Chapter Twenty-Two | Little One, Starling Sweet

Her whole body heavy, Catherine shuddered, hand pressed against Hermione's shoulder. "Shit," she murmured, a slight bit of fear rearing its ugly head. "I don't know- oh, shit, Hermione."

"What, what?"

Hermione pulled away, her face flushed and lips swollen.

"I think I'm going to pass out in a few hours."

Her eyes widened, cheeks going ashen in a split second. Hermione reached up and held Catherine's face in her hands. "Okay, okay, just- can you stay awake? Can I get a potion, something to keep you up?"

"I don't know…" Catherine wavered, unsteady. "I think everything- everything caught up with me." She blinked at Hermione, fear forgotten at the sight of her and a soft smile pulling across her face. "I think I'll be fine. Not… fine, but you know what I mean, right?"

"But we just- I didn't expect it to happen so soon."

Clumsily, Catherine pressed her lips to Hermione's cheek, her heart fluttering. "God, I feel so silly."

"Why?"

"Because things are good with you and Ron, with Dumbledore. I think- no, I know things will be good as long as I have all of you on my side."

Hermione smiled as well, something sad but hopeful. "Our timing is awful, isn't it?"

"What, figure out you might be a little bit gay and then I get shipped back to nightmare land?"

She nodded tearfully. "Only you would put it that way."

"Gotta' keep the mood light, right?" Catherine sighed. "I'll be good. As good as I can be over there."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Just… stay here with me. Maybe I'll stay awake, maybe I won't, but… I'm just happy that you know, you know?" She hummed a tuneless song, lacing her fingers with Hermione's and running her thumb over her knuckles. "What… what are we, now?"

"I don't know." Hermione placed her other hand atop Catherine's, squeezing it gently. "But… I think I feel the same as you. There's something more, here," she pressed her hand against Catherine's collar, just above her heart, "and I want to see what it is."

Laughing, Catherine felt her eyes burn, squashing down the urge to cry. Not that they were sad tears, no, but she'd cried far too much today. "Fuck, am I turning into Lavender? I feel so damn giggly."

"No, never. Please, I don't think I could date you if you acted like her. Not… not that I have anything against Lavender, but…"

"She's Lavender?"

"Yeah."

The two grinned, enjoying their newfound… whatever it seemed to be. Not a relationship. Not yet, Catherine told herself. Perhaps some day it could grow into something proper, but she wasn't about to put a name on something that still bore its egg tooth, shivering and doe eyed. Only when Hermione decided to put a name to things would she herself do the same.

Another heavy blink and Catherine wavered, leaning into Hermione and resting her head on her shoulder. An urge overtook her and she drew her lips over Hermione's throat, kissing her softly, smiling against her skin as Hermione hissed through her teeth.

"Sorry," she said, though the grin was evident in her voice.

"No, no. It's fine. I just-"

"Sensitive?"

Hermione nodded. "Sensitive."

Another kiss, and Hermione poked her arm playfully. "I don't think I'm about to snog you when you're on the verge of passing out."

Chuckling, Catherine burrowed closer against her. "Thank you," she whispered.

"For what?" Hermione asked, carding her fingers through Catherine's hair. "Oh, oh. You need a bath."

"I'll be clean when I wake up in Yharnam. Dunno' how it works, but I just do. Strange magic, that place."

"Yeah… the Dream, you called it. That man there, German?"

"Gehrman."

"Gehrman. He's- he's dead, right? How is that possible?"

"Couldn't tell you. There's a god in my head, so, I imagine anything is possible. I mean…" she pointed to herself. "Immortal, here and there. And I know… I know I probably scared the piss out of you when I was shouting at myself earlier, but I wasn't, you know. It was… her, at least I think it's a her. I don't know if gods can be one or the other, neither, or what, but I think it's a her."

"I know. It scared me, and I'm still having a hard time wrapping my head around it, but I know you're not- you're not mad." Hermione let out a heavy breath, tickling Catherine's neck. "I always thought that… my parents aren't religious. They don't practice, except maybe my mum, but only Christmas or Easter services. I've never really thought there was anything out there, but to hear that there is something and it's- it's so vile." She kissed the top of Catherine's head. "It's scary."

"I don't think they're gods. At least, I hope they're not." A yawn pulled her jaw wide, Catherine beginning to feel gummy eyed and slow. "We're magic, right? Witches and wizards, it's like something out of a book. What if they were just stronger? Better at it than us?"

"I think you're extremely tired, but… it makes a bit of sense."

"I dunno' really, but it's like if someone did magic in front of a muggle and they didn't know what magic was, even in folklore, wouldn't they think you were a god?"

"It sounds like what happened with the Aztecs."

"Hm?"

