1st September 1995
How quickly things can change. This morning, at half past five, Joanie still sleeping tear-soaked dreams away, I was painting a watercolour of the Weald of Kent (La Duchesse de la Bourgeoise safely tucked away) in the kitchen, drinking blackcurrant tea and letting my thoughts take me far away from our fickle world and its tangible inconsistencies, to a place- I can't even describe it! Some things don't fit words. I see the future, the past, mysteries incomprehendible, and my little mind swells with it all.
My thoughts seem to gather, drift and yet also not drift in front of my very eyes. Clouds yet mists of gas yet non-gas, like in a pensieve. Tangible, yet intangible, tasteless yet flavourful, colourless yet vibrant.
It's one of those trances. I hadn't had one for a while. My head seems to float away. Nonsense makes sense. I flit in and out of time and sequence. My eyes blur in and out of focus. I feel light-headed, but strangely solid. These trances are something about me that I don't understand- and I've had at least ten years to get used to me. When I spent my days on the Yorkshire moors, away from the pain and the anguish of the place that I had to call home. I learned deception in my smiles; I learned to read through gravestones. I learned agony at my father's knee, and despair at my mother's. I never needed to learn pain.
I had visions every day, on those empty moors. I prayed for hope; but not for me the happy rescue. I'm no damsel. I fight my way out. One vision lasted six hours. I almost went mad.
Oh wait. I am mad.
I see blood, and I see pain. Strangely though, Umbridge isn't anywhere to be seen. I see a man, alert. Fear has sharpened his senses, his senses heighten the fear. A flash of red, and he is quivering. But who is it?
But whatever peace of mind I had at half five has vanished now, like the water on my painting. My melancholy ramblings have been drowned out by a cacophony of ambient noise. The early bird doesn't just catch the worm, he gets some peace and quiet while he's at it.
Grimmauld Place is in uproar. It feels like a warzone already. Fred and George are causing mayhem (I do admit, I'd be worried if they weren't) and Molly and Mrs. Black are sounding off about everything. I should really bring earmuffs into this house.
Everyone's running around like headless chickens. I hide my face in my book (The Ancient Mariner) and smile. Ron's acting like it's so ridiculously early in the morning, plus he can't find any of his stuff. Harry's not even up yet. Will not say anything, I promise!
He's up now. Hallelujah, praise the skies. Now things can actually happen.
I want to laugh now. Tonks has arrived in full old lady get up. She's leaning against the wall, casually painting her nails, just as though chaos isn't reigning around her. Mrs Black's screeching in her ear and she doesn't even flinch. Any minute now she'll knock over something it all will go pear-shaped, but I savour the moment.
Careful George, those trunks-!
Too late. Now Ginny's clattering down the stairs and Mrs Black sees just how much noise she can get away with. Good morning to you too, Mrs Black.
Sturgis still isn't here. Moody's complaining about him and refuses to leave. Because the guard is one short. One. And it's huge anyway.
Finally, finally we get a move on.
When I leave that stuffy old house, that dinosaur of a network of stifling and empty, lonely rooms I can see just why Sirius wants to get out of there. He needs to be free, his talents employed. Maybe, for one day, I can let my guard down. Maybe smile, and Sirius can smile too. Or grin. Or whatever dogs do when they're happy.
I walk with him in full doggy get up, almost as big as me, down the street. See? Nothing to worry about. Blissfully uneventful.
It's a beautiful place, Kings Cross Station. All the big windows. They must be a nightmare to clean without magic, but it makes the station so light and open. You feel you could board a train, go anywhere, and be anyone. Of course, not many people would think that. But for a girl who lives in the shadows, the light is something truly wonderful.
We spend a lot of time just hanging around, with Moody covering his magical eye with a hat. He looks so delightfully grumpy my fingers are itching for my camera. I'd take a photograph, but then he would probably hex me discreetly when nobody was looking. He's a master for discretion. To my delight, Neville is there already and I greet him with a kiss on the cheek, which he returns readily. We banter for a bit, as old friends always do, and then once again he is taken from me. I can only wait now, for his letters.
The train arrives, and my goodbyes catch in my throat. I bring out my handkerchief to wave them off. Not a white one like they always wave in those Muggle films- no; that would get horribly dirty from the train. I reach for a lilac one instead. Not goodbye; merely farewell for the moment. As the train pulls away, I realise that this is how it is for them, and will be. How lucky some people are: new education, new future. A consistent, potentially long life. I feel sad to lose them, but glad of what they can have. I don't suppose they will miss me. Give it a couple of months; and should I die, they may not even remember, as that funny girl from the Order.
They are off North to Scotland, where the ones I love live happy and free. Where Albus is; and where safety is something you know, not something you run to.
