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Okay, switching to prefect mode now.

It seems like detention with the Pink Creature was not enough for Mallory the Younger to learn her lesson, as she keeps on getting into trouble. Besides her recent pranks on Luna Lovegood, which I'm sure every prefect in this school and all of Ravenclaw house must be aware by now thanks to the indignant complaints of one Rolf Scamander there is evidence that she was responsible for the two recent attacks on second-year Orla Quirke - namely her tongue turning purple after eating yesterday's soup and the disappearance of her personal supply of chocolate.
I was going to suggest that Mallory the Younger would be separated from that little group of Slytherins she follows everywhere, as I have the feeling they're the ones who are encouraging her to follow such behaviour just for the pleasure of seeing if and when she'll get into trouble for it. However, it seems like she herself has managed to do that, thanks to her targeting Edmund Selwyn as her next victim. Even though the poor boy is generally disliked by those other kids, the fact that he's a Slytherin and possibly the fact that he comes from a well-respected Pureblood family and is a personal favourite of Umbridge made them very angry at her for filling his rucksack with green mud, and it took both me and Malfoy to separate them. Malfoy wanted to send her straight to Umbridge, but I managed to convince him that it wouldn't be necessary and that I'll make serve detention that will be harsh enough to keep him satisfied. However, I have the feeling some sort of revenge might come her way soon, and that the blond-haired git will then ignore it (and possibly even applaud).


An O? A bloody O?

How on Earth did I manage to get an O on this assignment? I did everything in my power to fail this - I even included the bit about juggling puffskeins, for Helga's sake. And what about those people who actually need this class and can't afford to do this sort of protest, and who got bad marks? Bloody cow.

That's it. I'm going to be wearing my helicopter hat on her bloody classes from now on - see if she notices that.

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My dear partners in pain, the answer is very simple: if you find yourself face to face with an assailant/dementor/hag/whatever, you pretend to be a statue. Or you dance in front of them, wearing a pink tutu, rollerskates... and, of course, with Scamander's missing socks on your hands. Or you juggle puffskeins to distract them. Whichever is more ludicrous.

I really don't care if I end up getting a T on this, so if I'm to fail because our esteemed professor only wants us to learn ridiculous nonsense, I'll be as ridiculous as I can.

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I'm CURED! I'm back to NORMAL! I have a beard again as well as other things I better not mention and I can look at myself in the mirror without getting a desperate urge to scream.

Oh, sweet Helga, life is great again.

I could almost KISS Montague. Almost.

I know some of you actually enjoyed switching genders (you're all mental, by the way), but for me it felt like being inside someone else's skin, an experience I hope will never be repeated. If not for the fact that it gave me some food for thought, I'd be searching for an obliviator right now to erase this wretched incident from my mind.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk to people - and I mean actually talk. Being away from Fawcett those I care about Fawcett during this period of isolation was more painful than I could have ever imagined it would be.

Which reminds me...

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I need a hug.



What in Helga's name has just happened?

It was you, wasn't it, Weasley? I don't know where you're hiding, but when I find you, you're dead. DEAD, do you hear me?

That's it. I don't care if I get detention, or if I risk my position as a prefect. I'm NOT coming out of my dorm ever again. I'll just stay here until I get better or until die of starvation.

And I promise I'll hex anyone who tries to see me. I mean it!

I look like my mother when she was my age! Well, apart from that hideous '70s hairdo she had back then. And the pregnancy bump.

Sweet Helga, I wish I was dead.


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You know, if Peeves gets a hold of some first-years' bags and refuses to give them back unless they sing dirty carols, forming a circle around the poor kids and encouraging them to do as he says is not the right thing to do, especially if this takes place just a corridor away from Umbridge's office. And no, Travers, accio-ing the bags away from that bloody poltergeist before the kids get a chance to open their mouths does not make me a spoilsport. And they were from your own house, for Helga's sake.


Parkinson must think I'm a right idiot. Screaming "Oh, a rat! Save me, Nicky!" as high as she can will not make me run to rescue her, especially when I know that bloody mistletoe is hovering over that very doorstep under where she's spotted the little furry creature.

I hate to be discourteous but... Ladies (and gentlemen, since we're at it), if you happen to see one of those things over your head and I'm the only person around, I'm afraid you're on your own. Unless you're Fawcett, of course.

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I believe getting an 8.25 in that bloody list and getting all those compliments from those two bints is the most insulting thing ever. But then again, it could be worse, as I'm sure Montague and Warrington might be even more offended than I am.

And I shall KILL those tarts for what they say about Fawcett!


Nicholas B. Stebbins

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February 2008


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