Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe...and a worn, battered diary with subversive subliminal messaging hidden within. At least, I hope it got delivered.
Harry Silvertongue
Lesson Six: Inevitability
Despite spending the final three weeks at the Dursleys with a cursed object stowed at the bottom of his trunk, Harry couldn't keep the smile off his face on the Hogwarts Express. His relatives dropped him off in a good mood because they'd be shot of him for another nine months, and the excitement seemed to be contagious. Hermione's excitement stemmed from the imminent return to studying magic; Tracey's, from the opportunity to describe to Harry every notable event in which she'd participated over the summer; Neville's, from his escape from his Gran. Daphne's excitement was more subdued: only evident in the way she carried herself and in her eyes.
Harry's smile only faltered when his thoughts drifted back to the diary, his eyes lifting up toward his trunk. He had considered leaving it with the Dursleys, since they would surely leave his stuff alone out of fear. But he feared if they didn't, wouldn't that be considered a breach of the Statute of Secrecy? At least, that was Harry's logical justification. In reality, he just wanted it nearby.
"Harry?" Tracey's voice brought his eyes back down.
"Hmm?"
"Why do you keep looking at your trunk?"
Harry's face heated. "It's nothing!" The four others in the compartment reared back in surprise at the heat that crept into his voice. "Sorry," he muttered. "Just...thinking."
The others fidgeted uncomfortably, except for Daphne, who merely stared at him. "Did something happen to you over the summer hols?" Her voice was as piercing as her eyes.
"Except for the House Elf that wanted to ruin my friendships and stop me from being here?" Harry snorted, but wasn't feeling particularly amused. "Not much."
Tracey elbowed Daphne, and they traded glares. "Elf's fault," Daphne muttered, obviously thinking of her angry letter. Harry really didn't hold it against her.
"That fight between Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy—" Neville said.
Tracey's eyes widened eagerly. "Oh yeah! Tell us more about that! What did Weasley's dad say?"
"It was horrid, Tracey, not something to be excited about!" Hermione harrumphed. "Men their age brawling like schoolchildren, honestly..."
Tracey squeezed the two Gryffindors for more information, but Daphne kept her gaze on Harry in such a way that he knew he'd have some questions to avoid later on.
He didn't, it turned out, but he actually kind of wished he did. Daphne's blank gaze unnerved him far more than it should have, considering he felt quite certain she couldn't read his mind. No, Professor Snape's disastrous attempt at doing so last year had shown the danger in trying. Still, Harry couldn't help but feel like she was onto him, and that Blaise was helping her.
The tall, dark-skinned boy still didn't really speak to Harry, even though the two of them once again shared a room with Nott. However, the deliberate indifference toward the Boy-Who-Lived disappeared, replaced by the same wary watchfulness directed toward the one aligned with Malfoy.
It was maddening, but in some ways Harry felt grateful. He was terrified of writing in the diary again, but he wanted to do so very badly, especially when he was in his dorm. It was most disconcerting, and he took to avoiding his room when he could. He stayed in the Common Room as long as possible – long after his friends had all gone to bed. Adrian Pucey, now a fourth year, stopped on his way up to his own bed to shake Harry out of his dozing, after which he'd reluctantly dragged himself up to bed. Strange nightmares plagued his nights, so he also rose early. The first two mornings he tried to study but quickly dozed off, so on the third morning back to school, he sat in a chair facing the window, not quite watching the various denizens of the Black Lake swimming past.
"It never gets old, does it?"
The voice jolted Harry fully awake, and he swiveled his head around to see Zabini standing there, looking up at the same spot Harry's half-lidded gaze had just abandoned.
"Most people don't even look after the first couple weeks of first year."
Harry wasn't about to mention that he hadn't looked either, since that seemed likely to make him stop talking. "Shame," he said instead, turning back to the underwater sights. It really was impressive; the outer lights dimmed during the night so as not to make the common room too bright, but Harry could still see well out into the lake. Only a few fish floated lazily in view. The giant squid was more active at night, but the Slytherins rarely caught a glimpse of it even then.
