Diary of Jillian Chadwick: self-proclaimed queen of Gryffindor house and future queen of Hogwarts

January 2nd, 1977
Hogwarts Express
11:30AM

Lily's laughing at me while I write this, 'cause she thinks I'm being a twat and that having a diary is a 'stupid, stupid pursuit and something Marlene would probably go about doing, you bloody idiot'.

Fucker; you're a journal, not an effing diary; I'm not a pre-pubescent girl, thank you.

So. Dear Journal, (bloody hell, that doesn't have the same ring to it as 'dear diary'...)

Dear Journal,

As of about 24 hours ago, upon waking up with a killer hangover and with no memory of what drunken New Year's Resolution I'd made originally, you are my new New Year's Resolution (I asked Marlene if that made sense, and she flung a copy of Witch Weekly at my head and told me to ask Lily, which I really don't want to do, because Lily's mean about grammar). I mean, it's gotta be a good thing to keep a diary, right? It'll make me more organised, more reserved, more mature.

I could probably do with more of all those things in my life. I'm not exactly a sparkling model of an organised, reserved, mature lady.

Shut up, I'm still pretty great.

Anyway, so I'll be writing in you every day, detailing the shit I get up to (as of now, nothing, because I am a mature lady, thank you very much) this year and my journey from occasionally-well-mannered girl to ingenious, polite young lady.

It'll be a journey, even if it bloody kills me.

... 'Bloody' isn't a very ladylike word, is it? Bugger.

But anyway, this resolution is one I'm going to keep, I tell you, because it's the only one I've made sober (read: possibly sober and suffering from a fucking awful hangover mum wouldn't give me a potion for) for the last couple of years. And that means it's important.

It is, no matter what Lily bloody Evans says.

Marlene has since concurred with Lily about the stupidity of my journal, and has decided to remind me of her own resolution.

"I'm gonna stay in a proper relationship for at least three months, ain't I? And I've been in one for a month now, haven't I, so I'm doing well so far."

Marlene is one of those frustratingly gorgeous girls who has a new bloke in her bed almost every month or so. She's a different kind of pretty to Lily, who's reserved and organised and mature and very much like a young Grace Kelly. She says she doesn't wanna be 'that girl' anymore, though, and has since cut all ties with her last fling, Sirius Black.

Which sorta sucks, because her fling with Sirius meant a lot of gossip about what the mysterious Black was like in bed, and even though rumours were all over the bloody castle about what he could do, hearing them from my best friend's mouth suddenly made them much more real.

Which is my own warped kind of way of saying that yes, Sirius Black is spectacularly fit, but also spectacularly off limits, given his recent not-quite-a-relationship with aforementioned best friend.

Which is fine, really, because I'm such a hopelessly pathetic girl he wouldn't go there anyway. He only really knows me as 'that girl James sometimes chats to' or 'Marlene's best friend' and occasionally, 'that twat who yells at me a lot', which I s'pose is fair, since I do yell at him quite a lot.

Only since Marlene's dumped him, of course, but he's been grating on my nerves since long before then. Now I just have a real reason to piss him off.

Oh, yes, Jillian Chadwick is a woman of grace, poise and righteous anger.

Look out, Hogwarts, the lion's on the prowl.

January 2nd, 1977
Great Hall
7:10PM

I've chucked the 'dear journal' thing, because it's rubbish and it made it hard to take this bloody thing seriously. Which it is, mind, because it's my New Year's Resolution and I want to effing keep one of those things! And because it is instrumental in my transformation into mature, ladylike young woman.

Anyway, now that that's done, I can get to the real questions.

How many calories are in a bowl of pasta?

No, seriously.

Part of this whole new-better-Jill thing is getting thin.

And graceful.

And pretty.

And— well. Pretty much becoming Grace Kelly, who is the most ladylike person to ever live, besides Lily Evans, who could quite possibly out-ladylike even her.

