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.)
The Compton Diary
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.