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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"Wormtail."
The voice cut through the room like something thin and cold, slipping between people rather than over them. High, almost soft but edged with something that made it carry anyway.
Voldemort didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
"I said only the inner circle."
For a moment, no one moved.
Then everything shifted at once.
Peter Pettigrew dropped into a deeper bow, his posture collapsing in on itself as he stammered apologies, his voice small, frantic, desperate to correct a mistake that had already been made.
Calli didn't look up.
She couldn't.
Not safely.
But she felt it; that subtle recalibration of the room, the quiet understanding passing between those who belonged and those who didn't.
And then a hand closed around her wrist.
Firm.
Decisive.
She was pulled back before she could react, guided swiftly, efficiently away from the center of the room, away from the weight of that presence.
The doors closed behind her with a muted finality.
The corridor outside felt colder.
Quieter.
Like surfacing after being held underwater too long.
For a second, Calli didn't move.
Didn't think.
Her senses lagged behind, still caught in that room, still wrapped around the image of red eyes and pale skin and something deeply, fundamentally wrong.
Then the grip on her wrist loosened.
Calli turned.
Narcissa Malfoy stood in front of her.
Perfectly composed, as always.
Almost.
Her posture was still immaculate, her chin lifted, her expression controlled but something in her eyes gave her away. A tightness. A flicker of something unsettled, quickly buried but not entirely gone.
It was enough to notice.
Enough to matter.
Calli blinked once, grounding herself, forcing her breathing back into something steady.
"Thank you." She said quietly, her voice even despite the lingering tension in her chest.
Narcissa studied her for a brief moment, her gaze sharp and assessing, not unkind, but not soft either.
