Disclaimer: I am not JKR.

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The Compton Diary

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(Address Withheld)


Dear Dr Helena Stanfield

I am writing to you because I know this is your area of expertise. You have dealt with many cases of the supernatural and I want to know what you make of this.

The following is a diary kept by my late mother-in-law, Mrs Alice Compton. It is an extraordinary account of six days in mid-March, 1998. Neither she, nor her late husband Bernard Compton ever discussed it with me or my husband. Upon reading this, it is clear they thought we might scoff. I did not scoff.

There were no other witnesses to these events. All we have is this couple's word.

I can only say this:

My father-in-law, Bernard, sadly developed Alzheimers in 1992. Since then, he was under the care of Alice. However, when I met Bernard during Easter 1998, after these alleged incidents, he was very much changed. He not only recognised my children and I, but he absorbed every piece of information there was to be gathered. This was astonishing, considering his prior state. His main entertainment to his grandchildren that holiday was to recite the order of a shuffled deck of cards, having looked through it only once.

I can find no explanation for this, apart from what is recorded in the following script.

I hope you read this with an open mind,

Yours sincerely,

Mrs Louisa Burke-Compton

Disclaimer: I do not own the world of Harry Potter. If I did, I'd know what happens next instead of making it up! I do however own the plot and couple. Please review!
(That goes for the previous page too.)

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The Compton Diary

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The following is written in the hand of Alice Compton. The handwriting was nearly illegible in some areas, so have patience if you do not understand. The black ink used appears to be that of a cartridge pen. Mrs Compton had neat, small writing.


Wednesday, 13th March, 1998


My hands shake as I write. The air is cold. I am in shock, yet feel strangely compelled to write. There are many things the human mind imagines, but - I could not begin to conjure of the strange incident which I write about in my own head. I tell you diary, that you must believe me.

The strange boy sleeps in the bedroom next to our own. I don't understand.

My husband Bernard sleeps also, the feather duvet drawn around him to keep ou the cold. I hope nothing else startles him, he is already very shaken. I don't know if he will remember the boy's arrival come daylight.

My name is Alice Compton. So it has been for nigh fifty years. My husband and I live on the north-east coast of Scotland, in a deserted region known to some as Gweefichmar, - the wind is very fierce. Each night the crash of the North Sea lulls me to sleep.

Not tonight.

This morning I awoke to wind howling, screaming, and rattling the window panes. The air was bitterly cold, and I bustled around to make a warm breakfast and see to it that Bernard was comfortable. I lit the fire - it heats our small cottage well. I busied myself with breakfast - hot porridge from the stove.

After breakfast I helped Bernard dress, and we went to the living room together, he supporting himself with a stick - he has a bad leg. The days usually happen like this. We sat on the comfortable sofa, and I resumed my crochet work. Bernard sat watching the F.A. Cup - his favourite team were playing. Not a word passed between us; a word is not needed.

The room darkened as rain spattered the window. It then came down in torrents, the noise deafening to my ears. We retired to the kitchen where we ate our dinner. I watched the red front door from my chair, rattling with the wind. We never expect visitors. There isn't a soul around for miles.

At ten o'clock I helped Bernard to bed. He tires easily. He was not so long ago a man with a sharp, focused mind. He was fresh out of the army when we first met. Now his mind just isn't what it used to be.

Some time later I slipped out to the bathroom. A glance at the clock told me it was midnight. As I padded back to bed across the kitchen tiles, something slammed on the door.

It came from the other side.

Slowly, I turned to face it. It slammed again.

And again.

And again.

BAM

I stood, frozen to the ground, as the noise became louder and louder, the door shivering every time.

Suddenly there was movement to my right. Bernard had appeared in the living room doorway, brandishing his stick like a club.

"What's this racket?!", he yelled above the wind of the night and the slam of the door.

I shook my head numbly. His eyes rested on the possessed door, the wood heaving, fit to crack.

I closed my eyes but opened them to see Bernard return to his soldier gait - shoulders back, legs straight. He marched in his blue flannel nightshirt, to the trembling door.

He flung the door wide open.

There was a sharp intake of breath from Bernard and as he turned around, I saw his chalk-white face and believed the stories of shipwrecked ghosts that wandered in the night. Bernard's mouth hung open, and he moved to the right.

I first clapped eyes on our visitor.

The force of his knocking had caused him to stumble through the door, and he now stood upright.

My heart stood still.

He was, certainly, a he. But he was like no man I had ever seen. His gaunt face was ashen, and his hollow cheeks seemed starved. He stood straight, and was quite tall. His black hair was plastered on his head and water flooded down his drenched body. He gave himself a shake, like a dog. I noticed dark circles under his eyes. His body also seemed diminished. He was thin, but how thin I could not know. He was wearing what appeared to be rags, dark with rainwater.

His teeth chattered, and his eyes searched the room and its components. He looked quickly at Bernard, now breathing heavily on the bench, and then at me. As his eyes looked, I immediately felt as though he saw through me. His glistening green eyes flared as light from the stove danced on his face, and I saw a terror in them, something I could not comprehend. I suddenly saw with shock that he was very young. His physical traits told me he would collapse at any moment, but his expression was defiant, and he continued to stand.

Bernard was shaking his head from side to side. We stayed like this for what seemed like a century, dying flames flickering on us all. Bernard sitting, and I staring, trying to trace what element of evil was in this boy, inexplicably drawn to and yet terrified by him.

The front door blew closed.

What happened next was a haze. The memory only comes to me like a fog. I remember looking into his eyes, and then my husband and I offered the boy to stay the night, though I don't recall thinking of saying this. I, in a strange state of mind made up a bed for him in the spare room and retrieved some pajama bottoms from the drawer.

