The tears came again, grief and shame intermingling on her face as she recalled how vehemently she had wished for Snape's death. He had broken her trust and torn out her heart with a single spell, and she had been unable to see the pain with which he'd said it. It did little to console her to think that that was the whole point—if she had seen, others would have, and her star would've been snuffed out for naught.
She had raged within herself, berating the benevolent part of her which trusted implicitly, and hardened that part until she thought she'd lost it forever. For a while, it had seemed that her goodness had died with a bespectacled old man whose smile was the sun, in her eyes.
When Harry told her, choked with tears and stained with haunting darkness that he'd never be able to wash away, of Severus's last gift, the brightness in her had come shuddering to life, and the pain she had kept at bay along with it burst forth in a waterfall of tears.
Harry embraced her rather awkwardly, soundless and patient until she'd exhausted herself even though an ocean remained within, uncried. She pulled away, dried her puffy eyes, and told him (with as much dignity as her croaking voice allowed) that she was stepping down as Headmistress. She felt the need to justify her decision, to explain to him why it was that she could not take up the mantle of Albus Dumbledore as the wizarding world expected her to do, but his words stopped her.
"I understand, Professor."
"Minerva, Harry. You really must call me Minerva. I'm not your teacher anymore."
For the first time since he'd entered her office, he looked like an uncertain child. "Erm…alright, Prof—Minerva." The name twisted awkwardly about his tongue.
They were having tea, which was absurd because both were still covered in sweat from the fighting and trembling from identifying the dead afterward, when he asked the inevitable question.
"Did you know that Sna—Severus…that he loved my mother?"
He stared into his teacup as though seeking answers in the tea leaves. Minerva wished keenly (and not for the first time, truth be told) that Dumbledore sat in her stead, the man with all the answers, and she had taken his place that night in the tower. But alas, even the greatest wizard of the time could not escape the final rest. Her eyes flickered to his portrait, to his sleeping face.
"I…I suppose I didn't. In a way, I'm just as guilty as the rest. I never paid much thought to Severus. He was brilliant at Potions, and at curses, but his marks in my class were mediocre at best, and that was really all I knew of him. He kept to so much to himself that few teachers noticed him, and even fewer took an interest. Of course, Albus…Well, I feel sure that he would have known, even back then."
"But they were never together?"
"Oh, they studied Potions now and then, and Lily was always defending him from…from Sirius and James, but…no, I can't recall seeing them together."
A moment of silence ensued, into which she ventured, "I'm sorry I can't tell you more, Harry. If Dumbledore were here…"
"It's alright, Professor. It doesn't really matter anyway, I suppose." He drained the last of his tea and set down the cup, and she knew before he spoke that he was leaving.
She drifted slowly out of her reverie, and for several confused moments, past and present collided and she could not remember who she was or where she was or what she had been thinking of. She encompassed Minnie, Minerva, and Professor McGonagall all at once, and the tumultuous emotions of her trip down memory lane left her sorely desiring a nap.
She placed the final photograph carefully onto the empty last page, smoothing it down with gnarled fingers and muttering a charm to hold it fast. Then, she lifted herself from the chair with enormous effort, bones popping and creaking. It wasn't worth it, she decided, to cross the room and put the book back, so she set it on the chair and hobbled instead to the window.
The transformation was hellfire followed by cool relief. The aches didn't disappear when she had whiskers and a tail, but they receded. Circling once, twice, thrice, she eased to the floor in the patch of slowly-draining sunlight and sank into blessed sleep.
