11. Trial
The day that Gerald was scheduled to face his father in family court, Severus was inexplicably home for breakfast. On her way downstairs, Calista could smell something cooking. She hurried into the kitchen.
"Gerald, what are you doing here, you need to be prep — oh. It's you."
"Really, Calista. There's no need to offer me such a warm welcome," her father said drily, letting a plate clatter onto the counter with decidedly more force than could be attributed to mere gravity, "It's not as if I rearranged my day and called in a favour from the Headmaster to be here at precisely the same time I'm meant to be teaching my first year Hufflepuff class."
Calista's brow went up. "Seriously? You let them off class? And wouldn't that be the Ravenclaw class, too?"
"It's nice to see you, too," Severus snarled half-heartedly, shifting the plate from the counter to the table with even greater force. Unfazed, Calista slipped under his outstretched arm, reaching the coffee pot in a stride and a half.
It was only when she slid a full mug to his customary spot at the table that Severus softened somewhat.
"Of course I didn't let them off class," he said, seemingly offended at the very idea, "I rescheduled it."
"To when?"
"Four o'clock."
Calista blinked. "That's going to go into the dinner hour."
Severus smiled thinly. "There will still be thirty minutes for them to eat, assuming I don't have to keep anyone after class to mop up another mistake."
"But Hufflepuff? Judging by everything Tonks has told me, they don't exactly like to miss dinner."
"Then they will need to be very careful not to make a mistake," her father said, quite carelessly, and then: "Do you want to talk about this afternoon, or shall we continue to discuss timetables?"
"Oh, timetables, definitely." Calista said, digging into her plate of eggs. A needle of anxiety prickled at her forehead and she pushed it severely down. She still had to make it through a half day of work, and besides, if she didn't keep calm, how could she expect Gerald to?
"Whatever you are planning today to help Mr — to help Gerald," Severus said, evenly, "It is of utmost importance that you are not suspected of anything illegal or otherwise ah — untoward."
Calista's forehead prickled again, and then she felt her stomach harden. She set down her fork.
"I suppose I won't be suspected," she said, "As I won't be doing anything — Gerald doesn't want me to. Something about honouring an oath that will lead to absolutely no consequences if he doesn't honour it." Her rapidly souring tone made it clear what she thought of that decision. "And why did you bother asking me whether I wanted to discuss this afternoon if you were just going to go ahead and do it anyway?"
Again, Severus ignored her protest; he withdrew a sheet of parchment from his robes, and passed it across the table. "A list of relevant regulations and cases," he explained, "Gerald will have been studying a great deal of them, I think, but these are the ones you will want to have him to review this morning. You're meeting him at his home, I presume?"
"I'm going to work," Calista said, shortly; her stomach clenched painfully, unease forming a pit within it.
Severus' brow lifted, hand still poised over the table, offering the the parchment. "Do I have the date wrong?" he asked in a soft, silky tone that indicated he very much knew he didn't.
"The hearing doesn't start until two," Calista said, defensively, "And I don't think —"
I don't think Gerald really wants to see me, just now. Their argument, a few days ago, had evolved into their worst yet; Calista couldn't possibly do what he was asking, but he couldn't seem to understand why. In the end, she had stormed out of her room to avoid having to explain any further, and he'd left her home shortly after that, and they had hardly spoken since.
"I don't think Astra would give me the whole day off," she finished, lamely, hoping her glare would be sufficient to keep any further questioning at bay.
Severus was frighteningly quiet for a moment, until, at length, he set the parchment down on the table, splaying his fingers over it, and sliding it very deliberately in her direction.
"How exceedingly disappointing," he finally said, in the sort of voice he'd once reserved for forbidden owlery trips, "As wont as you are to misdirect your anger, I did not think your character was sufficiently flawed to allow you to punish Boot so egregiously for your disagreement with me."
Calista's glare twisted into a full-fledged scowl. "I — excuse me? Precisely what the hell are you talking about?"
"I didn't go," Severus said quietly. Calista blinked, against the burn of impending tears as much as anything else, though she wasn't quite sure why she suddenly felt like crying, or why he was so cross with her.
You know why, an insidious little voice in her mind said, He knows.
It wasn't possible; she hadn't said anything, and she knew her mind hadn't betrayed her. And yet, she was hard-pressed to think of anything else that would put such a chill in his tone.
"It occurred to me," Severus went on, "That perhaps you had not been entirely truthful."
Calista's heart stopped for what felt like a small eternity; when it started again, it felt like it had migrated to her throat.
"I —" Air seemed suddenly to be in scarce supply, but she scrounged for it, anyway. "It isn't — I had reasons," she began, "I know it doesn't make sense to you, but I —"
"I suppose we will have to discuss this," Severus said, and if it were possible, he sounded even more loathe to the prospect than she felt, "But you, at least, have more pressing concerns today. I hope the knowledge that I returned to Hogwarts on Tuesday rather than calling on Mrs. Yaxley is enough to put a temporary halt to this selfish and destructive behaviour of yours."
"I —" It almost sounded like he didn't know, like he'd been talking about something else entirely; but selfish and destructive? Weren't those the precise words her Aunt Andromeda had used to describe her conversations with Sirius?
"I don't suppose Gerald will have a very difficult time proving his case with or without the honour of your presence," her father went on, in a tone that was still sharply admonishing, "But unless I have been severely deluded, he is very much counting on having it."
"Of course I'm going," Calista said, snapping at once to the reality of what he'd been saying, of what she was hearing; he didn't know. It seemed that he really thought she was cross with him over Mrs. Yaxley, and that she was taking it out on Gerald, by refusing to go to the hearing, "I never wasn't going to go; I'm scheduled to leave work at one, and I'm going to meet him outside the courthouse. I have the coordinates."
Now that she was evidently off the hook for her covert meetings with Sirius, the hard pit in her stomach was beginning to dissolve. Why, then, was a sour, burning sort of feeling taking its place?
Severus didn't respond; he merely looked at her, black eyes boring into hers across the familiar kitchen table.
"It's nothing to do with you why I'm not going to see him first," Calista heard herself say, the words burning her throat as they bubbled acridly out of her gut, "It's — we — well, we're arguing."
Severus remained utterly unmoved; he didn't even blink. Pressure built up, from her gut to her throat, and the sour feeling crawled its way into her mouth, making her cheeks ache.
"He wants me to teach him Occlumency," she burst out, aggrieved, and she found that moving her mouth eased the ache, "And he doesn't understand — doesn't care — why I can't."
"Ah," Severus said, and at last, she was relieved from the intensity of his gaze, as he rose, carrying his half-empty plate to the basin. His words were as fluid as his movement as he added, over his shoulder: "And why, precisely, can't you?"
Calista gaped. "Why can't I?" she echoed, "Are you mad?"
