Chapter Text
Despite popular belief, Lesso doesn’t hate summer. She doesn’t particularly like it, either, but prefers it over a cold, wet spring and most definitely over winter’s cold and icy claws that somehow, always and no matter what, seems to tighten its fingers around her.
So, in conclusion, some may say she actually likes it. And she prefers her white blouse over the thick, woolen coat. Which she still wears, no matter the season, but simply because she likes it. Not because she has to. She also prefers folding up her sleeves over the ends of them getting stained by bubbling potions. And, above all, she isn’t constantly reminded of the chronic pain that has settled inside her bad leg years and years ago.
It always gets worse when the temperatures drop. The School for Evil is cold on hot August days, too, but it’s nothing compared to the biting chill of winter. In those months, the stone walls seem to breathe frost, and no matter how many fires crackle in the hearths, the cold always finds her. It seeps into her bones, clings to her skin, and curls its way into her leg, gnawing at the old injury that never truly heals.
Some mornings, she needs over an hour to make it out of bed. Some mornings, with her rooms having a mind of their own, she finds icicles by the windows or in the bathroom. Some mornings, she slips on the ice on the tiles. And on these mornings, she pulls herself together.
The School for Evil has always been alive in its own way—sentient, watching. Its walls, its floors, its very foundation seem to have moods, whims, and on days like these, it’s clear that its mood is malicious. Since she pledged unity, the school seems to have shifted its focus to her, directing all of its pent-up wrath at its Dean. Lesso doesn’t show weakness. She can’t. Not in front of her students, not in front of her staff. But here, in the privacy of her quarters, it’s different.
She winces as she finally stands, her leg threatening to buckle under her. Some days, it’s manageable. But on these days, when she finds icicles hanging from the window frames again, it feels as though the School itself is trying to sabotage her.
She knows the water will be cold if she dares to step under the spray of the shower, so she decides against the cold wetness and gets dressed instead. Layers upon layers, cashmere and cotton and wool, a layer of magic woven into an undershirt. Not enough to keep her warm, and if she thinks about it, she doesn’t remember the last time she truly felt warm. Some time in summer, maybe.
Once, she slipped on the ice in the bathroom. The fall was jarring, sending a shock of pain up her leg so intense she had to bite down on her bottom lip to keep from crying out. She remembers lying there, on the cold floor, staring up at the dark ceiling, feeling anger and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. But no one came. She wouldn’t allow them to. Lesso doesn't need help—she never has, never will.
On days like these, she pulls herself together. Pain becomes a companion and with every step she tells herself that she will not bend, she will not break. The School for Evil might hate her, might lash out in its strange way, but she refuses to let it win. After all, she is still in charge, it’s her school.
But during winter, Lesso seeks out the warmth from the Good School across the bridge. Meals are served there anyway, and having to be present to make sure her students aren’t running havoc in the dining hall means she has a perfect excuse to escape the bone-chilling cold of the Evil School, if only for a little while. The School for Good, though bright and unbearably radiant for her taste, is at least warm. Its halls seem to hum with a golden glow and the fires there burn hotter. Lesso doesn’t care for the sugary sweetness of the decor or the annoyingly pleasant ambiance, but she’ll take the warmth where she can get it.
Meals in the shared dining hall are her usual reprieve from the cold. Lesso stalks across the bridge, jaw clenched to keep the biting wind from stealing her breath. She’s careful not to limp too much, not to let the students see her vulnerability, but her cane is proof and clicks on the cobblestone anyway. Her sharp eyes scan the room as she enters, ensuring her charges aren’t causing their usual chaos, though they often do.
In the grand hall, she takes her place at the table alongside the staff from both schools. The students, of course, aren’t seated separately any longer, but now their long tables buzz with chatter, lingering rivalries and the occasional petty quarrel between Good and Evil. Lesso has long since learned to block it out. Instead, she lets herself absorb the warmth radiating from the massive hearths and the ever-burning torches that line the walls.
Despite her reasons for being here, the comfort of the Good School’s heat doesn’t fully erase the tension in her body. She knows she’s not truly at ease, not truly welcome, not even after the unification. Her presence among the Good staff is tolerated, but never entirely accepted. The whispers, the sidelong glances—she senses it all, even as she pretends not to notice. They smile at her, polite but wary, as if they’re waiting for the Evil Dean to bare her teeth. But she doesn’t mind. It’s not their approval she seeks.
As she sits, careful to stretch out her leg subtly beneath the table to ease the ache, her thoughts wander to the school across the bridge again, cold and unyielding and mocking. It’s survival. And in the game of survival, Lesso always wins.
“You never sit during lunch,” a sweet voice next to her says. “Are you alright?” There’s a soft touch on her shoulder, warmth soaking through the layers of clothing, before the woman takes a seat to her right.
Lesso tenses instinctively at the touch, even if the warmth is a welcome contrast to the cold that has settled deep within her bones. She doesn't need to turn to know who it is. Only one person in the entire school would dare to touch her so casually, without fear or hesitation.
Clarissa Dovey.
The Dean of Good has always been the polar opposite of Lesso—soft where she is sharp, warm where she is cold. And yet, there is an undeniable pull between them, something unspoken that keeps their paths crossing over and over and again and again. Lesso doesn’t respond immediately, with her mind still half-dwelling on the bitter cold of her school. But here, in this moment and at the table, Dovey’s presence is irritating and soothing all at once.
