Thestral's Calling: Calista Snape Volume III
Sequel to "Always in Your Shadow" and "The Blood of Your Veins". Snape's daughter fic. After graduating from Hogwarts, Calista Snape's plans include a new career at St. Mungo's, working with the Committee for Experimental Charms, and building her relationship with her boyfriend, Gerald Boot — but shadows and blood still follow her and her father, as the Second Wizarding War approaches. AU, but all in-character; well-written. Follows canon wherever possible. GoF-DH. Main ship is OFC/OMC.
Rating: T+/M for violence, language, adult themes, some mild to moderate sexual content between consenting adults (not explicit). General recommendation 15+
Trigger Warnings: References to past child abuse and PTSD, violence in future chapters.
While it is not required to have read the previous two stories, it is recommended, because relationships between main characters have been previously established and some prior events will be referenced throughout.
—
1: The Shortest Summer
Calista Snape stood outside the dilapidated brick building, willing her heart to a normal pace. In the last few years, she had endured a barrage of psychic attacks by her mother, Bellatrix Lestrange; she had faced an agent of the Dark Lord disguised as her Defence teacher, and nearly been mauled by a werewolf who, ironically enough, also came in the form of a Defence teacher, and she had seen one of her best friends Petrified by a basilisk.
She had traveled the dark paths of memory, facing her own darkest memories as well as her father's. She had seen him willingly accept the Dark Mark in a ritual of blood and pain, and she had seen a vivid replay of the same Mark being set cruelly into the skin of her back long ago, by a wicked silver blade and her mother's hand, and still she had survived.
All of that, and countless other trials, should have made her fearless. After all, what could possibly lurk in the shadows of a worn-out old department store that could compare to the threats and fears she had already faced?
A job interview, that's what. Calista shuddered, and forced herself to take a deep breath, but it did little to steady her nerves. Still, even if she couldn't quell her fears, she could certainly conceal them. She carefully rearranged her features, and cleared the surface of her mind, erecting a barrier of calm in front of the jangling, chaotic thoughts within.
She glanced up at the weathered sign above the dusty window display, confirming for what had to be the hundredth time that she was in the right place. Purge and Dowse, Ltd., the sign read. Calista nodded, and leaned close to the window, where a dilapidated mannequin in an ugly green dress watched her silently.
"Erm, excuse me," Calista muttered, against the glass, "I'm here to see — er, I'm supposed to meet with Imelda Hipworth."
The mannequin jerked its head forward slightly, and lifted a beckoning finger. Calista took a deep breath, and stepped through the glass.
Inside was a bustle of activity; a queue of witches and wizards milled around a busy information desk, manned by a tired-looking witch with iron-grey curls. A mediwitch bustled by, carrying a tray of potions and instruments, and muttering something darkly under her breath about shift changes.
Calista was tempted to step back out the way she'd come; but of course, the dusty shop window had been a one-way illusion, and she'd need to exit by other means. Besides, she'd already come this far, and it wasn't just this job that she was here for. There was so much more at stake.
She reminded herself sternly of the postcard she'd received by owl, just three days ago:
Hello Miss Snape,
Splendid job on your exams — Ignus told me we got them in already, record time, I must say. I had an inkling you'd do well in Charms, of course, but I see you managed an Outstanding score in four other subjects, as well. We're very eager to have you come and work with us; do be sure to send word once you've officially started at St. Mungo's, so we can begin the process of having you contracted out to us. It's looking like once a week, probably on Fridays, since we're down a healer that day and you did say you were capable of lending a hand in that regard, as well.
Looking forward to working with you — oh, and don't pay much mind to Astra.
Sincerely,
Gilbert Wimple
She had no idea what he meant by 'Astra', but since she wanted nothing more than to work with the Committee for Experimental Charms, and was remarkably being offered the chance through a very clever loophole in the rules requiring three years' experience and an official nomination to do so, the note was otherwise very encouraging.
She squared her shoulders, inwardly thanking Professor Flitwick for the umpteenth time, for helping her publish her research in the Experimental Charms Journal, and for introducing her to Mr. Wimple and to Mr. Ivanforth, who headed the Committee.
"Hello? Miss? Which floor do you need?"
Calista started slightly, realising belatedly that she'd reached the front of the queue, and that the harried-looking witch behind the reception desk was addressing her with more than a modicum of impatience.
"Oh," she said, hastily, "I'm sorry — erm, I need Potions —"
"The Potions and Plant Poisoning ward's on the third floor," the receptionist said, in clipped tones, "Which patient are you here to visit?"
"Huh? Oh — no, I'm not visiting a patient, I'm here to meet with Imelda Hipworth. About — erm, about a job."
The witch leaned forward and peered at her over the counter, seeming to take her measure.
"You're here about a job?" she asked, frowning. "In Hipworth's department?"
Calista nodded. "Yes. I do have an appointment."
"Hm." The witch lifted a brow, bordering on dismissal, and then shrugged, as if it were of no concern to her. "Well, you asked for the wrong department. Potions Brewing is in the basement —"
"Of course it is," Calista muttered, feeling a stab of disappointment. Seven years in a dungeon wasn't enough, apparently; she was still going to have to spend most of her time below ground.
"You get to it through that portrait, over there —" The witch smirked, suddenly. "Well; that's the way down there, anyway. I doubt you'll actually get through."
In an instant, Calista abandoned her careful plan — and her father's advice — of displaying only her best behaviour. She scowled, menacingly. "Precisely what is that supposed to mean?"
The witch took a surprised step back, brow going up again, and then, maddeningly, she grinned.
"Well, well," she said, "Maybe you'll prove me wrong after all, eh? Go talk to the portrait, dear."
Calista opened her mouth, but even if she'd had a follow-up retort, the receptionist had already moved on to the next person in the queue. Calista frowned, and walked over to the indicated portrait.
It was an oil painting, of a stern, middle-aged man with silver hair; in front of him, vials and jars of Potions ingredients lay spread around on a dark table, and a heavy pewter cauldron stirred itself. A tiny lacquered plaque was affixed to the wall, beneath the painting. Calista leaned down to read it, squinting at the tiny letters:
Gaspard Shingleton. Celebrated Inventor of the Self-Stirring Cauldron.
"What on Earth are you looking at down there, young lady?"
Calista started, for a second time. She looked up, meeting the portrait's oversized gaze.
"I was reading your plaque."
"Reading my plaque? Am I to take it, then, that you don't know me by sight?"
