The Way Things Used To Be : A Memory Revisited

Memory of Murder

In the past year, Kallisto had found a means to earn a bit of coin. The Ministry shoved the lot of them into Knockturn Alley, stripping wands from pureblood wizards and forcing them into manual labor at the cap. Life in such a place produced needs not met by legal means--so the black market flourished. Buyers and sellers were always looking for new unwatched person to act as go betweens...and that was what she was. The jobs allowed her to take a cut for herself, so that she could have some coin that when spent did not require a justification to Tana or Miles. The Parkinsons had no qualms about buying their little princess what they could--but for them as for all, money was tighter for this generation since the Ministry had seized and seized and seized their wealth.

Even if she hadn't had uses for the money, she enjoyed the errands that she went on to secure merchandise or to make sales for her mother. Her primary employer trusted her completely, or proclaimed to--and acted in accordance to that claim. One deed was already done--it had been only a simple delivery. Payment had already been made before the acquisition. So, all Kali had to do was show up, flash her winning smile and put the simple brown package into the old necromancer's hands. Her employer never used owls. They could suffice for simple post, but her deliveries merited a courier more easily held accountable should something go wrong.

Today had been her first encounter with Rabastan Lestrange. He was an undeniably peculiar man--with hungry eyes that felt as if they could see straight threw her. Kallisto might have denied it afterward, but when she had been alone with the Death Eater, he had scared her a bit, striking her as the type just as likely to buy her tea as to filet her and wear her skin. He was shameless about the Dark Mark on his arm--and her eyes had flitted to it again and again. It was striking and bold. She wanted to touch it--to feel the magic that was embedded into the brand, but of course, she had done no such thing. She had not expressed that desire aloud. Such a request could only be made of someone she knew well and, at this point, there were none marked that she considered herself close to. The young girl and the old convict had shared a small bit of conversation, indulging in a cigarette, before she had excused herself to go on to the next item on her list for the day.

Leaving Rabastan well and whole gave her the delusion that the most difficult and trying task of the day was over. Navigating Knockturn was easy. She knew the way to each vendor and street rat that her employer and now she did business with. Her employer had chosen what the girl wore today- pants and flats to ensure she could run, if she needed to. Muggle attire, just in case aurors got on her tail, she could slip into the other side of London and disappear into the crowds. Her hair down and left curly--very curly, so that it easily could hide her features and act as an automatic dampner of conversation. Large sunglasses kept her striking eyes and aristocratic cheekbones from vision while she was out on the street. All and all, unless one knew her well, it would be not obvious to a passerby that she was herself.

A small time smuggler, too small time to have a shop, was her next destination. She found him, exactly where she expected to. A few nooks down from the White Wyvern, the piece of shit was huddled on the ground. He looked homeless, but that was just his game. No one spared too much attention for someone homeless and destitute for fear of being asked to take some action to remedy another's suffering. The witch shed her glasses as she moved into the shadows were the cretin lurked. "Do you have what I came for?" her silky soprano snapped. She was the perfect replica of Donna then--hand on her hip, sharp wicked tongue ready to attack, and hard, piercing eyes bearing down on the man. "Aye," he mumbled, rustling the papers and cardboard scraps that made up his faux sidewalk shanty. Kali was intrigued at what she was to collect from this man. He had promised her employer three Shikoba Wolfe wands--thunderbird tail feather cores. Two were for some Death Eaters who had lost their wands due to who knows what--or maybe they just wanted extras...and the last. The last was Kali's. Her coming of age present that she had purchased for herself, only five months too late-- Wolfe's wands were known to be very powerful, adept at transfiguration work, but very difficult to master. Kallisto had no reservations about the wand. Her confidence led her to believe that she could master any conduit, if she needed to.

The manky Englishman rummaged around for a very long time. The wait caused Kali's irritation to grow. Her toe tapped against the ground impatiently causing the man to grumble something under his breath about young people these days. He was all of thirty years old, maybe; so, the comment just made her roll her eyes. The man seemed to slow as her impatience grew. "I don't have all day," her voice came low and fierce. She was a lithe thing with a pretty face, not the type that usually merited respect in this part of town. But she wasn't above shoving her wand into the man's throat and showing him just why he should hurry for her just as he would for her grandfather.

Finally, the worthless simpleton produced a collection of slender long boxes. Turning his grubby face up towards her, the man gave her a disgusting grin, showing the ruined teeth that occupied his mouth. "Come on, now, pretty thing, I know you are in a hurry to get your hands on my wand, but I ain't rushing," the huskiness in his voice made her gag, but she tried to maintain decorum. Her employer had already told several buyers about these new wands and Kali really wanted hers--no need to let an offhand comment to ruin that, even if it did make her want to hex the vulgar blighter.

