The Story of a Lifetime.
I suppose that this story will never be read by anyone. If it is read, it will not be believed. But a lifetime's habits are hard to break, so I'm writing it anyway. I'm planning to leave it in a bank vault for a hundred years. By that time, I should be safely dead.
To do this thing properly, I suppose I should give you some background. My name is Amanda Brown. When this story started, I was twenty-four, a struggling young freelance journalist. I'd done one or two pieces that got published, but I was beginning to give up hope of ever getting 'the story', the one that would make me. In fact, I was about ready to try to get a job working in a newspaper, when events that would change my life took place.
It all started with my grandmother's death. She was the only relative I had left in the world; she'd raised me since I was six. I hadn't seen her in two months, and when I heard the news I was shocked. She left her house and money to me. I hate to say it, but the money was a real lifesaver. It meant that I would have a bit longer before I had to get a steady job. But I was cleaning up her things, getting ready to sell her little house. It was in a quiet village, Godric's Hollow, where nothing ever happened. I came across my grandmother's journal. She'd always kept one, and had made me keep one, until writing down events became second nature to me. I saw that the year on this one was 1981. I thought nostalgically of my childhood as I carried it downstairs. I tried to remember, before reading it, what had happened in 1981. Not much that I could recall. Let's see…that was the year that the neighbor's house had blown up, wasn't it? That was a pretty big event in my childhood. But what did she say about it?
"November 1, 1981. Woke up this morning and looked out my window to see the Potters' house demolished. By the time I got down there, there was a huge crowd. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done…poor Lily and James. I remember how sweet Lily was, always making those teas that helped my arthritis so. Someone said a relative had come for the boy. Amazing that he could survive such a catastrophe. There always was something a bit odd about those people, though. I found some bits of rubbish in the ruins. I don't know what they mean."
"November 3. Strange people have been all over the village, asking questions about the Potters. I've hidden the things I found. Won't write where. I feel a bit nervous…
"November 5. The Ministry workers say that there was a gas explosion. Could have happened at any of the houses. I was foolish to be so worried. I'd get rid of that trash if I could remember where I put it."
I put the journal down. There was one thing I'd learned in my youth; my grandmother's hunches always had something to them. And she'd never given up on one. Except this time. I had a funny feeling. Maybe it was a hunch of my own, but I though there might be a story behind all this.
I wanted to find out more about this stuff, so I went to a newspaper archives that I knew of. I found articles on the Potters' deaths, all right. But I was flipping through, and I saw another article about a gas main break, in London. Thirteen people had died in that one. Now I smelled something fishy. Two gas main breaks within two days? Things aren't that badly run. No, there was something odd going on. I looked at a picture of the scene of the disaster. It was awful. Off to the side, however, there was a blurry man, wearing some odd robes. I pulled out a magnifying glass. Yes, definitely a man wearing robes, and not a clergyman, I thought. He had something in his hands, but I couldn't tell what.
"Curioser and curioser," I murmured to myself. "Or should it be, 'the game's afoot'?" My next step had to be to find the 'rubbish' my grandmother had mentioned. And I thought I knew where.
Up in the attic, there was an old trunk. When I was very young, I'd hide things in it, for it had a false bottom. But my grandmother had locked it, saying she didn't want my to break it. It was possible that she'd hidden the things in it.
I found the key, and opened the trunk. Piling the old clothes all over the floor, I carefully opened the secret compartment.
"Bingo!" Several dozen pieces of paper littered the bottom. I pulled them out, and started to look.
There was part of a photograph, but the weird thing was, the people in it moved! I vaguely recognized the man and woman as our deceased neighbors. There were fragments from a newspaper, yellowed but readable. I'd look at those closer in a minute. And once I'd cleared out all the rubbish, I saw an old, leather-bound book. I looked at it. It was a diary, and the name on the front was 'Lily'. I began to read, and the story that unfolded from its pages was – was unbelievable! It told of a magical community –magic, something I thought I'd stopped believing in in tenth grade! Hidden, from the general population. With its own rules, and strange creatures, dragons, for example. And it also didn't look like the Potters had been killed in a gas explosion. It certainly seemed that they had been murdered by an evil wizard. I looked at some of the newspaper clippings. They all seemed to deal with this 'You-Know-Who', this evil wizard. And it seems the Potters had been working against him.
When I looked up from the material, it was after ten o'clock. I could hardly believe what I had just read – yet I had too. But I knew that most people would think that I was crazy. I needed more evidence.
King's Cross Station. Busy at any timeof year, today it seemed especially so. I did hope that the journal had been right about where this secret entrance was. If not, I'd have come out here for nothing. I shifted a little, holding a novel, pretending to read while really watching the crowd avidly. There! Someone had just vanished through the barrier. I moved the book a little so that it did not obstruct the hidden camera I'd been holding. People started to trickle through the barrier. Finally, it was almost eleven. I sighed. That might be all I got. No, wait, here was a family of redheads, hurrying through the barrier. Now they were almost all through, except for two boys, one of which had dark hair and didn't look as though he was from their family. The two boys were now running at the barrier, but their carts bounced off. An owl flell off the dark-haired boy's cart, squawking loudly. As he turned to pick it up, I saw that he had an uncanny resemblence to the torn photograph of James Potter that I carried hidden in my purse. Perhaps this was the child, Harry. He looked about the right age. The two boys were conferring. Suddenly, they turned and walked out. I followed at a distance. The boys had approached an old Ford Anglia, parked on a side street. I shrank into a doorway, where I could see, but not be seen by, the two boys. The red-head pulled a stick of some sort out of his trunk and tapped the lock. It flew open.
"I hope this is all on the tape," I though to myself. Now both boys got in. the car started, then, suddenly, it vanished. I managed not to shriek, but it was close. I didn't know what to do, so I stood there for five minutes. Suddenly, two people came toward where the car had been. It was the parents of the red-head family. When the woman saw that the car was gone, she shrieked. There followed a long argument, which I caught parts of.
"All your fault, that car.."
"Molly-"
"They'll be seen….Killed…Harry…"
"Molly-"
"Dumbledore…Muggles…stupid rubbish…"
"Molly-"
"Hmmph!" and she vanished. The man sighed, and vanished as well.
Okay, there will be more, but I am having trouble deciding what to do to my characters. Ideas? Please, email me. And, yeah, it hasn't had much about Harry in it yet. So? Maybe in the sequel….