January 12, 1994
It has been a long time, too long. I have had no free moment, not even a breath that I might have to myself. Not even enough time to open this book, let alone find something to write in it. Not that I don't have enough to put down in ink. Cold, uncaring paper, unresponsive. The only thing to which I may admit that I am afraid. It is getting to be too much too fast. There are days during which I do not feel I can bear much more of this. The meetings are progressively more difficult to attend, both physically and emotionally. I treat it as a game, to see which will break first, my mind or my body. Even this short hiatus is too brief to matter. Class begins in three minutes, and God forbid I should be late. If I must be a hypocrite to my Master's eyes, I cannot afford to do so before my class. I will not tolerate in myself what I find inexcusable in others. In this, at least, I am sincere.
May 29, 1994
Already another year most gone by, with so little to show. Lucius, damn his eyes, saw everything. Saw every weakness, every tremor, every shadow beneath my eyes; it was he who forced me to absent myself from these meetings, to take "a well deserved break." That alone should not have been so bad, indeed, if it were not for that, I would have worn myself down to nothing. It is instead the measure glare he gives me every night I make my appearance, the careful, calculating look that I have seen leveled so many times against those who were about to die and did not know it yet. I cannot honestly say that this frightens me, indeed, I have not felt fear from another man for longer than I care to think about. Yet, there is something about it that leaves me unsettled, gnawing at my mind. Lucius is shrewd, moreso than many give him credit for. I cannot help but feel that he suspects something and, like a wild creature, is simply biding his time until a moment of opportunity presents itself. I only hope that when it does, I will have made enough of my mark on his regime to help Albus bring them down in time. If I could know that, if I could be certain of this, I would die without complaint.
Yet, perhaps I am only paranoid. It could be that this break is just that and nothing more. Reward for services well rendered, perhaps? Possible. And yet, no other Death Eater will ever know just where and how those services were executed. Except, perhaps, dear Ivan. I do wonder, sometimes, if he ever told his wife. I also wonder whether those memories of nights with me are those that the Dementors take from him now in Azkaban, or if those are the nightmares he is left with, there in the dark. I suppose I shall ever wonder. I have no desire to go and find out for myself.
Speaking of nightmares and Azkaban, the newest atrocity Hogwarts was unfortunate enough to bear witness to. Sirius has returned. Mangy cur. And his flea ridden companion, Remus. What a pair. Canines deserving only of being kicked. Once again they come and disrupt everything. They steal the only chance at glory left to me now. Once again, I am pushed to second place when they are around.
One would think that after all this time I would be able to forgive, to forget. Ha. I don't even know if I am still capable of such actions. And never those two. I will never forgive, and I will never-- can never-- forget. How could I forget the two that brought me to the brink of death? How could I forgive the two friends of the one who saved me?
Why did you do it, James? Damn you, damn you and your Gryffindor honour. Why did you pull me back? What in Merlin's name possessed you to save my wretched life, after all I did to you, all I put you through?
Why didn't you let me die?
May 30, 1994
I did not intend on opening this book today. Not once this summer, in fact, not again until September. I never write when I am anywhere but here. Why is that, I wonder? Even with all the strife and irritation of home, it is not until I return here, to Hogwarts, that I seek the meager solace of the written word. What is it about this place that drives me so?
Be that what it is, I could not let this book be closed all summer with that as the last entry. That would not sit well even with me. It was, perhaps, misleading. I cannot honestly say I wish for death. While I may not cherish my life, I have no desire to cast it aside as useless. Why should I be granted the mercy of death when so much of the suffering I have wrought remains here on earth? Why should I be granted that release?
Bah, there I go again. Drowning is not the way I'd care to leave this life, especially not in a pool of self pity. I have no desire for death. Not yet. All I wish for is rest. Respite. It is only that it gets so bad until that I think sometimes, that I want to die. Not even the summer holidays can restore my depleted reserves. Do they not see? Or is it that they choose not to? I am nothing more than a tool, to be used, to serve its purpose and lie dormant until the time comes for it to be used again. But they don't realise, none of them realise, even the toughest of tools break. Every tool has its breaking point, it can only be pushed so far before it snaps back.
Sometimes I feel I can understand it, from one of them, at least. Dumbledore cannot afford not to use me. I am one of the few resources he still has at his disposal. Never mind that he is pushing me too far, too fast. I am the only one who is prepared. The boy is still too young, all of them are. Until they grow to fill the positions readied for them, I must keep them safe. I must protect them until they grow old enough to protect me.