Chapter Twenty four

Are you strong enough for this, Veronica? Ophelia called out into the manic melange that was her mounting memories. I will need you.

I am here, Ophelia...always, came a gentle voice before a slender figure emerged to stand beside her, and I am strong enough. I am almost eager to know what led to my birth.

Ophelia smiled and held her soul sister in a firm embrace. Yes, I should imagine that you are... but, she added hastily as she pulled away to look Veronica in the eyes, it is not pleasant.

Shaking her head, Veronica reached out to grip Ophelia's shoulders, and she tugged her back into the embrace. It is you and should be a part of us; I will not turn from you.

Then, at your bidding, Veronica, here it comes!

oooXooo

"I'm sure that it's one!" she said in a firm but quiet voice, her eyes dark and resolute as they sat huddled on his bed. The curtains hid them from the view of those who shared the dormitory with him, and the Silencing Charm ensured their complete privacy, but they still felt compelled to whisper. "I know that it sounds daft that he'd use it so openly, but I'm sure that it's a Horcrux."

Ophelia tucked a slender strand of hair behind her ear and edged closer to the preoccupied youth. It was an unspoken rule between them that they never spoke about what happened between them and Voldemort; that in this enclosed haven, they forgot that they had to work for him and with him. This was a special place to bring the monster down. But to enhance her suspicions and explain her reasoning, she would have to break that dictum.

"Sometimes, he lets me use his wand." Her breath caught in her throat and her stomach churned as he stiffened, but she ploughed on. "I've held it, and it feels so different to others...like there's life in it: a life that shouldn't be there." Tugging nervously on the tips of her hair, she eased back, as if the distance would diminish the impact of her words. "I haven't felt such in any other wand."

"I don't know," Regulus said, carefully neutral as he flipped through his scrapbook; 'Voldemort', in bold letters, caught his attention at every turn, but the information he sought remained frustratingly hidden. "If you're right, then he made more than one."

His head hurt. They had struggled for over a year now; the proof of their hard work: the scrapbook, the carefully constructed dossier on the Dark Lord. It was exhausting, and his school work had tripled in readiness for his OWLs; his grades had slipped, and his mother's Howlers had only added to the almost unbearable strain. Ophelia had helped by taking Polyjuice and attending his lessons so that he could catch up on sleep, but the added hours were taking their toll on her too. She had lost weight, and her eyes no longer glittered, but looked dull and red-rimmed. Her skin had lost its healthy glow, and she looked sick most of the time; she had collapsed twice while doing Herbology, and their Head of House had put her in detention several times for aggressive behaviour. This was killing them.

"Well, why couldn't he have made more than one?" she demanded hotly, her eyes blazing indignantly. "You think that He cares about his soul being ripped apart?"

Regulus almost smiled at the fire burning in her, how her cheeks flushed and her lips thinned, how her eyes sparkled and her breath came in short, angry puffs. But he was tired and frustrated, and that bested him.

"I don't know," he snapped out, not caring that she reared back...looking hurt. "If he can make more than one, then how many of the bloody things did he make?" Angrily, he slammed shut the scrapbook and flung it across the bed.

She swallowed nervously; she had seen Regulus angry before, the struggle making both of them snappy, but it was the first time that he had directed it at her... and it stung. She tried to relax, tried to forget that he had snarled at her, tried to remember that he was exhausted. She wanted to answer him, give him some focus, something to work with, but she was so very tired. The task before them was immense, and every answer yielded more questions. It seemed endless, hopeless.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

oooXooo

The work had been hard going, and it would be fair to say that they had fought and snarled at each other in the months since embarking upon their task. Sometimes, they'd wounded with words, and at other times, more bitter times, they had cut with curses. Long days passed between reaction, remorse and reconciliation, but they were never far from each other's thoughts. Something greater than a shared goal held them together; it pained them to be apart.

The curtained bed in his dormitory was still their secret meeting place, a place where they finalised their plans, outlined their endeavours, and wept and suffered as the burdening vow crushed down upon them. The curtains protected them now as they pored over the latest findings and information, but Ophelia was distracted. With the distant chimes, ringing out the hour and ending the day, Ophelia put down her notebook and looked across at Regulus as he studied the papers in his hand.

"Happy birthday," she said with a tired smile.

Dragging his eyes away from the letters and the entries ripped from diaries, Regulus met her gaze and smiled back. His birthday was not as joyous an event for him, but he would rather eat flobberworms than hurt her feelings, and she had no idea that this was the year he intended to put his plans into action. This was the year that he would join Voldemort.

"Thank you."

