Chapter 31: 14
Chapter Three:
Three weeks into remedial Transfiguration lessons, and Calista was ready to declare herself a Squib and go home. At first, she had been bolstered by McGonagall's confidence that she'd be caught up with the rest of the class by Christmas, but at the end of her third week still trying to transform a pencil into a ruler and having nothing to show for it, she was beginning to seriously question her professor's judgement and her own ability.
Staring at a semi-flattened pencil for the better part of two hours wasn't even the worst part of remedial lessons. At the beginning of her remedial classes, she'd been several lessons ahead of Marcus Flint, who had still been learning to change a match into a needle and back. Even Marcus, however thick Calista had always assumed he was, appeared to be a more promising Transfiguration student than she was, and she even had Olivia and her father to help her out between classes.
By his fourth lesson (her third, thanks to skiving off the first lesson), he had caught up to Calista. Seeing his success should have driven her to try harder, but all it did was frustrate her. Marcus couldn't even hold up his end of a conversation without making himself look like an idiot, as far as Calista could tell. Why, then, was even he more adept at Transfiguration than she was?
Staring morosely at her stubborn pencil for the fifth week in a row, Calista wasn't even hearing McGonagall's advice anymore. What could the professor have to say that hadn't already been drilled into Calista by the textbook, her father, Olivia, even McGonagall herself?
"Try this, then," McGonagall said, evidently exasperated, "Close your eyes, and when you wave your wand, just visualise a ruler."
As if she hadn't tried that a thousand times before. Calista squeezed her eyelids shut and slashed at the air with her wand. She didn't even need to open her eyes to know that the spell had failed.
"Try a softer motion," McGonagall suggested, and then a clatter and a joyful shout rent the air in the classroom.
"I've done it, Mc—Professor," Marcus said, and Calista lifted her chin to peer across the room. Sure enough, a ruler sat on the table in front of him.
"Oh, excellent, Mr. Flint. See if you can change it back, now."
Marcus flicked his wrist, and Calista heard another little clatter as the ruler lifted itself off the desk a few inches and then came back down. It was, as far as she could tell, still a ruler.
"Hang on," Marcus muttered, squinting and readying his arm for another go, "I must've messed that up, somehow –"
The ruler quivered again, and grew a rubber on the end.
Mercifully, McGonagall left her post over Calista's shoulder to help Marcus, then. Calista gave her own work a few more half-hearted attempts, but Marcus' success evidently wasn't catching.
By then, Calista's frustration had grown so much that she wasn't even trying anymore. She waved her wand dutifully whenever McGonagall looked in her direction, but she was really just trying to run out the clock.
Another clatter from across the classroom and then McGonagall's voice: "That's better, Mr. Flint. Practise it back and forth a few times, and next week you can move on to transfiguring mice.
Unbelievable, Calista thought, angrily whipping her wand back and forth ineffectually and glaring at the strange pencil-ruler hybrid in front of her as though the force of her look would cause it to obey and change, Marcus Flint is now officially smarter than I am.
Finally, mercifully, the class period was up. Calista shoved her belongings haphazardly into her schoolbag, desperate to leave before McGonagall had a chance to say anything else to her. In her haste, she collided heavily with Marcus in the doorway.
"Uhf," was all she managed at first, as she fought with her heavy schoolbag for balance. "All right, Calista?" Marcus asked, recovering from their collision much more readily than the slighter girl, and grasping her elbow to steady her.
"Yes – thanks – sorry," she managed, annoyed with herself. So much for making a speedy exit. She glanced over her shoulder at McGonagall, but the professor was gathering some papers from the desk at the front of the classroom. Good, she was occupied – the last thing Calista wanted was another lecture about the way she held her wand, or her method of visualizing the spell, or whatever.
It took her a few seconds to realize that Marcus was still holding on to her elbow. She met his gaze, and he offered her a smile that was surprisingly friendly. Calista thought it made him look almost likeable.
"You know, if you'd like, I can try to help you with that spell. I couldn't get it for a long time, either."
"Oh. Er, that's o-" Calista paused. Really, what could it hurt? She realized she wasn't any closer to achieving the damn spell than she had been months ago, when the rest of her class had first been learning it. The point at which she needed to swallow her pride had long since passed.
