EDITED: July 10th, 2020

07 — Tom Riddle

Warmth.

Touch.

Thought.

For the first time in fifty years, it breathed.

He breathed.

It didn't register at first. My body was still shaking, my chest heaving, but by the time I'd knelt to have a closer look, the word had vanished. It was not a figment of my imagination, for more words appeared; they came at a very slow pace and judging from how dark they looked, it seemed the writer was having a difficult time with the task.

Is... someone... there...?

"More like who's over there," I said, but no one answered.

The words were still there when Ginny came back. I checked.

The ink wasn't as dark as before, but it was still as obvious. I kept checking if something else had appeared, but the rest of the pages were blank.

I was curious about it. Later, on the night, just as we were about to sleep, I asked Ginny if there were diaries that could talk back.

"Loads," she said absently, tucking her fluffy slippers next to her drawer. "They are very odd, but that just makes them more expensive. Dad says to not trust them cos things that talk back are very dangerous – not to mention rude. But who wouldn't want someone who they can tell anything?"

"Yeah," I told the room quietly; at this point, Ginny had fallen asleep. "Who wouldn't?"

Who wouldn't?

•••◘◘◘•••

I didn't let it tempt me. I hid the diary where I usually didn't look, at the very bottom of my trunk and next to my old chemistry books. Why I never got rid of them, I wasn't sure; for now, they worked well hiding the diary.

Breakfast was a solemn affair on my end. Everyone talked over my head, but it was obvious the conversation was stilted because of me. No one talked about yesterday, even when it was obvious Ron was bursting to ask; Mrs. Weasley must have had a hand on it, for she talked to me as if I were to break.

The Daily Prophet's owl's appearance changed that. Mr. Weasley, tired as always, reached for the newspaper absently while his wife paid the bird; he unfolded the copy with one hand while the other searched for his glasses.

He wasn't even aware we had a good view of the front cover. As luck would have it, I saw the pictures first.

I wasn't surprised to see Natasha and myself. We were standing close, glaring in the same direction; it was disturbing to see how similar our expressions were. How easily I'd grown to mimic her. This photograph had obviously been taken when she'd arrived, and I had the inkling Lockhart's camera man was responsible.

The picture opposite to this one was had me double-taking.

It was Natasha as well, but obviously younger. She looked exactly the same as now, but less sharper, and her hair was longer and a shade lighter.

She was smiling. Not a quirk of the lips – but a full-blown smile, one that showed a hint of her teeth. Her eyes were lighter in a way, as if she were... happier.

It was like looking at a different person altogether.

THEA ROSENBERG: BACK FROM THE DEAD?

"Mr. Weasley, could I have a look at the paper?"

"Mmh? Yes, Anya, just give me a few minutes –"

Percy Weasley began to cough, choking slightly. The rest looked at him.

"Father," he wheezed, "I don't think that's –"

"Calm down, Perce," said Fred. He smacked his brother's back three times; Percy's face grew redder with each slap. "Careful, don't want you to throw up an organ!"

Percy coughed, but a single finger pointed at the paper.

Harry was the quickest to see it. Ginny followed shortly.

"It's a newspaper," I told the table irritably, refusing to look at them. Mr. Weasley looked up curiously. "It won't kill me to read what the papers say about Natasha."

"Are you sure about that, Anya?" said Mr. Weasley. "The prophet tends to write... unsavoury opinions."

"Not all that different from what I think, then," I sneered. I extended my hand and stared stubbornly at the pictures.

Mr. Weasley sighed. He picked out the first page and handed it to me, returning to the rest of the paper.

Uncaring – unwilling – to feel cowed by everyone's stares, I began to read.

Scandal at Flourish and Blotts! Thirteen years after the famed McKinnon Massacre, one of its "victims" was spotted yesterday morning at the popular bookstore while it hosted Gilderoy Lockhart's book signing of his newest sensation, "Magical Me". (For a review of Mr. Lockhart's autobiography, see page 4.) Thea Rosenberg, a former Healer-in-training at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, was seen talking heatedly with one Lucius Malfoy, a respectable Hogwarts school governor.

Multiple witnesses declared the argument was sparked due to Anya Barton, whom Rosenberg declared to be her niece. As many can remember, Rosenberg was often seen in the presence of the deceased Auror Alec Barton (for more information about Mr. Barton's collaborations, see page 7) and it had been rumoured the two had been in a relationship. It makes one wonder, though: is Anya Barton truly her niece? What of Alec Barton's wife, whose death has been shrouded in secrecy all these years?