Grinning at him, she withdrew a small box from her pocket and opened it up. Craning his neck to peer in, he saw a small cake with an impossibly thin and tiny candle on the top. She charmed a section of the duvet into something akin to a table top and carefully levitated the miniature cake onto the hard surface.

"Wow! That'll put inches on my waist, Ophelia," he said with mock sarcasm. "I'll have to give up being a Seeker on account of being too fat to get off the ground."

"Hush," she scolded and waved her wand over the chocolate-frosted cake, which promptly swelled into a reasonably sized, wonderfully gooey, calorie-laden cake.

"You really want Hufflepuff to win the match this weekend, don't you?" he sniped playfully. "Have you got some Galleons on the game?"

"You've only missed the Snitch twice since joining the team; I'd be mad to bet against Slytherin." She grinned across at him. "Unless I had good inside information that you were out of action."

"I haven't met a chocolate cake that I couldn't handle," he said stoically while conjuring a fork. "Bring it on!"

"Wait!" she snapped out. The fork hovered millimetres from the icing. Laughing, she waved her wand, and the wick of the candle flared into life; a flickering mix of reds, blues, greens and golds. "Make a wish."

The fork stopped menacing the cake while Regulus thought about his wish. Watching the colours caress her face and dance in her eyes, he wondered... pondered the chances, and without preamble, he blew out the flame.

"What did you wish for?" she asked.

"A chocolate cake that I can't handle!" he responded glibly while deep inside, his mind was turning over his wish: Ophelia survives! Ophelia survives!

The cake had lasted mere minutes; the two of them were merciless. Lying on the crumb-festooned duvet, they enjoyed the odd moment of peace and selfishness. The distant clock chimed out the passing of another hour, and he turned to her to tell her to go back to bed. He was surprised to see that she'd been lying on her side, watching him. Something flickered in her eyes, and he felt his mouth go dry, his heart leapt, and he suddenly felt clumsy and foolish. Something gripped him, and he couldn't look away, and when her lips parted so she could moisten them with the tip of her tongue, he thought that his heart would stop.

He had an idea what was about to happen; he was sixteen, and the others had all come in at one point and bragged about kissing. Listening quietly and suffering their callous remarks about no girl wanting Regulus when they could have the dashing older brother, it had never appealed to him. But now! Now, when she was so close to him, her hand hot against his cheek and her eyes dark, trapping him in her gaze; now, it was the most enthralling concept he had ever encountered.

Lost, he watched her face get ever closer, saw her pupils dilate and a flush blossom across her cheeks. Lungs stopped working and he felt paralysed as her mouth almost touched his, her breath warm over his cheek and then... someone snored loudly. He felt her startled gasp rush over his eager lips, and then she pulled back sharply.

"What was that?" she asked breathlessly.

"That was just Mulciber snoring," he said wearily, not sure whether to feel relieved or frustrated at the boy's startling racket. Regulus inhaled a shaky breath and collapsed back into his pillow.

Ophelia breathed out and glanced at him; it was clear that whatever had gripped her had fled, and he felt a flash of sorrow that the mood had gone.

"I'd best go," she said after a pause. "You got ten house points, by the way, for being able to turn a tortoise into a teapot. McGonagall was very impressed with you."

He grinned up at her as she slipped her legs off the bed. "How clever of me!" he said with feigned pride.

She giggled and tapped her wand against the top of her head; he watched as her charm took affect, and she slowly disappeared from sight. The curtains distorted as she stood and then parted, only to flutter closed behind her retreating body. He sighed and sank into the pillows, his mind racing over the challenges ahead: Voldemort, the Horcruxes, and getting another opportunity to kiss Ophelia.

oooXooo

It was oddly beautiful. She traced the outline of it with her fingertip, careful not to press too firmly against the red and inflamed skin. Above her own rapid breaths, she could hear Regulus breathing fast and erratic, and his left arm trembled as he held it out for her to see the Mark. Tears prickled her eyes, and she felt sick to her stomach. The black snake coiled on his forearm was the portent of their future; it would either be the key to their success or their failure; their deaths were a certainty.

"Does it hurt?" she asked gently.

"It's sore, but bearable," he mumbled out past clenched teeth. His arm burned! The pain coiled along his arm just as the damned snake did, radiating out to his shoulder and fingers, the entire limb throbbed agonisingly. It knocked him sick, and he felt light-headed. He had stared the bastard in the face as the wand tip seared his flesh, he had even smiled, but now that it was over and the anger that had gripped and guided him had dispersed, he felt nothing but terror. It was done, his destiny set. And if he planned it right, then she wouldn't share in it; she would live.

