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June 7th, 2004

07:54 pm - Christianity and Me: An impossible pair
Anneli Laaksonen, Gryffindor 6th year

Muggles are interesting creatures. No matter how long I live among them I'll never understand their ways. In truth they are completely blind to their surroundings, even when they try, nearly convincingly, that they see, hear and notice everything that occurs around them. Sometimes I feel that I could perform evanesco, with an audience, to the park bench a muggle was seated upon and he still wouldn't notice. Or he would come up with some far-fetched explanation for the disappearance of the bench. Or just plead insanity.

Today I had a run-in with one of the most unaware muggles I have ever encountered. I was in the bookshop just round the corner from our house looking at muggle mythology books when she appeared at my side. Her long, brown hair hung limply on her shoulders and her eyes displayed cold disconnection. She gave off an aura of gloom and ignorant stubbornness. I was irritated just standing within a meter of her.

She glanced at the book I was holding—Comprehensive Guide to the Religions of the Middle East—and her nose crinkled with slight repugnance. Her own slim, pale hand chose How to Hear from God, and I then understood her reaction to my book. I could feel her watching me as I traded the Middle East for Japan and Zen Buddhism, making my way through the world religions. It was when I reached Christianity that she made a move as though preparing to speak. I flipped through the pages absent-mindedly, waiting for the words to come.

“Are you searching for God?” Her voice sounded just as I thought it would; tinny and somewhat harsh. The question shocked me and it took me a moment to figure out just how to respond.

“I’m shopping around.” My love of controversy forced me to answer in such a manner. I could nearly see her brain trying to wrap itself around my answer. In order to clear things up a little, I added, “I don’t follow an organized religion (‘Unless you count magic,’ I added silently). I just believe in spirituality, following what seems right to my own heart and reason.” Hoping this would be an adequate response I turned back to my book.

She sighed and began searching for something on the shelf to her right. Pulling out a book and holding it out to me she said, “This is the way.” I looked down at the cover where large font read The Bible. I had the urge to evanesco the book away and see her reaction to the vanishing of that holy document. She would probably attempt to cleanse me of my demons. So, not wanting to make a scene, I left my wand in my messenger bag.

The Bible was still suspended by her hand, and before she could force it into my possession I grabbed The Buddhist Handbook off the shelf. “I think I’ll give Buddhism a try.” As I walked away she called after me, “Jesus loves you,” in a tone of voice that expressed pity for me, but also condemned me for my blasphemous ways.

Not that I have a problem with Christianity, or any other religion for that matter. My parents raised me to regard all religions as myth. But even as myths they provide important guidelines to live by. It’s just hard for me to believe in something that encourages witch hunting and considers magic the work of the devil. Ah well, muggles will continue to blunder along in their shortsighted ways, never understanding the existence of the magic world. It’s altogether too frustrating to think about, and with the Ministry of Magic’s control over wizard/muggle relations, I think it impossible that there will ever be an understanding between us.
Current Mood: thoughtfulthoughtful
Current Music: The Weird Sisters

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June 6th, 2004

08:04 pm
Anneli Laaksonen, Gryffindor, 6th year

So here, two stressful months after my last entry, I am updating again. School's out for the summer. It's rather sad considering how much I enjoyed my first year at Hogwarts. Finland seems rather strange now, no longer like home. My years at Beauxbatons, and now Hogwarts, seem to have taken that away. At least I am visiting in the summer, Vaasa in the winter is terrible. Scottish winters are altogether more tolerable. I admit that I am looking forward to September, life is much too dull here.

Miko and Sammi are easily the most obnoxious boys that God ever planted down on this Earth. The moment I arrived back, they have done nothing but endlessly harass me. Mama calls them energetic, I call them wee devils.

Gagh. Miko is watching some ruddy American sporting event in the other room and the Star Spangled Banner is blaring from the tele, being sung in an agonizingly slow manner. The Americans need to come up with a more exciting song, like that of the French, to sing at matches. The SSB simply doesn't cut it.

Two weeks until Max comes for a visit. I'm not quite sure how to handle the situation. I love him dearly, but he's someone mama would like me to marry, which would be all well and good if I were 28 with a steady career. He's so goal-oriented, bloody good at everything and excessively polite....it's boring. He never lets down his guise of perfection. Maybe it isn't a guise. Maybe he truly is that perfect. Well now, that's just scary. Do I really want to deal with that? Next to the Adonis that is Max, I feel like a tossed-about, old shoe.

