Better Not Knowing.
Author's notes : I would very much like to thank all those who have shown such faith in me; you know who you are! A special thank you to my beta, Falcon Falmorgan, for her continual support, encouragement and perfect grasp of punctuation: thank you.
Disclaimer : I own nothing; JK Rowling is the creator of Harry Potter and associated characters and all that you recognise is hers; everything else is mine.
Prologue.
It was such a simple thing to initiate one of the most complex and demanding of searches and such a small, innocuous, start to a cascade of despair and a tumultuous burgeoning hope. It was for no small reason that he trawled through the broadsheets, eagerly scanning the neat black print whilst sipping tea. Sometimes in the plain black ink, in its strict and orderly columns, a seemingly innocent observation dutifully reported would make his lips thin and his hand tremble.
It was rare that the Muggle world would discover a secret to thrill its Wizarding counterpart, and it fell to those who took the time to peel back the countless layers of gossip, political sniping and celebrity nonsense to find it. In other words, it fell to a person like him.
This secret, the one that would prove to be one of his most thrilling and exhausting, slipped from a tabloid supplement and fluttered innocently onto his lap, so nonchalant in its disclosure. At first, he thought to ignore it as an advert for a charity asking for tolerance and money, but something about it drew his attention from the severe and reliable print. Simultaneously irritated and interested, he picked up the leaflet and read it.
Indeed, it did ask for money to support an initiative to update the image and improve public opinion of the mentally ill, giving examples of academic and artistic achievements of the people it represented. In itself it was quite well presented and compelling, but he could not determine why it held his attention so raptly.
He returned to the taunting pamphlet every so often in hopes that a fresh mind would divine its secret, but each time he only saw the same words and the same pieces of artwork. Just as some of the most beneficial and terrifying discoveries relied upon serendipity, so did Albus Dumbledore. As tragic as the news was, however, it did not seem to reflect anything more sinister than normal belligerence, so he folded the collection of newspapers and cast a spell to reduce the mass of paper to a more manageable size.
The hour was late; his efforts to convince the Ministry of Voldemort's return combined with recalling the Order had drained him. In his fatigue he spilled his tea across the desk. Stifling his frustration, he flicked his wrist; as the spell scoured the surface clean, it disturbed the pamphlet causing the paper to curl around its deeply creased folds.
From his height advantage he saw the two edges come together and the words from the different columns align. He paused and his brow furrowed as he read across from one side to another:
"...it is through their art ….seeing their place in the world….they seek to heal themselves ….and endeavouring to show that they are just like you and me."
A suspicion blossomed; he looked closely at the picture inserted within the text. Rarely did a wizard pass unnoticed; in the last century only twelve had managed to slip through the many charms put in place to find those imbued with magic. He blinked and slowly picked up the pamphlet that so wantonly displayed the secret he failed at first to see.
Small as the picture was, he could make out what appeared to be the towers of any stereotypical fairytale castle. However, when studied closely, they could be those of the very castle he called home. He quickly opened it and searched the other images for something to support his theory, and what he found set his mind thrumming with questions and theories.
In one partially obscured picture he espied the portrait of a young woman. It lacked the finesse of a great artist, but it captured the features accurately and nicely enough. He peered closer. Staring back at him with wide, dark eyes and lips parted expectantly was the face of a girl he thought dead these twenty years. Fascinated, he reread the pamphlet and was gratified to find that the artwork sampled was on display at a research facility dedicated to improving mental health care. Tired of owling a Ministry unwilling to heed him while waiting for Voldemort to make his move, he considered himself ready to tackle a healthy mystery
----X----
Chapter One.
"I was there!"
He towered over the table as his anger surged through him; suppressing the urge to thump his fists on his kitchen table, he lowered himself back onto the seat. The grey bowl, with its swirling, mocking memories, rocked under the impact and Dumbledore idly steadied it.
It irritated Moody that it was placed between them; had the hateful thing cracked, spilling its condemning recollections, he would have demonstrated little remorse. "I was there," he repeated softly, "and despite what that holds there is no possibility that we simply missed her."
He returned to the photograph that Dumbledore procured from an old newspaper and the articles, appealing for help to identify an unknown girl rescued from a train derailment. There was little doubt that the pale girl was Ophelia Black. He thought back on that night and remembered how he had been taken aback by the sheer scale of the damage.
