The Fall

Eileen stitched herself into routine: study, brew, walk the corridors with composure. She answered questions with precision. Met expectations. Never complained. She was, in every observable way, a Prince—flawless on parchment, impeccable in craft. Though sometimes, in the early hours, she would stare at her notes and feel a pressure behind her eyes—not pain, exactly. Just… static. Like something inside her was trying to scream through parchment and ink.

And then Graham Parkinson began to notice her.

Not because of her lineage—though he was a son of a Great House, and such things were rarely far from thought. Not because of her brilliance, which had long been established. He had always respected her from a distance—like one does a masterwork on a plinth.

But that year… something changed.

The stillness around her no longer seemed like poise. It felt like grief—worn quietly, like a bruise beneath silk.

He watched her, quietly, in the spaces in between things—after class, when she lingered to clean her station a little longer than necessary. In the library, when she turned pages without truly reading them. At meals, where she sat straight-backed and silent, speaking only when spoken to.

She was flawless, yes. But not untouched.

There was something raw beneath her precision. Something vulnerable in the way her fingers hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before returning to their practiced movements. Something haunted in her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

He found himself wanting to protect her. Not because she was fragile—she wasn’t. But because she carried her pain with such dignity, it made his heart ache.

Eileen Prince, daughter of mastery, wore her sorrow like a silk robe—refined, composed, hiding every seam.

And Graham… wanted to be allowed to see the threads.

He began with quiet things. A book left near her table—on venom neutralization, with a page marked he knew she’d appreciate. An offer to walk with her to the dungeons, casually phrased. A word of praise when she answered a particularly complex question in class—spoken low, just for her.

He never pushed. Never presumed. But he stayed.

And Eileen, always at sea when it came to social interactions, didn’t know what to do with him.

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Callista Fairbourne had always been a clever girl in a room full of brilliant ones. She was neither top of her class nor bottom. She was not particularly beautiful, though she knew how to arrange herself with just enough poise and practiced softness to pass as charming. Her spell work was competent. Her handwriting, exquisite. She smiled often. Laughed easily. Listened closely. And was forgotten just as quickly.

Until she aligned herself with Eileen Prince.

It was not an accident.

Callista Fairbourne had never admired Eileen Prince.

Her poise felt like mockery. Her brilliance, like arrogance. She spoke with clarity, never hesitation—as though her words had been weighed and deemed correct long before they ever touched the air. Professors adored her. Peers whispered her name like a spell. Callista detested it. She wished never to waste another thought on dear Eileen Prince, heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Prince, whose golden path through life was paved long before she took her first step.

But then Graham Parkinson—who had never looked at Callista longer than a moment—began to watch her.

Not Callista.

Her.

Callista saw it all. The way his eyes lingered. The way he looked at Eileen when she didn’t notice. The way he hovered when she spoke.

And something in Callista curled inward and burned.

She had dreamed of being Lady Parkinson since she was nine, standing in satin shoes at a ball in the Parkinson family House, catching her first glimpse of Graham’s quiet kindness and poised elegance.

Eileen Prince had been handed everything—legacy, brilliance, the effortless gravity of old blood and striking features.

She would not have the only thing Callista had ever wanted for herself.

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Their first conversation was perfectly calculated—disarming, sweet, admiring.

“I’ve always wondered how you manage such precise infusion layering,” Callista said one afternoon in potions, voice low and friendly. “Mine always skims too fast. You stir like the potion listens to you.”

Eileen blinked, startled by the sudden attention, but nodded. Politely. Carefully. “It’s about base temperature,” she said. “You have to wait until the heat stabilizes before introducing a second compound.”

Callista smiled warmly. “Of course. Thank you.”

And that was all.

The next week, she sat beside her again. The next, she brought her a rare book on botanical emulsions. By winter, they were sharing tea in the common room after evening rounds.

And Eileen—who had lost her mother’s gentle guidance, who had never tried too hard to learn how to sort sincere from sly—why would she, her mother would always be there —began to think she had found something resembling friendship.