"Not as far as I know," her father replied dryly, and it struck her that although he still sounded far from pleased, there was something suddenly lighter in his tone, more in line with how he'd been when she first walked into the kitchen. That settled it, then; he didn't know; and she had almost needlessly admitted it to him, in her haste to defend her actions.
"I'd have to enter his mind," Calista said, simultaneously pushing Sirius out of her mind, and her mostly untouched plate away from her. She did the latter with decidedly more force than was strictly necessary.
"I'd have to test him," she went on, aggrieved. "I'd have to attack him."
"How courteous of you to explain to me how one teachers Occlumency."
"How can you not see the problem with that?" she practically yelled, hearing her voice rising in disbelief, "I could — I could betray his trust. I could could damage his mind!"
"You could," Severus agreed, turning to face her again, "If you chose to."
"Of course I wouldn't choose to, but what if I did something inadvertently? Besides, he doesn't — he has no idea what it actually feels like to have someone enter your mind, like I'd need to, over and over. It's not pleasant. It's awful. After everything else he's already miraculously managed to accept me for, I'm not going to have him start to hate me after all for that."
Severus' black eyes were levelled on her again, and she met his gaze squarely. She'd meant what she'd said; it wasn't worth the risk.
"Very well," Severus said, at last, "It is your skill, and so it is your right to refuse to share it."
"It's not that I don't want to help him," Calista said, feeling guilt press down on her shoulders, "I would, if there was another way."
Severus stepped closer to the table again. His expression was inscrutable, even to her. She saw his hand move, and for a moment she thought he meant to place it on her shoulder, to comfort her; she would have liked that reassuring weight to replace the weight of her guilt, but instead, he merely shoved her plate back in her direction.
"Eat," he told her, "And then call Astra. Tell her you won't be in today."
Shoving her plate back put the parchment he'd placed in the middle of the table squarely back in her view. She reached for it, scanning the list of statutes and cases; most of them were references to Muggle law that meant next to nothing to her, but a few of them she recognised as belonging to wizarding law.
She set the list down beside her plate, and picked up her fork; now that her father had agreed that she was not obligated to help Gerald with Occlumency, it struck her as obvious that she should at least help him as much as she could, with everything else. The sour ache in her stomach receded, and she began to fill the hollow pit in her stomach with breakfast.
She wrinkled her nose, examining the list as she ate. It was quite extensive.
"How do you even know about all of these, anyway?" she asked her father, around a mouthful of eggs. In reply, Severus turned on the kitchen tap, and became suddenly absorbed in cleaning his dishes.
She returned to her breakfast, and to the list. After a few moments, she'd finished with the former, and as she was absorbed in the latter, she sensed her father's presence at her side again. He took her plate, and set it in the basin; she noticed with a half-hearted scowl that he didn't wash hers.
"Calista."
Something in his tone made her look up sharply; Severus was standing in the doorway, face half-shadowed in a way that made his already angular features appear positively stark.
"Kindly advise Gerald that if you will not teach him Occlumency, I shall."
It took a moment for the explosion in her heart to make it to her head; by the time it had, by the time she'd half-risen, mouth opening in protest, Severus' cloak was whipping around the corner to the next room; by the time she found her feet and raced, panicked, into the living room, her father was already gone; the fireplace crackled tauntingly in his wake.
All at once, dread returned; it curled up in her belly, settling in as though it had known it would not be away long at all.
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
"C-Calista! I'm so glad — you were able to get off work, after all?"
Calista knew as soon as Gerald opened the door to his flat and ushered her in that something was wrong, despite the forced cheer in his tone.
Dread stretched out a claw, latching onto her heart the way that Yellow often snagged her robes when he was hungry; Calista did not have to peer particularly long or hard at Gerald to see the way that nervous sweat had mussed his normally neat hair, nor the darker circles ringing his eyes behind the lenses of his glasses, in stark contrast to his unusually pale skin.
Gerald snatched her hand up as soon as she was inside, and pulled her towards the living room; it was she who had to remember to shut the door behind them, snagging it behind her with hardly a second to spare before he had led her to where his mother and her friend, the policewoman, were conversing solemnly on the sofa. Terry was sprawled in the armchair across from them, scowling heavily; evidently, Flitwick had managed to excuse him from school for the hearing.
"We're just — we're just preparing," Gerald told her, and she could hear the way his voice faltered, slightly. "Going over — over testimony and… and things."
Calista frowned. "Where's that woman?" she asked, referring to a reedy-looking Muggle she'd met a handful of times, who had been helping Gerald and Terry practise their responses to certain expected questions, "Your solicitor?"
"She — ah —" Gerald swallowed, and her hand slipped in his, which had gone clammy. "She won't be — that is, she isn't allowed."
"What? Isn't that how Mug —" Calista glanced at the policewoman and caught herself, "Er, how court works? Your solicitors ask you questions?"
"It — erm — yes, often that is how it works, but — erm, this time they've said…"
Gerald trailed off; Calista could see him struggling to finish his sentence; and then, glumly, Terry spoke up, from his sullen vantage of the armchair.
"Family court," the younger boy said, "Judge reckons it doesn't need to be so formal; thinks it will be better if we all talk to Dad directly."
"What? Talk to him directly — but that isn't how court hearings work at all!"
"Mug — er, family court is different, sometimes," Terry told her, "Depends on the judge, and what they think of the case. The good news is, he doesn't get his solicitor, either, but…" Terry frowned, jerking his chin towards his older brother. "Don't think that's reassuring Ger much, honestly."
"I'm fine," Gerald said, very unconvincingly, "It's — I mean, I'm certain everything will be… erm, fine."
"It will be," Calista said, firmly, despite growing doubt, "The format of the hearing may have changed, but the facts haven't. He's wrong, you're right, and that's that. I'm certain there's a way to make the judge see that."
That last part, at least, was not at all dishonest; there was a way. She just had to convince Gerald to let her do it.
"I've brought this list," she said, stretching her fingers into her pocket to produce her father's parchment from earlier that morning, "Of laws and statutes that my father thought might come up. Why don't we study it together, Gerald?"
She hoped he would hear the pressing note in her tone, and realise that she wanted to talk to him alone; mercifully, he nodded, features flooding with mild relief.
"Yes," he agreed, "Studying the laws — that's a very good idea. It should ease my mind, a bit, if nothing else. We can — we can use my room."
"Our room," Terry countered, seemingly by reflex; and also by evident reflex, Gerald rolled his eyes, before he snatched Calista's hand up again, twining his fingers so tightly with hers that she nearly dropped the parchment before haphazardly shoving it back towards her pocket.
He asked for the parchment once they were in his room, but again, as soon as she'd handed it to him, he reached for her with his free hand, as if her fingers had suddenly become a totem of luck, or protection. Calista squeezed his hand, and frowned when she could still feel the trembling of his fingers; the parchment shook in his other hand.
