Disclaimer: The rights to the Harry Potter series go to J.K. Rowling. All original ideas present in this belong to me.

Chapter Twenty-Three | One Sided Discussions

Winter break was great, a much-needed vacation after a very tense couple of months. Sirius, Octavius and Astoria fought over who got to open presents first again. Terra broke it up, letting Astoria open hers first. Again. Predictable, but funny every bloody time it happens. Daphne of course sat off to the side stoically, hiding how eager she was to dive into the pile of gifts. She really needs to lighten up a bit, really, Slytherins are much too serious. She should take a note out of Tracey's book, she knows how to balance work and play.

Speaking of Tracey, I tried to talk to her over the break, but every time I was even in the same room as her, she buggered off somewhere. I know Daphne said that she has her reasons, and, quote, 'she shouldn't be taking it out on me,' but this is getting to be incredibly irritating.

She talked to her, and Tracey replied with the ever so friendly answer of 'fuck off.'

I'm probably going to end up cornering that girl one of these days.

Of course, forgetting the ongoing Tracey problem, there still was a suite of planning happening regarding Sirius and Octavius' steps into the political limelight. One thing I found out from Octavius is that Dumbledore has been voting against any majorly progressive issue since he first landed his Wizengamot seat. Apparently, the guy is a hell of a hypocrite. No, he doesn't hate muggles or practice long forgotten evil magics in secret, I mean really. That wouldn't make any sense at all. Instead, he's done everything he can to keep this world identical to how it looked when he grew up. At the cost of keeping Britain locked into his ideal of 'the golden years,' we're living far behind the rest of the wizarding world in terms of... well, everything. The only wizarding governments that are less tolerant, progressive, or advanced than Britain are Russia and Latvia, and that's only because of the effects the USSR had on their magical communities. No excuses to be had on our part.

Since we're planning on forming a true neutral faction, we need to start convincing the gray leaning members of the light and dark voting blocs to join us. Since I've enslaved Albus, we're going to use him to start dividing the light, getting him to act a more unstable, senile, and publicly incapable of holding his positions, excluding his job as Headmaster. He's too important to not keep at Hogwarts for the time-being, at least until the Tri-Wizard Tournament is done and over with. Additionally, after Rita's incredibly popular attack on the man, his apparent instability should force the members of his bloc to start second guessing their leader and jumping ship. The more fanatical members won't be swayed, no doubt about that, but the vast majority of the voters aren't so zealous, and those are who we're attempting to recruit.

Sure, I could get Dumbledore to force his bloc to vote in line with our new party, but if we want to make true changes years from now after Voldemort has been truly dealt with, we must make sure that we don't alienate anyone from the dark who can be swayed to our side. Riding on the coattails of an aging public figure who's rapidly losing popularity will maybe bring short-term benefit, just because of his name alone. Although too much has been done already to sabotage him for that course of action to be entirely reliable, but even with that short-term benefit, what happens ten years from now? Twenty? We'll have shunted aside a large portion of the population because we wanted to get a quick leg up on the competition, and that's the fastest way to start another civil war. I'm not interested in fighting one of those immediately after kicking Voldemort's ass.

Now, speaking of Dumbledore, lets see what can be done about him. "Nerds," I announce, quickly making my way up the spiral staircase towards the undead Headmasters office. I look down in my hand as I open the door, studying the wand I stole from him as I stride in unannounced. No, not Dumbledore's wand- Death's wand. I twirl it lazily in my hand, the artfully pockmarked surface scattering light as the winter sun streaming in from the window glances off of it. It looks remarkably like the bones of a finger, with segmented joints flaring along the length of it. There's a short inscription in some unknown language on its grip, where the forefingers are meant to rest. Those ancient, and I mean ancient runes stand out in sharp contrast against the lightly shaded wood, marked into what looks to be a section of ivory wrapped around the handle. It's far more likely that it's made of human bone.

"What are you doing here?"

