London.
Mist, thick fog, a veil of haze.
In front of an abandoned red telephone booth, two tall, lean figures stood facing each other, the wind and snow swirling around them as if nature itself gave them space. Their eyes locked in a prolonged, tense stare.
It was hard to imagine that this rundown telephone booth was the visitor's entrance to the Ministry of Magic. Just as hard as it was for Muggles to imagine that the two people standing here were wizards.
Not far off, under a small shelter, a wizard with a long, white beard blinked his twinkling eyes.
"Oh—yes, of course, what a fascinating scene. This one's got to go in the Pensieve," he murmured.
His words were quickly lost in the snowy wind, and the two figures spoke.
"Severus, I hope you're not talking nonsense," Professor McGonagall said, her eyes flashing with a sharp, urgent intensity. She could hardly believe what she'd heard.
"Professor McGonagall," Snape replied, his face expressionless, his voice low and raspy, "I said I'd take responsibility."
But inside, his heart churned like molten lava—calm on the surface, boiling beneath.
"Who else would love you, Severus?" The words of that pint-sized knight echoed in his mind, crashing through his thoughts. "You begged outside Gryffindor Tower once. What, now you're going to add Ravenclaw Tower to the list?"
Slowly, deliberately, Snape spoke again. "I'll take responsibility."
McGonagall had never expected to hear those words from Severus Snape. Shock gave way to anger. Of course, she knew about the child with those bright green eyes, but to think that was the reason—
"Acting on impulse won't lead to anything good, Severus. You of all people should know that," she snapped.
Her anger softened slightly as she looked into his deep, shadowed eyes, stirring memories she couldn't quite place. In the distance, Dumbledore gently smoothed his beard. If there hadn't been impulse, might there have been another possibility at Hogwarts?
His piercing gaze drifted to the horizon. Those who mock another's scars are far uglier than the darkness those scars hide.
"Of course," Snape said, his face unreadable.
"I don't understand your 'of course,' Severus," McGonagall shot back, her voice icy. "Do you think that child is some kind of substitute?"
She was barely containing the fury rising within her. That child—unique, resilient, talented, humble, and kind—was not a stand-in for anyone in her eyes. And yet, here was Severus, seeing them as a replacement?
"Forgive my bluntness, Severus, but you need to think hard about what you actually know," she said, her usually calm eyes blazing with anger.
With a final glare at Snape, she stepped into the telephone booth, done with the conversation.
Her fiery words didn't just burn her—they left Snape frozen in place. But only for two seconds. Then, with long, determined strides, he followed her.
"I do know," he said, his voice as cold as the dungeon he called home—a dark, suffocating cage where only true hope could break through.
He thought he'd seen a name that tore him apart, but instead, it was a mirror reflecting himself—a new possibility, one that wouldn't repeat his past mistakes, resolute and free of shadows.
In that dungeon, the tiny knight was always furious, exasperated beyond measure. Over centuries, he'd witnessed countless tragedies, but few were as heartbreaking as this.
"Of course, Severus, you idiot! Death Eater, loner, freak, wearing your mother's blouse as underwear—pathetic! But how do you know you're not worthy of something beautiful? No matter how pitiful or despised you are, don't you get it? Your love isn't."
"I do know," Snape said, unyielding. He swore to Merlin he wouldn't let guilt and regret tear his soul apart anymore.
"Severus—" McGonagall faltered, snowflakes blurring her vision.
The red telephone booth was half-buried in snow, even the metal roof capped with a white crown of frost.
For the first time, snow settled on Minerva McGonagall's head. She stared at him, her eyes holding a storm of their own.
In the distance, the old man with the long, white beard sipped his honey tea, scalding his tongue and shaking his hand for a moment. He kept his composure, though, reaching for some odd candies.
"Well, I've had enough tea. Time for some sweets. Ah, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. Takes me back to my younger days. I was unlucky once—got a nasty-tasting bean. Haven't touched them in ages. But a toffee-flavored one? That's always a safe bet."
He tossed the golden-brown bean into his mouth, only to choke and gasp. "Ugh, bad luck again! Earwax!"
---
The Ministry of Magic
The Atrium, on the eighth floor, was the grand entrance hall and reception area for the Ministry, welcoming visitors and employees alike.
Stepping into the lift, blocked by ornate golden gates, a cool female voice announced each department as the lift stopped. When it reached the eighth floor, the doors opened to a long, resplendent hall. The dark wooden floor gleamed, polished to a mirror-like shine. The peacock-blue ceiling sparkled with golden symbols that shifted and danced like a massive, floating notice board.
Fireplaces lined both sides of the hall—gilded and gleaming. The left ones were for arrivals, the right for departures.
A clerk from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office glanced at the pair. "Excuse me, sir, madam, are you two married?"
Snape nearly drew his wand. McGonagall answered sharply, "That's not funny, Ellie."
"Professor, I just mean—if you're serious about this, a little paperwork mix-up is the easiest way to handle it," Ellie Whitman said, blinking. "The Ministry messes up a hundred things a day. This wouldn't even get reported, and I'd make sure no one else hears about it."
"No need," Snape said coldly, his black robes billowing as he strode toward the center of the Atrium.
The Ministry of Magic? A bunch of incompetent fools.
Severus Snape wasn't about to follow their ridiculous rules.
---