"I know what you said before," Calista said quietly, urgently, by his ear, "But things have changed — the rules have changed — and I can still help. I can read the judge, I can read your father —"
Gerald shook his head, quite forcefully, even as his grip on her hand tightened. "I — no, Calista, I can't let you. It would be far too —"
"I don't care!," Calista hissed in frustration, "I don't care about the stupid Muggle oath, and neither will that arsehole —"
"I don't think I do anymore, either," Gerald admitted, cutting her off with uncharacteristic grimness, "But I still can't let you take that risk for me. Believe me, I've thought about it all night, since I found out about the solicitors, and I just can't. If Crouch's department caught wind, having your wand stripped would be the least of the potential consequences I'd be asking you to face."
Sour panic rose up again in her gut, but she swallowed hard against the burn of it. "I know what I'm doing. They wouldn't find out; even my father guessed I might do something like this, and he didn't tell me not to; he only told me not to be suspected."
"It isn't worth it," Gerald said, firmly, despite the clammines of his hand in hers and the obvious tremor of the parchment in his fingers. "The — if he wins, the worst that can happen is — is he'll be able to legally write to Terry, and Terry doesn't want to respond to him now, anyway, so… so really, it will all be fine."
He swallowed; Calista frowned, eying him critically.
"No," she said, loathe to remind him, but feeling that she had to," The worst that could happen is for the judge to reverse the prior custody judgment, leaving the door open for a new one —"
Gerald opened his mouth, but Calista pressed on: "- and even though Terry's old enough to decide where he wants to live by Muggle rules, there's no guarantee the Wizengamot would go the same way, if your father brought the case there — and you and I both know that the Wizengamot sides with the wizarding parent ninety percent of the time, if there's a dispute. At the very least, he'll probably get access to Terry's money; and then, of course, there's the fact that we already know that arsehole wants to accuse you and your mum of keeping him from Terry unlawfully. I'd say all that's a bit worse than him sending a few unopened letters — which, by the way, he'd be able to send to your home address, if the Muggle judge demands you to reveal it, Obfuscation Order or no."
If it were possible, Gerald seemed to have gone even paler; but he set his jaw stubbornly, and shook his head again.
"I — I still won't let you intervene. I'll — I'll ask them to bar you from the room, if you try —"
"Gerald, you're being unreasonable!"
"No," he insisted, and suddenly, somehow, they were arguing again. "You are. It doesn't matter if it's family court, it's still a legal proceeding, and the penalty for interfering with the Muggle legal system — don't you understand what could happen?"
"We both know the odds of being caught, let alone charged, in a case like this —"
"We both know?" Gerald echoed, and then, voice cracking: " You want to go on about things we both know could happen, how about the fact that you could wind up in bloody Azkaban, if you were caught — you really want me to accept the risk that you could be forced to share a prison cell with —"
He stopped, but it was far too late.
"Fuck you," Calista practically choked; the hand that she yanked from his ended up pressed hard to her mouth almost immediately after. She wasn't certain whether she intended to stuff her epithet back in, or if it was simply instinct against the burning feeling crawling its way once more into the back of her mouth.
"I'm sorry," Gerald said hoarsely, and he reached for with an air of desperation, "I'm so sorry — I didn't mean —"
"Didn't you, though?" she heard the words twist out of her throat, even as she twisted away from his arms, "It's — but don't worry — she's in maximum security, and Sirius told me they don't have shared cells in that unit, so you're — you're worrying about nothing —"
She pressed her hands to her mouth again; Merlin, she was about to be sick, she could feel it burning its way from her gut straight to the back of her teeth; a bleak, black cloud was rising in her mind, too, threatening to cut her off from reason, and there was nothing she could do to stop any of it —
Yes, there is. Hadn't she just been trying to convince Gerald of the same thing, before everything had gone so disastrously wrong? Calista wrenched her mouth open, and forced herself to take in a mouthful of air, despite the sudden protesting ache of panic in her lungs.
She performed a familiar call, in her mind; like calls to like, her father had told her once, and it still held true, even now: once she had plucked at a single thread of the potential that lived in her mind, the rest of it came naturally, if with considerable effort, as if she were lifting a vast blanket by its corner.
Fear, grief, anguish, rage: as volatile, as wild as they were, she knew they could be corralled, because if they could not, she never would have produced the Patronus that had quite literally saved her soul, not so many months ago. Once more, she forced them all back into a dank, dismal corner of her mind, bitterly aware that they would fester until she could find the time to deal with them properly.
Still; for now, she could shut them out. She took another breath, feeling the chill blankness that settled over her features as if it were a literal mask.
"Calista, please, mon cœur, forgive me."
"Okay," Calista said evenly, even though it wasn't; "I forgive you," even though she didn't, "Now, let's forget about it, for now. Let's concentrate on — on that list."
She could feel his eyes on her, concerned, undoubtedly probing, but she knew with absolute certainty there was nothing to fear; in that moment, she doubted that even her father could have seen through her facade. Except…
"I can tell it's not all right," Gerald said, quietly, "Or rather — I suppose I can't tell, but I know you well enough to know it can't be."
Calista blinked. "I'm fine," she said, another lie. She gestured insistently to the parchment that had fallen to the floor by his feet.
"I just —" Gerald frowned, and snatched for the paper; his questing fingers managed it on the third try. "I never should have put it that way, but there really is a penalty of imprisonment for —"
"Just stop," she said, quietly, and despite the fact that she didn't want to talk anymore, didn't want to even stay, she made herself sit beside him again, and pointed, woodenly, at an item halfway down the list.
"This one," she said, "My father seemed to think this one would be important."
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
The courtroom was small, brightly lit, and also incredibly warm; none of which stopped Gerald from imagining a cold, cavernous room, or the sea of hostile faces around its edges.
Here, in the small courtroom, Gerald was seated on a raised platform; and still, he felt as if everyone else was towering over him.
He did well enough, answering the judge's preliminary questions; he answered as completely and honestly as he could, recounting approximate dates and relating the scant details of his father's ministrations against him and his brother that were suitable for retelling in a room full of Muggles.
He made his first mistake the moment he was released from the stand after this first round of questioning; when they told him he could return to his seat, he'd made a beeline for the second row of the galley, where Calista was sitting.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his father standing, and then he felt a sudden, firm grip on his elbow; he yelped, and yanked his arm away —
"Excuse me," the court officer said, brow curled now in an expression Gerald decided it was best not to try and interpret, "You've got to stay up here, with the other witnesses, in case you're called back before the recess."
"Oh," Gerald stammered, unable to stop himself from glancing over his shoulder. "I was just — I —"
Behind him, his father was settling into the same chair that Gerald had just vacated. A shadow slipped briefly across the older man's face, or perhaps it was a satisfied smirk.
