Nobody would sit next to her at the table. Few even acknowledged her and when they did; they would quickly look away and turn to whisper to their friends. Her life became an exercise in patience and self-control. She looked no one in the eye as she walked, instead staring straight ahead, her face carefully blank as her ears picked up the whispers. She shrugged off any rogue spell cast her way, carefully side stepping or re-directing the magic but never retaliating. She was quiet in classes, only answering when call upon and was always succinct in her responses. She stared at her food when she ate in the great hall, always alone, with the seats around her conspicuously empty of other students.
She clenched her teeth, tightened her hands into small fists, and flared her nostrils whenever she felt the urge to lash out. She would take a deep breath, glare at the offending party, and would walk away. It took all of her will power to overcome her hot flashes of anger, especially when she was especially tired, but the threat of expulsion hung over her like a dark cloud. Professor Snape also clung to her like a leech, always appearing just when she thought she would lose that fine thread of control. Seeing him, and seeing the sneering disappointment on his face when he was forced to walk away without punishing her made her self control almost seem worth it. Spiting him brought her a small measure of satisfaction, and her life as it was, she couldn't be picky.
As she always did when she was upset, she threw herself into her studies, spending long hours tucked away in the back of the library. Without her potions she found herself falling asleep intermittedly during her longer sessions, and though she didn't quite have the stamina to keep up with her previous workload, and she realised that she was ok with that fact.
She slept naturally, far more than she had ever slept in her life if she was being honest. She carefully warded her bed every evening, with a spell she designed to specifically ensure no one would be able to come near her and that any sound she made would be private, and so far she was pleased with the results.
She received a package early into the term from her guardians, she read the short missive saying they found it in a muggle bookstore and thought she might find it helpful, and carefully unwrapped the parcel wondering darkly what they could possibly mean. She scrunched up her nose and scoffed, shoving the book in her bag after the shortest glance at the cover.
It was a bloody self-help book, some tosh about mindfulness. She scowled into her breakfast, eating as much as she could stomach, drank the majority of the carafe of coffee, and went to her first class of the day.
She was in a rotten mood for the rest of that day, her mind travelling back to the offending muggle self help book in her bag. Her lip curled whenever she thought about it, and she huffed angrily. And yet it sat there, in the back of her mind, just at the edge of her thoughts, mocking her.
She went to bed early that night, casting her usual wards, and reluctantly opened the damned book. She just wanted to see what type of rubbish it held within, just so she could satisfy her curiosity. Her lip curled as she read, and yet she found she could not put the book down.
As ridiculous as it was, she found she could relate to certain…emotions the book described. Flashes of rage, irritation, and violent outbursts, she recognised the feelings the book detailed. And yet she found the book completely insulting and nauseatingly saccharine in its platitudes that everything was going to be ok, and that with mindfulness came inner peace.
After reading it through the second time she tossed it away with disgust and threw herself into bed with a huff. Her mind raced over the techniques the book suggested, things such as breathing, and touch awareness and rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of such methods of dealing with stress and anger. She tossed and turned a few times, her irritation causing her to be restless and sighed deeply before reluctantly closing her eyes. She was going to prove to herself that the book was rubbish, so she thought about one of the techniques she thought would be least likely to help, personal awareness.
She started at her feet, taking a deep breath. Her feet were crossed at her ankles, she could feel the weight of her right foot as it lay atop her left, she felt the worn cotton against her legs, her knees and thighs rubbing against each other, and her arm tucked under her torso. She felt warm, and her hand was already going numb from her body weight. She felt her head against the soft pillow, her breath blowing back at her as she pushed her face further into the fabric. She felt her teeth clenching, and her lips touching. They were chapped. She felt her eyelids and the wrinkling of her nose. She focussed on her breathing, controlling it and slowing it down. She felt her muscles, the tension in her shoulders and her scowl and slowly relaxed them. She listened to her surroundings, taking in the silence caused by her charm, and she opened her mind a little more, feeling the distant tickle of her magic providing a protective barrier. She felt the weight of the blanket settling on her and sighed deeply, consciously trying to empty her lungs of as much air as possible, she breathed in again slowly and it wasn't long until she drifted off to a reasonably peaceful slumber.
The next morning she convinced herself that it was just luck that she slept so soundly, and that of course she drifted off after doing the mindfulness exercise. She had been lying in bed, obviously that was the logical conclusion. So with a huff she continued on towards breakfast and her classes.
Yet she found herself uncomfortably aware of her anger as time passed, she could feel it rising and recognised the symptoms and the subtle warnings her body gave in the build up to a fit, the book had been very accurate in its descriptions of anger. Whenever she felt the familiar building of her temper she would just close her eyes and focus on her breathing, on unclenching her muscles, and cast her mind to whatever piece of coursework she was working on. It seemed to work, at least enough for her to not engage in any fighting.
The fact she had not cursed nor punched another student as time passed was a testament to the efficacy of her breathing technique. She endured being knocked into, her coursework being sabotaged, her things being stolen, and one student even went so far as to spit on her, right in the face. That moment had been the closest Cassiopeia came to breaking, her fists clenched and she screwed her eyes shut, taking deep breaths to contain the rage she felt.
