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kelly_chamblissThe Sweet Ending
25 December 1998
Not until Christmas Day can Minerva bring herself to deal with Severus's things. She has been too busy with the endless chores of rebuilding -- the castle, the wizarding world, herself -- even to think about moving into the headmaster's (no, she tells herself sternly, the headmistress's) suite.
But procrastination doesn't come naturally to Minerva, so once Christmas dinner in the Great Hall is over, she decides that she has shirked her duty long enough, and she wands open the door to the head's sitting room.
"Good girl," says Albus's portrait, and Minerva frowns at him. "Girl," indeed. He twinkles.
The elves have kept the place scrupulously tidy, but Minerva's heart breaks a little when she sees what an austere life Severus lived here. . .the room so spare, so impersonal.
Since the war ended, she has barely let herself think Severus. She is glad that he knew she had realised he was not a Death Eater; she is sorry that on the night of the battle, she let her anger with him spill over into that bitterly-regretted cry of "coward!" She's pleased that Potter publicly revealed he truth about Severus's real allegiance; she's sorry that he had to die nearly alone in fear and pain. She wishes devoutly that she could talk with him just one more time, even as a portrait, so that they could clear the air between them now that secrecy is no longer needed.
Yet after sorting out these feelings, she put them aside; no good was to be gained by dwelling.
Now the emotions flood back to her as she gazes at this nearly-bare room, where the only traces of Severus the man can be found in his choices of books.
But then she takes a closer look, at the breath-taking vista he would have seen as he sat at his desk. At the deep, plump cushions of the sofa, so close to the warmth of the fire. At the way he would have been almost embraced by the circle of his bookshelves. At the heady scent of old books themselves. And she decides that perhaps Severus's last months were not a total hell after all.
She steps over to the shelves, reacquainting herself with his marvelous collection, noting with pleasure some of the titles he's added since she had last visited him in his Slytherin dungeon. A Cultural History of Wizarding Popular Novels -- she can't wait to dip into that one. And she is touched to see that her last (anonymous) Christmas gift, Magical Politics Quarterly, has taken its place center-shelf in the carefully-organized political section, right next to. . .
Right next to a tattered copy of Hogwarts: A History? Severus must have been distracted indeed to make such a grievous shelving error. She pulls the book down, intent on rectifying this mistake at once, when suddenly she is not holding Hogwarts: A History at all.
She is holding an exquisite old leather-bound tome, its black cover smoothly pristine, a solid silver snake gracing the corner. It's a priceless artefact; she can smell its potent perfume of old paper and old magic. It must have cost Severus at least half a term's salary, but she can certainly understand the allure.
Minerva sinks onto the sofa and runs her fingers lightly over the beautiful leather; one must savour a book experience like this one. Her breath catches a little as she finally opens the cover. What rare title will greet her? She looks down and reads,
This book is the property of
Severus Tobias Prince Snape.
A SLYTHERIN.
Do not read without the personal permission of
SEVERUS SNAPE, Slytherin.
Keep out. This means YOU.
But before she can make sense of this amazing inscription, the page turns, and Severus's familiar angular hand begins to snake across the parchment.
Dear Minerva, it reads,
For it must be you who is reading this; I don't think there's anyone else alive for whom this book would open. You have Severus Snape's "personal permission" to read it, after all.
I write these words just moments before what I'm sure will be the final battle of the war. I don't expect to survive.
But because I am foolish and weak, I have nonetheless devised a pitiful plan of escape; it has little chance of success, but I have drawn it up regardless.
I have no way of knowing what you will find -- and I have no right to think you will even want to find anything -- but if by miniscule chance I live, and if by even more miniscule chance you'd care to see me, come to Number 12, Victory Gardens, Warrington, Hants.
Minerva stands up at once (decisiveness being a quality on which she prides herself) and despatches her patronus with a message for her deputy head: "Filius, I must leave the school in your hands for tonight. I have an errand to run, but it might not take long."
Summoning her cloak from the outer office, she seizes the magic book and uses her headmistress's prerogative to turn it into a portkey that will take her directly to Severus's address. Calling "Later, Albus," to whatever question he is shouting to her from the other room, she touches the book and within seconds, still clutching it, she arrives at Victory Gardens, Warrington, Hampshire.
There's no garden to be seen -- just a rather sad-looking terrace of tiny old stone houses, one or two of them boarded up. But it's out of the way, and quiet, and soon she spots the rather crooked number 12 that marks the door at the far end.
Never one to dither, Minerva steps forward and raps sharply.
Nothing happens for a full minute. . .and then slowly, the door swings back to reveal a gaunt, lank-haired man in a baggy Muggle jumper and trousers.
He stares at her, and then, just briefly, Severus Snape is unable to stop himself from smiling.
The expression lasts for only a second, replaced almost at once by his familiar scowl.
"Took you long enough," he says, folding his arms over his chest. "Well, don't just stand there like a daft Gryffindor. Come in."
Smiling in her turn, Minerva steps over the threshold and into his embrace.
