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Dear Lily, it has come to my attention lately,
That I became a professor at Hogwarts because of its safety.
After the Dark Lord perished and my beautiful friend died,
Albus Dumbledore's mercy was the only thing that kept me alive.
But I hated him for it. I hated him so much.
And the crazy thing is, I told him as such.
So many times, it's hard to believe,
There was an entire decade where I wanted to leave.
I watched for so long as the cursed DADA position,
Was left empty the next year, and I made it my mission,
To one day leave Potions and take up the Dark Arts post,
So that the jinx on the job would make certain I'd only have one more year at Hogwarts at most.
I didn't care how I went or what happened to me,
I just wanted to get out of that place and be free.
When it finally worked, when I finally got my way,
I didn't think about the part I'd have to play.
I killed him.
He was dying anyway,
But I killed him.
I can never make that pain go away.
Then the Dark Lord sent me back to look over the school,
And I hated him for it. How could he be so cruel?
And the craziest thing is, the more time I spent as Hogwarts' Headmaster,
The more I wished to be back in that Potions classroom.
I miss it. I miss the caldrons and desks and potions ingredients.
I miss the mess that they left, those young little deviants!
I miss the herbs and the pickled animals in glass jars.
I miss it all. I miss how it was ours.
Lily, I feel like such a bloody fool.
As I lay here dying now, I can't help but miss that damn school.
He sent his snake after me and though I was prepared,
My vial of antivenom is back in the Headmasters' office upstairs.
I'm dying, and I don't have the energy to scream or to shout,
Because finally! Finally my luck has run out.
They say when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.
I don't know who "they" are, but they're right, they don't lie.
I see them all, all the memories of us,
So many memories that… well, I'd rather not discuss.
But there are others too, ones I didn't know meant so much to me,
I wish I could go back and enjoy them when they were happening.
I'll relay them to you now, if that's okay.
If not, that's fine, too. I don't mind either way.
There was that night when McGonagall came down to my office with a bottle of scotch before the big Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch match. I was only recently made Head of Slytherin House after the only other Slytherin professor retired. It was strange being named to the position just because there was no other option. But McGonagall came down anyway and we drank the whole night. For the first time, I felt like an adult. That was the first night I felt like an actual adult. I proposed a bet for the results of the next day's game, and of course she accepted. That woman can't resist a good wager. Slytherin won, of course, as Harry Potter was a good six years away from showing up and destroying our winning streak. One week later, my new caldron arrived by owl post. It was a bloody strong owl! You should have seen it, Lily. It was so glorious as it landed gracefully by my breakfast plate, the cauldron shaped package making a dull thunk as it was dropped on the wooden table. I laughed. I couldn't remember the last time I laughed. I'm not sure if I've laughed since then, if I'm being honest. I glanced down the table and met McGonagall's sharp gaze.
She was laughing too.
Then there was the first day of school in 1989. I didn't think this year would be any different than the others as I stood before the new group of first years and gave them my speech. You know the one. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making." Etcetera, etcetera… Well, as my speech came to an end, I looked up and two identical boys sat before me, enthralled by my words. Fred and George. Don't tell anyone, but they were my favorites of the students I taught. Never, in my fifteen years of teaching, have I met more captivating children. They never cared about grades or essays or punctuality. No, they cared about what mattered. They cared about magic. I think I was like them once… a long, long time ago. I feel like crying just thinking about it. I'm sure Fred and George never meant to, but they reminded me every day to learn for the sake of learning, to experiment for the sake of experimenting, and that, with a partner, everything is significantly more fun.
Everything was more fun with you, Lily.
There's another memory that I want to share, but I'm not sure why I love it so much. In it, I don't come off smelling like peaches and roses. I gripped your son's chin and looked into his eyes. And I saw my book. My potions textbook! Mister Malfoy was dying, bleeding on the tiles of that sixth floor bathroom. But all that mattered was my book, Lily! Your son was doing so well in Potions that year, not because of Slughorn, but because of me. Because. Of. Me. Do you remember the day you gave me that moniker? The Half-Blood Prince? By removing the face behind the professor— by removing the resentment and anger and bias— Harry was able to learn. And yes, he learned to harm as well as to help, but I honestly didn't care. That was the first moment that I realized I was more than a glorified tutor. I was a professor.
And I was a bad one.
I open my eyes to find your son crouching down,
He's holding the wound on my neck. I don't make a sound.
"Professor," I hear him say, or maybe I dream it.
I've lost a lot of blood and the venom is starting to seep in.
"Take them," I manage through the blood in my throat.
The boy looks so confused and despondent as I choke.
"Take them," I repeat. "Take every last one."
He deserves to know you, Lily, so he can have them all. I'm done.
Comprehension dawns as Harry turns to Miss Granger over his shoulder.
"Get me something. A flask— anything!" He sounds so much older.
As she digs through her bag, Harry returns his gaze to me.
Why do his eyes have to be such a beautiful green?
A tiny vial is placed in Harry's hand,
It won't be big enough to hold every memory I've ever had,
But it should be enough for the ones that matter,
So I shed those memories with no discernible pattern.
As all the memories of you and of him start to fade,
I cling to just one, because I want it to stay.
I tell him to take the rest to the pensieve,
I feel so much lighter without them; I'm relieved.
As Harry removes the glass container, I tell him to look at me.
He does, and it must just be the venom making it difficult to breathe,
As it clogs my arteries.
Those eyes! I swallow as I meet that emerald gaze one last time.
Things are getting fuzzy and soon I won't be able to rhyme.
"You have your mother's eyes," I tell him, but he already knows.
If given the opportunity, this is not the life for him I would have chosen.
I think this is it. My last memory of you is all I have left.
But that should go, too, because it's causing me distress.
It's of you and me; we're standing over a caldron filled with Amortentia.
Your scent is overwhelming, but I'm not the one to have grabbed your attention.
The last thought before I die is "Goodbye".
But for the life of me, I don't know to whom, or for what, or even...
Why?