She heard the laughter around her, the guffaws of her classmates who were pleasantly surprised to see her spit on. Breathe in...1,2,3,4,5,6...Breath out, 2,3,4,5,6. With every breath she imagined pushing the blood curdling, heart thumping rage being pushed into a small bottle deep in her chest. Every breath compressed her rage, and after a few moments she was able to raise her wand, not to attack the impudent witch, but to calmly siphon off the offending bodily fluid.
She breathed through their abuse, putting her wand away, and managed to walk away from the jeering crowd, her head help up high, her back straight, and her rage contained. She almost managed to tune out the names they called her, that they whispered whenever they saw her, the names that echoed through her head when she was alone, or when she let her thoughts wander. Cassie the cunt, deranged Lestrange, Cass the cocksucker. Those were the more imaginative ones, but the less inspired were the run of the mill, slag, cow, and her personal favourite, the bitch butcher.
She pushed more and more of her anger into a container she imagined deep in her chest, she filled it and compressed it and focussed on the present, on her course work, her upcoming O.W.L.s, and on her bloody breathing.
Glynn's rumours were alive and well at Hogwarts, and Cassiopeia had nearly weekly confrontations with boys from all houses who seemed to magically and suddenly be able to look past her infamous heritage so they could get up her skirt. A large part of the rumours that Glynn spread was that she was a loose girl who practically threw herself at him. She was saved from hexing a boy who tried to get a peak up her skirt by Professor McGonagall who had been livid at the offending student and very rightly dragged him off away from Cassiopeia's wrath.
The whole incident of course happened to take place in a corridor, in front of the very Ravenclaw group of sixth years who propagated said rumours. When she was certain the professor was well away she turned on the group of laughing boys, her eyes zeroing in on the one that made her stomach turn and her rage flash, and pointed at him.
"A word, Gambol." She ground out coolly.
"Alright." He called, making no move to leave his friends, a smug smile on his lips.
Breath in 2,3,4,5,6 …..and out
"In private."
"Whatever you have to say you can say in front of my mates. That is unless you had something else in mind," his leered at her, sending a filthy wink her way as his friends laughed.
And in 2,3,4,5,6 out 2,3,4,5,6. In and out, breathe in and out.
"I think that what I have to say about certain-ah-activities you would prefer to discuss in private." She clenched her fists and ground her teeth.
Breathe in and out.
"Oh I see." He grinned at his friends before walking into a nearby empty classroom, holding the door open for her while winking at his friends.
She rolled her eyes, disgusted, but nevertheless entered the classroom, quickly warding the door as he shut in.
"You're not looking so good Cassie, I see you've gone off your potions. I can keep making them for you if you like. Obviously for a small payment." His voice was smug as he leaned casually against a desk. She stayed near the door, putting as much distance between them as possible to keep her sanity.
He mistook her silence for interest and continued, shifting slightly as his eyes grew heated as they roved over her body, "what's some time on your knees after all compared to a good nights sleep," he smiled lasciviously, leering at her chest.
"You're a pig." She remarked, pulling her robes tight against her.
His lip curled into a sneer, his gaze sharpening into something greedy, predatory, "you never complained before." He hissed.
"You come near me with your dick and I promise you I will cut it off. My mother may have neglected to teach me that exact piece of knife work, but I'm sure I can figure out how to do it without killing you. I was rather good at our lessons." She said softly, glaring at the boy who was now a few shades paler, his mouth gaping.
"What? Did you forget who my mother was? You said it didn't matter, that you could look past that. What did you think being the daughter of the Lestranges would mean?" she was calm as she said it, leaning against the door now, staring down her ex boyfriend and his stupid handsome face.
Breathe in and out. Deep breaths, bottle the anger and disgust.
"You're lying." He said hoarsely, looking slightly green when she only raised her eyebrows in challenge.
"Regardless of what my parents may have taught me in my misspent youth, I did not ask you in here to discuss your castration. I wanted to discuss a nugget of knowledge you have about my personal life. A piece of information that would be in your best interest to forget."
She could see his brain working, trying to figure out what she meant, she also saw the ghost of his earlier smugness return, though his face was still slightly pale. "Your curses. They'll expel you if they ever found out. Destroy your wand, especially when I tell them how you just threatened me."
She nodded, shrugging. He was correct but he was missing the bigger picture. "Yes, I would be expelled, maybe even put into Azkaban for a bit when if they found out that Dora picked up one of my objects and was cursed. It worked exactly as it should have in case you were curious, and I was obviously able to break it. But…"
She paused, and gave him a cold smirk, enjoying the way his face faltered once more, "I'll tell them to examine your wand, and what will they find Gambol? A certain curse that carries a life sentence perhaps? You keep my secret and I'll keep yours, you can continue on in your pathetic life, and I can continue with mine. Are we clear about that?"
He was glaring at her now, his face still pale, his mind working over her threat, trying to find a flaw in her reasoning. He soured when he was unsuccessful and finding a way out of his predicament, and so he agreed with a jerky nod.
She took out her wand, noticing with a small smile that he flinched slightly and released the wards on the door.
"Cassie the cunt, you do know that you'll never do better than me? Who would want you? Deranged Lestrange?" he sneered.
She paused at the doorway. Breathe in and out. In and out. Wrestle the anger, the hurt, compress it, in and out, compress on the in, release the tension on the out.