25 December 1998
Not until Christmas Day can Minerva bring herself to deal with Severus's things. She has been too busy with the endless chores of rebuilding -- the castle, the wizarding world, herself -- even to think about moving into the headmaster's (no, she tells herself sternly, the headmistress's) suite.
But procrastination doesn't come naturally to Minerva, so once Christmas dinner in the Great Hall is over, she decides that she has shirked her duty long enough, and she wands open the door to the head's sitting room.
"Good girl," says Albus's portrait, and Minerva frowns at him. "Girl," indeed. He twinkles.
The elves have kept the place scrupulously tidy, but Minerva's heart breaks a little when she sees what an austere life Severus lived here. . .the room so spare, so impersonal.
Since the war ended, she has barely let herself think Severus. She is glad that he knew she had realised he was not a Death Eater; she is sorry that on the night of the battle, she let her anger with him spill over into that bitterly-regretted cry of "coward!" She's pleased that Potter publicly revealed he truth about Severus's real allegiance; she's sorry that he had to die nearly alone in fear and pain. She wishes devoutly that she could talk with him just one more time, even as a portrait, so that they could clear the air between them now that secrecy is no longer needed.
Yet after sorting out these feelings, she put them aside; no good was to be gained by dwelling.
Now the emotions flood back to her as she gazes at this nearly-bare room, where the only traces of Severus the man can be found in his choices of books.
But then she takes a closer look, at the breath-taking vista he would have seen as he sat at his desk. At the deep, plump cushions of the sofa, so close to the warmth of the fire. At the way he would have been almost embraced by the circle of his bookshelves. At the heady scent of old books themselves. And she decides that perhaps Severus's last months were not a total hell after all.
She steps over to the shelves, reacquainting herself with his marvelous collection, noting with pleasure some of the titles he's added since she had last visited him in his Slytherin dungeon. A Cultural History of Wizarding Popular Novels -- she can't wait to dip into that one. And she is touched to see that her last (anonymous) Christmas gift, Magical Politics Quarterly, has taken its place center-shelf in the carefully-organized political section, right next to. . .
Right next to a tattered copy of Hogwarts: A History? Severus must have been distracted indeed to make such a grievous shelving error. She pulls the book down, intent on rectifying this mistake at once, when suddenly she is not holding Hogwarts: A History at all.
She is holding an exquisite old leather-bound tome, its black cover smoothly pristine, a solid silver snake gracing the corner. It's a priceless artefact; she can smell its potent perfume of old paper and old magic. It must have cost Severus at least half a term's salary, but she can certainly understand the allure.
Minerva sinks onto the sofa and runs her fingers lightly over the beautiful leather; one must savour a book experience like this one. Her breath catches a little as she finally opens the cover. What rare title will greet her? She looks down and reads,
Severus Tobias Prince Snape.
A SLYTHERIN.
Do not read without the personal permission of
SEVERUS SNAPE, Slytherin.
Keep out. This means YOU.
But before she can make sense of this amazing inscription, the page turns, and Severus's familiar angular hand begins to snake across the parchment.
Dear Minerva, it reads,
For it must be you who is reading this; I don't think there's anyone else alive for whom this book would open. You have Severus Snape's "personal permission" to read it, after all.
I write these words just moments before what I'm sure will be the final battle of the war. I don't expect to survive.
But because I am foolish and weak, I have nonetheless devised a pitiful plan of escape; it has little chance of success, but I have drawn it up regardless.
I have no way of knowing what you will find -- and I have no right to think you will even want to find anything -- but if by miniscule chance I live, and if by even more miniscule chance you'd care to see me, come to Number 12, Victory Gardens, Warrington, Hants.
Minerva stands up at once (decisiveness being a quality on which she prides herself) and despatches her patronus with a message for her deputy head: "Filius, I must leave the school in your hands for tonight. I have an errand to run, but it might not take long."
Summoning her cloak from the outer office, she seizes the magic book and uses her headmistress's prerogative to turn it into a portkey that will take her directly to Severus's address. Calling "Later, Albus," to whatever question he is shouting to her from the other room, she touches the book and within seconds, still clutching it, she arrives at Victory Gardens, Warrington, Hampshire.
There's no garden to be seen -- just a rather sad-looking terrace of tiny old stone houses, one or two of them boarded up. But it's out of the way, and quiet, and soon she spots the rather crooked number 12 that marks the door at the far end.
Never one to dither, Minerva steps forward and raps sharply.
Nothing happens for a full minute. . .and then slowly, the door swings back to reveal a gaunt, lank-haired man in a baggy Muggle jumper and trousers.
He stares at her, and then, just briefly, Severus Snape is unable to stop himself from smiling.
The expression lasts for only a second, replaced almost at once by his familiar scowl.
"Took you long enough," he says, folding his arms over his chest. "Well, don't just stand there like a daft Gryffindor. Come in."
Smiling in her turn, Minerva steps over the threshold and into his embrace.