"This... this was the one I found in the changing room before, the one I gave to Professor Lockhart... This was the one I found under my pillow later, the one that wouldn't burn... Then what about this one? Where did this one come from? Could this be Ginny's... But hadn't Professor McGonagall already..." He could not continue. His voice broke off, like a string stretched too tight that had finally snapped.
Dumbledore looked at Harry for a long time. Long enough for a log in the fireplace to collapse, for ashes to fall from the fire onto the iron grate, making a faint sound, like something being lightly crushed beneath a foot.
"Harry, do you really not know why?"
Harry's body jolted violently. His face turned even paler. His mouth hung open, the cracked corners, torn by fever and agitation, stuck together with blood.
"Professor? What... what do you mean? I... I don't know... I really don't know... I thought... I thought the diary I gave Professor Lockhart had come back by itself... I thought it was unique... I thought it was because I had been chosen..." His voice shattered into fragments. Every word squeezed out through the cracks between them, carrying a damp, uncontrollable sob, as though something was spilling out.
Dumbledore said nothing. He reached out and picked up the diary on the right—the one Lockhart had passed on. He opened it. The title page was blank, with nothing on it. He turned to the second page. It was blank too. The third, fourth, and fifth pages were all blank. He closed the diary and set it back on the desk.
"This one does not drink blood. It does not speak. It has no magic at all. It is merely an ordinary notebook. Someone bought it, put