Chapter 1: A Game of Survival
The tv drowns out the sound of gunshots in the distance. Though Cressida would argue in favour of hearing the sharp and forceful sounds over the constant itch caused by the static the television emits. It feels fuzzy and horrid, like a furry mould that she can peel off the back of her neck.
Her hands are emerged in a basin of cold water, a steel wool scrubber in one hand, scrubbing hard against a white plate that is chipped in the other. They are a horrible design, with an ugly green-blue floral pattern around the rims that are faded and outdated.
"A small family of three were murder yesterday evening." Cressida has heard the news anchor's voice say something along similar lines three times since she returned home. Which has only been a week and a half. "Is this a case of a national threat? Johnston, give us your thoughts on the matter."
"Well you see, Brian, these murders are happening so far apart that-"
-Because they're not being committed by the same people, Cressida finishes in her own mind, tuning out the tv. Clean. Just clean then she can have the rest of the night to herself. Wiping off the suds of the plate, she places it in the rack and picks up the next one.
"The strange thing about this one that separates it from the rest is a strange weather event."
"Weather event? You're insinuating that a weather event is relevant to the murder of a young family?"
"That's the thing, Brian. I do. Over the top of the house that the family were tragically killed in, there was the cloud formation that looked to me quite like a snake coming out of a skull's mouth. Now it is hard to see it from the pictures taken of the scene and the cloud disappeared just an hour after authorities were alerted but this isn't the first time that we've seen something like this."
"You mean the rumours that are circulating about the Moores' death last year? The neighbours described over their emergency call that there was a skull in the sky. But by the time the police arrived, it was gone."
"That's exactly what I'm talking about. It is too unlikely a coincidence for that to occur naturally. I believe this is the mark of mass murder." They're not wrong. "The question is, how are they making these marks, who are their next targets, and why."
Cressida remembers the Moore boy. He graduated from Hogwarts when she finished her second year. He was Head Boy at the time. Hufflepuff. Muggle-born. Wiping her hands on her pants, Cressida unplugs the drain, letting the brown water that has barely any bubbles left to be sucked away, the sound of the gurgling delightfully louder than the television.
"You ain't done."
Cressida quickly scans over the kitchen bench and then the dining room table in the next room over that she can see through the archway. "There are no more dishes."
"You haven't used your eyes then, have you?" Her father is lounging on a reclining chair, eyes never moving from the faded colours on the tv in front of him. It isn't unusual for him to be inside whilst he lets some of his friends muck around outside. Those men, strangers to her, know exactly what happens if they are stupid enough to get caught. Or run. As one young lad had once tried to do with some of her father's most valuable belongings.
Cressida makes her way into the living room, one foot slowly stepping in front of the other. She can see the top of her father's head poking over the recliner, his dark hair that was once as full as her own now patchy in places from scars and poor health. On his armrest, there is a plate balancing.
Her feet move quicker this time, swiping up the plate and retreating back to the kitchen.
"Oi!"
The wood under her feet creaks with the sudden pressure of her stop. Cressida's breath hitches, unable to look back. The reclining chair clicks as it closes. All she can do is wait. He walks as slow as she did towards him, only his steps heavy and threatening. Intimidating. That's all he's ever been. Where all his power comes from. Intimidation.
Cressida has the sudden, and frankly horrid realisation, that she's learnt from him. Intimidating Snape so he wouldn't give Remus a harder time than he already goes through. Andrews.
But she hadn't done so with McMullen. She had been completely quiet then. She wasn't intimidated by him, was she? No. But unlike the other two, he was trying to use her in other ways. Ways that are already associated with memories she's tried so hard to bury.
Her father emerges on the right side of her vision. His face is pulled in a scowl; nose shrivelled, and his eyes narrowed. "You're a fucking piece of work. Worse than your mother." He shoves a dirty mug towards her, giving her only half a second to catch it before it toppled away and shattered against the floor. The mention of her mother sparks another trail of thought in her father as he mutters something about her and then disappears.
Never once has he told her that he loved her. Her mother used to say it when she was younger – when her father tolerated her more. But as soon as she received her Hogwarts letter, everything went for the worse. She's sure he doesn't even believe in magic, considering that she's never shown any signs of it at home. But Cressida is seventeen now, and carries her wand on her person at all times. Just in case.
Turning the sink back on, her petty revenge against him is not using any soap. Nobody else would use it but him; his special mug that his father brought him. Cherished. Before he comes back from locating her mother, she empties the sink and places the cup in the rack, feeling just a little bit more satisfied at the sight of the rust covering the metal wire right where she placed it.
It's the small things.
Whilst there is nobody around the demand more tasks of her beyond what she usually does for a night, Cressida scurries back to her room.
Shutting the door, she pulls open her dresser and shoves all her shirts out of the way. At the back of the draw, is the envelope still filled with the muggle money, as well as her mirror and diary. Taking only the mirror, Cressida stuffs it under her shirt then opens her bedroom door back up, looking down the hall.
Empty. Both as quickly and as quietly as she can, she tiptoes back down the hall and slowly pushes open the creaky backdoor. Then she sprints to the shed, using her wand to unlock the heavy-duty metal key lock.
The inside of the shed is completely black. All the windows have been blacked out. "Finite."
A large oil lantern glows a bright yellow-orange, its flame enough to light a small space for her to sit inside near boxed crates. Cressida snuggles into the lit corner, inching the lantern as close as she can but she knows her father would realise if it moved too far from the place he left it.
