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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
August 12
The parchment felt too light in her hands. Too ordinary.
Calli sorted through the stack on her desk with practiced precision, documents sliding into neat piles, signatures checked, dates aligned. Investigation Department. Order. Structure. Control.
Her hands moved automatically.
But beneath it, they itched. Restless. Unsettled.
Today.
Harry's hearing.
Her jaw tightened, just slightly.
Dementors.
The thought alone made something cold coil in her chest. They didn't just leave Azkaban. Not on their own. Not without reason. Not without someone.
Voldemort had reached them.
She knew it with the same certainty she knew how to breathe.
And if people still refused to see that... if that wasn't enough, then what would be?
People were choosing comfort over truth. Blind, willfully so.
Her fingers pressed a little harder into the parchment before she forced them to relax.
Composure. Always composure.
She finished the last file and set it neatly into place.
Done.
The door opened.
Calli didn't look up immediately. She placed the final document down with careful precision before lifting her gaze.
Lucius Malfoy.
Of course.
She didn't sigh. Didn't let anything show. But internally, she groaned.
Her expression remained smooth. Neutral. Indifferent.
Perfect.
"Mr. Malfoy." She greeted calmly.
He stepped inside like he owned the room, like he owned everything. His cold eyes swept over her briefly before settling, assessing.
"Miss Nott."
Measured. Polished.
A brief pause.
"I need you to assist me to Level Nine."
Calli stilled for the smallest fraction of a second.
