Chapter Twenty nine

Opening the kitchen door, the smell of coffee hit her nose, and her stomach rolled. From the corner of her eye, she could make out two forms, but she didn't dare look across. It was the same brand! She'd know that aroma anywhere. He still drinks the same coffee? Her mouth went dry while a sudden sweat cooled her skin. The air felt heavy and expectant, and it entered her lungs sluggishly. Limbs weighted with some unknown feeling, she fought the urge to turn and slip away and relinquished her grip on the handle.

"Ah, Ophelia," intoned Dumbledore cheerfully. "This is quite fortunate, isn't it, Severus?"

Snape could see her tremble in the doorway, and he was gratified that he was not the only one suffering some disquiet. She was almost as he remembered her... almost. She was still ghostly pale, her hair was still long and as beautifully shaded...like rosewood...and she still possessed a delicate, waifish quality. But she wasn't quite Ophelia. He took in the over-large grey jumper...Molly's gift by the look of it...hanging loosely over snug jeans, and he wondered why she wore the trappings of a world she had been severed from. What comfort was there in the attire from a world slipping away from her after Veronica's death?

"Well, the hour is late," Dumbledore said briskly, standing and smoothing down his beard. Two pairs of alarmed eyes latched onto him. "I shall bid you a good night, Ophelia... Severus."

Dumbledore could feel the heat of their gazes as he strode to the front door. When he turned back, he caught sight of Ophelia's frantic expression and he almost hesitated, but such things were needed. Her pain and discomfort needed to be confronted and resolved if she was going to be able to finish her task of confiding in him.

Dumbledore needed her memories, and...he swallowed his nausea...she would be a fine prize for Severus to hand over to the Dark Lord should his loyalty ever be questioned. He closed his eyes on his stinging tears and departed.

Still standing on the threshold, she wondered why she hesitated, why she felt so anxious. She had yearned for this for months. Hadn't she felt in some way cheated to have been left with Sirius and not Severus? She knew why it was hard. He was a Death Eater; she had indirectly worked against him.

But who was Severus Snape? Who was the man who was so welcome in the heart of the Order? Her anxiety morphed into something hot and sharp. Her anger gave her strength, and closing the door behind her, she turned to face the man she thought she'd known. He seemed tense, as tense as he had been that day from a lifetime ago when he had leant against the mantle and watched her destroy Regulus. Those black eyes into which she had gladly drowned were hooded and wary. The skin was pale, paler than she recalled, and his frame seemed leaner. He looked so much older than he should.

For the merest moment, her concern batted her fury aside, but it couldn't hold back the power of her wrath for long. Severus Snape had warned her about being a perfect Death Eater; he had almost begged her to remain loyal to the Dark Lord, and all along, he had been a spy! It hurt. Had he been working for Dumbledore back then? In the potions lab, when he had warned her about her loyalties, had he been warning her that he would turn against her? Had he tried to warn her that she would become his enemy?

"You work for the Order?" she asked tonelessly, guarding her emotions and mind against him.

"For some time now," he replied just as plainly.

It was all too confusing. Could she have trusted Severus? The thought she could have had an ally in Severus when her responsibilities were almost killing her was crushing; the pain and angst would have been tolerable if she had had Severus standing by her side. And when Regulus had... died... maybe she wouldn't have run away and all this wouldn't be happening now.

And if this! And if that! she thought furiously, scowling and shaking her head in frustration. A life of ifs and buts is no life.

He'd seen her shields go up when she'd closed the door. Her Occlumency was no particular challenge to him, but he knew she'd feel him pushing past her defences, so he resisted the urge. But the thought of slipping into her mind and seeking out his answers was impossible to completely dislodge. It was an immense temptation. The last time he'd looked into her memories uninvited, he had seen Regulus; her mind had been saturated with him. He wished he'd never seen the depth of her feelings for the young Death Eater.

But this was a different and more dangerous situation. It had to be handled carefully. He would explore her mind, but not for selfish gains...although, he thought with a suppressed smirk, I will satisfy my curiosity... in due time...it would be to keep her whole for the Order. His humour fled; the Order expected and took too much sometimes.

She stepped closer until only the table separated them. "And how long is that?"