"The colonizers came over to the Americas, and the Aztecs thought they were gods. They'd never seen pale skinned men, dressed in steel and holding guns. They didn't even know what a gun was. It… it makes sense. I don't know which would be worse. If these were gods, or just something so far above us in the food chain that the things they can do make even magicals wonder if they are."

"Honestly?"

"Yes?"

"I just want to know if I can punch it."

The laugh that leapt from Hermione's throat was stark, almost hysterical in its intensity. Her shoulders shook, jiggling Catherine's head and causing her to laugh alongside her.

"What!? You don't think I'm allowed to get one shot in? After what it's put me through?"

"I think- I think I'd like a chance at that as well." Her tone hardened. "It hurt you."

"It did, but I'm going to figure out a way to fight back. Somehow."

Why ever would you do such a thing?

Catherine snarled.

"Huh?"

"It talked."

The grip on Catherine's arm tightened. "What- what did it say?"

"Why would you do such a thing? It acts like… it calls what it's done to me a blessing. This- this thing and the others like it are responsible for Voldemort, you know? He went there when he was our age. They brought him to Yharnam. I think it might have turned him into who he is today."

"Oh my god."

"I know. It scares me, that I might end up-"

Forcefully, Hermione pulled Catherine up, cradling her face in her hands and staring her in the eyes. "You are not like him, not at all. You will never be like him. Don't talk about yourself like that, alright? You're your own worst enemy sometimes."

"What?"

"If someone talked to you the way you talk about yourself… I'd hex them and then some. The things you say sometimes, Ron and I… it kills us." Suddenly shy, Hermione blushed lightly before leaning in and pressing her lips against Catherine's, a quiet hum bubbling in her throat. "You are so much better than you think you are. You are amazing, and I hope someday you see the same Catherine that I do when I look at you."

"Speaking of…"

"What?"

"The scars."

"I won't lie, knowing what happened… over in that, that city..." Her voice hitched as Hermione traced the one that wrapped around Catherine's head with a finger, featherlight and almost reverent. "It hurts, so much to know how you got them. But they're a testament, I think. To show you're a survivor. To show you're strong. Just like this one," she said, tapping Catherine's forehead. "They don't bother me, not the way you think. They don't make me look at you and feel fear, or disgust. They make me want to help, to make sure you never get another as long as I have the power to stop it."

"Fuck."

"What is it?"

"Told myself I wasn't going to cry anymore today," Catherine blurted, her voice strained half with tears and half with laughter. "D'you really mean it?"

"Of course. You're still you, Catherine. So beautiful I can't believe I never saw you the way I do now."

"Like the way I see you?"

"Maybe. Just a bit." Hermione smiled sheepishly. "I really can't believe I never noticed."

"Ron said the same."

"He knows?"

"He kind of ah- told me he fancied me. I came out on the spot, like a blubbering idiot."

"Oh. Oh. I… I'm really blind, aren't I?"

"Mmhm." Catherine yawned again, jaw aching and tears springing to her eyes. She took off her glasses, wiping them away. "Same here."

"Give me that," Hermione offered, taking Catherine's glasses and sticking them to the bed post. "Is he… is Ron okay?"

"Actually cheered me on. Figured out instantly that I fancied you after I told him I was gay."

"That's… incredibly mature of him."

"He uh- said that he did a lot of growing up in the last year. Last few days, after… after what I did."

And just like that, Hermione's features crumpled into ill-disguised grief.

"I'm sorry. I cant- I can't say it enough, but I am so, so sorry for putting the two of you through that."

"No. Damnit, I just wish I saw. We're your best friends and I never- I never noticed how much you were hurting. I knew things were bad, sometimes, but never that bad. Never- never like that."

"I've hid it all my life," she confessed, so quiet that even she hardly heard it.

"All of it?" Hermione's voice was a breathy squeak. "How long?"

"Since I was a kid. The Dursley's…"

"Do they- have they ever hit you?"

"No. Never. Just- maybe the once, but… no, no hitting. It's all words with them. Or none, they just act like I don't exist. I prefer that, I think. Not having to talk to them, them not talking to me. Feels more like a job I guess."

"Catherine…"

"I'm done with them. Done staying there. Done dealing with their shit. After what I've seen, what are they to me now except… flies? They buzz and they bite but they won't ever leave a mark."

"You're allowed to… to be angry at them. To be sad about what they've done."

"I am. I am, and I think I will be for a long time. But… I think it's better for me to move past it right now. And really, after Yharnam how the hell can a podgy pencil pusher and my arse of an aunt ever bother me again? It's like Draco. I saw him earlier, and he tried to do what Draco does best-"

"No. Not after what happened."

"Of course he did. He loves what happened, wanted to lord it over me, and I just walked away. He tried to grab me and I knocked him over, scared him so bad he was practically running." She grinned at the memory of it, still fresh, still powerful. "He didn't know what to do when I didn't shout back, didn't take his bait."

"I wish I was there to see it."