"Remember dear, I don't need magic to use a knife. And I wasn't joking about the things my mother taught me. Her skills were legendary, look it up if you don't believe me."
Naked fear flashed across his face, chilled to the bone by the sober and even tone she took.
"Go fuck yourself!" he called weakly as she left.
She rolled her eyes and kept walking, all the way back to her dormitory, to her bed, where she pulled the covers up to her neck, curled into a little ball and cried. She cursed Glynn; the way he made her feel—equal parts revulsion and desire—and she wallowed in self-pity, angry at her weakness when it came to that infuriating boy.
Even worse, her threats to him had cost her dearly. She was not lying when she spoke about the things her mother had taught her, and now that she was thinking about it again, she found she couldn't stop. All of the lessons she was taught started to come back, slowly, at the most inopportune times, when she was cutting into her dinner, or during her potions lessons. She reckon she could castrate Glynn rather easily, and the thought made her stomach turn in shame and disgust.
Her nightmares were coming back.
Xxx
Despite herself self-proclaimed want for solitary independence and her attempts to drown her negative emotions with schoolwork, Cassiopeia found herself feeling unbearably lonely. Nobody in the school spoke to her, her classmates only acknowledged her to insult or belittle her. She had no friends, whenever she was paired up in class with some unlucky soul; only the barest practical mechanics were discussed.
It had been months since she had a normal conversation with anyone. She found it difficult recalling when was the last time she laughed, or told a joke but she suspected it was the summer holiday. Professor Flitwick always tried to engage her in conversation, but their discussions were focussed exclusively on theoretical charms. And while she found it intellectually nourishing, emotionally they did nothing for her. For the first time since she had been back in the wizarding world, Cassiopeia found herself feeling truly alone, and more than a little lost.
She spent her first few years trying to be someone that deserved the Tonks name. She hid from the negative facets of her personality and tried to bury them under layers of half-truths and ambitious personality changes. She let her muggle born and half blood friends change her, and she twisted herself into knots trying to appease Glynn, and now free of all of those constraints and motivations, she was stuck feeling empty and uncertain; she hated it.
When it came to deciding whether she was going home for the Christmas holiday, Cassiopeia agonised over her decision, weighing the pros and cons of going to the Tonks or even to the Malfoys for the holiday.
She knew it would make Ted and Andromeda happy if she went home, but she wasn't sure she could stand their well meaning, but ultimately annoying and unsuccessful attempts at making everything seem normal for her. And Nymphadora was definitely going home, and the idea of spending any time near her made her stomach twist unpleasantly with guilt and shame. Nymphadora deserved some time with her parents, without fighting with her.
Going to the Malfoys' would have hurt the Tonks' feelings, something she didn't feel quite comfortable doing, and she also did not particularly want to spend a few days let alone weeks with the couple. She had been reading their letters, but had yet to respond, all keeping her abreast of the scandal caused earlier in the summer. It was dying down definitely, but was lingering unpleasantly. She knew if she went there that would be all they would want to talk about, and the less she thought of the Gambols, the better off she thought she'd be.
Her decision was ultimately made when she saw the short list of students remaining in her house, the number being less than a dozen total. That meant she would be a very low chance of seeing anyone, and being at school meant she had the whole library at her disposal.
She had a different research project in mind for the library however, a morbid curiosity she couldn't shake once she stumbled upon the newspaper archive section of the library. She had hurt her adopted sister terribly, and though it had been an accident to curse her, it still happened. But Dora was far from the only person she had hurt, there were dozens of others, people whose faces were seared into her memories, into her nightmares, with no names and no life in part because of her.
Cassiopeia didn't feel like she knew herself because she hid from these facts, she hid from the shame of her past actions, and she figured the Christmas break would give her the perfect opportunity to confront her demons, and the nightmares that would surely come, without being witnessed by anyone.
She kept a file filled with copies of relevant articles. Inside were clippings from the wedding of her parents, the obituaries of her grand and great grandparents, and her birth announcement, a tiny paragraph hidden away in the back of the society pages.
Bellatrix Black was rarely in the news when she was younger, there was a brief birth announcement in 1951, and then nothing until her marriage in 1970, she was 19 years old, to Rodolphus, her father, was 21. She stared at the article on their wedding for hours, looking through the photos in the society section of the newspaper. It was a well-attended wedding, upwards of 300 guests, many high profile and prominent members of the wizarding world. She tried to analyse the body language between her parents, both so young and wildly different from the people she remembered. They seemed softer somehow, and distant from each other, each smiling politely at the camera, going through the motions, making the correct poses, but not with the sincerity that Cassiopeia witnessed in other couples.
She knew their marriage had been arranged, her Uncle Lucius had told her as much the previous summer, and she knew her existence was not born out a love between two persons, but as a duty to create more purebloods. But seeing their relationship in pictures was stark, and she honestly did not recognise the people in the photo, they were missing something, and she wondered just when did her parents become the people from her memories, from her nightmares.
The longer she read the more she found she couldn't stop, her morbid curiosity growing in equal parts with her grim determination. She followed the rise of the Dark Lord in the newspapers, the early disappearances of witches and wizards, and the subtle changes to the ministry over time. She was riveted, reading detail after detail of different Death Eater skirmishes with the ministry, different raids, arrests, and deaths. She read all of the obituaries she could find, taking in the details of their lives, their achievements, and those that they left behind. The Death Eaters did this, and she wondered how many of these people were killed by her parent's wands?
