His Last Page.
A little companion to "An Alternative Epilogue". Severus' POV.
Standard Disclaimer applies - it's all JKR's.
Many thanks to the reviewers of my previous story. I've tried to reply to them but there must be a problem with this site and perhaps the replies haven't arrived. Special thanks to whitehound who kindly previewed and edited this new story, after the first. There is only a line that she hasn't already seen and surely she'll find which one (may be also because it can be the only one still mangled ;-)
In my first attempt the starting point was born from the word "scar", announced as being the last word of the series, and from my wishes about the destiny of Severus.
When I submitted that file I already had in mind something more that explained why Snape was so conveniently in the Library at the end of the story, but I didn't wish to expand more on that in my first work. Without reading "An Alternative Epilogue" some things in this second fic will be less understandable, I think.
So here is the other side of the epilogue, born, as the first was, from some famous words and from the wish to see, fingers crossed, more of Severus Snape.
The circular office looked little different from the way it always had: the elegant silver instruments were in their places puffing light smoke; among the portraits of the previous headmistresses and headmasters two had been recently added; Fawkes stood on his perch and seemed no older than he usually was. After all his rebirths words such as "old age" or " youth" were almost a nonsense when applied to him.
The Headmaster stroked his feathers; he had a soft spot for the bird that, like his previous owner, had helped him so much.
To a regular visitor to the room another thing would have appeared different: the stone basin that before had been closed in a cabinet now stood on the desk, in full sight.
The Pensieve held many memories, most of which the man wished to keep safe, under control, shielded from everyone. Nobody had ever known the meaning of the ancient runes that decorated the basin, some had tried without success to translate them with the help of mythology, trying words like Yggdrasil, but in some fashion one could now have given them an explanation strongly connected to what they held. "Forget me not" they seemed to say to the man, as if he would ever be able to forget his past.
His gaze, however, wasn't directed to that object, in that moment. He was watching through the window the flight of an owl, a big one, with a gorgeous plumage and large wings. The bird was gliding by another open window, one that the headmaster could see well, because it was right in the turret in front of his quarters.
He knew who was there to receive the heavy parcel, and about its content he was almost sure he had a similar knowledge. The room behind that window was the Library, and the librarian surely was there, as on every day in the last year.
He began to pace slowly up and down. This image of him seemed weird, because this powerful wizard, whose nervous energy, vigilance and strong, intimidating stride had been legendary in the past, now seemed lost, almost unaware of his surroundings.
The academic year was ending, however, and his charge was no longer recent; thus the reason for his behaviour had to be something other than a general worry about his duties.
And actually it was, and was connected to those memories that he held in the Pensieve, and to others that warmed a part of him that for a long time he hadn't thought existed anymore.
Lifting his gaze he saw the owl flying again, free of his burden. "The history is in her hands, now. Every bit of it, without exception, without mercy" he thought, stopping abruptly. Then, with a gesture reminiscent of his earlier habits, he went quickly to the door, his robes billowing, and made his way through the staircases towards the Library.
Wishing he could Apparate into the room to give her comfort without wasting any more time, and knowing that this wasn't a possibility in the castle, he quickened his pace; but, while approaching, all the memories that had been in the air that morning flowed like a river: his awakening in the hospital wing after the last battle, the voices, arguing...
Then came a strange feeling, the unbelieving relief as he listened to the words said by Potter, who in spite of their history had silenced everyone by stating the truth one time and forever.
"Harry Potter trusts me, he trusts me" had been the last conscious thought that had screamed in his mind before he lost consciousness again. Thus had ended the life debt whose various episodes had almost destroyed both until that moment.
Life had been merciful to him, that wouldn't have bet a knut on his survival after the war and didn't consider himself worthy of it, not with everything hehad ever done during the last twenty years. During those times he was for a few people the useful spy, the man who lives in disguise, and for the majority merely the sour, ugly Potions master at this school. Only one had known more of his true self, but that had always been a matter between them, unknown to everybody else.
In the end life chose him, neither death, nor jail, and not the new terrible punishment created by the Minister for the last survived Death Eaters, because he was no longer one of them, and on his arm there was the sign of the last miracle that the power the dark lord knows not had accomplished.
Then, unbelievably, had come the offer from the Board of Governors to stay in this place to direct it; obviously at first he had thought that those men had finally gone completely insane. The offer was real, though, they had taken Potter's evidence on trust and he didn't refuse the new task: the castle was home to him, more than any other place.
And even if the only two persons he dared to call friends were no more among the living, he hadn't been alone in the rebuilding of everything. After the victory The Boy That Finally Lived Happily Ever After had vanished, gone to an unknown destination, far from the public flattery, with the few people that always had truly loved him. One of his friends hadn't left Hogwarts, yet. She had been still here, a constant nuisance during the first days of his recovery, but one that had slowly become a most needed healing presence.
He didn't noticed, at first, that she, too, needed to recover, to learn to come back to what she had missed in the months of struggle. They had seen each other pretty-much every day and slowly, some time during those afternoons, with the sharing of a cup of soothing tea had come an increase in sympathy.
But when, some time later, he had realized that the girl wasn't pursuing the brilliant career which everyone expected from her, as if the many deaths, and the suffering seen by her, had extinguished her constant hunger for improving and for being praised… well, he then had asked her what she wanted.
She hadn't wanted honour, and she hadn't wanted the social life she knew too well that he avoided. She didn't know from the first moment what she wanted, but she had stayed, that had been her resolution.
Finally the wizard entered into the room, approaching her from behind, unnoticed. And thus a weird thought came to him.
The book she was keeping in her hands, just this moment, stated that at the end of the last battle Severus Snape was among the list of the survivors. On that page, however, something was lacking, despite the efforts of the supervisor to include every little detail.
What this last page didn't show was a beautiful, unexpected, simple thing: not only he was still alive, but there was for him too, finally, something to live for.
A/N: Many words of the description in the first few lines of this story are borrowed from a page of HBP, the first time when Harry enters Dumbledore's office for the private lessons.
Further on, every now and then you will see mixed into the text, in italics, some words that belong to the titles of famous stories published here, written by wonderful and skilled writers. I spent months enjoying their stories, unforgettable and moving, humorous and clever. From Possum 132 – whose titles have made so many of JKR's sentences unforgettable - I quoted some more words, her words, that I've loved and that she wrote both in one of the first and in the last of the chapters of her wonderful series.
Thanks from the heart to Duj, Possum 132, Dyce, Whitehound, Bellegeste, Vanityfair, Indianpipe, Jocemum – and Kalina, even if her last work is not recent. There are many other stories that I love, but all those written by these ladies are at the top, so this little homage is an unworthy gift to say one more time my thanks.