"Just under fifteen years," he replied honestly.

His answer surprised her, cooling her temper. He'd still been a Death Eater when she had made her escape. This was another disturbing shift in her understanding. Even Severus Snape was not as she remembered. Would 'He' be the same? Would Uncle Tom be all that she remembered and dreaded, or would he be contrary to expectations too? It was a horrific thought! The power of it made her skin crawl; she gagged and pressed her hand against her mouth.

Oh Merlin! Help me! she thought desperately. What is real? What are the lies?

She wanted to run. Escape had helped her once, it would help her again. It certainly couldn't be as bad as this! What had she been dragged into? It seemed she had been skinned, everything about her felt raw and exposed. They had seemed so nice and friendly, so sympathetic and supportive, but they'd lied. They didn't want her, they wanted what she knew. Despair...suffocating as it intensified...flooded her. They knew she wouldn't belong; they had no way of incorporating her back into the Wizarding world. It was a sham: a lie to make her help them. She didn't need them; they needed her! They needed Ophelia Black, and they'd killed Veronica Speedwell to get her.

Hands gripped her arms, and she was hauled to her feet. Fingers bit into her skin, and the pain skittered out like lightning across her biceps. There was something solid and reassuring about it; it was something she recognised and could deal with. As the lightning turned to a throbbing heat, she used it to focus her discordant thoughts, and as her mind condensed, so her anger was tempered.

He grunted when her foot connected with his shin, but it was more through surprise than pain; a foot and slipper could only do so much... but a bare knee could do quite a lot more. To avoid something nastier, Snape spun her around and pulled her close, wrapping one arm around her upper torso and the other across her midriff. He grinned into her hair when her protests became vocal: Muggles had extended her vocabulary. But he knew something about Ophelia that had stayed with him for twenty years.

"Oculus obscurus!"

She went stiff in his arms, and he could feel her frantic, hammering heart beneath his forearm.

"NO!" she screamed, clawing at her face as her sight was snuffed out. Her breath stuttered and then came in one long, despairing moan. "Please! Severus, please."

She clutched at his arms, her fingers sliding over the black cloth of his frockcoat. He relaxed his grip and disentangled himself from her grasp. Slipping away, making sure that he was just out of reach of her desperate, outstretched hands, he watched her, remembering the flicker of excitement that had tormented him in the crystal cavern.

She stumbled on the spot while her hands moved in the air. When she found the edge of the table, she clung to it, using it to ground her as her terror threatened to blast her apart. Panting and shivering, she leant against the table and softly keened.

"I will end it when you choose to stop pitying yourself," he said caustically, using scraps of anger to support him in his task.

Her head whipped round to his approximate position, and she lashed out, her fingers bent as though to hook him. He winced at the milky sheen over her eyes. With her pale skin and dishevelled hair, she looked like a banshee waiting to wail. But when she closed those useless eyes and parted her lips at the enormity of the curse, she seemed more kin to a ghostly siren than a howling killer.

"This is cruel," she whimpered, her arm falling limply to her side as she slumped.

He silently sidestepped so he was by her left shoulder. "Poor you," he whispered with mock empathy, ducking out the way as she spun round. "What have we done to you now? Hmm? You poor, wretched thing." He watched her features carefully, noting with satisfaction the lips thinning and her cheeks flushing. Anger was what he wanted. "You're letting it happen to you. Such weakness," he hissed.

To prove his point, he gently tugged on a strand of her hair, enjoying her yelp and the way her body twisted to get away from him. Even in the grip of fear, she had a sinuous grace. He felt his mouth go dry, and not for the first time, he had to stop himself exploring the possibilities. She was the only one he had met who could come to understand him. His innards turned cold, and he stepped away. Games were one thing, but playing for something he couldn't win was bordering on harmful stupidity.

"If you want to see clearly, stop looking through woe-tinted glasses. You've suffered, but so have a great many others. Stop hiding behind your past...a past you'll never truly own, I may add...and grasp your future, because from now on, it is the only thing you can control."

"You have no idea what I've been through and just what your precious Order has done to me!" she snarled out.

He grinned. Anger had always been her greatest source of strength, but in those distant days, she was slow to burn and could control the heat of it. Now, she seemed to let it rage through her unchecked. Dumbledore was right. Her mind and emotions were tearing her apart.

