No one had ever been quite so delighted to be under investigation by the Department of Magical Law enforcement as Fenella. She didn't let something so frivolous as being accused of "aiding and abetting a known criminal" stop her from acting like her birthday had arrived half a year early. Anytime another student asked her about the investigation, a bright, slightly manic smile lit up her freckle-spattered face, as though she'd never been asked anything quite so flattering before in her life. If, for whatever reason, she wasn't asked over a period extending past ten minutes of conversation, she promptly corrected the imbalance in the universe by bringing it up herself.

One less so ecstatic about her newfound notoriety was Eustace Fawley, her father. In fact, Tom would even go so far as to say Mister Fawley's blood pressure would never recover from the damage Fenella was inflicting, based on the thick vein pulsing dangerously in his forehead whenever Tom saw the man, which, granted, wasn't very often. His distress, however, seemed only to fuel his youngest daughter's glee. Despite her ceaseless work assuring others of her own guilt— including certain members of Magical Law Enforcement— Mister Fawley worked that much harder, using his not-inconsiderable influence at the Ministry to undo the damage she was doing to his good name. To her dismay, he had all such suspicion dropped in two days flat.

Rabastan, on the other hand, didn't appear to care about the investigation one way or another, yawning his way through one interrogation after another, until eventually they decided he knew nothing of either Ophelia or Grindelwald, and therefor surely had nothing to do with her subsequent evasion of the Ministry at Hogwarts. By convenient coincidence, the Ministry received a sizeable donation from the Lestrange family the very same day, one that certainly had nothing to do with their abrupt decision.

For his part, Tom lacked the luxury of a wealthy, powerful family. The only relatives he had were either dead or wished they were dead, which suited him just as well. Just a bit of story-weaving and a couple glowing commendations from his professor's about his character painted him into yet another tragic victim of the Grindelwald line. It was almost too easy. Of course someone with Tom's record would be overlooked. People payed too much heed to appearances. Just because someone behaved as society expected within the public eye didn't mean they were at all the same in private. The only difference between "good" and "bad" people was that the former were sly enough to successfully hide their misdeeds where the former failed. If nothing else, Tom was sly.

He was also rational enough to know when it was time to cut his losses where Ophelia was concerned. It was time. Past time. She wore trouble the way others might wear a silk scarf, but while others could take it off, hers wound around her throat in tighter and tighter knots until it choked the ghost of life away. He knew that better than anyone. He knew she wasn't worth it.

He knew a great many things.

That didn't stop the phantoms. It didn't stop that brief, beautiful second of ignorance when Rabastan said something idiotic or Slughorn made yet another of his humble-brags that almost certainly couldn't be true, and Tom turned to share a look with Ophelia, like so many they'd shared before, only to remember, only to sink back into a hollow reality. It was all wrong. It was irrational and made no sense however he approached it and he hated it. He hated that part of him that didn't want to hate her, but still couldn't fight the intoxicating feeling. One he loved to hate and hated to need.

Even after severing three quarters of his soul, Tom never felt like something was missing— until it was. Ophelia had taken a portion of his soul and fled with it— literally. She carried a part of him with her wherever she went, whether she knew it or not, on her finger.

Dumbledore didn't have as easy a time feigning innocence, but after all records concerning Ophelia Ashwood— as they soon discovered "the girl" was calling herself— mysteriously vanished, there wasn't much they could do besides interrogate all her known associates. To their immense frustration, there weren't many associates to speak of. She was unmemorable in just about every regard. The few that did know of her only knew her in relation to Tom, and those that knew more weren't talking. Even her own dorm-mates had little to offer investigators besides her sparse suitcase, and Ephiriam, the only Gryffindor who may have known anything at all, feigned ignorance. His supposed clumsiness ended with the suitcase flying into the Gryffindor Common Room fireplace at some point. It was saved, unfortunately, but not without sustaining quite a bit of burn damage.

That was months ago.

A school year ended, a summer abandoned, and a new term begun in the blink of an eye. They expression "Time flies when you're having fun" didn't apply, however, as nothing about the situation was remotely palatable. The dread of going back, something Tom never imagined he'd associate with Hogwarts, was almost too much to bear. Even with his new status as Head Boy alongside Alice Crouch, he almost chose to stay away, to keep searching Ophelia out long past summer's bittersweet sunset. Hogwarts was his home, but so was she.

So was she.

Still, she covered her tracks well, Apparating from one country to the next at random left Tom, for once, at a loss. He, who'd never even so much as left England before his first ride up to Hogwarts at eleven, didn't stand a chance at covering enough ground fast enough to catch up.

What he needed was to set a trap.

III

Ophelia never intended to speak to her mother. All she wanted was one measly look at the woman who birthed her and then vanished— was that too much to ask?— but the second she laid eyes on her mother's soft brown hair, now newly speckled with gray, her feet moved of their own accord. It was the gray that did it, she thought, as silly as it was. Widowed Mrs Ashwood, the surname taken from her dead not-quite husband, looked nothing like her daughter, or vice versa. At least, she wasn't supposed to, but age had brought them closer.

