Thursday, 21nd of June 1979
The last time I had kept a journal was as a sullen fourth year with a greasy fringe occluding my scowl. I had few friends at school and have even fewer now. In my line of work, this is practically encouraged. I kill, maim and imprison Death Eaters for the heady allure of seven hundred galleons a month. Most of my fellow hit wizards aren't in it for the money. They are the sons of wizarding aristocracy that have taken the moral high road in the war on blood supremacy. As well as being ugly or boring enough to need a career to chat up women with.
As a daughter of a widowed alcoholic squib, I feel as my position on the Great Wizarding War has been forced into one corner. I am sure that that cavorting bellend Lucius Malfoy wouldn't welcome me into Death Eater meetings and my left forearm would repel their attempts to scorch a Dark Mark on it anyhow. In terms of cold pragmatism, blood supremacy is moronic. Inbreeding produces morons like the Carrows or any goofy looking pureblood I can think of. At best, you could be a do-gooder ginger like the Weasleys.
Anyway, moving on from my embittered train of thought, my training as a junior Hit Witch has reached its conclusion. According to my boss Leopold Peasegood, I have been deemed an "adequate" hit witch unlike his moronic chinless wonder son, Arnold Peasegood. Other witches fawn over him, but despite his dapper looks and plummy accent, my only natural inclination is to punch that "excellent" hit wizard right in the bollocks. I suppose with my magical education I should resort to cursing him, but nothing is as satisfying as fist-to-fist combat.
If you're wondering why my flame of hatred burns so much for Arnold, then please sit down and listen. Metaphorically, journal, you're a stationary and stationery being as far as I'm concerned. So yesterday, I had been instructed in whispered tones to instruct Arnold Peasegood in face-to-face combat as his field experience is minuscule compared to mine. Also, I was informed to keep this training quiet from my darling boss Leopold Peasegood.
I arrange us to meet with my trusty portkey of a football in a patch of grass near my house. Threw a bouquet of protection charms around the place and dispelled any curious muggles in the space of minutes. Still, he saunters up an hour late because he was, "busy entertaining a lady friend all night long."
Of course, I turned to him and sneered, "I thought a whole night lasted a lot longer than a minute, like you do, Peasegood." If I didn't nip his anecdote about his late-night frolics in the bud, he'd discuss them in lurid detail throughout training. I didn't want to suffer through an afternoon of nausea. I had drank enough the night before anyway.
Rather than brush this comment off, he walked him to me and patted me on the head, "No need to be jealous, darling, we all know your life choice of celibacy."
My life choice of celibacy, Peasegood? What happens in broom closets and after nights out in pubs stays with me and only me, Peasegood. Ever since I started training, my indiscretions or dalliances with men remain secret as I obliviate each man who has the misfortune to sleep with me. Muggles or wizards. They serve a cold hard purpose to satisfy my libido and momentary loneliness, nothing more. Shame it's been a while though.
After that exchange with him, I had to try and instruct Arnold to fight fire with fire and use curses back. Trouble with all those Defence Against the Dark Arts buggers is that their sanctimoniousness hinders them from the ice cold truth. One cannot win a duel against a talented foe without using the Dark Arts. They are admittedly, a foul and twisted tool in a wizard's box but they are a necessary evil. If a man is prepared to throw a Killing Curse your way, for the love of God, please throw something that might sting back.
Anyway, as anticipated, Arnold Peasegood did not learn an awful lot with me as a tutor. I have no formal training in teaching, but honestly most of our D.A.D.A professors didn't either. One bloody D.A.D.A professor a year, I mean what sort of attrition rate does Hogwarts have with these professors? The only reason I passed that year was because some misshapen Slytherin boys took pity on me in fifth year.
Friday, 22nd of June 1979
Got a new assignment on my desk today. Evan Rosier. I remember him, one of the least of the misshapen Slytherin boys that helped me out mid-panic attack about my D.A.D.A OWL. Now, he's a fledging Death Eater with a sharp jawline and a half-smile in his mugshot. He was detained a few years back but with insufficient evidence, they couldn't do much. They couldn't even find a Dark Mark on him.
