8. Betrayal
10 August 2001
Harry dragged me up for a rooftop breakfast today. And he had the nerve to suggest my 'whining' was because I needed beauty sleep. Me!! Pfft!
Bloody stairs. Was v. tired and tried to Disapparate. Harry laughed at me the rest of the way.
I laughed at myself, a bit. Never did that before Harry. He's breaking down my walls, he says. I say he's pulling me down to his level, lamentably plebeian as it is.
And if he's so down to earth, why does he insist on dragging me up, up, up to see a bloody sunrise? Why, oh why??
And then to point out that it's red and gold! As if the whole affair didn't have Gryffindor painted all over it already. It's really much easier to stagger into dungeons when you're half-asleep. He called me a grumpy mole. Note to self: Am so going to punish him for that. Slowly. With much tunnelling.
2nd note to self: Never, ever, never let this journal fall into enemy hands. And remember: The World is thine enemy!
Still, breakfast was good, once the stairs stopped attacking me.
And if any walls are crumbling, they did so before that sunrise. Had Harry not held on tight, I fear I might have burst, essence of Draco floating away in the late summer morning breeze. Now, my heart fluttered at his breath against my cheek.
I think that Gryffindor put crack in my tea. Honestly.
24 November 2001
I had a comfort blanket when I was six. A red and gold one. O, irony.
I used it to strangle house elves (just short of killing them, expensive as they are), to whip garden gnomes (the few straggling survivors), to dry any stray tears and to muffle my sobs cries of rage.
Temper should be tempered. So papa says. And papa is always right.
I had a bully's comfort blanket at Hogwarts: bullying. As simple as that. Though, with Harry, it turned complicated. He turned into my comfort blanket.
But he's not here. And that is my comfort blanket in this lonely, poorly made piece of bed-like furniture: that he's safe. Harry's safety is my greatest comfort. And the fact that I'm the one keeping him safe? Well, I'm doing something right for once.
Papa is not always right.
Bastard.
12 December 2001
Harry's skin seems eager to corroborate the metaphor when I call him my Heart. Such a silly shade of red. So very like a Gryffindor.
When I add Honest, he gets the doubtful look in his eye of someone who feels not up to the task.
As if.
Harry, my Honest Heart,
May we never be apart.
(I need to get my own stash of tealeaves. Really.)
3 May 2002
Boyfriend planning surprise visit. Doesn't realise I am omniscient. And omnipotent. No need for any potency pills here.
Bring on the boyfriend.
5 May 2002
Found Harry in bed with another man. Some blond bimbo.
Need to scream.
Where's my blanket?!!
((random scribbles))
13 May 2002
Some Muggle misfit knocked on the door and asked for Harry. Laughed when he realised I'm 'the boyfriend'. Laughed in my face. Tried to knock him out. Didn't work. Not much for menial labour, me.
The façade brings no comfort now. Like my walls, it crumpled. I cried when he left.
When, at long last, that bastard left. He took great pleasure in recounting his every encounter, every moan and exclamation from my boyfriend's lips. Every pet name I thought was mine to keep and cherish.
My comfort blanket is gone. I scream into empty darkness.
16 May 2002
Have fortified myself with drink. The idiot idiom obviously has little bearing on reality.
Harry still not home.