9. Giving Thanks
After Calista returned from the washroom, clean and dressed once more, Gerald murmured his intention to do the same; he had already hurried back into his clothes, which Calista might have found slightly disappointing if she hadn't been able to see the top bit of his underwear where he'd tucked his shirt in haphazardly, and then her face had spread, unbidden, into a grin.
"You've got books on them!" she pointed out, gleefully, "How did I not notice that before?"
Gerald flushed, and immediately pulled his trousers higher, fastening them over the offending fabric. "Erm — because I tried extremely hard to make sure you didn't. I — I don't usually wear these, Mum got them for me ages ago as a joke, but nothing else was clean and I didn't really expect — uh —"
"I love them."
Gerald blinked, incredulously. "You've got to be having me on, they're ridiculous —"
She shook her head stubbornly, still grinning. "They're perfect, and I can't believe you didn't show me earlier; think of all the corny jokes we could have made… you could've told me you brought a book over you wanted me to look at —"
"You're mad," he said, but she could her a hint of amusement or admiration, despite his reddened face.
"Or," Calista said, "I could have asked you to show me the index…"
Gerald practically choked. "I — erm — Merlin, I wasn't prepared for this. Can you pretend I've just said something devastatingly clever and appropriately flirtatious, please?"
Calista bit her lip, but she suspected that it really did nothing to diminish her teasing grin. "En français, bien sûr?"
"Erm — yes." Gerald nodded weakly, "I promise I'll work on something clever for next time —" and then, he seemed to catch himself and he added, hastily: "Erm — that is, I mean — if you want — if there is — argh, I better just go wash up…"
"Okay," Calista said, and then as he lifted the trapdoor to go downstairs, still blushing like mad, she added: "Next time, I suppose we'll be reading Chapter Two."
Gerald sputtered, and just when she thought she'd won:
"You thought this was the first — what book have you ever read where the climax happens in the first chapter?"
Now, it was Calista who was furiously red. "Merlin's blood," she muttered, "I'm not letting you win again."
"I think perhaps I already have, mon cœur."
"Well," Calista managed, "I suppose we'll have to read the sequel to find out for certain, won't we?"
Gerald blinked, and smiled hopefully. "Sequel? I think I'd like — Oh! Wait, I've got something better than just a sequel."
"Better?" Merlin, how could that be possible?
"Calista. Do you remember the Muggle novels I picked out for you in that bookshop in Marseille?"
"Yes…"
"Good," he said, and his smile shifted wider, "Because I think we both agree the most disappointing part of a good book is when it ends — mon colibri, shall we call our reading exercise 'The Neverending Story'?"
It was Calista's turn to blink, then, and to smile. "Oh. I thought perhaps you were going to suggest we call it 'Great Expectations'.
"Well, I must admit, that rather works, too…"
For a moment, they mirrored each other's goofy, slightly lovestruck grins; and then, Gerald mumbled something about washing up again, and finally disappeared down the trapdoor.
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
While Gerald was downstairs, Calista tidied her room quickly, picking her discarded dress up off the floor and using magic to change her sheets and make the bed. She could hear faintly, the sound of water running just below her when she went to the far end of the room near the trapdoor to dry her hair in the small mirror that hung there; a few passes with a Steaming Spell and it was good enough.
She could still hear the water running downstairs, so she chose a book at random off one of her shelves, and settled down on her bed; but it was a ruse, of course it was a ruse. How could she think of anything just now, besides what she and Gerald had just done in this bed?
Her cheeks — and maybe a few other parts — lit up instantly when she thought about that. She had been nervous at first, but he had been too, and they'd both admitted that right up front; after that, it had seemed natural to talk each other through what they were doing — to say what felt good and what didn't, and of course there had been some multilingual flirting and encouragement…
Calista heard an embarrassing sigh, and an instant later, when she remembered that Gerald was still downstairs and that sound had been her, she scowled half-heartedly at herself… but Merlin, if she'd ever had a reason to sigh like that, it had been tonight. It had been fascinating to explore Gerald's body in ways she had only started to before but had thought about long enough; to touch him and to see his eyes darken and hear his breath catch, and it had seemed like the most exciting thing she had done in a long time; until, of course, he'd coaxed her out of her dress and dedicated himself to returning the favour, and then she'd forgotten to compare it to anything else. His hands were warm and slow and gentle, and every time he wanted to move them somewhere new, he would look to her, for a nod or a yes before proceeding.
Calista had felt all sorts of things that were all-encompassing before, things that seemed to reach beyond the surface of her skin; she'd felt pain so deep it reached her bones, and she'd felt anger and fear slipping around in her gut and in her veins; but until that September evening, when Gerald's careful fingers had found a particular spot, she had never felt anything good that overtook her entire body quite like that. It was like his mouth on her ear a hundred times over, and it made every single part of her, from her skin to her blood to her goddamn brain happy; and by the time Gerald had breathlessly asked her for one final yes, she wasn't certain that she could even remember any other words.
She had read that some small amount of pain or discomfort was almost inevitable, but it seemed that Gerald had read all the same books, because it was clear that he was trying his best to be certain that wasn't so; he'd shifted his touch between ensuring she was ready and that spot, and he had been slow and careful, still, to the very end, and although the sensation had been somewhat uncomfortable at first and certainly very different, she wouldn't really say that it had been painful, although she supposed she did feel slightly tender now, after the fact.
She'd also read that a lot of girls were afraid, after their first time, that things in the relationship would change, that having sex would somehow replace the other manifestations of physical affection they were used to, but how could she be afraid of that, when Gerald had been so Gerald all the way through? Even if she had been worried about that, it would have been allayed in the moments after, when Gerald had lifted her hand to his mouth in a practised gesture, and then leaned close to murmur 'je t'aime, mon colibri' into the shell of her ear.
Distantly, Calista became aware of light footsteps below, and then she could hear Gerald climbing the ladder again. Hastily, she picked up her book, hoping to hide her obviously red face behind its pages.
"Couldn't put it down, eh?" Gerald said, once he'd come up; Calista blinked, momentarily confused, and then she noticed the title of the book she'd chosen at random, the one that she was now holding up in front of her face.
The Neverending Story.
She scowled. Merlin's blood, she'd practically handed him that round.
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
Calista shifted experimentally, for perhaps the fourth or fifth time in an hour; this time, finally, there was no responding shift or twitch from Gerald, no readjustment of his arms around her, no murmured endearment that told her that he was still awake, or close to it. This time, there was only a small, contented sort of exhale, and when she lifted her head slightly off her pillow to look at him, he was mercifully, peacefully asleep.
