CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE HOWLER AND HAIR RIBBONS

2 March 1995

So, Sirius Black is hiding out in the caves above the lake, is he?  Interesting.  I bet I could score points by turning him in.  Not that I would of course.   I know he’s innocent.  I also know what it means to Harry to have someone on whom he can rely.  There was a bit empty place in his heart that Black has filled nicely.  It was a parent-shaped space you see, not something that could ever be filled by friends (even friends as good as Ron and Hermione) or a girlfriend (if Harry were to ever have one).

I don’t think he will though, have a girlfriend that is, at least not right away.  He’s still really self-conscious.  I can’t see him making the moves on any girl, let alone flirting with one.  He wouldn’t know how!  I guess there is an advantage to being the youngest child in a family as large as mine.  I get to see how the whole ‘game’ is supposed to work, and from the male point of view nonetheless!  Lucky me.

It was a rather humdrum day in Hogsmeade.  I don’t know, maybe some of the novelty is wearing off.  Or maybe it’s simply the fact that I know there is, well, something more important going on, something more important than Hogsmeade weekends, anyway.  Or maybe it’s because Neville is still being really cool to me. 

I don’t know why I should care actually, other than the fact that Neville is my friend, and I’d like to keep him.  Having him snub me hurts, to tell you the truth.  He went into Hogsmeade with Dean and Seamus, and while he was perfectly polite to me when we met in the joke shop, he didn’t do anything more than make small talk.  I’m going to have to sit the boy down and have a serious talk with him.  He doesn’t think that we were boyfriend/girlfriend does he?  Is he perhaps thinking that I’m the one ignoring him? 

Hell, even Lisa left me when she had the opportunity to go to the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer with that Ravenclaw third year, Mark Price.  She asked me to come with them, but I didn’t want to intrude, so I wandered off by myself, bought a few sweets, got a new quill, and stood for the longest time looking into the display windows of Gladrags.  What I wouldn’t give for the money to buy some new things!

The new clothes I bought with Bill’s money the summer before my second year are mostly too tight now, especially across the chest.  I’m going to have to ask mum for some new bras too.  At least I’ll get thosenew!  I have yet to see used ones in any of the second hand shops mum goes to (thank Merlin).  And I can mend and dye stuff, so it won’t be so bad. 

My day perked up considerably though when I realized that Michael was standing just behind me outside of Gladrags, seemingly very taken with a pair of black leather gloves that purported to be ‘stronger than dragon hide, and twice as classy!’

“Are you contemplating the ‘skimming shimmer of tourmaline’ lingerie set, or the ‘screaming sock stink control’ in the purple and gold stripes?” he asked conversationally.

“Well, the lingerie isn’t exactly my style,” I managed, trying to answer him in kind.  “I prefer silk myself.”

He did a double take, and asked me if I’d like to go get a butterbeer.  Sweet.  (And I’m not talking about the butterbeer!)

We had a nice long chat over butterbeer and scones — I’m liking the boy better and better every day!  Too bad Harry isn’t as interested as Michael.  Ah well, at least I can have a little fun while Harry is being — well — Harry.

3 March 1995

I buttonholed Neville in the common room on the way to bed tonight.  Idiot boy actually tried to pretend that nothing was wrong.  Can you believe that crap? He finally admitted that while he knew that we weren’t boyfriend / girlfriend, that he couldn’t help but hope.

God, what do you say to something like that?  I didn’t know what to say, honest I didn’t!  Neville is one of the best (and only) friends I have.  I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.  But I don’t want to give him false hope either.  I finally settled for telling him just that, that he’d always be special to me, and that I wouldn’t give him up for anything, but that  (and it had nothing to do with the botched kiss) that I just couldn’t think of him as anything more than the dearest of friends.  I gave him a big hug (which he returned rather willingly) and a kiss on the cheek, and made him swear that he wouldn’t do anything so stupid as get his knickers in a twist over me again.

