Ashes of Armageddon

Upon Apparating away, Severus did not head for Spinner's End. Instead, he made his way to the Godric's Hollow cemetery.



It did not take him long to find the gravesite of James and Lilly Potter. He stood by the tombstone and stared at their names, unsure what to say, or even what to think. On an impulse, he stretched his hand to touch the inscription on the stone, but then stopped, as if he half-expected his hand to be struck by a ruler for his presumption. His fingers were stayed in mid-movement as Harry's voice echoed in the back of his mind: Tell me, do you think you deserve to be touching anything of my parents? Especially, my mother?



Severus shrugged. He did not know if he deserved it, but it no longer mattered. He wanted to, and he could, and for the moment, it was enough. He ran his hand along their names, and winced, as for a moment it seemed the back of his right hand itself was a tombstone of sorts, the date of his betrayal etched on it with the blood-quill. He smiled wryly, thinking: such a childish vengeance, for a crime so grievous; it was almost obscene, but then again, that's not what it was about. The mindless, but furious dust of the past war had risen up to punish Severus for his transgressions, in the only way it knew how: by pitting former allies against each other, by twisting and exploiting the survivors' own thoughts and memories. Then again, wasn't this how the retribution of war worked each and every time?



He lowered his scarred hand, glancing, for the first time, at the and the one line summarizing the sacrifice of James and Lily Potter: “The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death."



Whoever made the inscription was wrong, Severus thought. Death was not the enemy, it was their final and strongest ally, setting everyone free, and making them all equal, no matter their crimes, no matter the terror, no matter the shame. He bowed to the tombstone slightly, and walked away, before finally Apparating to Spinner's End.



His confrontation with Harry left Severus drained and exhausted, but still, he was satisfied with the outcome. Emotions be damned, he thought; love itself be damned. All things considered, he intended to remain on his own, and cradle the feeble vestiges of his pride.



As Severus walked through the Spinner's End, he finally realized that he had not much waiting for him at home.



He had no job – not that it would be difficult to get one, with his qualifications, but still, it was odd to find himself without employment. His prized books were gone, incinerated by a single malicious spell, and it would take him another two decades to restore the collection to what it used to be. Finally, he had no savings at all: all his money (however little there was of it) had been confiscated upon his arrest, and he doubted that Harry Potter, with all his honorable intentions and motives, was practical enough to think of that little detail. And come to think of it, he had no food at home either; as far as he remembered, anything he had back at Spinner's End at this point would be at least seven years old.



It would be a simple enough matter to get it all back: all he would need to do is make a single fire-call, but Severus Snape decided that he would be damned if he made that call. It would feel too much like begging, and he would certainly never beg, or even ask for anything for himself.



He strolled through the Spinner's End alone, absently surveying the river-bank littered with garbage, and the unfriendly brick houses forming a uniform row. He found himself half-smiling, half-sneering. Not a bloody house with a white picket fence; just an old, basic dwelling, a sitting room, a home lab, and a bedroom. Nothing to brag about, but for someone like him, it would do admirably.



He opened the door, and stepped into the sitting room, expecting to see the carelessly moved furniture, and barren bookshelves.



However, when he glanced at the shelves, he was instantly taken aback.



His books were there, waiting for him.



He stepped towards the shelf, not daring to believe his own eyes. These were his books, and, as far as he could tell, every single one was here. For a second, he was so deliriously happy, he thought he really had died this time and gone into the afterlife, but the aches spreading through his body convinced him that he was still alive, if only marginally.



He looked around and saw a small package on the floor, with a note attached to it. He opened the note, ripping the envelope hastily, and as began to read the message, written in Hermione Granger's careful script:



“ Dear Sir:



I hope you can forgive this intrusion into your personal space; and may it be the last one.



I took the liberty of tidying up your place for you to make it more comfortable for your return. Most of the food in your stores was about eight years old, and without proper stasis spells, I was not sure about its quality. I have replaced it with suitable alternatives.