It had been a long and obviously eventful day, and the idea of joining him in that sleep was incredibly tempting, but there was no guarantee that she would be able to affect the same peace; in fact, it seemed to Calista that her worst nightmares often came just when she was starting to feel that she was doing all right, as if somehow her mother could sense it.
In France, she'd managed, on that last night, to fall asleep with him, to curl into him and tuck her head under his chin and drift into a relatively dreamless sleep; but then, she had still been filled with the warm buzz of wine, and that wasn't a viable long-term solution. She only had to think about Gerald's father, or her own father's father, to be properly disillusioned.
She tried to think of things that would keep her awake: the research she was doing for the Charms Committee, her ongoing rivalries at St. Mungo's, the vague unease that came with knowing Mad-Eye Moody was at Hogwarts, undoubtedly harassing her father, though he'd unconvincingly glossed over her fears when she'd asked; but still, despite all of that, sleep pulled at her, and it wasn't long before she'd started to drift along.
The pull of it was like a tide, and the instant it washed over her face, she started awake; she thought she might have seen a flash of silver, the tug of something or someone tugging her down — it took her the better part of a minute to realise that the silver was only moonlight, and the weight was only Gerald's arm across her.
Stay awake, she told herself, and she counted up all the reasons she ought to: all of her earlier fears, the vivid dreams that had already started to whisper to her in that brief moment where she'd let herself start to go under, the fact that Yellow was still downstairs somewhere, instead of curled up on Calista's pillow in the exact spot that Gerald's head now occupied — but she was tired, and while none of that seemed sufficient to keep her awake, she knew what would.
Carefully, she wriggled free from Gerald's arm; he made a soft sound and she felt his fingers twitch, and so she hurriedly balled up her comforter and stuck that where she'd been, hoping that would be a sufficient substitute to keep him from waking up and realising she'd gone.
She didn't give herself much time to find out if it had worked; instead, she tiptoed across the wooden floor, still clad in her nightdress that looked the most like regular clothing — the one, in fact, that she had worn on the night that she had gone with her father to the hospital wing at Hogwarts, to administer her Mandrake Draught to Penny and the other basilisk victims; the one she'd been wearing during that long, exhausting night, and the ensuing middle-of-the night feast: the one that she'd had on when she and Gerald had walked to that feast, separate from everyone else in one of their first brief moments alone, and they'd held hands the entire time, and he'd made her blush again by saying sweet things that made her feel like she was suddenly more than she really was.
She treasured that moment, along with many other beautiful moments, as things that she'd managed, somehow, to steal: no matter how much Severus, or Gerald, or Daisy, or anyone told her that she deserved things like sunlight and yellow flowers, there was always the past, waiting with ready fingers to snatch her back into the shadows, where she had been born and where she was still sometimes hard-pressed to believe she wasn't destined to stay.
She lifted the trapdoor, as quietly as she could. She thought she heard Gerald stirring again, so she disappeared down it as quickly and softly as possible, pulling it closed slowly, so it wouldn't make a sound, and then she took both the ladder and the staircase down to the ground level of the quiet, darkened little house, straight to the same old friend that had helped her through so many other nights.
She busied herself at the coffeepot, going through the motions as if she'd done them a thousand times, and she easily had. A few things had changed: this kitchen was somewhere between the size of the first kitchen she'd ever done this in and the one she'd done it in most often, and it had been quite some time since she'd had to lift a chair soundlessly over to reach the countertop.
She reflected on the difference between those first two kitchens, now, as she waited for the comforting, tell-tale aroma of coffee to fill the air. The first one had been cavernous and shadowy even in the daylight, and every sound and every pool of darkness had filled her with terror, for all of them could be her mother stirring, and Calista knew very well what happened to naughty little girls that disobeyed their mothers.
The fear of being caught by her mother had never stopped her from venturing into the kitchen at night, though; as strange as it might seem, sometimes the possibility of her mother catching her out of bed in reality was less frightening than the certainty of her spectre in her dreams. Perhaps, she reflected now, in the kitchen of her father's childhood home, it was because the dreams meant that Bellatrix was inside her head, while in that cavernous kitchen she had only been able to touch her from the outside.
The tiny, cramped kitchen in the castle dungeon had frightened her even more than the first one, in the beginning, because there weren't as many places to hide. She remembered her very first night there, in that unfamiliar place; she remembered discovering where the 'strange, black-eyed man' had kept his coffeepot, and she remembered an imagined sound right after its discovery that had sent her scurrying under the table, so afraid of who he was and what he might do to her if he caught her there, that she'd stayed huddled underneath it for at least an hour, accompanied by nothing but the rapid, panicked beating of her own little heart, and perhaps a few spiders.
And then, gradually — like a seed sprouted into one of the pretty yellow flowers she'd glimpsed, that first time, on the castle lawn — that kitchen had started to feel safe, and secure, and she didn't need to hide when she was there, and the only thing that had made it feel even safer and even more like home was the presence of that same black-eyed man across the little table, and perhaps the smooth, curved warmth of a mug nestled into her palm.
She had one of those things, now, and she even had the table. She sat down at it, curling her fingers around the mug, and she took the first beautiful, scalding sip, preparing herself for the familiar vigil against sleep, against dreams.
Distantly, she heard the creaking of a floorboard, and her ears perked, her heart picked up speed — there were some instincts that seemed to come to life even still, even now, and they were always worse in the dark. She felt herself tense, realised belatedly that she'd gone and left her wand upstairs like a complete fucking idiot. She lifted her fingers, preparing her Freezing Charm —
And then, all at once, she remembered who she'd left her wand behind with, and her shoulders and her fingers relaxed, when she recognised Gerald's familiar form in the kitchen doorway, and goddamn it he was wearing the same pajamas from that night, too. They'd stopped briefly at his house on the way to hers, so that he could get a few things he'd need that night and to get ready for work in the morning, and she hadn't even realised earlier that those were the nightclothes he'd brought.
"Mon colibri," Gerald ventured quietly, from his spot at the very edge of the room, "Is everything all right?"
"I just… I can't sleep," Calista managed; she took another sip of coffee, and she expected Gerald to slip closer, but he stayed where he was. A soft frown appeared in the shadows of his face.
" I don't imagine that coffee is going to help you with that particular problem," he observed.
"Very astute," Calista replied, a bit drily, and she wasn't quite sure if she was chagrined or amused to recognise her father's tone coming out of her own mouth, "All right, then, I'll change my answer: I don't want to fall asleep."
Gerald nodded slowly, and she heard him take a breath, and then: "I… erm, I suppose that leads me back to my first question, then: is everything all right?"
