Work Text:
On the windowsill of 19 Spinner's End, a Bird of Paradise once bloomed, if only for a short while.
Young Severus did not recognize it. All he remembered was that Tobias had found a short-term job that month, and so Eileen, on her way back from buying groceries, had brought home this splash of color.
Beneath the smog-choked sky of the industrial town, the air hung heavy with dampness. The orange-and-blue petals, shaped like a bird with wings outstretched, trembled slightly between his mother's pale fingers.
That year, Severus was only five years old, sitting on a rickety wooden chair that creaked with every movement, engrossed in reading his mother's textbooks. Eileen walked into the kitchen, her steps carrying a rare lightness, and placed the flower into a cleaned jam jar.
He jumped down from the chair, walked over to the counter, and craned his neck to look at the unusual plant.
"This is a Bird of Paradise," Eileen explained softly, her fingers brushing the petals gently, as if handling a treasure. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"
"Yes, Mother. Will Father like it?"
Eileen did not answer.
Tobias came home from work much earlier than usual that day—earlier than the nights he lingered in the pub. When he stepped through the door, his eyes flicked briefly to the Bird of Paradise, and he seemed to mumble something, but Severus did not catch the words. At the dinner table that night, the complaints were fewer, and most were nothing more than trivial grumblings. When Severus finished eating early, planning to go read, Tobias even patted him on the head.
Less than a week later, Tobias was fired for arriving late drunk. The front door was kicked open with a bang, his footsteps heavy and hurried. A sharp cracking sound announced the Bird of Paradise's death. Severus hid in his room, listening to the dull crunch as Tobias's boots crushed the flower stem mercilessly.
In the dead of night, when Tobias's snores filled the air and Eileen's sobs finally subsided, the little boy crept downstairs in total darkness, fumbling to pick up a single withered, curled petal of the Bird of Paradise. By the light of the moon, he examined the edges of the once-vibrant petal, dotted with tiny, dense dark brown spots.
After a moment's hesitation, he quietly took the petal back to his bedroom and slipped it between the pages of an unremarkable book. The next day, Eileen swept the remains of the Bird of Paradise into the trash can.
Years later, Severus chanced upon the meaning of the Bird of Paradise flower: freedom, happiness, and eternal joy. He stared at those words for a long time, a strange ache welling up in his chest. He bit his lip and crossed them out fiercely with a piece of charcoal.
Upon entering the wizarding world, all manner of bizarre, magical plants with diverse powers dulled Severus's memory of the Bird of Paradise—until the summer of his sixth year, when he was invited to Malfoy Manor.
"You have to see this, Severus. A true rarity," Lucius said, his tone carefully laced with casual indifference. They stood in the glass greenhouse on the east wing of Malfoy Manor, where the air was hot, humid, and thick with the cloying scent of exotic plants. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting jewel-like spots of light across the floor.
In the center of the greenhouse, atop a black marble pedestal, sat a platinum flowerpot inlaid with emeralds. Inside the pot was a Bird of Paradise—but it was nothing like the one he remembered from Spinner's End. It stood nearly six feet tall, its petals streaked with an uncanny pattern of indigo and silver, shimmering with a cold, metallic sheen under the enchanted light.
"A mutant variety sourced from the forbidden jungles of Java. The only one of its kind in all of Europe," Lucius said, tapping the edge of the flowerpot with his snake-headed cane. A transparent magical shield flickered into view for a moment before vanishing again. "It requires a constant temperature and humidity. The soil is replaced weekly, enriched with unicorn blood and moonstone powder. Father says it is the pinnacle of alchemy fused with natural magic."
Severus stepped closer to examine it. The petals were too perfect to be real, each one curved in precise symmetry, their veins aligned like geometric patterns. He felt an inexplicable sense of rigidity—and weariness—emanating from it.
"Does it bloom?" His question came out abruptly, trailing off just as suddenly. Realizing how inappropriate it sounded, Severus all but swallowed the last syllable.
