Chapter One: A Familiar Face
Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Harry Potter Universe; that honor belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Bros. I thank them for the inspiration, however. Also, this story contains sexual and other adult themes, hence the M rating. To those that read my previous version of To Question Fate, there is no new content, just some major editing.
The war had ended, she could feel it. The tension in the air had dissipated days ago, and the pulse of the magic that coursed through her being had since slowed and steadied. Her father was dead. Had he survived, he would have returned home by now. She felt no sadness for his loss, however, as she had mourned him years ago. To her, he died the day he took up the Death Eater's cause, but she had murdered his memory the day he had made her a prisoner of her own home. She knew in the beginning her father's reasons were noble; to protect his family from harm by joining those that would target them. Unfortunately, it didn't take long for the corrupting nature of power and fear to take hold of her father's soul.
Part of her was glad he was gone, but it was bittersweet for now she was officially alone. A tear escaped her eyes as she thought of the brutal demise of her mother at the hands of the Death Eaters. They did not care about her incredible ability as a healer, her deep knowledge of the ancient magical ways, or even about her desperate pleas for mercy. Even the sickened cries of her father did not stop her painful, tortured death. They only cared that the blood that ran through her veins was not as pure as the ancient wizard bloodline she had married into. She was murdered simply for existing.
Ophelia shook her head trying to push away those dark, painful memories, and then suddenly, she stood up from her position beneath the willow beside the creek that wound through her family's property as an incredible thought occurred to her. She started a quick walk towards the distant fence line. Could I finally be free? Her mind raced, and her walk became a jog as if trying to compete with her thoughts. For a moment, she thought about the pleasant sensations of the breeze in her hair and the sun on her features as she jogged. It had been ages since she had felt any emotion that had even a resemblance to pleasure. Her joys were quickly stolen from her as she felt the magical bindings around her limbs tighten.
She continued her pace, however, as the fence line moved ever closer. She felt the heavy magical weight come over her, but still she struggled to move closer to the fence that was now less than a meter from her grasping fingertips. She pushed forward hoping to break through the magic that contained her. She desperately prayed now that the maker of her prison was dead, that she would finally be free. This hope was only fleeting as a searing pain like her entrails were being squeezed by fiery hands cut through her gut. She dropped to her knees and cried out in agony as she reached out for the fence. Her fingertips skimmed the rough surface of the wood. She continued her struggle for an instant longer hoping the spell would break. Finally, once she could take no more pain she turned over herself and fell to the ground panting as the pain released her. As he breathing slowed she cursed under her breath. How dare he cast such magic! How dare he not even free me after his death!
"BASTARD!" She screamed as loud as her underused voice would allow, her fists clenched tight with rage. She could feel the magical pulse swell within her longing for sweet release, making her even more furious.
It was then that she saw it, a dark form lying in the field off to her right. It groaned softly, and Ophelia suddenly realized it was human. She crawled the short distance towards the form guardedly as her she glanced quickly around her anxiously. She could smell the distinct scent of burnt flesh and days old sweat. It was a man dressed in black robes that were tattered and caked with mud. His body moved up and down slightly with his rapid, shallow breaths. Her senses heightened as the healer within her recognized this man was near death.
She slowly reached out and touched the dark hair of the strange man. He did not move. She cautiously moved a strand of the hair from his cheek to partially reveal his face. He was laying facedown in the grass, but she searched his features slowly. It had been months since she had associated with anyone. Her father had come and gone on occasion, but she had always stayed hidden as he was rarely alone.
Somehow, this man looked strangely familiar to her. She searched her memory for a connection to the pale face, sunken features, hard jaw line, and defined, hooked nose, but it was in vain. He looked gravely ill. She reached her hand to his forehead and found it burned with fever, and his brow was clammy with sweat.
She glanced around her again at their surroundings. The Forbidden Forest loomed just past the fence line. A shiver rushed down her spine. She feared this man on a primitive level, but she reached for his wrist to feel his pulse anyway. Her eyes narrowed as she saw it, or at least what remained of it - the Dark Mark. Hatred boiled within her as she prepared to stand up and leave this traitor for death.
She stopped when her eyes fell upon the smooth dark polish of the man's wand poking out from beneath the filthy robes. Her eyes then widened as she reached her hand down to the Earth and slowly slid her fingers towards it. She held her breath as she grasped its handle from beneath the Death Eater's body.
He still did not move as she tightened her grip and slid the wand towards her. She could feel the tingle of its power in her fingertips. She smiled slightly as she studied the wooden shaft. Then she closed her eyes momentarily to revel in the feeling of it against her palm. Her own wand had been ripped from her hands and broken in half upon her father's knee over four years ago. She remembered in sickening detail the image of the unicorn hair falling limply to the ground as her mother sobbed in the background. Her dreams of studying medicinal magical were thus shattered as she had no hope of escaping her captivity.
