6th August
I was too tired to write anything (a poor excuse I know); so the story continues here. At first there were no secrets to tell- Joanie was at a friend's house for dinner; and as I eat at HQ a lot already, nobody minded my presence at dinner. The meeting that day was standard stuff: guard duty rotas, reports from trouble spots (areas where suspected Death Eaters live) and general Order business. Meanwhile the others are almost certainly attempting to eavesdrop on the Meeting, much to my amusement and Molly's steadfast indignation.
But it proves very hard for her to catch them at it. This house is huge; not as large as Rowle Manor (North Yorkshire, where I was born and bled) but about twice the size of my own home. There are countless bedrooms, a library, antechambers and rooms that are completely pointless. Let alone the twenty here, you could house fifty! A better HQ you couldn't find. Well, you could find plenty not covered in dust from head to toe and a house-elf vying for attention. But for what it is, it's better than it is worse, if that makes sense.
Despite Molly's constant fretting over my health, my weight has definitely increased since joining the Order; and I think it has a causal relationship with Molly's feeding me whenever she can.
Opinions are divided as whether I should stay or not [in the Order] Molly is dead against it, Remus is too but he doesn't say so much. The others either don't have an opinion, but concede to what Dumbledore says. As Dedalus puts it: "He'll have your best interests at heart, I am sure."
My thoughts were interrupted after we got back, as Tonks had knocked over the troll umbrella stand. Again. Why haven't we chucked it out yet? Here goes Mrs. Black. Again. What a wonderful afterlife she's having. My knife must clearly have no effect on her vocals, because she is as profane as ever and just as loud. I think her name's Walburga, but she never managed to introduce herself properly before she started screaming at me. Not that I mind. It's just her though, Kreacher is getting better. He isn't rude any more, he just stares at me. The rest of the portraits just keep out of the way, which is refreshing. One painting I can handle, fifty two I can't.
One can't help but admire the nobility of the Order. I look at all of them in meetings and it warms my cold heart. Remus, Mad Eye, Sirius- so brave, persevering. Dedalus and Hestia: two lovely people, caring and hospitable. Emmeline Vance, beautiful, calm and selfless. Sturgis and Dung- I have yet to see more of their good sides, but they are very helpful.
And me? I can't see myself famous, but here, clear as day is my diary. Proof that I was a living, breathing person, that I existed- in the darkest of times, but I lived when others didn't want me to. The people around the table, they lived too. Perhaps in a few years, most of them will have died- I'd be a fool to think otherwise. Though they may leave this world, they'll be here, incarnated in words and my botchy prose. We trod a different path to the world, and the world wasn't kind, but we existed. And no secrecy, erasing records or denial will ever change the fact that we were here. Dead, stone cold and buried: but alive in people's hearts, their minds and memories. That is where I tell my story.
I was distracted from the aforementioned 'botchy prose' by Harry, bless his cotton socks. Well actually don't, because they smell a bit. The subject of conversation turned to Voldemort's return, as it so often does at HQ. Molly as expected was certain that it Wrong to tell Harry Order business, and Sirius thought it was Right. They were at loggerheads over dinner and Remus directed the discussion my way:
"So what do you think, Marion?" he asked eagerly.
Flattered to have him ask of my opinion, I explained:
"What we need to be careful, and mindful of, is that telling Harry Order secrets is not like getting news from the local gossip. These are not pleasant things, and not pleasant to know. Walls have ears, yes? People have died when something is accidentally 'let slip'. It's that simple- secrets spilled, blood spilled.
We have to know that it is safe to completely trust you all, you are very young" I cut off when Harry opened his mouth to object, "I am younger, but I hold Occlumency through day and night and have done so for four years. Be careful of the choice you make; once you go down the path of intrigue you can't double back, or un-know. There is no certainty in either route we take. Though I am happy for you to understand life here at HQ- another mind, fresh ideas are always welcome in a free household.
However, it is best to tell you what you can expect, and to confirm any previous insights or suspicions you may have. Have comfort in what you now know that you know; and expect no more."
