Dark Stars: the Diary of Harry J. Potter

One Last Tear

Shed for all of the forgotten souls

Drifting for evermore

In a cold, black, netherworld

With no escape

Not even death

For death would only secure their position

In this man-made hell

Of broken songs

And shattered legends

And the echo of a trumpets voice

Still loud and clear upon the air

Stilled and silent

As if in rigor mortis

Dead eyes of the battered bodies

Lying on the cold, hard ground

Blown to pieces

Fighting for an idea

A bit of freedom

Killed defending their rights

Against others ideas

And the frozen sun

Will forever shine

The hardened light

Down on this hateful planet

Of dead souls

And jealousy

Of prejudice

And racism

Brutal murders

Rape, gang attacks

Terrorism

And in the end, as always

War

Learn from this

Throw down your wands and potions

And save the ancient spirits

From a life

And death

In hell

And for all of you I cry

One

Last

Tear

- From the Diary of Harry J. Potter

Dear Diary

Defence against the Dark Arts was odd today. Our teacher, Professor Langley, was really on edge. That alone was weird enough, he's usually so calm, and laid back. And instead of working on defensive hexes, we had a lecture about war, wizard and Muggle alike. For homework, we had to write or draw our feelings on the lecture. I wrote the above poem.

I think he knows something about that non-human girl in my visions. I saw him after class sketching something that looked like her tattoo, but with different runes. I wonder how he knows? I told Dumbledore of course, but I didn't tell him about the tattoo. It felt almost...private, like she didn't want me to tell. Of course, that makes know sense. How could she know who I was?

On the bright side, we clobbered Slytherin the other day at Quiddich. The score was 160-40. Ron, (our new keeper) is doing pretty well.

I should stop, as it's getting a bit late. Bye!

Broken Voices

Surround her

Softly murmuring

Ripped and torn

From screams

And held-back sobs

With crystal tears

Sliding down

Pooling on the ground

Harsh laughter

Resounding above

Curling in on herself

As if to make a shield

To protect against the taunts

And the hatred

So tangible

Almost a living thing

A sinuous shadow

Slipping to and fro

Enveloping

Clasping with stone-cold hands

And whispering lies

And half-truths

In her ears

Until her voice is broken too

A shred of sound

Worn down

With not-crying

And muffled sobs

Broken Voices

Dear Diary

Another night, another vision. The not-girl again, being physically tortured. They whipped her, cut her, burned her, and more that I don't think I will describe. She was crying, really softly, and muttering to herself in some weird language. It sounded a little bit like Parseltongue, flowing together. That was where I got the imagery for the poem.

Then the vision changed, became happier. The girl was riding a winged unicorn the colour of her hair, and they were galloping bareback through a field. The not-girl was happy; she was laughing and bending low over the unicorn's neck. She was wearing silver breeches and a white tunic, and there was a sword buckled around her waist. The unicorn stopped, and reared gracefully, and she was holding the sword aloft, shouting something I couldn't hear.

I woke up with tears on my face.

I wish I knew what was going on. This girl is so obviously different, and I feel that she wants my help. But I don't know how to give it to her.

I should finish this entry. I need to go and tell Dumbledore.

Shattered Dreams

Crystal splinters

Of forgotten hopes

And ancient plans

Waiting for someone

To remember them

And pick up the thoughts

And sift through the memories

Of long-ago battles

And distant wars

The sounds of screaming

The smell of blood

And the sight of crimson

Spattered on the floor

The gentle weeping

Of a grief-wracked mother

The loud sobs

Of abandoned children

The explosions in mid-air

The desperately running people

Fighting to escape

Their war-torn city

The hate and jealously

Thick in the smog

That was once clean air

Now polluted and dirty

And if someone

Would find the memories

And realize what we had done

Perhaps they would be saved

From the anguish and horror of war

If only they could find

The crystal splinters

And the long-abandoned

Shattered Dreams

-from the Diary of Harry J. Potter

Dear Diary

Well, that went well. I walked up to his office only to find it empty. I tossed a transcript of the dream on his desk, as well as the above poem, telling him to leave it anonymously on the Ministers desk. A kind of warning, telling him not to turn a blind eye and deaf ear to what is happening.

I wonder what tomorrow will hold? I know I sound like a cheap romance novel, but even still. I think I will confront Prof. Langley on his sketching. If he knows anything about the not-girl, I'd like to hear it.

I'm going to go to library on Saturday to find a book on unicorns. Maybe it will have some info on unicorn-riders?

Ah, well, should try and sleep. Bye!