Chapter Thirty – The Very Secret Diary

After their meeting in the Forbidden Forest, Granger and Longbottom found any excuse to talk with Harry. Granger seemed to forget whatever suspicions she previously held, and was now alive with research. She would approach Harry several times a day, slinking up to his table during meals, waving Harry toward her between classes, and even breaking tradition to select the seats nearest to Harry in Potions class, though this placed she and Longbottom deep within Slytherin territory.

The reason for this constant interruption was simple. Granger wanted to test her many theories about the beast within the Chamber with Harry, and often stopped to ask his opinion on a particular kind of serpent, or an idea of how it could be moving about the castle.

"I think we should question Noodle about it," she said one evening, after dragging Longbottom to the Slytherin table and forcing him to sit next to Millie.

"Her name isn't Noodle. It's Ouroboros," Blaise said, clearly irritated. Harry knew he didn't approve of the Gryffindors' inclusion in their circle.

But either Granger didn't notice his hostility, or she simply didn't care. Instead, she smiled widely.

"Oh! Like the snake that swallows its own tail! That's clever! Did you know it's an ancient symbol of infinity?"

"Yes." Blaise said shortly, stabbing a fork into his meal with more force than necessary.

"Anyway, I think if it really is a snake, then maybe Ouroboros has heard it too. Have you tried asking her about the voice, Harry?"

"Er, no..." Harry said awkwardly. The truth was, it had never occurred to him to ask Blaise's pet. They had only recently surmised that Slytherin's beast must be a snake, and Harry had been too busy trying to convince his friends that it was worth while to have Granger on their side, and not to put a hex on her or Longbottom.

"Well, what's stopping us from trying now? Blaise, do you have your snake with you?"

"She's in the dorm. Sleeping.," said Blaise flatly.

Millie was now shooting Harry a look, warning him to send the Gryffindors away. At first, Harry thought she was merely annoyed by Granger and Longbottom interrupting their evening meal. But as Harry followed Millie's gaze, he noted that several students from the other houses were stealing glances in his direction before turning and whispering to their friends.

Of course, this was not a new experience for Harry, but he knew that the tide of gossip had turned toward Granger. In the days following their forest interview, rumors about Hermione Granger began to circulate. She was a known muggle-born, hanging around the assumed Heir of Slytherin.

Harry did not admit as much to Blaise or Millie, but he had grown to admire Granger. Like her disregard for Blaise's open hostility, she didn't seem to care what the school said about her.

But although Granger was unaffected, he could tell the general attention put a strain on Longbottom. Blaise seemed to resent his presence even more than Granger's, and Harry did not doubt it was due to Longbottom stealing his likeness with the polyjuice potion. He had demanded several times to know what Longbottom planned to contribute to their mission, and poor Neville had never been able to stammer out more than a few incoherent words before Granger would interrupt with a new theory. Harry was distressed to see that Longbottom appeared to fear Blaise as much as Willowby had before he'd been petrified.

To make current matters worse, he didn't like the looks Draco Malfoy was shooting toward them from his end of the table. Harry didn't want to cause a scene during dinner, so he excused himself, stating that he would go back to the dorm and question Blaise's pet straightaway.

"You'll tell us what you find out, won't you?" Granger asked, practically spinning all the way round on the bench to get a look at Harry as he passed by.

Harry promised he would, though he didn't think Noodle would have much to share. If she had sensed anything that could harm either her master or his friends, she would have told them about it already. Still, he left them with a wave of his hand, and made his way down to the Slytherin common room alone.

It took a few minutes of searching before Harry located Blaise's snake. She had slithered her way into his pillowcase and was taking a nap. Harry gently hissed a greeting to rouse her, not wanting to startle a sleeping serpent and risk getting a bite. Hagrid had assured him that Noose Pythons weren't venemous, but Harry wasn't keen on getting bitten, all the same. As Ouroboros - sometimes called Noodle - drowsily wound herself around Harry's hand, Harry questioned her about the voice.

