going into details.

«I didn't expect you to talk to him like that»

«I spoke to him the way I would have wanted someone to speak to me at his age». I look up at him, only to find him already looking at me, and my heart tightens, angry yet simultaneously surrendered to the whirlwind of emotions he stirs in me.

He pulls me slightly closer, and a jolt of electricity sparks between our bodies. I expect him to say something, but he remains silent, gazing at me as if he already knows everything there is to know. For a moment, he lifts his hand towards my face, his knuckles brushing my cheek, but he quickly retracts them, not wanting to expose our physical contact to the passing students.

«I truly intended to invite you, Cassandra», he says in a low voice, looking into my eyes, my name on his lips causing a tidal wave of emotions inside me. I can't let him win, but surrendering to what my gut suggests and what my heart desires would be so much easier; to abandon myself to the illusion that he means what he says would be so tempting…

«Then why didn't you?», I manage to ask him, even though my voice betrays my real desires.

Sharp sighs, halfway between a huff and a laugh: «It's… difficult to explain. I suppose I had my reasons, which I thought were valid but actually weren't at all».

I look at him, searching for a trace of deceit or a lie on his face, but I find none. «The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of», I say somewhat slyly, trying to provoke him a little.

He pales slightly and raises an eyebrow, suggesting he probably has never heard that phrase before. I chuckle and proceed to explain: «Don't worry, I was just quoting Blaise Pascal, a French Muggle physicist and philosopher. I didn't mean to imply anything…», I say, and I make a small gesture to move away, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me to him, our bodies brushing against each other, betraying all the desire and expectations hidden beneath our mutual pride.

«I apologize», he says. I wonder if he realizes in his heart that I have already forgiven him… «Will you come tonight?», he then asks.

«Do you really want me to come?»

«Every time I look at you, I wish you would come, to be honest», he says, biting the inside of his cheek to avoid smiling mischievously, but his eyes give him away.

I suppress my shocked and scandalized expression to make way for a smile, thus totally surrendering to him. «Your expression betrays your true intentions, you know that?», I say, quoting what he said to me when we returned from Hogsmeade.

«But I never lied about it», he replies. His expression softens: «So? Even though it's with tremendous and guilty delay, do you accept my apology and my invitation?».

"How can I say no to you?", I think. «Yes and yes», I finally reply, and his eyebrows relax with relief. I too feel lighter.

He lets me go and steps back slightly, his warm body leaving a cold void in the places where he had touched me and been close to me. «See you tonight, then. And don't worry about the present: it would only remind me of how old I am».

He starts walking in the opposite direction to mine, from where we had come before he dramatically chased me up the stairs. Thinking back on it now, I feel tremendously ridiculous.

I watch his tall, lean figure moving further and further away, and suddenly I call out to him loudly, leaning over a balustrade: «Sharp!».

He stops, looking up at me, waiting for what I have to say. «Happy birthday», I exclaim, making him smile too, and he finally bids farewell with a wave of his hand.

That afternoon, however, I stop skipping from one little cloud to another.

«Dark green or burgundy, what do you think?», I ask Mirabel as I contemplate the clothes strewn across her bed. I rushed to her quarters half an hour ago for help on what to wear, but without success.

«I already told you!», she exclaims, exasperated. «It’s an informal thing, so you don’t need to overthink it»

«I practically made a scene to get invited, I don’t want him to think I don’t care at all».

Mirabel places her hands on her hips, while behind her a kettle boils for tea. She looks at me as if I’ve said something absurd: «Cassandra, do you really think Aesop could even remotely think that you don’t care about him or anything related to him?»

I open my mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. I blush, immediately aware that my attraction to him is less secret than I thought. «How long have you known?», I ask, averting my gaze and fixing it back on the clothes.

«Since we have known», adds Ominis’ voice, as he enters the room.

«And what are you doing here?», I ask.

«As it happens, Mirabel and I have a habit of always having tea at this hour, and there's no longer a need to announce myself. And you can hear everything through the walls»‚ he replies, alluding to the fact that their rooms are adjacent. I silently thank Sharp for soundproofing our quarters the night of our amorous meeting.

«Anyway ‒ Mirabel reintroduces, serving the tea ﹘ two professors are better than a professor and a student». She shudders, as if unwilling to think of such an improper scenario.

«Yes, well, he’s a handsome man, but it’s just attraction, nothing more. I think it’s normal, a common thing»‚ I downplay.

«Just attraction? Trust me, you don’t need to see to feel the tension between you two every time I walk by»‚ Ominis jokes, but I can’t help thinking he’s speaking in the plural. Could it be that Sharp really reciprocates?

My heart skips a beat, but my head urges me to be rational. «I don’t think he’s willing to explore things in another sense, actually».

The room immediately falls silent, an embarrassing quiet that no one knows how to deal with. Why do I increasingly feel that everyone is ahead of me, that they know more, that they’re keeping me in the dark about a secret?

I break the silence: «Burgundy it is», I simply say, a cup of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other, which I light with a candle flame while Mirabel hurriedly opens a window to prevent the smoke from harming her plants—or, more realistically, to prevent them from catching fire.

Finally, after dinner, we professors (except for Black, whose absence must be a constant by now, as no one seems to notice or care much) gather in the Entrance Hall. I’m more anxious than I thought I’d be, probably because I’ve been thinking about Mirabel and Ominis’s words, and now I can’t help but feel under the scrutiny of all our colleagues, as if I were a specimen of an unknown species under a microscope, and everyone expects something from me.

Mirabel was undoubtedly right: everyone, including the guest of honour, is dressed rather informally. Even Ronen, by his standards, hasn’t gone overboard and has settled for a somewhat flashy cobalt blue suit! I’m a bit stiff in my burgundy velvet dress, its wide skirt falling softly from the tight corset that hugs my waist and would emphasize my bust if not for the white blouse I’m wearing underneath. However, Sharp doesn’t take his eyes off me, his gaze lingering on my body a bit longer than is permissible but just enough not to attract the attention of others. Despite being with other people, who are also aware of our attraction, he continues our secret, perverse game of small attentions, silent glances, and discreet gestures that would deceive even the keenest observer.

We walk and exit the castle, but just beyond the walls, something I hadn’t accounted for happens: everyone prepares to Apparate, understandably to prevent Sharp from tiring too much.

I try to catch Ronen’s attention, while here and there with a loud “crack!” the teachers start disappearing, undoubtedly to reappear in Hogsmeade, outside The Three Broomsticks. But Sharp is the first to notice my overly prolonged hesitation.

«Is everything okay?»‚ he asks, stepping beside me.

«Yes! E-everything’s fine»‚ I reply, avoiding his gaze.

«You’re stammering, Cassandra. It’s clear something is wrong». It’s the third time today he’s called me by my name: he must be getting a taste for it.

I lower my voice and say, all in one breath: «Idon’thavethelicense!»

«Unless you were inflicting an Unforgivable Curse on me, and I doubt that since I don’t feel its effects, please speak up and slower», he teases, and we’re less and less on the barren path.

I grab his arm, the muscles of his bicep firm, and pull him slightly aside: «I don’t have the license to Apparate myself, Sharp! I never got it!».

He looks at me as if I’d told him I can no longer read: «What do you mean you never got the license?»

«The thought of Splinching myself always made me anxious! – I confess – I didn’t want to end up with my body in one place and my arm elsewhere. I’ve always feared I wouldn’t be able to concentrate properly… And then, the few times I’ve done it with someone else, the feeling of nausea was terrible!».

He raises an eyebrow and looks at me annoyed, like one does with a disobedient child: «And you couldn’t tell me this before? You could have used Floo Powder».

I sigh: «Well, actually, I’m not very comfortable with magical means of transportation…».

His skepticism turns almost to pure terror, and if it weren’t so serious to him, I’d laugh: «You mean even broomsticks?»

«Especially broomsticks! I was terrible at Flying!». By now it’s just the two of us left discussing my, apparently, unforgivable shortcomings. If I didn’t want to draw attention to me and Sharp, I’d say the plan has taken a different turn.

However, at this statement, he doesn’t hide a mocking smile: «So the incredibly talented Cassandra Doyle had a weak point…»‚ he teases.

«If by weak point you mean Dreadful as a grade in Flying, then yes»‚ I reply, and I have to bite my lip not to laugh myself at the fact that it’s certainly peculiar for a witch to refuse to fly on a broom because of vertigo.

He steps closer to me, his breath tickling my skin: «It would have been very amusing to tease you about this if we had been students at the same time»

«But luckily you’re turning 44 today, and that couldn’t happen»‚ I say, pushing him gently away with my hand. «As much as I enjoy your company, Sharp, I believe you have a birthday to attend».

He sighs, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek, a gesture he often does and that, I must admit, excites me greatly: «And I also have a witch to Apparate»‚ he replies, getting into position.

I look at him confused: «W-what?»

«You don’t intend to get to Hogsmeade on foot, do you?»

«Well… I had thought about it, but I believed we’d all do it together»

«You thought wrong»‚ he says, and at that moment he takes my hand, tightening his grip. I don’t have time to look up at him, nor to locate the source of the fire that ignites inside me, when I feel the unpleasant tug of my navel and envelop myself in darkness, as if I were no longer made of matter. It lasts only a few moments, and my unsteady feet land in front of the entrance to The Three Broomsticks. My head spins and my stomach is on the verge of revolting unpleasantly.

I bend towards the ground, head upside down, my hair nearly brushing the cobblestone street, for long enough to let the blood return to my brain, and meanwhile I take deep breaths to avoid being sick. As soon as I feel a bit better, I stand up straight again: Sharp is still beside me, and my hand is still in his.

«No wonder you don’t have the license»‚ he teases me at first, but then he runs his fingers through my hair, tucking a strand behind my ear, and asks: «Are you feeling alright?».

“Now I am”, I want to reply, but I simply nod, still feeling a bit queasy. He lets go of my hand and gestures for me to enter the inn, where all our colleagues are already seated at a long table, eyeing us as soon as we walk in.

«Finally! Where had you two gotten off to?»‚ Ronen asks, already with a tankard of Butterbeer in hand.

«We had a bit of a problem with Apparition»‚ I answer, sitting down next to him.

“«The license! You finally decided to get it, then?»‚ he asks, a bit too loudly, so everyone hears him and looks at me puzzled; apparently, the fact that I don’t have it is stranger than I thought.

«Not exactly. And now, it’s not just a few close friends who know»‚ I reply, letting my gaze wander over all the guests. Ronen realizes he’s inadvertently revealed my secret to everyone and looks at me pale-faced. If years ago I would have been deeply bothered by this fear that held me back from what all adult witches and wizards have achieved, today I realize I don’t care that much: this doesn’t define my worth. I shrug and order a pumpkin juice from Sirona, to avoid further upsetting my stomach.

The evening proceeds smoothly, filled with old anecdotes and new revelations, and I feel part of a group: alive, receptive, stimulated. It’s been a long time since I felt this way. It’s not an experience comparable to my rallies and meetings with the Muggle women of London: as strong as the sense of camaraderie was, I always had the awareness of having had a different life, of possessing a gift totally unknown to them, a fortune they weren’t granted; and at the same time, for years after graduation, I felt my being a witch almost as a curse, feeling the urge to blend in with the inhabitants of a world I was born into, but that had rejected me from the very beginning, and which experience taught me would continue to do so if I revealed who I really was. I tried to navigate, to carve out a place for myself between the Muggle world and the wizarding one for a long time, seeking a spot for me without ever finding it. But tonight is proof that my place in the world has always been at this table, among witches and wizards, that this is my people, regardless of a silly license.

The pleasant lightheadedness I was feeling is suddenly swept away by a scene happening just a few meters from me, at the other end of the table: an unfamiliar woman has approached Sharp and is literally clinging to him, all smiles and coquettishness. I try to swallow my sip of juice, but it gets stuck in my throat.

«Oh, Aesop! You’re always the same reserved bear! Do you think I should have to find out it's your birthday and find you here without being invited?», says the woman, her blonde curls following her every movement and her long lashes batting over bright blue eyes. Her hands claw at his shoulder and chest, and she's practically sitting on his lap, but what makes my blood boil the most is the familiarity she has with him, calling him by his first name, something not even I, his colleague, am permitted to do.

«Pauline, nothing personal, it’s just a get-together among colleagues»‚ Sharp replies, turning his face away from her but not removing the hand around her waist. I can’t tell if he’s doing it to push her away or pull her closer, as I avert my gaze, unable to bear the pathetic sight.

«Oh, does Hogwarts now employ children?»‚ the woman responds, her voice languid but with a slight edge. She’s probably referring to my and Ominis’s young age, and I pay it no attention until she adds with a flirtatious laugh: «Coming to The Three Broomsticks to drink pumpkin juice, how old is she?».

I abruptly stand up from my chair, eager to get away from the suddenly suffocating environment. I try to mask my feelings as I lie, saying I’m going out for a smoke to those who ask, all the while Sharp’s voice telling me I’m a terrible liar rings in my ears. I hear him talking, but I don’t know what he’s saying; I don’t understand and I don’t care. I should have known that someone like him, so careful to keep his distance, was like anyone else, too self-absorbed and focused on satisfying his own desires to consider being emotionally and empathetically close to anyone else. Who knows how many other Paulines he has scattered across Scotland, the United Kingdom, the world!

I open the door, and the cold night air hits me violently, my lungs almost burning as they take in the oxygen. I walk briskly towards the pumpkin patch at the edge of the village, rummaging in the pocket of my dress until I find my wand and point it at my throat. The scream that escapes my lips is muffled and low, thanks to the silent Quietening Charm I cast on myself, so as not to alert the entire village with my frustrated, angry cries, once again disappointed by what I sadly realize is an impossible love. I curse his Saturn, Mercury, I curse Jupiter and his distractions of blonde hair and voluptuousness. I curse my Venusian passion, because I was really falling in love with him, damn it. I was really believing it when I looked into his eyes and convinced myself I saw a hint of emotion. Instead, I am probably just another of his conquests, the umpteenth one. I’ve been ruminating for weeks about that denied kiss, trying to find some hidden meaning in it, trying to uncover whatever wounds lay in his lonely heart. And yet he is simply one of those idiots who don’t kiss the women they sleep with, all caught up in their ridiculous personal codes of conduct.

I don’t hold back the tears that sting my eyes and I can’t help but blame myself for being swept up and involved once again like a schoolgirl by the warm and exhilarating winds of love. As if experience had taught me nothing! As if I hadn’t learned, at my own expense, that I need to do a lot of work on trust and respect before placing my heart in others’ hands. There it is now, my stupid heart that pumps blood to the rest of my body: all shriveled up in a half-empty glass of pumpkin juice, watching a stranger rub herself against the man I like.

I look at the mountains surrounding Hogsmeade, losing my gaze on the horizon without fixing it on any particular point. I just need to start breathing regularly again and find the courage to go back inside, while around me the worst scene I could have imagined is taking place. Maybe it’s better if I leave earlier than planned, feigning a sudden illness or blaming it on menstrual cramps.

With steps much shorter and slower than before, and wiping the tears from my cheeks with my hand, I head back towards the inn. Outside, however, stands Ronen. I really don’t feel like explaining myself to him.

Mentally, and with a quick flick of my wand, I cast an Amplifying Charm and put on the most fake smile possible: «Abraham! I took the opportunity to go for a walk while I smoked».

He looks at me paternally and opens his hands, which are holding something: «You left your cigarettes inside, Cassandra».

The shoulders I had worked so hard to keep upright immediately slump into a position of dejection, and I have to muster all the little dignity I have left not to burst into tears again. Ronen, who knows me well, comes closer and leads me to a nearby bench, where he invites me to sit down. There’s no need for us to talk or explain: he’s seen this look in me before, he knows my state of mind. And, like so many years ago, he’s still here, as always, to cheer me up.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, and then, as if I were still a student caught secretly smoking, I mumble: «Can I have a cigarette?».

He hands me the pack, along with a look full of understanding. «She’s gone, for your information»‚ he says simply.

I take a drag and give him a sceptical look: «With him?"».

He sighs: «No, Cassandra. Aesop sent her away»

I didn’t expect that, but out of pride, I don’t intend to give in: «Right, better not to mix work with personal pleasure».

«Cassandra! – he reproaches me – It’s not my place to speak for Aesop, but no: there’s no personal pleasure involved»

«I saw something quite different, Abraham: I saw a woman rubbing up against him and his hand around her waist!». I skip over the fact that she also mocked me for drinking a perfectly respectable pumpkin juice.

«Cassandra, Aesop is a man older than you and, as such, has had his experiences. It so happens that Pauline is one of them–»

«I noticed»‚ I interrupt him.

«But he cut ties with her a long time ago, because she is very clingy, as you might have noticed yourself. And very stubborn, as she doesn’t give up». He remains silent for a few seconds, as if choosing the right words, then adds: «You shouldn’t give up either».

I really didn’t expect that. «What do you mean?», I ask him.

He gazes into the dark horizon and takes a deep breath: «Aesop has been through something unimaginable, Cassandra; it’s not for me to tell you what. But I’ll be honest: the fact that, over the years, he has had various relationships with women, simply to satisfy his personal pleasures, is not to be condemned nor does it diminish his experience; he is an adult and charismatic man, aware of the undeniable charm he exerts on the female gender – you know something about that, don’t you?»‚ he asks, making me blush, and continues: «I’ve known him for ten years, and let me tell you this: I’ve only seen that spark of life in his eyes since you came along».

I turn to him, my heart skipping a beat and then starting to beat faster. «Give yourselves time – Ronen continues – Get to know each other and learn to love each other’s strengths and accept each other’s flaws. I know Aesop can be grumpy and distant, but know that every action has its reasons; but I also know how determined you are in your goals, how hard you work to get what you want and above all how hard you fight for what you care about»

«I-I… Care about Sharp…»

«It’s obvious you care, Cassandra. You can fool anyone, but not me: remember I was your Head of House»‚ he recalls, and I smile at the thought of old times when he was my Charms Professor and I was just his student. I didn’t want to reveal my attraction to Sharp, but Ronen is right: I can’t lie to him or pretend his insights are wrong.

«And if he doesn’t want me? If he rejects me?»‚ I ask, remembering Sharp’s initial reluctance to be even kind and well-disposed towards me.

«Since when are you afraid to dig deep to discover the true essence of things?»‚ he replies, smiling at me and putting his arm around my shoulders in a fatherly manner. «I don’t know anyone more patient than you»‚ he adds.

We look at each other in silence, our smiles barely there, and at that moment I realize how foolish it has been to keep everything inside, protecting my feelings as if they were something dark and sordid, instead of talking and seeking advice from someone who knows not only me well but also Sharp. «Thank you, Abraham. I really needed that»‚ I tell him.

«I know. And that’s why I came out to find you. But now – he gets up – I think what we need is an excuse to justify our prolonged absence».

I get up too, and only then do I realize how much I long for the warmth of the inn to envelop me: I’m trembling with cold. As we re-enter, the voices of our colleagues lower slightly, and the quick glances they cast at me pierce through me, as if they want to open me up to take a closer look at my feelings. I avoid meeting their eyes and just sit down, blushing a little, but there’s one gaze I can’t ignore. I lift my eyes to meet Sharp’s, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me for a moment. We look at each other for an indefinite time, inevitably recalling what Ronen told me just a few minutes ago. I don’t know how long it will take, but I want to fight and I don’t intend to give up, because I can’t ignore the attraction I feel for Sharp, I can’t deny the feeling that is growing and taking shape in my heart.

I spend the evening lost in my thoughts, passively listening to my colleagues' conversations. Soon it’s time to return to the castle, and I don’t miss the fact that Sharp lingers just long enough for the others to leave, allowing us to be alone.

«Do you want to walk back?»‚ he asks, coming closer to me.

I shake my head: «No, Sharp. I don’t want you to tire yourself out»‚ I say, realizing I’ve revealed, with candid sincerity, that recurring thought I always have whenever we have a journey to take together. I quickly cover it up: «Consider it my birthday present to you. And thanks for the juice»‚ I add, as he treated us to drinks.

Sharp smiles at me and holds the door open for me. Once outside, the other teachers are already Disapparating, but he waits until we are alone before saying: «Cassandra, I’m sorry about earlier. I know it could have looked ambiguous». He looks at me with eyes full of regret, and I can’t help but think he’s being sincere.

«It was, indeed – I confess – But thank you for apologizing. Even though it wasn’t you who had to»

«Your juice was upset?»‚ he replies, and I am finally sure that the usual Sharp is back, never missing a chance to be sarcastic.

I play along: «Oh, yes. My juice is really offended»‚ I say, and his deep laugh is the most beautiful sound I’ve heard today – right after his voice saying my name: an incredible and unparalleled mix of emotions I don’t think I’ll ever get used to.

He brushes the back of my hand with his knuckles: «Ready?»‚ he asks, and at my nod, he takes my hand in his, still with a firm grip but more gently than before, as if there is more care in this gesture. Once again, that horrible sensation, and we Apparate outside the walls of Hogwarts, our colleagues’ backs visible in the distance. We walk towards the castle calmly, slowly, and in silence, our fingers brushing against each other.

It doesn’t happen often, but being able to share the silence with someone, without the need to fill it with pointless, empty chatter, is one of my favourite luxuries. There is so much that needs to be communicated between Sharp and me, but when we are both willing to meet each other halfway, words are unnecessary: it’s as if, with one look, we can say everything.

We reach the Faculty Tower and then the door to our room. My heart beats faster as he closes the door behind us, nurturing unknown expectations. We look at each other in silence, and I can see the gears of our minds working furiously to find an elusive sense in something that is, in reality, very simple; I can’t help but laugh, and Sharp raises an eyebrow with a questioning but amused look.

I shake my head: «Nothing. I’m… I’m just happy». And it’s the truth: even our moments of silence and waiting fill me with happiness, because I can see beneath his rough exterior a glimmer of care.

He raises a hand and places it on my face, gently caressing my cheek with his thumb: «And I’m happy if you are»‚ he replies. The room is dark, barely lit only by the flames in the fireplace, but it’s as if it has become as bright as day. For tonight, this is enough for me.

He leans down to me, lifting my face and placing a sweet kiss on my forehead, slightly scratchy due to his stubble. His lips linger for a few seconds on my skin, then he pulls away, but I wish they would move down to meet mine, and to hell with patience!

«Goodnight, Cassandra»‚ he says, looking at me.

The opportunity is too good to pass up: «You’ve taken a liking to calling me by my name in the end»

«It reminds me that I can have you at any moment»‚ he says, lowering his voice in that way that makes me shiver and arch my back, as well as blush at the thought of the most obscene fantasies. He winks at me: «Sleep well, pretty face».

I bite my lip: «Goodnight, Sharp»‚ I reply, heading towards the fireplace. Then I add, with renewed boldness: «By the way, 'Aesop' doesn’t sound bad either»

«Both Greek names, ours»‚ he echoes, strangely complicit and accommodating in my desire to take, little by little, more liberty and confidence.

I nod: «Sometimes destiny seems to know more than we do, don’t you think?». I look at him one last time before retiring to my room: «Goodnight again, Aesop».

He shakes his head, puffing to disguise a laugh: something he often does with me, as if he considers me incorrigible and has resigned himself to the fact. I smile in return while he doesn’t take his eyes off me for a moment until I disappear entirely from his sight, but I feel his gaze on me until, once in bed, I close my eyes.

Chapter 21: SHARP

Chapter Text

I had thought that calling her by name, breaking down the wall of formality built to keep her at a distance, would make me vulnerable; I believed that allowing her to call me by name would awaken the ancient demons that lie placidly at the bottom of my soul. Instead, it all happened spontaneously, naturally, adding further beauty to what was already pleasant in itself. I don't mind letting my mind wander, losing itself in the best fantasies... but it's not something I can do forever: as I have already promised myself, I cannot bind Cassandra to me, forcing her to live a mutilated life by my side, no matter how sincere her feelings may be.

As for what I feel, I frankly feel ridiculous, continuing to set resolutions for myself that I fail to keep. No matter how much I try to remain neutral and distant, consciously avoiding the situations that I know would make me give in and fall at her feet like a faithful subject before a splendid and powerful queen: Cassandra attracts me like a bloody magnet, often distracting me from my work and leading me to do even the stupidest and most irresponsible things just to see her or have the opportunity to spend a little time with her, beyond the time we spend together as teachers. And that's why I'm standing outside Gladrags Wizardwear, keeping an eye on the flow of people entering but especially leaving the clothing shop, while the streets of Hogsmeade are snowy and almost deserted on this early December Saturday, since all the students on the trip have taken refuge in other shops to stay warm.

Cassandra, on the other hand, watched from a distance, after her usual visit to Tomes and Scrolls, has decisively headed to Augustus Hill's shop. I know well the reason for the visit: in a few days most of the students will return home for the Christmas holidays, but for those who will stay at Hogwarts, as always, there will be nice celebrations where elegant attire may not be expressly required, but is always appreciated. Needless to say, when I found out that she would be staying at the castle over Christmas, I immediately announced that I would stay as well. Within a few days, I will then necessarily have to travel back to the Ministry of Magic, so I might as well enjoy at least Christmas in pleasant company for the first time in too many years...

I dispel those negative thoughts that begin to wrap around my heart and head like fingers of black smoke and carefully observe the outline of the shop a few metres from me. From my position, I can keep an eye on all the doors. When I am certain that all the people who entered, except for Cassandra, have finally left, I start walking, my right hand closed around the handle of the wand hidden under my coat. I open the shop door and with a silent flick of my wand, I subject Hill and Otto Dibble to my control with Imperius – one of the few privileges of no longer being an Auror – so that they are not a disturbance and entertain any potential customers away from the fitting rooms.

I let myself be guided by the trail of Cassandra's perfume to find her: behind a screen, trying on beautiful dresses made of precious fabrics with elaborate embroidery. I see her shadow moving lightly as she gracefully slips off one dress and puts on another, making it cling to her soft, fair skin.

Her voice rises from behind the screen: «Could I have a hand with the corset, Mr Hill?».

We may not be the same person, but I have the impression she prefers my hands. I take advantage of her still being turned away to surprise her from behind: «Will mine do?», I whisper in her ear, coming up from behind and grabbing the laces of the corset that hangs loosely around her chest, revealing more than modesty allows.

She raises her head abruptly: «Aesop! What are you doing?», she asks, turning slightly to look at me, my name sweet as honey on her lips. I can't help but think of the first time we found ourselves in this same position: her soft buttocks against my erection, the tender flesh of her neck red and bruised under my mouth, and her erect nipples between my fingers.

«I'm glad to see you too», I reply, chuckling and lowering my voice, not because I fear Hill and Dibble, under the Imperius Curse, might overhear, but because I love seeing Cassandra's skin shiver with each breath of mine. I begin to tighten her corset, threading the ribbons through the eyelets with exasperating slowness. «Don't you think old Hill would have seen too much?», I ask, glancing at her décolleté.

«If someone hadn't suddenly slipped back here, I would have had plenty of time to get myself properly sorted. What happened to Mr Hill, by the way?», she asks suspiciously.

«Nothing you need to worry about. I've made sure he and Dibble won't bother us», I reply evasively.

A bit alarmed, she lowers her voice and asks: «What have you done, Sharp?»

«And what's with this formality?», I ask, amused by her sudden change in tone and demeanor. I can never take her seriously as long as her worried expression is nothing but an adorable pout.

As if she were the Legilimens between the two of us, she furrows her brows even more: «I'll be formal until you tell me what's going on».

I lean towards her slightly: «I cast a spell», I simply reply.

I can see her rolling her eyes: «Tell me something I don't know...»

«That it's a dark, forbidden spell, and some say Unforgivable», I confess, caressing her spine with a finger, her back arching imperceptibly.

She tenses slightly: «Please don't tell me we have to dispose of bodies».

I can't stifle the genuine laughter that escapes my lips: «No, Cassandra. I don't need to spill innocent blood to enjoy your company, fortunately». My words might sound dark to others, but she seems to be pleasantly lulled by them, as if drawn to the allure of the forbidden.

«Not yet, at least», she teases, holding her breath as I pull the corset ribbons, highlighting her narrow waist.

«Would you want to make me that kind of man?», I ask, my voice hoarse and excited by her subtle perversion, brushing her shiny hair with my lips, my nostrils filling with her scent.

She continues to provoke me: «Would you be capable?». Little temptress nymph. She knows full well that I would, while her voice reduces to a confident whisper mingling with my breath: I have betrayed myself many times in the past, despite feigning indifference; but she is greedy for pride and burns with the desire for me to admit it.

But a different sound comes from my mouth, sweeter yet firm at the same time, leaving no room for rebuttal: «You are splendid», I tell her, as I observe her reflection in the mirror after fastening the corset of the midnight blue dress she is wearing. And she truly is, her pale skin framed by the dark velvet and her brown hair, while the pink of her lips stands out even more, taking on a vivid red hue. The dress fits her like a glove, highlighting all the most beautiful features of her body: the slender waist, the bosom encased in the embroidered bodice, the round, soft hips just hinted at by the skirt that softens a bit lower down. Her shoulders are bare, as the sleeves are sewn right next to the bodice, wide and soft, covering her arms and hands up to the knuckles. Despite the heavy and dark fabric, tiny silver reflections, like stardust, gleam with every movement. I've never been a religious man, but if gods existed, this is how they would be.

She blushes slightly: «Do you really like it?».

I observe our reflection in the mirror: she is just a bit taller than my shoulder, her white, smooth skin contrasting with mine, more tanned and rough, as I caress her shoulder; the features of her face are sweet and soft, like her immaculate body, while I am all angles and scars. The more I look at her, the more the instinct to protect her, to have her just for myself, grows within me, while a familiar awareness begins to scratch at the cemented bottom of my heart, trying to come to the surface. I push it away, as I have often found myself doing lately, and focus on something else, on what I know I can control and to which I want to dedicate myself entirely.

What unites our reflected image is the look in our eyes, full of anticipation and trembling with desire. «Yes», I respond to her question with total sincerity: I really do like what I see, how we appear together, close, and it's not thanks to her dress, which, as wonderful as it is, would not have the same effect if another woman wore it.

I move her hair just enough to reveal one shoulder, while I place my hands on her back again. «But do you know how I prefer you?», I ask her, brushing her skin with my lips and starting to untie the laces of the corset, loosening it more and more.

Cassandra shivers but completely surrenders to my control. I understand how she feels because, despite having procrastinated as long as possible to relive another moment like that night, inside I was consumed by desire. She can't wait for me to touch her, and I can no longer resist doing so.

The dress falls with a soft and barely audible thud on the floor. I caress her semi-nude body, lingering on every beautiful curve down to her hips, still covered by the thin fabric of her lingerie, so skimpy compared to what is usually worn but decidedly more exciting. I hook my fingers into the waistband and pull down, where the panties fall in turn, leaving Cassandra completely naked in front of me, reflected in the mirror. Her chest rises and falls quickly, and she closes her eyes with each breath, her thighs slightly parted to allow me to explore what lies between.

«I prefer you like this», I whisper hoarsely into her ear, sending a trail of shivers down her tender skin. I begin to kiss her earlobe, then her neck, while one hand encircles her large, soft breast. The other caresses her skin, stopping between her legs, where the warmth of her arousal invites me inside.

An excited moan escapes her plump lips as I rub her clitoris with my thumb, while my index and middle fingers stroke her folds, wetting them with her excitement.

«Do you want me this much?», I ask, watching her every reaction in the reflection.

She nods and asks in a breath: «What if someone comes in?».

I kiss the hollow of her neck and say against her skin: «Then you'll have to be good at stifling your screams». I slip my fingers inside her: she immediately arches her back, her head falling back on my shoulder. I waste no time and kiss her throat, licking the most sensitive spots and sucking on the tenderest ones. It excites me to see small red bruises bloom on her fair neck, like roses in the snow: it's my way of marking territory, making it clear that this beautiful woman, completely subject to my will, is mine.

My hand moves up from her breast to her throat, squeezing slightly and chuckling when a muffled moan of excitement escapes her lips. Then I grab her jaw and bring her face level with the mirror. «Look at yourself», I command, while continuing to penetrate her and rub her clitoris with my fingers. Her eyelids, already heavy, flutter open, and I lock my gaze onto hers. It's a breathtaking sight, and the pain of my erection in my trousers betrays my intense desire to succumb to the same pleasure.

«Look at yourself the way I see you – I continue – Look at yourself through my eyes». Her eyebrows furrow with each thrust of my fingers inside her, her breathing grows shorter. But she doesn't break eye contact with my reflected image. «I want you to watch yourself as I make you come, to see with your own eyes all the pleasure you feel, to know that only I can give you everything you desire».

I push my fingers deeper, touching her where pleasure lives and longs for release. Her moans grow louder, and Cassandra tries to stifle them by biting her lips; soon her muffled cries fill her eyes with tears that run hot down her cheeks and along her neck, adding a salty taste to my kisses.

I watch her writhe, arch her back, and struggle to stay on her trembling legs. I see her hand move behind her body, coming between us, fumbling for what she desires, and finally, her fingers close around my belt. I nibble at her neck, a mischievous grin forming on my face: I'm not ready to give her all of me yet, but I have no intention of stopping her.

I help her trembling fingers unbuckle the belt and open my trousers, the bulge of my erection relaxing and adjusting to the space. I close my hand over Cassandra's and guide her to my underwear, beneath which my cock pulses excitedly, hot and waiting.

«This is the effect you have on me», I tell her, as her hand finally frees my cock, and she moans as soon as she wraps her fingers around it, unsure whether from pleasure or surprise at my size.

My ego is too proud to remain unanswered: «What's wrong? Do you like how I touch you?», I ask, masturbating her with more fervor. I move my hips, thrusting my cock back and forth in her fist, making her feel every inch of my veiny erection against her skin: «Or do you like how big it is?».

Cassandra giggles, lost in a sea of ecstasy: «Both», she whispers, and her response fuels the flames of the fire inside me, which blaze into an inferno of excitement.

Her hand moves deftly around my shaft, leaving enough space for the skin to glide and create the perfect pleasure. I can't help but think about how well my cock would fit inside her, how it would fill every inch of her tight pussy, where my fingers are getting increasingly wetter, fucking her as if my very survival depended on it.

I grunt against her skin when she wraps her hand around my cock, either at the base or around the tip, causing me spikes of unparalleled pleasure and the release of pre-cum, which she uses as lubricant. Her long, slender fingers stay firm as pleasure waves through her, making her tremble from head to toe, and they tighten when she can't hold back any longer, biting her lips, her moans becoming a plea for me to let her come.

«Aesop... I'm almost there», she says, and the way she implores and slurs my name makes me curse myself for having deprived her of saying it all this time.

«Look at me while you come», I order, nodding towards the mirror, where our bodies reflect in a disordered, animalistic entanglement. She obeys, her liquid, intoxicated eyes locking onto mine, her mouth open in a sweetly inviting way, letting out the most melodious sounds. I can't help but lose myself in her beauty, in the curves of her body, in every fold of that soft flesh that opens up to me, longing for me to fill its voids.

I wrap my arm around her waist, my hand gripping her breast, squeezing it and teasing the nipple while I savor for the last moments the sight of my fingers disappearing inside her. Without breaking eye contact with her reflection, I move my hand up to her throat; I bring my mouth to her ear and in a hoarse whisper, I say: «Surrender to me, baby».

I muffle Cassandra's orgasmic cries with my hand clamped over her mouth, her body shaking against mine in the throes of the most intense climax. Tears stream from her eyes, wetting my hand, her expression twisted in pleasure, and my fingers drenched in her juices. Despite the intensity, she doesn't let go of my cock; instead, she seems even more eager to make me succumb with her. She gives a few final determined strokes, squeezing the base of my shaft until I too give in to the pleasure that spills out hot and liquid, soaking her hand and the rounded curve between her back and buttocks, dripping between them as I stifle my grunts of pleasure by biting into her shoulder's skin.

We finish together, our breaths gradually synchronizing as we recover from the euphoria of the orgasm. The bites turn into kisses, and the hands gripping various body parts firmly relax, releasing muscles and skin, transforming pain into caresses. I look at Cassandra's reflection in the mirror: she's disheveled, disordered, and beautiful, still a prisoner of the last wisps of ecstasy lingering in the air.

I release her mouth, allowing her to breathe better, and move my arm lower, around her shoulders, pulling her closer to me so she has all the time and means to recover. As for the hand between her legs, I slowly withdraw my fingers, letting her muscles gradually adjust to the void I reluctantly have to leave inside her. I observe the phalanges slick with pleasure, gleaming, and at that moment, a burning urgency ignites within me to test her limits and obedience again.

I bring my hand to her mouth: «Suck them. Taste how sweet you are», I order, leaving no room for refusal. With half-closed eyelids, still heavy and intoxicated, Cassandra opens her red, swollen lips, allowing my fingers to enter, exploring a new part of her. Just like that time in the Alchemy Classroom, she wraps her tongue around each finger, letting it glide with a sensuality and lust that forces me to imagine new aphrodisiac scenarios, where my cock is the protagonist, fucking her mouth and throat.

Our gazes are locked in an unprecedented attraction. The air is thick with sexual tension, and we're both aware of what will happen the next time we find ourselves in a situation like this. Cassandra continues to suck my fingers, not breaking eye contact, satisfied and content, until there's no trace of her pleasure left. Only then does she open her mouth again, and now my fingers are wet with that saliva I so ardently want to taste, despite the distance I keep between our lips.

Now it's my turn to suck my own fingers, savoring the trace Cassandra left on them. «I hope you have a rational explanation for why you taste so good – I tell her – Otherwise, I think I'll have to find out for myself».

She smiles as she replies, mischievous and more impatient than ever: «I really don't have an answer to your question».

I chuckle against her cheek, leaving a rough, coarse kiss due to my beard. «Just a moment», I tell her, grabbing my wand and cleaning up every trace of our lovemaking. I let her go, and I think I see a hint of sadness in her eyes now that our contact has been interrupted. I avert my gaze because deep down, I fear I might betray the same dissatisfaction.

«I'll let you get dressed so I can restore order in the shop», I say before stepping out from behind the screen and lifting the Curse I placed on the shopkeepers. A couple of people have entered while Cassandra and I were busy enjoying each other's company, but fortunately, a well-placed Imperius can control even those it wasn't cast upon.

A few minutes later, Cassandra reaches me, unfortunately fully dressed – in dark red velvet trousers, a black wool jacket with silver buttons, and dark lace-up boots.

«Aesop, can you hold this for me?», she asks, handing me the blue dress while she slips on a black felt jacket and wraps a wool scarf around her neck. She then takes the dress back and pays an oblivious Augustus Hill, who puts it in a bag and wishes us a good day.

«What are your plans now?», Cassandra asks me nonchalantly once we are outside in Hogsmeade Square, as if I hadn't just fingered her to orgasm.

«Unless you've thought about renting a room at The Three Broomsticks where we can spend the rest of the day away from the decidedly indiscreet eyes of the castle, I'd say I need to get back to my potions. And you?».

She's about to answer, but from a distance appears the bright ginger hair of Dumbledore. Speaking of indiscreet people...

«Good morning, Professor Doyle! Professor Sharp!», he greets, giving a slight bow to which I respond with a huff that should resemble a greeting.

Cassandra, however, is her usual cheerful self: «Good morning, Albus! Are you having a nice day?»

«Yes, professor, thank you. And you? Have you done some Christmas shopping?», he asks, craning his neck to peek into the Gladrags Wizardwear bag.

«More or less. I've bought a dress for the School's Christmas dinner. Have you decided what you're doing?».

So, these two talk and chat as if they're old friends.
Albus nods: «Elphias and I will be staying at the castle for the holidays, professor. I'll be delighted to see you!»

«We'll be more than happy to spend Christmas Eve in your brilliant company, Mr. Dumbledore. But now, if you'll excuse us», I interject, cutting the conversation short. I don't miss, however, the knowing and slightly mischievous look the boy throws at Cassandra before returning to his business.

We take a few steps and, before I can speak, she beats me to it: «Are you jealous of Albus?».

Her question catches me completely off guard, unprepared to face it: «Of course I'm not jealous of Dumbledore», I say, emphasizing the surname. I've already taken too many liberties with names for my liking.

She chuckles: «You're jealous of Albus», she repeats, but this time it's not a question but a statement. I don't know how to reply because I know – and I know she knows too – that it's true: seeing her next to a young, intelligent, lively boy with a brilliant future ahead should be a reassuring thought; it should be what I want for her, the culmination of what I constantly tell myself when I intend to keep my distance. And yet I can't accept the fact that she might even remotely be closer to him than to me.

«Aesop», she begins, and this time her tone is slightly more serious. «I know our relationship is... strange. And maybe I shouldn't even tell you this, or try to reassure you in any way». She hesitates, searching for the right words, trying to make sense of her thoughts and avoid any communication errors that she knows would push me away further.

I am about to rack my brains once again over the reasons why she shouldn't get attached to me, adding my now infamous reticence and sensitivity, when she says, surprising me once more: «You don't have to be. Jealous, I mean. Or whatever it is you are. It's not for me to tell you how things are, but I can assure you that Albus isn't interested in me». She says it with a firm voice, even though her gaze wanders to the horizon. I can sense the anxiety there, convinced that she might have offended me or kept my distance, and only I can know how much I curse this attitude of mine that makes her fear any reaction from me, even though it's the only way I know to protect her.

Lost as I am in my thoughts, I don't respond immediately, but her distant voice brings me back to the present: «Aesop, answer me». This time, the tone is peremptory. She has stopped on the path and shows no intention of moving until she gets the answer she's seeking from me.

I stop with her: «Sorry, I got distracted for a moment. Can you repeat that?», I ask her.

She sighs, as if repeating herself requires great effort but even greater courage: «I asked if you believe me. If you believe me when I say, in fact when I assure you, that Albus Dumbledore is neither interested in me nor fancies me in any way».

I meet her eyes and my conscience takes on the voice of Ronen: "Haven't you seen how she looks at you?". There it is, that look I want to pretend with all my might that I don't recognise, that isn't familiar to me in any way. I know well what lies beneath, and by Merlin, my sweet Cassandra, of all the men you could have in your long and fulfilling life, why are you choosing me? Why do you want to fall in love with me, the wreck of the man I once was, of someone who can't give you what you deserve?

«Yes, I believe you», I say, moving closer. Because I can hide any emotion, but I can't pretend not to see hers, not to understand when she's sincere, not to acknowledge what she needs.

She lifts the corner of her mouth in a somewhat sad smile, seeking confirmation. «Do you believe that I believe you?», I say, trying to lift her spirits.

Fortunately, her smile broadens and she laughs softly, looking away briefly before fixing her gaze on mine again: «Yes, Aesop. I believe you», she says gently. How easy it would be now to lean down and touch her lips with mine, but I don't intend to regret it and disappoint her later. So why, if my head can be so rational, does my heart pound wildly in protest?
Cassandra's voice fills the silence between us and the void between our bodies: «So, shall we return to the castle?».

I gesture with my hand: «After you»

«Oh no, Aesop. I didn't mean on foot. I realize it's difficult for you even if you don't talk to me about it». A little dig to try and get me to open up, to tell her why I limp, but mainly a lot of concern for me, in her voice.

I shake my head: «And what about the effects Apparition has on you?»

«Nothing I can't handle. And besides, lately, I've been Apparating more often than I have in my entire life», she jokes.

I offer her my hand, and she closes her soft, slender one around mine. «Thank you, Cassandra. One day I might tell you, but in the meantime... it means a lot to me». Her hazel eyes light up, becoming brighter and more dazzling than any pair of light eyes I've ever seen. «Ready?», I ask her, and as soon as she nods, I focus on the destination and we Disapparate, reappearing just beyond the walls of Hogwarts.

I wait for her to recover, and when she's ready to start walking again, she looks paler than usual. «We need to solve this problem sooner or later. You can't keep feeling like this every time», I say.

She shrugs: «Luckily, there are other ways to travel»

«And I assume none of those ways you mean are magical»

«That's a completely irrelevant detail!»

«Yes, if you enjoy slowness or being stuck on a train for hours».

Her face takes on that know-it-all expression that, over the months, I've come to appreciate: «Where I lived until recently, there was the underground which solved this problem»

«The under-what?», I ask, genuinely puzzled. It wasn't enough that she practically knows everything about the magical world, she has to be light years ahead concerning Muggles too!

Her crystal-clear laughter fills the air: «The underground! It's like a train, but faster. And, of course, underground», she explains briskly.

«Maybe one day you can show me one», I throw out lightly, but deep down, I hope it might really happen.

And it seems to be Cassandra's hope as well, because she lights up and reveals: «I'd love that». And then she continues with a cheeky grin: «And who knows, you might even ride it».

I avoid double meanings that press on the tip of my tongue: «If I have to travel in some tight hole, allow me to still prefer the fireplaces».

We enter the castle and find ourselves at a crossroads: «Where are you headed?», I ask her.

«First I'll go to my room to put the dress away in the wardrobe, and then to the Alchemy Classroom: I need to discuss some interesting ideas that Haywood and Burke presented in their latest assignments»

«Please, keep Haywood away from my classroom: I think she still hasn't forgiven me for asking her in Hogsmeade where you were two months ago».

I realize too late that I've betrayed myself, confessing that I do indeed seek and crave her more than I intend to admit. Cassandra raises her eyebrows slightly, surprisingly flattered, but doesn't press. What a saint. «I'll make sure our tutoring sessions are longer than planned, then», she replies.

The enormous pendulum of the Clock Tower booms, forcing us to return to our respective duties.

«See you later, Aesop»

«Later, Cassandra».

I walk down the corridor and enter the Potions Classroom; with a flick of my wand, I set two cauldrons on their respective burners: one will be for working on the elusive cure for my leg; the other, fortunately, will be simpler and quicker: a remedy for Cassandra's ailment, so she can travel like all witches and wizards. And who knows, maybe she'll decide to get her Apparition license.

While waiting for the cauldrons to reach the right temperature, I step into my office and pour myself a glass of Red Currant Rum, which I gulp down in one go. Before getting to work, I allow myself a cigarette.
I bring my fingers to my mouth and inhale, but along with the smell of burnt tobacco, another scent fills my nostrils: the lingering essence of Cassandra's pleasure on my skin.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, recalling in my mind her body, her eyes, and her voice. And for a moment, it's as if she's still here with me.

Chapter 22: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

The castle is almost deserted, but the spirit of Christmas animates it just the right amount. For days now, fairies and Glowbugs have been spotted at every corner, lighting up holly and enormous fir trees, and a tinkling of enchanted bells continually resonates to the rhythm of Christmas carols, loud enough to drown out even Peeves’ shrieks and vulgarities; the statues are covered in magical warm snow that keeps falling from solitary white clouds, and the few students left in the castle are thrilled at the prospect of spending Christmas at Hogwarts, lounging all day free from lessons, playing Exploding Snap, and eating sweets in abundance.

My mind drifts back to my student years, to the holidays—and more—always spent within these walls. It's incredible how every traumatic experience in my life has always inevitably led me back to Hogwarts: first, my childhood, where there was no reason to celebrate being a freak of nature; and then my life after graduation, which seemed wonderful, successful, full of parties, gifts, smiles, life, and love… a love that melted like ice in the sun the moment I revealed my true nature. Rejected twice by men who should have loved me regardless of my being a witch, I long thought that there was no right place for me; and yet here it is, that place, which took me in for the second time, giving me a new opportunity, making me feel loved and, above all, understood and part of something.

I know I wasn't obliged to do so, but I thought I should nonetheless repay all this: so, in the past few days, I have been to Hogsmeade more often than expected, to get all my colleagues an appropriate gift for each of them; a small gesture to express my gratitude – also because I know too well that I will receive a gift from them as well. Needless to say, the hardest gift to choose was for Aesop. I still can't believe he allowed me to call him by his first name! How silly and childish I seem if I confess that sometimes I find myself murmuring it to myself, just to hear how it sounds?

I could have played it safe and given him a bottle of some fine liquor, but honestly, that seemed too obvious a gift; the last thing I want when he opens it is for him to think I chose it lazily, just out of obligation. No, instead, I really wanted to give him something memorable, something that would remind him of me. Perhaps a bit too presumptuous considering that the greatest intimacy we've had so far has been two not even complete sexual encounters (and to hell with patience: not even a kiss!), but after all, I have to start somewhere if I want my feelings to be reciprocated.

Moreover, in the days leading up to the holidays, we hardly managed to spend a moment alone: we necessarily had to get ahead with our subject programmes, and considering that he has two and I have the free time needed to help students who need it, we practically only saw each other in class and at meals. By the time it was time to go back to our rooms, I was so exhausted that I would fall asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Now that I’m in my room, fiddling with the laces of the same midnight blue dress that Aesop sneakily took off me at Gladrags Wizardwear to finger me in front of the mirror (Merlin's beard, how perverse he is…), I can no longer bear the frantic beating of my heart in my chest at the thought that we will spend Christmas together. Funny for someone who until a month ago called him by his surname…

Anyway, until the moment he slipped into the fitting room, I was convinced I would choose a different dress. The one I left at the shop was purple, with beautiful embroidery on the bodice and a round neckline, sleeveless. But when Aesop told me I was splendid immersed in the blue velvet studded with microscopic silver stars, I had no more doubts. And for tonight, I wanted to make myself more beautiful: my hair is loose and falls down my back, except for two locks that I pinned at the nape with a silver moon-shaped clasp from which tiny oak leaves branch out, almost forming a crown that stops right at the hairline on my temples. I've dabbed a bit of red lipstick on my lips, and on my lashes, I applied a mixture of elderberry juice and ash with a tiny comb: now they are well separated and darker, and my gaze seems more intense than usual.

Just as I'm wondering what Sharp would think of me, his voice echoes from downstairs: «Cassandra, how much longer will you be?»

«Just a minute!», I lie, with my fingers tangled in the laces of the corset that I simply can't fasten today.

«A minute passed ten minutes ago», he teases from below.

«Aesop, go on ahead if you want! I swear I’m coming»

«Impossible: I’m not there with you», he replies, and I can imagine his handsome face twisted in a teasing smile as he utters those words that, despite our more than explicit moments, always manage to make me blush.

«Could you come up and help me with this corset, instead of making jokes?», I ask, exasperated, not sure if more by his sarcasm or these damned laces.

But his voice comes immediately in response, much closer than I expected: «I’m already here».

I turn in his direction, and there he is, standing at the top of the stairs of what used to be the attic where he drew and painted those magnificent paintings that struck me so much the first time I set foot here. I wonder how he feels now, seeing it furnished in a feminine style as a bedroom crammed with books… A bedroom where, I now realize, he’s stepping foot for the first time since we’ve known each other.

He looks around, familiarizing himself with what used to be his space, now completely transformed; he reads the titles of the books piled here and there and feels the fabric of the canopy curtains. A somewhat annoyed meow makes him look down: «Is this beast still here?», he asks, as if faced with an Acromantula rather than a Kneazle.

«This beast – I emphasize sharply the name he used – is a Kneazle and her name is Morgan. And yes, she’s still here!»

«Like Morgan le Fay?», he asks, looking down at her, receiving an equally wary gaze in return.

«Precisely», I affirm, approaching, holding the unfastened dress against my chest to keep it from slipping down. «Can you help me?», I ask him again.

Finally, he gives me his attention, and at that moment his gaze lingers on me, noting every minute detail. Needless to say, he focuses on the loose neckline I’m holding with my hands. «Nothing I haven’t seen before», he says, alluding to my breasts.

«I would have bet my wand you’d say that», I reply, sighing amusedly, as he turns me around, his hands warm and steady on my body. «You forget that only you, in the castle, have seen me like this»

«Oh no, don’t worry, I don’t easily forget when I see something so beautiful», he says in a voice a bit too low and a bit too close to my neck, his warm, spicy breath leaving a trail of shivers. His expert fingers handle the corset laces, my body responding promptly when he orders me to hold my breath to tighten it at the waist and fasten it with a bow.

Once finished, he places a hand on the small of my back, on the curve of my buttocks, but in a completely non-malicious way: just enough to apply slight pressure and turn me towards the mirror. «You look splendid today, too», he says.

At that moment, I get to observe his reflection as well: he’s wearing an open black double-breasted jacket over a silk shirt of the same colour, as well as trousers tight enough to suggest a toned body underneath. He’s not wearing his usual buckled boots but a fine pair of black lace-up shoes. His hair is slightly combed back, but his beard is just a bit longer than usual. He is truly a sight to behold, a stunning man I’ll have the luck to admire all evening.

«You look handsome too».

He smiles at me in that cheeky way of his, biting his lower lip slightly as he looks into my eyes: «That’s true», he replies with that infuriatingly smug look.

Exasperated, I avert my gaze and move away, but I can’t help the smile that spreads across my lips as I tell him: «Let’s go, or we’ll be late!».

I head for the stairs, Aesop behind me, not missing the chance to retort: «I wasn’t the one struggling with a corset»

«Do you want me to thank you all evening and tell everyone how magnanimous you are?».

I hear him chuckle behind me: «They’ll see for themselves».

I turn towards him with a questioning look, but before I can ask what he means, he offers his arm: «Shall we?», he asks, inviting me to lean on him. And if he’s doing it so grandly, who am I to refuse?

I wrap my arm around his, and we set off slowly, descending countless staircases since Aesop steadfastly refuses my (somewhat reluctant) suggestion to use Floo Powder. «You wouldn’t want to spend the entire evening brushing off ashes», he says, but I know his refusal has another origin.

To avoid tiring him, I proceed at a leisurely pace, letting him set the speed at which we move, and when we approach the Great Hall, we find the doors wide open and joyful chatter coming from within. To my dismay, Aesop untangles our arms and gestures for me to enter.

The four House tables have disappeared, replaced by a single long one where everyone, students and professors alike, are seated together, chatting merrily. On the raised platform where the professors' table usually stands, five enormous fir trees adorned with lights and decorations tower over us. The ceiling is a deep blue night sky, with soft, white snow falling in a continuous cycle, while a golden light illuminates the hall, warmed by fireplaces and lanterns.

«It’s just as I remembered…», I murmur, waving at colleagues and students.

Aesop stands beside me, looking at me with a sweet smile: «Do you like it?»

«Yes… I’ve always liked it», I admit as we approach the table. «You know, I didn’t celebrate Christmas before coming to Hogwarts»

«Aren’t you Irish?», he asks, but his tone seems rather rhetorical, as if… as if he already knows.

«Well, my surname doesn’t lie – I joke, as I sit on the chair he pulls out for me – but no, until I was 11, I didn’t have the chance to celebrate Christmas». Sharp looks at me with a hint of sadness, but I shake my head: «But now we are celebrating, aren’t we?», I add quickly, to avoid letting sad and unhappy thoughts take over right on Christmas Eve.

Sharp sits next to me, and the sumptuous feast can finally begin. The atmosphere is cheerful and joyous, with the chatter of all the diners blending with a glass of mead and a juicy slice of roast. Aesop, beside me, tries to contain his irritation at Albus being overly familiar with me, but his rigid posture gives him away. As for me, it’s certainly not my business to tell him that the boy is homosexual: he confided in me one afternoon in the Library when we realized we could talk about more than just school or diplomatic matters. In fact, it was Albus who made the first move, showing all the audacity of Gryffindors when he asked me, after I evidently blushed at the mention of “Professor Sharp”, if I liked him. It’s so obvious to everyone that, cornered, I couldn’t deny it. So now we each share a secret about the other, and I would never dream of revealing something so personal to anyone, including Aesop!

«You said you believed me», I whisper, leaning slightly towards him.

«But I never promised that his familiarity wouldn’t annoy me».

I burst out laughing: «Aesop, you’re insufferable!», I joke, loud enough to make a few heads turn towards me, clearly surprised that we’re finally addressing each other by our first names. Albus, in response, shoots me a quick, conspiratorial glance and turns his head to hide the smile spreading across his face.

Sharp, in response, leans towards me and chuckles: «And you’re a terrible liar».

Dinner continues in grand style until midnight when, at the stroke of the hour, well marked by the sound of bells, Matilda, as the highest authority of the school (the Headmaster has not graced us with his fantastic and pleasant presence), tinkers with the dessert spoon on the golden goblet: «If we all agree, I’d say it’s time to open the gifts». With a fluid movement of her wand, she makes piles of brightly wrapped presents appear under the fir trees. «Merry Christmas to all!».

We each get up from our seats to exchange our respective gifts. As expected, I receive refined tea blends from Mirabel; a mythology book from Ominis; Mudiwa's is a deck of oracle cards; Abraham, Matilda, and Dinah have given a single but no less precious gift: a very up-to-date dictionary of Ancient Runes; as for Satyavati, Chiyo, and Bai, a beautiful silver chain necklace with a crescent moon that I immediately put on, matching perfectly with the dress and the hair clip I’m wearing tonight. Cuthbert Binns barely remembered to wish us happy holidays.

Finally, with my heart beating wildly, the moment I’ve been waiting for all evening arrives. Aesop and I stand facing each other, looking at the packages in our hands. His, destined for me, is square and slightly smaller than a woman's hand, wrapped in thin lilac paper; mine for him is larger, rectangular, and thin.

«I don’t think I’ve received a gift this big since I was eight», he says, referring to my package wrapped in green paper with embossed damask patterns.

I smile at him shyly: «Then you can open it first, if you want». He doesn’t ask why, and I’m grateful: I’d be too embarrassed to tell him that I want to savor his reaction as he unwraps it.

We sit on the bench so he can place the package on the now-clear table. He tears the paper disorderly, like a child eager to open the most desired gift. Beneath the paper is revealed a padouk briefcase, with a handle shaped like a snake, silver like the two small snap locks on which he rests his thumbs, lifting them. He opens the briefcase, and its contents unfold before his eyes: on the raised side is a small canvas, «which, if you remove it, reveals another underneath, endlessly», I explain, and on the side resting on the table, thanks to an Undetectable Extension Charm, there are several compartments, each containing different materials and colors for experimenting with various painting techniques.

Aesop gazes at the briefcase in silence, discovering every small compartment, caressing the wood, and testing the materials of brushes, pencils, and charcoal. Finally, he looks up at me, his gaze shadowed with melancholy but full of gratitude. «Cassandra, I don’t know what to say», he says in a low voice, a hint of a smile curling up the right corner of his mouth.

«Do you like it?», I ask, hopeful.

His smile broadens, serene, warming the entire Great Hall and something deep in my chest: «Do I like it? Cassandra, I love it. I… I haven’t drawn since I met you»

«That’s not such a nice thing to say», I reply, a bit frowning and pouting.

He hastens to correct himself: «It’s not what you think. I suppose I felt too proud to continue as if nothing had happened, deprived of a space all my own».

«Well, it won’t be the same, but now it’s like you can carry your space wherever you go», I respond, nodding towards the briefcase.

«That’s exactly it. And I thank you for this. For reigniting this flame in me… and for thinking of me in a way I’m not used to anymore». He closes his hand over mine, catching me completely by surprise, I don’t know if more by the gesture or by the sincere words he has addressed to me, barely uncovering that part of himself that is now certain to exist but is well hidden under a thick layer of cynicism.

I gently squeeze his fingers, and then he releases his grip, taking the package that contains my gift: «Come on, it’s your turn now», he says, handing it to me.

I take the gift, brushing my fingers over the lilac paper and the light ribbon that wraps it, with a tiny card attached. Just as I’m about to open it, Aesop stops me: «Read it later». He winks and says no more.

I look at him doubtfully, raising an eyebrow, but I comply. I remove the ribbon with the card and set it aside, opening the paper meticulously, avoiding tearing it: a ritual of mine that allows me to savour the anticipation before discovering what surprise lies beneath. I find myself holding a small cardboard box, plain but heavy. My heart races as, with trembling fingers, I open it and finally reveal its contents: an emerald-green glass vial, very shiny, conical in shape with a serpent forming the letter “C” engraved on its surface. The stopper resembles a drop, and I glimpse a pipette attached, floating placidly within the liquid contained in the bottle. I unscrew it and a scent I’ve never smelled before envelops me, clouding all my senses: I detect jasmine, but intertwined with it are strongly woody and amber notes, making it a more sensual and darker version of the perfume I usually wear.

Immediately, I let two drops fall onto my wrists, rubbing them together and inhaling the intense and magical fragrance that almost blends with my skin, as if it had been my scent all along. «Aesop, I love it! It’s the most wonderful perfume I’ve ever smelled!», I exclaim enthusiastically, meanwhile turning the box over in my hands, unable to find any indication of the shop it came from. «Where did you get it?».

He looks into my eyes intensely for a moment, then says: «I made it».

It surprises me so much that I nearly drop the bottle. «You made it?», I repeat, as if the concept makes no sense to me.

Aesop gives his usual scoffing laugh: «You find that strange for a Potions Master?».

Of course it’s not. Just… «I didn’t expect it», I murmur simply, a strange, intoxicating happiness filling every inch of my body.

Sharp leans towards me and, looking into my eyes, simply says: «I know». I notice he has moved the ribbon with the card back towards me, indicating it with his eyes and a sly expression on his face.

I take the card cautiously. «Aesop, if this lists the ingredients and one of them is Puffskein dung, I swear I’ll make you drink it», I threaten, but he just enjoys the scene with his usual smile on his lips, waiting for me to read what’s written on the card.

His narrow, sharp handwriting reveals itself to my eyes: “I can’t wait to smell this on you in Egypt” .

I can’t believe it. I have to read those few words more than once to realise they are there, written in black and white, penned by his hand. Real.

«Aesop, you’re coming to Egypt too?», I ask him, incredulous, with my heart pounding in my chest, so hard I fear it might break my rib cage.

«Only if you want», he replies, his expression softened.

I raise my voice, unable to contain the excessive enthusiasm, my uncontrollable happiness at what is the best gift: «Of course I want to!».

I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his neck. Exaggerated, maybe even ridiculous. But grateful. Extremely, terribly, infinitely grateful. For a moment, my reaction startles Aesop: his muscles are rigid under my embrace, but then they relax, and he finally lets go, even daring to wrap an arm around my waist. Time stops, everyone else disappears, sounds and noises are muffled. It’s just us. I could stay like this forever.

«Thank you, Aesop», I murmur, his hair brushing against my cheek.

«Merry Christmas, Cass».

I pull back just enough to look at him, puzzled: «Cass?!», I ask, surprised.

«You have a beautiful name, but it’s too long», he justifies, raising his hands as if in surrender, with the most innocent yet cheeky expression he can muster. This man will drive me mad!

«Who are you and what have you done with the irritable Aesop Sharp I know?», I ask, looking at him skeptically, but unable to hide the amusement the absurdity of the situation causes me.

He shrugs with his sarcastic expression: «I could be someone else and have simply drunk Polyjuice Potion». And then, in a lower voice, he says in my ear: «So I could easily seduce the most beautiful professor at Hogwarts».

I burst out laughing, my cheeks flushing: «Or you might have read Dickens’s ‘A Christmas Carol’ and finally realized there’s not much to gain by being a Scrooge».

We pull away from the embrace that has bound us together until this moment. I’m not sure if everyone is just tipsy enough not to have noticed or if they’ve simply pretended, out of politeness and good sense, not to see us. However, Albus shoots me a knowing glance, and a crafty, daring expression spreads across his handsome young face, as if he’s up to something. He winks and goes back to chatting animatedly with Elphias Doge and searching for a decent flavour among the many unappealing Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans scattered on the table.

Shortly after, Matilda’s voice rises above our heads: «It’s been a pleasure spending Christmas with you all again this year, among new faces and familiar ones. Now, however, I believe it’s time for all of us – especially the students – to go to bed».

Amid the groans of the younger pupils and the scraping of wooden benches on the stone floor, the Great Hall slowly empties, and the souls that had filled it disperse into the castle’s nooks and crannies. Aesop and I, just as we arrived, leave together, heading towards the Faculty Tower.

We walk slowly, close together, and are soon joined by the Gryffindor students, who need to take the same staircase as us to reach the Tower that leads to their Common Room. Behind them is Albus, who, as Head Boy, gives the final instructions of the evening, though he’s less pedantic than usual and refrains from scolding a couple of second-year boys who are teasing each other.

On the wide landing of our Tower, we detach ourselves from the group of students and head towards the door that leads to the teachers’ quarters, securely closed by a powerful Colloportus. Aesop takes out his wand to perform an Alohomora, but at that moment something white descends from the threshold, coming between us. We look up simultaneously: small, round, white berries, shiny like pearls, protrude from a sprig of bright green leaves.

«Mistletoe…», I barely move my lips, looking first at the plant and then at Aesop, his expression as surprised and confused as mine. But we’re adults, and we both know very well what two people are supposed to do when they find themselves under mistletoe.

A bright red spot in the corner of my vision catches my attention. I look away from Sharp to rest my gaze on an Albus who is whistling casually, looking around as he heads up the Gryffindor Tower stairs, closing the line of students.

Aesop, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me for a moment and has observed me closely, exclaims in a loud, stentorian voice: «Mr Dumbledore?».

Albus freezes on the steps and turns towards us. I look first at him, then at Sharp, who continues to stare at me. «Yes, Professor Sharp?», the boy asks politely, but I can detect a hint of panic in his voice.

There’s that mischievous smile again: «50 points to Gryffindor. Consider it my Christmas gift. Goodnight, now», says Aesop, who, as usual, has understood everything, leaving both me and Albus speechless, completely taken aback by this sudden benevolence.

The boy dashes up the stairs, disappearing while showering us with a thousand thanks; Sharp and I are alone again, standing face to face under the sprig of mistletoe.

«We don’t have to», I hastily say, suddenly embarrassed, far more than when I stood naked before him for the first time.

He, however, has evidently decided that the surprises for tonight are not over: «And ruin the tradition?».

There’s no need to say anything more. Time stretches, the atmosphere around us muffles; I hear only our breaths and the blood coursing through my veins, every single agitated heartbeat, and this time without the aid of a potion to sharpen my senses. I can’t believe that this moment I’ve desired for months, and had almost given up hope of, has finally arrived.

Our bodies draw closer, as do our faces. His scent envelops me, and my head feels light, so intoxicated that I almost think I might faint. Our lips come nearer, closer still. They brush for a moment, and then finally meet. His, usually thinner than mine, seem to betray no emotion, but I can feel his heart pounding hard in his chest pressed against mine.

I dare to repeat the embrace I gave him in the Great Hall. Now, however, it is more intimate, relaxed; my arms encircle his neck and pull him to me, and his hands respond by firmly grasping my waist, closing the distance between us.

I gently move my lips against his, and Aesop responds to the kiss. If the eyes are the mirror of the soul, our mouths are the mirror of our personalities: my kiss is sweeter and more romantic; his is more decisive, made rougher and scratchier by his beard, but that doesn’t make me appreciate it any less. On the contrary, it’s just another piece of him, another way to get to know him better. A way I like very much.

Our tongues barely touch, insinuating themselves into each other’s mouth, exploring it with patience, savouring each other’s taste. And only the gods know how much I like the taste of Aesop! A mix of wine, mint, and tobacco leaves that sends me into ecstasy.

It’s as if we are one, a single body, a single entity. A magic so powerful is happening that it makes me emotional; I want to cry, shout, dance, and sing at the top of my lungs while this man holds me in his arms, kissing me under the mistletoe like in the most classic of romance novels. Those who claim to be disgusted by romance either haven’t read Jane Austen, or they’ve never kissed Aesop. Or both.

The spell breaks suddenly: «Aesop?», Matilda calls from behind us.

We pull apart quickly, as if we need to hide what she has evidently witnessed—and who knows for how long! I almost leap away from Aesop, turning towards Matilda but unable to meet her gaze; he, on the other hand, tries to maintain as neutral a stance as possible, though his shoulders are tense and his jaw slightly clenched.

«Matilda, good evening», he responds, an excess of formality serving as a vain attempt to extricate himself from this embarrassing situation.

The Deputy Headmistress, however, doesn’t seem to notice. In truth, she doesn’t even seem happy or excited that her bizarre plans from August (I know her too well to pretend not to be aware that she hoped for something to happen between the two of us) have just come to fruition before her eyes. I dare to glance at her briefly, and her gaze is laden with concern, framed by furrowed brows and weighed down by a grave tone: «From the Ministry», she says simply, handing Aesop a letter.

He furrows his brow as well and takes the envelope that Matilda hands him. He opens it and reads, his expression becoming more worried and dark: «When did it arrive?», he asks her.

«A short while ago. As soon as the owl delivered it to the Great Hall, I brought it straight to you».

Aesop nods: «Thank you, Matilda». He pockets the letter and pulls out his wand to unlock the door. «Please arrange for a carriage», he adds, entering the Faculty Tower. Matilda nods and departs quickly, leaving me alone.

I follow him inside, closing the door behind me and trailing after Sharp up the stairs. He doesn’t wait for me, walking more decisively and quickly despite his disability, and from his behaviour and the way he spoke to Matilda, I get the impression that a sudden burden now weighs on his shoulders.

As soon as I step into our quarters, I see him hastily packing a suitcase. «Aesop, is everything alright?», I ask him.

«No», he replies simply, suddenly cold and distant.

His manner, so opposite to the warmth with which he kissed me just moments ago, feels like a slap. I watch him pace back and forth between the sitting room and his room, noting that he takes care to always close the door, hiding the interior from my view.

«Cassandra, go to bed», he says, barely looking at me, standing still in the middle of the room, his voice resonating as an order.

I know he won’t tolerate any kind of argument, but I gather my courage and swallow the awareness of the rejection I know I’ll receive as soon as I say: «No, Aesop. I want to know what’s happened».

He lets out a heavy sigh, staring at a point on the wall, but carefully avoiding my gaze: «Ministry business. I absolutely must go»

«Is it dangerous?».

His voice breaks slightly: «You don’t need to worry».

I watch him close several potion and ingredient cases inside a larger suitcase, and a sense of anguish begins to take hold of me. It doesn’t take the Minister of Magic to understand that the matter is more serious than expected, that danger lurks insidiously and patiently around the corner.

My heart starts to pound again, but this time due to the sense of helplessness that seizes me: «Aesop – I ask timidly – do you really have to?».

He laughs bitterly, as if I’d said something foolish: «Of course I do».

He doesn’t speak to me for several minutes, during which I watch him motionless, doing nothing, petrified by the fear that starts to scratch at my mind, insinuating itself like an annoying worm. The fear of not seeing him return.

«Cassandra», he calls me, this time looking me in the eye. His gaze, as it used to be, is impassive and hard: «Go to bed».

I try to protest: «Aesop…»

«Please», he says in an exasperated tone, and I understand that insisting is completely pointless.

I turn and walk uncertainly towards the fireplace, unable to feel even the warmth of the flames that weigh down the velvet wrapping me. I turn my head slightly to the side, in his direction: «Can you at least tell me when you’ll be back?», I ask him with a trembling voice, still unable, after all these years, to come to terms with the terror of abandonment.

I hear Aesop stop and sigh. He’s buying time, searching for the kindest and most understanding words to keep me at a distance. Finally, he says: «I don’t know. It could take days, or weeks». Unspoken words hang in the air, the most dreadful ones that no one would want to admit, nor pronounce or hear: "I might never come back".

I feel my eyes sting as my vision blurs with tears that I try to hold back, not to shed, in a last and futile attempt not to show my vulnerability. I nod, pulling out my wand, ready to extinguish the flames in the fireplace and step through. If just a short while ago I couldn’t wait to spend more time with him, now I just want to throw myself on the bed and cry myself to sleep.

«Cass», he calls, using the diminutive of my name, perhaps to soften the blow. I look at him, unable to hide the disappointment, sadness, and sense of emptiness that the letter I haven’t even read has caused in me. And then they say that words are not a powerful medium… «Get some rest and don’t think about me. Please».

I nod and murmur: «Alright», but we both know that his recommendation will be of no use. I can’t believe that until a short while ago I was overflowing with happiness, and now I’m already experiencing the weight of his imminent absence and the fear of abandonment as my feelings reveal themselves cruelly and silently in all their ruthless sincerity, presenting me with the bill. That’s how I learn to abandon myself in the arms of the first man who shows any interest in me.

I climb the stairs in silence, the sounds of Aesop packing echoing below. My room seems tiny and suffocating now, thinking back to how he was here only a few hours ago and how this space was his, before I came and disrupted his daily life on a hot August day. I think back to his canvases full of sketches and colours, the vast landscapes in oil and watercolour that I deprived him of and tried so hard to return to him, in some way. And now he slips away from me again, like smoke in the wind, intangible and unattainable.

I am shaken by sobs and exhausted, and I lie down on the bed still dressed, trying in vain to calm myself. Morgan senses my sadness and curls up placidly beside me, nudging me with her head and paw. I bury my hand in her fur, trying to catch the vibrations of her purring, to synchronize my breathing with hers to calm down a bit. When the door downstairs closes and no more sounds signal Aesop’s presence, I still haven’t succeeded.



Chapter 23: SHARP

Chapter Text

I must not think about Cassandra now. I cannot let myself be distracted by her sad expression, or her faltering voice, or her soft lips on mine; their hesitant but curious approach wanting to discover my mouth and my tongue, the way I kiss in return. What had seemed wrong for months, for a few minutes felt like the most right thing I could do, the only way to feel the flame of life and passion burning in my chest again... only to be abruptly brought back to reality, that faint light blown away by the wind.

The letter from the Ministry of Magic reminded me why I promised myself not to get emotionally involved with anyone anymore: even though I'm no longer an Auror, they still trust me enough to call me in case of an emergency, should a dangerous situation arise that only someone experienced, who has seen first-hand what the Dark Arts are capable of, is able to face. And it so happens that I am just that kind of person. As long as it’s me who’s potentially in danger, I don’t care about the consequences; but if this job even slightly undermines the emotional wellbeing of those around me, seeking solitude is the least I can do to ensure no one gets hurt in any way.

I must distance myself from her as soon as possible, push her away, however much it might hurt her... and me. I know what’s being ignited inside me, I can’t deny it. But I still don’t want to admit it. To do so would mean questioning everything I’ve painstakingly built up until now, the last ten years of life after what happened to Mabel in Scarborough. If I hadn’t been so presumptuous, things would be different now: she would still be here, I wouldn’t have a bad leg... and Cassandra and I would never have met.

The carriage stops, and with it, finally, the flow of my thoughts. Thankfully: focusing on the Ministry's assignment will keep me from thinking about everything else. I step out and head towards the bridge above Hogsmeade Station, where two Aurors are waiting for me. One is a man over fifty, with blue eyes and dark blond hair streaked with white, deep expression lines on his face, and a thick, well-groomed moustache: Patrick Lisbon, already in service when I was working at the Ministry. A man of action, with keen intelligence and wise resourcefulness, calm and impassive to the right degree; perfect for such an assignment. The other is at least thirty years younger, tall and athletic, with thick brown hair, deep dark eyes, and a face full of freckles; it seems like yesterday that I was teaching him Potions first, at Hogwarts, and then Occlumency during Auror training.

«I would have preferred to see you under different circumstances, Sebastian», I start, greeting the young Sallow.

«The same goes for me, Profes— I mean, Sharp»

«Come on, there’s no time for pleasantries», Lisbon interjects briskly, signaling Sebastian to take my suitcase and starting to walk towards the densely vegetated side of the mountain.

«An ambush like this at Christmas, what a dirty trick!», exclaims Sebastian, following the older colleague, who immediately scolds him for his language.

«We’ll use a Portkey that will take us directly to Spavin's office, Sharp. If we’re lucky enough, some of our people might have already been rescued», says Lisbon.

Sebastian echoes, murmuring: «Who knows in what condition…».

Lisbon seems not to hear him: «Do you have enough Veritaserum?», he asks, turning to me.

«I've drawn on all the available supplies, Lisbon»

«That means if it’s not enough, you’ll have to enter their minds. Here we are, in position», he concludes, nodding towards a pair of filthy, tattered gloves, carelessly left on a large stone about the size of a newborn. We position ourselves around it, waiting. As soon as the gloves light up with a blue glow, we touch them almost simultaneously and are sucked into a whirlwind, transporting us in a few seconds to the antechamber of the Minister of Magic's office, a room furnished with luxurious furniture, dark marble on the floor and light wood-paneled walls, depicting the greatest and most significant events in magical history. The door is closed, but agitated voices can be heard from within.

Lisbon steadies himself and heads decisively to the door, knocking only once. Spavin's secretary, a petite and frightened-looking woman, opens almost immediately and ushers us hurriedly into the office, where a group of half a dozen men is gathered around a central desk.

«For Merlin's sake, you're finally here!», exclaims the Minister, approaching me and continuing: «I'm sorry to have called you on Christmas, Sharp, but the situation is urgent. Attacking the Auror recruits during their retreat in Caerphilly, what cowardice!»

«I imagine they weren't even equipped», I respond, trying to gather as much information as possible.

The Minister shakes his head. «Who could have imagined such a thing? In a time of peace like now, with twenty promising youngsters on the verge of becoming Aurors! Captured in the dead of night while they were simply celebrating!»

«This is a direct attack, Minister – interjects Sebastian – We've always known they wanted Caerphilly Castle, considered one of our rightful strongholds; it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Rookwood may be dead, but not his followers. If I'm not mistaken, his son is currently attending Hogwarts, right?», he asks me, and I can only nod.

Lisbon scoffs disdainfully: «I said they should all be locked up in Azkaban after that scum’s death! But no, “on their own they're harmless”, they said. And here's the result of always trying to prove we're better than them!».

Spavin, exasperated, raises a hand to silence him: «Please, Lisbon, let's not start this again! We need to act quickly if we want to bring those kids home»

«We need to go to Caerphilly. All of us», I say resolutely. The only time I set foot there was during my own retreat. It’s an unwritten rule that has become a tradition among Aurors to spend Christmas together in the Welsh village, to cement team spirit and camaraderie.

All eyes in the office turn to me. «Sharp, you…»

«Me too. One more person is always useful».

Spavin tries to dissuade me: «Sharp, we appreciate your dedication, but we absolutely need you as a Potioneer»

«I can't produce any more Veritaserum while waiting: it takes too long. I have enough Wiggenweld Potions to administer to those in need and the ingredients to make more», I interrupt, but doubt lingers on everyone’s faces. I know they don’t want me in the field, both because of my disability and because the last time I went out was ten years ago, and we all know how that ended. «I'll stay in the rear», I try to convince them.

Sebastian's voice rises above mine: «Sharp was a huge help during Ranrok's attack on Hogwarts in 1891. If it hadn't been for him, there wouldn't have been a final showdown». He refers to when I distracted and defeated the troll giving his schoolmate Claire a hard time, who must have told him everything, and Fig. I am grateful to him.

«We need a man like Sharp in the field – states Lisbon – It makes no sense to have called him only to make him wait here for who knows how long».

Spavin seems convinced: «All right. You'll Apparate outside the walls of Caerphilly Castle. From there, you'll proceed on foot. Lisbon, I leave the command to you. Can you all perform a Disillusionment Charm?», he asks, standing up from the desk and indicating the door, with Lisbon leading the way.

I follow the other Aurors. «I also brought some Invisibility Potions. They should be enough for everyone, along with Edurus Potions»

«I always knew you were the coolest teacher, Professor!», exclaims Sebastian, overly excited given the imminent mission, so much so that Lisbon immediately reprimands him.

«Sallow! Get serious for once».

We squeeze into an elevator heading to the lowest floor, and Lisbon changes tone, adopting a professional demeanor: «So, Sharp will stay in the rear, keeping an eye on the situation for us. Keep your minds open so he can communicate anything, understood?».

When everyone nods, he continues: «Whitehead, you guard Sharp. Lee, McNully: you and Sallow will handle freeing the hostages and ensuring their absolute safety, clear?». More nods of agreement. «I, Lindberg, Prewett, and Black will lead the offensive. If anyone has questions, ask now or forever hold your peace». No one dares contradict him.

As we traverse a corridor leading to a completely empty room, I feel a tingling sensation under my skin, spreading throughout my body. That incredible and unparalleled feeling of going into action, of finally returning to the field, flooded with adrenaline. Only the gods know how much I’ve missed it. Yet, at the back of my mind, another feeling tries to creep in: a mix of anxiety and fear of never seeing those large hazel eyes looking at me again, never touching those parted rosy lips, nor caressing that soft hair or smooth, pale skin...

I shake it off by distributing various potions to the Aurors, useful for them and for the hostages we’re about to save. The more I keep my mind focused on the task, the better. We form a circle and Disapparate with a nod from Lisbon. A rapid spin on my heel, and after twenty-six years, here I am again in Caerphilly, on a dark and eerily still night.

«We’ll proceed in staggered groups», Lisbon explains as he prepares to descend the hillside where we’ve Apparated, from which the castle is visible. «Keep in mind that they’re expecting our arrival after their brazen attack. Remember: Disillusionment Charms will be very useful for infiltrating the castle. I, Prewett, Lindberg, and Black will go in first and wait for Sallow, McNully, and Lee to become visible. You three should only do so once we’ve distracted them, understood?». Various nods accompany Lisbon's descent as he concludes: «Sharp and Whitehead, on guard. Sharp, don’t hesitate to communicate with us as soon as you see something. Eyes and minds open, team: the lives of other Aurors depend on us».

We follow Lisbon's instructions methodically. Whitehead, who is about my age, with fair skin and a bald head, and I move last, positioning ourselves on guard at opposite sides of the castle, near the two exits. I hide in the shadow of a tower and cast a Disillusionment Charm on myself, allowing me to venture a bit further inside the walls to get a better view. I know I promised to stay in the rear, but I’m not what you’d call a passive man. Besides, I have years of experience and know these bastards well: I know what I’m doing.

Taking great care not to make the slightest noise, I move cautiously along the walls and manage to hide in the alcove of a guardhouse. From here, I have a full view of the large inner courtyard, where the flames of the great pyre lit by the Aurors before the Dark Wizards' madness descended on them still flicker. By tradition, an object that ties the future Auror to their childhood, to their past life, is thrown into the fire, symbolizing a final independence from it and the start of a new path, devoted to light and purity. Now, however, it looks like an eerie and unsettling ritual, its participants eagerly awaiting the spilling of innocent blood. I immediately notice that they outnumber us significantly, but they’re not smart enough to act without overconfidence. I then look up towards the walkways on the walls, trying to focus on the presence of sentinels: one on each side. I immediately penetrate the minds of the Aurors to communicate this. Apparently, we need to be more cautious than expected.

The minutes crawl by slowly, time seems to stand still, filled only with the arrogant chatter of the Dark Wizards. I try to sharpen my hearing to catch any sounds from the hostages, but there’s absolutely nothing: they must have locked them in the dungeons, making their rescue and escape even more complicated. Bastards.

After what feels like an interminable wait, Black and Lindberg emerge from the darkness, using two Dark Wizards as shields, likely captured somewhere in the castle.

«Well, look who it is! Isn't that Iola Black?», jeers one of the Dark Wizards, referring to one of the two Aurors who entered the fray. «What are you doing here? Trying to prove your worth after marrying a Muggle?»

«It doesn't take much to be worth more than you lot, Northcott. Let the recruits go!», retorts the woman.

Northcott shrugs and spreads his arms, stepping closer. «Recruits? I don't see any recruits here. Just a couple of busybodies like you. How many more are there? Where are you hiding?»

«Let's cut the crap, Northcott. You know full well this is the retreat site for future Aurors. Spare yourselves from staining your hands with more innocent blood!», Lindberg exclaims, swiftly detecting a rustle behind him and disarming one of the sentries on the battlements.

Northcott and his men remain unfazed. «A Mudblood coming to preach about which blood is worth spilling… If it weren't so dishonorable and disgraceful, it would be laughable».

At that moment, the woodpile that makes up the pyre levitates and, as silently as it quickly, strikes all the Dark Wizards within range. The ensuing commotion allows Lisbon, who cast the spell that initiated the battle, and Prewett to reveal themselves and join the fray, hurling Stunning Spells and responding to the Dark Wizards' attacks. The Aurors manage to hold their ground, but the enemy's numbers are greater, and the noise of the battle draws out more Dark Wizards, increasing the effort required to subdue them.

I hate standing here, waiting for the fight to end without being able to intervene! My body trembles from the forced immobility while the flashes of light and explosions from the wands stimulate every nerve ending. The desire, but more importantly, the primal need to act for the common good, to be of help, to return to being who I once was, frays the metaphorical rope binding me in my hiding place, loosening it more and more.

Whitehead must have thought the same because from his direction comes an Incarcerous spell, however, intercepted by one of the Dark Wizards who proceeds to reveal him and cast the Cruciatus Curse. From afar, however, Sebastian's voice rings out: «Expelliarmus!». The young man disarms the Dark Wizard and finally binds him with tight ropes. He then uses his own body as a shield for some younger recruits whose faces are familiar to me, as it's been only a short time since I last taught them Legilimency at the Ministry. They look different from the eager, passionate students I met: their young faces contorted with fear, their eyes filled with terror and uncertainty about their future.

Sebastian runs alongside them, casting protective spells to shield them while dodging the attacks of the Dark Wizards. They are just a few meters from me when Sallow is outpaced and his Protego is interrupted by a flash of green light shot from above, striking a young blonde girl who falls to the ground, lifeless. It's more than I can bear.

The air still echoes with the malicious laughter of the wizard as I abandon my hiding spot, Apparating onto the battlements where the Killing Curse originated. My Incarcerous spell catches him by surprise, allowing me to quickly disarm and tightly bind the remaining two. I then Disapparate into the courtyard, joining the fight with the other Aurors.

«Sharp! No! What the hell are you doing?!», yells Lisbon as soon as he sees me, continuing to cast spells and dodge others.

«Preventing them from killing more young Aurors!», I shout back, as the searing sparks of a Blasting Curse brush my cheek, burning the skin upon contact.

«You were supposed to be on guard, Sharp!»

«And watch you die, Lisbon?». I know well why they put me on guard duty; I feel the pain coursing through my leg, as if an executioner were striking it with his axe. The stiffness in the limb limits movements that once would have been fluid and faster, natural and spontaneous.

«You're an expert at that, aren't you?», croaks a voice behind me. «Watching female Aurors die while you're on the field is your specialty, as I recall».

The man facing me when I turn is tall and thin, with a long face, sharp features, and short, light blond hair that glints in the moonlight. «Don't you dare, Vole», I warn.

But the damage is done: seeing that girl die and hearing his words have reopened old wounds in me, suppurating blood and pus, anger and pain. The battlefield around me disappears; it's as if I'm alone, facing Vole and all the memories rising like Inferi from their graves.

«What was her name? Mabel? They say the scream that died on her lips was nothing compared to yours. Did it hurt more to be crippled or to watch your fiancée die because of your arrogance?».

I can't control myself. Before I even realize what I'm doing, a single shout escapes my mouth: «Crucio!». A flash of green light, and Vole is on the ground, writhing in pain, his screams not even remotely comparable to mine when I was a victim of the same curse ten years ago, bearing its scars ever since. I watch him suffer, begging for mercy, but I keep him under the yoke of my wand, bending his body and mind to my rancorous will.

«Protego!», yells Sallow from somewhere. I imagine him still busy rescuing the hostages, but a pearly dome soon breaks my curse to enclose me, preventing me from attacking but also protecting me from the spells still flying in all directions.

Sebastian rushes towards me, shouting furiously: «Sharp! What the hell are you doing?!».

The black smoke of rage that had blinded me dissolves, bringing the scene into focus. Vole lies on the ground in a fetal position, sweaty and gasping. Chains sprout from Sebastian's wand as he continues to cast spells, like the other Aurors.

I've always thought that, aside from the pain and physical impairment, I was ready to return to the field. I've never been so wrong. Just seeing certain spells, hearing the battle cries, recalling certain memories has brought me back to that moment of death and despair. It has made me like one of them, no better than those who enjoyed torturing me physically and psychologically, ending my career at the Ministry and killing Mabel forever.

«Sallow, I…», I try to say, disgusted that an old student of mine had to see the worst part of me.

«No time for that now! We're surrounded!», the boy yells back.

I regain control of the situation and, most importantly, of myself. I dispel Sebastian's Shield Charm and leap into the fray, keeping my focus on the here and now, without sinking into the traumas of the past that haunt the present. Through Disarming Charms, Stunning Spells, and Incarcerous Spells, we finally manage to take down the Dark Wizards and save our survivors, but with one young life lost, there’s no reason to celebrate. Especially because the hardest part of my work is yet to come.

The adrenaline has already given way to a sense of defeat by the time I Apparate back to the Ministry. «Tomorrow we'll start the interrogations, Sharp», says the Minister, who was summoned shortly after our return. «Now go and rest. Your usual room».

As soon as I cross the threshold of the lodging assigned to me every time I return to the Ministry, I feel the full weight of fatigue, nausea, and anger over how things turned out. No one knows better than I do how dangerous battles are, but it's unacceptable for a young recruit to lose their life because of a cowardly ambush.

I run a hand through my hair, and only then do I feel the pain across my body: the muscles in my shoulder pulling, the trail of blood on my palm. If there's one thing I haven't missed about this job, it's the marks it leaves on you, both physical and emotional.

I step into the bathroom and undress, watching the dirty, injured, and sweaty reflection that appears in the mirror as I remove my clothes. There's a burn on my right cheek and a cut at my hairline, with blood dried and crusted on my eyebrow. A bright red abrasion stands out on my shoulder, and my clothes are singed and torn; ironically, a large tear has split the left leg of my trousers, exposing the skin beneath and the scar that has been with me for ten years.

I pull down the now-useless trousers and examine the reason why Cassandra never saw me naked: a scar raised and swollen with pain beneath various cuts and minor bruises. The knee is a mass of knotted skin, hastily stitched together, with purple rays radiating from it like a sunburst—the vivid scars of the Cruciatus Curse I suffered to protect Mabel, in vain.

After all these years, I can barely remember her voice, now faded among the breezes of time. What did her laughter sound like? Even her features are beginning to fade, temporarily renewed only by the fleeting glances I occasionally cast at an old, faded photograph I look at when I need to remind myself why I've shut myself off from new relationships. What were the small movements of her face when she smiled? What shade of green were her eyes? I try to remember, but the image that forms in my mind is of hazel eyes, framed by dark lashes. Definitely not Mabel's eyes, but those of another woman who has been invading my thoughts for months, like a ghost in an old country house.

I wash away the thought of Cassandra with a stream of boiling water, staying under the shower longer than necessary, and after drying off, I finally lie down on the bed, naked, aware that sleep will come late and be filled with nightmares. Nightmares in which the young Auror dies repeatedly, but her face is that of the woman I kissed only a few hours ago, the one I left at Hogwarts on the verge of tears, her screams a distant echo of a memory filled with unspeakable torture and death. I wake up more exhausted than before.

After a quick breakfast consisting of an excessive amount of coffee, I head to the Minister’s office to take stock of the situation and receive new instructions. Spavin is pale, with deep dark circles etched into his face; his voice is grave and tired as he begins to speak: «The parents of the girl who was killed are already here, as are the reporters from The Daily Prophet. I ask you to please refrain from speaking to them for now. Lisbon, Sharp: you will be responsible for interrogating the prisoners. We absolutely need to know why they were in Caerphilly last night».

As we prepare to leave, Lisbon and I heading to the Department of Mysteries, Spavin calls me back: «Sharp, may I have a word?».

I can guess where this is heading. Reluctantly, I turn back to him, impassive: «Yes, Minister?».

He looks at me with eyes full of worry and apprehension, though they don't hide the rebuke, which is evident in his voice: «This must never happen again. You jeopardized the success of the entire operation». Then, lowering his voice as if someone might be lurking in the now-empty room: «And with a Cruciatus Curse, no less!».

I hold his gaze: «I suppose the severance pay I received on my departure didn’t cover the trauma of the Scarborough ambush, Minister». Spavin opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. «But I’ve got the message. Am I free to go now?», I ask, allowing myself a boldness I wouldn’t have had if I still wore the badge.

«Please, Sharp», Spavin dismisses me, and without another word, I turn and head down to the Department of Mysteries. A guard escorts me to a small, dark room that barely fits a table and two chairs. The parade of Dark Wizards begins, ready to be interrogated one after the other. The results are nothing short of exhausting and unsatisfactory, as they have undoubtedly practiced Occlumency: penetrating their minds is almost impossible.

«I remember them being more stupid», jokes Lisbon during a break, maintaining a serious expression as he brings a cigarette to his lips.

I do the same: «We need to start using Veritaserum. Carefully, though. We need to close this case quickly, give an answer to the girl’s parents and those scavengers of journalists». I feel a pang somewhere in my chest when I say it, because until a few months ago, Cassandra belonged to the same category, and she was certainly no scavenger.

«I agree. We need to identify who can give us the information we need and use it only on them».

The first two days follow the same routine: intensive interrogations where we try to extract any important information, dodging questions from persistent journalists, and late-night meetings where Lisbon, Sallow, and I attempt to piece everything together. Sallow, consumed by guilt over losing one of the hostages he had freed, tries to redeem himself in every possible way – even though there is no need, as the girl’s death is certainly not his fault.

«But it was my job to protect her!» he protests, his body bent over the table cluttered with parchments covered in the scrawled transcripts of the interrogations.

«Ours, Sallow. It’s never the fault of one person when one of us loses their life», Lisbon tries to reassure him, but now there are two of us consumed by guilt. I try not to show my discomfort.

«But with Linn, it was different, Lisbon. It had to be different! She was a Harlow and…».

I interrupt Sebastian: «Harlow?»

«Yes, Harlow. Jacqueline Harlow».

Lisbon and I exchange a significant glance. «Related to Theophilus?», I ask Sebastian, while Lisbon has already stood up and is leaving the room.

«I... I think so...», and at that moment, awareness dawns on the boy’s face. «Damn! Why didn’t I think of it earlier?!»

«Watch your language, Sallow», Lisbon scolds him, returning to the room with an open book in his hands. He places it on the table and points to a section: «Take a look at who our Harlow was related to».

The book is one of the many tomes that make up the genealogy of wizards, magical enough to update itself with marriages, births, and deaths. And there it is: various lines branching out in all directions, connecting to small tags with names and surnames of family members.

«Theophilus Harlow, born in 1841... related to Jacqueline Harlow, born in 1880», Lisbon specifies.

«What could he have wanted from her?», asks Sebastian.

«Probably to ensure that someone, willing or not, would follow his affairs while he’s on his trip to Azkaban. I imagine that for a criminal like him, it must have been an affront to have a relative in the Ministry»

«But how did he know she was about to become an Auror?»

«That’s exactly what we need to find out», I conclude, standing up and leaving the room with Lisbon following. «Let’s use Veritaserum on those higher in rank. I’m sure they were the brains behind the plan and used the younger ones to liaise with Harlow without arousing suspicion», I tell him.

A few hours later, we’re back at the interrogations, this time made easier by the use of the potion. In no time, we manage to get a satisfactory outline of the plan, corresponding to our theories: Theophilus Harlow wanted to kidnap Jacqueline and bend her to his will to pursue his illegal dealings and keep things within the family (despite, as verified by Lisbon, the girl’s relatives having severed ties with him). Doing it during the Aurors’ retreat represented the perfect opportunity to strike a blow to the same Ministry that had tried and imprisoned him seven years ago.

«A summary trial will now proceed», Lisbon declares to the journalists from The Daily Prophet, eager for news to splash on the front page. «For the sake of justice and Jacqueline Harlow, but we already know that the doors of Azkaban will open for all the accused. Without this team, however, it wouldn’t have been possible. A special mention goes to someone like Sebastian Sallow, who, despite being very young, perfectly embodies the ideals and values of the Aurors. But I cannot help but also thank an old acquaintance, a man who constantly reminds us that being an Auror is a matter of heart and mind, before being a job: Aesop Sharp, former Auror and now Potions Master at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry».

