Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was a grey morning over the Endless Woods, the kind of mist-heavy dawn that clung to every tower and treetop like a shroud. From the arched window of her office in the School for Good, Clarissa Dovey watched the fog swallow the landscape, her knuckles white around a porcelain cup of tea she had yet to sip. The light was brittle, the gold of the sun diluted to a weary pewter. The world, it seemed, was holding its breath.

But it wasn't the weather that held her captive. It was the clock.

Today, the School for Evil would welcome its new Potions Mistress. A woman plucked from the darkest corners of the woods, whose name had been a whisper on the School Master’s lips for months: Lady Lesso. Formidable, they’d said. A prodigy of dark arts, dangerously sharp. Clarissa told herself the rumors were irrelevant, merely gossip to distract from the rigors of a new term. She was the Dean of Good. She had curricula to approve and fairies to manage. She was not intrigued.

Yet she found herself crossing the bridge far earlier than necessary, the curriculum revisions in her satchel a flimsy excuse. Her heels clicked a sharp, defiant rhythm on the ancient stone, her crimson cloak a slash of color against the gloom.

She felt the change before she saw her.

The air in the School for Evil was always heavy, thick with the residue of old enchantments and adolescent cruelty. But this was different. The cold was sharper, the shadows deeper, imbued with a silent, predatory stillness. It was the scent of nightshade and cold earth, of something ancient and patient.

And then, she was there. Standing by the entrance to the black-tiled atrium as if she had been carved from the very obsidian of the castle walls.

Lady Lesso.

She was impossibly tall, clad in a black coat cut with such severe precision it seemed held together by shadows and spite. The high, stiff collar framed a face of pale, aristocratic beauty, dominated by eyes the color of a frozen lake. When she moved, turning her head toward the sound of Clarissa’s approach, the crimson silk lining of her coat flashed like a sudden wound.

Clarissa stopped. She recognized the look in those eyes, a look she had only ever read about in forbidden storybooks. It was not simple cruelty, but a chilling, possessive intelligence. Hunger wrapped in centuries of restraint.

“Dean Dovey,” Lesso’s voice was a low velvet caress, rich as aged wine and just as intoxicating. Her lips, a shade of dark burgundy, parted in a slow, deliberate smile. “I have heard… an impossible amount about you.”

The title felt like a test. A subtle jab at her authority, her very essence. “Professor Lesso,” Clarissa corrected smoothly, arching a brow. “Welcome to the school. Your reputation precedes you.”

“A reputation is merely a story others tell,” Lesso murmured, taking a step forward. “I prefer to write my own.”

She offered a hand. The handshake was brief, her skin unnaturally cool against Clarissa’s warmth. But their eyes held for a moment longer than propriety allowed—a silent, crackling exchange of challenge and assessment. Clarissa felt a tremor run through her, a thrill of something perilously close to fear, or perhaps… fascination.

The spell was broken by the measured footsteps of Professor Sheeks, the Head of Discipline, his grey robes blending into the stone. "The staff is assembled," he announced, his tone devoid of warmth. "Dean Dovey, Professor Lesso. If you’d follow me."

Clarissa gave a curt nod, her composure a shield she pulled tight around herself. "Of course."

Lesso fell into step beside her, a silent, looming presence. Their cloaks brushed, black wool against red silk, and Clarissa fought the urge to pull away. Walking beside her felt like walking alongside a storm cloud, waiting for the lightning to strike.

The grand chamber of the School for Evil was all shadows and spires. Teachers from both schools lined the obsidian table, their faces pale and shifting in the enchanted candlelight. As Clarissa took her seat—directly across from the empty chair reserved for the new Potions Mistress—she felt the weight of dozens of curious eyes.

When Lesso entered, a hush fell over the room. It wasn't just attention; it was a shift in the very energy of the space. She moved with an unnerving grace, her gaze sweeping over the assembled faculty with a cool, dismissive air before she took her seat. No formal introduction was offered. None was needed. Her presence was its own declaration.

Throughout the meeting, Clarissa found her attention drifting. She watched Lesso. She noticed how the woman’s posture never changed, a model of coiled stillness. How she rarely seemed to blink, her focus absolute. How, when a goblet of what looked like dark wine was placed before her, she did not touch it, her long, elegant fingers resting motionless on the table beside it.

It was when Professor Anemone was droning on about greenhouse regulations that Clarissa saw it clearly. Lesso tilted her head, a flicker of something like amusement in her eyes as she listened, and the candlelight caught the sharp, pearlescent tip of her fang. It was not a trick of the light. It was a fact.

Clarissa’s breath hitched. Her heart gave a single, painful thud against her ribs.

Vampire.