Catherine almost offered her memory of it to Hermione, only stopping herself when she very suddenly realized how terribly alien her feelings were. The blood had made her animalistic. Primal. Some long dormant part of her mind uncaged and more than pleased to roam free, to push her to let the world know she was strong. Unbendable. Unbreakable.

"It was a hell of a thing. Felt good, to finally put him in his place, but… I found he doesn't really matter anymore. There's just- there's way bigger things out there, and I can't believe I used to worry about him."

"Learning about Yharnam has really put things in perspective."

"How clinical of you."

"You know what I mean!"

"I do, I do- god, can't stop-" Catherine stretched her back, catlike. "Yawning all the damn time."

"...rest, then. We'll be waiting for when you get back."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Awkwardly, Hermione shuffled over to lay down, patting the bed next to her.

"Hmm?"

Blushing something awful, she slid under the covers and lifted the side for Catherine, pointing at the open space. "Get in."

"Oh. Are you-"

"Before I change my mind."

Slowly, as if offering Hermione the chance to deny her, Catherine crawled over, prying at the laces on her boots and dragging them off her feet to be unceremoniously tossed beside the bed.

"I said I'd clean it up."

"Don't want you to have to," Catherine argued softly, her exhaustion evident. "And thank you, again, for being here for me."

Hermione, with some hesitance, wrapped her arms around Catherine as she lay down and pulled herself beneath the covers, holding her tight after a reluctant moment. "I'm just glad you're still here."

Burrowing into her, Catherine practically clutched at Hermione's shirt. "Always. I'll never- I promise to never do something so stupid again."

"Don't you dare."

And Catherine made to reply, but found her jaw far too heavy, tongue a leaden weight in her mouth and her eyelids pulled by drawstrings - down, down, down - until sleep took her from Hermione's thin arms.

-::-

For the first time, Catherine opened her eyes to the granite spires of the Dream and did not feel insurmountable dread. She was outside the workshop laying on a blanket, and could hear the soft breathing of someone next to her.

She turned, surprised to see the Doll nodded off and sitting on the grass, her back to the workshop wall and her chest slowly rising and falling. Her hands, with their tiny joints of shining pearl placed neatly in her lap with her legs splayed out underneath her long dress, the toes of her shoes poking out from under the hem and pointed towards the sky.

She breathes?

Catherine was enraptured by the sight of her, the Doll suddenly so much more human.

A quiet snuffle and the Doll shook her head, looking over to see Catherine. "Hello," she murmured sleepily. "It is good to see you."

"You alright?"

It was if the Doll frowned, the most minute shift of the plates on her brow and a twitch of the finger the only sign of her expression shifting. "I am well, thank you."

"Good. That's… that's good."

She got to her feet, dusting herself off and pleased to see her Yharnam garb already upon her. The minions appeared as she stood, eagerly dancing to and fro with her wand and spear in hand.

Catherine thanked them as she took the weapons, patting herself down to see that she already had blood vials fastened to her coat.

A thought struck her.

"You wouldn't happen to have any other weapons, would you? Just to see if something else you've got works better for me than this," she asked, waving her spear. "I remember her saying you've got a bunch tucked away."

The Messengers looked to one another, babbling and crooning before producing what looked to be a cinderblock on a stick from the mist.

Cautiously, Catherine placed down her spear before hefting up the massive hammer, surprised to realize that while it took some effort, she could carry the thing.

"How in the hell is anyone meant to use this?"

"It is a Kirkhammer," the Doll spoke up, peering over her shoulder to study the bludgeon. She pointed at the cheek of the weapon, messy scripture etched into the side of it and almost indistinguishable from the wear upon it. "It is a weapon of the Church, not the Workshop, though frightening all the same. It contains a sword in the handle, if the beast you hunt requires finesse rather than strength."

Looking over the weapon, Catherine noticed the latch on the side of the haft, clicking it into place and drawing a sword from the stone - a moderately sized straight sword with no particularly unique qualities.

"I've got blood in me, I think." She turned to the Doll, slotting the blade back into its sheath. "Could you…?"

"Of course."

The Doll placed her hands on Catherine's, the familiar jolt of whatever strange magic the Doll used running hot through her veins. She felt her shoulders flex, the rush far greater than any she had felt before.

"Djura," Catherine whispered, knowing that it was his essence that emboldened her.

"Djura?" the Doll asked. "A familiar name, although I do not know why."

"He was a… hunter here, a long time ago. I killed him."

"Oh. How unfortunate."

Catherine blanched, pulling her hands away. "Unnecessary is what it was. I… I lost myself."

"All Hunters may, on occasion. Do not take it to heart."

Overcome with the sudden urge to break something, Catherine stifled it and clenched her hands into fists, teeth grinding together. "I'll try not to."

