Chapter Two

Chapter Two.

For a moment, Sirius was taken aback at the headmaster's attire; he had never seen him wearing anything other than rich and voluminous robes. He gaped at the sight of the brown jacket over a knitted, grey turtleneck jumper and charcoal trousers with a cream fedora balanced on his cascade of silver hair. He stood in the doorway for a few moments and then shuffled awkwardly aside, at which silent invitation the headmaster strode in to reveal a sobering sight: Severus Snape scowling up at him from the bottom step.

The man's black hair hung in limp curtains, plunging his face into shadows; the weak autumn light only succeeded in catching his hooked nose and the swell of his cheekbones. He was wearing his habitual, black, three-quarter length jacket and trousers which would easily pass muster in eclectic London should any Muggle see him, and he carried what looked like an old-fashioned doctor's bag in black leather. It struck Sirius as strange that Snape should find such a compromise between Wizarding and Muggle fashion while endeavouring, through reputation and design, to isolate himself from both worlds. Snape quickly followed Dumbledore and swept past Sirius with barely a glance or acknowledgment.

Snape and Dumbledore were already seated when he strode into the kitchen, and he felt a rising frustration and anger as he played host, preparing tea; he could feel Snape's smirk burning the back of his neck.

"There has arisen a matter of some urgency of which, I believe, you both have some vital information." Dumbledore divulged after taking an unhurried sip of lemon tea. "I believe that both of you, at one time or another, knew Ophelia Black."

Sirius had been glaring at Snape and so caught the slight, unexpected flinch as Dumbledore mentioned a name that had good cause to make his own breath catch in his throat and his insides squirm.

"Evidence has recently come to light, indicating that she survived the train wreck and has since forged a life for herself in the Muggle world."

"How is that possible?" Snape seemed more cautious than curious, and Sirius was distressed to find that his own curiosity about Ophelia's miraculous resurrection was outweighed by his increasing desire to know exactly how Snape and Ophelia knew each other.

"We are not sure of the exact details, but we believe that she was taken to a local Muggle hospital before the Aurors arrived. Until we find her, I doubt we will ever know the complete truth."

"The complete truth?" Snape queried softly, his attention now riveted to the headmaster.

"There exists some confusion as to how she was slipped passed the Aurors into the hospital and why she has refrained from making her way back to the Wizarding world. Suffice it to say that we suspect she was removed from the train prior to the accident and later the victim of a memory-modifying curse."

"Who did it? Death Eaters?"

Snape turned to glare at Sirius. "Contrary to popular opinion, the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters were not the sole instigators of terror and violence. I take it that you have forgotten the powers bestowed upon the Elite Aurors formed under Barty Crouch's administration? They had the right to bring anyone in for questioning at any time without the benefit of counsel. They were also granted the right to kill any suspected Death Eaters on sight."

Sirius glowered back, partly due to Snape's infuriating condescension and partly to the memory of Barty Crouch Sr.'s quivering face condemning him to life in Azkaban.

"I, better than most, should be aware of how dire it was."

To his surprise, Snape tilted his head in the smallest gesture of acknowledgement.

"I would appreciate," Dumbledore interjected smoothly, "your thoughts on how easily Ophelia may be assimilated back into the Wizarding world."

"You've found her?" Sirius felt a thrum down his spine and a fluttering in his gut; a godson and a cousin restored to him ... Perhaps life was not so bleak after all.

"Alastor has contacted an acquaintance, who will, he believes, be able to lead us to her quite quickly."

"And you want to know of her loyalties before approaching her?"

"Now, listen here, Snape," Sirius growled, offended at the suggestive tone in Snape's voice. "I knew her well, and she never showed any inclination to follow in the footsteps of the rest of that family."

Snape merely sneered and waved a thin hand dismissively. "I tend to agree with you that she certainly seemed to avoid the traps that ensnared her family, but have no doubt that she was eager to be a part of that family."

"No," he whispered hoarsely, "she never shared their philosophies; for Merlin's sake, she was practically a Muggle when she was found!"

"As I understand, your contact was severely curtailed when she was invited to live at Malfoy Manor where she had ample opportunity to embrace certain principles without your unique moral compass to guide her. And if you believe that exposure to Muggles would somehow make her immune, then I suggest that you think back on your friend, Pettigrew; he is a half-blood, is he not?"

Sirius flushed and gripped the edge of the table. He was tempted to pull his wand, but was painfully aware of the headmaster listening and watching intently. He forced down the fury at the impugnation of his moral character and the hate at the casual mentioning of his regretful association with Pettigrew. "How do I know that those certain principles were not inspired by befuddlements or potions?"

Snape bit out a harsh laugh and shook his head indulgently. "I assure you that she needed nothing more than space; her natural predispositions soon manifested themselves."

"And how, exactly, would you," he sneered in partially concealed disgust and disbelief, "be in such a position to determine her predispositions?" His heart hammered in his chest; his mind had skirted around his suspicion since it had bloomed, and he dreaded confirmation. Ophelia had been sixteen when she had supposedly died; Snape would have been twenty-two. He swallowed around a suddenly dry throat and kept a hold on the table, lest he draw his wand and hex the gloating man in front of him.

"While she was Lucius' ward, I had ample opportunities to meet with Ophelia."

"Ah, yes!" Sirius sighed, "I forgot that you were on Malfoy's leash as well as Voldemort's."

