Chapter Thirty one

The feather stayed resolutely on the table; it was obviously siding with gravity. Exhausted, cross and fearful, Ophelia dropped the wand onto the table and pressed the heels of her palms against her stinging eyes. She hadn't been particularly successful the first time round as an eager first-year, either. A smile tugged at her lips, and the gloom lifted a little. Her hands dropped to the table, and she glared at the stubborn feather. It promptly began to singe from sheer embarrassment. The smell was both vile and wonderful.

Her mind drifted back to those days after her recovery. When things had become unbearable, hadn't she been able to impact upon her surroundings in a powerfully destructive manner? When pushed to the limits of her fractured mind, she'd been able to retaliate in inexplicable ways. She sighed and closed her eyes. Destructive magics had been her forte; the Dark Lord had commented and revelled in her natural capacity for the darker side of magic. Could it be that people were destined to be bad, and magic knew?

The thought distressed her. She had hoped her life and its bizarre and terrible path had moulded her, not that she had merely followed the rut her magic had dropped her in. It precluded the possibility of redemption. But then what of Severus; was he evil? And what of Narcissa and Lucius? Were they trapped in their magic's machinations, or had they made a choice?

Slowly, she picked up the discarded wand. Her thoughts flowed hectically, crashing over old memories and ideas like a thundering cataract. It was impossible to see the individual facets in the chaos, and she was left with the deafening sound and billowing clouds. All she could make was the shape and the power of it. It was glorious and terrifying.

Just like her thoughts, rivers followed a set route, their flow dictated by the geology and geography of the surroundings, but rivers, no matter how small, could carve their way through anything, slowly dictating a new path. And if there was enough water, they could lay waste to their controlling landscape.

Ophelia lifted the wand and focused on the burnt feather. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

The wand tip glowed and the feather twitched. Sweat cooled her back, and her muscles ached from the effort of concentrating. After a few minutes, her held breath escaped from pained lungs, and she sagged. The feather gently rocked, mocking her efforts.

It was easy to be angry...easy and necessary. The heat of it scorched away the chill in her bones and evaporated the gloom. This time, she channelled it, turning it into defiance, giving it purpose. So what if she couldn't do it! She knew she could do powerful and dazzling things; she'd almost bested Moody on the cliff top all those months ago, and she had generated elegant charms to protect her home. No, she was a witch, but she had to learn to accept her limitations. Besides, in a war, she'd opt for burning rather than lifting.

Perhaps she'd known from the start, long before she'd pinched Sirius' wand. It may have been disturbing and frustrating to be so inept with wand magic, but she hadn't been surprised by it. Severus had been right...as if she had doubted him...Dumbledore only wanted what she knew; there was no chance for her in the Wizarding world...not as a squib with no qualifications. Her future was of no concern to him. Again, she wasn't surprised. Yet despite this, she liked the group of wizards and witches she'd met.

With the resurfacing memories, she'd experienced bitterness at having it restored, wishing to have it all taken away, but now, in the cooler light of acceptance, she was glad to know. Knowledge had lanced a suppurating wound and allowed it to start healing. Maybe Veronica was a part of her, now silenced as they existed more intimately, and she would always be deep inside, gently guiding her thoughts and passions. Ophelia hoped that was the case.

She rolled the wand between thumb and forefinger, wondering why she'd placed so much import on being able to wield it. Inhaling slowly and standing, she accepted why. It had been the last barrier to re-entering the world she'd abandoned. She'd had to know where she could belong.

Sirius was still dozing in the tatty leather chair when she sneaked back into the parlour. With his pale features softened by sleep, she could see Regulus: the likeness was more pronounced through their shared trials and torments. His thin, bony hands twitched in his sleep, and a flicker of something danced across his face. She paused, waiting for his breathing to settle before slipping the wand into his inner breast pocket. She left him to his sleep, but knew she wouldn't settle. Instead, she opened the door under the stairs and walked down to the basement.

It was more a cellar than a basement, so it had no small windows...the only source of light being the gaslights dotted around the room. When she had first seen it, she had felt chilled. Four thick, stone columns supported the upstairs, and each one had an old, long-forgotten sconce and a shroud of dusty cobwebs. The floor had been laid with rough slabs of stone...decades of detritus lurking in the uneven gaps...and water pipes rattled and clunked against the bare brick walls. Across from the stairs, a wall was devoted to a cobwebbed and almost empty wine rack.