Revulsion brimming inside her, she tore her eyes away from the Doll and picked up the hammer, holding it out in front of her with one arm at a straight angle. She put some space between herself and the… automaton that watched her, tossing around the hammer and letting it crash into the earth with meaty thuds.

It wasn't as quick as her spear, but it was probably a damn sight more effective judging by the craters she left with the thing every time she swung it. Her shoulder, though, ached something fierce throwing it about with but one arm, and she wasn't keen on using a weapon that didn't allow her access to her wand.

"I think when I'm a good bit stronger I may come back to this, but for now…" she handed the hammer back the messengers, thanking them quietly. "I'll keep using my spear."

"Perhaps the Messengers will dig something else up, or you'll come across another blade in your travels that suits you better."

"Perhaps… thank you. Is-" she almost asked for Gehrman, curious about the chalice she had lifted from that muddied chapel far below Yharnam proper. "Nevermind. Don't worry yourself.".

She'd ask him another time. Catherine needed to hunt.

-::-

Instead of a hunt, Catherine found herself offering a quiet greeting to Elijah, who seemed more than happy to see her, before gesturing to a door just past his little cubby, saying he had heard beastmen murmuring through it and was worried the incense may not be warding them off. Perhaps they weren't all that tainted by the scourge, or maybe there was something about this hunt in particular that made them that much more dangerous.

So she agreed to look into it, and listened patiently as he told her how the night had gotten darker since she'd last seen him, and she had to agree, peeking out the Chapel door to see with her own eyes that somehow the pallid sky had shifted into something deeper than black, swallowing up the sheer white that poured from the moon above, not to let it bloom past even the stars that ringed it, instead shining stark and bright along the spires and crooked homes of the Cathedral Ward.

How a night could grow darker she didn't know, but it had all the same.

Catherine did her best to not think about it, taking another elevator (this one made of stone, something that rankled her because of the sheer audacity of constructing a lift out of stone of all things) up to the Chapel rooftop, upon which she was shot in the gut by yet another wheelchair ridden man tucked behind a column, who she promptly decapitated, spitting on his wizened corpse.

She paused after that, only for a moment, before tucking her ire way and praying that Hermione never again asked to look into her head.

And then Catherine shouted, running back down to the lift, hitting herself in the head once she'd remembered the bloody girl. If she was dead… Catherine didn't know what she would do with herself.

Not even offering another hello to Elijah, she sprinted headlong out of the Chapel and back down to the tombs below, cursing and spitting as she carved her way through the beasts that had found their way back in the short few hours she had been gone - torn between worlds and time itself, it seemed, but a flicker passing here whilst she had been gone at Hogwarts, and the same back home.

Her heart beat heavily, each beat twinning into the next with rapid flourish as her feet thundered against the pavement.

"Please, please be alive," she begged, both a spoken prayer and a whisper to the girl herself, as if she could hear her from so far away.

By the time Catherine made it to Gascoigne's home she was soaked in blood from head to toe, bearing gashes on her arms and her wand still spitting fire after having torched another giant, this one swinging about the leg of one of his brethren, cut off at the hip and the bit of femur jutting out of the top marked by its teeth.

She panted for a moment, hands on her knees and drinking in the air like cool water. Her lips pressed together, chapped and stinging in the wind. "Girl- I'm- I'm here," she managed, reaching through the bars and rapping her knuckles against the window. "Please, are you there? It's me. The hunter."

A shriek of excitement, the window thrown open, and Catherine almost began to sob then and there, the relief that washed over her so strong she felt her shoulders fall, spear hanging loose in tired fingers.

"It's so good to see you."

The girl grinned, and Catherine took in her features. Skin pale, almost as pale as hers, and violet eyes of all things, something she'd never thought possible. She had brown hair, from her father Catherine realized, now knowing that Gascoigne's hair was not white from birth.

"May I have your name?"

"Emilie."

"Emilie… you're going to have to come with me."

Her smile twisted into a frown, tears sparking at the girl's eyes. "My mummy… daddy- are they- are they okay?"

"No." Catherine shook her head. She reached into the breast pocket of her jacket, drawing out the brooch she had taken from her mother's corpse, cleaned by the messengers in her absence and now unmarked by the blood that had stained it. "I'm so sorry, but… I couldn't save them."

"It was her? Really- really her?" Emilie gasped out in pain, looking far too understanding of death for a child her age. "Then… my mummy…"

"She's gone, I'm so, so sorry, but I know a safe place that you can go. Not staying alone, here. Can I take you there? Please."

"But… what about my sister? What if she comes back?"

Catherine didn't voice her idea that her sister was likely long dead, and this girl was the last of her family. "Can you leave her a note? If- if you need help writing it, I can do that for you."

"No, I'm… I can do it."

"I'll wait for you here, okay?"

The girl nodded shakily, shutting the window.