Blaise snorted softly, as if he saw right through Harry. "You haven't been sleeping well."
"I usually don't," Harry countered.
"I didn't notice last year."
"Daphne didn't ask you to watch me last year," he said wryly.
Blaise didn't say anything, confirming the guess. Harry wasn't sure what to feel about that, so he continued staring ahead. Finally, the other boy broke the silence. "I would have noticed anyway." Then, when enough silence had passed that indicated no response to that was forthcoming, "she's worried about you, you know."
"I can take care of myself," Harry said petulantly. "Been at it long enough, you know."
"In the Muggle world, maybe," Blaise countered. "It's not the same."
"How so?"
The dark-skinned boy turned his eyes to Harry for the first time. "There are wards that can make you want to be elsewhere, no matter how much you want to get to whatever it is being protected. There are enchanted objects that can kill you as soon as you touch them, spells to make you forget anything the caster wants you to forget, curses that can take away your free will."
Eyes widening with growing horror, Harry fought to keep his cool. "What...how do I stop that from happening?"
Blaise waved off the concern. "Calm down. We're safe here from that stuff, first of all. The point is, you don't know about these things, so how do you know you can take care of yourself? A powerful wizard could stop those things from happening, maybe. You and I? You either have to know what to look for, or have someone who does know looking out for you."
Harry's eyes went unfocused; he felt...helplessness, something he hadn't felt in some time.
"Do you get it now?" Blaise spoke slowly. "Daphne is worried about you," he said, punctuating each word with a sharp pause. "I don't know what's going on with you, but she asked me to keep an eye on you when she couldn't."
It was a perfect opening. It should be so easy to tell him about the diary, but for some reason Harry found himself unable to speak. He found himself hoping to keep it a secret, though he wasn't sure why he wanted it that way. Shame and confusion warred with reason inside his head, and before he could figure out what to say, Blaise made a sort of clucking sound.
"Well, I think that covers my end of the bargain," he said, turning around to walk away. Then he turned his head for one last parting comment. "Stop messing around, Potter, and go talk to your friends."
Harry didn't respond, still trying to make sense of the emotions bouncing around in his head as Blaise's light footsteps quickly faded. His mind wandered for an indeterminate amount of time before the sounds of some giggly upper years made him want to be elsewhere. A glance at the clock showed he still had a full two hours to wander before he'd miss breakfast.
Making his way through the portrait hole, he began to climb a stairway he hadn't used before. Last year they'd been told they weren't allowed to go off on their own on account of the school's general dislike of their House. And it wouldn't do, now-Sixth year Prefect Gemma Farley had explained, for a Slytherin to appear lost and weak to students of any other House.
Harry figured that was just a rule for first years. His feet took him up three flights of a rectangular staircase before dumping him out into an obviously disused corridor that reminded him of the one leading to Martin's workshop classroom. No portraits adorned the cobweb-lined walls, though it appeared they did at one time. Between corridors like these, classrooms claimed by junk or older students or both, and dorms with lots of empty rooms, Harry wondered when the last time the castle had been fully occupied.
In short order he came upon a spiral staircase with the first unlit magical torch, since light filtered down from up the stairs. Around the first bend he found an arch-shaped, cross-barred window, out of which he could see very little through the bright fog blanketing the area. Harry continued to climb, his breathing growing labored as the pink-orange dawn sun increasingly brightened the way. Finally, panting slightly, he reached the top and rested against the wall, looking out over the Scottish countryside. A white fog still rose from the Lake and drifted lazily toward the castle, while separate wisps of it filtered through the canopy above the Forbidden Forest. Streams and ponds, Harry decided, before his eyes tracked away into the distance. The washed-out haze beyond the forest revealed no secrets, however.
Harry turned his thoughts inward toward his own secret. Well, his big secret, now. All last year he'd kept his life shrouded in secret, so it felt natural to simply add another. But this, he realized, was bigger than his ability to talk to snakes, bigger than the trials and tribulations of his childhood, bigger than...Will.
