Chapter Twenty six

Recounting her past was exhausting for her and for the others. So far, three days had been devoted to delving into her history, and now, they rested. Ophelia had gone back to her room, and although Dumbledore had said that she was no longer a prisoner, she preferred the quiet of the room; until she sorted out the vastness of her mind, the rest of the world had little meaning.

They all paused for breath, for a chance to just deal with it all; Moody and Smith had gone investigating, and Dumbledore had followed a thread poking out from the quilt of her memories. He had studied and ruminated over the remnants of the diary that had caused so much suffering during Harry's second year, and he had gathered together the many phials that held his captured memory. Sirius had become a fastidious carer for Buckbeak, spending much of his time in the attic... keeping out of the way. Lupin had returned to the werewolves with the dire news of the Ministry's intentions regarding their classification as dangerous beasts. McGonagall had caught up with her duties as teacher and Deputy Headmistress, and the house had settled into something akin to a quietly ticking time-bomb. Something at some point would have to give.

"You will not pass this on to anyone."

Moody gaped silently, his gaze flickering from the pile of letters on the kitchen table to Dumbledore's cold gaze. Had Dumbledore misunderstood his intention? Did Dumbledore think that he was about to release the letters into the Wizarding world rather than just to Molly? That must be it! Nothing in the letters was risky...Dumbledore was paranoid, and Moody should know, being an authority on the topic!

"Come on, Dumbledore," cajoled Moody. "Someone needs to know about this: Ophelia at the very least." But something in Dumbledore's eyes caused his bemused humour to flee. "Why?" he asked defiantly.

"I do not want anything about her to be discovered at this time."

Moody gritted his teeth and reached for his hipflask. "That's not really an answer," he grumbled.

"I do not have to tell you everything, Alastor," Dumbledore said tartly. "It is important that as little about her is released as possible, but when this passes," he soothed, "then, you may do as you wish with these letters."

The idea that Dumbledore did not trust him rankled in the worst way...it actually hurt! And this sudden isolation was also disturbing. Dumbledore was keeping something to himself, something important. Moody was amazed at the man's selfish foolishness. Information needed to be shared; plans needed to be discussed; there was no room for someone to keep things from the Order for any reason... After all, Dumbledore could 'pop his clogs' as easily as anyone. But Moody had been an excellent Auror...one of the best!...and he knew how to bypass reluctance.

Slipping into Dumbledore's mind was risky, and he could feel the force of Occlumency trying to keep him out, but there were techniques to support Legilimency.

"So you 'ave no problem with lettin' us tell Molly after whatever it is 'as passed?" He caught sight of the merest flicker of suspicion cross Dumbledore's features.

"Not at all," Dumbledore replied with a smile. "I daresay that it will bring her some joy."

Moody smiled and nodded. "Ye're right. She were in a right state after Arthur was almost killed." There! The memories starting to bubble up unbidden...the subtle way in to get what he wanted. "I 'ear that she didn't sleep for days; but who would, eh?"

"I'm sure that Molly suffered tremendously," he said calmly; while inside, his mind went over his own restless nights of terrifying dreams and dark imaginings.

"I feel sorry for the kids, o' course," Moody said gently, easing back in his chair and taking a deep sip from his flask. "Potter was distraught by it all too." Another sharp spike in memories...so, it had something to do with Potter, which was hardly surprising, but how did Potter relate to Ophelia? This wariness on Dumbledore's part happened after Ophelia had told them the Dark Lord may have made more than one Horcrux. It was time for a stab in the dark. "There again, we're all a bit distraught; this ordeal with Ophelia 'as us all a bit rattled. At least we 'ave somethin' good out of it," he said carefully, his eyes focused on Dumbledore's and his mind eking into the man's skull. "We have a clue about the other 'Orcruxes."

