The First Entry
Harry sat in the quiet of the woods, the diary open in his hands. He couldn’t explain why he had kept it, but something about it intrigued him. The blank pages seemed to beckon, as if they were waiting for something, or someone.
With a deep breath, Harry picked up the quill and carefully wrote.
Who are you?
He waited for what felt like an eternity, but nothing happened. The pages remained empty, the ink still. Harry began to wonder if it was just a trick, but then, suddenly, the words appeared. They were written in elegant script, but the flow of the letters was almost... eager.
I am Tom Riddle.
Harry blinked. Tom Riddle? That name felt strange, yet oddly familiar. His curiosity piqued, he wrote back.
What are you?
The ink seemed to move before his eyes, swirling and shifting into words with an almost playful energy.
What a curious question. I suppose I am what you see before you. A diary, a memory, and something... much more. There was a pause, as if the writer was thinking, and then more words appeared. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone to talk to. Over fifty years, in fact.
Harry’s fingers hovered over the page. Why now? Why me?
The response came swiftly, almost as if the diary was too eager to wait.
Why not you? I’ve been dormant, just waiting for someone who might listen. You’re quite different, aren’t you? So much... potential. And yet so much confusion. The ink seemed to twist in a way that almost looked like it was smiling. I’ve been alone for so long. To talk, to share—it’s been... years since someone has asked me anything.
Harry felt a shiver crawl up his spine. The words on the page were curious, almost as if the diary—Tom Riddle—was intrigued by him, as much as he was intrigued by it. He wrote again.
What do you want from me?
The response appeared, the ink stretching out as if savoring the moment.
Want? I suppose I want to know more. You seem like someone who might understand. I want to know what you think. What you really think. Not what they’ve told you, not what they expect of you... but you. The letters curled with an almost playful, teasing energy. I’ve been waiting to talk to someone for so long. I can’t help but wonder what’s in your head.
Harry paused, unsure what to think. He had a feeling there was more to this than he could understand, but a strange pull urged him to continue.
What do you want me to do? he wrote, his curiosity overcoming his caution.
The response came quickly, as though Tom Riddle was delighted.
Nothing, yet. Let’s talk. I’m in no rush. I’ve waited this long. I just want to know—what are you thinking? The ink almost seemed to twinkle on the page. You’re not like the others, are you? You’ve seen things. You’re not afraid of them. I can tell.
Harry stared at the words for a long time. He felt strangely connected to this... presence. This Tom Riddle, whoever he was. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt like he could share something, something deeper than anything he had told anyone before.
He wrote, tentatively.
I think... I think I don’t know who I am. Not really.
The ink swirled again, the words appearing almost immediately.
That’s a start.