Marion's War Diaries

Volume I

June 1995- May 1996

June 1995

24th June 1995

Curious things; people. We can be them our whole lives and still not understand them. They intrigue us, baffle us, and challenge us. One preconception whipped away in a momentary action. Each one different, but in many ways the same. They can be lovable; they can be despicable. Capable of actions that phenomenally clever, innovative, futile- or maybe some actions that can only be described as phenomenally stupid. Sometimes I could not tell the difference.

And this is how my diary starts; to try to understand human nature, and my place in it. And failing epically; like almost everything else I do.

So I am suspended with my environments, banished and alone.

It was half past six, a Healer having been summoned somewhere around six o'clock and my displacement at my sister's side happening almost immediately- the very moment Joan had gone up to her room, blissfully only one set of stairs. It was the Healer who wanted me out, ousting me with the words: "It's not a sight for little girls to see."

I was hard pressed not to roll my eyes. I am eleven years old (or thereabouts) I have seen death, known death, heard death and practiced death. I have seen torture, grief, betrayal and yet more death. But these are mere trifles compared to my sister going into labour.

After this chiding, I cannot help but to allow myself to become irritable.

"What am I to do?"

The Healer is perplexed: we don't know each other (clearly) and so she is not accustomed to my habits. Joan asks me, in Welsh:

"Why not work on La Duchesse De La Bourgeoisie?" (The latest of my painting projects.)

I shake my head. No can do. My last free weekend was jolly well ruined by her endless complaints of: "You haven't done my nose right! It's supposed to be curved at the tip, not hooked!" and "You idiot! My wreath of flowers is wonky!" or maybe "My arms aren't symmetrical! My left is bigger than my right!" At which I point out: "That's because of the perspective. You are tilted to the right so the viewer will see more of your left side than your right, which is in shadow." Honestly. Perhaps I should have painted her mouth last. Or maybe even better, not painted it all.

But then, I can't really complain about La Duchesse because that's the way I made her. She was inspired by the Fat Lady at Hogwarts (though I'd never tell her that) and I wanted to make a picture of grandeur, opulence and extravagant beauty- like the kind the Renaissance created. What I got was a frumpy nagging aristocrat- but I love her anyway. Or at least, I try to tell myself that when she annoys me. Yes, she's a pain, but I can't bring myself to chuck her out. Mayhap she reminds me of myself.

Exasperated by my youthful obstinacy, Joan rifles through her bedside table and brings out this book and a grey goose quill with a little pot of matching ink. And what a notebook it is too! Crushed deep green velvet with little stars- pale gold sewn on with a wiry thread that is worn in places. The pages are soft and cream with age; it's almost a shame to write on them. Almost, for I do love to write and I feel wonderfully serene like this, a heroine from a romance indeed.

The late night light is glinting off of the white lilies that grow by the river that runs past this house, this house on the hill. I feel alive in this midnight garden; the wet grass, the daisies the willow tree that weeps its garlands into the flowing water of the dell. The rocks that glint with a stern mystery, it's all a part of me. Why not start this diary with the things that I love?

Nature is the most beautiful; because it holds the essence of beauty, from which all things of beauty are derived. For beauty is in the eye of the beholder (those are not my words, 'tis true, but poignant all the same) and we are both viewers and participants in the nature of things. Nature is perfect because it is imperfect. O, for the solitudes of the countryside! There are the exquisites of the meadows in the wildflowers and trees, finest details and pleasance. But there is a noble glory in the flat plains and rolling downs and in the mighty stone plinths of Stonehenge. When there is emptiness and loneliness: where there is but land and man and sky. That is the simplicities of the universe and sometimes we are so absorbed in the complexities of our lives, we forget what there is to enjoy in just the existence of existences, ruled by everything and nothing, just the bareness and emptiness of beauty. And we can revel in it, if only in silence. Such are the wonders of nature, and the way that we became who we are, and found our place and our identity in nature.

There's little room in my life for sentimentality, so I spend it here. Alone with my silent nodding flowers, with all the world at peace, unified for once in its turning twenty-four hour frenzies.

As in so many ways, pain and suffering twist my outlook; with a scream. It's my name.

"Marion! Marion!"

My sister needs me. Urgently. I must go to her!

"Can I have a drink? And maybe a snack?"

Maybe not quite so urgently as I thought.

I budge open the back door that lead into the kitchen, illuminated by shafts of summer moonlight. I smile up at the flawed gem. I could just spend hours merely watching its glow.

And then I tug the deflowered curtains over its sight. Time is of the essence; I can't have it distracting me.

I pour, by hand, a glass of redcurrant juice for myself and some strange Muggle stuff called "squash" for Joan. My brother-in-law loved this stuff. His sister can't have it though, it makes her hyper. Not that anyone can imagine Minty [Araminta Stafford] hyper.

