A/N: This is something I'm writing for a friend. She loves this pairing, and got me into it, and now we've come up with an idea that must be written, LOL. So yeah. Enjoy, Tom/Voldy X Harry fans~ ;D
Note: Canon events up until the discovery of Tom's diary. At that point on, it becomes an AU.
EDIT: Sarra-Bearra has officially Beta'd this chapter. It's much better now. XD
Chapter I: It Began Innocently Enough
She really needs to practice. This is something she has never admitted to herself, because she always tries to be the top student, but even top students need help every now and then.
And so she came here, to the one place where she can be (mostly) alone and practice her potions: the girls' lavatory. But not just any of the many girls' lavatories at Hogwarts; specifically Moaning Myrtle's lavatory on the second floor.
She sighs, and tries to properly make one of the three potions Professor Snape is forcing her class to learn this week. Only, as soon as she adds a pinch of dry spider eggs that smell rather vile, she hears splashing and footsteps. She looks up from her place on the floor to find Ginny Weasley – the younger sister of one of her best friends – racing out of one of the stalls.
She jumps up into attention as soon as she hears Moaning Myrtle crying out softly in surprise. "Ohh, ohh, deary me…"
"Myrtle?" she asks, and she tiptoes cautiously into one of the nearby stalls.
"Ohh, ohh, why? Why me? Why must they always be so cruel, picking on me like this! They know that this is my toilet, don't they? Why do they always throw things into my toilet? Ooh, oh…"
She pauses as she finds the ghostly girl sobbing above a flooded toilet. Inside, there is a diary, leather-bound and beautiful, even if it's soaking wet in the lou. "Myrtle, whose journal is this?"
"Oh, how should I know?" the ghost wails in reply. "It's not like I care who it belongs to, or why they threw it in here in the first place!" She wipes at her eyes behind her glasses with her transparent hands. "Could you get it out for me, Miss Granger?" She pauses, unsure of herself. "That is your name, isn't it?"
Hermione nods. "Yes, that's right. How'd you know?"
Myrtle smiles, but her eyes remain woeful. "I read your name on your papers that are scattered all over the floor. Are you doing homework?"
Idly, the bookworm nods. But she isn't paying much attention; she's too preoccupied with getting the journal out of the toilet to try and salvage it. But as she touches the edges of the pages, she finds that they are mysteriously dry.
"How odd," she murmurs to herself, "It must be charmed, to protect it." There is a lock on it as well, one that is impossible to open, with or without magic, because as Hermione soon finds out, the lock is also under a spell of some sort.
Hermione wants nothing more than to return this to its proper owner, or at least in to the Headmaster until the owner is found, but how can she when can't even open it to read the owner's name? And she doubts that Professor Dumbledore will be so bold as to break the hex and invade someone's privacy…
Sighing, Hermione finished drying off the outside of the book and takes her things to leave, unfinished, due to the diary. She hopes that she can find out what to do with it; whoever lost it must be devastated!
But… why did Ginny have it just now, and why was she trying to get rid of it? She's not one to take people's possessions and do away with them. There must be a logical reason. Only… what is it?
Confused and suddenly tired, Hermione says goodbye to Myrtle before exiting the bathroom and heading toward the Gryffindor Common Room.
While on the way there, she waves hello to Neville and nods once in a Hufflepuff's direction. Then, after saying the password, she enters the Common Room.
"There you are, Hermione!" Ron exclaims as soon as she comes into view. He nudges Harry to get the black-haired boy's nose out of a book. "See, told you she'd turn up sooner or later."
"I'm not a lost dog, thank you," she retorts stiffly. She sets her books and potion supplies down on the coffee table before the fireplace. "Besides, I was busy."
"Reading in the library?" Ron snickers teasingly.
Hermione grows pink with anger. "No! I was…" Doing something much more nerdy than that, but she doesn't want to explain it to them. So, straightening herself, she replies, "I was looking for the owner of this diary." And she produces it from the pocket of her robes, the worn black cover catching Harry's eye.
Something strange washes over Harry's senses. There is a nagging tick in the back of his mind, and an overpowering force urging him to pick up the diary and take it for himself. He wants to resist, and he attempts to with all his might, but to no avail. He finds himself eying the journal with keen interest. Harry licks his suddenly dry lips. "Can I… see that for a moment?"
She shrugs. "Sure, I suppose. But Harry, what difference does it make? The lock on it is impossible to open; I can't even open it. I mean, no offense, Harry, but I know more unlocking spells than you." She hesitates in thought. "Unless it looks familiar to you? Do you know who it belongs to?" she asks hopefully. "I'd like to return it as soon as possible –"
"No! – I mean, uh, let me return it for you, Hermione! I think I know who it belongs to," Harry lies smoothly, his green eyes lit with something akin to excitement. There is something in the back of his mind that is calling out to him, picking and picking until he can't stand it any longer and he must obey its wishes. So he listens to it, because part of him really wants to know what it has to say inside of it. What secrets could it possibly hold? He needs to know.
"Alright, Harry." Hermione says curtly, passing the leather-bound book to him. She turns on her heel to face Ron. "And you… Have you done your homework yet?" she scolds while narrowing her eyes. She knows full well that he hasn't. The redhead scratches the back of his head meekly, and Hermione forces him to open up his textbook and get started.
