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October 16th, 1951

Dumbledore—

My memory might be a bit weak, but I believe the exact phrase might have been something more like "smug, supercilious, INFURIATING bastard, sanctimonious git with a bloody superiority complex, like to pretend you're so humble, you hypocrite, no I don't want any candy." I wasn't even drunk.

Then again, I'm the one locked in a room for the rest of his life, wandless, slowly going mad. Can my memory really be trusted?

I suppose now you'll tell me that what I console myself with at night is false—that I never slid your hair through my hands,

that I never seen Dark spells crackle down your wand and set your face alight.

I suppose next you'll tell me that you don't scream in the back of your throat at climax. Suppose next you'll tell me that I never took you over that old oak coffee table while Aberforth was out of the cottage.

Shall I go on?

Shall I list all the pretty little moments you've decided to bury alongside the summer we burned away?

You can stand up there in your castle with your medals and your students and your righteous grief, Albus.

I have nothing but stone walls and ghosts.

Do not bother writing back to deny any of it. I know the truth.

I always have.

Gellert