And there it was! It was like a rogue wave against a ship's hull, coming out of nowhere and bringing with it terrifying flotsam and dreadful jetsam, the crest of it a writhing froth of tempestuous hate and anger as it loomed down upon the trembling witness. Moody almost gagged. To get the answer so easily and so powerfully highlighted just how much the thoughts had plagued and pestered Dumbledore: he had wanted to share the terrible notions all along. Dumbledore considered Harry to be a Horcrux.

The link between Harry and Voldemort was well-known, and measures had been taken to reduce the consequences of that union, but up until Ophelia's comments, no one had considered the possibility that Harry was an actual Horcrux.

Moody slipped from Dumbledore's mind and found that he couldn't maintain eye contact. If Harry was a Horcrux, then there was only one thing that could be done if they wanted Voldemort destroyed.

"I underestimated you," Dumbledore said in a tremulous voice. "And I find I am not entirely peeved that I did."

Moody looked up and saw Dumbledore's eyes twinkling with rather more dazzle than usual; a tear slipped down from the corner of his eye. No wonder Dumbledore had kept it to himself; the prospect summoned a nasty conclusion: Harry would have to die.

Moody took another, deeper sip from his flask, letting the burn of alcohol warm him while the thought chilled him.

oooXooo

"Okay, okay," Regulus said shortly. "The diary and his wand are two. We know where the diary is; it's in plain view on Malfoy's bookcase." He dragged his fingers through his hair and paced his bedroom.

Ophelia sat on the bed, idly picking at the loose threads on his eiderdown while he stomped around and went over old conversations. She knew he was avoiding thinking about the thing that had preoccupied them for the last few months...her sixteenth birthday. It would be expected that she take the Mark sometime in her sixteenth year, and her birthday was fast approaching.

"You can get the diary any time; the wand is, of course, slightly trickier," he said while turning on his heel for another lap of the bed.

"I could just ask to borrow it," she said flippantly, hoping to incite something in him to distract him from going over the questions they couldn't answer. But he didn't seem to notice her glibness, his agitation for her being too strong.

"For Merlin's sake!" she finally snapped. "Would it be so bad if I did take the Mark?"

Without warning, he rounded on her, his blue eyes flashing dangerously and his lips pulled back. She scurried back on the bed, suddenly scared of the young man angrily approaching her. He placed his hands on the duvet and leant towards her until his nose almost touched hers and her head pressed against the headboard. He was emanating such power, his anger unleashing some hidden raw magic; it snatched her breath, and the hairs on the nape of her neck tingled as her hackles rose.

"Bad?" he queried softly, his light tone belying the rage coursing through him. "It would be terrible," he affirmed with a hiss. "This thing polluting you, running through your veins, filling you with venom; your thoughts open to his mind as easily as your eye to a book." He caught her jaw, his fingers splayed across her throat and his thumb brushing over her lower lip. "To make you think of things that you shouldn't; make you want things that you shouldn't." Suddenly, he released her and backed away.

She hadn't dared to breathe when his hand had closed around her throat. Her eyes, painfully wide, had stared into his narrowed and glittering gaze, and a shiver had played across her burning skin. His words had conjured up strange images in her mind: an odd mix of appealing scenarios and terrifying imaginings.

With a jolt deep in her gut, she suddenly realised that Regulus was a man. She was swamped by a rising desire, but it was then smothered by her concern for the darker things he was hiding behind his wrath. Confused and disorientated, she stayed motionless, even after that delicious and promising hand had slipped away.

Her mind reeling at what had just happened, she studied Regulus while he stood by the window, hunched over and panting. Tentatively, she slid off the bed and stepped over to him, half expecting him to flee or scream. Her hand on his shoulder made him flinch, and she thought she heard him make a soft moan. With bated breath, she slid her hand across his shoulder and gently rubbed the back of his neck.

He was much taller than she was, so when he stumbled into her embrace, she was almost overwhelmed and smothered by his frame. Clutching at her, he sobbed onto her shoulder, and in a torrent, he divulged the secrets that he had kept from her: the horrors that he had committed in Voldemort's name.

