Verity Fitzgerald

Yeah fuck you too.


Lee, are you okay?

[written sloppily and quickly]

What the fuck was that?!

Fucking hell the house is on fire and I don't have a fucking wand! Or burn cream fucking OW

The fucking bracelet won't come off. Help me.



ooc: Steff, if this messes with any plans you have/had let me know and I'll take it down!

The world is a lot different from what I remembered and yet I think this has to have been one of the best weeks of my life I've had in a long time. It's probably just my outlook but England seems to rain less than it was just last week. Right now my outlook is something like Pleasantville, frightening if you know anything about me.

1 April
2 May
3 June
4 July
5 August
6 September
7 October
8 November
9 December
10 January-1
11 February-2
12 March-3
13 April-4
14 May-5
15 June-6
16 July-7
17 August-8
18 September-9


December. Christmas.

I can't believe how much time has gone by or how much has happened. The last year dragged by so slowly that I thought it wouldn't end. Just having contact with people helps immensely.

There was another dream last night. Sorry, I know there are more important things going on but I did make a promise so here it is:

This time was out in the yard again. The woman was there, hanging laundry on a line. She seemed to be in good spirits though the storm clouds were still off in the distance. She didn't seem to noticed them at all. They were somewhere near the sea, there was a steady breeze and it smelled like the ocean. As she finished she turned around and began calling for "Oscar" over and over again. Her calls became at first frustrated and then panicky as she kept searching. Eventually a happy squeal came up from the tall grasses and she rushed to pick up the baby, apparently named Oscar. After some chastising she picked up the laundry basket and moved inside.

I tried to walk around but it seems that I'm glued to the characters in the dream. There do seem to be more and more sensory details in the dreams though, for what that's worth. I know it's nothing like the telly but here ends another episode of Coronation Street.

Last night the dreams started again. I made sure to pay attention, the house had a cauldron and the dishes cleaned themselves, so I suppose it's a magical household. The mother woman wasn't around, but the child played on the floor with a stuffed Pegasus. It was a lot more peaceful than the one about crying but I couldn't get the idea out of my head that there was a dangerous storm brewing in the distance.

What if it's him? He's black. Why would I dream about a black child if it's not him? Maybe Steve was right, I'm just imagining that he is in France because my unconcious knows that's where he should be. That woman is horrible though. I hope he fared better than this.

Mr. Lestrange has provided me with a wardrobe of tailor-made clothing. I've never had tailor-made clothing before so it's a little fucking weird. It's nice though. To change my clothes and to pick what I will wear.

He also got me this diamond bracelet that he forces me to wear. It doesn't make any sense to me and I really fucking hope that he's not going to use me to play out another goddamned fantasy. I have seriously begun to doubt the sanity of a career on stage. I loved the theater before but I am sick and tired of being someone else. I just want to be my own fucking self. Whoever that is.

Okay, give them to me- jokes about blueberries.


And go!

Have you ever had the feeling that you've forgotten something important?

So a seal walked into a club.



I didn't sleep again so I don't know if I could have picked the baby up. He said I was supposed to be in France. What does that mean? What does it have to do with Avery?!

Can't sleep again. Well, I can't stay asleep. Every time I fall asleep I go back to France, the baby is crying and won't stop. No one is picking him up or making sure he's okay. He's just laying there crying in the dark. The sound is driving me crazy and while I don't like children, it's a little heart breaking.

sorry this episode of Corination Street isn't very entertaining.

I'm still alive. No dreams last night.

I'm having trouble sleeping again. I shouldn't be surprised, I guess. Oddly I slept better in Azkaban than anywhere else. I haven't seen much of Mr. Lestrange and while I thought that I would get lonely, reading what others have to say and looking out over the back garden has actually been some what refreshing. I know I don't have any actual privacy but the illusion of it is something new.

So has anyone heard of dreaming in a language you don't know? It seems like every night that I sleep I end up having dreams in... French, I think? I don't actually know French but I always have the impression that it is in France somewhere. It feels so familiar, like I've been there, but maybe it's just because the location and people keep reoccurring? I don't know. It's probably just jibberish from my mind turning to mush. Does this mean I'm going insane? Would it really be surprising if I was?

I'm pretty sure those questions are rhetorical. This one's not: Does anyone know French? Does Je ne suis pas votre mère mean anything?

What am I supposed to do with this? Is a journal supposed to make me feel connected to people and therefore make me believe that this is a way to live? That this is ok because Voldemort is setting up a network of sorts?

You know what? Muggles figured this shit out a long time ago. It's called the fucking internet. Catch up.

( I'm ready to wake up, there in the exodus, on the beautiful side of somewhere )