Fic: The Case of the LIving Portrait

[therealsnape]

Title: The Case of the Living Portrait
Rating: PG
Word Count: 10500
Characters and/or Pairings: Minerva McGonagall, several walk-ons, and the Portrait of Severus Snape
Summary: After the war, Harry insists on having Severus' portrait painted and put up in the Headmistress's office. However, the painting remains silent and unmoving. Minerva decides to investigate. What happens? This was the delightful prompt I got for the minerva_fest, and Minerva McGonagall, Spinster Detective is the result.
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: My heartfelt thanks to my wonderful beta kellychambliss, who kept Minerva's voice as it should be. Free of SPAG and inconsistencies.



“Damn and blast,” said the Headmistress, and she poured herself a double Firewhisky at four o’clock in the afternoon.

You may frown at this, for neither the language nor the alcoholic excess are examples for the students. But there were good reasons.

I should know.

I am that Headmistress.

By now it is nine o’clock, and my many duties are done. I am alone at last and able to take a good look at the situation.

What I would like to do, at this point, is Apparate to Amelia Bones and have a long talk that would probably begin with me saying, “What is wrong with men?”

To which Amelia would answer, “Apart from everything?”

Not that we were man-haters. Amelia was a lesbian and I am a confirmed spinster, but that’s because of who we are, or, in Amelia’s case, of who she was, not because we hadn’t met the ‘right’ man. Not even because there is no such thing as a ‘right’ man - we have both known quite a number of very likeable ones. But occasionally one feels the need to vent one’s irritations, and the dialogue I just described was our usual start to doing just that. Any career woman will understand what I mean.

There are other reasons I wish I could talk to Amelia right now. I could trust her completely, and solving mysteries was her daily work. Her advice would have been invaluable.

However, this is not to be. I will have to solve on my own the mystery that presented itself this afternoon. If what I think is true, it must remain an absolute secret. And I can’t think of anyone who would not be tempted to break my confidence – either because they sincerely think it’s for the best, or because they could make a great deal of money out of it.

For the subject of my investigation is Severus Snape, Potions Master, former Headmaster of Hogwarts, and Tragic and Misunderstood War Hero, as the Daily Prophet called him only last week.

Making money out of his situation is unethical. And I’m convinced it is not in his best interests to have ‘his cover blown’, as I believe the technical term is.

If I decide to publish these notes, it will be out of revenge. And revenge is a dish best eaten cold. Until I have fully made up my mind, I will therefore work alone.

Amelia would have been amused at the notion of me publishing a mystery story. She was the one who introduced me to Muggle detective novels. Amelia adored them. She was fascinated by the technical equipment the Muggle police has at its disposal, and she loved the description of Muggle investigation teams and how they worked together. “The one amazes by its strangeness, the other by its very familiarity,” she used to say. She particularly enjoyed books where the main investigations officer was a woman. It is easy to see why.

While I like the older police stories well enough, I grew less enamoured with them in later years. The criminals are now mostly of the serial killer variety. Their crimes are explained by their unhappy childhood, an argument I don’t quite hold with. And the authors usually write several chapters from the killer’s point of view. Often chillingly well done, but not at all the sort of thing I enjoy reading after a long working day.

Amelia used to tease me that my preferences reflected my life just as much as her female inspectors reflected hers. And she had a point, for my favourite paper sleuth, Miss Marple, is not unlike me.

We are both elderly spinsters and we both like living alone. I would not mind retiring to just such a cottage as Miss Marple lives in – albeit with less gardening and more books. On other subject than the delights of gardening, however, I often agree with her point of view, and I think we might have got along just fine.

For those of you who are not familiar with Agatha Christie’s work, Miss Marple lives in a small village and studies human nature, “which is much the same in a village as anywhere else,” as she says herself. As a result, she is able to solve every mystery put before her. More often than not, however, she is hindered in her detective work by people who are convinced that she has led a very restricted life and therefore cannot possibly understand the situation.

You would be surprised how often I, too, have heard that the life of a schoolteacher, especially at a boarding school, must be very restricted.

It’s complete and utter balderdash.

But if this restricted life of mine (in which I’ve fought in three wars, dealt with four Ministers of Magic, and manage an organisation with a large staff, a large budget, and extensive high-maintenance grounds and buildings), if this very restricted life of mine taught me one thing, it is that a day on which one doesn’t have to listen to balderdash in some form or other is usually a day spent in blissful solitude.

Amelia often compared me to Miss Marple. “You were both born in the knife drawer – too sharp by half,” she used to say. And, “your students would agree with me. You find your culprits exactly the way Miss Marple does: their deeds remind you of so-and-so.”

I was sorry to see the Miss Marple series end. Amelia suggested I should write my own sequels. She even promised to buy them. But copyright would stop me from publishing, and if I were to invent my own elderly spinster, I’d have to invent the plot as well. I couldn’t see myself managing that.

This is different. I will write down the plot as it presents itself to me. As to publication – we’ll see.

Unless Severus Snape comes up with some exceptionally good excuses and reasons, I may do just that.

*+*+*+*

The last line of the previous section may have surprised my readers. The whole point of Severus Snape, Tragic War Hero, is not just that his life was tragic, but that his death makes it impossible for the Wizarding world to tell him how they feel about him now.

Let me put you in full possession of the facts.

It all started when Harry Potter came to my office. In the past seven years, countless things have started with Harry and his friends coming to my office. “Why is it always you three?” I once asked. A rhetorical question; every teacher knows there always is one and it’s usually the same. This time, Mr Potter came alone. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

Potter sat down, inquired after my health, and blurted out that he had come about Professor Snape’s portrait. He is nothing if not straightforward.

I sighed, inwardly, of course. I had given the matter much thought ever since the first time I entered the Headmaster’s office after learning the story behind Severus Snape’s death.