You will also find your book collection intact, shelved thematically in five sections: Herbology, Defense Against Dark Arts, Potions, Arithmancy, and Other. Within each section, the books are shelved alphabetically. As for how: before we showed up to pick up your book collection at Spinner's End, I took the liberty of casting a Geminio charm on all your books, just in case. What you took with you to Godric's Hollow were their exact duplicates, and I had kept the originals in my attic, until the current crisis has passed.



I have also included the two works by Victor Hugo, I am not sure these books are your kind of reading, but perhaps they will grow on you.



Finally, please find enclosed an access key to the Gringotts Vault set up in your name. Deposited in it are the wages for five weeks of your work at St. Mungo's, at Head Researcher wage, 597 galleons times five, plus interest and late deposit surcharge.



Needless to say that none of us (Neville, Ron, myself, and Hugo) will ever ever come close to repaying the life-debt we owe to you; but for what it is worth, please know that we are at your disposal, at a moment's notice, should you ever need us. Please do not hesitate to call on us.



I would not blame you if you decided to keep as much distance from all of us as possible; but please know that you are welcome in our home at any time of day and night, for any reason. I hope that you will visit frequently, or permit us to visit you, or both. Hugo misses you already, and speaks about you incessantly. He wants to know if you will be teaching him when he goes to Hogwarts, however, I already explained to him that you will likely find better things to do than teach rudimentary subjects to dimwitted Gryffindor brats.



And speaking of better things: you should also know that I am planning to step down as the Head of the Potions Research at St. Mungo's, and focus on my work with the Ministry. I am hoping that you would consider filling that position, at least temporarily, until something more worthy of your skill and intellect presents itself.



If you allow, I will drop by in a week's time, once the aftereffect of Renalert has worn off for all of us.



Until then, good night.



Hermione Granger. ”



He laughed very softly, setting the letter aside. Foolish Gryffindors, their misconceptions about life-debts, their need to make amends, where none were required. How could such a House stand and endure, was beyond him.



But what surprised him even more was how on earth someone like Albus Dumbledore had ended up being a Gryffindor. He was the one person who had never made amends, not really, as far as Severus believed; not beyond what Albus had always intended in the first place. Cunning, manipulative, powerful, Albus had always done whatever it took to win, no matter the cost to himself, or others. He should have been a Slytherin; Severus had no doubt the Hat hiccuped at least once when it was soring Albus Dumbledore.



Albus, he thought. He still missed him, but for the first time since that day, when the name of his mentor entered his mind, there was no remorse, no guilt, no shame, and no punishment of the bond for the murder he had been ordered to commit. The slave-bond has been transformed, not only legally, but magically and emotionally. The impossible absolution has been granted, and not a bloody moment too soon for Severus Snape.



“Thanks, old bastard,” he muttered, without particular gratitude, but without accusation or self-pity either. As far as Severus was concerned, they were even; and he dared to hope that, perhaps he was finally even with the world, owing nothing to anyone, and being owed nothing, in turn.



He would have gone upstairs, to his bedroom, but for now, he could barely move. He cast a quick spell on one of the chairs, transfiguring it into a couch, and stretched out on it, allowing himself to drift off to sleep.



A week, Hermione Granger had said, a week of to catch up on the sleep after the Renalert potion had worn off. The weariness finally claimed him; and it seemed as if it was not just the weariness of the past three days; it was the weariness of the past excruciating two months, or even the past two and a half decades. A weariness of a lifetime; a week of sleep to replenish it: it barely seemed adequate at this point. He imagined he could sleep for five more years, and it would still not be enough.



He fell asleep almost instantly. He spent the entire week asleep, waking up only briefly to eat or drink something small, and then, collapse again in exhaustion. He had been anticipating nightmares, or shameful memories swooping in on him, but when the dreams finally claimed him, nothing of the sort entered his mind.



For as long as he slept, he dreamed not of people, not of events, and not even places. For the entire week, he simply dreamed of color. The color of the herbs he used to harvest for his potions; the color of his House, the color of the eyes he had loved for three decades, and was content to continue doing so, passionately and unapologetically, if only on his own terms, and from far away.



... To Be Continued...