Severus Snape was a quiet man. He moved about his own home as if he were an intruder, unwilling to wake the dead. He didn’t say much at first, but then Ophelia really hadn’t tried for conversation. She was content to watch him, to ponder what must be going on behind his dark eyes and smooth voice. Eventually words became sentences and sentences turned to brief, uneasy conversations.

It was during one of these short chats that Ophelia’s curiosity got the better of her and she asked him a relatively unobtrusive question about the potion he was making. Cold eyes showed a glimmer of interest and Ophelia had been almost afraid to answer when he asked about her previous education. That’s when the potions lessons began. Five hours a day with dinner in between. It seemed he had made it his first most priority to teach her something of his profession.

She could hardly say she minded. The first two weeks of her stay had passed in agonizing monotony. Learning was a challenge, but preferable to boredom. Snape snapped at her frequently during the lessons, even more so when she made mistakes, but Ophelia was always quick with a retort. At first he seemed surprised, as though he weren’t used to anyone daring a comeback. As the lessons wore on the banter became something of a custom, a way of light-hearted communication. Talking was cold and insincere, but they could bicker with passion. Ophelia didn’t know when, but by the end of the third week, she was beginning to grow fond of him.

In the start of the fourth week, Ophelia was once again looking forward to getting up in the mornings. Life was something to live and not dread, after all, she had a family again. Perhaps it was not the most conventional, but it was a relative and a home. She still mourned the loss of her family –her sister most of all. There was still a hollow ache at night, and she found herself longing for one of Muriel’s silly Muggle children’s books. She wished she would have taken one with her when she had gone back to recover her things, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to enter Muriel’s room. In the end, a stolen, white dress shirt of Severus’ had been what made the difference between sleep and insomnia.

A month had passed, nearly to the day, when something went awry. It had been another day, ordinary like all the ones before it, until just before bed when Severus’ arm began to ache. He explained it as an old injury, one that was preferable to treat quickly. He hadn’t said much about it at all, and under the guise of being unconcerned, Ophelia didn’t ask. He didn’t have the required medicine readily available so he would have to leave in order to get it. He promised to be back shortly, but as the clock chimed midnight, Ophelia was in as state near panic. He had said not to wait up, as he was unsure if any apothecary would be open this late at night and he might have to make a passing at Saint Mungo’s. Ophelia, naturally curious, had been suspicious from the start and refused to sleep until he returned.

It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when he stumbled in, hunched over from some unseen pain. Had he not been able to find any help whatsoever? He had certainly been gone along time. She debated her course of action only a moment before going to his aid. He noticed her immediately, flinching away as she drew near, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

In her waiting, Ophelia hadn’t noticed how dark the room had become. In the dim light she couldn’t tell whether or not he was bleeding or had received some other grievous injury. It didn’t help that his robes were black –which gave her pause. She didn’t remember him wearing them when he left, or maybe she just hadn’t noticed. Brushing the matter aside, she made to help him to the chair, but he pushed her away, his voice carrying an ominous undertone.

 “Get to bed. Hadn’t I told you not to stay up?” He growled, keeping himself away from her, but Ophelia was persistent:

“Where did you go? You’re worse now than when you left.”

“None of your concern … insufferable child!” He muttered, groaning. “Go to your room before I put you there.” His voice had raised and his skin was an icy pallor, but was frightening was the way his eyes flashed.

“Why are you this way?” Ophelia demanded, her own temper rising in response to his threatening demeanor. “I’m trying to help you, can’t you see that?”

“You’re more a bother than a help! Get to your room and do not come down until you are called.” He bellowed, turning on her so quickly Ophelia thought she might be slapped. She may just as well have been with the way she felt at the moment.

Ophelia sulked to her room, but was unable to sleep.

*****

Ophelia woke the next morning with the sun already well in the sky. She wondered if she had missed being called down for breakfast, but she doubted that. Sitting up, she looked around blearily, her eyes coming to rest on a covered tray of what she could assume to be breakfast. The house was silent as she ate and showered and it unnerved her to no end.

Ophelia settled for reading a novel in her room, still waiting to be called. He had most likely forgotten about it, but she would stay in her room just for spite. Maybe he’d remember and feel guilty for leaving her up there. As though to answer her thoughts, a tray presumably carrying dinner appeared beside her.

No, if he had forgotten, he wouldn’t have sent up breakfast or dinner, Ophelia told herself. So I’m being punished … punished for trying to help the ungrateful git. Bloody wonderful. Ophelia slammed her book shut and threw it across the room, making a satisfyingly loud thud as it collided with the wall. The idea of sending back the food uneaten was tempting, but in the end it would only serve to make her hungry.

Still roiling with anger, she attacked her dinner before eating it. Mashing her beef stew until it was more like beef mush did little to comfort her, but it was better than going hungry. Full and bored, Ophelia laid down on her bed and fell asleep.

The house wasn’t quiet when she woke up.

The heating vents carried up an unfamiliar voice, a woman’s. Ophelia moved to listen over the heater, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. Ophelia glowered at the sound of her cousin’s voice taking over the conversation. She stood and crept over to the door. She opened it silently, and took her time easing her weight from one foot to the other as she made her way down the hall and hidden staircase.