She cried silently with him, holding him and letting him vent, letting him unleash the terrors that a boy his age should never have seen or done. She held him as he decried his vow, wishing that someone else would finish what he had so recklessly and bravely started. He echoed her own secret fears and hopes, and as he broke, so she did she.

oooXooo

Her birthday had come and gone, and the Dark Lord had not asked her to take his Mark; if he had been shocked or dismayed by her not demanding it and thrusting her eager left arm under his nose, he had made no mention of it. They redoubled their efforts to discover Voldemort's secrets, to find any mention of the other Horcruxes, if they even existed, and ways to destroy them if and when they were found. Late nights and early mornings, disturbed sleep and the pervading fear that had become a permanent feature in their lives had shortened their patience to non-existent. Ophelia had been punished many times for cursing, hexing and missing lessons, and Regulus had been forced to drop several NEWTs, as he 'seemed to be struggling with the workload'. Dismissive of their teacher's worries and recriminations, they plodded through their days and plotted in the darkness.

Ophelia slipped through the Slytherin common room, disgusted by the shouts, laughter and whoops of delight as they revelled in another Quidditch victory. The one who had secured their victory wasn't even there. She wound her way down the spiral staircase to the boys' dormitories and then into Regulus' room. He was sitting on the bed, staring at something in his hand, and something about his pose struck her; he seemed to thrum with some urgency and energy. Stepping over, she sat down on the bed; he remained entranced by a small, silvery object in his hands...a pretty, silver locket held on a delicate chain. Holding it reverently, his eyes were alive as they reflected the shine from the locket's surface. Her breath a little accelerated and her heart fluttering, she reached out and touched his arm. He started, his face twisting into a fierce scowl until he registered who it was, and then the glower morphed into a triumphant smile.

"I know where another one is!" he said, his voice cracking with delight. "He used Kreacher to hide it."

"That's good!" she responded, smiling while her insides trembled. "That makes... what?" Her eyes closed as she went through the growing list. "Four!" she exclaimed, her eyes popping open. "The diary, the wand, the ring mentioned in his diary, and the... whatever you've discovered."

"According to what Kreacher told me, He doesn't expect anyone to find it."

"Even better," she said thoughtfully. "We can destroy that one without him even knowing about it. That should give us some breathing room while we track down the ring... and any others that he may have made," she added wryly.

Regulus had been thinking, his mind going round and round in the same destructive circle; he knew his position within the Death Eaters was weak, and he knew the Dark Lord was aware of the friendship between him and Ophelia. He had long thought that he was a danger to her, that his association with her would cause her difficulties with the Dark Lord. Now, if it should come about that He should discover one Horcrux missing, then He could surmise that Kreacher had told of the whereabouts of the precious Horcrux, suspicion falling immediately upon himself, and if that happened, then she was in danger, terrible danger. He would rape her mind and tear out every betrayal, and He would make her suffer. This had to be done without her knowing about it, done so that he could never be found, that his knowledge of the Horcruxes would never be discovered: his last act of defiance never realised by Him...or her!

"Yes," he said carefully. "But we'll have to wait for Kreacher to recover," he lied smoothly. "The ordeal was a strain for him, and he's too sick to answer any questions."

Her face softened, and she bit her lip. "Is Kreacher okay?"

"He's disorientated and sick, seems feverish, and he keeps moaning horribly." He said it quite simply, but the actual event a fortnight ago had been horrible.

He had wept when Kreacher had appeared in his room, clutching at his scrawny neck, his eyes almost popping from the sockets. The wails and screams that had filled the room had sliced through him, and he had struggled to restrain the elf, who had tried to bludgeon himself with a candlestick. After what felt an age, the elf had collapsed in his arms, his name on his lips like a Benediction before exhaustion claimed him. Cradling the limp elf, he had held him until his own emotions had calmed and then carried Kreacher to the little room under the sink, tucking him in and leaving him to rest.

"I wonder if a Draught of Peace would help?"

