AN: I've edited this many times and now I'm tired. It hasn't been beta'd so if you see any mistakes or inconsistencies please tell me (I wouldn't be surprised if there are some given how many times I've changed this).
The battle had raged on for another four hours. Harry and Neville had soon rejoined the fighting, leaving Ron alone by her side. Her. He couldn't even use her name.
That old hat had been right. He was a coward.
Not that it mattered now. The sorting hat had burned to the ground with Hogwarts itself, along with magical Britain's greatest treasures. Hogwarts was supposed to be safe, safer than even Gringotts. "Strongest wards in the world"- Bill had told him that. Fat lot of good those wards did when the army bombed the place.
With a flick of his wand the darkness was broken by a dim orange glow. He clearly wasn't going to get any sleep.
Exhausted but with mind racing he pulled himself upright, brushing off the rough woolen blanket, and inspected (albeit with some trouble- the thin mattress upon which he'd lain had done little to alleviate the stiff neck that had been plaguing him for weeks) his little cabin. To his right was a small, roughly carven wooden table on which sat the rusty oil lamp he'd just lit; to his left a tiny window covered by what looks like it might once have been an emerald curtain but know looked more like dark grey rags. In front of him there was only a wall. A boring, wooden wall. It was a good job he'd never cared much for decor- Malfoy was probably having a fit, wherever the sod was.
He swung his legs, filling the cabin with a gentle thud thud thud as they hit the suitcases that were tucked under his bunk.
He probably shouldn't say that. In all fairness, Malfoy had changed since the start of the war. He'd suffered as many losses as any of them. Honestly, Harry was as glad it was over for the ferret and he was that it was over for himself- the guy was alright, really. Though he'd never stop calling him a ferret.
Malfoy had fought as bravely as the rest of them, even if he had lost the will to fight at the end.
After all, so had Harry.
So had everyone.
That was why they were leaving. That was why the entire remaining population of Wizarding Britain was currently aboard The Selkie, destined for- what they hoped would be- a better, more peaceful life on German soil. The German muggles hadn't (yet) declared war on their magical counterparts and so for now the country was a safe haven. He could only hope it stayed that way.
At least all his worries about being refused asylum were for naught. There were so few of them anyway, they'd hardly be much trouble to house. Plus a lot of those on board had connections to German families. There would've been riots if the purebloods of the country had heard their own minister was refusing asylum to their beloved cousins/uncles/sisters/whatever.
Why people cared so much he didn't know. This whole "love" thing was stupid. It made him just want to curse people and, and-
It's happening again.
Fuck.
Irritably he bent down and pulled out a worn green backpack. This had happened a few times already, this odd irritableness. This hatred of love. This desire to cause hurt. Accioing the one thing that seemed to be able to help he when he was in these moods, he pondered over the implications of his not doing it this time, not using the one thing that bought back his sanity. He thought about giving in.
But he couldn't.
No matter how much he hated this object, hated what it meant- hated what his need for it meant- he could never give in. He could never let himself think like Him- be like Him. He owed the wizarding world that much.
He thumbed the object in his hands. The thing of nightmares that he could never destroy.
He ran a hand along the folded page that had been its salvation.
Taking out a quill, he began to write.
Tom.
Harry. How lovely of you to drop by. I would offer you some tea but unfortunately I'm... unable. Perhaps if you were to let me out-
Not happening. I won't be here long.
Of course not. Still, far be it from me to be uncourteous to such a treasured guest. Tell me Harry, how are you?
I'm fine.
Not at all… irritable?
How did you?
Harry, that is not a sentence.
Was it his imagination, or did the young Dark Lord sound… amused? Bastard.
Whatever.
Don't think I don't know why you're here, Golden Boy, you wouldn't talk to me if you didn't have to.
Harry didn't bother to respond to that.
I wonder when you will finally admit it yourself.
Admit what? That I won't talk to you unless it's necessary? The ship's already sailed on that one Riddle.
