The Girl Who Never Knew

I found a diary today.

Of course, I didn't mean to look at it. The Sorting Hat told me I could have gone into any house. I am honest, really...

But it did bother me. The whole day, I couldn't think about anything else. Nothing had ever bothered me so much-well, except Viktor Krum, telling me he liked him. I had been so distracted that year.

Even with a logical mind, it took me a long time to figure out why such a little thing had such effect on me. It was my curiosity speaking; I wanted the diary to have something about me in it, and I wanted so badly to know what it was.

Because how bad, really, could it have been?

It would have belittled the confidante of someone's precious thoughts to just crack it open for a bit of light reading; I couldn't have done that. Instead, I made a ceremony of it. The witching hour, the astronomy tower, a snowy night.

I waited for the perfect day, my thoughts useless preoccupied until the day it snowed. But by then, I had waited too long. Too much suspense had built up an unhealthy obsession. If I did not open it soon, it was likely I could not concentrate on my work, and that was a catastrophic consequence.

So, full of excuses, I made up my mind. That night, I could eat no supper from excitement. Passing a mirror, I noted my flushed, hot cheeks. The introduction of some excitement in my life was amazing. Perhaps-and I tried hard to keep myself from thinking so-it made me look pretty.

The absence of snogging couples in the tower was a welcome relief. Realizing how hot my apprehension was making me, I took off my robes and crouched against the floor.

"Lumos," I whispered, my voice coming out crackling and parched.

Like with a good book, I prepared to immerse myself into a different, yet familiar world:

_____

Yesterday I was captivated in romance, why not so today? No matter. When things drift off there is nothing to be done. I can do nothing but feel sorry for the girl who never knew. Though how she could have remained oblivious, I do not know. I stared at her whenever I could and ignored her steadfastly when I could bring myself to.

Alas, I have inherited yet another of my father's traits, it seems. Somehow I have grown up but my tastes in women have not. But my genetic traits are not important right now. I am worried by my sudden waning intrigue with her. Months I have thought of little else, living automatically to retreat into my brain-and now, all that gone?

All for the best, however: she is safe. Like a starving artist betraying his creative urges, it is best that I should resist this kind of thing.

Resistance is like a pesticide. It kills those urges that stifle you.

_____

I looked up, startled by a nearby noise. When it turned out to be nothing, I relaxed.

The eloquent style of the writing fascinated me, and even more the mysterious, loved girl who never knew. There was maroon inscriptions similar to those found on runes heading every page, and I realized it was someone's personal tenet.

Thinking about the writer, I realized that such a diary was the perfect opportunity to ensnare me as a pawn for Dark Arts. The possibility frightened me for a moment, but then I guiltily returned to reading:

_____

Today, I was reminded of the sad state of affairs that have presented themselves to me. Professor Dumbledore asked me if I had ever been engaged before.

I thought back to three beautiful, well-received rings.

"No," I told him, and he seemed to understand.

If I had not spent these last several years loving her, I would be married. My wife would be swathed in fur, and my children would be spoiled. Have I really wasted all this time? I could have had a life. Until I noticed her, I had been about to quit teaching, retreat far away and cater to my own selfish needs. Instead, I am still at Hogwarts, the dead-end job that does nothing but feed you. Not to say there is anything wrong with being fed.

I remember coming to Hogwarts for the first time, so hungry I fainted briefly trying on the Sorting Hat. Then, we started to eat and it was heaven! I had never seen so much food in my life.

Still, I have not the heart to blame my unwelcome lingering at Hogwarts on her. This is no fault of hers-a tragedy forced upon her, rather. The one thing I could not bear would be to have her find out. To kill that innocence and replace it with mistrust of men, forever.

During my lesson today, I wondered if I have disciples. If I do, what do I teach them? How to ruin their hair? How to take the perfect qualities of generations before you and pretend they don't exist in you?

Or maybe I teach them how to destroy their urges and hide their feelings. They can do without that when she graduates and I can leave this place forever.

The other day, someone from Knockturn Alley sent me one of those potions for fame. Perhaps they were only hoping I could dispose of it (and so I did), but if not, perhaps it was a joke. Who would want to know me?