"I wanted to speak with her for a moment," Gerald managed, gesturing towards Calista, while forcing himself to meet the officer's gaze steadily. "I — I'm happy to return to the table afterwards."
"You'll be able to speak to whoever you want during the recess," the officer said, a bit impatiently. "Now, return to your seat; you're holding up the proceedings."
Gerald felt his cheeks warm; he just managed to lock eyes with Calista for an instant before he obliged, and turned, but what he saw did little to reassure him. Calista's expression was even and calm, gaze aloof; it was the same look she'd worn for much of their trip to France, the same expression she'd worn around his mother the first few times they'd met.
He knew that she was only being careful not to reveal herself, in room full of Muggles; he knew that the quiet blankness was only a mask; and yet, he still wanted so desperately to see a break in it; an encouraging or sympathetic smile, perhaps. Even pity would have been preferable; he found that when he turned his back on her, forcing himself to look grimly up at the stand, he felt very much alone.
There was another small movement beside him, and suddenly his mother's hand overlaid his on the table. He glanced at her, and it was she who offered a tiny, encouraging smile, despite the wariness in her eyes.
Gerald swallowed, and straightened his back slightly.
I won't let you down, Mum, he said inwardly, because Calista had been right; even though this was a Muggle courtroom, the stakes extended so much further. He had to do his best here, so that his mother would not need to fear whatever repercussions his father might seek, in the Wizengamot.
Despite the horror that the Wizengamot represented for him, it only took minutes before he rather wished they were in front of that venerable audience, for in that setting, he would have been allowed to interject, when his father spouted outright lies, and he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of them.
"I'm the first to admit that I made many mistakes, when the lads were younger," Brandon said, in a tone that struck Gerald as more oily than regretful, "I was taken by the drink, you see; took me a long time to realise what I'd done, what I'd been missing…"
Money, Gerald wanted to yell, That's what he realised he might be missing. Instead, he clenched his hands together on his lap, to stop them from shaking visibly.
"How long after Ms. Underwood filed the protective order did you enter treatment?" the judge asked.
"Actually, sir, I didn't enroll in a program," Brandon said; it struck Gerald that it was perhaps the first true thing the man had said all day. It didn't last long.
"It only took me a couple of months of missing my boys before I knew I had to stop," Brandon went on, "And I just did. I wanted to sort things out with Tina, but she'd gone and moved the boys away. Didn't leave a forwarding address anywhere, 'sfar as I could ever find."
"Did you attempt to challenge the order in court?"
"Of course I did," Brandon said, "Strangest thing, though, seems no one could find where Tina had gone."
"I see; but you did manage to get in contact with your eldest son shortly after that, didn't you?"
"It took me a couple of years," Brandon said, conveniently neglecting to mention that he'd been in wizard prison for most of it, "But yes, eventually I was able to write to Gerry at the very same boarding school I had gone to as a boy."
"Raven's Claw Academy for Gifted Children," the judge mused, glancing down at his paperwork, "Yes, I read that in your file. Surely you realised that the protective order keeping you from your sons applied when they were in school as well?"
Brandon ducked his head, the very picture of contrition.
"I am sworn to honesty," the older man acknowledged, "And so I must admit I did know that; but Your Honour, I was desperate. I missed my sons so much —"
A soft hiss startled Gerald; he was further startled to realise it had come from him. The judge cast him a brief look, but Brandon went on, recapturing the judge's attention.
"I had tried many times to appeal the order, or to write directly to Tina to ask her about the boys, but no one could seem to find them, not even the magistrate that had filed the original order. In fact…"
Brandon paused, reflectively; and then, his eyes locked unmistakably on Gerald's. A twist of a shadow crossed his pallid face again.
"If I didn't know better, Your Honour," Brandon said earnestly, "I'd have sworn that my family had disappeared like magic."
Gerald's face flooded with heat, and then went cold, all in the span of two or three seconds. He felt his entire body shiver, and for an instant, he couldn't concentrate on what the judge was saying; something about fanciful speculation. It didn't matter. What mattered was the predatory grin his father was staring him down with.
This look, the judge caught, but instead of reprimanding the man, he smiled at him, sympathetically.
"I imagine it's quite emotional for you to be seeing your sons again after all this time, and all grown up," he said, to which Brandon agreed emphatically.
"Oh, yes," he agreed, "Especially my Gerry — you know, he's the spitting image of myself when I was his age…"
Gerald clenched his fists again, steeling himself against the strange, hollow feeling that was slowly filling his head. I'm not like you, he thought grimly, clinging to the words, I'm not like you in the least.
"Although," Brandon reflected, cocking his head slightly, "I do believe he might be a touch shorter — I'll have to stand beside him and see."
Gerald felt his throat closing up; surely, the judge would see the mocking, the threat for what it was, and intervene? But no — the judge merely chuckled.
"Exact opposite with my son," he said, good-naturedly, "Lad's been taller than me since he was sixteen. At any rate — tell me more about the letters you exchanged with Gerry there — you've written each other quite frequently these last few years, haven't you?"
Perhaps it didn't matter that Gerald was not allowed to protest his father's testimony at this stage in the hearing; it seemed that for every angry protest that came into his head, his father had a matching barb or threat; and no matter that each felt to Gerald like the pressing, dull tip of a wand between his ribs — to the judge, it seemed that every word Brandon said was merely an indication of how dearly he'd missed his 'beloved' sons.
The story his father related was a clever interpretation of the facts; and despite Gerald refusing to sign the document his father's solicitor had presented him, the day Calista had warned him against it, Brandon evidently had provided copies of several of Gerald's letters to the judge. He referenced them liberally in his recounting, and he even thanked Gerald directly, for keeping him updated on the rest of the family.
"Thank you, Mr. Boot," the judge said at last, when Gerald felt like drowning in disbelief; if each of his father's lies were a drop of seawater, then surely an ocean wave was cresting over them all now, ready to sweep them all away.
"It's quite clear to me," the judge said, rifling through the papers on his podium, "That you genuinely miss and care for your sons, now."
Gerald tried to swallow and couldn't; there was a terrifying moment where it seemed as if he'd also forgotten how to breathe, and then, at last —
"Are you really so easily deceived?"
Gerald gasped, suddenly choking on an abundance of air; like everyone else at the front of the room, he turned to look behind him, at the figure of a girl with long black hair and a derisively curling lip.
There were several voices at once, and a flurry of motion; both the judge and the court officer were reprimanding Calista's outburst, and Brandon was saying something, too — but it was Calista that Gerald heard, voice cutting as cleanly through the courtroom as her father's could slice through a noisy classroom:
"Nearly every word out of his mouth is a lie — so much for swearing an oath —"
Calista, no. Gerald knew he ought to stop her; and yet, it was such a wild relief to her someone calling out his father's lies —
"Shut it, Calista."