He sleeps there now. I think it is sleep, because I have not heard him stir.

I look now to the morning with great apprehension. I do not know what I should do. The wind has lessened slightly but the rain has not eased. Lightening splits the night and I am filled with a sense of foreboding.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry and his world, obviously!

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The Compton Diary

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Thursday, 14th March, 1998.



I have locked the door.

The past few hours have been a haze of images. Only now can I refrain from retching. Bernard sleeps soundly enough, but I sit huddled at my desk, the pen trembling across my page.

The day dawned brightly enough, though the windows were covered with an icy condensation. For a moment I relaxed, but then there creeped in through the crack under the door - an air of misery, suffering and ill thoughts. I remebered a third presence and shuddered.

The boy came to the kitchen after breakfast. I had resolved to check on him before then, but my intuition told me not to. He ate well, though I cannot see how any amount of food could put meat back on his famished bones.

As he walked to the counter, I noticed he walked in an odd manner, bent over slightly on his right side. I told him to lie on the couch. He went to do so, but as he moved he grimaced in pain. He stretched out on the soft materiel as I decided what to do. I pulled his bedshirt upwards to examine his ribs. What I saw made me gasp in horror. The lower ribs on his right were pushed in at an angle - there appeared to be an indentation. Purple bruises covered this area, and several long, fresh cuts streaked across his skin. He tried to see the cause for his discomfort, but lay back, wincing.

I wrapped the wounds as best I could, but this injury requires a surgical procedure.

We spoke little this morning, and after my amateur examination I helped him to bed, knowing that he was in no fit state to do anything else.


Bernard was in good form today. He spoke about soccer, and he remembered the boy, remarkably. He was, however, dismissive of the boy's condition, or indeed his origin.

"In his own good time, Alice," he told me, "His sort always sort themselves out."

I do not yet know what "sort" Bernard was referring to.

I did, however call the police, as the boy clearly has been attacked. I explained the situation but had to admit that the boy had not yet identified himself. The police told me there was little they could do but they said they would send someone out from the nearest village tomorrow to investigate.

I went to the boy this evening with soup, knowing that he would need sustanance, but of a liquid kind, I thought, owing to his condition. He was glad to see food, but there remains something of a distrust about his eyes. He was sitting up in bed and appeared comfortable. I lingered in the room, under the pretence of taking back his bowl, though for the sole purpose of observing the boy.

He ate hungrily, yet allowed no splash to touch the bedsheets. The duvet creased over where he ate, and between one of the folds I thought I saw a narrow stick. Then it was gone, and now I feel sure that I imagined it.

When the bowl was scraped clean he wiped his mouth, looking again weary. I took the bowl from him and he didn't look at me. Instead, his eyes flashed to the chest of drawers in front of him, to a framed black and white photograph on the surface. His expression seemed, for a second, astonished, as though he could draw some deeper meaning from it. All at once his expression closed again. I could not comprehend why this happened, but didn't question it.

"How are you feeling, now?", I asked nervously.

The boy looked startled, as though awoken from a stupor.

"Much better, thank you.", was his reply. I was taken aback at his politeness.

I hesitated, not sure if I should question him. Then the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"Who are you? What is your name...?"

I suddenly noticed the strange jagged scar on his forehead. His head whipped around and he stared at me. For a split second I absorbed the vibrant green of his irises. Then I was lost.

It was a whirl of images. The first, a scar - his scar, reflected in a mirror. The next, two giant red lights, hungry lights, staring into me. There were corridors, long dank corridors, with giant narrow figures marching in their ragged cloaks. Then there were bars, a cell, and darkness. Finally, last night's fog, surrounding my own house.

I resurfaced with a jolt. The spoon and bowl were clattering in my hand. I was still standing in the bedroom. My skin now felt cold and my body nauseous. The boy now had his chin on his knees, staring blankly ahead. I turned quickly, and without a word, my feet carried me out the door.

As I, in a dazed fashion, placed the dish in the sink, I noticed the framed photograph in my hand. I do not remember taking it out of the room, but it is still with me, staring at me on this desk. Hours later, and I still cannot fathom the mystery of it. I will try to keep the boy's images from my mind and study the details of the picture.

The photograph is old. It was taken of Bernard with a member of his regiment in 1943. Bernard stands next to a man, also in uniform, who looks to be about his age. The poor quality of the image means that details are hard to come by, but I can see that this other man has dark hair. He is slightly shorter than Bernard, and he is smiling. I try to examine his features, but fatigue blurs my eyes and all I can focus on his his short, yet very messy hair.

Disclaimer: Harry's not mine!

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The Compton Diary

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Friday, 15th March, 1998



I am confused. I don't think anything makes sense anymore.

I am tired, but I must write this, if only because it has to be simply one of the oddest coincidences in my life thus far, or a cruel joke of the boy's doing.

The boy's name is Harry. He told Bernard so.

When I checked on his wounds this morning (and when he eventually allowed me), there was not a trace of incision, bruising, or any breakage. Even more remarkable is that there now appears more flesh on his bones that was not to be seen yesterday. He has become healthier during his ten hours of sleep. He seemed embarrassed, even ashamed, of his astounding recovery, but he didn't at once seem surprised.

Having recuperated enough, he got up properly today. He helped me with my housework, though I didn't ask, and he kept Bernard company while I prepared Bernard's medication in the kitchen. When I heard their voices, I paused to listen. I peered through the door, which hung ajar, into the living room. I saw Bernard, seated in his armchair, and the boy, sitting attentively on the sofa beside him.

Bernard, never outgoing with strangers, was in good form today, because he was making polite conversation with our mysterious visitor. I had not told him about the strange visions I had had last night, nor how the boy's presence makes me uneasy. Bernard was chatting to the strange boy as if he were an old friend.

