The War Hammer of Hogwarts - Harry Potter

The Diary

By the time I got back to Hogwarts from Christmas break, my friends had already made and used the Polyjuice Potion.  Harry and Ron had learned that it was in fact not Malfoy who was responsible for opening the Chamber of Secrets, and Hermione had accidentally taken a hair from Millicent Bulstrode's cat instead of her head.  Hm, I feel like someone might have predicted that mistake.  She remained in the hospital wing for several weeks.  There was a flurry of rumor about her disappearance when the rest of the school arrived back from their Christmas holidays, because of course everyone thought that she had been attacked.  So many students filed past the hospital wing trying to catch a glimpse of her that Madam Pomfrey took out her curtains again and placed them around Hermione's bed, to spare her the shame of being seen with a furry face.  Harry, Ron, and Pieck went to visit her every evening while I was gone, and I joined them when I got back. When the new term started, we brought her each day's homework.

Ron: If I'd sprouted whiskers, I'd take a break from work.

He tipped a stack of books onto Hermione's bedside table.

Hermione: Don't be silly, Ron, I've got to keep up.

Her spirits were greatly improved by the fact that all the hair had gone from her face and her eyes were turning slowly back to brown.

Hermione: I don't suppose you've got any new leads?

Harry: Nothing.

Ron: I was so sure it was Malfoy...

Pieck: What's that?

She pointed to something gold sticking out from under Hermione's pillow.  Hermione panicked and tried to poke it out of sight, but I was too quick for her.  I pulled it out, flicked it open, and read aloud.

YN: "To Miss Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from your concerned teacher, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League and five times winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award".

Ron looked up at Hermione, disgusted.

Ron: You sleep with this under your pillow?

Pieck: What does "honorary member" even mean?

But Hermione was spared answering both questions by Madam Pomfrey sweeping over with her evening dose of medicine.

Ron: Is Lockhart the smarmiest bloke you've ever met, or what?

Ron was just saying he wished he had asked Hermione how many rat tails you were supposed to add to a Hair Raising Potion, when an angry outburst from the floor above reached our ears.

Harry: That's Filch.

The four of us hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.

Ron: You don't think someone else's been attacked?

We stood still, our heads inclined towards Filch's voice, which sounded quite hysterical.

Filch: Even more work for me!  Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do!  No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore...

His footsteps receded and we heard a distant door slam.  We poked our heads around the corner.  Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post.  We were once again on the spot where Mrs Norris had been attacked.  We saw at a glance what Filch had been shouting about.  A great flood of water stretched over half the corridor, and it looked as though it was still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.  Now Filch had stopped shouting, we could hear Myrtle's wails echoing off the bathroom walls.

Pieck: What's up with her now?

YN: Let's go and see.

We held our robes over our ankles and stepped through the great wash of water to the door bearing its 'Out of Order' sign, ignored it as always, and entered.  Moaning Myrtle was crying louder and harder than ever before.  She seemed to be hiding down her usual toilet.  It was dark in the bathroom, because the candles had been extinguished in the great rush of water that had left both walls and floor soaking wet.

YN: What's up, Myrtle?

Myrtle: Who's that?  Come to throw something else at me?

Harry waded across to her cubicle.

Harry: Why would we throw something at you?

Myrtle: Don't ask me!  Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me!

Pieck: But it can't hurt you if someone throws something at you... I mean, it'd just go right through you, wouldn't it?

Pieck had apparently said the wrong thing.  Myrtle puffed herself up and shrieked.

Myrtle: Let's all throw books at Myrtle, because she can't feel it!  Ten points if you can get it through her stomach!  Fifty points if it goes through her head!  Well, ha ha ha!  What a lovely game, I don't think!

Harry: Who threw it at you, anyway?

Myrtle: I don't know... I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head.  It's over there, it got washed out.

We looked under the sink, where Myrtle was pointing.  A small, thin book lay there.  It had a shabby black cover and was as wet as everything else in the bathroom.  Harry stepped forward to pick it up, but Ron suddenly flung out an arm to hold him back.

Harry: What?

Ron: Are you mad?  It could be dangerous.

Harry: Dangerous?  Come off it, how could it be dangerous?

YN: You'd be surprised.  There's a reason the restricted section is so large.  They're not all textbooks, a lot of books in the wizard world are cursed, or have magical abilities.

Ron: Some of the books the Ministry's confiscated, Dad's told me, there was one that burned your eyes out.  And everyone who read "Sonnets of a Sorcerer" spoke in limericks for the rest of their lives.  And some old witch in Bath had a book that you could never stop reading!  You just had to wander around with your nose in it, trying to do everything one-handed.  And-

harry: All right, I've got the point.

The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and soggy.

Harry: Well, we won't find out unless we look at it.

He ducked round Ron and picked it off the floor.  We saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded year on the cover told us it was fifty years old.  He opened it eagerly.  On the first page we could just make out the name "T. M. Riddle" in smudged ink.

Ron: Hang on, I know that name... T. M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago.

Pieck: How on earth do you know that?

Ron: Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty times in detention.  That was the one I burped slugs all over.  If you'd wiped slime off a name for an hour, you'd remember it, too.

Harry peeled the wet pages apart.  They were completely blank.  There wasn't the faintest trace of writing on any of them.

Harry: He never wrote in it.

Ron: I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?

Harry turned to the back cover of the book and saw the printed name of a news agent in Vauxhall Road, London.

Harry: He must've been Muggle-born to have bought a diary from Vauxhall Road.

Ron: Well, it's not much use to you.  Fifty points if you can get it through Myrtle's nose.

YN: Shut up, Ron.