The dedication of this book is split seven ways:

To my friends, some of whom are aware of this series, others who are not; to Bryan, Chris, Pj, Nastia, Brittany, Meg, Kyle, and so many others who have shaped this series in ways they'll never know.

To my editors, of which there have been many, some of whom are included elsewhere on this list; your hard work has been instrumental to this series, and will always be appreciated.

To my parents, who I know always did their best.

To my brother, Michael, for enduring things with me that no one else in this world could understand.

To Yelena, for breathing new life into me when I needed it most.

To my readers; to you, whoever you are, for taking part in this adventure with me- this series is yours as well, and it has been an honour to write for you all.

And last, but most certainly not least, to J.K Rowling; for letting a muggle like me take shelter in her world of magic for so long.

And now, the final installment of the Albus Potter Series, by Vekin87:

Chapter 1: Fairhart's Final Farewell

Dead leaves crinkled underneath his feet as he walked, each crunch punctuating the chorus of the hollow wind in his ears. The March chill was not unnerving, or ominous, but it was poignant, sharp in the way it bit into his skin, almost as if to urge him forward. Ducking under branches and slipping on the glossed over grass, a shape came into view.

For a moment, memories burned through his skull. The trees, the shadows, the smell of nature. The sight beyond was larger in these recollections, towering and grand, and he was infinitesimal, a speck, a shadow, with another shadow beside him-

Now the structure ahead was old and small, and cramped, but even with as little time as he'd spent there, Albus remembered it well. Fairhart's cabin seemed to extend invisible arms towards him as he worked his way through the bramble, the loose strap of his dark backpack occasionally snagging to halt him. The sight of it soothed him, though he wasn't quite sure why; perhaps it had become symbolic in some way. His life seemed divided into two separate, yet related parts-the first was everything before the cabin, and the attack on the train. Memories so rich and vivid that he could see and feel and taste them like they were right before him; laughing with James, pillow fights with Uncle Ron. Seeing his mother fly, being terrified of heights; Scorpius' scowl, Morrison's chortle, Mirra's soft kisses. And then there was the second part, the part that had started with the cabin. It was briefer, and more crude, but it was more recent too. And soon, he realized, as he exited the dense wooden area and made for the homely abode, it would serve as another beginning.

Fairhart's wooden residence was not his first stop, but it was close. Immediately following his departure from the Potter residence, he'd gone to Hogwarts, almost instinctively. Not in the castle, not even on the grounds-powerful magic made such a thing impossible. But just outside of the grounds, where the majestic castle still loomed, watching him, comforting him. There was no real point to it outside of to stare, but he'd camped there for at least more than a night, if only to accept that what he'd heard was true; the school was closed. The lights had still flitted about into the night sky, but Albus somehow knew that it had an empty interior, a piece of history temporarily subdued by the capricious world around it. After Hogwarts he'd went to Hogsmeade, which had seemed an appropriate and effective way of gauging what he was up against. There, in the wizarding village, he'd observed and absorbed, and had gotten a grasp of the contents of the Wizarding World following the destruction of the United Ministry. It had proven to be a most unique experience-familiar yet incoherent, almost like being in a dream. It had all looked the same, with people interacting and shopping. Albus had spent a few nights (and already an exorbitant amount of his gold) at an inn, spending his days listening in and watching, and learning for himself what his family and friends hadn't told him.

The people, he now knew, were neither afraid nor brave, but rather living in a society destined to explode at any moment. People talked loudly about whom they'd pledge their support to-some still supported the fragmented WAR, and Waddlesworth, others wanted the Ministry back. Some embraced the anarchy, and that was when fighting started. There were whispers and growls about Darvy-about "Death's Right Hand"-and how he was in hiding, about the Dark Alliance severing incrementally, dividing somewhat just as the numerous Renegade factions now were. How many days he spent hiding in plain sight he wasn't sure, but now that he'd Apparated to outside the cabin-to where he could begin to apply this knowledge-he felt himself shake. Was it excitement? He didn't know. But as the sweat defied the cold and ran down his free hand-the hand with a mesh of flesh in the center-Fairhart's words came back to him in a rush of wind.

Back at the cabin there is a silver box.