The photographers' cameras from The Daily Prophet emit bright puffs of smoke as they focus on me, taking pictures of my face, still bearing the marks of the battle. The last thing I wanted today was to end up in the newspaper.

«Professor – may I call you that?», asks a woman with red hair, brimming with energy. Lucky her, she’s obviously never worked at the Ministry. «Why did you resign from the Auror job but continue to serve the Ministry?»

«As Patrick Lisbon said, being an Auror is in the heart, before it’s on the badge. In cases of extreme necessity, like this Christmas, I put all my knowledge and experience at the disposal of a Department that has given me a lot. It’s my way of repaying it».

The journalists bombard us with questions until their attention is drawn to the far more interesting Minister of Magic, finally giving us some respite and updating us on what will happen in the coming days: the trial.

Besides parading one Dark Wizard after another to the dock, the Aurors involved in the battle are also called to testify to make the already substantial evidence against them even more compelling. Above all, it’s difficult to blame anyone specifically for Jacqueline Harlow’s death. It’s true that with the Priori Incantatem we managed to trace the wand from which the Killing Curse was cast, but the girl needed to be alive. She wasn’t the target.

After days spent holed up on the benches of the Wizengamot, surrounded by defendants, judges, and journalists, it’s finally decided that the responsibilities and culpabilities must be divided equally, considering the criminal records of most of the Dark Wizards involved in the attack. At least Theophilus Harlow will enjoy some company in prison.

It’s Sunday, the first day of the year 1899, when I’m finally dismissed, allowing me to return to Hogwarts. I won’t even be able to enjoy the holidays, as lessons start again tomorrow. Potions and Alchemy. I’ll see Cassandra again and resume working with her. I’m not sure how I feel about it: paradoxically, going back into the field after years and nearly jeopardizing all the trust the Ministry has placed in me by torturing a Dark Wizard has unsettled me less than the prospect of seeing her again. I can't deny I’m afraid of losing her, but at the same time, I can't keep her tied to me. I’d rather see her free than potentially endangered by my side. I failed to protect Mabel and couldn’t save Jacqueline Harlow; what assures me that it will be different with Cass?

And yet her eyes, her voice, and her lips are all I think about during the journey back. Sitting in the carriage, I doodle her face on a small scrap of parchment I found in my pocket. It’s an automatic process, and I only realize it once those graphite eyes stare back at me from the paper. Frustrated by my own vulnerability, I crumple the sketch and shove it back into my pocket along with the small pencil that traced her sweet features.

When the carriage stops within the walls of Hogwarts, it’s with a heavy heart that I make my way to the Great Hall, joining a dinner already in progress. The gazes of the students who have returned to school for the new term follow me as I walk to the professors' table; they’re probably surprised to see my skin marked by fresh scars. 

Someone who seems uninterested in my appearance is Cassandra: I see her eyes light up when they meet mine, the only betrayers of her otherwise seemingly impassive demeanor. I sit next to her, and her scent envelops me: the perfume I gave her just a week ago. Despite my departure without explanation, she’s wearing it.

«How are you?», she asks softly, as if testing the waters. Every time she does, it feels like a stab in the chest: the thought that she might fear my reactions makes me feel insignificant; it doesn’t matter that I keep my distance for her sake because deep down, I know I’m forcing myself to suppress my spontaneity, to do what I truly want.

«I’ve been worse», I reply, swallowing a generous piece of roast chicken, so I don’t have to focus on the conversation.

But no matter how hard I try to ignore her, Cassandra is her usual self: kind, patient, respectful of my silence. Merlin’s beard, I feel like such a jerk right now.

«I followed the whole story in The Daily Prophet. It’s terrible, Aesop», she says, her voice now free from restraint and filled with concern once we’re back in our quarters. She’s so close to me but doesn’t dare to close the distance. She waits for me to do so, but I can’t.

«It happens», I say, with a shrug that causes enough pain to make me wince.

«Are you hurt?», she asks, worried.

I shake my head: «I’m fine».

But she doesn’t buy it. Her hand rises and rests lightly on my face, her fingertips just a bit cold. I want to warm them with kisses, trace an endless path on her skin that ends at her lips. She caresses the scars, both old and new, with such care and love that I risk losing all the composure I’ve built over ten years of impenetrability.

And it’s precisely in that moment, in that infinite instant when we look into each other’s eyes, speaking without words, that I realize that with her, I could truly be happy again. I could hope for a normal life once more, imagine my days and nights beside a beautiful woman who only wants to give me her love and be loved in return as she deserves.

And precisely because she deserves someone who loves her, who gives her a happy life, who allows her to realize all her dreams and desires, I step away. «I think I’ll go rest. I’m very tired», I say, fabricating a pathetic excuse to leave.

She nods, visibly saddened: «You’re right. I’ll take the opportunity too». She walks in the opposite direction, towards the fireplace, and I want to cross the distance between us with a few steps to take her hand again and place it this time on my chest, so she can feel how this old heart, deluded into thinking it can love and be loved in return, beats to her rhythm.

«Ah, Aesop», she calls, just as I’m opening the door to my room. «Happy New Year». A sweetly resigned smile, probably due to my reticence, paints her face, and at that moment I regret not being here last night to celebrate the arrival of 1899 with her.

«Happy New Year to you, Cass», I reply, disappearing into my room. And what I hope most is that it truly is for her: that in the next twelve months she finds someone who makes her forget I exist, without making her regret the half-life she imagined living by my side. Someone who reminds her every day how beautiful, brilliant, and talented she is. 

Someone who loves her the way I wish I could.

Chapter 24: CASSANDRA

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

What must be going through someone’s mind to kiss a person and then ignore them the following week? I’ve been wondering about it for days, ever since Aesop has acted as if he’s never touched me in his life. Simply put, since he returned from the Ministry, he decided to ignore me. I would be foolish to say I’m not suffering: I’m coming to terms with my feelings and I know perfectly well that I’ve fallen in love with him. It's true, he’s elusive, and he was arrogant and definitely unapproachable during the early days of our forced cohabitation, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t lie with his eyes. I don't have the certainty that he reciprocates my feelings (or that he ever did), but I bet there was even the tiniest moment when he might have wavered.

For example, when we kissed: a romantic kiss under the mistletoe, like in the most beautiful novels. A kiss that seemed like it would never end, with his lips so welcoming, moving gently yet decisively over mine... Just the thought of it makes me melt like chocolate in the sun. And I can’t allow that anymore. I have to be resolute and ignore him in turn, stop trying to catch his attention: treat him the way he treats me, in short. If only it were simple…

«Cassandra, can you open the window for the owl, please?», Matilda asks, rousing me from my thoughts. We’re in the Faculty Lounge, and indeed outside the window, in the cold January wind, there’s a post owl, its feathers all ruffled.

I nod and do as asked, stroking the owl, probably docile because the cold prevents it from dodging or biting me, so stiff is it from the biting cold that lashes at my exposed hand. «Do you want to come in and warm up?», I ask, as if it could ever answer me. It hoots softly, and I take it as a yes.

The owl perches near the lit fireplace, spreading its wings to let the heat caress all its feathers, while I sort through the mail. There’s even something for me: a bulky package that seems to contain a newspaper.

«Who’s writing to you?», Ominis asks, hearing the rustling of paper in my hands as I sit back down next to him.

«Kevinus Morrisons, once my colleague at The Daily Prophet and now my liaison for news between the Muggle world and ours», I reply, opening the package. I dare to look up for a moment towards Aesop, as if to check his reaction upon hearing another man’s name, but he continues to be absorbed in grading Potions homework. It shouldn’t, but it annoys me.

I go back to focusing on the package and, as I had guessed, inside there’s a Muggle newspaper and a note that says: “ Go to page 13, Local News and Events section. K. ” I give a quick glance at the major headlines and then do as my former colleague suggested. I skim the page with my eyes and there it is, what Kevinus wanted me to see.

«A women’s march in London on Saturday!», I exclaim, full of enthusiasm. As if the owl had understood that I’d read the newspaper, it takes off and lands next to the window, ready to be let out and return where it came from. I rummage in my bag for coins to pay for the delivery, which I place in the small pouch attached to its leg, and finally, I open the window, watching it take flight.

I turn to the teachers’ table: «Matilda, I won’t be available this weekend», I say, almost gloating at the prospect of immersing myself in the atmosphere of the march, of walking alongside other women to claim what are our rights.

The Deputy Headmistress looks at me over her glasses: «Cassandra, I’ll be happy to grant you permission, but I need to know how many days you’ll be away, to organize the trip and possibly the classes», she says, glancing at Aesop who in response seems neither to listen nor care about the matter. How this attitude of his annoys me!

«There’s no need: I’ll leave on Saturday itself and be back on Sunday… with Floo Powder», I reply, reluctant at the mere thought of having to travel this way just to reach London quickly so as not to miss school days. And I could swear I noticed Aesop’s lips move imperceptibly in that damned cheeky smile of his that I’d remove with a good slap... and kisses.

Matilda smiles at me: «Very well then. I hope you have a wonderful Saturday»

«It certainly will be». My reply is accompanied by the sound of the bell. My colleagues get up, heading to their respective classrooms for lessons, but since I don’t have any, I linger to make tea. Later I might go to the Library and, if the wind dies down, take a walk along the shores of the Black Lake, even more beautiful in winter – I’ve never fully understood what having real free time meant until I started teaching a subject that’s not only optional but also at the students’ request!

My afternoon plans, however, are interrupted by someone clearing their throat behind me. Someone who, apparently, doesn’t have any classes at this hour and whose breath I would recognize anywhere. I try to ignore the little jump my heart makes in my chest and, still keeping my back to him, I ask: «Yes, Aesop?»

«You’re going to the women’s march, then?»

«That’s right»

«And can I ask with whom?».

I stiffen slightly while rummaging in the pantry for the tea. «Alone – I reply – Why do you ask?».

His voice is now closer: «Because I’d like to come with you»

When I turn towards him, steaming cup in hand, he’s standing there, having moved beyond the table, with nothing between us. I have to make a great effort not to jump for joy or throw the hot tea at him. I take a deep breath, and my voice is hard when I speak: «Let me understand, Aesop: you disappear for a week, then when you return you don’t talk to me for days unless strictly necessary, and now you tell me you want to come with me?».

He looks at me, absolutely understanding, all the frustration of the situation visible on his face. As if he were the one in my position! «I can’t blame you, Cass», he says, his hands resting on the table and his left leg just slightly crossed over the right to avoid putting his weight on it. Despite the wave of anger rising inside me, I can’t help but feel tenderness seeing him like this.

«Agreeing with me seems the least you could do», I reply sharply.

Aesop looks genuinely sorry. «I know I’m not the best communicator. I also know that what I’m about to say doesn’t excuse me, but I want you to know that every one of my actions has its reasons», he says, stepping closer to me.

«Maybe it’s time you learned to communicate, don’t you think?», I retort, my eyebrows furrowed, taking a sip of hot tea because, as much as it pains me to admit it, every time I’m in front of Aesop, my mouth goes dry.

«I’m trying to. I’m trying to learn from the best communicator I know», he flatters me, barely smiling.

I look away so as not to smile back: «Stop it, Aesop»

«Cass», he calls me, taking my hand. His grip is warm and firm. «See it as my way of apologizing, of trying to improve myself».

I look at his face so close to mine: the intensity of his gaze seems so sincere that it’s almost enough to make me give in… «Why didn’t you use dittany?», I ask instead, referring to the wounds he got in battle, still visible on his face.

He gives a reassuring smile: «Nothing I’m not used to». Then he leans towards me, brushing my temple with his lips, and his voice is just a bit cheeky: «But maybe a kiss could help me feel better»

«Are you serious?!», I ask, moving back slightly, shocked by such audacity, to which, evidently due to Aesop’s fickleness, I’m still not accustomed.

«Cass, I’m really sorry. It’s true, I have my reasons... but none that can justify me. That’s why I want to come with you: to get to know you better, to know your world, what made you the woman you are».

His words hit me, but I don’t relent: «And when will I get to know you better, Aesop?».

He rolls his eyes just a bit and there’s that damned smile spreading across his face again: «Stop asking me all these questions»

«If you don’t want to hear me talk, then kiss me», I yield.

I don’t even have time to regret what I just said or to curse myself for my submissiveness before Aesop moves closer to me again, lifts my chin with his fingers, and bridges the gap between us, pressing his lips against mine, which surrender to the kiss, immediately filled with ecstasy spreading through my whole body in tiny electric sparks.

I don't know how much time passes, but I know everything feels natural, familiar, as if we had kissed a thousand times before. His warm, spicy scent seductively fills my nostrils, and his taste leaves a lingering hint of tobacco and menthol on my tongue. This is how I would like to spend my entire free day today, with no regard for the Library.

Aesop barely pulls his lips away from mine to ask: «So? Can I come with you?».

I sigh in exasperation, but I can’t help but smile: «You’re insufferable»

«It’s not my fault if I can’t stay away from you for too long»

«I’d say you manage it pretty well».

He strokes my cheek: «Only when your face…». His hand then moves lower, caressing my body and lingering a bit too long on my curves, sending a shiver and a pleasant sensation between my legs: «…and your body aren’t around», he concludes, applying slight pressure to my hips.

As much as I like what he's doing, I ponder his words and tense slightly: «Is that all you want from me?», I ask, without needing to specify that I’m referring to something purely sexual. Before I can stop it, my face contorts into a disappointed grimace.

Almost as if snapped back to reality, Aesop steps back and looks at me, mortified: «Cass, damn it, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want me around».

I look at his expression: he seems genuinely sorry and embarrassed. «Tell me why I should believe you, Aesop», I reply.

He averts his gaze for a moment, then looks back at me and doesn’t look away. I can see him swallowing his pride, and with some effort, he resumes speaking: «Because I like you, Cassandra. Not just because you’re objectively beautiful, but because you’re stimulating, cultured, and fun. Because I enjoy being with you and want to know everything that makes you the person you are. Because…you make me feel alive in a way I haven’t felt in years».

I can’t pretend not to see the pain that crosses his face as he says these last words, and at that moment, I can’t help but empathize with him, understanding the mysterious reasons why he protects his heart with a thick armor. Whatever secrets he keeps so jealously, I want to uncover them slowly, respecting his privacy, while trying to guide him into my world.

«I won’t make promises I can’t keep, Cass – he continues – I might be distant and quiet, and sometimes I might seem uninterested. But the reality is different, more complicated. I’ve been struggling against all the certainties I’ve built over the past ten years since I met you because I care about you…and I really want to make this worthwhile».

He says everything I needed to hear. I move closer to him again, wrapping my arms around his neck. His hands immediately close around my waist: «I believe you, Aesop…and thank you for saying it». He smiles and gives me a gentle kiss, then rests his forehead against mine. We stay silent for a moment, with only the crackling of the fire in the background, before I tease him a little: «It’s true you’re learning to communicate, after all».

He smiles, slightly stung: «I’m a keen observer and learn from those better than me, even if it pains me to admit it»

«That will be our little secret, then. I don’t want to ruin the proud reputation of the strictest and most arrogant professor at Hogwarts».

He raises his eyebrows and looks at me with an amused expression: «You really are magnanimous and generous». He kisses me tenderly, first on the lips, then on the cheek, and finally on the neck, his hair and beard tickling my skin, making me laugh. He looks at me again, smiling and holding me close, and I feel light and dreamy. «So, can I come with you then?», he asks.

«I think you’ve earned a ride on the subway, after all», I reply.

«Is it really necessary to travel underground?», Aesop asks skeptically.

«In the middle of London with a full-scale Muggle protest going on? Mandatory, I’d say!», I reply, amused. «Nothing that a charming Potions Professor with a past as an Auror can’t handle»

«I’d prefer a battle full of perils, but I suspect I’ll have to make do»

«Your suspicions are correct», I reply, before being interrupted by Chiyo entering the Faculty Lounge, looking grim and holding shards of what must have been a broomstick. We quickly break our embrace, feeling embarrassed like two teenagers.

Once I’m sure Chiyo isn’t paying us any attention, I continue, pretending nonchalance and spontaneity: «Be ready at 9 am on Saturday: we’ll go to Hogsmeade and use Floo Powder from The Three Broomsticks straight to The Leaky Cauldron. From there, we’ll walk to Embankment, then take the subway to Westminster, where the march is. Afterward, we’ll take the subway again to Baker Street, where my house is». The words pour out of me as they always do when I meticulously plan my movements; only this time, I hadn’t accounted for Aesop being with me, staying at my place. And that there would be only one bed. «Is everything clear?», I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from this detail, which no one has mentioned but is too significant to ignore.

Aesop shrugs: «You’re the expert here», he says, smiling at me.

«Exactly – I confirm – and as such, you’ll have to adapt to me».

Chiyo leaves in the meantime, leaving us alone again. The opportunity is ripe for Aesop, who doesn’t waste time provoking me, always finding a double meaning in what I say: «I don’t mind if you take control, but personally, I prefer you more…submissive»

«Aesop! If you keep this up, I’ll leave you here!», I scold him, as if he were a small, mischievous child, not without blushing. Even though the idea of submitting to him doesn’t bother me at all.

He raises his hands in surrender: «Please, don’t deprive me of my precious subway ride», he teases, making me laugh.

«Be punctual at 9 am on Saturday!», I repeat as I gather my things to leave the Faculty Lounge.

«I can’t escape, and even if I wanted to, you know where to find me». He accompanies me to the door and holds it open gallantly to let me out. «Have a good time at the Library, Cass», he says.

I look at him, slightly perplexed: «Have you been reading my mind?»

«Better: I know your habits». He quickly looks around and, seeing no one nearby, strokes my cheek with his thumb and gives me a quick kiss. «See you later, pretty face»

«See you later, Aesop», I reply, reluctantly walking away from him but feeling his gaze on me for a long time. When I’m sure I’m no longer visible, I allow myself to let out a squeal of delight that startles a couple nestled between a statue and a couch. My role as a teacher would suggest that I reprimand them, but who am I to stop, especially today, the gentle breezes of love?

Two days later, I wake up early, excited at the prospect of going to London for the women’s march, and even more so because Aesop is coming with me. When I go down to the sitting room, his bedroom door is still closed. It’s still early, and I don’t want to wake him unnecessarily, so I head to the Great Hall for a quick but hearty breakfast, so I can return before he wakes. However, when I get back to our quarters, he’s already up, ready to go. He’s wearing a dark suit, except for the shirt, which is a soft sage green; the fabric of his clothes is heavy, probably wool, and overall, his attire, including the laced shoes, is extraordinarily ordinary for a wizard… but not any less handsome for it.

«Good morning», he says with a smile as soon as he sees me. Despite having kissed only a couple of days ago, things between us are not too explicit: it’s clear we don’t know how far to push yet, regardless of the strong desire that binds us. Paradoxically, our interactions are less intense than before we kissed, when the sexual tension was sky-high. Not that it has diminished now, but there’s something else linking us, something more intimate and fragile, to handle with care and protect at all costs.

«Good morning to you. You look… you seem…», I stammer.

«A Muggle?»

«Yes», I admit.

He smiles: «That was my goal. To blend in».

«No one ever told you that it’s hard for you to go unnoticed among women?».

He takes a few steps towards me, a sly expression painted on his face: «Nothing I don’t already know. But I don’t need to attract the attention of any other woman as long as I’m sure I have yours». His expression softens, and he looks at me, giving a careful glance at my outfit: «You never risk going unnoticed, though. You look beautiful». He strokes the high-collared dark blue wool jacket I’m wearing over matching knee-length pants, where heavy black stockings begin, tucked into a pair of boots of the same color.

«Thank you. But I never said you looked bad… even dressed as a Muggle»

«Are there Muggles with a sense of style?».

I laugh: «Too many»

«Then we can pretend I’m one of them. Are you ready?»

«You, rather: are you ready to take a ride on the subway?».

He brings his hands to his face, pretending despair and muffling a laugh: «Remind me again why I showed interest in this devilry».

I take his hands from his face and, perhaps with too much enthusiasm, say: «Because if you were a Muggle, you’d be a man of science, and the subway is an undeniable technological marvel!». Still holding his hands, I lead him towards the coat rack, where we grab our coats and start to leave.

In the Hogwarts grounds, Aesop tries again: «Can’t we just Apparate?»

«Discretion, Aesop!», I remind him.

«Come on, why can’t we do it at your place?»

I raise an eyebrow at him: «Do you think I’d be so imprudent as to allow Apparition in my house, when I’m the first one without a license?». I shake my head and continue: «No, we’ll do as planned. But if you’re so keen on Apparating, we can do it to get to Hogsmeade». And I’ll ignore my nausea.

«By the way», he says, rummaging in the inner pocket of his coat. «I have something for you». He pulls out a small glass vial containing a bright turquoise liquid, seemingly effervescent, given all the bubbles rising to the surface.

«What is it?»

«Something to keep you from getting sick every time you travel by magical means. Practically what Muggles would call medicine»

«And you made it? For me?»

«Does that surprise you?», he asks softly, handing me the vial and caressing my hand.

I shake my head: «It just makes me happy. Very happy», I smile at him, but a sense of dark sadness clouds the sun in the sky and inside me: if Aesop is skilled enough to create a perfume and prepare a potion that can cure my discomfort, why doesn’t he do the same for himself? Why does he carry the burden of his injured leg and the pain it causes? No matter how accustomed he might be and how well he hides the pain, I’ve observed him long and well enough to be sure it’s not pleasant at all and hurts more than he’s willing to admit.

«Drink it now, or it won’t work later», he says, bringing me back to the present.

I do as he says: «I don’t feel any effect»

«The best part is now. Give me your hand. Ready?».

I nod, and in an instant, we’re in Hogsmeade, and, incredibly… «I don’t feel anything! Aesop, I don’t feel anything! I’m fine!», I exclaim, turning a few heads towards us, but I’m too happy to worry about decorum.

He leans towards me and speaks softly against my hair, caressing it with his breath: «I know». He smiles and invites me to walk towards The Three Broomsticks. Now that I’ve found a remedy for my discomfort, I can’t wait to get covered in ash and soot as I spin from one fireplace to another across Britain.

With shoulders and hair whitened, we finally step out of the fireplace at The Leaky Cauldron, greeted with all the formalities by Adalbert: «Miss Doyle! Or should I say Professor Doyle! Why didn’t you tell me your business trip had Hogwarts as the final destination?».

I shrug: «Discretion until it was official»

«Will you stay for a drink? On the house!»

«We’d love to, Adalbert – Aesop says – but we have an appointment we can’t miss at Westminster».

The innkeeper’s eyes widen as he realizes why we’re in London: «Of course! You’ve dragged Professor Sharp into your escapades?»

«Even better: he got himself involved», I reply with a wink. As we head towards the door, ready to immerse ourselves in the London atmosphere, I don’t miss the look of understanding exchanged between Aesop and Adalbert.

«What are you two plotting?», I ask as we begin walking along Charing Cross Road, heading towards Embankment.

«Absolutely nothing, little observer», Aesop teases.

«I saw you exchange complicit glances!», I insist.

«Hasn’t anyone taught you it’s not polite to stare at others?».

“No, since my father only remembered my existence to punish me”, I think sadly. But I suppose it’s not the right time to spoil the pleasant mood between us, so I opt for irony: «Said the one who never takes his eyes off me».

Aesop gives his usual, cheeky and incredible smile, and I know he’s preparing to retort: «Frankly, you’re a far more pleasant sight than Adalbert». Then he bends down to kiss my hair. Right here, on the sidewalk. In front of everyone. In the middle of central London!

I blush, not being used to his displays of affection, especially when they’re so overt. Fortunately, it’s cold enough to pretend it’s the wind coloring my cheeks. And finally, we can focus on something other than my reactions to his sweet and intimate attentions: the white entrance with the columns of Embankment station stands before us.

«Here you are, a subway station», I say, watching his face as he’s confronted with something most consider mundane.

«Why does it look like a temple?», he asks candidly, with the childlike innocence of someone encountering something new.

«Because Greek and Roman architecture includes some rational criteria that are highly appreciated by Muggles in contemporary times, especially after the spread of the Grand Tour, the culmination of cultural education for young bourgeois», I explain.

Aesop seems to ponder this: «A bit like the Astronomy Tower or Ravenclaw Tower? “Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure”?»

The comparison makes me laugh, but it’s apt: «Yes, something like that. Shall we go in?». He nods and follows me inside the building, where I buy two tickets: «Follow me, we’re going down», I say to a resigned Aesop, who nevertheless does as I say. We stop in front of an empty platform and wait for the train, which, as usual, emerges from the darkness of a tunnel.

«Why isn’t it steam-powered?», he asks, eyeing the vehicle skeptically as we board, as if expecting a horde of Cornish Pixies to burst in and cause chaos at any moment.

«The magic of electricity», I say, taking a deep breath, as if I want to fill my lungs with it. «Hold on», I then advise, nodding towards the handles. The subway starts moving, and I get to watch Aesop, who in turn looks around with a mix of skepticism and wonder that warms my heart. I love seeing him marvel at a world he knows only superficially, being amazed by details often considered trivial or unimportant by those who live in it, appreciating what is often taken for granted.

A smile crosses my face, and he notices. He glances down at me and returns the smile. Then he whispers: «How long until we get off? It’s a bit claustrophobic here».

I try to stifle a laugh: «Just a few seconds». And indeed, shortly after, the subway stops at Westminster; the platform is crowded, especially with women. «Here we are!», I exclaim cheerfully, guiding him through the crowd on the platform, making sure no one bumps into him.

We climb the stairs and finally return to the surface: the street teems with women talking and laughing joyfully amongst themselves. Some hold signs or banners with slogans or provocative messages designed to awaken and stimulate others' consciences. Although they are here to claim rights that should be granted to them regardless, the atmosphere is cheerful: there is a palpable sense of sisterhood and solidarity, and my skin tingles with excitement.

“All these women here, together, for a common purpose… Isn’t it beautiful?», I ask Aesop, who stands beside me, watching the throng of people filling the street.

He stays silent for a few seconds and then, without taking his eyes off the scene, says: «It’s the closest thing to magic there is». His words strike a chord within me, and I look at him wide-eyed. He notices and smiles gently: «They’re all here, regardless of social class, age, or marital status, for the same goal. They’re creating something unique and unprecedented, but which will undoubtedly have a huge impact on the future. We’re practically witnessing history in the making, Cass».

His words are so beautiful and poetic that I wish I had thought of them myself. But I’m glad Aesop thinks this way, that he has come to understand and admire what is one of the great driving forces and values of my life, and that he’s experiencing it with me. «You’re right», I say, resting my head on his shoulder and watching the stream of women. «It feels like magic»

«It doesn’t feel like it: it is. Just a different kind from what we know». He gives me such a beautiful and hopeful smile that I want to throw myself into his arms and never leave.

«Good heavens! Cassandra Doyle?», I hear a shrill, all-too-loud voice call out, breaking the actual magic of the moment.

I turn and see Mary Elizabeth Baxter, dressed in her dark green bespoke suit, her blonde hair meticulously styled around her haughty features. «Lizzy!», I exclaim, feigning a familiarity I’ve never given her and a happiness I don’t feel.

As I approach her, Aesop whispers to me: «Who is she?»

«Just the one who funds all this stuff and makes it possible», I reply, a bit annoyed at how money can indeed buy everything. Even the appearance of interest in certain values.

«It’s been ages since I last saw you!», she says with her usual theatrical flair. «Where have you been hiding?». In addition to having a lot of money, Mary Elizabeth also has a keen interest in other people’s business and gossip.

«Oh, well…», I stammer, caught off guard by a question I should have expected but hadn’t prepared a convincing answer for.

«I suppose it’s my fault our Cassandra here has been out of circulation for a while», Aesop intervenes, now standing behind me.

Mary Elizabeth looks at him a second longer than expected: «Good morning! I’m Mary Elizabeth Baxter. And you are?»

«Aesop Sharp, also known as the reason Cassandra no longer lives in London», he replies, smiling and offering his hand cordially.

Mary Elizabeth’s eyes widen, and so do mine. «Are you telling me that I’m no longer speaking to Cassandra Doyle but to Cassandra Sharp ?», she asks in an even shriller voice.

«To my extreme fortune, yes». Aesop handles the situation perfectly, completely at ease with the lie, and I let him, honestly too flustered by what I’ve just heard.

I don’t have time to process how good “Cassandra Sharp” sounds before my left hand touches something cold and metallic. I look down but don’t see anything I could have bumped into… but the reflection of sunlight on something small, smooth, and shiny catches my eye. I move my hand slightly, and a small gold ring encircles my finger. A strange awareness takes root in my chest.

I glance at Aesop’s hand and see the same ring; I look up at him, and he gives me a tiny nod accompanied by a swift glance. This man not only pretended we’re married but also conjured freaking wedding rings around our fingers to make his lie more believable! If I didn’t faint earlier from the Apparition and Floo Powder travel, I’ll surely faint now. I can’t believe this is the same man who ignored me until a few days ago. I feel dizzy.

Nevertheless, the conversation between the two continues as if nothing had happened. «And you, Mr. Sharp, what do you do for a living, if I may ask?», Mary Elizabeth inquires, a bit too flattering.

Aesop, once again, has the answer ready: «I’m a war veteran. As you can see, I bear the marks of battle». Which is somewhat true…

Mary Elizabeth furrows her brows in a sympathetic expression: «Oh, it must have been terrible»

«It was, especially with the stigma from people. But that didn’t stop Cassandra, and for that, I’ll be forever grateful». He looks at me like a devoted and proud husband, but this time his eyes aren’t as smug as usual. They seem… sincere.

Mary Elizabeth places a hand on my arm: «Cassandra is the most selfless and empathetic person I know – aside from myself, of course». She chuckles at her own joke and continues: «I’m sincerely happy she found a man like you, Mr. Sharp, who finally brought her to the altar… After everything she went through with the last one…»

«Lizzy», I say firmly, speaking for the first time in this surreal conversation. Aesop can pretend all he wants, but Mary Elizabeth cannot venture into territories where she’s not allowed to tread. «I’m sure Aesop has no desire to be bored with such matters, am I right?», I ask, looking at him.

His expression, however, is puzzled, as if he’s missing a piece of the puzzle. Still, he doesn’t delve deeper in front of Mary Elizabeth and simply says: «Naturally. We’re here to enjoy the march, after all».

Mary Elizabeth seems convinced it’s time to return to her duties as a sponsor: «I’m really glad you could come, Cassandra, and that you brought a man to our cause. One must never take their presence for granted! Have a good day, then. It will be a pleasure to visit you in…»

«Bangor, Wales», Aesop promptly replies. «We’ve settled in the family estate»

«Delightful. See you soon, then, Mr. and Mrs. Sharp», Mary Elizabeth bids farewell with a smile.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I see her leave. «Come on, she seemed harmless», Aesop says, looking at me.

«Only because you don’t know her appetite for gossip»

«Speaking of which: who’s “the last one”?»

I knew he wouldn’t let that slip, damn it. «No one worth talking about», I say simply.

Aesop, however, persists: «Cass, who was he?».

I really don’t feel like talking about it today, so I try to brush it off by giving him a taste of what he wants: «Does my husband really want to hear about a man who came before him?».

He looks at me for a long moment, silently, trying to read all my secrets. Then he lowers his eyes: «Of course not».

The procession starting to move draws our attention and releases us from this impasse, so we fall in step, marching alongside hundreds of others. We remain silent between us: Aesop attentively and curiously observes everything happening; I, on the other hand, watch his reactions, delighting in his wonder and wondering when was the last time I felt this good.

Then he puts his hands in his pockets, rummaging until he finds his pack of cigarettes. He lights one, and throughout this time I haven’t missed that on his ring finger, there’s still the ring he conjured a few minutes ago. On mine, another identical ring, slightly smaller, is still in place.

I muster up the courage and ask him, nodding towards his hands: «Aesop… Why did you do it?».

Continuing to walk with the crowd, he looks down at me and then, with his usual knowing smile, takes my hand and simply replies: «Why not?».

Notes:

Thank you for reaching 1000 hits! It means a lot to me! 🥹 I hope to have still a lot of good time with you, cause your kudos, comments and hits are really giving me the confidence I need to pursue my dream of writing a book someday 🩷

Chapter 25: SHARP

Chapter Text

I watch Cassandra walking, hugging her dark blue wool coat to shield herself from the wind, turning her head at every sound and voice that catches her attention, letting the smooth, fair skin of her face be kissed by the sun's rays, and in this moment, I admit that I have been a fool to have ignored her all this time, keeping her away without allowing her to get close to me despite my feelings for her growing more substantial and taking on a clear shape.

I was sincere when I told her that with her, I feel alive in a way I haven't felt in years, but to be intellectually honest, I must admit that I didn't convince myself to loosen the tight cords around my heart. There was someone with wise words who decided to wear me down. The same someone who practically forced me to live and work with Cassandra.

«Professor Sharp?», Matilda said, peeking into the Potions Classroom a few days after my return to Hogwarts. «Can you come to my office at the end of the lesson?», I nodded, and at the sound of the bell, I did as she requested.

Matilda made me sit down with her usual benevolent smile, which soon gave way to a stern expression: «So, Aesop, do you think you can go around kissing people and then ignoring them as if nothing ever happened?». A phrase I honestly would have expected from Cassandra, not a colleague who, yes, is also a friend, but with whom I've never shared such details of my private life.

«Matilda, it was just a moment of weakness», I replied, already exhausted from the conversation just begun.

She unexpectedly let out a sarcastic laugh: «I'm old but not senile. Believe it or not, I can recognize a kiss given with love when I see one. And that was certainly one of those kisses»

«Be that as it may, you can rest assured it won't happen again, especially in common spaces, if that's why you called me. I'm sorry for letting it happen».

She looked at me, perplexed: «Apologize? Aesop, do you really not understand why I wanted to talk to you?». She rested her elbows on the desk, clasped her hands, and after a brief pause continued: «Why do you think I chose you to accompany Cassandra on her first assignment? Because I thought she was really incapable of doing the job alone? Of course not. I did it because I know her as well as I know you, your traumas, and I knew it was necessary for you to get to know each other because I know you need each other to shine»

«She manages just fine on her own», I said in one breath, while my heart pounded in my chest, naked and weak in the face of the evidence of my feelings.

The shadow of a smile crossed her face, but fortunately, she made no mention of my statement, continuing her persuasive work: «Don't you see how she lights up when she's with you? Don't you realize how you do the same when she's around?»

«You sound like Abraham», I replied sarcastically, dodging her questions because I didn't want to give her the satisfaction of admitting she was right. «And anyway, with all due respect, you shouldn't have played Cupid and interfered in my love life».

Matilda gave me an impatient look but then became more serious: «Aesop, just because you're feeling something for another woman again doesn't mean you're disrespecting the other».

She confronted me with my feelings without any ceremony, almost violently, so that I couldn't deny them. «Yes, but all of this scares me. I don't know how to handle it», I replied with a lump in my throat.

Matilda's gaze became understanding: «You will never overcome it if you continue like this, if you persist in ignoring what you desire and force yourself into a life of solitude. I understand that you're afraid of love, but love is lived and that's it, without any rules and taking risks—and you should be well-versed in risks». She extended her hand across the table to hold mine and give me the comfort I needed, and continued: «Aesop, Mabel would want to see you happy»

«But I'm afraid Cassandra might end up like Mabel, next to me. Her death hardened me to the point that I don't want to bond with anyone else! I'm a danger, Matilda... and I don't want Cassandra to suffer in any way because of me», I confessed.

«Oh, Aesop... What happened wasn't your fault. You and Cassandra have both experienced unimaginable things, yet you're still here, resilient. You just need someone to receive all the love you both have to give. She wants to be loved and to love... and even if you won't admit it, I know you do too».

I looked at her in silence, too proud to admit that my heart was finally yielding to the warmth and beauty of love. I knew she wouldn't let me go without giving her a positive answer, so I admitted what my fears were at that moment: «I've kept her too distant lately. I don't know if she will want to listen to me or continue... whatever it is between us»

Matilda smiled at me: «If I know Cassandra as well as I think I do, I'm sure she's just waiting for you to finally step forward. And possibly apologize»

«That's the least I can do, Matilda. But I'm afraid she won't accept it, that she's tired of me and the way I've treated her».

At that point, the woman burst into laughter: «That's because you still don't know her well enough and don't know how patient that girl is». She gave me one last understanding look: «Let go, Aesop. Allow yourself to be happy».

And it was just as Matilda had predicted: despite her understandable initial hesitation, Cassandra melted immediately into my arms and onto my lips, making me happy again for the first time in weeks. I envy her sweetness and especially her patience in staying by the side of someone like me, reserved and cynical; she accepts all my flaws and the vulnerabilities I still hide from her without asking questions, despite the constant little voice buzzing annoyingly in my head, reminding me that I will inevitably, sooner or later, hurt her. I try to keep it at bay, drowning it out with the wonderful sound of Cass's voice and laughter as she greets someone she knows or sings a song that blends with many others, forming a single melody that rises high in the London sky. My demons and ghosts, with her by my side, seem like harmless Boggarts.

«What are you thinking about?», she asks me with a big smile and a red nose from the cold, noticing that I've been staring at her for interminable minutes.

I return the smile: «About finding a way to warm up these frozen hands of yours». I take her other hand and clasp them in mine, kissing the cold back and knuckles.

«Are you cold? Tired? Fatigued?», Cass asks me again, concerned. She never does so explicitly, but I know she is referring to my leg; I know she has noticed the pain it often causes me, the efforts I make to always remain impassive, but I appreciate her discretion in not wanting to delve into a subject that is far too dark and painful for me.

«A little. But I can hold on if you want to stay», I reply, sincerely appreciating her discretion.

She shakes her head: «I'm fine with going back. I still have so many things to show you!». She tugs me gently, leading us out of the procession so we can have a clear path on one of the streets adjacent to the main one.

We take the subway again to Baker Street, where Cass lived before coming to Hogwarts. It’s busy yet elegant, filled with carriages and pedestrians shuttling between fashionable shops and boutiques. 

Cass shows me her favorite bookstore, though we don't dare to enter: «I wouldn't want to give the owners the same excuse I used with Mary Elizabeth... especially since she’ll be the one to tell everyone», she says with an excited, bubbly tone, as if the lie I used with that woman makes her happier than it should.

«Don't you think they also deserve an explanation for why you disappeared suddenly?», I ask, pulling her body to mine, her back resting against my chest, and she tilts her head slightly to let me kiss her cheek.

She chuckles: «Actually, a little mystery is just what we need right now. Do you know who lives on Baker Street?».

I look down at her, skeptical,, convinced she’s teasing me: «Besides you?»

«Yes, besides me. Although...». She adopts a thoughtful expression: «…my last name is a clue. And no, it's not some relative of mine». My expression doesn’t change, and she looks both amused and frustrated: «Come on! I’ve narrowed it down a lot!».

Our public display of affection soon attracts a few too many glances. Cassandra moves in my arms, and for a moment I think she wants to break our embrace; instead, she turns to face me, my arms around her waist and her hands on my chest. «I think we're too explicit for Muggle morals», she whispers amusedly.

«If they knew what happened at Gladrags Wizardwear...», I reply, winking. I love the way her cheeks blush, as if she wasn’t equally complicit in our mutual surrender to indulgence. Ignoring the prudishness of passersby, I kiss her and say: «So, what did you have in store for me?»

«Do you give up?», she asks with a mischievous smile.

«Shamelessly», I respond, smiling at her satisfied giggle.

Proud at the prospect of telling me something I don’t know, she pulls away from me, takes my hand, and starts walking, saying: «You must know that at the imaginary address of 221B Baker Street lives none other than Sherlock Holmes, the detective that Arthur Conan Doyle — she emphasizes the shared last name — invented, revolutionizing mystery literature»

«I feel like I’m in class», I tease.

She has a quick retort: «Do you, like Holmes, have zero knowledge of literature?».

A jab at my pride: «I’m deficient in contemporary one», I admit.

Cass leans close and whispers in my ear, her warm breath on my skin sending shivers down my spine: «That’s why I’m here!».

We continue our walk, filled with Cassandra’s detailed stories about Arthur Conan Doyle, his interest in spiritualism and his alleged Breton ancestry (in my opinion, nothing more than rather presumptuous beliefs). Like with Alchemy, it’s fascinating to hear her talk about what she knows, thrilling to see her enthusiasm and be infected by it. She shows me the most remote corners of the street, her favorite shops, and we don’t miss peeking into Marylebone Road, where she points out Madame Tussaud's museum, a place with wax statues of famous figures and notorious criminals. «Until a few years ago, though, it was on Baker Street», Cass comments somewhat annoyed, and it makes me laugh that she considers it almost a personal dishonor. To me, a place like that seems only creepy... although constantly handling rat tails and frog eyes without batting an eye, I suppose we each have a subjective concept of what is disturbing.

As dusk begins to advance in the sky, casting long fiery shadows on the street, my endurance starts to wane. I grit my teeth, not wanting to burden Cass’s happiness and carefree spirit. But it's in these moments that I find myself reluctant to attach to anyone: my condition is undoubtedly a burden for me, let alone for someone who has to be by my side. And if that someone is a young woman so brilliant and passionate, my guilt only increases, looming over my happiness like an incubus, reminding me that the beauty I can feel and live is only temporary.

«What are you thinking about?», Cass asks, stopping and looking at my expression, which, I’m sure, betrays my fatigue.

Nonetheless, I try to dissemble: «Dinner».

Cassandra slightly furrows her brow, unconvinced, and indeed she says: «There's a nice, cozy restaurant nearby where we can sit and rest».

By now, I don’t need to lie to her anymore, because she understands with just a glance; and really, it doesn’t seem to bother or matter to her at all that my needs might clash with hers; she adapts to them calmly. Perhaps, the person I most need to lie to by pretending I’m fine is myself.

«I’m really craving a butter and herb fillet», Cass sings to divert attention from my leg, so that my thoughts focus on dinner instead. Hand in hand, she guides me calmly and carefully to the restaurant, small but well-furnished, with green leather-upholstered sofas and chairs and dark wood decor; the tables are draped with dark blue tablecloths, and various lamps on the walls illuminate and warm the already cozy and intimate atmosphere, where I can easily picture her sitting aside reading a book while waiting to eat.

A waiter approaches us: «Miss Doyle, it’s a pleasure to see you again!». He gestures to take her coat to store it in the wardrobe, and realizes we are together: «And your guest?»

«Aesop Sharp, nice to meet you», I say, extending my left hand instead of my right, as my ring finger still glitters with the Conjured ring to pretend Cassandra and I are married, to spare her from awkward questions and judgmental looks from the Muggle community, still quite conservative about relationships.

The waiter’s eyes widen, shifting from me to her and back: «Oh, congratulations then, Mr. and Mrs. Sharp! I guess that's why we haven't seen you around lately»

«Exactly— she replies —we moved to Wales, but today we were in London for the march»

«I’m really happy for you. Enjoy your dinner and congratulations again. I’ll be back shortly to take your orders», the waiter says, escorting us to a secluded table and handing us the menus.

Cass is seated across from me, pleasantly relaxed in her chair, her elbows resting on the armrests, and she has given me the sofa without a second thought, allowing me to rest and relieve my aching, burning leg. I watch her long-lashed eyelids lower, her skin returning to white with the warmth of the place, her lips slightly parted, and her hands holding the menu. The ring looks particularly good on her.

In front of a rare steak with grilled vegetables on the side, I realize that this is the first meal we've shared together outside the walls of Hogwarts, the first moment when we aren't professors who must adhere to a certain decorum but two ordinary people who can enjoy each other's company spontaneously and without limits. It's a feeling I only now realize how much I had missed.

Instinctively, I extend my hand over the tablecloth, finding Cassandra's and squeezing it, caressing the back with my thumb. She looks at me pleasantly surprised and smiles, and her happiness dissipates my doubts and fears. Even if it will only be a temporary thing, I intend to enjoy this feeling as much as possible.

«I hope you enjoyed today. That you liked taking a leap into my world».

I bite my lips to stifle what I imagine to be a wide and beaming smile. I'm still not quite ready to tell her that yes, I enjoyed her world so much that I want to visit and live in it again. But I am sincere when I reply: «I really enjoyed it, Cass»

«Are you tired? Do you want to rest?».

I don't think I will easily get used to her attentiveness. «I am tired and would like to rest, but know that I am also full of gratitude for having had the opportunity to spend a splendid day... with an equally splendid woman». She blushes and starts to say something, but I interrupt her because I fear I might not be able to say what seems to spill out of me as if I had taken a Babbling Beverage: «I am grateful to you for forgiving me, more than once, to be honest, for often being not the most pleasant company. But most of all, I thank you for accepting my apology on this occasion, for letting me come with you».

Cass seems genuinely touched by my words and almost struggles to meet my gaze. She remains silent for just a few seconds before asking: «Do you remember that evening in the Prefects' Bathroom what you asked me?»

«If you trusted me», I recall.

«I've learned over time that my assent couldn't be limited to that specific moment. It probably happened without me even realizing it, and don't ask me why or how, but I chose to trust you. Just...» and here her tone becomes more somber and sad, overshadowing the barely veiled hope of embarrassment that had colored her voice until a moment ago. «Just... don't betray my trust», she manages to say finally, as if it costs her an enormous effort.

The eyes with which she looks at me could contain all the sweetness and innocence in the world, capable of driving away every evil; they would welcome without reservation that I dive into them, swimming to know every drop of that ocean of wonder and surprise that is Cassandra. And it is precisely because I want to experience her with every fiber of my being that the possibility of betraying her trust and disappointing her makes me breathless. I have already made several missteps, and she has forgiven them all. I don't want to take advantage of her kindness and her need to be loved... But then I remember Matilda's words, and my inability to admit that she was right. To admit that I, too, need love in my life, and since Cass burst into it, everything is different, bright and brilliant like her. If experiencing love again is so wrong, why do I feel so good with her?

I clear my throat and look her in the eyes. «Cass, when it comes to all this, I’m a bit... rusty, to put it mildly. I can’t promise you that I’ll always show you the best version of myself, and that really makes me sick to be honest, because you don’t deserve my mood swings or my cynicism». She smiles a little when I say that, knowing all too well that I've become quite terrible at relating to others. But she stays silent so I can continue, and this helps me gather those remnants of courage that suddenly seem to have disappeared from my body: «But I can’t pretend that your determination, not to say stubbornness, has left me indifferent. And in light of this, I can promise you that I’ll always do my best to see you as happy as you were today».

The gentle curve of her smile takes shape on her face as she lowers her eyes to our intertwined hands. «It's also thanks to you», she says, looking at me from under her lashes, and my heart fills not only with the weight of the enormous responsibility of not disappointing her, but also with the relief of knowing she considers herself happy because of me.

It’s as if this is the absolution I’ve been waiting for more than ten years, after condemning myself to a half-life, a survival spent in the limbo of memory and above all, remorse.

«Although», Cass continues, and her smile turns into that ironic grin she gives me every time she’s about to tease me: «Don’t think I haven’t wondered if you’re the same old Aesop».

I burst out laughing. «Yet you should know that I’m capable of having fun», I say, just barely smoothing my voice.

She rolls her eyes: «Never mind: you’re definitely the same old Aesop».

I take a sip of wine, looking at her amusedly because I can’t help but tease her playfully. «But since you asked me not to betray your trust, I’ll tell you that someone came to my aid to help me find that part of me that hadn’t surfaced in a long time».

Cass looks at me, narrowing her eyes slightly and pouting her lips, as she always does when she’s thinking hard. Then her face relaxes into an expression of surprised awareness: «Let me guess, it's someone we work with?». I nod, and she continues: «Was this person by any chance one of my teachers?»

«Yours, but not mine», I clarify to narrow down the field.

Cass’s laugh sounds like a sigh: «There’s only one person who has taken such an interest in the staff from a perspective beyond academia». She leans back in her chair, and our fingers remain just touching. She looks at me with a mix of sweetness and audacity: «I guess I should thank Matilda for making you show me the best version of yourself»

«We’ll both have to thank her, then», I reply, smiling and biting the inside of my cheek, a habit that has arisen since I met her and one I do when I feel embarrassed in front of her, as if I wanted to bite the embarrassment to keep it in check.

We look into each other’s eyes for a long moment, saying nothing. Then Cass breaks the silence: «Shall we go?»

«Gladly».

We step out into the evening darkness, under a velvet blue sky, every cloud swept away by a cold wind that has cloaked the air with humidity, which I feel in every inch of my scar. 

«My place isn’t far», Cassandra says, noticing how tired and limping I am. But my demons have already come out again, emboldened and visible under the cover of darkness.

Who am I kidding? If at 44 this is the life I have to lead, what will it be like in a few years? How can I be with a young and healthy woman without the illusion that eventually, a life of taking care of me, as I worsen year after year, will become a burden for her? I can’t enjoy a walk or a dinner with her without suffering for it. Once might be okay, but if it became a habit, I know she wouldn’t be able to keep up with my needs.

«Maybe we should have gone home right after the march», she says, as if she read my mind.

The last thing I need is for her to feel guilty. «I’m fine, Cass», I try to reassure her.

«There’s no need to pretend, Aesop. I made you too tired, I’m sorry». Her expression is troubled, and she wrings her hands.

I grab them to stop her from fidgeting and look her in the eyes, holding her still: «You don’t have to apologize for anything. I was serious when I said I had a wonderful day. And do you know why?». She shakes her head, her lips slightly pouting. «Because you were with me», I reply.

And almost like a Patronus Charm, her smile lights up the darkness and banishes the demons, which retreat somewhere inside me. I know they’re there, ready to reappear at any moment, but for now, I don’t have the will or strength to worry about them.

«Can you manage a few more steps?», she asks then. I nod, and we resume walking, slowly, and Cass adjusts her pace to mine without complaining. The building where she lives is an elegant apartment complex built with grey bricks, standing above a bakery «from which the smell of freshly baked bread rises in the early hours of the morning», she says dreamily.

I mentally note that she must love fresh bread and artisanal pastries as I enter with her into the plastered lobby with light marble flooring, where fortunately there’s a small elevator. We squeeze inside, very close to each other, while Cass glances at the pile of advertising leaflets that had filled her mailbox until recently.

We reach the top floor, but there’s a flight of stairs to climb on foot. «I swear this is the last bit. It’s the price you pay for being a single woman and having your own place. Small, few comforts, but low cost», she says, climbing the steep and dimly lit stairs. I follow her, and we find ourselves in front of the bare landing of an attic, from whose ceiling hangs a lightbulb that flickers rather than illuminates the space.

«Forget it— she says, fumbling with the keys —Not even magic has managed to fix it».

She finally opens the door and, instead of a bare and modest space, I find in front of me the portrait of Cassandra in apartment form: a small hallway, with a coat rack and a familiar school trunk now serving as a bench, seamlessly merges into a modestly sized living room. The teal-colored walls (one of which features a silver-painted snake coiled around a crescent moon) host a pink sofa, a wooden desk near a window with white curtains embroidered with floral patterns, and a large bookshelf that seems even more imposing in such a small room. There’s a gramophone near the door, while in front of the sofa there’s an ice-gray rug, a low table covered with books, and a pouf the same color as the sofa. «That belongs to Morgan», she specifies. To my left, an archway opens into the kitchen. At the end of the small corridor, two closed doors, presumably the bathroom and the bedroom. I’ve never seen a home that represents its owner more than this one.

«Would you like something to drink?», she asks.

«Do you have wine?». I never turn down a glass when I have the chance.

«Coming right up», she says, disappearing into the kitchen and reappearing shortly after with a single glass of red wine in hand.

«You’re not drinking?», I ask her.

«I just want to take a shower and go to bed. I’m exhausted», she says, yawning and stretching. «Make yourself at home. Lie down on the bed if you like, while you wait for me».

And Cass’s bed, visible through the slightly ajar door of the small bedroom with blush pink walls, occupies my mind the entire time she’s in the bathroom.

I want to be the water caressing every inch of her bare skin, the sheets that wrap around her. I want to dive into that bed with her and lose myself all night in her every moan of pleasure, intoxicate myself with her breath and get drunk on her touch… but I can’t help feeling repulsive, thinking that if she hasn’t pushed me away by now, the sight of the scar will certainly do it. She’ll see all my weakness, all my failure. And she’ll stay away, disgusted and aware that every day spent with me will be as horrible as that raised, purple, and red skin, and incredibly painful.

The light touch of her hand on my shoulder hurts like a stab, knowing I will have to give up spending the night with her. «Aesop, come on. Aren’t you tired?», she asks, wrapped in an oversized sweater that leaves her freshly soap-scented bare legs exposed.

I pretend it doesn’t cost me anything to say: «I’d rather stay on the sofa, Cass. You go ahead and rest. I’ll be just fine here».

I get up to go to the kitchen and pour myself another glass of wine, ready to empty the entire bottle in the long and silent tedium of the night, but she interrupts me: «I’ll sleep on the sofa. It’s uncomfortable. And it’s not good for your leg».

I stop in the middle of the room, the kitchen archway almost like a frame around my figure. She has clearly referred to my disability, and now it’s no longer a taboo subject between us. I can no longer hide behind an impenetrable mystery and pretend.

«Cass, I’m used to it. It doesn’t matter, really»

«But it matters to me, Aesop». She comes closer, taking the empty glass from my hand and placing it on the table. She rises on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around my neck, pressing her body against mine. In a low voice, she says: «Come to the bedroom with me, please».

I return her embrace, wrapping one arm around her waist and the other around her shoulders, stroking her hair and breathing in her scent, suspended in an exhausting struggle between what I want to do and what is right to do.

But then she says: «We don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to», both reassuring me and making me smile.

«That’s something a man would say to convince a woman to do what he wants», I joke.

Cass huffs: «If you don’t stop, I’ll make you sleep on the landing».

I laugh, and instinctively tilt her face and give her a quick, chaste kiss. «Alright, lead the way», I surrender to my sweet tempting nymph, and she kisses me back before leading me to the bedroom.

With a flick of her wand, she makes a heavy blanket settle over the summer sheets. Then she pulls them back and burrows beneath.

«Do you have any pajamas I could wear?», I ask her.

She bites her lip. «Actually, no. Not many men have passed through here before you».

I sigh. I feel like an idiot in this situation. I take off my jacket and shirt, unbuckle my belt, and sit on the edge of the bed to remove my shoes. I can feel that my left leg is more swollen than the right, and even with my back to her, I can sense Cass's eyes fixed on me.

«Can I... can I ask you not to look when I take off my pants?», I finally ask, serving her all my shame on a silver platter.

I hear her breathe and swallow. «Aesop— she says softly —if it makes you feel better, yes. But it doesn't matter to me what I see». I tense up and slightly turn my head towards her, listening intently for her next words: «To me, you could not have the leg at all. It doesn't matter. I... like you regardless of how many scars you have or how you walk». The covers rustle as she moves closer and hugs me from behind, resting one side of her face against my bare back: «In fact, I like the scar on your face; I don't think it makes you any less handsome, and I can't imagine you without it. But I love even more knowing when you're about to arrive, because I recognize the unique rhythm of your steps, which reveal you to me before I can even see you».

Her words are a balm soothing all my wounds, and her heart is a precious and fragile artifact to be protected at all costs. I can't, I mustn't hurt the sweetest and kindest person I've ever known... but I also don't want to deny myself the beauty and happiness that being with her brings me any longer.

I squeeze my eyes shut to push back tears of emotion and gratitude; then I turn and hold her, kissing her cheek and mouth. «Are you sure?», I finally ask, before crossing what is, for me, an insurmountable barrier.

«Never been surer of anything», she replies, her lips brushing mine.

I take a deep breath and finally get out of bed to remove my pants and show Cass the scar. I pull them down quickly but look away, my heart pounding with the anxiety of seeing repulsion on her face.

After a few seconds, she calls out to me gently: «Aesop?». I force myself to look at her: her expression hasn't changed; it's the same as always. She extends her arms toward me: «Come and rest».

She doesn't find me repulsive. She still wants me, despite the long, enormous scar that runs down my leg, throbbing with every pulse. Despite being able to give her only a fraction of the love I wish I could. She wants me. Just as I am.

I take a step toward her and kneel on the soft mattress, which dips under my weight. I settle into her embrace and guide her onto the flat surface of the bed, pressing my chest to hers and closing my lips over hers.

We share a kiss that's long and slow, savoring each other as if we need to make up for all the time we've been apart, as if we're afraid of forgetting the shape of each other's lips. Then I place a hand on her waist so I can lie on my back and she can rest on my chest.

This is better. I have her face close to mine, and I can hold her and caress her while looking into her eyes, which reflect the dancing flames of the candle on the nightstand between kisses.

«Do you think Mary Elizabeth Baxter is wondering how we spent our first night as newlyweds?», I ask with a mischievous smile at the memory of that gossiping woman.

Cass laughs but rolls her eyes: «Definitely».

I stroke the back of her left hand resting on my chest, tracing the contours of the ring I have yet to Vanish. «I'd be curious to find out myself how it could be».

She catches my hint and looks surprised, as I've never granted her what I'm now suggesting. At least, until now. «Aesop… Do you...?», she tries to ask.

I interrupt her question with a kiss: «Only if you want it too».

She smiles sweetly and intertwines her fingers with mine: «Of course I do».

Chapter 26: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

Aesop pulls me even closer, kissing me tenderly, almost as if he wants to ensure that what is about to happen meets every expectation and is perfect. And how could it not be? I’m about to experience every fiber of the man I like and who…

I don’t want to say what I feel for him, the emotion I harbor inside me, for fear of suddenly waking up from what, after all these months, seems truly like a dream. I let myself be lulled by the pleasant sensation of his fingers brushing the hem of the sweater I’m wearing, lifting it slowly and revealing more and more skin underneath.

Aesop’s hand slips under the wool and caresses the bare skin of my back, which immediately arches at his touch, almost imitating the movement of cats. Instinctively, I squeeze his right hand, with our fingers still intertwined, and with my legs I shorten the distance between my thighs and his groin.

«Can I take it off?», he asks me in a low voice while our lips are still brushing, referring to the sweater. I nod, eager with anticipation, and with a fluid motion, his hands grasp the edges of the garment and pull it off over my head. My hair falls back onto my shoulders and down my back, with a few strands brushing Aesop’s chest, against which I now completely nestle. It is warm, broad, and his faintly defined muscles ripple under his golden skin. He is beautiful, and I am fortunate to be here with him, to be held by his arms, touched by his hands, and kissed by his mouth.

A faint sigh escapes my lips, and his left leg makes its way even further between mine, his thigh brushing against the cotton of my panties. That same leg he was ashamed and afraid to show me; I read the fear of being rejected, of being reduced to just his wound, on his face. But how could I ever do that? Aesop is not his scar! It is part of him, of course, and as traumatic as it was to get it, given its appearance ten years after the end of his career as an Auror, it has made him the man he is today.

The man I like so much and who is now taking all the time in the world to touch me in the way we both desire. His fingers touch, linger, caress, and knead the right spots as if they were mine; he knows perfectly what I like and, with excruciating yet exciting slowness, he takes his time to discover and touch all my weak points.

The arm with which he encircles my back lowers, his hand caressing every inch of skin down to the hem of my panties, with which he toys, bringing my excitement to a peak.

I push my pelvis against his thigh, so I can move against him, satisfying in the slightest part the pleasure the situation brings me. Aesop laughs against my lips: his usual deep, warm laugh, which sends a shiver down my spine.

«Haven’t you learned yet that patience is a great virtue?», he teases, biting my lower lip gently but firmly enough to make me anything but patient.

«It’s hard to be patient with you», I reply, pressing against his thigh, while I move mine even closer to his groin. I can feel the intense heat and the contours of his arousal.

Aesop slides the tips of his fingers into the light cotton of my panties, touching the hint of the curve of my buttock, while with the other hand he traces the contours of my breast. «You’ve been more than patient with me», he says in a trail of kisses that moves from my mouth to my ear and then down to my neck, while his thumb draws small circles on my hardened nipple. «Can’t you be patient a little longer?»

«For how much longer?», I ask, already feeling weak as I tilt my head back.

Aesop’s kisses move to my collarbones. «At least for the whole night. Long enough for you to understand that you’re mine», he says as his mouth moves further down, along the full curve of my breast.

And at the moment his lips part to allow his tongue to leave its warm, wet caress on my nipple, in that same instant his hand in my panties squeezes my buttock to push my body higher so that my breast is at the level of his head, completely at the mercy of his ravenous excitement, I realize that I have always been his. From the first moment I saw his figure from behind at The Leaky Cauldron, with that scent that enveloped me and now forcefully invades my nostrils, clouding any trace of consciousness and transporting me into the aroused mists of the here and now; from the moment our eyes met and his thumb brushed the back of my hand, binding me to him indissolubly much more than his lips, now closed around my nipple, are doing.

I have never wanted to belong to anyone else but Aesop. I have never wanted to be anywhere else but with him, in the limbo of anticipation that separates our bodies from merging and becoming one.

His hands touch me as if they knew my body by heart, like those of a sculptor molding his creation. He holds me tight against him, my smooth and immaculate skin against his, which is a web of scars and signs of time, an ancient reminder of his past, of what he was before me and of what he is now here with me.

The movement of his tongue on my nipple generates a surge of electricity that brings me back to reality as I exhale a moan of pleasure due to his skillful sucking. My nails barely claw at his chest, whose hairs create friction between my skin and his.

«You have the most beautiful boobs in the United Kingdom», he says, looking up at me and nibbling on my nipple.

I raise an eyebrow, looking down at him: «Have you seen them all?».

He can’t help it: that cheeky and mischievous expression forms on his face, the one that has provoked me so many times. «I’ve seen enough… of young and beautiful women, surely», he says, continuing to kiss and touch my breasts, clearly amused by the situation.

I huff just as he closes his thumb and forefinger around my nipple, squeezing it and causing a pleasureful pang that is just shy of painful. «Shut up», I manage to say weakly, the words muffled by my moans.

He closes his lips around my other nipple and sucks eagerly, while his grip on my buttock tightens. Releasing my breast, he looks at me and says in a hoarse voice: «There’s only one way you can be sure I’ll stay quiet».

With his hand still in my panties, he grips my buttock to move me as he pleases. He pushes my body upward, toward him, so that now I’m practically straddling him and my pubis is at the level of his face.

His hands move to my hips, caressing me up to my waist as his lips move over my stomach and then lower still. His mouth closes where my pleasure is hottest and wettest, separated only by a thin layer of cotton, while his thumbs lower the fabric just slightly.

«You’re so wet‒ he says, as he caresses my clitoris with a finger over my panties ‒that there’s almost no point in wetting you with my tongue».

His touch makes my muscles contract, and his words provoke me, making me tremble with anticipation. I thread a hand through his long hair, pulling him closer to me, a guttural and satisfied moan rising from his throat as his face sinks between the soft flesh of my thighs and the hidden folds of my pussy. «Don’t you want to taste me better?», I ask him.

He lifts his eyes, meeting mine, looking at me with passion and possession. I am his, irredeemably his. His lips against the soaked cotton of my panties form the words: «That’s my girl», as he pulls them down to my knees and draws me to him, burying his lips in my excitement, beginning to kiss, lick, and savor as if we had all the still beauty of the night at our disposal.

I arch my back and push my pelvis harder against his face, so I can take in every lick against my clitoris. His tongue moves between my folds, soaking them with saliva and in turn soaking itself with my juices, touching every millimeter of skin hungry for pleasure, teasing the nerve endings responsible for my arousal.

His expert movements take my breath away, battling with the moans of pleasure that struggle to escape my throat. The way Aesop worships and devours me is the earthly definition of Heaven and Hell: a perverse and prolonged pleasure that drives me ever further, to experience and discover ever higher peaks of excitement.

The entire time he shows me how he can completely subjugate me using only his tongue, he keeps his gaze fixed on my face, observing every movement, every expression, and adapting to my unspoken needs. He knows how to decipher the language of my body and my moans, fulfilling all my desires without me having to say a word.

It’s hard to tell if he’s reading my mind when I have his warm tongue around my clit, sucking it greedily; but the fact is, he does everything I want. He looks into my eyes when I move my hips to match the movements of his tongue; he pulls me even closer when an intense wave of pleasure shoots through me, making my legs tremble and almost buckle; he caresses my body, from the soft curves of my butt to the narrow waist and the ribs protruding under thin skin, just to see my nipples grow harder and better grip them between his fingers.

«Oh, fuck…!», I gasp when the hand caressing my back slides down to touch me between my legs, and two fingers slip inside me effortlessly while my clit is still being sucked relentlessly.

Aesop chuckles against my sensitive, excited skin, and the warm breath on my most vulnerable spots heightens my desire even more. «Aren’t I already fucking you?», he teases, his lips moving against me because he doesn’t intend to pull away for even a moment.

I roll my eyes, not sure if it’s from exasperation or pleasure, and Aesop tightens his free arm around my waist and pulls me closer, burying his face even deeper between my thighs and his tongue between my wet folds, his fingers skillfully moving inside me and hitting all the most erogenous spots.

«Aesop‒ I murmur, dazed by the ever-growing pleasure ‒you’re so good…».

He pulls his fingers out of me and, at the same moment, without any resistance from me as if I were a rag doll, shifts me lower towards his groin, and I can feel with all my wet excitement his hard member still trapped in his underwear. It’s swollen and throbbing, and really big.

Aesop brings the fingers he just penetrated me with to my lips, applying slight pressure so I open my mouth and take them in. Immediately, my tongue wraps around them, just as his, until recently, had wrapped around my clit. «And you’re so delicious», he says in a hoarse voice, licking his lips in turn and pressing his pelvis against me, pushing his erection against my pussy.

He lets me move my hips along the length of his shaft, making me feel every inch and prolonging the anticipation that separates my bare skin from his. It’s the most pleasurable torture there is.

I dig my nails into his chest and arch my back, Aesop’s hands gripping my hips as he pulls himself up and moves closer to me again, nibbling on my lower lip. «Don’t you find these a bit uncomfortable?», he asks, tugging lightly at my panties still wrapped around my knees, slightly hindering my movements.

«You know…», I reply, moving my hand down to grasp his erection, which responds by pulsing in my palm, like a ferocious beast wanting to break free from its cage. «I find these also a bit uncomfortable».

Aesop’s deep laughter rises from his throat as he wraps his arms around my waist and lays me down on the bed, towering over me with his erection clearly visible beneath the slightly lowered, almost transparent underwear, wet with my arousal. Even though the room is dimly lit, I can make out its contours, its generous size, and the pulsing veins running through it. For a moment, I’m overwhelmed by the fear of not being able to take him all in.

«One day you’ll tell me how you manage to be the most patient person I know and, at the same time, the most impatient», he teases, as he proceeds to slowly remove my panties, stopping to kiss every inch of skin on my legs each time the now soaked cotton brushes against them.

«It’s the effect you have on me», I murmur, watching his hands move from my knees to my shins, ankles, and feet, then back up to caress my thighs, between them, along my hips and waist, while his mouth lowers to meet mine. His tongue dances sensually with mine as I run my hands down his back until I reach the waistband of his underwear, which I slowly pull down, exposing his firm buttocks and freeing his erection from the tight grip of the fabric.

Aesop helps me, placing a hand over mine and pulling off his underwear, not without a certain eagerness. He makes a sudden movement with his left leg, and I feel him stiffen slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible gasp of pain stifled between his teeth.

«Careful», I caution, caressing his face with my free hand and looking into his eyes, strands of hair falling over them. «Are you okay?».

He smiles slightly and kisses me: «I’m fine. Too eager, I’m not as young as I used to be», he jokes, making me laugh as he kisses my neck and finally frees his erection completely, pressing it hard and throbbing against the skin between my stomach and pubis. Feeling the heat radiate from his cock is intoxicating, and the thought of having it all to myself is enthralling…

«Lie down», I tell him, finally in the position to return all the pleasure he’s given me. We are still entwined as he lays back on the mattress, our mouths still joined.

«Don’t do anything you don’t want to», he says, slightly hesitant, holding my face in his hands. I read that familiar concern in his eyes.

I kiss his fingers: «It doesn’t affect me, Aesop. No matter how big it is, it’s just a scar. It doesn’t define who you are… or what I feel for you».

Perhaps to thank me, or to avoid looking into each other’s tear-filled eyes, he pulls me into a kiss filled with passion, desire, and love. His fingers tangle in my hair, and mine, scratched by his beard, trace the contours of his face; meanwhile, our bodies tremble and intertwine, impatient to experience the moment when they will finally become one.

I break our kiss only to begin tracing a path from his mouth to his arousal. I kiss along his defined jaw and down his neck, into the hollow where it meets his shoulder and across his collarbones. My lips travel over his pecs and follow the trail of dark hair that runs down his abdomen, under his taut skin where his trained muscles lie. This trail dives into his pubic hair, almost making way for two enticing oblique lines of abs, one of which is just barely grazed by the scar, and which point to a very specific spot: where both my desire and Aesop’s originate.

My suspicions and feelings were right, perhaps just softened by the fact that he had never shown it to me until now: Aesop’s cock is erect, proud, and fucking huge. The shaft is lined along its considerable length with pulsing veins, the head red and excited, glistening with pleasure.

I wrap my hand around it, pulling back the skin to keep it steady at the base, and my fingers barely close around its diameter. I don’t dare to imagine it inside me for fear of coming at the thought alone.

Matching the slowness with which Aesop undressed and touched me, I lightly press my lips to his glans and kiss it. A drop of pleasure spills onto my lips, which I immediately gather with my tongue, finally tasting his flavor. At that very moment, Aesop throws his head back, sinking into the soft pillows with his eyes closed, while his hand rests gently on my nape, stroking my hair and jaw with his thumb. It’s incredibly arousing.

I continue to kiss the erect, pulsing skin along its entire length, slowly and taking all the time in the world, almost worshiping his cock, and when I reach the base, I stick out my tongue and lick it sensually. Aesop’s fingers grip my hair, pulling slightly and sending a jolt through my body all the way to my increasingly wet thighs.

His deep, husky voice penetrates me and caresses me as, running my tongue along the shaft, he says: «Fuck me with your mouth».

I don’t need to be told twice. I pass my tongue over the frenulum, making him shiver with pleasure, and after licking the glans with circular movements, I finally open my lips and begin to take his erection into my mouth.

“Finally” is a word that, until this day, I might have always used improperly, and only now that his cock is sliding in and out of my mouth do I realize how much I truly desired this moment, how much I wanted to give him pleasure just as he did for me. My mouth becomes a place of refuge, my lips protectively envelop him, and my tongue coats him with saliva as if it were a warm balm applied to wounded, tired limbs. It’s as if I want to suck out what of Aesop still remains hidden from me.

I keep my eyes glued to his face, watching his reactions and expressions, relishing the ecstasy painted there and feeling a bit proud, knowing it’s me causing him so much pleasure. I suck his cock with patience and devotion, trying to adapt his impressive size to my mouth, breathing deeply when he reaches the back of my throat.

And at that moment, Aesop slightly lifts his head and opens his eyes, locking them onto mine. The predatory and dominant instinct that usually defines him resurfaces powerfully: with my hair still tangled in his fingers, he begins to guide the movements of my head, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, to push deeper into my throat and make me take all of him inside me.

Soon, I start to run out of air, and my vision blurs with tears welling up in my swollen, red eyes. I barely dare to close my eyelids for a deep breath when Aesop tugs my hair (not hard, but enough to catch my attention) and orders: «Look at me while I fuck your throat».

And then, with all the contrasting care and gentleness that define his character, he wipes a tear trailing down my cheek with his thumb, loosening his grip on my nape and continuing at a less intense pace.

I keep my eyes locked on his, sucking eagerly, getting aroused without any provocation, getting wet without being touched: it’s all thanks to his large, veined cock, filling my throat hot and pulsing.

Aesop thrusts one last time, harder and deeper, pressing his hips against me and forcing himself to stop to avoid coming. He gently cups my face, wiping away my tears and the saliva trickling from my lips as he pulls me toward him. He pants slightly as he says, with a nearly drunken but beautiful smile: «Damn, Cass… I can’t wait to fuck you».

He kisses me passionately as he leans back against the headboard and makes my legs wrap around his body, his arms encircling my back, our bare, heated, and excited chests touching.

«Where has your patience gone?», I tease him, slightly dizzy from his scent and the intoxicating sensation of his bare skin against mine. I feel his penis rubbing against my wet folds, the tip exerting the slightest pressure when it touches my entrance, and I can’t hold back the moans of pleasure rising from my lower belly, coursing through my whole body, and escaping from my parted lips, which Aesop eagerly kisses.

«It’s hard to be patient when I have you naked in my arms», he says, looking into my eyes and leaving me speechless. I can only blush, and from the smile he gives me, I know he understands that sometimes words can be far more intimate than being completely naked together.

«Are you still up for it?», he asks then, as if wanting to make sure he can proceed. To have my consent.

I nod and lift my hips slightly to facilitate penetration. «If you want to stop, tell me. And if I hurt you», he continues.

«Stop being the perfect man», I murmur, wrapping my arms around his neck and letting him kiss me just below my ear.

Aesop stops and looks into my eyes. He takes my face in his hands, rests his forehead against mine, and in a low voice, with that husky warmth of his, responds: «You make me that way».

And just as his mouth meets mine, his penis begins to enter me, welcomed by my warm wetness, filling not only a physical void but also an emotional one. Our joined mouths stifle the moan rising from somewhere deep within my body, where all my desires for this moment to happen have resided until now.

Aesop doesn’t force the penetration; he waits for me to adjust to his size and to be as relaxed as possible so he can move comfortably inside me. He kisses me and holds me tight, guiding me through his hip movements, advancing inexorably inch by inch.

«Am I hurting you?», he asks, sensing a hint of pain in my moan.

«A little», I admit.

«Do you want me to stop?».

He chuckles at my alarmed expression: «No! I don’t want you to stop. Just… go slow», I tell him, biting my lip.

«Alright», he replies, as if granting me a favor. He resumes moving slowly, speaking to me in a low voice between kisses: «It’s a pleasure to feel my cock slowly entering your tight pussy»

«Or maybe… Ooh… it’s your cock that’s… too big», I manage to say between the moans that intensify as I take in every inch of his penis.

I can see the pride in his eyes hearing me talk about his member this way, and his desire to satisfy me even more. He places one hand on my ass, the other in my hair, guiding my body in sync with his final movements, ensuring he fills me completely while keeping me secure when the penetration becomes too intense.

When I no longer feel him moving, I realize he’s fully inside, giving me time to relax and adjust. «Are you okay?», he asks.

I nod, already feeling my eyelids grow heavy: «Perfect». Aesop interprets the kiss I give him as a signal to start moving inside me, having finally filled a void that had been there for too long; not just between my legs, but especially in my heart.

Each thrust is a surge of infinite pleasure, a wave of ecstasy that captures and envelops me, overwhelming me without defenses or reservations. I want to be completely at the mercy of the pleasure he’s giving me, the coordinated movements of our entwined hips, the swirling dance of our tongues. 

I feel every inch of his cock inside me, making me moan like never before; each thrust is stronger than the last and deeper. Never satisfied, never sated with the pleasure he’s giving me, Aesop takes me to the edge of the precipice, to the brink, and then, just when I think I’m about to fall, he pulls me back and continues to move incessantly inside me, exploring the most forbidden and perverse territories, losing himself in my body as I lose myself in his eyes.

«You’re beautiful. Perfect», he tells me then, panting against my skin as I arch my back with yet another thrust that strikes the most sensitive chords of my pleasure.

«Aesop… So are you», I reply, filled with gratitude and love for this man who has inevitably changed my life. I want to tell him how I feel, aware of the great mistake I would be making, but just as I open my mouth to speak, a stronger thrust cuts off my breath, and what escapes my lips is a muffled scream, followed by Aesop’s laughter against my throat.

«Let go, baby», he says, his warm breath against my nipples, which harden immediately as soon as he brushes them with his lips. I arch my back slightly so that they’re at the level of his face, allowing him to suck them as he fucks me, making the edges of my world blur, enveloping me in a warm blanket of pleasure that prevents me from thinking rationally.

When I feel tears welling up in my eyes, Aesop slides his hands down to my thighs; he moves my legs to wrap them tightly around his waist and, staying inside me, shifts our bodies. He lays me on my back on the mattress and positions himself above me.

He caresses my legs and, to have enough space to move as he desires, he moves one leg and rests it relaxed on his shoulder. He takes advantage of my fully spread thighs to tease my clit with his thumb again, caressing it and wetting it with my own juices as he moves slowly inside me.

He watches me writhe and moan his name, my voice growing higher and blending with his, deep, primal, warm, and full of sensuality. I turn my face to the side on the pillow, but his large hand closes around my chin, bringing my eyes back to his, which are full of desire. «I want to hear and feel everything, Cass», he says, while the smell of tobacco on his fingers mixes with the scent of sex that pervades the room and his fragrance. «Not just your tight, wet pussy around my cock, but every sigh and moan. Every scream of pleasure as you beg me to make you come, screaming my name».

He gives a strong thrust, ensuring that yes, he is perfectly capable of bending me to his will and making me scream as he wants, and begins to fuck me at a steady pace, burying his cock inside me harder and deeper.

He leans slightly over my body so that his pubic bone rubs against my clit, and with the hand that was between my legs, he grabs my arms, pulls them above my head, and grips my wrists, preventing me from moving unless he wants me to.

My breasts rise and fall with each thrust, my nipples brushing against his chest as he pushes harder, deeper inside me. I see myself in his eyes and he in mine; my breath becomes his, and his becomes mine; our skin touches, and our bodies become one, addicted to the pleasure and ecstasy in which we lose ourselves together, craving more and unable to stop.

Every thrust takes me to a higher level of pleasure, my vision blurring due to short breaths, and hot tears fall from the corners of my eyes, which Aesop promptly kisses away. I feel his glans pushing deeper inside me, and I know I can’t hold on any longer.

«Aesop… I-I’m fucking coming», I say with difficulty, biting my lip with the next breathtaking thrust.

Aesop says nothing: he accelerates the pace of his thrusts until I lose all control and rationality, painfully tightening his grip on my wrists and taking me to the edge of that precipice from which, with one final thrust, he finally lets me fall, with a liberating scream that I muffle against the skin of his shoulder, while his disheveled hair falls over my face and his mouth leaves kisses along my jaw, before closing on mine.

His thrusts slow down, just enough to let me relax, to allow my breathing to return to normal after the incredibly intense orgasm he just gave me, but they don’t stop.

«You didn’t…?», I can barely ask, still too overwhelmed by ecstasy to articulate the words.

He understands and shakes his head: «I wanted to enjoy every moment of your orgasm. You’re even more beautiful when you come». He gives me a slow kiss on the mouth, as if to remember its shape and contours.

He also loosens his grip around my wrists, and the blood begins to flow back into my hands, which tingle as I rest them wearily on his face, caressing his stubbled cheeks and cheekbones. «It’s thanks to you», I say with a chuckle, his gentle thrusts continuing to give me a faint pleasure.

«No: it’s you who are already perfect as you are». He smiles at me, making all my confidence waver with that beautiful, sincere look of his that makes me want to scream three short, precise words.

I avoid doing so by pulling him to me, closing my mouth over his, letting my voice get lost on his lips. «I want you to come too», I tell him. I realize I’ve only seen his face in the throes of orgasm in the reflection of Gladrags Wizardwear’s mirror, and I feel the need to see it here, with my own eyes.

He gives his usual cheeky smile and teases me: «If you insist…», but he doesn’t stop moving inside me, making me moan again, the distant, lazy pleasure typical of post-orgasm.

«Of course, I insist», I murmur, exposing my skin to his mouth so eager to kiss every inch of it.

Aesop calls my attention by saying my name: «Cass?». I open my eyes, my eyelids heavy and half-closed, and look at him with a questioning expression. «Are you on anything or should I pull out?», he asks gently.

Only then do I realize that we haven’t used any contraception, and that I haven’t been taking any pregnancy-prevention potions for years now. How careless of me!

«Pull out», I admit, almost ashamed of my recklessness on such an important matter.

Aesop, however, always knows how to dispel the small cloud of worry that gathers within me at the slightest concern and, jokingly, says: «I never thought you liked taking risks…».

I laugh and reply in kind: «Didn’t I just get into bed with you?». He laughs with me, and giving me one last kiss, he pulls away, kneeling between my trembling legs and slowly withdrawing his erect cock from me. Then he takes my hand and wraps it around his shaft, placing his hand over mine and guiding the final strokes before he finally reaches his own climax, closing his eyes and letting all his warm seed spill in liquid, pearly drops onto my belly.

He collapses back onto me, exhausted as well, kissing my lips endlessly, as if nothing could ever separate us, as if we could stay like this forever. When he pulls away, it’s to go to the bathroom, where he grabs a wet towel to gently clean me of the traces of his cum, and takes a quick shower.

When he returns to bed, with a towel wrapped around his hips that highlights his toned body even more, he has in his hands two glasses, the bottle of wine we had opened earlier, and a cigarette between his lips. He embodies all the allure of the forbidden, of vices one should not indulge in, and is breathtakingly beautiful.

He sits on the mattress and hands me a glass, pouring a generous dose of wine into it. He does the same with his own, and after placing the bottle on the floor, he removes the cigarette from his lips and gives me another kiss, lingering on my lips and caressing my face.

«Are you tired?», he asks gently, moving a lock of hair from my face.

«A little», I reply. Immediately, he shifts the wine glass to his other hand, effortlessly holding the cigarette as well, and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close.

I snuggle against his warm body, sipping the wine slowly, enjoying the rise and fall of Aesop’s chest with each breath, relishing the quiet of the night, the flickering candlelight, and his company.

We savor the silence between us without saying a word, not feeling the need to. I realize this is enough for me: the simple intimacy with the man I like, the bond that forms after sharing intense moments together.

«I don’t want to go back to Hogwarts», I murmur, looking up at Aesop. It’s the first time in seventeen years that I’ve said it.

He smiles and brings the glass to his lips, drinking the last sip of wine. «It’s quite nice here», he says, kissing my forehead.

He places the empty glass on the nightstand next to his side of the bed, the cigarette butt still smoldering between his fingers, and strokes my cheek. «Are you sleepy?», he asks, without taking his eyes off me.

I nod. «You finish it», I say, handing him the half-full glass. I snuggle more comfortably into his arms, resting my head on his chest and intertwining my legs with his. Our bodies seem perfectly made to fit together.

I finally close my eyes, allowing all the accumulated fatigue of the day to take me to Morpheus’s realm.

Aesop’s fingers run through my hair, giving me a pleasant sense of relaxation, and his mouth leaves scattered kisses. I’m almost about to give in when I manage to say: «Goodnight, Aesop».

His voice echoes like a distant sound, carried away by the wind, when, just before I fall asleep, he replies: «Sweet dreams, Cassie. As sweet… as you».

Chapter 27: SHARP

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

I open my eyes to the room just lit by the sun's rays trying to make their way through the closed shutters. It takes me a moment to recognize it: the bedroom of Cassandra's house in London.

I lower my gaze slightly to the feminine and sinuous body pressed against mine, wrapped in the blanket except for the bare shoulders, her left hand resting on my chest and the ring on her ring finger now vanished. Cassandra is breathing peacefully, still asleep, serenity on her face after last night.

It almost seems like a mirage when I think back on it, but she here in my arms and her naked skin against mine are the unmistakable signs of what happened. Of the fact that we really had sex. And I want more. Not only am I not satisfied with her body and how she makes love, but above all with her attentions, her care.

I don't know what I did to deserve all this, to wake up next to an incredibly beautiful and sweet woman. Cassandra with rose-colored lips, parted like a bud, which I kiss lightly before getting up quietly from the bed and letting her sleep, not without looking at her one last time. My Cassie.

I close the door behind me, smiling to myself, and head towards the small bathroom with the sloping ceiling. It is bare, but Cass has tried to decorate it as best as she can: candles, colorful sponges and bowls of scented potpourri, and to top it off, pink towels. Everything in this house speaks to me of her. Everything gives back to me her delicacy and care, the immense wonder of getting to know her day by day. Her desire to take care of something that no one else would believe in, to restore dignity to what would commonly be considered hopeless. Someone like me.

I let the hot water shower over me, feeling lucky for the first time in years and washing away the weight of sadness and loneliness accumulated over time. Cassandra has rekindled in me the desire to live, and this morning I look at the world differently: I open the shutters, flooding the small living room with daylight and a renewed light inside me. If only Matilda knew what I am feeling now, she would hold it against me forever.

I dress quickly after drying myself and open the bedroom door to see if Cassandra is still sleeping. She has her back to me, the beautiful line of her bare back disappearing invitingly under the covers. I approach to give her a kiss, and as I press my lips to her skin, she exhales a sweet sigh, typical of someone waking up.

«Rest», I say, kissing her again. «I’m going down to buy breakfast and I'll be back».

Her hand moves tentatively, searching for mine. I bring her fingers to my lips and plant a kiss on them too. I caress her hair and force myself to get up, so as not to stay stuck with her in that bed forever, even though it’s the only thing I desire at the moment.

I grab the keys from the dish near the front door and close it behind me, descending the steps that separate me from the landing and the elevator. The day is particularly cold, with icy gusts entering fiercely through the cracks in the windows and doors of the entrance hall, and I immediately realize that something is wrong: my left leg, deprived of the comforting warmth of home, is stiffer than usual.

I can barely bend my knee, making it much longer and more difficult to move as I would like. I grit my teeth, pushing away the gray clouds of negativity I feel gathering around my mind, and almost hobble towards the elevator booth, which I call to the floor and fortunately takes me down without any trouble.

The cold morning air hits me as soon as I open the main door, striking my facial skin and testing the resilience of my body. I am forced to proceed slowly, practically dragging my leg like a dead weight. To passersby, I might indeed look like a war veteran—albeit a peculiar one, since I refuse to use a cane, an accessory very common among Muggles.

I could return to Cass's house and stay warm, but that would mean surrendering and giving in not only to the disability but to those who did this to me. To Dark Magic. And that is not why I chose to become an Auror, to fight Evil. That is not why Mabel died.

Thinking of her forces me to stop. I close my eyes and gather the most rational thoughts, trying to set aside those that have tormented me for years. I woke up next to a beautiful woman who is waiting for me just a few meters away, and who is helping me to be reborn day by day: I cannot afford to linger in the sadness and pain of what is lost forever.

But the shadows draw near and surround me, their claws piercing my skin and scratching the flesh. They have granted me grace for only one night, patiently waiting to reappear at the first useful opportunity, making me believe that I could finally be free...

«Sir, are you alright?». Suddenly, a voice pierces the swirling chaos of mad screams raging in my head, abruptly silencing them and bringing me back to the present.

I open my eyes: I’m slumped with my shoulder and head against the wall of the apartment complex where Cass lives, my left leg awkwardly splayed on the street, as if it were something loosely and precariously attached to the rest of my body. Next to me, a small man with a face marked by time and the sun, dressed in dark work clothes, has a worried expression on his alert face.

«I-I’m fine», I manage to say, searching for an excuse to give him on the spot. «A pain in my leg. Strong... sudden».

The man nods, as if he understands everything: «Are you a veteran, sir?»

«Yes». I swallow and try to regain some composure, while the man beside me tries to keep me balanced despite being shorter and less sturdy than I am.

«Let me guess: Madhist war, am I right?», he asks, probably referring to some war conducted by Muggles.

I decide to play along: «You’re right. Quite a souvenir, huh?»

«You’re lucky to still have it, sir! If you need to go home, I can hail a cab for you».

I stop the man before he rushes into the street: «Don’t worry, sir. I came down to buy breakfast», I say. I look at the bakery not far away, and Cass's voice echoes in my head: it's true that the smell of freshly baked bread rises in the early hours of the morning. «For me and my wife», I add impulsively, reminding myself why I went out so early, why I don’t want to go back empty-handed. Even if it’s a small gesture, I want to make her happy.

The man seems almost enlightened and gives another nod, as if he holds the truth in his hands: «You’re a lucky man, sir. We have two legs... but only one wife!». He makes a sound that resembles a laugh, and I can't help but smile at this peculiar individual. «Take care, sir! Be careful, and don’t worry your wife. Have a good day!», he says, touching the brim of his hat and disappearing into the crowd as suddenly as he arrived. Almost like a push that lifts you out of the water just when you're about to drown.

I shake my head, as if to organize the chaos inside, and start walking again, forcing myself not to give in to the pain. It's only a few meters, and Cass is waiting for me: I’ve set my mind to it and so it must be. If I want to stay by her side, I must first convince myself that I’m capable.

My hand finally rests on the shop handle, and I push the door inward, welcomed by the warmth of the store and the unmistakable scent of fresh bread. A girl behind the counter approaches, asking what I’d like to buy, and although I entered without a clear idea, I quickly recall all the times I sat next to Cassandra during breakfast, trying to remember what she prefers.

«A croissant filled with honey, an apple tart, and a couple of milk rolls, please», I order, and shortly the girl hands me the bag. I pay with Muggle money and step back into the cold, gritting my teeth, trapped in an icy grip that seems to want to immobilize me more and more.

I practically drag my leg along with the rest of my body, wearied by yesterday's long walk and the penetrating cold that delivers the final blow to my already precarious physical condition. I don’t regret putting Cass’s happiness first, but I can’t shake the thought that this is the man she would have by her side, totally useless and weak at the first sign of difficulty.

And I don’t want to be that. I want to give her the best, everything she deserves. The certainty of having someone beside her capable of protecting her constantly, in any situation. But I will never be able to do that if this is and will be my life.

The thought of seeing Cass's smile, completely unaware of what torments me, opens a crack in my heart: on one side, it bursts with joy and light at the mere thought of holding her close; on the other, the black sludge of regret seeps into my brain, preventing me from finally seeing her as the longed-for happiness.

I drag myself up the steps that separate the apartment from the elevator, holding onto the handrail and struggling to fit the key into the lock. But when I finally close this damn door behind me, the warmth of home envelops me: Cass has lit a small fire in the fireplace and left the bathroom door open while she showers, letting the warm steam spread throughout the house. Sometimes I’m amazed at how this woman is always one step ahead of me, as if she were the Legilimens between us.

I drop my coat on the coat rack and head to the kitchen, where a teapot and coffee are already on the stove, boiling slowly. I’d like to set the table to share breakfast with her, but my leg hurts too much to stand any longer. I drag myself to the sofa and literally collapse onto it, stretching out my left leg and closing my eyes, a despondent sigh rising from within. And now how the hell do I explain to her that I can’t walk?

I run a hand over my eyes, distraught, racking my brain for some damn solution. I pass my hand through my hair and open my eyes, glancing everywhere and at no specific point in the room until a velvet-covered object buried under books and newspapers catches my attention.

They say curiosity killed the cat, but I’ve never been one to deny myself the pleasure of discovery. I lean toward the coffee table and grab what turns out to be, as the moving image of four kids on the front page shows, a photo album. With a quick flick of my wand, I extinguish the flame heating the water for the tea and coffee in the kitchen, to prevent any explosions while I indulge in a trip down memory lane.

Behind the quartet in the photograph, Hogwarts stands in all its magnificence, contrasting with the goofy expressions of the kids and their urgent faces as they try to fit into the frame with the girl setting up the self-timer and who was probably the owner of the camera, a girl with light, straight hair and round cheeks, a distinctive feature of the Abbotts.

But my gaze doesn't focus on Elisewin Abbott running back and forth, but on the girl between who I imagine to be Clementine Willardsey and Cillian Hawksworth. The straight, regular nose, the dark eyebrows, and the loose brown hair, just slightly tousled by the breeze; the Slytherin uniform falling neatly over her shoulders; the more dreamy and expectant look, but that smile that has remained unchanged over the years. I’m looking at a young Cassandra, and judging by the handwritten year in the corner of the page, she must have been 13 years old.

I turn the pages and Cass’s life unfolds before me through various episodes: the victories at the Summoner’s Court tournaments, with a much younger Abraham proudly smiling next to her; birthdays celebrated at Hogwarts and a big party in Hogsmeade when she came of age; cheering for the Slytherin Quidditch team and beaming smiles in front of the hourglass full of emeralds; the Alchemy class of 1886, accompanied by another photo of bloodied forearms from the Four Elements group tattoo. And then the last day of school, in June 1888: her proud 18-year-old self, young, beautiful, with a life ahead of her, when I was 34 and had to admit the end of my career. I wonder how things would have turned out if nothing had ever happened, or if our paths had crossed earlier...

I continue to turn the pages: her first day working as a reporter at The Daily Prophet, where her shoulder-length haircut catches my eye, and a presentation of her book at Flourish and Blotts, packed with witches. Finally, one photo strikes me more than the others because it doesn’t move.

An entire page is dedicated to a small, faded rectangle featuring a young woman who, at first glance, looks just like Cass: long, wavy dark hair, full lips, and very fair skin. However, the woman in the photo is younger, probably in her 20s, and wears simple, modest clothes that are definitely Muggle fashion. The tip of her nose is bigger than Cassandra’s, and her eyes are smaller, though still dark. The resemblance, however, is incredible. There’s no doubt that she is...

«My mother», Cass says from over my shoulder. I turn and meet her face, framed by a tangle of wet hair, wearing the sweater I had taken off her only a few hours ago. She smells, as always, of jasmine, and a melancholic yet happy smile crosses her face. I wonder how long she’s been standing behind me, watching as I revisit her life.

«Sorry», I quickly say. «I didn’t mean to pry». I make to get up, forgetting about the pain in my leg, but it pins me to the couch.

Cass hurries in front of me. «You don’t need to apologize», she says, shaking her head. She kneels and places a hand on my leg, right on the knee where the scar originates and branches out. The warmth of her palm is comforting. «Does it still hurt, Aesop?», she asks, and I can’t remain indifferent to those big, remorseful eyes, as if it were her fault.

I close the photo album and set it beside me. «Come here», I reply, dodging her question; I take her hands and pull her to me in an embrace she gladly melts into, her wet hair brushing my face, and our lips meeting in a slow kiss I’ve been longing to give her.

«Good morning», she whispers softly, smiling as I stroke her bare thighs.

«Good morning to you, Cassie», I respond, gently nibbling her lip.

«No one has ever called me that, you know?»

«If you’re okay with it, I’d be happy to be the first».

She lingers on my lips one last time and then says: «I think I’m okay with it. I like it a lot». I watch her stand up reluctantly (and I would have gladly spent the rest of the morning kissing) to head to the kitchen, from where she casts a few cleaning spells while gathering things for breakfast.

The small living room begins to tidy itself up, the low table clearing off objects and books returning to their places, freeing up the flat surface on which lace doilies, a teapot, and a coffee pot gently land. Cass brings over the cups and the bakery bag and sits next to me on the couch.

«So, how are you?», she asks, pouring the coffee and handing me the cup.

«Fine», I reply, but I don’t meet her gaze.

I feel her reproachful stare fixed on me, and I’m forced to meet her eyes. «Don’t lie to me, Aesop», she says with a firm, slightly exasperated voice. «Can you manage to travel with your leg like this?».

Of course not. «I can manage», I lie.

She places a hand on my arm, her delicate touch almost piercing through the fabric of my shirt. «Aesop, it’s okay if you can’t», she says. But how can she be so beautiful even in the morning, with wet hair and a worried look?

«What I told you yesterday… I really meant it», she says, her fingers tightening slightly around my arm.