Bernard leaned forward a little on his chair to get a better look at the boy. To my amazement, he uttered these words,

"I know you."

The boy, though slightly taken aback, replied, "I don't think you do." He seemed uncomfortable, and he raised himself slightly from the floral cushions as if preparing to leave.

Bernard sat up straight.

"I do. I have proof. You see, I know you people. You may not think it, I know that your sort do everything in your powers (which, by all accounts are vast), to prevent people like me from knowing people like you."

Bernard was getting excited now. I opened the door gently, hoping to save our guest from Bernard's rambling, when I saw that our "guest" was looking quite interested in my husband's outburst. Neither men noticed my entry. I stood in the doorway, quite amused at Bernard's gift in stirring the interest of the boy.

Bernard had picked up the framed photograph, the one I had taken from the spare room last night. The boy's eyes showed recognition. Bernard leaned to the boy to show him the image.

"That's you isn't it, or are my old eyes fooling me?"

The boy, in looking at the photo, shook his head.

I decided to put a stop to the boy's embarrassment; I thought it unfair to put him on the spot like that. I took the tray of medication from the kitchen and brought it to Bernard, saying,

"Bernard, it's 5 o'clock, here is your water."

Neither took any notice of me. The boy was looking at my husband with an intense curiosity.

"What was his name?"

Bernard himself seemed surprised at this question, but seemed glad of the chance to tell his tale. I had heard it, many a time, over the past three years, and I knew not to interrupt. Most listeners to his story listened with polite disbelief, and I trusted that the boy would do the same.

Bernard, licking his lips, set the photo back down on the side table and proceeded to tell his well practised, if not so accurate tale.

"A few years ago, I fought in the war. It is not so long ago that I was enlisted in the British Army, in the - in the, the third cohort fifth regiment, I think it was."

The boy listened, his face attentive.

Bernard's face furrowed in recalling the details.

"About two years after enlisting, I was in France, wasn't I Alice?"

I nodded, taking a seat beside him.

"I was located in the French Alps, quite near the town of Besancon."

He examined the boy closely.

"There was this man in my regiment, you in fact," he said, looking at the boy, "and we shared many tasks. We became good friends. You know I can't remember his - your, that is to say - first name, as we called each other by surname, you see. Anyway, his name was Potter."

The boy made a sudden movement, as though receiving a shock, but when I glanced at him he seemed passive, but with an urgent expression on his face.

"Go on?", the boy urged.

"Potter was in my group when we set up camp one night in January - yes, January. It was freezing - there was snow everywhere, and we had to save what little heating supplies we had left. Now it was a very dark night too, very cloudy, so our vision was poor. In the dead of night however, we were arisen from our sleep by a crashing sound, a crash so loud it would deafen - and an unearthly roar. The ground shook beneath us and I thought bombs were dropping."

"I ran out of my tent as quick as I could, and I ran into Potter, who was as pale as the snow beneath our feet. He wasn't holding a weapon, only a long, narrow stick - "

I gasped. I suddenly saw a connection with this often-heard story and the boy sitting before me.

"He, Potter, held the stick in front of him and screamed at me over the rushing noise to run for cover. Just as I heard this order, I followed his gaze and I turned around, I saw a sight I swore that I would never forget. A winged beast, flying, low to the ground, with torrents of fire emitting from it's nostrils! I had never seen such a thing."

"It's scales were glistining in the firelight of many of the tents as they burned to the ground, men screaming as they tried to extinguish the leaping flames. I stood there, mesmerised by the thing, until Potter ran into me, knocking me to the ground, as a jet of fire flew over us. I can still feel its heat, even now."

The boy sat still, himself mesmerised by the improbable tale. Bernard continued.

"We ran, with other members of our regiment, across the deep snow. The demon followed us, however, causing the snow-filled ditches to turn to boiling rivers, flowing after us as we ran."

"We came to a cave, the opening too small, and, our minds engulfed with smoke and images of our burning friends, we ran inside. There we stayed, waiting."

The boy now sat tensely, on the edge of the sofa, nodding his head. Bernard, spurred by his excited audience, went on.

"After hours of waiting in the freezing air, some people came. We thought, at first, that they were survivors of our own regiment. To our horror, these were even more terrifying creatures, those that could conjure things more evil than what could be imagined. They appeared as men, wearing long, filthy robes. They too, carried those sticks, but with their sticks, they began to do most vile things..."

Bernard shuddered.

"One pointed his stick at a young soldier, whose name I never knew. Within seconds, the man was flailing and screaming and retching on the ground, his limbs bent in grotesque positions. Another of these robed creatures pointed his stick at Kitt, and, without flailing or blinking an eye, Kitt walked out of the mouth of the cave and off the steep slope, into the deep ravine below."

"I stood stock still, knowing that moving would be my destruction. Hughes, did not have my passive technique of surviving, however. He, on being approached by one of these subjects of filth, shot at the figure. But the figure progressed forward, pointed his stick at him and he crumpled to the wet ground."

"I felt movement from behind me and out Potter came, brandishing his own stick. Thus followed a fight like I have never in my life seen. Flashes of colorful light and these creatures were flattened. Sadly, not before our two remaining colleagues were killed with those twigs, brandished like knives, they were. Reaching the cave mouth, we ran, though pursued by four more of these wretched robed men. I, holding only my knife, knew I was useless in fighting them, yet Potter led me on, down towards the plateau below."

"It was a very steep slide, one I'm sure I could not have done had my life not been in danger. All the while I ran, not thinking of what chased behind me, not understanding who ran beside me, and not caring what lay ahead."

