Day One:

I'm not going to last a week in here, I'm really not.

I decided to partake of breakfast with the Muggle family this morning, and it nearly killed me. First of all, while I am not entirely sure about what kind of education these muggles receive, surely it is not too terribly difficult to eat with one's mouth closed? When I suggested such drastic measures to the wide one with the moustache, he turned an interesting shade of vermilion and ranted about how a fugitive like me should be grateful that they were taking me in, and risking being tortured to death in the process.

I casually pointed out that no Death Eater worth his salt would waste time maiming and torturing such an insignificant creature as him, and that it was far more likely that any attacking Death Eaters would simply dispose of him and his family within a few short seconds. I also happened to mention that if the Death Eaters in question had deigned to turned up at their door, then they would almost certainly be killing the occupants of the house whether I was there or not. As this form of instant carnage would offer me very little chance for escape, I really have very little to be grateful about. Besides, I'd never show gratitude to a moustachioed gorilla like him.

For some reason he became offended, and I found myself having to use evasion techniques which I had previously only employed on the Quidditch pitch, merely to avoid his meaty fist.

If Potter lived with these apes all his life, it's no wonder he can avoid Bludgers so easily. After this lot, Bludgers had to be positively refreshing.

After the nightmare that was breakfast, I decided to stay in my cupboard for the remainder of the day. This involved me being forced to read some preposterous little muggle magazine called the National Impugner or some such. I have discovered that muggles have a bizarre obsession with actors and actresses, despite the fact that they do very little of anything, so far as I can see. Additionally, a large number of these actresses have bizarre insertions into their chest which are both comical and hideous. I find myself thinking longingly of the girls of Hogwarts… Daphne Greengrass, Padma Patil, and even, in my darker moments, Pansy Parkinson, all seem nothing short of divine at this point. Anything to get the image of those doll-like creations out of my head.

The bony woman served me lunch and dinner. While breakfast was more or less identical to the breakfasts at Hogwarts (albeit of a far inferior quality), lunch and dinner were mockeries. Lunch was some hideous noodle-like concoction in a tub which proclaimed "JUST ADD WATER!" It is my considered opinion that even if one were to add vodka, it would still not render them befuddled enough to put that rubbish near their mouth. And as for dinner; what exactly is Meatloaf precisely? Forgive me, but I was not aware that meat came in loaf form. In my experience it comes attached to a bone, or perhaps in a sandwich. But in a loaf? I rather think not.

After 'dinner', I sat on my bed and closed my eyes in an attempt to sleep. I was working on the basis that my imprisonment would be more tolerable if I were unconscious. However I couldn't manage it, with noises from that horrendous box in the living room keeping me awake.

I became irritated very quickly and sat up, giving the sounds my full attention. I was disgusted to hear them listening to some distressingly cheerful bint who was apparently describing the weather to them in baby talk. She informed them that it was going to be "a tiny bit drizzly in the South of England tomorrow afternoon" and so they should "pull out their brollies if they were going shopping! Ha ha ha!" It was appalling. I mean, if they wanted to know what the weather was like then surely they could just look out the bloody window like normal people, couldn't they? Unlike me, they actually have immediate access to window. Halfwits.

And how on Earth can they put up with that brainless wench talking to them like that? If my own mother had spoken to me in such a condescending manner after the age of four, I probably would've kicked her and yet they are subjecting themselves to it voluntarily. If I was not already sure of the inherent inferiority of muggles, this behaviour would reinforce my opinion, no doubt about it.

So I did what anyone would do in my position - I lay back down on the bed, this time with a pillow firmly over my ears, and began constructing elaborate fantasies where in Daphne Greengrass would somehow hear of my terrible misfortune and come rushing to the Muggle-cesspit to 'comfort' me. Preferably in the short skirt and big black boots she wore to my last Quidditch match. The Slytherin scarf would be optional this time, of course. And she'd actually have to have her hair down in some of the more detailed scenarios, rather than in that plaited thing she had it in at that game to keep it out of her eyes. Why she'd ever put hair like that up is completely beyond me…

Where was I?

Oh yeah, trying to block out the girl who was announcing the weather. So there I was, with the pillow on my head, almost managing to block that silly woman's chirpy voice, when even this small refuge was taken away from me!

A buzzing sound came from the front door. I can only assume this is the muggle version of a bell, but why they couldn't just have an actual bell is a mystery to me. They must prefer that dreaded buzzing. Anyway, the bony woman went to answer it and allowed in some grunting woman with jangling jewellery.

