Greetings, my dear Lovegood.
Luna wondered how smugness could so clearly conveyed in his handwriting alone.
After those words disappeared, more replaced them:
When are you right now?
It took a second, but Luna smiled through her dazedness and wrote, Still first year, for me. Not very long after you gave me this. What sort of magic is this, exactly? And when is it for you?
The ink disappeared a second after she finished writing, but the response waited several moments before appearing: Are you alone?
Of course, she knew that this question could be a risky one to answer. Lacking much by way of self-preservation at that moment, she chose to take that risk. I'm at Hogwarts, but I'm sitting by myself. I don't think you answered my question, though. Also, why doesn't the ink stay?
Is the ink your greatest concern, Lovegood?
No, I suppose not. I'd still like an answer to all of my questions, though.
What does it matter what kind of magic it is? Can't you just be amazed?
You're sounding like Mr. The Doctor, now.
Again, the response took a bit longer. You shouldn't tell him about this. It's best to keep this diary between us.
A secret diary?
Yes.
Why?
Because I gave this gift to you. Not to him.
Rather than committing to a response, Luna began to sketch a cornish pixie. To her mild frustration, the moment she dipped her quill back in the ink, the beginning parts of her sketch started to vanish. How do I make it stop doing that?
This isn't a sketchpad, Lovegood. Promise me you'll keep this book a secret. I want to know that we can share anything in here without fear.
Just before the final word could disappear, Luna traced it with her own quill: fear. She wrote nothing else.
You know that I care about you very much, don't you, Luna?
This time, she traced the word "care". Then, she added: When is it for you, Tom?
It's hard to explain. The pause was almost imperceptible. But I can show you.
...
Professor Dumbledore was not surprised to find the Doctor already in his office when he arrived.
"Albus!" the time lord exclaimed. "Just finished taking a ride in your Pensieve. Got to say, memory visits are to time travel what scuba diving is to submarining." Before Dumbledore could respond, the Doctor was wrinkling his nose and saying, "That was a rubbish analogy. All the same..."
"Doctor," Dumbledore greeted warmly. "I've just been examining your TARDIS."
The Doctor's expression darkened. "Yes?"
Dumbledore seated himself, wearily, at his desk. "Are you familiar with Horcruxes?"
All at once, the Doctor was alight with fantastic fury. "He didn't turn my TARDIS into a Horcrux," he protested, looking like he was moments away from searching out Riddle and doing him very real harm.
"No," Dumbledore assured him hastily. "No, he did not turn the TARDIS into a Horcrux."
The Doctor relaxed a great deal. "You might have started with that, but...go on."
"When Horcruxes are made," Dumbledore continued, "fragments of souls are bonded to the item being used, such that the soul fragment and the item cannot be separated without the destruction of both, except of course-"
"...except when the witch or wizard in question experiences true remorse," the Doctor finished almost scornfully. "Which mends everything."
"Precisely," Dumbledore agreed, sending the Doctor a curious look over his half-moon spectacles. "But that is the matter entirely: The only magically-secure way to house a soul is in the original body, to which it is already bonded, or by crafting a magical bond between the soul and the object, which in turn requires the fragmenting of the soul, by way of cold-blooded murder, and a very complicated sequence of magic besides. While a soul fragment can easily be placed inside an object, neglecting to bond to the object renders it just as easy to remove, with the proper set of spells. And the time lords, in all their erudition, had no reason to consider this when crafting their TARDISes."
"You're saying he took the TARDIS's soul," the Doctor said flatly. His expression, to Dumbledore's eyes, lent new meaning to the phrase "the Oncoming Storm".
"Removing it from its machine host wouldn't have been tricky, for a boy of Tom's talent," Dumbledore stated gravely. "Harnessing all of the soul's power, however...Even now, I'm not sure he'll have mastered it."
"My TARDIS's entire life force is in the hands of a snake-milking psychopath with magical powers and no nose," the Doctor seethed, stalking toward the door.
"No nose?" Dumbledore repeated.
"It's over your head," the Doctor shot back with vitriol that Albus knew was not meant for him.
"Young men these days have no respect," the portrait of Phineas Nigellus complained from the wall as the Doctor exited.
"That's no young man," another deceased headmaster disagreed.