A MEMOIR

 

With deep mortification I pen this entry. In the entirety of Hogwarts history, this brief period represented perhaps the biggest stain on an otherwise glorious reputation. These things occurred before the admission of one Harry Potter – had the incidents coincided with his presence, I cannot say what would have become of my sanity. But Harry is another story, another chapter in this journal that is still in progress, and thus has no part in what I am about to write.

The beginning of the term that marked my third year of professorship at this august institution of magic, brought with it a new student who, while in possession of an usual, natural ability in wizardry, was nonetheless a social nincompoop. Spoiled, pampered, entitled – not too unlike one of my current students, one Draco Malfoy – but in no wise a born leader or bully like the Malfoy brat.

This new student had the irritating moniker of Worthington Belerophonius III. I swear, saying his name during roll call ate up several precious minutes of class time I shall never regain without a truly dark spell. To make matters worse, during the second week of classes, W. Belerophonius was visited by an aunt who claimed she had reservations about the kind of school her nephew was attending.

Why did this make matters worse? Aside from the obvious annoyance of unwanted relatives cluttering up the halls and auditing my class, was the untenable fact that she was not a witch. She even claimed she wasn’t magical in the least. I remember spending an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how she’d made her way to the doors of Hogwarts in the first place!

Dumbledore, dear wizard that he is, was hospitable to this blight on the wizardly landscape, but in retrospect, I begin to think he knew exactly what he was doing. That, however, another matter. I have titled this section of my Journal in the only way I could, with a name I was forced to give this woman, this non-muggle muggle. Surely there must exist somewhere a tome of magical lore that explains her, but I’ve yet to discover its existence.

On that blustery late-autumn day when Argus discovered her dithering at the gates, I was in the grips of frustration with my class. For some reason, not a single one of them was able to correctly measure the ingredients for a spell that I could do in my sleep as a child. When Dumbledore summoned me to his office, I admit I was relieved. Casting a time-stop spell to prevent any of my bumbling charges from blowing up the castle in my absence, I hastened away, believing anything Albus needed me for had to be of a more pleasant nature than what I was experiencing with my students. How dreadfully wrong I was!

When I entered his office, it was to find Filch offering a cup of tea to a young woman sitting in the chair facing Dumbledore’s desk. Filch never did things like that. And certainly never with the kind of silly smile he was offering with the tea.

Albus was sitting at his desk, of course, arms tucked in his sleeves, a crease between his brows that was somehow deeper than what I’d seen under the direst of circumstance. A quick glance at his phoenix showed the bird looking not at all himself either, and quite frankly, I was startled. I’d never seen a look of any kind on a bird’s face, if that’s what you call it, but this phoenix looked…I believe “discombobulated” is the word to best describe it.

“Ah, Severus,” said Dumbledore – another surprise, since he never used my first name in front of strangers.

I nodded a greeting, but said nothing.

Dumbledore continued. “Yes. Well. I’d like you to meet the aunt of one of our first year students. His name is Worthington Belerophonius III, and this is his Aunt Dianna Dylan. She has joined us to see how Worthington is adjusting to his new situation.” He cleared his throat, looking alarmed, I thought, but then gave her a nice smile.

The woman set her tea on the desk, got up, and turned to face me. I must admit, my immediate reaction was to think, “Hello, how could such a lovely young lady be related to that pestilence Worthington?” I said nothing of the kind, of course.

She put out a hand, smiled up at me, and said, “A pleasure, sir. Severus, he called you, yes?”

“Severus Snape, miss,” I told her shaking her hand and noticing she had a firm grip. For such a delicate thing she was quite strong.

“I hope you won’t mind me sitting in on your class to make sure my nephew is behaving himself. His parents asked me to come by; and to be honest, I wasn’t sure myself what kind of school this is, but so far, it seems grand.”

Forgive me, but her smile was enchanting – no pun intended even a little. I told her she was more than welcome to come back to class with me, and innocent enough mistake. Who was it who said, “Ah, what fools these mortals be?” Some nasty little imp in a Shakespeare play, I believe. In this case, the phrase, though fitting, should have been, “Ah, what fools these wizards be!”