Albus hadn't forgotten. He'd played around with the words in his head daily since he'd left the island, searching their context for some hidden meaning, some posed riddle. But his memory served him well, and Fairhart's last true sentence to him had made sense in the end. Back at the cabin. Albus recalled this mysterious box, this item that he'd made no passing thought towards the entire time that he'd been training alongside the Renegade, and as he neared the cabin, he found himself almost bursting with intrigue. It was an idea that he'd voiced to no one-not his father, not Mirra, not Scorpius or Morrison-but in his head he had a deep hope, almost an expectation, that Fairhart was still guiding him.

He'd wondered often what would be concealed within the silver box, even if it only was to himself. His first, immediate thought had been of a weapon; a powerful magical weapon that would serve to aid him in whatever endeavors Fairhart had expected to remain after the island. Fairhart had not taken it with them, he realized, as a precaution-if they never did leave Azkaban, it was best not to keep something so powerful there with them. He speculated on its use-it pertained to those fierce objects that Darvy possessed, he figured; or at least, two of them, as Fango Wilde now seemed to have one. But the idea of a powerful offensive force seemed too good to be true, and too potent to have not been mentioned.

So then he imagined some sort of a tool. Nothing to be used in such a manner as a wand, but something that would help him nevertheless. Fairhart could not have possibly known that Azkaban would be his end, but he was tactical enough to leave something inopportune for another moment. He couldn't begin to fathom what the tool could be-what it would look like, or its exact usage-but the idea still lingered in his mind nevertheless. Soon enough, he realized, as the cabin grew larger in his wake, the mystery would end.

He pushed the battered door open with his scarred hand, his other fingers clasped around the strap of his backpack. Albus had put little thought into the trivial aspects of his journey-having left in such a hurry, and with such a clouded mind-but he'd proven to be overall prepared for concealing himself in the shadows, at least. He wore a dark, long sleeved shirt, and worn out jeans, and he could practically feel himself blend into the darkness of the cabin. Breathing in dust, he whipped out his wand and murmured, "Lumos!"

The beam of light hovered in the air, sliding over the decaying walls and splintered ground. It was night time, but it would be morning soon, and he crept about accordingly, eyeing what little he could. He saw a moth-eaten couch and felt himself cringe-that was where he had slept. Striding by it, he inhaled sharply as he entered the next room, and here he saw that his wand light wasn't needed. An opened window allowed the moonlight to pour in easily, and the resulting image was enough to make him give an audible groan. The room was in disarray.

The United Ministry, he remembered at once. Picking up the pieces from the events before he and Fairhart had arrived at the island that month or so ago, he recalled the visit to Lambshire that preceded their departure. It had been there where they'd encountered Waddlesworth's mix of Aurors and Renegades, and where Fairhart had revealed their hiding spot as compromised. He had not been incorrect. The old and decrepit books that Albus had vaguely paid attention to were scattered about on the floor, along with an overturned cauldron. With grim satisfaction, Albus realized that Waddlesworth's dogs had found nothing, as there was little to find-he and Fairhart had lived almost solely by their wands during his training. In fact, the only thing that could even be worth finding was-

"The box!"

It was the first word that he remembered uttering in a few days, but he didn't bother to count, instead looking around wildly in the moonlight. His eyes passed over an untouched cupboard in the corner, scaling around the room rapidly, so much so that he seemed to see the contents of the room in a blur. Finally, after a moment of searching, it appeared to him, exactly where it was in his memory-on the floor, placed up against the middle of the wall adjacent to him.

It looked, like only a few other things, completely untouched. Hanging above it was still the odd piece of rectangular cloth, and both of them had an almost eerie visual about them, looking entirely motionless, as though two stones uninterrupted by a storm. Albus approached the box quickly and crouched down, then ran his hands over it. It was cold and made of metal, just as he'd predicted, but a bit smaller than it had seemed before as well; he wondered just what Fairhart could have managed to fit inside of it that had such great importance. When he went to lift it to examine it more, however, he found that he couldn't.

Agitated, he grasped the smooth sides of it with his palms and gave an almighty heave, only to feel a terrible pain in his back a moment later. Gritting his teeth, he went for one more unsuccessful pull, and then aimed his wand at it.

"Adlevio!" he thought in his head, jolting his wand forward. The Featherweight charm now successfully applied, he reached down for another tug-

The box still wouldn't budge, but beyond that, it had changed. Atop the silver cube four blue lights had appeared, organized vertically, illuminating the room even more so than the presence of the moon. Albus gazed at it, hauntingly entranced by it, and saw shapes in the four lights, four of them, all rounded. When he touched the first light on his left it changed; the rounded shape vanished, followed by a smaller straight line.

