Chapter Twenty seven

Author's Notes: Many thanks to my beta, Falconfalmorgan.

It was a relief to be back in the basement. Her holiday was almost over, and she had fretted that she'd be packed off to Hogwarts without seeing Severus, and that had hurt. Not seeing him before she went back to the dread and constant plotting would be akin to not taking a gulp of air before diving. She needed him to bolster her. Severus gave her a strength that she could not find in Regulus, but Regulus gave her something she knew Severus couldn't.

Since the chat with Narcissa, she had gone over her thoughts and feelings, and she had accepted her affection for the two wizards. She needed them both, but for differing reasons. Looking up, she studied her dark and brooding friend. He was definitely fascinating, and that day in the cavern still made her shiver, but she felt something stood between them. Frowning, she tugged on her hair. Sirius had mentioned Severus' futile friendship with a girl in school. She had no details, but she suspected the friendship was more than just that.

From the corner of her eye, she watched Severus as he carefully stirred some new concoction. It was the latest whim of the Dark Lord, and typically, He was running his personal apothecary ragged. That was probably why Severus hadn't sneered or sulked when she had sauntered unannounced and uninvited into his domain.

"If you insist on cluttering up my lab, then you may as well make yourself useful," Severus said, breaking the silence and effectively nullifying the last week of almost absolute silence between them.

Ophelia smirked and slipped off her stool, the epitome of eagerness. She had been right! Nothing could keep them apart for long.

"My supplies are running low, but I haven't had the time to do a stock check; I need a complete inventory by the end of the day." He turned to her and then pointed to the stock ledger on the coffee table.

Nodding, she collected up the waiting ledger and skipped over to the ingredients cupboard. It wasn't the most scintillating of jobs, and she knew that she'd get frustrated before finishing the first shelf, but she'd gladly suffer if it meant being by his side.

The morning dragged into early afternoon, and despite her rumbling belly, she plodded diligently through the shelves. Severus had been busy, judging by the depleted stock. Pursing her lips in frustration, she shook her head. Why hadn't he asked me for help?

"Ophelia?"

She replaced the bottle of Lacewing flies and turned to face him. "Yes, Severus."

He remained silent, his black eyes boring into her. Severus rarely prevaricated, and the hesitancy puzzled her. Frowning, she lowered the ledger onto the table and stepped over to him. She knew him well enough to see the anger and tension coiling within him. Her gaze darted to the cauldron; it was empty. The equipment was also back in its place, and the workbench was clean. He had finished the potion a while ago. What had he been doing while she worked?

"You should have stayed with Madam Tonks," he snapped out.

The change from tolerant colleague to vicious intimidator was enough to make her jolt and step back. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck. All she could do was seek the answer in his face.

If eyes could talk, his would be speaking volumes, but she didn't know the language. Unease crawled down her spine and settled in her stomach. He closed the gap and reached out to gently cup her cheek, and that sign of affection worried her beyond reason. A whimper bubbled up, and she bit down on her tongue to halt it.

"I don't know what to do about you," Severus continued in a strained whisper. The hand on her cheek began to tremble. "I have spent a great deal of time thinking about you, and I am... concerned."

"I don't kn..."

"Don't even begin to lie to me," he said harshly, pulling his hand away. "I know you better than you think."

He licked his lips, and his eyes roamed intently over her face, as though he sought to study her soul. Ophelia felt trapped in that gaze; it was enthralling.

"In this place, we are not servants of the Dark Lord; we do not have obligations." He stepped closer, and she thought he would embrace her, but he maintained a distance. "But beyond this lab, we are both perceived as Death Eaters, and we must be superb."

The whimper erupted from her lips. Did he know? Had he found out that she worked to bring down the Dark Lord? She couldn't stand it! She could have dealt with this from any other Death Eater, but not from Severus. It rendered their entire relationship down to so much ash...bitter and inconsequential. But those dark eyes still expressed something that she couldn't understand, and her frantic mind latched onto it, trying to decipher his gaze.

"I am... fond of you, but that cannot protect you if you decide to continue as you are. You must be careful, Ophelia," he said in a trembling voice. "Our lives, such as they are, do not allow for friendships...our loyalty is to the Dark Lord alone." He sighed and scratched at the Dark Mark. "And then, you must live with your choice."

She frowned and hugged herself; she had never felt this cold or uncertain. Was he telling her to abandon her task for her own safety? Had the Dark Lord spoken of his concerns over her or Regulus? Oh Merlin! she thought frantically. Would this impact upon Severus? Would the Dark Lord think that Severus had a part in the plot to destroy the Horcruxes?