Now, the cellar was clean and a polished work bench laden with potion equipment rested in the centre. The wine rack held the potions that had been brewed, the wine had been relegated to the floor, and the damp that had chilled her had been ousted... along with the spiders and their webs.

It wasn't as homely as Lucius' basement, but it was close enough. Severus had connected up a small stove near the stairs to heat at least a small part of the heat-devouring cellar and to warm their drinks and any food they took with them. Molly had found two comfy chairs and a small coffee table in one of the rooms, and when she'd seen Ophelia eyeing the things hungrily had silently repaired them and carried them down. Ophelia couldn't help but like Molly... especially when a hot chocolate would suddenly appear down in the cold.

The cold was grudgingly useful, as it helped with potion-brewing, but when her mind was no longer intently focused on her brewing, she loved to curl up in a chair, sip her drink and enjoy the heat from the stove. She wished Severus could be with her, but his duties were such that those moments were rare.

Everything she needed was in a small, charmed cupboard: milk, sugar, tea, coffee, cream, hot chocolate... regularly and discreetly filled by Molly. She smiled and pulled out a packet of chocolate biscuits. Soon, a pot of coffee was warming on the stove, the aroma beginning to escape, challenging the cellar's musk. There was a range of potions to be made for the Order; some were maturing in the wine rack, and ingredients were being prepared for others, but a few could be started now. Wolfing down two biscuits, she wiped her hands and began to gather the ingredients.

It was bliss... it was soothing and healing. She was doing what she had loved doing as a child... up to her elbows in a cauldron and creating something. The smell of the flame under the cauldron, the feel of material in her hands, the heat, the gentle and precise hand movements, the subtle fragrances billowing out from the bubbling potion: it banished her doubts and fears.

~X~

He had known before the silent house mocked him. He'd known in his bones and in his guts. Standing in the small kitchen, his laboured breathing and discombobulated equilibrium after his frantic search only supported what his instincts had foretold. Smith was gone. The old bastard had gone and done something stupid. Outside, the wind moaned, and the house creaked in despairing sympathy.

Moody swallowed hard and sank into the chair that had become his due to the frequency of his visits. He should have seen it. Smith had been impatient and rash. Hadn't they discussed being cautious and patient over tea in this very kitchen? The circular stains, glistening slightly in the weak evening light, evidenced such an event, but obviously, the rings were the only thing that had left an impression.

Moody slammed his hand down on the table, yet he would have felt more satisfaction if it had been Smith's stubborn jaw. He'd have felt happier, too. Smith had been following Rookwood, as per Dumbledore's orders, but that had been two days ago. The Death Eater was canny, but surely not a match for Smith? He drummed his fingernails on the table. When the sound began to irritate him and the emptiness of the house smothered him, he had to accept that Smith wasn't the Auror from old: he was now simply old. Standing in a flurry of cloth and wrath, he stormed from the house and into the grey dusk washing out the colours of day. Somewhere, Smith was in trouble.

~X~

Someone was in the cellar. Long ago, he had walked into another basement to find someone messing in what he considered his territory. The trespasser had done more than just rummage around with his property; she had crept into his very being, leaving traces of herself in dark and lonely places. He often wondered if it would have been wise to have ignored her, just letting her drift through his life like so many people had.

She was bent over the cauldron, her hair tucked behind her ears as she peered into the contents, accurately gauging what the potion needed. He crept from the stairs into the gloom and moved silently around her. Her movements were precise and graceful, each movement timed to perfection. His eyes were drawn to her slender and nimble fingers as she sliced a shrivelfig. His mouth went dry, and his guts twisted. He knew what he wanted... had known since Dumbledore asked him to help Ophelia. No... that wasn't quite true. He'd known since Regulus had shown him.

Severus shuddered in the shadows. Regulus had been a good little Death Eater, attending meetings and doing his duty, but the Dark Lord had doubted that one so young could be trusted. After the Mark had been burnt into his skin, He had asked Severus to determine Regulus' loyalty. Slipping into the boy's mind had been challenging, and Severus recalled being impressed, but soon enough, he was sneaking through memories like a snake through long grass.

