Thou ‘mind'st me, Snape, of nothing more than autumn;
a grey November dull with sullen mists.
That vacuum secret month, when senses grow numb,
but yet this taboo spark for thee exists.
When in thy presence something overtakes me,
an acid etchéd line ‘twixt want and hate;
compulsion both to hex thee and to kiss thee,
to strike thee down and take
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