Dear diary,

Sveta is well. Hermione Granger has agreed to pass me some kitten formula so I can feed her.

The dreams have started again. After the Dementors were gone l stopped having any dreams at all, but they're coming back. It's always the same—I see a body lying there, covered in filth and blood. I know that it was the work of my hands. Sometimes, the screams are still echoing through the room. The person is sobbing, and inside of me there is nothing but pure disgust. I hate the person; I hate that person's filthiness. I look down and I see that my hands are dirty, or that my robes are stained. I get angry. Why can't they ever keep their filth to themselves? I try to remove the blood from my hands, the stain from my robes, but the more I wash the dirtier it becomes. Anger bubbles and boils within me, it's all their fault, always their fault for making me so unclean. The anger gets to a point where it starts spilling over and I reach for my wand. As I am about to utter an incantation, the body turns over and I see that it is his face. I cannot see anything else after that, not the room or the blood or the body on the floor, which is always naked but not always matching his face. He is always crying, and he opens his mouth to say something, but I cannot hear it. I can never hear what he's saying, and sometimes he does this for hours and hours, just talking while I feel so angry but I cannot hear him and I cannot say anything. Sometimes it just ends there, and sometimes I simply wake up, and the moment I wake I feel so hollow inside.

Diary, I am going to tear this page out after I am done writing on it, because the psychologist reads my diary and I cannot stand the idea of her or her busybody friends interfering with their newfangled muggle psychoanalysis tripe. They're not all that bad, that Ron fellow is trying to improve the food in the kitchen which I don't half mind, but they can be so irritating when they think they change me.