autumn | severus snape

sixty two

The weeks after were quiet, surprisingly so. Sometimes Ophelia would wake in the middle of the night expecting to hear distant spells crackling or someone shouting her name. But all she heard was the gentle hum of crickets through the open window and the steady rhythm of Severus's breathing beside her.

Ophelia tended to the garden every morning, her hands deep in the soil, sleeves rolled to her elbows. The hybrid plants she had once created in desperation now flourished in neat rows, interspersed with lavender and night-blooming jasmine. The garden smelled like memory and healing.

Severus had meetings at the Ministry more often than he liked, too many people suddenly cared what he had to say now that the war was over. Sometimes he came home late, his shoulders tight with tension, his voice low with exhaustion. But the moment he stepped through the gate and saw her crouched by a planting of Asphodels or sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, the lines in his face would soften.

Some nights they tangled up in silence, her head tucked beneath his chin, his arm curled protectively around her waist. Other nights, they whispered until dawn, talked about things they'd never told anyone else.

They visited Teddy's grave at the edge of the old forest, where wildflowers crept along the stones and the wind whispered through tall grass. The headstone was modest, his mother had insisted on that, but it was always clean, always surrounded by fresh blooms. Severus never said much on those visits. He would stand a little ways behind her, giving her space, hands folded behind his back, head bowed in quiet respect.

They kept a kettle charmed to boil instantly, because Alya and Andrew would show up without warning. Andrew always brought biscuits that crumbled too easily, and Alya brought stories from her new work at St. Mungo's. The four of them would sit out back beneath the string lights Ophelia had charmed to glow soft and golden, sipping tea and pretending, for a little while, that the world hadn't burned around them not so long ago.

It wasn't perfect. Sometimes Severus grew quiet and retreated into himself, disappearing into his potions lab for hours. Sometimes Ophelia would sit on the edge of the bed staring out the window, missing her family with an ache so sharp it made her chest hurt. But they always found their way back to each other, through touch, through laughter, through shared silence.

They didn't need grand declarations. Just the way Severus refilled her mug without asking, or the way Ophelia would slip fragrant herbs into his coat pocket to soothe his senses when he left for the Ministry.

And then the invitation to the celebration arrived.

The envelope was thick and cream-colored, sealed with the gold crest of the Ministry. Ophelia turned it over in her hands, hesitant. The parchment inside was elegant and formal, the ink deep blue and impersonal:

You are cordially invited to attend the Celebration of Peace and Remembrance...

Her name was printed in bold beneath a carefully worded paragraph. She was to be one of the honored guests. One of the speakers.

The parchment trembled slightly in her hands as she read it again. And then a third time.

She didn't realize Severus had entered the room until his hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder.

"They want me to speak." She looked up at him, eyes wide, voice cracking. "How am I supposed to stand in front of Teddy's mother and talk about winning?"

Severus knelt beside her chair, taking the parchment from her hands and setting it aside. His gaze was steady, searching hers. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone," he said quietly. "But if you speak... you don't have to speak for the Ministry, for the war. Speak for him."