The Diary of a Somebody

AN: All characters belong to J.K Rowling.

Thursday 12th January

15:00 — Home.

So, this is my diary. Again.

Had previously determined not to carry on writing this rot, but, unfortunately, Hermione bought me this new diary for my birthday. Had to pretend I was pleased with it, didn't I? Could hardly have turned my nose up at it. Luckily, she didn't give it to me in the flesh and so my groan of resignation went unheard.

Am going to have to use it—at the very least appear to use it—otherwise she will be offended, and it is far too early on in the game for me to go about offending her, isn't it? Don't want to put my foot in it just yet.

Will leave that until I can be sure I can get away with it—without being chucked, that is.

17:00

Didn't even want a birthday present. Am an ungrateful bastard, aren't I? Didn't tell her it was my birthday, very much wanting to keep all reference to my extended years to a minimum. My working philosophy so far has been that if I ignore it enough, maybe I can forget the age-gap… although, I did promise not to let the issue bother me…

In light of that then, shall say… am forty-six, so what? Have felt forty-six all my life, it seems. Not going to make a whit of difference.

There we are—not bothered.

So, I didn't inform her of my day of birth, but events beyond my control rectified that matter.

The day after my birthday, I met her after work for a drink in the Leaky. Everything was going smoothly; the pub was quiet enough; there was conversation to be had; I even felt a modicum of relaxation in the setting, which, actually, is saying a hell of a lot. It was all fine until I happened to glance towards the bar and, in doing so, accidentally made eye contact with none other than Draco fucking Malfoy.

Why did it have to happen? He probably would have ignored me had I not looked at him. As it was, he started poncing towards us wearing that narcissistic look he just can't seem to get off his face.

'Look out,' I murmured and Granger looked behind her, puzzled.

'Good afternoon… Severus… Oh, and… Granger,' he said, and if we hadn't the wit to note the distaste in his expression, his tone of voice left us in no doubt of his disdain.

'Draco.' How unfortunate to see you.

'Hope you are …well?'

'I'm fine.'

'Can't stop,' he continued, his lip curling slightly. 'Business to attend to.'

As if we were going to ask him to join us anyway.

'Good day, then…' He looked between the two of us with a faint trace of disgust. 'Oh, and Happy Birthday for yesterday.'

Granger flinched visibly, while I glared daggers at Draco's retreating back.

What is it with Purebloods and their ridiculous sense of propriety? Haven't had anything to do with the Malfoys for years now; none of them have ever forgiven me for my 'betrayal' (a fact which I lose precisely no sleep over). But etiquette dictates an acknowledgement, a birthday greeting, and sometimes even Christmas cards, despite our frigid relations.

Anyway, Granger was looking at me, much offended, and said, 'Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday yesterday? I would have bought you a present.'

A present? 'I don't do presents,' I said imperiously. 'I don't celebrate my birthday.'

Should have known that wouldn't be plain enough English for her.

'You still should have said. I would have—'

'A present? Really? What on earth would you have bought for me?'

She opened and closed her mouth several times. 'Well, I can't think of anything right now, obviously, but I would have come up with something.'

'Well… now you don't have to.'

She seemed a bit miffed all afternoon. Can't imagine why. It can't have escaped her notice that I am a secretive person. She'd better get used to my reticence now, otherwise I foresee major problems in the future.

And so, she took no notice of my protestations, and the next day a bloody owl came bearing this blank volume. The note that accompanied it said, 'I won't even so much as look in the direction of this diary.'

She'd better bloody not! Merlin!

Maybe I should resolve not to write of her at all, on the off-chance I do forget myself and leave this lying about unattended…

Right. What on earth else would I write about, though?

It doesn't matter, anyway. The number of wards I have put on this one means it takes even me a good fifteen minutes before I can open it, not to mention the next ten minutes to undo the camouflaging spell on my writing.

This obfuscating spell is my own creation and am very pleased with it. I tested it out the other day when Granger and I were in the Leaky. When rummaging through my pockets for some money, I casually took out a spare bit of parchment and placed it on the table. It had 'WEASLEY IS A WANKER!' emblazoned upon it, and she looked right at it, but didn't even blink.

Oh, I've learnt my lesson very well indeed.

17:30

Am actually a bit glad to have a new diary. Gives me something to do. Funny, really, how much I missed sitting down with a cup of tea (hot toddy) and taking up my quill to transcribe the events of my day.

How sad am I?

Saturday 14th January

16:30 — Home.

