Preface.
AU: Voldemort didn't rise again during Harry's time at Hogwarts. This is their Sixth Year.
Amy Barrowcliffe was proud of her place in the house, and of Ravenclaw's reputation for intelligence. It was her second year at Hogwarts, and she was certainly living up to her house stereotype. Most of her days were spent in the library, face shoved into some old tome that would make her sneeze terribly, or in the Common Room writing another essay. As such, she was quite a lonely girl, with few friends to talk to. The Ravenclaw Common Room was one of the quietest places in Hogwarts, each student appeared lonely in their own way, Amy noticed as she crossed the polished wooden floors. Her fellow students were all sat in individual armchairs, each reading, or writing, or simply staring off into space, deep in thought. She nodded her blonde head toward a girl she knew from Charms, before heading up the stairs to the girls dormitory. Apart from Tom, no-one knew her secrets or guilty pleasures or irks, her likes and dislikes. Tom would always be there for her, even if only on paper. She sat down upon her bed and kicked off her shoes, pulling her feet up to massage her heels. Damn new brogues were a menace, she thought, as she drew the curtains around the four-poster and settled back onto the duvet. Her private time was the thing she most looked forward to these days, it gave her a chance to escape. Quickly, she delved into her the tan, leather book-bag that sat beside her and pulled out a small black book and quill. With a wide smile on her face, she opened the little diary and began to write.
Hello Tom.
The words dissolved into the paper slowly, before more blossomed into view, now in a different, beautiful cursive. She closed her eyes and ran her hands gently over the thick parchment of the diary. It had been four months since she found this beautiful, perfect book tucked away on the Library shelves. The way it worked eluded her, but from what she could gather it held the memories and essence of a boy who used to attend Hogwarts years ago. Tom. Her handsome gentleman, who wrote to her, comforted her. If only he were real.
Goodnight, Amy.
Goodnight?
Amy looked down at her watch. It was barely six thirty, the majority of Ravenclaw students hadn't even returned from the Great Hall yet. She usually left dinner a little early when she wished to vent her troubles to the strange little diary. On every other night, Tom would pander to her, telling her she was the most spectacular person he had ever spoken to, that she was special, that he found himself falling for her. He never, ever told her goodnight. New words formed on the page.
Yes, goodnight, Amy. Sweet dreams.
The diary in her lap began to vibrate. A strange feeling ran over her body, her blood seemed to turn to ice and, as hard as she tried, her limbs wouldn't move - she was numb. Her eyes still whirled around in their sockets, finally settling on the book in her lap. It was wrenching back and forth, pages fluttering, the edges of the paper almost glowing. Suddenly, something burst from the centre of the paper, stopping the frantic movements of the book dead. A flurry of torn pages rushed at her face, blinding her momentarily. When the madness settled, like fallen leaves onto her lap, Amy looked back toward the book. If she could have mustered a scream, she would have, as pale hands began to claw their way from through the pages, followed by arms, shoulders, and finally a head. Thick black curls, sparkling dark eyes and an arrogant smirk glared back at her horrified face. The boy emerging from the book crawled forward, until his entire body was visible. He was entirely nude, paper white like the pages of the now-closed diary, panting heavily from the excursion of becoming corporeal. His skin seemed to glow with a newborn freshness, he wheezed slightly as if he had never taken a breath before. The movements he made were tentative, he tried to sit back on his feet but wobbled slightly and decided to fall back onto his hands and knees. Tom. She had never seen him, but she knew this must be him, who else could have emerged from that book, it did belong to him, after all. He crawled over her body, his legs straddling her hips. By now she could barely feel his presence, but she could see that his skin had stopped glowing, he seemed fuller, more lifelike. The beautiful face smirking above her started to blur, to grow dark and a cold hand stroked her cheek gently as the last of her life left her.
"Sweet dreams," the boy whispered, tilting his head down to plant a kiss on the dead girl's forehead.