Catacombs

Catacombs

Chapter 1- La Llegada de Therese

I went to turn the grass once after one

Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen

Before I came to view the leveled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;

I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,

And I must be, as had been--alone,

"As all must be," I said within my heart,

"Whether they work together or apart."

-Excerpt from "The Tuft of Flowers" by Robert Frost

Meg had decided. It is an enormously difficult thing to be lost.

Of course, the idea that she could, indeed, be lost in the village where she had spent all fourteen years of her life was absurd. She knew every twist, every turn, every broken-down relic that defined her little outpost, and for her to be unfamiliar with the area around her was impossible. Meg refused to believe she could be lost in the old ruins she had stumbled into and plodded on, telling herself that just around the next corner would be an exit.

Nonetheless, Meg couldn't find her way out of whatever tangle of tunnels she happened to be in, as absurd as the idea sounded in her head. The watch she kept always wrapped in a scrap of cloth in her pocket told she'd already missed dinner, and it was clear there would be no food in her dark, stony surroundings. No one had been up to the old castle above the village in years, since long before Meg was born-- the chances of finding a house-elf in the catacombs with a steaming pot of soup were small indeed. As the image of the little elf carrying the huge cauldron of vegetables and lots of chicken reached her stomach, she heard it growl, reminding her of its apparent emptiness.

Damn Edmund, she thought as she picked her way around boulders and rubble, hoping that by some twist of chance, this tunnel was just a giant circle and she'd be back at her home in no time at all. Damn him to Hades for ever sending me off here. Meg turned a corner, entered a doorway, and stumbled up a flight of stairs; since she had gone down when she started and ended up in some sort of dungeon, clearly heading up again would take her back to the entrance. She was especially glad to be out of that dungeon-- its torn, rotting tapestries clinging to the walls like Devil's Snare and the snake sculptures that adorned every corner had scared her almost out of her mind.

To her happiness, there were no snakes in this new section of the old castle-- only broken picture frames, rusted and fallen suits of armor, and huge sections of rock that had fallen from the walls and ceiling. As Meg climbed higher and higher, she looked through some of the doors, where rusted cauldrons and broken desks reminded her of the small basement classroom in the village. She turned through into a small alcove and up a spiral staircase.

Up and up and up. She had by now figured out that at no time had she come down a spiral staircase in her wanderings, but Meg's curiosity was piqued. Who would construct such a daunting barrier to this section of the castle? And what was hidden up there that would require that barrier? Dinner was forgotten, but Meg would never know why.

When she was out of breath, tired beyond reason, and just about to turn around and forget the entire stupid venture, Meg ran face first into a large oak door at the top of the stairs. She sighed with relief; the spiral staircase did, indeed, end. Pushing open the door, she knocked off a brass doorknocker in the shape of some animal or another and jumped backward in shock when it crashed to the ground.

Meg pushed the door open very slowly after the doorknocker fell, hoping that nothing else in this decrepit castle would fall on her head. She entered a circular room, dusty and damp smelling, with a slight fragrance of lemons and ink and wood smoke. The picture frames here, though not falling off the walls, were just like the other pictures in the castle--there was no subject in any of them and most of the canvas was torn or dirty. Tables and books were strewn around the room with carelessness and recklessness; at this, Meg grew upset, thinking of the few books her schoolroom had to spare and what they could have learned with even half of these volumes intact. As it wasn't a cause of whatever had destroyed the castle, whoever pulled the books off these shelves was either very cruel or very desperate.

A fluttering noise sounded near the window, and Meg dove under one of the overturned tables in time to see a bird fly through the broken glass and land on the middle of the floor. It (the bird deserved a he or she, but as Meg had no idea of its sex, "it" would just have to do for the time being) was so beautiful, Meg almost went up to stroke its brilliant feathers, gold and crimson like the fall foliage in the forests near her village, but soon after its landing the bird took to the air and began to fly around the room. As she watched, the bird pulled books and other gadgets off of the shelves and walls, until a long, thin box, about the size of the drawers in her dresser at home, was finally yanked off by a swift tug of talons.