"Erm — am I meant to? I do know about your cauldrons, though." She couldn't help but wrinkle her nose, slightly, when she said it. She could practically hear her father's voice, slinking into her eardrum, a coiled snake of disapproval.
Self-stirring cauldrons, it said, contemptuously, What's next — self-spelling wands?
"Well, of course you do," the portrait said, a bit haughtily, "Everyone does. They're revolutionary. And, as it happens, they've made me very, very wealthy."
"Erm. Good for you, I suppose."
"Yes," the portrait said, though she noted that his voice had gone quite flat. "Good for me, I suppose, indeed. Now, then — this area's off limits, except to employees. You should get to wherever you're getting, and leave me to my wealthy misery."
Calista blinked. "All right," she said, "But this is where I'm getting to — or at least that's what I was told. I need to get into the Potions Brewing Department; I have an employment interview."
The portrait peered at her closely now, much as the receptionist had done. "Do you, now?"
Calista felt a flare of impatience in her chest. "Do you get a lot of visitors falsely claiming they're here for a job?" she queried, a bit crossly; between the receptionist and the portrait, she'd been delayed nearly ten minutes, and in another five, she would be late.
The portrait smirked. "Perhaps. Imelda asked you to come in, did she?"
"Obviously. Is this really a problem you face? People coming in for imaginary interviews?"
"Oh, heavens no," the portrait said, with a dark little chuckle. "The interviews are real enough; it's just that most of the dunderheads they send to me haven't got the slightest chance of making it a week into the job."
"Dunderheads? I can't imagine the calibre of applicants you've seen so far, but I scored Outstanding in Potions at both the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. level, and I achieved a perfect score on the Poisons and Antidotes exam — oh, and I always stir my own cauldron, thank you very much."
She added this last bit contemptuously; too late, she realised her mistake. Pompous and irritating though this particular portrait may have been, it was her portal to the job interview that she was supposed to be at in precisely two minutes.
The portrait narrowed its eyes. "I'm going to overlook that last bit," it said, and then: "Tell me, young lady, what would you do if you saw someone adding too many porcupine quills to a Burn-Healing Paste?"
"There are no porcupine quills in a Burn-Healing Paste," Calista snapped, impatiently; her interview was in one minute, now, and at this rate she was never getting through. "And if I did see someone adding them, I'd freeze their cauldron and then duck for cover, because they'd explode immediately upon contact with the fire salamander scales — and by the way, self-stirring cauldrons weren't invented that long ago, aren't you still alive? I thought sentient portraits were only supposed to be painted of dead people."
The portrait glowered. "Astra might as well be the death of me," it muttered, and then, astoundingly — finally — it swung open.
"Imelda," the portrait called, haughty voice echoing down the hall, "Your two o'clock is here — and I do hate to admit this, because she's an impetuous little wretch, but she's got the job."
"Huh?" Calista blinked, just as a matronly woman she'd seen plastered over many of the posters in the hospital's' lobby approached, clad in no-nonsense brown robes.
"Miss Snape, I presume?" the woman said, meeting her in the space behind the shadow of the still-open portrait.
"What?" the portrait snarled, muffled through the back of its canvas, "Snape? I just hired a Snape? And I thought my day couldn't possibly get any worse —"
"Imelda Hipworth," the woman said, extending her hand to shake Calista's, and neatly interrupting the portrait's railing with her crisp tone, "Head of the Potions Brewing Department at St. Mungo's. You've already met our benefactor, Mr. Shingleton. Come with me, please, and I'll introduce you to the rest of the staff — or at least, the ones that will be working the day shift with you."
She followed Mrs. Hipworth down into the space behind the portrait. The portrait swung abruptly closed, enveloping the small corridor in sudden darkness. Mrs. Hipworth sighed, and lit her wand, and then she tapped it to a tile at the other end of the space, revealing a well-lit corridor beyond.
"Honestly," she muttered, "They deserve each other; this way, Miss Snape."
She followed into a rickety lift at the end of the corridor, that brought them below ground. They turned a corner after getting off the lift, into yet another corridor with one door at the end, and one at either side of it, against the left and right walls. but it was one against the left wall that Mrs. Hipworth was motioning her through.
"That one's the other entrance to this department," Mrs. Hipworth explained, gesturing to the door at the very end of the hall, "You'll use that one when you come in to work, I expect, it's faster — remind me to show you the way in before you leave. Across the hall is where the Apprentice Brewers and the interns work, making the simpler potions — Pepperup Potions, Boil-Cure Potions, that sort of thing — but you'll be in here."
She pushed open the left-hand door; Calista caught Antidotes — Authorised Personnel Only lettered in black against the frosted glass.
Despite the room's underground location, it glowed brightly with what Calista could only assume was artificial daylight, streaming in from above; it reminded Calista very strongly of the Enchanted Ceiling in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, except that she'd just been outside, and it wasn't as sunny out there as it was in this stone-walled room.
There was a large worktable at the center, directly beneath the enchanted skylight, around which workstations were set up at evenly-spaced intervals; each of them contained a self-stirring cauldron, at least of three of which were actively stirring themselves. Two figures were hunched over other cauldrons, muttering to themselves and adding ingredients. They glanced up, periodically and grimly, as if checking for a sinister professor to appear at their shoulder.
Mrs. Hipworth led Calista to this work area, and introduced her to the two that were there, a man and a woman, both of whom appeared grizzled, tired, and not at all in the mood to meet new company.
"Griselle, Hector, this is Miss Calista Snape. She'll be joining you on the day shift — she's very well-versed in antidotes. Miss Snape, this is Griselle Jones and Hector Fortunado. They've both been with the department for a very long time."
"Oh, aye," Griselle muttered, "Long time — before she was here, and before these blasted cauldrons —"
"That will do, Miss Jones," said, matter-of-factly, "Come, Miss Snape. I'll show you the Supply Room."
She led Calista to a thick black door set in the left-hand wall. Inside, illuminated shelves rose from floor to ceiling, stocked with neatly labelled, perfectly organised ingredients. She felt her first glimmer of excitement since arriving, despite herself; like the room beyond, the Supply Room was well lit, and it would be easy to find whatever she was looking for, here.
"Oh," she commented, spying the packaging date on a jar of terag leaves, "These labels are very helpful — you can tell when the ingredients are at their peak."
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Hipworth said, a bit proudly, "We have a state-of-the-art setup here; it's all thanks to Mr. Shingleton's generosity. Before he made this department his personal project, it was just me, slaving over a dented cauldron in a closet."
She chuckled, in an odd, dark fashion that led Calista to believe that she wasn't exaggerating at all. She looked around, wondering what massive sum of money it must have taken to turn a single cauldron in a dingy closet into all this.
