{Thirty-Five Owls}

VI

September 26th, 1952

Albus--

After all the scatological ways I've considered--no, I'll have to start this letter with a simple thank you. My charming sulks, you horrid arse. I haven't laughed that hard in weeks.

But Muggle literature? Honestly, Albus. Send me the Compendium of Inoffensive Things--then I might refrain from a sulk. This Woolf woman--very strange.

And Legilimency? Don't bother. Stay out of my head. The days stretch, oh yes, like that furlough-string taffy you used to suck on as we talked, stringing it endlessly between your fingers and your teeth. Downright distracting, that. Made my pen slip on the parchment more than once. But it did explode so delightfully when we hexed it, remember? Green and smoking?

You were always absolute rubbish at begging. Remember when I hexed your legs to the bedstead and made you wait? Utterly pathetic, you couldn't even manage to be polite. I was in such a snit I could've beaten you bloody...

And my life. This life you reduced me to. Taffy days and memories.

Morning: the guards come round, scan all my papers for dangerous Arithmancy. They used to rough me up, sometimes, when I was first here, no spells, just fists. There was one woman--you killed my husband, she would scream, you killed my husband. They stopped after a few years because I would always laugh at them. I take as much idiotic, endless pride in my talents as you, Albus. The talent of laughing through broken teeth while kneeling on a stone floor clutching your bruised gut, laughing with blood down your throat at people who want to torture you? A good talent to have in prison. Worth far more than wits or magic.

The food tastes like dirt. I've lost a good bit of weight. The window's old and wavery glass, and I can't see my reflection clearly, but I'd imagine I look rather like a skeleton. Hard to imagine a handsome British genius once made love to me on riverbanks, eh?

Taffy days. I read until my eyes blur, stop, re-read, make notes. Perhaps I should bequeath you my library--but no, you would be disgusted, no doubt. My magic is still Dark, even if I cannot practice it. I rummage aimless through old lore. Tell me, old friend, did you ever find the Hallows? Did you achieve our dream without me? Will you master Death, now that you've shucked your partner off to ignobility and prison?

Ah. I remember writing essays at Durmstrang like this, rambling on like an old dodderer, writing with half an eye on the page and half an eye in Moste Potente Potions. Dipping my pen in the newt blood by mistake.

I wear smooth spots on the floor where I pace. Three rats I caught hang from shackle brackets in the corners--I stamped on their tails as they ran past, snapped their necks, and skinned them with my teeth. They've rotted slowly and horrible over the years. A sacrifice, to discourage the others--no rats have bothered me since. And you'd be amazed what stenches you can get used to.

Evening--certain months of the winter I can see the sun go down out my narrow window. Cold yellow winter sun splintering pale over the icy mountains. I want to gather the gray magic of the wind and sprinkle three dots of blood over the clouds and fly free like a banshee up to the summit. Just fly, like I used to. I'd even come quietly back to my cell after. Fly like I did from old Gregorovitch's house with It in my hand, laughing, joyous. I seem to recall dancing about the room with you when I scared up that spell from the old Dark tomes. Essential tool for the Dark Lord, really, to wing about looking intimidating. But also--joyous.

Night, and the windowpane is icy, and the moon rolls behind roiling dark clouds. I love the North. Better to live out my life here in the highest tower, looking down over the rocky crags and the wild land, then somewhere in the potted fields of England. Once I traced the path of the Volga with my wand on your bare back, drawing in ice crystals on your skin. They would bloom, feather, soften at the edges, bead, slide down along your spine, and you would moan, so soft.

The same on my windowpane when my warm hand touches it, the melting, but silent. No other human voice. Not ever.

Taffy days, Albus. You threw me over and locked me up in here. Now leave me in peace with your Neville and your Jinny.

Sulkingly yours,

Gellert