The train overran the terminus, coming off the tracks and smashing through the concrete wall into the station itself. Had it not been night and very nearly closing time, the number of fatalities likely would have quadrupled. As it was, only those disembarking an earlier train were on the platform and heading through the station on their way home.
On his arrival, dust and thick black smoke billowed out from the access points and over the track, hiding the carnage and suffocating the trapped passengers. From inside the station he could hear the roar of a terrific blaze, the screeching of tortured steel and the heavy thuds of falling masonry. In the sparse emergency lighting, the remaining ambulatory milled in shock just beyond the reach of the pluming acrid smoke, whispering and crying. Transport police made urgent calls into their radios whilst trying to move the gathering crowd to a place of safety.
Moody and his team cast a variety of charms upon themselves as a protection against the smoke and heat and Disapparated to an area at the undamaged rear of the train. He saw in the flickering orange lamps that only the last three carriages were on the tracks; the others had either rolled onto their sides or were twisted carcasses from which flames and fumes billowed. The track was littered with shards of glittering glass and smouldering metal and bits of debris better left unidentified.
He motioned for the others to follow and gingerly made his way to the intact carriages. The survivors clambered off the train, trembling and wide-eyed. Those who were in the smoke filled carriages came out swathed in black ash, clutching at their throats and rubbing at their eyes. He quickly assessed the scene for any use of magic; the only signs being in one of the burning carriages — two discrete emissions from wands being incinerated. He and three other Aurors positioned themselves around the devastation at approximate cardinal points and drew complex fiery sigils in the air. The other Aurors cast an equally complex network of spells around the wreckage that, like smoke highlighting beams of light, would determine if the ill-fated train had been the victim of malicious magic. With a final flick of the burning tip, the strange sigils tilted on their horizontal axes and expanded over the wreckage, intermingling with the others.
After a few moments, the mingled sigils rose up and shrank back to their original size. Moody summoned the bizarre flickering sheet of light and studied it. Within the radius was a representation of the train wreck wrought from strands of magic and within that construct were two tremulous spots of light embedded in what would be the twisted mass of metal that had once been the front of the train.
Two Aurors promptly rushed into the chaos to find and extricate the two dying wizards but even as they worked Moody saw the spots of light give one last flicker and then die. The Aurors found the burned bodies fused to various parts of the train, deftly collected them for their families and analysed the wand remains for identification purposes. Upon hearing the sirens of the Muggle emergency services they quickly Disapparated back to the Ministry. He filed his report, suffered with nightmares and eventually relegated the memories to a quiet, dark corner of his mind.
"Alastor, have no doubt that I hold your dedication and abilities in the highest esteem and forgive me if I gave you the impression that I did not," Albus continued with a hint of bridled impatience. "I did not bring this to your attention merely to rub salt in your wounds, but because it is imperative that we find her and you are the only Auror I presently trust who can do just that."
"Of course, Dumbledore," he said dejectedly as he ran a scarred hand through his close cropped silver hair. "The last few weeks have been difficult."
He gave an involuntary shudder as he remembered the enforced lassitude of the Imperius Curse and the consuming blackness of the trunk that imprisoned him for so long.
"As much as I would like to give you time to overcome the horror of the last year, I cannot. Voldemort has returned and I need every able body to join together to fight him."
Moody's head shot up and he fixed Dumbledore with a fierce glare. "I know my duty." The photograph crumpled in his clenched fist and some of the righteous anger that had been doused by his confinement flared within him.
"Glad to hear, old friend," Dumbledore responded cheerfully. "Now let's view my Pensieve, shall we?"
Grumbling, Moody stood and extended his fingers into the mysterious substance that was captured memory. He momentarily felt them like warm silk against his fingertips before his awareness was turned upside down and twisted to rearrange itself into a brightly lit foyer. He saw Albus standing by a desk, obviously being given directions by the middle aged receptionist.
"Her directions, I'm afraid to say, were not terribly helpful," Dumbledore confessed as he appeared beside him. "We will take a few wrong turns before we reach the offices of the Barrat Trust."
"The Barrat Trust?" he queried as they followed Albus.
