Chapter Twenty eight

The sounds of guests and the light had long faded when hunger finally convinced her to leave her room. She padded along the landing and began to descend the staircase into the shadows that had taunted her a few days before. Dumbledore had told her she was no prisoner and had released the wards on her door, but she preferred the quiet of the room, hiding in it.

The stairs creaked beneath her feet; she paused, recalling the bizarre step-and-shuffle dance that had once allowed her to creep silently down the stairs and into the kitchen to snatch one of Kreacher's delicious chocolate treats. She smiled at the fond recollections and the wonder that after so long, her memories should be so precise and so ready to come to the fore.

Dancing down the stairs, she stopped on the bull nose and glanced along the hallway; the door into the parlour was ajar, and the kitchen door stood invitingly open. Her smile widened, and she imagined the long refectory table laden with pots and pans, flour and bowls, eggs and pastry cutters, and Kreacher swirling round, baking and being so remarkably patient with a child trying to be helpful. She could remember the biscuits, how she would sneak one from under his large nose, and his hyperbolic confusion as he counted the remaining fewer biscuits. Her smile slipped, and she frowned; a pang of regret sliced through her chest...why had it gone so wrong?

Stepping off the stairs and walking past the parlour into the kitchen, she was staggered at how stark and empty it was: no herbs hanging as they dried, no saucepans bubbling on the stove, no flowers...her violets gone. She gave a small sob, her first since weeping herself dry, and her first sign of mourning for the life she had found so repellent and yet which had contained some of her happiest memories. How proper that the kitchen should be so barren and empty; how right that as she was restored, so the truth of her life was revealed: those moments of happiness, the icing that had hidden how rotten the cake had been. She gritted her teeth and walked over to the stove, reaching for the kettle and carrying it to the dirty sink.

As the taps gurgled and clunked, she looked out of the window into the small garden at the back of the house. The shrubs were overgrown, the paving stones cracked and resting at odd angles; the brick wall was smothered with ivy, and the bird table was lying on its side, the basin split and broken. Weeds had control of the enclosed garden, and it looked just about as neglected as any garden could be. This was how it had always been, she reminded herself, cracked and broken beneath a smile.

She searched the worktop for a box of matches and then laughed at her own foolishness; she turned on the gas and waved her hand, letting out a delighted squeal as the gas ignited. With the water boiling, she prepared a teapot and selected a cup and saucer. After a quick search of the kitchen, she found some bread and soft cheese, which still seemed edible. Where was Kreacher with his delicious dishes and tasty treats? She sliced through the loaf and spread the creamy cheese over it, licking her fingers, as her haste made her clumsy. Behind her, the black kettle began to whistle shrilly, and she took a hasty bite before tending to the demanding kettle. She slowly stirred the tea and thought about life and its circles; she had been dragged into her life as a witch years ago and nurtured here... and now, she was back.

The creaking stairs made her spine stiffen, and she gulped down her mouthful of bread and cheese. Her eyes were drawn to the kitchen door, and her palms felt clammy. Fear clustered in her gut, and she tried to remember that she had faced the Dark Lord...even fought a Dementor...but they seemed mere trifles when compared to meeting her family. Her ears strained, and she could hear the soft swish of feet against carpet and then, the door opened... so terribly slowly.

He paused when he saw her sitting at the table, her eyes wide and cautious. His hand gripped the door handle as if he feared letting go and losing himself in her gaze and the tumultuous wave of emotions that she portended. He closed his eyes and summoned an image of her; she was all glee and giggles as they played in the garden, tugging on a rag under the glorious summer sky. How he wished and hoped that this one thing was untainted and unchanged. He inhaled deeply, opened his eyes and closed the door behind him.

"Sirius," she said breathlessly, her eyes fixed upon his wary features.

She took in his haggard appearance: each deep wrinkle and the pallor of his skin: a testament to some terrible tragedy. She swallowed and stood slowly, her legs weaker than they had ever been, and somehow, her feet carried her towards him. His eyes widened and some pained concern flittered across his drawn features.

The anger, still young and fresh despite it being inflicted over half a lifetime ago, squirmed inside...Sirius had abandoned Regulus! Sirius had gloried while Regulus had suffered. He was the man who had made empty promises about being able to protect them; he was the one who had forced Regulus down the road to his terrible death. She had hated Sirius; she had despised him and done all that the Dark Lord had asked of her: her twisted revenge for his abandonment of Regulus. Yet, she had loved Sirius; as bizarre as it sounded, she had loved being with him. It was only after Regulus had taken the Mark and the severity of the situation hit home that her feelings started to shift. And in the aftermath of his death, her anger had condensed into something hard and dangerous.

He had no words, no way to translate his feelings as she stood trembling by the kitchen table. How to capture the raging and spiralling thoughts crashing through his skull and order them into something comprehensible? It was impossible! His world had crashed down, and even as he built new foundations to a better understanding, another quake would render them down to rubble...he doubted he could face building again: he was so tired. As he studied her pale and alert face, he felt he deserved her wrath and disappointment, yet he felt he had a right to rant and scream at her, but it all seemed so redundant: such a waste of energy to scratch at old wounds and make new ones. He was just too damned tired.