Callista became part of her days after that. Never sudden. Never too much. She sat beside her when there was space. Walked with her once or twice after class. Asked gentle questions about potionwork, brewing methods, magical theory.

And Graham Parkinson had begun to speak to Callista—polite, friendly things. The sort of things boys said to girls who were already present in the space where their attention lay.

And for the first time in her life, Callista Fairbourne was seen.

It didn’t take long for her to realize she was no more visible to Graham than the other girls around Eileen—perhaps even less.

He spoke to Celia Rosenthal after Arithmancy. Held the door for Mira Nott. Thanked Maren Burke for a book recommendation.

Callista noticed it all.

So she began, gently, to separate Eileen from the few connections she had, the girls Elspeth once helped her befriend.

Callista praised them in Eileen’s presence, then privately told them Eileen was pulling away.

“She doesn’t mean it,” she would say, eyes wide with concern. “She’s still grieving. She told me she’s trying not to care about the little things, about what isn't academic.” Always delivered in confidence. Always with a whisper of sorrow in her voice.

Callista didn’t need to lie. She only had to tilt the truth. Just enough to let doubt settle in like dust.

The girls backed away, slowly. Some with hurt glances. Others with confusion. And Callista was always there to “defend” her. To say it wasn’t meant that way. To apologize on Eileen’s behalf.

Then she turned to Eileen and said, “They’re giving you space. I think it’s kind, really. They just don’t know how to help you.”

Whispers began to shift.

"She’s brilliant, but—"

"She’s cold."

"She’s distant."

"She’s not really one of us."

Callista never started the rumours outright. That was beneath her. But she knew how to lay kindling near fire.

Meanwhile, she stayed beside Eileen. “I told them you’re not like that. They just don’t understand you.”

Eileen nodded. Believed her. Grateful for the kindness, even when it tasted faintly like ash.

She grew quieter. Smaller. More reliant on the only friend who remained.

Callista.

And when Graham Parkinson walked by and nodded at them both—just the two of them now—Callista felt a thrill coil through her like a serpent waking.

He was seeing her.

Finally.

Eileen had become a bridge.

And bridges could be trod on.

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It came like a crack in a mirror. Tiny at first. Barely visible. But it spidered outward—sharpening every reflection into something jagged.

Callista had imagined—expected, really—that Graham’s gaze would shift. That once Eileen was quieted, once the other girls faded, once she remained as the only constant, he would begin to choose her.

And he did look at her.

Sometimes.

He smiled when she greeted him. Thanked her when she passed notes in class. He even made a joke once—dry and clever, about a cauldron mishap—and Callista had laughed too hard, too quickly.

He’d blinked, startled. The moment passed.

But then came the realization.

One afternoon, after a quietly successful Potions exam, Graham lingered behind Eileen’s bench as she packed away her things. He didn’t say much. Just… stood there. A beat too long.

Callista watched from across the room, her smile carved in place.

Later, he caught up with Eileen outside the library. Handed her a book on magical counteragents.

“I thought you might enjoy this,” he said.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Callista stood behind a column and watched her dream start to flicker.

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That night, Eileen sat curled in the common room armchair, the scent of old parchment clinging to the book Graham had given her. Her fingers lingered on the worn spine, gentle, like she was afraid of tearing something delicate. She didn’t speak, but Callista saw the shift—the subtle unfurling of her shoulders. A softness in her gaze, like a thaw.

“He’s kind,” Eileen said aloud, almost shyly, her voice barely more than breath. “I think… I think he sees me.”

Callista didn’t speak. But inside, something splintered as she recognized the truth in Eileen’s words. Graham saw her—and Callista? She was only ever reflected, and only briefly, when she stood close enough to the one who mattered.

She smiled. Sipped her tea. Set the cup down gently—so gently, it didn’t even clink. As if silence could preserve the illusion.

That was the moment. That was when it changed.

That was the moment. The turning point.

Because if he saw Eileen—not the legacy, not the reputation, but the girl—then all her precision, all her patience, all her carefully sharpened steps… meant nothing.

And that was unacceptable.