What would Will say? Harry knew he was being careful, but Will probably would have left the diary with his relatives, regardless of the effect it might have on them. In truth, Harry didn't know what effect it would have on them, or, by now, if the effect on him was as bad as he remembered. The thought brought another rush of desire to write in the diary, but Blaise's words tamped it down somewhat. There were just too many things in the magical world that Harry didn't know.
So how could he remedy that? He didn't even know where to start. Hermione came to mind, but as a Muggleborn she was in much the same position as he, and she would more likely go to a Professor. Martin was another option, but Harry feared the seventh year Ravenclaw would not be able to resist appropriating it for his own research.
Now Daphne...as a Pureblood raised in the magical world, she might know something of it – at least, perhaps, where to start looking – and she'd keep their research discreet without even asking. She'd already expressed her concern, though Harry had a feeling Blaise approached him on his own rather than at Daphne's insistence. The more he thought about it, the more Harry realized that he should ask her. It didn't even make sense not to do so.
With only a brief glance back to the brightening countryside, he turned and headed back to the Slytherin common room. More time must have passed than he had realized, since the way was lit much more brightly than it was on the way up. With the Sun unhindered by fog, the disused corridor at the bottom of the spiral staircase seemed much less forbidding, though the rectangular staircase that descended toward the dungeons still only received light from the torches since it was below ground level.
"Potter," a voice called in surprise as he entered the nearly empty common room. A sleepy-looking Gemma Farley stifled a yawn, her honey blonde hair still mussed from her pillow. "What were you doing out?"
"Woke up early," Harry answered, covering his own yawn. "There's no limit to how early we can get up, is there?"
The prefect squinted her eyes and pursed her lips as if in thought. "I guess not," she replied, sounding surprised. "Still, you probably shouldn't go out alone..." she said, trailing off, apparently trying to think of a reason.
"Okay," Harry said quickly, figuring that was the easiest way out of the conversation. He didn't want to have to disobey a direct order, and if he could get away without receiving one... "Have a good morning," he said awkwardly, before heading back toward his room. Curiously Daphne was an early riser when they had class, as they did this morning. For the first time this year, Harry found himself excited for being at Hogwarts: on Friday mornings, Charms immediately followed breakfast, and then Slytherin Quidditch tryouts began Sunday morning.
With a slight bounce in his step, he crept into his room to avoid waking Blaise and Theo. He set about gathering his books and supplies, and dug for the cursed diary to show Daphne when she came out. In the dim light from the night setting of the ever-burning lamps, Harry simply felt around for it in the bottom of his trunk, careful to avoid making too much noise. He half-expected to feel some sort of jolt, but he felt nothing as his fingers brushed against the worn leather cover. A moment later he had the diary stuffed in his bag on his way back out to the common room. Once there, he took it out to study the object of his fear for the past month. It looked more benign than he remembered it: the still worn and frayed edges, the faded, gold-embossed T.M. Riddle, the same frayed black ribbon marking a random blank page.
A faint whisper tickled his ear and his head quickly spun to the side. Nothing appeared, so after taking another glance around the room, he returned his attention to the diary and the mystery of the old but completely blank diary.
At least, he thought he remembered the whole thing being blank. What did he remember about the effects, anyway? He'd been so keyed up from the confrontation at Flourish and Blotts and suspicious of Lucius Malfoy's motives, so what really happened when he wrote in it? He remembered a headache and a desire to write in it again, but it was a magic diary. Who knows what secrets it might hold? Daphne would probably scoff at him for being so unsure of what he felt back then, and tell him he was just being a baby.
It didn't make sense not to try it out once more before showing it to her. Taking a seat at a high table near one of the corners, Harry pulled out a quill and inkwell and opened the diary to the first page.
Hello Harry, it said, my name is Tom Riddle.
Harry almost laughed. This is what he was afraid of? Hello Tom, he wrote, how are you?
I am a memory preserved in a diary, with no sense of the passage of time. I am the same as I have ever been.
