"milestone" by gingerbred
July 2006. Severus is retiring from teaching...
A 3.35 K 'Drabble' written for someone special to mark an important day.
Originally Published: 2019-05-29 on LJ / DW
Words: 3.35 K, one shot, complete
Characters: Severus, Hermione, Sybill, Draco, Filius, Minerva, Albus' Portrait July 2006
Severus takes a last look around his classroom. Twenty-five years he's spent here. Most of his life. It's the end of an era.
He snorts.
How trite.
And yet true...
The thought doesn't suit him at all.
He's checking for things he may have forgotten. He sits in his chair, surveying the room, the empty shelves, devoid of all personality and atmosphere, and is suddenly overcome by a sense of panic. This is practically all he's ever known. What will he do next?
Oh, he knows precisely what his plans are. Those aren't in doubt. Hermione has them plotted and mapped and indexed and cross-indexed on a series of colour coded lists that knowing the witch should have left nothing about their joint potions research enterprise to question. Arithmancy classrooms, it transpires, are a great deal easier to pack up than Potions classrooms, especially when it's one that's been in his hands for the greater part of a quarter of a century. Hermione has spent much of the past week with Potter's assistance, readying their new home. And yet despite all that, Severus is still sat here wondering... What. Comes. Next?
His head sinks, until it's resting, cradled in his hands on his desk.
Which won't be his desk for long...
This is absurd. He's faced Voldemort himself as an adversary with more equanimity. How many can say that? He swallows, feeling his throat constricting, and suddenly Hermione appears in the doorway; it's as if she somehow knows. He wonders if his reaction was predictable.
She crosses to him with a smile, as though his posture were perfectly commonplace, places her hands on his shoulders and bends to peck his cheek. "How's the packing coming?" She asks, as if she couldn't feel his pulse racing.
Her hands stroke him soothingly as he lies, "Well enough. I'm nearly finished. Just checking for concealed drawers. It's been so long, I suspect I've forgotten a few." Well that last bit was true at any rate. He hopes there are no unpleasant surprises in it for his successor.
"Why don't I let you get back to it then? I wanted to make the rounds and say my good-byes."
"The cottage is in Ireland, Hermione. It's not the edge of the world." She gives him an indulgent smile; they've had this conversation before.
"Join us for lunch won't you? It would be nice to eat with the others once more before we leave."
He wonders if she's approached everything that way. One last bath in their tub, one last brushing of her no longer oversized teeth. One last debate with Filius on the interdisciplinary applications for Arithmancy in Charms work. One last night in their bed in the dungeons; he noted she'd been particularly amorous yesterday evening.
He sighs, promises he'll catch up to her soon as she leaves, and returns to his last inspection.
Sybill's reaction had perhaps been the most shocking. She's never liked him. He hadn't minded overmuch, it's simply a statement of fact. They had started badly when she felt his 'betrayal', as she saw it, of her vision had somehow ruined things for her. He fails to see how. If anything, it was one of the few things that had led to her having any credibility at all in her field. (Not that that proved much of a consolation for him, mind, but she could have the decency to recognise the advantage it afforded her.)
And here was Sybill stood now before him in the faculty lounge, clearly far too much sherry in her system, especially in light of the hour, swaying back and forth... and crying.
He's not the best with women's tears in general. Sybill's? He has no idea what to do. "You're leaving," she sniffles into one of her many scarves. He sees little point in restating the obvious.
And yet he does.
"We're only moving to Ireland, Sybill. It doesn't even require a Portkey if one makes the right crossing."
His words seemingly offer no comfort; why would they? If they're honest, they both know she'll never be invited or visit of her own accord. Bottle in hand, she heads for the door. Stopping once she reaches it, she turns to face him, knuckling away her tears and says, "It's just that you've always been here." And he has been really. Save a couple of months, nearly as long as she has. "I've grown used to you."
This, too, is absurd, the woman almost never joins them for meals, and he doubts she spoke more than a hundred words to him last month. And yet he suspects it's true.
