Dear Diary (part 1b)
August 25th
Eleven-thirty-one a.m.
Dear Diary,
In response to my appalling news, Harry has Owled me a box of raspberry scones. I think he bought them from a market stall. They’ve gone a bit mouldy.
I shall have to thank him in person.
No note, which leads me to believe he is unsurprised. Which leads me to believe I shall chuck his scones of goodwill in the bin and be well shot of them.
No response at all from Ron, though this may be because he has at last gone catatonic from all the passionate love-making.
Or he’s a tit. Whichever.
Maybe I will have just the one scone… ooh, I think they’ve got pecan bits stuck in.
No. Wait. Those are weevils.
~*~
August 28th
Seven-fifty-five p.m.
Dear Diary,
Went to Diagon Alley today for school supplies. I am despondent. I couldn’t even enjoy myself at Scrivenshaft’s, and they had a sale on glue-less Post-its, that is how despondent I am.
Harry gave me a hug and then asked if I’d liked the scones. I managed to politely divert his attention to a window display of shin-guards in the Quidditch supply shop.
Ron tore himself away from Tart Number Six (obviously not her real name, but I have my doubts as to whether he actually knows it), just long enough to ask if I had a pleasant summer, and what did I end up choosing as my main NEWT elective, because he had decided on Transfiguration but was worried now he’d be bored out of his mind since Harry had gone with Defence Against the Dark Arts?
Had mild panic attack at his mention of our NEWTs. Recalled a moment later that I’d decided on pursuing Arithmancy back in third year and how dare Ron attempt to alarm me when I was feeling quite unstable enough to be going on with. Exacted my revenge by telling Ron as much, and then caringly reminding him that it was too late to switch.
He swore (wisely for him, not at me) and I felt marginally better.
I think I may be getting fat after all. I had to be measured for new robes today, since I discovered over the weekend my old ones no longer fit. They’re a bit short around the ankles, but mainly it’s how I can hardly move my arms without tearing seams that has me concerned.
Honestly, it’s like wearing bindings over my chest. Madam Malkin tutted for a full minute before she finally explained in a kind voice that it was because I’d actually got a chest now.
Horror!
Surely there must be some solution to this. I resolve to eat healthier. I will take up brisk jogging as well. Though if what Madam Malkin says about breasts is true, I may have to invest in a proper sports bra if I don’t want to put someone’s eye out.
Does this explain why Ron called me “sweetheart” today? Ohh, I refuse to be fifteenth choice!
~*~
August 29th
Noon
Dear Diary,
No word yet from Professors McGonagall, Flitwick or Vector in regards to my Letters of Extreme Objection. I think Dumbledore may have said something to them. I think he may be staging a coup.
Though if he wants to be head girl that badly he has only to ask. I’m not sure I’m so keen on the position anymore. What good is it being in power if your major decisions have to be seconded by somebody who would rather sell out his own grandmother (probably) than agree with anything you say?
I am walking down an unbearably narrow tunnel… there is a light at the end of it, but that is because it is on fire.
~*~
August 31st
One-oh-two a.m.
Dear Diary,
I had a minor epiphany earlier tonight. It sort of hurt.
It happened during one of Dad’s programmes. I’d finished all my packing and really didn’t want to be in my emptied-out room by myself, so I came downstairs and joined Dad on the sofa where he was watching the evening news.
Apparently there’s this sad-sack old lady and her son who go round West Africa to all the villages offering poor and starving locals a bit of reprieve in their last legs of life by teaching them the invaluable art of… wait for it… origami. These two individuals really believe that this is a “soothing, meditative practise, really brings us back to the days of Orient,” (said the single mother from Brighton) and that it’s of some real use towards the ”common good”.
All I was able to glean from the fifteen-minute-long segment was that starving people could care less about bits of coloured paper folded to vaguely resemble animals. You can’t eat paper. Well, you can, but not to any great effect. You can’t make it grow better crops or cause the rain to fall.
And that’s when it happened. I realised, with a sudden burst of clarity, that I am not a starving Ethiopian.
Far bloody from it… the other day Mum actually tore her eyes away from her second child - I mean, from her dissertation, long enough to recall my existence in this house, and all she had to offer me was a close squint and some remark about taking me bra shopping before I left. Honestly. Is it so hard for people to focus their attention elsewhere?
Anyway. Back to why I do have a reason for living, after all.
My future, albeit somewhat cringe-making, is not an outright uncertainty. I will wake up tomorrow morning, healthy and warm and without some mad, sunburnt bint flapping a paper frog in my face.
Well. Never say never.
I mean, yes, there is the depressingly good chance I will spend the next ten months of my life feeling wretched and out of sorts and inexplicably angry, but that’s what being seventeen - God, almost eighteen - is all about, isn’t it? It must be written somewhere that girls my age have to be miserable now, or else we’ll never survive our Golden Years.
Mum threw her slipper at me when I presented her with this theory. I fear she may be jealous of my initiative.
So. Dreadful, horrible, awful news be damned. I am determined to lose no sleep over it.
~*~
September 1st
Eleven-twenty-eight a.m.
Dear Diary,
Slept a tad much, I think.
Didn’t hear my alarm, so I only had time to eat a bit of toast and brush my teeth (I technically didn’t even have time for that, but of course Mum refused to unlock the car doors until I did.)
So much for my plan to stroll onto Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters looking cool and sleek and ready to take on anything.
The pillow-creases on my face were only just fading as I hurtled down the steamy platform with my loaded trolley in tow, thanking the powers above I’d had the foresight to shower the night before. My hair was … not worth contemplating. My clothes were on, which was the key thing. Having said my goodbyes in the car, I was left alone with only seconds to spare to get my trunk, book-bag and Crookshanks’ travel-basket onto the train.
I’m not sure how I managed it, but here I am in my cosy compartment. Haven’t quite got my breath back yet. I feel rather flushed, actually; I hope I haven’t somehow caught fire.
Both Harry and Ron have yet to make an appearance. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be sitting up with the prefects in their compartment, although even if I am, I don’t think I’d care to. I am experiencing some natural girlish rebellion, just now, and don’t wish to be interrupted.
~*~