She couldn't bring herself to respond, because everything should have been all right, but the dark of night had, once again, brought a weight of its own against her, and instead of answering, she simply shrugged, half-intending to shrug the darkness away with it; but of course, that never worked.
"Do you want…" Gerald sighed softly, "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," she said, immediately, instinctively; and then she felt herself flush, and she frowned. "Yes. I mean — no, I don't."
She saw the shadows shifting in his face — he might have been frowning, or furrowing his brow, but it was hard to tell in the dark, and at such a distance.
"That wasn't particularly convincing," he said, "Are you certain that you don't want to talk?"
Calista hunched her shoulders, a bit defensively.
"I'm fine," she said, "And it's late, and you have to work tomorrow, and I certainly don't expect you to stay up all night with me."
"What if I want to stay up with you?"
"Trust me, you don't. It's not a figure of speech; I'm really going to sit here until it's light out, and even though I'll be exhausted and miserable tomorrow, I'll still make it through the day; I don't think you would. You haven't got as much practise as I do."
"I've got some," Gerald said, and there was an acute sadness in his voice that made Calista grip her mug tighter, and nod towards the empty chair closest to her; partly because she wanted him near, and partly because the one he was standing beside was her father's, and for some inexplicable reason, she didn't want him there.
"You might as well sit," she said, "I know you don't want coffee, but I can make you some tea, if you want…"
Gerald took the offered seat, but he shook his head at the latter portion of her offer. "It's funny," he said, "I've never met anyone else who can make the word 'tea' sound blasphemous. It's as if you're offering me a steaming cup of dismembered frogs, or something."
Despite herself, Calista felt the little spark of a grin playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Well, it's tea," she pointed out, "That's what it tastes like."
"And somehow that cup of liquid ash is preferable?"
"Gerald," Calista said, "It's a testament to how much I love you that I'm willing to overlook that particular comment; but I can't promise I'd stand for it a second time…"
Gerald mirrored her grin, just as small and weak. "I know something's wrong," he said, "But I still can't help but smile when you say that — especially casually, like that, like… like it's just a fact."
Calista raised her brow. "What, that I won't stand for you insulting coffee a second time? That is a fact."
Gerald's smile faltered slightly, and Calista rolled her eyes.
"You silly hippogriff," she groused, "Of course the other thing is a fact, too; of course I love you. You'd think that much would be obvious, after — erm, you know."
She felt another flash of heat in her cheeks, and at the memory, somewhere else. And the, Gerald was reaching for her hand, intent on pulling her fingers away from the radiating warmth of her mug; at first, she hesitated, but it turned out that the warmth of his fingers was just as comforting. She let him take one of her hands, and shifted the mug to the other.
"Is that what's wrong?" Gerald ventured, "I didn't — I mean — you're not hurt after all, are you? Or having second thoughts, or…?"
"No," she said, "It's nothing to do with that." She frowned. "Anyway, wouldn't it be a bit late now, if I did have second thoughts?"
"I don't know," Gerald admitted, "But if you were — if you are — we could… we could decide not to do that again, for awhile."
"Well, let's not close the book just yet," Calista said, and she finally met his gaze again, offering a small, half-hearted sort of grin. "I never said I wanted that."
"Well, I just…" Gerald seemed to be struggling not to mirror her grin again; she could see him schooling his face into something serious. "I just want to make sure you know that would be okay if… if you —"
"I know," she said, interrupting him, "You don't even have to say it."
"Good." Gerald frowned, and leaned forward slightly. "If it isn't that, then…" He squeezed her hand sympathetically, "Were you having a nightmare?"
"No," she said, immediately, but she could feel his eyes on her, and it wasn't that she couldn't lie to him; she found that she really didn't want to. "I just… I think maybe I was going to, and I…"
"You don't want to," Gerald finished. Calista scowled defensively.
"Well, obviously."
Gerald blinked, and some expression crossed his face too quickly for her to read — or perhaps she didn't want to read it — and then he exhaled, and with remarkable patience:
"Is there anything that helps you to not have a nightmare?"
"Yeah," Calista said, nodding with her chin towards her left hand, whose fingers were still curled possessively around the mug of coffee, "Not sleeping."
"Right," Gerald said, "I meant something realistic. Like… like thinking of something that makes you happy, or having a light on, or something…"
"None of that is guaranteed to work," Calista said, a bit moodily, "So staying awake is the only 'realistic' option, to make sure it doesn't happen."
Gerald blinked again, and then:
"Okay. Calista, I'm trying to be kind, but you've got to understand that's not an option —"
"Since when?" she snapped, not even certain why she was taking her prickly feelings out on him; because he was there, she supposed, and because her father wasn't…
"Honestly?" Gerald swallowed. "I hope you're just being stubborn and you're not serious, but in case you are — depriving yourself of sleep was never a good option, but it's not an option at all since you took the job at St. Mungo's. What if you measure something incorrectly, or forget an ingredient, because you're exhausted from staying awake all night?"
"I won't. I never make mistakes with potions, no matter how tired I am."
"Calista!" Gerald looked mildly alarmed, now. "You can't think that way! This isn't just about — about getting an 'O' anymore. If something does go wrong, you could seriously hurt someone or —" he swallowed, "Or worse."
Calista scowled, and yanked her hand from his, to wrap both around her mug.
"Obviously, I know that," she snarled, "I was just — I'm just —"
She couldn't finish the sentence, because the truth of what she was doing was right in front of her, in front of both of them; it was in her hands, branding them with its warmth, and somehow that usually comforting sensation wasn't enough to combat the sinking, heavy feeling of guilt that was invading her gut, and the back of her mind.
Gerald was right; she knew Gerald was right, and yet…
"Go back upstairs," she told Gerald, "I'll be up in a few minutes."
Gerald frowned, but he rose dutifully. He pushed his chair in, and came to her shoulder, and he leaned over and kissed her forehead, just above her eye, and then —
He reached over, and plucked the mug from her fingers, gently unwrapping them where they stubbornly clung, until he had successfully wrested it from her, and set it behind him on the countertop.
"Come on, mon colibri têtu," he said, steadily, over her protests, "I think we both know you had no intention of following me up; we'll go together."
Calista grumbled half-heartedly, but he was right again; she sighed and scowled, but grudgingly rose from her own chair, and allowed him to lead her back the way she'd come, through the little kitchen and across the darkened sitting-room, upstairs and upstairs again.
