Chapter 2.
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Bah. I can't write from a child's perspective, I can't even remember what I thought as a child (possibly it was filled with why I hadn't become a Spice Girl yet and why I can't win a single game of monopoly...). But I don't really consider Eleanor a child, you know? She's a very jaded person and I hope people don't get stuck on the fact that an eleven year old is so dark...
Mrs. Cole gave me a diary to commemorate my stay at Hogwarts, although at the time she suggested as soon as I get back, I read my entries out loud to the other children- as if my life was meant to be story-time, does she not understand an orphan should never write one for others to hear? She clearly doesn't understand what Hogwarts is, also, and while it would be amusing to tell her all about the magical things she wouldn't have a clue to, it'd be quite unfortunate to stay grounded in my room for the rest of the summer. Although I suppose it'd be a relief not to have Tom come into my room every other day. And it'd be almost a fantasy to never have a slimy snake in my room again- maybe I should read my entries a loud.
She gave Tom a diary, too. Mrs. Cole is a very original person, as you can tell (and I am a very deranged person for addressing you). He's not writing in his, yet, as I am. I never pictured him to be a writer, though, and definitely not the sentimental type. Of course, that makes me sound as if I picture him often, which then makes room for the idea that I actually enjoy his company to some extent- and that's a colossal lie. He hasn't stopped pestering me since Dumbledore left, insisted that we go to Diagon Alley together- he's done everything but chain me to him. Even now he's in my train compartment, although he's on the other side near the door while I'm lying against the window. I assume he's asleep, but he's be known to lie in his bed for four hours after he wakes up simply because he does not want to be bothered by the other children- I tried his ploy once and yet he still managed to know I was faking. Tom has always felt some sort of camaraderie to me, ever since I got to the orphanage when I was six, and I suppose both of us being magic explains it. But that does not mean I enjoyed it- he does not understand the meaning of the words "Leave Me Alone" if they do not escape his own lips. My own mother had just died, and he wanted to sit in my room uncomfortably for three hours without speaking a word?
And much to my own chagrin, no other person dared to sit in our compartment- they took one look in, decided that pale was unacceptable, then promptly moved on to find a tighter, less comfortable compartment. Not that I had any plans to make friends here, are you honestly expected to keep in contact with people whom you shared interests with when you still thought that politics were boring and the paper was for old people? For connections, I suppose having friends would be an ideal thing- but we're eleven years old, no connections stretch that far back without a trust fund involved – and seeing that I have no fund to be trusted with, making friends with anyone would be pointless. But for the sake of Tom finally finding a friend, it'd suffer through "No, I didn't know I was magic until a bird flew through my window" a thousand times.
Tom's waking up, I would hate for him to try and ask me what I'm writing about.
Harry had a headache after reading the first entry of Eleanor's diary- even though he knew Ron was joking at the time, he sort of expected her entries to be full of "Henry Finnigan". Instead, he got pretentious words from a girl that looked like she shouldn't even know that dogs die, let alone never see a purpose in friends beside connections. She didn't even date her entries, she just indented the first line of a new entry and continued writing in the neat, un-child-like script.
It made sense, though, that person that dark should be equated with Lord Voldemort, and Harry was genuinely curious as to how her mother died, so he read on.
A horrible thought crossed my mind today, although I suppose that's not much of a stretch for a second year Slytherin. All that's required in this house is a scowl and a proof of birth- Tom and I have both got the scowl down, but the proof of birth? Needless to say, we're not very liked among our own house. While in any other house, that'd cause mental stress, but in a cut-throat house like Slytherin? We're the outcasts of the outcasts, a form of elitism that the others will some day fear, as Tom likes to say. Part of my outcast-ism is Tom's fault though, he barely leaves my side. The only time is when I go into my dorm at night, but even when I wake up in the morning, he is standing right down by the steps, as if that was where he slept. I hadn't managed to get him to tell me why he was there, though, and that's what bothers me most about our situation. It's odd to even mention our situation as if we had a relationship to begin with- we barely speak at all. I go to the library; he sits at the same table. I grab a piece of bacon from the Great Hall and he has to bring a mug of orange juice to enjoy while we eat outside. It was quite a game of cat and mouse, only less hostile and the only way to win was to say the least possible.
Just like back in the orphanage, the other children are scared of him. What they're afraid of, I haven't the faintest clue. He was just a boy who realized the harsh realities of life faster than themselves, there's no use in fearing maturity. In his maturity, he's also very determined- he's already cornered Slughorn several times to talk about careers- Slughorn laughs him off though. He's a favorite of his because Tom can brew any potion well within thirty minutes, but there has to be something more. I can brew with the same accuracy and time, yet Slughorn always insists I had Tom's help. It disturbs me how single minded this man is. And yet, no matter how much in favor he is with all the teachers (while I'm at his same skill level, and pushed aside), the other children still see the teacher's pet as a threat. Thusly, I'm stuck with the same fear they show Tom- as if his wryly ways have rubbed off on me. What they don't understand is I refuse to have Tom rub off on me- I am capable of being a working part of society without the crutch of someone else.
The horrible thought came to me during History of Magic, talking about some war that had the outcome of every other war that we've ever learned about. That was the trick to his tests that the other students hadn't learned yet, you just needed to know the oppressed in the situation to know the winner- history always repeats itself. I was over-hearing some Ravenclaw's conversation about what they'll do as soon as they get home- about all the presents they'd get from their parents. And I sat and thought about what I'd be like if some poor soul had adopted me as a Christmas gift.
Firstly, humans should never be given as a gift- we're more unpredictable than the size of a sweater- so adopting a child for Christmas should never be condoned. Secondly, I do not want to be adopted. Unlike the others, who see the orphanage as a train station to their real home, I see it as the only home I could imagine an independent person could grow up in. You aren't coddled there, no one expects you do mess up or clean the lawn. You are forced to crawl along the ground, feel the groves of the ground before you can even think about standing up. You understand the way fate works before you understand the way hope works. If I get adopted, I'll be forced back onto the ground again and I've been standing for far too long to drop back down.
"Blimey she's a depressed person," Ron said loudly at breakfast, between bites of an omelet. "Only a second year and she hates all the teachers here?"
"It seems she had a reason too," Hermoine granted painfully. Harry knew that Hermoine hated acknowledging that anything Eleanor wrote had a grain of truth, she was a dark and tired child and Hermoine was a constant reminder to Harry that Eleanor still had a chance to be optimistic, she just ignored it. "Even though she's dramatic, it sounds as if girls were greatly understated in her time- Slughorn didn't even allow her to join his club"
"I wonder what changed his mind,"
All three of the students bent forward a little and tilted their head towards the teacher's table at the end of the room- Slughorn was chatting happily with another professor.