A murmur of voices carried from somewhere out of sight — she realised, belatedly, that the supply room was even larger than she had initially imagined, and that they were not alone in it.
"Ah, that must be Kyle," Mrs. Hipworth said, bustling suddenly along the space between two of the tall shelves. Calista followed, flanked by every sort of root imaginable on one side, and a wall of eyeballs on the other. A rising male voice came into clearer focus as they neared the end of the lane.
" — not a reasonable substitute," the voice said, practically breaking with exasperation, "They're not even in the same genus, you can't be serious —"
"Oh, I'm quite serious," came a female voice, light and lilting. "Trust me, Kyle; you'll see, once the infarction's finished —"
"Infusion!" Kyle howled, just as he came into view, when Calista and Mrs. Hipworth rounded the corner, "It's an infusion, an infarction has nothing to do with potions — honestly, I can't —" he caught sight of the new arrivals, and stopped mid-sentence, pasting a false, awkward smile on his flushed face. "Oh. Mrs. Hipworth. Erm — hello, ma'am."
"Hello, Mr. Macmillan," Mrs. Hipworth said, quite pleasantly, as if she hadn't noticed Kyle's outburst. "I'd like you to meet your newest co-worker, Miss Calista Snape."
Kyle's face fell, the very picture of dread. "Snape? Not like — not the Snape —?"
Calista scowled at the man behind Mrs. Hipworth's back, but he was in her full view, and he didn't quite dare return it. He looked to be somewhere around five years her senior, and there was something vaguely familiar about him. She supposed she might have seen him around Hogwarts, but she couldn't recall with any certainty.
"If you're talking about Professor Snape," Calista said, levelly, "He's my father."
"Oh, splendid," Kyle said, in a tone that implied that it was anything but. He excused himself as quickly as possible; Calista could have sworn she heard him mutter, as he passed: "Another half-wit tyrant who'll think she's in charge —"
"Ahem," Mrs. Hipworth said, suddenly and with quite a bit more volume than was strictly necessary, "I have one final introduction to make, and it's the most important one; you see, I myself have many duties that take me beyond the scope of this department, and as such, you won't see me here in this unit on a daily basis."
"Oh." Calista glanced at the woman that stood a few paces away, and did an instant double-take.
She was strikingly beautiful, tiny and delicate-looking, with an angelic face and wide blue, china-doll eyes; her hair was an unnaturally pale shade of blonde that Calista was certain her Hogwarts rival, Olivia Avril, would have given her wand hand for, and despite the plain, serviceable robes that Mrs. Hipworth and the rest of the employees Calista had met wore, this woman was wearing silk robes that looked so fine and ornate that she thought even her Aunt Narcissa would have struggled to afford them.
"I don't generally get involved in the day-to-day workings of the department," Mrs. Hipworth said. Calista noticed that her mouth had gone quie thin, along with her tone. "That's all handled by my second-in-command; Miss Snape, I'd like you to meet our Senior Potions Expert. She manages the Potions Brewers directly; you'll report to her, and you'll look to her for instruction and, ah — training."
The blonde woman smiled prettily, but Calista had a keen enough eye to notice the glimmer of challenge in her eyes; she thought for the second time in as many minutes of Olivia Avril, her least favourite former Hogwarts roommate.
"Hello, Miss… Snape, did you say?" she didn't seem to direct the question to anyone in particular, and her gaze remained fixed at a point just to Calista's right side, as if she were not quite worthy of notice. "It's a pleasure, I'm sure. Allow me to introduce myself; I'm Astra Shingleton; my husband Gaspard is the benefactor of this ward."
Calista felt a sudden and distinct sinking in her gut. She had a feeling she knew, now, what Mr. Wimple had meant when he'd written Don't pay too much mind to Astra. That sounded well and good, but Mrs. Hipworth had made it sound like she'd be seeing a lot of this Astra woman…
"If you have any questions at any time, you can come to me," the woman said, in a melodic, lilting sort of voice, and then, confirming Calista's worst fears: "I'll be your direct supervisor."
"Well," Mrs. Hipworth said, in clipped tones, "I believe that's all in order. I have somewhere else to be, Miss Snape, so I'll see you out. You should get your hire paperwork by owl in the next few days, and we'll send a follow-up when you're cleared to start. It usually takes about two weeks."
She started to follow Mrs. Hipworth out; walking between the well-lit, superbly organised shelves, it was almost possible to allow herself to believe that this wouldn't be so bad, after all, despite a potentially troublesome supervisor. After all, who could possibly be a more demanding perfectionist than her father?
And then, she heard a sharp, pretty voice call after her:
"I do hope this one knows how to make a proper infarction, Imelda."
Great, Calista thought darkly, That arsehole Kyle, whoever he is, is right: she's a bloody halfwit.
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
"Calista, darling, do come in. I've just finished setting us tea in the sunroom."
In an instant, Calista was swept into the foyer of Malfoy Manor, and simultaneously into her Aunt Narcissa's arms; nevermind that they had only parted days ago, and that she'd just spoken to her aunt a few hours ago on the fire.
Aunt Narcissa wasn't always this affectionate, but she had her moments. Sometimes, they were terribly tender moments — like when Calista had finally confessed to her aunt a few scant details of the abuse she had suffered as a small child at her mother's hands, and Narcissa had held Calista in away she hadn't even realised she'd needed; in a way she'd never known that a mother was supposed to do.
Even when Calista had argued and grumbled, and generally behaved in a manner consistent with her status as a rebellious teenager, Narcissa had fussed and spoiled, providing her with an endless supply of clothes and cosmetics that Calista had, of course, claimed not to want and myriad books that she had accepted far more graciously.
More than that, she had repeatedly played the peacemaker between her niece and her husband, and even occasionally between Calista and her father, who had been much more reluctant than Narcissa to recognise and accept the telltale signs, over the years, that Calista was growing up.
Such moments were precious, and touching, and nearly impossible to explain, when her Aunt Andromeda or her cousin Tonks wondered why pleasing Aunt Narcissa, and keeping her portrait on the famed Black Family Tree intact, were so important to Calista.
But then, of course, there were the other moments when Narcissa showed her affection most readily; the awful, uncomfortable, gut-squirmingly embarrassing ones, like when Narcissa had decided that Calista needed a makeover at a snooty salon when she was thirteen, or when she had dragged Calista into a store full of brightly-coloured lingerie and refused to leave without supplying her with some.