It wasn't until they were back in her room, and she passed beneath the silvery moonlight streaming down from the skylight, that she voiced what she was really afraid of, above everything else:
"It's supposed to be better," she said, voice small, "All her spells are gone; I can cast a Patronus again; I've even told you about the — the cuts and all of it. So why is she still here, inside me, whenever I fall asleep?"
Gerald sighed, and after a moment, she gave up on any sort of reply; but then, he couldn't have an answer, so what did she really expect him to say? She slipped back into her bed, pushing her decoy comforter down to the foot — it was still too warm to need it — and looked up at the ceiling, while Gerald's warm weight settled beside her.
She heard the soft clatter of his glasses, as he set them down on the table beside her bed, and then she felt him pulling her close. Part of her wanted to tear away, out of fear, or stubbornness, or spite, or honestly, maybe just to see how far she could push him before he'd stop coming back — but then, she saw a flash of memory, from hours and also ages ago:
'Mon beau colibri; mon cœur', he had said, looking up at her, and it had taken a moment for her to place the significance of his stance, one knee bent and she'd known it wasn't really that, they were too young and it was too soon and she was still too afraid for that, but it had really seemed as if he were trying to tell her that that wasn't impossible, after all.
With a massive effort, Calista silenced the part of her that wanted to push him away; hadn't she learned, after all of their conversations, and all of the push-and-pull with her father, and losing and recovering her Patronus and everything, that there were things she could cling to that felt so much better than distance?
Instead of pulling away, Calista decided to listen to the part of her that wanted instead of feared: the part of her that had wanted, so many years ago, to hear about unicorns from a tatty old book; that had wanted to believe the man with black eyes who told her she was safe; that had wanted something she was afraid to even name when she'd looked at Gerald in his fancy Muggle suit, holding those flowers out to her.
Calista snuggled close to Gerald, tucking her head underneath his chin, and she let her eyes drift shut, and she tried to build a wall in her mind against the things that hurt; but who could build a wall that would keep out ghosts?
And then, just as she had nearly drifted to sleep, Gerald finally answered her question.
"I don't know, mon colibri," he said, very quietly, into the crown of her hair, "I don't know why they can still get to us."
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
"This bread pudding is vile," Amelia announced, dropping her spoon into it with enough force to send bits of custard flying through the air. "It tastes like poison — oi, do you think that's the plan? Poison people to drum up business for your ward?"
"I doubt it," Calista said, absently; she was having a hard time caring about Amelia's opinion of the hospital cafeteria's bread pudding, when she still had to get through the rest of her workday and then a dinner with Uncle Lucius and Aunt Narcissa. She'd spoken with Narcissa a few times, but she'd done a grand job of avoiding her uncle ever since his donation to her ward at St. Mungo's — at least, until now, she had.
"Maybe your uncle asked them to do it, so you can get a bonus for curing them all —"
"Fuck off, Amelia."
Amelia grinned. "Maybe you should be doing a bit more fucking off, eh? 'Cause it seems your good mood from last weekend is wearing off —"
"Shh! Merlin's blood, what is wrong with you?"
Amelia shrugged. "Got your attention, didn't I?" She lifted her spoon from her pudding again and took an experimental sniff, then wrinkled up her nose, and shook her head.
"Argh — it even smells like arse — so all right then, Snapelet, what's all the doom-and-gloom for this time?"
"Don't call me that — have you been talking to Kim Avery again?"
Amelia nodded. "Yup," she said matter-of-factly, "I've been asking her to write me about all the interesting curses she sees. Reckon I'm going to ask her to help me get into Gringotts when my internship here is done. Breaking curses sounds way more interesting than healing blokes who accidentally grew their toenails too long."
"Oh." Calista frowned. "So you… you won't be here anymore, then?"
"Well, I've still got almost four months left on this bloody internship, but after that, I hope not. No offense, but this place is boring — except for that one lady, there hasn't even really been any blood."
Calista suppressed a shudder, and scowled down at her lunch; she hadn't gone in, thankfully, for the arse-pudding; she had a plate of tepid, anaemic-looking chicken, instead.
"Don't worry," Amelia chirped, "I'm sure that Kyle fellow will keep you company at lunch time."
Calista's scowl deepened. "And miss the opportunity to hide my tools when I'm gone? I doubt it."
"He's still doing that?"
"Yes; at least now he finds them, too; they always seem to end up in his pocket, which he pretends to be surprised by, and I pretend I'm not contemplating which poison will give him the slowest and most agonising death; it's a fun time."
"Sounds like it," Amelia commented, and then: "He knows about Gerry, right?"
Calista blinked. "What? I don't know, probably not. Why would I tell that pain in the arse anything about my personal life?"
"Erm." Amelia dropped her spoon into her pudding again with another nauseating splat. "Do you seriously not understand why I'm asking that?"
"I'm sure you think you're helping," Calista said, "But I don't need to have Gerald, or my cousin, or my uncle —" here, Calista couldn't quite suppress a fierce little growl, " — Or anyone else talk to him. I can handle it."
She supposed it was the shock of Amelia's plan to leave the hospital that made her add, snappishly: "And you can mind your own business, by the way."
Amelia sniffed, and rose to her feet. She snatched the offending pudding up with such force that Calista was almost afraid Amelia was going to chuck it at her head.
"Fine," Amelia snarled, in precisely the same tone Calista had been using, "Do me a favour and owl me when you decide to stop being such a bitch."
Ah, shit. Calista frowned, and leapt to her own feet, too. "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean — I'm just… I have to go to my Aunt and Uncle's tonight and —"
"You know what?" Amelia interrupted, "I don't care why you're being a bitch, and why Penny's being one, and why Percy's being such a sanctimonious twat all of a sudden — I just want all of you to stop."
"I'm sorry," Calista said again, crossing the distance between herself and her best friend, "I was… honestly, I think I just got a bit jealous about you writing to Kim and, erm, basically planning to leave me behind and…" she shrugged, and trailed off, but Amelia was already softening.
"You're jealous about that?" Amelia said, "And you actually told me the truth about it, instead of snarling at me again?"
"Erm. Evidently."
"Wow. Getting laid really did do wonders for you —"
"Amelia!"
Amelia flashed a grin. "Okay, but the evidence is overwhelming; and by the way, you berk, I'm not leaving you behind, I just won't be here for lunch in a few months. Don't worry, I'll still be up your arse every weekend."
Calista blinked. She coughed, and then she managed a small smile, and: "Not literally, I hope."
Amelia's grin widened, and she went to fling her arm around Calista —
"Argh! Watch the pudding!" She had just gotten a whiff of it, and if it were possible, it smelled even worse than Amelia had described.