I set the cup on the table, turning slightly towards her. «I know you mean it, Cass. But for me, it’s… difficult», I sigh, exasperated and frustrated by a situation I can’t escape, now a prisoner not only of my demons but also of the feelings I have when I’m with her, and unable to let myself go as I want.

She looks at me in silence for a few seconds, then asks: «Aesop, what happened?».

I know she’s referring to my leg, to how I got injured. I can’t avoid her question, but I’m not ready to tell her everything yet. Not after the night we spent together, after I memorized the shape of her body resting in my arms. I clear my throat: «An ambush in Scarborough when I was an Auror. I underestimated the intelligence and strength of who I had to face, so we… we went in as two. And...». I choke up, swallowing hard, trying to push back the tears and swallow the lump in my throat. «And only I came back, tortured and crippled».

I look out the window, watching the leaden sky and the smoke rising from the chimneys of the houses, symbols of a London where life is starting to wake up. Beside me, Cass remains silent, probably meditative and searching for the right words to say.

«Aesop», she says gently. «I’m so sorry. But what happened to you has no bearing on me or on how… on how I see myself with you».

I sigh and turn to her again, looking into her eyes. «It does for me, Cassie. You can’t understand how I feel, what it’s like to live with the guilt. The fear of failing again, like I did more than ten years ago»

«Why would you fail?»

«Because if I can’t even enjoy a walk with you, it’s better if I’m alone».

I hear the alarm in her voice, betraying the fear of being abandoned and sharpening my guilt: «Aesop, no…». Her voice trembles, and her eyes are teary. I can’t bear her pained expression, but her light hand on my face, her fingertips caressing my skin, forces me to turn to her. «I don’t want you to pull away from me. I don’t care about the conditions. I don’t care about anything that isn’t… you».

My arms encircle her before I can think about what I’m doing. I can’t resist her sincere eyes. I brush her wet hair from her face with one hand and pull her to me for a kiss she surrenders to almost desperately, as if fearing it might be the last. «Cassie», I say, breaking the kiss and forcing myself to pull away, to resist the temptation our bodies betray. I caress her face, wiping away a tear caught in her lashes with my thumb. «I don’t want to hurt you. I’m not who I used to be, and I don’t want you to look back one day and realize you wasted the best years of your life on me, living with the brakes on because I can’t go ten meters without feeling pain».

She moves even closer, her hands on my face: «Do you really think it would be a problem for me to live the calm and quiet life I’ve always wanted?»

I can’t help but smile: «I know that for you, none of what I say would be a problem, you perfect and incorrigible little creature»

«Then what are you worried about?», she asks, smiling back.

The words spill out of my mouth in a sincere rush: «I worry about you, Cassie. I worry about the person I’ve become. How my mood swings hurt you, how tense you are when I’m away, physically and mentally. I don’t want to hurt you».

But she doesn’t back down an inch, making it all the harder: «Now that I know why you act this way, I know it’s not me that’s the problem. And that what you need is… just time, I think».

Maybe I’ve done something good in my life to have the incredible luck that our paths crossed. «I don’t want you to wait for me forever», I whisper, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

She shrugs slightly: «We don’t have to rush, Aesop. And besides, even if we did, I can wait for you».

I start to protest: «Cass…», but her lips interrupt me.

«If you need time, that’s fine. It won’t be a burden to me. You’re not a burden to me: not yesterday, not now, not ever», she says, looking into my eyes. «I know the wait will be worth it». And thankfully, she kisses me again because I’ve grown so soft over the years that I couldn’t possibly hold back the tears like a child in front of her.

«You’re perfect. I hate you», I tell her, tracing the soft line of her jaw with my lips.

She tilts her head slightly to the side: «I hate you… because you’re distracting me and making me miss what I imagine is a delicious breakfast, judging by the smell».

I burst out laughing against her fragrant skin, which shivers under the warmth of my breath. «It would be a shame. I made a careful selection, and I’m curious to see if I’ve learned your tastes».

I give her another kiss and then gently lay her back on the couch, so we can separate and finally focus on breakfast. Cass opens the bag, and her satisfied expression is thanks enough. «Honey croissants are my favorite!», she exclaims happily.

«I know», I say, offering her my cheek, which she kisses before getting up to fetch butter and jam for the milk rolls. When she returns, she notices I’ve been watching her closely.

«Stop staring at my butt», she says, laughing and sitting back down, but I can still see the light of adulation in her eyes.

«It’s very hard when it’s so much in sight… and in hand», I say, giving her a playful squeeze, eliciting an ecstatic squeal.

And in the moments that follow, as we share breakfast and enjoy each other’s time and presence, I forget all the negativity, every worry that plagued me just a little while ago. If this is just a taste of what it’s like to spend time with Cass, life with her must be beautiful. Free of any thoughts. With her, I begin to understand the meaning of seizing the moment and enjoying the here and now. And damn, she was right: the bakery below her house has amazing products.

Eventually, though, Cassandra has to free herself from the arm I’ve draped around her shoulders to pull her to me on the couch. «As much as I’d love to stay here with you, I need to get dressed. We are professors, after all», she says.

I rub my eyes. «Don’t remind me!», I exclaim, deliberately exaggerating my total reluctance to return to being a respectable teacher.

I hear Cass giggle from the bedroom, and while I wait for her, I light a cigarette. Despite not wanting my mind to wander, it’s impossible not to think about how we’ll get to Charing Cross, given my current near-total immobility.

She returns to the living room, her hair dry and fully dressed, wand in hand. «Aesop, do you have any of that potion left from yesterday?», she asks, as she starts casting silent spells around the room, making broad gestures with the arm holding the wand.

«It’s in the inside pocket of my coat… Can I ask what you’re doing?», I ask, puzzled, watching her lips move and trying to decipher the spells she’s casting.

«I’m removing the spells that prevent Apparition», she replies casually. «At least traveling will be less strenuous for you».

I get up and go to her before I even realize it, ready to protest. «Cassie…» I say, taking her by the shoulders.

«Don’t insist, Aesop», she says, wriggling free. «I never needed Apparition. But now…». She puts the wand in her coat pocket and looks me straight in the eyes, with a gaze that allows no objections and could pierce me through and through. «… things have changed».

She stands on tiptoe, softening her expression, and gives me a light kiss on the lips. Then she turns her back to me and goes to fetch my coat from the rack: she rummages through the pockets, looking for the potion, and hands me the garment once she’s found what she was looking for. She drinks the potion in one gulp.

«Cass, you didn’t have to do that», I say, putting it on.

«But I wanted to», she replies, fastening the last buttons of her coat and turning off all the lights in the house with her wand. She’s about to touch my hand but pauses: «Wait».

She goes to the couch and picks up the photo album. She looks at it, weighing it for a moment, and then puts it in her bag. She walks back to me and this time, her hand finds mine.

«Ready?», I ask her gently.

She nods: «Go ahead».

I squeeze her hand and we Apparate just outside the borders of Hogwarts. The castle looms huge against a leaden sky that, judging by the stillness and the smell in the air, threatens rain at any moment.

«Shall we use a carriage?», Cass asks, brushing some dirt off her coat with her hands.

I shake my head: «I can make it»

«Aesop...»

«Cass», I interrupt her. «I appreciate what you did for me, but I don't want to feel more handicapped than I already do. I can make it». The words came out harsher than I intended.

She looks at me with her lips slightly parted, as if she wants to reply, but she doesn’t: she just looks away and nods. She starts walking, slowly but without waiting for me, and I realize I messed up.

«Shit… Cass!», I call, catching up with her. I put a hand on her back, making her turn around. There's no one around in this weather, but it’s a risky move nonetheless, one that anyone in the castle could see. And Cassandra is aware of it, judging by the alarmed, reproachful look she gives me.

«What? I can't touch your back whenever I want?», I tease her.

She lowers her voice, as if someone might be listening: «Aesop, we’re at school!».

I lower mine too, leaning closer to her: «You forget what we did in this very school»

Her cheeks take on an adorable strawberry hue: «We were in a room».

I put on a mock thoughtful expression: «Really? I could have sworn one time it was in a classroom». Cassandra lets out an exasperated huff, looking away, but I can see she’s forcing herself not to laugh.

«Hey», I say in a gentler tone, placing two fingers under her chin and tilting her face toward me so she can look at me as I continue: «I'm sorry. I haven’t come to terms with it yet, and I’m not used to this kind of care and attention». I stroke her soft skin. «I appreciate everything you do for me, Cassie. Thank you».

Finally, her lips smile, and her hand rests on mine. «And I appreciate your apology, Aesop. Thank you». She brushes her lips against my fingers and then, reluctantly, moves my hand away. The sky, meanwhile, makes rumbling noises, announcing a storm.

Cass looks up at the sky. «We’d better get inside».

I nod and motion for her to go ahead. «As much as I like seeing you wet, I’d rather be the cause, not a storm».

She whirls around to scold me: «Aesop!».

I spread my arms: «If I can’t kiss you or touch you when we're in common areas, at least let me have the satisfaction of teasing you a little».

She shakes her head, and I follow, smiling, watching her move a few steps ahead of me, not missing any detail, as if she could disappear at any moment.

Everything around her is enveloped in grace, and she moves through the world with elegance, her face constantly displaying a refined wonder that makes me want to take her hand and let myself be led into her world.

Even when we enter the Faculty Lounge together (at Cass’s insistence, because «we need to let them know we're back»), the knowing or puzzled looks from our colleagues make me smile. Of course, Cassandra notices too, as she tries in vain to shift the attention to the women’s march.

«What will they think?», she asks, her eyebrows furrowed as we leave the room—together.

«Let’s say we don’t give them much reason to deny the obvious», I reply, shrugging, in a deliberately provocative tone. I can’t help it: seeing her fret over these small things will always amuse me. And, above all, it gives me a chance to ease her worries by holding her close.

«Do you think... they know what happened?», she asks, her eyes wide.

«Well, Cassie... if even Ominis noticed...». A sarcastic smile crosses my face.

«Aesop!», she scolds, making me burst out laughing.

I take her hand and lead her into a niche, away from the more prying eyes of the students wandering around. I stroke her face with the back of my hand. «You don’t need to worry about our colleagues. If the Deputy Headmistress herself allowed this to happen...»

«Does that mean everyone probably knows? Is that what you’re trying to say?»

I shrug: «It's likely, yes. But I think they're more interested in our reactions as individuals than in any... couple».

She raises an eyebrow: «What do you mean?».

I adopt a solemn, dreamy air, as she would when telling a story: «Imagine: the beautiful young Alchemist falling into the arms of the dark and arrogant Potions Master».

Cass's expression becomes more sarcastic: «And who says I fell into your arms... when you were the one who fell between my legs?», she teases.

The corner of my mouth lifts more. «A very comfortable spot. I can’t wait to fall there again».

And finally, she lets herself laugh, relaxing. I give her a quick kiss, and we leave the niche, walking at a distance that doesn’t arouse suspicion among the students. 

On our way to the Faculty Tower, we cross paths with Albus Dumbledore coming from the Gryffindor Tower.

«Brilliant and charming young man», I say as if speaking to myself.

«Oh really?», Cass echoes. «I could have sworn you were... jealous of him», she says, her voice taking on a purring, caressing tone, like a sly kitten.

Though I pretend otherwise, she’s hit the mark: what I felt towards Albus in the previous months was undeniable jealousy. At Christmas, though, things changed. And, unfortunately for me, time proved Cass right once again: he wasn’t remotely interested in her, and it was only thanks to him that I finally found the courage to kiss her.

I shrug: «Marking my territory»

«From what I know, animals do that by peeing on trees», she says with a rare burst of vulgarity, shuddering in disgust.

As we enter the Faculty Tower, I whisper softly against her ear: «Yeah, well... I prefer doing it by cuming all over you». The shiver that runs through her this time is one of excitement. I love the way she closes her eyes and bites her lip when I provoke her.

«Aesop – she says, quickening her pace – you’re incorrigible!»

«But you don’t mind». We’re now in front of our room, and the lock clicks open easily with an Alohomora. I place a hand on Cass’s back, exerting gentle pressure to let her enter first.

Once inside, she takes off her coat and literally throws herself into my arms. «What am I going to do with you?», she asks, smiling just inches from my lips. Merlin’s beard, I could hold her slender waist all day.

«Tolerate me, and you’ll make me a happy man».

She kisses me gently, a soft and sweet kiss. «I can manage that if you put it that way», she murmurs.

We spend the rest of the morning organizing and tidying up our things. I personally catch up on lesson plans, having had no chance to do so yesterday. It surprises me, but I should have expected it, given how meticulous she is, that Cass already has everything methodically organized. She sits on the couch reading a book, her feet resting on my thighs, while I wrack my brains over lesson topics and grading papers. Her smooth skin under my knuckles is a pleasant distraction.

Reluctantly, we drag ourselves to lunch, as we would have gladly lazed on the couch longer. When we return to the Tower, I tell her I need to go for a swim. «You can come if you want», I add, not wanting her to think I don’t want her around.

She shakes her head understandingly: «Go ahead, Aesop. You’ll probably find me reading on the couch»

«No doubt», I reply, smiling.

And that’s exactly how I find her when I return, illuminated by the flames dancing in the fireplace while she lounges on the couch. She has changed into more comfortable, homey clothes.

She looks up from her book and gives me a smile that warms me more than any roaring fire. «How are you?», she asks.

«Better», I reply, bending down to kiss her forehead. The swim had undoubtedly done me good, loosening the knots of pain throbbing in my leg, but I know the relief is only temporary. I slide onto the couch with her, letting her legs drape over mine as I lean in to kiss various parts of her body. «And you? Why are you in pajamas?».

She rolls her eyes: «It’s not pajamas, Aesop! It’s loungewear»

«Never had the pleasure of owning any»

«You’d better find something comfortable to wear, then». She props herself up on her elbows, stroking my hair. «We’re dining here tonight».

I raise my eyebrows, betraying my surprise: «Here?»

«Yes. There are too many stairs in this castle for my liking. And it’s Sunday, and I feel like spending the day before classes relaxing with you».

I lean closer to her lips, nuzzling against her on the couch. «And who did you bribe to enact this more than satisfying plan?», I ask, kissing her.

«I’ve just always been kind to the house-elves when I studied here».

After changing into something more comfortable (actually just a shirt and a dressing gown to cover the largest and most conspicuous part of my scar), what was once a liquor cart, the bottles temporarily scattered on the floor, now holds several steaming and exquisite dishes, judging by the smell.

I sit next to Cass on the couch, and we start eating in the utmost silence and tranquility, with only the crackling of the fire and her voice resonating like music in the room. It’s the closest thing to peace.

At the end, we are cuddled up in front of the fire, a glass of wine in hand. Cassandra's cheeks, her back resting against my chest, are rosy, and her gaze has a pleasant, dreamy expression.

However, she is still lucid enough to ask me a question I did not expect: «Aesop, isn't there a cure for your scar?». Only then do I realize that her fingertips are lightly tracing the lines of my scar on my leg with incredible delicacy.

I sigh, stroking her hair: «If there is, I am not aware of it»

«It's strange, though»

«What is?»

«That you managed to make a potion that allowed me to travel, but you can't make one for yourself. I've seen you work, and you're one of the best Potion Masters I know».

Her words flatter me, but I can't pretend they haven't touched a sore spot. I've been trying to find a cure for ten years, and I still haven't succeeded. I try not to let my bitterness show, stroking her hair as I say: «Your ailment is common, Cassie. Mine is a different kind of pain, rarer, and so the remedies are less known».

She brings the glass to her lips, her gaze fixed on the flames. I recognize the thoughtful expression on her face; she's reflecting deeply. «Only now do I fully understand what “Unforgivable Curse” means», she says, taking another sip of wine. She reflects again and then asks: «But some things make you feel better, right?»

«Heat and swimming help – I admit – At St. Mungo's, the Healers said I should practice massages to alleviate the muscle trauma as much as possible... but I was too depressed to seriously consider it».

Cass sighs: «Maybe you could still do them»

«They might alleviate the pain a bit, perhaps. But it wouldn't change anything now. I am like this because of myself».

She looks up at me, her eyes filled with reproach: «Stop it, Aesop. I don't want you to talk about yourself like that». She settles more comfortably, her head on my chest, which rises and falls with each breath I take. «Have you ever thought about a surgeon?», she then asks.

«A what?»

«A surgeon. A Muggle doctor who specializes in operating on people. They could take a look at your scar and... see if something can be done».

Her offer makes my heart beat faster, and I wonder if she notices. She always has a solution to propose, her own way of always seeking the positive side of things. But she shouldn't worry about me.

«Cassie, look at me», I say to her. She lifts her face to mine, her big dark eyes meeting mine, waiting. I soften my voice as much as possible when I respond: «I appreciate everything you do for me. But your concern shouldn't become a constant. I am like this now, and there's nothing we can do». She starts to protest, as usual, but I place a finger on her lips: «I know you say it because you don't want to see me suffer, but believe me: having you by my side, despite everything, is already enough to ease the physical pain».

Her lips curve into a sweet smile and kiss my finger. I move my hand to her cheek and caress her, staying silent, holding each other as the fire continues to crackle in the fireplace and the wine intoxicates our senses.

I think she has fallen asleep when she suddenly murmurs: «Aesop?»

«Yes?»

«I was thinking back to this morning. To when you saw the picture of my mom». She pauses briefly, and I don't press her; I know and realize it's a difficult topic for her to address, so I wait patiently for her to continue: «And I was thinking that... you should know more. About my parents. About me».

I swallow, feeling the bite of guilt starting to tighten around my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I was an idiot for not telling her everything right away, that Black had revealed such intimate things about her life to me; but we weren't close yet, and once I got to know her better, I was overwhelmed by the great and terrible beauty of repressed emotions – and, I admit, by a certain hormonal agitation.

With a sweet and vulnerable voice, she begins to recount: «I was born a Muggle, as you know. In an Irish Catholic family. I never knew my mother. She...». She stops, taking a breath to face what she has to tell me. «...she died giving birth to me. And my father, well, he was nothing remotely close to a parental figure. As soon as I was old enough to understand more complex conversations, he never hid the fact that he considered me the reason my mom died. Plus, according to him, I did “strange and repugnant things”. I guess he was referring to that magic I still couldn't control».

I hold her tightly, stroking her, as if I feared she might slip away. She continues: «Being born a girl, moreover, made me completely useless. A neighbor, who happened to be the midwife who assisted my mom during childbirth, took care of me. She taught me to talk and walk. I'm sure she also noticed I did strange things, but she never made me feel bad about it, or at least she had the decency never to mention it. But one day, she had to move away, and I was left alone with that man who thought it best to get rid of me by sending me to a Catholic boarding school. Anything to keep me out of his way, and maybe, in his logic, I'd even come to my senses».

I can't hold back: «He could have made you an Obscurus, for fuck's sake».

She nods against my chest: «I had to develop an unusual intelligence for my age to be able to express my magic freely, but I still didn't know how to do it. I understood there was something extraordinary about me, different from the other kids, but I didn't know what. I couldn't even control the reactions caused by my emotions, and all my attempts to appear normal were in vain. They...».

She takes a deep breath, her gaze lost in the bottom of the glass, in which she still swirls a drop of wine. «You don't have to continue if you don't feel like it», I reassure her.

Cass, however, shakes her head. «I can do it», she says. «They tried to exorcize me, a couple of times. They thought I had the devil in me».

It's more than I can bear. I curse and fidget on the couch, anger coursing through my veins like blood, boiling. Cass sits up and turns toward me; I don't give her time to say anything because I pull her to me, hugging her tightly. «You were just a child...», I whisper against her temple, while my cheek gets wet with her warm tears, which fall silently from a body not wracked with sobs as one would expect, but immobile. As if it had resigned itself to what had happened.

«Then someone thought I might actually be a witch... and they sent me back home. They didn't want to have anything to do with me either», she says in a whisper, against my shoulder.

I wipe the tears streaming down her face with my thumb. «Cassie, if it's too much for you, let's stop here», I repeat. I don't want to push her beyond her limits.

She shakes her head again: «Saying these things helps me face them, Aesop. To accept that they happened»

«But they shouldn't have happened, and you don't have to accept them if you don't want to»

«Only by accepting that it was never my fault can I move on».

Her words break open a chasm in my soul. Our stories are so different... and yet, in some ways, so similar. And she, though sixteen damn years younger than me, possesses a maturity and an awareness of the world that I have not yet been able to achieve.

I stroke her cheek. «No, Cassie. It was never your fault. You were a child, and you had no guilt or responsibility. If it makes you feel better to talk about it... continue», I say, looking her in the eyes.

She wipes her eyes with the palm of her hand, nodding and continuing: «My father was forced to take me back, but to him, it was as if I didn't exist. He looked at me only with disgust and spoke to me only to give orders. School was out of the question: I had to stay home and do chores so no one could see me. But he was so blinded by hatred that he didn't understand that, being alone often, I could give free rein to my true nature». Now her face lights up: «I began to get acquainted with magic, to test its potential. Did I want the dishes to wash themselves? The water, animated by my will alone, would take care of it. Did the tomatoes need to grow quickly for dinner? The soil became more fertile, and the plant instantly flourished. Maybe that's why I was so fascinated by Alchemy in school: it was like diving into my childhood, like remembering when I was happy alone with the four elements»

I smile at her, and her spirit lifts a bit: «In boarding school, I had learned to read and write. Not just English but also Latin. When I returned to Tullamore, I devoured the few books I could find around the house, often rereading them and absorbing everything there was to know»

«That's why you have that insufferable know-it-all attitude», I joke.

Cass playfully hits me, laughing. «There were some books in a different language, similar to Latin».

Suddenly, I light up, remembering her reference to Giacomo Leopardi the first time we met in my office: «Italian...».

She nods: «Gradually, I started reading that language too, and luckily, there was also a booklet of Keats' poems with the text and translation side by side: I could learn Italian from English. Only one thing didn't add up: why were there books in Italian in that house?».

Our eyes meet, and I remember the photo of her mother. I look at it closely: the dark hair and eyes, the physique and features not at all similar to Anglo-Saxon ones. «Your mother was Italian», I say.

«I thought so too. In reality, I knew nothing about her; even now, I don't know much because my father always refused to talk about her, starting to rant that I had killed her whenever I tried to touch on the subject. But when I saw her photo, I don't know, I felt a warmth inside, and I was sure it was her. Her name is written on the back: Maria, a name I had heard and read many times at the boarding school. Or at least, I think it was her name».

She looks at her hands in silence. She needs to know that I am with her, that the search for her roots has never been in vain. I take her chin between two fingers and lift her face so her eyes meet mine. «You look a lot like her», I say, and a smile lights up her face.

«Sometimes I wondered if she was also a witch, you know? Maybe to console myself for being different... Until Fig arrived. Years later, I found out that professors go to Muggle-borns' homes to explain how Hogwarts works, but at the time, I thought it was standard practice and convinced myself even more that I had a connection with my mom»

«You will always be connected to her, Cassie», I tell her. «Just the fact that you look so much like her is proof that she lives in you».

She looks far away, at a point behind my shoulder, losing her gaze in the dark sky beyond the window. «Sometimes I wonder if she would be proud of me or if she would have been like my father», she says softly.

«I'm sure she would have been crazy about you. She would have been proud of the wonderful woman you are».

Her eyes fill with tears: «Aesop...».

I take her face in my hands and kiss her tenderly: «You are. Never doubt it».

Talking about this with her, hearing her open up, hurts ten times more. But it was necessary for me to absolve myself from knowing everything without her consent, for her to feel confident enough to open up like this. She's putting her heart in my hands, and I must guard it as best I can.

We stay embraced for a few minutes, slow and long, giving each other mutual warmth, and gradually, she slides back onto my body, resting her head on my chest. Her long, loose hair gleams in the flickering firelight.

She yawns, then says, her voice slightly thick with sleep: «Did you know I went to Italy after graduation?».

This detail I didn't know: «Oh yeah?»

«Mm-hmm». Another yawn, and she settles more comfortably against my body. «I wanted to know more about my origins. And then... there was the Grand Tour...»

«You did the Grand Tour?», I ask her.

She barely shakes her head: «No... Thomas did... We met in Rome... But I don't want to think about him...».

She's falling asleep and clearly doesn't realize what she's saying. But I do, and immediately my mind returns to yesterday morning, when that Mary Elizabeth Baxter mentioned a certain "last one" with bitterness in her voice. I don't know why, but I'm sure it was this Thomas.

A sense of helplessness and annoyance takes hold of me: the former because I can't control Cass's past and what happened then, and I can't prevent all the pain she experienced; the latter, simply for more selfish reasons: I'm fucking jealous. Of those who knew her before me, who touched and kissed her, who made love to her before I could.

Instinctively, I pull her even closer to me, bending to kiss her head, my face in her soft, fragrant hair. Cass curls up more on my chest, and I wave my wand so that a blanket nearby floats gently over our bodies, as if to protect our small cocoon.

The comforting warmth of the wool paints a relaxed expression on Cassandra's face. She kisses the hand with which I am caressing her face. «Goodnight, Aesop», she murmurs, letting herself be lulled to sleep.

Maybe it's because I'm almost sure she can't hear me, or because I need more than ever to feel truly hers, that I let the words flow from my mouth without blocking them: «Goodnight, sweetheart».

Notes:

As everytime I take a while to write a new chapter, this has to be looooong! 😂 Sorry for being absent more than usual but I was on vacation from work (and in the meantime I attended a wedding and turned 29! 🫠🎂), so I had time to spend on my own and to relax. I hope to update "Lustful Alchemy" with the next chapter sooner! Thank you for all your readings ❤️

Chapter 28: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

If someone had told me that the Aesop who woke me up this morning, cuddling me in his arms and kissing my forehead, was the same one who barely tolerated me last August, I probably would have requested an emergency admission to St. Mungo's. Yet, it's really him. I am amazed every day by his evolution, the way he has started to open up to me, and the constant care he shows me. Abraham and Matilda were right: I had to grit my teeth and be very patient, but in the end, I managed to see his beauty. And now that I know what it's like, I don't intend to give it up.

The great thing about the magical world is that labels or conventions aren't necessary. For now, I'm too embarrassed to bring up the topic in public and to define my relationship with Aesop, while I know he's trying to get used to this new situation.

He hasn't told me much, but sometimes words aren't needed to describe certain situations. The fact that he was so reluctant to get to know me and that he constantly fears hurting me, yet at the same time shows me the most special attention, has generated a sad suspicion within me: that he, too, like me, experienced an intense and overwhelming love in the past that was taken away from him when he least expected it. When he hinted at how he injured his leg, I couldn't help but think that perhaps the person who lost their life in Scarborough was a woman he loved.

This thought has been buzzing in my head for days, but I've tried not to pay it any attention. I would be very curious to know this part of Aesop's life as well, to discover this piece that would complete the mosaic of his personality, but I realize that, if it were as I think, the topic is so delicate that it is right and necessary for him to tell me about it when he deems it appropriate.

For now, I enjoy his attentions, especially the smallest ones: when he gives me precedence to enter or exit a room; the fact that he is always careful to serve me a drink first; the way he looks at me in class. If his eyes could talk, I am sure they would recite an ode to passion, respect, and devotion – with a touch of eroticism. And it is with this same gaze, full of anticipation and desire to be together, that he approaches me at the end of the Alchemy lesson, when practically all the students have left for other classes, standing behind the desk. A voice behind him interrupts his courtship: «Professor Doyle?»

Aesop rolls his eyes to the ceiling and changes his path, focusing on tidying up the workstations, while Alisteir Rookwood looms in my view. Lately, though always arrogant and reluctant to obey my authority, he hasn't caused much trouble.

«Yes, Mr. Rookwood?»

«I wanted to know if you could authorize me to borrow this book to deepen my studies and expand my knowledge,» he says. He steps closer to me and continues, «From the Restricted Section.»

It's not an unusual request, and I usually try to accommodate the students, yet for some reason, his tone seems to conceal something different; a shadow of worry and anxiety creeps under my skin. «Let me have a look,» I allow, though staying alert. The expression on his face is disturbingly proud as he hands me the parchment on which the request for the book he desires is handwritten. «‘Secrets of the Darkest Arts?’» I exclaim incredulously, as if I had been slapped in the face.

Alisteir keeps his gaze high and his expression smug as he says, in a conciliatory and accommodating tone that clashes with his personality: «Yes, Professor.»

I shake my head: «I'm sorry, Mr. Rookwood. I can't sign the permission.»

I hand the paper back to him, but he looks at it without showing any intention of taking it. «And why not?» he asks, as if I had told him he couldn't swim in the lake in the summer.

«Because I don't think it's a book you should be reading,» I reply, handing the piece of parchment back to him, the only thing dividing us. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Aesop watching us, his body immobile but reactive, as if ready to intervene at any moment.

«If I remember correctly, Professor, you told me to channel, what? Ah yes, my anger into studying.»

«Not in this way.»

«And why not?» he presses.

«Because you should stay as far away from dark magic as possible!»

A disturbing smile spreads across his face: «Do you have any prejudices, Professor? You of all people?» He speaks with refined disdain, but he has hit the mark: mine is also a prejudice.

I try to compose myself: «No prejudices, Mr. Rookwood. I wouldn't have signed the permission for anyone.»

«Not even for Dumbledore?» he provokes with conceit.

I look at him harshly: «No, Mr. Rookwood. Not even for Mr. Dumbledore. And now, please, take back the parchment.»

However, he does not move. We stare into each other's eyes for endless seconds. Behind Alisteir, Aesop takes a step toward me. The temptation to meet his gaze is strong, but I don't want to show signs of wavering; I don't want Rookwood to think I need Aesop to handle him every time he confronts me.

«It's curious,» he says at some point, breaking the silence.

«What is curious?» I ask.

«That the ban comes from you. ‘Study to be better, expand your knowledge, channel your frustration into studying.’» He sighs and lowers his gaze as if weighing his words. But then he looks back up at me and says, «I should have guessed they were just empty words and that you didn't really believe them. After all, why should you care about the education of a young wizard when you write trashy books pretending to teach magic to Muggle women?»

«That's enough, Mr. Rookwood,» I order

He does not obey and with a harsher voice says: «You think I'm a lost cause too, don't you? That I'm like the one you're all afraid of but have never met. It didn't take you long to judge my father and it took you even less to judge me, right?»

«Mr. Rookwood, I do not accept this language and these insinuations in my classroom.»

«I don't care what you don't accept.»

«Alisteir, enough!»

Aesop's voice interrupts the boy's fury, and he slowly turns to look at him. If possible, the curve that deforms his face into a smile becomes even more cruel. «Oh, I forgot that Professor Sharp always defends you,» he says, then turns back to me. «I wonder what you'll do when you can't call for reinforcements.»

Without stopping to stare at me, he takes back the parchment, now crumpled from my hands, and puts it in his pocket. «I wouldn't wait until the next lesson to see each other again. Come to think of it, I think it's plausible that we'll meet again very soon to discuss what happened today. And who knows, maybe Headmaster Black will make you see reason.»

I swallow: «Is that a threat?»

«No. It's a prediction of how things will go.» With his hands stuffed in his pockets, he finally turns his back and heads for the door. At the threshold, he turns one last time towards me and says in a honeyed voice: «Because things always go the way I want them to».

When he disappears from my sight, I realize I have remained in a completely rigid position the whole time, so much so that my tendons and neck muscles now hurt. Aesop approaches me: «Are you okay?» I nod unconvincingly, and he takes me in his arms. «I should have intervened sooner,» he says.

I lift my head towards him so that my eyes meet his: «To give him another reason to mock me?» My tone is just a bit sharper than I actually wanted.

«Do you care what he thinks?» he asks kindly.

I sigh: «Yes, Aesop.» I wriggle out of his arms just enough to make him loosen his grip. «I care about what all my students think, without exception.»

He looks at me as if he holds a truth unknown to me. Maybe because the encounter with Rookwood shook me, but I interpret his attitude as paternalistic and condescending, and I can't hide it: «What?» I ask, impatient.

If he's annoyed, he doesn't show it. «I think some causes are lost, and it's not up to you to fight them.»

«Alisteir is a teenager, not a lost cause.» My voice cracks slightly as I say it. I don't want to admit that I'm losing hope and that the way he treats me hurts.

Aesop insists: «Cass, I've known him for years. He has never changed, if anything, he's gotten worse. You have to accept that there are things you can't fight for, things that are completely futile.»

His words are like a slap in the face: «Futile to fight? You of all people say such a thing?»

I wriggle again, but Aesop holds my wrists tightly: «Precisely because I know people like him, I know when it's worth fighting and when it's entirely futile. Don't embark on this war, Cass.»

«Why? Why should I let a boy so young ruin himself and not free himself from the weight of his own name? Do you think I can't handle it alone?» I'm acidic when I say it, but I can't stand seeing the potential of a frustrated and saddened boy wasted, a situation he didn't choose. Maybe because his anger reminds me so much of my own when I was his age. But more importantly, I can't stand seeing Aesop give up like this, not fighting to pull Alisteir out of the black hole of perdition he's sinking into.

He lets go of my hands, looking resigned, as if reluctantly accepting my decision, expecting that I'll stumble and fall along the way. «Because I care about you, and I don't want the situation to get worse.» I’m about to reply, but Aesop speaks first, as if understanding the origin of my suicidal mission: «Or that it ends up involving you too much.»

My body, tense as a violin string until then, relaxes. I try to resist it, as if it costs me to admit that Aesop, once again, is right. His concern touches the strings of my heart, making me even more vulnerable and defenseless in the face of a big and complicated situation, difficult to tackle.

«Sorry,» I murmur. «It's just that the more I look at him, the more I can't understand how he could end up on the wrong path.» I look beyond the door, as if I could see Alisteir's figure through the walls, and sigh: «And the fact that he confronted me with my own prejudices hit me. Especially since I've experienced them myself and know what it feels like...»

«He doesn't have that kind of regard for you,» Aesop says, placing a hand on my shoulder.

«That doesn't mean he should be treated the way he treats me. Especially considering how he might have been treated in the past... and how he will be treated in the future.»

«Cass, you think like this because you're better than all of us put together in this school,» Aesop responds, trying to ease the tension a bit.

I give a sad smile and shake my head. «If even we teachers lose hope in him, what does he have left?»

Aesop pulls me back into his warm, strong arms, capable of comforting me in a situation that undoubtedly puts me in difficulty. I don't want to give up on my mission to make Alisteir Rookwood a better person, I don't want to stop seeing the good in him; but I know that refusing to sign his permit has put me in a complicated situation that won't be easily resolved.

I lift my head. «He'll talk to Black about it, won't he?» I ask, already knowing the answer.

Reluctantly, as if preferring to lie rather than hurt me, Aesop nods. «But I can help you if you want. Intervene in some way. He'll probably try to manipulate reality to his liking, but I was there and know what really happened; I could support your position.»

As tempting as his offer is, I shake my head. I don't want to appear weak or always in need of his presence in every aspect of my life. As much as I appreciate his help, this situation doesn't concern him, and it's time I face it alone, demonstrating and asserting my value and independence. «No, Aesop,» I say, «I appreciate your help, but this is something between me and Alisteir.»

He nods tightly, as if reluctantly accepting my decision. «Alright. But don't hesitate to call me if you need me. I only want your well-being, Cass; nothing else.»

That evening, before entering the Great Hall for dinner, Scroope pulls me aside, tugging at the hem of my skirt to get my attention: «Professor Doyle, the Headmaster orders me to inform you that he expects you in his office tomorrow afternoon, after Alchemy class.»

I barely touch my food, too worried about what he has in store for me, even though I expected such a reaction. Probably, it's because I still can't fathom how everything is forgiven for Rookwood, while my work as a teacher is hindered.

The next day, during class, the boy looks at me with a calm air of triumph, as if he already knows what's awaiting me and enjoys it. I struggle to concentrate and Aesop often steps in for me.

«I'm coming with you,» he says at the end when the class is empty.

«I have to do this alone,» I refuse, with little conviction.

«Cass, you're trembling with nervousness. I'm worried about you.»

«You don't need to worry, Aesop. At worst, he'll side with Alisteir, right? What could go wrong?»

He gives me an eloquent look: we both know that in the best-case scenario, Black might dismiss me, and that every act of rebellion from Rookwood provides him with a good reason to do so; in the worst-case scenario, both would do everything to make my life impossible.

However, Aesop sees something in my anxious expression, and it's that something that allows him to let me handle it my way. Determination, perhaps. Or simply the desire not to give in. «Alright,» he finally concedes, «But whatever happens, don't hesitate to come to me.»

And how much I wish, deep in my heart, that he would come too; that I wouldn't be the one to abandon my mind to Black's manipulative art and prejudice. But I can't afford to have him defend me again, to use his male voice to support a woman, as if for that reason alone I would be worth less.

We part ways in front of the Potions Classroom, and from there I continue the climb to the Headmaster's Office alone. Time and the path seem to stretch out and the floor feels soft under my unsteady knees. Around me, voices and sounds echo muffled, as if I were hearing them underwater. When I reach the gargoyle, I pronounce the words »Toujours pur» with a trembling voice, which allow me to stand before the massive entrance door of the office.

My heart is pounding and my hands are sweating. I feel small in the face of the imminent unknown. But deep down, a faint warmth, a feeble flame of determination and belief in my ideals keeps me standing and pushes me to raise my hand and knock on the door, which is opened by the only friendly face around.

«Hello Scroope,» I say, with a sincere smile.

«Professor Doyle, Master Headmaster Black is ready to see you,» the elf replies, opening the door wider and allowing me to enter the circular room. Black is seated behind his desk; in front of him is Alisteir and beside him is a woman dressed in certainly expensive clothes, and probably elegant if taken individually, but together they flaunt a vulgar luxury. An expression of boredom is painted on her face, framed by light blonde hair, as if being here cost her time and effort that she would have gladly spent elsewhere. The same expression constantly adopted by Rookwood.

«Ah, Professor,» Black greets me, stretching the word as if it costs him a lot to admit my role. «May I introduce Mrs. Julia Rookwood,» he says, gesturing to Alisteir's mother.

I offer my hand, which she looks at without shaking, then she fixes her eyes on me again, and then looks away, saying briskly: «Let's make this quick, Headmaster.»

«Of course, Mrs. Rookwood. You see, as you already know from our correspondence and clearly from the letter I sent you just last night, Alisteir and Professor Doyle have had quite a few disagreements from September until now.» Black's voice is caressing, almost like a cat's tongue licking its fur. At that moment, I realize no one has arranged a chair for me to sit on.

«Headmaster,» says the woman, «We both know about Alisteir's problems. But in seven years you have never deemed it necessary to call me.» I can sense the disdain in her voice.

Black sighs: «This time it seemed appropriate to make an exception. I believe that if we don't recover the situation in time, it may get out of hand.» He fixes his eyes on me, as if I were the cause of it all.

Silence falls around us, and I understand that they want me to speak. «Forgive me,» I begin, «Let me get comfortable first.» I summon a chair next to Alisteir and sit down. He barely moves his chair away, as if disgusted. He probably is. A shiver runs venomously under my skin.

With my heart threatening to burst out of my chest, I begin my defensive plea, as if I were an innocent defendant in a trial where they are doing everything to condemn me: «Unfortunately, it is true that Mr. Rookwood and I have had differences, surely attributable to personality differences and approach to teaching, as well as to a fiery temper typical of adolescents.» I know well that no one, myself included, believes my words: the reality is different, and I am certain that Alisteir hates me for the same reasons Black has always despised me.

I continue: «However, I have always tried to encourage him and, as is my habit, be absolutely objective in my work; it is no coincidence that he is among the best in the class.»

Mrs. Rookwood coughs unnaturally, as if to stifle some remark. I press her: «Excuse me, Mrs. Rookwood?»

«I was just noting to myself that Alisteir is not the best in the class. You, if I’m not mistaken, prefer another student so much that you took him to Egypt, correct?» the woman provokes me, with an air of superiority, as if she were cornering me.

I try to disagree as cordially as possible: «Mr. Dumbledore—because I assume you are referring to him—has nothing to do with this situation. I do not play favorites; I am only objective in my evaluations.»

«'Journalist' and 'objective' is an oxymoron,» she replies acidly, her words a sudden dagger.

«My previous job has nothing to do with this one, but if you're interested, I conducted that one with extreme accuracy and objectivity as well,» I respond, hoping to hide the irritation in my voice.

Apparently, though, my statement provokes amusement among the attendees. They exchange complicit and amused glances, without even bothering or having the decency to hide it. «Allow me to disagree, Professor Doyle,» says Black. «We are all aware of the content of your book, which is as far from an accurate and objective approach as possible. Yet, I was magnanimous enough to overlook it and hire you. But I cannot ignore the ongoing clashes with Mr. Rookwood here present.» He looks at me intensely, as if putting me before an inevitable decision: «Now, if you would be so kind as to focus on why I deemed it necessary to call you, I am sure we can clarify the situation and resolve it as soon as possible.»

They are all waiting for me to explain why I refused to sign Alisteir's permission slip, so they can accuse me of being prejudiced against him. They have cornered me, deliberately trapping me to do with me as they wish. I know their goal, what they want to achieve today. And they may even get it, but I will not give in without making my voice heard.

I take a deep breath, as if preparing to dive underwater, and speak: «I assume to discuss my refusal to sign Mr. Rookwood's permission slip. Permission I did not deem appropriate to sign as it would have allowed him to borrow a book I consider very dangerous from the Restricted Section.»

«And, pardon the pun, you would like to restrict our students' knowledge?»

«Especially when you told me to expand it!» interjects Alisteir with a huff.

I ignore him: «I have spent enough time in the Library to know which books are truly useful to our students and which are not, and certainly 'Secrets of the Darkest Arts' does not fall among the former.»

«My son just wants to delve deeper into the subject!» snaps Mrs. Rookwood, to whom Black gives a conciliatory and accommodating look.

The Headmaster then turns to me: «You see, Professor Doyle, if the circumstances had been different, I would have turned a blind eye. However, I cannot ignore the fact that you and Mr. Rookwood have already had disagreements, and as Headmaster of Hogwarts, it is my duty to ensure the mental well-being of my students. If even one feels uncomfortable, it would certainly be a failure for all. And I regret to note that this is precisely one such occasion.»

I wonder if the psychological well-being of students mattered to him when I was studying at Hogwarts and he himself looked down on me for being Muggle-born. «No other student has ever complained about me or my teaching methods,» I say, trying to defend myself but feeling breathless.

«No other student has ever been treated the way you treat Mr. Rookwood,» Black replies almost laughing, as if stating the obvious. He joins his fingertips, adopting a pensive air: «Now, in light of all the incidents that have occurred, turning a blind eye would be a great oversight on my part. I regret to note that you have prejudices against a promising young man who only has the interest of wanting to learn more, but evidently, our hypocrisies come out when we least expect it.»

His words generate a rage in me that boils like lava in my blood, a nervousness and a sense of injustice that makes me want to scream. I feel my eyes starting to sting, ready to fill with tears in the face of the injustice I am about to experience and in front of which I am powerless.

«But, before I make my final decision, I still want to give you the opportunity to explain to us why you decided to prohibit Mr. Rookwood from borrowing this... book of discord!» Black looks at me intensely, his blue irises piercing me like needles. «Honestly, and no offense, you teach Alchemy, and I don't think you know enough about the Dark Arts to decide what a student can and cannot read.»

«But I do.»

Just as I try to formulate a decent and sensible argument to justify how I conduct my work, a fifth voice, familiar, materializes behind us, from the entrance to Black's office.

«Professor Sharp! How dare you enter without authorization? Can't you see I'm busy?» Black shouts, standing up abruptly from his desk.

«Oh yes, Headmaster, I can see that. Busy with what looks like a trial of the Inquisition,» Aesop replies with serene calm, sharpening his sarcasm. «And of course, I entered without announcing myself or requesting an audience: I know full well you wouldn’t have let me in. Consider it a dramatic entrance.» I feel his scent and his presence behind me, standing, almost as if he were watching over the small cocoon in which I have curled up to defend myself.

«Make it quick, Professor Sharp: what do you want?» Black demands, his nostrils flaring.

«To support Professor Doyle's decision. I was present when Mr. Rookwood asked her to sign his permission slip, just as I was for the rest of the lessons—if you don’t recall, I also teach Alchemy. Not only have I personally witnessed the exceptional lessons given by Professor Doyle, a true professional who knows how to best advise students and, especially, win their favor; but I have also firsthand experienced the 'disagreements,' to use a euphemism, that she and Mr. Rookwood have had, and heard with my own ears the way the boy has repeatedly addressed not just a woman, who is moreover older than him, but a teacher. And why? Because he knows that no one, thanks to your benevolence, would take action.»

Hearing these words, the truth bluntly thrown in the Headmaster’s face, we all turn pale, each for a different reason. I feel the blood start circulating in my body again, and Aesop doesn’t seem to have had enough, because he adds: «Furthermore, I imagine you would agree with me in finding it certainly curious that Mr. Rookwood, who indeed doesn’t have much sympathy for Professor Doyle, chose to ask her for that permission slip. He could have turned to Professor Hecat, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, who would surely have understood his reasons for a keen interest in the book in question. Instead, he chose to ask the very teacher he has always clashed with, to whom he has often directed the worst insults. As if he knew what his gesture would trigger.»

Alisteir, next to me, stiffens, holding his breath, as if even a single movement could be put under scrutiny and analyzed under Aesop’s attentive and meticulous lens. Mrs. Rookwood looks at Black as if to urge him to say something, to steer the conversation back in the desired direction. But everyone here, especially the Headmaster, knows that Aesop holds the reins of the situation, and is steering the circumstances to his advantage.

«Moreover, I do not believe it necessary for a teacher’s reasoning regarding what is best for the students to be meticulously analyzed and evaluated. But, if Professor Doyle’s reasons are not sufficient, I imagine you will consider those of a former Auror when it comes to Dark Arts.»

Black lowers his eyes, unable to admit defeat. «Where are you going with this, Professor Sharp?» he asks, his voice dragging, struggling to leave his reluctant lips.

«Where are you going with this, Headmaster?» Aesop provokes him. «You set up this charade for what? To fire Professor Doyle? And the reason would be? Refusing to let a student borrow a book that Aurors study during their training?»

Aesop has cornered Black. With a resigned sigh, the Headmaster averts his gaze and focuses on Rookwood's mother: «I apologize for wasting your time, Mrs. Rookwood.»

«And so? You’re not going to do anything, Headmaster?!» she asks, astonished.

«My hands are tied,» he mutters through gritted teeth, glaring at Aesop.

Mrs. Rookwood stands up angrily and leaves, followed by a furious Alisteir. Aesop touches my shoulder lightly with his fingers, motioning for me to follow him out of the Headmaster's office.

As soon as I cross the threshold and find myself in friendly territory, a cascade of conflicting emotions hits me: on one hand, I am extremely relieved at how things turned out and grateful to Aesop; on the other, I cannot deny feeling annoyed for not being able to defend myself, to assert my reasons, without the help of a man who took my side and spoke on my behalf.

As if he knows what I am thinking, Aesop leans in and whispers to me: «We can't talk about this here. Let's go to my office.»

At the end of the long descent into the dungeons, we enter the Potions Classroom, and with a hand on the small of my back, Aesop gently nudges me towards his office. He follows closely behind and shuts the door behind us, looking at me in a peculiar way, as if expecting me to have something to say.

«Yes?» he prompts, the right corner of his mouth barely lifted, while he heads toward a cabinet, from which he pulls out a bottle of liquor. He gestures to ask if I want some, but I decline with a wave of my hand.

«Aesop,» I begin, «why did you do it?» And then, feeling it would be rude not to, I add, «Not that I’m not grateful, but… why?»

«Because you would have left there with your spirit broken, metaphorically, and with your bags packed, literally.» His bluntness hits harder than usual today. Probably because I know what he says is true.

«Were you lurking outside?» I ask, as if that were the gravest part of the whole situation.

He shrugs, taking a gulp: «I couldn't let them treat you the way I knew they would. Actually, the way they were already treating you.»

I look out the window, not really seeing anything in particular: «I needed to defend myself,» I say simply.

«You wouldn't have been able to.» He says it with an exasperating naturalness, as if discussing the weather.

I snap: «And how do you know? If you never give me the chance to defend myself properly, without barging in like the hero saving the helpless damsel, how can you know that I can’t do it on my own?»

Aesop sighs, running a hand through his hair: «For fuck's sake, Cass, how can you put it like that? Haven’t you figured out yet that people like Black or Rookwood see you as no better than the women you write about in your book?»

The world stops for a moment, just long enough for his last words to take concrete shape in my mind. My book? The Earth starts spinning again, a bit more violently than usual, as I ask, my attitude radically shifting: «Aesop… you read my book?»

He takes a few steps toward me, and it doesn't take much for him to close the distance between us in this tiny office. Only when he lowers his voice, making it soft and gentle, do I realize how much I’ve missed his presence during the brief time I was with Black, and how little I’ve enjoyed his company today because I was consumed with anxiety.

«Yes,» he says simply, looking me in the eyes. At this moment, the fog around him lifts, allowing me to understand the reason behind his change of attitude towards me. He has gone from barely tolerating me to genuinely wanting to know me, becoming more accommodating, seeking the beauty within me to avoid making the same mistake as others. He didn’t want to be overwhelmed by superficiality but wanted to go deeper, beyond his own prejudices.

Finally, I hug him and manage to say, «Thank you.» I know he is aware that I am not only thanking him for standing up for me yet again, but especially for all the efforts he has made for me, even going against himself and his beliefs.

He kisses my hair, caressing the nape of my neck with his hand: «It was necessary for me to intercede for you. Unfortunately, they consider my opinion more valuable than yours simply because I’m a Pureblood. I didn’t do it for some kind of recognition or anything, but because I only want what’s best for you, always. Never forget that, Cassie.»

«I know, Aesop. It’s just that…» I sigh. «I’m not used to it.»

«Do you prefer me aloof and sarcastic?» he jokes, making me laugh.

«No! That’s not what I meant! I meant… I’m not used to the attention and displays of affection from those who should care about me.»

Aesop hugs me a little tighter: «Your father was an unfortunate chapter in your life, Cassie.»

«It’s not just him,» I say. Aesop’s chest, where I’ve rested my head, rises slowly, as if he’s taking a deep breath.

His low voice is serious but warm when he asks: «Do you want to talk about it?»

I nod: «I think you should know everything.»

He releases me from his embrace to turn his back on me, once again focusing his attention on the cabinet from before. He fills his glass and does the same with a second one, which he hands to me and which I don’t refuse this time.

I take a sip, leaning against the desk, and begin to speak, stripping myself of all my secrets: «I think I mentioned to you that I went to Italy to learn more about my origins, right?»

He nods but doesn’t look at me. He keeps his gaze fixed on the bottom of the glass. «You did,» he says in an overly neutral tone.

I frown but say nothing. I continue with my story: «I didn’t get any information about my mother. Italy isn’t a large country, but it is when you have absolutely no idea where to start. My wandering took me everywhere, but never towards my goal. Until one day, I arrived in Rome.»

Aesop looks at me, leaning against the doorframe. His eyebrows are raised, and there’s an indecipherable expression on his face, as if he wants me to continue but already expects what I’m about to say. The faint light coming through the window illuminates his face and creates a play of shadows that make him even more fascinating and mysterious, half-hidden by the darkness and the hair falling over his face.

I suppress the smile forming on my lips at the thought of his broad shoulders and strong arms hidden under the shirt that fits him like a glove, and continue, focusing on a story that is anything but happy: «I let myself be enchanted by the summer beauty of the city and let the wind caress my skin in the evenings on the banks of the Tiber River, while Castel Sant'Angelo and St. Peter's Basilica watched over me, silent and majestic. I was a girl walking alone, simply enjoying the summer in the moments when the search for my origins didn’t drain all my time and energy. Until one day, Thomas appeared on my path.»

Aesop can’t suppress a scoff as he stares at the flames burning in the fireplace. He’s starting to irritate me: «What’s wrong?» I ask him.

He takes a breath and looks back at me: «Nothing. You might have mentioned this Thomas already,» he says, not hiding the disdain in his voice.

I’m caught off guard: «When?»

«When we returned from London. In the evening, on the couch. But you were falling asleep, and maybe you don’t remember.»

I feel panic beginning to creep inside me, painfully slipping under my nails and making my hands sweat, then climbing up my arms and spreading throughout my body. I'm afraid I've said too much, already revealing what torments me, one of the main reasons for my problems. Aesop, however, interrupts my train of thought: «I'm sorry. I guess hearing you mention another man was an unwarranted blow to my pride because I realize I know absolutely nothing about this story.» He limps over to me and moves the chair in front of me so he can sit down. He is in a subordinate position compared to me, sitting while I tower over him. It’s his way of showing me he’s listening, despite the reactions this might cause him. He puts a hand on my knee and says, «Go on.»

I close my hand around his fingers, too small to actually wrap around them all, and continue: «Thomas was 23 years old and in Italy for the Grand Tour. He lived in London and was the son of a bourgeois family that had paid for his trip in the hope that his culture would grow and provide him with the right amount of independence to start his life alone once he returned to England, and with experiences to entertain friends and acquaintances with interesting anecdotes. In reality, what he got out of that trip was more fun and drunkenness than anything else. Anyway, after months of speaking broken Italian trying to make myself understood in a foreign country that looked at me with suspicion because I was alone, it was nice to speak English with someone who understood everything I said. He showed me corners of Rome I had never seen while I told him why I was there. He said it was a noble and admirable reason while we stayed awake all night. As you've probably guessed, I never found out anything about my mother and my origins, but Thomas and I returned to England together.»

My mouth is dry from talking, so I take another sip. «In Italy, I realized that the lives of women there were definitely worse than those in Victorian England. So, I thought I had to do something. I started working at The Daily Prophet, and my investigations were the link between our world and the Muggle world. I told Thomas that I was a foreign correspondent for an Italian newspaper, so he couldn’t ask to read my articles. I told him I was an orphan and lived with a small but sufficient inheritance. Our relationship continued and became more intense, but I still feared revealing who I really was because I was afraid he would react like my father and abandon me like he did. Until...»

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Remembering this detail still hurts because it brings back the weight of the illusion I felt at that time. «Until he asked me to marry him.» Aesop's expression is annoyed, but he continues to listen in silence. «I accepted, finally happy that someone loved me enough to want to spend the rest of their life with me. I felt welcomed, felt like I could look someone in the eye and imagine being at home, because home was wherever that person was. At that point, I dared to believe that his love had no limits, and that he would be able to love everything about me, even the fact that I was a witch.»

Aesop's gaze changes, becoming sadly understanding. I wouldn't need to tell him, because he's already figured it out, but I do anyway: «I was wrong. Thomas reacted exactly like my father. Maybe worse because at eighteen, I could better understand the revulsion and contempt he felt for me.» I look at my hand, entwined with Aesop's. «He called off the engagement and left me. For years, I thought I wasn't worthy of love, that no one would ever appreciate me for who I am. I isolated myself from the world, focusing only on my work, not leaving any room in my life for love. On one hand, I hated my nature, which had literally made me alone since I was little; on the other hand, I knew I had a gift, a privilege, and I wanted to use it for the benefit of others. That's why I decided my voice should be that of all those women who couldn’t even count on magic. Then...»

"Then you came along," I think, having come to terms with the reality that Aesop made me rediscover the beauty of love, the warmth of a hug to take refuge in, and the sweet taste of a kiss. I would love to tell him all these things, but I'm still afraid he might run away from me, as if I’m waking up from a beautiful dream.

«... Then Matilda asked me to teach Alchemy, and I finally understood that this was the place I’ve always belonged to,» I say instead, meeting his gaze again: he hasn’t stopped looking at me for a moment.

«I hope you’ve also realized that we’re not all like your father or that asshole Thomas,» he says, easing the tension of such a dramatic moment, suddenly removing all the weight I had accumulated on my shoulders.

A smile spreads on my lips: I can't help but notice that in his provocative sarcasm, there’s a desire to show me that he’s not like the others: he’s different, kind, and caring; reluctant to admit it in words, but always ready to act for me, to renew his presence by my side with his actions.

«Do you by any chance want me to loudly proclaim your praises?» I tease him back.

He rolls his eyes, opening his lips in that brazen smile I like so much, and pulls me to him, making me sit on his lap. My mind immediately goes to the possibility of hurting his leg with my weight, but his relaxed posture against the chair doesn’t show it. «It doesn’t surprise me that you’re so insolent now, you know?» he says, stroking my lips with his thumb, the other fingers along my neck.

A small shiver runs down my spine: «It's a defense mechanism,» I reply.

He nods, thoughtful, biting his lips while continuing to look at mine: «I get it, but you need to learn to hold your tongue.»

He raises his gaze to me; our eyes meet, and time stands still while I say: «There’s only one way to make me stay silent.»

Chapter 29: SHARP

Chapter Text

Finally, we focus on something other than Cassandra's past. I tried to disguise it, but just the thought of her about to get married filled me with annoyance and undeniable jealousy; when she added that she was then left high and dry just because she's a witch, a blind rage joined the mix of my emotions. The same rage that I'm putting into the kiss I'm giving her, while one hand grips her hair and the other tries to find its way through her overly high-necked dress.

I want to make her forget anyone who touched her before me, anyone who might have crossed paths with her, everyone who deceived her and didn't love her as she deserves. I can't understand how it's possible to say you love someone and then not accept the way they are, including everything that might be frightening but can't be changed. Something she, with me, has done from the very first moment.

Almost as if I want to reward her for this, and to silence the increasingly insistent beats of my heart with each day I spend by her side, with my right hand I messily pull up her heavy skirt, trying to make my way to her thighs.

«Wait», she says, though, stopping me by placing a hand on my chest. «Wasn't it agreed that I would stay silent?».

I stop, but only because I begin to understand where she's going with this, and my erection swelling in my pants is a clear demonstration of it. «If it means that much to you, I won't stop you», I tease her, speaking softly into her ear, watching with pleasure as goosebumps appear on the tender skin of her neck. I can't resist the temptation to lick it, and she throws her head back with a sigh.

Her hand slides down from my chest to grasp the hard bulge pulsing between my legs, and the contact makes me release a grunt as I lightly bite her tender skin.

«You're so hard and I haven't even done anything yet», she says in a low, velvety voice, starting to fiddle with my belt.

«Because you can't keep your hand on my cock all the time», I say, holding her hair to make sure she looks me in the eyes. «Otherwise, you'd know that this is the effect you have on me every time you're near».

I press my mouth against hers in a fierce kiss, as if we want to devour each other. Her fingers easily undo the belt, but now Cass takes an eternity to fully open my pants, pushing my excitement to new heights. Her fingertips trace my shaft slowly, in a pleasurable torture.

«Then I should really free it, don't you think?», she asks with feigned innocence. «It must hurt a lot...»

«Especially because someone here has decided to torture me».

Her eyes widen in a shockingly arousing, mock-surprised expression. «Really?», she asks, her voice thinning, lips forming a plump, pink "O." «Maybe you should punish this someone».

Her boldness surprises me, and the thought of having her completely under my control and dominance pumps even more blood into my cock, which twitches under her fingers.

She lowers her gaze, then looks back up, locking her eyes with mine and changing her expression. There's lust, passion, and desire; a desire to live this moment between us and leave everything else outside, forgetting the world we live in.

She slides off my lap, and at the same moment, I lift my hips slightly so I can lower my pants, allowing her to free me more easily.

She kneels between my legs, and finally, her fingers begin to work more confidently with the buttons of my pants, gradually easing the pressure on my erection, pulsing and eager for what's to come.

When she frees it, my cock stands hard and veiny in front of her, the tip reddened and glistening with the first drops of pre-cum. Cass looks at me, and without breaking eye contact, she sticks out her tongue and licks it, a jolt of pleasure shooting through my entire body.

I throw my head back, resting it on the back of the chair, feeling the warmth of her hands wrapping around my hard cock, eager to disappear deep into her throat.

She circles the tip with her tongue several times, runs it along the length of the shaft back and forth, and just when she brings me to the brink and I think I can't take it anymore, she opens her lips and takes me into her mouth.

I lower my head, and my eyes meet hers, which have been fixed on me the entire time. She bats her eyelashes languidly while she directs my cock as she pleases, pushing it against the inside of her cheek. The outlines distorting her face are arousing: she's mine, and so is the cock she's sucking so eagerly.

I place a hand on her face, caressing it with my thumb right there, and then I slide it down to the nape of her neck, grabbing her hair and setting the pace. She lets me lead, sucking eagerly and taking in more and more, until only her lips wrap around the last bit of skin.

I feel her throat tighten and loosen around my cock, her breathing becoming increasingly strained by the way I fill her. Her eyes turn red, soon brimming with tears that don't stop her from giving me pleasure.

«I love how you do it», I tell her at one point, holding her head still just as her lips caress the tip. «All the devotion you put into it, like you're worshipping it». I slowly pull it out of her mouth, never straying far, just enough to feast my eyes on the saliva-coated tip against her swollen, turgid lips, her cheeks flushed from the effort, and her eyes shadowed with lust. «Do you like sucking my cock like this? Do you like knowing you're the one making me feel good?», I ask, leaning slightly toward her.

She nods slowly, a lazy smile forming on her lips. «Yes. To death», she replies in a husky voice, making the situation even more exciting.

I stroke her lower lip with my thumb and then tighten my grip on her hair: she understands she needs to open her lips again and resume sucking, but this time I increase the pace.

I synchronize the movements of my hand on her nape with the thrusts of my hips, fucking her throat deeply. Despite the tears streaming down her cheeks, Cassandra doesn't stop for a moment: she keeps sucking eagerly, mixing the drops of my pleasure with the saliva dripping from her lips.

As if she weren't already straining enough, she goes further and decides to gather the saliva with her tongue, licking the skin of my balls, sending electric shocks through me as the pleasure spreads relentlessly.

She likes my reaction: she lowers my pants more so that my balls are exposed, swollen and waiting to be emptied, and in no time, she takes them in her hand, squeezing them each time she has my entire length in her mouth.

Soon, my breath becomes short and ragged; my body starts to be overtaken by increasingly frequent spasms as the intensity of her sucking grows stronger. Damn, I wanted to last longer, but Cass is just too skilled and arousing.

«I don't... I don't think I can hold on», I say, breathless. I feel like a pathetic fifteen-year-old experiencing his first sexual encounters, but her tongue around my cock performs a virtuosic, frantic dance, intoxicating and compelling; she enchants me, and I yield to her will, like standing before the splendid and formidable Circe.

Now Cass takes the initiative: she stops and, with excruciating slowness, proceeds to pull my cock out of her mouth, keeping it close to her lips... So close that, with eyes full of devilish amusement, she asks while her tongue flicks over the tip: «Do you want to cum in my mouth?».

Oh, fuck: «Yes», I affirm.

I don't have time to catch my breath before she, without another word, takes it back into her mouth, sucking at an increasingly frantic pace which, combined with the movement of my hand and hips, creates the perfect mixture for me to explode in her mouth in a powerful, hot orgasm.

My vision blurs, blinded by an intense light forcefully entering my field of view. I arch my back and hips, pushing every inch of my throbbing erection into her mouth to ensure not a drop of my cum is wasted, pouring copiously from the tip while Cass's lips move more slowly along my length.

The orgasm has heightened my sensitivity, and her tongue makes me shudder as it traverses every inch, touching every prominent vein. When it slides over the tip, a final drop of pleasure escapes, and with a kiss, her red, swollen lips leave my still-hard and pulsing cock.

Before she can swallow, I command: «Open your mouth». She obeys, and the sight of her tongue coated with my cum invigorates me, pumping even more blood and giving renewed strength to my erection, which shows no sign of waning. Good for me.

In her tear-filled eyes, there's anticipation for my next move. «Now be a good girl and swallow», I order again, and her total and submissive obedience fills me with a power I didn't know I had. She swallows and then sticks out her tongue to show me she's done exactly as I wished, letting my warm cum slide down her throat.

«Do you like my taste?», I ask, leaning closer to her and taking her chin between my fingers, lifting her face to look at me.

She nods: «I like it very much».

For a moment, my hair brushes against the skin of her face as I lean towards her; I look into her eyes, with a desire to explore every part of her, to trace every inch of her body again, and to embark on a new journey to discover her inner self, everything deep and invisible to the eye.

The next moment, Cass lifts herself slightly towards me, and our mouths meet. She surrenders against my lips as if they are the longed-for land after endless days adrift in the waves and storm; I embrace her, but in reality, it is I who find peace under her touch and immersed in her scent.

She takes my face in her hands and intensifies the kiss, to which I respond by intertwining my tongue with hers, touching her body imprisoned beneath the heavy clothes. The gray bodice is tightly buttoned, but it is snug and accentuates her curves. Knowing what lies beneath the wool, without being able to see it, excites me even more.

I pull my mouth away from hers, and in a hoarse whisper, I tell her against her ear, aware that it will make her shiver: «I like your taste too». My hands immediately move to her buttocks, grabbing them, and I stand up suddenly, so she has no choice but to comply to keep her balance.

When we are against the desk, I let go of her body and turn her around so that she faces away from me and her ass rubs against my still-hard erection.

«Hold on», I tell her, arching her back until her torso brushes against the rough, time-worn wood. Cass obeys, pliable to my will, and her hands rest on the edges of the surface.

With a swift motion, I lift her skirt: her white, round buttocks take shape before my eyes, my cock resting between them as if that had always been its place. I caress the smooth skin of her thighs, barely brushing the edge of her onde-high stockings, which lend her an almost forbidden sensuality, accentuating the youthful curves of her legs. My hands move up and inwards, reaching the white cotton panties, soaked with arousal and excitement that I can't wait to satisfy.

I crouch down, ignoring the strain on my leg, so that my face is exactly level with the source of her pleasure. I bring my mouth close to the cotton, my warm breath making her moan with pleasure as I tell her: «Spread your legs». My words are met with a moan of delight, followed by Cass's thighs parting. I start kissing her skin, moving inward, while my fingers play with the edges of her panties, lowering them more and more, prolonging the anticipation before she's satisfied as she desires.

Her excited sighs are melodious in my ears, and my mouth waters in anticipation of savoring her thoroughly and greedily. I finally grab the edges of her panties and yank them down in one swift motion, revealing her sweet, wet pussy, on which I immediately place my tongue, holding her hips tightly, knowing my grip will leave marks on her soft flesh. All the better: it's a way to mark my territory.

I lick deeply, running my tongue between her swollen folds and sucking on her clit. Every movement is accompanied by Cass's sighs and moans, the perfect music as I bury my face between her buttocks. I let her sweet juices drench me, delighting in how I make her moan, in her knuckles turning white as she grips the wooden surface of the desk harder.

One spasm, then another, and then more frequent: she's so close to coming, but I have no intention of letting my erection subside on its own. I suck her clit greedily one last time, feeling it swell between my lips and vibrate on my tongue. When Cass squeezes her thighs around my head, I abandon her arousal just long enough to stand up and position myself perfectly behind her.

She gasps in surprise when she no longer feels the warmth of my lips on her pussy, but the moment she feels my glans part her drenched excitement, her moans become cries of sudden, unexpected pleasure.

She arches her back, raising her hips higher towards me, offering the enticing sight of her perfect ass, and rests one side of her face on the wooden desk, closing her eyes. When she opens them again, they are clouded with eager desire: she loves my cock, and I intend to show her how much I love her pussy.

Her dripping arousal makes it easy to thrust into her in one swift motion, cutting off her breath before she lets out a long moan. When every inch of my cock is inside her, enveloped by her warm, tight pussy, I start pumping and pushing deeper and deeper. Cassandra writhes with each thrust, her voice growing increasingly high-pitched.

She murmurs my name, begging me not to stop. I wouldn't stop even if someone burst into the office and caught us in the act – something not entirely unlikely, judging by her moans that turn to whimpers and then to screams, the only evidence for anyone who can't see us that I am fucking her properly.

From this position, I have a privileged view: I can see the expressions of intense pleasure on Cass's face, and the way she bites her lip to keep from screaming only heightens my arousal. But I can also see my cock plunging and disappearing into her, buried between the tight, hot, and wet walls of her pussy, and coming out slick and wet with her juices.

My thrusts come one after the other, faster and faster, bringing Cassandra's desire to its peak without letting her release, because just when I feel her body preparing for orgasm, I stay inside her a few seconds longer, prolonging our mutual pleasure. I tighten my grip around her hips, matching them to my pelvic movements, and notice with satisfaction her skin bruising under my fingers. With my other hand, I move up her arched back to stop at the base of her neck.

As I encircle her neck with my fingers and tighten my grip, I inevitably lean over her, driving my cock even deeper. Judging by the high-pitched cry that escapes her lips, she likes it. Tightening my hold on her throat, I pull her closer to me. «You know I could keep going, right?», I say into her ear.

She opens her mouth to respond, but only moans come out, following the rhythm and intensity of my thrusts. Her cheeks flush from lack of oxygen, and her eyelids droop, an expression betraying all the pleasure she's feeling. In a faint voice, hoarse from the breathlessness, she answers: «Yes», and the rest of her sounds are only muffled cries. I know she's about to come, but I don't want her to. All I want is to freeze this moment between us forever, to live it infinitely, to find my home inside her body and peace in her eyes.

It's only when I sense that in her sighs and moans, extreme pleasure and exhausted pain have melded together, that I decide to grant her the long-awaited orgasm. I increase the pace, her muffled screams and the slaps of my hips against hers filling the room.

When I finally feel her legs trembling and buckling beneath me, I deliver the last few thrusts, harder and deeper, and at last, the ecstasy of orgasm paints her face. I loosen my grip around her throat, allowing her to breathe more easily (and to hear the sweet sound of her pleasure bursting forth), but not enough for her to move as she wishes.

My mouth is against her temple as I guide her body from the heights of pleasure towards a state of peace, moving more slowly to maintain my erection and prolong my own climax. When her spasms have subsided, I permit myself to come for the second time: my lips descend to hers so I can dance with her tongue for the duration of my release, withdrawing my cock from her hot, swollen pussy and placing it between her buttocks, hot semen spilling out and tracing the curves of her body.

We remain in this position for an indeterminate amount of time, uncomfortable yet perfect for us, with our sexes exposed and our faces transformed by the unique pleasure only we can give each other. When our breathing synchronizes and steadies, I pull away from her. Her lips are swollen, and her tired eyes wear the unmistakable look of someone who has just had sex.

She searches for my hand to intertwine her fingers with mine, and when she finds it, I whisper in a hoarse voice: «As much as I love your silence and what it entails... I can assure you that what I just heard is definitely my favorite sound».

Chapter 30: CASSANDRA

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The winter twilight seeps through the tall, ancient windows of the cozy sitting room, casting a soft glow that paints long, flickering shadows on the stone walls. I'm lying on the couch, wrapped in Aesop's shirt, the soft white cotton enveloping my bare skin. The sleeves are too long, but I like it that way; the reassuring scent of potions and rare herbs surrounds me, a sweet promise of warmth and intimacy.

I'm reading the book Aesop gave me the day he initially refused my proposal to go to Egypt: now, instead, it's practically only a month until our departure, scheduled for the first week of March. Perhaps because I've been thinking about it for some time, I can't concentrate on the reading, because my attention keeps wandering towards him: Aesop stands at the window, his intense gaze focused as he precisely and passionately draws a Patronus that, behind the window glass, runs through the air, born from the wand of some student playing and practicing what is perhaps the most fascinating spell of all. The ink glides over the parchment like clear water, tracing thin lines that come to life under his expert fingers. Each stroke is a piece of magic, a reflection of his strong and complex soul.

I watch his movements, the determination in his dark eyes, and realize I feel overwhelmed by a love so deep it almost takes my breath away. His presence fills the room with a calm and reassuring energy, a sense of belonging I had never known before him.

The winter outside seems so distant, a world apart from the warmth I feel inside me. The flames in the fireplace dance, casting a flickering light that reflects on the parchment and the determined features of Aesop's face. I lose myself in the sight of him, forgetting the book, forgetting everything except the man I love and the magic he is creating.

At one point, Aesop looks up from his work, and our eyes meet. He smiles at me, a smile that warms more than any fire, and in that moment my entire world shrinks to just the two of us, to our deep and unbreakable connection. The shirt I'm wearing, with his scent and warmth, is a tangible symbol of our bond, a reminder that I am as much his as he is mine.

I lower the book, letting it fall onto the couch beside me, and approach the window. Aesop greets me with a tender look and takes my hand, gently pulling me onto his lap. «Do you like it?» he asks, indicating the nearly complete drawing. The Patronus of a fox, an ethereal and luminous figure, seems to emit its own light, the drawing so realistic that it reflects the beauty and complexity of Aesop's soul. I'm overwhelmed by a wave of emotion, a mix of admiration and love that makes me tremble slightly and hold him tighter.

«It's beautiful», I whisper, as his hands envelop me in a warm embrace, secure and protective on my hips. We remain like this, watching the Patronus frolic in the sky, chased by a second one of a hound dog, wrapped in our bubble of warmth and intimacy, while the winter outside seems a distant and irrelevant memory.

«I've never asked you what yours is», I say at one point, continuing to look out the window.

His face rests with a sigh on my shoulder. «It's been a long time since I've summoned one», he says. «Honestly, I don't even know if I could still do it». 

I stiffen: despite feeling overflowing with love, there is always a small part of Aesop that he keeps hidden from me, that he does not yet intend to reveal. He seems comfortable in mystery, moving confidently among its shadows with familiarity, as if he had always waded through the dark and dense waters.

I can't help but think about the heavy meaning of his words, and I wonder if he is truly happy with me. Wouldn't even my presence be enough to bring him good thoughts? What does he feel when I'm by his side? How does he talk about me, think about me? I'm so close to asking him, to stop being in this limbo where we give ourselves to each other but without saying what we feel, without pushing each other to admit what we feel.

But I don't. I fall back into silence, preferring not to venture into territories I fear I am not ready to explore. «Mine is a cat», I say, shrugging and not meeting his gaze, casting a shadow over myself.

His laughter vibrates against the light fabric of the shirt: «I didn't expect anything different», he replies. He kisses my shoulder, then my arm. Finally, he says: «Mine is a wolf».

His statement makes me smile, albeit a bit sadly. I wonder if I will ever be able to see it. «That, too, is indeed just like you», I tell him, thinking about his days as an Auror that I didn't live through, where he moved with the pack, with a common goal. And then, almost outcast, he separated from the others, leading an extremely solitary existence, with his only company.

The fire crackles in the fireplace while Aesop continues to draw: the scratching sound of the quill and the burning wood provide the background to my thoughts as my gaze drifts far away, beyond the known and the visible. I think of Aesop, the person he was before he met me, the young man who worked as an Auror, the boy who studied at Hogwarts.

I turn towards him; the question comes out spontaneously, breaking the silence between us: «Why did you decide to teach Potions?».

He looks up at me, as if he didn't hear me well. Or as if he didn't expect the question. «Why did I decide to teach Potions?» he repeats. I nod, and I see him take a breath and look away, towards the fireplace. His eyes, usually so determined, now have an elusive light. «It's a fundamental subject, challenging and only masterable by those who are truly ambitious», he replies after a pause, but his voice is vague, as if he doesn't want to delve into the topic. A shadow passes in his gaze, a secret he doesn't want to reveal.

I bite my lip, unsure whether to press on. But there's something in him that makes me realize it's not the right time to push the conversation. Yet, a realization dawns in my mind. I see him every day walking with that limp, the pain he tries to hide behind sarcasm, competence, and professionalism. I understand that his passion for potions is not just academic, but deeply personal. He's searching for a cure for his injured leg, a battle he fights in silence.

«If you need help with anything, you know I'm here, right?». My voice is soft, a sincere offer of support. I want him to know that he's not alone, that I'm ready to stand by him in this struggle.

Aesop looks at me, and I see a spark of gratitude and pain in his eyes. A gentle but sad smile curls his lips. «I appreciate the offer, Cass, but I have to do it on my own». His voice is firm, but there's a sweetness in the way he speaks to me, a reassurance meant not to push me away but to protect me.

I don't insist, even though my heart wishes to do more to alleviate his pain. I understand, I understand his need for autonomy and privacy, even if I can't always share it. I wish he would open up to me, that he would feel free to show me even the most tender and vulnerable part of himself, to live fully instead of constantly worrying about not being enough.

I watch him draw, not missing a single movement of his; neither a blink nor the rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath. He must feel my gaze on him because, with an amused voice, he asks: «Do you intend to watch me all day?»

«Mhm», I murmur affirmatively in response.

His eyes then travel over me, slowly, until they meet mine. With one hand, he closes the painting case and lets it fall to the floor, looking at me intensely; his voice becomes soft and warm like velvet as, with the other hand, he unbuttons one of the buttons on the shirt I'm wearing, saying: «Then let yourself be watched too».

His warm fingers burn on my skin, igniting the fire inside me. I need him as much as I need to breathe, I need him to breathe into my mouth so I don't suffocate. My lips land on his, voracious and desperate, while our fingers intertwine in the act of unbuttoning the shirt and taking it off, as if we needed to free the heart beating desperately in my chest.

His hands explore my skin with a delicacy that contrasts with the urgency of our movements. Every touch, every caress, is a spark that ignites the fire inside me. My lungs burn for him, every breath a silent plea.

Aesop looks into my eyes, and for a moment time seems to stop. In his eyes, I see reflected all the desire, passion, and vulnerability that I feel. His lips, warm and soft, land on mine again, a kiss that is both sweet and ravenous.

He senses my desperation, my primal need for him, and he reciprocates. He removes his own shirt and adjusts me better on his lap. He grabs my bare buttocks roughly, positioning me on his lap so that our bodies fit together perfectly. I feel his arousal pressing against me, and a moan escapes my lips. My thighs rest on his, warm and trembling, while his hands touch every inch of my skin, leaving his scent, his imprint, making me irrevocably his.

His hands continue to explore my body, tracing fiery paths along my back, my hips, my legs, around my breasts. His kisses travel down my neck, nibbling gently on my skin, leaving trails of desire everywhere, his tongue glossing my erect nipples with saliva. A jolt runs through me when he takes them between his lips, sucking and nibbling on them.

My body responds to his with such intensity that I feel like I'm about to explode. Every fiber of my being is stretched towards him, every thought, every breath is focused on the man I love. Our hands never stop exploring, searching, joining in a silent language made of desperation and passion.

Aesop whispers my name, his voice hoarse with desire, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. «Cassie...»: he says it almost like a promise. He caresses my hair, moving it away from my face, imprinting his scent into every fiber of my being.

My hands glide over his chest, caressing the scattered scars, losing themselves along the tense lines of his trained muscles. My breasts press against his chest, my nipples brushing against him, arousing me even more as I push my body further into his.

Aesop lets out an excited grunt, and without ever leaving my lips, he hurriedly opens his pants. I lift my hips slightly so he can free his throbbing, powerful erection, which stands between our hot, hungry bodies.

He presses the tip against me, burning through the fabric of my panties, and I let out a desperate moan. «I want you inside me», I whisper. I'm begging him, but I don't care about seeming submissive: I need him, and I need him to know it.

Aesop slips a hand between my legs, not to enter me but to move aside the damp fabric. Nevertheless, my pussy opens like a flower under his touch, finally free from the cotton cage that imprisoned it. Drops of warm liquid ooze out like honey, and in that moment, Aesop thrusts into me with a force and precision that makes me lose all control. A cry of pleasure mixed with relief escapes my lips, and I arch my back, my body responding immediately to his. I feel him fill me completely, his warmth blending with mine in perfect union, and every fiber of my being stretches toward him.

His hands move along my hips, gripping me with a possessive strength that makes me feel all his desire to have me. Every thrust is deep and sure, and the rhythm he finds is devastating, a crescendo that quickly brings me closer and closer to the edge.

I move against him, rocking my hips back and forth as his hands tightly grip my buttocks, lifting and lowering me slightly, continuing to penetrate me relentlessly.

My clit rubs against his taut skin, and it doesn't take long before my liquid pleasure envelops us both. A spasm like an electric shock runs through my entire body, and Aesop holds me even tighter, preventing us from parting. It's as if we are merging into a single person, a single skin, a single body.

He chuckles against my mouth, his voice low and vibrating with excitement. «You're incredible», he says, and I feel the flattery in his words, the awareness of the power he has over me. As if reading my mind, he pulls back slightly, just enough to penetrate me even more deeply. His member thrusts into me with a force that fills me completely, annihilating every thought, every resistance.

All I feel is his body, his hands everywhere, his moist mouth that doesn't stop kissing me eagerly, his warmth that fills my heart first and foremost. Every movement is a wave of pleasure that overwhelms me and takes me higher and higher until I can no longer hold back the cry of ecstasy that bursts from my lips.

Aesop holds me even tighter, his body moving with a precision and passion that makes me feel more alive than ever before. Every thrust, every touch, every kiss feels like a declaration of love. My body responds to his with such intensity that for a moment, I truly believe we are one, two souls fused into a single being.

The pleasure builds within me, an unstoppable tide growing stronger and stronger, until I finally reach the peak. My body contracts around him, around his hard and throbbing cock that fills me perfectly and completely, touching the deepest strings of my heart.

Aesop feels my orgasm envelop him, and his grip on my hips tightens. With one final, powerful thrust, he reaches his climax and pulls out from my body, pressing his swollen and life-filled erection against my clit, which is then flooded with his pleasure.

The warmth of his seed spreads across my skin, a final physical bond that unites us in deep and intoxicating intimacy. I let go completely, my body still pulsing with pleasure as our breaths gradually become more regular. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the beats of his heart and feeling the warmth of his arms enveloping my pleasure-melted body.

Aesop looks at me with a tenderness that makes my heart tremble. «Cassie?», he murmurs, his hands gently brushing the sweat-soaked hair from my face. His eyes are full of emotion, and in that moment I know he is telling me everything without needing words.

«Yes?», I respond, my voice barely a whisper, still lost in the sensations that have overwhelmed us.

His hands trace paths along my back, and I cling to him tighter. «You know», he begins, his voice low and hoarse, «about earlier, when you asked why I decided to teach Potions...».

I look up at him, waiting, and see a determination in his eyes that tells me how important this is to him.

He looks deeply into my eyes, so intently that I am certain he can see my heart, which beats for him. «I can't hide it from you», he says. «You're not stupid, and I promised to repay your trust. So, I have to tell you, even though I know you've already guessed: I want to find a cure for my leg», he admits, his voice barely a whisper. «At first, I wanted it just for me. I was selfish and desperate. But I'm not alone in this world, and I know well the damage Dark Magic can cause. Now, I want to find a cure for everyone who suffers».

My heart aches for him, and a wave of tenderness envelops me, my eyes filling with tears of emotion. «You are the noblest person I know», I say, caressing his face. «And I'm here to help you, in any way I can. I want to do this».

Aesop smiles at me, a sad but grateful smile. He kisses my fingers close to his lips. «Thank you, Cassie», he responds, his voice betraying his emotion. «But you must stay out of this».

I want to insist and protest. «Do it for me, please», Aesop says then, and I understand how important it is for him to face this challenge on his own, how much it drives him to confront everything that has happened. I curl up more closely to him, and he holds me tighter, trying to convey all my love and support.

«I'll always be here, by your side», I promise, knowing how crucial the support of loved ones is. I want to be there for him as he is for me, and face everything together.

«I know. And that's enough for me», he says, kissing my forehead and almost cradling me with his strong, warm arms.

And as the sun begins to set beyond the mountains, painting the sky a vivid red that slowly turns into a deep blue, we hold each other, pausing time for a moment. What happens tomorrow is a problem for the future: now, I want to enjoy the present, in the arms of the man I love. I don't know how much longer I can hold back from telling him.

Notes:

Hey there! I have to apologize with you for not having updated "Lustful Alchemy" for about three weeks ❤️‍🩹 I've been thinking a lot about my career lately, and about what I'd like to do with my life (I guess it's why I have a year left until I turn 30 😂); plus, my family welcomed a new member (🐶) and I had to completely change my habits – and that's why this chapter is definitely shorter than the ones you're used to. But writing is my favorite thing ever, I feel alive only when stories I make in my mind come to life and I didn't want to give up on Cass and Aesop's love story (especially since Hogwarts Legacy 2 it's rumored!). I hope to update the story sooner, and knowing to still have your support represent the fuel I need to keep on!
Also, if you want to keep in touch deeper or simply know if I'm writing (💀) you can always check my IG: @clairevanmaan
I hope to see you soonnnnnn 🖤

Chapter 31: SHARP

Chapter Text

Valentine's Day at Hogwarts is always a special event, but this year the celebration is particularly elaborate. The Great Hall is decorated with garlands of pink and red hearts, while on the tables there are small wooden boxes, carved and painted pink, one for each student and professor, where admirers can leave love notes or messages of admiration. It seems like a somewhat childish tradition to me, but the students appear thrilled. Even Cassandra, who suppresses a more cheerful smile than she wants to show, seems to be enjoying herself.

The atmosphere is vibrant with excitement and anticipation. The garlands animate from time to time, forming enchanting designs that float in the air, while the wooden boxes, enchanted to keep their contents secret, gradually fill with messages and small gifts.

As the plates fill with breakfast dishes, we watch the bolder students attempt to approach others; the more timid ones, on the other hand, make sure to slip their notes into others’ boxes without being seen.

«Have you received any interesting messages yet?» Mirabel asks us, winking.

Cassandra blushes slightly. «It’s only seven in the morning!» she deflects.

«And you, Aesop?» Mirabel presses me.

I know what reaction I will provoke in Cass with what I’m about to say, but the fact that I care for her doesn’t stop me from teasing her a bit. «A couple,» I say vaguely, shrugging.

Cassandra waits for Mirabel to turn her attention elsewhere, then turns to me, trying to hide the irritation that flares at the tip of her nose, and hisses, «A couple? And from whom?»

«Students, I suppose.»

I know it will scandalize her, and the thought amuses me. But I also know that beneath her shocked curses and behind the lecture about me being «too bold with the girls,» there’s something else as well.

«Are you jealous?» I ask her, leaning in close and whispering into her ear as I casually reach for the sugar bowl.

She stifles a sigh that’s part annoyance and part excitement. «I’m not jealous!»

«Yes, you are,» I say, brushing her hair with my lips before pulling away and focusing on breakfast again, as if nothing happened.

Later, as we walk together through the dungeons, I move just a bit closer to her—enough to observe not only her reaction when the female students throw glances my way but also their reactions.

«Aesop, your admirers might figure out what we’re up to if you stand this close,» Cass says, though she can’t quite hide the electricity in her voice at the thought of «what we’re up to.» And who am I to resist, especially on a day like this?

I place my fingers lightly on the small of her back—just enough to immediately create intimacy between us. I gently nudge her into the Alchemy Classroom, whispering, «I think they already know; I’m sure your moans reach the Astronomy Tower.»

«I suppose that’s what happens when you fuck me so well,» she says in a velvety, sensual voice, catching me off guard and, damn, making me painfully hard. I figure teaching with an erection is the price to pay for testing her patience all morning.

As the lesson draws to a close, followed by the Potions class, Alice Haywood, as brilliant as she is bold, takes a shot at me. «Professor Sharp, today’s the perfect day for a love potion, don’t you think?» she says with a smirk. Apparently, she’s also incredibly determined to make an impression. I can’t help but smile in amusement, but I notice Cassandra’s nostrils flare slightly, clearly irritated.

«Miss Haywood, love potions are dangerous and there’s no excuse for experimenting with them, not even on Valentine’s Day,» I reply in a light-hearted tone.

Alice laughs, but there’s a glint of determination in her eyes. «Maybe a practical demonstration of their effects, then, Professor Sharp? It could be instructive.»

Cassandra, seated at the desk, clears her throat impatiently. «Love potions aren’t something to be taken lightly, Miss Haywood. We don’t want any accidents at Hogwarts.» Though she tries to maintain her professionalism, I can sense the hint of annoyance that Alice’s persistence causes her.

I step in to calm the situation: «Professor Doyle is right. The effects of love potions can be devastating if not handled with extreme care. A wizard’s responsibility is in knowing what to avoid, not just what to create.»

Alice seems ready to argue, but Cassandra’s expression and my firm tone convince her to back down. «Understood, Professor Sharp. Maybe another time,» she finally says with a smirk. When the bell rings, she rises from her chair, gathering her notes and chirping, «See you later.»

Cass rolls her eyes. «Have you fucked her and I don’t know about it?» she suddenly blurts out, crudely and out of nowhere, once there’s no one within earshot.

Her reaction amuses me: «And if I had?»

«If you had?! Aesop, she’s underage!»

«Relax, Cass: I’m joking. No, I’ve never fucked Alice Haywood or any other student,» I tell her. She relaxes her shoulders, though she still seems a bit irritated.

I quickly pack up my things and head for the door. Then, at the threshold, I decide to provoke her one last time: «At least, not when they were studying here. After graduation, maybe it happened.» Not only is it the truth, but it’s also the price she has to pay for getting me all worked up before the lesson and, therefore, for not letting me push it all the way in like I wanted to.

Her shocked expression is the last thing I see before disappearing from her sight, leaving her alone in the Alchemy Classroom. We meet again only at dinner, in the Great Hall, where everyone is busy rummaging through their little boxes, opened by a spell.

I lift the lid of mine, overflowing with notes from the female students, and I can’t help but smile, flattered despite the absurdity of the situation. I knew I was popular among the ladies, but this is definitely more explicit than I expected. Cassandra glances at it, and her expression darkens even more than it already had today. I feel a wave of amusement mixed with the pleasure of seeing that she really does care about me—little things like jealousy prove it.

Then Cass opens hers, and her annoyance transfers to me as I see the notes inside. Judging by her surprised expression, she probably didn’t expect it. I shake my head in disbelief—how is it possible that she doesn’t realize what an incredible woman she is, the influence she has on the people around her, her wonderful aura, and the smile that warms hearts and brightens days?

I realize that I’m describing exactly the effect she has on me, and I’m not yet ready to admit it to myself and accept it. So I prefer to focus on the negativity, on the irritating itch that seeing those notes in her box causes me, even though I recognize in it the familiar sensation I used to feel when Albus Dumbledore hovered around her.

I can’t resist invading her privacy and glance at the contents of the notes: I spot the boy’s handwriting—narrow and elongated; I recognize some from the students and even one from Abraham. I look closer and relax my shoulders, as everything I can see has nothing to do with attraction. They are all tokens of appreciation, ways to tell her how extraordinary she is, professional but, above all, human.

I dare to place a hand on the small of her back, making sure we’re not being watched. «Nothing that isn’t true,» I say, nodding toward the notes.

She turns to me quickly, and her mouth is just inches from mine. I feel a shiver run down my spine and the irresistible urge to close the distance between us.

«You were reading them?!» she asks, abruptly bringing me back to reality.

I shrug: «I had to make sure there weren’t any love declarations.»

«And if there were? I’m not your property.»

«Certain marks I leave on you suggest otherwise…» I whisper, making her blush and glancing at a faded bruise I left on her neck that she’s trying to hide with the collar of her dress.

«Then I want to read yours!» she retorts, irritated, changing the subject and reaching for my box to grab a letter.

I let her do it, amused. «Go ahead. But I can’t guarantee you’ll like what you read.»

Her furrowed eyebrows and suspicious expression can’t stop me from smiling in amusement, a smile that widens as shame and dismay spread across her face.

«Aesop! Who writes things like this to you?!» she exclaims, throwing the letter she’s holding as if it’s burning her.

«Judging by the handwriting, I’d say… Coraline Jamison, Gryffindor, fourth year,» I reply nonchalantly. As if there weren’t some decidedly audacious filth written on that scrap of parchment.

Cass goes pale: «Merlin’s beard! I wasn’t thinking about things like this at 14!»

«That’s because you didn’t have a teacher attractive enough to generate such thoughts, right?» I tease. «You said so yourself.»

She doesn’t budge an inch, though: «Aesop! She’s practically a child! And children should be thinking about… a different kind of wand!»

I laugh—a full laugh, the kind I haven’t felt resonating in my chest for many, too many years, and that have started shaking my sternum again since I met Cass.

And only now, foolishly, for the first time today, do I realize the urgent need to be alone with her, to carve out time just for us, to savor only the company of her eyes and the sound of her breath.

«Do you want to come upstairs?» I whisper in her ear.

She turns her head slightly toward me. «And miss dessert?» she asks, but she’s already pushing her chair back to make space to stand. Fortunately, the students are too engrossed to notice two professors sneaking off like teenagers.

The air between us is electric as we return to our quarters. We’re greeted by the warmth of the fire crackling wildly in the fireplace, casting a glow on Cassandra’s skin like a ruby.

I can’t wait to be with her, but I can’t resist the temptation to tease her just a bit more. After all, I have the entire night at my disposal.

«So, you aren’t jealous,» I say with a smirk as I approach her.

She looks up, her eyes blazing with irritation, making the fire in the fireplace seem like a mere candle flame in comparison. «No, Aesop. I’m just annoyed by your vanity.»

I move closer still, and she doesn’t pull away. I take her hand, smooth in mine, and our breaths mingle. «Come,» I say simply.

She raises an eyebrow questioningly, but before she can ask anything, I’m leading her toward the fireplace. I extinguish the flames and guide her up the stairs. Just before we reach the threshold of her room, I make sure she steps in first.

I relish the look of wonder on her face as I pull aside the purple velvet curtain that serves as a door. With the help of a few hardworking house-elves, I’ve managed to furnish Cassandra’s room with everything necessary for a little post-dinner candlelit dessert.

In the center of the room is a round table adorned with plates of the dessert served in the Great Hall (a chocolate and cherry cake) and a candle in the middle, while others float in the air, bathing the space in a soft, gentle… romantic light.

I’m not sure what I’m doing, and maybe I’ll regret it by tomorrow morning. But right now, it feels right. The fact that, perhaps for the first time since I’ve known her, Cass is speechless makes me think about how much I want to preserve this moment forever within these walls, silent witnesses to what I struggle to admit to myself.

«I hope you’re still in the mood for dessert,» I say, inviting her to sit.

«Aesop… Did you do all this for me?» she asks in disbelief, the sweet river of chocolate melting on her tongue.

«It’s nothing, Cassie, really.»

«Are you kidding? It’s special, Aesop. And…» She looks at me, as if she’s afraid to say out loud what she’s thinking.

I come to her rescue: «Romantic?»

She nods, lowering her gaze to the plate as she fiddles with the sponge cake with her fork, embarrassed by her own feelings.

My hand moves along the table’s surface until it meets hers; I intertwine my fingers with her slender, pale ones. «Do you still have reasons to be jealous?» I ask.

She can’t suppress a laugh. «You want me to admit it?» she asks.

«It’s pretty obvious.»

She sighs, exasperated: «Let’s just say that unwanted attention and the fact that you flirt with everyone are valid reasons to ignite my jealousy.»

I pause, my gaze wandering around the room. «And yet, I’m here with you.»

Still holding her hand, I stand and guide her movements, so she follows me. Once we’re facing each other, with my free hand, I caress her face, the rough back of my knuckles grazing against her soft, smooth skin. «And there are things I do only with you,» I whisper, my lips brushing against hers.

«Really only with me?»

«Really.»

«Like what?»

My hand glides down from her face along her neck, deftly unbuttoning the collar and bodice of her dress, creating enough space to slip beneath the fabric and cup one of her breasts. Cassandra closes her eyes and exhales softly, melting under my touch like snow in the sun.

«Like this,» I murmur, pulling her closer to me, certain that she can feel my erection through the layers of clothing between us.

She arches her neck slightly and asks, «And then?»