They both moved into the kitchen, which is distinctly closer to my cupboard than the living room, and began talking incessantly about the utterly boring activities of their neighbours. This behaviour apparently ranges from Mr. Jones's affair with his secretary, to the Greys teenaged daughter getting suspended from school again. God, who cares?

Everything I have, every small respite I could think up, they have taken away from me. Except this journal. And so I continue to write in it, in an effort to take my mind of the inane chattering coming from the kitchen, the monosyllabic grunting coming from the living room, and the never-ending noises coming from that infernal box. Not to mention my distinctly uncomfortable bed, which gave me back pain so severe that I very nearly asked the bony woman for something for the pain… before I remembered that they were muggles and would have no such thing. Glorified primates.

So yes, this place may possibly kill me. But at the very least, I'm keeping a written version of events to make sure that some justice may be dealt to the brutes, after my unfortunate demise.

Day Two:

As much as it pains me to say it, there had been no change in my situation. The most interesting thing that happened to me all day, was walking in on that fat child who is allegedly my age, but who I suspect has a mental age of six, when he wasn't expecting me. He was muttering away about me, though who exactly he was voicing this monologue to is a mystery known only to himself.

I entered, just as he was voicing the theory that all Wizards are 'skinny, pale, little runts with stupid hair'. I naturally attempted to respond by informing him that this was not entirely true, however if the Wizarding World had a choice between being skinny little runts with stupid hair, or glorified swine with rolls of blubber and hair that looks like it was drawn on with a yellow crayon, then we would unanimously agree upon option A. However I was one syllable into my response, when he jumped about six feet in the air and scurried off, crying.

I must say, I never thought I would long for a Weasley to taunt, but if this is the calibre of competition around here, then give me a Weasley any day. At least they don't cry.

Not that crying, in itself, is a bad thing. I myself have been known to cry. There's no shame in it. (Do you hear that? NO SHAME IN IT, got it?) However crying because some utters a syllable in your general direction is simply ridiculous.

I suppose it's just something I'll have to put up with. Just like everything else around this hell-hole.

Oh, I did make one discovery though. That great rhinoceros with the facial hair has apparently been staying home from work, in order to ensure I don't 'try anything'. What exactly I'd try, I don't really know. Although I did glance out a window today and spot a few choice potions ingredients in the gardens along the street, and I admit that the sight gave me all manner of unlawful thoughts. Still, I'm not entirely clear what I would try.

I was also a little unclear on what precisely his job was. I did ask him, but he wasn't too forthcoming. He simply said that he owned 'Grunnings'. Since I had absolutely no idea what on earth 'Grunnings' was, I looked it up in this yellow book they have next to that speaking device. It turns out that it's a company which sells drills.

Not having the faintest idea what a drill was, I looked that up too in one of the many unused encyclopaedia's lying about the place. Not interesting encyclopaedias like the ones we have around the Manor, boring ones. But anyway, it told me what a drill is. And so, I discovered that Mr. Dursley's job is selling pointed sticks. For some reason he wasn't too enamoured with this description. I don't really know why.

Don't much care, either.

In fact, at this particular moment, all I really care about is shutting up that infernal woman on the box in the living room. Bloody muggles.

Day Three:

Oh Hosanna, some relief at last. Even if it did come in the form of a cupboard.

Dear lord, how pathetic is that? Being grateful for my cupboard.

The old fat man went to work today. I don't think the young one works, and I'm positive the bony one doesn't, but the fat man went off to sell his pointy sticks, nevertheless. And for some reason, since he wasn't there, the bony one asked me to wash dishes.

Naturally, I told her to shove off.

For some reason, she didn't. Shove off, I mean. She seemed to think it was more productive to harass me until I did them. Which took quite a while, let me tell you. She would've been better off if she'd just done the things herself. It would've definitely been quicker at any rate. It took her eight straight hours of pestering me, and going on about how I owed her my life and rubbish like that.

I tell you, if I'd had my wand she would've been turned into a dung beetle right then and there.

Eventually I surrendered and did the things. However the bony woman refused to believe that I had never done dishes before and therefore wouldn't tell me how to do them. I broke three dinner plates, a dessert bowl, two mugs, and half a dozen glasses. I also managed to take the floral pattern off the edge of most of the plates. Something which I really don't think I could possibly be blamed for, since no one would tell me what on Earth "Bleach" was, and since the label on the bottle wasn't too forthcoming either. Surely it should have a large warning label on it saying "This stuff may take the floral pattern off your tableware".

