Of Myth and Magic

Chapter Four: Charing Cross, Revisited

Chapter Four

Charing Cross, Revisited

Something bothered him about the cat. In retrospect, he supposed there were several things that should have bothered him about the cat - the fact that the girl had continued babbling on about it chief amongst them - but she had read his silence incorrectly as disinterest. He was not disinterested (as, to be honest, he usually was with people's pets), but, rather, confused.

Mostly because he was absolutely certain that Crookshanks ought to have been male.

He'd meant to ask, before they'd been interrupted. But still, while the girl had her delusions (he kept telling himself, when he was trying not to listen to the rumblings in his own mind), she was not stupid, and she would have known full well the sex of her own pet. It was ridiculous for him to feel so strongly about the matter, as well - why did he care?

Because it's not the right cat, he thought to himself, at least three times, before dismissing the thought as absurd.

There was a drawing of it, on the inside of her diary - that's all he'd had time to see, as well as her full name in pen beneath the pencil (Hermione Granger) before the Tube became too crowded to read and he had to stuff it into the inner pocket of his coat. He spent the remainder of the journey back to Charing Cross pressed up against a tourist wearing a massive rucksack, leaving barely any room for breathing, never mind flipping through the book she'd given him, studying the handwriting, looking for clues.

He found himself back at the pub, wishing she'd appear, knowing she wouldn't. It was busier, with plates of beige food leaving in a constant train from the kitchen double doors. He ordered a sparkling water from the grumpy woman at the bar and found a seat by the toilets.

He pushed his drink across the table, wary of spilling on the pages, undid the knot he'd tied too tight on the train (he barely had the nails for it), and spread the diary open in front of him. The spine didn't crack at all; the edges of the pages were worn. It was a diary for the calendar year, generic with cheap paper, the 1 January crossed out in pen on the first page.

Her handwriting was tiny and neat; she'd even titled it: Magic or Madness?, as if it were a dissertation, and not something she'd hidden in her bedroom, away from the eyes of her worried parents. The only amateurish features were the drawings: the cat on the inside cover, done in smudged pencil with an overlarge body and an even flatter face than in reality; and a few more creatures part of the way in: a unicorn, or a griffin, half-way between paragraphs, as though she had to stop and think, or sketch in order to accurately convey what was in her mind.

It was otherwise so tidy that he wondered if she had source material: notes scribbled down to provide an outline, to organise her ideas.

"D'you mind if I take this chair?" someone asked him and he jumped. He glanced up, flicking the diary closed; his look must have been dangerous, because the man paled before disappearing back to the other side of the room, cheekily with Snape's other chair in hand.

Snape flipped back to the first page and finally began to read.

I strongly believe that it is illogical, when one is experiencing an odd turn of mind, not to keep a record of events. And I am most definitely experiencing an odd turn of mind.

Symptoms are primarily loss of concentration, insomnia, fitful sleep, and loss of appetite. Mum and Dad attribute it to A-Level stress, as does my form tutor. Which I think is odd, considering I've never thought so little of exams in my life.

Are dreams symptomatic of something? Are nightmares? What about nightmares where one wakes up feeling cold, and empty, as though the happiness has been sucked out of them, leaving them with screams in their heads? I suspect something may be wrong. I don't want to worry my parents. I will wait a week, and if there is no change, contact the doctor's surgery for an appointment. I suspect, and fear, it may be depression. Brilliant timing.