"But why don't you take him with you into the light?
He does not deserve the light, he deserves peace"
― Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita
The apartment was... acceptable. A narrow three-story pencil case wedged between two buildings in the Muggle area of London.
I looked out of the window, then looked down. Rain poured down the dark street. People under mushroom-like umbrellas hurried to their anthills. In the houses on the other side of the street, the windows lit up one by one. Orange, yellow, blue lights of flat electric light that took on almost magical hues as they filtered through colorful curtains, drapes, blinds and shutters. But the apartment opposite mine remained dark. I gently reached out to it with a probing spell. Empty. This is good. Of course, no light or sound will enter my shelter unless I choose to. But the further away people are from me, the better. For me and for them.
All protective charms have been cast. The Muggles run past the house, gazing at it with unseeing eyes. Even if my laboratory was smashed to pieces by the mediocre Longbottom (Merlin's beard, why did I remembered him?), they would not notice. Neither the whole Auror office, nor He-Who-Finally- Kicked-the-Bucket would have been able to break in. And the most important, owl mail from my idiotic admirers will not be delivered here - only orders for their potions and the payments for them. Perhaps Albus would have found a loophole, but the cruel and wise old man, having paid all his bills, rested in peace in his Hogwarts tomb. While many of the Death Eaters and their conquerors turned to dust and ashes, the bilious, dark potions master, double agent and murderer, outwitted death and survived.
In 's, they never bothered to explain to me plausibly how I miraculously ended up with my neck torn to shreds, but without bleeding and with a beating heart. As they told it, I Apparated unconscious on a stretcher, without an escort. An unlikely story, unbelievable even by first year standards. And these geniuses of wizarding medicine claimed that there was no poison in my blood. However, even if I turned into a vampire, even if I learned to levitate without the participation of consciousness (the Healers checked both assumptions and regretfully rejected them), the main thing is that Potter was definitely not involved in my escape. The Great Liberator and Honorary Saint of our time was busy battling Evil, his noble demise, and his subsequent glorious rebirth.
Then, of course, I experienced the nobility of the Boy-Who-Again-Amazed- Everyone - to the fullest extent. For the first time, I heard familiar screams outside the doors of the ward. The hero did not let the Aurors take me away, to escort the most infamous Greasy Git, who just came out of a coma, to the Dementors. Potter had definitely added to his vocabulary in his wanderings. The only uncensored phrase that could be repeated was his threat to cast one hell a Killing Curse on everyone" to the Aurors who were to bring me in. Then there was his fiery speech in court and an subsequent interview with The Daily Prophet - after the trial. But, it seems on reflection, the boy understood my general dislike of him and didn't say a word to me over the past year, except for the greeting and farewell customs prescribed by etiquette. His company followed suit. The exception was Longbottom (Longbottom again? Why has he stuck with me today?!), who once cornered me in Diagon Alley and thanked me in a long and confusing manner for the fact that I did not let the Carrows burn Hogwarts down. I let him speak, turned around and left. He joyfully shouted after him: "Thank you, Professor." His stupidity doesn't seem curable.
But here in my laboratory there is no one to thank me, pester me with questions and show exasperating concern. I also have paid off all my debts and now I want only peace. My laboratory, books and the rain outside the window. I am not responsible for anyone's life. I am free.