Each with his own agenda

Inside the Defense Against the Dark Arts Office.

Lockhart—or rather, Cyril Rosier—set the black-covered Diary on his desk and tapped its cover twice with his fingers.

Then he leaned back in his chair, took an unopened bag of Coconut Ice from a drawer, tore it open, and popped a piece into his mouth.

A notebook that could hold a conversation.

That was how Justin Finch-Fletchley had described it.

To Cyril, it was hardly anything unusual.

He had seen far too many Dark Magic Objects among Grindelwald's old followers—a singing skull, a pipe that could burn memories to ash, a mirror that guaranteed bad luck for three days after you looked into it.

A mere diary that could write was probably some low-level spirit-binding enchantment, or a conversational toy some bored wizard had made by stuffing fragments of his memories inside.

But Justin had mentioned that it was "using him." That was rather interesting.

A magical object capable of actively exploiting its host usually contained more than a simple remnant of memory.

At the very least, there had to be some more sophisticated magic involved.

Still, he was not particularly concerned. He was a Dark Wizard himself, had spent years immersed in dark magic, and carried numerous amulets.

Ordinary dark magic artifacts had no effect on him whatsoever.

"Let's give you a try and see what you really are."

Having made up his mind, Cyril crunched up the Coconut Ice, picked up a quill, and opened the Diary.

One page, two pages, three pages.

All blank.

Only the flyleaf bore a line of faded writing: "T. M. Riddle." The handwriting was old-fashioned, with an ornamental hook at the end of every letter.

Cyril selected a quill and wrote on the first blank page.

"Who are you? Why are you inside a