I fetch some digestives. The pain must have eased off by now, because I can't hear any noise.

I attempt to enter Joanie's room, but the Healer is blocking my way. On an ordinary day, I would be able to balance en pointe and see over her shoulder. However this one is six foot three and I am struggling to reach four foot three.

So it's a fail.

I roll my eyes and stroll down the corridor, sticking my tongue out grumpily at the flower fairies on the hanging china plates. They are laughing at me. I plonk myself down on a pouffe next to the window and pull out my well-thumbed Witch Weekly. Yes, it is six weeks out of date.

On the front cover is about check out Cornelius' hat collection. He's got that lime bowler hat on that he loves so much. I think I should keep a separate journal just so that I can mark the days we wears that stupid thing.

Page ten is the double spread of fashion; I look over the smart day robes, aprons patterned with cauldrons and romantic dress robes. None of them really interest me. No point buying them, they never come in my size. It's difficult enough being fitted at Madame Malkin's. She thinks that just because you're a child you are automatically some kind of live pin cushion.

And so, complaining loudly that the clothes are completely the wrong colour, much to the outrage of the models. I turn back to page 8, my favourite; the book list. I love books so much. Madame Pince got sick of me at Hogwarts, said I lived in the library. I'm quite a fast reader; I had an obsessive moment once where I read Gone with the Wind in one day. And I loved every single one of its 900 plus pages.

I have to smile when I come to my favourite part of my favourite section. Lovingly outlined in iridescent blue ink is a special edition of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, remastered in the original. It's a pale blue book with fancy fancy gold edging.

I love my own copy, a second-hand pink paperback with good illustrations and some very amusing graffiti from the previous owner, but the book in the magazine is beautiful, smooth and new and neat. Night black ink, evenly and neatly printed on snowy white parchment. A fairy tale of a book; with a fairy tale of a price. Sixteen galleons. Sixteen! My own is barely worth one.

I'm not superficial, well not really. But this book is eerily similar- like a newer version of the one that Albus would read from when I was in his care. It was a greater kind of spell, the one that he weaved from that book. I can never read my Tales without hearing his calm, gentle voice in my head, going over the words.

With lack of anything to do but enjoy your company, I get out a Permanent Quill that the Weasley twins gave to me. I dip it in the matching ink, careful not to get any on my fingers as I hear from Molly that it really is unremovable; and I doodle on the pictures, much to the occupants' horror. Cornelius Fudge (again, the show off) is so mortified he storms out of his picture frame. Come to think of it, he does look rather fetching with lipstick and long dangling earrings shaped like love hearts.

I giggle like the naughty child that I am and take particular delight in giving Rita Skeeter a curly moustache and a beard worthy of Rubeus Hagrid.

I can hear movement down the corridor, so I gather my stuff. Joan hasn't forgotten the time I spilled unremovable ink on the dining room table and we couldn't get it off. Especially as it was only yesterday.

I am just in time. The Healer is nanoseconds away, looking very pleased with herself.

"You may go in now."

Silently I walk in, and she's there.

My niece; my sister's daughter.

Joanie is there holding her in her lithe arms, exhausted but gleeful- a bit like she's just run a race. The baby is asleep (tired too, I suppose) wrapped up in a waffle blanket, her little upturned nose sniffling gently. Without a word, Joanie hands her over to me and my breath is swept away as she opens her eyes and looks straight into mine. Curiously, as though she would know everything about me and that still wouldn't be enough. Her eyes are green, wild green, sea green, the untamed green of the pond where the water lilies. I always loved those lilies.

I wonder what she would see in my eyes. My own eyes, cold and grey, devoid of any warmth, like flint stones, corrupted by murder and stained with tears that could not be shed. All innocence gone, no scruples any more. No more aspirations or chances to dream, only to die. Hope in the arms of despair, born of love and life.

Wordlessly, she goes back to Joan and with a heart of love and a mouth tasting redcurrants, I head off for the kitchen.

This day has been eventful. I have never had a diary before, but then I've never had a niece before. I've had family though; just as I've written stories and poems ranging from "What am I here for?" to "My boyfriend was a Blast-Ended Skrewt." Merlin, I had fun writing that one. (Based on Joanie's teenage escapades- don't ask.)

This diary shall record our lives from now. Because I swear her life will be different. She will not live in fear of her murderous grandfather as I have. She will not cry out in despair, freedom gone, as I have done so many times. She will not be condemned to a short life of death and destruction. Never again must those horrors be faced by one so young- not her. By Merlin, not her.

One day, people will not find this book, this diary and ask of me, of this girl; who she is, what she did, where she came from and who she really was.

Therefore I shall introduce myself as I am, the author of this scribbling, so that people can remember me, if they so chose.

And so this diary begins thus: my name is Marion, [Anne Ruth] and I am a Popyngcart.