June 9th 1940
Dear Diary,
I can hardly believe it- this is my third diary note in three days! When aunt Vanora gave me this red, leather-covered book as a Christmas present and assured me it would prove to be very useful to me, I merely rolled my eyes and half-heartedly thanked her, more out of propriety than anything else. Yet it seems as if good old auntie Nora once more knew her favourite niece better than that niece herself did.
She was right, this is useful- I am actually enjoying this. My only friends over here are my eldest sister and Sylvia, the eldest daughter of the Sprouts, who is some years my senior. But Poppy is such an absolute angel- always looking for excuses for everyone's behaviour- and Sylvia lives more than half a mile away. I can floo in and out at will, that I know, but it is different.
So all left to me is this diary, and really, I need it.
Rolanda and Sybill are very young, okay, but their constant giggling just gives me headaches, you know. I can't remember whether I was such a total idiot at sixteen. I don't think I was, actually. I'm sorry, I know I am no saint myself, but sometimes... God... Rolanda is all excited, even more so than Sybill, and, being mother's favourite, she's encouraged as well. Mother, and I'm sorry to say it, is her own, stupid self again. Rolanda isn't a bad girl, nor is Sybill, but if mother keeps spoiling them the way she does. Then again, they're both exact copies of my mom in one way or another, so perhaps that's her reason. But really, it is as if mother wants Rolanda to become stupider than she already is. "I think Mr. Pomfrey will certainly dance with my little Ro!" she bragged to father. And then Rolanda "Yes, because, though I am the youngest, I am the tallest!". I know father had to suppress a sigh, and I can totally understand him. Being excited about a ball is probably something normal for young women, and that probably makes me the abnormal one, but actually, what's a ball more than a bunch of husbands seeking wives and a bunch of wives seeking husbands? Why does everybody desperately want a marriage, I wonder? Really, it isn't as if it solves all your problems- just look at poor father! I, Minerva Caitriona McGonagall, solemnly swear this: nothing but the deepest love will ever induce me into matrimony.
I am twenty, and unmarried, but does that make me a sad, old spinster? No, it does not. Sometimes I feel as if I still live in the medieval age. When I was at Hogwarts, I lived in such a totally different world. Some of my female classmates actually planned on starting a career of their own after leaving school. I knew I could never do that. I was the smartest witch of my year, but stuck in the life of tradition and propriety that I still live. Mind you, I am not complaining- well, not really. It's just that my sisters are getting on my nerves like never before. And tomorrow night's the ball. If I've not got a heart attack before then.
I'm glad I'll see Sylvia again, though. She's about my best friend, she's less angelic than Poppy, but sometimes that's an advantage. I like Poppy, I love her, she's my favourite sister, but she's so good, so nice. Sylvia is quite clever- she was a Hufflepuff at school- and even though she's obsessed by Herbology, we always got on quite well. So that is something. But the ball, now come on- really. Mr. Pomfrey is nice, alright, but he will only look at Poppy and she at him, so no interesting conversations there! As for Mr. Dumbledore, I don't even think I want to speak with that man if he were on his bare knees before me! Not that he ever will be, though, that man's pride and ego are obviously as big as his fortune is according to the gossips my mother heard; unlimited! I know I cannot judge him just because of this one occasion, but if he is the way I think he is, he absolutely is the most unpleasant man I have ever had the displeasure to meet.
Sincerely,
Minerva C. McGonagall