Memoirs of Regret

Chapter1

The Little Black Book

I restlessly swished the milky brown tea around the cup with the gilded spoon, though I could not consume anything at the moment. I felt as if my stomach was eating me from the inside out and I silently squeezed the armrest of my chair.

Nervousness tumbled about my mind like a bowling ball, destroying all other thoughts before I had time to even recognize them. Only ghosts, which I could not fully grasp within my pale, slender fingers, were left behind.

I gazed intently at the black book in front of me. So innocent looking, yet I could not bring myself to even reach out a hand for it. The book stared back at me with mocking eyes, ridiculing my fear and shame; daring me to pry it's cover open.

I looked away. I felt weakened and small, sitting alone in my chair, compressing myself to the smallest I could squeeze. Instantly, my motives for trying to become smaller were questioned. But I brushed aside my trivial stalling and reluctantly pulled my gaze back to the book. Back to the life I had tried so hard to forget.

It was more than just a memory. I lived it every night in my dreams, or my nightmares, until I almost believed in its continuance when I awoke the next morning. Many times I had opened my eyes to believe that I was once again 17, once again living a life where my worries were so trivial and yet immensely dramatic and worrisome at the time. If only I had known of the misfortunes that were to come.

Perhaps, if I were wiser, I never would have allowed my parents to plan such a thing for me, tradition or not. Perhaps I could have warned him of the danger he was getting himself into before it was too late. Perhaps I could have stopped him from his ultimate decision. Or maybe I could have stopped myself . . . from falling in love.

My hopes fell mercilessly to the floor, shattering before they had a chance to become anything but a wish. Because all is in the past now. Or really in the book that lies before me. And it cannot be changed, no matter how I wish it. Though I continue to linger on some chance that I will not be forced to melt into my diary once more.

My mother once told me that curiosity killed the cat. The cat may have died an unsatisfied death but it is not curiosity that lures me to this dreaded novel of my life, it is my assignment. My mission, so to speak, and though failure to deliver this book to the Order had not been discussed, I knew innately that I could not fail. Still, I wondered, had I not already failed?

I shook my head, an effort to shake away these menacing questions. I had struggled with these answers so many times that I had deemed them unanswerable. Perhaps they all held their solutions, but it was I who denied myself the answers.

My spoon suddenly fell to the floor but I did not go to pick it up. I do not remember putting it down nor leaving it near the edge but this does not worry me now. I cannot concentrate with my written emotions lying so close to me, screaming out my name in desperate agony as if they too feel the constant torture of my past life.

I was not told that I would have to read my diary again, and in truth, I do not know exactly the reason why I sit here today, forcing myself into it's pages. But I do know that I could not allow it to be taken without saying goodbye. And remembrance seemed the best way. Maybe I shall find Voldemort's weakness in my writing, though I doubt it to be true. I spent most of my time writing, not of him, but of one of his followers.

I remember Dumbledore's words distinctly now. For some reason I know not, they have chosen to jump to my mind and I sink in the memory once more, as I have done several times since their actual occurance.

"This is of crucial importance to the order," he said solemnly. I looked away from his probing gaze.

"I do not know how I could possibly help you," I lied quietly. I had subtley grown quite good at lying over the years.

He was silent for a moment," I believe you do."

I would have smiled, if not for the seriousness of the situation. How Dumbledore was able to read me so well, I would never know.

"As always," I sighed," You are right, but I do not feel comfortable sharing my past with you like this."

"Of course, I would never expect you to do anything you do not desire," he reassured me quietly," But, I believe that there are other ways of showing me what it is difficult to say."

I looked up at him for the first time, curious," A penesieve?" I asked. Annoyance, at my imprudence for not thinking of it before, crossed my face but was instantly gone.

He nodded," Yes, but there is also something else, that I believe to be in your possession, attracting my attention."

Foolishly, I tried to lie once more, conceal the one bit of my past that I wanted desperately to stay hidden, and if possible, forever lost.

"I know not of what you speak," I said smoothly.

He smiled," A book?" he questioned," Perhaps a diary?"

I almost gasped, his interrogation for details surprised even me. It was obvious that he was using legilamency but the quickness at which he gathered information and the invisibility of him in my mind was shocking.

