My first Fanfic, so don't be too harsh and please, please, PLEASE review. I know it's a bit monotonous, but it'll get interesting.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own characters. J.K. rules (owns) all.

August 30, 1994

Dear pointless, frustrating, idiotic Diary,

Do you really realise how stupid this is – writing in a diary I mean. You wouldn't, would you, because you're an inanimate object right? That's what I thought. Mother seems to believe that all girls my age (and younger, though I have managed to evade her for this long) should own a diary in which they write down their deepest, darkest secrets. I have resolved not to do so, as Father has told me time and again to never write down my secrets on anything that can be stolen. This diary is charmed to return to my things if I ever lose it as well as to appear as the novel of my choice in the case that someone other than me should read it. But still, when a lesson is enforced that…persistently, one doesn't tend to take chances.

Since this is a diary, I'm guessing I'm to write diary-like things in it. I guess I'd better get started, in the off chance that Mother bursts into my room (the door of which I have carefully warded to the best of my ability, so her entrance is unlikely) and sees what little progress I have made. If that were to happen, I can be certain that my punishment would be severe. When Lady Breonna Pearce tells you to do something, you do it. Fast.

Anyway, I'm to start my first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in two days, and I can't exactly say I'm excited. I'm not sad to go – I'd do anything to get away from the monotony of my home life – but I honestly don't understand what can be gained from sending me there.

I can already see it. The excited faces of the students as they boarded the train, them running back at the last second to spend one more moment in their mothers' arms before leaving on the train to a school that taught things they could never have imagined, the awe and sense of wonderment as they arrived at Hogwarts castle…absolutely pathetic.

It is, after all, just a damn train ride, and neither Hogwarts castle, nor the subjects taught there were quite that amazing. Did I miss anything? Oh yeah, right, that. Like hell I'm saying goodbye to Mother. Like hell she'd give me the chance.

Don't get me wrong here – I'm not some whiny little snot-nosed brat who thinks their life is just so terrible. I'm actually just an eleven-year-old girl whose been spoiled rotten all her life, who knows her life is so terrible. And for the record, I don't whine. If something's a problem for me, I'll get you back so bad with an artfully constructed, foolproof revenge plan, but I won't say a word about it. My whole family's Slytherin through and through. If you hadn't noticed.

My name, because I'm told it is important to mention such things in an introduction, is Adessa Jezebel Cecilia Pearce. I hate my name. The names do not bother me individually, but together they form a most displeasing arrangement. When introducing myself to anyone of magical descent, they never seem to "like" me until I tack on the "Pearce". At the mere mention of my last name, they turn to putty in my hands. It's pitiful, really. I mean, I know we're one of the most influential pure-blooded families in the wizarding world, but one thing that my parents have always told me is that you must always, always, always keep face, no matter who is standing before you. It really doesn't make sense to me why anyone would feel the need to turn into a blubbering idiot while talking to a person who could completely alter their life forever on a whim.

This morning at breakfast, Mother and Father started out eating quietly as usual ("family meals are meant to be shared in silence," Mother always says) the only sound being that of the house-elves scurrying about, and the rare clink of the silverware against the china.

Business as usual, I had thought. Not so. Just as I was finishing my oeufs en cocotte, who but Ian Gerard (and he's the patriarch of the Gerard family, if you were wondering. Though neither exceedingly powerful nor wealthy, they are still pure-blood) should come bursting in through the doors of our dining hall, looking flustered and wild-eyed, as if he had just learned a crucial piece of information and had rushed right over to tell Father. I notice these things. I shan't say how. Very few are high enough in my family's favour to be able to so impolitely interrupt our breakfast, not to mention enter the building without our knowledge. The Gerards are not among them.

Father was not pleased, to say the least. Not one for rushing things when one has substantial time to do them, he slowly pushed his back, rose to his feet, and withdrew his wand, a fine instrument, made of yew with a hair taken from a siren, which is quite unusual for a wand, but that wand does suit Father very well.

Father's formerly unreadable face suddenly turned hard, cruel. It did nothing to shock me, however, as it is something I see often. He twirled his wand between his fingers. They were pale, even against the yew wood. He looks as pale as snow, my father does, and his eyes are as cold and hard as ice. I find it reflective of his personality.

It was almost too sudden for me to follow, which is quite rare. Father had flicked his wand in that single, brisk motion that told me exactly what spell he was using. Mother hesitated a moment longer than usual before summoning a house-elf to remove the screaming, writhing man from the floor of our dining room. I noticed that the house-elf hesitated also before removing him, and Father waited just a fraction longer than usual before sitting himself done to his food once again. I felt like I was, once again, being kept in the dark. Or perhaps it is the other way around.

