Chapter Thirty five

Lupin hesitated by the kitchen door, his fingers grazing the brass door handle, his stomach rolling unpleasantly. Since he had vented his anger, frustration and misery, he had been cocooned in a soft numbness that was both welcome and a worry. He knew that beyond the door, she would be waiting with questions, and he found that he dreaded unwrapping himself from the emptiness and allowing all that anguish and pain to flood back. He licked his dry lips and steadied himself.

She jolted in her seat when the door clicked and swung open; Lupin stood in the doorway, looking haggard and listless. The urge to pounce, to leap at him with questions and demands, to scream out her impatience and the torment she’d suffered through being patient rose up inside her. Instead, she breathed shakily and drummed her fingernails against the mercilessly scrubbed and spotless tabletop. She offered him a weak smile and watched as he lumbered in to sit in the chair opposite her. Ophelia’s heart thudded painfully against her ribs; her eyes ached and felt huge as she stared at him, expectantly and fearfully. She almost howled in frustration, Lupin sat so morosely, staring at the grain pattern and breathing in a slow, steady rhythm.

“Where’s Sirius?” she asked carefully, aware of the man’s slumped shoulders and the way he rocked gently in his seat.

Lupin lifted his head, and she gasped at the desperation in his hazel eyes. “He’s dead.” His voice was contradictorily calm and quiet, and she shuddered when his words finally sank through her disbelief.

She shook her head and mouthed silently, her fingernails biting into the table’s varnish. It couldn’t be! It just couldn’t! Her stomach flipped, and she felt a wave of sickness rush up, burning as it went. Her throat trembled and ached from the effort of holding back her sobs, and her vision blurred as hot tears filled her view. Beyond the distorting tears, she saw Lupin give a great heave and cover his face, and he gave several sobs before slumping over the table, his hands clutching at his hair.

“How?” she asked thickly, her mind still reeling.

Slowly, he straightened, pulling out a tatty handkerchief to wipe his wet face. His breath hitched a few times before he inhaled carefully and, in neutral tones, told her of the struggle in the bowels of the Ministry, of how Bellatrix had cast the Killing Curse and how Sirius had fallen past the Veil. She listened in disbelief, watching the crushing waves of despair and rage roll towards her, savage in their fury. He told her about the Order and about Harry Potter, about how a baby had deflected the Killing Curse cast by the most terrible wizard to have lived, and thus granted the Wizarding world fifteen years of acceptable, if dubious, peace.

He told her as much as he knew in one giant purge, and now that he had started talking, he feared stopping, feared that lull where his emotions would catch up to the horrors of what he had described. He wept as he disclosed to her his fears and regrets, his anger and hate, his guilt over betraying Sirius a second time in allowing him to rush off to meet his death. He grimaced and thumped the tabletop as he confessed and expressed his fury at Sirius’s pigheadedness and arrogance. He collapsed in upon himself, unable to continue, his voice smothered by sobs, and his thoughts scattering under the terrible impact of Sirius’s murder.

“Thank you,” Lupin mumbled as Ophelia handed him a mug of tea. He carefully sipped while she settled in her chair. The warmth of the drink plummeted to the pit of his empty stomach, which growled encouragingly; he felt hungry, but the thought of eating made him feel sick. His eyes felt gritty and sore, and his head felt thick and heavy. Across from him, Ophelia looked as bad as he felt with her blotchy cheeks, red swollen eyes and mournful countenance.

“I’m not sure what to feel,” she whispered from behind her tightly-held mug. “It just doesn’t seem real.”

Her dark brown eyes shifted and latched onto Lupin in the hopes that he would help her understand it all. In his hazel depths, she saw the same hurt and bewilderment, the same pained confusion. She glanced away and drank her tea, its taste and its warmth were uncomplicated and familiar, and she savoured it.

Her mind had been in turmoil, and she had suffered a range of emotions, but now, she was numb, her thoughts scorched away like morning clouds. She heard Lupin’s mug grate on the table surface and the occasional sigh slipping past his lips. There was so much to say, she knew it, but she couldn’t find the words; she wanted to move but doubted that she would ever stop, and most of all, she wanted to understand but knew that she was hopelessly lost.

The sound of the front door opening roused them from their dark musings, and they peered down the hallway, some cruel, futile hope bursting through their chests. They sagged and felt foolish when Dumbledore stepped into the hallway. Watching as he carefully hung his cloak on the hook and straightened his robes before striding purposefully towards them, they wondered what dread news he had that made him move with such determination. Out of instinct, they both stood to greet their old headmaster.

“Remus; Ophelia,” he said warmly, extending his arms as if to embrace them both.

“Care for some tea?” Ophelia asked tentatively.

“That would be lovely, my dear,” he replied softly, his blue eyes scrutinising her face. “And over tea, we shall have a talk about your future, Ophelia.”

“My future?” She swallowed and nervously licked her lips, her eyes darting to Lupin’s impassive face and then back into Dumbledore’s azure scrutiny.

“I have a few things to attend to,” Remus said swiftly, flashing a warm smile at Ophelia. “Headmaster,” he said as he stood to take his leave.

“Remus,” he replied gratefully.

