Chapter Text
Prologue
As she stood there, her gaze fixed on the headstone, tears streaming down her face, she felt an unrelenting ache in her heart that seemed to consume her every thought and breath. The person she held so dearly in her life was now lost to her forever, and the realization that there was no way to bring him back weighed heavily on her soul.
She was at a loss, uncertain of what steps to take next. How could she go with life knowing he's gone and she's still here? Alone with no one, but her dark thoughts.
However, one thing remained crystal clear in her mind...
"I'll make him pay for what he did to you," she said, her voice empty but determined. "I'll get revenge."
All eyes fixated upon Ophelia Malfoy, their gazes piercing through her like eager spectators awaiting her to speak. It was as if the very air crackled with anticipation, the weight of their expectations hanging palpably in the room. Bathed in the warm glow of a roaring fire beneath a resplendent marble mantelpiece, adorned with a gilded mirror that reflected the flickering flames, Ophelia found herself at the center of a tableau of silence. The drawing room, once filled with the familiar trappings of everyday life, now stood transformed, its furniture haphazardly pushed against the walls, making way for the grandeur of the occasion.
Ophelia had never imagined that she would find herself once again standing amidst the sinister ranks of the Death Eaters. The very thought seemed inconceivable to her, especially after she had made the profound decision to welcome Harry Potter back into her life, believing that such dark chapters were firmly behind her. But here she was, her gaze drawn, almost magnetically, to the peculiar sight that unfolded before her. Suspended upside down, a mysterious human figure spun languidly above the table, as if held in the ethereal grip of an invisible rope. The reflection of this enigmatic spectacle danced in the mirror and shimmered on the smooth, polished surface of the table below. Amidst the sea of oblivious faces, Ophelia found herself unable to tear her eyes away, the allure of the unknown captivating her senses.
"Well..." a high, clear voice said from the head of the table.
The speaker was seated directly in front of the fireplace, his face shone through the gloom, hairless, snakelike, with slits for nostrils and gleaming red eyes whose pupils were vertical. He was so pale that he seemed to emit a pearly glow.
"Tell us how it perspired," Voldemort said, his voice calm. "Why was it you who took Albus Dumbledore's life?"
"Although my brother and I are the same age," Ophelia began. "No one here could argue I am more capable of committing the act. Am I more—for better words—level-headed than Draco. I brought you Harry Potter, did I not?"
Admittedly, it wasn't true. Despite her relentless efforts to dissuade Harry from venturing into the Ministry, Ophelia's attempts had ultimately failed. She felt an icy chill crawl down her spine as Voldemort's piercing gaze remained fixed upon her. Though her heart raced with trepidation, she summoned every ounce of courage to keep her composure, her face a mask of unwavering resolve. And then, Voldemort's attention shifted to Severus Snape, seated just beside him.
"So?"
"My Lord, the Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his current place of safety on Saturday next, at nightfall."
The interest around the table sharpened palpably: Some stiffened, others fidgeted, all gazing at Snape and Voldemort.
"Saturday... at nightfall," Voldemort repeated. His red eyes fastened upon Snape's black ones with such intensity that some of the watchers looked away, apparently fearful that they would be scorched by the ferocity of the gaze. Snape, however, looked calmly back into Voldemort's face and, after a moment or two, Voldemort's lipless mouth curved into something like a smile.
"Good. Very good. And this information comes—"
"—the source we discussed," Snape said.
"My Lord."
Corban Yaxley had leaned forward to look down the long table at Voldemort and Snape. All faces turned to him.
"My Lord, I have heard differently."
Yaxley waited, but Voldemort did not speak, so he went on, "Dawlish, the Auror, let slip that Potter will not be moved until the thirtieth, the night before the boy turns seventeen."
Snape was smiling.
"My source told me that there are plans to lay a false trail; this must be it. No doubt a Confundus Charm has been placed upon Dawlish. It would not be the first time; he is known to be susceptible."
"I assure you, my Lord, Dawlish seemed quite certain," Yaxley said.
"If he has been Confunded, naturally he is certain," Snape said. "I assure you, Yaxley, the Auror Office will play no further part in the protection of Harry Potter. The Order believes that we have infiltrated the Ministry."
"The Order's got one thing right, then, eh?" a squat man said sitting a short distance from Yaxley; he gave a wheezy giggle that echoed here and there along the table.
Ophelia did not laugh and neither did Voldemort. His gaze had wandered upward to the body revolving slowly overhead, and he seemed to be lost in thought.