Lucius stared at his shrewd young schoolmate in surprise, one eyebrow arching. "Is it not blooming right now?"
Severus swallowed hard, forcing his voice to remain calm as he explained. "No. What I mean is—does it have a flowering period? Does it produce pollen? Does it attract insects? Does it bear fruit?"
"Certainly not," Lucius said, waving a hand dismissively without a moment's thought. "If it bore fruit, it would wilt—and where would be the perfection, the value, in that? Besides," he added, his tone lightening, "that is hardly the point. What matters is its rarity and beauty, is it not?"
Severus's gaze drifted back to the Bird of Paradise. Invisible threads seemed to hold it frozen in place, the gold dust sprinkled on its surface only serving to enhance its artificial radiance. Protected by magic, it would never be buffeted by storms or nibbled by insects, nor would it ever have the chance to feel the warmth of real sunlight or the kiss of rain.
This was not a flower. It was a corpse, hollowed out and stuffed with gold and magic.
Severus composed himself, his tone settling back into the smooth, appropriate cadence of polite admiration. In the end, he said simply: "It is most impressive."
For the first time in years, he thought of the Bird of Paradise he had seen as a child. That small, somewhat lackluster flower had at least lived—for seven days—on the windowsill of Spinner's End.
Yet the very name Bird of Paradise was absurd. A plant, interpreted by humans as a creature poised to take flight, yet rooted firmly in the mud, unable to break free. Was this an unrealistic dream? Or a fate of struggle and despair?
In comparison, he thought, the phoenix was far more deserving of the name Bird of Paradise. Severus listened to Dumbledore rambling on, boredom settling over him as he watched Fawkes gnawing on a bone perched on his roost.
This was roughly a year after he had joined the Hogwarts staff. Dumbledore never tired of his platitudes, his beard wagging as he talked endlessly. Severus had no choice but to grow numb to the lectures, erecting his Occlumency shields to keep the topic of "the power of great love" locked outside his impassive mask.
Dumbledore, of course, knew full well that Severus was not paying attention—that his attempts at feigned interest were becoming increasingly transparent. But the old headmaster had noticed that the young Potions Master seemed to take an interest in Fawkes?
"Severus? You seem to have quite the fascination with Fawkes… Do you have any thoughts to share?" Dumbledore asked, his voice gentle.
Severus froze, his tone stiff as he tried to hide the sudden, unaccountable flush of embarrassment. "Merely admiring a rare and magnificent magical creature, Headmaster." It was the truth. Few people ever got the chance to observe such a beautiful and powerful being up close. Its feathers blazed with a brilliance that seemed out of place in the damp, chilly air of Scotland.
"Bird of Paradise truly is a fitting name for him," the old headmaster said slowly, his eyes twinkling. "'Phoenix' speaks more to his immortality, but Bird of Paradise… it feels like a romantic hope." He blinked, his bright blue eyes sparkling with a light that annoyed Severus to no end.
Tch, Severus thought irritably. He had not fully sealed his surface thoughts a moment ago, and the old fool had seized the opportunity to pry into these trivialities, all to gloat over his discomfort. Why could Dumbledore not bother to peer into something of actual value? Severus would have far preferred the "greatest white wizard" treat him with the cold judgment he deserved, rather than treating their daily interactions like a game to amuse himself.
"If you have no further pressing matters to discuss, Headmaster, I believe I should take my leave. There is a mountain of incoherent essays awaiting my grading—and justly deserved criticism—in the dungeons. Particularly those from… Gryffindor House. It is clear that most of them require… special attention," Severus said, switching to the respectful, polished tone he reserved for his superior. As he mentioned the essays, his dark eyes—usually so impassive—glinted with a genuine, venomous amusement.
"One last thing," the old headmaster said, holding up a finger to signal the young man to wait. "Severus, if grading these essays is truly as dreadful as you claim, you could easily dismiss them with a single word. And yet… I have heard that your comments…" He paused, adding with a meaningful smile, "are so thorough that they border on being positively fatherly."