"Right — sorry — it's just, I'm so proud of you, for making a dirty joke!"
Calista felt herself flush. "I told you, I… erm, I made a few, with Gerald…"
Amelia's brow went up. "No, you didn't; you said a bunch of corny rubbish about books."
"Well, yes, but there were… erm, you know… innuendos."
Amelia snorted. "If you can call them that; I mean, Merlin's' balls, you could've at least brought up Moby Dick."
Calista started blankly. "Erm. What?"
"Moby Dick, you prat! The book? About the big whale and the sea captain, and uh — actually, I don't know what else, because no one actually reads it, we all just pretend to have done?"
"That's a book? Muggles have a book about a whale that's named after — em, that?"
"Holy shite. What do they teach you, before you start Hogwarts, if you've never even heard of Moby Dick?"
"Useful things," Calista shot back, "Like not to eat Floo Powder — argh, get rid of that bloody pudding, seriously!"
Amelia obliged, walking over to the nearest rubbish bin to chuck it. "So," she said, "I was going to ask if you wanted me to come over, after your dinner with Uncle Doom and Aunt Manicure, but I'd probably have too much trouble figuring out the Floo powder…"
"Oh, shut it, you," Calista said, but there was no longer any malice. "Your fireplace isn't connected, anyway, and mine's only connected to Hogwarts for travel. Come on over; I'll meet you at the Apparition spot at eight. Gives me an excuse to leave — erm, Uncle Doom."
"Should I bring one bottle of wine or two?"
"Amelia, it's Wednesday."
Amelia smirked. "Two, then. I'd invite Penny, but…" she shrugged.
"What's wrong with her?" Calista asked, "And with Percy? I haven't really spoken to either of them in a couple of weeks."
"I don't know," Amelia said, "They both say it's things at work, but…" she shrugged. "I think they're going to break up."
Calista blinked. "They can't, they're nauseatingly perfect together."
"Not anymore. They just argue, all the time, or least that's what Penny says; I can't even get Percy to answer my owl, these days. Too important for me, I guess, now that he's working for that Crotch bloke."
Calista snorted. "It's Crouch."
"I know."
"And anyway," Calista reflected, "What did you mean by 'all of a sudden' — hasn't Percy always been a sanctimonious twat?"
"Well, yeah," Amelia said, "But now, it's like he really means it. Anyway, I've got to go, I'll fill you in later — seven o'clock, two bottles, right?"
"Eight o'clock," Calista corrected, "No bottles."
"Seven-thirty," Amelia agreed, "One bottle."
"This isn't a negotiation —"
"It was, but now it's settled. See you at seven-thirty!"
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
Calista thought that she had done an admirable job avoiding an argument with Uncle Lucius simply by avoiding him altogether, but her luck ran out a scarce moment after Narcissa had ushered her into the foyer of Malfoy Manor.
"Calista, my dear," Lucius said, before she'd even fully extracted herself from Narcissa's perfumed hug, "It's so lovely to see you again — at last."
What's that supposed to mean? She was tempted to snap back, but she knew full well what it was supposed to mean, and besides, she'd promised her father she'd try not to start an argument. Instead of responding immediately, she used a tactic Gerald had told her about a couple of days ago: deep breath, count to three, exhale, and then reply. She wondered where he'd come up with that particular tactic.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Lucius," she said, evenly, "I've just been very busy."
"Surely not too busy for family?" Lucius said, but he didn't seem intent on holding her to an answer, for once; instead, he made a sweeping gesture towards the dining room. "Come; you and I shall set the table, while your aunt finishes preparing dinner."
Family dinners were not so unusual to Calista anymore, though it had admittedly been awhile since she'd had one here. She caught herself reaching for the door of the armoire that held one of several sets of perfectly-matched dinnerware, and hastily, she lifted her wand before her uncle noticed. She was used to eating with Gerald's family — she had a strong suspicion that he kept insisting because she was so rotten at keeping food on hand in her own house — and even though Gerald and Terry could set the table with magic, they seldom did.
She pointed her wand at the armoire instead, sending a trio of plates and goblets to one end of the table; behind her, Lucius shrunk the enormously oversized table down to a quarter of its length, and set out silverware.
"Wine, Calista?" Lucius asked, wand poised at the smaller cupboard that held the liquor glasses and, she knew, a decanter of wine; he always asked, since that first time, and she almost always refused politely. Tonight, however, she thought perhaps she could use the additional fortification.
"Yes," she said, "Please."
If he found her assent unusual, he didn't say so; he merely poured three glasses, sending them sailing neatly to their intended places, and then tapped his wand to the cupboard, closing the decanter back inside.
After that, they were alone in the dining room, facing each other. Calista remembered that her father wanted her to thank Lucius for 'helping' her with his donation to the hospital, but she couldn't quite bring herself to say the words, so instead she managed, politely: "I hope you've been well, Uncle Lucius."
"Likewise," Lucius said, and then, with a small smirk: "I trust things at St. Mungo's have been better, since the last time I saw you."
Calista blinked, and willed herself not to scowl. Mercifully, they were interrupted then, by the door swinging open. Several platters of food drifted into the dining room, followed closely by Narcissa, and Calista almost thought she'd been spared by the few moments of activity it took to get the dishes on the table, the three of them settled in chairs, and plates filled.
She'd barely popped her first bite of roast into her mouth when her uncle's soft inquiry came again:
"I asked you a question, Calista. Have things been better for you at St. Mungo's?"
Calista swallowed her food and took a breath. One, two, three.
"You didn't technically ask me," she couldn't quite resist pointing out, "You just said you trusted things were better."
"And?" Her uncle pressed, flaring his nostrils impatiently, "That Hipworth woman signed your release to work with the Experimental Charms Committee, did she not?"
That, at least, was easy enough to answer. "She did," Calista confirmed, shortly.
"Good," her uncle said, but he wasn't letting her off the hook that easily: "I know they're allowing you to take days off, because Narcissa tells me you've just come back from a holiday in Provence."
Calista nodded, stiffly, knowing he wasn't done.
"I presume the inventory is being kept, as well, of wasted materials?"
"Yes." And Astra's sniping at me about it every single day. She snaked her hand out towards her wineglass, and took a much smaller sip than she wanted to.
"Good," her uncle said, again, and: "What of the cauldrons? I expect the replacements I instructed them to procure are to your liking?"
Merlin, was he deliberately goading her? That blasted portrait said something about the cauldrons every time she went past, so that she was beginning to think the petrol station toilet might be the better route, after all.
"Yes," she said, a bit stonily despite her best intentions. Lucius smiled thinly.