No, Harry. The truth that creeps up on your mind every now and then. The truth that you are trying to hide from by writing in this diary. A curious thing that it's my diary that-
If you mean that muggles are evil or something you're wrong-
Am I?
They're just misguided, or afraid or something!
Dumbledore would have said that, right?
Oh of course. And being afraid of something makes it absolutely fine to start killin-
He'd had enough.
Shut up. Just shut up.
Oh, just blocking out my arguments now? How very mature. I can see-
I said shut up.
You're the one writing in my diary Harry.
I wouldn't be if I didn't have to, and you know that full well. Speaking of which- what is even happening to me? What are you doing to me?
I'm doing nothing.
Your Horcrux then.
My Horcrux is merely encouraging pre-existing thought patterns.
They are not pre-existing!
A Horcrux cannot create entirely new thought patterns-
Your other self then! These thoughts belong to him.
My 'other self' as you so eloquently put it is currently far too weak to have any influence whatsoever on your thoughts.
You're lying.
If it helps you sleep at night.
I…
Tell me, Harry, did the German minister grant your request?
Harry blinked at the sudden change in topic. What was Riddle trying now?
Yes. The captain says we'll arrive in three days.
Excellent. I wonder, Harry, do you speak any German?
No.
I happen to speak excellent German.
Wonderful.
I could teach you.
At what cost? What would you gain from it, Riddle?
Why, the delights of your company of course! And a break from the monotony that is being a diary.
I don't trust you.
We'll start with greetings.
That wasn't a yes.
You are arriving in a foreign country in three days. You do not speak any of the language. You can hardly say no.
I hate you.
Hello can be translated in a number of different ways, the most obvious being hallo.
Five hours later harry finally lifted his head from the diary, massaging the painful crick in the back of his neck. He felt far more relaxed now- and much much less murderous. Ironic that talking to Minimort had that effect on him.
Heh. Minimort. He'd have to use that sometime.
Flicking off his lamp, he layed back down in bed and stared out across his cabin.
Outside the window the sun had begun to rise, sending tiny rays of golden light through the holes in the curtain. The sea that carried them had begun to warm and Harry liked to imagine that the Earth so far beneath them had too; that its core was an icy heart finally beginning to thaw; that Gaia was yet beautiful.
In Germany wizards and witches awoke. Some were excited, ready and raring for the day ahead. Others dreading another day of the same dreary, monotonous work. Some were even distraught, crying over lost loves and loves.
But in that ever less distant land none needed to cry for their blood, none needed to cry for their country.
And in the dim morning light, to bleary eyes, those rays of sunshine looked like goldust.
Harry's eyes closed and he slept at last.
The next two days passed in the same way as the five before them. Wake up, eat, talk, eat, play games, fake a laugh, eat, cry, then sleep. They were a people who hoped for the best, expected the worst, and had learned not to trust their hopes anyway. The atmosphere was subdued.
On the third day everything changed.
"We've seen land! We've seen land!" a woman was shouting hysterically; half laughing, half crying.
"Where? How far?" a man's voice this time, bursting with barely contained enthusiasm.
Harry rubbed his eyes sleepily, irritably. What were all those people shouting abo- oh. Oh!
Land!
He snapped out of bed, and seconds later he was down the corridor and in the shower, his best dress robes just outside, scrubbing himself furiously. He could hardly attempt to make a new life for himself if he looked like he'd just escaped azkaban!
Peering out to check no one was in hearing distance, he began to sing.
Stepping out of the shower refreshed and much much cleaner, he began to turn his attention to his appearance. The only sign he had changed at all since the day he killed the Dark Lord was the assortment scars that littered his body. Battle scars from shrapnel, shells, bullet wounds and who knew what else. The scars seemed to concentrate worryingly around his (far too visible) ribcage, making him appreciate just how lucky he was that magic could heal in seconds injuries that to muggles would be fatal.
He cast some quick glamours- vowing to look into removing them permanently once they were on dry land- and his pallid, marred skin became a smooth flawless alabaster.
