February 5, 1945
Today I officially became a woman, freshly fifteen and no longer afforded the small safeties and luxuries of childhood that I could claim freely just yesterday. Not that anyone born into a pureblood home is ever truly safe, save they should be the sole heir. And not even that fortunate circumstance of birthing order can save them should their parents be young enough to bare another son. Honestly, it is only through the most unwavering obedience and unswerving dedication to their fathers that a child may remain safe from the horrors of disownment. Not even the most fervent supplications from a favored wife can dissuade an enraged father from casting her beloved child into disgrace and poverty. It is of the smallest wonder that I can name but a few poor souls foolish enough to have incurred such a wrath and its resulting consequences.
I'd almost pity them, but I have little patience and refuse to willingly suffer fools and whiners. The men in this culture need only wait until they are old enough to take their betrothed in marriage and then they are handed their partial inheritance and given a few ancestral manors of their own. Not soon after the marriage the men will begin their conquest for an heir and will shamelessly turn their newly-acquired wives into a broodmare till at last a son should be born. And a pureblooded man's joy is never so great as when he finally sees that his bloodline with continue on for yet another generation thanks to 'his' hard work. His happiness might only be matched in strength when his father passes on and he is given the remainder of his bloodlines inheritance as well as complete freedom from his father's influence. It is that he is promoted from prince to king. His reign is no longer constricted to his own immediate family, but to all members that previously lived under his father's control. He now has a dynasty under his rule, and until his death, he will control all ancestors born into his bloodline.
If such an impatient, immature man cannot patiently and quietly bide his time until he is handed his kingdom, he deserves nothing but scorn and contempt. Though the men may suffer in their own rights beneath their own yokes and pressures had they any inkling of what a woman must endure under this pureblood rule, they'd be ashamed of the grumblings they so willingly offer when they know that those in authority over them aren't listening.
But a woman in this culture is never free. She goes from one master to another; from father to husband with not even the shortest of transition time in between. It is only on her wedding night that she learns of the newer 'duties' she'll be expected to perform perfectly, and without any further instruction but the basics, she is thrust into a strange home and into an extended family that will surely despise her. For who could ever be good enough for their precious heir?
From earliest childhood girls are taught to be complacent and content with their lot in life. By the time they are old enough to talk clearly and walk unfalteringly, they know that their dreams for being anything but a mother and perfect wife are ridiculous and unachievable. They've long since discovered that voicing any desire for control of their lives is dangerous and they bear whatever miseries and unacceptable emotions they may have with quiet dignity.
To be fair both boys and girls have learned to keep their faces in the trademark sneer of aristocracy, for each knows as well as the next that unchecked emotions only lead to ruin. Having mastered the fine art of acting in early childhood, it is no surprise that our lot is accused of lacking emotions and heart. If only the rest of the world knew of the secret pains and sorrows that afflict us! Their self-righteous smirks would quickly falter if they had to suffer through but one of the trials unique to pureblood life. The rest of the world may think as they'd like, but there are none so strong and persevering as us. None but those with a Slytherin heart could endure the trials and tribulations we are forced to endure on a daily, even hourly, basis. Nor could they do so with an air of serenity and false smile painted upon their faces.
I never used to think of this life as anything but morally superior to all other lifestyles. But the older I become, and the more I am exposed to life outside this world, I find myself becoming more and more disenfranchised. I fear that I will never learn to be happy as is expected of me, and as a result I will forever be miserable. Father tries his hardest to expunge my newfound willfulness and rages violently against me as result, but his work is all in vain. A small part of my unconscious being fights against the soul-crushing measures, and I cling to what little spark I have left.
A small part of me wishes Father would beat all rebellion out from me. Because if he actually managed to do so, I'd be like the other ladies who've learned to be happy with their lot in life. Ignorance is bliss for them, and I would love to be graced with the same peaceful acceptance they now possess. Because as much I yearn for freedom, I know I will never escape.
