DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Minerva II think I want to gouge my eyes out. I hate patrolling the darkened corridors after a dance – my heart can't take the surprises.
Actually, I take that back. I still want to rid myself of the mental image of young Mr Weasley entertaining his latest conquest, but the boy must have something going for him – four different girls in three different houses on two different nights. I must give him credit for his stamina.
I don't know how I'm going to give him such credit.
You are a funny little book to have found your way to me. I don't who left you here, but having dismissed the chance of subterfuge by those who would seek such an advantage, I can only say that I feel strangely compelled to write in you.
I have no idea why.
I've never kept a diary. Seemed like a nuisance when one should keep memories within the brain, a mental stimulation when times were low.
It would be hard to pick a lower time.
I won't dally with the treachery of the war, lost souls of students drawn to darkness or the insistence of the Ministry to deny his rise, but it's hard to try and find levity whilst our world loudly implodes. Not even the…well, enough of that. I didn't start to write only to wallow in self-pity.
The next day…
I didn't sleep last night. I thought at least the levity of finding Mr Weasley in flagrante would offer some humour in my troubled sleep.
I was wrong.
I'm worried, scared and paralysed that the zenith will arrive and I won't be able to play my part. I'm not even sure what my part is. Albus is my rock, my friend, and my life's companion. I feel like he constantly carries my weight.
I'm scared I'm going to lose him in the muddle of good versus evil. He's changed and I'm not altogether sure it's for the better. It seems Riddle has changed the dynamics and I'm not even sure how he did it.
I don't like not knowing. In fact – I hate it.
My students are constantly looking over their shoulders, whether they are aware of it or not. I've seen my seventh years age more in the last three months than in the previous year. Some look vapid and uninterested, seeking solace in company, moments stolen in an attempt to understand the horror outside. Others are ignoring the facts presented to them. There will always be students who think school is a waste of their otherwise productive time. The thinkers and Circe knows there are too few of them, try to rally all under their banner, but their latent unpopularity is a cruel stumbling block and one I fear will hasten the conflagration. The last and sadly not the least number of students seem to be anxiously awaiting the fighting, figuring to be safe in the knowledge that might will triumph right.
I will screech like a banshee from the turrets if that occurs.
On second thoughts, I'll take Mr Creevey's camera away from him and then I'll do my screeching. It'll probably be my death song, but if I hit a high C, I might manage to deafen a few of the bastards first.
Look at me. A little book with blank pages and I descend into profanity. Give it time – I'll probably get worse.
I have to go patrolling now. I hope Severus is in better humour. He made me want to jump off said turret last night. A more depressed individual I've yet to meet. He, of all of us has the most reason.
I hope he catches Mr Weasley tonight.