He realized what was going on immediately. Numbers. There had been four zeros there, and at touching one of them, it had changed to the number one. To test his theory, he touched the third light twice rapidly, and sure enough, a shimmering number two greeted him. To investigate further, he tapped all the way up until nine, but after another touch, it reset itself to zero.

Standing up, he rubbed at his chin. He recalled thinking before, upon seeing the box, that it resembled a safe of sorts-a container for precious belongings; indeed, Fairhart might have even specified this as well, though he wasn't sure. Obviously, this idea had been proven phenomenally correct regardless, but this didn't help his situation. Whatever was in the safe was undoubtedly important, but the combination was going to prove tricky to bypass. He immediately thought of the most powerful spells that he knew of-spells to destroy, to conjure fire, an array of destructive curses and hexes-but he tossed away the idea almost at once. This was Fairhart's safe, and Fairhart was twice the wizard he was, and would know enchantments to protect such a thing of importance from those kinds of spells. Albus would need someone like his father here to break through such defences, but he had no intention of having that occur. Looking around the room, he realized that he may not have been the first to meet such a struggle either; if the United Ministry had done even a pitiful job of searching about, they would have encountered the unmovable box and tried to open it as well, and if they couldn't do so by force, Albus was sorry to say, then he definitely didn't have a shot. On deeper thinking, the mess around him could even have been a sign of their frustration-a childish tantrum, thrown over a box to which they had no idea of the contents.

Albus sat down in the dust, legs crossed beneath him, deep in concentration. Was there any point to trying? He tried to think of a time when Fairhart had mentioned a sequence of numbers, had mentioned anything that could be of assistance here, but it seemed as though he was on his own. Whether the combination was random or specifically designed, it took him only a moment of thinking to realize that he didn't know it.

Sliding himself up against the wall, he tried to think again of the last words that Fairhart had aimed at him. It was hard to remember the situation exactly, hard to remember everything word for word. Albus had called him by his first name, "San"; he'd started doing that. But Fairhart had cut him off hurriedly, and hadn't even finished his sentence before the Silhouettes had attacked. He'd mentioned the box, that much Albus knew, that was why he was here. He'd said something about opening it, but that was where the details of the recollection died out, and Albus realized, with a heavy heart, that Fairhart could not have possibly known that he'd have only a few words left to aim at him. Whatever crucial piece of information intended for him, had died when he'd tumbled through the Veil. The sound of Darvy's laughter punctuated his head following this thought, and he removed his backpack and slid it across the floor furiously, not wanting to remember...

Think. Had he done all of this for nothing? How much of his plans were dependent on opening this safe, Albus couldn't say, but he knew that that he had more to lose by not seeing its contents than by spending a few more minutes on it. Numbers, he repeated in his head. Numbers. What could the numbers be?

It had to be something personal. Albus had learned enough in his lessons from Fairhart to know that all clues left behind were personal-but he wasn't tracking anyone here, and the person of interest had more secrets than almost anyone Albus had ever met. But he had known Fairhart-known him as well as he could have hoped, given the situations presented-and there had to be meaningful numbers in there, somewhere. He tried thinking of birthdays, of a certain year...

Blackwood came to mind first. Albus still grimaced at the complex relationship between his two former professors. Whatever emotions had been there were gone from this world now, but could some sort of link remain in this safe? But he didn't know anything about Blackwood, not even her birthday. He didn't even know Fairhart's birthday, he realized, and he felt a twinge of guilt at that. How well had he known the man?

He addressed the notion that it may have been a random sequence, but only because it was the best that he was going to do, it seemed. Turning around and pressing randomly on the lights, he allowed different combinations to flow through him. 5-3-3-6. Nothing. 3-1-2-5. Nothing.

This is going to take a while, he realized, breathing in the cold air. He wished that he knew some sort of spell to perform such tedious tasks, but again, if the United Ministry hadn't been able to get into it with magic, it was unlikely that he'd be able to either. It had to be something personal.

His stomach began to churn. Truly digging into Fairhart's personal life had made him nothing but squeamish in the past, and that was not likely to change by reliving it all now. He went back, deeper than Blackwood's death. What about his life? What about WAR?