No sudden shock. No sharp pain. No urge to spill all his secrets. This time, Harry did laugh out loud. All thoughts of sharing with Daphne fled his mind as he exchanged pleasantries and questions about Hogwarts with the affable imbued memory of Tom Riddle.
Days passed, and Harry slowly spent more and more time writing in the diary. Due to his entirely irrational fear of it he'd already pushed his friends away, and Tom quickly filled the void. Harry always felt a thrill when he'd come back from class or a meal and find that Tom had written him. He realized it was kind of silly since Tom was stuck in a diary and therefore always ready to talk, but Harry couldn't help but feel excited to tap the veritable font of knowledge about Hogwarts fifty years prior.
Like Harry, Tom was a Slytherin, and he assured Harry that the House rivalry had been going strong back then, and Professor Binns had been just as boring back when he was alive. Tom spoke of the ancient Headmaster Dippet, and how even the powerful Transfiguration Professor Dumbledore greatly respected the then-headmaster. Harry was jealous of Potions Professor Slughorn, who Tom said was eminently approachable about any subject – the complete opposite of Professor Snape. Tom was surprised to hear that Care of Magical Creatures Professor Kettleburn still held the post, and by comparing notes they found that the man had one fewer limb and quite a few more scars that he had had fifty years prior. Tom actually attended Hogwarts with Pomona Sprout, though she was a couple years behind so they didn't speak. But he said she sounded better than Professor Beery, who was far too interested in his own image.
That drew immediate comparisons to Harry's new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry was supremely jealous of Tom's Defense Professor, Galatea Merrythought. Pretty much the only thing they had in common was that they were both in Ravenclaw. Professor Merrythought had been Tom's professor the whole time Tom had been at Hogwarts up until he'd made the diary, so whatever curse Harry spoke of must have been enacted after that. Harry only had a year of schooling under his belt, so unfortunately they couldn't compare the curriculum or OWLs like Tom wanted to.
Later, when it occurred to him, Harry asked if he should ask Martin about the OWLs, but Tom just suddenly changed the subject.
What is a wizard, Harry?
The addressee of that question stared at it in puzzlement. It seemed a simple question, but Tom certainly knew the definition of a wizard, being one himself. A rhetorical question, then? But no further explanation appeared in the diary.
A man that can perform magic, Harry wrote, figuring that would prod Tom into answering more fully.
Is that all magic is to you: merely a tool to be used, like a fork or a shovel or a trunk?
Obviously Tom expected an answer to the negative, but why would he...? Then an epiphany struck Harry. The purpose behind the question became clear: Tom meant to teach. Suddenly the potential of having a diary enchanted with the memory of another wizard began to excite Harry. Far beyond being merely another friend, Tom could be a secret teacher, giving him an advantage equal to those purebloods who had their parents to teach them. If he was especially lucky, something like this could be used to pass on knowledge that had been forgotten in the intervening years.
I suppose not, Harry wrote, trying to imagine what Tom was getting at. Obviously he meant that magic is an essential part of each witch or wizard. A wizard is a magical person.
Very good. A fine distinction indeed, but a necessary one. Magic is an essential piece of what makes a wizard, a wizard. Not recognizing that fact will hamper you as you continue your education. A wizard can enforce his will on his surroundings and even upon other people. Tell me, can any man do that?
Harry didn't like the way that sounded. I suppose...
Tom seemed to understand the hesitation. You are merely considering the negative connotations. Yes, a wizard can do harm, but so can a Muggle. You must think beyond good and evil to define the morality of magic, Harry. I use "will" in the most general sense of the word. If your will is to heal a Muggle's life-threatening injury, is it evil to enforce that will upon him when he has no defense against it? Every time you use magic, you enforce your will. Magic is your will to power.
Will to power...that phrase sounded a bit strange and therefore significant to Harry's ears, but he couldn't place it. Before he could think on it further, a voice broke him from his thoughts and he quickly closed his diary and began cleaning up.
"Finally finished now, are you?" Tracey asked petulantly from behind him.
