Disclaimer: I own nothing related to the HP universe.

A/N: My first story written in first person, and this all feels very different from my other stories. Inspired by Catcher in the rye. Yeah.

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First entry:

I am not too crazy about writing, to tell you the truth. But then, it's supposed to be good for my recovery. Not like I have any illness or anything, it's just that people keep making a big fuss out of nothing. So yeah, I guess I'll have to tell you my story, cause I don't know what else I'd write.

My name's Luna Lovegood. This is what I'm supposed to start off with, telling you my name. I suppose I should also tell you my age. I am seventeen and a seventh year in Hogwarts. Hogwarts is this school that all magical children go, all magical children in Britain and Ireland anyway. It is a nice school, really it is. We have this huge castle that I can still get lost in if I were in the mood, though I have been there for seven years. The Lake is okay I guess, but I am not too fond of the Forest.

Okay. Fond. This is one of the words that I am supposed to, though I don't like to. Like. That's another word I am told to use often. I may as well tell you what I like, then. I don't like a lot of things, really. I sort of enjoy reading. I laugh sometimes, and I talk a little, should the need arise.

I don't talk unless I really, really need to. We Ravenclaws are like that, you see. Hufflepuffs? They are always dying to talk to you. Griffindors talk a lot too, though sometimes they talk about boring stuff, like righteousness and bravery. But they are talking. Slytherins pretend that they are cool and all, that they don't talk much, but they do. Mostly they talk among themselves, and sometimes they are more snapping than talking, but if you struck the correct nerve- like asking them about the Dark Arts- then they'd go on for hours, if they trusted you enough, that is. Not us Ravenclaws, though. We are the clever bunch, and we are very sophisticated. Every word's weighed before it's spoken, so I get tired of talking with my fellow Ravenclaws. That's because if you keep on talking, it gets very disturbing after some time- like you can't think straight. So we, the supposedly clever ones, prefer calculating to communicating. That's one thing I like, thinking. I think a lot, because I don't talk. But maybe I don't talk because I think a lot. I don't know which.

There are always exceptions. Take my Dad. He's a Ravenclaw, but he talks all day. He never stops. He keeps going on about some witch that cooked her socks, about rumors that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is in fact still alive, about some new creatures that he'd discovered lately. His favorite topics, though, are supper and weather. You get the picture, my Dad is not what you call an ordinary Ravenclaw. I must have got that from him.

Oh, and I do like animals, too. Especially owls and Puffskeins. I used to own one, Puffskein I mean, and it was a very cuddly, very soft pet. He allowed me to bounce him around. And boy, did I love him. But I don't know where had it gone. I don't care. That's one phrase you need to get used to, if you're going to read this. I say that a lot. Even in my own head, I say that a lot. I can't now, though. I can't say I don't care. He keeps saying that there must be something that I care. Trivial, maybe, but I must care about something. Something that when I see or hear, I get the urge to smile or cry or frown. Anything.

But I told him there's nothing I cared about. Which was pretty true at the time I told him. I used to care about something, I told him, but then I cut it out. And I don't care now. That drives him crazy, this 'I don't care' thing, it really does. He has this passionate personality that makes him cares practically about everything.

"It's in my blood," he said once, "it runs in the family."

"I don't think I have that in my blood," I replied. "I think I am born to be cold-blooded."

The thing is, I lied. I may not be born to be passionate like he does, but I am not born to be cold-blooded, this I am sure. I cared a lot, to tell you the truth, when I was young. I used to have plenty of dolls in this tiny room of mine, that I could easily be buried by them. And I named them, every single one of my dolls, and I organized tea parties for them every other day. I used to be that kind of girl. I cried when I fell off my broom. I kissed my parents goodnight. I hugged this boy who lived next door when he gave me a flower.

Yes, there were a lot of emotions in my world at that time. Colorful ones. But I was still more on the quiet side, a girl so well-behaved that parents would proudly introduce to friends. I really was a good girl, and though I felt a lot of emotions I didn't always show them. I didn't show them, no, but I sealed some of my anger and fear and jealousy and frustration up. At least I was feeling, then.

