I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. Whilst editing, I noticed my writing wasn't on par with what it is now - back when I wrote this, I tended to tell rather than show, and so on. I hope my edits made it better, but I'm not yet sure how pleased I am with the final product.

Oh, and for those that care, I've just finished writing a few interesting scenes. This fic is turning out to be very interesting . . .

I've started a Discord. I intend for it to be a small, relaxed server - nothing to fancy or grand. If you have any questions about my writing, want to discuss my work, or simply want to hang out, you're more than welcome to join. The link is in my profile.

Read, review, and feel free to point out any errors/inconsistencies.

The next chapter will be published the coming Saturday.


Harry Potter: A Flaw in Fate

The Riddle's Plight

IV. A Cat Upon the Wall

Harry lay sprawled across his four-poster bed, Emily's diary laying off to the side.

Several hours had passed since Lockhart's first Defense lesson. As Harry had expected, it had been a pandemonium. Windows had been broken, desks overturned, ink splattered against the ground, and shredded papers floating through the air.

Most of the Slytherins, it seemed, had bolted out the door long before anything particularly horrible had happened. Only Malfoy and his cronies had stayed behind - but they had only been there to enjoy the show, as they loudly told everyone at supper. Harry couldn't begin to count just how many times he'd heard about Neville Longbottom being stuck to the ceiling by two particularly devilish pixies.

Poor Longbottom.

How Lockhart managed to save face, Harry didn't know. Apparently, it'd all been explained away as some sort of test.

"I had complete control." Lockhart had been saying when the second-years passed through his corridor later that very day, "Everything went as I intended it to."

Bullshit. I heard one of the pixies even stole his wand.

Rolling to his side, Harry watched as Emily's neat handwriting suddenly covered the diary's surface.

"He does sound rather incompetent." she wrote clearly, "Although I suppose it all being a sort of test is a plausible explanation."

"You weren't there." Harry pressed the page flat, "He didn't know a thing he was doing."

He waited for Riddle's response. She was taking longer than usual. After several long moments, she replied.

"Would you like to show me?"

Harry sat up at once. He quickly dipped his quill in ink, writing back as fast as he could.

"Is that even possible?"

"It should be." wrote Emily, "You couldn't actually imbue the memory within my diary, but merely showing it to me should be fine."

"There's a difference?"

"There is. The former allows me to feel the emotions and to understand the context, rather than to simply view what has happened. It's far less foreign that way."

I suppose that makes sense.

"Could you imbue a memory into it?" asked Harry curiously, "Into the diary, I mean."

"I could." replied Emily after a moment's hesitation.

"Have you?"

"Once." she wrote, "But that was many, many years ago. Some time after I created this book I stumbled upon something rather interesting. I decided to preserve it within this diary."

"But, aside from that, you don't know anything you've done since you made this?"

"Aside from what you've told me?" Emily scrawled in her neat, formal writing, "Nothing at all."

Harry nodded slowly, lost in thought. He wrote back a moment later.

"What do I have to do?"

"Hold my diary and think of what happened." she said simply, "Make sure you truly want me to see it - it won't work otherwise."

Harry picked up the diary, thinking back to the events that had occurred several hours prior. For a few long moments, Harry was unsure if anything had happened at all. The next, inky black words appeared upon the pages again.

"I see what you mean." wrote Emily, her words long and thin, "He's pathetic.

"Still," she continued, "He's at least a tad bit charismatic. It's a skill you should look into. It makes it far easier to get what you desire."

"I'm not charming anyone." Harry wrote stubbornly. A brief image of Nott howling with laughter swam through his mind.

"Then don't. But you'd better spend more time with others. Spending all your time alone will result in weakening relationships. You aren't yet strong enough to stand up against the entire world, Harry. Until then, do not make enemies of those whom you share this world with."

"I won't." wrote Harry, sinking back into his four-poster.