Note to self: must stop being jealous of Lily, since know her sister is a conniving little harlot and that James Potter is an unrelenting fuckwad.

Speaking of James Potter, who's currently plotting something a few seats down with those bloody mates of his, he seems unusually prattish this year. Smug. Sort of like that time we got trashed and played spin the bottle and Lily had to kiss him, before she smacked him in the face.

Only not, because unless Lily's been keeping some very juicy secrets, her lips haven't gone near his since.

Just asked Marlene if she thinks Lily and James – Jily? Lames? Lames. – kissed. She says that they 'better bloody not have', because everyone knows Marlene's been betting on them getting together in seventh year, not sixth, and she'll be bloody pissed if she loses ten galleons to Sirius, who's convinced they're gonna shag before the end of sixth.

Lames, that is. Not Marlene and Sirius, who I know have already shagged.

... God, if Lily gets together with James, I'll be the last bloody virgin in the group. And that is a shameful, shameful thing to be.

Christ, I'm the Peter Pettigrew of the group. All— all oily and standoffish and annoying.

Fuck.

Another note to self: must shag before end of sixth.

And this is why I must become either Grace Kelly or Lily Evans. They're shaggable. I, however, am not.

Bugger it; I'll pass on the pasta. Thinness = shaggableness, right? Right. Salad it is.

Gross salad with the gross lettuce and gross peppers and gross tomatoes.

Bloody diets. I am a universal believer in equality, and I find myself loathing those spectacularly beautiful, annoying girls who have such a good metabolism they don't have to diet (like Mary MacDonald and Greta Catchlove, annoyingly sweet bitches that they are). That should be a trait shared by all women. I should be able to eat a bloody biscuit or muffin without feeling guilty.

Diets suck. Twigs suck. Blokes who like twigs and therefore force girls to diet suck even harder.

January 2nd, 1977
Girls' Dorms
After midnight

Celberatory drink with the girls. (I do not know how to spell that word but Lily shook her head and said it was okay so we're okay)

Probably something to do with coming back, I don't know.

I just know we got bling... blind drunk. And— and Lily's passed out. On poor Mary MacDonald's bed, too.

V. good night.

V. good idea.

January 3rd, 1977
Great Hall
Who fucking cares?

V. bad idea.

V. bad.

My head hurts.

My head hurts and we have Potions with the Slytherins first thing, and we're not even brewing something useful like a hangover draught!

Potions is pointless.

Firewhiskey is monstrous.

I will never touch either one again.

Ever.

January 3rd, 1977
Dungeons
About 12PM

People like Lily are the spawn of Satan.

Seriously.

So here's what happened:

I was minding my own business during breakfast, nibbling half-heartedly on a grape while trying to massage the kink in my neck I'd gotten from passing out on the floor last night – bloody Lily and Marlene didn't see the need to put me in bed, apparently, vicious bitches that they are – and listen to Mary MacDonald's recounting of her summer hols (which, yes, were as dull as ever, because Mary MacDonald is a boring old prude) between nauseous gut pangs and throbs from my head. And suddenly, Sirius Black, bloody wanker that he is, starts yelling about hearing us partying last night and being oh-so-hurt he wasn't invited.

Effing git.

So of course, because I'm an un-elegant, un-ladylike idiot, I had to come back with, "I can shove your invite up your bloody arse, Black."

Not kidding.

This is my life.

"Ooh, kinky, Chadwick."

"Not a kinky you're gonna get to explore, Black."

"Such a shame; I hear between the sheets of Jillian Chadwick is a good place to be this time of year."

"Shut up, you annoying prats!" That one was Marlene, who had her head buried in her hands and was busy massaging her temples.

"He started it."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Did too. If you hadn't bloody yelled about invitations when it's too early and I am too hungover, this wouldn't have happened!"

