London.
Fog, thick fog, drifting mist.
Before an abandoned red telephone box, two tall, lean figures faced one another. Wind and snow curled naturally around them, and only their long, silent stare remained.
Few could imagine that this derelict red phone box was the visitor entrance to the Ministry of Magic; likewise, Muggles could hardly imagine that the people standing here were two witches and wizards.
Not far off beneath a shelter, a white-bearded wizard blinked:
"Oh—of course, of course. Such a fascinating scene—I must put it in the Pensieve—"
His words were quickly blurred by wind and snow, and the two facing off began to speak.
"Severus, I hope you are not raving nonsense."
A sharp and urgent light flashed in Professor McGonagall's eyes; she hardly dared believe what she'd heard.
"Professor McGonagall, I said—I will—take responsibility."
Snape's face was impassive, his voice hoarse and low. But inside, it was like magma beneath the earth: calm on the surface, boiling in the depths.
"And who else would love you, Severus?
"You once pleaded your heart out beneath Gryffindor Tower—do you now intend to add Ravenclaw Tower to that list?"
The little knight's words slammed around Severus Snape's heart.
So he spoke, slowly and firmly:
"I will—take responsibility."
McGonagall had never thought to hear that from Severus. Shock gave way to anger. Yes, she knew the little fellow had bright green eyes—but just for that—
"A moment's impulse will not end well; you know this, Severus."
She'd been furious, but looking into those deep eyes, remembering something, her tone softened a little.
In the distance, Dumbledore also slowly pressed down his beard. Of course—without impulse, would there have been another possibility born at Hogwarts?
Dumbledore's deep gaze went far away. Those who mock another's scars are more contemptible than the darkness behind the scars.
"Of—course—"
Snape's face betrayed nothing.
"I cannot understand that 'of course,' Severus."
McGonagall's face was cold. "Do you think—that child is someone's replacement?!"
She kept the tidal anger in check, but her eyes filled with flame—for her, the child was unique—tough, steadfast, gifted, humble, kind—and yet in someone's eyes a stand-in—
"Forgive me for being blunt, Severus: reflect on what you actually understand—"
She shot Snape a last look; fury erupted in eyes that were usually calm.
She stepped into the phone box. She had no more words.
The fire scorched more than herself; it left Snape stunned, too.
But only for two seconds. Then he strode forward again.
"Of course I understand—"
His mouth stayed as cold as the dungeon— that narrow, perpetual prison. Only true hope could break down its door.
He had thought he'd seen a name that tore him to shreds—but it was only his own reflection. Another possibility—new, steadfast, stripped of shadow, one that would never fall into guilt and regret again.
In the dungeon, the little knight was always angry, always exasperated. In ten centuries he'd witnessed too many tragedies—but few things more heartbreaking than this.
"Of course, Severus, you stupid creature—you're a Death Eater, a solitary freak, a wretch who wore his mother's frock as underthings—but how do you know you're unworthy to touch something good?
"No matter how pitiful, how despised—don't you understand? Severus—your love is not."
"I do—understand—"
Severus Snape would not yield an inch. He swore to Merlin he would not shred his soul with guilt and remorse again.
"Severus—"
Minerva McGonagall faltered. Blowing snow blurred her vision.
Snow piled under the red phone box; even the metal crown atop it wore a white cap.
And so, for the first time, snow fell on Minerva McGonagall's head. She looked at him, a storm of feeling surging just as fiercely in her eyes.
Off beyond the phone box—
"Oh—oh—"
The long-bearded old man sipped honey tea; the heat made his hand tremble for a heartbeat. He kept his face smooth, but his hand strayed toward a few odd sweets.
"Well then, enough tea—time to enjoy a sweet or two.
"Ah—Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Takes me back. I was unlucky once—bit into a truly disgusting one. I've avoided them ever since—though perhaps a toffee flavour now would be perfectly safe."
Smiling, he popped a golden-brown bean into his mouth. At once he choked and sputtered:
"Alas—unlucky again! Earwax!"
The Ministry of Magic.
Its Atrium is on the eighth floor—headquarters' grand lobby and reception area for visitors and staff.
Once inside the lift behind the ornate golden grille, a cold female voice announced each floor's department as they arrived.
The eighth floor arrived: a long, splendid hall, dark wooden floors polished bright as glass; peacock-blue ceiling inlaid with glittering golden symbols, shifting continually like a great bulletin board hung in the air.
On either side, gilded fireplaces were set into the walls: the left for arrivals, the right for departures.
The clerk in charge of Muggle affairs looked the two over once more:
"Esteemed sir and madam—may I ask, are you husband and wife?"
Snape nearly drew his wand. McGonagall answered, severe:
"This is not funny, Ellie."
"Professor, I mean—if you truly want to reach that goal—then this is the simplest misreport. You know the Ministry spawns a hundred messes a day—one more won't matter. It's trivial, it won't be escalated, and as long as I watch it, no one else will ever know."
The clerk—Ellie Whiteman—blinked. She'd seen countless absurd cases, but this one ranked high.
"There's no need," Snape said coolly, giving Ellie Whiteman a single icy glance before sweeping toward the center of the Atrium.
What is the Ministry?
A ramshackle circus.
Severus Snape was not about to bow to those fools' rules.