Loy’s Journal

I don’t know about you, but I am currently enrolled at Hogwarts, some kind of wizardry school, and I am in my third year. If you don’t do magic, it might sound pretty cool. It is.

Of course, it comes with its own set of problems, such as facing danger in the eyes too many times. Not in the bank robbery or street violence kind of way, no, it’s more about dark wizards, mysterious artifacts, ferocious creatures… you see, your daily dose of almost losing your life.

And guess what? I get to share some of those adventures with you! Take a seat, relax and enjoy. Tea?

— Aloysius C.

My Journal Entries

The Best (and Worst) of Both Worlds

Renaissance’s Renaissance

Thick or Thin

The Holmes Situation

The Castellan Effect

She saw my scars and asked me “What is wrong with ya?”

I said “I don’t know Lucia. I wish I did.”

She told me “You should. They look a bit too morbid.”

I looked at my scars and covered them up,

Asked Madame Pomfrey if magic would do the trick.

“Wounds and bruises I can heal or ease your heartache

But scars and memories are things I cannot fix.”

I went back to my dorm, in skin that felt fake, and

I think studying runes might become my favorite thing at Hogwarts. We got to examine relics from ancient times, showing very early signs of magical phenomena.

Flying with my friends was kind of fun. I still need to keep my balance on my broomstick. It’s a stick. Robyn had to watch over both Kevin and I (Kevin mostly). I’m a little scared but I know I’ll get the hang of it. Hopefully.

I saw her.

I don't know why it was her.

She's not even a threat. Yet she's still my boggart.

She looked very sad. She didn't have makeup oh.

Her hair was very long and curly. She didn't wear glasses.

She wore a torn dress she didn't even like, with heels that didn't match her.

She held a small match. It was already burnt to bits.

It wasn't exactly scary. It was just painful.

I didn't like it at all.

I didn’t have the courage to cast the spell.

She looked pitiful.

But she’s not me.

Why should I be scared?

She’s not me.

She’s lying.

Coming out to my parents in itself was an adventure. It wasn’t particularly thrilling like the ones at Hogwarts. It was just stressful. On one hand, I wanted them to know, I needed them to know. On the other hand, I was terrified to see their reactions. From books I have been reading on the matter, I learned that this part of it all was more or less normal; nonetheless I couldn’t bear to imagine what they would say. After all, what not-so-liberal adult would listen to a kid? I stayed up at night and went through every possible scenario and tried to find a way to handle it. I never thought it would go the way it actually did.

It took me a while to tell my father, since telling my mother through a letter was much easier and I did not expect to see her anytime soon. Elizabeth hated Gerald for his behavioural issues, but at that time I couldn’t see what she was talking about. Being his only child meant being the only child he cared about, the only one he loved, the only one he scolded, the centre of his attention (for the better and for the worst). Gerald wasn’t the greatest, not the nicest, but he was a father. I had to gather my courage and announce it to him. You can guess by this annoying build up he didn’t take it too well. Things got a bit dangerous around him (he was always in the worst mood, he faced me with a disgusted look on his face) to the point where they became too dangerous. I hate every bit of it.

For reasons, my mother never knew. I was told to cut off all communication with her from that point on (I think Gerald was too afraid to face her). Since I already sent my mother a letter, she might have suspected something. In one of her letters to me, she offered to support my transition through money because “my father could never do that”. It didn’t sound like she was enthusiastic (why would she be anyway?) but it still meant a lot to me after everything. After her husband convinced her to get the rights to my father’s land and after we moved from France back to Godwin’s own mansion, she did her best to provide everything I needed for my transition. She even offered to pay for breast removal surgery when I'm older. Apart from that? Not much. She was supportive… in her own way, in the money way. Godwin, on the other hand, was there in a way my biological parents couldn’t be. He was there to learn more about me, to learn more about what I wanted. For some reason, my mother never seemed to be ‘in love’ with him. I wouldn’t be surprised if their marriage was out of convenience. What a world with expectations, am I right?

— Aloysius C.

To whoever is reading this, please don’t pity me. Since everything there was lost, I had no choice but to go to my mother and my step-father, Godwin Rosewood. My mother wasn’t really overjoyed, saying that it was bound to happen since “Gerald was always so chaotic and unpredictable.” Godwin kept repeating that it was her way of saying she was glad I was alive. I don’t know. Was she glad to take care of me? If she was, she is an incredible actor. Lady Castellan always kept her expression stone cold, nothing could shatter her ice shield. She is the warrior, the queen, the priestess of the family. No emotions visibly come in or come out. I love my mother and maybe she loves me in her own way.

The following years went by quickly; while I allowed myself to mourn Gerald’s death, I did not feel empathy. Not one bit. Maybe that makes me a bad son. It does not matter that much, I’ve always been the ‘bastard son’ of Lady Castellan after all. My mother changed my last name, from Holmes to Castellan, in order to kill the fire. My life’s pace changed drastically; no more animals, crops, cleaning or repairing. I was told to not mess with the Castellan image even more. I had to sit still, be quiet and smile. “Don’t mess up even more, you have done enough damage by being born.” I know it is wrong, but I really can’t blame them for going where the ducks fly.

I now know my mother does love me, to some extent. She (silently and disapprovingly) helped me with a lot of things, like gettin a little more comfortable in my own skin. She paid for my therapy, she let me cut my hair and bind my chest; she even let me legally change my name from Makepeace (though she really was not going to let me choose some ‘lowly’ name – I preferred Aloysius anyway). Surprise. Please just don’t make a big deal out of it.

— Aloysius C.

I still have my blood family, or what is left of it. I am simply not so sure I can rely on them as much. My parents are both muggles but that didn’t prevent them from having some interesting stories. I was the illegitimate son of an impulsive lower-class farmer and a snob upper-class aristocrat descendant. Don’t ask me how that happened. My father kept saying she was desperate to leave her riches behind to be with him but she ended up marrying someone else. Meanwhile, my mother says it was the biggest mistake of her life and that Gerald was everything vile that could exist.

I grew up in the English countryside, with my father, Gerald Holmes (don’t worry, I think his name was weird too). Most of my childhood was alright, I was okay with staying at the farm even if my mother, Elizabeth Castellan, herself stayed in France, in her family mansion. She sent us money, but asked to not pass by. For years, I always thought she just didn’t love me enough to take care of me (which in my mind was a valid reason since I was born out of wedlock.). My father was decent, most of the time. He taught me a lot of things that could be useful.

I’d like to believe he always loved me, even after all that happened. One day, I said the wrong thing, at the wrong time, in the wrong place and it all went to hell from there. It was suffocating me and eating at me from the inside and the outside (I always preferred long sleeves anyway). It hurts a lot, but I don’t think this post should be about venting. It kept going for a little while, not for too long however. On a colorful Saturday morning, I woke up to the cottage and the barn on fire. I tried calling for help, tried making sure my father was alive. I heard nothing but my own coughs and the house nearly collapsing. I survived with no major injuries, thankfully. Everything is still a blur, so forgive me for not recalling that many details.

— Aloysius C.

My feet don’t like slow and slow doesn’t like me. I could quickly light that dance floor on fire, using my legs as matches, but I will crush your toes if the song feels like an eternity.