Noodle shook her head slowly. She had not heard any whispering about the castle, and she wasn't sure if any other snakes had the ability to petrify.

You could ask the spiders, she added softly.

"Spiders?" Harry hissed back, wondering if he had misunderstood. But this was not likely. He was a natural parselmouth, after all, and heard Noodle's words not as a hiss, but in clear English.

They've been restless. Something has them scared, Noodle said.

"Do you know what they're afraid of?"

Noodle merely shook her small head again, a habit she had learned from watching Harry and his friends. I don't speak spider.

Harry sighed. He couldn't talk to spiders, either. Harry thanked Noodle for her help and gently placed her in his pocket, where the sleepy snake curled up for another long nap.

Harry decided to wait for the return of his friends in the common room. He wasn't hungry, and felt no desire to return to the Great Hall. If anything, he looked forward to a few moments of peace and quiet without Granger, Malfoy, or any other students to worry about.

He settled in front of the fire, warming himself near the crackling flames. He was just staring to think that Noodle had the right idea, and that a nap sounded like a grand plan, when his eyes fell on something in the embers of the fire. He peered closer, and realized it was a small, leather-bound book.

Harry pushed himself off the sofa and knelt in front of the fire, confirming his initial impressions. It was a book. And though it sat right in the middle of a steady blaze, it appeared unburnt.

Curious about what sort of enchantment was on the book, Harry searched for a poker to knock it out of the fire. Then he remembered he was a wizard, and rolling his eyes at his own lapse of thought, he drew out his wand and levitated the book out of the grate.

He let the book fall to the ground in front of him, worried it would be too hot to handle. But curiosity won out, and he reached a hand slowly toward the book. It wasn't hot. In fact, it was oddly cool to the touch.

Harry eagerly picked it up and opened to a page in the middle, but it was empty. He flipped through the pages, moving first to the front of the book, then to the back, but it was the same on every page. All blank.

Harry rested his back against the sofa, still seated on the floor, and looked at the book with a frown. Why would someone want to burn a book that didn't have anything in it?

He inspected the pages again and noted a name that had been inscribed inside the front cover.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Harry read aloud, sounding the middle name out slowly. Marvolo was an odd name, to be sure, but Harry's attention was struck by another inscription, this time on the back cover.

"Vauxhall Road," Harry read underneath the name of a bookshop. The book was a common mass-produced journal, and whoever this Tom was, he picked it up in a muggle store.

Harry was more bewildered than ever. Other than Colin Creevy, there were not many students in Slytherin House with muggle parents. Most either came from families boasting pure-blood lineage, or else had two magical parents, like Harry. And yet the book must belong to a Slytherin student, otherwise it would not be in the Slytherin common room.

Harry flipped to the front cover again and stared at the name. He was sure he would remember hearing about a student with a name like Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Just then he heard the common room door swing open, and turned to see Blaise returning alone.

"Where's Millie?" Harry asked.

Blaise jumped in fright and clutched at his chest dramatically.

"Gimli's axe, Harry!" he shouted once he saw his friend crouched behind the sofa, "Don't scare me like that!"

"Sorry," Harry said, his apology undermined by his grin.

"Millie is talking to Professor Sprout. Apparently the mandrakes are nearly mature enough to be brewed into a potion," Blaise said in answer to Harry's question, "What are you doing down there anyway?"

Harry held the book above his head for Blaise to see, "Someone threw this into the fire. It's not burnt, so it must be enchanted. But it's blank."

"Let me see," said Blaise, jumping over the back of the sofa and taking a seat just above Harry's place on the floor.

He took the book from Harry's hand an opened it to a random page. Harry watched as Blaise drew his own wand and pointed it at the book's center.

"Aparecium," Blaise said. But the book remained the same.

Blaise frowned and handed the book back to Harry.

"Don't know what to tell you, mate."

Harry decided to share the diary with Granger and Longbottom. Granger was, after all, one of the smartest witches in Harry's year, though she was a Gryffindor and terribly nosy.

