Chapter Fifty-Six | Upon the Headstone, Death Sits
The night was far too bright, with white street lights and a sky stained by the fluorescent sun of a city untethered from the whims of nature. London was a very different beast to Yharnam, but she still couldn't shake the habit of peeking around corners, or flexing her fingers when she saw movement across the street.
People stopped and stared at her as she walked by. A strange figure cloaked in feathers all of which stained with blood. There were only a rare few who followed her steps, all of them crossing to the other side of the street so as to avoid stumbling into her. One, though, walked with a familiar gait, but if they were a member of the Order they'd be dealt with easily. They could keep tabs on her if they wished, but it wasn't as if they could capture her without Dumbledore's help.
She was thankful that her mask had been taken by the Messengers at her request, placed safe in whatever dimension between they preferred to reside in. Not quite the Dream, not quite Yharnam, and not quite Earth - simply mist and the unending chill of the grave.
Catherine didn't know where she was going, only that she needed to keep moving and plot out what to do first. Where to hit, and who to kill.
The memories she had stolen from Dumbledore slatted across her mind like shingles, falling away one after another to reveal a new card, a new slice of knowledge, a new something for her to use until the great dark could finally take her.
Apparition was the first to fall neatly into her deck. Useful, practical, and something she had lingered on for so long she'd forgotten she wanted to learn it in the first place. It wouldn't help her much in Yharnam, what with the city so swathed in magic that to even consider doing it would most likely leave her a reddish paste on the footpath. But here in Britain? That was a tool she couldn't do without.
The locations of the horcruxes were next to step in line. Little Hangleton, near the graveyard she had been taken so long ago. A cave near the Isle of Wight, filled with beasts and requiring a blood toll for entry, something Dumbledore found both amusing and grandiose in the most uncouth of ways. Gringotts, as she had learned from Bellatrix's frail mind, locked deep beneath the earth and guarded by tooth and claw.
One, he was unsure of, only wondering if it to be hidden somewhere in Hogwarts. The Chamber he had first assumed, but after scouring through the place and finding hide nor hair of any fel magic beyond that of which he had already suspected to linger down there from the founders era, he had written it off.
So that left three, with two destroyed - herself and the diary - that made for one unknown, the other undoubtedly the snake he kept with him at all times. For how else could Catherine have seen through its eyes, and upon her first death and the decimation of the horcrux that resided in her brow, could all connection have ceased between her, Tom, and the snake itself?
That was Dumbledore's running theory of course, but if she could find a way to get into a fight with Voldemort, to drink from him and then escape, then she would know for sure.
The dingy streets took her to a park, open and grimy, though not unloved. Small community placards were hung up on fences, a toy forgotten in the grass, and the benches were new and untouched by the graffiti she would have expected from this neighborhood.
She sat, wanting to stew in her thoughts and wait for an urge for the wind to take her and carve her path, to direct her to the task at hand and which of the many challenges would be the first to taste of her blade.
But for now, she would rest.
Her bones ached as she settled into the bench, its hard surface cold, but unnoticeable through her many layers.
God, she was tired.
Tired of fighting, tired of learning, tired of bashing her head against a wall until all the meat spilled out over her crumbling cheeks and stained the bricks a glorious red.
It was up to her, inevitably, to end this. Voldemort had taken too much stock in prophecy - born as the seventh month dies - and left the universe no choice but to fulfill it. Even Albus cared little for it, only that Voldemort himself did, and thus gave it life in turn.
Catherine couldn't help but scoff, the windy noise lost to the rustling leaves above.
Words spoken by a drunkard in the midst of a job interview and it all led to this. A mark on her brow consigning her to servitude, to blood, to an endless rush of steel. The death of her parents, the abuse of her peers, and the stern, bitter words of power hungry men without the backbone or mental wherewithal to claim it for themselves, instead resorting to printed pages of scum-strewn paragraphs detailing her life in full, technicolour horror.
It all came down to a prophecy leading her to where she was today. Because a madman put stock in divine ramblings and decided that an infant would be the one to spell his doom.
Steady footsteps echoed out of the park to her left, and Catherine's head slowly turned to catch sight of a policeman journeying along, on patrol most likely.
She didn't want to have to kill him.
His flashlight wavered back and forth before landing on her, slowly moving up, then down, capturing her blood-soaked figure.
"Oi, you! Parks closed, y'know."
"It is?" she replied, crossing her legs and glancing up at the sky. "I'm sorry, I just needed some fresh air."
"Miss, is that blood?"
"Why, of course-"
"There you are!"
