DISCLAIMER: Okay, as we all know. I do not own Harry Potter. Just about everything belongs to our dear Ms. JKR. Oh, and for the beginning of this chapter, I would like to credit Cassandra Claire's i Very Secret Diaries /i , as they inspired it.

In the depths of night, the whole castle of Hogwarts slept, save for a large bird, with brilliant scarlet feathers, intelligence gleaming in its eyes. The phoenix, perched in the silent and empty office of Professor Dumbledore, gazed down unblinkingly at a sheaf of parchment on his desk, quill still sitting on top of it.

Diary Of: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore -- (being a glimpse into the mind of a genius)

27th October 1971 -- Really should invest in Pensieve. Writing getting tedious and went through 3rd pot of ink in week. Will become very expensive

Went to ministry to convince Wizengamot to take action against Voldemort's rise to power -- half of council fainted when said his name. Maybe should get braver council.

Parents of Remus Lupin dead -- shame, were very good people. Will miss them. Must keep eye on Remus -- no, possibilities for mischief too fun. Must warn students about Whomping Willow, though. Nearly took Gladys Gudgeon's eye out. Pity, very nice tree.

Suspect Voldemort has contacts at ministry -- perhaps should look for people willing to fight. Yes, maybe form some secret sect.

You know, Fawkes very pretty. Perhaps will call secret sect the Order Of the Phoenix. Abbreviates nicely. OOTP. No, maybe too long. Perhaps should just call "We Hate Voldemort."

Darn. Running out of ink again, and craving sherbet lemons. Mmm lemons. Perhaps will change password to Sherbet Lemons in future. "Reese's Pieces" getting old; not craving chocolate anyway.

Minverva telling me time for evening feast. Shouldn't keep her waiting, quite unpleasant when angry. Really very much like a cat, and doesn't like sherbet lemons. Dumb cats.

Back from feast. Superb as usual. Should look into ways to alert Muggle world of Voldemort. Silly name, really. Wasn't much nicer as Tom. Silly Tom. Really hoping for wool socks this X-mas, greatest wizard in world, have my own wizard card, Order of Merlin First Class, and still no comfy socks. Pity.


Two months of school gone, two whole months, and Severus Snape had come to a single overwhelming conclusion: All Slytherins were disgusting, sneaky, underhanded, thieving, uncultured swine. And he had been branded as one of them. Stupid Sorting Hat, what right did it have to judge him, it didn't know him ... or did it?

Perhaps he was just as bad as the rest of them, just as dull, just as oblivious, as hopeless, as destined for the other side of the fight against Voldemort -- the very thought made him shudder.

Well, one way or another, these idiots had better keep out of the way of his studies. He was going to be an outstanding student, perfect at everything, no matter what anyone said, even Professor Bletchley, who in no uncertain terms told him he couldn't make a proper potion if his life depended on it. Stupid teachers. They knew nothing, they just hid behind the title of "professor." They were no better than the students. That was precisely the problem with the human race: no subtlety.

Sitting in the uncomfortable chairs of the Slytherin Common Room listening to mindless babble about superiority and how this "dark lord" Voldemort was going to take over was boring at best, and he dared not leave because that blood-traitor Black, the Mudblood's friend, and his flea-bitten friends were waiting for him.

Weeks went by, teachers discouraged, and Severus hid in the library, his new temporary home. He had dedicated his time to schoolwork with an almost fierce determination. School was a hurdle, and he had to jump it. Having melted his third caludron in potions, he turned his attention to -- other -- endeavours.

Today, he was writing an essay for Defence Against the Dark Arts on effects of Dark magic in the Muggle word. A series of books surrounded his slight figure, making only the top of his head visible to the outside world. "Grindelwald and the Second World War," "Taxation Without Representation? Not Likely," and "The Roswell Incident -- A Wizarding Community's Efforts to Recover" were prominent among the titles present.

But then, who cared about Defense against the Dark Arts, anyway? This was the attitude of most Slytherins, and, clearly, as a Slytherin, Severus somehow felt that he had a duty to conform, to be like them, to scrap his four-foot long essay and write only 12 inches instead, with bad grammar and spelling. After all, who cared about defense? It was only extremely fascinating, with endless supplies of facts and theories, and practical examinations, but, of course, that wasn't fun ...

"COOL! A secret passage into the library!" Ah, damnit. That was them again, wasn't it? Mr. I'm-so-cool Black and his idiot friends. It appeared that they had a great deal of luck discovering several passages throughout the castle, and always ended up stumbling upon him, their new favorite target. He most certainly would not be getting any more work done here, and didn't look forward to being attacked. So? Where else to go? Why, safe (relatively) up in his dormitory, of course! That is, if those blithering idiots hadn't found a way in there, too.

One word to sum up Peter Pettigrew's experience at Hogwarts so far? Eeep . His newly acquired friends seemed so much smarter, funnier, better than he. What's a little guy supposed to do? In herbology class, he knocked over his flower pot; in potions, he melted his cauldron; and in transfiguration, his match simply refused to look even remotely needle-like, whereas the rest of them had done exceptionally well -- except for James in charms.

Peter comforted himself with this thought. He was better at charms than James, yes he was. He had gotten wingardium leviosa on the second day, and Remus had to practice with James for several nights before he got it right. He wasn't rubbish at everything, and he did have friends, that had to count for something.

He thought back on Hallo'een, and found that he could remember very little of the experience, as it had been too soon after Remus's loss, so the group had stayed in the dormitory with him throughout the feast, as James and Sirius had somehow miraculously procured a great deal of food from somewhere or other -- later revealed to be the kitchens (how did they find that secret passage so fast?). All in all, it had been a very nice little private party, all perched on Remus's bed, munching on numerous pastries that hadn't been served at dinner.

When the time for Christmas sign-ups came, it seemed that the whole of Gryffindor house, and every other, had opted to stay, except for Peter. He was dearly missed by his family and they wanted their Pettikins back. And, of course, when Sirius had kidnapped Peter's letter from his family and found out that they actuallycalled him Pettikins, he never did hear the end of it.

Like right now. He grimaced at Sirius as they said their goodbyes. "Do you have to call me that? Goodbye anyway."

The full congregation of boys surrounded him. They waved, promising to save lots of goodies for him for when he got back(not).

"Bye, Peter", Remus called.

"See ya, Pete," James, of course.

"Come back soon, Pettikins ."

"AARRRRRGGHH! IT'S NOT PETTIKINS!"

All in all, a very pretty little goodbye.


On the sixth floor of the great castle of Hogwarts was a stone wall, bare save for a huge window overlooking the lake (at least, that day it was overlooking the lake). And on this day, found to be staring, unseeing into the lake was seventeen-year-old Sybill Trelawney, freak-girl extraordinaire. Her mother, though not one herself, had always told her that she had all the makings of a true seer, and at this point, it seemed as if she may not be too right. For many years now, she would have odd little flashes of the sight,however,often making little or no sense: a color, a smell, a glimpse of a face, but she would tell nobody.

On this day, as she gazed at the frozen lake, hundreds of images chased each other through her head, none of them very pleasant.

A face ... but, Oh God, it can't be human, red eyes, snakelike nose ... Ah, it hurts ... laughter ... so cold ... NO! Stop! Help, he's going to kill her! Somebody stop him, he's going to ...

Not a single sound penetrated the castle walls as Sybill Trelawney crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.