Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters (except OCs), only my interpretation of them. The things happening in this story may sometimes in some way follow canon. Forgive my English as it is not my strongest and most fluent language, so please alert me of any mistakes you see in the story. In the hopes of making this story smoother, I have thought to keep everything written here in English as well as all personally created spells to be in English, and they are translated to the best of my abilities alongside many help from Google Translate.

It is not when and where you start your journey, nor how you embarked on it that defines you. It is how you end it that truly defines all that you are.

1998

Conquerors, Kings and Queens, they may go down in history and their impressive feats and stories spun and retold over the generations. These are the people who can be considered small fish in an ocean of infinite possibilities, but not me. Never me. I am no one in the grand scheme of things, just an infinitely small and easily replaceable pawn. I am the puppet acting out the whims and fancies of my puppeteer, and completely surrendering to his ascendancy. Sometimes, he may yank a little too hard on the strings that keep me standing; and sometimes, he may gently tug on them if only to bait me to lower my guards. However, the best days are sometimes the ones when he leaves me neglected and ignores my existence – those days, I pretend I am just another toy in a toy shop and not a servant waiting on the hand and foot of his master.

On the days that I play pretend, I would melt into the crowds and listen to the storytellers. Among them, there are those who are spirited and righteous, young and innocent, committed and unshakable, feisty and authentic, wise and grounded, and some who simply believe they are ubermensch. In each of them, they regaled me with the tales of their heroism and hardihood, and the villainous and cowardly ways of their enemies, yet the only things I hear are the traits they praise and decry. It is these memories that I remember the clearest for they present me the greatest riddle: do each of them come into their stories with their predisposed ideas of the righteous and wicked, the lawful and criminal, the licit and forbidden, or are these ideas formed whilst on their journey? Perhaps, one day, if the sun chooses to shine its radiant light on me, I might uncover the answer.

I see no reason to impose my ideas on anyone. I am different from you, as you are to me and to the next person. We are all different to varying degrees, and that difference is a complexity that I fully embrace. Alas, not everyone can appreciate that beauty, and they foist their ideas on others or at the very least, condemn those who are not with them. Those who recklessly and forcefully thrust their ideals are truly not the worst monsters, for it is those who judge and curse behind closed doors that are the greatest liars who sing the most lyrical hypocrisy of tolerance and acceptance. You are not wrong to think I am a humble and accepting; your conclusion would be acceptable considering all that I have spoken thus far. However, I am not kind enough to allow you to live your fantasies and so, I will destroy your bubble – I am the worst monster there is. I am a reprobate. I am conniving and heartless. Above all, I am nobody. I am just a puppet with a canvas for a face – I have multiple faces of which none is mine.

I am everybody and yet nobody.

"You can tell your father you did well when you see him."

I feel the corners of my lips twitching but I know it is impossible for it to stretch to a grimace, never mind my signature smirk. The speaker said that, yet I do not agree but it is hard to make sound. They probably got to my throat earlier on or perhaps it is just Death taking me apart slowly, starting with my voice. My father? The old man died and buried six feet under a long time ago. Too long ago that I cannot remember his face. Who am I kidding? Remembering his face is the least of my problems, not having done anything worthy is the problem. I have no heroic act to regale him with. In my dark chest of wonders, I have an impressive wand and robes that are forever splattered with crimson, and no rain may ever wash it out. I have an archive of curses and hexes, and charms and healing spells that I developed; none that I am proud of, and yet none that I regret. Perhaps, he might enjoy my description of the malodour of blood and decay. Would a ghost enjoy knowing that his spawn ended more lives than three-fold of his age at death? I suppose it would be wise not to hold my breath on it but I will not lie. Not now, not ever. I would regale anyone and everyone about all the lives I offed starting from James Williamson in the winter of my third year in Hogwarts, and end with the execution of Fred Weasley in the winter of my six and forty years. I am an executioner. I am a murderer. I am ruthless and disingenuous. This is my role, and if the speaker is proud of my achievement, I suppose I can have some solace that a nobody has accomplished his mission.

"You defended your ideals to the end. You have fulfilled your duty."

Ah, so perhaps living authentically is what the speaker meant by a duty done well done. You must forgive me for my rambling earlier on. It seems as if my mind has started to ebb and run from me. It must be time soon for Death to fetch me but while I am still here, I will continue to speak against the speaker. Living authentically is not a duty of mine, it is a choice of mine. It is perhaps one of the only few choices my master allows me. Perhaps by this, I am correct in my earlier deductions that the speaker continues to talk about my talent in rolling up the numbers of the dead and tearing families apart. It must be my competence in mixing chicanery and subterfuge in my deeds, my ruthlessness to deceive and cozen friends and foes alike, and my latent talent to decimate and annihilate. Oh dear, what kind of life have I been living for six and forty years? A tad too late to regret even if I even want to, but I suppose I am far too arrogant to regret any of my choices. Are you perhaps now convinced that I am not just a prevaricator but a monster of one of the worst kinds, if not the very worst? Perhaps, I am the nightmare that keeps adults awake and in infinite fear, and the bogeyman that makes children scream endlessly. That would be a… praise worth carving into my tombstone if any of my fans would like to pay homage to Nightmare in Flesh. Fittingly malevolent. Terribly truculent. Just perfect.

"Validus, I am sorry."

Validus… That is my name. There is only one person who still walks among the living that would call me by that name. My oldest friend. My first friend. Who knew that the same person would be the one staying with me until Death finally takes all of me? Certainly not me. My friend who had always been by my side since we met in King Cross Station on the nine and three quarters platform. From then, orphans that we are, even the difference in houses could not part us. Together, we worked for the same goal on the same side until… just a season ago. Perhaps the adage that there will always be a first do happen to even the most stubborn and trying of circumstances. In fact, I, myself, in the fading seconds of my life have just pulled a lie for the first time.

"I forgive you."

"They won't forget your story and sacrifice, I promise."

"I know."

"You will always be my brother and my fondest friend."

"You too."

"Rest in peace, Antonin Validus Dolohov."

I smile.

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