Chapter Twenty three

"I was prepared to become what I'd dreaded and feared," Dumbledore's voice wavered, and it was his tone more than his words that made her open her eyes and look at him.

His face was turned away, and the light gave his skin a greyish cast. "I was satisfied that the end would justify the means." Disgust coalesced on his face and thickened his voice. "Those dear to me warned me in subtle ways that some things cannot be, and that some people cannot be swayed or coerced, that to force such things was terrible."

She released a breath in his pause and tried to see the manipulation, the sting.

"I was so convinced that you were the key, that you could turn the tide of this war." He turned to face her, and despite his quiet voice, his eyes blazed. "And what do I discover?" He smiled bitterly and waved in her direction. "I find another Death Eater!" He gave a derisive laugh and shook his head. "Another viper lurking and waiting for its moment to strike!"

She turned away and stared at the peeling door; she knew that her chaotic thoughts would betray her, and she was in no mood to slip so easily into Dumbledore's trap. The old anger was beginning to bubble and rise, and she would use whatever weapon she could scrounge up, but anger was a two-edged sword and as liable to cut her as well as him. They couldn't possibly know anything but what was allowed to be known.

The only other who knew was long dead, as good as dead by her own hand. She closed her eyes and forced down the unwelcome images and the rising bile. Her mind was reeling; so many things competed for attention: questions, memories, desires and terrors. It was horribly ironic that after all her efforts and determination all those years ago that she, herself, should be her undoing.

"We have searched for you in the vain hope that you would be some lost avatar against Voldemort..." He paused, seeing her eyes widen and her pulse pound in her throat. "The name still thrills you, does it?"

He frowned; he looked quite fearsome towering over her, only a thought away from raping her memory.

"The things I was prepared to do and become to help you, the things I would have willingly sacrificed to have you and destroy Tom Marvolo Riddle." His eyes were fierce, but there were no tell-tale touches within her mind, no subtle fingers peeling back her thoughts and dredging up her memories. Never had she wasted an opportunity, and she concentrated, extending her mind; she had always been a skilled Legilimens, a skill that had not diminished with her flight from the magical world. Amongst his anger and despair, she saw one image, one that was quickly and fearfully snatched from her grasp, she saw a young boy with a red scar on his forehead and bright green eyes, and behind him, like a horrid and constant shadow, the wispy form of a red-eyed wraith.

Dumbledore reared back, his expression closed and unrevealing, but his quivering hand smoothing down his beard belied his calm.

"You have nothing to say?" he asked gently. "No defence? No protestations of your innocence? Many of Voldemort's followers soon betrayed him when they thought him dead. They denounced him as a manipulator and a madman and pleaded that they had been cursed. Your disappearance was quite fortunately timed." He smiled sweetly, and in a swirl of purple velvet, he turned and left the room.

Releasing her breath, she shuddered as wave after wave of shivers wracked her body; she had never been this terrified; the Dark Lord had never terrified her this deeply. Could Dumbledore know? Could he know that she had planned her timely disappearance? Her heart hammered, pounding in her chest, and her breath was drawn down into desperate lungs; it was possible that she had not been as careful as she had thought. If Dumbledore suspected, then did He know? Swallowing quickly, she felt the almost forgotten sensation of mind-numbing fear overwhelm her, stealing her thoughts and breath. She tried to move, but her limbs felt as though tied to her sides; only her head moved freely. Reining in the mounting dread, she willed herself to think; her mind had always been her greatest weapon, and now, it was her only weapon.

oooXooo

"It's not true!" she screeched, lashing out until Regulus was forced to catch her hands to prevent injury. She struggled, trying to twist her wrists free from his tight, desperate grip.

"Listen to me, Ophelia!" he shouted. He spun her around, wrapping his arms tightly around her upper body, trapping her flailing arms by her side, and then hauled her back so he could speak in her ear. "Uncle Tom and the Dark Lord are one and the same." She squirmed and struggled, kicked at his shins and stamped on his feet. He gritted his teeth as pain flared from his bruised toes and shins. "He is the Dark Lord!" he snarled out. "He is Voldemort!"

It was if the mentioning of the dreaded name cleansed her madness, and she collapsed against him, sobbing and wailing. When he released his hold on her, she turned into him, pressing her face against his chest. He could feel her tears soaking through his school shirt and her hot breath as she muffled her screams against him. Frantic arms swiftly encircled him, clutching at him, her fingers biting into his flesh. Wincing at the sting, he wrapped her in his arms and held her as she came to terms with the idea that the man she loved like a father was the man that she had secretly grown to despise and fear.

