In which Tom and Lily talk through the diary, Lily lives her happy, carefree life, and the realization that something is terribly, horribly wrong surfaces.
Tom Riddle currently had hundreds of 'subconscious objects,' as he liked to call them. Catalogued in different parts of his mind, the objects had the ability to remain in the expanse of the diary even while he was not actively thinking about them. That wasn't to say they had any merit, or reality; contrariwise, Riddle could still feel the power he was putting into each of these objects: if he took away power, they would cease to exist. It didn't drain him, for the whole area seemed to be composed of his own essence.
Sometimes Tom pondered why he bothered creating the objects. He had created a body for himself, and even some dreary scenery so to feel as if he were somewhere. Be figured that he created these objects for some form of familiarity; if it were any other way, he'd have grown insane.
Perhaps I've already grown insane. He thought, then laughed. It took a few seconds and a slight bit of concentration for the laugh to sound right. He quickly catalogued the sound of a laugh for future reference.
Wow, this really is pathetic.
Currently, Tom Riddle was attempting to form some system time: a way to introduce the fourth dimension to bis mindscape. It wasn't going very well. He had not the faintest idea of how much time had transpired since the incident in the bathroom.
Perhaps it has only been a minute. Perhaps I am still walking to my room at the moment, diary in hand.
He couldn't bring himself to accept this. Mostly because it had felt like eternity. And that wasn't an exaggeration, like a child complaining about an hour long car ride. Riddle felt as if he could have outlived the earth. He never realized the importance of stimulation, of other people, of things you could see and touch with your real eyes or real hands.
Of course, this frustration wasn't uncommon. He threw a tantrum every few moments in his blank existence.
In order to calm himself down, he looked at one of his subconscious objects, bringing it into his conscious. It was a tree. He focused and 'grew' another branch on the tree, perfecting its every groove and texture, its hundreds of leaves, what the wood must be like inside the branch... He was finished. He looked over the overall tree. It was a colossal mess, having thousands of branches. Perhaps be should start a new one.
Tom Riddle wasn't exactly interrupted from any action when It happened. He had long ago found out that he was in a constant state of inaction: even while doing something, each millisecond, each 'point' in the nonexistent time lasted an eternity. So when It happened, even if he had been engaged in an 'action,' he wasn't able to remember it. Perhaps he was cataloguing an object. Perhaps he was growing a branch on his Tree of Frustrations, perhaps it was something completely different. Whatever he was doing, it didn't matter, for It far outshone any of the menial tasks he had been performing during his bleary existence in the diary.
His time in the diary has long outlasted his time as a child, as a student in Hogwarts. This dull, simulation of a world was all he knew. The memories he retained of his life before slipped through his fingers and only provided inspiration for the imitations he produced. But when It happened, it all came rushing back to him.
It wasn't flashy. It wasn't like a huge fireworks display. It wasn't as if something appeared in his space; no, it wasn't exactly tangible, yet it was the most real substance that had been imposed on him so far. It rushed through his existence like a gale.
It was a touch. He could feel the fingers on his diary, he could feel the small amount of warmth—real warmth—that remained. He could feel traces of magic, magic! Magic that he had gone so long without. He remembered when magic was all he had.
A crack, and he gasped. The book had been opened. He looked up and could see her face, feel her confusion, sense the power she held even as a young girl, five or six at the most. He wondered if she could see him too and ponder at all the little, unimportant creations he had around him. Before he could do anything, the book was closed.
The sense of warmth persisted for a small while after that, and then it was gone.
Lily Potter put the diary and wand into her pockets (which had space-enlargement charms). She didn't think she could get the whole trunk in there, and she wasn't able to open it. Oh well. She had found enough treasure. She could come back.
When she left the room, the door disappeared. Lily tried to memorize her surroundings so she'd be able to get back next time she went to Hogwarts.
She went down a few flights of stairs and then realized how lost she was.
Luckily, a few minutes of wandering later, her mother ran to where she was, tracking spell in action.
"Oh, Poppy! We were so worried you were lost! Why'd you run off like that? The tracking spell wasn't doing anything for a while..." The older Lily Potter trailed off and put a piece of parchment into her pocket.
Her 'Uncle'/godfather Sev (if Sirius gets to choose a name, Severus gets to be her godfather!) was behind her mum, wearing an equally worried expression, "Some students can get lost in the castle for days. She's lucky she didn't wander into the dungeons."
