Chapter 83: Shadows (5)
Warning: This chapter contains violence that might be considered too intense for some readers.
It was the middle of summer. Golden light flooded the old castle, streaming through every window with warmth, accompanied by bird songs and the sweet aroma of the flower garden surrounding the McMahon family estate.
Catherine strolled down one of the corridors leading to a spacious living room on the third floor. The stone felt cold under her bare feet.
'Where's the carpet?' - she thought briefly, her mind feeling foggy and drowsy, as if she were on the verge of drifting off after a very tiresome day.
Something felt strangely off in the whole situation. The young witch had the vague impression it was supposed to be winter, and her body felt peculiar—slightly heavier and stiffer. The castle also appeared different; there were fewer portraits on the walls, and the stone seemed less weathered. Moreover, all the Muggle inventions they were using, such as electric lights, were nowhere to be seen.
The girl could sense an inexplicable surge of excitement. She had a distant feeling that her magic was running wild, surpassing all of her limits, giving her a defiant sense of omnipotence and the freedom she longed for desperately.
The heavy wooden doors in front of her burst into flames, turning into ashes in mere seconds. Catherine remained unfazed. She walked past what she recognised as her father's study, now open to reveal what appeared to be a music room, filled with harps, fiddles, and cornetts, all exuding a distinctive medieval vibe.
A tiny house-elf emerged from within the premises, dressed in a makeshift rug and carrying a duster and a bucket of water. The creature screeched in horror when it saw Catherine. The young witch felt elated. She raised her hand and snapped her fingers. The head of the house-elf was severed from its trembling body, as if an invisible sword cut its neck.
Without a second glance, the girl continued walking and soon reached her destination. The living room looked vastly different from what Catherine remembered. Her mother's plush midnight-blue armchairs and sofa had been replaced with rough wooden chairs. Instead of the yellow Persian carpet, there lay a Graphorn skin in front of the empty fireplace. Edward McMahon's vinyl record collection was nowhere to be seen, but an impressive tapestry depicting the construction of Hogwarts by the Four Founders adorned one wall.
Two blond boys between the age of seven and ten were playing on the floor with a bunch of marble balls, giggling merrily. Catherine felt like a wild predator, stalking its prey. A mindless thirst was driving her insane. The older boy turned around abruptly his blue eyes growing wide with fear.
"Erin!" – he exclaimed before his body being cut into hundreds of little pieces. The scream that echoed through the room came from Baldwin McMahon who witnessed his brother's demise. The boy remained petrified on the floor, his lips moving soundlessly, unable to form words. The air was thick with fear and smell of blood that made Catherine smile with delight. At her feet, the trembling human emitted waves of desperation and primal magical essence, his power attempting to shield him from his inevitable fate.
Catherine effortlessly lifted Baldwin to eye level with her magic. Slowly, she licked the tears from his pale face, a soft sigh of pleasure escaping her.
"I think I'm going to kill you the same way I killed mother." – the witch whispered in her brother's ear before she used air currents sharp as knives to pierce the boy's screaming body until it was all limp and lifeless.
It felt euphoric. Her power absorbed the pain and suffering surrounding her, multiplying exponentially. With her heightened strength, newfound knowledge flooded her mind. She no longer required a wand or spells; the magic currents obediently fulfilled her every desire, conjuring spells far beyond the limited imagination of the puny wizards who had dared to imprison her.
As the witch crossed the room, the far wall erupted in a cloud of dust and debris. At the edge, she paused, casting a glance toward the south where the nearest village nestled among the hills.
"What a pity Robert isn't here to join in the fun!" – Catherine laughed, briefly shooting a glance at the polished silver mirror that lay nearby. The chubby girl, around twelve years old, with platinum blond hair and glowing red eyes she saw there appeared somewhat familiar. The witch grinned darkly as huge black wings spawned from her shoulders, and she flew away from her ruined home. Fiendfyre hungrily consumed the tapestry on the wall.
Catherine awoke drenched in cold sweat, a splitting pain in her head making her feel nauseous as it spread through her entire body. She hurried towards the bathroom, her trembling legs barely managing to carry her there in time. After vomiting violently for a few minutes, the young witch managed to rise to her feet and wash her face. The mirror above the sink showed her a crying mess of a girl with jade-green eyes and unkempt black hair. She went back to bed trying to be as quiet as possible, though there was no indication that any of the other inhabitants of the Claridge's hotel penthouse had woken up. However, the witch found herself unable to return to sleep, trembling intensely throughout the rest of the night. A bitter taste lingered in her mouth, and despite her efforts to convince herself that it was just a nightmare, the memory of the bloodthirst and sadistic pleasure she had felt remained fresh. She was fully conscious of her actions and the enjoyment she had derived from them.
"I don't want to… This isn't who I am…" – she whimpered, burying her face into the pillow as the sun rose above London on Christmas day.