{Thirty-Five Owls}

XXVI

February 2nd, 1982

Gellert,

My sincerity is mine, to do with as I will; if I spend it on an old, angry friend, that is my choice. And--I have more of it than you think, I swear, somehow I do. I always try to be better.

As for England spawning a Dark Lord--

I'd had my suspicions, ever since I first met him. He was eleven; I was sent to contact him, in the Muggle world, inform him of his acceptance into Hogwarts and a world he'd never known. Even then, he was hungry, suspicious, cruel just under the surface. Off-putting. Sorted into Slytherin, and I wondered; and I thought of keeping an eye on him. But I was such a meddling, sanctimonious old bastard, wasn't I? Always poking my long broken nose into other people's business, always making things worse when I did.

He learned, he grew, into what he was to become, at Hogwarts, even as I taught. He made his first Horcrux right under my selfsame nose, and I wasn't paying attention. Because Europe was groaning under your yoke; because I wrestled with the necessity of challenging you; because I didn't want to meddle in yet another child's life.

Oh, I tell myself it wouldn't have made a difference if I had. Or that it would have made things worse. But my country fell to a Dark Lord until--yes, stopped by an infant--because I didn't stop him soon enough, because I didn't stay his hand when he was still a child, still learning his ways. Because I was trying to be better.

In a way, it seems the thing I miss the most about those months we had together, however selfishly, is how I could let you command me. Abdicate responsibility to one I trusted--however mad I may have been to trust you. Abdicate responsibility at all; it's not a choice I have anymore. And you've been left with no responsibilities whatsoever.

I suppose we each envy the other. And I suppose we have nothing left to say to each other but denials and rejections. I--wish it were otherwise, at times.

Albus