Am going out with Granger tonight. This is only the second time we've been properly out. If that makes sense. The first time we went to the Leaky for dinner and it was all right. Not a complete disaster. At least, I don't think it was. I had to drink a bit to get myself through it without having a delayed panic attack, so it's all a bit blurry now…

(I've never actually had a panic attack in my life, and yet, there have been several times in her company when I have feared one was imminent).

There weren't too many awkward silences. Although, I felt she went on about statute procedure a bit too much for my liking. Not even she can make the running of the Wizengamot interesting to me. Still, not as though I had any better topics of conversation to hand. And I'd rather listen to her talk than not, really. Ha.

The prospect of seeing her fills me with a certain sense of satisfaction and, yes, dread. It's a significant amount of dread, really. Can't help it!

Anyway, tonight she has suggested we go Muggle, on account of the Wizarding population having little or no appreciation for any kind of cuisine beyond pub grub.

Don't give a flying fig what I'm eating, I felt like saying. All tastes the bloody same to me when my mind is fully at work trying to ensure I don't make a fool of myself in front of her. Expect the best piece of advice anyone can give is 'be yourself,' but really? Is that really good advice for me?

Suppose a change of scene from the Leaky is due, but… at least I was able to draw some comfort from that familiar setting.

16:45 — Bedroom.

And what am I supposed to wear?

So, not only do I have to contend with some unfamiliar Muggle establishment that I fear may serve up some inedible, pretentious crap. No, not only that but I have to contend with it whilst stuffed into some ridiculous Muggle garb leaving me uncomfortable and self-conscious.

Lovely.

16:55 — Wardrobe nigh on demolished.

Have only white shirts. Hmmm…

If I discount my robes, it appears the only other clothing I own is white shirts. Can't go out in white! White leaves me feeling too exposed; can't wear it unless covered by something else, i.e., billowing black robe.

Besides, what if I drop something down me? Won't be able to just whip out my wand and banish the stain.

Even I have dropped food off my fork at some point. We're none of us perfect, after all.

Going to have to magic a shirt into a different colour…

Hmm…

17:05

Grey, maybe?

Bleurgh.

23:30 — Half cut; survived evening only just.

Oh dear.

Night was a bit of a disaster this time. There are days when one thing after another just goes wrong, wrong, wrong. And today was one of those days.

I Apparated to her house and knocked on the door. So far, so good. Managed to get that bit right, at least.

But… when the door opened and I saw her materialise in front of me, I'm afraid I may possibly have allowed an expression of surprise to take over my face. I realise now this was wrong of me. It was… There was an admittedly small detail about her appearance that I… It was just unexpected, that's all—couldn't stop myself from balking slightly.

'Something wrong?' she enquired with concern.

'Oh, no, ah… Nice hair…' Why did I say it? Why did I draw attention to it? Should have just pretended it was a shiver from the cold, or… anything except the truth!

Her hand flew self-consciously to touch a length of hair that fell below her shoulders. 'Oh… I've straightened it,' she explained stiffly, and rather superfluously, in my opinion.

Why? I wondered. If there's one thing I thought you could always count on in this world, it's that Granger's slightly too voluminous, curly hair will always be just that. Anything else is unnecessarily wrong-footing. Felt like I'd entered some ridiculous parallel universe.

'You don't like it…'

Oh, but it was awkward! I'm still cringing now.

I wondered why on earth were we having that conversation, but then—not my fault if I was expecting Granger, rather than some flat-poker-haired look-alike, to turn up, is it?

'No, no…' I began to say, but she brushed past me, and I'm sure I heard her mutter, 'Don't care what you think, anyway.'

Oh dear. Admittedly, I didn't particularly appreciate the abruptness of the change, but I clearly didn't think her any less… becoming. A rather inadequate choice of words, I suspect, but I am unused to this kind of language, even in my thoughts.

'You look, um, lovely,' I managed to force out, wanting to die after I'd said it.

Bit of a desperate reconciliatory gesture, but it was all that was available to me. Though I'm sure it's every woman's dream to be decreed "um, lovely," but nevertheless, she looked a little less… defensive, anyway, and I breathed again. Am going to keep my mouth shut from now on and always have myself prepared for anything when I see her. Pink hair? Fine. Some ridiculous outfit? My expression won't even flicker.

Hated the restaurant she took us to. Knew it was going to be filled with Muggles, but they were everywhere. Think I stood out like a sore thumb. Haven't felt so self-conscious in a long time. Seemed to me we were attracting more covert glances than would have been the case in a Wizarding establishment. Magic folk are rather more blind to odd occurrences than Muggles. And let's face it; Granger and me together is very odd occurrence. There is no point pretending otherwise.

The night was further helped into the annals of absurdity when the waiter took my order, and then said, 'And what would your daughter like?'

