The rest of Christmas holiday seemed to drag on forever. Even if he did spend the majority of the break up in the Astronomy Tower, working on assignments, chatting with the professor, and doing other things, Harry still seemed to have loads of time alone in the library or the common room, making the distance between himself and his former best friends all the more noticeable; and notice people did.

He supposed it was rather hard not to, when that very first day at dinner, he came down ahead of the other two, alone. That in itself wasn't all that unusual, especially as of late, but when Ron and Hermione did arrive... Well, Ron's habit of instinctively plopping down to sit beside him started to kick in, before the redhead realized what he was doing. Then the taller boy stopped, crossed his arms petulantly over his chest, and glared at Harry for all he was worth, before stomping to a seat quite far away at the nearly empty table, Hermione dithering for a moment before following. Harry just rolled his eyes and concentrated on eating one bite at a time, ignoring the stares he was now receiving from almost everyone present. Prat. Though it was likely a good thing Ron had been the one to make a fool of himself. If he had actually sat next to him as tradition called for, Harry may very well have childishly gotten up and moved. It was much better that Ron look like he was the one having a temper-tantrum. Besides... Harry was in the right here. He knew he was.

Fending off the twins' rapid questions and Percy's strange looks with the simple snapped explanation of, "Your brother's being a right git." which all three older boys seemed to accept well enough, he started up a soft conversation with Ginny who had shyly sat across from him when she noticed him alone. Though she blushed quite a bit (apparently her crush was sill going strong) she seemed to be getting more comfortable around him. They talked for a while about how she liked her different classes so far and which professors she preferred, both pointedly ignoring the way Ron seemed furious at their being together. Harry, for his part, was glad the girl was talking at all. He'd kept half an eye on her since the start of the year, seeing as how she was his bes— former best mate's little sister, and lately she'd been looking rather... peaky. Sick and tired and constantly alone. Seeing her actually get a bit animated when she did a fair impression of Professor Flitwick was most definitely a welcome sight.

Of course, Harry wasn't surprised when that night, upon his return to the Tower, Professor Jenkins demanded an explanation. A real one. Harry dutifully told the truth, leaving out all the details, mind you. There was really no reason to let anyone know they'd been brewing Polyjuice Potion in a girls' toilet.

"Well now, Harry, I think you handled that very well," the older man praised, running a comforting hand down his taut spine to relax him. Just thinking about it, got him worked up all over again. "You are, of course, entitled to your privacy, and I'm sure young Mr. Weasley knows that as well. He'll come 'round eventually, don't you worry. Until then, best to just let him be, eh?"

Harry agreed fully, but that still made for a rather lonely holiday a lot of the time.

He was greatly relieved when the rest of the students returned, though after a few days he didn't have the faintest clue why. Even if he managed to occasionally (and that was most certainly the word, since they were such a solid pair of two) hang out with Dean and Seamus or sit quietly and do some homework with Neville, he still ended up being on his own most of the time. And though the whispers and stares may have died down a bit over the break, it seemed that most of the student body was still avoiding him; just not as blatantly this time around.

Even worse, with classes starting up again, it meant less time he had to spend up in the Tower. It seemed that every two out of three times lately, either he was busy or the professor was. When Jenkins begged off his company for the third night in a row, this time saying he had to tutor a student who was starting to fall a bit behind... well, Harry knew it was stupid and juvenile, but he threw a small fit. After yelling a bunch of angry nonsense and storming out of the surprised man's office, he stomped his way down through the school, no idea where he was going, just needing to cool off a bit.

After several flights of stairs and more corridors than he could count, he managed to do just that. Wincing at how ridiculous he'd just been, he let himself slump against the wall with a sigh, noting rather disinterestedly that, like earlier that year, there was a trail of spiders making their way hastily out a slightly cracked window. Good for them. How often lately had he wished he could do the very same thing?