Terry's voice was sharp with warning — an instant later, the judge's gavel cracked fiercely over all of their voices, and Gerald saw Calista flinch at the sound; how odd love was that despite everything he was facing in that moment, he had a fierce and sudden urge to walk away from this entire thing and go and comfort her.
"Young lady, what is your name and relationship to the parties in this hearing?" the judge asked Calista, cutting the silence that had followed on the heels of his gavel banging. The court officer had already approached the end of the row Calista was sitting in, visibly prepared to escort her out.
"Calista Snape," she said, far more evenly than he was expecting, "I'm —" she paused, and Gerald thought he saw something curiously sharp in her gaze suddenly, "I'm a family friend. And I — I apologise for my outburst. It won't happen again."
Gerald blinked, and in that fraction of a second, she had transformed to marble once more.
Miraculously, the judge seemed mollified by her apology. He frowned, but motioned the officer back.
"Take your seat, Miss Snape. This is your first and last warning, before you are ejected from the galley."
"If I may, Your Honour," Brandon interjected solicitously, "I'm familiar with this — ah, young lady. She has quite a history of instigating trouble between my sons and I, I'm afraid —"
The judge shifted his gaze sharply to Brandon; Gerald's throat was suddenly burning with words he could not say.
"I suspect it's a jealousy issue; you know how these young girls are, when they fancy a lad — and who can blame her, eh, Gerry's got his father's good looks — but perhaps it would be best if she were dismissed."
A few people in the galley chuckled; the judge, mercifully, did not. He cut a brief glance at Brandon, and then he peered through his spectacles at Gerald.
"I'll ask the younger Mr. Boot," he said, and then: "Would you like the young lady dismissed from the courtroom?"
"No, Your Honour, I wouldn't." He tried to imitate her steadiness, although he felt very little of it himself, and perhaps it worked; the judge nodded.
"Very well," he said dismissively, as if it hardly troubled him either way, "Miss Snape can stay, as long as she can behave. Now then, back to the matter of these letters…"
The judge frowned. Gerald reviewed his arguments in his mind, reminding himself of the important points to mention once he had a chance to rebut his father's testimony. He had responded in order to keep his father from harassing Terry instead; he'd kept his letters civil to avoid antagonizing him for the same reason; and no, the letters were not evidence that he believed his father had changed, nor did they discount any of the countless abuses the man had subjected him to.
"I read in your pre-hearing filing that you said you wrote many of these letters to try and keep your father from reaching out to your younger brother," the judge said, and Gerald nodded, doing his best to keep the swarming of nerves in his gut under control.
"That's correct, Your Honour."
The judge nodded.
"I can understand your mindset, when you began replying to the letters," the judge conceded, "After all, you had hardly seen your father in several years, and your memories of him were not altogether pleasant."
"I — yes, that's correct."
"Of course, now we know that he's been in contact with Terry anyway; they've both admitted to that."
Gerald blinked. It sounded as if the judge were siding with him, recognising his father's faults. Why, then, was the nervous swarm in his insides beginning to feel like a mass of stinging wasps?
"Looking at these letters here — and actually, I do want a closer look — it seems as if you wrote more and more, as time went on. In fact, I'd think you'd reconciled on your own, if not for the fact that you're all standing here in front of me today."
"N-no, Your Honour, that's not —"
The judge lifted a hand for silence, and smiled genially. Gerald felt the swarming, stinging mass in his gut solidify, and the weight of it created a genuine fear that he might be ill all over the witness table.
"It seems to me that there have been some communication failures, between all of you," the judge went on, "And I'm not certain that any of the questions I have are going to resolve that. To that end, I'm going to call a brief recess of thirty minutes. During that time, I'm going to take a closer look at these letters, and when I return, I'm going to mediate a discussion between father and sons."
What? It was as if the floor had dropped out beneath Gerald's chair, and taken the rest of the courtroom with it; instead of the chipped wooden furniture and the bright, fluorescent lights, Gerald was surrounded by a vast, expanding darkness and looming, hooded figures.
"Thank you very much, Your Honour," Brandon Boot was saying, at once from faraway and all too close, "I think that will be very helpful."
"No," Gerald forced the words out; it was like swimming against a ferocious tide. "I don't — I would rather continue my testimony —"
The judge smiled again. "We all want the same thing, son."
No, I don't think we do. It was the only rational thought amid the growing clamour of panic in his head that Gerald could latch onto.
"We want the solution that's going to be best for your family," he heard, "And I really believe this is the way we are going to arrive at it."
The banging of the judge's gavel might have taken a hundred years to reach him; he was aware that he had flinched, this time, but he didn't think he'd reacted in real time.
"We'll recess for thirty minutes," the judge said again, "Please return promptly at four o'clock."
Someone pulled him out of the courtroom; someone guided him to a small, dim room several doors down from it, and someone was holding his hand tightly; it took him several moments before he could acknowledge or focus on any of these things.
"Gerald," a hummingbird said, by his ear, even though he had been certain a moment ago that it was his mother and his brother that had led him from the room, "It's going to be all right, and — and you're safe."
"Mon colibri," he breathed, and he felt the burn of tears in his throat, or perhaps it was of one of the nervous wasps leaving his gut, "I can't — I can't do this —"
"Yes, you can," Calista said firmly, and she was holding both of his hands, now; they were incredibly warm, and he wondered if his felt like ice to her; he could hardly feel his own at all. "Gerald, you can do this; I promise."
"You can't promise that," he managed; it was a little easier to focus, now; he could see her eyes, those beautiful black eyes, and to his relief, they were no longer cold and blank as he'd seen them in the courtroom.
"I actually can," she said quietly; and there was something curious in her expression, something knowing and resigned; something he'd seen, only a few moments ago…
I'm a family friend, he'd heard her say, inexplicably, and evenly...
"Merlin's blood — Calista, please tell me you didn't — you didn't read —"
"He wasn't going to let me stay, if I said I was your girlfriend," Calista said quietly, "Or if I continued to point out what a gullible idiot he was."
She paused, and then, confirming his worst fears: "It was only once."
No. "Calista, you can't — you can't do that again —"
"I know."
"I really will tell them to eject you from the courtroom."
"I know. I'm not going to do it again."
He believed her, though he knew by now that she must be capable of deceiving him, if she wanted to; why, then, was her expression gradually darkening? Why was her mouth twisted into regret, and why could he see the grip of fear, in the depths of those black eyes?
"I'm — I'm going to do the very last thing I ever wanted to," Calista said, "I hope you won't hate me when it's done."
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
Calista slipped her hand into her pocket, wrapping her fingers around her wand. Usually, the feel of the smooth pine comforted her, but this time, it felt forbidding and foreign in her hand.
"You wanted me to teach you Occlumency," Calista felt herself murmur; each word landed at her feet like a heavy stone.
"Yes," Gerald said, uncertainly, "I still do; but surely there isn't time now? We only have a few more minutes."