Thoughtful, he goes to join the others for one last meal.
Draco takes the seat next to Severus for the meal and without qualms proceeds to monopolise him. The blond will be replacing him, both as Head of House and Potions Professor, and is still eager for advice. Severus wonders if he shouldn't have sat next to one of his long-standing colleagues instead, before rejecting the sentiment as maudlin.
The Malfoy heir seems so young for the responsibility, which is bollocks... Severus had been far younger, only twenty-one when he'd taken the job. If there's one thing his time spent with Hermione, Potter and Draco since the war has taught him, anyone who underestimates the individuals who'd fought in the last war as mere children does them a great injustice.
And is an unmitigated idiot to boot, destined for unpleasantness. To a man, or woman, they don't suffer fools gladly.
The lot of them had been robbed of their adolescence. As sad as it seems, he suspects it's one of the reasons he and his wife get on so well. They have a shared understanding of loss, and a concomitant deeper appreciation for the value of all that they have. It never ceases to amaze him how much more it is than he'd ever dreamt he'd be able to call his own. There's some amusement at the thought, that perhaps he'd needed the guidance of a certain bushy haired Gryffindor to become more ambitious.
He'll tell her that tonight, as they settle into their new bed under their new roof. He suspects it will entertain her greatly.
"Any last tips?" Draco asks. Like so much today, it's absurd. What can he tell Draco in the time remaining that he hasn't imparted before. What difference could a few minutes more possibly make?
"Your competency in the subject is unassailable. They're used to a strict instructor. My past was unquestionably darker than yours. I've had to battle that reputation for the last eight years, it should make things easier for you now. It's simply a matter of managing their perceptions. Were you capable of being even slightly less..."
"Offensive?" Draco suggests with a smirk.
"Do you actually want my advice?"
"I apologise. Yes, of course." He answers immediately, the amusement obvious in his voice, and he hesitates only briefly before adding, "So less of a git then?"
Severus quirks an eyebrow at him, but Draco hasn't even the decency to blush. He'd expect no less of the new Head of House. "Less of a greasy git," Severus corrects, both confident and content enough to have long since been rendered immune to the taunts of children. And truth be told, that particular taunt had only historical relevance. It's been years since he's been either.
"I've laid in enough Macassar..." Draco starts.
"To look a greasy git if ever there were one," Severus smirks.
"Macassar is not greasy..."
"Which explains the necessity for a preponderance of doilies draped over upholstery wherever wizards favour the stuff."
"Nothing but a fashion statement, albeit a questionable one..."
"You realise they're called 'antimacassars'? Surely you don't think that's coincidence." Severus drives his point home decisively. "If your hair doesn't naturally tend to the sebaceous, I frankly can't see achieving that result deliberately, but far be it from me..." That's a lie. He doesn't hesitate to rub it in, he never does. They've teased and cajoled and ridiculed each other in fun for so long... Few dare to. There's something about that liberty that feels... familial.
"What will I do if I need your advice, Severus?" Draco asks, some apprehension clear in his tone.
"We're only moving to Ireland, Draco. A mere Apparition away."
"We can't even Floo," he objects, sounding genuinely concerned at the thought.
This is the man who as a lad had lived under one roof with Voldemort for years, his family held hostage, and as a mere boy of sixteen had been tasked with assassinating the most famous wizard in Britain, and arguably the most powerful. And here he sounds like nothing more than a Firstie off to school, worried he'll miss his mummy. Absurd.
"If you need my assistance, I'm always there for you," Severus attempts to reassure him. The obvious question, unasked between them, is just how he proposes to do that.
"I'm going to have difficulty filling your shoes," Draco claims quietly, and for all his qualifications, despite his far more pleasant demeanour, Severus is startled to realise he believes this somehow also rings true.
Filius comes to have few words with him in private after their luncheon. "I'll miss our chess games," Severus tells him.
