Epilogue
How long has it been since then? How long have I walked the earth, on a journey that seems to have no end? I know why I have been set on this journey, yet I know not of how or when it will end. I remember the years, the details of all the histories I have passed thru yet the impact of how long time has passed is foreign to me. I see the world change around me yet I alone remain unchanged. This is a curse I have accepted, but it is not one I welcome for the deaths of those I care for always has and always shall proceed my own.
Death is not one who welcomes me, he despises me I am certain of this, for my constant defiance of the natural order has long evaded his collection of my soul...what remains of it. It is not only my soul he seeks to claim, but those frozen within me who have allowed this curse to continue. Perhaps he does not know of my fate, perhaps he does, I do not know, for I have never met him. Does he laugh at me I wonder, for not knowing his release or does he pity me to be the last memory of my time, a time whose ashes I walk in as I have lived past its end? Is it that I am allowed to walk this world because I am the last of my people? to ensure the Great Balance must one of us always exist, or is it to preserve the memory of my people?
What makes a memory? The time I was born to was one where memories of a person or place were preserved by those who lived to inherit knowledge. What happens when there are none to inherit that knowledge, or when that knowledge is stolen from others? That is when a people, a place, truly dies and that is what happened to us. My people had a long and proud history, one that was meant to endure to this modern world; to endure well beyond me. I should have met Death when I was meant to, but nothing went as it should have back then. We alchemists were betrayed by the very witches and wizards history has immortalized as heroes of our time. I stood idle by as history wrote these Betrayers as great people, as those just, true and powerful, coming together to create a school where those of magical blood may learn. Half-truths, woven into lies, lies I will stand for no longer.
As I hold this book of lies, can I truly hold the author accountable for that which is not a fault of his? This book is a collection of memories, written, verbal; preserved memories of the events of the founding of our school, our castle. Hogwarts: A History. I believe the author is not at fault because he was merely researching what was available to him, what was not destroyed and erased from history; memories altered to forget my people, to forget me. Fear not. I shall correct this falseness, this book of lies, starting from a fact I saw with my very own eyes: there were not four founders, there were five.