Sometimes I ask myself: since when did I stop feeling all together? I didn't ask myself for an answer, because I knew it already. It was a simple question that worth only a simple answer, but it was a long story. And I don't feel like getting into it.

But I might as well. For this is my story, and without that episode I won't be the person that I am now. I don't know what else to tell you anyways.

As I have told you, I was a good girl when I was young. I felt a lot in those days, but I was careful not to be moody. I hid some of my feelings from my Mom and Dad. However, on that fateful day, something horrible in me broke lose, and it was then I realized the danger of feeling.

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"Mommy!"

I busted into the house. No one could demand subtlety from a nine-year-old. A very angry nine-year-old at that. As I said, I felt a lot at that time.

"Mommy!"

"Quiet, dear," Mom was swishing her wand in an odd way. She pointed it at her toes, then slowly drew it up her ankle, then up her knees.

"But Mommy, Joey said-" Joey was the boy who lived next door. He was my only playmate when I was small.

"Luna, this is important, I need to concentrate," Mom did not stop what she was doing, and continued waving her wand which was now pointing to her abdomen. Mom did not exactly work, but she regarded herself as a scientist. She liked to invent spells. Most of them did not work, but a few did, and Dad would put those into The Quibbler, which was a relatively new magazine at that time. Sometimes Dad put spells that did not work in it, too, just to please Mom.

Usually, when Mom said something's important, I would wait. Like I said, I could control my emotions fairly well. But not on that day. I was feeling angrier than I had ever felt. Joey, who had given me a flower when I was six, jeered at me that day. He said that my parents were weirdoes, and as I was a child of them, that made me a weirdo, too.

"Mommy, why must Dad publish The Quibbler? Why must you always invent spells?" Why must you act like weirdoes?

"Honey-" Mom started. Her hand quivered a bit but she steadied it quickly and continued pointing it at various body parts.

"Why?"

"Your Daddy and I are trying to reveal the hidden truths of the wizarding world," Mom sighed.

"But Joey said that I am a weirdo," I pouted and ignored my mother's blanching face. Anger once again was building inside me. Ha! And now I lost my friend because of some may-not-even-exist, "hidden" truths. I seriously wanted to kick something.

"Luna, you-" Mom stopped at mid-sentence and her hand began to shake.

"Why can't you and Daddy act normal for a day? Just one day? For my sake?" I shouted angrily.

"Luna Rachel Lovegood!" Mom snarled back with all her force. I hated the name.

"I hate you!" I screamed and ran out of the door, banging it behind me and never noticed my Mom's wand dropped onto the floor.

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Since then, I stopped feeling.

Well, not exactly maybe. I can't tell the exact moment when I stopped feeling. Was it when I discovered Mom lying on the carpet, motionless, with Dad and two wizards that I did not know surrounding her? Was it when I last saw her in the coffin, suddenly understanding that she would no longer talk to me, smile to me, kiss me goodnight? Was it when I remembered that last thing I said to her was that I hate her? Or was it when I realized that it was all my fault?

I don't know. It probably is a slow, gradual process.

Dad was very nice about it. He did not yell at me. I wished he would at that time, because every time I saw him staring at me with that pain so evident on his face, or when sometimes I caught him crying on the couch at midnight, I wished that I was dead. If I were dead, I would not have to endure this torture, more terrible than any yells or curses Dad could put on me.

Then slowly, I stopped crying at night. I threw away my dolls. I did not laugh when I read a really good joke on The Quibbler. I did not wink at Dad when he came home, or rushed to hug him. I stealthily slid into rooms, my footsteps unheard, because any noise would destroy the fragile presence of Mom Dad tried so hard to maintain at home. I stopped talking to Joey, and when he said I had became an even bigger weirdo, I didn't get angry. I didn't smile either, but I was not angry. I talked less and less, despite the numerous efforts Dad tried to engage me in conversation. I didn't even talk to myself. I hid my emotions deep, deep under, where they could not do any harm.

And on my eleventh birthday, I discovered that I had no emotions at all.