Ophelia opened her eyes and took a deep breath as she ran her fingers down the wand, caressing it. She felt her own power reaching out for the wand, screaming for release. Her heart rate quickened as her mind raced through countless incantations that she had been longing to speak.
While no longer in school, she had never discontinued her studies. To pass her time in her imprisonment she had spent countless hours in her father's vast library reading every book he owned as well as her mother's healer texts. Her magical and healing knowledge was broad, but her skills were mostly untested. She glanced at the dark figure beside her, shaking away the strange feeling of familiarity. She knew she would likely have to wait for his death before this beautiful wand would yield to her control, but her impatience bubbled. This wand may be the key she needed to escape her captivity. She glanced again at the fence line cursing her father.
She flicked the wand in the air in front of her mimicking the movements from her old lessons at Hogwarts. The wand looked incredibly graceful as it flourished with each flick of her wrist. She smiled, admiring its beauty as it danced.
Unexpectedly, she felt an icy grip around her neck, and the wand burned icy hot in her palm. She dropped it as her body was forced painfully to the ground. The dark figure loomed over her, one hand to her throat, the other reached for the wand. She struggled frantically, but only for an instant as her eyes fixed on those piercing, cold, black eyes burning above her. Her eyes opened wide with sudden recognition. "Professor Snape?!" she croaked.
The icy pale hand released its grip on her neck, and in an instant, she shoved the cloaked figure from her and stood to run straight towards the fence line at full speed. Fear possessed her and clouded her judgment until the gut wrenching pain brought her back to her knees as she screamed.
Ophelia again crawled away from the fence line until the pain ceased, and she glanced back in the direction from which she had come. The man had collapsed again, this time onto his back and was panting as he stared in her direction with a look of confusion plastered on his sunken pale visage.
It was then that she noticed the blisters developing on her palm and fingertips. She stared at them for a long moment and then back at her former potions professor, with his hand clutching his wand against his chest. She stood up slowly, feeling weak from the weight of her invisible shackles. She approached the frail, cloaked form apprehensively and felt herself cringe in expectation as he gripped the wand tighter to his chest.
She wanted to turn her back on him as the hatred for the Death Eaters ate away at her psyche, but that disdain was not enough to conquer the yearning for company, the hope at freedom, and a knowing suspicion that this man was not as he seemed.
She cleared her throat as she approached and those dark eyes struck her with a look of despair and hopelessness. Her intuition sensed that he was giving up on his existence. She could sense it in the power that emanated from him as his eyes glazed over, and his focus moved beyond her. "Sir…" she whispered. His piercing gaze returned to her face. "Sir, let me help you!" Her voice was demanding, but her eyes were pleading.
"Go!" He croaked back. "You are a foolish child. Leave me to death." His face then turned away from her to look back towards the Forest.
Ophelia smiled weakly. "Ironic indeed, Professor. Come to the home of one of Great Britain's greatest healers and beg for death." His face turned towards her again, and she could tell that he was searching his memory for some lost piece of information. She used the opportunity to bridge the last few meters that still existed between them and knelt in the soft grass beside him.
"Please, Sir." She placed her hand on his as it lay limply in the grass. He did not pull away but studied her features as if trying to read her thoughts. She shivered. She then grasped his hand and placed her other hand on his shoulder attempting to sit him up. Slowly she broke through his resistance as he flexed forward.
Despite her small frame, she was strong, and she stood bringing her patient to his feet. She placed one of his arms around her shoulders, and they made the trek back to the cottage on the hill ahead in silence.
They finally reached the doorway next to which a sign read "Doctor Dyson. Please ring bell for service." An ancient rune was carved into the doorway indicating the presence of a healer. It was then that Ophelia felt the man stop and stare at her with empty eyes, "You are Gwendolyn's daughter…" She nodded and tried to lead him over the threshold, but he resisted. "Your father is dead…"
She paused, took a deep breath, and nodded slightly in acknowledgement, but continued to maneuver them both into the cottage. This time the weak man draped over her shoulders obliged, and she led him to the first bed in a row of many in an infirmary room just off of the kitchen. He flopped limply onto the mattress as she pulled his legs into place and removed his boots.
"Do not waste any more of your energy, Miss Dyson. I am hardly worth the effort," he hissed at her. Ophelia was reminded of Potions classes suddenly, and her heart ached as she longed for the days of Hogwarts. She wondered if it still stood tall in the distance past the forest that bordered her land.