"My Lord," Yaxley went on, "Dawlish believes an entire party of Aurors will be used to transfer the boy—"
Voldemort held up a large white hand, and Yaxley subsided at once, watching resentfully as Voldemort turned back to Snape.
"Where are they going to hide the boy next?"
"At the home of one of the Order," Snape said. "The place, according to the source, has been given every protection that the Order and Ministry together could provide. I think that there is little chance of taking him once he is there, my Lord, unless, of course, the Ministry has fallen before next Saturday, which might allow us to discover and undo enough of the enchantments to break through the rest."
"Well, Yaxley?" Voldemort's voice echoed down the length of the table, the firelight casting eerie shadows that danced in his crimson eyes. "Will the Ministry have fallen by next Saturday?"
Once again, all heads turned towards Yaxley. He straightened his posture, a determined look on his face.
"My Lord, I have good news on that front. I have—with great difficulty and after considerable effort—succeeded in placing an Imperius Curse upon Pius Thicknesse."
A murmur of approval rippled through those seated around Yaxley. His neighbor, Dolohov, a man with a long, twisted face, clapped him on the back, his expression one of impressed satisfaction.
"It is a start," Voldemort acknowledged, his voice cold and calculating. "But Thicknesse is only one man. Scrimgeour must be entirely surrounded by our people before I make my move. One failed attempt on the Minister's life would set me back significantly."
"Yes—my Lord—that is true, but you know, as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Thicknesse has regular contact not only with the Minister himself, but also with the Heads of all the other Ministry departments. It will, I think, be easy now that we have such a high-ranking official under our control, to subjugate the others, and then they can all work together to bring Scrimgeour down."
"As long as our friend Thicknesse remains undiscovered before he has converted the rest," Voldemort said, his voice dripping with menace. "At any rate, it seems unlikely that the Ministry will fall into our hands before next Saturday. If we cannot strike at the boy at his destination, then we must seize the opportunity while he is in transit."
"We hold an advantage in that regard, my Lord," Yaxley interjected, his tone eager for approval. "We now have several operatives embedded within the Department of Magical Transport. Should Potter Apparate or use the Floo Network, we will be alerted immediately."
"He will not use either," Snape countered, his voice calm and assured. "The Order is avoiding any form of transport that is controlled or monitored by the Ministry; they trust nothing associated with it."
"All the better," Voldemort said, a sinister smile curling on his lips. "He will be forced to move in the open. Far easier to capture."
Voldemort's gaze shifted upwards to the slowly rotating body suspended above. "I shall deal with the boy personally. There have been too many errors where Harry Potter is concerned. Some of those mistakes have been my own. That Potter still lives is more a result of my oversights than his victories."
The company around the table watched Voldemort apprehensively, each of them, by his or her expression, afraid that they might be blamed for Harry Potter's continued existence, Ophelia most of all. Voldemort, however, seemed to be speaking more to himself than to any of them, still addressing the unconscious body above him.
"I have been careless, and so have been thwarted by luck and chance, those wreckers of all but the best-laid plans. But I know better now. I understand those things that I did not understand before. I must be the one to kill Harry Potter, and I shall be."
At these words, seemingly in response to them, a sudden wail sounded, a terrible, drawn-out cry of misery and pain. Many of those at the table looked downward, startled, for the sound had seemed to issue from below their feet not noticing the frown on Ophelia's face.
Even though her desire to see Harry Potter dead was undeniable, she harbored a fierce determination that it would be by her own hand, not Voldemort's. The moment Draco had narrowly escaped death, she made a solemn vow to herself. From that point onward, she resolved that no one, not even the Dark Lord himself, would obstruct her path to achieving what she so desperately craved. Her resolve was unyielding, and she was prepared to do whatever it took to fulfill her promise and seize the destiny she believed was rightfully hers.
"Wormtail," Voldemort said, with no change in his quiet, thoughtful tone, and without removing his eyes from the revolving body above, "have I not spoken to you about keeping our prisoner quiet?"
"Yes, m-my Lord," a small man halfway down the table gasped, who had been sitting so low in his chair that it appeared, at first glance, to be unoccupied. Now he scrambled from his seat and scurried from the room, leaving nothing behind him but a curious gleam of silver.
"As I was saying," Voldemort continued, looking again at the tense faces of his followers, "I understand better now. I shall need, for instance, to borrow a wand from one of you before I go to kill Potter."
The faces around him were frozen in shock; it was as if he had just announced he wanted to borrow one of their arms.
"No volunteers?" Voldemort's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Let's see... Lucius, I see no reason for you to have a wand anymore."