"Yeah, actually. If you don't mind. Maybe it would help."
"Excellent," Marcus replied, squeezing her elbow slightly and then releasing his hold, "Next time I see you in the common room, then?"
"Okay. I – thanks. It's… I don't know why it's so hard for me to get this stupid spell." Calista hunched her shoulders and exited the classroom, still feeling defensive about her progress in remedial lessons.
Marcus followed her out of the classroom and down the hall, pulling up beside her after a few paces.
"Yeah, I understand, believe me. I'm in remedial for three classes this year. If I'm not caught up by Christmas, I might get thrown off the Quidditch team."
A smirk found its way automatically to Calista's lips, even though she knew in the back of her mind that she wasn't really in a position to feel superior.
"Actually, maybe we could help each other," Marcus glanced at Calista, "I'm doing really poorly in Potions. I reckon Snape – er, sorry, your dad – I reckon he'll have my head soon if I don't pull it together."
"So you want my help with Potions in exchange for you helping me with Transfiguration? Aren't you embarrassed to be asking a second-year for help with your classes?" she asked bluntly as they climbed a staircase in tandem.
Marcus grinned sheepishly. "Well, a bit, yeah," he admitted, "But I'm right desperate at this point. Besides, Conor told me at Quidditch practise that you know loads of potions already that he learned in fourth year."
"Oh," Calista said, mollified, "Well, I guess I can try to help you a bit. It's only fair, right?"
"Yeah, sure. Listen, this is my next class. See you 'round, Calista." Marcus indicated and then entered the Charms classroom on the right.
"Yeah."
o-o-o-o
Saturday mornings, Calista met her father in the Great Hall with her cloak on. The days grew steadily cooler, and yet Severus insisted that they continue their Occlumency lessons out of doors until they had real snow to contend with.
"How are your Transfiguration lessons coming along?" Severus asked her as they strode down the stone steps onto the castle's expansive front garden.
"Dismal, as usual," she scowled. And then, remembering Olivia's comment that she scowled from behind her hair all the time, she sighed and relaxed her expression. "Honestly, I don't think I'll ever catch up at this point. Professor McGonagall has me spending my regular class periods working on first-year lessons still, and I'm just falling further behind."
"I can't quite fathom why you're having so much trouble." Severus nodded in the direction of the Forbidden forest, as walking several paces outside of its perimeter was one of the paths they sometimes followed during their outdoor lessons lately.
"Yeah, I know, it should be easy enough," Calista huffed, "According to you, Professor McGonagall, Olivia, and even Marcus Flint."
Severus glanced down at his daughter, registering a vague wounded look about her expression.
"Perhaps I should clarify. You're typically an exceptional student, except when something is blocking you mentally in some fashion. Do you recall how many months it took you before you could light a flame beneath your cauldron, when you were younger?"
"Yes," Calista said, pulling her cloak tight about her and hunching her shoulders.
"You were perfectly capable of lighting that flame all along. You simply thought you weren't, because on some level you must still have been convinced that you were a Squib. And yet, as soon as you lit the flame once, it was as remarkably simple to you as it should have been from the beginning."
Severus lightly brushed the exterior of Calista's mind as he continued speaking, pleased when he felt her barriers kick in, though Calista continued walking uninterrupted. He hoped it was further proof that Occlumency could eventually become second nature to her, the way it was for him.
"There must be something in your mind that's preventing you from learning Transfiguration. As soon as you determine what that is and move beyond it, I'm certain you'll improve drastically."
"Well, if you're right, I better figure out what's tripping me up soon, or-,"
Calista stopped in her tracks, and Severus prodded her gently forward. It was an odd routine that both of them were growing accustomed to, this stop-and-go walking while Severus swiped at Calista's mental defences and she struggled to sustain them.
Unlike in her Transfiguration lessons, however, Calista was improving from lesson to lesson. He thought she might not even be aware of the progressive nature of his tests. When they had first begun these walks, she had been able only to ward off the barest of attacks. Now, he was applying almost the same mental pressure that he had been during their sit-down lessons in his office, before she stopped walking.
"Or what?" he asked, as Calista trudged forward through the grass.
"Or I'll be… I'll be in remedial lessons forever," distraction was evident in her voice, but she continued walking. He felt her defences begin to quail, but then she gathered strength and reinforced them.