She wanted to hold him. She wanted to feel his arms around her, craving his strength and warmth. This had just been about destroying the Dark Lord, but it suddenly seemed so complicated. Severus was a Death Eater; she was indirectly working against him. What would Severus do if she was discovered? Ophelia almost collapsed. Was he warning her that he would turn away from her?

His gaze was so piercing that she had to glance away, and she heard him grunt, as if she had confirmed some suspicion of his.

"If you listened to your head, Ophelia," Severus said, almost pleadingly, "you'll forget about Regulus."

"I can't," she said urgently.

Severus lunged forwards and gripped her arms; his face was twisted into something approaching mania. "You must!" he hissed out.

Disturbed by his sudden passionate display, she cringed back, as far as his hold would allow. Suddenly, she didn't want to be in the lab.

"You're really scaring me," she said in a small voice.

"Good!" he snarled out. "You need to distance yourself from Regulus."

"Why?" she demanded hotly, and her temper flared. "How dare you tell me what to do!"

"I dare because I... because someone has to pre-empt your foolishness," he hissed out. "It's not too late," he implored. "You can still walk away from Regulus without a blemish...such is your status with the Dark Lord."

The hands on her arms relaxed, and she felt them gently rubbing the tender skin, as though soothing the pain they had incited.

"Regulus is missing," he said bluntly.

"What?" In an instant, her anger was doused, and she felt cold again.

"He hasn't been seen for several days, and he missed a meeting last night."

All her questions died on her lips. The thought that something had happened to Regulus stole her capacity to think, and all she could do was gape at him in horrified silence.

"But he would have told me," she mumbled.

Her attitude seemed to rile Severus, and he shook her roughly. "Forget him!" he shouted. "I could bear the thought of him being your..." he paled and swallowed rapidly "... but I can't stand the thought of him dragging you down with him."

"Dragging me...oh Merlin!" She yanked herself free of his grip and backed away. "What's going on?"

Severus straightened, and his expression hardened. "Regulus has abandoned you, Ophelia."

She fled from the room. Her feet pounded on the steps and along the marbled hallway. The door opened to her, and she sprinted to escape the anti-Apparition wards around Malfoy Manor.

oooXooo

"Kreacher!"

The elf heard her scream and went straight to his distressed little mistress. He saw her kneeling by his young master's bed; tears leaked from her eyes, and she wailed as though something pained her. Concerned, he stepped over and placed a scrawny hand on her shoulder. He was startled when she wheeled around and gripped his shoulders tightly.

"Where is he?" she demanded, shaking his small body. "Where is he, Kreacher?"

"Young Master Regulus?" Scared and confused, he cowered before her.

"Yes," Ophelia screeched into his face. "'Young Master Regulus'!" she mimicked viciously.

"I cannot say, Missy Ophelia." His mind was not right; he knew that much. He kept remembering things that hadn't been and things that couldn't possibly be. But one thing remained bright and rigid, and that was his promise to his young master: he wouldn't tell.

"Why not?" she hissed into his ear. Her grip was painful on his shoulders, and Kreacher felt fear flicker in his belly.

"I cannot say, Missy Ophelia."

She exploded and slapped him across his face; he staggered under the blow and fell to his knees. He snorted out the blood rushing into his nose...saw it splatter across the floorboards...and waited for the next blow; it was an elf's duty to serve his masters. Above the ringing in his ears, he could hear her ragged breaths and the small, desperate keens and mewls as she battled her rage, fear, and despair. Swallowing nervously, Kreacher couldn't stop the treacherous trembles. He whimpered, and whether that calmed his little mistress or whether she managed it herself, he never knew, but he was suddenly cuddled to her chest, listening to her thundering heart and tumbling apologies.

After weeping herself dry, she fell away from the elf and wiped her wet cheeks on the sleeve of her robe until Kreacher, gently scolding, gave her a handkerchief that he had secreted down the front of his smock. She smiled and dabbed at her cheeks; as she handed it back, she saw the embroidered initials R and B surrounded by the letter O. She held the piece of cloth between her fingers, her eyes fixed intently upon it. This was the handkerchief she had given Regulus. Had her tears mingled with his? Was this all that she had of him? Her heart sank, and she retched. What had he done? What had Regulus done?

Knowing that Kreacher couldn't tell her...she knew how much he loved Regulus...she calmed herself and handed the hankie back to him; maybe it held more value to him than to her. Licking her lips and her breath coming in hiccupping gasps, she settled back onto her haunches and watched Kreacher carefully. His eyes were wide; they shimmered as he carefully folded the treasured keepsake from Regulus, and her heart broke again. But she needed to know. Steeling herself, she straightened and inhaled deeply.

