The Black Forest or the Secret Diary of Prof. S. Quirrell

Note accompanying the diary of former Professor S. Quirrell and subsequent submitted statement of E. Levin:

These papers were found among the deceased's possessions in 1992. The following statement was solicited in 1994. Please relegate them to the Restricted Section.

A.D.

June 8, 1990

“Remember, most of all, who you are. To thine own self, be true and truly, you have conquered the Dark Arts.”

Patrius stared at me then. I should have made a joke about remaining true to yourself for the Sytherins, but my nerves were up. This, my final lecture to the graduating class and my final lecture for the year.

A year. Twelve months without papers to read, spells in need of spell check, unread homework, ignorance, laziness.

Of course, my next year will be a nearly bookless one, aside from what I can carry into Eastern Europe. I've been looking forward to the works of Vaclav Havel, Milan Kundera, Gyorgy Konrad, Jaroslav Hasek in the originals, although whether or not they are readily obtainable in the newly emerging governments, I don't know.

To the faculty, Snape labels me “M----e-bound” for my concern with the non-magic politics of the region and for that picture of the Berlin Wall falling I keep on my book shelf beside the 20^th Century histories of world wars and cold wars.

Their wars, not ours.

“The fools,” Snape says in that frigid way of his. “What have they actually accomplished?”

I don't find them fools at all, but students fighting Dark Arts they have no understanding of.

As we know, as he constantly reminds me, Snape has touched the Dark Arts in ways I haven't -- can't -- in the works I've studied, but until he understands, he'll remain where he is, doing what he hates. But I've said that a hundred times before here and they still mean as much as any other words on paper.

After next year, words no more. Snape, the beardless boy will have grown up. I can't forget most of the faculty knew me as a student -- Snape won't let me forget. He still recalls potions I didn't master on the first attempt during my first form. He remembers the day a skinny, shy boy, like a pint-sized Lord Byron in turban and robes, sidled on to the chair to be sorted and heard the hat shout out, “Ravenclaw!”

He thought I'd be Slytherin, but I can see now he understands I'm too weak for them. They would have eaten me alive. They nearly did as it were except that I was smarter. And excellent at DADA.

I feel that less and less these days. Nerves, I guess.

Thankfully we're graduating a good group this year and, thankfully, our ages are becoming less disparate. When I first assisted in the Defenses classes, I was two years older than the eldest student. Now I have five or six years on them. My top boy is a fellow Ravenclaw, Fitzhugh Lee. Then follow the regular pack of Gryffindors that fill out advanced DADA, the two Slytherins, huddled in the back, pretending they're here for the Defenses and not the Dark Arts, and finally, in the rear, my four Hufflepuffs, lagging, as expected, but accomplishing solidly average work, not lagging behind.

I might miss them all next year. I confess I'll miss the looks from the young witches with their little gifts of necromancer novels and love serum in my tea.

Professor Snape, some of them are actually paying attention in class.

If I hadn't offered myself out of familial duty and honor and for the curse, but enough of that.

The coming year promises no liaisons, but practical experience. I've read that the backwaters behind the Iron Curtain house a veritable menagerie of dark creatures: werewolves, trolls, the legendary vampires of the Black Forest.

To thine own self be true? If I followed my own advise, I'd stay home with a book!

Q

June 13, 1990

With the students gone -- if only for a few hours now -- peace has descended on Hogwarts. Dumbledore is off to London in two days, for his annual meeting with the Ministry's funding board. I've asked for extra budget for the purchase of several young boggarts, as Mander is getting old and testy with failed spell work being constantly thrown at him. I also have needs for two books banned by the Ministry, but are vitally important to our studies. Like the non-magic folk, we too could use a lesson in the destructive evils of government censorship. Perhaps we will one day when I'm prevented from teaching defenses to a curse only those who obtained knowledge by illegal means know). Snape will stay on here; he has nowhere to go. McGonagall is taking a month in Scotland, Kelpie overpopulation again.