Harry paused in his cleaning to peer at her steadily. Her scowl deepened at his blank expression. Daphne stood at her shoulder, her expression stony and clearly displeased. "For now."
Tracey stepped up and poked him in the chest. "Curse it, Harry. Higgs isn't that good," she said, her voice an angry whisper. "He's only a fourth year and you could've beaten him. Why didn't you catch up with us like you said you would? You wanted to try out!"
"It's just Quidditch," Harry said calmly. "There are more important things in the world."
"Like writing in your stupid diary?" Tracey said, voice steadily rising. "Last year you were so excited! What's happening with you, Harry? What's changed?"
This time Harry turned his gaze to Daphne. "I had a talk with Zabini the other day," he said – though he was thinking more of the diary – and the raven-haired girls' eyes widened. "He made me realize some things about the wizarding world."
"Like what?"
Harry shrugged and looked around, realizing he was hungry. He didn't feel like going into it with them at the moment. They just wouldn't understand. "I'm off to eat supper."
"Don't change the subject on me, Potter," Tracey growled, poking him in the chest again. "I'm this close to taking your diary away and—"
Harry felt a spike of indignation. "What is your problem?"
"You are! You came back from vacation and all of a sudden ignore your friends! When was the last time you spoke to Hermione or Neville?" Harry suppressed a roll of his eyes and started to protest, but Tracey continued right over him, cutting him off, "I mean really talk to them, Harry, not the absent greetings you've graced upon them so far. The only reason we see so much of you is that you're always here writing in your stupid diary, and you barely even talk to us!"
"I talk to you all the time, sorry if I don't always care who has expensive new clothing or which Slytherin had a summer fling with which Gryffindor," Harry said wryly.
"That's not all we talk about, you prat! Maybe if you actually paid attention..."
Harry grew weary of the conversation and just wanted to leave. "Well if that's how you feel, maybe you should stay away from me then." Harry barely registered the look of shock and hurt on Tracey's face before he spun and tromped toward the exit.
He quickly made his way to the library, which he knew would be suitably empty on a Saturday. His eyes met those of Adrian Pucey while the latter walked toward the Slytherin common room, victorious smiles on their faces. Terry Higgs was among them, but neither they nor the other fourth years said anything as Harry passed, even though he was reasonably sure Tracey told them he would be trying out.
"See, some people know how to mind their own business," he mumbled, inwardly convinced he'd won the argument. Soon he'd reached the library, which held only a smattering of older students. His mind flicked to Hermione, and with some measure of guilt he felt relieved she wasn't there to bug him either. He sat in a remote corner and opened the diary again to find that Tom had continued the conversation.
What does it mean to have power?
Harry smiled. In the scant few days he'd been conversing with Tom, it quickly become clear that the creator of the diary had a great deal of knowledge stored within. This was the second rhetorical question of the day, so it seemed they'd run out of notes to compare for the moment. Last time Harry went with the obvious answer, and Tom talked him through the thought process to reach a deeper meaning. So Harry obliged by simply writing the first answer that came to mind.
The ability to cast powerful spells? Harry wrote.
In the most literal sense of the word, I suppose that's true. Who are the powerful wizards you know, Harry?
Headmaster Dumbledore?
And have you seen him cast powerful spells?
Harry knitted his brows in thought, trying to remember what he'd seen in the infirmary back on his first day at Hogwarts. That was the only time he thought he saw Dumbledore casting spells, but there were no obvious effects that Harry could see.
I guess not.
So how do you know he's powerful?
Everybody knows he is.
Exactly, Harry! Real power is not the strength of your spells, or the breadth of your spell repertoire. Power is the respect you command from others. Of course gaining that respect may rely on such shallow measures, but there are other ways, and each wizard and witch respects different qualities. Gain respect through strength, knowledge, charisma, cunning, fear...
Compassion?
A pause. Yes, compassion, and even age will command respect from some. Can you think of any other powerful wizards?
Harry thought. Not like Dumbledore, he wrote. I guess a couple of the other professors.