"Do not," Snape ground out through clenched teeth, "speak his name!" His face was flushed, his eyes glittered, and the fingers on his right hand traced a pattern over the fabric covering his left inner forearm. Sirius found his gaze oddly drawn to those pale, slender fingers moving over the black cloth, and he fancied that those fingers soothed the writhing Dark Mark beneath.

"Don't be melodramatic, Snape," he said lazily. "It's just a brand, a mark of ownership." Sirius' tone was light, but his expression was vicious.

"This," snarled Snape, lifting his arm and stabbing a finger into the black cloth and the corrupted flesh beneath, "is more than that, Black, as you very well know. Azkaban must have robbed you of your wits!"

Sirius blinked, his anger smothered by the disquieting and recurrent fear that the Dementors had indeed stolen more than he thought; he cast a nonplussed glance at Dumbledore, who watched Snape closely.

"Headmaster?" he asked, hoping more to affect an air of annoyance than display his need for reassurance.

Dumbledore turned, peering at him over the rim of his gold spectacles, concern crinkling his brow. "The Dark Mark is a link between each Death Eater and the Dark Lord: the mechanism of this is not clearly understood, and although we have endeavoured to discover its secrets, we have as of yet failed. From Severus' information regarding its creation and the lingering side effects, we believe that Riddle is aware, on some level, of the emotional state of any Death Eater he focuses on, and this is what makes him a formidable Legilimens to those within his ranks. As with Legilimency, distance decreases this effect; however, a surge of power from the Mark...from hearing its creator's name, for example, can overcome that obstacle, and it is possible that for an instant, Riddle may sense the emotions of one bearing the Mark."

"So Vol...erm, He can basically spy upon his own through the Mark?" His brow furrowed further, and as he considered the ramifications, he pinned Snape with a fierce gaze and pointed at him. "What's stopping him," he said vehemently, "from inadvertently passing on something to Him via this link?"

"Severus," Dumbledore spoke quickly to override Snape, who merely glowered at the headmaster, "is an accomplished Occlumens, and as you are aware, everything discussed here is protected by the Fidelius Charm. I doubt that there is, in this instance, any cause for concern, but it is something that you should be made aware of."

Sirius nodded slowly and felt a wave of nausea rush through him; did Voldemort unconsciously employ the same mechanism when he foisted his emotions and thoughts onto Harry? He shuddered at the horrible implications.

"Now," Dumbledore stated firmly, "back to the matter at hand. Severus, you were suggesting that Ophelia's loyalties may lie closer to her family."

"Yes," he replied, ignoring Sirius' huff of denial. "She was particularly close to Narcissa and spoke quite fondly of Madam Tonks, with whom she lived before the train accident."

Sirius closed his mouth with a snap and jerked forward in his chair. "You stayed in contact with Ophelia after she left Malfoy's?" It was impossible. He had visited Ophelia at his cousin Andromeda's house at every opportunity, and never had she mentioned that she was in correspondence with Snape. She had never even hinted that she knew of the man's existence.

"Indeed," Snape smirked, obviously enjoying the hurt flashing across Sirius' face. "Did she never tell you?"

Sirius eased back with an air of nonchalance that he did not feel: the knowledge that Ophelia and Snape had shared something generated a surprising spark of jealousy, and the fact that she had kept it a secret only increased the hurt. The fact that Snape knew added a subtle element of humiliation to the confusing coagulation of emotions clogging his chest.

"Severus," Dumbledore chided quietly, "if you would kindly continue." He knew from past experience that Severus Snape would hold onto his secrets far more tightly if he felt they were being prised from him, but would divulge them readily enough if he thought they had the power to hurt. To be fair though, Sirius was no altruist, either, when it came to releasing information; if he did not think it relevant, then it would stay locked in some dusty recess, irrespective of how useful it could have been. Sirius would, however, scrounge up those distant and neglected memories quick enough if he felt in some way threatened. He was learning more from drinking his tea and listening to the verbal barrage between them than if he had sat them down individually and simply asked. He smirked to himself behind his teacup: pride was a terrible thing.

"Ophelia, as you both know, lived with Lucius and Narcissa until shortly after they were married, whereupon she was sent to live with Andromeda."

"Why would they not ask Bellatrix to take up her guardianship?"

"As I understand it, Headmaster," Snape replied, seemingly incredulous at the notion that they were not already aware of the reason, "Ophelia and Bella were not content in each other's company...so much so that sending her to live with Madam Tonks was the far more rational, if not disappointing, decision."

"She seemed happy enough at Andromeda's, and I never saw her or heard her do anything that suggested that she was disappointed or discontent with the arrangement."

"Nor did I suggest any." Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sirius gritted his teeth at the gesture of patient tolerance being tested and began to hope that Dumbledore would depart suddenly, leaving Snape stranded. A few moments were all he needed.

"Ophelia enjoyed living with Andromeda and even told me of her great fondness for her cousin and her Muggle husband. Other family members were disappointed with the decision."

Sirius felt that he had missed some part of the conversation; surely Snape had said that Ophelia had been steadily conforming to those twisted principles and philosophies that had so appalled him as a youth? A cold sliver of realisation pierced the smog of resentment and jealousy. Snape actually never said such a thing; he had merely allowed Sirius to come to the conclusion that he had formed as soon as Snape said she was close to her family. Sirius cursed inwardly and glared at the source of his sudden embarrassment. Hadn't he at one time been close to his family? Hadn't Regulus and Andromeda?

"Do we know why they were so incompatible?"

Snape grimaced slightly and reared back as if the question pained him. Intrigued, Sirius forced down his frustrations and focused on the suddenly uncomfortable man practically squirming in his chair.

