autumn | severus snape

eight

"Are we there yet?" Ophelia asked, dragging her feet as they climbed higher into the dense forest.

The incline was punishing, especially with the hangover pulsing at her temples like a war drum. She finally gave in, collapsing onto a patch of moss and cradling her head in her hands. Snape stopped a few paces ahead, turned, and raised an eyebrow before joining her on the ground with a sigh.

"Perhaps this will teach you not to drink like a reckless fool," he muttered.

She held up a hand, eyes shut, too tired to bite back.

"Just.. shut up. Please."

She fumbled through her coat pocket, retrieving her silver cigarette case with trembling fingers. The metallic snap of it opening echoed too loud in the trees.

Snape caught the first whiff of smoke and scowled. Without a word, he snatched the case from her grip and tucked it into his robes.

"Hey!" she snapped, eyes flashing.

"You're done," he said flatly.

"You take my wand, you take my cigarettes, you yell at me when I drink... You're just no fun, you know that?"

"Is this some slow, deliberate suicide?" he hissed.

"What I do, or do not try to do, is none of your business." She leaned in close. Then she exhaled a puff of smoke directly into his face.

She sees the moment anger takes over his eyes, they widen and his right eyebrow twitches slightly. His hand shot out before she could react, gripping her arm tightly and hauling her to her feet. The cigarette fell from her lips, forgotten.

"Let go of me, Snape," she warned. "Or I swear, I'll scream bloody murder."

He stopped so suddenly she nearly stumbled into him. He turned to her, eyes dark with something unreadable.

"I could do anything I wanted to you, right here, I could make you scream louder than you've ever screamed before," he said in a growl so low it made her shiver, "and no one would hear you."

A shiver traced down her spine. She looked at him, his face, so close, his breath warm, his voice like smoke curling into her skin. Her mouth parted slightly.

"Is that a promise?" she whispered.

Snape knew she was part love, part mischief. He inhaled sharply, his chest brushing hers, and for one drawn-out heartbeat, the world stood still around them. Then—

"Sit," he said, his tone abrupt and cold.

"What?"

"Sit down."

The spell shattered. She blinked, took a step back, and only then realized they were at the top of the hill. Below them stretched a lake, still and silver like glass. Pines rose like dark spires all around, and the sun scattered gold across the mountaintops.

Snape dropped to the ground, legs crossed. "Miss Delisle," he said sternly.

"Right," she muttered. "Sitting."

She mirrored his posture reluctantly.

"Close your eyes. Clear your mind."

Ophelia stared at him. "Clear my mind? Just... stop thinking?"

"That's what I said."

She exhaled, deeply skeptical, but complied. She closed her eyes and tried to focus. Tried not to think about how much she hated being told what to do. Or what he might be thinking. She cracked one eye open. He was staring at her. She quickly closed it again.

"I saw that," he said.

"No, you didn't."

Snape sighed. "Focus, Delisle."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

She straightened her spine and took a breath. But thoughts kept circling about her father, about last night, about what might be waiting when she went back home.

"You're thinking again," he snapped. "Control your emotions. Let them pass through you. Close off your mind."

"You know, just because you say it over and over again, doesn't make it any easier!" she snapped back.

Snape sighed and tried to calm down, this wasn't getting them anywhere. He shifted closer.

"Let's try again," he said, voice softer this time. "Close your eyes. Let your thoughts move through you like water. Don't hold on."

She obeyed. He reached toward her mind gently, no push this time, just the brush of presence. Still, she tensed, instinctively resisting.

"Concentrate," Snape ordered, sensing her shakiness.

"I'm fucking trying, alright!"

And then, images erupted.

Memories came fast, flickering like film in reverse. She was four, learning how to cast her first spell. Then she was six, crying because the curse her father had taught her killed her bunny. And then Peter holding her, comforting her. Building a treehouse together, swimming together, laughing together. At eight years old, she was dueling her brother for the first time. She won. Afterwards, she helped clean his wounds, whispering apologies as she washed the gash on Peter's forehead. Meeting Vincent at ten, first kiss, first drink, first cigarette, first sex. Vincent proposing at fifteen, saying yes at sixteen. Peter smiling wide.

And then the spiral. Parties. Silk sheets. Sweat and heat. Rolled paper. White lines. Blurred music and blurred faces. Snape watched, trapped inside her mind, helpless as her life unfolded.

His chest tightened when he saw the desperation. The numbness. The drugs.

Ophelia finally managed to shield her mind, her body shook with the effort. Snape staggered backward, yanked from her thoughts like a man surfacing from water.

Ophelia slowed her breathing, composing herself, and then slowly stood up, trying to blink away the tears.

"You lost control," he said, voice low.

Asshole.

Her stomach turned violently. She doubled over and vomited into the grass.

"Ophelia!" he was at her side instantly, gathering her hair back and guiding her through it, one hand on her back.

It wasn't the sickness that stunned her. It was that he'd said her name. The way it rolled from his mouth, gently, reverently.

When it was over, he helped her sit back against a tree. He crouched in front of her, gently cradling her face, his thumbs stroking slow circles into her temples.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, ashamed.

He shook his head. "It's alright. We're alright."

They sat like that for a long moment, facing the lake. Then he reached up and brushed her hair behind her ears.

"We should get you home," he said softly, rising to his feet and extending a hand.

She took it, but instead of standing, she pulled him back down beside her.

"Wait," she said. "I need you to know... I don't do that anymore."

His eyes narrowed. "You did yesterday."

"That wasn't..." she faltered. "It wasn't intentional."

His gaze darkened. "Who did that to you, Ophelia?"

God. Her name on his lips again.

"No one, technically," she mumbled, cheeks flushing. "It was... a probability thing."

He frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It was a game," she said bitterly.

"And you played it?" The sharpness returned to his voice.

"Forget it," she muttered, looking away.

They walked the rest of the way down in silence. But the echo of her name lingered in the air, like smoke that wouldn't clear.