A/N: If you want more chapters let me know, and I shall comply.

Credits: The Tempest (Will Shakespeare), Lord of the Rings (J. R. R. Tolkein), Aleksandr Isaevich Solzhenitsyn (the give me my freedom line) (RIP), a book called You Don't Know Me which I highly reccomend, Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita.

You don't know me.

Not at all.

You don't know the first thing about me, Father. Do you even know who I am? If you saw me without introduction, or without context--home, but when are you ever home? And is it even a home?--would you even know me name? Yes, you have called me by name before, but--

No. Never you mind, Father. When have you ever paid attention? Why should this change? Perhaps it should not. Perhaps your mind will be calmer, not knowing-

You think youcould take it? You weak grey-haired man- you could take none of this. Not only do you not know me, you know nothing. Of anything. An explaination ensues:

What are my friends' names? What House am I in- no, Father, not your House; I believe myself above the likes of Ravenclaw-? What Quidditch position do I play? What is her name- her, Father, do you note the italicised three letter, two consonants, a vowel, glorious beauty. Three syllables, actually.

No, Father, not Lolita. I know Nabokov as well as you. I saw that coming; smelled it, tasted it on the thin air. You would know the other answers too, Father, if you thought. Four Houses, seven Quidditch positions, and the names you would recognise, perhaps, but not as my friends.

Where was I the night before my sixth year of absolutely pointless Hogwarts schooling started? Why have I always worn long sleeves since then? Father, I have mastered those "Unforgivable" curses you speak of. A crime so heinous- ha! What did I do? Loyalty, Father, is loyalty such a sin? (Venial or mortal, I wonder, but no matter. And is there penance?)

Of course, Father, of course there is penance. The physical manifestation of insanity itself and its Ring-Wraiths to guard me. To watch me, watching, always watching--

Incidentally, Father, I do not like Nabokov much. I favor Chekhov above him, Solzhenitsyn above him.

Don't give me your bones. Just give me my freedom.

Oh, yes. I like Solzhenitsyn.

Was it not Gogol who once said/wrote (I know not) Mother Russia suffers two problems- fools and bad roads?

What do we suffer, Father? Fools and...what? Intolerance?

--But for once. Mother. You. (Looking quite repulsed, as I expected.) Me. Cold narrow room. Shaking hands. Knife. Flask. Drink.

I walked away from hell, from Niflheim, from Muspelheim- Nifleheim, I believe, world of ice; ice does so well in hearts-- Ring-Wraiths have no heart, you have no heart, Father; are you a Nazgul?

Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die.

As you are. You will not live forever, Father. The New Order has no room for your ilk. For contaminants. I shall rid the world of you, Father, and years later I do.

Full fathom five thy father lies

Of his bones are coral made

Those are pearls that were his eyes

Nothing of him that doth fade-

No. No. I cannot continue for laughing. Hysteria, cold and delicious. Of your bones- forgive me, grammatical mistake, I meant to say bone, spineless craven old man- of your bone is nothing made. Let it rot. All you will.

Father. Master's father.

I assisted in that, Father; did you know? Of course not. You don't know me, Father; soon I shall lose patience and tire of saying this. But Master has returned in all his glory- the Return of the King, the Once and Future King, the crownless again shall be king-

And then I was gone. Before my ten-fold hundred-fold million-fold reward I was gone. Now you are not alone, Father. I keep you company. For no more am I myself, for no more do I know every blackened line of my soul- proudly blackened, tatooed with dirt-blood- for I have none, no soul and no blood.

You do not know me.

I do not know you, Father.

Do I even know myself?

A/N: Guess who...review!