Author’s Notes: This is odd. I wrote this when I was extremely sleepy and wanted to write a song-fic. It's like a notebook Harry had before he went to Hogwarts, where he wrote down his feelings. Excerpts from the notebook. I meant to delve deeper into Harry's personality with it. I hope nobody else has written anything like this. Has someone? I'm sooo sorry if someone has. I didn't mean to copy, if I did. I did write this by myself though. Well, watch out for typos and try not to get lost in the babble... And I do realize that Harry's talking a bit smart for a nine-year-old. Let's just say he's smart. And did I get the timeline right? I'm not sure... I hope you like it, but it's iffy... (And what's up with all the fanfic awards? Sheesh! Everywhere I look there's another one... Poor "Digging" is never nominated... LoL How sad... *grins*)

September 14, 1989

They’ve locked me up again. It seems natural now. I used to cry when they did it, but now I just stare at the spiders scuttling across the dusty floor.

I’ve wondered a lot why they hate me so. I never did anything to them. But, yes, I did, didn’t I? I appeared on the doorstep.

I’m curious why they didn’t throw me into the nearest ditch the day they found me on the doorstep. It seems we’d both be better off now if they had. But they hadn’t.

Is that a meager sign of love? Or were they just sparing themselves and pampering their image with love and goodness?

“Oh, we took my dearest sister’s son in when we didn’t have to. Aren’t we so great?”

I can strongly say no.

I’m hungry. My stomach is growling. How long have I been in here? My head hurts, too. This place is too cramped and I’m getting too tall for it, but I’m nowhere near tall yet, either.

It’d be humiliating if they found this notebook. Really, really humiliating. But I have to risk it. You’re my only friend. You’re all I’ve got, and you’re just pieces of coffee-stained papers bond together by a paper clip.

I feel like a homeless person. Is that selfish? I have a home. I have a bed. I can eat.

But I somehow can’t help but yearn for some solicitude over my wellbeing, some not crafted by myself… I get poetic when I’m depressed, don’t I? Dudley would laugh if he read that sentence. Oh, that’s so funny! A nine-year-old wants someone to love him, and doesn’t want that someone to be himself! Oh, so funny. Funny. Funny. Yes, I’m laughing my head off over here.

Ouch. Bumped my head on the beam running over the bed. I just noticed that a spring is sticking out of the mattress. No wonder my back’s been hurting lately.

Uh-oh. Footsteps. Aunt Petunia’s on a rampage and I have a really bad feeling she’s going to take it out on the closet-dweller, namely myself…

September 18, 1989

I feel ill. I feel very ill. Why do I feel ill? Haven’t the slightest idea.

I’m locked in my “bedroom” again. The visits are becoming more frequent now. I just wish they’d be come less frequent. Either that or maybe my breathing should…

I’m writing myself into a muddle. My hand is shaking. I’m cold. I think I’m getting a cold actually. My throat’s all scratchy…

I feel like crying. Really, really badly. Tears are itching to drip down my face so badly I want to scratch my eyes out. That would be quite painful, wouldn’t it? I really can’t take anymore of that. I’ve already had one helping and I’m certainly not going for seconds.

Dudley practiced his punches today. That was his exercise of the year. That and pressing the TV remote controller.

The sad part of his workout on me was that he decided to do it in front of the school. I didn’t scream or beg for mercy. I was too tired. I couldn’t sleep last night, with that wire still sticking through my back. I told Aunt Petunia about it and she blew up like a rocket. “You think we have the money to spend on babying you…”

You get the picture.

Back to Dudley.

It just so happens the headmaster came out just as Dudley began his work out. And it also just so happens you get suspended for fighting on school grounds. He grabbed Dudley by the scruff of his neck and dragged him to his office. He called me in, too, and I, forgetting that the Dursleys get upset when their “Dudders” gets in trouble and I’m the cause, told him exactly what happened.

My hand is getting tired. It’s all bruised already, and the cold isn’t helping very much. I have a black eye, too. The usual.

Dudley was picked up early, and since the nurse insisted I was too injured to continue the school day, I went home too.

Big mistakes. I’m just one huge mistake.