I release her hand only to let mine glide down her dress, brushing aside the fabric and revealing more and more of her skin. I kiss along her jawline as my hand slides over her neck and shoulders. «And then… this,» I whisper, watching her skin shiver as I lower her dress, which cascades down her curves like water, landing softly on the floor.

My hand rests on her waist as I pull her even closer against my body, tense and electric at the contact between us. My hand then moves down to her hips, and her back arches with a sharp sigh as my fingers tease her nipple.

I toy with the edge of her panties before slipping my fingers inside, finding what I was looking for, the center of her pleasure, already slick with warm nectar. «And this,» I say, looking into her eyes as I caress her, reveling in her ecstatic expression.

With a sigh and her eyes closed, her body leaning into mine, she still has the stubbornness to ask, «And then?»

I stifle a laugh, biting my lip. I finally close the gap between us, kissing her, letting my tongue explore her mouth, tasting her, and melding our saliva together.

I pull back just slightly, enough to say, «And then this.» My hand slides down to her thigh, lifting it to wrap around my hip.

«I’m hurting you…» She doesn’t ask; it’s a statement, knowing I’ll strain my leg.

«I don’t care. I can make it to the bed.» I remove my other hand from her panties and lift her other leg, so that Cass surrenders completely against my body and into my arms. 

Without breaking the kiss, I take a few steps toward the bed. I lower myself to my knees, gently laying Cassandra on the mattress. Her arms, wrapped tightly around my neck, loosen just enough for her hands to slide down my chest, beginning to unbutton my shirt. My hands, however, glide back down her smooth, soft skin, gripping the cotton of her panties.

I begin to pull them down, revealing the most beautiful part of her perfect body. Her panties slip lightly down her legs, which I spread open as I kneel at the foot of the bed, exposing her wet, swollen pussy to me.

I lick my lips and look up at Cassandra, who has propped herself up on her elbows, her long brown hair cascading over her breasts and face, looking as stunning as a painting. I kiss between her thighs, slowly making my way up toward her inner groin, feeling the warmth of her body drawing near.

«Tell me how I could seek pleasure from anyone else when I have you,» I say, kissing her on her labia and eliciting an excited sigh from her.

«I don’t know… Maybe because you’re an insatiable bastard who enjoys torturing women.»

I laugh against her skin, nibbling and sucking on her groin. «I am an insatiable bastard, it’s true,» I say, kissing her closer and closer to the center. «But only with you.»

I suck on her clit, and Cass releases a satisfied moan, the sound of someone desperately yearning for something and finally getting it.

Then, just to confirm her words, I stop and look at her. As expected, she panics. «Why did you stop?»

«Because I enjoy torturing you ,» I reply seductively, the corner of my mouth curling into a smile.

Cass props herself up more on her elbows. «Then I guess I’ll have to find someone who can satisfy me right away,» she teases, fully aware of the reaction she’ll provoke.

I can’t hold back, not even at the mere suggestion that she might be with another man, and I penetrate her with two fingers, starting to fuck her warm, wet pussy with them.

«You don’t need to find anyone,» I command as Cassandra writhes beneath me, her eyes rolling back in pleasure.

«And why not?» she asks between moans. She doesn’t stop provoking me, even as my fingers plunge into her, and it drives me even crazier with anger and arousal.

«Because you won’t find anyone who fucks you like I do.»

«Are you… jealous?» She looks into my eyes as she rides the wave of pleasure, locking her gaze on me and driving me wild with burning desire.

«Tell me how much I make you come,» I order, trying to avoid answering her question.

«Tell me… Oh, fuck… Tell me how jealous you are,» she counters, her words drawn out by pleasure. I know she won’t stop until she hears it from my own lips.

I lower myself onto her and steal a violent, rough kiss, pouring all the frustration of having to show myself so vulnerable, of having to admit my own feelings to myself. «To death, fuck,» I finally concede, my fingers getting even wetter.

Cass gives a satisfied smirk. «Then show me,» she says in a soft voice. «Take me, mark me. I’m yours.»

Her words awaken a primal need in me, a dormant beast that makes me more aroused than I’ve ever been before. I close my lips around one of her nipples, sucking greedily, aware that the sharp moans coming from Cassandra’s throat are a mix of pain and pleasure.

With my free hand, I unbuckle my belt and pants, easing the tightness around my erection. I go to pull my cock out, ready to penetrate her, but Cass stops me by placing a hand on my chest: «Undress,» she says, her tone halfway between a request and a command.

«Please,» she adds, her voice softening, almost pleading. «I want to look at you. I want to feel your skin on mine. You’re so beautiful, Aesop; I don’t want to miss a thing about you.»

Her hand on my chest caresses me and reaches the buttons of the shirt she hadn’t yet unbuttoned. She pulls the fabric out of my pants and slowly slides it down my arms. Her fingers touch my skin and stroke it: her light, loving touch makes everything else happen naturally.

I take off my shoes, pants, and underwear, standing naked in front of her, just as she wanted, with only my countless scars covering me. Her arms wrap around my neck, pulling me toward her. «Now it’s perfect,» she murmurs against my lips, kissing me tenderly.

I lose myself in her kiss and slow the rhythm of my fingers inside her. If just a few seconds ago I wanted to penetrate her roughly, consumed by furious and blind excitement, now it’s as if all the pieces of the puzzle have finally fallen into place. There’s no rush, and nothing else exists outside of us, and the immensity of this realization frightens me, but the serenity it brings overwhelms me like a wave I willingly surrender to, under which it is sweet to drown.

I move my erect penis toward her abdomen, letting it slide downward. Cassandra spreads her thighs wider, ready to welcome me. I withdraw my fingers just as the tip pushes inside her, filling her perfectly, and the warmth that envelops me is akin to returning home after so long, too long.

Slowly, I push all the way in, giving her time and space to adjust to the size of my cock, and when I’m sure she’s ready, I start to thrust, kissing every inch of available skin.

Her body responds to mine in a crescendo of desire, arching and trembling with each thrust, rubbing her skin against mine, fueling and feeding the fire within us that burns like a single flame.

Perhaps it’s because of this particular day of the year, but we make love with a passion that seems never-ending. I revel in being able to look into her eyes, to taste her, to fill my ears with her moans of pleasure, to touch her soft skin, and to lose myself in her scent. For the first time in so many years, I feel lucky. Whole.

«Come with me,» I tell her. «I want to finish together.»

«With pleasure.»

I intensify the thrusts, increasing her pleasure, while I press my chest harder against hers, so our breaths mingle and synchronize, becoming one.

When I feel the heat radiating from my lower abdomen and her moans growing louder, I slide my hand between her legs, teasing her swollen, incredibly responsive clit.

She moans loudly, and I quicken the pace of my thrusts, driving my cock into the depths of her body while the pressure on her clit increases.

Her nails dig into my back, sending a jolt of pleasure that soon leads me to where I want to go with her. I thrust harder, and just as her breath shortens, when she can do nothing but scream, I plunge one last time before pulling out and replacing my cock with my fingers, guiding her to the peak and then down the exhilarating descent of orgasm, while I spill my hot seed over her.

Forehead to forehead, our disheveled, sweaty hair tangled together, one breath shared, and our eyes reflecting each other; and in this precise moment, I realize that no training could ever prepare a wizard for a magic more powerful than this.

Chapter 32: CASSANDRA

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

We approach the platform, where the locomotive of the Hogwarts Express gleams in the pale gray light of dawn. I can't help but glance at Aesop from time to time, as if to reassure myself that he is really beside me, his calm and steady presence ready to accompany me and Albus, who walks between us, to Egypt. The Ministry of Magic has arranged every leg of the journey: a delegation will be waiting for us in London, at King's Cross, at Platform 9 and three quarters, to take us to the Ministry; from there, we'll go to Egypt via a Portkey set up right in the Minister's office.

«How do you feel, Albus?» I ask the boy as our luggage is being loaded onto the train.

«A bit nervous. But it's also exciting, in a way. I missed the smell of the platform. It takes me back, but at the same time, it pushes me forward,» he answers, smiling, his blue eyes observing everything with relentless curiosity and an unusual wisdom for his age, as if he sees and understands more than he lets on.

Behind us, Aesop takes long drags from his cigarette, his long brown coat flapping in the March wind that also tousles his hair. None of us says anything, but there's a silent awareness that everything that's happened since Christmas until now is thanks to Albus. Without him, Aesop and I would probably still be bickering and brooding with excitement. Aesop shows his gratitude with a bit more attentiveness than usual, but otherwise, he keeps it to himself.

In fact, when we enter the carriage that the Ministry has reserved for us, a slight awkwardness lingers in the air. Aesop lets me go first, giving me the choice of seat—by the window—and then does the same for Albus, who sits in the middle of the row of seats opposite me. Aesop is thus forced to sit in my row, in a seat not quite next to me but not too far either, facing the boy, who averts his gaze, pretending a vagueness that nonetheless fails to hide the smile creeping onto his lips.

«In good spirits, Mr. Dumbledore?» Aesop asks inquisitively. The three of us know perfectly well what's so amusing.

The boy straightens up and tries to look serious: «Indeed, Professor Sharp. This journey is a great honor for me. And I couldn't be more grateful to Professor Doyle for deeming me worthy.»

I blush: «The merit is all yours, Albus. If you hadn't shown courage and dedication, you wouldn't be here today. So, you're the only person you should be thanking.»

With the boy's lips curling into a smile, the train begins to move slowly as the light starts to peek over the mountains.

As the train travels peacefully along the track and Albus takes the opportunity to scribble among his assignments, I can feel the tension lingering between my body and Aesop's, forced close in a small space where it's impossible for us to touch. With his head bent over a book, out of the corner of my eye, I observe the sheets of parchment with Potions essays scribbled on them, scattered across the seats and his knees as a pretext for correcting them. But for at least fifteen minutes now, he's been stuck on the same page—an exaggeration for Aesop, given his vast knowledge of the subject.

And just when I've given up hope, Albus exclaims, «I need to stretch my legs a bit. If you'll excuse me,» he closes his Transfiguration book and gets up, taking his leave and disappearing down the narrow corridor.

In one swift motion, Aesop stretches his body and arm and closes the compartment door. «I almost thought it wouldn't happen,» he says, pulling me into a kiss I've been longing for for hours.

I surrender into his strong arms, losing myself along the edges of his mouth. He didn't shave this morning—I'm not sure if it's because he didn't actually have time or because he knows I like it when he's just slightly unshaven.

«What are your intentions?» I ask, more as a formality than out of actual ignorance.

He sighs against my skin. «Always the worst with you. But with your protégé around, I can't take advantage the way I'd like.»

I roll my eyes to the ceiling as his mouth trails down my jawline and then to the tender skin of my neck, scratching it with his stubble and biting with emphasis. 

«When will you stop, Aesop?»

«Let me have this one bit of fun, at least during these endless hours when I can't do what I'd like to you.» He slides a hand down my neck and then to my chest, closing his fingers around a breast, thumb and forefinger pinching the nipple. I let out a sharp gasp, which he silences with one last kiss, before pulling away, giving me just enough time to compose myself before Albus returns. He's casually munching on a Cauldron Cake, his left hand buried in his pocket and the look of someone with his head full of thoughts.

By the time we arrive in London, it's well past lunchtime, but there's no time to satisfy my loudly rumbling stomach. Ministry officials are already waiting for us on the platform. They greet Aesop with familiarity, introduce themselves to me and Albus with formal reverence, and escort us toward the nearest entrance to the Ministry, instructing porters to take care of our luggage.

«A public restroom?» I whisper to Aesop as we head down the stairs.

«And it's not even the worst entrance available,» he replies. Then he separates from me and the rest of the group, heading toward the men's toilets. I'm left alone.

«Aesop!» I call after him. «What am I supposed to do?» I ask when he turns to look at me.

«Same as everyone else,» he responds curtly.

I glance inside but only see composed women standing in line, waiting their turn.

«Couldn't you be a little more specific?»

It's stronger than him—a playful smile spreads across his lips before he can suppress it. Instead of offering any real help, he shrugs and simply says, «Pull the chain.» Then, he too disappears from my view.

Annoyed, I get in line and wait for my turn. The women who enter the restroom don't come back out, but their entry is followed by the sound of water flushing, a clear sign that Aesop didn't send me off track entirely.

However, this can only mean one thing...

I push open the little green wooden door, and it's just me and the porcelain toilet. There are no other possible exits in sight, so I do the only thing I can: I hike up the hem of my skirt and step into the toilet (thankfully, I chose to wear leather boots today). With water lapping at my soles, I grab the chain dangling in front of me, hold my breath, and pull.

I'm sucked into a whirlpool of green light, making the journey as frantic as it is short. It's like traveling with Floo Powder, except I find myself inside a fireplace, but instead of facing the cozy living room of a country house, there's a long, wide corridor of glossy black marble and many identical fireplaces from which busy-looking witches and wizards emerge.

With my head spinning from the less-than-comfortable trip, but pleased to find myself dry, I scan the area for Aesop.

«Professor Doyle!» Albus calls to me in a hushed voice, waving his hand in the air to catch my attention amidst the chaos. I approach him and find Aesop deep in conversation with the Ministry officials who escorted us.

«Did you travel well, Professor?» asks the youngest of them, an elegant man with raven-black hair and a beard.

«Perfectly,» I lie, as Aesop brushes my hand with his fingers. I feel something cold between his fingers and immediately realize what he's trying to pass me: the potion he made for me to prevent magical transportation from making me ill.

«It's less effective if you take it afterward, but I thought it best to save it for the Portkey trip,» he whispers as we pass by the large fountain depicting wizards and magical beings in perfect harmony, heading toward the elevators, whose golden grates gleam amid the marble darkness. During the brief walk, Aesop nods here and there to a considerable number of witches and wizards, and I can't help but wonder what it must be like for him to step into the Ministry each time and be reminded of his days as an Auror.

We squeeze into the elevator, which speeds toward the Minister's office. Faris Spavin welcomes us with what should be all due honors, but I can't miss how he highlights the fact that I published a book that's still causing quite a stir—and not in a positive way—in the wizarding world.

«Have you read it, Minister?» Aesop interjects.

«I've been so busy, Aesop, I haven't had the chance,» Spavin replies.

«As it happens, I have,» Aesop continues, «and since I no longer work for you, I assume I'm allowed to disagree with what you've just said: in Professor Doyle's book, there is no trace of magic. Or, at least, not the kind we understand.»

Spavin's gaze shifts between me and Aesop, becoming more inquisitive. «Professor Doyle possesses great anthropological and sociological knowledge, and having been a journalist, it surely wasn't difficult for her to find traces of what Muggles call folklore. The Muggle world itself is full of magic that its inhabitants don't even recognize as such,» Aesop continues, giving no indication of stopping. «But what I believe is the most important theme of the book is the invitation to seek one's own strength, the inner power that all women—Muggle or magical—possess, and the only way to do so is to believe in themselves and their potential and work on it, so it emerges without waiting for Prince Charming to come and save them on his white horse.»

Spavin turns pale, speechless and wide-eyed. «Or, if you prefer, on a broomstick,» Aesop adds. I have to give him a small, imperceptible nudge on the thigh to make him stop, although I appreciate his staunch defense of me. «But I think we've lingered long enough in conversation, delaying our departure! Minister, I'll leave it to you to do the honors,» he concludes.

Spavin is clearly thrown off by Aesop's flood of words, leaving him with no foothold to win the argument. He shakes his head as if clearing away some fog clouding his vision, then makes his way uncertainly to the center of the office.

«Well!» he begins loudly, so that everyone's attention turns to him. «I'm sure we've all warmly welcomed Professor Aesop Sharp, former Ministry Auror and now Hogwarts teacher, Professor Cassandra Doyle, and their young but promising protégé, Albus Dumbledore, who is the reason for the upcoming trip to Cairo, to attend the Alchemy Conference with what seems to be a truly extraordinary contribution.» He looks at Albus with pride and continues, «Make us proud, boy. Show them what Hogwarts students are made of!»

He claps his hands and then steps aside, revealing a shiny mahogany desk behind him, upon which sits a small, dusty statue of the goddess Bastet. «Now, Professors and student, please approach the Portkey.»

As we do as he says, he glances at his pocket watch and nods to himself. «I assume you all know how a Portkey works,» he states, and we nod in response. «Take your positions—it will activate in exactly... two minutes.»

Aesop taps my knuckles: the signal for me to drink the potion. Swiftly, he covers me with his body, pretending to be engrossed in something the Minister is saying, so I can drink it without attracting any questions or unwanted attention. Once the vial is empty, I slip it into my pocket and position myself next to Aesop.

A faint blue glow begins to emanate from the statuette, growing steadily brighter: the sign that the Portkey is ready to transport us. We move our hands toward its rough surface.

«On my count of three, grab the statuette!» Spavin orders loudly, keeping his eyes glued to his pocket watch.

«One... Two...» he counts, drawing out his voice to add weight to our imminent journey. «Three!»

Our hands press against the statuette, and a whirlwind of air forms around us, lifting our feet off the ground and pulling us into it. Instinctively, Aesop's free hand rests on my back, as if to ensure he doesn't lose me during the trip. The blue light envelops us, and the wind carries us away, swirling us around in the air, faster and faster, as if mimicking the eternal torment of Paolo and Francesca in Dante's Inferno.

Cold gusts of wind whip against my face and rush into my nostrils, making it impossible to breathe. I open my mouth, and at that moment, warm air teases the skin of my lips and tongue. Surprised by the sudden shift in temperature, I attempt to open my eyes, but tiny grains of dust sneak between my lashes, making me tear up. I squeeze my eyes shut and keep my mouth closed, but despite having taken the potion, the sensation becomes unbearable. I need to take a full breath.

«Let go of the statuette!» I hear Aesop shout, his voice seeming distant, carried away by the wind.

I do as he says, and a blast of warm air hurls me away. Aesop's hand is still firmly pressed against my back, now more solid, as if he's holding me tightly.

«I'll handle the landing,» his voice, both near and impossibly far, guides me through a heart-pounding, dizzying descent... until his hand smoothly adjusts my body upright, as if it were made of feathers.

My eyes remain closed, but I feel his legs move close to mine, walking, though we're still suspended in the air. The wind begins to die down, and finally, I dare to open my eyes.

Below us stretches an immense desert, its sand dunes gently cradling the horizon. Yet, a green patch grows larger, an oasis with pools of blue water shimmering, offering a breathtaking contrast to the golden sea of sand.

As we draw closer, I begin to grasp the true scale of this expanse, which could only be the result of the combined work of wizards and witches. Surrounding the unnaturally lush lawn for this arid climate, white tents of varying sizes rise up, and the sunlight reflecting off the fresh linen is so intense it hurts my eyes.

«Start walking,» Aesop suggests, his warm voice cutting through my thoughts and awe.

«Walking?» I ask, surprised.

«It will make the landing easier.»

I follow his advice and, once again, find that he's right. My feet touch the soft grass, and I walk upon it with ease, as if I'd been strolling there all along. Next to us, Albus also lands gracefully, with the poise of someone experienced. Aesop barely has time to withdraw his hand from my back when a tall, slender wizard approaches. His skin is a smooth, cinnamon hue, and he carries himself with elegance and pride. His head is perfectly shaved, and his large, dark eyes are deep and watchful. He wears a long robe adorned with intricate red and sky-blue geometric patterns. He looks like an Egyptian god.

«Welcome,» he greets us in a velvety voice, as refined as his appearance. He extends a long, slender hand, adorned with gold rings and bracelets that jingle softly. «Amon Ohsisi Heqanefer: Alchemist and organizer of the Cairo Conference. You must be the Hogwarts delegation.»

I open my mouth, about to ask how he knows, but he beats me to it with a knowing smile. «Your attire gives you away.» His smile softens his face, accentuated by the curve of his full, dark lips, and he offers me his hand. «You must be Professor Doyle.»

I shake his hand, trying to hide my amusement at his knowledge of fashion. «That's me, a pleasure to meet you. I'm glad I can thank you in person for involving us.»

«The credit belongs entirely to this young wizard.» He turns to Albus with a paternal, admiring gaze. «It is an honor to have you here with us, Albus. I eagerly await to see you in action.»

They shake hands, and then Heqanefer turns to Aesop. «I had almost given up hope of seeing you, Professor Sharp. But I'm glad you've come too.»

«I couldn't miss it.»

«No, indeed. After all, you're helping one of the most promising alchemy students in the magical world... and a teacher, as well as a witch, perhaps too often underestimated.»

I furrow my brow, but once again Heqanefer anticipates me. «We greatly appreciated your book, Professor Doyle. The day even its critics and Muggles come to appreciate it will be a grand day for women's emancipation.»

A small flame flickers in my heart, warming that cold part of me numbed by prejudice. «But now, if you'd like to follow me, it would be my pleasure to show you to your accommodations,» Heqanefer says, leading us through the lawn lined with fountains, streams, and blooming flower beds. 

As I walk behind the man, leading our small group with an ancient regal bearing worthy of a pharaoh, I observe the bustling life around us: wizards and witches of every ethnicity are mingling, chatting and debating animatedly, reuniting and embracing, entering and exiting the tents where they are staying. 

Albus is the first to take his leave, and a few tents later, Heqafener stops to show Aesop and me our accommodations.

«The tent to the left is for you, Professor Sharp; and the one to the right for you, Professor Doyle. Inside you'll find clothing more suited to the climate of these lands, should you prefer to change, and your luggage, which was previously delivered by your Ministry's staff. For any need, I imagine you know how to use your wands,» he jokes, flashing a smile that softens his seemingly impenetrable elegance.

«Don't worry about us, we're quite used to... peculiar situations,» Aesop adds, his voice gentle but laden with irony, as if the invitation to change into more appropriate clothes hid much more than just the Egyptian climate.

I blush and turn my head toward my tent, nearly rushing inside, while Heqafener gracefully takes his leave.

Once inside, I am dazzled by the incredible mastery of the Extension Charm and the exotic luxury of the furnishings: the fine fabrics of the tent sway gently in the breeze, while the ceiling, seemingly boundless, is decorated with twinkling stars, creating the illusion of a sky as changeable as the one in Hogwarts' Great Hall. In the center, a large bed, covered in embroidered pillows, stands proudly on an arabesque rug, while alabaster vases, sculpted with delicate hieratic figures, sit next to low ebony tables adorned with every useful item one could need.

I approach the trunk already placed at the foot of the bed and open it, revealing clothing not only appropriate for the Egyptian climate but seemingly tailored to fit me, reflecting both the practicality and elegance of the occasion we're here for. Since it is still broad daylight, I decide to wear a simple white tunic, loose and slightly draping off my shoulders, which I imagine will remain bare.

As I change, the silence inside the tent is almost surreal, as if every external sound is blocked, but I can still hear a faint whistling weaving through the light fabric of the tent. I let the dress slip over my body, loose and cool, and pull aside the flap of the tent next to my bed: to my great surprise, a small but lush garden with a solarium and pool stretches before me, its waters lapping at Aesop's bare feet. He stands shirtless under the scorching African sun, a cigarette between his lips, his gaze fixed on my tent, as if he had been waiting for me.

I remain still for a moment, struck by a beauty I am still not accustomed to. The sunlight carves the lines of Aesop's body, creating shadows that highlight his relaxed yet attentive posture. The smoke from his cigarette dissipates into the hot air, while his gaze locks onto mine.

«Not bad for a tent set up in the middle of the desert, right?» he says, his voice deep.

«I have to admit, the view is quite pleasant,» I reply, moving closer to him, letting the sun's rays caress my pale skin, unaccustomed as it is to exposure.

I see Aesop's gaze travel over my body, and as I get closer to him, his fingertips glide over my shoulder, then my collarbone, and come to rest gently on my sternum, near the line of my breasts where the neckline of my dress dips.

His touch is slow, almost hypnotic, and I feel a slight shiver run down my spine despite the desert's dry heat. His hand hovers over my sternum, as if he is gauging my reaction or savoring the moment of unexpected intimacy. Aesop slowly lowers his gaze to where his fingers brush my skin, then raises it again, meeting my eyes.

«You shouldn't stay under this sun too long, as pale as you are,» he says. «It might burn you.»

His voice is soft, almost protective, but I can sense a slight note of jealousy, likely due to the fact that my dress is far more revealing than what I usually wear in England, making me more susceptible to wandering eyes. I barely smile: «It seems there's something more dangerous than the sun in this tent,» I reply.

Aesop raises an eyebrow, amused but clearly affected by the fact that I've touched a point that still makes him vulnerable, even though he doesn't want to admit it. «You know,» he says, in a tone that borders on thoughtful, as if he's trying to be vague, «some things can't be avoided. The sun, sandstorms... and some other... attractions.»

His gaze falls again on my sternum, and his fingertips slip just a bit lower, where the dress opens slightly.

I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm and not let myself be swept away by the passion and emotions I feel standing so close to him. «And what do we do about these... inevitable attractions?» I ask, my voice lower, almost a whisper.

Aesop smiles, and this time there's something more direct in his expression, a decision made, a desire for control. «Sometimes, there's nothing to do but give in,» he says, his hand slipping away from my sternum, leaving me with only the sensation of his touch lingering on my skin. «But not now,» he continues, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

I must have let out an obvious and noisy sigh, because he laughs and pulls me closer, our skin touching—warm and inviting—while his scent and the smoke envelop me. «You know how much I'd love to take advantage of this solarium and pool, but we have duties to fulfill. You dragged me here, after all... so you'll have to deal with both the pros and cons of that choice.»

He's not wrong: after he also changes into more comfortable and suitable clothes for the place, we get swept into seemingly endless introductions and pleasantries. We attend the presentations of all the projects, ideas, and alchemical contributions from around the world.

I am fascinated by this explosion of cultures blossoming in unison in such a small place, compared to the vastness of the world out there. Our days are filled with new smells, tastes, and sounds, making us whirl in an endless dance of discovery; and no matter how exhausting the days may be, at night—unusually cool for the desert—Aesop and I close ourselves off from the world in my tent, releasing all our energy and fatigue between the sheets, where we surrender to sleep, wrapped in each other's arms.

The day before departure is the day of the awards ceremony, and the festive atmosphere that marked the past few days has now given way to a feverish, electric anticipation.

As the teacher accompanying one of the contestants, I've been given an outfit for the occasion that is far more elegant and luxurious, incomparable to the English clothes I'm used to: I wrap around my body a silk stole of matching colors with precious moon-colored inlays, fastened with heavy silver brooches set with emeralds. My shoulders are bare, the skin slightly sunburned from the intense sun, and my hair falls loose. For makeup, I've been given black kohl for my eyes and a very particular lipstick, activated by wetting a piece of terracotta.

I've just finished applying it when, in the reflection of the mirror, I see Aesop approaching me: his skin, unlike mine, is pleasantly bronzed by the sun, and the kohl around his eyes gives him an even more mysterious air. He slicks his long dark hair back with water, and his beard is slightly longer than usual.

«You look like Heathcliff,» I say with a smile, as he decides how many buttons of his kaftan, green like mine, to leave undone.

«Who?» he echoes, raising an eyebrow.

«Never read "Wuthering Heights"?»

«I have no idea what that is.»

I chuckle as I move closer to him, flexing my arms and wrapping them around his neck. «Just take it as a compliment,» I reply, while his hands tighten around my waist and his mouth lowers to my neck, then rises to my lips.

«Wait, Aesop: you'll get lipstick on you,» I stop him.

He looks at me, skeptical: «And when has that ever been a problem?» I laugh against his lips as he presses them to mine. «At least whoever looks at you will know to stick to that,» he continues.

This past week, he hasn't missed many opportunities to show me his jealousy, though never in a possessive or unhealthy way. I've realized that my body makes him uneasy, especially when others look at it with desire. However, it has helped me grow more confident in myself.

And, to be fair, I've often watched his body too, though for a different reason: I've noticed improvements in his gait—less of a limp than usual—and in his scar, which is less swollen and red. These improvements have led him, on several occasions—like tonight—to opt for walking barefoot, letting the soles of his feet touch the ever-soft, fresh grass of the space set up to host the Conference. He still won't let anyone, except me, see his wound, but I'm certain that this sudden improvement in his condition hasn't gone unnoticed by him.

In our free time, I've often found him bent over parchment or lost in his thoughts, deep in reflections that seemed to take him far away. He's never wanted to show me what's kept him so busy, despite my requests; and sometimes, when he thought I was asleep, I've heard him scribbling something in the quiet of the night.

I'm not naïve: after what he told me about why he teaches at Hogwarts, I've guessed that he's trying to figure out why his limp has suddenly improved since we've been here, and that he's working on a cure. However, the fact that he doesn't want to involve me makes me feel shut out from an important part of his life, as if I'm a perpetual guest in his heart.

Luckily, Heqanefer announces himself before I can become upset: «Honored Professors, the Award Ceremony is about to begin.»

Aesop nods. «We're coming,» he says, guiding me out of the tent, putting an end to any attempt at discussing a cure.

As soon as we reach the large central garden, I realize it has been greatly expanded to accommodate the vast crowd of wizards and witches who've come to Cairo for the Alchemy Conference. The large fountain has been Transfigured into a stage where, nonetheless, water displays continue, illuminated in beautiful moving figures by torches with flames that change color. The atmosphere is magnificent, and chills of anticipation run over my skin.

Aesop and I, as Albus's teachers, are seated behind him. I notice that he, too, has been given an outfit similar to ours, but in Gryffindor colors. And, upon closer inspection, many students are wearing garments in the typical African style but representing the colors of their respective schools.

«Pay attention, Dumbledore. And wipe that smile off your face: you haven't won yet,» Aesop orders sternly.

Albus, in fact, had already turned around enthusiastically to exchange a few pleasantries with us. His lively blue eyes are framed by a sea of freckles blooming on his sunburned skin.

The boy obeys and turns back, but the smile remains on his face, lit up by the flickering torches. Soon, every seat is taken, and the murmur of the crowd is interrupted by the arrival of Heqanefer on stage.

He advances with a solemn step, draped in a dark cloak adorned with golden symbols that sparkle under the flickering light of the torches. His gaze calmly sweeps over the crowd, pausing briefly on the gathered guests before fixing on Albus, seated in front of us.

The boy stiffens slightly under that attention, but his smile doesn't completely fade; in fact, it seems to shine even brighter, as if it's impossible for him to contain his natural enthusiasm. It's in that moment I realize how, despite the tension and seriousness of the occasion, his young soul is filled with wonder. I instinctively wonder how this spirit will shape him, what he will become one day.

Next to me, Aesop crosses his arms and shoots me a stern look, as if to remind me that now isn't the time to get carried away by emotions. «He still hasn't learned to keep his composure,» he mutters quietly, his tone dry but not without affection. Albus, indeed, can't help but glance back at us from time to time, as if seeking silent reassurance. I place my fingers on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze, then let my hand slip to Aesop's thigh, leaving it there, as if to silently tell him to relax and enjoy the evening.

Heqanefer, now at the center of the stage, raises a hand and begins to speak in a deep, calm, yet powerful voice that reaches every corner of the room. «Welcome, alchemists, students, and honored guests,» he begins, his tone imbued with that ancient wisdom typical of those who know the deepest secrets of magic and history. «Today, we gather not only to reward excellence but to acknowledge the journey each of you has taken: a journey of discovery, failure, and triumph.»

His words resonate in the air like a spell, and I notice Albus sitting up straighter, completely absorbed in the speech. Even Aesop seems to relax slightly, letting the solemn atmosphere take over his tension. The speech continues, weaving in references to great alchemists of the past and the mysteries of transmutation, speaking of sacrifice and dedication.

Then, Heqanefer steps aside, moving to the edge of the stage to make way for something... or someone. «And now, share in my excitement as we welcome a distinguished guest. Let's give a warm welcome to Nicolas Flamel!» the man says, his voice radiant.

A thunderous applause erupts as the elderly and frail alchemist steps onto the stage, revealing himself to us. I never imagined I'd live to see this moment, yet here I am, in front of the man who invented the Philosopher's Stone!

My excitement is shared: Albus can't resist and disobeys Aesop's order, turning to us with a beaming smile, clapping furiously, unable to contain his chaotic euphoria at standing before a man who revolutionized Alchemy and the magical world.

«Mr. Flamel will be an extraordinary judge for this evening: he will evaluate your ideas, your proposals, and your projects,» Heqanefer says, his stentorian yet always elegant and measured voice bringing us back to order and a reverent silence. He continues, «Now, when I call your name, I will ask you to come up on stage and present your contribution to Alchemy, along with a valid reason as to why it is innovative and deserving of honors. A jury»—he gestures toward a group of wizards and witches seated in the front row—«will give their verdict, and of course, Mr. Flamel's judgment will be added, with considerable weight.»

In silence, Heqanefer takes a few seconds to survey the audience, which hangs on his every word. He doesn't look at anyone in particular, yet it feels like he's looking at everyone. Finally, he raises his arms and claps twice: the flames in the torches flare brighter, glowing a luminous orange, as they accompany his next words: «Let the ceremony begin!»

The silence that follows Heqanefer's words, as he unfolds the scroll listing the participants, is almost surreal, charged with expectation. The mere thought that Nicolas Flamel, the man who created the Philosopher's Stone and defied the boundaries of life and death, is about to judge Albus's proposals, as well as those of the other alchemists, makes my heart race. Even though I'm seated, I feel as if I'm suspended, captivated by the enormity of this historic moment.

Albus, still visibly excited, adjusts his crimson and gold robe, trying to control his excitement, but Aesop's call for calm seems to have already worn off. His blue eyes sparkle with admiration and curiosity, both for Flamel and for the entire ceremony that is now in full swing.

Aesop leans forward slightly, maintaining an air of stern concentration. «Don't give in to emotion, Albus,» he murmurs, not raising his voice too much, like a warning, but with a tone that carries a certain fatherly confidence and encouragement, showing how much he truly values and believes in him.

Meanwhile, Nicolas Flamel gives a slight nod of gratitude to the crowd, which is still applauding him, his face marked by time but serene, almost distant, as if his very presence is cloaked in an aura of legend. When the ovation subsides, he positions himself next to Heqanefer and slightly bows his head, a gesture of discreet humility that contrasts with his immortal fame. Then his eyes, a crystalline grey, scan the audience with curiosity and calm, as if trying to capture the essence of each young alchemist present.

Heqanefer resumes speaking, beginning to call out names of alchemists from all over the world, who walk across the stage, presenting their ingenious contributions. My hands are sweating, and I shift uncomfortably in my chair, because although I believe in Albus and his abilities, I have to admit the competition is tough. Heqanefer then speaks again: «Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Accompanying him are his teachers, Professor Aesop Sharp and Professor Cassandra Doyle.»

The boy stands up quickly, his face a mix of surprise and tension. I see him take a deep breath, then he briefly turns toward us, just like the rest of the audience does. Aesop stares at him, giving a small nod, almost like a silent warning, while I smile encouragingly, though I blush slightly at feeling so many eyes on me. Albus gives a nervous smile and walks towards the stage with determined but somewhat hesitant steps.

Flamel watches him intently, following his every move with an inscrutable expression. When Albus reaches the center of the stage, the flames of the torches burning more brightly seem to surround him in a glow that highlights his slender figure, his long auburn hair, and his curious, deep eyes.

«Mr. Dumbledore,» says Heqanefer, with an encouraging nod, «we are ready to hear your contribution to alchemy.»

The silence that falls over the desert night is palpable, almost solemn. Albus clears his throat, his gaze shifting from Heqanefer to Flamel and then to the jury in the front row. Then, with unexpected confidence, he begins to speak: «I am honored to present my project, which explores the integration between transformative magic and alchemy through an innovative approach to the element of transmutation...»

His words flow with elegant fluidity, as if every concept had been carefully prepared, yet there is something alive and pulsating in his presentation. It's clear that he isn't just repeating pre-written ideas but that his project is the result of a genuine desire to discover, to push beyond known limits.

As I listen, with a certain pride, I can't help but notice Flamel's attention, who seems to be studying Albus with a mixture of interest and contemplation. When the boy concludes his presentation with an explanation of the potential impact his research could have on the future of alchemy, the audience falls into a reverent silence. I realize I've been holding my breath, while Aesop beside me maintains an upright, tense posture.

Flamel remains motionless for a moment, then, slowly, he speaks: «An interesting approach,» he says in a fragile yet wise voice. «I see in you, young Albus Dumbledore, a spark that few possess. I hope you nurture it well.»

The boy holds his breath, and I with him. Flamel gives him a conciliatory smile, and Heqanefer thanks him in turn, inviting him to return to his seat. At that moment, before stepping off the stage, Albus nods at the alchemist, as if in a gesture of thanks, and then returns to his chair.

The ceremony continues and nears its conclusion, bringing with it other extraordinary contributions. After the last participant, the jury steps away for a few moments to deliberate.

The tension visibly increases as the jury leaves the stage. The participants, who had been holding their breath up until that point, begin exchanging nervous glances and whispers, seeking comfort from one another. Albus, sitting in front of us, seems calmer now, but his blue eyes still betray a glimmer of expectation. Every now and then, I see him biting his lower lip, as if replaying every word of his presentation in his mind.

Aesop crosses his arms, his gaze fixed on the empty stage. «They were right to take their time,» he murmurs softly to me. «There were interesting proposals, but none like Dumbledore's.» There's a hint of pride in his voice, though he tries to hide it behind his usual inscrutable demeanor.

I nod but remain silent. Though Albus's project was extraordinary, the competition was fierce. Some of the other alchemists presented bold ideas, and Flamel's approval could weigh unpredictably. I keep my eyes on the stage, recalling the tense faces of the participants, their hopeful and determined expressions.

The sound of hurried footsteps approaching breaks the nervous silence. The jury returns, and all eyes in the audience are fixed on them. Flamel walks slowly, followed by the other members of the commission. Their faces are impassive, impossible to read. They reach the center of the stage, and Heqanefer positions himself beside Flamel, ready to announce the verdict.

«We have deliberated with great care,» Heqanefer begins, his voice calm but filled with solemnity. «Every contribution presented tonight was worthy of honor, and each of you has shown a commitment and mastery that makes your order or school proud.»

The words echo in the air, and I see Albus sit up a little straighter in his chair, his fists clenched on his knees. «However,» Heqanefer continues, «only one of you can receive the highest honor of the evening, the Gold Medal for Revolutionary Contribution to Alchemy.»

He pauses, letting the tension build. Then he turns slightly toward Nicolas Flamel, who raises his hand gracefully and begins to speak. «After careful reflection, we have decided that the contribution that most demonstrated an innovative vision, along with a deep respect for alchemical tradition, is that of...»

A palpable silence envelops the room. Albus holds his breath. Aesop doesn't move a muscle, his eyes fixed on the stage. I, too, find myself holding my breath, my heart racing so fast that I imagine it might tear through my chest and fly out.

«...Albus Dumbledore.»

Albus's name thunders through the hall, followed by a roar of applause. For a moment, it seems the young wizard can't believe what he's just heard—and honestly, for a second, I have trouble believing it too. He turns toward us, incredulous, with wide eyes and a smile that bursts onto his face. He stands up suddenly, almost staggering, and begins to walk toward the stage under the thunderous applause.

When he reaches Flamel and Heqanefer, Albus accepts the medal with trembling hands, the smile now permanently etched on his face. Flamel places a light hand on his shoulder and whispers something only Albus can hear. The boy nods, emotional, and turns to the audience, clutching the award in his hands.

Only then, as I'm awash in the realization that one of my students has won such an important award, do I become aware of the hands shaking mine, the pats on my back, and the voices filling my ears with endless compliments and congratulations, to which Aesop thankfully responds—I'm too emotional and overwhelmed to even reply to anyone.

When Albus comes down from the stage, his eyes meet ours. Aesop, at last, breaks through his hard shell and responds with a genuine smile of satisfaction, while I finally snap out of my daze, standing up and pulling him into a strong hug filled with respect, admiration, and gratitude.

«Professor!» exclaims Albus, towering over me as he easily surpasses my height. «I could never have done it without you!»

I pull back and look into his blue eyes, alive with emotion. «I couldn't have done it without you, Albus. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for your talent and the trust you gave me, allowing me to teach you everything I know.»

«And when are you going to compliment me?» Aesop's voice sneaks between us. However, his tone is different now, much like the one he uses when it's just the two of us. This time, he smiles and looks at Albus with admiration and pride.

«Well done, Albus. You're a remarkable student and young man, and although your teacher doesn't want me to say this, it's a real shame you're not in Slytherin,» he quips playfully. Then he intercepts a waiter carrying a gold tray with wine glasses, taking three and handing one to both me and Albus, raising his own slightly.

«To Albus Dumbledore,» he declares proudly, looking the boy in the eyes and, for the first time, showing his genuine pride in one of his students.

Notes:

Finally I've been able to update this work with the new chapter! I'm not gonna lie, these past two months have been quite tough for me, because I had to realize and metabolize some changes in my life; I'm not sure the work is done so please be patient if I'm not able to update "Lustful Alchemy" as fast as I'd like 🫶🏻 but thank you to everyone who, in these months, has saved this fanfiction in their reading list and to the old folks who patiently waited for me 🖤

Chapter 33: SHARP

Chapter Text

Her smile twirls in a whirlwind of emerald and silver fabrics as she moves from one person to another: wizards and witches eager to meet her, alchemists congratulating her on Albus's success, wise intellectuals engaging her in lively conversations. Her white teeth shine in the night, with a dazzling happiness like her enthusiastic gaze, darting through the crowd, searching for mine.

I stand on the sidelines, enjoying her evening: this is the moment for Cassie to receive all the praise she hasn't been able to enjoy until now. I am a spectator to her success, a role I realize I am comfortable in. Just seeing her happy is enough to make me happy too. 

I find myself smiling to myself at the thought, as the wine in my glass grows warm, and my eyes follow her mane of dark curls and her sun-kissed skin slipping between bodies as gracefully as a fish.

And in the moment her gaze meets mine and she approaches me, I feel the muscles in my face soften until her smile leaves room for nothing but her light.

«What are you doing here all alone?» she asks, coming closer than the norms would allow. Though, given the adjoining tents we've been assigned as lodgings, I doubt our intimate encounters are really that secret.

I shrug and take a sip of wine. «I'm enjoying your success,» I reply.

Her eyes sparkle, but she brushes it off quickly. «It's not just mine.»

«Albus's too, you're right.»

She rolls her eyes at my joke, but I know exactly where she's going. And precisely because of this, I want to focus all the attention on her. She then says, «You should join the celebration, Aesop. You deserve all this too.»

«But I'm fine here.» She raises an eyebrow with a comical expression of suspicion that makes me smile even more, and I continue, «I don't care about celebrating. It's enough for me to see you doing it, finally enjoying the success and esteem you deserve.»

Cassie also knows I've pushed far beyond my usual limits with a line like that, but she grants me the grace of not mentioning it. However, the blush on her cheeks, different from her sunburn, is something she can't hide.

I place a hand on her back, pulling her a little closer to me. Tomorrow, I can always blame this public boldness on the excellent wine I'm drinking. For now, everything feels right, as if every mismatched piece has finally found its place.

Her slender fingers brush against mine as I hold the glass. I loosen my grip, allowing her to take it and bring her lips to the rim. «How about... celebrating together then?» she proposes, her voice laced with mischief.

«Now that interests me more.»

We bid farewell to the crowd and Albus, who is too engrossed in conversation with Nicolas Flamel to notice us, and return to our tents. Although very few people are passing by, we pretend to enter our own tents for propriety's sake, only to meet again seconds later in the solarium.

Cassie throws her arms around my neck. «I'm so happy here,» she says, covering my face with kisses.

I smile: «I feel good too.» It's true: the weather is pleasant, the atmosphere lively, and my walk has improved significantly, the swelling around the wound visibly reduced.

As if reading my thoughts, Cass lowers her eyes to my leg and then looks back at me. «I can tell.» A shadow of reflective melancholy veils her gaze, in which I see her desire to understand the reasons behind this change, to help me in my search for a cure.

I stroke her cheek with my thumb, hoping to convince her with my gaze to desist, to not embark on a mission that is likely dangerous and almost certainly futile. I don't want to taint her hope with the disappointment and frustration I've become accustomed to; I can't allow a matter that concerns only me to darken her spirit.

«Don't... think... about it,» I say, punctuating each word with a kiss on her lips. Then I pull away from her embrace, only to turn towards an ice bucket where bottles of wine are kept constantly chilled. «Red or white?»

Behind me, I hear her let out a slight sigh. «White,» she replies, collapsing onto one of the lounge chairs covered in cushions by the pool.

I return to her and hand her a full glass, moving her legs so I can sit beside her. Despite her lower lip being slightly pouted, she raises her glass to toast.

«To the brightest witch I know,» I say, staring at her until the pout turns into a faint smile and her distant eyes lower in conciliatory surrender.

She sits up a little. «I didn't do it all by myself, and you know it,» she says, emphasizing each word.

«You just needed a bit of self-confidence. The rest was already within you.»

She relaxes, shifting to drape her legs across my lap. When I hold them with my arm, she places them carefully, mindful not to hurt me. We look at each other, realizing that I feel no pain.

«Then take credit for that. For helping me rediscover who I really am,» she says sweetly.

«Sounds like a big responsibility.»

«Maybe it is.»

We gaze at each other for a long moment, sipping from our glasses. Yes, it is indeed a great responsibility to have someone who trusts and depends on you; someone you allow to touch the most vulnerable strings of your soul, who with a smile can pull you out of the deep abyss where you'd grown accustomed to floating. The truth is, I will never do as much good for Cassandra as she has done for me...

«Maybe it is,» I repeat. Then I rise from the lounge chair and approach the pool, letting the water lapping the edge brush against the soles of my feet. I lose myself in the vastness of the night, the black sky studded with stars above us; I try to imagine something I desire more than this, but I can't think of anything else.

«Are you diving in or not?» Cass asks behind me.

I turn my head just slightly and find her pouring herself another glass of wine. «Are you planning on getting drunk?» I ask.

She gets defensive, responding with a challenging tone, «And if I am?»

«I won't be the one to stop you.» I place the glass on the low table between her lounge chair and mine, where I drop the caftan I've been wearing all evening. The warm air caresses my bare skin, yet Cassandra's skin is covered in goosebumps. Exactly the reaction I wanted to elicit.

I refill my glass and casually return to the pool, where this time I slide into the water. Resting my arms on the edge, I watch her: she's stood up as well and is approaching, slightly unsteady on her feet.

«Why aren't you wearing any underwear?» she asks, hitching up her dress over her thighs and sitting on the edge, her legs floating in the water and creating little ripples.

«I don't think it bothers you,» I reply.

«No, in fact. But I am wearing mine.»

«Well, that's something we can always fix.»

Her laughter in the night accompanies my brief swim toward her. I embrace her legs and start kissing her knees, slowly.

«Were you trying to be ready for anything?» she continues to ask, inquisitive. A drop of wine slips from the corner of her mouth, down her neck, and into the hollow between her breasts held by the dress.

My fingers begin their slow ascent along her thighs, gripping the light cotton fabric. «If there's one thing being an Auror has taught me, it's to never be unprepared,» I reply, finally pulling the cotton that wraps all her warmth towards me.

Cassandra meanwhile fiddles with the lacing of her robe, titillating me and hiding her body from my view. She decides to provoke me, stepping back just far enough to pick up the bottle of wine, kneeling down and offering me the spectacle of her soft thighs and bottom where, in the middle, her already wet and inviting fruit opens.

I can't resist slapping her lightly; the red mark of my hand glows for a moment on her skin, while a moan of surprise and pleasure fills my ears. She turns back to me, her hands occupied by the glass and bottle.

«Will you help me?» she asks, alluding to her robe still wrapping her form.

«With extreme pleasure.»

I grasp the emerald green flaps and pull them away, loosening my grip and finally revealing the pearly gem beneath that is her pale body, soft and quivering beneath. 

She glides into the water in front of me, perfectly at ease in the most changeable element.

«We have experienced something like this before,» she recalls at that moment with a smirk as her skin slides over mine: the Bath of the Prefects, the first time I made mental contact with her. The first time our naked, eager bodies were close to each other.

«Would you like to find out what I wanted to do to you even then?», I ask her in a low voice, brushing her ear with my tongue as I push her to the edge of the tub.

I haven't even touched her yet that she is already moaning and melting. «Mh-mh,» she murmurs, in assent.

I grab her by the waist and pull her up, out of the water, making her sit on the edge again. This time, however, I open her legs and rest them on my shoulders. My eyes fix into hers, pupils dilated, hungry, insatiable. Wet skin stretches bare at the will of the night, nipples hardening beneath the cascade of dark ringlets.

I bring her close to my face just as she brings the glass to her mouth to drink: because of the tug, drops of wine begin to roll down every curve of her body. Neck, collarbones, nipples, ribs, belly. They slow their course near her navel, prolonging the moment between them and meeting her deepest part.

Here they run along the pelvis, furrowing its bones, and climb up the mount of Venus, until finally caressing her labia and clitoris. And at that precise instant, my mouth closes inebriated on her hot, wet flower, drunk with wine and sex.

I drink the cold wine and her hot juice as if it were worth my own life, licking every inch of her soft, burning skin, sensitive to the strokes of my tongue that bring to life the sweet sound of her moans.

I suck her swollen clitoris as bees do with nectar, as if her pleasure were my only source of sustenance. Her fingers embed themselves in my wet hair like roots in the earth, drawing me to her core, our bodies merging almost to inhabit the same skin.

Her moans grow louder and Cassie can no longer keep her back straight-I gently push her down so she can lie on the stone floor, warm from absorbing the day's sun. I caress her skin and her soft breasts that rise and fall with each breath, causing her to arch her back as soon as she touches the hard surface.

She barely squeezes her thighs around my head as spasms begin to run through her body. I intensify the pace at which I lick her, going deeper and lingering in the most sensitive places, the tip of my tongue running along every nerve and making her squeal with pleasure. 

She tugs at my hair, stiffens her pelvis, and takes a deep breath, and her orgasm explodes in my mouth and on my tongue, which cuddles her pussy for the duration of her ecstasy, until her legs soften trembling and her liberating scream becomes a soft, satisfied moan.

I move my hands from her soft skin, resting them on the edge of the pool, and hoist myself out of the water, over her body, bathing her with my skin. Cass is beneath me, her hair splayed on the stone, her gaze dreamy, and I marvel at the beauty of her body as if seeing it for the first time.

I risk compromising all my integrity with what I want to say to her, but luckily she closes her arms around my neck and pulls me to her, making the words die in my throat. I willingly surrender to her kiss as I hold her in my arms, allowing her to catch her breath and be ready to receive me again, this time completely.

«I'm not done with you yet,» I tell her in a low voice, looking into those hypnotic eyes.

She moves languidly beneath me, as if purring. The contact of her soft, warm, welcoming belly against my hard penis makes me dizzy.

«I really liked that thing you did...,» she says almost shyly, her cheeks flushed with orgasm and wine. Her skin crawls sinuously under mine and the blood boils in my veins, pumping even more into my cock.

I bite her earlobe, then her neck, collarbone, breasts and nipples. «Which thing? Drink your wine?», I ask her, as I gently stroke her responsive clitoris with my thumb.

A mutter of satisfied affirmation bursts from her chest as her fingers sink into my wet hair. «I really enjoyed that, too,» I tell her then, looking up at her again.

My hands slide over her hips, around her buttocks and onto her thighs: I grab them and clasp them around my pelvis. I lever my knees up and rise off the floor with her, clasped in my arms, my member hard as marble and glowing with desire sliding over her opening soaked with pleasure.

«Aesop...,» she tries to say, despite her intoxication. I do not give her a chance to continue-I know she would like to emphasize the effort I have made, with a naturalness that has been foreign to me for some time-but I do not let her speak. I plunge my tongue into her mouth, in a passionate, overwhelming kiss, as desperate as the desire I have for her, and soon she forgets all that is other than us and lets herself lie on the soft mattress, her curvy white body contrasting with the blood-red sheets.

I barely move away from her, who looks at me panting, eagerly waiting to join me, to become one. «You look like a painting,» I tell her, my voice laced with excitement and wonder.

Her cheeks still blush, her lips curve into a smile, and she brings her face closer to my shoulder, as she does whenever a compliment surprises her and she feels it is too great to be aimed at her, to have to shield herself. As she did tonight to every congratulation on Dumbledore's success, almost as if it were not also her own merit. The typical humility of someone who for most of her life has always lived in the shadows, obscured by someone else's light or, even worse, by anxieties that have kept the star from shining.

My star...

«You are more beautiful than a painting,» I add, losing myself on her lips and inside her, entering her body without announcing myself, as overwhelming and eager as my desire for her.

Her moan accompanies my thrust, her warmth completely enveloping my arousal, welcoming and adapting to it, exciting me even more than I already am. At this moment, I could fall victim to the worst tortures, die even, and I would do so contentedly, a conscious victim of Cassandra's unconscious ascendancy over me, stronger than any spell and the Imperius Curse itself.

A bellowing on a different frequency rouses me from my inebriated ramblings. I break away from Cass just to look into her eyes, to decipher the expression on her face.

«Do I hurt you?», I ask her, stopping that pace that, I realized, had become too fast and exaggerated for her. 

She denies the frowns and narrows her eyes, barely shaking her head. «No...,» she lies in a whisper; but I have already resumed moving at a gentler, kinder, more generous pace with her, and her whole body relaxes, going along with my thrusts. «Yes ... like this ... I feel you more. I want to feel you all night long, Aesop,» she says, sinking her nails into my back and tightening her legs around it even more.

«Not forever?» I hear myself ask, as if my voice is far away and does not belong to me. I don't care. Not tonight. 

My thrusts continue, slow, waiting for his response. My eyes enjoy the spectacle of her face glowing brightly, illuminated by a single awareness: the one we both know, that we don't want to admit and that no one says. Her eyes shine with excitement, elation and happiness when she replies, «Yes. I want to feel you forever.»

And from that moment she accompanies my thrusts, finally adapting herself completely to my size and the rhythm I impose, as if she would let me dispose of her body as I please.

I move her even higher on the mattress, laying her between the soft pillows, admiring the dark thicket of her hair lying around her head like a crown.

With her barely more raised toward me, I can reach every part of her body I want to touch, caress, kiss, savor. Cassandra flexes beneath me, sinuous and light, liquid like water and like the pleasure that bathes her between her thighs and in which I am immersed.

Face to face, I move my hand up from her breasts to her slender neck, and then up to her lips, pushing my thumb into them, which her tongue wraps around. She begins to suck on it, like our first close encounter in the Alchemy Classroom, when I still thought she was as beautiful as she was irritating; when she catalyzed all my attention and became the center of my excitement.

The way she looks at me is magnetic, and it is I this time who capitulate under her will: with a thrust of her hips, Cassandra rolls me over with my back on the bed. Her pressure on my hips is short-lived: at the exact moment when she begins her pelvis lifts, I pull my saliva-dampened thumb from her lips.

With the moist phalanx I trace the contours of her breast and nipple as I pull out of her, who in a matter of seconds envelops me with her lips. She sits between my legs and begins to suck me greedily, taking it all into her deep, welcoming throat, returning the pleasure I gave her just now.

Her tongue slides placidly along the shaft, savoring every inch of my cock. Cass's fingers close around it, and the movements are accompanied by those of her tongue on the tip, in a warm, wet cuddle that becomes a pleasurable torture that prolongs my pleasure.

I bring my thumb close to her cheek, tracing the contours of her face and watching her as she continues to suck my cock, continuing to enjoy the pleasure she gives me.

When she raises her eyes to me, the fire in my body flares up: I run my hand through her hair and squeeze it between my fingers, barely pulling it, and so guide her movements, pushing it deeper and deeper into her throat, our hungry, insatiable eyes not pulling away from each other.

Tears soon cloud her vision, large clear drops running down her cheeks as her tongue and lips continue to envelop my cock throughout its length. With a thrust of my pelvis, I plunge it deep one last time and then give her a rest, letting her breathe as I pull her closer to me, her panting body resting on mine.

I barely lift her back off the bed, surrounding hers with my arms, kissing every inch of her skin between my lips, neck and breasts, her nipples hard and turgid under my tongue.

Adagio, I move my hands behind her thighs, spreading them apart more and pointing my hard, saliva-soaked cock at her soaking, swollen pussy. I penetrate her, making her sit on me, filling her completely.

She arches her back making a choked, almost exhausted moan, as if she cannot contain any more pleasure but does not want to stop.

I draw her more against my body-I want to feel every millimeter of her smooth skin, to become one with her, even more than we already are.

Squeezed in an embrace of lust that says more about us than we do in words, I begin to move slowly; Cassandra goes along with my rhythm with fluid movements, barely slowed by intoxication.

Her clit rubs against my pubis, making her moan, small spasms like electric shocks running through her entire body as she holds on to me as if to keep from falling.

I intensify the rhythm of my thrusts and reach for her face with my hands, bending her toward me. «Look at me,» I tell her. Her eyelids open but remain at half-mast, full of desire. I can't help but smile; I nibble her lower lip and glue my eyes to hers, continuing to fuck her, to let her swollen, wet clit rub against me and accompany her to orgasm.

The humors of her wet pussy coat my cock, dripping with her pleasure; her moans grow louder and louder and soon become screams. I wonder if these curtains have already been enchanted to prevent prying ears from hearing what is happening inside, but on second thought I don't care: rather, let everyone know what is happening between us.

«Come over me,» I tell her, when the blush on her face and the way she bites her lips to stifle her screams show me that she will not be able to hold on any longer. «Let go, baby.»

And as if just waiting for me to tell her, Cassandra finally comes on top of me, bathing me with her orgasm and releasing the most arousing scream I have ever heard, which almost makes me want to start again.

I accompany her orgasm with more thrusts, cradling her body in the spasms of ecstasy, until I finally release myself, too: I clutch her to me, as if afraid that it is all an elusive dream and that she might escape at any moment; I stifle an animalistic grunt against her neck, whose tender flesh I bite, the white skin covering with shivers.

Exhausted and sweaty, I let myself fall slowly back onto the mattress, taking Cassandra with me, still holding her, breathing in her scent and letting her breath tickle the skin of my chest. More and more regular, until it becomes heavy.

I continue to cradle her, asleep on my heart, slipping too into a dreamless sleep. What good are dreams, after all, if when I am awake she is beside me?

Chapter 34: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

I knock on Mirabel’s door, the cold wood beneath my trembling knuckles. It doesn’t even take a minute before the door opens, and she appears on the threshold, wearing her usual kind expression—one that vanishes the moment she sees me.  

«Cassandra…» she whispers, the smile slipping from her lips like a breath in the wind. She stares at me for a moment, concern etching fine lines across her brow, before stepping aside to let me in. «What happened to you?»  

I don’t answer right away. I feel suspended, as though my voice were left behind somewhere along the corridors I walked to get here, into her room lush with life, while inside me stretches an arid desert. My cheeks are damp with already-dried tears, a mask of distress I can’t shake off. But looking at Mirabel, at the softness in her expression, something inside me breaks, and I finally allow myself to give in—to show what I have only today discovered to be my greatest vulnerability.

«M-Mirabel,» I manage, my voice breaking. «I… I don’t even know where to start.»  

Mirabel gently guides me into her room, settling me into a chair near the fireplace. Without a word, she pours a cup of hot tea that seems to have been prepared for this very moment. The steam dances lightly in the air, its scent comforting, but the beauty of these small things barely touches me; everything inside me is a storm that warmth cannot calm.  

She sits across from me, her usual kindness in her gaze, though veiled with worry. Her hands folded in her lap, she watches me, waiting patiently for me to speak, unhurried. I don’t know where to begin, and yet I can’t stay silent any longer.  

I hold my breath for a moment, gathering courage, then lower my gaze to the untouched cup and speak, my voice barely a whisper. «I don’t know how to tell you, Mirabel… but I’ve done something I’m ashamed of.»  

I feel the flush rise to my cheeks as I try to continue, the weight of those words becoming tangible. «On the way back from London, from Egypt… on the Hogwarts Express. I was the only one awake in the carriage: Albus was in another compartment, and Aesop… he had dozed off. I saw his papers; they were right there beside him, abandoned on the seat.» My voice trembles. «A note caught my eye and… I did something I shouldn’t have. I don’t know what came over me, but I took it and read it.»  

Mirabel watches me in silence, but I can sense something deeper behind her calm—an intermingling of astonishment and understanding. My fingers tremble slightly, and I clutch the cup as though it’s the only anchor I have left. I hope she’s not judging me.  

«There was something strange about that piece of paper, Mirabel. A note, listing ingredients and a phrase. It said, ‘How fitting it would be if the key to my curelay in the obscure.’ »  

My voice cracks, and I lower my head, feeling the heat of fresh tears ready to fall. «I didn’t mean to invade his privacy, truly. I had no intention of… but I couldn’t resist, and now I can’t stop feeling… vile. That note was never meant to be in my hands, and now I know that perfectly well. I don’t know why I did it, why my eyes fell on that cursed piece of paper!»  

A sob escapes me, remorse twisting my stomach. Every time I close my eyes, I see that phrase, those inked characters now seared into my memory.  

Mirabel opens her mouth, but I shake my head and raise a hand to stop her from speaking. «Don’t… don’t try to console me, Mirabel. I don’t deserve compassion.»  

She remains silent, accepting my words, though I can see her worry deepening. I clutch the teacup, forcing myself to continue.  

«It’s not just that I read the note,» I admit, sniffing and lowering my voice to a whisper. «I even went so far as to copy it, word for word, onto my own parchment. I know what it was: yet another of his attempts to find a cure for his leg. And I know he’s told me more than once to stay out of it… that it’s none of my business.» I pause, taking a trembling breath, the shame choking me. «But I couldn’t stop myself from thinking that I might… that I might be able to help. And even now, I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s stronger than me, Mirabel.»  

Her eyes grow sadder, almost resigned to the reality of my words, but she continues to listen without interrupting. And so I go on, the guilt squeezing me tighter with every word.  

«In the past month, I’ve spent entire days trying to decipher that note, exploring every possible combination of those ingredients, trying to understand… even though I had no right to. I noticed the note looked old, like it had been written years ago. That’s why I’ve been spending so much time in the library: I couldn’t understand why he’d keep such an old note if it didn’t work. I became convinced that there had to be something right in his conclusions, you see?»  

I lower my head, unable to meet her gaze. «Just the other day in the library, I borrowed a book I thought might be useful for my research. I marked the page I needed with… with the copied note, using it like a bookmark. I don’t know what I was thinking, how I allowed myself to be so naive and careless. Maybe I was too absorbed in my thoughts, or maybe it was just my arrogance leading me.»  

I tremble as I stop to catch my breath, the weight of each mistake crashing over me like an avalanche. The errors line up ruthlessly in my mind, their consequences looming menacingly behind them. «I should never have done it, Mirabel. And now…»  

I pause, my heart pounding, as the memory of the worst moment hits me with full force. Aesop’s voice echoes in my mind, each word like a blade striking the center of my heart as I repeat them to Mirabel, as if the pain had carved them into my memory.  

«You went through my things,» he had said, his tone low and cutting, his gaze cold and devoid of all the warmth I’d foolishly grown accustomed to seeing in his eyes. Now, there was only disillusionment and anger.  

«I asked you to stay out of it,» he’d continued, his face twisted in a grimace I never imagined could mar his features. «You promised me you wouldn’t meddle in this part of my life. And yet, not only did you read my note, but you went ahead and copied it, playing with something that doesn’t concern you, with no regard for what I asked of you—as if this were just another chance for you to prove how much smarter you are than everyone else.»  

His words were a sharp blade, cutting deeper than I ever thought possible. I couldn’t respond, paralyzed by the anger in his voice. Every attempt to explain or justify myself felt futile under the weight of his disdain.  

«You don’t understand, Cassandra,» he had said, the disbelief in his angry eyes piercing through me. «You don’t understand what you’ve done. You chose to ignore every word I said, every need I expressed, and instead of respecting the boundaries I set, you thought I was too… stupid to notice. You betrayed me, and the trust I had in you is gone. And, damn it, I trusted you so much. But maybe you were right in a way: I really was stupid to trust you.»  

His words hit harder than any physical blow, filled with hatred and bitterness, and laced with the finality of a future that could no longer exist. I tried to apologize, to explain that I never acted selfishly or with the intention of hurting him, but he wouldn’t hear a word. His expression became impenetrable, colder than when I’d first met him at the beginning of the school year—no, worse. Remembering all of it, the fresh wound still bleeding profusely, is utterly devastating.  

«There’s no point in discussing this further,» he had said, his voice harder than ever. «If you think you were acting out of good intentions, you’re gravely mistaken. To me, this is the end, Cassandra. And I hope that, at least this time, you’ll respect my wishes.»  

And with that, he turned his back on me, retreating into his room and shutting the door behind him—a door that had never felt so insurmountable before. It was as though he’d become the man I’d first met, the one who chose not to ask questions, not to open up, not to trust anyone.

He left me there, heartbroken and mind shattered. More alone than I had ever been.  

I stayed there for who knows how long, leaning against his door. My hands clenched into fists, my face pressed against the old, knotted wood. I knocked, first softly, then harder and harder, begging him to listen. «Aesop, please… let me talk,» I had pleaded, the words trembling in the tears I couldn’t hold back. «I didn’t mean to betray your trust. Please, let me explain.»  

But there was nothing. No response. Only the icy silence in return. A silence that drowned every hope, every attempt to make amends.  

In the end, when I could do nothing more than sit alone with my pain, I realized he would never come to open the door, would never allow me to explain myself. Without really thinking, still too shaken by what had happened, I went down to Mirabel’s room and knocked on her door—the one person who had understood long before I did how much I cared for Aesop, and who now sits before me, having listened in solemn silence to my entire story without ever taking her eyes off my distraught face.  

I never thought things would come to this, but despair is a companion you cannot ignore.  

«But that’s not all, Mirabel.» I pause, my breath quickening as the words catch in my throat. «It’s not just what I’ve done. There’s something else. In Egypt, while we were there… I think something happened that I never told him about because I wasn’t sure. But now… now I can’t stop this thought that’s eating away at me. Something Aesop absolutely needs to know.»  

The words pour out in one long confession, yet there remains that oppressive sensation of not being able to say everything, of failing to make her fully understand all my suspicions and, most of all, my fears as things stand.  

Just as I am about to gather the courage to reveal what worries me the most, that suspicion I can’t shake, the bell tolls solemnly, cutting between us, abruptly interrupting the flow of my thoughts and bringing us back to reality.  

With a grave and thoughtful nod, Mirabel rises from her armchair, but not before embracing me in a way that betrays all her concern. «I know it all feels like too much, but you don’t have to face it alone. Breathe, try to calm yourself. Don’t let fear consume you.»  

Her words hit me, but I can’t feel any less powerless. The pain I carry inside is still too great to truly express.  

Mirabel briefly touches my arm—a gesture I wish could fix everything—and heads toward the door. «I’m sorry, the Greenhouse awaits.»  

She opens the door and gestures for me to leave. I watch her walk away, the sound of her footsteps fading into the hall, leaving me once again in the deafening silence that now feels unbearable.  

I remain standing, alone, in the Faculty Tower, and like a caged, alert animal, my senses seem to sharpen, picking up even the faintest noises. The only sounds I can’t hear are those coming from my quarters, which now seem to call to me more strongly, yet I can’t go back there. Not now. At least, not with mine and Aesop’s intentions diverging as they currently are.  

That room, once my refuge, my safe haven, where I felt protected, now feels alien—as if it no longer belongs to the version of me I once knew. Every corner, every shadow speaks Aesop’s language; every single detail reflects his personality and carries his scent. That attic, my bedroom above all, is the simulacrum of his heart—the part of himself he revealed and then entrusted to me… because he trusted me. And now that he doesn’t, I’m not ready to face that pain.  

I walk slowly through the corridors of Hogwarts, without a precise destination or goal. I vainly hope that moving will distract me, but every step seems to lead me back to Aesop’s eyes, his voice, all the beauty erased by the anger I saw in him, the disdain he hurled at me. I can’t escape any of it; every thought is a chain holding me back, and the castle, notoriously vast, feels today like a suffocating, cramped prison. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a reminder of what I’ve lost, of what I can’t change.  

Tears well up in my eyes uncontrollably, ready to slide down my cheeks. I wipe my face with my hands, but I can’t stop their tracks or the pain. It’s like a knot in my throat that keeps growing tighter and tighter. I don’t want anyone to see me like this—weak, broken. I don’t want anyone to know how lost I feel.  

Without thinking, I head toward the Kitchens, the only place where I know for certain no one will be around. No one except the house-elves, and I know they won’t judge me. They never have. They’ve never judged anyone.  

When I enter, they immediately flock to me, bowing and curtsying endlessly, but they quickly notice my state. «Professor Doyle, what’s wrong? You seem so distraught!» Ponky asks, his enormous brown eyes filled with worry.  

I can’t give him an answer right away—I don’t think they could understand the reason for my torment. And with that thought, the awareness that they may never experience the joys and sorrows such a grand feeling brings fills me with even more sadness, and I let out a wet sob.  

«I’m sorry,» I manage to whisper to the small crowd, torn between wanting to help and dreading my apology. «I’m so sorry.»  

The elves, discreet yet displaying the affection and care typical of their kind, move closer. Some take my hand, others gently nudge me or tug at the hem of my dress, while others clear a space for me near one of the large hearths, setting it up for me; they offer me hot coffee and a bowl of soup without haste, without asking questions. They don’t want to know. They just want me to feel better. In some way, their silent comfort makes me feel less alone, though it doesn’t ease the pain.  

«Don’t cry, Professor Doyle,» says Gombkey gently, the one bold enough to sit beside me, timidly stroking the back of my hand with one bony finger. «Everything will pass, you’ll see.»  

I look at him, unsure of how to respond. I can’t tell him that my heart is too heavy to move on, that the emptiness I feel is too vast. But when even Pitts—known for his gruff demeanor—approaches with a warm loaf of bread, for the first time in hours, I feel a faint flicker of gratitude.  

«Professor,» says the chubby elf, «why don’t you eat something? It would do you good. When your belly is empty, it’s harder to smile.» He smiles at me, and I feel the corner of my mouth tug upward in what might be a smile.  

With a sigh, I lower my gaze to the soup they’ve prepared and decide to eat a little. A spoonful, then another. Their eyes are full of concern, but I see they appreciate my attempt to distract myself. «Thank you,» I murmur. I’m grateful for their care and silent presence, for the glances they exchange while bustling around to ensure dinner is successfully served to the school.  

Finally, somewhere above, the bell tolls to summon everyone to the Great Hall, and I’m not ready to leave this place—this corner of calm that, despite the chaos I carry within, is the only spot that gives me a semblance of peace and where I can sit alone with my pain, the only place that doesn’t remind me of Aesop.  

«You must go to dinner, Professor Doyle,» one of the elves says gently yet insistently, as though sensing it’s the last thing I want to do. «The other Professors and your students are waiting for you.»  

I stand up, turning toward that door I don’t want to cross, feeling the resistance inside me growing. I know I have to go, that I can’t escape Aesop or my responsibilities as a teacher, but every step toward the Great Hall feels like a step away from myself and what I truly want.  

The elves accompany me to the door without forcing me, almost supporting me. «Thank you so much,» I whisper before leaving, trying to muster one last smile. «You are too kind.»  

«We care about you, ma’am,» Gombkey replies boldly, going beyond the servility of his kind and returning the gratitude I’ve earned simply by being kind to them; the others, more timid, merely bow slightly and nod.  

Once the door closes, I reluctantly head toward the Great Hall, every step a struggle between my obedient body and a mind that wishes to stop. I try not to meet the gaze of the Hufflepuffs emerging from their Common Room, forced to take the same path as me.  

Every step feels slower, heavier, and the journey interminable, laden with an anxiety that grows with each breath. I’m not ready to face Aesop after the argument we had, his harsh, angry words that keep echoing in my mind like an unending refrain. But it’s not just that. It’s the fact that I no longer know what to expect from him. His anger, his disappointment… everything feels like a weight crushing me. And then there’s the one thing I haven’t told him, the thing that haunts me…  

When I enter the Great Hall, the festive atmosphere clashes with my deeply despondent state, inert in the face of the joy and liveliness that fills these walls. My gaze is immediately drawn to the staff table and the empty chair to my right. Aesop’s chair. That sight pierces me like a blade to the heart, twisting the wound deeper. He isn’t here. And though I might hope, I know I will dine alone tonight, with the weight of his absence bearing down like a stone at my side.  

From the Gryffindor table, I hear Albus’s concerned voice. His call to me is soft, an echo of worry cutting through the hall's noise. I feel disconnected from myself as I lift a hand and offer him a faint smile, trying to reassure him.  

I make my way to the staff table, step by step, but it feels as though the path stretches endlessly, like a condemned soul’s walk to the gallows. Each step takes me further away from myself, and by the time I reach my seat, the weight of Aesop’s absence threatens to overwhelm me, to shatter the fragile façade I’ve painstakingly built. I sit with my back straight, my gaze fixed ahead, resisting the temptation to look, to hope that he might arrive, that all of this might not have happened. I force myself not to cry, but the emptiness beside me is a constant reminder of my pain.  

I begin eating—or rather, I nibble at something, out of a sense of obligation to the elves who prepared it so kindly. But it isn’t truly eating. It’s a mechanical act, as if my body is trying to sustain itself while my mind drifts far away, lost in thoughts. Each bite feels tasteless, the food dissolving into nothing, just like everything else.  

The meal ends, a sense of relief washing over me, though it’s fleeting. I stand, glad to have endured this ordeal without breaking down, but at the same time, there’s a tightening in my chest. The thought of returning to my quarters feels like an insurmountable climb. Facing solitude again, being alone with my thoughts in a space where I’m no longer the only inhabitant, takes my breath away.  

When I finally open the door to my quarters, my gaze falls on Aesop’s closed door, at the base of which Morgan is curled up, as if waiting for something—or someone. It isn’t the first time she’s surprised me with her feline insight, but this time it’s different. Her behavior moves me, as if she knows, as if she understands that something is wrong. It almost feels like she’s there to share the weight of my loneliness, to ease the pain that threatens to crush me.  

My heart aches as I approach. «Morgan,» I murmur gently, attempting to coax her away with a soft gesture. «Come on, now.» The Kneazle rises slowly, stretching gracefully, but she doesn’t move far. She looks up at me, as if reluctant to leave. Then, at last, she shifts, revealing the light shining under Aesop’s door. Inside, his footsteps echo, heavy and restless.  

I stand there frozen, watching his shadow move erratically, as though pacing back and forth. Then, suddenly, his footsteps stop. A profound silence follows, and I remain in place, waiting, my heart pounding in my chest.  

I know that if I wanted to, I could simply open that door and find him on the other side, and perhaps, in some way, that would be easier, less painful than this waiting. But I know I can’t do more than this—it’s all in his hands now. It always has been. 

Finally, with a sudden movement, Aesop extinguishes the light inside the room. The resulting darkness feels definitive, like a wall rising between us. The door remains closed, and the hope I harbored of seeing him open it dissipates in an instant. There’s nothing to be done. Not tonight.  

With one last glance at Morgan, who seems to understand far more than she should, I turn and head toward my room. My steps are slow, heavy, as though every inch that brings me closer to my bed is another step away from what I truly desire.  

My room feels empty, cold, barren—little more than a dusty attic now, devoid of any soul.  

I undress mechanically, as though it’s another mind guiding my body. I think of nothing, yet my mind is crowded with nightmares. I lie down on the mattress, my bare skin against the cold sheets sending a shiver through me, just to feel something. I stare at the ceiling, for who knows how long.  

I don’t know how to fix any of this. I don’t even know if it’s possible to fix it.

Chapter 35: SHARP

Chapter Text

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.

And then there’s the other truth, the one I desperately try to ignore but which resurfaces every time I see her. I’m an idiot. A complete fool, for believing, even for an instant, that it could be different for me.

I had sworn to myself that it would never happen again, that I would never let anyone get close enough to hurt me. And yet, here she is: Cassandra Doyle. With her sharp smile, her brilliant mind, her damned determination that has always thrown me off guard. From the very beginning, she broke through all my defenses, without me even noticing.

I clutch the blankets in my hands, as though I could hold onto something tangible while this realization makes its way through me. I respected her, then admired her... and in the end, I gave in. I allowed myself to believe that it was possible, that I could once again... fall in love.

The word explodes in my mind, heavy and undeniable, and for a moment, my breath catches. It’s the first time I’ve admitted it, even to myself, and the mere thought hits me like a blow to the chest. It’s not just attraction, it’s not just affection or esteem. Not anymore. It’s something more, something I’ve always considered out of reach for me, after everything I’ve lost.

And just when I accepted it – or maybe even before I realized it – she found a way to destroy it. That note. That stupid, insignificant copy. How can something so trivial carry such a weight?

I’m furious with her, of course, but maybe I’m even angrier with myself. For letting my guard down. For believing, even for a moment, that this time it would be different.

And now? Now I’m trapped. Unable to let her go, but also unable to forgive her.

I toss and turn in bed, hopelessly trying to find a position that offers even a little relief. And then it comes, sudden and relentless: a sharp pain in my leg that takes my breath away. I grit my teeth, stifling a groan with a grunt, but the pain doesn’t subside. It’s the cold, I think, that damn Scottish cold that seeps everywhere, into my bones and thoughts, making each day harder than the last.

Since we returned from Egypt, my leg hasn’t given me a moment’s peace. But it’s not just the weather, I know that well. It’s also the tension that has built up inside me, every muscle taut like a rope ready to snap. It’s everything: the argument, the work, that damn Rookwood. It’s Cassandra.

Outside, the rain beats relentlessly against the windows. It’s been at least a week since it stopped, turning April into a gloomy and unforgiving month. There’s nothing spring-like about these days, just a monotonous gray that perfectly mirrors what’s inside me, reflecting the inhospitable nature of my heart.

I miss Egypt. I miss it more than I’d like to admit. The dry air, the heat that soothed the pain, the sun that warmed every fiber of my being. There, for a brief moment, I had fooled myself into thinking life could be lighter, that the past could remain just that. That I could, in some way, start over.

But I know there was more to it than that. What made me truly feel good, truly at peace, was Cassandra’s warmth. Not the sun’s, but hers. Her presence beside me, so alive, so unexpectedly comforting. It was in her glances, in her muffled laughs that shattered the silence and darkness of the night. In the way she spoke to me, looking me in the eyes, with a passion and, at the time, a sincerity that made everything seem possible.

My chest tightens as these memories hit me, one after the other, like a spell I can’t resist. I need to stop. I can’t keep doing this.

With an effort that feels inhuman, I push the covers away and sit on the edge of the bed with difficulty. The pain strikes me immediately, but I try to ignore it. I can’t stay here. If I stay, the thoughts will take over, and I can’t allow that.

I get up, slowly and tiredly, but immediately feel my leg struggling to bear my weight and movement. I take a few steps, but it’s a challenge with myself. A challenge I can’t win.

I finally make it to the wheelchair, half-buried under clothes meant to hide it from my view, and slump into it, abandoning my tired, aching limbs. I never imagined that one day I would have to trade relief for my own dignity.

The wood creaks under my weight, a distorted and unsettling sound that, to my horror and annoyance, seems to fill the entire room. With a quick, instinctive motion, I approach the fireplace. The fire is nearly out, but I have no intention of letting it die. With a swift movement of my wand, I mentally cast the Confringo spell.

A flame ignites, devouring the logs almost angrily, the same anger roaring inside me; I fixate on the flames as they dance, chaotic but hypnotic. It’s easy to lose myself in that chaos, much easier than facing what I feel.

A half-life. That’s how I’ve always defined my existence since this damn leg left me crippled. A part of me broke that day, leaving me with the eternal feeling of being incomplete. I spent years suppressing that thought, pretending it didn’t concern me, pretending it didn’t matter.

And yet, with Cassandra… things were different. I feel like a fool even thinking about it, but with her by my side, I had almost learned to accept it. It was as if, without needing words, she showed me that this disability wasn’t a sentence, nor a definition. Not for her.

I’ll never forget the way her eyes fell on my scar the first time we made love in her London apartment. No pity. No disgust. Just awareness, pure and simple. It was as if, in that moment, she saw all of me—my wounds, my pain—and accepted it. No, more than that: she embraced it as part of me, important, certainly, but not enough nor fundamental to define me.

With her, I almost felt… whole. It wasn’t just my leg that was different; it was my life, and it was as if with her, I could finally live it fully, despite everything.

Now, it’s as if inside me a void has formed, a barren land I can’t fill, a dryness that makes me a living ghost.

A knock on the door jolts me from my monotonous fixation on the fire. It’s a sound I recognize all too well, the one that tears through the heavy silence of my solitude. The sound of her fists against the wood, decisive, insistent, her slender fingers tapping the surface. I would recognize it among a thousand others. I would recognize everything about her.

Cassandra. I know she’s out there, beyond that door, but I can’t— I mustn’t— open it. Not now, not ever. My hand grips the armrest of the wheelchair, as if it could prevent my body from moving, as if I had the power to stop everything— her voice, her presence.

I swore to ignore her. Swore that I wouldn’t let anyone, least of all her, back into my life. Not after that day. Not after she destroyed everything I had built within me, my balance, my outward calm. The note, the lie, the mistrust.

Another knock, stronger this time. I lean forward imperceptibly, but I don’t stand. I can’t. Her voice penetrates the silence, urgent, breathless, as if it could shatter my armor:

«Aesop… Aesop, please. Open… I need to talk to you. It’s important.»

My mind is a whirlwind. Her voice, the concern that trembles in it, tortures me. I know it shouldn’t, but… it makes me want to give in.

Yet, I can’t. I won’t. I can’t let myself be dragged back into that current of confusion. I can’t open the door, I can’t lower my guard.

«Cassandra, please, leave,» I say coldly, my voice hoarse as though I haven’t spoken for days, trying to regain control while my body remains still, rigid.

The knocks become more persistent, one after another, while her voice grows more desperate. «Aesop, please…»

I fixate on the door, my heart racing, but I stay motionless. I can’t give in. Not now. Not after all of this.

«Aesop,» she says again, and I hear the sobs in her voice. «I know… I know you don’t want to see me. I respect that, but I need to talk to you.»

On my end, silence. I understand that it’s urgent from the way she insists, as if what she has to say is a matter of life and death. But there’s nothing left for me and her to share anymore. Maybe there never was.

The heavy wood muffles Cassandra, who sniffs again. Then she speaks once more, her voice now firmer: «Aesop, if you don’t come and open this door, I will.»

The knocks continue, relentless, like hammer blows that echo in my head. Her voice pierces my chest, louder, more impatient.

«Aesop, don’t be stupid!» she almost shouts. «Open this damn door!» Her desperation fuels her anger.

I grip the arms of the chair, trying to hold back the fear that tightens around my throat. I can’t let her in. I can’t let her see… what I don’t want her to see.

The thought that she might simply open the door and see me in this state makes me shudder. No, no, she can’t. She mustn’t. In a surge of panic, I stand up, almost against my will, even though I can’t stand on my own without the support of the chair. The pain in my leg makes me stumble, but I can’t stop. Not now.

My steps are heavy, uncertain, trembling, and anxious. I hear her on the other side, ready to act, fiddling with the door I had closed earlier, as always since we stopped talking, with a Sealing Charm. I grip my wand and speak firmly: «Colloportus!», intensifying the hold on the door. A rush of energy bursts from the tip of my wand. But as the spell takes effect, the noise from the other side freezes my blood.

A hiss.

«Alohomora.» Cassandra’s voice is determined, and the sound of the lock slowly, though reluctantly, giving way fills me with panic. Despite everything, despite my effort, she’s breaking through every barrier I’ve set up. She’s questioning every resistance I’ve built around myself, as if nothing mattered.

I feel like I’m losing my mind. The door is giving way, and I no longer know what to do. I’m terrified, a visceral fear like I’ve never felt before. Fear that she might finally see the truth: the truth of what I’ve become, of the man who foolishly thought he could stand beside her.

I gasp, struggling to hold the spell, to not let it break, fighting against hers and her desperate determination.

«Cassandra, stop!» I command, knowing it’s a futile effort.

Her voice, thick with tears from effort and frustration, is a piercing, terrible sound, like the wail of a Banshee: «No! Listen to me, damn it!»

And then it happens: I don’t know why, I don’t know how. But the immense effort of resisting her spell, coupled with my physical weakness, overwhelms me: my left knee gives way with a dull thud when it hits the floor, a burning pain that tightens its relentless grip on me. I fall to the ground, and the spell fades.

The lock clicks and the door suddenly opens, causing Cassandra to be thrust into my room; she falls to the floor near me, panting, shocked, and desperate.  

She lifts her gaze, meeting my eyes. But it’s only a matter of moments before her amber irises, intensified by tears, focus on what lies behind me, near the fireplace, empty but requiring no definition.  

Her expression changes in an instant, the desperation disappearing. For the first time, she dares to break the invisible barrier between us; she crosses it, touching me, her fingers on my arms, trying to help me stand.  

«Aesop…» she tries to say, her voice tinged with understanding.  

But I can’t bear that she has seen my shame, that she has had tangible proof that my disability is worse than she believes.  

I push her away with a sharp motion, struggling to stand, but she doesn’t take a step back and tries to help me.  

Another wave of anger sweeps over me, burning, furious. I don’t want her pity. I don’t want her understanding. I look at her, the fixation in my voice clear: «I don’t want your help, Cassandra. And I don’t want you here.»  

I stand up suddenly, despite the searing pain in my leg. I try to regain my balance, or at least I try, while struggling to hold it together. «You’ve spent weeks violating every part of my space, every corner of my privacy. What more do you want from me? What else do you need to feel even more… intrusive?»  

Cassandra seems struck, but doesn’t give up. I hear her breathing more heavily, as if she’s not ready to give me the victory. «I had something important to tell you,» she responds, her tone becoming firmer, but also more frustrated. «If you had been honest with me from the beginning, we wouldn’t have found ourselves in this situation.»  

Her accusatory words make me burst out laughing. A dry, bitter laugh, full of cynicism. The echo rings through the room as I approach her. «Honesty?» I repeat, sarcasm dripping from the words. «You’re talking about honesty when you’ve schemed behind my back?»  

Cassandra shakes her head, as if my words no longer have the power to hurt her. «It wasn’t scheming, Aesop. It was helping someone who’s too proud to be helped.»  

Helping. My heart beats harder, one thump after another. I move closer to her, unable to hold back my rage. «Helping, Cassandra?» I repeat, my voice trembling with anger. «And how did you think you were going to help me, when I’m forced to use a damn wheelchair when the pain is so unbearable I can barely cast a spell?»  

I look at her, staring into her eyes as if that’s the only answer I have for her. There’s no pity, no understanding in me, just anger. Anger for having thought, for a moment, that it could have been different.  

Cassandra takes a deep breath, as if trying to maintain control, trying not to give in to the tension that separates us. I see her take a step toward me, and her gaze is serious, determined, almost pitying. «Aesop, I live in two worlds: ours and the Muggle one, and you have to understand… in the Muggle world, there are surgeons. They are the equivalent of Healers, experts in healing wounds, injuries, even those that can’t be seen. And there are techniques, interventions that could help you. If only you had talked to me, if only you had let me help you…»  

I stop and look at her, my mind racing with those words. Surgeons… interventions… all of this is so far from what I’m willing to accept. I don’t want her mercy, I don’t want her to cure me, to save me.  

«Aesop,» she continues, her tone now full of frustration, «I wouldn’t have done what I did if you had only had the courage to talk to me. But you never opened up, you never made a move toward me.»  

That sentence hits me harder than I want to admit, but I can’t let her have the satisfaction of thinking she’s touched a part of me. «Oh, so now it’s my fault?» I say, my voice full of sarcasm, but also of pain I don’t want to acknowledge.  

Cassandra slams her hands on her hips, her face aflame, and no longer looks at me with the understanding she was trying to show. «Yes! It’s your fault! I apologized, Aesop! I told you I was sorry! Yet you keep making me feel like I’m the worst person in the world! But you…» her breath is quicker now, as if she’s holding back everything that’s boiling inside her. «I live with the guilt that eats at me every day. And there’s something even bigger you need to know. Something that directly concerns you, and you have no idea how much it’s costing me to say these things to you!»  

I feel almost overwhelmed by her anger, but I can’t let her win. I can’t. «I don’t want to hear anything, Cassandra,» I retort, my tone cold and detached, trying to remain firm in my decision. «We have nothing to share. Nothing to say except for what concerns our Alchemy lessons. Nothing more. And now, please, leave.»  

Her reaction comes like a hurricane. «Nothing to share? Nothing?» The words explode from her mouth like a shot, and I can see her eyes burning with rage. «We have more than you think, Aesop!»  

She yells at me, and the tension between us becomes unbearable. Every word is like a lash, every breath heavy as if we’ve put everything we didn’t want to say on the line. Yet I can’t stop, and my heart beats harder, faster, as if our shouting is destroying everything that was between us.  

Her voice is wrenching, and it’s as if every word is coming out of her with the weight of everything that has been left unsaid, of everything that divided us. And I… I can do nothing but face her, with the same intensity, with the same pride that is consuming me.  

I look at her, my eyes full of rage and pain, and a dull knot chokes me. «Cassandra, enough!» I tell her, trying to remain calm, but I feel every fiber of my body giving in. «I don’t want to hear anything more from you. I don’t want to… hear this voice of yours that just makes me feel weaker.»  

She takes a step toward me, her face twisted, her mouth ready to shout another truth that I don’t want to hear. But I don’t let her speak. «You have nothing more to say to me, Cassandra.» My voice is harsh, icy, yet there’s a tremor I can’t control. «I’ve already told you everything I needed to. Now, leave.»  

Her mouth opens, but there’s no room for words anymore. I hear her stop, her breath becoming labored as she tries to gather all the words I’ve denied her, but I leave her no chance. «Don’t come near my spaces again. Don’t talk to me unless it’s strictly necessary, unless it’s for work. Nothing more. There is nothing between us anymore.»  

Cassandra seems shocked, her hands trembling, but she doesn’t move away. Her lips move, but this time no sound comes out. We stare at each other for a moment that feels eternal, as if time has stopped, and for a moment I think we might bridge the gap between us, forgetting everything with the desire that unites us, but the pain that separates us feels like an abyss widening more and more.  

«Whatever there was between us,» I continue, my voice lower but just as sharp, «it’s gone. It’s all over.»

The words slip out like a sentence, as if I’m closing a door I no longer wish to open. The air between us turns cold, as though the tension has become an insurmountable barrier. Cassandra says nothing. But I know, I can feel it, that inside her there’s a storm she doesn’t know where to direct.

But it’s too late. There is nothing left. The silence that follows is like a tomb, and no matter how much she tries to get closer, no matter how her gaze seeks to make me succumb, I can’t handle it anymore. I can’t let her violate what little remains of me.

Cassandra stays there for a moment, motionless, as though she’s trying to memorize every corner of the room, every detail that now separates us, wanting to remember it forever. Her hands tremble imperceptibly, and I see how her lips tighten, as if trying to hold back an urgency she has no words for, and tears that have only flowed.

There is nothing left to say, I know. Not for her, not for me. Yet, I can’t help but feel the weight of what we once had. There is no magic that can return what’s been broken, no spell to bridge the gap between us.

Finally, Cassandra turns. She does it slowly, as though trying to gather every small piece of herself before leaving, as though trying not to be consumed by everything we’ve lost. But I remain still, motionless, as if seeing her for the last time, and every fiber of my body urges me to stop her, to not let her go.

But I can’t. The words I’ve said are a wall, a boundary that cannot be crossed. And she knows it too.

She approaches the door, her step heavier than it should be. Before opening it, she pauses, a moment suspended in time, as if wanting to say something but lacking the courage to speak. She’s there, just a few steps away, and her presence is more tangible than ever.

Then, without turning, she opens the door. The light from the hallway filters in, but it’s never been so cold, so distant. Cassandra begins to leave, but before disappearing down the corridor, the last look we exchange is like a blow to the heart, slow and painful.

Her eyes are filled with a sadness I can’t understand, a sadness that’s not just for what we once had, but for what we’ve become, for the inability to save ourselves. And inside me, something breaks, as if a part of me, the one that was always open to her, closes forever.

In her gaze, there’s bitterness for what she’s lost, and something more. There’s the acceptance of a love that will never be, the goodbye I never wanted, but that’s inevitable. But there’s also the pain of seeing me, finally, for what I truly am.

As for me, I don’t know what to do with that look. It’s too late, I know. And yet I can’t ignore it. It stays inside me, clinging to my skin like a scar that will never fade. There’s no goodbye, no final word. But I feel the weight of everything we could have been, slowly disappearing as she walks away. The door that closes behind her is the final trace of something I can no longer hold onto.

Inside me, regret forces its way through, but it’s too late. All that remains is an emptiness I can’t fill. And so, the silence that follows is even heavier, like an ending I can’t bring myself to accept.

Chapter 36: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

Two days have passed since that damned fight, yet his voice still echoes in my ears. ‘It’s all over. There’s nothing left.’ I wrap my arms around myself as if I could shield myself from those words, as if I could erase them. But I can’t. Every single syllable is etched inside me, like a wound that won’t heal.  

I’ve tried focusing on work, letting the lessons and the students absorb me, but it’s not enough. Every time I walk past his office or see him in the hallways, the weight of what happened crushes me. His figure, distant and impenetrable, is a constant reminder of how much I’ve lost.

And then there’s the wheelchair. I can’t get it out of my mind. The way I saw it there, beside him, and the way he tried to hide it, as if it were something to be ashamed of. I feel like an idiot for not realizing sooner. I’ve always known his leg gave him trouble, but I had no idea the pain had reached such a point. I feel guilty for not understanding, for not seeing.  

And now I wonder: how many other things don’t I know about him? How many other battles has he fought alone without letting me in? I torment myself thinking about what he said, about the cruel sarcasm with which he ridiculed my attempts to help him. ‘Help me, Cassandra? And how did you think you could help me when I’m forced to use a damn wheelchair?’ Those words are a weight, a lump in my throat I can’t swallow, one that takes my breath away.  

I can’t decide what hurts more: the fact that he has completely shut me out or the fact that he has suffered so much that he didn’t want to talk about it. I should have realized it, I should have insisted, but instead, I acted behind his back, thinking I was doing the right thing.  

I admit it: when I saw that wheelchair, I felt something I can’t describe. Not pity, because Aesop has never been someone to pity, but a deep, searing sadness. As if that chair was a symbol of everything he has lost, of everything that has made him so hard, so unyielding.  

And yet, despite everything, I can’t stop thinking about him. About how he looked at me before everything fell apart. About how he made me feel, as if, for once, there was someone who saw in me more than I could see in myself.  

But now... now I don’t know who we are anymore. I don’t know if I can still hope to mend what’s been torn or if I just have to accept that it’s all over.  

I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands clutching the sheets as if I could find some stability in that gesture. For days now, something inside me has felt... different. I don’t know how to describe it; it’s a restlessness, a subtle tension I can’t ignore. Every time I try to rationalize it, to give myself an explanation, my thoughts always come back to him.  

And yet, it’s not just that. It’s something I feel in my body, like a taut thread, a shadow creeping into my thoughts when I wake up in the morning or lose myself in memories. "It’s nothing," I tell myself, but my mind keeps racing, piecing together fragments I don’t want to see.  

That’s why I sought him out, why I pushed so hard. I needed to talk to him, to explain... but now? Now I wonder if it makes any sense. He doesn’t want anything from me anymore; he made that clear. Whatever was there, he swept it away with his anger, with his pain, and I’m left here, carrying a weight I don’t know how to bear alone.