The man rose from the ground and beckoned Kallisto to him. The witch glanced around, not wanting others in the Alley to take note of them before she moved in closer. He opened the first box. It was black walnut--she knew the wood at sight, even before the man said so. With his granted permission, she picked up the wand and nonverbally attempted to conjure water from the conduit. She could feel it fight her, but water did spout from the end. The same was repeated with five other wands. Though she was only to buy three, she ended up with four stowed in her bag, only rejecting one that bore a thin crack along the handle. Money was exchanged. The entire ordeal had been littered with crude commentary from the bloke, as if he took her for a trollop.

Kallisto had done her very best to ignore him, but when she moved to leave. That was when it all went to hell. He made a claim into her ear about how she still hadn't handled his wand properly. The stench of him paired with the heat of his breath against her skin was too much. She had maintained her composure for far too long. Spinning around to face him, she glowered at the arsehole. He moved to grope at her and she smacked his hand away. His other came up and crushed her breast before clamping onto her arm. He was saying something about how the discount he'd given her on the wands meant that she still owed him a good time. She was feral now, blind with rage and only half aware of the world around them. Kali was not afraid. Not at all. She was infuriated. The girl was fighting back, but wasn't able to get to her wand...not that she was even thinking of that just then. At the moment, she was content to claw through his face with her stiletto manicured nails. The Parkinson had even painted one with poison, just in case. It wouldn't kill the man rapidly, but in a few days, he'd wish his death had come by swift curse.

Kali heard screaming, but her mind did not comprehend that it was her making all the noise. She had called the man everything under the sun and his face had four long gashes along the side where her fingernails had caught and ripped the skin open. He looked furious--and that only made her smile. But he was hurting her now. The arm that had been free, the one that had wounded him. He had that wrist now, it was pinned against the cold stone of whatever building he'd pushed her up against. She tried to knee him, but he'd blocked her. The man was promising the most vulgar obscenties as he pushed himself flush to her...and then, just like that--he was gone, jerked back by some unseen force.

Kallisto had been fighting--and she had not even resorted to magic yet. She wasn't wandless, but in a moment like this, her adrenaline pumping--fight or flight instinct taking over--she could have managed a blast of magic to send the man flying. But she hadn't needed that stretch of magical skill, because someone was there. Her mind knew the voice. His name burst from her lips, "Finn!", as her surprise savior jerked her assaulter back. Each saw the other and recognition flashed, reflected in blue eyes one to the other. Kali pushed herself off the stone wall. The man being thrown to the ground by Finn was not enough. She was far too angry to let it go at that. He had disrespected her. Apparently, she was not the only one to have been unwilling to drop the fight at that moment. Finn was on the man before she could intercede, before she could have the pleasure of putting the man in his place--under her heel and writhing under her wand.

But there would be no chance for revenge--as her not-boyfriend made quick work of ending the fool's life. Kallisto was startled, but not at the sight of a dead man. It wasn't the first she had seen. Her grandfather was guilty of some very sadistic acts that she had born witness to and even participated in. A flash of rage at the loss of her opportunity to punish the man for his wrongs against her was quickly pushed down. Finn had interceded, but it seemed only when he saw that it was her that he lost control--or relinquished it. Regardless, Kali had no doubt that she was why the smuggler lay dead at their feet. Rage had brought color to her face, but it was desire that was in her eyes---inky pupils dominated the blue, driving it into a little sliver of color between white and black--all for Finn. The Parkinson had no signs of disapproval in her expression. No, instead, the witch wore a knowing, yet appreciative smirk-- "Look at you all tarnished knight, who would have thought?" Kali purred out as she side stepped the corpse to be closer to Finn. Her hand brushed over the Harlow's face, down his square jaw, an act of praise for his service to her. There was a twisted sweetness that came from the forbidden knowing of all of this, whatever this was now. He had killed for her. Animal instinct had taken over--and he'd ended a man for barely touching her--for making vulgar promises and rough attempts at fulfilling those claims.

The purist praised her lover as her knight, not in shining armor, but tarnished. She preferred him that way. She had no need of a prince on a white stallion. She saw more usefulness in someone that had edge and grit to them--substance built by struggle. Even if he wasn't pure, he was worthwhile. He was worthy of her, whether her grandfather agreed or not. Finn made a feeble attempt to downplay the extreme nature of the action he had just taken--for her. His words earned him a blatant roll of her bright eyes and a laugh. She did not seem convinced. Not in the least. And she wasn't-- instead her vanity and arrogance had been built up, validated by the animalistic abandon he had displayed on instinct when his eyes had met hers. She had been the one to make him kill--not the man who lay dead at their feet. It struck her as distinctly familiar, though her mind could not piece together how that was so.