"Ophelia," he responded hoarsely.

His voice had changed. It no longer carried the bravado and confidence of the young man she remembered. It was the rasp of a broken man... of a man hoping he could repair himself. The anger squirmed again, but as she watched his shoulders tremble and his chest heave, she let it slip away. She was exhausted, and he was the closest to home and family she had.

"I am so sorry," he whispered, his voice clogged with heavy emotions. "I was a fool!"

He caught her sob before she lunged to hold him, her arms gripping him. Sirius squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. "I should never have left him!" he said, pain wrapped around each syllable. Her arms held him tighter, and he thought he heard her soothe him with the same nonsensical sounds that had once tumbled from his own lips. "I could have saved him! I could have..."

He collapsed, sobbing and howling; the consuming grief that had battered at him returned with a vengeance, as if determined to make him suffer more in retribution for the years he had ignored it. She held him, her own keening equal to his as she succumbed to the pain and loss that her recent revelations had temporarily numbed.

"Oh Merlin!" he moaned. "What have I done?"

"Oh, Sirius," she sobbed, pulling away so that she could cradle his face in her hands. "You couldn't have known what would happen; none of us could." Her voice hitched as she spoke, and her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "You had no idea; we never said anything... we're all to blame."

It was true; all those preconceptions and prejudices, all those bad decisions and unheeded truths, all of it had conspired and colluded to create the terrific mess they now had to survive in.

"I will make this right again," Sirius said firmly, determination giving his voice a steely edge. "I will be the man I should have been."

How long they cleaved to each other, venting their despair and reaffirming their affection, they had no idea, but it was interrupted by the sound of chimes. Sirius pulled away, wiping his face on his sleeve.

"Some of the Order are on their way back," he said stuffily, the result of his weeping. "I think you should go and rest in your room."

He kissed her on her forehead, and she flashed him a smile before stepping out of his embrace. After all the years apart and the worry caused by the reunion, he was reluctant to let her go. He watched her until she disappeared up the stairs, and he hoped beyond reason that she was the girl he remembered. He doubted he could live with any more disappointment.

oooXooo

"You look tired," Sirius said bluntly.

It was early in the morning; the sky had yet to acknowledge the sun, but judging by the rain hammering against the house, it was far too preoccupied to notice its companion. She yawned and sat down heavily. There was a strong smell of coffee in the air, and she caught sight of Sirius filling a second mug. After almost two weeks, it had become a ritual for them both to meet in the gloomy kitchen, both looking tired after struggling to sleep.

Ophelia glanced up and smiled wearily at Sirius. "I didn't sleep well," she explained. "The dreams are getting worse." She gathered up the mug, letting it warm her hands, and smiled. "Thanks. It's odd, but I rarely drank coffee while..." she faltered and looked panicked "... while being Veronica. I mean, when I was Veronica." She swallowed, as though nauseous. "I drank it when I was..." Looking uncomfortable, she stopped and winced. "Never mind."

It was so confusing. Numerous notions warred within her head, each suggesting different things: she didn't like coffee; she never drank it at Aunt Elladora's; she should be having tea. She saved coffee for when she was with Severus; it was her treat. Such thoughts had intensified in recent days, and the clashing ideas were enough to make her head throb. The cacophony and the lack of order was something she dreaded; her plaintive pleas for clarification of her thoughts, memories and feelings went unheeded. There was no voice helping her sift and sort her thoughts... Veronica was silent. And it was more than disturbing.

Her unease and sense of being trapped were also acute this morning. She longed to leave and meet others she remembered: Narcissa...how she missed her cousin!...and Severus. The coffee was somehow enhancing her longing. It was stirring up memories she didn't want to study, not with Sirius standing over her. But her mind and emotions were fickle and frantic, and she was left with the disorientating sensation that she should be in the lab with Severus.

All that from a cup of coffee, she mused wryly. Perhaps the rather sterile house had lost meaning for her? Certainly there was little she recognised here. Was she clinging to things that meant more to her or had a greater impact? She glanced across at Sirius, surprised at the rising frustration and resentment she felt. Had Severus found her, she would have been with him, safely cocooned in his lap and aura...but she'd also be back within 'Uncle Tom's' grasp. She shuddered and felt sick to her stomach. She was safe here, but in being safe, she had lost two of the most important people to her: Severus and Narcissa.

"Maybe some Dreamless Sleep would help?"

Sirius's words sliced through her, and she felt the weight of the house pressing against her. "They're not bad dreams... they're just powerful." She clucked her tongue impatiently and frowned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I can't explain them."

Sirius felt a sympathetic unease. There was so much he didn't know about the woman sitting in front of him, and he found he couldn't treat her as if the Ophelia he had known had merely been put on hold. To cover his discomfort he sipped his own coffee. He grimaced at the bitter taste and then smiled: he had become far too used to Butterbeer with Harry and his friends in the house.

