Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or anyone or anything thus related.

Simply Inconsequential

There is a place in the Department of Mysteries that holds prophecies. There is a place in the Department of Mysteries for the execution of the wicked. There is also a place in the Department of Mysteries that holds Pensives.

Nobody who still lives and breathes, or who still possesses their soul has a pensive there. Only the gone.

Few venture into this dark room of bowls on shelves with names engraved into them. Padfoot, James Potter, Lily Potter, Percy Weasley, Remus Lupin, Severus Snape, Nymphandora Tonks, Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter- little know of their existence, and even less care.

There are memories there. So many, so forgotten.

Past the names of heroes, villans, lovers, mothers, fathers, madmen- past the bowls with these names, there lies an unclaimed, Pensive, which belongs to no one.

It contains but one memory.

The memory shows animals. It is dark, and you cannot see what they are, but there are so many. There are people there too. A great wizard, the greatest of all, stands before them, speaking.

But this is not what that sole memory is focused around. Just a thought, a hatred unbeknownst to mankind flowing through his veins. Hatred for the universe, the world. Then an end to the hatred when he realized that it isn't worth the hatred.

Only one person has looked inside, and a great wizard only learned of it's existence from looking within the pensive of the person who looked within, and seeing this memory of a memory.

It is dark in this memory. A man- this man- stands in the front of these people and creatures, encouraging, inspiring. But the views of the memory change as this lone viewer far in the back thinks, rages.

Curse the twinkling eyes of Albus Dumbledore

So full of cheer in the burning fires of this world.

When did never ceasing cheer aid the solution of anything

Save for the life of Sirius Black, and the family of the Boy who Lived-

The life of The Boy Who Lived and

The Dark Lord and his faithful.

Yes, Dumbledore, with his scheming looks of innocence

He tries to make us all think that he intends for only our welfare

Yet we stay up nights, trying to decipher the odd occurrences that run through that man's mind

Is he even a man? Do we know, or is it simply pointless of us to learn?

Who is Albus Dumbledore? Who is Tom Riddle?

Are they the same? Different people same goal?

What does it really matter

Just inconsequential lives

Of an inconsequential place

Of an inconsequential world.

It matters naught what hangs on the lives of these people
Their destinies and prophecies

For they all hang in the balance

Of nothing

They are simply inconsequential.

And the memory of the thought ends, leaving him in the memory of a memory. He sees through the memory of Remus Lupin, he sees a hand touch the bowl. The bowl is unmarked, save for a scratch on the edge.

A very small rat, with the inscription below:

moony, please forgive m-

And he understands.

But the memory ends, and neither the memory of the man, or the man seeing the memory can truly care.

For it is simply inconsequential.