Epilogue: Ophelia's Eyes
There could be no mistaking the son of Lucius Malfoy. He was dressed in traditional wizarding robes, black mostly, with emerald trim, and a heavy balaclava over his shoulders. He'd grown several inches since they'd been sixteen, and filled out considerably into a powerful looking young man. His hair was longer, perhaps to his chin, and hung softly into his eyes. His back was turned to her, but there was no doubt who he was.
"Draco?" she said, and he turned to look at her with a start. She could only imagine what he must have seen when he looked at her: she hadn't grown an inch, but she'd chosen an elegant, high-necked gown and robes in the same sable satin to compliment her raven hair and eyes, made all the more severe with a lining of kohl. She wasn't even sure he'd remember her .
"Ophelia," he replied, still looking startled. After a few moments, he seemed to regain some composure. "It's been a long time; how have you been?"
"All right," she replied, trying to smile. He knew just as well as she how she'd been. "It's not been easy, but I'm getting along."
"I was very sorry to hear," he said. "I attended the funeral, but I felt it . imprudent to linger."
She nodded: he was trying, at least, to say the right things. Oh, but so much had changed . she could hardly blame him for just how much their world had changed. "I saw you, but you left before I could speak to you. I was sorry when you stopped coming," she said. "It was lonely in South Africa, cooped up in that house." She remembered coming home to her room that first time to see a slender blond poking through her drawers with his wand. She'd had to be careful that whole long period to restrict the house-elves from her room lest they go shrieking about a burglar.
"After my father's death, there was much to deal with."
"I know how it is. I'd heard about that, and figured that was why, but my parents would never have allowed me to go all the way to England." He was nodding regally, resembling his father all the more. His eyes caught her the way they had when they were children - pale, like an image otherworldly from some ancient romance, and framed now by fair hair. She broke from their grasp to glance playfully over his shoulders. "Where's your proverbial backup?"
He broke into what seemed to be a nostalgic smile. "I broke with them the day they took their morsmordre, though we lived together another year."
Ophelia smiled - she couldn't help it. "You've changed so much since we were kids."
"And you not at all," he responded quickly. "Though perhaps I've not as much as you think." He was rubbing his inner arm absently. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm serving on the Council," she said, lowering her eyes, suddenly embarrassed. "In honor of my parents."
Had she looked up, she would have seen the horror pass through his eyes. "I see," he said stiffly. "We'd better get into the courtroom then."
He turned on his heel then, in that overdramatic way she remembered as well as his voice, and started toward the doors of dark English oak. The moment she'd received the invitation to the Minister's Council for the Discovery of Dark Wizardry, she'd aparated in from South Africa to serve. She'd agonized for days, though, over judging Draco's case. It was surely unwise to judge a wizard who she had once known so familiarly.
The courtroom was dark, of the same oak as the doors. The Council sat behind a bar, and Draco stood on the other side, alone in the lit portion of the room, the wands of several guards trained upon him. She took the spot with the other councilors in which she had stood for every other trial, from which she had over and over again pronounced sentences to send dark witches and wizards to Azkaban prison, and set her book, carefully marked, beneath her chair, hiding it with her robes. It was a chilling thought, but her father had been a respected member of the wizarding world, and her family name entitled her to positions of great respect and duty. So here she was, about to judge a wizard she considered to be her oldest remaining friend.
"Mr. Draco Malfoy, of Malfoy Mansion, you have been brought here upon the recommendation of the council to determine your involvement in the order known as the Death Eaters. Do you understand what will ensue should you be found to have been involved?" Minister Weasley droned, repeating the ritual words for such a trial.
Of course he does. Where do you think his mother is now? Rotting in Azkaban. Ophelia could only imagine what must have been going through Draco's mind as he was grilled by the son of his father's killer. He nodded nobly.
"Your father was a known leader of the Death Eaters: it is also well known from the testimony heard by the members of this Council that you were raised and groomed to be his successor," Weasley said, his eyes drilling into the accused. "Do you deny it?"
"I do not." Her heart was pounding for him.
"It is also known that you have extensive understanding of the Dark Arts. Do you deny it?"
"I do not." Shut up, Draco! He was damning himself: didn't he see?
"Have you anything to say for yourself?" Dumbledore said, softly in his extreme old age.
He sneered. A Malfoy was about to explain himself before a High Council: it was a terrifying, momentous occasion. A Briarwood would have died before revealing himself thus. Ophelia was aching for her one-time friend. "I have never used the Unforgivable Curses, no matter what I know of them."
"There are many in Voldemort's ranks that have never used the Curses themselves, yet serve the Dark Lord willingly, Minister," Severus was saying, in his lowest, silkiest voice. Ophelia wanted to scream at her cousin: he knew better than anyone the signs of a Dark Wizard.
"Very true, Severus," the Minister muttered. "Reveal your morsmordre, Malfoy."