"Doubt it," he said bluntly. "Remember when Sirius ordered Kreacher to drink those bottles of wine? The Sober-up didn't work, and neither did the Morning-after potion."

"Oh, yes," she responded sadly. "We'll wait."

Now that he had resigned himself to his decision, he felt wonderfully light and free, something that he usually only felt when soaring on his broomstick. He felt giddy and energised, more so now than when his fingers had earlier caught the frantic snitch; he almost laughed out at the wonder of it. Slipping the locket back into his pocket, he lay back against the headboard, watching Ophelia as she nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully. She had never seemed more beautiful to him; never had her hair had that sheen nor had her skin glowed so enchantingly, and he was sure that her lip chewing had never been so enthralling. He knew that he loved her, had known from that moment over a year ago when she had sat upon his bed and they had almost kissed. She had never mentioned it, and whatever had inspired the mood had never resurfaced; he had smothered his feelings, knowing that she thought of him as her cousin, maybe even a big brother.

"What are you thinking?" he asked conversationally.

Sighing, she tugged on the ends of her hair; he frowned, as she only did that when she was nervous or scared. She turned to him and smiled sadly.

"I was just wondering if there would be an after." She saw his puzzled frown and gave him a genuine smile. "You know," she said softly, "after the Dark Lord has gone." Her smile slipped when his expression darkened, and she regretted her moment of openness.

"Maybe," he said after a heavy and awkward silence. Throwing off the threatening despair, he smiled up at her; he felt too good to let the mere mention of his probable death spoil the moment, and he opened up his arms to her. She smiled and settled next to him, her head resting on his shoulder and a hand resting lightly on his chest. Covering her hand with his and letting the fingers on his other hand slide through her hair, he felt content and closed his eyes, feeling her warmth next to him, hearing her breathing, inhaling her aroma and sinking into the wonderful sensation that was just lying next to her.

He woke with a start, his heart hammering in his chest; some internal nagging had finally sloughed off his slumber with the warning that Ophelia was still in his bed and the others were due to come back to the dorm. Hastily glancing around, he sighed with relief; the room was empty and looked as though it had remained so while he had napped. Next to him, she slept; her face smooth and untroubled. Carefully sliding his hand between their bodies, he pulled out his wand, charming the curtains closed and erecting the wards that had kept them secret in all their previous meetings. Satisfied that they had total peace, he let the lethargy grab him and drag him back to sleep.

He felt something slide across his belly, and he grumbled, trying to dislodge the thing intent on disturbing his sleep. The determined interloper was undeterred, and he felt sleep slipping from his brain; frowning and mumbling, he woke up to feel a strange warmth suffusing his body. His skin tingled pleasantly, and his toes curled in his shoes, he even let out a low groan. Realising that her hand had slid under his shirt and was gently brushing over his taut tummy, he licked his lips and placed his hand over hers, staying her delicious movements.

"Ophelia," he whispered hoarsely. "You will have to stop that."

In the shadowed bed, her eyes were dark and unfathomable when his gaze met hers. He held his breath, hoping and fearing that she would remove her hand, laugh about it and then slip from his bed. Enthralled, he watched as she lifted up onto her elbow, her dark hair framing her face, and looked down upon him. There was something in her expression, some restrained feral quality, and he felt trapped and excited. She bent lower, just as she had once before, but there was no slumbering roommate to hinder her this time, and those lips brushed over his. Inhaling sharply, his whole body jolted at the contact. Closing his eyes, trembling and alive beneath her, he revelled in her kiss, in her soft mouth as it slid over his, and her hand on his belly resumed its exploration. Her sheer presence overwhelmed him.

