I've been in this world for almost sixty years. Who would have ever thought that Tom Riddle—the boy who was supposed to die at the hands of a baby—would become the ruler of the entire world?
I lean back in the Headmaster's chair, the firelight flickering against the shelves of Hogwarts' finest relics, and allow myself a small smirk. Dumbledore's portrait glares down at me, his voice full of righteous fury.
"Tom, it's not too late to turn back," he lectures. "You could still—"
"—be a good little boy?" I interrupt, rolling my eyes. "Honestly, Albus, you haven't changed."
He continues with the same tired lines about redemption and the greater good. Blah, blah, blah. I've heard it all before. With a lazy flick of the Elder Wand, his portrait falls silent—mouth still open mid-sentence.
Finally, peace.