Their conversation had turned towards Ophelia, and he saw her in Regulus' mind. He saw the quiet conversations in the boys' dormitory, witnessed the plotting and their aims and realised they worked to destroy the Dark Lord. He felt the echo of Regulus' emotions as they shared his birthday and later felt the darkness of the Dark Mark seeping through his veins. The images shocked and terrified him. Ophelia had placed herself in immense danger. He was furious beyond words and fearful beyond description.

"I'm fine!" he ground out bitterly before walking away. He couldn't stand being close to Regulus; the boy had something he yearned for, and it pained him. It wasn't anger, as such, and it wasn't jealously. It was a dread. He dreaded that love would do what it had done before... take someone he loved from his life. Swallowing past a hard lump in his tight throat, he slid from the room. He needed to think, he needed space, and he needed to hide his feelings once more.

Years, even decades later, his thinking and its conclusion would pique Dumbledore's curiosity. In his friend and spy, he would see the lies created by Severus to hide something, some fact regarding Ophelia Black. He had lied to himself in a bid to deceive someone else, but in doing so had corrupted his own recollections: he didn't love her and she loved the Dark Lord. It was the only way he could function and she could live.

So when he watched her drop the thinly sliced shrivelfigs into the cauldron, he saw a woman he wanted and desired, and he felt uncomfortable with the power and the sense of urgency it inspired. He'd seen his so-called brethren respond to their wants and greed, taking what they wanted. He couldn't descend to that.

He left the basement, hearing her snuff out the flame under the cauldron, and he intended to leave the house before she left the basement, but he found himself face to hairnet with Molly. He had always respected Molly, even if he detested her tendency to mother, and he felt a flicker of concern at her haggard and sleep-deprived state. Heavy bags under her reddened eyes made her look older than she should, and he could see how her hands trembled slightly. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she mustered up a smile.

"Hello, Severus. Care for some tea before you go? Or how about something warm in your belly?"

He tempered his scowl and gave a curt bow. "Thank you, Molly, but..." the door clicked shut behind him, and he caught a whiff of eucalyptus.

"Oh, good evening, Severus."

He turned and straightened. "Ophelia."

"I was about to put the kettle on; would you like something, Ophelia?"

"At twenty past one in the morning?" Ophelia queried softly, her eyes darting over Molly's face.

"Is there a time restriction on a hot drink?" she snapped back.

Ophelia smiled sweetly and suddenly darted out a hand to grip Severus' arm in a death grip. "We'd love a drink, Molly."

Severus inhaled to protest, but the pressure around his forearm intensified, promising pain if he argued. Instead, he allowed himself to be led into the kitchen and placed on a chair. When Ophelia looked at him, he made sure his glare conveyed the level of retribution he'd be seeking.

She sat down next to him and leant closer so her mouth was close to his ear. He resisted the urge to tremble when her breath ghosted over his skin. "I've missed you." A smile tugged at his lips. She flashed a smile and then looked over at Molly. "Severus and I have some potions to finish; could we take tea downstairs?"

"Of course, dear," she replied sweetly. "Best not be working too long, though; you both need your rest."

Ophelia watched Severus' eyes narrow and his lips thin, and she was surprised at the flicker of anger across his pinched features. Before she could comment, he twisted in his seat to face her.

"Do not take liberties with my time," he hissed angrily, seeing her flinch. "I came here to collect your potions...that is all!" His eyes bored into hers, and he had mixed feelings about the confusion and discomfort he saw.

"Molly," he called out, "make mine white with two sugars, please."

"Right you are, dear."

He nodded at Ophelia and swept from the room; when she looked back, Molly was smiling kindly at her. For some reason, Ophelia felt a blush creep up her cheeks. She smiled back and began to fidget with a loose thread on the cuff of her jumper.

"Severus is a good man," Molly said firmly. Ophelia usually wouldn't need the affirmation, but she had the fear that she'd just upset him. "Shame that he seems so lonely."

From anyone else, it may have come across as concern for another's emotional well-being, but from Molly...with her impish smile and propensity for passion...it came across as a declaration that someone needed something much more satisfying than a hug. Ophelia's blush intensified, rising from somewhere around her knees.

"Take it from me, dear," Molly continued, her voice thickening further as she began to weep, "you have to take what you can when you can, and when you have it, keep a bloody good grip on it."