February 6, 1945
Orion graced me with such a wondrous gift this morning that I was grinning like a madwoman all throughout classes, unable and unwilling to remove the visual display of appreciation from my usually somber face. Anastasia pleaded with me endlessly to remove such a silly look from my face but I ignored her chiding up until we passed by Headmaster Dippet. The old man's jaw dropped in a most unseemly manner and he gaped at me as if I'd suddenly sprouted a set of horns and a tail. It was only than that I heeded my close friend's advice and allowed my face to fall back into its familiar and comfortable sneer.
"I'd ask you if someone spiked your goblet with Amortentia," Anastasia teased, "But you can't poison a potions prodigy."
Nodding in agreement to the friendly compliment I resisted the urge to remind her, yet again, that she promised to stop addressing me with such a lofty title. Awarding me with such an honorable title seems to me to be nothing but the equivalent of dangling a raw steak just out of the reach of a chained and starving werewolf. We both know that I will never be allowed to pursue higher education to perfect the art that I love so much. Once I am married, I will be expected to cease with my daily brewing as it is considered man's work. Brewing will, at best, become nothing but a hobby for me. I will never be able to contribute my knowledge to such an important field. Were I not accustomed to the constant crushing of my dreams, such a dark thought would kill me. How I dread the day that my cauldron and I must separate. If there is any small mercy in this world, and surely there must be at least a small amount, my husband will be more relaxed than most and allow me to brew for at least our inner circle of friends.
Almost as if we shared one mind, Anastasia sensed my hidden despair as easily as it was her own and sought eagerly to lighten my mood as much as she could. With a kind twinkle in her silver eyes, she playfully jabbed her elbow into my ribs and pleaded for me to share the cause of my earlier good spirits. I was more than happy to oblige and proudly displayed for her the beautiful ring resting upon my delicate fingers. With the blackest of moonstones resting upon a genuine silver band, it was by far the prettiest piece of jewelry ever gifted to me and far more beautiful than those pearls and diamonds mother seems to adore so much.
"How can your spindly fingers support such an enormous stone? It's the size of a snitch!"
"You exaggerate."
It was a heatless accusation, but a fair one. While the stone was quite large, it was no bigger than the size of your average galleon. And while the size might cause others to think the jewelry gaudy, it was perfection to me. Sparkling brightly despite its darkness, I blushed slightly as I recalled Orion's smile as he told me the stone reminded him of the stars in my eyes.
If I had any say so in whom I would marry, no matter how slight, I would gladly degrade myself by begging for him. He is my shining sun in this vast darkness of a life, and Anastasia is a brilliant star. Without them, I would be lost.
February 7, 1945
If Maeve Parkinson persists in acting like a baseless animal, I swear on my life that I will thrash her like one. The dog faced troll is a thorn in my side and were it not for Walburga Black currently holding the title, she'd be the nemesis I despised most. Every day the wretch tests my great patience and it takes all the willpower I possess to keep from responding to her with anything but scathing insults.
While my reputation as a fierce dueler with an arsenal of the most heinous of hexes has kept even the brashest of Gryffindors at bay, Maeve continues to harass me. Her family belongs to the Sacred Twenty-Eight whereas mine does not and this vile toad delights in knowing that I am shrewd enough to keep from assaulting her for this very reason. If ever I were to delve into the homicidal madness this cow is surely driving me toward, and actually act on my desires to harm her, Father would flay every last inch of skin from my body without hesitation or mercy.
Father spares no amount of energy in his punishments, and as such, they are most severe. For the smallest of offenses his heavy hands will rain down dreadful blows without end and his belt with crack through the air with a frightful noise. For crimes of a larger sort, his wand is utilized. I needed but one taste of the wand's correction to learn that it was to be avoided at all costs. I've learned that there is safety in silence and seclusion. On the holidays when I am forced to return home I find myself hiding out in the library as often as I am permitted, emerging only when my presence is required.
February 15, 1945
The last several days have been very lonely and nothing short of miserable for me. A few days prior, during Transfiguration, I noticed Maeve wrinkling her nose and scowling enviously at the ring on my finger as if it had somehow insulted her person. I thought nothing of it until a few days had elapsed and I received a scathing letter from my father. The insufferable Parkinson spawn must have sent a facetious story to him, for the rage within his written words was nearly palpable.