The first dead body Kallisto had ever seen had not been meant for her eyes. She had been confined to the house, but it was summer--and so warm outside. She could not be contained. She was a clever child and conned a house elf into opening a door--taking advantage of the simple minded creature with a cunning that such a youth should not have yet possessed. But the young girl got outside--she got into her mother's gardens. The child did not recognize the smell. Now, she would know it to be decaying flesh--death. But it was just foreign to her then. Unpleasant, yes, but foreign...and to a child who was already obsessed with knowing everything, she needed to know what caused such a repugnant odor.

Flies and maggots had already began to conquer a good deal of the body when she came upon it. The face was marred, but not so much to prevent her from recognizing the corpse as their neighbor. Kallisto was not yet familiar with the differences in male and female bodies. So, she did not comprehend the severity of the wounds that had been inflicted when the genitalia had been removed.

Miles had made a display of a young muggle man--one that had taken a fancy to Tara. The pathetic bloke had seen her out in her gardens, painting as the woman often did and taken to coming round to borrow this or that. Though they lived in a primarily magical region of Northern England, the family estate adjacent to the Parkinson's place had been seized and sold to muggles by the Ministry of Magic--all in an attempt to force integration of muggles into purist communities, driving out the old families. The Ministry had targeted the entire region. The estate would go up for sale when the entirety of a purist line had been either executed, imprisoned, or institutionalized.

But circumstances that brought the muggle man to the property next door was inconsequential. Neighbors do change--at least in most communities. Admittedly, the Shafiq family had been in that ancestral home for well over four hundred years-- So, perhaps it should have been more consequential to the young Parkinson, but it wasn't. Her thinking was getting far too off track now. The point had been about the dead body...To this day, Kallisto does not know if the bloody display was to appease Miles's anger and possessiveness, or if it was remind Tara that she belonged to him. Kali knew that her grandmother would talk to the corpse, before he had been executed, of course. She had heard the beautiful music of the purist witch's laughter. She had seen the lingering looks exchanged one to the other, but she was but a child. She did not know what such looks meant. Kallisto has no knowledge of any true infidelity on Tara's part...but after that body was left to rot in the gardens for nearly a week in the midst of summer, never again did Tara show any man the warmth and friendliness she had offered to that unfortunate muggle. Miles probably would have left the body there longer had he not been informed that an auror raid was to occur on their home. The man still had connections within the Ministry--enough to get a heads-up when law enforcement were headed their way. There was not always abundant notice, but even a short amount of time allowed the Parkinsons to remove any dark artifacts they had brought into the home. Most items of an illegal nature were stored elsewhere.

It wasn't long after that that Miles had been sent to the work camp...But, that man was the first. The first of many--The girl had witnessed and participated in a number of murders over the last six years. When Miles had discovered that Kallisto was quite unlike her mother or her grandmother--and much more like the old man himself, she earned the honor of learning dark magic from the man. He even allowed her to cast the spells from his own wand--and his spare--to protect her from any evidence of malfeasance being present in her own conduit. She took to the forbidden knowledge with as much gusto and obsession as she did any other fascination that caught her attention. She was truly the product of her grandparent's guidance and instruction. Tara made her into an artistic ballerina--by all appearances the perfect lady and ideal purist wife for any pureblood wizard. Miles grew her ambition, and draws her close, even still, as his heir despite her gender--the dark wizard seeks to craft the cunning and eager witch into an elitist assassin--without conscience, driven by prejudice and self-preservation.

Together with Donna and the brother who never lived, but also will never die, the Parkinsons forged Kallisto into the witch who stood emotionless and completely calm in Knockturn Alley, architecting an impromptu murder cover-up. Her body wanted to reward the other Slytherin, but her self preservation instinct would not allow for that just yet. Instead, the logical side of her had taken over. Something needed to be done about the body before someone stumbled across the three of them there. Her screams had driven anyone from near them away. People did not make it a habit to intercede in other people's affairs in Knockturn Alley. That benefited her now. Producing her wand, she levitated the body from where it lay back from the cobblestone path, against the stone wall where he'd been resting when she arrived amidst the cardboard and newspapers. Kneeling before the man, she rummaged through the mess of rags he was wearing to take back the coin she had just paid him. She'd snatched the wand she had rejected and a few other little dark artifacts the piece of shit had hidden in his piles of old newspaper. Then, the witch had covered the body up with month old editions of the Prophet. The claw marks across his face were beginning to necropolize. The poison in the wounds could link her to the execution, but only if aurors chose to investigate the murder of some bum in Knockturn and managed to connect her or Finn to the man. Thoughts were shooting through her head as she dug through the mess around the corpse: Had anyone seen Finn? Had anyone seen her? Would law enforcement even find out about this murder? It was not as if the patrons of this area were very fond magical law enforcement... Maybe the old man whose company she had just left would appreciate a warm body-- Damn, her employer was probably going to be mad.

