The dormitory door slammed shut. Myrtle looked at the door with a peevish glare on her face. How dare she mock my glasses? she thought. That girl hates me. The thought made her feel awful. Why did everyone hate her already? They didn’t even know her.

She buried her face in her soft pillow. It smelt like home. Thinking about home reminded her of what her father used to tell her when she was upset (this happened often, as her brother was never very kind). Her father always said that writing out one’s troubles would make them go away. It hadn’t worked yet. Well, that wasn’t true. Myrtle always felt better immediately after writing, but as soon as she put the journal down, another horrible thing would happen to her and she would need to write again.

There were eleven notebooks filled this way, back in her room at home. She never gave up the hope that someone would eventually read her words, and finally understand the horrible vitriol she had to withstand daily. Reaching under her four-poster bed, she pulled out a careworn blue journal.

********

Dear Diary,

I’m writing this without glasses. I took them off because Olive was teasing me again. There hasn’t been a day that she hasn’t said something mean to me! Should I stand up to her? I’m not very brave – the hat from the feast put me in Ravenclaw. But I’m also not very smart, so I don’t know if Ravenclaw is a good fit. Maybe I should talk to Professor Dippet about it. He should know if anything is wrong. Anyway, Olive is in my dormitory, which makes it even worse. Should I be able to outwit her? I feel dull and stupid, just like she says. And fat. My school robes are tight across my chest, and she never leaves me alone about it. Is it my fault that the house-elves here really know how to cook? The chocolate treacle tart they make is my favorite (of course, it would be Olive’s too – that’s why she tells me I eat too much of it. She only wants what I don’t eat for herself.) It’s only been a few weeks here at Hogwarts, but she already hates me. Why is she so awful?

Yesterday, she said I looked like a red-nosed reindeer because of my newest pimple. It isn’t fair that I have acne and she doesn’t! I’m the better person because I never do anything wrong. When I told this to Professor Flitwick, though, (I was politely telling him that Olive deliberately elbowed me in his class when we were trying to make feathers fly), he told me that tattling wasn’t the right thing to do, and that the incident was probably an accident. It isn’t my fault people are churlish. The teachers don’t understand. But what should I expect? No one listens to me.

Even at home, my brother Alexander (when he’s home) tells me that I should just shut my gob. I hate being the youngest. And Mummy and Daddy just adore him. They don’t like me. I think they wish I had turned out differently. Mummy’s always moaning, “Where did I go wrong?� Well, I never! I am a perfectly charming girl (if I do say). She tells me not to whine so much, and cry so much, but she really should take her own advice.

It’s not just at home though, dear diary, where people don’t understand me. Two days ago, Professor Dumbledore gave me a “dreadful� on our first homework assignment of the year. But how was I supposed to understand anything, since I’ve only been at Hogwarts for two weeks? And also, I think he favours his Gryffindors. And also, the other people in my house. That’s why he gave them perfect scores. It’s only me that’s left out. I’ll bet him and his favorite students have little parties and study sessions every day. Otherwise, they wouldn’t do so well in his class. They’d be like me – failing. If he didn’t favor them, they would be able to fathom the injustice of it all, and we could protest, and Professor Dumbledore would give us more time for our homework. He’s not a proper teacher. I deserved a better grade. He’s too strict. Also, people make fun of me ... so he should have been more lenient and have had pity. That man has a heart of steel.

*******

Suddenly, Myrtle heard footsteps. She hastily dried her eyes, and tried to pretend she was only daydreaming on her bed, not pouring out her heart. No such luck. When her housemate entered, she immediately said, “Myrtle, are you crying again?� She began rummaging through her trunk for a pack of Exploding Snap cards.

“No!� Myrtle said defensively.

“Yes, you are. What happened now?� The girl said this in the manner of someone who’s asked this same question numerous times before. She had, in fact, asked this question only two days ago.

Myrtle briefly thought her housemate might be trying to be nice (very, very briefly), but then decided she only heard a housemate mocking her. “Why can’t you leave me alone? You and everyone else, seeing as you’re all already such good friends. Huh?� She turned her back on her housemate.

