Chapter 4- DUMBLEDORE

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The voices are getting louder.
It's time everyone knows what they are saying.


I stare at the tiny photo in front of me.
Harry Potter, 2 years old, lies in an old, plastic stretcher next to his cousin, Dudley Dursley, also 2 and lying in a golden and blue car-shaped crib.
I stare at the photo beside it, framed in old wood.
Tom Riddle, 16 years, sits between Malakai Avery and Abraxas Malfoy, his expression of brooding disgust contrasting with their expressions of boyish nonchalance.


Minerva is very concerned about my behaviour, and is sure I'm drinking too much. Poppy wants me to spend a week in the infirmary. She's sure I have a stomach upset. Filius reckons I have a bad case of heartache.
Joking as though Filius might be, he's the one's that's the closest to the truth.
It's my dreams, and my heartbreak of years ago, when the one I loved disappeared and turned without ever knowing.
And the fact that I've doomed the misfortuned 2 year old in front of me to a future as horrible as mine.
The dreams come every night. They eat me up and beat me down, but there is no way to keep them at bay. They come by every night, and slowly devour my soul.
A part of me doesn't want them to go. The dreams are the only thing I have left of him, that really did belong to him.
He left with everything, and gave me back nothing but a cursed wand, a lot of unwanted power and these dreams.
The dreams are honestly the best part of the deal.
I miss him, no doubt. I hate myself for it, but that's just the way it is.
I wish I could remove him from my mind, from my heart. He's killing me without even being present. 

Sometimes I wish he never existed. I wish we'd never met. I wish he'd never moved into his aunt's house. I wish everything that happened between us, without him knowing, was just a fragment of my imagination. 

I wish I could hate him. That's the least I could do for my family.


Tom Riddle sneers at me from his photograph, and Harry Potter stares at me curiously from his.
The man I loved left no pictures.
He still comes to me every night. He promises me of good fortune and a great future. I fall for him more as every night passes, as the very things that he said that made me fall are repeated endlessly.
I'd hoped falling in love would prove a blessing for me.
I was so, so wrong.
It was as much as a curse for me as it was for the greater population of the world.
But that's not the only reason behind my sudden quarantine, though.
It's the realisation that I've doomed a mere child to a fate possibly worse than mine is what's making me hide in shame.
Harry Potter might just fall for Tom Riddle, and I'll not be here to stop it.
It's all his fault. If it wasn't for him, I'd have never felt this guilty. I loved him. I still do.
The voices scream his name in my head all the time. I'm sick of hearing his name from them. I want to hear it come out of me, but there's no way I can say it.
I want to hear my name in his mouth even more, but that is impossible. He's gone. I'm still here. No way out of his circle.
He ruined me from inside out, he destroyed my family and everything I once called mine, and yet. my heart still aches for his face.

My brother would've been in contact with me.

My sister would've been living.

So many things, so many relationships. All in shambles. 

I blame myself, I blame myself for the damage. I blame myself for everything. Had I listened to Elphias' warnings, had I noticed his particular interest in destroying for 'The Greater Good', had I kept a barrier between us. Blaming myself hurts less than blaming him. Everything hurts less than him. 

I could have a stake driven into my heart, and that'd hurt less than him leaving.

The Greater Good.

'The Greater Good', he'd said. 'The Greater Good', he'd promised. He'd said everyone was below us- that our magic was beyond wonders. That everyone else was mediocre. 

I wish I'd told him that I loved him then. Maybe he'd stay. Maybe he'd take me away. Maybe he'd kill me.

I wish he would've killed me that night. I wish it had been me the spell misfired on.

He'd said 'evanescent' was his favourite word, "Sugar-coated, but ultimately meaning over."

Evanescent. That's me. That's what I am. Slowly fading. 

I deserve to fade out. I deserve to disappear.

I remember his smile. I remember how he tried to have a crooked smile, but when he was genuinely happy it'd a gummy, childish smile. I remember his habit of picking at his lips. I remember the day he did his face in my shirt so that his aunt wouldn't see his bleeding bottom lip. I remember how his blood had stained my shirt. I remember going home and thinking over and over about how stupidly sexy that was. 

I remember his eyes. I remember their pale blue, dark grey colour. I remember how proud he was of them. His eyes were miniature storms. I remember him looking into my eyes. I remember being insecure, everything about me felt so ordinary next to him.

I remember his hair. I remember the way he always bunched it up in a ponytail. I remember his cornsilk bangs framing his face. I remember the way he hated people touching it. I remember the way I always wanted to run my fingers through them. I remember the time I had, and he'd pushed me. We'd been sitting in front of a window, and I remember being scared I'd fall off. I remember reaching out for his shirt to brace myself.

I remember his arms. I remember how he'd always worn long sleeves to cover his freckles. I remember how his strong pale arms looked next to my thin, tan ones. I remember how we were every shade of white and gold.

Out of all the names that are scratched upon my aged heart, Gellert Grindelwald's will always be the brightest.

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