Ophelia's eyes darted sideways to her father. His once proud and imposing figure now appeared diminished, his skin sallow and waxy under the flickering firelight. His eyes, once sharp and commanding, were now sunken and shadowed, a haunting testament to the time he had spent in Azkaban. Despite the evident toll it had taken on him, Ophelia felt no pity.
When her father finally spoke, his voice was raspy and weak. "My Lord?"
"Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand," Voldemort demanded, his tone brooking no argument.
"I..."
Her father glanced sideways at his wife. She was staring straight ahead, quite as pale as he was, her long blonde hair hanging down her back, but beneath the table, her slim fingers closed briefly on his wrist. At her touch, Lucius put his hand into his robes, withdrew a wand, and passed it along to Voldemort, who held it up in front of his red eyes, examining it closely.
"What is it?"
"Elm, my Lord," Lucius whispered.
"And the core?"
"Dragon—dragon heartstring."
"Good," Voldemort said. He drew out his wand and compared the lengths. Lucius made an involuntary movement; for a fraction of a second, it seemed he expected to receive Voldemort's wand in exchange for his own. The gesture was not missed by Voldemort, whose eyes widened maliciously.
"Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand?"
Some of the throngs sniggered, Ophelia, however, rolled her eyes at her father's stupidity.
"I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you? But I have noticed that you and your family seem less than happy of late... What is it about my presence in your home that displaces you, Lucius?"
"Nothing—nothing, my Lord!"
"Such lies Lucius... "
The soft voice seemed to hiss on even after the cruel mouth had stopped moving. One or two of the wizards barely repressed a shudder as the hissing grew louder; something heavy could be heard sliding across the floor beneath the table.
The huge snake emerged to climb slowly up Voldemort's chair. It rose, seemingly endlessly, and came to rest across Voldemort's shoulders: its neck the thickness of a man's thigh; its eyes, with their vertical slits for pupils, unblinking. Voldemort stroked the creature absently with long thin fingers, still looking at Lucius.
"Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? Is my return, my rise to power, not the very thing they professed to desire for so many years? It seems that the only one not displeased is your daughter."
Eyes turned to her.
"Forgive my father for his idiocy. His trip to Azkaban has made him a coward," Ophelia said, her voice dripping with disdain as her eyes lingered on her father's altered appearance.
From the corner of her eye, Ophelia noticed her father and mother stiffen, but she paid no mind to their reaction. Her focus remained on the scene unfolding before her.
"Well said," Voldemort replied, a sinister smile forming on his lipless mouth.
"My Lord," a dark-haired woman halfway down the table interjected, her voice choked with emotion, "it is an honor to have you here, in our family's house. There can be no higher pleasure."
The woman, Bellatrix, sat beside her sister, who was as different from her in appearance as she was in demeanor. With her dark hair and heavily lidded eyes, Bellatrix leaned eagerly toward Voldemort, her entire being exuding a desperate longing for his approval. In contrast, Ophelia's mother sat rigid and impassive, her expression a mask of stoic indifference.
"No higher pleasure," Voldemort repeated thoughtfully, his head tilting slightly as he regarded Bellatrix. "That means a great deal, Bellatrix, coming from you."
Bellatrix's face flushed with color, her eyes welling with tears of delight. "My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!"
"No higher pleasure... even compared with the happy event that, I hear, has taken place in your family this week?" Voldemort's voice held a curious edge.
Bellatrix stared at him, her lips parted in evident confusion. Even Ophelia found herself puzzled by his words.
"I don't know what you mean, my Lord."
"I'm talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And yours, Lucius and Narcissa. She has just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. You must be so proud."
There was an eruption of jeering laughter from around the table. Many leaned forward to exchange gleeful looks; a few thumped the table with their fists. Ophelia caught Blaise Zabini's eye, who sat motionless next to his mother. She could see the glimmer of regret and annoyance in his eyes. The annoyance she understood but the regret, she was at a loss.
The giant snake, disliking the disturbance, opened its mouth wide and hissed angrily, but the Death Eaters did not hear it, so jubilant were they at Bellatrix and the Malfoys' humiliation. Bellatrix's face, so recently flushed with happiness, had turned an ugly, blotchy red.
"She is no niece of ours, my Lord," Bellatrix cried, her voice rising above the cacophony of laughter. "We—Narcissa and I—have never set eyes on our sister since she married the Mudblood. This brat has nothing to do with either of us, nor any beast she marries."
"What say you, Draco?" Voldemort asked, his voice soft yet piercing through the jeers and catcalls. "Will you babysit the cubs?"
