She felt ridiculous, hands thrust into the lined pockets of her coat, ballet flats quickly growing damp with the morning dew. She felt ridiculous, because rather than observing her surroundings, she found herself imagining how she might look to a bystander in the distance. It seemed rather artistic in concept: a girl, simply dressed against the cold, scarf fluttering with the light breeze, hair sloping over the coat collar, taking quick light strides through the dew-brushed grass of the campus. She might stop now, raising and lowering her feet carefully as she realizes the fabric of her shoe has become cold and damp from the moisture. Her stride loses its grace, now lapsing into an endearingly comical shuffle. A hand might dart out from its nest to grab for balance.
It all seemed so perfect that it was a pity no one was there to see it. Or, she reflected, there was nothing to see but a commonplace sight she had fancifully romanticized, simply because she herself felt like a storybook for once. Yes, this was more likely.
Stories and memories had always intrigued her; even going about her work she vaguely wondered in the back of her mind how she would behave should someone be watching her life unfold, like a movie's plot. And not entirely unconsciously, she slipped into that character, posing herself in ways that would appear most fitting for whichever role she was to play that day. All the while, she would take care that none should realize the workings of her mind. All must appear thoughtless, unplanned, and spontaneous. That was what always gave the stories and films that element of charm.
She wondered what it would be like, if the movie plots were the true events of someone's life being filmed without their knowledge, and presented to viewers. What photos and videos of her that came out to her satisfaction were those taken with her knowledge and pretended obliviousness. Those taken with her genuinely unaware were rarely to her liking.
She wanted to be in a story.
Perhaps not a story of love and intrigue, of violence and catastrophe, of magic and the surreal, but simply a realistic story that would interest the viewer. Certain scenes in her actual life came out in such simple, sweet clarity that it was really a pity the rest of her life couldn't follow in that vein. Certain scenes, she felt, were like those from a movie or a photo shoot. Her walk through the campus, for instance. Or perhaps those moments when she played through a song with fervor and intensity, feeling the music sweep her up and carry her through even the most difficult measures. It occurred to her once that a camera could gradually zoom in on her from behind as she swayed over the instrument, hands darting across the ivory rectangles. The camera could circle around, a smooth motion, and then come to rest on her face, expressive with her exultation from the song.
She thought all this and told no one. She knew it was silly and childish. Still, it was a pity those scenes weren't preserved… they would be the memories she would wish her children could see.
At the same time, though, she wanted memories preserved as she saw and felt them. A camera crew following her around, capturing things as her fanciful mind's eye saw them was lovely in concept, but shallow and fake. An iris camera, seamlessly integrated with her vision, was truer and better. It would show her future children things as she saw them.
But what of sensations? Her mind returned to the dampness in her shoe, now freezing even as the untouched creases of her foot felt unpleasantly warm. She thought of the irregularity she felt as she ran a thumbnail over her third fingernail, uneven and tender from an encounter with an errant pairing knife. She slipped off her shoes and her feet simultaneously cooled and warmed. Everything, every sensation must be preserved.
Diaries were worthless. What would she record, besides the day's events? Her thoughts? Her thoughts were interesting to her, but perhaps the future mayn't find them so. She'd write them down, though, and wait. Perhaps she'd want to take them out again when she wanted to remember how her mind worked at seventeen. Better yet, she'd like to enclose a piece of herself into the parchment through her written words.
"Minerva," a voice said briskly. She turned her head, shaken from her reverie as words on a wisp of breath disturbed the air along the side of her face.
She smiled. She knew the voice well. "You interrupted my deep conversation with myself, Tom."
"I always knew you were reclusive, but this is new even for you." He smiled at her, his hand coming to rest along her shoulders.
For a moment, Minerva considered telling him the contents of her mind. She wanted nothing more than to tell someone what went on in her head, someone capable of understanding her thought processes exactly. She knew Tom was one such person. And yet, she felt he wouldn't receive it well. A bold explanation would end in condescending laughter, while a timid one, loaded with trepidation, would only agitate Tom's temper. She was certain of one thing: Tom would try no pretense with her. One reason she felt drawn to him was that he seemed to act as he truly was with her, stripped of his charming façade and uncanny ability to manipulate.
"I'm not reclusive," she said simply. "I can't say the same about you," she added, knowing he would contradict her immediately. She thought it fondly.
"There are few better connected people in the castle," Tom said dismissively. "You know me well enough anyway. That defies the definition of a recluse."
"No arguments now," Minerva said curtly. "What brings you here anyway?"
"Nothing. I just wanted to ask you. How do you feel about diaries?" Minerva started. Not for the first time, she thought Tom was a Legilimens.
"They don't do much in preserving the essence of a person." Seeing him start to frown, she added, "But I daresay you'll find a way to do it." His face smoothed over, content. She loved the childish rapidity of his response, though she knew it frustrated him. It seemed that many of the things she loved about him, he found irksome.
"I daresay I have." He pulled her from where she was, ensconced between an aged bookshelf and the library wall. "Let's go."
She withdrew her hand, slipping her feet back into her now dry flats, and gathering her things. "Wait. You mean to tell me that you came looking for me just to ask me my thoughts on diaries? It could wait, couldn't it?"
He didn't bother answering, instead reclaiming her hand and inspecting the maimed fingernail. "I can fix that for you," he said, running his thumb over the uneven surface.
Minerva decided it wasn't worth it to try and coax out a proper response. Tom could be moody or silent at times, though he was careful to hide this from others, and pressing the issue would accomplish nothing. "So how do you feel they preserve the essence of a person?" she asked.
"Simple. If the person has left their mark on the world, reading his words some fifty years from when he wrote them would transport one back into the writer's time. But the person must have a powerful presence, and should want his voice heard again, or they can't be preserved." He looked at her intently. "And there's magic that can make it happen too, Minerva. I've been reading...and I can show you. You don't want to forget your thoughts either."
She laughed an airy laugh, feeling once again like she were in a scene in a film. The camera would be off on Tom's side, angled so her face was thrown in sharp relief and his was a softened blur in peripheral vision. A pretty scene. "It's as though you know what I think about," she said lightly. "That's exactly what I was thinking when you interrupted me."
"And what do you say?" His eyes were eager.
"I think I've decided it doesn't really matter. Power doesn't really interest me, I'm far too complacent. If I'm less lazy I can sit down and write about my thoughts and preserve them that way. You're welcome to them, though you won't be surprised at all, you know me so well." She didn't see his expression change, almost imperceptibly, to mild disappointment.
"Nothing more?" He frowned, openly this time, long fingers feeling in his pocket to make sure the small, leather bound book was still there.
"I'm afraid not," she said, drawing close. "I don't dwell very long on my silly fancies, Tom, though it's very sweet that you take interest. It's rather impossible to imprint a memory into a book, isn't it? There's no point. Shall we go to lunch?"
And they went to the Great Hall, talking softly of plans for the weekend, of classes, of one another, pretending to not notice the glances in their direction from students and professors alike. Tom all the while felt a vague sort of disappointment. She was brilliant, and didn't recognize herself for what she was. The result? An intuitive girl who could in every way be his foil or join his ranks, and yet never would, because she found her most astute deductions to be "silly fancies" and ignored what she knew of his dabbling in the Dark Arts. He hated himself for not being more cautious in revealing his character to her, for allowing himself to grow fond of her. He should have known there would be a risk she'd never see things his way.
He wonders, and finds that he knows, that he has missed his chance to tell her of his discovery of the Chamber, and the murder that followed.
He knows it is too late to show her the diary now.