"Look at me, Kreacher!"

The little elf obeyed, and she slipped past his eyes and into his brain, carefully peeling back the confused and disjointed memories of recent events to the one desperate memory that would answer her questions.

Kreacher was tugging on his ears and wailing, his high pitched shriek echoing around the cavern; he watched on as his beloved Regulus gulped down the last of the vile potion, choking and sobbing as he did. The distraught elf was smacking the side of his face and scratching at his skin; his blood mingled with his tears. Why was his master doing this?

Staring at the lake, Kreacher had waited until the water was as smooth as glass for any sign that his young master had escaped their clutches, but as time dragged, he was compelled to follow his master's last order, and he Disapparated back to the Black house.

Ophelia reared back and clutched her head. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. She pulled her hair and rocked back and forth. How could he have done it? Why didn't he tell her? They could have done it together. Sobbing, she collapsed onto the floor, holding her belly and trying to make sense of it all.

Kreacher scurried over and patted her on her shoulder, his own eyes brimming with tears as he tried to comfort her. He wondered why his master had drunk the potion and not ordered that he do it? So many questions, and so few answers; all he could do was share in his young mistress' grief and hope that soon the terrible agony would ease.

oooXooo

The days passed, and Ophelia's dread grew. The Dark Lord had dispatched Death Eaters to find Regulus, and when they had returned with no news, His temper had increased. Ophelia had attended to him, and he had been his usual charming self; he had carried on her lessons, teaching her things that made her shudder and showing her the secrets of darker magics. She found that she had natural abilities, which delighted him; she had a predilection for curses that required a degree of anger and hate. And to her secret shame, she found that she still had that treacherous flush of pride and glee when she pleased him.

It was still common that he would delve into her mind, but not as often as he had once been inclined to do, and she found that she could direct him in her mind away from the things that she wanted to keep private. But she could tell that all was not well; he was thoughtful and withdrawn. His questing mind would always seek out her memories of Regulus, and as time passed, her fear increased...only His arrogance stood between pondering and knowing about Regulus' desertion.

It was late in the evening when the idea formed; it had germinated slowly while she sat in Malfoy's library, glaring at the black leather diary sitting so innocently on the shelf. It forced its way past the mulch of her dread into the light and then blossomed. How often had she done it while they had been at school? How often had she used the benefits of the potion to ease Regulus' burdens? She wondered if she had any left, tucked away somewhere; she hoped she did, as it would take too long to make a fresh batch.

While her insides churned and fluttered, she calmly slid off the leather Chesterfield and walked up to her room. The door clicking shut behind her shattered her serene shell, and she bolted to the large trunk standing at the foot of her bed. Yanking open the top, she sank to her knees and began to wildly and carelessly unpack it. Her frantic fingers scrabbled and grabbed, flinging and throwing items as she sought her potions kit; why did it always end up at the bottom of the trunk?

Taking a firm hold of the familiar wooden veneer, she tugged it free from its prison of books and socks. She stared at it, willing it to contain at least one dose of Polyjuice Potion, and with trembling fingers, she opened it. She let out a cry when she saw a vial containing some thick, dark liquid and clutched the precious philtre to her chest.

When to do it? When would it all work? In her eagerness, she forgot one simple thing: could she actually do it? Could she conspire to have someone killed? It stopped her dead in her tracks. She sobbed at the thought, and her resolve slipped catastrophically; if she couldn't, then it was all lost, and everything that Regulus had died for would mean nothing. Could she think of an excusable reason to kill? Regulus' face loomed before her, his eyes boring into her as she lay beneath him and then fluttering closed as he fell apart above and within her; wasn't that a good enough reason?

Gritting her teeth and summoning the anger that had always been so readily on hand, always far too eager to bare its teeth, she stood, her slender body quaking with the power of it. The candles guttered, and ice lanced its way across the window pane, creaking and squealing across the glass. The water jug cracked, spilling its contents, which hissed into steam before reaching the rug. The bed gave a jolt and then slid across the floor, its claw feet digging grooves into the wood.

Inhaling slowly to keep the inner fire steady, she charmed open the window and walked over to the portal to the death of what remained of her innocence. Climbing through it, she levitated down to the frost covered roses and swept past them towards the edge of the Malfoy estate. Once she clambered past the high hedges and the magical boundaries, she Disapparated.

