First of all, I would like to say that Cormac McLaggen can sod off. You do not leave the club where a singing siren has performed a song only for you and kissed you in front of the entire bloody place before said singer has had her way with you. It is just not on. You should at least leave behind your silent friend to reap the benefits of being a loyal messenger.

Which leads to my second point: I think I may be becoming a harlot. I am desperately aware that it has been a month since my last shag but the way I acted with McLaggen bordered on ridiculous. Flinging myself at him completely starkers would have been more subtle than my perfromance tonight. I'm lucky that the crowd enjoyed it or Ned would have had my arse let go and then I really would be buggered.

The most horrible part is that I don't think I even like the bloke; so convinced that he's bloody brilliant and so smooth that no woman will ever be able to pin him down. He's the kind of man that I usually take deep satisfaction in snubbing. But he was there and he was interested so I jumped on him like a starving woman jumps on a leg of lamb. And now I just feel...dirty.

Besides, a girl should never get involved with a man who uses more hair charms than she does. My hand still feels sticky from his hair.

Why didn't I think of any of this before the inappropriate snogging session? Well, things do tend to take on a horrible new light in my hovel.

I don't know what possessed me! Maybe it was all a queer way to prove to myself that I could have any man that I wanted, even if I didn't really want him? Or a way to relieve stress over Philip breaking his ankle (Yes, he broke the damn thing. I may never forgive him). Or some daliance to keep my mind off the fact that I'm going to be evicted if I don't get the job at Snape's shop. I could always blame it on my mum, as well: our entire post-war relationship is built on not listening to one another and is a powder keg waiting to explode. There are also some rather obvious daddy issues that I refuse to delve into.

Does any of that that make any bloody sense? Am I turning into a nutter like my mum, now? I've heard that scientists have proven that it runs in families which would explain so much. Obviously, I need to stop reading articles like that because it has convinced me that I'm some kind of expert on the human psyche. I'm probably just a whore.   

Uhg, I hope Fred can do dinner tomorrow. I need to be convinced that I'm not mad. Or at least be put into a situation where I can get some fucking sex and get over this ridiculous obsession; return to being Angelina Johnson instead of Desperate Harlot. Fred will help. Being around Fred always helps. He's much more fucked up than I am, it's a bit of an ego-boost. Which is a horrible wretched thing to say about a mate and just provides further proof that I'm not right. But Fred will help.

Well, there, I've spilled my whorish guts all over you, plain for the world to see. Admittedly, this writing rubbish is not as horrible as first thought. Still, don't expect a return visit.