When they got home, Denton and Richie were both extremely glad they'd made the right call. Mrs. Harland grumbled for a minute or two, but she still took the takeout bags they handed her.
"You sure you don't want to try mine?"
"No thanks, we're good."
"It's really sweet!"
"We're stuffed, honest."
---
Richie slipped upstairs to his room and sat at his desk.
Time had flown. Only two weeks left until Hogwarts.
Luckily he'd stuck to his study schedule. Even with the days disappearing, he'd still gotten a ton done.
He'd basically finished all the second-year theory—except the hands-on stuff in Herbology and Potions. He'd already started carving the fourth activation rune. He was a third of the way through the Runes Dictionary, and his other books were moving along nicely too.
The only things still on hold were The Healing Potential of Blood Curses and proper Occlumency training. He wasn't worried. He figured the right opportunity would show up eventually.
Right now, though, the plain black diary he'd taken from Ginny sat on his desk.
It looked completely ordinary—small, thin, worn black cover with no title or decoration.
Staring at it reminded Richie of his own diary. He still kept one, though the entries had gone from daily to every few days to once a week.
Back in first year he'd filled an entire notebook with every plot point he could remember from the Harry Potter books, just so he wouldn't forget.
He stood up, climbed into his expanded suitcase study, and dug around until he found it.
"Let's see…"
> In second year Hogwarts falls into chaos again. The Chamber of Secrets opens because of some so-called "heir." Looking a snake in the eyes kills you. Seeing its reflection petrifies you…
> At the start of summer, old Malfoy slips a diary into the Weasley family's things. It belongs to the big boss and Harry destroys it in the end.
Richie closed his own diary, brow furrowed. His memories were still pretty vague; he couldn't recall every fine detail. But that didn't matter. All he had to do was get this black diary to Dumbledore. If even the so-called greatest white wizard in the world couldn't handle it…
…then Richie would just have to find a way to slip it back to Ginny Weasley.
He put his notebook away, climbed out of the suitcase, and went back to his room.
The black diary still sat quietly on the desk.
Richie walked to the window and gave the owl call. Wangcai, who had been sunning himself in the yard, glided over.
Richie tied the diary securely to the owl's leg and attached a short note:
> Professor Dumbledore,
> I seem to have come across a Dark magical object. I'm not sure how to handle it safely, so I'm sending it to you.
> —Richie Harland
"Go to the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts. Find Professor Dumbledore."
He gave Wangcai a quick scratch. The owl spread his wings and vanished into the sky.
Richie watched him disappear, then sat back down at his desk and picked up one of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts "textbooks."
He still couldn't figure out how these adventure stories were supposed to count as schoolbooks.
But the Hogwarts supply list had been very clear.
He shook his head, pulled out Travels with Trolls, and started flipping through it.
---
Night fell.
After dinner Richie returned to his room and stopped dead.
The black diary was back on his desk.
"Hoo… hoo?"
"Wangcai?"
No answer. Which made sense—the trip to Scotland was long; the owl wouldn't be back until morning.
So why was the diary here?
Richie walked over slowly.
His mind flashed to cursed red shoes, weird red string pendants, and dripping-wet ghost brides.
"Wait—what the hell am I thinking? This is the wizarding world. If there are ghosts, they're just regular ghosts. Hogwarts is full of them. No need to scare myself."
He shook his head hard, clearing the weird thoughts, then sat down and turned on the desk lamp.
Staring at the ordinary-looking black diary, Richie felt an odd impulse. He opened it.
The pages were slightly yellowed and completely blank.
Since it's already open… might as well see what this thing is.
He picked up a quill and wrote:
"What kind of junk notebook is this?"
The ink sank into the paper. A few seconds later elegant cursive appeared:
"Hello. It's not junk—at least I hope it isn't."
Richie's eyebrow rose. He wrote again:
"Who are you? How are you writing back?"
"Tom Riddle. A poor fragment of memory.
A long time ago, when I was a sixth-year at Hogwarts, I turned this diary into a… tool for an experiment.
It worked. Ever since then this piece of me has been here, alone.
I'm very glad to meet you now.
May I know your name?"
Richie's mind raced.
Tom… That was the name carved into the desk he always sat at in History of Magic (Chapter 16).
So this was him.
What was his connection to the big boss?
A younger version?
Feeling a mix of mischief and curiosity, Richie paused, then wrote:
"My name is Elliot."
Tom: Hello, Elliot. Nice to meet you. Are you a Hogwarts student?
Richie: Yes. I'll be starting soon.
Tom: A first-year? That's wonderful. Did you find me while buying school supplies?
Richie: No. Someone gave me to you.
…