My Madelaine,

No small swell of ink can begin to tell the refuge I find in each of your precious letters. The children grow giddy with delight upon the arrival of each owl, but it is as nothing to the breathless exultation I feel when the night bird alights at my trencher. Your feminine wisdom and comfort have been all I can cling to in these darkening days.

Truly, love of my heart, I fear the news I must share will echo hollow within you. The events of late have been calamitous and sorrowful, and I am left as the husk of a once bold man. What tragedy has befallen your dauntless husband warrior? The death of an innocent, one I should have sworn to protect. How can I, as warrior and Gryffindor, bear the ignominy? His life passed between my very fingers as water, and I noticed not. Forsooth, it could be said I cared not!

A young Hufflepuff died, result of such folly I myself would have joined with eager aplomb in my own youth. I find I am disgusted with the previous disregard you pointed out in me with such loving grace. If I, perhaps, had given this child one whisper of the aid and attention given to mine Gryffindor brethren, he may be alive today. If I had taken on my mantle of scholarship in truth as well as form, methinks this lad would still be striding down these halls. Instead, he is but a wraith that haunts my bed.

His mother is that same Mary you once attended school with, and I ken that your gentle heart must ache for her. Can I begin to imagine the loss I would feel should tragedy befall our own small sons? I fear that I must put quill to parchment once more to express my grief and guilt to her. I am certain you will do the same.

I remain,
Your Auberon