"I think the owner might be muggle-born," Harry said as he passed the book to Granger over breakfast the next day. "It says it was purchased in Vauxhall Road. But I don't know of anyone in Slytherin House named Tom Riddle."

"And you wouldn't," Hermione said in a matter-of-fact way as she flipped to the back cover and read the inscription, "This book is fifty years old."

"What?" Harry and Blaise asked in unison.

Hermione flipped the book toward them and pointed to a date beneath the bookshop's address. Harry felt exceedingly stupid. How could he have missed that detail before?

"What's a fifty-year-old blank diary doing in a fire in the Slytherin common room?" Blaise asked aloud.

No one had an answer to his question. Harry merely shrugged his shoulders while Granger looked thoughtful. Only Millie, who had been silent since Harry mentioned the book that morning, glared at the leather-bound pages and said, "I think whoever threw it into the fire must have had a good reason for doing so. You shouldn't mess with things like that, Harry. It could be cursed."

Harry wasn't convinced. Nothing bad had happened to him since he found the book last night, and he couldn't see any harm in someone's blank journal.

But Granger nodded in agreement with Millie.

"She's right, Harry. The book is clearly protected by magic, and it isn't wise to mess with something when you don't understand how it works."

Harry could see the sense in their argument, but Granger's words were betrayed by the look of interest in her eyes. She handed the book back to Harry, all the while staring at its cover as if it would divulge its secrets any moment.

"Although," she added after a slight pause, "It could hide something very interesting. After all, someone took the trouble of charming it, didn't they? Perhaps if we asked one of the teachers..."

Harry didn't like the idea of relinquishing his book to a professor. He had been the one to find it, and he felt rather jealous of the discovery. He was trying to think up an excuse to delay his friends, when they were interrupted, quite extravagantly, but the appearance of Gilderoy Lockhart.

He did not arrive quietly. Bedecked in robes of the most lurid pink, he waved his wand in the air with unnecessary flourish, and with a loud bang numerous large, equally hideous pink flowers burst from the walls. Several students screamed in shock, and Harry nearly fell out of his chair. His back had been turned toward the professor. Now he spun around to see the source of the commotion, and was in time to witness the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher give another twirl of his wand, and heart-shaped confetti began to fall from the pale blue ceiling overhead.

"Oh no..." muttered Blaise, "Today isn't..."

"Happy Valentine's Day!" Lockhart shouted to students and teachers alike. Harry glanced at the faculty table and saw that Professor McGonagall seemed to have been petrified herself. Snape looked as if he'd never be happy again, but then again, he always looked like that.

Meanwhile, Lockhart continued with his little speech, thanking the admirers who had sent him cards, and boasting about the surprise he had prepared for everyone.

He waved one of his pink-clad arms to indicate the decorations, then suddenly clapped his hands. At this signal, a dozen surly-looking dwarfs came marching through the entrance to the Great Hall. Harry saw with a pitying stare that Lockhart had them all wearing little golden wings. In each of their hands, they carried a harp.

"My friendly, card-carrying cupids!" Lockhart boasted with pride. "They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentine's!"

The appearance of Lockhart and his troop of would-be cupids was unwelcome, but at least it distracted the others from Harry's book. Blaise hurried everyone off, conscious of a dwarf who was holding a particularly large stack of cards, and who seemed to have his eye on him.

Throughout the day, classes were constantly interrupted by the appearance of one of these messengers, and the cards were read aloud to a chagrined recipient. Blaise was not able to dodge the herald of his fans for long. The dwarf from the great hall caught up to him in Potions class, and began a sonnet composed for him by a secret admirer. Mercifully, Snape would not stand for this disruption, not even to humiliate one of Harry's friends. He swiftly expelled the little man from his classroom. But the dwarf, determined to earn his paycheck, simply waited in the hall until the end of class, and Blaise was forced to submit to no less than eight professions of love from his fellow students.

