Chapter Twenty five

Author's Notes: Many apologies for the long lull in posting; something nasty happened to my computer. I'm not technical, so I have no idea what the murder weapon was, but suffice to say that not much on my old computer survived.

Many thanks to my patient beta, Falconfalmorgan, and to Trickie Woo, who checked through and has offered so much advice.

The trolley plummeted down the steep rails, and Moody glanced over at Smith. A grim smile twisted his lips; Smith was clutching at the handrail and looking decidedly queasy. The Auror had never fared well on any form of transport. It had been a running joke during their training days that Smith had become a master marksman solely to avoid the need to pursue a suspect on broomstick.

Serves the old codger right, thought Moody, for keeping such a useful snippet to himself; many a skeleton could be found in abandoned closets. Letting out a chortle, which was smothered by the screech of wheels against track, Moody enjoyed the thrill of the ride and let the thrill of the hunt finally infuse him.

The goblin sitting in the front pulled on the brake, and the cart screamed to a halt by a dark and cold platform.

"Thank Merlin!" moaned Smith while clambering out and lurching over to the safety of the stationary wall. His shuffling footsteps echoed mournfully in the small cave-like hollow.

The goblin huffed and lumbered over to a door seemingly carved into the rock face. Pulling out a simple, golden key, the banker waved his long-fingered hands, and with a dull vibration, the door opened. He turned to the two wizards and studied them both with distaste. The amber light danced in his sharp, black eyes.

"As per the agreement between the Bank and the Ministry of Law Enforcement, you have one hour to search the vault for the items you seek." With that instruction and warning, the goblin turned on his heel and climbed into the trolley. With the sound of grinding metal, the trolley rolled along the track to be swallowed whole by the suffocating dark. The two wizards waited until the rumble of wheels faded.

"Charmin' fellow," mumbled Smith.

"Stop gripin' and come on," Moody said impatiently; his palms almost itched at the prospect of rifling through Elladora Black's vault. "We got a lot of vault to search, and I reckon that we 'ave about 'alf of that 'our before they realise we shouldn't be 'ere." Nodding, Smith quickly followed him in. "Yer go over there, and I'll look 'ere. You know what we're after."

"We duplicate the information and go from there," continued Smith, stepping past a pile of Galleons equating to his salary. "This is thrillin', ain't it?" he asked with a merry lilt to his voice. "Takes me back a few decades, it does."

"Well, if it takes ye back to the days when yer were a moody and quiet man, then that'll be 'elpful."

Smith straightened and snorted. "What happened to yer sense of humour?"

"Nothing," Moody answered bluntly. "I never 'ad one."

Dust, cobwebs and gathered treasures littered the small vault. This was the vault mentioned in the codicil: vault 759. This was what Elladora had bequeathed to Ophelia, and it was a fair inheritance. Ophelia would not struggle financially in the Wizarding world while she found her feet. But they weren't interested in that. They were after something that had been put in here after her mother's death. Or at least, what they hoped had been deposited in amongst the gold and glitter. Oddly, it was a treasure that Elladora may have scorned, and one that may have cost Capella her life.

Smith checked his timepiece: ten minutes had rushed past while they had waded through the useless dross. He could imagine the miserable goblin sitting at his desk and pondering the presence of two Aurors in the vault. If they couldn't find it soon, then they'd have to surrender the line of enquiry, but Smith was reluctant to let that happen. Smith was prepared to risk the rest of his life to prevent the mystery surrounding Capella and Ophelia being left to slowly decay in an abandoned vault.

But where were they?

"'Ere!" exclaimed Moody, lifting up a cardboard box.

Smith looked across and dropped the jewellery box that he had been going through; dull rubies and diamonds cascaded to the floor, crushed under his boot as he stepped over to the triumphant Moody. His greedy eyes feasted upon the small, innocuous but precious container. His heart hammered away...he hadn't felt this energised in half a century!

"Now we get out of 'ere?" he asked with a grin.