"Let me get the balm, it may soothe it," she stood, but his hand darted out and caught her wrist; his grip painful, unintentionally tight.

"I can't put anything on it," he hissed out. "The Dark Lord was explicit in his instructions; we do nothing to ease the pain."

Paling at his words, her lips drew back in disgust. She had loved him, sat in his lap and listened to his stories, let those lips kiss her cheek goodnight and those hands hold her. Feeling sick, she curled up, hugging herself; even now, she was forced to endure his presence, forced to carry on the charade that she was his 'sweet little imp'. She retched and her head swam, it was becoming too much. It was so hard to reconcile the man she spent time with and the man who ordered the slaughter of families and tortured his new recruits to test their devotion; it was macabre!

But that wasn't what revolted her the most; it was her own treacherous emotions. When she was with him, it all seemed so distant, so remote that her mind caused those thoughts to scurry off while she sank into the wonder of his voice and attentions. It gave her small comfort that this proclivity ensured her survival; assured him that she was indeed his clever little Opella.

"Why?" she screeched out. "Why did you have to do this?" Turning on him, she lashed out with her hand, catching him clumsily on his shoulder. "You had to be the hero! Why?" Sobbing, her voice a high-pitched whine as it carried her grief and anger.

In pain and weakened, Regulus accepted her blows, knowing that they stemmed from fear and exhaustion. If he could rant and scream, then he would too.

"I had no choice," he answered simply. "I couldn't sit by and let our family be picked off by Death Eaters because of Sirius. I couldn't let Voldemort's shadow linger over Mother. The house was so full of fear; it was like a fog in the air," he finished emotively. "If Sirius had stayed, or at least given me something, then maybe I could have spared you this and asked him for help, but he didn't."

A sharp laugh punched the air and she sneered at Regulus. "Don't worry about Sirius not helping." Her lips curved up maniacally. "He's certainly helping."

Suddenly alarmed at her disposition and words, he reached out for her arm which she yanked away from him.

"What do you mean?"

She refused to answer and crawled away from him, her mania dispersing as rapidly as it came, and she cuddled herself, rocking back and forth on the tiles.

"You ruined everything," she finally hissed out.

"Did I? And you'd rather be in thrall to a man who orders the deaths of hundreds?" he snapped out, the anger finally exceeding his pain. "A mindless puppet doing harm and evil just because you love him?"

At his words, she spewed bile; falling away from him, clutching at her hair, tugging on it, she tried to earth her vehement emotions.

"I don't love him," she moaned out plaintively. "I hate him," she added hotly.

"You fear him," he amended gently. "We all do."

Weeping in earnest, Ophelia curled up into a tight ball of misery. Regulus moved and wrapped his right arm around her bowed shoulders; she turned into him, embracing him carefully. Together, they comforted each other, both hurting, both fearful. They were alone.

oooXooo

"You seem distracted," Severus whispered into her ear as he deftly plucked the root from her tense fingers. "That's the second time you've sliced rather than crushed the tuber."

Blushing, Ophelia wiped her hand on a cloth and slipped off the stool. "Sorry, Severus," she mumbled. "I'll get some more from the cupboard."

"So you can deplete the last of my stock?" he said sternly, gripping her shoulders and directing her back to her stool. "I don't think so." With a firm push, he plonked her back on the wooden seat. "You sit and rest for a minute; I'll finish the preparation work."

Malfoy's basement had been turned into a well-equipped potions laboratory and had become their domain. Over the year, various other items had made their way down into the gloomy depths: a table, some armchairs, a few lamps, a small bookcase which housed the most up–to-date and useful potion manuals and texts, and a small cot for those potions that required round-the-clock attention. Ophelia's uncle was most generous and keen that their potion research should continue quickly and efficiently. Severus would not normally fault or question such gifts and interest, but he could feel himself sinking deeper and deeper. His gaze lingered on his companion: how was this affecting her?

"I'm just a bit tired," she said in way of an explanation.

"You slept like the dead last night," he mumbled while reaching for the roots dangling from their hook.

The potion that they had started could have done with two pairs of hands, but when he'd knocked on her bedroom door and received only silence, he had slipped inside to see her wrapped up in her duvet as though it protected her from all ills. It hadn't strained him to gently close the door and leave her for the lab and the work ahead. The hours alone had passed quickly enough, but he had found himself often on the cusp of asking her to perform some task or seek her opinion, only to realise that she wasn't there, and somehow, that disturbed him. He had grown fond of her presence, relying upon her; her absence impacted upon him.

