I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before! Smartest witch in the year, my ass! Oops. If swear in front of boys while not under extreme pressure will get teased for rest of natural life. But honestly, the perfect antidote to the bushy hair that has plagued me was within reach the entire time. What was it? A pair of scissors.

I can’t understand why I didn’t think of it before. Or wait: I can. Those noises coming from that gaggle of girls? Those are snickers. I, fortunately enough, am not the target of these particular snickers; but I’ll get enough. I’m expecting several comments about “the new boy” – my body hasn’t developed as much as I would have liked, and while it is perfectly acceptable for a girl my age, I’m not really satisfied. And now my hair is so short…

It was the product of a late night reading Shakespeare; in particular “Twelfth Night” and “The Merchant of Venice”. I began to contemplate the process of making a girl look like a man. Breasts would be bound; hips disguised with loose clothing; hair would be cut short. But in the modern- day world, girls can have short hair. I could have short hair. I went to the kitchen, found a pair of scissors, and soon enough I did have short hair. Mother nearly had a fit the next morning. She proceeded to take me to her hairdresser, who neatened it up and pronounced it to be a “charmingly elfin look”. I don’t want to be an elf…

Now here I sit in the shopping centre on my first day of shopping for the new school year. It is “girly shopping day”. This means bras. I don’t like shopping for bras at the best of times, as I become hideously self- conscious and my chest seems meagre. This time was worse. Mother insisted I be measured. I agreed under duress, in the process winning myself this space of time while she finds an outfit for a friend’s wedding. Normally I would be happy to go with her, but… Today I felt the need for a little space of normality. I needed to act like a normal girl – a muggle girl. And since I told my parents about Voldemort, I’ve practically been under house arrest. Our trip to Bulgaria was the only exception, and that was not at all how I expected it to be. Viktor was very attentive, but when I told him we could only be friends he seemed almost relieved. Then again, Vicky is an international Quidditch player – he probably has strings of girls after him. Maybe he’s in need of a friend.

I need normality today because tomorrow is the second day of school shopping and we’re off to Diagon Alley. And, once there, we’ll be meeting up with Harry and the Weasleys. And then it will all be real again.

I’ve kept up with the news from the wizarding world, and I’ve written to Harry and Ron all summer (and, wonder of wonders, they’ve replied!) but it all seems to fade a bit when you’re living like a muggle. It will be good to see them, though, and to go to the Burrow for the last couple of days of the holidays. Maybe we can get Harry past some of his guilt complex before we get on the Hogwarts Express. I worry about him, I really do.

I wonder if they’ll recognise me? Will they even notice I’ve changed? (A month! A goddamn month to see my teeth! They can see a Quaffle well enough…) I suppose the hair is a little drastic, so they’ll notice that; but there are other changes, less obvious. Inner changes. A few realisations I’ve made that have changed my view of life a little…

I only hope I can manage to look at Ron.

I can’t believe Snape gave us this much work to do. No, scratch that. I can’t believe I’m actually doing the work, on my own, several days before I have to hand it in. It’s not natural.

She’s a bad influence on me.

I bet she spent the week after she got home sitting in her room making sure her essays were perfect, just so she could go visit Vicky with a clear conscience. Never mind about the friends left behind with no word on whether you were dead or alive, no, Miss Granger! Don’t spare a thought for them! He goes to a Death-Eater school, and Voldemort’s back – and you think it’s smart to spend a fortnight in his house? Bloody hell!

I will not swear so much in front of Hermione. In fact, I will swear less in front of Hermione than I do in front of my mother. ‘Cause she’ll nag me even more, and at least with Mum I’m out of earshot most of the time.

She seems to have got back all right, though. And I’m sure it was more fun than my summer. Dad and Percy are hardly ever home – everyone at the Ministry’s working flat out because of the attacks. I’ve kept newspaper cuttings, and it’s a fair pile. But Bill says there were tons more in the old days, when You-Know-Who was powerful. So I guess, in the future, there’ll be more.

I know we’re a pure-blood family, but we’re well-known as Muggle sympathisers. And there’s so damn many of us. Likelihood is, we’re not all going to survive this.

