Cushions and Sherbet Lemons
A murderer cannot be invited to the funeral of their victim. So Severus Snape chooses to bid a farewell to a man who gave him everything in his own unique way.
He decided to hold the funeral on the same day as the one that would take place at Hogwarts. He had tried to get close to the school, wanting to be there—but of course, he could not. The wards of the school had made it impossible for him.
He was a wanted murderer, after all.
He was wandering away from Hogwarts, head lowered and hands deep in his pockets. His heart was heavy. The sky was dark and a chill had settled in the air. He stopped with a sigh. Tomorrow night, he would be summoned to the Dark Lord's mansion. This was his last free night—for even if he was returned to Hogwarts as Headmaster, he would be surrounded by Death-Eaters and his former colleagues who would despise the very sight of him.
He wanted to enjoy the night, just one last time.
And then, there was the funeral.
He raised his gaze, staring out at the hills and the blanket of stars. There was not a sound—there was no wind. It was simply peaceful. And he knew then that he had found the perfect place.
He reached into his robes and pulled out his wand. He was not sure if the spell would work, but he needed something. Just something that he could bury.
He just had to imagine him. Albus Dumbledore. Kind blue eyes. Scratchy yet soft white beard. Appalling dress sense—but robes that only he could wear. Taller than him, and his shoulders never slumped by age. Wizened fingers stained with tea and lined with time. A voice that was characterised with a soft accent that raised his spirits when the Headmaster first started to talk.
His throat tightened and his eyes burned, but he continued to imagine.
A man who had believed in him. A man who had shown him the new way to live. A man who had accepted him after everything that had happened. A man who had given him...everything.
He was struggling to swallow now. His wand hand was trembling.
He could feel the cool wind rustling his robes as he climbed the spiral staircase, out into the elements. He could feel his blood pounding through his veins. He could feel the dryness of his throat. He could feel the words scraping against his vocal chord as he forced himself to say the curse.
He closed his eyes.
He remembered how Albus always greeted him with a smile. He remembered how Albus was always offering him tea. He remembered how they would sit together in that office, the office that was like a second home, and talk and discuss and argue. He remembered how, when he came back from the Dark Lord with even a scratch, Albus fussed over him and would insist on accompanying him to his own office in the dungeons.
He remembered how, even when he did not want it, he knew that he could turn and Albus would be there.
He smiled, despite himself.
He opened his eyes.
On the floor before him were two things. He bent down, kneeling in the dirt, reaching out with intrigued and tender hands to pick up—a ruby and gold cushion and a small black tin, encrusted with sapphires.
He knew the first item, of course. The cushion had been on the sofa in Albus Dumbledore's office since he had been a student. He stroked the ornate pattern with one finger, remembering the number of times he had sat upon this sofa, even slept in its embrace. He pulled it to his chest and breathed in the scent of tea and old parchment; the smell that had constantly enhanced the office. The smell that had lingered on Albus' robes and, therefore, on Severus' when he left the office in the morning.
He looked now at the tin. The tin was vaguely familiar to him, but he could not place its importance in relation to his friendship with...he pulled the lid off, and laughed.
Inside were several yellow sweets.
"Would you have a sherbet lemon, my dear boy?"
"Sherbet lemons really are a quite delectable treat. You should try one, one day, my dear."
"I find that sugar always causes my energy and happiness to rise."
And every single time, he had declined. He had no time for sweets, no matter what form they were in. These lurid yellow atrocities would never pass his lips.
So why was he reaching into the tin and unwrapping one, now? Why was he holding it between his fingers and examining it as if it were a potions' ingredient? And why was he passing it between his lips, savouring the overpowering sweetness?
Because, for just one moment, he could pretend that he could Albus' smug tone in his ear. "I told you that you might enjoy them..."
For one moment, one perfect moment, it was as if his mentor was still alive.
He sat, lost in his thoughts, before he rose and put the tin and the cushion on the ground. He pointed his wand once more and cast bright orange flame from the end.
And then he cleared his throat.
"Albus Dumbledore was a great man. Kind, compassionate and always seeking the good in everyone, he fought for those he believed in and did not abandon those who had worth in his eyes. He had his flaws, of course. Sometimes, he told the most peculiar and badly timed jokes. He enjoyed irritating me to the point of madness. But for all those bad habits, he was always there for me, and for that, I am always indebted.
I did not kill Albus Dumbledore out of hatred, and one day, everyone shall understand that. Albus Dumbledore was not killed by malice or disgust. He was killed by love—just the way it should have been, for he had a great capacity to love, even those who were unloved and unwanted by everyone else.
And I loved him back."
For a moment, he thought he saw the Headmaster's kind face watching him from the flames. Then it was gone.
And he watched the fire burn until it was simply ashes.
Severus Snape shed only one tear during the second war. And that tear was for his Headmaster. His mentor. His father. And, above all things, his friend.