Here it is, the last chapter. I still have an epilogue left (one that I am particularly proud of), so I shall hold off on the good byes until then. Enjoy.

It was with a heavy heart that she cleared out his desk. The house elves could have done it just as well, but she liked to think that he would have preferred she had this job. No matter that a fresh wave of pain hit her with every piece of parchment bearing his handwriting she removed. The first scrap she had pulled out from his top drawer was nothing but a scribbled list of ingredients he'd intended to order from Diagon Alley. But the tears still welled in her eyes as her finger traced the familiar spidery script. She placed everything in boxes; she simply couldn't bear the idea of throwing anything of his away.

Once the top layer of parchment and quills had been sorted, she came upon a small box. Just as her fingers began to open the lid, a scroll popped into existence on his desk.

'How very strange,' she thought to herself. The box must have been charmed to summon the parchment when it was opened. Talented as he was, even Snape would not have been able to achieve such a spell without Filius' help. Samantha was hesitant to read the note, but when she fully opened the box and saw a ring – a ring that would have been much too small for Snape's fingers – her gut told her that it was meant for her eyes. Her hands shook as she unrolled the parchment and the tears started falling the moment she saw her name at the top of the page.

Dear Samantha,

If you are reading this letter, then I will not have survived the war. You see, it was charmed to reveal itself to you if you, and only you, were the one to open this box. Given your level of intelligence, I am quite sure you have already figured out what it is. And I am equally certain that you understand why I refused to allow myself to give it to you prior to the Dark Lord's fall. I could not permit myself to make you an even bigger target than you already were.

I know that I was (she felt her heart drop when she saw that he had originally written "am" and swiftly crossed it out) a difficult man. Yet, meddling witch that you are, you were able to insinuate yourself into my life and, sickly sweet though this may sound, into my heart. And much against my wishes, at that. I found rather frighteningly early on in our friendship that I would forever need your presence in my life. Even as I struggled to understand it, I was inadvertently becoming more emotionally attached to you than I had been to anyone else in my entire life. Yes, even more than her.

And therein is the reason for the ring that you have found (I knew that if you survived, you would surely volunteer yourself for the task of cleaning up my mess). I love you. I sincerely hope I had the chance to say that to you before my demise. If not, you know it now and I beg your forgiveness for not telling you every day since the realization hit me. You know the man that I was and I feel fairly certain that you might understand why I found it out of my power to speak the words aloud, even if you feel cheated all the same. If it is any consolation, I will write it again and say it as I do so. I love you. I know you cannot hear me, but I know you will remember my voice and I know that you can imagine what it may have sounded like. I love you. I could have filled the page with those three words and not have come close to truly conveying the depth of my feeling. Which is why I wanted to marry you. I thought perhaps if I'd had a century to spend with you, I might have had enough time to let it properly be known. You are free to tell Father Matthews of my intentions. He probably knew before I did.

Much as this letter may not bear much resemblance to the man I was in life, I found myself quite liberated in the knowledge that this will not have been read had I survived. All the same, I wish I had been given the chance to say these words to you myself.

I love you,

Severus

P.S. You know I never set much store by it, but I know that it means the world to you, so I will allow you to request some kind of memorial service for me at your church. I know it will make you feel better and because your happiness is more important to me than my own life, I want you to do this. Not for me (I know what kind of afterlife I deserve), but for you.

Samantha found herself beyond tears. She knew that he had felt deeply for her, but she honestly had no idea that it was on this level. She wished she had, as she would have been more fervent in showering him with her affection. He would have complained, sure, but after reading his words, she felt certain that his complaints would have been half-hearted at best and purely for the sake of keeping his reputation intact.

Even taking his liberal use of the dreaded 'l' word into account, she was perhaps even more moved by his postscript. The act of giving her his explicit permission to request a Mass said in his name was more than she could have hoped for. And he was absolutely right. It would make her feel immensely better. And somewhat to her annoyance, she hadn't even had the idea herself. Trust him to one-up her even in death.

Before going any further, she summoned a fresh piece of parchment and very consciously picked up one of his quills to send the request to Father Matthews (who was, thankfully, past being totally unnerved by the experience of owls expecting payment in treats for dropping off scrolls at the rectory). Before dispatching the owl, she told the bird to wait for a response (something that had previously equally unnerved him), so that she could make plans to attend. Time would also have to be set aside, she knew, to talk to the priest. He had liked Snape, even though he had only met him twice.

Samantha spent the rest of the evening cleaning out Snape's office. She decided she wouldn't bin the pickled creatures, but they would certainly henceforth hold a less exalted location in the office. Soon enough the owl returned, holding Father Matthews' response in its claws. Samantha retrieved the missive and sat down to read his reply. It was short, containing nothing more than a couple of suggested dates and condolences on her loss. She knew it wasn't insincerity on his part, but rather that he was certain that she knew without his saying that his consolation would be offered in person.

She looked at her calendar to pick a date and sent the owl back. Although she doubted any other Hogwarts resident would want to attend, she decided that she would alert the headmistress as to her plans so that any who wished to come could.

The seconds, minutes, and days ticked by more slowly than she had even thought possible. McGonagall had sent out owls to the surviving Order members to inform them of the upcoming memorial service for Snape. Samantha was shocked to find that a fair few had it in mind to attend, including – rather inexplicably in her mind – the Golden Trio. It was decided that the Mass would not be announced publicly and that the more famous of the attendees, as well as those who seemed incapable of wearing normal Muggle attire, would have to arrive with Disillusionment charms intact so as not to attract the attention of any unknown magical folk or unsuspecting Muggles in the vicinity.

The day finally arrived and Samantha was joined by McGonagall as they made their way to the gates and apparated to her usual point in the church's graveyard. She was surprised to see that the church was nearly half full. She had not expected so many to attend and was somewhat nervous about the kind of attention the church may end up garnering in the future should the Daily Prophet get wind of it. Still, she remained pleased that so many were willing to give up a Saturday morning to remember someone who many of the assembled congregation had not particularly liked in life.

Due to the fact that she was, aside from Hermione, the only Catholic present, Samantha had taken it upon herself to draw up a pamphlet of sorts that would explain the proceedings. As she made copy after copy to hand out at the back of the church, she wondered why she had requested a Mass and not a simple memorial service, though it was rather a moot point by then.

During the service itself, she found most attendants to be confused by the many actions that made up the Mass. Others, Harry most interestingly, looked contemplative and perhaps even soothed by the sweet scent of incense and the somber tones of the cantor. Samantha was reminded of the Midnight Mass she and Snape had attended together. It felt like it had been decades since then.

Samantha found it strange that she didn't shed a single tear during the whole of the Mass, not even when Father Matthews had spoken Snape's name during the Intercessions. She had imagined that she would be a blubbering mess, but instead, though not unmoved, was entirely composed. Perhaps it was because she already felt rather exposed by the raw emotions she'd shown when she saw Snape's nearly lifeless body as it was brought out of the Whomping Willow. Or perhaps it was because she was simply too tired to display such emotions again. She certainly felt as though she hadn't a tear left to cry.

As the attendees began to filter out at the end of the Mass, she lagged behind, still not ready to leave.

"Professor?" Hermione said quietly. Apparently she was not prepared to go either. Samantha looked up at her from where she sat in the pew. The girl looked tired and, in all honesty, like she had been crying. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement and turned to head to see that Harry had remained as well.

"Hermione and I are going across the street to the pub," he explained. "I…I want to talk to you about," he gestured vaguely toward the altar, "him."

Samantha knew he meant Snape. She nodded, also seeming to understand why Harry wanted to pick her brains about the late Potions Master. She knew that he had come to realize just what it was that Snape had done for him and he genuinely wanted to know the man, through the perspective of those who knew him best, who had saved his life.

"I'll be there in a moment," she said, her voice sounding rather thick and rusty to her ears.

Hermione put her arm around Harry's shoulders and guided him out of the church. Samantha watched them for a moment and then turned her head back toward the front of the church. She stood and walked toward one of the side chapels that flanked the sanctuary. She lit a candle and knelt in one of the terribly uncomfortable pews. She hadn't a clue how long she remained in that position, but she did know that when she stood, her knees cracked like those of a woman three times her age.

As she turned back towards the door, she saw that Father Matthews had been sitting in a pew, waiting for her to finish.

"Father," she said in a tired voice, though warm all the same. He had a way of lifting her spirits by his mere presence.

"My dear one," he said, the sympathy clear on his face and in his voice.

He extended an arm, gesturing for her to sit beside him. Samantha sat and rested her head against his shoulder. Father Matthews kissed her forehead and stroked her hair.

"He was taken from me, Father," she said quietly. "We had our whole lives ahead of us. Decades at least."

The priest took a breath to speak.

"Please don't say God has his reasons," Samantha interjected before he could say anything. "You know that has never worked on me."

"Yes, that I do know," he answered sadly. "But I don't want you regretting loving him. He died knowing he was loved, Samantha, and that is as much as any of us can ask when our time comes. And it is far more, I suspect, than he had ever expected before he met you."

"It didn't hurt this much when Mark died," Samantha said in almost a whisper, feeling immensely guilty for it.

"You also didn't go through a war with Mark," Father Matthews pointed out. "War has a way of intensifying everything. That is not to say, of course, that you would have loved Severus any less were things different. You and Mark were well suited – I would not have married you were you not – but you found in Severus a man who needed your love in a way Mark did not. He needed it, needed you to survive."

Samantha should have been surprised at how perceptive Father Matthews had been, having only been casually acquainted with Snape. But she also knew how adept he was at reading others. And, of course, he was absolutely right. She had loved Snape in a different way because he demanded something different of her than Mark had. Her relationship with Mark had been genial. With Snape, it had been a matter of life or death.

"How do you always know what I need to hear?"

She heard her priest chuckle quietly.

"God knows what I need to say," he answered with a smile.

The pair stood and hugged before Father Matthews walked back to the sacristy to change out of his vestments.

Samantha slowly made her way out of the church. Before she exited, she dipped her fingers into the holy water and crossed herself. After sucking in a cleansing breath, she stepped out of the cool darkness of the church and into the bright midday sun. She let the breath out and nodded to herself. She saw Harry and Hermione in the window of the Boar's Head and purposefully headed their way. Her grieving was far from over, but for now, this would have to do.