As we walked, Miss Dylan (she explained she was unmarried when I enquired after Mr. Dylan) looked about at the walls with its many portraits and painted scenes, at the occasional shadow that had more life than some of my fellow professors, and at me. I fear I may have blushed at one point.

When we entered the classroom, I released my students from the time-stop holding them immobile, and invited Miss Dylan to sit wherever she thought she’d be comfortable.

That, I’m afraid, was the moment when things began shifting, rather like the first signs of an avalanche. Her nephew, upon spotting her, shouted, “Aunt Dianna! How did you get in here?”

Before I could reprimand him for his rudeness, Miss Dylan laughed, sat down, and said, “How wonderful to see you, too, Bel!”

Some giggling ensued from the rest of the class, no doubt in response to her nickname for him.

To Worthington’s credit, he weathered the chortles and directed the conversation back to his question. “But how did you get in here?”

“Your delightful professor escorted me from the Headmaster’s office, of course.”

“No, no, I mean how did you get into Hogwarts?”

Behind him, I could see several students mouthing the word “delightful” and looking shocked. How typical.

“Same way you did, I would imagine – through the front gates. Now stop asking silly questions, Bel. You’re disrupting Professor Snape’s class.”

I gave her a nod of appreciation and continued discussing the importance of proper measurements. Everything seemed to be returning to normal. Indeed. Well, that changed the second one of my better students did something that made his desk explode in a cloud of feathers.

To this day, I can’t explain how she did it, but as soon as I neutralized the ill-conceived spell and returned the desk to its usual state, Miss Dylan raised a hand and asked if she could help. Before I could refuse – I was terrified she might go the way of the desk – she’d gone to the boy’s side, picked up his ingredients list and said, “How in the world could you have a hard time doing this? My mother’s sugar cookie recipe is harder than this!” And so saying, she measured out the ingredients, poured them into his cauldron, grabbed his wand for heaven’s sake, stirred the contents with it, and upended the cauldron on the desk. Out fell the miniature goblin I’d been trying to get them to produce!

I nearly passed out. First, for a non-magical person to touch those ingredients was to invite disaster, but to pick up the personal wand of a wizard, even a first-year, and then to use it as…as…as a SPOON! Oh, my. She should have been blown to bits on the spot! But more astonishing than all the rest was that she completed the spell properly!

When I recovered my composure, I chided her for not being truthful about her magic.

“Magic? What are you talking about? There’s nothing magical about measuring and stirring a bunch of things together, Professor. Although I must say the result was not what I expected. What is that odd little fellow running about on the floor?”

“What?!” I looked down, probably wild-eyed, until I spotted the goblin running in circles by one of the book cases against the wall. “Catch him, will you, Marshal, there’s a good fellow?” I said to the student nearest the spot.

Have I mentioned that first year students tend to have less common sense than a banshee’s earlobe? After getting three fingers bitten, the idiot tried squashing the goblin with one of his books, and ended up with the text being flung at his face, nearly breaking his nose.

I was about to take care of it myself, but once again, the astonishing Dianna Dylan stepped in. She crouched down by the little goblin and whispered something. It stopped gritting its teeth, the smoke curling out of its pointy ears (they do that when they’re angry or afraid) stopped, and it scampered onto her extended palm. She picked it up, took a piece of candy from her pocket, and gave it to the goblin.

A teensy whoop of joy came from the creature’s throat and it hugged Miss Dylan’s thumb, then sat down on her hand, and for the remainder of the class continued breaking off small pieces of the candy and stuffing them into its mouth, grinning at her between swallows. By then, Miss Dylan had also taken a seat, this time near my desk.

Did I mention I was astonished?

When class ended, she asked if she could keep the little fellow.

“Whatever will you do with it?” I asked. And believe me, my curiosity was genuine.

“Take it home, of course. I have an old doll house I recently fixed up to use as part of my décor, and it’s the perfect size for my new friend here.”