Another pause. Ah, yes, that's one we missed: Hogwarts professor is a position that commands a great deal of respect all on its own. A true Slytherin uses every tool at his disposal to gain that respect, that power.
Why? To what end?
Most generally, the ability to enact change, or resist it, if you so desire. The important point is this, Harry: if you have the ability to become powerful but shun it because you don't believe yourself worthy of it, or squander the opportunity because you don't work at it, rest assured that someone else will take your place. And chances are quite slim that that person has the same ambition as you.
The words Tom used made Harry slightly uncomfortable, but he could find no fault in the logic. I see, he hedged.
Think on it, Harry.
"—ease, sir, you must realize he is not himself." Tracey's voice carried out to the corridor outside the Potions classroom. Harry knew fifteen minutes remained until class would begin, but he figured he would have some time alone to speak with Tom about his previous message. Or lecture, as Harry was coming to think of it. It had been two days, and Tom hadn't written anything new...as if he was waiting for Harry to respond.
It was odd enough that someone had beaten him here, but odder still was the fact that Snape usually stalked into the room precisely on the hour, as he had done the entirety of the previous year. Harry stepped lightly into the room to see if the professor was truly there, and sure enough, Snape locked eyes with Harry the moment he crossed the threshold. The surly Potions master let a rare smirk grace his lips, clearly laced with malice rather than mirth. "My apologies, Ms. Davis and Ms. Greengrass, that it took you so long to realize what a Potter is really like."
From the lack of communication with Tom, Harry had already felt irritable enough on the way here from breakfast, so now he felt a rush of anger when he realized Tracey and Daphne had gone to Professor Snape of all people – the man who attacked Harry the second they met! Then the anger multiplied to the point where everything started to become hazy.
Harry sat up suddenly, sending his glasses flying while the cold of the stone tiles lingered on his entirely exposed back. As he groped blindly for his glasses, he noticed an odd reddish tint to his skin, which he knew was drenched in sweat. Grasping the glasses, he quickly slipped them on and realized it was not sweat at all.
Dried blood stained his hands an angry reddish-brown and streaked toward his elbow. Harry emptied his stomach of every bit of food that he had eaten that day and then some. He quickly turned on the shower, covering up the subsequent dry heaves. It wasn't his blood, he realized as he scrubbed, but he wasn't comforted in the least.
A/N:
A lot of fanfiction writers scoff at Ginny for writing in the diary, but why wouldn't the diary be every bit as insidious as the locket, or even more so since the former can actually communicate? What if Ginny wasn't just a lonely girl...what if the diary actively prevented her from making friends? Since I posted this I've gotten a couple reviews saying how Harry suddenly had a sudden outbreak of stupid (though they didn't say it so elegantly). If that's what you think, I failed as a writer to subtly show what's really happening. This is Harry's PoV, so if I wrote "the diary was messing with his mind" then Harry would know that, and he would act on it. Instead, it's twisting Harry's thoughts ever so slightly such that they should remain somewhat logical to him, even though we know what the diary really is.
Thankfully, I've received a couple reviews from readers that saw what I was trying to do, so I must not have failed completely. As to why Harry seemed to be invulnerable to mind magic and yet fell for the diary's manipulations...c'mon, have a little faith! Those weren't just a throwaway scenes, having Snape pass out, then having the diary hurt him the first time only to avoid it the second.
Sometimes I wish I would have started with an older Harry. I originally didn't because the gimmick that started the story would have been too annoying to pull off (flashbacks within flashbacks). But I suppose I actually had to try it to figure out that this way is harder.
Oh well. A plot bunny attacked me while working on other things, and I figured I would use it to jumpstart this story again. I dropped three hints in this chapter, so I won't surprised if any of you figure out what that plot bunny was. But I will give you bonus points if you read my mind and figure out where I got the idea (even though I haven't played the games in a while).
None of Tom's professors are names I made up, though some of the details are. The most obscure is probably Professor Herbert Beery, who was apparently mentioned in Tales of Beedle the Bard.
Review!