Perhaps the attention, under normal circumstances, would have stroked Blaise's already considerable ego. But the awareness that this admiration found its vent through a plan of Lockhart's dampened Blaise's enthusiasm for the holiday as a whole, and he did nothing but complain. Harry and Millie, neither of whom received a single valentine, did not envy him.

Harry, free from the distraction of unwanted valentines, was able to ponder the mystery of Tom Riddle's diary at leisure. He thought of it during Potions class, while Snape berated Blaise, as if it was his idea to throw the Valentine's festivities. He thought about it over the mid-day break, where Granger and Longbottom once again joined them for a meal, and Millie accused Granger of being one of Lockhart's groupies. Harry was still thinking about the book at the end of the school day, as he sat bored in his History of Magic lesson.

He found himself wishing that Professor Binns would talk of something useful, such as famous wizards by the name of Riddle who may have once enchanted a diary. But the ghostly professor only droned on and on about the Goblin Revolt. Professor Binns never took notice of his students, and Harry was sure he could run some tests on the book, as Granger had suggested, without attracting his attention. But Harry did not know as many clever spells as Blaise, and he was not as good at counter-jinxes as Millie. Feeling frustrated, Harry flipped the book open to a random page, and began absentmindedly doodling on a corner.

He was attempting a caricature of Draco Malfoy. His drawing was not as good as Millie's, who seemed to be practicing all the time, but he thought the pointed nose and beady eyes a very good likeness. He was in the process of drawing the flat, over-gelled hair when the image faded away. Harry stared at the page in disbelief. He flipped to the page behind, almost believing that the ink had been absorbed by the back pages, but this appeared just as clean as the first.

Harry tried again, this time doing a quick sketch of Noodle. The looping lines of the snake's body were quickly rendered, and Harry had time to finish drawing a little forked tongue before the serpent also faded away, as if the ink were being sucked into the page.

Harry smiled at this discovery. The pages must be full of writing, but they were hidden within the pages themselves. If he could find a way to draw the words back out of the parchment, he should be able to read whatever had been written within.

Just as he was thinking this, he was surprised to see words slowly appear in the middle of the page. This time, the ink seemed to well up from the book itself, like blood from a fresh wound, and it sat there, glimmering in the light as if it were freshly written.

Cool snake, it said.

Excited, Harry wasted no time in scribbling his response.

Thanks.

The words faded back into the page. Harry wondered if the book was somehow communicating with him, or if it were one of a pair. Perhaps whatever he wrote in the journal appeared in another book, and whatever the other owner wrote in response appeared on his side. Harry figured it was plausible. Nothing about the wizarding world would surprise him at this point.

Though it isn't your best work, said fresh words that appeared as soon as Harry had given his thanks.

Harry frowned. My best work? What do you mean?

There seemed to be a pause, as if the person writing to Harry from the other side of the pages was thinking, or just as confused as he.

Who is this? They finally asked.

Harry hesitated. He didn't know who was on the other side of this strange message. He suddenly recalled Granger and Millie's warnings about cursed objects. He wasn't sure if he should reveal himself or not. Deciding to err on the side of caution, he quickly scribbled out a response.

My name is Draco Malfoy.

It was the first name that Harry could think of, or at least it was the first name not connected to someone he actually cared about, like Blaise or Millie.

Another brief pause, then the words appeared again.

Malfoy. I know of that name. Very old family. It's a good name.

Harry rolled his eyes. So his conversation partner was one of those simpletons who put too much stock in pureblood lineage. Harry was suddenly not sure he wanted to speak with them, until the words of the first message faded away, and a new sentence appeared in its place.

My name is Tom Riddle.

"Harry?"

Harry slammed the book shut, startled out of his intense focus on the page and fearful lest someone discover what he was doing. He looked up to see only Blaise staring at him.

"Class is over, mate. What were you doing with the book?"

"Nothing," Harry said, not sure why he told the lie, even as it tripped across his tongue. "I was just taking some notes."

Blaise raised a skeptical brow and looked pointedly at the leather-bound cover.