My knowledge of miniature goblins is more or less limited to conjuring them up, so I recommended she talk to Professor Hagrid, whose specialty is magical creatures. He could advise her on the wisdom of taking the little beast out of Hogwarts in the first place, or if it was no problem, tell her the best things to feed it, all that.

“Does my nephew have any classes with this Hagrid today?”

I checked my student roll book – it includes a list of each student’s classes for the day – and was pleased to see “Bel” did have a class with Rubeus – next period, in fact – and offered to walk with her to the forest where the class would be held. Once outside of Hogwarts proper, the ground could be treacherous, especially at that time of year (or so I told myself to justify accompanying her…yes, I know. Foolish wizards and all that).

“What a lovely man you are, Professor Snape!” She patted my arm, and – I refuse to disclose my thoughts at that moment, thank you.

As we neared the cottage at the edge of the woods where Rubeus Hagrid lived, I began to have misgivings. Dianna was…Miss Dylan was not, after all, of a magical background and would no doubt be terrified at the sight of our newest Care of Magical Creatures Professor. As gentle and kind-hearted as he is, Hagrid is a half-giant, and no doubt larger and more intimidating than anyone this young woman had ever seen.

Yes. I was wrong. Again. When he lumbered out of the cottage and roared his greeting to the students, all Miss Dylan did was tilt her head, smile, and say, “What a pleasant gentleman!”

I waved to get his attention, and when he came down the steps and approached, I nodded at Miss Dylan. “This, Professor Hagrid, is the visiting aunt of one of our first year students, Worthington Belerophonius III (yet another span of moments wasted). She is here to audit his classes, but also has a question for you about a miniature goblin she somehow conjured in my class.”

Hagrid, who had been grinning at her, raised his brows and turned to me. “Whatcher mean, ‘somehow?’ She be a witch, ain’t she?”

“No, Hagrid. She is not.”

He looked back at her. “What are ya, then?”

She shrugged. “A normal human being, of course. I do at-home data processing for a company in London.”

I had no idea what she was talking about, and I’m positive Hagrid didn’t either. The way he was gaping at her was a good indicator. But then he shook himself and said, “How could ya conjure up a miniature goblin then?”

“I simply followed the instructions, mixed the ingredients, and this charming little cutie tumbled out of the pot.” She held out her hand in which the goblin was still sitting; having finished its meal, it was leaning back against her fingers, hands crossed over its tummy, and emitting occasional burps.

“Well, well, well, well, well…imagine ‘at.” Hagrid, like the phoenix, was on the verge of discombobulation. “I ‘ardly know what to tell ya. But why do ya need to know anything about wee goblins?”

“I plan to take this one home with me, and as the professor here was so kind to point out, I need to get more information – I suppose he meant about what to feed my new friend and all that.” She grinned up at Hagrid and shrugged.

“Erm, I, well…oh. Yes…I’ll put a page of instructions together for ye as soon as class is over, if that’s all right. But I’m not sure taking him out of a magical environment is such a good idea.”

“Hmm. Well, we’ll talk later. So! What do you teach here?”

That was when I took my leave, torn between reluctance and relief. Later, I learned that this remarkable young woman had wandered off at one point and run into one of the gigantic spiders that inhabit the woods. Did it eat her? No, it did not. Did she run screaming out of the forest and spend the rest of the day shuddering and horrified? No, she did not. Did she make friends with the blasted creature and all of its friends? Yes, she did. Or so Hagrid told me, looking like he was on the verge of falling in love with this mysterious muggle.

The rest of my day was as it always is – dull students being dull, clever students being obnoxious (although the true queen of obnoxious was yet to darken my door, one Hermoine Granger who arrived as a first year with Mr. Potter), lunch being tasty but boring. In fact, Miss Dylan was nowhere to be found during the meal, and I asked Dumbledore if he knew of her whereabouts.

“She seems to have wandered into one of the portraits and is having tea with – ”

I cut him off with a wave of my hand and a shake of my head. I simply did not want to know the rest.