"I'll miss our duels," Filius replies warmly. Once they'd forgiven him for the deception required during that horrible year he'd been Headmaster, most of his colleagues had been intent on seeing things in the most positive light imaginable. Filius and Minerva had gone so far as to insist Severus take the position of deputy Headmaster. It was crucial, they insisted, to see his name, his reputation rehabilitated.
They were overcompensating, and he told them as much. Regularly. They listened to him about as much as they ever had, which is how he knew things had returned to normal between them. He took comfort in that.
What was less comforting, in fact he'd found it downright irksome - at least initially - was they'd been proven right. The measures they took on his behalf had been instrumental in gaining him sufficient public acceptance that he could even consider this venture with Hermione. Without it, he'd have felt an albatross about her neck. He'd never have agreed to it. It's entirely possible he'd never have entered into the relationship, for that matter. A daunting thought.
Filius had further decided to see Severus' attack on him, the Potions Master's ability to incapacitate him the evening of Albus' death on the Astronomy Tower as a learning experience. "You trusted me, Filius," Severus gently corrects him, time and again for the past eight years. "There is no art in abusing someone's trust."
Filius always disagrees and points to his walls full of trophies. He should have been better prepared, but he'd fallen to the ground like a sack of potatoes. A small sack of potatoes, he's quick to allow, but a sack of tubers nevertheless, whatever the size may be.
They'd made a sport of it, reciprocal surprise attacks, likely to come at any moment. "Constant vigilance!" A tribute to a fallen colleague they'd never actually had.
"One thing I need to know before you leave," Filius stops him as he prepares to go. "Why did you start calling me 'Cato'?"
Severus laughs, it's the only real laugh he'll have today; fitting it should be with the Charmsmaster. "When the arthouse cinema shows classic comedies again in their programme, I will take you to see the 'Pink Panther' series."
Filius nods, "I shall look forward to it," but he seems sad.
"We're only moving to Ireland, Cato." Filius merely looks at him sympathetically, and it dawns on Severus, he's been repeating this mostly for himself. "It's not a ten minute walk to the gates. Moments to Apparate from there."
"Ten minutes? My legs are little shorter than yours," Filius quips.
"Twenty minutes then," Severus solemnly replies.
"Not that much shorter," the Charmsmaster huffs good-naturedly, and Severus smiles. There will be no more sneak attacks, no games of chess squeezed in on quiet afternoons. Hermione doesn't like the game in the least...
How many of the conversations that accompanied those activities with Filius revolved around students Severus will no longer teach, no longer know? Did they have that much in common when all was said and done, or had it only been down to mutual interests resulting from their duties as Heads of House these twenty-five years?
He stands there considering the absurdity that one of his closest friends of the decades past might not be a friend at all...
"You'll owl, and we'll play chess by post." Filius instructs. "We'll keep you apprised of the Ministry's interference in matters of education. You'll tell us how your research goes, the discoveries the two of you make. We want to know. I want to know," Filius assures him, and Severus knows it's true. With relief, he realises this friendship will endure. He's left feeling off balance now that he's contemplated what it would have meant to him had it not. Perhaps he'll value it a little more. Maybe that's what it will take for him to learn to be more proactive, to keep that friendship strong.
Minerva is the most difficult. He'd saved her for last.
"My classroom and our quarters are cleared of personal effects. They're unwarded, ready for the next inmate." His tone lacks the joviality suggested by his words.
Minerva looks at him kindly, but she too seems affected by his departure. "You'll keep in touch." It's more a command than a request. An advantage of leaving the school, obviously, is he no longer need do as she orders, and yet he knows he'll honour this.
"It will be different here without you," she tells him, which is absurd. It would be different there without any single one of them. He refuses to ascribe any deeper significance to her words.
"You're still annoyed I've pinched your favourite Gryffindor," he objects in reply.
"The 'you' in that sentence was singular, you insufferable man. And I've already spoken with Hermione. Now I'm speaking with you."
Obviously. And yet he refrains from saying so.
"We're only moving to Ireland, Minerva..." Her look is almost piteous, and he doesn't bother continuing.