"Bella considered Ophelia a threat." Snape finally muttered after an uncomfortable pause.

"A threat?"

Sirius was surprised that Snape allowed his inane comment to pass until he saw the man's jaw clench and a vein pulsate in his temple.

"At the time, the Ministry saw the Dark Lord as nothing more than a political dissident: rumours about his activities either repulsed or attracted, but none of them encouraged any direct action against him. It was therefore quite common for the Dark Lord to be entertained in many of the great houses, and such a house was Malfoy Manor."

Sirius noticed that although Snape appeared calm, he was scratching at the Dark Mark, apparently oblivious of his actions. "We already know that, Snape. I was asked to speak with Ophelia about the soirees that Malfoy hosted; remember?"

Snape shot him a look, and Sirius felt the hairs on his nape prickle at the emptiness of it; he had seen such a deadened look in the eyes of the inmates of Azkaban and more often than he cared in his own. "That may be so, but I'm sure that she refrained from divulging certain interesting snippets." He brought a hand to his mouth and gently rubbed a forefinger across his lips.

"I didn't question her regarding the latest gossip."

"Don't be naïve," Snape snarled, the passion back in his eyes. "More often than not, it is the subtle, unconscious acts that yield the most important information."

"I did not have the time to have her comment on who was wearing what and who was draped over who. I was after names and information about impending attacks."

"Foolish," Snape muttered from behind his fingers. "You compounded her belief that it was a mere triviality. She, herself, would not have seen the importance of it. But you," his voice empty and quiet, "you would have discovered the greatest secret and weapon against him. Had you but asked."

"Sometimes she wouldn't talk to me, you know," he roared. "But she wasn't there anymore; she was with Andromeda, so what did it matter? The Order had no further use for her."

Dumbledore took another sip of tea and carefully slid out his wand; he was quite convinced that they had temporarily forgotten about him, and he did not want the discussion to deteriorate into violence due to a perceived lack of authority. In the meantime, he sat back and waited for the rising torrents to stir up the answers he sought.

"You amaze me, Black." Snape placed his hands flat on the table and leant forward. "In the palm of your hand, you had a direct route to the Dark Lord," his voice wavered and cracked, "and you squandered it because you were bored by high society politics."

Sirius threw up his hands and moaned out in frustration. "I have absolutely no idea what the hell you're blathering on about. She was just a child, for Merlin's sake. She spent the first years just being amazed by the fact she was a witch; she didn't know, couldn't begin to fathom what being in that family meant. She was gentle and sweet and nothing like them." He turned to Dumbledore and spread his arms wide. "Don't listen to him," he implored, "Ophelia was nothing like them. Granted," he conceded, "she may not join us, but I'm damned sure she won't join them."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Black."

"Look, Snape," he hissed, "I'm really getting sick of this. Just what makes you so cocksure that Ophelia would? Some chance meetings at Malfoy Manor? Perhaps a few letters from Andromeda's?"

He watched the colour drain from Snape's face, and glancing, down he saw Snape's potion-stained fingernails bite into the veneer on the kitchen table.

"Come on, Snape," he urged, "how exactly did I mess up? Because I can't help but think that you're supposed to be on our side, and surely if there was something that important then you would have just told us."

"Her death nullified the dilemma."

"You wanted her dead."

"No!" Snape shouted, colouring violently and smacking the tabletop. He breathed slowly and noisily until his face and breathing returned to normal. "Suffice it to say that should she return and her loyalties remain where I think they have always been, then she will be a threat to the Order."

"Your opinion, Snape."

"Black," Snape whispered softly, once again pinching the bridge of his nose and inhaling slowly. "I once came across Ophelia on the terrace at Malfoy Manor trying to convince Nagini to devour Wormtail while he was trapped in his Animagus form." He glared up when a snigger escaped from Sirius' clenched lips and then shrugged generously; it had been amusing. "It appears that I must thank you, by the way." He smirked suddenly. "She was so intrigued by the one who had fuelled your hatred through school and occupied much of your conversations together that she was positively thrilled to finally meet me."

"Get to the point," Sirius said tonelessly.

Snape's smirk slipped, and that deadened look that had chilled Sirius returned. "She was fascinated by you, I think."

Sirius wondered if the chilly tone concealed a hint of jealousy.

"She sought out those who had affected you the most deeply. Her familial acquaintance with Regulus deepened, and the two became inseparable; the Dark Lord even humoured her fondness for her cousin and asked it of Lucius to open up his home to him; no other Death Eater was treated so kindly."

Sirius' throat tightened and a knot twisted in his gut. "She never mentioned any of this."

"As you may know," Snape continued smoothly, ignoring Sirius' comment and the man's growing trepidation, "Regulus disappeared about the time of his first anniversary; it wasn't made known, but Regulus' body was recovered by Evans and brought before the Dark Lord. He spouted nonsense of a vicious duel, but in all probability, waited until his target was asleep and cast the Killing Curse without much fuss. Ophelia was notably absent during that time and..."

Sirius started and lunged across the table as if to grab Snape, his face twisted into an ugly fierce, scowl, his trembling fists upraised and tightly clenched. "Think carefully about what you're planning to say."

"It was rumoured that Ophelia had somehow discovered Regulus' hideout and divulged the location to the Dark Lord himself." He ignored Sirius, who spluttered with rage, and turned to face Dumbledore. He flicked his tongue over dry lips and settled back in the chair, allowing his greasy hair to curtain his eyes. "At first, I was inclined to think as you do, Black, that the idea was ludicrous, but..." He paused, and in the sudden silence, Sirius could hear the man's erratic breaths. "...but not after seeing what she did to his body."