"On our arrival at the base of the slope we were cut and bruised badly. We looked carefully behind us and saw no-one. Looking ahead, we were deeply damaged to see a burnt landscape, with some of our colleagues, lying in their ashen balms. Potter bent to the ground, looking sorrowful, and touched a stone with his stick. He muttered something, then he grabbed hold of me, and we arrived in a room. All I can recall then is a tall man with a long brown beard and spectacles looking at me, and I then woke up in an infirmary in Grenoble."

Bernard then glanced at me, and it seemed as if he just realised I was hear. He turned to the boy, who seemed locked in a stupor.

"All that and I never got your name, nor a chance to thank you! What is it, m'boy?"

The boy jumped slightly, stirred from his thoughts.

"It's Harry. Harry Potter."

I froze. He had to have been lying - how could it be? My husband makes up the past, because he can't remember his own. I met my husband in the infirmary in Grenoble; I was a nurse there. He came in with a concussion and he couldn't remember what had happened. No other members of his regiment came in, all were presumed dead. Recently, he seems to have accumalated memories that are not his own.

I shall go to bed now, for I am tired. I don't know what to make of this boy's name, I really don't.

Disclaimer: Again, I don't own Harry, but the plot and Comptons are mine.

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The Compton Diary

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Saturday, 16th March 1998


Bernard has since not spoken again about his old friend Potter. Harry has not mentioned it either, at least not in my presence. Bernard was feeling rather poorly today, so he stayed in bed. We chatted a little, and I also attended to Harry, and allowed him to wash. He still has nothing but nightclothes to wear but he doesn't seem to mind. He stayed in his room most of the day also, and I no longer heard moans.

Last night, as I lay awake in bed, I heard moaning from his room. Nothing was audible. It was an odd sound, though I have always been wary of him, and he didn't seem disturbed at anything during the day. It eventually stopped, though I couldn’t help but wonder at this.

While attending to my poor vegetables in the garden at around midday, I was astonished to see a snowy owl fly in front of me, and land on the windowsill of Harry's room.

I have not seen the bird since, but the event startled me.

I always write in this diary in my bedroom.

The wind now whistles down the chimney - I did not bother to light the fire. I cannot imagine what brought the boy here, nor can I delve into his mind, as he remains as distant as ever.

He is moaning again. His sound joins the wind to create an eerie noise. The raindrops still hammer on the window, but the strength of the wind seems to be lessening.

The lights have just flickered oddly. Yet I still hasten to write. A strange light feeling has come over me. My pen dances across the speckled page before me. The ink is shining in the light.

His moans are growing louder. I hear a creaking sound. A shadow passes by my window pane, but in writing I tell myself it is nothing. It is nothing.

The figures in the picture frame look back at me. I look at “Potter� as he is so called. He stands erect, staring directly at me. He and Bernard are both in uniform. There is little evidence from the backdrop to tell me where the old photograph was taken. Their faces are both frozen in laughter, as though they have just shared a joke of some sort. Bernard is the older of the two. The other man’s hair is dark, and I suddenly see a striking resemblance between the man in the photograph and our own “Potter�. His black and white presence on my desk mystifies me.

For a moment there as the lights flickered, I thought I saw him wink at me. Bernard rolls over in his sleep. The thin cracks in the wall climb towards the ceiling, and as I write my eyes water with fatigue. I pull my dressing gown around me, for the air has grown very cold.

I hear the ticking of the clock on the bedside table and I know it is getting very late. I hear the rustling of the leaves outside. My wrist aches from moving repetitively across the paper, but I think that if I stop, I will go mad.

There is a stain on the mirror of my dresser. For a moment I think I see someone in the reflection, a little old woman, wisps of white hair falling down from her untidy bun. The lines on her face crease as she studies me. She too, turns back to her diary, her brow creasing further in an attempt to distance herself from her own feelings.

There is a musty smell in the room. My desk is littered with letters and papers, and my eyes scan the bookshelves along the wall. The works of Dickens, Maugham, Beckett, Lee, Sophocles, Shakespeare and countless other volumes serve as a backdrop to my own written thoughts. Those dark dusty volumes tower over me, their printed titles gleaming.

My thoughts return once more to Harry. Harry. I think it odd that a boy so strange should have such a name. He came to us, soaking, sick, broken, hungry. Days later he appears healthy. Such an appearance is yet to be explained. Bernard’s story is indeed senseless, yet to all reasoning thought, so is Harry. If in some distant youth, I too found myself in such circumstances, depending on a couple of strangers for nourishment, I would feel remarkably uncomfortable. Contrary to this, Harry seems to have settled in, with the hospitality of Bernard, who still believes him to be an old friend of his.

I still don't know who or what Harry is, I don't think we'll ever find out where he ca

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This entry ends here. What follows is a large blot of smeared dark blue ink. Though the details of this torn page are not deeply revelatory about the events, they do offer some insight into the few hours before Alice's apparent madness.

Disclaimer: Harry is not my character, but the Comptons are, Ok?

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The Compton Diary

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Sunday, 17th March 1998


Such were the events of the previous night that I simply could not write further.

We had another visitor.

This one was foul, though. This came unhurt, unshaken, unfeeling, unbelievablely through our door.

I sat down to write about yesterday's events at approximately ten o'clock last night. As I wrote, the lights suddenly mooked - went out. I felt around me in the darkness, wondering what had caused this.

The wind, surely?

No, the air was quite still. I rose, moving blindly through the thick black, with the intention of checking the fuse box in the loft. As I moved through the living room, I realised it was bitterly cold, a cold that went through my dressing gown causing goose-bumps to rise on my skin. I took the box of long matches from the mantlepiece and lit one. It sparked up and the flame settled, causing a glorious heat to swell around my forefinger and thumb.

There was now some light about me.The few feet ahead of me visible, I proceeded in my duty.