The word screamed in the sudden silence of her mind, a revelation that re-contextualized everything: the unnatural cold, the predatory grace, the ancient hunger in her eyes. It was impossible. It was insane. And yet, she knew with a certainty that chilled her to the bone that it was true.

Lady Lesso was not just a brilliant witch. She was something else entirely.

For the rest of the meeting, Clarissa could not look away. Nor, she realized with another jolt, did Lesso look away from her. Across the table, through the flickering candlelight and swirling shadows, their gazes remained locked in a silent, dangerous duel.

When the meeting was finally adjourned, the room erupted into chatter. Clarissa remained seated, her mind racing. She felt a presence beside her and looked up into Lesso’s frozen-lake eyes.

“A rather… tepid affair,” Lesso commented, her voice a low murmur meant only for Clarissa. “I trust my classes will prove more stimulating.”

“I’m sure they will be… educational,” Clarissa replied, her voice steady despite the frantic beating of her heart.

Lesso’s lips curved into that slow, knowing smile again. “Oh, I have no doubt. I find I have a great deal to teach.” She paused, her gaze dropping to Clarissa’s throat for a fraction of a second before meeting her eyes again. “And perhaps, even more to learn. I look forward to our time as colleagues, Dean Dovey.”

With a final, lingering look, she turned and swept from the room, leaving Clarissa alone at the table, the air around her feeling suddenly, terrifyingly cold. The war between Good and Evil had been waged for centuries. But Clarissa had the sinking, thrilling feeling that she had just met the war in person. And she, for reasons she refused to name, was utterly captivated.

Days bled into one another. Clarissa buried herself in her work, as usual, the golden light and cheerful pastels of her school a stark, almost painful contrast to the memory of shadows and crimson silk. The knowledge of what Lesso was settled in her chest like a shard of ice. A danger. A secret that thrummed between their two towers. She told herself it was her duty as Dean to be vigilant, to observe this powerful, unknown entity. It was a perfectly good excuse. It was also a lie.

She began noticing more. Patterns. Gaps. Late hours marked by the flicker of torchlight across the bridge, or the distant echo of boots on wet stone. From the highest balcony of the Good Tower, Clarissa would sometimes see a tall, black-cloaked figure disappearing into the fog—always at night, always alone. One evening, driven by a gnawing tension she couldn’t quite name, she followed.

She cast a simple glamour and slipped through the shadows, her magic keeping her footsteps silent. Down the paths that twisted toward the nearby village, she tracked the flash of crimson silk like a heartbeat in the dark. She shouldn’t have gone. But curiosity—no, responsibility—compelled her.

She found Lesso in a narrow alley behind the tavern, standing too close to a woman who swayed on her feet, eyes glazed. Lesso’s mouth was at the woman’s throat, not quite touching. Clarissa’s breath caught. And then—

The fangs.

They extended slowly, elegantly, like unsheathed blades catching the moonlight. Clarissa’s stomach lurched as she watched Lesso lower her mouth to the woman's skin with the delicacy of a lover. She didn’t drain her. It was precise, practiced, almost gentle. When she pulled away, the woman looked dazed but unharmed.

Clarissa turned and fled, heart hammering, her silk slippers barely making a sound on the moss-lined path back toward the Good Tower. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps, misting the night air. She didn't look back—not even once—but her mind replayed the scene over and over with sickening clarity. The way Lesso had leaned in, the moonlight catching on those impossibly sharp fangs, the soft sound the woman made as Lesso drank. Not agony. Not fear. Something else. Something dangerously close to pleasure.

She told herself she was horrified. That it was her duty as Dean to report this immediately, to confront the School Master, to do something .

But even as she ascended the spiral stairs to her quarters, Clarissa’s hands trembled not with revulsion—but with heat.

That image—Lesso's face bathed in moonlight, the ghost of red staining her lips, the controlled restraint in every calculated movement—was burned into her mind. She could still feel the phantom of those lake-glass eyes on her across the council table. Watching. Knowing.

Clarissa shut her door behind her and leaned against it, pressing a hand to her chest.

She had seen vampires before.

But she had never wanted one.

She told herself it was horror she felt.

It was not.

Several nights later, a note arrived. Delivered not by raven, nor by enchanted paper sparrow—but by shadow. Clarissa found it folded delicately on her pillow, the paper scented with rosemary and ash.

Dean Dovey,

I don't like being watched.

But I admire braveness.

If you're truly curious—and I believe you are—meet me in the gardens at midnight. Come alone.

There are matters of balance to discuss. And practicalities.

– Lesso

Clarissa read it twice. Three times. And when midnight came, she was already outside.

The moon bathed the gardens in cold silver. The scent of lavender and moss carried on the breeze. She found Lesso standing by the marble fountain, hands clasped behind her back, posture statuesque.