Is that why Aldric is so fascinating? I can almost feel and touch his imperfections. They are apparent and real, something he embraces so they are a part of his entire being. When I'm with him I feel that I don't have to hide parts of myself. My scratches and scuffs seems so hideous that I am always trying to fix or hide them in order to live up to what I think Max wants. That is far too exhausting of an endeavor to keep up though. It's too much for me to think about, Max will be here soon and Aldric said he'd write me this summer.

I think I am looking forward to Aldric's owl more than I am the train that will carry Max to Vaasa.
Current Mood: complacentcomplacent
Current Music: damn Star Spangled Banner

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April 16th, 2004

05:49 pm - Hell hath no fury...
Evie Burk - Slytherin 7th

Some people on this planet should be exterminated. Robert Blanch is one of those people so worthless, so tiresome that their very existence is an insult to the rest of us who behave with a modicum of restraint and respect. Fortunately, I have faith in those that are greater and more powerful than I, individuals who are willing to recognize the human blemishes on this Earth and annhilate them accordingly.

Before I arrived at Hogwarts, an older and wiser student told me to avoid dating someone at the school--it was never worth the suspicion or potential for humiliation. I wish very much that I had followed her advice, because now I suffer the very embarassment she warned me of. After our disasterous date, Robert Blanch seems to think that spreading rumours about his fictional sexual exploits with me is not only prudent, but believable. He is horribly, horribly mistaken. His mistake will be my revenge, and my revenge will be Draco's diversion. Let today be the day that Blanch realizes what insulting a Slytherin, especially one of my breeding, truly means. The Unforgiveable curses are certainly illegal and difficult to perform, but their lesser, simpler forms are not. And let me say, there is nothing sweeter than seeing a poor Gryffindor wretch writhing on the ground at your feet in agony.

I once thought myself a pacifist, but Robert Blanch has proven to me that I am capable of murder. I could have continued endlessly, until every cell in his body exploded with pain and fatigue, I could stand and watch as his life's breath slowly faded away to nothingness. Draco's punishment will be more severe but, I'm assured, just as satisfying. It's sad to think that by fabricating stories about he and I Blanch could either gain popularity or lessen mine... Because really, who at this school would believe for an instant that I would be caught dead in the arms of a Gryffindor?
Current Mood: enragedenraged

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April 10th, 2004

07:03 pm - Who wants a Hufflepuff?
Brigid O'Malley, Ravenclaw, 7th Year

I have to admit it. He's handsome. Who would have thought? And it isn't just because he's Irish. It can't be. If that is the reason, I have a horrible lack of imagination because no one pines for a Hufflepuff. Gryffindor boys are loved for their showiness, like peacocks really; Slytherin boys are admired for the fact that they'd correct you to call them Men if you don't mind; Ravenclaw boys are mostly multilingual, and what girl isn't turned to mush by a little Russian? But Hufflepuff? They are a little dorky, a little strange, perhaps even boring would be a good word. They are the boys who snort a little when they push their glasses back up their noses, or the ones who chuckle to themselves in the back of History class. They are not desirable, they don't make you clumsy or stupid with a glance, and they are not handsome.

But he is.

It all started in Divination. It seems silly Hogwarts would force it on us again in our seventh year, so most of the students don't take it seriously the second time around either. I can't stand the class, not because of the subject material but mostly because of the room. The top of the tower is intolerably stuffy and hot, and the students have no proper chairs. We are forced to crouch on fluffy little bags that rise no more than half a meter off the ground. By the end of the period, my legs and back are stiff from trying to find a position that is halfway comfortable. Professor Trelawny is also slightly intolerable, but for no other reason than her slopiness. She must have had some natural beauty once, but isolation in the tower has gotten to her and she reminds me of an old, nervous ferret. I mused for an entire class about what a world of good a simple makeover would do for her. Perhaps some notes on etiquette, as well, just to put a stopper on that spit that forms on the corners of her mouth when she lectures. I was in the middle of imagining some mascara onto her weak little lashes, the ones visible behind her ridiculous glasses, and he climbed up the ladder.