"Yes, a rather interesting charity devoting itself to promoting awareness about mental illness to the general public in a bid to improve its image. Unfortunately, however noble their venture, I believe their campaign is falling on deaf ears." He gently grabbed Moody's elbow "Just wait here a moment; I have to return this way." They watched as Albus stopped, looked around and then retrace his steps. "The Trust," Dumbledore said as they continued on their way, "was set up sixteen years ago and at the time was instrumental in bringing about reform to help alleviate some of the restrictions placed upon sufferers. Alas, now it has been relegated to a small office in a ramshackle building." Next to him Dumbledore chuckled and Moody's progress was once again halted. "We may as well wait here; I realise momentarily that the dear lady meant left instead of right. They still work tirelessly but their influence is greatly reduced." They, once more, paused and then set off when Albus had recovered from the misdirection; after a few moments Dumbledore's pace slowed. "Ah!" he exclaimed happily. "We've arrived."
They slipped through the door, following Albus into a clean and bright office replete with coffee tables, easy chairs and potted plants. Halogen spotlights dotted the ceiling, dispelling the gloom of the dreary autumn morning and refining the crisp yet friendly atmosphere. It certainly came as a surprise after walking through the dimly lit and neglected corridors. A variety of framed pictures hung from magnolia walls. Some of them looked as though drawn by children; big yellow suns in a blue sky that never connected to the green swathe of crayoned grass. Others were darker both in colour and tone, highlighting the anguish and frustration of the artists. Albus stopped to examine a few before meandering over to a young woman busy tending to a collection of plants in the centre of the room.
"Oh!" She squeaked, pressing a hand against her throat, "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't see you come in."
"Quite alright my dear. I'm sorry to have startled you."
"Think nothing of it." She placed the water spray on a nearby table and pulled off her marigold gloves. "Is there anything that I may help you with?"
Within a few minutes, Albus sat drinking tea and leafing through a thick file containing copies of all the artwork to pass through the office since its opening. Occasionally, the young woman offered a comment or two on particularly memorable ones. Moody and Dumbledore stood behind the chairs and studied the pictures from over their shoulders.
"I dread to think what could have prompted someone to paint such pictures." Albus uttered solemnly as he held up a print of a child's painting; it was red, orange and black, a swirling mass of colour with angry jagged lines and prone black bodies.
"Sometimes the source of a person's distress is reflected in their art. For example, that one was painted by an eight year-old who was the sole survivor of a house fire. She couldn't remember the incident but drew those pictures for weeks afterwards, always denying that she had when questioned. Eventually, though, she began to accept what had happened." She sorted through the file somewhere near the back and flipped a section over. "After several months of counselling, she drew this." The colours were softer pastels and although the prone bodies were still black they were surrounded by large colourful flowers and given smiling faces.
"Wonderful." He was aware of the wondrous ability of many children to accept and overcome tragedy, letting the trauma sit lightly within their hearts and minds colouring rather than shadowing their futures. He had returned to the sombre images near the front and methodically studied each image. His companion had soon left him to return to the plants and paperwork. Moody and Dumbledore took seats to either side and they pored over the images.
Albus obligingly lingered over the more interesting images and pointed out the features that confirmed a wizard had drawn the elegant and accurate sketches. There were several of the castle and its grounds, the great hall eerily empty and darkened by a stormy ceiling. There were two of the potions classroom with flames flickering under steaming cauldrons and various ingredients neatly grouped on the tables. A beautiful rendition of the castle and lake with a fat moon rising behind the towers done in chalk on black paper took their breath away.
There were darker images, as well, including that of a group of hooded wizards and a large snake with fat coils and a sleepy intelligent look. It was the last picture; one that Albus took more time to consider, that caused Moody to react. With a hiss of indrawn breath and a fierce glower he saw a basilisk rearing from the gaping mouth of a bearded face hewn from pale stone. The two interlopers in the memory shared a dark look and Dumbledore raised his hand to delay Moody's disquiet. Albus sifted through the file taking down the serial numbers of each print before placing the file on the table. Moody and Dumbledore followed him to the reception desk and listened in.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you who drew those pictures, sir." Nothing about her tone suggested contrition suggesting her refusal rather than ignorance.
"Ah, in that case, perhaps this will ease matters."
Moody watched with professional curiosity as Albus pulled out a piece of card from his pocket. While he handed it to the woman with his left hand, he waved his right as a conductor might. Moody glanced at the receptionist, seeing her eyes glaze over and her features gradually relax until she reached for the small card and studied it carefully.