The city was bustling, and her sudden appearance was barely noticed. She was jostled and knocked until she managed to swerve and dodge between the milling revellers to the relative safety of a restaurant doorway. Panting and slightly overwhelmed, she gathered her wits and wondered where to go; she wouldn't find what she wanted here. Braving the throng, she battled her way to the edge of the crowd and then into a quieter side street.

The sounds of the street, the cars and the raucous laughter died down as she meandered through the alleys and narrow streets. Cats darted out from shadow to shadow; some hissed at her as they scurried past, others just stared disdainfully. Water dripped from cracked guttering into oily, dirty puddles, and the recent downpour ran down the pavements, carrying cigarette ends and empty food wrappers with it. Beer bottles clinked their way down the incline or rolled in grinding, pitiful circles. Sounds were magnified in the gloom, and the buildings with their metal gangways and thick pipes seemed to loom over her. It was both depressing and nerve-wracking.

She swallowed and focused on why she was here. It seemed that she had walked for hours, and she let out a wry laugh; after having been told that Muggles were vicious creatures who would attack any lone woman, she was, ironically, in no immediate peril.

Frustrated, angry and scared, she stormed along a dimly lit street; her heavy footfalls struck the concrete and echoed around, booming in the silence. Desperate and keen eyes peered into every dark recess, every possible shadow, but nothing other than litter and other Muggle detritus met her determined gaze. Just as she was convinced that her search was futile, she heard a soft noise that hinted at flesh being struck heavily. She paused and waited for the sound again; she was rewarded with a whimper and what sounded like shoes scuffling against cobbles. She straightened and darted to the origin of those dubious sounds...the sound of ripping cloth and buttons scattering on stone, a grunt, a muted cry, and a soothing mumble. She swept into the alley like some descending Fury, her wand drawn and her teeth bared. The young girl saw her, and in that second of their eyes locking, the sheer enormity and horror of what was happening was conveyed.

The young girl softly pleaded and begged, not realising that her effort was unnecessary. Ophelia raised her wand and hurled her hex; in a flash of blue light, he was hurled from the slim body that he had pinned to the wall and slammed into the brick edifice at the end of the alley. He fell into a broken heap, moaning and moving feebly. The teenager stared in befuddled shock before hoisting up her tights and tugging down her short skirt. Her face was pale, and the smeared red lipstick was garish and grotesque on her young face; she tried to fasten her blouse with trembling fingers, but too many buttons were missing.

Ophelia watched her as she processed what had happened and pondered what could have been. Their eyes met again, and the would-be victim read the anger and silent scold in Ophelia's cold depths; with tears spilling, the girl realised the folly of lamb dressed as mutton. On trembling legs, she stumbled past her saviour, and on ridiculous heels, she tottered away...older and wiser.

The man who had twisted the rules, who had allowed his need to smother his sense, and who had allowed himself to be fooled by lip gloss and glitter, slowly rose to his feet. He rubbed at his shoulder and winced; whatever the bitch had done, it had hurt! Glowering and mumbling, he limped towards her. She seemed unimpressed, and that incensed him further; not only had he lost his bit of fun for the evening, but now, some scrawny, little girl wasn't showing him the respect he deserved.

His stomach seethed with hot anger, and he lunged for her. The agile thing darted to the left and made a sweeping arc with her right arm; he saw something held in her hand and felt a flicker of apprehension as the thought 'knife' went through his head, but nothing slashed at him, and he let out a snigger. His smug laugh was cut short as the thing in her hand emitted a flash of red light, and his world went dark.

The man fell to the floor, his expression softening from one of extreme surprise to nothing. She Transfigured him into a suitcase and picked up the innocuous item. Feeling the weight in her hand, she licked her lips nervously...no going back now; the first part was done, and that had been the easy bit. Concentrating on the lonely ruin that she and Regulus had visited together when they needed time and space, she Disapparated.

The wind carried the smell of crushed heather and peat: a musky, heady aroma that filled the nose and smothered all other scents. The ruined watchtower lanced up into the night sky, its hulking form silhouetted against a star-speckled sky; jagged edges looked like fingers trying to pluck down those glittering gems. She followed the path cut into the hillside by a thousand feet before her and up through the gaping doorway.

The roof had collapsed centuries ago, the lead scavenged and the wood rotted away. Leaves, feathers, bones and whatever else the wind managed to carry littered the floor. The base of a spiral staircase, and its few remaining stone steps, nestled against the wall from where it would have wound its way around the inner walls of the tower.