There were some cringingly awkward conversations, too, where her aunt had compensated for her amusement at Calista's evident embarrassment with excessive tenderness; the conversation where she'd realised she wasn't in love with Marcus Flint, and the one a year and a half later when she'd realised she was in love with Gerald Boot; the one where her aunt had advised her in setting her physical boundaries with boys, or on how to know when she might be ready to have sex.
And then, there was this one; this day, this conversation, this inevitably embarrassing moment, which began with Narcissa's enveloping hug in the foyer, and was bound to end with Calista blushing furiously and wishing she'd done well enough in Transfiguration to be able to Vanish herself entirely, once and for all.
They made polite small talk for a few minutes — Calista recounted her experience meeting with the Head of the Potions Department at St. Mungo's, and Narcissa told Calista about the trio of tickets Lucius had gotten for the Quidditch World Cup, which somehow struck Calista as even more boring than her aunt's usual descriptions of shoes and dress robes.
Still, she'd have gladly listened to Narcissa talk about shoes or Quidditch for hours if it meant avoiding what she'd actually come to talk about.
"Now then, darling," her aunt said, lifting her teacup and her brow in one restrained gesture, "What have you come to ask me about sex?"
Calista spluttered, spitting a mouthful of tea back into her cup. Narcissa winced, and passed her a napkin, which Calista only clenched in her fist.
"I didn't say — I mean, how do you know that's what I wanted to talk about?"
Her aunt smirked. "You asked me four times to confirm that Lucius and Draco were going to be out."
"So? That doesn't mean I wanted to talk about that — and this tea tastes awful, by the way, what's in it?"
"There's no need to be rude or embarrassed," Narcissa said, "And it's herbal tea, dear. With thistle and wild carrot seed."
Calista blinked. "Those — aren't those used to reduce fertility, or whatever?"
"Ah," Aunt Narcissa smiled, delighted. "So you have been reading the books I gave you."
"Fine," Calista muttered, hunching her shoulders. She set her teacup back in its saucer, and clutched her napkin petulantly. "Yes, I've been reading them, and yes, all right, that's what I came to ask you about."
"Calista, there's no need to be so… churlish about this," her aunt said, a bit sternly, "It's all perfectly natural."
Calista took a breath, and tried to force her embarrassment out of her face. And to think, only days ago, she'd thought a job interview was going to be the hardest part of her summer. This was easily a hundred times more awkward.
"Fine," Calista said again, "So then — so what should I do, exactly? To be — erm — safe?"
"Well," her aunt said delicately, "You can't just start with intercourse, of course — you'll need to, ahem, prepare…"
Calista felt her jaw drop in horror. She shook her head, quickly. "That's not —"
It's all very individual, you know," Narcissa continued, "You'll have to experiment with your young man, to find out what you both like —"
"For Merlin's sake, stop!" Calista howled, "I know all that — I've read the books! I meant — erm — gods, this is horrible, why did I even come?"
"Really, darling, let's try to be a bit more mature about this…"
"I meant," Calista said, blushing furiously, "What's the best protection? The potion? Your stupid tea? The spell?"
It was Narcissa's turn to be offended, now. She squared her shoulders, lifting her brow archly.
"Excuse me?" she said, nose curling up in distaste, "Did you say the spell?"
"Yeah," Calista said, "The spell. Gerald said he would —"
Narcissa snorted delicately. "Darling, a man will say anything to get in your dress robes, but you can't trust them to actually follow through."
"I do trust Gerald, you know, or we wouldn't even be having this abysmal conversation…"
"Men forget," Narcissa said firmly, "Or they lie, or they bungle the spell — no, Calista, I will not allow any niece of mine to rely on the spell. For heaven's sake, child, you'll take the potion, of course."
"Which one, then? The… the Barrenating Brew, or the Contraceptive Concoction? Or… or should I just have this stuff?" She wrinkled her nose, unimpressed, at her still-full teacup. "The… herbal stuff?"
"Goodness no, Calista, the herbs in this tea only reduce your chances of conceiving, they don't eliminate them. You'll take the Contraceptive Concoction — the newer formula, the weekly one; it's easier on the stomach."
"Fine." Calista pressed her forehead into her hands briefly, and then rubbed her cheeks, as if she could wipe the colour off of them. She probably only succeeded in ruining her makeup. "So… So I just drink it once a week, then? When I'm… er, when I need it?"
"You'll drink it once a week, on the same night every week, starting tonight —"
"I don't need it yet —"
"You'll start it tonight, darling," Narcissa said, in an authoritative tone that Calista had only ever heard her use with Draco, one that sent shivers down her spine and that she didn't dare to question. "It takes two weeks to become fully effective, and it's better to be prepared sooner rather than too late; I have some to spare; I'll send you home with some, and then I'll give you the recipe I find works best — you'll make it yourself, I assume?"
"I guess so," Calista said, dubiously, "Though I can't imagine having to explain to Dad why I'm suddenly having so much milkweed delivered to the house. Maybe he won't notice —"
"I'm sure he'll pretend not to," Aunt Narcissa predicted wryly, "But if you'd rather, you can always purchase it; I've got a very reliable potioneer I can refer you to."
Calista blinked. "Store-bought potions? Are you mad? Dad might actually throw me out for that."
"Well, then," her aunt said loftily, "I suppose you'd better place a standing order for milkweed. Oh, and wild carrot seed; it does make a nice tea if you have a little extra."
Calista wrinkled her nose, looking down at her teacup as if it had personally offended her. "I beg to differ."
"You, differ? Honestly, I expect no less," Narcissa said, softening the gentle barb with a small, sly smile. "Now, then; you'll need new clothes for your new job, of course —"
"What's wrong with all the ones I already have?"
"Darling, they're last season. We'll plan an outing, a proper day of shopping — oh, and we'll go to the Well-Coiffed Witch, of course —"
Calista stifled a groan, but evidently not fast enough to evade Narcissa's keen eye.
"Unless," her aunt said, "You'd prefer to continue the previous conversation?"
"No, that's — uh, shopping's fine," Calista said quickly. "Let's talk about that."
Her aunt smirked. Calista settled back into her chair, and listened politely while her aunt prattled on about pointed-toe shoes and eyelash curlers and whatever other torturous ministrations she planned to subject her to.
Her aunt's shopping monologue, much like Professor Binns' lectures in History of Magic, was difficult to pay close attention for very long. She found her mind wandering while her nearly-untouched tea gradually cooled in front of her, and she hoped fervently that while she was thinking about runes and nodding at the lulls in Narcissa's speech that she wouldn't accidentally agree to something horrendous, like a pedicure or — even worse — another sex talk.