When had Fairhart joined Wands and Redemption? With such a large portion of Fairhart's life tied to such an act, was the year in which he'd made that decision so prominent? But no, that wasn't right. Fairhart had loathed those years in hindsight. He would not have wanted to be reminded of them when opening his safe...

A small lock slid open in his head. What would Fairhart want to be reminded of? What would he himself want to be reminded of? Numbers-combinations of them-were used to identify many things, but which ones brought him the most joy? He'd been fourteen when he'd first kissed Mirra. He'd met Morrison on the first of September. He was sure there were numbers for Scorpius too, for those of his family...

Sam. He almost had to say her name aloud, to register it fully. That muggle woman that he'd never met-that poor woman whose death had been the last, sickening blow to Fairhart before his own demise. Sam...

It was the fourth of May.

Albus felt each of his individual nerves burn. They were to be married, Fairhart and that woman. A number from a happier time. The fourth of May.

He was never going to have a better guess than that. Not even believing it himself, trying to not allow himself to grow excited, lest he be disappointed, Albus began to touch the lights on top of the safe. How well did he truly know Fairhart? 0-4-0-5...

A low clicking noise bounced around the room. It was a fragile sound-the snapping of a twig might have concealed it-but Albus heard it as though it were a gong. No way...

He touched the sides of the box and lifted; the cold metal now moist from the sweat of his fingers. His mind still wrapped around the impossibility of his triumph, a thin lid slid from the top of the small box, revealing a small area inside-there was no magic to its dimensions. The first thing to grace his green eyes was a sparkle-a flash of light that seemed pointed, as though it were gesturing towards him. This is where the grin sawed itself onto his face. It was a weapon...an item of immense power...

But no...it looked familiar. It was as delicate as glass, and built in the shape of a pyramid. Dusty and looking thoroughly unused, Albus examined it closely, panic coursing through him with every moment. Once it was fully analyzed, an unbearable disappointment overcame him. He recognized it entirely; it was his trace.

Fairhart had locked the damn thing up for what he could only imagine as two reasons: first, to ensure that they weren't tracked if the cabin was compromised, and second, to piss him off. What good would his trace do now? He wasn't even sure if it still worked, and even if it did, was there any point to uncovering it?

Seething, he placed it down at his side-the contrast of his previous excitement to his current frustration made him numb. He gazed at the empty interior of the box now with loathing, never more upset with his mentor, and given their stained relationship, that was saying something.

There's nothing, he realized grimly, nothing here for me. There was no guidance, no tool to use at his disposal. He was all alone, and he'd forced it upon himself.

His heart began to beat quickly. It was the strangest thing, how his body worked-his eyes had registered something while his mind had been busy whining. There was something off-something strange-about the inside of the box. One of the corners looked different, like it was protruding upwards. Albus reached down and felt it; it was smooth, but not cold, or metallic. It felt like...

Parchment. His grin returned, though it was a savage one this time, he was sure. He reached his hand into the box and began grabbing roughly, trying to pick it up all as one piece; the feeling of it lifting into his hand was extremely satisfying. It was thick, that was for sure. There had to be a lot written on it.

And there was. Albus removed the entire sleeve of it from within the box, and saw that it had been folded over several times. Fairhart's writing was a mixture of both neat and rushed, yet it was legible, and his pounding heart missed several beats as the first line came into view, illuminated by the moon's good grace.

Albus,

What a curious set of circumstances you must be in right now. If you are reading this, the firmest, most unbiased estimations that I can give are that I am gone. I write this to you now as a means of leaving you some truth, and it is in strange form, for currently you lie sleeping as the quill touches the parchment.

We leave for Lambshire soon, and from there, I cannot imagine any deviations of the plan. Azkaban is in our wake, closer than it seems-closer than any map would have us believe. I write this to you not with the intention of it being important, but with the hope that-should the scenario present itself-you have much to gain from it. Never is the future truly certain, so long as human beings are involved. I cannot help but allow the images to float through my head; pictures of the situation you are now in. Perhaps we have succeeded in most of what we had attempted, and you read this now being one step closer to ending the tyranny of Sebastian Darvy. Perhaps you read it bruised and bloodied, your spirit broken, entangled in the chains of failure. Perhaps-and I find this most unlikely, but one can hope-you read this laughing, me standing at your shoulder. And perhaps you do not read it at all, though it is this thought that saddens me most. I have every intention of keeping you alive on this journey, Albus, and I can think of no greater failure on my part than for this letter to go unread. I fear that if you never get to read it, it will have meant the end of more than just you.

