ruins ; harry potter [1]

thirty five ; the fear of dying

Written by Diana Riddle on a piece of crumpled scratch paper at three o'clock in the morning:

I often think about what my worst fear would be. Lately, it seems to be all I can think about.

My father considers fear to be weakness; I consider fear to be human. Sometimes, my fear is the only thing that keeps me from falling off the edge. The edge that I so often teeter on, the edge of an endless abyss. If I fall, I would never be able to get back up.

I guess it doesn't matter now, though. I'll be dead soon, anyway.

Sometimes, I feel like my worst fear is my father. I am terrified at the thought of becoming him, no matter how alike we may be, I fear losing myself. My father has the world in his hands, and with one tiny twitch, he could ruin the world until there is nothing left but him and his empire. I'm afraid of him winning, and I'm afraid that I won't be able to stop him.

When Ron was poisoned, I thought my worst fear would be losing someone I really care about. When Ron was in the Hospital Wing, I'd sit by his side, curled up in a sturdy wooden chair that Madam Pomfrey generously supplied. All I could think about was how terrified I was of him dying. Of anyone; Hermione, Harry, Ron, Dumbledore. . . .But I know it's only a matter of time for Albus. I'm trying so hard to prepare myself, but I can't. I can't.

But I think for me, there is only one thing I am truly terrified about. I have fears, but there is only one thought crippling enough that has attached to my brain like a parasite. It's almost become an obsession; everything I think about somehow always circles back to this fear, this disease.

I am absolutely, entirely, truly terrified that the world will still be corrupted with evil even when I'm gone, and I won't be able to do anything to stop it.

I do not fear death. Dying is no fear of mine, but what happens after is. I don't want Harry to be broken when I'm gone. I don't want Hermione and Ron to lament their old friend for the rest of their lives. I don't want another Voldemort to rise when I can't help the people I love.

I have no fear of dying, but I do fear leaving. So while I'm gone, I want those that I love to live like they had never met me. I don't want their lives to be tainted by the memory of me, and I don't want them to feel alone. I want them to live, and I want them to do great things; I want them to do the things that I will never be able to do.

So, I'll be leaving soon. When I'm gone, I want you all to dream me the world.

++

"Are you afraid?"

Her voice bounced dully against the walls of Dumbledore's circular office. It echoed slightly, like a taunt. She placed the book she was reading on her lap and Dumbledore raised his head from his work. She came here when she felt like she had nowhere else to go. Sometimes they would talk, sometimes they'd merely work or read with the easing comfort of each others' presence.

He watched her for a few painful moments, his eyes full of emotion that she couldn't decipher. "Am I afraid of what?"

"Dying," she said quietly. Her index finger played with the corner of the page she had been reading. It ripped after a few moments, and she closed her book entirely. She watched her hands while she waited for Dumbledore's response. She felt numb.

"No," he said lightly. "I am not afraid of dying. I know my time is long past due, and I have long prepared myself for the inevitable."

She nodded slowly without looking at him. She listened to the birds outside of the window chirp merrily. The sun illuminated her cheek and eyelashes. To Dumbledore, she looked ethereal; other-worldly.