She dropped the suitcase onto the dirty, mouldering floor; feathers and leaves swooped up, caught in the unexpected draft. Creating a convincing scene was imperative, and so she cast a series of charms and wards around the tower: hefty spells that would imply great fear and need for security. Her hand trembled, and the incantations seemed reluctant to pass her lips, but she forced herself onwards. The tower seemed to shimmer momentarily from the magic that infused it and then looked no more that it had when she had first arrived.

Panting and light-headed from the effort, she sank onto the lowest of the stone steps, shivering as the stone leeched heat from her. So cold, always so cold; since Regulus had gone, there was nothing but the intense, incessant ache and the terrible feeling that she would never be warm again. It wasn't until a tear struck her hand that she realised she was weeping; she watched more rain down onto her tightly clenched fists. How odd that she should see and feel them without realising they came from her.

It was rising up from deep within, as unstoppable as magma rising through the earth. She trembled and gritted her teeth; her breath came in deep, desperate gulps, and her pulse throbbed in her throat. Closing her eyes and pressing her palms against her eyes, she tried to keep it at bay, tried to smother it, but it was as futile as spitting on lava. It erupted from her in one long anguished howl; it reverberated around her tiny sanctuary. Birds burst from their nests in alarm, and animals scurried in panic. She inhaled deeply to scream again and again; it made no sense, there was no meaning to it, but each wail and sigh, each snarl and mewl conveyed so much; any who heard couldn't fail to understand it.

She must have dozed because she woke with a start and a sore neck. Her throat felt as though it were on fire, and her head had that dull, stuffy feeling that comes from excessive crying. She sniffed and carefully straightened her stiff joints. The sight of the battered suitcase brought her mind sharply back to her duty. Moistening her dry lips, she slid from the step and Transfigured it back into the man that would play such a vital and selfless role in her plan. He staggered before her, his eyes and mouth wide, his mind trying to process that his life and world had shifted. Eventually, his confused gaze rested upon her at the foot of some collapsed staircase, watching him calmly and coldly, and he shuddered; suddenly, women didn't seem so weak.

"Hey," he laughed nervously, "it was just a bit of fun, you know; she was asking for it really...just playing hard to get." He backed away, and his eyes darted over his surroundings, seeking a way out. "I wasn't going to hurt her, you know; some of them just don't know what they want and need a bit of guidance." He would have thought his words would have inspired something...disgust, anger, fear...but her cold stare continued, unnerving him and filling him with a sympathetic chill. It seemed so ridiculous that he should cower before a girl no older than his son, and he let it fuel his ire. "All girls need a little guidance."

Her heart leapt in her chest, and she felt her lips curve up in a vicious smile...how fortunate that he had decided to let his true colours flare; how close she had been to pitying this man and letting him run back to his sad existence. But now, as he leered and approached her, she felt righteous. In one smooth, fluid motion she withdrew her wand and became his judge and jury.

"Imperio!"

oooXooo

He stared at her, his red eyes ensnaring her dark gaze before delving into her mind. She parted her thoughts for him, and he sank deeper, his mind rushing into hers, following the path to what she wanted, needed, him to see. In his negligent eagerness, it was painful and disorientating, and she felt her control begin to slip, but the memory she had skilfully guided him to was quickly discovered, and he immersed himself in it. Gasping and shuddering at his intrusion, she struggled to keep truths hidden from him; he mistook her flushed cheeks and panting for enthusiasm and glee. Smiling, he caressed her cheek; she shuddered at his touch, and his lips parted at the thrill of having power over her.

"Your devotion to me is remarkable, my little Opella; it will not go unappreciated." His voice slithered over her, coiled itself around her and threatened to throttle her resolve.

"I live to serve," she replied breathlessly, lost in the wonder that her intense fear and despair could be so easily misconstrued as dedication and love.

"You love to serve," he amended gently, but irrevocably.

Biting down hard on her tongue, she used the sharp pain to disperse the fog descending upon her mind and watched as Henley, Severus and Bellatrix entered the room. Bellatrix's glance at her was venomous, and Severus looked at her with some concern flickering in the black depths of his eye.

"Henley," hissed out the Dark Lord, his eyes focusing on a tall, slender wizard. "Do you know where Godric's old watchtower stands?"

"Yes, my Lord," he answered quickly.

"There you shall find the traitor Regulus Black." Voldemort placed his long, slender hand on Ophelia's shoulder and pulled her closer, showing their unity of intent. "You will have the honour of killing the traitor." Next to him, Ophelia shuddered, and he smiled at her apparent palpable eagerness.

Henley bowed low and turned sharply, his cloak billowing out behind him as he strove to prove his readiness to serve.

