Chapter Thirty three

Molly wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand and sniffed loudly. Through watering eyes, she looked up and away from the source of her torment and caught sight of Ophelia standing in the garden.

“She’ll catch her death!” she muttered, noting the fine but determined drizzle drenching the courtyard.

Clucking under her breath, Molly swiftly decided that the old-fashioned way was that way for a reason and dropped the knife into the sink as she pulled her wand free. Looking down, she glared at the onions and sliced her wand through the air. The glistening white orbs fell apart into small, neatly chopped cubes.

Directing the chopped onions into a bowl, Molly quickly freshened herself and the kitchen up and removed her apron. Oddly, her urge to get the woman in from the cold rain fled when her hand gripped the door handle. Earlier in the month, Arthur had almost accused her of ‘interfering’, insisting she be careful around Ophelia. His words had been quite wounding: as if I’m a meddling busy-body!

But there had been something in his advice. She remembered the strange look in Ophelia’s eye when they’d bickered over a Cottage Pie. Frowning, she forced her hand down until the door clicked open. Ophelia was more settled now; she certainly smiled more over the last few days. It was silly to be worried, but…. Her hand slipped from the handle. Was this something she should involve herself with?

It was quite understandable to be wary of her—Ophelia had been a devotee of the Dark Lord and his arts—and there was something about the young woman which seemed to deter any kind of relationship. Not that she was rude or unhelpful. Ophelia, in recent weeks, had been a Godsend, helping her tend to the Order members who had trudged through, either hungry or in need of healing. Whatever Molly had asked her to do, she had done. Neither could Molly sense any bitterness or resentment in Ophelia for doing such tasks.

While she pondered, she walked back to the window. Her boys knew she could see a lie a mile away, and it wasn’t through Legilimency; it was because she used her eyes and watched. In Ophelia’s stance, she saw someone lost in thoughts, trying to find a way through. Molly shuddered at what could be going through the witch’s mind. Not that she had much to help her construct any ideas. Ophelia was a mystery, one that Dumbledore had made almost impossible to solve.

Behind her, the house was quiet. It was designed to hold silence and concentrate it. At the Burrow, the smallest sound echoed joyously from room to room, but here, sound was trapped, smothered… deadened. Suddenly, Molly craved sound, some noise that life was still going on and that she was a part of it. In the end, it was selfishness that broke down her reservations.

“Ophelia, dear,” she called from the doorway, pulling her cardigan around her, shielding herself against the fine rain. “Come in before you catch cold.”

Tea has always been an important support and prop: a brew and a ceremony that could mend wounds, heal rifts, soften mood, ease tension and put the world to rights. There was something so homely and unthreatening about it, and it was a familiar ritual, ignoring boundaries and bringing everyone to a common level. In times past, it had been a soothing action to keep her mind sane as the world collapsed, and now it helped to create a small cocoon where two women could sit, drink tea and gossip.

But Ophelia wasn’t drinking. Her appetite for tea was as remote as her mind. Molly watched those delicate pale fingers gently drum against the mug and how her compressed lips moved, as though they were desperate to declare some amazing truth. And then she saw it. She saw through Ophelia’s lie. It was difficult to hide her smirk. At last, Molly felt superior.

Arthur paused. He knew that laugh. It held undertones to make him blush and overtones keyed to inspire caution. When a woman laughed like that, it was at the expense of men. He hung his coat up and smiled gently despite his concern. It was good to hear laughter in this house, and it thrilled him to hear it coming from his wife’s throat. As he walked to the kitchen, he wondered who was sharing such levity with Molly. As his hand touched the handle, realisation made his scalp tingle and palms sweat. Oh Merlin! He’d never be able to look Ophelia in the eye again.

“Good evening, Molly… Ophelia.” That wasn’t so bad; Ophelia had the good grace not to smirk. He bent down to kiss Molly on the cheek and noticed how her lips quivered and her eyes sparkled with lascivious glee. He straightened and coughed gently. No, he mused, this wasn’t bad at all.

It was a very strange but lovely turnabout. The last time he’d seen them in the kitchen, there had been a nasty tension in the air, and he’d felt obliged to diffuse it before it escalated into something terrible. Now, they worked together to prepare dinner. It was as though the house had been given a good airing. And it soothed Arthur.

A fresh cup of tea was placed before him, and he was surprised to see Ophelia smiling down at him; he returned the smile, thanking her and easing forward to pick up the welcomed drink. Over the rim of the mug, he watched the way she moved around the kitchen and leant in to listen to Molly. A smile played around her lips, and her eyes, when he had caught them with his own, reflected a newfound gaiety and lightness. He turned his attention to Molly, who was basking in Ophelia’s attention and presence. Oh, he knew what had made his wife laugh like that and what now bound these two women; he just wondered who had brought it about. The mug stopped on the way back to the table and his eyebrows twitched upwards when his mind offered a candidate. He eased back in the chair and smirked, hiding it behind the Daily Prophet.

