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She found the envelope one November evening, lying on her desk just inside the door to the Hospital Wing. She was certain it had not been there when she left the room half an hour before, and the only patient at the moment – a young Hufflepuff whose enthusiasm for climbing trees was exceeded only by his lack of skill at it – swore that no one had entered the room in her absence. Given how bright-eyed and wide-awake he looked she was inclined to believe him, so how the missive had appeared on her desk was a mystery.
Mysterious items were by no means unknown at Hogwarts, but Poppy had been a member of staff long enough to know that “mysterious” was sometimes another word for “unpleasant.” Or, if there was a Weasley currently among the student body, “explosive.” She therefore approached the thing with due caution, despite its innocuous appearance.
After a quick pass with her wand proved the letter free of any truly malicious magic, Poppy took it up and examined it more closely. The paper was thick, creamy parchment, folded in thirds and sealed with a blob of red wax impressed with design of curving knotwork that might have been intertwined S’s. When she turned it over and saw her name – Poppy Pomfrey – written on the front in a bold, spiky hand, as though a raven had trodden in a pool of ink and tracked across its surface, an ache that was more than physical awoke in her chest. She knew that handwriting, had seen it on innumerable potion bottle labels, in curt notes delivered by the grubby hands of students, in detailed reports on the success or failure of sedatives and stimulants, tinctures and ointments.
But he was dead.
A gust of wind rattled the glass in the window behind her as she sank down in her chair, confused and suddenly weary. Severus Snape was six months dead; she herself had seen his body. She and Minerva and Pomona had spent many a late night since then, struggling to come to grips with the fact that the man they had vilified as a murderer, usurper and traitor had in fact been doing his level best to bring down Voldemort. Wondering if they should have guessed, if they could have helped somehow...
She looked down at the letter and then abruptly broke the seal, as if afraid to give herself time to change her mind.
Dear Madam Pomfrey – Poppy, if I may –
She smiled at this. How many times had she said impatiently, “Severus, really, do call me Poppy. It’s not as if we don’t know each other after all these years.” And yet he never had. At best impersonally courteous, at worst coldly sarcastic, he had kept all of them at arm’s length, always. Minerva had known him best, but even she had been unable to break through the mask he had worn so consistently.
Although you will read this only after I am dead – for that is how the spell is keyed, to make these letters visible precisely six months after my demise – I confess to feeling an unexpected eagerness for that moment. Or should I say “This moment,” since you are even now reading? Writing to a future reader is more challenging than I had expected.
But I digress. Even as I write this, you are busy with the latest victim of the Carrows’ so-called educational methods. Time is growing short, and yours is not the only letter I must write tonight.
I anticipate your perusal of this letter not because I wish for death – were that the case, your storeroom and mine both offer easier and quicker paths than that which I suspect is in store for me – but because through it I can at last say to you what I never said in life, but which I wish you to hear: Thank you.
Poppy swallowed hard, her throat tight and painful. Only the other night Pomona had repeated her theory that Severus had cultivated his distance and reserve because as a double agent he’d been afraid of letting something slip, but it occurred to Poppy now that perhaps he had done it in part so that there would be fewer ties to bind him, and therefore fewer regrets at the end.
Thank you for your inspiration. I never told you, but you were one of the reasons I chose to study potions. I had a gift for it from childhood, yes, but it was you who awoke in me a real passion for the subject. Your patience and persistence in customizing the Wolfsbane potion for Lupin during our first year, when the usual recipes disagreed with him so violently, taught me that there is as much art as craft, as much instinct as science, in what we do, and inspired me to continual exploration.
Thank you for your kindness. When I came to Hogwarts as Potions Master many of the staff were mistrustful of me, despite Albus’ support. I bear them no ill will for their doubts since the loyalty of a betrayer must always be suspect, but it made me more grateful for the few that accepted me. You were chief among them. Was it because you have seen so many terrible wounds healed that you believed mine could be, or simply because it is not in your nature to permit anything to fester in the mind or the body? I cannot say. I only know that our collegial debates over obscure points of medicine were immensely rewarding, and the paper that we jointly authored on the treatment of jaw-winking syndrome remains one of my most cherished achievements.
Most of all, thank you for your fearlessness in defense of the weak, the sick, and the injured. Though you cannot know it as I write this tonight, it is upon you I have relied most during these terrible months as Headmaster. Knowing that your skill and your compassion will always come to the aid of those who need it most has been an inexpressible comfort. When things are darkest, it is your healing presence that reminds me that all is not lost, and that healing is possible for anything short of death itself.
Severus Snape
“Madam Pomfrey? Are you alright?” The anxious voice of the young Hufflepuff brought her back to herself, to the dimly lighted Hospital Wing.
“Yes, Thomas, yes, I’m fine.” Poppy brushed away the tears that had dampened her cheeks. She felt as though she could weep for a week, and yet there was also a lightness in her heart at the knowledge that, however unwittingly, she had made Severus’ burden easier to bear during that complicated time. “I need to go down to the staff room for a few minutes, but I’ll be back very soon. And no getting out of bed while I’m gone,” she added sternly. “That Skele-Gro needs rest to work properly. I expect to find you asleep when I get back.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and lay down obediently. “Will you leave a light on, please?”
“Of course, dear. We’ll just turn it down a bit.” She lowered the lamp with a flick of her wand and, tucking the letter into her pocket, quietly slipped out of the room.
Yet when she reached the door of the staff room she paused, suddenly shy about sharing his words to her – words never spoken and which, she knew, had come from the heart. The heart of a lonely, beleaguered man, doing his best in an impossibly grim situation, reaching out in the only way left to him. She touched her pocket, feeling the stiff square of parchment, and remembered: “Yours is not the only letter I must write tonight.” What better way to honor a man who had lived and died so alone than to come together in his memory?
She opened the door and went in.