September 4th, 1998
Diary,
They're telling me not to swear so fucking much. I think that's asking a lot, don't you? I think that's pretty supremely fucking ridiculous. You can't make a rule book for stream-of-fucking-consciousness writing, and that's what they told me to fucking do, isn't it? If they don't like the way my consciousness looks, they can take their fucking virgin eyes elsewhere. I'll say it again. I don't fucking want their help. Hello! Yes! I'm talking to you. I don't want your fucking help. At all. I don't want to fucking do this. I don't need it. I don't—
Bollocks. Broke my fucking quill. Thank you again! Hope you get ink stains on your bloody hospital wear. Fucking knob-ends.
What am I forgetting? Oh, yes — the fucking prompt for today! Even more rules for stream-of-fucking-consciousness writing. Imbeciles. Here.
"What differences do you see in yourself following your trauma?"
Who wrote this fucking question? My trauma? I'm pretty absolutely-fucking-sure it was more than just my trauma. You mean the war? The fucking war that decimated the Wizarding World? That killed a few thousands and destroyed thousands more? That trauma? It should traumatize you too! What the fuck's the matter with you people?
But fuck it. Sure. I'll play.
I'm here at fucking Hogwarts, of all fucking places, by Ministry order, fucking taking classes and in order to get through that, let's just say I've developed a rather healthy affinity for Firewhiskey. It burns to all hell, and it's bloody fantastic.
Oh, and I don't sleep at all and I'm about fifteen pounds lighter and my fucking arm is infected. Just a few minor changes. Nothing noticeable. Happy?
Fucking fucking fuck you.
Draco Malfoy
September 7th, 1998
A week disintegrates before her eyes. It's as though she watches it from behind a glass. From outside of it.
That's how she feels. Like an outsider. Because they keep laughing.
Laughing and smiling and talking about nothing of consequence and passing notes in class like Second Years and joking and teasing and staying up late and laughing with one another. Laughing like nothing's happened. Like they've all been reunited after some sort of overlong holiday.
Not a bloody war.
She can barely stand to be in the Gryffindor common room. To be around all of it. She sits off to the side, far enough away that the light from the fireplace doesn't touch her, and tries to ignore it. Maybe it's jealously. She admits that a part of it definitely is. She wishes she could feel that way. Behave that way. See the world that way. But it's like the war's put a special tint on everything, and it's all a little bit grayer. A little bit darker.
Seamus casts a Bat-Bogey Hex on Dean as he's sipping tea. It's a catastrophe. And it's something she would've laughed at two years ago.
There are a lot of things she would've done two years ago. Smiled back at Ron. Prattled on to Harry about what she's reading. Stayed up late in the dormitory, talking with Ginny and Parvati about Zacharias Smith's unexpected growth spurt.
But not now.
She just wants to get away from it. Just wants to focus on her classes — study even more religiously than before. Wants to get through it and get out. And she's spent the past week trying to force herself to stay in the common room in the evenings, despite it all. To be at least moderately social. Present. But tonight her arm is itching something awful — almost burning, and each laugh makes her stomach clench, and after about a half hour of saying, "No, thank you, I'm fine," to everyone who asks her to come over — over and over and over again — she can't take it any longer.
