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I'm with my granddaughter, Hermione, and she wants to know if magic is real. She's in a phase of Arthurian legends, and my shame must be captivating.
"Tell me about magic," she says.
"Magic isn't real," I say, "I just had vivid, very vivid dreams of the fantastical."
"Tell me," she says, "Please. At least tell me what you dreamed."
When I was a child, I dreamed of wondrous things. A boarding school castle. A professor who hated me.
"There's no reason for me to tell you of my delusions," I say.
"Please, tell me."
I'm the lowest of the low. Magic was the lowest of the low.
"It's dirty."
"You've told me all about your war stories, your mob stories, stories about grandmom. But you've never told me about magic. She said you would."
"Fine," I say.
"When I was eleven, I dreamt of magic. I was special and could cast spells. I could turn water into wine, conjure a pen from the air, make things disappear, or even burn them, and I could make potions that could make you feel really good. But I used magic to take control. I was evil. I killed. I tortured. I ruled. And when I remember those dreams, I feel nothing. It's just a Rolodex of all the worst things a human can do. I was sick."
Her shoulders drop, looking at me like she's never really seen me before.
"How do you control people?" she asks.
"You can't control people," I say. She's nine now, but she's never had a friend. My daughter brings it up at every family supper.
"What about magic?" she says with doe eyes.
I hunch my shoulders, not able to look at her face. I repeat my mantra, "Magic isn't real. I just had vivid, very vivid dreams of the fantastical."
"I just want friends."
I don't know much about making friends, either. I worked as a doctor. My bedside manner was excellent, but I couldn't really connect to anyone but Nicole, her grandmother.
"You have to have hobbies," I say, "That's where you meet your friends. Like how I do bridge and meet with Charlus."
"Are you really friends with Charlus?"
"No."
Her nose wrinkles just like her grandmother's. "How would Voldemort make friends?"
"How do you know that name?" I shout.
"That's what your name spells. I am Lord Voldemort." She was much too smart for her own good.
"Voldemort didn't have friends. He had pawns. He had enemies. He struck fear in the hearts of his foes and allies. They didn't respect him or care for him. They feared him. Because in the Wizarding World, his blood, being born of one witch, was what mattered. Fear was the only way for people to treat him right."
There's a smile in her eyes, a slight crinkling at the corners, a gentle squint.
"I would never want that. I want people to respect me and love me," she says, "And I would never fear you, grandpa. I love you."
Hermione is eleven now, and she's going off to boarding school. The house will be emptier without her monthly visits. Is this why Voldemort feared fading into nothing?
"How did you manage your studies in school?"
That's an easy question. I dealt with college, a job, and a burgeoning relationship with Nicole. She needs to know it's not only about studies, but also about a social life. My eyes gleam.
"It's all about time management. Deadlines are important. Knowing when you need to go to work, when your next date is, and when your school work is due. You look at all of those details, and then it becomes obvious how to schedule your time."
"But, how did you do that in magic school?" she asks. I can feel the tide turn. She still hasn't made any friends. This boarding school is supposed to be huge for her.
"You shouldn't live vicariously in my dreams."
"Why not?"
"They aren't real."
She shrugs weakly.
"Neither are my friends."
"I told you before, Voldemort didn't have friends. It was all about exclusivity. Making each pawn feel exclusive to his time. And there were rules: boundaries, but more so laws," I look past. "My studying time was sacred, and messing with it was a violation. He pranked them by tarring one with feathers above the common room. And the only friends were his snakes."
I sigh, "The basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets and Nagini. They thought he was special, respected him, and cared for him. And he just used them. It's the one thing I can't forgive his persona for."
"Thanks, grandpa. I won't make the same mistakes," she says, "I promise."
She was home for Easter and readying to take her GCSEs.
"How did you study for your finals, grandad?"
She still didn't have friends. She should be worrying about a boyfriend or girlfriend. Really, anything else. Grades were important, but she's been the best in her class every year.
