A much belated response to the I Never Challenge at the Sober Universe - a mod looks over stories you've written and assigns a promt for something you've never done. My prompt was a Tom/Ginny, the diary bits we don't get to see in canon focusing on how Ginny's mind and spirit were compromised. Hope this is okay!
You discover him by accident in the old leather bound book slipped within the pages of the battered, hand-me-down copy of A Standard Book of Spells that you got in Flourish and Blots yesterday. When you open it, you find it to be only a blank diary, sadly wrinkled and time worn.
Hating how everything of yours is old, you toss it into a corner of your room. But late that night you are still laying awake, eyes inexplicably drawn to the crumbled book that seems to be calling you to open it. You push back your sheets and get up, bringing it to your bedside table to look at closely in the morning. Yet still, in the dark you find your eyes tracing the just-visible outline of its spine, until a couple minutes later, you decide it couldn't hurt to have a quick write in it.
I've never had one of these before, are the first words you pen. That night is the first time you talk to him; the first time you find Tom within the pages of that sadly wrinkled little book.
That night is not the last.
You find yourself sitting in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express with two other children; one a large girl who looks like she could easily be a third year, the other a blonde child with long, loose hair and a vacant expression. Neither of them make conversation, so after a minute or two, you pull out the journal. After casting a quick fugitive glance at the other two, you begin scratching him a message.
Tom? you write. I just got on the train.
He must have been able to feel your gloom, because his reply is instantaneous. Just wait until you get to the school, Ginny. That's the real fun of the journey.
Good, you tell him, breathing a sigh of relief as you continue. None of my brothers would sit with me, and one of the girls in my compartment is talking about some sort of five headed salamander, while the other one looks like she'll bite that girl's head off if she keeps doing it.
That's funny, Ginny, he replies. You assume he'll say something else, but the paper is blank for a long while. You're about to ask him about the Sorting when more words appear. Ginny, why wouldn't your brothers sit with you? he asks.
You blink, not having asked yourself that exact question. After a pause, you tell him, They just have their own friends.
Why aren't you one of them? he asks. Aren't you their baby sister?
Yes, but not their friend. Anyway, they all said that I'll have loads of people to go around with once term starts and people start to get to know each other.
Yes, comes his next words, But do you believe that?
Of course, you tell him, but a tiny seed of doubt enters your mind in that moment. I'll have you no matter what though, right, Tom?
His response comes in harsh, jagged lettering. Ginny, if you will care for me, I will care for you.
Ron didn't come to the Sorting, you write that night angrily, ink splattering across the page.
Oh? What house are you in? Tom asks, not really a reply at all.
Gryffindor, you tell him quickly, just wanting to get to the point of why you're upset. But Ron wasn't there! All summer he told me stories about how it would be when we were at Hogwarts together, and now he's too busy with Harry and Hermione to even want to bother with me.
I'm sorry, Ginny, he tells you. Why don't you get to know his friends too—what are their names again?
Hermione Granger is one. She's Muggle-born and I've only met her twice, but from what Ron says she's the smartest, most annoying witch in the year.
Muggle-born? Tom asks. A pureblood like Ron, friends with a Muggle-born?
What's wrong with that? you reply.
His answer is quick. Forgive me, Ginny. Old habits die hard. Tell me about his other friend Harry.
Potter. You write nothing after this, just sit and try to decide how to word the way Harry is.
He's a hero, is what you tell him first. He defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, when he was nothing but a baby first, and then last year again! But he's so modest and kind, and he has the best green eyes and black hair . . .
It's disappointing when Tom is more interested in Harry's history. He questions you for hours, probing your brain as he asks things you've never even considered about the Dark Lord's downfall—really, you don't know anything; you've never even thought much about him, for the era you live in has never had to worry.
Will he ever return? Tom writes finally.
You shake your head staunchly from underneath your bedcovers, forgetting that Tom won't be able to see you. No, you write. Harry took care of him years ago.
Your friend is quiet for the rest of the night, leaving you to wonder what you said that hurt him. Without his usual Goodnight, Ginny, a piece of your chest feels sort of hollow.
Tom, you write one day, Why don't you ever tell me about you?
Ginny, anything you need to know about me will be revealed in time.
Why are you so mysterious? you ask. Where did you come from? Did someone trap you in this diary? That thought hasn't occurred to you until now, but the possibility scares your eleven year old self. Can I help you?
The diary shifts a little from side to side in your hands, as if Tom is laughing. I am happy here, he writes. It's not so hard living in a book and now I have you to talk to.
You smile, proud that you are needed by him. You'll always have me, Tom.
You promise? You really won't leave me?
You are young and foolish; excited by his need. Never. I'll be your friend forever.
It's Muggleborns who you shouldn't like, he tells you a week or so alter after you've given a dressing down of Astoria Greengrass, a Slytherin girl who taunted you during Charms. Muggleborns are what will ruin the wizarding world. People like Astoria, you should get along with.
His advice to you has always been good, but you blink at that, unsure. Dad always tells me that they're our equals.
With all due respect, your father is prejudiced; he woks in their own office at the Ministry. Think about your Harry Potter. He might care for you, if that silly Granger girl wasn't always hanging over him.
You know that much is true; you've seen the two of them and Ron striding down the hallways and laughing, seemingly unaware of everyone's eyes on them. Of your eyes on them.
Still, Hermione's always been kind to you, and you tell Tom as much. He replies scathingly: A Mudblood is only as good as she tricks you into believing. Don't fall for her like your brother and the Harry boy.