She began recognising faces in the paper; faces of missing peoples that she knew met their end at her childhood home. She had seen them there, so dirty, bloody, and broken in their dungeon. She could still hear their cries, their begging, echoing through the halls at night. She remembered their screaming, and how it would end abruptly with a flash from her mother's wand. And it was always her mother who dealt with the prisoners. Her father she recalled would disappear for the night and return bloody, often with his brother, her uncle, in tow.
She was obsessed, forgoing meals and sleep as much as possible to continue in her search for answers. It was on Boxing Day when she found the article detailing the first raid her mother took her to. It was the first time she had cast an unforgivable; her eyes were glued to the article. The Prophet reported brief obituaries for the muggle casualties. She broke into a cold sweat as her eyes found him, the elderly man her mother had caught for her to practice on. Her mother had broken his legs to prevent him from fleeing far as they worked.
His name had been Herbert Graves. He was 64 years old when he was killed; he was on holiday when they happened upon him. Two children and four grandchildren survived him. She had cast a Cruciatus curse on him, over and over again because her attempts had been weak.
She closed her eyes, her mind taking her back to that night, the panic and confusion she felt when her mother took her, the smell of the fires burnings and the cries of panicked muggles. She had tried, really tried to cast the curse correctly. She remembered her mother's arms around her, adjusting her grip on the wand, whispering words of encouragement and advice. She wanted to hurt the muggle because she knew it would make her mother happy, and maybe even a little proud.
She remembered watching the life leave his eyes as her mother killed him, the frenzy of running from the aurors, she remembered how his body had been broken and abandoned, thrown away like he was an object and not a human being.
It had been almost 10 years since that day, and she spared not one thought for that man and the shame of that burned her. She had a role to play in his death and she didn't even have the courtesy to learn his name until now. She wondered what his children were like, how old they were? What did the muggle authorities tell them? Did they know how agonised his final moments were or were they fed a pleasing lie. Did he have more grandchildren now?
She needed to know all of that and more. She craved to know the name and family history of every person she had ever hurt, seeing Herbert Graves' obituary created a new hunger, a burning need. She had hurt these people, she was partially responsible for their deaths, it was the least she could do to at least know their names and who they left behind.
Term started and her research project consumed her, it demanded her attention above all else, including her O.W.L. work. She wasn't sleeping anymore, every time she closed her eyes she would see the people she hurt, she could still hear their screams and feel their blood, warm and sticky, running across her hands. It made her sick, and more than a few times she woke up dry heaving, covered in sweat, and with a knife in her hand ready to attack. If it wasn't for her heavy silencing wards around her bed she was certain that her screams would have woken up the whole house.
Caffeine no longer had any effect and she loathed going back to taking potions for her problems, having learnt her lesson from the last time she did that. She was exhausted, struggled to keep her eyes open in classes or at breaks. She would begin to nod off only to wake up in a state of sweat and shock, her heart racing and adrenaline pumping. She couldn't concentrate on classes; her mind was so focussed on replaying her worst memories over and over again.
Her professors were worried. She understood that. A few, Professor Flitwick and McGonagall even questioned her, asking if everything was alright. Professor Flitwick frowned after she wasn't even capable of casting a simple charm in class, something she normally excelled at. She was pale, nauseous all the time, and twitchy.
Sometimes she felt as if her head of spinning and she had to grip the table to make sure she didn't fall out of it. She had shrugged them off, averted her eyes, and ignored their questions. She offered excuses, up late studying for her O.W.L.s, that she had a thumping migraine, and promised them that she'd go to the hospital wing for some potions. Instead she went straight back to the library and her file.
The only thing that kept her awake was the file of newspaper clippings. She carried it everywhere, worried someone would find it if she left it unattended. She obsessed over the file, reading and re-reading, trying to understand how she could have done such terrible things, and trying to figure out if she could ever do anything to make up for such a despicable past.
Occasionally she would stare off into space, in the middle of a dull class or at dinner and wonder if she even deserved to be there. To be at Hogwarts, to live in the dorms, to even have a wand. She remembered the man from the Ministry, Crouch, telling her all those years ago that she was probably guilty of something. Accusing her of crimes that he had no idea she committed.
He had been right, he had wanted to lock her up with her parents, put her on trial, to punish her for perceived wrongs. He may not have known definitively that she was a bad witch, but he was right. She hurt everyone she came into contact with. She had accidentally cursed her sister, had proven that she was a real Lestrange to her adopted parents, she alienated her few friends, and had even attacked her oldest friend. She was poison to everyone around her, and only attracted other poison.
She fantasized about going to the Aurors, turning herself in. Explaining that she had cast unforgivables as a child, and deserved to be locked up. Maybe they would put her in a cell next to her mother. Maybe they would just give her to the dementors.
She shivered, thinking about what it would be like to have her soul sucked out of her body. She wondered if she would finally be at peace.
