Chapter Eight: Daphne and Death

September 1st, 1996

Muggle London felt strange after so long lost in the wizarding world. Cato found himself jaywalking and narrowly avoiding death after it slipped his mind to look both ways as he crossed. It all felt so unbearably mundane, as if all the life had been sucked out of every structure and person, leaving behind the barren uniformity of grey city blocks, grey streets and grey people, their tired eyes set on their own tired goals.

He picked the nearest café to the station and pushed open the door. It was a little boutique, with cozy tables at the back and a counter with an array of mugs and plants at the front. An effervescent girl greeted him with a big smile, her happy chatter so sharply contrasted with the dull exterior that Cato found himself smiling as he ordered his coffee -black- and his toast -preferably not black- she laughed, her nose wrinkling cutely as she prepared his order.

Cato sat down in a far corner of the room and crossed his legs, watching her hum as she worked. His forearm burned beneath his shirt and he rubbed it absently. How was it that these worlds existed, paralleled to each other, yet each so mysterious to the other. He felt an urge to show her a spell, explain the reality in which she lived and see what she thought.

"Here you go!" she said, sliding his sandwich and coffee onto the table.

"Thank you-" he glanced at her nametag. "Marie." She had hand drawn a little flower next to her name.

"Hey, if you know my name, I should know yours, don't you think? Fair's fair." She grinned, but as Cato kept his silence and looked at her, a small flush covered her freckled cheeks. "Or not."

"It's Cato," he said.

"Oh, like the Roman?"

"The same."

"Are you some sort of aristocrat?" She asked, one finely manicured eyebrow rising.

"Yes," said Cato with a smile, leaning back in his chair. "You wouldn't have heard of us, we keep to ourselves."

"Oh lala, very mysterious," she said, putting a hand on her hips and tossing her black curls back. Her nails were vivid blue, stark against her black apron. "Should I bow?"

"Actually, you should curtsy," said Cato, taking a sip of his coffee to hide his grin as she scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"Now- Now I'm convinced you're a noble." She hesitated and looked at him as if she were gaging his interest. "So why are you around here anyway?"

Cato pondered his answer for a moment, trying to formulate it into some sort of acceptable format. "I'm seeing my brother off to his boarding school. A private affair in Scotland."

"Damn-" The bell tinkled and she turned around, the same cheery smile she had given him now locking on her face. "Hi there!" she said as a girl walked in. She was tall, with long platinum hair pulled back into a high ponytail and high aristocratic features, with slanted eyes and thin lips. Her face was all angled downwards, giving her a perpetually annoyed look, like an irritated eagle. She slid off her long coat and gave it to Marie as she approached. "Store this for me," she said in a voice that was not used to 'no.'

"Uh, sure. Can I get you anything?"

"No. Your services are not required." The new arrival's eyes landed on Cato and she took a step forward but Marie interrupted her.

"Well, you need to order if you want to sit, ma'am." Her smile was strained.

"Very well," said the girl with an exasperated sigh. "Give me the same drink that he is having," she said, pointing towards Cato. "And do not bother us."

"Fine," grated Marie, stalking off to the counter.

Cato felt a pang of remorse as he watched Marie's gaze follow her to his table. She seemed to visibly deflate and turned away with great effort, busying herself at the coffee machine. "You should be more polite, Greengrass," said Cato as she pulled out a chair and sat across from him.

"She's a muggle," said Daphne with a dismissive shrug. A pause. Cato took a bite out of his sandwich and watched her. She betrayed her tension in the pursing of her lips and the way in which her gaze never strayed from him, as if she felt uncomfortable looking at her muggle surroundings. "Why did you ask me here, Malfoy?"

Cato washed his bite down with another sip. "The Dark Lord has given me a great task."

A guarded look crossed her face, a flicker of emotion crossing her face before evaporating entirely. "Yes. I heard."

"You're going to help me with it."

Her eyebrows rose in a way eerily similar to Marie's earlier movement. "I am?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Cato opened his mouth, then paused as Marie walked over with Daphne's steaming mug. She set it down next to her and looked between the two of them, as if sensing the current of tension between them. "If you need anything…"

"Leave us," snapped Daphne without looking away from Cato.

