I am a good man.
I am an excellent actor as well, but I am foremost a good man.
I am a good man with hooded shadows that lurk somewhere in the corners of my eyes, but when you see them they merely glitter.
I have a scar that forges my loyalty to Dumbledore, the better man. My scar eats death.
My scar cheats death.
I have a student with a scar that forges his future toward Voldemort.
I call him Voldemort in my mind. I call him the Dark Lord out loud.
My colleagues—ex-colleagues—call me a miserable bastard who makes life a living hell for my students—ex-students—especially the ones who cannot teach. The ones who cannot teach cannot learn; therefore they cannot know.
My friends call me a miserable bastard who makes life a living hell for myself.
But there is no regret—none indeed.
There was a time when I could not bear to hear the voices of the young and innocent. My students were forbidden to speak out of turn.
There was a time when I could not bear to wear white.
I still do not wear white. I am in full knowledge that I have abominably greasy hair.
I am a clean man.
There are times when I crave a bath above all else. But there are also times when I may drown myself.
My mirror has yet to enchant me. But I no longer keep a thick curtain hung over it.
(Here you may all ponder the questionable fact that Severus Snape owns a mirror.)
The only times when the hooded shadows materialize are when I stare at them lurking behind me in a mirror. Because when I turn around, they are no longer there. They jump into my eyes.
It no longer burns.
It no longer hurts to look at myself in miniature in my pupils' eyes.
They dislike me. I—I do not dislike them. Old habits are mercilessly hard to break.
One night I bit the hand that fed me and flew away. Tonight you burn me in effigy, but none of you have lived long enough.
I forgive you for not understanding.
(Here you may all scoff at the irony of this statement, because you may all think that it is I who requires—or does not—your forgiveness.)
I am a good man.