"Yep!" Moody confirmed with a quick nod.

oooXooo

Letters! Hundreds of them, spanning almost nine years; it was a heartbreaking account of love, loss and longing. The last letter slipped from Moody's fingers, and Smith sniffed, his own emotions trying to settle after the harsh reading. It had taken three days to go through the whole collection. Some had been impossible to read due to long-dried tearstains and others due to age. There was evidence to indicate that a few had been ripped and then repaired. And they all screamed out a record of something that had been both beautiful and cruel.

"So," said Moody after a thoughtful pause. "That's the reason why Capella left."

"And the cause of 'er death," Smith added sadly. "I know how that can get to ye," he continued in a strained whisper. Moody settled back carefully, not making any sound to disturb his friend. "It's like the world 'as gone, and ye wonder why yer keep goin'." Smith wiped a trembling hand over his face, and Moody knew that he wiped away the tears that he had never allowed to fall all those years ago. "I..." he started, only to pause while he winced. "The ache that never stops; the future full of it grindin' yer down and eatin' at what's left." He looked up, those green eyes full of something terrible: anguish, pain, self-loathing, despair, and longing. "I... I would 'ave done the same, if I'd 'ave found the strength... or perhaps been weak enough."

Moody blinked and inhaled unsteadily. He knew Smith had suffered following the murder of his wife, but the depth of it and the dark routes on which it had led him had remained hidden. It put everything in a different light. This house wasn't some kind of memorial to his dead wife; it was all that Smith really had. This was where Smith's life had ended, and the following decades had been him scrabbling around, waiting for his body to catch up with the awful event.

"Work gave me some purpose, and I think Amelia knew. She wouldn't let 'em retire me. I 'oped that through work, I'd find out who 'ad done it, but other than the Dark Mark above 'er office, declaring that it were the Death Eaters, I never did."

Moody inhaled to speak, but Smith raised his hand and glared at him. "I didn't tell ye to make ye feel bad; it just came out. A day ain't gone by where I don't miss her, but I learnt to live with it a long time ago." Moody's mouth snapped shut. "Capella couldn't. When she found out that 'er 'usband had been killed, she couldn't cope," he added solemnly. "In that one moment of weakness, she dealt the Killing curse upon 'erself." His head dropped to his chest, and he scratched his forehead. "If only she'd 'ad some distraction, some moment between knowin' and actin' to stay 'er 'and; she may never 'ave cast it."

"It explains why she left Ophelia," Moody finished, the last loose end tied up. "She were too immersed in that terrible grief. Her mind weren't workin' right. It must 'ave crippled 'er to know that it 'ad been Lucius Malfoy who 'ad cast the curse what killed 'im. If she 'ad lived," he added, bitterness and pain staining his voice, "she'd 'ave 'ad the 'eartbreak of knowin' that Narcissa lied in court to give 'im an alibi."

Smith snorted. "It's quite ironic, innit?" he asked cynically. "The family that made Ophelia an orphan were the ones to look after 'er the best."

"I figure that neither Lucius nor Narcissa know of Ophelia's 'eritage."

"I doubt it," murmured Smith. "I think the knowledge died with Capella. Despite the obvious pain expressed in them there letters, it seems that 'e never met up with 'is daughter."

"Trust me," said Moody darkly. "It would have 'urt 'im badly."

"You knew 'im?" Smith's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he lowered his mug, the tea forgotten.

"'E was in the Order. One of the best." Sniffing, Moody sat back and folded his arms across his chest. "It makes sense, looking back," he continued thoughtfully. "Dumbledore 'ad asked 'im to keep an eye on the Blacks, and 'e struck up a good rapport with Capella. Dumbledore suggested that 'e use whatever 'e could. I guess that they became close and then lovers."

"Will you tell Ophelia who 'er father was?"

Moody sighed and sat forward. "I'll certainly tell Dumbledore. It'd be good for 'im to see the consequences of some of 'is decisions."

Smith eyed him warily, observing the taut features and the way Moody's eyes narrowed. All was not well within the Order, mused Smith. It took a lot to unsettle Moody this much. The sips from the hipflask were more frequent than Smith recalled, and the thoughtful silences that were common from old were somehow more potent and grim. There was something not right, and it was bothering him.

"What about the letters?"