The Dursleys, of course, blamed me for it all. Dudley faked crying on Aunt Petunia and blamed every bit of it on me. I egged him on, I told him to punch me, I’d done something “strange,” I’d vandalized the school and he was just teaching me a lesson. On and on and on. All lies. But all completely true to Dudley’s personality. A sleazy, lying, arrogant, fat, pig-like, smelly cousin. Fits like a jigsaw puzzle.

I’m the horrible one, not Dudley. Never Dudley. Dudley, do something awful? Never!

I’m ranting now. I need to sleep. I’m tired. I’m cold. I need to go to the bathroom.

Sleep. I’ll just sleep through it all.

September 19, 1989

I wasn’t in a reasonable state in the last entry, was I? I just read over it. It was too angry. I was actually acting as if the Dursley wouldn’t take Dudley’s side for once, like maybe they’d take mine one time.

I’m a dreamer. I really, truly am.

They’ll never take my side. They’ll never believe me over him. And I accept that now. I accept the truth that I’ve always known, the truth I was just too stubborn to truly believe.

One day I’m going to find my niche in the world, Notebook. One day I’m going to leave it all. If it be leaving it by, preferably, train, or, maybe even, death. Yes. Death. I’d like that. Maybe I’d meet Mum and Dad. Whoever they are.

I love them. I’ve always wondered how I do. Why would I love them? I hardly know them. But they’d have to be better than this. Nothing can be as bad as this. Nothing.

One day, Notebook, someone’s going to wave a magic wand and I’ll fly away from here to a place I’ve never known.

I can see it. I can feel it. I believe it.

But for now, I’ll accept what I’ve already got. The Dursleys are actually quite manageable if you look past all their numerous annoyances. Yes, if I want to live to see that place I’ll just have to treat them like their actually what they are: a temporary family.

September 30, 1989

I haven’t written in a while, I’m sure you noticed. Wait. You aren’t alive. You don’t notice anything. So funny.

The cause of this dilemma (of not writing in my dear notebook, the notebook being you, though I don’t see how you can deserve that title, as your not breathing or anything) is simply the fact that I’m feeling content.

Odd, isn’t it? I write when I feel sad, but not when I feel happy. I suppose when I’m low I find pleasure in boring you with my continuous ramble of the mishaps of the world.

For once, I’m not in my cupboard. I’m outside on the bench in the backyard. It’s raining, so I can count on Dudley not coming out to annoy me. Aunt Petunia won’t let him. She’s afraid he’ll catch a cold. Of course, she doesn’t care if I catch a cold. That’s why I’m out here. I wonder if she considered how she’ll have to pay for the doctor bill if I get sick. She’ll make me pay, most likely. Pay with work labor.

She’s lazy herself. Sure, she cleans and pampers the house, but when it comes right down to it, she’s lazy. I’d like to see how many hours she spends watching the television a day.

She’s calling me in. I have to clean the bathroom now. Isn’t it ironic how I call her lazy and moment later she calls out to verify it?

November 4, 1989

Happiness is a fleeting emotion. Content is stable though. Notice how your reactions to the emotions react with what I just said and how long they stay.

When I’m happy, I’m jumpy. I want to tell the whole world I’m happy. I’m running around, I’m fleeting, so to speak.

When I’m content, like I am right now, I stay still. I’m balanced. Happiness and sadness weigh each other down, making me feel strong and peaceful.

I think the Dursleys are trying to throw off my balance. I won’t let them. I won’t.

November 16, 1989

I think I’m going to retire you, Notebook. I’m sorry. I have to. You’re my only friend, but it’s the truth. It’s too dangerous for me to keep you. What if the Dursleys found you? What if they read where I talked awfully about them? I’d be in the ditch that I was heading to from the beginning.

This is my last entry. Then I’m going to hide you. I won’t find you after it, either. I don’t want to read about my darkest moments. I want to read about the happy moments, and those I haven’t recorded in here.

I think I can go on without you. I’ve coped with my own indigence, and I have a feeling I’ll be free of it soon. I won’t be here forever. That’s the best way to look at things.

I’ve run out of pages in here, anyway. Yes, now you know the real truth. I’m writing on the back cover, as you should notice if you were alive.

So goodbye, Notebook. I’ll hopefully survive without you. I’m hoping that niche I have somewhere in the world is coming closer to me over time. Come on, whoever is out there, wave the wand, and take me to my niche…

I told you it was odd… Feedback, please? I love feedback…