He looked suprised to see everyone, including Trelawny, staring at him, and then he was embarrassed. He stumbled a little on his own feet and ended up on a nearby poof. He was unsettled at having to sit on a pink satin ball of fuzz, but he tried to seem at ease. I think he pulled it off marvelously.

He was beautiful; dark hair, perfect bone structure and hands that I could already feel myself kissing. I was happily staring at him, and putting him in all sorts of situations he certainly would have objected to, when he sensed he was being watched. He turned to find the culprit, and instead of smiling at him, I tried to look as if I had been doing something else. Idiot. I reached for my quill, but the horrendous sweat on my hands made it slip every which way. I grabbed for it, rather frantically, and ended up writing all over my palm and a little on my wrist. Horrified, I tried to wipe the ink on my black robes so I could pretend none of it had happened, but I missed entirely and smeared it all over my innocent yellow poof. My entire face was on fire. I was desperately afraid that Trelawny would notice and make a scene, so I tried to repair the downtrodden poof with my other, unsoiled hand. The sweat just set the stain, and I thought I was going to die of despair when Trelawny yawned and dismissed the class.

I leapt up, through the hole in the floor and was racing down the corridor when I heard him calling me.

"You forgot something!" He cried.
"It's fine. I'll get a new one." I had no idea what he was talking about, but I wasn't going to turn and investigate.
"Are you sure?" He pressed.
I conceded, and turned to see that he had copied the assignment for me on his own piece of parchment. I swooned.

"I...well, that's...it's nice." I scanned the floor to find a gaping hole I could climb into.
"It's no trouble. Are you going to lunch?" He handed me the parchment, and I tried to grab it as quickly as I could so he might miss my ink-spotted hands. He didn't.
"Maybe we should stop at the lavoratory first?"
"You don't have to, I'll meet you at lunch, I, it's," I stammered, hoping he didn't feel as awkward as I did. I was an elephant, blocking the corridor with my black hands that felt as big as bowling balls.
"It's fine, it's fine."

After I scrubbed my hands, we walked to lunch and on the way I found out that his name is Sean Donaghue, he is from Belfast and he was sorted into Hufflepuff. I couldn't believe the last bit, and I giggled when he said it, convinced he was making a joke. He didn't seem to understand, so I avoided the topic, thinking perhaps he should find out about the houses himself. Where has he been? Why did he come to Hogwarts? He didn't seem willing to talk about himself at lunch, so I prattled on about nothing at all (as usual) and am left with my intense curiosity.

We'll see.
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative

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March 31st, 2004

11:22 pm - The Porskoff Ploy
Anneli Laaksonen, Gryffindor, 7th year

I've just returned from quidditch practice. Yesterday's beautiful weather was just a teasing glimpse of spring. It has suddenly returned to frigid temperatures and biting wind. My fingers are still stiff from gripping my broom so tightly. Luckily, we stopped practice before the second year, who has the equivalent weight of a turnip, smashed into the stands by the force of the wind.

On a slightly more exciting note, Aldric and I were the only two chasers today because Ginny was ill. Lots of one-on-one practice. He's quite fun when he isn't being his usual cocky self, and devilishly good to look at so I was distracted much of our practice. Without a third chaser we spent much of practice perfecting the Porskoff Ploy. I think we may have to implement it in our next game. . .

“Left. . .left,” I shouted down to Aldric as he dropped down below me to receive the quaffle. I threw it to his left, but the driving winds carried the ball quickly to his right side. Aldric made a wild swipe as the quaffle passed his right shoulder, but missed by a few feet. I watched as he flew after the AWOL quaffle, his robes flying up in the back so I caught a glimpse of his fitted quidditch pants curving his ass. I was still staring when he flew back, quaffle in hand.
“Mind the wind next time,” he said, panting as he tossed the quaffle back to me, “A little more to the left should do.” I nodded quickly and he resumed his position 15 feet below me. I focused on the spot five feet to his left, but then the image of his robes flying up came to mind and I aimed directly at his left hand. It was too good to pass up.
My throw was nearly identical to the first, as was his frantic attempt to catch it and the wind gust that followed. Wonderful.
Aldric didn’t look too pleased when he returned so the next few throws I made perfectly into his left hand.
“Good throws, Anneli,” he said, returning to my height. He closed his eyes, his long eyelashes lying on his flushed cheeks, and wiped the sweat off of his forehead. I was just thinking how I’d like to kiss his temple when he said, “So do you want to be on the bottom?”
I stared at him in surprise and then my mind returned to the Porskoff Ploy, my cheeks tinted just the slightest bit.
“Right, I should practice both positions,” I agreed, smiling wickedly as I flew to my position.