I get up and pace the room, trying to calm myself, but my body seems to have other ideas. Every now and then, a faint tightening in my lower abdomen reminds me that something isn’t right, and I force myself to ignore it. Maybe it’s just stress, the nerves of these past few days. After everything that’s happened... yes, it must be that.

But there’s another part of me, quieter, that refuses to be silenced. A part that whispers possibilities I’m not ready to hear. Not now. Not with him shutting me out of his life, pushing me away with such violence.

I close my eyes and try to take a deep breath, but it’s not enough. The truth is, I’m scared. Of him, of what he might think, but most of all, of what this could mean for me. For us.

For us ... a phrase that now feels so distant, so out of reach. A phrase that might no longer have meaning.

My room has become a cage. Every time I try to relax, my thoughts return to torment me, sharp as thorns. I can’t keep going like this. I have to do something, anything, to free myself from this grip.

I grab a notebook and some parchment from the bedside table and head to the Alchemy classroom. No one will be there, I know. At this hour, Aesop is busy with his Potions classes. Part of me is relieved; the thought of meeting his gaze after our argument... no, I can’t do it. Not now.

When I open the door to the classroom, I’m greeted by the familiar scent of dried herbs and alchemical powders. Here, everything feels still, a small corner of the castle left untouched by the chaos in my life.

I sit at the desk, spread out the parchment, and start working. Preparing for the N.E.W.T.s is a monumental task, but it’s exactly what I need: something to keep me occupied, to force me to focus on formulas, dosages, and instructions instead of memories.

I spend a good hour like this, buried in lists of exercises and planning practical tests. When I finally look up, my body is tired, but my mind is still restless. I decide to move on to inventorying materials.

The shelves welcome me with their orderly rows of ingredients, but it doesn’t take long to realize something is wrong. My mental inventory doesn’t match the reality in front of me. Obsidian powder, gone. Valerian roots, out of stock. And then, the basic elixirs...

I let out a frustrated sigh. All the missing ingredients are, of course, in the Potions classroom.

I feel a tightness in my chest. Can I really do this? Can I walk in there, face him, and ask for what I need as if nothing has happened?

“You have no choice,” I tell myself under my breath. I can’t let my pride or Aesop’s resentment get in the way of my work.

Every step toward the Potions classroom is a battle with myself. Despite my determination not to be overwhelmed, emotions crash over me like waves. It’s strange how everything feels so distant yet so close in this moment: my body moves automatically, but inside, it’s as if time is slowing down, each second suspended in a chasm of uncertainty.

I think about our fight. His words, so harsh and merciless, still echo in my head. ‘We have nothing left to share.’ I seem to hear them with every step I take toward that door. I wonder, with a pang of pain, if they’re really true. If what we had... if it’s truly over.

With every movement, my heart races, but my breathing stays uneven, almost labored. And then there’s that knot inside me, always present, that I can’t untangle. I can’t ignore it. I can’t pretend it’s not there, just as I can’t ignore the shadow of his presence that follows me silently around every corner of the castle.

When I arrive in front of the door to the classroom, the tension in the air becomes palpable, as if the entire environment is charged with unspoken expectations, with words left unsaid.

At first, I try not to think about him. Not about how he’ll feel seeing me there, not about how hard this moment might be for both of us. I focus on the shelves, on the ingredients... but my mind keeps drifting back to him, inevitably.

“I just need to do this. That’s all,” I tell myself, but my inner voice is weak. As if, deep down, I’m fooling myself into thinking I can control everything I feel.

When I bring my hand closer to the heavy wooden door, my breathing quickens. My heart pounds like a drum, but I grit my teeth and, with a decisive motion, I knock on the door.

A moment of silence, and then Aesop’s voice comes, devoid of any expression: «Enter.»

Yet there’s something in his tone that sends a chill down my spine. As if he already knows who’s behind the door, even without seeing. When I push the door open and step into the room, his expression changes immediately. His eyes fall on me, but for a brief moment, it’s as if he doesn’t recognize me, as though surprise has stolen his voice. He freezes, and then, with a kind of hesitation I didn’t expect, he asks: «Yes, Professor Doyle?»

I find myself halfway between the slightly open door and the inside of the classroom, unable to take another step. His gaze is icy, and for a moment, I get the feeling he’s trying to hide something. A faint grimace of irritation. But I know I can’t stand frozen in the doorway, and I force myself to adopt a professional tone, even though my heart is pounding in my chest.

«Good morning, Professor Sharp. I’m sorry to interrupt your lesson, but I need to restock some ingredients for the Alchemy classroom,» I say in one breath. Yet my voice betrays me, uncertain, as I look at him.

Aesop sighs, a heavy, almost resigned exhale. To me, it feels as though his mood darkened even further at my presence, as if my request has disrupted the fragile balance of silence he had created.


«Fine,» he murmurs, turning back to the lesson he was giving his students. «Go ahead,» he says, with a calmness devoid of any warmth, «but please be quick. I have lessons to finish.»

I nod, trying to keep myself composed. I feel like a stranger. I step closer, trying to relax the tension in my muscles, focusing on the task at hand and pushing aside how I feel.

But I can’t help noticing his stern expression, the way he’s thrown himself back into his work, avoiding any eye contact with me. Today, more than ever, he seems surrounded by an impenetrable wall. The Potions classroom has never felt so oppressive, and the silence between us stretches endlessly.

«Amortentia,» he says, his tone darker than I’ve ever heard. «The most powerful love potion in the world. Capable of inspiring passion, desire... and perhaps, pain as well.»

His gaze is fixed on the students, feigning indifference, but the tension in the air is palpable. I wonder if he, too, is thinking about all that remains unresolved between us, about how this lesson, today, feels more like a reflection of reality than a simple day of studies.

I move forward, step by step, trying not to draw too much attention to myself, yet feeling his presence like a heavy shadow stretching across the entire room. The students remain still, their eyes locked on Aesop, but the silence is dense, oppressive, as if simply standing before “Professor Sharp” is enough to make the atmosphere even heavier. Every chair creaks as I pass, and the noise seems magnified a thousand times over. I feel as though I’m walking through a veil of tension, woven from sidelong glances and held breaths.

Aesop continues speaking, his cold and authoritative voice resonating through the classroom as he describes the properties of Amortentia, the most powerful love potion in existence, capable of eliciting an irresistible and uncontrollable passion. «Each person experiences their deepest desire, their unspoken love, their obsession,» he says, the words leaving his mouth as if they carry no emotional weight, yet they hit me like a punch to the stomach. «But beware, for once Amortentia has been consumed, the victim can no longer distinguish between true love and illusion. And the risk, in that case, is that love turns into obsession.»

The students scribble notes quickly, none of them truly aware of how dangerous a misplaced love can be. What Amortentia never tells you, however, is that love can also be a poison, one that destroys you from the inside, a substance that leaves you breathless. It’s an idea that, paradoxically, feels even more true at this moment.

«Can anyone tell me what sets Amortentia apart from all other love potions?» Aesop asks, his voice vibrating with a cold curiosity. He lifts his gaze from his notes to address the students, but he never meets my eyes. Not today. Perhaps not ever again.

I move silently toward the shelves, trying to focus on the task at hand: finding the ingredients I need and leaving as quickly as possible. But every step I take seems to echo in my mind, pulling me further away from my goal. I know he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye as I turn toward the right wing and approach the ingredient section. I can’t help but feel his gaze, heavy with disapproval, following me from a distance, though he tries to hide it behind a mask of indifference. The tension between us is so palpable I could almost touch it.

As I grab a few bottles and vials, his words hang in the air again, though this time they aren’t meant for me. They’re directed at the students. «Remember, Amortentia isn’t measured solely by its physical sensations but by what it evokes in the soul. It’s a potion that binds heart and mind. And it is dangerous.»

I pause for a moment, my hand gripping a bottle, and I wonder if he’s also thinking about us, about what we shared. That passion that seemed so real, so uncontrollable, as though it could have turned into love. But now, all that’s left is distance, silence, disappointment.

Alice Haywood, as lively as always, raises her hand with the enthusiasm of someone who knows they have the right answer. It’s no surprise: every time Amortentia is discussed, girls like her are always the first to speak up. Her bright voice fills the room, and her eyes sparkle as she answers, «What sets Amortentia apart from other potions, Professor, is that it smells different to each person. Because everyone perceives the scent of what they love most.»

Aesop looks at her for a moment, his face as impassive as ever, then asks in a tone that leaves no room for doubt, «And for you, Miss Haywood, what scent does it evoke?»

The girl beams, visibly pleased to have been called upon, and answers without hesitation, «For me, it’s the scent of white roses. They remind me of my childhood, when I would walk in the garden at home with my mother.»

Aesop nods slowly, as if weighing her response, then, with a small tilt of his head, awards five points to Hufflepuff. «Very well, Miss Haywood. Five points for your accuracy»

The class seems almost relieved by her response, breaking the tension slightly, but Aesop doesn’t stop there. In his usual cold manner, he throws out another, more provocative question: «Is anyone else brave enough to smell the Amortentia and confess what it smells like to them?»

Nervous laughter and embarrassed giggles ripple through the desks. The students exchange uneasy glances, reluctant to share their deepest secrets, something they might not even fully understand themselves. Some laugh nervously, others shrink back, as though the very thought of smelling the potion unsettles them.

I feel the discomfort rising within me. Every laugh, every nervous chuckle only adds to the weight of the atmosphere in the room. It’s not the scent of cauldrons or the smoke curling into arched spirals that makes everything so oppressive; it’s something deeper, a tension so thick it could be cut with a knife. It’s the way I feel watched, judged, as if my mere presence is disrupting the natural order of things. A growing irritation begins to build within me.

I move the bottle in my hand, trying not to dwell on how heavy my body feels, how difficult it’s becoming to focus on what I’m doing. My breathing grows shorter as the air in the classroom seems to grow denser, and the sound of the laughter, of Aesop’s words, all seems to fade away.

My mind is muddled. Despite everything, I can’t stop thinking about how much I wish I weren’t here, hadn’t stepped into this classroom, hadn’t asked him to resupply me. But I did. And now I find myself here, surrounded by a crowd of students who probably don’t even understand how much it hurts when a heart shatters.

Some of them, emboldened at last, dare to approach the cauldron and breathe in the Amortentia. The laughter subsides, giving way to a growing curiosity with every passing moment. I watch as, one by one, they lean over the fragrant vapor, as if unveiling a part of themselves no one else knows. The scene makes me feel even more like an outsider, as though I’ve become invisible to the others, trapped in my own thoughts, my own shame.

Then Alice steps forward with an even wider, almost conspiratorial smile. «Professor, what about your Amortentia?» she asks with a mischievous tone, a bit too sure of herself. «What does your love potion smell like?»

A wave of giggles ripples through the class. Something stirs within me. I feel immediately uncomfortable, as if I’ve just done something forbidden. The question is far from innocent, yet no one expects a truly honest answer. Everyone knows Aesop isn’t the type to talk about himself, least of all something so personal. And yet, the question carries weight. It slides under my skin, making me feel even more unsettled.

Aesop hesitates for a moment, then looks at the class with an expression that doesn’t hide his reluctance. But the students persist, urging him on, their curiosity now fully ignited. He can’t back out anymore.

Finally, he sighs, as though wanting to rid himself of the bothersome request. Without a word, he steps closer to the cauldron and, with a slowness I find almost unbearable, leans down to hover his face above the vapor. «Mmh,” he says, as if thinking aloud. «Whiskey, leather… and…» Then, with a tone that betrays the slightest hesitation, he adds, «… jasmine.»

My heart leaps in my chest. Jasmine. The perfume I always wear. The one he distilled for me at Christmas, a silent token, a promise. Jasmine, which now burns in my senses, leaves me feeling dazed, overwhelmed. Aesop’s words sound hollow, yet the scent of that flower now seems to linger in the air, as if it’s filling every corner of the classroom. My scent.

My back stiffens. My head spins, my heart pounds so loudly I fear everyone can hear it. My breath comes in broken gasps, as though I’ve just run for miles. I don’t know if I can endure this much longer.

I can’t look at him. Not now. But against my will, my eyes shift slightly, and I see him. Aesop is doing the same. Our gazes meet for an instant, just a moment, but it’s enough to make me feel as though time has stopped, as though everything we’d lived together has resurfaced, chaining me to it once again. In both our eyes, the same clear awareness of what that seemingly mundane scent truly means.

Then he looks away, and so do I, a knot tightening in my stomach.

I grip the last of the ingredients I need, trying not to let anything show—what I’m feeling, what’s consuming me inside. That’s enough. I need to leave, to get out of this room. I can’t stay here a second longer.

I rush toward the door of the classroom, not stopping to look at anything else. The only thing I care about now is getting away. But just as I pass Aesop’s large circular table, I hear a young voice call out to me, stopping me with a smile that seems far too innocent for what I deserve.

«Professor» says one of the students, a Slytherin boy, his curious grin widening as he looks at me. «Why don’t you tell us what your Amortentia smells like?»

My heart stops, as if it’s been thrown back in time. The boy knows nothing about me, about what’s happening. His question strikes me like a whip, making me falter. I can’t refuse; in their eyes, I have no reason to. Not after even Aesop allowed himself to reveal, perhaps unintentionally, such a deeply personal part of himself.

I approach the cauldron on Aesop’s table. «Very well,» I say reluctantly. My body is tense, my mind still reeling. I’m almost convinced that the air in this room is no longer that of a Potions classroom but something far more intangible, something that makes me feel like I’m walking a fine line that could snap at any moment.

I lean down slightly, trying not to draw too much attention or seem too uncomfortable. I inhale. The scent of the Amortentia immediately fills my senses, so intense that for a moment, the world seems to vanish, replaced only by the vivid images evoked by the smells.

«There’s freshly baked bread,» I say, «warm and comforting; books; the sweet and soothing aroma of vanilla, and then… then mandarin.»

Mandarin.

It takes a moment to realize, but it’s him. It’s that sharp, fresh scent I noticed for the first time on September 1st at the table, when it struck me out of nowhere, like I had come across something utterly unique and unrepeatable. It’s Aesop’s scent, hidden among the notes of sandalwood and clove. And now, suddenly, it hits me with the same intensity—a mix of sweetness and freshness that feels like trying to bring order to something that, instead, is throwing me completely off balance.

Unintentionally, I glance up, and what I see makes me lose even more control. Aesop is looking at me. His eyes are locked on mine, intense, as if he’s waiting for something, perhaps a confirmation. The realization takes hold of me, and it’s as if he’s silently listening, waiting to hear the truth—the truth that, with every breath, has slipped into our lives without either of us ever truly naming it.

It’s me. The jasmine is me. His Amortentia smells like me, just as mine smells like him. And I can’t stop thinking about how this discovery, despite everything that has happened between us, makes me feel. I can’t. Not now.

I straighten up, furrowing my brow in an attempt to mask the turmoil churning inside me. I can’t afford to show him anything—not the slightest crack in my façade. «Thank you,” I murmur, making sure not to meet his eyes again, and I quickly leave, stepping out of the Potions classroom.

When I reach the Alchemy Classroom, my breathing grows heavier but steadier. Yet my heart pounds wildly, my legs tremble, and my mind is a tangled mess of thoughts, each colliding with the other, unable to untangle themselves. I sit at my desk, attempting to focus, to recover from what just happened, but the truth hits me like a punch to the stomach—the same truth I had tried to ignore, the one I’ve been pushing away since the beginning.

There is no escape.

The truth is there, in our gazes, in the Amortentia and the jasmine, in the mandarin and my thoughts. And now, I have to face it all.

I start organizing the ingredients on the shelves to distract myself, but my mind is a whirlwind of thoughts crashing into each other without finding a way out. I wonder, with a knot tightening in my stomach, why Aesop insists on not speaking to me despite the reality of it all. Why he doesn’t reach out, doesn’t try to have a conversation like two adults, like two people who might have a chance at understanding each other. Why the distance between us has become an impenetrable wall, and why he does nothing to tear it down.

Amortentia doesn’t lie, and the jasmine that came alive in the cauldron—the scent now so overwhelming it makes my head spin and feels suffocating—is a revelation I can no longer ignore. If he smelled my scent, it’s because he loves me, just as I love him. Love doesn’t lie. It can’t. It’s not possible. My mind clings to that certainty as if it were the only lifeline in a stormy sea.

But then, all at once, a wave of cold washes over me—sharp and blinding, like an icy surge of disdain and rejection. Everything he’s said, everything he’s done, the way he pushed me away, drags me back down, burning away any fragile glimmer of hope I had tried to nurture.

I can’t let him win. I can’t let him close the door on everything we’ve been with a final, resounding slam. It can’t end like this. We can’t remain in this limbo forever, suspended between unspoken words and truths whispered by scents. For me, for him, for everything we’ve shared, there must at least be an explanation. I have to give him the chance to explain. I have to give myself the chance to understand if it’s truly over or if there’s still something to save, something to salvage.

I move quickly, my heart racing, my mind a whirlwind of determination. “Tonight, or never,” I mutter to myself, as if the thought were the last thread tethering me to clarity. I can’t wait any longer. I can’t keep being a passive witness to our mutual suffering. It’s time to face everything, to lay it all on the line.

I sit at the desk and pick up the quill, my trembling hands mocking me for what I’m about to do. Aesop would call it “going behind his back,” but I don’t care. He wouldn’t have allowed me to do what I intend to, even if I’d asked him openly. So, I may as well do it alone, one last time.

I write a brief message, and once it’s finished, I carefully fold the parchment, trying to ignore the wild beating of my heart. There’s no more time for doubts. No more room for hesitation.

I take the note and, without stopping, leave the school. I cross the green lawn, the relentless rain soaking my skin, and the wind whipping my hair against my face. I don’t care to cover myself or seek shelter. All that matters is reaching the Owlery, tying the note to an owl’s leg, and sending it to Hogsmeade.

I shut the Owlery door behind me with difficulty, fighting against the wind, and push my dripping hair out of my face. I climb to the top, where the owls sleep with their heads tucked under their wings, clearly displeased at being disturbed on such a stormy day.

I choose the sturdiest-looking owl, one that seems strong enough to face the rough weather. «I’m sorry,» I say, «but I wouldn’t disturb you if it weren’t important.»

As if understanding, the owl shakes its wings and body, resigning itself to my request. I fasten the note securely to its leg, ensuring it’s well protected beneath its soft feathers. I stroke its round head and meet its yellow eyes.

«Parry Pippin. Hogsmeade,» I say simply, and the owl takes off, disappearing into the wind and the cruel, grey clouds.

I retrace my steps, getting drenched all over again. I must look insane, but I don’t care. I care about nothing except Aesop.

Once inside the castle, I walk to the Faculty Tower and then up to the Prefects’ Bathroom. I wash and dry my hair, restoring some semblance of order to my appearance. I return to the quarters I share with Aesop and sit in an armchair, patient, waiting for him to return.

Chapter 37: SHARP

Chapter Text

The students leave the classroom amid laughter and chatter, but I remain seated, my gaze fixed on the desk. The bell signals dinner time, but I’m not hungry. There’s a knot in my throat I can’t untangle, let alone enough to swallow anything.

The lesson on Amortentia has left me drained, exhausted, as if I’ve fought an invisible battle.
Which, in a sense, I have.

I bend to gather my notes, the movement pulling painfully at my leg. The cold of these past days has reignited an ache I try to ignore. There’s no potion or spell that can truly help, but the real pain, the one that lingers, lies elsewhere.

Jasmine.

The word echoes in my mind, over and over. I can still smell it, faint yet persistent—the scent that hit me when I breathed in that damned potion. A part of me had hoped I was mistaken, that it was just my imagination. But the truth is there, clearer than I care to admit.

A simple potion has reached a place I refuse to go. It forces me to confront what I’ve tried to deny:
I love Cassandra.

But loving her means questioning everything I am. This new scent... it marks a fracture. It’s a clean break from the past I’m not ready to accept, a boundary I’m not prepared to cross. And above all, to give in to this feeling would mean putting Cassandra in danger, making her vulnerable to the world’s cruelty and mercilessness. After everything that has happened in my life, I am not willing to live through that kind of trauma a second time.

I head toward the Faculty Tower, one step after another, as if the weight of the world has settled onto my shoulders. I’ve always hated the arrogance with which certain emotions can overwhelm everything, and the realization of my feelings has come cruel and unrelenting, like a curse with no hope of forgiveness. I understood it too late, and now I can't do anything about it. What angers me most, though, is that this potion, so simple in its complexity, arrived at the truth long before I did.

But what does any of this mean, if Cassandra and I have nothing left to share? If there’s no longer space for us?

When I finally reach the door to my quarters, the thought of entering and isolating myself for the rest of the day is the only relief I can cling to. But as soon as I open it, every thought freezes.

Cassandra is there.

Sitting in the armchair by the fireplace, sitting straight as a rod, her face serious, her gaze fixed on me. She looks at me as if she’s been waiting for me.

The surprise paralyzes me. I feel my breath catch for a moment, and I try to mask the unease by leaning against the door as I close it.

"Cassandra," I manage to say in the end, my voice steadier than I expected. "What are you doing here?"

"You know, I live here," she replies.

I look at her, surprised by her curt response, which irritates me more than it should. Her eyes, however, betray the seriousness of the occasion, and I realize she’s not here to exchange pleasantries.

"Cassandra, I don’t have time for—" I begin, but she interrupts me, suddenly rising from the chair.

"No, enough with your excuses, Aesop," she snaps. "We need to talk."

My first instinct is to run. I want to move away, lock myself in my bedroom, seal that door with every spell I know. But I know it wouldn’t work: if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that Cassandra doesn’t give up. Never.

"We have nothing to say to each other," I retort, trying to remain calm.

"Oh, yes, we do," she fires back, her tone sharpening. "Shall we talk about Amortentia, for example?"

I feel it like a knife wound. My breath catches for a moment, and my gaze hardens. "That’s not a topic for a professional conversation, Cassandra."

She laughs, a bitter sound that makes my fists clench. "Professional? Really, Aesop? Now you’re using formality as a shield? You’re ridiculous."

"Ridiculous, huh?" I reply, my voice rising an octave. "You’re the one who shows up in my class without announcing yourself, who stays here interrogating me, who forces me to dredge up things that should remain buried."

"They’re not things to bury!" she snaps, her face flushed with anger. "You know as well as I do that you can’t ignore what happened today. What you felt. Why won’t you talk about it? Why can’t you ever be honest, even with yourself?"

Her words strike where it hurts the most. "And you, Cassandra? What’s all this sudden insistence? Why can’t you just let it go?"

"Because it concerns both of us!" she shouts, taking a step toward me. "Because what we felt—"

"Doesn’t mean anything!" I yell, cutting her off. My voice echoes through the room, full of anger and despair.

She stops, surprised by the vehemence of my reaction, but only for a moment. Then she grits her teeth, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "It means everything, Aesop. But you’re too cowardly to admit it."

Those words are the last straw. "And you’re too stubborn to understand that some things are better left where they are," I growl.

"Not this time," she replies, her voice breaking. "Not this time, Aesop."

We stare at each other, both furious, both on the edge of an explosive confrontation. There is no room left for civil words, only a war of emotions that neither of us wants to fight, but which seems inevitable.

My breath becomes irregular, and the pain in my leg pulses in sync with the frantic beat of my heart. But it’s not just my leg that hurts; it’s her, this conversation, this battle that’s pushing me toward an emotional cliff.

"Aesop," Cassandra begins, her voice cracked but determined. "Please, listen to me. There’s something important I need to tell you."

"No, Cassandra," I reply sharply, raising a hand to stop her. "I don’t want to hear it. Whatever you’re about to say, it won’t change anything."

She clenches her fists. "You can’t keep doing this, ignoring what’s between us. You can’t pretend nothing happened today!"

"I’m not pretending," I retort, my voice lower but no less harsh. "I’m accepting reality. The most rational thing is for us both to leave this... thing behind. It won’t lead to anything, Cassandra."

"It won’t lead to anything?" she bursts out, incredulous. "Really? Then explain this, Aesop: if there’s nothing between us, why does your Amortentia smell like me? And why does mine smell like you?"

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I lower my gaze, searching for an answer, a way to deny what we both know to be true. But she doesn’t give me space.

"It means we love each other!" she yells, her voice breaking with tears she can no longer hold back. "And you know it! You know it, Aesop! So why won’t you admit it? Why won’t you admit you love me?"

"Because I can’t!" I explode, my voice so loud it drowns hers. "I can’t love you, Cassandra. I can’t allow myself!"

She stares at me, shocked, and I see the pain cross her face. But I can’t stop now; it’s as if a dam has broken.

"You can’t allow yourself?" she repeats, her voice incredulous, almost whispered.

"I can’t!" I shout again, nearly overwhelmed by emotion. "And do you know why? Because loving you would mean forgetting Mabel!"

Her breath catches, and I feel the cold settle in the room.

"My Amortentia," I continue, my voice trembling with the anger and pain of revealing the darkest part of me, "until today, until that damn moment, it always smelled like lavender. The smell of Mabel. The smell of the woman I was supposed to marry, the one I lost in the ambush at Scarborough. That night, I didn’t just lose my leg and my job, Cassandra. I lost her, and with her, a part of me that will never come back."

"Why are you telling me this?" she whispers, tears silently running down her cheeks.

"Because I’m not ready to let her go," I admit, my voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "And I’m not ready to live with you, knowing I could lose you the way I lost her. I don’t want you to be in danger by my side, for my arrogance to hurt you. I can’t face that kind of pain again. I can’t, Cassandra."

The silence that follows is unbearable. She says nothing, and I can’t bring myself to look at her. Finally, the weight of the truth has come out, but there’s no relief, only a devastating emptiness.

Cassandra shakes her head, incredulous, as if trying to banish the words she just heard. "No, Aesop. You can’t shut everything down like this. You can’t keep deciding for me as if you know what I want or what will make me free."

I snort, almost laughing bitterly. "And what do you think freedom means, Cassandra? Standing by the side of a man who can’t even walk for more than an hour without pain? A man who has to calculate every step, every movement, who might not even be able to get up on some days?"

"I—" she tries to retort, but I cut her off with a cold tone, full of sarcasm.

"Let me remind you, Cassandra. Do you know how many times, when we were together outside of Hogwarts, I had to pretend I was fine? Do you know how many times I stood through excruciating pain just to not slow you down, just to not be a burden? Is that what you want by your side? A crippled man who would spend his time apologizing for his existence and would end up denying you the chance to truly be yourself?"

My words are sharp, heavy like blades cutting through the air. Cassandra’s breath catches, but I soon realize it’s not pain that has immobilized her. It’s anger, pure fury, burning in her eyes.

"You don’t know anything!" she screams, her voice vibrating through the room. "You don’t know what I want, what I feel, what freedom means to me! You don’t even know what it means to have someone accept you for who you are, Aesop! I accept you. I’ve always accepted you, even when you couldn’t do it with yourself!"

"You don’t know what you’re talking about," I reply, but my voice is no longer as strong. Her words, though I try to deny them, strike me like silver bullets. But I have to dodge them.

"Oh yes, I do," she continues, stepping toward me. "Do you think I need a perfect life, no complications? Do you really think what’s holding me back is your leg? You have no idea what it means to love someone, because love isn’t perfect, Aesop. It’s accepting the imperfections, living through them together."

"It’s easy to say these things when you’re here, at Hogwarts, surrounded by safe walls," I retort, raising a finger to stop her. "But outside, in the real world, pain, immobility, the weight of what I’ve become are a reality you can’t ignore. Forget Egypt, forget that brief moment when things seemed to work. That’s not the world I live in."

"But it could be!" she cries, and for a moment her voice cracks. "You know we were fine there. You know that for a moment you even forgot the pain. Don’t deny it, Aesop!"

I shake my head, turning my back to her, my voice growing darker, more distant. "It doesn’t matter. We can’t keep fooling ourselves. Forget any crazy idea you’ve had in mind, Cassandra. Forget everything."

The tension grips my chest as Cassandra comes closer again, her face marked by tears and determination. I know what she’s about to say, yet I can’t stop her, can’t prevent her from reopening that wound.

"You can’t ignore what happened in Egypt!" she repeats. Her voice trembles, but not from weakness—it's strength. "You know what we lived through there. You know what it meant. But what you don’t know is that—"

My patience, already hanging by a thread, snaps. "Enough!" I yell at her, cutting her off, my tone so sharp it even surprises me. "I don’t want to hear another word about Egypt or what you think happened between us!"

She flinches, but doesn’t back down. Her eyes lock on mine, full of pain and rage. "Why won’t you listen to me?" she yells, her voice breaking mid-sentence.

"Because we have nothing left to say to each other, Cassandra," I reply, cold. Each word is a knife I carve into us, into our skin and hearts, hoping to sever whatever remains.

But she doesn’t give up. "That’s not true!" she insists, desperation in her voice that I can’t bear.

"Leave!" I shout, my hand pointing to the door. "I don’t want you here, Cassandra. Leave me alone!"

Cassandra hesitates for a moment, the pain that crosses her face hitting me like a lash. But then she straightens up, her eyes glossy and resolute. "You can kick me out, Aesop. But you can’t stop me from acting on my own. You have no right to veto my decisions."

My heart stops for a moment. "Cassandra..." I begin, but she has already thrown open the door, ready to leave.

"Don’t do anything stupid," I chase after her, unable to keep the tone of worry from my voice. "Don’t put yourself in danger. Cassandra, please."

She’s already on the stairs, looking at me for just a moment before continuing. "You said we have nothing left to say to each other, right?" she yells from a distance, her voice broken but determined. "Then leave me alone! How did you put it? Oh, yes: forget me!"

I watch her run down the stairs, the sound of her footsteps fading, and it’s as though each step she takes is another one toward the abyss opening inside me. I stand there, helpless, unable to follow her. The words I should’ve said remain stuck in my throat, and for a moment all I hear is the silence filling the room, a deafening emptiness that presses on my chest.

I stand still for a long while, my breath still ragged from the argument, but it’s her absence that makes me tremble. That damn door wide open seems to swallow everything: the warmth of the room, the control I desperately try to maintain, even the air itself.

I can do nothing but stay here, with a weight on my chest that suffocates me. That determination in her eyes... It’s not the usual impulse, the one I know and sometimes even find irritating. It’s something else, something deeper. It unsettles me, shakes me. I don’t know what she has in mind, but the mere thought makes me uneasy.

I move to the window, trying to peer into the darkness enveloping Hogwarts. But the night is impenetrable, and she’s gone. Only the cold wind brushing against the tower gives me the answer: she’s not here anymore. Not in my line of sight, not in my control, not... with me.

The thought is unbearable, and before I can let the anxiety consume me entirely, I pour myself a shot of scotch. The bottle is always there, a faithful companion in moments like this. I take a sip, the warm liquid burning my throat, and I fool myself into thinking it’s enough to banish the thoughts.

But it isn’t.

Her words keep echoing in my mind. The tone, the way she said "Forget me." As if I could. As if it were truly possible. I grip the glass harder than necessary, staring at the amber liquid.

Don’t think. Don’t worry.

I have to repeat this mantra to myself, but every time I close my eyes, I see her gaze. Every time the silence deepens, I hear her voice.

And then that premonition returns, dark and relentless. It’s more than an idea, it’s almost a certainty: Cassandra is going to do something.

And I won’t be there by her side.

Chapter 38: CASSANDRA

Notes:

TW: this chapter contains explicit references to an attempted sexual assault. Please read it at your own discretion and do whatever makes you feel safe ❤️

Chapter Text

I cross the grounds of Hogwarts with the hood of my cloak pulled low over my head, but the rain, which hasn’t stopped pouring, still manages to sneak down my neck and soak my hair. It’s one of those nights when it feels like the sky wants to pour all its sorrow onto the world, and perhaps it’s fitting, given my devastated state of mind. I didn’t even take the time to dry my eyes before leaving the Faculty Tower, but it hardly matters. No one will see me along the muddy path to Hogsmeade, much less realize that it isn’t just the rain trailing down my cheeks.

Every step is an affront to the cold surrounding me, but the real chill is inside. Thoughts of Aesop hammer incessantly in my mind, accompanied by his words: ‘I cannot love you because it would mean forgetting Mabel.’ I don’t need to recreate the scene in my mind—those words follow me like a constant echo, bouncing off every thought and shattering it.

Mabel. His ex-fiancée. Dead in Scarborough, in the ambush that made him what he is today, both in body and spirit. He had mentioned the ambush once, in a rare moment when it seemed there was a truce between us, but he had never spoken of a woman, let alone one so important to him.

But now... now I know it isn’t just a painful memory. It’s a weight he has been dragging behind him for years, a burden he refuses to let go of. A trauma that has shaped his entire life, marking a before and an after —an event that has prevented him from loving a second time until... until I entered his life.

A flash of lightning illuminates the path ahead, followed by a thunderclap that shakes the ground beneath my feet. The rain seems to intensify, but I don’t slow down. I can’t afford to. I have a meeting with Parry Pippin at the Three Broomsticks, and I can’t be late.

I sent him an owl this afternoon, explicitly detailing everything I knew, and I made it clear that there was no point in pretending or ignoring my requests. I described Aesop’s physical condition and hinted at his emotional state—not enough to reveal what happened, but enough to convince Pippin not to refuse a meeting to discuss what he knows about the cure.

The cure... Finding it has become all that’s left for me, the only thread tethering me to hope. Despite everything, I still want to help Aesop, even though he hates me for it. But if I could discover something useful, if I could prove to him that the past doesn’t have to be a prison... maybe, just maybe, he could see a future.

The wind howls around me, nearly tearing the cloak from my shoulders, but finally, I spot the flickering lights of Hogsmeade. The Three Broomsticks is a beacon in the darkness, the fire inside promising warmth and a temporary refuge.

A noise behind me makes me stiffen immediately. My heart speeds up, and my hand slides to the wand tucked into the inner pocket of my cloak. I look around, peering into the shadows of the path cloaked in rain and wind. It’s an automatic reflex, an instinct I’ve learned to follow ever since I demanded my independence—not without its costs. After all, I am a woman walking alone at night, and the world has never been kind to us.

I grip my wand tightly, ready for anything. My breath catches for a moment until I see a figure approaching slowly, their steps sure but slightly unsteady on the muddy ground. I relax my grip on the wand when I recognize him: Aleister Rookwood.

I watch him carefully, though my hood partially obscures my face. He’s a student at Hogwarts, a familiar presence. Of course, familiarity doesn’t mean trust—since my return from Egypt, he hasn’t missed a chance to throw sharp, nasty remarks my way, reminding me that I didn’t choose him. In general, he’s despised me from the start because of my lineage. But he’s still a schoolboy, not a threat. I tell myself I can let go of the tension clouding my thoughts.

As he approaches, the sound of his boots squelching in the mud nearly drowns out the sound of my own breathing. Then, with a flash of lightning that splits the sky above us, I catch a glimpse of his expression. It’s not neutral, not distracted, as it should be for a boy walking in the rain. It’s a cruel sneer, smug and twisted.

A sinister chill runs down my spine, tightening my throat. I can’t move for a moment, paralyzed by a blind and deafening terror. But I stay rooted in place, my heart pounding in my ears, as Aleister keeps walking. His gaze doesn’t fall on me, but there’s something off, something that nails me to the ground.

Why do I have the feeling that tonight, the shadows aren’t just in my mind?

I’m frozen, my breathing shallow, my body refusing the command to move. The air around me has grown heavier, and there’s a faint sound, almost imperceptible, of movement. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch figures emerging from the shadows, one after another. Are there two, or maybe three? Before I can react, I realize I’m surrounded.

The invisible grip of fear tightens around my chest, but there’s no time to let it fully surface. A flash of light strikes me from behind, and my wand slips from my hand. It arcs perfectly through the air, landing with a dull thud on the muddy ground. I turn instinctively, but I can’t see who disarmed me.

A wave of adrenaline surges through me, but it’s not enough to quell the vulnerability seeping into my bones, making me feel like prey caught in a trap. Before I can scream, take a step, or even draw a deep breath, a voice cuts through the silence, dripping with sarcasm.

«Well, well, who do we have here?» Aleister Rookwood’s voice is cold and mocking, his tone enough to churn my stomach. «Professor Doyle, out wandering all alone? Without Professor Sharp to play bodyguard?»

I see him moving casually, his rain-soaked cloak clinging to his slender frame as he watches me with a cruel smirk. «Or without that useless lapdog Dumbledore trailing after you?»

His words sting like needles, but the chill I feel inside comes more from my own helplessness than his taunts. I force myself to meet his gaze, even though my heart is pounding so loudly I fear he might hear it too. I won’t let him see my fear, even if, right now, it’s the only thing I can feel.

«Mr. Rookwood,» I manage to say, my voice steady despite the tightness gripping my chest. «What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be at school?» I try to mask the tremor threatening to creep into my words. The rain beats down incessantly, but it doesn’t drown out the murmurs of the others—indistinct figures moving around me, tightening the circle, laughing under their breath.

Aleister halts suddenly, his grin widening as though amused by my question. «At school?» he repeats, letting out a laugh that sends shivers down my spine. «Professor, please. Don’t tell me you’re trying to play the responsible adult right now.» He steps closer, tilting his head in that theatrical way of his that I’ve always found infuriating.

«You? So young and already indulging in illicit dalliances with Professor Sharp.» My jaw tightens ever so slightly, but he notices and presses on. «Oh, come now, you don’t think everyone’s unaware, do you?» He chuckles to himself, a slimy, unhealthy laugh.

«You see,» he continues, his hands slipping casually into his cloak pockets, «it’s a fortuitous—or should I say fortunate—coincidence that our paths should cross tonight. It’s not every day you find a teacher so... exposed.»

His voice lowers, his smile turning more malicious. «Perhaps, finally, we can settle our differences. What do you think, Professor Doyle?»

His words hang in the air, laden with a threat that doesn’t need to be spelled out. I clench my fists, trying to maintain control, but without my wand and with those shadowy figures closing in around me, my mind races frantically for an escape.

«We have no differences to settle, Mr. Rookwood,» I say, keeping my tone as firm as I can manage. I straighten, refusing to succumb to the fear gripping my chest. «I am your teacher, not your peer. Whatever grievances you have don’t justify this behavior.»

«No differences?» he repeats with a derisive laugh. He glances toward the others, as if inviting them to share in his amusement. «Did you hear that? No differences, she says. Ah, Professor Doyle, you’re always so superior. So eager to dish out judgments and life lessons.»

He takes another step forward, his hands still buried in his cloak pockets. «You know what? You have an extraordinary talent for putting yourself on a pedestal. But tell me—how’s the view from up there? Still convinced you have all the answers? That you know what’s best for all of us?»

«That’s not true, I—» I begin, but he cuts me off, raising a finger. He nods toward someone behind me, and immediately, hands grip my arms, holding me in place. I try to pull away, but their grip is strong.

«Ah, ah, Professor,» Aleister murmurs, tilting his head with a self-satisfied grin. «Don’t struggle. It’s not very... dignified, is it?»

I grit my teeth, my heart hammering as I watch him step closer. «Aleister, you’re making a terrible mistake,» I say.

«Do you know what the problem is, Professor?» he continues, ignoring me, his tone growing sharper. «It’s the way you’ve always treated me. Calling me out in class, punishing me like some stupid child, giving me extra assignments as if your time is more valuable than mine. And then,» he adds, leaning in with a sneer, «the luxury of giving me advice. On how I should behave, how I should handle my emotions. As if I were some project for you to fix.»

«Aleister, that’s my job—»

«Your job !» he explodes, raising his voice for the first time. «Of course, always your job! As if a pathetic journalist could suddenly teach! And how could I forget your latest, brilliant move? Choosing another student as Hogwarts’ Alchemical Excellence. Someone else instead of me! After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve proven. You had the gall to do that to me.»

The venom in his tone hits me like a punch to the gut. His face is a mask of anger and resentment, his sneering grin replaced by something far sharper, more malicious. For the first time, I realize just how deeply Aleister has harbored this hostility.

«You don’t know who you’ve crossed,» Rookwood hisses, his voice heavy with cold, calculated rage. His eyes lock onto mine with such intensity that for a moment, I feel the chill pierce through my very bones.

I’m about to respond, trying to regain some semblance of control, but he doesn’t give me the chance. With a cruel smile, he raises his wand and speaks firmly: «Incarcerous!»

Before I can react, thick, dark ropes shoot out from his wand, writhing through the air like hungry predators. They wrap around me with relentless force, tightening around my arms and torso. Reflexively, I struggle, trying to free myself, but I only make things worse and fall to the ground, each movement worsening my situation. The ropes tighten even more, suffocating every attempt at resistance.

«Aleister, stop!» I scream, my voice cracking from the pressure of the ropes, trying in vain to dissuade him from whatever criminal plan he has in mind. But he simply tilts his head, the smirk on his face fiercer than ever.

«I think it's time to teach you a lesson, Professor Doyle,» he says, taking a step closer. His tone is cold, but full of satisfaction. «It's time for you to learn what happens when you go up against a Rookwood and act obediently»

My mind races, trying to find a way to react, to buy time. But the ropes keep tightening, suffocating me both physically and emotionally, and I'm without my wand. He watches me, relishing every second of my torment, surrounded by four unfamiliar, but likely unsavory, individuals—probably old acquaintances of his father.

«Aleister, please... don't do anything stupid,» I manage to say, my voice trembling more from anger than fear. I know that showing fear will only give him the satisfaction he craves, but panic begins to seep into me, a silent, paralyzing wave.

He, however, shows no intention of stopping. On the contrary, my words seem to amuse him. A cold, cruel laugh slips from his lips, soon followed by the crude laughter of his henchmen, who watch me like vultures ready to feast.

One of them steps forward and picks up my wand from the ground, twirling it between his fingers with a satisfied smile. «What should we do with this, Aleister?» he asks, and from his tone, I realize he’s not talking about my wand, but about me.

Rookwood raises a hand to stop him. «I want the honor,» he says, his voice dripping with studied superiority.

My breath catches when I see his wand rise, aimed directly at me. «Aleister, don't do it,» I whisper, trying to maintain calm in the face of the impending danger, but he doesn’t listen.

«Diffindo,» he pronounces with a firm, merciless tone.

The magic strikes me like an invisible blade. I feel the fabric of my cloak tear, followed by the shirt beneath it, which rips apart like fragile paper. The cold rain immediately hits the exposed skin of my chest, a jarring contrast to the sudden warmth spreading from the long cut opening on my flesh.

Even the ropes that had been constricting me snap under the spell, but I don’t have time to appreciate the brief advantage before filthy hands twist my wrists behind my back; I feel someone's knee between my shoulder blades, and I’m immobilized, trapped. Shame and fear take hold of me, rising up my throat like acid, as my exposed body is revealed without my consent.

A muffled moan escapes me as the blood begins to flow, mixing with the raindrops. My vision blurs for a moment, but I force myself to stay focused and alert, trying to find an escape.

«Look how the immaculate white of your chest is stained red,» Rookwood murmurs, his voice filled with a sadism that makes me sick. «Now I understand how you managed to mesmerize Professor Sharp.»

Another crude laugh rises in the darkness, clashing with the sound of the pouring rain. I try to look around, but there’s no one else, only us. The terror that no one will come, that I will be the only witness to what’s about to happen, tightens around my throat.

Rookwood approaches slowly, each step sinking into the puddles beneath the relentless rain. His wand, still pointed at me, is a promise of further cruelty. «You know,» he says, with a voice almost confidential, tilting his head slightly. «I could do whatever I want with you, right here, right now. Maybe with another spell… or maybe not. What do you think would be the most effective lesson, Professor?»

My throat tightens into a knot of pure terror, and the cold air seems incapable of filling my lungs. I breathe heavily, my eyes darting everywhere, desperately searching for an exit, any way out, anything that could give me a chance. But there’s nothing. I am completely surrounded, trapped.

My mind, in the grip of panic, drifts back. I think about how, just hours ago, I was walking within the walls of Hogwarts, protected by its safety. I think about that argument, the sharp words Aesop and I exchanged. His voice echoes in my head, cold yet concerned: "Don’t put yourself in danger."

A single tear escapes, then another. It’s as if the weight of all those repressed emotions—pain, anger, fear—hits me all at once. I can no longer hold them in, and a choked sob shakes me.

«She's crying!» one of the men exclaims, laughing cruelly. Their laughter surrounds me, a distorted echo that amplifies my sense of helplessness. The man behind me raises a hand to deliver a mocking slap to my face.

«Ah, the tears of a professor,» Rookwood sneers, leaning slightly toward me. «You know, Professor Doyle, I expected better. Maybe you're not as strong as you like to pretend.»

His words, instead of hurting me, feed my despair. The rain keeps soaking me, the blood on my chest mixing painfully with the cold water, and in that moment, I feel nothing but a broken pawn in a cruel game I never wanted to play.

The cold sinks even deeper into my bones when one of Rookwood's men bends down toward me, his face framed by tangled hair and eyes full of malice. I feel his rough hands move my water-soaked hair off my face, pulling it back forcefully. My neck is exposed to the rain, and a shiver of pure terror runs down my spine.

My arms are painfully bound behind me; I can't move, I can't defend myself. The ropes still wrapped around my torso bite into my skin, tightening with every attempt to escape. The metallic sound of a dagger being drawn freezes me further, a sound so cold it seems to slice through the air itself.

«Look here, what nice soft skin,» the brute murmurs, running the tip of the dagger along my neck. The blade is cold against my warm skin, and the contrast is unbearable. I stiffen, holding back a strangled breath, as I feel the knife slowly, almost sadistically, slide down my chest.

The rain pours around us, but for me, there’s nothing but that cruel touch and the metal now passing over my breasts, over my nipples, lingering long enough to make me tremble in fear.

«You know, Professor,» the man chuckles in a hoarse voice, «you're not so high and mighty now, are you?»

My terror turns into instinctive rage, a desperate attempt to reclaim myself. With all the strength I can muster, I spit in his face, the gesture accompanied by a look that tries to maintain a semblance of defiance, even though the tears continue to flow down my cheeks.

The group falls silent for a moment, but I know it's not a good sign. The man’s expression of surprise quickly turns into a mask of pure fury. He straightens abruptly, wiping his face with the rough sleeve of his jacket.

«This,» he snarls, «was a mistake.» Rookwood laughs, a chilling laugh that echoes over the sound of the rain. «What did I tell you? Our dear Professor never learns to respect and behave properly.»

The slap comes with such violence that my head jerks to the side. The pain explodes in my cheek, a blinding flash that leaves a pulsing burn across my face. The rain only amplifies the sensation, mixing with the tears of pain and despair that continue to flow down my cheeks.

Rookwood leans toward me, his cruel eyes shining in the intermittent flash of lightning. «You really have a talent for making me angry, Professor,» he hisses, his tone filled with a dangerous calm. «And you know what happens when someone makes me lose my patience?»

His wand is aimed at me before I can even try to respond or rebel. I know what’s about to happen. My breath stops, every muscle in my body tenses in anticipatory terror.

«Crucio!»

The pain hits me like a furious wave, a torrent of flames engulfing me from the inside, burning every fiber of my being. It's as if a thousand knives are piercing me simultaneously, relentless, merciless. The world dissolves into pain; there is no more rain, no more cold, there is nothing but that suffering that breaks me, piece by piece.

I scream. A guttural, almost animalistic sound escapes my throat, but I know no one can hear me. I’m already too far from Hogwarts, and still too far from Hogsmeade. I’m completely alone, surrounded only by tormentors who take pleasure in my agony, in bending me to their will as if I were a toy.

I writhe, the ropes binding me tightening even more, biting and scratching my skin, but there’s no escape. Every attempt to move worsens the pain, intensifying it, making it even more unbearable.

My mind, in its desperation, tries to find a thought, a memory to cling to, but I find nothing. Only a silent, desperate prayer forms in the chaos of my mind: "If this is the end, please... let it come quickly."

Rookwood’s laughter and the laughter of his cronies echo in my ears like a macabre drum. They exchange pleased, complicit glances, while Rookwood bends down again, brushing my chin with his wand as though it were a blade. I gasp, from the pain and fear.

«I wonder,» he says with a cruel grin, «if your dear Professor Sharp will still want you after what we do to you. When he sees the state you’ll be in, what do you think? Will he welcome you, or will he scorn you, leaving you to your fate as you deserve?»

His words are like knives sinking into my mind, more painful than any curse he’s cast on me. It’s not so much the content that hurts, but the image it evokes: Aesop, his gaze cold and distant, looking at me broken, doing nothing. Another rejection, this time definitive.

But something snaps inside me. A spark, a desperate idea, a last resort. Aesop...

Rookwood turns to his henchmen, continuing to speak, but I no longer hear him. Every fiber of my being focuses on one thought: "I have to try. I have one chance."

I’ve never attempted Legilimency before. It’s a delicate, complex art, and Aesop is an Occlumens. The odds of success are practically nonexistent. But it’s the only thing I have left, the only irrational hope I cling to in my terror. I have no wand, no strength, no help. Just this desperate, impossible connection I have to try to make.

I close my eyes, ignoring the pain, the cold, my nakedness, and the laughter. I grasp at the image I have of him: Aesop, his familiar figure, his eyes that often hide so much but contain an ocean of beauty and love. I visualize his face with clarity I never thought possible, I feel him in my mind, like a distant echo.

Let me in , I think, with every shred of strength I have left. Aesop, let me in! Help me, please... I need you!

My mind knocks at his with all the energy I can find, a desperate blow against a wall I know to be thick and resistant. But I don’t stop.

Don’t ignore me this time... you can’t.

I concentrate with all my might, trying to break through that impenetrable wall I know to be Aesop’s, trying to violate his trained mind with a first, pitiful attempt. It’s like climbing a mountain with bare hands: every attempt to reach him seems in vain, but I can’t stop. I can’t.

Help me, Aesop... please, let me in!

But something distracts me and breaks the connection. A sound. A shrill, metallic noise that slips into my thoughts like a thin blade. I snap my eyes open, and what I see paralyzes me more than any curse.

The men’s belts are undone. Slow, deliberate movements, hands moving with intentions that leave no room for doubt. Terror tightens around me like an iron vice. The physical pain, the biting cold, the ropes binding me—all fade away, wiped out by the awareness of what is about to happen. I never wanted this to happen.

Rookwood, still impeccably dressed, looks at me, his usual smirk now more cruel than ever, the school uniform clashing with the violence he has created. «What’s this, professor? Did you think we’d stop here?» he asks in a mocking tone, as if this were just a fun game I refuse to take part in, a pastime for him and his henchmen.

The men laugh quietly, like accomplices in some obscene joke. One of them turns to Rookwood, a crooked smile on his face. «Who starts?» he asks, almost indifferently.

The words echo in my mind like an explosion. A desperate impulse takes over me: I can’t let this happen, I can’t give up.

«Stop!» I manage to scream, kicking, my voice broken but filled with a desperation I can’t contain. But my words only trigger another laugh from Rookwood.

«Stop?» he repeats, with an almost amused expression, while more ropes shoot from his wand, tightening around my ankles. «Oh no, Professor. I think we’ll keep going. But don’t worry... it’ll be quick. Maybe.»

His words are like poison slipping into my soul. I try to move, to react, but the ropes hold me tight, merciless. With terror choking my throat, I close my eyes, desperately seeking that connection with Aesop once again.

Please... Aesop, please. Listen to me. I beg you.

I close my eyes tightly, pushing the real world away, muffling the sound of laughter, crude jokes, and the noise of the belts hitting the ground with a dull thud. The air is thick with rain and intentions that make me want to scream until my throat tears. But I can’t give in, not now.

A harsh voice: «Quick, Rookwood? I don’t think so! I want to have fun with this pretty little treat,» and more laughter cracks the air, large drops of water falling relentlessly like shards of metal.

I have to reach Aesop. That’s all that matters. I focus with every last ounce of energy I have left, trying to channel every bit of magic, every fragment of my soul toward that connection that seems impossible. It’s like trying to cross a flood with a rope cutting into my hands. Every moment that passes, the pain in my temples grows, a high-pitched buzzing fills my head, almost reminding me that time is running out.

Please, Aesop... Hear my voice. It’s me. Please.

A movement above me pulls me back to reality with brutal violence. I snap my eyes open and see a man bending over me, his face almost invisible in the darkness, but the cruel determination in his movements is unmistakable. His hand grabs my waist, squeezing tightly, while with the other he begins to undo my trousers.

«You wanted to make things difficult for us, Professor,» he murmurs with a crooked smile. «Nice try, but it will be in vain.»

His laugh sends a chill through me, colder than the biting wind that surrounds me. I try to move, to push him away, but the ropes hold me immobile; every attempt to free myself only worsens the painful grip. The sense of helplessness is devastating.

My body orders me to react, to scream, to fight with everything I have, but my mind desperately clings to one possibility. I force myself to close my eyes again, trying to ignore the weight above me, his laugh mingling with the others.

Don’t leave me out. Don’t leave me here alone, Aesop.

The effort consumes me. It’s as if my very soul is at war with my instincts. Every time I try to concentrate, terror drags me back to reality. But I can’t stop. If there’s a chance, even the smallest chance, I have to take it.

Please, Aesop… It’s me. Cassandra. I need you. Please.

I struggle to maintain my focus, even as the man’s warm, disgusting breath brushes against my face. He smells of stale beer and something else, a mixture of violence and arrogance that makes me nauseous. I feel his hands grabbing me, exploring my body without regard, and every part of me wants to react, scream, bite his fingers, rip him off.

But I can’t allow myself to. Not now.

I feel a resistance, a barrier in my mind, and it’s there that I focus. Aesop, I think, pushing against that invisible wall, stubborn, desperate. It’s a strange sensation, almost tangible, like a door slammed shut, an impassable boundary. Yet something gives way, a tremor, a hesitation on the other side.

I know he hears me.

A wave of hope washes over me, and I cling to that feeling with all my strength. His resistance isn’t perfect. It’s as if he’s trying to push me away, to keep that barrier intact, but my pain, my fear, are too strong, and he’s exhausted, too tired to fight.

You have to hear me, Aesop. Please. I’m here. It’s me. I beg you.

Meanwhile, the man above me laughs softly, a sound that freezes my blood. «Don’t resist, my dear,» he whispers, his voice slimy like mud. «You know it’s pointless.»

I feel his hands pushing further, exploring where they should never, and a silent tear slips down my face, through my tightly shut eyelids. I can’t let this happen. I can’t.

Please, Aesop, it’s me. Your Cassandra. Cassie. Can you hear me?

I push harder into my mind, ignoring the sharp pain in my head, ignoring the terror tightening around my throat. The barrier in Aesop’s mind trembles again. It’s a small sign, an almost imperceptible opening. It’s all I need.

The dampness of the earth beneath me mingles with the frost of the rain, creating a cruel and humiliating embrace against my exposed skin as the man towering over me and blocking me with his weight slides my trousers down my legs, pinning my ankles. The contact is like an electric shock that runs through me, and the sensation of wet earth creeping everywhere takes my breath away. The cold bites at my bare legs, but the chill that paralyses me does not come from the outside.

«Take a good look, boys,» Rookwood says with a grin, pushing back the man who was on top of me with a possessive gesture, as if my body was a trophy to be displayed and not a person to be respected. He points at me with his wand, as if I were an insect under a microscope, making my body even more visible to all of them. «Isn't she magnificent? The know-it-all Professor Doyle, reduced to this. Isn't that what she deserves, who dares to challenge me?»

Laughter erupts around me, guttural and obscene, a chorus of cruelty that pierces my heart. Each comment that follows is worse than the last, a maelstrom of humiliation that makes me want to sink to the ground beneath me.

«Why is she shivering? She's not cold, is she?»

«Come on, Professor, it won't be that bad. After all, you might even like it…»

«What do you say, Rookwood? Where do we start? Back or front?»

Shame burns me like a bright fire, and part of me wants to shout, to react, to do something. But every movement seems futile, every protest stifled by this dead-end situation. The hands of those still clutching my wrists tighten even more, and the pain in my shoulders adds to the unbearable burden on me.

Despite everything, a part of me still struggles, screaming in my mind not to give up.

I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and plunge back into the desperate effort to connect with Aesop. The pain in my head grows, throbbing, as if someone is piercing me with invisible needles.

Meanwhile, the man from before bends over me again, inhaling my scent, as if he wants to devour me. The acrid smell of his breath and sweat hits me like a fist. I feel his rough, calloused hands on my body, trying to explore where I don't want to be touched, squeezing my flesh and leaving bruises there.

«Pretty girls like you shouldn't wear trousers,» he says in a dismissive tone. «You're not a man after all.»

“A man?” I think contemptuously, fighting against nausea. “You are not a man. You are a monster.”

The effort to not react is immense. Every fiber of my body wants to push away those hands, but I know it's useless. Every movement risks worsening the situation and loosening my connection with Aesop. I try with all my strength to ignore the reality, to focus on his mind.
A new tremor in the mental barrier. Perhaps a crack. But it's so fleeting that I almost think I imagined it and lost all contact.

Then a vulgar comment, a crude laugh, and the hot breath of the man comes too close to my face. A wave of terror paralyzes me.

The pain in my head becomes almost unbearable, as if my mind is about to break. I don’t know how much longer I can resist. Every heartbeat is a scream telling me to give up, to let go.

But I can’t. I mustn’t.

I cling to the thought of Aesop in desperation. If this is the end, at least I’ll fight until my last breath and have something beautiful fixed in my mind with which to let go in the final moments.

My mind clings desperately to any fragment of light, anything that can make me resist. My body trembles, fighting the horror of those hands I don’t want to feel, that breath surrounding me like a toxic cloud. Every fiber of me screams to react, to fight, but I know it would be useless, I know it would make everything worse.

I close my eyes tightly, gritting my teeth, and try to shut out that reality. I focus only on him. Aesop.

I visualize his face, those features carved by pain but so familiar and reassuring to me. The voice that has called me "Professor Doyle" a thousand times, with that hint of sarcasm that has become his trademark, then "Cassandra," and finally "Cassie," with all the love in the world. The scent that always made me think of cigarettes burned in the shadow of the Potion’s Classroom, the warmth of a fire blazing in the dead of winter, a call of intimacy that was unknown to me before meeting him.

Stay with me, Aesop. Don’t let them take me away.

Every image, every sound, every sensation that ties me to Aesop becomes a rope I cling to in order not to sink. I see him bending over a cauldron, intent on preparing a potion, his elegant fingers measuring the ingredients with surgical precision. I hear him muttering a sharp remark that poorly hides a precious piece of advice. I see his eyes meet mine and soften for a moment, a moment that feels eternal.

But my concentration falters: another laugh, another brutal grip pulls me back into the present. The pain in my head pulses fiercely, my temples feel like they’re about to explode, my jaws are clenched and my teeth grind together.

The resistance in his mind is a wall of granite, unmoving and relentless. I don’t stop trying, but I’m running out of strength, every last bit of energy to fight.

The world around me becomes an indistinct chaos, a whirlwind of sounds and sensations I try to push away. I struggle to see beyond, to focus on that connection, but the effort is greater than me.

Then, suddenly, a white flash.

It’s blinding, violent. It cuts through my mind like a lash, leaving me breathless. I don’t know if it’s real or just an illusion of my exhausted brain, a projection of my altered consciousness.

I try to open my eyes, but the world around me is dissolving, taking away every sound, every pain, every terror.

And then only darkness remains.

Chapter 39: SHARP

Chapter Text

I pour myself another finger of scotch and stare at the glass, swirling the amber liquid inside. The glass reflects the flickering candlelight, as if mirroring the chaos stirring within me. I take a sip and close my eyes, letting the warmth of the liquor burn deep in my chest. I feel tired, more than I can bear. Tired in my body, of course, but even more so in my mind and spirit. And in my heart. Always there, like a dull ache I cannot soothe.

I think back to the words I spoke just now, the things I said… and the ones I wanted to say but stifled.

Cassandra… Her name is a constant echo I can’t banish, no matter how hard I try. And yet, I’m convinced I did the right thing. I have to be. I have to convince myself that I did.

I shake my head and rise from the armchair, leaving the glass on the writing desk. The room feels like it’s closing in on me, though I blame it on the liquor. I take off my jacket with a brusque motion and drape it over the wheelchair, which I feel an even greater need to keep out of sight today; then I begin to loosen the cuffs of my shirt, getting ready for bed. I hope sleep will at least give me a moment of respite.

But as I unfasten the second cuff, a sudden sharp pain in my head forces me to stop. I press a hand to my temple and grit my teeth. It must just be exhaustion, I tell myself. Nothing a good night’s rest won’t fix. And yet, the sensation doesn’t pass. If anything, it seems to intensify. I squeeze my eyes shut and lean on the desk to keep my balance. What the hell is happening?

I drag myself toward the cabinet where I keep my potion supplies, the throbbing in my head growing stronger, like a pneumatic hammer. With trembling hands, I open the door and grab a vial filled with a greenish liquid: one of my personal reserves for pain—unpleasant, but effective. It’s not the first time I’ve used it, but this stabbing sensation… this feeling… something about it is different. I can sense it, even though I don’t want to acknowledge it.

I down the potion in one gulp, letting the bitter, acrid liquid slide down my throat. I lean against the cabinet, waiting for it to take effect, but nothing changes. The pain not only lingers but intensifies, as though something is trying to push deeper into my mind. My teeth clench, my fingers press against the wooden cabinet, my knuckles whitening with the effort.

And then I realize what’s happening.

Legilimency. Someone is trying to enter my mind.

The attempt is clumsy, yes, but incredibly persistent. This is no expert; it feels desperate, almost crude, yet unrelenting. My Occlumency instincts, honed over years of practice, kick in immediately, almost without my command. In an instant, I raise my mental barriers, sealing off every possible entry point. Whoever they are, they won’t get in.

I feel the pressure building, the force of the intrusion intensifying, as though the intruder is pouring every ounce of their energy into the attempt. I can’t afford to falter. I remain motionless, eyes shut, focusing entirely on resisting. My training was forged in pain and necessity, and now I cling to that discipline with every ounce of strength I possess.

The assault continues—insistent, pounding. It’s like a wave crashing against a dam, trying to find even the smallest crack to slip through. But there are no cracks. Not in me. Each pulse of pain seems designed to weaken my defenses, but I strengthen them instead, raising walls higher, making them thicker.

And yet… whoever it is doesn’t give up.

And that unsettles me.

The pain in my head intensifies, and despite my efforts to close every gap, something slips through my control. A minuscule crack in my defenses allows an image to seep in. It’s not clear—it’s blurred and chaotic—but a face emerges from the shadows: Aleister Rookwood.

I recognize him instantly, and irritation flares like a spark ready to ignite into an inferno. He’s the one attempting, brazenly and stubbornly, to invade my mind. That arrogant brat dared to challenge me! My fists clench, my jaw tightens. What game is he playing? What the hell is he thinking? When I see him in class, I’ll make sure he receives a punishment he won’t forget. I’ve tolerated far too much from him, but this time he’s crossed the line.

And yet… something doesn’t add up. The image doesn’t dissolve as it should if this were merely a clumsy attempt at Legilimency. No, it’s someone else’s mind trying to forge a connection with mine.

The image expands, becomes clearer. Rookwood’s face is still there, but the background isn’t Hogwarts. It’s the flickering lights of Hogsmeade, framing the path that connects the village to the school. It’s dark, the rain-soaked ground glistening under a light drizzle, and there’s something different in his eyes. They’re not those of a boy. They’re the eyes of a monster—cold, calculating, and filled with cruel intent.

I stiffen, my blood beginning to freeze in my veins. What am I seeing?

The image widens, and suddenly the reality strikes me like a blow to the stomach. I see his malevolent smile, the way he moves, flanked by indistinct figures. And then I see something far worse.

Cassandra.

Her face, pale and marked by terror, appears vividly. She’s sprawled on the ground, smeared with mud and rain, and… no. No. My eyes snap open, my breath catches in my throat.

What the hell is Rookwood doing to her?

A wave of disgust washes over me as I see those bastards’ hands grabbing her, holding her down. I see her trousers pulled down, her skin exposed to the cold and the mud. The horror that overwhelms me is unbearable. For a moment, I am paralyzed, unable to accept what I’m seeing. This cannot be real. It must be an illusion. A damned illusion.

But it isn’t. Cassandra would never feign something like this.

And then I hear her voice, clear as day. Cassandra is crying, pleading, begging me for help. Every word she speaks is a dagger that pierces my chest. I can no longer deny it. I don’t want to, but I have to see. I need to know she’s alright.

My resistance falters, and I decide to let her in. Against every instinct, I lower my defenses and allow myself to see the scene clearly. And it’s like being struck by an Unforgivable Curse. Every detail, every movement, every expression on Rookwood’s face and those of his henchmen burns itself into my mind like a brand. What are they doing to my Cassandra?

She screams my name in her mind. I hear it as if she were shouting it in the room. The desperation in her voice pierces me like a blade. I’ve never felt anything like this. I’ve never experienced such primal rage.

Cassandra is in danger. Rookwood is trying to violate her, attempting to strip her of every shred of dignity.

A part of me still wants to believe this is a nightmare, but the other part knows the truth. And it’s that part that takes over. I cannot stay here. I cannot allow this to happen.

I move abruptly, the glass of scotch toppling over and shattering on the floor.

I have to find her. Now.

I throw on my cloak and rush out of the room as if fire were licking at my heels. The corridor is silent, but I am not: my footsteps echo loudly against the stone walls. The rain outside beats furiously against the windows, but no downpour will slow me down.

I take the stairs three at a time, my cloak billowing behind me like a menacing shadow. My head throbs, but it’s no longer from the attempted Legilimency—it’s the guilt, gnawing at me, poisoning my thoughts.

I was the one who put her in this situation.

My own words echo in my mind like an endless refrain: ‘I don’t want to talk about Egypt anymore. We have nothing left to say to each other.’ How much sarcasm, how much venom I poured onto her. And for what? Because I can’t let go of the past. Because I can’t live in the present. And now, the present is devouring her, and I left her alone.

It’s my fault.

I push open Hogwarts’ main doors with a strength I didn’t know I possessed. The rain strikes my face like an insult to the coward I am, but I don’t stop. Every drop feels like a slap to my pride, to my cowardice.

My legs move on their own, my breath is short, but I keep pushing forward. The path to Hogsmeade grows slippery beneath my boots, mud splattering everywhere. The cold bites at my skin, but I barely feel it. All I can feel is the weight of my conscience. The pain I’ve tried to suppress for years now pours over me like a raging torrent.

Every step is a blow to my chest. Every step confirms it’s too late.

In the distance, the faint, flickering lights of Hogsmeade come into view through the rain. The village seems light-years away, but my gaze doesn’t stop there. Beyond the path, in the darkness, something catches my attention. Her.

My pace falters for a moment, not from exhaustion, but from the horror that grips me. Cassandra’s body, sprawled on the ground, half-naked, motionless, like a discarded doll. The rain drenches her exposed skin, her hair plastered to her face.

I feel the world collapse around me. My breath catches in my chest, and a wave of nausea grips my stomach.

And then I see Rookwood.

I see him clearly, along with his men—the proud legacy of his father. They laugh, their faces twisted with smug, cruel grins. Cassandra is there, at their mercy, and I… I wasn’t there for her.

Guilt morphs into anger, a blinding fury that fuels me. My muscles burn, but I don’t stop. My thoughts race, colliding with each other: “How could I let her go? How could I leave her alone? It’s not her fault. It’s mine. Today, just like back then. Always mine.”

But there’s no time for regrets. I must act, or it will be too late.

I grip my wand tightly, my knuckles white from the force of my hold. The wind carries the sound of their laughter, filling me with disgust. My mind empties of everything except one single, unshakable truth: those bastards will pay.

My body moves before my mind can formulate a plan. There’s no time for strategy, no room for hesitation. Cassandra is there, lying beneath that pack of cowards, and I must act before it’s too late. 

Instinctively, I raise my wand. It’s a gesture I haven’t made in years, one I thought I’d never be capable of again after Mabel’s death. But now, in this moment, I know that’s no longer true.

I close my eyes and think of her. Only of her.

Not of her suffering, not of the danger, but of what she means to me. I think of the light in her eyes when she talks about her favorite books, the way she tilts her head when she wakes up and feels my body beside hers. I think of her gentle smile, of that time I told her about Scarborough, and she didn’t run away—she stayed by my side without hesitation.

It’s always been her.

A wave of warmth floods my chest, something I haven’t felt in far too long. The tip of my wand vibrates, and I sense it before I even open my eyes.

A wolf.

My Patronus leaps forward, a silvery figure illuminating the dark path. It charges towards them, a beacon of light in the sea of darkness.

One of the thugs screams, terrified at the sight of the creature. «A wolf! It’s a wolf!» he stammers, stumbling back a step.

Rookwood looks at him with disdain, his brow furrowed. «Idiot!» he hisses, his voice sharp as a blade. «It’s not a real wolf! It’s just a Patronus!»

It doesn’t matter. It’s enough.

The wolf circles them, its movements fluid and menacing, forcing them to retreat, distracted. For a moment, all their attention is on my spell, and I seize the opportunity to get closer.

I repeat one phrase to myself: “This time, I won’t stand by and watch.”

I’ve seen enough defeats, lost enough people. I won’t lose her too.

My grip on my wand tightens, and my mind fills with crystal-clear certainty: I will protect what I love, no matter the cost.

I advance with determined steps, my heavy, rain-soaked cloak clinging to my legs. The rain blinds me, the mud slows me down, but nothing could stop me. Not now. Not while she’s there, abandoned on the ground, at the mercy of those animals.

Every fiber of my body screams in protest, reminding me of my age, my limitations, every mistake I’ve made. My left leg is a blaze of pain, but I ignore it. I have to ignore it. I have never been so ready, so certain of what I’m doing.

Over the years, I’ve learned to live with guilt, to carry it like a second skin. Every time I close my eyes, the past crashes down on me with force: faces, names, broken promises. But this time is different. This time, as I bring my wand to my chest, I feel that everything I’ve lost, everything I’ve done wrong, has led me to this moment.

This is not just a fight. This is the redemption I’ve been waiting for my whole life.

For Mabel, for myself, for Cassandra, for what we are and what we could be. For the first time, I understand that I can let go of the weight of the past without forgetting it. I can stop hiding behind the fear of failing again.

My steps quicken, my heart pounding with a force that surprises me. I haven’t felt this alive in years. The pain is no longer an enemy but a reminder: it tells me I’m here, now, in this present I no longer want to waste.

I grip my wand tightly and feel a spark run through my hand. I’m not afraid. For the first time, I don’t care what happens next, whether I come out victorious or defeated. All I know is that I will fight, that I will give everything I have to protect her.

My mind calms, like the surface of a lake that stops rippling. There’s no room for hesitation or regret. Only for the certainty that, in this moment, I am truly ready. For myself, for her, for us.

As I approach the group, I keep my distance, calculating every movement as if I’ve returned to a past I thought buried. My wand rises with precision, my wrist steady, my intent clear. There’s no room for second-guessing.

«Expelliarmus!» The first wizard’s wand flies from his hand in a flash of red light. The second doesn’t even have time to react. «Stupefy!» I strike him square in the chest, and he stumbles backward into the other, both collapsing to the ground like empty sacks.

Rookwood, finally aware of my presence, turns to face me. That sneering, mocking smile I’ve seen so often on the faces of young men who believe they’re invincible spreads across his face. He looks at me as if I’m some old relic, something unworthy of fear.

«Well, well, look who’s decided to show up,» he drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm. «Dear Professor Sharp, here to save his precious princess. Do you really think you can save her? Can’t you see what she’s become? She’s broken. Shattered. Beyond repair.»

His words hit me like a punch to the stomach, but instead of making me falter, they stoke a fire within me. A blind rage, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, floods my chest. This isn’t the cold, calculated anger I’ve learned to control over the years. This is something primal, uncontrollable, burning away every rational thought.

I take a step forward, my wand clenched in a hand now trembling with pure adrenaline. I meet his gaze, unwavering. When I speak, my voice is low, laced with a threat I make no effort to hide. «The only one broken here is you, Rookwood. Irreparable, irrelevant, and utterly lost. You don’t even know what it means to be strong.»

My words cut through the air like a spell. It’s not just anger—it’s determination. I’ve never wanted so fiercely to protect someone, to fight for something so deeply important. Cassandra isn’t broken. She never will be. And I won’t let anyone, least of all an arrogant boy, dare to think otherwise.

Rookwood’s smile vanishes, replaced by an expression of blind fury. He raises his wand with a violent motion, and I know he’s about to strike. I don’t hesitate. I prepare for the duel, but for an instant, my eyes drift to Cassandra.

The largest of the henchmen, a filthy brute with calloused hands and a coarse laugh, bends over her. I see him looming, his face twisted into a sneer of mockery and violence. My heart skips a beat. Cassandra lies still, her half-naked body against the wet ground.

I don’t have time to think.

«Depulso!» The spell strikes the man square in the chest, sending him flying backward to crash against a tree, where he slumps unconscious.

A flash of green light passes mere inches from my head. Rookwood has taken advantage of my distraction to hurl an Avada Kedavra. I throw myself to the ground instinctively, dodging the attack. The landing is brutal: my left leg, already damaged, buckles under my weight, and a blinding pain explodes in my knee.

I bite my tongue to keep from crying out. I can’t afford to show weakness.

With a muffled groan, I roll onto my side and lift my wand, trying to ignore the throbbing ache radiating from my leg. The pain is a distant echo compared to the fury consuming me. I must stop Rookwood. I must save Cassandra.

My eyes return to her, still lying on the ground. Her body seems so fragile, but I know it isn’t. She isn’t. No matter what she’s endured, her spirit won’t break. She’s stronger than any adversity. But now it’s my turn to protect her—at any cost.

Rookwood wastes no time. He hurls spell after spell with vicious precision, his voice sharp as the sparks of light slicing through the air between us. He’s agile, moving with the speed of a predator, and for a moment, I realize his youth and strength could give him the upper hand.

But experience is on my side.

Every move he makes is predictable, every attack brimming with impatience and rage. I, on the other hand, have learned to fight under pressure, to think quickly and with clarity, despite the pain biting at my leg and slowing me down. I focus on my priority: keeping him away from Cassandra.

A streak of red light speeds toward me. I lift my wand just in time.

«Protego!» My shield materializes, deflecting the spell and dissipating it in a burst of energy.

«You know, Sharp,» Rookwood snarls, a diabolical grin on his lips, «you can’t protect her forever. You know she’s already destroyed. And when I’m done with you, I’ll finish her too. Let’s see if she entertains me as much as she did you.»

His words are like fuel thrown onto a fire. I grip my wand so tightly my fingers ache.

«You understand nothing,» I reply, my voice low but dripping with disdain. «The only one destroyed here is you, Rookwood.»

Another green flash forces me to dodge, a sharp movement that sends pain shooting up from my injured leg. I grit my teeth, refusing to give in. As Rookwood prepares his next attack, I catch, out of the corner of my eye, that he’s aiming his wand at Cassandra.

«No!» I shout, and without thinking twice, I raise my wand above her. «Protego Maxima!»

The shield that forms above Cassandra shines like a dome of ethereal light, protecting her from every attack. The blast of energy from Rookwood’s spell crashes against the shield with a dull boom, scattering sparks in every direction. Some strike the last standing henchman, who freezes for a moment, caught off guard.

«Don’t even think about touching her,» I growl, turning my focus back to him. The pain in my leg is a constant gnawing presence, but I feel it only as a distant echo. No matter the cost, I won’t let him win.

Rookwood laughs, a sound that echoes above the din of the rain.

«Protego Maxima, really? What a gallant knight! Have you fallen for your colleague, Sharp? How sweet. Too bad there’ll soon be nothing left to save.»

His words irritate me, but I can’t let myself be carried away by anger. He’s just a boy. A student. Someone who has no idea what it means to face life and its shadows. I repeat these truths to myself like a mantra, trying to stay clear-headed. But the fight grows fiercer, and every spell I block or deflect seems to sink deeper into my bones.

A violent beam of light grazes me, forcing me to roll to the ground again to dodge it. My leg screams in protest, pushed to its limit, and the world seems to spin for a moment. I can’t allow this fight to drag on much longer; my body won’t hold out.

Gripping my wand tightly, I reach into the inner pocket of my jacket with my free hand and pull out a small steel-colored vial. I remove the stopper with my teeth and down the Edurus Potion in a single gulp. The liquid goes down cold and thick, and I feel the change immediately: a stone-like armor seems to envelop me, strengthening every fiber of my being.

«Oh, look who’s resorting to potions. How original,» Rookwood sneers, a malicious grin twisting his face. «Can’t handle the pressure, Sharp? Old age and weakness weighing you down? What a pathetic sight.»

I give him a cold smile, ignoring his tone. «Do you know what separates a man from a boy, Aleister?» I say, my voice steady. «Knowing when to use every resource at his disposal. Something you, with your arrogance, will never understand.»

The potion’s effect allows me to rise more easily, the pain in my leg now a distant memory. Rookwood continues firing spells at me, but I intercept them with precision, waiting for the right moment to strike back. The rain slides off my wand as though it’s a part of me.

«You’re just a coward hiding behind potions and big speeches,» he snaps, his voice dripping with contempt.

I prepare for my next move, letting the smirk on my face remind him who truly has control. «And you’re just a cocky little boy,» I retort. «Let’s see how long your confidence lasts, Rookwood.»

He charges at me with a flurry of rapid, almost chaotic spells, but it’s clear he’s losing his composure. He may be young and strong, but his arrogance makes him predictable. I let him tire himself out, deflecting his attacks with precision. Time is on my side.

When he finally drops his guard for a moment, fatigued, I seize the opportunity. I raise my wand, pointing it directly at him. «Levioso!»

Rookwood is suddenly lifted off the ground, his body jerked upward as if caught by an invisible thread. His arms flail uselessly in the air, and his expression of surprise quickly morphs into furious rage.

«What the hell are you doing, Sharp? Put me down, now!» he shouts, twisting and writhing in a futile attempt to free himself.

«What’s wrong, Rookwood? Not used to fighting someone who doesn’t fold at the first hit?» I reply, my voice calmer than I feel. I don’t let myself be distracted by the hatred in his eyes; every move is calculated.

As he thrashes, I raise my wand higher with a fluid motion. «Expelliarmus!»

His wand flies from his hand in a flash of red light, landing several meters away in the wet grass. For a brief moment, the moonlight catches it before it’s swallowed by the darkness. Rookwood crashes to the ground, where he lies still for a moment, breathless and too stunned to react.

«Not so fun being stripped of your power, is it?» I comment, my tone now harsher, keeping him under my aim.

His anger is evident, but there’s a hint of fear in his eyes at last. Finally. «Let’s see how you fare without a wand and without reinforcements, Rookwood.»

Air escapes his lungs in a choked gasp, but I don’t give him time to recover. «Stupefy!» A flash of light strikes his arm, forcing it to collapse.

The first of his henchmen, regaining his senses, moves to intervene, but a swift «Petrificus Totalus!» freezes him in place, making him fall stiff as a statue into the mud. The other two hesitate, exchanging uncertain glances, but I don’t give them a moment to recover.

With a quick flick of my wand, I aim at the second thug: «Flipendo!» The spell hits him square in the chest, sending him rolling away. The last one, a massive man with a torn shirt, charges at me with blind ferocity, but I anticipate him with an «Impedimenta.» The force of the spell stops him mid-air, suspended and powerless, before he crashes heavily to the ground.

Rookwood tries to get back on his feet, furious and still incredibly determined, but a swift «Expulso!» forces him to retreat, driving him back.

My breath is ragged, but I don’t stop. I have an opening, and I won’t waste it. With a precise, almost elegant motion, I draw a wide circle with my wand, aiming it at the center of the chaos. My voice is firm, resolute. «Incarcerous!»

Magical ropes shoot out of my wand with a hiss, quick as serpents. They coil tightly around Rookwood and his henchmen, binding them securely before they have a chance to react. The men squirm and curse, but the ropes tighten further, immobilizing them completely.

Rookwood, his face twisted in rage, struggles against his restraints. «You have no idea who you’re dealing with, Sharp!» he yells, but his voice is full of frustration and helplessness.

I approach slowly, my breathing still labored. «Oh, I know exactly who you are, Rookwood. A coward who hides behind others and the fear his name inspires. But not anymore.»

I ensure the ropes are tight, unbreakable. Silence falls over the area, broken only by the sound of rain and the furious beating of my heart.

With a sharp «Petrificus Totalus!» the magical ropes around Rookwood and his henchmen stiffen further, petrifying the group into complete immobility. Not a muscle moves, not a word is spoken. At last, silence.

I move with difficulty, each step an agony for my throbbing left leg, but I don’t stop. «Periculum!» My voice rings out decisively as I lift my wand toward the sky. A shower of red sparks explodes above me, lighting up the night with an intense glow—a clear and unmistakable signal of danger.

The sparks reflect on the muddy ground as I turn toward Cassandra. She’s still there, unmoving, fragile as a broken porcelain doll. Even though the Protego Maxima dome still surrounds her, just seeing her in that state breaks my heart.

I drag myself to her, ignoring the searing pain shooting through my leg. With a firm gesture, I dissolve the Protego. The barrier shatters into a wave of shimmering energy that vanishes into the rain. I kneel beside her, the wet dirt soaking through my trousers, but I don’t care.

«Cassandra,» I whisper, my voice fractured, choked by anguish and the rain streaming down my face. I gently pull her toward me, wrapping her frail body in my cloak. It’s drenched, but it’s all I have to offer.

My eyes trace her pale face, her cracked lips, the strands of hair plastered to her forehead. «You’ll be alright,» I murmur, even though I’m not sure she can hear me. My heart pounds wildly, filled with fear and guilt.

I clutch her shoulders, trying to impart warmth I don’t have, shielding her from the rain and cold that seem intent on punishing her. Each shallow, labored breath she takes is a reminder of my failure, but also of her incredible strength.

“I let you go,” I think bitterly, the remorse suffocating me. “I never should have. I should’ve stopped you. This is my fault.” But I can’t give in. Not now. I have to be strong—for both of us.

I hold her closer, ignoring the pain stabbing through my leg and the rain soaking us both. Nothing else matters now, nothing but her. «I’m here,» I whisper, a desperate promise, «I won’t leave you again.»

With trembling hands, I pull a small vial from the inner pocket of my cloak. I unscrew the cap, my fingers shaking. The healing potion shimmers with a faint greenish glow, like a fragile ray of sunlight piercing through the swampy gloom. I bring it to her cracked, pale lips, tilting it gently. «Drink, Cassie,» I murmur, my voice breaking, praying she can hear me.

A drop slips past the rim of the vial, tracing a path down her cheek. I try to pour it slowly, letting it trickle between her lips. «You have to try,» I insist, desperation bleeding into every syllable. But her body remains limp, her breaths barely perceptible.

Setting the vial aside, my heart heavy, I pull out a handkerchief. I begin cleaning her face with slow, careful movements, wiping away the dirt and blood mingling with the rain. Every mark, every wound feels etched into my chest. “I should have been there sooner,” I tell myself, unable to shake the weight of guilt.

I don’t use my wand. I won’t. This isn’t a task I entrust to magic but to my hands, to my care. Every gesture, every stroke, every wound I try to tend to is an act of humanity, of connection. I want her to feel that I’m here, that I won’t leave her again.

I call her name, her name a broken whisper on my lips: «Cassandra, please, open your eyes. Please.» But there’s no response. Her skin is icy beneath my fingers, her delicate shoulders trembling faintly under the relentless rain.

Then my gaze falls on her injured body, on the scratches and bruises marring her pale skin. A wave of pain pierces through me as I notice the dirty grass clinging to the blood on her wounds. A part of me wants to check, to ensure they haven’t violated her, but I stop myself. I don’t know if I could bear it, and I need to stay focused to help her.

The mere thought of them defiling her sends a sharp ache through me. An overwhelming surge of disgust and rage rises, nausea clawing its way up my throat, the acrid taste of bile on the edge of my tongue. I can’t—won’t—touch her there. I don’t want to find blood, not now. «If they dared…» The sentence remains unfinished, choked off by horror. I take a deep breath, forcing the anguish back down.

«Cassandra, you have to stay with me,» I say, my voice trembling but filled with desperate determination. I wrap her body tightly in my cloak, pulling her as close as I can. «Don’t give up, please. Not now.»

I hold her gently but firmly, letting her feel she’s not alone—that I’m here. My hand brushes her face, tracing the contours of her cold skin, moving aside strands of wet, mud-soaked hair. «Cassie,» I murmur, hoping my voice can reach wherever her consciousness has retreated. «Please, come back to me.»

Silence. Only the relentless pounding of the rain and my ragged breathing. I keep calling her name, repeating it like a mantra, an anchor to cling to. Then, suddenly, a faint whisper, almost imperceptible, reaches me.

«Aesop…»

My heart stops, then slams back into motion, pounding with renewed force. «Cassie! Cassie, it’s me—can you hear me? You’re safe now. I’ve got you. No one will ever hurt you again, I promise.»

Her eyelids flutter, as if she’s waging a war just to open them. «Cassie, don’t strain yourself,» I say, trying to keep calm even as the lump in my throat threatens to choke me. «I’m here. I’m right here with you.»

I stroke her cheek, her icy skin sending a shiver through me. Her weakness is heartbreaking; every small movement seems to cost her immense pain. «Please, stay with me,» I plead, my voice cracking.

Then it happens: another whisper, a faint sign of life. «You… came…»

My jaw tightens as silent tears begin to stream down my face. I haven’t cried in years, yet now I can’t stop myself. I lower my head further until my forehead rests against hers, the rain slipping like a veil between us.

«Of course, Cassie,» I say, my voice a mix of desperation and hope. «Yes, I came for you. I’ll never leave you again, do you hear me? Never.»

I hold her even closer, trying to offer her all the warmth my body can give, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough to make up for the cold she’s endured, the suffering she’s faced. Every labored breath that escapes her lips cuts through me like a blade.

“I’m a fool,” I think as I stroke her hair with trembling hands. I left her alone. I never should have. I knew she might be in danger, might face threats, and yet, in my selfishness and blind pride, I chose to stay away. And now… now I’m paying the price for my negligence.

The guilt is crushing, a boulder pressing down on my chest, stealing my breath. “If only I’d been with her… If I hadn’t let my anger take over… this wouldn’t have happened.” I hate myself for ever believing, even for a moment, that distance could protect her.

But as my tears mix with the rain, a realization begins to creep into my mind, warming the cold that has seized my heart. I saved her. For the first time in years, I fought for someone I love—without hesitation, without fear, without letting my past hold me back.

The light of this realization is faint but growing, like a fire gaining strength against the wind. I’ve always failed to protect the people I cared about. War, loss, and my own disillusionment turned me into a broken man, incapable of opening up. But this time is different. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I acted.

I look at her pale, marked face, and my heart clenches, yet beats with a strength I haven’t felt in a long time. «Cassie, I’ll stay by your side,» I whisper. And as I say it, it’s not just a promise to her—it’s a vow to myself. I’ve failed so many times in my life, but not this time.

This time, I’ve done the right thing. And even though pain and remorse are devouring me, there’s a spark that lights my soul: for her, for us, I can be better.

Her voice is faint, fragile, barely audible above the drumming rain. «Aesop… why were you protecting yourself from me?»

The question strikes me like a spell to the chest, leaving me breathless. There’s no rational or sensible answer for what I’ve done. For a moment, time stops. All that exists is her gaze—blurry and full of a vulnerability that shatters my soul.

I swallow hard, searching for words, for a truth I’m not even sure she deserves. I hold her tighter, her cold body pressed against mine. «To protect you from me,» I murmur, my voice breaking.

I’m not sure she understands, but I see something in her eyes—a flicker of awareness—before they close again and her head falls against my chest. «Cassie, stay with me,» I whisper, as if those words could tether her to the world.

Exhaustion grips me, an unrelenting force dragging me down, but I don’t give in. I can’t. Not while she still needs me. I stroke her face with trembling hands, feeling the weight of the night and everything we’ve endured. «I’ve got you. You’re safe,» I promise, even as my own body teeters on the brink of collapse.

And then, suddenly, in the darkness surrounding us, I see something. Lights. Flickering, distant, but coming closer. Not an illusion, not a trick of the mind—help is on its way. They come from all directions: some torches sway in the wind from the castle, others make their way up the path from Hogsmeade.

A knot untangles in my chest, a relief so profound it nearly brings me to my knees. We’re not alone anymore. I don’t have to carry this weight alone any longer.

«Cassie, we’re safe,» I murmur, more to convince myself than her.

But I don’t move. Not yet. I wait, feeling every fiber of my body scream in protest, the pain in my left leg throbbing like a drumbeat. It doesn’t matter. I hold her in my arms, secure, and I won’t let go until someone else can take care of her.

The lights draw closer, accompanied by voices, shouts, hope. I allow myself to close my eyes for a moment, letting the rain wash away some of the guilt and pain. I fought. I saved her. And for the first time, I think I’ve found a fragment of peace.

Chapter 40: SHARP

Chapter Text

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.

«Professor Sharp, did Cassandra use Legilimency?»

Her tone is calm, but I can sense a slight hesitation, as though she’s trying to piece together what happened. I take a moment before answering, my fingers tapping against the rim of the potion glass.

«Yes,» I finally say, my voice steadier than I expect as I recall the connection Cassandra established between us.

The nurse nods slowly, as though everything suddenly clicks into place.

«That explains why she’s so drained,» she murmurs. «It’s not an easy discipline, especially under such conditions. She was fortunate to have enough strength not to be overwhelmed.»

Her words are meant to reassure, but they fall short. My mind drifts back to that night—to her closed eyes, her limp body in my arms. I need to know. I hesitate for a long moment, my heart pounding in my chest, then muster the courage to ask.

«Noreen,» I begin, my voice uncertain. I lower my gaze, the shame of uttering such words too heavy. «Was Cassandra…?»

I can’t finish the sentence. The words stick in my throat, but Noreen raises a hand to stop me. Her expression softens.

«No,» she says firmly, shaking her head. «There are no injuries of that nature. I can assure you.»

The weight of her answer crashes over me. I sink back against the pillows, closing my eyes for a moment. The tension gripping my chest loosens, though the guilt remains, immovable and unrelenting.

«I need to see her,» I announce, my voice cutting through the air with a sharp determination.

«Professor Sharp,» the nurse replies with an infuriating calmness, «your leg endured severe strain last night. You’re still too weak to get up.»

I bite the inside of my cheek, holding back the impatience boiling inside me. How can she not understand? Cassandra is just a few feet away, still fragile and hurt. I need to be there for her. I need to… do something.

«Then bring me my wheelchair,» I reply, my tone harsher than intended.

For a moment, the nurse stares at me, stunned. I can see her surprise as clearly as if she’d spoken it aloud. I know exactly what she’s thinking: Aesop Sharp, letting himself be seen in public in a wheelchair?

Even I can’t explain how those words escaped my lips. The wheelchair has always been a symbol of vulnerability I couldn’t afford. A relic of years past, shoved into a corner of my quarters where no one could ever see it. Because of that damned contraption, I pushed Cassandra away, kept her at a distance, and put her in danger—all because I was too proud to accept my own weakness.

And now I’m asking for it? In public?

Yes.

I don’t care. I don’t care who sees me, who might judge me. The only thing that matters is Cassandra. Lying here, knowing she’s so close yet unreachable, is unbearable.

«Professor Sharp…» Noreen begins hesitantly, one of the few people aware that I’ve always refused any assistance in this regard.

«I don’t care,» I cut her off, my voice low but firm. «Have it brought here. Now.»

She nods slowly, still visibly surprised. But I no longer have room for doubt. I need to atone, to make up for the mistake of leaving her alone, for failing to see how much danger she was in. If someone sees me in that chair, so be it. Their stares no longer have power over me.

A soft pop echoes in the room shortly after. I turn and see two house-elves materialize beside my bed. One of them, with large watery eyes and an expression of concern, is struggling to hold my wheelchair, clearly too short to handle the grips easily; the other is carrying my walking stick and a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

«Good morning, Professor Sharp,» one of them says in a high-pitched voice as they carefully position the chair next to my bed. «We’ve brought what you need.»

I nod, murmuring a thank you. The other elf steps closer and offers me the package. «This is for Professor Doyle,» they add, grinning from ear to ear, «with our best wishes for a speedy recovery.»

I take the parcel, intrigued. I open it cautiously and find a book inside, accompanied by a small note. On the note is written: For when our dear Professor Doyle is feeling better .

I look at the book for a moment: it’s the same volume I gave her some time ago, Covens and Rituals: A History of Female Magic. The binding is worn from use but well cared for, a sign that Cassandra has read it many times, likely jotting down thoughts and reflections in the margins of the pages. A smile crosses my face despite the exhaustion.

I’m reminded of the day I gave it to her. Back then, I had no idea how much it would change my life, how, not long after, I would break my own promise not to get swept up in her enthusiasm.

I clutch the book in my hands, the smile shifting into a moment of introspection. The presence of this object, right now, feels like a sign. Perhaps it’s a symbol of something I’ve never wanted to fully accept: the bond that, despite everything, has always existed between us, even before either of us realized it.

I carefully settle into the wheelchair, using the cane for brief support as I move from the bed. The pain in my leg throbs dully, but I’ve long since stopped paying it much attention. I place the book on my lap and slowly wheel myself over to the bed beside mine.

Cassandra lies there, tucked under a blanket that reaches her chest, her face pale and marked by fresh bruises. Her body, hurt but unbroken, exudes a fragility that doesn’t belong to her. I study her intently, every detail etched into my mind: the way her chest rises and falls with faint breaths, her lips slightly parted as if whispering words unspoken, her closed eyelids hiding something far more terrifying than the visible marks on her skin.

I wonder what nightmares are lurking in her mind. I know I have plenty of my own to contend with, yet they can’t even begin to compare to what she’s been through. The scene from last night replays with chilling clarity, a succession of images I can’t push away.

I notice the faint movement of her hands along her sides, almost imperceptible. It’s a sign of life, yet it feels so distant. I clutch the book on my lap, my fingers brushing over its worn cover, and wonder how long it will take for her to truly come back to herself. I wonder if it will even be possible.

My hand slowly reaches out, grazing the fabric of the blanket before holding hers. Cassandra’s skin is barely warm, but the touch makes me feel, for a moment, less alone. Her small, fragile hand rests in mine, and yet it feels as though I’m holding the most precious thing I’ve ever had.

Her face, kissed by the sunlight streaming through the window, doesn’t hide the strain of the previous night, yet it seems serene, almost enchanted, finally free from the anguish of a few hours ago. I find myself gazing at her as I’ve done so many times in the silence of the night, when she slept peacefully, her soft breathing brushing against my skin. How many times have I watched her, hoping that in those moments, she might somehow feel what I couldn’t bring myself to say—that I was bound to her, that I longed for her, that I thrived on her presence. Every small gesture, every nuance of her face has both tormented and captivated me.

I swear softly under my breath that whoever hurt her will pay. I feel it deep within, like a promise I can no longer ignore. I vow that I will always be by her side, that I will never leave her, that I will protect her from anyone who tries to harm her, from anyone who dares to break her again.

I’m on the verge of leaning closer to her ear and saying it all, of finally confessing aloud what I’ve never had the courage to voice. I want to whisper that I love her, that I don’t want to live without her, that my heart belongs to her alone. But just then, the infirmary door bursts open with a sudden, clattering noise, breaking my thoughts.

