ruins ; harry potter [1]

thirty seven ; seven devils

A Letter to Death, written by Diana Riddle in Albus Dumbledore's office.

I seem to see you everywhere nowadays. Lurking in shadowed corners and behind blood-spattered walls, aren't you tired? So many people are dying; do you ever get to rest? Part of that's my fault, I guess. If it weren't for my father, you wouldn't have to be so exhausted. I'm sorry you'll have to take me soon; I don't want to be a burden on you.

When you come for me, I hope you know that I never meant for any of this to happen. I hope you know that when you come for me, I will hopefully have ended this war that was never meant to start, and then you will finally revert back to the peaceful calm you have grown so used to.

Everyone resents you for taking the ones they love, but I know better. You are an inevitable future, even for someone so desperate to live as my father. I know that when I'm gone, I can trust you to take those who need to be taken and spare those who deserve it. I hope you treat us lost souls who have given their lives for the greater good with kindness and warmth. I hope you know that I will not fight you, in the end--

It was ten o'clock at night in Albus Dumbledore's office, much too late for any disturbance, but alas, there was a vehement knock on the door. "Enter," said Dumbledore, and a panting Harry Potter pushed into the room. His face was red and he huffed out his breaths as if he had run the entire length of the castle. Diana folded her sheet of scrap paper discreetly and tucked it into the leather pouch she had received from Harry for Christmas.

"Good gracious, Harry," said Dumbledore in surprise. "To what do I owe this very late pleasure?"

"I've got it. I've got the memory from Slughorn."

Dumbledore praised him proudly, but Diana stiffened. She knew of the Horcruxes, of course, but this memory will reveal so much more. Her nerves seemed to be tingling with energy as she watched Dumbledore pour the contents of a small vial into the familiar Pensieve.

"And now," said Dumbledore. "Now, at last, we shall see..."

The air was coarse with bubbling anticipation as the three dived into the Pensieve only to land in Professor Slughorn's office. Just like the last time they had watched, it was decorated in wonderful linens and extravagant dining ware as the large group sat around the large table. Just as it had been before, Vera sat between Tom and Slughorn with her hand clasped tightly around Tom's.

"Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?" said Tom just as he had in the tampered memory. And just as it had happened, Professor Slughorn playfully chided Tom, praising him and his girlfriend--his two favorite students.

"Thank you for the pineapple, by the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite. I confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic withing twenty years. Fifteen, if you keep sending me pineapple, I have excellent contacts at the Ministry."

Tom merely smiled at the man and the other boys laughed. Vera only sat quietly with her other hand playing with the edge of her napkin.

"I don't know that politics will suit me, sir," he said when the laughter died away. "I don't have the right kind of background."

"Nonsense," said Slughorn briskly, "couldn't be plainer you come from decent Wizarding stock, abilities like yours. No, you'll go far, Tom, I've never been wrong about a student yet."

Tom's eyes seemed to gleam with something evil, but it was so subtle that no one around the table noticed. Diana saw Vera smile ever-so-slightly and squeeze his hand. Again, she was his anchor.

The clock behind them chimed eleven, and Slughorn looked around in surprise.

"Good gracious, is it that time already?" he said. "You'd better get going, boys, and lady, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow. Same goes for you, Avery."