One last trip through the classroom. The smell of dried vampire bat wings is thick in the air, alongside the other not entirely unpleasant odors of the dark arts -- the werewolf paw that still grows hair and claws every full moon, a harpy's tongue, lethifold skin, mountain troll teeth, yeti scalp.

I'm going to touch these things for real. At 24. Am I insane? As McGonagall has said, “Dumbledore, he's just a youth. Do you really think it's wise to grant him the position when his predecessor, a man twice his age, was taken by the very arts he taught against?”

The last year has been a blur. The next will be a greater one.

Q

June 15, 1990

A surprise going away party! The last thing I expected considering my recent addition to the staff. I don't have difficulty with my fellows, but I regret I haven't befriended any of them either. My time in the East with the Blue Raja, my subject matter, my age, my somewhat obsessive love of magical and non-magical literature...select an obstacle; I'm sure it applies.

But not tonight. It was all gifts and bon voyages, good luck charms and even a potion against intestinal discomfort.

“The water can be dangerous in other parts of the world,” Snape explained, as if I might not know this or might not be prepared. In fact, I know an excellent water purification charm “Aqua Fina” but it's the thought that counts, as they say.

McGonagall gave me several words of caution (a lecture, in fact) and a leather-bound double edition of Voyages With Vampires and Wandering With Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart, much nicer than the ones I had back in my school days.

My former housemaster Flitwick couldn't speak; he had tears in his eyes. We never talked much when I was under him and now even less, as separated by our heights as by our studies. But he was proud, I could see that.

To hide his fellow professor's embarrassment at not being able to deliver the speech he promised, Dumbledore did the honors. Taking my hand, he pronounced me ready and I confess I felt the same way when I cast my very first “Patronus.” Like a man.

They expect my temporary replacement in the next few days, after I'm gone. No one will say who it is -- out of respect for me or for him or her? Afraid I won't come back for fear I've lost my job? Or have they given it to Snape? No, he would have gloated by now if that were so.

A bit thick from Ogden's Old Firewhisky, Hooch pulled me aside, her elven eyes twinkling in a way almost attractive (or is that the red currant rum talking?)

“I have a friend -- or had one -- on the outskirts of the Black Forest. Please stop by and see her. I miss her very much.”

I think Hooch was going to cry. Our flying mistress with bigger balls than Hagrid himself, with tears in her eyes.

“Her name is now Azrael. She took up with Gypsy Mug- non-magic Gypsies after leaving school and traveled with them through Romania, Czechoslovakia and Albania. At the Black Forest, they left; she stayed and I never heard from her again.”

I went to pat her hand, assuming the witch was dead, but a fierceness exploded from her eyes and into my soul.

“She's not gone. They say she's still camped there, a hag who listens nightly to the vampires because she has no soul but theirs.”

I assured her I would look her friend up while I was there, but I don't have much stomach for it. I've read how the vampires can drive one mad.

Hooch seemed happy with that assurance, however, and with a belch, staggered off. She's not Professor Hooch for no reason. Ha.

On the way back to my rooms, Snape stopped me, in private. Oh, here it is, I thought. He's going to tell me he's taking my position and that I needn't come back.

Instead he held out a paperback volume, a trade copy with a black and white photo of Bela Lugosi on the cover. A non-magic edition of Bram Stoker's Dracula.

Much criticized for its faulty DADA recommendations for dealing with the undead, but a ripping read.

“In case you need...non-magical aid against Nosferatu,” he said, holding the book out to me.

He annoys with his sarcastic use of “non-magical,” instead of the preferred M----e. He and Slytherin and their obsession with purity of the race. My family is as old as theirs, but we have no such -- well, we were never Death Easter, despite our disgrace.

Jealous, I know. I know. But his lack of confidence hurts me most. To a student of the dark arts, the respect of one such as him would be the pinnacle of achievement.

I thanked him, of course, as if the gift were a brilliant prank. I'll take it with me. Van Helsing was misguided, but his courage is inspirational.

“Tonight I can sleep in peace and sleep I want -- two nights of travel, much reading in the day between and much anxiety on the day to follow...”

Q