Chapter Six | Regression Toward the Mean
Crimson drapes, clean and untainted by the scum of Yharnam were what Catherine saw upon waking. She found herself blinking unsteadily, eyes tracking over the wooden posts that framed her bed, free of scars and the tell-tale scratches of claws.
Rising slowly, she rubbed her hand over her face, mask snug beneath her chin and her armor now unmarred, clean apart from a few signs of wear.
What the hell?
This wasn't Yharnam. This was…
"Hogwarts."
Her words were a whisper, both frightful and eager. They danced across her lips quietly, so faint as to barely settle among the warm blankets and steady oak that surrounded her - curtains hiding away the morning sun.
There was a sliver of it to be seen through the drapes, pale gold and so bright it hurt her to so much as glance at.
Moonlight had been her only beacon for the last week, just once catching sight of the burning Yharnam sky in the late afternoon, but not before having her chest torn open and face covered in the still warm brains of a man whose mind was scarred by insanity.
She could hear no voices, only the discordant mutterings of Lavender's sleep talk and the whistle of Hermione's breathing - face presumably mashed against a book she was too tired to put away.
Quiet as could be, she removed her boots and armor, wincing at the muted whine of steel against steel as her weapons pressed against each other. She reached over, suppressing an audible sigh at the familiar sensation of her wand resting upon her nightstand.
A silencing charm later and she was quick to get to work, shedding her clothes as if she were shedding Yharnam itself, leaning over the end of her bed to cram everything into the bottom of her trunk - gun wrapped in an old shirt and her saws buried underneath her blanket.
Dobby could always help her find a new one.
The blood… the blood she kept off to the side, swaddled in so much cloth it looked like a newborn.
Catherine didn't know why everything came with her, but it was enough to tell her that Yharnam wasn't just a bad dream.
Her clothes from home felt awkward on her skin, clinging to her scars - another reminder - in such a way that she couldn't ignore them, and every single breath that pulled at her chest seemed to tighten the seams. They scraped at her underarms, at her thinning waist, a reminder of where she had been and what she had done.
Catherine found herself asking a single question. Is it over?
Was that Cleric on the bridge her true purpose in Yharnam? Was it just the beginning… all of this a cruel dream, something to keep her busy before being unceremoniously yanked back into a city that lived and breathed despair?
Swallowing heavily at the thought, she crawled out of bed, bare feet pattering against the floor as she walked unsteadily toward the toilets.
Fear struck her at the thought of looking into the mirror. How different would she be, after only a week in that nightmare?
Steeling herself, Catherine lifted her head to look into her own eyes.
They were cutting, she noticed, fraught with anxiety. She could scarcely hold her own gaze, glancing to the corners of the room - watching the dark. Her ears were perked up, nostrils flared as she sniffed out any danger.
She'd turned bestial.
It was only a bit... just the faintest drop of corruption, but it was there. She could tell in the way her eyes narrowed, almost glowing against the faint shadow cast throughout the toilets. The muscles in her neck twitched reflexively at the faint squeak of someone rolling over on their bed.
Somehow, Catherine knew it was Fay. The other girls were too small, too large comparatively to make the mattress shrill in such a way. The sound was wholly unique. Something she had long ago come to recognize as Fay, yet it never truly clicked.
Her mind swam at the idea of it, things she could suddenly remember as clear as day when, if asked about it before her unholy trip into Yharnam, she couldn't have possibly known.
How?
Catherine traced her silhouette in the mirror, fingers dancing over the glass. Not enough. She was all edges now, not a bit of softness to be found.
Sharp as a knife.
It seemed her feet had a mind of their own, soon laced up in the boots she had stolen off that rotting corpse beneath the streets, soaked in the excess of an entire city. They were comfortable, familiar. Something she couldn't say about Hogwarts.
If the school had felt strange to her before her perilous trip, now it seemed otherworldly.
Hogwarts halls spoke of comfort, still. Catherine felt warmed to the bone, almost safe walking its grand corridors (and god, she'd forgotten what that meant), flanked by empty knights and portraits of those long dead. It was almost as if the school were a crypt. Some relic of a forgotten age that never really stepped its way into the modern world.
It reminded her of Yharnam. Arches and spires of sharp gothic design. Strange, winding passages that lead nowhere and everywhere.
If Hogwarts was alive, then one day its corpse would be that of Yharnam. Nothing but a broken dream and the echoes of a peoples that once enjoyed the safety of its crumbling walls.