"It's fine. Thank you," added Cato with an apologetic look. Marie's look of indignation faded a fraction and she sighed, nodding and returning to the bar.

Cato turned back to Daphne. "You'll help because anything else would be most disappointing to the Dark Lord."

Her eyes flashed with anger. "I suppose I have little choice in the matter, then," she said, every syllable an insult laden with scorn.

"And you will keep this secret. From what I've been told, you have a talent for that."

She spoke carefully, like a woman walking through a minefield and Cato was suddenly reminded of how he must appear to her. She was a schoolgirl approaching seventeen and he was a graduate, marked by the Dark Lord. He wondered if she was scared as one of her hands drifted, as if by instinct, to the tip of her ponytail, playing with the fine strands. "I can keep a secret. What is this about, Malfoy?"

"The Dark Lord has tasked me with assassinating Dumbledore."

She stared at him in silence for a long moment, then her façade broke and she gave an incredulous laugh. She pushed herself away from the table and stood, a scornful look on her face. "You expect me to die with you? No, Malfoy. Use your brother. The punishment for your father's failures should stay in the family, don't you think?"

Cato reached across the table and grabbed her wrist, yanking her back down in her seat and casting a muting charm as Marie did a poor job of pretending not to try eavesdropping. "Sit down," he snarled. She fell back into her chair and wrenched her wrist out of his grasp, nursing it against her chest, a frigid expression on her face. "Look- What do you want? Honor, money, what?"

Her expression remained cold and bitter, but she didn't try to get up again. "If I do this… If," she said with a glare. "I want you to get my sister and I out of here."

"Out of England?" asked Cato, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Out of England, out of the war."

"You're asking for treason," said Cato carefully.

She snorted and threw him a disbelieving look. "Draco is an idiot and may still find glory in the ideal of servitude to Him." Cato let the insult slide given the circumstances. "I don't believe for a second that you do."

"And why is that?" His mouth felt dry and suddenly he wasn't looking at a schoolgirl but at a girl who had stepped up to the Dark Lord and volunteered at the age of seventeen.

"Please," she said with a flick of her hand. "You have never used the word mudblood, you never even discuss blood with anyone, you never antagonize mudbloods and you certainly never idealized the Dark Lord."

His eyes widened and he chuckled disbelievingly. "You've been keeping tabs on me, haven't you?"

She flushed with anger. "Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy. I try to keep an eye out on multiple people at school." Her expression was challenging and defiant. "But I doubt I am wrong."

"Maybe I just hide my loyalties well," said Cato. He doubted most people would connect the observations she had made with a lack of belief and might associate them with apathy or a reserved nature, but still…

She gave him a penetrating look. "Yes, I think you do." And this time, Cato looked away, a twisting feeling in his gut.

A lorry rumbled past outside and the table vibrated. Someone was shouting on the street and Marie was fiddling with something that occasionally let out hisses of hot vapor. Cato fingered the edge of his plate. "Hungry?" But her lip curled and she threw his own meal a look of such contempt that it was a wonder it didn't burn on the spot. "I do not eat muggle food. And you have yet to agree to my conditions."

It felt odd, discussing treason and murder over toast. This was a conversation for dark alleys and dungeons. "I can make it happen," he said slowly, catching a flicker of hope in her eyes. "There are ways. But why?"

She seemed to gather herself with great effort. "I have no interest in dying, or being tortured."

"But you believe in it all, don't you? Blood purity, the supremacy of the families."

"Of course. Does that make me an eager terrorist to an unstable leader?"

"Usually it does," he said.

"Well, not for me. There are better solutions and better leaders."

Cato tilted his head to the side. There was wisdom there that he rarely heard. Even amongst the elders, those who would never debase themselves with servitude, there was a tacit acknowledgment that their position would find itself improvised by the Dark Lords campaign. Their old blood and old beliefs called to them, reminding them of a time where serfdom and servitude were the natural order of things for those of less than pure descent.

"Don't you?"

"Don't I what?" he asked.