Unwilling to believe that the daughter he so despised had received nothing more than a harmless gift from a very dear friend, he accused me of committing all sorts of licentious and improper behavior to receive such a fine gentleman's favor. Harshly rebuking me for spending so much time with a boy so very far outside my station, and 'drawing him down to my level,' he ordered me to keep far away from Orion. With the vilest of threats, he promised me the punishment would be most severe should I be foolish enough to disobey.
Can a heart made of stone break? Surely it can, for my very being is weighed down with a melancholy so severe it rivals that of the Bloody Baron's despondency. What little sun and joy I had in this oppressive world is gone, and I hardly have the strength to bear it with even the basest forms of dignity. How could I spend so long hardening myself, only to have my defenses blown to bits in the dawning of a new day? My tears fall endlessly and I oftentimes find myself hiding in the Room of Requirements, avoiding those who would report my sorrows back to my father as unseemly and an act of rebellion.
February 16, 1945
Professor Slughorn has grown rather impatient with my 'senseless sorrows' and gave a very feeble attempt at cheering me by telling me that I am extremely fortunate to be an affluent pureblood and that I should consider myself lucky that Father was prudent enough to put a stop to mine and Orion's foolishness before our hearts got broken. He then ordered me, none too kindly or patiently, to be at the next meeting of the Slug Club lest he report my egregious, asocial behavior to Father.
But how can I possibly undergo the torture of attending his self-serving gathering? Orion will surely be there, and his presence will be nothing more than stinging salt in my all-too-raw wounds. I cannot bear to see Orion's beautiful grey eyes, nor his beautiful locks of ebony hair, knowing that neither will ever be truly mine to enjoy. It is enough of a struggle to keep from calling out our usual greeting to each other during class and in the corridors. I fear I might not be able to maintain my composure if he is to be so near to me, with that toothy grin of his drawing me closer.
My only comfort, slight though it may be, is in the knowledge that Orion has also received orders to keep from me. My pain is his and he understands that I am not willingly avoiding him. The same morning I received my disheartening letter Orion's owl delivered him a similar one. Judging by the moisture that rapidly filled his eyes and threatened to spill over to his cheeks, it contained orders similar to those in mine. While I may not have received official confirmation from him, as I rushed from my breakfast to be away from Maeve's gloating face, I know Orion's mannerisms well enough to be confident that my theory is correct. The last I saw him display such raw emotion openly was when we learned of the fate of poor Myrtle. Having been her only two friends it was quite the sorrowful day and the first I saw him cry.
But what can we do? With both of us being at the prime age to enter into marriage contracts, Orion's family wants to reserve him for the choicest of women. Our 'familiarity' is nothing but off-putting for the patriarchs eager to marry off their daughters. Shrewd and calculating as the next, they prefer that men willingly and eagerly take their daughters so that the union between two powerful families can be complete and rife with lucrative deals. They cannot do that if the intended boy loves another girl, for the boy will be unwelcoming to his new wife should it not be the one he truly loves. As a result, the new wife will eagerly divulge all manners of damning news and gossip back to her family in an effort to ease her rage and pain. Many horrific family feuds that were nothing short of full-blown wars have been the result of such a scenario and it is common knowledge that such situations are dangerous and detrimental.
Anastasia encourages me to let go of my pain, but I cannot. Letting go means accepting that things will not change, and the pain I face is in the past. But it is not. The oppression and abuse against my person will never end, and the cultural norms that back and support them will never change. Letting go would mean that I can move on and see a bright future full of joy, a future where I am worth something. All I can see now is pain and despair.
I go to sleep tonight with a very heavy heart and fervently hope that I will inexplicably manage to garner the immense strength and amazing resiliency that I possessed just days ago. Being a very powerful, self-taught occlumens I have no doubts that I can accomplish such the daunting task of pretending I don't harbor any negativity towards Father due to his ruling. But how much more will I have to suppress? I am almost certain I cannot bare another blow of this magnitude. I can only play my cards carefully and hope it is enough to keep me from another heartache.