"Three meals a day, seven days a week, the greater portion of each of twenty-five years," She enumerates. "Even when you had little to say, you came to know a great deal of us, and we of you." He raises that brow and she amends, "Eventually at any rate.
"Were it nothing more than that, and it is, Severus, you are a well integrated part of our family. Your absence will be felt."
He does his best to look stoic, he's faced Voldemort for Merlin's sake... Perhaps he's simply out of practice. And yet he doesn't wish to Occlude, to miss out in any way on this moment.
Minerva opens her drawer and removes two small objects, which she extends towards him on the flat of her palm. He looks at her quizzically. "It's your desk and chair. Reducioed. A simple Engorgio will do... Hermione mentioned you were rather attached."
He takes them from her gingerly, a look of wonder on his face. He doesn't trust himself to speak. Minerva, kindly, doesn't require him to.
Before he can resist, she's pulled him into a hug, tugging him only slightly awkwardly closer to her as he tries to balance the miniaturised furniture over her head. She half whispers into his chest, "You will be missed. And not just by me," she insists. There's something about her that brooks no discussion. When she says it, like that, he's certain it's true.
She further embarrasses him with a matronly buss to his cheek. "Now go before I get weepy. A word of advice, it doesn't do to keep your wife waiting."
Hermione is currently waiting for him by the doors in the Entrance Hall. The others have seen fit to give them this moment to themselves. They've said their goodbyes. It's been left to them to take their leave in their own time.
She extends a hand to him to pull him to her side. He wraps an arm around her waist when he gets there, planting a gentle kiss on top of her head. He never tires of her sigh of pleasure as he does so. "Are you ready?" She asks, snaking her arm around his waist in turn.
"As I can be," he answers honestly.
"I could snog you senseless one last time in an alcove for nostalgia's sake?"
"Put a pin in that very excellent suggestion. I'd much prefer you attempt that in our new home."
"There is no 'attempting', dear heart. Only succeeding." He's about to ask if she's been watching films again with Potter when she kisses him as though to prove her statement. He's quite prepared to believe the Earth is flat when she brings arguments like that. A little breathless, and slightly dazed, he allows her to lead him to the doors. She giggles pleasantly at the state of him. "What do they call six feet two of barely ambulatory putty in black robes?" She asks lowly as she caresses his neck.
"Severus," a voice calls from behind them, and as one they turn to see Albus in his portrait. "I'm pleased to see you spread your wings, as it were. It's past time you set out on your own."
"I'm not on my own," he replies. Even after all these years, there's still something a little tight in his voice as he speaks with the man he'd once taken for a friend. He's learnt the difference in the years since. These days, with a claim like that, there's also a note of pride as Severus speaks. Hermione tightens her hold on him. Yes, she'd taught him a great deal about friendship and many other things.
"No, I can see that." There's a note of regret in the painting's response that has little to do with its words, as if the portrait has come to accept he'll never receive the forgiveness he at least pretends to crave. These days, Severus isn't too sure how much of that's an act, all part of an effort to preserve a legacy, to keep pulling strings from beyond the grave. It seems absurd now, as he's leaving the school for what he is determined will be the last time as an employee, just how long he'd let first the man and then a portrait... an inanimate object in possession of nothing more than an imprint of the deceased's personality dictate the circumstances of his life, his emotional well being.
He realises now, he doesn't need to listen anymore. And as he thinks it, he knows with an absolute certainty that it's true. Hermione squeezes his hand, "Come on, sweetheart. I still have to render you senseless and there's a whole new home to break in." She squeezes his hand again, but doesn't resume pulling him towards the doors, waiting for him to take the step, to decide he's ready.
And he does.
Albus' "Good luck to you both..." gets cut off as the heavy doors swing to behind them.
Hermione smiles at Severus as she resumes tugging him now, half pulling him towards the Apparition point. She laughs, "Luck? As long as we have each other, we won't need it. We have skill on our side."
He wraps her in his arms, before scooping her up for a side-along Apparition to their new home. "I think having each other was the luckiest thing of all."
And with a faint 'crack', they're gone, off to new horizons, new quarters, new adventures.