"It is merely to… ensure they fully comprehend the sheer stupidity of their mistakes," Severus said slowly, each word clipped as if forced through gritted teeth.
Dumbledore smiled his signature smile—the wise, indulgent smile of an elder—and leaned back in his chair, nodding gently. "Of course, Severus. A necessary part of education, I am sure."
The man in black robes stood up, his footsteps deliberately heavy as he strode out of the office.
In the dark, quiet corridor outside, Severus took a deep breath of the cold air. Why was that old busybody always so determined to dig up nonexistent clues that suggested he harbored a secret desire to be a dedicated teacher, eager to pour his knowledge into every student—no matter how dim-witted? Severus Snape had never been, and would never be, a warm-hearted educator. He could not care less about how much nonsense filled those children's heads. If any knowledge managed to take root in their brains, it was nothing short of a miracle from Merlin himself—and it certainly spared him the agony of having to read through years of grammatically atrocious drivel, which made him so irritable he often wanted to pry open their skulls and rearrange their brains himself.
Every time Severus faced a new class of students, he could not help but feel a pang of pessimism for the future of the wizarding world. And yet, even more pitifully, he seemed to be drifting exactly toward the path Dumbledore had predicted for him.
Headmaster Snape—the official appointment had not yet been finalized, but Voldemort had already announced the decision at a Death Eater rally—stood at the windowsill of Spinner's End.
The Dark Lord had been overjoyed after Severus reported his success, finally forgiving the Malfoy family and bestowing upon him the position of Headmaster of Hogwarts. Bellatrix and the others had, of course, objected vehemently—but the Dark Lord's decisions were never easily swayed.
Severus recalled the Death Eater celebration. As a hero of the cause, he had sat at Voldemort's right hand. The ecstatic Bellatrix still shot him suspicious glances, though now they were laced with even more jealousy and resentment. Nagini coiled around a pillar, her forked tongue flicking in and out. Draco stood pale-faced, still shaken by the recent events, as he watched the crowd carousing and drinking…
Severus's mask remained flawless, despite the revulsion that churned in his gut at the very sight of the gathering. He had taken his leave that very night, returning to the old house on Spinner's End. It was not an act of petulance—it was a calculated move. He knew the Dark Lord trusted a "loner" more—a loyal servant with a prickly temper, uninterested in forming factions or cliques.
The house on Spinner's End was his last refuge, and he had cast powerful protective charms around it. Even so, Severus could acutely sense the malicious gazes and prying eyes that lingered on the street outside. His calm dark eyes swept over the gray, overcast sky beyond the window, the half-dead vines clinging to the walls. For a moment, the scene felt like a blank canvas, one that cried out for bold, vibrant colors. Most brightly colored creatures hailed from the tropics, he thought, drawing on his knowledge of botany—creatures like the Bird of Paradise, which had been introduced to England centuries ago. This had nothing to do with his past, he told himself firmly. It was merely a classic example.
A soft pop echoed from beside the long-dead fireplace.
Severus's eyes sharpened instantly, his body tensing into a blade—lean, sharp, and dangerous. His wand slid silently from his sleeve into his palm, ready to strike, as he pointed it toward the source of the sound.
A small puff of golden-red feathers materialized slowly in the air.
"A phoenix?" Severus's face registered a rare look of shock. As the figure came into clearer view, he whispered, hesitation coloring his voice: "Fawkes?"
The bird, which had been hidden under the Cloak of Invisibility, lifted its long neck and let out a soft, trilling call—as if in answer.
Severus's muscles seemed to turn to stone. His voice came out low and hoarse. "You should not be here. Leave."
Fawkes did not move.
Severus fixed the phoenix—the symbol of happiness—with his coldest, most hateful glare, engaging in a silent standoff. The message he conveyed was unmistakably hostile: "I do not want your pity. Whether this is some empty comfort from your master, a command you have been given, or an attempt at revenge—you must leave this place at once."
