"So it is," he sighs. "But, you know, I did everything short of walking about in an I oppose Albus Dumbledore sandwich board to be explicit."
"No," he says, flat. "I didn't. Nor do I know why I could or would not fight the eventuality. I remember only the moment of it, and knowing that I expected to be bitten, and felt the game worth the candle." He turns a palm up, and takes more tea. "It seems I'm missing memories as well."
He sets the teacup down with precise movements, and looks at him. "I saw you last," he comments, emotionless, "a length of char and ash in an empty suit, laid out on the steps of the trap laid for your tormenter, and was forced to refrain for years from bringing it to the attention of your destroyer that he had killed with his hands his enemy's hostage, lest guilt hobble his blinkered, black-and-white sense of imperative."