Leaning against the wall, Catherine crossed her arms against her chest and listened intently, trying not to notice how she could hear the girls sobs through the glass, or the sound of things falling off countertops as she frantically rummaged about for a slip of paper.

With patience, she waited, foot tapping a quiet beat across the Yharnam night and her fingers restlessly drumming along her arms. A small smile found its way across her face. Gascoigne and his wife may be dead, but at least she could save their daughter. At least she could do one good thing in this damnable city.

Catherine startled as she heard the door open, casting a quick cleansing charm on herself to clean off most of the blood. She didn't want to help this girl while covered in the stuff.

"Emilie?"

"Miss- Miss Hunter?"

Emilie's voice was thick with tears, and Catherine did her best to hold her own in, wanting to be strong for the poor girl. "Did you leave a note?" she asked, kneeling to look Emilie in the eye.

"Mmhm."

"Okay, that's good. You know Oedon Chapel, right?" Emilie nodded. "That's good. We're going to go there, okay? They have lots of food and incense, and beds to stay in. There's also a- a nice man there, called Elijah-"

"Elijah? I know Mister Elijah."

"You do? He's nice, right?" Catherine asked, more for herself than anything.

She didn't trust a damned thing in this city, except this little girl in front of her.

"Very. Mummy and daddy take me to chapel with… with-" She sniffed heavily, cradling herself. "They- they left me alone."

Slowly, Catherine raised her hand and placed it on Emilie's shoulder. "Mister Elijah will be able to take care of you until the night is done, and I'm doing all I can to make sure that the night is done soon, okay? And then- and then I'll look for your sister. That's a promise."

"Really?"

"Really, really. Can you be strong for me for a little while? We're going to have to walk there, and it might be scary, and I may have to fight things."

"The beasts."

"Yes. Good. When I do that, I need you to listen to everything I say, okay? I need you to be strong, and I need you to listen. Can you do that for me, Emilie?"

She nodded again, jutting her chin out stubbornly. "Mummy- mummy said I'm a big girl, and- and I'll be strong. I can do it."

Catherine bit her lip, swallowing down what felt like the world, barbed and angry and tearing at the flesh on its way down. "That's great. We're going to walk now, okay? Stay right behind me, and you can hold my hand if you'd like," she said, offering her open palm to Emilie.

After a moment Emilie placed her hand in Catherine's, so tiny and frail that Catherine thought that she would break her just by touch, to be near such a violent thing such as herself. She squeezed her hand lightly, smiling at the girl. "Alright, come with me."

They started off, Catherine already with the path in mind.

She didn't want to risk any ladders, not with a girl so young. In the off chance that it was slick with rain, blood, or whatever other viscera sprayed from the throats of Yharnam beasts when cut, and see Emilie tumbling to her death far below.

Her head shook of its own accord, tearing the thoughts away like barnacles off the side of a ship.

Even the very thought was poison.

So they crept, slow and deliberate past beasts of varying degree, some scenting at the air with matted faces while others twitched and jittered at every sound, even the scrape of their own blade across the muddy stone.

Every so often Catherine would have to press a finger to her lips, holding Emilie tight as a band of men patrolled the city streets, pitchforks, rusted swords, plank shields, and sputtering torches held aloft by hands marred with the blood of their compatriots.

Unfortunately, upon the third patrol, a dog had heard Emilie's frightened hiss, Catherine clamouring to press her hand against the poor girls mouth far too late.

The things hackles raised, barks ripping from its frothing mouth and the addled beastmen that it called master turning about face to spy Catherine and Emilie huddled behind a padlocked coffin.

"Get behind me," Catherine growled, flicking her spear out and holding it in front of Emilie as though a shield.

Emilie could only whimper, pressing herself against the wall as Catherine drew her wand and pointed it at the ragged hunters, who began whooping, only to roar their fright as the hounds skull burst open - a conjured spike splitting it from head to spine, spraying them in gore.

The men flinched, before quickly steeling themselves and charging towards Catherine with their weapons raised, screaming murder.

Fire had become a companion of hers, spraying from her wand with reckless abandon and dousing them as if napalm.

Maybe it was. They way in which it clung to their ragged, sweat soaked clothes in thick globs of furiously burning pitch. It dripped off them as they flailed, screeching in pain, striking the ground with sputters and hisses, smoke trickling up from the flickering chunks of liquid flame.

As Catherine sighed with relief, she felt Emilie let go of her arm, trying to pull away from her.

"What?" She asked, turning around. "Don't look, Emilie, please. You don't need to see-"

"You're a witch!" Emilie cried, her eyes dark with fright. "Hemwick witch! You're just going to eat me!"

"Hemwick? I'm not- I'm not from here Emilie," Catherine said, boxing her in so she didn't run off, wincing at how Emilie shied away from her touch. "I'm from a place very very far away from here. I've never heard of Hemwick."

