Disclaimer: Harry's not mine!
The Compton Diary
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.