Percy’s following the Ministry line, that YKW’s not back. Dad isn’t. There are arguments. Ginny gets upset. Mum starts yelling. The Burrow isn’t the happiest of households right now. We’ll be good for a few days, while Harry’s here, and then it’s off to school and I’m well out of it.

Fred and George have been hiding in their den all summer, cooking up Wheezes. I envy them. Something to keep them busy, someone to talk to. Who do I have? Ginny, I suppose, but… Ginny. Maybe.

Who does Percy have?

For what it’s worth, Harry has me, and he has Hermione, and we’ll try to help him out, but he keeps on trying to be the hero and in his head the hero doesn’t need help. His head is screwed.

Look at me, I’ve gone all insightful. I must have grown over the summer.

I have, actually – Mum had to let out my clothes and my sleeves are still half an inch too short. But she says I’ll get nothing new until I stop growing. She might give in and get me some to grow into if I pester her enough. I really hope she does. If I don’t stop growing these’ll be ridiculous by Christmas.

Merlin! Please don’t let there be another Yule Ball. Please don’t make me wear those robes again. Please.

I looked like an idiot. Worse, I acted like an idiot, especially with Hermione. I think I am an idiot. I’ll see her tomorrow. Her and Harry and me are going to see each other every day till next summer. Damn good. Better seeing people face to face than writing letters. Definitely. It was kind of fun, for a little while, and I can go back over them and prove that something’s been said – but I definitely prefer face to face. And I’ll get it tomorrow.

I can’t believe they’re letting me go back. The death and destruction I have brought down upon that school and its inhabitants, albeit unwillingly, is beyond belief. And yet the traditional letter is delivered – my fifth – and tomorrow the Weasleys take me to fill out the lists.

I know Dumbledore thinks the best place for me is Hogwarts: but the best person for Hogwarts is not me. He must know that my presence will act as a lure for Voldemort. I think maybe he’s counting on it. Sometimes I feel like I’m one of his chess pieces. I might ask Ron what he thinks – whether there’s a hidden agenda. I feel awful thinking of Dumbledore this way, he’s been kindness itself to me; but he is the only wizard Voldemort fears, and I know there’s a reason for it.

But I’m going back, and so much will be the same and yet so much will be different. One of us died. It seemed to cast a pall over the entire castle. And things will not improve. And yet I will be going to the same old classes; and practising the same moves in Quidditch; and Hermione will drag me to the library and Ron will tag along complaining; and Ron will veto schoolwork in favour of a trip to the kitchens and Hermione will tag along scolding and lecturing us on house-elves’ rights. And then I will get into mortal danger and they – my friends – will follow at my heels to help. I’m going to get one of them killed one day – I can feel it in my bones. For all I rubbish Divination, I know there’s something in it; and it’s telling me I’m an albatross. I would rather die myself.

I would give my life for my friends – the only problem being, I’m sure they feel the same way. And they seem to think the scar on my forehead means I’m important. Means they have to protect me. Means I’m the one who has to fight Voldemort. Means I’m the only one who can defeat him.

I defeated him because my mother protected me. And now that protection is gone. And I’m scared.

I’m scared of being tortured again. I’m scared the people around me will be killed off one by one. I’m scared to go back there and face everyone.

I’m not scared of dying.

“To the well-prepared mind…” If I wasn’t prepared before this summer, I certainly am now. Being left alone in my room, out of fear and dislike, used to be a nice rest from my chores. These past weeks, there have been no chores, and all I have been able to do is think. I worked for a while – my essays would do Hermione proud – but work ends. And thoughts don’t. And nightmares don’t.

I always lose weight over the summer, but this time it’s worse than usual. Even I can see that. I look in the mirror and my face doesn’t make sense. One night, fresh from a Rapid-Eye-Movement display of Death-Eater atrocities, I thought I saw Sirius across the room – the way he looked that night in the Shrieking Shack. That was the mirror.

I’m going to shut it all away. Tomorrow I’ll be a normal fifth year. I’ll be… well, not happy, but relatively cheerful. I won’t let them know what goes on inside this head of mine. They can’t know.

The only ones I can tell are Ron and Hermione. But I won’t. Not everything. I’ll throw them a few crumbs and hope they’re too wrapped up in each other to notice or care that I’m still holding back.

I’ll hope Voldemort dies of a heart-attack while I’m at it.