Foolish optimism was what it was. Everyone's hair loses its luster as they fight the hands of time. She related no more to her mother than she would to any other aged person on the street, and that was the truth.

It didn't matter. It just proved that if, for whatever reason, she didn't have to deal with the consequences of other people's problems, she hunted for some more of her own, like bloodhound for unnecessary drama.

"Why did you leave me to die?" Ophelia took a step out of her cover, hating herself for giving in, hating the way her voice cracked and frayed at the edges when she swore she'd feel nothing.

The woman, the one who was her mother in title alone, and in none of the ways that really counted, turned slowly, painfully so. After what felt like an eternity, she stood in side profile, staring up into the dusting of clouds above them, and said without once looking at her only daughter, "I did wonder if you'd ever come looking for me."

Was Ophelia really not even worth looking at? Was that how little she mattered? All the self-doubt she thought she'd quashed erupted with violent force in her stomach, sapping away what little fortitude she'd scrounged up over the years. Ceaseless work, gone in seconds.

God, this was a mistake.

Snow crunched noisily beneath her boots as she took a subtle step back, preparing to bolt. Faster than she ever thought possible, her mother shot forward and took hold of her arm just below the elbow joint.

"Wait!"

Ophelia did her best to shake her off, to no a avail, pulling viciously on her own arm until her mother's grip burned deep bruises into her flesh. Her other hand flew instinctively to her wand to—to what? Curse her own mother? A squib with no power besides the waning strength in her ageing muscles? She stilled her tense arm just in time, hovering over her pocket, but the move didn't go unnoticed.

Mrs. Ashwood pressed her lips together in a thin line. "You truly are the object of his moulding. My little brother. But, then again, you've always looked far more of him than of me or Laertes."

Ophelia's heart stuttered at the mention of her father. A pang of something that was neither longing, nor even love, but it certainly wasn't indifference, lanced through her chest. She didn't know the man, after all. He'd died before she'd taken her first breath. She couldn't miss someone she didn't know, could she? And yet, there was still something, a certain wonder, perhaps. She'd been dealt one rotten family member after another, maybe her real father might have been different, had he lived. Her life might have been so, very different.

Or perhaps nothing would have changed at all. No point getting trapped in the past when it's already written. The only person that hurt was herself.

"You don't get to compare me to my uncle with such disdain when all he's ever done to you is clean up your messes!" Ophelia spat. "He may be misguided, a murderer and a lowlife, but you are somehow lower than even that if, even now, after all he's done, I'd rather he raised me than you! He was nothing but good to me, while the best thing you ever did was leave! I thank you for that, if nothing else."

"I agree," her mother replied, much to Ophelia's surprise— and fury.

She didn't want her to agree. She wanted to argue! To make her mother discover her own inadequacies and let the guilt hang her like a noose around her neck until she hung herself with it. She was furious, because if she wasn't angry she'd cry, and if she cried she'd never stop.

No one deserved the honour of her tears. No one. Ophelia refused to relinquish that much power to any one person, living or dead. Again, who benefited from it? Certainly not her.

"Hear her out."

Ophelia was so used to isolation, she didn't think twice about replying, "It's none of your business," to Julius, not thinking about how her mother couldn't hear the other half of the conversation.

"It's certainly my business," Mrs Ashwood started, just as Julius backed off with a flippant, "Just a suggestion. Geez, so testy these days."

Ophelia rounded again on her mother. "Actually, no it's not. I," she pointed to herself, shaking her head, "am not your business. You made that choice when you left me— and I can't emphasize this enough— to die."

"You think so little of me, Lae."

"That's not my name," Ophelia ground out, "and yes, I do."

Mrs Asheoods brows furrowed, wrinkling deep lines into her forehead. "Of course that's your name. I was the one who gave it to you. I haven't forgotten my own daughter's name just because it's been a few years."

"The only claim you ever had on me was my name, and now you don't even have that much. I chose my own name, just as I choose who I am, and I choose to let you go." In her surprise, her mother's grip slackened on Ophelia's arm, allowing her to rip herself free from the restrictive hold. "I really should never have come here. I have nothing to say to you, and there is nothing you could say to me that would be worth listening to."

Her mother recovered her slack-jawed expression into some approximation of indifference, though not an entirely convincing one.

Ophelia could respect that, if nothing else. She dusted off her coat and made for the tree line, where no muggles stood a chance of seeing her Apparate away.

"I didn't do it just for me, you know!" her mother called after her. "Looking the way you do, all— all gray, it was only a matter of time before someone connected the dots and came to take you anyway! You were obviously a witch, and even more obviously connected to Gellert! You look just like him! I did you a favour!"

