A group of sixth year Ravenclaw students looks up as they leave the library and feel someone shove besides them. They recognize the figure as Hermione Granger, a fifth year student that was associated with the famous Harry Potter, otherwise known as The Boy Who Lived. She was said to be the Brightest Witch of Her Age and to find her in the library was no strange occurence. But Hermione was not just visiting the library to quench her thirst for more knowledge. Actually, she came there to divert her thoughts to somewhere they would be useful.
Because she was so angry. At the beginning of the year they had a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. That was also not a surprise, since none seemed to last longer than a year. Unfortunately, this year they had the displeasure of that teacher being Dolores Umbridge. She was a vicious woman who seemed to target Harry specifically for speaking out against her lies about He Who Shall Not Be Named. She tried her very best to discourage the use of defensive spells and while Hermione normally loved to be reading, she found it quite pointless to not be taught the practical side of magic as well.
And so she sought a divertion from her anger. Hermione skims through the bookshelves she had almost memorised when she comes across something unusual. This book I haven't seen around before, she thinks to herself as she comes across an aisle where almost nobody ever comes. It was filled with hard to read, tedious works of history and between the tall and wide books with marvellous covers this small thing bound in ordinairy black leather didn't seem special. It didn't even have a title. But somehow the mysterious book intrigued Hermione more than the others. She takes the book off the shelf and sits down at a comfortable chair tucked away somewhere in a corner. Hermione curls up and opens the book to the first page. It was not a normal history book. It was a journal, she realises, signed by someone with the name Octavia S. Hermione's eyes eagerly devour the words, written in an elegant handwriting.
'When I was a child my father told me the extended process of when he wrote a book. How he would work for hours on end on drafts, locking himself away into his office to finish it, much to my mother's dismay. He explained how he had to work his words so that people with less experience than him would be able to follow along, how he had to be careful not to become wordy and long-winded. Father also told me that every work needed an opening word. A text that would draw in people's attention yet also give them an idea of what the book was supposed to be, its identity. You would thank people of importance or quote something that inspired you to write. But I won't do such a thing, because I prefer my privacy and that of people I know.