She fantasized about one day being at peace. She wondered how it would feel, to fall off the astronomy tower or her broom. She thought about taking a load of sleeping potions, or lacing her coffee with amanita mushroom extract. She wondered at the reactions of those around her if she ever were to go through with any of her plans. She thought the Weasleys would be the most upset, but she darkly thought the Tonks would be secretly relieved to be rid of a nuisance such as her. She thought most people would, that she would no longer be a burden to anyone anymore. And that she wouldn't be able to hurt anyone ever again.
Professor Snape snapped her out of her latest reverie, as she was fantasizing about the best ways to find her peace. The classroom was empty, having long since finished she realised, and he was standing in front of her desk, calling her name. Eventually it was physically grabbing her that shocked her back into reality. Her heart raced and her palms sweated as she was brought back into the present. Professor Snape did not look pleased, his face was pale, his eyes burning, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line.
"Miss Tonks. We need to talk. Now." His voice was quiet, laced with anger.
She blinked and shrugged, fighting off a fresh wave of exhaustion.
"Much as I dread the answer, I feel it is my duty to ask, what is wrong with you? I've seen disembowelled toads that look better than you do. Other professors have told me your grades are slipping, you're never aware of your surroundings in class, and you do not appear to be sleeping or eating." He sounded exasperated.
She shrugged again and looked away. Wishing for the first time she still had her long hair to hide behind.
"I don't think you understand. That was not a question, it was a command. I have something called a duty of care. In other words I am responsible for your well-being so long as you are a member of my house. You will tell me now what is ailing you so I can waste my time deciding whether or not I can help you fix it." His voice was hard.
She gazed at a spot on the wall over his shoulder and shrugged again. It appeared she was a burden even to him. His lip curled into a snarl as she refused to acknowledge him, or even look him in the eye.
"You are being childish Cassiopeia Tonks." He hissed.
She glanced at him quickly before looking away. "You can't help me professor because you wouldn't understand. You couldn't possibly even begin to understand." She muttered, shrugging again.
And how could he? How could anyone understand the whirlwind of shame, guilt, and the undeniable truth that she was exactly what everyone thought she was? How could Professor Snape understand she was upset because she had been party to so much pain and death in her short life thus far? The only people that could understand felt no remorse for their actions, and were locked up in Azkaban.
He hissed, "If you told me what it was then maybe I could judge that." His teeth were clenched. She shrugged lightly again.
It appeared to be one shrug too many. "Get. Out. Now" his voice was low and cold in anger. She shrugged one last time, gathering up her things, and began to make her way out of the room.
David Riley had been her second victim. He had been 45 years old, a recently discharged RAF veteran, who had just bought a shop with his wife. He was out with mates to celebrate the upcoming birth of his third child when they came upon a group of Death Eaters. She had been better this time; she had successfully cast the Cruciatus curse. His little girl was born a few weeks after the incident.
She made her way back to her dorm room, eager to get back to her research project, needing to learn more about the people she hurt. She had been mailing various muggle newspapers, asking for archival copies of muggle newspapers for certain dates. She used a wizarding forwarding service to receive the copies, and had received a parcel that very morning that she finally could open.
She warded her bed after carefully closing her covers and brought out her research file before opening the thick envelope. The paper had sent her a few weeks worth of papers, and after a few minutes of searching she found what she was looking for. The muggle story on the disappearance of a young man, the cousin of a prominent muggle born politician.
Gerald Cambry had been 24 years old and on his way back from football practice when he was kidnapped. They had brought him back to the Lestrange Manor, she remembered waking up and being dragged down to his cell. He had been nice, still wearing his muddy football kit under a tracksuit, his hair was sandy brown with green eyes. He knew nothing of the wizarding world, thought his cousin worked in an office as a desk clerk. He had no idea that she was the Deputy Head of the Department of International Magical Co-Operation.
She had learned to use a knife on him. It was hard at first, the sight of his blood had made her retch, and her mother had soothed her, telling her it was perfectly normal, and that with time she would overcome her biological reaction. She had been right of course. He was the first person she had ever directly killed; she had cut a little too deep, severing an artery. He had bled out before Bellatrix could repair the damage.
She rushed from her bed to the dormitory toilet, locking and warding the door as she entered, feeling a now familiar set of tremors run through her body as nausea set in. She remembered the panic she felt as blood that had been slowly oozing became a veritable gush, the warmth staining her hand and the front of her robes. She remembered stumbling back in shock, her hands shaking and her body frozen with panic. The blood gushed in spurts, in time with his heart beat. The metallic smell of blood had made her sick then, and the memory made her sick now as she emptied what little food she had managed to choke down during breakfast. Bellatrix had held her hair then, had rubbed her back in soothing circles and had whispered words of encouragement. She had been proud, and had turned her mistake into a learning opportunity, teaching her daughter about the location of major arteries and organs in the human body.
Another muggle had appeared shortly after her mistake, Barbara Forrester. She had been taken on her way home from church. She had been Cassiopeia's first success, under Bellatrix's careful tutelage. She had managed to use a knife on her without accidentally killing her for almost a week. Dehydration took her in the end. She had no family, a widower. Her death hit Cassiopeia harder than the others, because nobody in the world mourned her passing, so she took it on herself to mourn her, to remember her.
Her nightmares were filled with blood and glinting knives. The cries and whimpers of her victims, and the soothing hand of her mother, helping her through her emotions were juxtaposed across her subconscious, her body filled with conflicting feelings.