"You did yourself a favour, you mean. You didn't want me. You just left! What if nobody found me? I'd have starved or frozen, but go ahead. Rationalise away." Ophelia directed her words at her boots as she stormed towards the tree line, and at the paw prints and thin snaking serpent lines puncturing the blanket of snow beneath them.

"It's not as bad as all that," Mrs Ashwood objected. "I knew he'd find you. Even though I hadn't spoken to him in years, he always had me watched. Constantly, day in and day out. When I didn't return to fetch you, I was sure he'd show his face. You were never in any real danger, so don't be so dramatic. My brother could provide you more than I ever could. He was the only one who could keep you safe, and he owed me as much, for placing my life in danger as he did. He made his problems my problems, so I made you his."

Ophelia tasted iron from chewing through the inside of her cheek. Just because she understood the woman trying so hard to justify her actions didn't mean she had to like it. Like her. They may have been blood, but they weren't family. That much was clear. They were no more or less than strangers. Their blood didn't run thick enough to bind them. Hell, cement wasn't thick enough either. Sometimes, blood just tied people down, and it was time to sever those bonds. Permanently.

And not just with her mother.

—or that's what she thought two and a half seconds before she followed the skittering line of paw sprints to a red-coated fox, sitting ramrod straight atop the snow, staring fixedly at her with his head tilted inquisitively to the side. That thought was followed closely by, Well, that's a bit odd. Those aren't native, are they? and then, Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Can't I catch a break?

Before her eyes, the fox elongated, it's arms stretching and it's torso rocketing up to her height, or maybe even a few inches taller. A generally well put-together witch glared at her instead, already twirling her wand in elaborate configurations before Ophelia could wade through her shock to muster enough sense to strike first.

She evaded the first spell, though it did sear the corner of her robes as she hopped out of the way, the thick snow making the idea of swift movement laughable at best. Luckily, she'd pulled out her wand in preparation of getting the hell out of there before any trigger happy witches showed up, and, having snapped out of her confusion, was happy to oblige the animagus with curses of her own.

"Watch it," Julius hummed under his breath. Ophelia followed his gaze to a whole lot of nothing.

Then, the air warped and shimmered yet another stranger into existence— a wizard this time, in long, ocean blue robes, shrugged off his tattered invisibility cloak, letting it cascade to the ground. While the animagus-witch deflected Ophelia's attack, he aimed a fresh volley at her head. She watched the spells inch closer from both sides, knowing that to deflect one would mean to take the other head on, and also that in the snow dodging was not a viable option. She could apparate, but would never make it away before they collided in the middle at her chest.

Out of options (and patience), she swirled the snow up in a frozen tidal wave around her and hoped for the best. When it crumbled to the ground, however, after luckily absorbing both spells— she's severely doubted that that crackpotted scheme would work out in her favour— a person who was most certainly not the animagus was standing in the witch's place while she lay still as death on the ground.

What the hell was going on?

Shivering violently from the ice melting through her dragon-hide boots, Ophelia made the objective decision that she didn't much care what was happening. She didn't need to know what was going on to know it was high time she got out of there.

"This was nice," she said, swivelling her wand back and forth between the two men, one still aiming own wand at the grounded witch and the other pointing his wand at the newcomer. Not friends, huh? "By all means, carry on without me."

"You'll be doing nothing of the kind," the newcomer growled, his gravely voice at odds with his youthful appearance. His intent gaze didn't stray from the other man, even as he spoke to her.

Ophelia almost rolled her eyes.

Yeah, like I'll listen you. That's just bound to be conducive to my good health.

She took a cautious step back, the snow swallowing her foot up past the shin. At once, both redirected their attention to attack her instead.

Actually, maybe it was time for some backtracking.

"Err... I'm sure we can settle this peacefully." Of course she didn't expect a peaceful resolution. She wasn't naive, but she needed to play for time to think of a way out of there that didn't include the words "as a hostage."

There was some consolation in the fact that neither were likely to kill her, if only a little. Evidently they'd been monitoring her mother for some time, hoping and waiting for Ophelia to show up. She never should have used her real surname at Hogwarts. Oh well. Too late.

Speaking of her mother, she may not have had much in the way of loyalty, or bravery, or even kindness, but Ophelia couldn't fault her sense. That lady needed no magic to evaporate into their air:

Alas, how history repeats itself.

The older of the two, the one who bore a strong air of condescension and was therefor, Ophelia imagined, most likely Ministry, spoke up in a thick, near indecipherable accent, "No peace. Your time is already up."

As if on cue, the snowbank erupted in a dozen sharp cracking sounds, like every tree in the forest snapped in two, one after another.

It wasn't the trees, though. The Ministry's of the world had finally found her, likely notified the second she showed up at her mother's side.

Except, they weren't the only ones.

"Uncle. You shouldn't have come."

A/N

I didn't proofread the last bit this time, sorry, but I'm super busy now, so I likely wouldn't have been able to post for at least another week if I did, and I figured a month was alread a long enough wait. Can you believe this is already 30 chapters?? That's wild.