For her part, Ophelia sipped and obsessed over her coffee. The rich aroma and taste stirred up equally rich memories. How often had she ventured down into the basement and caught the scent of freshly ground coffee? How many cups had they shared as they brewed potions and in the rare moments of relaxation? On her fourth sip, a wrench of longing almost made her gasp. She felt such a yearning to be with Severus. She missed him with an intensity that brought tears to her eyes. But he was a Death Eater. Closing her eyes, she tried to purge the need to be with him. He was a Death Eater.

"Are you alright?"

Her eyes snapped open, and she saw Sirius looking tenderly at her. It was an impossible situation, and she wondered what point there was in being bitter about her current existence. What was the point of torturing herself with potent reminders?

"Could I have tea, instead?"

He laughed and shrugged, and she saw some of the old Sirius in him. She couldn't help but laugh with him.

"Of course," he replied gently. "Moony says I make awful coffee; I guess you just cast the deciding vote."

They had spent a few hours a day, going over their histories, both sensing that the other held back a portion of their experiences. She had been introduced to some of the others: Arthur and Molly Weasley, a couple she immediately liked, and Remus Lupin, whom she knew from Hogwarts. The days had been hectic despite her long stays in the room; if she wasn't physically active, then her mind was whirling as it dealt with all the memories and information she was absorbing. So much was happening so quickly.

It was easier and safer to withdraw to her room. Sirius had brought in some furniture, and Remus had helped Transfigure parts of the room until it resembled something decent. It was a mismatch of styles and colours, but it was clean and comfortable.

The chimes, heralding visitors, had become her cue to leave, and although Sirius tried to make her stay and 'get to know' the others, she had left him... she didn't want to get to know people! It was becoming bad enough 'meeting' her ghosts and trying to make sense of her past: it didn't come in smooth snippets, but in a mass of discontinuous images and perplexing emotional responses.

Dumbledore and Moody came with their questions, and she told them as much as she could. It was easier when they were with her. Their questions and Legilimency seemed to keep things in order. Her mind still wanted to skitter over her experiences with the Dark Lord, but they were persistent interrogators. She was invariably exhausted after such sessions, and her head would feel as though it were fit to burst. With the strains of exposing and integrating memories, she found her temper shortening and her bitterness growing.

Something else was beginning to emerge, something worrying, but she couldn't quite isolate and identify it. Whatever it was, she could feel it growing and stretching out. It didn't help being cooped up, and after a month of it, she felt ready to scream.

"Molly!" Ophelia snapped out. "I do not need or want dinner."

"But, dear, you've had nothing to eat all day."

Arthur glanced up from the Daily Prophet and studied the two women squaring off over the Cottage Pie. Molly was prepared for battle: apron, serving spoon and plate, along with the patience gleaned from raising a family of seven. Ophelia was standing by the sink, shielding herself with the coffee cup she had nursed all afternoon and showing the annoying petulance of most people when faced with determined mothering.

"You have to keep up your strength, dear," Molly continued sweetly. "Dumbledore says that you've had a tough time of it, and nothing helps recovery better than rest and good food."

"I have plenty of rest, thanks to Dumbledore," she hissed out snidely, ignoring the surprise and pain flashing across Molly's face. "And I will have good food when I'm ready to have it."

"I'm sure you know best," soothed Molly, after a tense pause. "I'll leave a piece in the fridge for you, all the same."

As if I can't decide what I want and need? Ophelia thought angrily. How dare she presume to know better than me! Her teeth cracked in her jaw, and she could feel her hands tightening around the mug. Other arguments bombarded her mind. It's not Thursday today, so I'm not having the Cottage Pie. Cottage Pie is on Thursdays; this is just another trick to make me do strange things. She's setting me up. And I'm not falling for it. I'm not going back into isolation over some sodding Cottage Pie.

"Fine," she countered shrilly. "I'll eat it on Thursday...when we should be having it."

Molly looked puzzled, and Arthur, frowning, let his paper fall onto the tabletop. He'd heard some strange things while in St Mungo's...disjointed ramblings and odd sentiments...and he'd seen the same expression marring Ophelia's face on some of the patients. Truth be told, the war was taking its toll and many of the people trudging through this house were teetering on the edge of madness. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone snapped.

"We can wait until Thursday," he interjected calmly, smiling at Ophelia before giving his wife a pointed look. At first, he thought she'd argue, but Molly must have understood his silent advice.

"I suppose it'll keep," she conceded, despite her small scowl.

See! They think they can get me into trouble. But I know what they're up to, she thought smugly, watching them as they gave each other a brief but tender hug. And if they think working together will break me quicker, then they can think again. I've been here before; I beat them then... I can do it again!