The room erupted in even greater hilarity. Draco looked at Ophelia with terror in his eyes, but she remained emotionless, shaking her head slightly.
"I think Greyback should," Ophelia said, her gaze shifting to the menacing werewolf. "I mean, you were the one who bit Remus Lupin, did you not?"
An eerie stillness fell over the room, the air thick with tension. Fenrir Greyback's furious gaze seemed to pierce through Ophelia's very soul. Yet, undeterred, she allowed a defiant smile to play on her crimson lips, a subtle smirk that hinted at her underlying amusement.
"What would they be to you?" she asked, feigning contemplation. "Your cousins? Niece and nephew? No—grandchildren!"
Laughter erupted once more, filling the room and causing the snake to hiss angrily. Greyback looked ready to pounce, his rage barely contained.
"Enough," Voldemort commanded, a slight smile on his pale face as he stroked the agitated snake. "Enough."
The laughter ceased instantly, leaving an oppressive silence in its wake.
"Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time," he said, his voice smooth and chilling, as Bellatrix gazed at him, breathless and imploring. Her eyes were wide with a desperate kind of reverence. "You must prune yours, must you not, to keep it healthy? Cut away those parts that threaten the health of the rest."
Bellatrix nodded fervently, her breath catching in her throat. "Yes, my Lord," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. Tears of gratitude welled up in her eyes, shimmering as they threatened to spill over. "At the first chance!"
"You shall have it," Voldemort assured her, a sinister smile playing on his lips. "And in your family, so in the world... we shall cut away the cancer that infects us until only those of the true blood remain..."
With a deliberate, almost languid motion, Voldemort raised Lucius's wand, pointing it directly at the slowly revolving figure suspended above the table. With a tiny flick of his wrist, the figure came to life with a pained groan, beginning to struggle against the invisible bonds that held it captive.
Voldemort turned his gaze to Severus, his eyes gleaming with malevolent satisfaction. "Do you recognize our guest, Severus?" he asked, his voice dripping with dark amusement.
Snape raised his eyes to the upside-down face. All of the Death Eaters were looking up at the captive now, as though they had been given permission to show curiosity. As she revolved to face the firelight, the woman said in a cracked and terrified voice, "Severus! Help me!"
"Ah, yes," Snape said as the prisoner turned slowly away again.
"And you, Draco, Ophelia?" Voldemort asked, stroking the snake's snout with his wand-free hand. Ophelia shook her head, staring up at the woman. Draco shook his head jerkily, avoiding the woman.
"But you would not have taken her classes," Voldemort said. "For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
There were small noises of comprehension around the table. A broad, hunched woman with pointed teeth cackled.
"Yes... Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and wizards all about Muggles... how they are not so different from us..."
One of the Death Eaters spat on the floor. Charity Burbage revolved to face Snape again.
"Severus... please... please..."
"Silence," Voldemort said, with another twitch of Lucius's wand, and Charity fell silent as if gagged. "Not content with corrupting and polluting the minds of Wizarding children, last week Professor Burbage wrote an impassioned defense of Mudbloods in the Daily Prophet. Wizards, she says, must accept these thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling of the purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable circumstance... She would have us all mate with Muggles... or, no doubt, werewolves..."
Nobody laughed this time. There was no mistaking the anger and contempt in Voldemort's voice. For the third time, Charity Burbage revolved to face Snape. Tears were pouring from her eyes into her hair. Snape looked back at her, quite impassive, as she turned slowly away from him again.
"Avada Kedavra."
The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room. Charity fell, with a resounding crash, onto the table below, which trembled and creaked. Several of the Death Eaters leaped back in their chairs. Ophelia flinched. Draco fell out of his onto the floor.
"Dinner, Nagini," Voldemort said softly, and the great snake swayed and slithered from his shoulders onto the polished wood.
"My Lord," Ophelia said as everyone was beginning to leave but stopped when she spoke. "I was wondering if I could have a moment alone with you."
Voldemort nodded and motioned for everyone to leave. But before leaving, she caught her parents and Blaise's eyes. Both seemed to fear what she might say to the Dark Lord in private.
"Please, Ophelia, sit here," Voldemort said, indicating the seat on his immediate right.
As Ophelia confidently assumed her place, her eyes fixated on the figure before her. The patchiness of his pale complexion was starkly evident, a chilling reminder of the darkness that had consumed him. And those eyes, oh, those haunting eyes, they glowed with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. At that moment, her mind wandered back to the memory she had glimpsed of Voldemort's younger self, a dashing and charismatic young man. But the man seated before her now was but a shadow of that former allure, a twisted embodiment of the path he had chosen.
