Contribution

Ms. Rowling owns, thanks.

This fic is dedicated to Ashley, who, in all likelihood, will not read it.

When I look back on our greatest achievement, on our school, I often wonder what would have happened had one of us been replaced with someone - for lack of a better phrase - more ordinary.

Because each of us, in our own way, was extraordinary. Extraordinary in intelligence, in strength, in power of magic, in determination... It is impossible to describe one of us without also describing the other three.

Hogwarts - our dream. That was what brought us together. And though it would not have been the same without any of the other three, it would not have been without me.

The others brought their own things to the table: bravery, loyalty, fidelity, intelligence, wit, cunning, faith... But I was the one with the dream. I was the one who made it happen.

So I find it unceasingly ironic that I will likely be the one who ultimately destroyed it.

Good Lord, you thought I was Helga, didn't you?

I suppose that in twelve years of marriage a couple does begin to sound somewhat like each other, yes.

I seem incapable of not startling you. I apologize.

Another irony.

No matter. All that is important to me is that you hear me out. I have not much to say in any case.

I daresay you are expecting me to explain away my actions - the famous ones, at any rate? Tell how I was falsely accused, framed, maliciously enchanted?

Unfortunately, I am not a liar.

And neither will I express my regret or guilt. What is done is done, and all the guilt and remorse in the world will not change it. Nor will excuses. And I do not regret my actions - I did as I thought was best, and no one can fault me for that, no matter their reservations or objections for the deed itself.

Besides, why should I beg forgiveness where it will never be given - where the only result will be disgust? Godric's students are ever unforgiving, as he was, and Rowena's haughty. My own would see it as betrayal of the principles they live by. I refuse to throw myself on the mercy of my wife's legacy of pity.

That was ever our quarrel, she and I - she would refuse to think ill of even those who had proven their deceit, and I - I could never accept anything but perfection.

But neither do I claim pride for my actions. Neither do I continue them here, however strange the afterlife may be. Neither have I, do I, will I support the claims and slaughter of my so-called heirs - one in particular.

Are your souls all so immaculate, your minds so unclouded and unprejudiced, that you can pronounce judgment on me? Are you so divine as to determine the right and wrong in my actions? What qualifies you to decide what I am? Are you not guilty of the same crimes, even if not carried to the same extent?

How dare you judge me?

I am not accusing, I am asking you. Can even one of you answer?