In her dreams, Casey kills her father over and over again.
Sometimes, it happens just as it actually did, down to the littlest details. Others, Casey's carrying a knife instead of a wand, or a gun, sometimes nothing at all. Sometimes he begs for his life for a lot longer before he’s finally done. But it always ends the same way.
One time, it's a gun. It jams when she pulls the trigger and Casey hits him with it. It takes a long time, cracking someone’s skull, way longer than movies make it look. Casey grips the handle of the gun hard enough that her knuckles ache, and blood splatters everywhere, all over her face and the floor and the furniture, until Polaris Lestrange goes silent and his body goes still.
She jolts awake with Lestrange family blood on her face, sitting up abruptly on the bed. Her hands try to scrub the blood off only to find it clinging tightly to her skin. Her heart pounds way too hard against her ribcage, the sticky liquid lingering on her skin is bringing up memories of her father's lifeless body and she has to get this off, she has to get it off right now.
Casey stumbles out of bed and drags herself to the bathroom. The light is blinding for a moment when she turns it on, and she struggles to study her reflection in the mirror. She can’t see the blood, but she can feel it, warm and sticky on her skin, and that’s enough proof to her, right now, that it’s there. Washing her face in the sink with trembling hands doesn’t help much; if only, it seems to thicken the blood somehow, spreading it even further throughout her face, dripping down her neck and chest and into the tiles.
Her breathing is almost as quick as her heartbeats now, air leaving her lungs and rapid gasps that she can’t seem to be able to stop or control. She once again runs her trembling hands through the skin of her face, scrubbing over it roughly, uselessly. There’s blood on her hands too, under her fingernails, down her forearms.
Casey turns the knobs on the sink until the stream of water is scalding hot as it hits her hands and splashes her face. Casey leans on the porcelain, trying to catch a breath as her skin reddens. She breathes a sigh of relief as the blood finally, finally starts washing off. The water is hot, burning her skin as it pours down and fills the bathroom with steam, but bloody hell, does it feel good — a searing, cleansing pain.
It’s not enough, though; and as her body gets used to the hot spray of water, the feeling of blood sticking to her skin creeps back in. “No,” she breathes, hands scrubbing at her arms again. “Come on. Fuck, come on.”
She scrubs harder and harder at her arms, her face, hands, anywhere the sink can reach. She feels like a wild animal, no longer in control of her own body. She drags her fingernails into her cheeks as hard as she can, digs and digs until she breaks skin. She does the same to her forearms, pressing in so hard the skin splits, droplets of blood that she’s quick to rub away rushing up.
“Lestrange?”
The gruff cockney voice startles her so badly her heart skips a beat, like she’s been caught doing something wrong. Moody stands in the doorway; his voice blunt like it always is, but there’s the slightest hint of concern in his eyes. The sight of him snaps Casey back to reality. Her hands pause their scrubbing at the blood — its presence feels more distant now, although not gone —, but her breathing is still quick and erratic as she looks up at Moody.
She should say something, some deflection or excuse, but she doubts she’d be able to get any words out. So she stares ahead instead, her whole body trembling like the spray of water is ice cold instead of scalding.
The stream of water stops, and a towel falls over her hands. Casey looks up at Mad-Eye, eyes haunted and confused. Fuck, she can still feel the blood. Her hands ache to scrub it clean again, but Moody’s gaze on her makes her stop.
“Take a second, kid.” It feels like an eternity before Moody finally says something. “I’ll be downstairs.”
It takes Casey a good fifteen minutes to drag herself out of the bathroom. She becomes more aware of the stinging on her skin from where she’d scratched and burned herself as her breathing evens out. She considers going back to bed, just hiding under the covers until Moody gets the message and leaves, but the thought of falling asleep again makes her hands start to shake even more. So she makes her way downstairs only to find Moody sitting on the futon in the living room, a small first-aid kit and two steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table.
“What are you doing here?” is what Casey says, standing a few feet from the futon. “Thought I was going to do something stupid?”
“Let’s just say Dumbledore's very invested in you. Thinks you're a flight risk.” Moody doesn’t even look at her, taking a sip of tea. “Have a seat.”
It stings, the fact that Mad-Eye and Dumbledore are still suspicious that she’s bound to leave any moment, even after all these missions when she thought she’d been proving her worth. Still, she does as she’s told and takes a seat next to Moody, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself.
She watches, silent, as he rummages through the first-aid kit and dabs something onto a cotton pad. Winces when it comes into contact with the broken skin of her cheek, flinching away from Moody. “It’s just a few scrapes,” she grumbles.
“Just cleanin' up the blood.” The damp cotton is back at Casey’s face; not rough, but firm.
