Every year, in the last week of July, when most of the usual work following the end of term is completed – the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. papers graded, the grades forwarded to the Deputy Headmistress, ingredient stocks replenished, equipment cleaned, fixed or replaced as necessary – I find myself at my desk, reaching into the bottom drawer to retrieve a leather-bound notebook. The one retrieved now is an exact replica of its fourteen brothers already lining the topmost shelf of one of my bookcases. Every one exactly the same, save for the flowing golden script along the spine – and across the cover, naturally, although no one but me has ever seen these covers.
I Summon the last of the fourteen notebooks, place it next to the blank one atop my desk and wave my wand over the two in a complicated manner, which to an outside observer would appear to imitate scooping of something invisible from the Summoned book and depositing it into the formerly blank one. In fact, this observation would be quite correct.
Nodding to myself, I send the notebook back to the shelf and open the remaining one, its pages no longer blank. I flip through the pages, then reach into the same drawer I retrieved the empty book from, gathering a stack of parchments containing notes I am going to summarise now, supplementing the contents of the notebook. I tap my quill with my wand twice to provide for the power of free correction of the text and avoid any crossings-out, and take the first parchment.
'Notes on behaviour of Dementors, visibility to wizards, Muggles and Squibs.'
This would go mainly as additions to the sixth-year curriculum. I turn the pages until I reach the appropriate section, and tap the page with my quill. Sufficient room for an extra paragraph appears, and I carefully pen in the additional information on provoked and unprovoked Dementor attacks on people from all three above categories, their manner and speed of movement, the complete impossibility to outrun one and the questionable chance to escape by means of an extremely fast-moving broomstick. A further note is made as to the relative safety of anyone riding a Thestral, as Dementors generally avoid the beasts, perhaps sensing something beyond their grasp, a mind they cannot influence – a special brand of darkness, one without the evil component. Dark, yet not evil. I ponder briefly whether a classroom of sixteen-year-olds can even begin to grasp the notion, then shake my head and reach for the next parchment.
'The possible abuse of Metamorphmagus skills; advantages and deficiencies of Metamorphing compared to using the Polyjuice Potion; possible ways of uncovering an impostor.'
Ah, naturally. These notes were taken after the first meeting with Nymphadora Tonks. While I highly doubt that she can be accused of abusing her skills – at least, in the sense of betrayal of the Order of the Phoenix – she can hardly be the only Metamorphmagus in the wizarding Britain, and even though no Death Eater I know of possesses the skills in question, the phenomenon merits a warning. I includes notes on Metamorphmagi in the curriculum of years one through seven, including the comparison of the transformation by magic with that by means of the Polyjuice Potion. Comparing the limitations is particularly curious, as the potion-created effect has a time constraint, but is virtually undispellable by any means known, while the magical effect lasts indefinitely, but requires a certain degree of constant mental effort – so, technically, a strong enough distraction can waver the concentration and give away an impostor. I decide to set the topic for homework and see if the students can figure out the differences on their own.
'Alternative methods for Boggart-handling, should the Riddikulus spell be unavailable due to excess emotional turmoil,' the following parchment states.
I leaf through the notebook absent-mindedly, thinking how every year I add information on Boggarts extremely carefully and at the moment am, in fact, grudgingly thankful to Remus Lupin for the practical demonstration of two years ago, which saved me from the need to include one in my plan. Nevertheless, it is necessary to make note of some means to deal with Boggarts for those cases when one simply cannot turn them into anything even remotely amusing. I make a mental note to myself to look into the possible relation between Boggarts and Dementors. After all, both feed on our fears, to both we give their strength, and both are capable of rendering us completely helpless – one way or another. Blessed are the children, who are afraid of such simple things as snakes, rats, darkness, real or imaginary monsters. It is only when they grow up that they start fearing things one can hardly laugh about – war, loneliness, death. The idea of death becomes frightening to children as soon as they learn that one day, they will not be here, and they are usually unable to reconcile themselves with that fact easily. But after they grow up some more, they face an even greater fear – death of others. The fear not to leave, but to be left behind.