You will recall that portraits of former Heads may, if the Head in question wishes it, be placed in the office from the day of their resignation. But they will change into Living Portraits only on the death of the subject. Most Heads sit for their portrait during their Headship. Some die in harness; their paintings are live ones from the moment they are placed on the wall. Albus Dumbledore is a case in point. Others hang silently for years, and then they suddenly wake up, often before the Owl announcing the subject’s demise has reached the castle.

To return to Headmaster Snape, he did not leave a painting in a place where we could find it, and it seemed highly unlikely that he had sat for one. Had he lived, I doubted he would wish to be remembered for this particular year in his Hogwarts career.

When Potter made his request, I was perfectly aware that I had long passed the stage where I sincerely debated what was best. I was prevaricating. That had to come to an end, and Potter’s visit was as good a reason as any.

The long and short of the matter was: Headmaster Snape had the right to have his portrait. I therefore agreed with Potter and told him so.

Potter then launched into a spirited argument as to why Professor Snape deserved his portrait. After several seconds, he realised that I had, in fact, agreed. He stopped in mid-sentence and stared.

“You agree?” he asked.

“Quite,” I said.

“But, but …” he stuttered, “I thought everyone always hated Professor Snape. I thought no-one would want his portrait here.”

Potter was wrong. True, there were people whose dislike of Snape had been absolute and openly expressed. Sirius Black is one, Potter himself is another. For which he was not entirely to blame; Severus more than returned the feeling, and violent antipathy is often mutual. In Potter’s case, the older should have been the wiser, as I had told Snape on numerous occasions.

But Snape’s colleagues had not always disliked him. We had certainly misunderstood both his motives and his actions since the death of Albus Dumbledore, and some of us – I must include myself – continued to do so until Potter gave us the full facts.

In requesting Snape’s portrait, Potter did the right thing. His one fault is that he tends to believe he’s the only one willing and able to do the right thing. During the Battle I had to remind him that his teachers were rather good at magic. This time I let him figure it out for himself.

“That’s great,” he said finally. “That’s marvellous. Do I order one? With whom? I’ll pay for it, of course.”

His tendency to believe he is the only one who does things is really remarkably persistent. On the one hand, his desperately unhappy childhood may well have taught him to stand up for himself, because no-one would do it for him.

On the other hand, as I have said, I don’t quite hold with the ‘unhappy childhood’ argument. There is much of his mother in Harry. She had the same tendency to want to make everything right – thoroughly laudable – and the same conviction that she and she alone could do so and knew how.

From everything Harry told about Snape, I’ve learnt that Lily did want to reform him. When she realised her friendship alone would not result in a personality transplant, they quarrelled, and she started on the reformation of James Potter. They became engaged the day after their last N.E.W.T. exam, and it is true that James never bullied Severus again. It is also true that, since they both left school, James never saw him again. Still, Lily felt she had succeeded in her project, and I know they were sincerely happy together.

Harry is very much a chip of the old block. I told him that I would order a painting from a reliable painter, who had experience with Living Portraits, had known Headmaster Snape (a rather important factor, since he’d have to paint from memory and a few snapshots), and who would be paid by Hogwarts and the Ministry.

Harry said “Yes, Professor” to all of these statements. When the matter of the painting was settled, we had tea.

A first meeting with a former student is always a bit uncharted territory. Both teacher and student have to get used to the new balance. But Harry and I parted most amiably. When he doesn’t feel he has to save the world, he’s pleasant and well-mannered company, and I meant it when I said I looked forward to his return – for he had promised to attend the unveiling ceremony.

*+*+*+*

The little ceremony took place today.

After seven years in which seeing Potter in my office had meant trouble, I did look forward to his visit.

How the Universe must have laughed.

At first all went very well. The portrait hung on the wall, carefully veiled. We chatted briefly of this and that, and then I suggested Potter unveil it. He was the only one present – I had insisted on that, telling Potter, “It’s what Professor Snape would have wanted.”

The thought that he might, indeed, consider a chat with Potter preferable to a chat with me was quite entertaining.

When Potter had removed the veil, we both stared at Snape’s face. The likeness was pitch-perfect from his black hair to the hint of an ironic smile on his face. It was a bust, and while a bust cannot really loom, there was the suggestion of looming. And of billowing robes.

Also, the portrait was as dead as a doornail.

Investigation was necessary, and I did not mean to investigate in Potter’s presence. I told him Living Paintings always needed a bit of time.

Potter then mentioned that the eyes followed one through the room already. So do the eyes in good Muggle paintings, but I was glad to agree with him. And, to give him his due, he may not have seen any good Muggle paintings unless his uncle and aunt took him to museums, which seems highly unlikely.

Potter and I had a small glass of mead together, and I could see that having a drink with his former Head of House did more to make him feel grown up than the two months of Auror training behind him. Then he left.

I started to investigate the portrait. I hoped there would be some oversight on the part of the painter.

There was not.

The painting was excellent, the spells were all in place, and the ritual had been completed. I was looking at a superb Living Painting that was dead.

I checked everything again. You do, just as you look in every possible place when you’ve lost something, and then look again; knowing full well it will not be there.

And there we have the true starting point of my investigation, and the moment where I first thought of Miss Marple. “You will find that the most obvious conclusion is often the right one,” she says on various occasions.

Some people would argue that it’s not the fictional character but the author speaking. An author who wants to explain why there is, yet again, a novel in which the husband or wife did it. But I like to think that the author needs to explain this to her younger readers.

Women who have lived as long as Jane Marple and I know it’s true. Young people don’t. They think the most unlikely tale is the convincing one.

Amelia agreed with me when we compared notes on the subject. In my work, it’s homework eaten by the kneazle. In hers it’s Granny’s funeral. In both cases, the obvious reason is the true one, and the clichés are merely boring. The only tale that truly stood out over the years involved an owl, a Thestral and a Mermaid, and it was exceedingly well told. I was sorry when the story ended.

So was the culprit.

If Sirius Black had done his homework with all the dedication he devoted to its neglect, he could have gone very far indeed.

