At Any Moment

Hermione I

I find you worrying, little book. Richly tooled leather, blank pages, hand bound, but as innocent as you seem, the taint of Riddle's diary is one I'll never forget. I didn't open you until I'd shown you to Professor Dumbledore.

He smiled at me, offered me tea and told me I was well favoured to receive such a gift. He knows something more, but he just sat there as though a wonderful joke was being played out in front of him.

I hate not knowing what's going on. I hate it more when others are privy to the information I want and they don't tell me. I hate being young, smart and Muggleborn.

I may as well cut to the chase and say I hate everything, myself included, at the moment. I'm not usually so negative.

Why?

Well if I knew the answer...no, Hermione, don't be flippant. I do know the answer. I'm just not sure I want to write it down. I feel it'd be a waste of such wonderful vellum - I'd be lying, of course, but then a blank journal (hopefully) won't pull me up or castigate me because I can't stop wavering and write what I feel the need to write.

That sentence is too long, but it's not like I'm going to be marked on it.

I sound stupid. I hate sounding stupid. I need a break. I'll be back later...I think.

That evening...

I've been thinking. If Professor Dumbledore knows I have you, then I'm hoping you might be good news rather than bad news.

I could do with some good news.

I'm not worried about my NEWTS anymore. I gave that up when Malfoy swaggered onto the Hogwarts Express at the start of the year. He looked at me like I was a prize - one that I really don't want to think about.

I can't help but think...

I feel as though all my knowledge is useless in the face of the stress I can feel mounting around me. I'm dithering - I know I am. I should just write what I need to write and then I'll feel better.

Right?

I'm angry, frustrated and just sick of everything. I want to rage and argue and fight. I can feel a hundred and one emotions, many at the same time and it's left me completely flummoxed. I don't know what to do first. There isn't a book or person who can tell me why I feel the way I do and I hate myself because of it.

I hate Ron more at the moment, but it's a fine line which of us I hate more...

He had the gall to 'offer his services' to help me. He said it'd help me to work out what was important.

Bullshit!

He might be one of my oldest friends, but he hurt me and I don't think he realises how much...

Ron made it sound like I was a task, a duty he was honour (now there's a joke) bound to carry through. What he really should have said was that he'd worked his way through the sixth and seventh year girls and I was spoiling his perfect record.

He can go and fuck himself before I'll descend that far into hell. For all I know, he probably has already - fucked himself, that is, although he might have done it while he was descending into hell. One can but hope.

I wanted to hex his balls off, but who's to say that a wand has an infinite number of spells and charms it can perform before it stops working. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. So I waited, biding my time until the Great Hall was packed for dinner and I figured I'd get the most impact, literally and figuratively.

So I kicked him...in the knee. I know I've got lousy co-ordination, but something or someone was in the way. I really don't want to know the answer to that question. I got satisfaction and he lost the urge.

I feel vindicated. I'd feel more vindicated if I'd managed to kick him where I thought I was aiming.

I feel better - I'm lying again. I can't seem to help myself. I know I'll have to talk to him sooner or later.

I'm hurt and angry that his solution to terror and war is to satiate himself in his baser senses...and he wanted to drag me along for the ride.

I'm scared of what's coming. Harry has retreated into a slow spiral of madness. If I look at it logically, it's like he's been on death row for seventeen years. He didn't know it for the first eleven years, but he was busy trying to climb out of purgatory at the time so any confusion on his part is understandable.

He won't talk to me. Mind you, I can't talk to him, so I'd say we're fairly even in the denial stakes.

I know what I want, but I can't tell you just yet. Give me time, little book.

Give me the time I haven't got.