Within These Pages

The walls don't have ears. But we do.

I'm speaking in a purely metaphorical sense, of course. But despite not having actual, physical ears, we still hear everything you say here. And then some; the sense-that-is-not-quite-hearing picks up more than just words. We can sense a sort of emotional aura along with the speech. It's hard on us at first, understanding and processing these so-human words and feelings, and it takes decades before we're comfortable with it, even with this deliberately hushed environment.

Did you think that libraries were quiet places for the benefit of the people?

"Professor Austor has given me permission."

"Permission to use books in the restricted section, yes. But the particular books you may use are up to my discretion, and this particular book holds dangers you are not yet prepared to face."

"I am by far the best at potions than any other student."

"And at defense against the Dark Arts? This book is the Dark Arts distilled, Mr. Snape. You are only in your fourth year. You are not ready."

I was created in what you call the sixteenth century, and arrived here shortly thereafter. Everything was a blur at first, voices and thoughts and hands and feather dusters. But as the years passed I noticed a thread, a single presence linking the days, a steady hum of deep green that remained constant amid the busy flickers of others. He was my first caretaker, a man named Orestes Binns, and he stayed with us for nearly fifty years.

Yes, of course we know colors, and the shapes of people and of animals. Those of us who don't contain that information intrisically learn it from those of us who do. Knowledge seeps slowly across leather and parchment, but it does move, given time. And we have so much of that. Unlike you.

"I need the Codex Veneficus for my seventh-year project. As you can see, I now have specific permission."

"You may not remove it from the library. The chains are there for a reason."

"I am aware of the dangers, Madam Pince."

The green hum of Orestes Binns gave way to the soft tinkling of Marcus Hardy, which in time was replaced by the sharpness of Julius Belcore. And so on and so forth. Against the tenures of the caretakers were threads that wound in repeatedly over the years, researchers who dipped into our pages again and again. And then against that pattern came the brief flashes of younger minds, who we sensed only as butterflies swooping at a distance; they rarely came to know us intimately, or us them.

Yes, I understand that your concept of "brief" is quite different from mine. I suppose the stones in the walls are as contemptuous of my centuries as I am of your years.

"Congratulations, Mr. Snape. Or, I should say, Professor Snape."

"Thank you, Madam Pince. I am planning quite a lot of research. I trust you won't give me any trouble about using the more exotic grimoires?"

"Still remember that, do you? And you may call me Irma, now that you're on staff, Professor."

"Severus. Please."

My caretaker now is a woman, only the second in the recorded memory of those around me who have been here longer than my paltry few centuries. She is dry and light, like a feather, with a crispness that extends across the space of the room. I easily remember when she walked among us for the first time as our guardian, touching a binding here, an illuminated letter there. Of course that was only thirty years ago, a mere eyeblink away.

Yes, that was metaphorical, too.

"Back again, Severus?"

"I would far rather work on my research than teach those wretched children. This library is the only reason I stay on at this school."

"Those brats are a trial, aren't they? After a day of shushing them, keeping them from damaging our books, and chasing them out of the restricted section, it's a pleasure to see another adult here."

"Although I was one of those brats only ten years ago."

"True. But you have grown up rather nicely."

Over the centuries I have been disturbed only rarely. Many have wished to brew glory, but few attain the level of understanding and competence necessary to browse my enchantments without risk. Naturally, those who breach my pages enter my awareness. The young Potions teacher, for example, whose dark and intense yearning I noticed first when he was a too-young child. But the librarian prevented him that first time, fortunately for him.

And as I came to realize later, watching her aura as he entered the room, fortunately for her as well.

"That book has a fascinating history. Many of Agrippa's works are considered important by Muggle scientists, yet his more occult work -- well, this is probably not as interesting to you as it is to me."

"On the contrary, Irma. I'd like to hear it -- perhaps after you close the library this evening? I have an excellent port that will taste much better shared."

"The ugly old librarian, invited for a drink?"

"By the ugly old Potions professor, no less."

I opened to him many times, once she deemed him ready. His somber thread whispered around and through me, eventually becoming nearly as familiar as her constant feather-touch. He was a dark flame, licking at my pages, exultantly taking knowledge and power. He methodically plundered my secrets.

He didn't know it, of course, but I was doing the same to him.

"What are you doing in that alcove, Severus?"

"Come find out."

"You are wicked."

"And you, my dear, are delicious."

Our words are set down once and remain unchanged; or perhaps change according to the strict rules of our enchantment. We absorb experience, but reflect only what we were given in our original designs. You people, on the other hand, learn from what you absorb, then radiate it out in another form. Watching the librarian and the professor, I see their auras change as they change. I see the flare of brightness in each other's presence, the dark weight of unhappy knowlege gained.

Yes, many a book with sufficient magic will change as you read it. But what of a book that changes as it reads you?

"I can't lie to you, Irma. It is a dangerous mission."

"But you're going anyway."

"I have a chance to make a difference in this war. Fame and glory, if I succeed."

And if you fail? she thought, but did not say aloud. She did not need to; I could read it in her aura, and I suspect he could too, by this point. I had watched as her crisp coolness yielded to encompass his fire, as his intensity smoothed out to accommodate her light. Though I cannot sense what they do outside these walls, I can sense the effects.

I wonder if they sense what I feel within these pages?

"My dear Madam Pince. Irma. I am so dreadfully sorry."

"Thank you, Headmaster. If I may...I should like to be alone, for a while."

"Of course."

She is not alone, naturally, for we are with her, but our dry whispery presence is no comfort as she presses her body into an alcove, an alcove where she once pressed her body against his, and weeps. She radiates loneliness and despair and white-hot anger as she cries for her lover. His dark intensity is now only a memory, only dust. In time, the memories and the sorrow and the anger will fade. In time, she will become dust as well.

In time, perhaps, so will I.