In the Case of the Silent Portrait, there was only one obvious conclusion. The Living Portrait was dead because the subject was alive.

At which point I swore, examined the facts, and had the whisky.

For the one undeniable fact that sprang to mind was this: Severus Snape’s body had never been found.

“Dear, sweet God,” I finally said. I hadn’t meant it as a last test, but when the portrait didn’t say, “No, just Severus,” I knew it was dead, all right.

*+*+*+*

My first action clearly must be to re-examine all known facts.

A few hours after Potter killed Voldemort, he went to see Shacklebolt and told him Snape was dead and a hero. His story was somewhat incoherent, understandable after everything he’d been through, but Shacklebolt grasped the salient facts at once.

“So Snape was on our side, and his body is in the Shrieking Shack?” he queried.

Potter confirmed this, and they set off at once to retrieve it. But it wasn’t there.

Shacklebolt questioned Potter further, and it transpired that Potter had left the Shrieking Shack and Snape’s body at the exact moment when Voldemort proclaimed the one-hour cease-fire. Shacklebolt then advanced the theory, a perfectly sensible one, we all thought, that during that hour one of the Death Eaters had found Snape. Believing him to be a fallen comrade-in-arms, he had acted according to his master’s instructions and buried Snape.

In the following months, the Ministry made every possible effort to find that person, but no-one came forward. Shacklebolt then concluded that whoever had buried Snape had died later that day. During the second part of the Battle, there had been numerous casualties among the Death Eaters.

But is it possible to advance another theory? I now think it is.

After Voldemort had ordered his snake to bite Snape, he left him. Potter, Miss Granger, and Weasley entered the Shrieking Shack at once, but during the brief time it took them to get in, they couldn’t actually see Snape.

Those few moments must have given Snape the time to do what he needed to do, and that can be summed up in two words: Nagini Antidote. He was arguably the most talented Potions Master of our time.

The brief conversation with Potter took place, and the trio left him. The cease-fire gave him ample opportunities for a quiet get-away.

The only question that remains is, Why did Potter and his friends believe Snape had died?

It seems to me that Snape wanted them to believe it. There are various defensive spells that make a person look dead; many a wizard survived battles by using just such a spell. To the casual examiner (and fighters of a victorious army who search a battlefield for survivors are casual in the extreme) the person seems dead, indeed.

Of course, no-one has thought of asking Potter whether he’d seen people die before. One doesn’t; the answer is both painful and well-known.

However, it would have been very pertinent to ask Potter and his friends whether they had seen people die in their beds. After everything these three have been through, one sometimes tends to forget how very young they still are. It is perfectly possible, and even likely, that they never witnessed a death bed.

I have. I still remember my surprise when my father died. He had been terminally ill for some time, and looked as white and drawn as it was possible to look. And then he died, and I saw that after the last heartbeat all blood stops circulating. Then I knew what the true waxen pallor of death looks like. And you can’t fake it.

I’ve also seen men die in battle, and I know one doesn’t observe this phenomenon. I don’t mean it doesn’t happen. Of course it does. But amidst the noise and the movement, and with the shock of seeing a friend fall, one simply doesn’t notice.

Snape’s complexion was never rosy to begin with, and he must have had the pallor of a badly wounded man. So those three children may well have been mistaken in declaring him dead. And the evidence of the Living Portrait shows that, in some way or another, Snape did get out and did manage to heal those wounds.

He is alive, he is somewhere.

And he clearly doesn’t want to be found.

Tough luck.

I am going to find him, and there will be words. For my predominant feeling where Severus Snape is concerned is red-hot anger.

Don’t get me wrong. I fully understand the need he had for secrecy. The only way to convince Voldemort of his allegiance was to be totally believable at all times. Whatever he did during his Headship, and he did some terrible things, was necessary to remain in Voldemort’s confidence.

Albus knew exactly what he did when he asked Snape for a mercy killing. Everyone will understand why he asked it for himself – a clean, quick death. But he also asked it so that the entire Order of the Phoenix, and the entire staff of Hogwarts, would see Snape as a true Death Eater. And he succeeded.

I did have moments of doubt, during that final year. There was the time when several students were involved in an attempt to steal the Sword of Gryffindor. Snape made them work in the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid, and while it may have fooled the Carrows, we of the old guard knew it was no punishment at all.

And there was also the fact that all Order members remained alive. Both Voldemort and Snape were intelligent enough to realise that, as long as we were alive, we would lead a resistance. If I had been in Voldemort’s shoes, eliminating the Order would have been among my first priorities.

But in the end, I couldn’t fully believe Snape was on our side after all. You see, we were not just colleagues, he and I; we were very close friends for more than a decade. Oh, we were sharp and sarcastic enough on subjects such as House Points and the Quidditch Cup, and students’ gossip will have it we really, really hated each other, bless their innocent hearts.

But we didn’t. I would have trusted Snape with my life, and did on various Order missions. He felt the same – I thought. But at the end of the day, he seems to have doubted me. Mistrusted me. And underestimated me.

Part of my anger comes from this: that the person I thought was my closest male friend has betrayed that friendship.

Now, if I truly believed it was necessary to do so, I would try to forgive. Not forget – but at the very least try to understand why he did it.

But if one looks at the facts, the only possible conclusion is that it was bloody stupid and dangerous. Snape had prepared himself for an attack by Nagini. And as it turned out, he had been right that this was how Voldemort tried to kill him.

But what if he had been wrong? What if Voldemort had used an Aveda Kedavra – simply so that it would actually be his wand, not his snake, that would kill Severus? The whole matter of the Elder Wand, which was the reason for killing Severus in the first place, would have suggested a curse rather than a snake bite.

And then where would we have been? Who would have told Potter what he needed to know? When all is said and done, we won because of sheer, dumb luck. It is complete, insane, utter foolishness to have such a secret repose in just one person.

Longbottom told me after the battle that Potter had told him to kill Nagini – Potter wanted three people to be aware of the Horcruxes, and while he didn’t have time to brief Longbottom fully, he told him the essential.

