Mature for crass Language, mild Sexual Content, mild Violence, hints of Bestiality, and whiffs of Alcohol/Drug Abuse

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Never has anyone been loved so dearly. I live for her. She is my reason for getting out of bed in the morning, my reason for pressing on through the wearisome day, and my reason for submitting to sleep each night, rather than drinking glass after glass of whiskey, until I pass out.

Lately, with the war over, and my name cleared, I’ve had nothing to think of but her. To quote Shakespeare, “war-thoughts have left their places vacant, in their rooms come thronging soft and delicate desires, all prompting me how fair young Hero is…” and Hermione is a hero. She has always had a fierce, unrelenting dedication to all things good and right. The war proved her brilliance and unquestionable moral quality. For me, the war was an opportunity to demonstrate my dark side, my failings, and my changeability.

But for all that – her beauty, her intelligence, her bright, perfect, angelic soul, and my own self, goblin-like in comparison, I cannot stem a heavy, growing desire to explain myself to her. Why not? Why not dash everything to the wind, humble and debase myself, end the lonely monotony, and tell her. But how? How do I explain that as old, bitter, ugly, and worthless as I am, I long for the comfort of someone warm in my increasingly cold, empty days, someone kind and patient to soften my malevolence, someone clever, clever enough to keep up with me, which Hermione, of course, can have no trouble doing? Even more than that, how can I tell her that no one has ever been so perfect, in spite of her many faults – faultless faults; stupid friends, an overly developed sense of justice, and a most frustratingly wild, enticingly disorderly, overwhelming unruly head of hair? How can I make her realize all the wonder and adoration she inspires?

These are the dangerous thoughts that run through my head each day, all day long. I can’t help but fear they’ll get me into trouble as deep as the darkness I fell into all those years ago, when I was as young and fresh-faced as Hermione (if Severus Snape could ever be described as “fresh-faced”). I must put this ridiculous fancy out of my mind. But though each day I pass some new such resolution, I know I can never get rid of these oppressive desires.

I am caught, tormented by my folly.