December 28th, 1992, Ministry of Magic, Committee Room Seven, 2:17 PM
The committee room was smaller than one might expect for such important proceedings—barely larger than a Hogwarts classroom, with high, narrow windows that let in pale winter light. Twenty wizards and witches sat around a horseshoe-shaped table, quills poised over parchment, faces arranged in expressions ranging from bored neutrality to active interest.
Dolores Umbridge stood at the head of the room, a squat woman in violently pink robes that clashed magnificently with the drab grey walls. Her appearance was almost toad-like—wide, slack mouth, prominent eyes, and a tendency to blink slowly that made Ethan think of a predator assessing prey. She wore a black velvet bow in her short, curly hair and spoke in a breathy, girlish voice that set his teeth on edge.
"...and so, esteemed colleagues," Umbridge was saying, her voice saccharine sweet, "this legislation represents nothing more than common-sense safety measures for our community. We must think of the children, after all. Won't someone please think of the children?"
Ethan sat three seats down from Sam, with Remus between them. All three wore carefully neutral expressions, though Ethan could feel the tension radiating from Remus like heat from a fire. Sam's jaw was tight, his dark eyes fixed on Umbridge with the sort of focused intensity usually reserved for examining particularly dangerous Dark artefacts.
"The Werewolf Registry and Monitoring Act," Umbridge continued, gesturing to a stack of parchment before her, "would require all individuals afflicted with lycanthropy to register with the Ministry within fourteen days of infection. They would be subject to monthly check-ins with the Werewolf Capture Unit, mandatory reporting of their whereabouts during full moons, and employment restrictions in any field involving vulnerable populations...children, the elderly, the infirm..."
'Which would make it nearly impossible for werewolves to hold any meaningful employment,' Ethan thought grimly. 'Teaching, healing, most Ministry positions, even shopkeeping if your customers include families...'
"Furthermore," Umbridge's voice took on a harder edge, though she maintained that sickly-sweet tone, "any werewolf found in violation of these common-sense regulations would face immediate detention and possible permanent containment for the safety of law-abiding magical citizens. We simply cannot allow dangerous creatures to roam freely amongst decent folk."
Beside Ethan, Remus had gone very still. Only the white-knuckled grip on his own quill betrayed his emotion.
"The legislation is comprehensive, thoroughly researched, and designed with the utmost consideration for public safety," Umbridge concluded, beaming at the assembled committee members. "I have every confidence it will be approved and implemented by the first of January, 1993. Our community will be safer for it, and those poor unfortunate souls afflicted with this curse will have the... guidance they so desperately need."
The way she said "guidance" made it sound like imprisonment.
Several committee members nodded approvingly. A witch near the back was already reaching for her quill to vote. Umbridge's smile widened, showing too many small teeth.
Then Sam cleared his throat.
"Madam Umbridge," he said mildly, rising from his seat. Samantheus Faramundo cut an imposing figure even when being polite—tall, broad-shouldered, with iron-grey hair and the bearing of someone who'd spent decades dealing with genuinely dangerous magical creatures. "Before we proceed to a vote, I wonder if you might clarify a few points about your... comprehensive legislation."
Umbridge's smile didn't waver, but her eyes went flat. "Of course, Mr Faramundo. Though I believe I've been quite thorough in my presentation."
"Indeed. Remarkably thorough." Sam's tone remained pleasant. "I'm particularly interested in Section Seven, which restricts werewolf employment in 'any field involving vulnerable populations.' Could you perhaps elaborate on what constitutes a vulnerable population? Your definition seems... rather broad."
"Children, the elderly, the infirm," Umbridge repeated. "Anyone who might be at risk should a werewolf lose control."
"I see. And would that include, say, customers in Diagon Alley shops? Patients in St Mungo's? Students at Hogwarts?"
"If the werewolf in question held a position of authority over such individuals, then yes, naturally precautions would—"
"So a werewolf could not teach. Could not heal. Could not work in retail where families might shop. Could not hold any position in the Ministry that involves interaction with the public." Sam's voice remained calm, but there was steel beneath it now. "Madam Umbridge, what employment exactly would remain available to registered werewolves under your... legislation?"