Whirling about, Catherine looked to her right to see none other than Hermione come stomping out of the dark, hair a mess and deep bags beneath her eyes.
"What are you-?"
"I'm sorry sir, she gets a bit claustrophobic sometimes and had to run off. We're at a fancy dress party tonight but, crowds," she drawled, rolling her eyes. "We can get going if you'd like."
The man seemed to size them up for a moment before shrugging. "If I hear any noise complaints I'll be showing, but you two stay out of trouble, y'hear?"
"Understood sir."
"Good, good. Stay safe."
With that he puttered off, Catherine's shock slowly wearing off until she flinched away from Hermione. "What in the hell are you doing here? I told you to stay away from me."
"Catherine-"
"No! Are you stalking me? Have you been hiding out in front of Grimmauld, waiting for me to show? Was that you following me in the streets?"
"If you would let me explain-"
"There's nothing to explain, Hermione. I'm not sitting around about to have a conversation with you, nor the bloody Order. Did they send you?"
"Nobody sent me. We need to talk."
Her brow raised, and Catherine couldn't help but notice the silvery marks on Hermione's cheeks - scars - and she wondered if they'd always been there or she only now had the acuity to recognize them. "No."
"Catherine-"
"No." She stood, that familiar anger coming back to sweep her away. "No. No talking, I'm done. I'm done with all of this, this- this insanity. I can't even tell if you're just a goddamn hallucination at this point and to be honest I don't fucking care. I'm sick of the expectations, I'm sick of the judgement, I'm sick of losing my goddamn mind and there's nothing I can do about it.
"So, no, even if you are real you don't get to sweep in here, stalking me, and expect a conversation about… about what? Our relationship? That's in ruins, Hermione, and for good reason. I don't know why you're here or what it is you want, but you're not getting it, especially not like this."
"And what right do you have to be angry with me?" Hermione growled, face contorting into thunderous anger. "I've done nothing to you. Nothing! And you throw me, Ron, and apparently everyone else away like dirt!"
"Because I'm dying, you idiot. Because I'm not about to drag you all down to my level. I'm the one who can kill without batting an eye. I'm the one who can torture, rend without thinking twice."
"You're not dying-"
Catherine's interruption was smooth. Fierce. "Once this is done I'll be dead. Once Yharnam is over, once Voldemort is through, I will be cold and buried, and you'll get to have the corpse to prove it. I promise you that, slit throat and all."
Hermione shook her head, the rats nest of her hair barely wobbling with the motion. "No," she choked. "You wouldn't do that to us, not even to the people you've met over there. What about the girl? What about Emilie?"
"She'll never know." Taking a deep breath, Catherine took one step away from Hermione, out of arms length. "And you've got school, Hermione. A future ahead of you." Her head tilted as she looked her once friend up and down. "Don't go sleeping in the streets just to get a look at me. It won't do you any good."
"Catherine-"
She twisted, heel kicking against the pavement, and vanished.
-::-
Somehow, her subconscious had taken her to a place she'd never been before, but one Dumbledore visited quite often.
Godric's Hollow.
She had landed in a quaint village, not able to recognize it until her stolen memories began to trickle in.
Frederick's home, an echo of Albus' voice whispered as she glanced at a cottage, classically English with plaster walls and a rickety clay roof.
The rest of the village was just like that. A blend of muggle and magical all intertwined in such a nostalgic way that she imagined the Dursley's would weep to see such a prime example of national pride all cozied up together, if it weren't for the occasional figure in robes peeking out their window, or lighting a lantern in front of their home. No, that would make them weep for very different reasons, Vernon flying into a rage at having to witness something so supremely unnatural, or Petunia fretting, wondering if the 'savages' would maim her precious Dudley once more.
Her steps followed along a path unfamiliar to her, but very much so to the man whose mind she had siphoned off of like a lamprey. Through cobblestone streets, uneven and tilted from the long, sturdy roots of neighbouring trees that ran beneath them, streets marked by amber street lamps that, if one were to look closer at them, would notice their lights were magical in nature. No electricity humming beneath the glass, only the silent twinkle of effervescent light, captured behind those panes and shining with a bright, amber glow.
Those steps took her to a church, quaint and classic and cozy, with a warm fire burning inside it and casting its soft, flickering light across the muddied grass. Spring had forgotten this place, be it Easter soon, and still hoarfrost clung to the weeds and branches that lined the graveyard surrounding the back of the church. Along that grass she walked, until she stood before a coupled headstone that she had never seen before, and in some way still wished she hadn't.
