Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all the characters that come with it are property of the wonderful JK Rowling. I'm just playing around with them.
Neville Longbottom
I sit alone in my dormitory, reading through my Herbology book. Harry and Ron are off somewhere (probably fighting another three-headed monster, if I know them) and Seamus and Dean are down in the common room playing a very noisy game of Exploding Snap. I'm quite enjoying having the dormitory to myself at the moment.
I turn the page of my book onto a section about Gillyweed. Reading about it makes me feel a bit thirsty, so I hop up to get a drink of water from the jug on the windowsill. On my way over, I accidentally trip over Harry's trunk, and bits and pieces come flying out all over the floor. Cursing my own clumsiness, I bend down and begin to stuff his things back into the trunk. My hand makes contact with something that looks like a diary, and I see with a shock of horror that an ink bottle is leaking onto it. I pick up the diary and begin wiping it furiously with my sleeve, hoping it won't be ruined, when I notice something rather odd…
The black ink, instead of staining the page, is soaking into it invisibly.
I know the book is Harry's private property and I shouldn't meddle with it, but I just can't resist. I pick it up and get out my own quill, deciding to test out my new discoveries before my dorm mates return.
Hello, I write.
I watch enthralled as the ink sinks into the parchment. It vanishes completely and I wait for another couple of seconds. Just when I'm beginning to think that nothing's going to happen, the ink seems to resurface on the page, forming someone else's neat handwriting.
Hello. My name is Tom Riddle.
My quill blots the page in my haste to reply, though of course it doesn't matter – the ink just disappears.
I'm Neville Longbottom. But isn't this Harry's diary? Who are you?
It was my diary long ago, Neville. About fifty years, I think.
But how are you talking to me?
I wanted something more permanent than paper and ink, so I stored some of my memories in here. It's almost like a part of me, which is how I can speak to you.
I bite my lip. That sounds pretty dangerous – it's the kind of thing that Gran warns me away from. But I shake off my doubts and write back. I'm just too curious about Tom Riddle to stay away.
We chat for quite a while, and soon all my nagging worries are gone. Tom is witty and surprisingly perceptive, considering he can't see me. It makes me smile to talk to him, and I tell him so. He seems pleased, and I even begin to think of him as a friend. Eventually, this message appears, shimmering in still wet ink in front of my eyes:
I can show you some of my memories, if you'd like. Show you Hogwarts during my time.
I only hesitate for a fraction of a second, before replying, OK.
A tiny moving picture appears in the middle of the page. I squint at it and lift the diary up to my face to take a closer look. But as my eye makes contact with the parchment, I suddenly I feel my feet leave the dormitory floor, and I'm sucked into the diary itself. I land with a thump at the end of a room, right next to a fat wizard wearing a green cloak. I stand up dazedly, trying to work out where I am. I think I'm down in the dungeons, where we do Potions.
"S-sorry, sir," I stutter to the wizard, brushing myself down hurriedly. "I don't know what happened just then - I was in my dormitory and then... erm... I'm not really sure. Um… I'll just be leaving, shall I?"
The wizard gives no sign that he's heard me, but shuffles a few papers on his desk. I'm about to try to creep out without him noticing me, when there's a knock on the door.
"Come on in," says the wizard.
The door opens, and a handsome boy of about seventeen, with dark hair and a Slytherin tie, steps through the doorway. A Head Boy badge is gleaming on his chest.
"Excuse me?" I say to the boy, rushing over to him. "I was wondering if you could help me, I'm not quite sure where I am…"
But he too steps straight past me, walking over to the wizard – who I suppose is the Potions teacher – and standing in front of his desk.
"Good evening, Professor Slughorn," he says pleasantly.
"Ah, Tom, what brings you to the dungeons on a Friday evening?" Slughorn asks.
Tom? Is this boy Tom Riddle? Of course! The pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together in my mind, and I realise that I must be in one of Tom's memories. That's why nobody can see or hear me; I'm not technically here. I go to stand at Tom's side, feasting my eyes on the boy I've been talking to for the last half hour and watching the scene in front of me.
"I just thought I'd come and see you, if you're not too busy," says Tom.
"Not at all, my dear boy. It's always nice to see our Head Boy, of course!" says Slughorn jovially. "What's that you've got there?"
Tom brings out a box from behind his back. "This? I just thought you might like some crystallised pineapple, sir."
"Tom, Tom, you spoil me!" says Slughorn, beaming widely and looking a bit like a fond uncle. "That's my favourite, though I'm sure you already knew that."
Tom gives him a modest smile. "You mentioned it at Christmas, I think."
"And of course you remembered!"
The continue to talk for a little while about homework, Head Boy duties and potions. Even though the conversation itself isn't particularly interesting, I enjoy watching. I feel rather relieved to see that the real life Tom is just as thoughtful and charming as he was on paper. It's obvious that all the teachers like him from the way he talks to Slughorn. I'm faintly disappointed when Slughorn sends Tom back to his dormitory and I'm deposited back on my bed.
The idea of Tom Riddle prays on my mind for the next few months. He intrigues me. There's something thrilling about him that makes my heartbeat speed up when I picture him, and that handsome face haunts my dreams. I keep wishing I could talk to him just one more time, but I never get the chance to be alone in the dormitory again.
I get one of the biggest shocks of my life near the end of the year. Ginny Weasley was taken down into the Chamber of Secrets, but luckily, Harry and Ron managed to rescue her. They always seem to be getting into some adventure or another… Perhaps I should start making bets on when the next one will be. Anyway, they return to the dormitory quite late, and they obviously think nobody else is awake, because they start talking about the Chamber in low whispers. I listen raptly through the closed curtain around my bed, and then Harry says something that makes my blood freeze.
"I still can't believe that it was Voldemort in that diary."
Hang on, a diary? They can't mean Tom Riddle, they just can't… I hold my breath, listening even more closely for an answer, adrenalin racing through my body.
Ron shudders. "Can you please stop saying the name?"
"Sorry, sorry. You-Know-Who then. But he seemed so… nice… when he was Riddle. He fooled me with that diary."
I've heard enough. I bury my face in my pillow, my shoulders shaking as I feel myself begin to cry silently. I just can't believe it, I can't take it in. Tom Riddle, my Tom Riddle, is the most evil wizard of all time. He is the person responsible for Harry's parents' death, and for my parents' loss of sanity. I should loathe him. I should want him dead.
But try as I might, I can't hate him. I just can't shake off the image of him as a smiling seventeen-year-old, his face framed in shiny, dark hair. And I hate myself for it.
Author's Note: I'm going to assume for the purpose of this story that the real Voldemort has no recollection of what his memory self has done, like how a real person wouldn't know what their portrait self was doing. I hope that's right! So basically, this will colour Neville's perception of Voldemort, but not the other way round. (Though of course, since Neville will be acting differently to how he would have otherwise, that will affect things.)