We stayed up until midnight chatting.  I still like talking to Neville a whole lot.  He has a rather interesting view of things in general, and I don’t think that a whole lot of people know about it.  To be perfectly honest, I don’t think a whole lot of people pay a whole lot of attention to Neville.  Interesting.  When I look at him, I see all goodness and a core of steely determination.  Not an evil bone in his body, and more potential than I think even he realizes he possesses.  Not that I’d believe him if I told him mind.  He’s a stubborn one, Neville.  I wonder if he’ll ever come to grips with his potential?

6 March 1995

Hermione has been having a horrid time with the pus in her fingers (she received some hate mail that had undiluted bubotuber pus in it).  I found her in the common room last night.  She was rocking back and forth, crying silently and rubbing her hands together as if she were trying to get them warm.  I didn’t know what to say, so I just sat beside her until she started to talk on her own. 

From what she said, I guess that the bubotuber pus gets under the skin and bubbles, or at least that’s what she made it sound like.  Disgusting.  And none of the pain potions can do a thing for it.  I asked her if it helped when she rubbed them like that and she said a little, so I offered to rub them for her. 

Strangely enough, when I touched her hands, I could almost feel the pus inside them, see it bubbling and seething. Nasty stuff.  So I rubbed them as gently as I could, wishing that I could just rub the pus right out of them.  After only a couple of minutes Hermione said that it was amazing, but that she really did feel better, that in fact she felt better than she had since the stuff had spilled on her.  Her hands did look better, not as swollen around the joints, and pink rather than raw red.  Weird.  Maybe that’s all she needed.

I went around collecting articles for Colin again today.  We’re supposed to be putting the paper “to bed” as he terms it, by the end of the week.  I don’t know why he insists on using Muggle terms when the whole damn paper is reproduced by magical means anyway.

This issue (which will come out on the 15th) has a big piece on Leprechauns that was written by Seamus Finnegan.  He supposedly got all the information from family members.  I guess his family has been working with Leprechauns for generations, (except for an uncle who was a Banshee hunter).

Anyway, from what he wrote, I gather that Leprechauns (wild ones at least) are quite vicious.  They detest humans and go out of their way to play nasty tricks on them (not the least of which is the disappearing gold bit).  “Tame” Leprechauns are kept on farms where they are kept under enchantments so they can’t escape and, well, I guess you’d have to say that they’re bred, sort of like sheep.    It seems that many Irish wizarding families use them in the same way that British and European wizards use House Elves.  They train them to do household work and stuff.  Though I guess no one has ever figured out a way to convince them to make their gold permanent.  Makes me wonder really, just how much control wizards have over Leprechauns (and I guess House Elves too) after all, if maybe they’re just biding their time. 

What right do wizards have to enslave other magical creatures, anyway?  I mean, if a magical creature gets something in return for what they do for wizards, which would be one thing.  But what do House Elves get from being enslaved?  What do Leprechauns get from being bred?   I can almost understand why Hermione gets so upset, but I still think she’s going about it the wrong way.  No one is going to listen to her with her buttons and pamphlets and shaking her collecting tin in people’s faces.  I mean, it’s an accepted fact in the wizarding world that House Elves are so subservient.  To most people, that’s what House Elves are; servants.   Not that they should be treated like dirt, and I have to agree with Hermione, how they are treated is definitely wrong, but there’s got to be another way to go about convincing the wizarding world to change their ways. 

22 March 1995

Colin and Neville and I have decided to put out a special edition of The Howler for April Fool’s day!  We’re doing it all ourselves, and it’s going to be a complete surprise! 

Neville and I have made up some really bizarre stories and Colin has doctored some of his best pictures to go with them.  We’re doing the entire thing under pseudonyms of course, and we’ve even changed the usual style and type of The Howler so that people will think that someone else is playing the trick. This is all being done with McGonagall’s permission of course.  Colin would never do anything that might endanger his ‘outstanding reputation.’  No shit, that’s what was written on his end of term report last year!  “Colin is a model student of outstanding reputation.”  He showed it to me, and I nearly gagged!