He couldn't do anything for his skinniness, so he made a mental note to work on his health. He really should anyway.
Now for his hair.
The dark locks had grown in wartime, and now fell in a mass of unruly curls and waves down to his shoulder blades. A conjured pair of scissors and a few snips later he'd cut it down to a more manageable size- as long as it could be without touching his colour- with a few curly locks left slightly longer at the front to frame his face (and to cover his eyes ever so slightly when he tilted his head just so, he'd always trust a physical barrier against legilimency over any mental one).
Finally, he turned his attention to his eyes. They were sunken and surrounded by dark circles, covered by broken glasses that looked awkward and clumsy and didn't really help matters at all. It was probably time he got new glasses, but for now...
"Occulus alteramentum!"
The glasses' thick rims vanished, and their round shape lengthened and thinned into that of a rectangle. He peeled off the cellotape that had been holding them together- his transfiguration was good enough that they seemed as clean and unworn as if he'd bought them only five minutes ago.
A final glamour later and the dark circles were gone, revealing dark emerald eyes that glinted beneath his rimless glasses.
Damn, he looked good, if he did say so himself.
Now, seeing that his vision of a new life didn't include nudism (at least not on his part) he'd probably ought to dress.
First, he pulled on a comfortable black shirt and a matching pair of comfortable, form-fitting trousers. Over the shirt he pulled on a dark Slytherin-green waistcoat, and a matching cloak that fastened at the front with a small silver broach in the shape of the Potter crest. It was a good job he'd gotten over his dislike of all things green shortly after leaving Hogwarts, he mused, the colour really did suit him. He finished the outfit off with a pair of black leather boots.
With one last long look at his reflection, he spun and left the room.
The air was frigid, the breeze biting. The crowd at the harbour payed it no mind, they had warm furs and heating charms and fires waiting for them at home. The sky was grey, the clouds darkening. The crowd payed this no mind either, who could spare a thought for the weather at a time like this? The water was choppy, a ship approaching. The crowd did pay attention to this.
Finally the ship came close enough to see the people onboard; it came close enough for those on the harbour to shout to them.
"Kuisine! Kuisine!" shouted a greying man in mulberry robes.
"Marc! Neffe!" shouted a blond woman in a merigold cloak.
Soon the whole harbour was filled with similar cries as the thousand or so gathered tried to determine whether their relatives were amongst the 239 onboard the ship. The shouts continued, some rejoicing, some becoming desperate, before a sudden loud whistle silenced everyone.
Then the gangplank was lowered.
Pandemonium ensued. Those on the ship rushed off, those at the harbor rushed on. There was laughter and crying and screaming and joy and denial.
A dark haired man fought his way through the crowd, making it to the waiting Beschützerin just as the sun had begun to set. It was going to be a long night.
Dear diary 5th September 1943
Timetables:
I got my new timetable today, so I'm going to note it down here. Monday: Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, History of Magic, Defence. Tuesday: Herbology, Care, Arithmancy, Charms and then a break and then Astronomy. Wednesday: free, double potions followed by double defence (wednesdays will be the death of me. who's idea was that? really?) Thursday: History of Magic, Herbology, Care, Arithmancy, Transfiguration. Friday: trans, charms, History of Magic, Care and Arithmancy.
In other news, our Lord called us to a meeting today. Just general start of year stuff. Meetings will be Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays at the usual time and place, he expects us all to practice etc. etc. What is slightly worrying though is that he won't accept any of us getting below EE in any of our subjects. I should be okay, I think. I may just need to ask one of my cousins for help in transfiguration but beyond that I should be fine.
Oh, and our Lord wants to court the new boy. I guess he thinks Heinrich's experience in the war will be useful to us. Regardless, we all currently have to do what we can to sound him out. Should be interesting.
Other than that not much to say. I'd probably better study now, I've seen our Lord when he's… displeased.
AN: thanks for reading :) I'm having real trouble sorting out the right voice/tone for the diary entries :( advice would be appreciated!