Her path was long and winding, tracking through corridor after corridor, up staircases, past windows cracked with frost. Winter was still fierce here, moreso in February - seeping into cracks in the stone and laying feelers across every inch of open glass. Hogwarts itself was torrid, stiflingly so, but there was some level of cold that seemed to latch onto her from the outside. Just a whisper of it, a cloying reminder of the world beyond the castle.
The owlery was frigid in comparison, nothing to seal in the warmth but for a few enchantments lazily strewn about the tower.
"Hedwig," she gasped, almost sobbing as her friend flew over to rest on her shoulder, nibbling at her ear obsessively.
Hedwig crooned and chirped, face rubbing against her own and so full of love that for a moment, Catherine was convinced her heart would burst.
She still loves me.
Catherine knew she smelled of the moon, something Eileen had commented on in one of her many trips to the sewers, the scent of it somehow above the filth that ran its depths. Maybe that was what caused Hedwig to not flee, to avoid animal instinct catching on the scourge that now tainted her blood.
"Hey girl. I missed you."
Her reply was another series of clacks and chirps, all so wonderfully bright.
"Would you like some food?"
Yet more chattering. Good.
Catherine wandered to the kitchens, a long walk to go from the owlery to the dungeons, but it was welcomed all the same. She needed time to think.
There was no tightness to her breath, no burn in her legs as she descended floor after floor. Perhaps there was some good to come from Yharnam if she wanted to survive the next few years of school.
A laugh erupted from her, startling a nearby portrait.
Surviving school in the literal sense. She wondered what the death trap would be this year. Umbridge? It was possible, the woman was mad by all accounts and a bigot without measure on all others.
How had her life come to this? Not a sense of worry for her own life but resignation at what she knew was to come. Perhaps it was because she couldn't really die, not anymore.
Catherine had no illusions that the Dream still held her, grip like iron and furious in its intensity. Perhaps it would be a year from now when she's dragged back in kicking and screaming, perhaps it would be tomorrow.
She swallowed heavily as she walked into the kitchens with Hedwig stuck tight to her shoulder. The elves were happy to see her, Dobby most of all, jumping and shouting and positively gleeful to have the 'Great Catherine Potter' come back and say hello.
Of course she would say hello. He was her friend, strange as he was. But she could scarcely think of it, offering him a tight hug and a handshake - he loved handshakes - to thank him for helping feed Hedwig.
Hedwig preened and dove into the barely seared steak with relish, snapping up bits of bloodied meat in a near frenzy. Catherine watched her, watched the elves putter around the kitchen as if she wasn't even there, snaps and flashes of light marking each and every dish they threw together, cooking at a speed so fast she feared she would get nauseous just looking at it.
Tears worried at the corners of her eyes, stomach empty and no fleck of hunger to be found. It never would be found, not again. She was changed, forevermore. Could she still, by chance, die here? Catherine thought she couldn't die, but did that only hold true in Yharnam?
Regardless, she wasn't eager to test her notion, even if the thought of death - true death - now seemed more a comfort than fear.
Death, she had found, was agonizing. It didn't matter if she drowned, was stabbed, crushed underfoot, it all hurt the same. That same terrible fright that clung to her very soul, something primal lashing out and screaming its defiance.
It was a pain of the heart more than anything. She couldn't fight something like that, something so intrinsic to the human experience that to even think otherwise would seem almost blasphemous.
But she wasn't entirely human anymore, was she?
-::-
Defence class was a trifle in Catherine's mind, happy to sit back and read through the droll excuse for a textbook Umbridge had given them with nary a peep.
She had seen far worse in Yharnam than anything that woman had to offer.
It seemed to infuriate her though. Catherine could see the way her jaw clenched when she answered Umbridge's questions with basic statements, simple offerings of what the textbook had so blandly explained. She easily kowtowed to the woman's manic demands, never once offering her usual brand of snark.
"Miss Potter?"
Sighing, she looked up. "Yes, Professor Umbridge?"
This was the fifth time she had called on her, the class completely and utterly silent otherwise. Hermione's bottom lip jutted out every time Umbridge had spoken up, and Ron was staring at Catherine mystified.
She must have looked a monk to him.
"If one were to be stopped by Aurors doing a routine check-up, what should one do?"
Dog-earring the page, Catherine placed the book on her desk. "Comply, answer the necessary questions and bid them a good day."
She couldn't help smiling as Umbridge attempted to find something wrong with her answer, the woman's tongue poking at her cheek and eyes bugging out of her head as she stared her down.