Ophelia opened her mouth to reply, but Molly turned sharply and busied herself with the tea, sniffing discreetly. Before she could think of another topic of conversation, Severus returned with the scowl still etched on his face. He stopped when he saw her expression; it was somewhere between sorrow and determination. He glanced across at Molly and saw her wiping at her eyes. He quietly sat down next to her.

They sat sipping tea and talked of inconsequential things until Molly said she was going back to bed. Severus escorted her to the bottom of the stairs and made sure she reached her room before returning to Ophelia.

She was still sitting at the table, holding her mug against her chest and staring at nothing in particular. There was a fragility in her frame that he hadn't seen since the early days of her recovery. He wondered what had happened between the two women in his absence... or if his fatigue had made him too harsh.

Without speaking, she stood and placed her half drunk tea in the sink, tucking her hair behind her ears and resting herself against the worktop. He followed suit, seeing it as his cue to say goodnight and return to Hogwarts. As he turned from the sink, her hand on his arm gently halted him. He looked at her questioningly.

Molly's words had echoed in her skull like a doomsayer's curse. Instead of hearing a plea to take from life what she could, she heard the things she'd never have otherwise. It had been a colossal effort to distract Molly into some semblance of cheerfulness, and when she'd left to go to bed, the weight of those words crushed down. Her mind went back to the attempt at casting magic. She'd decided to accept her limitations and focus on what she could do... and she was good, very good, at her variant of wandless magic. With her decision, there had been a sense of liberation and strength, and she had seen where she belonged. But Molly's words had thrown her back into the chaos of losing her way.

When Severus had returned, her insides had squirmed unpleasantly. Everything suddenly seemed to hinge on Severus... it always had. When her life had been suffocating, she had sought out Severus to give her air. When she'd needed peace and balance, she'd fled to Lucius' basement. It had always been Severus. Combined with Sirius' observation, her mind was throbbing with the possibilities. But... what if she'd been right all those years ago, and Severus was beyond her grasp.

She couldn't stay next to him, so she moved to empty her mug. Severus merely followed her, keeping close and increasing her anguish. She knew where she belonged...with Severus...but she wondered if she would ever fit in. Could she be happy living half a life? Severus began to move away, and her loneliness made her decision.

His eyes had always fascinated her. They could be as hard as flint and as soft as liquid ink. She could be thrilled and soothed by a simple glance. And now, she was lost in them, desperately looking for a safe harbour. Severus gave her no help, and she knew he wouldn't. She'd only ever know if she acted. So she did.

Perhaps Molly had said something to worry her, but Ophelia had been different since he'd collected his supplies. Over tea and talk, her responses had been crisp and careful, and then she'd collapsed into herself. Now, her hand burned his arm and her gaze was piercing and searching. Slipping into her mind would have been easy, but he'd learnt that there were things beyond people's eyes that were better not known. Instead, he waited. It didn't take long.

She lunged forward, her eyes bright and hungry. He had the time to inhale and raise his eyebrows in surprise before her soft mouth pressed against his. She took advantage of his shock by slipping her tongue past his teeth. Her hands wound around his neck, the fingers diving into his hair, gripping and twisting in their urgency. And that was what it was... urgent.

His mouth opened for her, letting her in, and his hands held her shoulders, pulling her closer. The kiss was clumsy and hard, but there would be time later to taste and explore; for now, it was a race for release between snatched breaths and senseless sounds with more meaning than words. The wet softness of her mouth on his was enough to stopper his thoughts, and he longed to continue, but he was in Black's kitchen with Black's cousin. Closing his eyes, he eased away. She followed, not wanting to lose his warmth and the opportunity.

He studied her face; it was flushed, and her eyes were dark. Those delicious lips were swollen and red from their kiss, and through them, her breath came in rapid gulps. Her hands still gripped his hair, his scalp burning pleasurably from the pressure, and her thighs pressed warmly around his from where he had pushed his leg between hers.

"I'm not doing this in Black's kitchen," he growled out, pressing his forehead against hers. She almost bested his resolve by nipping along his jaw line. "Although... the look on his face... would be worth... the hexes."

"Where?" she demanded hotly, tugging hard on his hair to expose his throat to her lips and teeth.

He pulled away. "Have you ever done a Side-Along Apparition?"

Author's Notes: Many thanks to Falconfalmorgan for beta reading the story, especially after this has had to be relegated to a dusty shelf for so long. Also, apologies to those who have been reading this story. I hope you can accept that life can be very demanding and consuming. Thank you.