"In that thing?" he asked, "Didn't Granger say it wasn't a good idea to mess with it? We don't know how it works."

Harry shrugged his shoulders, thinking privately that he had discovered exactly how the book worked, and was eager to try it out some more. But his friend's wary suspicion would be likely to halt his investigations, so he thought he would keep it a secret for now. Instead, he simply stated, "It was only a few notes. What harm could it do?"

Later, when Harry found himself alone in his dormitory for a few moments, safety hidden by the curtains of his fourposter, he opened Tom Riddle's diary again. The words had faded away, just as he expected they would. Dipping his quill into the well he had balanced carefully on his bedclothes, Harry scrawled out a message again.

Hello, Tom. Are you there?

He didn't know how long he might have to wait. After all, Tom purchased this book nearly 50 years ago, by the date on the cover. Harry expected the old man might be in bed at that moment. But to Harry's surprise and relief, the answer came right away, as if Tom had been waiting to speak to him again.

I am always here. Is that you, Draco?

Harry flinched at the sudden recollection. He'd nearly forgotten the alias he'd given Riddle. Regretting his decision, but feeling safer keeping his own well-known identity a secret, he supported the lie.

Yes, it's me. What do you mean, you're always here?

The diary. It's mine. I've recorded my memories in it. My past.

Harry blinked at the words on the page, hastily reforming the theory he'd imagined before. Riddle was not speaking to him from through a twin journal. Riddle was speaking to him from the past.

Someone tried to burn your diary, Harry wrote after meditating on this new information. I found it in the fire.

I'm not surprised, came Riddle's immediate reply, I always knew there were some who would not want this diary read.

This was cryptic enough to entice Harry, who began to hope of learning something interesting about the mysterious owner of the journal. He quickly scribbled out a response, asking Riddle why someone would attempt to destroy his diary.

Once again, Riddle's response came without hesitation, as if he had been waiting for this very question.

Have you heard of the Chamber of Secrets?

Harry paused. The interest he'd felt only a moment before had been replaced by sudden skepticism. It couldn't be a coincidence that the subject foremost in Harry's thoughts for weeks should suddenly be mentioned by the memory of someone who attended Hogwarts fifty years before Harry. Adrian Pucey had claimed that the Chamber had been opened once before, and he shared this in front of a whole room of Slytherins. And Harry had found the diary in the common room, where anyone could have left it.

Writing his response after a little more deliberation, Harry stated, I have. But how do I know this isn't some prank?

Tom's words were not as quick to form as his previous answers had been. For a moment, Harry believed that he had caught someone in a lie, and that the diary was nothing more than an elaborate hoax to prey on frightened students. But the next instant, the words came again - black, shining, and ominous.

I can show you.

Before Harry could think of a response, or consider the import of these words, the pages began to move on their own, as if blown by a high wind, though there was no breeze. When the movement stopped, Harry was able to read the date on the page as June 13th. A spot of black ink welled darkly in the middle of the page, not forming words so much as a blot. At first, Harry thought there had been a mistake, but then it seemed to him that he could see something moving in that inky blackness. He picked the book up with both hands, moving the ever growing stain closer to his eyes for inspection.

Suddenly, he felt his body tipping forward, as if his entire bed had tilted, sending him catapulting forward. As insane as it was, Harry felt as though he had fallen right through the pages of the diary, and was careening down in a whirl of text and shadow.

He did not land face-first on the stone floor of his bedroom. Instead, he landed on his feet, shaking and confused, but otherwise unharmed. As the blurred forms around him came into focus, Harry understood where he was immediately, though he was less certain of how he arrived there.

It was the headmaster's office, but it was not Dumbledore seated behind the familiar desk. He certainly looked old enough to be Dumbledore, but his head was nearly bald, except for a few wispy white hairs. He was reading a letter by candlelight, and seemed very tired.

Harry waited in silence, thinking of what excuse he would make when the man inevitably looked up and demanded to know what Harry was doing there.

