On the ninth day, the diary vanished.
Harry returned to the dormitory and reached beneath his pillow. Instead of smooth leather, his fingers touched the rough cotton sheet, warmed by his body heat.
He lifted the pillow. Nothing.
He lifted the blanket. Nothing.
He lifted the sheet. Still nothing.
Kneeling on the bed, he turned the whole thing upside down—pillow, blanket, sheet, mattress, bedframe—nothing. He reached beneath the bed and found a Wizard's Chess piece that had rolled under there at some unknown time, and a sock that had been missing for ages, but not the black-covered diary with no patterns and no markings.
He sat on the floor with his back against the bedframe, clutching the dirty sock as he stared out at the sky. Beneath the lead-gray sky, the clouds hung low, like a waterlogged quilt that could collapse at any moment. It felt as though something had been pulled out of his chest.
He searched every corner of the dormitory, every sofa in the common room, and the corridor leading to the washroom. Nothing. It was nowhere.
He returned to the dormitory alone, lay on his bed, and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. He reached beneath his pillow and touched the sheet again. The sheet was cool, without the warmth of his body. He drew his hand back and placed it over his chest, spreading his fingers until he could feel his heartbeat. It was a little faster than usual. Not fast enough for anyone else to notice—just the kind of quickness only he could feel, as though someone had lightly knocked on the door inside his chest.
The next day, he visited Lockhart's office one more time than usual. It had not been planned; his feet had simply carried him there. He sat before