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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Calli felt like she was being watched.
Not obviously.
Not carelessly.
But enough.
It wasn't just the encounter with Kingsley Shacklebolt, though that had sharpened the feeling into something undeniable. It was everything around it. The way conversations quieted half a beat too late. The way certain eyes lingered just a fraction longer than necessary.
The way mistakes didn't go unnoticed.
She adjusted the files in her arms as she walked, posture straight, steps measured.
Unremarkable, that was the goal.
Always unremarkable.
Level Two buzzed with quiet urgency, quills scratching against parchment, voices kept low, secrets moving in careful currents beneath the surface.
Calli slipped back into it as if she had never left.
Her desk.
Her work.
Her mask.
Everything exactly where it should be.
And yet, her mind refused to settle.
There were too many variables now; her father pushing her toward Level Nine, the absence of Fawkes and now the unsettling possibility that the Ministry wasn't as blind as it pretended to be.
Not all of it, anyway.
She sat with her quill poised above parchment, unmoving for just a fraction too long.
Thinking.
If Kingsley suspected her, he hadn't acted.
Which meant restraint.
Which meant intention.
Which meant he was waiting.
The question was for what?
A mistake?
Proof?
Or for her to choose.
The thought settled uneasily in her chest.
Because that wasn't how this was supposed to work.
She wasn't meant to be seen.
Not like that.
Not by someone like him.
Her hand moved again, ink flowing smoothly across the page.