Dinner had been the happiest she’d had in a while. Arthur had followed Molly and treated her like one of the family, and Sirius had seemingly caught their good mood, adding to the feeling of camaraderie. Molly chatted about her children, sharing her joy and concerns, Arthur divulged his love of all things Muggle, and Ophelia found that she could excite and dazzle him further—until Molly shushed them. Between forkfuls, Sirius joined in, sharing some of his ideas and glowing with some newfound energy and purpose. Obviously, the last few days with Remus had lifted his spirits. Ophelia didn’t mention the cries she’d heard, but they seemed to have released a torrent of pain, leaving Sirius lighter; he had found some relief, and she was glad.

Ophelia surprised herself by sharing some of her stories; she told them of Mrs Mathieson, of her life in Whitehaven in a one-bedroom Council flat, and her constant need to find something that she couldn’t define. She knew now what it was, but she kept that secret to herself… Molly knew though—her smirk said as much.

The meal was rounded off with coffee, and soon, they went their separate ways; Ophelia was none too surprised by Arthur and Molly’s rapid departure, and she giggled at the blush Arthur flashed when she caught his eye on the way out. Sirius had excused himself soon afterwards, leaving Ophelia to the pile of dishes. The sudden emptiness was quite daunting, but she accepted it. She knew she wouldn’t be empty again.

“How is she?” Dumbledore asked even before Snape had straightened from the fireplace.

Severus dragged a hand through his hair and faced Dumbledore’s almost frantic anxiety. “She’ll be fine; Poppy is transferring Minerva to St Mungos in the morning.”

Severus watched him sink into an armchair and stare up at him with a pained expression. The shadows seemed to grow around them, swallowing the very air in the sitting room. Outside, rain battered at the small leaded windows, and a wind howled down the chimney.

“I doubt it reflects the severity of her injuries,” Severus soothed. “Umbridge was eager to question Minerva, so Poppy arranged the transfer to help frustrate her plans. Although…” he added quietly, his throat constricting with emotion—he could still see the stunners striking and sending her arcing through the air, “I believe the rest will help Minerva’s recovery; at the school, she’ll feel compelled to return to her duties sooner than is wise.”

Dumbledore scrutinised the wan face before him and knew that Severus had feared the very worst—they all had. He glanced down to his own trembling hands: he had too. It had been inevitable. He knew this, but knowing it would happen and then seeing it realised in the attack on Minerva were two entirely different things.

“I cannot stay long,” Snape said urgently, interrupting Dumbledore’s thoughts. “Several Death Eaters have been assigned the task of breaking into the Department of Mysteries.” Dumbledore stiffened and Snape swallowed. “From the level of agitation within the ranks, I suspect they’ll do it soon: over the next few days.”

They both paused; they knew what it meant. Voldemort was after the prophecy. While they studied each other’s faces, seeing the shared realisation, Dumbledore saw Snape’s cheek spasm and noted a corresponding, sympathetic tremor in the dark man’s hands. He quickly dismissed querying it; he knew how the Cruciatus could linger, its pain echoing in abused muscles. The Dark Lord had once obviously remembered Snape’s incomplete rendition of the prophecy, and as he now pondered it, so his body remembered the Dark Lord’s retribution.

“I’ll keep the Order at the ready and alert those who’ll be watching over it.”

Dumbledore stared at the hearth long after Snape had disappeared in a green flash. He knew the Order would want to take the opportunity to destroy Voldemort; they would hasten to the Ministry, but Dumbledore knew one bitter truth they didn’t. Harry had to kill Voldemort… and to do that, he had to die. The thought stole his strength and composure, and he crumpled up in the chair, dry sobs wracking his body. The only thing they could do in the coming days was make it as difficult for Voldemort as possible until Harry was ready.

Moody left the elevator, a deep scowl firmly in place. Rookwood had gone on sick leave, and no one had seen Smith for days. It galled him that no one seemed to care about his friend’s absence. No one should become so invisible that their disappearance caused no concern; no wonder Smith had been so hungry.

His metal leg clanked against the tiled floor of the foyer, and he hoped it echoed right down the very bowels of the Ministry. He hoped that each footfall rang out his anger and disappointment; he hoped it shamed them into action. Such was his anger that when a hand landed on his shoulder, he whirled around with a sneer, his eye swivelling grotesquely.

