autumn | severus snape

fifty two

The light of the setting sun filtered through the tall windows of Professor McGonagall's office, casting long shadows across the room. The faint scent of parchment and wood polish filled the air, and the comforting hum of the enchanted quills scratching on administrative work provided a soft backdrop.

Ophelia stood hesitantly at the threshold, her knuckles still tingling from the knock she had just delivered. Her heart raced with uncertainty. McGonagall had offered her support before, but now that she was here, Ophelia wasn't sure where to begin.

"Miss Delisle," McGonagall's voice broke through her thoughts. The headmistress stood behind her desk, her sharp eyes softening with concern. "Please, come in."

Ophelia stepped inside, the weight on her shoulders making her movements heavy. She hadn't slept properly in days, and the grief she carried clung to her like a shadow.

She stopped in front of the desk, her gaze dropping to the intricate pattern on the carpet, as if the swirl of colors might offer some clarity.

"I was wondering when you'd come," McGonagall said gently. "I've been worried about you."

Ophelia's throat tightened. "I didn't know if... if I had the right to be here," she admitted quietly.

"Nonsense," McGonagall said firmly. "You've always had the right. My door is open, as I told you before."

The sincerity in her words made Ophelia's resolve falter. Her voice wavered as she spoke. "I don't know how to do this anymore."

McGonagall's expression softened further. "What do you mean?"

"Teddy's gone," Ophelia whispered, her voice breaking. "And I can't.. I don't know how to go on without him. And Ana—" She stopped, shaking her head as tears burned her eyes.

McGonagall didn't press, allowing her the space to speak.

"She's slipping away," Ophelia continued, her voice raw. "And it's my responsibility to save her, but I don't know if I can. It's all just... too much."

McGonagall's eyes gleamed with compassion. "Listen to me, Miss Delisle," she said firmly. "You have carried more than any student, more than most adults, should ever have to bear. But you are still here. You have fought for your sister, for your friends, for what is right. That speaks to your strength."

Ophelia shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. "I don't feel strong. I feel weak and useless and.. exhausted."

"That's understandable," McGonagall said gently. "Grief is a storm, unpredictable and merciless. But it does not mean you are weak. Strength is not the absence of pain, Ophelia. It is the courage to face it, even when you don't know how."

Ophelia looked up, her voice small. "What if I can't fix everything? What if I fail Ana?"

McGonagall's gaze softened. "You are not meant to fix everything, my dear. You're meant to live through it and find your way. And you will find your way."

Ophelia wiped her eyes with trembling fingers. The faint scent of parchment and ink lingered in the air, but Ophelia could hardly breathe. Her chest was tight, and every breath felt like a battle.

"I can't do it anymore," she whispered, her voice barely audible as she sank to her knees. Her trembling hands pressed against the floor, grounding her against the overwhelming weight threatening to crush her. "I'm sorry. I just... I can't."

There was a pause, heavy and solemn. McGonagall stood behind her desk, her expression etched with a mix of concern and resolve. Slowly, she rounded the desk and knelt before Ophelia, her robes brushing the floor.