"It's not about cramming," I say, "It's about what you've been doing. Studying and learning over time. And once you take the test, it's about confidence. Not blind confidence in guessing an answer or not double-checking, but believing that you know everything. Grandma always said I was delusional."
"I meant your OWLs."
"Your grandmother told you a lot, didn't she?" I say. She rolls her eyes.
How could I convince her?
"My dreamt-up OWL performance isn't going to help you. You need something real. Someone real. They're not real. Your GCSEs are. My dreams were a result of being a sad and lonely kid. You can break out of it. I promise."
"Let me get you a drink," she said.
"I'm not thirsty."
She walks into the kitchen anyway. I need her to stop living in my delusions. I had lived in them for years. I had to watch passively when I messed up my life over and over again. I can't let her do that, either. Some dreams should die.
"Drink this hot cocoa."
I need to play along.
"Sure, Hermione."
I guess the boarding school didn't teach her how to make hot cocoa. It's disgusting.
"How did you get Os on all of your OWLs?"
"It's easy. Every year, after OWL results are released, the test questions from each past year are published. My year, I found they even reuse questions. And the professors never tell you about the education charter the ministry publishes. It outlines all the subjects covered on the test. From there, it's all about studying the right books. And I had them all in the Chamber of Secrets, My legacy from Salazar Slytherin. The only thing they ever gave me."
I can feel it. The pride. The rage. "Then you have the textbooks to help fill in the gaps of what the theoretical lies they want you to repeat back to them. But the insurance. The insurance was legillmency and occulmency."
I smile. "I could order all of my memories, and they're all perfect distillations of that first moment. It's as good as having your textbook right there—an open-book test. And if you keep your mindscape organized, it's like using a search function on a computer. But if that doesn't work, you can use Legillmency to read the proctor's mind. None of them expects a fifth year to be able to read their mind! And from then on, it's all about will. Who wants to keep their secrets hidden, or who wants to have them! And I always got them."
"What books would you read for Legillmency and Occlumency?"
I can't stop. It comes out of me like she's Nicole, and I want to tell her I love her.
"In the Chamber of Secrets, Slytherin wrote of the Mind Arts in Secrets of the Mind."
"I don't think you've ever been that talkative, grandad. Thank you so much," she says with a smile.
I'm dying. I can hear the beeps of those damned machines, but I know I don't have much time left. I need to hold on to say goodbye to Hermione. She's twenty-two and went abroad to Albania. My daughter said she would come, but I could never be sure. She might've been trying to give me hope, a reason to fight. But when you spent your youth being a dark lord of something that doesn't exist, and then fought the rest of your life to fix yourself, there's not a lot of fight left to give. But I need to make sure she doesn't get lost in his dreams that she's been asking about for years; every visit revolved around it.
"Grandad?" she says.
"Hermione," I say.
I get this euphoric feeling, where you're weightless and you'll be free as long as you stop breathing, where you're waiting for the answer, the voice to tell you congratulations on your life, where you can hear Nicole's voice and it's telling you to stop, you've done enough, you've made it, but you don't listen because you need to tell Hermione one last thing, even if it's not enough, not enough to fix all the damned delusions you've put in her head, not enough to make her know how much you love her and need her to do well in your stead because even if you don't want to live forever, you don't want to be forgotten, where you can see the light, no, feel the light at the end where you have made it, and it's ok to let go, but then you recognize that it's the Imperious, that damned curse that you know you can fight off for one last minute, for one last second to say goodbye, that damned curse that proves magic is real.
"It's real," I gasp out.
"It is," Hermione says, "It is."
"I'm a monster."
"Not here, but in another world," she says, "That's my best guess. Grindelwald's journals weren't that clear."
"You don't know the cost of this."
"I will and live forever. You'll be my horcrux. Your death will matter."
"Trust me," I say. "One day you'll look back on this and remember all you've done and only have regret left."
"I won't. Imperio."
I forget how to breathe.