Regulus swallowed and wished for a chair; the Room of Requirement obliged, and a large, soft sofa appeared behind him, and shuffling backwards, he fell into its welcoming softness. Ophelia followed and landed by his side, her arms and fingers still cleaving to him. He crooned softly and stroked her back, whispering words of nonsense and letting his arms comfort her.

Eventually, her sobs subsided, and she fell away from him, lying on her back with her forearm draped over her eyes. It was an awkward pause in which one still recovered from her bout of hysterical revelation, and he trembled in fear of the consequences of her disillusionment. Would her love for Uncle Tom outweigh her hate for Voldemort? He ran his tongue over his dry lips and carefully lifted up onto his elbow. The first step towards completing his vow had been taken, and in the process, he was assured that he had sealed the doom for one of them, or both.

"Why did you have to tell me?" she asked forlornly.

Regulus felt a pain stab through his chest; he knew what it felt like to have faith in someone shattered. He tentatively gripped her shoulder and gave it a steadying and loving squeeze.

"Sirius has run away," he said softly, his voice thickening with grief and anger. "I have no one else to help me."

She stirred next to him, turning on her side, her eyes shimmering and wide as they looked at him; he felt raw in her gaze and blinked away the tears. She still sniffled, and her breath still hitched, but her sorrow was now for him, her own a mere shadow.

"He ran away?"

"A few days after the end of term," he said quietly.

The long month until the start of the school year had dragged; every morning had been the same agonising walk down the stairs to hear his mother rant about her son's betrayal while his father stared quietly into his porridge, letting her bile seep across the breakfast table. The same awkward silences every day while she caught her breath, and the same thought dancing through his brain: why hadn't Sirius taken me with him?

He had yearned for the start of year, yearned to ask Sirius why, only to have his world shattered when his older brother had looked coldly upon him and stalked away with his Gryffindor friends. Regulus' heart had plummeted to his stomach and withered. Desperate eyes had followed Sirius' retreating back, waiting eagerly for any clue or sign that Sirius had seen his error, but Sirius had never looked back; had never seen the tears on Regulus' face or his breaking heart. Without his elder brother, he had sought out the only one who he thought, hoped, would help him; he had sought out Ophelia.

"He left you there?" she asked incredulously. "He never asked if you wanted to go with him?"

Regulus had wept himself dry; he had no more tears to spare for Sirius and the mess that he had left behind when he had slipped out of his window and into the night. It was so sadly ironic that they had never shared with each other their common hatred; that they had suffered in silence and decided to deal with it in their own way. How different things could have been if they had been able to see past the Houses they had been Sorted into.

"It doesn't matter now," he said after reining in his galloping grief. "I have been thinking about what needs to be done. Mother says that his running away has brought shame upon our house, and she's afraid of repercussions." He recalled how his father, after so many years of apathy, had suddenly thundered through the house, casting spells and muttering curses under his breath. His eyes had burned with something that could only be called desperation while he had strengthened the wards around the house as if the Grim itself was howling in the street outside.

She sniffed and pulled out her handkerchief, the one that he had given her a year ago on her first day at Hogwarts; she had sewn a letter 'O' around his initials.

"What will you do?" Her voice was muffled by the hankie as she wiped her nose.

She watched the fourteen-year-old straighten and inhale slowly, how his jaw clenched in determination and his eyes hardened. She swallowed nervously and felt her stomach roll in dread.

"I'm going to join the Death Eaters!"

oooXooo

At the sound of the front door closing, Sirius lifted himself out of the chair, stepped into the hallway and crept up the stairs. Stopping outside Ophelia's room, he stared at the delicate pattern of cracked varnish on the door; he should do it now, now, while the anger was hot. Gritting his teeth and letting the anger burn its way through him, he reached out for the handle. Now, while his mind was set. If he wanted his answers, now was the time to collect them, and if he had to force her, then so be it! The potion had done its job, and she'd had one night to savour her recollections and ponder her situation. He should do it now while she understood her guilt.

"Sirius?"

He leapt away from the door and turned to see Lupin standing half-way up the stairs with a tentative and expectant expression on his face. Sirius was bombarded with emotions...fear, guilt, anger, gratitude, shame, hate. He couldn't move or speak; he felt paralysed by the enormity of what he had planned. What had he become? What vile, disgusting thing was he that he could think of torturing his cousin?