She cocked her head, as though listening for him, and he watched her battle the fear that was undoubtedly coursing through her. Ophelia had had such reserves of strength... maybe Ophelia wasn't completely lost?

"I'm not here to be a convenient shoulder," he hissed out. "I'm not interested in your tale of woe. I have a job to do, and I will do it with or without your aid."

Those terrible milky eyes seemed to latch onto his. "You're quick to use what you know against me," she snapped out bitterly, as though he had betrayed her.

"I'll use what I know to stop you from wallowing in self-destructive self pity," he replied waspishly.

He was close enough to hear her shallow breaths, close enough to smell the faint hint of eucalyptus, and close enough to see her pulse fluttering in her neck. He was too close. It was incredibly tempting to reach up and trace his fingers down her pale, soft cheek, to let his thumb play across her lower lip, and to lift those stray strands of hair from her slender neck. He knew he wouldn't even think such things if she could see into his eyes; it was unwise to hand power to someone else, especially when that power was over him. Instead of relinquishing to his wishes, he schooled his mind into smooth impassivity.

A strange smile played across her moist lips, and he felt a flicker of unease. Ophelia, even as a child, had possessed a bizarre sense of fairness, a strange morality. The way she smiled made him think of terrible retributions...hadn't she tried to feed Wormtail to Nagini for the way he had kicked out at the snake?

"Maybe I have a right to feel something over the murder of my only companion."

Gone was the frail waif who had trembled in the doorway. She was defiant and strong. Without the shackles of her damaged memory, she was emanating the personality borne from her recent experiences. It wasn't quite Ophelia, not quite Veronica... it was powerful and unafraid, and it was realising that it didn't need either. It could stand alone.

"I daresay you do, but now is not the time to dwell on things that had to be done."

So many emotions flickered across her face, and her mind was a maelstrom of images and concepts. Despite his skill to slip into her mind, he didn't have the desire to stay and be swept away by her chaotic thoughts.

"Had to be done," she repeated softly. "It didn't have to be done. Brewing potions for the Dark Lord had to be done; this... this was a choice. Don't belittle your culpability by claiming otherwise."

Snape frowned and folded his arms across his chest. Ophelia had seemed wary and confused, lost and afraid, and yet now, even while blinded, she was a growing tower of strength. Where was the dispossessed girl who worried Molly and Black? Where was the girl who was terrified of the dark?

He watched her smile. "You always crossed your arms when I surprised you. Are you scowling just like you used to, as well?"

Snape sneered and forced his arms to his side.

"You no longer know me, my dear," he countered viciously, ignoring her wince. "You have no idea who and what I am," he spat out, stepping closer so he could grip her arms. "And you're playing a dangerous game, trying to settle back into your long-abandoned role, Ophelia."

He was fairly sure he should be nurturing the nascent ego, but somehow, it felt just like they were back in Malfoy's basement and he was furious with her for not seeing sense. He felt bile burn a path to his mouth. She had left him when he'd had so much to settle and say. He had been left with the haunting knowledge that she had died thinking him her enemy. And he couldn't stand the idea she thought that of him now.

"I didn't abandon y...my role," she said, her voice hitching.

"Listen to me this time," he hissed into ear. "For now, for right now, what happened doesn't matter." He gave her a small shake when he saw her begin to protest. "It doesn't!" he snapped. "What matters is what you do now!" He gazed over her pale features. "Dumbledore and the others care only for the information you possess... never forget that, Ophelia." He inhaled slowly, steadying his twisting insides. "The only way to get through this is to find out who you are and accept it," he uttered softly, rubbing her arms gently and fighting the need to pull her close.

"Just as you have had to?"

There was no anger or contempt in the voice; there was just an understanding that spoke volumes of what she would be willing to accept from him. In the basement, she had taken his vitriol and his temper; she had soaked up his anger and resentment of his life and his duties. She had been the antidote to the venom seeping through his veins as he had worked to please the Dark Lord. She had a skill to empathise with what he was suffering, almost as though she suffered the same.

Damn! he cursed. It's too much like it used to be.