There was something vaguely hopeful in his tone, as if he were waiting for her to tell him Don't be silly, of course we have time. But he was right; there was nowhere near enough time for her to teach him anything at all; there wouldn't have been even if she'd started right when he'd first asked, and even if neither of them had taken a moment to eat or sleep since then.
"There's no time," she confirmed, "But there's something else — I've never actually done it myself before, but… I know how it works. I think I can do it." She took a breath, and held it briefly. If only she could hold this breath forever; if only she could preserve the look on Gerald's face, hopeful and puzzled, for just as long; but she'd told him the truth. There was no time.
"My father has performed a particular kind of legilimency on me, before," she told him, quietly, "When I was — mostly when I was small; when I couldn't always block things out myself…"
She swallowed; he still looked puzzled.
"I can — at least, I think I can — help you block out the fear, all of the traumatic memories that he's bringing up. I can… I should also be able to make you understand me, so I can remind you of the cases from my father's list, and… and I suppose I could try to reassure you, if you wanted me to…"
Gerald gaped; his mouth opened, and she braced herself, half-expecting that he would banish her from the room now, without even waiting to ask the judge.
"You can do that?" Gerald whispered; if she hadn't known better, she would have thought that his tone was edging on awe.
"I think so. I've seen how my father does it."
"That seems impossible," Gerald protested, "I've never read anything about legilimency that even approximates what you're describing."
Calista shrugged, frowning defensively. "Well, didn't you tell me yourself that no one will admit to being able to practise it anymore, because of You-Know-Who?" she asked, a bit more sharply than she intended. "I — Gerald, I need to know if you want me to do this or not; I'll need a few minutes to create an anchor point."
"I — yes, of course, if it's something you can do, I want you to do it," he said, shaking his head slightly, bewilderment still evident on his features, "But, Calista — I don't think I'll be able to maintain eye contact the entire time we're in the courtroom, no matter how hard I try."
"I know," Calista said grimly, curling her fingers even tighter around her wand; a cold bead of sweat trickled down to the small of her back; perhaps it even settled into the raised edges of her scar. "That's why I need to create an anchor point. I'll be able to stay connected to you that way, even if you look away."
Gerald blinked; something flickered across his eyes, and Calista made herself look away. If she saw fear now, she could not go through with it.
"All right," Gerald said, at last. "Do… whatever you need to do."
Calista inhaled; she could hear the murmur of voices somewhere beyond the closed door of the small side-room they were in; not close enough that she feared they would be interrupted, but close enough to remind her that they didn't have much time left. She drew her wand from her pocket, and lifted it with fingers that suddenly felt weak and cold. She wished she could have done it the other way, wandlessly, but she wasn't confident that she could stay connected long enough to place an anchor.
"Right," Calista said, "I need you to try as hard as you can to block anything you don't want me to see. If you… if you can, try to separate those thoughts towards the back of your mind, and I promise I won't go after them."
"I — I'll try."
She looked into Gerald's eyes, and for a moment, she hesitated. He looked back at her trustingly, and for some reason, that made her heart ache. What if this was the last time he could look at her like that? She had never been less certain of anything in her life, and yet…
She recalled the way his shoulders had slumped, the way his hands had trembled, the way his voice had failed, in the courtroom. She knew the signs, better than anyone; how could she let his dementors catch up to him, when she knew how to cast this particular Patronus?
"Legilimens," Calista said quietly, careful to keep her movements slow, her wand far enough away not to startle him.
She encountered resistance immediately; it gave her an intense feeling of relief to realise that she would still have to try to break his defenses. She let the tendrils of her mind explore the outermost wall around his mind; she didn't want to sap his strength by directly overpowering him, so she crept along the gate, searching for a weak spot.
A minute passed, and another. She considered the barrier, testing briefly against it, to determine how much resistance it would offer, if she did have to use brute force.
"You're stronger than I expected," Calista mused, suddenly pleased despite herself. "I think you could layer your defenses, if you wanted to."
She saw Gerald's face flush with pride, despite his concerned frown. "I — I wouldn't even know where to begin."
"The memories I asked you to guard," she said, as she continued to send tendrils searching along the edge of his mind, "See if you can draw some of your outer barrier towards them."
Gerald frowned with concentration; gradually, she saw a shift in the wall before her, a thinning spot, and she surmised that he'd managed some success.
"You've revealed a weakness in your outer defences," Calista observed, "But for the moment, that actually serves us well."
She slipped through the opening with only a moderate effort, and even more importantly, with minimal damage to the structure of his mental defences.
Immediately, she could feel waves and threads of memory flitting and swirling around her; she could sense brightness, threads of light that represented his thoughts; not far from where her questing tendril had paused, she sensed a weaker, watery sort of barrier than the one she'd slipped through to get as far as she had. It was something like a thick smoke, or a pane of frosted glass. If she'd wanted to, she knew she could break through it; if she wanted to, she supposed she could take a closer look at any of the the images swirling around her.
I'm here, she said, and she could feel his mind bristling at the announcement, at the intrusion; how could it not?
"That seemed — alarmingly easy for you," Gerald muttered, uneasily, though he kept his gaze locked on hers, allowing their connection to continue; unbidden, she was flooded with the content at the forefront of his mind; it wasn't words, exactly; it was a feeling, a mingled trepidation and awe. He'd been woefully unaware of the true extent of her strength, that much was evident. And yet…
He was afraid, but not overwhelmingly so; he seemed intimidated but if he also harboured disgust or loathing, or any of the other things she'd half-expected to encounter, then it was expertly hidden.
"How much of my mind can you read? "Gerald asked, warily, "How do I know if my second barrier is even working, since I hardly felt you break through the first?"
I didn't break it, she reminded him silently, I slipped through a gap.
"The distinction hardly seems important," he observed aloud, not quite unkindly.
"It is, though," she answered in kind, "It doesn't matter how strong your barriers are, if they're inconsistent. And as for your other question…
I'm deliberately trying not to view any of your memories, or read any of your thoughts, she told him, So as long as you don't think something at me, I think it will be safe. But…
"I can withdraw, if you want me to," she said, quietly; but Gerald shook his head, immediately and firmly.
"No," he said, "If this will work — if you can help me — then I want you to do it."
She nodded, and concentrated on calling back to herself, pulling tendril after tendril of her own consciousness towards the gap she'd uncovered in his barrier, gathering her strength; but instead of questing for information, as she'd done to his father, she tried to build something instead. She recalled the shining, golden wall that her father had constructed for her, inside of her mind, on a dark night very long ago, when her memories had threatened to consume her.
Unbidden, the image of another wall rose; an impenetrable grey one, built from her own strength, but used to keep her out of the sanctuary of her own core memories; for a moment, it was impossible not to think of the woman who had erected it there; the woman who had, in her way, trained Calista to do exactly what she was about to do.