Matilda and Abraham make their entrance. The spell of the moment dissolves, and I know this isn’t the time to give in to sentimentality. Not now.

The expressions on my colleagues’ faces betray concern, though when they notice where I’m sitting, their features relax for a brief moment. They’ve never been the type to panic, but it’s clear that what happened yesterday—and the fact that both Cassandra and I ended up in the infirmary—has deeply unsettled them.

I don’t want to appear weak, so I rise, leaning naturally on my cane, and with a fluid motion, I approach them. My left leg still aches, but the support helps me endure the pain, and my determination not to show any vulnerability keeps me steady.

«How are you?» Abraham asks, his tone low but genuine. Matilda has already moved closer to Cassandra, her eyes filled with compassion and scrutiny. She looks relieved to see that my presence is more stable now, but I can sense her anguish for what has transpired in every gesture and in the furrow of her brow.

«How is Cassandra?» she adds, her voice carrying the same anxiety that’s growing within me.

I look at them both, the weight of an entire night pressing heavily on all of us. I feel the need to respond, to speak, but I can’t bring myself to do so immediately—unless it’s for something that truly matters.

«Rookwood,» I say, cutting off their questions. My voice is grave, filled with an urgency I can no longer suppress. «Where is he?»

Abraham’s face, usually so calm, twists into a disapproving scowl. He looks at me with eyes that are normally warm and welcoming but are now filled with a simmering anger. It doesn’t take much to realize that, as Head of Slytherin, his tolerance for behavior as vile as Rookwood’s has reached its limit. And frankly, I have no desire to mask my own frustration either.

«In one of the rooms near the Grand Staircase,» Abraham replies, his voice measured but tinged with disdain.

I can’t help but scoff, my contempt evident in the sharp exhale. «Of course, what better place than right near the Headmaster’s office?» I say sarcastically, my gaze already shifting toward the window, toward that point where I can feel my resolve pushing me closer and closer to a decisive confrontation.

Matilda, sensing the rising tension, intervenes promptly. Her voice is warm but firm, reassuring yet resolute: «Aesop, we’ll make sure Phineas doesn’t interfere. But right now, you need to tell us what happened.»

I turn to her slowly, struggling to pull myself away from my thoughts, to focus on something more productive. No matter how hard I try, every memory of the previous night brings me back to that moment when Cassandra was in danger. The sight of her, lying there, in that position… My mind aches just thinking about it. Still, her request is clear, and I can’t refuse.

I run a hand over my forehead, still damp with the cold sweat of recollection. I nod. «Here’s what happened,» I begin, my voice lower than I intended.

I recount everything. Every detail. The gut-wrenching sight of Cassandra, helpless; the surge of fury that drove me to fight like I hadn’t in years; the indelible image of Rookwood and his henchmen; the relentless rain amplifying every ounce of pain. And then, the moment I held her in my arms, her faint breath, the sheer terror of losing her.

When I finish, the room is cloaked in a heavy silence. Matilda and Abraham exchange glances, both visibly shaken. Matilda is the first to break the silence. «I can’t believe a student would do something like this,» she whispers, her voice cracking. «This isn’t just misconduct… it’s a crime.»

Abraham, more direct, clenches his fists, his anger clashing with his usually cheerful demeanor. «That boy needs to be expelled immediately. And not just that—this must be reported to the Ministry. We can’t let something like this happen again.»

I nod, gripping my cane tightly. «I agree,» I reply. «But you both know that with Black as Headmaster, it won’t be easy.»

Matilda straightens, crossing her arms. «Phineas Nigellus Black is an obstacle, yes, but we can’t let him dismiss the gravity of this situation. Not this time.»

«Don’t underestimate him,» I counter, my tone grim. «You know him as well as I do—he’ll do everything he can to cover this up. The Rookwood family has held him in their pocket for years, and Black will never stand up to those he’s so cowardly loyal to… even when they’re in the wrong.»

Abraham nods slowly, his expression darker than ever. «If the Headmaster tries to interfere, we’ll oppose him. All three of us. He can’t think such an abuse of power will go unpunished.»

Matilda places a hand on my shoulder, her gaze determined. «Aesop, we know this is difficult for you, but now, more than ever, we need to act together. No one will side with Rookwood. We won’t let that happen.»

I grip my cane tightly, staring at some indefinite point ahead, as determination swells in my chest. «I’ll do everything in my power to protect Cassandra,» I say firmly, my voice steadier than I expect. «At all costs. This time will be different.»

Matilda and Abraham exchange a knowing look, silently aware of what I’m referring to. It’s a thought that doesn’t need to be spoken, but it’s clear they both understand: Scarborough. That failure still haunts me, but after last night, it flutters faintly, as if finally ready to take flight…

Matilda meets my gaze with a look of deep understanding. «We know, Aesop. And you’re not alone this time. You can count on us—both of us. For you and for Cassandra.»

Abraham nods, his expression a mix of anger and solidarity. «She will get justice. That’s a promise.»

At that very moment, the door to the Hospital Wing swings open with a decisive bang. The other professors burst into the room, their faces tense and their voices overlapping.

«What happened?» exclaims Gaunt, his pale face even more colorless than usual, his wide eyes clouded with agitation.

«How are you, Aesop? And Cassandra? Merlin’s beard, I can’t believe this happened right under our noses,» adds Dinah in a tense tone, looking at me as if I were the only one capable of providing an answer.

Matilda raises a hand, attempting to calm the commotion. «Please, let Aesop speak.»

All eyes turn to me. I take a deep breath, ignoring the pain in my leg and the weight of their inquisitive stares.

I look at the faces of my colleagues crowding around me, their voices overlapping as they clamor for immediate answers. I feel tired, drained. Retelling everything is the last thing I want to do, but Cassandra deserves this. She deserves for them to know what she’s been through.

I grip my cane with both hands, letting the worn wood absorb some of my frustration, then I lift my gaze and recount everything for the second time.

Their voices fall silent, and the room seems filled only with the sound of my heavy breathing and the faint patter of rain against the windows. I retrace every tragic moment, describing what Rookwood and his followers did to Cassandra and what they could have done if I hadn’t arrived in time.

I describe every moment of the duel, every spell, every decision, up until the moment I managed to defeat Rookwood and protect her. I tell them everything, leaving nothing out, not even the pain I felt seeing her so fragile. At this point, hiding is pointless; and most importantly, she doesn’t deserve that.

When I finish, a heavy silence settles over the room. Mirabel shakes her head in disbelief. «This is… unacceptable. Rookwood is a danger to everyone, not just Cassandra.»

Dinah crosses her arms, her expression tense. «How could it come to this? Wasn’t it already clear enough that his behavior was problematic?»

Abraham speaks up, his voice low but brimming with anger. «Phineas Nigellus Black has always covered for him. He protected him even when he should have already been expelled—and we all know it’s happened at least once in each of our classes!»

«This cannot go on,» snaps Matilda, looking around at everyone present. «We must act. We cannot allow something like this to happen again—not to Cassandra, not to anyone else.»

The murmuring grows louder, opinions clash, and for a moment, chaos threatens to take over. I let myself fall into the wheelchair, exhausted. I no longer have the strength to intervene.

The voices become an indistinct background as my gaze returns to Cassandra. No matter how much they talk, how much they argue: the truth is that no decision made in this room can ever change what happened. Only one thing matters to me now.

I gently take her hand, still weak and cold under mine, and with the other, I stroke her hair, spilling over the pillow like rivulets of ink. Every fiber of my being focuses on her, on her fragility, and on the silent promise I repeat to myself like a mantra: justice. For her, for everything she has endured.

Behind me, my colleagues continue to argue.

«We need to inform the Wizengamot,» Matilda says firmly. «If Black won’t act, then we will.»

Abraham shakes his head, his brow furrowed. «It’s not that simple. You know Phineas: he’ll find a way to downplay everything. Rookwood has too many connections, and the Headmaster doesn’t want to draw the Ministry’s attention to Hogwarts.»

«We can’t let this go unpunished,» Mirabel replies, her voice sharp. «Whatever the risk, we have to do something.»

«We will,» Dinah interjects curtly. «But we need to act carefully. I don’t want the Ministry using this as an excuse to get a foothold in the castle. I know exactly how they’d act, especially with Spavin at the helm.»

Their voices overlap, each with their own opinion, but I remain silent, focused on Cassandra. I lean in slightly toward her, whispering softly, «It doesn’t matter how long it takes, Cassie. It doesn’t matter who I have to face. I promise I won’t let this end like this.»

Suddenly, the door to the Hospital Wing swings open, and Nurse Blainey enters with a decisive step. «That’s enough,» she declares in a tone that brooks no argument. «This is not a place for political debate; this is a hospital wing. My patients need rest, and that includes Professor Doyle, who has already been through enough.»

Her resolute gaze meets that of the other professors, and slowly, one by one, they begin to leave. Matilda gives me a final sympathetic look before following the others out of the room.

I am left alone with Cassandra. The nurse approaches to adjust the sheets, then looks at me with a softer expression. «Don’t let her overexert herself, Professor Sharp. And you, see that you don’t overdo it either,» she warns me kindly before retreating silently to her quarters.

I remain there, Cassandra’s hand still clasped in mine. Silence falls over the Hospital Wing, broken only by the slow and steady rhythm of her breathing. My gaze lingers on her face, on every small wound and bruise marring her skin. I lean in slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

«I’m here,» I whisper softly. «I’ll always be here.»

I stay by her side for two whole days, never leaving except for the bare minimum. It doesn’t matter how much my leg still aches or how the lack of sleep makes it difficult to stay alert: Cassandra is here, and until she wakes up, I won’t leave.

I watch her every hour, her pale, motionless face, the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest beneath the sheets. Occasionally, I stroke her cheek or adjust her hair, as if these small gestures could somehow ease her pain or call her back from that too-deep slumber. I take care of her to make up for all the times I didn’t in the past.

To pass the time and create the illusion of making our convalescence less somber, I decide to read her the book I gave her, picking up where Cassandra had placed a bookmark.

I let my fingers glide over the pages. It feels strange, almost intimate, to read something I had chosen for her—something I hadn’t known at the time would speak about us more than I could have ever imagined.

I read aloud, giving the sentences the right intonation, interpreting pauses and quotations. Even though I know she can’t hear me, it feels like the only way to feel close to her.

With every page I turn, I pause to look at her, hoping to catch a sign, a movement, anything that might tell me she’s still with me. When the afternoon sun filters through the windows, illuminating her face, I think I see a faint hint of color on her cheeks, and my heart tightens with a painful surge of hope.

I keep reading, day and night, stopping only to check on her or exchange a few words with Nurse Blainey. She ensures I don’t skip my meals and occasionally, with quiet insistence, asks me to leave her alone with Cassandra for brief moments to conduct examinations. She never explains exactly what she’s doing, and I don’t ask. I simply nod, grab my cane, leave the wheelchair by the bed, and step out of the Hospital Wing.

During these moments, I try to make use of the time by stretching my legs despite the pain or washing my face in the nearby Prefects’ Bathroom. It feels entirely different from the last time I was here with Cassandra—a draining sense of waiting, face-to-face with a merciless unknown, instead of the thrill I felt back then.

The cool air in the corridors provides some relief from the warm, medicinally scented atmosphere of the Hospital Wing. But even so, I can’t escape the anguish of being away from her. Every step away from Cass feels heavier than the last. I can’t bear the thought of leaving her alone again.

During these solitary walks, I sometimes encounter students who stop and look at me with a mix of reverence and curiosity. They lower their voices, but their whispers are still audible: word of what happened has already spread. I know they’ve been instructed not to speak of it openly, yet the weight of the tragedy lingers in the air like an unspoken secret.

My name and Cassandra’s intertwine in their murmurs, accompanied by fragmented phrases: «Professor Sharp…,» «Professor Doyle…,» «Rookwood…»

I ignore their stares and whispers, but a strange unease grows within me. I can’t bear the thought of Cassandra becoming the subject of gossip or her suffering being trivialized into distorted stories. I stop for a moment in front of one of the large windows overlooking the courtyard, tightening my grip on my cane.

«Professor Sharp?»

The voice is low, discreet, but unmistakable. I turn and find Albus Dumbledore watching me with a serious, concerned expression. He approaches slowly, as if not wanting to intrude.

«I heard about what happened,» he says, his voice tinged with genuine sorrow. «I heard the professors discussing it. I’m terribly sorry—for both of you.»

I stare at him for a moment, weighing his words. The sincerity in his tone strikes me, and for the first time in ages, I realize the great mistake I made in judging him.

«Thank you, Albus,» I reply just as sincerely, allowing myself to call him by his first name.

«Is there anything I can do to help, Professor?» he asks, with a note of hope.

I look at him, and suddenly, the promise I made to him months ago comes to mind—the same occasion when I gave Cassandra that book. An idea begins to take shape in my mind.

«Study magical law,» I tell him firmly. «Prepare yourself, because you might be called upon for something great. Your connection to Cassandra… it might prove useful someday.»

Albus tilts his head, intrigued. He’s about to ask a question when Nurse Blainey appears at the door.

«Professor Sharp, please, come in,» she says gently.

I nod to Albus. «Wait here. It won’t take long.»

I reenter the Hospital Wing, but before sitting back down beside Cassandra, I ask the nurse for parchment and a quill. I have a letter to write, and there’s no time to lose.

Drawing on all my years of service at the Ministry and my extensive knowledge, I compose a glowing letter of recommendation for Albus Dumbledore, making him an ideal candidate for the position of Youth Representative to the Wizengamot—just as he and Cassandra had once requested. If this situation takes the worst turn, as I suspect it might given Rookwood’s involvement, it will be crucial to have allies in every corner.

I let the ink dry and seal the letter. When I step out of the Hospital Wing, Albus is still there, twisting his long, slender fingers.

I hand him the envelope. «Go to the Owlery and pick the fittest owl you can find. Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Wizengamot. Don’t mess this up,» I warn him.

He turns the envelope over in his hands for a moment before lifting his bright blue eyes to mine, shining with gratitude. «Professor…» he begins, but I cut him off.

«Hurry,» I order, leaving no room for argument.

Dumbledore nods and turns, disappearing from sight, the coppery wave of his hair vanishing down the spiral staircase.

I return to my place by Cassandra’s bed, taking her hand again. «I’m back, Cassie,» I whisper, as if she can hear me. «You were right about Dumbledore. You’ve always been right.»

I gently stroke her hair, and for the briefest moment, I think I see her lips curve upward in a soft, slightly ironic smile, as if to say, I told you so .

The third day passes; as usual, I’m seated next to Cassandra’s bed, reading her another chapter from the book resting on my lap, when Noreen approaches me. She stops beside my wheelchair and waits patiently for me to lift my gaze from Cassandra.

«Professor Sharp,» she says kindly, her hands clasped in front of her, «may I have a word? I won’t keep you away from her for long.»

I nod, carefully closing the book. I place the bookmark between the pages and push the chair back just enough to stand. «Of course, Nurse Blainey. What is it?»

She steps a little away from Cassandra’s bed and speaks in a low voice, as if the matter is private. «I wanted to reassure you: Cassandra is improving significantly. She’s recovering, albeit slowly. She’s very resilient, truly.»

The knot in my stomach, which has been there for three days, loosens slightly but not enough. «So… she’s out of danger?»

«Yes, but she’ll need time and rest, especially to recover mentally. It’s been a very trying ordeal, as you can imagine.»

I nod, pressing my lips together as my eyes instinctively return to Cassandra. She’s still deeply asleep, her chest rising and falling in a steady, peaceful rhythm.

Nurse Blainey hesitates for a moment, then clears her throat. «Forgive me for asking, but there’s something I’d like to know.»

I raise an eyebrow slightly, inviting her to continue.

«You two…» she begins, lowering her voice even more, «are very close, aren’t you?»

I remain silent for a moment. Her question catches me off guard, though I’m not surprised she noticed. Since we’ve been here, I haven’t left Cassandra’s side unless absolutely necessary. I suspect that even before all this, we were less discreet than we thought.

«Yes,» I finally answer, without trying to hide anything. «We are.»

She nods, a faint, understanding smile touching her lips. «It shows, you know? From the care you have for her… and the way you speak to her, even if she might not hear you. It’s rare to see such genuine affection.»

I feel my face warm slightly. I don’t respond immediately, and Noreen quickly adds, «I didn’t mean to pry. I just wanted to say that Cassandra is fortunate to have someone who cares for her so deeply.»

I lower my gaze, thinking back on everything that has happened, and quietly reply, «No, I’m the one who’s fortunate to have her.»

The nurse smiles at my comment, but her expression soon grows serious again. She adjusts her uniform, as if gathering her thoughts. «There’s another reason I wanted to speak with you, Professor Sharp,» she says softly, her voice the only sound in the quiet room.

I stiffen, watching her closely. «What is it?»

«It’s about Cassandra. Her condition…» She hesitates, lowering her gaze as though searching for the right words. «You see, there are some circumstances that—»

Her sentence is abruptly cut off. A faint sound, a barely perceptible murmur, comes from the bed behind me. I turn sharply.

«Aesop…»

My heart stops. The voice is weak, hoarse, like a lost whisper in the wind, but it’s her. It’s Cassandra.

I quickly move to her bedside, abandoning my conversation with the nurse. «Cassie?» Her hand shifts slightly above the blankets, and I take it gently in mine, stroking her slender fingers. «I’m here. I’m here with you.»

Her eyes slowly flutter open, just slits touched by the daylight. I lean closer, holding her hand as if it’s the only thing anchoring me to the world.

«I always heard you… It’s good to know you’re really here…» she murmurs with a faint, almost imperceptible smile before her eyes close again, exhausted but alive.

«I’m here,» I repeat, my throat tight. «And I’m not going anywhere, Cassie. Never.»

Behind me, I hear Noreen moving closer, likely to begin new treatments now that Cassandra is conscious. She leans slightly toward me, whispering softly, «You’ve been an excellent helper, Professor Sharp.»

She gives me a knowing wink before stepping away to her room, returning shortly with fresh supplies I don’t recognize. Not that it matters—right now, I can’t tear my gaze away from Cassandra.

Her presence, the sound of her voice… that’s all that matters.

Chapter 41: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

A muffled sound breaks through the darkness enveloping me; a familiar voice, warm and steady, like a lifeline in the dark abyss I’ve been cast into. Aesop. It’s him. Even though the words are indistinct, his presence is unmistakable. I feel it with all my senses. I know he’s here—I’ve always known. Slowly, my body responds. It’s a struggle, but I manage to open my eyes.

The light in the room is soft, gentle, and yet almost unbearable for my weary eyes. I see him, standing near my bed, speaking with Nurse Blainey. His face is hollowed by exhaustion, dark circles etching his features like deep furrows. But his eyes are sharp, alert, alive.

«Aesop…» I murmur, finally drawing his attention to me. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, away from him, but his presence is all I need right now.

My voice is a whisper, but he hears it nonetheless. «Cassie?» He moves closer, leaning toward me, his movements slowed by the cane in his hand. Before I can wonder why he’s using it, he sits, taking my hand in his and gently brushing my hair, his expression almost incredulous, tinted with a fragile happiness: «I’m here. I’m here with you.»

His eyes meet mine, and a smile breaks across his face—faint, fragile, but beautiful. His hand rests on my skin, so warm against my still-cold flesh. A tear slips down his cheek, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or, if he does, he doesn’t care.

«I always heard you…» I tell him. Even in my unconscious state, I could feel his presence, his voice. His love. «It’s good to know you’re really here,» I add with a faint smile.

«I’m here,» he confirms, his hand brushing over every inch of exposed skin. «And I’m not going anywhere, Cassie. Never.»

Noreen moves in front of us, her face also lit with a renewed smile. She leans down to whisper something to Aesop, but I can’t hear it. Then she busies herself with potions and medicines, moving back and forth around my bed.

I try to move, to do something, but I feel utterly exhausted, as though my body has been cramped in a tight space for centuries. I manage only to lift my free hand, my trembling fingers reaching for Aesop’s cheek.

«Are you alright?» It’s all I can manage to say, yet within that question lies everything: worry, relief, gratitude, and love I cannot yet put into words.

His smile widens as his hand strokes my hair. «I should be asking you that. I’m not the one who’s been asleep for three days.»

I lower my gaze, too tired to let out the liberating laugh I’d like to, but something catches my attention. I try to focus on what I see, and it’s undeniably what it appears to be: his wheelchair. And he is sitting in it.

Him, in that chair—the very same that caused our heated argument, both of us caught in a whirlwind of desperate love. It seems like an illusion, yet it’s undeniably real, just inches from me; and he sits in it as though it’s any other chair. For the first time, his disability doesn’t seem like a symbol of defeat.

The knot tightening my chest loosens slightly. «You’re sitting in your chair…» I murmur, the faint smile of understanding what’s transpired from Rookwood’s attack until now forming on my chapped lips.

He tries to rely on humor, though his voice is strained, as if he fears losing me at any moment. «I didn’t have much of a choice, considering you refused to wake up.»

I try to respond with a laugh, but a bout of coughing stops me, forcing me to remain serious, even though my heart overflows with joy.

«Careful, Professor Sharp,» Noreen scolds, as though it were his fault. «Don’t exhaust Professor Doyle too much!»

I wave a hand in her direction, trying to reassure her. «No, Noreen… Laughing can only do me good after…»

I don’t finish the sentence. The memory of what happened crashes over me, still terribly vivid in my mind, and a sense of oppression grips me, tightening my throat.

I can’t stop the tears from filling my eyes. Aesop’s fingers move across my face, wiping away the drops trailing down my cheekbones. He does it slowly, carefully, as if afraid of hurting me. His touch is warm, reassuring—a promise that he didn’t give up, even when my mind and body were too weary to keep fighting.

And in that moment, the weight of everything Aesop must have endured crashes down on me: the ticket, seeing him vulnerable in his wheelchair, the truth about Scarborough, and his guilt over failing to save Mabel. Then my cry for help, the attack, the duel…

My lips move before I can stop them. «Aesop...»

He leans closer, his gaze softening. «I’m here, Cassie.»

A lump forms in my throat, and I can only whisper, «I’m sorry… I’m so sorry...»

His eyebrows knit together briefly, surprised, before he shakes his head slightly. «Cassie, there’s nothing for you to apologize for.»

I shake my head weakly, the room spinning from the effort, which my weakened body can’t afford. «I shouldn’t have… the ticket… I shouldn’t have lied to you or made you relive everything…» My voice cracks, and the weight of shame drags me down more than the fever burning on my skin.

Aesop leans even closer, our faces now mere inches apart, and looks into my eyes with an intensity that takes my breath away. For the first time, I notice how tired he looks—red-rimmed eyes, unshaven beard, the marks of the duel. Yet he’s never looked more beautiful, more alive.

«No, Cassie,» he says softly but firmly. «None of this is your fault. If anything, I should be the one asking for forgiveness.»

I stare at him, confused, my brows furrowing. «Forgiveness? For what?»

He lowers his gaze for a moment, and when he looks at me again, there’s something raw in his eyes. «For dragging you into all of this. For not being completely honest from the start. For not protecting you enough. And for every time I let my pride come between us.»

The knot in my throat finally loosens, replaced by an emotion I can’t define. Relief? Hope? I don’t know, but I squeeze his hand with the little strength I have.

Nurse Blainey interrupts us with a stern expression. «There’s no time for tearful speeches right now. You both need to rest,» she says, casting a pointed glance at Aesop. With expert hands, she props me up slightly and helps me drink a potion that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth before adjusting my pillows.

Aesop’s eyes remain fixed on me, his hand never leaving mine. «You need to rest, Cassie. I’m staying right here. I’m not going anywhere.»

I stay silent for a moment, letting the warmth of his hand in mine comfort me. But I realize I can’t rest, no matter how much I want to drift back into sleep. In my mind, a shadow looms—an unshakable thought pushing through the fever and exhaustion.

Slowly, I lift my gaze to Aesop. «Rookwood…» I murmur, my voice weak but steady.

His hand tightens slightly around mine, his expression hardening. There’s no need for me to elaborate—he already knows what I want to ask.

«He’s confined to the Grand Staircase quarters,» he says in a controlled tone, though his eyes betray a simmering anger. «For now, he won’t be going anywhere.»

A shiver runs through me. Rookwood and the Headmaster have never been so openly close. «What will happen?» I ask, my voice dry and brittle, devoid of any hope or trust in the future.

Aesop sighs, gripping my hand more firmly as if trying to lend me the strength I lack. «We’ll leave nothing to chance, Cassie.» His voice is low but filled with a resolve I’ve never heard from him before. «The other professors already know everything, and no one intends to protect him. Whoever hurt you will pay. I promise you that.»

The tension in his voice is palpable, and the way his jaw tightens reveals the anger he’s trying to suppress. Aesop is a man who measures every word and action, even under pressure. But in this moment, he can’t hide the fire consuming him.

I squeeze his hand, almost as a silent gesture of gratitude, as I piece together everything that has happened. The memory of those slimy hands on me, the breath against my skin, the mocking laughter echoing in the night—it’s too much to bear without knowing what truly happened while I was unconscious.

When Madam Blainey returns to check on me, her gaze moving between Aesop and me as if to ensure the situation is under control, I realize I can’t wait any longer. I catch her attention.

«Noreen?» I ask, trying to keep my voice from breaking under the weight of the anguish pressing on my chest, making it almost difficult to breathe.

«Yes, Professor Doyle?» she replies, alert and ready to meet any of my requests.

«Please stay,» I say, then turn to Aesop. «I need a moment alone with the nurse.»

His expression darkens immediately. His brow furrows, his face tightening into a mask of hesitation and concern. «Cassie, what...?»

I stop him, squeezing his hand again and attempting a reassuring smile. «Please. I won’t take long.»

Aesop remains still for a moment, then slowly nods, though the shadow in his eyes doesn’t dissipate.

«All right,» he says finally, conciliatory, as if understanding I need a private moment. He rises slowly, leaning on his cane, and stands by the bed for a moment. «I’ll be outside. If you need anything...»

«Thank you,» I interrupt him softly, dismissing him.

He brushes my cheek with a kiss, then moves away with slow steps, the rhythm of his cane tapping the floor feeling as familiar as if I’ve known it forever. When the door closes behind him, I turn to Nurse Blainey, who looks at me with a compassionate gaze, silently aware of what I’m about to ask her, as if she already knows.

I wrap myself tighter in the blanket, the silence becoming oppressive. I feel vulnerable, fragile, as if the slightest word could shatter me completely.

I take a trembling breath, trying to find the words. «Noreen...» I hesitate, my throat tightening. «I know this probably isn’t the right time, but... I need to know. And please, don’t sugarcoat it. Just tell me the truth.»

The nurse steps closer, her face open and reassuring. «Of course, Professor. I’m here to help.»

I bite my lip, unable to articulate the thought that feels so absurdly distant from me. «I... I wanted to know if...» I stare at the bedcovers, feeling a lump in my throat. «If I was... sexually assaulted.»

She shakes her head immediately, placing a gentle hand on my arm—a gesture so small yet imbued with all the solidarity in the world. In that moment, something connects us: being women, the danger we’ve both faced, at least once in our lives, in dealing with men and the potential threat they represent.

«No, Cassandra,» she says, taking the liberty to call me by my first name, breaking the wall of formality between my role and hers, even though we’re practically the same age. «I conducted all the necessary examinations as soon as you arrived here in the infirmary. There are no signs of that kind of violence.»

A wave of relief washes over me, but the weight pressing on my chest doesn’t entirely dissipate. My heart races as I prepare to ask the other question—the one whose answer I dread even more.

«And the baby?» I whisper, finally finding the courage to look up at her. «Is it... is it still there? Is it all right?»

Noreen’s gaze doesn’t change. Her hand squeezes my arm with a warmth I didn’t expect.
«It’s still too early to determine its health,» she says, her voice gentle. «But yes, the baby is still with you. You’re still pregnant.»

The breath escapes my lips all at once, and tears begin to fall uncontrollably. It’s a relief, yes, but also a profound fear, an anguish I don’t know how to face in the imminent future ahead of me.

«Thank you, Noreen. Please don’t mention this to Aesop,» I say finally in a faint voice, my gratitude clashing with reality.

The nurse looks at me with surprise. «Why not? He’s the father, Cassandra. He has a right to know.»

I shake my head, biting my lip. «Not yet. I don’t know how to tell him... I don’t know what will happen when I get back on my feet. If...» I swallow, searching for the right words to express what’s troubling me. «...if everything will be all right,» I finish at last.

She sighs, but her gaze remains kind. «Take the time you need, but don’t wait too long. He loves you, and he deserves to know the truth.»

I nod weakly, wiping my tears with the back of my hand.

‘He loves you.’

Is it so evident? So clear and bright now, in the light of day?

I force myself to put on a calm expression, ready to welcome Aesop’s return, but inside me, there’s a turmoil I can’t yet share.

I have no idea what will happen in the coming days: whether the pregnancy will end on its own, as I’m not yet past the second month, and every moment is delicate; whether Aesop will accept this, yet another avalanche of emotions hitting him without warning; or, in the worst-case scenario, if Rookwood or Black will decide to make my life even more impossible.
As if things could get worse than this…

The creak of the door opening pulls me from my thoughts. I turn slightly and see Aesop reenter. His steps are slow, deliberate, but his eyes immediately seek mine, as though to reassure himself that I’m all right. Behind him, moving with a soft, graceful gait, is Morgan.

«Look who came to see you,» Aesop says with a smile, stepping aside to let the Kneazle through. Morgan observes me for a moment, assessing me with her enigmatic eyes, before leaping nimbly onto the bed. A soft meow breaks the silence as she curls up in my lap, resting her head on my legs in a gesture brimming with trust and comfort.

«Looks like Morgan has decided to take care of you too,» Aesop remarks as he sits down again beside my bed.

My fingers instinctively move toward Morgan’s soft fur. She purrs in a steady, almost hypnotic rhythm, kneading my abdomen with her paws as though she already knows.

Aesop watches me for a long moment, as though trying to catch every nuance of my expression. I’m certain he’s noticed the traces of my earlier, cathartic tears, yet he has the decency and discretion not to mention it. «Did you speak with the nurse?» he asks in a calm but concerned tone.

I nod, avoiding his gaze, my attention focused on Morgan as I stroke her sleek, shiny fur. «Yes. Everything… everything is fine.»

I say nothing more, and for a moment, he remains silent. Then he places his hand over mine in a gesture that carries more tenderness than usual. «You know I’m here for anything, right?»

I finally look at him, and in his eyes, I see the fire of determination, the resolve to keep a promise of protection that warms my heart. I know I need to tell him the truth, but I also know this isn’t the right time. We both need a moment of peace, to finally put an end to this chapter. Because, though I don’t want to admit it, I know deep down that this isn’t over yet and that there’s still a battle ahead—men like Rookwood don’t give up so easily.

I nod. «Of course I know,» I reply with a smile. We leave it at that, and Aesop has the decency not to press me to open up before I’m ready.

The next morning, the stillness of the infirmary is broken by a soft knock at the door. Aesop, as always, is seated beside me, and we’re having breakfast, but the sound makes him pause. He stands, moving as though he’s about to greet guests in his own home.

Through the door come Matilda, Abraham, and the other professors, their faces painted with worry and exhaustion, an unprecedented apprehension etched into their features. Matilda is the first to approach my bed, taking my hands maternally as soon as she is close enough.

«Cassandra, dear, how are you feeling?» she asks, lowering her voice as though afraid to disturb me.

«A bit better,» I reply, forcing a smile. But it’s obvious my voice is still faint.

Abraham steps up beside Matilda, his face furrowed into a frown—something I believe I’ve never seen him wear before. «Cassandra, you can’t imagine the fear and pain we felt when we heard,» he says, shaking his head. «But we’re all here for you, to make sure things are set right. We’re on your side. This… this cannot go unpunished.»

«Exactly,» Matilda adds firmly. «Once you’re strong enough to join the discussion, it will be necessary to arrange a meeting with the Headmaster to address what needs to be done.»

«Black won’t be easy to convince,» Ominis remarks, crossing his arms and shaking his head grimly.

«It doesn’t matter how difficult it will be,» Aesop cuts in, his voice sharp enough to bring silence to the room. «We won’t let this be swept under the rug. We’ve already wasted too much time dealing with Rookwood and Black’s negligence.»

Grave looks pass between them, and I feel overwhelmed by emotion. I’m deeply, undeniably grateful for the support they’re offering me, but at the same time, the weight of the situation begins to press down on me. Never could I have imagined facing a challenge of this magnitude when I accepted this position, and yet here I am, fighting tooth and nail for what is rightfully mine.

As though my thoughts are reflected in my eyes, Matilda moves closer again. She leans over me, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder. I wonder if this is what it feels like to have had a mother who cares so deeply about her child’s well-being. «Rest, Cassandra,» she says softly, her tone soothing. «We’ll handle it. When you’re ready, we’ll face it all together.»

The days that follow pass slowly, marked by Aesop's thoughtful gestures, Madam Blainey's professionalism, and the fleeting visits of my colleagues. I feel as if I am suspended in a limbo: my body heals, the bruises fade, and the cuts close, but my mind remains trapped in the whirlpool of what happened, still tormented by nightmares that disrupt my sleep each night.

Aesop rarely leaves my side. He reads to me, speaks in a soft voice, or simply sits there by my bed, watching over me and gently stroking my hand, his presence a safe haven in the ocean of my lingering insecurity. When he must step away for a few moments—to stretch his legs, use the bathroom, or catch some rest (at my insistence, supported by Noreen’s stern encouragement)—Morgan takes over his duties. She curls up on my lap, her hypnotic purring a soothing balm, as though she is protecting the precious life growing inside me, a life so small yet resilient against the horrors we endured.

Madam Blainey diligently administers potions and monitors my health. Occasionally, she helps me sit up for a few moments, guiding me through gentle exercises to stimulate circulation and rebuild strength in my legs. When the rain finally subsides and the dreary weather gives way to the fresh embrace of spring sunlight, Aesop suggests opening the window to let in the crisp air, the chirping of birds, the bustle of the school, and the warmth of the sun.

The sunlight on my skin feels like a healing balm, and I close my eyes as though standing beneath the flow of a soothing fountain, the rays cascading over me like warm water. The simple beauty of the moment overwhelms me, and I find myself wiping away a pair of tears that well up unbidden. Aesop pulls me close, wrapping his arm around my shoulders; his hand gently weaves through my hair as I rest my head against his sturdy thigh—a pillar of support that keeps me anchored, shielding me from the pull of despair.

In these quiet moments, I feel a glimmer of myself returning, as though reclaiming fragments of who I was before this ordeal. They are fleeting, but they remind me that healing is possible, that I can piece myself back together, bit by bit, with his steady presence guiding me back to the light.

The day of my discharge arrives sooner than I expected. Noreen watches us with a satisfied expression, but there's a glint of something akin to affection in her eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had grown fond of me, of what I’ve been through—or perhaps she simply empathizes with my story.

Before letting us go, she gives her final instructions: «And this applies to both of you,» she emphasizes, pointing first at me, then at Aesop. «Professor Doyle, no excessive strain. Rest, regular meals, and absolutely no lessons for at least a week. And as for you, Professor Sharp... well, we both know this: no heroics.» She allows herself a spontaneous smile, the first genuine one I’ve seen on her face after all these days spent together.

Aesop mirrors her lightheartedness, allowing himself a rare smile. «As you command, Madam Blainey.»

«Good,» Noreen concludes, adjusting her cap. «Now, off you go. I don’t want to see either of you here again for at least ten years!»

For the first time in days, Aesop and I share a carefree smile. It feels strange to stand on my own two feet, to walk again, to wear proper clothes instead of the infirmary nightgown. Aesop offers me his arm, which I gratefully take, letting him support me during the short walk to our quarters, just one floor below. Leading the way is Morgan, her tail held high as if guiding a solemn procession. She weaves through the prefects milling about, their curious gazes following us.

Among them is Albus Dumbledore, his Renaissance-like features lighting up when he sees us. «Professor Doyle,» he exclaims, stepping forward to meet us, «it’s such a relief to see you up and... well, to see you recovering.» He hesitates slightly at the end, but I don’t hold it against him; even for me, acknowledging how I feel remains a challenge.

«Thank you, Albus. Professor Sharp mentioned you were concerned,» I reply kindly.

«Mr. Dumbledore,» Aesop interjects, a peculiar expression of camaraderie crossing his face as he looks at the boy, «have you done what I asked?»

Albus nods. «Yes, Professor. I’m waiting for a response.»

«Don’t forget to keep me updated. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Professor Doyle needs to rest.»

Albus steps aside and bids us farewell, allowing us to continue. I glance at Aesop, my curiosity piqued, and tease him lightly: «Did it take me staying in the infirmary for you to appreciate Albus?»

He shrugs. «Let’s just say I’ve realized some things take precedence over others.»

We reach the door to our quarters, but before opening it, Aesop turns to me and says, «And you, Cassandra, are definitely at the top of the list—far more important than any quarrel with a student.» His smile is tender, genuine, as though he feels the need to prove himself worthy of my love, as if it were something he had to earn. Little does he know, he never needed to. My heart has been his for far longer than I’d care to admit, even to myself.

He finally opens the door, and I am greeted by a familiar scent that I never thought our room could have, yet it smells unmistakably of home. The realization is a soothing balm to my mind as I step inside, almost reverently, as if crossing the threshold into a sacred space.

I’ve missed these dark walls, the leather armchairs, the stacks of vials and cauldrons scattered everywhere. This room is more than just a place; it’s a sanctuary, and I am home.

Aesop, always by my side, places the cane against the wall near the entrance, while the wheelchair materializes a few meters away from us. Its presence no longer seems to unsettle him, as if the great challenge it once represented for him has now been overcome.

Although I’m feeling much better compared to the first days in the Infirmary, I still feel fatigued. I sit on the sofa to catch my breath, thinking about how I’ll have to get used to living life as I did before. Meanwhile, I hear him muttering something while gazing at the ceiling.

«What are you thinking about?» I ask, curious.

He looks at me sideways, trying to hide with bravado the sly expression forming on his face. «I was thinking of taking back the attic.»

«The attic?» I repeat, confused and shocked. I certainly didn’t expect that, upon my return, I would be immediately evicted.

Aesop nods calmly as he approaches me, his hands in his pockets. «Yes; I’ve started wanting to draw on large surfaces again, to have an outlet all for myself. After the weeks spent in the Infirmary, I really feel the need for it.»

I think he’s about to sit down, but he doesn’t: he turns his back, opens the door to his bedroom, places the wheelchair inside, and then exits, this time looking at me. He holds my gaze until, with a lump in my throat, I force myself to say: «Okay. I’ll… I’ll go get my things then.» I’m too overwhelmed to protest.

He nods, continuing to look at me. «Bring them here.»

I stare at him for a moment. «What… what do you mean?» I ask.

He repeats, patiently: «Bring your things here. Into my room,» and gestures toward it with a hand. «Or perhaps… I should say, ours.»

Now everything is clear. Aesop has never wanted to abandon me, leave me on my own. Now that I know everything about him, he’s proposing to share every space, every moment.

«You mean... living together?» I ask, a disbelieving smile beginning to form on my lips the moment I say the word.

He nods serenely. «Exactly. If you want it, of course.»

The answer escapes me spontaneously, without hesitation. «Yes. Of course I want to.»

This time, he comes toward me, lifts me off the sofa, and embraces me, a hug that lasts throughout the time busy house-elves take care of the move, checking on my health and congratulating us.

Chapter 42: SHARP

Chapter Text

I wake up early, as usual, even though my sleep was far from restful. Nightmares crept in during the night, blending with memories I’d rather forget. But when I open my eyes and turn toward Cassandra, every shadow disappears for a moment. I can’t believe I waited so long to have her move into my bedroom, to have her sleep in my arms, her breath against my skin, just because I was afraid she’d see the most vulnerable, secret parts of me. Looking at her closed eyelids, her slightly parted lips, and the pale glow of her skin, I feel like a fool for having hesitated.

She’s still asleep, her face relaxed in an expression I haven’t seen often lately—a fleeting peace that doesn’t deserve to be disturbed, especially after the difficult days we’ve just been through and the challenging day ahead of us. Her physical wounds may have healed, but I know all too well, having learned it myself, that the invisible ones will take much longer to mend.

I get up without making a sound, using my cane to support the weight on my still-aching leg. Despite Madam Blainey’s care, the enforced rest, and the gradually warming weather, I’ve pushed it beyond its limits—something impossible to ignore or pretend never happened. Much as it pains me to admit, the confrontation with Rookwood, while it didn’t break me, has taken a heavy toll.

And speaking of the devil, today isn’t just any day: today, we professors will meet with Headmaster Black to discuss what happened. I can’t suppress a surge of anger at the thought. Black has never been a man capable of handling delicate situations, let alone delivering justice, especially when the parties involved are a Muggle-born and a Pureblood, regardless of their House or position. His indifference is toxic, but as Headmaster, we have to deal with him—whether we like it or not.

I move slowly toward the basin of water, summoning one of the house-elves to have breakfast brought to the room for Cassandra and me. I don’t have time to go to the Great Hall; I need to clear my thoughts, even though a storm brews inside me, ready to explode. Acting rashly today would be a mistake. The anger pounds like a relentless drum, but control is more crucial than ever. I can’t stop thinking about Rookwood, about the harm he inflicted on Cassandra and the even greater harm he could have done had I not arrived in time. Yet he’s still here, shielded by the walls of this castle, almost untouchable.

The desire for revenge burns fiercely within me, but it’s a feeling I force myself to suppress. Revenge isn’t what she needs right now—she needs protection. I must be her shield, her strength, even though the weight of that responsibility feels suffocating.

A tray laden with fragrant delicacies materializes on the table between the chairs by the fireplace. As I sit down to sip my coffee, my mind drifts. I replay every moment of that night, every mistake, every choice. I can’t escape the guilt. No matter how much I know, or how much Cassandra reassures me that I’m not to blame, a part of me will never stop believing otherwise. I should have protected her better, been more aware of the dangers surrounding her. I can’t change the past, but I can make sure nothing like this ever happens to her again.

A soft noise behind me pulls me from my thoughts, grounding me in the present. I turn to find Cassandra standing in the doorway of the bedroom, wrapped in her robe. Her eyes are still clouded with sleep, but her gaze is sharp.

«Good morning. How are you feeling?» she asks, her voice soft.

«I’m fine,» I lie, unwilling to burden her with what weighs on me. «And you? Did you sleep well?»

She nods, though there’s a concern in her eyes that cuts through me like a blade. I rise and walk toward her, pulling her into an embrace—though I’m unsure which of us needs it more.

«I know the thought of what’s coming today troubles you. It’s the same for me. But as long as I’m here, I won’t let anyone downplay or dismiss what you’ve been through.»

Cassandra looks up at me, offering a faint smile, before moving to sit in the empty chair beside mine. She starts eating her breakfast in silence, and I don’t push her to speak. Silence between us, now more than ever, feels more meaningful than a thousand empty words. I know she’s trying to stay strong, and I respect her for that, but I wish she felt free to break down if she needed to, as she’s done so many times in my presence before.

«Aesop,» she says after a while, her voice quiet. «Thank you for everything you’re doing.»

There’s no need for me to respond, and I know she doesn’t expect me to. I simply reach out, taking her hand in mine and squeezing it—a gesture that says far more than words ever could.

As the appointed time for the meeting draws near, we prepare together. For the first time in days, I shave, trying to make my tense face look a little more presentable. She dons a simple, almost modest robe, and though her movements are deliberate, I’m struck by the immense determination behind her serious, focused expression and her efficient, measured gestures.

Even after everything she’s endured, Cassandra remains unbroken—her spirit perhaps fractured but far from shattered—ready to fight for herself and her dignity. As we leave, I silently vow once more to do everything in my power to support her and ensure her voice is heard.

We reach the Faculty Lounge, its door looming closed and almost menacing before us. Instinctively, I take Cassandra's hand, her palm slightly damp with anxiety, and give it a firm squeeze. She looks up at me, and today she seems so small that I feel the urge to pull her away, to escape somewhere far from here, just the two of us. But I know that's not what she needs, so I nod toward the door, inviting her to lead the way. She takes a deep breath and opens it slowly, as if her mere presence might disturb the room.

Our colleagues are already seated around the long dark-wood table, their faces a mixture of concern, though their eyes burn with determination. Their heads turn toward us, and I feel the weight of their expectations. Cassandra and I take the two empty chairs; as I sit beside her, I keep my gaze fixed on Black, seated at the head of the table with his usual expression of bored indifference, drumming his fingers distractedly on the armrest of his chair. We all watch him in silence, the heavy weight of anticipation filling the air.

At last, he decides to speak. «Well,» he exclaims, breaking the silence with a tone of weary irritation, as if this meeting were a trifling matter and he had far more important things to do. «We’re here to discuss what happened to Professor Doyle, are we not? Well then, someone get on with it. I don’t have all day.»

Cassandra lowers her gaze, focusing on her hands twisting nervously beneath the table, visibly hurt by Black’s tone. It’s clear he believes this meeting is nothing but a waste of his time. I resist the urge to speak for her—I know how important it is that she tells her story, that she makes herself heard—but I can’t ignore the knot tightening in my stomach at the thought of her having to relive it all.

I brush the back of my hand against her knuckles in silent encouragement, and finally, her voice breaks the silence.

«It was late at night,» she begins, her tone calm but betrayed by a faint tremor. «I had left to go to Hogsmeade when…»

She doesn’t even get the chance to finish before Black interrupts. «What were you doing going to Hogsmeade in the dead of night, Professor Doyle?»

Cassandra swallows and hesitates. Then, casting me the briefest glance, she softly replies, «I had to meet Parry Pippin.»

Black raises an eyebrow. «Pippin? The potioneer?»

Cassandra nods, her head bowed.

«And it couldn’t wait until the next day? It was so urgent that you had to go to Hogsmeade at night, in pouring rain?»

She shakes her head silently. Black scoffs, gesturing dismissively with his hand for her to continue.

No, of course, it couldn’t wait. Suddenly, everything clicks into place in my mind. Cassandra had gone out, angry, furious, desperate, into the night and the driving rain—for me. She must have read the note, the list of ingredients for finding a cure, and copied everything, especially the annotation I’d jotted down what now feels like a lifetime ago: Talk to Pippin about the below: How fitting it would be if the key to my cure lay in the obscure. When she encountered the unyielding wall of my refusal to accept her help, she hadn’t stopped. She had gone beyond, challenging me and the dangers of the world, leaving the castle to speak with the only other person who might give her answers. She had put herself in harm’s way for me, disregarding what might happen, risking her own life for mine.

I bring my fist to my mouth, biting down hard on my knuckles to keep myself from breaking down in front of everyone, to stop the tears that brim with the sheer magnitude of her heart. How can one person hold so much love?

Yet, the story unfolds with an almost agonizing slowness. Cassandra recounts the rain-soaked path, deserted until the moment Rookwood’s figure appeared before her, the horrific realization of footsteps behind her, the moment she understood she was surrounded and defenseless. Each word is a blow to my chest, a knife that I wish I had taken in her stead if it could have spared her this pain. I see our colleagues stiffen in their seats, their expressions shifting from shock to disbelief, and finally to horror.

Every so often, she pauses, as if a lump in her throat prevents her from breathing, and I clench my fists beneath the table, fighting the urge to intervene or to tell Black and his sadistic appetite for others’ suffering to go to hell. Cassandra shouldn’t have to relive this, but she’s forced to, because of a man who can’t see past his own ego and prejudices.

When Cassandra reaches the part of her story where she passed out from the strain of Legilimency, facing Rookwood and his lackeys poised to violate her defenseless body, it’s as though I’m reliving every agonizing moment. From the instant I saw her lying helpless on the path, the blood, the fear, the terror that I might have been too late—it all floods back. The rage burning beneath my skin is nearly uncontainable, but I leash it for her. Only for her.

When her account ends, the room sinks into an oppressive silence. Black leans even further back into his chair, an attitude I’d dare call satisfied. «Interesting,» he remarks with a note of disinterest so callous it makes me want to throw everything within reach at him. «Professor Sharp, do you corroborate all of this?»

«Obviously,» I reply, my tone sharper than intended, betraying my fury and impatience. «And I can add details, if necessary. For instance, Rookwood attempted to hit me with an Avada Kedavra , and one of his accomplices made a disgusting attempt to take advantage of Professor Doyle while she was unconscious.»

But Black doesn’t seem satisfied—or truly interested—in the gravity of either Cassandra’s words or mine. He steeples his fingers with theatrical slowness, adopting a mockingly contemplative pose. «And yet,» he drawls, almost bored, «it seems prudent to verify further. Summon Madam Blainey. Not that I doubt Professor Doyle’s account, of course, but... we all know how reality can become distorted in moments of high tension.»

My grip on my cane tightens until my knuckles ache. Cassandra casts me a quick glance, and I know she can feel the seething rage radiating off me. But I remain still, waiting for Noreen to arrive, as a frigid silence falls over the room. This isn’t justice. This is Black reducing horror to an insignificant formality.

Finally, the door to the Faculty Lounge opens, and Noreen enters. Her jaw is clenched, and a dark shadow clouds her face, though she carries herself with her usual professionalism. She stops a few feet from the table, fixing her gaze on Black alone, clutching what I assume is Cassandra’s medical file. She spares Cassandra a brief, encouraging look, but her expression swiftly neutralizes as her eyes return to the Headmaster.

«Well, Madam Blainey, thank you for joining us,» Black begins, resuming his infuriating finger-drumming on his chair. «The account provided by Professor Doyle is rather... dramatic. We would appreciate a confirmation of the facts.»

Noreen nods, maintaining a respectful yet firm tone. «I can confirm Professor Doyle’s account. Her physical condition was consistent with an assault endured under extreme mental and physical stress. I found evidence of struggle and exhaustion, physical injuries inflicted in a state of restraint, consistent with defensive attempts and the use of the Cruciatus Curse. Additionally, there were traces of prolonged and unnatural Legilimency.»

Black leans forward slightly, his lips curving into a shallow, insincere smile. «And what of... specific injuries? Signs of physical violence of a certain kind?»

His question strikes the room like lightning. Cassandra, her gaze still cast downward, stiffens in her seat. I clench my fists under the table, barely restraining the urge to lunge at Black for his audacity. Around the room, the other professors murmur among themselves, aghast at the crudeness of the question.

Noreen, however, doesn’t flinch. She replies with steely resolve. «No, Headmaster. There are no signs of that type of violence. However, this does not in any way diminish the gravity of the situation.»

Her words land with a quiet authority that silences the murmurs, but the tension in the room is palpable. Black leans back again, his expression unreadable, while I silently vow that this farce will not be the final word on Cassandra’s ordeal.

Black leans back in his chair, waving a hand as if to dispel an invisible cloud. «Ah, well then. The situation isn’t as dire as it seemed. Professor Doyle appears to be in good condition, so I’d say the matter is resolved.»

«Resolved?» Matilda Weasley’s voice rings out, high and incredulous, shattering the tense and unnatural silence that had fallen over the room. «Headmaster, we’re talking about a serious assault that occurred on Hogwarts grounds! You can’t simply dismiss it like this.»

«I agree,» Abraham interjects, his face contorted in anger—a stark contrast to his usually jovial demeanor. «A student of ours attacked a colleague. This is unacceptable, regardless of the physical consequences!»

Black raises a hand, as if to quell the rising agitation. «I understand your concerns, but I remind you all that Hogwarts is a school, not a court of law. I will handle the matter appropriately, but there is no need for further dramatization.»

I can’t hold back any longer. «With all due respect, Headmaster, downplaying what happened only fosters a climate of impunity. If no firm stance is taken, other students may think they can act the same way without consequences. I was there, and I know exactly what happened. I saw the state Rookwood and his lackeys left Cassandra in. This was a deliberate, personal attack—not a mere accident or misunderstanding.»

«Professor Sharp,» Black replies, his tone verging on mockery, «it seems you’re taking this matter rather personally. Reassure your… protégé: I will ensure that young Rookwood is properly reprimanded.»

«She could have been killed! Or worse!» Mirabel exclaims, her voice trembling with outrage.

Black raises an eyebrow at her, his expression laced with cynical curiosity. «Professor Garlick, pray tell, what could possibly be worse than being killed?»

At that moment, Cassandra rises from her seat, her movements rigid, her face pale, as though she can no longer bear to remember it all, to relive the attempted violation. Without a word, she moves to the window, her gaze fixed on the vast lawn surrounding the castle. The room falls into a silence heavy with tension and anticipation, every eye on her, as though she is the protagonist in a theatrical drama and the audience is waiting for an explosive act. Then, in a low but steady voice, she breaks the silence: «Being raped.»

My heart tightens. I feel a lump in my throat and the blood pounding in my temples. I rise from my chair and, without caring what the others might think, I go to her. I stop beside her, letting her sense my presence, and she leans her exhausted body against mine, as though admitting what happened aloud has drained her of all energy. I wrap an arm around her shoulders, resting my lips on her hair, which shifts slightly with my breath, as a heavy silence blankets the room.

Black turns toward us, his bored expression betraying no empathy. Yet, perhaps under the weight of the opposing opinions in the room, he gives the faintest nod of what might be considered surrender. «Fine,» he says, in a tone that couldn’t sound less sincere. «If you all care so much, I’ll take action.»

The professors exchange glances, hoping for a just decision, but Black’s next words extinguish any hope. «I propose transferring the student to Durmstrang. He can continue his education there, far from here.»

The proposal leaves everyone stunned. Mirabel is the first to speak, her face flushed with indignation. «But that’s not a punishment for what he’s done! It’s merely a change of school! And to Durmstrang, no less!»

The other professors voice their dissent, their protests overlapping in a rising chorus. I remain silent, holding Cassandra close as though I fear the events might rip her away from me, trying to keep calm while the anger inside me boils dangerously close to the surface.

Matilda raises her voice to underline the injustice of such a weak decision, while Ominis shakes his head in disbelief.

Black raises a hand to silence them all, his gaze cold and distant. «That is my decision,» he states with finality. «I have no intention of debating it further. If there are no real objections, this meeting is adjourned.»

He rises and, without waiting for a reply, strides toward the exit. The sound of his steps echoes in the quiet room, accompanied only by the swish of his robes. The professors remain still for a moment, their expressions heavy with disappointment and bitterness. Some shake their heads; others let their arms fall limply to their sides in helpless frustration.

Before leaving, each of them casts one last glance at Cassandra, who does not look back, still standing by the window, her gaze fixed on a point ahead of her. The silence in the room is almost tangible as the door closes behind them, heavy as a condemnation.

«I’m sorry,» I murmur against her hair, the weight of guilt gnawing at me from within. «You should never have been in this situation. If it weren’t for me—»

She stirs in my arms, turning to face me, her eyes locking onto mine. «Aesop, don’t,» she cuts me off, her voice firm with resolve. «Don’t take this on yourself. I went out that night because I wanted to, because I thought I could help. And if I could go back and do it all again? I would, without hesitation, even if the consequences were worse.»

I can’t breathe for a moment. The strength in her words, the fire in her voice—I can only listen. She lowers her gaze briefly, as if gathering her emotions, then looks back up at me.

«But I can’t let it end like this,» she continues, her eyes blazing and her voice trembling, unable to contain the force of her determination. «I can’t accept that Rookwood is simply being transferred as if nothing happened. This time it was me, but what guarantees he won’t do it again, away from watchful eyes? To someone weaker than me? It’s time for the truth about what happened here to come out.»

«You don’t have to feel obligated to do anything. You’ve already been through enough,» I say cautiously, fearing her anger and pain might be pushing her to act impulsively, to make rash decisions she could regret. I want to protect her, but I know I can’t stop the flood of her despair. More than that, I know it’s not my place to tell her how to handle what’s inside her, how to respond to what she’s endured.

She shakes her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, held captive between her lashes. «Aesop, if you don’t want to support me, I understand. That’s fine. But I won’t stop. I can’t.»

I watch her, the weight of her words forged in unwavering resolve. «What do you have in mind?» I ask, knowing I can’t impose any limits on her.

«I’ll use my contacts at The Daily Prophet and ensure an article gets published. I’ll expose everything—what happened, who Rookwood and Black really are—so that anyone in a position to act will know the truth.»

Her determination, sharp as a blade, slices through the last remnants of hesitation lingering within me. There’s no doubt in her, only a fierce will to bring the truth to light, to claim the justice being denied to her. I know I can’t, I won’t, let her face this alone. I wish I could shoulder this burden for her, but it’s clear this is a battle she feels she must fight.

«Cassie...» I hesitate, fear for her tightening my throat. I know what it means to openly challenge authority, to expose yourself so fully. I know what this could cost her. «If you go through with this, there will be no turning back.»

She nods slowly, fully understanding my words. «I don’t want to turn back. Now more than ever, I can only move forward. I won’t remain tethered to Black’s whims, powerless, as if what happened to me was somehow my fault. I have to do this, not just for myself, Aesop, but for all the women who came before me... and for those who will come after.»

Her words carry a weight of clarity I can never fully comprehend, simply because I’ve had the privilege of being born a man, spared from the sting of prejudice, sexism, and misogyny. But even if I’ll never truly walk in her shoes, that doesn’t mean she has to fight this battle alone.

«I never intended to leave you to face this alone,» I say gently, meeting her eyes as I brush my thumb across her cheek. My heart aches at the fragile vulnerability beneath her strength. «If you’re moving forward, I’ll be right by your side.»

Her shoulders relax, and a small smile graces her lips—the kind that says she’s ready to face whatever lies ahead.

«Even if the road is long, hard, and unbearable?» she whispers, her voice trembling with emotion, as though afraid I might falter. And while there are no guarantees, the rhythm of my heartbeat leaves no room for indecision. I’ll shoulder whatever I can, because this fight is too big for Cassandra to bear alone.

And no matter how weary or worn I might feel, since the moment I nearly lost her, I’ve had one goal: to protect her at any cost.

I smile, my answer as certain as the dawn. «Always.»

Chapter 43: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

London greets me with sunshine that clashes with the city's typically gloomy demeanor—a light and clarity I can't quite define: is it the promise of something bright ahead? Or merely a cruel mockery of fate?

I ponder this as I watch motes of dust dancing in the air, seated on the rigid chair in The Daily Prophet's waiting room. The polished marble floor gleams like a mirror, and the dark wooden paneling on the walls feels like it's closing in on me, holding its breath along with the nervous tapping of Aesop's shoes against the floor beside me.

The golden plaque on the door in front of me glints in the dim light: "Carnelian Yates – Editor in Chief". Its gleam feels like a boundary, marking the divide between what has been and what will be.

Aesop shifts slightly, trying to mask his unease. It was his idea to accompany me here, insisting I shouldn't face this conversation alone. Yet, his presence unsettles me as much as it reassures me. I want to give him the best news in the world, to be sure I have everything under control, but the walls of this room seem to press closer, constricting my breath, and I can't quite envision what lies ahead. I don't dare imagine how we would react if things don't go as planned.

I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to force myself to calm down. Anxiety preys on me as I think about having to relive what happened, to recount it again—to a man. When I open my eyes and glance at Aesop, he's staring at the door, waiting, as though our thoughts are mirrored. His jaw is set tight, and the scar on his face looks even deeper in the light streaming through the window. His beard has grown back, flecking his cheeks, and shadows darken his eyes. I know he hasn't been sleeping, that when he could, he's chosen instead to watch over me. I can't help but feel guilty for this additional burden he's had to bear.

Sensing my gaze on him, he turns to me, breaking the silence. «You have nothing to worry about.» His voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of tension he can't quite hide. He looks into my eyes, and for a moment, I wonder if he truly believes his own words. 

Perhaps he's wondering the same thing himself.

The lump in my throat swells even more, making it impossible to reply or do anything else. I lower my gaze, fixing it on our hands resting close on the armrests, our fingers barely brushing. I find myself mesmerized by our differences—his skin against mine, the raised veins and calluses that speak of his trade. 

Somehow, inexplicably, they've found a way to bridge the gap to my delicate, unblemished surface, which conceals scars that in him are so openly worn.

As I lose myself in the intricate texture of his skin, in that warmth so familiar, in that light touch that feels like home, he places his hand over mine, intertwining our fingers. It's a warm, steady touch that makes me wish I could freeze time and avoid everything that lies ahead.

«Whatever happens in there,» he says softly, his voice carrying a gentle note I've come to realize is reserved only for me, «don't forget who you are, what you're worth, and that what happened to you does not define you.»

Before I can reply, the door opens. «Miss Doyle, the editor will see you now.»

I let go of Aesop's hand and stand, trying to ignore the sudden emptiness left by his touch. I walk through the door, but I carry his words with me, a talisman against whatever awaits.

Editor Yates greets me with a warm smile, arms spread wide as though we were old friends, though during my time at this office, we'd rarely crossed paths enough to claim such familiarity. His solid frame fills the small, chaotic, and incredibly vibrant room. Stacks of parchment, newspaper copies, and draft pages scribbled with notes are scattered everywhere, creating a clutter that feels oddly comforting—a mess that, until a few months ago, was my daily routine. The flickering light of an oil lamp casts shadows over the cluttered desk, and the unmistakable scent of ink and parchment saturates the air.

«Miss Doyle!» he exclaims with enthusiasm, shaking my hand with a vigor that makes me feel like a ship tossed into a sea of energy. «Or should I say Professor Doyle, now that you've left us to teach at Hogwarts? How are things up there?»

His tone is so jovial that, for a moment, I feel the weight of tension ease. But then his words sink in, clawing at my brain, and reality crashes over me like a cold wave. I try to mask it, to respond with the same lightheartedness, but I know my eyes betray me.

«Hogwarts is... a unique place,» I say carefully, choosing my words to avoid dwelling on the supposed safety that place was meant to provide. «Teaching is a challenge unlike anything I've ever faced before.»

He nods, seemingly satisfied, but I can't stop myself there. A bitter thought slips from my lips before I can hold it back. «It's... difficult, though, to teach knowing that some presences seem to matter more than others. And that certain absences, meanwhile, are... deliberately ignored.»

I don't need to explain. His smile falters briefly, as though he's picked up on something in my tone, but he asks no questions. Instead, he gestures to the single chair in front of his desk, inviting me to sit.

I take a deep breath and decide to cut to the chase. «In any case,» I say, my tone firmer now, «I've come here with a specific purpose.»

The editor leans slightly forward, resting his elbows on the desk. He scrutinizes me with renewed interest, his smile returning to light up his face. «Ah, I thought as much. When I received your owl, I said to myself, 'This isn't a casual visit.' Tell me, Miss Doyle, what is this important reason?»

I take another deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. «I need to write. But not just any article. This is something... bigger. And more urgent.» My voice is determined, though I can feel my heart pounding in my chest.

I see him tilt his head slightly, intrigued yet cautious. «Go on,» he says quietly, his tone lowering, almost emphasizing the gravity of the moment. And I, clasping my hands tightly in my lap, know there's no turning back.

My fingers tighten together, my knuckles whitening as I try to put my thoughts in order. I've imagined this moment countless times over the past days, and though I knew it wouldn't be easy, I hadn't anticipated it feeling this difficult. Speaking my truth aloud makes it real in a way I've been trying to avoid, trying to forget. I wet my lips and begin.

«I need to write an investigative piece,» I say, attempting to keep my voice steady. «It's not directly about Hogwarts or teaching, but something far more urgent. Something that affects us all.»

The editor watches me, his probing gaze heavy on my shoulders. He isn't merely listening; he's trying to understand, to anticipate what I'm about to say. So I decide to stop circling around the truth.

«I'm talking about Aleister Rookwood.»

The air feels denser, as if I've spoken a forbidden name, a truth everyone knows but no one dares to acknowledge. «And about what he tried to do. What I endured. The attempted violence against me.»

His expression darkens, and his shoulders stiffen slightly, but he shows no overt reaction, nor does he interrupt. He gives me the space to continue, and for that, I am grateful.

«This wasn't just an attack on me,» I continue, my voice trembling under the weight of my words and the memory. «It's a symbol of something larger. A system that protects people like him, that allows powerful men to act without consequence, leaving their victims in the shadows.» I pause to swallow and catch my breath. «And Headmaster Black... Black is using every tool at his disposal to cover it all up. To protect Rookwood, and, in some ways, himself—his dealings and everything he wants to keep out of prying eyes and ears.»

I realize I've leaned forward in my intensity, my elbows pressing into the desk, and make an effort to sit back. «This story needs to be told. Not for me, but for all those who have no voice. Hogwarts cannot be a safe place only for those in power. It must be safe for everyone, just as it once was for me as a child.»

My voice fades into silence. For a long moment, the editor remains still, his hands clasped in front of his face as if weighing every single thing I've said. His expression betrays nothing—neither approval nor anger nor disdain. Just a careful neutrality that stings more than I want to admit.

Finally, he lets out a long sigh and leans back in his chair. «Miss Doyle,» he begins, his tone measured, but there's something in his voice that already prepares me for the worst. «What you've shared with me is... serious. And I am genuinely sorry for what you've endured. No one should ever have to face something like that.»

His words sound sincere, but the way he avoids meeting my gaze sets my nerves on edge. «However,» he continues, and my heart sinks, «I cannot accommodate your request.»

I'm momentarily speechless, as if I've misheard him. «What do you mean?» I ask, trying to keep my tone calm, though my heart is pounding.

«I mean that we cannot publish something like this,» he says, his expression regretful. «A direct accusation against someone like Rookwood—and even against Headmaster Black? Do you understand what that would entail? Lawsuits, retaliation. The very reputation of the Daily Prophet would be called into question. And, frankly, I'm not sure our readers are ready for a story like this.»

His words hit me like a slap, and the knot in my throat that I'd tried to suppress tightens once more. «This isn't about reputation,» I counter, my voice cracking. «It's about justice.»

He shakes his head, the motion slow and deliberate. «I understand your perspective, but my hands are tied.» His gaze is filled with something meant to look like remorse but feels more like cowardice and guilt. And at that moment, I realize that no matter how loudly I shout, no matter how visible my wounds are, no matter how traumatic my experience has been—not everyone is willing to hear the voice of a victim.

«But it can't end like this...» My voice breaks, but my eyes remain locked on his, remarkably dry, matching the emptiness of his empathy and compassion. His expression is that of a man who's already decided, who believes he's done all he can but has no intention of truly risking anything.

«Miss Doyle,» he says in a calm tone that irritates me more than any yell could, «I assure you I understand your pain, but I cannot risk the paper for a story that, while important, might destroy more than it can change.»

«It's not just a story,» I reply, standing so abruptly that my chair scrapes loudly against the floor. «It's my life. It's the life of everyone who has endured and continues to endure what I went through. You can choose not to publish it, but I can't choose to forget it.»

He doesn't respond immediately. He rises as well, slower, as though trying to appear reassuring. «I truly hope you find someone who can give you the platform you're looking for. But I can't help you here. I'm sorry.»

My jaw tightens, and the anger within me swells, but I know there's nothing more to say. I won't find what I need here. With a curt gesture, he motions toward the door. Without even glancing back, I walk out of his office.

Outside, in the hallway, Aesop is pacing back and forth, but he stops abruptly, his eyes lighting up as soon as he sees me. The unspoken question hovering in the air is already answered by the expression on my face. His features darken, his shoulders stiffening as though he, too, bears the weight of this failure.

«Cassandra...» he murmurs, stepping toward me, his arms opening slightly in a silent offer of comfort. But I step away, my heart pounding too fiercely to stay still in his embrace. Adrenaline surges through my veins, propelling me forward with a determination stronger than I've ever felt before.

«I can't stop here,» I say, my voice firm though fractured. I turn toward the exit, each step echoing against the floor like a defiant beat to push back the tightening grip around my chest. «This can't be the end, Aesop. I won't let it end like this.»

I hear his footsteps behind me, steady yet insistent. He doesn't speak, doesn't ask me to stop. I think he knows—perhaps better than anyone—that there are moments when words are useless. I push open the door leading to the street, and the chaos of London engulfs me. The sunlight hits my face, blinding me like an open window dispelling the darkness of a nightmare. Except my nightmare has no intention of ending.

Outside, London is a whirlwind of noise and movement. People rush by, utterly oblivious to one another's struggles, to the injustices that unfold daily, to the storm brewing inside me. I pull my coat tighter around me, as though shielding myself from the disarray of an ordinary April day, as if I need armor to keep my thoughts intact. Aesop's footsteps echo beside mine, his steady presence anchoring me even as my resolve keeps driving me forward.

«Cassandra,» he says finally, breaking the silence that had followed us out of the newsroom. His voice is calm, but there's a determination beneath it—his fire, always steady, always there to remind me of who he is. «What do you plan to do now?»

«I need to go somewhere,» I answer, clenching my fists to keep the trembling at bay. «I need to speak to someone. Someone I know will listen.»

Despite the pain I know grips his leg, he quickens his pace to match my urgency. «Who are you talking about?»

I glance at him briefly. In his eyes, I see the familiar spark—the need to understand, to protect—even when he doesn't yet know from what. «I'll explain when we get there,» I reply simply. He doesn't press me further; he just nods and keeps walking beside me.

The streets grow narrower as we move away from the pulsing heart of the city, the dusk sky descending upon us like a leaden shroud. After several minutes of walking, we reach a dark, secluded alley. The windows of the buildings are blind, lifeless, but a single light flickers within a basement. I stop in front of a small wooden door, its modest size marking the entrance to a place not meant for living, yet more alive than the streets of this chaotic city.

Aesop studies the building—an ordinary red-brick structure with peeling paint around the frames. «What is this place?» he asks, his curiosity tinged with a thread of caution.

«My only hope,» I reply, stepping closer to the door. «Maybe I won't find justice here, not immediately. But I'll find support. Understanding. People who won't stop at the fear of a name or the weight of authority.»

He remains silent, his gaze fixed on me as though trying to decipher every word, to follow the whirlwind of my thoughts without losing himself in their momentum.

The door is plain, unmarked, with a slot for mail and a worn-out plaque whose text has long since faded. I take a deep breath and raise my hand, knocking three times in the way I've done so many times before: one sharp knock followed by two quicker ones. The signal to let those inside know that one of their own is outside.

The sound is dull, almost absorbed by the thick wood. My heart pounds in my chest, and I hear the rush of blood in my ears, a red tide mirroring my turmoil. Aesop steps closer, silent, his presence a saving anchor as the wait stretches, growing heavier with each passing moment.

Movement stirs on the other side. The sound of a bolt sliding back makes me hold my breath. The door opens slightly, letting a sliver of flickering light spill into the dark alley. A young woman peeks out, her dark eyes lighting up as soon as she recognizes me.

«Cassandra!» she exclaims, immediately throwing the door open. Her voice is a mixture of surprise and enthusiasm, and I feel a forgotten warmth dissolve the tension that has painfully built up in my shoulders. «I haven't seen you in ages!»

I take a closer look at her as she gestures for me to come in. She's petite, her brown hair tied into a braid that falls over her shoulder. She's wearing a simple dress, ink-stained and frayed at the sleeves.

«Hello, Lilian,» I reply, offering a genuine smile—the first of the day. «Yes, it's been far too long.»

Her gaze immediately shifts to Aesop, who stands silently beside me, exuding the practiced air of someone scanning his surroundings before speaking or acting. Lilian eyes him with evident curiosity, likely because this is the first time I've brought a man here, though there's a hint of wariness in the way she presses her lips together.

«And who's this?» she asks, bluntly.

«He's with me,» I reassure her at once, resting a light hand on Aesop's arm. He doesn't move, but his eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment, affirming the unspoken bond that holds us together in this moment and, I want to believe, beyond it. «He's someone I trust, Lilian. You don't need to worry.»

She raises an eyebrow, not entirely convinced, but then steps aside to let us in. «If you say so, Cassandra,» she mutters, shutting the door behind us. «But you know how things work here. Trust is earned on the ground.»

«That won't be a problem,» I reply firmly. My tone leaves no room for further questions. «We have important matters to discuss, Lilian. And we can't afford to waste any more time.»

She nods, her reactive nature attuned to my grave demeanor, and immediately becomes serious. «Alright,» she says, motioning for us to follow her down a narrow, creaking staircase leading to the basement. «You know you're in the right place, Cassandra.»

The staircase is steep and cramped, its worn steps and wobbly handrail a testament to years of use. With every step, the muffled sound of voices grows clearer, accompanied by the sharp scent of smoke and melted wax. When we reach the last flight of stairs, the warm glow of several lit lanterns spills onto the floor, mingling with a wave of animated chatter.

We step into a dimly lit but vibrant room, the walls yellowed by smoke and the tables cluttered with papers, scrolls, and half-abandoned cups of tea. The place is busier than I had expected. A group of women sits around a large central table, engaged in a conversation that halts abruptly when they see me. Their gazes shift quickly between me and Aesop, their reactions immediate: curiosity mixed with obvious caution.

«Cassandra Doyle,» says a woman with gray hair tied in a low bun. Her face is lined with deep wrinkles, but her sharp eyes glint with intelligence. «What a surprise to see you here after so long!»

The others rise from their seats or turn toward me, some with warm smiles, others more reserved. All of them welcome me, but their eyes inevitably drift toward Aesop, who stays a step behind, motionless, as if keenly aware of the weight of their stares and, more importantly, the necessity of staying in the background—not taking up more space than he already does in such a delicate moment. A young woman with crossed arms scrutinizes me from head to toe before nodding toward him.

 «And who might he be?» she asks.

«He's with me,» I say as I unbutton my coat, the room stiflingly warm from the candles, the crowded bodies, and the low ceilings. «His name is Aesop Sharp. He's someone I trust, and he's here to help me—not to cause any trouble.»

A brief but heavy silence settles over the room, like a winter blanket. Then Lilian steps forward, her hand resting on her hip with an almost theatrical air. «Cassandra vouches for him,» she declares, her tone authoritative despite her petite frame. «And that's enough for me. If she says we can trust him, we can trust him.»

The women exchange glances, some still hesitant, but none dare to question Lilian's word. One of the older women mutters something about prudence but ultimately just shrugs and returns to her seat.

Aesop moves then, inclining his head slightly toward Lilian as though thanking her, but he remains silent, leaving me to take the lead. I take a deep breath and step toward the central table. This is my moment, and I can't afford to hesitate.

I make my way to the table, one of the women silently offering me a chair. I sit down, the cold, rough wood under my hands grounding me. Aesop remains behind me, his quiet presence a reassuring anchor. Around us, the women slowly return to their seats—some moving closer, others staying at the edges, watching me intently. The room fills with a dense silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of candle wicks.

Clearing my throat, I clasp my hands on the table as if to steady myself. «I'm here,» I begin, my voice low but firm, «because I need your help. What I have to share is difficult, and I hope I'll never have to repeat it, but I can't keep it to myself.»

Lilian nods, her gaze encouraging. A few of the women make small gestures of assent, and I take a deep breath before continuing. I recount the attempted assault I suffered, choosing my words carefully to omit any reference to the magical world. I don't name Rookwood or Black, but I relay the events with clarity, not softening the brutality of what happened. As I speak, I feel Aesop's presence enveloping me, like an embrace that holds me in the present even as revisiting the past tears at me like never before.

«And then,» I add, my throat tightening, «they stopped me from reporting it. They told me it would be pointless, that nothing would change. But I can't accept that.» My voice falters slightly, and I lower my gaze to the table for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts—thoughts scattered like tarot cards across the worn wood, an echo of the divinations I used to study.

When I look up again, my eyes meet Aesop's. He's there, still and composed, though his calm exterior barely conceals the intensity of his emotions. In his eyes, I see something that makes me catch my breath: unconditional support, certainly, but perhaps something deeper. Something that speaks of a future, of possibilities, of a bond that grows stronger every day. I think of the child I carry and, for a fleeting moment, feel a thread of hope weaving its way into the tangled mess of my mind.

«He arrived just in time,» I say, looking directly at him, my tone conveying the full truth of those words—and perhaps a hint of something more about our relationship. If he notices, he doesn't try to downplay it, doesn't clarify the tangled web of what we are to each other. Perhaps, for now, our complicated connection, built on unspoken truths, is the one clear thing in my life.

I turn back to the women, who are listening in silence. «I don't know how to proceed,» I admit, a touch of shame creeping into my voice. My gaze drifts among them, searching for even the smallest lifeline. «I don't know what I can do alone. But I know you have the knowledge to act. If you can advise me or guide me, I want to take a stand together. I can't let this story be silenced, can't let my voice join the countless others who came before me and were ignored.»

For a moment, no one speaks. Then, a woman I've never seen before, perhaps thirty-five or thirty-six, steps forward. She has short, curly hair, a face marked by a life lived intensely, and an expression of defiance that I recognize as a survival mechanism in a world harsher than this safe haven. She leans on the table with her hands, tilting her head slightly toward me.

«Maybe I can help you,» she says, her voice low but steady. «It won't be easy or quick, but if you're willing to fight, we can get started.»

Relief washes over me, and I realize I've been holding my breath. I nod, and the woman straightens, stepping back from the table and running a hand through her unruly curls. Her androgynous clothing matches her sharp, no-nonsense demeanor: a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, a dark wool vest snug over her chest, and tailored gray trousers. On her feet, worn boots that seem to have traveled countless miles. There's a natural strength in her posture, an aura of someone who's learned to live by defying expectations and conventions.

«Marion Twigs,» she introduces herself simply, grabbing a coat carelessly draped over a chair. «Follow me.»

Without waiting for a response, she heads for the door, offering a quick wave to the other women in the room, who watch her with curiosity. «Don't worry,» she tells them with a cheeky grin that seems to be her signature. «I know what I'm doing.»

Marion doesn't wait. She pushes the door open and steps into the alley, barely giving us time to follow. Aesop and I exchange a glance—his eyes full of questions—before I shrug and trail after her. Outside, the streets have grown almost entirely deserted. Marion stops on the sidewalk, turning to look at us. Her slim, lanky frame makes her seem much younger than she likely is.

«So,» she begins, her tone blunt and tinged with mockery, «let me guess: you tried to report it to the Daily Prophet?»

Both Aesop and I freeze, the words dying on our lips. The shock is evident, and the silence that follows is more telling than any response. Marion raises an eyebrow, clearly pleased with our reaction as if she had expected nothing less. Without missing a beat, she resumes walking, forcing us to keep pace with her brisk strides.

«I thought so,» she continues. «There's no worse place to seek justice. That rag is a den of sycophants, a circus bowing to the highest bidder. Whatever you told them, they'd never have published it. And if they had, they'd have twisted every word.»

I lower my gaze, my hands clenching at my sides. The Daily Prophet had been my home, my launchpad as a journalist. I'd always believed in its ability to give voice to the voiceless, especially through my column on magical and Muggle women's fashion. But now, hearing Marion's words, laced with disdain and disillusionment, I can't help but wonder.

Could she be right? How much of my work had been manipulated without my knowledge? How much of my trust had been misplaced?

Beside me, Aesop watches Marion closely but doesn't interrupt. It's as if he's observing her from a distance, waiting for my reaction, my judgment of her words. But I offer none.

Noticing my silence, Marion slows her pace and softens her tone. «I'm sorry to be so blunt, Cassandra,» she says, meeting my eyes. «But if you want justice, you need to choose your allies carefully.»

Her words, brutal in their honesty, strike a chord deep within me. The ethical foundation of the paper I had served faithfully begins to crumble, leaving me with a question I can no longer avoid: had my voice ever truly been free? Had my role been treated with the dignity it deserved?

Rookwood's scornful words echo in my mind, as do Aesop's early criticisms when I started teaching at Hogwarts. My former profession, so maligned and met with prejudice—had those judgments been grounded in reality? And had I been so convinced I was doing the right thing that I'd blinded myself to the truth around me?

The whirlwind of thoughts follows us as we walk, though I don't realize it until we reach Charing Cross Road. The familiarity of the street allows my shoulders—and, more visibly, Aesop's—to relax. His rigid, guarded stance softens, and for the first time, he seems more at ease, even with a stranger leading our small procession.

Marion moves to the sidewalk, casting a quick glance around before flattening herself against the wall and disappearing into the shadows. She opens the door to the Leaky Cauldron and slips inside, holding it ajar for Aesop and me to follow.

The pub is lively, filled with the hum of conversations and bursts of laughter. It's not entirely unwelcome; the noise provides a kind of cover, ensuring no one pays us too much attention. A few heads turn as we enter, and Aesop receives a few nods of acknowledgment, but beyond that, no one seems particularly interested.

«Here we can talk more freely,» Marion says, leading us to a secluded table. She lights a cigar with practiced ease and takes a seat, crossing her legs and fixing us with a curious look.

Everything about her exudes masculinity—her posture, her clothing, the assertiveness in her gaze—but there's a lightness to her movements and a spark in her bright blue eyes that feel distinctly feminine. Marion moves seamlessly between the two, embodying an ambiguity that feels both natural and deliberate—a testament to her survival in this world.

«So,» she says with a sly smile, exhaling a cloud of smoke. «Let's get to it, shall we?»

She gestures to Thomasin, the waitress, to come and take our orders. Meanwhile, her thin lips curve into an amused smile. «So,» she begins, «I imagine you're wondering how I figured out you're a wizard and a witch, aren't you?»

Aesop and I don't respond, but I don't think Marion is expecting an answer anyway. She takes her time adjusting the collar of her shirt before continuing. «Well, I recognized you, Cassandra.» She leans back in her chair, her gaze scanning me with a mixture of curiosity and admiration. «You should know your book was published in America too. But I have a feeling it was more appreciated there than here in England.»

My eyes widen. «My book... published in America?»

Marion nods, plucking at some peanuts that have been Conjured onto the table. «Of course,» she says. «In Salem, Massachusetts, they love it. Didn't you know?»

I shake my head. No, I didn't know. My publisher, a Muggle recommended by the editor of the Daily Prophet, hadn't told me. The money and opportunities denied to me by his silence flash before my eyes as Marion's earlier words about the ethics of the newspaper take on a troubling reality.

Aesop, sitting beside me, senses the tension and disappointment woven into my silence. He rests a hand on my thigh, gently brushing it with his thumb. Marion notices, her sharp eyes catching the subtle gesture. She takes the opportunity to focus her attention on him.

«And then there's him,» she says, pointing to Aesop with the fingers holding her cigar. «Aesop Sharp. You're still famous at the Ministry, you know that? Even though you've retired, your name left an indelible impression. You're something of a legend.»

Aesop bites the inside of his cheek, as he often does when he's flattered, but he says nothing. His gaze at Marion is calm yet guarded, as though he's carefully weighing her words.

She doesn't seem to notice—or perhaps she does and simply doesn't care—and continues. «As for me, I work at the Ministry of Magic. I came over from America a few years ago. I was supposed to stay only for a temporary assignment, but... I ended up staying. Sometimes, when it comes to fighting the system, London offers more opportunities than New York.»

Her tone is casual, but there's an intensity in her eyes that doesn't escape me. Marion isn't just any witch; she's someone accustomed to navigating the darker corners of power.

At this point, Aesop speaks up. «You're an Unspeakable, aren't you?»

Marion's answer is preceded by a long, drawn-out whistle of confirmation. «In the flesh. I hear you've got one of us at your school too,» she says, referring to Dinah.

«Anyway, I think we've wasted enough time on pleasantries,» Marion says. She leans forward slightly, her hands clasped on the table. Her eyes sparkle with a mischievous light, a mix of amusement and challenge, as they study Aesop. «It's about time someone explained to him what that place was where you found me.» Then she turns to me. «Don't you think so too, Cassandra?»

The look she gives me carries an understanding and complicity that is impossible to compare to anything else—a shared bond of spirit and intent that can only be experienced as women. The last time I saw such a look was during the march for our rights, the very one Aesop accompanied me to.

I relax against the backrest as well. «He's had a taste already,» I say, amused as I note his enigmatic expression. Aesop raises an eyebrow, a skeptical look crossing his face. «But... yes, perhaps it's time to be a bit more explicit,» I add.

Aesop huffs. «Stop making me feel like a Muggle who needs the wizarding world explained to him,» he says, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

I laugh and turn to him. When our eyes meet, it feels as though we've gone back to a few days ago, before the attack, when we were discovering something new about each other with every conversation. For a moment, I feel light, unburdened by the weight that's been dragging me down.

«Do you remember when you came to the march with me?» I ask softly, watching the impenetrable reserve in his expression melt away as soon as I engage him. I can feel Marion's eyes on us, her curiosity evident as she observes the dynamic between us, trying to understand our relationship. But for the first time in days, it feels like it's just the two of us again.

Aesop nods, so I continue. «Let's just say that place is like the headquarters where things like that take shape. But we don't just organize marches. That place isn't just a gathering spot for women. It's a refuge. A center of resistance. The women you saw there are those who can't rely on the law, society, or magical or Muggle institutions to protect them. They work together, creating a network that crosses barriers most people can't even imagine.»

Aesop absorbs every word, locking them into his mind, intrigued and captivated by what I'm revealing. His undivided attention, the way he lets me speak freely, encourages me to continue: «Those women—we women—aren't just activists. We're strategists. We're fighters when necessary. That place was born because too many people, magical or not, turn away from injustice.»

He doesn't respond immediately. He takes a moment, looking first at Marion and then back at me. When he finally breaks the silence, his voice is low but resolute. «I became an Auror because I've never turned my back on what's right,» he says, his calm tone underscoring his determination. «And I won't start now.»

The intensity of the moment is broken by Marion's laughter. «You two—I don't know what's going on between you, but it's powerful!» she exclaims. I feel my cheeks flush as Aesop rolls his eyes. The intimate moment between us is gone, replaced by Marion pulling us back to reality.

«Well then,» she says, crossing her arms. «I'd say it's time I reveal how I can be of use to your cause.»

Chapter 44: SHARP

Chapter Text

Inside the Leaky Cauldron, the chatter of the patrons merges into a constant murmur, interrupted only by the clinking of glasses and the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Feeling the warmth of the flames and observing the dim light of torches and candles, the weight of the day begins to settle on my shoulders. But I can’t afford to give in to fatigue. There’s still a lot of work to do, and Marion Twigs, gesticulating animatedly in front of me and Cassie, has yet to explain what she has in mind, keeping us on edge after an unwarranted tense pause.

Thankfully, Thomasin approaches the table, finally taking our orders.

«A Firewhiskey,» Marion says, and I follow suit, holding up two fingers to signal my order to the young waitress.

«I’ll just have a hot tea, Thomasin, please. Thank you,» Cassandra says instead.

Instinctively, I raise an eyebrow but immediately adopt a neutral expression. I glance at her sideways before turning my attention back to Marion, leaning against the chair's backrest and letting my mind register this seemingly irrelevant detail.

Yet, of course, I can’t ignore the nagging thought that’s begun to scratch at the edges of my mind. Come to think of it, ever since we returned from Egypt, I haven’t seen her drink alcohol or light a cigarette. True, our argument before the attack kept me away from her, and my perception of the situation could very well be skewed or entirely wrong. Still, a subtle awareness creeps in, like a serpent slithering out of its den.

Could she be… pregnant?

The question takes shape within me, first striking like a whisper, then like a dull toll. Despite the sudden leap of my heart, I force myself to dismiss it. It’s foolish to speculate on things that aren’t certain, on fragments of reality that might be nothing more than a projection of my mind—an illusion that could hurt more than it helps. A single word, associated with her, makes me feel both invincible and vulnerable.

My mind, stubborn as ever, refuses to let go of this hypothesis, as remote and unfounded as it may seem. A hypothesis that, I realize, takes the shape of a desire.

The thought of Cassandra being pregnant—of a child that could be mine—is like a faint light illuminating a hidden corner of myself I thought extinguished years ago. Father. The word weighs like a stone in my stomach. Not because it terrifies me, but because it doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. Or so I’ve always believed.

And yet, there it is, that image, too vivid to feel unreal. Cassie’s body, rounded and softened by pregnancy, life growing within her until it becomes a child with dark hair and large, curious eyes gazing at the world. The thought is so vivid I can almost hear a laugh, imagine a small hand grasping mine.

I clear my throat, forcefully banishing the vision. Gripping the glass that the waitress has just placed in front of me, I tell myself it’s better to focus on the present. After all, it’s no secret that Cass appreciates hot tea, often drinking at least two cups a day, preferring it over coffee.

I shake my head, as if to dispel the sting of suspicion—there’s no time for dreams or desires I can’t afford. No time for something that, in all likelihood, doesn’t exist.

And yet, I can’t shake the thought. Perhaps because wanting it makes me feel even more human than I’d like to admit, more than I ever thought possible until I met Cassandra.

Marion Twigs leans over the table, breaking through the flow of my thoughts and pulling me back to reality, to what is truly tangible. Her exuberance contrasts sharply with Cassandra’s composed demeanor at my side. Her enthusiasm fills the room more than the surrounding chatter, more than the projections of my mind and my desires.

«Well then, Cassandra,» Marion begins, lowering her voice slightly to create an air of camaraderie, «do you happen to know Lady Wimborne?»

Cassie raises an eyebrow, setting her cup down on the table. «I know who she is,» she replies calmly, almost adopting a guarded stance.

Marion nods quickly, as though she had expected that answer. «Perfect. That makes things easier.» She leans in further, ignoring how her abrupt movement causes the table to wobble.

I can’t hold back a sigh of impatience. This kind of nervous energy grates on me, but I remain silent, observing the conversation unfolding before me. Cassandra senses my irritation and lightly places her fingers on my thigh—a touch so intimate, something we haven’t shared in far too long. She doesn’t, however, take her eyes off Marion. It’s clear she’s trying to follow the conversation, to discern where the other woman is heading, though her expression betrays a hint of puzzlement. Her slightly furrowed brow and that faint pout—one I’ve come to adore—are unmistakable.

«Lady Wimborne,» Marion continues, «is working on something extraordinary. She wants to unite witches from across Britain to form the Witches’ League.»

Cassandra tilts her head slightly. «And that would be…?»

«An official feminist movement, entirely led by witches,» Marion explains, her tone almost reverent. «A space where we can discuss our issues without constantly mingling with Muggles just to find a safe haven. Don’t get me wrong,» she adds quickly, glancing at both me and Cassandra, «it’s not that we disdain them, but some of us feel the need for a space of our own, where we can freely address matters of our world without resorting to coded language or makeshift solutions like this,» she says, gesturing around at the Leaky Cauldron. «It’s time we broke free from patriarchal structures, even in the magical world, and started making it clear that while we’re certainly more fortunate than our Muggle counterparts, there’s still much to be done. And you, Cassandra, are proof of that,» she concludes, nodding toward her.

A faint, ironic smile escapes me—not because I don’t believe or agree with her words, which I’ve seen proven true firsthand in recent times, but because of the simplicity with which Marion describes such an undertaking. I cross my arms, leaving the response to Cassandra.

«An ambitious project,» she observes, carefully avoiding taking a stance. Her voice is neutral, but I can tell when she’s weighing each word, when her mind begins working, dissecting every connection, considering every pro and con, her active role in it all, as well as the individual consequences and the greater good to be achieved.

Her expression is like an open book to me now: her thick brows slightly furrowed, her gaze intense, the way she bites her lower lip. I realize that, before her eyes, every possible scenario for her future is unfolding if she were to embrace this cause: the best outcome… and the worst.

I feel an overwhelming urge to protect her from everything the world has done to her, to shield her with my body from the harm that will inevitably come her way, to take the blows meant to hurt her.

Continuing their conversation, Marion nods enthusiastically. «Ambitious, yes, but necessary. Imagine an organization where we can share ideas without fear, where we can confront the injustices we face every day. Lady Wimborne is trying to involve some prominent figures, women who can champion the cause. You could be one of them, Cassandra.»

The suggestion is enough to make my jaw tighten. «Cassandra won’t do anything that puts her in harm’s way,» I let slip, my words cloaked in apprehension.

Marion shoots me an amused look, her mouth opening to deliver what is no doubt a quip about my instinct to protect Cassandra, but she, with surprising calm, answers my remark without even glancing in my direction. «Perhaps it’s time for fear to stop defining my life.»

There’s a determination in her voice that I can’t ignore, a need to truly take control of her life, to write her own story in the first person without anyone standing between her and her destiny. And it’s this determination, perhaps, that makes the idea of the Witches’ League—something seemingly too revolutionary to succeed—suddenly feel incredibly real, if Cassandra is involved.

For a moment, no one speaks, the silence hanging between us like a light sheet stretched out in the sun. But Cass’s eyes betray a lively, almost feverish interest. Her fingers tap lightly on the table, and in a moment of irrational impulse, my hand covers hers, halting her nervous movement but showing her she’s not alone, that she can count on me. As soon as my skin touches hers, I feel her fingers relax before gently curling around mine.

Before Marion can even think of making a remark about our relationship, I decide to step in. «And how exactly could she contribute?» I ask, my gaze fixed on her.

She lights up, as if she’s been waiting for that question. «Oh, it’s simple. Cassandra could write. Tell her story. Not just about her complaint, but everything she endured from Rookwood and Black.» Marion spits their names like venom on her tongue.

She pauses, looking at Cassandra with a mix of admiration and encouragement. «Their influence, their power, everything they represent is precisely why the Witches’ League exists. Because we need women like you, Cassandra. Women who have the courage to speak up, to expose the truth, to dismantle the system that allows people like them to thrive and act with impunity, bending the world to their rules.»

Hearing the names Rookwood and Black stirs a wave of nausea in me, igniting a fury I haven’t felt in years. My eyes drift to Cassandra, searching for her reaction. Her face remains impassive, but her lips quiver ever so slightly, her gaze fixed on an indistinct point as if she’s reliving everything that happened. I know how much it costs her to hear those names, how Marion’s every word reopens wounds that will never fully heal.

«Writing could be a start,» Marion adds, softening her tone. «Witches need to know they’re not alone, that it’s possible to fight men like them.»

«Fight, sure,» I mutter, my tone wavering between sarcasm and skepticism. «But accusing men like Rookwood and Black requires evidence, not just words. And not even Cassandra’s were enough to secure the bare minimum of justice, not at Hogwarts, nor in the Daily Prophet.»

Marion glares at me, her expression stern, but Cassie turns toward me. Our eyes meet, and in hers, I see something that wasn’t there before: determination. Not anger, not frustration. Not fear.

«Words can be evidence,» she says, her voice calm as ice. «When there’s nothing else, they must be. This isn’t just about fighting Rookwood and Black or the system, Aesop. It’s about me. About what I’ve endured… and what I can change with my testimony. It’s about ensuring other victims know they’re not alone because someone will stand beside them and believe their words.»

I don’t reply this time. There’s no need. Her words, so simple yet so laden with meaning, have already won the argument. I give a slight nod, squeezing her hand just a little tighter—she has my support. She always has.

Marion smiles, satisfied, leaning even further across the table, as if her very posture emphasizes the concreteness of her proposal, the tangibility of what we’re discussing. I resist the irritation rising in me from her overflowing enthusiasm and energy; there’s something far more important at stake.

«There is evidence,» she asserts confidently, casting us a conspiratorial glance. «The report filed by Hogwarts’ nurse. The testimonies of those who came to your aid. And let’s not forget yours, Aesop.»

Her tone softens now. She looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to say or do something concrete to officially align myself with Cassandra’s side. But as much as I want to, things are not that simple.

«Testimonies might help,» I concede. «But we have to proceed knowing that Rookwood or Black might not just shrug it off with a denial in the Prophet or, at worst, fire you. They might push forward with a trial.»

It’s my duty to warn Cassandra of every danger or trap she might face along the way, but I’m aware that what concerns her is now secondary to the larger impact her actions could have. How her potential sacrifice might help others no longer feel invisible.