Calista did love her aunt dearly, and sometimes they did have interesting conversations, but on that day it was a relief when she was sent home, a couple of hours later, with nothing more than a knowing smile, a sealed sheet of parchment, and two tiny vials of a dull green potion — and of course, a plan to meet in London next week for the dreaded shopping trip, during which Calista sincerely hoped she would not be dragged into another lingerie shop full of horrible lacy things.
She did her best to pretend that she hadn't wondered, just for a moment, whether Gerald had an opinion on horrible lacy things.
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
One Saturday — her last Saturday living a life of relative of freedom from responsibility, since Narcissa's shopping trip had taken up the last one, and she was supposed to start her position at St. Mungo's on Monday, despite her misgivings — Calista woke to find that she had the Spinner's End home she shared with her father all to herself.
She shuffled into the kitchen, and frowned at the coffee pot on the counter. It was empty, which wouldn't have been unusual if she was the first one to rise, but it was already well past nine, and a plate in the basin that still had crumbs and bits of sausage on it confirmed that wasn't the case. She frowned, and glanced around the cosy kitchen, looking for other signs that her father had come and gone.
She opened the icebox, and saw that they were out of sausages — which was fine, she didn't like them anyway — but they were also, once again, out of nearly everything else, and she was nearly positive they'd had at least a couple of eggs and a half-stale muffin left, yesterday. She felt her stomach rumble impatiently, and she kept searching. She found a couple of slices of bread and a single, bruised apple and set them on the counter, and then she started on the most important thing — the coffee.
While the scent and sound of brewing coffee filled the little kitchen, Calista swept into the sitting room, intending to holler up the stairs in case her father was home — she'd ask him if he wanted some coffee, even he had eaten the last of their eggs — and then she noticed the torn-off bit of parchment on the coffee table, and a small pile of bronze and silver coins.
She lifted the note, scowling as she read the first sentence —
Calista,
I've gone out to run some errands, and I expect to be gone for most of the day —
"Seriously?" she groused, aloud, "I'm supposed to go visit Gerald today, and now I have to wait until you get home so I can let you know? You could have woken me before you left..."
She trailed off, as she registered the remainder of the note's contents:
Please leave a note for me here if you go out today. And pick up eggs and whatever else you think you'll want to eat the rest of the week. We're out of nearly everything, as I'm sure you've noticed by now. I'll leave some money.
— S
"You mean I can go out alone without answering a hundred questions first? Who are you and what have you done with my father?"
She inspected the note closely, but it was his handwriting. Calista lifted her brow, and allowed herself a pleased little smirk. Evidently, graduating Hogwarts and becoming a productive member of society — as of Monday, at least — did have its benefits.
She toasted and buttered the last two slices of bread and downed two mugs of coffee, and then she went back upstairs to shower and dress, in one of her favourite yellow tops and a pair of lightweight black trousers with large pockets for her wand and money, so she wouldn't need to bother with a cloak in the summer heat.
She took the money her father had left, and penned a quick note on the backside of his:
Dad -
I'm going to Gerald's house. I'll be home by dinner and I'll stop at the market on my way home.
-C
Truthfully, Calista had planned on asking her father if she could stay at Gerald's later — not least of all because he was almost certain to ask her stay for dinner and because he and his mother were both fantastic cooks, but eighteen years old or no, it was rare for Severus to give her so much freedom, and she didn't want to give him a reason to change his mind.
It was a quick, pleasant walk to her usual Apparition point, and an even shorter one from the point in South London to Gerald's home.
He must have been waiting for her; the door to his third-floor flat swung open almost as soon as her knuckles had touched it.
"Mon colibri," Gerald said, using his favoured nickname for her, from the French rune for hummingbird — a protective rune, and one that he had admitted, once, to associating with her since long before they were even friends, let alone an item. "I've been looking forward to seeing you all week."
"I could say the same," Calista said, following him inside the small, cosy sitting room that always seemed so much brighter and more lived-in than the one at her home, "How's everything going at work?"
Gerald Boot, who had been a year ahead of Calista at Hogwarts, was a Runes Translation Specialist for the Ministry's Department of Runes and Symbols, and he'd been asked to work late every night during the last week to assist with the translation of a sheaf of mysterious documents that had been owled in from Albania. It was why she hadn't seen him in over a week; still, separation was nothing new to them. Last year, she'd still been at Hogwarts and they'd managed to stay close with letters, and owled gifts, and only a handful of opportunities to meet in-person.
"Slowly," Gerald admitted, "And painstakingly. Some of the documents seem important, but some end up translating to old fairy tales; and then, some of them are nothing but gibberish, as far we can tell. I'll be on this project for a while, I think."
"Well," Calista ventured, just as she caught sight of a petite, kind-faced woman entering from the doorway beyond, which Calista knew contained a small, cramped, and very cheerful dining room, "I'm glad you got today off, at least."
"Calista, hello," Gerald's mother, Tina Underwood said, as she came up beside her son. She smiled, quite warmly. "It's good to see you; not least of all because I expect you'll keep Gerry's nose out of his books for the afternoon, eh?"
Gerald coughed, cheeks turning pink. "Mum."
"Actually," Calista admitted, sheepishly, "We were planning on doing some reading — There's a new Lovenworth out that neither of us have had a chance to look at yet…"
Gerald's mother chuckled. "Haven't you just finished school, Calista? I'd think you'd want to take a break from textbooks. Gerry's the same, of course; no wonder you two found each other."
"Erm, anyway," Gerald said hastily, before his mother could say anything else embarrassing about him, "The book — the Lovenworth — it's in my room."
Tina smiled knowingly. "Yes, go on, then. I won't keep you."
Calista followed Gerald to the smallish bedroom that he shared with his brother.
"I'm sorry," he said, flushing slightly as he led her to his side, which was as neat and pristine as she remembered it; two bookshelves were filled with titles arranged by subject — one with Muggle books and one with regular books — and the bed was neatly made. The other side of the room, however was a different story, and was the reason for Gerald's embarrassed apology. "I begged him to pick it up a bit before he went out to his friend Michael's house; he says he did."
Calista shrugged. "It's better than it was last time I was here, anyway."
That much was true; though the bed was unmade and clothes spilled out of half-open dresser drawers on the side of the room that belonged to his younger brother, Terry, the floor was at least clear.
"That's not saying much," Gerald said, going over to the first set of bookshelves on his side of the room; Calista recognised the new Lovenworth on the top. "I'm going to start looking for my own place, as soon as everything's sorted out with the courts. With him."