Don't know why she's complaining anyway. Don't these people understand how trashy floral patterned china looks at the dinner table? A plain white set is far more sophisticated.

Anyway, the bony one ranted at me when she saw it. Then the fat man came home and he ranted at me. Then the two of them started a joint rant, which was shortly followed by them arguing over a comment that the bony one made about Harry Potter at least being capable of housework. Apparently the fat man thinks that Potter's just a trouble-maker, and that flattering him is indefensible.

Normally I'd agree, but the longer I stay in this floral patterned nightmare of a home, the more I find myself… well, not respecting Potter, but certainly appreciating the fact that he is his own, self-righteous, sardonic variety of Annoying Little Twerp, rather than the loud, high-pitched, weather-girl-watching muggle kind of Annoying Little Twerp. Something he could very plausibly have turned into, considering the people who raised him. So it's not respect. It's a grudgingly favourable estimation. Know what I mean?

It took the bony one and the fat man two whole hours to shut up. Well, actually it only took them an hour and a half. Then I asked if they were finished, and they just started up again. It's a wonder they don't tire themselves out.

But here I am in my lovely little cupboard. Yes, it's dark and dingy, yes there's a fairly serious spider infestation, and yes I do hate it quite a lot. But it is unquestionably preferable to what's outside.

Day Four:

THEY INJURED ME! THE MUGGLE HEATHENS INJURED ME!

Why, if I had my wand… Oh, the things I would do to them. They have no idea. They're all so afraid of what the Death Eaters might do to them? PAH! If I had my wand, I'd make Auntie Bellatrix look like Florence Nightingale in comparison. They'll pay for this. So help me, if it takes fifty years for me to figure out how, they will pay for this.

A more forgiving person would say that, technically, they didn't injure me.

However they deliberately put me in a position to be injured. The bony one knew, after yesterday's escapades, that I can not clean dishes. I just can't do them. They're appalling complex things to clean. But does this dissuade her from telling me to do them again? Does this make her pause and think about what she's doing? Does this even compel her to show me how to do them?

NO IT DOES NOT!

And so, when I broke those two glasses, it was only to be expected. My new Fuehrer apparently disagreed, as she had a small fit and insisted I clear it up before her "Ickle Diddykins" hurt himself on the broken glass when he was going for a midnight snack. A midnight snack? God, how many meals a day does this woman feel compelled to shove down her son?

Muggles are disgusting.

Anyway, after her cheeks turned pink and it became apparent that she was preparing herself for another hour-long, high-pitched rant, I decided to go ahead and clean up the broken glass. And that is how I came to slice open my right hand. It is fortunate, I suppose, that I write with my left, as I would have been forced to slaughter the woman if I had been rendered incapable of writing.

The cut runs the length of my palm and, while it is not dangerously deep, it was pumping out more than enough blood to leave me concerned.

Had I experienced a similar cut, say for example in the Potions lab, I would not have been in the least bit concerned. The Professor would have cleared it up in no time at all, without so much as a trip to the Hospital Wing. I mean I probably would've gone to the Hospital Wing anyway, but that's beside the point. The point is that when I receive such a wound in a muggle household, I could be forgiven for suspecting that they are not equipped to deal with such a thing.

I was proved correct.

The bony woman just ran my hand under the cold water tap for a few moment, pressed a hand towel to the wound and told me to keep the pressure on until it stopped bleeding. I mean, honestly, how primitive can you get?

Then, when it finally did stop bleeding (no thanks to her, might I add), all she did was slap a couple of sticky things onto it. They don't even cover the cut properly, they just kind of hold it together. And they're blue. I mean why on earth is this necessary? The packet she got them out of said they were high visibility, but why would I want to advertise the fact that I was injured while doing the bidding a woman with yellow hair and the impulse to over-feed her child?

Complete madness.

AND my hand hurts.

Oh, they'll pay for this, I swear they will.

Day Five:

Oh. Dear. Lord.

I cannot begin to describe my horror at this point. It's just… I mean they couldn't… What was that? Surely it was some sick joke? That couldn't possibly be a genuine appliance, could it? Maybe I should explain. I mean, I don't particularly want to explain, mind you, but maybe I should nonetheless.

Due to my injury, I was unable to do the dishes today. Foolishly, I was pleased by this fact, thinking it to be some small recompense for the aforementioned wound. How very wrong I was.