Your barriers are getting better, he told her mentally, But I can tell you're hiding something, because you're not keeping enough in front of them. Remember, you need to fool me into thinking I'm seeing all there is to see.
She slowed, but didn't stop, and he felt a gentle flux of images and mild emotions enter the foremost layers of her mind. As she concentrated on filling his latest request though, her next barrier weakened slightly, and he slipped through it to illustrate to her that it had done so.
Immediately, he was aware of tension in this layer of her mind, and sadness. He felt pulled towards the emotions, wanting to see what was causing her to feel them, but knowing that he had to respect her privacy as much as he could. He retreated slightly, and then felt the echo of a thought within her.
Is this good? I tried to make everything seem as real as I could.
Severus reached his influence tentatively around this portion of her mind, wary of stumbling onto something she didn't want him to, and he encountered a bubble of sadness.
I wish my cat hadn't died, it said when he reached for it. And then, I'm never going to finish my Potions essay in time for class, underlined with a dull, throbbing sense of tense urgency.
But Severus knew Yellow was (unless his luck had changed drastically) alive and well, and he hadn't assigned an essay to her class that week.
He stopped walking.
"Calista," he called aloud, stopping her in her tracks as well, "Come here."
She turned and crossed the several paces that separated them. "I thought I was doing well. What did I do wrong?"
Severus shook his head, and placed his hands on Calista's shoulders.
"That was excellently done," he said, and when Calista's eyes widened at the unexpected compliment, he coupled it with a rare smile. "I'm not certain if you realise how quickly you are improving lately."
"Does this mean you'll go easier on me now?" she retorted, but Severus didn't miss the way her face glowed in response to his praise.
"Nice try," he replied, the smile lingering a moment longer, "But no."
He noticed, with a surge of pride, that she still upheld her barrier and the bubbles of misleading emotion, even as he pronounced their lesson finished and they set off back towards the castle.
o-o-o-o
Calista regarded her reflection resolutely in the lavatory off the Slytherin common room. She was armed with a comb and the green hair clip Olivia had given her, but even with the same arsenal as her sometimes-friend, she couldn't reproduce Olivia's results.
Her hair hung lank and limp no matter which way she combed it, and she thought the hair clip just made her look pitiful – it let the world know that she had tried to look nice, and still failed miserably.
Had her ears always stuck out like that? She couldn't help but wrinkle her nose at the way the tips protruded from beneath her hair now that it was straight and tangle-free.
Deciding that it was hopeless, Calista yanked the hair clip out of her hair and shoved it into the pocket of her robes, turning away from the mirror and setting her jaw.
She would just never be pretty, she supposed. Or even plain. No, she was convinced that she was quite simply ugly, and nothing would change it. Whatever minor magic Olivia had been able to work was nothing she could do for herself, and she most definitely was not going to give Olivia the satisfaction of asking for her help.
As she strode into the common room and caught sight of Marcus Flint, she felt a little pinprick of regret, like maybe she should have tried a bit longer to make her hair look nice. As soon as the thought had formed, she felt absurdly embarrassed for no particular reason, and scowled despite herself.
"Hallo, Calista," Marcus said, hefting his broomstick and some Quidditch padding, "You want to practise that spell?"
"All right."
"I just need to put this stuff away, and I'll be right back. You want to find a pencil?"
While Marcus thumped his way down the hall with his armful of Quidditch gear, Calista scrounged a pair of pencils and set them on a study table. She put her hands in the pockets of her robe while she waited for Marcus to return, and found herself clutching the small, cold metal shape of Olivia's hairclip in her pocket.
"Right, I'm ready when you are," Marcus had returned with his wand, and nodded towards the pencils on the table. "Why don't you show me how you've been doing it, then?"
Knowing that her cast would be unsuccessful, and feeling beyond foolish, Calista waved her wand. Predictably, the pencil flattened a bit, but remained very much a pencil.
"Huh," Marcus eyed her attempt, "The wand movement looks okay to me."
"No kidding," she said flatly, "I've only been practising it for, oh, six months now."
"Well," Marcus scratched his head with the tip of his wand, "Are you distracted? My spells come out wonky when my head's somewhere else."
