Chapter 35- Epilogue: J•S•S
"And do you, my follower, promise to ensure that your life is laid at my feet at a beckon call?
That the mark you now carry is carried with pride"
Ophelia: "Of course..."
Draco: " Always"
BOTH: "My lord"
"And do you ensure that the members of the order will be brought to me?
That they are punished for going against the Lord"
Ophelia: "I will bring them to you on a spit my lord"
Draco: "They will be laid at your feet like cattle my lord"
BOTH: "I will ensure they are all brought to their knees"
"Do you swear that all jobs laid into your hands will be completed
And that any task set out, will be finished."
Ophelia: "They will be finished with flare my lord"
Draco: "I will my lord. Task it to me and it shall be done"
BOTH: "I will ensure that the blood of your enemies are spilled"
"You are my next in command. Do you promise me that the men that follow your lead will be as loyal to me as you are...
That they will carry the mark with pride. With lust?"
Ophelia: "I will not disappoint you my lord"
Draco: "I will mould them into soldiers, break them and create them as your army"
BOTH: "They will shed their skin and walk with you"
"Very well. You may go. You have done me proud, do not make me wish that I did not appoint you as my new left wing."
do not make me wish that I did not appoint you as my right hand man"
Ophelia: "Thank you my lord."
Draco: "Forever my lord"
BOTH: "May you live and conquer"
*THREE YEARS LATER*
WAR RAGES ON.
Fifteen months after the battle at Hogwarts, and The Dark Lord has issued a statement containing the fate of the Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
He issued that it would indeed return as a school, with a definite change to the learning curriculum with a harsher push towards the dark arts and combat ability. With Dolores Umbridge returning as the headmistress.
The order attacked the London base earlier this week, with nineteen casualties counted on our behalf. With one of our fallen being marked as none other than Marcus Flint who was dealt a horrible blow of the acid curse. His father laid him to rest in their family plot, with a beautiful service filled with his comrades and trusted allies.
In a time where darkness overtook and the symbolism of a skull and snake became normality. Ophelia Clark and Draco Malfoy tumbled further into the black hole. Each of them creating a To-do list of objectives.
Draco gained momentum fast, surpassing his father in Voldemort's ranks and even gained himself a name that hung in the air like treacle.
Disaster becomes the DISSENTER
The young Draco Lucius Malfoy has gained his respects of the dark circle after overseeing territorial disputes in Scotland, where we remained successful in overthrowing the Order.
A mr George Weasley was witnessed in Edinburgh in the early days of November, Mr Malfoy being deployed in hopes to take him down. Although unsuccessful in capturing Mr Weasley they were able to locate Mr Arthur Weasley who who discarded with ease and efficiency through the hands of Malfoy. Where he then learned of the uprising plans in France: which was quickly executed and controlled. The senator of France Ms Laetitia Girard is to be set to be executed by The Executrix.
The once disappointment of the Malfoy lineage has created a army of built and ready soldiers, with his once general status in the early year of the war creating a standing ground of dominance.
His name of Dissenter comes from the knowledge that he is Voldemort's allocated hitman- the person to bring Order members to the dark lord alive: and to ensure that any uprising is taken down and handed to the correct hands. A job that the young man took in his stride, lowering the casualty of raids of ambushes by seventy three percent, with figures even showing that in due course: he could even become the next Dark lord. A prophecy his father Lucius Malfoy wears with pride.
However Draco Malfoy does not seem to have a female figure in his life. With the death of his mother late last spring, a possible companion has not been spotted with Malfoy, with many speculating that his time for teenage romances were tarnished during the war, a bigger goal overtaking his mind: the need to be the greatest.
Morals that were deemed set in stone crumbled around Ophelia as she settled herself in the dark part of her mind. Suddenly surviving became easier, exterminating people that stood in her way became almost enjoyable.
Voldemort took her with open arms, glorifying her murder of Fae.
"Shows real spirit" he told her.
The death of Bellatrix came to Voldemort as a great pain, the devil mourning, however unmatched the concept was for Ophelia: he did.
But when time came to it, Bellatrix the second was needed. And being under the wing of The dark lord for almost 2 years and overseeing all his appointed needs and requests. Meant that Ophelia was given the new title. And she even had the dagger to carry it.
Her first official death gifted to her was a member of the Order. Hannah Abbott. The young girl being the same age as Ophelia, but she couldn't place her. A yellow wearing girl who was handed to Ophelia screaming and begging.
THE FIRST ONE FALLS: EXECUTRIX CUTS THE RIBBON.
