I know where Albus is.
Well, almost. Now, what to do with that knowledge? It might need to sink in for a bit at first, though not long. In the end, I suppose I will have to make contact with the fuckers. Blast. What irks me is that I cannot do anything myself that might risk my position, rather invaluable as it is. I am stuck in this bloody castle, marking essays until four fifths of them are red with errors, and hopefully their rightful owners with embarrassment.
Though we shall see. We need to act, that is for sure.
I talked to her yesterday, for the first time since the duel, not counting the rather awkward incident in that narrow fourth-floor corridor. Once again, I wonder what possesses my mouth at times to make such revealing statements. Though I suppose it had to be done—the prospect of ever getting to shag her again seemed pitifully small had I not gone down to that level of conversation.
I hope she understood me, though. Intelligence perhaps not being the first that springs to mind, she sounded rather surprised at me ever having believed the Fletcher-insinuations (which, I had to admit, I did).
Oh, fuck it. I hardly know what I am on about anymore. Is just one little, bloody kiss too much to want?
Much a I hate to confess it, I do not know what I would be supposed to do. The amusing thing is, it would seem that neither does she.
I should have paid better attention when Saaritsa held those women-lectures of his back in Finland, but I was probably busy studying. Come to think of it, perhaps I did the right thing after all. I think he ended up dating a fifty-year-old hag with dirty, pointy fingernails and some “interesting” (because there really is not a polite word for it) conceptions about intense physical proximity.
I guess I am luckier than him after all—though not by much.