A/N Back to Snape's POV for this chapter. We're close to winding up now. After this I'm planning to go back to the light-hearted stuff - I have an idea for a Hogwarts murder-mystery featuring a Snape-Hermione crime-solving partnership...;-)
It strikes me very suddenly, as I leave the Mirror Room, that my tasks are complete. Find my Slytherins, find Potter, find Albus. Done, done, and done. Now what shall I do?
Someone - possibly several someones - told me that I ought to rest, which seems entirely impossible, especially when I think of Draco in that white room behind the infirmary, resting forever, against his will.
In my case, the response to any sort of emotional pain - though I pretended years ago that I'd stopped having feelings - is work. What work is there to be done now? There are no classes to teach, no papers to mark, and no dark lords left to kill. Perhaps I should take up bonsai-growing.
Ah. My sense of humour, like van Helsing's, is asserting itself under dire circumstances.
Perhaps I should find some vampires to slay.
Or, alternatively, I could exorcise some demons.
Thus I make my way to the hospital wing to do just that. Sirius Black, or what's left of him, lurks there somewhere, and he definitely constitutes one of my demons, or perhaps just a little unfinished business, depending on how poetic one is feeling. I have the absurd feeling that he is waiting for me there. Briskly I make my way to Madame Pomfrey's office. Ask her permission to see Black. She stares at me very strangely and kindly enquires after my health. I tell her I'm fine, with no idea of whether this is true or not. I feel as though someone has put me under the Imperious curse - my mind is detached, a bemused observer of my own speech and behaviour, even my own thoughts.
Very strange.
Black is not in the hospital wing proper, but in a private room generally reserved for ill staff members. I note that the door is locked using more than one charm. What are they trying to protect Black from? The answer comes easily - for himself. Obviously, the man has lost his mind.
Perhaps he thinks he's a dog.
When I enter, however, Black is sitting quietly on the bed, staring hard at the wall with an expression of deepest thoughtfullness on his ravaged face. Studying those tired, drawn features, I remember the handsomeness and confidence I once despised him for, and feel - no satisfaction whatsoever. I know myself to be anhedonic but at least I maintained over the years my ability to appreciate other people's misfortune, especially when it made them as miserable as I was. Whatever else the final battle with Voldemort has done, it has stripped me of even that.
"Black." It is necessary to attract his attention - he does not even look at me as I hover over him. Slowly his eyes wander up, and he fixes me with a surprisingly penetrating, and rather discomforting, stare.
"I thought you might turn up." He mutters.
"Did you really." I drop into the sole chair in the room, a battered, rigid wooden seat which suits me very well.
"I've been waiting for you." Black tells me, confidentially, a peculiar smile on his lips.
"Have you, indeed."
"Do you want me to come with you now?" He asks, his head on one side like a curious puppy.
"Why would I want to take *you* anywhere?" I feign a sneer.
"Well, you've come for me, haven't you?" He says, cheerfully enough. "To steal my soul."
"What?"
"Well, that's what you do." He tells me, craftily. "You're a dementor, aren't you?"
This goes on for some time. I eventually convince him that I am not a dementor. I have not come to strip him of what remains of his soul. I have not even come to kill him.
"Who are you then?" He demands, becoming annoyed. "Tell me your name."
"I am Severus Snape." I oblige. He peers at me closely for a moment, as though wanting to verify this statement. Then to my surprise he chuckles.
"No, you're *not*." He laughs, shaking his head. "I know Snape and you're definitely not him."
I give up. Maybe Black is right. Maybe I'm not him. If not, who am I? Feeling very confused, I take my leave of Potter's mongrel, and as I depart, I walk directly into the youth himself, coming to visit his godfather.
"I'm sorry, professor." Potter exclaims, disentangling himself from me. Then he realises the incongruity of the situation.
"Is something wrong with Sirius?" He asks, anxiously. I shake my head.
"Not as far as I can see." I tell him dryly. Potter squints at me.
"Are *you*, okay, professor?"
What an interesting question, and so apt that Potter should ask it. In all the years he despised me, judged me, and thought me nothing more than a sneering, heartless git, he never once thought to ask that simple question, 'are you okay?'
"I have absolutely no idea." I tell him, genially enough, and he clearly thinks I've been drinking suspect potions, because his eyes widen and the inevitable words issue from his lips,
"Maybe you should get some rest."