"Let the records state that the Minister of Magic has instructed the accused to show the Council his Dark Mark," said one of the aurors.
Draco was baring his teeth like a wolf, and standing stock-still. How dare they tell a Malfoy to reveal his bare flesh? It was a capital insult. Had Ophelia not been completely confident in the ability of every witch and wizard in the room - and painfully aware of everything they could do to her - she would have complained then and there.
"Draco," she said, very quietly. She turned her black eyes upon him, silently urging him to do as they asked. She was taking a terrible risk, and she knew it. If she were wrong, if he had taken the Mark after all - what on earth was she doing? She hadn't so much as seen him in years .
Looking at her, he sniffed resentfully, and then pulled at the left sleeve of his sweater, revealing a pale forearm covered in pale flesh. No Mark.
The auror Harry Potter, looking daggers at Draco, now spoke up, rancor chill in his voice. "Of course it does not burn brightly now that Voldemort is dead. This proves nothing."
"But it can!" Ophelia near shouted, surprising even herself. "I know an incantation." Before anyone could object, she leapt over the dividing bar and strode over to him. This was by far the stupidest thing she had ever done.
Draco, like the rest of the room, was silent, as Ophelia drew her quill from her robes. She had not touched a wand in years, and in her mind it was normal. Yet as she wrote in the air, in flaming runes, she realized that it might have seemed a bit odd to the others.
"Ulchabhán," she whispered. The spot on his arm did nothing, but the letters, older than her rightful memory, glowed ever so slightly on his forehead: the protection rune.
"This is ancient magic," Flitwick was saying, her own head of house. "I had no idea, Ophelia."
"This decides much," Minister Weasley said, sounding disappointed. "You are free to go, Mr. Malfoy, on account of insufficient evidence to convict."
"Perhaps, sir," Severus rumbled. "The Council might consider restoring to Mr. Malfoy his ancestral titles?"
"He has retained the name and house of his father. What do you mean, Severus?"
"I mean, Mr. Weasley, the governorship," Severus growled.
The idea was met with strangely agreeable nods: and that was that.
"Draco," Ophelia called across the crowded hall. She patted her cousin's arm very gently, and he nodded. Sweeping a glossy black curl out of her eyes, she strode over to Draco. "Congratulations."
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly in an attempt to resist a sneer. "It was your doing, Miss Briarwood."
She blushed and looked away. "Severus and I thought that, perhaps, you might want to come over for dinner and a drink . to celebrate."
He smiled then, a true smile. "I would like that very much, thank you ... Ophelia."
There could be no mistaking the son of Lucius Malfoy. He was dressed in traditional wizarding robes, black mostly, with emerald trim, and a heavy balaclava over his shoulders. He'd grown several inches since they'd been sixteen, and filled out considerably into a powerful looking young man. His hair was longer, perhaps to his chin, and hung softly into his eyes. His back was turned to her, but there was no doubt who he was.
"Draco?" she said, and he turned to look at her with a start. She could only imagine what he must have seen when he looked at her: she hadn't grown an inch, but she'd chosen an elegant, high-necked gown and robes in the same sable satin to compliment her raven hair and eyes, made all the more severe with a lining of kohl. She wasn't even sure he'd remember her .
"Ophelia," he replied, still looking startled. After a few moments, he seemed to regain some composure. "It's been a long time; how have you been?"
"All right," she replied, trying to smile. He knew just as well as she how she'd been. "It's not been easy, but I'm getting along."
"I was very sorry to hear," he said. "I attended the funeral, but I felt it . imprudent to linger."
She nodded: he was trying, at least, to say the right things. Oh, but so much had changed . she could hardly blame him for just how much their world had changed. "I saw you, but you left before I could speak to you. I was sorry when you stopped coming," she said. "It was lonely in South Africa, cooped up in that house." She remembered coming home to her room that first time to see a slender blond poking through her drawers with his wand. She'd had to be careful that whole long period to restrict the house-elves from her room lest they go shrieking about a burglar.
"After my father's death, there was much to deal with."
"I know how it is. I'd heard about that, and figured that was why, but my parents would never have allowed me to go all the way to England." He was nodding regally, resembling his father all the more. His eyes caught her the way they had when they were children - pale, like an image otherworldly from some ancient romance, and framed now by fair hair. She broke from their grasp to glance playfully over his shoulders. "Where's your proverbial backup?"
He broke into what seemed to be a nostalgic smile. "I broke with them the day they took their morsmordre, though we lived together another year."
Ophelia smiled - she couldn't help it. "You've changed so much since we were kids."
"And you not at all," he responded quickly. "Though perhaps I've not as much as you think." He was rubbing his inner arm absently. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm serving on the Council," she said, lowering her eyes, suddenly embarrassed. "In honor of my parents."
Had she looked up, she would have seen the horror pass through his eyes. "I see," he said stiffly. "We'd better get into the courtroom then."