"Believe in the Blood and Families."

"In a sense," said Cato evasively, fingering his coffee mug. "There are better ways to reconcile our division. War will never make them servants, only unwilling slaves, and power will only hold them in check for so long."

A gleam appeared in Daphne's eyes, and she gave him a sharp, genuine smile. "Exactly. What a refreshing perspective. I refuse to believe that our families cannot see the state of perpetual unrest that they risk casting us into…" She was talking animatedly, her pale, long-fingered hands dancing, as if plucking arguments from the air. "And with the new peace in" -she snapped her finger and hesitated. "... the new peace in Ghana, we will need stable government and strong trade agreements to contend with West Africa's power, which I doubt the Dark Lord is ever-" She stopped and her eyes shuttered. Her hands fell into her lap. "Never mind, these opinions are best kept quiet. Are we in agreement?"

Cato nodded and they both rose, but Daphne was already shaking her head. "Stay, we shouldn't be seen together. Owl me the details. Use a concealing charm, something with a password." She thought for a moment. "Make it 'The Third Way'." A blast of cool, petroleum-laced air hit him as she opened the door after grabbing her coast from a glaring Marie and a moment later she was gone in a flash of blood hair and a final view of chilly blue eyes.

He almost left his dishes on the table when he left a half-hour later, catching himself at the last moment and stacking them up neatly in his hands. They clinked as he put them on the counter next to Marie and she looked up from a notebook, giving him a hesitant smile. "Pretty good manners for an aristocrat." There was a hint of reproach in her voice and Cato winced.

"I apologize for my friend. She is unused to anything but high society."

Marie snorted. "That's putting it lightly." The look she gave him was hard to decipher and Cato found himself avoiding her gaze. "So, your friend, huh?"

"Just a friend," said Cato, an awkward heat against his cheeks.

A brilliant smile crossed Marie's lips and she seemed to regain every ounce of lost positivity in an instant. "Cool! Oh, by the way, before you go," she was blushing too as she slipped a piece of paper across the counter. She had a tattoo on her wrist of what looked like a hummingbird. The piece of paper held a number, carefully written with her full name above it, Marie Mayor. "I know you're a noble and all, but if you want- Well… You could call me?"

Cato took a step back and he knew he was blushing almost as bright as she was. He could never accept. The risk to her- To him! They'd kill her without a second thought. "Listen, Marie- I'd love to…" he winced, it sounded painfully bad out loud. "My family-"

"No, no, it's fine!" she said, a flustered look on her face as she grabbed the paper and crumpled it in her fist. She wasn't looking at him. "It was a stupid idea. Sorry."

"I really am sorry," said Cato, a horrible feeling in his gut.

"Hey don't worry about it," she said after a beat, a frail but genuine smile on her face. "You seem like a good sort of guy, I shouldn't have put you in that position."

"You're fine- I mean, don't worry about it." She laughed, thought it sounded painfully forced to his ears.

"Ok. Yeah. I guess I'll see you. Come back some time if you want," she finished lamely.

"I will. Truly," he said. Impulsively, Cato drew a gold galleon from his pocket and put it on the counter, sliding it over to her. Her eyes widened as she looked between it and him. Still feeling that horrible, sinking sensation deep in his belly, Cato walked over to the door. "Do take care of yourself, Marie."

A faint 'You too' was swept up in the breeze as he hurried out, shutting the door behind him hurrying into the crowd, as if the rush of bodies might drown out his own thoughts.

October 5th, 1996

He had grown up nurtured on the belief of a world made pure, but he had never believed he would be one of its crusaders. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, the mask was hot and uncomfortable and limited Cato's vision to two slices of night. He had to turn his head to the side a bit to see the solitary house in front of him. His hands were clasped together tightly, left atop right to keep it from trembling.

The house was a comfortable affair of the sort that Cato had once known. A small garden separated it from its neighbors, filled with a wild assortment of blooming flowers and tall grasses with an apple tree spreading its bows protectively over the grass, filtering the moonlight like a sieve. The house itself was of red brick, with old shutters covered in peeling red paint and vines crawling up the sides.

