28th June, 1894 — Misses & Matrons Spellcraft Ball, Hogsmeade Memorial Assembly Rooms
Callista would have preferred not to be here tonight; indeed, she would have preferred not to have gone home after the Spellcraft competition the other day. Sinking through the floor would have been a better course of action than having to face Genia and her Ìyá and the rest of the family. Two of their women veritable successes, in the final round of the competition as they should be; Callista who hadn’t even managed to properly transfigure a parasol. (The weaknesses of wandwork, of a Hogwarts education – they were not even convincing excuses to comfort her, when her younger sister had been given the same tools and still flourished in spite of them. So Callista was the exception here. She had never liked being an exception to anything.)
So she was quietly nursing her wounds, and half-grateful to speak to people who didn’t care half so much about her Transfiguration skills or lack thereof. Her waltz with Mr. Harper had been entirely pleasant – he was entirely pleasant, a perfect gentleman, with much to recommend him – but it was only as she curtsied and they parted that Callista was struck with a more dizzying realisation. She felt – irrationally reluctant to see him go. The prospect of dancing with anyone else would feel somehow monotone, because – she preferred him. No, this couldn’t be – she couldn’t. It didn’t make any sense, that one short waltz could change things so wildly, throw her into such disarray; and Callista had always had such careful intentions, not to let her feelings get the best of her.
She had almost been rooted to the spot since then, accepting her next dances as if by rote, and doing little else in between but scrutinise her own symptoms. There was a horrible fluttering in her chest she couldn’t settle. Her hands felt clammy. There was a dissatisfied yearning ache in her stomach. And her gaze – she was a fool indeed, because she could not control her gaze as it drifted back to him for the countless time this evening. Callista was intent upon cutting off this behaviour as soon as she could, but... oh, Mr. Harper was gone from where he stood and – coming over to her again? As if he could read her fears and desires plainly on her face. She felt breathless and disconcerted and clumsy, her hand trembling a little where it held her still-full glass. “Mr. Harper,” she said, trying desperately to gather her wits, worried that if he smiled at her once more she would lose them all again. “How – has the rest of the evening been treating you?”
So she was quietly nursing her wounds, and half-grateful to speak to people who didn’t care half so much about her Transfiguration skills or lack thereof. Her waltz with Mr. Harper had been entirely pleasant – he was entirely pleasant, a perfect gentleman, with much to recommend him – but it was only as she curtsied and they parted that Callista was struck with a more dizzying realisation. She felt – irrationally reluctant to see him go. The prospect of dancing with anyone else would feel somehow monotone, because – she preferred him. No, this couldn’t be – she couldn’t. It didn’t make any sense, that one short waltz could change things so wildly, throw her into such disarray; and Callista had always had such careful intentions, not to let her feelings get the best of her.
She had almost been rooted to the spot since then, accepting her next dances as if by rote, and doing little else in between but scrutinise her own symptoms. There was a horrible fluttering in her chest she couldn’t settle. Her hands felt clammy. There was a dissatisfied yearning ache in her stomach. And her gaze – she was a fool indeed, because she could not control her gaze as it drifted back to him for the countless time this evening. Callista was intent upon cutting off this behaviour as soon as she could, but... oh, Mr. Harper was gone from where he stood and – coming over to her again? As if he could read her fears and desires plainly on her face. She felt breathless and disconcerted and clumsy, her hand trembling a little where it held her still-full glass. “Mr. Harper,” she said, trying desperately to gather her wits, worried that if he smiled at her once more she would lose them all again. “How – has the rest of the evening been treating you?”