A 3.35 K 'Drabble' written for someone special to mark an important day.
Originally Published: 2019-05-29 on LJ / DW
Words: 3.35 K, one shot, complete
Characters: Severus, Hermione, Sybill, Draco, Filius, Minerva, Albus' Portrait July 2006
Severus takes a last look around his classroom. Twenty-five years he's spent here. Most of his life. It's the end of an era.
He snorts.
How trite.
And yet true...
The thought doesn't suit him at all.
He's checking for things he may have forgotten. He sits in his chair, surveying the room, the empty shelves, devoid of all personality and atmosphere, and is suddenly overcome by a sense of panic. This is practically all he's ever known. What will he do next?
Oh, he knows precisely what his plans are. Those aren't in doubt. Hermione has them plotted and mapped and indexed and cross-indexed on a series of colour coded lists that knowing the witch should have left nothing about their joint potions research enterprise to question. Arithmancy classrooms, it transpires, are a great deal easier to pack up than Potions classrooms, especially when it's one that's been in his hands for the greater part of a quarter of a century. Hermione has spent much of the past week with Potter's assistance, readying their new home. And yet despite all that, Severus is still sat here wondering... What. Comes. Next?
His head sinks, until it's resting, cradled in his hands on his desk.
Which won't be his desk for long...
This is absurd. He's faced Voldemort himself as an adversary with more equanimity. How many can say that? He swallows, feeling his throat constricting, and suddenly Hermione appears in the doorway; it's as if she somehow knows. He wonders if his reaction was predictable.
She crosses to him with a smile, as though his posture were perfectly commonplace, places her hands on his shoulders and bends to peck his cheek. "How's the packing coming?" She asks, as if she couldn't feel his pulse racing.
Her hands stroke him soothingly as he lies, "Well enough. I'm nearly finished. Just checking for concealed drawers. It's been so long, I suspect I've forgotten a few." Well that last bit was true at any rate. He hopes there are no unpleasant surprises in it for his successor.
"Why don't I let you get back to it then? I wanted to make the rounds and say my good-byes."
"The cottage is in Ireland, Hermione. It's not the edge of the world." She gives him an indulgent smile; they've had this conversation before.
"Join us for lunch won't you? It would be nice to eat with the others once more before we leave."
He wonders if she's approached everything that way. One last bath in their tub, one last brushing of her no longer oversized teeth. One last debate with Filius on the interdisciplinary applications for Arithmancy in Charms work. One last night in their bed in the dungeons; he noted she'd been particularly amorous yesterday evening.
He sighs, promises he'll catch up to her soon as she leaves, and returns to his last inspection.
Sybill's reaction had perhaps been the most shocking. She's never liked him. He hadn't minded overmuch, it's simply a statement of fact. They had started badly when she felt his 'betrayal', as she saw it, of her vision had somehow ruined things for her. He fails to see how. If anything, it was one of the few things that had led to her having any credibility at all in her field. (Not that that proved much of a consolation for him, mind, but she could have the decency to recognise the advantage it afforded her.)
And here was Sybill stood now before him in the faculty lounge, clearly far too much sherry in her system, especially in light of the hour, swaying back and forth... and crying.
He's not the best with women's tears in general. Sybill's? He has no idea what to do. "You're leaving," she sniffles into one of her many scarves. He sees little point in restating the obvious.
And yet he does.
"We're only moving to Ireland, Sybill. It doesn't even require a Portkey if one makes the right crossing."
His words seemingly offer no comfort; why would they? If they're honest, they both know she'll never be invited or visit of her own accord. Bottle in hand, she heads for the door. Stopping once she reaches it, she turns to face him, knuckling away her tears and says, "It's just that you've always been here." And he has been really. Save a couple of months, nearly as long as she has. "I've grown used to you."
This, too, is absurd, the woman almost never joins them for meals, and he doubts she spoke more than a hundred words to him last month. And yet he suspects it's true.
Thoughtful, he goes to join the others for one last meal.