Light poured from the lower window and within, a middle-aged couple sat, each on their own chair, with books in hand and steaming mugs in reach. The woman was surprisingly similar to her daughter, with straw yellow hair and kindly features wrinkled by many a smile, while the man was graying and leaning towards rotund. He looked like a strong man on a slow and comfortable decline. "Do you think he'll be a challenge?" said the girl beside him. Her brown hair peeked from beneath her hood.

"No." Who would be, six on one?

"Are you certain?" Blank masks could conceal the fear in one's face, but not in the voice.

"You need to pull yourself together, McCraven."

"Fine. Alright, fine," she muttered, shifting from foot to foot.

The street was dark and empty, the House they had elected to hide in empty, courtesy of Flint's murderous work.

"A.A. wards are up," said Mulciber, walking into the living room. "All of you gather up."

The rest of the team filed in and Cato turned away from the view with effort. When he turned back, it would be to sever its normality forever.

"Alright, plan is simple," said Mulciber, his thin figure swathed in black. "McCraven and Malfoy lead the way with you, Dolohov. Flint you stay back with me until they're done with the hard work." Dolohov nodded, Flint grunted and turned to Cato with a nasty gleam in his eyes.

"Make sure not to kill her, Malfoy."

Cato looked away. The room was full of the memorabilia of a family erased. A doll lay on the floor. "As you say," he said evenly.

"Alright then, clocks ticking. Let's go," said Mulciber, clapping his hands. "Remember, Jeremius Abbot lives. We aren't here to spill pure blood."

Cato's heart slapped around in his chest fiercely as he opened the front door and crossed the road. Their mailbox was painted with an old, time-worn smile in red paint. He blasted open the gate in an explosion of splinters. Behind him he could hear McCraven's excited breaths, little traitors betraying her fear. A tea mug shattered inside the house. "Mary, the backdoor, go!" yelled a gruff voice. An anguished cry followed it. "Just go, run!" roared the man. So Cato swept his wand in an arc and sent a concussion curse at the front door. It flew off its hinges. A moment of silence followed, then he heard a rush of air and ducked to the side as a powerful reducto flew above him. A cutter followed it and Cato summoned a shield, absorbing it.

"Bombarda!" he incanted and the entry hall exploded, sending wellingtons, bricks and mortar flying through the air. Someone cried out in pain within and Cato hurried forward, his breath haggard with adrenaline. He sent another concussion hex flying into the ruined hallway and jogged forward with his wand aloft. Dust filled the air as he picked his way into the rubble. He could see the entrance to the living room, and beside it, a door hung askew, its frame warped.

He crept up to it, his wand trained in front of him. The living room was oddly silent as he peeked into it and suddenly he was staring into an incoming spell. Throwing himself back Cato conjured a flock of birds as Abbot's spell caused the wall to blacken and crumble away.

"Dark magic," squeaked McCraven from behind him, her wand limp at her side.

"You don't say!" snarled Cato as he threw himself into the living room, landing and skidding on his shoulder. Abbot's spell soared high above him. The man was standing in the kitchen, using knives to slice Cato's flock of birds to bloody shreds. His face was covered in scratches and bloody shrapnel wounds and Cato thought he looked quite fearsome as he shot two stunners at him. The man blocked them and threw a dozen knives back his way but Cato turned them into iron-beaked ravens and sent them back along with another concussion hex.

None of them even got close to cracking Abbot's defenses, but as he reared up for another volley, his gaze darted past Cato and he faltered, his eyes widening.

"Stop," called Dolohov in his thick accent. "Or I gut the mudblood."

Cato heaved himself to his feet, his wand pointed at Abbot. "Drop the wand," he growled. Sweat was dripping into his eyes and he squinted against it. Dolohov was holding Mary Abbot by the hair, his wand jammed into her stomach as he walked up next to Cato and gave him a short, sharp nod.

"Let her go," said Abbot as his wand clattered to the floor. "I am the one you are here for."

McCraven darted into the room and summoned his wand, sending a casual reducto towards Abbot. He went flying into the counter with a crash and Mary let out a stifled scream, her hands in front of her mouth. "It's her we want," sneered McCraven. "Your stupid mudblood wife."