"Oh," she sighed softly. "Of course, sir. Forgive me, but we were given strict instructions not to release any personal information to the general public." Her face clouded for a moment as she fought the spell before succumbing to its effects and smiling apologetically at him. "The information is probably still on the computer; it shouldn't take too long to retrieve it."
"That should do it, Alastor." Dumbledore whispered into his ear.
With that, the memory world turned grey and Moody felt the spinning sensation as he was ejected from the Pensieve. They both sat and stared at the pearlescent liquid in the stone basin as they pondered what it revealed.
"Could she have entered the Chamber while at school?"
Dumbledore frowned and clasped one hand within the other as if to fend off the cold. "Had Miss Weasley not been controlled and coerced by Voldemort to enter the Chamber, I would have said no without reservation."
His frown deepened and he ran a hand over his beard. "It was not brought to my attention that Ophelia was a Parselmouth and therefore able to open the chamber. Even if she had, Harry was quite sure that the Basilisk answered only to young Tom. No, it is my guess that she encountered the image somewhere else." As he spoke he reached out and traced a fingertip around the rim of the Pensieve. "Tom was always proud; he kept trinkets to remind him, and more importantly others, of his conquests. Later when he realised that to hold such incriminating things was less than clever he stored his memories to serve the same purpose: memories that he could leaf through when the mood took him and to show others when the need arose."
"We know that Lucius Malfoy had Riddle's diary," continued Moody in the same thoughtful voice, "and we know that Ophelia stayed at the Malfoy's." He glanced up at Dumbledore who watched him with a suppressed grin and glittering eyes. "Yer think she got hold of the diary?"
Dumbledore nodded and chuckled. "She would have had ample opportunity to find it and I believe that she would have immersed herself in it."
Moody smiled— not pleasantly, but with a renewed sense of purpose. The weight that had descended upon him following his laughable capture and pathetic imprisonment lifted; perhaps he saw a way to redeem himself or more likely revenge himself.
"We find Ophelia, we find what she knows."
"Precisely."
"What did yer find out from the office receptionist?"
"A remarkably efficient and determined young lady, she even tried to locate Ophelia for me. Unfortunately the trail, as they say, grew cold after she left an institution in Cumbria."
He pulled out a buff envelope from the breast pocket of his mauve velvet jacket and slid it across the table to the eager ex-Auror. While he read, Dumbledore flourished his wand to prepare fresh tea and scooped the memories from the Pensieve back up to his temple.
"What's this? A news clippin', 'Police confirmed today that a young girl sufferin' with serious injuries followin' Tuesday's derailment still remains a mystery. The teenager surprised rescuers amid fears that all sixteen passengers travellin' in the first two carriages perished. She is currently being cared for by the medical staff at St. Thomas' hospital who say, that in time, a full recovery is possible.' "
Dumbledore serenely sipped his tea and motioned for him to continue reading the collection of news clippings, police and hospital reports, along with the notes regarding her stay at Edmont Institute. They detailed a mental deterioration following placement at a care home and repeated hospitalisations following injuries to herself and detentions following injuries to others. Then, there was a brief stint in a psychiatric hospital following a series of violent attacks on her peers. Finally, she was sent to Edmont Institute in Cumbria. Recovery was not expected, and eventually the world forgot about her.
However, years later she was, remarkably, pronounced healthy and released on probation into the custody of a local outpatient department. She diligently followed their recommendations and requirements until they were satisfied of her coping abilities, and then she just disappeared.
After half an hour of reading and cross-referencing, Moody sat back and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't really give us much does it? Young girl with no memory and no ties to anyone let loose to go where she chooses whenever she chooses. She could be anywhere!"
"I know!" Albus exclaimed gleefully.
Moody glared at him, unable for a moment to express his feelings over the sheer enormity of the task that Dumbledore just dropped in his lap. "You can't just wave yer wand and hope yer know!" He growled out angrily.
"I'm well aware of that, Alastor, and as such I and the Order will be at your disposal." His jovial mood gone as quickly as it had come, Dumbledore drained his tea and stood to tower over the simmering Auror. "Do what you can I'm certain that I don't need to impress upon you how little time we have."
Moody nodded grimly. "I have a Muggle acquaintance who can help."
Dumbledore paused and arched a white eyebrow questioningly.
"She's lost in the Muggle world, so who best to help find her?"
"Quite so. Keep me up to date and good luck." With that, he packed away his Pensieve and Disapparated.