Instead of my now familiar chore, I was allotted a new task. A task which, so far as I can tell, is nothing but a thinly veiled torture method. They call it "Hoovering", and I was led to believe that it was designed to remove dirt from their many and varied floor coverings. (Including this plastic, leathery material in the kitchen, which horrifies me endlessly.)

In theory it sucks up any dust or debris into a bag ready for disposal. In practise, however, it makes a deafening, high-pitched howling noise, like an injured werewolf or something. I nearly had heart-failure when the bony one turned it on. I yanked the cord out of the wall socket (that's like cutting of their air supply, you see, so they die), and dove back into my cupboard like a startled dog.

It was a grossly humiliating display, I'll admit, but I don't care. God, that thing was horrible. If she ever turns that blasted machine on while I'm in the house, I'm going to smash it to pieces, I'll tell you that much. Well… providing I don't have to get close to it, obviously. Then things got worse. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but they did.

You see the bony one, afraid of some highly non-specific wrath being dealt to her for terrifying a pureblood wizard, tried to coax me out of my cupboard with the promise of food at around one o'clock. The food in question turned out to be some cold roast chicken from last night (which I didn't get any of at the time, might I add). She made a sandwich with it. It was still appallingly substandard, but it was sufficiently superior to my recent meals to make it worth my while coming out of the cupboard.

Once she had me out of there and eating (much to the large one's alarm), she set me in front of that infernal box in the living room and told me to watch it. Now I don't wish to mislead you by making it sound as though the bony one is in any way concerned for my well-being, because she's not. She's concerned for her own well-being and her son's well-being, and so she makes a few hollow gestures of goodwill and hopes that I won't complain too much when I'm retrieved.

Anyway, I watched the box. 'Television' they call it.

And I'm simply scandalised.

First of all there was a show where people answered asinine questions to win pointless prizes, such as a Year's Supply of Soup (what the…?), and were asked these questions by some orange guy in a purple suit, who had the most terrifying smile I've ever seen. To make matters worse, the fat teenaged one was sitting in the room at the time and kept shouting the answers. And getting them wrong. And then being told by his mother what a clever boy he was for trying.

I mean honestly, what is wrong with these people? My mother may love me more than anything, but if I get something wrong she bloody well tells me so. She'll even go so far as to taunt me on certain occasions, should she feel that I need to be humbled (which isn't very often).

Then, so help me, there was something called a Soap Opera. Since this has nothing to do with soap or operas, I'm a little unclear on why exactly they are called soap operas, but they are.

Today's episode involved a man beating his wife to death by accident (he killed her by accident, you understand, he didn't beat her by accident), something which was supposed to elicit sympathy for the wife, but honestly if she was prepared to just sit there and take it for so long then I have nothing but contempt for the idiotic woman. There was also a woman who was stealing money from her boss, a man who couldn't figure out if he wanted to marry his long-term girlfriend or run off to Barbados with another man named Cecil, and a young girl with cancer who, so far as I can tell, had absolutely nothing to do with any of the other characters, but had big brown eyes and a speech impediment, and was therefore deemed necessary on account of her cuteness. It was soul-numbing.

All of this was followed by an extremely interesting looking programme, which followed a woman in Canada who could allegedly predict the future. The bony one turned this off before I could watch it, though, as she thought it might have a detrimental effect on "Her Sweet Dudders' mind".

How anything could possibly be more detrimental to mental development than that soap opera thing is quite beyond me.

Now I'm going to go get a book. I'm also going to glower threateningly at the man with the moustache, Vera or Verona or whatever his name is. The bony one was just telling him about my incident with the hoover earlier and he's roaring with laughter even as I speak.

I rather think that someone has forgotten their place, and this must be immediately rectified. One stern look ought to silence the presumptuous twerp.

Day Six:

These stupid sticky things on my hand are really beginning to annoy me. I'm considering ripping them off completely, they bug me so much. They really get in the way when you're trying to work, too. Oh yes, did I mention? I've been forced back to work.

The bony one -Petal? Petulance? Something like that- got all uppity with me this morning and asked me what exactly I planned to do today. I told her outright that I wasn't hoovering if that's what she meant. She responded by saying that I also wasn't washing the dishes - at least not until next week when there's a sale at something called 'British Home Stores', and she can more hideous flowery dishes. She said this with a pointed glare in my direction. The cheeky cow.

