The Uncensored, Unedited, Unpredictable Diary of a Crazed Muggleborn Bookworm

Chapter One- How to Be Insane

How to be Insane: A Four Step Program to Reaching Your Goal of Ultimate Insanity

By: Hermione Granger

Step One

Never, ever say anything that anyone with half a brain cell can understand. Use big words. Lots of them.

Step Two

Ask Harry for advice. All the time. Be sure to watch him carefully, because he is the epitome of insanity.

Step Three

If anyone asks what you're doing watching Harry so closely, be sure to follow step one. Include the term "PMS" if it is a guy.

Step Four

If step one fails at any point in time, wave your wand around foolishly, mumble some random words, and burst into tears. It works every time.

---

12:20 A.M.

Yes, I have been announced officially insane by the entire Weasley family. Although, I do not obsess over the welfare of potatoes, like Harry, so I do not understand why I am being categorized as "insane."

It might, possibly, have something to do with what happened today. Though, if you ask me, it was not an insane thing to do.

Alright, so I had a little... explosion. I was only testing out Step Four of my program. Not that Step One failed or anything, because I was talking to Ron, so anything with more than four letters is a big word to him, but I just wanted to see what everyone's reaction would be.

How was I supposed to know that they would rush me to St. Mungo's thinking that I had been cursed?

Okay, so maybe I was trying to use all of my steps at the same time, but Ron had been asking me why I was watching Harry and calling him, Ron that is, an "egotistical dunderhead" did not have the effect I wanted (I admit, it was not that creative of me). So I, casually of course, mentioned the term "PMS." Ron had not, however, run away.

So I had to resort to Step Four, it was my only option.

But now I am being forced to write in this... journal (and be sure to know that I write that word with venom on my... erm... quill)to sort out my "emotional issues" before I can be released from St. Mungo's. Now, it is well past the time I would usually be going to bed, but I don't care. I am being held against my will and it, for lack of a better term, sucks arse.

It does not help that the person in the room next to me likes to talk in their sleep. About killing people.

Not just any people though, "Mudbloods."

Wouldn't he just love to hear that there is one in the room beside him?

It doesn't matter anyway, I plan on getting out tomorrow anyone, once my "counselor" has reviewed all I've written down. Once he understands that this is a silly misunderstanding, he will be sure to let me go.

11:47 A.M.

Okay, so maybe I was wrong. The policy here at the St. Mungo's ward for the "emotionally unstable" is that all patients must be reviewed for a minimum of ten days before they can be considered for release.

And, apparently, I am no exception.

My "counselor," Dr. Princely, says that I have some "emotional issues that must be dealt with." I disagree. Harry is the one with "emotional issues that need to be dealt with," not me.

So what if Mrs. Weasley says that yesterday was not the first time this has happened, it does not make me "emotionally unstable." Now, if I were to obsess over the welfare of potatoes, like a certain world-saving-Wizard I know, then maybe I would agree with that diagnosis. But just because I have invented a four step program to help myself become insane does not make me insane.

Truthfully, those four steps were only invented for my amusement. It's not as if I was planning on writing an entire book on how to be insane in only four steps. I could possibly see Harry writing a book like that, but not me. Hell, I could even see Ron writing a book like that.

Ha. Ron writing a book, now that's a riot. As if Ron could ever write one sentence on his own, let alone a whole entire book! I would become friends with "Mr. I-Want-To-Kill-All-Mudbloods" in the room beside me before Ron would write a book.

Oh, listen to that. He's just gone into a rant. How lovely. So many words that could inspire Ronald.

Wait... he's throwing something against the wall. Wow, I never knew someone could throw something so hard. There is now a dent in the wall.

That's just bloody great. I can't wait to hea—

4:12 P.M.

So, as I was being rushed out of my room by some security guards, I saw who my neighbor was.

You're not going to believe this one. I mean, I was shocked by who it turned out to be.

I seriously had thought that he would end up being some maniac I had never met or heard of. But I was completely wrong.

Really, I'd love to tell you, but I'm afraid that the shock could possibly kill you. Rather, make you tear yourself apart.

Do you think you will be able to handle it?

Oh. My. God.

I am talking to a book. I might love books, but I do not talk to them! That is not something a sane person does!

For the moment, I am going to drop the fact that I was actually expecting you to answer me back.

The person that was in the room next to me was none other than Draco Malfoy.

Don't you stare blankly at me like that like you knew all along that it was him. Because you did not know. You're a book. There is no possible way that you knew that Draco Malfoy was residing in the room next to me, unless...

You've got a lot of explaining to do, Book! Yes, that is your official name as of now. Book! Deal with it.

As I was saying before you rudely interrupted me with your blank stare, I was rushed from my room because some thoughtless nurse decided that, when he asked her who the new occupier of the room next to him was, she actually answered. What ever happened to a patient's privacy?

Anyway, that's what caused his little tantrum, hence the dent in my old room's wall.

And the only other room available?

A room with white padded walls. Yeah, they put me here, not the one who has the violent tendencies. "Safety" my arse. The only way I can get out of this room is if someone lets me out. There is no doorknob on my side. So if Malfoy one day got loose, he would be able to get me, and I wouldn't be able to run.