Gerald had a strained relationship with his father, Brandon Boot. When Gerald was younger, Brandon had been physically and emotionally abusive, and had even served time in Azkaban for the scars he had left on his son's body; not enough time, as far as Calista was concerned. Dolores Umbridge had rejected a letter from Gerald's mother as suitable testimony, simply because his mother was a Muggle, and that had been the main factor in his receiving a lighter sentence. Since his release when Gerald was twelve, contact with his son had been strained, but Gerald had maintained it based on his father's promise to leave Terry alone as long as Gerald kept in touch. A few months ago, Calista had helped Gerald uncover that Brandon hadn't been keeping his end of the bargain; not only had he been in contact with Terry, but he'd also begun to set in motion a plot to gain physical custody of Terry in order to claim his sons' share of the Boot family wealth that had been placed in a trust for them.
Gerald had kept his contact with his father secret, in the hopes of sparing his mother and brother from having to deal with the man, but it had all come out when the plot was uncovered, and Gerald's mother had revealed the existence of a protective order Brandon had violated by contacting Gerald. They were in the midst, now, of a dispute in the Muggle courts to try and hold him accountable for doing so; whether a victory in the courts would keep Brandon, a wizard, at bay remained to be seen.
"Have you heard anything else?" Calista asked, with a small frown. Gerald shook his head.
"Not since the last time I wrote to you about it. Mum's friend Helen — the police officer, you remember — says it probably won't be settled until sometime in October, or even later."
"Let me know if you need me. For anything."
Gerald offered a small, grateful smile. "I'll need to testify at some point," he said, "If you can accompany me, I'd really appreciate just having you there."
"Of course," Calista said, nodding. "I'll be there; I promise."
"Merci, mon colibri."
Calista ducked her head, hiding her expression under pretense of reaching for the book in his hands, and looking at the cover. Gerald's uncle, his mother's half-brother, lived in France, and had taught Gerald to speak and read French — a skill that he mainly used, as far as Calista could tell, to make her blush.
And I suppose, she added, internally, recalling a conversation they'd had the day she'd graduated from Hogwarts, to disguise lists of forbidden spells.
It was strange; she knew Gerald very well — they'd been close friends for quite some time before admitting their mutually developing feelings for each other almost a year and a half ago — but it seemed like there were always new things to discover about him. That the former Head Boy and Ravenclaw Prefect had once harboured a streak of rebellion was one of her favourite recent discoveries; she had a secret plan to draw a bit more of it out of him, if she could. She supposed it was the Slytherin in her, or perhaps just the Snape.
"In the interest of utmost honesty," Gerald said, sheepish once more, as he held the book out between them, "I should admit that I've already looked through it a bit."
Calista quirked a brow. "You checked the index, didn't you?" she accused.
"I did," Gerald admitted, and she bit her lower lip to keep her grin in check. It was a strange habit, but one they both had, to check the index of a new text first, rather than the contents. It was one of her favourite things about him, as silly as it seemed. "And I admit, I was a little — no, I won't spoil it for you. Look for yourself, and let me know what impression you get."
Calista accepted the book, and opened the back cover, eyes skimming over the first page of the index. "Ancient symbolism, chapter four," she murmured, "Cyrillic predecessors, chapter two…"
She frowned, unconsciously perching on the only place in the room to sit — the edge of Gerald's bed. She turned the page, and kept skimming.
"Predictive patterns, celestial — sedimentary significance — it sounds like he's just rehashing everything from Symbols of Stone and Star."
Gerald perched next to her, and his sudden weight and closeness on the bed beside her made her realise belatedly where she'd sat; she'd only been in his room a couple of times, and she had never actually sat down. She felt a funny flutter in her chest, and was suddenly tempted to tear eyes away from the book, in favour of the young man beside her.
"That was my first impression, too," Gerald said, hovering his chin above her shoulder, to look at the pages with her. Her skin felt suddenly warm; she suppressed a tingle along her spine. Even now, after so long, the ghost of her old nemesis, the hair-twirling, blushing, hormone-driven girly-girl that lived inside her, couldn't seem to help but surface when she was close to him. Especially when he started speaking French, though of course she was still largely committed to pretending to dislike a lot of the cornier things he did. "I was tempted to start reading and see, but I did promise to wait for you."
"You did promise," Calista agreed; she turned the page, simultaneously trying to place and to ignore a familiar, tantalising scent that seemed to be clouding her senses, all of a sudden. "Where… where should we start?"
Gerald shifted, so that he could see the book more clearly over her shoulder. It also brought them closer together; she could feel the warmth and solidness of him all along her left side.
"I'll let you decide," he said, quietly; she felt the tickle of his breath at the side of her neck, and a sudden, nearly irresistible urge to set the book aside and just start kissing him. She would have done it, but what if he didn't want to? The book had come out a week ago, and he had immediately offered to wait to read it until she could come over; what if that was what he'd really been looking forward to? "Which chapter would you like to read first?"
Calista took a deep breath, an attempt to steady herself, but it didn't help much, because she could still smell that familiar mixture of scents —
"It's Amortentia," she said, identifying the scent; and then, realising she'd done so aloud, she felt her cheeks tingle with telltale warmth.
"Hm?" Gerald pulled back slightly; furrowing his brow, and she looked over at him. Even with — no, especially with the inquisitive look on his face, he was so damn cute. She allowed her gaze to sweep over him properly, taking in his neat brown hair, the warm brown eyes behind a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles, the ubiquitous blue button-up Muggle shirt of the sort he'd taken almost exclusively to wearing since she'd admitted she liked them on him — and then she felt the heat from her cheeks spread into other places, as she realised the implication of the fact that he'd deliberately worn something he knew damn well she found him attractive in.
"Amortentia," she said again, slightly braver, "I made it in my second year — in my wardrobe at school, for Olivia's parents, or so she said — it wasn't really for them, of course, she gave it to Colin Greengrass — but I've just realised that what I'm smelling right now is exactly what Amortentia smells like to me."
Gerald blinked. Several things seemed to occur to him at once. He settled for:
"You remember the smell that well from six years ago?'
"Erm. Not exactly. I made it for my N.E.W.T. exam too, but I was trying to show off by reminding you that I could make a sixth-year potion when I was twelve."
Gerald blinked again, and then he reached one hand up, tentatively; he set his fingers lightly at the base of her jaw. He seemed to be waiting for something: permission, perhaps, but that might have been Calista's wishful thinking.
