autumn | severus snape

thirty

The wind was cold and biting, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. Ophelia stood at the edge of the cemetery, tucked into the shadow of an old oak tree, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she watched the scene unfold from afar.

The sight before her was unbearable: five caskets lined up side by side, Cory's entire family laid to rest after her father's attack. At the center of it all was Cory's casket, the oldest of three but his life still cut short before it had truly begun.

Ophelia's chest ached, her throat tightening as she watched the small crowd of mourners, friends, extended family, gathered to say goodbye. Their grief was visible even at a distance, their tears falling freely as the priest's words blended with the soft patter of rain beginning to fall.

She didn't belong there. She couldn't face them, couldn't risk being recognized by anyone who might ask why she was there, who she was to the family. What could she say? That her father was the reason their graves existed? That her own bloodline was the cause of their pain?

Ophelia's thoughts traveled back to the funeral months ago, standing rigid beside her parents as they buried her twin brother. Her hands had been clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms, because she couldn't cry.

Weakness isn't tolerated in this family, her father had said, his cold gaze daring her to defy him.

But it wasn't his permission she had wanted. She had wanted to grieve for Peter, to let the pain out, but she had refused. She wouldn't let her father see her break, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of mocking her tears.

Now, the tears came freely, and she didn't bother to wipe them away. They were for Cory, for Margot, for Peter. For all of them.

She turned away, couldn't watch anymore, the rain soaking her to the bone as she disappeared into the shadows.

𖠇

Her family's house loomed in the darkness. Shadows stretched long and foreboding across the grounds, and a sinister energy seemed to pulse from the very walls. He was there, he had to be.

As she walked around the house to the patio, the chill in the air deepened, and a familiar, oppressive sense of dread settled over her. It was not long ago when her biggest problem had been getting caught drunk and sneaking into this very house early in the morning.

The new wards put in place were powerful, but she had expected nothing less. With a flick of her wand and whispered incantations, the glass doors slid open. Voices echoed faintly from the dining room, and she followed them, her footsteps light and deliberate.

A group of robed figures sat by the table. At their head stood her father, tall and imposing, his presence dominating the space. His voice carried through the room, calm and commanding, weaving words of manipulation and cruelty.

Ophelia hesitated, not expecting him to have company. She was outnumbered by far. But before she could walk away, the Death Eaters turned, their movements sharp and synchronized like a pack of wolves. Her father's gaze settled on her, his expression unreadable but his eyes glinting with dangerous amusement.

"My daughter has come home!" Her father announced, the room bursting into applause, like she was some hero returning.

She gripped her stone tightly as she stepped into the room, sending a quick message to Teddy.

"This is no home," she said, her voice firm despite the rapid pounding of her heart.

Her father's laughter boomed, drowning out her words. "What an entrance you've made, my dear! You've inherited my flair for the dramatic, it seems." He stepped closer, his dark robes brushing the floor. His eyes bore into hers, cold and piercing, like a predator playing with its prey.