"Well, as that's all in order, a 'thank you' would be nice," he said; Calista hurriedly gulped down another mouthful of wine; she couldn't say it, but if she didn't, her father would be livid…
Lucius huffed, and waved his hand dismissively. "Of course, I never get one from Draco, either," he said, and he picked up his own glass by the stem, inspecting its contents carefully. "Calista, that's a fine wine," he added, almost carelessly, "Kindly treat it at such, and don't swig it like a heathen."
Calista blinked, caught slightly off-guard; was that really all he was going to say?
Incredibly, it seemed as if it was; the topic of conversation shifted, and soon, they were speculating about the Triwizard Tournament taking place at Hogwarts.
"Draco wanted to enter, of course," Lucius said, "But they've instituted some sort of ridiculous age limit —"
"Oh, no, I'm pleased they've set a limit!" Narcissa interjected, almost breathlessly, "Lucius, darling, you know how dangerous the tournament used to be, imagine if Draco were in it — I'd be beside myself until June!"
Lucius nodded briefly, acknowledging her concerns, and then, after chewing a mouthful of roast: "I suppose at least we can be thankful that Potter can't enter, either; the last thing I want is another barrage of letters bemoaning what Potter has and what Potter did. I'm hopeful that this year, especially, with the Quidditch Cup cancelled, we'll finally be granted a respite from that particular line of complaint."
Narcissa frowned delicately. "Lucius, be kind," she chided him softly, "Draco's already had such a difficult start to the school year, the poor thing."
Calista's ears perked, and she felt a small frown find its way to her face; what was Aunt Narcissa talking about?
"I can assure you, the governors have heard my complaints," Lucius said, and then with a swift look to Calista:
"You will inform us, of course, if you hear of any further such assaults against our son, from your father, or from any of your friends that remain at school?"
"Erm," said Calista, who didn't have the slightest idea what they were talking about, "I — of course I will."
"Of course, if I were still a governor myself," Lucius mused, "I wouldn't rest until Moody and Dumbledore were both driven out of the castle."
Moody? Calista felt her heart pick up speed, as her mind immediately went wild, shifting all of her worst fears about the ruthless man's antagonism towards her father onto her younger cousin. What had he done? She couldn't very well ask now, since she was obviously supposed to know, already, but she had to find out…
"He's — Draco's all right, isn't he?" she asked, earnestly, "I mean — he's — erm, recovered, hasn't he?"
Narcissa reached across the table and patted her hand, fondly. "Oh, yes, darling, he's all right; he was quite shaken up, of course, but he's a strong boy."
"I imagine the only lasting damage was to his dignity," Lucius added, "For which I still intend to make Moody pay, of course."
"But don't you have to be careful?" Calista asked, anxiously, "Moody's ruthless — he could — he could m-mur—"
Murder you, murder Draco; torture you, torture Dad; have any one of us sent to Azkaban without a trial. She nearly choked, and swallowed hard, unable to utter the list of crimes she knew had been attributed to Moody in the past, but this time it was Lucius who shifted his left hand, touching the back of hers lightly. It struck Calista as an exceedingly rare gesture; one of the reasons that she'd hardly ever shied away from Uncle Lucius was because he almost never reached out to touch her, despite his wife's frequent enveloping hugs.
"Alastor Moody is no longer an Auror," he reminded her, quietly, "And furthermore, if Moody thinks to inflict any further insult or harm against my family, I believe he will find out that he is not quite as ruthless as I can be."
"But," Calista said, "Draco's stuck at school with him, and my father —"
Lucius smirked. "I don't think you need to worry about your father, Calista. I can only imagine the pieces they'd find Moody in, if he thought to transfigure Severus into a ferret, however briefly."
Calista blinked. Transfigured into a ferret? Was that what had happened to Draco? It wasn't nearly as bad as she'd been expecting, somehow...and strangely, she supposed it would have made her angry, if she hadn't already haunted herself with visions of blood and pain, but now, she could feel nothing but an immense flood of relief that that was all that had happened to her cousin.
"It's very sweet of you to worry so much," her aunt said, "But Lucius is right, Draco and your father are both quite safe."
Calista found that, actually, she could feel something besides relief, after all; she felt her gut wrench with a sudden, heavy guilt. Not only had she not even heard what had happened to Draco, but the truth was that she hadn't even bothered to write to him, since he'd gone back to school. She made a mental note to remedy that, as soon as she got home.
"I do think that's enough of that particular topic," Aunt Narcissa mused, "Calista, darling, do tell us about your holiday; you met some of your young man's family, yes?"
Calista took a breath — Gerald's advice, again — and exhaled, willing her mind to shift towards the question her aunt had asked. After a moment, she found that she was able to do it, and she nodded.
"I met his cousin and his uncle — his mother's family," she couldn't quite resist adding, while she stabbed a forkful of vegetables. Lucius made a small sound of disapproval, but incredibly, he didn't offer any commentary. "We went to some very nice restaurants, and then we —" her cheeks warmed slightly, "We, erm — took a dancing class."
Narcissa was so pleased by this news that she actually squealed, a tiny sound of delight that Calista didn't think she could remember ever hearing from her composed, elegant aunt before.
"Oh, darling, that's lovely! What sort of class was it — did you learn the traditional waltz, or the Viennese?"
Calista blinked, and swallowed a mouthful of sprouts. She hadn't even realised there were different types.
"Erm," she said intelligently, "The… the regular kind, I think. Honestly, I just tried not to step on Gerald's feet, and not to fall down. I only achieved one out of two."
She thought she saw her uncle smirk, but it might have been a trick of the light. Narcissa, however, completely missed the humour in Calista's remarks, or else chose to disregard it; instead, she started a series of stories about her own dance lessons, in her youth, procured with grudging permission from her parents, who thought it was a waste of time.
"Mother thought my blood purity and the family name were enough to procure me a good marriage, you see; but I wanted a particular marriage, and it was well known, even then, that the Malfoys have impeccable taste."
And then, Lucius surprised Calista for the second time that evening; for just a moment, he allowed his detached demeanour to slip, and he tilted his wine glass slightly in his wife's direction, offering her what was undoubtedly the softest look Calista had ever seen on her uncle's face.
"Ah, indeed we do," he said, "And you have always been an impeccable woman, my dear; I never had an eye for any other."
Narcissa appeared, briefly, to positively glow — even her cheeks took on a faint blush — and then, all too soon, she gathered herself in, regaining her composure.
"I did enjoy those dancing lessons," she mused, "Even though my sisters teased me mercilessly."