"When I die." I tell him, and walk off, leaving the young man staring incredulously after me. Without looking back I see him shrug and enter Black's room - I am far from Potter's first priority, and if as it seems I've gone completely mad, it is someone's else's problem.
I wander back to my office, more relaxed than I have been for a long, long time. Waiting for me there is Minerva, her expression a mixture of severity and concern.
"I've just been speaking to Harry." She says, in a dangerous voice. "Oh, for heaven's sake!" She adds in exasperation, and suddenly grabs me. I realise for the first time that I'm swaying on my feet. She puts me in a chair, draws up another, and sits close, her knees pressing against mine. She looks ragged with exhaustion. Her voice is raspy.
"Severus, this is not the answer."
Apparently it's quite obvious even to a casual observer that, following my talk with Albus, I drank a selection from the cabinet in my laboratory - items I save for special occasions such as this. I remember vaguely that my intention was to keep myself awake. It seems that complete exhaustion and high dosages of stimulant potion do not mix. I was running on adrenaline; now I am conscious only by virtue of artifice. No wonder the world seems so odd suddenly.
Minerva is looking at me sadly.
"I'm sorry." She says softly. "I thought at first you were drunk. It's just weariness, isn't it? You must go to bed."
"'To sleep, perchance to dream.'" I reply, the words summarising my situation excellently. Penance. How much more of it am I expected to do?
"Take a potion." She suggests.
"Doesn't work anymore." I counter.
Minerva sighs.
"All right." I finally concede.
She looks up. "What do you mean?"
"All right, I'll go to bed." I elucidate, falsely. She is too tired herself to notice.
"Good."
"As long as you do the same."
Hesitation; Minerva feels the weight of the world on her shoulders and is afraid to lose time.
"Very well."
She does not leave immediately, however, but foils my plan of drinking myself into a stupor by insisting on helping me undress and tucking me into bed as she might a child. Once she has gone, however, I am simply too weary to get up again....so I remain still and quiet, too exhausted, thankfully, even to think, until blissful sleep overcomes me...
I wake to the sound of squeaking, a far from musical noise. As I make my groggy approach to full wakefulness the squeaking takes on a kind of meaning, resolving itself gradually into understandable words. For a moment I am confused; then, I spot a small, timid, bat-eared creature, wearing the most ridiculous bonnet, lurking at the edge of my bed. A house-elf. Winky the house-elf, to be precise. Self-styled rehabilitator of dark wizards. Doubtless McGonagall has sent this unwanted gift.
The squeaking continues. With difficulty I follow the small being's rapid, ungrammatical speech.
"Professor Snape would like a cup of tea?" She quavers, staring directly into my eyes by means of standing on tiptoe - I am, after all, lying down. Prone. I dislike appearing so vulnerable.
"No, professor Snape would not like a cup of tea. Professor Snape would like to know what time it is, and then he wants you to go away so that he can dress in peace." Is not referring to oneself in the third person a symptom of some dire mental disorder? The elf does not appear to mind.
"Nine o'clock, sir." She says.
"Is that morning or evening?" I demand, unembarrassed.
"Morning, sir."
Strange. I have only slept for five or six hours, then, but I feel quite rested, physically, at least.
"You is wanting tea, sir?"
"Eh? No, no, go away."
"I is wanting to serve you, sir."
"That's all very well, but I don't require a valet just at the moment. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to..." sitting up, I see that my clothes are folded neatly on a chair beside the bed, my wand placed tidily on the bedside table, and the room generally cleaner. In fact, I can see the floor. How dare this elf do such a heinous thing as *tidy* my private chamber? But I have far more important things to worry about.
"Has anything happened?" I demand of Winky, not sure what I expect to hear.
"Oh yes, sir." She says, alarmingly.
"Well?" I snap, leaping out of bed and exchanging my nightshirt rapidly for robes.
"Professor Dumbledore has called a meeting, sir. In the Great Hall, sir. At ten o'clock, sir. Everyone is attending, sir."
"Meeting? Already?" Too early, my mind exclaims. Only a few weary hours after the final battle and Albus is called meetings? But at least this means he is strong enough to remain in control.
"The Ministry is coming, sir." Winky adds, handing me my wand. I slip it into its pocket.
"It's too early." I mutter.
"Professor Snape would like to go back to bed?"
