autumn | severus snape

twenty eight

It was well into October and Ophelia had been hearing about Ana's struggles in bits and pieces, catching glimpses of her sister's quiet frustration in hurried conversations and whispered complaints. Ana had been eager to attend Hogwarts, but now her enthusiasm had dulled, replaced by a simmering anxiety.

In Charms, Ana's hands shook as she attempted to perform the Levitation Charm for the third time that day. Her classmates were already moving on to more advanced spells, their feathers floating effortlessly above their desks, while Ana's own stubbornly refused to lift. Professor Flitwick offered her an encouraging smile, but she caught the flicker of worry in his eyes, and it only deepened her insecurity.

In Transfiguration, her struggles were even more apparent. Every attempt to transform a matchstick into a needle ended in disappointment, her matchstick refusing to change shape. Professor McGonagall watched with a furrowed brow, her expression a mix of patience and concern as she gently corrected Ana's wand movements. But no matter how carefully Ana tried to follow her instructions, her spells remained weak, flickering and fading before they could even take hold.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was perhaps the most challenging of all. In a class where confidence and skill were essential, Ana's spells barely produced a spark, and her wand felt heavy in her hand. She would watch her classmates successfully casting Shield Charms and Disarming Spells, their magic flowing with ease, while her own attempts fizzled out almost as soon as they began. Draco Malfoy offered encouragement, but Ana could feel the eyes of her classmates on her, the subtle whispers of doubt and judgment that filled the room whenever her spells failed.

One evening, when Ophelia had trouble falling asleep, she found Ana in the Hufflepuff common room, slumped over her Transfiguration book, her face half-hidden behind a curtain of hair. She was scribbling notes, her quill moving furiously across the parchment, though her eyes were red-rimmed, her expression weary.

"Hey," Ophelia greeted softly, pulling up a chair beside her sister. "What are you doing here?"

"Andrew let me in, the Slytherin common room has too many distractions." Ana didn't look up. "I just... need to catch up."

Ophelia glanced at the open books and pages of notes scattered across the table, an eleven year old should not have to study this hard. "Is everything alright?" She asked gently. "Draco mentioned you've been struggling a bit."

Ana's shoulders slumped, and she let out a frustrated sigh. "It's just... everything. Charms, Transfiguration, DADA... everyone else makes it look so easy, and I feel like... like I can barely do anything."

Ophelia reached out, placing a comforting hand on Ana's shoulder. "Hey, magic doesn't come the same way for everyone. And it doesn't make you any less capable."

Ana shook her head, her voice tinged with frustration and defeat. "I know, but... what if I'm just not good enough? What if I never get it right?"

Ophelia felt a pang of empathy. "You will get it, Ana. Sometimes, magic just takes time to find its strength. It's there, you're just figuring out how to reach it. And you don't have to do it alone."

Ana looked up at her sister, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and managed a small, grateful smile. They spent the rest of the night going through spells, making small, but significant, progress.

𖠇

The next morning, Professor McGonagall rose from her seat at the head table, and a quiet hush fell over the Great Hall. She stepped forward, her eyes sweeping over the sea of students, a small but noticeable smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Good morning, everyone," she began, her voice carrying easily across the hall. "I hope you're all settling into the term as well as can be expected."

A low murmur of amusement rippled through the hall at the understatement, especially from the first years who were still adjusting to Hogwarts' unique pace.