"Liar! Mummy told me about-" she choked, crying in earnest. "Please don't eat me, please. I've been good, don't eat me!"

"I promise I won't. I wouldn't ever. I'm not- I don't know about these Hemwick witches, but I promise you I'm not like them." Kneeling, Catherine pulled her hands away from Emilie, giving her space. "Look, see? I just want to get you to the chapel. To Mister Elijah so you can be safe. I'm not trying to hurt you, Emilie. I'm a witch, but I come from a place called Britain."

"Bri-tan?"

"Yes. It's very, very far away from here, and I go to a magical school with my friends, who are witches and wizards. Are these Hemwick witches old and scary?" She continued, pulling down her mask and smiling. "Do I look like an old scary witch?"

"No…"

"I promise, if any show up I'll fight them off, okay? I'm a good witch, not like those ones, not like the things here."

They stayed there for a few seconds, eyeing each other carefully. Catherine was fully prepared to stun Emilie and hoist her over her shoulder if necessary, but didn't want to break what fragile trust they had. It wouldn't do well to be coming and going from the chapel, somewhere that now seemed centre to this place, when it housed a girl of the mind that Catherine was to eat her.

If there was any truth to what Emilie said, or the fear the Doll showed when Catherine told her of her magic, she'd happily run off and kill those witches if only to make this city a touch safer for the innocents like Emilie that still lived behind its cursed walls.

"Emilie?"

"You're not a bad witch?"

"No. I… I fight bad people. I fight bad witches."

Emilie reached forward, softly taking Catherine's hand, and the tension that bound her to that spot dropped in an instant, her shoulders sagging and the spring-set of her knees unravelling into something that almost resembled calm.

"Let's go."

Her arm folded out as they walked past the smouldering corpses, as if to shield Emilie from the carnage she had wrought in the blink of an eye.

Maybe it was to hide it from herself. How quick she was to lay waste to a handful of men and their rabid mutt. How efficient her movements, only two spells to turn the lot of them into another tally, yet more bodies to be added to the toll of the Yharnam night.

Her eyes were sharp as they pulled away from the blackened flesh and onto their waiting path, Emilie both far more quick to respond to Catherine's movements and reluctant at the same time - the familiar weight of fear clouding the way the girl shuffled behind her.

The lift was where they needed to go, to take it down to the bridge and off through the tomb that now harboured her parents' corpses. At least, the remains of such, already picked apart by beasts and only a few scraps of cloth and bone left to mark their passing.

They journeyed on, and Catherine wondered at how horrid it was for a girl so young to be so accustomed to violence such as this. No sobs to shake her body, nor hysterical murmurs bubbling from her tiny frame - only a resolute mask that spoke of a lifetime of learned violence, of a breadwinner whose trade was death itself. Emilie grew up here, she had to remind herself, surrounded by the horror this place mongered, trading it like knick-knacks at a peddlers stand.

And then she realized herself that her life had been the same.

Not quite so dire. Never something as terribly macabre as the bloodstained stones that marked her path, but violent all the same.

Was it shameful, she wondered, to compare her early years to that of the young girl beside her? To say that Voldemort clawing out of the skull of her first year professor was something to be likened to beastmen and rusty blades?

She had learned what death was at the tender age of eleven, unwittingly placing her hands upon Quirrel in fear of what he would do to her, only to see him crumble to ash beneath her tender fingers.

Oh, and how he screamed.

It haunted her for years, up until she had that pained shriek replaced by that of her mother - a cry that spoke not of fear for herself, but for Catherine, swaddled and blind to the world in a little wooden crib behind her. Lily's scream was defiance. Quirrel's was resignation.

Perhaps in some ways they were the same, but not in the selflessness of her mother's sacrifice.

Quirrel was not a good man. For a long time she wrestled with his death. Whether to dwell on it or convince herself that yes, it was self defence. Yes, he would have killed her given the chance. Yes, he did this to himself.

But, all the same, it was she who ended his life.

And now her hands were mired in so much blood she could drown half of Hogwarts in it, press them face first to the muck and hear their screams bubble red and acrid, popping around their ears and spraying flecks of liquid heat across her cheeks.

By the time this was done would she fill a lake with it? Sail off on that tiny raft that brought her into that world of magic and trail her hand through the softly lapping crimson, licking it off her fingers like syrup?

Bathory, they should call her, for the Blood keeps her young.

Catherine wondered if she would forget the taste of food. If there would ever be a way to expunge the plague that dripped from her open veins.

Ten years from now. Twenty, where would she be? Dead? Properly laid to rest once she'd escaped this nightmare? Or maybe she would be forced to live on. Watch as her friends grew old and crumbled to naught but dust before her very eyes.

Her stomach churned, imagining Hermione gray and old, while she herself sat beside her with hair still black as night, a face unmarred by the wear of age.

A squeak from Emilie made Catherine realize she was squeezing her hand.