We may not be informing any other students about the paper, but I did get some really good material from Fred and George.  They’ve been teaching me a lot you see, all sorts of thing; how to keep people’s attention occupied on something innocuous, say pointing out the person you’re gossiping about while your hands are busy slipping belching powder into their scrambled eggs.  How to change potions by just one ingredient so that when a drop of the mixture is added to someone’s goblet, it makes them, say, foam at the mouth or sprout whiskers. 

I find it fascinating that they can get such abysmal grades in, say, Astronomy (neither of them passed their Astronomy O.W.L.) and yet get three ‘Outstanding’ O.W. L.’s, one each in Transfiguration, Charms and Potions!  That should have been a real hint to mum, but all she could see was that they ‘only’ got three O.W.L.’s, when the Ministry requires a minimum of five at the ‘Exceeds Expectations’ level or better, in order to even fill out an application for working at the Ministry.

Anyway, George taught me this charm.  It’s based off something he called the Osmosis Charm, and what it does is caused the charmed object to sort of bond with the first person who touches it.  Then, when any other charms placed on the object are activated, it will tailor them to that individual.  Say you’ve charmed an object to recite a poem that includes a person’s name.  If you then place an Osmosis Charm on the poem, after a person touches the parchment on which the poem is written, it will recite the poem, inserting the name of the person who touched it, really great if you want to freak someone out.  I showed it to Colin, and we’ve agreed that there will be an article on the front page, something really outrageous.  It will be about a student, and we’ll put the Osmosis charm on all the copies so that each student thinks that the story is written about them!  Thank you George!

26 March 1995

It was so beautiful tonight.  Absolutely clear, not a cloud in the sky, and the stars!  My god, the stars were so bright they looked like individual jewels painted up on the velvet of the night sky!  Usually on nights when the moon is full, the stars are dimmed somewhat by the light it reflects, but not tonight! 

I actually took a detour on my way down to Hagrid’s.  I wandered down to the lake and sat on a rock by the shore for about half an hour, just staring out over the lake.  The moon and stars were reflected in the lake so clearly that I could almost believe that the lake had become some sort of portal to another world, perhaps another dimension.

I must have sat very quietly indeed, for after a while several merpeople surfaced far out towards the center of the lake.  They too were staring up into the sky, and then, on the far side of the lake, there was a unicorn.  I could tell it was a unicorn by the way its coat glowed against the darkness of the trees.  And up on the topmost halyard of the Durmstrang ship I could just make out another figure sitting gargoyle like on its heels, staring away from me across the lake.  The profile was unmistakable, I’d recognize that hooked nose anywhere.  It was Krum, Viktor Krum.

It gave me a sort of warm thrill to see someone else out and about. It’s good to know that I’m not the only one who is affected by the pull of a night like this. 

A night like this. 

Even Mira seemed to be under the influence of something else tonight.  She seemed oddly distracted and kept saying things like “I’m sorry, Ginny, you might not be ready for this, but you need to know.”

I’m afraid to ask her.  I’m afraid of what she might say.  I’m afraid that one night I’ll go to the clearing and she won’t be there and that I won’t have anyone who understands me anymore.

Professor Dumbledore, well, I know that Mira trusts him, but how can he possibly understand what it is like to have this kind of power thrust on you?  I DIDN’T ASK FOR IT!  Mira says I did, that when I called the elements that night in my room.  But how could I possibly have known?  How could I have known what all was entailed?  No one had told me.  No one warned me.  It just — happened!  By his own admittance, Professor Dumbledore asked for it.  He did the ritual that evoked the elements.  He asked them, knowing full well what it would mean when he did.

