Hahaha... one hour of thinking up a plot, and coming out with nothing ended up with this. I guess anything goes here, though I have a rather distinct vision of the story. Some may like it; some may not, but hey! That's ok. =) All for the greater glory of the bespectacled wonder that is Harry Potter.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not my creation, never was, never will be, and like many of the aspiring authors of the fan fiction world here at ff.net, the plot is mine, and very much original, thank you very much.

Now... onto the story with no name yet as I write the beginning... ü ENJOY!

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I can't believe I'm doing this... I can do this! He's not here... He's not going to come over me... No more... no more...

She chanted it like a mantra inside her head, as she stared at the empty page before her, inviting the quill in her hand to come scribble a few sentences, a few words, even. A wispy lock of hair escaped the loose ponytail, and she hissed in annoyance.

She stared helplessly at the rather yellowish, but smooth page, and closed the book. She sighed, relieved, when the beautiful scarlet color with gold edges met her eyes.

She'd only been thinking about my loneliness at the Burrow. But still, I am so afraid...... It wouldn't hurt, would it?

 

She looked out the small, rather disfigured circular window. The beginnings of a new moon greeted her searching brown eyes, its pale whitish yellow standing out vibrantly against the dark midnight sky, dotted with a few stars here and there. Some transparent clouds moved and covered the moon for a brief second- her heart stopped a little- she vaguely remembered the plunging cold and darkness when she'd opened and entered, upon orders - she shuddered to remember- the Chamber of Secrets.

It's been four years, Gin... get over it... One part of her seemed to argue the fright that settled quite snugly in her brain.

Sighing resignedly, she switched her gaze again to the medium-sized red book lying in front of her, as she had done so many times in the past couple of hours.

To write, or not to write, that is the question. What of it? But if I choose to, then I'd be doing myself a favor... Whatever... this is making my brain hurt...

She reached out a tentative hand, and flicked the book open. Suddenly, her skin became sensitive and she felt a gust of cold air from the window, and she made a mental note to fix that. The rather thin but comfy cover of her bed turned hot under her legs; she was stifled. Her thick socks, actually a pair of her brother's, she forgot which one, seemed so itchy compared to her loose nightgown.

She grabbed the quill beside her and hesitated a fraction of a second before she dipped it into the dark black of the ink bottle. Watching some of the excess ink drip back into the bottle, she commanded her momentarily frozen hand to go forward and write the first two words...

Dear Diary,

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Somewhere, quite a long way from where she was, a tired boy lay on the wooden floor, panting for breath. Another night of his uncle's hatred, another night of sleepless fussing, and if he did manage to drift off, he'd have to endure reliving that night, when he died.

Can't it stop? God... Why am I cursed? I don't want to be The Boy Who Lived and I sure as hell wouldn't want to be the damn Triwizard champion... It should've been him... he deserved it...

It was painful to think of Cedric Diggory, to think of the inexpressible anguish on his parents' faces, of the crystalline cascades of sadness pouring steadily down Cho's cheek.

Cho...

A bittersweet memory, like the crystal merchant in The Alchemist. He'd read it over last term, found in between a pair of Hermione's heavy books, what were they again? Potions for the Cunning, Intelligent and Knowledgeable? He'd thought her to be complimenting herself there, but she deserved it. What with all her top grades.

Barely a week ago, he'd returned from Hogwarts, from the harsh realities of the Wizarding world, from home. The last time he'd actually slept peacefully, without a hint of Voldemort, or a Death Eater, or the Triwizard Cup in sight, was when Madam Pomfrey gave him that Sleeping Draught. Without the nagging but kind nurse at Privet Drive, he was alone to fend off his nightmares alone.

Alone.

He wished. Voldemort's inhumanely cold laugh, the sneering faces of the many Death Eaters, Cedric's voice tentatively suggesting they take their wands out, his father's voice urging his beloved to leave with their son, his mother's screams for mercy...

