雅思林的日记1

On the slopes of Morient, where pine trees clung to the hillside like sentinels, stood a cottage built of rough-hewn pine wood. The morning mist had only just lifted, curling away from the windows in wispy tendrils, as if reluctant to leave the quiet warmth inside. A copy of The Daily Prophet lay crumpled on the sofa, its pages half-turned by the soft mountain breeze—everything felt too soft, too gentle, too pe On the slopes of Morient, where pine trees clung to the hillside like sentinels, stood a cottage built of rough-hewn pine wood. The morning mist had only just lifted, curling away from the windows in wispy tendrils, as if reluctant to leave the quiet warmth inside. A copy of The Daily Prophet lay crumpled on the sofa, its pages half-turned by the soft mountain breeze—everything felt too soft, too gentle, too peaceful for the wizarding world’s cruel ways. So the heavens, it seemed, saw fit to strike with a reckoning that would shatter the calm forever.

在莫里恩特的山坡上，松树像哨兵般牢牢扎根在山壁间，一间由粗凿松木搭建的小屋静静矗立。晨雾刚刚散去，纤细的雾霭缠绕着窗户，仿佛舍不得离开屋内的静谧暖意。沙发上放着一份揉皱的《预言家日报》，书页被山间微风掀得半开——一切都太过温柔、太过平和，与巫师世界的残酷格格不入。仿佛是上天觉得这份安宁太过奢侈，便降下了一场足以彻底击碎平静的劫难。

Yaslin Yorbeda lay on the narrow bed, her eyes closed, her breathing steady as if she’d fallen into a deep, untroubled sleep. The sunlight streamed through the window, gilding her dark hair, and for a moment, it was easy to pretend that all the pain and loss had never touched her.

雅思林·约尔贝达躺在窄小的床上，双眼紧闭，呼吸平稳，仿佛坠入了一场无扰的沉睡。阳光透过窗户洒进来，为她深色的发丝镀上一层金边，那一刻，人们几乎会误以为所有的伤痛与失去都从未触碰过她。

The next day: The wind picked up, rattling the wooden window frame with a creak and groan that mingled with the chirping of birds—spring had arrived, soft and unassuming, even in the wake of sorrow.

第二天，风渐渐大了起来，吹得木质窗框吱呀作响，与鸟儿的鸣唱交织在一起——春天悄然而至，温柔而内敛，即便在悲伤的余波中也未曾缺席。

A few days later

几天后

No one found this remote, lovely spot hidden away in the Morient hills. The wind brushed the leather-bound diary by the bed, flipping its pages half-closed as if trying to protect the words within—leaving a few of its stories to drift out, unheard, to the world beyond the pines.

没人找到这个藏在莫里恩特山间的偏僻秘境。风轻轻拂过床边那本皮质封面的日记，将翻开的书页半掩，仿佛在守护其中的文字——只让零星几段心事飘散出去，在松林之外的世界里，无人听闻。

1976年7月11日 晴 周三

Becoming an Auror was my childhood dream—ever since I was a kid watching Aurors march through Diagon Alley, their robes billowing, wands at the ready, I knew that’s what I wanted to be. Now I’ve made it—everyone at the Ministry’s congratulating me, bringing me Fizzing Whizbees and Patented Daydream Charms, saying I’m the most promising new Auror in years. But my eyes feel blurrier than ever, like someone’s dusted them with Doxy powder. I keep scanning crowds without thinking, my heart leaping every time I spot a tall bloke with messy blonde hair and that lazy,痞帅 (pǐ shuài) smirk—only to realize it’s never you.

成为傲罗是我从小的梦想——记得小时候在对角巷看到傲罗们列队走过，长袍翻飞，魔杖随时待命，我就知道那是我想要的人生。现在我终于做到了——魔法部的每个人都在祝贺我，给我带滋滋蜜蜂糖和专利白日梦咒，说我是这些年最有前途的新傲罗。可我的眼睛却比以前更模糊了，像是被人撒了些 doxie（多比虫）粉末。我总下意识地在人群中张望，每次看到高个子、金发乱糟糟、带着那种慵懒痞帅笑容的男生，心跳就会漏一拍——结果每次都发现，那不是你。

Hogwarts days were always so happy, weren’t they? The Great Hall at breakfast, steam curling from pumpkin juice jugs; sneaking into the kitchens with Evelyn and Daniel to steal treacle tarts; staying up late in the common room, you teasing me for studying too hard while you pretended to polish your broomstick but kept stealing glances at me. It’s been three years since I graduated, but I still can’t forget the way the castle looked at sunset, or the sound of your laugh when you pulled that prank on Filch (remember? You turned his cat into a Pygmy Puff and spent a week in detention). It’s been three months since you left—three months since Mad-Eye Moody knocked on my door at dawn, his eye spinning wildly, to tell me you’d fallen in the line of duty, chasing those Death Eaters in Wales.