-(xXx)-

Several weeks passed by in the blink of an eye. The Hogwarts Grounds quickly became colder, the red and brown fall leaves clashing brilliantly with the bright white skies. Many of the students had taken to spending more time outside, enjoying what little sunlight remained before the grounds were plunged in snow.

Harry Potter, once again, was not amongst that number. He instead spent most of his time alone within the confines of his dormitory, practicing and learning from both Emily's notebook and diary. He was quickly becoming more and more proficient in his casting, and his spell repertoire was increasing at a wonderful rate.

All in all, he was making good progress as of yet.

He had yet to take Emily's other advice, though. He still traversed the libraries with Nott every now and then, and sat with both him and Daphne in every one of their classes - but that was it. The rest of his time had been devoted to his practice.

And that's probably a good thing. I'm getting better and better with every day that passes.

Harry had been learning many new things as well. Emily, as it turned out, was very knowledgeable when it came to magic. Harry had known that, of course - but he hadn't ever been aware just how clever the girl was. There was only so much you could glimpse from aged ink scrawled upon an old, withered notebook.

And the Mind Arts definitely isn't one of them.

Emily still had a hard time teaching them. Occlumency and Legilimency were two very complex things. Talking with the diary helped, but it still wasn't enough -

But it's better than what I had before. At least I'm making progress.

Tucking the diary into his robes, Harry slung his bag over his shoulder and exited his dormitory. As luck would have it, he had a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson in ten minutes. Harry groaned in annoyance.

"I thought you might be irritated." a soft, blank voice called out as he entered the common room.

Daphne was standing by the portrait hole, looking just as prim and proper as ever. A bag was slung neatly across her shoulder, her hands folded in front of her. She watched him as he drew nearer, her eyes betraying nothing.

The two silently departed from the common room. Harry's eyes flicked to the battered watch upon his wrist.

Three minutes until class starts.

"It's Lockhart." Harry looked up, watching as Daphne stared blankly forward, her lips parted, "Who cares if we're late."

She's got a point.

Harry frowned. Emerald eyes washed across her form, combing over her unnaturally straight posture, the tight grip on her wand, and the way she seemed to gaze off at nothing in particular.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

Daphne paused. Harry watch as faint sparks dripped from the tip of her wand.

"I'm fine." she murmured. Her voice sounded dull and lifeless.

Lying.

"No, you aren't." Harry straightened up, something courage-filled roaring within his chest, "You don't have to pretend, you know. I won't judge you."

After what happened with Bak - with her - I can't judge you.

Daphne's eyes met Harry's. The pair paused in stride, neither moving an inch further. Neither made a sound, neither said a word, and then -

"I - I don't know." she muttered quietly.

"You miss her, don't you? Tracey?"

Daphne nodded silently.

"It'll get better." said Harry, "I'm sure it will -"

"You don't know that." Daphne whispered back hotly.

"No, I don't." admitted Harry. His fingers slid across the ends of his robes, tapping against the smooth silk, "But that's the thing about being at the bottom, isn't it? Nowhere to go but up."

Daphne quirked an eyebrow. Harry blushed.

"Er - I think it's a muggle saying -"

"I'm aware." said Daphne, pausing, "I suppose they might be onto something there."

Harry smiled softly.

"I think they are." he agreed, "But even if they aren't, there isn't a point in pretending nothing ever happened."

Like you're doing, for example.

Harry pushed aside the traitorous voice of reason. The girl with the braided blonde hair met his gaze, a knowing glint in her eyes. But Daphne said nothing, and her lips did not part.

"We'd better get going." she said at last, "Don't want to be late to Lockhart's."

"Right." Harry slung his bag across his shoulders, sighing irritably, "Because that would be horrible."

For the first time in Harry's memory, Daphne's smile truly reached her eyes.

-(xXx)-

"Unbelievable." muttered Ronald Weasley as he, Neville, and Hermione re-entered the Gryffindor common room, "Un-bloody-believable."

"Language, Ron!" chastised Hermione.

Run spun around and, to Hermione's annoyance, cursed even louder. Neville followed the pair quietly, his mind far from the conversation before him.