The Executrix strikes for the first time, with a member of The Order of the Phoenix Miss Hannah Abbott being executed during the early hours of this morning.
And the Executrix? Miss Ophelia Clark, a budding young girl who crossed the line during the battle of Hogwarts and was soon amended as a person favourite of the Dark Lord. A title that she still uploads it this day.
While many called for Hannah Abbott to be given the Dementors kiss, it was Ophelia who deemed it a public service and allowed her death to be tolled in front of a crowd. The reasoning behind it being that if people witnessed the lengths we would go it, perhaps the order would be less likely to advance any attacks.
Hannah Abbott was executed by Sectumsempra, a personal favourite of The Executrix.
A witness of the battle of Hogwarts alluded to us that her form of execution stems from the death of a close friend, the troubled girl perhaps using this as a enzyme to push the punishments of those who did wrong further.
Although this reasoning may not be fully known. One thing is certain. The Executrix takes the role very seriously, and she has gained the nickname Curtrix as a result: some likening the nickname to the late Bellatrix Lestrange who was the former right hand woman of the Dark lord.
Draco continued his missions feverishly for two full years, each one chipping away at his brain piece by piece.
But he never lost the knowledge that he had dragged another person into the mess that he now stood in. But the person who he pulled in feet first, was in deeper than he was. A fact that he would overwork daily.
His reputation proceeded him across continents and seas. Whispers of the Dissenter being laced throughout pub conversations. The name, however extravagant it sounded held Draco in a vice of power and anguish. No matter how much he switched it off, the sound of dying people hitting the floor never left him.
Until one day, it didn't. It became a harmony.
ANARCHY IN ROMANIA
The order rise up in Romania has been brought to their knees. The ambush planned by none other than Draco Malfoy created a big success. Even better than they had hoped, with four Order members being brought back to meet their fate.
The attack which was met with blood shed and death, was curated and led by young Malfoy. A silent hunter who halted the plans of the order to overthrow our men stationed in Romania. Many reported that the main decapitation of Dennis Creevey was carried out by Malfoy himself: a celebration in itself.
In other news, the annual winter ball was held in the Malfoy manor, with guests in attendance like Malfoy and his father, Rodolphus Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Fenrir Greyback and even the cynical storm herself, miss Ophelia Clark.
The ball rained a success with The Dark Lord offering his yearly speech of celebration and commencement, Malfoy standing guard to his right while Clark stood it his left. The newly formed triangle of trust cemented in the cold eyes of power.
A source asked Malfoy if his partnership with miss Clark extended further than the battle field, with the young heir refusing to comment and instead issued a warning to those of the order who may be listening.
"We will come for you. George: you are next on my list. And anyone who things of turning against us will pay."
Meanwhile, Ophelia wrote in her little black book every night. Writing down the name of the person or people she had killed that day.
By her fifth month of being the Executrix. She had filled seven pages front and back.
She stumbled upon a muggle tattoo studio during the first month of her being initiated by The Dark Lord. Her hope straightened and reimplemented as the buzzing of the gun and smell of sweat wafted towards her brain.
She left with three small letters etched into her skin above her collar bone.
" J S S "
As the months became years, the three letters changed themselves. Morphing into a new motto.
The original meaning lost in a chaos of blood and burning. Perhaps if things were different, they would have stayed as their original meaning.
"Good afternoon and thank you for joining us on Dark Mark Radio, my name is Rita Skeeter and we are joined today with none other than Miss Ophelia Clark. Tell us. How have you been?"
"ive been well yes. Being kept busy with the threats that we still face however."
Rita: "yes of course. Speaking of these threats, is it true that they are calculated within the ranks of the order?"
Ophelia: "They are yes. However we have been able to locate many of the founding Order members, despite the silence myself and our people hold: we are closing in on them."
Rita: "I bet you are. Now tell me, a little bird told me that there is a spy lurking in the corners of the Death eater ranks. Is this true?"
Ophelia: "it was true yes. A traitor was found in our ranks, it was none other than Theodore Nott. However this man has left our ranks. Unfortunately the dark circle that he was posted in was unaware of the arrest we had out for him here in London: and he has since escaped."
Rita: "My my. That is very frightening. Now tell me, do you know what rank mr Nott was placed under?"
Ophelia: "Mr Draco Mafoy's rank."
Rita: "Malfoy, as in Dissenter?"
Ophelia: "That is correct"
Rita: "...And how do you think Nott escaped without hassle?"