You may be wondering why I would bother-what the purpose is of such correspondence, when we will have had an agonizingly uncomfortable amount of time together during the duration of our venture. That these things will not have been said to you while I was alive may seem surprising; may even seem as betrayal. But there are some things, I'm afraid, that are better left unsaid until they make sense. If you have returned from Azkaban, with or without your father, with or without Darvy defeated, with or without me-then you have a right to know everything.

I will explain the complexities of your importance and Azkaban soon, but first I must elaborate on the lies in which I've told you. The lies have not been blatant and outright-they have been omissions, designed to prevaricate for you, to alleviate burdens and to simplify, and it is here that I feel I have committed the most egregious of my errors. We leave for Azkaban with the intention of setting your father free, and of greatly weakening Darvy's forces. You will have noticed, I am sure, that my personal mission has revolved mostly around the Foulest Book-you've had inquiries before as to its prevalence, and I have explained them as loosely as I can. I wished to not overwhelm you with too much, but now it seems as though not laying the burden upon you would result in the most strain. My ambition in finding the Foulest Book first and foremost relates to its importance as an item; as I discussed with you before, it represents knowledge. Knowledge that I do not possess. I told you that I had plans to destroy Darvy's three evils, the items that grant him his power, but in truth, it was all contingent on finding the first. The Dragonfang Wand and the Executioner's Veil are too magically reinforced for one of my talents, and too mysterious for even me. The books on these shelves pertain almost exclusively to the Book, for the Book is the greatest weapon Darvy-or anyone else-can wield. It is my hope that we-that you, truly-will have returned with the Book in hand. I told you that it needed to be destroyed, and this is the truth. But it needs to be used first.

It needs to be used Albus, because you need to learn everything that you can about the Dragonfang Wand. When this task is complete, the Book must be eradicated; wiped away. The thick, intimidating books on these shelves contain techniques for destroying its particular brand of magic, one of which I'm hoping will be of certain use to you. But the Book must be destroyed only after you know how to destroy the Wand and the Veil. And only after you have learned what the result could be.

This may mystify you. It may seem sudden, or even idiotic. You already know of the importance of learning about these powerful objects, and thus, the immediate reaction to these statements may be dismay; that I have wasted valuable time in telling you what you already know. But it needed to be reiterated, for it prefaces a solution that I have constructed from your words alone. You asked me, Albus-just hours ago-why strange things happen to you. Why you hear voices; why your eyes glow gold. Why you feel surges of power, unmistakably malicious power. If you have returned from Azkaban, Albus, then it is very likely that your curiosity has only grown, for I foresee this strangeness having a part to play. And now, I feel, you are ready.

I do not know for sure of all that I am about to say, but if I am wrong, then you may rest easy in knowing that there are no viable answers. I believe, Albus, after hearing your testimonies, that you are the owner of the Dragonfang Wand-and that you have been for quite some time. I have never been one to ignore research, and the little that I've uncovered about the Wand is scrambled, with no true set of rules or properties. While some might consider this an indication of little thought, I consider it evidence of something much worse. The Wand is an unfinished product, and this means that its nature is shifting; that it has created its own nature and adapted to it as it sees fit. I believe that your ownership of the Wand can be pinpointed to a single moment, even if the moment only split that mastery. You had the option of killing Reginald Ares, Albus, if your story is true. And you didn't. Your inner conflict could not have been more opportune. The Wand, I believe, was at that moment primed to take on an owner. But as it has no true set of criteria, it split its ownership. Ares was an immensely powerful wizard, and thus, the Wand gave its abilities to him-I have no doubt that Ares was the first to be able to conjure creatures from another realm. But instead of detecting power within you, the Wand saw other traits; it familiarized itself with your character. There are things that certain wizards possess, Albus, that are unusual in their own right, without any raw power attached. The Wand goaded you into killing Ares-made you goad yourself, truly, and when you questioned this urge, you ensnared it. To value life even when all things-even one's own reason-calls for it to be taken, is a unique principle. Whether it is good or bad is irrelevant. You amused the Wand, by showing it something that it had never seen before. I can't imagine how often someone elected not to use it, given its purpose. And the Wand, as nefarious as its design is, aimed to keep you alive.