I made my way to the corner by the door of the kitchen, then up the wooden stairs to the loft. I looked down carefully, my legs stiff as I dragged each foot up over the openings in the stair.

I reached the loft, the railing looking onto the kitchen below.

I could not see below me however, as the kitchen was still engulfed with the night. I hesitated, thinking that perhaps the fuse box could wait until morning. I gave myself a shake, remembering the cold of the house and how we needed the electric stove to keep the kitchen warm.

I walked as quick as I could across the loft, the flame casting long shadows on the roof as I went. I reached the fuse box.

Suddenly, I heard a crash from the room below. I in my fright dropped the beloved match to the floor where the flame promptly died. Now, shrouded again in the musty dark of the loft I chided myself for being so foolish. I listened again.

Curious, I shuffled to the loft rail, where I looked into the dark kitchen. I then saw to my great surprise that the front door had opened. It had been split down the middle, I noticed, and in a strange sense of calm realised that it was this that had caused the crash. Moonlight spilled in through the doorway and the kitchen now had a shimmery glow to it.

A shadow ran across the kitchen tiles and looked about. I realised then -though he was blurry without my spetacles - that it was Harry. He appeared to be staring at something I could not see. He stared blankly at a space in the middle of the kitchen, beside the cabinet where I keep my needles. For a second, I saw from my height his form turn rigid, as if frightened, and then the entire space was thrown into abrupt dark again.

I have never experienced a more suffocating thing. I could see nothing around me, not even my own clammy hand that had grabbed at the rail in front of me as I sank to the ground. I knelt, and were it not for the hard floor beneath me I would have thought I was taken some place entirely new.

Then I was.

I could hear things, in my very own head. Things I wished I would never think of again.

I could hear a strange whistling sound - bombs dropping, I realised...

I heard things fall about me, I could hear my arm snap as I fell on it....

I heard the silence of my first-born, never to be heard - the silence- the death of something that never had lived...

I heard, I heard the groan of something beneath me - the groans of someone beneath me...

I remembered where I was. I thought I was going to fall. Someone was breathing short, shallow breaths. Someone was hyperventilating. That someone was me.

I felt lost in a world of darkness. I would never be happy again. The very notion of happiness in this realm seemed so far fetched I wanted to laugh.

Then I cried.

No-one saw me anymore.

There came a light. A pale, silvery light that instilled hope in me, something not lost but found. The light flickered, and then I was plunged into darkness again.

No.

I wanted to scream, but my mouth wouldn't move. Come back, light. Please. Don't leave me here alone.

It came again, stronger this time. I heard my own sobbing stop. I, frozen on the loft floor, peered through the railings. I knew by now that the light was coming from below me. The light grew dazzling and even when I shut my eyes the light still burned my lids. In all my years I have never seen such light.

The magnificint light left. It left forever, and I felt hollow, as if that light held everything joyful, and was in one second lost.


The floor was warm again. I lifted my head from the floor, and saw that moonlight had returned. It once more streamed innocently through the empty doorway. I moved, and with every effort rose from the floor.

My body stiff from fright, my face stiff with tears.

I turned to the stairs and placed my hand on the rail. My eyes adjusted to the weak night and saw that my hand was white and my arm shaking. I tried to overcome the nausea in my stomach. I closed my eyes, trying to think of better things.

I opened them.

I saw Harry again, standing in the middle of the kitchen. He was holding in his right hand his long stick. I, grabbing tight hold of the banister, descended slowly to the kitchen. When I drew closer to him he looked at me. He did not seem surprised to see me there. Rather, somewhat relieved.

I noticed though that he too was shaking, and his face pale, and when I embraced him he was as cold as ice.

Disclaimer: Yeah, it's all JK's, but the plot is mine!

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The Compton Diary

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Monday, 18th March 1998



I slept until midday. The events of last night will not leave me be. I asked Bernard if he had been aware of any strange happenings but he told me he had slept like a log. I have wondered lately about Bernard.

I clutched my cup of tea tightly, willing the warmth to go directly to my heart, for I still carried with me an internal ice. The bright sunshine filtered through the kitchen window and I gazed out as I put my plate in the sink. I could see the sea churning in the distance, its white lines moving up and down. The long grass outside rippled also, making the path of the wind visible. I looked down further into the garden. My vegetable patch, quite neglected due to Bernard's apparant ailing health, was now sprouting weeds. My mind wandered back to the unspeakable events only hours ago, when any form of growth and progression had seemed unattainable.

Harry was in the garden. He sat on the sturdy wooden fence, his eyes focused on the clear sky before him. He sat perfectly still, with an intensity,as though waiting for someone. I knew I must call him in, not to talk to him about that ghastly event (for I was certain that he had as much desire to speak of it as I), but to feel his presence once more. I feel curiously protected by the boy, and this feeling has recently been heightened.

I was distracted however, by my husband, as he came jovially through the back door, carrying some wood. His bad leg had always hindered him, especially in the past few months, when the cold gets at his joints. He rarely goes out in this weather - suffice to say that the sight of his rosy cheeks and his bright smile left me standing in shock as he placed the wood by the stove. The crisp sea air filtered through the ajar door and he turned to me again.

"You're up I see!" - his eyes were twinkling. "Decided to leave you there, you looked so sweet! Still very nippy out - got fuel for the fire. No point you doing all the work!"

Bernard's sudden desire for activity pleased me, but also greatly confused me. Less than a week ago he had been practically bedridden. Now he was up and about, sweeping the floor, wiping the counter, all the while insisting that I sit down - "You're looking very pale dear, are you sure you're all right?". It was only when something caught his attention from the garden that he stopped questioning me on this matter.

He jumped slightly. Then turned to me.

"You ever seen a white owl at day-time, then?"