Now, Meg certainly did not consider herself an excessively curious girl, but when a brightly colored bird flies through the window of an abandoned castle and begins to tear through the previous owner's possessions in search of something obviously very valuable, who was she to twiddle her thumbs and look the other way?

Grasping the box between its talons, the bird flew upward (Meg was impressed; that box looked awfully heavy to her) and made for its window-entrance; then, suddenly, it changed its mind, placing the box back down on the ground and opening the lid. It carefully, slowly pulled out sheets of paper, rolled up and covered in tiny symbols. Meg thought they could have been runes or an East Asian language or even Ancient Egyptian for all she could make out of them from her vantage point. Next, the bird revealed a patched, dirty, very old pointed hat that resembled the one Edmund's mother would wear from time to time until Meg's schoolteacher would yell at her. But what shocked Meg was the final item pulled from the box like the rabbit out of a hat her mother talked about sometimes--a thin-bladed, gleaming sword, with rubies crusting the hilt like ice on a winter's lake.

She gasped; she had never seen anything as beautiful as that blade.

Unfortunately, her gasp startled the bird, who turned its head quickly to stare at her hiding place. It moved slowly, talons scraping the hard stone floor, approaching where it thought the noise had originated. Meg tensed, held her breath, and stopped anything that might attract the bird's attention further. Once convinced she had to touch its feathers just once before she left, she now prayed that it would not come any closer. The bird glanced once more at her hiding table, then turned its head away and appeared to be focusing once more at the box at hand.

Suddenly, the bird turned, flew quickly over to her hiding table, and tried to knock it over with beak and wings. Meg shrieked and jumped backward; her momentum forced the table over, which crashed into the walls behind her. The bird let out a strangled cry (Meg thought it sounded like frustration, and she wouldn't have put that past such an intelligent bird) at the sight of the girl, then flew up in the air, quickly grabbing the hat and whatever parchment it could reach, and escaped out the broken window it had used as an entrance not ten minutes before. The room was darker now, its only source of light captured by the night sky it escaped to.

Meg crept out from under the table and glanced around the room. The parchment with the funny runes on it was strewn across the floor, due to the bird's hasty departure. She picked it up and glanced at it; they looked similar to the sorts of runes and ancient tongues they would study in the village classroom whenever the schoolteacher could get her hands on copies of old texts like this. Her knowledge of runes was rudimentary, though--nothing more than the very basics, and she would have tried to decipher them if she could. Still disappointed by the swift disappearance of the bird, she stuffed them in the pocket of her cloak and didn't think much of them at all. The box still lay open on the floor, so Meg turned it over and looked through it, but it was clean of any more treasures. Finally, she made for the door with a sigh, disappointed and very, very hungry again...

She stopped.

The sword. The bird had forgotten the sword.

Kneeling down beside it, eyes wide with wonder, Meg placed three trembling fingers on the hilt, too afraid to touch it, but too enamored with it not to try. She could have sat like that for hours, her hand just resting on the sword, but a glance out the window told her it was well into the night. Her parents would be worried. With one last glance at the sword and the circular room, she shuffled towards the door.

Wait, she thought as soon as her hand hit the doorknob. Wait. Why can't I take it with me?

Reasons flooded her mind, a river crashing down around her ears. The bird will be back to get it in a little while. It would be stealing. Where would you hide it? Mother and Father would never let you have a sword. You're only doing this to prove a point to Edmund. Your schoolteacher would be very disappointed in you for sneaking off. If you're carrying it, no one will ever believe that you just got lost in the woods, and then you'll get in trouble for being up in the ruins.

Unfortunately for Meg, the bird, and whoever had wanted the sword in the first place, she grabbed the jeweled hilt and ran out the oak door, almost tripping over its fallen griffin-shaped knocker.