The owner of the hand stepped back, looking pale, but she’d known Moody for a long time and quickly restored her decorum. She’d been a receptionist at the Ministry for nearly fifty years, and she had dealt with Wizarding society at its best and worst: very little shocked her for long.

“Sorry, Maud,” he mumbled apologetically.

“I’ve never seen you so riled,” she replied cautiously, her keen, hazel eyes taking in his stern features and tense stance.

"Toothache,” he lied smoothly.

“I’m surprised you still have some of your own teeth left,” she quipped, ignoring his mock grimace.

“There’s a lot of the original me left, ye know,” he grumbled. “They weren’t that good.” He ignored her amused smirk. “What is it that yer want, Maud?”

Her smile evaporated, and she lifted a cream envelope. “It came late last night,” she said tightly, part in frustration and part with burning curiosity. “It’s charmed so that only you can open it.”

“Ye could tell that just by lookin’ at it?” he asked innocently.

“Let’s just say that a few of your fellow Aurors will have to use their teeth to cast spells for the next few hours.” Moody smirked, and she tried to school her face away from reciprocating. “I tried to trace it, but it failed.”

Moody’s humour slipped away. “Thanks, Maud.”

She knew that he meant more than just for delivering the letter; the Ministry didn’t have a policy of tracing letters. He carefully took it from her fingers, but she didn’t let go. Surprised, he looked up into her concerned eyes.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

He nodded gratefully. She knew how talented she was, and the letter being untraceable had no doubt alarmed her. He winked and grinned. “As I told ye, they aren’t that good.”

She smiled weakly and let him go.

Moody didn’t know why, but he went to Smith’s house. He turned on the lights, made a cup of tea and sat down, sipping the hot liquid and staring at the letter. It scared him. He feared what it contained because he was damned sure that it had something to do with Smith.

The cup was empty, and he could prevaricate no longer. Picking it up, he examined the envelope carefully, casting spells to elucidate more about it. It was remarkably plain—too plain. Traces had been magically stripped from it to make it as anonymous as possible. Placing it flat on the table, he used his wandtip to unseal and open it up. Something glinted in the light, and underneath, he could see the loops and curves of a written note.

Sick with nerves, he levitated the contents out: a handwritten note and a glass phial. His magical eye told him that the phial contained a memory—it was stained a subtle pink, indicating that it had been ripped from its host. Crushing down his despair, he focused on the note.

The Order will fall… just as this one has.

Short, sharp… sickening.

He needed anger… he needed hate. Without something, he’d never touch the phial.

Smith’s face loomed up, and with it came the needed emotion. With a scream, he grabbed the memory and Disapparated. His cry heralded his arrival, shocking Dumbledore from his thoughts of Minerva and the prophecy.

“Get that damned Pensieve of yers,” he yelled.

Dumbledore said nothing. He simply waved his hand and kept his eyes fixed on Moody’s wrathful face. From a small cupboard, the grey bowl flew smoothly to the coffee table. Moody fell to his knees, and Dumbledore slipped down next to him.

There was the merest hesitation, then Moody poured the silvery contents into the bowl, where they swirled and coiled as unpleasantly as his guts.

“Alastor…”

A blazing, blue eye fixed him in place. “Don’t dare ask if I want yer ‘elp… ye’re goin’ in with me, ye conniving bastard, whether ye like it or not.”

Shapes emerged from the grey mist: Smith, standing tall; a curve of masked Death Eaters; and the Dark Lord. Their gaze followed the chains attached to his ankles and brooms, before seeing the shared horror reflected in their eyes. The memory continued to unfurl, and the tiled courtyard rolled out, the tall spruces lining the distant paths bloomed, and the star-speckled sky covered them like a blanket. In the distance, they could make out the rounded domes of a forest. It was common to many Manor houses; it could be anywhere.

Moody and Dumbledore also caught sight of faint echoes over the image, as though other memories were superimposed. It explained the pink tinge to the liquid memory: this part of the memory had been forced out to join the one that had been intentionally extracted.

“You may not be aware,” Voldemort declared, punctuating the heavy silence, “but there was once a man—your namesake—who made a pilgrimage for the sake of his faith—much as you have done, if faith and duty were synonymous.”

Moody’s scowl deepened as he shot daggers at Voldemort. Around them, the Death Eaters muttered and shifted expectantly.

“I know of St Onesiphorus,” Smith responded bitterly.

Moody’s anger momentarily withered as shock took control; a whimper escaped his throat. He’d hoped he’d been wrong about the chains.

“I don’t know what’s after this, “ he continued in a low growl, “but I go there with grace and peace, and there ain’t nothin’ that ye can do to make me fear ye or cause me to bow one inch to ye.”