Draco takes the seat next to Severus for the meal and without qualms proceeds to monopolise him. The blond will be replacing him, both as Head of House and Potions Professor, and is still eager for advice. Severus wonders if he shouldn't have sat next to one of his long-standing colleagues instead, before rejecting the sentiment as maudlin.
The Malfoy heir seems so young for the responsibility, which is bollocks... Severus had been far younger, only twenty-one when he'd taken the job. If there's one thing his time spent with Hermione, Potter and Draco since the war has taught him, anyone who underestimates the individuals who'd fought in the last war as mere children does them a great injustice.
And is an unmitigated idiot to boot, destined for unpleasantness. To a man, or woman, they don't suffer fools gladly.
The lot of them had been robbed of their adolescence. As sad as it seems, he suspects it's one of the reasons he and his wife get on so well. They have a shared understanding of loss, and a concomitant deeper appreciation for the value of all that they have. It never ceases to amaze him how much more it is than he'd ever dreamt he'd be able to call his own. There's some amusement at the thought, that perhaps he'd needed the guidance of a certain bushy haired Gryffindor to become more ambitious.
He'll tell her that tonight, as they settle into their new bed under their new roof. He suspects it will entertain her greatly.
"Any last tips?" Draco asks. Like so much today, it's absurd. What can he tell Draco in the time remaining that he hasn't imparted before. What difference could a few minutes more possibly make?
"Your competency in the subject is unassailable. They're used to a strict instructor. My past was unquestionably darker than yours. I've had to battle that reputation for the last eight years, it should make things easier for you now. It's simply a matter of managing their perceptions. Were you capable of being even slightly less..."
"Offensive?" Draco suggests with a smirk.
"Do you actually want my advice?"
"I apologise. Yes, of course." He answers immediately, the amusement obvious in his voice, and he hesitates only briefly before adding, "So less of a git then?"
Severus quirks an eyebrow at him, but Draco hasn't even the decency to blush. He'd expect no less of the new Head of House. "Less of a greasy git," Severus corrects, both confident and content enough to have long since been rendered immune to the taunts of children. And truth be told, that particular taunt had only historical relevance. It's been years since he's been either.
"I've laid in enough Macassar..." Draco starts.
"To look a greasy git if ever there were one," Severus smirks.
"Macassar is not greasy..."
"Which explains the necessity for a preponderance of doilies draped over upholstery wherever wizards favour the stuff."
"Nothing but a fashion statement, albeit a questionable one..."
"You realise they're called 'antimacassars'? Surely you don't think that's coincidence." Severus drives his point home decisively. "If your hair doesn't naturally tend to the sebaceous, I frankly can't see achieving that result deliberately, but far be it from me..." That's a lie. He doesn't hesitate to rub it in, he never does. They've teased and cajoled and ridiculed each other in fun for so long... Few dare to. There's something about that liberty that feels... familial.
"What will I do if I need your advice, Severus?" Draco asks, some apprehension clear in his tone.
"We're only moving to Ireland, Draco. A mere Apparition away."
"We can't even Floo," he objects, sounding genuinely concerned at the thought.
This is the man who as a lad had lived under one roof with Voldemort for years, his family held hostage, and as a mere boy of sixteen had been tasked with assassinating the most famous wizard in Britain, and arguably the most powerful. And here he sounds like nothing more than a Firstie off to school, worried he'll miss his mummy. Absurd.
"If you need my assistance, I'm always there for you," Severus attempts to reassure him. The obvious question, unasked between them, is just how he proposes to do that.
"I'm going to have difficulty filling your shoes," Draco claims quietly, and for all his qualifications, despite his far more pleasant demeanour, Severus is startled to realise he believes this somehow also rings true.
Filius comes to have few words with him in private after their luncheon. "I'll miss our chess games," Severus tells him.
"I'll miss our duels," Filius replies warmly. Once they'd forgiven him for the deception required during that horrible year he'd been Headmaster, most of his colleagues had been intent on seeing things in the most positive light imaginable. Filius and Minerva had gone so far as to insist Severus take the position of deputy Headmaster. It was crucial, they insisted, to see his name, his reputation rehabilitated.