"Oh, so that's where you are."
James and Lily Potter. Naught but bones and dust, maggot-ridden rot that belied how wondrous they once were in life.
And they were right below her.
Should she talk to them? Isn't that what people did when visiting dead relatives? Hey, I'll be seeing you soon. As if that would offer her any solace.
"Bit of a monster I turned out to be, huh?" she asked, words whispering along the frigid spring wind. "Can't imagine you're proud, if there's anything left after this, having to look down and see, well… this."
Sitting down, she looked over the gravestone. The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. Catherine couldn't help but laugh at the etching, wondering if they knew that death was the one thing she'd welcome at this point.
"Bit ironic, reading that… I- I guess something in me latched onto this place and brought me here, finding it in Albus' memories." Letting out a quiet sigh, Catherine shook her head. "Guess I should say I'll be meeting you in… I dunno', maybe a month or so. Finally get to say hello, hear all the ways I've been a disappointment. Would you have ever thought your daughter would be a murderer? Would you have ever imagined that this is what would have become of me?
"I guess you wanted me to have a quiet life, sacrificing yourselves like that. Utter shit that it turns out the man can't die so easily, but… neither can I. But, I wonder what things would have been like if he did die that night. Would I be happy? Or would I still be like this? All… all full of violence, this rage, this anger that I can't seem to put away, and when it does go- well, all that's left is- is nothing. Just a big emptiness, and… I can't keep going on, I can't keep doing this day after day after day." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, far beyond the ability to cry and simply staring off into the empty expanse above. Stars, visible, not clouded by the light of the city or senses drowned by the noise of car horns and drunken chatter. London was too loud for her, after Yharnam. "After this is done, I'll kill myself. Proper, this time. No godhood, no Dream, no nothing, just… peace and quiet."
She laughed again, a tired, aching, reedy thing that was choked out of her as if a hand was wrapped around her throat. Reaching into her pocket she took out the pack of cigarettes she'd poached off the Messengers, taking one out and lighting it with a snap.
Breathing deeply, she exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, watching as it lingered for just a moment before being swept away. "If you are hearing this I can't imagine it makes you feel any good to listen to this little speech. I'm just… thinking, I guess. Getting it all out. Isn't that what people do, sitting in front of graves in the dead of night? Talk? Not really therapists but you might as well be the closest thing, and you're dead." Another drag. It wasn't like it would kill her. "I'm going to slaughter that man. Tear him to pieces and make the world watch, so they can see that he's just a bag of meat like the rest of us, and then I'll finish myself off, so they know that at least for now there's no more beasts waiting for them in the dark.
"Hopefully things change after that. It won't be peace, not anything like that, but maybe it'll be a step closer to it. People won't be kinder to each other, I know that. But… maybe, just maybe, people like Hermione will be able to live easier lives with him gone, and if I manage to take out the rest of them... does that make me a terrorist?" Another barked laugh, raspy from smoke. "I just don't want people to have to worry about some madman lurking around every corner. Something so scary that even now they won't speak his name. Something like it, at least. Might be a terrorist, seeing as killing people to make my wants known is in line with that kind of thing." Catherine was all shoulders, her shrug long and laborious. "Eh… I don't know. I really don't know. I just want things to be over. I want one moment where I can sit back from the world without it hanging over me and be able to breathe, for once in my life just breathe and not have to worry about the next attempt on my life, the next curse waiting in the wings to take me to some other hellish place."
A smile worked its way across her face, Catherine feeling excited about something for the first time in what felt like eons. It may be death, release a far better word, but it was something new and wanted all the same. She wondered if she should visit the Dursley's one last time. Strike the fear of god into them and let them know they'd never have to worry about her ever again, to go on and live their mundane lives so full of judgement it would make their priest sweat to know what went running through their minds.
She wouldn't, but it was a nice thought.
"I wonder if your sister has ever come here to say goodbye. She hated you, didn't she? Hated you like she hated me. Maybe it was different, I've never known what it was like to have family - siblings - but I think it carried over somehow. Vernon just… hates. He doesn't know how to do anything else, it's simply in his blood. I hope…" Another sigh, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. "I hope Dudley manages to get away from it all, and doesn't grow up to be a product of his environment. Draco might, the Malfoy kid. Ha! You'd have hated him if you were alive. I think we'd always be at each other's throats even then. I scared him. Scared him good, and I think he took my words to heart. Probably the only person in this goddamn world who did, and isn't that funny?