Ophelia swallowed and closed her eyes; it was almost over. Regulus had not attracted the Dark Lord's attention: what they had been doing was still secret. Or had it? Her eyes snapped open, and she sought out Severus. Severus knew, or at least suspected, that her loyalty could be questioned. Her mouth went dry, and her knees felt weak.

He stood by the fireplace, his forearm resting on the mantelpiece. Throughout the little meeting, his eyes had been on her, and she felt that his gaze was peeling back her very skin to get at what she was hiding. He was tense, but he hid it behind a mask of indifference: the death of a fellow Death Eater was nothing of consequence, not when the Dark Lord had ordered it. Would Severus leave it with Regulus' death? Would he be satisfied that without Regulus, she could not continue with the enormous task they had embarked upon together? Or would he expose her as Regulus' co-conspirator in some undiscovered plot?

"Henley!" the Dark Lord snapped out. "A slight alteration to your orders; bring the traitor back here... alive!"

Her mind reeled; she had thought he would have just had Regulus killed. He had never shown such an interest in the motivations of the others who had deserted him. The Polyjuice would only last another fifty minutes; how long would it take for Henley to find him and drag him before the Dark Lord? She swallowed, her throat had become painfully dry, and she frantically thought of a way to prevent the unexpected memories trapped in the Muggle's brain from being extracted and examined by the Dark Lord. The challenge was immense and apparently insurmountable. She was trapped by her own cleverness.

Sweat burst from her pores. Her duplicity would be uncovered, and she would share in the same fate of all traitors to the Dark Lord. But that wasn't the source of the sudden desperation that smothered her. Everything had been for nothing! No one else knew of their work; their findings and discoveries would die with her. It would have all been for nothing...the Horcruxes would remain undisturbed. She and Regulus had struggled and suffered for nothing.

"How did you come to know where Regulus is, Ophelia?" asked Bellatrix carefully.

The voice seemed to drift to her ears as though travelling from a great distance; her head felt heavy, and her eyes couldn't focus on the spiteful witch, who looked so innocent even as her eyes glittered maliciously. Ophelia swallowed and inhaled slowly, as if the question had bored her, Bella's left eyelid twitched, and her sweet smile slipped.

"Regulus is a fool!" Ophelia said witheringly. "He doubted that anyone would think of him using such a place as a hideout, and he trusted me to do something that he should have known me incapable of doing." She paused while they all pondered the inevitable question. "He trusted me to keep his little hidey-hole a secret from my master."

Voldemort smiled, and she felt him squeeze her shoulder; from the corner of her eye, Ophelia saw Bellatrix scowl and look away with a flicker of jealousy crossing her face. Bella despised anyone who was closer to the Dark Lord than she was.

It wasn't Bella's hurt feelings that tormented Ophelia, but Severus' cool stare. She felt nauseous. Would he feel that their friendship had meant nothing? That she had merely tolerated his company when the Dark Lord was otherwise occupied? She could live with Bellatrix's disgust and hatred, but she couldn't thrive without Severus' friendship. He seemed to be staring at her with some element of incredulity marring his features; he was tense and cautious, his busy mind no doubt sorting and analysing the new information. Such an analyst. Oh, Severus, she thought, use your heart and not your head. Her eyes darted back to the clock, and her stomach dropped: only forty minutes left.

"Ophelia once more shows her loyalty to me and me alone." The Dark Lord gazed at her, and she felt that disgusting little flutter of pride. "If only more of my so-called devoted followers loved me as I have made you do."

Her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes widened as his words sliced through her. Thoughts that had skittered around her head united into one amalgamated truth; he had made her love him. The wonder that should happen naturally was something he had connived and directed; he had set out to gain her heart, mind and soul. The nausea she felt intensified, and she felt her stomach heave; he had used her.

No wonder he had never sought to sear his Mark onto her flesh; he considered her his in less obvious but more binding ways. His little Opella. She had looked up the name as soon as he had ascribed the endearment to her; it meant 'little labour'. The relevance only striking home now when he blithely confirmed that her love kept her loyal; she had been nothing but a pet project. Disgusted and humiliated, she closed her eyes and let herself be consumed by despair; one love was a lie and the other was lost.