"Show off?" He echoed quietly, "You really couldn't possibly impress me any more than you already have," and then, with a small quirk at the corners of his mouth: "Mais bien sûr, si tu veux l'essayer de toute façon …"
"One of these days," she warned half-heartedly, "That's going to stop working…"
"J'espère sincèrement non." Gerald moved his fingertips slightly, drawing them closer to the corner of her mouth. Calista shivered, and then:
"Maybe — maybe we can save the book for next time…"
As if he'd been waiting for her to say so, Gerald plucked the book lightly from her hands, closing the cover, and setting it down carefully on the bed, a good distance behind and away from them; then, he placed his other hand on her shoulder, and pulled her close, closing the distance between them —
"Quid faciemus, pro lectio libri?" she posed, smirking, in the instant before his lips touched hers. What shall we do, instead of reading?
She felt Gerald exhale, and it was only with concentrated effort that she refrained from finishing what he'd started; but this, the clever flirtations in French and in Latin, were one of her favourite parts — and, judging from the rapidly rising colour in Gerald's cheeks, and the visible flutter of his pulse at the hollow of his throat, he felt the same way.
"Nous pouvons… nous… " Gerald faltered, and Calista suppressed a grin of triumph. He wasn't often at a loss for words, and somehow, it struck her as even sweeter and more flattering than whatever pretty, practised phrase he would have said.
"Je t'aime," Gerald finally said, swallowing hard. "And I want to kiss you now, very badly."
"Ad osculum mihi, mea dulcis noctus," she teased, adding her romantic nickname for him, a reference to his Patronus. Then kiss me.
He did, quite eagerly; first her mouth, and then her jaw, along her neck — and then his fingers went lightly to her ear, tracing the outer edge and for the life of her, she could never figure out precisely how he made that feel so nice, and so much more intimate than it should have, but he always did.
"Te amo," she heard herself blurt out, and this time it was Gerald's turn to grin, briefly, with triumph. He shifted even closer, wrapping one arm around her; if he leaned back, she'd land on top of him. She found herself suddenly wishing he would.
"Mon beau colibri," he murmured; and then, tantalisingly, he stopped the movement of his fingers, lifted them away from the shell of her ear.
"Que veux-tu faire maintenant?" he asked, slyly, perfectly imitating her earlier tone, "Au lieu de lire?" What do you want to do now, instead of reading?
Calista felt suddenly very warm, and she could feel her heart pulsing at her throat in exactly the same way Gerald's was; but she was an extremely accomplished Occlumens for her age, and she managed to keep her expression in check; she felt the corners of her mouth flicker into a coy smirk. If this was going to be a competition — well, it was common knowledge that Slytherins really didn't like to lose.
She touched his cheek, running her palm along his jaw and down his neck — when she reached his collar, she let her fingers work the top two buttons loose, and touched her fingertips against his collarbone while she worked the third with her other hand.
"Je veux te toucher," she said, very quietly, mirroring precisely an earlier conversation, from months ago — from when they had finally revealed their scars to each other, and each had promised that it didn't make a difference, that they still found the other beau, or belle, respectively.
Gerald's reaction, however, wasn't quite what she'd been expecting. His flush deepened exponentially, and he dropped his eyes.
"Erm — that — about that," he managed, stuttering over a breath, "I — erm, I was talking to my Uncle Gérald, and — uh, it turns out that it's not really a direct translation, like I thought I was saying."
Calista blinked, pausing her fingers' work. "It's not? What does it mean, then?"
"It's, ah — " Gerald licked his lips, nervously. "It's — still the same, except that there's a very — erm, well it's evidently understood as a very — uhm, intimate thing to say…"
"Yeeees," Calista said slowly. Her fingers twitched, eager to return to their previous activity. "And?"
"And…" Gerald swallowed. He still looked uncertain; but she caught a flicker of something else in his eyes — did he look, suddenly, hopeful? "Wait a minute, are you saying you already guessed that?"
"Well, it wasn't exactly a profound leap in logic, given the circumstances — are you saying you didn't mean it that way?"
Gerald blinked rapidly; he was starting to look comically, pleasantly surprised, as if she were informing him that he'd just won the lottery.
"Erm." Gerald exhaled. "I… I'm not certain if there's a correct way to answer that question."
She felt a sudden upwelling of a completely different and unwelcome rush of heat, starting in her gut and finding its way to her cheeks, reddening them for the worse.
"Great," she muttered, embarrassed, pulling her hands away from him and into her own lap. "Now Ifeel like an idiot — I'm sorry —"
"Huh — No, no!" Gerald murmured urgently, and he reached for her hands, pulling her gently back towards him. "Please don't — I didn't mean…"
"I know you didn't mean it like that," Calista hissed, scowling, "At least, now I do. Obviously. I should — I think I should go."
"Calista," he said quietly, tightening his grip on her hands just slightly as she made to pull away, "Mon cœur, please. I was just — I… I'm trying not to presume, I've been trying to be polite, but of course I want — " He sucked in a breath, and then: "Je veux te toucher, mon beau colibri; j'y pense, je pense à toi…"
She swallowed, and stopped trying to withdraw. "You… you do? I mean… like that?"
"Yes." His gaze swept over her then, in a way that made her breath catch in her throat. "Obviously."
She exhaled, and nodded. The more pleasing warmth was creeping its way back through her veins, after all.
"Okay," she said quietly, after a moment, and then: "I've started taking the potion. Just… just so you know."
Gerald's eyes went briefly wide, and then — and then, he let go of her hands, carefully, and leaned close, reaching for her — gods, he was going to kiss her again, and this time, she hoped he knew that he didn't have to be so damn polite —
Too late, Calista registered the distant clatter of a door, and feet, and the chatter of voices — and then, a second later, the sounds from beyond the room were much less muffled, and she heard Gerald's little brother's voice, just as they sprang apart, a few seconds too late —
"This is my room, I share it with my swotty broth —"
"Terry!" Gerald scowled, instinctively turning as if to shield Calista from view of Terry and whatever friend he'd brought along, even though she was — apart from her flaming cheeks and whatever look undoubtedly occupied her eyes — entirely decent, "Didn't Mum tell you I'm in here — get out!"
"Are you snogging your girlfriend in my room again? You get out — "
"Terry!" Gerald's mother scolded, from somewhere just beyond the doorway, "I thought I told you to bring Michael outside to play —"
"I was showing him my room!"
"Show him another time," Tina said firmly; she either convinced Terry or dragged him out, because he and his friend retreated; the door slammed a fraction of a second later, reverberating along the walls and causing both of them to start violently; Gerald recovered first.