Umbridge's cheeks went slightly pink. "Mr Faramundo, I hardly think—"
"Manual labour, perhaps? Though I note Section Twelve requires employers to be notified of an employee's werewolf status, which would make even that difficult to obtain. Mining? Forestry? Though those industries have their own safety concerns regarding workers who might transform unexpectedly..."
"The safety of the magical community must come first—"
"I don't disagree," Sam said smoothly. "Which is why I'm curious about the absence of any mention of the Wolfsbane Potion in your legislation. An oversight, surely?"
The room went very quiet. Several committee members sat up straighter, quills pausing mid-note.
Umbridge's smile had become fixed. "The Wolfsbane Potion is an experimental treatment with limited efficacy—"
"Limited efficacy?" Sam's eyebrows rose. "Forgive me, but I was under the impression that Wolfsbane, when properly brewed and administered, allows werewolves to retain their human minds during transformation. They remain conscious, rational, non-violent. Is that not correct?"
"The potion is expensive, difficult to brew, and not widely available—"
"But effective when used." Sam turned to address the room. "And perhaps you haven't been paying attention about the recently improved version, I understand, given your... important work. Perhaps Mr Lupin could speak to that?"
Remus rose slowly, and Ethan saw his friend's hands trembling slightly as he gathered his parchments. But when Remus spoke, his voice was steady.
"Thank you, Mr Faramundo. Esteemed committee members, I speak today on behalf of Atid Stella, the research organisation that holds half the credit for the improved Wolfsbane Potion, alongside Master Potioneer Damocles Belby. Over the past year, we've refined the brewing process to increase stability and reduce the cost of ingredients by nearly thirty percent. The potion, when taken correctly, allows lycanthropes to maintain complete mental faculties during the full moon."
Umbridge's face had gone slightly purple beneath her powder. "Mr Lupin, while your organisation's work is... commendable... the reality remains that many werewolves cannot afford—"
"It would take effect after just 1 hour, so all you needed was to take it directly 1 hour prior to the transformation." Umbridge almost frozen hearing those words. "And don't worry about the taste, which is just like cold tea." Remus mirrored Ethan's business smile.
"Which is why Atid Stella has proposed a Ministry subsidy programme," Remus continued, his voice gaining more and more strength. "The cost to provide Wolfsbane to every registered werewolf in Britain would be less than the Department of Magical Law Enforcement spends on Auror training in a single year. For that investment, we could ensure that not a single werewolf poses a danger during transformation."
He paused, then continued more quietly. "I speak with some authority on this matter, as I am myself a werewolf. I was bitten as a child, at the age of four. I have lived with lycanthropy for most of my life."
The room erupted in whispers. Several witches gasped. A wizard near the back actually stood up, looking alarmed.
Remus didn't flinch. "I completed my education at Hogwarts. I've held employment as a researcher and occasionally as a private tutor. I've never harmed anyone during a transformation, first because I took extensive precautions, and later because I've had access to Wolfsbane Potion. I am not a monster, nor are the hundreds of other lycanthropes in Britain who simply wish to live ordinary lives."
"Mr Lupin," Umbridge said, her voice dripping false sympathy, "your personal experience is touching, truly, but individual cases cannot dictate public policy—"
"Why not?" Sam cut in. "You've built your entire legislation on the assumption that werewolves are inherently dangerous, uncontrollable beasts. Mr Lupin's existence and the existence of hundreds like him, disproves that assumption. With proper support, proper treatment, werewolves pose no more danger than any other magical citizen."
"The Wolfsbane Potion is not foolproof—"
"Neither are wands, but we don't restrict wand ownership." Sam's voice turned sharp. "Madam Umbridge, I think it's time we addressed the true intent of this legislation. This isn't about public safety. This is about marginalising an already vulnerable population, stripping them of their livelihoods, and forcing them to the very fringes of society where they become the desperate, dangerous criminals you claim to fear. You're creating the problem you purport to solve."
Umbridge's face had gone from pink to mottled red. "How dare you suggest—"
"I suggest nothing. I'm stating facts." Sam turned to address the committee. "I move to table this legislation pending a full review of alternative safety measures, including mandatory Wolfsbane provision, improved transformation facilities, and employment protections for lycanthropes who comply with reasonable safety protocols. Furthermore, I recommend we establish a joint committee with Atid Stella and the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to develop evidence-based policies rather than fear-based restrictions."
Ethan watched the committee members. Several were nodding. The witch who'd been ready to vote earlier had put down her quill and was frowning thoughtfully at her notes.
"Seconded," said a wizard Ethan recognised from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
"All in favour of tabling the Werewolf Registry and Monitoring Act pending further review?" The committee chair, an elderly wizard with magnificent whiskers, raised his hand.
Nearly two-thirds of the room followed suit.
"Motion carries. Madam Umbridge, your legislation is tabled indefinitely pending the formation of the recommended review committee." The chair banged his gavel. "This session is adjourned."
Umbridge gathered her parchments with jerky, furious movements, her toad-like face set in rigid lines. As she swept past Sam, she paused just long enough to say, in a voice like poisoned honey, "How fortunate that Mr Faramundo has such... passionate... feelings about werewolf rights. One wonders at the motivation."
"Simple human decency," Sam replied evenly. "Though I understand that may be a foreign concept... for you."
Umbridge's eyes narrowed to slits. She looked at Sam, then Remus, then—briefly—at Ethan, as though memorising their faces. "We shall see, whether your... progressive... ideals serve you well in the future. The Ministry has a long memory."
She swept from the room in a billow of pink robes, leaving behind the faint scent of old roses and something that reminded Ethan unpleasantly of decay.
Remus sagged against the table, looking suddenly exhausted. "Thank you. Both of you."
Sam clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't thank me yet. I'll make certain that legislation never sees daylight, but Umbridge isn't the type to forgive or forget. She'll hold this grudge for as long as she draws breath."
"Let her," Ethan said quietly. "Some grudges are worth earning."
They left the Ministry together, stepping out into the pale December afternoon. Ethan thought of Harry at Hogwarts, dealing with his own prejudices and fears, and felt a fierce pride that his son was learning to question assumptions rather than accept them blindly.
'The world is full of Umbridges,' he thought. 'Better Harry learns that now, whilst he still has people to help him navigate it.'
February 14th, 1993, Hogwarts Great Hall, 7:52 AM
The weeks since Christmas had passed with unusual calm. No new attacks had occurred, though the petrified victims remained frozen in the Hospital Wing, awaiting the Mandrakes that would mature enough to brew the restorative draught. The initial panic over Harry's Parseltongue ability had faded to a background wariness—students still whispered, still kept their distance, but the open fear had dissipated.
Life at Hogwarts had settled into a new, wary routine.
Until Valentine's Day arrived, and with it, Gilderoy Lockhart's particular brand of chaos.
Harry noticed the decorations the moment he entered the Great Hall for breakfast. The walls were covered in lurid pink flowers, heart-shaped confetti fell from the enchanted ceiling like sickly-sweet snow, and golden cherubs floated overhead, occasionally shooting down to scatter rose petals over unsuspecting students.
"Blimey," Ron muttered, sliding onto the bench beside Harry. "Looks like Cupid threw up in here."
Across the table, Hermione wrinkled her nose. "It's rather... excessive."
"Rather?" Neville Longbottom squeaked from Ron's other side, ducking as a cherub swooped dangerously close to his head. "It's a nightmare! I got hit by three lots of confetti just walking from Gryffindor Tower!"
Further down the table, Draco settled into his usual spot, a thick tome balanced on his knee. Harry recognised it as one of the advanced Healing texts Madam Pomfrey had recommended. Draco had been spending more and more time studying Healing magic, often disappearing to the Hospital Wing to observe Madam Pomfrey's work.
"Morning," Draco said absently, not looking up from his book. "Has anyone seen the House Elves? I need more toast."
"They're probably hiding from Lockhart," Ron said darkly. "Smart of them."
As if summoned, Lockhart himself swept into the Great Hall, resplendent in robes of eye-watering pink that perfectly matched the decorations. He beamed at the assembled students, arms spread wide.
"Happy Valentine's Day!" he trilled. "I've arranged a little treat for you all... friendly, card-carrying cupids will be circulating throughout the day to deliver your Valentine messages! Nothing says romance quite like poetry delivered by a dwarf in wings!"
Several students groaned. Professor McGonagall looked as though she'd swallowed a lemon. At the High Table, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with what might have been amusement or possibly despair.
"Dwarfs?" Ron repeated faintly. "He's got dwarfs?"
"In wings," Hermione added, sounding horrified. "Delivering poetry."
"Could be worse," Draco murmured, turning a page. "Could be singing dwarfs."
"Don't give him ideas," Harry muttered.
Still, Ron had already launched into an animated discussion with Neville about Quidditch, his earlier horror at the decorations temporarily forgotten. "Did you see the match report in the Prophet? The Sweetwater All-Stars absolutely demolished the Quiberon Quafflepunchers! 450 to 120! Texas teams play completely differently than European ones, much more aggressive Chaser formations..."
Neville nodded enthusiastically, clearly grateful to discuss anything other than Valentine's Day. "My gran says American Quidditch is too violent, but I quite like watching the matches. That Seeker for Sweetwater, what's her name—"
"Rodriguez. Honestly brilliant on a broom, and she's only nineteen..."
Draco glanced up from his book. "The Quafflepunchers' defence was abysmal. They left their Keeper completely exposed during that third-quarter rush. Amateur hour, really." He returned to his reading.
Across the table, Luna had drifted over to sit beside Hermione, her blonde hair decorated with what appeared to be tiny origami hearts. She was eating porridge in her usual dreamy manner whilst Hermione paged through a leather-bound book.
"Did you know," Hermione was saying, her voice taking on the lecturing tone that meant she'd discovered something fascinating in a book, "that Valentine's Day has completely different traditions around the world? In some countries, it's not romantic at all, it's about friendship and appreciation."
"Like Finland," Luna agreed, not looking up from her porridge. "They call it Ystävänpäivä. Friend's Day. People give cards to everyone they appreciate, not just romantic interests. The Nargles are particularly active in Finland during February. I think they like the cold."
Harry, who'd been buttering his toast, found himself drawn into the conversation despite his general disinterest in Valentine's Day.
There was something almost competitive about the way Hermione and Luna were discussing the topic—Hermione with her book knowledge, Luna with her unconventional insights.
"In Japan," Hermione continued, flipping to a marked page, "women give chocolate to men. There are even specific types, Giri choco for obligation chocolate, given to colleagues and friends, and Honmei choco for romantic interests."
"That's actually quite practical," Luna mused. "It removes the ambiguity. Though I imagine the Wrackspurts still cause confusion about which chocolate is which. They do love to muddle things."
Harry liked the sound of Giri choco. The idea of giving chocolate to friends without any romantic expectations seemed... nice. Ron would probably appreciate chocolate. Hermione too. Neville. Luna certainly.
'I could get everyone chocolate,' Harry thought. 'Just as friends. That'd be alright, wouldn't it?'
"Of course," Hermione was saying, "the Honmei choco is supposed to be handmade, which shows genuine effort and—"
Harry's eyes drifted, quite without conscious thought, to Luna. She was carefully fishing a radish out of her porridge—where it had come from, Harry had no idea—and her expression was one of serene concentration. The morning light caught in her blonde hair, making it shine almost silver, and her ever-present Blue Moon necklace glinted at her throat.
Heat flooded Harry's cheeks.
'No,' he thought firmly, looking quickly back at his toast. 'Just friends. All of them. No different.'
But his face felt like it was on fire, and he found himself desperately grateful for his habit of wearing his hood up, even indoors. He tugged it further forward, casting his face in shadow.
Across the table, Draco's eyes flicked up from his book. He glanced at Harry, then at Luna, then back at Harry. One elegant eyebrow rose fractionally.
Hermione, still absorbed in her explanation of Bulgarian Valentine traditions, suddenly paused mid-sentence. She looked at Harry, followed his previous line of sight, and then—slowly—turned to look at Draco. Their eyes met.
Hermione's expression shifted to something between amusement and speculation. Draco's mouth twitched in the ghost of a smirk. Without saying a word, they exchanged a look that clearly communicated: Again. We know. We've noticed. We're saying nothing. Yet.
Harry wanted to sink through the floor.
"Anyway," Hermione said, her voice a touch too bright, "I find the whole commercial aspect of Valentine's Day rather tedious. It's become so focused on gifts and grand gestures that the actual sentiment gets lost."
"I quite like it," Luna said dreamily. "All the pink is cheerful. Though I do wish more people would acknowledge the Fwooper migration patterns during February. They're far more interesting than chocolates, in my opinion."