They were overcompensating, and he told them as much. Regularly. They listened to him about as much as they ever had, which is how he knew things had returned to normal between them. He took comfort in that.
What was less comforting, in fact he'd found it downright irksome - at least initially - was they'd been proven right. The measures they took on his behalf had been instrumental in gaining him sufficient public acceptance that he could even consider this venture with Hermione. Without it, he'd have felt an albatross about her neck. He'd never have agreed to it. It's entirely possible he'd never have entered into the relationship, for that matter. A daunting thought.
Filius had further decided to see Severus' attack on him, the Potions Master's ability to incapacitate him the evening of Albus' death on the Astronomy Tower as a learning experience. "You trusted me, Filius," Severus gently corrects him, time and again for the past eight years. "There is no art in abusing someone's trust."
Filius always disagrees and points to his walls full of trophies. He should have been better prepared, but he'd fallen to the ground like a sack of potatoes. A small sack of potatoes, he's quick to allow, but a sack of tubers nevertheless, whatever the size may be.
They'd made a sport of it, reciprocal surprise attacks, likely to come at any moment. "Constant vigilance!" A tribute to a fallen colleague they'd never actually had.
"One thing I need to know before you leave," Filius stops him as he prepares to go. "Why did you start calling me 'Cato'?"
Severus laughs, it's the only real laugh he'll have today; fitting it should be with the Charmsmaster. "When the arthouse cinema shows classic comedies again in their programme, I will take you to see the 'Pink Panther' series."
Filius nods, "I shall look forward to it," but he seems sad.
"We're only moving to Ireland, Cato." Filius merely looks at him sympathetically, and it dawns on Severus, he's been repeating this mostly for himself. "It's not a ten minute walk to the gates. Moments to Apparate from there."
"Ten minutes? My legs are little shorter than yours," Filius quips.
"Twenty minutes then," Severus solemnly replies.
"Not that much shorter," the Charmsmaster huffs good-naturedly, and Severus smiles. There will be no more sneak attacks, no games of chess squeezed in on quiet afternoons. Hermione doesn't like the game in the least...
How many of the conversations that accompanied those activities with Filius revolved around students Severus will no longer teach, no longer know? Did they have that much in common when all was said and done, or had it only been down to mutual interests resulting from their duties as Heads of House these twenty-five years?
He stands there considering the absurdity that one of his closest friends of the decades past might not be a friend at all...
"You'll owl, and we'll play chess by post." Filius instructs. "We'll keep you apprised of the Ministry's interference in matters of education. You'll tell us how your research goes, the discoveries the two of you make. We want to know. I want to know," Filius assures him, and Severus knows it's true. With relief, he realises this friendship will endure. He's left feeling off balance now that he's contemplated what it would have meant to him had it not. Perhaps he'll value it a little more. Maybe that's what it will take for him to learn to be more proactive, to keep that friendship strong.
Minerva is the most difficult. He'd saved her for last.
"My classroom and our quarters are cleared of personal effects. They're unwarded, ready for the next inmate." His tone lacks the joviality suggested by his words.
Minerva looks at him kindly, but she too seems affected by his departure. "You'll keep in touch." It's more a command than a request. An advantage of leaving the school, obviously, is he no longer need do as she orders, and yet he knows he'll honour this.
"It will be different here without you," she tells him, which is absurd. It would be different there without any single one of them. He refuses to ascribe any deeper significance to her words.
"You're still annoyed I've pinched your favourite Gryffindor," he objects in reply.
"The 'you' in that sentence was singular, you insufferable man. And I've already spoken with Hermione. Now I'm speaking with you."
Obviously. And yet he refrains from saying so.
"We're only moving to Ireland, Minerva..." Her look is almost piteous, and he doesn't bother continuing.
"Three meals a day, seven days a week, the greater portion of each of twenty-five years," She enumerates. "Even when you had little to say, you came to know a great deal of us, and we of you." He raises that brow and she amends, "Eventually at any rate.
