Chapter Thirty six

Ophelia had left Grimmauld place. Dumbledore's offer had been presented and she'd made her choice. Everyone was dealing with the consequences. Molly looked stressed at losing her friend and support, and there was just something constantly... missing from the sombre house. Those visiting for care and food also noted her absence but came and left quietly, as if sensing the pain associated with it. Combined with Sirius' death, the Order's headquarters was a cold and grim place. It was made worse by the uncertainty over the ownership of the Black household. It all came down to Kreacher: where would he go when the Will was fulfilled? In readiness, the Order were preparing to leave, seeking a new haven.

Before her arrival, Snape had never felt inclined to stay...only when she'd been there had he even felt the urge to visit...so now, he left as quickly as possible and visited as infrequently as permitted. The knowledge that it was possibly Potter's house made it more stifling and depressing... if that were possible. He knew Molly tried to stop him to ask him about her, but he was adept at sneaking away. Soon, she would trap him...Molly was tenacious...and he knew he'd have to have a good answer ready; until then, he kept his thoughts and feelings for Ophelia safely enclosed; they were his, and he'd share them with no one.

In retrospect, Ophelia had made the best decision she could have, given her skills and weaknesses. Snape doubted anyone would argue she'd acted without thought or out of pure selfishness; although, he knew everyone would miss her to one degree or another. Oddly, Snape remembered Moody grasping her hand as she prepared to meet Dumbledore to discuss the final arrangements, saying his quiet farewells to her.

During her last evening in the Black house, she had worked quietly by his side as they fulfilled the last of the potions and tidied away the work area, closing the lab...it wouldn't be needed once she left. He had expected tension or awkwardness, but he found the work instead soothed him, steadying him for the lonely work ahead.

"I leave tomorrow," she said bluntly, clarifying the plans she and Dumbledore had discussed.

Severus inhaled and carefully stoppered the phial he was holding. "You're returning to Whitehaven?" He knew the answer, yet wanted to hear her voice.

"Yes."

He sighed under his breath. Her answer dissatisfied him; he wanted more. Now that all this was coming to an end, he wanted to wrap himself up in her words... to draw out all he could from her to sustain him. He wanted to glut on her.

"Dumbledore has told you of the risks involved with the Greater Lethe Water potion, yes?"

She inhaled, and the blade paused on its way through the stalk. "I already knew the risks," she affirmed with mild bitterness before completing the cut with a sudden, angry slash. "I once thought about using it."

He nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose. She was being... difficult, and he was fumbling with small talk. "You may be interested to know how many of the Order will miss you."

The knife grated against the chopping slate as she released it and turned to him, her mind guarded and her eyes searching. He fancied that she was peeling back his mind, but he knew she could see what he'd meant written on his blank face. It was both worrying and comforting to know she could read him so clearly. There was no need for explanation or clarification... no need to reason or excuse. He swallowed. There was also nowhere to hide from her.

Her mouth opened, but the words seemed to die on her tongue; her brow puckered, and then she snapped her lips closed, tucking hair behind her ears. Snape fought his smirk: he wasn't the only one who could be read easily.

"I never thought I would feel so..." she shook her head and rubbed her brow "... relieved to be a part of the Wizarding world again and so anxious and saddened to be leaving it."

The cauldron sputtered softly, and distant pipes gurgled, filling the sudden awkward silence. Snape scrutinised her profile, trying to see any hint that her mind could be changed, that her sorrow would compel her to stay.

"Before you ask," she said tightly, "we discussed all the available options."

"I would have called you a fool if you hadn't."

She relaxed at his sharp tone, as if the familiarity of barbed comments restored her confidence and cleansed the atmosphere. With a sharp harrumph, she plucked a cloth from the workbench and wiped sap from her fingers before stepping over to the stove.

"Coffee?"

He nodded and joined her, sitting down as she busied herself with mugs and tins.

"I have a gift for Molly, but I'll be gone before she gets back."

He heard the hidden question and stifled his groan before it could erupt and spoil this moment. "I'll arrange to deliver it for you." Her eyes flashed and her lips thinned. "I'll deliver it for you," he amended.

A faint smile ghosted over her lips. "Thank you. It's an arrangement of violets."

A frown furrowed his brow. He knew she wasn't cold, but the sentimentality of it suggested something more than just following etiquette, and the choice of flower was unusual. The fact that she had shared the information also made him wonder at their significance... she had wanted him to know.

The rest of the evening had passed in a blur and depressingly quickly. They had said their goodbyes, repeating them as if trying to organise them in their minds before committing to the act. Ophelia had been the stronger and had turned on her heel, flashing him a nervous and tentative smile.

Before her foot hit the bottom step of the cellar stairs, he lunged forward, grabbing her elbow and spinning her around. Her hands rose instinctively to press against his chest. He plunged his fingers into her hair, cradling the back of her head and pulling her face closer.

The kiss was fierce and demanding, taking and giving everything. Their hands grabbed and pulled, held and glided over each other, taking in the contours, memorising what they would soon be forced to yearn for. And then Snape was gone.

Ophelia sucked gently on her sore and bloodied lower lip, staring into the empty cellar and trying not to let his absence crush her. She'd made her choice, and Severus would have to work with it.

The next day, he had surprised Molly by not fleeing from her approach. It was gratifying in a way to see her hesitate and flash him a puzzled, almost suspicious glare as she neared him.

Before she could speak, he withdrew his hand from within his frock coat, lifting up Ophelia's parting gift. Whatever Molly had intended to ask or demand fled, as her eyes alighted upon the delicate blue flowers. Snape kept his face passive, but the tears welling up in her eyes confirmed his need to find out what the hell the flowers meant to them.