Sirius barely heard Snape's whispered recollection through the thunderous roar of blood rushing past his ears, and it was more the defensive hunch of his shoulders than the words that prompted him to slowly draw back and cool his temper. He slumped back into his chair and ran a quivering hand over his face. He had struggled to escape Azkaban to a life that was comfortable and secure, and it was crumbling around his ears; it was as if his memory had been a fancy, and the reality was hell.

"She immolated it until even the ash had been destroyed. I had never seen her so violent and passionate: even Bella seemed cowed by her display. It seems quite plausible that Ophelia only ever had the Dark Lord's interests at heart; it earned her the fear and respect of the others and secured her as the most favoured and adored of the Dark Lord. So impressed with her skill and devotion, the Dark Lord offered her any reward she wished: she ordered that Regulus' name no longer be mentioned amongst the ranks."

"Why?" Sirius croaked. The thought ricocheted inside his skull, cracking the thin veneer of contentment that he had crafted to hide how he split and bled inside. His cousin, the child he had loved as a sister, had been culpable in his brother's murder; even rejoiced in it.

"Because she could!" Snape snapped out. He raked his fingers through his hair and gripped the back of his neck. "Because she wanted to," he said wearily, allowing his hand to fall into his lap. "The Dark Lord called her Opella. For some reason, he was taken with her...scrawny eight-year-old who was more Muggle than witch. Did you ever wonder why Lucius was so amenable to having the brat stay at his house while he wooed his soon-to-be wife? Ophelia was the must-have item for the ambitious Death Eater; she had the ear of the Dark Lord himself, and all those she loved were favoured."

Sirius placed his head in his hands and stifled the sob trying to erupt from his throat. His despair doubled, and his thoughts scattered as the image of Ophelia and Voldemort together blasted through his mind.

"Did she take the Mark?" he asked fearfully and desperately from behind his fingers.

"If she did, then only she and the Dark Lord ever knew of it."

"But," Sirius wailed, clenching his fists and banging them against his thighs, "she told me things that would help destroy him." He turned to Dumbledore, almost reaching out to him. "The information I passed on was helpful."

"As you said; she was a child. I doubt that she thought anything remarkable about her association with the Dark Lord." Snape frowned and then scowled. "When did she stop talking to you?"

"What?" he responded angrily, taken aback by the harshness and eagerness of Snape's inquiry.

"You said earlier that she sometimes wouldn't speak with you; when did her silences start?

"I don't know!" he huffed, but part of him was frantically searching for the answer. "I guess they started just before she moved to Andromeda's."

"You guess?" Snape sneered, his lip curling up in barely disguised disgust. "Think hard, Black!"

He ignored Snape and forced himself to relax. He followed a trail of memories back to the early days when he had first met Ophelia; the outrage at the apparent ease of the assignment and the disgust at using the little girl. Her joyous smile as they performed simple and secret magic, and the whoops of delight as she rode on his back, clutching at his fur and kicking his sides, urging him on.

"She was eight when she moved to the Malfoys', and I know that she moved in with Andromeda just before the start of her fifth year." He desperately sought a reference... a clue to pinpoint her change of behaviour. Why hadn't he noticed at the time? Had something happened to overshadow the change in relationship? Then, a memory surfaced like the flick of a shark's fin, inspiring dread and desperation as he battled to stay afloat in the churning waters of his mind. He pursued the elusive memory, diving deeper into the murky depths of his Dementor-affected mind until the memory coalesced into breathtaking clarity.

---X---

She had been at this house; his home until he could no longer stomach the vitriol spewing from his mother's mouth; he had seen her step into the street dressed in black and carrying a small bouquet of purple flowers. Her cheeks had glistened in the mid-afternoon sun, and her red-rimmed eyes stared into the distance. No one else had mourned; they had paid their respects to his mother and father and left without sparing a thought to the young wizard whose body lay somewhere, untended and unclaimed. He had wondered why she wept; had her tears fallen for Regulus or had she shared the burden of shame weighing down on her aunt and uncle? He watched the breeze lift stray tendrils of rich chestnut hair, and he was struck at how different she was; gone was the clumsiness and the fussiness of youth. There stood a young woman with quiet grace and mature composure.

He had given a small whine, and her gaze focused on him sitting in a gap between the laurel hedges surrounding a private garden for the square. Content that she was moving towards him, he shuffled back and into the copse that had sheltered him from time to time when as a child he had needed space. He transformed back into a man, stretched out the kinks in his back as best he could beneath the low branches and settled himself on the cool ground between the roots of a sycamore. He heard the soft crunch of dry grass and the brush of fabric, and then she moved to sit before him on a patch of yellow, sun-starved grass. He noticed her fingers idly plucking at a bouquet of violets, held in a bruising grip.

"I'm surprised you came." Her voice conveyed no such sentiment; in fact, she seemed uncomfortable.

"To be honest, so am I." He watched the torn petals flutter on her lap, and he felt the skin prickle on the nape of his neck. "Why are you here?" He, himself, had been asked by Dumbledore to watch the house and had reluctantly agreed, only to see her unexpected face amongst those supporting his mother.

Her fingers paused in their quiet destruction.

"I came with Narcissa; she's still in the house, comforting your mother." Was there a hint of admonishment in her voice at his absence, or a stray cadence indicating her frustration at her own presence? She turned her face towards the house hidden behind the bushes, and he was just able to catch a glimpse of anger flit across her pale features. Her fingers dug cruelly into the flowers, and she ripped several blossoms free, carelessly scattering them across her lap.

