They can't possibly understand me.
They may try, someday, to see inside me, to try and figure out where things went "wrong". They may even think they have it figured out.
I lived in the Muggle world. I know what they'd say. No mother. His father wasn't around enough for him. The institution they stuck me in was cold and unfeeling and it took my innocence from me.
Even in the Wizarding world, some of those very things may one day be said. Those comments about how if only he'd been loved, if someone had given him the attention he so obviously craved, if he'd been given another path in life, all this could have been avoided. Oh, it'll be said. I'm sure of that. Mostly from gods-be-damned do-gooding Gryffindors or love-everyone Hufflepuffs. And then those annoying little scholarly Ravenclaws will do some sort of Wizarding psychology, and make comments about the burden of a misunderstood ancient gift, and the weight of discovering who I was, and how it all played into my choice.
How little they know.
This was never a choice. This was a destiny.
This wasn't about that bitch of a mother who brought me into this world. It's not about that Muggle bastard who gave me his name. And it sure as hell isn't about that savior-of-all-that-is-good-in-the-world Dumbledore. He may have kept his eye on me whenever he had the chance, but even he couldn't see into my little hidden chamber that I found, could he?
That chamber. Such a delightful little place. Where I learned so much. Where I became who I was born to be. And right under his nose the whole time. Literally. I mean, the Headmaster's office is almost directly above that little washroom. A few floors up.
The irony of my endearing ancestor.
It's funny. They all ask how I became this way, but no one asks how I found out I was meant to be this way. No one wonders how I discovered my lineage, The fools. If they only asked, maybe they'd find the other little hiding spots throughout the school. Honestly, all those so-called brilliant minds, and not a single one realize that the Chamber was only the beginning. A girls' lavatory, for Merlin's sakes. Like I was likely to ever step foot in there, let alone mumble about, speaking parseltongue. But, if you mutter it in the right corner of the common room, you make a little discovery, which leads you to a shelf in the library, which leads you to a brick in the Astronomy tower, which finally leads you to the Chamber door itself.
Quite a clever little path of secrets my ancestor devised before Gryffindor himself turned him out.
The books that were kept in the Chamber for my arrival. Well, I use books in the loosest sense. Scrolls, they were. Secret writings. On old Basilisk skins, written in a dead language. Yes, Parseltongue was never meant to be written. It's an oral language, but once, long ago, there was an actual written version that only a few select wizards knew. Ironically, Gryffindor wasn't one of them.
So, I studied in secret. Learning where those ever-watchful blue eyes couldn't find me.
He tried to find where I kept myself all those years. He never could figure it out. And how it vexed him when Dippet named me a prefect, and then Head Boy. Who else would he have chosen? I followed the rules, I enforced them, I made sure to always give the appearance of propriety at all times. None of my other professors worried about me.
Why him?
Never worry. One day, he too will come to regret his treatment of me. Even if he sits in his office in that school, feeling all smug and arrogant, now assured that all those worried and concerns about my future and my actions were not mistaken, he will regret it some day.
They all will regret it.
One doesn't have to be a Pureblood to see the problems developing in the world today. Careless behavior, lack of pride in who we are and what we have accomplished in our lives. Those filthy Muggles don't deserve to usurp our world, to take from us. And for them to dare to begin entering our lives – it's almost sacrosanct.
I hear them gathering. I hear the swishing of their cloaks and the clacking of their heels on the marble floor outside this room. My children are waiting me, in their masks and their black robes, with only the purest blood in their veins and the purest thoughts in their minds. My little group of followers, the ones who believe me, believe IN me, believe that I will save our world from all the 'good' intentions of the misguided and weak.
As I should have been saved, so I will save the next generation.