Tonight. Eleven years ago, tonight.

A part of him - the very, very small part of him that actually held an ounce of bravery - had made sure to agree to Nearly Headless Nick's request the moment the ghost had voiced. But perhaps that was really the coward within him; Neville wasn't really sure. He wasn't really sure he cared, either.

Probably better than a Halloween feast. I don't want to celebrate.

"Who cares, Ronald!" snapped Hermione, "A deathday party is a once-in-a-life time experience! It'll be fascinating!"

"You can have them as often as you want when you're six feet under!" groaned Ron, "I'll invite you to mine, if you want!"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She elbowed Ron in the square of his chest, motioning towards Neville, who stared off at nothing in particular. The redheaded boy sobered up at once.

"It'll probably be loads of fun." he agreed loudly, "There probably aren't that many people alive who've ever been to one."

Neville nodded absentmindedly, following his two friends into the common room.

-(xXx)-

Harry sat by the side of the Great Lake, his eyes staring blankly across the surface as he tried to drown out the laughter and happiness that echoed behind him.

It's that time of year again.

Harry sank into the grassy shores, closing his eyes in frustration.

It was Halloween again. Although Harry hadn't yet seen it, he was certain the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid's vast pumpkins, and perhaps a troupe of dancing skeletons charmed by Professor Flitwick himself.

That would have all been fine, had it truly been a Halloween celebration. But despite what anyone else might say, Harry knew that wasn't the case - witches and wizards simply didn't celebrate Halloween.

Or, at least, they hadn't until eleven years ago.

Harry clenched his fist.

It was all infuriating. The place, the decorations, the people -

All of it.

He was lucky today was a Saturday. Harry had managed to spend the better part of the day alone in his dormitory, practicing magic again and again. He hadn't even used the diary this time, or the notebook - he hadn't needed to.

Just venting. Works well enough.

It was the first day in months that he hadn't written to Emily. Harry had a strange feeling that the girl in the diary was just as aware of this as Harry himself.

Harry glanced up at the sky, his body sprawled across the dirt. It was all white and gray, a touch of darkness creeping behind the clouds as the day turned to night.

"Eleven years ago . . ." muttered Harry under his breath, "Eleven years ago, tonight -"

The woman with scarlet eyes glared down at him, a cruel smile etched upon her face. Her chocolate brown hair darkened as the dregs of sapphire left her eyes. She raised her wand, her eyes not leaving Harry's, and as she slashed down a bright green light flashed -

Harry sat up, breathing heavily. He was by the shores again, the serene surface of the lake shining beautifully beneath the setting sun. All was well. Shaking, Harry pushed himself off the ground, hastily wiping the dirt of his robes before heading back towards the Slytherin common room.

The common room was mostly empty. Harry watched as the final students poured out, their eyes lingering upon his robes. Harry frowned, glancing at his reflection in the window as he neared his dorm. His hair was just as disheveled as always, his eyes tired and filled with loss and longing. His tie, patterned green and silver, hung loosely around his neck, his inky black robes still covered in specks of dirt.

Far from the perfect Slytherin.

Harry quickly straightened out his robes, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to finally tame it. Eventually accepting defeat, he turned to face the hall that led down to the second year Slytherin dorms. He paused before taking a single step.

Standing just outside the door to his room was Goyle, the larger of Malfoy's lackies. He stood with his hands outstretched, glancing around at everything as though it was his first time seeing it all.

He isn't this stupid. He can't be.

"What are you doing?" asked Harry, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Goyle looked up. His eyes, glazed and blank, met Harry's.

"I dunno." mumbled Goyle uncertainly, rubbing the back of his head, "I don't remember."

Harry stared at the boy, his fingers wrapping around the wand that sat within the pocket of his robes. Goyle shuffled for a moment, glancing at Harry, the door, and back to Harry again.

"I'm going to go now." Goyle added dumbly, shaking his head slowly as he brushed past Harry. Harry watched him go before continuing on.