"Sorry," she whispered, nodding her head forward. "I got caught up in my thoughts… we're almost there, though."

"I know the way."

"Good."

They stayed quiet, Catherine thankful that she'd cleared most of this path out on her mad rush back to Emilie. Her only worry was that the corpses left in her wake may have attracted hungry beasts, and a starving animal was far more worrisome to fight than a lingering one.

The lift creaked as they stepped in, Catherine listening intently as it slowly lowered, eyes and ears focused entirely on the bridge she knew to be their one final path homeward.

And it was, miraculously, clear.

Catherine's hackles raised all the same, something about the quiet putting her on edge.

"Stay close to me, and if you see anything, don't make a noise. Squeeze my hand as hard as you can."

With quiet steps they drew closer to the tomb, and the deeper Catherine's dread grew.

Something was wrong.

"I'm going to cast a spell on you, if that's okay?" she asked, turning to Emilie. "It's going to make you invisible. I- I have a bad feeling, and I think there's something waiting for us up ahead."

"Invisible?"

"It only lasts a little while, and if you move quickly it looks like a shimmer, but as close to invisible as I can get, yeah."

"Will it hurt?"

"No. It'll feel like… like an egg has been cracked over your head. It feels a bit cold. Want me to do it to myself first?"

Emilie nodded slowly, and Catherine tapped her wand against her own head, feeling the familiar trickle of magic pour down her body. A quiet gasp escaped Emilie as she disappeared before her very eyes, her face morphing into the most conflicted smile Catherine had ever seen in her life - both equal parts joy and fear.

"Still here!" she said, waving her hand very quickly and watching as Emilie's quiet gaze followed the almost heat-wave like shimmer. "See?"

"Wow."

"Wow is right. Is it okay if I cast it on you?"

"Y- yeah, I think that's okay."

"Alright," Catherine said, placing her wand on Emilie's head, who flinched at the touch. "Ready?"

She nodded, her bottom lip quivering stubbornly.

Tapping her wand softly against Emilie's head, Catherine whispered, "Occultumen," a shiver of magic before she disappeared before her.

"Look, see? Nothing to be worried about." She fumbled her hand down Emilie's arm, taking her hand. "Ready?"

A hum.

"Good. Alright." She nodded, before chastising herself silently.

Bloody invisible, and she's trying to nod.

Their trek to the tomb was short, but taken slowly, Emilie's steps unsure as she trodded up the stairs that marked their path. Walking while invisible was something that took far too much to get accustomed to, especially if one tried to follow their steps.

The tomb was silent, compared to the first time she came upon it.

Catherine's gut wrenched as she remembered Gascoigne, thankful that most of the corpses within the tomb had long been cleared out or devoured by whatever passersby had traveled here in the short time she'd been gone - and she couldn't find the stump of his body that remained after their battle no matter how hard she looked.

A soft scraping froze her steps, and Catherine peered out across the misty tomb, catching a flicker of movement past the obelisk that rose from the centre of the place, crooked and imperious - as if it was looking down at her with judgement.

"Stay right here, and don't make a noise," she hissed, watching as a man staggered into view, wearing hunters armour of a burnished cream, the leather tattered at the edges and stained with gore.

"Grandpapa?"

Catherine flinched, holding Emilie close. "You know him?"

"That's Grandpapa Henryk. He's- he's mummy's dad."

Fuck.

The man was hardly able to walk, a cleaver dragging behind him and his gun hanging loose at his side. Catherine caught a glimpse of his eyes, noting how large his pupils were, bloodshot beyond belief.

"Don't speak. Don't make a noise. He's blood drunk."

The instant the words left her lips, Emilie whimpered in fright, a low murmur issuing from her mouth. "Grandpapa?"

His head - Henryk's - snapped up, eyes unfocused but somehow leering towards their invisible form.

"Get down!" Catherine shouted, her disillusionment charm fading as she leapt forward to meet his blade, steel clashing against steel and echoing across the tomb with a horrid clang.

Her jaw clenched, the teeth of her spear caught on those of his cleaver, a wretched whine grinding off the two weapons as they were drawn apart, flecks of metal spraying every which way and the deafening bang of a gun going off as a bullet lanced through her belly.

Hissing, she peppered the ground with explosions, her hair spraying back from the force of it and the wind snaking past her glasses and cutting at her eyes, clouding them with tears.

Catherine thought she heard a muffled curse, before ribbons of black flew down the stairs, the curved beak of a crows-mask sitting atop the feathered hunter.

"Eileen," she blurted, knowing immediately that she had been on this man's trail.

A Hunter of Hunters, come to take her prize.

The woman's voice was hoarse as she shouted at her. "Move, girl!" Catherine ducking beneath the swing of Henryk's blade, swearing as it took her hat off, sending it skittering across the ground.