It’s too late now.  I am a Natural Elemental.  Even if I was given the opportunity to back out now, to give up the powers I’ve been given, I wouldn’t.  I couldn’t.  They’re a part of me now, just like Harry is a part of me.  But I still wish that there was someone else, someone real who I could talk to, someone who understands.  What will I ever do if anything ever happens to Mira? 

3 April 1995

Mum sent her Easter Eggs again.  Poor Hermione, hers was so small compared to everyone else’s, it was obvious that she believes the crap in Witch Weeklyabout Hermione two-timing Harry.  Please.  At least it took my mind off of the complete fiasco of the April Fool’s edition of The Howler. 

After everything I did, after all the trouble I went to to place the Osmosis Charm on all the copies (I stayed up all night doing that!) when the damned things came out — the article on the front page had been changed so that the article was all about me!  EVERYONE’S ARTICLE WAS ABOUT ME!

It wasn’t so very bad, as articles go.  It was just stupid really, but the fact of the matter remains.  After all the work I did, after all the planning, everything was ruined!  Oh people still got a blast out of the entire thing, and what’s more, because I was on the front cover, no one even pointed a finger at Colin or myself when questions started being asked about who had put it together.  I have to admit, I was in shock.

At first I thought it was because when I touched George’s, and then Ron’s copies that the charm must have been stronger than I had thought, that it was still working beyond the ‘first person to touch it’ bit (I swear that I didn’t touch them when I was performing the charm!).  But then Hermione read me her copy, and it said the same thing.

Turns out Fred had rigged the papers before I ever got my hands on them, stupid git.  He guessed what we were up to and thought it would be a good trick to play on his baby sister.  Needless to say I’d like to strangle the son of a bitch!  I can’t say that I’m not entirely responsible for his getting caught in that freak rainstorm and ending up sliding off the embankment and into the lake. I am entirely responsible.  It was my anger that caused the storm.  I felt it.  I let it happen. It was me who caused the mudslide. But the idiot deserved it. Madam Pomfrey kept him overnight in the hospital wing to keep an eye on his arm (he broke it in the fall).  I didn’t bother visiting him.  You’d think he’d have learned his lesson after calling me Gin and spending three days in St. Mungo’s!  Of course, he probably doesn’t realize me that the whole accident was my doing, and I’m not about to volunteer the information.  I think George suspects something though.  He called the whole incident “very fishy” and has been giving me these weird looks, but oh well.  He can’t prove anything.

16 April 1995

Thank god for weekends is all I can say!  The teachers are nuts, absolutely nuts.  They keep piling all this extra work on us — McGonagall was going on about how next year is so very important what with O.W.L.’s coming up.  I mean, it’s a whole year away!  A whole year!  Why give us the work now?  Aren’t we going to be learning anything next year?  Or do they think that by cramming it down our throats now we’ll somehow absorb more and somehow get better scores?

It’s not the content that’s bothering me.  I can do most of the spells with my eyes closed.  And I may know the answers to nearly every question (even if I don’t recall ever having read the information myself before — thanks Tom!) but that doesn’t change the fact that I still have to DO the essays and the reports and fill in the worksheets and collect the herbs and draw the damned pictures. 

I’m going to let you in on a secret. I can’t draw to save my life.  I know, I know, I can sing, I can dance, I can play the damned piano, you’d think that I could draw too, or at least paint.  Surely one more artistic talent wouldn’t be so very much to ask?  I’d settle for just having a passable talent at drawing.  But I can barely draw stick figures without causing the lines to go wobbly.  Mum has a picture I drew when I was seven.  It’s of Mr. Chubbs sitting on a fence post.  It looks like a hedgehog on a bad hair day.  And you want to know what’s scary?  My drawing has never gotten past that stage.  My cats still look like hedgehogs, my dogs look like lopsided cows and my houses look like a toddler’s scribbling.  And wouldn’t you know it but Sprout’s gone all artistic on us.