A distinctly familiar prickling behind his eyes. He closed them determinedly, he wouldn't cry.

No... I will NOT cry. I am strong. I am proud. I will never cry. Crying is for cowards, for the weak, for those who can't control their own emotions.

Ah, said a nasty little voice inside his head, if crying is for all those you've listed, then why don't you? Oh, yes, right, is crying right for murderers?

His eyes flew open. Not Cedric, gods have mercy, not Cedric.

"Wands out, d'you reckon?"

"Er-- just take a bath, okay?"

It couldn't be happening. It couldn't! Couldn't...

"Lily! Take Harry and go! It's him!"

"Please, have mercy! Have mercy! Not Harry!"

"Dad? Mum?" He smiled sweetly at the thought of his young parents. They certainly were legends, heroes. They were...

A smile, and they were. They were.

He stared at the ceiling, thoughts swimming madly around his head. Hushed whispers coming in from every direction; was he going mad? No... Maybe he was just lonely.

Why wouldn't Dumbledore allow him to go to the Burrow? He would be safe with the Weasleys! He really would. Why wouldn't Dumbledore allow him to go to 12 Grimmauld Place? Sirius was...

He's dead. I forgot.

How stupid of him to remind himself of his godfather in his moment of weakness! Stupid and tactless. Hadn't Hermione said he was tactless after that kiss?

What is this? Dementor Day or something? Why am I remembering all... this?

Anything was better than trying to withstand his uncle's recently started beatings, his aunt's unbearably difficult chores, and Dudley's renewed bullying. Seemingly, a new drills company had opened, and it rivaled Uncle Vernon's.

The first time had been the night when he came; he was disgusted to think it, home. A roaring drunk beefy... monster had banged his door open, cussing up a storm. He called the new owner the foulest words in the dictionary, ranging from the simple four-lettered words to more complex and added curses. Then, with a glint in his eye worthy enough to rival Voldemort's, he'd looked the boy straight in the eye before punching him in the stomach.

It made him double over and he came heaving for breath, only to be followed by another swift punch, and another, and another. He lost count, and the pain had dulled into hard blows on a broken soul. The blissful dark of unconsciousness welcomed him from the mind-blowing pain, not far from the lines of the Cruciatus.

His uncle forbade him to write any letters for help. With Hedwig locked up in a cage not even kept in his room, he wasn't sure if he could hold on to his sanity any longer.

Screw the Daily Prophet if they think me as deranged... I don't give a damn anymore...

The second time had been pretty much the same, all the pain and anger flowing from his uncle's fists to every part of his battered body. Emotionally unstable and physically weak as well, he was really going to have to strengthen up to survive any surprise attack from Voldemort. With Mad-Eye Moody's barking voice still ringing in his ears, he struggled to read his Defense Against the Dark Arts books and the ones Sirius had sent him.

He wished that all the events hadn't turned out the way they did, that for once he wasn't the bold and brave Gryffindor hero, the one who everyone turned to the fight the Dark side. He wished it wasn't him who had to sacrifice everything he loved and to be the martyr that everything wasn't up to him. That wasn't to be, though.

Not for the first time in his life, he found himself wishing for a mother to cuddle with him, to fuss over his unkempt hair, to wipe away the tears that would manage to escape his proud barrier; a father to clap him on the back after a Quidditch game well won, to teach him how to deal with girls, to warn him against Snape and the like.

But no, he thought bitterly, turning over only to have the soft white rays of the crescent moon on his face, he'd had to be Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, the Triwizard champion, everyone's self-proclaimed hero. Harry Potter... Harry Potter.

Exactly who he didn't want to be.

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In another part of the universe, Nirvana to be exact, in an old-fashioned house, with the traditional white picket fence, and the lovely garden full to bursting with lilies, petunias and roses, three old friends sat, reunited, with pure crystal glasses of what was the sweetest vodka ever to be drunk. They were fondly recalling old times, the times when life was so simple, and when they actually had it. Life, I mean.