But the anticipated moment never came. The wizard folded up the letter with a sigh, and without appearing to notice Harry, walked right past him to close the curtains before his window. Then he returned to his desk, sat down, and stared at the door. Harry was standing directly in front of it, and yet the man was certainly not looking at him. It seemed as if he was staring right through him.

Harry realized then what was going on. The man did not see Harry because Harry didn't exist yet. Or rather, he hadn't existed then. This was Riddle's memory, and Harry was seeing Hogwarts as Riddle remembered it.

There was a knock on the office door, and a boy entered. He looked to be about sixteen years old, and was much taller than Harry. But like him, the boy had jet black hair and wore Slytherin's green robes. A coldness that Harry couldn't account for swept through him at this slight resemblance, but he ignored the feeling as he noted the shining silver prefect badge glinting on the boy's chest.

This was the owner of the diary, and for a moment, Harry half expected him to turn, notice Harry, and speak to him. But Riddle stared fixedly at the wizard behind the desk, as locked in this memory as everything around him.

"You wanted to see me, Professor Dippet?" said Riddle.

"Sit down," replied Dippet, "I've just been reading the letter you sent me."

Harry watched as Riddle obeyed the command. Feeling confident that he could not be observed by these phantoms of the past, Harry dared to draw close Riddle's side, and could see the boy's nervousness in his tightly clenched hands.

"My dear boy," Professor Dippet began, "I cannot possibly let you stay at school over the summer. Surely you want to go home for the holidays?"

"No," Riddle retorted at once, "I'd much rather stay at Hogwarts than go back to that... To that..."

Professor Dippet appeared to take pity on Riddle's struggle. He completed Riddle's thought by asking, "You live in a Muggle orphanage during the holidays, I believe?"

"Yes, sir."

Harry felt this heart throb at this new discovery. Here was yet another resemblance between himself and the owner of the diary. They had both lost their parents.

"You are Muggle-born?"

"Half-blood, sir." Riddle clarified, "Muggle father, witch mother."

Professor Dippet pressed him to continue, and Riddle elaborated further, "My mother died just after I was born, sir. They told me at the orphanage she lived just long enough to name me. Tom, after my father. Marvolo after my grandfather."

Professor Dippet clicked his tongue and said, "The thing is, Tom, special arrangements might have been made for you, but in the current circumstances..."

"You mean all these attacks, sir?" said Riddle.

Harry's breath quickened. In his sympathy for the boy's plight, he nearly forgot why Riddle had brought him into this memory in the first place. It all came rushing back to him when he heard of the attacks, and he fixed his eyes on Professor Dippet, certain he was about to learn about the Chamber.

"Precisely," said the headmaster. "My dear boy, you must see how foolish it would be of me to allow you to remain at the castle when term ends. Particularly in light of the recent tragedy... The death of that poor little girl... You will be safer by far at your orphanage. As a matter of fact, the Ministry of Magic is even now talking about closing the school. We are no nearer locating the, er... source of all this unpleasantness."

At the mention of closing the school, Harry returned his gaze to Riddle, who had gone pale, his eyes wide.

"Sir... If the person was caught... if it all stopped..."

"What do you mean?" asked Dippet with a slight squeak to his voice, "Riddle, do you mean you know something about these attacks?"

"No, sir." said Riddle quickly, but Harry could read the doubt in his face as easily as Dippet probably could himself.

They sat for a moment in uncomfortable silence, Dippet scrutinizing Riddle's face for any sign of cracking. But Riddle remained impassive, his pale face becoming as still as marble. Finally, Dippet sat back in his chair with a sigh, and dismissed Riddle from his office.

Harry followed Riddle as he slipped out of the room. Down the moving spiral staircase they went, emerging next to the gargoyle Harry recognized from the present day. Here Riddle suddenly stopped. Harry could tell he was thinking. He bit his lips, his forehead furrowed.

Then, as though suddenly making a decision, he hurried off down the hall. Harry rushed along behind him, his running feet making no sound. They passed no one until they reached the entrance hall, where a tall wizard with long, auburn hair and beard to match called to Riddle from the marble staircase.