"And if you hadn't gotten drunk on the first night back—"

"Ugh, like you can talk—"

"Bloody Chadwick—"

And it was at about this point that I decided I was done with this conversation, and that bleeding Sirius Black with his bleeding eyes and bleeding Sirius-ness could go fuck himself, since Marlene had already resolved during the summer that she wouldn't be doing it for him anymore. (If you couldn't tell, Marlene's irritation with him has become mine, and I'd say it had become Lily's too, only she already kinda hated him, so that's a moot point).

Marlene's sudden dumpage probably had something to do with her scoring Amos fucking Diggory – seriously, between my two hottie friends and their hottie boyfriends (or soon-to-be boyfriends, because we all know Lily's gonna cave and go out with James one day, just you wait) and probably future hottie kids, I'm fucked. I will forever be the Peter Pettigrew of our group, I tell you! – but who cares?

So anyway, I flipped him the bird and he went back to laughing with his little friends, and that was that.

But then Lily came in, right as rain.

That girl, that bloody girl, she is immune to hangovers! She is. She never gets them. Ever. Which makes her a nasty hag who I should most definitely not be friends with, and who I would likely yell at if she wasn't such a model example of ladylikeness.

(She just read over my shoulder and thwacked me on the arm, so she's a violent nasty hag!)

So, because of her unfairly incredible immunity to hangovers, she's been stuck with making the potion today. Which, let's admit it, she probably would've done anyway, because the entire Wizarding World knows Lily Evans is an effing master at Potions, and that I can't brew a draught to save my life.

God, I'm shit at Potions.

So basically, here is how the day has gone: I have possibly been hit on by Sirius Black, local manskank and general tosser, I have wanted to punch said manskank and general tosser, I have pushed through the hangover from hell (sort of), and I've decided that Lily is a bum.

And it's not even lunch yet.

January 3rd, 1977
Great Hall
12:45

Marlene concurs with the Lily-bum issue.

Lily says we're both cows and has refused to brew us a hangover draught in retribution. Which means that, yes, we are still hungover.

And I've already nearly thrown up again – I gagged remarkably close to Peter Pettigrew, poor bloke, who seems to think I hate him now – because Marlene and Amos are the most sickeningly cute couple to ever live.

I asked her if he's a good shag. "Brilliant." She'd said, all breathless and gross, "Probably the best I've ever had."

She seems to conveniently forget that she's shagged Sirius Black, who has the entire female population of Hogwarts singing his praises in the bedroom. But I'm not about to remind her of that, lest she beat me with her History of Magic book.

I have realised that this is most definitely not a productive or ladylike start to the year, and I'm currently worrying about this. Of course, I realised halfway through a chocolate biscuit, which I had to force onto Lily's plate, far, far away from me.

No. Bad Jill. No biscuits.

Sirius Black is conveniently still being a prat. Though not to me, which is perhaps a blessing. He doesn't seem too pleased to have lost his shagging buddy to a Hufflepuff, and he's being quite vocal about it. And magical, given that Amos turned up to the station on the last day of last term with grey hair and a hook nose that looked rather a lot like Slimy Snape's. (It was funny, really, but Sirius did it so I thereby must hate everything to do with it and find the prank dull and immature).

Today, though, Amos seems perfectly fine (unfortunately), and has his tongue shoved down my best friend's throat while I eat.

Lily doesn't look too happy, either and— Ouch. That's gotta hurt.

Yeah, she pushed them off the bench.

Seriously, that floor cannot be comfortable.

January 4th, 1977
Charms Classroom
11:40AM

So I might've gotten very bored with Charms. It's not exactly where my talents lie, and, judging by the vinegar-stained shards of James' flask, he was pretty shit at it too.

Now, see, I'd never had the aversion to James Potter that was so deeply ingrained in Lily. The bloke was nice enough, and pretty funny, and we'd gotten shitfaced together enough times that I didn't dislike him nearly as much as I should have. Which meant that conversations between us weren't actually all that rare.

"How was your summer, Potter?"