I too jumped at this, for I had quite recently, for the first time in my life, seen a white owl at day-time. He ushered me to the window.

I peered through the red windowpanes, my eyes foolishly roving the skies.

"No, here. Look."

I followed Bernard's pointed finger and it led to Harry.What I then saw was an amazing sight, so unusual, yet oddly comforting. The beautiful snowy owl was clutched in Harry's arms. He held it tenderly, unafraid to display affection, stroking its shiny feathers. He was smiling. It seemed then, that this was the thing he had been waiting for, because he promptly left his sturdy seat, and began walking towards the rear door, owl in his arms.

Bernard, as awestruck as I was, merely muttered something about "communication", though I hold little interest in the several technicalities of this particular species.

He closed the door quietly, but stopped when he saw us, me in my night things, both looking at him with what must have been wide-open mouths. The owl seemed not to have noticed its shift from outdoors to indoors, for it remained placid in Harry's protective arms. I noticed too, that he was carrying two sheets of paper, so stiff and yellowing it could have been ancient parchment, in his right hand. How these came to get to him I could only see one answer, though this conclusion seems so ludacris to me that I think it better not to explore it or it shall muddle my mind further.

He had been watching me.

"Pet her if you like, she's perfectly tame."

His expression was one of incredible normality, as if (I was beginning to suspect) he attracted rare owls daily.

Bernard quickly reached his hand out, moving it gently over the owls white down.

Harry may suddenly have realised that we, as a couple, were not entirely used to owls being in our home.

"I - she's mine. I lost her... but she knew where to find me. It's ok though, I'll keep her outside, if you wish...?"

Was it my imagination, or did the owl look reproachfully at her owner at this suggestion?

"Nonsense, nonsense!" - Bernard had decided to make this his decision. "She'll blow away in this wind! She can - we used have a budgie. She'll fit in his cage no bother - that is, if she doesn't mind!" He gently tickled the owl.

Harry looked quite relieved at this idea, and once the cage was retrieved from the pantry his owl seemed quite content to perch there, though now I think she may be a little cramped.

He then sank into the kitchen armchair to read the scrawl on the papers he had received.

Bernard told me a while ago, after dinner, where the papers came from.

"A man, he told me. Nothing more! But I expect by the wax seal on the envelope that it's an important man, albeit old-fashioned!"

I smiled at this observation, but it still did not give any explanation as to how it came into the boy's possession. What followed from Bernard was however, a little troubling.

"Potter had an owl. Remember my old friend Potter?"

"No I don't remember that Potter," I replied, the icey darkness beginning again within me, this time nothing unknown had initiatied it.

"Yes, that Potter had an owl. A brown owl though, not like this Potter!"

I said nothing. I wanted to confide in Bernard the events of last night, but I didn't think he would understand. Must I burden him with my own horrid memories, only so I will have shared them?

The owl has just hooted from Harry's room. My eyes itch with fatigue, but I feel that something other than sunlight is dawning on us all.

Disclaimer: I am certainly not J.K. Rowling, I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters but I do own the Comptons and the plot, okay?

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The Compton Diary

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This seventh page is written in the blotted script of Bernard Compton.


Wednesday 20th March 1998



It happened last night.

They came and took him.

My head still hurts and my Alice still sleeps.

Harry knew. He tried to warn me.

My nose is raw with the cold sea air and the skin on my face is salty.

There were many of them, though one arrived before the rest. His name was Lupin. He was one of them. One of Harry’s kind. I can remember now, how I first became acquainted with them. It was during the war, of course.

Lupin came yesterday evening. Harry seemed to be well acquainted with him, and though not surprised at his sudden arrival, seemed vaguely displeased with him.

I was in the kitchen, and when the new man arrived he greeted Harry like a brother, and there was great concern in his eyes. He wanted to say something, but then noticed me, sitting at the table. Harry told me that this man’s name was Lupin. I thought it quite an odd name, but his are an odd sort. I retained an air of calm oblivion and he saw no harm in me. I noticed that he too carried a stick in his belt, and what struck me at once was how worn his cloak seemed. The robes made little impression on me; I have seen them before.

Alice came in from the gardening, her gloves caked in mud. She was somewhat overwhelmed by the new guest, and she asked what he was doing in our home.

He said he had come to take Harry.

At this Harry suddenly glared at him, as if to convey that his deepest desire was to stay. He then looked at me sadly.

Alice questioned this abrupt statement. Harry stirred at this question, and told her that he had to. His eyes were suddenly quite fearful, and he smoothed his hand over his forehead. He walked defiantly out of the room, muttering something to Lupin, as he took a brown package from him.

I sensed something bad about this man, as if he could all of a sudden launch attack at either of us. I felt the old hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I remembered the last time I had been around such men as he.

Yet his eyes were kind, and full of caution. He was young, though his skin was rather lined, and his hair was greying.

“You’re just taking him away?�

My mouth felt dry. I knew hardly anything about Harry, but now I could not imagine our home without him.

He sighed.

“You are in grave danger. He cannot stay with you any longer.�

I felt eyes at the back of my head, and turned to see Harry in the doorway behind me.

“Are you ready?�

Harry was pale. He was wearing different robes now. They were plain black. He nodded. He held his own stick in his hand.

Lupin now turned to him, his own stick ready.

“You understand that we have to do this, don’t you?�

Harry nodded, but I saw him swallow, and he was reluctant to meet my eyes. He spoke as if to himself, staring at the wooden floor.

“It doesn’t mean I’ll forget about you.�

They raised their sticks at Alice, and in a flash I was between her and them, my fist raised. I roared at them. They would not touch her. I would do anything for her.

Alice remained still; no reaction showed on her face as she leaned against the kitchen counter.