Moody let out a vicious snarl and clapped his hands together. “Ye hear ‘im,” he hissed, slapping Dumbledore on the shoulder. “Gods, Smith, ye’re a mad sod.”

“Ye fear it, dread it… ye fret to stop what must ‘appen to all men at the end of their span.”

They watched as Smith was knocked to the ground, where he writhed under the Cruciatus. Moody stiffened, pointing a trembling finger at the oblivious Dark Lord.

“Ye cannae make ‘im scream,” Moody roared. “’E’ll never give ye the satisfaction.”

Spittle flew from Moody’s lips as rage and fierce pride ran amok within him. Smith had been granted his wish: he was dying an Auror, and the Dark Lord couldn’t beat him.

The curse ended, and Voldemort swooped down upon the prostrate Auror, his breathing hard and rapid.

“I do not fear Death. I will be its master. You will not fear Death; you will fear me.”

“No one can escape Death,” Smith croaked. “’E’s a canny ‘unter, and ‘e’ll find ye as sure as ye will be brought down.”

They almost missed what Voldemort whispered into Smith’s ear, such was the roar of blood in their ears.

“Death could walk at my side and not do so much as caress my shoulder.”

From their vantage point, they saw Smith’s triumphant grin, and his allies silently applauded him.

“Ye arrogant toe-rag,” he gasped. “There ain’t no power to stop ‘im.”

Voldemort moved away and laughed softly. “There is. Every child knows of it. But even without it, I cannot be touched by Death. I have no need for whatever is ‘after this’, for there never will be anything other than this for me… for you.”

“Ye will die, and ye’ll die incomplete.”

Moody and Dumbledore stepped closer, eager to hear what was said; it had been orchestrated by Smith, after all—his dying wish that they know.

“You are a clever Auror. How many others know, I wonder?” The smug smile fell back into place. “No matter; not even my Death Eaters know what or where they are. The destruction of one has done me no harm—as you can plainly see!—and I have more important things to occupy my time. I will not concern myself, and you will die: alone, useless and unknown.”

They had the time to see the chains pull taut, and then their world became a confusing mix of soaring shapes and shadows. Despite standing still in Smith’s memory, they felt sick from the dizzying scene as it hurtled past them, their minds tricked into believing they were pulled along with Smith.

Moody wept as he caught sight of the approaching trees. From ahead, he heard the Death Eaters laugh, and then they dove between the boughs. He couldn’t block out the horrific thumps and thuds as Smith was dragged through the forest, hitting branch after branch after branch. Dumbledore had to delve down for reserves he doubted he possessed to keep from collapsing. They couldn’t go on, and they marvelled that Smith had suffered this and not cried out. Just when Dumbledore thought to end it, the riders pulled up into the sky, lifting them free of the treetops. They purposefully slowed so Smith could see what they were doing.

“Oh Merlin,” breathed Moody, his rage dying in his chest as he watched the very last moments of his friend’s life.

He looked down at the battered, bruised and broken body. He longed to reach out and hold him, to cradle him, to tell him all the things that old Aurors and friends do not tell each other. Smith was unrecognisable when his eyes finally blinked away enough tears for him to see clearly.

It was coming closer; soon it would be over. In the corner of his eye, he saw the brooms diverge and the chains moving apart in opposite directions.

Then, he heard it. What he had thought was the wind was gathering together to form words.

“Moody…”

Stifling a sob, he focused, leaning closer to catch his friend’s final words.

Smith cried out, using the last of strength to say what he longed to say. “I… di… die Auror.”

Then the chains pulled.

Dumbledore collapsed into the chair. Above him, he could hear Alastor breathing heavily and the creak of his boots as he swayed on the spot. They could still hear the wind screaming, the snapping twigs, the groaning boughs and each heavy impact. Above the smell of smoke from the fire, they caught the subtle smell of sweat, dirt and sap. It would haunt them for years.

Moody finally managed to cling to something: duty.

“Smith ‘elped us learn a bit more than we ever ‘oped to,” he ground out, forcing the words past his constricted throat.

Dumbledore closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. “He isn’t aware of the destruction of his Horcruxes.”

“Aye, and he’s confirmed that ‘e’s after the Hallows.”

After an uncomfortable pause, Dumbledore stood and waved his hand. Two glasses emerged from the air to hover between them. Moody reached inside his coat and removed his hipflask. He swallowed and blinked away a tear, then poured two healthy measures. The wizards took the tumblers and raised them high.

“To Smith,” Dumbledore uttered thickly.

“To the best and maddest of us all,” Moody said through clenched teeth. “E died like an old Auror, and Voldemort will grow to dread it.” He downed his whiskey in one, fiery gulp. “May ye have that peace, ye brave bastard. Ye earned it,” he added with a sob.