Letters From A Dead Man
I am transfixed with the idea of a human Albus - how he can be emotional, how he does get upset, and all that jazz. He is my second favourite character, after all!
~ SS19
Chapter Two:
He would have to face the faculty today. Somehow he would have to summon the strength to look them in the eyes, knowing what sin he had committed, and force himself to be the picture of a model Death-Eater.
He had not slept. Sleeping was a luxury that was hard to find, in these troubled times. He needed to be on constant alert. The bed had been uncomfortable, the room too warm, and in the end he had sat by the wall, attempting to read a book he had read many times before. The letter lay, abandoned, on the bedside table. It only drove home the terrible truth once more, and if he dwelt upon it enough, his chest started to ache.
The faculty. Minerva. Filius. Pomona. Poppy. Hagrid. His once colleagues and friends - now his subordinates - and yet he had done such terrible things, and he knew they would be unable to look at him. If only...if only he could stand before them and tell them the truth, the truth of what had happened, why it needed to happen - but he was condemned to this hell, and had been from the first moment he had thrown himself on his knees before his mentor and captor and begged for forgiveness and pleaded with him to save the life of the woman he loved.
But how could he look at them?
He turned the page in the book, and there was an envelope. The same colour, the same handwriting...
Dear Severus,
The Chamber of Secrets has been opened, once more. A child has been petrified.
I must remember to ask you about it - for you, I think, would know more about it than I. It is after all a Slytherin legend - the Chamber of Secrets. Sealed by Salazar Slytherin himself to hide a monster, that would rid Hogwarts of all those unworthy to stand within our Halls. Unworthy because of blood. I can think of many pure blooded wizards who are unworthy - yet those are the types Salazar would have most wished for.
I have been pondering something curious, Severus. The writing on the wall states 'Enemies of the Heir, beware'. I assume this is referring to the Heir of Slytherin. Who could that be? No student here is directly related to Salazar Slytherin - so one wonders if it is a metaphorical heir. Someone who believes in what Salazar Slytherin preached. I think, perhaps, you know more then you are letting on. I shall leave you to think things through yourself - I know you will come to me, when you feel the need.
Until then, I must endure the whisperings that surround me. We have seen much worse terrors, real terrors, and yet - they doubt me.
My teachers doubt me, Severus. I see it. I see it in all of them - even you, my most trusted - a flicker, at the back of the eyes. A slight hesitation. You nod, but somewhere deep in your mind, a voice is telling you poison - that I am losing my edge.
I am the most powerful wizard that has ever lived - and I do not make that comment out of false arrogance, for it is fact - no one has dedicated their life to the study of magic in the way I have, and it is only through hard work that results are gained - and yet, still, I am doubted.
It is so difficult, Severus, to stand before the faculty and know that they do not, and it pains me to write, trust me fully.
The Governors. I expect they will be involved if things get out of hand - if a student - no, I cannot let anything harm the students of this school. I have already failed in that respect; it is simply luck, that the child was not killed. I have to protect them.
That is my responsibility as Headmaster, even if I must do it alone.
I have been at war, before, Severus - for more years than you have been walking this planet. I have seen what war can do to people.
I am called a beacon of hope - people believe I will protect them from the menace of Lord Voldemort, should he choose to rise again. People believe I have the strength to do so. It is very lonely, to be upon such a pedestal, and the price of failure is so very great.
You have been the closest advisor to two leaders, Severus, two commanders, two Lords - tell me, please, that Voldemort has the same vulnerabilities. Was he paranoid? I imagine he was, Tom, paranoid of everyone and everything - although not you, I notice.
You and he are so very similar, after all. Two half-bloods, Sorted into Slytherin. When you were sixteen, and stood in my office, glaring at me across the desk, angry and out of control, I saw him. In your eyes. I knew he was tempting you then, and you just needed someone to push you in that direction, which I did. Almost willingly. I did not want to see the truth, then.
I see the truth now. I should have apologised.
You and Tom. Outcasts. Outcasts with power and knowledge and intelligence and ambition and cunning - the epitome of Slytherin and its characteristics - and yet, one of you returned. You. After everything I did.
Who is the Heir of Slytherin?
What happens when the war begins once more, and I struggle? What happens when the whispers become statements and the statements become shouts, and no one is willing to trust me? What happens if someone dies, in my name, for me, someone I professed to love, and no one stops to listen?
A chess game. That is all this is - why do I have to be the King, the one all must protect, the one who must stand back and send his pawns into battle, despite the fact he loves them, he cares for them - why must I be the one to command my pieces into battle?
You would be a worthy Headmaster. Phineas is always reminding me that I should have a Slytherin Headmaster as my successor - though, of course, the role will fall to Minerva because she deserves it, having been my deputy for so many years. Maybe, one day, you will stand before the students and the teachers.
Only then will you understand.
I must face them, this afternoon. The faculty. I must tell them that the Chamber has indeed been opened, and that our students are in danger. I will have to accept their stares and their doubts and their whispers, even before the news becomes public knowledge, and the parents will start to write.
I shall have to just take a deep breath in, and speak, and find a way.
There is, after all, always a way - if one only remembers to turn on the light.
Yours, sincerely as always,
Albus.
He read the letter three times. It was peculiar to read these words in Albus' handwriting, words he had never expected from his leader but suspected sometimes were lurking behind those blue eyes. Albus had always seemed so omniscient, so strong, so present, so powerful - yet he would have been vulnerable.
All leaders were vulnerable, and they had their weaknesses, and they had their paranoia.
He knew that, of course, because he was the closest advisor to two leaders.
That was why he was in this situation.
He stood before the faculty that afternoon, and took in the deep breath and started to speak, despite the glares and the hate and the distrust cast in his direction. Against his chest, in the pocket of his robes, Albus' letter lay - not because he was sentimentally attached to it, but because he could hear, somewhere in the very back of his mind, Albus Dumbledore reading the words to him - and that, in this staffroom, was the only comfort he had.
