Castleview

I am watching the Boy Who Lived. He does not know I am watching. He laughs with his friends, with the Bright Witch and the Fireheart. He never, not even in his troubled dreams, imagined that I am gaurding, protecting.

None of them has. None of the wizards that I keep watch over, no matter how powerful. Except, perhaps, the Dumbledore.

You should know now, before I go on, that I do not call humans by their given names. None since the Founders Four. I do not understand the human tradition of giving names that mean nothing, tell nothing. True, at infancy it cannot be known what a human will be; no one who saw me at my birthing could imagine what I have become in my millenia of life. But why not give their names later on?

Forgive me, I am digressing, I will continue.

I call the Dumbledore that because he is, in so many ways, a dumbledore. He buzzes along merrily, seeming harmless, helping people before they even realize it, just as a dumbledore will help farmers to grow apples and cherries. But when sorely provoked, he will deal out a blow his enemy will not soon forget.

He has powerful magic, the most powerful that I have seen in many, many years. Few rival him. Very few. I know that, beyond any doubt. I can sense, measure, the magic of every human to pass over the grounds, through these walls.

As an example, the Fireheart has enough magic to be well above the mean. However, he lacks control of it, and that is why he is not seen as formidable. He is barely seen at all, by some humans. He has felt envy's burn, that is for certain.

But more often, his heart burns with love. Love for his sister, for his brothers (the many red-haired and the one black), and with a different sort of love for the Bright Witch.

Ah, yes, the Bright Witch. She has, perhaps, a barely average amount of magic. She, however, has extrodinary control of it. Few adult wizards can boast of such. It takes extrordinary mindpower for the humans to keep it at their beck and call constantly. Yet she does.

If Rowena lived today, she would d the child. She would have berated Godric for snatching away such a promising intulectual. Perhaps Godric would have argued the girl's courage. Or perhaps he would have laughed, and begun to tease Rowena. It has been so long, I no longer know.

I miss them. I miss them greatly. I have not seen their faces for years upon years, and I long to. Were I mortal, perhaps I could assure myself that I would see them after I passed on. But I cannot. If I should ever, in some way, die, then I doubt there is a heaven for beings like me. I am one of a kind.

Still, I wish someone hear my voice. Truely hear it. Could speak to me. Few have been able to hear me, even softly, even in their deepest dreams. None since the Founders have been able to answer me. Sometimes, though, I will find a person who can, to use a modern term, 'pick up vibes'. The Dumbledore can near-always get a sense of any trouble that is afoot. Moony has an uncanny ability to learn my names for humans, realizing 'Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs' (Yes, sillier names than I usually give, but when they first came, they were that: a silly group. No more.), and calling the girl 'the brightest witch of her age'.

Now the Boy Who Lived is bidding his friends good-night. I must, for now, shift my attention to other things. Sleep securely, child. I will protect you for as long as you are within my walls. For Hogwarts never fails. . .