Potter is seventeen years old, he didn’t finish his schooling, and he has more common sense in his little finger than Severus Snape in his entire body.

I can see why Albus never told me – he was a loner by nature. And in the end he did tell Severus. Nearly too late – if that dark curse in his hand had killed him when it hit him, which might easily have happened, the world would be a very different place today.

But Albus was always very convinced that I was a good Deputy and a good second in command, and that was as much as a woman could be.

That Albus couldn’t look past the fact that I’m a woman is understandable in one his age. For someone of his generation he really wasn’t too old-fashioned, and he did much better than Cornelius Fudge, for instance, although Fudge is much younger. This inability to see a woman’s capacities wasn’t his most likeable characteristic, but he did have many good points. Besides, true friendship does not just mean liking someone for their good points, but also liking them despite their annoying traits.

Still, that Severus, who has known me so long and so well, has underestimated me to the point where he thought it unsafe to confide in me – I can’t think of any excuse.

I hope for his sake that he can.

*+*+*+*

Now I’ve examined all known facts and applied logic to them. So far, so good. But at this point I can’t procrastinate any longer. I’ll have to investigate and find new facts.

And where, on earth, does one start?

Minerva McGonagall, Girl Detective may sound dashing, but perhaps I shouldn’t give up the day job just yet.

Where would Amelia start? Or Miss Marple?

They would examine the crime scene – only there isn’t any, and if the Shrieking Shack had had things to tell us about Snape’s whereabouts, Shacklebolt would have found them.

So let’s be logical again. If Severus is still alive, has continued his life, then somewhere in his past there must be clues. For a continuation means there must be past evidence for what he is doing now.

He made preparations to stay alive long enough to tell Potter – hence the antidote. I know now he was prepared to die for our cause. But in the end he didn’t remain in the Shrieking Shack to bleed to death. Which makes sense; the only reason to do that is a determined wish to end it all.

As things stand, it would seem that Snape had no wish to end it all, but he most certainly wished to continue his life far from the British Wizarding world. I can see his point, really. During his life an amazing number of people made no secret of the fact they disliked him. I once chided Arthur for inviting various Order members to one of Molly’s meals at Grimmauld Place. “Come dine with us,” he would say, “Molly is making meat balls tonight.” Molly is an excellent cook, and quite a few of the younger Order members angled for invitations. But Severus never got one.

“And it surprises you he isn’t more congenial?” I asked Arthur, who hummed and hemmed and shuffled his feet, but he didn’t change his behaviour.

In this post-war world people would be all over him like a bad rash; they would claim to have been a friend all along. I understand perfectly why Severus left.

But he must have made preparations. Perhaps I had best start, then, by examining his rooms at Hogwarts, and then his house at Spinner’s End. A Muggle address, but his father was a Muggle.

That’s interesting, come to think of it. If Snape had bought a Wizarding property, it would have been known at the Ministry. But can he have bought a Muggle house somewhere in a remote spot?

I’ll have a good look at his Hogwarts rooms right now.

*+*+*+*

I’m beginning to realise there are downsides to being a real life Miss Marple. In her case, her caring author makes sure there are clues to find. I wish I had a caring author.

Snape’s private study holds a collection of Potion-related books that, had he died and left them to Hogwarts Library, would have deserved a special bookcase, labelled The Severus Snape Memorial Collection. It also contains meticulous notes on the students in his house.

Other than that, I’ve detected that he was left-handed – the position of the quills on his desk told me so. Unfortunately I knew this already, but the moment I looked at his desk and thought, Yes, this is the desk of a left-handed man, and one who rarely makes mistakes in what he writes, for erasing material is in a drawer, not on the surface was the highlight of my detection.

I’ve also found that he just might have had a tiny speck of sentimentality. During his last year as Head of House we made a bet – we often did, but we had great fun with this one. Snape especially, for he won. I paid my debt of honour in the form of a very fine bottle of Glenfarclas, and I found that he has kept the bottle of that last bet of ours. It was in a small wine rack that contained only one other bottle, and that one held a pleasant memory, too. It was a bottle of wine, a Château Coupe-Roses.

I well remember the occasion we first saw that wine. It was several years ago – when Gilderoy Lockhart was our DADA teacher. One morning, out of the blue, Gilderoy told us he used a nourishing cream to keep his complexion. The faces of Severus and Filius as they digested this bit of information along with their toast-and-marmalade were priceless. Pomona just laughed heartily, and Lockhart told her, with a more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger look, that she could do with a bit of skincare herself, since “those ruddy cheeks won’t get any less, you know.” He then offered to mix her something and said that he might even use plants – he’d show her how, too.

Pomona didn’t hex him, for which I admired her, but said that if she wanted to change her complexion, she was certain her dear colleague Severus would be able to come up with just the thing. Severus said he would give the matter his undivided attention, and that was it.

But that Christmas Pomona got a bottle-shaped package and the gift label said, in Severus’s neat writing, “Drink this bottle and your complexion will be perfectly even.”

We all laughed as Pomona ripped open her gift. It was a bottle of red wine, and the label read, Château Coupe-Roses. Everyone agreed it was the most perfect Christmas gift of the year. Severus told us he had happened to come across the Château on his holiday in France, and he thought it was better than anything he could brew. And plant-based.

Other than those two bottles on the rack, his room contained just a bottle of Ogden’s Old on a side table, with one tumbler. There used to be two tumblers, for I often dropped by for a night-cap. I admit that I felt a pang at the thought of Severus’s loneliness as he poured himself his solitary glass.

Not that we could have continued the habit, of course; it would have been a dead give-away. But one can feel supported by one’s friends without their physical presence. That silly man had been far more lonely than he needed to be.

Those two bottles on that rack.

I keep seeing them.

There is something about those two bottles that bothers me. I must go back and have another look.

*+*+*+*

Well, well, well.

