AFTER
It wasn't much to look at – small and thin, probably made to fit in your pocket or up your sleeve or wherever you happen to keep your diary. The cover was black and the pages were crinkly yellow and completely blank.
It smelt old; not mouldy old, just . . . old. Like someone had kept it on a shelf for ages and ages. When I ran my fingers over it, it reminded me of the books in Grandfather's library; soft and firm and a bit dusty.
We used to visit Grandad a lot, before he died. He died on my birthday. Fred joked that I'd killed him so I could stay at home on my birthday and have a better day. I didn't think that was funny at all, so I hit him with Mum's broomstick and knocked his tooth out. To be fair, it was already wobbly. And he did get three Knuts for it, slipped under his pillow by the Tooth Pictsie. Mum, I should say.
I don't believe in the Tooth Pictsie anymore. Or the Yulemas Yeti. I don't believe in any of that stuff anymore. I'm too old for it now and I know what the world is really like. It's full of idiots who'll tease you for no reason, idiots who'll tease you for a good reason, idiots who'll ignore you and idiots who'll pretend to like you and then . . . . and then-
They said I should talk about It. That's what everyone calls it, capital letter and all. But who am I supposed to talk to? Nobody looks me in the eye anymore. Like he's still there, hiding behind the freckles and the brown eyes and the flaming Weasley hair. Behind me.
Sometimes I think he is still there, hiding at the back of my mind, in between my memories, in a drawer that I never open.
When Fred and George tease me and I want to jinx them so badly they won't remember my name or theirs; that's when he's there.
When Percy sneers at me and tells me I'm too little to talk to and I want to stuff that bloody prefect's badge down his throat; that's when he's there.
When Mum gives me a quick hug and tells me in a distracted voice to go talk to one of my brothers, that she's too busy right now and I want to set the sofa on fire just so she'll remember I'm still here; that's when he's there.
When Dad looks anywhere but me, anywhere but the possessed child, when he can't talk to me because he's too busy hating Lucius Malfoy and Tom Riddle foe what they did to me and I want to scream at him that it's not important anymore, that I just want it all to be normal again; that's when Tom's there.
But he isn't really.
I just think he is.
I sort of hope he is, because that would mean that I'm not really me and maybe someday I'll go back to the way I was before. I wouldn't even mind if that means my brothers would start teasing me properly again and I'd be sticking my elbow in the butter dish every morning at breakfast. Just as long as everyone stopped treating me like I'm made of glass and I'll shatter into a million tiny pieces if they look too hard at me.
They said I should talk about It. But there's no one to talk to. There's not even anyone to talk at. And I'm not writing anything down. Look where that got me last time.
I found a gnome in the woods behind the house once that was actually rather nice and I talked to him for a while. Once I got started I couldn't stop. But I let him go when he started to go cross-eyed. And now I don't remember what my point was.
That used to happen a lot with Tom. I'd get caught up talking about something, picking just the right adjectives to describe it, making pictures with my words. It sounds stupid now, but it's true. I could write pages and pages about absolutely nothing at all – that was nice. And I could talk about real things too; real people, real problems. But it wasn't real, any of it.
They like to tell me it's not my fault. As if maybe if they say it enough, it'll come true.
I think they're stupid. And wrong, too. It was my fault, most of it. Well, some of it.
I don't know anymore.
I can't remember most of it. But I don't tell them, because they'd all pretend to be sorry but their eyes would be so relieved that I'd wonder if they thought it would be better if Lockhart just did a Memory Charm on me. Assuming he can still remember the incantation. Pity. He really was very good-looking.
Anyway, I only remember bits. Little flashes here and there, that sort of thing. It's actually starting to come back. I'm remembering more everyday. But I don't tell them that either. I don't tell them anything anymore, other than, "Pass the salt."
