He sat there, alone, basking in the quiet chill of the dungeons. Spread upon his lap was a notebook, and within the inside cover, he wrote:

"John Galt is a thirteen year old student at Hogwarts, and is currently in his third year at Hogwarts. He has golden hair that glistens in the sun, and eyes of a deeper blue than the Atlantic ocean. His parents are muggles. He wears a hat. Herein he shall catologue his thoughts and feelings for the prying eyes of a stranger. This is John Galt speaking."

Momentarily, he look around. Silence. Solitude. He put the date at the top of the page and continued writing on the next page,

"Today I went to Diagon Alley, and there I met the most peculiar individual. He stood there with a look of shock and confusion. I took him under my wing, and showed him around the alley.

"He was rather annoying, for he seemed ignorant of the most basic ideas of civilized society. I had to teach him how to put on his robe, how to put on his hat, how to put on his cloak, how money works, and then not to steal things. There was this odd look in his eye, like he had no understanding of the words coming from my mouth. He seemed like less than a man, less than a full person... just an animal."

He paused once again, then wrote, "He was going to Hogwarts, and I essentially bought everything for him. I hope he's not in my house, Ravenclaw.

"Though, there is something I'd rather talk about. I am writing this in the solitude of the dungeons, during curfew. During the day, the halls belong to one and all, giving me no solitude or time for myself; but after curfew, Hogwarts belongs to me. During curfew, I alone rule these halls."

He sneers. "Besides the Prefects. Avoid them at all costs."

He waved his wand and whispered a word, and his flesh blended in with the walls of the dungeons. John Galt crept back up the stairs, up out of the dungeons, to sneak back into Ravenclaw, using a Floo Fireplace in the Great Hall.

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He brushed off the dust from his notebook, and opened it to a blank page.

"Dear Diary," he wrote, wringing out the water from his hat. "I hate the rain."

_________________

He sat down in the dark night, and glared out the windows of the Ravenclaw commons.

"A Stranger walks alone in the night
Without a moon to give him light
Up in the sky,
up way up high
A single Star floats in the night
Caught in the Stranger's eyeless sight

The Star fell to the Earth without glee
And the rain flooded and made a new sea
Without outstretched arms
and fingers that harms
The Stranger clung to her as she cried no
And the Stranger smiled and did not let her go.

So slender and tall,
jumped over the wall
None can save her from the one without eyes
And no-one knows where upon he lies
And those he takes within his grasp
Speak no more, with a silent gasp."

John watched the rain pitter-patter on the windows, and he finished his entry with:

"I hate the rain."

_________________

A few days later, he reread the poem, wholly dissatisfied.

"Who wrote this depressing garbage?" John asked, though no one was there to answer him. "I suppose I did. I guess this first stanza is okay." He circles it with his pencil. "This last stanza is awful, and it's an ineffective ending." He crossed it out. "This second one's bad too." He crossed out the unsatisfactory stanza. "In fact, I hate the whole thing! It's terrible!" He tore the page out and ripped it to shreds.

He took a deep breath, exhaled, then wrote, "Dear Diary,

I'm sorry I had to submit you to that. If I ever do it again, please call the United Nations, as I'm fairly sure writing poetry that awful violates the Geneva Convention, and is technically torture."

He paused, thinking once again of the poem. "I couldn't have written that. It's too depressing." He closed the notebook, hid it in his backpack, and left his dormitory.

_________________

He put down the music book and opened his diary. His hair was a mess, and he had just woken up.

"Dear Diary,

What time is it? Doesn't matter. Yesterday-- make that two days ago, I went to London. My memories are foggy, but I remember something about a trumpet and drinking with a smelly hobo.

Then earlier today-- yesterday, actually-- I talked with Star. She seemed upset over something, I couldn't really focus on what, because I was too busy thinking about the trumpet."

He paused from writing.

"I may owe her something."

He paused again.

"Oh, yes! In London-" He wrote something, but then scribbled it out. "Star bought me a trumpet. I owe her around ten galleons.

"Also, I considered replacing 'Dear Diary' with something a little more personal, like a name, but that would be making a rather bold assumption about whoever reads this."

_________________

He slammed the door behind him, tears streaming from his eyes. He fumbled for his pencil, and his diary. With a trembling hand, he wrote:

"Dear Diary,

I'm afraid of Ry."

And with that, he closed the notebook and buried his face into a pillow, sobbing all the while.

_________________

He ran into the room and slammed the door behind him. John pointed his wand at the door.

"Colloportus!"

He pulled the dust-coated journal from under the couch, flipped to a blank page and wrote the following, quick note.

"My best friends are crazy, and not in a good way."

He pointed his wand back at the door.

"Allohorma!"

_________________

John panicked and slammed the door behind him. He stood at the door way, paralyzed with fear. It took him a moment to regain his composure, when he walked over to his table and opened his diary. He flipped through the pages, and read what he wrote days ago. He took his pencil and erased it.

Over the words, in big, capital letters, he wrote, "THEY ARE NOT MY FRIENDS ANYMORE. I HAVE NO FRIENDS."

He looked down and saw Oswald walk up next to him, and John patted Oswald's head. "You and Brutus are the only two I can trust anymore," John said out loud. He knew they wouldn't respond, he didn't expect them to. He didn't want them to.

John took one last parting look around the room. It was once a place of safety, comfort... and love. Unfortunately, they both knew about it. He had to leave and take his dogs with him.

He wrote once again in his book, "Where's the only place pets are allowed at Hogwarts?" With this, he cast several protective spells upon his dogs and himself, and fled, with wand and notebook in hand.

_________________

Up in the owlery, John did sit. He read the letter from his admirer, and his heart sank low.

"Be my valentine," read the letter. "Your admirer, 'Nevermore'."

He sighed, "Great. Another one that loves me. I was happy with one, I am miserable with two, and with three I think I'll go crazy." Another sigh. "Bloody hell."

He hatched a brilliant scheme, and reached into the depths of his pocket. He retrieved the pencil he carried with him everywhere he went, and, in flowing script, hastily scribbled a response onto the back of the letter. He drew a heart around this, an arrow through the heart, and handed it off to a local owl. "Send it to my secret admirer, or Nevermore, or whatever she wants to be called."

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