Thinking the end of the day couldn’t come soon enough, I returned to my classroom as soon as I finished eating. A little peace and quiet seemed in order. As if that had been anywhere in the realm of fate. Alas.

When I was barely two feet from the passage leading into the lower parts of the school where my classes are held, I was stopped by a cheerful voice asking a question that made me feel anything but cheerful.

“Professor, who is this Voldemort character?”

Had I been chewing on something, no doubt I would have choked to death. “Please, Miss Dylan! I must insist that you not speak that name!”

She had caught up with me from wherever she’d been, and was giving me a raised-eyebrow stare that, honestly, rivaled my own. “Why is that?”

“He is…dangerous. Even speaking his name could bring trouble upon us.”

She nodded. “Bel told me you call him He Who Must Not Be Named, or some such thing.” Snorting, she added, “I think that’s perfectly ridiculous. ‘Voldemort’ is a name, not a nuclear detonator.”

I do believe a blink was all I could manage at first. “I…I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really! Are all wizards so sheltered?” Giving her head a quick shake as if in disbelief, she continued her alarming observations. “Seems to me you’re giving this wacko too much credit. I mean, you’re pandering to him, and probably inflating his ego, which, from what Bel has said, is already too well-developed.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand what you’re dealing with, Miss Dylan.”

“Yes I do. A bully. The best way to deal with bullies is to give back better than they give out. By the way, what kind of asinine name is ‘Voldemort’ anyway? Sounds like a growth on spoiled mushrooms.”

For the second time that day, I nearly passed out. Did she not realize she was about to bring destruction on Hogwarts? Ha. Clearly she did not. Was I wrong to fear the way she was bandying that name about? No, I was not. A moment later, all the candles in the castle flickered.

We were still standing in the entrance hall, somewhat to the left of the main staircase. So when the front doors blew in, slamming hard against the walls, Miss Dylan and I had only to turn a bit to face what had blasted them open.

Voldemort. I chanced a quick glance at Dia Miss Dylan, and I must admit I was not surprised to see her cross her arms, tilt her head to one side, and in no way appear frightened. Curious, I would say, and her words – yes, she spoke! – confirmed this.

“What happened to your face?”

For the first time in all my experiences with He Who – oh, forget it. Voldemort. For the first time in all my experiences with Voldemort, I saw his mouth gape open and heard him gasp with total, uncontrolled astonishment.

Miss Dylan turned to me. “Is this Voldemort?”

I could only nod, expecting at least one of us to be blasted into eternity within the next few seconds.

“Huh. Should have called him ‘Snake-a-mort,’ or ‘Cobramort.’ Hope he never gets cotton mouth – ha!” She turned to face Him again. “You know,” she said, loudly enough this time for Voldemort to hear her, “you aren’t impressing anyone by acting all big and bad. All you did was ruin a perfectly good set of doors, and since this isn’t even your castle, I’d say that was rude in the extreme. You need to grow up, Voldemort. You really do.”

His eyes had gotten wider and wider during her remarks and now he began to glide closer to us. I think I may have gulped, my hand sliding into the pocket of my robe to grasp my wand. This was not going to end well.

“And who are you, you insolent wench?”

I hadn’t thought this woman could shock me any more deeply than she already had that day, but what she did next accomplished the task.

She laughed. “A what? Who writes your lines? No one says ‘insolent wench’ in real life, you goof-ball!” She laughed again.

With a loud cry, Voldemort yanked his wand from his pocket, pointed it at Miss Dyland, and shouted the avercadavera curse.

“Seriously?” She curled her lip. “Why does it sound so much like abracadabra?”

A black top hat appeared on Voldemort’s head and he coughed, his wand nearly slipping from his grasp, but he managed to regain a grip on it after some fumbling. “What?”

“Okay, that’s bizarre.” Miss Dylan gave the hat a strange look. “Huh…well, it’s unimportant.” She went to Voldemort and snatched his wand.

