Cygnus Black was almost unanimously regarded as an effigy of bacchanalian, Grecian beauty, and he, like Michelangelo’s marble sculptures, the ones he so resembled, was not often touched without permission. Very few had the privilege of laying their hands on him freely, without consequence or cost. Firstly, there was Evadne, who had the liberty of doing whatsoever-the-fuck she wanted to and with Cygnus. Secondly, there was Walburga, and thirdly, there was Lucretia, both of whom had free reign to kiss their brother’s cheek and curl up in their brother’s lap and ruffle their brother’s hair. Fourthly, there was Calla Parkinson, who always took what she wanted, with or without permission. And since Cygnus had already located his sisters and sent them safely on their respective ways, and since Evadne would never touch him so chastely, he knew, even before turning around, that the slender fingers that coiled around his forearm belonged to one Calla Parkinson.
When he did turn, he was surprised, for the girl before him was less cool than she usually was, her catlike eyes sparkling with something not quite frantic, but not quite calm, either. His narrowed gaze fell immediately to the makeshift mask she wore, and, in spite of the bedlam that surrounded them, one corner of his lips ticked upward delightedly. Such a resourceful little minx, that one; what a pity she’d found a home with the birds instead of the snakes. Although—come to think of it—she had found something of a home between the arms of the rotten king and queen of snakes, hadn’t she? Evadne and Cygnus came as a package deal, and so, too, did Evadne and Calla; and so the three devils had fused, Calla and Cygnus regarding each other at first with indifferent, grudging tolerance for the benefit of their common interest, and then, gradually, with equal parts animosity and affection.
Evadne’s name sprang from her lips absent any sort of context, but Cygnus knew what she meant: ‘Where is she? Is she safe?’ Before he could answer, she was tugging him away, and he was letting her. She always took what she wanted, Calla, with or without permission. The chaos that was engulfing the castle like the hungry flames of a wildfire dimmed in comparison to the anarchic havoc that Cygnus Black housed between his ribs and behind his teeth and in the creases of his palms, and so he felt no less at ease than he did on any ordinary day. The sharp bite of her nails curling into his arm commanded his full attention, and he grimaced, placing his large hand over her much smaller one. “Claws, kitten,” he purred, the smooth staccato of his voice sounding raspier than usual, muddled by too much smoke inhalation. “Retract.”
But then, as he weighed the gravity of her question, he bristled, feeling much less at ease now than he had moments prior. “No,” he said flatly. “I thought she was with you.” If ever Evadne Carrow was not at Cygnus Black’s side, her fingers laced with his and her head lolling against his shoulder, she was at Calla’s side, her fingers laced with hers and her head bowed a fraction to whisper sacred secrets into the Ravenclaw’s ear. Something that felt very much like terror (he wasn’t sure, though—he wasn’t well-acquainted with the sentiment) gripped him by the throat, strangling his arrogant purrs and his cool croons and crushing him with the sheer force of fear. “Fuck,” he hissed, eyes feral. And then, more forcefully, more frantically: “Fuck.” Distraught, he ran a hand through his hairand swallowed hard. He was always collected, Cygnus; he always knew what to do and how to do it, but now, here, he was miserably lost, and so he looked to Calla, desperately, for direction, for an anchor.
She touched him, and Cygnus sang with that velvet voice of his, curses not unlike his charms, and she refused to fall so low as to follow suit — Evadne called her Callie, baby doll, names that could almost be insults, except — Calla never swore. Not in her head, not in her diary, not tumbling from bared teeth. Except — she wanted to. She heard his desperation and it hung in the air as still as a bomb before it dropped, like the whistle it gave in warning. She wanted to fall to her knees and whip around and run through the rubble towards the last place she had seen Evadne and she needed to know she survived. There was little else in her head. Rationality had failed the both of them, then, heads raised and bodies still. She moved again, arching her back, throat presented like a swan’s, when his note ended and he looked back at her, as if raising white gloved hands to applaud, twirling golden opera glasses between slender fingers.
“Awake,” she told him, them, “Eyes open,” even though she wanted to close her own, “Tear your sleeves or your tie, you need something to trap the dust and keep it from throat. Do not breathe until you feel as if you are drowning. Do not get distracted by the sirens, or the bodies.” She was a fierce kind of ally, not a warmonger or a diplomat or Churchill but an architect, head snapping up and surveying the corridor. Nearly empty. “If there is structural damage, even with magic, there are walls that cannot hold for long.” She’s seen them, running through the fields cloaked with Thestral hair, enchanted houses snapping in half, sinking into the ground, engulfed in green flame. His privilege extends far beyond his dark, long lashes and vicious smile, and that name, and that vault in Gringotts, to not have to see. Hers only extends as far as to not have to cry.
“Black, listen to me.” She reached for him again, veins heavy under her skin, and surrounding her she felt only stillness. “Cygnus.” His name was her shot, arrow lined up, tip to his heart. She pulled the cloth back up to her lips, muffling her words. “There are two paths from the Great Hall. It does not make sense for us to go together. You understand.” It didn’t make sense for them to go together even with only one hallway stretched out before them. “One of us will find her. The other will learn later.” Irrationality spiked in her blood again, like sugar or alcohol, making her dizzy. She had to find Evadne. She could not be the one to learn later. “Do you understand?”
It was hardly a question, but her inhale lent formality to it. “Cygnus.” Just once more. “There are two ways she could have gone. Choose the one you think she followed.” Her conclusion was as sharp as her commands: she survived the explosions, and the ensuing chaos, just like you and I, and our clever girl has found herself somewhere cozy and warm and we are not with her. A warning and a punishment and a blessing all at once. Calla would run the second he chose.
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