Today I am isolated from the world. It is Sunday and I am at Mass, suited respectably in expensive Muggle clothing that improves my look somewhat. Not enough (never enough), but a cathedral does not judge your aesthetics.

I didn't know what to pray for, so I prayed for her. It felt strange; now that I've stopped loving her it seems her life is improved.

But she never knew.

Never mind that. I must go to the kitchens and tell them I will not be attending supper. A beautiful woman asked me at the door to come to the cathedral later and confess. When faced by such a face, I couldn't have refused. Perhaps it is a sign of restlessness in me that I should start to notice this sort of thing.

I almost regret it now, but confessing has always been such a way to purge the soul. I think I have committed too many sins for one visit. What they are I know not, but there is sometimes a sinking feeling in me that I am crooked.

I know I am at heart a protagonist, I must be.

_____

I had not read very far into the journal when I heard footsteps. Panicking, I barely had time to stuff the diary into my robes and turn off my wand.

"Who's there?" demanded a familiar, most unwelcome voice. "Lumos!"

Light illuminated the pale, surprised face of Professor Snape and threw it into relief.

"Miss Granger? What could you be doing up here?"

"Well," I said slowly, lost for words, "I-"

"If you didn't have an excuse to begin with, it's too late to make one up now." He took out a scrap of parchment and touched his wand to it. Words began to form.

He handed the parchment to me and I took it resignedly, knowing my fate.

"Here," he said, "don't forget."

Although I shouldn't have been, I was distraught. I couldn't remember ever having a detention ever before.

"Oh, don't cry," he snapped. "You think I'd waste time putting it on your perfect, virginal record?" He looked at me a second more, disgusted, and added, "Shouldn't you be leaving now?"

He followed me the whole excruciating way back to the common room and stalked off wordlessly with a yawn.

The next morning, I woke up early as usual. As if it was something shameful, I hurried my regular schedule. Today I had a childlike impatience; I wanted to read the diary I found.

Shaking my robes to get it out, something else fell out as well. I remembered my detention and grimaced. If this paper saw the light of day I was sure I would be teased. I picked both the paper and the book up at the same time and, by chance, glanced at them.

I'm sure it had been obvious-all those hints, was I so dense? -but I hadn't ever thought of such a thing. The writing matched. Q. E. D., the man in love was Severus Snape.

To me, it was pathetic. I condemned myself for taking my mother's view in that if someone was ugly, they were required to be good, but that was how I regarded Professor Snape. A man who had not lived up to his end of the bargain with us under his care. A man who, like an omniscient corporation, was sadistic and evil, spending years exacting punishment on the commoners.

As usual, I was caught up in a cause where the end result would not be a happy one. Snape's unbelievable diary instilled in me a sudden interest in him-and even more, in the girl who never knew she was loved by such anathema.

And so I picked up the diary calmly and continued to read through it.

At dinner that day, I made excuses to leave early. The insatiable curiosity of my friends was not satiated.

"Why?" asked Ron. "Going off to the library?" He snickered.

Hesitating for a minute, I considered telling him the truth, but the burden of the long story made me feel weary and reluctant. Ron's derision at my personality and habits did not help matters.

"Yes," I said, "off to the library. There's an Arithmancy book that I need to read." I stood up to leave the table. "Don't bother looking for me."

I wondered if Ron was scorning me as I left.

Arriving grudgingly early at the dungeons, I expected Professor Snape to be in his office. Unexpectedly, he was inside the classroom instead, marking papers. A poor light shone from above him, making his hair shine blue-black. Like, I thought uncharitably, a bruise; exactly like him.

"I'm here now," I said flatly, prepared to make my first detention an unpleasant experience.

He looked up, his face moulding into a sneer. "Now I won't have to wait with such bated breath. You were early, but it won't make your detention end prematurely." He strode towards where I was and shoved several papers at me. "Do these."

They were tests. "What if I give the Gryffindors more marks then the Slytherins, sir?"

"You won't," he said, "because maintaining the perfection of your Potions mark depends on it."

I seethed and marked the tests prudently in silence. When I was sure Professor Snape was ignoring me, I laid down my quill.