The Bartons' story has been one of adventure, misfortune, and blood. Alec Barton, aged 23, perished at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange (one of You-Know-Who's most loyal followers) while on duty. His mother before him, a retired Auror hailing from America, was murdered in her own home at the age of 43, a year before her son's graduation from Hogwarts. Likewise, Ms. Rosenberg and a few friends had been visiting the McKinnons when Death Eaters sprung on the McKinnon property and burned everything to the ground in 1980. According to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's official report at the time, there had been no survivors excluding young Marlene McKinnon, who succumbed to her wounds mere hours after the incident.

It begs the question, however, as to how a twenty-year-old young woman managed to escape such unfortunate fate. While remarkable, for her contribution to the Wolfsbane Potion was one of the greatest finds of the century, one cannot fathom the survival of Thea Rosenberg without questioning the facts. Is it possible she was a prisoner of war? If so, how did she know Anya Barton, whose existence had so far remained low-key? And why reveal herself until now?

Whoever Ted Tonks was, he made a good argument.

"Mrs. Weasley, have you got something to write with?" I asked.

I saw George elbow Percy. The Prefect sniffed, then pulled out a pretty-looking ink pen.

The twins whistled. "Nice," said George. "Where did you nick that from?"

"I did not steal it!" Percy snapped. "It was a gift!"

"Too pretty for a gift, then," said Fred, squinting as I used the pen to underline a few lines in the paper.

Bellatrix Lestrange. The McKinnons Massacre. Marlene McKinnon. Wolfsbane Potion. And lastly, but not the least important: His mother before him, a retired Auror hailing from America, was murdered in her own home at the age of 43.

"Excuse me," said Percy, "but that was really rude. No one has yet read that section, you know, so you can't just go vandalizing –"

Ron snorted. "Who else but you and Dad check the paper? And it's not like you can't read it anyway."

Pursuing my lips, I handed the paper back. "Sorry, Mr. Weasley. I forgot to ask."

Mr. Weasley peered at my work, and slumped ever so slightly.

"Don't worry, Anya," he said, "you can keep it. Like I said, nothing but wild tales."

Yet, I could feel his eyes tracking me for the duration of breakfast.

•••◘◘◘•••

Harry followed me. Ron too, but he did so reluctantly. I was going to step into Ginny's room when the redhead gruffly called my name.

"Let's go to my room," he said, gesturing to the stairs. "Less chance of having someone barge in."

I agreed. I followed the boys, stepping carefully on the uneven stairs and gripping the railing tightly.

Ginny's room was on the third landing, so I hadn't gone beyond that. The more we climbed, the tighter the space became. Two flights up, we reached a door with peeling paint and a sign that read: RONALD'S ROOM.

An arm stopped me.

"Err," Ron looked nervously between the door and me. I raised my eyebrows.

"Don't worry; I lost the cooties a long time ago."

He flashed a panicked look on Harry's way. "My room's a mess."

I tried not to roll my eyes. "I live in an attic, Ron. I don't think you can beat that."

He opened the door.

Orange. The whole room was orange. Covers, walls, furniture – nothing had been salvaged from the orange avalanche. The only changes of colour were the comic books, the posters, and the two black C's on his bedspread. The room was also incredibly small: a few inches more, and my head would be touching the ceiling.

All of Ron's school books were thrown next to a pile of comics, all which pictured the drawing of a ridiculous-looking man in a bowtie and a too-small red jumper. His rat, Scabbers, was sleeping under the window, basking in the sun. Harry had easily unpacked his things, for most of his books (and it was obvious which ones were his) lay open all over the floor. No doubt doing last-minute homework.

No doubt Hermione had threatened to not share her notes this year.

The door closed behind me quietly. When it locked, they quickly jumped on me.

Question after question. Their voices overlapping.

"Is it true, then? That woman's your aunt?"

"Thea Rosenberg! You didn't tell me she was Thea Rosenberg!"

"What do they mean when they say she's supposed to be dead?"

"How is it possible? How's she alive?"

"I don't know!" I snapped, waving my arms to stop them. They fell silent.

Sighing, I pulled out the article. I turned to Ron.