She’s been having us draw pictures of all these plants.  She says that it will help us to be able to identify them later.  I’ll tell you one thing, if someone tried to identify a plant by using one of my drawings they’d be in serious trouble!  I’ve gotten three straight zeros on the last three plants she assigned for us to draw.  And today, today she gave us mugwort.  Nicely intricate, mugwort.  Lots of lacey leaves and delicate flowers.  Damn. 

I came back from Herbology (last class of the day on Fridays) in tears, although I was doing my best to hide it.  I managed to get as far as the common room before someone buttonholed me.  It just had to be Harry, didn’t it?  Stupid git.  We’re bound, he and I, and while he isn’t able to realize that on a conscious level somehow he always knows!

I was on the home stretch, headed for the door that leads to the girls’ stairway when someone snagged my robes.

“Ginny, hey, Ginny, what’s wrong?”  Harry had just gotten back from class himself, I could see the top of his Potions kit sticking out of his bag.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that garbage, you’re crying.”

“Oh, real observant, Potter.  Full marks!” I snapped, and he actually pulled back a bit as if I’d slapped him.  “Damn, Harry, really, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”

The smile he gave me made my insides melt.  I didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow when he took my bag from me and steered me over to one of the sofas against the wall. 

“Bad afternoon?” asked Harry.  He settled both bags on the floor and then, instead of sitting down beside me, he did something that he’s seen both Ron and George do with me, and something that I’ve seen Ron do with Hermione without thinking about it.  He knelt down in front of me, his hands on either side of my knees, effectively pinning me in place. 

“Tell me what’s wrong, Gin.” 

Now I hate the nickname ‘Gin.’  It goes way back to when I was little and Fred and George had this song they’d sing.  It was a stupid ditty, really, but it used the name ‘Gin’ and I’ve hated it ever since.  But while I cursed Fred and good the last time he called me Gin, but there is something about the way Harry says that diminutive that makes my insides go to jelly.  I can’t get mad at him, I just can’t!

His eyes were just inches from mine and he had one of my hands pinned to the sofa beneath his. 

I couldn’t move. 

I didn’t wantto move.

I couldn’t breath.

His eyes!  My god, his eyes were looking into my very soul and I had another one of those flashes, the sort of flash where I knew that I’d been here before.  Everything went all — swimmy, and then I saw, I knew!

I knew that he had been kneeling in front of me like this when he’d called me out of the Timestop.  (Timestop?)  I knew that he’d been kneeling like this, pinning me in place when he’d told me the news about Percy.  I knew that we’d been sitting just like this the day I’d told him we were pregnant with Syria.  He’d leaned forward — each of those times, he’d leaned forward and kissed me, and when I’d told him about the baby, we’d ended up making hot and passionate love right there on the living room floor.

I managed a weak, rather watery smile, and I felt rather than heard the breath catch in his chest.

“You okay?” I asked in turn, for he’d suddenly gone very pale.  Or rather his skin was very pale, but his eyes, his eyes had become rather bright.

“I — I — yeah, I think so.”  He shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs.  “That was so weird!” he said fervently, giving me another heart-stopping grin.  “Deja-vu,” said Harry, shrugging.  “I just — well, for just a second I felt like I’d been here, with you, just like this before.  Ever get that?  The feeling that you’ve been in that exact situation before?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak in case I said something that would scare him off.  His hand was covering mine and I could feel the heat of his body pressed against my legs.  In spite of the heat, I shivered from the contact.  God what I wouldn’t have given to have him take me in his arms — right then!

“So what’s got you all upset?” he said finally.  His eyes were full of concern and, without even seeming to think about it, he reached up and brushed a lone tear from my cheek.

