A/N: That time has come to pass in which Ol' Bob and I, together again at last after having never parted, write the sequel no one asked for. For those of you who don't know, this is the sequel to our story Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Pet Rock. So if you haven't read that go give it a read, though you might not have to for this story to make sense. We also decided to skip books two and three cause . . . cause. Enjoy the readings and leave us a review or a flame or a pleasant mixture of both.

Prologue: The Journaliest Entry You've Ever Read

Taken from the journal of Harry Potter.

Dearest Journal,

I write to you now having mastered fully the diction, vocabulary, and participles of my Anglo-Saxon ancestry and language. I think it was Frederick Douglass who said, when speaking of the dire importance of literacy and education, "Don't be a fool—stay in school." AND SO I DID! The words hold power because they rhyme, I think. When I recall my humble beginnings at Hogwarts—I will skip my First Year, because maybe one, or two, people have written on the subject with abandoning abandon—I am compelled to record my fantastical histories. Herein lies, in brief, the chronicles of my Second and Third Years:

I met a downtrodden slave-elf dressed a pauperish rags who told me its name was Dobby. We became fast friends, though he did do many mean things to me, like try to keep me away from my school which was my only respite from my heinous family. He also broke my arm like unto a bitch and made me run into a wall; but then I gave him a sock and he became my strongest ally. I think it was Machiavelli who said, "All you need is love/ Love is all you need" (my dear friend Hermione maintains I should do more research before I site sources, but she is but the son of a man who owns a simple tonsorial parlor—what would she know of the world and the ways we live in it?). It also became clear to me in the summer before my second year that my dearest friend Ronald's sister, one Ginevra Weasley, wanted the HP D, if you'll pardon my vulgarity...and if you will not, then I say she wanted to ride me like a pogo stick. Her flirtatious machinations finally came to fruition when her trollish Valentine messenger shot an arrow far afield of my heart. And, with cherubim nonchalance, I had to crush her feelings like a soft-shelled snail.

And herein lies the meat and potatoes of this year. Unbeknownst to us, Ginny had acquired a special diary on the day before school in which we met both Kenneth Branagh and Draco's unfortunate father. Mr. Branagh, fresh from some directorial shimsham, had applied for and received the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, even though he lacked any sort of experience in magic (except the magic of theater). Upon our meeting, it became evident that Professor B. was a glorified mountebank, fit only to service the plumbing of Hogwarts Technical School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. At this same juncture we made the acquaintance of one Lucius Malfoy, who said to me, and I quote, "I know what you are on the inside, Mr. Potter. You're just a little fat girl, aren't you? You just eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat, until your problems go away, but they never go away because they live inside you, so you just keep eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eat eating." My compatriots and I for a brief sparkling moment felt compassion for the poor Dracster, saddled as he was with a sire of dubious intelligence. But then he showed up on my Quidditch pitch, having purchased his way into success, and the fires of hatred were rekindled anew.

Also, about that diary: there was a snake, a bird clawed its eyes out, and I poked it with a sword. The snake, not the bird. I think Voldemort was there.

We now move on to Third Year, and what a year it was!

I met a doggy. It turned out to be my uncle. And Ron's rat turned out to be a fat person.

But more importantly, I had finally come face to face with my nemesis. He is man that has been carved into existence purely to test the width and breadth of my patience and anger. Imagine, if you will, an alabaster cheek adorned with the subtlest crimson hint of a blush. His strong jaw offsets the gentleness of his brown eyes, pure as the eyes of a deer, or a koodoo. His wavy John Lockes of auburn hair appeared spun by the most talented Oriental spinstresses; and yet the silky follicles looked practical, like the sort warriors of old would use to capture arrows fired at their fragile frames. His skin glowed—sparkled even!—in the sunlight. Hermione said I just imagined it, but she's a fool! I see with eyes unclouded!

Our rivalry began when he bested me handily in a very fair match of Quidditch, that was rudely interrupted by a gang of freakish dementors (black cloaky things, not important). I began to see this perfidious foe for what he really was—he was too nice. Anyone that nice is hiding something! Seriously, he always gets top marks, he doesn't get nervous around girls, he doesn't get flop sweat the way I do! When I aired my grievances towards him, he took me to a brunch—HE MADE THE BRUNCH HIMSELF AND IT WAS DELICIOUS! It tasted like hopes and aspirations and angel dreams, and I didn't know fritatas could kick like that! He must have used cumen or something! Whatever his secret ingredient is will hound me to the grave! Hermione accused me of monomania—but she does not know that I am madness maddened, the sort of madness that only stops to comprehend itself.

But then she gave me a ham, and for a brief time my demons were quieted, and I forgot about Cedric Diggory. Or, to his friends, C-Digs.

Ham is good. It is maybe my favorite food.

For now, faithful Journal, I must bid you adieu. For I am on my way to witness the Quidditch World Cup with my besties, Ron, Hermione, and Ron's somewhat sluggish family. Who can say what wonders and tribulations lie in wait for me in this, my Fourth Year of Hogwarts? Maybe I will be atop a broom, and maybe there will be dragons, and perchance there may be some Russkies. But I am no soothsayer, and shall not trifle with what is to come. Also, perhaps I'll return that Hooked On Phonics tape and finally acquire a library card of my own. HP out.

A/N: Leave a review, or don't, or both, or all three. Even if you don't choose you still have made a choice.