"I'll need your help," Calista said, and despite the trepidation that hung around her, in his mind, he nodded readily.
"Tell me what to do."
"I need you to concentrate on a memory of us together," Calista bade Gerald softly, forcing the ghost of her mother back to the dark corner it belonged in, "It can be — erm, it can be happy or sad, but it needs to be very strong, something that makes you feel like I'm in the room with you, even when I'm not."
The cold glare of sharp grey eyes; an unearthly shriek followed by a soft, dark roll of laughter that sent fire and ice crawling simultaneously up her spine; the heavy, sticky patter of blood on a shiny wooden floor. Her mother had always known how to find those memories…
Calista shivered. As if she'd willed it, the faint lines of her scar floated in front of her; for an instant, it was all she could see, and then —
"It's not all right," she could hear herself sobbing, "She…" her voice faded briefly as she recoiled from the raw pain in her own voice and she wasn't certain if it was an error in his recall, or if she'd blocked it out; "the fucking Dark Mark —"
"Calista." It was a very odd feeling, seeing this memory from his side; she felt the way that his arms had shifted, drawing her close, the way that he had pressed his palm earnestly to her shoulder — Oh, mon cœur, I'm so sorry; I wish I could take it away for you.
She felt herself struggling away from him — or perhaps she was wiping a tear, always so convinced that they made her weak, when he always thought of her as anything but — and he couldn't let that happen, not now. He sensed that if she did get away from him, in that moment, she might never come back.
He touched her chin, willing her to meet his gaze; when she closed her eyes, he shifted his thumb, brushing a tear away from them. He wished he could do the same with the shadows he'd glimpsed, in her eyes; and then, as if he'd willed it, her eyes flew open again, and he had the smallest fraction of a chance to make her see what he'd been trying to for so many months.
"I love you," he told her, quietly and sincerely, "Te amo. Is breá liom tú. I'm running out of languages to say it in, but I'll learn some more, if it will make you believe me."
Her eyes shifted again; he couldn't quite read her, but he thought some of the shadows had retreated. She asked him to say it again, in English, and he did; he'd have said it until his mouth was dry and aching, if she asked him to.
"I —" she'd sucked in a breath, and the look in her eyes in that moment was one that he would probably remember forever. "I love you too, Gerald. In toto corde meo te amo."
There; there it was, the light that shown so rarely from within her, in those days; the one he had resolved to call to the surface, as often as he could; and in a moment, they were flirting, and a moment after that, he was tasting the leftover salt of tears on her neck, fingers in her soft hair, and creeping underneath her blouse…
Calista felt the sting of salt in her eyes now, and realised she was dangerously close to tears once more, here in the dingy side-office of the Muggle courthouse… but she couldn't waste this time, or the utterly perfect memory he'd offered up, at her bidding. She twined a thread of her own mind around one from the proffered memory, and let her own recollections of that day bubble to the surface.
It was startlingly easy to bring to the surface; perhaps his memory had jogged hers, or perhaps this particular memory had been lying in wait, knowingly, since the day she'd used it to help summon the silvery thestral, that dark night.
She latched onto the tapestry of his memory, weaving her own threads in between his; she knew, from the dreams she'd had when her mother had placed anchors in her mind that there was a very good chance he could now read her version of the memory, now that she was weaving it so closely with his — but after all, even if he could, wasn't it only fair, at this point?
"All right," Calista made herself say, when it was done, and there was no turning back, "I'm — I think I'm anchored. Close your eyes for a second, and we'll test it."
He obliged; she could still feel his thoughts swirling around her, could still feel his memory, connected with hers, as if they were somehow holding hands inside his mind.
She registered his disbelief; This is incredible; this is hopelessly advanced. I can't believe Professor Snape taught you this.
Calista frowned, and drew a bit more of herself into his mind; it was easier, now that she had a foothold. She bolstered the wall she'd built, creating a shelter they could bury his trauma and his fear behind, at least for a short while.
"He didn't," Calista said grimly, just as they both registered the sound of approaching footsteps beyond the door. Perhaps she'd accidentally revealed the truth to him, in their connected state, or perhaps he simply used the logic that Ravenclaws were so well known for, but she could feel the moment that her words registered with him; she could feel the moment that he realised that this, what she was doing now, was precisely the way that her mother had victimised her, from so very far away.
"Mon colibri," he began, "I —"
"The hearing's starting again," she said, cutting him off, "I'll help you through it, but — you need to understand… afterwards, it's going to be difficult…"
"I remember," Gerald said softly, "You told me before — you need to withdraw properly, or you'll get hurt."
She nodded; and then she shifted her eyes towards the door, just as the knob turned.
"I'm just afraid," Calista said quietly, as the door opened inward, "That we're both going to be hurt anyway, when this is done."
"Gerald?" Tina poked her head through the door, "Sweetheart, they're ready for us to come back — oh, you look better already; thank you for talking to him, Calista."
Calista made herself smile blandly, squaring her shoulders. "Of course," she said, "It was no trouble at all."
She could feel Gerald's unease plainly, and though it would have been utterly mad if she hadn't registered his apprehension after the way that she'd entered his mind, connected it with her own — it still stung, in the same dark, infrequently visited corner of her mind where she'd stored their argument, earlier that day.
And then, Gerald reached for her hand, twining his fingers around hers like the threads of a memory; on his other side, his mother touched his shoulder, gently, and ahead of them, Terry made a rude gesture at the figure of their father's back, at the end of the hall, and then the four of them entered the courtroom together.
(¯ˆ·.¸¸.·ˆ¯)
The hearing went on for an hour and a half after the break. At first, Calista tried to follow the conversation in its entirety; when she felt Gerald hesitate, or reach for the recall of one of the cases he'd studied, she reassured him or reminded him of the case, sometimes checking the list in her pocket surreptitiously; and though she tried to keep her own feelings separate from his, she couldn't help but reveal her own reactions to his father's words, a few times.
"Gerry, my boy," Brandon said, leaning slightly forward, so his grey hair drifted in front of his eyes, and his son could not avoid his watery brown gaze, "I would take it all back if I could — I'd have us start over, the way it should have been."
She could feel the pulling sadness in the back of Gerald's mind; it wasn't fear precisely… but it tugged at her own memory at something she'd heard once, in a dream.
She said that, too, Calista told Gerald silently, I wanted to believe it so badly I almost did; but it was another one of her lies.
She saw Gerald blink, and look past his father in her direction; there was no doubt that he had heard her, but his expression wavered; and then:
"Take it all back?" Gerald asked, just loudly enough for the words to carry to her, in the second row of the galley, and surely to the judge beside them, "The — the insults, the violence, the yelling and screaming? All of it?"
"All of it," Brandon said, emphatically; he reached for Gerald's hand, then, in an exaggerated gesture that was surely for the audience, more than it was for his son.
