(Author's Note: I will be on vacation for a week without Internet access. Therefore, no updates for a while. However, I will keep working on this, so expect a substantial update very soon after I return.)
For the most part, classes today went reasonably well. Of course, I was not my usual dynamic and captivating self...but, seriously, I don't think that any of the students noticed anything. Except for possibly Draco. He's a very perceptive young man, despite that Malfoy veneer of guttural hatred. That's not the real Draco, that's his father manifested inside him. If there's one thing world doesn't need, it's another Lucius Malfoy. Lucius is the textbook definition of a sadist. At any rate, he said that he wishes to speak with me tomorrow—what excellent timing. He's having problems with deciding on a career—not that he necessarily needs one with his family money, but a boy's got to have something to do. I've been trying to press him towards studying Defense against the Dark Arts, but his father obviously wouldn't approve. Too bad, because Hogwarts is fishing around for a new DADA teacher. One other than myself, that is—I've given up on that one. The one they've got now is only interim, and it shows. He's entirely inept.
It seems as if my every movement is an ordeal, as melodramatic as...I won't make excuses. Nothing I can do about it. But it's as if I have to try twice as hard as the people around me to flex a finger or speak a sentence. This is the most relaxed I've been all day...the journaling is undoubtedly beneficial. Been taking all sorts of potions, as I always do when I get like this—if they ever help, I don't notice, but I do it anyway. I appreciate at least having the illusion of control. Control, control, control...I'm always so fixated on control. I'm sure there's some reason why...ooh! I bet it's related to early childhood trauma! Five points for Slytherin, Severus!
You know, if I really wanted to I could blame almost everything on Daddy dearest. It's all the rage these days. While there's no doubt that all that influenced my choices and temperament...I got myself into this mess. Not Father, not Lucius, not Potter...I did it all. And here I am, accepting the consequences. Nobody by my side, and a hideous mark on my upper arm that might as well be burning. I cover it up in thick black robes, but I wish I could just gouge it out, peel it off, never have to look at it again. But I can't, and I've never been foolish enough to try...right. I've never been foolish enough to try. Of all the things I detest about my appearance—obviously that one's the worst.
It's not like I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and exclaimed, "Wow! I'm ugly!" It's more of a gradual acceptance. I suppose there are things that could be done to ameliorate it—a real haircut, perhaps, 'stepping out of that dungeon and getting some sun,' as Madam Sprout suggested once...and I've heard smiling absolutely works wonders, but I'm not interested. Imagine me, strutting around the castle with a smile plastered on my face. I'd have to take great care not to stumble into Longbottom lest he die from shock. At any rate, I'll only become less attractive as I get older—I peaked, if you could call it that, when I was about 20. And so what? It doesn't bother me. I have more important things to bother me. So many things.