Yeah, "safety."

I completely forgot to mention how they took away my wand, didn't I? Just in case you are too dimwitted to have figured that one out on your own, I thought it was worth mentioning.

You would probably also be interested to hear about the therapy I am being forced to go through. No Harry does not have to endure therapy, I, Hermione Granger, do. For the first three days I have the pleasure of one-on-one therapy with my counselor. After that, group therapy. Not just any group therapy though, ­co-ed therapy. And yes, that would mean with Draco Malfoy.

Oh joy, I cannot wait for that. It will be the highlight of my life.

6:26 P.M.

Remind me to never, ever go to any meals again. The Dining Room is the equivalent of a high school cafeteria. No joke. Everything was split into groups. I, of course, was told by a supervisor that I should sit with the other "emotionally unstable" patients.

I know what you probably do not understand about the severity of this situation:

There was only one other person that was "emotionally unstable."

Who is... Draco Malfoy?

Yes, that would be the correct answer. Draco sodding Malfoy.

After finding no empty tables to sit at, my counselor came into the room and told me that, sadly, I had to sit with Malfoy. Because we had "issues to deal with."

Me, issues? Yeah right. I am not the one who dented the wall. I, of course, voiced these thoughts to him, but he only laughed in response, leading me away from a table with a group that I thought would be perfectly safe to sit with and to the table were a lone Malfoy sat. If it is possible to eat your food angrily, he was doing just that. So here I was, stuck sitting across from Draco Malfoy, the Angry Eater.

I have, as you may already know, read many articles in the The Quibbler about how Malfoy had been declared mentally insane and had been checked into a special ward at St. Mungo's. I had not, however, thought they were true stories. It was The Quibbler after all.

Sitting across from him and not touching my dinner, which looked like it was angry, I thought back at the stories I had read, trying to remember what exactly he had done to get himself thrown in there. Of course, while I was thinking, I did not notice him suddenly look up at me. I also did not notice him say my name.

"Sodding Mudblood," I heard him mumble as I came out of my reverie.

"Shove off, Malfoy," I replied, poking my "soup" with the spoon I had been given.

"It's all your fault I'm here, you know," he continued in barely audible voice.

I looked up at him. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

His grey eyes blazed in an odd way. "Mud. Blood." He looked at me as if this made perfect sense.

"Uh, all right, Malfoy," I said. At that moment I remembered why he had been sent there (which I do not feel like discussing at this very moment).

The bell that signaled the end of dinner rang and I grabbed my tray quickly. Of course, Malfoy had other plans. He grabbed my hand, making me drop my tray back on the table. "Leave it," he told me before leaving his own tray on the table and sweeping out of the room.

I glared all the way back to this, my padded room. Where I found you lying on my pure white bed.

In all honesty, this room is too bright for me. If I do end up being insane at the end of these ten days, it will only be because I was forced to spend it in this room.

And I hope you, Mr. Princely, read this and agree that I am not insane. Because I'm not. I am probably the only sane person left in the world.

If you really need an insane person, get Harry James Potter.

He OBSESSES OVER THE WELFARE OF POTATOES.

I am NOT JOKING. Go look in his bedroom, he built a bed for them and tucks them in at night.

Oh, look, the nurse is telling me that I must go to my therapy session now. Oh joy. Oh rapture. Oh God, just kill me now.

9:00 P.M.

During my first pointless therapy session with Dr. Princely we discussed my childhood.

Alright, so maybe I was not born in New York City. And maybe I was not raised by two illegal immigrants who were constantly on the move. And, possibly, I was not abandoned at the young age of seven and had to learn to fend for myself in a world of corruption.

I only embellished a little.

Dr. Princely did not stop me as I ranted about the time I had to resort to prostitution at only nine years of age because I had no food. Nor did he say anything when I started talking about the rich family that adopted me because of my adorable red hair.

I thought that would get him to stop me, because that's all I wanted. But he did not seem to care that my hair was not red, but instead brown, and continued nodding and writing down occasionally.

I thought he would be sure to stop me when I explained that this family was the Malfoy family and that Draco became jealous of me because his mother loved me more than she loved him. But he didn't. Again, he did not stop me when I went on to completely skip the fact that I went to Hogwarts and started give details of the torrid love affair I started with Malfoy.

Finally, I had enough and sat up from my lounging position. "Well, what do you have to say about all of this?" I asked incredulously.

He just looked at me unsurely. "What do you mean?"

"Here I am, telling you the longest list of lies, and you are sitting there as if this were the truth."

"I feel that it is necessary, Ms. Granger," he said, "That I let you tell all the lies you want to tell me. The truth is sometimes buried in those lies."

"I was not born in America."

"I know that."

"I was never a prostitute."

"I know that."

"I never had red hair and never was adopted by the Malfoy's because of it."

"I know that also."

"You really are going to sit there and just listen to me lie to you?"

He nodded his head. Which, I forgot to mention, is bald. He is a round, but still tall, man; in his late-forties I'm guessing.

"And how is that supposed to help me?"