"You've lost something," I said, "haven't you?"

His head jerked up irritably. "All manners of things, Miss Granger. Why aren't you working?"

Although I knew how many points I could lose my house, I was determined to continue.

"Your diary," I said, "I found it."

He stared at me impassively. "How could you tell?" he said calmly, yet his voice was not in its normal smooth intonation.

"Maybe you've run me down many times, but I know my intelligence, professor." It was painful watching his face attempt to stay neutral; I had to look away.

"You read it," he said, hatred and perhaps fear coming into his voice. "You read it and you know..."

"Not completely," I said. "I don't think I ever will quite know. Another girl who never knew, professor."

There was a strained silence that left my words hanging in the air, repeating to me. I felt ashamed by the mean nature of my words and resolved to never get the last word in again.

"You will know," he exclaimed, breaking the silence and leaping out of his chair. "I never thought I would say this-but I know you wouldn't tell anyone-you would be too ashamed."

He walked intently to where I sat avoiding the sight of him and made me look at him.

"It wouldn't be fair to tell you," he said sotto voce. His face twisted into blazing malice. For a second it faltered-he pleaded, "Couldn't you forget about this?"-and then he calloused himself, staring at me expectantly.

I stared up at him a great deal intrigued and not at all frightened. Rapt, ready to triumph with knowledge in a startling mystery, I said, "Tell me."

Eyebrows raised, he scrutinized me and turned away. "Alright," he said, undermining his words with a soft, almost gentle (for him) voice. "Perhaps you shouldn't know, but I did love you once. I don't know why, or what triggered it, but I am not lying."

I was numb with the impact of his words, a wave of panic rising in me. What I was about to do right now was poignant to the rest of my life, but I didn't think about it. There was a painful, tumour-like feeling in my throat that conspired against me to well my eyes up with tears.

I ran out of the room, air rushing against the wet streaks running down my cheeks and cooling my burning face.

The sound of Snape's bitter, pained laughter floated towards me through the open door. I could hear it, again and again, in the silence of my flight; I could imagine his angry, hideous face.

It was not my choice to stay behind for the Christmas holidays. I would have rather not have; this meant I would be forced to see Snape, would have to think of my embarrassment at his hands. Somehow I had not called him Professor Snape for a long time.

But Ron insisted, and just kept on railing at me until I felt like hiding in the belly of the giant squid. He said I wasn't like myself and needed more time with Harry and him. Good friend as he was, he was utterly blind to the face that it was Hogwarts weighing me down. I was as bewildered to my sudden desperate need for the mundane as he was. Eventually his persistence convinced me he was right and I did stay.

I took the opportunity to go to the library. Before disposing of Snape's diary, there was one last thing I had to check.

Christmas dinner was an almost sombre affair. Somehow Professor Dumbledore had restrained his trademark flamboyancy. I was grateful for the lack of festivity, for it matched my mood.

The table from which we ate was a long one on which the food was arranged rather badly. In order to reach any given course of the meal, one had to ask someone else to pass it. A constant murmur, requesting gravy and meat, chafed me to no end. Nearing dessert I felt very high-strung.

Someone leaned over the table, his long shadow obliterating the light on my side of the table.

"Miss Granger," said Snape coldly, and with more than a touch of his usual hostility, "if you aren't too busy gathering wool, would you hand over the fruitcake?" He did not wish me a happy Christmas.

I ignored him with a cruel sort of satisfaction, but it only seemed to amuse him. After all, he had only been testing me.

When I next snuck a glance at him, he was speaking quietly of what the future had in store for him to Professor Dumbledore. To me it seemed unfair that someone like him should be able to have a positive future. If I closed my eyes and didn't recognize his voice, I would think it wasn't a mean, unfeeling man whom childhood had bypassed, but rather a young wizard who still thought himself a protagonist.

I thought of the motto, stained in blood into the top of every page of his diary. I had been fascinated by it; I had translated it yesterday in the library.

Yesterday I loved. Today, I understand. Tomorrow, I will despise.

Staring at him, calm and hateful, I wondered how many tomorrows he had yet arrived at-and whether he still held on to yesterday.