*"— even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore —"*

Ah, so Filch was in a good mood that night as well. Poking his head around the corner, Harry watched the man leave in a huff, noting he had managed to make his way to the spot of the first attack; which, of course, just so happened to be right outside of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. One glance at the floor let him know what had Filch's knickers in a bunch. The entire floor was soaked in water— water which appeared to still be leaking out from the particular loo in question.

Taking a quick look around to be sure no one was watching, Harry sloshed his way through the small lake that had begun to form and slipped inside, ears immediately assaulted by the sound of Myrtle's low, keening sobs. Not the dramatic kind he was used to hearing from the ever-gloomy ghost, but something more genuine. Like she was really upset this time, not just playing a part.

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for anything, Harry went further in, casting a Lumos so he could see properly in the dark bathroom. *"What's up, Myrtle?"

"Who's that?" glugged Myrtle miserably. "Come to throw something else at me?"

Harry waded across to her stall and said, "Why would I throw something at you?"

"Don't ask me," Myrtle shouted, emerging with a wave of yet more water, which splashed onto the already sopping floor. "Here I am, minding my own business, and someone thinks it's funny to throw a book at me. . . ."*

For one very brief moment, Harry was tempted to point out that, as a ghost, nothing thrown at Myrtle could possibly hurt her, so it didn't really matter. Almost immediately, he realized how incredibly insensitive that sounded and cursed himself for hanging around Ron and some of the other Gryffindor boys too much. The Harry from just two years ago would never have even thought something like that. That would be like saying it was okay when the kids in primary threw things at him and missed. He knew better than anyone that even if it didn't hurt you physically, it would still always hurt your feelings.

Even if you were a ghost. "I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

Myrtle went deathly (no pun intended) still at the question and eyed Harry in a manner that was both wary and as if he'd suddenly grown an extra head. Looking away from her startlingly penetrating gaze, Harry felt his brow furrow in annoyance. Hadn't anyone ever asked after her well-being before? He knew she was dead and all, and that she was— well, quite frankly, she was annoying most of the time, but still. It just seemed wrong that she was so shocked someone might show her a modicum of concern, even if only to be polite.

Shaking away those thoughts and where they might lead him, he decided to focus on the matter at hand. *"Who threw it at you, anyway?"

"I don't know. . . . I was just sitting in the U-bend, thinking about death, and it fell right through the top of my head."*

Trying not to dwell on just how disturbing that statement would be (on several levels) were the girl not dead, Harry brightened a bit and said, "Well, if you were in the U-bend... Myrtle, I don't think anyone actually threw it at you. I think they were just trying to get rid of it or something. They just forgot you were there."

Oh, bad choice of words. Almost immediately the teenage ghost teared up again, wailing about how no one ever remembered poor, moping, Moaning Myrtle, though the cries were different this time. They were back to being the overly-loud, theatrical noises he'd heard before, and he was quite relieved. At least she was back to normal. "Myrtle, where is this book now?"

Sniffing a bit and managing to get herself somewhat under control, she pointed one transparent finger towards the sinks. *"It's over there, it got washed out. . . ."*

Sloshing his way towards where she directed, Harry let his mind take in the facts. Someone (most likely a girl since it was a girls' toilet) had tried to flush a book. In the Muggle world that would have been impossible, but Harry had noticed since coming to Hogwarts that magical toilets were just that. Magical. They could flush things of quite significant size, just about anything as big as a baby in fact—

Ew, creepy example, definitely too much time with Seamus and Lee Jordan. Regardless, the point was that something about this book must be special if someone went out of their way to come into the normally avoided bathroom and flush it down the loo. If nothing else, maybe it would keep him from feeling so lonely and bored for a little while.

Raising his wand a bit higher, he quickly spotted his prize sitting innocently beneath a rather dilapidated sink. A regular-looking book, black cover, small and thin. Scooping it up, it was quickly apparent the book was actually a diary, one marked to be fifty years old. Impressive. Hastily pushing the front cover open (this could definitely end up being quite entertaining), he was just able to decipher the perfectly looped script of smudged ink. T. M. Riddle.

