Thus began my rigorous process of soul-searching. Somewhere along the line, in the course of those few, damnable years, I had lost myself completely. I no longer recognized my own face in the mirror. Indeed, there was someone there, but the eyes staring back at me were not my own. The carelessly brutal voice did not belong to me. My flesh was made of glass. Fragile glass in a world full of nails and razorblades. I made myself bleed once. It did not last long. The salty drops of crimson dried up almost as quickly as they came. And I was left with nothing. No tangible sign that I was still alive.

I spent hours, frantic, clutching my wrist in search of the slightest pulse beat. I found none. I don't even think I had one. No, I was certainly not human. Something sub-human, perhaps, or even a transcendent, but not a human being of flesh and blood. How I could I belong to a world where mothers created new life from willing flesh, where lovers embraced in the darkest hours of the night, where children fell asleep each night secure in the arms of a loving guardian? No, I was beneath all of this, incapable of feeling anything that even remotely resembled warmth or beauty or affection. I was not human. Of course, my flesh remained, but some other vital part of me had been lost along the way.

After a while, I lost my will to do things voluntarily. Nothing serves a purpose to a man who feels nothing. Eating and drinking became merely a chore to ensure my own useless survival-making love, a futile effort to regain any sort of feeling I had lost. So I used. So I hurt. If these had been the least of my life's crimes, I would be a much happier man. But as it stands, they are not. It didn't matter. I couldn't feel it anyway. I had fallen so far into myself that I was suffocating, and if I didn't get air soon I'd become a complete catatonic. And as much as I despised the outer world, I loathed myself even more. I could not bear the thought of spending a lifetime alone with myself. And that's when it began.

I awoke in a fervor one night, plagued by dreams of dead faces-my dead face, to be exact-and contacted Albus. I'm not sure I even knew what I scribbled on the tired bit of parchment, but I waited up all night for an answer. As you might expect, none came.

I was furious. The one man-the only man-who had said he he'd always come to my aid, no matter what the cost, had chosen to ignore me in my time of dearest need. I raged. I threw things, I demolished, I smashed the few prized possessions I owned (gifts from the old loon, no doubt) and I clawed at my hair until there were large bald patches on the back of my scalp. But still, no answer came.

Finally, on an icy morning in the bleakness of January, an elderly tawny owl tapped at my window, a yellowed scrap of parchment fastened to her bony leg. It was from Albus.