One final push rolled the body over, so the wounded face was not starring out at the street with those empty dead eyes. Then, the girl backed up-admiring her handiwork. "Good enough?" she mused aloud. She wasn't really looking for her companion's confirmation, more just letting some of the conversation that was always taking place inside her head spill out into the audible world. The bugger looked inconspicuous enough now, in her opinion. At first glance, he was just one more pathetic drunk passed out in his own piss and filth. Her whole little clean-up and valuables extraction had taken thirty seconds at most. But it had been thirty seconds of silence--of Finn watching her. How could it be that she felt judged in this moment? Was she really that self conscious when it came to Finn? She cared what he thought, Kali did not even try to deny that to herself. She did. But with how calmly she had reacted to all his stories of darkness, did he still believe the delusion she put forth to the world that she was sheltered and never dirtied her hands? She was just clever. Very, very clever. Cunning and ambition---along with family tradition--were what had gotten the girl sorted into Slytherin. That family tradition extended into learning the dark arts and having been exposed to brutal death very early on in her youth.

The Slytherin had not actually expected Finn to respond to her question about whether her efforts were good enough. If anything, the inquiry had been made to the other persona that shared space with what she judged as her true self within the confines of her skull. Of course, Finn did not know how crazy she was...quite literally mad--carrying on conversations with the voice that lived in her mind. So, it made sense that he would speak an answer to her. Confident that the body would not garner any attention, at least in the short term, Kallisto gave Finn Harlow her full attention. Her hands came to his body, slipping up his chest and over the wizard's broad shoulders until they locked together behind his neck. Her eyes shone with the rush of adrenaline and rage that had only just passed. They stayed on his, his arctic blue gaze with its burning intensity that shivered down the length of her spine, demanding a shifting wiggle of her hips to shake away the ricocheting spark of a sensation in her stomach. His eyes and smile did things to her. The way he looked at her, it brought to life. Inside her head, her own voice was drowning out any antagonizing commentary from the other half of her consciousness, begging Finn please to never stop looking at her like that. No one had ever looked at her like that before, and she never wanted him to ever stop. But she couldn’t say that aloud. She was slipping further into the hole of things that should not be thought or voiced. Really, Kallisto was not so special or different than anyone else. Though she lived a solitary life for the most part, the girl wanted what everyone wanted: to be loved, to be desired, to be wanted. To be wanted by this particular man, though--that was what she wanted. If those steel blue eyes just left hers, her body, for a tick of a moment, she might have been able to distance from him. Not that she wanted to, or that she would, but she couldn’t will herself to do anything under his stare like that. She wanted him to look at her like that all the time – now, later, here, everywhere, bar or common room or street or bed, it didn’t matter. She just knew that he shouldn’t look at her like that, but he did, and it wasn't just in this moment that he did. She had felt this same weight and pull on her when his eyes had roved over her back at the castle. Then she hadn’t even needed to do anything to garner his attention. That sweetened the experience all the more--allowing her to build up her delusion that she was more than a shag to Finn.

She stood close to him, teeth digging into her lip, eyes wide and staring back at him. She wanted him to not be able to look at her without wanting her. And she wanted him. Again, and again, and now, and probably tomorrow, too, but she refused to think of that right now. Rolling up on her toes, her lips found his and she kissed him hard. The familiar stir of want pitted in her stomach, her hips shifting conspicuously in an effort to deter it. Her grip tangling about his neck to steady herself as she deepened the kiss, nearly opening her mouth to his before she remembered the lead beneath her tongue and the horrible taste she had sort of grown accustomed to over the past two weeks ( as much as one could become accustomed to such things).

