Tom Riddle lives.

I do not know this for certain; I have no facts to back up my claim. I only have hints, rumors, a sneaking suspcion that Voldemort did not die when he murdered James and Lily Potter. Tom lives because he would not let himself die--unlike those lives he ended with wild abandon.

Today marks the fifth day of celebration--the fifth day in a row that witches and wizards all over Britain have abandoned school and work to laugh, embrace one another in the streets, and congratulate each other though none of them had anything to do with Voldemort's defeat. I do not join them. Although I understand their joy, the tremendous loss of life--and the tragedy behind it--prevent me from joining in the celebrations. Instead, I sit in my office, quill in hand, parchment blank and awaiting instruction. After a long moment of contemplation, the proper words arrive.

My Dearest Tom,

Please do not crumple this paper and burn it to ashes at my use of your true name. You will always be Tom to me, no matter how long you hide behind the name Lord Voldemort.

The mental image of eleven-year-old Tom, merry and whole, hiding behind the monster known as Voldemort brings tears to my eyes. I push them back.

As I write this, the wizarding world celebrates your defeat. And why shouldn't they? You rained terror on them for over ten years, murdering their loved ones and stealing all they held dear. Over a decade of terror has been ended by an innocent baby whose death you desired above all else.

I smile. Little Harry Potter, so angelic-looking as he slept....the complete antithesis to all Voldemort stood for.

They believe you are dead. Perhaps they only hope, but you and I both know their hope is in vain. Death was too shameful a thing for you to suffer. You would not have let it happen. Not to you, at least.

Such a selfish dream you had! You desired above all else to trample over death, to lock it behind a steel door where it could not touch you--and I believe you have succeeded. But at what price?

Perhaps you are too blinded by the glory of your accomplishments to see them for what they are. While you see victory, countless innocents see defeat. What you see as your greatest acheivement, I see as your downfall. Everything has a price, and the price for avoiding death is quite steep: human lives, suffering, your innocence--not to mention your nose.

I smile through my tears, wondering how that happened. Was it too much dabbling in the Dark Arts, or a game of "Got Your Nose" gone horribly wrong?

Some of those things can never be replaced. There is no recalling to life of those trampled upon as you forged your path, no taking back of the suffering they endured. But the beauty of innocence is that--perhaps like your nose--it can be restored.

Will it be easy? Of course not. Restoring innocence is like restoring a masterpiece that has been at the bottom of a trash heap. But like the masterpiece, once innocence is restored, it is more beautiful than a sunset, more costly than time. It is, as the Spanish saying goes, "worth the pain."

I do not expect you to fall to your knees, overcome by remorse. But I do expect you to think about what I have told you in this letter. Contemplate it. After all, thinking was what you always did best.

Yours,

Albus Dumbledore

Thinking got him started down the wrong path; perhaps it can get him back on the right one. To see Tom Riddle restored to what he was meant to be--that would be a masterpiece.