Callidora Nott has always known exactly what is expected of her.
As the daughter of one of Britain's oldest pure-blood families, her future has already been carefully planned; alliances, power, and a life shaped by tradition she never chose. At home...
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Terror at the Quidditch World Cup
The curse hit her before she could react.
One moment Calli was standing beside the training table, wand lowered, her fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of water she just took a sip from.
The next, everything felt wonderful.
A warm, floating sensation spread through her body, light and careless, as if she had just downed an entire bottle of firewhisky in one gulp. The weight in her chest disappeared. The constant tension in her shoulders dissolved.
Her worries slipped away like smoke.
For a few blissful seconds, she felt perfectly content.
Then her father's voice echoed inside her head.
Throw that glass at the wall.
The command slid through her mind as though it belonged there.
Her hand lifted obediently.
The glass felt cool in her fingers.
But something inside her hesitated.
Why should I break a perfectly good glass? She thought faintly.
Do it.
Her father's voice sharpened.
Break it.
Her arm began to move, ready to do as he said.
Obey me.
The word struck something deep inside her.
Calli froze.
Obey him?
The very idea made something twist violently in her chest.
Her arm trembled in midair.
The longer she resisted, the more a dull pain began spreading up her arm, tightening like invisible ropes pulling at her muscles.
Break it.
Her fingers tightened around the glass.
For a moment she thought she might lose the fight.
Then a thought flickered through her mind.
A small, stubborn spark.
Instead of throwing it, Calli simply opened her hand.