"No," said Abbot, crawling to his knees, his burly form bent in front of them in supplication. "No. Leaver her be!" He crawled forward towards McCraven. "She's innocent. Harmless to you!" His wife was sobbing quietly, her eyes fixed on her husband with a horrible look of agony. McCraven kicked him in the face and he fell back with a shout of pain.

"She's a filthy mudblood! You should have known better than to take her as a wife!"

Cato felt a deep sense of loathing suddenly blossom in his chest. "If you can't stomach a fight, go and guard the perimeter now," he snapped. "And tell the others it's done." McCraven seemed to hover on the edge of protest, but Cato pinned her under his gaze and she wilted, muttering a low "fine," and disappearing.

Grey would have been proud of Cato's control as he surveyed the room. Beneath the layer of debris lay the memories of a happy family. Pictures of them and their daughter, smiling next to a lake, Abbot with a massive fish in his arms and his wife rolling her eyes good-naturedly.

"Good work," said Mulciber as he walked into the room. "Shame you had to have Dolohov catch the mudblood for you."

A choked gasp of horror escaped Abbot's bloodied lips. "Dolohov? You can't be serious. Please. She hasn't done anything."

"Shut up," said Mulciber in a flat voice. "So? Who's doing it?"

Even as they turned to each other, Abbot seemed to gather his strength once more and rose with a roar. Before any of them could react, he barreled into Flint. "Jeremius, no!" screamed his wife as he landed a brutal punch square on Flint's jaw, dislodging his mask and sending it flying.

Cato's petrificus totalus caught his leg and the man went stiff as a board. Cato swallowed, his throat dry and the taste of bile at the back of his mouth. This was a piece of theater with only one end.

Flint surged to his feet and stomped on the paralyzed man's groin with a snarl of fury. "Let's have him do it. A little imperiusing fun." A floral bruise was blooming on his cheek and the look in his eyes sent shivers down Cato's spine. It was as if the veneer had been stripped away, removing a faint semblance of empathy to show the ugly creature hidden beneath.

"Just kill me," said Mary Abbot, struggling fruitlessly against Dolohov. "Kill me and let him be!"

Mulciber shrugged, acting as if the woman hadn't even spoken. "If you want, Flint. Just get a bloody move on."

It was in moments like these that decisions made men, when neither answer was good, but only one was right. Cato steeled himself. "I'll do it," he said.

"You aren't bloody touching him," snarled Flint, but Cato gave a snort and walked over to Dolohov.

"This is not your mission, Flint," snapped Cato. They both looked over to Mulciber, who rolled his eyes and flicked a dismissive hand towards Cato.

"Fine," he said. "Let's see if you have more guts than your father."

Cato pointed his wand at the woman's face as Dolohov stepped away. She had tears in her eyes and fear washed over her face, but Cato felt nothing. It was odd. He had expected to feel wrought with indecision, or perhaps fear at the enormity of ending a life. But the words came as easily as a greeting, or a simple goodbye. "Avada Kedavra."

A/N: I would like to answer a review from vijaypadma9631. First of all, thank you for the well thought out review. Concerning angst, I do not think this fits under that category. Angst seems to involve excessive and needless emotional displays, or stories in which characters are continuously thrown into spirals of dark emotions for the sake of the readers own entertainment. Consider perhaps a story in which Harry and his parents are incapable of reconciling and continually hurt each other for... reasons?

Here, I aim to write a story from the perspective of someone caught on the wrong side of a war, forced to make hard choices for the sake of survival, and the survival of his family. By nature, this story is dark, will involve loss, pain and suffering, but I am disinclined to classify it as angst due to the general conception of that category. And I hope in the end to write a fulfilling story, not a spiral of depression.

As for the foreknowledge, yes, it could have been omitted and I could have built a story without it. However, I did not feel inclined to write a story without it, as it allowed me to reach the point in the story I wanted without having to build up everything from scratch. It is the best way to write? Probably not. But I am writing fanfiction in the end.