It was harder than it looked, appearing kind and genial to the world. One would think it wouldn't take much of an effort to be the figure that those around would forever look up to and admire. But when just your thoughts would betray the loving smile that seems to be forever plastered on your face, one had to be a consummate actor; or at the very least proficient in Occlumency, even though there were so few people who were powerful and delicately skilled enough to become a Legillimens.

He often sat up, late at night, ruminating with dark thoughts and plans circling his mind. Again and again he wondered if it would all be for naught, with recent events. He dared not write anything down, for even a few words would give him away, even if only an elf bore witness, for those loyal to Hogwarts would do their utmost to protect it. Tonight though, he wondered; was it worth it?

There is only power, he mused, and those too weak to seek it. The words of Gellert Grindlewald, repeated by the Dark Lord Voldemort, were often used to ensnare another to what he called the Darkness. Yet it still called to him, after decades, centuries even, had passed.

He just couldn't understand there just couldn't be light without the dark. They balanced magic herself, calming and soothing her. Many eschewed the so-called Darkness because of the heady feeling powerful magicks gave the caster; it was almost addictive, the feeling of magic herself caressing them. Ministries began outlawing spell after spell, book after book, even mere theories were banned. What went unsaid by the highest circles in society, was that the bans were placed just because of the sheer power the caster needed to wield such magic.

Nobody stopped to think that many inherently 'Light' magicks were not just similar, they were exactly the same. They required enormous power and skill and gave the caster that same, wonderful heady feeling. Nobody stopped to think that rather than to fight; to war, Light and Dark were made to co-exist peacefully.

"Astoria Greengrass," he murmured, softly stroking the book in front of him, feeling the sentient magic of Hogwarts. He smiled to himself as he remembered the child's great-grandfather, Oceanus, a member of the final generation of the Dark council; the generation he had single-handedly brought to its knees, or rather, buried them by late 1957.

Only a few years later had Tom Riddle become the Dark Lord; when he unearthed the history the Ministry had glossed over, and found that the Gaunts were a part of the council of the Dark - what he believed to now be his council of the Dark. He had declared himself the be-all and end-all of all that encompassed Dark magicks.

He sighed in sorrow, mourning the monster who had once been just a young boy. Not entirely innocent, but he wasn't completely Dark then. Perhaps if he hadn't been so strict in his tutelage of the boy; maybe he was not strict enough? How had he so utterly failed in what should have been such a simple task. Granted, it would have taken a few years, but how hard could it be? Taking a young boy under their wing, passing on centuries of knowledge, especially when he was a respected paragon of virtue - at least the wizards and witched all over Britain thought so. Nobody ever took notice of a country not their own.

He had just wanted to pass on his legacy.

He had just wanted to be remembered.

Was that so wrong?

It seemed he was making the same mistakes again with another young boy; a surprising boy to be certain. He was remarkably similar to Tom Riddle. He was so intelligent, it was frightening sometimes. The boy would take highly advanced magical theory, toy with it and grasp it so easily, as if it were child's play. He wore a mask that was almost perfect, that even he, the great Albus Dumbledore, barely saw through. He was calculating and shrewd, but unless you had decades of experience, of searching faces in places for an almost imperceptible glint in their eyes, you would be clueless.

He would have been an ordinary eleven year old boy.

Almost. Most muggles, nearly all muggles, had an aversion to magic. Even parents who accepted their lucky 'muggleborn' children. He chuckled at that. Muggleborns. Such a lie that the world had told themselves so much to console and soothe their minds, that it had become an apparent truth a mere two centuries later. The ministry in all it's might had made sure of it, erasing as much history as they could, altering genealogy and lineage spells ever so subtly. They tweaked and pulled at the magic, altering not just the final effect but their own history, so ashamed of a poor child, who would never know that euphoria; the sheer bliss of magic. The spells became buried in time, only available in the library of the Final Four.

He sighed again, and turned to the page that held details of their new students. He pulled out the copies he had made earlier and tucked away. His brow furrowed as he read the files of the last living descendants of the Final Four.

Daphne Greengrass. He had thought he knew what to expect from her, but once again he was wrong. The girl was frigid, her face always stiff and devoid of any emotion. Goodness, the girl was only eleven and her cool demeanour rivaled that of Severus Snape's. The quintessential Slytherin. She seemed to have a heart of ice

Harry Potter. The wolf in sheep's clothing. The boy was sorted into Gryffindor, yes, but he was definitely cunning. Somebody had been teaching the boy Occlumency, but it could not have surely been Petunia. The boy and his blasted aunt continued to turn the tables on him, and had already lost him his places on the Wizengamot and ICW. He stroked the file, pausing when he felt a hint of a familiar magic - it certainly wasn't Hogwarts'. As he read through the page, his jaw clenched as he saw the change; Guardian: Petunia Evans. Somehow the woman had tricked a book more than a thousand years old, without even stepping foot in the castle!

Hermione Granger. A supposedly muggleborn child, with bushy hair and long teeth. The child was powerful, but many discounted her because of her 'heritage'. She was apparently some sort of magical sponge, soaking up latent magic and basking in the warm embrace of Hogwarts. Inquisitive was not the word for this child, she was scary in her never-ending quest for knowledge, and regurgitated facts at more than a mile a minute. She clearly needed steering in the right direction, with a firm hand. Knowledge was power, but the child would easily end up on the dark path, like many before her, not understanding the seriousness of such magicks.

Albus turned to the much older file, one he had taken from the book that entailed his staff, past and present. He had not expected this when he had traced the Final Four's linage. Harry Potter being a part of it was a given yes, Hermione Granger was a surprise too - her ancestors were originally American. Americans were rarely tolerated in Britain, they were too advanced to understand. Clearly, there had been a branch of the family in Britain.

Minerva McGonagall, he read. A powerful halfblood, with a muggle father, but a pureblood mother from an ancient line. A strong woman who he used to count on as his friend. She had turned cold and aloof to him since Lily Potter went into hiding. No, he corrected himself. It was when Lily Potter attended school. Minerva had never quite forgiven him for allowing the Marauders so much leeway, especially when it came to their treatment of Severus Snape. It had been essential.

She would never understand.

Now, he could only hope that the Final Four had no knowledge of the library. At least, not until the right moment, when he chose to reveal it. He couldn't be sure, especially now it seemed Petunia Evans had been running rings around him for over ten years. He just had to find who had helped her both at Hogwarts, and at the ministry. He would have suspected Severus, but after seeing how distraught the man was when she faked her death, there was no way it could not be him. There was no faking such devastation that one would become such a bitter, reclusive shell of a person.

Albus had his doubts about Minerva. She had been able to see through him at times, and see some ulterior motive in his actions. He was reluctant to truly suspect her, however, for as cold as she was, she had always been a staunch and loyal supporter, no, a true part of his cause. It was better than the turncoat, Severus Snape. Even through all of her anger with him, she wouldn't betray him, surely?

It was hard for him to question that anyone could even think of betraying him, after all he had done.


Sorry it's so late! I've been so unwell lately so I sleep a lot, and my arthritis has been flaring up so it's been hard to type. :( I don't know how it will be for the next six weeks or so either, I'm waiting to go on a four week training course. But I'll try my best!