Adventures of Harriet Potter

The Very Secret Diary

Hermione 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. Harriet and Ron went to visit her every evening. When the new term started, they brought her each day's homework.
"If I'd sprouted whiskers, I'd take a break from work," said Ron, tipping a stack of books onto Hermione's bedside table one evening. "Don't be silly, Ron, I've got to keep up," said Hermione briskly. 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. "I don't suppose you've got any new leads?" she added in a whisper, so that Madam Pomfrey couldn't hear her. "Nothing," said Harriet gloomily. "I was so sure it was Malfoy," said Ron, for about the hundredth time. "What's that?" asked Harriet, pointing to something gold sticking out from under Hermione's pillow. "Just a get well card," said Hermione hastily, trying to poke it out of sight, but Ron was too quick for her. He pulled it out, flicked it open, and read aloud:
"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-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award."
Ron looked up at Hermione, disgusted. "You sleep with this under your pillow?" he said, his tone containing a hint of jealousy Harriet noticed but Hermione didn't. But Hermione was spared answering by Madam Pomfrey sweeping over with her evening dose of medicine. "Is Lockhart the smarmiest bloke you've ever met, or what?" Ron said to Harriet as they left the infirmary and started up the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower. Snape had given them so much homework, Harriet would've thought she was likely to be in the sixth year before she finished it if she wasn't as on top of it and remembered their lessons as much as Hermione was. 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 their ears.
"That's Filch," Harriet muttered worriedly — Filch didn't have magic after all, if the heir was attacking him he stood less of a chance than her fellow students — as they hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard. "You don't think someone else's been attacked?" said Ron tensely, Harriet seriously hoped not. They stood still, their heads inclined toward Filch's voice, which sounded quite hysterical. "— 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 along the out-of-sight corridor and they heard a distant door slam.
They poked their heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post: They were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked. They 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 that Filch had stopped shouting, they could hear Myrtle's wails echoing off the bathroom walls. "Now what's up with her?" said Ron. "Let's go and see," said Harriet, and holding their robes over their ankles they 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, if possible, 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. "What's up, Myrtle?" said Harriet. "Who's that?" glugged Myrtle miserably. "Come to throw something else at me?" Harriet waded across to her stall and said, "Why would I throw something at you?" Confused as Myrtle could be annoying when she was crying but wasn't worth throwing something at, especially when it would just go through her.
"Don't ask me," Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water, which splashed onto the already sopping floor. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me. . . ." A book, that was news to Harriet. "But it can't hurt you if someone throws something at you," said Harriet, reasonably. "I mean, it'd just go right through you, wouldn't it?" She had said the wrong thing, which she realized quickly. Myrtle puffed herself up and shrieked, "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!" Pushing her ghostly hand through Harriet's stomach and head.
"Who threw it at you, anyway?" asked Harriet, trying to be more tactful while recovering from the chill of phasing through a ghost. "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," said Myrtle, glaring at them. "It's over there, it got washed out. . . ." Harriet and Ron 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. Harriet stepped forward to pick it up, but Ron suddenly flung out an arm to hold her back.
"What?" said Harriet. "Are you mad?" said Ron. "It could be dangerous." That perplexed Harriet, she'd never heard of a book being dangerous before. Even the restricted section didn't have books that were dangerous by themselves. "Dangerous?" said Harriet, laughing. "Come off it, how could it be dangerous?" Finding the idea preposterous. "You'd be surprised," said Ron, who was looking apprehensively at the book. "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 —"
"All right, I've got the point," said Harriet. The little book lay on the floor, nondescript and soggy. "Well, we won't find out unless we look at it," she said, and she ducked around Ron and picked it up off the floor. Harriet saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded year on the cover told her it was fifty years old. She opened it eagerly. On the first page she could just make out the name "T. M. Riddle" in smudged ink. She also noticed it was very similar to the diary Ginny had made them go back for on the first of September, so similar that unless she was mistaken it could be the same exact one. "Hang on," said Ron, who had approached cautiously and was looking over Harriet's shoulder. "I know that name. . . . T. M. Riddle got an award for special services to the school fifty years ago."
"How on earth d'you know that?" said Harriet in amazement. Even she didn't know that, though — to be fair — she hadn't checked the library to find out who T. M. Riddle was. "Because Filch made me polish his shield about fifty times in detention," said Ron resentfully. "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." Harriet peeled the wet pages apart. They were completely blank. There wasn't even the faintest trace of writing on any of them, not even Auntie Mabel's birthday, or dentist, half-past three. "He never wrote in it," said Harriet, disappointed.
"I wonder why someone wanted to flush it away?" said Ron curiously. Harriet turned to the back cover of the book and saw the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London. "He must've been Muggleborn," said Harriet thoughtfully. "To have bought a diary from Vauxhall Road. . . ." Though that didn't feel right to her, she had a prickling feeling that he'd not been Muggleborn but maybe half-blood like herself. "Well, it's not much use to you," said Ron. He dropped his voice. "Fifty points if you can get it through Myrtle's nose." Harriet, however, pocketed it. While glaring at Ron for being so tactless towards Myrtle.