She shrugs. «Nothing could be worse than the danger I’ve already survived.» Her response is immediate, imbued with a ferocity I’ve never heard from her before and never thought she possessed; it’s the voice of a survivor, of someone determined to turn their suffering into a force for change so that what happened to her never happens again.

I remain silent, my heart tightening painfully. I relive the exact moment I realized she was in danger, unable even to imagine how harrowing it must be for her to revisit those memories over and over. I saw with my own eyes what she went through, and the image of her limp body haunts me still.

She trembled in my arms as we waited for help, her limbs cold beneath the cloak I used to cover her, the rain mingling with her tears on her pale face. The memory pierces me like a blade: her labored breathing, her hands weakly clutching my jacket, the weight of her vulnerability pressing on me even now, an unrelenting burden. I cannot move forward until I’m certain Rookwood pays for what he’s done to her.

I clear my throat, trying to push away those memories that hurt so much, vivid in my mind and stubbornly dragging me into the depths of guilt for having left her alone, drowning me in remorse for having put my pride first. A moment of hesitation more, and things could have taken the worst possible turn. Cassandra is right: nothing could be worse to face in comparison.

«If you want to move forward, you know I’ll be by your side,» I say at last, looking her in the eyes. Then I add, not sure if more to reassure her or myself: «Do you remember when you asked me to intercede for Albus Dumbledore at the Wizengamot?»

She nods, surprised and confused by the sudden turn in the conversation.

«Good,» I continue, trying to keep my tone serious, not letting the glimmer of hope tinting my heart show, clouding reason and rationality, which are crucial in situations like this. «In the worst-case scenario, if all of this ends up in court, know that Albus might be the British Youth Representative. I can’t guarantee it, but I made sure my letter of recommendation wouldn’t go unnoticed by the relevant authorities.»

For a moment, Cassie weighs my words in silence, and I… I can do nothing but observe the woman before me, wondering how much courage she still has within her.

«I didn’t ask you to do that for me, Aesop,» she says then, lowering her gaze and resting it on our fingers. She blushes slightly, as she always does when she realizes that everything I do, no matter its nature, I do for her. Her lips curl into a slight smile, the first in too many days spent in apprehension. The thought of being the reason for her happiness gives me the strength to move forward and the desire to always stay by her side, even when all of this is over. Because I need to convince myself that it will end, that everything will be alright; that Cassandra will get the justice she deserves, the future she deserves. A future I realize I want to be a part of more and more.

I lean slightly toward her, lowering my voice, trying to create a moment that could be just ours. «You knew I’d do it for you anyway,» I say, attempting to lighten the grim possibility of a trial.

At last, she lifts her eyes to mine. «I suppose I did,» she says, and finally, I see the same glimmer of hope I carry within myself shine in her gaze, a ray of sunlight breaking through the dark clouds shrouding her heart.

Marion clears her throat, once again disturbing that fraction of an idyll we are slowly rebuilding. «It’s not my intention to interrupt, but as absolutely captivating and intriguing as it is to watch you and try to figure out what’s between you, I would kindly ask that we focus on the present.»

I fix my gaze on Cassandra, studying her perfect face to regain the peace disrupted by the brazen attitude of this other woman. Cassandra takes a deep breath, masking it with a soft chuckle, and rolls her eyes skyward before turning to Marion without letting go of my hand. «I’ll write, Marion,» she says, her determination carved in stone. «I’ll expose everything publicly. Not just Rookwood and Black, but every single injustice that has brought me here. I’ll seek other testimonies if necessary, because I suspect that the audacity with which Rookwood acted didn’t stem from a successful first attempt.» She pauses, as though reflecting on her own words.

«Normally, I’d need more time to conduct a thorough investigation, but we don’t have it,» she continues, the weight of this monumental decision pressing down on her, no matter how right and necessary it is. «The more days that pass, the less credible I might seem. And I can’t afford that. You can count on me and my work; you have my word that this won’t end here.»

Marion watches her, her eyes sparkling with visible enthusiasm. «What you write will be the first official bulletin of the Witches’ League,» she declares with fervor. «Your words will give voice to so many of us, Cassandra. This is just the beginning.»

She nods, despite the trembling in her hands. I tighten my grip on her fingers, trying to give her all the strength she needs; I can sense, in her rigid posture, the fear coursing through her at the thought of facing the unknown. Yet that fear never reaches her eyes, illuminated by a fierce courage, by a resilience that neither breaks nor bends, nor can it be scratched.

I lose myself in the features of her face, in the gentle curves of her cheeks, the soft lines of her lips, seeing myself reflected in her eyes—a mirror not only of her soul but, above all, of my own. And it is in that moment, seeing myself and all my vulnerabilities and fragility in those amber eyes that have captivated me from the very first day, that I realize a truth I’ve long denied, a truth so simple and yet so terrifying, the same one the Amortentia understood before either of us and the same one she herself accused me of with desperation: I love her. I am madly, irrevocably in love with the woman before me.

It is not the placid, calm love I once imagined I’d experience at my age. It is a love that burns, that consumes, that overwhelms me. A love that leaves no room for retreat, that pushes me beyond my limits to place her happiness and safety above all else. A love orphaned of what came before, reborn like a phoenix from the ashes—a feeling my heart can no longer contain, one that surges into the world not with the constant fear of being hurt, as I mistakenly thought for years, but with the fear of losing her. And I, I can’t go another day without admitting it to myself.

So I’ll stay by her side, this time for real, not in the boastful, arrogant way I’ve acted until now. I’ll do it explicitly, openly, for everyone, for her, for me. For us. All I can do is admire her, support her battles, and hope that, in some way, she sees in me even a faint reflection of the fire she’s ignited within me—a fire that shows no sign of burning out.

«Are you sure you want to do this?» I ask her, to make sure that she truly wants this, that she’s ready for this leap into the void I’m about to take with her.

She turns to me, and in her gaze, there is no hesitation. Only a courage that takes my breath away. «I have no choice, Aesop. Not anymore.»

The Leaky Cauldron seems to vanish around us. For a moment, there’s only her and me, bound by something unspoken but infinitely powerful.

And I know that, no matter what happens, I will be by her side, always and everywhere.

Chapter 45: CASSANDRA

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

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.»

He raises his eyes to meet mine, standing still for a moment, his gaze intense and impenetrable—almost magnetic—while a faint, comforting smile crosses his face. «It’s no trouble, Cassie,» he replies, his voice so soft, so soothing, that I can’t help but feel a weight lift off my shoulders. «If I can help you, I’m happy to do so.»

There’s an incredible kindness in his gesture: he’s not simply taking on more work; he’s trying to ease my burden, to make me feel less alone in this struggle. He’s giving me the space to focus solely on the article, on what we both silently know matters most right now.

He continues gathering the parchments, unhurriedly, as if every movement is deliberate—designed not to disturb me, not to impose his presence. He’s giving me the time to accept this small act of care, to realize that I can’t do everything alone, that sometimes it’s okay, even necessary, to accept help.

«If you don’t mind,» he says, picking up his materials as well, «I’ll take care of all of this. That way, you can focus on what you need to do.»

His gentleness is extraordinary, and I can’t hide the gratitude that washes over me. «Thank you,» I whisper, looking into his calm eyes that, despite their serene surface, burn with the fire of anger and determination, second only to the bond we’ve forged since the ambush Rookwood set for me. «Truly.»

He takes a few steps toward me. His hand brushes gently against my cheek, and his kiss is light as he lowers himself to touch my lips with his. For a moment, his spicy scent takes me back to a time when my only worry was the fluttering butterflies in my stomach whenever I was near him—when he was too proud to let everything that eventually unfolded come to pass.

When he pulls away, he looks at me, as if to make sure I’m really okay. «I’ll be waiting in our room,» he says, and the sincerity in his eyes makes me feel safe.

All I can do is nod, offering him a small but genuine smile—a smile I reserve for very few people these days.

I watch him walk away, disappearing beyond the door, which closes softly behind him, leaving me alone and undisturbed, surrounded only by the quiet and the crackling of the fire in the grand hearth behind me.

For a brief moment, I sink back into the chair, taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, as if bracing myself for a great leap into the unknown. A mass of thoughts gathers in my head, intrusive and overwhelming, preventing me from thinking clearly.

Not knowing how things will unfold after the article is published makes me feel so powerless that anxious tremors ripple through my body. Not being able to control what will happen, or at least be in some way the master of my immediate future, steals my breath away.

I open my eyes and stare at the unfurled parchment in front of me. The words I previously wrote seem to demand I continue their story, to give an ending to what I’ve drafted so far. They sit there, silent and waiting, like Death itself—like the mere act of writing them was signing my own sentence.

With trembling hands, I take the quill between my fingers and dip its tip into the inkpot, staining it with a vibrant, gleaming black. Every trace of ink on the paper conjures Rookwood’s face, his sneering, twisted smile. I hear his cruel laughter echoing through the thunder and rain, and I can’t help but imagine him even more ruthless once he learns what I’ve done. Because I know, wherever he is, he’ll find out about my defiance—what he’ll see as yet another insult—simply because I’ve chosen not to bow to his will, to challenge his reputation and Black’s indifference.

I try not to let the words I write destroy me, to resist the memory of what they evoke from piercing me like a blade. But I can’t ignore my pain, nor erase it. Yet I cannot afford to stop, to let the nightmare I’ve lived through trap me so thoroughly that it chains me, preventing me from moving forward. I refuse to let Rookwood see me as a victim or believe he has won.

No, this time, things won’t go his way. This time, everyone will know what he’s capable of, regardless of the price—both for him and for me.

A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts, making me jump. I’m not expecting anyone. Perhaps it’s Aesop.

«Come in,» I say, my voice tinged with surprise as I set the parchment aside, adopting a more composed and welcoming posture.

The door creaks open slowly, revealing a familiar yet unexpected figure: Alice Haywood.

A wave of surprise washes over me, leaving me momentarily speechless as I stare at the student. Alice has never sought me out after class. In fact, she rarely lingers in my classroom unless it’s required for the curriculum. Typically, she prefers to stay behind with Aesop after lessons, not me.

«Professor Doyle, I hope I’m not disturbing you,» she says, lingering on the threshold, hesitating between the open door and the room as if unsure whether I’ll welcome her.

I dispel her doubt. «Not at all, Miss Haywood. Please, come in,» I reply, inviting her inside. Her demeanor, usually confident and lively, is subdued and tentative today.

I furrow my brow, observing her with curiosity. «I… I wanted to speak with you about something important, if you don’t mind.» Her voice is calm, but there’s a thread of tension weaving through her words, giving them a tone I’ve never heard from her before—a tone that only confirms my growing suspicions.

«Of course, Miss Haywood,» I say, using my wand to pull a stool from the workbench to the desk. «Please, have a seat.»

She steps forward hesitantly and sits, her hands resting in her lap. From the furrowed expression on her face, the faint crease between her blonde brows, it’s clear that something heavy weighs on her. I feel a strong urge to bridge the gap between us, to offer her comfort like an older sister would, but I maintain a semblance of formality to ensure I don’t completely yield to emotion.

Alice’s sharp intelligence and usual determination are overshadowed today by her almost meek posture. The tension in her body dulls her presence, dimming the brightness typical of her youth. Even her golden hair seems lackluster.

«What’s the matter?» I ask, softening my voice to reassure her that, despite any personal feelings she may hold, I’m here for her—not just as her teacher, but as a guide.

Alice meets my gaze for a moment with her wide blue eyes, as if gathering her thoughts and courage. The weight of what she carries is palpable, a burden too heavy to ignore any longer.

I remain silent, waiting for her to find the right moment to speak, offering no pressure. In the quiet between us, I can almost feel the weight of her emotions pressing against the air, tangible and suffocating. Finally, with a deep breath, she begins.

«You know, Professor, rumors travel quickly at Hogwarts,» she says quietly, her tone carrying an eerie undercurrent that sends a shiver down my spine. «And with Rookwood’s sudden departure… it’s not hard to guess what happened. What happened to you

I say nothing, sorting through her words, weighing what she’s said against what remains unspoken. Right now, I don’t care that my ordeal has become fodder for gossip among the students. What matters is the girl in front of me—the tremor in her lip, the way her hands twist together as if searching for the right words.

And it’s because of this, with a pang in my heart, that I understand. There’s no need for Alice to continue for me to grasp where she’s heading. I know she’s about to tell me something that will shake me to my core, something that will reignite and magnify my nightmare.

For this reason—for the horror lurking behind her long hesitation—I hold back. I won’t press her, won’t rush her to speak. She must choose her moment, and I will do nothing but listen, knowing how crucial it is to have someone willing to believe you.

«I… too…» Alice clasps her knees tightly, her eyes now fixed on the empty air. «A few years ago, I… I almost fell victim to Rookwood.»

The revelation, though I had feared it, hits like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from my lungs. I’ve spent the past weeks believing I alone carried the weight of his actions. Instead, his cruelty is so ingrained that it has scarred others long before me.

I force myself to remain calm in front of Alice, trying to convey silent comfort, to make her feel safe and protected, but I can’t fathom that this girl, so spirited and at times even flirtatious, has always hidden the worst nightmare for a woman behind a dazzling smile.

«You’re the only person who can understand me, Professor,» she continues, this time raising her gaze to me, as if searching for a lifeline to cling to. «You… you know what it means. You know what it’s like to carry this weight inside, what it’s like to live your life carefree, and then, all of a sudden… be haunted by the memory. Without reason, just as his action was without reason. Simply for the sake of causing harm.»

I realize that until now, Alice likely hasn’t found anyone she could confide in, anyone who might have experienced what she has; she has lived in fear that Rookwood would try again, protected by Black, and that no one would have ever believed her. If it’s hard for me to bear, at my age, I can’t imagine what it means for her, so young, with a life ahead that nearly had her dreams, hopes, and ambitions shattered by the sadistic pleasure of a boy abusing his supposed superiority.

But now that Alice has found the courage to come to me, to share her pain, I can do nothing but accept it. I can’t ignore what she’s telling me, nor can I turn away. We can no longer remain silent. We can no longer let the shadows of the past suffocate us.

I lean slowly over the desk, trying to close the distance between us and extending my hands toward her.

«I understand you, Alice,» I say, addressing her by her first name, discarding formalities between us and looking her in the eye. »And I thank you for sharing all of this with me. For trusting me.»

I notice how much Alice is trembling, despite trying to hold herself together, and I realize how difficult it must be for her to dredge all this up. The mere fact that she is here, talking to me, fills me with the determination and strength I need not to let exhaustion stop me but to continue drafting the article.

And in that moment, with her, I understand that what I’m doing must not remain a secret.

What if she’s lying? a small voice in the back of my head whispers. The seed of doubt, planted when the organs of what should be justice turned their backs on me, makes its shrill and irritating voice heard, but I try to dismiss it. Women, especially girls so young, rarely lie about such grave and cruel matters.

«I can help you, Alice. If you want me to, of course.»

She looks at me questioningly, remaining silent, so I continue, «I’m writing an exposé on what happened to me and on the complicity Rookwood has found around him.» I take a deep breath, only now realizing, as I speak aloud, the scale of what I’m undertaking. «A witch from America approached me on behalf of Lady Wimborne, who intends to create the Witches’ League—a sort of defense organization by women, for women. My article would be the first bulletin published by the League… and I suppose it would officially mark its inception.»

Another long silence follows, during which Alice seems to consider all the possibilities and potential consequences. I realize I cannot afford to lose her alliance, to let her testimony remain secret.

«If you’d prefer, I can make sure you remain anonymous,» I hasten to reassure her, as gently as possible. »You don’t have to feel obligated to reveal your identity if you’re not ready. I can publish your testimony without anyone knowing it’s you.»

Alice looks at me, her eyes filled with gratitude but also a certain apprehension, as is only natural. She weighs the proposal for what feels like an eternity, and then, with a breath that seems to lift the burden she’s been carrying, she slowly nods.

«I’m not ready to tell anyone, not even my parents,» she says, her voice trembling, her thoughts clearly going to a family that would undoubtedly be devastated by the news. »But if I can help… if my story can give a voice to someone else… then I agree. But please, keep my identity hidden.»

«I promise I will,» I say firmly. «I completely respect your wishes, Alice. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart for having the courage to share this part of your life with me.»

The girl nods, her hands clenched in her lap as if trying to contain every emotion running through her.

«If you ever need someone to talk to,» I continue, «don’t hesitate to come to me. I’m here for anything, Alice. You’re not alone.»

She looks at me, a small smile brightening her face, but she says nothing. Words aren’t always necessary. Sometimes, silence matters more.

Without saying another word, she slowly gets up from the desk, giving me a small nod. Then, before leaving the door, she pauses for a moment and looks at me again.

«Thank you,» she murmurs, and with that single word, more than any others, she makes me realize just how important it was for her to unburden herself, how much that moment truly meant.

The following days blur into a routine I now know all too well. Every morning, I wake up with a single thought: keep writing. The article consumes me completely, especially now that I must also give voice to Alice’s pain. Fortunately, Aesop takes on all my academic duties without ever making me feel the weight of the extra burden he bears—or the fact that we’ve been sharing the same bed for days without touching each other.

It costs me dearly to admit it, but what Rookwood and his lackeys dared to do to my body has traumatized me more than I ever imagined. When I close my eyes, I can almost feel my bare skin struck by the cold rain, gripped by the hands of those vile creatures.

The first time I undressed in front of Aesop after the assault, the bruises had almost completely faded, but the cuts from the Severing Charm looked like strokes of red ink. Deeper than I thought—straight into my soul.

Aesop understood my discomfort, my shame, and my fear of reliving it all, and he laid me down on the bed, his hands warming not only my suddenly cold skin but also my heart. He traced each wound with his fingers, caressing even the part of me that most betrayed my vulnerability.

It’s as if he understands without needing words, as if he feels every tension coursing through me without my having to say a thing. Sometimes, I catch him pausing to look at me, his dark eyes filled with a gentleness I’ve never seen in anyone else. There are no words between us, but there is a tacit understanding, a bond that seems to grow every day, strengthened through small gestures. He suggests I take a break when he sees I’m too tired, takes on my workload, brings me a cup of coffee even late at night, and rekindles the fire in the hearth when my work stretches into the early hours.

I know that without him, the weight of all this would be unbearable. Every night, he holds me close without asking or expecting anything more than the simple contact of our bodies against each other, waiting for me in the rhythm of our synchronized breaths. When his hand grazes my stomach, unaware of the tiny life forming within me, a shiver runs through me.

What will I do when I finally find the courage to tell him? When I find the right way to whisper that we’re expecting a child? Or when my body inevitably begins to change, betraying me gently yet giving me no chance to turn back? I don’t know how Aesop will react; I don’t know if he’ll be ready to take this step with me. And though I like to think he’ll be more than willing to face it all, there’s a part of me that fears this truth—despite being the happiest of all truths—will be too much for him to bear.

I desperately want to unburden myself of this secret, but I know it would mean presuming everything will be okay. And right now, nothing is certain.

But I must carry on—keep writing, focus on the present, not on some hypothetical future, not on the dire consequences of my actions, but only on the positive ones. Because if even one woman or girl, witch or Muggle, can find herself in my words, feel understood, and feel less alone in the fight against her oppressor, then my efforts and those of other feminists will have served a purpose. My suffering, though unjust, will have had a reason to exist.

And yet, despite all my efforts to stay focused and anchored to the present, I cannot stop the thoughts that assail me, that crowd my mind with unrelenting force. It hurts to think that Rookwood tried to violate the warmth I find with Aesop, to strip me of any hope of ever feeling safe again, of loving without fear.

It hurts to know how much complicity and silence still surround the threat of his name, despite what happened years ago with his father, despite how well-known their kind are. But no one has wanted to lift a finger; whether out of fear of retaliation or for their own interests, it doesn’t matter. The name Rookwood and what it evokes makes more noise than the desperate cry of an accusation; the power of a man moves mountains more than the might of a woman’s pain.

And all of this must end.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that when Aesop interrupts the flow by gently brushing his fingers against my cheek, I startle slightly before relaxing under his tender touch. I lift my gaze to meet his; he’s holding a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily in the air. But his eyes are fixed on me, as if he can see straight through my silences, as if his gaze holds the power to uncover exactly what’s weighing on my mind.

«Is something troubling you?» he asks in a low, calm voice, tinged with concern he doesn’t bother to hide.

I lean into his hand, which cradles my head with steady strength, his fingers running softly through my hair. I close my eyes, trying for a moment to shut out the chaos churning inside me, but it’s impossible to silence it completely. Yet I can’t let it out either—not now.

«The usual things,» I reply evasively, my chest heavy with the weight of all I can’t say. I reach for his hand with mine, wrapping my fingers around his wrist as if anchoring myself to him. «Just... stay close to me. Like you are now. That’s all I need.»

His fingers move gently through my hair, wordlessly conveying that he understands—there’s nothing else I need from him in this moment.

«I’m not going anywhere,» he says simply, his voice low and steady, the scent of his cigarette mingling with the familiar notes of his cologne.

A fleeting moment of peace. I wish I could freeze time, stay like this forever.

Eventually, though, the tip of my quill reaches the end of a long parchment filled with words I never imagined I’d be able to write. They now stare back at me, glistening in fresh ink, waiting to dry and begin their journey to Marion—and my fate.

The darkness of the evening has wrapped Hogwarts in its impenetrable shroud, and the dim glow of candles and the fireplace lights the desk where I’ve spent the past several nights. I glance at the parchment one last time, but the words blur together in my exhaustion. I push back my chair and make my way to the couch, where Aesop sits grading Alchemy assignments.

I take a moment to study his profile—the sharp line of his lips, the defined jaw faintly shadowed by stubble. His long hair is slightly tousled, as though he’s run his fingers through it one too many times. The golden glow of the fire accentuates his skin, his dark eyes focused as they flicker between the papers and, slowly, up to me.

«Yes?» he asks, smiling.

I hand him the parchment. «I’m done, but I can’t read it over. I’m too tired.» I rub my eyes, realizing only now how much my head aches. I sink onto the couch beside him, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders while reaching for the parchment with his other hand, ready to read it for me.

That’s exactly what I wanted to ask him to do, yet he understood without my having to say a word. I marvel at how attuned we’ve become as I trace the intricate pattern of veins along his forearm to his hand, occasionally playing with his fingertips, indulging in a moment of lighthearted distraction.

I watch his hands the entire time his eyes carefully scan the pages. He doesn’t look away, fully immersed in the words, yet he responds to my tactile gestures: intertwining his fingers with mine, returning my caresses, tracing the outline of my lips with his fingertip. For a while, I remain suspended in that silence, a stillness that feels like it could last an eternity.

And then, finally, he lifts his eyes from the long parchment, presses a lingering kiss to my forehead, and fixes his gaze on mine. His expression is serious, but there’s a sweetness in his eyes, as though he’s trying to keep his composure, forcing himself to remain as indifferent as possible. His voice is low and steady, yet filled with an admiration that touches me deeply.

«It’s perfect, Cassandra,» he says, his hand coming to rest gently against my cheek, stroking it tenderly. «You were incredible. Not just for what you wrote, but for the strength it took to do it. I’m truly proud of you.»

A lump forms in my throat, and I feel my eyes grow misty. I don’t know what to say, how to express the enormity of what I feel at this moment. Before I can even think of a response, Aesop cups my face in his hands and draws me to him, kissing me with a passion that is intense yet unlike anything common. It is an intimate passion, almost private, something only those who share more than a fleeting, physical bond could understand.

He envelops me in his strong, steady arms, and I surrender to him as if his embrace were a sanctuary. The warmth of his skin against mine makes every worry that clouded my mind just moments ago dissolve into nothingness. For a single instant, time seems to stop, and the world outside ceases to exist—it’s just the two of us.

His hand moves gently over my hair, his fingers brushing softly against the nape of my neck. «You’ve surprised me, Cassie. Not that I ever doubted you, but knowing how hard this was for you to do… I’m surprised, that’s all. And proud.»

I smile against his chest, breathing in his scent and listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Its steady cadence fills me with a peace that calms and strengthens me at the same time. It prepares me to face everything that, I realize more clearly now, lies ahead.

I tilt my head up to look at him, losing myself in the lines of his face and the depths of his eyes. I can’t be rational in the face of such beauty, can’t stop myself from wondering if the child growing inside me will resemble him in some way.

The thought brings tears to my eyes, though thankfully I can mask them with the sincere gratitude I feel for him. «Thank you for being here with me, Aesop. Thank you for being there from the very beginning,» I say, and we both know I could be referring to the attack, but more than that, I mean our journey together from the very start.

He responds with a smile and another kiss. Then, he rises, leaving me alone on the now-empty sofa, and moves to the window. He gathers the parchment, rolling it carefully, and rummages through the countless drawers scattered across trunks, tables, and cabinets in the sitting room. At last, he retrieves a length of twine, tying it securely around the scroll. Then, he opens the window, letting the cool spring evening breeze brush against my legs.

Aesop whistles sharply, the sound piercing and clear, and he leans against the window frame, staring into the dark night. I have a pretty good idea of what he’s up to, so I get up and join him, leaning my back against his chest.

He wraps his arms around my shoulders, shielding me from the chill of the night, and together we watch a tawny owl with topaz eyes approach and gracefully land on the windowsill.

«Don’t tell me it’s from the Owlery,» I tease him.

He shrugs, replying with a playful smirk, «Then I won’t.»

He hands me the rolled parchment, allowing me to attach it to the owl’s leg and whisper instructions for delivery.

We watch as it takes off, soaring into the night sky until it vanishes into the darkness, swallowed by shadows and stars.

«Where did you learn to do that? The whistle?» I ask Aesop as he closes the window.

He hesitates for a moment, as if battling with himself, before finally answering. «From Mabel. She was incredibly good with animals—she had a way with all Magical Creatures,» he says at last.

It’s the first time he speaks naturally about her, about something beautiful tied to her memory. A moment of life, not death. Her presence still quietly alive within him. Yet, I can’t help but notice the faint shadow of melancholy crossing his gaze, and guilt surges within me, convinced I’ve reopened an unhealed wound.

«Aesop, forgive me,» I say, placing a hand on his arm. «I had no idea, and I didn’t mean to… make you remember.»

«There’s nothing to forgive, Cassie,» he replies with a small smile, though his eyes remain heavy with sadness. «You have nothing to do with all of that.»

He pauses, as though unsure what else to say, but then he chooses to continue: «I can’t change the past, no matter how painful what happened might be. But I can shape the present to try and change the future. That’s what I realized the night you used Legilimency. I had to risk losing you to understand that you are my present. I can’t live tethered to what was—I have to look forward to what will be.»

His words grip my stomach like a hook, pulling it into an abyss. The shock of his confession leaves me speechless, as though I’ve suddenly lost my voice. I could tell him. I could tell him the secret that has bound us for over a month now. He could finally know that… we might be a family.

But his words have stunned me so deeply that I can’t seize the moment, and he speaks again before I can find the courage. «Shall we go to bed? You must be exhausted after all these sleepless nights,» he says softly.

His voice gently carries away any resolve I might have had, and I can only nod in agreement. The weight of the missed opportunity crashes over me, leaving me feeling even more drained.

I slip out of my dress—a simple light cotton gown—and climb into bed beside Aesop wearing only my underclothes. I close my eyes, utterly spent.

I feel the blankets lift as he tucks them around us, his warmth pressing against my side. He pulls me into his arms, his hand resting—whether intentionally or not—on my abdomen. I place my hand over his, and the steady rhythm of his breathing lulls me.

I fall asleep almost instantly, wrapped in his embrace.

The parchment left my hands days ago, carried away by Marion Twigs' owl. Yet no response has come. Time marches on, but no letters arrive for me.

I thought writing the article was nerve-wracking, but apparently, I underestimated how agonizing waiting could be. Every time I see a postal owl approaching the castle, my hands grow clammy, only to remain empty, holding nothing.

The sky above Hogwarts shifts as the days stretch on, reminding me of a world that turns relentlessly forward, leaving me behind. I feel like a spectator frozen in place, witnessing events from which I am excluded, waiting for my turn to step into the spotlight—though whether I'll star in a tragedy or a comedy remains to be seen.

Spring pushes forward, the chill of April mornings yielding to May's warm sunrays. The clouds that once dimmed the lawn are now a distant memory, replaced by vibrant greenery teeming with students studying outdoors. From high above, they look like tiny black ants scattered across the grass.

Carefree joy seems to have overtaken them. The looming exams no longer weigh them down as they seize every chance to bask in the sun. The promise of summer hovers close, lifting their weary student spirits.

Often, I find myself gazing at them from my quarters, my thoughts drifting to my own school days and the lightheartedness I too once longed for. Now, it feels like there's no room for such lightness in my life.

The thought that Marion might choose not to reply—that my article might not have been strong enough or impactful enough—haunts me more than I’d like to admit. I wonder if I should have done more, written with more force. I even question whether I should have betrayed Alice’s trust and shared her story openly.

I haven’t told Aesop either, despite his concerned inquiries about the student I referenced in the article. As a teacher, he seems unable to reconcile himself with not having noticed her struggles, but I try to reassure him. I tell him the girl is now under my care, that she finally had the courage to confide in someone.

I try to soothe his worries, hoping it will somehow ease my own.

It’s the morning of May 9th when the sunlight pours through the tall Gothic windows, guiding Aesop and me on our walk to the Great Hall for breakfast. The grand hall is bathed in warm light, as if summer has already arrived, and the students are buzzing with energy, filling the benches with an excited hum.

I barely notice the sound of Aesop's cane tapping softly against the stone floor anymore, but a few curious students still can’t resist staring as he passes. It feels like we’ve become the couple of the moment, the one on everyone’s lips. Under different circumstances, it might have made me smile, but now, over a month after the attack, we’ve become the subject of gossip for all the wrong reasons. As for Rookwood, no one speaks his name anymore. It’s vanished from conversation, just like his body disappeared from the classrooms.

We settle at our usual spot at the staff table, the chatter of students accompanying the breakfast. The smells of eggs and freshly toasted bread fill the air as the more substantial dishes appear on our plates. I force myself to eat, though I’ve had little appetite in the past few days, more out of obligation to the small life growing inside me than hunger.

The flutter of hundreds of wings signals the arrival of the owls in the Great Hall. Their feathers move swiftly through the air, and one by one, they glide gracefully to their destinations, delivering packages and letters of every shape, color, and size.

Then I see it. A large gray owl, its feathers tipped with gold that gleams in the morning light, flies unmistakably in my direction. Its wings beat elegantly through the air, and it lands confidently in front of me, carrying a package in its talons. It closes its eyes and tucks its head beneath its wings as Aesop gently strokes its feathers under its beak, as if it knows it has done its job well. Once I relieve the owl of its burden, it takes off again, soaring away, leaving behind only a brown package on the table.

My heart races as I reach for it, sensing its softness, and immediately recognizing the fresh ink scent as I tear open the paper.

Aesop leans in slightly, curiosity in his eyes. I open the package with trembling hands, surprised to reveal violet-colored newspaper pages inside.

I swallow hard, letting my fingers touch what I already know it is, realizing the dark blue ink stains on my fingertips.

I unfold the newspaper: at the top, the name The Witches League stands bold and centered. Beneath it, the headline reads in large letters: «The Violence No One Should Have Seen. Does the Name of Rookwood Still Strike Fear?» and below, in smaller text: «The Testimony of Witch Cassandra Doyle, Professor of Alchemy at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.»

I hold my breath, crashing against the reality of it with a clarity I’ve never felt before. The words seem to pulse on the page, alive with power, relentless in their weight. It’s true now, and there’s no going back.

«It’s done,» I whisper to Aesop, who has leaned completely toward me, one hand on my thigh to steady me, the other holding the Witches League bulletin, reading it for himself.

But in truth, nothing is done. I know everything is just about to begin.

Notes:

To all my readers: if you're still here reading "Lustful Alchemy", thank you so much for your patience! Late December and early January are usually festive and therefore busy days in Italy. But this period of time has also been a bit tough for me, because my pet is not feeling good and me and my family are trying our best to find the cure for his sickness. For this reason I cannot guarantee you updates as fast as I would. But still, thank you for being my reader and to let me evade a bit from my reality <3

Chapter 46: SHARP

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

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.

“Therefore, the present Wizengamot tribunal formally notifies you that a hearing has been scheduled for the 1st of July, 1899, at nine o’clock in the morning. Your punctual attendance is expected.”

I remain motionless for a moment, rereading the letter to make sure I’ve understood correctly. This is a low blow—even for someone like Rookwood. That worm knows exactly what he’s doing. Not only is he cornering her at a time when she is already vulnerable, but he’s also made sure the Wizengamot chose a date that carries personal weight.

Not only is it the day after the Hogwarts school year ends, but also the day after Cassandra’s birthday.

He wants her to pay for what he considers an affront—subtly, slowly, and cruelly.

«Hey, Cassie,» I say, forcing myself to stay calm as I speak to her, placing my hands on her shoulders and looking into her dangerously vacant eyes. «You’ve faced worse. We’ll get through this too. I’ll stand by you this time as well, always. I won’t let him hurt you again. I protected you once, and I’ll do it again.»

Her gaze clouds with tears, and I quickly wipe them away before they can roll down her cheeks.

«You know you’re in the right,» I add, trying in every way to give her strength. «We all do. Rookwood may have powerful people on his side, but why? Because they fear him. You, on the other hand, have people who believe in you—because they care about you and know you’re telling the truth.»

I pull her close, so that if she cries, the fabric of my waistcoat will absorb her tears. I hold her in my arms, almost rocking her gently.

«I can’t do this,» she whispers, more to herself than to me, her voice muffled against my chest, a mix of panic and disbelief. «I can’t face him.»

«Cassie, this doesn’t mean he’s already won,» I tell her, lifting her face and trying not to let my heart break at the sight of her red, tear-filled eyes. «We won’t let him win. Not after what he did to you.»

I try to stay composed in front of her, but inside, I’m seething at how that bastard is trying to break her, piece by piece. And for that very reason, I won’t let him win this time. He will face the consequences he deserves, even if it means putting my own career and position at the Ministry on the line.

Her shoulders shake with uncontrollable sobs, her entire body collapsing against mine as if she no longer knows how to stand on her own.

«Let me handle it,» I murmur, cradling her face in my hands and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips.

I wait until she’s calmed down, at least a little, before I abandon everything I was doing. With the letter still in my hand, I begin wandering through the school—crowded, yet at the same time unbearably empty when you’re searching for someone specific, especially someone occupied with N.E.W.T. exams.

So I climb up to Gryffindor Tower and wait, pacing the corridor back and forth more times than I can count. Every now and then, I stop a student to ask if they’ve seen Albus Dumbledore or know where he might be, but all I get in return are confused looks and shakes of the head—along with a few puzzled glances at my singed cuffs.

At last, after a good half hour, I see him approaching, his auburn hair swaying over his shoulders. The moment he spots me, he quickens his pace with determination, as if he, too, had been looking for me.

«Professor!» he calls out, raising a hand to show me what he’s holding between his fingers.

«Albus,» I reply, abandoning all formality. «You received the summons?»

«Yes. It’s outrageous! They can’t do this!» he protests, just as indignant as I am about the Ministry of Magic’s blatant favoritism toward Rookwood. In seven years, this is probably the first time his usually cheerful face is twisted in a grimace of urgent anger.

«Money can do many things, Albus,» I correct him, already preparing him for the way the world often works. «But if there’s one thing it can’t do, it’s buy the truth and silence it. We need to stand together, Albus.»

He looks at me, determination and resolve shining like darts in his eyes.

«I’m listening,» he says.

«I’ll speak with the professors—it won’t be difficult to convince them. You, on the other hand, must use all the influence and goodwill you have as Head Boy over your fellow students. Anyone who wishes to attend the trial as a supporter of Cassandra should feel free to do so.»

I don’t let myself be distracted by the slight twitch of his lips when I call Cassandra by name and continue, «Try to protect the younger and more vulnerable students. Those from less affluent families shouldn’t have to bear this burden as well, but we need as many people on our side as possible. Even just gathering their testimonies about Cassandra—how she teaches, how she has always treated them—could make a difference.»

The boy nods. «I can do that,» he confirms.

I take a breath. «Now comes the difficult part: when you go to the Wizengamot, you’ll have to exert twice as much influence over the jury. It will be a challenge, but you must find a way to prevent them from entering the courtroom with their verdict already decided.»

He seems thoughtful. I never wanted a seventeen-year-old to bear such a weight, but this matter is too important for me to concern myself with how Dumbledore might feel about it.

«Alright,» he says at last, after a moment of reflection. «If necessary, I’ll ask Flamel to intervene on Professor Doyle’s behalf.»

«I’ll think about it,» I reply evenly, careful not to betray what I’m really thinking.

Dumbledore studies me with his usual piercing, bright blue eyes, as if reading something beyond my words, but he doesn’t press the matter. He simply gives a slight nod before walking away, leaving me alone with the weight of the request I have just made.

Flamel would be a powerful ally, but as tempting as that may be, the truth is that his involvement would only bring further chaos. And the last thing Cassandra needs is more attention drawn to her, turning this ordeal into an even greater spectacle.

What she truly needs is the support of those who care for her, those who respect her and stand by her side.

Much to my chagrin, as I make my way back to the Faculty Lounge, I find myself thinking like an Auror—drafting and refining a plan of action in my head. The first step is speaking with the other professors and ensuring that they are on our side.

I think of everyone who has watched her work over these past months—anyone who knows how devoted she has been to her students, how much she has done for this school. If they attend the trial, if they offer their testimonies, she will have a much better chance of coming out of this unscathed.

But if even one of them were to turn away, it would be a personal betrayal. Not just to her, but to everything this school is meant to stand for.

Still, I refuse to dwell on that possibility. The Headmaster will already give us enough trouble—I cannot afford to imagine the worst-case scenario. I must place my trust in the people I know, without a doubt, I can rely on.

I reach the Faculty Lounge with the determined stride of someone with too many thoughts and no time to waste. As soon as I step inside, the heated voices of my colleagues crash over me like a storm in full force. If I had any lingering doubts, they are now entirely dispelled.

«That man is a damn parasite!» Dinah bursts out, pacing the room with her fists clenched at her sides. Her usual measured tone is gone, replaced by a frustration so sharp it nearly surprises me.

«Parasite is putting it lightly,» Mudiwa adds, her expression twisted in pure disgust. She leans against the desk, arms crossed, lips pressed into a hard line. «What he’s doing is revolting. Vile.»

Cassandra sits on the couch, a small, unmoving figure amidst the tempest of indignation surrounding her, but her gaze—fixed on her hands knotted in her lap—seems unfocused, distant. Tension coils around her shoulders, rigid under the weight of something far too heavy. She says nothing, adds nothing to the outrage of the other women. She doesn’t need to. Her expression says it all.

Only when she sees me do her fingers stop twisting together.

«Aesop,» she calls, my name barely more than a whisper, something fragile yet desperate, clinging to it as if seeking stability.

I move toward her, meeting the eyes of our colleagues as I cross the room. «We all know this trial is nothing more than Rookwood’s fabrication,» I say firmly. Dinah scoffs, unimpressed. «But fabricated or not, one thing is certain—the trial will happen. And Cassandra will need all of our support.»

«Obviously!» Mudiwa snaps, straightening with renewed intensity. «What, did you think we’d stand by and do nothing?»

«We’re not about to sit back and watch while they try to drag our colleague’s name through the mud,» Dinah adds fiercely. «We’re with you, Cassandra.»

She inhales slowly, as if trying to absorb their words, turning them into armor.

I am just about to drape an arm around her shoulders when the door swings open with a loud thud, and Matilda bursts in with the force of a wildfire.

Matilda’s voice echoes through the room as she storms in, her expression a storm of outrage. «I just heard,» she exclaims. «I can’t believe it! That—that man is an insult to decency!»

Mudiwa sighs, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. «You’re not the only one who thinks so.»

«I can’t begin to imagine what goes through his head!» Matilda continues, marching toward the couch. «But believe me, I won’t just stand by and watch while he tries to destroy Cassandra’s career and life!»

She sits beside Cassandra, wrapping her in a motherly embrace—one so tender that it instantly dissolves the fury simmering beneath her words. I take a small step back, just enough to give them space while still remaining close.

«We won’t let him win,» she tells her firmly, her eyes filled with the unwavering certainty of someone who has literally watched her grow up. «You know that, don’t you? We’re all with you.»

Cassandra barely nods, silent, her mind seemingly elsewhere. I watch her clench her hands so tightly that her knuckles turn white. It’s not just the fear of the trial—it’s everything it represents. The injustice, the humiliation, the feeling of having no control over what is happening to her.

Once again, just like when she was a child—rejected by the very man who should have loved her despite everything.

Before I can say anything, the bell tolls through the corridors, momentarily breaking the tension and pulling us all back to the reality of our academic duties. Dinah and Mudiwa exchange a quick glance before adjusting their robes.

«See you later,» Dinah says to Cassandra, a promise in her voice.

«And if you need anything, just ask,» Mudiwa adds, casting one last look of utter contempt at the crumpled Ministry letter still clenched in my hands before stepping out.

But the room does not stay empty for long. Soon, Abraham and Mirabel walk in, their faces dark and tense—clear signs that the news has already spread far enough to reach them. And, likely, many others.

«We heard,» Abraham says without preamble. His usual cheerful tone is absent, replaced by something heavier, almost grim.

Mirabel exhales sharply and shakes her head. «What a disgrace.» There’s no trace of her usual poise and kindness; she doesn’t bother to soften her words. Instead, she turns to Cassandra, her restrained anger plain in her expression. «How do you feel?»

Cassandra hesitates for a moment before simply saying, «Like I’ve just been run over by a speeding train.»

Mirabel presses her lips together, and the silence that follows is thick, oppressive.

I decide not to waste time and suppress the urge to pull her close in front of everyone. «Cassandra will need witnesses for her defense. Can I count on you?»

«Of course,» Abraham replies without hesitation. «Though I fear the Ministry won’t make things easy.»

I scoff, crossing my arms. «The Ministry,» I repeat sarcastically, the name of the institution sounding like an insult on my tongue. «I know them. I know exactly how they work. And I know it’s going to be damn difficult.»

It always is when it comes to getting justice from those who would rather protect themselves than what’s right.

«To hell with the Ministry!» Matilda bursts out, her voice booming in the room, fueled by fury.

I can’t help but agree with her. I’m furious, every fiber of my body burning with irritation. The Ministry is a slow, corrupt machine, driven more by politics than justice. And when it comes to facing someone like Rookwood, the favor will always lie with the wrong side.

I clench my fists, trying to hold back my frustration. There’s no point in losing my cool now. But as I try to formulate a sensible sentence, the door slams open abruptly with a harsh thud.

In the doorway stands Headmaster Black.

«What’s all this racket?» he asks, irritated, with his usual air of someone who’s found himself in a conversation that doesn’t concern him and has no intention of caring.

His gaze lazily moves from one person to another, as if he can’t understand the reason for the tension in the room. Or, more likely, as if he doesn’t care at all.

But when it lands on Cassandra, the slightest movement betrays his thoughts. A barely noticeable eye roll, almost involuntary, as if her mere presence is just an unnecessary complication in his day.

And yet, she says nothing. She’s sitting there, her body rigid, her face tense. She doesn’t cry, doesn’t beg, doesn’t seek comfort. She doesn’t even look at him. But her hands, tightly gripping the fabric of her robes, tremble with contained rage.

My jaw tightens.

Before I even think, before I even consider whether or not it’s wise to speak, the words come out on their own.

«Something wrong, Headmaster?» My tone is as smooth as glass, but the venom is impossible to ignore. «Does it bother you that we’re discussing a sham trial against one of your teachers?»

Black gives me a dismissive glance, as if the mere fact that I’ve addressed him is a waste of his time. His lip curls in a hint of contempt, a gesture that manages to irritate me more than it should.

«Oh, please, Sharp.» He sighs theatrically, clearly bored. «I have no interest in your… parlor discussions. I heard shouting all the way down the hallway and thought there was a Rabid Frisbee on the loose.» His eyes flick briefly back to Cassandra. «Instead, I find it’s just the usual dramatic performance.»

I stiffen instantly.

«Performance?» I repeat, my tone sharp as broken glass.

Black raises an eyebrow, as if he’s made himself perfectly clear.

«Oh, come on, Sharp. I really didn’t think you were this naive. The complaint from Aleister Rookwood should hardly be a surprise, and it certainly isn’t our business.» He raises a hand in a vague gesture, as if the whole matter is of little consequence. «Let the Ministry do its job.»

I smile. A thin, cold smile devoid of warmth.

«Yes, because the Ministry has proven time and time again to be the epitome of fairness, hasn’t it?» Sarcasm drips from my voice like poison.

Black tilts his head slightly. «You do enjoy playing the knight, don’t you, Sharp?»

I take a step closer, my jaw clenched. «And you, Headmaster, enjoy turning a blind eye when it comes to defending victims who don’t fit into your perfect little picture.»

Silence.

The air in the room crackles, tense as a rope ready to snap. I know I’m pushing the limits of his patience. I know I’m challenging his authority, but I can’t stop. Not when I know Cassandra is in a disadvantaged position, once again in danger, her dignity called into question.

Black lets out a quiet snort, no longer trying to hide his irritation. «I don’t have time for this nonsense.» He adjusts his gloves in a slow, measured gesture. «The trial has nothing to do with Hogwarts.»

I let out a bitter, sarcastic laugh in response to his brazenness. «Yet it concerns a Hogwarts teacher.»

«Not one who will be staying long, it seems.»

There it is. The fuse I was waiting for.

My blood boils in my veins, and in an instant, I’m a step away from him, my gaze pinned to his. «Don’t you even think about it.»

Black looks at me with a cold calmness, one eyebrow raised in feigned surprise. «What a dramatic tone, Sharp. It’s such a shame you had to give up your Auror career, given how much you care about Ministry matters.»

The Headmaster continues to stare at me with that look of disdainful superiority that makes my blood simmer. Every movement, every word is a provocation, a calculated attempt to test me, to see how far I’ll go with his indifference.

And I’m about to cross that line.

My hand twitches, my body leaning ever so slightly forward. It’s a moment, just a split second, and I know that if I don’t stop now, I’ll make him eat that last disgusting insinuation with my own hands.

But before I can move, I feel a sudden tension on my arm, holding me back.

I snap around and meet Cassandra’s eyes, locked on mine with a coldness I’ve never seen before. Her face is a mask of impassable control, but in her pupils burns an ice-sharp chill, cutting like a blade.

Then she speaks.

«No, Aesop; it’s not worth getting your hands dirty with pure blood.»

The words fall into the room like a stone into silence, the subtle reference to Black’s condition marking the end of this game of provocations.

For a moment, no one moves.

Phineas stares at her, his gaze darkening in a fraction of a second. That slight tension in his lips, that flash in his eyes betraying an emotion the Headmaster struggles, in vain, to mask: the inability to counter, especially from a Muggle-born who’s just mocked the purity of his blood, something he’s clearly not accustomed to because of the pride that has always clouded his vision.

I smile. A thin, cynical smile, one more to show where I stand than to show any amusement.

«You’re right,» I murmur, my voice low but perfectly audible.

Without taking my eyes off Black, I barely move and wrap an arm around Cassandra, an instinctive, decisive gesture, without hesitation. It’s not just to protect her. It’s to challenge him. To make him understand that, no matter what he thinks he can say or do, he has no power over us. I’ve already made my choice.

Black looks at both of us with an expression of disdainful indifference, but the tension that has stiffened his shoulders doesn’t escape me. He understands that what he thinks and says has no power. For the first time since entering the room, he almost seems… disturbed.

He turns with a slow, deliberate movement, as if the conversation has bored him beyond measure. But then, just on the threshold, he stops and tilts his head slightly toward me.

«Ah, Sharp…» he sighs theatrically, my name hanging in the air for a moment. «At least you used to be rational. It’s almost sad to see how love has made you blind, deaf, and—» he pauses, letting the venom sink into every syllable «—stupid.»

And with one last disgusted glance, he exits, slamming the door with a dull thud.

My jaw clenches to the point of pain. I know I should let it go. I know it’s not worth wasting even an ounce of my energy on a man like him.

Yet the only thing I can think is how profoundly wrong I was, years ago, when I believed nothing could ever make me lose control. I was certain of it, until a few months ago. Until I met Cassandra.

«Like he knows anything about love!» Matilda’s voice, crossing her arms with an expression full of disdain, reaches me, muffled, almost distant. Because in my mind, suddenly, something clicks.

The night of the attack.

Cassandra hadn’t gone out just because she was angry, to distract herself after our argument. Her intention had been to go to Pippin, and she would have done it in any circumstance.

For me.

To find a cure for my leg.

The urgency hits me like a jolt of adrenaline. The trial is in less than a month, and the Ministry won’t make things easy. I know how they operate. I know that all it takes is one detail, a shadow of doubt on Cassandra’s reputation, and they’ll condemn her without hesitation, without even verifying the truth of her testimony.

And I also know that, in the eyes of the law, my involvement could get me into trouble. If the Ministry found out how deeply I’ve gotten involved, to the point where I couldn’t resist Cassandra’s attempt at Legilimency, my integrity and infallibility as an Auror—former Auror—would be called into question.

Once, this would have made me hesitate. But now, as I watch her shrink in the face of the vast unknown, I realize that none of this matters.

Not my career. Not my reputation. Not the Ministry.

The only thing that matters is her.

So, I force myself to wait until another grueling day of exams finally ends. It’s almost a relief to see the students file out of the Great Hall after dinner, exhausted, some still clutching their books to their chests in a desperate attempt to squeeze in some last-minute studying.

I escort Cassandra to our room and wait for her to settle in, drinking her evening tea, illuminated by the soft glow of the candles surrounding her. When she realizes that I have no intention of changing for bed, she sets the cup down on the nightstand beside the armchair.

«Where are you going?» she asks, her voice almost pleading, tearing at me, as if, between the lines, she’s asking me not to leave her alone.

I adjust my jacket, still needed in the evening despite the late summer. But in Scotland, the seasons have their own rules.

«To Pippin,» I admit. «I want to ask for his support.»

Immediately, Cassandra stands up. «I’m coming with you.»

I shake my head before she even finishes speaking. «No. You need to rest. You can’t push yourself any harder than you already have. It will only hurt you to remember everything when it’s still not necessary.»

Almost without realizing it, as if by instinct responding to my words, her hands slip along her abdomen, cradling it as if to protect it.

And for the second time since the night of the attack, that bold thought touches me, so audacious it feels unforgivable. That possibility I dare not say aloud, that feels too fragile, too unreal to be true…

I immediately push the thought away. It’s foolish. Irrational. It’s not the time to entertain such fantasies.

Yet, despite my attempt to relegate that possibility to a distant corner of my mind, the desire for it to be true grows stronger inside me.

«You need to rest,» I repeat, trying not to think about it, and also trying to hurry the goodbye so I can focus on other matters. «The next few days will be difficult. I don’t want you to wear yourself out more than necessary.»

Cassandra presses her lips together, and I know she’s about to protest. I can see it in the way her shoulders tense, in the stubborn spark that ignites in her eyes.

But then, perhaps sensing that I am not willing to give in, she nods.

«Alright,» she concedes, though it’s clear she doesn’t like it.

I move closer, brushing her cheek with my knuckles and pressing my lips to hers, tasting a hint of green tea. A kiss that silently promises my swift return.

With a final wave, I open the door to our quarters and descend the castle stairs, stepping into the calm of the evening.

As soon as I cross the gates of Hogwarts, I Disapparate with the automatic precision of someone who has done it thousands of times. I don’t have time to waste; every minute is precious, as is every ally.

The streets, though illuminated by a few faint lanterns, are quiet at this hour, only a few scattered passersby heading toward the Three Broomsticks, the true heart of the town.

As I pass by, the voices of the patrons echoing from inside, the memory of the first time we Disapparated together comes to mind, on my birthday.

I remember how the wind had lifted a strand of her hair, her anxious gaze, and her cold hand in mine.

My insecurities about starting to feel something strong for her, driven by the awareness of my physical condition and our age difference. And I remember her smile, able to brighten even the darkest of situations.

It had been a simple, natural moment, and now it feels like it belongs to another life.

I clench my jaw, pushing away the nostalgia that threatens to stop me. I don’t have time to dwell on the past.

I quickly walk through the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade, heading towards Pippin’s herb shop. The air is thick with the smell of sugar from Honeydukes and that faint scent of alchemical ingredients that always seems to linger in this village.

When I reach the small square in front of the shop, I immediately notice the lights are still on, albeit dim. It’s a sign that my colleague still has work to do.

It doesn’t surprise me. Pippin has always had more patience than I ever thought humanly possible, and the fact that he’s still bent over his alembics and cauldrons after hours isn’t strange at all.

The shop door, ajar, lets a faint glow filter through into the darkness of the street.

I don’t waste time knocking. I step forward and the bell above the door rings softly, its sound muted in the quiet air of the shop.

Inside, the air is thick with familiar scents: dried herbs, potions left to decant, and a vague scent of dust and ancient glass.

But contrary to what I expected, Pippin isn’t bent over his alembics, absorbed in his work. He’s simply sitting behind the counter, his head down, hands intertwined on the worn wood.

«We’re closed.» His voice is monotone, tired. He doesn’t even bother to look up.

I clear my throat. «Parry. Is this how you greet old friends?»

There’s a brief silence, then Pippin finally looks up at me.

The flickering lantern light makes it hard to read his expression. For a moment, I can’t tell whether he’s relieved to see me or if something is bothering him. Maybe both.

He sizes me up for a few seconds, as if looking for the right words to say. In the end, he simply gives a weary nod.

«Aesop,» he sighs, and the way he says my name carries something heavy: it’s clear that something is troubling him.

He runs a hand through his hair, which looks more disheveled than usual, then adds, with a tense inflection in his voice, «How are you? You… and Cassandra.»

I stiffen slightly because this isn’t just a polite question. No, especially given the timing of it. There’s an urgency hidden in his words, something that puts me on alert.

«That’s exactly why I’m here,» I cut in. «To talk about the night Cassandra was attacked. You must have heard.»

Pippin doesn’t respond, he simply nods. So, I continue.

«That night, you were supposed to meet, right? Cassandra told me: she had sent you an owl to… » I hesitate briefly, the sense of guilt wrapping around my spine. «… to discuss my treatment.»

Pippin continues to look at me in silence, without interrupting.

«Now the Ministry has formalized the complaint,» I add, and just saying those words makes me grit my teeth. «The trial will take place on July 1st.»

For a moment, the only sound that can be heard is the crackling of the lantern next to Parry.

Then Pippin stands up silently and looks for something behind the counter. He doesn’t look at me as he rises, handing me what he’s holding.

I recognize it immediately: it’s the Daily Prophet. I grab the newspaper quickly and unfold it in front of me, the front page almost entirely taken up by two photographs.

On the left, the smug, slimy face of Aleister Rookwood, puffed up in his Durmstrang uniform. On the right, a stock photo of Cassandra, specifically the one that accompanies her book.

Above them, a massive headline in bold, capital letters reads: “FORMAL COMPLAINT: ROOKWOOD AGAINST THE HOGWARTS ALCHEMIST IN THE CENTURY’S TRIAL.”

I feel my blood rush to my head. I expected the news to spread, but seeing Cassandra’s face plastered on the front page like this, reduced to just a name, even stripped of her name…

Pippin watches me for a long moment. «This is what you want to drag me into, isn’t it?» he finally says in a dry tone.

I look at him for a long moment, processing what he’s just said, the thick, fibrous texture of the newspaper under my fingers.

«I don’t want to drag you anywhere, Parry.» My voice is low and controlled. «But in the name of friendship and the professional relationship we’ve had for years, and especially for the sake of truth, it’s important that we have you on our side.»

He sighs and moves away from the counter, crossing his arms. I know him well enough to understand that he’s carefully choosing his words.

«Aesop…» His tone is more cautious than reluctant, but I still don’t like it. «You know how much I care about you. Both of you, seriously. But this whole thing…» He stops, shaking his head.

«This whole thing what?» I press, already feeling a knot tightening in my throat.

«It’s not simple.»

I shake my head, incredulous. «Not simple? Cassandra is at risk of ending up in Azkaban for baseless accusations, Parry. This is the furthest thing from simple!» I say, exasperated.

He doesn’t look away. He’s an honest man, he’s always been. But I can see the reluctance tugging at his face, that instinctive reflex telling him to stay away from a situation that could put him in a difficult position.

«You’re a known potion master, Parry,» I continue, pointing a finger at him. «And as such, you have a reputation. A reputation that led you to want to help Cassandra, and I’m sure you knew that she was looking for a cure for me without me even knowing. Isn’t that enough to understand which side you should be on?»

«It’s not about taking sides, Aesop.» He shakes his head, his voice tightening. «It’s that the Ministry is involved, more directly than they’d like to admit. If the trial goes badly…»

«What?» I step forward, my breath shallow. «You’re worried about your shop? About your reputation?»

«I’m worried about all of this, yes!» Pippin bursts out, raising his hands and his voice. «And not just for me. I have a family, Aesop. If I openly side against the Ministry and Cassandra loses… what do you think will happen?»

For a moment, I’m breathless. The anger overwhelms me, fast and uncontrollable.

«And what do you think will happen if they send an innocent woman to Azkaban?» I ask, my voice tight.

Pippin sighs, staring at an indeterminate point in the shop. «It’s not that simple, Aesop.»

«No, it’s very simple.» I move closer to the counter, planting my hands on the worn wood. «Cassandra is alone, and she needs all of our help and support. No matter the consequences.»

He lowers his gaze for a moment, lost in thought, burdened by the weight of the decision.

«And if you can’t win?» he whispers finally.

I stiffen. For a moment, the fear he’s seeded takes hold of my throat. But I push it away, without hesitation.

«There is no ‘if.’» I lock eyes with him, determined. «I won’t allow her to lose.»

Pippin sighs and runs a hand over his face, visibly exhausted. «I don’t know, Aesop. I don’t know what answer to give you.»

The Daily Prophet is now crumpled and tightly gripped in my hands, which cling to the edge of the counter.

«Parry, for Merlin’s sake…» I hiss, furious. «Cassandra nearly died. She… was almost raped.» Saying these words, hearing my voice shape them, is a monumental effort. «Have you ever really stopped to think about it? What this means for her? She was attacked on the path between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade in the dead of night, and now she risks being the one to pay for what happened to her.»

He gives me only silence.

«And you wanted to help her that night.» A lump forms in my throat. «Because you knew how capable, brilliant, selfless she is. And maybe she’s closer to a solution than we’ve ever been in all these years.»

Pippin stares at me, and for a moment, I think I’ve convinced him. But then he shakes his head and, with a bitter half-smile, says: «Do you want to repay her because she was looking for a cure for you?»

The blow hits me right in the stomach. What on earth is he thinking? I hold his gaze, and I feel the blood boiling in my veins.

«Repaying her would be the least of it.» My voice is hoarse, unable to accept the superficiality that has clouded the words of an old friend. «But no, Parry. I don’t feel indebted to her, or maybe I do, but not for what you think. There’s far more at stake.»

I lower my gaze for a moment, just long enough to catch my breath. Then I raise it again, with a firmness I didn’t know I had.

«I can’t allow Cassandra to lose.» My heart beats furiously in my chest. «Because I can’t afford to lose her too.»

The last words slip out like a confession before I can stop them. And there, in the silence that follows, fear envelops me, because for the first time, I’m tangibly aware of what all of this truly means.

If the trial goes badly, if they convict her… Cassandra would be taken from me.

And I would be alone again, with the eternal torment of not having been able to save the one I love once more.

The mere thought hits me with devastating force, a wave of anguish that tightens my chest until it hurts.

I’ve already lost too much in my life. I can’t lose her too.

Pippin sighs and rubs the back of his neck, avoiding my gaze. «I’ll think about it, Aesop.»

I know I won’t get anything better from him, not even if I insisted to push him past his doubts. Not tonight, not tomorrow, nor in the days to come.

I let out a heavy breath and turn toward the door. «Do as you wish.»

My footsteps echo on the floor as I head toward the shop’s exit. But when my hand brushes the handle, I stop.

I turn to look at him, and this time the words come out without filters, carrying a weight he can’t ignore.

«Beyond how the trial goes, how will you feel knowing you didn’t help an innocent woman, Parry?»

Pippin, who had been staring at the counter, lifts his head slightly, giving me a glance filled with guilt. But I don’t give him time to respond.

I open the door and cross the threshold, leaving behind the dim warmth of the shop to immerse myself in the coolness of the night.

The air of Hogsmeade is thick with humidity, the sky dotted with still stars. Yet, inside me, everything is moving too quickly.

I walk the path back to the school, frustration burning beneath my skin like live coals. I tell myself I should have expected some reluctance from Parry, but that doesn’t comfort me or help me accept it.

By now, everyone in the village has returned to their homes, and only the sound of my footsteps breaks the silence of the night. The dampness of the air seeps into my leg after just a few minutes, slithering like a whispered curse and causing sharp, searing pain.

I grit my teeth, almost leaning all my weight on the cane, but it’s useless. The night of the attack has only worsened my physical condition.

Great.

I stop for a moment, letting a long breath slip between my lips, sweat from the effort beading on my forehead. I’m not even capable of walking anymore to clear my senses.

I lower my gaze, pityingly, to the now useless limb, then close my eyes for a moment before Disapparating, aiming straight for the gates of Hogwarts.

As I walk the path leading to the school entrance, I instinctively raise my eyes to the Faculty Tower.

The windows in our quarters are still lit by the flickering glow of candles, a sign that Cassandra is still awake.

I stop for a moment, allowing the thought of her to slip between the cracks of my frustration, quelling part of the anger still rushing through my veins; thinking of her so close to me, and me just a few steps away from her… I won’t allow any of this to be taken from me.

I resume walking, heading toward the nearest Flame of Floo Powder. I pull some from my pocket, gripping it between my fingers before tossing it into the stone brazier. A green flash erupts in front of me, briefly illuminating the empty courtyard.

«Faculty Tower.»

I let the flames engulf me, and in the blink of an eye, I find myself standing in front of the long corridor that leads to the teachers’ quarters.

The night’s silence enveloping the castle is only interrupted by the irregular sound of my footsteps, my leg protesting with every movement.

I climb the stairs and finally stand before the door to our room. Cassandra hasn’t locked it with a spell, a sign that she was waiting for me to return.

I push the solid wooden panel, which yields to my will with a soft creak, and I scan the room for her.

Here and there, a few candles flicker; from the bedroom, I hear a faint groan and the rustling of sheets.

I realize that Cassandra isn’t awake, but she left the candles burning so I wouldn’t find the room dark upon my return.

A smile, even in a situation with little to smile about, tugs at my lips. The constant care in all her little gestures is enough to make me happy.

I approach the flames, extinguishing them one by one, letting the darkness of the night envelop the room and my short journey to the bedroom.

I remove my jacket with a slow movement, my shoulders heavy with accumulated tension. Then, I take off my shirt, letting it fall onto the chair next to the bed, before finally moving toward her.

Cassandra is asleep, her head sunk into the pillow, her long brown hair scattered across the starched sheets, a rebellious strand brushing her cheek.

I stand next to the bed, watching her for a long moment. The tension she carries from weeks of struggle is etched in the contours of her face, even now, even like this. It’s as if even in her dreams she can’t entirely escape what torments her.

But, deep down, has she ever truly rested?

The thought of her difficult childhood, the years of struggle after graduation, that broken promise of love before it could even be spoken; the moment when she met me, hoping to finally open a breach in my once impenetrable heart. Even then, in the best moments, when she teased me with sarcasm or provoked me simply for the fun of it, she always seemed to hold something back, as if a part of her was always ready to snap, waiting for the next battle where she’d have to defend herself with claws and teeth.

And perhaps that’s why, even for this, I love her. For her silent strength, for her determination. For the way she never stops fighting, no matter what.

But also because, out of all the battles she could have chosen, she chose me. Because all those she embraces, me included, she never considers lost.

As I watch her sleep, the idea settles inside me like a blade slowly sinking beneath the skin.

I love her. And I fear losing her.

I finish undressing in silence, letting the weariness slip away with the rest of my clothes. The trousers and shoes are discarded next to the bed, and finally, I lift the covers just enough to slip in, the mattress sinking under my weight.

The moment my body meets hers, wrapped in a thin nightgown, I feel her breathing change.

It’s a light sleep, hers. She moves slowly, as if guided by caution, but when she gets closer, she presses her body against mine, seeking warmth, refuge.

I pull her into my arms, holding her against my chest, and her face hides in the crook of my shoulder. Her scent envelops me, a mix of jasmine, tea leaves, and something undefinable that I now associate only with her.

I brush her forehead with my lips, the softest kiss, and my right hand slides to the wand resting on the nightstand, extinguishing the last candles still lit in the room.

Now, it’s just the two of us, immersed in silence, bathed in the moonlight.

I gently run my fingers through her hair, letting its softness glide between my knuckles like silk, while my gaze drifts to the beams in the ceiling.

My voice is a whisper, barely a breath between my lips.

«I don’t know if I can win this battle for you, on my own.»

My fingers continue moving through her dark strands, carefully untangling them.

«But I will protect you from everything, Cassie.»

I close my eyes, my breath growing heavy.

«From everything.»

Notes:

Thanks to all of you for your patience on this chapter update. The last days have been very tough for me, because I had to learn to live with the weight of the absence, the grief and the mourning. I hope that, even if this chapter may not be perfect, you could still appreciate it ❤️

Chapter 47: CASSANDRA

Chapter Text

My heart pounds in my chest with a rhythm I cannot calm, like a war drum announcing an imminent battle. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve woken up in a startle tonight, my breath short and my throat parched, fighting against an anxiety that seeps into my bones and keeps me anchored to reality. Now I stand before the mirror, staring at my reflection with a sense of estrangement. Is this how I look today? Dark circles under my eyes, a feverish gaze, pale lips pressed into a thin, uncertain line. A woman ready to be judged, fearing condemnation, no matter how unjust.

Yesterday, I turned twenty-nine. My birthday, which also marked the last day of the school year, slipped away without me being able to enjoy it, trapped in this web of thoughts. I had wanted to celebrate with my students, to toast to their successes, to hear them laugh and rejoice over the approaching summer. I had wanted to sit in the courtyard with Dinah and Mudiwa, commenting on the graduation ceremony with the lightheartedness that a completed school year should bring. And yet, no. I was there with them physically, but my mind was elsewhere. The thought of the trial wrapped around me like a shroud, suffocating me.

I study my reflection as if what I see is foreign to me, clutching the fabric of my skirt between my fingers. A faint noise behind me makes me start. I turn abruptly and find Aesop standing in the doorway, watching me contemplatively, his face softened by the care he has for me. He knows I haven’t slept; he knows that every beat of my heart today is unbearably painful in its involuntary marking of the time separating me from my fate.

Aesop watches me for a long moment, leaving many things unsaid. I see in the way his eyes shine that he wants to speak, to reassure me, to tell me that everything will be fine. But the truth is, he doesn’t know that for sure either.

When he finally speaks, his deep voice strives to keep me afloat. «I won’t ask how you are. But I promise you’re not alone, and I’ll stay by your side for as long as necessary.»

I nod, unable to form an adequate response. The lump in my throat prevents me from speaking, but my gaze conveys my gratitude. I take a deep breath and don’t hesitate. Rip off the bandage, take the pain head-on. «Shall we go?»

He nods in turn. Without another word, we open the door to our quarters and set off through the corridors of the Faculty Tower. Each step echoes in my head, marking the time that separates me from the courtroom.

When we step out into the Hogwarts grounds, the crisp morning air greets me with a biting embrace. The sun has been up for about an hour, yet its light fails to bring the reassuring warmth I long for. The sky is an unnatural white, almost blinding, and its brightness makes me feel exposed, vulnerable. As if the entire universe were bearing witness to what is about to happen, as if there were no place left to hide.

Everything around me seems frozen in a strange stillness. The trees stand motionless, the grass covered in a thin layer of dew that reflects the light with an almost unnatural intensity. The path leading to the gates seems longer than usual, each step heavier than the last.

Aesop walks beside me, his presence a beacon in the storm raging inside me. I know he is here, ready to support me, but I can’t shake the fear tightening in my stomach. Time feels distorted, unreal. Every breath is an echo, every heartbeat a deafening toll in my head.

We reach the gates and cross them, stepping once again beyond Hogwarts, this time without its familiar walls to protect us. But there is nowhere left to run.

I take a deep breath as I drink the potion that will allow me to Apparate without consequences. Aesop takes my hand, and in the blink of an eye, Hogwarts is gone.

The air is still in the secluded alley in London where I emerge from the pull of Apparition. My legs tremble slightly, but my breathing is steady, even though my heart is still racing wildly in my chest. Aesop doesn’t give me time to say anything—his gaze scrutinizes me intently, as if making sure I’m still in one piece.

«Are you all right?»

I nod, gripping his hand a little tighter, as if that hold is the only solid thing in a world that feels ready to collapse around me. «Let’s go,» I say in a whisper, and together, we step out into the busy streets of the city.

The sounds of London seem muffled, distant. The footsteps, the voices, even the wind between the buildings fail to pull me from the anxious haze that clings to me. The only sound I truly hear is the pounding of blood in my ears, an insistent hammering that grants me no respite. Every step we take brings me inexorably closer to the Ministry, to the trial, to Rookwood. And perhaps—to a thought that makes me sick just to entertain—to Azkaban.

We arrive at the concealed entrance within the public restroom. Aesop and I part ways to enter our respective sections, with the unspoken promise to reunite in just a moment at our shared destination.

The white tiles of the restroom reflect the dim glow of the gas lamps, making the space feel cold and impersonal. I pause in front of one of the stalls, close my eyes for a moment, then step inside.

Lifting my skirt and placing my feet on the toilet seat is an absurd and grotesque gesture, especially in a moment as decisive as this. Almost an ironic joke played by fate. Taking a deep breath, I pull the chain.

The world flips. The water vanishes beneath me, replaced by a swirling vortex that swallows me in a rush of vertigo. My breath catches in my throat, my vision blurs for an endless moment, and then—with a sudden jolt—I am expelled from the current, landing unsteadily on a polished black marble floor.

The atrium of the Ministry of Magic stretches before me, solemn and menacing in its opulence. The towering walls seem to close in around me, and the murmur of Ministry employees, moving swiftly in their formal robes, reaches me like a distant echo.

Aesop waits for me a few fireplaces ahead. His dark eyes are fixed on me, and I cling to them for a moment, trying not to be crushed by the weight of the place surrounding me. Right now, he is the only person I can truly count on.

As soon as I step beside Aesop, the witches and wizards filling the enormous hall turn to look at me. Some immediately lower their gaze when our eyes meet; others don’t even bother pretending to be discreet. They lean toward the person next to them and whisper, covering their mouths with a hand or letting their words slip out as naturally as breathing.

I recognize the expressions I’ve learned to identify long ago: morbid curiosity, suspicion, distrust. In only a few eyes do I find solidarity, or at least a sliver of humanity. But they are too few to bring any real comfort.

Aesop, of course, notices.

Without saying a word, without even turning, he wraps an arm around my waist and holds me close with a firmness that leaves no room for protest. His gesture is an anchor, as if he fears that, at any moment, the air might grow charged enough to turn words into action, whispers into shouted accusations, glances into threats.

I let my body adjust to his touch, finding in it the refuge and comfort I seek, savoring what might be the last few minutes in which our bodies will be this close.

Aesop is warm, steady. Alive.

I clench my teeth and lift my chin.

I don’t look at anyone. I don’t search for anyone.

Those stares and those words are sharp daggers, but they cannot wound me if I don’t let them strike.

And so I move forward, side by side with Aesop, without slowing down, without lowering my gaze.

The elevator doors are before us. One of them opens with a metallic snap.

Without hesitation, we step inside.

The doors close with a dull thud, sealing us inside a cabin that feels far too small, far too stifling. The air seems even heavier, compressed by the weight of unspoken words and everything that awaits us on the lower floors.

Aesop stands motionless beside me, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his jaw clenched—rigid, seemingly unshakable and impenetrable. But then, almost absentmindedly, his hand brushes against mine and clasps it, surprising me with its warmth and solidity.

I glance at him briefly, but he doesn’t turn. His eyes remain cold, focused, unreadable. He is ready to fight—I can feel it in the tension of his body, the stiffness of his shoulders. He has locked onto his goal, and the only thing he wants is to pursue it with unwavering determination.

The elevator jerks to a stop, and the doors slide open to let in new passengers. Some look at me for a moment too long before turning away; others don’t even bother to hide their hostility.

Of course, there are also those who recognize Aesop. One man gives him a brief nod, another glances at him before returning his attention to his own destination. But he doesn’t respond. He remains still, his hand still on mine, his eyes not wavering even a fraction from that metaphorical target that, knowing him, I am certain he has resolved to pursue at all costs.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be thinking this now—perhaps it’s foolish, misplaced, even inappropriate—but a wave of pride washes over me.

Because Aesop Sharp, a former Auror of extraordinary skill and now a formidable Potions Master, does not get distracted, does not waver. He is here for me, to support me, to protect me. And it doesn’t matter who watches, who judges, who whispers.

Nothing matters if he is by my side.

When the elevator doors finally slide open, a shiver runs down my spine.

The Department of Mysteries unfolds before us—a maze of corridors and chambers bathed in dim light, illuminated only by the magical torches embedded in the walls. The black marble floor reflects the flickering glow, making the atmosphere even more surreal.

The moment I step out of the elevator, I sense the tension in the air. A constant hum of voices fills the space, rapid and urgent. Yet, the instant I take a few steps forward, that noise dies away abruptly.

The judges in plum-colored robes cease their discussions and turn toward me. Some scrutinize me with sharp eyes; others quickly avert their gaze, as if my presence is too much, an inconvenience they would rather not acknowledge before absolutely necessary.

Every whisper, every restrained movement, washes over me like an invisible wave, but I don’t let it stop me.

Aesop does the same. As much as his leg allows, he quickens his pace, his face set in a mask of determination.

We pass through the main corridor, heading toward the large, dark wooden doors that lead to the courtroom. Strangely, here everything is silent. No whispers, no hurried movements. Just quiet anticipation.

Aesop gestures silently toward a bench just outside. I sit beside him, the weight of waiting pressing on my shoulders. For a brief moment, I lose myself in observing his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the faint shadow of his beard, the strands of silver running through the hair that brushes his shoulders. I feel lucky, even if just for an instant, to be able to take in such beauty.

He takes a deep breath, then speaks—his voice low and steady, devoid of hesitation but tinged with a grave note.

«When you enter that courtroom, there will be people supporting you,» he begins, his eyes locking onto mine with unwavering intensity. «But it won’t be easy.»

His expression doesn’t change, but the way his hands grip his cane betrays the tension he’s trying to suppress.

«You know how these things work, Cassie. Justice, in this place, is more a matter of political balance than truth. And right now, those scales aren’t tipping in your favor.»

His bluntness hits me like a punch to the stomach, yet it’s exactly what I need. I don’t need comforting illusions—I need the truth.

«The trial will likely be swift,» he continues, lowering his voice slightly, «quicker than usual, even. When they want to get rid of someone, they don’t waste time with unnecessary formalities. They’ve already decided how this should end, and believe me when I tell you that acquitting you is not part of their plan.»

A lump tightens in my throat, my fingers clenching around the fabric of my dress before I even realize it. As much as I already knew this, hearing it spoken aloud, with such unflinching clarity, makes it all feel more real. More terrifying.

«But you mustn’t give in.»

Aesop’s dark eyes burn with something fierce, fueled by the frustration of not knowing how this will unfold.

«I know you’re good with words, that you know how to defend yourself. But if at any point you feel they’re trying to corner you, let me speak.»

I hold his gaze, searching for something to anchor myself to in his face, in that unyielding resolve that seems to support us both.

And yet, the weight of his words settles heavily upon me, and I can’t help but wonder why he waited until now to tell me all this.

«Why didn’t you tell me sooner?» I ask, my voice steadier than I expected, though tinged with a trace of fear. «Why wait until now to make me face reality?»

Aesop doesn’t seem surprised by my question. He answers almost immediately—with another question, one that doesn’t truly require an answer.

«Would it have helped?»

There’s no sarcasm or harshness in his tone. Just a simple statement, essential in making me reflect on his words.

If he had told me this days ago, if he had forced me to confront, in advance, the real possibility of an unjust conviction, would anything have changed? Would I have been better prepared for this? More ready to endure whatever blow may come?

No.

It wouldn’t have done anything but consume me with anxiety even more than I already am.

So I remain silent, just as the space around us remains still—heavy and suffocating like a shroud wrapping tightly around me, making it hard to breathe.

The weight of the future looms over me like a sky that hangs too low, too dark.

I force myself to speak, if only to loosen the grip of tension clawing at my stomach. My voice rises from my throat in an unnatural sound.

«So, Pippin isn’t coming?»

Aesop tries to respond in his usual measured tone, but he can’t suppress the sigh that betrays his own frustration.

«As of this morning, I still hadn’t received confirmation from him.»

Disappointment pricks at my chest like a needle, but I push it away quickly. I can’t afford to waver now—I can’t let another negative emotion poison my blood any further.

As if he had just practiced Legilimency, Aesop adds, «We don’t need to worry about him. Count on the others who are here. They’ve come for you.»

I nod, though inside me, fear refuses to subside.

Will I have enough witnesses to overturn the verdict they’ve already written before I even had a chance to defend myself? Will anyone truly listen to my side of the story, or have they already condemned me without bothering to hear the truth?

But more than anything… will I get the chance to cherish the life growing inside me, to give it birth and the future it deserves, far from the suffocating darkness of Azkaban?

Will I experience motherhood the way it’s meant to be?

Aesop… will he ever know that, in theory, he’s already a father?

Every word of encouragement he offers—he doesn’t realize it, but it’s no longer just for me. It’s for the life within me, a life that depends entirely on how this day will end.

If everything goes wrong, if the Ministry punishes me for a crime I never committed, my child…

Just as I feel myself spiraling into my darkest thoughts, a voice cuts through them.

«It’s time.»

A Ministry official has appeared beside us, his expression impassive, his demeanor formal. He gestures for us to follow.

Aesop rises first, his tall, solid figure standing out against the dim walls of the corridor. I do the same, my legs weaker than I’d like.

The massive, dark wooden door—glossy black, like the labyrinthine halls of the Department of Mysteries—is pulled open.

Aesop’s hand brushes against the small of my back, warm and reassuring, urging me forward.

The decisive step—into the Wizengamot courtroom.

The surface of the floor beneath my feet is an intricate mosaic of tiles that makes my head spin. I tear my gaze away, shifting my eyes upward, my heart pounding as if it wants to break through my ribs.

The courtroom stands towering around me, its benches rising almost to the ceiling like insurmountable walls—dark, menacing. It feels as though they are closing in on me, tightening their grip in a vice I will never escape.

My eyes sweep over the rows of faces watching me, some filled with open hostility, others with apprehension. To my left, a group of familiar faces—Hogwarts professors, their expressions tense, and even a few older students who have come to show their support. There is Marion Twigs, and beside her, even Lady Wimborne. Their presence is an anchor, a reminder of why I am here, of the truth that must come to light.

But on the other side sit the members of the Wizengamot, wrapped in their deep purple robes, their expressions carved from stone. Their faces are severe, unreadable, their lips pressed into tight, hostile lines that, even in silence, seem to scream their disdain.

I hold my breath. It is like staring at a wall of judges who have already decided my fate before I have spoken a single word. And then, I see Albus Dumbledore. His is the only face that does not appear hostile amidst the general rigidity. He does not betray any overt expression of allegiance, yet when his eyes meet mine, he gives the slightest nod. Barely perceptible, just a flicker—but enough to tell me that among those relentless judges, there is at least one person willing to listen.

I gather every last shred of courage I have left and step forward toward the chair at the center of the courtroom, seating myself before Minister Faris Spavin himself. He watches me from his lofty podium, judging, as though he were a god awaiting the moment to smite a nonbeliever.

The wood of the seat is unyielding beneath me, my back rigid, every muscle in my body so tense it seems to rob me of breath. The space around me is dark and oppressive, the swirling patterns of the floor pulling at me like a ruthless vortex.

Without thinking, I shift my gaze slightly to my right—and I see him.

Aleister Rookwood.

His face is an unreadable mask, but his cold, cruel eyes are locked onto mine, and the moment I meet his gaze, an icy chill slithers down my spine, tightens around my throat, suffocates me.

The last time I saw him, I was alone, caught in the darkness and the rain, while his shadow closed in around me like a beast savoring the fear of its prey.

My fingers clutch the armrests of my chair, as if I can hold onto reality, to the heavy air of this room, to the distant sound of my own breathing—but my hands are damp, slipping against the smooth wood.

No grip. No salvation.

As if they have already decided the verdict.

I tear my gaze away, locking it straight ahead and forcing myself to look at Spavin, even though his expression betrays anything but cordiality.

His voice booms through the courtroom, authoritative and unquestionable. «The session is now open.»

Those words, whether I like it or not, mark the turning point of my life. And with that crushing awareness, the floor beneath me feels even smaller, ready to swallow me whole, like the darkness that has followed me relentlessly since that April night.

«We are here today to judge Cassandra Elena Doyle regarding the accusations brought against the gentleman present, Aleister Rookwood.»

His name echoes against the towering walls, and a wave of murmurs rises from the stands. Some are hushed, others more brazen—a murmur thick with meaning I refuse to decipher. My stomach clenches.

Spavin, impassive, lifts his chin slightly and continues. «Do you have a witness for the Defense?»

A heavy silence falls over the courtroom. Then, Aesop’s voice cuts through the air—steady, firm, without a trace of hesitation. «It’s me, Minister.»

He steps forward, his back straight despite the stiffness in his leg, the cane at his side, which he no longer bothers to conceal. His jaw is set with a determination that nearly takes my breath away. There is something protective, something unyielding in the way he positions himself between me and those who look down at me from their lofty seats.

A faint smile tugs at Minister Spavin’s lips, as if amused by the situation. «Aesop Sharp, on the other side for the first time.»

The way he says it sends a chill through me, as if he finds it ironic to see a former Auror standing as a witness for the defense rather than the prosecution. But Aesop does not waver.

«And for a good cause, Minister,» he replies without a second’s pause. «You see, I may no longer be an Auror, but that does not mean I have stopped fighting for justice and the truth.»

His words are a clear statement, even without explicitly saying it. I know him well enough to understand that he is making it clear to everyone present that he has no intention of leaving me alone in this battle.

Spavin, however, does not relent. He raises an eyebrow slightly, then hisses with a tone laced with challenge: «And that is precisely why we are here today—to ensure justice.»

The subtext is clear: the justice they seek is not the same as the one we are fighting for.

My heart pounds in my chest. I clasp my hands in my lap to keep them from trembling. I can feel Aesop’s gaze on me—solid, unwavering—but also the oppressive weight of Rookwood from across the courtroom, his silence looming over me like a venomous shadow.

The silence in the courtroom is thick, stretched taut like a rope about to snap. Minister Spavin intertwines his fingers with studied slowness and looks down at me from his elevated position, wearing that air of superior indifference I have learned to recognize in the powerful and those who consider themselves untouchable.

«Well then, Miss Doyle,» he begins, and that Miss is a precise, well-aimed strike. A deliberate refusal of my title, my role. I am not Professor Doyle, who has spent a year shaping the minds of her students, called to Hogwarts to teach a complex subject like Alchemy, strengthened by my academic expertise—I am just an ordinary woman, a name on a file. I swallow my anger as the Minister continues, oblivious to my thoughts.

«You have accused Mr. Aleister Rookwood of… assault and attempted rape, is that correct?»

His words reverberate through the courtroom, slicing through the silence like a sharp blade. The eyes of the Wizengamot members are fixed on me, studying me with the same impassive coldness with which a Magizoologist would observe a caged creature. Their faces stern, their plum-colored robes draped over their shoulders, their presence grave and inquisitorial.

I take a deep breath but do not lower my gaze.

«Yes, that is correct,» I answer firmly, though my voice falters slightly on the last syllables.

Spavin nods slowly, almost condescendingly, then raises an eyebrow, as if preparing to strike deeper.

«However, your accusations did not stop there.» He lets his fingers glide over the documents before him, then looks up at me again. «You also accused The Daily Prophet and Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black of… collusion? You claimed they protected Mr. Rookwood, am I right?»

A shiver of tension runs down my spine. From the corner of my eye, I sense Aesop’s gaze brushing against me, his body rigid at my side. He is holding his breath, perhaps wondering how far we will have to go to ensure that justice is served.

«That is correct,» I reply, keeping my voice steady even as my heart pounds against my ribs. «But I would like to clarify that my accusation was not only against certain figures within a corrupted system—it was also an opportunity to speak about an uncomfortable truth, as I wrote in my article for the Witches’ League’s bulletin.»

A wave of murmurs ripples through the stands. I hear them like the rustling of wind through dry leaves, like a fire about to catch. For a moment, the absolute silence is broken only by the hushed whispers, while countless eyes turn to a precise spot in the audience—where Marion and Lady Wimborne sit, their backs rigid, yet their dignity unshaken. They do not flinch, they do not bow their heads. They wait, poised, for the trial to continue, for someone to challenge my words.

But no one does, not immediately. And that’s when I realize what I have just done.

I did not defend myself—I went on the offensive. I reaffirmed my stance, pointed a finger at corruption, injustice, and silence. And instead of feeling crushed beneath the weight of hostility, I feel something else entirely.

Something that pulses.

That burns.

Perhaps it is courage.

Then I refuse to let its flame die out—I throw fuel onto it, leaping into the void, but taking advantage of this fleeting moment of stillness that works in my favor.

So I continue: «It seems to me that Headmaster Black, who has been so intent on defending Aleister—» I let Rookwood’s name slip from my lips with disdain, deliberately omitting his title, deliberately treating him as someone unworthy of respect. The murmurs intensify. I sense some members of the Wizengamot stiffen, exchanging glances, as if I have just violated some unspoken rule. «—is not here today. Which is strange, considering that just yesterday at Hogwarts, we finished the exams. Theoretically, the Headmaster is free from any obligations.»

Minister Spavin does not bat an eye at my words. His expression remains impassive, but the way he leans slightly forward, resting his hands on the small desk before him, betrays a certain interest in how things are unfolding. A venomous interest, one that hangs on my every word. As if he is eager to see just how far desperation will push me in my attempt to save myself.

Then, with a discreet cough, he shifts the conversation—but this time, steering it toward another subject. The one I knew would come. The one meant not only to put me in difficulty but to cast me in a bad light. As if I were the guilty one here. Or worse.

«Miss Doyle, could you tell us what you were doing outside the Hogwarts grounds, in the middle of the night, during a torrential storm, on the night of the alleged attack?»

A wave of murmurs spreads through the courtroom. Someone dares to make a low sound—a muffled chuckle. That laughter burns against my skin, like a slap. The implication is clear. A woman, alone, at night, under a downpour. It is as if the Minister has just suggested—without saying it outright—that whatever happened to me, I brought it upon myself.

I grip the armrests of my chair, trying to steady my breathing. I know I should tell the truth, but the truth does not concern only me.

My eyes move before I can stop them, finding Aesop’s.

He knows what I am thinking. I see it in the tension in his jaw, in the way his dark eyes narrow slightly, calculating the situation. If I say why I left that night, I will expose his secret. I will place him under the scrutiny of a court that has never shown mercy to those who reveal their weaknesses.

He swallows and speaks for me: «Professor Doyle left because she had an appointment with the Hogsmeade potioneer, Parry Pippin, regarding…» Aesop hesitates for the briefest moment—his voice is a sharp blade, but controlled. «…certain healing methods.»

In the span of a single heartbeat, he has improvised what I recognize as a desperate justification—yet, from the outside, it could seem calculated, planned.

Spavin, however, does not seem ready to back down. He leans forward even more, as if he means to swallow us whole with his accusations. «But aren’t you the Potions Master of Hogwarts, Sharp?»

Aesop shows no sign of being unsettled. He does not allow even the smallest hesitation to slip between them. «I am. But Professor Doyle’s reason for leaving was urgent and had nothing to do with Hogwarts business. It was personal.»

Another wave of murmurs ripples through the courtroom, like a distant echo. I feel the weight of their stares on me, the speculation Aesop’s words have unleashed. If he had said academic, the reaction would have likely remained neutral. But personal? Why did he choose that word?

The Minister narrows his eyes, and his mouth twists into something that might resemble a smile. «And would you be so kind as to elaborate?» His voice rings out, clear and confident, cutting through the whispered hum in the courtroom.

I tense, my mind racing to find the fastest way for Aesop and me to come out of this unscathed.

«Professor Doyle may have uncovered the answer to a question that Professor Sharp and I have been grappling with for years, Minister.»

It is as if the very air stills for a moment. I turn sharply, my heart hammering in my chest, and beside me, I sense Aesop doing the same.

From the upper rows, emerging from the shadows like an apparition, Parry Pippin stands tall, his slender yet distinguished figure accentuated by his long dark cloak. Below him, I see the expressions of several spectators shift into surprise. Even Spavin seems to draw a deeper breath, as though assessing the sudden appearance of a new piece on his chessboard.

«He made it…» I whisper, incredulous, barely aware that I have spoken aloud.

Aesop grips my arm in a quick, firm motion—wordless confirmation of my words, a silent cry of victory, at least in this battle. A quiet relief, an unspoken recognition that reflects in the brief glance we exchange.

Spavin tilts his head, his voice rising again with the same falsely cordial tone as before. «And you are…?»

Pippin does not hesitate. He steps forward, resting a hand on the wooden railing of the lower rows. «Parry Pippin, Minister. Potioneer of Hogsmeade.»

Another wave of murmurs ripples through the room, mingling with exchanged glances and nudging elbows. Some of the professors lean forward, listening intently, and even a few members of the Wizengamot seem to scrutinize Pippin with newfound interest.

Spavin parts his lips, but his smile is noticeably tighter. «Miss Doyle, would you be so kind as to take a seat in the front row, so that Mr. Pippin may provide his testimony before this court?»

His tone is polite, but the request is an order. I exchange one last look with Aesop before nodding. Pippin begins his measured descent, and as he passes me, his fingers barely brush against my hand, his head inclining in the faintest nod.

As I settle into the seat Spavin indicated, my heart is still pounding.

But for the first time since this trial began, a sliver of hope slips into the grip of fear.

Spavin scrutinizes Pippin from his high seat, tilting his chin upward with a vaguely amused expression, as if he is about to expose a poorly crafted trick. «So, Mr. Pippin, what question are we talking about?»

Pippin does not hesitate. His tone is firm, measured, devoid of any uncertainty. «As I said, Minister, a healing potion—one different and more complex than those commonly used or employed by Healers.»

Someone in the gallery leans forward, intrigued. The interest in the room is palpable, but Spavin remains unimpressed. «And why should it be different?» he asks, narrowing his eyes.

Pippin glances at Aesop, a look laden with meaning. He exhales lightly, then turns back to the Minister. He knows he can no longer withhold anything—not now. I know it too, and so does Aesop. At this point, he has to lay his cards on the table, without armor.

With unshakable resolve, Pippin provides the explanation Spavin has been waiting for. «Because if successful, it would heal the most devastating effects of the Cruciatus Curse.»

The courtroom erupts into a wave of shocked murmurs. The noise is almost tangible, like a massive wave crashing against the walls and reverberating through the chamber. But amid the ensuing chaos, I see several faces turning in the same direction, fingers pointing toward one single target.

Aesop.

They are all looking at him. His name lingers on many lips, though none dare to speak it aloud. Yet, it is clear that the pieces of the puzzle are falling into place, that they are beginning to understand why I ventured out on that rainy April night.

He remains impassive. Or at least, he tries to.

He shifts his weight onto his cane, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his jaw locked. I recognize the way his grip tightens, the subtle arch in his back. He cannot stand being observed like this—like a walking experiment, a clinical case, a mystery waiting to be solved.

The tension is shattered by Spavin’s sharp voice. «Order, please! Mr. Pippin, so you were working on this with Professor Sharp?»

Pippin nods. «Yes. Professor Sharp’s goal was to find a cure for his leg, but until now, we had never succeeded. Professor Doyle was determined, and perhaps we needed the drive and fresh perspective of a younger mind to finally crack the riddle.»

Another murmur ripples through the chamber, less chaotic than before but equally charged with tension. Spavin studies Pippin for a long moment, then gives a slight nod. «You may return to your seat, Mr. Pippin.»

As Pippin steps away and I resume my place at the center of the room, Spavin turns his attention back to me. «Miss Doyle, do you confirm what has been said?»

I feel every pair of eyes on me, and yet I do not hesitate for even a moment.

«Yes, I confirm.»

«Professor Sharp?»

Aesop, despite the storm of emotions and the unspoken admission of his greatest vulnerability, does not waver.

«I confirm.»

Spavin remains silent for a few seconds. I watch him drum his fingers on the armrest of his chair, as if he’s pondering over a detail that doesn’t quite convince him. Then he adjusts his robes and lets his gaze sweep across the members of the Wizengamot.

He shakes his head, lost in thought, probably assessing the behavior and reactions of the very tribunal he presides over. Finally, he presses me with the question I knew would come—the question that hurts just as much as it did the first time, especially knowing that, here, no one intends to believe me.

«Miss Doyle, could you recount to this court what happened on the night of what you call an assault?»

The courtroom, which had been filled with murmurs just moments ago, sinks into an eerie silence. The echo of the Minister’s last words still seems to vibrate in the air, suspended between the high walls of the chamber.

I clear my throat. My breath trembles in my chest, but I force myself to remain firm. Steady. With my gaze fixed on my interlocutor’s face, I answer his question, arming myself with the only thing I have—something they will never be able to take from me: the truth.

«Professor Sharp never wanted me to… burden myself with additional work on top of my responsibilities as a Potions professor at Hogwarts. He had spoken to me about his search for a cure, but he had always considered it a personal matter. He refused my help, but after witnessing firsthand the effects that the climate and certain atmospheric conditions in Egypt had on his condition, I decided to take matters into my own hands and consulted Mr. Pippin in private. That night, it was raining. Raining so hard that with every step, the mud clung to my boots, and the rain lashed against my face like a whip.»

I don’t rush. I speak calmly, articulating every detail, sparing nothing from those memories etched into my mind.

«I had gone out to meet Mr. Pippin, as I said, but I never made it to his shop. In fact, I never even made it to Hogsmeade. Halfway there, I encountered Aleister Rookwood.»

I realize that his name leaves my lips not with anger, nor with fear, but with the simple clarity of someone stating a fact—the truth.

«He was a familiar face, and in that moment, I let my guard down. Say what you will, but I held no prejudice against him; to me, he was just another student, and I had no reason to fear him. So I never imagined that he wasn’t alone. His henchmen emerged from the darkness, and I didn’t even have time to grab my wand before they had already disarmed me. There were three, maybe four… I can’t quite recall.»

I feel my breath quicken at the thought of what I must remember, but I continue.

«They surrounded me, restraining me with the Incarcerous Spell. They cut my clothes with Diffindo, stripping me, wounding me with the slashes from their spells. They…»

I stop, the pain screaming within me, just at the memory—the way I thought my heart would explode in my chest, that all my organs would collapse and wither under the weight of their cruel incantations.

«They tortured me with the Cruciatus Curse, forcing my body and my will to bend to their desires.»

