Dear Diary,

Year 11, Day 93 of Exile

I often feel alone. It can't be helped, I'd like to think. I wander the small house in which I'm confined and try to make the best of it. 

Even so, I am not alone here. My mother and father also sit, restless, watching over me with glances worried and resentful. They are in this house because of me. They say that they don't blame me. That they value me over the outside world, and though I sometimes believe them, I cannot help but wonder, simply, why?

The outside world is one I've never seen. But I have picture books in plenty, and from those alone I can tell you that the outside world is beautiful. I have not wanted much in our time in hiding -- each birthday I've asked for another book to write in, or nothing at all -- and me and my parents both have come to the conclusion that I am not one to want. 

But when I think of skies painted a mix of pink, red, and orange, and every color in between, when I think of other kids talking to me and liking me -- of everything that lies beyond my four walls as I know them -- I become overcome with the most overwhelming sense of urgency. Of yearning.

I am trapped in this house for my own safety, but I do not belong here. This is not my home.

These are thoughts I keep to myself. Thoughts only my eyes are allowed to ponder. Because my situation cannot be helped. If my parents heard my one and only want, the one thing they cannot give me, then they would feel worse. It's not worth it, I don't think.

I feel alone. Perhaps it is better that way. But at least I have Death, the man in my head. At least he's here.

Dear dairy,

Year 15, Day 117 of Exile

I asked my father something today. He's taking my journals because of it -- I don't know what to do. My thoughts are mine and mine alone and I will not stand for him taking them. I will protect these like they are my life itself because they might as well be.

If I fail, as I so often do, then I have but one message: Fuck you, James.

"When are we leaving?" I had asked.

"When we discover what you, or Neville, can do against Voldemort," he had told me.

"But Death said that we won't find out at all if we stay coupled up in here," I said. "There's nothing to discover -- and there won't be -- if we stay."

James had paused. "Death?"

"He visits me in my dreams," I had said, and perhaps it's my mistake to say it so casually, perhaps it's my fault, "That doesn't matter, though, because he's right, isn't he? You -- you do all these daily magic checks on me, but you don't find anything unusual, do you? I'm normal, aren't I? And -- and I'm gonna stay normal unless we leave--"

"We're not leaving," he said definitively. He dismissed me, told me to go read my books, and went back to cleaning the dishes.

But I could tell that wasn't the end of the conversation. 

I am rereading my textbooks for this year when Lily comes to visit me. She looks worried. "Tell me about the man in your dreams," she had said, "Tell me what he looks like."

"Well, he doesn't only come in my dreams," I had said, "He sometimes appears when I'm awake, but that's not too often. He's... about 5'11"? He's really nice."

"Mhmm," she had said with a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Does he encourage you to leave?"

"I guess he does. In a way. But I agree with him, you know."

I said all the wrong things. Far too casual, far too much information spilt. It is my fault they now want to look through my journals, that they want to see what I've written about him. My fault, my fault, my fault.

But, I suppose it is fine. What is, is what isn't. I will protect my writing. No matter the cost.

Dear dairy,

Year 8, Day 32 of Exile

I had a very vivid dream last night. It was none like I've ever had before. I dreamnt of the outside world.

I lay on a blanket of grass next to a tree taller than anything I've ever seen and watch a sunset, watch a thousand -- nay, a million -- small clouds flutter across it. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I swear, even now, that the grass felt real and solid against my fingers. I could smell dirt and the morning dew and --

And it felt real. I swear it, even now that I've awoken.

There was a man next to me. He called himself Death -- an odd name, but I'm not one to judge -- who said that this was his realm. He said he could shift it to my liking, that this world was my own just as much as it was his. He said I will return here every night.

"It's so grand here," I had said, "I wish I could stay here forever."

He had chuckled a bit. "You have a right to your own world, too. Balance between each, and never fall."

I wanted to say that I don't like my home, that the world I'm in isn't my own, but it's rude to talk back to the host. I kept my mouth shut and awoke crying.

I wonder if I will get that dream again. I hope so. I don't feel lonely there.

Dear diary,

Year 10, Day 302 of Exile

Mother said I have hypergraphia. It's a disorder that compels me to write all the time. She says I can take some potions to calm it, but I don't get why I would. When I am released, I want to be able to read over every record I had written during my time at the house.

I want to be able to share my books with friends, want them to read every thought that goes through my head. 

I have hypergraphia, and I don't quite think there's anything wrong with it. 

I think my parents think I'm weird because of it. They don't say so, but not all communication is verble. I asked Death if that's my fault. He said that the cause of their feelings may stem from my actions, but they are their own feelings in the end. That is on them.

Words spill out of me like water, I carry pencils with me wherever I wander in the Manor. I give life to the stories of the world and do not care when the back of my hand is smudged with charcoal. 

And, dearest dear dairy, I find it much more exhilarating than magic. There is limitations on magic. Everything must be said a certain way, every wand movement must be precise, everything must be perfect, of you will split a person in half, or turn a poor mouse into a matchbox with a tail, or this that the other. But with writing, there is only as much value as you give it. There is no risk. No one will die from diaries.

Magic feels entirely too elitist. I think, if I was born a Muggle, that I would be okay with it. As long as I can still write.

I don't think I am what my parents say I am. "Special," they use that word a lot. "Chosen, as the prophecy foretold." They repeat these words so often that it feels that they are trying to convince themselves more than me. I don't think I have any magical power that can defeat a man no one else has even come close to. I can write. That is about it.