* * *

Therese Provence's first glimpse of Southampton Port was a dingy, grey skyline, with large buildings draped in false elegance to please the rich and a dirty populace marching dully through the streets. It was then, at that moment, that she truly missed Spain.

Ironic, she thought, and smiled. Wouldn't her parents be proud of her now? "Therese! Head up! Back straight!" Well, she supposed they couldn't blame her for her actions. It was the war's fault she hadn't become the vapid housewife her breeding demanded; God forbid she wed a Death Eater.

Ah, and now she was sarcastic as well. The epitome of pureblood daughters, with a gentle tongue and gentle touch, was shooting off her mouth like Lee Jordan. (Rich pureblood daughters, she added, for Ginny Weasley was probably never within ten feet of a book on etiquette. Then again, Ginny Weasley was dead, so what good did thinking about her do?)

Had they wanted to determine her life and future step by step, then they should have stayed with her, and not fled to America at the first sign of trouble from Voldemort. "You'll be safe at Hogwarts, nothing can hurt you there." Therese snorted. Tell that to Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore, Mother.

Now here she was again, facing the England she had fled and her parents had hallowed. She could still smell the ocean at El Ferrol, the grasses, the freshly caught fish, and the rich and spicy foods on open fires. What she would give for a taste of paella! Staring at the scarred shell of a once-grand port, Therese loathed England and everything it stood for with every nerve and cell in her body.

Therese could remember back to a time when she was thirteen, and Dumbledore's resistance group was still winning. Oh, how she had loved the Scottish Highlands then, the lakes and trees of the Hogwarts grounds, where everything smelled of wildflowers and fresh breezes. Suddenly, the smell of rot and blood filled her nose and nausea hit her stomach; she pushed away the memories and focused on the dock that grew and grew with time. Sharp steel dug into her thigh: the railing on the ship had long ago twisted and broke apart. The daughter of a pureblood family would have been given a finer ship, if there had been any to be found.

Men shouted from shore, while others on deck grabbed ropes and jumped to the dock. It swayed and cracked with the added weight, which only served to reinforce Therese's decision to stay firmly where she was. Slowly, and with much groaning and creaking, the boat halted and shuddered, reluctant to release its passenger. Did it sense the danger, too? More men climbed up and procured a sort of staircase from the hold. Therese took this as a sure sign the laborers were either Muggles or prisoners of war (a wizard citizen would have just conjured a set).

"M'Lady!" the steward on board called; Therese tilted her head a bit to acknowledge him. In one deft movement, he bowed on one knee, dipped his head respectfully, and pulled a long scroll of parchment out of his pocket. "I have here a list of all possessions brought aboard by Lady Therese Provence, of the Provences of Nice, to be sent to the Imperial Hotel in Southampton. Is there anything else you'll be needin', m'Lady?"

"No, no, nothing. Be sure my accommodations are of the most outstanding quality."

"Of course." He nodded fervently at her. Looking incredibly bored, Therese waved her gloved hand.

"You are dismissed," she said in her best 'Lady Therese Provence' voice; she was certain she had never seen someone move away from her so quickly.

Therese pitied the small, quivering man. He was clearly one of the neutrals, a wizard that hoped by simply ignoring the Dark Lord, he would go away in a puff of green smoke, just like the first time. Certainly, he was better off now than the slaves who had resisted Voldemort in the first place, but his was a half-life. There is no freedom in the servitude of others.

Slowly, with an air of haughtiness and nobility that was her passport into this hellhole, she descended the rusted metal stairs and took her first step on British land in fifteen years. People depended on her, the resistance depended on her, and her Slytherin blood was tired of failure. Therese was a mistress of espionage; she had no equal on the whole of the Iberian Peninsula. This play-act of the French noblewoman would be her crowning jewel and her finest hour. After years of blood and sweat, Weasley and his strategizing had planned everything perfectly, and she the queen was ready to take back the chessboard. Excitement now coursed through her body, thinking of Voldemort's blood spilled on the cold stones of his fortress when her part came to completion. Who better to infiltrate a nest of serpents, she thought, than a Snake herself?

