I must go on standing.

Oh, this isn't going to be pretty, Harry thought. Writing all this lunatic drabble for Trelawney again. I can't believe Ron's finished already. Look at him snoring over there, on that mighty comfortable-

Back again. Damn Divination, screw alliteration. And rhyme.

Moving on.

They can't break me.

I'm the boy who lived!

... ...

And, it seems, the boy who must now go wash ink off of his face.

... ...

I am not theirs to break.

Colin Creevey got a hold of me on my way to the bathroom. Little viper. Makes me regret bargaining with the Hat all those years ago. I guess having made that choice would have defeated the purpose of the whole Chosen One thing, though.

I am not mine to break.

Time for less introspection and more fortune telling, I think.

I warn them, about the men with marks,

And I warn them about the men in gowns;

I warn them about the men with masks

I warn them about the men -

But I leave, and they lose

Ooh, like that one time last year, during exams.

... ...

Fuck Bellatrix Lestrange.

It's February. It's bitter -

Bring out your inks and let them weep.

Let the remains burn in the spring.

Haha, it doesn't matter that this is crap because she'll only read it once anyway and then it'll all be irrelevant! Yes!

I am not his to break.

Did I mention I'm the Chosen One?

I am not mine to break.

–

That should earn me an Acceptable, Harry thought, promptly shoved the parchment in his bag, and collapsed on the couch, rubbing his eyes.

A/N: I always thought Harry and Ron writing up fake dream journal entries for Trelawney's class was hilarious. As far as I'm concerned, writing a dream journal entry before bed at three in the morning is totally valid, because whatever is going through your mind makes about as much sense. This is exactly how I feel writing essays for English last-minute. And I do interject cheeky comments as I write, especially the conclusions that have to "give it meaning."

Back to the fortune. If I were in Trelawney's class, I'd just rewrite song lyrics. This is loosely based off of Apres Moi by Regina Spektor, complete with

Февраль. Достать чернил и плакать!
Писать о феврале навзрыд,
Пока грохочущая слякоть
Весною черною горит.
Писать о феврале навзрыд,
Пока грохочущая слякоть
Весною черною горит.

(Борис Пастернак)

which may sound deep but to me just means that sometimes, it's okay to write crap, because you need to get it out of your system and it'll burn with the black spring anyways.