Young Lily Potter didn't know what to say. She wanted to blurt out all about her adventures, but she knew the hidden wand in her pocket was taboo, and she wanted her treasure all for herself.
"Sorry, mum, I was explorin'."
The worried look on her mothers face dissipated as she laughed, "You and your exploring! Come on, let's go get some ice cream," her mother looked over at her godfather, "Are you coming, Sev?"
"Sorry, Lils, there's a particular potion that will need my attendance in a few minutes. Give me a floo call later, ok?" They hugged and then Professor Simmons left.
Lily Potter was always up for ice cream.
Tom Riddle was pacing back and forth. And by pacing, he meant staying in the same spot while imagining pacing back and forth, for the concept of friction was a hard one to keep up for extended periods of time (he usually just appeared somewhere if he wanted to go there).
Why was his diary in the hands of a six year old girl? If this was the first 'touch' the diary had since he created the Horcrux, that meant that no one had touched it since this girl.
The diary was moving somewhere. He could feel it.
Why would the first person to touch the diary be a little girl? It made no sense. Perhaps his main soul had given it to a trusted member to take care of it, and they had a daughter? Nothing made sense!
Tom Riddle was frustrated. After spending 50 years (not that he knew it) in a book, past troubles were the last thing he wanted to deal with. He tried to calm down and create a branch on his tree, but as soon as he stared at it he filled with rage and the whole tree ceased to exist.
"Shit!" That tree took years of dedication!
But nothing in his space had any real value. He had gifted all his objects with some level of importance, some sentiment about the world outside, some semblance of reality. But once the girl had touched the diary, had opened it, he didn't care for any of his imitations. He had seen constancy, reality, felt his greatest desire since he got trapped in the forsaken place. And now it was gone.
Some time later (it was both an eternity and a second), Tom Riddle felt the touch again. He let out a sigh (he had long ago catalogued sighs), and shivered with anticipation. Or he would have shivered with anticipation if he had catalogued it.
The book opened, and he again stared into the face of the girl. Green eyes, uncontrollable hair, and large circle glasses. It was as if he were staring into a window, or a two-sided mirror. he could see out, but judging by her lack of focus on him, she couldn't see in.
The little girl raised a quill (he was right about her being a witch), and started writing.
If the touch was like a hurricane, and the opening of the book like lightning, then the words...the words were the world. An explosion of color, light, magic, all complimented with the cool ink and slight scratch of the quill. A mixture of fireworks and the eruption of a volcano, and Tom Riddle held onto the words like they were the only thing in the world, because for him, they were.
Hello, Diary.
My name is Poppy Lily Potter. However, I go by Lily Potter, because Poppy Potter sounds ridiculous.
I am six years old, and I am a witch. I know this because my parents are a wizard and a witch, and I do accidental magic sometimes. Sometimes it is not accidental. But I don't tell my parents that.
Lily Potter smiled at a few memories of controlling her magic. Unbeknownst to her, the boy in the diary's heart stopped when he saw her smile. He didn't know how to respond. He didn't know if he could respond. While thinking this, a replica of the diary popped into existence,'and a quill and inkwell soon followed. He sat down and began to write.
Hello, Lily Potter, my name is Tom Riddle.
The girl on the other side gasped once she saw the words, and then she smiled.
Hello, Tom, are you a magic diary? Or are you inside the diary?
I guess you could say both. Do you know anyone by the name of Tom Riddle where you come from?
No.
The diary paused for longer than usual.
Have you heard of anyone called Lord Voldemort?
No.
Tom Riddle's mind swirled with confusion. Hadn't he had dreams, ambitions? He then realized an important question to ask.
Lily, what year is it?
1986.
Tom Riddle would have fainted. If he could faint. Fifty years? Fifty years in this damn diary? And what happened to his main counterpart? None of his dreams and aspirations had come true. He couldn't have died, he could come back, right?
Lily Potter eyed the book warily. It seemed to be slightly shaking. She decided to calm the person inside.
Hey, its okay. Whatever it is, it's fine.
The moment her quill touched the parchment, Tom Riddle was again struck by the tangibility they presented. The words hadn't ceased to strike him with the realness they provided him. Looking up at the girl, he noticed that her expression seemed worried, and slightly scared. He reeled with regret. He couldn't scare this girl away. She was all he had.