The kitchen door clicked shut behind Lupin, and Ophelia busied herself, pouring tea.

“I have given the matter a great deal of thought,” said Dumbledore. “I asked you to assist us as best you could—to give us an advantage. You have done all that I have asked of you, Ophelia, and words cannot express my gratitude.” He paused and smiled up at her as she placed a cup and saucer on the table before him. Taking a sip, he waited until she returned to her seat. “Given the nature of your forced return to the Wizarding world and in light of recent, tragic events…” his voice cracked, and he stopped to squeeze his eyes shut and regain his composure “… I feel that I must highlight your choices regarding your future.” He took another sip of tea, the cup trembling in his hand. “It is within my power to fulfil your plea from twenty years ago and do what you once begged of an Auror.”

She had held her breath, and at his offer, she expelled it in a series of wails, her eyes brimming with tears and shaking her head in disbelief at the gift he was offering.

“This time, it will be perfect. There will be no memories to haunt you. You will remember your life in your Council flat, your job as a waitress, and you will only know and do what a Muggle called Veronica Speedwell would know and be able to do.”

“But, the war!” she mumbled bemusedly.

“The war will rage on whether you continue here or return to Whitehaven; it will be no shorter or longer for your decision.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she bit her lip; how easy it would be to accept and forget that she ever knew pain. She hugged her stomach as if to keep herself whole, to stop her flying apart at the thought of it. What would she lose?—the pain of losing loved ones, the agony of guilt and betrayal, and the constant fear. She would be free of that. But she would lose and forget the fleeting love she had shared with Regulus—keeping her sane during a mad time. Physical pain made her gasp. She would lose the love that burned within; she would forget Severus.

“You do not have to decide now, Ophelia,” he said consolingly. “Take the time to decide what is right for you and then, when you are ready, give me your answer.”

She stood and followed him to the door where he cupped her cheek fondly, and she smiled at the affection that the touch conveyed. “You have done more than enough,” he whispered. As he moved away from her to step onto the street, the sunlight reflected off a silvery trail running down his cheek.

Fawkes raised his head as the fireplace burst into life, spewing out Dumbledore. He trilled a welcome and lifted his bald head, eager for those fingers to soothe him. Dumbledore smiled at the young phoenix and stroked under his familiar’s beak. How similar this was to his meeting with Ophelia, new lives beginning from the ashes of the former, and he wondered how the future would treat Veronica Speedwell.

There were things she had to do, things she needed to know before she made her decision. After the trauma of her returning memories had eased, her mind had gone back to those confused recollections of her mother. Dredging up distant memories, she tried to piece together the puzzle that was her early life. But it was so difficult, her mind just wouldn’t or couldn’t delve any deeper. The only haunting and damning recollection was of her mum, weeping as she lay on her bed, her fair hair splayed over the pillow and her body trembling with each sob. The newspaper that came with the owl lay strewn over the floor, and she had tidied up just like her mummy had always told her to. On her return from stuffing the crushed bundle of papers in the bin, a flash of green light had reflected off the walls in the small hallway.

Even now, she could not fathom what pushed her mother to the point where she had cast the Killing Curse upon herself, and with her memories restored, that same pained bafflement and bitter sense of betrayal raged through her. How could she have done it? There was no denying she understood her mother’s need to flee, but she was struggling to discern an excusable reason for taking her own life… for leaving her. And then there was the question of her father; it had risen its head a few times during her school years; the other students had tormented her about her lineage, and despite her cool aloofness, she had burned with curiosity. Her aunt and uncle had been unable to answer her. She had contented herself, delved into the comfort of her family and cleaved to the one who had so looked like her mother—Narcissa!

She was sure his identity would never be discovered now, and what did it really matter after all these years? She had lived, plotted, fought, suffered and loved without him; she could cope without him. But! Sighing, she looked up at the mottled ceiling and willed away the pointless hope fluttering in her belly. And then there was her promise to Regulus, the promise to help him complete his vow, and the unspoken oath to avenge his death. Could she cast that aside and scuttle away like some insect hiding from the light? Thoughts twisted and twirled in confused cycles, and she found it impossible to fathom any reasonable logic from the chaos; should she stay and help or take Dumbledore’s offer?

Adding more confusion and despair was Narcissa: would it be wise to rekindle that special bond that had existed between them? Could she trust Narcissa? It pained her to think that the woman she had loved as a sister was also the wife and sister of devout and dedicated Death Eaters. Logic stirred, and she considered the situation; it would be the height of idiocy to put either of them in the position of maintaining secrets… Dumbledore would find the security breach unforgivable, and the Dark Lord would destroy Narcissa after ripping out all thoughts and memories pertaining to her betrayal. No, it was better for Narcissa if she continued to believe that her little cousin had died.

And what else was there keeping her to this life? It was almost an alien place to her now. As a Muggle, she would have all the freedoms that that life bestowed… and none of the pain of this one. So tempting! But the underlying guilt that she was yet again deserting those who needed her raised its ugly head, and she felt some obligation to stay with those who battled the wizard she wanted to see dead. Forehead puckering, she felt something twist in her chest… to see the Dark Lord destroyed; wouldn’t that be worth staying around for?

She rolled onto her side and curled up. Then there was Severus…