“Myrtle, please! Try not to be so unreasonable. You know what; we’re all playing a game of Exploding Snap in the common room. Would you like to join us?�

“No thank you. I would not.� Myrtle sniffed, her back still towards the other girl. It had to be a trick. Little liar. “Maybe if you were friendlier to me, I would consider. But I don’t think you really want me there. Just go away, and leave me alone, please.�

The girl looked pityingly at Myrtle once more, before leaving the room with her cards.

I hate them! Myrtle thought, wrenching her curtains closed around her bed, so she could have some privacy. She looked down again at her diary, ignoring the tears that fell on the ink.

*******
Sorry, diary. Amanda, one of my housemates, just interrupted me in my writing. She was so mean! She mocked my sensitive nature. It was so insulting! Then, she had the audacity to ask if I wanted to play a silly game with her and the other first-years. Like I don’t know they dislike me. I knew it even when we were standing in line to be Sorted – my classmates are mean people.

I do not like those types of people. There seem to be a lot in my school, even more than there were at home. Actually, I might like them if I were blonde and skinny and had perfect vision, like Amanda has. Maybe if I had clear, rosy skin I would be friends with them, and they would like me. But God had to give me hideous pustules, lackluster hair, and glasses. And he made me love to eat. Come to think of it, I don’t think God likes me either. If he did, why would he let people like Olive Hornby and Amanda, and Professors Flitwick and Dumbledore pick on me? It’s not fair.

I had a dream last night about my death. I was crying in a bathroom (my favorite one on the second floor) because of something mean Olive said, and then I was suddenly turned all pearly and transparent. I was a ghost! I know that sounds morbid, but imagine what I could do to my tormentors as a ghost! Olive Hornby and the teachers and Alexander wouldn’t know what hit them! That would teach them to feel sorry for people like me.

I wouldn’t just haunt those people, specifically. Other people laugh at me too – even more than they do at that large oaf Hagrid. They say I’m petty, whereas he’s just strange. I’m not petty! All my complaints are valid, and I’m sure others are thinking the same things I say out loud. The world just doesn’t understand my ways and me.

When I say that the soup is too cold, or that it’s too rainy outside for Herbology, it’s true! If I feel that someone is wearing an unnecessarily poufy hairdo, and I can smell their hairspray from a mile away (I have a very sensitive nose) I will let them know. Even if it means disrupting the class I’m in. I always speak my mind, and my dad tells me that I’m his little fusser. He says that’s a good thing, but that I should try to make sure that everything I say is the truth. I don’t lie – I let people know the wrongs in the world so they can right it. That way, the world wouldn’t be such a cruel place. But obviously, no one listens.

It’s probably because everyone hates me. They never listen to what I say, because they say my voice is annoying. Sometimes, I wish they could see the hardships I go through. I’m always picked last as a partner. My dorm mates tiptoe around me and try to avoid eye contact. When I confront them about this, they say I am an annoying whiner and a crybaby. I’ve only cried three times so far, and even then, it’s only in the bathrooms. Well, maybe a few more times than that. I think the ghosts gossip about me to them. For now, you’re the only one who I can come to, diary. I think it will get better though, once my housemates come to their senses and see what an optimistic, cheerful person I am.

Anyway, it’s getting late. I should go to bed, as I have class tomorrow, and I also need to get to the great hall early. I need to make sure Olive doesn’t eat all the breakfast. It’s very unfair that I should have to do that, if you ask me.

Myrtle

P.S. My dormitory is very uncomfortable. I’m always freezing. Just thought I would let you know. Maybe the house-elves will stumble upon this when they clean, and remedy this.

Good night, dear confidant.

*******

Myrtle quietly replaced the diary under her bed. She listened, almost hoping her classmates had come upstairs without her noticing, and fallen asleep. That way she could wake them up “by accident.� Unfortunately, they weren’t back from their game yet. They were probably downstairs, having fun without her. Closing her curtains once more, Myrtle lay back on her bed, staring morosely at the rich sky blue of her four-poster bed’s hangings.

Why is my life so pitiful? Why won’t people be friendly to me? She entertained thoughts like these for a few minutes. In a twisted way, they made her feel special. No one else could possibly feel as she did. I am special! Because nobody realizes it - she thought triumphantly.

Then she got up to brush her teeth with her raspberry-flavoured toothpaste.