"I take it that congratulations are in order." Sirius said conversationally, only to be surprised when she turned sharply, her expression almost fearful. "I saw the announcement in the Daily Prophet that Malfoy had proposed."

She relaxed and gently, consolingly, caressed the remains of the bouquet. "Narcissa certainly seems happy enough with the arrangement."

He recognised the subtle undertones in her voice; on occasion, he had engendered it in the voice of women and tried not to think that she was jealous of Narcissa. He moistened his dry lips and moved forward to gently, reassuringly, squeeze her shoulder, but his hand unthinkingly moved to graze her cheek. Her eyes, moist and unfathomably dark in the shadowed spinney, flickered in surprise and held his gaze. He suddenly felt uncomfortable at the unfamiliar connection and eased himself back until he felt the tree's solid girth behind him. "Will you still be able to stay at Malfoy's after the wedding?"

He sighed in relief when she rolled her eyes, such an innocent, childish gesture that it swamped his rising dread that he had unwittingly crossed some hitherto unseen and unnecessary line.

"Malfoy Manor, according to Lucius," she added so irreverently that Sirius chuckled, "is large enough that we could live side by side for years without actually ever meeting."

"So, you're okay with them?"

He watched her turn to stone as the humour drained from her, smooth, hard and impervious. "Lucius is a perfect match for Narcissa." Her face clouded, and she ran her fingers through the brittle grass. "Besides, I doubt that Lucius will ever ask me to leave." The subtle stress on the name distracted him from her actual words, and he was left wondering if her flare of jealousy was in fact directed towards Lucius for sequestering Narcissa's time and affections. "I'll be fine; it's not as if I didn't know that they were getting married."

A heavy silence settled, and an underlying tension stifled conversation. "It must be pretty dire in there?" Sirius remembered asking lamely in an attempt to prolong her presence and to draw out what was disturbing her.

"I heard your mother talking to Narcissa; she doesn't want a service for Regulus, and she's removed his name from the family tree; there's just a... a... blackened and charred hole in the fabric." Her voice cracked and her shoulders trembled. He saw her screw up her face and bite down hard on her lower lip, and he once more reached out to her, pulling her into a strong embrace. Her hands moved around him, and he felt her fingers dig into the skin on his back while she buried her face in his chest just as she had when she was a little girl. He had been unsure how to comfort her, being uncomfortable with weeping women, himself, and so had resorted to the tried and trusted method of gently rocking and rubbing her back. He had felt dismayed to feel how thin she'd become, even as she gripped him with a fierce strength. He had listened to her stifled mewling sounds and suffered her fingers digging painfully into his back. He crooned softly and whispered in her ear all the nonsense things that he'd heard others say in similar situations while she had taken deep, shuddering breaths. His feet had gone numb from how he was kneeling, and her hip had dug into his thigh, but nothing could have compelled him to release his hold on her. His own breathing had accelerated, a sudden cold sweat chilling him, and he listened to her distress as it almost overwhelmed him. It had taken him a moment to realise that she was muttering something against his chest, and eventually, between the keening sounds and the erratic breaths, he had caught his brother's name.

"He was unfaithful; a disgrace," he had said gently. She had stiffened and then slowly eased herself away, her face flushed, glistening and dappled by golden sunlight filtering through the leaves.

"Mother will never forgive him, Ophelia; he will never deserve it."

He recalled how she had flinched, and fear had slid down his spine to coil in his belly; how tainted was she? Was this display brought on by Regulus' death or the realisation of the fate awaiting anyone unfaithful? He had mentally cursed Dumbledore for allowing this situation to continue, to have kept an innocent in such filth for scraps of information. Her eyes, bloodshot and swollen, had focused on him with such intensity that he shivered.

"Aunty says that you are unfaithful," she had whispered. "Perhaps you are more like Regulus than you think?"

Releasing her and resting back on his heels, he had allowed the anger to break through the dismay and despair that her outpouring had evoked. "Regulus and I are nothing alike. If you knew him, then you'd see the difference; don't compare us on a few comments raised by her."

The vehemence in his voice had made her blanch and recoil.

"Look! Regulus made a mistake, and he died because of it. If he had come to me, I could have helped him." He remembered how he had felt panic and dread swirl unpleasantly in his gut as he tried to convince her that he could protect her. He had pulled her into his arms, not noticing at the time that her arms had stayed stiffly at her sides. "If someone ever tries to push you into doing anything that you don't want, then please come to me. I can protect you. Do you understand, Ophelia? You don't have to get burned like he did." He had willed her to understand; tried to convey his unspoken offer through tone of voice and fierce grip; he had thrummed with the silent plea that she would just know. Gently pushing her away and scrutinising her face, he had hoped to see some spark of comprehension, but her expression had been frantic.

She pulled herself free and stared at him with fearful eyes and slightly parted lips, the lower lip swollen and bloodied. Now that he viewed the memory dispassionately, he noticed her right hand slip into the folds of her robes and, with a thrill of horror, realised that while he had comforted her, she had armed herself.

"Regulus," she had whispered harshly, "didn't make any mistakes; that's why he died."