Xxx
She had difficulty locating the identity of her final victim. She had been a witch. That much she knew, a muggle born. She was young, and it was near the end of the war. She read through the articles leading up to the end of the war, and still couldn't find it. She knew she had gone too far when she reached the Death Eaters trials that happened after the war. She paused to read the trial coverage, looking at the names and faces of people half remembered from her childhood.
She read the charges, mentally adding a few more of her own that she knew they were guilty of. The trials were big news, and the prophet published fairly full transcripts of each one. Most of the Death Eaters managed to weasel their way out of a full life sentence, pretending to have been cursed or offering out information for leniency.
She stared at the article that detailed her parents own trial, her own mother's proclamation echoing off the walls, the Dark Lord would rise again, and they would be waiting for his return. Her stomach curled unpleasantly, wondering if that were true, and whether she would find a way out of Azkaban one day. She was just about to give up and go back a few months to continue her search when a name stuck out on one of the pages laid out in front of her.
Severus Snape.
His name was listed as a Death Eater who was arrested shortly after the Dark Lords fall, but offered no more details. She searched with renewed effort, her heart quickening, trying to think through the possibilities.
Snape knew her parents personally. She had always wondered whether he had been a victim, or perhaps a class mate, but she had never suspected him as a Death Eater. He worked at Hogwarts, how could he be?
There was no trial for him, or at least not one that the Prophet reported on. She searched, carefully skimming every article for any mention of his name. It was during his search she came across the picture of the witch she had been initially looking for.
Samantha Grimsby, aged 19. She had been an auror in training, fresh faced from Hogwarts, and a muggle born. She had been taken to send a message to the Aurors, and give warning to other muggleborns with high aspirations. Nobody was safe and nobody could protect them. Her mother had tortured her; lifting whatever information she could from the poor girl. She made Cassiopeia watch, explaining in great detail every spell she used, the reasoning for the usage, and advice on how to best cast the spells. She had gone through how to pace the information gathering sessions, how to be careful about long term mental effects that could ruin a target of any useful information, and the importance of healing and general basic care. It did you no good to have your informant die she said.
When the Dark Lord deemed Auror Cadet Grimsby no longer useful, her mother had a more practical lesson in mind. It was the one and only time Cassiopeia attempted to cast the worst of the unforgivables.
Her mother had explained the theory behind it, how similar it was to the Cruciatus the spells efficacy was tied into emotion. To successfully cast it, one had to mean it, to truly want the target to meet its sticky end.
The Auror Cadet had been defiant until the end, her face swollen beyond recognition, her body covered in cuts and bruises, bones twisted at abnormal angles, and in what must have been a huge amount of pain. And yet she met Cassiopeia's eyes, her gaze was fierce, and very slowly spat as much as she could at the child's feet, her saliva mixed with blood.
Cassiopeia's hand shook violently, her face pale and she was mortified. Her mother placed her hand over hers, on the wand, and gave her a warm embrace, humming lightly in her ear. Cassiopeia closed her eyes, trying to imagine the Auror Cadet as someone else, something else, and focussed on her mothers embrace. She leaned into it, took comfort for it, and found the required emotion in her own shame and self-loathing.
A green jet shot out of the wand in her hand, hitting the young woman directly. The girl's battered body was thrown back into the wall with some force, the colour leaving her skin as she fell into oblivion. Her mother had wasted no time in snatching her wand back from her daughter, before stalking over to the witch and casting a complicated series of spells.
She pouted as she read the numbers hovering in the air, giving the vital signs of the young auror.
"Admirable first try Cassie, but she is still alive." She said, giving her daughter a bright smile. It was unnerving.
"You did however cause enough damage to her organs that her death will be inevitable, and very painful." She paused, cocking her head to the side, thinking something over, "Perhaps we can return her to her muggle family, watch them try and save her with their foolish muggle technology."
And so they did. She spent a week in the muggle hospital, the doctors successfully bringing her out of her coma only for each organ to fail, one after another. It was a painful drawn out death. When she did eventually pass, the Dark Mark was cast over the muggle hospital, causing panic and fear across both the worlds.
Her mother had celebrated with her that night with a small feast with a large selection of desserts. She gushed over her daughter, telling her how proud she was, and how much she loved her. She remarked happily that she would be a powerful addition to the Dark Lords ranks when she was eventually of age. His enemies would tremble before her, and she would be one of his most ruthless and skilled Death Eaters. Her birth was a gift to him, she had said. She had been made to be his loyal soldier and her parents going to help her every step of the way. She would teach Cassiopeia finesse, while her father would eventually teach her brutal efficiency as a tracker. Cassiopeia had eaten greedily and basked resplendent in her mothers praise, accepting her words and plans hungrily, seeking any type of acceptance and love from the woman.
Her legs ached from sitting so long at the wooden table that was tucked away in the newspaper archives. Her heart was heavy and her stomach rolled with self-loathing and revulsion. She had celebrated that death; she would have done anything to make her mother happy, even ending someone's life. She looked at the picture of the young Auror in training and felt crushing guilt and disgust when she thought of her role in the young woman's fate.
