Title is from a poem by W. H. Auden. I own nothing you recognize.
I.
I'm afraid, snide reader, that I'll be no help at all with facts or battle logistics. So tired of all that, you see, and there are far better military historians who will one day plot out the final days of this war. My own contribution are these few words, letters to myself and a future I hesitate to imagine, coaxed unwillingly by the bastard pleadings of a portrait that should have been destroyed when so much else was destroyed. Not even a list of the dead, from me. As many would argue (many in this very castle) I have no right to even spell their names with this quill and ink – tainted, tainted ink.
Bitter survival.
The smothering shelter of nothing after a lifetime of subterfuge. Brought low to this, only days after the final battle, like a pride-wounded man. Like I am, I suppose. Walking these empty guarded hallways as the ghost I should be, hiding my body, my every sound from a skittish population not ready to confront the bruising past I represent. This is freedom, isn't it? What I've wanted.
Remind me, dear oblivious pages, that this stifled life is what I've asked for. Not Azkaban, at least, not that. Minerva opening Hogwarts to the displaced, the battle orphans, and my acceptance coming among the many innocent. Even the sight of my classroom door too much for them to bear, I suppose, even the memory of me. Minerva's small request, my new invisibility. The least I could do after being saved. That wretched thought, that now I am saved, now I owe my future to yet a new generation of Hogwarts headmaster, or mistress. Can there be no end to this damned cycle?
Not confined to my room at least, given an office where I might work or write these futile memoirs of a life spent on causes fading into historic memory. And I a useful phantom. Hogwarts the refuge now of people with destroyed homes, families. Children with buried parents. Those who believe only solidarity and community efforts can rebuild a harshly damaged world. Idealism, apparently, still in vogue even after near extinction.
Albus would shake his head at how maudlin I've become in just a few days since it all ended. How narcissism has found a natural home with me. Albus, or one more forcefully unkind than he, would remark that narcissism is not an unfamiliar guest to this dark office, and I its welcoming suitor. Lay back, sweet reflection, and let me guide my unrepentence between your gracious thighs.
II.
Meddling schoolgirl.
Minerva mentioned on her last visit that Granger would spend the summer here assisting her before joining the Unspeakables come fall. Of course, the Ministry is in disarray, the old guard cleaning out their desks and the new not yet hired. Hired by whom is the question. Ministry officials notoriously unreliable under the best circumstances. For the first time in weeks, Minerva nearly laughed as she read choice comments from the latest Prophet. The Minister, London, and the problems of rebuilding feel far distant when shuffling about this castle.
She arrives tomorrow. No reason why this should affect me in any way, as my only company is the Headmistress and that damned Albus flitting through my office paintings at odd hours, demanding I pay attention. Minerva admired my new curtains, even with Albus' voice straining to be heard behind the dark fabric. This castle is filled with people I am content to avoid. But Granger. Incessant hand waving in my face, daring me to call on a quieter, lesser, student. The anger when I failed to acknowledge whatever latest classroom triumph. And her company, of course, the boy who will never be mentioned in these pages. Minerva glowing at the thought of her young protégé, all that she will teach her this summer.
Minerva. We were never fast friends, she being my former teacher and knowing too much about my moods and childhood indiscretions. And now my postwar debt to be repaid in some manner I have not yet learned. But even slight and frivolous conversation is better than this covert solitude, and she has a sly wit I appreciate now that she's no longer grading me. I could read her relief when she spoke of Granger as a salvation, someone the children could look to for guidance, someone Minerva too could lean on as she recovered from an old woman's difficult battle.
My only words on the subject, as Minerva leaves for the night: Granger. Too much work for any one person.
Even less reason now to show myself in the castle.
III.
A sad lot we are, my Hogwarts year. This evening in the library I sorted through old issues of the Daily Prophet and found my graduation photo. Many of our parents did not survive the first war. And we did not survive the second. Have I survived? This does not yet feel like a life. How young we were, how strange to think we could smile and pose for this snapshot when many would not live out the year. I did not smile, of course, my path having been decided long before graduation.
Granger arrived this evening with one trunk, one cat, and no sign of her friends, the boys-wonder. Minerva crowed that the new Hogwarts residents flocked to her, shook her hand and said well done, congrats. Granger greeted each one warmly, welcomed them to the school she so dearly loved. Her smile, oh Severus, you should have seen her proud smile. An accomplished young woman with her life ahead of her.
Oh Minerva, this natural sweetness of you hidden through years of stern teaching and a blinding war. I do not add: how could I have missed the heralded arrival of your star pupil? I watched unseen from the empty stairwell as Granger, listless and clutching her monstrous orange cat, gave a feeble greeting to the awaiting crowds. Never looking at, only around, uncomfortable (or was that petulant?) with the attention after doubtless days of fawning adoration. Yes, to be the new media darling, savior of wizarding Britain, must be quite exhausting for the young and lucky. Did I ever have such fortune in all my years of service? Minerva took her arm and steered the girl to her new room, where they doubtless had tea and chatted about old times, braided each other's hair (is that what women do? I'm entirely unsure and don't wish to know).
Granger is often alone. Why is she here? No doubt her Muggle parents would have welcomed her back to their undamaged world. She is no war orphan, no needy citizen desperate for the welcoming Hogwarts offers. There are few of her classmates here and none from her own house. I have come across her four times now, in or near the library. She sits at a table with books open in front of her, quill in hand, and yet she does not see the words. What do you see, fleeting girl? What images painted on each eyelid? War does not leave us unscarred. Not even the most determined of us.
She bears watching. I will alert Minerva.
III.
Granger standing on the fourth-floor landing, leaning against the stone banister, eyes closed. Near midnight, her soft rustling the only sound, perhaps, in the castle. I brushed behind her and she started, whispered, Peeves? More harshly when no answer came.
I saw her then, on the battlefield and bruised with glory. No meek or modest girl, but a soldier of skill and cunning. How I envied her in that moment, so certain of her future and of action leading to the next right action. At her age I could barely distinguish my own wants from those I had been indoctrinated into. I could have touched her, felt her fervent breath and backed away. Instead I waited for her to leave the corridor and then took her place, my eyes closed and sightless as hers had been. I nearly felt a breath behind me.
IV.
Minerva asked if I'd been following Granger, as she'd mentioned a strange sense of motion behind her in the halls. No, I replied. Have you asked Sir Nicholas? What interest would I have in your ridiculous student? But the truth, dear reader, is that I am unquestioningly drawn to the girl, and see in her something natural to myself. I do not leave this office intending to trail her from corridor to stairs and back, from room to library to dinner. Often, I catch myself and continue on past her (invisible I remain), convinced I too was heading to Minerva's office or the Great Hall when I came upon her.
I stood before Granger nearly seven years in the classroom and thought she would fade from memory like the other hundreds of students I taught and then forgot. No reason she should be different, and yet I notice how the hallway seems to wrap itself around her as she walks, or the slight darkness settled now into her eyes. I want to tell her that it's permanent, but not to worry: it's only useful to frighten others away.
Minerva says she asks if I'm in residence. I told Minerva to say I was on holiday someplace exotic and fearful. I am no use to anyone when women merely sigh at my humor and gaze at me with pity. If Granger thought I was at Hogwarts, she would look at me similarly, having, I'm sure, already picked up Minerva's habits.
V.
If she could read this, she would surely protest: she will not be reduced to the sad muse of a bitter old man. But we are all reduced, my dear, by circumstance and the callous fate of fading warriors. We are all less than we were, less than we could have been. And you, decadent youth, will allow me this small liberty as I fill this page with your solemn, solemn imprint.