"You have an active imagination, Ms. Granger," he said, completely and utterly off topic if you ask me. "Maybe the only way I'll be able to get you to talk about the truth is to listen to your fabrications." He then shrugged. "Maybe not."

"What if this all turns out to be a waste of time?" I asked. "I'm not insane, you know."

You know what he did then? He laughed.

If you are reading this, Dr. Princely, which I know you are, I would like you to know that you are a JACKASS. A complete JACKASS.

On another note, I would like to add that you will never be able to cure me of my insanity, because I am not insane.

It was only an experiment.

Seriously, are we going to lock up every person that mumbles, brandishes their wand foolishly, and bursts into tears? No, we are not. If you really need to cure someone of insanity, go for HARRY JAMES POTTER.

As I have mentioned before, he OBSESSES OVER THE WELFARE OF POTATOES.

It's not that hard to realize who the true insane person is.

Book, stop giving me that look. I am not the insane one. You can go bother Harry, because I'm sure you can discuss how to take care of potatoes correctly.

Oh wait, I forgot. You're a BOOK, so you can't talk!

Yeah.

Screw you too.

4:03 A.M.

Here I am writing by the light of my... erm... walls, because someone had the bright idea to wake me up at two in the morning and scare me half to death.

Apparently, they do not lock the door to Malfoy's room. I was, of course, woken up at two in the morning by Draco Malfoy. Who they did not hesitate to sedate once I screamed very, very shrilly.

Well, you too, Book, would scream too if you woke up to see a very pale blonde banging on your door. It was a very traumatizing experience, or so the nurses thought, and called in my counselor for an emergency therapy session.

And, again, I started with the lies.

I told of the dream I had (not) been having and how I woke up and say Malfoy standing over me with a knife, chanting, "Kill the Mudblood! Kill the Mudblood!" And how I bravely fought for my life with my bare hands. I was also sure to act it out, in detail. I even added in a little part where everything went in slow motion and I barely avoided the knife by bending backwards.

This story, in my mind, ended with tragedy. Well, not really. Malfoy dying would not really be a tragedy. I told the weary looking Dr. Princely this and he wrote it down on.

I eventually ended it by saying that I ran out of the room and found a security guard who fell madly in love with me at first glance and threw himself in front of a flying knife at the last second, sacrificing himself for me. I did not forget to mention the fact that Malfoy looked very much like a monkey as he threw the knife.

Then, as revenge for him killing the one man I loved, I took the bloody knife out of the security guard's body and threw it back at Malfoy.

I realize now that that is what I really would like to do, throw a knife at Malfoy. I can only imagine the girly scream that would come from his mouth!

You know it would be funny, Book. Admit it.

Anyway, Dr. Princely did not seem to be bothered by the fact that he was woken up at two in the morning only to hear more lies, and listened intently as I told how the knife only flew past Malfoy's ear and he continued raging towards me.

Alright, so the next part in the story I only added because I was getting extremely tired.

So I admit, maybe telling him that I somehow killed Malfoy with my bare hands was not the greatest idea I've ever had. Because the next thing I knew, I was being hauled away by two security guards in white suits back to my padded wall room, locking the door behind me.

And back to you, my journal.

Book, I hope that you realize it is vitally important that I am writing in you. You are my only means of conveying my life of "insanity" to the outside world. Although, I will probably be dead when anyone wastes their time to read you, but still.

Oh. My. God.

Book, you must stop giving me that incredulous look. I am only putting my life into your ha— I mean pages.

8:09 A.M.

Eight o'clock in the morning and I am being forced to attend breakfast. Yesterday I did not have to attend, but today it's mandatory. I told the nurse she can go stuff "mandatory breakfast" up her arse.

Which might not have been the brightest idea, because she is the one who controls the sedatives.

So I'm up, in the Dining Hall, and sitting across from a much disheveled looking Malfoy. He either doesn't remember what happened last night, or is planning on jumping across the table and killing me. I really hope it is the latter one, because I can't stand this place any longer.

I truly do not understand how the Weasleys could do this to me, I am perfectly sane!

As I have mentioned many times, I do not OBSESS OVER THE WELFARE OF POTATOES. Like Harry James Potter.

If you, Dr. Princely, have not gotten the hint by now, I hate you. I want you, after you have read this entry, to come and explain to me why I am considered insane. I really want to know.

I am not the one mumbling about killing "Mudbloods" in my sleep. I am not the one who dented the wall. I can see why you are holding Draco Malfoy, wall-denter and wannabe murderer, but why me?

Book agrees with me, I believe. Although, Book might be doing things for his or her own personal gain, but who's to blame a book for being a selfish pri— it bit me! Book BIT me!

Okay, so maybe there is a slight possibility that I am insane.

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Author's Note: This story should not be taken seriously by anyone. It is one of those stories that is just like... there. To me, it's funny; to you... who knows? If you find it funny, YAY! If you don't, I do not blame you. It's stupid. Chapter two is already started, but I will only be writing it when I need to stop from the seriousness of all my other stories.

If you find the need to whack me over the head because this story is so pointless, please do. If you find the need to review, same thing. :Shrug: Both are understandable reactions to reading this chapter.

Leii.