She waited, expecting some rejoinder from within, but nothing filled the vast silence. There was no gentle voice soothing her ruffled feathers and congratulating her for seeing through Molly and Arthur's plot to unnerve and punish her. The silence doused her resentment and anger. It left her cold and scared. She didn't want to be this alone. Without Veronica, how would she know she was right and good... and normal? It was unbearably cruel; they had just found each other after years of separation. She couldn't cope just being Ophelia.

oooXooo

"The Dark Lord himself couldn't persuade me to continue teaching Potter Occlumency!"

Dumbledore sat and watched his Potions master pace the office. It had been just over a month since Harry had inadvertently invaded Snape's Pensieve and privacy, but the wound and hurt were still just as keen. He knew the situation was beyond repair, but he had felt obliged to ask once more.

"No matter," Dumbledore soothed. "Sit down, Severus, and have some tea."

Snape stopped and turned to glare at him. "No matter?" he hissed out. "Do you think I have time to waste on trivial matters?"

Dumbledore frowned and peered over his glasses at the simmering wizard. Minerva had commented a few days ago about Severus' shorter than normal temper, and it was becoming clear the pressures on Severus were beginning to have an impact. As far as Dumbledore knew, Snape had no particular support from the Order or from within Voldemort's ranks, and the sense of isolation, combined with the immense workload, could easily overwhelm the wizard. Snape was a man of his word, and his loyalty and sense of duty were beyond reproach, and he would work until he either dropped or broke. Dumbledore could not tolerate the thought of either outcome.

"Forgive me, Severus," he implored. "I did not mean to trivialise your efforts." Severus snorted, but was mollified enough to sit down. "And I am painfully aware that in the last few months, I have burdened you more and more."

"Don't be melodramatic," Snape muttered. "I was well aware of the nature and requirements of my task when I accepted it."

"Please, Severus," he persisted, almost pleadingly, "let someone in; let someone share your pai..."

"Don't!" Snape spat out, his lip curling up in resentment, and his eyes flashing. "I will do this my way."

Dumbledore longed to argue, but he knew Severus would back away until there was nothing left of him exposed, and Dumbledore would lose him: not as a spy, but as a colleague.

"Very well," he said finally, if unhappily.

For a few moments, they sipped tea and waited for the air to clear. Fawkes chirruped as he dozed, and from the walls, industrious snoring reverberated around the Headmaster's office.

"I have decided not to let Ophelia return to Tom's ranks," Dumbledore said, breaking the silence.

Snape swallowed his tea and nodded slowly. "She would be transparent to him," he said flatly. "She'd be dead before he left her mind."

"The information she has provided us with has been most valuable, and no one knows Voldemort as well as she does. Her memories are priceless."

"No one was closer to Him," Snape added tonelessly.

"Alastor and I have been questioning her regularly since she regained consciousness, and we are concerned she is not adjusting to her current state," Dumbledore continued carefully. "Arthur and Sirius have also raised concerns about her mental and emotional state based on their observations."

Snape looked up and watched the old man's features darken, and he felt his stomach clench. "It's hardly surprising that she'd be a little unhinged and depressed after learning what she had been and done." Dumbledore still looked severe, as though he was contemplating something highly unpleasant. Snape sighed impatiently. "If the potion was going to destroy her mind, it would have done so within hours, not weeks. Whatever is bothering her is due to her current state... not the potion."

"No," he agreed, pursing his lips.

"Trust me," Snape added firmly, "if the potion was flawed or had failed in any way, she'd be fit for nothing."

"I'm sure the potion was impeccably brewed," he assured with a smirk. "I have come across some... tension, of sorts, within her memories and when she assimilates those memories. It's almost as if she has several distinct responses to the same event."

It was difficult to define what he had seen in her head: the confusion and almost frantic analysis of the memories swarming up in her mind. He fancied it was similar to drowning. Using his skill, he was alarmed to see she was struggling to address the emotional ramifications of her life as Tom's pet project. She was constantly questioning her own responses and decisions. He wondered if she was trying to judge her past with a completely new set of observation criteria. What she had once seen as reasonable, was now unacceptable, and her new sense of morality derived from her existence as Veronica was appalled. Was she spiralling down into a dark depression, pummelled by her skewed conscience?

"She did resist the potion," Snape continued grimly, shuddering at the recollection of her tongue between his fingers and the blood seeping out across the linen. "It could be some psychological problem as a result of her life after the memory loss. You said that she had been held in an institute."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "Combined with the constant Legilimency during her childhood, I believe her mind is in some way less disciplined...no! That's not quite right," he amended quickly and with some frustration. "Her mind is remarkably susceptible to ideas and quick to study them; I believe she has no frame of reference to add meaning and value to what she's remembering." He shook his head and used his forefinger and thumb to smooth his moustache. "It must be like coming into a lesson halfway through and only understanding what the spell can do with no idea about when and how to use it."

"There is no potion I know of to help her with that," Snape said dispassionately. "Madam Pomfrey would be the better candidate, but even then, I doubt she would be familiar with this particular pathology."

