Chapter 162: The Conflict
London.
Fog. Thick, swirling, impenetrable fog.
In front of a derelict red telephone box, two tall, imposing figures stood facing each other. The snow seemed to naturally divert around them, leaving them in a pocket of intense, silent confrontation.
Few could have imagined that this abandoned booth was the Visitors' Entrance to the Ministry of Magic. Even fewer Muggles could have guessed that the two people standing there were wizards.
Not far away, beneath the shelter of a bus stop, an old wizard with a long white beard blinked. "Oh—of course, of course. A scene this interesting… certainly one for the Pensieve…" His words were quickly swallowed by the wind.
The two figures spoke.
"Severus," Minerva McGonagall's voice was sharp, her eyes flashing with stern disbelief. "I hope you are not speaking nonsense."
"Professor McGonagall," Snape replied, his face expressionless, his voice a low rasp. But beneath the surface calm, magma boiled. "I said… I will take responsibility."
"Who else will love you, Severus? You begged outside Gryffindor Tower once. Must you now add Ravenclaw Tower to your list of failures?" The words of the painted knight echoed violently in his mind.
So he spoke again, slowly, with absolute conviction. "I will… take responsibility."
McGonagall had never expected to hear those words from Severus Snape. Shock warred with anger. She knew the boy had bright green eyes, yes, but simply because of that…
"Impulse rarely leads to good outcomes, Severus. You should know that better than anyone," she said, her tone softening slightly as she looked into his dark, tormented eyes.
In the distance, Dumbledore stroked his beard. Of course… if impulse were removed… would a different possibility have emerged within Hogwarts Castle? His gaze turned contemplative. Mocking another's scars was despicable, but the darkness behind those scars was a tragedy in itself.
"Of—course—" Snape's face remained unreadable.
"I fail to understand this 'of course,' Severus," McGonagall said coldly. "Do you think… that child is a replacement for anyone?!"
She was barely containing her fury. The boy she saw—resilient, determined, talented, humble, and kind—was unique. To reduce him to a mere shadow of someone else…
"With all due respect, Severus, you should think carefully about what you actually know—" She shot him one last glare, her usually calm eyes blazing with indignation, and stepped into the telephone box, refusing to say another word.
The fire of her anger seemed to singe Snape, leaving him frozen for a moment. But only for a moment. Two seconds later, he strode forward again.
"I do know—" His lips curled into a sneer reminiscent of his dungeon—that dark, oppressive cage where only true hope could break through.
He thought he had seen a name that caused him unbearable pain… But he had only seen a reflection of himself. A new possibility, free from the darkness, one that would never repeat his mistakes.
In the dungeon, the short knight was perpetually angry, frustrated by potential wasted. Over ten centuries, he had witnessed too many tragedies, but few as heartbreaking as this.
"Of course, Severus, you fool—you are a Death Eater, a lonely freak, a wretch wearing his mother's smock… But how do you know you aren't worthy of touching something beautiful? No matter how pathetic you are, how despised… don't you understand… Severus, your love is not."
"I… know—" Severus Snape refused to yield an inch. He swore to Merlin he would not tear his soul apart with guilt and regret again.
"Severus..." Minerva McGonagall faltered, her vision blurred by the white snow.
Snow piled up on the red telephone box, capping it in white. For the first time, snowflakes settled on Minerva McGonagall's head. She looked at him, a storm of emotions suppressed in her eyes.
Distance from the Telephone Box.
"Oh—oh—" The white-bearded wizard took a sip of honey tea, his hand trembling momentarily from the heat. His expression didn't change, but his hand wandered towards a bag of strange sweets.
"Well, enough tea. Time for a sweet. Ah—Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Reminds me of my youth. Unlucky then, came across a vomit-flavoured one. Haven't touched them since… But surely, a nice toffee one would be safe."
He smiled and popped a golden-brown bean into his mouth. Immediately, he gagged. "Alas! Earwax!"
The Ministry of Magic.
The Atrium was on Level Eight—a vast, splendid hall with a polished dark wood floor. The peacock-blue ceiling was inlaid with glittering golden symbols that moved and changed like a celestial noticeboard. Golden fireplaces lined the walls: arrivals on the left, departures on the right.
The clerk handling Muggle Affairs looked at the two professors again. "Respected sir, madam… are you… a married couple?"
Snape nearly drew his wand. McGonagall replied sternly, "That is not amusing, Ellie."
"Professor, I mean… if you really want to achieve that goal… well, it's the simplest clerical error. You know the Ministry makes a hundred mistakes a day; one more won't matter. It's a small thing, won't be reported, and if I handle it, no one else will ever know." Ellie Whiteman blinked. Even she, who had seen countless bizarre events, found this situation unique.
"There is no need—" Snape shot Ellie a cold look and swept towards the center of the Atrium, his black robes billowing.
What was the Ministry? A chaotic stage show. Severus Snape had no intention of following the rules of fools.
(End of Chapter)
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