His touch broke through some sort of wall I think, for a moment later I was crying like a damned hosepipe, the tears just sort of overflowing.  And you want to know the weirdest thing?  I wasn’t crying about the damned pictures anymore, I was crying for everything— for the unfairness of knowing all about Harry and me and not being able to do anything it. I was crying because I’d had to watch him toss off again last week while thinking about Cho again.  I was crying because my teeth hurt from my own sympathetic grinding of teeth every time he saw Cho and Cedric walking hand-in-hand down the corridor.  I was crying for the unfairness of his having been made a Triwizard champion without having been asked and for myself having the powers of a Natural Elemental and feeling like an outcast because I can’t tell anyone about them.  And all I could do is tell him that I was upset because I was going to flunk Herbology.

“You can’t fail Herbology, Ginny.  No one fails Herbology!” he said, a frown creasing his forehead.

“Well, three zeros in a row is a good way to start then, isn’t it?” I snapped.

He looked rather taken aback until I explained about the damned drawings.

“Damn, Gin, that’s easy enough to fix.  Why didn’t you tell me before?”

He stood up abruptly and I thought I would cry again at the loss of contact.

“Hey, Dean, come here!”

Dean Thomas was there a moment later, and the spell was broken.  I spent then next hour taking an impromptu drawing lesson from Dean (who’s an excellent artist) and watching as he sketched out a picture of a mugwort plant that looked so lifelike I could have sworn that you could reach into the drawing and pick it.  Dean told me to tell him whenever Sprout has another drawing assignment and that he’d help me get a passable picture for her, “even if I have to doctor it for you a bit,” he said, grinning. 

Once again Mr. Potter saves the day.  Too bad he didn’t know the thoughts going through my head as he knelt there, comforting me as if I were his little sister.  How I wanted to run my fingers through that thick, unruly mop of hair, how I wanted to trace the line of his face with my finger and kiss the tip of his nose or lean my head against his chest and listen to the beating of his heart.  No.  Instead, I had to swallow my instinct and thank him nicely for helping me with my Herbology, and act as if everything were absolutely ducky when my heart was doing its best not to leap clean out of my chest!   

1 May 1995

Happy May Day!  Beltane too.  You do know how the pagans used to celebrate Beltane, don’t you?  Hmmm. Yes.  Fertility rites.  True spring fever if ever there was a case for it.  Imagine dancing in circles around a bonfire until a pair of strong arms pulls you out of the dance and you find yourself lying in the meadow with a complete stranger, celebrating Beltane in a much more literal fashion.  And then, on Mayday itself, with the Maypole and it’s ribbons and everyone decked out in flowers and ribbons.  We’ve really become quite prudish when you get right down to it.  Granted, I’m not entirely certain that I’d want to make love to a complete stranger, or even someone I knew, just because they picked me from the circle of dancers, but why is it that we’ve become so obsessed with our bodies?

I mean, isn’t sex a natural thing?  Then why is there all the secrecy surrounding it?  Why are there so many taboos attached to it?  Why are adults so dead set against us kids doing something that our bodies are obviously ready and willing to take up?  And don’t tell me that it’s just because of sexually transmitted diseases or pregnancy!  Please!  We’re not exactly living in the dark ages here!  Hasn’t anyone ever heard of birth control?  There are charms to help you from getting pregnant, and potions you can take to keep from getting diseases.  That’s another thing though, why are the contraceptive charms so closely guarded in the wizarding world?

I’ve been doing research on them, and do you realize that they aren’t written down?  Anywhere?  That is so ridiculous! According to one text, it is considered traditional for a witch’s mother to pass on this all important information at ‘the appropriate time.’ This ‘appropriate time’, according to another text, is considered to be when a witch and wizard announce their engagement.  Seems a bit late to me, and I’m sure that most parents probably don’t wait all that long to pass along the appropriate information.

It made me wonder then, what exactly a Muggle-born witch is supposed to do?  Shut her eyes and pray for guidance? And what about those of us with parents who are too reserved to talk about sex in front of their children?  I mentioned the bit about Muggle witches to Hermione, who actually giggled.  And then — right in the middle of the library — steered me over to a table where Lavender Brown was working on a Potions essay with Parvati Patil. 