I don't think I've ever actually heard him speak.

Harry sank into his four-poster, allowing his robes to fall upon the wooden floors of his room. Harry pulled Emily's diary out from within the drawer of his bedside table. He hastily grabbed a quill and ink before scribbling out a greeting.

"Hello Emily."

"Good evening, Harry." replied the diary, the inky black words thicker than usual, "It's been a while."

"I'm sorry." Harry sat up, frowning slightly, "I just wanted - needed - a bit of time alone."

There was a slight pause before Riddle's neat handwriting appeared once more.

"I understand." she wrote, a sort of sincerity emanating from her writing, "More than you know. You have nothing to apologize for."

Harry smiled.

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

Bits of dust wafted through the room. Harry swatted through them, dipping his quill in ink again.

"I don't think I can go to Halloween Feast." he admitted eventually, "I couldn't do that now. I'll sneak down to the kitchens instead."

The pause was longer now. When words appeared, they were unnaturally neat, the ink even thicker than before.

"That sounds like a good idea. If the house elves are anything like what their ancestors were like fifty years ago, they'll practically beg for you to take their food. Just be quick, and don't take any detours. If your professors don't know why you aren't at the feast, you might get in trouble for wandering the halls. I doubt you're in the mood to explain why you don't wish to attend the feast, either."

Harry nodded slowly.

"I'll take the cloak." he scrawled back.

"That should suffice." wrote Riddle, her words were still rigid, "Write back when you return. We have a day's worth of learning to catch up on."

Harry groaned, closing the diary at once.

-(xXx)-

The house elves, just as Emily predicted, were far too generous. It was an extremely full Harry departed from the kitchens a half hour later, obscured from sight by his father's invisibility cloak.

The corridor, cold and vacant, seemed to grow longer with every step Harry took. The light almost dimmed, and Harry felt something strange flicker within him. He paused, his arms held loosely by his side.

A soft muttering suddenly reached his ears.

". . . rip . . . tear . . . kill . . ."

A cold sensation pressed against his senses, like ice trailing across his cheeks. The voice was low and murderous. It was feminine in nature, accented slightly in a way Harry couldn't describe. Stumbling to a halt, Harry clutched at the stone wall, listening with all his might. He looked up and down the dimly lit passageway. He was alone.

". . . soo hungry . . . for so long . . . kill . . . time to kill . . ."

The voice was growing fainter now. Harry was sure it was moving away - moving upward.

Harry ran. Up the stairs, across the passage, and into the entrance hall. Cheers and laughter slowly crawled its way towards his ears, emanating from the Great Hall that sat just to Harry's left.

It's too loud. I won't be able to hear a thing.

Harry strained his ears, shuffling up the marble staircase to the first floor.

". . . I smell blood. . . . I SMELL BLOOD!"

Ice smashed against Harry's heart, and his eyes widened. Not bothering to think, Harry sprinted up the stairs three at a time, his ears strained as he struggled to hear something, anything -

There was something shining on the wall ahead. Harry approached it cautiously, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the wall in a thick, red liquid. The message was etched perfectly between two torches. It glinted darkly beneath the light of the fires.

'The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware.'

There was something else, too. Harry leaned forward, his eyes tracing the outline of a strange, feline looking -

Harry leapt back at once, his shoes splashing within a puddle he hadn't noticed.

Mrs. Norris. Filch's cat.

For a moment, Harry stood deathly still. His thoughts were rampant as he stared at the limp body of the caretaker's cat. He vaguely felt his cloak slip from his grasp, slowly falling to the wet floors.

Then, with the force of a train, the reality of it all flooded Harry's mind.

I shouldn't be here.

Harry stepped back, breathing heavily. He hastily straightened his robes, turning to leave the hall at once -

"Bloody hell!" said a voice from the other side of the hall.

Harry's eyes widened as Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger, and a rather depressed-looking Neville Longbottom stood by the opposite end of the hall, their eyes glued to the blood-red words just as Harry's had been moments ago.