The times of your great spurts of power-of those sudden rushes of magical ability-when did they come to you? Was it conscious? I find that unlikely. The most amazing thing about you, Albus, is that for all you do wrong-for all of the foolish decisions that you might make-they are done with the intention of limiting harm. I believe that the Wand has aided you most in times, not where you were in peril, but when others were. This foreign feeling, this empathy, is a channel for it. When your loved ones are in danger, the Wand strengthens you, coursing through you, that the link might allow it to feel that unusual emotion that is compassion. Compassion, Albus, is your greatest strength.

Sebastian Darvy, I believe, knew of this link. There is a plethora of psychological reasons behind why he may have wanted to murder his brother, but I believe that the most pure reasoning lies in the net gain of it. Darvy killed Ares in the hopes that his half of that great power would pass on to him. But like all who seek the shortest route to ability, he fails to understand its origins. The moment that Ares died, Albus, it was no longer bound by its former obligations to two individuals. You inherited the other half of the Wand's power, not Darvy. On the surface you will deem this incorrect-question how this is possible, given what Darvy can do-but I see through this. Darvy has needed to resort to alternative means of generating his army of the undead, because the Wand only serves him in moderation; due to fragments of control still left from the connections forged by Ares. Likewise, I would be astounded if the creatures themselves harbored any loyalty to him outside of the superficial; of his physical control over them. Regardless, true magic trumps shortcuts, and you are the true owner of the Dragonfang Wand. Again I must confess to having lied to you. I told you that I wanted you to come to Azkaban with me because I could use your talents. While you are a skilled wizard, Albus, you are still developing, and I do not expect you to contribute in areas in which you are unlearned. I want you to accompany me because I believe that your mere existence might prove as a barrier between us and Darvy's works. I sense great feats of power have yet to be seen from you, Albus, and whether I live to see them or not does not matter. It is Darvy that I want to see it. Darvy and you; that you might both realize the truth.

But this cannot be revealed until after it has already happened. This seems paradoxical, but too often, this is the case for the bizarre. What am I going to tell you next is what I dread telling you the most, for I fear that you might never forgive me. I have waited to inform you of your power, Albus, because I believe that revealing it to you has taken it away.

The Dragonfang Wand belongs to you only so long as it is still entertained by your complicated heuristics. You may still hear those voices, for the Wand has poisoned you. You may still have control over Darvy's creatures, for you are their master. But the Wand will no longer aid you. Now that you are familiar with the root of your power, there is no other way to prevent you from abusing it. The Wand has enjoyed aiding you in desperation, but now that you are aware of its source-now that you might start to manipulate it as you see fit-you will have lost your appeal. If Darvy has not yet been defeated, and you still aim to stop him, you will have to do so without the Wand's help.

You may be wondering why I would do such a thing. Why I should kill you with the truth, strip you of your greatest weapon. But the truth is, Albus, this power is a crutch. The Wand fuels you with the ability to destroy; I know this sensation. I joined WAR, and was never more powerful then when I killed for them. But I was a better wizard before that. The measure of a man is not what they can do, but what they can refrain from doing; from what they can walk away from. The Dragonfang Wand did not measure your worth by your ability to destroy, and neither should you.

You may hate me now; I deserve some hatred, after how I spent my life. This letter must draw to a close soon, and postponing it will serve only as a symbol for the prolonged comeuppance for all that I've done. I do not wish to elicit any pity when I tell you that I have done nothing with my life. All that I love is gone; my parents, Sam, my son. Ida. Even the companionship of Fango is tainted. I leave behind nothing but vague memories, vague memories and destruction. I succumbed to the virus of grief and spread it; my time in WAR is irrevocable, and haunts me to this day. I live now for the hope of what might come after me. What do we fight for, if not tomorrow? It is the obligation of life to ensure that it continues, and with death as an absolute, this is accomplished only through others. The only talents I ever had I squandered selfishly. I implore you to not make the same mistakes. I don't know what you strive for now, or even if you still mean to continue. I could never be so callous as to leave my ruin upon you; what you do now is up to you. I have left you tools, and left you a schematic, but the option to walk away is yours. I fear that that I will leave a world on the brink of destruction-but there are many who might restore it. I believe that you are one of them. But only you know if you can do it; if you even want to.