Caught up and desperate with need and urgency, he reached out to grip her, crush her to him. Her startled gasp thrilled him, and he deepened his kiss, wanting to taste and remember her sweetness. She responded, and her sighs and frantic movements pushed him further, and knowing that he had no will to stop it now, he gently rolled her onto her back. Lying beneath him, she smiled and caressed his cheek, parting her thighs and letting him nestle against her. Sighing into her hair and feeling her arms slide around his waist to pull him against her, he let himself fall into the dream that had sustained him since taking the Mark.

oooXooo

Ophelia sat in the Malfoy library. Her eyes kept darting to the black book nestled on the topmost shelf. It was the diary. How she itched to pluck it down and hurl it into the fire. She'd delight in hearing it scream. But Regulus had warned her about doing anything rash. He had calmed her anger, citing that he needed time to ensure that all the Horcruxes had been identified before they acted and alerted the Dark Lord to the actions carried out against him.

She understood the logic, but how she wanted Him to suffer! Frustrated and tired, she flopped back against the plush cushions and closed her eyes. She usually enjoyed the holidays; it was the only time that they could forget their task, as there was very little they could with so many Death Eaters snooping around. It was during this enforced inactivity that she would sneak down into the basement to be with Severus. But things had been strained recently. And she couldn't understand why.

Severus had barely spoken to her since they had returned from the cavern; his mood usually took to the dark and sombre, but this was different. It seemed that their relationship had finally hit the rocks it had been heading towards. Had it been in the cards from the start that they would crash and drift apart? She couldn't...wouldn't...accept it! They had had fights before...they'd even hurled hexes at each other...but they'd always... always... forgotten their wounds and cleaved to each other. This growing distance made her miserable and fearful.

But in a way, she was also grateful for the distance; it gave her time to consider her feelings. So much had happened in the last few months. A smile played on her lips as she traced lazy patterns on the cushion while thinking about just how much had happened. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel the way his hands held her, the way his lips had moved her, and the way he had...

"I know that look."

The knowing voice disturbed her thoughts, and her eyes snapped open to see Narcissa walking into the room. Narcissa! Narcissa would know about such things. Sitting upright and pulling the cushion onto her lap, Ophelia watched her cousin settle on the armchair.

"Who is the lucky wizard?" Narcissa asked kindly. "Or wizards?" she added playfully.

Ophelia bit her lip and blushed.

"So, 'wizards' is right, then?" Narcissa said with a laugh and an arched eyebrow.

At the laugh, which was innocent, Ophelia felt her insides squirm. Did she really love two wizards? The event in the cavern a week ago had left a deep impression upon her. Severus had been so much in control rather than just by her side, and the feelings that he had engendered had been both intense and frightening. The idea that she could just give herself over to him was compelling beyond words: the giving of herself because it would please him and please her was so enticing. But it was so confusing; she couldn't understand it. She had felt so close to falling into something as awesome as it was terrifying.

When he had doused all light, she had felt the bone deep fear that always attacked her, and she knew that she should have been furious about him using her fear against her, but... It had also been so deeply exciting. The arms that had held her had been strong; his whole aspect of contained menace so alluring. The fear had become erotic. Something had almost happened, and she thought she knew, but if it was love, then it was in a completely different dimension to what Regulus had shown her. It worried her that she felt so little guilt. In truth, she wanted more.

"Don't look so dour," Narcissa said sensitively as she wrapped her arms around her little cousin's shoulders. She had seen the emotions flickering across Ophelia's tense face and had moved to the sofa to offer more tangible comfort. "It happens that we have affection, even love, for more than one person, and there is little wrong in that. How we act upon those feelings is what makes it right or wrong."

Gentle hands cupped her face, and Ophelia relished the warmth. Through teary eyes, she looked at Narcissa. "I don't know what to do. I can't decide which is real."

"They're both real, Ophelia," affirmed Narcissa, as she stroked the slick cheeks. "You just have to decide which one will make you the happiest, and when you do, you abide by that choice."

"If I can't?" she asked mournfully.

"Oh sweetheart!" crooned Narcissa, pulling her into a hug. "I can guess who the two wizards are," she said carefully. Her grip upon her young cousin suddenly intensified, and her voice became cold and steely. "I can only advise you to protect your heart. The life of a Death Eater's wife can be harsh."