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I did not jump up and down receiving Hogwarts' letter. I did not care. I bought my stuff in Diagon Alley, read through all the textbooks and prepared for my lessons.

On the day for me to go to Hogwarts, I watched, amazed, at the many people on the platform and the many students who seemed to be tightly attached to their parents. Amazed, but disinterested. Finally, it was time for me to get on the train.

"So," Dad helped me to pull my luggage into an empty carriage. "So I guess I will not be seeing my little girl for a year!"

"Yeah," I said.

"And, eh," Dad seemed to be at a lost of what to make of my response. But that's usual. He had not known what to make of me since Mom's... departure. I did not care. "I'll miss you."

"I'm sure you will," I said, climbing on board. Dad looked disappointed, like he was expecting me to say something else. Like 'I will miss you, too', maybe. But I did not want to lie. Not that I cared. I was just not in the mood of lying.

"Bye, darling," Dad yelled to me as the train started to move. "Write often!"

I waved to him briefly and sat back. I was alone in the carriage. I changed into my school robes early and tucked my wand behind my ear. Then I took out the latest The Quibbler. I ignored the witch who came by selling high-calorie snacks and enamel-eating chocolates.

The carriage next to mine was very, very noisy. A couple of first years passed by saying that The-Boy-Who-Lived was in there. Harry Potter.

I did not care and finished my reading. I finished a test with zero points which meant I was the most peculiar person there had to be. I read a touching article Dad wrote about girls growing so fast that sometimes parents hardly noticed how time flied.

Still I felt nothing.

I crossed the Great Lake in a rowing boat. Someone said there was a giant squid in there. I did not care. Students all around me oohed and ahhed as Hogwarts the castle came into sight. I did not care about that, either. Don't get me wrong, though. The castle was as magnificent and grand and exquisite as others had described it. I just... held no interest in castles at that time.

We arrived the Great Hall. It looked just like how I had imagined it. Older students looked as we first years inched toward the Sorting Hat, sniggering and pointing. The two boys in front of me were stabbing each other with their wands, and the girl behind me kept going, "I think I'm gonna faint. I think I'm gonna faint."

I could not identify with their behavior. What was there to be nervous about? It was just a ceremony in which you put on a hat and it told you where you belonged.

"Hmmm," was the first thing the Sorting Hat said when I put it on.

I remained silent.

"That's a pretty empty head you've got there, no?"

"I've tried my best," I replied under my breath. I finished all my textbooks during the summer. There was nothing that I could do anymore.

"Not empty in the sense that you have no knowledge in there. There are plenty of wits I see. Empty in the sense that... that you have no emotions," the hat sounded puzzled. Could a hat be puzzled? I did not know the answer. I did not want the answer.

"No one is so... emotionless. Even the coldest Slytherin feels angry sometimes," the Hat reasoned. I felt the gazes of everyone in the Great Hall focused on me- I must have set the record time for the Hat to locate my house. I did not care.

"You can't not care about everything. I... Where should I place you?" Good. Even the Hat seemed to be at a lost of what to make of me. Not that I cared, of course. It was just amusing how no one could understand me, while I was really so simple. Like the Hat said, there was nothing in me, honestly.

"It's not amusing," the Hat retorted.

I actually chuckled at that. "Does that mean I get to pick my own house? Well, in that case, I choose-"

"RAVENCLAW!" The Hat roared as I whispered the name simultaneously.

I got off the stool with a small smile. Both my parents belonged to Ravenclaw. I noticed that I did not get much applause from my fellow housemates. Not that I cared.

And with that I began my life of a Hogwarts first year as a Ravenclaw.

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There, I wrote it out. I really don't like writing that much. If it wasn't for him forcing me to-

Oh great. I am feeling some anger right now. Frustration, too. It's not a bad feeling, just... strange.

And he lied. I did not feel better after writing all this down. I just wasted my precious time-

Wait! More anger!

Well. Maybe he had not lied. Maybe this really is a part of my therapy. Maybe this really will work.

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A/N: Please REVIEW. Anonymous reviewers please leave your e-mail if you want to be on the mailing list.