Harry, in the meantime, is gathering up his things and slipping up the stairs to the dormitory. He closes the door behind him and paces over to his own bed. He dumps his books atop his trunk at the foot of his bed, not caring if they fall to the floor.
Harry plops down onto his bed, cradling the little black diary to his chest, staring at it with intrigue sparkling in his eyes. His fingers ghost over the lock dreamily, wishing that he could open it. Oddly, the lock clicks opens when the thought passes through his mind. Hermione must have been lying so that he wouldn't peek, he concludes. Then, as he opens the front cover, he spies a name in fine, elegant script written in green-black ink:
This diary is the property of:
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"Tom… Marvolo… Riddle," Harry sounds the name out, testing it out on his tongue. Saying it gives him goosebumps. There is something eerily familiar about the name, but he can't place what it is. Ignoring his sense of wrong, Harry turns the pages to where the first entry should be. Except… the page is blank.
Frowning, Harry flips more pages. The same goes for the entire journal: empty.
Disappointment weighs heavily on Harry's chest, and he leans back onto his headboard with a long sigh. He glances over at his end table; on it lies a quill and some ink. Shrugging, he decides to uncap the ink and dip the quill in. He scratches his name onto the first page, unsure if he should make this his own diary – who's going to miss an empty diary? – or if he should simply give it up to one of his professors.
But a curious thing happens. As soon as he writes, 'My name is Harry Potter,' ink bleeds from the page below his line of text with the same green-black ink as the inner front cover. It reads:
'Hello, Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle.'
The young twelve-year-old boy gasps. "It... it wrote back to me!" he shouts in surprise. Something ignites within him, a spark of curiosity and bewilderment. He leans down and writes out, 'How is this possible?'
There is something like a smirk in Tom's tone as his words form across the page, 'Wouldn't you like to know.' Then, as Harry tries to think of something else to say, Tom asks, 'How old are you?'
'I'm a second-year,' Harry responds a bit ashamedly, his ink running dry. He re-dips his quill and adds, 'What about you?'
'I am forever a sixth-year,' Tom informs the boy. 'Trapped within this diary.'
Harry feels somehow empathetic. He feels that way about living at the Dursley home each year; trapped within his hellish cupboard. (Not that he would admit this to anybody.)
The Boy Who Lived scribbles next, 'I'm sorry to hear that. I wish I could do something for you, Tom.'
He waits, and for a moment, no new words appear. But then, ever so slowly, come the words: 'Actually, you can.'
'How?' Harry writes out of curiosity. It would be nice to help someone who's bound to a diary.
Tom answers smoothly, his handwriting ever charming: 'All you have to do is promise to talk to me each day. I get lonely in this diary; it is nothing but a world of memories, people like ghosts and objects like mist. It's nice to see a new face.'
Harry does not know what he is getting himself into. He's too naive to realize how manipulative and suspicious this can sound, yet he agrees nonetheless. Tom just sounds so… tragic… that the boy simply cannot help himself.
As he thinks of a response, he looks over Tom's previous statements and frowns at the last thing the older boy said. Harry writes the question, 'Wait... you can see me?'
As if trying to hide his true magical potential to Harry, Tom explains hurriedly: 'When the pages are open, yes. I can see the face of whoever writes in my diary, but I can't see anybody else, nor can I hear anything.'
Tom pauses, deciding to use this to his advantage. He writes in an attempt to make a good impression on the young boy: 'But I must say, I didn't think you were a second-year at first. There is a sort of maturity about you that I can see in your eyes; the maturity of someone who has seen hardship.'
Harry nods sadly; something in the back of his mind tugs at him, urging him to confess to his hardships. Such as losing his parents as an infant, being raised by the Dursley family, and suffering everything concerning the Philosopher's Stone during his first year. He replies, 'I've gone through a lot, it's true. But it's nothing I can't handle.'
'You must be very strong,' Tom remarks, his writing seemingly conveying gentle understanding.
Harry smiles softly. 'I don't feel like it, but I feel like it's what's meant to happen, all of these 'hardships.' They're my burden to bear, and I'm sure that there's more coming in my future.'
'I'm very sorry,' Tom says, and Harry feels as though the older boy means it. 'Say, Harry, would you like to meet me in person? I want us to be friends, but I know that it's difficult to trust someone you've never seen.'
'Sure,' he writes, not seeing anything wrong with Tom's logic. 'How? Is there a spell for that?'
As soon as his quill lifts off of the parchment, he feels a bizarre tingling sensation soar across his body. It feels as though he is turning to sand, breaking down into teeny particle-sized pieces and swirling into a sparkling, golden cloud. He cries out for help, but no sound comes as his voice is lost in translation.
Harry is immediately absorbed into the journal, all of his gritty, sandy-like pieces sucked into the spine in a single gust of wind. Then, as the leather-bound book flaps shut, Harry feels himself drop rapidly downward into a misty grey abyss.
And, for a moment, he knows nothing, not even his own name.
Next chapter:
Chapter II: Land of Memory