I have no words to describe what went through my thoughts at that moment. Expecting her to explode in a ball fire or worse, I was instead treated to the sight of a mortal female muggle shaking Voldemort’s wand in his face like an irritated schoolmarm.

“Someone needs therapy! Do you honestly believe pointing sticks at people and using nonsense words at them makes you important?”

“M-my…”

“Your what? It’s a stupid, gnarly twig thing, Mr. Voldemort. Maybe because you have no nose, you feel inadequate or something. I don’t know. But…all right. I’ve heard some of the kids around here saying weird things while swishing their sticks in the air, too, and all of them – including you – sound insane.” She turned away from Voldemort, waved his wand at the staircase, and said, “Um, waterfallium…rowboaticus!”

Turning back, she shoved the wand back into Voldemort’s trembling hand and stormed outside through the semi-shattered doors, muttering something about idiots in black nightgowns.

A second later, a deluge burst from the floor of the landing, turning the staircase into a waterfall. As I gaped at the foamy water swirling around my feet, a bright red rowboat slid down the cascade, whereupon two of the students…wait. I forgot to mention that while this bizarre exchange with Voldemort was taking place, the students and teachers, who were just leaving the main dining hall, had stopped, gathering into frightened groups at the foot of the stairs and flattened against the walls.

Thus, two students were close enough to the rowboat to jump in and start rowing with frantic speed past Voldemort, screaming in terror as they went.

Voldemort, in the meantime, had raised his wand and was staring at it, transfixed, oblivious to the rising water around him. And then, as if suddenly awaking from a dream, he looked down, shouted in horror, and ran…well, sloshed…out the door.

I followed, as did the entirety of the school’s residents, sure this time that he would do something dire to poor Miss Dylan.

Ha. Poor Miss Dylan, indeed. She had by this time, gotten a good distance down the path toward the forest, and Voldemort bellowed at her to stop. She didn’t, but all the students did. Dumbledore, on the other hand, who I hadn’t seen anywhere in the crowd before that moment, strode past Voldemort and caught up with Miss Dylan at the archway.

I couldn’t hear what he said to her, but I did see him hand her his wand. She looked back, her eyes widened, and a second later she was laughing hysterically. By then, the water had almost reached her and Dumbledore; she wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, then raised the wand, and shouted, “Plugium, er, drainus…faucetia offus.” She giggled.

And the water stopped. She handed the wand back to Dumbledore. He said something else into her ear, she nodded, and then beckoned to Voldemort by crooking a finger at him.

Have I mentioned that I was convinced I’d suffer a stroke before the day was out? Or that I’d nearly soiled myself at least twice during that span of what – fifteen minutes?

Voldemort was growling. I could hear him, yet somehow I had to stop myself from chortling. Why was I finding this funny? I have no idea.

“You know what I think of you, sir?” Miss Dylan said. “I think you’re a bully. I also think you’re…” she waggled all ten fingers at him, and in a deeper, exaggerated kind of voice said, “ridiculosa! Now go away and stop pestering everyone. Oh, and go see a dermatologist for heaven’s sake, will you?” She then announced she had things to do, and exited the main grounds, heading, I learned later, for the forest again.

I wouldn’t want to speculate about what Voldemort had been thinking at that moment. Especially since as soon as she said, “ridiculosa” the back of his head (which Miss Dylan couldn’t see) was beginning to sprout thick, curly orange hair. But then Dumbledore, who had been staring at him with an uncertain look, clapped a hand over his mouth.

This was too much, dear diary. I had to see what was going on. Rushing forward, I went to stand in front of Voldemort and beside Dumbledore.

The all-powerful, evil wizard who was so horrid that we had been afraid to even say his name, was standing there, arms crossed, his erstwhile noseless features now sporting a huge, spongy red nose, his lipless mouth smeared with bright red lipstick or face paint of some kind, dark pink spots covering his cheeks. The wild orange frizzed-out curly hair had completed its growth cycle and now covered his entire head.

Ridiculosa.