I wonder if I could persuade the IAQ (International Association of Quidditch) to change the number of chasers from three to two permanently. Probably not, but it is a lovely thought.

Amidst my fantasies of getting Aldric into my bed, an owl flew down and landed in front of me on the dinner table. It was from Max. The letter is sitting on my night table now, I’m afraid to open it. I can just imagine what it says, “Ma cherie, I miss you so much. I’m waiting for summer vacation so we can once again be together. . .” Well, it may not be that unbearable, but for some reason I feel like Max knows that I was thinking of Aldric instead of him and he wanted to be sure I knew he loved me. Thank god he’s still at Beauxbatons.
Current Mood: refreshedrefreshed

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04:56 pm - Hormones? Virus? Does it matter?

I've begun to observe a fascinating phenomenon around the school: The rising temperature is directly proportionate to the length of the skirts in Slytherin house. There is an unspoken understanding that as soon as the weather outside reaches 15C or so, Slytherin skirts are charmed up and down, making sure they bounce just a little extra and rise up that extra bit. It's turning the male population into a group of great drooling fools. You can't blame them, I don't think--say you're an adolescent male, is there a better way to emerge from the dreadful winter than to the sight of rising hemlines? Exactly.

The first victim I diagnosed as having contracted the virus was the Potions TA. Can I first point out, that Snape even having a TA bodes for what a genius this young man is, although I shudder to think what might happen if he were to fuck up. At any rate, Alexis, as he is called, knows more about Potions than anyone rightfully should and he has so far been an invaluable tool for those of us who despise Potions. And might I say, that seventh year Potions could be equated with the 10th century raping and pillaging of the mystical tribes of Asia. If it weren't taught by my head of house, you can bet I would not be there half as much as I am. But to the subject at hand! Today's recipe was virtually incomprehendable and the stifling heat of the dungeons was not helping the blood flow to my brain. In fact, I was fairly sure the pressure on my brain would force it out my ears and down my neck. Snape indulged us in the luxury of removing our robes to avoid heat stroke and this allowed for the perfect conditions: our friendly virus thrives in hot, tense situations.

"Evelyn," he began with me, eyeing the suspicious mixture in my cauldron.
"Evie," I corrected, he never remembers how much I hate my name, although I suppose that isn't his job.
"Right, Evie, you can't just arbitrarily add beetle legs to this potion, especially not before you mix in the Graphorn powder."
"But," I protested weakly, "in the last potion it didn't make a difference."
"Did the last potion involve Graphorn powder?"
"Thank you. You know the properties of the powder, yes?"
I was already completely lost at this point, but I nodded anyway. He continued: "If you add the legs before the powder, the hellebore you added in the first directions will not have sat long enough to be chemically prepared to react with the leg..." on and on he went, launching into a hysterical scientific rant that might've lasted for hours if I hadn't dropped the cap for my horned slugs.
"I'll get that," he muttered uselessly.
"Oh don't bother," I was trying to pleasant, after all he's been salvaging my marks for the semester. It was at this moment, that I bent over to retrieve the cap. It was an instinctive sort of thing and my mind, surprisingly, was not focused on the fact that my skirt had been freshly charmed...the hem raised so that the tiniest bit of my lacy boy shorts were revealed. After snatching up the cap and securing it over my horned slugs I was met with the most startling sight: A Hogwarts TA was staring at me with his mouth hanging down to the floor.
"Is there something the matter?" I still hadn't remembered my skirt.
Or the lace.
"Your face, did someone hit you or something?"
He shook his head vigorously but the damage had been done. As we turned back to the potion I gave a quick peek downward to find that a band of pygmies had pitched a tent in his pants. Curious.

Isn't it odd how men are much more attractive when you learn that they're attracted to you? Perhaps tonight I shall bring it up with Soleil and Cecily...they've managed to get their hands on a stock of butter beer and that usually lends itself to sex talk.


Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative

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