He's an example of how wizarding aristocracy can turn the other way. The megalomaniac aspect of having pure blood coursing through one's veins. It thrusts you into a position of superiority above all others, muggle or half-blood. It drives your prefrontal cortex into silence as you slaughter muggles under the instruction of a supposedly deformed despot called Lord…
I am ashamed to admit any utterance of his name sends a fearful jolt through my nerves. He's responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent muggles and of countless witches and wizards. Those that I have walked past in the street, in school or at work. Each day, newspaper clippings declare other anti-Voldemort… oh shit… anti-Death Eater people dead or missing. Dark Marks float menacingly in the sky with increasing frequency with no sign of it slowing anytime soon.
I hear rumbles that the war is being lost. His plans to intercept the Ministry are not unfounded and once he wheedles his way in, I'm planning to emigrate. Maybe to the moon at this rate since my boss Leopold told me, you-know-who is plotting to invade overseas too.
At the moment, this assignment to hunt down the up-and-comer Rosier is limited to research. Investigate his extra-curricular activities, look into his living arrangements and to scrutinise his peers and comrades. As the only one who knew him on a first name basis in Hogwarts, I suppose I was the one to bag the job in hand. The Aurors are too busy to touch it. They're frying bigger fish like Thaddeus Nott and Lucius Malfoy.
So my plan tomorrow is to go out drinking in The Hog's Head. With some sense of irony, I frequent it on social as well as business calls. I feel at one at the anonymity of wizards with hooded cloaks shading their faces from the flickering candlelight and the grimy pint glasses I drink out of. The shitty ambience makes me feel at home and oddly welcome. Wish me luck, I really need to get some info to impress Leopold for once.
Saturday, 23rd of June 1979
Dear journal, as you can tell from my lack of erudite prose, I might be slightly pissed. I spent the whole night drinking with some foreign blokes, one of which was paler than me and didn't drink anything but didn't find much intel out. Rosier still drinks here but hasn't been back in a fortnight according to Avery. Avery was the only one out among the Slytherin boys. But the rest of the Slytherin gang, Mulcibler, Wilkes, Snape etc. went the night before. Damn, I missed those bloody bastards by twenty-four hours. If only if I had an invisibility cloak and could go again tomorrow.
Sunday, 24th of June 1979
I woke up this morning with the enthusiastic morning sun scorching my eyelids. My mouth tastes like an ashtray and I wish I could spent the day comatose in my sweat-ridden bedsheets. Alas, I must continue my investigation about Rosier.
My pissed self was unable to record the tidbits I recalled that night but luckily the pints of beer, shots of firewhiskey and whatever that vampire bought for me have not reduced me into retrograde amnesia. My memories are seared clearly into my brain, dream-like sequences of barstool banter and forcing bitter alcohol down my gullet.
Mulciber has been busy at the Ministry in his graduate scheme job and probably is one of the Dark Lord's low-level cronies too. Bet he sneaks around during his lunch breaks to get information on Ministry infrastructure and insider politics. I could save him a lot of time in informing him it's all bullshit. If you-know-who wanted power, he just needs to imperius the current Minister or nominate one of his socially acceptable cretins into doing the job for him as a proxy. A man with no nose and red eyes is not pretty enough, even for politics. But of course, these logical ideas haven't even come across any of these idiots' heads have they? Muggles are ahead of us nowadays and they elect pretty boys like Kennedy over sweaty insecure wrecks like Nixon. Admittedly, British muggle politics is still as grim as ever. At least Maggie Thatcher isn't as haggard as Callaghan.
Wilkes has been missing for a while which concerned Avery immensely. Avery's smooth move was to enact a faux sorrow for me to swing a pity shag his way. In no uncertain terms, I refused Avery's offer of an alcohol-and-misery fuelled romp. I try and not sleep with enemies on or off the job.
Avery does look shit though. His furrowed brows have etched wrinkles into his young skin and greys are sprinkled in his temples. Whenever asking him about how his life was going, he tried amateur distraction tactics including shots of firewhiskey or shameless flirting with a half-blooded oik like myself. Long-sleeves too. Jerked away when I trying to stroke his left arm waiting to be served at the bar. Definite Death Eater.
At least I can claim my tab at the bar on expenses. I wonder how the Ministry looks at the hit wizarding department budget. It's all hospital expenses and booze.