autumn | severus snape

fifty one

Severus walked with purpose, his every step measured, controlled. It had to be. If he let himself falter, if he allowed even the smallest crack in his carefully constructed armor, he wasn't sure he could hold himself together.

He turned a corner swiftly, only to find her standing there.

Ophelia.

For a moment, time stilled.

Her eyes were searching his, desperate and heavy with grief, pleading for something he wasn't sure he could give her. And Merlin help him, he wanted to. He wanted to reach for her, to fold her into his arms, to tell her that he had no regrets about saving her, about choosing her.

But his mind was screaming at him.

He had been careless. He had revealed himself. They had lost their last advantage, the final thread of information that might have kept them ahead of her father. And for what?

He forced his face into a mask of indifference, even as he saw the flicker of hope in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, he cut her off.

"Not now, Miss Delisle."

His voice was clipped, impersonal. He didn't dare look back as he passed her.

He felt her presence behind him, lingering in the corridor, waiting for something he wouldn't allow himself to give.

The moment he reached Minerva's office, he shut the door behind him with more force than necessary.

"Severus?" she looked up, concern flickering across her face.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

"I made a mistake." His voice was quiet, but the weight of the words filled the room.

Minerva sighed, setting down her quill. "Severus... sit, please."

He sat down in the chair across from her desk, his hands gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles went white. His heart was hammering in his chest, but his face, his carefully controlled, unreadable mask, did not betray the panic clawing at his ribs.

What had he done?

He had spent years in control, years balancing on a knife's edge, playing a game of survival where every move had to be precise, calculated. But that night, in the forest, he had made a choice. A reckless, irreversible choice. He had turned his back on the role he had played for so long. He had given up his position, his advantage, his ability to know what was coming.

And all because he had wanted her.

He had been selfish. He had let his feelings for her override reason, override strategy. And now, there was no one left on the inside. No way of knowing what her father would do next. No way to stop it before it was too late.

He was breathing too fast. His hands trembled as he pressed his fingers to his temple, willing himself to think. To fix this.

Minerva watched him from across the desk, her gaze sharp but not unkind. "You made the right decision, Severus," she said firmly.

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Did I?" His voice was low, tight. "I abandoned our best source of information. We are now blind, vulnerable, and when he strikes, we will have nothing to defend ourselves with." He exhaled sharply, fingers curling into fists. "All because I couldn't walk away."

Minerva leaned forward slightly, her expression softening just enough to unsettle him. "It is not an evil thing to want better for yourself, Severus."

His head snapped up, something unreadable flashing through his dark eyes.

She continued, her tone gentler now. "For years, you have made sacrifices. You have endured, you have fought, and you have suffered in silence. And when faced with a moment where you could have chosen cruelty, you chose something else."

His throat tightened, but he said nothing.

"You chose yourself."

Severus inhaled sharply, looking away.

"I know you think caring is a weakness, Severus, but it is not," she added after a pause. "And if you let yourself see it... you might realize that this is the first time you have fought for something you wanted, rather than what was expected of you."

The words hit him harder than they should have.

For years, he had convinced himself that suffering was his penance. That every painful, lonely moment was what he deserved. But Ophelia... Ophelia had looked at him like he was worth saving. She had begged him to stay. And for the first time in years, he had let himself want.

𖠇

Ophelia's grief swelled, tightening in her throat.

She hadn't realized how much she needed him until now. Until the fight had left her, until grief had settled deep in her bones and there was no one else she wanted to turn to. But Severus was pushing her away. Again.

Grief clung to her like a second skin. It sat heavy in her chest, a weight that no amount of deep breaths could lift.

Teddy was everywhere and nowhere all at once. She saw him in the empty seat at the Slytherin table, heard him in the echoes of laughter that no longer belonged to him. His absence was deafening. The castle felt colder without him, even though the fires still burned and the halls filled with students coming back from Christmas break. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

She barely slept. When she closed her eyes, she saw him, the way he used to grin at her, the way he used to throw an arm around her shoulders, the way he had always been there. And now he wasn't.

The first morning after, she sat on the edge of her bed, staring at nothing. Alya spoke to her, but she couldn't remember what was said. She nodded when she was supposed to, answered when expected, but her voice felt detached from her body.

It wasn't until she reached the greenhouses that the dam finally broke. Alone among the plants, where life thrived, where she had always found peace, she collapsed. Her knees hit the dirt, and the sobs came, raw and unrelenting. She gripped the edge of a worktable, her nails digging into the wood as if holding on could keep her from shattering completely.

He was gone. Teddy was gone.

And no matter how much she screamed into the soil, how many tears she let fall among the roots, the earth would never give him back.

Ophelia spent most nights smoking in the Astronomy Tower, staring at the distant treetops of the Forbidden Forest. The place where everything had gone wrong. Where Teddy had died.

Draco would join her most nights, wordlessly draping his cloak over her shoulders. It always smelled like firewood and expensive cologne, a grounding scent, something familiar in a world that suddenly felt foreign.

Neither of them would speak. Instead, he would pull her into his arms and she would bury her face in his shoulder.

But when the snow slowly started to melt, and Ana was getting worse, Ophelia knew she couldn't let her grief consume her anymore.

She sat by Ana's bed in the hospital wing, watching the faint rise and fall of her sister's chest. Her skin was pale, too pale, her body weak and frail beneath the blankets. It was happening faster now. Her father was draining the life out of her, and Ophelia had wasted too much time grieving when she should have been fighting.

She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Ana's clammy forehead. "You're going to be okay," she whispered, her voice raw. "I promise."

Ana stirred slightly but didn't wake.

Ophelia inhaled sharply, steeling herself. She couldn't afford to break down again. Not when there was still something left to fight for.