A flash of fear flooded Gerald's mind briefly, and she realised all at once that she was wrong; the display had been for Gerald; and then, before she could even wrangle the fear behind the wall she had built, Gerald pushed through it himself.
"I wish you could," Gerald said solidly; a terrible ache was spreading in his mind, and she could feel it as keenly as if it were in her own self; it gripped her stomach and her throat, and ran coldly in her blood. "If there were some sort of — of magic —" he twisted the word out viciously, almost triumphantly, and Calista recalled the way that his father had used the word earlier, to describe the family's disappearance, "— that could take back every nightmare, every scar, every horrible secret I tried to keep from Terry, to stop him from going through the same horror I went through — then perhaps there would be a point to this conversation; but there isn't, and I'm not interested in your apology, now."
Calista felt a surge of pride; and then, his father leaned closer again, and she felt the fear, the darkest of his memories, surging forward against the barrier she'd created; she let a little more of herself slip into his mind, strengthening the wall. At some point, she realised that she was draining her own reserves.
A decade of habit made her preserve her own barriers in triplicate; but nearly every other thread of potential she had was in Gerald's mind now, holding his nightmares at bay, so he could finally confront the man who'd given them to him in the first place.
The judge had shifted away from the mediation; at some point, he'd asked Brandon to step away from the witness stand, had ceased insisting that Gerald and his father converse directly, instead analysing the complaints of each party's initial filings against legal precedent.
Calista could not enjoy the shift towards a potential victory, after the first hour had passed. She could only concentrate on two things: keeping the barrier in place, and not interpreting the memories that swirled around her, in Gerald's mind.
It had grown more difficult for her to block them out; she suspected that his own defenses, those she'd asked him to use to guard his secrets, were strained from her continued presence in his mind.
Calista?
Merlin, she was tired; she made herself send the pulse of a response to his call.
What's the case? He asked her, urgently, The one your father said would be important…
Fuck; she had looked at it a hundred times this morning alone, and yet, her increasingly bleary brain would not let her recall it; she reached into her pocket, withdrawing the parchment.
Goldstein v Glasgow, she telegraphed to him, Nineteen fifty-one. Something about… about the succession of real estate… but no, how could that be relevant? I must be remembering it wrong.
A spark lit somewhere in Gerald's mind; she found herself drawn towards it.
I remember now, he said, utterly confident, It's — Goldstein v Glasgow — that's a Wizengamot case. It was regarding property, but since the deed was registered as a Muggle home, they had to disguise the ruling as a Muggle case to make the outcome valid.
It sounded vaguely familiar; it was a very dry case — something about a terminally ill wizard, and whether his property went to his Muggle wife, or their adult half-blood daughter upon his conference to a care facility; but...
How in Merlin's name is that relevant? She asked Gerald, And how does my father, of all people, know about it?
An eddy of emotion rose up, suddenly, in Gerald's mind; she could feel it swarm around her; the blurry shadow-wall he'd created, over an hour ago at her bidding to keep his secrets safe wavered; it shifted, allowing her a glimpse beyond the flimsy barrier —
For an instant, Calista saw the unmistakable figure of her father, and beside him, Gerald; she saw her father extend his hand, a sheaf of parchment clutched between the narrow fingers.
She could see her father's lips forming words; she couldn't help but decipher the utterly familiar form of her name, and then...
'…she doesn't know.'
It struck Calista fiercely and immediately that this was something she was not meant to see; and yet, how could she look away, from the two people she trusted most in the world discussing some secret they were harbouring from her together?
She felt herself creeping towards the vision; it was always easier, of course, to read thoughts that related to yourself, and both she and Gerald were in a heightened emotional state — she thought she would be able to explain, if she had to, how she'd come to see this particular memory — she could hardly avoid it, after all…
No, she told herself, firmly; and without thinking, she tugged fiercely from within herself, drawing the first sizeable scrap of strength she could, and cocooned it around the offending memory, dulling the vision in an instant. I'm not going to do that.
And then —
It was as if she'd loosed a storm; as if a dam had burst, and every seething, frothing drop of fear, of anger, of darkness and rage that she'd locked so carefully and so firmly away earlier in the day was suddenly flooding her.
Calista?
She could feel Gerald's emotions sharply, all of a sudden, as they rushed at her from the other side. A maelstrom of relief, disbelief, and a hundred other things swept her along, and for a moment, she could make sense of nothing; it was like a massive rushing around her ears, like a raging ocean had suddenly swallowed her whole.
From one direction, snippets of the trial flashed at her: The story your boys tell, Mr. Boot, doesn't match these letters. I don't know which is closer to the truth —
Calista, Gerald said again, fiercely, and somehow reverently, the words echoing through all the other flashes and ribbons of words that swirled around her: We won.
But Gerald's mind was only half of the picture; it was only half of the chaos. The darkness that had erupted, suddenly, in her own mind was rolling forward, a sudden, ferocious storm.
I'm inclined to leave my judgment at this, the judge said, or perhaps it was only Calista's interpretation of Gerald's memory of what the judge had said; she could no longer quite tell: Your sons are old enough to make up their own minds. You're free to write them, at whatever address you have; and if Gerald or Terence choose to write back, or provide you with another address for correspondence, then that's entirely up to them.
The bridge between them, the anchor Calista had placed, lit up in the forefront of her mind like a network of stars; the storm she'd unwittingly released inside herself was reaching her own outer barrier, and she felt an awful, agonising pull, as her panicked mind tried desperately to pull itself back together, to pull every fibre of itself back into reinforcing her own internal protections. It was habit, after all; it was what she'd been trained to do her entire life.
"Calista," Gerald was beside her now, in addition to being all around her; while the buzz of his thoughts continued to press at her, his arms came around her, but the rest of whatever he said was lost to the rushing in her ears, in her mind; the pull intensified, and now she could feel the weight of his fears, too, his own shadows, straining and pushing back against the wall she'd created to rein them in.
"I — I can't," Calista managed, "I have to — there's no time to do things the right way."
Calista! Gerald said, or he thought; she couldn't tell, she could only feel the sudden bewildered anguish behind the word, and then, two waves of darkness crested simultaneously; she could feel Gerald's memories break free, just as her own pulled her viciously and completely back into her own mind.
Searing pain filled her head, a hundred thousand knives driving themselves into her skull from the inside; vaguely she felt a brief moment of warmth on the skin of her forearms, registered daylight somewhere above her, and then the pain and the pressure overtook her, though neither faded.
A thousand memories swarmed her; one came to the forefront, suddenly. Her father, and a warning he'd given her once, impossibly long ago:
The mind cannot be stretched too thin, for too long; to attempt to force it can be agonising at best, and disastrous at worst.
Well, she remembered thinking, just before she stopped remembering anything, It's a little fucking late for that, now, isn't it?