Tuesday, 1 September 1942
I’ve had it. I’ve been reasonable enough for long enough about enough things that people think they can get away with absolutely anything and everything. It is my fault they think so, because they certainly have been able to, up until now.
Dursley is so far gone he’s not even a memory. I’m having the servants send everything he left here to him at school, if indeed he left anything here. He laid hands on my son’s head, and Claudien may be dead because of it. He should thank every god great and small that I don’t gut him and do readings in his entrails, but I doubt I could find them.
I will not let Frank pretend that there was nothing wrong with Marcus until just now. What about the day he beat me up so badly that I nearly choked on my own blood and they had to re-grow my jawbone? Was that just a boyhood prank? If Hortensia cannot understand that her brother has always been mad then I don’t want her on my land.
Gods above and below, why didn’t my mother do something? Why didn’t she go to his father and demand blood or wergild? Was it really so embarrassing that I put on a frock at a masquerade that she was willing to let that go? Why didn’t she and Abraxas do anything about Snape? Did I even have parents?
As for Portia, that race has been run.
If people don’t like it that I’m finally standing up for myself and my rights now that the bloody Sovereignty’s incarnate in me, perhaps they ought to consider what it could mean for the land if I don’t.