It was a clue, and I feel quite smug for spotting it. At the same time, I feel confused. What I have discovered seems to alter everything.

So far I thought I was hunting down a man who didn’t want to be found. By no-one, but certainly not by me. We did not part on amicable terms. He hexed a cursed snake at me, I jinxed a swarm of daggers back.

But now it seems as if Snape wants to be found – but only by me. The clue was in the bottles, and the only reason I paid any attention to them was that they held a memory that was special to us, but to nobody else.

What had bothered me, as I realised when I saw the wine rack again, was the dust. My bet-bottle had a layer on it that was more or less consistent with it being in the rack for over a year. But the Coupe-Roses bottle had hardly any dust at all – and that holiday had been in the summer of 1993.

So I examined it carefully – and the year on the label said 1996. He must have returned to that place last summer. A spot he just travelled past accidentally, as he told us when he gave Pomona her present.

If he had put it in the rack in the summer of 1997 and not touched it since, as he did with my bottle, they would both have had about the same amount of dust. They didn’t – he kept the Coupe-Roses clean.

That was reason enough to check it for hidden spell-work, and I found an adhesive spell on the label. Muggles use glue. The label came off easily, and what do you think I found on the back?

Yes, it was a message to me. A clue. And here’s the anti-climax: when it comes to its meaning, I’m clueless.

SING Happy Birthday TO THE WIND, MINERVE. 1998

*+*+*+*+*

I’ve spent three days looking at that message and the label and I’m not much further. Here’s what I have deducted:

Severus wanted to leave me a clue to his present whereabouts. The message says ‘happy birthday’ and the year is this year. If we were given to singing for each other’s birthday, which we most emphatically were not, since neither of us can carry a tune, I would have sung ‘happy birthday’ to him on January 9, 1998. At which time we were not on speaking terms.

My birthday, however, is October 4. That’s in four weeks’ time. Also, Severus took great care to write the words SING TO THE WIND MINERVE in capitals, and the rest in italics. So on October 4, I am supposed to sing to the wind.

Also, he misspelled my name. As we have established, Severus is a man who rarely makes mistakes in writing (that deduction of mine is useful after all!) so the word ‘Minerve’ rather than Minerva must have a meaning.

Now, I noticed that the wine is a Minervois. And he went there at least twice. The Languedoc is not a very densely populated region, and overall it’s less touristic than, for instance, the Provence. In this region a man could find a quiet spot for a bolting hole without much effort.

But if he truly wants me to find him, and the message suggests as much, then there must be other clues. Or this time he overestimates me – but I won’t admit to that just yet.

I’ve made a search of his rooms for items to do with France and the Minervois region but found none. I think it’s time to go to Spinner’s End.

Singing to the wind on my birthday, indeed.

I don’t even celebrate birthdays. Oh, I put the usual coffee time treat in the staff room. After all, I share other people’s birthday treats, it would be miserly not to give one of my own. But they all know I think it nonsense to celebrate birthdays at my age.

Severus agreed. He never gave me a birthday present.

But at some point in the first week of October he would come up with a very special treat. A book I had coveted. A ticket to an exhibition I wanted to see – and he would have rearranged schedules to take over my duties that afternoon. It was always very special, and it was never for my birthday, of course – perish the thought. Severus would hand me whatever his special gift was, and he’d say, gruffly, “Because I value your friendship.”

He really did make a lot of effort over the years to show me how much he valued my friendship.

*+*+*+*+*

Kingsley Shacklebolt was quite surprised when I inquired about Spinner’s End. I would have preferred not to mention my intention of going there, but he had the key.

Severus had kept his keys in the Headmaster’s office, and after the battle Shacklebolt had taken them. He was still looking for the person who had allegedly buried Severus, and we had both decided it would be best to keep the keys at the Ministry while investigations were made concerning both his burial and his will.

By now Shacklebolt has given up on the burial, but not yet on the will, and indeed, these are no matters to rush.

I told him I had good reason to believe that a file with fairly important Hogwarts information was still at Spinner’s End. I could re-assemble the information at the school, I told Shacklebolt, but it would save a great deal of time and money if the file were found.

He said he and his officers had found nothing that seemed of importance, but he offered to send someone. I told him I knew what I was looking for, and it would be more efficient if I were to go.

The news that Shacklebolt, with all his Auror experience and sharp intelligence, had found nothing was not cheering. On the one hand, the very fact that Severus had left his keys in the Headmaster’s office wasn’t cheering: surely that meant that he had already taken away everything to do with the new life? Would I be able to find anything at all?

But on the other hand, Severus had left a message for me in his rooms. He must have hoped that I would go there myself. That I would spot the bottle of our last bet, because it held a special meaning for the two of us. And that I would be perspicacious enough to notice the dust, the year on the wine, the message.

Severus wants me to find him. He will have left clues at Spinner’s End. I just have to be clever enough to spot them – that lack of dust was very subtle.

Whatever his reasons were for acting like he did, perhaps underestimating me was not one of them.

*+*+*+*

I’m back from Spinner’s End, and there were, indeed, three clues. I think I may safely say that Severus did not underestimate me. They were quite hard to find, and I can see why Shacklebolt’s Aurors didn’t spot them.

Spinner’s End is a very simple terraced workers’ cottage, of the two-up, two-down type. One enters directly into the tiny sitting room, with a kitchen behind. Upstairs there are two bedrooms and an exceedingly simply shower, which may well have been a former closet converted to a bathroom in later years.

The sitting room held a sofa, an arm chair, a rickety table, and four walls of books. I understand why Severus couldn’t take all his books with him – it would make it obvious that he has moved, not died. But what a wrench this must have been for him.

I wonder whether he wants me to find him so that I can do something about his books. I’ve already considered the possibilities – we could ensure that a will turns up leaving the books to Hogwarts, in which case I would get my hands on them. We could make a selection of what to keep in the library and what to pass on. Much could be done that way.

If I were inclined to help him at all, which remains to be seen.