He had misinterpreted her, believing her to advocate Regulus' decision to join Voldemort and his rising panic had clouded his thinking. He could not bear the thought of another slipping into the quagmire that had suffocated his brother, whom he had once loved. In his desperation, he had lunged for her, but she scurried backwards, the laurel leaves fanning out as she pushed into the hedge. His heart had leapt into his throat; he did not want to be the one who pushed her into their arms just as Mother had pushed his brother. Swallowing rapidly and backing away, shocked at how easily he had lost control, he recalled trying to ease her alarm and fear. Ophelia, however, had remained crouched against the bush, staring at him, aghast at his actions and panting slightly.

"I'm sorry. I guess that his death bothered me more than I thought."

She had nodded slowly and eased away from the hedge, but he knew that she was far from content. He had tried to lighten the mood and had chuckled at the sight of leaves in her hair.

"I have to get back to Narcissa," she had said while pulling small twigs from her hair.

He took one of her hands as she moved away and had been disheartened to see her grimace at the contact.

"When can I see you again?"

She turned to him, but had kept her eyes locked on the tree behind him. "I don't know. Everything is a little confused at the moment; Regulus' death seems to have hit a lot of people hard."

"Do they know how he died?"

He had been chilled by the vicious smile curving her lips, and now he wondered if Snape's suspicions regarding her involvement in Regulus' death were valid.

"No." She looked up at him, all malicious humour gone, and smiled sadly. "People will ask themselves that for years, thinking that it is the most important question."

"Well," he had demanded, annoyed at her flippant observation, "in your opinion, what is the most important question?"

She cocked her head to the side, and her smile was indulgent. She leant towards him until she could whisper in his ear. The sensation of warm breath across his cheek and neck had sent a tingling wave rolling across his skin. "The most important question, dear Padfoot, is why did he choose to die?"

Her face was flushed, and her eyes glittered disturbingly as he gripped her shoulders and pushed her back. He had smiled sympathetically and shaken his head in confusion. "Ophelia," he had explained gently and slowly, "Regulus wanted something that he couldn't have, and he was killed because of it."

"He wasn't killed," she responded shrilly, her mouth twisting into a furious scowl. "He chose to die, and do you know what the worst of it all is?"

He shook his head in confusion, anger and trepidation running rampant.

"The worst thing is that his part in it will never be known. His hand in it will go unrewarded and unacknowledged, and all the time, people like you will consider themselves to be the heroes."

His temper had flared, and he remembered gripping her shoulders with bruising force. "He was no hero, Ophelia. He was a Death Eater!" He could feel an echo of the anger and desperation that had seized him as he sat in his kitchen, remembering something that he couldn't have forgotten. "Regulus was an impressionable fool! He was shown his destiny and didn't have the brains or guts to change it. He chose his path and got what he deserved."

"You left him there!" she had hissed out through clenched teeth. "Perhaps if you hadn't been so self-obsessed, then you would have protected him better instead of leaving him to the wolves." She inverted the tattered flowers and had shoved the bouquet forcefully into his chest, her face twisted with anger and disgust.

"What?" he snapped, reflexively grabbing the bouquet and relinquishing his hold on her. "You never even knew him!"

Her face had paled dramatically, and her eyes widened in fear. Sirius had an idea what would happen soon; the fact that up until this moment he had no recollection of any such meeting in the hedges allowed him to come to a disturbing conclusion. He had remembered watching the house for several hours but recalled that he had gained nothing to show for it but a few muscle pains and a headache, not even the petals fluttering in the dirt. In the memory, Sirius watched in disbelief as she deftly pulled out her wand and aimed it between his eyes. Behind the glowing and unwavering tip, he saw tears running down her pale face and her lips quivering with despair.

"I'm sorry."

He had moved to stop her, but her whispered spell struck him in the throat.

---X---

"She Obliviated me!"

At Dumbledore's insistence, he recounted his memory to them, too shocked at the discovery to care that Snape was gloating, or that the headmaster looked agitated. He hinted at the distress she was concealing, whether it was caused by her cousin's impending marriage or the apparent sense of betrayal overshadowing Regulus' murder. With a lead weight in his stomach and a hitch in his voice, he mentioned her careless reference to Regulus and her terror upon realising it. He kept his gaze fixed on Dumbledore's lower lip; he could not bring himself to look at Snape's face. No matter how he looked at the memory, the condemning fact remained that she had known Regulus and knew something of his death, which was more than anyone else. He could not bring himself to truly believe that she had been directly responsible for his brother's death, but the doubt instilled by his own recollection and Snape's observations allowed him to concede that she may have had a hand in it after all. But those flowers still haunted him; those differing shades of velvety blue with their yellow tinged hearts, held in a white knuckled grip and torn apart by frantic fingers.

Dumbledore frowned; whatever answers he had hoped to uncover, he had not expected anything quite so damning. He had hoped that Ophelia had begun to walk her own path away from the darkness that had consumed the majority of her family, but the two wizards confirmed his worst suspicion. He had no choice but to find her. He could not risk leaving her in the Muggle world; it was not unheard of for someone to spontaneously recover from memory modification curses. Neither could he guarantee that she would remain undiscovered. He had hoped that she would join them willingly, but either way, he would use the invaluable information that he believed lay in the depths of her damaged mind. He glanced over at Snape, who had his habitual scowl in place but seemed to be directing it at some inner turmoil; no doubt he was re-evaluating his relationship with the young girl. A shiver ran down his spine at the implications of her apparent devout loyalty to Voldemort; for his spy, the ramifications would far outweigh any familial disillusionment on Sirius' behalf.

"Severus, how does this affect you?"

Snape rested his forearms on the table and clasped his hands together. "I see no reason that she should endanger my role. Our meetings were quite amicable, and it is possible that her influence, should it remain in effect, would in fact be beneficial." Despite the optimism, his scowl remained as potent as ever.

