Midsummer's Bloom
A week passed.
Then Eileen told her.
“He proposed to me.”
Callista blinked, slow and careful. “I thought you’d… told him you weren't interested,” she said, voice thin.
“I did,” Eileen replied. “But then he spoke to me again. Said he’d misunderstood me. That he didn’t expect an answer right away. Only a chance. That he wanted to prove he was serious.”
Callista smiled.
It cracked a little at the edges. “You’re not seriously considering it?”
“I said I’d think about it.”
Callista’s tea went cold in her hand.
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It came to her in the greenhouse, three days before they sat for their NEWT exams.
The afternoon light filtered through glass panes speckled with dust and condensation. The others were gone—off to study or flirt or laugh. Callista remained alone, pruning a cluster of withering bloodbells, their petals drooping under the weight of heat and neglect.
Her hands moved automatically.
She was not thinking of Graham.
She was thinking of Eileen.
Eileen, who had everything and guarded it so carelessly. Who had stumbled into Graham’s regard without effort. Who had no idea of the protections that kept her from ruin—and no gratitude for them. Who stood in the centre of everything Callista wanted, still too grief-slowed to recognize the shape of what she held.
It was there, pruning shears in hand, that the plan began to settle into shape—not with triumph, not with fear. But with clarity.
She felt no revulsion.
What she intended was not wicked. Not cruel.
It was correction.
Eileen had been given every advantage—blood, beauty, brilliance, birthright. She had not fought for them. Had not clawed for them.
She had merely received.
And if she could not protect what she had—well, then perhaps she had no right to keep it.
After all, Callista thought, snipping away a perfect red bloom—something that can be taken from you is something that was never truly yours.
Her heart was steady. She wiped her gloves clean.
And went to prepare.
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It was late.
The kind of late where the castle seemed to exhale—hallways emptied, torches softened, even the portraits hushed themselves.
In the Slytherin common room, Eileen sat by the hearth, a potions text open but unread in her lap. Her hair was unpinned, falling like shadow over one shoulder. The flames licked her profile in gold.
Callista entered quietly, steps unhurried. She hadn’t expected to find her here—hoped, perhaps, but not expected.
Eileen looked up and smiled. A soft, tired thing. Unpractised, but real. “I didn’t think you’d still be up,” she said.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
A beat passed. Callista sat beside her, folding her hands neatly in her lap.
“I wanted to say,” Eileen said after a moment, eyes still on the fire, “thank you.”
Callista tilted her head. “For what?”
“For… staying. For being here with me. I know I haven’t been easy to be around. I’ve been difficult. I didn’t mean to be. But you never made me feel like I was failing at being… normal.” Her voice faltered slightly. “You made things feel less heavy.”
Callista smiled. A perfect, practiced smile. “I stayed because I wanted to,” she said gently. “Not because I expected anything from you.”
Eileen turned to look at her. Her eyes were unguarded in a way they rarely were. Trusting. Earnest.
Callista felt nothing. Nothing but the clean click of the final piece falling into place.
“You’re a better friend than I deserve,” Eileen whispered.
And Callista reached out, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. “No, Eileen,” she said softly.
“I’m exactly what you deserve.”
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It began, as all betrayals do, with an invitation cloaked in warmth. The exams had stripped their minds bare, and in the emptiness that followed, jubilance bloomed
“We’re about to graduate,” Callista had said that evening, voice low, conspiratorial, as they prepared their outfits for the last Hogsmeade weekend. “Everything’s about to change. This might be our last chance for something a bit… mad.”
“Mad?”
“A real adventure. Just you and me. One night before the world expects more from us.”
Eileen hesitated.
Callista pressed on, bright and knowing. “Come on. We’ve earned it. Just one evening. Nothing dangerous. I’ve found a place—a Muggle neighbourhood in the Midlands. Cokeworth. Quiet, forgettable. We’ll be back before curfew.”
“Why there?”
“My father owns a flat nearby. We can stay if we need. I thought it might be fun to see the world from the other side. No magic. No names. Just two girls disappearing for a few hours.”
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Callista's father didn't own a flat in Cokeworth.
She had spent days researching. Listening. Studying maps. Asking careful questions of half-bloods and mudbloods, never the sort to raise suspicion.
She wasn’t looking for charm. Or for danger that looked dangerous.
She was looking for decay.
She'd found it.
Eileen said yes.
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They dressed simply.
Callista wore green silk under a wool cloak. Eileen chose a muted blue. They Apparated to the edge of the district and walked in.
The buildings were brick, soot-stained and leaning. The air tasted of coal and something older—something forgotten. The sun was setting by the time they reached the pub.
It had no name. Just a rusted sign above a heavy door, and a bitter smell that clung to the brick like mildew.
Inside, the floor creaked beneath their boots. The lighting was dim. A few men hunched over pints at corner tables. A scratchy radio murmured something tuneless.
Callista scanned the room.
Middle-aged, mostly. Wrong ages. A few old. A few bent.
Then—him.
Younger than most, but not by much. Tall. Sharp-jawed. Hunched. Clothes dark as night, boots worn thin.
He looked like rage left out in the rain.
She smiled to herself.
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Eileen was uneasy.
“This isn’t a place for girls like us,” she murmured, drawing her cloak tighter.
“Nonsense,” Callista said breezily. “One drink. A toast to the end of childhood—and a welcome to everything we deserve.”
They sat. Callista ordered for both of them. When the drinks arrived, she slipped the vial from her sleeve.
Just a few drops. Clear. Odourless. Slow-spreading. Crafted for a very specific effect—not unconsciousness. Not control. Just the right alchemy of vulnerability. It dulled judgment. Blurred reluctance. Thinned hesitation until all that was left was yes.
It was the same one she’d slipped into Graham’s drink.
She had brewed it months ago.
And it had worked, hadn’t it? She’d worn his touch for a night. She’d let it break her.
And now, she’d use it again.
She watched Eileen sip.
Then raised her glass and nodded toward the man at the bar—the one she’d chosen from the start.
“Let’s have a bit of fun,” she whispered. “Go talk to him.”
Eileen hesitated. “What? Why?”
“Because you’ve never done anything reckless,” Callista said with a quiet smile. “And for once in your perfect life, you should.”
She laughed. “Don’t think. Just do.”
Eileen didn’t want to. Not really. But the thought of saying no—of watching her friend’s smile dim—felt heavier than the glass in her hand. And—drifting, dulled, caught between fading inhibition and a quiet curiosity to be someone else—she did.
She stood.
She walked toward the muggle man.
She sat next to him.
And Callista watched the beginning of the end. Her joy was a quiet, hideous thing.
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The night became a blur.
Tobias Snape, mourning a father buried that very morning, hadn't planned to speak to anyone. Least of all a girl with grace in her spine and pain in her eyes.
But she sat beside him. Smiled at him.
She smelled like winter and smoke. She spoke with hesitation—then with fire.
Their hands met. Slowly. Then suddenly.
The room grew quieter.
The rest was heat and haze and breath.
Callista left before they disappeared into the dark.
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Eileen woke to the ache of coarse, unfamiliar sheets.
To the scent of stale air and iron.
To the heat, the weight of a man breathing beside her.
Her body was sore.
Her memory, shattered glass.
She looked down.
Blood on the sheets.
Not much. Just enough to confirm what she couldn’t remember.
Her wand was still in her cloak, tossed on the floor.
And beside her—Tobias stirred.
When he opened his eyes and looked at her, it was not recognition she saw.
It was confusion.
She dressed in silence.
And fled.