The Boy Who Lived Next Door
The Journal
May 3rd, 1998
Present Day
The police have come and gone. They left after announcing that the furnace of Number 6, Privet Drive had exploded, which resulted in the ruin of the house. The people that had gathered on the street to see what was left of the home had scattered as well. Back to their homes they went. Maybe to discuss the misfortune that had fallen on that one family. Maybe to check their own furnaces to see if they were in proper working order. Needless to say, the gas company got many calls from that area of Little Whinging over the next few days.
Those people didn't know that you can't protect against what happened at Number 6, Privet Drive. Well, at least they couldn't. He was convinced that he could've prevented this. He was convinced that he could've protected her. If only…
No one had been within sight of the destroyed home for hours. But still to be safe, he waited for the cover of night with only the light from his wand to guide him, to explore the shambles that used to be the house next door. He was in her room, or rather what was left of it.
Her parents weren't home when it happened, when they came. She was alone.
How could he have not seen this coming?
As he stepped over broken furniture, careful to avoid the broken glass that littered the floor, he had his eyes trained on the ground. He didn't know where she had hidden it.
It wasn’t under the ripped pillow or the bed. He searched every exposed crevice and cavity in her room.
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. Where was it?
He had searched the room in its entirety, but he had not even caught a glimpse of that familiar turquoise cover.
Where would he hide it?
It struck it him immediately, as quick as an arrow fired from Cupid's bow.
The floorboards.
He looked for a loose one among the wood and glass fragments. He stepped down and found that a board seemed to move beneath his foot.
Carefully, he kneeled down and brushed away the stray pages that had fallen out of books due to the early incident. After the glass, wood, and other particles had been cleared away, he pried the floor board up to reveal what he had been looking for.
He smiled down at it. It felt odd for a smile to grace his features. He felt like he hadn't smiled in ages.
Grabbing the book he stood up and spun on the spot, concentrating on Ron's room in the Burrow.
He arrived in the room that he had seen a lot of over the years. It was empty. Ron was probably with Hermione downstairs.
He had told them he had wanted to rest. They didn't know he had gone to her house. They didn't even know she existed. He never talked about home much. His friends thought there was only the Dursleys on Privet Drive. But no, they were wrong. He didn't bother to correct them.
He sat on his bed and ran his fingers over the cover. It was turquoise, with a teal cut-out in the shape of a key hole. He traced the words that graced the cover with his fingers.
"If you read this be aware – details have been changed to throw off busybodies, and half of it is wishful thinking and fiction. Question is, which half?"
He whispered the words aloud to the empty room.
It was a journal. Her journal. He knew this because he had given it to her on her eleventh birthday.
September 1st, 1980. She was born on that day. He sent the gift via owl to her house. And he knew that since then she'd had used it.
A memory of her flashed in his mind. She was laughing at something, probably him, with that gorgeous smile on her face. Around her neck was a simple necklace, a key dangled down from a plain silver chain. That was the key to the journal.
Using his wand he opened it. He knew you should never read a girl's journal. But he had to know what she thought about everything. Her thoughts, her view of things had be to just as amazing as her.
To her, he had always been Harry, just Harry. He wasn't special because he defeated the darkest wizard of all time as a mere one year old. She didn't know him by the scar on his forehead. He wasn't famous in her world. And she didn't mind.
She had been told his parents died in a car crash. That's how he got his scar as far as she knew. To her he wasn't special because of a prophecy; he was not The Chosen One to her.
He wanted to find out what she really thought of him. There was a time when she probably would've told him. But now it was too late.
He had to know. Opening the journal, he began to read.
Present Day
The police have come and gone. They left after announcing that the furnace of Number 6, Privet Drive had exploded, which resulted in the ruin of the house. The people that had gathered on the street to see what was left of the home had scattered as well. Back to their homes they went. Maybe to discuss the misfortune that had fallen on that one family. Maybe to check their own furnaces to see if they were in proper working order. Needless to say, the gas company got many calls from that area of Little Whinging over the next few days.
Those people didn't know that you can't protect against what happened at Number 6, Privet Drive. Well, at least they couldn't. He was convinced that he could've prevented this. He was convinced that he could've protected her. If only…
No one had been within sight of the destroyed home for hours. But still to be safe, he waited for the cover of night with only the light from his wand to guide him, to explore the shambles that used to be the house next door. He was in her room, or rather what was left of it.
Her parents weren't home when it happened, when they came. She was alone.
How could he have not seen this coming?
As he stepped over broken furniture, careful to avoid the broken glass that littered the floor, he had his eyes trained on the ground. He didn't know where she had hidden it.
It wasn’t under the ripped pillow or the bed. He searched every exposed crevice and cavity in her room.
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. Where was it?
He had searched the room in its entirety, but he had not even caught a glimpse of that familiar turquoise cover.
Where would he hide it?
It struck it him immediately, as quick as an arrow fired from Cupid's bow.
The floorboards.
He looked for a loose one among the wood and glass fragments. He stepped down and found that a board seemed to move beneath his foot.
Carefully, he kneeled down and brushed away the stray pages that had fallen out of books due to the early incident. After the glass, wood, and other particles had been cleared away, he pried the floor board up to reveal what he had been looking for.
He smiled down at it. It felt odd for a smile to grace his features. He felt like he hadn't smiled in ages.
Grabbing the book he stood up and spun on the spot, concentrating on Ron's room in the Burrow.
He arrived in the room that he had seen a lot of over the years. It was empty. Ron was probably with Hermione downstairs.
He had told them he had wanted to rest. They didn't know he had gone to her house. They didn't even know she existed. He never talked about home much. His friends thought there was only the Dursleys on Privet Drive. But no, they were wrong. He didn't bother to correct them.
He sat on his bed and ran his fingers over the cover. It was turquoise, with a teal cut-out in the shape of a key hole. He traced the words that graced the cover with his fingers.
"If you read this be aware – details have been changed to throw off busybodies, and half of it is wishful thinking and fiction. Question is, which half?"
He whispered the words aloud to the empty room.
It was a journal. Her journal. He knew this because he had given it to her on her eleventh birthday.
September 1st, 1980. She was born on that day. He sent the gift via owl to her house. And he knew that since then she'd had used it.
A memory of her flashed in his mind. She was laughing at something, probably him, with that gorgeous smile on her face. Around her neck was a simple necklace, a key dangled down from a plain silver chain. That was the key to the journal.
Using his wand he opened it. He knew you should never read a girl's journal. But he had to know what she thought about everything. Her thoughts, her view of things had be to just as amazing as her.
To her, he had always been Harry, just Harry. He wasn't special because he defeated the darkest wizard of all time as a mere one year old. She didn't know him by the scar on his forehead. He wasn't famous in her world. And she didn't mind.
She had been told his parents died in a car crash. That's how he got his scar as far as she knew. To her he wasn't special because of a prophecy; he was not The Chosen One to her.
He wanted to find out what she really thought of him. There was a time when she probably would've told him. But now it was too late.
He had to know. Opening the journal, he began to read.