Based on Sonnet
XXIX, by Shakespeare
When I deplore
my fortune as a spy,
And all alone beweep my outcast state,
I take revenge and make my students cry.
I look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing that I'd been placed in Gryffindor,
Wanting to be like thee, with friends possessed,
With Seeker skills, bright emerald eyes, and more,
A Magic purer than a Virgin's breast.
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising
I realise that I mistook for hate
(As, in the sky, the Darkest Mark arising,
It seems to tear me) a more mysterious fate.
Though thy sweet love will be perhaps my doom,
I'm happy when I'm riding on thy broom.