“I didn’t realize you were keeping track,” Lesso finally replies, her voice cool and even, even if there’s a slight edge to it. She’s not used to anyone noticing her habits, let alone commenting on them. She rules with fear, and it works on everyone else. Except Dovey. She glances at her out of the corner of her eye.
Dovey smiles gently, a spark of curiosity behind her eyes. “I notice more than you think.” She keeps her voice light, but Lesso notices the concern beneath it. That softness again, that warmth. It makes her uncomfortable, but in a way that almost—almost—tempts her to lean into it.
Instead, she straightens her back, forcing herself to ignore the twinge in her leg as she shifts. “I’m fine,” Lesso says, her tone clipped. “Just taking a moment.” It’s not exactly a lie, but it’s not the full truth either. She won’t admit the pain, not to Dovey, not to anyone. It’s hers to bear and hers to deal with.
Dovey seems unconvinced, her gaze lingering on the redhead’s face a moment longer before she looks away, settling into her seat. “I understand,” she says softly, her hands folding neatly in her lap. “But you don’t have to pretend with me.”
That statement catches Lesso off guard. For a brief moment, the walls she’s carefully built around herself threaten to crumble. She doesn’t respond right away, her eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing Dovey’s words. Pretend? Lesso scoffs internally, though there’s something unsettling about the way Dovey always seems to see through her.
“I’m not pretending,” she replies, her voice sharp again. “I’m simply doing what needs to be done.”
The silence between them is thick with unspoken things—things neither of them would dare bring up here, in the middle of the dining hall. Not with students and staff bustling around them, and certainly not in this world where boundaries between Good and Evil still remain, even if they are working tirelessly to tear them down.
But in the quiet moments, when the world fades and it’s just the two of them, those boundaries blur. They've crossed those lines before, in stolen and dark nights, in shared warmth beneath the covers. There is an intimacy between them that neither acknowledges aloud, but both understand. It lingers now, unspoken, in the way Dovey's hand had lingered on her shoulder. Almost comforting, but also deeply upsetting. At least in Lesso’s case.
Dovey, of course, knows her well. Better than most. She has seen Lesso at her most vulnerable, in the rare moments when the armor slips, when the sharp-edged Dean of Evil allows herself to be human, just for a little while. Where their lips meet and her slender fingers travel over Dovey’s skin, where she arches into her touch and allows sounds to spill over her lips she would deny to even make. But this— here —in the daylight, with eyes all around, it’s different. They aren’t in a relationship, and Lesso is thankful for that. Relationships mean expectations, weaknesses, and obligations. And Lesso refuses to allow herself to be bound by those things, not in a place like this.
Still, Dovey’s presence is different from everyone else's, and it annoys her. She is warm, genuine, and frustratingly persistent in a way that makes Lesso feel both seen and unsettled. As they sit there, side by side, she can feel the weight of that familiarity. The fact that Dovey knows exactly why she’s sitting today—knows about the pain, the cold, the struggle she refuses to show anyone else. And for a moment, it almost makes her angry, this sense of being known. She’s a shadow in the dark to everyone else, but Dovey is the damn, rose scented candle that illuminates every inch of her.
“I don’t need your concern,” Lesso says suddenly, her voice low, but sharper than intended. She doesn’t look at Dovey and keeps her eyes on one of her students in the distance, her jaw tight.
Dovey’s smile doesn’t falter, but there’s a softness in her eyes as she responds. “I’m not offering concern, Lady Lesso. Just warmth.”
It’s always like this with her. The woman never pushes too hard, never demands more than Lesso is willing to give. Yet somehow, she always manages to get under her skin, slipping past the walls that no one else can breach. It’s maddening, infuriating, and—if Lesso is honest—dangerously comforting at the same time. She feels it now as Dovey, with that infuriating grace and in that infuriatingly bright dress, pushes a few roasted potatoes from her own plate to Lesso’s, the gesture so casual, so intimate, it feels out of place.
Gray eyes flicker down to the potatoes, then up to Dovey’s face, her brow arching in a mix of surprise and skepticism. “What exactly do you think you are doing?”
Dovey smiles, the kind of smile that’s all warmth and light, the kind that bothers her so much. “An empty fireplace can’t burn,” she says with a shrug and begins to eat.
“I am fine,” Lesso interrupts, her tone hard. She pauses, choosing her words carefully as she fights the urge to snap at the other woman. “I don’t need fuel, or warmth, or whatever poetic nonsense you’re about to throw at me.”
“I don’t need your potatoes, Clarissa,” she says after a while, her tone lighter now, almost teasing, though there’s a bite to it. “Save your concern for someone who actually wants it.”
Dovey’s eyes soften, her smile barely faltering. “You may not want it, but that doesn’t mean you don’t need it.” She uses her fork to retrieve the potatoes, but the gesture isn’t proof of defeat. It’s more like she’s allowing Lesso the illusion of control, knowing full well that she’ll find another way to reach her. She always does.
Lesso straightens in her seat. She rolls her shoulders back and glances toward the students again, her sharp eyes scanning the room for any signs of trouble, already mentally preparing for the cold walk back to her own school. But Dovey’s warmth lingers, frustratingly constant, like a flame she can’t quite snuff out.
“Just—don’t,” she says quietly after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper.
Dovey reaches for her cup, taking a sip before responding. “I won’t push,” she says gently. “But I’ll be here. You know that.”