THE LOVE WITCH * GW

Chapter One.

The rain dances upon the stained glass windows, a symphony of September showers.

The library at night was a sanctuary for her. Enclosed by four wooden walls, it held an endless expanse of profound silence. There was no natural light filtering through the windows, no distractions from the chatter of others recounting their day— those who don't stop to seek the beautiful red roses within the brambles and weeds.

In this solitude, she found solace among the books, accompanied only by the remnant sorrows that roar like the nightly thunder.

The lingering ache persists within her, akin to a twisted metal fork embedded in the depths of her fragile heart. Although her longing for home remains potent, she has grown accustomed to the rhythmic cadence of her footsteps leading her away from her troubles.

It is preferable to embrace solitude and prolong the farewell, rather than attempting to reclaim a life that can never be restored to its former glory.

Flipping through an ancient parchment, she discovers solace within the pure sentiments conveyed by the manuscript. Her gentle touch caresses the worn edges of the page, slightly curled from numerous readings.

For a fleeting moment she can forget about her life and live vicariously through another's.

The soft glows of lamplight were teasing. It was peculiar for her to even consider, but she felt a twinge of envy towards its ability to illuminate a dim space. The power of a single object, a simple thing, to emit such radiance seemed almost magical.

It is possible that she habitually searched for metaphors in unexpected places, but what other option did she have?

Should you find yourself destined from the moment of your birth to embody a persona foreign to your very being, what other course of action could possibly be expected of you?

That particular inquiry appeared to persistently occupy her thoughts in recent times. The majority of individuals fail to comprehend the profound experience of being unequivocally characterized by one's surname.

A surname she shall uphold merely for the forthcoming biennium of her existence..

The cacophony became unbearable - the boisterous conversations at the welcoming banquet, the insincere greetings from so-called "friends" who neglected to keep in touch over the summer break. The nocturnal ramblings of her roommates, the serene rustling of the Black Lake, the soft crackling of the fireplace; it all became overwhelming.

Rosemary experienced that unsightly sensation that stealthily emerges from time to time. It was the kind that relentlessly pounds her heart against her ribcage, akin to minuscule nails endeavoring to claw their way out from the depths of her skull.

Rosemary lacked the words to define it. The queasiness, the burdened inhalations—she simply recognized its sporadic arrival, and detested it with every fiber of her being.

Far past curfew had she tucked her way between the bookshelves. She hid from herself. Her emotions. Like they were haunting shadows in the corners of the room.

Upon her return, her dorm room was already adorned with bouquets of lilacs, Japanese pears, necklaces, and calling cards. Despite her birthday being several months away, the efforts to capture her attention began promptly with the commencement of the new academic year.

A fragment of her being yearned for the possibility that the public would become enthralled by the revival of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, which her school was set to organize this year. However, as Angel Zabini eloquently highlighted, this would inevitably attract the gaze of gentlemen from diverse backgrounds.

Angel Zabini stood as her sole solace amidst the chaos. Her closest confidant. Her first love. Her friend, before she even had a name for it.

Immersed in fragrances reminiscent of France, she glided through the corridors with an air of exclusivity. Her countenance radiated joy frequently, yet reverberated with fury when provoked. She embodied both the boisterous proclamation and the secretive murmur. Offering comforting embraces alongside scathing reprimands. A figure too tainted for celestial beings yet too virtuous for infernal entities.

And Rosemary loved her all the more for it.

Angel, too, had been lavished with an abundance of gifts and invitations for romantic encounters—although her fascination lay in the allure of these advances, more than her companion's.

Her mother, an enchantress of unparalleled beauty, was known to Rosemary as Mrs. Zabini, a name that concealed a history of seven ill-fated unions. Each of her previous husbands had met their demise under mysterious circumstances, leaving behind vast fortunes in their wake.

Angel often jests that her current stepfather, Desmond Wanderer, is unlikely to survive the arrival of Christmas.

Yet, despite her exposure to a lifetime of transactional marriages within her own household, Angel Zabini perpetually yearned for something more, something extraordinary.

She was captivated by gifts, she clutched her heart at the sight of romantic gestures. She etched delicate hearts onto school desks, gracefully swayed to whimsical love melodies, and embraced countless opportunities for potential encounters.

It seemed Angel fell in love everyday. Whether it was the person she loved or the loving she loved, Rosemary could not tell.

Her male companions also experienced the weight of societal expectations during the social season. They expressed convoluted notions of an ideal wife, believing that obedience, charm, and ignorance were essential qualities for a wife, so that they may continue to indulge in their juvenile pursuits.

However, despite this, Rosemary found herself unable to conform to the prevailing sentiment.

She couldn't help but question the authenticity of love itself.

She couldn't shake off the feeling that love was nothing more than a fabrication, like the fantastical tales found in fairytales.

Throughout her entire existence, she had been instructed that love came with conditions. The idea of being loved despite one's flaws seemed unfathomable to her. If she exhibited any imperfections— an unattractive laugh, poor posture, or speaking out of turn— she believed she would not be deserving of love.

Excelling in academics, maintaining a reserved demeanor, and being punctual were the standards set by her family since childhood. Anything less than perfection was deemed intolerable.

To ever be loved, a concept she questioned existed, she must aim for greatness. The highest standard.

How insignificant it seems.

Could she ever be loved for simply being herself?