April 8th, 2008

Today was hectic. I had four essays due. I'd been working on them for the
past month, as I've written earlier. I turned them in without incident.
Flitwick seemed pleased, as did Snape. McGonagall and Sprout accepted
my work, but I shouldn't be expecting honor roll from them.

Drado Bolton was given a taste of the potion Snape gave me. I've coined
the term "Pensieve Potion," despite it not actually being a pensieve at all.
As with Jack Amesworth, psychological transfer seems to be evident after
only a short trial run. Unlike Jack Amesworth, Drado seems completely
unable to handle any emotional strain at all.

I've pondered on the effects of the potion and can only conclude thusly;
As the viewer experiences my memories, it is as if he or she had lived
them. Thus, Drado's current state is the exact state he would be forced
into had he been forced to actually live through my life as presented in
the 'Pensieve Potion.'

This not only puts his mental state into question, but it perhaps also sheds
light onto the power of my own life experiences. What could have occured
in my life that was so severe, so intense as to cause such a reaction?

I can only guess.

The others in the school seem convinced that I've poisoned Drado. As if
I forced it on him. I haven't actually done anything wrong, but this seems
reason enough to crucify me. Only time will tell if Drado ever fully
recovers. I will watch him with interest over the next coming days and
months. I can't quite explain it, but I have a feeling that this hasn't been
the last time Drado will "take a taste."

Seril showed interest, perhaps he warrants consideration.

Priggo Seville

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The door to the room opened slowly, the wood creaking irritably,
pained by the days and weeks of constant use. Its face had a story to
tell, from the gathering of the raw material used to create it all the way to
its current state, staring forever in at the bed on which a young woman
slumbered.

It had seen the passing of years, births, deaths, the completeness of the
journies it witnessed was like a great circle of swirling experience. The
passage of time had taken its tole on this old door. Its brass knob was
worn with use and barely reflected the most magnificent of light these
days. Yet for all its age and experience, it had never seen something quite
as strange as what it was about to witness. If it could speak, indeed, if it
could think, it would have been preparing itself for another relatively
insignificant occurance within the medical system of London's wizarding
community.

A tiny man slipped through the opening of the door, closing it quietly
behind him. He was dripping water from the rainy skies of rainy Britain
(which this door had been fortunate to never experience, for the wood it
was made of was from Ireland, obviously) over the stone as he pushed
his way further into the darkening room.

Drip, drip, drip.

This strange, tiny person stood, frozen in place at the foot of the bed, his
curious, searching eyes scanning the surface of the blankets with a rather
stark intensity. His ears were primed, listening very carefully for the
sound of activity in the hospital. Confident that he was indeed alone in the
room, he turned to the door.

The door would have blushed at the unusual attention now paid to it, if it
could have blushed. It was only a door, and thus was used to being
ignored. As a door, it was also used to not blushing.

This tiny man stared very intently at the door, unable to take his eyes
from its beautiful oak face. He drew up his umbrella, which wasn't an
unusual tool for him to be equipped with, as it was raining yet again in
rainy Britain. He pointed it at the door, which felt a sudden rush of
anxiousness, for never had a man so tiny pointed an umbrella so
determinedly at it.

The tiny man spoke quietly, in a whisper so low that the door would have
had to strain its ears, if it had had any, to hear.

"Colloportus."

The door was overwhelmed with a feeling of outrage. Only hospital staff
were allowed to lock it! This was a serious breach in protocol, and the
door very much wished it had the ability to make a report to
management. The very same management which had not thought fit to
give the door the ability to write reports.

The tiny, nameless wizard slipped towards the bed at the end of the room.
He curled his long fingers around a banister, pulling himself up onto the
blankets beside the bed's current occupant.

The little man curled an arm around the young woman he was lying
beside, eyeing her face in the darkness.

It's from this point on that the door's account of what happened is
sketchy, partly because it was hard to see in the very dark room, and
partly because it's a door.

"What did I tell you, all those months ago?"

The door didn't know what he meant, but continued listening anyway.

"I told you, Necrolissica darling... that I hated you. And yet now... in a
moment of triumph... I find myself disgusted. I should be happy. I should
be. I know I should be."

The door found itself questioning the little man's sanity.

"But no... who gets you in the end...? Elders. That stupid little rat. I...
I'm ashamed of you, sweetheart. I thought you could have done so much
better. But... I'm here to let you know... that you still have one friend.
One friend who won't let you suffer forever in this bed."

The little man swung a leg over the young woman, both of his gloved
hands finding their way to her neck. He squeezed.

"Shhh... it'll all be over."

The door was horrified. Absolutely shocked and disgusted. A murder,
within the room it provided access to! The door's neighbors would be
ashamed of it.

The little man looked at Necrolissica's face, the life draining slowly from
her. He released her, gasping for breath as if it had been him being
strangled. He shook his head, dismounting.

"I hope you recover. This isn't right."

He slipped his umbrella over her neck, checking for marks. Finding none,
he turned and made towards the door. Unlocking it, he slipped out of sight
of the door.

_________________

_________________

The little wizard flips the alchemical bench over. A torrent of various potions is sent cascading to the floor in great waves. Various colored liquids splash here and there, leaving stains and burns as they go.

The little wizard shouts himself hoarse. "Why aren't you smart enough?!"

The little wizard fixes his alchemical bench and starts again. He refuses to stop.

_________________

Priggo's quill scratched ink into the parchment of his journal of its own accord, writing words as its owner spoke them.

Potentials are coming out of the woodworks... interestingly all Slytherins and Ravenclaws. The prefect is clever enough. Perhaps a bit high from the insubstantial authority he has. But really. Who wouldn't be? His dueling skills leave much to be desired but his wand hand can be trained, his technique refined.

The girl is fiery and intelligent. She may lack the passion required. Her nerves and stomach may not be up for the work ahead. We must all change with the times. We must all adapt and grow if we're to survive. She'll be amicable.

Kris is, of course, consumed by his own designs. His determination is equal to the task but I fear he may be disappointed when he finally captures his red herring. No matter. I trust him, his passion and his abilities. I don't think he sees me as a friend these days... maybe he feels... obligated? I only hope he respects and admires me and my cause. If not, it's one fewer friend in a lonely world.

My thoughts dwell on Felien. My need for her is overwhelming but the road ahead is too dangerous to risk such a precious treasure. She is safer this way, uninvolved.

And as for Rose; I've never had a closer companion. Our conversations are becoming fewer but I do not doubt her loyalty. She had died for me in the past. She will again.

_________________

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Priggo stares down at his reflection in the water. The face that looks back is cold and unfeeling. A velveted hand dips down, sending ripples awash across the image of himself.

"They were practically begging us to stop. Why didn't we?"

The little wizard looks out at the school in the distance. His emotional moment behind him, he treks down the hillside.

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