That was right before the boat behind her exploded into a thousand tiny pieces of her past.

* * *

Meg was certain she'd never see the old castle again as soon as she'd reached the end of the tunnel. It had taken hours simply to find the tunnel back into the village in the first place, and when she emerged, the first pale rays of dawn hit her face. Quickly, she sprinted back towards her small house near the center of town. It was far too late to hide the sword she had managed to wrap in strips of fabric and strap onto her back, and even if she could stash it somewhere, her punishment would keep her from ever seeing it again.

Long before she saw it, the acid stench of smoke and something unrecognizable filled her nose and made her head spin. Her eyes burned and Meg made to turn away from the source, until she realized the source was her own village. Running now, faster than she ever had, she tore down to where the center of town would be; it was her duty to help put out the fire if she could.

She stopped, though, when she saw the green snake-in-skull design rise over where her village should be. It loomed like the Dark Lord himself was reprimanding her for disobedience, and so she cowered, afraid of what it meant for her friends and family. She had learned a great deal of history in her school lessons; during the first rise of You-Know-Who, the Dark Mark (because clearly that acid-colored omen couldn't be anything else) was the most dreaded thing anyone could find flying over their household. It seemed that even after the Dark Lord had ruled for fifteen years, the Death Eaters still used it as their calling card.

Sobbing now, both from the sting of the smoke and the fear for her parents, Meg sprinted down to the ruins of her village. She saw toppled buildings, so carefully built over the shells of the stores and houses that had been there before. She saw the burning, marked corpses, unrecognizable but clearly belonging to her friends and playmates. Unwilling to see anymore, she fell on her knees, tears coursing through her fingers and falling on the scorched earth.

Meg hadn't any idea how long she sat there, simply bawling. Everyone in the village was dead, because Death Eaters wouldn't leave any survivors in a renegade community. So long, so long they had spent, making sure that no one would know a new community of Magic and non-Magic folk had erected on this old wizard village. How did the Death Eaters find out? They had been safe and secret for fifteen years.

Slowly, Meg stood up and wiped grimy tears from her face. With muddy hands (disrespectful, she knew, but she had no others), she dragged every burned and blackened corpse to the center of what had once been her little Hogsmeade. Silently, she cursed and thanked the Death Eaters for mutilating the corpses; she could not cry for anyone anymore, even her parents, if she could not recognize their bodies.

When finally the sun had risen high over the village (Meg could only tell because the glow through the smoke intensified, and her watch read high noon), Meg counted the hundred-odd bodies belonging to her village mates. Certain she had missed no one, she struck two stones together until they sparked and with careful timing, set the bodies of her loved ones ablaze. She whispered a silent prayer in memorial, but stopped suddenly; if God could do this to everyone she had in the world, she was truly alone forever.

Meg glanced up over the rest of the village, and then turned her gaze far to the forest that ran up to the borders of her village. Movement, there, and she saw a flash of someone coming up the hill carrying a heavy basket. Red hair glinted, though Meg couldn't be certain, and so she waited to see what else this figure would do.

The figure looked very burdened with the basket on her back (Meg was sure, though she didn't know how she was sure, that this small figure was a she), until she reached a vantage point where the village, Dark Mark and all, could be seen. Dropping the basket on the ground and pulling something long and thin out of her sleeve, the robed figure sprinted up to the burning ruins. At this point, her face and figure became clear, and Meg was certain who she was.

But how could she have miscounted? Every body was accounted for, including that of her schoolteacher, who now appeared to be running towards Meg's funeral pyre. However, Meg was certain it was indeed the small witch who had taught her almost everything she knew, and instantly a sigh of relief escaped from her mouth, taking away her burden. Her schoolteacher could help, could make everything in the village all right, could even tell her why a brightly-colored bird had so desperately wanted a hat and a sword.

Meg smiled. Yes, Miss Ginny would make everything all right in the end. She always did.