Do I mind that Severus might seek me out simply to get his books back? I’ve given the matter some thought. On the whole, I do not. First of all, it may not be the only reason he wants to contact me. And then, if I would find myself in exile with all my books lost to me, what would I do to get them back?

If I were living in some hidden spot, and I had to contact one person I could trust not to give me away, who would I choose? Amelia, had she lived. Or, before Albus’s death, Severus. Without hesitation.

In such a situation, you choose a friend you trust with your life.

I doubt whether Severus still automatically considers me his friend after all that has happened. But it seems he does think of me as the one he can trust with his new life.

I carefully scanned the rows of books. Severus and I are both inveterate bookshelf-scanners. Whenever I visit someone, looking at what they have on their shelves is about the first thing I want to do, and Severus is the same. We’ve often checked out each other’s collections.

And in a little corner near the floor, half-hidden by the sofa, I found a Muggle book. It was on the fourth wall I checked. It always is. It wasn’t the only Muggle work – Severus has an excellent collection of Muggle literature, and we’ve often borrowed books from each other. But this - a rather garish yellow paperback – stood out among the more traditional wizard bindings on that shelf.

It turned out to be a French restaurant guide from 1990, called Gault-Millau. When I took it in my hands and let it fall open (there was a crack in the spine that showed it had been consulted in a precise spot quite often) it opened on the pages dealing with the Languedoc region.

Other than this, the room held no clues. The kitchen, however, did. In a cupboard I found twelve bottles of wines, all Château Coupe-roses, and the years ran chronologically from 1986 to 1996.

I proceeded upstairs. One of the two bedrooms must have been the spare one. There was a simple bed, a small, empty closet, and a chair. I wonder if anyone ever stayed there.

The other room was hardly more luxurious in its furnishings, but the bed was slightly bigger, and there was a reading light and a night-stand. On the night stand I found Rita Skeeter’s biography of Albus, a periodical on potions, and an anthology of poems by Robert Frost (this, rather poignantly, fell open at the page of “The Road Not Taken”).

Other than that there was nothing in the room, or so I thought at first. But then I noticed the things on the walls. There was a botanical drawing of a white lily. I had a strong feeling that it referred to Severus’s past, rather than his future.

There also was a photograph in a very simple frame. It was a picture of a rock in the shape of a stele. It stands against a wall of grey stone – an old castle, or city wall, or some such – and in the top of the stele a bird is carved out. The result is a bird-shaped hole in the stone, through which one sees the sky.

The bird-shaped hole made me blink for a moment.

I knew Snape hadn’t given his all in our final duel (I have never made the mistake of underestimating him) and I thought at the time that he was being ‘chivalrous’. Make that: a stupid, stubborn, patronizing sod. And I thought – and still think – the Snape-shaped hole in the window was a ludicrously theatrical exit.

But of all the things one may call Severus Snape, ‘coward’ was, perhaps, not quite the mot juste. Even at the time I knew he was flying towards danger, not away from it.

And no, a swarm of daggers was not ludicrously theatrical. It was making a point. Some people are that thick-skulled one has to make one’s points quite forcefully.

The picture interested me, not just because of its artistic merit, but because I realised it was a Muggle one. Since the object was inanimate, this wasn’t something I realised immediately, but when I did, I took it from the wall to examine it.

It was very small – postcard-sized. And when I removed the frame, I saw that it was, in fact, a postcard – but the description of the place had been removed. So if someone other than I would have checked, they would have found nothing.

I, however, was clearly expected to find something. And when I carried the card to the window to have better light, I did, indeed, notice an inscription on the stone. Als Cathars, it said.

It will not surprise you that after these finds I went to a Muggle bookshop (I was wearing Muggle clothes, since Spinner’s End isn’t exactly wizarding territory) and bought a map of the Languedoc as well as two guidebooks whose indexes showed a promising number of entries on Cathars.

My night stand is getting perilously crowded.

*+*+*+*

The books have been very useful, and my course of action is now clear. I think I’ve deciphered Severus’s message.

My first step was to check the village of La Caunette on the map. It’s the place mentioned on the wine bottles, and Severus clearly has been there often.

It’s a tiny village, but the interesting thing is that its neighbouring village is called Minerve. There’s a rather winding Muggle road connecting the two, but as the broom flies it’s a very short distance. Did Severus wish me to go to the village of Minerve on my birthday? It seemed possible.

I checked both villages in the guide-books. In the first book La Caunette had one line about its 11th century church, in a section describing the far more touristic Minerve.

Minerve is listed among the most beautiful villages of France, it has various places of interest, and the guidebook mentioned a monument to the Cathars. Could this be the stele in the picture?

With the second guidebook I struck lucky. It contained a picture of the monument, and it was the stele.

This seemed to clinch matters. Clearly I was supposed to be in Minerve on my birthday. Although I had no intention of singing to the wind. Although I once heard a Muggle song with a rather catchy tune that went, “I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair” and that might not be entirely inappropriate.

I realise that Severus must now live as a Muggle. Perhaps in Minerve, but La Caunette seems the better option. He wouldn’t choose a tourist attraction. I’ve double-checked the region in a wizarding travelling guide, and the nearest wizarding establishment is at least 90 miles away, which would perfectly suit his purpose of disappearing from our world. I have therefore decided to travel as a Muggle as well. That is to say, I plan to Apparate to a quiet spot, but I will to stay in a Muggle hotel.

And since I had Severus’s Muggle hotel guide, I decided to use it – and then all became clear. For Minerve boasts a small hotel called Le Relais Chantovent.

Sing to the wind, Minerve.

I’ve booked a room for three nights starting October 3rd.

*+*+*+*+*

In one of the Miss Marple stories she has to travel to a niece’s house to solve a murder. She says, “I put Clara [her maid] on board wages, I sent the silver to the bank, and I set off at once.” I have always been fascinated by these glimpses of every day Muggle life, and the Miss Marple books are a goldmine of such details.