Splash.

Ron's head turned sharply as he looked down the hall. His eyes met Harry's, widening at once. Harry was positively certain they both sported the same shocked expression. He quickly doubled over, shoving his cloak into his pocket as Hermione turned to the others.

"We need to go." she said before Ron could say anything, a touch of panic in her voice, "We need to go, now."

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; the next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends. The chatter, the bustle, and the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. An unnatural silence overtook over the crowd -

"Enemies of the Heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"

It was Draco Malfoy. The boy had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, his grey eyes latched onto the unmoving form of the limp cat. A hungry smile grew upon his face.

Whispers broke out at once. Harry was suddenly very aware of just how far away from everyone else he was; he, along with Ron, Hermione, and Neville, stood just beneath the cat, his shoes damp from the puddle within which he stood.

"What's going on here?" shouted a rough voice, "What's going on?"

Harry felt the colour drain from his face. Argus Filch shouldered his way through the crowd, a lantern clenched firmly with his left hand. Eyes, almost yellow in colour, jumped first to Harry, then to the puddles on the floor, and finally to Mrs. Norris. The lantern fell from his hands, clattering against the stone floor as the flame snuffed out.

"My cat! My cat! What's happened to Mrs. Norris?" he shrieked. He scrambled towards the wall, his eyes bulging as he neared the four second year students. The caretaker raised a tentative finger to his pet. Calloused digits traced the cat's fur, and a tear slid down his cheek. All of a sudden, he turned to Harry, a mad gleam in his eyes.

"You." his voice was heavy and low, his breathing labored, "You've murdered my cat. You've killed her! I'll kill you! I'll kill you -"

"Argus!"

Harry frantically turned towards the opposite side of the hall once more. Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.

"Come with me, Argus," he said to Filch, his tone firm, "You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, and Mr. Longbottom."

Harry nodded, nervously stepping towards Dumbledore. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Daphne and Nott. They both stood near the side of the hall, watching him with wide eyes.

Deep breathes . . . in and out, in and out -

"My office is nearest, Headmaster." Harry heard Lockhart say, "Just upstairs - please feel free -"

"Thank you, Gilderoy," said Dumbledore.

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape.

A flurry of movement broke out upon Lockhart's walls as they stepped within the wavy-haired wizard's office; Harry saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore laid Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. Harry stood off to the side, very aware of the strange looks two of the three Gryffindors were sending him.

Occlumency. Just breathe.

An iota of serenity splattered against a fortress of worry. Harry closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them once more.

Nothing.

Harry chanced a glance at the three Gryffindors. They appeared every bit as worried as he felt.

The tip of Dumbledore's long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Norris's fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall observed the four students with narrowed eyes whilst Snape loomed behind them, his eyes latched upon the unmoving cat. Lockhart seemed to be the only one at ease; he happily hovered beside a sniffling Filch, guessing loudly at whatever might have managed to harm Mrs. Norris in such a way.

"It was definitely a curse that killed her - probably the Transmogrifian Torture - I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her. . ."

Lockhart's comments were punctuated by Filch's dry, racking sobs. The caretaker slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands. Professor McGonagall glared at Lockhart.

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand. Nothing happened. She continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed.

". . . I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou," said Lockhart, "a series of attacks - the full story's in my autobiography, if you're interested. I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once. . ."

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. Professor McGonagall's eyes narrowed further. Behind her, Snape stood beside Dumbledore, his face drained of colour. He was hurriedly whispering something to Dumbledore, who nodded slowly, looking far older than even he could have possibly been.

At long last, Dumbledore straightened up.

"She is not dead, Argus." he said softly.

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented.

"Not d-dead?" choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris, "But why's she all - all stiff and frozen?"

"She has been Petrified," said Dumbledore ("Ah! Just as I said!" said Lockhart), "But how, I cannot say. . . ."

"Ask him!" shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to Harry, "Ask him - he knows, ask him!"