"And if they require you to come with them? A…" Umbridge gestured at her ruffled clothes. "Suspicious looking girl like you, what then?"
"Go with them, of course."
The classroom was painfully silent as they watched the two stand-off. Catherine tired, itching for a taste of the blood she knew rested not five minutes away. Umbridge, searching for anything to ridicule the girl with.
It seemed she didn't need a reason.
"Detention, every night this week."
"Why?"
"Insolence," the woman spat.
Catherine picked up her book, turning it over a few times, admiring how terribly boring the entire thing was. Even the cover, with childish mid-century art bearing the image of two young magicals, their cheeks rosy and surrounded by blacked-out cats.
It began to smoke in her hands, the pages turned to cinders and flames boring through the cover. She smiled at Umbridge as the fire grew, bearing no mind as it licked at her fingers, hardly ticklish if anything.
The blood worked wonders.
"What do you think you're doing?"
She admired her work, murmurs flowing across the class like water from a stream. There would be gossip about this. "Not taking you seriously. I'll attend your detentions, but not this class. And I'm sure you remember my remedial potions lessons with Professor Snape. I'm afraid I can't miss those."
Face red, Umbridge stamped her foot. "You will do no such thing!"
"I will." She flashed her knuckles, the row of students in front of her gasping at the scars. "You taught me this, right?" Catherine ran a finger over the marks, skin sunken and puckered. "What strange detentions you give, Professor Umbridge."
The grin that threatened to spread across her face would have been terrifying. Instead, she smiled quaintly, leaving her book to smoulder on the desk as she gathered her things - which amounted to simply slinging her bag over her shoulder.
Hermione and Ron didn't know whether to get up and follow, or to stay still, the two of them looking at her with confusion. They made up their minds quickly, snatching their belongings and following after her in a huff, door slamming shut behind them to Umbridge's outraged cries.
"What the hell!" Ron gasped as soon as they were out, beaming at her. "That was crazy!"
Hermione slapped her on the shoulder, practically hissing. "What was that?"
"I'm tired of her." Catherine studied the two of them, barely able to recognize her friends after the week she had just had.
It felt like a year to her, one terrified and stained in blood.
"You can't just… just do something like that, walk out. You know she'll make things worse."
A laugh almost broke through, exhausted and tinged with madness. Almost. "Not enough to bother me."
The two of them paused, Ron looking her over. "You okay? You're looking real tired. Just… bad, I guess."
"I'm fine. You guys didn't need to come with me either, I don't want her after you two as well."
Huffing, Hermione crossed her arms. "She's after us anyways, and you don't get to just light your book on fire. A book! On fire! I don't care how awful it was, burning books is a terrible thing."
Catherine snorted, quickly devolving into a fit of giggles as she bent over herself, arms clutched around her waist. "Really? Seriously? That's what got you so angry?" She wiped her eyes, fighting back yet more laughter. "Jeez. Hear that Ron? Don't so much as throw out an evangelical tract around her, she might lose it."
"A what?"
"An evan- you know, don't worry about it. Best you don't know." She clapped her hands. "So, we've got some time to kill. What do you want to do?"
Something seemed to click in Hermione's head as she glanced back towards the door. "Oh no," she muttered. "I just skived off class."
Ron grinned again, patting her on the back. "Welcome to the club."
"What! Since when do you two skip?"
"Always. Trelawney is out of her mind. Why would we waste time on that?"
"I… you- " Hermione raised her hand, finger pointed, yet unsure of whether to direct her ire towards Ron or Catherine. "We are talking about this later."
"Alright."
You won't get any answers out of me.
Suddenly, Catherine remembered her Occlumency lessons.
Shit, shit, shit.
How was she supposed to hide this from Snape? From Dumbledore? How was she supposed to hide this from her friends?
Even the D.A. would notice if she didn't hamstring herself. There was no way she could just walk back into the Room of Requirement and not expect people to see how fast she had gotten, how strong she now was.
She could probably lift Ron without too much trouble, if any. Hermione would be a walk in the park.
Catherine blushed, mind flitting to other, more unsavoury thoughts. Not that of blood and screams, but instead whispers in the dark, hot flesh and-
A hand waved in front of her face, Ron peering down at her. "You alright? Seriously."
"Fine." She coughed, averting her eyes. "Just fine."
From blood and terror to… whatever this was. The whiplash was incredible.
Don't get used to this, she told herself. Don't get complacent.
