November 2nd
Noon.
Dear diary,
Well up to now, this day's been an absolute disaster, I must admit. I've been on the edge of a nervous breakdown twenty-three times today and I've only been up for five-and-a-half hours. My personal record, as Rolanda would say. But it is true, after all. And yes, yes, I have been up since five-thirty this morning. I was nervous.
Oh goodness, so the ridiculously-in-love-teenager inside of me has finally shown its ugly head to the world, apparently. Goodness, I have spent my entire childhood raising my eyebrows at these kind of people. And now, thirty-six years of age, I'm finding out that I can act exactly the same way. Why, isn't this all great fun.
The worst thing of all, perhaps, is that I am actually beginning to acknowledge that this all could really be great. If Albus were here. If Albus were here to offer me one of those terribly sticky muggle sweets of his, if he were here to lay his arm around my shoulders and pull me closer- then, yes, then I could perhaps, maybe, just close my eyes and be happy.
It's just such a terrible pity that that will never happen. Yesterday was a dream- just one of those vexing dreams of a frustrated spinster who yearns for something that will never ever be hers. I am holding the, his, note right now- and it seems so real, so firm against my fingers. I smell the ink and I know that he has really written it, but I still can't believe it.
I am so sad, you know.
Perhaps Rolanda is right after all. Perhaps I should really stop worrying and "get on with it" as Ro says. Perhaps. The problem is that I am not like Ro. I'm not such a blabbermouth, such an overly enthusiastic, friendly, thoroughly attractive kind of person. I'm Minerva, you know. Minerva, the stuck-up prude old spinster, with her ugly vampire hair and terrible cat-like eyes. Remember her? No, of course you don't.
Damn, I am tired. It's noon and I'm tired- which is really not a good thing, for I have the 6th year Slytherins this afternoon, and honestly- oh well, I can always change them in a bunch of green-silver canaries I suppose.
Bad, bad Minerva.
I don't even have the power to slap myself in the face anymore.
Damn.