Tapping her wand against the mirror, she whispers his name. Her reflection fades, transforming into a shade of cream that hints on the bluish-grey side. The ceiling of James Potters' bedroom. In the lower corner, she can see the top of his bedframe. There's no noise.
"James?" she calls, knowing that she can't wait for him forever. It's a risk even being in the shed. But one she will take. "James?"
Cressida waits a few minutes, trying again and waits a few more. Faintly, she can hear the sound of a door opening. Instead of James, who she'd expect to be the one entering his room, she watches Sirius from an odd angle. He looks like he's sneaking around. Curious, Cressida stays silent.
Sirius leans around an invisible corner, and she can only guess that he's peeking at the door that leads to James' bathroom. "James?" he whisper-yells. "I'm borrowing your comb."
Cressida snorts. James threw a fit last time Sirius even picked up his comb. "I'm not sure he heard you," she says to announce her presence. "But I'll be sure to tell him for you."
Sirius leaps into the air, hissing a curse.
"Padfoot?!"
Cressida's smile widens unconsciously. Sirius marches over to the dresser where James' mirror is resting on, snatching it up. She makes an expression of agreement – he does need a comb. What is usually handsomely tamed yet wild, is frizzy and unkempt. "You're a bitch, Hawthorne." His eyes divert from the mirror towards the bathroom once more. "Nothing Prongs!"
"What are you doing in my room?"
Cressida hears the sound of a door opening, and James' voice coming closer. Sirius stammers for a moment. "Cressida," he spits out. Her image changes as Sirius holds up the mirror to show her to James. "I was just coming to tell you Cressida is here."
Cressida forces herself to look away from the mirror. James, straight out of his shower only has a red towel wrapped around his waist, water still dripping from his soaked hair as he clearly rushed out of the shower to see what was happening in his room. "He was coming to steal your comb," Cressida dobs in.
James' face flickers between two expressions. One is an annoyance, aimed at Sirius of course and the other is delight. He marches forward, taking the mirror out of Sirius' hands. "Why hello," he greets with a broad smirk then turns his head to the left. "Don't touch my comb."
"I wasn't going to touch your comb."
"So either you're a thief or Cressida is a liar," James drawls. "I think I know which one to believe. Isn't it you that's always saying it's a Black thing to always touch what isn't yours?" Sirius stands over James' shoulder, simply glaring at his friend as James glares right back. As soon as James look back to the mirror, Sirius runs a finger along his throat to her. James resets his face into something softer. "Are you alright? Safe? Have you eaten? Do you need anything?"
"Yes, yes, yes, no," she answers with a small smile and tired sigh. "Maybe a decent bed," she adds light-heartedly. "I'm stealing all your pillows when I come over."
Neither of them takes her joke easily. "Do you not have a bed?" James demands. The image around him swerves as he spins around, Sirius catching up to him in the background.
She quickly retracts her statement. "N-no, I do. I do. It's just not the most comfortable thing. I've just had it for so long." A child's bed. James sits down on his bed, the mirror near his legs so she has a full view of his torso. She hopes he can't tell where her eyes are pointing.
"Should I come get you?" Sirius asks her. "You really don't seem yourself."
Cressida frowns. She feels like she is herself. But maybe her version of herself at home is different to herself with her friends. They've never been to her home, let alone seen her around her family. "How so?"
Sirius pinches his brows, looking her over. She realises that she can tell exactly where his eyes point. That's a little embarrassing. "You just seem… quiet." He glances at James who nods in agreement. "Like you were last week, just, a bit more talkative."
"So I'm quiet but talkative?"
"Yes, but that's not how I mean it," he sighs. "You're talking, but you're quiet. I'm worried about you."
Her eyes flutter downwards. "You don't need to be," she whispers. She can handle herself.
"I do," Sirius quickly argues. "Because I've been in the same situation as you. And I know there's reason to worry. Please just let me come get you."
Cressida doesn't even get her words completely out. "I don't need-"
"Bullshit!" Cressida flinches, bringing the mirror close to her chest. Her brown eyes snap towards the door, but nothing appears. "You wouldn't be hiding wherever you are right now if you didn't!"
James presses a hand against his friend's shoulder. "Mate, watch your volume. But he's right, Cress."
"We've talked about this," Cressida states softly but firmly. "I'll be there at the beginning of July."
Sirius shakes his head. "July's too late."
Her brows furrow. It's odd wording on his part. "Too late for what?"
He doesn't seem to know how to answer, looking anywhere but at her or James who is watching him from his peripheral vision. "James' cousin has a wedding at the end of this month," he mutters. "He needs a date."
Cressida can read his lie ten times over. But to humour him, she says, "Doesn't James want to take you?"
James huffs lightly, smiling off to the side. "I'd rather have a date that I can dance with."
Sirius plants a hand on his chest. "You can dance with me. No-wait, no I'm trying to convince Cress to come," he corrects himself. He leans over James' shoulder, his face obnoxiously close to the mirror. "Please don't make me dance with this lump."
"I think I'd be the lump," she remarks quietly. "James' is always complaining that I step on his feet."
They continue arguing the logistics of who would be the worse dancing partner until Cressida even forgets why they are arguing in the first place. They never reach an agreement that she would go to James' early, but she hopes that somehow she would.
Why doesn't she simply apparate away? What's stopping her?
Fear. Fear that he would know where she goes. He has connections all around the country. Fear of what would happen if she failed. Fear to leave her meek and timid mother behind. With Cressida home, her mother is saved from the blame for many things. It's a guilt she bears at Hogwarts, knowing that her mother is at home, alone with her father. But how long can she stay here for that reason?
Probably not that much longer.