Potter,

You belong to no one but yourself. Nor should you give yourself entirely into another's keeping. No one is that trustworthy – least of all, your old Potions professor.

I am afraid I am as you have always known me to be – a cantankerous, foul-tempered, critical, often bitter man. I have never learned to love, nor given my heart, other than to my old childhood friend Lily, and possibly Dumbledore, Minerva, Flitwick… My friends are few, for a reason – mostly my character and its limitations.

The war has left me, thankfully, with fewer reasons to be wary, particularly at Hogwarts, where my colleagues have given me the grace of their forgiveness, albeit begrudgingly at times. Thus, I walk more easily here than elsewhere in the world, limiting the ease that you noted to the halls of the school. I wish I could claim that it has softened me to her customary inhabitants, the students. It has not. I still find them as fumble-fingered and thick-headed as always, still lament their lack of attention, the lack of care they take with potions that may kill as easily as heal. I am afraid you would find me just as much a bastard as I ever was toward you and your classmates, aside from the worry of keeping you from a premature death and my anger every time you threw yourself in harm's way.

I have indeed, as you surmised, kept watch on you from afar, lest my efforts the first twenty-three years of your life had been in vain. You need not seek invisible Order members or untrustworthy house elves, however. I'm afraid my methods have been rather plebian, involving correspondence with the master under whom you have been studying these past three years.

How perceptive of you to have chosen far eastern France, where attitudes toward the English border on pretending we do not exist. I anticipate with some horror the bastardization of that beautiful language falling from your lips.

England misses you, Potter. The Ministry laments your absence daily, as if your choice to study abroad is a personal rejection of all that wizarding England has to offer, no matter that their actions likely contributed to your flight. I use that word not in disdain – you are no coward, and no one could accuse you of such without being laughed out of the room. I consider it wisdom.

Yes – I said it. Wisdom, Potter. Who would have thought? I applauded your choice from the day I was informed you had left… though I admit I had rather you had informed me, so that I might have set up my… surveillance… ahead of time. Chasing down your location required several unsavory interactions with your friend Ronald, which included sharing liberal libations I would prefer never to imbibe again. I assure you, he did not require Veritaserum. Nor would I have violated… your friends… your trust… that way.

As I said, England misses you. Your friends and family miss you. Hagrid laments your absence loudly and often. Minnie's eyes turn misty at the very thought of you. Trelawney continually cuts her Tarot card deck, seeking signs of your return. Heaven forfend you prove her wrong by remaining in that bestial country you no doubt call your own by now. Dumbledore's portrait pesters me unceasingly, insisting I should fetch you back.

I prefer you return on your own, for your own reasons. Flattery is unneeded and unwelcome. You need not cite me as a cause. Missing those who love you is sufficient reason to compel any wizard of feeling to return.

You belong here, Potter. You know that as well as I. You need not return to Hogwarts, if that is not your wish, but… That is, perhaps, a matter for you to discuss with Minerva. I and all of England await your return. Do try to return quietly. The noise of celebration otherwise would give me a headache of – Dare I say it? – heroic proportions.

S.S.

P.S. It's potions ingredients.

It may occasionally be poetry.

And detention for your inattention and your cheek. My office. 8 p.m. sharp. Don't be late.

Come home, Potter.