I
This is no fairy tale, no children's book.
There is no single act that redeems his past,
no chapter for his pitiful story;
no twist; no turn; no final reveal.
There's only this:
Severus Snape is irredeemable.
The story moves on.
Not then for redemption;
too Gryffindor by half.
He does what needs to be done,
the practicalities, the gritty reality.
His life is built on the necessary.
II
His death serves a purpose,
is planned. Neat and tidy,
for all the blood that drips through the floorboards,
drip, drop, drip,
an accompaniment for dying.
Albus sits in the station.
He looks the same as ever, unfazed by death.
His glasses twinkle.
"My boy - " he begins, as the train pulls in.
"You've earned this."
"I've earned nothing."
His clothes are still covered in blood.
III
A whistle blows, two sharp bursts
and the train pulls itself forward.
Slowly at first,
then faster and faster.
A blur of green eyes from a window.
Severus looks away.
"I'll wait," Albus says. "Lemon drop?"
They sit on a bench,
the metal so cold it almost bites.
An eternity passes while they breathe in.
"Tell me a story," Albus mumbles, through a mouthful of sugar.
"I only know my own."
Pitiful though it is, the tale tumbles from his lips
like snowflakes drifting down to earth.
He's never been so careless with the truth.