Remus agrees to hold a balance and Sirius explains the basic situation to Harry, until Molly has her way and cuts him off.
Then the conversation turns controversial. Age and the Order- how young is too young. I know that he knows I'm in the Order. One day I hope he understands how lucky he was, not to join and to live his life without conspiracy and plotting, schemes that haunt his nights and cloud his days.
On my way home that night, I heard Harry talking about what he heard, and what he had thought. I am glad to hear a voice younger and kinder than the hard, bitter sounds I hear all day. The topic turns to knowledge again and I am sick with fear.
It's the most dangerous thing about me. I know too much, to keep me safe.
Versatile. Volatile. Dangerously difficult to control and destructive when it all goes wrong. Just a few seconds- drunkenness, a tongue slips and all goes to waste. So easy, so hard.
All my life, I've been haunted with visions of the future. Easy to tamper with, easy to misconstrue. There's nothing more dangerous to me than my sensing the future.
7th August
Busy days, at HQ. Molly was keen to recruit me to the house cleaning cause, allowing more and more space for the Order to use. The others are less than happy that their helping the Order is confined to less than glamorous pursuits, but I personally would be quite happy just doing this. I'm not needed at work (unusual) and my meeting with Dumbledore isn't until six, so I am filling my hours with eradicating Doxy infestations. You only see them really in old abandoned houses when you check them for hiding Death Eaters.
Nothing is more satisfying than blasting Doxycide! I myself don't give much for mass murdering Doxys but it was oddly fun in its own way.
How sadistic that comment looks on paper!
9th August
Percy Weasley is a PIG. There. I said it.
But he has. He has been so rude to me lately. All this power is probably going to his head. But then, I'm not great at being polite sometimes. If I think something is wrong, I will tell it how it is. But I have to bite my tongue with superiors and that I am not always too good at.
Scrimgeour has been problematic, badgering Tonks and looking at me like he doesn't trust me. Given my track record, perhaps he has cause. Some think I'm unpredictable, which I won't deny, it is true. But I am witch, and one changeable as the tide.
But Percy is just annoying me. He caught me up on the way to Auror HQ, pomposity oozing from his fingertips to his inkwell. I'm so paranoid about it; I smell it on his breath. Bureaucratic quill pusher.
We used to be friends, distantly. I even got a joke or two past him. He positively beamed at me when I congratulated him for his achievements. I commended his work ethic, now he hates me.
"Good morrow, Miss Popyngcart."
"Hello Percy." He doesn't like me calling him that, but I use it still because that is his name.
"Mr. Weasley, Secretary and Scribe to the Minister- to you"
See what I mean?
"It is the name I shall continue to use. What do you want of me?"
He raises an eyebrow.
"I am sure that you are fully aware that at Harry Potter's disciplinary trial tomorrow you must be there."
"Of course." PIG PIG PIG. "As a representative of the Auror Office- though why I am needed is beyond me." I in turn raise my own pale eyebrows as though I am so dense that I do not understand the Ministry's peculiar behaviour.
Most Ministry workers fall for my false naivety; Percy doesn't. He's not stupid.
"Why it is a full criminal trial- Miss Rowle I'm sure you are aware. We haven't had a full scale enquiry for- oh, it must be five years."
I recoil and hiss like an angry cat. I've tried so hard to make people forget- to make myself forget who I really am. I'm a Popyngcart- like my mother not a Rowle. He is my father.
Five years ago. I was young and I truly believed in the goodness of the world. I saw the Ministry, in all its opulence. I thought it could help. What I didn't know was that it would compound the problem. I appealed to the justice system in honesty. I was trapped in the innocent sounding "internships."
Half the people who sentenced me had no idea that I would be going to my death. Just like the 2,500 Child Aurors who lost their lives in the First Wizarding War alone.
I shall speak no more to him. My pain and humiliation to a system based on "charity" is not a joke. It's real.
And like it or not, I will fight to stop Harry going the same way.