"It seems that you have remembered such an article?" he mused but instantly turned somber, realizing the risk he ran with humor. I ignored it.

"So it would seem," I sighed," Yes, it is true, the diary you speak of exists but-"

"Ms. Bellant, let me assure you that the contents of the journal will be for my eyes alone and I will not allow others, not even from the Order, to know that there is such a diary,"

I sighed, trapped," Fine Albus, I shall bring it to you when I can," I answered vaguely and he nodded, ignoring the temptation to persist further.

I turned to go, leaving him behind, but he stopped me.

"Ms. Bellant?" he asked lightly. Surprise that I had heard his quiet summon itched at my mind for a moment but he continued to speak.

"Thank you," he said quietly," I know what a burden this is for you but know that you will feel better when you will no longer have to carry it alone. It is true that some secrets were never meant to be found, but there are some, deeper still, that must be shared or we risk an age very much like Lord Voldemort's early reign."

I shuddered at the mention of His name though I held no fear of it. Only hatred, for the monster who had dragged my loved ones down with him. The monster that had torn everything I loved away from me. There was a hesitant silence as my tongue struggled to voice everything I had been slowly drowning in, but I bit it back and continued down the hallway, away from the last man I would trust with my secret.

I looked up suddenly from my reminiscing, slightly surprised to see my journal still sitting on the table staring at me. How it had originally gotten there was clouded from my memory, I was not myself when I had awoken and therefore had felt no trouble taking the book from the box it had been hidden in.

I had carried it slowly down the stairs as if afraid I might drop it and shatter the already broken soul inside. I had not opened the book. I think that was when my common sense had overridden my dream and I had, in a sense, awoken. Not even in my dream state had I dared to open its bending cover and now, here I was, stalling from the moment my fingertips would soil the edges of each ink stained paper.

A sudden unknown confidence and anticipation surged up from somewhere inside of me and I lifted the diary into my lap. I could feel it's imaginary weight pressing down on my back, a burden I would carry for what had seemed like the rest of my life. But would there really be a difference when I woke up, knowing that I did not hold this knowledge alone? Such thoughts were tempting, but lies all the same. No, I gave Dumbledore the diary not because of my need to loosen the weight I carried, but because I wanted him to find me.

I wanted them to find out of my betrayal and to send him after me . . . to kill me. I would stand confidently in front of the door and wait for him. I will die held within his eyes for I know he was—is not a coward and would never think to kill me in my sleep.

I have lived this life for far too long anyway. I no longer wish to endure this nightmare for it will only become worse, Voldemort or not. His followers and ideas would endure much longer than he himself, whether Dumbledore wanted to believe it mattered not. It was the truth.

I reached a stiff but gentle hand to the cover below me. There is nothing written on the deep black leather cover, though I am sure I once engraved my name across the middle. Only small lines, scratched into the cover so long ago, remained on the black leather. I stroked two slender fingers across the invisible space where my name once resided as if in an effort to bring the letters back to life.

The book opened at my touch, the first few blank pages whipping past before coming to a stop. Here, I could see my name written in fine calligraphy at the top right corner of the page, though it was not my hand that had written it. His name curled around my mind lazily.

In the middle of the page was the 'title' I had bestowed upon my book at my immature age of 17. It was obvious that I had written it, even so many years later, and I almost smiled at my attempted calligraphy. No doubt his hand had encompassed mine, helping me to draw the looping lettering. Warm thoughts accompany that memory and I savor them, for it is one of the only joyful memories I will meet in my journey to discover my past once more.

The page turns before me, crinkling with age, and I am swallowed by the thoughts I have leaked out onto these pages. Staining it like the ink that stains this paper, though my words will not disappear, even long after the ink itself has melted away.

I dive headfirst into my story, leaving no time for reluctance or consideration. Rash decisions were the only ones I ever made in my life, wise though I thought I was. It would not be 'till later that I would realize my ignorance. It is strange to look back on your life and feel the familiar clench in your stomach as if you will live that day again tomorrow. I feel this way now because I will be most literally living my greatest mistakes over again and this time, I fear they will show no mercy. Hiding from the truth could no longer be my salvation, as I had only forced myself back to this book to find the truth and possibly, the lies.

The year is 1968 and am a 17 year old mistake . . .