Fawkes stared at him for a long moment. Then, the great bird, ancient and wise beyond measure, lowered its head and shed a single tear. It fell like a glistening pearl, landing neatly in a crystal vial that had appeared out of thin air beside it.
The phoenix did not make a single sound that humans could hear. But a faint, resonant vibration filled the dusty, dilapidated old house—a vibration like the whisper of wind, the glow of moonlight, the weight of earth, and the sorrow of the tides.
Then, just as quietly as it had arrived, Fawkes vanished.
Severus stood rooted to the spot for a long time before he finally managed to move his stiff joints, bending down to pick up the crystal vial.
A year later, on the same worn, splintered wooden floor, the crystal vial slipped from his grasp and shattered. The phoenix's tears mingled with the pool of blood spreading across the floor of the Shrieking Shack.
The once cruel, sharp-tongued man who had always dressed in black lay helpless on the ground, bleeding profusely. He was too weak to reach for the broken vial. His black robes pooled around him like the wings of death.
And death did, indeed, come for him.
The war ended just before dawn broke.
"Severus Snape, the famous double agent, whose extraordinary contributions were instrumental in ending the Second Wizarding War. He was posthumously awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class. In his will, he donated his personal library and other belongings to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." A young girl struggled to read the words aloud from the history book. Her friend leaned over, chiming in: "Snape? My mum says all the books he donated are dangerous. But I snuck into the Restricted Section to look at them once, and nothing bad happened! Look—" She pulled a dried, crumpled petal out of her pocket. "I found this inside one of them. Do you know what it is?"
The little girl shook her head.
"Whatever. Let's go play!" Her friend tossed the withered petal—the remains of a Bird of Paradise that had survived for nearly a century—aside carelessly, and ran off toward the sunlight, laughing.
The True Ending
Consciousness struggled to surface from the void. Severus forced his eyes open, his vision blurred by a bright, white light. The space around him was quiet, save for the faint sounds drifting in from outside.
Something on the bedside table jumped suddenly, letting out a sharp buzzing sound.
Footsteps grew closer, but Severus's consciousness slipped back into the depths of sleep. Teetering between dream and reality, he vaguely remembered pouring the phoenix's tears onto his wound in his final moments. It must have been the tears that had kept him alive long enough to be found. So this must be St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, he thought.
During his long period of recovery, Poppy, Minerva, and the others came to visit him in turns. Even that insufferable Potter dropped by a few times—though whenever Severus had enough strength to form a coherent curse, he promptly "escorted" him out of the room.
Kingsley and the Golden Trio had fought tirelessly to clear his name. But Severus refused the Order of Merlin they had secured for him, and declined the teaching position offered by Hogwarts, accepting only a small monetary award.
Severus now lived a quiet life. In a valley in the north of England, he owned a small house, a nursery, and an underground laboratory where he could lose himself for hours, oblivious to the passage of time. A few forest rangers occasionally passed by his home, and former colleagues and students visited him from time to time.
Wizards had long lifespans. So when Severus heard the news of the forest ranger Victor's death, he did not immediately register the loss.
"Mr. Victor left you some potted plants in his will, Mr. Prince," the young man said, carrying several pots over to him.
Yes, Severus used an alias when dealing with Muggles. He had never liked his father's surname.
"Mr. Victor said your nursery is full of such… gloomy-looking plants. He thought you might like to add a bit of color," the young man explained, carefully arranging the potted plants along the railing.
"Thank you. You may leave them here," Severus said finally, his voice unexpectedly hoarse. His dark eyes—once as deep and cold as a frozen lake, hiding countless secrets and unspeakable pain—were now fixed intently on the vibrant blue-and-yellow petals, unfurled in the sunlight.
The Bird of Paradise could never reach paradise.
But perhaps, staying in the mortal world was not so bad after all.