Catalyst || Alastor Hartfelt x oc

01 // Curiosity & Control

New Orleans, 1913.
The air smelled like magnolia blossoms and river mud, and St. Augustine's Preparatory Academy sat like a polished pearl in the middle of the French Quarter—strict, prestigious, and utterly rotten beneath the marble floors.

It was the kind of school where the sons and daughters of old money learned how to smile with their teeth while sharpening knives behind their backs.

And nobody understood that art better than Calista Duveraux.

She walked through the front gates like she owned the place—because in every meaningful way, she did.
Dark waves of hair perfectly pinned.
A lace collar pressed to perfection.
Porcelain skin untouched by the Louisiana sun.
Hazel eyes that glittered with something sharper than innocence.

Behind her trailed her loyal shadows—Sylvie and Adrienne, the two prettiest, pettiest girls in school who hung on Calista's every word. They laughed when she laughed, bitched when she bitched, and obeyed unconditionally when she snapped her fingers.

"Darling, fix my bow," Calista drawled as they crossed the courtyard.

Sylvie hurried to adjust the ribbon at the back of Calista's dress.

Adrienne dusted off her shoulders.

Calista inspected their work with a bored sigh. "Acceptable."

Boys watched her pass with hungry eyes.
Girls stared with envy or secret longing.
She fed off all of it.

Because why wouldn't she?

She was the picture-perfect debutante: graceful, clever, adored, and believed to be morally impeccable.

That part was the funniest lie of all.

Calista collected people like jewelry—something to wear, shine, and discard when she tired of them.
She whispered poison into the ears of lonely girls until they believed she was their only friend.
She played with hearts the way other girls braided ribbons.

And though no one said it aloud, everyone knew the rumors.

Her body count—not of murders, but of bed partners—was shockingly high for the era.
Boys worshipped her.
Girls worshipped her.
And she offered affection only when it benefited her.

The school believed she was the ideal young woman.

She believed she was a wolf in silk.

But even Calista wasn't aware of just how dark the shadows beneath St. Augustine's ran—not yet.

Because students had started going missing.

First a sophomore boy, last seen walking home after Latin club.
Then a girl from the choir, swallowed between dusk and morning.
Then one of the groundskeepers.

Whispers swirled like storm clouds.

"Maybe they ran away."

"Maybe it's a criminal."

"Maybe it's... something else."

Calista didn't care.

Not until someone important to her disappeared.
Not until her perfect little kingdom began to crack.

Calista Duveraux didn't rule the school—she orchestrated it.

Every hallway was her stage, every student a piece she moved where she pleased. And she moved them well. Teachers adored her, boys worshipped her, and girls either clung to her or feared her. Sometimes both.

She walked through the double doors of St. Augustine's Academy like she owned the place—because in every practical sense, she did.
Dark hair pinned into soft waves, gloves immaculate, skirt pressed, hazel eyes sharp enough to cut glass. A beauty made for postcards and magazine covers, the kind mothers prayed their daughters would grow up to be.