"I cannot draw Poppy into this; this is something we must help her with. Ophelia is too valuable an asset to lose." He studied the man opposite carefully, knowing Snape had taken great pains to avoid Grimmauld Place since Ophelia's recovery. However, some things were important enough to transcend personal comfort and peace. "Sirius has been trying to get her to discuss her experiences, but I fear he cannot do this alone."

Snape stiffened and glowered. He had maintained his distance for a reason, and now the old coot was basically assigning him to hold her hand! He had enough stresses and woes without adding to them by reacquainting himself with someone he had grieved for so deeply. Her death had hit him as hard as Lily's. Another thought...one of those nasty notions that like to add to the pain and suffering...emerged from the dismay and dread of Dumbledore's request: without Regulus... he could have what he had forced himself to ignore back then.

"I wouldn't have asked you," Dumbledore continued, "but I believe you are the only one who can reach her."

Snape closed his eyes as the thought gained momentum. He had thought about her for years, fighting the jealousy over Regulus, and he had relegated his affection to the deepest crevice of his mind. But after he had healed her, he once again let those thoughts and impulses run rampant. The part of him that truly craved what Dumbledore had pleaded him to accept reared its head and bared its teeth. He could have it! Without Lily and Regulus, he could easily claim what many a man took for granted: companionship, human contact... affection. The though of it made him ache from his loneliness. Ophelia had been so close to him...almost as close as Lily...and she had made him feel human when the world was turning him into a monster.

Dumbledore watched the merest echo of Snape's feelings flitter across his pale features. He knew Snape had twisted the truth when he had divulged what he knew about Ophelia to Sirius. His spy had been far too agitated to be merely surprised at Ophelia's existence or distraught about what she had done to Regulus' body: legilimency had confirmed his suspicions. Exactly why Snape had lied or what about, Dumbledore wasn't sure, but he had seen something in the back of Snape's mind... something that the wizard had buried deep within his psyche...perhaps so deeply, he no longer realised he lied. It would be interesting to find out the truth of the matter. But first and foremost, he needed Ophelia fit and healthy.

"We can't trust Black to be the only guardian of her mind, can we?" Snape said finally, his voice smooth as he ignored his unsettled stomach and Dumbledore's smirk.

"Excellent, Severus," he replied happily, relieved that he had secured Severus' aid. "Now that's sorted; what did you find out about Harry's vision?"

Severus harrumphed and moved to place his empty teacup on the desk. "The vision was accurate. Rookwood has indeed been punished by the Dark Lord."

"Rookwood works at the Ministry," at Severus' nod, he continued, "so I will ask Smith to keep an eye on him. It may be significant that Rookwood works in the Department of Mysteries."

"If the Dark Lord is after the prophecy."

"Is he aware of Harry at all?" Dumbledore asked cautiously, ignoring Snape's comment.

"I can't discern any discomfort in the Dark Lord, but I can't guarantee He isn't aware of Potter's intrusions."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "It is imperative that if Tom is oblivious, he should remain so. We can't afford to lose this advantage."

Snape's eyebrow arched. "You still see it as an advantage?"

"Tom seems oblivious of the sharing, so for now, it is an advantage."

"Shall I point out the many downsides to having the Dark Lord crawling around inside your head?" he asked waspishly, incredulous at the Headmaster's blinkered desire to manipulate this particular situation.

Dumbledore started and flashed him a withering look. "When this war is over, then you can consider such things as noble tactics. For now, it is useful."

"Yet you profess to care about Potter?"

The air suddenly felt charged, and Snape's teeth tingled. A wind seemed to have decided to use the office as a shortcut. Snape's hair whipped about his face, and he held onto the chair arms, while Fawkes clucked in alarm. The picture frames thudded against the walls, and loose papers darted about the room; the fire sputtered in the grate, and Snape felt chilled to the bone. As quickly as it started, it ended.

"I cannot afford to care about anyone," Dumbledore whispered, his voice tinged with the dregs of his sudden rage. Not even you, he thought sadly as the anger dissipated to be replaced with despair. I cannot risk it.

oooXooo

Patience was well established in old Aurors, but after two weeks of watching Rookwood, Smith was getting decidedly edgy. The man...supposed Death Eater...led one of the most predictable and least thrilling existences Smith had ever scrutinised. If Rookwood did sneak off to meet up with Voldemort, then he did it with a skill that confounded Smith, which was unlikely. At work, Rookwood was arrogant and bitter, but clean. Smith couldn't even accuse him of littering. After the initial thrill...the appetiser...of helping Moody, he felt he had been let down on the main course, left with something incapable of satisfying his hunger.

Smith tutted and continued mopping the floor. In the distance, he could hear muted conversations from the canteen and the occasional bout of laughter as Aurors unwound over their dinner. The tension and anxiety within the Ministry was almost palpable; if they hadn't officially accepted Voldemort's return, then at least some of them felt it. Amelia had doubled patrols and created new roles in recent weeks: new jobs to watch for any unusual activity. Fudge had been resistant, but Amelia had a way of making people see sense... usually, very loudly.

