Brooklyn and the Boy Who Lived

Rid of Riddle and Hagrid Accused

Ever since Hermione had been in the hospital wing, Brooklyn had forgotten to write to Tom Riddle, visiting Hermione almost every day.

The two of them had wonderful conversations together. And there had been a humorous situation where Ron discovered a get well card from Gilderoy Lockhart, and that Hermione slept with it under her pillow. But this revelation didn't stop Brooklyn from visiting her. He supposed he could give credit to the doofus for actually being concerned for his friend.

On a plus side, he heard news that Harry was no longer being seen as the Heir of Slytherin, which relieved him greatly.

He'd forgotten about the Diary for quite a while, even getting the chance to visit Hagrid, something Brooklyn had neglected to do. And had been in much better spirits since not writing in it.

"Hey, Brook!" How's Hermione been doin'?" Hagrid asked, as Brooklyn strode by, smiling.

"Just fine, Hagrid. I think all her fur should be gone pretty soon, after coughing out some hair balls!"

Hagrid chuckled, but then Brooklyn noticed a dead rooster by him.

"What happened?" Brooklyn questioned in surprise, staring.

Hagrid frowned. "This has been the second or third rooster killed, strangled to death. And claw marks on its face. Either foxes or somethin' else."

Brooklyn's blood turned cold from this. Roosters killed. Waking up with feathers and blood all over his sheets twice in a row since the first and third attack? This can't be a coincidence. Was he the rooster killer?

Hagrid noted Brook's pale face. He hadn't been looking good recently, even when he seemed fine when talking to others.

"Are yeh feelin' alrigh?" He asked in concern. Brooklyn shook himself, a hand on his head.

"Er, yeah, I-I think so. I'll see you later, okay?" He mumbled, making his way back up to the castle and leaving Hagrid with a pretty concerned face, and Brooklyn struggled with troubling thoughts going in his head while walking down the path.

One evening Brooklyn lay there, still thinking. He now wondered if he even needed to write to Tom Riddle anymore. He hardly had been any help for the last three attacks.

He pulled it out, coming to his decision. This thing had caused him nothing but stress in the past year. Even if it seemed friendly and likable at first.

Giving a small growl, he opened it, pulling out his quill.

Brooklyn! Where have you been? I missed you! Did the Polyjuice potion work?

But Brooklyn wasn't in the mood for games.

Cut the small talk, Riddle. It did work, but my friend Hermione put in the wrong hairs, making her go to the hospital. And I'm here to let you know that I'm no longer going to write to you. You've become unbearable in the past month! And you even supported me with this stupid Parselmouth stuff! That's not what a Therapy diary should do! You're disgusting!

What? But you and I have been friends for months, Brooklyn. You said yourself it was sometimes hard for you to talk to your brother and can only come to me whenever you had fainted or sleepwalked during attacks!

Brooklyn narrowed his eyes, now disgusted at himself for thinking this way, like his own bond brother wasn't trustworthy. There had to be a reason for him passing out every time he wrote in this thing. But no heck way, it couldn't have been him, and Tom, couldn't it?

He took shaky panicked breaths, coming to that terrifying conclusion. How had he done all of that? His stomach filled with bile just thinking about it.