霍格沃茨的日子总是那么开心，不是吗？早餐时的礼堂，南瓜汁壶里冒着热气；和伊芙林、丹尼尔偷偷溜进厨房偷糖浆馅饼；在公共休息室熬夜，你嘲笑我学习太拼命，自己却假装擦扫帚，眼神却老往我这边瞟。我毕业都三年了，可还是忘不了日落时分的城堡，忘不了你捉弄费尔奇时的笑声（记得吗？你把他的猫变成了侏儒蒲，关了一个星期禁闭）。你离开我已经三个月了——三个月前，疯眼汉穆迪天刚亮就敲响了我的门，他的魔眼疯狂转动，告诉我你在威尔士追捕食死徒时，牺牲了。

I don’t hate you like I used to, my dear Fasker Macmillan. After we fought, I thought I’d never forgive you—how could I? You were so stubborn, so consumed by that silly insecurity of yours. I slept for five months straight after graduation, not because I was tired, but because I didn’t want to face the fact that we’d parted on such bad terms. When I heard you’d died, I was so broken—I wanted to Apparate to your grave, fall to my knees, and cry my heart out until my throat was raw. But I didn’t shed a single tear in the month after. Somehow, my days just felt flatter than before, like someone had drained all the color from the world. No more arguing with you about stupid things, no more you showing up at my dorm window with a stolen jar of Honeydukes chocolates, no more that look in your eyes when you thought I wasn’t watching—like you couldn’t believe I was yours.

我不像往日那般恨你了，我亲爱的法斯克·麦克米兰。我们吵架后，我以为自己永远都不会原谅你——我怎么能原谅？你那么固执，被那可笑的不安全感冲昏了头脑。毕业后我整整睡了五个月，不是因为累，而是因为我不想面对我们不欢而散的事实。当我听到你去世的消息时，我彻底崩溃了——我想幻影移形到你的墓前，跪倒在地，痛哭流涕，直到嗓子沙哑。可在你死后的一个月里，我一滴眼泪都没掉。不知怎的，我的日子变得比以前更加平淡，仿佛有人抽走了世界上所有的色彩。再也不会为了鸡毛蒜皮的小事和你争吵，再也不会看到你拿着偷来的蜂蜜公爵巧克力罐出现在我的宿舍窗外，再也不会看到你以为我没注意时的眼神——那种仿佛不敢相信我属于你的眼神。

You were never ashamed of my blood, not even once. You were a Macmillan—pureblood, loaded, one of the most influential families in the wizarding world—and I was Yaslin Yorbeda, half-blood, my mother a house-elf for the Abbotts, my father a Muggle who ran off before I was born. Everyone whispered about us, said you were slumming it, said I’d never fit into your world. But you never cared. You’d wrap your arm around me in the Great Hall and tell anyone who stared, “She’s the best witch in this school, better than any of you posh prats.” Your insecurity wasn’t about me—it was about you. You thought I’d get tired of your jealousy, your late-night panics, your need to know I’d never leave. So you tested me. You pretended to flirt with that Slytherin girl at the Yule Ball, just to see if I’d get upset. You hid my Potions textbook before my O.W.L.s, saying I “needed to prove you were more important than grades.” You told me your parents wanted you to marry a Greengrass or a Black, just to watch my face. I told you then—love isn’t something you test, Fasker. It’s something you cherish. But you didn’t listen. We fought in the courtyard by the lake, the wind blowing our robes, and you shouted that I’d never understand how it felt to be scared of losing the person you loved most. I shouted back that you’d never understand how it felt to be someone’s experiment. We didn’t speak for two years—not until graduation, when you handed me a single Doxy wing (our stupid inside joke) and mumbled, “I’m sorry.” I just nodded and walked away. I wish I’d hugged you. I wish I’d told you I loved you.

你从来没有因为我的血统而羞耻，一次都没有。你是麦克米兰家的人——纯血，家境优渥，是巫师世界最有权势的家族之一——而我是雅思林·约尔贝达，混血，母亲是艾博家的家养小精灵，父亲是个在我出生前就跑路的麻瓜。所有人都在背后议论我们，说你自降身份，说我永远融入不了你的世界。可你从来不在乎。你会在礼堂里搂着我，对任何盯着我们看的人说：“她是这所学校里最棒的女巫，比你们这些傲慢的蠢货强多了。”你的不安全感从来都不是因为我——而是因为你自己。你觉得我会厌倦你的嫉妒，厌倦你深夜的恐慌，厌倦你总想确认我永远不会离开。所以你测试我。你在圣诞舞会上假装和那个斯莱特林女孩调情，就为了看我会不会难过。你在我的O.W.L.s（普通巫师等级考试）前藏起了我的魔药课本，说我“需要证明你比成绩更重要”。你告诉我你父母希望你娶一个格林格拉斯家或布莱克家的女孩，就为了观察我的表情。我当时就告诉你了——法斯克，爱情不是用来测试的。它是用来珍惜的。可你没听。我们在湖边的院子里吵了一架，风吹着我们的长袍，你大喊着说我永远不会明白害怕失去最爱的人的感觉。我也大喊着回应，说你永远不会明白成为别人实验品的感觉。我们两年没说话——直到毕业那天，你递给我一只多比虫的翅膀（我们愚蠢的小秘密），含糊地说：“对不起。”我只是点了点头，转身走开了。我真希望当时拥抱了你。真希望当时告诉你我爱你。

Evelyn teases me, says I’ve moved on. She brings me to Hogsmeade on weekends, drags me into Zonko’s Joke Shop, says I need to “have fun again.” But she doesn’t know—you’re everywhere. In the smell of broomstick polish, in the sound of a laugh that’s just a little too loud, in the way Daniel still hesitates before he mentions your name. I haven’t moved on. I’m just… stuck.

伊芙林还调侃我，说我放下你了。她周末带我去霍格莫德，拉我进佐科笑话店，说我需要“重新找回乐趣”。可她不知道——你无处不在。在扫帚油的气味里，在过于响亮的笑声里，在丹尼尔提起你名字前犹豫的语气里。我没有放下你。我只是……被困住了。