I got a review in Russian last time (I think it was Russian…) which heartens me as it is surely a sign of world domination through fanfiction. My stupid writing is reaching the far corners of the globe, I'm flattered.

I just wish I knew what it said…"Justina", dear, if you review again, please do it in English…

Thanks goes out to these lovely readers for reviewing chapter seven: Weirdlyyours, Poetic License, Justina, DCoD, and Nutz Nina. My friend brought up a good point--I didn't justify why Slughorn came forth with his memory last chapter--so I editted it a bit and you can go back and read it, if it, er, makes you feel better or something.

Anyway, onwards and upwards:

Chapter Eight: Prefect Duty

"Urgh!"

"Watch where you're going!"

Harry picked himself up from the floor, slightly dazed. A small, redheaded girl lay at his feet on the trophy room floor. He grinned wickedly. Malfoy had tormented the other Weasley boy enough for Harry to be able to spot one of the clan from their vivid hair and freckles.

"Hello, Muggle-lover. What patchy robes you've got on today. What is it, third, fourth-hand?"

She glared up at him with a little fear in her gaze. Harry's smirk broadened.

"What House are you in? Gryffindor, if I guess right. They must have felt sorry for you—oomph—"

The girl had hopped up and sunk a small fist straight into Harry's jawbone. "What the hell d'you think you're doing!" Harry hissed, holding his jaw in pain.

"Potter, did I see right? Did you just get beat on by a little Muggle-lover?"

Harry turned to Malfoy, who'd just walked in, and said furiously, "She's a nutter! And how in hell did you even find me?"

"Used the Map." Malfoy waved his hand in dismissal. "What's going on here?"

"She attacked me right out of the blue. I tell you, Malfoy, if I weren't such a gentleman—"

Malfoy scoffed. "Don't make me laugh, Potter. You're not a gentleman, you're just a pansy." He turned to Ginny. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for assaulting a prefect," he gloated. "Oh, and twenty more for having non-regulation holes in your robes, Weasley." He laughed as she slunk away, crackling with indignation. Harry fleetingly thought of a moment not too long ago when the very same girl had waved up at him shyly from a train station.

Sighing in frustration, he leaned against one of the trophy cases and regarded Malfoy. "You come to find me for a reason? Or does the Map show you when something funny's going to happen, now?"

"I wouldn't put it past that thing, but no, I do have a reason. A strange one."

"What is it?"

"Father sent me post today asking if I'd tried out the diary yet."

"And?" Harry asked, unsure of what this was leading to.

"Don't you think it's a little off that he sent me some ugly book and then mailed me practically desperate to know if I'd written in it?" Malfoy asked in exasperation.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Maybe he pieced it together himself and really, really wants you to like it," he suggested dryly. But no, he reminded himself almost at once. The diary had been made more than fifty years ago, hadn't it?

Malfoy shrugged. "Whatever. I just lied and wrote that I'd put my schedule down in it so far, and that tonight I was going to write all about my day, and then maybe tomorrow I could describe my ambitions to become a little pink pixie…"

Harry laughed and was about to ask Malfoy just how he planned on becoming a pixie when an inscription on a trophy to his left caught his eye: "For Special Services to the School: Tom Marvolo Riddle".

Harry caught his breath. The same name—for surely T. M. stood for Tom Marvolo—within two weeks, at the same place. Maybe the diary hadn't been picked off the street after all.

Oh well, he assured himself as he and Malfoy made their way to the Great Hall for lunch. It's not as if this Riddle fellow ever wrote anything down in the old diary anyway. And yet…maybe it would be wise, Harry considered, to see if there was any way to reveal some sort of secret ink, as there was with the Map. Yes, he'd look into it later.

But what with the upcoming Hogsmeade visit and more frequent Quidditch practices (Harry was a Beater), he soon forgot about the diary and it lay nestled inside his pillowcase where he'd hidden it.

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So hard fitting Ginny into all of this. But it was fun, she can be a delightful little scamp, can't she?

Please review (in English, if possible, but I won't be picky).