"My Lord, I may have more information regarding Potter's whereabouts," Ophelia said cautiously.
"Go on..." the Dark Lord said.
"Bill Weasley—the eldest out of many children—is going to marry on the first of August. It's being held in their family home," Ophelia said, her eyes glistening with excitement. "It just so happens I know exactly where the Weasleys live. I was wondering—my Lord—if I could—with Blaise Zabini—go and... crash the wedding?"
Amidst the suffocating presence of Death Eaters who had overstayed their unwelcome in Ophelia's once tranquil home, she found solace in the sanctuary of her room. Within those four walls, she sought refuge from the haunting memories that plagued her every waking moment, the echoes of a fateful May that forever altered the course of her life, all danced like ghosts in the recesses of her mind. She tried to not think of them, she tried to expel them from her mind, but they were in her dreams, in every inch of her. No matter how hard she tried to purge them, they clung to her, entwined within her very soul.
The haunting image of Dumbledore, etched into the depths of her mind, played on an endless loop, tormenting her with each repetition. The vivid recollection of that fateful moment consumed her thoughts, as the emerald streak erupted from the tip of her wand, colliding with Dumbledore's chest in a blinding burst of light. She could still feel the rush of wind as he hurtled through the air, his descent mirroring the shattered fragments of her innocence. The shock etched upon her brother's face served as a grim reminder of the irreversible consequences of her actions, while the castle itself became a battleground. And amidst the chaos, Harry's eyes blazed with a seething fury, a reflection of the pain and betrayal that surged through her veins, a testament to the darkness that had taken root within her.
And Ophelia knew she would forever be haunted.
"How dare you!"
The door of her bedroom slammed open.
"How dare you speak of your family that in front of the Dark Lord!" Bellatrix stormed in angrily, Ophelia's mother and father close behind.
Ophelia's gaze reluctantly shifted away from the mesmerizing expanse of the starry ceiling, her body straightening as she sat up, her eyes meeting her aunt's with an air of indifference. It was no familiar feeling when it comes to Bellatrix's Lestrange. Returning back to the Manor after the Ministry held no welcome party between her and Ophelia. Although, Bellatrix made no comments in front of her sister, that certainly didn't stop her from shooting glares at Ophelia every chance she got.
"Was it not true?" Ophelia said flatly.
Bellatrix, consumed by a wrathful fury, menacingly closed the distance between herself and Ophelia. However, her relentless advance was abruptly halted by the intervention of her sister.
"If you believe for even a moment that you can address me in such a manner, then you are gravely mistaken!" she spat, her forehead contorting with the strain of her rage, veins pulsating with an intensity.
Ophelia couldn't help but emit a snort, a mix of amusement and annoyance, as she gracefully slid off her bed. With each purposeful step, she closed the distance between herself and her aunt, a flicker of defiance dancing in her eyes.
"Have you forgotten?" she retorted, her voice laced with a hint of sarcasm, "it was I who took Dumbledore's life." Her words hung in the air, a potent reminder of the darkness that lurked within her, daring anyone to challenge her authority. "I'm the one who brought back glory to our family name. I made that happen. Not you, auntie... nor you, mother... nor you, father. Me."
Ophelia sidestepped around her aunt. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go see Draco and Blaise."
And with that, Ophelia left her family in shock.
She found Blaise in Draco's dark room. They sat in silence by the fireplace as though something horrible had happened. But Ophelia couldn't understand what was so terrible. Had something happened?
"What's wrong?" Ophelia said, standing over Draco.
They both looked at her as if she had lost her marbles, which, not to their fault, she sort of has.
"What?"
"What do you mean, 'what'?" Blaise said, his face pale with shock. "Were Draco and I the only ones who just watched one of our teachers get murdered right in front of us?"
"Oh, right..." Ophelia responded slowly, a flicker of guilt crossing her features. "Well... it's not like we... knew her personally..."
"Ophelia!" Blaise and Draco both shouted, their voices filled with anger and disbelief.
"I'm sorry?" Ophelia said, genuinely confused, only apologizing because it seemed like the right thing to do. "But she taught Muggle Studies."
Blaise and Draco exchanged a bewildered glance before turning their attention back to Ophelia, their expressions a mix of frustration and incredulity.
"Okay, okay, the Dark Lord has given us permission to attend a wedding," she said, her lip curling in a mix of disdain and excitement.
