Ophelia was near frothing at the mouth, and likely she might very well have killed Pettigrew, or at least severely injured him, for committing what was in her eyes a cardinal sin.

“Mrs. Snape, I didn’t want to say anything but…” Hermione bit at her lip nervously.

It was the threat that had hung at the back of their marriage since they first heard each other’s names. It was no small thing, to know that they had never set eyes upon each other until a day before their wedding day, and that a war might cut their time together short at any time.

Draco gazed at her—he meant to look unshakeable, but Ophelia could see the anxiety, the fear. He was testing her--he thought he could intimidate her.

The person was still pounding on their door. She yanked open the door and screamed in Slughorn’s face—“What?!”

“You had no right—“

“To know that my husband had lied to me?”

“Ophelia dislikes speaking of it, though I can’t say I blame her. Some will ascribe it to pride, but you’re a fool if you think that’s the reason.”

“I’m not feeling well,” he said evasively, “And you didn’t look like you were either. You know what they say…”

“Misery loves company,”

Glass breaks, the way I broke. But sometimes people can become tempered, like steel, and then we are stronger.