We sat there, in the darkened room, silent and pondering the magnitude of what had just been done. Light slithered through the blinds, a pattern of lines spread across the room, a trail of light leading to the face of evil. He was my boss and his name is Voldemort.

I crave power, and I don't hide that. Hell, I deserve power. I was the one who stepped in when he disappeared, I was the one who took control. We all thought him dead, at least, all the rational ones did. I certainly never expected him to come back. But now he has, and his ascent has been astonishing. I had forgotten how skillfully my boss could manipulate events and minds. I have been swept along with him, and now I sit here, a fraud, following along with an evil I can barely stomach and desperate for a way out.

"When do we act, my lord?" My voice quavered only slightly. From outside the room came the sounds of the city, vehicles rumbling past, people laughing, sometimes shouting.

"We meet with them tomorrow." His voice was low, and dry, with just the hint of a rasp to it. After so many years it is hard to be sure, but to me it seems as though his voice is nothing but a shadow of it's former glory. There is still the same mellifluous style, a flowing, melodic style that soothed even as he spoke of death. But it seems hollow now, thin, like the bellow of a large man heard through tiny speakers. Perhaps not all of him came back? I cannot be sure.

At any rate, enough of him came back to command armies, and for years now that was what he had been working towards. It was only recently that he recruited my help in finding a muggle solution to our magical problem. I found him that solution, and that is how we came to be here, in this motel room smelling of must and past regrets.

My boss had hung up the telephone, an apparatus for muggle communication, ending the conversation with the two men who claimed they could kill Dumbledore. We met with them the next day, one short and one tall. They brought along their weapons, things called rifles. I had expected something more elegant, but this device seemed awkward. First of all, it came in multiple parts that had to be assembled. Secondly, it took two people to operate it, one to look through a device and shout out numbers, another to lay on his stomach and fire the gun. I could not begin to fathom how it worked or why it operated in such a fashion, but it was certainly effective.

I would have never thought to contact muggle assassins. I had worked hard at finding a magical way to attack the man, and like all others, I had failed. Dumbledore was simply too strong to be taken in a straight fight, especially when he was at Hogwarts. Dumbledore had created an impenetrable magical defense. My boss had, naturally, decided that non-magical forms of attack should be pursued.

We hired gunmen to kill Dumbledore.

If rumor spread that muggles did that which no wizard could do, than all of Voldemort's claims would be worthless. If wizards are inherently better than muggles, then how come it takes a muggle to kill Dumbledore?

I alone knew of this plan, being crucial to it's success. I alone have the power to destroy him, and that is why I am writing you this letter. I implore you, my son, to spread this knowledge: Voldemort could not kill Dumbledore. Muggles killed Dumbledore.

My boss grew increasingly excited as the men showed us how their weapons worked, and what they were capable of. He decided that he wanted to be there when they killed Dumbledore. He wanted to watch. This was fine with the men, since we only paid them half up front. They wanted to keep an eye on us, to make sure that we paid them the other half. Needless to say we did not.

A few weeks later the four of us gathered on top of a building which stood over a kilometer away from the Ministry of Magic. We could see the entrance clear enough using binoculars, having refrained from openly using magic in front of the muggles until after the assassination. I, of course, had surreptitiously cast an invisibility charm on the roof, as well as other minor wards. We wanted to take no chances with this. We didn't want a muggle stumbling upon us, and we didn't want the assassins freaking out about magic. We knew that this would be a rare opportunity for us, because we knew that on this day, at this time, Dumbledore would be leaving the building in order to meet with the Prime Minister.

On any other day, meeting anyone else, Dumbledore would have used the floo network or some other magical means. However, due to security concerns, concerns that had been caused by my boss, the Minister's office had been shut off from the network, and guarded against all forms of magic. That office is probably the most non-magical spot on the entire planet. If Dumbledore needed to speak with the minister, then he would have to get there by muggle means. We knew this, and we stood on that roof, waiting for him to step into the open.

The first shot missed.

"Bad shot, high right," the one standing said, followed by a list of numbers.

"Firing," said the one lying prone.

"Good shot, confirmed kill."

I lifted the binoculars back to my eyes, excited to see the results. Dumbledore was lying on the ground, blood already pooled around him.

"Secondary target spotted ... secondary target confirmed."

I tore my gaze away from Dumbledore and began frantically searching through the chaos before spotting McGonagall. I heard another string of numbers.

"Firing."

I saw her drop, most of her left shoulder missing.

"Good shot. Hit her again, she's still squirming."

"Firing," and a moment later McGonagall was dead.

I sit here once again, back in this musty old room, writing you this letter, a gun in my hand. It has hardly been an hour since we left that rooftop. Voldemort smiled, and thanked the assassins the only way he knew how: He pushed them off the roof. He teleported away, expecting me to follow, to lead his army in an attack on Hogwarts. Harry Potter will die this night, and with him the last hope for humanity.

I said before that I crave power. I want power, I desire it, I deserve it, but all my dreams, all my hopes, were of control over this world, of our world, of the world that I grew up in. I fear that I have helped destroy that world. I never wanted this, I never wanted to see the world burn. I just wanted to be the one in charge. Instead I handed this world over to Satan himself, and I can no longer abide my own existence.

I am so sorry that I could not be there for you, I am sorry that your father is such a coward. I am sorry for giving you a world which will contain nothing but misery. I am sorry for all that, and more, and yet I will not ask for your forgiveness. I do not deserve it. I only hope that one day, Draco, you will understand why I could live no longer.

I love you.