This may sound strange to you, but I do not want you to mourn me. Death will be a release for me, not because I have loathed life, but because it ran its course for me too early. I sense my demise is on an island not especially far away, but I am calm as I write this letter. I am calm, Albus, because whether you want me to be or not, I am proud of you. Those words may mean less to you than the parchment on which you read them, but to me, they are everything. Whether the world ever knows of what we try to do-whether we accomplish or fail at it-is irrelevant. What it is important is that we did not eschew that responsibility. In spending time with you I have seen the promise of youth, and this instills me with a sense of peace. I am fortunate to have learned, before the end, that people like me and people like you might exist together. I do not believe myself some monster, like Darvy. But I can acknowledge that I let go of life, and never had the strength to find it again. I don't know where I am now. Magic has not yet granted us the privilege of seeing the beauty in the world that comes next-or if there even is one at all. But I can hope. I can hope for a place where I am with those I love. And I feel no shame in this uncertainty, for hope is what drives us beyond all else. I hope that you have learned more than magic from me, Albus; I hope that you have learned of the ephemerality of life, and the great importance of cherishing it. I hope that you will have come to consider me as a true friend, as I have you. I hope that you are happy, in whatever it is that comes-and that when it is time for you to write your own letter, your heart will not weigh on your chest, but pour through your words freely.

I never got to watch my son grow, Albus, but I can only hope that, if he had, he would have turned out a little like you. Not with all that you are from what you've experienced; but from all that you are despite these experiences. As I near my end, I hope that I will soon hold my son for the first time. I have many things to tell him. And I hope that one day-not too soon, of course, but one day-he will get to meet you. That he might meet the boy-the man-that I will have undoubtedly told him so much about.

Farewell, Albus. Whatever the state of the world now, may you find many things to hope for-

Your friend,

-Sancticus Fairhart

Albus grasped the long roll of parchment tightly in his fingers. He felt every emotion fathomable pulse through him at once; or maybe there was none at all. The truth of it stung, but it was a relieving sting, and it was the manner of Fairhart's last message to him that bothered him the most. This was a letter cast in uncertainty. These were the words of a man who wanted to leave behind something, but had nothing but advice and admonitions, nothing but hope. And beyond it all, he was disappointed, and he hated himself for that. He hated himself because he had expected Fairhart to help him, not even realizing that he already had. That it had been unfair of him to view Fairhart-his friend-as the means to stopping Darvy, when Fairhart had never expected to be the one to do it. And he hated himself for suddenly, after so much deliberation, wanting to give up.

Tears burned his eyes as he rose to his feet, shaking. The paper slid from his fingers, but not before he'd read part of it over again. Taken it away. His power, the mysterious strength that he was counting on...gone. Just like that. Whatever Fairhart's reasoning, whatever his nonsense about it being a crutch, it was his only chance. He'd left his father knowing that his abilities were linked to the Dragonfang Wand, but believing that he was learning to control it. Now it had been stripped from him, like a sword ripped from his hands the moment he entered an arena. And that wasn't all. Not only had Fairhart taken his only means of stopping Darvy, but he'd revealed how truly impossible the task was. There was no plan past Azkaban. Fairhart had expected death from it. The Foulest Book was the only piece of the puzzle he'd ever planned on obtaining, and they'd even failed at that! The weight of it all was crashing down on him with staggering force, and yet, he stood, taller than ever, his face burning.

He screamed. An ear-splitting shriek that nearly put the howling of the wind to shame. His cry of rage echoed around the cabin, taunting him, and he sank to his knees, eyes closed, unable to accept it all. He reached down and seized the first thing that he could-the tiny glass pyramid found his fingers. And in a desperate bid to displace his ire he spun around, in a full circle, looking for a place to chuck the useless object, kicking the box in the process and jamming his toe, giving another growl as he released the item in his hand arbitrarily-

It crashed right about the box. Albus heard a ripping noise just as he fell down once more, tears now falling faster than ever. He coiled into a fetal position, hyperventilating, cursing to himself, writhing in the wreckage of the cabin, hating how alone he was-

"Stop it!" boomed an oily voice, and Albus froze at once, gazing at the rotting ceiling above. "Stop it! You disgrace my name with your childish wailing!"