"So… I guess that's all," Catherine stated, getting to her feet. "I've got nothing left for me here, and I'm making sure no one will need me in Yharnam. No more gods, no more monsters, no more creatures that go bump in the night. I'm thinking… I'm thinking if I stop that Nightmare, help a godling get ferried off to a proper death, maybe it will stop? I don't know, might have to kill another few gods while I'm at it. Fuck… only one and it sent me into a coma, and that wasn't even the real thing."
Raising her wand, Catherine let a light blink from the end of it. Once. Twice. A final farewell to write off the one and only conversation she'd ever have with her family.
"I miss you and I never even met you. I hope you're happy, wherever you are. Bye mum, dad, and best of luck in the afterlife. Fingers crossed I get the same semblance of heaven you might have."
Surveying the graveyard, she cast one last, longing look at Godric's Hollow before deciding she had one final place she wanted to visit.
Scouring through her folder of memories, Catherine left the graveyard and took a turn, wandering about a quarter mile around winding streets with ivy covered walls, taking comfort in the quiet of it all. It was rare to find quiet like this, only the faint hum of the wind as it trickled along the pavestones and rustled newborn leaves. In Yharnam it was all shrieks and howls, or an eerie silence that spoke of danger soon to come.
This… this was tranquil, and she hoped that were she to go anywhere after death, it would be a place like this.
Her steps took her to a run-down building, the top of it blown open and its supports caving in on themselves, only barely held together with strings and no small amount of magic. In front of it was a sign, a memorial commemorating her family's sacrifice and, for once, commenting on the lives it destroyed.
It certainly wasn't from the Ministry, not with how quaint it actually was. Honest was the best word to use.
This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.
No. If it was from the Ministry it would have been ostentatious, somehow signing off her parents deaths as some sort of sacrifice for the sake of Queen and Country. Selfish, greedy bastards all of them, and she was thankful that there was one facet of her life they hadn't managed to sully with their grimy paws.
Entering into the house, she found it to be somewhere she would have liked to have grown up.
It was cozy, not in a cramped way, but in the remnants of colour she could still see splashed about. Warm carpets, painted cabinets, and drapery that once upon a time bore intricate patterns of plaid and other, comforting tones.
Here was where her father died, right where her foot pressed into the floorboards, and in her mind's eye she could see a silhouette of where Dumbledore saw him, wide eyed and yet somehow still determined, wand held tight in his cold grip.
Up the stairs she went, peeking into what was her parents bedroom to see a wide four-post bed, untouched by dust and still wrinkled as if her mother was preparing for bed. Offering Catherine what she would come to find would be her last goodnight.
And the nursery, opened to the sky like a portal to the heavens itself. Moonlight poured into the rubble-strewn room, wood preserved by magic and left as it was found - in splinters, dashed and scattered against the corners. Her crib still sat there, pristine if not for the scorch marks littering its surface, the back of it still as good as new and only marked by faint fingerprints. Her fingerprints, tiny little things pressed there as she must have hoisted herself up to look out the window that once sat beside her.
Here was where her mother died, penning a protection in the ink of her blood and saving Catherine from certain death, but somehow - inadvertently - consigning her to something so much worse. She didn't blame her mother. She blamed the madman who took stock in the maddened utterings of Sybill Trelawney, and lord how that, even an hour later, still made her wonder at the maniacy of it.
An honest to god seer, doused in sherry and completely unaware of her true talents. How she would gloat if she were to know that all of this, all the blood and sweat that was to lay its blame at her feet.
Catherine stood and took it all in, a faint smile on her face as she wondered on the possibility of better days in a world that never happened. Would never happen.
In another life, maybe this could have been hers. In another life, maybe she could have made something like this. Taken this crypt and turned it into a home in which her children might have grown up, tottering along beside their mother and whoever she would have been lucky enough to marry. A part of her couldn't stop herself, childishly, from picturing those children with wild brown hair and green eyes, as if a teenage fantasy that she had made herself forget still had any use lingering in her mind.
Regardless, she couldn't help it, and a sudden spike of anger burrowed its way through her gut at the possibility of not what things could have been like if her parents had lived, but what they could have been like were Kos not to have heard her cries through time and existence, shackling her to this hell.
What would her wife have been like, she wondered? Would she have married, or been in a loving relationship with her work and a tall stack of books? Were children even something she wanted?
Well, she'd never have the time to find out.
Smile turned grim, Catherine pictured a graveyard. A graveyard that housed a great reaper, scythe curled around the throat of her younger self, arm bleeding and fire in her eyes. With that, she turned, disappearing from Godric's hollow and following where the wind took her.