A Diary

"Are you the heir of Slytherin?" Ron said to the tied, almost unconscious Malfoy.

"No." Malfoy replied.

"Do you know who is the heir of Slytherin?" Harry asked.

"No." Malfoy repeated.

"Are you Draco Malfoy?" Hermione asked, to cross check, if the truth serum was working or not.

"Yes." admitted Malfoy.

"Did someone told you about the chamber of secrets?" Chris said.

"Yes."

"Anyone from the school?" 

"No."

"Then your father?" Ron asked.

"Yes."

"Do your father know, who the heir is?" Chris asked.

"Yes."

"Good." Hermione sighed. "We're going nowhere. He doesn't know anything, except the things his father told him."

"Wait. Didn't you said Harry, that Dobby works in a horrible pure-blood family?" Chris said to Harry.

Harry nodded. Chris turned to Malfoy.

"Malfoy, do you have a house-elf named Dobby?"

"Yes." Malfoy said.

____________________________

Few days later, after the new term started, Chris were in charms class, where Professor Flitwik was giving examples of jinxed artifacts. 

"Because there is a spell to break locks easily, Wizards uses different kind of Jinxes to protect their locks." said Professor Flitwik. "Jinxing is a different and difficult method of magic but even a smallest object can be jinxed. Different Jinxed objects have different kind of results. Few powerful Jinxes can live in a objects for hundred of years. That's why young wizards and witches are asked to not to trust any unknown object so easily."

As Professor Flitwik continued, Chris noticed Ginny, who was sitting two seats left to her, was sweating like she was sick. 

As soon as the class ended, Ginny sprinted out of the class and Chris followed. Something was really wrong with her, Chris thought, she must be sick and she should check on her.

But Chris stopped when she saw Ginny running into the passageway where the attack on Mrs. Norris happened. Chris watched from a corner as Ginny entered Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Chris decided to go in but before she could, Ginny ran out of the bathroom and disappeared around the corner, without noticing Chris.

A loud crying and shrieking sound interrupted the corridor. Myrtle was crying very loudly in her bathroom. Chris rushed inside the bathroom and saw Myrtle was trying open all the taps.

"Myrtle! What happened?" Chris shouted over her crying sound.

"Who's that?" glugged Myrtle miserably, without stopping. "Come to throw something else at me?"

"Myrtle! It's Chris." Chris said. "And stop, you're going to flood the place."

Myrtle stopped abruptly but started crying, if possible, louder and harder than ever before.

"What happened Myrtle? What was thrown at you?" Chris said. She didn't ask who threw something at her, because she knew it was Ginny.

"Don't ask me," Myrtle shouted. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me. . . ."

"A book?" Chris repeated, looking surprised.

"Yes... I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head," said Myrtle, miserably. "Chris, you just came now, did you see you did that?"

"Er... no.." Chris lied. "I was passing by, when I heard you crying."

"Oh." Myrtle started to sob.

"Sorry Myrtle. But if you don't mind me asking... where's the book?" Chris said, then realising Myrtle was eyeing her suspiciously, she added, "Then maybe I can tell who threw that?"

"Alright. It's there.." Myrtle pointed at her gloomy stall.

Chris walked over there and saw a small, thin book. It had a shabby black cover and was wet. Chris picked it up off the floor and saw at once that it was a diary, and the faded year on the cover told him it was fifty years old. On the first page she could just make out the name "T. M. Riddle" in smudged ink.

"So who threw this at me?" Myrtle called.

"Er... no idea." Chris said, then peeled the wet pages apart. They were completely blank. There wasn't the faintest trace of writing on any of them. Chris turned to the back cover of the book and saw the printed name of a variety store on Vauxhall Road, London. 

Weird. What was Ginny doing with a fifty years old diary? Also which was brought from a muggle store?

"Oh this reminded me the day I died." Myrtle said mournfully, floating towards the sinks. "You see, it happened right in here. I died in this very stall."

"Ah-huh!" Chris nodded absent-mindedly. "And how did you die, Myrtle?"

Myrtle's whole aspect changed at once. She looked as though she had never been asked such a flattering question.

"Ooooh, it was dreadful," she said with relish. "I'd hidden because Olive Hornby was teasing me about my glasses. The door was locked, and I was crying, and then I heard somebody come in. They said something funny. A different language, I think it must have been. Anyway, what really got me was that it was a boy speaking...."

Chris were so deep in thought, that she forgot, she had Transfiguration class. As Myrtle trailed off with her old memories, Chris suddenly noticed her watch.

"Oh. This is bad. Sorry Myrtle, I've a class I need to go." Chris said running towards the door. "I'll hear the rest, any other time. Bye."

___________________________

The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts again. Inside the castle, the mood had grown more hopeful. There had been no more attacks since those on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, and Madam Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes were becoming moody and secretive, meaning that they were fast leaving childhood.

"The moment their acne clears up, they'll be ready for repotting again," Chris heard her telling Filch kindly one afternoon. "And after that, it won't be long until we're cutting them up and stewing them. You'll have Mrs. Norris back in no time."

Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to think he himself had made the attacks stop.

"I don't think there'll be any more trouble, Minerva," he said, tapping his nose knowingly and winking. "I think the Chamber has been locked for good this time. The culprit must have known it was only a matter of time before I caught him. Rather sensible to stop now, before I came down hard on him.

"You know, what the school needs now is a morale-booster. Wash away the memories of last term! I won't say any more just now, but I think I know just the thing. . . ."

He tapped his nose again and strode off.

Lockhart's idea of a morale-booster became clear at breakfast time on February fourteenth.