Ron, Hermione… they were both so innocent. How could she look at them after what she had done? How could she speak with them after what she had seen? Her jaw clicked shut, breath growing strained.
She was a killer now, tried and tested. There was no spinning it any other way.
You've changed, the voice whispered, almost piteous. Will you let them know, or shall thy plights go unanswered?
"Fuck off."
"What?"
"Nothing I just- " she stammered uselessly, wincing.
Thine words lack kindness, Child. Are you then a true hunter? Vile and unfettered by the bonds of humanity?
Slamming her fist against the side of her head, Catherine swore again, nails scraping harshly at her temple. "I need to go."
"Catherine, what are you- "
"I need to go," she growled, turning on the two of them and marching towards the lake. They tried to follow but she was too quick, dashing down the stairs with quiet steps, much quieter than they should be with wooden soles on hard stone.
Her breaths were hurried by the time she made it to the lake, snow caked underfoot and the air misting on her lips. Magic crackled along her wand, sparks of sharp red bursting from the tip and searing marks across the snow.
Motions hurried, she swept the powder out of the way, transfiguring a chunk of it into stone and dried wood. Catherine set it alight, adding a warming charm for good measure as she sat before the flame.
She had wished she could do this while in Yharnam. To be able to use her magic so freely - if at all - was wondrous.
Catherine didn't give any thought to the fact that she didn't know how to cast a warming charm, that she had never practiced such a thing - only having seen it cast by Hermione or one of her Professors. She didn't notice that she had cast it wordlessly either, the magic leaping from her wand with glee.
Basking in the warmth of the fire, Catherine watched the lake ripple slowly, minute waves running over its surface and peaking gently across the rocky beach. She didn't mind how it reminded her of that dream, a man sobbing in the distance before his agony built to a blind fury, rage echoing towards the sea and drowned out by its oily depths.
It was serene.
The lake never seemed to frost over. Perhaps it was the Merpeople and some magic of theirs, keeping it just warm enough for them to not freeze in the blinding cold.
Her thoughts wandered to Ron and Hermione, wondering how she could even begin to approach them.
Should I?
It seemed an impossible task, almost as if she were condemning them to the same fate as her. Prophecy, she remembered, the Sword of Damocles hanging aloft and waiting for just the right moment to strike. It would tear her apart, not leaving her dead but instead wishing she were.
War, most likely. If the Ministry ever managed to pull their heads out of their asses and look, just for a moment, they would see the threat they faced, that everyone faced. For the first time in her life she thought she just may see twenty.
Catherine had always thought her life more finite than most. Why wouldn't she, when faced with a man who wanted her dead when she was but an infant? When she grew up in a home cursed with such a severe absence of love that the very concept was alien to her?
Laughing to herself, she studied the rocky peaks in the distance. She didn't know what to feel, nor how to in the first place. If she were to be honest with herself, she was confident she would have taken her own life given the courage.
But magic always left her wondering, hanging on for more. Perhaps another taste of it could spark something in her, garner some measure of hope that never seemed to stick around for long.
Catherine didn't really want to die, she just didn't really see much point in living. Now, she didn't have a choice.
It was calming and infuriating at the same time. No escape, no way out, just the great infinite laid before her with nothing but a dim light shining upon her immediate path.
Her ears twitched at the sound of crunching snow, glancing to her left to see Dumbledore walking in her direction.
Sighing, she waved him over, directing him to the little nook she had made for herself.
"Hey."
He smirked at her casual greeting, clearing out a bit more snow before shuffling his robes, settling on the grass next to her.
They sat in silence for a while, just admiring the stark beauty of the Scottish highlands. It all seemed dark. Deep gray stone, the lake an inky blue - even the tufts of grass that poked out of the snow were a green so rich they seemed to drink in the light.
"I'm guessing Hermione and Ron sent you?"
"No." Dumbledore turned to her, inscrutable. "A portrait notified me of a student striking themself in the halls, quite violently." He took out his wand, rolling it over in his palm. "May I?"
"What?"
"Your head." He frowned. "You're bleeding."
Bringing her hand up, Catherine poked at her temples, hardly wincing at the sting. Her fingers shone red, still wet. "Oh. I am."
Tutting, Dumbledore passed his wand over the side of her head, the wound twinging as it was pulled shut. "Better?"
Catherine shrugged. "Didn't even notice it."
"I find that concerning."
"How?"