If Dumbledore had wanted him to refine the new Ophelia Black, then Snape had failed. Even if he could, he would resist. Ophelia had been his balm, and he had lost too much to let her slip from his grasp again. He released her arms, but she made no attempt to grab him. Instead, those milky orbs followed him as if she could somehow see him through the curse.

"Finite Incantatem."

Her whole body tensed as the curse was lifted, and her starved eyes widened, seeking him out. There was no hate or fear in those chocolate depths when she caught his eye, but her expression was indecipherable.

"You," she said softly, "always did have a penchant for the dramatic."

"I blame Lucius," he replied, daring to lace his words with the merest whisper of wry wit. "He's always been easily bored."

She smiled and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I should be angry."

"Perhaps you should," he replied. As discussions went, he wasn't winning points for originality and wit, but he felt he needed some control, some way of drawing out her intentions.

She flashed him a withering look, and he found himself wondering what was going on behind those hooded eyes. Instead of continuing, she walked silently over to the stove and slid two cups along the worktop. Without asking, she set about pouring coffee. His gaze was drawn to the way she held the cuff of her jumper away from the cups as she tilted the pot; the pale flesh on her exposed wrist glowed. He was disappointed when she finished her task and the skin was swamped by the knitted coverall.

With barely a clatter, she placed the pot back on the hob to keep warm and carried the cups to the table. Without inviting him, she sat and lifted the white cup. He followed suit, watching her eyelids flutter as she inhaled the aroma; coffee had never been such fun. Had she drunk her coffee with such sensual delight when they had shared cup after cup in Lucius' cellar?

"It tastes just as I remembered," she muttered breathily.

It was glorious! The bitter liquid rolled over her tongue, each taste bud sighing as it was reacquainted with a long-lost need. It was just as she knew it would be: perfect. All the doubts that had pestered her seemed to evaporate and curl away like the steam from her cup.

Severus had always been able to soothe her. Even when things had started to go wrong, he had been a single light in the darkness, a safe harbour in stormy seas. She didn't have to pretend to be someone else when she was with him. He knew her from old: a scrawny child who had developed under his wing. And he had accepted everything about her: weaknesses, faults, passions and strengths.

The coffee slid down her throat, and she smiled. No matter who she was, Severus would always accept her. Sirius wanted 'little Ophelia' back... but the Ophelia he knew had never really existed. Opening her eyes, she studied the man sitting opposite. She didn't have to draw up false and forced memories to please him, as she did for Sirius. She didn't have to twist her thoughts into what someone else found reasonable. He knew her; nothing she thought or felt would shock or disgust him. The thought was intoxicating. She was free.

ooXoo

Rookwood sat in the canteen, paying lip service to the rabble eating and gossiping around him and snatching glances at Smith as he pottered around, wiping tables and gathering up dirty dishes. His tea was tepid and tasted flat without his habitual shot of whiskey: oh, he despised everything about the canteen, especially the small cups. Flashing empty grins at his cohort was not improving his mood, and he wished away the minutes until Smith finished his shift.

Deep inside, Rookwood's insides squirmed: a mix of fear and anticipation. The Dark Lord had been deeply appreciative of his information regarding Smith, and Rookwood felt his previous transgression had been forgiven...never forgotten, of course...and for the first time in a long while, he felt the Dark Lord's terrible shadow no longer smothering him. It hadn't taken long for the Dark Lord to decide upon a course of action... and it was typically spectacular.

By the time he had finished his tea, Smith had checked the clock and was packing up his trolley. Rookwood shared one inane joke with the Auror next to him, laughed obligingly and left to catch up with the old man. He caught sight of Smith heading into the lift...his breath snatched in his throat. This was ideal! He'd have no better chance at completing the Dark Lord's orders.

"Hold the lift," he blurted out, lifting a hand to wave at Smith.

Smith looked up, and Rookwood thought he saw the wizard's eyes narrow slightly. He jogged over to the lift and nodded in thanks. Smith nodded back and pressed the brass button to close the doors.