"What? No, that wasn't what I meant, you stupid elf. I mean calling a meeting immediately after the battle is too soon. Hogwarts is in chaos..."
"No, sir." I am astonished by the elf's effrontery, for, emancipated or not, a house-elf is a house-elf is a house-elf, and a house-elf is respectful of its betters.
"What do you mean by that? Of course it is! Has so much happened in the few hours I've been asleep?"
"Thirty hours, sir."
I freeze in the process of lacing my boots.
"What?" I say once more, stupidly.
"Professor Snape has been sleeping for thirty hours. Winky has been here all the time, sir, in case you was wanting anything, sir."
"Thirty..." Thoroughly alarmed now, I use my wand to finish dressing and bolt for the Great Hall, knocking Winky over as I plunge past her. She doesn't appear to mind.
Albus is in the Great Hall already, alone at the staff table, looking thoughtful, his head bowed. He glances up as I burst in.
"Good morning, Severus. Slept well?"
"Rather too well." I mutter, embarrassed and somewhat ashamed of myself.
"Now, now, no-one will blame you for getting the rest you need and deserve. You have been informed about the meeting? Really more of a debriefing."
"Yes, yes, I have. Is there anything I can do?"
"Not at all. You have done more than enough...more than enough." I had hoped, foolishly perhaps, to find that the light had returned to Dumbledore's blue eyes, but I am disappointed. He looks wearier and older than ever before; his voice is weak, his movements slow, his forehead deeply lined.
"Perhaps you would like some breakfast?" A gentle smile. "There's plenty of time. You are rather...early."
"No, thank you." I could not possibly eat anything, though it has now been three days since I had more than a biscuit. "A glass of water wouldn't go amiss." I amend, and a large jug of icy water is duly brought - by Winky.
"Thank you." I murmur guardedly. I don't want or need my own personal house-elf, but it seems that Winky wishes to devote herself to my cause. She is gazing at me with almost motherly concern out of her huge eyes. "Go away." I tell her, and she vanishes obediently. At last, someone I can freely treat rudely without offence being taken and vengeance extracted.
"It would appear you are not the only person to arrive early, Severus." Glancing up I spot two young men coming towards us. They are familiar, and it takes me only a moment to place them both: Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, both sometime Gryffindors, both great contributors to the war against Voldemort. Though close friends for many years their paths diverged considerably, however - Finnigan working for the Ministry, I seem to recall, Thomas becoming an artist. A very good one; his name is well known in both artistic circles and among the public. He has painted both muggle and normal pictures, though of course it is the latter which takes the most skill. A wizard artist must have the unique capacity of looking at a person and seeing, effectively, into their soul - assessing their personality, understanding the core of their being. He must then copy this onto canvas, for without a splinter of the subject's essence, as it were, the picture cannot come to 'life'. A failed wizard portrait resembles a muggle painting, and often it is sold as such, scorned by other wizard artists. Dean Thomas has never produced a failed painting; he has an innate skill.
Finnigan and Thomas greet Dumbledore enthusiastically. Finnigan nods coolly to me, but Thomas stares at me rather strangely.
"Professor Snape?" He says, uncertainly, as though there were some possibility that he might be mistaken.
"Mr. Thomas." I reply. A bemused smile comes to his lips.
"You look...different, professor."
I raise an eyebrow. "Different?"
He nods, frowns as though struggling to determine the nature of that difference. He nibbles his lip, shakes his head, then shrugs. "I'll get it." He tells me.
Indeed he does. Following the meeting, Dean Thomas asks to paint my picture, to my utter confusion. Surely this is not the time to play some unpleasant practical joke? Curious, I agree, and Thomas works quickly. By the end of his brief stay at Hogwarts in the aftermath of the battle, the portrait is complete, and he presents it to me in my chamber, in the presence of Albus, Minerva, and Winky, who refuses to leave my side.
"What do you think?" Asks Thomas, unveiling the painting.
I cast my eyes over it. Draw back in amazement. Study it again.
A wizard painting is so effective because it essentially captures the very nature, the very soul, of its subject.
The man in the picture I am staring at looks like me. The image is so cleverly produced that it is like looking into a mirror.
Nevertheless, the man in the picture is not me, surely cannot be me.
He looks contented, like a man who has few regrets - or a man who has redeemed himself of them.
