October 16th, 1951
My memory might be a bit weak, but I believe the exact phrase might have been something more like "smug, supercilious, INFURIATING bastard, sanctimonious git with a bloody superiority complex, like to pretend you're so humble, you hypocrite, no I don't want any candy." I wasn't even drunk.
Then again, I'm the one locked in a room for the rest of his life, wandless, slowly going mad. Can my memory really be trusted? I suppose now you'll tell me that what I console myself with at night is false--that I never slid your hair through my hands, that I never seen Dark spells crackle down your wand and set your face alight. I suppose next you'll tell me that you don't scream in the back of your throat at climax. I suppose next you'll tell me that I never took you over that old oak coffee table when Aberforth was out.
Go ahead. Mock me with Transfiguration texts, now that I can never do magic again. Look down your long nose at me. Who broke it, anyway, old friend? Someone else who attempted to empty out all the hot air you're full of?