Calista practically choked on another sip of wine, earning another look of disapproval from her uncle, but she hardly noticed. She was positive that her aunt had said sisters, plural; it was the first time Calista had ever heard her acknowledge that she had more than one.
She thought of the shoes, the nearly identical pairs that each of her aunts had recommended, and she shifted nervously in her seat, wanting to bring it up but knowing she couldn't — but a moment later, the conversation had moved on. Calista knew she couldn't have mentioned her Aunt Andromeda, or the fact that she was in touch with her, so she didn't quite understand why she was left feeling as if she'd missed something, once the moment fled.
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
Calista felt a heavy sense of irony, two days later, as she tapped her wand to the knocker at her Aunt Andromeda's home; she'd been going more or less every Friday of late, which was why she was thoroughly confused by the strange, shuttered look that her aunt answered the door with on that particular Friday.
"Calista," Andromeda said, blankly, as if she'd opened the door to find a sentient cabbage instead of her niece, "I didn't realise you were coming."
She kept her place in the doorway, not inviting Calista in, and it only took Calista the space of a few seconds to start imagining all the worst possible reasons Andromeda could have for not wanting to invite her in; that she had decided that Bellatrix's daughter wasn't someone she wanted to associate with after all was at the top of the list.
"Is something wrong?" she made herself ask, and that at least seemed to stir her aunt to action.
"No, everything's…" her aunt trailed off, and finally stepped aside, motioning her in with a suddenly hurried gesture. "Come in, sweetheart, just be quick about it —"
As if to punctuate her words, she closed the door so hard behind Calista that it caused her to start, and then to scowl, hoping no one had noticed.
"Ted's still at work," Andromeda said, "And Dora's out with one of her friends, but I do expect them both home for dinner."
"Oh." Calista scrutinised her aunt carefully, but though she could see the signs of stress — pinched expression, tight jaw, darting eyes — she couldn't decipher the reason for it, not without crossing a boundary that she absolutely would not. "Do you, uhm, want help with dinner? Gerald's been teaching me a bit, and there's a few things I can make without burning, now."
A brief smile of amusement drifted over her aunt's features, and she nodded. "Yes, as as matter of fact, a bit of help would be most welcome."
She followed Andromeda into the kitchen, where she was given a recipe for seasoning a vegetable side dish; Andromeda sliced chicken with her wand.
"So," her aunt said, after a moment, "Your boyfriend cooks, does he?"
"Yes," Calista said, chancing another glance at her aunt; she was still tense. "He's brilliant at it, which is fortunate, because I'm mostly rubbish." She glanced down at the head of broccoli in front of her. "Don't worry, though, I'm pretty sure I can at least handle this."
"Useful skill in a man, that; I'm so glad that Ted is handy in the kitchen, too. It means we can take turns."
"I don't think he trusts me to make anything myself yet, and for good reason," Calista admitted, "There was an incident with a potato…" she felt herself start to blush at that memory, "And, erm, anyway, I mostly just keep him company and help a bit with the sides, like this."
Andromeda nodded, and then, with a mildly curious look: "Does he have his own flat that you go to?"
"No, he lives with his Mum and his brother — well, Terry's at Hogwarts, now — but I go over a lot for dinner, and he st — erm, he comes to my house, too. Since Dad's at school."
Her aunt's brow lifted briefly, and Calista braced herself for a comment about her near slip — admitting that Gerald had been staying over occasionally in the last few weeks, which would lead to her aunt making an obvious and mortifying conclusion — but all Andromeda said was, "I'm glad you have compan —"
She stopped, and froze, and it only took Calista an instant to see why: an enormous black dog had just padded into the kitchen, sniffing the air and eyeing both of them curiously.
"You didn't tell me you got a —" Calista started, and then she did a double-take; the dog really was enormous, but more than that, it was eerily familiar —
"Shi — that's the dog!" she said breathlessly, dropping a chunk of broccoli on the floor as the realisation hit her, "That's the dog I saw at Hogwarts on the night when —"
She trailed off, because suddenly she wondered, again, if she was going mad — again, she had the oddest feeling that the dog could understand her, and as if to illustrate the point, the dog sat down, and looked directly at her, and then it cocked its head, almost playfully, and —
"Yuff?" Calista blinked; she really must be going mad, because it seemed almost as if the dog had said Yes?, as if it were waiting for her to go on — but that wasn't possible, unless…
"When Sirius Black was on the grounds, and —" Merlin's blood.
A line of text swam through the back of her mind, from a letter that she still kept hidden at the bottom of her wardrobe, even though she knew no one else would be able to read it:
He tells me he's heard your voice, and that actually, so did I, only I didn't know it was you; and there was another line, too, one that burned so brightly in her mind's eye that it was giving her a blinding, flashing headache:
I think you've got more guard dogs than you know.
"What the — bloody hell — he's the dog, isn't he? He's an Animagus."
Suddenly, there was a faint little pop, and then — and then —
Sirius Black was standing in the middle of her aunt's kitchen.
"Moony was right," he said, reflecting, in a voice that rung in her ears, familiar in a strange, heavy way that threatened to drag her into the past, or into a dream, "She is clever."
"And you're a fool, Sirius," Andromeda scolded; it had been a moment since Calista had looked at her aunt, but she saw now that her face was pale, fearful. "What d'you think you're playing at, revealing yourself like that —"
Sirius shrugged, as if it were of little importance; he seemed a lot more interested in peering down at Calista; he was very tall, and he didn't look at all like the pictures she'd seen in the paper, over the last year or so: instead of long, matted hair and beard, he was clean-shaven and had a cropped haircut. He was wearing black Muggle clothes, and he had obviously put on weight since the pictures that had been in the Daily Prophet. He looked a lot more like he had in her memories of being rescued than he had in the aftermath of his Azkaban escape, and Calista supposed that was the only reason she managed to stay on her feet, facing him, and to keep breathing.
"I imagine we could modify her memory if we have to —"
"Try me," Calista muttered, feeling her fingers slip into her pocket;she wrapped them around her wand.
" — But I'm hoping that's not going to be necessary," Sirius finished; he stepped closer, and she took an equally measured step back, still gripping her wand; even though she knew he was innocent of the crimes he'd been imprisoned for, there was still what he had done to her father — and there were still the nightmares, before she'd known the truth, of him coming after her with a gleaming silver knife.
"Merlin's beard, you do look like your mother —" Sirius started, and Calista cut him off again, quite a bit more loudly this time:
"Fuck off."
She expected him to be angry, but instead, he grinned, immediately following her outburst.
"Now that," he said, "Is undeniably from your father."