"I'm so sorry," he moaned, evidently mortified, "He wasn't supposed to be home until later — I really need to start looking for my own place…"
"Maybe we should have just gone to my house. Dad was out this morning."
"Perhaps — ah, perhaps we'll keep that in mind, for next time…"
"Yeah. Uhm, Gerald?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think I can borrow the Lovenworth?" she asked, "When you're done with it? Something tells me we're not actually going to get around to reading it together…"
Gerald grinned sheepishly, and reached behind him.
"Here," he said, holding it out, "You can read it first; it's really the least I can do, to apologise for my brother barging in on us again. And for — er — making you worry."
"That seems reasonable. Don't worry, I'll be careful with it."
Gerald spluttered and coughed, and Calista frowned, concerned, reaching uncertainly for his shoulder.
"Are you all right?"
"I — yes," Gerald said, recovering, "It's just — you have no idea — that was one of the first things I ever said to you, that first day that we really talked. We… you hated me, at first —"
"Hate's a strong word."
"You hated me," Gerald repeated, matter-of-factly, "Until I got you talking about Lovenworth — and then — it was awful, I'd been trying to figure out how to be your friend for ages, and the first time you actually gave me the time of day and I offered to let you borrow my book, I had to go and blurt out 'Be careful with the spine' —"
Calista grinned. "I remember that."
"I was mortified, when I thought about it later," Gerald admitted, "I'm still mortified."
"Oh, come on. It can't have been worse than having a dwarf read a love poem written about you by your little cousin's best friend to your entire Arithmancy class."
Gerald made a funny little snorting sound in a failed attempt to stifle his laughter.
"That was — er, that was a fantastically bad poem, though I can't fault Goyle's muse selection." He smiled, hopefully, then. "Perhaps you'd prefer one of my poems…?"
Calista scowled. "No," she said, "Absolutely not. I have boundaries, Gerald, and poetry is one of them."
"One day, I'll convince you to change your stance on that…"
It was Calista's turn to snort, then, in disbelief. "That'll be the day."
"Yes," Gerald said, fondly and quite seriously, "I expect it will."
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
By the time Calista dragged herself out of Gerald's flat, Apparated back to Cokeworth, picked up groceries at the market, and hurried up the length of Spinner's End to the modified two-up two-down she shared with her father, it was well past six, and thus, well past the time she'd promised to be home.
She expected the front door to fly open as she approached; when it didn't, she wondered if Severus was so livid that he had gone out in search for her. It certainly didn't seem beyond the scope of things he would do; after all, he had tried to confine her to the castle, or to a particular room in the castle, on at least three separate occasions, all in the name of keeping her safe.
She hurried inside and locked the door behind her, setting the grocery bags down at her feet, and then she blinked in disbelief as she slowly realised the state of the room around her.
It was precisely the way she'd left it. The curtains were drawn against intense morning sun that no longer poured in through the panes; her quill and the note she'd penned with with were still in the same spot on the table; and, most surprisingly of all, no one swooped into the room to scold her for being out so late.
"Dad?" Calista called, uncertainly; her only reply was a plaintive mew, as her grey cat, inaptly named Yellow, slunk out from underneath the armchair where he'd evidently been napping.
She checked the entirety of the flat — the small kitchen, dominated by a round, wooden table and chairs that were as familiar to her as her own name; the upstairs rooms, her father's spartan bedroom and the storage space by the attic stairs; she even verified that the door to the washroom was ajar, and called up the attic stairs, even though the attic space was her bedroom, and he never went up there.
Severus simply wasn't home; and he didn't appear in the time it took her to put the groceries away, or in the ensuing hour afterwards, while she grew steadily hungrier and simultaneously more anxious.
He didn't appear while she gave in to the growling in her stomach and made herself a sandwich, or when nerves made her queasy and caused her to toss the remaining half of it in the bin; he didn't appear while she fed her cat and went out to the yard to feed both of their owls, or while she washed the small collection of dishes that was in the basin, just to keep her hands busy.
When she did finally hear the click of his key in the lock, and the murmured Charms as his wand tapped the door, it was an hour into her nervous pacing and almost nine o'clock.
Severus Snape strode into the the front room of the flat, looking — Calista took inventory immediately — unhurt and entirely unconcerned.
"Where the hell have you been?" Calista demanded, practically charging him, "It's almost nine o'clock, and I had no idea where you were — I've been thinking you went off after a bloody werewolf again —"
"Calista." Severus took his own brief inventory, ensuring that she was unharmed, even if she was far from unconcerned. "Calm down; I left a note — didn't you see it?"
"Of course I saw it," she said, gesturing towards the table, where her note had taken its place, "But you didn't say — I mean, I was expecting you home before this — you never said you'd be out all night — and you missed dinnertime!"
"I assumed you would be having dinner with Mr. Boot and his family," her father said, evenly, "Furthermore, I wasn't aware that I had a curfew."
"Your note only said you'd be gone most of the day," Calista said, accusingly.
"Yes, and as we still have, at my estimate, three hours left of it, it appears that my estimate was accurate —"
"And since when are you back to calling him 'Mr. Boot'?" Calista snarled, "It's Gerald, and I purposely didn't stay over there for dinner because I assumed you'd be waiting for me at home."
"Ah," her father said, after a moment. "It appears, then, that we both made incorrect assumptions. I suppose we should be clearer about such things in the future, to avoid unnecessary worry."
"Unnecessary?" Calista felt her brows go up. "Would it be unnecessary if it were the other way around, if you were waiting for me to come home?"
"I apologise, Calista," Severus said, still unnervingly calm, and even-toned. "Now, I would appreciate it if you'd let me take more than a single step into my own house."
Calista blinked. His behavior was suspiciously calm, his temper suspiciously even.
"Have you been Polyjuiced?" she asked, only half-kidding; Severus frowned.
"Don't you think that's a bit of an overreaction?"
"Maybe," Calista countered, shrewdly, "But as that's generally your territory, and you're acting like you've just spent all day in a room full of kittens —"
Severus sneered, lip curling in disgust.
"Right," Calista amended, "You're acting like how a normal person would be, if they'd just spent a day in a roomful of kittens — so I suppose it's like you spending the day growling at them and calling them 'sodding little hairballs' — and it all seems suspiciously out of character. Where have you been all day, anyway?"
"Ah," her father said, and suddenly his trademark ill humour was firmly in place; he practically spat the his reply, she glowered at her, slipping past her into the kitchen.
"That is absolutely none of your business."
Calista blinked, again. Well, it was certainly him, all right.