There are so many things that I’d like to say sorry for to you, and ought to say sorry for – but that would be a much longer letter, and unfortunately I don’t have a lot of time. I’m not certain I should be writing to you at all, after everything, so if you would rather not read this, if you would rather throw it into the fire and forget about it, I won’t blame you at all.

In any case, I hope you’re well. Better than I’ve been without you, anyway – I’ve been a bit of a mess, to put it simply. In varying ways, I suppose I thought that I could punish myself for the mistakes I had made and the hurt I had caused. It wasn’t much of a cure, or the cure didn’t last – and you were right about some things, I wasn’t happy. I haven’t been happy in a very long time.

So from tomorrow, I’ll be staying as an inpatient at a private clinic – a psychiatric institution in Kent. I don’t have a timeline, exactly, for how long I’ll be there, but it was my choice, and I’m sure I’ll be well looked after. If my treatment goes well, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t have visitors, or be able to write – not that I’m asking you to visit me, or to write.

I just thought I should let you know the truth of what’s happening, in case you hear that I’m unwell or I’ve left Hogsmeade Hospital. I only ask that you not tell anyone else where I am precisely, for my family’s sake. I know you wouldn’t, of course. You’ve kept enough secrets for me.

I hope you have a happy new year, and I am, as ever,

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