The group decided to head back to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink, and Harold went along—though his mind was clearly elsewhere the entire way.
"Hey, Harold, what are you thinking about?"
Harold suddenly snapped out of his daze as someone tugged hard on his arm. Only then did he realize they'd arrived—he'd been so distracted he nearly walked straight into the tavern door, if Fred hadn't grabbed him in time.
"Thanks," Harold said.
"No problem." Fred eyed him curiously. "But what were you thinking about just now? We were talking to you and you didn't even blink."
"Something else," Harold replied, then looked over to where Ginny was stealing glances at Harry. After a brief pause, he stepped forward and asked:
"Sorry, Ginny. Back at Flourish and Blotts, did you happen to see a black-covered diary?"
"Kiddo, you lost your diary?" Mr. Weasley turned his head from up front. "Did you drop it at the bookstore? We can all go back and help you look."
"No, no—it's nothing," Harold answered vaguely, keeping his eyes on Ginny.
The young witch frowned and tried her best to think, then shook her head. "I didn't see anything. But if it has your writing in it, I'd be happy to help you look."
She was completely serious—no sign of dishonesty.
"No need," Harold said, waving it off. "It was just a blank notebook, not important."
"If you don't mind, we could get you a new one," said Mr. Granger, who walked up in his smart suit. Though he didn't understand the wizarding world or its noble families, he knew this boy had spoken up on their behalf earlier.
Gratitude was in order, and this diary business seemed like a good chance to express it. He just hoped the boy wouldn't mind a Muggle notebook—was that the term?
"Thanks," Harold replied distractedly, not really registering what had been said.
"Sorry, I've got something to do. I'll be off."
Waving vaguely, Harold turned and headed back toward Diagon Alley.
But not just anywhere—he went straight back to Flourish and Blotts.
The chaos had only just settled. The staff were starting to restore order to the battered store.
Harold joined them under the guise of helping clean up, while secretly checking every corner.
But even after every single book was returned to its shelf, the diary was nowhere to be found.
He searched the shelves, behind the counters, even between the floorboards—nothing.
How is this possible?
Standing in the middle of the street, Harold frowned deeply. This wasn't how things were supposed to go.
He had provoked Lucius Malfoy not just because he couldn't stand the man's pure-blood arrogance, but with a specific goal in mind—to enrage Lucius enough to hand over the diary directly. Read complete versıon only at 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅•𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾•𝗇𝖾𝗍
He had even deliberately picked up a book, ready to play the part.
But when Lucius heard his name, he'd hesitated, even backed down.
Probably because he feared Harold would reveal the truth—that the Malfoys hadn't always been pure-bloods.
That's when it dawned on Harold—he shouldn't have told Lucius his real name.
In the eleventh century, a young wizard named Armand Malfoy had disguised himself as a regular knight and crossed the Channel with William the Conqueror. Using his magic, he crushed Muggle uprisings and was granted lands and title. That was the true origin of the Malfoy family.
A fine little tale, really…
The Malfoys, once a family of Muggle-born wizards, had gained their current wealth, status, and honor through the favor of a Muggle king.
Of course, few in the magical world remembered that now—except for the Ollivanders.
Lucius knew this too. Even if Harold revealed it, and few would believe a boy his age, it still posed a risk—and Lucius Malfoy didn't like risks.
So he chose to walk away.
"I should've said I was Harold Weasley," Harold muttered, raking a hand through his hair.
Lucius had been seething with rage—if he'd heard the name 'Weasley' at that moment, maybe he would've stuffed the diary straight into Harold's hands.
Even if Draco had exposed the lie, it wouldn't have mattered. As long as he had the diary, that was a price worth paying.
But Lucius' retreat ruined everything. Not only had Harold's plan failed, but the diary that was meant for Ginny had vanished.
After leaving the bookstore, Harold even checked Knockturn Alley again, but Borgin knew nothing about a diary.
He did, however, show Harold a list of dark artifacts Lucius had sold him. Harold checked it three times—there was no mention of any diary.
By the time Harold returned to the wand shop, it was nearly dusk.
The amber sky matched his gloomy mood.
Had someone picked up the diary in the chaos? Or had Lucius never brought it out in the first place?
Harold obsessed over the possibilities for days.
He didn't even bother promoting wand stickers. Every morning, he pushed his work onto Garrick and headed straight to the bookstore.
After a few days of this, the owner of Flourish and Blotts grew rather embarrassed. She thought Harold was coming in out of guilt over the brawl—that maybe he felt responsible for what happened.
But she didn't blame him at all. He'd only spoken a single sentence. The real culprit was the suddenly-deranged Lucius Malfoy.
Harold, however, showed up every day to help. Meanwhile, the Malfoys had disappeared from sight—no apology, not even a letter.
No wonder the Ollivanders were the oldest wizarding family. That kind of poise and grace just wasn't something the so-called pure-blood supremacists could compare with.
In return, the bookstore owner insisted on giving Harold a little something every time he visited.
Naturally, she gave books.
Modern Magical History, A Compendium of Practical Spells, and the Standard Book of Spells volumes III through V.
All popular titles. The Standard Book of Spells was even a required Hogwarts textbook—for third, fourth, and fifth years. Getting them now saved Harold from buying them later.
But when she was ready to give him Volume VI, Harold didn't show up.
He had stopped looking.
After all, with Harry around, it wasn't like Voldemort's soul would disappear from the world. Why cling so stubbornly to a single diary?
Better to spend that time on something else—like figuring out what to do with the dried camouflage lizard he'd taken from the Death Eaters.