It was six floors up to the main foyer. Rookwood only needed one floor. In his pocket was a pin. The tip had been dipped in a potion, one capable of rendering a man insensate in less than a second. Smith would be unconscious before he had chance to blink. While Smith made a play of wiping the brass panel clean, Rookwood slipped his hand into his pocket, carefully removing the wax sheath from the end of the pin. Perhaps Rookwood should have thought more about a capable and veteran wizard checking a reflective surface. As he withdrew the pin, Smith turned quickly and jabbed the tip of his wand in the younger man's solar plexus.

Winded and feeling as though his abdomen were on fire, Rookwood collapsed, clutching his gut and trying to focus through his tears. Smith glared down, and Rookwood watched the glowing wand tip hovering inches from his forehead.

"That were foolish, Rookwood," Smith said, shaking his head in intense disappointment. "Makes me wonder why we should be terrified o' Voldemort if the likes 'o ye are 'is 'ands in this world."

Rookwood groaned and hung his head. It didn't matter what happened now; either way, he was doomed. The Dark Lord would not tolerate his failure, and the Aurors would not tolerate his disloyalty. On the face of it, letting Smith take him in would be the best option. But as he stared morosely at the floor, he caught sight of the pin clinging to the thick material of Smith's coat. Maybe...

"You're right," he muttered despairingly. "But the others... they aren't as clumsy. Taking me in would save me, do you hear?" He looked up pleadingly. "I'd be free of Him and them."

Smith felt his lip curl up. "Ye're a worm, ain't ye?" he growled out. "What if I don't take ye to Amelia, eh? What if I lets ye go back to 'im," he said with a vicious grin. "Paint ye yeller and 'and ye back, hmmm?"

Rookwood looked panicked and jolted forwards to grip Smith's lower legs. "Please!" he begged. "You can't do that to me. Do you know what He'd do to me?" As he spoke and Smith looked disgusted, he felt for the pin. He didn't have to fake the desperation.

With a snarl, Smith kicked Rookwood away from his legs and pressed his wand against the man's sweating forehead. "Don't beg," he spat out. "Ye made ye bed, and ye 'ave to sleep in it."

Rookwood sagged, curling up into a foetal ball of misery, whimpering into his hands. While he moaned, he arranged the pin in his fingers and counted down to the required floor. He'd have to time it just right... There was the hum as the magic slowed the lift, and there was the gentle shudder as it approached the last floor. He didn't dare breathe, and his throat was painfully dry. When the lift stopped and just as Smith turned to open the door, he lunged with a stifled, despairing cry.

"Ah!" was all Smith managed after the pin pierced his trouser leg and before he slithered to the floor.

Breathing hard and wiping sweat from his upper lip, Rookwood lifted Smith's limp hand, pressing the pin against the palm and curling the fingers around it. He cursed as his sweat slickened fingers were unable to hold the pin and Smith's hand. Licking his lips, he tapped his wand against the slender metal pin, causing it to grow to the size of a wand so he could grab hold. Closing his eyes, he said farewell to what could have been his escape from it all and activated the Portkey pin.

ooXoo

"Dumbledore is thinking of setting up a potions lab in the cellar," Snape said, breaking the comfortable silence. "It'll be a secondary site for me to complete potions for the Order...I can't use the school lab for the more adventurous potions."

Ophelia swallowed and lowered her second cup of coffee. "I still have skills," she offered tentatively, knowing that Severus demanded the utmost respect for the subject and would only tolerate inviting people to help him.

He arched an eyebrow and smirked. "Even after all this time?"

She bristled. "Indeed!" she retorted sharply. "You should see the height I can get on a soufflé."

Severus did something he hadn't done in a long while. He laughed. "I have some minor potions to brew for the Order," he said with a grin. "You can help me with those, as you're doing nothing other than cluttering up the house."

She smiled and exhaled slowly. It was almost impossible to recall a time when she had felt so comforted and whole. Even in the basement, she had had demons leaping about her. But here, the only monsters were the ones she created and nurtured. It was just a shame that 'here' seemed to demand Severus as a qualifying factor. She knew that when he left, the familiar wraiths would come and pluck at her mind and memories again. Hopefully, potion-making would keep them at bay in the times when she was alone.

The sight of him tossing back the last drops of coffee caused a lump to settle heavily in her gut. She had once joked that he wouldn't let Death take him before he could finish his cup of coffee. Severus was about to leave.