The two males roared with rather exaggerated laughter, which alcohol tended to do to a man when drunk steadily for the past three hours.

"- And remember, Padfoot, when Moony turned Malfoy's robes to be transparent, and he was wearing white boxers with the red heart on the crotch? Hilarious!"

This particular memory brought another bout of laughter. Their happiness was short-lived, however, when the female present gasped.

Instantly, her loving husband was at her side, his trusty best friend in tow. "What is it, Lily Flower? Something the matter?"

"It's Harry, James. I can't believe Petunia married that uptight brute, he's abusing our son!"

Sirius gritted his teeth, and his eyes took on a dangerous spark, not unlike the one that made many people believe him to be the murderer he never was. "That Dursley was trouble the moment I laid eyes on his fat arse."

"He better not hurt Harry anymore, or he'll have us to answer to. I'll ask Merlin for permission to-"

Lily gently cut off her husband's harangue by laying a comforting hand on his arm. "James, Sirius, you know we can't interfere. I just hope that Harry hangs in there, that he will still have hope in a world that seems to have given up all signs of it already... it just pains me to see him hurt."

Her eyes looked very bright. The tables were turned as James pulled her close to him. "Harry will get through this, you'll see, Lils. He's strong, he won't give up... After all, he takes after his mum."

Sirius smiled gently at the sight of his two best friends sharing a special moment. He felt it necessary for him to leave the room, and as he did, he brought the vodka packs along. Wouldn't be wise to leave the alcohol, besides, they wouldn't drink it, so why leave it to go to waste?

His expression turned grim as he remembered the emerald-eyed teenager, fighting for his life and everyone else's against the Dark Lord.

"Hold on, Harry..."

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Yet in another part of the world, in Athens, Greece, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, otherwise known as Albus, was frowning in deep, contemplative thinking. He sighed, his worst fears already confirmed, and thought of the grief the foretold demise would bring.

Even thought he knew it from the beginning when William Weasley and Fleur Delacour presented to him the ancient tabloid, which they'd managed to salvage from the ruins of a temple in Egypt, he couldn't help but ask Amintar Calaminra, world renowned Ancient Runes translator, with many recommendations by various wizards and witches, and an Order of Merlin, Third Class for translating a rune that predicted the untimely demise of former Minister Cristof Meraux, again, "Are you sure, Amintar? Positive?"

"Dumbledore, I've been working on this for a month already, and on my father's grave, I swear, this piece of news saddens me but according to whoever wrote this, it is the only way." The Athenian's English was flawless.

He looked over to the headmaster of Hogwarts and was surprised to see the one thing the Wizarding world never expected to see on his face: defeat and mounting sadness. However, that look was gone as quick as it appeared.

"Read it to me..."

So he did. And Dumbledore listened. After a long pause, Amintar caught himself staring at the old man's face. He didn't see the traditional mellowed-down sort of look in those bright blue eyes. He saw hope for the world. Hope for a better life. Hope for him.

He blushed, something he hadn't done in a long time, when he remembered his manners. "So..?"

"Very well, Amintar, thank you for your time. I'll have your Secret-Keeper flown off to the Philippine islands. May Merlin save us all from Voldemort."

Calaminra visibly flinched, but Dumbledore didn't seem to show that he'd noticed. Instead, he trilled a few soft notes, and in the blink of an eye, he vanished, followed by a trail of golden-red dust.

Amintar Calaminra buried his face in his hands, deeply aggrieved. As a child, his parents were murdered by Voldemort, thus, making him an orphan. He'd secluded himself, set up a barrier around his emotions. He'd never had any friends except her.

He'd been Lily's close friend in their classes together at Hogwarts. He rued the day Voldemort came into power, and killed his only friend.

His eyes taking on a new light, he swore to himself, I will avenge you, Lily. You and James both.

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How was it? Horrible? A masterpiece? Something so gruesome you don't ever want to think about it again? Reviews... please! ü I'm looking forward to it like hell! ü