"Of course it would; friends with a budding Death Eater cosy with the Dark Lord!" Sirius replied hotly, his voice filled with bitterness.

"She was eight," Snape responded disdainfully, "and, as you say, cosy with a man who once told her stories, and not with a despotic overlord bent on cleansing the Wizarding world. By the time Ophelia was sixteen, she would have gained enough political acumen to realise that refusal would have earned her a painful death and that compliance would guarantee her a future, even if it would be bleak." He slid his hands off the table and hugged his ribs sullenly.

"So you agree with me that she won't join Vol...er Him?"

Snape suddenly shot forward and from behind his lank black hair fixed him with a baleful gale. "Do you understand nothing?" A fleck of foamy spittle landed on his upper lip, and his nostrils quivered as rapid puffs of air passed through them. "She has spent years within their grasp, subtly learning that he is all-powerful and without mercy; learning that he is life and death." His face was red and trembled, his eyes were glinting shards of flint, and his voice was scathing in its contempt. "Her fear will encourage her to seek him out. Her fear will keep her loyal."

Loyalty: the notion sent his mind back into his memory; he kept seeing her delicate fingers destroy the violets as if some clue to her thinking, to her soul, could be divined from the pattern of twisted and torn petals littering her lap. There was something about violets; he had the vague and unreasonable impression that the flowers were somehow more relevant than their unthinking destruction. An image of Professor Sprout came to mind, humming as she wove a garland of ivy and periwinkle blossoms, and her blush when she noticed him watching her from the doorway.

"If we could allay her fears, convince her of her safety, would she be content to stay with us?"

Snape eased back, his face schooled into impassivity as he turned to face Dumbledore. "It would take a great deal of encouragement and effort, and even then, I doubt that she could be entirely trusted."

The concept of Snape attacking the trustworthiness of another rankled Sirius, and he turned from his inward musings to glare incredulously at the sullen man across from him. "We have to trust you!"

A muscle along Snape's jaw twitched and he flashed Sirius a look of pure venom. "Her every waking moment as a witch has been overshadowed and influenced by the Dark Lord; he has affected her far more profoundly than many of his devout followers and as such has a much more powerful hold over her. I was merely pointing out that she may unconsciously continue to assist him."

"As I cannot leave her in the Muggle world, that is a risk I will have to take."

"Wait!" Sirius forced out through a constricted throat and held the headmaster's gaze beseechingly. "I thought that she'd be left alone." He licked his lips and fidgeted on the wooden chair. "Surely, we could just leave her; after all, we're the only ones who know about her."

"It is pure luck that she's managed to stay hidden for so long without the Ministry or Riddle discovering her." Dumbledore looked discomforted. "I fear that we have no choice but to find her and protect her as best we can." He seemed to shirk off the sudden anxiety and smiled warmly at the two wizards. "I think it best if we treat her as a misplaced witch and deal with the more complex issues when we've been able to ascertain her proclivities."

Sirius shook his head and mouthed wordlessly. The implications were staggering. "We're just going to keep her? We're just going to grab her and lock her away?"

"Until the threat is over, I can see no other way of keeping her safe." He smiled sadly at Sirius, conveying in that slightly trembling quirk of the lips that there was no argument potent enough to rescind the decision and that this must be suffered with grace: Sirius' protest died in his throat. Dumbledore inhaled deeply and patted his chest. "I think that given the hour, we shall continue to discuss Ophelia another time, perhaps closer to when we have found her." He stood and surreptitiously stretched the tight muscles in his back. "Thank you for the tea, Sirius, and your time. Severus has a batch of Wolfsbane potion for Remus and a list of instructions for its usage, and now I must return to Hogwarts."

Snape bent down and lifted his bag onto the table. Sirius gave it a curious glance before following the headmaster into the hallway. He lifted down Dumbledore's jacket and held it out for him. "Headmaster?" He queried softly and securely, knowing that Snape was still in the kitchen fussing over his phials.

"Yes, my boy?"

"It's a little strange, but..." he stumbled over the absurdity of it, but Dumbledore's gentle curiosity encouraged him. "In the memory, Ophelia was carrying a bouquet of violets."

"Really!"

"Yes," he continued, heartened by Dumbledore's lack of criticism and derision. "I don't know why, but I have the feeling that they were somehow important, or at least that she did." He floundered for a moment as he tried to put across how deeply he had responded to witnessing their ruination. "She was casually tearing them apart, and when she accused me of leaving Regulus, she practically threw them at me."

Dumbledore's eyes flickered over his face before he gave another sad little smile and laid a hand gently on Sirius' shoulder. "I can't think of the relevance just yet, but a chat with Professor Sprout will undoubtedly yield something. Violets, you say." His gaze drifted off and he patted Sirius absentmindedly. "Lovely flowers. Oh well," he sighed, plucking his hat from Sirius' hands, "mustn't dally." He stepped over the threshold, only to startle Sirius by suddenly spinning on his heel to face him. "Oh, while I'm here, it gives me the opportunity to see if you're amenable to a little company."

His grip on the door tightened and his mouth went dry. "You mean Harry?"

Dumbledore gave a broad smile and nodded. "I was also thinking of asking Mrs. Weasley and a few others to help with giving the house a good airing."

Sirius sagged against the doorframe and grinned madly. "The more the merrier!"

Dumbledore nodded once more and, with a flourish, donned his hat and promptly Disapparated.