For his part, Smith was still focused on Rookwood, and the last place to check thoroughly was his office... And that was the tricky bit. Rookwood worked in the bowels of the Ministry, close to the Department of Mysteries, and getting down there would be... challenging. It was time to test his 'invisibility cloak'... the indifference of the young Aurors.

It was with a large amount of bitterness and some relief that he managed to gain access to the lower levels of the Ministry. Pushing the cleaning trolley no doubt helped. Only one burly Auror had the idea to challenge Smith's presence. Luckily, the Auror was not the keenest of individuals, so Smith had little trouble explaining his presence away. It was unnerving to think that so many treasures and secrets were protected by the indifferent and gullible.

Rookwood had warded his door as per Ministry dictates. Smith smiled. It couldn't be easier. That's not to say the wards were easily broken, just that Smith had spent a long time within these halls, bored and needing something to occupy his mind. Glancing along the corridor, he removed his wand and waved it over the dark wood, muttering under his breath. He felt alive; he felt powerful. It was glorious. Hiding his trolley under a Disillusionment Charm and casting a Detection spell to alert him of someone's approach, Smith let himself in.

The office was remarkably tidy. Rookwood was neat to a fault. His professional eye moved over the small room, taking in the details, both gross and fine. Soot on the floor...scuffed, indicating that he had recently come in via the Floo. There was a pile of papers on the desk, with one leaf sticking out slightly, the corner peeking out from its ordered companions. A barely visible mark on the desk indicated that something had rested there for a time... the varnish dulled by its touch. Numerous sticky circles showed Rookwood's habit of drinking in his office. But the circumference was wrong for the small cups offered in the canteen: the rings were from Rookwood's own mug. Smith passed his wand over the sticky residue: it was coffee and...Smith grinned...alcohol. He knew Rookwood was too good to be true. But drinking on the job wasn't the worst of sins, so Smith kept looking.

Satisfied he had gleaned enough from his visual inspection, Smith started searching the drawers, cupboards and all other nooks and crannies. After twenty minutes, he had found Rookwood's bottle of Firewhiskey, two adult magazines, and evidence that a number of things had been removed from the office quite recently. The approved cleaners for this area worked weekly to clean the offices. Checking their rota earlier, this room had been last cleaned six days ago and was due a sprucing tomorrow: the items had been removed some time this week.

Whatever Rookwood had removed, they had been in place for quite some time: the wall was not as faded under the picture that had once hung there; the mark on the desk of something heavy resting upon it; the dust-free sliver from a small picture on the desk; the odd groove in the base of the bottom drawer; and the fresh scratches on the inside of his cupboard. With nothing incriminating in the room, he ensured that all evidence of his presence was eliminated and left, re-warding the door behind him.

From the shadows, hidden from view, Rookwood watched Smith remove the Disillusionment charm from a trolley and push it away. Licking his lips, he waited until the charms cast by Smith faded before moving. He bypassed his office and followed the elderly wizard. Rookwood had been foolish once before, and the Dark Lord had punished him for it; he was not prepared to allow it to happen again. In fact, he was eager to make amends, and giving the Dark Lord an Order member would be perfect.

Moody had been late meeting up with Smith, and as the time dragged, so Smith's fervour and enthusiasm diminished. By the time Moody sat down at the kitchen table, he was feeling dejected and useless.

"Ye think 'e's usin' the Floo to get to Voldemort?"

Smith nodded and rubbed his hands together, as though to warm them. "Best I can guess," he confirmed dispassionately.

"I can get a trace put on 'is Floo," Moody said grimly. "It may give us somethin', but I doubt Voldemort would be stupid enough to 'ave 'is Death Eaters come straight to 'im." He sucked on his front teeth and pulled out his hipflask. "Most likely leads to an Apparition point."

Smith inhaled slowly. "I thought I could be more 'elpful," he muttered sadly. "Rookwood 'as nowt; ye can't accuse 'im of bein' a bad employee. Ye couldn't even get 'im sacked," he finished bitterly.

"Now don't be thinkin' like that," Moody said sharply. "When did ye become so impatient?" He took a quick sip, waiting for the warming sting to pass through his gullet and into his chest. "Ye know these things take time; you keep on watchin' and soon enough, yer'll find yer nugget."

"I know," he replied tetchily. "I got 'ungry, okay."

"Well, I know that feelin'," Moody replied just as softly. "But ye can't rush." He suddenly chortled and reached out to pat the back of Smith's hand. "Odd, ain't it?" he asked with a grin. "Us old farts, getting' all impatient and rushin' round like cadets."

Something flared within at Moody's words. It was sudden and short-lived, but it heated his insides, leaving an echo of it, throbbing in his guts. It was a complicated mix of anger, petulance, spite, despair and intense dissatisfaction. He didn't want to be old; he didn't want to be worse than a cadet. He didn't want to be useless and redundant.

"I 'ear that Ophelia is up and about," he said simply, wishing to change the subject.

Moody's grin slipped. "That's right," he replied softly. "She's quite useful."

"Ye make it sound as though she wasn't worth the 'assle?"

