Disclaimer: Thankyou, J K Rowling, for the characters, setting, diaries, etc, I have stolen for this fic.
Warning: SLASH Dean Thomas/Seamus Finnigan and Tom Riddle/Seamus Finnigan. Rating: T for sexual references
AN: Yeah, you thought it was impossible, didn't you? No flames please. I already know I have a twisted mind, thankyou. Constructive criticism welcome.
Beta'd by ronnikins4mione ( so you know who to blame. :)
I wandered up to my dormitory, bored, and wishing Dean would talk to me again. Even an argument about sport would have been an improvement on this.
I knew fine well that Dean hated arguing as much as I did, but he was too stubborn to give in and just kiss me. So I was reduced to moping around the dormitory while he prowled round the common room and snapped at anyone who approached him.
A small black book caught my eye, lying on the floor near Harry's bed. Even reading was better than doing nothing. And it wasn't as though Harry had locked it up in his trunk or anything. I picked it up and had a look at it.
It was a diary. Dean kept a diary. Wondering if it was his, and feeling slightly guilty, I opened it.
Empty. It had never been written in. I turned back to the front and grinned sheepishly as I saw the year. Nobody in our dormitory had been alive then!
Well, if it was going begging…
I sat down and scrawled a tiny cartoon in it. Dean was so much better at drawing than me…
The picture vanished. I scribbled on the page, wondering if there was something wrong with my quill. The scribble vanished, too.
I was reaching for another quill when the words appeared.
Who are you?
I stopped, shocked. What was going on? I am Seamus Finnigan, I wrote, rather messily. What are you?
My writing vanished, and more words appeared. My name is Tom Marvolo Roddle. I am- I felt the pause – a memory.
I just stared at the words. They melted into the page and some more appeared. Is something wrong?
No. I paused, and thought that over. Yes.
And everything about Dean came pouring out.
I'm not completely sure what happened, but there are some things about that night that I remember very clearly. The Kiss, for one thing.
Somehow I found myself inside the diary – or maybe Tom got out of it – and before I knew what was happening, I was kissing Tom. It wasn't like when I'd kissed Dean – those were shy, careful kisses, or kisses where we missed the lips and our noses collided. No, this was a real kiss. One of the ones where you expect to hear tango music in the background, or a dramatic drum roll, or something. One of those kisses that you wish is never going o end. One of those kisses that you think about at night, when you're trying to get to sleep.
And then it was finished, and I was melting out of the diary, or Tom was melting into it, and Dean was coming into the room, and without thinking I swept him up into a kiss like that, and we made up, and crawled into someone's bed – mine or his, I think – and decided we didn't really need our robes – or anything else for that matter – and kissed again, and after that I kind of lost track of the real world.
Later, though, when Dean was asleep, I crept over to the diary, which was where I had left it, and wrote, Thankyou, Tom.
There was no reply.