autumn | severus snape

sixty three

Severus crouched awkwardly beside one of the raised garden beds, brows furrowed, wand in hand. The soil was rich, the roots delicate, and the instructions Ophelia had given him, though clear, somehow still managed to elude him.

"This is absurd," he muttered, poking at the base of the plant with visible frustration. "The roots are refusing to bind properly. They're entirely uncooperative."

From across the garden, Ophelia glanced over, sunlight catching in her hair as she rose from her knees, gloves tucked into her pockets. "Maybe because you're threatening them," she said, grinning. "You look like you're about to duel the poor thing."

He gave her a withering look, which only made her laugh harder. The sound of it spilled through the garden like sunlight, bright, warm, and utterly disarming.

"You said clockwise," he said, trying again with a more careful flourish.

Ophelia wandered over, kneeling beside him. "I said gently clockwise," she corrected, taking his hand in hers and guiding the motion. "You're manhandling it like it insulted your potions."

"It's not cooperating," he insisted, but there was the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth.

Ophelia leaned in close, her hands brushing his as she steadied the plant. "It just needs a little patience."

He grumbled something under his breath, but let her guide him. The warmth of her hand lingered in his, grounding and familiar.

When she looked up at him, smudges of dirt on his cheek, something tightened in her chest. He was brilliant and brooding, all sharp edges to the outside world, but here with her, in this little patch of green, he was something else entirely.

She laughed again, soft this time, shaking her head. "You know," she said, voice quiet now, "you're really very bad at this."

"I am painfully aware," he replied.

And yet he stayed, fingers brushing against hers as they settled the last root into place. Inside, Ophelia felt like her whole chest had bloomed, because despite his irritation, despite his muttering, he was still there. Trying.

And she was in love with him. Madly, endlessly, stupidly in love.

"You're not so bad at the rest of it," she murmured.

He raised an eyebrow. "The rest of what?"

She only smiled. "Everything else."

𖠇

The house she shared with Severus was quiet as Ophelia sat by the window, her gaze drifting out over the grounds. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow, and for a moment, everything felt still. It had been a chaotic few days, between writing her speech, meetings with the Minister, applying for apprenticeships, and everything else she was trying to carry, she had barely found time to breathe.

The owl flew through the open window with a soft flutter, its sharp wings cutting through the air. Ophelia looked up just in time to see the small bird land gracefully on the armrest of the chair next to her, a neatly rolled letter tied to its leg.

She raised an eyebrow as the owl extended its leg toward her. She untied the letter with care and unrolled it, reading the neat script of the sender's name.

Professor Farid El-Amin

Ophelia's heart skipped a beat. She was familiar with Professor El-Amin's work, especially his research on magical flora. His name was known for pioneering sustainable magical practices, particularly regarding rare and endangered plants. He was one of the best. But this letter, what could he want with her?