"Moony," he whispered, his throat clogged and voice thick. Stumbling, his side hit the banister as silent sobs tore through him. His head felt ready to explode with the thunderous and repetitive screams filling his skull. The screams demanded that he carry on, that he do what he had set out to do; he wanted revenge, a way to ease his melancholic pain and suffering. His chest constricted painfully, and his gut twisted violently. Feeling as though he was clinging onto his sanity with his fingernail, a wide, hungry and gaping throat below him, waiting to gulp him down into hell, he reached out for his saviour; he reached out for Lupin.

"Help," he mumbled, hoping that his desperate plea would be heard. Suddenly, arms were around him, tight and warm. He slipped down to his knees, and his rescuer went with him; hearing soft words in his ear and feeling the strength of the embrace, Sirius fell apart.

Lupin could only hold Sirius, his heart breaking as the man keened and wailed, as he roared and sobbed out his grief, disillusionment, fears, hates and despair into his chest. Lupin felt tears sting his eyes, and his chest tightening with the pressure of sympathetic sorrow. He strengthened his hold, hoping that it translated his love, and let Sirius purge himself of all that had been rotting and festering deep within him.

Gently lifting the weak and broken man, Lupin guided him to his bedroom, and while whimpers fell from Sirius' trembling lips, he pulled off Sirius' tatty slippers. Tugging the thin blanket up, Lupin tucked the dazed man in and was about to leave when a thin hand darted out to hold him in place.

"I'm sorry, Moony," he managed to croak out. "I... I don't know what's wrong with me," he confessed in a high-pitched whine, his blue eyes wide and fear-filled. "I..." he began, gripping Lupin's hand ever tighter.

"Hush," Lupin soothed, gently brushing Sirius' forehead with his free hand. "Sleep will help."

Sitting with his friend until the man's breath evened out was no easy task; the sounds emanating from the wasting man as he tossed and turned in that prelude to peaceful sleep was almost unbearable. Lupin resolved himself to talk with Dumbledore about Sirius' despair. This war was hurting people in unimaginable ways, and he felt something turn to stone deep within: seeking Ophelia had best have been worth it!

oooXooo

Ophelia's legs trembled as they tried to support her weight. Gritting her teeth, she reminded herself that years ago, she had been this weak, wobbling and falling while a physiotherapist encouraged her to walk. She knew that she could do this; only in this instance, time was now her enemy and not atrophied muscle.

Using the bed for support, she shuffled agonisingly slowly towards the door; the ache in her legs almost unbearable as she forced them to move. Gripping the bedstead and panting, she glared at the door handle only a few feet from the bottom of the bed. She inhaled, gritted her teeth, summoned some wrath to buoy up her flagging strength, and lunged.

Fingers scrabbled at the door, trying to find some purchase, but her momentum was such that she crashed into the door and slid down the wood into an ungainly heap. Suppressing a giggle, she reached up and grabbed the spherical handle, using it to pull herself upright. Breathing hard and sweating, she leant against the doorframe. Licking her lips and taking a steadying breath, she twisted the door knob...nothing! The knob just turned and turned. She tried turning it the other way but was left equally unrewarded. Her upper lip curled up in disgust; all that effort for nothing!

She sighed and decided that if she couldn't escape the room, then at least she could strengthen her legs. Using the door for support, she pushed herself away and took a few hesitant steps back towards the bed. She repeated the feat several times; each time her steps were stronger and her balance better.

When the time was right, she would be ready.

Without a clock, she had no idea what time it was, how long she had been here, or how long she had been awake. Some time had been diverted to pondering the puzzle, but even if she was now missed by some concerned person, she doubted that the police would ever be able to locate her. A snort escaped her, and she smiled wryly; it would be a few days yet before anyone even suspected her missing. Hoping that she could at least determine where she was, she had peered through the window, but the small window had disclosed very little other than that she was in a city; row upon row of dark, glistening rooftops, criss-crossing wires, slanted aerials and swooping, cooing pigeons had greeted her inquisitive eye. Something about the view, however, struck a chord, some resonating sense that this was familiar.