"I have left seven phials on the table with a list of simple instructions, and now I have things to attend to, Black." Snape's voice echoed in the hallway and grated down Sirius' nerves. "So, will you end this immature posturing and allow me to pass?"

The giddy euphoria inspired by Dumbledore's request came crashing down, and the belligerence that only Snape could incite rushed up to fill the void. He slowly turned to face Snape. The pallid face was oddly striking, a dash of light against the smothering gloom of the hallway; should Snape turn away, the shadows would swallow him up. Snape's arms were folded tightly across his chest, and his right hand was undoubtedly reaching into a pocket to remove his wand, and a disdainful sneer played about the man's mouth.

"It must gall you to be at his beck and call, on a leash and down at his heel." Black said smoothly.

He seemed nonchalant enough, leaning against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest and one leg carelessly crossing the other at the ankles, but Snape knew that the wizard seethed with anger and disappointment.

"No more than it pains you to be kennelled."

Sirius pushed himself away from the doorway and took a step towards him, slowly lowering his arms; Snape glanced down at Sirius' empty hands so quickly that Sirius almost missed it. "Enjoy this while you can, Snivellus," he whispered softly. "When they finally come to their senses and see you for what you really are, they will leave you to rot in Hell."

"As they left you."

Sirius felt his fingernails bite into his palms and yearned to smash his fist into the smirking face before him.

"Oh, yes, Black," Snape continued, breathlessly and ruthlessly, "it must hurt to know that after seeing the worst in both of us they gave me sanctuary and yet left you to waste in Azkaban." He smiled as he watched the mutt's mouth open and close in silent rage. "Tell me, when they have eased their own consciences regarding their desertion of you and they return to those memories with less clouded eyes, will they, I wonder, see that your arrogance and yours alone instigated the subsequent years of misery? Will they forgive that?"

The thought of it stole his breath, and the blood drained from his face so quickly he actually felt it. His thoughts had barely skittered over the concept, uneasy with the repercussions, and certainly no one had hinted at it, much less express it so forthrightly. He rallied; he knew his own actions and behaviour had condemned him; how could he blame them for believing the worst? He had forgiven them, hadn't he? They had forgiven him? He forced himself to stare Snape in the eye, but the man had used the distraction to slip past him into the dimly lit street. He caught a glimpse of a black coat disappear into the shadows and then a muted pop. Cursing softly, he began to push the door closed and ran a trembling hand through his limp hair, grimacing at the feel of grease. He thought back to the uncomfortable and stilted conversations with Lupin when he had sought shelter with his friend. They had reached some resolution; achieved some reconciliation. He was sure that Lupin understood and accepted the motives regarding his fateful decision to make Pettigrew the Potter's Secret Keeper. Without thought, he allowed the door to bang shut, and with a high-pitched shriek, the large portrait behind its tattered curtain sprang to vitriolic life.

"YOU! YOU BLOOD TRAITOR! YOU FOUL BETRAYER! YOU DO NOT DESERVE TO LIVE! YOU WORTHLESS WORM, YOU SURVIVE TO CORRUPT THIS HOUSE! I SHOULD HAVE THROTTLED YOU WITH YOUR CORD AND SAVED OUR NOBLE HOUSE THE DISGRACE!"

Sirius listened, his breath coming in short, laboured gulps, and his body trembling with the effort of merely standing. Her words echoed his own swirling, treacherous thoughts, drawing them out until, with a barely contained sob, he was sucked down into a maelstrom of self-loathing and suffocating despair. James Potter's face shimmered into focus, the grey eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion and sunken from months of worry. He had pulled off his glasses and pressed the heel of his palm into his eyes and then fixed Sirius with a beseeching and desperate look. He remembered with painful clarity the moment that James had asked him to be Secret Keeper. His friend had come close to begging, and the sight had plucked at his heartstrings until his chest had hurt from the pressure.

He had promised.

He had felt James' fingertips bite into the flesh on his arms and heard the tremble in his voice as his red-rimmed eyes darted over his face.

He had promised.

Sirius lurched down the hallway into the parlour, his mother's screeching voice muffled by distance and the pounding thoughts in his own head. Had James suspected Peter but not wanted to believe? Sirius howled and clutched his head. The desperate and waxen features of his friend morphed into the pink, glistening face of Peter. The young man's face was lit up with eager anticipation as Sirius demanded that he become the Potter's Secret Keeper. He had put the unshed tears and the hitching breaths down to burgeoning pride and awe.

He had promised James.

He recalled the anger while digging through the wreckage at Godric's Hollow, the anger that evaporated his desperation and his shock. He had sobbed when he found the little bundle in the charred but miraculously intact cot and had succumbed to the remorse and regret that had scratched unheeded at his insides. He remembered placing Harry into Hagrid's arms when his anger gave him the strength to function. The half-giant had not protested or queried; he simply held the trembling and sniffling baby in his arms and let his own fat tears drip onto the pastel blue blanket.

He had promised.

Sirius yanked open a small cabinet and used his forearm to shove the delicate crystal glasses out of the way, not caring as they smashed on the floor, and his eager fingers slipped over the decanters until his eyes alighted upon an amber coloured liquid. He pulled it free from its stand and reached for a glass, cursing as he saw the glittering remains on the floor. Removing the stopper, he upended the decanter and greedily swallowed the liquid, oblivious to the excess running down his cheeks and chin, mingling with his tears.

He had promised.

He drank until he was forced to take a breath, and gasping and crying, moaning and sobbing, he collapsed into the rotting, leather chair, cuddling the decanter to his chest and mumbling to the lengthening shadows.

He had promised.