DATE: 17 september, 1944, forty-five minutes before the match LOCATION: in close proximity to the quidditch pitch @cygnusblck
The last time she had been so close to him, they had stood at the centre of a firestorm, the castle known for the cold succumbing to flame. Calla’s jumper had been ruined. Her tie was tattered and soaked with soot. She had lost her favourite quill, a sharp little thing that made her words into daggers. They had not lost Evadne, and such a strange thing it had been to see panic on Cygnus Black’s pretty face, hissing his curses, stood stock-still with his hands unmoving at his sides. He had come back to form in the weeks after, of course he had, dark eyes and a walk between classes that was more cocky than practical and that smirk.
Calla had the posture of a dancer, or perhaps a marionette, back straight, tall as ever waiting by the door. Laughted errupted from somewhere within the ranks of the Slytherin quidditch team. Nott. Or Mulciber. She kept her eyes fixed ahead. Their lack of discipline delighted her, but she maintained her composure, calling out to Cygnus when the fancy struck her, watching him from the edge of the room. “Black. Come here.” There was time. The Gryffindors had barely arrived.
She had luck to wish him.