DEAR PROFESSOR SINISTRA:

Would you be so kind as to ward us a conversation so we can gossip about our illustrious headmaster?

Please and thankyou.

Professor, I hope they are treating you well.

Though I am sad for your predicament I am    glad grateful for the opportunity I have been given by Mrs Lestrange to rectify my misbehaviour.

I hope I will be returned return to you a better slave.

I thought nothing would be worse than Azkaban, worse than the hell of cold and quiet and hunger that ate you up from the inside (and to think I spent a few seconds of my life afterward -- yes it was LIFE not that slow creeping death -- nostalgising about that place as if its pain and suffering was really simplicity, as if my life being complicated equated to unbearable, god I am such a fool).

this is so much worse.

in azkaban, the death was my own doing and it was slow and temperate. here, here if I make the wrong move if I say the wrong thing I know she is going to kill me. I am bleeding and have been bleeding for hours and I don't know if that is what will end me or simply a breath when she has told me to be silent. I am defiled and broken and if I weren't me I would laugh at the hysterical ludicrousness of it.

& she has accused me of taking part in his disappearance. as if I would destroy the one good thing that has happened to me in three years. as if I would ruin it. how angry I am that I didn't try harder to make that friend(?)ship work because now I am going to die without saying what I meant or felt and saying it honestly. fuck them and their stupid agendas, I don't CARE if a war has to be won and I don't care what is at stake and I don't care what they are trying to accomplish. and fuck remus stupid lupin I wish I could put my hands around his throat and squeeze until he knew what it was like to be seconds from your own death and unable to stop it coming.

I couldn't figure out why in fuck I was left this quill and journal. perhaps an accident, I thought, but now I realise that it is torture. torture because I have a thousand things I wish to say and a thousand things that could bring another knife into my ribs, another crucio across my spine. this place, this house. this is evil. I am sorry for Morag. I wish I could be sorrier for myself.

Professor Sinistra, are you up and about?

[around 2pm]

Professor?



[around 6pm]

Professor, stop lurking, your supper is ready.



[around 8pm]

Goddamnit you're such a jerk

I suppose musings of Azkaban are becoming trite, but I should feel left out if I didn't offer my own perspective on the situation.

Sometimes, I confess, I miss Azkaban. Not because I desire to go back or because I'm being mistreated (contrary to what Professor Snape would like others to think, he isn't actually a horrible bat creature designed for sadistic malaise), but because there is a certain simplicity inherent in solitude and pain. I suppose that is a morbid sentiment so soon after the holidays, but it would be untruthful of me not to reflect thus. A certain camaraderie, too, with those great stone walls, is inevitably something I long for.

Not to sound like an ungrateful masochist, of course -- I am horribly pleased to be released, even if the reliance upon another person is contrary to my autonomous nature -- merely, I wish to consider the psychological implications of these longing pangs.


Warded to Catherine, Charlotte (and Snape, unfortunately!)

Got the present.

Thanks, I really liked it. I'm sorry I have nothing to give you back

The past few weeks have been a blur of relief and appreciation and self-realisation. I suppose I ought to remark on my release from prison in light of the upcoming festivities, but I believe it is more gracious to thank those responsible for my freedom from the perspective that their act was in the spirit of humanity, rather than simply the spirit of the holidays.

I live, I breathe, I eat, and finally I am a human being once more. I cannot express thoroughly enough how grateful I am to be free of Azkaban, and I can only pray again and again and again that others will be allowed to show similar gratitude. For all the evils man can commit, compassion is true redemption.

( Warded Private )

( Warded Private )

( Warded Private )

[Bellatrix's assignment given here]

In the aftermath of discipline, it's generally prudent to consider one's situation in the context of his crime - so if you will forgive me a moment, I must endeavour to do precisely that. Twice this last week, I have been the subject of discipline for acts of wrong-doing, and I feel it necessary to expound upon crime and punishment for full impact - not for sympathy but so that the severity of the situation I, and you, find ourselves in is appropriately detailed. My first indiscretion was the creation of a satire piece that inappropriately addressed the gracious hospitality of the ministry. I am a criminal and thus have no right to cast aspersions upon my home or the punishments meted out for my crimes. Rather than accept the time allotted me as a means to rethink my position in society and properly repent for the injustices I have inflicted upon it, I instead used it inappropriately to draw humour to a situation that I should be handling with the gravest of sincerity. One does not expect a murderer to joke and make light of his prison sentence out of respect for those he has injured; likewise, it is wholly improper for me to disrespect those whom I have harmed by my crimes by disrespecting the sentence itself. I hope that for this error in judgement I can be forgiven, and fully accept and appreciate the immediate discipline enacted subsequently.

( Read more... )

( Warded Private )

( DESTINATION: AZKABAN )

Still kicking, but one never knows when these sorts of things will come in handy. If I were to trip over a rock and suffer a traumatic accident to my quill hand, I'm positive I'd rest far easier knowing what little I own in this world could still be properly divided up.

( The last will and testament of Ms Charlotte Montgomery )

HARK

We who dared to dream do dream too much
Behind these hallowed stony walls
Do wonder

and yadda yadda
into the greyest depths of despair
Do flounder

For once we came with abandoned heart
From whence we came we have no mem'ry
Alas

To the sweet cloak'd fellows I beseech
Leave me but this one corrupted thought
Intact


Alright, Wayne it's your turn now.

Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to end it all - and then I realise that the beauty of Azkaban is the sheer impossibility of such a deed. All power is stripped away here - freedom of movement, of emotion, even of self-preservation. If we wish to die here we may die on their terms. We may starve, but only because they wish it. It's one of those small ironies of the human body. We cannot choke ourselves to death with our bare hands - the body will force itself unconscious to prevent it - yet we have no such emotional barriers. There is no trigger in the brain to keep us from being too sad, from being too distraught. If these emotions fly out of control, the body will implode upon itself. Despair. Simplistic and efficient.

But control over emotions nearly always lies in the hands of another. It is easy to drive the body into destruction if one passes control of it to another, but easier still to pass control of the mind to another. There are no defence mechanisms there. We might flail and kick whilst strangled, but the brain will not struggle against depression and misery.

Yet, here I sit, quill in hand, dirty as it is, as alive as the day I walked in. It certainly has never been my intention to live so long, but that's out of my hands, as is my entire future. One day food will lose its appeal, one day I will sit too close to the door while They pass by, one day I will stop pulling myself out of bed, stop staring out the window in the hope that the impenetrable grey will part and the sun will tear through. I'll stop moving. Stop breathing. Stop existing. The paper of this journal will dry and crumble. And then Charlotte Montgomery will be no more.

My father would have told me not to give up - that I mustn't let them win - but he's dead and I've already lost.

 
( and there's nothing like regret to remind you you're alive. )