"He has!" Draco exclaimed, leaping to his feet with excitement, but his expression quickly shifted to one of confusion. "Wait, what wedding?"
"Weasley's wedding," Ophelia replied, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Draco's eyes lit up with excitement. "He's letting us go? But how exactly are we supposed to get in?" he asked, frowning again. "Won't they have some kind of protection?"
"We'll have to find out," Ophelia said with a sly grin. "First, we need to get Polyjuice Potions, then we'll need to find a couple of wizards who might be attending the wedding."
Blaise's voice dripped with irritation as he questioned, "And what exactly are we going to do at the wedding? Does he expect us to bring him Harry?"
Ophelia's gaze sharpened, her eyes narrowing into slits as a storm of bewilderment and anger brewed within her. Ever since she returned from the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, Blaise's behavior has taken a peculiar turn, leaving a trail of enigmatic remarks in his wake. She expect her best friend, out of everyone closest to her, that he would, at the very least, support her in everything she does or plans to do. But that not at all what Blaise did, it was quite the opposite. At first, she attributed his offhanded comments to the shifting tides of the world, but as the days stretched on, it became clear that something deeper was at play. What that was, Ophelia had no clue.
Again, Ophelia dismissed it. "No," she said, ripping her gaze from Blaise. "He wants us to cause chaos. Have the Death Eaters show up. He plans to have the Ministry fall that day. All we have to do is say his name, then he'll capture Potter."
However, Ophelia had a different plan in mind.
"His name?" Blaise questioned leaning forward in his seat.
"I'm not sure," Ophelia shrugged. "He just wants us to say his name when the time comes."
Draco's lip curled impressed.
"How are we going to find three wizards who might be attending Weasley's wedding with your face plastered everywhere in the wizarding world?" Blaise questioned, his tone still dripping with irritation.
"I obviously won't be looking like myself," Ophelia said, rolling her eyes. "My father has plenty of Polyjuice Potion lying around."
Blaise slouched in his seat, his body weighed down by a heavy sigh that seemed to echo through the room. Ophelia's gaze lingered on him, her frustration bubbling up like a tempestuous storm. She couldn't help but feel a pang of exasperation at his reaction as if her words had fallen on deaf ears.
~•~
Blaise Zabini watched as Ophelia left the room, leaving behind a sense of uneasiness inside Blaise. For the past month and a half, he has been silently watching his best descend slowly into the madness of the world Voldemort had brought all of them. Dark and hold no room for love. Blaise understands the hatred Ophelia feels for Harry, after what he did to Draco without the remorse of even apologizing, Blaise wanted to hate him as well. Seeing Draco lying in the hospital bed was heartbreaking, Blaise would never admit it but he cares deeply for Draco. And seeing Ophelia, crumbling in his arms that day, the pain and betrayal she felt.
Blaise understood.
But that didn't mean he could hate it. Hate the way it's making Ophelia. Hate the way it's turning Ophelia into something he doesn't recognize. Because the new Ophelia, the one who barely batted an eye at the death of the school teacher, the one who had no guilt or remorse in her when talking about it—that one is starting to scare him. He missed the old Ophelia, the one who had the compassion to forgive and forget, the one who would start up a storm if she witnessed her teacher die, the old Ophelia would, Blaise knows she would have done something to stop it.
"Do you think going to the wedding is going to be dangerous?" Draco said, his voice was quiet and distant, only subtly breaking the silence.
Draco has been silent throughout the month after Dumbledore's death. Blaise was sure it was because Ophelia was forced to do it. Perhaps holding some kind of guilt in him but Blaise doesn't blame him, he too would feel guilty if his sibling had to take on such a horrendous act. Taking someone's life, especially someone they've known almost through their entire life, can be hard on the soul and even harder when you have to watch your sister do it. Even though Draco hadn't done it, it watched it all the same and just like Ophelia, something was taken away from Draco, something inside, the innocence, the freedom, it was gone from both of them.
Blaise let out a deep and long sigh. "I'm positive it will," he said, not wanting to sugarcoat things. "But even if Ophelia is heartless to some things, she won't be heartless enough to get us hurt."
"She's not being heartless," Draco said, sending a glare at Blaise. "I mean, sure it was a bit shocking that she wasn't affected by Burbage death like we were but Ophelia's right, it's not like we knew her or ever seen her around Hogwarts. Why should we care if she died?"