What did it matter now? she thought bitterly. She was wasting away; her life was as good as over. She was dimly aware of the Dark Lord talking to Bellatrix about the rewards of loyalty, but the ticking of the clock held her fascination. From somewhere, she felt a surge of anger; from some deep recess a wrath exploded. How dare He speak of love! How dare He think to use it in such a gross manner! He knew nothing of it while she burned with it; she would show Him what love could do.

oooXooo

Doing just as he had been told, he hid between two slabs of stone that had fallen from what would have been an upper level. Some part of him was confused and terrified, but he laughed it off, it was perfectly fine. He let his fingers run through the long, black hair; it was perfectly fine to have such long, thick locks, even though he had been balding for decades. And the body that was so much slimmer and stronger was also, he laughed, perfectly fine. The strange black clothes he wore, so like the cloaks that his old teachers had worn, itched him a bit and seemed rather tight, but again, they were perfectly fine. He had the impression that something awful had happened and was still happening to him, but all he could think about was doing as he was told; he was a good boy, after all.

A soft scuffing sound disturbed his musings, and he stilled, even his breath stopped. Eyes wide, he licked his lips, the moist sound seeming so loud in the sudden silence. But it was perfectly fine; he'd been told as much. The sound of someone trying to make no sound caught his attention, and he imagined them creeping deeper into the collapsed tower, their eyes eagerly peering into the gloom. He tried to slither back, tried to blend into the shadows while the interloper searched. He had his instructions, and he was relieved that they happily coincided with the small desperate voice that kept trying to convince him of his peril...once his hidey-hole was found, he was to run!

The soft crunch of dry leaves and small stones informed him that his haven was very nearly found, and the muscles in his legs bunched in readiness. His breathing accelerated and his eyes felt huge as fear grabbed hold. A flicker of movement from the corner of his eye triggered his flight, and he bolted from his hole towards the open doorway. He heard a muted curse and feet scrabbling as his pursuer was forced to swivel on his heel to keep his prey in sight. The walls glowed red and then something brushed past his shoulder, hitting the wall like a red firework. There was a gleeful, malicious laugh behind him, a flash of red and something striking him between his shoulder blades, then nothing.

oooXooo

Henley dropped the limp body of 'Regulus Black' onto the hearthrug while the others slowly converged on the traitor. Bella spat on the body, her pale lips drawn back in revulsion; Snape stood a little way off, his expression smooth and indecipherable. Ophelia still stood next to the Dark Lord, his hand on her shoulder, and as he stepped closer, so did she. Her eyes glanced at the clock...twenty minutes. She knew that it wasn't her beloved Regulus, but still, she saw it as one last way to see him, and she said the goodbye that Regulus had deprived her of. The Dark Lord's hand slipped from her shoulder, and he slowly withdrew his wand from the recesses of his long gown.

"I find myself wondering what prompted his flight from my care." His voice was soft and conveyed such confused despair that it seemed he genuinely was astounded about his follower's desertion. "Was I so thoughtless and inattentive to him that he felt in some way dissatisfied?"

Trembling and barely holding herself together, she lifted her gaze from the Muggle's slack features and watched as the Dark Lord aimed his wand. Perhaps his discomfort over the last month was due to the fact that a Death Eater had betrayed him and not that he suspected some plot against his life. Did he worry that his influence was failing rather than fear that a Horcrux was in jeopardy? Maybe it wasn't all lost? Armed with the idea that she could still honour Regulus' idea and ambition, she straightened and slipped her hand into her pocket.

Sweat ran down her back, and her whole body vibrated with tension; as soon as the Dark Lord cast his spell, he would see that the mind belonged to a Muggle. Watching with abject horror, she heard the Dark Lord cast his spell: Enervate.

The Muggle moaned and curled up on the rug, promptly emptying his stomach on the expensive carpet. He wasn't sure what was going on anymore. All he knew was that he was terribly afraid and wanted to repent his sins...and he knew he had many.

Voldemort levitated the barely conscious man and held him in mid-air. He seemed quite fascinated by the whimpers and the increasing wet patch emanating from the man's groin. Slowly spinning, the man's defeat and humiliation were displayed to everyone. Bella grinned, Snape looked disgusted, and Ophelia was nearly paralysed by the sight...what could she do? How could she stop this?

"Tell me, Regulus," Voldemort said softly, "why did you desert me?"

The Muggle couldn't answer.

"At my time of greatest need, my most devout and loyal servant fled. What am I to think of that?"

Ophelia slipped her wand from her pocket; she had a plan. If it worked, then she had a slim chance to survive and carry on, and if it failed... well... she was dead anyway. All fear seemed to melt away; it was an astounding response to the knowledge that she really had no choice.

Using the distraction of the revolving Muggle, she aimed her wand at the man and muttered under her breath. Several spells leapt from her wand, but they had no form or colour, they were spells that no one could see, and it was ironic that the Dark Lord had taught her how to disguise her spell-casting. The first spell took effect; the Muggle started thrashing against the magic holding him and snarled viciously at his tormentor. The next spell made it seem as though the struggling man was hurling a hex; a bright sliver of light lanced from the man's hand, aimed straight at the Dark Lord.