"What are you doing, wandering around this late, Tom?"

Harry couldn't help but gawk when he realized who the man was. It was none other than a fifty-year-younger Albus Dumbledore.

"I had to see the headmaster, sir," said Riddle.

"Well, hurry off to bed," said Dumbledore, giving Riddle the same penetrating stare Harry had come to recognize from his own encounters with the headmaster. "Best not to roam the corridors these days. Not since..."

Here he sighed, wished Riddle a good night, and strode off without another word. Riddle watched him walk out of sight before moving again, heading straight toward the stone steps to the dungeons.

Riddle led Harry to the very dungeon where Snape held his potions classes. The torches were unlit, and when Riddle pushed the door almost closed, Harry could barely see him in the dark. He stood perfectly still, watching the passage outside.

Harry did not know how long they waited, but it felt like nearly an hour. It seemed his body could not become fatigued in a memory, but he often found himself holding his breath for longer than he believed to be possible, waiting for something to happen. Finally, he heard a noise beyond the door.

Someone crept along the passage. He heard whoever it was pass the dungeon where he hid with Riddle. Quiet as a shadow, Riddle edged through the door and followed.

For another few minutes they followed the footsteps, until Riddle suddenly stopped. He inclined his head in the direction of a voice. Harry heard a door creak open, and then someone speaking in a hoarse whisper.

"C'mon... gotta get yeh outta here... C'mon now... in the box..."

Harry's blood ran cold. He recognized that voice.

His arm shot out to stop Riddle as the boy jumped around the corner, forgetting in his panic that he could neither be seen nor felt by a memory. Harry followed after him, crying out for Riddle to stop, his voice heard by no one. He was brought before a figure, just an outline in the dark, of a huge boy who crouched in front of an open door. There was a very large box next to him.

"Evening Rubeus," said Riddle sharply.

The boy slammed the door shut and stood up.

"What yer doin' here, Tom?"

"It's all over," Riddle said, stepping closer, "I'm going to have to turn you in, Rubeus. They're talking about closing Hogwarts if the attacks don't stop."

"What d'yeh..."

"I don't think you meant to kill anyone. But monsters don't make good pets. I suppose you just let it out for exercise and..."

"It never killed no one!" said the large boy, backing against the closed door. From behind him, Harry could hear a funny rustling and clicking sound.

"Come one, Rubeus," Riddle said, moving closer still, "The dead girl's parents will be here tomorrow. The least Hogwarts can do is make sure that the thing that killed their daughter is slaughtered..."

"It wasn't him!" roared the boy in a panic, his voice echoing in the dark passage, "He wouldn'! He never!"

"Stand aside," commanded Riddle as he drew out his wand.

His spell lit the corridor with a sudden flaming light. The door behind the boy flew open with such force it knocked him into the wall opposite. Out of the darkness of the open door came something that made Harry scream.

A large, low, hairy body and a tangle of black legs. A gleam of many eyes, and a pair of razor sharp pincers. That was all Harry could make out in the gloom before Riddle raised his wand again. Too late, as it turned out. The thing bowled over him as it scurried away, tearing down the corridor and out of sight in an instant. Riddle scrambled to his feet, searching after it. He raised his wand again, but the other boy leapt on him, seized his wand, and threw him back down, shouting as he did so.

The scene whirled around him, and darkness fell over everything. Harry felt himself falling upward, and with a crash, he landed on his bed in the Slytherin dormitory, spilling the contents of his forgotten inkwell all over his bedclothes. Riddle's diary lay open on his stomach.

Before Harry had time to process what he had just seen and learned, he heard a voice on the other side of his closed curtains. A moment later, they were pulled aside, and Blaise looked down at Harry in confusion.

"Harry? Have you been here this whole time?"

"Yes," said Harry, the single syllable all he could manage at the moment.

"Are you alright? You don't look so good."

But Harry couldn't answer him. He didn't know how to tell his friend that it was Hagrid who opened the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago.