The long, cursed summer has finally ended, and I find myself surrounded by those too young to know why they should fear, and those who know too well. Albus and I have been working with the Ministry and I find despair to be a constant companion. The Ministry is made of fools, and the Order... the Order appears to be haunted by the ghosts of its losses. Both are useless.
And the Dark Lord grows ever stronger.
Slytherin House is raveling apart at its seams, though I am doing what I can to hold the threads together. The seeds of free will that I did my best to sow seem now to reap only hostility and dissension. Slytherin is dying in the cup of my palms.
My goal this year is to save as many of them as I can, although I no longer know how fruitful that endeavor will be.
Albus, as usual, is blind to our plight. As long as his precious Gryffindor is safe, the rest of us I suppose, can go to Hell.
It is ironic, I think, that Hell has come for us.
I’m having tea with Blaise tomorrow, and am anxious to hear his observations on the current situation.
It would be pleasant to have an ally.