Burning Like Firewhisky
The moment the last student disappeared through the dungeon doors, Severus rounded on her.
“Miss Malfoy. A word.”
Callista didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink.
She rose from her seat with the same effortless grace she always carried, but he wasn’t fooled. He could see the tension in her spine, the way her fingers curled into her palm. She wasn’t as composed as she wanted him to believe.
Good.
He wasn’t, either.
He waited until the door shut behind the last lingering Ravenclaw before he stalked toward her, the echo of his boots the only sound in the empty room.
“What, exactly, were you thinking?” he demanded, his voice sharp as a blade. “You knew. You knew who I was the second you walked into this room. And yet, you said nothing.”
Calli crossed her arms. “And you did?” she shot back. “You didn’t exactly disclose that you were a professor here. Or should I have just assumed that from the way you–”
“Enough.” His voice was low, dangerous. “You will watch your tongue.”
She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, is that a threat, Professor? Should I be trembling in my robes?”
His jaw clenched. “You may have no regard for the rules, but I assure you, I do. What happened–what should never have happened–was a mistake.”
Her eyes flashed. “I didn’t hear you calling it a mistake at the time.”
His fingers curled into a fist.
Do not rise to it. Do not give her the satisfaction.
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “This ends now. Whatever ridiculous notions you have about testing me, about seeing how far you can push, let me make one thing very clear: you mean nothing to me. You are a student. A Malfoy. That is all.”
Callista flinched.
He saw it–just for a flicker of a second before she masked it with a cold, indifferent smirk. “A Malfoy,” she repeated, her tone laced with something sharp. “Funny. You didn’t seem to mind when you had your hands all over me.”
He stepped closer, looming over her, and for the first time, he saw something in her expression that he hadn’t expected.
Not anger. Not defiance.
Fear.
She was afraid of him.
Something twisted in his chest, dark and ugly, because he knew exactly who she was afraid of. And it wasn’t him–it was her father.
Lucius.
Severus’ name had been spoken in the Malfoy household, no doubt. He had no illusions about how Lucius had painted him–a loyal Death Eater, a dangerous ally.
And now, Callista was looking at him as if he were cut from the same cloth.
He should tell her the truth.
He should set the record straight.
But instead, he leaned in just enough that she had to tilt her chin to hold his gaze. “Perhaps,” hr murmured, “you should be afraid.”
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t move. Didn’t back down.
Good.
“I’ll stay out of your way,” she said after a long pause, her voice quieter now.
“See that you do.”
And with that, he turned on his heel, striding toward his desk, willing the scent of her perfume and the ghost of her touch to disappear with her.
Because if she didn’t stay away–
He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to.