To change the future

Diary

Hermione stayed in the hospital wing for several weeks. A whirlwind of rumors about her disappearance spread when the rest of the school returned from their Christmas holidays, as everyone assumed she had been attacked. The number of students trying to sneak a peek at her was so great that Madam Pomfrey had to draw the curtains around Hermione's bed again, to save her from the embarrassment of being seen with a furry face.

The other seven visited her every evening. With the start of the new term, they brought her the homework for each day. "If I'd sprouted whiskers, I'd take a break from work," Ron remarked when it was only Harry and Ron in the wing, dropping a pile of books onto Hermione's bedside table one evening. "Don't be silly, Ron, I need to keep up," Hermione responded briskly. Her mood had greatly improved now that the hair had disappeared from her face and her eyes were gradually returning to brown. "I don't suppose you've found any new leads?" she whispered, ensuring Madam Pomfrey couldn't hear her.

"Nothing," Harry said gloomily. "I was so certain it was Malfoy," Ron repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time. "What's that?" Harry inquired, pointing at a golden object protruding from beneath Hermione's pillow. "Just a get-well card," Hermione replied quickly, attempting to hide it, but Ron was faster. He snatched it, opened it, and read aloud: "To Miss Granger, wishing you a swift recovery, from your concerned teacher, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time recipient of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award." Ron looked at Hermione with revulsion. "Do you actually sleep with this under your pillow?" However, Hermione was saved from responding by Madam Pomfrey, who arrived with her evening medicine.

"Is Lockhart the smarmiest guy you've ever met, or what?" Ron asked Harry as they left the infirmary and began ascending the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower. Snape had assigned so much homework that Harry thought he might be in his sixth year by the time he finished it. Ron was lamenting not asking Hermione how many rat tails were needed for a Hair-Raising Potion when a furious outburst from above reached their ears. "That's Filch," Harry whispered as they sped up the stairs and paused, hidden from view, listening intently. "You don't think someone else has been attacked?" Ron asked tensely. They stood motionless, ears tuned to Filch's voice, which sounded quite hysterical. "Even more work for me! Mopping all night, as if I don't have enough to do! No, this is the last straw; I'm going to Dumbledore," they heard him exclaim. His footsteps faded down the corridor, and a distant door slammed shut. They peeked around the corner. Filch had been at his usual surveillance spot: they were back where Mrs. Norris had been attacked. They immediately noticed what had upset Filch: a vast pool of water covered half the corridor, apparently still leaking from Moaning Myrtle's bathroom door.

Ginny turned a nasty shade of green, she knew what had happened

With Filch's ranting ceased, Myrtle's wails could be heard bouncing off the bathroom walls.

"Now what's the matter with her?" asked Ron. "Let's find out," Harry replied, and they, holding up their robes, stepped through the deluge of water to the door marked OUT OF ORDER, disregarded it as usual, and went inside. Moaning Myrtle was sobbing, possibly louder and more intensely than ever. She appeared to be hiding in her usual toilet. The bathroom was dark because the candles had been snuffed out by the torrent of water that had drenched the walls and floor. "What's wrong, Myrtle?" Harry inquired. "Who's there?" Myrtle sobbed miserably. "Did you come to throw something at me again?"Harry made his way through the water to her stall and asked, "Why would I throw anything at you?"

"Don't ask me," Myrtle shouted, emerging amid a surge of more water, splashing onto the already drenched floor. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me..." "But it can't hurt you if someone throws something at you," Harry said, trying to be logical. "It would just go right through you, wouldn't it?"