Blaise stared at Draco with utter disbelief and bewilderment. "Draco!" He shot up from the armchair. "Charity Burbage was still a human being. She deserves for someone to care about her death. She didn't do anything wrong, she was our teacher, sure she taught Muggle Studies but that doesn't mean she was a bad person who deserves to die and have no sympathy. She was a person, Draco. The only one who does deserve death and no sympathy is Voldemort."
Draco flinched harshly at the name and scooted further into the couch.
"You don't have to hide the fact that you felt bad for Burbage's death, I saw it in your eyes when Ophelia was talking about it," Blaise said continuing on without letting Draco speak. "It's okay to care because if you don't then you'll just end up heartless and cruel."
Draco pursed his lips and glanced at the fire crackling before them. It was a long moment before he spoke but he did and it was quiet and distant.
"But what if that's the world we're living in now? What if the only way to survive is to be heartless and cruel? Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves."
That when it deemed on Blaise; it wasn't only Ophelia who was losing herself but Draco as well, perhaps even Pansy and Theodore. That thought—that very thought shattered every belief Blaise held inside himself of his friends, they were slowly losing the part of themselves he loves and he couldn't do anything to stop it. Perhaps the only thing he could do is make sure they don't get themselves hurt or... killed.
~•~
Slipping into Diagon Alley proved to be a venture of surprising ease, defying Ophelia's initial expectations. At every turn, her gaze was met with the daunting sight of her visage plastered upon wanted posters, a constant reminder of the perilous game she played. It was a stroke of providence that Ophelia's appearance bore no resemblance to her true self, allowing her to assume the guise of a nameless witch, forever extinguished by the hand of her vengeful aunt.
The thought was haunting and deeply unsettling, the idea of disguising herself as someone who had already passed away. Ophelia could feel the chill of dread creeping up her spine as she tried, in vain, to ignore the uncomfortable sensation that gnawed at her conscience. She was acutely aware that this wouldn't be the last time she would don the face of a deceased. She tried not too much to dwell on that fact, she had a task to focus on.
Embarking on the daunting task of tracking down Fleur Delacour alone proved to be a formidable challenge for Ophelia. The mere thought of venturing into the hallowed halls of Gringotts Bank filled her with trepidation, as she knew her presence would undoubtedly raise suspicion. Thus, she assumed a discreet position outside the grand establishment, patiently awaiting the emergence of the silver-haired enchantress. And there, at long last, Fleur emerged from the bank, her ethereal beauty captivating all who laid eyes upon her. But Ophelia couldn't help but notice the presence of another enchanting figure by her side, who seemed to radiate a similar allure. The lingering gazes from passing men, their steps faltering and colliding with posts in their distraction, only further fueled Ophelia's suspicion that this newfound companion too possessed the enchanting blood of the Veela.
Ophelia followed them from afar and soon Fleur's companion broke up. The girl seems to be heading outside of Diagon Alley. Ophelia's feet quickened trying to catch up with the girl and purposely bumped into her.
As Ophelia discreetly trailed their every move from a safe distance, her heart raced with anticipation. Soon enough, the captivating duo of Fleur and her companion reached a turning point in their journey, their paths diverging. Ophelia's instincts guided her as she felt the Polyjuice effect wearing off, urging her to follow the enchanting girl as she ventured beyond the bustling confines of Diagon Alley. With a surge of determination, Ophelia quickened her pace, her feet barely touching the ground as she endeavored to close the gap between them. And then, in a calculated maneuver, she deliberately collided with the girl.
"Oh, dear, many apologies!" Ophelia gasped, holding a hand out for the girl to grab.
"Zat is all right," the girl said, with a mixture of annoyance and politeness in her tone.
The moment she grabbed Ophelia's hand, they Disapparated, their feet left the ground and Diagon Alley was replaced by a plain field of wheat.
"Wha—what are we 'ere? Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?" the bewildered girl stammered, her eyes darting frantically in every direction, desperately seeking answers. Panic surged through her veins, causing her to instinctively attempt to wrench her hand free from Ophelia's firm grasp. "Release me zis inztant!"
Ophelia's gaze bore into her, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes like flickering flames as she felt her form shifting. "I'm afraid, my dear, that I cannot," she whispered, a sly smile curled upon her lips, revealing a hint of the enigma that lay beneath her seemingly innocent facade.
"Mon Dieu! You...you are Ophelia Malfoy, ze one who killed Zumblezore!" the girl gasped, her voice trembling with a mixture of shock and fear.
"Well, well, well, mon cher! It seems you know my name, but I'm left in the dark, unaware of yours," she retorted, her voice playful but dripping with a hint of sarcasm.