"Oh, she was worth it," he amended with a wry laugh. He sobered and took another deep swig of his Firewhisky, and he looked discomforted, as though some unfavourable thought was mocking him. "I'm just not sure what we're goin' to do with 'er when she's no longer any use," he spat out.

"She'll find 'er way in the world, won't she?" Smith asked, feeling pragmatic, until Moody let out a harsh bark of a laugh.

"The way Dumbledore 'as been goin' on, ye'd think that she'll finish 'er NEWTs and get a job: settle right back into it all, nice and neat!"

"People got messed up durin' the last conflict," Smith offered cautiously, "and they managed to get some o' their old lives back."

"Not quite the same," Moody scolded gently. "She's 'ad no one and nothin' keepin' her magic on track; she's learnt an entirely new way..." he floundered, waving his hand, as though trying to attract the attention of the appropriate words. "I doubt she'd be able to use a wand."

"She can do magic, though."

"Oh, she can an' all!" Moody readily and grimly agreed, remembering his time on the cliff top. "But it's all...oh! I can't explain it!" he snapped out sulkily.

"Bit like," continued Smith, believing he had an inkling of what his friend meant, "those that can cast a Patronus and them that can't? No amount o' trainin' can help 'em, despite 'em 'avin' a wand."

"I guess," he said, not quite convinced that it was the best analogy. "I think it 'as more to do with the fact that it were Veronica who cast those spells on the 'ill... and Veronica ain't 'ere anymore."

"But Ophelia can remem...oh!" Smith's mouth snapped shut, and he closed his eyes. "The older ye get, the 'arder it is to learn to 'andle a wand."

"Ophelia may think she's sixteen, but 'er body and magic knows she's damn near forty. We may be too late to 'elp 'er," Moody said sadly. "We already know that the later they enter school, the less they can achieve."

"Dumbledore knows this, though?"

"'E knows," Moody said bitterly. "And I think 'e's usin' it to keep 'er... compliant, tellin' 'er she can carry on from where she left off when it's all over."

Smith frowned and hastily swallowed his mouthful of tea. "But that's just good sense," he said. "Ye know that sources o' information dry up if there's no gain to 'em for providin'."

"I know that. I just don't like the idea o' pie-crust promises, and I think that what'll fly out o' this particular pie will be nastier than blackbirds."

oooXooo

Her mood hadn't improved as the night drew in, and when she turned over for what felt like the hundredth time, she flung back the covers, tutted and leapt out of bed. It was insufferable. She felt trapped...isolated...from everything. She craved some of the things she was remembering. In those terrible times, she had found moments of true happiness...and the sources of that happiness were beyond this house! It was ironic that after years of being stifled in half a life, she had been freed only to find herself more trapped now. It brought a wry smile to her face. Severus would have found the entire thing hilarious!

Knowing sleep would be impossible, she opened the door and padded down the stairs. She knew the house was relatively empty: the raucous Order members had left earlier. Dumbledore had told her she was here as the Order's ward, so the others would be aware of her and not be alarmed if they stumbled upon her. Wrapped up in another lie, hiding behind another false name; sometimes, she didn't know who she was any more.

All day, she had found herself slipping from one way of thinking to another and constantly checking her responses to ensure they were either appropriate or warranted, even asking herself if she should say anything at all. It had been awful. Her sense of dislocation and solitude had increased; she knew she could never belong with them. And that made her wonder just where she did belong. She felt cold and utterly alone. The voice, Veronica's voice, had always been there, but since she had woken, the voice was quiet. Her lip curled up in disgust; what had she lost in order gain all this?

The kitchen was cold, so she stayed by the hob, snatching warmth from the stove as the kettle boiled. In the glass, she could see her reflection, ghostly within the dark glass. That was what she was: a ghost. Even if she had everything, she couldn't be a part of this world anymore than a ghost could. She scowled. Even her face was unfamiliar; it had not been seen by her for nearly twenty years. The eyes seemed so... alien. Even with Polyjuice, she had known who she was behind the face.

Tentatively, she reached up and traced a finger down the side of her face. It was her; she could feel the fingernail scratching the skin.

"Who are you?"

"I am Kreacher."

The voice startled her, and she whipped around to see an ancient house-elf in a tatty tea towel. He was barely recognisable, with a vicious snarl on his wrinkled face, but when she squinted, she could see the kindly house-elf from her childhood.

"Missy is standing there gawping; is there anything Missy wants? Or can I get to my bed?"

A laugh erupted from her chest, more from surprise than humour.

"Where have you been, Kreacher?"

The elf's face screwed up in intense dislike. "Around the house, Missy. Just as I'm supposed to be."

"Indeed," she said softly, her heart hammering at the hate-filled expression on the elf's face.

Ophelia swallowed nervously. "Don't you recognise me, Kreacher?"

The elf sighed but studied her. For the merest fraction of a second, she thought he'd recognised her, but he snorted and folded his thin arms across his chest. "No, Missy."

You're... you're sure?"

