autumn | severus snape

five

Snape had been over every other night since their little mishap in his house. It had been two weeks, and her father hadn't forced another lesson on her since, no more duels in the drawing room, no more wandless magic drills while he stood with crossed arms and a scowl. Just quiet, eerie silence. The kind that felt more like a held breath than peace.

Every time Snape knocked, he claimed to have urgent business with her father. The lies came with straight faces and curt nods, each visit apparently more important than the last. She knew better. She didn't know what they talked about, locked away for hours in the study, but she was starting to wonder if she was the subject more often than not.

That Saturday night was no different.

"Miss Delisle," he greeted her respectfully.

"Professor," she answered in kind.

Ophelia had come to learn that Snape only treated her decently when her father was around. The same went for her.

"This way, please, Severus," her father gestured towards his office.

They would disappear, as they always did, behind heavy oak. Sometimes, Snape stayed for dinner. Ophelia hated those nights. The conversations were stiff, the glances sharper than the knives on the table. It made her feel like she was being observed, measured.

She usually escaped before then. But not tonight.

"Severus, will you stay for dinner?" her mother asked sweetly, clinging to that cultivated tone she used whenever she wanted something.

"I wouldn't want to intrude," Snape said, scanning the room, finding her.

She looked away.

"Nonsense. You're always welcome," her mother chirped. "Isn't that right, Ophelia?"

There it was. Her name, like a stain on porcelain.

"Of course," she said, voice stiff as she offered Snape a brittle smile.

"It's settled, then," her mother beamed. "Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Ophelia, why don't you prepare a drink for our guest?"

The subtext was clear. Behave.

"Of course, Mother," she muttered, already heading for the patio.

The sun was low in the sky, bleeding gold across the stone terrace. Her father had laid out several bottles as if hosting a gala, not a strained dinner with a Professor.

"Your mother is... persistent," Snape said dryly behind her.

"You don't know the half of it." She didn't bother looking at him. "What do you prefer, Professor?"

"Surprise me."

She bit back a sarcastic remark and got to work. She could do this. Pretend. Mix drinks. Play nice.

A few minutes later, she handed him the glass.

He took a sip, grimaced. "What is this?"

"A Negroni. It's a Muggle cocktail," she said, smirking. "Perfect for hot, oppressive summer nights."

He eyed the glass like it might be poison. "It's... interesting."

"You don't have to drink it."

"It would be rude not to."

She huffed a laugh. A small, surprised sound that felt foreign in her own throat.

"Whatever you say, Professor."

"Infuriating," he muttered and drained the glass like it was punishment.

She watched him over the rim of her own drink, eyes tracing the sharp lines of his profile, the way his hands looked too delicate for the way he fought. He wore his usual black. Always black. Did he own anything else? Did he even do laundry? Or—