July 12th, summer:
Two weeks later and no letter from James. I’m dying here, I’ve never known such boredom. What does he want me to do, rot here all summer? I’ve been here two weeks, two! Is it just too hard to take up pen and paper and write, “Yes Sirius, you can come over,” or is he too busy polishing his broom or playing the field?
I wish I could! But no! It’s complete and total confinement here. Padfoot’s been out a few times, but it’s never slipped Mum’s sight. Both times when I got back, I received a healthy screaming. The same old lecture, don’t go mixing with Muggles, dirty folk, filthy blood and all that crap!
James’ parents don’t care where the hell he goes, or what he does. That’s why I love them really. I mean sure, they’re not actually going to allow him to carouse at night or embark on Marauder activities, but they’re way more lenient. I don’t think they know half the stuff we do. James’d probably be dead if they did.
They’re hardly as harsh too. If Prongs gets a detention (well one detention, that’s nothing, but I’m talking like ten or so), his mum sends him a nice little letter with the usual, “Act like a big boy, you know how to behave, we expected better of you”, nice stuff like that, but I get the howlers.
Mum sends the ones that chew at your fingers if you don’t open them and explode in your face no matter what. Luckily, I had Peter open the first few, until he got wise to me. I think after five hair regrowth treatments with Madame Pomfrey (James and I guess he has a thing for her now, not a bad looking witch at all really), he kind of shied away from mail all together. But yeah, Mum’s a nasty woman.
I think I’m dead, I really do, because I know I’d rather die than write. I’m so bored I’m dead and James is a stupid ugly prat that can’t send a letter. Am I actually liking this, am I enjoying writing? Have I switched bodies with Remus? Will I ever see the light of day? Will I ever see another girl? Will I ever go out with another girl? Will I ever make lo”, okay stopping there.
This is too depressing. I should have known this would happen. I’m addicted to my diary. God save the Queen! It’s always that way isn’t it though? You’re good at potions, but you hate it, you love Quidditch, but you can’t play it, you like a girl, but she hates you.
Oh! Reminiscent of James. God, I hate James! So does Lily Evans, and for once I’m happy about it. I’ve told him, but he won’t listen to me, he bugs her too much. Watch, if he gives her the silent treatment she’ll be all over him. But, he thinks he’ll win her with his “charms”. Heck, he didn’t even pass Charms. You’d think he’d learn, wouldn’t you? Enough about James, it just makes me feel sick. Whatever, it’s late.
July 13th, summer:
Okay so I lied, I don’t hate James. I got his response this morning. I’m cow towing it out of here (damn that’s an annoying saying, “cow towing it”, what am I a ranch hand?) sun up tomorrow morning.
Freedom will soon be mine, along with breathable air. Mum burns this nasty incense rubbish, it makes the whole house smell like musty old peppermint. It’s really potent down stairs, so I’ve been lounging in the upper loft, but the smell’s still pretty bad. It’s like she’s re-embalming the freaky elf heads.
When I was real small, I used to have dreams that the heads could talk, and that they’d try to jinx me when I’d pass. Creepy, stuff for nightmares. You know, they should really give house elves more clothing. I think they need to well, cover up. When I look at Kreacher I want to gag.
It’s not as bad as the guttural wrenching spasms I get when I look at Mum. Was she human once? Uncle swore she had looks at a time, unbelievable! I still don’t believe him. Personally I think she’s part banshee, and I’d like to think I was adopted. It would certainly put so many of my fears to rest. Things like, will I get ugly like Mum? Was I born ugly, did I morph? I’m I part banshee too, am I subject to become a filthy old Black like my fathers. No, I only have one father (even then that’s doubtful), I’m just using ancient terminology.
I swear, I’m turning into Remus. Any way, back to the ugly thing. I know my “perfect” baby brother will be uglier than me (he already is. Me conceited? Why you flatter me so), don’t ask me why, it’s just another gut feeling of mine.
So with a heart wrenched sigh, I must part Grimmauld Place (HA! Yeah right). So, see you again in paradise.