"I know," she heard herself say, voice steely, "I know what you did to him, when you were in school — you tried to use Remus to kill him."
"I have a history with both your mother and your father," Sirius acknowledged, a good deal more evenly than she expected him to speak to her, after her accusation, "Neither of which I'm holding against you at the moment; and it's funny you mention Moony, because he's the one that led me to believe you could do the same, with me."
Calista swallowed, trying to calm the rapid beating of her heart, or at least make sure it didn't show, that she was rattled.
"What do you want?" she asked, warily, "Why did you show yourself to me?"
Sirius raised a brow. "Because I wanted to meet you, obviously. I wanted to see for myself what had become of you."
Again, he stepped toward her, and again, she stepped back.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Sirius said, and then he cocked his head reflectively, much as he had when he was a dog. "Of course, you've never believed that before."
"Calista, sweetheart —" Andromeda started, but Calista cut them both off with a defensive snarl:
"I'm fine; just don't come near me."
Andromeda frowned, but Sirius seemed more willing to accept her directive. He nodded, and he took a step back, and suddenly Calista could breathe again.
"I have something to say," Calista said, and her eyes were locked on Sirius' face; it was really to easy to imagine, the way he looked now, that the last thirteen years had been imagined; he was so tall and he looked the same, and —
But that was the difference, wasn't it? She realised it even as the words spilled out of her mouth; now, she had something to say.
"I'd very much like to hear it," Sirius said, and the oddest thing was that she really believed he was sincere.
"I need to ask you a question first."
Sirius nodded; Andromeda hovered anxiously, but Calista hardly noticed. Her fingers were still gripped around her wand, though her grip was less than sure, since her palms were sweating like mad.
"How did you escape?"
"You just saw it; as a dog. I slipped through the bars, and I swam to shore." His eyes were riveted just as keenly to her face as hers were to his; after a moment, he looked away, and: "I suppose you'll also want to know how I kept my sanity, in that place."
"Yes," she said, practically before the words were even out of his mouth.
"The truth," he said, simply, and there was a soft sort of sadness in his tone, "I knew that I was innocent of the crimes I was sentenced for."
Calista exhaled. "I imagine that wasn't a happy thought, given the circumstances."
"No," Sirius agreed, "It was not; and so the dementors couldn't take it, and so I kept my mind."
Calista nodded, and with an enormous effort, she took yet another breath, and another swallow. And then:
"What about her? Does she have — did she have… a truth?"
"You want to know if she's still dangerous." It wasn't a question; they both knew exactly why she was asking. Calista nodded tightly.
"I wish I could tell you that she's a useless, quivering mess," Sirius said, quietly, "But I listened to her for twelve years, and I can't say she's changed much at all."
"I suppose I —" Calista set her jaw, as stubbornly as she'd ever done, because for fuck's sake, she would not cry, not now and not in front of this man. " — expected as much."
"I do like to think, though," Sirius said, oddly reflective once more, "That it would destroy her to see you now, the way Moony and Dromeda described you, the way I'm seeing you."
"What?" Calista bit off, far more bitterly than she meant to, "Whole?"
Despite her acrid tone, Sirius nodded, almost matter-of-factly. "Whole," he agreed, "And, I think, a greater adversary than she ever imagined she'd be creating, when she turned her wand to you."
"You couldn't possibly know that," Calista said, deflecting the compliment, though she couldn't quite say why, "You've spoken to me for all of five minutes."
Sirius grinned again, inexplicably. "I saw you hold a fully-transformed werewolf with a Freezing Charm," he reminded her, "That's supposed to be about as possible as — " he paused, and his grin shifted into a crooked smirk, "Well, as possible as a mute child telling me to 'fuck off'."
Fuck; despite herself, Calsita had the most unexpected, most inappropriate reaction imaginable; she laughed, and suddenly, inexplicably, she was at ease. She let her fingers fall off her wand.
"I guess that brings me around to what I have to say," she heard herself, "Thank you."
He was silent for a moment, and she felt the need to clarify: "Thank you for taking me from her. For — well, for saving my life — although at the time, believe it or not, I thought you were kidnapping me, and I was trying to figure out whether I could scratch your eyes out and get away."
Sirius lifted a brow, and then he he lifted a hand, and touched a spot just under his left eye. Calista was startled to see a small, faint white line there that she hadn't noticed before.
"Oh, I do very much believe it," he said, almost matter-of-factly, but for the twist of humour in his tone. "And you're welcome, of course. I only wish I'd done it sooner."
"Yeah, that's erm — sort of the theme du jour, when someone talks to me about — about her. But like I said, I'm fine, now."
Liar, she could hear the internal hiss, and she ignored it, just as she ignored the subtle twist of guilt for being here, for having this conversation, with this man, in the first place.
"Right. And so am I." Sirius smiled wryly. "Now; are we going to have to modify your memory? I'd rather not, just so you know —"
"Try me," Calista said, for the second time, though it wasn't quite as fierce this time, because she suspected he had no intention of doing so, "I promise I'll be faster."
Andromeda shifted, and Calista nearly started; she'd almost forgotten her aunt was there, in the kitchen.
"We may not have to," she said, earnestly, "Calista, you just said that Sirius saved your life, and you must have heard of a life debt…"
Calista blinked. "Are you serious?"
"No," Sirius quipped, immediately, "I am."
Despite herself, despite the levity of the situation, Calista snorted. And then:
"Really, though, are you both fucking mad? First of all, you'd have better luck taking my bloody legs than my memory, and secondly, I'm not about to hand anyone back over to those — those things, those dementors."
"I know your heart is in the right place," Andromeda said cautiously, "But Calista, this is an incredibly difficult, and incredibly critical secret to keep…"
"As he well knows, I kept the fact that I could speak secret for over a year," Calista pointed out, acidly, "And I promise you, that's just the beginning; I think I can handle not turning over a man who saved my life to the most vile creatures imaginable."
"See, Dromeda?" Sirius said, "I told you she would be all right."
"I still think it's a dreadful risk," Andromeda fretted, "How can we really know—"
"Calista," Sirius said, suddenly, "Does Sn — does your father know that I wrote to you, or that you're still writing to Moony?"
"Obviously not."
Sirius grinned triumphantly, as if he'd just won a bet. "That," he said, with satisfaction, "Is how I know."
Calisa managed a tight smile, at that, but his words drove a cold spike of guilt into her gut; not only had she written him; not only was she still writing Remus; it was a hundred times worse than that, now that she'd met him, because she was committing the most egregious offense imaginable, against her father, and yet, she couldn't help it.
She was starting to actually like Sirius.