Fucking great!

'Yes, you dim-witted prick!' I felt like shouting. 'I'm out for a romantic candlelit dinner with my bloody daughter!'

Merlin!

I ventured a consternated glance at Granger, wondering if she would be purple with embarrassment, but she was peering casually at the menu. Coolness personified.

'His daughter,' she said thoughtfully, 'will have the carbonara, please.'

The waiter walked off and I stared at her, dumbfounded.

'Look,' she said. 'This probably won't be the only time this'll happen, so we might as well have our fun out of it.'

Eh?

'It's simple; when we leave, you give me a big smacker on the lips and job done; he'll be scarred for life.'

Can you believe that? Because I certainly can't.

She might be able to see the light side of such a faux pas, but I'm not sure I can. Not yet, anyway. Don't know whether to see her flippancy as a positive—take it to mean that she's determined not to let anything get in the way. Or whether to see it as a negative and take it to mean she's not bothered because whatever it is between us is just a bit of… fun.

Besides, all right for her, isn't it? I'll be the one on the receiving end of all the snap judgements and contempt as the man, the older man, in the relationship. And that's without even mentioning my chequered past and present lack of career prospects, or any prospects, for that matter.

Never satisfied am I?

Could have everything I ever wanted in the world and I'd still find fault with something.

I don't know. The night didn't really pick up from there. Think I was a bit standoffish; my mind dwelling on that idiot waiter. In a nutshell, we talked. We ate. We went home.

Wouldn't be surprised if I don't hear from her for a while.

Humph.

Going to pour myself a drink. A large one.

Tuesday 17th January

16:00 — Home.

Have been looking at the job advertisements in the Daily Prophet.

It's all a bit awkward really. Some application forms ask for the reason for leaving your previous job. Will 'I couldn't stand another minute in that shit-hole' ever be acceptable? And… I don't even want to contemplate the reasons I left Hogwarts, let alone write them down.

Furthermore, my C.V. is a bit of a sketchy document. No problems with my educational qualifications, of course; it's just everything else that is the problem.

Work Experience:

1981 - 1996: Potions Master/Head of Slytherin — Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

1996 - 1997: Defence Against the Dark Arts Master/Head of Slytherin — Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

1997 - 1998: Headmaster — Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

2001 -2004: Dogsbody — Department of Mysteries. Ministry of Magic.

(So far so good.)

Skills:

Potion-making — can brew Wolfsbane with one hand tied behind my back. Exceptional Occlumens. Proficient Legilimens. Extensive knowledge of curses…and counter-curses. Excellent flier. Good at espionage.

Notable achievements:

Former member of the Death Eaters. Member of the Order of the Phoenix.

Aargh!

How ridiculous is this? Am I allowed to airbrush some of my past, in the hope that there are still some mortals on this earth who do not already know my entire life story? Let's face it; how many employers are going to be eager to see my name on a list of candidates?

I fell into my job at the Ministry. Actually, I have fallen into all of the jobs I've held. Never applied for a single one. Never bloody wanted a single one. Not even the Defence Against the Dark Arts one.

Perhaps I should give up looking and just wait for a job to fall into my lap again? All good things come to those who wait, after all.

18:00

Glance into vault at Gringotts' suggests previous idea would do well to be abandoned.

Estimate am only a few months away from mortifying insolvency.

18:10

Merlin. Hope Granger doesn't have expensive tastes. Am stuffed otherwise.

Thursday 19th January

Went to the Apothecary today. Heard that Jigger is dead. Keeled over into a tank of newts, apparently.

Pity.

Saturday 21st January

No word from Granger since our last rendezvous. It's been a week. How long are you supposed to leave these things? Obviously, if I have not heard from her in a month, I will know she's decided she can't stand me. But a week is all right, isn't it?

And, actually… suppose I should think about contacting her at some point, shouldn't I? Everything has been organised by her so far.

Oh God. Why did I get myself embroiled in all this… nonsense?

18:00

Actually… I know very well why.

18:09

Here we go then. Shall send a note to her and hope for the best.

Dear Hermione,

When shall we two meet again? In thunder—

Must be serious.

Dear Hermione,

Please do me the honour of accompanying me to dinner—

Sounds a bit stuffy.

Dear Hermione,

The Leaky Cauldron. Monday. Seven o'clock.

Be there.

Would like to think I could get away such brusque tones, but… better not push my luck.

Dear Hermione,

I would very much like to see you again—

Sound a bit desperate now, don't I?

Bah. Can't do anything right. Am useless.

18:30

Have finally managed to send a quick note. Fairly sure I shall die of shame and embarrassment if I hear nothing in reply.