Ron, oblivious to the entire exchange, was still enthusing about Quidditch tactics. Neville was nodding along, occasionally contributing observations about famous Keepers. Draco had returned to his book, though Harry caught him glancing up with that knowing smirk twice more.
The morning post arrived with a flurry of wings and the usual chaos of owls dropping parcels and letters. Harry noticed Ginny Weasley, sitting far down the Gryffindor table with some first-years, received no post at all. She looked pale and withdrawn, picking at her breakfast without eating.
'She's been getting quieter,' Harry thought, momentary embarrassment forgotten. 'Ever since the duelling club incident. Ever since Justin was attacked.'
He made a mental note to ask Ron if everything was alright with his sister, but the thought was driven from his mind as Lockhart stood up again, clapping his hands for attention.
"Now then! I see some of you have already begun receiving Valentine messages! How wonderful! Remember, love should be celebrated openly and—"
One of Lockhart's "card-carrying cupids" chose that moment to interrupt him. The dwarf—dressed in a toga with small wings strapped to its back and carrying a miniature harp—marched up to a sixth-year Ravenclaw and, in a gravelly voice completely at odds with its costume, bellowed:
"YOUR EYES ARE LIKE THE STARS ABOVE, YOUR SMILE MAKES ME THINK OF LOVE, YOUR HAIR IS SOFT LIKE MORNING DEW—"
"Thank you, that's quite enough," the Ravenclaw said, going scarlet as the entire Hall erupted in laughter.
The dwarf was undeterred. "I'VE NOT FINISHED! YOUR VOICE IS LIKE AN ANGEL'S SONG—"
"Please stop."
"YOUR PRESENCE MAKES MY HEART BEAT STRONG—"
Several Professors were now actively trying not to laugh. Professor Flitwick had his hand over his mouth. Even McGonagall's lips were twitching.
"This," Draco said, closing his book with a snap, "is going to be a very long day."
He was right.
February 14th, 1993, Various Locations, Throughout the Day
The cupid dwarfs proved to be relentless. They interrupted Transfiguration twice, causing Professor McGonagall's expression to grow increasingly severe as students dissolved into giggles. One particularly determined dwarf cornered Dean Thomas during Herbology and sang an ode to his "earthen beauty" whilst Dean tried to hide behind a Venomous Tentacula.
During lunch, three separate messages were delivered at the Hufflepuff table, each more embarrassingly poetic than the last. Ernie Macmillan received a sonnet comparing him to "a badger, brave and true," which he accepted with surprisingly good grace. Hannah Abbott got a Valentine that rhymed "sunshine" with "be mine" six times in eight lines.
By afternoon, the entire school was on edge, students jumping at every sound of small footsteps, terrified they'd be the next victim of aggressive romance.
Harry had successfully avoided the dwarfs all day by keeping to the middle of groups and moving quickly between classes. He'd actually started to hope he might escape entirely when disaster struck during the transition between Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms.
He was walking with Ron, Hermione, and Neville, all four of them discussing the essay Lockhart had assigned on, Ron was complaining that Lockhart's information directly contradicted what they'd learned, Hermione was arguing that Lockhart's book was "clearly exaggerated", Neville just looked confused.
"I still don't understand how Lockhart claims to have defeated that werewolf using only a smile and a well-timed hair flip," Ron was saying. "Remus said werewolves are immune to most basic charms, and they certainly won't stop attacking just because you've got nice teeth—"
"Oi! You! 'Arry Potter!"
Harry's blood ran cold. He turned to see one of the cupid dwarfs barrelling down the corridor toward him, toga askew, wings flapping ineffectively, clutching what appeared to be a distressingly pink envelope.
"No," Harry said, backing away. "Absolutely not."
"Got a musical message for yeh!" the dwarf announced gleefully. "Stand still!"
"I-i really don't t-think that's nec-cessary—"
The dwarf lunged. Despite being half Harry's height, it moved with surprising speed. Harry sidestepped—months of physical training with Ethan had honed his reflexes—and the dwarf crashed into the wall.
"Hold still, will yeh?" the dwarf growled, regaining its balance. "I've got to deliver this message!"
"C-can't you just h-hand me the e-envelope?" Harry tried, still backing away. "I-i can read it mys—"
The dwarf charged again. This time Harry was ready. He twisted aside, letting the dwarf's momentum carry it past him, then quickly moved behind Ron for protection.
