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.

"Are you?" he asked quietly after a few moments. She didn't reply immediately. She knew the answer, but saying it aloud felt too real. If she said it, it would solidify into something that she was desperately trying to suppress.

"I don't know," she said quietly. "I don't know whether I'm afraid of the shock of what will happen or the ache for what never will."

She took a shaky breath. She didn't remember feeling the need to cry, but she felt a tear drip onto her hands. She angrily wiped it away and clenched her fists as if she could somehow clench them hard enough that she could squeeze her fear and her pain out of her brain. She wanted to bleed until she was empty of this poison.

"I've always known it would come to this," she added quietly. The words tumbled out like a flood that she couldn't control. "I knew I would have to die, but I just didn't know that I'd ever have things that I would miss." She chuckled sadly and sniffed, wiping another tear from her cheek. "It was so much easier to accept death when I had nothing to live for; now, though, I have things I'll be leaving behind, and I never prepared myself for that."

She finally looked up at Dumbledore. His eyes were glistening slightly in the evening sunlight and his smile was curved in a small, sad smile. It was one of the only times Diana had seen him look so vulnerable. His eyes were a pool of pain and sadness and so many things that he had never told her. She could see his regret for all of the bad things he had done in the past. She could see the sadness for his broken family. She could see something else, too: it was loud in him, it was screaming at her to look. To listen. She could see the readiness inside of him. She could see just how unafraid of dying he really was. She could see his wanting for it, and ultimately, she could see his understanding.

"I know," he said, so quietly that she thought it might have been the wind. "I know what that feels like."

He stopped and leaned to the side so he could peer at the door. "Harry is on his way," he said simply, and then looked at her again, just as he had a moment before.

"I am truly happy that you have found something to live for, even if it had been short," he said lightly. "When the time comes, you'll know it had all been worth it.

"The only way you can live, Diana, is if you find what you love and let it kill you. When the time comes, know that you loved so much that you bled with the pain. Die with the notion that you had loved, and people had loved you."

As if on cue, so door opened with a slight creak. Harry quickly entered and took a seat beside Diana. His eyes lingered on her reddened cheeks and he soaked in the silence. He felt like he had interrupted something important.

Diana only listened partially to the ensuing interrogation of Harry. He revealed that he had not collected the memory he had been told to get, and Dumbledore told him to try harder, and that was the end of the uncomfortable conversation that Diana had the misfortune to overhear.

"Now," said Dumbledore, his tone light and kind. "We will continue with our story where we left off. You remember where that was?"

Harry, relieved for the subject change, jumped in immediately. "Voldemort and Vera killed his father and his grandparents and framed Morfin. Then he went back to Hogwarts and he asked Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes."

Diana's heart sped at her mother's name. She had been suppressing any information she had recently learned. Sometimes, blissful ignorance was so much more remedying than the truth.

"Very good," Dumbledore said with a quick glance at Diana. "Now, you will remember, I hope, that I told you at the very outset of these meetings of ours that we would be entering the realm of guesswork and speculation?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thus far, as I hope you agree, I have shown you reasonably firm sources of fact for my deductions as to what Voldemort did until the age of seventeen?"

Both Harry and Diana nodded.

"But now," said Dumbledore, "now things become murkier and stranger. If it was difficult to find evidence about the boy Riddle, it has been almost impossible to find anyone prepared to reminisce about the man Voldemort. In fact, I think the only two people who could recount his entire life after school would be himself and Vera. However, I have two last memories that I would like to share with you. I shall then be glad of both of your opinions as to whether the conclusions I have drawn from them seem likely.

"I hope you are not tired of diving into other people's memories, for they are curious recollections, these two," he said. He began to empty the contents of the first memory into the awaiting Pensieve. "This first one came from a very old House-elf by the name of Hokey. Before we see what Hokey witnessed, I must quickly recount how Lord Voldemort and Vera Beauregard left Hogwarts.

"They reached their seventh year of schooling with, as you might imagine, the top grades in every examination that they took. Students were deciding their futures after Hogwarts, and all wondered of the what great things Tom Riddle and Vera Beauregard would do. Everyone, including I, was entirely baffled when the news broke and it was revealed that Tom Riddle worked at Borgin and Burkes while Vera had no job at all."

"Borgin and Burkes?" Harry repeated, stunned.

"Borgin and Burkes," repeated Dumbledore. "I think you will see what attractions the place held for him when we have entered Hokey's memory. But this was not Voldemort's first choice of job. Hardly anyone knew of it at the time--I was one of the few in whom the then headmaster confided--but Voldemort first approached Professor Dippet and asked whether he could remain at Hogwarts as a teacher."

"He wanted to stay here? Why?" asked Harry, stunned. His eyes were wide and he sat with contained energy that threatened to burst within him.

"Hogwarts was his home," mumbled Diana absently.

Dumbledore nodded solemnly and added, "Also, the castle is a stronghold of ancient magic. Undoubtedly Voldemort had penetrated many more of its secrets than most of the students who pass through the place, but he may have felt that there were still mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap.

"Lastly, as a teacher, he would have had great power and influence over young witches and wizards. He could create an army of impressionable wizards, able to exert even more control over them than any adult."

"But he didn't get the job, sir?"

"No, he did not," said Dumbledore. "Professor Dippet told him that he was too young at eighteen, but invited him to reapply in a few years, if he still wished to teach."

"How did you feel about that, sir?" asked Harry hesitantly.

"Deeply uneasy," he replied. "I had advised Armando against the appointment--I did not give the reasons I have given you, for Professor Dippet was very fond of Voldemort and was convinced of his honesty. But I did not want Lord Voldemort back at this school, and definitely not in a position of power."

"Which job did he want? What subject did he want to teach?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was being taught at the time by an old professor by the name of Galatea Merrythought, who had been at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years.

"So Voldemort went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all the staff who had admired him said what a waste it was, a brilliant young wizard like that, working in a shop. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant. Polite and handsome and clever, he was soon given particular jobs that only exist in a place like Borgin and Burkes, which specializes, as you know, in objects with unusual and powerful properties. Voldemort was sent to persuade people to part with their treasures for sale by the partners, and he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing this.

"And now, it is time to hear from Hokey the house-elf, who worked for a very old, very rich witch by the name of Hepzibah Smith."

After preparing the memory for their entry, they fell into the mind of Hokey the house-elf. As Diana fell through the void of darkness, she wondered if that's what dying will feel like.