The Wicks End

The candle floated above the table, casting a flickering shadow around the glistening room. The walls glittered, light glinting off the remnants of over a thousand years of failed potion explosions. Many thought the Potions Master simply left the medley of animal parts and magical plants to add to the already menacing ambiance. This, of course, was far from true. Professor Snape had not become the youngest Potion Master in all of Wizarding Britain by ignoring logic in favor of appearance. The simple fact was that the odd assortment that now glistened on the walls was downright dangerous. Who knew what ingredients had been eroding over the years, what magical properties had been released? It was one of his biggest fears that some unknowing First Year would come up with some inventive way to blow up his potion and the ensuing disaster would bring the walls down around them.

Although, to be fair, this was not Severus Snape's problem any longer. His final class had been taught. No longer would he have to force the false façade of a penitent Professor. True, he was still penitent. No amount of suffering that he had endured, both from the Dark Lord or from the oftentimes hurtful lack of trust that had been shown him, could recall what he had done. He pondered this a moment, the light flickering across his obsidian eyes as they glazed in painful memory. He deserved no trust, he thought darkly. So what if he had been faithfully loyal to Dumbledore for over twenty years, had physically risked more that anyone else, save, perhaps, that Potter brat? It had all been the result of one bloody, stupid, arrogant moment of complete and utter idiocy. With a burst of magical energy a quill, lying on his desk, burst, the spraying shards of the shattered tip lightly grazing his cheek. Stupid to lose control, he thought, carefully cleaning the ink off his robes with a muttered charm.

Dumbledore had always said that he had punished himself far more than any bout of Cruciatus. And there was some truth to that statement. It had been years since he had allowed himself any measure of comfort. Always was he hungry; always was he tired. It reminded him, in a macabre sort of way, that he was still human. Unlike Riddle, he clung to that small assurance of humanity. All that one needed to become the next Dark Lord, really, was a loss of conscience and a bit of brains.It would not do to help aid in the defeat of the Dark Lord, only to become the next megalomaniac.

When Snape had first dappled in the Dark Arts, he was confident. Surely, he had convinced himself, it was not the knowledge of the Dark Arts that was evil, it was the use of the magic. Truly, how could one spell be deemed light and the next dark? Even an Engorgement Charm, when applied to certain areas of the body was deadly.

He had been warned of the lure of the Dark Arts, but Snape, still young, thought he knew about temptation. When a book lay unopened, it beckoned. Was this not temptation? Of course, never had he allowed the book to remain unopened, but that was irrevelant to the analogy. When the time came, he could take what knowledge he wanted and ignore or avoid that which was so evil.

He had been so arrogant.

Shaking his head slightly, the Potions Master achieved only the loosening of his lank hair from its thong. The errant memories would not so easily be banished. Squeezing his eyes tightly, the normal cool demeanor of the Potions Master was breached. After a moment, he regained control of his emotions.

He surveyed the room impassively. The wet walls, aside, the room was unrecognizable. The jars, filled with floating ingredients, that had once lined the room were gone. They had been sent via Floo network to Spinners End. The desks were stacked neatly alongside the Northern wall; the cauldrons, on the Southern. His own desk was the last thing to need cleaning.

Snape opened the first drawer, examining the contents. A Pensieve held swirling memories from the night of the Final Battle. Even Snape, who had seen so much carnage in the last twenty years of his life, who had thought himself immune to such utter revoltion, could not face those memories in the raw. Not yet.

Careful not to touch the swirling mass with anything but the 11" wand held loftily in his hand, he shrunk the memories and fielded them. Using the same field he gathered all spare parchments left on his desk and banished them to his Manor.

Now there was only one thing left to do. Actually resign. He had put this moment off long enough. Albus would have, no doubt, accepted his resignation with a blue sparkle. But, Albus was gone. Umbridge now claimed the title of Provisional Headmaster. The Ministry had deemed her more "efficient". In two years time, once the school's renovations were complete and the influx of students clamoring to graduate was gone, the post of Headmaster would pass to McGonagall. At least headmasters' quarters still would not open to that toad.

With a sudden burst of movement, Snape stood up, the chair protesting loudly at such an abuse. He was putting this off. Honestly, the man could face the Dark Lord with out betraying his fear, but Umbridge could scare him? And suddenly, a thought came to him: What permission did he need? He owed no one anything, save himself. The magical contract had been through Albus, oddly enough, not the school. He needed permission from noone. The idea of Umbridge quoting regulations, while tempting to be sure, was not in order.

It was enough. He was tired.

Taking a handful of green powder he thrust them into the flames and, with a muttered "Spinners End", he was gone.

The candle sputtered and died. From the shadows, the ghost of Albus Dumbledore twinkled.

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A/N. Please R&R. I haven't written in ages, but I shall try to be better. Scouts Honor. My goal is to finish FLF by the end of the year. Reviews would speed it along...