Moody doesn’t ask what the fuck she was doing, doesn’t say anything whatsoever as he cleans up the scratches and soothes the burns on Casey’s face, which she's grateful for. But there’s a twinge of disappointment behind the relief, something inside of her that wants to be pressed to talk about it so she has to talk to someone, get it off her system.
“I— I don’t know what—” She begins, the words getting stuck in her throat and refusing to leave in a coherent sentence. She takes a deep breath. “I know this looks crazy, but I swear I’m not—”
“I know you ain't.” Moody says. “Nightmares, is it?”
Casey's face must look amusingly surprised as she stares at Mad-Eye, because she thinks she sees a hint of what could be the beginnings of a smile in his lips. “You fell asleep during our last stakeout,” Moody reminds her. Casey doesn’t remember the dream, but she remembers waking up with a start in the passenger seat of some muggle van, her heart pounding against her ribcage. “It’s your dad, right?”
Casey nods, can’t help the wave of embarrassment that hits her. “Did I talk in my sleep?”
“A little.” Moody pushes the extra mug on the coffee table towards her once he’s done with Casey’s wounds. Lady grey, splash of cream, no sugar. She stops a moment to wonder how he knows the way she takes her tea. She takes a small sip, the drink cooled down just enough that it’s not too hot to enjoy.
“It’s not a big deal,” Casey says, even though it’s a lie. Part of her hopes Mad-Eye calls her out on it.
But he doesn’t. There’s a beat of silence, and Casey sips on her tea to fill in the time. This isn’t like the crushing silence when she’s alone with her thoughts, desperate to fill it in with any sounds before her head starts talking too loud. There’s something comforting about having someone else’s presence around; specially Moody’s.
“So why the scratching, though?” Moody asks.
Casey shrugs, swirling the remaining liquid in the mug for a moment. “There was blood on my face. In the dream, I mean. I kept trying to wash it off, but.” She trails off. Moody knows what happened. “His blood.”
Mad-Eye hums in understanding, setting his half-empty mug over the coffee table. “I remember when I was back on the field, as an auror. Before this whole mess. There was this new kid on my mission, all cheery and excited, like he'd won the lottery or somethin'. Halloween night, and he watches someone die for the first time. Guy’s bleeding out on the floor, and his little girl’s crying, begging him to get up. She was dressed like that muggle mouse, you know, with the polka-dots."
“Minnie,” Casey nods slowly, her attention on Moody’s every word. The story brings a chill down her spine, the way Casey can visualize everything in her mind even though Mad-Eye’s only giving her the bare essentials.
“Yeah. Minnie.” A small nod. “He couldn’t sleep a full night for weeks after that. Night terrors. He said he didn’t remember the dead bloke's face, but he always saw the little girl.”
Casey snorts humorlessly; not because she’s amused, but because she doesn’t quite know how else to react. “Did that guy also murder little Minnie Mouse in cold blood?”
Moody sighs. “Kid, what’s done is done. Sitting 'round and blaming yourself for it won't help anyone.”
She glares at him defensively. “Well, what can I do? I killed him. I can’t even say it was self-defense. It's not like I can just... I mean really...” Casey loses her fight, leaning her head back on the sofa and avoiding eye contact. Moody's voice softens.
“He knew the risks when he joined the war. Same as the rest of us.”
Casey sighs in defeat, and she doesn’t know if it’s because Moody has a point or because she’s too tired to argue. She downs the rest of her tea, stares at the bottom of the mug for a long moment.
“Did you ever—” She clears her throat, finally looking back over at Mad-Eye. “I mean, when you killed someone for the first time, did you… how…?”
The look on Moody’s face is hard to read. It’s frustrating, sometimes, to never be able to guess what he’s thinking or feeling; but there’s comfort to the calm he seems to always emanate.
“It’s a long story that you probably don’t wanna hear about.”
Casey gives a small nod. “Okay. But, I mean— did you freak out too?”
Moody's silent for so long Casey wonders if he’s going to answer at all, or if this is his way of dropping the subject. She almost backtracks, suddenly regretting asking. She doesn’t know what kind of answer she’s expecting; something to guide her, or merely a reassurance.
“No.” It’s simple, short. Mad-Eye grabs both of the empty mugs on the coffee table and stands up. “I'd better go.”
“You could stay a little longer.” There’s a near desperate request in her tone that Casey tries to conceal. She can’t bear to be alone again tonight, the mere thought of it making her uneasy. “I mean, you were going to spend the whole night keeping watch over me anyway, right? Not like you have anywhere else to go.”
Moody stares at her for a beat before moving to the kitchen without a word, leaving the mugs over the sink. Casey stares at the blackened fireplace, at the old painted walls, expecting to hear the front door closing shut at any second.
Instead, she hears the hum of the kettle starting up again. And, for the first time tonight, Casey allows herself to breathe a small, relieved sigh.