Ophelia: "Poor management."
Rita: "From the dissenters behalf?"
Ophelia: "Why of course. If he was in my rank he would be dead. In fact anyone who even thinks about leaving The Dark Lord will answer to me. It is in fact my job."
Rita: "......That is a threat I do see you are intent on keeping miss Clark. Speaking of. How has the new job been treating you. Your reputation has travelled as far as Japan."
Ophelia: "I hope that I am doing the Dark Lord proud. That his work is served and that anyone who wishes to step up to him, ought to remind themselves of the once great Harry Potter"
Rita: "Ah yes. Harry Potter. Now tell me miss Clark. During the battle at Hogwarts: you switched sides. You were originally standing with the wrong side. What changed for you. When did everything click?"
Ophelia: "I realised I had to survive. Make sure that I didn't die. I once made that promise to an old friend of mine."
Rita: "And have they?"
Ophelia: " have they what?"
Rita: " Survived?"
Ophelia: "to some degree yes."
Rita: "Do you see them? Is it someone we know?"
Ophelia: "I am not commenting on that, we are not here-"
Rita: "Is it Mr Malfoy? Is he the-"
Ophelia: "I am finished with this interview now."
Rita: "Oh well. Miss Clark has had to leave us early, thank you for tuning in and we cant wait to hear form our next victory member"
Both Ophelia and Draco passed around each other like ice skaters. Drifting into the view of one another, but never fully touching. In some weird sense, the events of the past two years changed each of them into mirror images of the next. Both doing horrendous crimes, both alone in a world of darkness. But neither able to cope with the gaping hole that was left. They day they promised each other to survive.
When I promised to you that I would survive, I had no idea how long it would take for me to ensure that survival was a common decision. I would wait for you outside your meetings, sit on the stone steps and watch you walk out of them: ashen faced and clammy. As months passed you became so used to the Dark Lord and his wishes. Even beginning to make sense of his needs. I would take your hand and rub circles on your thumb, listen to your fears and wipe away the sweat from your forehead. Our bedroom antics became your reasoning of distraction.
A small piece of heaven in a world full of fire.
But then I was invited into meetings. Sitting facing you as the Dark Lord spoke with fire and lust. Soon he began to shape me, his harrowing ideas of clay modelling were laid onto me and torture of the mind and body bent me until I could no longer be fixed.
we went on tasks together, my fire burning along side yours. But I would also be willing to do one step further than you.
And then the fireplace stopped being a beckon of our love. Of peace. It became the cauldron of burning blood soaked clothes and artefacts.
Dancing turned childish and instead marching to the signal of war became the new symphony: for both of us. You always walked bigger strides than me.
Our crazed lust filled nights together in secret became cold and chastised, sex suddenly becoming a chore. My moans of pleasure became squirms of discomfort. Your groans of pleasure becoming sighs of tiredness and unsatisfaction.
Eventually you would lie in bed and sleep, facing the wall and keeping still.
Eventually I stopped coming into your bed.
Eventually we became strangers.
Eventually. We began to survive. Without each other.
I would round a corner of a house, and expect to see you dancing away to some song you liked.
I would watch the living room dance with shadows and imagine you leap and jump. Twirl and bend. The song complimenting your moves.
But when he fog cleared, and my eyes adjusted. The shadows became bodies and the music was them hitting the floor.
I pulled you up the rafters and then you climbed the rest, gaining a seat with me at the high table. A fate I had dreaded getting myself. And so when you got it: it crushed me.
I used to watch the stars and think of your eyes, see them shine at me as you threw your head back and laughed. See them spin around as she tossed around on your toes.
And now when I look at them, casts of coloured curses spew back at me. Death somehow etched in anything I found pretty.
I would lick you and taste you. Feeling your body shake and convulse. The aspect of us staying intact during this. Keeping a secret like this? Made me reach ecstasy.
Your moaning sounded like angels, choirs singing and exclaiming their love.
And then your moans became hard and rehearsed. Your body straight and hard, a dead body staring up at me as I thrusted and hissed. Images of those I had killed and hunted began wandering down onto the mattress, your face mirroring those that gazed at me lifeless.
Your breasts became crystal balls where I could see my future, if I rubbed too hard I saw too much: you would grunt and tell me I was too rough.
The once soft hair that drew down your back, became tangled and kept in french braids. Too lazy to take them out I would know what to grab. I would grab the sheets and then give in.
And then..you stopped coming to bed. The realisation hitting me.
We were both surviving. But we no longer needed each other.
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