What right did she have to sit at Hogwarts, alive and well, with a family that cared for her? She had taken that from Samantha Grimsby, a witch who was better than Cassiopeia in every way. She had witnessed the worst moments of her life and she had done nothing to stop it, quite the opposite in fact, she had been the one to cast the final blow. And she didn't even do that right; she had just caused more pain and more sadness for her family. What right did Cassiopeia have to continue living, being happy, or even content when she had ensured that Auror Cadet Grimsby did not?
She deserved to be in Azkaban, next to her mother. She deserved the dementors kiss and not the warm bed and safe environment that Hogwarts provided. She deserved to die a most painful death, to atone for the pain she had caused in the world.
She hunched over the desk, her hands shaking and tears clouding her vision. She sobbed silently, pulling at her short hair, and lost in the memories that she had spent years repressing. She wasn't going to hide away from the truth, doing so was denying all of those people she hurt justice. What could she do to make it better? To atone for her actions as a child? She felt alone, angry and ashamed, and unbearably sad. It overwhelmed everything else in her life, her coursework, her stupid fight with Glynn, and even her O.W.L.s. What was the point anymore?
She sniffed, using her wand to siphon the tears off the desk and coughed quietly, setting her notes to rights. Crying over the past was also not going to help her, only action would. She began clearing up the papers, putting them to rights back in their archive. She paused when she saw an article with Professor Dumbledore's face, looking tired and grim.
It was a piece about his part in the war, his shadowy organisation that led an underground resistance when the ministry fell, and how he was the one wizard the Dark Lord feared duelling. She read it, the reporter obviously not the largest Dumbledore fan and was instead a ministry loyalist to boot, expressing a healthy dose of scepticism that it had truly been the efforts of a mysterious organisation that brought down the Dark Lord, and not the efforts of those in the ministry who remained loyal. The writer reported with some alarm that Professor Dumbledore was even protecting known Death Eaters from their sentence.
Cassiopeia sat back in her chair dumbfounded. Dumbledore was protecting Death Eaters? Why would he ever do that? She stared off into space, pondering the odd accusation when it suddenly hit her.
Merlin she was dull. Snape. Snape had been a Death Eater, but he must've at some point begun working with the Order of the Phoenix. Dumbledore protected him at the end of the war. That was how he had his job.
She knew what Death Eaters did, she knew what sort of crimes Snape would have committed. Maybe…but that would be too much wouldn't it?
No, she decided. She wouldn't go to Snape; the man hated her and would gleefully send her away she was sure. He was always looking for an excuse to. She would solve this alone.
Days passed and her self torment continued. It was late at night and Cassiopeia stood at the top of the astronomy tower. Class had long finished and yet she found herself strangely transfixed by the night sky. It was a cold night, bitterly so with a wicked wind that howled through the windows, but she didn't mind it, quite the opposite in fact. She looked out across the grounds, and stared over the edge. It was a long way down that was for sure, and she wondered how long it would take to fall.
"Beautiful tonight don't you think?" a soft voice interrupted her morbid curiosity.
Her fingers tightened reflexively on the edge of the window and she stiffened.
"It is a fair night." She said noncommittally, refusing to look at the intruder.
The man came to stand beside her, his half moon glasses catching the moonlight as he sighed, looking up at the stars.
She stood in silence, fidgeting with her silver bracelet softly before sighing. "Why are you here Dumbledore?" she finally asked
He smiled gently down at the girl who he could see was having a hard time. "I was having a delightful stroll when I saw you here looking rather lonely. I confess I have been rather concerned about you, along with all of your other professors." He said softly, before turning back to the stars.
She scowled deeply, looking back over the grounds, her eyes following the Threstrals as they flew through the night. They stood peacefully together, each lost in their own thoughts, Dumbledore humming softly to himself.
"They're beautiful aren't they? I always found Threstrals quite graceful." He remarked, cause her to glance at him sharply.
"You can see them?" she asked
He smiled sadly, staring off into the distance, "I have been unfortunate in my admittedly long life to have seen such tragedies. But witnessing the Threstral is a small gift to come out of sorrow."
Her scowl deepened and she scoffed in disbelief. "Why am I here professor?" she asked quietly, the words tasting sour on her tongue.
"Do you mean why are you here, as in standing at the astronomy tower? Perhaps it is the beautiful night that drew you here, or the tantalising view and all of its possibilities that come from such heights. Or do you mean why are you here at Hogwarts?" he asked lightly, still looking away.
"Why am I not in Azkaban? You know better than most that I deserve to be." She ground out bitterly, glaring ahead of her, her fingers digging into the ledge.
"Ah—we do not put innocents into Azkaban." He said simply.
She snorted, giving him another sideways look, "I have a whole pile of newspaper clippings showing I am far from innocent Dumbledore. I have hurt people, I even killed some, and yet here I am. In this bloody school instead of where I should be."
"I should have known, all those hours in the archives," he smiled down on her sadly, "you have been torturing yourself over past crimes you perceive as yours."
She felt her temper rising in response to his infuriatingly calm demeanour. He wasn't hearing her, he didn't understand, of course they were her crimes.
"Shall I show you Dumbledore? The things I did?" Her voice was cold, malicious as she embraced her anger, jumping into the well that she had been building in the core of her chest, pulling on all of her repressed emotions and rage. She allowed it to soothe her anguish and melancholy, she felt it rush through her veins.