Each word shatters the silence like glass against the floor. No one in the gallery speaks. Not even a whisper. The air is heavy, thick with the weight of what I’ve just said—words that, in any case, have not left them indifferent.

Spavin strokes his beard slowly, as if in deep thought. Then he tilts his head slightly. «But according to the reports provided by Nurse Noreen Blainey, there are no signs of attempted violence,» he says, and even without stating it explicitly, we all know exactly what kind of violence he is referring to.

I am about to speak when a clear, unwavering voice, filled with contempt, does so behind me, in my place.

«But I can assure you—that’s exactly how he does it.»

The voice is too familiar—so much so that Aesop and I, who turn toward it at the same time, have already recognized it even before our eyes land on the sleek blonde hair, neatly braided, and the determined blue eyes that pierce through the tension in the room.

Alice Haywood stands among the front rows of the gallery, her back straight, with both her parents at her sides, supporting her in what I can almost say with certainty must be the most difficult moment of her sixteen years.

They stand by her without judgment, refusing to back down in front of the Ministry. They choose to fight alongside the daughter who, besides admitting the truth to herself and to me, has now spoken aloud the words no parent would ever want to hear.

And in this moment, stronger than any hope for absolution, at least there is the certainty that Alice is finally free from the chains that held her down, that anchored her to her trauma, preventing her from moving forward like her peers.

All eyes are fixed on this small yet fiercely proud girl, who refuses to be intimidated and meets the Minister’s gaze with unwavering resolve.

Spavin turns to her, visibly irritated, as if her very existence is a disturbance. «Identify yourself, girl.»

Alice’s voice rings out clear and steady: «My name is Alice Haywood, and I am the anonymous student mentioned in Professor Doyle’s report in the Witches’ League bulletin.»

She looks around, her blue eyes gleaming with a determination I never thought possible until now. «After what happened to her, I knew I could talk to her, that she would understand me, that I would finally have an outlet for my frustration. And with her help, I was finally able to open up to my parents… and now, before this court, I can assure you that Aleister Rookwood is a rapist.»

A murmur rises from the gallery, but it is quickly drowned out by another sound—a loud thud, the sharp noise of a seat slamming backward with force.

Rookwood leaps to his feet. «You… you lying little whore!» he spits, his voice thick with furious hatred, his hands clenched into tight fists, a long finger jabbing in her direction. «You should be thrown out of here for defamation! No one will believe a hysterical little girl—»

He moves as if to lunge at her, but two security members seize his arms, restraining him with force. «Let me go! This stupid girl doesn’t know what she’s talking about!»

Alice does not flinch. Chin held high, shoulders rigid, she does not lower her gaze for even a second.

«Oh, I know very well.» Her voice is a sharpened blade, each word a precise strike. «And I am certain that Professor Doyle and I are not alone. That many other girls, inside and outside of Hogwarts, have suffered at your hands the way we have. Because people like you are never satisfied, but most of all, they never stop, continuing to poison the ground we walk on.»

My heart pounds furiously in my chest. I look at her, overwhelmed by a whirlwind of emotions that nearly steal my breath—pride, sorrow, rage. She is doing what I had always hoped for, what I had tried to do with my own report. She is speaking. With surreal calm, she is screaming her truth to the world, exposing her abuser, demanding that her dignity be recognized.

Rookwood thrashes violently, snarling incoherent words, but the guards force him back into his seat. Spavin slams his fist against the table, his voice razor-sharp. «Order! Order must be maintained in this court!»

In the immediate silence that follows, the Minister exhales a long, exasperated sigh. «Remove Miss Haywood, please.»

Alice tries to resist, but her parents hold her back, whispering something I can’t make out. Her gaze, however, remains fixed on me until the very last moment, as if afraid of losing sight of me—or of seeing me for the last time—before she is escorted out of the courtroom.

 

When the doors close with a sharp thud, Spavin turns his attention back to me. I expect to see anger or irritation on his face, but instead, there is a shadow of irony, the faint smile of a man who believes he has control over the situation.

«You must admit, Miss Doyle, that if these are the testimonies supporting your defense, it is only natural for the jury and me to have some reservations.»

A shiver runs down my spine, but I remain still, clenching my hands in my lap to keep them from trembling. «They are the natural reactions of those who know that justice is being denied in the face of repeated offenses, Minister,» I say automatically, without even considering the dangerous consequences my words might have.

As expected, Spavin’s eyes darken. He does not like being answered back; he does not like my tone. He straightens in his seat, folding his hands with studied calm. «Miss Doyle, I assure you, I have carefully reviewed your accusations, and none of them find validation in Mr. Rookwood’s words.»

His statement strikes me like a slap, freezing the blood in my veins. «None find validation»—as if he, Rookwood, held the truth. As if he were the victim. As if my scars were not enough.

I lift my chin. «Did Aleister also tell you that he insulted my heritage in my own classroom, Minister?»

A sudden silence falls over the courtroom—the silence of those who did not expect me to act this way, nor that there would be another twist in what was supposed to be a swift trial, a predetermined sentence that is now stretching longer than anticipated. The eyes of the onlookers shift from me to Rookwood, who, for the first time, lowers his gaze, his jaw clenched.

Spavin does not respond immediately. He is no longer smiling—but I am. It is a weak, uncertain smile, perhaps, but it is there, satisfied and aware that I have one more arrow in my quiver. «I must deduce from your surprised reaction, Minister, that he did not.»

He composes himself quickly, pressing his lips into a thin line. He watches me as if assessing my next move, but I have learned all too well that I must seize every moment of hesitation, so I do not give him the chance to regain control of the situation.

«Allow me to fill in that gap for you, then,» I continue, my heart hammering in my chest. «Mr. Rookwood, in my classroom, repeatedly addressed me with disdain. He denigrated my previous profession, claiming that a journalist had no place among the professors at Hogwarts. He questioned my professionalism, insinuating that my teaching was inferior to that of my colleagues simply because I am Muggle-born—something Aleister never failed to remind me of with contempt.»

A murmur ripples through the audience, where I assume there are others like me, but no one dares to interrupt.

«It is clear that he had House points deducted multiple times because of this, despite belonging to my own House, Slytherin,» I continue, clenching my hands to suppress their trembling. «And that he was also punished, though Headmaster Black deemed it appropriate to grant him the benefit of the doubt multiple times, overturning both my and Professor Sharp’s decisions. And he did all of this with the sole purpose of undermining my authority in front of the students, of humiliating me.»

Spavin watches me closely, his hands still clasped beneath his chin. But the reaction I am truly waiting for is another. And indeed, beside me, I sense Aesop’s body stiffen. I know he is recalling all the times he stepped in, those moments when Rookwood provoked me and he witnessed it, those occasions when our relationship was forged and strengthened without us even realizing it.

«And then, of course, there was Egypt.»

This time, the murmurs grow louder. Some jury members lean forward, intrigued, as if they are watching a theatrical performance, now drawn in as if by a juicy piece of gossip.

«Excluding him, as he claims, from the Alchemy Conference in Cairo—choosing, despite his excellent results, the exceptional achievements of Albus Dumbledore instead—was the final straw, the last affront to the authority he had bestowed upon himself.»

I sense movement to my right. Slowly, I turn and meet Aleister’s gaze. He is tense, rigid as a statue. His icy eyes pierce through me, filled with barely concealed hatred, unable to accept that, regardless of the consequences, I am standing up to him—here, now.

I hold his gaze, now that I have laid the bare truth on the table, this time backed by many more witnesses.

Spavin clears his throat and looks at me with feigned regret. «If your accusations were true, they would be very serious, Miss Doyle. However, aside from the voices of students—who are highly impressionable—and colleagues who, if I may say so, are clearly fond of you and reluctant to accept Mr. Rookwood due to his lineage, you have no reliable witnesses to confirm your version of events.»

A shiver of anger and fear runs down my spine, but before I can respond, a firm voice resonates beside me.

«And what about a former Auror, Minister? Would his confirmation be reliable enough?»

Aesop steps forward, resolute, despite the cane that has accompanied him since that night in April. Every gaze turns toward him, and I see Spavin’s jaw clench instantly.

«Sharp,» the Minister mutters, visibly irritated, as if this were just another unwanted intervention from a troublemaker determined to ruin his plans.

But Aesop has no intention of backing down. «You wouldn’t want to reinforce the rumors about your rather questionable sense of justice, would you?» His tone is sharp, a thin and precise blade. «Shall I remind you of the last goblin rebellion?»

The courtroom erupts into a flurry of murmurs. Some jury members exchange meaningful glances, while Spavin, now pale, straightens in his seat, his face contorted in a grimace of annoyance.

He gestures impatiently with his hands. «Take Miss Doyle’s seat, and let’s put an end to this, Sharp.»

His voice is thick with irritation, but Aesop remains unfazed. He only spares me a fleeting glance, as if to reassure me, before taking the decisive step and settling into my seat.

I sit back on the front bench, my eyes fixed on the man who, for the second time in just a few months, might be the difference between my salvation and my downfall.

Now, it’s his turn.

Chapter 48: SHARP

Chapter Text

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.

The truth is, they’re listening because I’m a man. Because I have more years of experience. Because I served as an Auror. Every single word I speak is taken seriously, measured with appropriate gravity. As though the exact same testimony, spoken by Cassandra, wouldn’t have deserved the same weight. As though her truth required my validation to be considered credible.

My stomach tightens at the thought of all the injustices, both blatant and subtle, that she’s endured—but I can’t let that distract me now.

«Mr. Rookwood never confined himself to calculated insults,» I continue, anchoring myself in the facts. «He persistently disregarded her authority—and mine. When Professor Doyle disciplined him, he went straight to Headmaster Black, who gave him the benefit of the doubt, allowing him to continue unchecked. When he lost points, he regained them with ease. When he was punished, the punishment was reduced or revoked.»

Spavin watches me with a bored frown, but he doesn’t interrupt. Perhaps he knows he can’t afford to.

«It wasn’t mere insubordination,» I continue, my voice growing harder. «It wasn’t even simple hostility. Aleister Rookwood had a very specific goal: to force Cassandra Doyle to resign. He wanted to make her work unbearable, to convince her she wasn’t fit to teach, to prove that she didn’t belong at Hogwarts.»

I pause, letting my words settle into the minds around me. The jurors’ eyes begin to shift in their sockets like flies around the remnants of a meal, each one searching for someone else’s gaze, trying to gauge the room, to decide what posture to adopt in light of this direct accusation against the Headmaster.

«Yes. And when he couldn’t succeed alone, Headmaster Black was always there to back him up.»

Now the glances exchanged between the jury members are telling. No one here harbors any grand illusions about Phineas Nigellus Black. Everyone knows how quick he is to accommodate those who serve his convenience. But I also know this won’t be enough. I have to give them more.

«For months, I had to intervene to ensure that Professor Doyle was treated fairly. I had to mediate, to counterbalance the Headmaster’s decisions, to make sure her choices weren’t overridden. I had to reprimand Rookwood personally, over and over again, because I knew that if I didn’t, no one else would.»

Spavin leans back in his chair, skeptical. «And according to you, that would be enough to justify such a serious accusation?» His voice is smug, patronizing. As if he still doesn’t believe there’s enough substance here to cast doubt on Rookwood.

I tighten my grip on the cane, only releasing it when my knuckles begin to pale.

«No,» I answer, slowly. «But then there was Egypt.»

A simple sentence, but it ignites the jury’s interest at once. Some lean forward, whispers beginning to ripple through the chamber. Because now it’s no longer just about Hogwarts—it’s about something that touched the broader magical world.

I lock eyes with Spavin.

«You’re well aware, Minister, that Professor Doyle was invited to the last International Alchemy Conference in Cairo to represent Hogwarts. We used the Portkey directly from your office, if I’m not mistaken.»

He nods, clearly unable to do otherwise—with far too many witnesses around to contradict.

«I’m sure you also know that every year, during the conference, an emerging talent is chosen to be presented as a model of excellence for the school. Professor Doyle chose to bring young Albus Dumbledore with her.»

A few heads instinctively turn toward Albus, who sits composed and expressionless among the jurors.

«Rookwood didn’t take it well,» I continue. «He believed he deserved that spot more than anyone else. He was convinced the recognition, despite everything, should have gone to him. And when he found out he wasn’t selected—that Professor Doyle had deemed someone else more worthy—he decided it would be her final insult.»

Spavin cuts me off before I can go on. «All right, all right,» he mutters, drumming his fingers on the armrest. «Since Mr. Dumbledore is present, I think we can hear his version directly.»

He turns toward Albus, eyeing him with his usual air of dismissive indifference. «Do you confirm what Professor Sharp has just said?»

Albus rises with composure. He doesn’t seem the least bit unsettled by the attention now fixed on him, nor intimidated by the Minister’s authority. He wears that usual calm, thoughtful expression—one that rarely betrays emotion and makes him seem far older than he is.

«I confirm,» he replies simply. «Professor Doyle considered me the most suitable candidate to represent Hogwarts at the International Alchemy Conference, and she presented my work as an example of the school’s excellence. Mr. Rookwood never hid his dissatisfaction with that decision.»

It’s a brief, measured answer, but every word is chosen carefully. He doesn’t need to add more.

Spavin nods distractedly. «Very well, Mr. Dumbledore. You may sit down.»

Albus sits back down with the same ease with which he’d stood, while Spavin gives me a lazy wave of his hand. «Go on, Sharp.»

I tighten my fingers around the cane—by now, as much an emotional crutch as a physical one—and continue. «As I was saying, after Egypt, Aleister Rookwood changed.» My voice drops slightly. «He was… too quiet. Too restrained. He came to class, took notes, didn’t interrupt, didn’t make remarks.»

I glance at Cassandra.

«I know she thought it was an improvement. I believe she was relieved by that lack of conflict, by the apparent calm. But I… I knew him too well to believe it. And yet I wanted to. And besides, I couldn’t act without explicit actions.»

I have to pause.

The memory creeps into me, clutching me in a steel grip. The weight of what I’m about to recount presses into my bones, my mind, my chest. I feel it claw at my heart, digging deep, pulling me back to that night.

The guilt hits me with the same force as it did then—like a wave dragging me under. And I wonder, for the hundredth time, even though Cassandra herself has repeatedly absolved me of my fears and regrets, if I could’ve done more.

But Spavin doesn’t allow me the time to dwell.

«All right, Sharp,» he huffs, folding his arms. «Let’s get to the point, shall we? Let’s talk about the night of the attack.»

I feel the weight of those words—the burden of the memories they carry—press down on my shoulders, but I don’t lower my gaze.

«Do you confirm the testimony of potioneer Parry Pippin?» Spavin presses, his bored tone only fueling my irritation. I have to work not to rise to his bait, calling on every ounce of my self-control. At this point, there’s no use pretending. The truth is already in the open. The cards are on the table—I just have to play mine.

I take a deep breath. «Yes.»

A soft murmur rises among those present, but it fades quickly. Everyone’s waiting for me to continue.

«I confirm that Pippin and I had been working on a cure for the magical damage caused by a specific kind of curse—and that we had been researching it for years. But I wanted Professor Doyle to stay out of it.»

The words come out harsher than I intended. It’s the residue of that instinct that always drove me to protect her—even from herself, even when she didn’t want to be protected.

I shake my head slightly. «I know she’s not stupid. I knew she noticed the changes in Egypt—that she saw how my leg had improved. And I knew she wouldn’t accept my refusal without an explanation.»

I lower my voice, even though the courtroom is so silent anyone could hear my breath.

«I thought… I hoped… that by telling her about the ambush I suffered in Scarborough, about the Cruciatus Curse that hit me, she would back off.»

But instead, Cassandra did exactly what I feared the moment I realized my feelings for her went beyond simple attraction: she challenged my rules. She refused to take silence as an answer. And because of that, Rookwood got the opportunity he had been waiting for—desperately craving.

Spavin scoffs, clearly irritated by my hesitation. «What does Scarborough have to do with all this, Sharp?»

He says it with the impatience of someone trying to dismiss a trivial detail, a scrap of backstory that shouldn’t matter.

My jaw clenches. Every muscle in my body aches from how tightly I’m wound. I stare at the Minister, and for a moment, I taste the bitterness of old anger, frustration, the exhaustion I’ve carried for years.

«Everything,» I finally say, my voice rough with the realization that the true consequences of my trauma have never really mattered to anyone. «Scarborough is the reason I’m no longer an Auror. The reason I accepted the Potions post at Hogwarts. The reason I didn’t want Professor Doyle involved.»

I take a breath, but the air feels like lead in my lungs.

«The reason she nearly lost her life that night.»

Spavin doesn’t miss the slight falter in my voice. He leans forward, fingers interlaced on the desk, eyes glinting with a curiosity that smells of trap. «Very well then, Sharp. Why don’t you tell us about the night Miss Doyle was attacked?»

I knew this moment would come, but that doesn’t make it any easier to recall—or endure.

A part of me still wants to hold my breath, to hope my throat closes up and the words stay stuck there, like thorns, keeping me from going on. But that’s exactly what the Ministry would want, and I have no intention of letting this game be played by their rules.

«I found out that Professor Doyle was looking for a cure. Behind my back,» I begin. «I’d made myself clear to her. Repeatedly. But that never stopped her. When I discovered she’d started digging through old documents, I confronted her. It turned into a heated argument.»

The memory of that day is vivid, like a freshly reopened wound. «I told her she didn’t understand what she was doing, that she was taking too many risks. She accused me of being stubborn, of refusing to admit that maybe—just maybe—there was an alternative. In the end, she left. I only found out afterward that she had contacted Pippin.»

There’s a brief silence. Then Spavin’s voice cuts through it, sharp.

«So, you’re saying that you, Sharp, were not physically present when Miss Doyle claims she was attacked?»

I raise my eyes and meet his gaze. «Correct.»

A smug smile spreads across his face. He thinks he’s found a crack, a weak point in my testimony.

«Then how did you manage to come to the defendant’s aid?»

Once, I would’ve stiffened. Once, I would’ve avoided answering, would’ve searched for another way out. I would’ve tried to divert the conversation, rather than admit a vulnerability by telling the truth. But that time is over, and I’m done hiding.

I allow myself a slight smile. Wry, even. I know exactly what it means to speak the truth now, but I no longer care. I lift my chin slightly, my voice almost calm, obvious.

«Through Legilimency.»

The murmuring that ripples through the courtroom tells me I’ve captured everyone’s attention. Even Spavin, for the first time since I took the stand, looks genuinely surprised. He stares at me with raised eyebrows, as if unsure he heard correctly.

«Did you say Legilimency, Sharp?» he asks.

I nod without hesitation. «Exactly.»

He tilts his head slightly, his sharp gaze trying to pierce through mine, to read me, to find a lie to expose.

«And… how is that possible? I mean, you’re a flawless Occlumens.»

I give a small smile—one with no amusement, only the certainty of what I feel and everything that’s happening.

«There are forces more powerful than magic.»

Silence settles over us like a blanket. It’s as if the entire courtroom is holding a collective breath, waiting. Even Spavin is staring at me, wondering where I’m going with this but not daring to ask aloud.

So I answer before the question is spoken.

«Love, for instance.»

I immediately sense movement to my left—something imperceptible, like a held breath or a shift in posture. I could turn, could seek out her gaze—I know exactly who the only person in this room is that truly cares about what I just said—but I don’t. I can’t afford to lose my composure now, not by locking eyes with her, not by faltering under the power that’s held me in its grip for months.

Spavin blinks repeatedly, betraying his confusion. I see him trying to process what I’ve just said, fighting the urge to dismiss it as an exaggeration or rhetorical bait. But he can’t—not with the tone I’ve used, not when even he knows how much this subject matters to me. How unwilling I am to make light of it for any reason.

At last, he clears his throat, trying to regain control. «And so, Sharp?» His voice is slightly higher-pitched, though he tries to keep it neutral. «How exactly did this Legilimency episode occur?»

I clear my throat, knowing that from this moment on, there’s no turning back. It’s strange how, for years, I’ve lived behind walls—hiding behind silence and distance—and now I find myself here, laying bare thoughts I would have rather kept buried forever.

«After Professor Doyle left that night, into the relentless rain, I tried to convince myself it was for the best.» My voice is quiet but steady. «Better for her, better for me. I believed that pushing her away—even fighting with her—was the only way to protect her. That if she stopped searching for answers, she’d stay safe. It would’ve been much easier to believe that.»

I lower my gaze slightly, thinking back to those terrible moments, when every word I hurled at her was laced with bitterness and rage. «But the more I tried to convince myself,» I go on, «the more the guilt tore at me—knowing she was out there somewhere, in the storm.»

I pause, letting the thick silence of the courtroom sink in. No murmurs, no interruptions. Everyone is listening—even Spavin, whose expression is unreadable now.

«And then came the headache,» I continue, inhaling slowly. «A sudden, pounding pain, like someone was digging through my mind without my permission. I thought I was just exhausted—it had been a long day, and that argument had only piled onto the weight I’d already been carrying.»

I shake my head, recalling the sensation in every detail. The pressure at my temples, the dull throb in my skull, as if something were burrowing deep into me.

«But the pain kept growing, and I realized it couldn’t just be fatigue.» Now Spavin is listening with full attention, drinking in my words as if they were gossip. «It had to be Legilimency.»

I try to remain impassive at the glances exchanged by some members of the Wizengamot, uncertain whether to believe me or not; analyzing their reactions, it doesn’t take much to realize that, coming from a renowned former Auror, my words could easily sound like the ramblings of a madman.

«I did what I’ve done for years: I tried to close my mind, to shield myself. I raised the same barriers I’ve spent decades perfecting.»

I pause, because even now, after all this time, the pain and helplessness, the urgency and danger, still ring in my ears.

«And yet, it was useless. The more I tried to push it away, the more persistent the intrusion became. The higher I raised my defenses, the more I could feel something breaking them down, relentlessly, with no intention of stopping. I’ll be honest—at first, I thought it was Rookwood. I saw his face in my mind. A forceful, invasive presence, like a blade trying to wedge itself into the cracks of my armor. It was a clumsy attempt, crude… something a skilled Legilimens would never have done in that way. He’d already shown more than once that he had no regard for ethics or boundaries, so it was easy to assume it was him. It wouldn’t have been far-fetched to think he was trying to attack me—perhaps to stop me from standing against him once more.»

Another pause. The courtroom is utterly silent.

«But then something changed.»

My eyes land on Cassandra for a moment, unintentionally. «I felt… fear. A paralyzing terror that wasn’t mine.»

I wet my lips slightly before continuing. «And then I saw her body—still, collapsed on the ground—from another point of view, one where Rookwood was no longer the protagonist, but the one who violated. And in that moment, I knew.»

I swallow, because I know exactly what I’m about to say. And I know that once I say it, there will be no going back. Only forward, no matter the consequences. «It was her. It was Cassandra. It was her mind clinging to mine, desperate. And I… I could no longer stop her.»

My voice is lower now, more strained. Even though I don’t want them to hurt me, the memories slip in like blades between my ribs, carving into each breath.

«I let her in. I let her flood into me completely. I didn’t hear words, not at first. It was a desperate invocation, a muffled scream that surged through my mind without clear edges. And then… then I heard my name.»

I close my eyes for the briefest instant—too short to be noticed, but long enough to burn the scene behind my eyelids with harrowing clarity.

«The rain was falling on her, washing the blood from the wounds on her face, the cuts on her hands. Her skin reddened, marked by the ropes that bound her… too tightly.» I swallow. «They’d left sores on her arms and wrists. She struggled, trying to break free, but every movement only tightened the ropes, making the injuries worse.»

One breath. Just one, to keep myself from collapsing as I relive the scene.

«And their hands…» My jaw tightens, but I force myself to speak, every word a blade cutting through me from the inside. «Their hands were on her. Gripping her skin with force, with brutality. Leaving bruises, purple marks that would remain on her body for days. And she…»

I raise my eyes to Cassandra again, as if she’s the only person in the room. On her face I see the fear and pain of that night, mingled with the uncertainty and despair of now. She’s asking me, even now.

«…was begging me to save her.»

I clear my throat, because the echo of that plea still pierces me, and it’s the only way I can push back the lump in my throat.

«When she realized I was there… that I had heard her… she gave up. She broke the contact and lost consciousness, overwhelmed by an effort too great for her to handle.»

No one speaks, so much so that I can hear some of them holding their breath, and the anticipation hangs in the air like a suspended spell.

«I didn’t think about what could have potentially happened. I left, indifferent to the rain and the danger.»

There had been no hesitation that night, no fear. Only the overwhelming need to reach her.

«The gusts of wind lifted my cloak, my boots sank into the mud, and the rain lashed at my face, but I didn’t stop. I took the path that connects Hogwarts to Hogsmeade and walked quickly, then I began to run.»

Spavin frowns at this statement. «Yes, Minister: if you’re wondering, my leg hurt, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. There was only the need to get there, more urgent things to resolve.»

A pause. My heart pounding.

«When I saw them, they were like vultures around her body.»

My eyes narrow at the memory. The scene is burned into my mind like a brand.

«I saw her from afar, slumped in the mud, her clothes soaked, her hair sticking to her face. One of them held her wrist, another had bent down over her. They were laughing. Laughing at the desecration they were making of her body.»

The echo of that laughter rings in my ears, but I ignore it.

«I hid. They couldn’t see me; it was necessary that I had the advantage over them, and I used the years of training and field missions to get it.»

I remember every fiber of my body taut like a bowstring because I knew I didn’t have much time, that every second spent pondering the next move was a second stolen from Cassandra.

«Initially, I cast a Patronus. A silver wolf materialized in the rain, cutting through the darkness with its light. I sent it toward them, fast, unpredictable. As expected, they noticed it. Someone took a step back, confused, others pointed their wands at it, convinced it was a real wolf. I took advantage of the moment to reveal myself and disarm them as quickly as possible. They saw me, but only Rookwood recognized me. His voice pierced the night, dripping with contempt and sarcasm. ‘Dear Professor Sharp, here to save his precious princess. Do you really think you can save her? Can’t you see what she’s become? She’s broken. Shattered. Beyond repair.’ His words set my insides on fire, and the battle began. Rookwood tried to catch me off guard by casting the Cruciatus Curse; unfortunately for him, my reflexes and experience saved me, though my leg gave out for a moment.»

I gesture toward the cane with a nod of my head.

«I’m still paying the price for that night.»

I take a deep breath and continue: «But the will to protect her was stronger than the physical strain. I raised my wand and conjured a protective dome to shield Cassandra, and I continued to fight. Rookwood was furious. He cast spells with blind rage, one after the other, which quickly wore him out. When he had to stop to catch his breath, I was able to hit him and put him out of action with several spells—not harmful ones, mine. At that point, I cast a high Periculum into the sky, and I was finally able to turn my attention to Cassandra.»

I draw closer to the most painful memory.

«I knelt beside her cold, drenched, lifeless body. Her lips were purple, trembling.»

It feels like I see her again, lying there in the rain.

«I covered her with my cloak and didn’t leave her side until help arrived.»

Spavin hesitates. It’s the first time since I’ve taken my seat that I see him unsure of what to do.

Then he tilts his head slightly, scrutinizing me with that stern, calculating look.

«Very touching, Sharp,» he says, in his usual tired and dismissive tone. «But I see no proof.»

I had expected this objection. I stare straight into his eyes as I slip a hand into the pocket of my jacket.

«I imagined that, despite Nurse Blainey’s report, it would be difficult to convince you, Minister. That’s why I brought a vial of Veritaserum with me.»

I lift it so that everyone can see it. The clear liquid shines under the Wizengamot lights.

«I imagined the Ministry wouldn’t settle for the words of witnesses and the victim.»

Spavin scoffs, crossing his arms. «And we’re supposed to trust that this is really Truth Serum?» He eyes me skeptically. «You made it, didn’t you?»

I nod, remaining impassive.

«So, it could be tampered with,» he continues, hissing. «Or just plain water.» His voice drips with irritating sarcasm.

«You should say the same about all the Veritaserum supplies the Ministry has, since I’ve prepared and bottled every single bottle at your request, Minister.» At this point, I smile, though there’s nothing amusing about it. «But anyway, if you have doubts, we can always test it on Mr. Rookwood.»

A wave of murmurs rises immediately. Someone in the jury turns to face him, while he stiffens in his seat.

I glance at him just in time to catch the flash of horror that crosses his face, the way his jaw tightens in response.

Suddenly, his smug smile is gone.

«You can’t do that!» he protests, his voice sharp and hysterical. «I’m the victim! I shouldn’t be the one to drink the Veritaserum!»

«Do you care about the truth, Aleister?» I say. «Curious. So far, it seems to me that you care more about keeping your lie neatly packaged.»

Spavin bangs his gavel and looks at me as if I’ve just threatened to bring the entire Ministry of Magic down. And, in a way, that’s exactly what would happen—because if they were to administer the Veritaserum to Rookwood, there would be no more doubt: every accusation against Cassandra would instantly fall, and everyone in this room, including Spavin, knows that full well.

But that’s exactly why it won’t happen.

This farce was never about truth. It’s about power. About convenience. No one wants to make an enemy of a dangerous man like Rookwood, with his connections and his influence, not without some personal gain.

Spavin quickly recovers. After all, he’s a seasoned politician. He sizes me up with a different kind of interest, tilting his head slightly. «Very well, Sharp.» His tone is again controlled, calm, almost velvety. «I see you’re willing to risk a lot for this cause.»

He steeples his fingers and presses on with a question I hadn’t considered but, in such a context, makes sense.

«Tell me,» he continues, «why make such a declaration, knowing that what you’ve just admitted will cost you the respect of the entire magical community?»

I blink, not because I don’t understand what he means, but because it’s the first time someone has openly said that often reputation matters more than truth.

«By admitting you failed to protect your mind,» he goes on, «you’ve just signed your own sentence. You are a recognized Occlumens by the Ministry, and with this admission, you will forever be removed from the register.»

Another wave of murmurs fills the room. And for the first time, I feel the weight of the gazes not just from the jury but from every single witch and wizard present here.

Spavin has found his weapon. He can’t deny my testimony without exposing himself, but he can nullify my value entirely. He can make it so that I no longer matter.

Yet, as I look him in the eyes, I feel nothing but icy calm. Because I have no intention of earning the respect of the magical community by lying.

«I know perfectly well,» I reply. «But forever sounds good as long as she’s by my side.»

The moment the words leave my lips, I turn my head and look at her.

Cassandra is motionless. Her wide eyes seem to be trying to grasp the meaning of what I’ve just said, as though she can’t truly believe it.

For an instant, everything else disappears. Spavin, the jury, even Rookwood. There’s only her, and the silence that surrounds us, thick with unspoken words and choices made too late.

The silence that envelops the Wizengamot chamber now is different: it’s the silence of those who have finally understood, of those who have witnessed something that until that moment had been left unspoken. A truth that cannot be written in minutes or discussed with the ruthless logic of justice, because it is more tenacious than any law, any power.

Spavin watches me for a long time, then tilts his head slightly, as if he wants to fully understand the reason I’m here, in front of him, risking everything. «Why are you doing this, Sharp?» he asks finally, with an inflection that has lost its initial arrogance. «An ex-Auror of your caliber, a respected Professor… Why did you choose to put yourself in this situation?»

I don’t lower my gaze, I don’t hesitate. It’s the first time I say these words out loud, and hearing them makes them seem even truer than they are.

«Because I promised myself I would never again put someone I love in danger.»

It almost feels like I can hear Cassandra holding her breath. Maybe it’s just an impression, an illusion fueled by the adrenaline coursing through my veins, but I feel it clearly.

I can’t let myself be distracted now. Not when everything has been said, when there’s nothing left to hide. My heart pounds violently in my chest, because after years spent protecting that feeling with stubborn silence, it’s no longer a secret. Not only does she know. Now, they all know.

Spavin remains silent for a long moment. Then, he brings two fingers to the bridge of his nose and massages his eyes, as if the trial has drained him. Perhaps, in a way, it truly has.

I watch him glance at the members of the Wizengamot, seeking a silent consensus that seems to be granted without the need for words. Finally, with a gesture of his hand, almost indifferent, almost resigned, he sighs. «Professor Sharp, please have Miss Doyle seated again.»

Chapter 49: CASSANDRA

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

I’m sitting in the defendant’s chair again, frozen in place, even the smallest speck of dust suspended in the air, and yet the floor feels like it’s trembling beneath my feet. My head is spinning, as if I’ve just woken from a deep, restless sleep—as if my body were trying in vain to recover from a shock too violent, all the while bracing for another one at any moment. But it’s the silence that frightens me most. That silence which precedes something important, so thick it steals the breath from my lungs.

I should stay focused, concentrate on what’s about to happen, on what this wait could cost me, and yet…

And yet I still hear his voice.

Aesop’s testimony keeps echoing in my head like a refrain I can’t silence. His words carved themselves into me with surgical precision. I can’t forget the certainty with which he spoke about me. About us. I almost can’t believe it. Not him, not Aesop Sharp—not in a courtroom full of eyes and judgment and power. And yet he did. He said those words as though they were the most natural thing in the world. He said love. He said forever.

Forever sounds good as long as she stands by my side.

I can’t breathe.

I clasp my hands in my lap to stop them from trembling. I know I should be afraid of what’s coming next, that I should let panic or anger or fear take over. But I can’t. There’s only one voice in my head, and it keeps repeating those sentences. Those truths. Those promises whispered under the icy gaze of the Wizengamot, in a courtroom that wanted nothing more than a verdict.

He risked everything. His career. His name. Even his dignity as an Occlumens. He did it in front of Spavin, in front of the Ministry, in front of the entire wizarding world. For me.

And I don’t even know if I’ll be able to look at him. I don’t know if I could meet his gaze without falling apart. Because if I did, he would see everything. He’d see how much I longed to hear those words from him, how deeply I hoped they would come, someday. How a part of me, deep down, had already started to believe in them.

But now it’s all too much. Too real. Too immense.

I feel suspended in a moment that doesn’t belong to time, in a space where the sound of my heartbeat is louder than any word spoken in this room. The verdict looms, and still I remain there, clinging to those words like a lifeline in the middle of the storm. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that sometimes, what truly saves us is not the truth… but the courage it takes to speak it.

But what gnaws at me is the knowledge that if I’m condemned, I won’t even be able to openly revel in the love I’ve just heard shimmer in his voice.

That’s the thought that chokes me. Not the public humiliation, not the loss of my job, not the damp cell that might await me. But the fact that this feeling — so immense, so desperately awaited — might be taken from me just now, in the very moment it found its voice.

All I’d have left is the certainty that, at some point in our lives, we loved each other. Even without admitting it. Even without having the courage to name it.

All I’d have left is the memory of how he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching, of the silences that spoke louder than any words, of the respect he always gave me, even in the hardest moments.

That would be all, and it should be enough.

But isn’t that what love is? What he just did — laying himself bare before the entire Wizengamot, risking his title, his honour, even his reputation — isn’t that his way of loving me? Isn’t that his declaration, the one he never would’ve spoken in a quiet room, on a winter’s night, but which he screamed without sound in the most exposed place in our world?

He doesn’t need to say it again. He already has. In his own way. With his actions, with his courage. With the way he chose me.

And so I look down, to the softly rounded curve of my belly that I cradle with my hands, as if to protect it.

The child I carry…

Isn’t that the proof that love truly existed, even before it was ever spoken? Isn’t this the purest, truest, most undeniable fruit of what we shared — even when we didn’t fully know how to give it?

If they were to condemn me today, if they stripped everything away, they still couldn’t take this from me: the love that passed through us. The love that took root within me, and now grows, quietly, with every beat of my heart.

But if they condemned me… If they truly chose to find me guilty, I would have to carry this pregnancy behind the grey walls of Azkaban.

I would have to nurture life within me while everything around me rots. I would feel the first kicks with shackles around my wrists, watched by Dementors. And once I gave birth, I wouldn’t even know what fate would await my child…

Minister Spavin’s voice strikes through me like a well-aimed spell, scattering my thoughts, making me flinch. «It is time to pronounce a verdict regarding Miss Cassandra Elena Doyle.»

My heart pounds so violently in my chest it hurts. I feel as though each beat might be the last before the end.

I keep my gaze fixed on Spavin, as if I could anticipate his intentions by studying every movement, every crease in his face, every hesitation.

I feel Aesop draw near. He makes no sound, but I sense him. He stays there, beside me. At the centre of the courtroom. With me.

Spavin lifts his chin, scanning the members of the Wizengamot like a battle-worn general commanding his exhausted army. «Those in favour of the defendant’s condemnation, raise your hands.»

The silence that follows is a pulsing void, buzzing, biting. No one speaks, but out of the corner of my eye, I sense movement.

Hands rising. I don’t know how many. I can’t bring myself to look. I don’t want to. I’m afraid that counting would mean knowing. And knowing, now, would be too much.

I feel Aesop stiffen behind me. His body barely brushes the back of my chair, but it’s enough. I feel him. A weight, a shadow, a presence drawn tight like a bowstring on the verge of breaking.

It’s over.

The thought hits me like a cold whisper — and then like a scream. It’s over. It’s over. It’s over.

Panic erupts inside me. It empties my mind like an Obliviate spell.

I no longer remember how to breathe. 

I can no longer see clearly.

The world reaches me through cotton — the outlines blurred, as though I were underwater.

I hear Spavin’s voice, but it comes from too far away to feel real. «How many vote in favour of the defendant’s acquittal?»

An echo. A shadow of sound.

My heart hammers, but my hands are frozen. My head spins, and for a moment I feel like I’m falling, even as I sit perfectly still.

I’m already thinking of what it truly means. 

It means Azkaban. It means bars and silence and muffled sobs into a damp pillow. It means I’ll never see Aesop again.

Never again.

A sharp pain in my chest, a tightness in my throat that won’t even let me cry.

Until I feel two hands on my shoulders.

«Cassie?»

Aesop’s voice pierces through the thick fog in my mind.

«Cassie, did you hear me?»

He’s in front of me, looking at me with urgency.

I just want to collapse into his arms, disappear into that embrace I long for more than anything else. But I can’t. I won’t be able to, not anymore.

He shakes me again, harder this time. «Cassie! Get up, we have to go!» There’s urgency in his voice, a franticness I can’t understand.

I slowly shake my head. The words come out broken, and I try not to move, anchoring myself to the chair as if it were the only thing keeping my fate from coming true. «No… I don’t want to go to Azkaban, Aesop.»

I see his brow furrow. «Azkaban?» he repeats, as if he’s never heard the name of the prison before.

Then suddenly, a half-laugh — incredulous, relieved — escapes his lips. «Cassie, they acquitted you.»

His words strike me like lightning, cutting through the black shroud of panic choking me.

Acquitted.

I’m not going to Azkaban. They’re not taking me away.

I can stay. I can live. I can… love him.

The world begins to turn again, and I finally collapse into his arms.

«They… they acquitted me?» I stammer, my voice cracking, as if the word itself is too big to come out whole. I look at Aesop, searching his eyes for the confirmation my mind can’t yet accept.

He nods, and he smiles. It’s a tired smile, cracked by tension, by the weight of loss I now see looming on his shoulders too. But it’s real, it’s true. Like everything else about our lives.

And yet, when the voices I’ve ignored until now rise louder — when I hear, through the murmurs, the familiar tones of Mirabel, Matilda, Abraham — voices broken by joy, voices calling out my name — something inside me breaks.

Because I can’t handle their emotions too, not now, not while my life — the one I’d already declared over — suddenly begins again.

I had already accepted the idea of the end. I had internalized it. I had let myself be consumed by the thought of years locked in a cell, far from everything, from him, from myself.

I had felt the cold of Azkaban in my bones, even if I never truly knew it. I had already begun saying goodbye to everything I loved.

And now… to live?

Now that the worst didn’t happen? Now that they’re telling me I’ve won, that I’m safe?

It’s as if my body doesn’t know how to react. As if my heart, braced for defeat, can’t yet beat for hope.

There’s too much noise, too many emotions, too much light.

The relief is so blinding it feels like pain. I clench my fists, gasp for air through parted lips.

To live. To begin again. To be loved. To be free.

It’s all too much. It’s all wonderfully too much.

He's the first to realize that I can’t take it anymore. That while my body is still seated, my mind is collapsing under an earthquake of emotion.

Aesop leans toward me, takes hold of my arm, then wraps an arm around my waist. His grip is steady, warm. He lifts me with such ease it even surprises me, and in an instant I’m on my feet—anchored to him, to the calm rhythm of his breath, so unlike my own.

He holds me tightly against him, shielding me as if he means to protect me from the entire world.

We move through the rows of chairs and jurors, and I give myself over to him completely. I hear him gently but firmly turning people away—those trying to approach, to congratulate, to celebrate.

«Where are we going?» I ask, struggling to speak, my voice nearly muffled against his chest.

«Somewhere safe,» he answers, and the sound of his voice is like a caress on my skin, «finally safe.»

So I cling to him with all the strength I have.

I cling to his scent, familiar and comforting, to the folds of his coat that I know by heart, to the beat of his heart, now stronger than mine. I cling to the warm outline of his body, to his solid presence like rock amid the storm.

I cling to the fact that he’s here. That I haven’t lost everything. That I haven’t lost him.

We move through the Ministry’s corridors as though an invisible threat is chasing us. Our steps are quick, tense, almost synchronized, but we don’t speak a word. The silence between Aesop and me is heavy, full of everything we haven’t yet had time to process.

We move like fugitives—and maybe that’s what we are. Running from a world that once was our home, that gave us joy and grief, that tried to cast us out, and then welcomed us back. A world whose changes, today, we don’t know how to face.

The Ministry Atrium bursts open around us in a flood of lights. For a moment they blind me, and I don’t understand their source—but then the voices come. Sharp, insistent, ravenous.

«Miss Doyle! What are your first words as a free woman?»

«Professor Sharp, can you confirm your relationship with the defendant?»

«Do you truly love her, or was it just a strategy to get Professor Doyle acquitted?»

Journalists. Their questions hit me one after the other, like shrapnel. Hands reaching out to snatch my story, my pain, as if it belonged to everyone but me.

It doesn’t matter that I nearly ended up in Azkaban. That I feared I’d never see daylight again. They just want a quote, a grimace, a crack in my expression to freeze in a photo forever.

Aesop stops suddenly, turning just slightly, without loosening his grip—in fact, he holds me tighter. His voice is sharp as a blade, cold with restrained fury.

«You tore yourselves apart trying to destroy her. And now you want a smile for the front page?»

A stunned silence ripples through the reporters, as if none of them expected him to speak. And yet his voice is the only one echoing in the Atrium for a few seconds, before he starts walking again, not granting them another glance.

He steers me with purpose toward the nearest fireplace, holding me like his body is the only shield between me and the world. 

There’s no time to think, no time to ask where we’re going.

A moment later, the world collapses into a whirlwind of ash and green flames.

In the dizzying pull of Apparition, everything compresses: breath, fear, heartbeat.

When we emerge, we’re in a quiet alley behind my house in London.

The air is cooler, the noise distant, and yet I feel like I can’t breathe—until I feel his hand in mine again.

Aesop takes my hand and starts walking without a word. He doesn’t ask for directions, doesn’t glance around uncertainly—it’s as if every step draws him straight to my home, as if every cobblestone beneath his feet recognizes him and shows him the way. He’s only been there once, and yet he moves with the confidence of someone born in that place, with the precise instinct of a hound that’s found the right trail and won’t ever let it go.

We climb to the top floor of the old building and stop in front of the door to my attic flat. Aesop doesn’t hesitate for even a second: with a fluid flick of his wand, quick and silent, he opens it himself with a nonverbal Alohomora.

The door swings open with a sharp, familiar click, and the scent of my home—burnt-out incense, old paper, something faintly floral—wraps around me like an oversized cloak that still smells of comfort.

Aesop closes the door behind us. I step into the center of the room, where everything suddenly feels smaller, muffled. I stand still, disoriented, as though I can’t quite grasp where I am.

But then, slowly, my body begins to give in. My shoulders drop. My muscles loosen.

But my heartbeat doesn’t completely calm. Because now, there’s another truth—large and fragile as a bubble—moving inside my chest. And I have to tell him.

Aesop approaches me with careful slowness, as though he knows exactly how close he can get without making me flee, without making me disappear.

«Hey, baby. The worst is over.» His voice is low, rough, and it’s the safest refuge I know.

He brushes my cheek with his thumb, and the touch sends a shiver through every corner of my skin. He’s so close I could count his breaths.

His scent hits me like a wave I’ve waited too long for—the sharp intensity of clove, the sparkling freshness of mandarin, that lingering trace of tobacco clinging to his fingers like an old habit, like a memory.

I breathe it in deeply, filling my lungs with the only thing that truly calms me.

I’ve loved that scent from the very first moment. I searched for it in empty corridors, in cold sheets, in my dreams.

And it became home.

Maybe too quickly. Maybe too soon.

But now that it’s wrapped around me again, I don’t doubt for even a second how much I’ve missed it.

Aesop holds me with a tenderness I’ve never seen him show anyone else. His arms wrap around me with a sweetness that both melts and breaks me.

Then, gently, he brushes his lips against mine. A kiss barely there, like he’s afraid of breaking something.

As if all he wants to say is: You’re safe now. You can breathe.

And I want to. Truly. I want to lose myself in that touch, let myself be cradled by the calm that only he can give me.

But the thought returns—raw and insistent—like a wound that never healed.

I have to tell him.

I have to tell him that I carry within me the result of what we were.

I have to confess that I’ve known for weeks, and didn’t have the courage to speak.

That I’ve hidden the biggest, most fragile thing that’s ours.

What if he pulls away? What if he feels betrayed by the act of love he just made before the whole world?

Fear tightens in my chest. It’s the same terror I felt in the Wizengamot courtroom—but now it’s personal. It’s intimate.

Because there, I could have lost my freedom. Here, I could lose him.

I swallow with difficulty, feeling my throat tighten as if under a spell.

«Aesop,» I whisper, unable to hold his gaze for more than a second. «There’s something I need to tell you.»

I see him change instantly. His face remains calm, but something in the tension of his shoulders, in the quick way he pulls just slightly away from me, betrays his unease.

As if, all of a sudden, he’s realized he’s too close. That he might be in the way of something.

«Is everything all right?» he asks, his voice lower now, but alert. Braced for anything, on the defensive.

I lower my gaze and start to fidget with my fingers, the way I used to as a child before a punishment.

«I don’t know,» I admit quietly. «Because I don’t know how you’ll take what I’m about to say.»

Aesop steps back again, just a little. Not to retreat—he’d never do that—but to give me space. To see me more clearly, to try to understand.

There’s curiosity in his eyes, and a restrained impatience that makes him look wound tight, like a drawn bowstring. It’s obvious his mind is already running through every possible scenario, and that paralyzes me.

The knot in my throat thickens, becomes more solid. My stomach clenches until it nearly hurts, and I can’t catch my breath.

It’s as though the courage I had before the Wizengamot has now abandoned me entirely. There, I was on trial, yes, but at least I knew what we were discussing. Here, I’m risking something far more personal. Something I could never recover if it broke.

I clear my throat, but the sound is fragile, barely audible.

«Aesop…» I begin, and immediately I feel my heart race. «Before I say anything, I want you to know that… that I never meant to keep this from you forever.»

I lower my eyes. I can’t bear to look at his face right now.

«With everything that happened, with the trial, with the real possibility of a conviction… I thought it would be better not to talk about it. It would be better for all of us.»

Aesop doesn’t say a word. He only nods slowly, as if to signal that I can go on. That I’m ready. That he’s ready.

I swallow hard. Then I take a deep breath, trying to clear my mind, even if it’s difficult.

«I’ll go back a bit,» I murmur, lifting my eyes to him briefly. «To Egypt. To the conference.»

I see him tense slightly, but he says nothing. His eyes are fixed on me, bright, lit by a light I can’t decipher.

«How clearly do you remember the last night we spent there?» I ask cautiously.

Aesop narrows his eyes, thoughtful. He runs a hand over his mouth, as if to wipe away the dust of memory. Then, with an expression somewhere between relief and resignation, he murmurs,

«Vaguely.»

«Yes, same for me,» I whisper, with a bitter smile. «I remember we were together, our bodies, the pool, but not the details. And I couldn’t have imagined what would happen after…»

My heart pounds faster as I continue, my voice trembling more than I’d like.

«I found out just a few days after you discovered the ticket. After that… fight. And by then, you were furious. Disappointed. Hurt. I thought you didn’t want anything more to do with me.»

I instinctively bring a hand to my belly, as if to shield it from a pain that isn’t physical.

«And then… the attack, and everything that followed up to now. I’ve been in a state of constant alert, Aesop. Constant. Every overwhelming emotion felt like a threat. Every impulse, every tear, every scrap of hope… all of it felt like potential danger.»

I stare into the distance, my voice barely a thread.

«I thought silence was the only form of protection. For me. For you. For what happened between us, and for… for what came after. I tried to convince myself that in a world that was collapsing, this had to remain hidden. It was better that way. Safer.»

I turn to look at him, my eyes shiny with tears.

«But now there are no more trials, no risk of never seeing sunlight again, of never living joy again. Now there’s just us. And I can’t keep it inside anymore.»

I take a deep breath. One of those that seem to split open your chest just to let everything out. Then I lift my eyes and look him straight in the face, with no shields left.

«Aesop… I’m pregnant.»

The silence that follows is still, heavy. I see him stiffen, as if those words had lodged themselves in his body and were now searching for a way out. His hands clench, then relax slightly. The muscles in his shoulders tighten, and for a moment, it seems like he can’t breathe.

I watch as his eyes grow darker, more distant. As if he’s suddenly hearing the echo of every shared moment, every gesture, every suspicious silence. I can see him thinking—the faint movement of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his lips press together.

His gaze drifts over my face, then down my body. Not in an invasive way, but as if he's searching for signs, for details he hadn’t noticed before. The thought of what I’ve just told him is becoming real, tangible.

He hasn’t spoken yet. But his silence is no longer empty: it’s filled with racing thoughts, with an emotion slowly breaking through the initial shock.

«You’ve known for four months?» Aesop’s voice is low, almost disbelieving. But beneath that surface calm, there’s a tremor—a faint ripple in his words, like something breaking inside him.

«Yes, almost.» My reply is a whisper, but urgency builds in my throat, and I quickly add, stumbling over the words, «But I didn’t tell you because I thought I’d be locked up in Azkaban, Aesop! Please, you have to believe me…»

My eyes fill with tears I can barely hold back. «I didn’t want to hide it from you. I didn’t want to do this alone. I’m so sorry.»

I feel exposed, as if every layer of protection has been torn away. I look at him, and inside me clash shame, fear, and a love so deep it burns in my chest.

All I want is for him to see everything I’ve felt—every sleepless night, every hand placed on my belly in silence, every word left unspoken that weighed like a sentence.

I want him to understand how much it cost me to keep it from him… and how desperately I wished I could’ve told him in a different moment. In a time when I wasn’t terrified he might hate me, or lose me, forever.

«You’re sorry… for giving me the greatest joy of my life?»

His words arrive like balm, warm and bright, and before my mind can fully grasp their meaning, I see his face change. The tension in his body begins to melt away, his lips curl into a slow smile, filled with an emotion that makes him look younger, more beautiful. His gaze, shining and deep, pierces through me.

And then I can’t resist anymore. I throw my arms around his neck in a gesture of instinct, of relief, of joy. I cling to him as if he’s the only solid ground in a world that, just a moment ago, felt ready to collapse.

«You… you don’t hate me?» is all I manage to whisper, as I melt into his embrace.

He lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh and pulls me closer, breathing in the scent of my hair as if trying to capture it, to keep it inside him.

«Hate you?» he repeats, almost scandalized. Then he pulls back just enough to look me in the face. His hands remain steady on my hips, grounded. «I believe I expressed very different feelings toward you in that courtroom…»

His smile widens just a touch—ironic and tender at once—and I feel my heart beating everywhere: in my chest, in my throat, in the tips of my fingers.

He blushes, but I don’t look away from him, still wrapped in the warmth of his words as if they were a secret meant only for me. I lean in slightly, take a deeper breath, and with a teasing smile on my lips, I say, «Right, about that… I don’t think I heard you properly.»

My tone is playful, but soft—and Aesop picks up on it immediately. A flicker of amusement crosses his face, and the challenge in his eyes is unmistakable. «Oh no?» he replies, playing along, his smile stretching wider, more conspiratorial.

I shake my head slowly, my hair swaying lightly. «I think you should say it again,» I say with a mischievous grin that betrays the laughter bubbling under the surface of this emotional chaos—as if a little lightness is exactly what we both need right now.

Aesop gives the faintest smile and, with an almost deliberate slowness, brushes his fingers through my hair. He catches a lock between his fingers, twirling it absentmindedly, as if pondering some trivial matter. «Mmh…» he hums, feigning indecision, eyes focused on the curl dancing in his hand. «I don’t quite remember what I said.»

I glare at him, but I can’t suppress the smile spreading across my lips. «Are you seriously pretending now?» I ask, stepping closer. «After you stunned half the Wizengamot with that declaration?»

He shrugs, exuding mock composure. I smack his chest lightly with my open palm—playful, but insistent. «Aesop Sharp, don’t even try. You said it in front of everyone… the least you can do is have the courage to say it now. For me.»

One of my hands drops—almost without me realizing—to rest on my belly. A protective, instinctive gesture. And Aesop notices right away. I see his eyes glance toward my hand, then move more slowly, as if time itself had begun to slow down. He places his hand over mine, with a tenderness I didn’t know he possessed, as though even touching me might break something fragile, sacred.

My breath catches in my throat.

He looks at me. «I love you, Cassie.»

Those three words land inside me with unimaginable force. For a moment, I can’t move, can’t even react—I just want to hear them, let them sink into my heart.

«I love you,» he repeats, his voice lower now, nearly breaking. «I love the way you speak when you’re passionate about something. I love how you never lowered your gaze, even when the whole world was against you. I love your mind, which surprises me every single day, and your strength—even when you think you have none left. I love your kindness, which survives even the worst.»

My lips tremble. His eyes glisten, but he doesn’t look away.

«I didn’t believe there was anything left for me, Cassie. I shut that door years ago. And then you came… and you walked right into my life, like you belonged to it. And you were right. Because it was yours. It is yours.»

My heart tightens. Tears gather against my lashes. I’m overflowing. Overwhelmed with gratitude.

«You’re giving me something I had stopped believing in. A life. A family. A home. You.» He pauses, then finishes, his voice a breath: «I want to spend my life with you, Cassie. If you’ll let me, I’ll make it forever.»

And in that moment, I realize I’ve never known what it means to be loved like this.

«Yes, Aesop…» I whisper, my voice trembling as much as my heart. I hold his face in my hands, look at him like he’s the only thing left standing after the storm. «I want you to be my today and my tomorrow, and to become my yesterday for so long that I forget the past before you.»

His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away. He stays right there, chained to me.

«I need you to be my—our—forever,» I go on, my voice cracking, «because I can’t imagine anyone more right for this. I love you so much… my love.»

His breath vibrates against my skin. He smiles, and his lips curve into that expression that melts me every time—the one I had learned to wait for like a gift. But this time it’s different: this time that smile is born inside a we.

He kisses me. There’s no hesitation, no rush. Only tenderness, belonging, truth. We lose ourselves in each other, in that kiss that binds us more than anything before. It tastes of time regained, of promises left unspoken for too long, of love once silenced and now finally alive—and ours.

«By the way…» he says against my forehead, his voice low and conspiratorial. «I know I’ve waited long enough, but I don’t want to wait another five months.»

I burst out laughing, my heart still pounding in my chest, but this time for the sweetest of reasons. «You can’t really tell much yet,» I reply, lowering my gaze and slowly beginning to unbutton my dress, my fingers slightly trembling—but with emotion this time, not fear.

He helps me, his hands expert yet curious, almost reverent, as he undoes the buttons one by one. «I must say, you’ve hidden it well,» he murmurs with a playful smile, raising an eyebrow.

«Loose clothes,» I say, biting the corner of my lip to keep the emotion from breaking the surface. He looks at me as if I’m performing the most powerful magic he’s ever seen.

I let the dress slip down my body with a soft rustle that fades against the wooden floor. Aesop watches me closely, and for a moment he stiffens, as if struck by a sudden thought.

«Can they move if you’re wearing a corset?» he asks seriously, almost alarmed, nodding toward my still-tight waist.

I laugh, that tender concern stealing the breath from my lungs. «They’re still too small to move. They won’t hold a grudge for a little squeezing,» I reassure him gently, stepping closer.

His fingers find mine naturally, and we begin to undo the corset together, movement by movement, like a dance. Our hands search for each other, intertwine, brush lightly in a quiet, intimate choreography only we know.

When the last knot gives way, the corset opens and slips off, freeing my breath. I stand there, wrapped only in a thin white slip that brushes my knees and clings lightly to my slightly rounded belly, revealing for the first time the quiet yet undeniable presence of our child.

Aesop is still, and in his eyes I see an emotion so intense it takes my breath away. He doesn’t need to speak: the trembling curve of his lips, the slight quiver of his lashes, the subtle tension in his shoulders… everything about him screams wonder and awe.

He sits slowly on the couch, as if afraid to break it—or perhaps afraid to break the spell. Then he lifts his gaze to me, and his voice, when he speaks, is a hesitant whisper: «May I… may I see better? Lift your slip, I mean.»

My heart tightens with a tenderness so deep it nearly undoes me. I give him a soft smile, one of those that starts in the eyes before reaching the lips, and without a word, I kneel beside him on the couch. With slow, measured movements, I lift the hem of the white slip.

My belly is gradually revealed. Pale, taut, and gently rounded beneath his gaze. My navel, once nestled in a small hollow, now barely protrudes, pushed outward by the life growing inside me.

I feel Aesop’s breath change. It grows deeper, almost reverent. His hand rises halfway, uncertain, as if needing my permission just to touch me. And in that moment, with my heart thudding against my ribs, I realize just how much this means to both of us.

His hand settles on my belly with a tenderness that sends shivers through me. It’s warm, steady, reassuring. He says nothing, but the way his fingers gently spread against my stretched skin, as if to shield and protect what lies beneath, says more than any words could.

In that gesture, there’s everything. A future. A promise. An us that is no longer just the sum of two wounded, carefully mended souls, but something greater. In that touch, I feel for the first time that we are three. No longer alone. No longer two. But a family.

His eyes meet mine, and they’re full of held-back emotion, pure love, awe. «I love you, Cassie,» he whispers, as if saying it out loud makes it even more true.

Something inside me melts. I take the hand that still rests on my belly and intertwine my fingers with his. «I love you too, Aesop,» I say—and it’s not just a declaration. It’s a certainty. The brightest I’ve ever known.

We kiss once. Then again. And again.

Every kiss grows deeper, denser, charged with that sense of peace and freedom that fills my chest like a breath held too long. His lips are warm and certain, and when his hands caress my cheeks, I feel the last layer of fear melt away within me.  

Our tongues seek each other, recognize one another, intertwine as if dancing to an ancient melody. A language only ours, made of desire and truth, after months of grazing each other with the fear of losing ourselves.  

And finally, I no longer have to hide. I no longer have to hold anything back.  

I surrender to him with the awareness that every part of me—heart, body, life—is safe with this man. This man I love, who loves me, and with whom, at last, I can let go.  

For the first time in months, I feel the warmth of his hands on my body again, this time with the certainty that this is truly the language of love. And within me, a fire burns and blazes, impossible to extinguish, erasing with its caustic fury everything that came before.  

Aesop wraps his arms around my waist and settles me onto him. His mouth trails along my jaw, then down my neck, while his hands glide upward, tracing the contours of my body, brushing the hem of my slip and pushing it higher.  

Instinctively, I raise my arms as he undresses me. As I sit nearly bare on his lap, my skin prickles with shivers of excitement, trembling in anticipation of having him, finally, inside me again.  

Aesop looks at me, hunger and desire in his eyes, but for the first time, I see the love I’ve long searched for in him—and now realize has always been there. His lips find mine again as his hands caress my shoulders, then slide down, cupping my breasts. My nipples harden under the touch of his fingers, which begin to tease them, pinching gently as I feel, between my legs, his warmth pressing into me.  

His arousal is hard, strained within the formal trousers he wore today, and so I slide my hands over his body, undoing the buttons that confine his excitement.

Aesop lets out a satisfied grunt against my lips. «I missed you so much,» he says, pinching my nipples harder, sending a jolt of pleasure coursing through my body. «Today, making love to you will be even more beautiful.»  

Making love. It’s incredible what our bodies can create when desire meets the most overwhelming feeling of all. Capable of taking us to uncharted heights, of creating life, of uniting two souls before they’re even fully aware of it.  

«I need to feel you…» I murmur against his mouth, pressing my body against his, grinding my hips against his erection as I unbutton his shirt, wasting no time in giving him pleasure.  

Aesop moves his hands from my breasts only to help me: without fully unbuttoning it, he pulls the shirt over his head, the motion tousling his hair, which falls messily over his forehead and cheeks—wild, untamed. Perfect for him. I look into his eyes, two embers ignited by months of silence, and I know there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be unless it’s with him.  

Then his hands glide down my back, reaching my hips. He grips my flesh, my body tingling with a delicious ache, and pulls me closer. Our skin meets, his warmth enveloping me completely as his tongue dances with mine. My stomach presses against his abs, my nipples graze his chest, the faint hair tickling me.  

Without breaking the kiss, he grips my legs tightly against his thighs and pushes himself up from the couch.  

«Go easy,» I say, worried about his leg.  

But he doesn’t seem concerned. «No physical pain could compare to the agony of thinking I might lose you. And now that you’re here in my arms, I can bear it,» he says as we move toward the bedroom.  

He lays me down on my back on the mattress, where the winter blanket still lies from the last time we were here.  

He stretches out over me, kissing me more slowly now, while one hand caresses my cheekbone and the other parts my legs.

He strokes me over the damp cotton of my panties, his fingers tracing the contours of my swollen, slick clitoris and the labias that push outward, parting like the petals of a flower in the early morning hours.  

The longer his fingers linger behind that thin barrier of fabric, the more aroused I become; and my arousal only makes me wetter. Aesop knows this and lingers deliberately, prolonging our pleasure, stretching the time we have, manipulating it.  

When the cotton is so soaked that I can barely feel it anymore, he pulls away from me. His kisses trail from my mouth down my jaw and neck; his tongue settles on my nipples, wetting them and sucking as his lips close around them, first one, then the other. The way his tongue flicks over me, the pleasure of his suction, would be enough to make me come without needing any further touch.  

But Aesop continues his relentless descent toward my pleasure: he kisses the curve of my breast, my ribcage; with inexpressible tenderness and love, he traces my rounded belly, resting his hands there, as if to keep the tiny person inside from escaping, shielding them from the horrors of the world with his sole paternal care.  

The moment is so overwhelmingly beautiful that tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision—not only because his mouth has continued its descent, as have his hands. Gripping the cotton of my panties, he slides them down my legs with practiced ease, leaving me completely naked and wet before him.  

He places his mouth on my clitoris, teasing it with his tongue and sucking greedily. He drinks in my nectar, pushing me further and deeper into this sunlit ocean that is his presence in my life.  

I clamp my thighs around his head, and he looks up at me; though I’m used to him, I’ll hardly ever grow accustomed to those eyes brimming with desire and passion when they lock onto mine, determined to give me all the pleasure I need and even that which I didn’t think possible.  

He licks me even deeper, his tongue gliding through my folds and over my clitoris, around which he closes his lips and begins to suck just as his fingers find their way inside me.  

He starts to penetrate me this way, touching every nerve of my pleasure as the arousal builds within me, retreating further and further, preparing for the uncontrollable tide and the wave of orgasm.

The deeper his fingers push inside me, the tighter I grip his thick hair; the more intensely his mouth feeds on my flesh, the more my vision blurs. My breath catches, becoming increasingly uneven, labored; and the less air I have, the louder my voice grows, starting with soft moans and rising to plaintive whimpers.  

When he reaches up with one arm, resting his hand on my breast and teasing a nipple between his fingers, it’s the moment to release everything I’ve held back these past months, expressing it in a liberating cry that, while emptying me completely, leaves me full and satisfied.  

My thighs tremble as I reach orgasm, Aesop’s mouth welcoming my nectar. My back arches, and my cries gradually soften, fading into the relaxation of my body, my limbs exhausted yet electrified.  

Aesop stays with me through the entire ecstasy, matching its rhythm, cradling me in the moments after orgasm by continuing to touch me. He moves back up toward me, his thumb now where his mouth was, continuing to delight me while preventing me from declaring this incredible moment over.  

He lies beside me, our tongues resuming their dance, but more lazily this time. I feel the warmth of his body, the taut muscles beneath his chest and arms patiently waiting to give us mutual pleasure.  

With his free hand, he slowly lowers his pants and underwear, freeing his erect member from its confines. I hear the rustle of fabric falling to the floor and feel the warmth of his legs entwining with mine as his hard, slick penis presses between our bodies.  

I spread my thighs wider, allowing him to move more freely and position himself between them. But instead of entering me right away, he rests his shaft between my wet folds and begins to move slowly, still stroking my clitoris, but more intensely now, igniting an unfamiliar, primal heat within me.  

I cling to him, pulling him closer and kissing him fervently as every inch of his large, hard penis glides right over the center of my pleasure, enveloped in the embrace of our mingled fluids and warm, aroused flesh.  

Aesop slides between my folds one last time, applying pressure to my swollen, responsive clitoris that sends shivers through me, then positions the tip of his penis at the entrance of my pussy. He looks into my eyes as he begins to push inside, his throbbing shaft filling my emptiness and warming me from within. A gaze I could lose myself in forever.  

When he’s fully inside me, he pauses for a moment, just long enough to say, «‘I love you.’ It’s incredible to finally say it like this.»  

«You don’t know how many times I thought I couldn’t hold on any longer…» I confess, patiently wrapping my legs around his hips.  

«You were more patient than I ever expected,» he says, kissing my face between words.  

«Someone once told me patience is a great virtue,» I reply, before we both burst into laughter, realizing now how foolish and stubborn our prideful standoff was.  

Aesop’s laughter is a warm breath of life against my neck, the breeze of happiness I’d long waited to feel and, at one point in my life, thought might never come.  

I run my hands through his thick, soft hair, inhaling the scent of his soap, and look into his eyes again. «I love you so much, my love,» I say, the words taking on a new resonance now that I can say them openly.  

He smiles, in the sweetest way I’ve ever seen, a smile he’s only ever given me. «I love you too, my love,» he replies, before we start kissing again and he begins to move slowly inside me.

I welcome each of his thrusts with my eyes closed, losing myself in the ecstasy of the moment, as if lying on a beach, cradled by the waves crashing on the shore. And Aesop moves inside me like an expert navigator for whom the ocean holds no secrets, who knows its surface by heart and longs to return to the shores where the long-awaited home awaits.  

The home that, from today onward, we will truly have, and that we can call ours, from now to eternity. The thought clouds my vision, my eyes filling with tears of emotion, love, and pleasure.  

Aesop lowers himself again to lick the curve of my neck, his warm breath against my damp skin making me shiver and arch my back even more. My turgid nipples graze his skin and his fingertips, which pinch them before his mouth closes around one.  

He sucks with practiced greed, his tongue wetting and guiding the nipple into his mouth and between his lips, while his other hand slips between us. He rests it on my belly, caressing it as he continues to thrust, and I could swear the sigh he just let out isn’t solely from the pleasure he’s giving us both, but from that specific something this same pleasure will gift us.  

His hand then continues its descent between my legs; he places his thumb on my receptive clitoris and begins to tease it with circular motions, wetting it with the fluids of my arousal.  

The sensation is so intoxicating that I welcome the orgasm that arrives for the second time almost without noticing, so overwhelmed am I with wonderful sensations and infinitely grateful to life for giving me Aesop.  

The cry that escapes my lips is primal, not born in my throat but from a deeper, hidden place. I pull Aesop even closer, because I want to feel him in every moment, I need his skin against mine, a perpetual reminder of our union.  

He indulges my need, and when he gives the final thrusts that bring him to his own orgasm, he empties himself inside me, making the connection between our bodies even more vivid, every inch of vibrating, trembling skin touching, recognizing it belongs together.  

We stay embraced like this for a while, until our breaths steady, our lips exchanging light, exhausted kisses. Then Aesop gets up to grab a towel so we can both clean ourselves, and he returns to the bed.

Before lying back down beside me, he leans down to kiss my belly; he touches it, caresses it, observes it from every angle. It’s the sweetest scene I’ve ever witnessed, and I can’t believe it’s happening to me.  

«Now that everything’s gone well, I can ask you: what name do you like?» I say as he settles back next to me, his arm wrapping around my shoulders and pulling me against his chest.  

Aesop smiles, his eyes roaming over my body and face, taking in every inch of me as if he’s only now realizing he’ll be able to do so forever. «Any name you like will be fine with me,» he replies simply.  

«Aesop, it’s our baby!» I protest, though I know it’ll be futile. «We have to choose it together.»  

He looks at me with steadfast tenderness. «Cassie, I’m not saying this just because I love you or because you’re the one carrying them, but because what you’re doing for me is the greatest, most desired gift of my entire life.»  

His gaze shifts slightly, as if searching for a distant memory, then returns to me. «You don’t know how much, during this time, I actually hoped you were pregnant.»  

I furrow my brows slightly. «You figured it out?» I ask.  

«I noticed a few things: you stopped drinking and smoking, and you avoided too much strain or stress, as much as you could. But I told myself it was all in my head, a product of the moment… or simply my desire. My love for you.»  

How foolish, I think: I spent so much time worrying about how he might react negatively that I didn’t consider the positive.  

«I already loved this baby before I even knew they existed,» he continues, «and I’ll love them no matter what name you choose. The only thing that matters is knowing it’s ours. That’s all that counts.»  

He’s right: the mere fact that we’re already three, even though we’re still two, is the only thing that truly matters.  

With this newfound richness of spirit, I watch the sunset light filtering through the half-closed shutters, shifting into a thousand different colors in mere moments. Rays of sun caress our bodies, heralding the arrival of the night—the first we’ll spend as a true family.  

The first in which, after years of wandering uncertainty, I know I’m truly where I want to be.

Notes:

The Chapter #50 will be the epilogue of this story. Thank you so much for having been here with me this whole time, I hope you’ll like it as you did with the others 49 ❤️

Chapter 50: EPILOGUE

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The warm light filters in through the open window, brushing the stone floor with golden fingers as a mild breeze stirs the white curtains. It’s a spring warmer than we’re used to at Hogwarts, the air scented with orange blossoms and sand. From the armchair, I watch the garden below: a lush expanse of greenery and wildflowers that opens like an embrace, threaded with white decorations that cross this oasis of nature before giving way to the dunes, swaying just beyond the edge of the property. It’s a contrast that never fails to fascinate me — the opulence of life against the starkness of the desert. As if the world itself wants to remind me that beauty often blooms right there, where you least expect it, from hardship.

I smile to myself, thinking how fitting that concept is, considering all that’s happened in the past few years. Oh, how much effort it took to keep an eye on those two! Cassandra, with her stubborn head and a heart brimming with fears. Aesop, with his armor of cynicism and a wounded soul that was only looking for a safe place to finally rest. It wasn’t easy, no. I would have gladly done without a few worries along the way. But deep down… I knew. I knew it would end like this. That the story had already been written, stitched together in silences, in held breaths, in glances that spoke louder than words.

Time, in the end, proved me right.

A sudden thud tears me away from the thread of my thoughts. The door flies open with force, slamming against the wall, and into the room bursts a crystalline laugh, a joyful cry that slips between the curtains like a living breeze.

A child — all tousled curls and bare feet — runs toward me with a butterfly-shaped hair clip clutched in his hand as if it were a trophy. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes shine with precocious intelligence and a kind of enthusiasm the world hasn’t yet had the time to dim.

He laughs with the kind of freedom only children — and perhaps lovers who have finally chosen each other — know how to allow themselves. And in that laugh, I hear the echo of everything that has been. Of everything we’ve built, all of us, in greater or smaller part. Because even those who simply believed in it helped make sure this story could have the happy ending it deserved.

I watch the little one run, his legs quick and still a bit unsure, that funny and determined gait of his that never fails to make me smile. His energy is overwhelming, as if every corner of the house were a discovery, every object an adventure. And as he clutches the hair clip in his fingers — a small, sparkling trophy — I hear his bare feet drumming against the floor with a rhythm all his own.

«Elias!»

A familiar voice rings out, followed by the face it belongs to. She appears in the doorway, breathless, a little flustered—but radiant.

Cassandra.

She wears a long white dress, as light as the season itself, embroidered with delicate patterns: winding vines of green twine along the hem and sleeves, dotted with soft pink butterflies that look freshly landed, balanced in perfect stillness. The same glimmers of pink as the hair clip Elias clutches tightly in his small hands.

Her shoulders are kissed by a soft tan that blends into cheeks tinged with pink. Her hair, once long spirals of curls, now falls in looser waves across her shoulders, tousled slightly by the warm breeze drifting through the window. With one hand she lifts the hem of her gown so it doesn’t brush the floor as she walks toward her son, while the other keeps in place a veil of sheer tulle—resting gently on the nape of her neck, where the butterfly clip must have sat only moments before.

I lean forward just enough to meet those dark, mischievous little eyes sparkling with childish glee. Elias still clutches the clip tightly, as though it were the most precious treasure, his laughter chiming through the sun-warmed air of the room.

«What do you have there, Elias?» I ask softly.

The child reaches out, hesitant but proud, to show me his treasure.

«Do you like it very much?» I press, and he nods his little head with great seriousness.

I pretend to drift off in thought, as if puzzling over a clever solution. Then I draw my wand from my dress pocket, place it with theatrical flair over the hair clip, and pronounce solemnly: «Gemino!»

As if brought to life, the butterfly beats its wings and splits in two, producing an identical copy. Elias squeals in delight, just as he always does when he sees the kind of magic he cannot yet wield—but with parents like his, there’s no doubt he’ll master it one day.

«How about giving that one back to your mummy now?» I suggest gently. «You wouldn’t want her to tire herself out, would you?»

He looks at me, caught between the thrill of mischief and the tug of obedience, now that he holds not one but two butterflies in his hands. But when he turns to look at Cassandra—who has since come closer with light, measured steps—he decides.

With the kind of theatrical solemnity only a child can muster for such a simple gesture, he offers the clip back to his mother. Cassandra bends to take it and, thanking him with a warm smile, plants a gentle kiss on his chubby cheek.

He giggles again, then darts away, off to play with the newly Conjured twin of the butterfly clip.

I help her back to her feet, her movements weary. The white of the dress, in fact, stretches gently over her full belly, its roundness speaking clearly, with no need for explanation.

Then I offer her a hand, asking for the hairpin in turn. «Let me help you with the veil.»

«Thank you, Matilda» Cassandra murmurs, handing me the pin with trembling fingers.

With practiced movements, I gather her hair at the nape of her neck and arrange it carefully, while her fingers fidget impatiently with the veil. The tension running through her body is palpable, as if every part of her were leaning toward something she cannot yet fully grasp.

I search for a way to help her breathe. A thought, a memory. «You wore this same pin,» I say softly, as if sharing a secret between just the two of us, «the day you met Aesop.»

I hear her smile, even though I can’t see it. And for a moment, her breath comes a little easier.

«You always knew it would end like this, didn’t you?» she asks, without turning around. Her voice is calm, but filled with tenderness.

I lift my shoulders slightly. «Far be it from me to feign modesty,» I reply, «but yes.»

The sound of hurried footsteps interrupts us, followed by a playful exclamation.

«Elias! What a little rascal!» Abraham calls out, appearing in the doorway with his usual jovial tone.

The boy recognizes him instantly and runs to him, while Abraham bends down to scoop him up with the ease of someone who’s always done it, as if they were playmates of the same age. The two begin to play with a marble Elias pulls out from who knows where, and for a moment the room is filled with their mingled laughter.

Then Abraham’s eyes fall on Cassandra, and the game comes to a halt. His gaze traces the white dress, the delicate embroidery, the veil now secured, the gentle curve of the belly touched lightly by the bride’s hands. And something in his usually lively features shifts. Cracks. His mouth forms a slow smile, but his eyes shine with an emotion he makes no effort to conceal.

«Oh, Cassandra…» he whispers. Then he shakes his head, unable to say more, his eyes bright with emotion.

Abraham steps closer, still holding Elias in his arms. His eyes remain fixed on her, and when he speaks, his voice trembles—barely perceptible.

«If Eleazar could see you…» he begins, but the sentence breaks in the air like a soap bubble, leaving behind only silence and memory. We all know how close Cassandra and Eleazar were, how much he was like a father to her, as well as a mentor. Abraham too, of course—but it was Eleazar who revealed the truth about her real nature, who introduced her to our world and made it her home.

«He’s always here with us,» I say, letting my gaze rest on Cassandra’s tense face. «But most of all, in the heart of those who loved him. And in Cassandra’s… he’s more alive than ever.»

She lets out a soft laugh, trembling, suspended between emotion and relief. She turns to me with a bright, affectionate look and says, «Oh, Matilda… don’t make me cry, please.»

I hug her, holding her with all the tenderness that’s been growing in me for years. In that embrace are all the winters passed, every doubt dispelled, every day that’s brought us to this moment.

As if sensing the intensity, Elias reaches out his little arms toward his mother, trying to join the hug. His contagious smile and innocent spontaneity draw laughter from us all.

Abraham discreetly wipes his eyes, then clears his throat, trying to compose himself. «Well… I came to tell you that, whenever you’re ready… I mean, I can escort you,» he says, not even trying to hide the pride in his voice.

Cassandra turns, instinctively adjusting her veil. «Is Aesop ready?»

«Nervous,» Abraham replies with a smirk, «but ready.»

I can’t help myself and shake my head in amusement. «Now that’s something I never would’ve predicted: Aesop Sharp, nervous!»

I pick up little Elias and set him on the bed so I can help him into his canvas shoes. He doesn’t seem to be a fan of laces or closed footwear—I imagine he spends his days here barefoot or in sandals.

Meanwhile, Cassandra has gently taken Abraham’s arm, leaning on it lightly, as if seeking one last comfort before taking the step that awaits her.

She takes a deep breath. «I’m ready.»

With slow but steady steps, the two begin to walk toward the exit. I take Elias by the hand, and together we follow them, his tiny palm gripping mine with complete trust.

As I walk, my gaze wanders over the details of Aesop and Cassandra’s house-laboratory. The half-open windows, the pergola entwined with jasmine, the outlines of the frames on the walls—every detail speaks of them. It’s a place that smells of ink, of potions, of questions and answers, of sleepless nights and silences full of meaning, of hope and trust. A place that, like their love, has become a true refuge.

Sunlight filters through the windows and reflects off the sand-colored walls with such intensity that every object seems bathed in gold, as if the whole house were cloaked in liquid light. The laboratory where they’ve worked for over a year now, which extends into a wing adjacent to the house, is closed today to allow Aesop and Cassandra to fully enjoy this special day—their day.

But they’ve worked tirelessly in the past weeks, preparing potions and treatments in advance so that no patient, as they call them, would be left without supplies.

It’s surprising how many things have changed over the years—and yet, how nothing has lost its meaning. Ever since Cassandra had the intuition that heat might benefit Aesop’s injured leg, everything has taken a new direction. What had once been an obstacle turned into a compass. The decision to leave their academic careers and move to Egypt came later, almost naturally: the climate, the setting, the conditions were ideal to continue what had become their research—not only theoretical, but practical, tangible, daily. In a way, Aesop became the first true test subject for their studies—and also the most precious.

He’s no longer the man I met years ago—withdrawn and rigid—but someone who has learned how to bend without breaking. And Cassandra… Cassandra has always had the ability to see beyond. Even beyond pain.

What they’ve built is a true laboratory of potions and medicinal treatments, which has grown from a small local practice into one of the most well-stocked workshops in the magical world, with clients from all over the globe. Their knowledge and skills—and Aesop’s own condition—have allowed them to work side by side with Healers, and for this reason, Cassandra wisely chose to hire young Ophelia Warrington after graduation, so she could work closely with them, see firsthand the results of their work and research, combine efforts, and offer a second chance even to those who had long been considered beyond hope.

As the long hallway opens onto the garden, the enchantment of the moment reveals itself in all its extraordinary wonder.

It feels like stepping into a magical bubble, suspended between the real world and the world of dreams: a lush green oasis, set like an emerald among the golden sands of the desert. Pomegranate trees bend their blooming branches under the weight of fluttering ribbons, swaying as if caressed by invisible hands. Enchanted glowing butterflies dance among the jasmine flowers suspended in midair, occasionally landing on the shoulders of the guests, leaving behind a trail of golden pollen that vanishes the moment it touches the ground.

Above us, the sky is veiled by a delicate enchantment that filters the light, making it warm but never harsh: small transparent orbs, like amber lanterns, float gently overhead, each containing a living flame — motionless, burning yet never consumed. Every flower in the garden — even the common ones, even daisies — sways softly, as if following the rhythm of a silent music tuned to the collective heartbeat of everyone present.

And there are many hearts gathered here. Colleagues, friends, companions from every day: Mirabel adjusting her hat with a nervous gesture, elbowing Ominis Gaunt; Lady Wimborne seated beside Marion Twigs; even Gombkey, Deek, and the other house-elves from Hogwarts, each one (some more bewildered than others) enjoying their day off, all dressed up in their own way with a sprig of jasmine and a butterfly-shaped pin fixed to their robes. Further on, elegant and ethereal, stands Alice Haywood in a coral-colored gown, her blonde hair pinned up with opal clips.

In front of everyone, tall and smiling in a plum-colored robe embroidered with antique gold thread, Albus Dumbledore waits patiently at the altar, while a levitating harp behind him plucks gentle chords by itself — like music made of breath.

Cassandra and Abraham pause just behind the doors, waiting for their moment to step out, and I walk past her with Elias clutching my hand. The child looks ahead, curls bouncing on his forehead, and his eyes light up as he sees who is waiting for him. He tugs forward with a sudden jolt, leans out, and cries with gleeful excitement: «Daddy!»

A wave of tender, spontaneous laughter rises from the guests. Aesop smiles at his son. He’s nervous, yes — you can tell by the way he holds his breath, by the slight movement of his fingers tracing the seam of his trousers — but there’s no mistaking it: he is a happy man.

In his beige and emerald green suit, he is breathtakingly handsome, and his dark eyes — eyes that have seen the worst the world has to offer — today hold only the wonder of the present.

He no longer carries a cane, nor any other aid. Since he began his work with Cassandra, his limp has improved greatly, though it hasn’t completely disappeared. But what matters most is that the wounds of his soul have begun to heal — and that Aesop has finally embraced every vulnerability as part of himself, not as a flaw, and certainly not as the only thing that defines him.

I sit in the front row with Elias on my lap. I hold him gently as he keeps looking at his father, blowing him tender kisses with his tiny hand and playing with the enchanted clasp conjured just for him.

Next to Aesop, the altar seems almost to throb, as if even the surrounding enchantments were responding to his heart.

I watch him in silence, with the deep affection one can hold for an old friend: Aesop Sharp, the man who once believed he no longer deserved anything, has come this far. And for once, the future has chosen a happy ending for him.

The time before Cassandra’s appearance stretches like a taut string, ready to snap under the weight of anticipation. Voices lower, movements still. Everything gathers in a silence heavy with good omens — the kind of stillness that comes before a revelation.

The harp falls silent for a few moments, then shifts its melody. Its strings stir with the lightest touch, and a new tune emerges: romantic, dreamlike, woven with sweetness and promise. The notes vibrate through the air with the grace of a caress, and the guests all turn at once, as if answering an ancient call.

Cassandra is there, at the far end of the garden, radiant like a vision and bathed in a light that seems made to touch her alone. Her long gown, a shade of moonlit white, sways gently as if she were walking on water; green and pink embroidery trails along the fabric, blooming with every step she takes. The soft tulle veil falls from her shoulders, and a gentle breeze brushes her cheeks, lifting a strand of dark hair. Her face is tense but glowing, and she can’t stop smiling.

She emanates an emotion so intense it’s contagious — like a luminous trail brightening the spirits of all who watch her pass.

Gasps of wonder are inevitable: enchanted whispers, broken sentences, sighs lost in the hush of floating spells.

But before fixing my gaze on Cassandra, I turn it toward Aesop.

He hasn’t looked away for even a second from the white aisle that cuts through the garden. He watches her as if his entire world were concentrated in her. His eyes — usually wary, cynical, sarcastic — are now two clear lakes, filled to the brim.

Tears stream freely down his face, and he brushes them away absentmindedly, just enough to keep them from falling onto his suit. He makes no attempt to hide his vulnerability; at last, he’s no longer ashamed of it. He’s stripped of all masks — and for that, he’s beautiful.

When Abraham and Cassandra reach the altar, he pauses for a moment. He looks at the young woman, smiles at her with deep tenderness, and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. Then he turns to Aesop and embraces him tightly — a full exchange of affection and esteem, without reserve, between men who have shared loss, waiting, and at last, hope.

And finally, they are the only two left.

Cassandra and Aesop look at each other, one’s eyes fixed in the other’s, their hands searching and their fingers first intertwining, then tightening—recognizing each other, anchoring, refusing to let go.

Their gazes lock with such intensity that the rest of the world seems to fade away for a moment: the guests, the butterflies, the magical altar, even the music become secondary. In those eyes—hers bright and moved, his red but full of light—there lies an entire journey: the fights, the discoveries, the shared silences, the fear, the desire, the love. It’s all there. It all finds itself again, is sealed, is celebrated.

I watch them, running my fingers through Elias’s curls, who has also stopped fussing: he looks at his parents, attentive, aware in his innocence and naivety of the importance of the moment.

Albus steps forward, sober yet solemn, and positions himself in front of the altar, perfectly centered between the two spouses. When he clears his throat, every murmur falls silent as if by magic, and everyone waits for him to begin. Elias snuggles against me, as if he too understands that the words about to be spoken are more precious than gold.

«I feel honored,» Albus begins, with his calm, deep tone, «to address you today with these words, as a friend, as a witness… and perhaps, in a small way, still as the student who once watched you from behind a desk too big for him.»

A smile crosses the faces of the bride and groom. Aesop slightly tilts his head, as if unsure where to look, and Cassandra squeezes his hand tighter.

«When Cassandra Doyle arrived at Hogwarts,» Albus continues, «she seemed to have stepped out of a book. There was in her eyes a light that spoke of faraway places, and in her gestures a timid elegance, yet resolute. And when she crossed the threshold of the Alchemy classroom, she had no idea she would find a family here, nor that the grumpiest professor at Hogwarts—yes, I’m talking about you, Aesop—would become her most stubborn, passionate, and faithful half.»

A soft amused murmur rises among the guests. Aesop closes his eyes for a moment, while Cassandra covers her mouth to stifle a moved laugh.

«I saw you seek each other even when you thought you were avoiding one another. I saw you support each other, even before you realized it. And when the time came for me to complete my studies and leave, Cassandra never stopped making me feel her support, even when life seemed determined to give her no breaks. Her letters kept me company on cold evenings, and her faith in me taught me to believe too.»

Cassandra can no longer hold back her tears. They fall slowly down her cheeks, and Albus, smiling gently, then turns toward Aesop.

«And you, Aesop… it took a little longer with you, I admit. But when you finally looked at me not just as a student, but as a young man with a future you could help build, that moment was one of the most precious of my life. I thank you for giving me space, and for having the courage to do so.»

Aesop swallows. I notice the slight tremble of his lips, the lump in his throat he cannot hide.

«And how could we forget,» Albus resumes, his voice almost trembling, «the Alchemical Conference held right here, in Egypt? A new beginning, a promise, a rebirth, for all. In these sands, under these sunny skies, on these star-filled nights, you found not only a new direction for your research… but a new way of being. Supporting each other, listening to each other, healing each other. Together.»

The words flow like balm over their souls. The guests hold their breath, as if breathing might break the spell. Cassandra nods softly, as if reliving every day, every discovery, every caress on a healed scar. Aesop looks at Cassandra with a tenderness he has learned only from her.

«You have returned today to say ‘yes’ to each other again. And we are here, witnesses of a love that never needed grand declarations, but has always spoken softly—with gestures, silences, and acts of trust. It is the love that heals, that grows, that perseveres tirelessly even through adversity. It is the love that has already borne a wonderful fruit and that soon—very soon, I’d say—will bear another. It is the love I wish you carry with you every day to come.»

A long silence. The guests’ eyes are moist, their gazes meet in emotion and tenderness. Elias claps his little hands softly, without knowing why, but feeling it is the right moment to do so. Cassandra looks at Aesop and brushes the back of his hand with her fingers, while he leans toward her to rest his forehead against hers. They remain like that for a moment, eyes closed, hands intertwined, surrounded by a time that seems to have stopped just for them.

Albus steps even closer to the couple, the afternoon light gently brushing his shoulders and reflecting softly on their faces. Then, with a gentle yet authoritative nod, he invites Aesop and Cassandra to turn fully toward each other.

«This is the most sacred moment,» he says with a steady, deep voice. «Aesop, Cassandra… I ask you to extend your right hands. This bond, sealed before those who love you, will be bound by the Unbreakable Vow.»

Their hands seek each other and meet without hesitation, fingers intertwining in a gesture both natural and familiar, yet heavy with solemnity. From Albus’s wand rises a filament of golden fire, thin as a moonbeam, gently wrapping their joined hands, pulsing like a heartbeat.

He pauses briefly, as if to give every gaze, every emotion, a moment to breathe.

Then, in a ceremonial tone: «Cassandra Doyle… do you vow before us all, and before magic itself, to support Aesop Sharp in joy and hardship, in light and shadow, for every day that fate grants you together?»

Cassandra, eyes fixed on his, answers without hesitation, her voice trembling with love: «I do.»

The golden filament intensifies, enveloping their hands with a soft glow that warms the air around them.

«Aesop Sharp… do you vow before us all, and before magic itself, to cherish Cassandra Doyle with respect, patience, and dedication, honoring her in every word and every gesture, for as long as time will have meaning for you?»

Aesop swallows hard. His throat tight, but when he answers, his voice is clear: «I do.»

A spiral of light slips around their wrists, like an invisible seal only the heart can read.

«And together… do you promise to choose love every day, even when it is difficult, even when it seems easier to give in to silence?»

In unison, holding hands as if born for this moment: «We do.»

The Unbreakable Vow closes in a gentle golden glow, then slowly dissolves into the air, like a silent blessing resting upon them.

Albus nods, his face lit by genuine emotion. Then, turning toward the guests, he gives me a small signal.

Discreetly, I slip my hand into the inner pocket of my robe, pulling out a small embroidered box of moss-green velvet, holding two rings resting on a tiny ivory cushion, hand-embroidered with a pattern of alchemical herbs. But I am certainly not the one to carry them.

I lean gently toward Elias, handing him the box and whispering instructions carefully in his ear. The child lights up, serious as only the very young can be in solemn moments. He takes the box in his small hands, clutches it to his chest, and, with tentative but determined steps, begins to walk toward his mother and father.

A ripple runs through the guests; someone quietly murmurs a moved «Oh!» Elias walks up to them, stops before Cassandra, proudly offers her the box, then turns and does the same for Aesop. The father kneels to hug him tightly and whispers a «Thank you» in his ear that makes Cassandra smile through tears.

They exchange the rings, their hands trembling only slightly. Cassandra’s ring is thin, white gold; Aesop’s is thicker. According to them, the choice of metal holds a precise meaning for their bond.

Finally, Albus spreads his arms wide.

«With the power of magic, the bond of hearts, and shared will… I declare you husband and wife.»

A flutter of wings fills the air: dozens of iridescent butterflies rise from the flowers and dance around the newlyweds. The guests stand, applauding; some laugh, others openly weep. Elias claps his hands, confused but happy. And Aesop, in a gesture full of grace and simplicity, leans toward Cassandra and kisses her softly on the lips, while around them the world seems to burst with light, love, and magic.

I step back, letting the warm current of joy and emotion envelop the newlyweds and their guests. Laughter, embraces, whispered congratulations, eyes shining with tears of happiness—all create an intimate, vibrant atmosphere. Elias runs happily into Aesop’s arms, while Cassandra gently cups his face and kisses his forehead—that expression full of love that is so uniquely hers and that, today of all days, leaves me breathless.

I watch them like this, my kids—because yes, they are mine in their own way—and feel that knot in my chest, which I hadn’t realized I was carrying, slowly unravel, as if I can finally breathe.

The sun is setting, casting the world in gold and copper, as if to frame this scene with the solemnity it deserves. It’s a living painting: Aesop holding Cassandra close, Elias clinging to his father’s leg, and her hand resting softly on her belly. A family. Real. Perhaps unusual to many, but strong and unbreakable.

And if I may say so… some of this is thanks to me too.

If I hadn’t been so stubborn to write to her, years ago… If I hadn’t looked beyond that shell of sarcasm and pain that Aesop carried… If I hadn’t believed, from the very first glance, that two people so different could recognize each other in their own way… maybe we wouldn’t be here today.

But I have always had an eye for the magics that can’t be taught: those born in silence, second chances, slow healing, and loyalty that asks for nothing in return. True magics. Rare magics.

I smile and bend down to take Elias, who stretches his arms out to me, laughing with the bright innocence only children possess. I hold him close and whisper, «Let’s go, little alchemist,» as he nestles against me, trusting.

Cassandra turns toward me. She says nothing—it’s not needed. One look is enough. We’ve said everything without words. I nod, as if to reassure her that yes, everything is fine, that everything is as it should be and as it was meant to be.

And as the sky turns amber and the music rises softly among the branches, I feel the circle has closed. With tenderness, with strength, with love.

And perhaps, yes… the most powerful magic of all has been exactly this.

Notes:

Thank you so much for all the love you have given Cassandra and Aesop in these months, and above all for having trusted me throughout the creative and writing process. During this time my life has changed so much, not always for the better, and I am happy to have found in "Lustful Alchemy" and in your support a safe harbor. That's why marking this story as "complete" is bittersweet, but it has shown me that, for me who dreams of being a writer, it is possible to think of a story from beginning to end and manage to complete it! I hope to see you again soon with a new story, because I don't want to give up on creative beauty and all the wonderful things that a story can create. If you want to see how my life is going in the meantime, you can follow me on Instagram by searching for @clairevanmaan (I have a private profile, but just send me a private message and tell me you are from here and I will be happy to follow you back). Of course this is not a goodbye but a see you later, expect a little bonus in the next few days! Thanks for everything, Claire.

Chapter 51: Playlist

Notes:

Thinking and writing about the tension and the love between Cassandra Doyle and Aesop Sharp made me also think, of course, about songs that in my opinion would make a perfect soundtrack. Hoping you enjoyed "Lustful Alchemy" as much as I did writing it, here you are the tracklist and the links where you can listen to it. Enjoy 🖤

Chapter Text

Listen here 🖤

1. Poison - Alice Cooper

2. Every You Every Me - Placebo

3. I Could Have Lied - Red Hot Chili Peppers

4. Another Love - Tom Odell

5. Million Reasons - Lady Gaga

6. Animale di zona - Litfiba

7. Feel - Robbie Williams

8. She Smiled Sweetly - The Rolling Stones

9. Halo - Beyoncé

10.  Innocence - Avril Lavigne

11. Iris - Goo Goo Dolls

12. Next To Me - Imagine Dragons

13. Die With a Smile - Bruno Mars ft Lady Gaga

14. Die For You - The Weeknd

15. All Of Me - John Legend

16. Hard To Concentrate - Red Hot Chili Peppers