I look down at the page, only to see an ink blot on it, and another fat drop of ink hanging on the tip of my quill, indicating that I have remained motionless for a few minutes straight. No wonder Boggarts are described so tersely in my notes. Every time I try to put down anything about them, I find myself staring into space and wondering. Wondering what my Boggart would look like, were I actually brave enough to seek one out and face it. What am I afraid of? What is the worst fear of a man, who already had not one, but two worst things possible happen to him?
Then again, it is quite possible than I have observed my Boggart walk in front of me for almost every day of the past five years.
I slam the notebook shut, not caring about the ink messing up the page, throw the quill on the table and leave my office, seeing refuge in the quiet emptiness of the classroom. Having escaped the office in a rush, I now walk slowly, approaching the place where I used to sit, so many years ago. Sitting here now seems to bring back so much… yet so little. From here, everything used to look so complex, but only now do I understand how simple everything was, compared to here and now. But back then… I was always striving for something. What for? And more importantly – did I achieve any of that? And even more importantly – does it matter at all if I did, and whether I did at all?
The intended place of solace does not help this time. I have no idea where these strange thoughts are coming from. Could I be simply growing old? Or does the very thought along these lines already provide a positive answer to my question?
Too many questions. I go back to my office, open the notebook where I left it, remove the mess on the page and finish writing down the started paragraph. Over the next few hours, I go through the rest of my notes, writing additional paragraphs on giants, Thestrals, the dangers of Fiendfyre and the remarkable abilities of Phoenixes when it comes to sustaining Unforgivable curses. Finally, I reach the end of the parchment pile.
Closing the notebook, I now enchant my quill to write in gold and in a slightly more elaborate font than I would have managed myself, and carefully trace the letters on the cover.
Class Plan
1996 – 1997
The volume takes its place on the shelf alongside its fourteen brothers, the years inscribed on the spine and continuing the sequence started in 1981 and bound to end… when? Of that I have no idea. If I do know something, it is that every year, for as long as I remain at Hogwarts, I will find myself at my desk about this time, and fill yet another volume with the existing and new observations, of which no one save me will ever be informed. Every year, for as long as I remain at Hogwarts, before leaving the school for the one summer month I accede to spend at Spinner's End, I will send a letter to Dumbledore, with an official application to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, only to receive a polite rejection a week later. There is something strangely reassuring about this routine – but then, providing reassurance is one of the main purposes of any ritual, a sequence of actions which, if repeated accurately, will always lead to the same result.
I write the customary letter, send it up to the Headmaster's office through the Floo, and leave my office again, this time at a steadier pace. Some things still remain to be packed.
On my second morning at Spinner's End, I am woken up unusually early by an owl tapping on the window. I let the bird in, somewhat puzzled, but then recognise it as one of the school owls. No doubt, something requires my attention. I have left all too early this year, it appears.
The owl takes off, and I take it as a sign that no urgent reply is required. Feeling quietly glad over having procrastinated on unpacking what little possessions I brought, I unroll the parchment.
I read it. Just once. Once is more than enough to comprehend the message and to realise that there can be no escape in denial, no hope of there being some sort of mistake. The words are as plain as they can be, and the reality of this moment is as certain as the cold feeling in the pit of my stomach, the sure sign of something having gone terribly wrong… Wrong beyond repair.
Or at least, beyond my immediate influence, I correct myself sternly, glancing at the letter as if willing it to burst into flame. Oblivious to my feelings, the parchment continues to display the short message in a careful slanting script.
Severus,
I kindly ask you to fill the position of the instructor of Defence Against the Dark Arts for the upcoming year.
Please accept my apologies for the short notice. However, I understand that you are quite ready to teach this subject with little additional preparation.
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore