Disclaimer: Snape is not mine, I'm just playing with him. He and the rest of the Harry Potter crew belong to the lovely and talented J.K. Rowling.
Title: Grief
Character(s): Minerva McGonagall and, kind of, Severus Snape
Word Count: 580
"Grief for thy dead in silence like to death –
Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet;
If it could weep, it could arise and go."
Elizabeth Barrett Browning's 'Grief'
When the truth comes out, there is only silence. What can be said? They didn't know, couldn't know, his true role. Severus had known this would be true when he agreed to be a double agent, and had done it anyways. They're standing at his grave and there is silence. Silence, at least, until Minerva McGonagall sniffs quietly and steps forward to lay a withered, weathered hand on the dark, stained wood of the coffin. Her head is bowed in sorrow and shame, and in a cracked, quiet voice that carries easily over the quiet of those gathered she says "There are those among us, myself included, who failed Severus badly with regard to the trust and fellowship that we ought to have held for him, and we gather not only to mourn but to beg forgiveness as well." She took a shaky breath, paused, and let it out slowly. "The simple truth is that not all of us become the people we once hoped we might be. I think that Severus, in his life, may have felt that that was true of him. It has now been proven beyond any doubt that he did, in a roundabout fashion, become a man worthy of the title we have bestowed upon him – hero." Her voice trailed slightly, uncertainly, as she stroked the simple wood of the coffin that held the earthly remains of a boy she had watched grow, of a man she had called her friend.
Silence took over again. A few in the audience shifted, their robes rustling, but otherwise there was no movement. And still she stood alone, dry eyed and feeling incredibly old and tired. Slowly, one at a time, the others in the audience stepped forward to touch the coffin, to lay a flower or a coin or a stone or some other mark of respect, to murmur words of apology, of regret, of condolence to the woman who stood like a statue at the foot of the box. One by one, until there was only one left – a black haired, green eyed boy with glasses who was more man than boy now, aged by the war and by the circumstances of his life. He stepped up beside his former professor and set his hand next to hers on the shining wood. He did not speak. He just stood there for minutes on end, lips moving, forming silent words. Finally, he looked up and met her eyes. His shone with unshed tears. Hers remained painfully dry, her chest tight with emotion that refused to allow itself to be shown. He smiled weakly and stepped back.
Minerva remained with the coffin as it was lowered into the ground and covered with earth. One of the young men responsible for such things brought her a chair and she sank into it with a murmured word of thanks. They hesitated over leaving her, but eventually they too left her to her own thoughts. And still the tears refused to come. She remembered him as he was, tall and terrifying, billowing robes and a long, powerful stride, but also a dry wit, a tremendous chess player, a brilliant potioneer, a man so devoted to those close to him. And, dry eyed, her head bowed over the freshly turned dirt and the headstone that bore his name, the dates of his birth and death, and a single word "Hero," she swore to stay. He deserved to have someone cry over him.
A/N: Love it? Hate it? Have a better idea? Drop me a line! Also, partial credit for McGonagall's little speech goes to the writer's for Master and Commander – it's the eulogy given by Jack Aubrey (Russell Crowe) at the funeral for Mr. Hollom.