I turn back, away from the happy scene, to an old house and an old problem.
3rd September
First letter from Hogwarts, where I most certainly have not been forgotten. It's signed from Albus, but I can almost hear Neville's voice telling me the news.
It seems that Dolores Umbridge, the opportunistic, unscrupulous Dolores Umbridge, is the new professor of Defence against the Dark Arts. What an interesting perspective, to be the thing you teach. I far preferred the nasty little bureaucrat where she was- squirming and simpering next to Fudge. Where I could an eye on her- where Tonks, Kingsley, Arthur, Moody, Joanie and I could keep her collected eyes on her. Far away in Scotland, who knows what she will do? Young, impressionable minds. With any luck they will find her as repulsive as I do. But what of Draco Malfoy? For all his father's vile nature, and the turncoat attitude to politics his family takes, I bear little resentment to Draco Malfoy. He almost amuses me, with her materialism, shallowness and pure ego. But Umbridge could turn him very nasty indeed. I don't want that for him. I want him to grow up unencumbered by the likes of her, for she is three steps away from being a Death Eater.
17th September
We visit Adelaide frequently, Joanie and I. She is getting stronger every time I see her. To watch her grow is to watch a sunflower blossom and bloom towards the sun. She smiles at me; and I would but love her forever. She laughs, and I would do anything for that little laugh.
Joanie is a brilliant mother, who croons with delight to see her treasure. I watch her sleep in her little rocking cradle. I hold her when she cries, I tickle her and she gurgles that laugh out again. If I had to hunch over in the little chair by the cradle, I would protect her. If I had to fight a rank of Death Eaters to preserve that sleep, I would. She can dream for hours and hours. I toss and turn in waking nightmares.
24th September
I did not intend to write today, but the situation has become urgent.
After less than a month after becoming professor, and Umbridge is meddling, meddling already. That woman is unstoppable.
Not only that, but I have read some awful things in the Prophet. Behind all of the bumpf of the biasedness of the smear campaign against Harry and Dumbledore, is the news that there have been rumours regarding Sirius' whereabouts. Despite Kingsley's continual efforts to keep Sirius supposed hiding place out of England- he is rumoured to be in London. London! His old family house is the first place they will investigate. We are stuck. We cannot move Sirius, and Kreacher knows enough evidence to incriminate Sirius, which he would gladly do.
I was with Sirius that day in London. When Lucius Malfoy saw him. The Malfoys hate me, though I have done no wrong. If they find out I've been hiding Sirius all this time, it will be Azkaban, for certain. And the Dementors, the Dementors! They know no mercy. What would they do to a weak little girl, with a bad past and guilt that infects her waking moments? When every day she wakes to a world that leaves her hands stained with blood, and her heart despairing of any future. I'd never leave the prison alive.
And the Order cannot stop an arrest. Sturgis has been taken to Azkaban for six months, for trying to enter the Department of Mysteries. I tried. I tried so hard in court. I nearly had them convinced. But he was Imperiused and nothing I said would get him to even plead innocent. He's a shadow of his confident self. His eyes are glazed over and we went without a word in his own defence.
Sirius is more vulnerable now than ever. He is the weak link, the loose end to be snipped. He is dear to Harry, who will do anything for him. The Order is a chain of tightly linked people. It's a chain Voldemort will tug and pull at until the weak link is shattered and the rest of the chain is breaking up.
I care about Harry just as much as Sirius does, and would risk as much. But I am acknowledged as a person by the Ministry. Most of them dislike my existence, the rest would give an arm and a leg and maybe a wand as well to see me six foot underground, preferably deeper with a stake through my heart. But however unwilling they are, if I go missing my friends, family and colleagues can look for me- or at least bring back my body.
But Sirius is already missing, and only a handful of people know where he is. We can't rescue him without Ministry help, and that would condemn him. We also can't afford Sirius as a hostage. Sirius needs to control Kreacher, he's the only one who can legally. Kreacher and Sirius are tightly linked in this game of fate.
Why can't Fudge realise what Umbridge is? If he wants proof, he can just look at those cardigans! What sane person wears them?
Or he could ask the Child Workers, the so called "summer interns." The average life expectancy has dropped to under 30, for them.
My suspicions are confirmed with proof. I have had another vision.
Last night I saw deep fogs of mist, curling and drifting, to show a fluttering wailing curtain, like a veil. Then I saw a big black dog, a Grim. He howled, and then a flash of light silenced him. He dissolved into the mist, consumed by it. And there were nine crows circling overhead, mocking and laughing...
Perhaps I should say it as I wrote it in my book of prophecies.
Seven cruel blows
Nine mocking crows
One prophecy to tell the past
One veil to take the last
And as the lights flicker dim
One death, one indomitable Grim.
I know who it means. Sirius.