Even if she needed to keep her lips pressed together, kissing Finn was a much better idea than talking. And she did have plenty to say, but she let her body speak everything instead, soft curves melting against him, molten touch through his hair. Even as she kissed him--rewarding him for his heroics (even though she was not really in need of them)--the witch kept her lips firmly together. Her mouth carried the foul taste of mandrake leaf. She had kept the blasted thing under her tongue since the eighteenth of March when Damion had given it to her. A month she had to keep the frond beneath her tongue. It was the first step in her animagus training with the Transfiguration professor. Both Pansy and Perseus had encouraged her to pursue the Mastery. Both perceiving benefits for their own agendas from her being able to disguise herself completely. Though there was no way to be certain what form she would take on, she did hope and hope that she would become an owl. She believed the form would suit her, representing her intuition and nocturnal nature well, while also being quite useful. Damion's panther form was undeniably beautiful, but was far from discreet. Though if she did end up with an animagus form more like her teacher's, it would at least serve her well in terms of intimidation.

Once again, the witch found herself flush to both man and structure in the shadows of Knockturn Alley. This time, though, was much more pleasant as she was pinned to the cold stone by Finn instead of the piece of shit who'd tried to take advantage of her. It should not have exhilarated her as it did for the corpse to be there at their feet. But in truth, she had never desired Finn more than she did now with this offering of his devotion laying on the ground. Of course, his tongue would not profess his affection, perhaps even obsession (if they were as alike as she imagined them to be), for her, but his actions spoke much louder than words. She did not need to hear that she was special, that she was loved--when she was shown in such delightfully wicked ways.

"We should go somewhere else," was her whispered confession, when she broke away, her lungs screaming for air. She felt the inevitability of the conversation to come weighing down on her. If he made an attempt to scold her, hell would break lose. She was not some little helpless thing who had been in need of saving, though perhaps she said only now after having been saved. If she had ended up incapable of defending herself and the now corpse had managed to sheath himself inside her, how would she have internalized and overcome such a wrong to her person? It was obvious, she would have killed the man. Whether today or days in the future, she would have ended him. He wished to commit the sin, but had failed, that did not mean he should not still receive the same punishment for even being willing to make the attempt. Fool deserved what he got--and truly, he was fortunate that it was Finn that took his life. His death had swift and painless. Had he victimized Kali, when she came for her revenge, after her poison had weakened him, death would have been slow and unimaginably painful... The girl had quite the imagination when it came to causing suffering. Miles had always been proud of her for it, if a bit disconcerted at her flair for manipulation. That side of her was clearly inherited from someone else.

MORE. That was what Kallisto always wanted when it came to Finn Harlow. She wanted more. More than what they had. ALWAYS MORE. One kiss only made her more desperate for another. One touch served to highlight the spaces of her skin that had been neglected by the wizard's powerful hands. The purist had developed an addiction to taste of his smirk, to the cool blue of his eyes, to his secrets.

The more she learned of him, the more she wanted to know--even if that interest wasn't reciprocated. She was painfully aware of how, though she was most honest with Finn out of everyone at school--or in her life at all, he still didn't know very much about her. Even as the stories of his scars piled up in her memories, she hadn't ever shared slivers of her own past...he never asked. He wasn't ever going to ask. She had come to terms with that long ago. She was just a shag. Nothing more--no matter what attachment she had developed, it was clearly not reciprocated. If it had been, he wouldn't have just disappeared on her. Dropped her without a thought or word, just like her mother had...and maybe her dad, too, if the sperm donor actually knew about her.

In this moment, in the shadows of Knockturn Alley, the witch found herself overcome with emotion. She had never felt more cared about than she did in this moment. Whatever she was to Finn, she had been worth saving. She had been worth killing over. Sure, neither of them had walked into the alley that day innocent with no blood on their hands, but it still meant something that he had reacted so fiercely. It had too--didn't it?

Her mind was spinning out of control. Over-analyzation was giving way to self-deprecation and the diatribes of self hate so easily possible for a perfectionist. This was what feeling for him did to her. It brought on a panic beneath her skin--her 'brother' was gaining volume. Louder and louder, even as she tried to shut it off. She was losing the battle. The taste in her mouth was now an obsession--a fear--a terror--a paranoia over how disgusted Finn would surely be if he caught taste of the foul frond. She had managed to keep her lips sealed for the weeks since she had began her animagus training under Kvothe. No one knew about it. There was no one to tell. Until she achieved the transformation, if she ever did, that would be the moment to share the news with grandparents. Pansy would not appreciate the achievement; she wasn't one to value dedication and hard work-

This wasn't the first time she felt insane beneath her skin, but managed to hide the chaos. It helped how instinctively her body responded to Finn's attentions. Goosebumps spread as his hands moved over her. His mouth moved away from hers and the intoxicating feel of his kiss against her skin was able to bring her back into the moment. Bright azure eyes fluttered open and shut--what came next was the surrender of self and thought to the violent wizard.