The Polaroid Journal

Chapter 1

September 1, 1997:

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. I guess that if that's true, I've got enough words to last a lifetime. All the same, I like seeing my words on paper. It's more organized than snapshots, and anyways, I can't always take photos. I have a feeling that I won't have a chance to take many starting very soon.

I'm leaving today. Dennis and I are. Dad thinks that we're going to Hogwarts. I wish that we were. Or that we could, I suppose. We're not allowed anymore; none of the muggleborns are. I think that you-know-who took the ministry, but I don't want to believe it, and no one can tell me what's really happening. I don't think I have a choice in believing that the ministry has fallen though. It's the ony logical solution at this point. I would guess that they've maybe got control of the Daily Prophet as well. It's all full of If Dennis and I were to stay here the ministry could come after Dad, and there's no way in hell that would end well. So we're leaving. Not sure where, but we're getting out. As far as we can go. Maybe I'll find some nice scenery for photos, although I like shooting photos of people better.

I've expanded my chest to be able to fit supplies. Food, a tent, my camera, some film, a few books, some muggle first aid supplies- I never have been any good at healing spells- in a kit, and extra clothing. We could be gone for anywhere from days to months, however long it takes for Harry to take out you-know-who. It should be quickly, Harry's really good at defense, and at any rate, he hasn't lost yet! With luck we should be back safely in Hogwarts in no time.

I haven't told Dad about any of this stuff yet. I probably should have, but it's safer like this. And he would probably make us stay with him if he knew.

-Colin

Colin Creevey was lying on his bed, a thin brown leather journal in one hand and a quill pen in his other. The pen was stopped with its tip to the paper, ink slowly pooling on paper in a shiny black dot. He closed the journal with a dry snap and looked around his room for what could very well be the last time in months. A large brown trunk sat beside him atop the messy blue sheets of his bed, and a silver Polaroid camera sat on the corner of his trunk, precariously close to tipping and falling off. His walls were covered in Polaroid photographs, some of them moving, others not.

A voice shouted up at Colin from downstairs, "Are you ready yet, Colin?"

Colin ducked his head out of the window and shouted back, "Yeah, Dad! I'll be down in a moment, just lemme finish packing my clothes."

"Are you sure you don't want me to drive you down to King's Cross? It's no trouble," his father's voice sounded concerned, which was no small wonder. Any muggle parent would be taken aback by the prospect of letting their children ride the knight bus. As a rule, muggle parents and magical two story buses don't generally mix well.

Colin had expected this kind of resistance, although the suggestion of driving to King's Cross scared him a bit. There were probably going to be ministry agents there, and god knows how fast a facade will fall when the government is there to topple it.

"No!" he replied, slightly too quickly, "Er... The Knight Bus will take us straight to the station, and I wanted to show Dennis anyways. Besides, I can maybe get some nice pictures on the bus."