She didn't pause, lunging forward with her spear and shearing through his waist, the stench of half-digested food immediately tearing through her senses as flecks of filth poured from his belly.

Henryk did not flinch, did not move any slower, a wound that would fell a man - any man - doing nothing to hinder his maddened dash as his arm raised again, finger squeezing at the trigger of his pistol. His eyes, though, looked past her, not focused on Catherine but something behind-

Emilie.

Her shoulder burst open, spraying bone and flesh behind her as she ducked in front of the shot, a vial already pulled to her lips and the warmth of it trickling down her gullet.

"He's blood drunk!"

"Of course he is!" Eileen retorted, two wicked daggers in her hands. They flashed brightly beneath the moon, but Henryk was running on pure animal instinct, pulling away from the twin jab at the sound of them whistling through the wind. "Damnable girl!"

Shoulder and gut knitting back together, Catherine pulled away as he fired another shot - at her, not Emilie - revulsion swirling inside her at the thought that this was the girl's grandfather.

This city. This broken, awful city.

Her blood boiled, fury overtaking her and an almost primal rage stirring in her gut. Catherine kicked off the ground, a flurry of molten anger fashioned into steel and raw magic bursting towards the ailing man.

It almost seemed to spark a fear in him, his shoulders rolling as he leaned back away from her swing, nimble as a gymnast and just as quick.

Catherine ignored the fourth crack of his pistol, how it tore through her thigh and painted the dirt with her blood, instead fashioning a rope out of thin air and sweeping out his legs from under him, Henryk striking the ground with an awful crunch.

She cursed loudly as he rolled away, her spear crashing into the ground and dragging up rubble from the stone itself, carving through it like a saw through wood.

He was on his feet in a second, the back of his head dripping, a trail of it spinning past his oily hair as he spun around. Eileen shouted in pain as his cleaver was driven into her shoulder. She screamed again as it was pulled out of her, taking pulped chunks of meat with it.

Henryk was fast. Very fast. But he wasn't Gascoigne, and that meant everything.

Fire spewed from the end of Catherine's wand, Henryk rearing away from it with real fright in his eyes, the beast-blood tainting his mind. He almost hissed at it, his features pinched behind the mask that covered his face, only noticeable through the wrinkles that formed across his aged brow and the lines that pulled beneath his eyes. Like ink blots, they were, his pupils spilled out upon a sea of muddied blue.

Emilie still shrieking behind her, Catherine cut at his thigh, the muscles beneath snapping like bowstrings and Henryk crumpling beneath his own weight.

The man - if he could be called that, anymore - growled and strained as he tried desperately to edge away from her, his pistol clumsily pointed upwards. Her head twitched as the weapon bucked, fireflash staining her vision white and making her ears ring - but the shot had only just barely clipped her ear.

Quickly, she plunged her blade into his throat, pulling it to the side to watch his head roll away from his body, eyes still wide with fear, the flames she used almost branded into them.

Panting, Catherine rushed towards Eileen, the woman scoffing at her as she leaned down to pick her up.

"I'm not an invalid, Dreamer," she argued, hand pressed to her shoulder.

"Got any vials?"

She jabbed one into her thigh, sighing loudly as it began to work. "Plenty."

After a moment's hesitation, Eileen nodded her head. "Thank you. You're not bad at all, are you girl? Not the quivering thing I saw down in the sewers."

"No, no, but- shit, Emilie." Catherine turned, dispelling her magic to see her hunched against the wall where she had left her, face streaked with tears.

"Oh, gods. What's she doing here?"

"Her parents- they're gone. I'm taking her to Oedon Chapel."

"Gods above, Emilie. That was you then? Gascoigne?"

"You knew him well?"

"Aye." Eileen snapped her daggers together, tucking the singular blade into a sheathe at her waist. "And his daughters."

"I… should you go to her, then? Can you help me get her to the chapel?"

"That I can do. Poor, poor girl. Her parents are dead, aye?"

"Yes, and… her grandfather too."

"Henryk was a good man." She put up her hand. "She needs comfort, now. We can talk more at the chapel." Her head turned to Catherine, and though she couldn't see through the mask, she knew the expression behind it was thankful. Through the way Eileen's shoulders settled, or the quiet breaths that trickled through the leather and bone moulded over her features, she knew.

"But," Eileen said, putting her hand on Catherine's shoulder. "We're to talk about what I saw you do, here, with that fancy little stick of yours."

"I'm no Hemwick witch."

"Oh, that I can see, but that just makes it all the more concerning." She pulled away, walking past Catherine with a softened gait. "Come with me, Dreamer. Help first, talking later."

So she tucked away her spear, watching as Eileen stooped down to speak with Emilie, hands resting on her arms and her head softly bobbing along as she spoke to the frightened girl.

And Catherine smiled to herself, knowing this was the first good thing she had done since coming to this place, no matter the blood that stained it.