"Who's Bellatrix Lestrange?"

He blinked. "What do you mean who's Lestrange?"

I resisted the urge to smack him. "Exactly what you heard. Who is she?" He didn't answer. His throat didn't even seem to be making an effort. "What about the McKinnon Massacre? What's that about?"

Puffing his cheeks as he took a deep breath, Ron sat on his bed. Harry and I remained standing.

"You know You-Know-Who had lots of followers. Bunch of nutters, all of them. Well, they made sure everyone knew who was in charge. Sometimes, when someone publicly made their thoughts known, the Death Eaters roughed them up a little." His expression grew solemn; his next words came out stiffly. "When these people turned out to be tougher, they made sure it was the rest who got the message. Nobody really remembers who the idiot who challenged the Death Eaters was that time, but...

"The McKinnons lived pretty off radar. Just those who were close friends knew where their house was, but they found them all the same." He grimaced. His voice lowered. "They burned everything down, Anya. Even... even the people. They were kids there, and they tortured them.

"It became clear then that nobody was safe. Either wizards complied or... that." Ron smirked a little as he said, "Until Harry, that is."

"Was it really your aunt?" Harry asked, brow furrowed. He also looked a little green.

I pulled at my scalp – then awkwardly lowered my hand when I caught the burns. They were a little too red for my liking.

"I don't know," I said. "I mean – we hardly ever talked about ourselves. She was just an employer at St. Louise's; there was no need to get closer..."

Harry hesitated.

"Was she the one who was supposed to look after you?"

I focused on him. His eyes were brighter and understanding in a way that made everything pale in comparison.

The locks. The cupboard. That easily could've been me.

"Yeah," I whispered.

Or not.

I would never know.

•••◘◘◘•••

Of all things, I forgot to buy another journal at Diagon Alley. Sacrilege, considering. I didn't want to write on parchment, but my other options involved that diary or write to Marie, requesting she send my forgotten project.

The truth was that I wanted to see the diary again. To know if I wasn't going mad.

I shook my old fountain pen to get the ink flowing. But as the tip touched the page, I hesitated.

How terribly un-Gryffindor of me. But it was a diary that talked back – who else knew what it was capable of?

I didn't want to get hurt. My scarred hands were enough.

The urge was strong, though, and I gave in.

Hello

There was no answer. Yesterday's words remained the same above mine.

Are you all right?

The page remained still.

I scowled. But with newfound inspiration, I turned to the very back of the diary and began to write.

McKinnon Massacre. 1980. More details.

Bellatrix Lestrange. Alec Barton's murderer. 1982. Member of the House of Lestrange and Black.

His mother before him, a retired Auror hailing from America, was murdered in her own home at the age of 43.

Not enough. There was nothing about them in my history books. I would've to research once I was back to Hogwarts. Check if they stored newspapers and find the correct copies. If there was a thing I was sure of, it was that the media always thrived in catastrophes.

Otto appeared out of nowhere a few days later, looking far older than when I left him.

I wasn't surprised to see the letter in his talons. Nor was I surprised to see there wasn't an official sender. I thought about burning it, but Natasha had never written without a purpose. Even when they were unhelpful.

It wasn't a letter, per say. The envelope was filled to the brim with many newspaper cut-outs.

Most of them were about the McKinnon Massacre. The rest spoke of my father.

ALEC BARTON: CHILD PRODIGY

MCKINNON MASSACRE SUSPECTED TO BE WORK OF DEATH EATERS

THE BARTON LEGACY: WHERE IS ANYA?

And finally, their obituaries.

Of all things to send...

ROSENBERG, NATASHA, AGE 20, passed away on July 2nd, 1979. Born May 18th, 1960, in New York, NY, Rosenberg was part of the embassy sent by the MACUSA to the UK in 1969, alongside her cousin, Alec Barton. A former Hogwarts student and proud member of the Slytherin House, she worked briefly at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, where she met Damocles Belby, senior Healer and exceptional potioneer. Their partnership would bring the creation of the Wolfsbane Potion, which, according to Belby's statement, was a life-long project for both him and Rosenberg. She was passionate about her work, as well as kind. She is survived by her last living relative, Cousin Alec; and fiancé, Sirius Black.

It was a sad thing to read. Too empty. But it definitely raised too many eyebrows.

Natasha had had a fiancé, a man that had mourned her. And he was probably dead by now.

