Secret Confessions
Disclaimer for all chapters: I am not J.K. Rowling. She owns the Harry Potter world. I do not.
August 18th, 1997
We've decided to shrink ourselves. Well, Harry and I are going to. We are currently hiding in a cave, and since I don't know France, I'd say we're in the middle of nowhere. Hermione is brewing the potions. Brilliant, brilliant Hermione decided that we couldn't head back into London looking basically like we did before, only with different hair and eyes. Names wouldn't matter if someone recognized our faces. She decided that we would pretend to be a family. So, Hermione and Ron are going to age themselves so they look about 35, and Harry and I will be... smaller, I guess. According to Hermione, we get to keep our current minds. Otherwise, I know Harry would never have agreed. He's still walking with a bit of a limp, and his arm is still in bandages. He's probably hurting more than he lets on, but you know him, Diary, he wouldn't tell us unless the fate of the world depended on it. But maybe I shouldn't be joking about the fate of the world, seeing as the fate of the world does depend on him. Hermione's coming over to me now, with a goblet. I'll be right back, Diary.
Well, hello again. According to Hermione, I am now twelve. Oh, joy. I remember being twelve. Not as bad as eleven, but definitely not one of my best years at Hogwarts. Harry's yelling at Hermione now. It's quite amusing, seeing as he's only about three feet tall... I guess Hermione neglected to tell him that he'd be six years old, physically, after taking the potion. He looks to be only about three or four. But then again, he's always been kind of small for his age. He's glaring at me now, I guess I didn't really manage to hide my amusement. He's an adorable kid though, but I'd never dare tell him that. Or maybe I would... I might be able to use his new... stature, to my advantage. Now, unfortunately, our hair's back to it's original colours. Hermione's heading out to pick up some hair dye. I guess we'll be doing the colouring ourselves this time.
-G.W.
August 19th, 1997
We are now the Wilsons. Charles and Helen, ( Ron and Hermione), and their 'children', Jennifer, and James. So we weren't all that creative, but whatever. I don't think Charlie will mind that Ron's "name" is basically his. Actually, I don't think Charlie will even know, unless we tell him when this is all over. I'm just going to go on ignoring the possibility that we might not all be here when this is all over. I don't like morbid thoughts, Diary. A less than pleasant reality is bad enough. Ugh, fine, I just documented the fact that we might not make it through. STOP MOCKING ME, DIARY. Wow. I'm pissed off at a book. I need to get out more often. Isolation isn't good for my health.
-G.W.
August 20th, 1997
We're back in London. Harry has taken advantage of his new size. He declared that having to take twice as many steps as the rest of us was a pointless chore. He then proceeded to run and jump up onto Ron's shoulders. How he managed to jump that high is beyond me. He probably used magic. Wordless and wandless... he must be getting good. Either that or he's learned to jump almost twice his height. So now he is getting piggy-backs. He's still got that limp though, from what I saw before he decided he didn't like walking. Actually, now that I think about it, he was limping on the other leg back when he was taller. I'll have to check that out. He didn't say anything about it though, and was obviously trying to hide his pain, like he normally does. We're in some pub on the outskirts of the city. They had a few rooms for staying in, so we're staying here for the night. I don't know if we're going to head back to the area around the Leaky Cauldron or not, as it might be too risky. But then again, we barely look anything like ourselves now. Well, Diary, Hermione... er... Helen... is calling me to eat. I'll be back.
I was watching Harry, diary, and he seems a bit off. He moves... gingerly? I don't know how to describe it. He moves as if moving hurts. But why should it? His injuries from Albania disappeared after he took the potion... well, the one on his arm did, anyways. I didn't see his legs. I don't understand it. However, I do understand the strange flash in his eyes every time he has to address Ron and Hermione as "mum" and "dad". It wouldn't be a word he used very often before, and never when addressing people. I hope his memories don't cause him too much grief. I hate it when he's hurting.
-G.W.
August 21st, 1997
I now know why we're here. Voldemort used to live in an orphanage. Said orphanage is down the street. So, we're going there-either to gather more information, or to find a horcrux hidden there. We found out what was wrong with Harry last night, Diary. I never knew. And never, not in a million years, had I guessed. They hit him, Diary. The Dursleys used to hit him. We got the "family room" in the pub. Biggest room they had, they said. Three beds, one twin, and two singles. Ron and Hermione are sharing, and Harry and I get the little beds. It was really late, and Harry and Ron were already sleeping. Hermione was reading, and I was just watching Harry. I'm allowed to do that, Diary, I'm in love... even if he is currently in the body of his six-year-old self. I was, if you must know, Diary, thinking about how he rescued me in my first year. He had kicked the blankets off in his sleep, and was curled into a ball. He always sleeps like that, Diary, and, before now, I'd never thought there was a reason why. But anyway, his shirt was a bit rumpled, exposing some of the skin on his back.. I didn't really notice anything at first, but when he shifted slightly, and the shirt lifted more, I noticed the large, purple and blue spots on his back. They were bruises, Diary, and when I quietly got up, went over to his bed, and lifted the shirt higher, I saw more of them, some in the shape of a large hand, as well as numerous red welts, from what looked suspiciously like a belt. I guess the potion was very... precise, as this, apparently, is exactly how he was when he was six years and... twenty days old... almost twenty-one days. I called Hermione over, and that's when Harry woke up. Boy, was he ever mad. But, Diary, ashamed as I am to admit it, It's hard to take a three-foot-tall kid yelling obscenities at you seriously.
AN: Yes, l like little Harry. Please, no flames, but I like reviews. Sorry for the very, very long delay... I have no excuses, other than I had writer's block. And I was too lazy to try to come up with anything. Please don' t hate me. I hope you enjoyed it.