Once Gerard was gone, and his cries had ceased ringing through our dining hall, Mother and Father returned to their breakfasts as if nothing had happened. As I had no fondness for our current dish – something I vaguely recognised as a sort of mushroom and onion soufflé – I set about my daily examination of my parents.

What most people don't realise is that the minute changes in the appearance of others will often hint at various disruptions or improvements in their life. As I normally do, I surveyed my mother first. Her hair is a rich honey-gold that cascades down her neck to the small of her back in waves. I do so love her hair, and she is often complimented on it. Contrary to what many think, she places but a single charm upon her hair – which is to prevent anyone from setting it on fire, I find this quite practical, really. Mother doesn't believe in beauty charms (and she doesn't use them on her face or figure either) as she often says that "glamours are for the vain, and the vain are weak. We are of the Pearce lineage, and we are most certainly not weak". It interests me how she is the one to say this when she is the one who married into the family.

She has skin the colour of cream, though more of a rose tone that a yellow one, and she obviously has a flawless complexion. Her features are small and delicate, as is suitable for a lady of her station. Though not skin and bones, Mother is quite slender for her age 29 years, and resembles what I believe muggles call a "supermodel". I am still unsure whether or not this is an insult, but as most of the people who have described her as such aren't completely terrible company, I'm assuming for the time being that they mean it as a compliment. She had been wearing a high-collared gown in a rather flattering shade of emerald green that looked so tight that I found myself wondering if she could breathe. Though no stranger to corsets myself – a torture inflicted upon me by Mother if I ever especially displease her – I must say that that dress was pushing the limit. She held herself very straight and proud at the table (she is, after all, a Pearce) but I couldn't help but notice the stiffness of her pose, as if there were something…worrying her. Her overall appearance hinted that something was seriously distressing her. She is quite the expert at concealing her emotions, and so the trace of anxiety I found ghosting across her features was something I found quite disconcerting.

Moving on to Father, he looked quite the same as always, but who would I be if I didn't describe him anyway? His skin is a pale ivory white, so pale in fact, that the contrast it makes with the carbon black of his hair creates quite a dramatic effect. He has enough height and muscle to appear intimidating, and he utilizes them both to their full potential at all times. His jaw always appears hard, and his lips thin, as though something is annoying him, though no emotion ever shows itself upon his face. Father's eyes are as bright a blue as I have ever seen, though they flash sapphire when he is angry. He had been wearing plain black robes – as I suspect he still is, though I haven't seen him since – and only one with a fine eye, such as myself, as I have been raised to notice such details, can make out the enchantments woven throughout the fabric. It is a set of robes equal in monetary value to a small house. The only thing I could discern from his appearance was a hint of anger in his eyes, and a slight tenseness in his hands.

Mother has given to me exactly sixty-seven minutes in which I may write in this, and I do believe that that time is running out. I have this awful tendency to waste time. Mother has often tried to cure me of it, and I have received much punishment because of this fault of mine (one must always be efficient, Mother says, and if you aren't than you're just lazy) but I do still do not understand fully why I always need to be doing something productive.

On the subject of my doing nothing, about two weeks ago, I was forced to attend a function at the Johnston estate. I spent most of it with Leith Johnston, the only heir of the Johnston line and one of my closest acquaintances. Note that I hesitate to call him a "friend", because as Father says, "friends are for those who require the protection of others". Not that I think that the requiring of protection is a sin of the most unforgivable kind – we do all need some of form of protection at one point of our lives, especially during the infantile stage – but when Father speaks in such a manner, he expects to be listened to, and one learns very quickly that my father's expectations must always be met.

Since I did not have this diary at the time, and as nothing else interesting has happened today, I suppose I shall recount the incident at the function.

And, of course, just as I am finally (though I hate to admit it) getting used to writing in this diary, my mother has begun to pound furiously upon my door, as she has realised that Alohomora won't work. I wonder how long it will be before she figures out that she can send the –

Now Minsy – that's one of our house-elves, by the way – is tugging furiously on my sleeve (luckily my right one, as I am left-handed) and has already resorted to begging. I suppose it's my own fault that I forgot to ward my room against apparition, but then again, it does require a great deal of strength to prevent the apparition of house-elves, an act that many also (wrongly) believe to be impossible. Minsy is now resorting to using the threats my parents have dictated to her in the event that I misbehave and that she wouldn't under normal circumstances be allowed to use without having to resort to suicide. I probably should go now, as Minsy has already managed to remove my owl, library, broom and floo privileges, set me up for three dress-robe fittings tomorrow, and confined me to my room with the sole exception of meals until school starts, so I really need to go before she makes me translate my entire family history into German again.

Adessa Pearce

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