Carefully, reverently, Molly accepted the flowers and flashed him a sad smile. He nodded and began to turn on his heel, but her hand...a vice of iron...stopped him dead. Her face was firm, and he thought threatening, but when she spoke, her voice was tinged with affection.

"I'm not going to ask, although I bloody well want to," she whispered, her grip loosening enough to let the blood back into his hand. "Just... if you should see her," and Snape saw her eyes narrow slightly over the word 'if', "tell her that we... that she'll always have a home with us, should she need it."

Snape was not naturally a cruel man, so he bowed and patted the back of her taut hand. "If I see her, I shall willingly tell her."

He hoped that his promise would lessen her grip, but she pulled him closer so he couldn't miss her next words. No wonder the twins quailed when he threatened to tell their mother what they'd done.

"Take care of her."

Snape sighed and settled back into his chair, shifting his thoughts away from their last night at Grimmauld Place and Molly's fearsome order. Tomorrow, he would be teaching his new Defence against the Dark Arts syllabus. His lips twitched as he recalled the look on Potter's face when the Headmaster had announced the new staffing arrangements. It would warm him on cold nights. The smile died... there would be many.

oXo

"Come in, dear," said Mrs Mathieson, her voice tinged with relief. "I was getting worried," she scolded gently while helping her guest out of the thick, woollen coat. "You said that you'd be back yesterday."

"I was delayed by the train strikes," she said with mock impatience.

"Oh well, you're here now," Mrs Mathieson said firmly, closing the topic. "I'll make some tea."

She pottered into the kitchen, her aches and pains a little less now that she had someone to look after, and she hummed a happy tune as she gathered together the things for tea. Only one thought pestered her, nagging at her, and that was the sense that Veronica was somehow calmer and more at ease; those shadows that seemed to cling to her had evaporated. She smiled and wondered if Veronica would ever tell her about her trip to Cumbria all those months ago and what had happened to give her such peace. She checked the tray and bustled back into the living room. Veronica was seated on the sofa, staring out of the window.

"I see the Council still haven't fixed your fence," she said with some irritation.

"Not got the funding, they say," Mrs Mathieson said pragmatically. She poured the tea and passed the cup and saucer to her young friend before sitting next to her. That serenity was baffling her, but as she'd never seen such contentment in the younger woman's eyes, her curiosity would have to be mollified.

"I'll pop along to see them," she said. "See what I can do."

"Oh, there's no rush, dear," Mrs Mathieson said hastily. "I haven't seen you for a while, and I'd rather catch up."

She took another sip of tea and carefully watched Veronica as she smiled and relaxed. There was something in the way she moved and smiled... in the way her lips twitched and her eyes glistened. A smile curved her dry and age-thinned lips. She may have had a hard life, but she'd also had a rich life, and her thoughts meandered down the same road that a witch named Molly had travelled months ago. Veronica had a young man, but something suggested the young man was not something she'd share.

"I want to hear about your new job. I've never seen you so happy," she said, choosing the easier conversation.

"Not much to tell, really." Her frown eased and she sighed, glancing across to Mrs Mathieson's eager face. "I help to... relocate people." She leant back and a shadow flickered across her face, but then it was gone, and she flashed a smile. "I help them get accustomed to their new life."

It was true enough; and it felt glorious to be doing so. Families, survivors, refugees, haggard and exhausted from the war, came to her, and she found them a safe haven in the Muggle world...who better to do so?! She helped integrate them into a strange world, knowing the pitfalls and fears of it, guiding them as they adapted. Dumbledore had been wrong to assume that it was one life or the other. Nothing could have made her give up what she had gained, but she had to find purpose, and she had.

"Oh, dear," Mrs Mathieson uttered softly, her features agonising over her next words. "I wish someone like you had been there for you when you needed such a caring hand."

Ophelia's eyes widened, and she laughed. In a way, there had been: Veronica. And although Veronica was long gone...or perhaps, so much a part of her that there was no distinction...she had helped in uncountable ways. It was Veronica who had pushed Ophelia back to the Wizarding world, knowing her deepest fears and dreams; without that voice, she would have settled in the Muggle world, never seeking the echo of an embrace: Severus' embrace.

"I'm sorry to laugh," she said through weakening giggles. "But, I did...I just never realised. And I had you, dear Mrs Mathieson..." she declared with absolute affection "... don't think that you weren't a caring hand."

Mrs Mathieson flushed and flustered, not sure how to respond to the beautiful compliment. Hiding her surging emotion, she sipped her tea.

"The only down side to my new job," Ophelia sighed, "is that I'm not here as often as I'd like."

"Don't fret, Veronica. I'm very happy for you, and you should go out and live your life, doing what makes life worth living. And I'm so very pleased that you're seeing your future and reaching for it."

The old lady felt her heart clench, and tears stung her eyes; the woman she thought of as a daughter was finally starting to live. She smiled, her lips trembling, and reached out to lay her hand on Veronica's forearm. The past should sit lightly, not be examined at every turn at the expense of embracing the here and now; it shouldn't replace living. As an old woman, the past was all she had; some of it comforted and some of it hurt, but she had never wasted time living in it. It had pained her to see a vibrant and caring woman suffocate in her own past rather than claim the light she deserved. Especially when that past was fractured, incomplete and more haunting than it should have been.

"It's as I've always said, dear: there are things we forget, things we should forgive, and if we're lucky, we'll not suffer those things that are better not knowing."

Author's notes: A massive thank you to my long-suffering beta, Falconfalmorgan.