“Lavender, tell Ginny what you told me about the Contraceptive charm,” said Hermione sweetly.

Before I could do so much as blush, Lavender had launched off into a detailed description of the different types of charms, what all was involved for each one, and how her mother had made her start using the long term one the very day she got her period for the first time ‘just in case.’

“It’s perfectly silly how so many old fashioned families make their daughters wait until they’re ready to get married, don’t you?” she said finally, looking at me with those big, blue, china-doll eyes.

“Terribly silly,” I managed, and with a concerted effort kept a straight face until we were back at Hermione’s table, where I collapsed into silent fits of giggles myself. 

“Don’t worry,” Hermione then assured me when I’d recovered from my giggling fit.  “I’ve got them all written down.  This isn’t the first time she’s gone off about it.”

“Well, I didn’t want the specifics, not really, not yet I mean.”  I was spluttering, I know I sounded stupid.

“Don’t be silly, Ginny.  This is something every witch over the age of twelve should know,” said Hermione matter-of-factly.  “Muggles teach sex education in their schools starting at the sixth grade level.  They figure it’s only fair that everyone is informed of their, erm, options.”

“Yeah, well, thanks I guess.”

“Somehow I don’t see your mum sitting you down for a talk about contraceptive charms,” said Hermione thoughtfully.

“I know dad’s talked to the boys,” I told her, shrugging.  “It’s just, well, mum has a — a block when it comes to talking to me about stuff like that.”

“Even though she was pregnant when she left Hogwarts?”

“How did you know that?”

“Ron said it once, don’t think he meant to tell me quite that much, but there you are.  You think though, seeing as that she obviously didn’t wait until her engagement was announced . . .”

“She doesn’t want to think of me ever being old enough to have sex, let alone get married,” I told Hermione, shrugging.  It’s true, too!  Mum still treats me as if I were six!  I swear, she sent a care package the other day, and do you know what mine had in it?  Can you guess?  HAIR RIBBONS!

Now, I haven’t worn hair ribbons since I was eight!  What on earth was going through her head?  Hair ribbons and a tee shirt that said “angel” on the front (two sizes too small I might add).  Need I continue?  Would you like to hear more?

I didn’t think so.

14 May 1995

Well, that’s that.  I’ve quit the Howler.  Okay, not quit precisely, but this will be my last year working on it.  I was just going to flat out quit, but Colin begged me, and I really didn’t have the heart to just leave him high and dry.  I felt awful, the look on his face!  But I really don’t have it in me anymore.  I’m tired of nagging people, and (this is the reason I gave Colin) I really don’t have the time.  I need to be devoting more time to my elemental studies.  I’ve sadly neglected my gran’s journal lately, and I have this odd feeling that before too long I’m going to need all the help I can get. 

Perhaps something of Mira’s sense of urgency is rubbing off on me, ‘cause I feel as if time were running out.  I need to be studying some of these things on my own now.  I need to be making lists of things to ask her.  What will happen to me, to my studies, if suddenly, one day, she’s no longer there for me to talk to? 

There is a question that keeps nagging me.  Who is Mira, really?  Aiden I believe is one of the First People.  He fits the descriptions given in the old books to a T.  But not Mira.  She’s too, bouncy.  That’s not quite the right word, but she’s not as serious as Aiden was.  She’s more lighthearted and she really knows me so well that it’s almost uncanny. 

I find myself staring at her sometimes while she’s talking.  I keep trying to fix her face in my mind so that I can remember her features later, but it never works.  I have an overall sense of a lithe, agile woman in her thirties who has long flowing hair and bright eyes and who I can talk to about anything.  She is so familiar that it makes me shiver.  I KNOW HER.  I know her face.  I know her face nearly as well as I know my own. It’s as if I’ve known her before, or maybe I willknow her someday, but something tells me that she’s definitely someone I was/am/will be close to.  Weird, huh?