"Isn't it always?" Calista muttered, reflexively.
"Huh?" Marcus lowered his wand and peered at Calista.
"Nothing," she said, and waved her wand again at the stubborn pencil.
"You know what?" Marcus was eyeing Calista in a strange sort of way now, and he tilted his head. "You look like you're right angry when you do that—yeah, that there, the way you're casting the spell."
"Of course I'm angry," Calista spat, "I can't get the bloody thing to work!"
"Well of course it's not going to work if you're spitting mad – s'only curses that helps with, right?" He offered her a sort of uncertain half-grin.
"I – what?" Do curses work better if you're angry when you cast them? she wondered, committing the idea to the back of her mind for later.
"Right then," she said, shaking her head and eyeing Marcus suspiciously, "How am I supposed to get un-angry, then?"
Marcus laughed, and when Calista scowled in response, he only laughed harder.
"You're not taking the piss out of me?" he wondered, when Calista didn't join him, "You really are an angry little person like they say then, eh?"
Marcus seemed to find this all rather amusing; Calista, on the other hand, was livid.
"Like who say?" she demanded, unconsciously gripping her wand tighter.
"Oh, everyone," Marcus continued breezily, still seeming as if he were the one to deliver the punch-line of an excellent joke to Calista – and evidently, Calista thought, completely unaware how close he was to being hexed, allowing her to test the new theory he had just planted with her.
"Olivia says so of course, but she's – well, you know. All of Conor's friends say so too – at Quidditch practise he said you're nearly as bad as Kim Avery, and everyone knows she's off her rocker – s'why he made her a Beater, you know – Hey," Marcus eyed Calista in that queer way again, either not noticing that she had gone apoplectic by this point, or not feeling threatened by her anger.
"What?" Calista's voice was faint; even she wasn't certain if it was because she was so angry she was losing her voice as well as her temper, or if she was shocked by the revelation that her housemates had all noticed her tendency to do just that.
"You could go out for Reserve Beater, you know," he said, and he sounded enthusiastic enough about it that Calista realised he was serious, "That's the other thing anger is good for – hexes and Bludgers."
"What?" Calista repeated, her ire diffusing only in light of Marcus' apparent sudden lapse of sanity, as she saw it. "I thought we were done with that idea. Me? Play Quidditch?"
"Yeah, why not?" Marcus' expression now mirrored Calista's confusion.
"Because I hate flying," she actually squeaked out, surprised into confession; immediately, she regretted it, and pressed her hand to her mouth.
"Why?" he wondered, "It's loads of fun once you get used to it – come down to practise some time, why don't you, and knock a Bludger around for awhile – I bet anything you'll be able to cast that spell afterwards."
Calista opened her mouth with no notion of what was going to come out of it, and then the wall of the common room opened up and students began to fill up the common room, evidently done with classes for the afternoon.
"Think about it," Marcus tapped his head illustratively with his wand and then grinned at her, "You keep fighting with that spell long enough and I reckon you'll come 'round."
Calista closed her mouth belatedly, and gathered the offending ruler, shoving it and her wand into the pockets of her robes, and marching out of the common room. She had to get to the library, or perhaps her father's office; some place where the usual rules of the universe still applied, and no one expected her to fly around on a bloody broomstick, hitting things.
o-o-o-o
Olivia,
I trust your second year has gone well so far. You are excelling in your studies, I presume? With all the money I pay for books to send you to that school, they ought to be teaching you something worthwhile. We are well at home; Father's health is the same as always.
I'm writing to you about something you'll recall we discussed over the summer. That classmate of yours, the professor's daughter – I think I've pieced together who her mother is, after all.
The only woman it could possibly be, given the girl's age and your description of what she said her mother was in Azkaban for, is Bellatrix Lestrange. I admit I overlooked her at first, since her husband is dead and certainly not teaching at Hogwarts, but I've looked at the Daily Prophet articles from those days, and I'm certain that she's the only one who fits, unless your classmate lied to you.
I feel the need to impress upon you that the Lestranges are regarded as extremely dangerous by the Ministry, and that they remain deeply dedicated to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I would advise you to be extremely careful of the associations you make with your classmates – you do want to be certain that you are befriending the right sort of people.
Your Concerned and Loving,
Mother.
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