Ghost of Silver and Green

It's funny, really, how a label meant to last seven years sticks for a lifetime. It's too easy, too neat. But then again, maybe it's not.

This is a lousy time to be a Slytherin. We are the blighted generation, the Death Eaters--or this is the generalization that is made. And I am our secretary, historian, collector of sin.

Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet, the badge reads, but these days it's only a formality. They know me down here, in the Ministry's dungeon courtroom, where every day I watch silently as my former schoolmates are dragged in. Their eyes are all either empty or afraid, but this is no indication of guilt. And on their torn and filthy robes, I imagine I can see the ghost of silver and green, the Slytherin crest. This also proves nothing.

Nevertheless, it is undeniable that there are very few of us who slipped through the cracks. We were the ones overlooked by Lord Voldemort, or we were seen and found wanting. This knowledge is a sleeping serpent coiled at the base of my brain, its weight forming questions I would prefer to ignore, and I am, by nature and by profession, an inquirer. Am I any less a Slytherin? Or, perhaps, more true? Where is it that we differ? This is the one that returns, always. If there is no line to be drawn, no separation between us and them, then I am as terrible as the Lestranges, as brutal as Travers and Mulciber.

The ones in Azkaban already and those who have gone free but whose verdicts I cannot help but doubt; they were the Quidditch captains, the prefects, our best and our brightest. Time has tempered the bulk of my adolescent biases, and I can now recognize the innocence we possessed, every one of us. So it is my greatest desire to find the point of differentiation. Why so many took up masks. Why I did not. But the answer is elusive; it most likely does not exist. What is clear, time and time again, is the identity to which we are all bound, innocent and guilty alike.

We are Slytherins. Ambitious and proud. Scheming, sly. Ruthless. And though I doubt very much I could successfully employ the Killing Curse--and, furthermore, I have no wish to do so--I am true to my definition. I am no murderer, but my hands are not clean.

I have not researched the penalties for an unregistered Animagus. I do not intend to be discovered. And this position as court reporter was not of my choosing. Investigation is unnecessary here; I write what I see, and that is more than enough. But I have not--will not--watch my fellow Slytherins testify forever, and eventually I will return to my past work. The Ministry has no laws against exposing a wizard's secrets or spoiling a witch's reputation.

Death Eaters commit murder with their wands. I am armed with a Quick-Quotes Quill, and though I do not aim to kill, perhaps our goal is more or less the same. Others' loss is our gain. Perhaps it is only a matter of degree.