The girl's piercing gray eyes stared up at Ophelia full of fear. "Amelie Auclair," she whispered, her words barely escaping her trembling lips.
Ophelia nodded proudly as though the girl had answered a test question correctly.
"Excellent, Amelie..." she grinned. "Are you attending Fleur Delacour's wedding?"
"Oui, oui. I am 'er bridesmaid," Amelie quivered.
"Even more excellent," Ophelia exclaimed, her voice brimming with excitement. With a swift and confident motion, she withdrew her wand from her tattered robes. The sight of the wand caused Amelie to instinctively cower in trepidation.
"Imperio," Ophelia cast on her.
The fear that once gripped Amélie's countenance swiftly dissipated, giving way to a serene and entranced expression. Her features softened as a sense of tranquility washed over her.
"Good, do you know of two other wizards who might be attending the wedding?" Ophelia asked finally releasing her grasp from the girl.
"Yes..." she nodded.
"Find them and place them under the Imperius Curse as well," Ophelia ordered. "Then when it's time for the wedding to begin, you will find me here. Be discreet about it, understood?"
Amelie nodded and Disapparated away.
Ophelia stood amidst the golden sea of wheat, her gaze fixed on the swaying stalks that whispered secrets to the wind. The gentle breeze caressed her skin, carrying with it a sense of warmth and nostalgia. In just four short days, she would reunite with Harry, her heart torn between anticipation and trepidation. It had been an eternity since that fateful night, the memory etched in her mind like a haunting melody. As she pondered their impending encounter, a surge of emotions surged through her, a maelstrom of excitement and panic intertwining within her soul. What would he do when he laid eyes upon her once more? A small voice in the depths of her mind whispered of revenge.
Ophelia made her way back to the sanctuary of her home, an hour had passed since her departure. To her dismay, a chilling sight greeted her weary eyes—the ominous figures of Death Eaters scurrying away with haste. A sense of unease settled over her as if the very air around her had turned heavy with malevolence.
"What's going on?" she asked Theodore Nott, who stood back watching the Death Eaters scurry.
"They're leaving for Potter's departure," Theodore uttered, his voice tinged with a mix of urgency and apprehension.
As Ophelia approached him, she couldn't help but notice the subtle transformation that had taken hold of his body. A rigidity had seized his frame as if Ophelia's presence caused him to tense up. Yet, Ophelia, ever resilient, chose to disregard this peculiar action, her focus steadfastly on the scene before her.
"You won't be joining them?" Theodore asked cautiously.
Ophelia shook her head, watching her aunt jump up and down excitedly. "Mother says it's far too dangerous even for me."
"Good, you might get hurt," Theodore said softly.
A delicate smile spread across Ophelia's face, a mask that concealed her true emotions. As she gently took his hand, she drew him into a kiss that, to the onlookers, appeared to be filled with love and longing. However, for Ophelia, it was a hollow gesture, a kiss devoid of meaning, serving only to momentarily fill the void in her heart.
Ophelia had no intention of maintaining the charade with Theodore. Yet, after the incident with Dumbledore, she and Theodore found themselves entwined in the pretense, continuing to portray a loving couple. For Ophelia, it was less about the desire to be in a relationship and more about her desperate need for comfort, but for Theodore, it seemed genuine affection had taken root. This realization weighed heavily on her, filling her with guilt for using him in such a manner. However, she couldn't stop it.
"I was thinking you and I should go on a date," Theodore said once they pulled away.
Ophelia held back the frown that wanted to escape. She believed that requesting a date was an impossible notion amidst the chaos of war.
"I would love that but Blaise, Draco, and I will be attending a wedding," Ophelia smiled.
"A wedding?"
"That's all I can say," Ophelia smirked.
Soon the hall was empty and Ophelia wandered back to her room. As she reclined upon her bed, a peculiar sensation stirred within her, originating from the hidden depths beneath her pillow. Intrigued, she delicately lifted the pillow, revealing a forgotten relic of their shared past—the two-way hand mirror that once served as a conduit for their affection. For a fleeting moment, Ophelia contemplated tossing it, allowing the memories to fade into the abyss of time. Yet, an inexplicable force compelled her to resist, whispering in her ear to utter his name, to summon his essence through the looking glass.
"Harry Potter..." Ophelia breathed.
In that fleeting instant, as if time itself had paused, Ophelia's gaze locked with his piercing emerald eyes.
She quickly let the mirror slip from her grasp and retreated. Perhaps it was her deep longing to see him that conjured the image, convincing herself it was a mere illusion.
After all, Harry would never be looking into the mirror.