“You came,” Lesso said without turning.

“You knew I would.”

Lesso turned to her then, eyes catching the moonlight. “Curiosity, duty… hunger. They often masquerade as each other.”

Clarissa’s jaw tightened. “You’ve been feeding near the village. That’s a risk.”

“Not if you’re careful.” Lesso stepped closer. “But it is time-consuming. Discreet. Tedious. And frankly—beneath me. I was brought here to restore strength to the School for Evil. My work matters. The Nevers haven’t won in over a century. They need real guidance. And I need focus.”

Clarissa frowned. “And what does that have to do with me?”

Lesso’s smile was slow and deliberate. “You’re efficient. Devoted. You understand balance better than most. You know the importance of keeping Evil sharp… so Good doesn’t grow soft.”

Clarissa narrowed her eyes. “Say it plainly.”

Lesso met her gaze, calm and unflinching. “Let me feed from you.”

Clarissa recoiled—slightly. Enough to feel it. “You’re mad.”

“No,” Lesso said simply. “I’m offering an arrangement. Controlled. Clean. Private. You lose nothing. And I gain the strength I need to do what this school hired me to do.”

Clarissa stared at her. At the pale line of her throat, the impossible stillness of her body. “And what if I say no?”

Lesso tilted her head, her voice low and precise. “Then I keep slipping into the night, dividing my focus, chasing survival instead of strategy. And the Nevers continue to lose, generation after generation. Tell me, Dean Dovey—how many more failures before your ideals cost you the war?”

Clarissa said nothing for a long moment. Her hands were steady at her sides, but her mind raced. The logic was brutal. The proposal, chilling. And yet it made a kind of ruthless sense—one she hated herself for recognizing.

She thought of the School Master’s absent oversight. Of her own sleepless nights spent stitching together systems to preserve a balance teetering on collapse. Of the Nevers, disillusioned and angry in their repeated failures. Of Good, dulled by its own comfort. Of Evil, eroding without leadership worthy of its ambition.

And of the woman before her—poised, powerful, monstrous. Honest.

Clarissa drew a long, slow breath. "One rule," she said, her voice as sharp as cut glass.

Lesso raised a brow.

“I stay in control.”

Lesso’s smile widened—triumphant, reverent. “Naturally.”

She moved then, slower than expected, yet with a confidence that made Clarissa’s breath catch. With a grace only centuries of restraint could hone, Lesso stepped close—so close that Clarissa could feel the chill radiating off her skin like morning frost. The garden was deathly quiet, save for the rustling of leaves and the soft sound of water trickling in the fountain nearby.

Clarissa’s throat bobbed in anticipation. She kept her chin high, her expression unreadable, but her fingers curled slightly at her sides. Her heartbeat thudded like a war drum—quick, loud, traitorous.

“Is this where you bare your throat?” Lesso’s voice was velvet-smooth, a wicked purr against the moonlight.

“No,” Clarissa said evenly, though her voice held an edge of something else—something deeper, more breathless. “This is where I grant you permission.”

Lesso’s smile faded into something quieter. More serious. Her eyes searched Clarissa’s for a long moment. “Then I will take only what is needed. Nothing more.”

Clarissa gave a single nod.

Lesso’s hand, cool and gentle, lifted to cup Clarissa’s jaw. She tilted her head slowly, reverently, until the Dean’s throat was exposed, the moonlight highlighting the pale expanse of skin. And then, finally, Lesso’s fangs descended—not with monstrous suddenness, but like silk tearing under pressure.

The bite was sharp, exquisite.

Clarissa gasped—more in surprise than pain. The sensation was electric: pressure, heat, cold, hunger, and something else—something foreign and intimate all at once. Her hands found Lesso’s shoulders instinctively, not to push away, but to anchor herself. She stood still, the world spinning faintly around her, as Lesso drank.

It didn’t last long. Just a few measured seconds. When Lesso pulled back, her lips were stained crimson, but her eyes—her eyes looked almost... human. Softened. Moved.

Clarissa was flushed, breathing shallow, but she didn’t retreat.

“Are you all right?” Lesso asked quietly.

Clarissa nodded, slowly. “You took less than I expected.”

“I told you,” Lesso murmured. “Only what was needed.”

A silence stretched between them, charged with something unspoken. Then, with a sudden gentleness, Lesso reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind Clarissa’s ear.

“You’re remarkably brave, Dean Dovey.”

Clarissa held her gaze. “You’d do well to remember that.”

Lesso inclined her head in acknowledgment, her lips curling at the edges.

And then the garden fell quiet again, save for the quickening of two hearts, echoing like secrets in the dark.