The Very Air

She is Hope. It echoes in every footstep she takes, every reminder that since her youngest years at this establishments, she has faced trolls, Basilisks, Dementors and Death Eaters and lived to tell the tale. She has stared death and fear and grievous injury in its ever-glaring eyes and still she smiles. Still she walks on, even running and jumping. Hope is reflected in every action, every word, every shimmer in the depths of her chestnut irises. Hope watches me and I hope someday it will ensnare me too.

She is Comfort. When the day is over and done and I slunk from my place at the Head Table, her gaze will alight upon my exit. Her nod and that small smile sometimes serve as my only sustenance in that meal. It gives me respect. It gives me the illusion of warmth. Warmth that spreads throughout my very being. My bitter, wasted heart skips a beat and I wonder whether I will soon grow to crave this comfort, this feeling that only she can evoke within me.

She is Peace. I cannot tell you how it feels to lift your aching head, filled with the cacophony of raucous voices of a Slytherin and Gryffindor class in the afternoon, to see that familiar head of wild hair lowered over book and parchment, and a quill, that scratches in the quietest way possible. If I focus on her aura of attentive hush long enough, the energy needed to frighten my other, exasperating students into silence, is not required. Oh, their voices will eventually reach me in my inconspicuous reverie. But those small moments, witnessing her peace, are enough for now.

She is Forgiveness. She does not know it, but I have heard her speak, in the company of her friends. Names of low-brow content are slung at my absent self, accompanied by the too-familiar sharp tongue of contempt and suspicion. She is not overly vocal in her defence of her Professor, but she is persistent. I first believed it was just a reflex of hers- it was her absolute belief that all teachers, perhaps excepting Sybil Trelawney, deserved respect.
But the subject matter changed and my past was further divulged. The-Boy-Who-Lived, of course, used this knowledge at every turn. He insulted the smatterings of good reputation I have managed to build for myself. My heart sank; what would she have to defend of me now?
I, to my later guilt, dipped into her mind. Just once or twice. But it was enough to stun me. She knew what I had done. To a far worse extent. He mind never fails to work its way completely down every path and she had certainly not failed to find her way down mine, from assumptions, hearsay and the complete truth.
She did not hate me for it. She trusted me. As a teacher, as a fighter and as a protector. And amongst the crowd of silent accusers, hers was the only forgiveness that truly spoke to me.

She is truth. She is honesty. She is caring. She is trusting. She is harmony. She is brilliance. She is innocence.

These abstract facts follow and fascinate me everywhere I go, until I am surrounded, ready to be dragged mind and soul into the tunnel she creates. Though it does not suffocate me…

For…

She is the very air I breathe.

And she will never know.

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