My father's obituary was far more colourful than hers, though. As if she were only a footnote in history.

BARTON, ALEC, AGE 24, died tragically on July 14th, 1982, at hands of You-Know-Who's followers in their quest to bringing back their leader. Hailing from New York, NY, Alec was born on June 5th, 1958, to Angelique Barton, a popular Hit-Witch. Part of the embassy sent by the MACUSA, Barton went on to study at Hogwarts, eventually winning the Prefect and Head Boy badges. During his tenure, he displayed a wonderful knack for solving problems and an uncanny ability to reach people in a deep and positive way. Shortly after his graduation, he married his wife, Cassie; in 1980, his daughter Anya was born. Perhaps the highest scores in history, Alec joined the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and was a likely candidate to become its Head before he announced his desire to open a new department focusing on Muggle liaisons. Another of his contributions to society was his construction of a shelter for both magical and non-magical beings, which was sadly left unfinished.

Those whose lives were touched by Alec are invited to the M. o. M., Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, from 7 p. m. and onwards on September 17th, to reminisce and grieve this wonderful man.

Useless. All this information was useless. The articles revealed nothing.

I reached for the diary, intending to clip the papers on the back, when I saw that my To-Do list was gone, replaced by a very short line.

Yes... I... am... now.

I snatched Ginny's quill from her desk and wrote furiously:

Who are you? How are you doing this?

The words that followed took their time to appear.

This... is my... diary. What... is the year?

Who are you?

What is your name?

What do you want?

He answered none of these. But his last sentence remained.

1992, I wrote quickly.

There was a pause. Then, very quickly – or as quickly as the other writer could – a long sentence came up.

Who are you? ...What are you doing with my diary?

If I could see him/her, I imagined the expression on the writer's face would be panic. As it was, the only thing I could come up with was a long shadow hunched over another diary identical to this.

My name is Anya. And I got this diary by accident.

Where... did you acquire it...?

Flourish and Blotts. The shop that sells books at

The other writer wrote quickly, cutting me off. Diagon Alley.

I was annoyed by the interruption.

Yes, there. There was this huge fight, and by the time we came back to the Weasleys', this diary was tucked in my Transfiguration book. You do know about Transfiguration, right?

Yes. What is a Weasley?

His writing was not slow anymore, but it wasn't as quick as it should be (or at least not as quick as I was).

His question about the Weasleys made me realize I kind of wrote them like an object – a place.

The Weasleys are an old Pureblood family. They are part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

The Sacred Twenty-Eight. The Pureblood Directory.

Yes.

Are you feeling well?

As well as I can... considering the circumstances.

What circumstances? Tell me who you are!

There was a knock. I closed the diary. Fountain pen tucked inside, I shoved it under the pillow. Without waiting for permission, Mrs. Weasley came in.

"Hello, Mrs. Weasley," I greeted, smiling, but my hands shook inside my dungaree's pockets. Somehow, talking to the diary seemed to be forbidden. Dirty.

Mrs. Weasley gave me a warm smile, but her eyes looked troubled.

"Mrs. Weasley, is something wrong?"

She shook her head quickly. "No, no! I just... I wanted to make sure you were all right. I didn't have the chance to ask you then..."

My throat tightened. Of all times to want to talk about it...

She leaned next to the door, her fingers playing with her apron. She was looking at me, but her eyes were glassy.

"Don't stay mad With Ms. Rosenberg, Anya. Those times were horrible – so, so horrible. Every day was filled with the uncertainty of tomorrow; every day you thanked your mornings and your nights. But then one day you realize you aren't asking only for you.

"I had two older brothers – Fabian and Gideon. They were funny – a lot like Fred and George. One day, they were making me laugh; and the days after, they made me cry. I hadn't wanted them to fight, but they used to say it was the right thing. I suppose your aunt thought the same, if her... if she was attacked that cowardly." Her lips trembled. "Can you believe this is the first time in five years I've spoken of them? Because it feels like, if I ever bring them up, the people that killed them may come back with their ghosts."

She took a shuddering breath and smiled.

"Dinner's ready. Come join us downstairs before the boys gobble up the cheesecake. It's one of my best recipes, you know..."

The door closed behind her. I swallowed the knot in my throat before bringing out the diary.

The words from before were all gone, replaced by five different ones.

I am Tom Marvolo Riddle.