Work Text:
The Journal of Harry J. Potter
Please return to owner if lost.
September 3, 1993,
I admire many things very deeply, though it might not seem so at first glance. My love can be as deep as my hatred. I find joy in soft, sweet melodies, as long as the musician is competent, as it isn’t so in today’s day and age. Colourful, three-dimensional works with much depth and layer are most pleasing to my eye, and are what I prefer to draw myself.
When I endeavour myself to this craft, I leave my finished works to dry along my bedside nightstand, along with the rest of my treasured memorabilia. The rest of the boys in my dorm know not to disturb me during the time that I draw. I know almost nothing about astrology, I can admit, but the stars and the planets fascinate me. Especially their movements and almost otherworldly beauty. I very much like to draw and paint about this subject.
November 3, 1994,
Anguish in your flight
Ink blotting stains your letters
At last, blissful peace
January 5, 1995
Yesterday has been too strange. I don’t find myself thinking often about him, but sometimes it seems as if he goes out of his way to distract me. I was standing near a window while the other boys at the gathering were laughing amongst themselves. I don’t have much of anything to say to people at social events, so I usually just remain silent.
My mind could only traverse back to our past conversations, to the sound of his laughter, and the almost odd sight of his pale complexion against my dark one. My heart flutters a bit, and I do not understand why. Once I get too deep in thought, he gently seizes my wrist and brings me into the circle with the others, and forces me to speak with them.
I cannot comprehend why he can’t just leave me be, but perhaps it has something to do with the strange feelings festering within the corners of our hearts, if he indeed does share them.
I suppose only time can tell with this one.
February 14, 1995,
Winter nights bring cold
Warmth deep in your mocha eyes
Deep cold melts away
July 6, 1995,
Some people say I am a bit too contemplative for their liking, and I suppose it is true. I find too many things saddening in this life. I cannot help it. One day I was taking a stroll along the park, when I found a child laughing with his mother. I felt sick with myself for doing so, but I felt a rage rise within me at the innocent sight.
What was it, that this child had done in his life, that did not grant me the same luxury? Fate, I suppose, chance. ‘Tis foolish. What is wrong with me, I ask, that makes me feel such a terrible emotion over something so bright and lovely in this world?
Perhaps it is me that is wrong and twisted.
July 31, 1995,
Jerusalem bells
Praise be the divine angels
Please, save this tired soul
August 5, 1995,
The summer sun is much too hot for my tastes. It is quite bothersome. Especially when I am trying to go for my daily stroll. I don’t exercise much, but I try to go on walks every day, to keep up my good figure. The weather was terribly humid, and all throughout the journey, I could feel myself sweating. It was very distasteful, and a feeling that I entirely loathe. I took a thorough shower once I arrived home.
To make matters worse, Aunt Petunia scolded me for leaving my dirty clothes on the laundry floor. I wished, not for the first and certainly not the last time, that it was school once more, so I could at last be away from home.
Yes, I truly hate summertime, with every fibre of my being.
August 13, 1995,
Dear old grandmama
Your limp, gray hair is too tired
This burden of life
August 30, 1995,
Today was surprisingly pleasant, especially for summertime. I had just finished freshening myself up for the day, when I noticed a lemon-scented note waiting for me on my dresser, with a single red rose on top of it. I was very pleased with my discovery. Roses are my favourite of all flowers, and the sweet smell was most welcome!
I opened the note, to find that it had been written by him. There was that strange fluttering in my heart again, that I didn’t like to ruminate on too deeply. After reading the beautiful note, in elegant print, I held it close to my heart and looked up at the ceiling in thought. I remained that way ‘till breakfast-time, as I pondered.
Perhaps summertime wasn’t all too horrid.
December 31, 1995,
My dear love, my life!
Beautiful angel of mine
Must you hurt me so?
October 7, 1996,
The boys at my school are so juvenile! You would think they were still toddlers, with their lack of maturity. All they do is speak of girls, crack stupid jokes, pull pranks, and offend others. I am especially grateful now that I am above such things. I think it would be most loathsome to be of such a temperament. I almost pity my cousin, but he is too much of a nuisance to fully gain my sympathy.
Then again, I suppose I can attribute my sensibility to my queer ways. Were I a normal man, I do not doubt that I would not be nearly self-aware enough to come to such logical conclusions. But I suppose they are not completely worthless.
The other day, a boy asked me to come with him to the Fairfield Festival. I thought of him, and declined. Accepting would seem like a betrayal to his affections, as complicated as they may be.
Hopefully one day, I find a woman good enough to rouse my spirits as he does.
May 1, 1997,
Fiery are the flames
That douse the candle of life
O Lord, have mercy