Diospyros

The sun was now shining palely over Hogwarts again. Inside the castle, people felt more hopeful. There had been no more attacks since Justin and Sir Nicolas, and Madam Pomfrey was pleased to report that the mandrakes were becoming unpredictable and secretive, which meant they were quickly leaving childhood.

Harry had mixed feelings when people started not only whispering about Adrien, but about him as well. It seemed that the vacation had been enough for the other students to overcome their deafness and finally realize that he was also a parselmouth. Ernie Macmillan, because it could be no one but him, insisted on not agreeing with the possibility that the Potter twins had nothing to do with the attacks. He remained convinced that Adrien was the culprit, that he had “reported himself” at the Duel Club and that Harry was trying to free his brother. Peeves wasn't helping at all; all the time he appeared in the corridors full of students, singing: “Ah, rotten Potter ...”, now with a dance number to accompany it. Harry made a point of cursing them both whenever they opened their mouths to say something.

The lack of incidents since the holidays made the students' morale grow, with the idea that everything was a prank or that the heir himself had given up making attacks. Harry didn't know which of the ideas made him feel the most contempt, but he kept it to himself. Gilderoy Lockhart, however, clearly demonstrated his idea that, alone, he had been responsible for stopping the petrifications.

— I don't think there will be any more problems, Minerva – Lockhart said, tapping his nose and winking with the air of someone who knows things while talking to Professor McGonagall. – I think the Chamber has been closed for good this time. The culprit must have felt it was only a matter of time before we caught him. He thought it more sensible to stop now, before I finished him.

“You know, what the school needs right now is a boost in morale. Forget the memories of the past period! I won't say anything else for now, but I think I know exactly what...”

And giving his nose another tap, he walked away determinedly. Lockhart's idea of ​​a boost to morale became clear at breakfast on February 14th. Harry had brewed a love potion for a fourth-year girl late at night, then went up late (within his time standards) to the Great Hall. He thought, for a moment, that he had entered the wrong door.

The walls were covered in large, bright pink flowers. And even worse, heart-shaped confetti was falling from a sky-blue ceiling. Harry walked over to the Slytherin table, where Morag was sitting looking sick, and Blaise couldn't seem to stop laughing. Ignoring the two, Harry walked over to the fourth years.

—McWorthy? – He called, facing a small group of just three older girls. One of them, a girl with dark skin and curly hair, turned to face him. Her lips were bigger than Angelina Johnson's, and her eyelashes were small and voluminous, her delicate nose between onyx eyes.

— Yes? – Amanda McWorthy is the type of girl who enchants with just her voice, Harry could admit that.

— The potion – he spoke only, extending his hand holding a small vial wrapped in brown paper. The girl hummed.

— Thank you Potter – McWorthy smiled at him, taking the package and placing five silver sickles in Harry's hand.

Harry shook his head slightly, turning back to his place between MacDougal and Zabini, waving his wand lightly and removing the sprinkles from the food. Zabini waggled his eyebrows at him as soon as he sat down, but Harry ignored him in favor of the food. It didn't take long for Lockhart to bother him with a dry clearing of his throat.

— Happy Valentine's Day! – Lockhart exclaimed, when those in the Hall paid attention to him. Harry couldn't help but notice that Professor McGonagall's face was more still than usual, causing her cheek to twitch. – And could I thank the forty-six people who have sent me cards so far? Of course, I took the liberty of making this little surprise for you, and it doesn't end here!

Lockhart clapped his hands and, through the door that opened into the entrance hall, eleven grim-faced dwarves entered. But they weren't just any dwarves. Lockhart had ordered them to wear golden wings and bring harps. Harry rubbed the space between his eyes.

— My card-delivering cupids! – Lockhart smiled. – They will go around the school today handing out valentine cards. And the fun doesn't end there! I'm sure my colleagues will want to get into the festive spirit! Why not ask Prof. Snape to teach them how to brew a Love Potion! And speaking of which, Prof. Flitwick knows more Fascination Spells than any other wizard I know, holy man!

Prof. Flitwick buried his face in his hands, the red rising to the tips of his unnaturally tapered ears. Prof. Snape made the most distinctly threatening face since Harry first saw him, a clear indication that he would force the first student who asked him for a Love Potion to drink poison (and probably everyone else as well). Harry wished he could drink a dreamless sleep potion right now.

The constant invasions of the dwarves into the classrooms drove all the teachers crazy and on edge, Prof. Snape openly talking about techniques for eviscerating small creatures for use in potions. Harry was tired, overwhelmed and moderately bewildered, having received four gifts from different dwarves. Morag, to her own shame, had only gotten one card, while Blaise had gotten more than a dozen letters and gifts. Draco definitely didn't make much of a fuss when he only received three gifts, two of which were friendship chocolates that Crabbe and Goyle personally delivered, not being confused with other dwarves due to being slightly larger (in any sense of the word). The students had just left the Great Hall when a dwarf intercepted the group of second years.