"Riddle," Harry mumbled to himself, eyes scanning over the name again and again. It seemed... familiar somehow. Like something from a memory long lost, though he hadn't the faintest idea why. Maybe this boy had grown up to be some big-shot and he'd read about him in a book or something, sort of like Flamel last year.

More excited than ever, he quickly turned to the next page... only to frown in disappointment when he found it completely blank. "Bugger." Flipping through the wet, sticky pages as fast as he could, Harry's annoyance continued to grow. "Bugger... bugger... bugger! He never wrote in the damn thing."

Only... that didn't make sense. If it was nothing more than an empty diary... why would someone try and throw it away? More than just throw it away, flush it away, like getting rid of all incriminating evidence.

Worrying his bottom lip, the boy closed the diary once more turning it over in his hands to examine it from all angles. A stamp in the bottom left corner of the back caught his eye, and he furrowed his brow, bringing it closer to his face to read properly. "Vauxhall Road... Probably Muggleborn then." Not that there was anything particularly extraordinary about that. Right now, for all appearances, someone had attempted to dispose of a completely blank, Muggle diary from fifty years ago. He didn't need to have a little Slytherin in him to know there was something fishy about that.

Figuring he'd go and scrounge around the library (maybe he could find something on Riddle there), a sudden thought hit him, making him pause. It would likely lead to naught, but... "Myrtle? You wouldn't happen to know who T. M. Riddle is, would you?" He had no idea how long ago it had been that Myrtle had died, but given the old-fashioned uniform and very out of style glasses, he figured it could have been about fifty years ago. It was worth asking, right?

"Riddle." Myrtle slowly floated down from where she'd been hovering to get closer to Harry's level. Her eyes were scrunched up tight, brow knitted in the middle, and her tongue was beginning to creep out the side of her mouth. She looked quite ridiculous actually, but Harry knew she was thinking hard. "Riddle," she repeated, and her head began to slowly shake back and forth. "I think so, yes. He was in school with me. Very good-looking."

Harry fought hard to keep from rolling his eyes. Of course that's what a girl would remember.

"I think he was a prefect or something... Everything's just so fuzzy."

That peaked Harry's curiosity. "Fuzzy?"

Coming out of her trance-like state, the ghost fixed him with a surprisingly serious look, eyes wide and solemn beneath her ugly glasses. "Fuzzy's the only way I can describe it. Whenever I try to remember details from my life... I haven't forgotten exactly; it's just that everything I can remember feels more like a dream than an actual memory... Except for a few select things, of course." Two twin splotches of— well, grey darkened on her pale cheeks. "I still remember that awful Olive Hornby and her awful teasing like it was just yesterday."

The boy let his mind slowly digest all that, surprised. "Is it like that for all ghosts?"

Blinking slowly, Myrtle nodded. "Yes, from what I've heard."

Wow. He'd never known that at all. Though he supposed in a way it made sense. Ghosts were dead, only a part of the life that had once been. They retained their memories of that life, but the only ones that really stood out clearly were whatever had been most prominent, most emotional to them at the time they died. Myrtle had been made miserable by that Olive girl, who knew for how long, so she remembered that perfectly well. Painful memories were always harder to forget than happy ones.

"Well, thanks for your help, Myrtle."

The ghost looked startled again, making Harry's mood darken even further. Really, was absolutely no one nice to her but him? Feeling his ingrained Gryffindor sense of justice rear its head, along with a bit of Hufflepuff sympathy, he said rather harshly, "I'll be round to visit you again, all right?" Not that he really wanted to speak with her again, it was just... he felt bad. Besides, it's not like he had anyone else to talk to. "See you later."

He didn't wait for a reply and nearly missed her soft, "Yes. Bye, Harry." as he made a hasty exit from the damp, dark room, diary still firmly in hand.