"Of course, missy. You're just one of the Master's friends."

Kreacher spat out 'friends' as if it was synonymous with scum, and the sound of it snatched Ophelia's breath. Winded, she held her abdomen and gasped. It was impossible! Kreacher had helped her tidy up when her magic had faltered and damaged something in the house; he had soothed her when she had cried. Kreacher had held her and read her stories.

"What have you done, Kreacher?" snapped a vicious voice.

Through tear-filled eyes, she saw Sirius storming into the kitchen, his face like thunder.

"Nothing, master."

"Get out of my sight, you filthy creature!"

With that, the elf darted past Ophelia and into the cupboard under the sink; she heard him muttering vile curses before the doors clicked closed.

"He... he..."

"He's foul. Don't let him bother you," Sirius said firmly.

No, she thought desperately, her grip on what she thought she knew becoming scarily weak. Kreacher had been there, near the end; he had held her and shared her pain! How could he not recognise and know her?

"He didn't recognise me," she whimpered.

Sirius licked his lips and looked anxious. "Kreacher's memory is not what it was," he soothed. "I'd attach no importance to his inability to recognise you."

Her breath caught in her throat, and she shook her head. Did it mean that he couldn't remember what had happened? It was impossible to accept that Kreacher couldn't remember. It was terrifying and overwhelming to be the only one who knew what had happened. Kreacher had shared in her times of greatest pain. He had suffered her blows when rage had made her strike him, and he had held her afterwards, comforting her. Kreacher had suffered for his master, for master Regulus.

Regulus!

"Ophelia," Sirius called out as she turned and yanked open the dirty doors.

"Regulus!" she snapped out into the gloom.

Two shimmering dots appeared in the shadowed recess, growing as the elf slithered forward over his bed of rags.

"You remember Regulus?" she asked, her voice cracking with the strength of her need to know.

"Regulus was a good master," Kreacher said, pride bursting from every word. "He knew what it was to be a Black. Not like some."

Eyes wide, heart hammering, blood screaming in her ears, she eased closer to the sneering elf. "And what happened to him?"

A flash of pain skittered across the elf's face, quickly snuffed out by sorrow; he sighed wearily and shrugged his thin and bent shoulders. "He disappeared. Some say that he ran away, but no one knows where he went. All we know is he's dead."

Kreacher's words rang in her ears and echoed in her skull. Sirius joined her, slamming the doors on the elf's face and gently pulling Ophelia to her feet. She allowed herself to be lead into the parlour and sank unquestioningly into a leather chair.

While Sirius lit the fire, she curled up and hugged her shins. Outwardly, she seemed quiet and still, but inside, she was frantically scrabbling for purchase while her mind and memories crumbled. Doubt hammered at her. It hewed out huge chunks of what she thought she knew, leaving vast crevices in her mind. It carved out new thoughts, while destroying old ones. Were her memories accurate? Were they right? It was just as it had been in the beginning. In the hospital, she hadn't known what was real and what was dream. The voice, the blessed voice had helped her. It had whispered to her that her fancies and daydreams were real. Now... now there was just doubt and silence. Ophelia began to tremble. Were her memories even real? Was she really in the hospital and all this a delusion?

"Here," Sirius said softly, slipping a cool glass into her cold and shaking hand. "Drink this; it'll help you feel better."

When she leant back and just cradled the glass to her chest, Sirius sighed and sat on the sofa, watching her carefully. Personally, he couldn't see why she'd be so cut-up about the wretched elf not recognising her, but the encounter had obviously distressed her. Running his fingers across his scalp, he wished that he wasn't the only one helping her. He couldn't begin to understand what she was going through, and he had no idea how to help her through it.

"He... he didn't know who I was."

Sirius swallowed and looked into her wide moist eyes. "Kreacher has had some hefty spells cast on him; there is so much he simply can't remember. Please," he croaked, "don't let it worry you."

He watched on as she placed her tumbler on the floor and hugged herself as though her guts ached. If she had cried or screamed, he thought he could have coped, but her quiet withdrawal was terrifying and complicated. He had no idea what to do. A dark thought emerged. It was something that he'd fought to ignore, but her pain was beyond his skill...in truth he had too much of his own, and it had made him selfish. Knowing he was ineffectual in this was another nail in his coffin, but the thought that the one he hated most was the one to save her was the deepest knife in his back. He knew...and loathed it!...that Snape was the one to help her through this.

Knocking back his whiskey and grimacing, he resolved himself to losing the last of the lights in his pathetic existence. Taking her by the hand, he led her back to her room and helped her to slip under the covers. Her eyes were unfocused and seemed lifeless, and fear stabbed his guts. He would lose her either way. She would go willingly into Snape's arms, he was sure, or she would slip further into the mental malaise that the others had seen hovering on the horizon. Far better to accept the loss and pain now, so when the time came, he could focus on the last of his duties: to be all that he should have been.

Author's Notes: Many apologies for the slow update, and thank you for staying with this story. I hope you enjoyed reading.