But then my homework was never quite like this...

Dear Diary,

Ow! Got it bad,

Got it bad,

Got it bad,

I'm hot for teacher!

Dean Thomas, take your scarf and your eyes the color of butterbeer and go wank in the Room of Requirement (Did I tell you about this, Diary? It's a room on the third floor that you can only get into if you're in dire need, or really bored. The room transforms into the perfect setting for whatever mission you hope to accomplish. I use it to scratch hard-to-reach itches.)

There's a new man in my life. A man whose stutter is like the clumsy legs of a Great Dane puppy racing for the food bowl. Whose turban is always securely wrapped, unlike my post-shower terry cloth that falls off when I bend down to drink from the sinks. I'm talking about Professor Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Or as I like to call him, Professor Squirrel, because he refuses to get out of the road of my heart, and because he continues to hide his nuts from me.

I love his weak-tea skin, his trembling hands, his inability to get anything more out than a simple greeting to the class before the period ends. I don't care that he's a terrorist. Or that he does wandless magic. I've hinted to him that I'd like to see more of his wand, but he doesn't seem to get the double meaning. I am only eleven - maybe I just need a couple years to fine tune my delivery. The other day he wrote the following on the board: NVLN RATS BITED YOUR MOM, a mnemonic device to help wizards and witches remember the 20 simple steps to defending oneself against a Dark Art. I realized you could rearrange the letters to spell VOLDEMORTS IN MY TURBAN, which I thought was hilarious. I'm really good at word jumbles.

In other exciting news, my mom filled out my FAFSA wrong, so I'm not eligible for financial aid. To afford my magical education, I've been forced to take on a work-study job in the Library, shelving books in the Restricted section. At least it's not the cafeteria.

Harry Potter is enjoying his status as a vat of twat cream. Sorry, did I say "vat of twat cream?" I meant "member of the Gryfindor Quidditch Team." Yes, he was accepted on sight, no tryout necessary, all because I was on a magnetizing spell kick the day we learned to fly (I'd magnetized a grasshopper, an eagle, Chris's shoes, and a low-flying commercial jet that may or may not have gone down as a direct result of my efforts), and saw Neville's Remembrall go into the air. I didn't think, I just magnetized. And shit if HP didn't take off on his broom, and if that Remembrall didn't make straight for his glasses frames. Down he came, like Glinda in her bubble, and alighted with the Remembrall in his hand. McGonners took him away - I hoped to a remote dungeon, but actually it was to meet up with Chris's ex-flame O. Wood and be heralded as Gryffindor's new seeker. Seeker of what? A less repulsive personality?

If Harry Potter was half the magician I am, he'd've gotten 25% on that Transfig exam.

I'm off to the lib, and then to walk by Professor Squirrely's office several times and wave.

Looooooove,

Jill