Disclaimer: If it was mine, Ron wouldn't have married Hermione... Snape would have gotten Lily... the Death Eaters would have a separate series of their own... and... well, it probably would be about either Draco, Snape, or Voldy, not Harry:p
My dearest,
How I wish I'd done things differently. How I wish I could have saved you. How I wish I could turn back time and rescue you from the clutches of insanity. My darling, I made horrid choices and dragged you along with me. I wish more than anything that I could ask you for your forgiveness, but I know I cannot. The last time I tried to visit you at St. Mungo's, you started screaming incoherently at the top of your lungs, snatched a wand from a passing witch, and nearly destroyed the hospital. So even if I could send you more than an anonymous letter, I doubt that I would. As it is, you may not read this at all, now that you know of my visit.
But do not fear, my love. This is my last letter to you. This is the last any shall hear from me, for it is both a love letter and a suicide note. Do not be distressed; it is truly for the better. Every remaining Death Eater (other, of course, than those in your position) is a blemish on the world, a stain of dishonor. I am not the first to realize the truth, nor shall I be the last. But oh, how I wish there were another way! For I do not really want to die. I want to survive as long as I possibly can. My body itself screams at me, pleading to the more basic part of my mind, the part that tells me, this is wrong, you should atone for your sins by living in torture, and I already am close to listening. Perhaps I write this in part to prolong my final breath. None of us really know what our subconscious wants. I know I certainly didn't. My more obvious desire was to have glory by restoring the wizarding world to its rightful place, to be a soldier to the reigning king. But apparently, I secretly wanted to be on the side of "good" as the majority of people know it. Even I did not realize this, my dove, until after our lord was defeated. Some may call this wishful thinking, but I am sure of its honesty.
If truth be told, I don't want to live now, though. I want to relive my life and fix it. I messed up so often, my beauty. All those poor Muggles, half-bloods, and Mudbloods I tortured and killed… I see now that I was wrong, and oh how I wish I'd known that then! My dear, I was a fool, and I surely am one still. I know that the only way to rectify this, to right my wrongs, is to die for them. Would that they still had the death penalty! As they don't, I'll have to administer it myself. It can only help, you know. After all, I murdered so many, and broke so many others. Every night, I dream of the bloody corpses at the Final Battle or the tiny bodies of the children - innocent children! - that I killed. How I wish I could put them back together, give them back their lives and the time they never had. I spilled so much blood, more than many of the other Death Eaters. With every stilled heart, my own heart beat harder, faster, trying to blot out the pain. But here is a secret - my nightmares began long before the Final Battle. They began even before the Dark Lord's initial fall. I haven't had a peaceful night's sleep in so many years. I'm sure if you remembered the nights you comforted me after I would wake up screaming, you would understand. But you have forgotten all that. Haven't you? Perhaps you have just locked the bad memories away, my only. You did scream when you saw me. Maybe you really do remember all the terrible things I convinced you to do. Have you forgotten the wonderful times we had? There were so few of them later on… I'm sure you've forgotten why you fell in love with me to start with. Do you still remember all the love we once had? Or have you retreated so deep within yourself and your fear of truth that you hate and blame everyone but yourself?
I apologize. I grow angry sometimes. I sometimes feel you abandoned me when I needed you most. But perhaps, my pearl, it was I who abandoned you. Are your nightmares about me? Do you wake up screaming, in need of healing or even just comfort, because of all the fights we had? Useless questions. I will never know the answers. I will never see you again. I will never hold you again. I will never speak to you again. And it is better that way, though I spend entire days dreaming and wishing for you and the old days. I know that it is wrong, that I drove you to the brink of death, the edge of insanity, and pushed you over. It is a miracle you survived, but less of a miracle that you lost your mind. Isn't it? Is your insanity a blessing in the end, protecting you from the knowledge of your own flaws, of your own mistakes and murders? Am I stupid for asking such questions in a letter you may never read, let alone answer? Of course you will not answer. You don't really know who's writing.
I have wasted so much valuable time writing, my jewel. My breath is a waste of air. My thoughts are a waste of… of anything. Of everything. This letter is a waste of both parchment and ink. You won't read it, I'm sure, and you won't understand it if you do. And even if you do, by some small chance, you won't respond or even care.
So good-bye, my love. I'll always love you, even in death. How I wish I want to say, 'Never forget me,' but I know it's better if you do.
A/N: edited 1/14/11.