December 25th, 1981
Dumbledore--
I seem to be acquiring a habit of writing at Christmas. Very well, merrymaking and festivities for all, twine the holly and the ivy, etcetera, etcetera. Are people making that oh-so-common mistake of confusing good cheer with goodness?
I've heard wild stories. Apparently your Dark Lord was defeated by a one-year-old baby? I think you dragged your feet on this one, Albus, and you didn't even have a dead sister for an excuse.
But there I go again. After all these years, I thought I'd grown tired of mocking you. But you invite it so obligingly! And I will never quite cease to be angry at you. You seem to have confused that with hatred more than once.
The Voldemort boy--no, but I suppose he isn't a boy anymore, is he? He must be, what, at least forty by now? Not dead yet? Go off & finish the job, Dumbledore. Isn't that what you do?
As to remorse? That is between myself and myself. Or what's left of myself. Wavy shadow of Gellert in the grimy narrow window, faded eyes, faded face, faded will--that's his concern. Just as your own burden of guilt is your business.
How on earth did your fair island spawn its own Dark Lord anyway? We come from the wilds of the North, as a general rule.
Don't waste your sincerity, seeing as it's so rare. I'm the same as always. How could I be anything else?
Gellert