I lift my eyes from the wand to Dumbledore, meeting his hateful gaze with my own impassive stare. His face is scrunched up in restrained fury, unable to act on his murderous fantasies, a prisoner in his own body. I smirk at him, loving every minute of his anger. That's what you get for murdering my friend, you geriatric bastard. Stew in it. I wander over to his bookcase, my finger passing over the titles as I idly peruse the shelves. All light magic. Useful, but magic that I'm simply incapable of reliably casting at this point. I've dredged too deep into necromancy, too far into black magic to have any chance of realigning my own into something more neutral, more gray.

Not that that's a bad thing, but it does limit me. It's not as if I'm about to go off the deep end mentally and turn out just like Voldemort (although Dumbledore is absolutely convinced I'm worse than the guy judging by his horrendous expression). Dark magic doesn't work that way, even though Dumbledore loves to say it does. It doesn't pollute your mind, turning the user into a monster that's devoid of all emotion save for the occasional spate of bloodlust.

No, after extensive research I've found that dark magic is simply more into the business of taking, rather than giving, not to mention the majority of well-known dark spells are used in warfare, giving it a bad rap. It'd be more reasonable to describe the two as positive and negative, instead of light and dark. Light gives, even if its for the worse. Dark takes, and it can be for the better.

Half of all healing magic is dark, and it's why parseltongue is labeled as a trait of dark wizards, because it is. It's not a Dark Art, but it's true dark magic in the sense that it's predominantly for healing. Although the ministry prefers to keep that under wraps. Why is healing dark? It takes away the pain and discomfort that the patient is suffering under. It takes it all away so that the healer can then give back what they were missing. Reforming bone, mending flesh, it's all the same. You must first remove the bad before you can add the good.

Black Magic though? Completely different. Necromancy is true black magic, something that deals directly with death itself. White magic is its polar opposite, or Albumancy as Severus and I have taken to calling it. Although the Albumancy is incredibly similar to Necromancy in that it deals with life, I could make the argument that the two are for the most part identical in their end results. They draw from two completely different sources of power, yet the result is largely the same. Funny how one is idealized while the other is demonized, although it's entirely understandable when one sees Black Magic in practice. Not really for the faint of heart, as evidenced by Sirius' green pallor after seeing that conjured pig turned into pulled pork.

I stop my mental tangent, removing my finger from the smooth leather of whatever random book I've stopped at and turn to face Dumbledore. "Shut the portraits off," I demand as I transfigure the humble seat in front of his desk, fashioning it into a garishly opulent throne that supersedes his own, brass magically polished until it resembles pure gold, shining brightly against the deep and rich tones of polished mahogany. I sit down, hands lazily grazing the arm rests and my knees crossed primly in front of me.

"Why did you bind my magic and body?" I ask, my voice controlled as I question Dumbledore. His lips thin as he makes a momentary attempt to fight the compulsion to answer, but one can never fight a slave bond, especially the one that I used on him. No, Dumbledore is under my thumb until I decide to end his life a second time.

"Because you would have been too powerful, and it would have led to you being headstrong and arrogant," he replies hoarsely, still straining pitifully against his mental bindings. I have to hand it to him, he is impressively stubborn. "I wanted you to succeed me after my eventual death as the Leader of the Light, and a very powerful witch would not be as readily accepted as a moderately powerful wizard."

I still can't believe the man thought I would carry his flag and espouse his little spiel. His 'better dead than red,' kind of preaching has done more harm than good to the wizarding world, stagnating spell research and other advances because of the magics potentially being dark. I mean, rituals as a whole are outlawed because they're 'too powerful,' like that's going to stop someone from actually using one if they set their mind to it. No, you can't regrow your leg through an ancient Greek healing ritual. Why? Because we said so. Fucking unbelievable. Not to mention he personally made it impossible for Padma to get her dream job whilst living in Britain.

"Headstrong and arrogant? Is it better to be downtrodden and abused, Albus? Are you still so headstrong and arrogant as to not believe me when I said that my life with the Dursley's was much worse than you believed it to be? Mind you, you willingly consigned me to what you knew would be far less than ideal an environment. By the way," I add, waving my hand lackadaisically at him. "For this conversation, your replies and answers to my questions or statements must be completely truthful, as well as stated openly and honestly. No skirting around via half-truths and wordplay."

Dumbledore clenches his jaw angrily, mustache bristling as his nose crinkles in distaste. "I didn't believe you and I still don't believe you. Tom said the same to me long ago, and I doubt that things at the orphanage were as bad for him as he made them out to be, just as you've obviously lied about your childhood."

"Really?" I scoff, laughing bitterly at his confused look. Is he serious? How deluded can you be? "Riddle told you he was being abused and you still kept sending him back to the same place? No fucking wonder he turned out to be a genocidal maniac! Do you have any understanding of human psychology? Any at all?"

"No, I've only heard of the study in passing," Dumbledore states through gritted teeth, frustrated by my reply and condescending tone. So much for being a "muggle-loving bastard" as the Slytherins like to call him. The man really hasn't ever heard of one of the most well known, and probably one of the most accessible scientific fields? I roll my eyes, tutting childishly at him. Looks like the ancient educator is in for a lesson.

"Well, it's this fantastic thing that muggle scientists have been looking into; the process of studying the mind, human behaviour, what makes people tick. Questions like that. Want to know something they've been studying nearly the whole time the field has been around? The study of nature versus nurture. Is someone's personality genetic, or is due to their upbringing?" I explain, resting my chin on my hands. "They found something very interesting in their study of this ancient dilemma. There are genetic traits that one is more likely to inherit, although, I use the word inherit very loosely. A better word to describe it is likelihood."

I pause to take a breath, glancing up at the ceiling and clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "Intelligence, personality, likes and dislikes… they're all influenced in some way or another by genetics. That doesn't mean that someone is immediately locked into being an idiot at birth because their parents were dumb as a pile of bricks, but they will have a stronger likelihood if they aren't raised properly," I continue, Dumbledore nearly forgetting that he's being lectured by his own killer, thinly disguised interest shining behind his dull blue eyes. "If one's father is predisposed to… I don't know- let's say he's predisposed to a short fuse temper, the child of that man can still avoid acting in the same fashion if they're raised and taught to control their anger. This holds true in your case," I say, smiling at Dumbledore's instant switch from intrigue to barely restrained fury. Thanks for that little tidbit in your book Rita, looks like it came in handy.

"You could have easily ended up going around killing muggles just like dear Daddy Dumbledore had, but you didn't, and that shows that even though your father made a very rash decision, one which I fully support him in by the way," I digress, lifting my hand and bowing my head slightly in recognition. I can't fault a father for flying off the handle after such a horrible assault on his only daughter. If the child was my own… well, let's just say that things would have been biblical. "That shows that you were raised to control your temper, and to be frank, as much as I absolutely detest you for all you've done, I do have to say you have the patience of a saint."

I stretch my legs out, knees popping quietly as I uncross and re-cross them the other way, resting my clasped hands on my thigh. I chew the inside of my lip, momentarily forgetting where I was in the very one-sided conversation.

Ah! Yeah, psychology. I snap my fingers as I remember what I was talking about and dive back into it. "So, some people may be more likely to be murderers, Tom being one of them, but it could have easily been avoided- or at the least toned down by simply listening to him and removing him from a toxic environment. What I'm getting at, is that Voldemort is largely of your own making."

He shakes his head, beard swaying slightly as he takes in what I've said. No matter how much I hate the man, he is incredibly intelligent, and it doesn't take an incredibly intelligent mind to work through my little lecture. Never let it be said though, that incredibly intelligent people are incapable of being horribly stubborn. "Tom was born evil, that is a fact," Dumbledore states unequivocally. "I'm quite sure you are the same."

"How fucking stubborn can you be? I'm dark, but I am not evil. Hell, why am I even arguing with you? All I wanted to find out was why you felt it necessary to fuck around with my life," I scowl, mentally smacking myself in the head for letting him get another rise out of me. "Nobody is born evil. Nobody. Tom has what muggles would call 'anti-social personality disorder.' You may know the term as sociopathy, or psychopathy, at least, that's what I'm assuming going off of what you've said. Did you know him from a young age? Before Hogwarts maybe? I know you taught here when he attended."

"Yes, I was the one to deliver his Hogwarts acceptance letter. He bragged of how he had terrified the other orphans, stolen their belongings, and raved about how he could 'make them hurt' if they were mean to him," he says emphatically, looking for all the world like he's won our little argument. How can a dead man be smug? "Like I said previously, Helene. That child was born evil."

I raise my hand for him to stop, one finger pointed to the ceiling. I squint at Dumbledore, my mouth slightly agape in an expression of incredulity as I shake my head. Talking to him is like speaking with an elderly person that's deeply racist. No matter what you say they find a way to spin the conversation back to their point of view, and nothing at all can sway them from their mindset.

I rub at my eyes tiredly. Why am I still arguing with him? Christ I'm bloody stubborn too. "No, see, if you had him raised properly, placed into a proper home, he'd probably have been a functioning member of society. Well, probably closer to Lucius Malfoy in personality than someone like Arthur Weasley, but a functioning member all the same," I retort. "Yes, there's a probability that he was, like you said, born evil, but you can't assume that of an eleven-year old child who was very evidently bullied. What did you do to convince him that magic was real?"

"I cast an illusion, causing him to believe that his chifforobe containing the other orphans stolen toys was on fire."

I clap, cheering sarcastically at Dumbledore's idiocy. How did he end up a Headmaster at a school that houses young children and teens with that kind of mindset? I mean, I know he grew up in the nineteenth century, but psychologically tormenting an eleven-year old? Really?

"Are you fucking daft? You just came across a child that used his powers to get a leg up on other people that hurt him, something that pretty much any other child would do in his position, and you showed him that that behaviour was perfectly acceptable!?" I groan, kneading my temples. "Do you not understand that you basically solidified his idea that 'there is only power, and those too weak to seek it'? Yeah, instead of chiding him and explaining to him why what he did was wrong, setting boundaries like a responsible adult, all you do is scare the shit out of him? Great job Albus. Great fucking job."

I stand up angrily, returning my chair to its previous plain state with a flick of my wand, pacing the room in frustration. I can't believe Dumbledore really doesn't understand that he had a big hand in turning Tom Riddle into a monster. How deluded can he be? Why am I still arguing with him? Fuck am I ever stubborn!

"You know what, this isn't going to go anywhere," I huff, rubbing my hands together as I think of anything else to ask the old man before I get to the main reason for my visit. Get him to teach me odd and esoteric magic? No, he'll probably find a loop hole to kill me. Same result if I demand that he teach me how to duel. What the hell do I ask him?

Wait.

The Room?

"When you tried to ambush me on the seventh-floor, did you repair the room that you broke into?"

"It repaired itself nearly immediately after destroying the stonework," Albus replies. "What, do you require your ritual room for other horrific deeds you will commit within my school's walls?"

"Something like that," I mutter, quickly firing off another series of commands. "You're not allowed to go near that room, nor communicate or hint at the existence of the room," I say, making sure he can't lead someone to me when I'm training. I'd hate to have to kill McGonagall. As much as she's been frustrating to deal with in this life, she was my old head of house, and she's probably just highly misled by Dumbledore. The problems of hero worship. Hell, if anyone knows about the consequences of hero worship, it's me.

Why yes Dumbledore, please send me back to my abusive family.

Oh, absolutely Dumbledore, I'll go back in time to save a falsely imprisoned convict.

Of course, Dumbledore, I won't speak with my close friends over the summer after seeing another close friend get murdered by the man who sold out my parents.

I shrug mentally, pushing those thoughts away. No need to think about how thick I was right now. It's time to take care of what Sirius and Octavius requested of me. I turn back to Dumbledore, a sickly smile plastered over my face as I prepare to ruin his life just a little bit more. Well, not a little bit more. This just may be the finishing touches on his coffin. Preparation for his eventual political grave.

"Oh Dumbledore, I have a request for you," I coo, tapping my fingers together rhythmically like some sort of maniacal TV villain. He rears back slightly, eyes alight, apparently buying my whole dark lady shtick. "Get this, really, you're going to love my plan. I want you to do your very best to alienate the Wizengamot members of the light voting blocs by acting like the senile madman that you are," I continue, speaking as if I'm explaining a complex topic to a particularly stupid child.

