Reflections

A new year. Lots of new names. And old ones. Jenkins, Fletchley, Creevey, Weasley - the last one of them, he bloody well hoped - and no Potter.

Finally no Potter.

His hand stopped in midair a few inches from the door to his classroom. He jerked it back and clenched it into a fist, trying to steady his breath ... so the feeling would go away.

He stared at the door.

He'd been sure it wouldn't come back. Not after he'd sorted it out and gone back to ordinary school routine. It couldn't have returned now that he knew where that feeling had come from.

When the boy -

- when the Dark Mark had finally vanished from his arm it had been, of course, painful. But not in the way he'd expected it to be. More as if he'd lost something. Maybe stronger. As if a part of himself - well, whatever this could be compared with, he'd never thought that being free of the mark would make him ... feel ... empty like this. And it hadn't stopped at this point. He'd experienced this awkward sense of loss for days, until it gradually had been replaced by something like guilt and self-reprimand. He had considered it unthinkable that Voldemort's death could cause any emotional reaction but relief. To actually miss ...

He took another deep breath and unclenched his fist carefully.

This wasn't real. It hadn't been real then. It certainly wasn't now. He'd analyzed this quick enough. It had been Voldemort's last lie. The Dark Lord's final deception, a gift to his followers.

The curse had been strong, but once he'd recognised it, he had ... stopped it.

So why was it coming back? Why couldn't he just walk into that damn room and stop being squeamish? He hadn't really lost anything. Not a friend or colleague or - he'd come out of this ... alright. Unhurt. Un-

Changed.

He sighed angrily and banged the door open. The sound rang in his ears. He swooshed past the row of his new first years, stopping in front of his desk. He turned around and glared. Some Slytherins were gazing at him with wide, admiring eyes. A look he'd seen before. He also recognised the position-shifting from some not-so-brave Gryffindor students.

"Potions," he began. The speech was a proven method. It required no thinking, until the point where he lowered his voice and automatically fixed his eyes on the first dunderhead who was foolish enough to - not - pay - attent-

He realised he'd stopped talking when a high-pitched "Sir?" snapped him back to attention. He looked away and went on with his speech on auto-pilot. On various clues he tapped the board with his wand, where names of ingredients or basic brewing instructions appeared. Then he fetched the list of names from his desk and started to go through it. Taking in all the names and matching them with faces - he finally knew. It had been real. It hadn't been the curse that made him feel so unlike himself. He did miss someone. But not -

This time he didn't stop talking and his hand didn't freeze in midair. He just ... missed the boy.