| 002. |
[June the 20th] |
Peacocks are dreadful. I hate them. Have you ever heard the sound a peacock makes? It’s awful, and the ones at the manor seem to have been trained to do it when the sun rises as if they were roosters. Father and mother are on the other side of the manor, away from where they’re kept, but I get serenaded by those bloody birds every morning because my room’s at the back.
It’s worse in the summer, because the sun starts to rise so early. I have to camp out in the drawing room, where the couches are all Victorian and under padded and pointy and terrible to sleep on. I gave up on trying to sleep on them last year and just pulled all the pillows onto the floor and slept on top of them, but then the house-elves threw a fit. “Master Scorpius cannot sleep on the floor, sir!” I think mother might have sent them in to do her dirty work for her. She fusses too much. I broke my arm climbing a tree when I was ten, and she had them chop it down even though I was fine after a trip to St. Mungo’s. She said it wasn’t safe. I suppose she’s worried about my back if I sleep on the floor, but I think she should be more worried about my sanity if I keep getting woken up at four in the morning by peacocks squawking outside my window.
I am moving out as soon as seventh year is over and I’m done. Can. Not. Wait.
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| 001. |
[June the 13th] |
I didn't lose anything I cared about to the nifflers. The trick is to not leave the things you really care about lying around where any niffler could sniff them out and grab them. Also, don't be attached to shiny things.
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