She leaned down towards him, mustering as much defiance in her look as she could manage towards her former professor. "Death is not a service we offer here, Professor. I am afraid you will have to request something else," she said softly to him as she smiled grateful for the relief of company. With that she hurried from the room leaving her newest patient staring daggers into her backside. She could almost feel the stinging pain.
Once in the other room Ophelia wrapped her blistered palm with a bandage over some herbal antiseptic and quickly set to work mixing a Restorative Potion. There was a flurry of activity as she measured, chopped, boiled, and stirred. A toxic smelling fume soon rose from her cauldron. She smiled approvingly as she dipped a mug into her steaming potion and stirred in some willow bark to fight against fever. It was not the most potent potion she was capable of, but considering her lack of wand and limited ingredient supply, she was quite proud of it.
She brought the steaming mug to her patient and brought it to his lips urging him to drink. He turned his face away and pushed the mug from her hands causing it to shatter into pieces on the stone floor. She cursed under her breath, trying to keep her frustration from becoming apparent.
"Leave me be!" He commanded in a threatening tone as his grip tightened around his wand.
She stormed from the room but soon returned with another mug in hand. She stepped into his field of view. "Drink," she ordered. He turned his head away again. "Dammit, Old Man, Drink!" She shoved the mug into his hand and forced it towards his mouth. This time she did not attempt to conceal her frustration. He looked into her eyes as if he sensed her selfish motives.
"You obviously did not inherit your mother's bedside manner…" He said softly but still maintained the distinct disdainful tone that Ophelia has once been quite familiar with. She smiled softly as he sat up against the wall and sipped from the mug with an angry gleam in his eyes.
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Snape stared at the woman standing before him. Even in his weakened state his curiosity was peaked as to why she was so insistent that he continue his miserable existence. Had he been stronger he may have been tempted to delve into her thoughts. Even without Legilimency, however, he sensed a strange power within her which only intensified his curiosity. There was something unique about this lovely young witch, and he could sense she wanted something from him.
He sipped the wretched concoction from the mug. While is tasted even worse then it smelled, the Potions Master found himself momentarily impressed with the complexity of the brew. He immediately felt the effects as his chilling fever seemed to drip from his being onto the floor as he was warmed from the inside out, and his aching muscles pulsed slightly with renewed vigor. But his appreciation did not last long. Even a baboon can follow a recipe, he thought as he remembered that this girl's mother had been a well known and talented healer.
His former student stared at him intently. He gave her a disapproving glare as he continued to sip from the mug. She stood there, hands on her hips, which had the effect of pulling her robes close to her rather shapely frame. He continued to study her features, eyes harsh. She stared back with equal intensity.
She had a slender build which was currently covered with faded, worn, emerald-colored robes. He glanced at her delicate hands set loosely on the curves of her hips, her right palm wrapped in bandages, and then his eyes followed the line of her arms up to her neckline. He recognized the talisman that hung around her neck as the sign of a healer. It bore the same rune as the one carved into the front door. He knew it had belonged to her mother; he remembered her wearing it in distant memories of his own times as a student at Hogwarts. The healing gift went back many generations in this family.
He took in the prominence of her collarbones and the way that the green robes hung from her shoulders. Up her slender neck, he observed the lines of her jaw and cheekbones under her creamy porcelain skin. A few dark freckles dotted across her features. They matched the nutmeg hair that tumbled loosely onto her shoulders. He avoided eye contact with the woman as he took another sip of her handiwork. She was very lovely, but there was more to her than that, and it made him uneasy. He could feel her curious eyes studying him and felt very vulnerable which caused him shift uncomfortably on the bed.
"What is it you want from me?" He snapped suddenly in a sharp, deep tone. He smiled inwardly as he noticed her jump in surprise. He caught her eyes as they shifted quickly down at the wand resting in his lap and then saw the fingers of her injured hand wrap into a loose fist against the bandages.
Now he was positive her motives were more than utter altruism. He noticed her squirm slightly under his stare. Again, he smiled to himself as he placed his wand back into his black robes. She was, after all, a former student.
Snape continued to stare at her finally making eye contact with her deep blue eyes. He had regained the upper hand just as he had desired. She continued to shift nervously. He held his stare, his eyes boring into hers until she finally broke the gaze. To his surprise, she took a step closer to the bed.
"Freedom, Sir…" she said softly as she rubbed her wrists gently. Her eyes were filled with pain. He could almost taste the desperation that oozed from her words. It made him nauseous.
He licked his lips slowly as the words rang in his ears. Freedom – how ironic. I am possibly the least qualified individual in that regard, he thought. He was about to retort her foolishness and tell her such a thing did not exist in this world. We all owe someone for something.