— Hey, you! “Rien” Potter! – shouted the particularly nasty dwarf, who elbowed his way to get to Harry.

— I'm not Ad...

Before Harry could finish, the dwarf was already in front of him, the harp in his hands and his voice singing:

Your eyes are clear as cooked honey,

Your hair, black as a blackboard.

I wish you were mine, divine boy,

Hero who defeated the evil Dark Lord.

Harry didn't want to, but he still recorded the card to pass on to Adrien later. Draco Malfoy, who had been very silent all day, laughed derisively, joined by the other Slytherin and Gryffindor boys.

— “Clear as honey”, what the hell is that? Are your eyes honeycomb, Potter? And since when has a blackboard been black?

Unflattering laughter sounded, and Harry didn't like hearing it at all. Before he could say anything, Percy Weasley had appeared, full of pomp and self-importance.

—What are you doing here? Come on, come on, go your way.

The dwarf didn't even mind pushing his way through the students, pushing each one out of his way. T.M. Riddle's diary slipped out of Harry's pocket and fell open into the soot of the nearby torch, getting dirty. It was with a sharp twitch in his eye that Harry picked up the notebook from the floor, dusted it off and held it until he could clean it properly. The good-natured laughter of the other students still echoed inside his head, along with Ginny Weasley's red, pinched face.

***

When Harry retired to his personal room in the Slytherin dormitories, he had very little intention of sleeping. Dinner had just ended, and the students were sent back to their Houses. The house elves had served truffles, chicken pies with strawberry juice, and chocolate bombs, whatever symbolism they were trying to make of the whole thing. The irritation with Lockhart and his winged dwarves had already partly disappeared among the Hogwarts body, and everyone was exhausted by the time they left the Great Hall. Harry, however, still had something to study.

T.M. Riddle's diary, whose yellowed pages had been soaked when they first saw them, had been marked with irregular stone designs and the ashes of a torch, when he fell face down on the floor. Harry, who didn't have time to clean it, just wiped off the excess and put it back in his pocket. What was his surprise when he found the yellowed pages immaculate, just as he found them in the bathroom on the second floor, floating in the middle of the flood?

— Let's see – Harry muttered to himself, scratching on one of the sheets with a revealing pen.

The paint was no better than anything, its diffuse color of pure chemical compounds just camouflaged itself in the yellow, without showing any hidden inscriptions.

— Hmm. Revelio.

The little baby blue light flared up, and Harry skimmed over the page. The paper didn't even move. There was only one thing left for Harry to test.

Picking up a fountain pen, Harry wrote:

“My name is Harry Potter.”

The ink dried, shone, and seemed to leap off the paper in letter-shaped blobs of ink, which were absorbed into the page. Harry perked up when he saw this. It only took a few seconds for all of his mood to drop:

“Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you find my diary?”

Letters of clotted black blood, beautifully written in painful and frightening scribbles, emerged from the yellow pages like blood draining from an open wound. Harry jumped back, startled, the strong stench of iron gnawing at his nostrils and agony rising through his fingers at the memory of holding one of the sheets as it crumpled onto a hot, sickly surface.

Unable to bear it, he doubled over and vomited all the pie and juice he had eaten and drunk during dinner, his mind disoriented and confused, a startled nausea making him stagger and stumble backwards. Crookshanks, who was sleeping in his bed, jumped onto Harry's bed, his hair standing on end and evaluating his owner with concern.

— Back away, Crookshanks! – Harry pushed the cat somewhat violently behind him, receiving a shrill meow. – Back away!

Crookshanks screamed, irritated, and scratched Harry's arm with his small, sharp claws, but the boy didn't care, his eyes fixed on the no longer so innocent notebook on top of his dresser. It wasn't difficult to decide what to do with it.

— Reducto!

The Reducing Curse hit the book squarely, making it jump in a small bluish explosion that destroyed the dresser and then fell to the floor, smoking and with no apparent damage.

— Diffindo! Cortex Hex!

The notebook jumped again and flailed in the air, being attacked by a wild slash and limb tear, but only landed innocently on the floor of Harry's room. With a furious terror growing in his chest, the boy shouted:

— Incendio! – Fire came out of the tip of Harry's wand like liquid, spreading across the floor around the diary and enveloping it with a grip similar to the constriction of a serpent, a serpent of flame. It was just a warm hug, after all, the black and invisible cover hadn't even been singed, the ground was now entirely black around it.

Quick, clipped thoughts flashed by instantly, and then Harry took a deep breath and raised his wand again:

— Purgatorio!

The fire released was not red or bluish, but a strange and intense purple, which cascaded over the diary and wrapped it tightly in a mound of dark, incessant fire. Harry took a deep breath, wrapped a scarf around his neck and put on his slippers, trapping the pile of fire in a bright, enchanted bubble. He didn't want to move that thing, but it was necessary – someone had to get rid of it. It was time to go to Dumbledore.