Here it is, the much-prolonged diary chapter. (Sorry I'm so late--FFDOTNET wouldn't let me upload anything till this morning.)

But first, thanks to the loyal reviewers: firewolfalpha, DivineDarkness, RoadtoRuin, Nonny, DCoD, Weasleylover35753, Nutz Nina, fifespice, Snow-Leopard-Patronus, and Poetic License.

Anyhooooo…diary chapter it is!

Chapter Nineteen: Black Hole

It was true that upon confessing to Malfoy, his and Harry's friendship had resumed its regular course. However, the diary of Tom Marvolo Riddle remained in Harry's pillow case, shabby and fragile as ever but beating a stronger and stronger tattoo into his brain. Harry did not know why the diary, the stupid, useless diary, had such an effect on him, but he knew that sooner or later it would drive him mad.

This probably explained why, late one night as he lay awake listening to Goyle's snores and Malfoy's mumbling, Harry slid his glasses on and twisted around to his pillowcase. He slipped the diary out and stroked one finger against the spine, a softly black shape barely visible in the darkness.

"Lumos," Harry whispered. Someone groaned and stirred, and Harry quickly dove under the covers—the wandlight had been too bright. Laying his wand on the pillow, Harry groped around the nightstand for a quill.

With fingers that trembled unreasonably, he wrote in: "Who are you?"

And the words disappeared, along with the boy's breath.

New ones took their place:

"I'm Tom Riddle. Who are you?"

Harry shut the book with a bang.

No sodding way, he thought.

"Harry?" A voice mumbled in the darkness. "Harry, what are you doing under there?" With a bit of a shock that added to his startled state a bit like a small wave adds to a tsunami, Harry realized it was one of those rare times when Malfoy called him by his first name.

"Just some homework," he whispered. "Go back to bed."

With a mumble of assent and some parting words ("Only purple stripes, please"), Malfoy obliged. Harry licked his lips and cracked the diary open. Seeing no words, he opened it all the way.

Empty.

No way, he thought. Curiosity got the better of him and he picked the quill up again.

"How can you talk back?"Harry queried.

The ink faded and came again, this time saying:

"Magic, of course."

Harry frowned. That was real blunt and to the point. He tried again: "What are you?"

"I'm a memory—or rather, a collection of memories. And I think now that we know me, I should have the pleasure of knowing your name as well."

Harry licked his increasingly dry lips again. "Harry Potter."

The words took longer to come this time, and Harry felt as though the diary was thinking. Finally: "Hello, Harry Potter. Am I at Hogwarts?"

Harry, in shock at this coincidence, nodded; then realized that he was communicating with a diary, not a person, and wrote in "yes". Then, as afterthought, he wrote, "Did you go to school here too?"

"I did; I started in 1937."

Harry gave a low whistle despite his slightly shaken state, remembering a second later that of course Tom Riddle must have gone here if he'd won an award for services to the school. He could hear Malfoy cry out some gibberish about elephants at the next bed. Awkwardly, the boy tried to figure out what to write next. Should he tell Hermione Granger in the morning…?

"I've been trying to figure this diary out for a while now," he decided to scribble at last. The words gleamed accusingly in the diary before fading away.

"It's a journal I preserved my memory in. I've led quite a life, as far as I know." These lines were amused and Harry felt a growing liking for Riddle. He dipped his quill in the inkpot, adjusted his body for a long haul, and wrote in, "Tell me about it?"

The shabby diary seemed to smile in his hands, its cover so black it seemed to absorb the wandlight and become not solid matter but simply an absence of light.

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