"Did you not…" Dumbledore seemed at a loss for words, something she had never seen from the man. "There was, and is, quite a bit of blood on you Catherine. Your hair is soaked in it."
Grabbing a stick out of the snow, she transfigured it into a mirror.
Catherine scowled at her reflection. Her hair was matted across the left side of her face, blood having tracked its way down her neck and soaked into the collar of her robes. Cleaning herself up with some melted snow, she realized she must have scratched herself something awful, pale marks running down her cheek a sign of newly healed flesh.
How grim. Yet, she couldn't help but find it a little funny. A week of dying had raised her already absurd pain tolerance to terrible heights. Perhaps she was like one of those people she had read about, unable to feel anything - often burning themselves on the stovetop and only noticing when the sweet scent of burning flesh managed to suffuse the room.
She knew that wasn't the case, warm as she was. People like that couldn't feel anything. No heat, no cold, no touch. Just another brand of silence.
"Thank you."
"Catherine. I'm worried for you. When we spoke yesterday, you seemed almost excited to learn why I had been… remiss in my interactions with you. Fearful, yes, who wouldn't be when faced with such a thing? But today, dare I say it, you seem a woman possessed."
She did laugh at that, a dry, feeble thing. "Not possessed, just having what seems to be a nervous breakdown."
"We could talk to Poppy if you'd like, a calming draught may help."
"No, it wouldn't."
Biting her lip, she tore her eyes away from the lake and looked at Dumbledore. Really looked at him.
He seemed so much older, eyes filled with some implacable sadness. The man almost withered at her stare, before collecting himself. He changed in that moment, face bright and whatever cloud hung over him disappearing in a single blink.
It was a mask. Something learned with age, maybe as a necessity, perhaps even a part of himself that Dumbledore didn't even know existed.
"I'm sorry for worrying you."
Smiling at her, he shook his head and let out a quiet sigh. "You always worry me."
"It's my greatest talent. Catherine Potter, Bane of Dumbledore's Sanity, Bearer of Poppy Pomfrey's Golden Cot."
Dumbledore gave out a low chuckle. "We may have to put a plaque above that bed in your honour. Or, the school should gift it to you, as you most likely have squatters' rights. How long have you spent in that bad I wonder?" He looked down at his lap, arms crossed snugly across his chest. "A frightening amount of time, I believe."
"I'll take it as a graduation gift then. Take it home with me, once I'm done with school. Done with… well, you know."
"Ah, yes. The world of careers and perhaps, the study of a mastery. Have you given that any thought?"
"Honestly? Not really. Been more worried about Voldemort than anything." She whistled through her teeth. "Bit hard to think beyond that mess."
"I'm terribly sorry, Catherine. You deserve so much more."
She leaned back, propping herself up on the tree and lacing her hands behind her head. "Things will be fine," Catherine said, and she meant it.
After seeing what Yharnam had to offer - even just a taste, because god only knows what else was in that city - the ever-present threat of Voldemort was all of a sudden a touch lackluster.
"For you to say that so strongly, an old man like myself finds himself believing it." He seemed proud of her. "True conviction is oft… hard to come by, especially in lives as troubled as ours."
"I dunno'. We might just be crazy."
Dumbledore clapped once, his laugh ringing out across the lake. "We just might. Now, I believe supper will be on soon. Would you care to walk with me back to the school?"
He offered her a hand, Catherine taking it gratefully as he hoisted her up with a surprising amount of strength. "Thanks."
"No need to thank me. I will always help you Catherine. You only need to ask."
"I'll keep that in mind. Again, thanks."
"Well mannered too." He raised an eyebrow as they walked toward the castle. "Am I to thank for that as well?"
Catherine tapped her chin. "I think that one falls more on Snape."
"Professor Snape, although, I find that surprising. You two seem to be at each other's throats more often than not. Polite?"
"It gets on his nerves."
Try as he might, Dumbledore couldn't fight the smile that crept over his face. "Don't take my reaction as encouragement," he stated grandly. "He is your Professor."
"I know." And for once Catherine found herself sympathizing with Snape, in her own strange way. No one ended up the way he did through a life full of cheer.
"I'll speak with him tonight, regarding your lessons."
"How many times am I going to need to thank you?"
"You need never thank me, Catherine." Dumbledore pointed toward the castle. "Shall we go?"
"Right behind you."
She followed after Dumbledore, unable to see the man's troubled face, scarred with age - his hand ghosting over his wand and ready at a moment's notice to turn on her - maddened as she was.