Well. That was a night I hope I'll forget in the years to come.

Sheets were sent around earlier in the week about the exam schedule, and I can't believe I didn't realise that these exams stretched out for two entire weeks. It's almost obscene. I vaguely remember Gideon being an absolute wreck before we left last year, but I figured it was Emmeline crushing his spirit as she tends to do. Positively evil, that one.


Speak of the devil herself, Gideon? Have you found the three of us a flat yet?

Career meetings, how I loathe thee.

What was I doing two years ago at my last one? Petitioning for a single room. Petitioning to get skipped up a year. Petitioning for a great many things, none of which were granted. Except for the month that the House password was changed to 'Schnicklefritz' in memory of the late inventor.

But this will be the last one ever and that's something to be celebrated.

My mother thought it would be amusing to charm my hair a bright reddish-orange, the shade fluctuating with how loudly I yelled. The fun lasted about five minutes until my father intervened. It was what seems to be the topping on a horrible week consisting of not leaving the house except to go to London and see my enchanting brother and his dingy as all outdoors flat. The things I have to look forward to.

This ridiculous ban have best be removed by the end of June or I just won't leave the house. Ever.

Gideon? Are you out there?

Dear Miss McKinnon;

Thank you for being such a quiet, mild, gentle, and lovely date for Heritage Day. I am very glad that you didn't slap me with bloody goat skin, and I am sure you are equally thankful for not being shoved into a vat of fake blood.

Cordially,
Fabian A. Prewett.


I'm terribly disappointed that not everyone had the rousingly good time that I had at the Heritage Day festival. Alice, would you be so kind as to tell me why your octogenarian lover was asking me about my thoughts on the proletariat class in modern London? Thanks ever so much.

Every once in a while, I remember I should write in this, though it recently occured to me that I haven't the slightest idea as to why I should. Flitwick simply gave this to me a year and a half ago, saying it was a journal and I should feel free to write my thoughts in it, keep in touch with my classmates and the like. Still no answer why. And it's obvious that at least Professor McGonagall can read what we write, along with that Auror who is completely mad. Didn't it occur to any of you that this could be, at the very least, a joke amongst the teachers--here you are, babbling on about all your illicit dealings and they could be doing Merlin only knows what with that kind of information.

I won't protest, however, if it gets certain schoolmates of mine incarcerated.

Also, when did it become February?

Happy Christmas, you stupid sods (exclusions being excluded from that greeting and can insert 'my loved ones' or something similar in its stead). Emmeline is here. Dinner on Christmas Eve was grand, as usual. The gala was interesting, as they all are. Amusing, though, how almost everyone my age managed to escape from the delightful party before the night's end (myself included), leaving all the adults to stew in their politics. I'll leave it at that.

My shoulder healed. Aches a bit and I, supposedly, shouldn't do anything strenuous for a bit.

Gideon, your chess playing is atrocious. This does not bode well with me.

Birthday girl, I forgot to ask you one more thing. Show yourself. I highly doubt that you're paying attention in whatever class you're in now.

Isn't that funny. It's December already.

That means Christmas is coming.

Which can be clearly translated to: my enslavement comes to an end.

I think this calls for some kind of celebration. After the holidays. I won't risk my sodding neck getting the term of my helotry extended once more.