Five stairs from the first floor she could make out every word they were saying.

“She saw me return last night!” Severus was saying crossly.

“And…? Did you tell her?” The woman asked in a non-threatening tone. She sounded more expectant that anything, as if by all rights he should tell her. Ophelia happened to agree.

“Of course not! Don’t be a fool, Minerva. Just what was I to say to her? ‘I’m terribly sorry, Ophelia, but I could have saved your family had I been able to get away earlier.’”

“You don’t need to be melodramatic about it.” The witch Minerva snapped back at him. “Anyone of us would have tried to save her family had we known earlier. That’s a poor excuse for not telling her.”

“Look. Look at it.” Severus commanded. Ophelia couldn’t see them, but she could hear the rustling of movement. She had naturally assumed he had something to hide; people who isolate themselves usually have a lot of secrets.

“I’ve seen it before; it makes no difference to me seeing it again.” She said pointedly.

“The girl sleeps with the lights dimmed. She has regular nightmares of Death Eaters” he snarled the words, “So much so that I’ve had to give her a dreamless sleep draught at times.”

Ophelia’s face flushed from the disdain in his voice. He sounded almost ashamed. Meaning was lost in the heat of the words, and Ophelia was having some difficult in following.

“Albus would have found a place for her if he thought this would be a mistake.” The witch said bluntly.

“This is a mistake!” He nearly shouted. “I haven’t the slightest idea of what to do with her. She tried to help me last night, do you realize that? Help me.” He repeated mockingly. “I know how to yell at children and give them detentions, not raise them! I don’t want her here. I’d rather she had died with her family.”

Even with how much she hated him at the moment, her heart still clutched as the words stung deep under her skin. She didn’t want to hear anymore. She wanted to take her things and leave as quickly as possible. Most of all, she never wanted to see him again. The witch reprimanded him in a loud, shrill voice, but even that wasn’t enough to cover the creaking of the stairs as Ophelia moved without caring back up to her room.

There was silence between them, and Ophelia knew she had been heard, but didn’t slow.

“Ophelia?” Her cousin’s voice called out in an altogether different tone. Footsteps came to the stairs and then his voice was behind her, drifting upwards. She turned, looking down at him with all the scorn and rejection she could muster.

And then she lost it.

It was all too much really. The loss of her family and then retrieving some small piece of it again, just to have any hope of it blooming into something like a real family squashed. She hadn’t realized how much of herself she had placed within him until he’d turned her inside out.

She hadn’t cried. Not one single tear since her family died. She had steeled herself away at the very thought of Muriel, unable to give into the aching of her heart.

But this … this insufferable man that she hardly knew … hardly cared for. It seemed silly to cry, but the tears came and she was helpless to stop them. A whimper escaped her lips and she couldn’t breathe right anymore. She was sobbing, but somehow she felt detached from her pain. She could feel her entire form shake with the release of it.

It was the look of horror on his face that she couldn’t ignore. He seemed frozen by it, unable to move even the slightest bit. It was the words he had said that had finally broken her, and they both knew it.

“I’d rather she had died with her family.”

Severus knew the words had been the wrong ones the moment they reached his ears.

“Severus!” Minerva chided him shrilly. By the expression she wore, he knew she would have gone on at some length to reprimand him, but the sound of receding footsteps silenced anything more to be said.

He closed his eyes and swore silently to himself. “Ophelia?” He didn’t have to bother calling out for her; she had heard him. When he opened his eyes again, Minerva was giving him a look that read: Just because you had a dysfunctional adolescence does not mean that she has to. That thought was the only reason he went after her. “Ophelia.” He called again, and this time she turned around. He wasn’t prepared for the look she gave him. He hadn’t imagined that much hurt could be drawn out of her by those words.

When the tears came and the sobs racked her thin frame, he had hardly been so contrite in his life. He hadn’t seen her shed a tear the entire time she had stayed, not a single instance of a red nose and puffy eyes. From the way she shook, he wondered vaguely how long this had been brewing. She didn’t bother to hide it, she cried openly as though she possessed no control over it.

Before he could process what was going on, Minerva had made her way up the stairs. She hadn’t yet reached Ophelia when the girl decided to bolt, ducking for her room, and slamming the door behind her. Minerva stopped, stunned at first and then turned back down the stairs. She muttered something that sounded distinctly like Slytherins as she passed.

To Severus, the words had been the wrong ones; to Ophelia, they had been right.

As she gazed at the black vial she held in her hand, she wondered why she hadn’t died with her family. There was no point to her life to continue living. It was a mistake. That was why she couldn’t remember her family’s murder … there had been a mistake. They had meant to take her life, but instead they took her memory. It was the only reason she could fathom for her unwanted existence.

Her cousin’s stalk of potions held a wide variety of things. It had taken some searching, but eventually she had found and unlocked a small cabinet containing small black vials, identical to the one she held in her hand. There was a small tag to each one, identifying it. It was nearly too coincidental that the first one she picked up was perfect. She pulled a smaller, clear vile from her pocket, (a spare her cousin wouldn’t be missing), and poured some of the black vial’s contents into it. She replaced the black vial and locked the case. Pocketing her own dose of Death, Ophelia turned to leave.

End Flashback Part II

Part III     Flashback Part I