Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or Harry Potter, no matter how much I wish to. I don't even have the full series!
There was a buzz about Diagon Alley about the newest series in the preferred bookstore, Flourish and Blotts. That one girl, Luna Lovegood, daughter of that insane lunatic from Ottery St. Catchpole, had published multiple books about Harry Potter. They all seemed separated by ages, and each was charmed to contain the flesh memories of their original writer.
Tap the left page, and the right page would show the black and white memory (as the kinks for the colour hadn't been fixed just yet) of the writer, how they looked and what they were doing as they wrote. It only worked for journals, mostly because of the usually turbulent emotions present in the ambient magic in the surrounding atmosphere.
Lovegood had combined the first two years together, as their 'chapters' were short. The entries themselves were a bit long, but only got longer during the second book, the third year, which became a book by itself.
All the proceeds from whoever bought them would be donated to several charities, including one for the orphans created by the newest war and another for werewolves to afford their Wolfsbane potions.
Hordes of people, eager to learn about the 'hero who had later killed himself in grief' and their infamous 'Boy-Who-Lived,' had turned out to purchase the books, regardless if they were angry about the donations or not. Most purchasers didn't take note of the sign that gave some warnings about what they would find, or appropriate reading ages for which book. The shelves were emptied quickly, no one wanting to stand in the shop and try and read their newly purchased Harry Potter book, just to have it yanked form their hands by someone waiting in line.
The next morning, Luna Lovegood's residence received no less than one hundred and nineteen howlers expressing everything from their disappointment in her 'slandering their hero,' anger at 'daring to say Muggles could possibly do that to a magical child and not get caught,' happiness that she had 'proved them right, this boy was a danger, thank Merlin he's dead now,' and sadness that 'no one had noticed his burden.' This was within the eighteen hours the books had been out.
She set fire to the letters before they could scream their messages and blocked access to her home by way of house elf. They would pop up and either detonate them remotely after getting the bird to leave, or set fire to them, like she had.
Shortly after getting a small breakfast of oatmeal, eyes red from crying the night before, she goes back to bed, sliding into Neville's arms and trying to ignore the fact that she had woken up in the first place.