Sighing with frustration, she stepped swiftly and surely over to the bed and flopped down upon it. She knew that Dumbledore had her, and although his visit yesterday had terrified her, she still found some comfort in that fact. Some vestiges of faith bolstered her, convincing her that her old Headmaster would do her no direct harm; but of the others who she suspected worked along side him, she had no idea. She wondered what they wanted from her; had they found out about her activities while under the Dark Lord's tutelage? Were they just after answers and information? The thought that horrified her above all others was of being reunited with the Dark Lord; with that hanging over her, being trapped in a wizard's house was bizarrely reassuring. Her mind and legs strengthening in the small room, she resigned herself to waiting for them to tell her what they intended.

The click of the door pulled her out of her musings, and feigning weakness, she angled her head to see who entered. The eye caught her attention first, bright blue and glowing as it latched onto her with disturbing attentiveness. He limped into the room, some prosthesis clunking against the floor, and took up his station in the empty space that the wardrobe had once occupied. A movement caught her eye, and her gaze flicked back to the door; she almost smiled at the sight of Minerva McGonagall. A wave of nostalgia battered at her reserve, and she recalled her Transfiguration lessons with the professor, her sharp, Scottish voice demanding absolute attention, and the way her hat had wobbled on her head when she shook with rage.

"No point lyin' there, girl," Moody grizzled. "We've been watching yer walk about for the last two hours; would have come up earlier, but yer seemed to be enjoyin' yerself." His tone was light, and yet despite the lack of rancour, she felt herself bristle.

"We thought that you'd like to freshen up and then have some breakfast." Minerva managed to put enough inflection in her voice to suggest that Ophelia had some choice in the matter, but not enough.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice still tight and rough from her screaming. "Where am I?"

"You're with the Order of the Phoenix," Minerva answered curtly.

Ophelia knew the name; how often had she heard the others talking and moaning about the Order? She licked her lips; bath and food sounded wonderful, and she was pragmatic enough not to resist because of pride. She needed to eat and drink. If they laced her food, it was no matter; with the arsenal of spells at their disposal, they could do what they wanted without resorting to subterfuge.

A few moments later and with barely a comment, Ophelia slipped into the wonderful warm bath, and her toes curled as she relaxed into the sensations. The hot water soothed her aching muscles, and she found that she didn't care that it slowed her thinking or that the pleasure quashed her trepidation and anger. She lathered herself and rinsed off the sweet-smelling suds. Soon, her stomach began to protest, and she reluctantly clambered out of the bath and reached out for the waiting towel.

The only garments in the room were folded neatly on a small, wicker chair, and she quickly dressed in the robes supplied. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, she paused to study herself; she felt an odd mix of surprise and comfort. It seemed as though she had never seen herself in such clothes, and yet, she also felt as though she had never worn anything but Wizarding robes. The russet gown was plain by Wizarding standards. It hung loosely on her slender frame, the cuffs falling past her wrists, and she giggled at the sight; she looked like a little girl dressing up in her mother's clothes.

She heard a rap at the door and was tempted to flick her wrist to unlock it, but her feet carried her, almost unthinkingly, over to draw back the latch. She looked at the door and frowned; there was no lock. She waved her hand and heard the click of some invisible bolt, and the door swung open.

Minerva stood outside, holding a pair of slippers. "Put these on and then, I'll dry your hair."

"Yes, Professor McGonagall."

Minerva suppressed a smile at the tone of bored acquiescence that was so reminiscent of her as a student. Perhaps she was, Minerva thought. She had been only sixteen when she had lost her memories; would she think and feel as a teenager despite being nearly forty?

Ophelia slipped on the soft shoes and felt the warming charm hit her cold toes. Standing tall, she obligingly kept still while her old teacher waved her wand. The spell swirled around her head, and her hair felt as though being gently tugged by invisible fingers. Once the sensations had stopped, she tentatively felt her head; her hair was dry and tied up into a thick plait.

"Much better," said Minerva with a smile. "Hungry?"

The question went straight to her stomach, which growled out its answer, and with an eager nod, she followed Minerva, not downstairs as she had expected, but back to the small, far too familiar room. She scowled and glanced longingly down the stairs and into the enticing gloom.

Moody had conjured a table and four chairs; the table was laid simply for one, with a teapot, cup and saucer, crockery, cutlery and napkin. Her mouth watered at this visual promise of food and drink. He pointed at a chair, and she quickly sat down, dismayed to discover that the chair seemed fixed in position. Moody waved his hand and the chair scurried closer to the table, causing Ophelia to let out a squeal of surprise and clutch at it for support. Satisfied that the chair was once more stationary, she let go and draped the napkin across her lap while her companions sat, Moody on her left and Minerva opposite.