Of course I realise the information is dated; a present-day Miss Marple could no more afford a maid than I will be able to afford a House Elf on my retirement pension. But sending the silver to the bank – of course. That’s what one does when one can’t put up protective spells.

There is also a mention somewhere about a girl who “really is a very reliable maid, for she could be trusted to turn the mattresses every day, except on Fridays, of course”. [My italics] Do Muggles turn their mattresses every day? Or did they in Miss Marple’s time? How utterly amazing. On the rare occasions I make my own bed, without daily mattress-turning even though I can use a wand, I always wonder about those Fridays. Why not on Fridays? The author doesn’t explain, so clearly it’s obvious to Muggles.

But I digress. As Miss Marple made her preparations for travel, so did I. To Poppy Pomfrey I mentioned feeling a bit drawn and tired. I told Pomona how I hated the idea of birthday celebrations, this year more than ever, with the losses of the battle such a short time behind us. (That is true; I wouldn’t dream of using those who fell as a mere excuse.) And, last but not least, I told Filius how pleased I am with the way he does the Deputy work, and that I have complete confidence in him. True also.

Then I waited for the right moment. One evening before the staff went in to dinner I was talking to Pomona when Poppy passed by. I included her in the conversation, and mentioned how very tired I felt.

“You should have a little break,” said Poppy. “You didn’t get any holiday at all, what with the reconstruction work.”

“Excellent idea,” seconded Pomona. “Why don’t you go away for your birthday? Solve two problems in a single wand-flick.” She then explained to Poppy how I hated the birthday idea.

“Do you think Filius might …” I hesitated.

“Of course,” said Pomona; she called him to our little group, and the matter was arranged within minutes. I told them I might go to a Muggle hotel, so as not to run into old students, or worse, parents who’d want to consult me on their off-spring.

They all thought it a marvellous idea, and Filius felt quite confident about taking over for a few days. That was the staff sorted out.

I packed a small travel bag, put in these notes and copies of my clues, and locked the originals in a highly-warded cupboard.

I then Apparated to a spot just outside the village of Minerve, waited until the queasiness of long-distance Apparition had passed, and looked for the hotel. It was fairly easy to find.

When I arrived at the hotel, the owner looked up the reservation and told me that ‘everything was in order, and the bill for my room all paid, of course.’

I had not paid anything at all. Nor had I told anyone at Hogwarts about Relais Chantovent. However, it didn’t take a Miss Marple to solve the mystery.

Severus!

Damn him.

I had planned words for our first meeting, and now the first of those words would have to be ‘thanks’.

So I went to my room and, quite determinedly, I did what tourists do: I refreshed myself after the journey, I changed, and I took my guide book out of my suitcase. I felt certain that Severus would contact me at the hotel, and I felt equally certain it would do him all the good in the world not to find me there. Let him wait.

I selected clothes he would not associate with me, so that he wouldn’t spot me easily in the street. A navy turtleneck, a quilted jacket, and especially a pair of blue jeans are completely inconspicuous and quite unlike anything he has ever seen me in. And I put my hair in a braid. I never let my hair down during the day, and I haven’t worn braids since I was sixteen. That detail, more than anything, will make him look straight past the elderly jeans-clad Muggle woman clutching her Baedeker.

I set off to explore the village, a very pretty one, indeed. I strolled through the quaint old streets, I went to see the monument Als Cathars, which is touching and beautiful in its very simplicity, and I visited the museum dedicated to the life and death of the Cathars. It was a sobering experience to learn more of these people.

Before I started to investigate Severus’s clues, I had never heard of them. But the tiny museum I visited really brought to life those Cathars, who called themselves Christians; yet Christians burned them at the stake.

When I left the museum, I almost regretted not having brought a camera. The village street was truly beautiful, and a small boy – why wasn’t he in school on a weekday, I wondered - took pictures with a Muggle camera and a complete disregard for composition. Colin Creevey would have done better.

Colin Creevey, who had called himself a wizard; yet wizards had killed him.

The Wizarding world still both celebrates its victory and commemorates its losses with the words “Never again.” I now hear the Never Again for the third time in my life. And the more I learn of history, the more I know it’s always.

It was only when I saw a patisserie advertising ‘hot chocolate’ that I realised how cold I was. Cold to the bone, on a mellow October day in a sunny French street.

I went in, ordered a cup, and treated myself to a slice of tarte aux pommes as well. It was, after all, almost my birthday.

Had I stayed at Hogwarts, there would inevitably have been people – kind people, such as Aurora or Poppy, people one doesn’t want to snub – who would say something along the lines of ‘it’s truly a free world now that You-Know-Who is dead – such a wonderful day.’

But I’ve heard the never again too often. Much better to sit in a French pâtisserie and munch a slice of apple pie that strikes just the right balance between sweet and tart.

A few days away from the Wizarding world, at this very moment, was exactly what I had craved.

Without knowing it.

Looking out over the beautiful landscape I began to understand that, once again, in the week of my birthday Severus has given me a very special treat.

Because he still values my friendship?

*+*+*+*

When I returned to the hotel, the owner handed me an envelope which, he told me, had been delivered in my absence. I took it to my room and studied it.

It was a plain white envelope, addressed to Madame McGonagall. It contained a letter on Muggle paper, written with what I think is called a ballpoint.

It was a long letter, and that pleased me. It meant that Severus had written it beforehand, and that he had not come to the hotel to meet me but merely to leave this message.

When I found out he had paid for my room, I felt that he was trying to dictate the terms of our meeting. But with this letter he surrendered himself to my decision. The choice between responding and ignoring him would be mine, and mine alone.

Here is what it said.

Dear Minerva,

Every time I dusted that bottle of Château Coupe-roses, I hoped that one day you would go to my rooms. That you would go there not to clear them out, but to see whether I had left a message for you.

I trusted that if you did, you would spot the bottle of our last bet, and you’d notice the incongruous dust-free bottle.

Yes, I’m still alive.

Obviously.