Dumbledore drew a small mirror from his robe and held it up. This time, Voldemort’s scream was accompanied by his clawed hands tearing at the new hair, and he disappeared in a flash of lightning.

That evening, Dumbledore spoke with all the faculty and students right before dinner, and strongly advised all of us to make an active effort to forget what had occurred. But before that, upon Voldemort’s exit and after dispersing the crowd, he followed Miss Dylan, returning an hour or so later, which I know because he called me to his office again.

Miss Dylan had the goblin in a box that looked more like a small house – I could see it through one of the windows as it sat cross-legged on a miniature pillow, chewing on something and grinning. Weird. Dumbledore waved to the seat next to Miss Dylan.

“Hello, professor! Look what Hagrid gave me!”

The smile I gave her was, I confess, weak. I had been rendered exhausted by the goings-on that day, and didn’t know why I’d been summoned. Was Dumbledore going to punish me for not keeping a firmer hand on Miss Dylan’s activities? I cleared my throat and told her it was a lovely gift.

“The reason you’re here, Severus,” Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers, “is to help me determine the cause and source of this young woman’s powers.”

“I don’t have powers.”

“But you do, Miss Dylan – no one has ever stood up to the death curse and been completely unaffected by it. Yet not only did you appear immune, you were able to cast a spell, which you made up on the spur of the moment, using the wizard’s own wand against him! And that, my dear, is unheard of!”

She shrugged. “I don’t know – seems to me that all this stuff you do is based on believing that normal activities can be turned into abnormal circumstances.”

I’m not stupid, but I could make no sense of her words and asked her to explain.

“Let’s see. That first class where you use ingredients to make spells is exactly what we so-called muggles do to make food. It’s what muggle scientists do to formulate various chemicals used for making fuel, synthetics, all that. And what Hagrid does is, in my neck of the woods, zoology. We study animals, too, in order to understand them and all that. Then there’s that delightful woman who teaches the students about plants. In the muggle world, we call that botany. Your defense against the dark…arts, is it? Well, that would kind of be like a mystical version of martial arts, or, in a more mundane setting, military boot camp.

“The only difference is that while we use natural things like spices, herbs, flour, eggs, milk, things like that, you use either the items natural to your world, or concepts. And while your plant-life is apparently capable of sentience, our plants have the ability to move in the direction of water and sunlight. So you see, the difference lies in your beliefs. I believe this is a lot of silliness, that flourishing a stick and shouting nonsense is childish make-believe. You don’t. You believe that stuff, so it affects you. That’s why when even made-up words are used, you get results.”

Dumbledore pursed his lips, nodding. “I see. Allow me to try something.”

“Sure.”

He stood, leaned forward, and uttered what I recognized at once as a spell of forgetting, then sat once more. “What were we discussing?”

Miss Dylan bit her lower lip. “Oh, dear. Have you been tested for Alzheimer’s?”

“For what?”

“Never mind. We were discussing how my world parallels yours, but because of what you believe, the results are different.”

Dumbledore’s shoulders drooped. “You truly are immune. I am at a loss.”

That was when I got an idea that I should have kept to myself. “You know, we could use this ability as a kind of defense. I mean, she could be our secret weapon against Vold…er, He Who…whatever.”

“It’s hardly a secret, dear Severus – he’s met her and seen what she can do.”

“Yes, I know, but what I meant – ”

“No.”

Dumbledore and I stared at Miss Dylan, who had gotten up and was shaking her head at us.

“I will not get involved in all this. The only reason I came here today was to check on my nephew – he can be such a boil – but now that I have, there’s no reason for me to become embroiled in your odd lifestyles.” She took a quick, deep breath, and wandered over to the phoenix. “Hello, there,” she murmured, putting out a finger.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Dumbledore warned.

She withdrew her finger. “What kind of bird is this?”

“A phoenix.”

She nodded. “Of course it is…how often does it burst into flames?”

“Ah, so you know what a phoenix is,” I said, impressed.

“Everyone knows – it’s a mythical bird we learn about in our schools.”