Minerva tapped the tabletop with her wand, and the plates were suddenly swamped with food. Porridge, sausage, bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, toast, marmalade, jam, honey, brioche, croissants, muffins and fruit appeared, accompanied with a steaming pot of tea. She let her eyes devour the wondrous sight and then tucked in, selecting a bit of everything, her eyes bigger than her belly. Despite the gnawing hunger, she ate slowly and carefully; no point in making herself ill by glutting.

Ophelia felt odd twinges of dislocation as her captors sat so companionably next to her; shouldn't she be confined or restrained? It seemed that time had desensitised her to it all, and the fear that had gripped her was off somewhere, biding its time.

"After breakfast, Dumbledore will be up to 'ave a word with yer," said Moody conversationally.

Ophelia choked on her toast and swallowed hastily. She felt her gut roll unpleasantly, and the toast slipped from her trembling fingers onto the plate. She rallied and smiled sweetly.

"The latest gossip and the highlights of the last twenty years?" she responded glibly, annoyed that they should make her switch so easily from comfort to dread; that they should keep her so off balance.

Moody grinned back, the scar across his cheek distorting disturbingly. "Oh no, lass," he said cheerfully, "'E wants to talk about 'istory; feelin' quite nostalgic at the moment is Dumbledore and wants to share in times gone by." He leant back in the chair and sighed softly. "'E has this idea that yer know somethin' that would be 'elpful to us, and... yer'll laugh, I know, but 'e thinks that yer will 'elp us out."

"Oh, good heavens, Alastor," Minerva scolded gently. "Don't be so melodramatic! We're trying to enjoy breakfast."

"Yes, Alastor." Ophelia felt the hysteria that had clung to her since she awoke rear its head. She giggled and felt light-headed. "Please wait until elevenses at least."

oooXooo

Sirius stopped on the threshold into the kitchen when he heard Dumbledore's voice. He licked his lips and swallowed past a dry throat. Still feeling raw and vulnerable from the recent nightmare and his collapse on the landing, the thought of Dumbledore peering at him made him feel even worse. But he had hidden from too much lately, used anger and hate as a blinker rather than face and accept his role. Summoning some courage, he sauntered in.

Lupin was sitting, sipping tea and reading the Daily Prophet; there was a tight furrow between his eyebrows, and his lips were drawn together angrily. Dumbledore was standing serenely at the head of the table, watching Lupin's wrath escalate with every disgusting word he read.

"They want us to register as Dangerous Creatures?" he muttered harshly, the paper trembling in his tight grip.

"The Ministry must be seen to be doing something," Dumbledore explained, bitterness staining his consoling words. "They have been convincing the public of their ability to control the situation by impacting upon those individuals that have caught the dreadful imagination of the populace."

Lupin slammed down his cup, tea splashing over the sides, and glared up at the Headmaster.

"Werewolves have done less harm than Death Eaters! Do they really think that we enjoy this? That we chose to be what we are? That we don't suffer with this?" Anger and despair made his voice harsh. "We'll lose the support of the werewolves who have been helping us," he said bitterly. "They'll lose their faith in me...all that work." His voice trailed off as his disappointment mounted.

"It is indeed unfortunate, but do not lose heart, Remus; your role is now more important than ever to keep them from turning to Voldemort for salvation."

Sirius swallowed, he had never stopped to consider the dangers and the trials that the others suffered; he had been too busy wallowing in his own self-pity. He had thought that he couldn't feel any worse.

"If anyone can keep their faith alive, then Remus can," Sirius said, part apology, part recognition.

Lupin's head twisted round, and a generous smile bloomed on his grey, tired face when his eyes alighted upon Sirius standing in the doorway.

"Thank you, Padfoot."

"Care for some tea, Headmaster?" asked Sirius as he stepped over to the kettle on the stove.

"Thank you, Sirius, but I have a cup waiting for me upstairs." With that, Dumbledore bade them a good morning and swept from the kitchen.

"She's definitely awake then?" Sirius queried as he filled the black kettle.

After the cathartic breakdown on the landing, his interest had intensified; he felt that after the hatred he had nurtured and then purged, he owed her something: owed her some thought, owed her some chance to be who he had thought and now hoped her to be.

"Yes," Lupin answered, his disquiet still clearly evident.

Sirius felt a flutter of excitement, and his hand shook as he held the kettle under the tap. Carrying the kettle back to the stove and spelling a flame beneath it, his mind pondered the woman upstairs about to divulge her secrets to Dumbledore.

Lupin had turned his attention back to the damning Daily Prophet as if the words would twist into something better if he squinted enough. He mumbled his thanks when a fresh cup of tea was slid next to his elbow and finally dropped the paper onto the table top...it was no use; werewolves were damned.

Across from him, Sirius nibbled some toast and drank his tea, his expression calm and mildly thoughtful. Lupin felt his lips quirk; he knew that look from old: Sirius was planning something. It was good to have Sirius back, truly back; the darkness seemed to be lifting, and the old camaraderie returning. It lifted his spirits after struggling for so long.

"Anything planned for the day then, Padfoot?"

"Oh, I was thinking of going upstairs and listening in," he replied innocently. "Dumbledore didn't say that we couldn't."

Lupin thought back, and Sirius was perfectly right; they hadn't been excluded from the event. He felt a reciprocal interest growing, and with a grin, he stomped on his Prefect heritage and exhaustion and took a deep drink from his cup.

"Come on then," he said impishly, startling Sirius into a broad grin, and they carefully walked up the stairs.

oooXooo

Breakfast ended, and the dirty dishes disappeared save for the teapot and the cup and saucer. She felt uneasy as Minerva conjured three more cups and saucers; they rested on the table, bizarre harbingers of the ordeal ahead. Licking her lips, she hid some of her tension behind small sips of tea. Just as she reached the bottom of her cup and the end of her tether, there was a knock at the door. Her cup rattled noisily against her saucer, and she thought she caught a smug grin on Moody's face. Minerva waved her hand languidly and the door swung open.

Ophelia's mind shut down; she could barely concentrate on breathing. She had held the fear and dread at bay, and now, the kindly man who had been her Headmaster was about to break the dam.

"Good morning, Ophelia," he said politely, almost as if he had forgotten that yesterday, he had accused her of being a Death Eater.

"Good morning, Headmaster," she responded out of habit.

"I hope that breakfast was to your liking?"

"Yes, Headmaster." Her palms were clammy and slick, her throat sore and dry. It was surreal! Sitting politely, drinking tea! She seemed disconnected from herself, but aware of the chaotic and raging emotions just waiting to be realised. She wanted to scream, to run, to pound her fists against the tabletop, to throw the crockery and watch it shatter; she wanted to crawl and hide, and she wanted it all to stop.

"I'm sure that Alastor has told you that I wish to have a talk with you, Ophelia," Dumbledore said as he poured himself a cup of tea. "It is the reason that you were brought here." He turned to look at her, his blue eyes twinkling. "We want to know what you know about Horcruxes."

The meal that had satisfied her not minutes before now churned unpleasantly and threateningly in her stomach. A sweat broke out, and she felt a few errant drops run down her back. Her mind tried to see a way past the question, a way to deny knowledge and, for a while, she thought that she'd found a route. But then, she wondered why; why was she keen in keeping this to her herself? Why should it be her task alone? The Order had stood against the Dark Lord for years, dying and killing to stop Him. And she was so tired, so tired of waiting for the Killing Curse to cut her down, and it would have done, either by her family's hand or the Order's.

Her eyes stung, and fat tears sprung from between the clenched eyelids; she felt them slide, hot and fast, down her cheeks. Her throat burned with the effort of muffling the sobs, and she knew that she was a breath away from breaking apart. The years that she had been Veronica need not have happened; the pain she had endured at the age of sixteen was as fresh and as keen as ever. It had never healed, it had never gone away; it had bided its time until it could make her hurt again.

Moody, Minerva and Dumbledore watched her fight her emotions; they could see the extent of the struggle in the way she gritted her teeth and grimaced, how her fists clenched, the knuckles white, and how her body trembled violently. Stuttering and stifled, keening wails erupted from her, and her cheeks were moist, tears dripping from her chin. Minutes stretched, and then, she gave one grief-stricken moan and slumped in the chair, her head falling to rest on her forearms on the tabletop. Her chest heaved as she drew in great gulps of air and they petered out into the occasional hiccoughs. Straightening in her chair and primly dabbing her slick cheeks with her napkin as if she had merely sniffled rather than poured out her sorrow, she faced her potential allies or jurors.

"What would you like to know," she finally asked, her voice toneless and resigned.

"Everything, my dear," Dumbledore responded gently while he poured her another cup of tea.