"Better than yours, if you've suddenly become as boring as you sound."

"Oi, you tosspot, my summer was great!"

"Not as great as school is right now, with me here."

"Please."

"You're starting to sound like Evans, Chadwick."

"Bugger off, you prat."

It'd surprise you to know that this is friendly banter.

"What'd you do, then, that was so great?"

"Drank, o'course. Pippa got into a right do about it; said she doesn't want to see me go the same way as 'that mad McKinnon girl', but you know how that is."

And he would; before Hogwarts, James and I were actually pretty close. But then he met Sirius and his other band of merry prats (okay, that's not fair, Remus is pretty nice) and I met the mad duo I call friends, and we just kinda... drifted. Of course, we remained friends – though I privately thought this was more because of my link to Lily, the love of his life, more than anything – and we chatted and shit, but we were never as close as we were as kids. I think this disappointed mum, who'd been pushing me to date James up until about two years ago, when I'd finally told her that a) I wasn't interested in the slightest and liked to think I had better taste than that, thank you, b) James really isn't the dating sort and seems to have some sort of commitment phobia when it comes to anyone but Lily, to whom he's probably already started planning his wedding to, and c) we barely even talked anymore.

Probably a good thing, because if I'd spent too much time with him, I'd likely have shagged Sirius by now. And even if losing my virginity is on my list of goals for this year, losing it to Sirius Black – who is a dick that treated my best friend as a booty call, but is an undeniably fit dick – is not.

"Your sister's still mental, then."

"Did that need to be asked? My entire family's mental."

"All families are mental, Jill."

"Ooh, look at you, being all sage and Dumbledore-y."

James stroked his nonexistent beard, looking thoughtful. "I could definitely make beards attractive."

"Or pedo-ish. Yeah, no."

"Oh, c'mon, Jillian, admit it; I'd be fit with a beard."

I rolled my eyes and replied sarcastically, "Oh yes, James, of course you would. You'd be so undeniably sexy with a beard that my poor heart cannot take it. Take me now."

He put a hand on his heart, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "While I am deeply honoured, I am afraid that my affections cannot be so easily won. My bearded love belongs to one woman and one woman only, and she is sitting on the other side of the classroom." I scoffed as he continued, "But perhaps I may redirect your devotion to one of my fellows? I could likely convince Sirius or Remus to grow a beard..." His voice had grown thoughtful, mischievous.

I'd like to say I raised an eyebrow at that point, but eyebrow-raising is a gift not rewarded to us mere mortals, and only reserved for the exceptional people. Not even Marlene can do it. But I did my equivalent, anyway. "Convince or prank?"

"Why, Jill, I never! I am hurt that you would think me capable of pranking my brothers in arms, my comrades—"

"I get it."

I'm still sorely convinced that they're going to show up at dinner or lunch one day with seven-foot long beards tumbling out of their chins, but alright.

January 5th, 1977
Girls' Dorms
10PM-ish

Not a lot happened today. Remus showed up to dinner with a beard, as predicted, and seemed to get very frustrated when he couldn't get rid of it. I might've taken pity on him and taken him to the hospital wing once it was only clear that the beard was going to keep growing. By the time we'd gotten there, the hair on his chin had risen to cover his eyes, and he was tripping over the end of his beard even as he laughed.

That's— that's it.

Fuck, this journal thing is boring.

And I have most certainly not suddenly sprouted blonde hair or ladylike grace or any ridiculous beauty, which means that journal-writing has most certainly not made me more like Grace Kelly, who probably does not write in a journal and is likely too busy being graceful and fabulous and a princess for such stupid things.

Stupid journal.

Stupid Grace Kelly.

Stupid me.

disclaimer: i do not own harry potter, which belongs to j.k. rowling, but i do own the mess that is jillian chadwick.

winces. not so sure how i feel about this, but i think i like it? maybe? hopefully, you do too, since i have a whole lot of muse for this.