"You're going to start behaving as if you're incredibly forgetful, suffering from the onset of dementia, unsure of the specifics on important political topics that you should fully understand, playing the part of a stuttering, doddering old fool," I explain, smiling gleefully at his horrific expression. "Don't take things too far of course, I do want you to make sure that you retain your position here as Headmaster. I still have some uses for you, and I believe you'll have a hell of a time watching all of your influence crumble down around you."

"You can't do this!" he shouts, a thunderclap of magic erupting from him, scattering trinkets and parchment throughout the room, his book case shaking under the sudden onslaught. I throw up a quick shield, making sure he doesn't accidentally kill himself by violating his previous orders. I'm not too sure on the logistics of bringing someone back a second time, but to the best of my knowledge there's no mulligans in necromancy. "Everything I've worked for! You would just throw it all away?" he continues, shocked beyond belief.

"Silence," I command, my voice like iron as I shoot him down. "You will be incapable of speech until I leave this room at the end of this discussion."

I pause momentarily, quelling the energy stirring fitfully inside me. Don't want to work myself into too much of a fervor. "Do you believe all you've done to be for the better? Sure, you've done some good things, I'll give you that. Fighting for equal rights for non-pure-bloods, beings, magical creatures, and other downtrodden members of the wizarding world. That's a righteous cause, no doubt about it. Fair taxes and regulations on imports and exports, keeping the economy driving along smoothly. All good things," I confess, tilting my head at his perplexed expression. "What? Did you think I was some fanatical pure-blood bigot who wants to see the world go up in flames? I said it once, and I'll say it again. I am not Tom," I state emphatically, a building fire in my voice. "No, what I want to do is drag this country kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, and upturn everything you've done to keep it held back, stagnant and rotting. What was once a great country reduced to an embarrassment to the world around it."

I lick my lips, my throat getting slightly dry from the long conversation. I conjure a cup and fill it quickly with a silent aguamenti. I sigh in relief as I take a sip, allowing the cool liquid to soothe my parched throat. Much better. "You've had a large hand in having many branches of magic that are incredibly useful and beneficial outlawed. Branches that are legal and acceptable to use in the majority of other countries. Additionally, you've pushed forward laws that place intensive restrictions on spell-crafting and magical research. You're hamstringing wizarding Britain in your attempts to, well, to do what? Make sure everyone is safe? Because that's what you said according to this transcript," I say, drawing a sheaf of parchment from my robes and holding it out in front of me as I begin to read over it, my voice dry and posh like an old barrister.

"Yes, as quoted by one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Bi-Weekly Wizengamot Meeting occurring on the 12th of August, 1962: 'Research of magic and the new development of spells are both fantastic and incredible pursuits, but we must take precautions so that those studying these fields are free of danger. I propose that we provide a set of rules and regulations to prevent any disasters from occurring in the pursuit of knowledge. It shall be simply this: No dangerous or dark research should be undertaken.' This is what you said when you went on to put a blanket restriction on both those fields," I snort, incinerating the copied transcript and scattering the ashes. "You made it so that any potentially dangerous study was prohibited. Did you know that no real magical research has occurred in Britain since then? At least, none of any consequence? Know why? Because magic is dangerous in and of itself. You have a school full of eleven to eighteen-year-old students here, all of which are carrying a weapon on their person," I say, gesturing to my wand.

"By phrasing your proposal in such a way it prevented nearly all avenues of research. I don't know if you did this intentionally, or if you're just that bloody dull," I clip, my eyes locked on his steeled gaze, his lips pursed so tightly they're pale white. "This country is functioning on values, traditions, and morals that are so incredibly out of date that some of them make the Puritans or Victorians look progressive. This country subjugates those who are considered lesser, like some sort of light wizarding version of Nazism. Advancement is all but halted because people like you, people who are much too old and set in their ways to be making valuable decisions for their country prevent it because it interferes with your traditions. How many students attended Hogwarts fifty years ago? What about fifty before that, when you were attending? From my research, its somewhere in the range of seven hundred and upwards, with your generation boasting an attendance of over one thousand students a year."