She followed him to the door, feeling the house press around her as she left the sanctuary of the kitchen. In the gloom of the hallway, Severus was an indistinct shadow, and she felt the urge to reach out and pluck at his coat to confirm he was still there. At the door, his white hand on the knob was both startling and heartbreaking. The thought of him leaving was making her giddy. She relinquished to her urges and placed her own hand over his, preventing him from twisting the handle.

Slowly, she lifted her heavy head and looked up. His eyes were lost in shadow, but she could see the smallest pricks of light to help guide her needful gaze. In the darkest moments of both her lives, she had sought for some connection to another, directed by the haunting memory of one embrace: Severus' embrace. She wanted to fall into his arms and be soothed, just as she had been when they'd rested together and watched crystals splitting light.

He cupped the back of her head and pulled her close, sliding his arm around her shoulders and pressing his cheek against her temple. Sobbing, she wrapped her arms around his chest. The hand that had been trapped on the cold handle quickly sought her warmth and curved round her slender waist. Euphoria swamped her. She felt safely cocooned, and she buried her face in the folds of his jacket.

It was a gentle embrace, the sort between friends. And he struggled to maintain it. He longed to satisfy feelings that had been long ignored and pull her against him, bury his face in her hair and smell her skin. How long had it been since he'd had someone in his arms... and not the bought affection he'd succumbed to when he was mad with loneliness?

He was almost there, his hand was tightening in her hair, and his nose was behind her ear...

"Get your hands off her!"

It would be hard to imagine that Snape would have anything to thank Black for, but causing Ophelia to jolt away from him may well have constituted the first favour the mutt had ever done him. He looked up at Black fuming mid-way down the stairs and summoned a sneer.

Ophelia slipped into the corner opposite Snape and glared at Sirius. "You can't stand the thought of me needing his company, can you?" she spat out, taking both men by surprise.

"He's a snake, Ophelia," he said sternly. "You'd do well to stay away from him," he added vehemently, walking down the last few steps and yanking the door open. "And he's leaving!"

"I'm a snake," she said softly, highlighting it by loosing a string of sibilant hisses that would have made Nagini proud, or blush. She circled Sirius, who was trembling with rage, and stopped by his shoulder. "I could see it when we talked," she hissed into his ear. "I could see how much you hated the thought of me and Severus." Black remained silent, but a muscle began to twitch under his left eye.

"Snape is leaving," he repeated softly.

Ophelia glanced across at Severus, and she saw him tilt his head ever so slightly. "I am done here," he said simply. "Dumbledore will give you a list of potions to start work on."

She smiled weakly and nodded. "Goodnight, Severus."

Then he was gone. The door slamming into its frame seemed to echo mournfully in the long hallway. Sirius hadn't moved, still facing the wall, his arm slowly lowering to his side, and Ophelia felt her world closing in.

"Dumbledore says you need him," Black said carefully, keeping the anger from his voice. "For that reason, he's welcome in this house, but he is not welcome to touch you like that."

"It was a hug, Sirius," she mumbled listlessly. "You and I have shared a few."

Hands gently gripped her shoulders, turning her around until she found herself face to trembling face with him. His blue eyes shimmered in the weak light from the kitchen. "It may have been that for you," he whispered, "but for him, it was more." He licked his lips and smiled fondly while fear coiled in his eyes. "He's grieved for and recovered from losing the Ophelia he knew."

Gods! It was painful being so understanding. All he had wanted to do when he'd seen Snape's expression over her shoulder was to punch him in his crooked beak of a nose and hurl him into the street. He knew what Snape had been thinking. But for her sake, he'd accepted Snape's role in her recovery, contenting himself to hurt the bastard later.

She didn't say anything, and he couldn't deduce her frame of mind or emotions; she simply removed herself from his hold and climbed the stairs. Waiting at the foot of the stairs, he watched her disappear from view and heard the door to her room click shut. With that, he spun on his heel, tugged open the door and looked along the glistening road. Rain was drumming a steady tattoo against the road and parked cars. The streetlamps glowed like orange moons, and amber rivers ran in the gutters. The ends of the street were a blur, shrouded by the downpour, and Snape had either Disapparated or been swallowed up by the night.