Mudblood? you ask, shocked at his language—if you ever said that, your mum would have washed your mouth out with soap and a Flobberworm besides. And I've never fallen for her tricks, neither has my brother; they fight all the time.
Be careful of her anyway.
Because you know that Tom is only trying to help you, you agree, and because you agree, a couple minutes later you start to believe.
October is half done when you come storming into your dorm, furiousfuriousfurious at Fred and George. They embarrassed me in front of the whole school! you tell Tom, angry tears splattering onto the page and mixing with blots of ink. Both disappear when he replies.
Do you want to get away? he asks.
More than anything! you write fervently, although you have no idea what he's hinting at.
Come with me, he tells you. Come meet me, when I was in first year and your age. I will not be able to see you, because it is my memory, but you will know that we are just the same.
How can I see you? you ask, puzzled.
Like this, he replies. A cold wind suddenly blows through the pages of the diary, whistling into your hair and sending your quill drifting to the floor. An image starts to take shape over one of the pages, and, intrigued, you lean forwards; feel your knees jerk off the bed, and tumble forward, lost into Tom's world.
When the fall stops and the scene materializes, you're standing in the corner of a room with dark, rough walls and eerie green light that trickles down through panes set in the ceiling. Almost like being—underwater.
But the actual room holds your attention for little time, because a piece of the wall opens up and three boys step through, the smaller one in front being pushed by the other two.
"Oh!" you cry, forgetting that Tom told you that he wouldn't be able to see you. "Hello, sorry if—if I'm intruding?"
None of the three give any sign that they've heard you, but continue to jostle each other.
"Um—am I okay, then?" At last remembering Tom's earlier words, you hover at the back of a long, black sofa and watch the boys in front of you.
"Perfect little Tom Riddle knows everything," one taunts, shoving the smaller boy in front of him. Tom. This is Tom; this young, handsome boy is Tom. Your Tom.
"I wouldn't have done that if I were you," Tom replies, straightening himself and jutting his chin out, glaring at the older boys.
"Hear that, Mulciber? He wouldn't have done that," the other boy sing-songs as they advance slowly on him. They're so much bigger and stronger looking, and you start to run to Tom's aid before remembering that there's nothing you can do; that this entire scene was long in the past.
But Tom doesn't need your help, for he pulls his wand from his trouser pockets and swishes it casually, sending a jet of black magic at both of the boys. Time seems to slow down as it fans out, knocking both of them backwards—and whatever it's effects are, they can't have been good, but you don't care because right now all you can think about it Tom's face; all you can see is the way his mouth slowly, slowly stretches into a pleased smirk, and how he begins to throw his head back and laugh. Yet before anything becomes clear the common room around you dissolves, fading into whiteness before you are tugged back through the pages of his diary and slam back onto the bed, panting and shaking.
You haven't even had time to pick up the diary when his own words appear across the page. I'm sorry you had to see the last part, Ginny. I only meant to show you that I was teased also.
It's okay, Tom, you reply. I'm sure they deserved it. And as soon as you say that, it suddenly seems like that's true. Seconds ago you were wary and a little scared, but now—now you know that Tom was the righteous defender, and that Mulciber and the other boy deserved whatever they got.
Could I do that? you write eagerly. A niggling voice at the back of your mind wonders why you'd ever want to, but the louder one at the front cries for you to be like Tom; for you to be able to punish your brothers when they tease you; to keep Hermione Granger away from Harry; to make sure Harry stays safe.
Please, you finish. Teach me.
I've helped you a lot in the past few months, haven't I, Ginny? he asks you one night near the end of October.
Yes, you instantly reply, agreeing even when nothing he's truly done for you comes straight to your mind.
I need you to do something for me, then. During the Halloween Feast. He gives you instructions, and somehow, you watch his words across the page—you comprehend his words across the page—but you don't understand his words across the page, not in your heart.
I will help you, he tells you, when the time comes. And if you will care for me—I will care for you.
You stride down the stone hallway, steps echoing in the oddly quiet castle. In front of you, frozen with its nose and front paws barely dipping into a spreading puddle of water, lies the cat.
You will care for him.
The cat you sling across your shoulder, laughing with unfamiliar euphoria as its stiff, cold body bumps against your back. In your other arm, you carry the jar of paint that was on the foot of your bed this morning.
Why?
You remember Tom's pleading words; the way he reminded you that the both of you had to look out for each other. There's no need to ask why, because Tom needs you to do this for him.
Here.
A heavy metal light fixture holding a sputtering candle sends flickers of shadows across the walls. You will wrap the cat's tail around that; no mean feat—but he has done his duty for you.
You must do yours for him.
You set the paint on the ground, ready to complete the second part of your task. Unsteadily, you slide the tip of your index finger into the viscid substance, swirling it around until you remember what you have to do; what Tom begged you to write.
The Chamber of Secrets has been opened again. Enemies of the Heir, beware.
It doesn't matter what the words say; not really. You don't pay attention to the sentences, only to the letters. To the rounding curve of the C; to the staccato dot of the first period, then onto the jagged E, the swooping S, and the way your fingers tremble when you finish; the way your whole hand feels dirty as you scrub it off on your robe.
You pick up the jar of paint, somehow setting the lid back on at such an angle that it does nothing but siphon red onto your robes—red that looks like blood, like you are bleeding out. But that doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore.
You have cared for him—now he will have to care for you.