It was easily deflected, but the distraction it posed meant that the man fell to the floor. Hastily, Ophelia cast her next set of spells. She focused on the Muggle and directed his moves: he had long stopped thinking and acting on his own behalf. Now was the time!

As the Muggle let out an ear piercing shriek, she moved to stand between the Dark Lord and his prospective attacker. Raising her wand, she cast the spell that would seal her fate.

"Immolatus!"

oooXooo

Tears streamed down Ophelia's paradoxically serene face. Across from her, Minerva held a trembling hand over her mouth, and her eyes were squeezed shut to prevent the tears from pouring down her face. Moody was staring at the tablecloth, his brow deeply furrowed, and his lips drawn together in a grim line. Dumbledore sat with his head bowed under the weight of her recollections, and his heart ached. The war was claiming younger and younger lives, leeching the love and hope from them; there were worse things than death.

"And afterwards?" Moody questioned; his long-honed instincts as an Auror surpassed his sympathy for the young witch.

Her sorrowful gaze locked onto his, and it seemed that the answer poured from her eyes; each tear a missive declaring that it had all been too much for a lonely sixteen-year-old to cope with.

"I couldn't carry on," she said with a mournful sigh. "It was becoming harder and harder to play the games that were needed. There were too many people to be wary of, and too much to do." Her eyelids fluttered closed, and her head lolled to the side; she slumped in the chair, and one sob slipped past her trembling lips.

"So you planned your escape from the Wizarding world?" asked Dumbledore, gently.

A series of whimpers erupted from her, and she nodded as if she was condemning herself.

"I planned for months, but an opportunity never presented itself, and then the train crashed, and it all came together." She opened her eyes and looked at Dumbledore. "I saw my way out and took it," she spoke softly, her voice thick with shame and regret. "I couldn't carry on," she whispered.

They sat silently, each pondering and weighing her words. Forgiveness was a moot topic, they had all done things that they regretted, and all in the name of the greater good; to condemn her would be to admit their own crimes.

"We come now to the thing that prompted us to bring you back, Ophelia," said Dumbledore solemnly. "We know that Voldemort made Horcruxes, and we have set ourselves the task of finding and destroying them." He needed to move forward, to remember why they had done this thing to her and not bog himself down in what may be perceived as her faults and graces. "The diary has been destroyed, but you spoke of a ring and a locket?"

She inhaled slowly and straightened in her chair; her will had gone, shed in her tears. She had nothing left but this.

"His grandfather's ring," she supplied emotionlessly. "Marvolo's ring."

She licked her lips and reached for her tea, sighing as she saw the tea stain in the empty cup. Minerva smiled and poured her another drink. Ophelia glanced up at the woman who had given and taken points, the woman who had been such a strong character in her youth, and smiled in gratitude. She had never felt so secure. Ophelia almost laughed at the absurdity of it; she had been kidnapped and abused, made to relive her best and worst memories and yet, by sipping tea and unburdening herself, she had never felt so free.

"I went to the Gaunt House," she said before pausing to sip her hot tea. "A wizard was there and tried to chase me away. He was quite determined at one point, but he let me in after I spoke with him; he seemed impressed that I could understand him."

"You're a Parselmouth?" asked Dumbledore, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.

"No," she responded quickly. "But it's possible to learn how to understand and speak the language; He taught me, with Nagini's help."

"I don't understand," Minerva asked with a frown. "I was under the impression that one was born a Parselmouth?"

"A true Parselmouth understands the language instinctively," Ophelia said gently. "However, as with any other language, it can be learnt."

"Did you find the ring?" asked Moody with forced patience, intent on keeping the questioning on track.

"No." She shook her head sadly. "Most of their possessions had been sold to pay off debts; we couldn't find the ring amongst what was left. I'm sure that it's there though," she said thoughtfully, her voice tinged with frustration. "It just seems right that it should be."

"And what of the locket?" asked Dumbledore, his voice tight and restrained as he fought an unusual insurgence of impatience.

She swallowed and closed her eyes, her lips trembled and her breath stuck in her throat.

"All I know is that it's in a cavern, in a stone bowl and protected by spells, a potion and Inferi," she said bitterly, her lips curving up into a sneer; it was so much better to be angry than empty, to be bitter rather than despairing. She opened her eyes and rubbed her forehead with shaking fingers. "And Regulus is beneath the water: one of the ring's hated guardians."