Harry now directed his stick at me. His was not angry; but his words were drumming into my skull like a heavy winter storm,

“You don’t understand. They’ll hurt you. I have to leave; you can’t get hurt because of me; we have to make you forget!�

Of course I didn’t understand. I had no idea who “they� meant, and as I turned my eyes to the window I saw dusk settling in the air, turning the garden grey.

Only now do I understand why Harry’s eyes widened suddenly as he spun around to face the door, only now do I understand why he and Lupin wanted him out of our memories, only now do I know why we were forced into Harry’s room and locked in.

I stumbled onto the bed as the door locked. Alice’s expression was blank. I wished her face would change, and then I recalled that mountain cave, closely surrounded on all sides by walls, just like this room. The walls seemed to close in, and I knew we were doomed.

In my panic, I ran to the window. But when I reached it I saw that there was no window, only wall. I turned again to the door, and I felt my heart go still when I realised there was no door either, only cream walls at every turn. Alice sat on the bed.

I wanted her to look at me.

“Alice!�

A cried her name again and again, and then I was on my knees, the doorless, windowless room growing even smaller.

Then I heard it, the inevitable bursts of energy, the crashing and the cackling of evil men. I felt the floor shake, and I thought the walls were coming down. I was in a tired heap on the floor, hearing the sounds of my friends dying around me. The sounds grew distant now, and I wondered what sort of terror I must face in the next hour. The white ceiling plummeted towards me, and I was screaming.

I don’t know how long I knelt there, the floor swaying in motion with the violent sounds outside. I only became vaguely aware of Alice’s presence when she pointed at me.

“Look there.�

It was the first thing I heard her say, and as I sprang from delirium to sheer nausea I followed her pointed finger, to beneath the bed. I gasped as I saw the pool of dried blood, blurring in my watery eyes.

Alice was crouched beside me, comforting me as she would a small child. I realise too late that the room was no prison, it was a protection.

The fighting ceased.

We could no longer hear it. The screams, the laughter, the terror, seemed to be emptied from our home. I looked up from Alice’s kind shoulder to see that the door had returned. It swung soundlessly open, and as I stumbled to my feet, I gazed out, to see who was there.

The living room was a mess. The darkness made silhouettes of the scattered pieces of furniture, completely blown apart. There were holes in the walls, and the television had been reduced to ashes. The bookshelf had fallen, scattering books and photographs all over the carpet, which was now drenched in some places with the smell of blood. The only thing that remained unbroken was my old gun. It lay in the corner, and the smell and scattered debris reminded me of those old times. I picked it up, knowing that the barrel was loaded in case of emergency.

I held Alice’s hand as we walked through the devastation that had once been our sitting room.

It felt like a bomb had fallen.

Silence muffled our thoughts. The darkness blanketed us, and I gazed out the large hole where an entire wall had been reduced to rubble. A soft wind blew towards me, and I shivered.

I should have stayed there. Instead I found myself running through the rubble. I needed to know. I needed to see what Harry was. The muddy grass took hold of my slippers and drenched my socks as I ran. I heard Alice calling after me, but for once I took no heed. I ran to them, the dark figures on the cliff edge.

I immediately lay down, flat out in the grass, in an effort not to be seen.

The wind became bitter as I approached the group. It swept through me like a knife, and my chest was heaving. I saw several of these mysterious men with sticks, their forces I never dream to command. Many wore masks. They fought in scattered groups, each conjuring their own flashes of power, sending it to the other. There may have been ten of these beings fighting on the cliff, but one stood out to me.

Harry fought bravely against too of these beings. His skill and excellent reflexes were clear to me. I felt a strange sense of pride as I watched him, but I panicked when he fell. One of the beings bore down on him, their stick pointed directly at his chest, as I had seen done many years ago. He watched, helplessly, as the stick was lowered towards him.

My fingers tightened around the gun in my hand. Hastily, I aimed it towards the being and shot.

My victim did not fall, but the resounding crack of the gunshot was sufficient to distract the figure, and it gave Harry enough time to shoot his own force at it.

His force made it crumple to the grass, and I watched as the crowd thinned, each figure dissolving into the air. Finally, only two remained standing.

Harry and Lupin still stood at the cliff edge, and their faces were directed towards me. I looked across the empty space between us. Harry raised his arm and waved. I lifted myself from the mud, but when I looked up again, they were gone.

The air was full of a fine drizzle and the sea was all I heard. I turned to go back to my destroyed home.

Alice was there to greet me.

I held her close, my body stiff with cold. As I looked around the cottage I was overjoyed to see that there was no sign of damage, that the sitting room had in one instant been restored to its former glory. I do not try to comprehend how magic works, but I know that there has been plenty in my life.

She was exhausted, and I did not tell her what I had witnessed. This past week has been as clear as crystal to me, and I know it will remain that way forever.

Disclaimer: I am certainly not J.K. Rowling. I don’t own any of the Harry Potter characters but I do own the Comptons and the plot, okay?

---

The Compton Diary

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Note: There is no further reference to these incidents involving a young man named "Harry Potter," until a short entry a year and ten months later. This page was once again written by Alice Compton, and there is no other reference to him in any other part of the remaining pages.



Thursday, January 1st, 1999



Like last year, we are staying in our daughter's house for the holidays, and exactly a week after a pleasant Christmas day, my memory was stirred rather oddly, conjuring in my mind a series of blurred, surreal images that still spin in my head.

Sometimes, in the time that has passed, I have tried to fool myself into thinking that the drenched boy we encountered did not exist at all. Yet I have seen him many times in my dreams, and it seemed as though once more he was protecting me, and I felt tricked on waking to find him gone.

He stayed with us for such a short time, a time I have tried to forget, because it hurts to miss him, and it confuses me to miss someone I barely knew, and whose existence I doubted.

