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
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...