I've been told, now that I'm conscious and can get my voice to work, that I should update this thing. So now I am. Mr. Malfoy and Miss Bulstrode have visited me today, and Pomfrey tells me that more Slytherins have requested to come. Certainly they may, though I do not know why they would wish to.

So. I am alive. One of my students is dead, and one of my friends, and other people whom I have had reason, at one point or another, to care for. And I am alive. I did not know what was going to happen. Moreover, I freely admit that I am still not sure what did happen; like Xiomara, I seem to be suffering intermittent memory loss. Also I cannot walk yet and my left hand is crippled. They say it is permanent nerve damage.

I have never been one for inspiring speeches, and I am certainly not going to start parroting them now. I will only remind all of the students of what my Slytherins should already know: when catastrophe has struck, there is only one thing left that we can do. We survive.

My, my, you certainly all are a busy lot these days. Hooch is being followed around by a strange little ape-man whom I am given to understand is somehow genetically connected to her, a revelation I find somewhat disturbing. Ronald Weasley is still an idiot, and Finnigan's girlish charm continues to endear him to all he meets. And while innocently perusing the journals, as I have been so gently reminded by our august headmaster to do, I ran across a thread in which Harry Potter discusses sex that made me want to remove my brain from my skull and scrub it clean with copper wool. A cleansing charm would not be enough, one suspects. I am not paid enough for this. Minerva, do try to keep your students' hormones from actually sloshing out of their ears, won't you? It would be a kindness.

I have a few hours before I must deal with some unpleasant business, and perhaps it would not be a complete waste of time to pass them in rumination, however idle. I have Lilitou and a single glass of rather good sherry that I am not obliged to share with any of my usual freeloading companions.

Malfoy and Bulstrode are out of the hospital wing, now. I trust they have gotten the requisite amount of sleep, for they are going to need it in the face of the detention I am about to dole out, which I expect to last several hours. One does not interfere in a wizards' duel, but one may certainly administer the appropriate consequences when it is done. Even such a childish exercise as this. Our seventh-year students -- all of them -- should have come to the understanding that it is past time to put away these infantile games that waste energy and can even cause physical harm. The health of my Slytherins, especially those about to leave my care, is not a laughing matter to me; a serious world awaits them beyond these walls, and there is no one to administer gentle warnings there. There is no guarantee, in fact, that there will be any kind of warning at all.

Still and all, one does one's best. There is a certain peace that comes in accepting one's life for what it is, one's accomplishments for what they are. I am not sure what brings me to remark on these subjects now, and less sure what prompts me to share them with an audience, but I don't suppose it matters very much one way or the other. The students of Hogwarts will do well to make what they can of their time; that is all.

It took the better part of last night and this morning, but I have finally succeeded in getting this literally accursed machine up and running again. You will no doubt be shocked, yes, shocked and appalled to learn that it was Black who cursed it in the first place. At first I was incensed. Then I realised that Black's little prank would relieve me from updating this ridiculous journal for the foreseeable future and decided that discretion was the better part of valour. They say every cloud has a silver lining, but frankly, this is the first time I've noticed any such phenomenon.

Needless to say, the headmaster eventually noticed, and so my holiday from technology has come to an end. I have less than no interest in reading the backlogs of the so-called "friends" page to see what sorts of boring exploits you have all been up to -- don't we get enough of that anyway? Really now -- but I will freely admit that the sight of many of you running around like headless chickens preparing for your inevitable doom come N.E.W.Ts-time is quite refreshing. Fear is indeed a wonderful whetsone for the mind; a concept I have always known, and naturally have employed it in my pedagogical philosophies.

At any rate, I am back. And I am watching you, as always. Unless, of course, you are insipid or dull, in which case I shall continue to ignore you.

BLACK YOU SAID YOU HAD REMOVED THE CURSE ON THIS THING GET DOWN HE

ucking sodding thing had better

Very well, that was a false alarm but I believe that now

It's been over a bloody month but I think this bloody thing is finally worki

I hate parties.

I found today's lunch to be quite refreshing, myself. I'm sure Black did too. Minerva does not seem to have agreed, but a woman of her age cannot be expected to understand that variety is naturally the spice of life, and that we can all do with a bit of entertainment from time to time.

In other news, Bulstrode has gone insane.

In my quest to set a good example for all the denizens of Hogwarts, be they student, staff, or mobile fungus (hard to tell the difference, I know), I have already performed my first good deed of the week by serving my partner, Professor Black, a delicious and healthful breakfast in bed.

I must say, I feel more virtuous and trusting already.

Ah, I was wrong. It's not Love Your Neighbour Week. It's Disappearing Cat Week. Lilitou is gone, and now Granger says her ginger-coloured monster is gone as well. Filch, just out of pure, innocent curiosity, where is Mrs Norris?

Black. I saw your post. I want her back. Now.

Miss Granger came to my office last night and we discussed the particulars of the Wolfsbane Potion she had brewed for Lupin over the holiday. She could have done worse. I daresay I will recruit her to perform the more onerous parts of the task in the future, as I detest making the stuff. I always have, and now I loathe it even more. Granger, on the other hand, seems to positively relish the challenge. How very Gryffindorly. At least she isn't an abysmal failure at potions work like Finnigan. Miss Granger, I shall expect you to keep detailed notes on your progress, and to report to me regularly. You, at least, have some dim hope of passing your NEWTs at this rate.

The dungeons are very quiet tonight. I have seen no more of that ghost who formerly seemed to haunt the place, and good riddance. The last thing I need is the spectre of some dead child dogging my steps. Perhaps I only imagined the whole thing. Looking back on that particular time, it does not seem unlikely.

Lilitou is hungry now, and I must go. If you are wise -- though so few of you are -- you will leave me be tonight.

Oh, joy.

They're back.

Misses Granger and Weasley, I will want to see you in my office at once so that you may turn in your essays. I will also need to speak with Granger afterwards. Be prompt.

Soon, blessedly soon, these halls will be silent. At least, they will be more silent than usual, which appears all to be one can hope for in this hellish place. Hogwarts really is like a circus, don't you think? We have both a dog and a werewolf on our staff, both of whom appear to be eminently capable of performing tricks, an otherwise lacklustre boy whose talent appears to be chiefly concerned with unbelievable luck, and, of course, The Amazing Shrinking Brown. How I shall miss it all when the silence of the holiday season eventually, finally falls.

And speaking of that, if I might have your attention, Miss Granger?

It occurs to me that a brilliant student such as yourself should by no means be permitted to fritter your brains away during the holidays. No, no, you will need something to keep that agile mind fully occupied. As your instructor, it is my duty to provide that whetstone. Do not thank me. I am merely doing my job.

Therefore, during the Christmas holidays, you will be preparing the Wolfsbane Potion. It is a project I personally find quite tiresome, especially lately, but doubtless you will find some new challenge in it. I will owl you the full instructions when you have returned home. Please pay careful attention to all of them, especially the parts about adding the fluxweed on the fourth night of the month (I recommend noseplugs), and stirring the potion widdershins every fifteen minutes for four days straight during the next-to-last week of preparation. Upon your return to school I will also expect two rolls of parchment documenting your procedures and, of course, what you have learned from this valuable and practical lesson.

Should you have any questions I am, naturally, available. Do have a pleasant holiday, Miss Granger.

This cannot be happening. My findings cannot possibly be correct. I'm wrong. I am wrong.

I will test it again. This cannot be right. I cannot have

Progress on the experimental potion -- or, as I have affectionately come to call it, Granger's Spectacular Cock-Up -- is regrettably slow. Her notes are uncharacteristically sloppy, and I am disinclined to ask her for assistance in deciphering them. Such a request would undoubtedly lead to whinging, further protestations of innocence, and -- oh, only if I am truly lucky -- a few crocodile tears. I shall continue on by myself. By my calculations, there are only fourteen more potential ingredient combinations to test. All my free time for at least this week and for the coming weekend: gone. What joy is mine.

On to business:

Five points to Mister Gregory Goyle for the semi-convincing use of a multisyllabic word during class today.

Five points to Miss Millicent Bulstrode for her continual facial expression of fortitude and forbearance.

Five points to Miss Pansy Parkinson for possession of that excellent taste which has become a hallmark of Slytherin House.

Ten points to Mister Draco Malfoy for a perfectly brewed potion during class today.

Two points to Blaise Zabini for maintenance of a silence I find refreshing in a school full of jabbering idiots.

I believe that concludes things. I shall return to my experiments. After I feed Lilitou, of course. How pleasant it is to have an un-dead cat about the place. Pets really do make a house a home, don't you think?

Granger came to my office last night in possession of a set of notes that wholly proves what has heretofore only been a supposition of mine: those who think they are brilliant are usually more stupid than a box of hair. Even, in Granger's case, a box of lots of hair.

It appears the daft child sneaked into my laboratory after-hours in April of last term to brew a wit-sharpening potion to further her incessant studying. (And what a pity that studying did not bear more fruit; I wonder if she has had many edifying discussions with Miss Turpin on what it is like to really be Head Girl?) At any rate, her notes reveal that, precisely at midnight while stirring widdershins, she added three ounces of elderwood, not elderwyrm. There may also have been other mistakes, she said, that she cannot be certain of due to her own fatigue at the time of the illicit brewing. Tsk, tsk, clever Miss Granger -- did our elementary grammar pass us by, in all that high-flown theoretical study? Tell me, is it true that you know how to make rain but lack the sense to come in out of it?

Granger claims this resulted in a potion of unknown properties. Insolent chit. Whatever properties it possesses, they will not remain unknown for long. She also claims that I actually interrupted her activities and sent her straight back to the Tower immediately, justly depriving Gryffindor of fifty points in the process. However, there is no record of such a loss of points in the school ledgers. I have mention of no such incident in my own notes. I have, in fact, no memory at all of the incident in question. But a judicious application of one of the lesser truth serums proved Granger was, in fact, speaking honestly -- how rare for a Gryffindor.

What to do? Obviously, it seems quite fitting to take the fifty points from Gryffindor now, as they were not properly taken before, and a further twenty points from Miss Granger for not being more forthcoming at the actual time of the incident. As I said -- honesty and Gryffindors rarely keep company. She claims she 'did not know I wasn't remembering it.' Idiot girl. In the meantime, I will peruse her notes more carefully. I am not fond of the idea that an evening of my life is lost to me due to the effects of a potion that, quite possibly, is not even supposed to exist.

I will get to the bottom of this. At present, however, Lilitou is yowling. How fortunate that I discovered an illegal pet Puffskein on the person of a second-year Ravenclaw. She has been missing that particular delicacy. Let us never say we cannot find some joy in a day.

Well, that was enlightening. And completely pointless.

And that is never going to come out of my robes, of course. Lucius, I'd like a little warning next time, if it's going to be so messy. Thank you.

I am for bed.