He turned on his heel then, in that overdramatic way she remembered as well as his voice, and started toward the doors of dark English oak. The moment she'd received the invitation to the Minister's Council for the Discovery of Dark Wizardry, she'd aparated in from South Africa to serve. She'd agonized for days, though, over judging Draco's case. It was surely unwise to judge a wizard who she had once known so familiarly.
The courtroom was dark, of the same oak as the doors. The Council sat behind a bar, and Draco stood on the other side, alone in the lit portion of the room, the wands of several guards trained upon him. She took the spot with the other councilors in which she had stood for every other trial, from which she had over and over again pronounced sentences to send dark witches and wizards to Azkaban prison, and set her book, carefully marked, beneath her chair, hiding it with her robes. It was a chilling thought, but her father had been a respected member of the wizarding world, and her family name entitled her to positions of great respect and duty. So here she was, about to judge a wizard she considered to be her oldest remaining friend.
"Mr. Draco Malfoy, of Malfoy Mansion, you have been brought here upon the recommendation of the council to determine your involvement in the order known as the Death Eaters. Do you understand what will ensue should you be found to have been involved?" Minister Weasley droned, repeating the ritual words for such a trial.
Of course he does. Where do you think his mother is now? Rotting in Azkaban. Ophelia could only imagine what must have been going through Draco's mind as he was grilled by the son of his father's killer. He nodded nobly.
"Your father was a known leader of the Death Eaters: it is also well known from the testimony heard by the members of this Council that you were raised and groomed to be his successor," Weasley said, his eyes drilling into the accused. "Do you deny it?"
"I do not." Her heart was pounding for him.
"It is also known that you have extensive understanding of the Dark Arts. Do you deny it?"
"I do not." Shut up, Draco! He was damning himself: didn't he see?
"Have you anything to say for yourself?" Dumbledore said, softly in his extreme old age.
He sneered. A Malfoy was about to explain himself before a High Council: it was a terrifying, momentous occasion. A Briarwood would have died before revealing himself thus. Ophelia was aching for her one-time friend. "I have never used the Unforgivable Curses, no matter what I know of them."
"There are many in Voldemort's ranks that have never used the Curses themselves, yet serve the Dark Lord willingly, Minister," Severus was saying, in his lowest, silkiest voice. Ophelia wanted to scream at her cousin: he knew better than anyone the signs of a Dark Wizard.
"Very true, Severus," the Minister muttered. "Reveal your morsmordre, Malfoy."
"Let the records state that the Minister of Magic has instructed the accused to show the Council his Dark Mark," said one of the aurors.
Draco was baring his teeth like a wolf, and standing stock-still. How dare they tell a Malfoy to reveal his bare flesh? It was a capital insult. Had Ophelia not been completely confident in the ability of every witch and wizard in the room - and painfully aware of everything they could do to her - she would have complained then and there.
"Draco," she said, very quietly. She turned her black eyes upon him, silently urging him to do as they asked. She was taking a terrible risk, and she knew it. If she were wrong, if he had taken the Mark after all - what on earth was she doing? She hadn't so much as seen him in years .
Looking at her, he sniffed resentfully, and then pulled at the left sleeve of his sweater, revealing a pale forearm covered in pale flesh. No Mark.
The auror Harry Potter, looking daggers at Draco, now spoke up, rancor chill in his voice. "Of course it does not burn brightly now that Voldemort is dead. This proves nothing."
"But it can!" Ophelia near shouted, surprising even herself. "I know an incantation." Before anyone could object, she leapt over the dividing bar and strode over to him. This was by far the stupidest thing she had ever done.
Draco, like the rest of the room, was silent, as Ophelia drew her quill from her robes. She had not touched a wand in years, and in her mind it was normal. Yet as she wrote in the air, in flaming runes, she realized that it might have seemed a bit odd to the others.
"Ulchabhán," she whispered. The spot on his arm did nothing, but the letters, older than her rightful memory, glowed ever so slightly on his forehead: the protection rune.
"This is ancient magic," Flitwick was saying, her own head of house. "I had no idea, Ophelia."
"This decides much," Minister Weasley said, sounding disappointed. "You are free to go, Mr. Malfoy, on account of insufficient evidence to convict."
"Perhaps, sir," Severus rumbled. "The Council might consider restoring to Mr. Malfoy his ancestral titles?"
"He has retained the name and house of his father. What do you mean, Severus?"
"I mean, Mr. Weasley, the governorship," Severus growled.
The idea was met with strangely agreeable nods: and that was that.
"Draco," Ophelia called across the crowded hall. She patted her cousin's arm very gently, and he nodded. Sweeping a glossy black curl out of her eyes, she strode over to Draco. "Congratulations."
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly in an attempt to resist a sneer. "It was your doing, Miss Briarwood."
She blushed and looked away. "Severus and I thought that, perhaps, you might want to come over for dinner and a drink . to celebrate."
He smiled then, a true smile. "I would like that very much, thank you ... Ophelia."