Years ago, when I realised Albus had been right that at some point we would have to fight the Dark Lord again, I bought a small house in the village of La Caunette.

I knew I’d have but a small chance to survive the second fight. I also knew that if we would win, my position in our world would be … ambiguous. I might be condemned as a war criminal and sent to Azkaban. While there would be a certain poetic justice in being sent down for what I didn’t do, whereas in 1981 I stayed out despite of what I did, I was unwilling to risk it.

So I bought myself a little bolt-hole.

Recently, to be precise shortly before Albus died, I was made to realise there was a second possibility: that I might be considered some sort of hero. I also learned it would be necessary for me to stay alive until Potter had received some vital intelligence. If a man must do everything he can to stay alive long enough, there’s a serious risk he’ll stay alive, period.

That was when I started preparing for my disappearance in earnest. I removed all traces of my Muggle life – the deeds of my house, my Muggle bank statements, and all correspondence – to La Caunette. All I left behind was the Gault-Millau and the postcard.

I knew you’d never be able to resist a proper scan of my bookshelves.

Now you are here. It fills me with the hope that you may want to listen to what I have to say. Then again, you might just want to kick my arse up and down the street. It’s a chance I must take. If the worst comes to the worst, I can defend myself better than I did in that duel. Even against such a Gryffindor extravaganza as fifty daggers.

But then, if you had truly duelled to kill, I would have ended up as Snape Tartare and you wouldn’t be here reading my letter.

You probably think I was an idiot not to trust you. You may think I betrayed our friendship as well, but there you will be able to come up with a logical reason. When it comes to not taking you into my confidence, things are different.

What if the Dark Lord had used an Aveda Kedavra?

Disaster, that’s what.

Would you have had the chance to go to my room? To find the dusted bottle? To go to Spinner’s End?

Most likely not.

If you had, you would have found one thing more than you did now. You would have found a key. To my house in La Caunette. There, you would have found two wills, one for my Muggle and one for my Wizarding goods. All of which I’ve left to you. And you would have found a letter with full information.

Too little, too late.

It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. It wasn’t because I underestimated you. Please – I’m not that much of an idiot.

It was because I knew you’re a better person than I. There was no point in telling you just that I was still on our side. That would merely have been a needless risk. What I should have done is tell you all. Ensure back up. But I was afraid that if I did …

When Albus told me what I had to do for the greater good, I nearly refused. And I don’t mean killing him. What would you have done? Would you have tried to stop me?

If we would ever truly duel to kill, I wouldn’t want to bet as much as a Butterbeer on the outcome. Leave alone the future of the Wizarding world.

I hope you will allow me to explain and apologise in person. At the bottom of this letter you’ll find my full address. I’ll be at home all day tomorrow.

If you decide not to come, I hope you will still accept the little gift of the hotel room. It’s not a birthday gift, of course. This year especially you wouldn’t want to celebrate.

But I thought you’d like a few days away. Please allow me to offer you that - because I value your friendship.

Severus

*+*+*+*

I will go, of course. I will listen.

I’d made that decision quite some time ago. Was it when I saw that lonely tumbler? When I struggled with that cryptic message and knew Severus never doubted I would find the answer? Or when I was reminded of my not-for-your-birthday presents?

I don’t know. But I do want to hear what he has to say for himself.

Mind, I’m not sure about that ‘better person’ argument. I’m not saying I’m not a better person – I have done things in my life that I now deeply regret, and they’ve enabled me to relate to Severus’s regrets, but I’ve never screwed up so dramatically as he did when he joined the Death Eaters.

Severus writes that what he should have done is tell me all. Indeed, so he should. But I was afraid that if I did …, he says. I think he was afraid that if he had told me all about the way Harry Potter would be led as a lamb to the slaughter, I would have tried to stop him.

And I might have done just that. With the benefit of hindsight, it’s very easy to say that everything ended well, that Potter had to go through his ordeal. Given the results, Potter would be the first to admit that the walk towards what he thought was death was a price he was willing to pay. Not a small price – never that. But, given the final result, it was worth it.

But at the time, I might well have said that no Greater Good is worth the ruthless killing of an innocent and very courageous young man. If we had stood by and had done nothing to prevent that murder, if we had used Potter as a blood sacrifice for our own sake – then how would we have differed from them?

The eternal problem of every war, of course. What is, in fact, the difference between ‘us’ and ‘them’? A cynic would say ‘us’ is the side that wins.

I don’t think I could have used Potter as wand-fodder. Not even as final weapon.

If I am correct in my surmise, Severus’s reasoning contains a hint of ‘she’s a woman, they are the gentle sex, she wouldn’t be ruthless enough’. Unconsciously, perhaps, but still there.

Severus admits he’s uncertain of the outcome of a real duel – he doesn’t underestimate me there. Of course he doesn’t. He’s a survivor; he wouldn’t be alive today if he couldn’t assess a risk.

But what he very much doesn’t admit, and probably doesn’t even consider is the possibility that I might have been right.

He doesn’t seem to doubt that stopping me would have been the correct action – that I would have to be stopped because I simply couldn’t be right.

Men. As I used to say to Amelia, sometimes … but you know that already.

But this time, when we meet, I’ll think before I speak. This time I’ll listen. After all, one does not just love one’s friends for their good points.

And I think he’ll listen, too. It may be an interesting birthday, tomorrow. In terms of truly meaningful events, perhaps the most interesting since the day I actually was born.

Not that I’m sentimental enough to consider an eventual rekindling of our friendship as a birthday gift. Silly nonsense. But I did – and I do – value that friendship.

And that, dear imaginary reader, is the end of my investigation. Now that I have Severus’s full address and will meet him tomorrow, my Miss Marple activities have come to an end. I think I acquitted myself with reasonable honour. It’s really too bad I can’t publish The Case of the Living Portrait. But who knows? Miss Marple solved at least twenty crimes. Perhaps one day Minerva McGonagall, Spinster Detective, will get another case, and then I will turn it into a book.