Thank you, Lily. It seems as if I've spent longer time in this diary than I thought.
But that wasn't true at all, was it? It felt like centuries in the diary, a millennia with nothing to do but create various familiar objects. Nevertheless, the girl seemed less disturbed and more intrigued. Her curiosity seemed endless. Tom Riddle smiled. Of course, he'd never admit that he smiled because of a six year old girl. But what did it matter, no one could see him anyway?
Lily Potter felt the faintest sensation of warmth and happiness come from the book. Like the feeling her mother gave her. It calmed Lily down, just as her mother called her down for dinner.
I have to go, Tom. But I'll be back later.
Lily Potter gasped as the words disappeared. She then closed the diary and put it under her bed for safe-keeping. She took out the wand (which flowed with power in her clasp) and put it under the bed as well. She was hoping they had pasta for dinner.
Tom Riddle lay in nothingness once again. His surroundings forgotten, he could think only of the girl and of the next time they would speak.
Lily could barely stop herself from shaking in excitement. She had always wanted a diary to write in, but this was way better than she could have imagined. She got a person in a diary! Like a genie in a bottle.
She wondered if Mr. Riddle would do her bidding if she set him free.
As she ate her spaghetti, she pondered what Mr. Riddle told her. What was that funny name he told her? Moldevort? It sounded French.
"Hey, Mom," Lily asked, "Do you know of anyone named Tom Riddle?" She might as well see if her mom had the answers.
"Ernm, I don't think so Lily. Where did you get that name?" Her mom questioned her.
Lily panicked. She didn't want to tell anyone of her own personal genie.
"I, uhm, saw something about him when we were at Hogwarts," said Lily in her innocent voice.
"Hmm, must be a student then," murmured the older Lily, distractedly. James had just gotten home from Auror headquarters, and his wife rose from her seat to greet him.
"A bit late, aren't you," nagged Lily as she pecked him on the cheek, "we just sat down for dinner."
"Spaghetti and meatballs, my favorite! Hey, Lil' Lily, how was your first time visiting Hogwarts?"
"She wandered off and we spent half the time looking for her. I had to floo here and back to grab your old map," grumbled her mother, false-severely, "but she said she went exploring. How'd it go, Lily?"
As both of Lily's parents waited for an answer with smiles on their faces and love in their eyes, Lily couldn't help but notice that something was wrong. This wasn't the first time she noticed it, but it really hit her this time. Something was horribly, horribly wrong.
She smiled anyway, "Hogwarts was great! All the portraits and paintings were really funny. And the moving stairs were so cool! After, Mom took us to get ice cream, but Uncle Sev couldn't come. It's too bad I didn't get to talk to him very much."
Lily wasn't lying about her excitement at Hogwarts. But she knew that the mask she put on for her parents wasn't real. And there was no way she could explain to them what it was.
Her parents held a few more conversations, with Lily interjecting when necessary. One topic stood out to her the most:
"James, I feel as if it's about time I've visited my sister," sighed the older Lily Potter.
"Your prissy muggle sister? Why?" questioned James.
"James, its been six years," said Lily, "I haven't seen her since Lily was born.
Lily perked up at her name and retraced the conversation. She had an aunt? Did she have any cousins?
"Well then, send her a letter," said James, calling for their owl. He gave the owl a piece of a meatball.
"No, James, not with an owl," sighed Lily, questioning her husband.
Lily dropped her attention from the conversation. She was excited to meet her aunt and maybe a cousin, but her mind was consumed by the striking realization of the wrongness she felt sitting at the table with her two parents in a loving environment.
When Lily went to bed that night and pulled out the diary, she felt as if she had found something right. This compelled her the grab a quill and write out a single sentence before she fell into bed and dreamt, diary in her arms. She dreamt of a cupboard, spiders, and freakishness.
Tom? Tom, I think there's something wrong.
AN: Well, I wasn't planning on bringing the Dursley's in, but here they are! Or maybe Vernon Dursley was killed in the war. That sounds plausible. Maybe he was never born at all? What do you think? Maybe Dudley happens to be a wizard? Review with your opinions and requests!
Also, Lily is six. If Tom is acting "strangely" around her in any way, it's because he's been trapped in a diary for 50 years. Tom is in no way attracted to her and I'm not sure if I'll make them a pairing in future chapters, what do you think?