Now this was fascinating – so muggle children studied magical creatures, too, did they? I wondered why, but didn’t ask aloud.

“What’s his name?”

Dumbledore gave his bird a smile. “Fawkes.”

“Fawkes?”

“Fawkes.”

“As in ‘Guy’?”

“Guy who?”

“Guy Fawkes.”

“No.”

By the end of this strange discussion between Dumbledore and Miss Dylan, I found myself feeling dizzy. Sitting straighter, I attempted to bring the discussion either to a close, or at least get it back on track. “So what about Miss Dylan’s abilities?”

“I don’t have any.”

I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, she was running a finger down the front of Fawkes’ chest, smoothing his bright orange and red feathers. Fine, I thought. If the bird bites her, maybe she’ll learn something. But learn what? That phoenixes bite? This was proving too much; I drummed my fingers on the arm of the chair and raised an eyebrow at Dumbledore.

He cleared his throat. “Er, Miss Dylan, might we get back to the issue at hand?”

“What issue? Oh, you mean about these powers you seem to think I have? All right. It’s like this – I don’t have magical powers. I have human ones. That said, I’ve enjoyed myself a great deal today and even have a souvenir of my adventures.” She raised the house-cage, then lowered it. “My nephew appears to be doing well enough for the time being, so I’m going to go back home now. If Bel needs me for anything else, please be sure to let me know. Oh, and for the love of Mike, use the regular post – not some whacking great owl. Their toilet habits are disgusting, and they invariably leave a mess. Bleh.” She shuddered.

“But really, madam!” This was Dumbledore, not me. I was too busy holding in an inexplicable desire to laugh.

“Really what? Professor Dumbledore, you must excuse me now. I have many things to do, and while today was a day off for me, tomorrow is not. I’ll be going now. Love that train, by the way.”

That jolted me as I was reminded of a question that had been nagging at me since her nephew had asked it all those long, long, long, hours ago. “Miss Dylan, before you leave, please explain how you managed to get on the Hogwarts Express in the first place? The platform is not a normal one, and only members of the magic community know how to access it.”

She looked surprised. “Is that so? Huh. No one told me that. All I had was Bel’s scribbled note with ‘King’s Cross – Platform 9 ¾ ’ on it. So I went to the train station, and when I got to Platform 9, I started looking around. I was so busy trying to find a sign for the right platform, I walked right into a brick wall, but to my surprise, I was suddenly on the other side of it, and there was this glorious, old-fashioned train sitting there, steaming and gleaming in the early light coming in from overhead.” She smiled at me.

“I – I see.” And with that, I realized there was nothing more to be said.

Dumbledore must have recognized this as well, because he stopped trying to engage her in further discussion, and stood, putting out a hand. “Meeting you has been most…enlightening, Miss Dylan. And please rest assured, your nephew is in good hands here. I promise to inform you of any problems that might arise before the end of term, and hope you will be free to return and help out.”

She shook his hand, then turned to me. “Thank you so much for allowing me to audit your class, professor. I’m thrilled about the goblin, who tells me he wants to be called Nib – it’s short for Nibbles, I think.” She grinned and put out a hand. “You’re quite a heartbreaker, sir, and I wish our worlds weren’t so foreign to each other.”

I shook her hand, astonished yet again. A heartbreaker? Me? Surely she was only being polite. Nonetheless, I felt my neck and face grow warm. I honestly don’t think I have ever blushed so much in a single day as I did on that one.

She let herself out, and a few minutes after her footsteps had faded away, I got up, thanked Dumbledore for allowing me to participate, ignored what was without any doubt a sly smile, and went back to my classroom to tidy up for the next day.

That was the last time I ever saw Dianna Dylan, but I shall never forget her. She was the most extraordinary young woman I’ve ever met, even more wonderful in her own way than Lily Potter. Had Miss Dylan not been a muggle, well, who knows?

As I entered my room, I found myself unable to hold in a snort of laughter – Snake-a-mort? Oh, my god…

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 24.05.2016

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