I pause for effect, taking another sip of water and running my thumb back and forth along my forefinger, a nervous habit, before placing my hand on the top of my chair, looming down over Dumbledore. "How many attend Hogwarts now? About a hundred, maybe two hundred at the most, correct? Why is that? A series of devastating wars fuelled by those traditions that you hold in such high regard. The first led by the de facto creator of the Nazi's and your ex-lover, Grindelwald, all in the name of 'the Greater Good.' A paltry excuse for bigotry and hate towards those less gifted than us magicals. A second war led only a few decades later by a sick and twisted dark lord that was once a child that you abused, and allowed to be abused, who's name many still fear to speak today. Again, this war was fought for the sake of bigotry and hate in the name of tradition. If you and others in your position made actual steps to rectify the horrifically dated laws and practices of this country, as well as made an example for our neighbours, a few of which are only slightly better than us, we could have been living in a golden era.

Did you know that the muggles economies and populations actually exploded after the second World War? There's a name for people born into that generation: baby boomers. An abundance of growth and progress, people even going so far as to explore the galaxy, begin studying the human genome, and connect the Earth in its entirety through electric screens and a whole lot of ones and zeroes. You can communicate with anyone, anywhere, in the blink of an eye as long as they can afford a computer, which are becoming rapidly more affordable. They've made leaps and bounds forward in their scientific understanding of the world around us and the creation and advancement of new technologies. What have we done since that war?" I ask, letting the question hang in the air, silence permeating the room.

I stare at Dumbledore, daring him to interrupt me. Of course, he can't interrupt me. He's still under my command to stay silent, festering in his anger and frustration. He sits still, either ignoring me or listening intently, I can't tell. Honestly, it doesn't matter. I'm just saying this for my own sake at this point. I never thought I'd be the type to monologue, but it looks like I've been doing a lot more of that lately.

"We've dwindled to a shadow of what we could have been, all because of people like you who decided that they know best. A poor excuse for a government that functions on hereditary seats and who's legislative meetings are host to more petty squabbling than a hen-house. Fuck, people here are still called Lord and Lady, myself being one of them. Because of who my parents were, their parents were, and so on so forth, I have immediate power over everyone in this country simply due to circumstance."

I aggressively push my chair over to the side, sending it clattering noisily onto the floor, Dumbledore jumping slightly in his seat in surprise. I march forward and slam my hands on his desk, feeling it rattle beneath me as I stare intently at the man who's made it his life mission to neglect a world that he had a responsibility to tend to.

"I never wanted to kill you, not really. Trust me, I don't enjoy it one bit. I take no pleasure in what I have done," I grimace, clenching my hands tightly, knuckles white against flushed skin. "I will take pleasure in what will come I wanted to watch you flounder to hold your positions, desperately fighting to keep your influence and oh so important titles. To watch as everything you did to inhibit this countries growth, to make sure that your little world stayed perfect for you, and you alone, falls to pieces around you. To watch as you notice your perfect world change and realize that there's nothing you can do about it."

I smile grimly at him as I get up to leave, offering one final comment as I make my exit. "Oh, you're still going to have to go through all that, don't get me wrong," I explain, a mocking laugh creeping from my lips. "You've got front row tickets to the show Albus. I hope you're ready."

So, now you get to see a glimpse of Helene's end game. Hope you're looking forward to it.

Krys Griffin: I hope I've adequately explained the reason as to why Dumbledore won't be voting with Sirius and Octavius in this chapter. But yes, Helene does have a fun new political toy to mess around with, and she's going to make full use of it.

AndrewWolfe: I'm going to have to smack my English buddy. I asked him about some of his favourite curses and phrases to use in the story and he fed me lies. The first time I heard "fuck me running" over here in Canada was from him, so I assumed it was English. I'm going to keep it in the story just because I love the phrase so much.

DaSalvatore: Magna will be laid to rest, old snek lady is still going to get some love. And yes, Helene is outlandishly strong compared to the average witch or wizard, but her knowledge compared to the big shots like Dumbledore or Voldemort is simply a drop in the bucket. The only reason she got out of that in one piece is because Dumbledore went into that fight expecting her to simply be a very strong thirteen-year-old.

koseta.a: Here rests Magna, known to her friends and family as Miss Snakey. Defender of Hogwarts, Ancient Warrior of Salazar. May she live on in our hearts, for hers beats no more.

Mitchsen: Don't cry! I've got a fresh update right here!

Edited, 13/06/18.