"Were it nothing more than that, and it is, Severus, you are a well integrated part of our family. Your absence will be felt."
He does his best to look stoic, he's faced Voldemort for Merlin's sake... Perhaps he's simply out of practice. And yet he doesn't wish to Occlude, to miss out in any way on this moment.
Minerva opens her drawer and removes two small objects, which she extends towards him on the flat of her palm. He looks at her quizzically. "It's your desk and chair. Reducioed. A simple Engorgio will do... Hermione mentioned you were rather attached."
He takes them from her gingerly, a look of wonder on his face. He doesn't trust himself to speak. Minerva, kindly, doesn't require him to.
Before he can resist, she's pulled him into a hug, tugging him only slightly awkwardly closer to her as he tries to balance the miniaturised furniture over her head. She half whispers into his chest, "You will be missed. And not just by me," she insists. There's something about her that brooks no discussion. When she says it, like that, he's certain it's true.
She further embarrasses him with a matronly buss to his cheek. "Now go before I get weepy. A word of advice, it doesn't do to keep your wife waiting."
Hermione is currently waiting for him by the doors in the Entrance Hall. The others have seen fit to give them this moment to themselves. They've said their goodbyes. It's been left to them to take their leave in their own time.
She extends a hand to him to pull him to her side. He wraps an arm around her waist when he gets there, planting a gentle kiss on top of her head. He never tires of her sigh of pleasure as he does so. "Are you ready?" She asks, snaking her arm around his waist in turn.
"As I can be," he answers honestly.
"I could snog you senseless one last time in an alcove for nostalgia's sake?"
"Put a pin in that very excellent suggestion. I'd much prefer you attempt that in our new home."
"There is no 'attempting', dear heart. Only succeeding." He's about to ask if she's been watching films again with Potter when she kisses him as though to prove her statement. He's quite prepared to believe the Earth is flat when she brings arguments like that. A little breathless, and slightly dazed, he allows her to lead him to the doors. She giggles pleasantly at the state of him. "What do they call six feet two of barely ambulatory putty in black robes?" She asks lowly as she caresses his neck.
"Severus," a voice calls from behind them, and as one they turn to see Albus in his portrait. "I'm pleased to see you spread your wings, as it were. It's past time you set out on your own."
"I'm not on my own," he replies. Even after all these years, there's still something a little tight in his voice as he speaks with the man he'd once taken for a friend. He's learnt the difference in the years since. These days, with a claim like that, there's also a note of pride as Severus speaks. Hermione tightens her hold on him. Yes, she'd taught him a great deal about friendship and many other things.
"No, I can see that." There's a note of regret in the painting's response that has little to do with its words, as if the portrait has come to accept he'll never receive the forgiveness he at least pretends to crave. These days, Severus isn't too sure how much of that's an act, all part of an effort to preserve a legacy, to keep pulling strings from beyond the grave. It seems absurd now, as he's leaving the school for what he is determined will be the last time as an employee, just how long he'd let first the man and then a portrait... an inanimate object in possession of nothing more than an imprint of the deceased's personality dictate the circumstances of his life, his emotional well being.
He realises now, he doesn't need to listen anymore. And as he thinks it, he knows with an absolute certainty that it's true. Hermione squeezes his hand, "Come on, sweetheart. I still have to render you senseless and there's a whole new home to break in." She squeezes his hand again, but doesn't resume pulling him towards the doors, waiting for him to take the step, to decide he's ready.
And he does.
Albus' "Good luck to you both..." gets cut off as the heavy doors swing to behind them.
Hermione smiles at Severus as she resumes tugging him now, half pulling him towards the Apparition point. She laughs, "Luck? As long as we have each other, we won't need it. We have skill on our side."
He wraps her in his arms, before scooping her up for a side-along Apparition to their new home. "I think having each other was the luckiest thing of all."
And with a faint 'crack', they're gone, off to new horizons, new quarters, new adventures.