A/N: Something of a companion piece to The Sorting Hat Speaks, this ficlet takes on the same theme from a different point of view.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, Severus Snape, the Grumpy Old Wizards who appear here, and all their associates are characters belonging to J.K. Rowling. I claim no rights to them, their surroundings, or their situations. Much to my sorrow.
Voices in the Dark
---
"He should have been one of mine," said the first voice sadly, unheard by the only living person present.
"Balderdash. He belongs right where he is, that one. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on him," said the second, a trifle impatiently, but with an unmistakable ring of pride.
"Yours never accepted him, though. Not really."
"Neither did yours--well, not most of them. Nor any of the others, either," the second voice grumbled. "At any rate, I didn't say he fits in where he is. There's no such place, not for one like him, more's the pity. I said he belongs there."
The first voice sighed. "So sure about that, are you?"
"About which part?"
"Any of it. I won't deny the boy has his share of Slytherin cunning--"
"He is scarcely a boy, if ever he was," broke in the second voice.
"By our standards?" The first voice snorted. "He's little more than a babe in arms. Which isn't to say that he hasn't done well. Very well indeed, under the circumstances. But whatever ambition he may once have possessed collapsed some time ago, I'd say."
"I wouldn't stake the school on it. He's biding his time, paying his debts, as is only proper. You wait until this little disturbance has blown over, and see what he does then."
"If he should live so long. I have my doubts about the lot of them this time."
"You said the same thing when that Grindelwald idiot came around. And you call me a pessimist..."
"Hmph. You must be rubbing off on me. Then again, after a thousand years, I suppose it stands to reason. But let's get back to the subject, shall we? You've yet to convince me our young fellow here was properly Sorted."
"Why should you doubt it? It was your Hat put him where he is--"
"--at his own request--"
"--as it always does, whenever there's a question. Yes, very well. I'll concede that much. The question was there. He might have done as well in any of the Houses, really. But Slytherin was the one he chose."
"Yes, to please his family, no doubt. And look where it got him! Stuck in a position he loathes, suspected by everyone, cared for by none...apart from a few rather extraordinary individuals, little though he realizes or appreciates it, and need I point out which House they hail from?"
"Please, don't," said the second voice in a long-suffering tone. "I hear enough about them as it is."
"And yet you say he's where he ought to be. I just don't see it."
"Really? Well, stop for a moment and ask yourself where he'd be if he had been one of yours. You remember the last time we had a conversation like this?"
There was a long silence.
"That one should have been a Hufflepuff. Not a thimbleful of courage to his name. He had no more business being in my House than in yours."
"A Hufflepuff, you say? 'Loyal' wouldn't be the first word that I'd use to describe a Secret-Keeper turned enemy informant, but then I never could quite fathom the way your mind worked."
"Well, he was scarcely Ravenclaw material. Honestly, if I had foreseen that kind of rubbish coming to this school I would have given the Hat a 'reject' option."
"I could have told you it would happen.--Oh, wait! Come to think of it, I did tell you."
The first voice groaned. "Oh, Merlin's hairy bollocks, don't start..."
"Don't let the Muggleborn in, I said. No predicting what might happen, I said; their world is too different from ours, too unstable, I said, but did anyone listen?"
"Oh, someone listened, all right. And as a result, about half your House now routinely pledge themselves to a bloody-minded cult led by a raving lunatic who, ironically enough, isn't even a pureblood himself." The first voice reverberated with inexpressible disgust. "I hope you're proud."
"My policy was grossly misinterpreted, as you know very well," snapped the other. "At any rate, it wouldn't be an issue if you'd seen reason from the beginning. And if you bring up the Basilisk fiasco again, I swear by all that's sacred I'll not speak to you for another fifty years, see if I do..."
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, especially as you just did such a lovely job of it yourself. But being in a charitable mood, I shall refrain from going over again all the myriad reasons why leaving the bloody thing here was by far the most inspired cock-up in a long and illustrious career of the same. Though I must say fifty years of peace and quiet sounds rather appealing."
"You say that now, but we both know who you'd come crawling to the first time you started itching for a good argument."
The first voice turned wistful. "Rowena was always good for that..."
"Hm, arguments and a variety of other itches, aye, that she was. Unfortunately Rowena had more sense than to go on loitering about the place, long after she'd faded beyond the awareness of even the other ghosts. Unlike you and I." The second voice chuckled ruefully. "Face it, old man--so long as this place stands, you and I are stuck with one another."
"I can scarcely contain my enthusiasm. I suppose I should be grateful you were drawn back here in the end. I wouldn't have fancied a millennium of talking to stone walls. Though mind you, I occasionally fail to notice a difference--" The first voice paused. "Hello, something's happening..."
Oblivious to the companionable argument taking place mere feet from where he sat at his desk, the young teacher put down his quill with a sigh and rose from his chair, his rather homely face set in an expression of dread that few besides the two invisible speakers had ever seen.
"He's been summoned again," said the second voice quietly.
"So I see. Poor sod," said the first, equally subdued. "That makes twice this week. And he's hardly slept since the first time."
They watched mutely, drifting along without conscious effort as the young man retreated to his own chambers to gather the ugly, hateful accoutrements of the Death Eater he pretended to be.
"I'm not, you know," said the second voice, suddenly ringing hollow in the silence of the not-space its owner occupied.
"You're not what?" the first asked gently.
"Proud."
"I know. I know, Salazar. The things they've done in your name--"
"And this one suffers for it. And so many others. I may not have wanted the Muggleborn here, but by hell, I never would have wished--"
"Of course you wouldn't," said the first voice soothingly. "You may be a pigheaded prat with all the good sense the gods gave a bludger, but you were never the monster they've made you out to be."
"Let them think what they like of me. I'm dead, they can't hurt me now. It's these young ones I worry for. It's not fair, Godric. It isn't right," the second insisted, as it so often had in life--and just as pointlessly. "This isn't what I wanted."
They watched the door close behind the young spy, knowing that even had they been able to follow him beyond the boundaries of Hogwarts, they could not bear to do so.
"I don't know...perhaps you have a point, at that," said the second voice at last, weary with the weight of ten centuries and innumerable sorrows. "He might have done better as a Gryffindor. Merlin knows he has the courage for it, and then some."
The reply was long in coming, and murmured so quietly that even its owner's spectral counterpart almost missed it.
"It scarcely matters, though, does it?"
"How do you mean?"
"In the end, no matter the House, they're all ours; every one of them. Always have been. That's why we built this place--and why we stay."
There came the faintest suggestion of a chuckle; and then a breath of cool air passed out of the room as the two ancient presences moved on to brighter and warmer places above.
The names and faces changed from year to year, coming and going like so many flickering candle flames; but always the children were there, small fierce sparks of life in the midst of the ageless void, to be watched over, and endlessly debated, and above all--cherished.
"Godric, my old friend...I do so hate it when you are right."