Getting to the library was no problem. Ignoring the whispers and stares that plagued him wherever he went was equally simple. Asking Madame Pince for old school records so he could look through the long list of former prefects was a bit more difficult. Not the act itself, of course, it was just... well, Madame Pince was hardly the friendliest of people. She glared at him overtop her glasses suspiciously, lips pursed as though physically restraining herself from asking what he wanted the records for. He just stared innocently back, waiting. He had no reason to explain himself seeing as how he'd done nothing wrong, and he had the same rights as every other student in the school. He could look at the public records whenever he pleased, regardless of what he planned on doing with the information.

He found himself rather impressed by what he found. He'd had no idea before just how well kept the records at Hogwarts were. Full lists of every student from every year dating back at least a hundred years along with what house they were in, written out neatly in chronological and then alphabetical order. Lists of prefects, Head Boys, Head Girls. Unfortunately, he was unable to find anything other than Tom Riddle had been both prefect and Head Boy, not to mention a member of Slytherin. He had also received a Medal for Magical Merit (something he knew for a fact Hermione had her eye firmly set on) and an award for Special Services to the School, but no matter how hard Harry looked, he couldn't find what the latter was for.

A bit dejected by the lack of information (just because it had been more than he was expecting didn't mean he didn't want even more still), he was about to return the records to Madame Pince when a sudden idea crossed his mind. It was likely stupid and childish, not to mention it would be utterly pointless in the end but...

A deep warmth flared in his chest when he saw Evans, Lily printed in neat, tiny script, listed as both a Gryffindor prefect and Head Girl. Everyone always talked about his father, how Harry should be proud to have inherited his flying abilities, how James had been so good at Transfiguration, how he'd been one of the most popular boys in school. Why had no one ever told him of his mother's obvious achievements? Did they not think he'd be just as impressed by those? They always compared him to James, was he really nothing at all like Lily except in the eyes? Or was that just how they wanted him to be?

Tracing his fingers lightly over the name one last time, cursing himself for becoming so sentimental over something so trivial, he returned the records to the snippy librarian, making his way slowly back to Gryffindor Tower, mind a thousand miles away. What he wouldn't give for just one chance...

He was so lost in thought, he nearly walked straight into a harried Neville climbing through the portrait hole. Giving his rotund friend an apologetic smile, wondering just how many more daft things he could pull off before bedtime, he asked politely, "All right there, Neville?"

"Yes, sorry, Harry." The bigger boy gave him a sheepish smile and rubbed the back of his reddening neck. "I didn't even see you there— running late and all— don't want to keep Professor Jenkins waiting."

At the sound of his professor's name, Harry perked up visibly, eyebrows raised high on his forehead. "Professor Jenkins?"

"Yeah, he offered me some extra tutoring," the boy said with a bright smile. "Ruddy good of him, really. He knows I need to keep a good grade in Herbology and Astronomy to help balance out Potions. Herbology's no problem, but... dunno, lately my Astronomy marks have been dropping. The stars all start to look alike, I guess; and if I don't keep an O in there, my whole average will drop. They might even make me repeat a year, all because I can't get higher than a bloody T in Snape's class..." Letting his voice trail off, his face the same hue as a tomato by this point, Neville looked down to study his feet, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Anyway, yeah. Best be off."

Harry watched him go, both amused by his friend's antics and at the same time... well, he wasn't sure exactly. There was this odd burning feeling in his stomach, a sense of anger (the kind he'd never really felt towards anyone but Dudley before), and it was all directed at Neville. Which was positively ridiculous because... well, why should he ever feel such hateful things toward Neville of all people? He was harmless, always nice, and never once since this whole Heir of Slytherin bollocks started had he looked at Harry with anything other than friendship and trust. Where was this irrational ire coming from?

Shaking himself, literally, Harry climbed through the portrait hole, intent on finishing his Charms homework and turning in early. Hopefully after a good sleep, he'd be back to feeling normal again. After all, things always looked better in the morning.