"No second year could have done this," said Dumbledore firmly. "It would take magic of the most advanced nature for such an outcome to result."

Dumbledore slowly turned to face him, his eyes boring into Harry's.

"As brilliant as you no doubt are, Mr. Potter, I do not believe this is any work of yours."

"If I might speak, Headmaster," said Snape from the shadows, "Perhaps these four students were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, a slight sneer curling his mouth as though he doubted it, "But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why were they in the upstairs corridor at all? Why weren't they at the Halloween feast?"

"We were at Nearly Headless Nick's Deathday party!" Ron blurted out at once. Upon seeing the looks of disbelief from those surrounding them, he and Hermione launched into explanation. Neville stood by their side, his unseeing eyes gazing at nothing in particular.

"- and there were hundreds of ghosts there, they'll all tell you we were there!"

"Be that as it may," began Professor McGonagall, a disapproving expression on her face, "Why did you not feel the need to inform one of us? Had we known, you might now be tucked into bed."

Ron and Hermione looked down at their feet, not meeting the stern gaze of the deputy headmistress.

"And you," said Professor McGonagall, turning to Harry, "I recall something familiar occurring last Halloween. Why is it that you, alongside these three, have once again found yourself somewhere you ought not to be?"

"Because - because -" Harry said, his heart thumping very fast. Everyone, even the three Gryffindors, were gazing expectantly at him now, "because they - today - today's the day -"

The day they died. The day she killed them.

Hermione gasped, her eyes almost glassy. She looked between Neville and Harry before staring determinedly at a point on the floor. Harry watched as Professor McGonagall's shoulders sank slightly, her thin lips uncurling. She glanced at the four students once more before turning away.

"Nevertheless," said Dumbledore, a sorrowful expression etched upon his face, "I must ask that you inform us in the future."

"Yes, sir." Harry murmured quietly, nodding.

"Very well," Dumbledore straightened up, replacing his half-moon spectacles upon his face, "If no one has anything to add, the four of you may return to your dormitories -"

"My cat has been Petrified!" shrieked Filch, his eyes popping. "I want to see some punishment!"

"We will be able to cure her, Argus," said Dumbledore patiently, "Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris."

"And them?" asked Filch angrily, pointing a gnarled finger at Harry, then to the other three "What about them?"

"I do not believe anyone present was responsible for what happened to Mrs. Norris." said Albus simply, "They will not be punished for what they have not done."

"You may go." said Professor McGonagall, stepping towards the four second years, "Back to your common rooms, and no detours."

The four students nodded at once, departing from the office as quickly as they could.

-(xXx)-

"Why would you ever stray so far away from the Great Hall? The kitchens are directly below it."

It was either the late evening of the 31st or the early morning of the day after; which, Harry wasn't quite sure. Truthfully, he didn't care. He stared back at the inky black words, a quill held loosely in his hands.

It had taken quite some time to explain everything that had happened. Emily had not let a single detail go undiscussed, from the writing on the wall to the puddles on the floor. Even her handwriting, so often neat and perfect, was uncharacteristically scrawled tonight - not that Harry was surprised. But whatever panic she might feel was likely nothing compared to what he had felt a few short hours ago. Even now, that cold, cruel pang of panic hadn't fully faded away. Although he was no longer risking expulsion, there was still the voice -

I couldn't possibly explain that. Everyone would think I've gone mad.

He frowned, rubbing his quill's feathery edge.

Even the memory of someone, hidden away in a diary.

"I got distracted, I guess." he wrote back slowly, "I've never been at my best on Halloween."

For a long moment, the yellowed pages of the diary remained blank, and then -

"I understand. Just remember to be more careful from now on. Get some sleep, we've got quite a lot to cover tomorrow."

Harry sighed in relief, chucking his quill across the room and plopping the diary onto his bedside table. Pulling back the sheets to his four-poster, Harry quietly tucked himself in.

Perhaps I just imagined the voice.

The faintest memory of something cold and low pressed against his ears, and Harry shivered.

Perhaps not.