His eyes are bright with intellect, but tranquil, rather like Dumbledore's used to be.
And oddest of all...
He is smiling.
It strikes me very suddenly, as I leave the Mirror Room, that my tasks are complete. Find my Slytherins, find Potter, find Albus. Done, done, and done. Now what shall I do?
Someone - possibly several someones - told me that I ought to rest, which seems entirely impossible, especially when I think of Draco in that white room behind the infirmary, resting forever, against his will.
In my case, the response to any sort of emotional pain - though I pretended years ago that I'd stopped having feelings - is work. What work is there to be done now? There are no classes to teach, no papers to mark, and no dark lords left to kill. Perhaps I should take up bonsai-growing.
Ah. My sense of humour, like van Helsing's, is asserting itself under dire circumstances.
Perhaps I should find some vampires to slay.
Or, alternatively, I could exorcise some demons.
Thus I make my way to the hospital wing to do just that. Sirius Black, or what's left of him, lurks there somewhere, and he definitely constitutes one of my demons, or perhaps just a little unfinished business, depending on how poetic one is feeling. I have the absurd feeling that he is waiting for me there. Briskly I make my way to Madame Pomfrey's office. Ask her permission to see Black. She stares at me very strangely and kindly enquires after my health. I tell her I'm fine, with no idea of whether this is true or not. I feel as though someone has put me under the Imperious curse - my mind is detached, a bemused observer of my own speech and behaviour, even my own thoughts.
Very strange.
Black is not in the hospital wing proper, but in a private room generally reserved for ill staff members. I note that the door is locked using more than one charm. What are they trying to protect Black from? The answer comes easily - for himself. Obviously, the man has lost his mind.
Perhaps he thinks he's a dog.
When I enter, however, Black is sitting quietly on the bed, staring hard at the wall with an expression of deepest thoughtfullness on his ravaged face. Studying those tired, drawn features, I remember the handsomeness and confidence I once despised him for, and feel - no satisfaction whatsoever. I know myself to be anhedonic but at least I maintained over the years my ability to appreciate other people's misfortune, especially when it made them as miserable as I was. Whatever else the final battle with Voldemort has done, it has stripped me of even that.
"Black." It is necessary to attract his attention - he does not even look at me as I hover over him. Slowly his eyes wander up, and he fixes me with a surprisingly penetrating, and rather discomforting, stare.
"I thought you might turn up." He mutters.
"Did you really." I drop into the sole chair in the room, a battered, rigid wooden seat which suits me very well.
"I've been waiting for you." Black tells me, confidentially, a peculiar smile on his lips.
"Have you, indeed."
"Do you want me to come with you now?" He asks, his head on one side like a curious puppy.
"Why would I want to take *you* anywhere?" I feign a sneer.
"Well, you've come for me, haven't you?" He says, cheerfully enough. "To steal my soul."
"What?"
"Well, that's what you do." He tells me, craftily. "You're a dementor, aren't you?"
This goes on for some time. I eventually convince him that I am not a dementor. I have not come to strip him of what remains of his soul. I have not even come to kill him.
"Who are you then?" He demands, becoming annoyed. "Tell me your name."
"I am Severus Snape." I oblige. He peers at me closely for a moment, as though wanting to verify this statement. Then to my surprise he chuckles.
"No, you're *not*." He laughs, shaking his head. "I know Snape and you're definitely not him."
I give up. Maybe Black is right. Maybe I'm not him. If not, who am I? Feeling very confused, I take my leave of Potter's mongrel, and as I depart, I walk directly into the youth himself, coming to visit his godfather.
"I'm sorry, professor." Potter exclaims, disentangling himself from me. Then he realises the incongruity of the situation.
"Is something wrong with Sirius?" He asks, anxiously. I shake my head.
"Not as far as I can see." I tell him dryly. Potter squints at me.
"Are *you*, okay, professor?"
What an interesting question, and so apt that Potter should ask it. In all the years he despised me, judged me, and thought me nothing more than a sneering, heartless git, he never once thought to ask that simple question, 'are you okay?'
"I have absolutely no idea." I tell him, genially enough, and he clearly thinks I've been drinking suspect potions, because his eyes widen and the inevitable words issue from his lips,
"Maybe you should get some rest."
"When I die." I tell him, and walk off, leaving the young man staring incredulously after me. Without looking back I see him shrug and enter Black's room - I am far from Potter's first priority, and if as it seems I've gone completely mad, it is someone's else's problem.
I wander back to my office, more relaxed than I have been for a long, long time. Waiting for me there is Minerva, her expression a mixture of severity and concern.
"I've just been speaking to Harry." She says, in a dangerous voice. "Oh, for heaven's sake!" She adds in exasperation, and suddenly grabs me. I realise for the first time that I'm swaying on my feet. She puts me in a chair, draws up another, and sits close, her knees pressing against mine. She looks ragged with exhaustion. Her voice is raspy.
"Severus, this is not the answer."
Apparently it's quite obvious even to a casual observer that, following my talk with Albus, I drank a selection from the cabinet in my laboratory - items I save for special occasions such as this. I remember vaguely that my intention was to keep myself awake. It seems that complete exhaustion and high dosages of stimulant potion do not mix. I was running on adrenaline; now I am conscious only by virtue of artifice. No wonder the world seems so odd suddenly.
Minerva is looking at me sadly.
"I'm sorry." She says softly. "I thought at first you were drunk. It's just weariness, isn't it? You must go to bed."
"'To sleep, perchance to dream.'" I reply, the words summarising my situation excellently. Penance. How much more of it am I expected to do?
"Take a potion." She suggests.
"Doesn't work anymore." I counter.
Minerva sighs.
"All right." I finally concede.
She looks up. "What do you mean?"
"All right, I'll go to bed." I elucidate, falsely. She is too tired herself to notice.
"Good."
"As long as you do the same."
Hesitation; Minerva feels the weight of the world on her shoulders and is afraid to lose time.
"Very well."
She does not leave immediately, however, but foils my plan of drinking myself into a stupor by insisting on helping me undress and tucking me into bed as she might a child. Once she has gone, however, I am simply too weary to get up again....so I remain still and quiet, too exhausted, thankfully, even to think, until blissful sleep overcomes me...
I wake to the sound of squeaking, a far from musical noise. As I make my groggy approach to full wakefulness the squeaking takes on a kind of meaning, resolving itself gradually into understandable words. For a moment I am confused; then, I spot a small, timid, bat-eared creature, wearing the most ridiculous bonnet, lurking at the edge of my bed. A house-elf. Winky the house-elf, to be precise. Self-styled rehabilitator of dark wizards. Doubtless McGonagall has sent this unwanted gift.
The squeaking continues. With difficulty I follow the small being's rapid, ungrammatical speech.
"Professor Snape would like a cup of tea?" She quavers, staring directly into my eyes by means of standing on tiptoe - I am, after all, lying down. Prone. I dislike appearing so vulnerable.
"No, professor Snape would not like a cup of tea. Professor Snape would like to know what time it is, and then he wants you to go away so that he can dress in peace." Is not referring to oneself in the third person a symptom of some dire mental disorder? The elf does not appear to mind.
"Nine o'clock, sir." She says.
"Is that morning or evening?" I demand, unembarrassed.
"Morning, sir."
Strange. I have only slept for five or six hours, then, but I feel quite rested, physically, at least.
"You is wanting tea, sir?"
"Eh? No, no, go away."
"I is wanting to serve you, sir."
"That's all very well, but I don't require a valet just at the moment. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to..." sitting up, I see that my clothes are folded neatly on a chair beside the bed, my wand placed tidily on the bedside table, and the room generally cleaner. In fact, I can see the floor. How dare this elf do such a heinous thing as *tidy* my private chamber? But I have far more important things to worry about.
"Has anything happened?" I demand of Winky, not sure what I expect to hear.
"Oh yes, sir." She says, alarmingly.
"Well?" I snap, leaping out of bed and exchanging my nightshirt rapidly for robes.
"Professor Dumbledore has called a meeting, sir. In the Great Hall, sir. At ten o'clock, sir. Everyone is attending, sir."
"Meeting? Already?" Too early, my mind exclaims. Only a few weary hours after the final battle and Albus is called meetings? But at least this means he is strong enough to remain in control.
"The Ministry is coming, sir." Winky adds, handing me my wand. I slip it into its pocket.
"It's too early." I mutter.
"Professor Snape would like to go back to bed?"
"What? No, that wasn't what I meant, you stupid elf. I mean calling a meeting immediately after the battle is too soon. Hogwarts is in chaos..."
"No, sir." I am astonished by the elf's effrontery, for, emancipated or not, a house-elf is a house-elf is a house-elf, and a house-elf is respectful of its betters.
"What do you mean by that? Of course it is! Has so much happened in the few hours I've been asleep?"
"Thirty hours, sir."
I freeze in the process of lacing my boots.
"What?" I say once more, stupidly.
"Professor Snape has been sleeping for thirty hours. Winky has been here all the time, sir, in case you was wanting anything, sir."
"Thirty..." Thoroughly alarmed now, I use my wand to finish dressing and bolt for the Great Hall, knocking Winky over as I plunge past her. She doesn't appear to mind.
Albus is in the Great Hall already, alone at the staff table, looking thoughtful, his head bowed. He glances up as I burst in.
"Good morning, Severus. Slept well?"
"Rather too well." I mutter, embarrassed and somewhat ashamed of myself.
"Now, now, no-one will blame you for getting the rest you need and deserve. You have been informed about the meeting? Really more of a debriefing."
"Yes, yes, I have. Is there anything I can do?"
"Not at all. You have done more than enough...more than enough." I had hoped, foolishly perhaps, to find that the light had returned to Dumbledore's blue eyes, but I am disappointed. He looks wearier and older than ever before; his voice is weak, his movements slow, his forehead deeply lined.
"Perhaps you would like some breakfast?" A gentle smile. "There's plenty of time. You are rather...early."
"No, thank you." I could not possibly eat anything, though it has now been three days since I had more than a biscuit. "A glass of water wouldn't go amiss." I amend, and a large jug of icy water is duly brought - by Winky.
"Thank you." I murmur guardedly. I don't want or need my own personal house-elf, but it seems that Winky wishes to devote herself to my cause. She is gazing at me with almost motherly concern out of her huge eyes. "Go away." I tell her, and she vanishes obediently. At last, someone I can freely treat rudely without offence being taken and vengeance extracted.
"It would appear you are not the only person to arrive early, Severus." Glancing up I spot two young men coming towards us. They are familiar, and it takes me only a moment to place them both: Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, both sometime Gryffindors, both great contributors to the war against Voldemort. Though close friends for many years their paths diverged considerably, however - Finnigan working for the Ministry, I seem to recall, Thomas becoming an artist. A very good one; his name is well known in both artistic circles and among the public. He has painted both muggle and normal pictures, though of course it is the latter which takes the most skill. A wizard artist must have the unique capacity of looking at a person and seeing, effectively, into their soul - assessing their personality, understanding the core of their being. He must then copy this onto canvas, for without a splinter of the subject's essence, as it were, the picture cannot come to 'life'. A failed wizard portrait resembles a muggle painting, and often it is sold as such, scorned by other wizard artists. Dean Thomas has never produced a failed painting; he has an innate skill.
Finnigan and Thomas greet Dumbledore enthusiastically. Finnigan nods coolly to me, but Thomas stares at me rather strangely.
"Professor Snape?" He says, uncertainly, as though there were some possibility that he might be mistaken.
"Mr. Thomas." I reply. A bemused smile comes to his lips.
"You look...different, professor."
I raise an eyebrow. "Different?"
He nods, frowns as though struggling to determine the nature of that difference. He nibbles his lip, shakes his head, then shrugs. "I'll get it." He tells me.
Indeed he does. Following the meeting, Dean Thomas asks to paint my picture, to my utter confusion. Surely this is not the time to play some unpleasant practical joke? Curious, I agree, and Thomas works quickly. By the end of his brief stay at Hogwarts in the aftermath of the battle, the portrait is complete, and he presents it to me in my chamber, in the presence of Albus, Minerva, and Winky, who refuses to leave my side.
"What do you think?" Asks Thomas, unveiling the painting.
I cast my eyes over it. Draw back in amazement. Study it again.
A wizard painting is so effective because it essentially captures the very nature, the very soul, of its subject.
The man in the picture I am staring at looks like me. The image is so cleverly produced that it is like looking into a mirror.
Nevertheless, the man in the picture is not me, surely cannot be me.
He looks contented, like a man who has few regrets - or a man who has redeemed himself of them.
His eyes are bright with intellect, but tranquil, rather like Dumbledore's used to be.
And oddest of all...
He is smiling.