11 September 1942
I'm really starting to hate Pomfrey. We used to get along, but ever since I laughed at Myrtle--and really, how could I not? --she's been out for me. I've been working double hours in the infirmary, and doing the nastiest jobs.
This morning when I came in she had the Prophet open on her desk and there it was: the Registry Announcement confirming that Yvon was really who he says he is. Yesterday afternoon, we were all discussing our special interests and when I said that I was interested in field medicine and trauma work she gave me a Look. She gave me another one this morning. I want her to like me again.
I'm involved with Andrew, not with Yvon. I suppose Yvon and Madam Allison are probably seeing each other again--and I really wish them all the best. I suspect it would be worth my life to say it to Pomfrey though. It wouldn't be too good for his life, either, so I won't.
He wasn't any older than Martius. But my mother arranged that, so people said that was okay. Even though I hated Martius, and my father tried to get me out of it when he realised what a mistake it had been. I knew what Yvon wanted, and I used him just as much as he did me. There were things that I wanted from him. I wanted to know why people like doing the kinds of things Martius did, and while he never could explain it very well, I found out what I needed to know, which is that I'm not what Martius said I was, and that I'm not what I was afraid I was, either.
I wanted to tell him that in my letter, but you don't put things like that on parchment; you never know who else might read it. I do want to be his journeyman, anyway, which means it's better forgotten. No matter what Pomfrey thinks, the work was the thing I liked best of all with him. And I'm in love with Andrew.
I wish I could talk to Olive about this. About any of it. I wish I could talk to anyone really, but Susie's not here any more, and there isn't anyone else who would understand. Sometimes I think Ianthe might, but I don't really know her.