Disclaimer: This disclaimer will go for the whole fic: I do not own Harry Potter or anything connected. However, I do own a few of the characters here.

A/N: I am REPOSTING this REVISED version. This is so, so, so, SO much better than before. As in, before it was the crappiest of craps, and now it is merely...not crap, I suppose. I'm going to be revising and reposting this, also, constantly. I like it, so I'm going to make it better. MUAHAHAHA!

Anyway, enjoy the prologue.

You are ten years old, living in London at 11 Grimmauld Place. Your parents are rich. Loaded. Wealthy. Incredibly money-filled.

But there is a house right near yours that is bigger. Of course, its lawn is dingy and unkempt. But no one seems to notice it but you. You mentioned 12 Grimmauld Place once, but your parents looked at you strangely and insisted there was no 12 Grimmauld Place.

It doesn't matter. You have more important things to worry about: are your friends from the street fed enough? You know that Teddy the juggler on the street corner is looking mighty gaunt lately, but he won't accept any money.

You are not sheltered, however much your parents tried; you know that. You've lived like a street kid for a few weeks when you told your parents you were staying at a friend's, and your best friends live in hardship. Sometimes—most of the time—you think this is incredibly unfair. So you decide to advertise around the neighborhood for a little theater that you want the street performers to do their stuff in: most are very good. You will give the proceeds from the box office to them. They need their food.

You've done every other house on the block but Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. It's creepy there. But you need the possible money, so you walk up to the door and knock—not the doorbell, you hate those things—and wait for a while. No one opens the door, so you knock again. And again.

There is a bit of a scuffle, and then a weary looking young woman opens the door. She has bright red hair and pastes on a smile.

"Hello," she says. "How may I help you?" Her hand fingers something in her pocket.

This is the first you see of the Potter family, of which Ginny Potter nee Weasley is the wife of Harry Potter, the evident war hero of the wizarding world. You know. You received a letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry a year later, and Harry and Ginny Potter (and their later children) are some of your best friends. It seems that you caught a glimpse of some special bit of paper listing its address so it wasn't a secret to you anymore. Harry got very angry at that man who'd held the paper, since that was in the dangerous, terrible time of Voldemort.

So here you are, rooting in their attic. Looking for some old mirror that Ginny wants to hang over the staircase and you find something else.

It is a small box of small books. They are dusty, and very old. A wizard picture on the cover of the first and oldest book shows an older teenager, slightly plump, happy looking, with curly brown hair and a funky looking wand twirling between her fingers. She is grinning at you.

"Here're my diaries," her tinny voice informs you. "Please read them. I hope I'm still alive, so when you find out my name you can find me. Or something. Well, either way, I want you to read these books! I'm just sorry I can't find the ones before seventh year. Oh, well! Have fun! I hope you enjoy the parts that are enjoyable, laugh at my strangeness, and not be too sad at the sad parts. I've made it a little more of a narrative now, for your reading pleasure! Well, I've babbled. Read, read, read!"

She falls silent. You look at the book for a minute, and flip open the cover, Ginny's mirror forgotten. You lose yourself in another witch's world of fear and happiness and love and Voldemort.

You read.

A/N(#2!): By the way, my friends, I am almost done with my new chapter of Gift of Gramarie. I don't want to jinx it...but I think I've broken the writer's block. It'll be up soon.

Please review.