Anyway, after about fifteen minutes of my subtle insults about her heritage, and her insults about my inability to clean houses (that one really cut me to the quick, let me tell you), she appeared to get extremely frustrated and yelled,

"For pity's sake! What CAN you do?"

So I told her about my classes at Hogwarts, and the things that my grandfather taught me before he died, and things like that.

Once the colour returned to her face, she asked me if 'Herbology' was the same as 'Gardening'. I told her, quite scathingly, that the only vague similarity they had was that they both involved plants. She apparently considered this similarity enough, and sent me out to do yard work. Even though I was never even very good at Herbology, and even though Dumbledore didn't want me leaving the house. She told me I was doing yard work or I wasn't getting fed.

Yard Work basically involves slaving away at a flower bed in the blistering hot sun.

And, obviously, pretending not to notice when the Dursley boy wanders past with a gigantic ice cream cone and a smug expression. A smug expression that would probably even make Hannah Abbot give up her pacifistic way and hit him with a brick.

I was quite disgruntled with the entire situation, I don't mind telling you.

Of course, things perked up quite drastically when the girl who lives across the street walked by. The Dursley boy got so flustered that the ice cream slipped off his cone and onto his t-shirt. He then turned bright red, pretended his mother was calling him, and hurried inside. I don't know why, though. Well, I mean, I do know why. Any idiot could tell you that he fancies her. What I mean is that I don't know why he fancies her.

I suppose she was attractive, in a morbid kind of way. She'd done something to her hair, though - Most of it was black, but certain areas were purple. Her fingernails were purple, too. She had black stuff around her eyes, and about eight piercings in each ear. She was also freakishly pale and skinny. I don't mean pale and skinny like I'm pale and skinny. I mean pale and skinny like famine victims in Transylvania are pale and skinny. And who in their right mind voluntarily wears all black when it's twenty degrees out?

The most exasperating thing about the sighting is that the girl reminds me of someone at Hogwarts. I can't for the life of me figure out who, though. It's not important, I suppose.

What is important, however, is that with some very gentle prodding, I got the Bony one to give me a fifteen minute monologue about the girl, and all of her activities in the past five years, ever since she moved here from London. Honestly, I thought the Ravenclaw girls were fonts of information, but they've got nothing on Petal Dursley. Or whatever her name is. I suppose that when you can't do magic, don't have a job and are married to a man as singularly interminable as Mr. Dursley, then one has no choice but to direct their energies elsewhere. It was revealed, during the course of this soliloquy, that the girl in question is none other that Natasha Grey, the girl who was apparently suspended from school not that long ago, and who Mrs. Dursley disapproves of almost as much as she disapproves of me.

After yet more gentle prodding (the woman is like a Wireless - push one button and she can blabber on for hours) it was also revealed that Mrs. Dursley is of the firm belief that her dearest Diddikins is hankering after some girl called Ellen Eccles, who wears the sweetest little bow in her hair and wants to be a Home Economics teacher when she grows up. I don't know what a Home Economics teacher is, but I somehow doubt that it's interesting.

Safe to say that I don't think her darling boy quite shares her taste in prospective girlfriends. More to the point, later on when Mummy Dearest mentioned this Ellen person, her son got an expression of utmost horror on his face and quickly changed the subject.

I only mention all this because it constitutes what we Slytherins affectionately refer to as "leverage". Yes, you know, I suspect that life around this hell-hole will become distinctly more pleasant after I have a little chat with Diddikins.

Day Seven:

A highly uneventful day.

Had a nice little tête-à-tête with Dudley this morning, which I suspect will make my life much more comfortable for the following week.

I also ripped blasted those sticky things off my hand, much to the alarm of Petunia Dursley (that's her name, by the way) who believed that I was risking imminent death. Predictably enough the wound had healed, and she had nothing to complain about. Now she keeps looking at me suspiciously and muttering about unnatural healing ability. I really can't pretend to care, though.

She told me to do some more yard work, but Dudley was kind enough to volunteer to do it for me. Have since learned that Muggle ice cream isn't half bad.

To tell you the truth, I'm only writing in this thing to alleviate boredom. The household chores may have been infuriating but at least they filled in the time. I'd watch some television, but no matter how bored I am I really can't see myself killing off brain cells just for laughs.

Maybe I'll go for a walk later. Just to fill in the time. I mean the Death Eaters don't know where I am, and it's not as though it could really hurt all that much. Yes, I think that's what I'll do. Just a nice short walk around.

I mean what's the worst that could happen?