The next time Harry came, he would bring him the real diary, the one Lord Madara had dealt with, the one that no longer contained a soul. Then he would give that diary to McGonagall, and she would place it together with the ordinary, blank diary Ginny had handed in. In her mind, she would connect the two threads: Ginny's diary had no magic, and Harry's diary had no magic either.
Ginny might have hallucinated because she was under too much pressure. Harry might have hallucinated for the same reason. She would stop investigating the diary. Her attention would shift elsewhere—to Hagrid, to the spiders, to the petrified students, to those "dark, obscure auras" Lockhart had mentioned. She would be busy, exhausted, and amid the endless documents and reports, she would slowly, bit by bit, forget about that diary.
When Lockhart knocked on the door to McGonagall's office, a pot of hot tea floated behind him. He had made it especially for her: black tea with a little milk and no sugar. He remembered McGonagall saying in the staff room that she did not like sweet tea. The tea was hot, almost scalding. He tapped the edge of the pot with his wand, lowering the temperature slightly until it was just right to drink.
This was one of the tasks Lord Madara had assigned him—report to McGonagall regularly and chat with her. He was not to probe deliberately, merely make casual conversation. He needed to make McGonagall feel that he was dependable, a colleague willing to cooperate, not cause trouble, and perhaps even be helpful.
McGonagall's voice came from behind the door. "Come in." Lockhart pushed it open, his smile perfectly measured—not the standard eight-toothed smile he showed everyone in the Great Hall, but a more restrained one, the sort