Toujours Pur
Oh, my poor heart, where has it gone?
It's left me for a spell . . .
ϟ Fawley | Riddle ϟ
It's left me for a spell . . .
ϟ Fawley | Riddle ϟ
Dear Amelia,
There was a time, during our days at Hogwarts, that I believed pure blood had gone to waste in Houses other than Slytherin. I was foolish, I realise, as it resulted that I was isolated. Yes, I did have those who called themselves my followers, but I soon tired of them — their beliefs and ideals were better suited for an older era.
There was a time, Amelia, that I believed you were a traitor to your own ancestry, being a Fawley and a Black, and therefore one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I thought being Sorted in Hufflepuff was a disgrace to your heritage.
I must apologise.
I was foolish, I was old-fashioned — though I suppose I still am foolish and old-fashioned, for as a great wizard — a genius, no doubt — once wrote, “these violent delights have violent ends / and in their triumph die, like fire and powder / which, as they kiss, consume.” I didn’t know what such words meant while I was at Hogwarts: I was power-hungry and volatile.
I know now that everything I, myself, had idealised at school would flicker with the heat and excitement of a flame, but in time, wither and extinguish.
I ask, dear Amelia, that while you are in Albania, you will find it in your heart to forgive a foolish man, a man that wishes to declare a love reawakened by the return of his heart’s desire.
There was a time, during our days at Hogwarts, that I believed pure blood had gone to waste in Houses other than Slytherin. I was foolish, I realise, as it resulted that I was isolated. Yes, I did have those who called themselves my followers, but I soon tired of them — their beliefs and ideals were better suited for an older era.
There was a time, Amelia, that I believed you were a traitor to your own ancestry, being a Fawley and a Black, and therefore one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. I thought being Sorted in Hufflepuff was a disgrace to your heritage.
I must apologise.
I was foolish, I was old-fashioned — though I suppose I still am foolish and old-fashioned, for as a great wizard — a genius, no doubt — once wrote, “these violent delights have violent ends / and in their triumph die, like fire and powder / which, as they kiss, consume.” I didn’t know what such words meant while I was at Hogwarts: I was power-hungry and volatile.
I know now that everything I, myself, had idealised at school would flicker with the heat and excitement of a flame, but in time, wither and extinguish.
I ask, dear Amelia, that while you are in Albania, you will find it in your heart to forgive a foolish man, a man that wishes to declare a love reawakened by the return of his heart’s desire.
Yours,
