11 September 1942
Times like these are when it's the most exquisitely painful to have the Gift I longed for, so, as a girl. Be careful what you wish for; you might get it. I know it's so old an aphorism as to be completely clichéd, but it's true.
I never know what to do.
Do I try to stop the inexorable engine of Fate, knowing that I am as liable to be mangled by its artifices as a child on railroad tracks, attempting to stop an oncoming train, and how unlikely it is that I can change what has been in motion so long? Or do I accept what must be, and what will be, and wait quietly in the shadows, knowing there is little I can do, and see if I can recognise my chance when it comes?
I do not think that I can stop what is to come. I know that Will Goyle cannot; he has always been a blunt instrument. Albus, perhaps, if I said the right word, and it pleased him to do. But Albus is a Gryffindor still, even if he has not the flaming swords of the Delgardies or the Prewetts, and often it is those who fight fate in that way who end up becoming its weapons. No. This thing will be what it is. But if I am careful perhaps I may bend it and shape it a little, vent some of the destructive force away from what is most precious.
A woman knows; we are the choosers of the slain.