She pulled out the newspapers and one by one threw them at his feet, explaining in agonising detail every single facet of her crimes. She spared nothing as she painted a vivid and gory detail, her face twisting more and more into something hateful and monstrous the longer she continued. Dumbledore looked older, his lines pronounced and his eyes were filled with naked sorrow and pity as she told her story. She took glee in this, wielding her words as a knife to twist into his chest, trying to make him feel a fraction of the pain she was feeling.
She didn't know when her anger changed, it was a blur both figuratively and literally as her eyes filled with tears the longer she went on. Her voice was breaking and her chest was heaving. Her hands shook and she barely finished detailed the demise of Auror Cadet Grimsby before she gave into the sobs. She pulled at her hair and leaned her body against the ledge of the tower, wildly thinking that she could end it, all of her pain and hurt right then and there. If she just shifted her weight just so—
A gentle hand rested on her shoulder as Dumbledore carefully pulled her into an embrace. She resisted, fisting his robes and trying to push him away. She didn't want his bloody comfort, she wanted his condemnation, she wanted him to tell her that she was evil and did deserve to be in prison. She wanted him to expel her and put her where she belonged. But eventually exhaustion won out and she stopped fighting him, her cries taking all of her energy.
"You were just a child Cassiopeia, doing your best to survive. You wanted your mother to love you, as any child would, and you did what you could to achieve that. What would have happened if you disobeyed?" he asked, gently patting her on the back, his voice grave.
She shook her head, refusing to answer, "I made a choice, the easy choice." She sniffled instead.
"You made the only choice a child could make in your position. If you had not done as she asked you would have been the victim. The only one that is at fault here is Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange for using you as a weapon. And of course Lord Voldemort. You are as much their victim as Auror Grimsby or any of the others."
She tried to pull away once more, wiping her face, her voice hoarse as she asked the question that had been plaguing her for weeks. "But why do I get to live when they all had to die."
Dumbledore kept his hand on her shoulder and he leant down to look her directly n the eye, his voice very serious, "We do not get to choose who lives or who dies, but we can choose what we do with our lives. If you want to honour their memories then study hard and use your life help people. Going to Azkaban now does nothing to help them and is wasting the gift that is given to you as a survivor. Think of all the people you can help as a curse breaker? Save people, prevent future victims, and be a good person is how you atone for the crimes that you perceive. Maybe even one day you'll understand what I do, that you are not at fault."
She shook her head, he didn't understand. He was so obnoxiously optimistic it was almost disgusting. "How can I just move on, be a good person when I am inherently not? Merlin Dumbledore all I do is hurt people, even when I am trying to not be like them. I can't sleep, I can't eat, and all I can hear is their screams." She pulled at her short hair again, tugging on the longer curls on top of her head.
"Some awful memories have a way of consuming the mind and the soul if we let them. They erode away at who we are and leave nothing but a husk behind. There are methods to combat this, to take control of our minds when they try their best to send us into insanity. We can teach you these methods. But that is a conversation best left for another night. For now I suggest we drink some hot cocoa and make our way to bed. " He sounded tired, his face was lined with sorrow.
She sniffed, slightly confused when a steaming mug of hot chocolate was pushed into her hands and she was gently guided away from the astronomy tower ledge and down the many stairs to the ground floor.
Dumbledore stayed with her the whole walk to the Slytherin common room, her quiet companion as they strolled through the peaceful corridors at a lazy pace. She thought over what he said, trying to find sense in it all.
"Did you mean what you said sir? About having a way to handle the memories?" her voice was small as she took another hasty sip of her chocolate.
"It is an obscure form of mental magic called Occlumency. Professor Snape is highly skilled in it and I am sure would be willing to teach you."
"Professor Snape hates me sir." She said immediately, her heart dropping.
Professor Dumbledore glanced at her, a small smile on his face, "You and Professor Snape have much in common. I think you can learn much from him."
They had reached the common room entrance by now, and he turned to her once more. "Help is always given to those who ask for it Miss Tonks. If you wish for it, I can speak to Professor Snape about setting up lessons, if you are willing to try."
She flushed, "and if I prove to be too much of a Lestrange?" she asked quietly, voicing her deepest fear.
"Then we will deal with that slim possibility. Blood doesn't make the witch Miss Tonks. Your aunt is a great example of this. Andromeda was a Slytherin through and through, from the same childhood and background as Bellatrix Lestrange, and yet the two couldn't be more different." He gestured to the common room, a serene smile on his face once more.
"Rest, I will speak to your head of school in the morning. I am sure an arrangement can be made." And with that he wandered away, his inane humming echoing around the hallways.
xxx
A/N So i agonised over this chapter, probably rewriting it three times and i am still not entirely happy with it, but so it goes. As always reviews are always welcome, shout out to brnicholas for his insights which I always love to read, and to a new reader Beesy :) Danke Shoen !
I think Cassiopeia is going through a little bit of surivors guilt and is finally acknowledging her past in a way she never has before. She never really had to look deeply into her actions because she was either in crisis mode, like when she was in foster care, or she was desperately trying to change everything about her to fit in with friends and boyfriends. This is the first time she isnt trying to impress anyone or be someone else. Hench why it is all hitting her at once.