He opened his mouth to speak his thoughts but then closed it again, taking a sip from the mug to hide his change in plans. At that moment, Snape realized that for the first time in his adult life he may actually be free himself. The Dark Mark on his arm no longer ached, and he could no longer sense the sinister grip of the Dark Lord on his soul.
He took a long slow breath completely aware of the inquisitive gaze of the girl never leaving his face. His tired mind could barely comprehend the meaning of the words he then spoke, "The war is over, Miss Dyson. The Dark Lord has been defeated." Another strange nauseating feeling came over him as a weight was lifted from his soul.
He realized then that that need to vomit may actually be a sense of peace settling in on him. That thought nauseated him further. He had never contemplated this moment as he had never intended to see it. He felt unprepared which in turn made him anxious. He despised these new feelings.
Ophelia nodded, "I've felt it in the air for days… and I've longed to join in the celebration…" She swallowed hard, and Snape sensed she was holding back a tear. His eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down hoping she would not cry in front of him. He hated tears. To his relief, she remained in control of her emotions. His thoughts then drifted.
He had escaped from the Shrieking Shack back under the Whomping Willow and into the Forbidden Forest after what was supposed to have been his last breath. Somehow he had survived, but his aching body told him that it was just barely. He heard the sounds of the battle ending behind him. There was nothing left for him to do now. Death would take him soon, he was sure of it, and he welcomed it.
He wandered weakly, his mind in a haze. His memory was unclear, but he must have been in the Forest for days until he emerged from the other side to see a hillside with a cottage nestled into its side. He recognized the place. He had been there once in the role of Death Eater.
The Dark Lord was ecstatic to learn of the wizard and his healer wife with a residence so near Hogwarts. His interest was further peaked with details of the couple's lovely daughter. He was eager to establish a Death Eater presence in such a strategic location, and his new human form needed the assistance of a capable healer, among other things. Snape had been amongst those that had threatened the wizard with harm to his family from behind their masks should he not choose to join them. It was a convincing argument.
Now was the first time he realized young Ophelia was that family he had threatened. She had graduated from Hogwarts that spring, but Snape had become so skilled at separating the two worlds that he never made the connection. He knew that the Death Eaters had killed her mother two years ago when she had refused to use her gift to heal several Death Eaters injured doing Voldemort's bidding at the Ministry of Magic. At that time, it was believed that her daughter had been sent to America to continue her studies. Clearly, that was false. Luckily for her, however, the rumors had been believed. He knew the Dark Lord had taken a special interest in the girl but never understood why.
He noticed Ophelia shift uncomfortably again under his glare. He now understood her strange behavior from earlier. He had heard her tortured screams. They had shook him from his wishful thoughts of death as he laid waiting and praying for his last breath to come soon. Had anyone else been around he would have thought the young witch had been struck by the Cruciatus curse.
His muscles tensed as he shuddered from the dark memories of his own experience with the Unforgivable. Now his mind correctly concluded that it was powerful magic that indeed tortured the girl, but magic that had been placed years ago to keep her from escaping to wherever it was she thought she could escape to.
"What is it that you believe I can offer you? And why do you believe I would even do so? Your meddling has only delayed a welcomed death. I owe you nothing." He watched her eyes for a reaction, and she obliged with another flash of desperation.
She swallowed hard. "I know for which side you fought… you must be very powerful indeed to fool the Dark Lord himself…" She paused, likely to judge his reaction to her words. He remained stoic, but she continued. "I know you must have the ability to break my bonds so that I too may be free of the Death Eater's grip."
Her soft pleas hit him like a lightening bolt as he wondered how much this girl knew. Was she a Legilimens? Too young for such skill… He dismissed that thought. But how did she know so much?
To the rest of the world he would be known as the Death Eater that struck down the mighty Albus Dumbledore, a traitor of the worst kind. Could she really know the truth? Part of him ached desperately for the answer to be yes. If he was going to have the unfortunate luck of surviving this war, maybe this lovely witch would be his ticket to freedom as much as he would be hers. He swallowed hard as the thoughts turned his stomach.
She moved closer to the bed, her eyes still pleading with him. "This is not a bribe, Sir. Let me treat your injuries. The company alone is welcome. Even from a cantankerous, thorny, individual such as yourself." She reached a hand out for the mug that he held in his hands.
He could smell her earthy scent and now noticed a distinct Welsh accent in her voice. He gave the mug to her with a small nod, closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall as it throbbed. He heard the woman leave the room. He could not help but feel that Fate was playing a cruel joke at his expense. He had nothing left to live for.
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A/N: Love it or hate it, I would like to know. Leave me some feedback so I may improve. Have I at least caught enough of your attention to get you to read the next chapter? Thanks!