Twirling the dried root in his fingers, he studied her bent form. She looked exhausted. The yellow potion simmering in the pewter cauldron only needed a few more ingredients added before it could be left to simmer for three hours, and he wondered if something could draw her out of her mood.

It was only a few days until the start of the Spring term; she'd return to Hogwarts, and he'd be either here or at Spinner's End, fulfilling his new master's every wish. The thought depressed him, but her lack of vigour worried him more; no thirteen-year-old should be so sombre: especially her.

"The potion is almost complete," she said. "We should get it done."

"Since when have you been the voice of duty?" Severus asked good-humouredly.

The glance that she directed at him was chilling, and the smile slipped from his face, leaving him cold. Walking over to her, he caught her chin and tugged her face up towards his; her mood was erratic and terrifying, and he needed the calm and serene girl back. This, whatever it was, went beyond the normal rigours of study.

"You're tetchy and unfocused," he snapped at her. "You can't concentrate, and you're making elementary mistakes. If you can't sort this out, then you're no good to me as a colleague," he continued more gently, his concern seeping out into his voice. At his words, he saw her face crumple and tears gather, but instead of succumbing, she straightened and jerked angrily away from him.

"I get tired once, and you have a go at me!" she stated viciously. "What about all the times you've come back from your meetings with Him, and I've had to take up your slack?"

Anger flared; a nasty, hot anger that tried to incinerate his affection. "You're suggesting that you're suffering the same as I am? That in amongst your lessons and study sessions at Hogwarts, you're facing something as terrible as the Dark lord?" Yanking on her arm, he pulled her towards him. "You fail a test, and you get a 'T'; I fail a test, and I get the Cruciatus: how can you compare them?"

Her lips parted and trembled as though a thousand things wanted to tumble from her mouth, but at the last, she snapped her lips shut and looked away. Not quick enough though.

"What has Regulus got to do with this?" he demanded hotly.

"Nothing!" she spat back.

Fear coiled around his throat and chest, making speaking and breathing suddenly difficult. Was she planning something with Regulus? The younger Black had been honoured amongst the Death Eaters, gaining the Mark at a younger age than any other. Bile burnt a path to his mouth. Was she planning on joining the illustrious ranks? Was Regulus tutoring her on how to please the Dark Lord? But that wasn't right! Ophelia had no need to cosset the Dark Lord: she was already adored. The only other thing lumbered into his mind like a troll amongst alembics. Did Ophelia love Regulus? Not the cousinly love that you'd expect...or that Severus hoped...but the love that tormented and raged, indulged and took. Were they lovers?

Releasing her arm, he backed away from her. Those dark eyes of hers followed him warily, and he felt too open and exposed. His sudden and unexpected feelings had surprised and worried him. They brought up too many other questions, and he wasn't ready to think about them; he hardly wanted to know that they existed. Perhaps it was better that she loved Regulus, and he knew about it. Certainly better than letting someone know that you loved them and finding out later that they had loved someone else all along. It'd hurt less.

Shaking his head, he turned away and looked unseeingly at the ingredients cupboard. From behind him, he could hear her angry huffs, but no heels clicking against the tiles. Was she staying despite his outburst? How he hoped....

"I'm sorry, Severus." The voice startled him. It sounded so old, so weary. "I have been working too hard on other, personal projects. I should have made time for this." A soft sigh carried, and he let a sympathetic keen pass his lips. "I need to do something; something that I can't explain at this time... It's a matter of the heart rather than the head."

Licking his lips and swallowing hastily, he span on his heel and smiled softly at her. "I should be apologising. I had no right to... go where I wasn't invited." Inside, his heart clenched painfully, but more as a result of dashed hopes than a feeling of betrayal. She did indeed love Regulus. The potency of it almost snatched his breath. When had he grown that fond of Ophelia?

The lines on his face hardened, and she gently wove through his thoughts to see the cause of it. Partly gratified that he had concluded that she was in love with Regulus, she found herself wondering if that kind of love was indeed what she felt. It was so confusing! Working next to Severus had become one of her joys, and she would readily admit that she wished to secrete herself in the gloomy lab with him at every opportunity. It hurt to think that Severus thought her out of reach...did she want him to reach out? But then... Did she love Regulus?

It was terrible! Her lower lip wobbled, and the tears that had gathered started to fall. It seemed as though her whole body trembled, and as he continued to watch her, he recognised the signs. Hadn't he had the shakes such as that when he was finally alone? After he had been ordered to do something vile, and he had had to pretend to enjoy his forced barbarism? Oh Merlin he beseeched. What have you gotten yourself into?