A Letter Found Within the Pages Of My Copy Of HP7

Dear Dumbledore:
Often there are I things that I remember that I wasn't able to tell you. Like the way your beard scratched my cheek when we first kissed, the way my hands would tremble and fluster as I undressed, hesitantly, in your blinding presence, or the way, when I would press my hand on your smooth stomach above what I imagine is your gallbladder, all sweet and gurgling, festering with bile being stored for the eventual emulsification and decomposition of expired life, I would feel such a slow and creeping wetness emanating through my limbs, my existence hollowed in the face of your superhuman physiological mechanics. I wanted you, I wanted inside you.

Love, Grindelwald.

(There's a reason Grindelwald didn't become a poet.)