"Ron, help!"
"Sorry, mate, you're on your own," Ron said, trying desperately not to laugh. "This is hilarious."
The corridor had filled with students now, all watching with undisguised glee. Harry spotted Draco leaning against a wall, arms crossed, looking supremely entertained. Hermione had her hand over her mouth, her eyes bright with suppressed laughter.
The dwarf, showing remarkable determination, scrambled to its feet and grabbed Harry's bag, yanking hard enough to knock Harry off balance. They went down in a tangle of limbs and wings, the dwarf sitting triumphantly on Harry's chest.
"Right then!" the dwarf announced, pulling out a miniature harp. "'Is eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad—"
"Oh no," Harry groaned.
"'Is 'air is as dark as a blackboard. I wish 'e was mine, 'e's really divine, the 'ero who conquered the Dark Lord!"
The corridor erupted in laughter. Someone—possibly Seamus—was actually crying with mirth. Lavender Brown had collapsed against Parvati, both of them shrieking.
Harry's face had gone so hot he wondered if he might actually combust. He pushed the dwarf off him—gently, because despite everything it was just doing its job—and scrambled to his feet, desperate to escape.
"Very touching," Draco drawled from his position against the wall. "Pickled toad, eh Harry? How romantic."
Harry muttered displease, gathering his scattered belongings with shaking hands.
The dwarf, message delivered, trotted off whistling. The crowd began to disperse, still laughing and repeating choice phrases from the disastrous poem. Ron was wiping tears from his eyes. Even Hermione had given up trying to hide her amusement.
"Fresh pickled toad," Ron gasped. "Merlin's beard, that's brilliant."
"It's h-humiliating," Harry corrected, shoving his books back into his bag.
"At least it wasn't a Honmei choco," Hermione said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Just think how much worse that would be."
Harry shot her a glare, but she only smiled innocently.
As they headed toward Charms, Harry felt an odd prickling sensation, like someone was watching him with unusual intensity. He glanced around the corridor, trying to identify the source, but saw only the usual stream of students heading to their classes.
Still, the feeling persisted—a fierce, focused gaze that made his skin crawl slightly. Not threatening, exactly, but... intense. Desperate.
'Probably just more people wanting to laugh about the poetry,' Harry thought, shaking it off.
What he didn't see was Ginny Weasley, half-hidden behind a statue of Gregory the Smarmy, her face pale and her hands clenched into fists. She'd watched the whole scene—had watched Harry receive a Valentine, had watched him handle it with embarrassed grace, had watched him laugh with his friends afterward.
The poem had been from her. She'd wanted to send something, had thought about it for weeks, but every time she tried to write a message, the words came out wrong or the ink spilled or her hand cramped inexplicably. Still she managed.
'He didn't even care,' she thought miserably. 'Just laughed it off. Probably thinks Valentine's Day is stupid. Probably already likes someone else. Someone smart like Hermione. Or pretty like that Ravenclaw girl who's always around him...'
The diary in her bag seemed to pulse with warmth, and Ginny felt the now-familiar sliding sensation in her mind, like a door opening that she hadn't known was closed.
Poor Ginny, Somehow a voice whispered in her thoughts, sympathetic and understanding as always. You care so much, and he doesn't even see you. That must hurt terribly.
'It's fine,' Ginny thought back, though her eyes were burning. 'I'm fine.'
You're not fine. I can feel your pain. It's not fair, is it? That he gets everything—fame, friends, talent—whilst you're ignored. Forgotten. The youngest Weasley, the only girl, always overlooked.
'Stop it.'
I'm only saying what you're already thinking. But perhaps... perhaps there are ways to make him notice you. Ways to make everyone notice you.
Ginny's hands clenched tighter. The diary's warmth spread through her bag, through her robes, into her very bones. It felt like comfort. It felt like power.
It felt like coming home.
Trust me, Ginny, Tom's voice murmured, soft as silk, gentle as poison. I know what it's like to be overlooked. To have potential no one recognises. But I see you. I understand you. And together... together we can make sure you're never invisible again.
The corridor had emptied. Ginny stood alone behind the statue, tears streaming silently down her face, whilst in her bag the diary absorbed her misery, her jealousy, her desperate need to be seen—and grew stronger.