20:00

No reply yet.

Sunday 22nd January

09:30

Still no reply.

Humph.

21:00

There has still been no reply. Getting worried now.

Monday 23rd January

11:00

Went out this morning to buy the Daily Prophet, to look through the job vacancies. What a waste of time. Nothing in there whatsoever. What am I going to do?

There's no way in hell I can go crawling cap-in-hand back to the Ministry. And I am not going to turn to Hogwarts, either.

What a state I'm in—jobless and snubbed.

Too early for a snifter… ? Probably. Still, not going to hurt to add drunkard to the list, is it?

There: am jobless, snubbed, and a drunkard.

Perfect.

21:30

Envelope bearing Miss Granger's compact script has arrived via owl…

After hours and hours on tenterhooks, am now afraid of opening it.

…

Can breathe again. We're going out on Saturday night. Am determined to make special effort to avoid disaster this time. Yes. Am determined. Will not be put off by anyone or anything.

And my face, this time, will most certainly be an impassive mask when I first clap eyes on her. Nothing is going to throw me for a loop.

Thursday 26th January

Saturday is fast approaching but this is all I shall write on the matter. Nothing further until it's over—shall only work myself up, otherwise.

Saturday 28th January

23:30 — Home.

First thing to point out; I survived. As did she, of course.

To my relief, she made no mention of our disastrous jaunt to the Muggle restaurant last week. Her hair was a curly mass; I was able to blend into the familiar Leaky décor—things were fine.

Until she started talking, that is.

'What have you been doing this week?' she asked, speaking with real interest in her voice.

My mind went blank. Actually, it didn't go blank, per se; it was already blank because I have done fuck all this week. Didn't want to tell her that, though. Wanted to preserve some sort of notion that I'm a man of intrigue.

'Well,' I said crisply. 'Whilst the job-hunting is ongoing, I have also been working on a few pet projects on the side. I'm writing a book, you see.'

Oh my God. Why did I say that? It is this stupid diary's fault. Writing in here is about all I've done this week. And diary equals book, apparently.

Her face lit up with approval, though. Pat on the back for me, I'd say.

'Oh, really? What are you writing about?'

'Oh… er… It's about cutting techniques in the twelfth century.'

Oh my good gracious me.

Cutting techniques in the twelfth century?

What?

'It's, ah, more of a monograph really…'

She nodded. 'Sounds very interesting. I'm sure I'd like to read it when it's finished.'

As if! She must have been lying. Cutting techniques in the twelfth century? I despair, I really do.

'How has your week been?' I asked hurriedly, gulping from my drink in an effort to drive my complete idiocy from my mind.

'Tiresome,' she replied grimly. 'I don't know how this country manages to survive, I really don't. Have you heard about the new reform the Ministry is trying to push through the Wizengamot? It's outrageous. For goblins, it's going to be nothing less than a stealth tax.'

I nodded vaguely.

'I'm telling you, the Ministry'll have another bloody revolution on their hands if they're not careful. Anyway, we're drawing up a case on behalf of the goblins to sue the Ministry if the reform goes through; sue them for discrimination.'

Well… That puts me in shade, doesn't it? Whilst I've been writing a phantom monograph on cutting techniques in the twelfth century, Granger has been suing the Ministry. I can feel that inferiority complex coming upon me already…

No… I'm impressed; of course, I am. Wouldn't have been sitting opposite her if I weren't by turns fascinated and, yes, maybe even awed. Not a common occurrence for me, by any means.

'So yes, a tiresome week,' she continued, 'but… with something to look forward to at the end of it.'

I was about to ask what that might be, when she looked at me purposefully and I realised she meant me! I felt perilously close to blushing. I didn't, mind. Then again, maybe she's as much of a fibber as I am. In any case, I sought to deflect my discomfort.

'The food here really is something to behold; I agree,' I said dryly.

She smiled slowly. 'Yes…'

Am sorry, but I cannot deal with compliments. Hate them. Can't stand the attention. Have to counter-balance it with a healthy dose of self-deprecation.

Still, am pleased with the way the evening went. Was probably the best one we've had so far, which might not be saying very much at this juncture… but still. And the little smooch we had in her doorway at the end of the night was very nice too. Nothing to complain about there. Nope.

Makes a change, doesn't it?

00:35

Oh God. Have just had dreadful vision of Granger going inside her house and pulling out her own diary to complain about me.

Does she have a diary? Does she? She's never mentioned keeping one…

It's fine… she's probably too busy to keep a running commentary on her life. It's just for people like me with aeons of time on their hands…

Humph.

Bugger it; going to bed now.