Bernard has not spoken of him often, though I have occasionally found him gazing at that old photograph fondly. It now holds place of pride on our drawing room mantelpiece, along with photos of our beloved grandchildren.

It is strange, the sense of attachment he left us with. He was so distant, and it made me enormously sad to think of the things he did for us, and how little we did for him. All the while he seemed too grateful, as though he thought himself undeserving of basic shelter and food after what must have been a shocking ordeal, though where he came from I have no idea. His behaviour led me to question his upbringing, because though he was well-mannered it took him some time to actually trust us.

My husband told me of the boy’s sudden departure, and during the days that followed, the gaps in Bernard’s old memories seemed to fill. He is still sure of the fiery beast he saw in France, and after the beastly things I have felt, I doubt him not at all. That is what haunted me in my sleep; the notion that that monster, shrouded by invisibility should take Harry and send him to the depths of Hell, as it did to me. Bernard told me that in his dreams, he saw a tall bearded man, and an ancient institution of learning, the likes of which he had never seen.

Against Bernard’s wishes, I must admit, I did report the boy’s appearance and abrupt departure to the police, but they had no listed missing person by the name of “Harry Potter.� I was told that it was not a rare name, and that being a youth it made it harder for him to be traced. Bernard felt that this was a good sign; apparently it’s a sign “his sort� have been successful – our sort have no notion of their existence.

But today we were reminded once more of that shocking week; it happened in a flash, when he had left my mind completely.

As New Year’s Day is a quiet one, Bernard and I took the grandchildren out walking, Louisa needs all the rest she can get, and David is on call until eight o’clock this evening.

We made the relatively short walk to their local corner shop, and the three children skipped happily ahead, Bart the dog leading us at a quick pace. His heavy paws made heavy thumping noises on the hard path, and our breath swirled before us in white wisps. My un-gloved hands were red and raw, and the cold air made my ears stiff. I should have brought a hat with me.

Upon doing our errands, we emerged from the shop, Bernard clutching the morning paper in his right arm, his left linked with mine. The three rascals were of course full of energy, and they bounded on again, and Bart barked at passing strangers, his grey fur coat keeping him warm in the thin, icy air.

The tall squashed buildings towered over us, their ornate windows glowering at their neighbours across the road. Now and again, a car would rumble past, and Jonny liked to tell us what type it was – five-year old boys are profoundly knowledgeable in the subject of automobiles.

As we passed an old bookshop - its doors shut and windows dusty, I felt a strange sensation, as though I was being watched. For some reason I felt as if it came from above me, and I craned my neck at the high windows. Seeing no-one, I faced ahead again to the bustling children, their brightly coloured coats shimmering brightly in the dull street.

That was when I saw him, a young man, wearing dark clothes, and I knew it was him.

Our eyes met, and the children skipped merrily past as though they could not see him, but the dog barked sharply at him, and I, distracted by this noise, glanced down for a moment. Bernard drew a sharp breath, and when our boy passed him he slipped a thin piece of paper into his hands. Bernard stuffed it into his pocket, his eyes locked on him also. Harry's hands were in his own pockets, and he gave me a sad smile, before walking past us.

The children jumped around a lampost, and urged Bernard and I to hurry, and I just stood there, astonished, wondering what I could possibly say to Harry, who had guarded us both from unimaginable terror. I had only caught a glimpse of his face, and he seemed far older somehow, though little else had changed about him.

I turned around, hoping to see his retreating back - I longed to thank him, to thank Harry for returning my husband to me, - but when I looked he was no longer there; there was no young man in the streets, it was now empty save for us. All that remained behind me was the cold, frosted path, cracked with age.

This evening when we were alone, Bernard took the paper from his pocket. It was crumpled but perfectly legible, and it read, in a neat scrawl,

“Thank you.�

It is beside me as I write, and I wonder what he could possibly be thanking us for. He had simply appeared, and then vanished, like he did almost two years ago. He saved our lives over and over, and replenished Bernard’s ailing mind to such a degree that he can now remember many things days after they have happened.

Now I must retire to bed, for it is late, and I know that there are no waves to lull me to sleep, only the unceasing traffic on the streets of Chelsea...

Disclaimer: As said before.

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The Compton Diary

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Tuesday, 12 July, 2005.


Mrs Louisa Burke-Compton,

Sincere apologies for not replying sooner.

I have been examining the diary you sent me in great detail, and have researched anything that may have linked the story with another, as to give it proof that what was written actually took place.

Who was this man that came into their lives so unexpectedly, and for such a short time? This is the question that most intrigues me. Was he really called, "Harry Potter," or was this a pseudonym to act as a police deterrent?

I continue my research into this most interesting and honestly, baffling case. I hope to reach you again soon, and that I may discover the truth in these events.

I have looked into the records of Bernard Compton's regiment and unfortunately have not seen anything relating to the alleged occurances involving a "winged beast." The records state that the camp was heavily bombed, and many of the regiment did die in the fires that followed. Bernard Compton was admitted to the hopital three days later, and it is indeed stated that he had a concussion.

The terrifying creature Alice Compton has written to have encountered seems to be a personification of depression, but did it actually exist? I am full of curiousity about the reasons behind these events.

And those robed people, who held sticks? The sticks appear to have been a conductor of power. I have, several times, been given a document with an account of these mysterious stick-carriers, and my only theory is that they make-up some sort of secret society. If so, does that society still operate? And is it malign or benign?

In either case, I wish to make a full inquiry into related events. I hope anyone to have witnessed such events involving robed, stick-carriers to come forward and contact me.

Dr Helena Stanfield

Dr Helena Stanfield

88 Old Serene Place
West Brompton
SW10
London