"The letters..." Moody whispered hoarsely, his gaze lingering sadly over the gathered papers. "I'm not sure." He wanted to pass them on. He desperately wanted to pass the letters on to someone. They were all that was left of something beautiful in what had been a vile time, and they were all that Ophelia would ever have from her mother and father. "I think that it's time their tale was told," he suggested. "They can't suffer as a result of it."

"But what about Ophelia?" demanded Smith firmly. "She'd suffer if it got out."

"We'd only tell who needs to know, and they won't tell a soul." He knew he was right, and he started to gather them up, carefully straightening and stacking them in neat piles ready to be bound and delivered. Damn the consequences! These were the last accounts of a wizard who had died doing a duty, and his story deserved to be known. Ophelia had a right to know about her father. She needed to know what had reared up and torn her from her mother's side, depositing her in the clutches of a family intent on corrupting the Wizarding world. She needed to know that she had been loved and could still be part of a family.

Smith thought hard and fast, his mind stretching out over repercussions and ramifications, discerning pitfalls and problems, but he finally agreed that Ophelia would be as safe as ever.

"Ye're right, Moody," he said with a grin, and he began aiding his friend to sort the letters. "Let's take them to Molly; introduce 'er to Fabian's daughter."

oooXooo

In the small room at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, where secrets were tumbling thick and fast, Lupin reached out and gripped Sirius' trembling arm. As the devastating words slipped from Ophelia's lips, Sirius slid down the wall, lost in the pain and shame that was smothering his mind and sense.

It had been his fault! His mother hadn't pushed Regulus into their arms...he had! His perceived desertion had been the final push that Regulus had needed to join those corrupted ranks, and all the time, he could have saved his little brother with one word or glance. Sickened and dizzy, he closed his eyes and groaned softly; Lupin was at his side, supporting him again as his world tilted.

Sirius didn't want to believe what he was hearing. Her words portrayed Regulus as a hero as he worked to bring down the Dark Lord: how he had infiltrated the Death Eaters to protect them all and put himself in a position to kill Voldemort. Sirius had thought his little brother a sycophant, an ignorant waste of magic that had lived and died for the wrong cause. The boy had been the apple of his Mother's eye and the pride of his dark family, and yet, ironically, the one who had done the most and the best to destroy what the Order stood against.

He felt hot tears running down his cheeks, and his throat burned with suppressed emotion. He wanted to run. He had misjudged his brother. He wanted to scream. While Regulus had struggled, he had lived a life that was less than what it could have been and more than what it should have been, and all because he had thought himself so bloody marvellous. He wanted to be numb. This was the price of pride; the pound of flesh was being ripped from his heart.

Feeling the weight of his unsettled emotions, his feet carried him downstairs, as if they knew what would be the most effective way of nullifying the chaos in his head. The cabinet loomed before him, the glass in the doors, glittering like peevish eyes, and the decanters gleaming like teeth. He stood, his mind whirling, and reached out for the Firewhiskey, his fingers sliding over the cool, smooth surface. It was the simplest calmative... the easiest way to end his immediate agony. Yet he couldn't lift that blessed panacea. Weeping and moaning, he collapsed against the cabinet; if it couldn't ease him, then it would support him. Falling onto his knees, the warm wood pressing against his shoulder, he soon felt another warmer, softer pressure against his shoulder, and through his tears, he saw Lupin kneeling next to him.

Nothing was said; they just held each other quietly and desperately, both fighting to keep hold of some truths in the shifting sands of their memories. Both tried to subdue the rage that was burning and coursing through their veins and resolve the bitter irony twisting their insides. They had wasted so much effort in keeping secrets and hating when they could have worked together and defeated the Dark Lord once and for all ages ago...no need to wait for a young boy to grow to manhood under Voldemort's wrathful shadow.

They had directed their fate, wrought their own destiny and dictated their future. The trail of tears could be seen meandering though their past; each wrong decision and unjustified hatred a cairn, leading them forward to an inescapable destination. And now, as Sirius sobbed and Lupin consoled, the path ahead seemed set, the route selected by years of misunderstanding and prejudices: it was the only way forward.