But, still, I hope one day that power will show up. Otherwise -- all this time, locked away -- what was it all for?

Dear diary,

Year 10, Day 193 of Exile

Today is the day I was supposed to get my Hogwarts letter. I am sure that to many other children, it's one of the best days of their lives. 

But, for me, it is just another day. I wake up in my room and write until I am hungry. I eat breakfast, then do chores, I write in my free time. I eat lunch, shower, have my magic checked by my parents. I eat dinner, I study, I read, I write, and eventually I go back to sleep again.

I do not get my Hogwarts letter because it is unsafe for me to go to Hogwarts. I am admittedly lonely. I feel as if though I am missing out on an experience universal for all magical children. 

When my parents said I was special, I did not think it was in this way. 

The Potter Manor is my prison, and the prophecy told about me is my shackles. 

Dear diary,

Year 14, Day 240 of Exile

I caught my mother crying today. She's not usually very emotional. That's James. 

I wasn't supposed to hear her cry, that I could tell. But I did. Through my parents door, I could hear muffled sobs. "I just hate it here," she had said, "I can't stand being locked away like this--"

"We must protect him," James said. "All parents must make sacrifices for their children--"

"But not like this!" she wailed. "I just hate it here," she had repeated, quieter. She doesn't say it (but not all communication is verbal) but I can feel it. The fact that she wants to say "I hate him."

I don't think I would blame her, if she felt that way. She is just as much as trapped as me. I am not mad at her outburst, because I understand that some thoughts are supposed to be voiced selectively.

I wasn't meant to hear that, so I'll pretend I didn't. These are the things we keep hidden in the guise of politeness.

Dear diary,

Year 12, Day 192 of Exile

The story I tell myself is very simple. It's the same one as my parents told me, the same one they still do. 

When my mother became pregnant with me, Albus Dumbledore (a leader in the push back against Lord Voldemort, an evil baddie) hears a prophecy about a child destined to posses a power the Dark Lord knows not, born when the seventh month dies and whatnot. There are two children he believes that'll fit the description, so he orders the parents of both to go into hiding and stay there until either two decades has passed, or until the child shows signs of having the power to defeat Evil Baddie.

My parents are loyal if nothing else. They follow Sir Dumble's plan to a T and that is why I am here, why I have but one friend, why I will likely never attend Hogwarts. Because Dumbledore decided there is a 50/50 percent chance that I am special before I was even born.

It's the story I tell myself, it's my justification for the time I call Exile. I do try my best to convince myself of its necessity. But, between me and me, I wish my parents would've flipped a coin. It's a 50/50 chance that I am normal, a 100 percent chance that I am normal for as long as I am confined. They are odds I am willing to take. My safety is not worth this much.

But my parents disagree, and so we wait. It's just to be 8 years more, max. I can handle that.

Dear diary,

Year 15, Day 118 of Exile

I had written, many a years ago, that I have one want. It was to see the outside world. And even now, I find that idea agreeable. But one has become two, for if humans are anything it is greedy.

I want my father back.

I want my hands cleansed of the blood that now stains them. I want it not to be my fault, I want my mother to look me in the eyes. Even more selfishly, I want this to be a reason for us to leave. But my mother says that the ability to kill is not the power Voldemort knows not.

She thinks we're similar, he and I. Death said he can see the resemblence, and I don't know if he can tell that that makes me feel worse. I am not like the Dark Lord. I am not like him. I am not like the reason for my imprisonment. We're not the same because I am sorry, right? Remorse is something that he has never felt, and I can feel is come in waves. I'm sorry he's dead and I'm sorry it's my fault, I'm sorry that, even now, I am being selfish about it. 

These, I beg you, are thoughts that Voldemort would never have. That Voldemort does not have. 

This is the new story I tell myself. 

But, even so, I know deep down I am just glad that my journals remain unread. 

Dear diary,

Year 16, Day 22 of Exile

My mother is the same as she has been. She sleeps all day and now does not care if I hear her crying through the door. I try my best to comfort her. I tell her I'm sorry and Thank you often. I have taken over all the household chores and drop off meals on her nightstand daily. It doesn't make any difference.

I feel bad. I do. I swear by it. That fact is not disregarded by my ever present urge to leave. Death told me that he loves me and that there are two ways to leave. As my mother's ward, I am not allowed leave until she permits it or I am of age. I can wait or beg. 

Or.

Or, I can become of no one's ward. 

There are not many days until my seventeenth birthday. I believe I can wait until then. I do. But Death does not, and I have learned very well by now that he knows more than I.

Dear diary,

Day 14 Free From Exile

The outside world is just as wonderful as I could've imagined. I haven't made any friends yet, but I plan to. The grass is lush and the trees are tall. The sky is a canvas and the streets are made from cobblestone. The lighting is always different. I write constantly and plan to publish books in the future.

I love it here. There is just one issue. 

One the day I disappeared from the Manor, Death did not follow. I returned to the Manor a week later and found him there.

"Come with me," I had said. "The future is ours."

"No," he had said, "The future is yours." And I had left, because he's right. He always is. 

I am free now. I am haunted by the ghosts of my past, by the things I've felt and things I've done. But, past lingering or not, I am free.  Special or not. Murderer or not.

I am no longer confined. I have never known such elation. Even if it's selfish to be happy, even if my hands are stained both grey and red. 

Even so.