6、26.09.1952 ...
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阿不思——
我考虑了所有下流的方式，不过，我觉得还是用一句简单的感谢来开始这封信比较好。我极具魅力的愠怒？你这讨嫌的家伙。我好几周都没笑的这么厉害了。
但是让我看麻瓜文学？拜托了，阿不思，你直接把无害物品手册寄给我罢，然后我说不定就不会生气了。这个叫伍尔芙的女人真是很奇怪啊。
至于摄神取念？可千万别了，离我的大脑远点。这被延长的时光，是啊，就像曾经我们聊天的时候你习惯性吮吸着的太妃糖一样，没完没了地拉扯在你的指尖和牙齿之间。那真是无与伦比的让人分心。我的钢笔不止一次地在羊皮纸上留下不明意义的划痕。但是当我们对它施魔法时，它实在爆炸得格外明亮。你还记得吗，那些缭绕的绿色烟雾？
你绝对不擅长任何类型的请求。记不记得我施咒把你的腿绑在床架上，故意让你等着的那次吗？真是太可悲了，你甚至无法假装表面的礼貌。而我陷入了烦躁。我本可以彻底击垮你……
而我的人生，我这被你削减过的人生。无非就是太妃糖一般，没完没了、漫长无比的时光，与回忆。
早上，看守们来视察，审视我所有关于数字占卜的危险笔记。他们曾经习惯于对我动粗——我是说，我刚来这儿的时候。不是用咒语，是直接用拳头。那其中有个女人，会不停地尖叫“你杀了我的丈夫，你杀了他”。几年之后他们就不再这么做了，因为我永远只嘲弄他们。我对自己的才能充满着愚蠢的、无穷尽的自豪。你也一样，阿不思。我所拥有的天赋——当我跪在石板地面上，紧握着伤口也要透过被打碎的牙齿大笑的天赋，纵然鲜血正在喉咙里流下去也要嘲笑那些企图拷打我的人的天赋——这可是相当实用的天赋，久待在监狱里的必备能力。比智慧或者是魔法上的才能有价值多了。
这里的食物尝起来像土壤。我已经瘦了不少。窗玻璃又旧又脏，于是我无法清楚地看见自己的倒影。不过我能想象得出来，我看起来可能更像是一具骷髅吧。很难想像，不是吗，还曾经有个英俊的英国天才曾经和我在河岸边做｜爱呢，嗯？
太妃糖似的时光啊。我总是在读书，直到视线模糊，停下来，然后再次拿起书，做点笔记。或许我可以把我的图书馆遗赠给你——但是，不行，毫无疑问你会觉得恶心。就算再也无法练习，我的魔法也依然是黑魔法。我在古老的传说之中漫无目的地穿梭着、翻找着。我的老朋友，告诉我，你曾经找到过其它的圣器吗？你独自一人地实现属于我们的梦想了吗？现在你已将你的搭档弃于那一切最不体面与牢狱之中，你将会成为死亡的掌控者吗？
啊，我记得我在德姆斯特朗时写过类似这样的文章，就像个蹒跚老头一样唠唠叨叨，一边瞧着从自己笔下淌出的文字，一边瞧着《强力魔药》，不小心就失手把钢笔蘸进了蝾螈血里。*
常常踱步的那块地板上被我磨出了光滑的痕迹。我把抓住的三只老鼠用镣铐的链子吊在角落里——我在它们经过时踩住它们的尾巴，扭断它们的脖子，用牙剥下它们的皮。它们正在慢慢地腐烂，几年内看起来都会很可怕。一些牺牲品而已。这是用来吓唬其它老鼠的——在那以后它们的同类就没再来烦我了。而你会感到惊讶的，因为你其实能习惯这么难闻的气味。
傍晚——在冬天的某几个月里，我能看到我狭小窗口外的落日。冬日清冷的橙色日光瓦解了冰山上的苍白。我想要将那些关于风的灰色魔法收集起来，在云朵上洒下三个血点，然后像个女妖一样在山顶上自由地飞翔。只是纯粹的飞翔，就像我过去常常做的那样。我甚至愿意在那之后安静地飞回我的囚室。飞翔，就像我握着“它”从老格里戈维奇的房子里飞出来，大笑着，无比快乐。我似乎又回忆起了当我从古老的黑暗书卷中拼凑成那个咒语时，和你一道在房间中的舞蹈。当然了，它得看起来令人恐慌，毕竟是黑魔王的必备手段，可同时又那么快乐。
夜晚，冰霜会占领玻璃窗，而月相轮回在翻涌的乌云后。我爱这极北之地。在这最高的塔楼上度过余生，俯视着那些崖壁和广袤的大陆，这比生活在英国那些盆栽一样的土地上要强。我曾经在你未着寸缕的脊背用魔杖描绘出伏尔加河的轨迹，在冰晶之中于你的肌肤上作画。它们将会绽放，将会羽化，将会在原本尖锐的边缘柔和了轮廓，滴落，将会淌过你的脊骨。而你会发出低吟，如此舒缓柔和。
当我用我温热的手指触碰玻璃上的霜花时，也会看到相似的画面。同样温柔的融化，只是太过寂静。这里不会有人的声响，从未有，也不会有。
这无比漫长的时光啊，阿不思。你抛弃了我，然后把我锁在这里。就让我同你的纳威和金妮一道在这里共享不被打扰的宁静吧。*
你愠怒的
盖勒特·格林德沃
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[原文]
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 s|moking？
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,GG
作者有话说
第6章 26.09.1952
